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t-folklore13 · 2 days ago

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Crossbow Between Us | Daryl Dixon x Reader

synopsis: You survived this long by trusting your gut, and your gut tells you this: Daryl Dixon didn’t leave because he wanted to. He left because he thought he had to. So you go after him. Not to beg, not to lecture—but to bring him back. Or stay with him, if that’s what it takes.

w/c: 6.8k

warnings: smut, p in v, oral f!receiving, dirty talk, unprotected sex, slight exhibitionism, slight angst (you YES YOU🫵 aka reader is dramatic), merle.

a/n: wrote this while i'm at work, so it's not proofread oopsies

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You slide the gate open, squinting under the heat of the Georgia sun. Your rifle is strapped heavily to your back, though after a year of handling heavy firearms, you’re used to it by now.

The car drives in, a sinking feeling pressing against your chest when you don’t see the motorcycle.

“Where is he?” you ask, stomping toward the group as Carl closes the gate behind them. “Where’s D?” You scan the faces, searching.

Maybe he’s still in the car. Maybe his motorcycle broke down and they left it out there. Or worse—maybe he’s badly injured, couldn’t drive on his own. Glenn’s swollen eye and bloodied face only crank your anxiety up to eleven.

You stand there, tense, watching as your group slowly piles out of the car. Rick steps out of the driver’s side, his face drawn in disappointment. He stares at you, and you stare back.

The whole group is silent.

Your knees wobble. You’re about to collapse when Rick rushes forward, hands outstretched.

“Hey, hey—he’s fine. He ain’t dead or nothin’, he just— We found Merle.”

Your brows furrow, lips curling into a snarl as you grab fistfuls of Rick’s shirt, yanking him closer. “So what?!” you seethe, eyes beginning to blur with tears. “I asked about fucking Daryl—”

“He went with his brother,” Rick says plainly, his voice low as he gently squeezes your wrists. You lock eyes—yours filled with disbelief, his weary and resigned.

You let go of his shirt, hands flying to your head as you stagger back. One step. Another. And another.

“And you just let him?!” you yell. Maggie grabs your arm, trying to calm you. “Hey, hey! We tried, okay?!” she insists. “We tried talkin’ him out of it, we told him all ‘bout what Merle did to us!”

You try to look away, but Maggie won’t let you. Her grip tightens.

“He chose him, sweetheart. He left us—”

“Get off of me!” you snap, shoving her away. You stumble back, angrily wiping away the tears that slip down your cheeks. You pace in a tight, frantic circle, trying to think. Trying to breathe. Trying to figure out where to start.

You squat on the gravel, fingers tangled together, eyes locked on the ground. Sweat drips from your forehead, trailing down your face until it gathers on the tip of your nose. Your breathing is ragged, heart pounding in your ears, your head.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you inside—” Carol murmurs, reaching for you.

You brush her hands off with a sharp shake of your head. You glance up and find the whole group watching you, waiting for your next move.

You nod slowly. Eyes closed, you swipe at the sweat and tears staining your cheeks. You take a deep breath and place both hands on your hips.

“Glenn, go get patched up. You look pathetic like that.”

Maggie chuckles as Glenn silently flips you off.

Everyone else starts moving, taking that as their cue to finally head back inside the prison.

The forest is quiet. Too quiet.

Your fingers tighten around the pink handle of your knife, knuckles white as your eyes sweep the dense trees. Every muscle in your body stays alert, coiled. Ready. Trouble feels close, even if it hasn’t shown its face yet.

With each step you take, the leaves crunch beneath your boots. Soft beams of sunlight filter through the canopy above, casting shifting gold patterns across the forest floor. The warmth should feel comforting, but it doesn’t—not here. Not now.

Birds chirp overhead—

Until they don’t.

They stop all at once, their silence sudden and sharp like a snapped wire. You freeze mid-step, heart thudding hard in your chest. Your eyes scan the woods, wide and alert, waiting for the signs.

The moaning.

The drag of dead limbs over soil.

The thick, unmistakable stench of rot riding in on the breeze.

You hold your breath. One second. Two. Three—

Five o’clock.

You spin toward the sound, low and raspy. Three walkers stagger through the trees toward you. The one in front locks eyes with you—or what’s left of its eyes—and lets out a greedy groan, picking up speed.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dropping your head for a breath before stepping into motion.

With a sharp, practiced kick, you slam your boot into the lead walker’s chest. It crashes back into the others, all three collapsing into a tangled pile of decaying limbs. You waste no time.

Your blade slices through the air, plunging into the skull of the first one as blood splatters warm against your face. The second, caught beneath the weight of the first, scrambles and grabs at your forearm. Fingers like ice, nails digging into your skin.

You grunt, shifting your grip. With your free hand, you drag the walker closer until its face is inches from yours. Dead eyes meet your glare—and then your knife is buried deep in its forehead.

Its fingers fall limp. Its body thuds against the forest floor.

You step back, chest heaving, forehead damp with sweat. One walker remains, partially crushed beneath the others. It groans weakly, jaw snapping open and shut like it’s still got a shot at you.

You stare at it for a beat, your breath shallow, the air thick with the smell of blood and death.

Then, without a word, you stomp. Hard.

The skull cracks beneath your boot with a wet, final crunch. Blood and brain matter splatter across the forest floor, coating your boots, your pants, your breath.

You lean against a tree for a moment, catching yourself, the adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. The forest feels quiet again—but your body stays tense. Always tense.

You crouch beside one of the bodies, dragging your knife across its filthy shirt to clean the blade. No sense carrying a dirty weapon. Not out here.

Straightening up, you wipe the sweat from your brow, take one last look around, and keep moving—

Silent. Sharp. Alone.

The woods close around you once more.

You’re exhausted.

Walker blood, guts, and brains coat your clothes. Your skin is sticky with sweat, grime, and sun. You smell like rot and metal, like death and heat. And the worst part is, you’ve grown used to it.

You’ve killed too many. You stopped counting after fifteen. Makes you wonder where they’re all coming from, and if there’ll ever be a day when they stop.

You grit your teeth and push forward anyway. Daryl floods your mind with every step, every breath. Your body screams for rest, but your heart—the stubborn, aching part of it—won’t let you stop.

Not yet. Not until you find him.

A log. Settled right by a small creek, half in shade, half in light. It looks like salvation.

Yeah. You could sit. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.

You limp toward it, wincing as every overworked muscle threatens to seize. Your knees nearly buckle as you lower yourself to sit. But the moment you do, the world—this twisted, cruel world—reminds you exactly what it’s become.

A walker, bloated and buried beneath the mud and water, suddenly lurches up from the creek. Its cold, slimy hands clamp around your legs and yank.

Your scream rips through the quiet. Instinct kicks in—you kick at the corpse’s face, its bony fingers tightening as it drags you down into the shallow water. Your boots splash violently, your pants soaking in seconds. You reach behind you, fumbling for the knife at your belt.

The walker snarls, teeth snapping inches from your thigh.

With a grunt, you yank the blade free. In a desperate move, you toss it upward, letting it spin once, twice in the air—then you snatch it mid-fall and drive it straight into the center of the walker’s skull.

A sick crunch. A wet gasp.

Its body falls limp immediately—and you collapse with it.

You lay back, body half-submerged in the water, pelvis propped up by the log. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, exhausted breaths. You close your eyes for just a second, letting the silence rush in.

But it doesn’t last.

You hear the groan first.

Then another.

You glance up—behind you—and curse under your breath.

Two more walkers.

Shuffling toward you.

Drawn by the scream you just couldn’t hold in.

“Fucking hell,” you mutter, scrambling upright. You squeeze your knife handle tight like a stress ball, trying to shake the tremble out of your limbs.

“Come on. Daryl is out there,” you growl to yourself. “And you gotta bring him back home.”

You plant your feet, ready to strike, when a sharp scream splits the air—followed by a rapid flurry of gunshots echoing through the trees.

Your head jerks toward the sound. Your pulse spikes. You hesitate for only a second before snapping back to the walkers in front of you.

They don’t last long.

One slash, then another.

You’re tired, but the sound of gunfire pumps adrenaline into your veins. Gives your limbs a second wind.

You stand there panting, knife dripping red, heart thudding.

Then—

“Daryl…” you whisper.

You break into a run, lungs burning, legs barely holding up under you. Still, you run.

“Daryl!” you cry out, voice cracking, chest tight.

You reach the edge of a cliff, stumbling to a halt. Your eyes sweep the distance.

Below, a bridge.

Not Daryl.

But a family.

Trapped. Surrounded by walkers. Terrified.

It’s not him.

But maybe—maybe they’ve seen him.

Maybe they know something.

And right now, that’s enough.

You adjust your grip on the knife, heart hammering with new purpose.

If Daryl’s not here, you’ll get what you can from the people who are.

Because you’re not going home without him.

Daryl fires another arrow, hitting a walker clean through the skull. He turns just in time to see another one clawing at a woman and her kid inside a car. Without hesitating, he grabs it and yanks it out of the front seat.

He’s ready to land the killing blow when a blade whistles past his shoulder, striking bullseye into the walker’s head.

He knows that knife.

Black blade. Pink handle.

He gave it to you himself.

He turns—and there you are.

And your gaze is furious.

“Shit,” Daryl mutters under his breath.

“Dixon!” you shout, your voice cutting through the wind. From the corner of your eye, you catch movement—another walker coming at you from the side. Without looking, you raise your gun and shoot it down, eyes still locked on your jackass of a boyfriend.

Another walker lumbers toward Daryl, but he’s already turning, aiming his crossbow. He’s just a second too late, the walker hitting the ground from someone else’s shot.

He turns back toward you—only to find himself staring down the barrel of your gun.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t pull this fuckin’ trigger and blow your mothafuckin’ brains out,” you seethe, voice trembling with rage, with heartbreak. Tears track hot down your cheeks. Your hands shake as Daryl slowly raises his free hand, crossbow hanging loosely.

His eyes flick—not at you, but just past your shoulder.

There’s a click.

A cold barrel presses against your temple.

You don’t flinch. You smile.

“You’re pissin’ me off, Dixon,” you say, your voice shaking with fury.

“Yer pissin’ me off too, girlie,” drawls the voice behind you.

Click.

“Merle, drop yer gun—” Daryl snaps.

“Not ‘til this lil’ princess drops hers first,” Merle fires back.

You tilt your head. That’s a new voice.

A familiar rasp, but not his.

You never started this new world with Rick’s crew. They found you out on the highway, searching for a little girl named Sophia. Your heart broke with theirs when they found her.

“Merle, come on, man. Jus’ drop it.” Daryl’s voice is tense, quiet, pleading.

A long beat passes.

Then a low curse behind you—and the barrel finally lifts off your temple.

You exhale.

He’s lowered his gun.

Which means—

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” you hiss at Daryl, jabbing your gun forward until it presses hard against his forehead. The bastard has the nerve to smirk.

You stare into his eyes. Deep. Long. Hard. You want him to see you—see how mad you are. How betrayed. How broken. How badly you just needed him to stay.

He stares back. Silent. Still. So much in those blue eyes.

Then, slowly, you lower your gun. And the second you do—he’s on you.

He pulls you in, his lips crashing against yours, wild and urgent. The taste of him wrecks you in the best and worst way. You wrap your arms around his neck, yanking him closer, kissing him like it’s the last time. Like you hate him. Like you love him.

Tongues clash. Hands clutch. The world burns around you.

A low whistle breaks you apart, reluctantly. You turn toward the sound, ready to kill whoever interrupted—

—and you’re met with a familiar, sleazy grin.

He looks so much like Daryl.

“M’older brother, Merle,” Daryl mutters behind you. Merle raises both eyebrows.

“Well, would’ya look at that,” Merle grins wide. “Lil’ brother got himself a girlfriend. Ya didn’t tell me ‘bout this one, Daryl-boy!”

He strolls toward you, knife in hand—well, stump, really, with a blade attached. He lost a hand. Not that you care.

“Pretty lil’ thing, ain’t ya?” he sneers, brushing at your hair.

Click.

You raise your gun and point it right at his chest.

Merle whistles again, taking a step back, hands up.

“Feisty,” he mutters. “I like that.”

You narrow your eyes. Tilt your head.

Bang.

Smoke curls from your gun’s muzzle.

Silence follows.

Then—thud.

A walker drops behind Merle, shot clean through the head. You holster your gun without sparing him another glance.

“Firecracker,” Merle says with a smirk. “That’s what I’m callin’ ya.”

You roll your eyes. “Annoyin’ fuckin’ bastard,” you mutter.

Then you spin back to Daryl. Your expression shifts. Sharp becomes shattered.

“Why did you leave me?” you ask, voice tight and low.

Daryl shakes his head once. Opens his mouth. No words.

He looks down, licks his lips, and finally lifts his gaze to meet yours. Those blue eyes heavy with something you don’t want to name.

You hate the way your chin trembles. The way your lips wobble. The way your hand shakes as you raise it, gently cupping his cheek.

He leans into your palm like it could fix everything. Like it could make this easier.

“Wherever you go,” you whisper, your thumb tracing softly across his stubble. “You know I’ll go with you. You just gotta say the word.”

“He’s my brother,” he says quietly.

“And you’re the only thing I got left to live for,” you whisper back. Your voice cracks. “I’ve lost everyone I care about. You don’t get to do this to me.”

Daryl closes his eyes, jaw clenched. “You’ll be safer with the group—”

“Safe, dangerous—I don’t give a rat’s ass,” you cut in. “If I’m not with you, Daryl… then what’s the point of stayin’ alive?”

Before he can respond, Merle huffs from behind you, already turning his back.

“Sorry to break up the lovebirds, but y’all best save this sweet-ass convo for later. We got biters comin’.”

He jerks a thumb toward the bridge—and sure enough, a herd of walkers is closing in fast.

Daryl exhales sharply and places a hand on your waist, pulling you close.

“We gotta go,” he mutters.

“Where?”

He holds your gaze. Doesn’t look away.

Then he presses a soft, breathless kiss to your forehead.

And just like that, you run.

Together.

The prison’s exterior is crawling. And the gates?

Gone.

“Someone rammed the damn thing open.” You nod toward the mangled metal gates lying half-crushed at the entrance. What was once secure is now wide open. The inside had been cleared before—safe, livable.

Now? It’s a buffet.

“Come on!” Daryl calls, already halfway toward the others. His crossbow fires off a shot, striking a walker right before it can maul Rick. You sprint across the yard, gun raised, firing clean through the skulls of two on your left, another clawing up the fence on your right.

Thank God you didn’t burn through all your bullets on the search for Daryl. But you curse yourself for forgetting a spare mag. Rookie mistake.

Your gun clicks empty mid-pull, the trigger stiff with nothing left to give.

“Son of a bitch,” you mutter, shoving the pistol back into its holster. “Can’t take a fuckin’ break today.”

You reach instinctively for your blade—your familiar weapon, your comfort.

But your hand comes up empty.

Your stomach drops.

Where the fuck is your blade?

Four walkers break from the herd, locking onto you like bloodhounds. You take a step back. Then another. Your eyes scan the yard wildly, desperate for anything—a loose pipe, a fallen machete, a broken branch with a sharp edge.

Nothing.

And then your foot catches on a dead walker’s leg. You hit the dirt hard, back slamming into gravel. Sunlight blinds you for half a second as you scramble backwards on your palms, panic crashing through your ribs.

They’re fast. Too fast.

They’re almost on you.

Then—

Thwip. An arrow pierces the first skull.

Bang. A bullet shreds through the second.

Thwip. Another walker drops, crossbow bolt buried deep.

Bang. The fourth crumples mid-lunge.

You blink up, heart pounding, chest heaving.

“Hey—hey, you alright?” Daryl’s already kneeling beside you, hand outstretched.

You slap your palm into his and let him haul you upright, but your mouth’s quicker than your gratitude.

“I didn’t need your help,” you mutter, even as you snatch the blade he hands you—your blade. You don’t look at him, don’t say thank you.

“Aw, how ‘bout a li’l thank you for savin’ yer sorry ass?” Merle drawls, swaggering over like he didn’t just almost watch you die.

You roll your eyes so hard your skull aches.

Then you take a step forward.

“Merle,” you say, voice like steel. You lift the blade—slowly, purposefully—and point it straight at him. The tip presses lightly against the underside of his chin. He stiffens.

“I need you to watch me,” you say evenly. “I need you to keep your eyes wide open as I kill every walker in this yard. And I need you to remember that in my head? Every single one of ‘em is you.”

“Now, hey—” Daryl starts, moving to pull you back.

You shut him up with one finger raised toward his lips. He freezes.

You don’t take your eyes off Merle. Not for a second.

“Don’t think I haven’t heard what you did to Maggie,” you hiss, pressing the tip of your blade just a little harder into Merle’s chin. His eyes don’t leave yours, but they narrow, cautious now.

Daryl grabs your wrist—not rough, just firm—but you grip his forearm in return, warning him not to interfere.

“You’re a sick fuckin’ son of a bitch,” you go on, your voice dropping into something colder, darker. “And the only reason I’m imagining killing you right now instead of actually doing it, is because I’ve still got a working goddamn moral compass. Which is more than I can say for you.”

You pause, breathing hard.

“I’m not judge, jury, and executioner. Not yet. So I’ll wait for Maggie’s word on what to do with you. But until then?” You lean in, so close your breath brushes his cheek.

“I’ll settle for picturing your skull gettin’ stabbed over. And over. And over. Until I don’t feel the urge to slit your throat in your sleep tonight.”

Silence.

Merle lifts his hands half-heartedly, that crooked grin twitching at the corners of his mouth—but his eyes? They aren’t smiling. Not anymore.

“Well damn,” he mutters. “You sure know how to make a fella feel welcome.”

You lower the blade but don’t break eye contact.

Not until you turn away and stalk back into the fight, blade in hand, heart still burning.

True to your word, you did picture Merle’s dumb face on every walker you killed. Rick and the others had to physically pull you back, yelling for you to fall in line as you hacked away at the last few bodies.

Now, it’s dark. The kind of heavy, unsettling dark that makes the woods look endless. From the watchtower, you stay alert—rifle resting across your lap, the second cup of bitter coffee cooling beside you on the chair.

The wind is still. Too still. A kind of calm that makes your skin crawl.

You feel it before you hear it.

You turn, finger already curled on the trigger. Gun raised, breath steady.

Daryl stands there.

Hands up. No threat. Just him.

“That’s the second time today you’ve pointed a gun at my face,” he drawls, tone low, half amused, half… something else. “‘M startin’ to think you’re havin’ second thoughts ‘bout me.”

You exhale through your nose and lower the gun, your annoyance flickering into a scowl as you glare at him. Rolling your eyes, you turn your back on him and step out of the enclosed room. You grip the cold railing and lean forward, anything to put distance between you and that stupid, frustrating man.

But his footsteps follow. Quiet. Hesitant.

You feel him long before you hear him.

“Don’t do this,” he says softly.

His arms wrap around your waist, slow and tentative, like he’s expecting you to shove him off. He pulls you into his chest, pressing his face against the back of your head. His voice breaks, barely a breath.

“Don’t do this to me, sweetheart.”

You close your eyes, heart aching at the sound of it.

“I know you’re mad,” he says. “You can yell at me. Curse me out. Hit me, pull my hair—hell, I’ll even let you shoot me if that’s what you need.”

Your eyes widen. You whip around to face him, brows drawn, lips parted in disbelief.

“Do you really think I’d do that to you?” you ask, voice trembling—not with rage this time, but with the heartbreak of him not knowing better.

Daryl stiffens, jaw clenching. “No, no—I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—shit, I dunno—I just…”

You shake your head, voice raw. “Do you know what it felt like? Seeing them come back through that gate without you?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

But he’s there to catch your tears. Thumb brushing beneath your eyes as he steps closer, forehead leaning into yours.

“No,” he says quietly. “And I’m sorry.”

You take a shaky breath and reach up, your fingers curling around the back of his neck as you rest your cheek against his. “Promise me you’ll never do that again.”

Silence.

You wait.

But it doesn’t come.

No promise. No lie. No anything.

You pull back, searching his face—searching for words, for effort, for even the smallest attempt to try. But he says nothing.

So you shove him. Hard.

Your fists hit his chest once. Then again. “Promise me!” you yell.

He catches your wrists, eyes flashing as he steps into you, backing you toward the room. You stumble inside until your spine meets the cold concrete wall.

“Yer bein’ a damn brat,” he mutters, voice low and hoarse.

“And you’re being an asshole,” you shoot back, breathing hard. “All you had to do was say you promise—”

“And what?” he cuts in. “You’d be alright if I lied to ya?”

He’s got both your wrists pinned above your head now. His body flush against yours. His free hand rises to cup your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your lip.

His eyes bore into you—stormy, exhausted, full of too many things he hasn’t said out loud yet.

“You need to understand somethin’, alright? We don’t get to make promises like that anymore. Not in this world. Not with how fast shit changes. The next year, next month—hell, the next damn day ain’t promised.”

His grip tightens, just slightly. Not to hurt—just to ground.

“I’m not gonna promise you something I can’t keep. That ain’t love. That’s cruel. And I love you too much to do that to you.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

The tears fall without permission, warm trails down your cheeks. You study him—his clenched jaw, his parted lips, his goddamn heart in his eyes.

Slowly, you lean in. Your nose brushes his. You whisper, your voice soft and shaky:

“Then…”

You glance at his mouth. Then back to his eyes. Your tongue darts over your lower lip, tasting the salt of your tears.

“Can you promise me tonight?”

His breath stutters.

Then you shift—just slightly—and press your hips into his. Your body aching for closeness, contact, anything he’ll give you.

Daryl’s breath hitches. His restraint snaps.

He steps forward until there’s no space left between you. You’re completely caged in—by him, by the wall, by the weight of everything unspoken.

He dips his head, tilting slightly, lips brushing yours.

“That,” he murmurs, “I can promise.”

Then he kisses you.

And it ruins you in all the best ways.

It started slow.

His lips barely brushed yours—like a question asked in silence, like a warning he was giving you one last chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You leaned into him instead, answering him with the kind of kiss that tasted like a promise and a dare all at once. That single touch, soft and trembling, burned hotter than any flame you’d ever known. It wasn’t desperate. Not yet. It was restraint. It was the ache of patience finally rewarded. It was the quiet before the storm.

Daryl Dixon doesn’t kiss soft. He kisses like he’s spent days without air and you’re the first breath he’s had since. Like he’s dying to memorize you. To apologize with his lips. To tell you everything he couldn’t say with words.

You fall into it—into him.

His free hand slides down your throat, fingers firm, tugging just enough to pull a moan from the back of your throat. You arch into him, mouth parting wider to welcome his tongue, letting him lead the kiss like he was born to.

Your hands are still pinned above your head.

But you’re not fighting him.

Not tonight.

And then it deepened.

His hand found the curve of your jaw, fingers spreading wide, thumb brushing over your cheek like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face. His mouth opened against yours—slow at first, then with hunger. Your lips parted for him like instinct, like gravity. His tongue slipped past yours in a slow, sinful slide, and the second it touched yours, you swore something in you cracked wide open. He tasted like sweat, gunpowder, and the after-burn of adrenaline. Rough and warm and entirely him. He kissed like a man who didn’t know if this was the last time he’d get to. And you kissed him back like you didn’t care—because if the world ended in this exact moment, you’d have no regrets.

He lets go of your wrists, his other hand gripped your hip, hard—like he needed to ground himself, to keep himself from completely unraveling. You pressed closer, your bodies molding into each other, your chest rising and falling against his like you were trying to breathe through him. His teeth grazed your lower lip and you gasped, the sound muffled between your mouths, between your bodies. You tugged at his shirt, fingers curled in the fabric, wanting him closer, needing more of him—all of him. He answered by pressing you back, deeper into whatever wall or surface had been behind you, devouring you with each kiss like he didn’t just want to taste you—he wanted to consume you.

When he finally broke the kiss, it wasn’t to stop. It was to breathe. To look at you.

Your lips were swollen. Your breath, ragged. And your eyes—your eyes were still locked on his like you’d forgotten what it meant to look anywhere else. He stared at you like he wasn’t sure if he’d just kissed you or dreamed it.

And then, just like that, he leaned in again—rougher this time, needier. His hands weren’t tentative anymore. They were demanding. Possessive. He kissed you like you were already his, and he’d fight tooth and nail to keep you that way.

Both your hands shake with anticipation and want as the both of you try to peel off each others' clothes as quickly as possible. He pulls your shirt over your head, leaving you in your bra and if it wasn't the apocalypse, you would have torn his button-up open. But you're a good girl and you fumble and shake as you unbutton his shirt, unable to wait any longer.

After what felt like ages, you're finally pushing the clothing off his shoulders, letting it drop on the ground as you claw at his arms—you've always been obsessed with how big and hard they were.

Both of your actions are sloppy and messy, but both your pants are off and he's now dropping to his knees as his lips press kisses down your chest, lowering to your stomach and finally landing on your underwear.

"Neva' woulda' guessed the same princess who shoots with no hesitation 's the same one who got these pretty lil' thangs on..." Daryl chuckles, hooking his fingers on the frilly lace of uour pink panties before pulling them down, exposing your wet, hot sex.

"What do—What does Glenn say before he has a meal?" He asks, making you huff out an annoyed breath.

"Really? You're gonna be racist? Here? Now?"

Daryl tilts his head to the side and you can clearly see the stupid gears in his stupid head turning. "Oh, right." His face lights up.

"Thank you for the meal." He lifts your leg, hooking it to his shoulder.

"That's Japanese you racist mother—fuck!" He doesn't give you time to get used to it, immediately sucking on your clit as soon as his mouth makes contact.

Your back arches from the wall, fingers weaving themselves into your boyfriend's hair as you squeeze and tug, grinding your hips on his face.

Daryl takes upur rough treatment with a big stupid smile on his face, his tongue lapping and writing the letter eight as he sucks. He sucks on uour sensitive bundle of nerves, he sucks on upur juices, he sucks on your cunt like a man deprived of food for weeks on end.

His fingers dig onto your hips and thighs, prying them as open as he can, pushing his face firmer into your cunt, jaw working overtime as he eats and eats and eats like his life depends on it.

You feel your orgasm quickly coming, your heavy breaths and soft whimpers filling the watch tower, bouncing off its four walls. "F-fuck—Daryl—"

"Call me who I really am..." He murmurs against your pussy, moaning as he makes out with your second set of lips.

"Da-daddy!" You whimper, Daryl moaning below you before flicking his tongue repeatedly on your clit, the stimulation quickly pushing you over the edge.

"Holy—fuck!" You exclaim, doubling over as your legs shake and your cunt squeeze in on itself, pleasure completely overtaking your body, leaving your head incredibly light.

"Woah—sweetheart," Daryl catches you on time, taking his shirt and flattening it on the floor before setting you to lay on it. "I got you."

Still out of breath, you pull him closer, crashing your lips on his once more. Daryl kisses back with more intensity, hands exploring your naked body as he grinds his clothed erection on your naked cunt.

"Oh God, just fuck me already!" You whine, grinding desperately on him.

"Sorry princess, but God ain't here at the moment." He mutters into your ear, unbuckling his belt and undoing his pants with one hand. He pushes his boxers down, his hard cock springing up to life. He looks at you in the eye as he pushes himself inside you. "I'm the one fuckin' you right now. God'll have to wait 'til I'm finished."

He buries his entire length inside you, slowly, as if he hadn't stretched you out last night. And the night before that. And the night before that as well. "Mmm-fuck! I can never get used to how big you are, baby." You breathe out, lost on how he still stretches you—he still fills you up despite being inside you every damn day.

Taking his time, he pulls out, leaving his tip in before snapping his hips back inside. He keeps doing this, forcing you to muffle your moans with your hand, making him chuckle. Furrowing your brows, you look at him questioningly.

"Too late to keep quiet now." Without another word, he pulls out and flips you onto your belly, pulling your hips up and re-entering your needy cunt. Your eyes roll back at the manhandling.

Daryl grabs a handful of your hair, pulling it back with just the right amount of roughness he know you love. He groans at the way you squeeze around him, lowering his lips to your ear. "Look at them."

You blink your eyes open, eyes darting to wherever he was talking about. "Look how many of them you've attracted." It doesn't take a while for you to spot the herd of walkers moaning and clawing at the gate.

"Shit." You whisper, unsure if you wanna deal with them first or be selfish and take care of yourself. Daryl continues moving behind you, his dick so hard you want to ignore the potential danger pushing at the tall gates.

"Don't you have a job to do?" Daryl whispers, making you look back at him in question. He pulls at your rifle and slides it over to your side. "Get to work." He mutters before pushing himself off of you, his hips now unforgiving.

"C'mon, princess. Take the gun 'n start shootin'." He cackles, fucking you so hard you're sure you'll end up with carpet burns on your knees the next day. Squeezing your palms, you let out shaky moans as you slowly reach for your rifle.

"That's right, sweetheart." He squeezes at your hips, digging his nails on your soft skin as he takes and takes and takes. Pleasure overrides your system but before your head grows light again, Daryl slaps your ass, pulling you back to reality.

"Daryl!" You whine, earning another slap.

"Betta' start shootin'." He smirks at you, hips unrelenting.

"They might hear us—"

"Exactly. So, if you don't want them judging us tomorrow—" He grabs your gun, sliding it closer to you. "Get to work."

You try to level your breathing, but it's almost impossible to do with the pace Daryl's hips are moving. Still, you try, grabbing your rifle and positioning it the same way you always would.

Digging your teeth onto your lips, you look into the scope and take a deep breath, your focus moving back and forth between how to shoot and how good Daryl feels inside you.

"F-fuck it." You squeeze the trigger, the amount of walkers making it impossible to miss. With the silencer attached, the shot is quiet and clean.

"Good girl. One down—" He nips at the side of your neck, "More than a dozen left to go."

The thing about Daryl is—he cares how you feel. Deeply. But that doesn’t make him selfless. He finds pleasure in your pleasure. The sound of your breath hitching, the way your body arches under his touch—that’s what gets him off. That’s what makes it worth it. And if there’s one thing he takes pride in, it’s knowing he can unravel you like no one else ever could.

So no, just because he makes you come—once, twice, three times—before he even lets himself get close, doesn’t mean he’s any less affected. If anything, he’s burning even hotter. He likes staying on the edge. He thrives in that aching, near-painful control. He’ll let himself crest, let the tension build right up to the brink—only to drag himself back down again, over and over. Because it’s not just about release for him. It’s about the way you say his name when you fall apart in his hands. And if that means drawing out his own pleasure just to see you lose yourself again… he’ll do it every damn time.

Oh, yes. This man loves to edge, and you love how filthy it is of him to use your body for his own twisted sexual fantasy.

Looking once more into your scope, you see you've taken down a majority of the walkers. Unable to take it any longer, you drop your rifle and claw at the cemented ground.

This will be your third orgasm of the night. You're sweaty, and shaking, and your pussy feels raw—in the good way. In the best way.

"Da-Daryl—please," You whimper, pushing yourself up from the ground, holding onto his nape. "Please come, I need to feel you filling me up."

"Fuck, sweetheart—" He groans, squeezing your hips once more, a telltale sign he's close. "If you put it that way..."

You start rocking your hips back at him—albeit shakily. "Oh fuck," He whispers, "Yeah, that's right baby...Fuck me back."

His thrusts become more rugged, more snappy as you move your hips with more desperation. "Fuck yeah," Daryl breathes out, burying his face on the side of your neck as he nips and sucks on the sensitive skin. "Yer such a good fuckin' slut for me, hmmm? So desperate to get filled up with my cum?"

The dirty talking pushes you over the edge, body shaking as you dig your nails onto his nape, pussy spasming around his cock. "Fuck!" Daryl growls, squeezing your hips while his desperately bucks, finally going over the edge himself.

"God!" He breathes out, falling over onto you as he pumps the rest of his cum inside, arms tightly squeezing your heated body.

You pull him closer to you, pressing your lips on his ear. "Don't you know? God ain't here. I'm the one fucking you right now."

The both of you collapse on the cold floor, and he chuckles into your ear. You shake your head at him, "Shit's not funny. I thought I was gonna die."

"Death by orgasm..." He nods, as if the idea is a good one. You roll your eyes at him, about to get up but he pulls uou back down.

Your boyfriend leans against the wall, chest rising and falling with the aftershocks of what just passed between you. His hair’s a mess, his lips swollen, his skin still warm. He doesn’t say anything—just opens his arms, wordlessly inviting you in.

You’re still shaking. Not from fear, but from release. From the adrenaline that hasn’t quite worn off. But your body knows exactly where it belongs, so you crawl over to him, slow and dazed, until you’re tucked against his side. His arms wrap around you immediately, pulling you in like you’re something fragile and precious, like he’s never letting go.

The night doesn’t feel so cold anymore. Not when your skin’s still buzzing, not when the only thing you can hear is the low rhythm of his breathing and the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. You rest your head on his chest, eyes half-lidded and heavy with the kind of sleepiness that only ever comes after being thoroughly and completely loved.

You place a hand on your chest, feeling the rise and fall of your own body, how it matches his. A soft smile creeps across your face as you look up at him through your lashes. “Our heartbeats,” you whisper, voice thick with affection. “They’re in sync.”

His smile is lazy and crooked, but there’s something undeniably tender behind it. “’Course they are,” he murmurs, tightening his grip around you, pressing a slow, delicate kiss to the top of your head. “Ain’t never been more in sync with anyone in my life.”

You tilt your head back to look at him—really look at him. His eyes are half-closed but watching you like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. You reach up, fingers ghosting along the stubble of his cheek, your thumb stroking gently, like you’re still riding the quiet high of being loved that well.

“I love you,” you whisper. It’s not new, but it lands heavier now, fuller. Like a truth that’s just been written across both your bodies in sweat and skin and sighs.

Daryl catches your hand in his, pressing his lips to your palm before holding it against his chest. “I love you more,” he says softly. And there’s no smirk this time. No teasing. Just raw, quiet certainty. Like he’s never said anything more real in his life.

He looks at you like you’re everything—like he’s not just lucky to have touched you, but lucky to exist in the same lifetime as you.

And as your eyes flutter closed, limbs tangled, breaths synced, skin still sticky with sweat and affection, you know something simple and honest:

This is home.

140 notes · View notes

t-folklore13 · 3 days ago

Text

matching bruises 2/?

Crusin’ and Boozin’

Started off like it always had.

Someone’s cousin got their hands on a couple a’ bottles of alcohol—‘nough to go ‘round. Someone offers their beat up party CD, scratched with mediocre music, but in full honesty, who comes to parties for their music.

She sure didn’t.

Now, wasn’t like she got friends to go with her, not that she minded. But sometimes, to kick off summer, all you need is a nice, good party. One that’ll get yer’ head all fuzzy and excited.

One that reeks of young souls just livin’.

There were a couple a’ rivers in this town, but the big one—the one that stretched throughout town—was farthest from the police station. Must’ve been a trailer park. All that stood was an empty lot a’ dirt, but throw in a table, some snacks. Get yer’ music goin’ and let the streetlights turn on, suddenly you got yourself a pretty decent party, and! A huge ass pool ‘case ya get bored of standin’ around.

She’s been to a couple of these get togethers. Mostly to grub off of the free food they got there.

But she needed to let off some steam, her mom was gettin’ on ‘er back a lot more than often. Richard—her stepdad, probably had somethin’ to do with it.

She shakes her head, not the time for that right now.

Her one hand fiddles with a spare candy wrapper in her pocket, a cigarette in ‘er othera. She ain’t a smoker, just every once in a while. Maybe it’s somethin’ in the air, or the nicotine she’s inhaling, but something feels off. Like something bad is bound to happen.

At first, she thought maybe it was because her step sister—Jules—hadn’t made a sudden appearance, every time that rotten girl shows up, it’s her queue to leave.

That girl is a bitch.

No ‘nice’ way to put it.

She’s a bitch.

But as she surveys the crowds of teenagers surroundin’ ‘er, she can’t pinpoint her worry. Her eyes even skimmed ‘cross the river, kids were swimmin’. hell, she even had a swimsuit on beneath her jacket and Jean shorts. She continued to look.

Cars ‘re lined up near the edge of the party, some are rolled up on the grass, people sit in the bed of trucks, or even on top ‘a cars. When she gets her car, she sure as hell ain’t gon’ sit on it.

Her eyes fall onto a particular truck bed.

Merle Dixon sits in the middle, laughin’ like he ain’t got a care in the goddamn world. Probably stoned out his mind, his stupid friends surrounding him. All intoxicated. She wondered if his brother were ‘round here. She frowned, a memory buzzing in the back of her mind.

His brother was okay, she c’tell he was a decent person, and would grow to hopefully be a decent man. But he let his brother walk all over ‘em. Merle could snap his fingers and Daryl’d do anythin’ he would ask. One day he’ll grow a backbone, take on his older brother, but that’s none of ‘er business.

She ain’t better.

A people pleaser, she calls ‘erself. But there ain’t nobody to please anymore. Nobody give her the time of day, ‘cause of what she used to be. Used to be wild, used to be rude, and uncontrollable. Pushed everybody who ever liked her away. Grew to like bein’ by herself, grew to be anxious, and fearful. Grew into a style that set her ‘part from the rest of the girls her age.

So she supposed she is also a hypocrite, ‘nother thing to add to the list.

She was sure Daryl didn’t like ‘er, after all he didn’t have much reason to.

She was sketching some plants for her notebook, one thing led to ‘nother and suddenly she was involved in a high steaks crime. That entire week followin’ she had kept lookin’ over her shoulder, fearful a police cruiser’d come down and take her away, but it never did.

Anyway, she felt like she was bein’ all nasty to him. Which, yes he deserved it, no matter what—he deserved her harsh words. But it still left her feelin’ icky inside. She was runnin’ off of pure fear and adrenaline, didn’t think ‘fore she spoke. The words just spilled outta her mouth.

She coils the end of her brain ‘round her finger and she continues scopin’ the place out as her mind runs rapid.

She tried apologizin’, he bunched up her apology though—‘n stuffed it in his pocket. And every time they make eycontact, he’s always scowlin’ but maybe that’s just his face.

She sighs to herself, that whole..scandal wasn’t meant to happen, they both knew that, he was just better at pretending that it didn’t.

“You swim?”

She jumped at the voice, head snapping to the source.

A taller boy, with wavy brown hair and tan skin looks at her.

She doesn’t respond, frozen in confusion.

Who is this?

Why’s he talkin’ to her?

A few heartbeats pass, not one of ‘em saying anythin’. Before, she slowly nods, bringing the cigarette back up to her lips, and taking a small drag.

“Sorry..do I know ‘ya?” Her voice jumps off her tongue—without her even realizin’ it, her voice reflects the emotions currently rolling through her body, confused, timid, even a little nervous. The boy smiles slyly, leaning next to her, both backs pressed against a tree, she squirms a little bit, shufflin’ ‘way from he sudden contact.

“Nah, but I know you”

She pauses, eyes squinting slightly, before lookin’ back up to this kid.

“‘Cause that ain’t creepy at all.” She half heartedly grumbles—‘more to herself then to him. The kid chuckles next to her. Now, she knows that this isn’t the most obscure thing, people talk ‘bout her. Talk ‘bout her drawings, her obsession, her family life, this guy had probably heard her name ‘round before. However she’s not feelin’ very good ‘bout this interaction. Hadn’t even seen this guy approach, she’s still kinda rattled by his sudden appearance. He shrugs, slightly, ‘fore continuing,

“Just saw ya’ hear all by yourself..thought ya could use the company,” she side eyes him as he takes the tiniest step towards her.

You know that feelin’ you get in your gut when something feels wrong?

Yeah, so basically every single alarm bell in her mind is going off, her stomach is in knots—and honestly, the way this guys looks is a little frustrating. Like not his expression, like.. his jaw structure, his eyes that are either too far apart or too close together. Somethin’s up, and she’s gotta go before anything gets worse.

Takin’ one last drag of her cigarette, she pushes herself off of the tree, tryin’ to put some distance between the two of them.

She stalks forward, walking closer to where the rowdy crowds have formed—completely leaving that guy in the dust. Almost makin’ it fully past the cars filled with stoned out assholes, till someone grabs her arm, grip tight, unrelentin’.

She’s not surprise when she turns around to see the zero personal space guy, in all his unwanted glory.

‘Cept now he’s touchin’ her. Big, big no.

She’s not an idiot, knows what this guy probably wants, and it’s not a friendly chat up against a tree. It’s making her grossed out, and—okay it’s making her a little scared. She tries to tug her arm back but he doesn’t let up. The hazy look in his expression tells her that this kid definitely drank one too many beers.

“Let me go,” her voice is calm, not wavering, or showin’ any sign of her mental freak out.

“Y’know people talk,” he states, a look in his too close—to far ‘part eyes that makes her feel icky. He continues, “‘say you got real good shit. I got money—swear it.” Her arm goes slack for a moment. What did he just say? He thinks she’s a druggy? Thinks she SELLS them too?

It’s almost laughable. She’s heard a lotta things ‘bout herself, ‘bitch’, ‘whore’, ‘freak’. But never ‘drug dealer’. Who the fuck was goin’ around saying shit like that?

His grip gets tighter, more forceful, and she’s shocked to realize he’s actually tryin’ ta’ DRAG HER. With him.

“I just—c’mon somthin’ to last me a few days—“

Almost immediately, zero thought or hesitation to what she’s about to do, she takes her cigarette and smashes it against his skin, a satisfying sizzle followin’ as it melts into his forearm.

He screams, like screams so loud it turns heads.

“You fuckin’ bitch!”

He had let go of her arm, and she had begun to slowly take a step back, then another, then another.

“This ‘s why nobody fucking likes you, you slut.” He groans, holding his arm closer to his body, he’s practically seethin’ in pain.

Gasps.

Gasps all around, people who causally turned their heads to see what all the screamin’ was about now seem fully invested.

Her eyes practically pop outta her head. Cause, first things first she knows why people don’t like her, and it has nothin’ to do with putting a geeked out boy in his place, and secondly, she thinks it’s funny how she’s called a ‘slut’ even though she ain’t never been with nobody before.

He starts advancing towards her again, it’s like everythin’ is in slow motion. The angry look in his eye, the way he’s raisin’ his non injured arm at the girl, like he’s about to slap the shit outta her. It’s only when he whines back does she fully realize, holy fuck! He’s about to slap the shit outta me!

She braces for impact, shoulders scrunchin’ up, eyes screwin’ shut. ‘Cept it never comes. No, instead if a stinging slap landing itself on her face, pair a’ feet shuffles along the dirt.

Her eyes open, taking notice of the bewildered expression on that boys face as her stares to her right. Eyes wide ‘n shock. She looked over her shoulder, spottin’ a shorter girl, wet hair framin’ her chubby face, towel wrapped ‘round her body.

She stood between the two, head frantically wiping from the boy ahead of her to the girl behind ‘er.

“Ryan..?” The curly haired girl spoke, and the silence that followed could only be described as punishin’. The people that had their main focus on them fell quiet, yeah, it was time to go. The attention was making her anxious, like all eyes were on her, made her throat feel closed—and her eyes well up. She was embarrassed, she had caused a scene, but for a good reason, right? She had to go, she had to go now.

She turns to ‘er left, and walks off.

She can’t go home, not yet, it’s better to sneak in when you know everybody is asleep. And..well, if they ain’t, ‘least you got to spend a little while longer outside.

So, she walked her way down to the river, purposefully strayin’ away from the splashing teenagers that occupied it. She stuck closer to the thick trees that lined the water, desperate to get as far away as possible. It’s almost like she could feel the eyes of all those people still burning at the back of her head.

She didn’t like the people in this town, didn’t like how they acted, how self centered they were.

That’s why she got hurt to easy.

That’s why she let rumors fly without a fight.

That’s why she’d rather be alone, in the woods, with her thoughts, then with any of those stuck up fools.

Nobody got her, an’ that’s okay. Because she has herself. And no-one, no matter how hard they try, will take that from her.

She only stops walkin’ when the faded streetlights of the party are so blurry and far that surely nobody could see her anymore.

She huffs, lookin’ at the rushing river water beneath her. The hot—sticky summer air feels like it’s closin’ in around her. Suffocating her.

She takes off her jacket without a single thought, placin’ it down on a nearby log.

It was her dad’s. Practically the only thing she has left of him. Her memory of him is startin’ to get fuzzy, it’s been years since he died. She wasn’t sure if she even had a conscious back then. That’s also ‘round the time her mom started layin’ her hands on ‘er.

She loved her dad, he was a weirdo—like her. And it always felt kinda good to have that reassurance. It’s kinda stupid that she is still kinda greivin’. She once read a book that said ‘your grief is just proof of how much you loved someone.’ She wonders if she was the one who was gone instead of her dad—would his grief last years?

Whatever.

Don’t matter, cause that didn’t happen. The only thing she has left of him deserves to not be placed on the ground—and water won’t get on it from that position.

She took her Doc Martens off quickly, throwin’ the laces out of their knots and kicking the boots off. They landed near her jacket, covered by the blanket of shadow the trees provided.

She sat on the solid ground, inching her way towards the river quickly.

The second her feet hit the water, it felt like her entire body was kissed from the heavens.

Her tight muscles immediately relaxed against the feelin’ , like her body was uncoiling. She sighed, and let ‘erself fall back onto the the solid dirt beneath her. The thought of it made her smile, she was literally rollin’ in dirt. Her mom would be pissed if she knew, probably be quicker outta the house for the night and would need to hose ‘erself down outside. Hopefully, her mom wouldn’t need to know.

Speaking of mom, when her arms followed her body, and thumped to the floor—the lovely feeling the water gave her was replaced by a stinging pain.

She gripped her wrist, as gently as she could without hurting it further. The bruise that was left the other day was starting to darken in color. Becoming quite the ugly thing. She don’t even remember what she did to earn such a’ thing.

Fuckin’ bitch.

Gently, she traced the twin injury that ran across her torso. That one..that one knocked the wind right outta her when she got it. And it hurts like a whore, but she ain’t one to complain, or talk ‘bout it.

No one is, she supposes. No matter how hard she’ll try to get attention from others, to get someone to care, they don’t. It’s like there all in in a big joke, brush the hurt girl away, turn a blind eye to the starving and sad children in this town. She just has to learn how to play along. Seems like everybody but her does.

Her hands brush against her jean-shorts, bringing her out of the mental turmoil that was dragging her under.

She rolled her eyes, of course, she forgot to take off her damn shorts.

But now that she was feeling cool, she didn’t fully want to swim.

Her eyes followed up to the big, inky sky dotted with every star in the galaxy. It was so clear. So pretty. It made ‘er forget about everything for a second. Like she was trapped in the beauty of something she saw everyday.

It made her happy, and she felt loopy from the couple a’ beers she had earlier into the night, and the water felt, oh so perfect. Maybe she could draw it, her fingers twitching slightly as she observes.

She stared into the lovely sky ‘til her eyelids began to fall.

The last thing she remembered was her eyes tracing the Big Dipper.

—

She woke up screaming.

Well—okay not like bloody murder screamin’—but like, somebody just dumped ice cold water on you an’ you just woke up and feel delirious typa yelp.

‘S too dark, she can’t see shit, and she is dripping wet. She’s panicking.

What happened? Did she end up falling asleep? She grimaces, to herself, ‘she fall asleep in the dirt? How many bugs are there out here?

Immediately, her eyes focus on the approaching figure ahead of her.

She could pinpoint that whoever this was, he was a guy—the lack of his shirt told her that much.

‘Er panic worsens by the second, ‘nd she scrambles to push herself up, trying to lift her legs from the water.

It felt—EXTREMELY— sketchy that a random guy was trying to get ta’ her..in the dark..when shes vulnerable..people arent kind in this damn town. God fucking forbid she gets taken advantage of.

‘Fore she is even able to scream, the boys urgent voice puts her rising emotions to rest.

It’s fucking Daryl.

Holy shit.

It’s almost like her entire body unwinds itself from the familiar face. Daryl ain’t like those assholes. The only hurt she’d be receiving from him is from his harsh words.

“What the fuck! You sleepin’?” Surprisingly, he ain’t that loud, a hushed whisper leavin’ him as he strides through the water. Side note, she noticed that the once calm river now had waves. Not big ones—like pictures she’d seen of the ocean. But noticeable ‘nough that it makes her eyes wander around.

Daryl continues speakin’ to her. But she ain’t listening.

He ignores her every fuckin’ day. Why should she suddenly fall at his feet at the sudden attention?—One word people might use to describe ‘er is ‘desperate’. But she ain’t that desperate.

She turns her head to the left, wantin’ to see if any kids were still out. Maybe she wasn’t out that long at all, and she can still stay out a bit ‘fore going home.

Instead of being met with the dozens ‘a trucks lined up—the kids in the river—people drunk in the grass—

no.

Big flashy lights shine across the water, blurring her vision.

Blue and red.

Police.

The police is here.

What.

At this rate, the boy in front of ‘er became background noise, ignorable, not important. Daryl wrapped his hand ‘round her ankle and gave it a solid tug, pullin’ her attention back to him.

When she turns back to him, she can feel the way her anxiety was played on her face. Her eyes felt wide, eyebrows high on her forehead, mouth dropped open. Daryl looked over her expression—he didn’t show a single sign of sympathy, actually, he looked like he became more agitated by the second.

“Why..?” She whipped her head back over to the lights. The lack of cars in the lot and teenagers let her know everythin’. Anyone who was at the party had either fled or been caught.

“Damn pigs think issa’ drug ring.” He practically groaned. “Some asshole brought real heavy shit. Like—really fuckin’ illegal shit. They think everyone is involved.” He let go ‘a her leg once he was certain he’d keep her attention.

He pauses for a moment, before turning to look up at her,

“You swim?”

Her mouth presses into a deep frown. That’s the second time she’d been asked that tonight. She’s startin’ to not grow very fond of that question.

He continues ‘fore she has even a second to question him.

“They won’t get us in tha’ water. Swim upstream ‘till we get deeper onto tha’ woods.”

She had about a second to realize what she was about to do. Not even, because ‘fore she could stop herself, she laughs in his face—words followin’ uncontrollably from her mouth.

“What the hell makes you think I’m goin’ with you?”

For a split second, Daryl face mimics her’s. Shock, confusion, frustration all in one. He almost scoffs in disbelief.

“Where ‘re ya’ gonna go then?”

She almost wants to roll her eyes at how bizarre this is. She gets ignored by this kid FOR. MONTHS. And suddenly he’s just..talking to her? Expects her to just go with him on a whim? Fuck no. She’d choose herself a hundred times before she’d ever choose him

She’ll make her way into the forest behind her, somehow creep her way home. No big deal.

She opens her mouth to speak, but Daryl cuts in.

“Don’t say the woods.” She snaps her mouth shut.

“Look ‘round you can see their flashlights inna trees.” And she does. And throughout the forest, easy to see cause of their contrast to the dark surroundin’ them, dancing lights. A lot of them. At least four or five closest to the two.

Not good.

She cringes to herself. She’d choose ‘erself over him a hundred a’ times but she needs an escape if she ever wants to keep herself as an option. But still, she feels uneasy, as she casts a sideways glance in the direction of her discarded items.

“I have my stuff here though. You want me to just leave everythin’ behind?”

“Do you wanna get outta here or not?”

Feeling the tense atmosphere, Daryl rushes in with—an attempt to reassure her.

“Well jus’ come back for it later. We gotta go.”

Crunchin’ footsteps close in on them. She may not see the officers that hold the flashlights but she hears them just fine. Multiple low growls follow in suite. They brought the damn dogs.

She can’t just leave her Dads jacket. Even if his loss doesn’t upset her anymore. It was still his and it’s the only thing she really had left of him.

Daryl must’ve picked up on what she realized, cause he smiles at her. ‘Cept it’s not a sweet one. It’s sly, almost cocky, like he got what he wanted.

“‘Dogs won’t find us in the water, right?”

She doesn’t have time to roll her eyes at his callback to their last run in. The officers are not far at all, and she doesn’t want to become dog food. But it feels wrong. She needs that damn jacket.

She throws her legs out of the water, and takes her shorts off, chucking them somewhere into the distance.

In a matter of seconds her full body is in the water.

Cool, refreshing, crisp river water fills her senses. Smoothin’ over her bruises. It actually felt really nice. She should’ve went in sooner.

Daryl reached down into the water and latched onto her shoulder—pullin’ her up abruptly. When she came back up for air, the boy was already movin’—carefully, almost completely submerged in the water, trying to go by unnoticed. But fast none the less.

Reluctantly, casting one last glance at where she once sat, the girl followed.

Her jacket and shoes were somewhere ‘round there. Hopefully she threw them somewhere that the police wont find. The only reason she feels this nervous is because of the dogs. If they can sniff them out—and the police finds them, there’s a chance she might not see them ever again.

She now regrets throwing the one expensive item she owns around so casually. She don’t wanna lose it.

No, it’s fine, they’ll come back. An’ if it’s not there, Daryl will have hell to pay.

—

“What’s with you and always runnin’ from the cops.”

It was the first thing anyone had said in—what felt like forever.

The two had been carefully movin’ themselves in the water, and so far have been successful. A little deeper into the woods and they would probably be safe.

The flashlights of the cops have slowly started fading out. The ones that got to close for comfort—they’d go beneath the water, hold their breaths for as long as they could, before coming back up. Every time a light flashed ‘cross the water, they froze. Their movements were careful, slow, like they where trying to avoid the smallest ripple in the water. And for the most part, it was workin’.

‘was only when they got a good far away did she let herself speak.

It came out more snarky than originally intended, but either way, she wanted to ask.

Daryl just shrugged, didn’t really know how to answer that.

“Y’know, I’ve seen you ‘round.” She had continued, ignoring his eyes—boring into the side of ‘er head.

“I know you don’t do most a’ that stuff anyway. It’s more your brother, right?” He stayed silent, all huffin’ and puffin’ but never answerin’ her questions. She brushed him off, continuing to move forward in the water.

“Don’t really matter anyway. You’re still the one doin’ all the dangerous stuff.”

“You don’t know shit.”

She laughed, “well, I know enough.” Before he could interject, she decided to let ‘im know how close she’d really been payin’ attention.

“Merle’s in a gang, you’ll probably join it too when you’re old ‘nough, right? If anything your already in it. Your quiet, but when you do open your mouth nothin’ good comes outta it. Your quick—but still stupid, definitely smarter then your brother though. And for fun, you like draggin’ random girls into drug scandals and then pretend like they don’t exist.”

For a second, they just stare at eachother—Daryl has this look on his face, maybe it’s disgust, or maybe it’s pure confusion—like he is tryin’ to figure her out. But he just shakes his head, “I already hear your a freak. You tellin’ me your a stalker now?” She sighs, a sour pit coiling in her stomach. “Wouldn’t be the craziest thing I’ve been called.”

Silence settles over the two, they’d stopped moving somewhere durin’ this conversation.

He clears his throat, lookin’ away from her dejectedly.

“..not the only thing I do for fun..”

She just scoffs, takin’ the lead ahead a’ them. “And he’s funny too..” she half heartedly mumbled.

“Aye—your not all perfect either—“ he sputtered, volume a little to high for comfort. She turns to face him fully, letting herself float in the water, gently movin’ her arms in a circular motion. “You got that starin’ problem that throws people off.” Daryl states, unmoving in the water. “And you’re always wearin’..that..” he brings his hand up an outta the water, just to gesture to the top a’ her head.

She absentmindedly slaps a head to the top of her head.

Beneath her fingers, she feels the familiar softness of her bandana—cept it’s drenched, and almost slippin’ down the back a’ her head.

Immediately, she jumps to her own defense.

“It was my grandma’s..”

“Ya, I can tell.”

Her mouth presses into a line, eyes squintin’ as she looks at this kid. He really has no room to speak. ‘May as well be the livin’ definition of a dirtbag.

“You’re a hunter—yeah? Wouldn’t be surprised if you ate animals raw. ‘Seem like that typa guy.” She watches as his face screw up in revolt—eyebrows scrunchin’ together and mouth droppin’. She almost wants to laugh.

“And your what? A fuckin’ witch? Let me tell you. Yaint one, jus’ a lonely girl with a lighter and mommy issues. Hopin’ the moon’ll fix whatever therapy can’t.” He’s eyes flickered over to the hand on ‘er head. More specifically her wrist.

She knew what he must’ve been lookin’ at. And it made her blood boil.

She took the soppin’ wet bandana from her hair, and tied it ‘round her wrist. Coverin’ the bruise that infected it.

“‘M notta witch.”

It felt kinda weird to be called out like that. She felt like a deer in headlights.

Yeah..okay maybe she thought it was fun to..TRY..and attempt some spells. But ‘t wasn’t like she expected results. ‘Was just meant to be fun. But in freshmen year, Sally Martin mixed their notebooks up and suddenly, her ‘spells’ were shared widely with the school.

A lotta rumors started then, said that she wanted to create ‘erself a boyfriend—or even go a crazier route and kill somebody. It was just meant to be harmless fun. Nothin’ more.

“People’ll take whatever they can in this town and run. Nothin’ you or I can do ‘bout it.” Daryl didn’t respond to that, instead he turned ‘round, lookin’ behind them back in the direction where they came. He waited, and waited, and waited a little bit more—‘fore he nodded his head, like he was satisfied.

“No more cops.”

She took this as a sign to observe their surroundings a little harder, no flashin’ lights, no dogs barkin’—everything looked good.

“Do we go back?” She asked, eyes still glued to the trees. “Nah,” Daryl responded, “Wait a bit. They need to be gone when we get back.” She nodded slowly, still lookin’ at the trees.

“Hey, Daryl?”

“Yeah?”

“You know the time?” She asked, finally turnin’ her head back, already findin’ the boy lookin’ right back at her. He stared at her for a second, before turnin’ his head to the sky.

“Uhh..I’d say ‘bout midnight..” when she turns her head up too, nothin’ really sticks out to her, ‘fore she realizes that he’s tellin’ the time by the moon.

‘used to be big on astrology—moon phases, all that shit, but shes rusty. She knew the names of the moons phases, and how they looked, but never what time they meant.

“How’d ya now?” She asks, eyes catchin’ onta all different stars.

She heard the sound of water splashin’ so she looked down, just to find Daryl pointin’ back up to the sky. So she looks back up.

“I dunno what it’s called—but uhh..when the moon is like..halfway—“

“Last quarter”

“Yeah, so when it’s like that—means it’s midnight..or close to it anyway”

“Huh..”

She did the math in her head, when she left for the party, it was eight, she stayed for ‘bout an hour, ‘fore goin’ to the water. Meanin’ she had fallen asleep for two or three hours.

She felt a chill go up her spine at the returtnin’ thought of bugs crawlin’ around her. So she sinks herself back into the water, tryin’ to get rid a’ the feeling.

“You know who had the drugs?” He just shook his head, “all I know—s’that one of Merle’s dickhead friends brought some stuff that you shouldn’t fuck ‘round with.” She let herself float to the surface, arms and legs stretched out, still lookin’ at the sky. “Your brother got taken?” Daryl huffed, “Nah, got thrown into the back a’ one of his friends trucks. Damn asshole was wacked outta his mind.”

“And you first thought was to go swimmin’?”

He kinda laughed—eyes stuck to the water like it owed him money.

“I didn’t want ya’ to show up—‘nd tell me off ‘bout the dogs again.” Daryl had sighed, “actually, when I found ya’ I thought you where a dead body..had half a mind to just leave ya there.” She just rolled her eyes at his comment.

“But you didn’t”

“Debating if that was a good choice ‘r not.”

Silence fell over them as time passed. She wasn’t sure if it was an hour or two—or ten minutes. He’ll—she might’ve even fell asleep again. They had to go back. They needed to.

“Daryl, I want my jacket.”

“We can go back now. ‘S been a while.”

“Well what if it’s not there?”

“Then ya don’t have a jacket no more.”

She pulls herself upright, to her feet. To stare at him in disbelief. Why the hell is he talkin’ to her like she is a child? She’ll go to Hell ‘n back for that jacket she ain’t losin’ it now.

She ain’t a very threatenin’ girl, but she tried her hardest in this moment—to have her feelings reflect over her facial features—to have her intensity be understood. Daryl was up and standin’ too, but he just looked at her with a frown.

“If we get back there, and my damn jacket ain’t where it should be, I’ll break into the police office myself to get it back. Ya hear me? I don’t care if I’m draggin’ you down with, Daryl Dixon” he just stares at her, his frown growin’ by the second.

He just shook his head, “whatever.”

And just like that, they began to swim there way back.

—

Through the dark, the two crept their way back to the abandoned trailer park. The lack of cops gave her a little reassurance, it meant that Daryl was right—most of ‘em should be gone.

From that point onward, it wasn’t far at all until they were at her ledge—where she had fallen asleep.

She turned around, ‘fore placin’ her hand on the ground, and liftin’ herself back onto the land.

“Be quick.” Was all Daryl had said, she nodded, and started her search.

The first thing she found—thankfully, was her discarded shorts. She threw them pretty far from where she once sat. Without a second thought she put ‘em on.

With her jacket, she remembered the spot it should’ve been in. After all— She placed it down on a’ log ‘fore goin’ to the river. Shouldnt be that hard to find.

‘Cept it was.

Her shoes were there, thrown around without a care in the world. She held them limply by her side as she stared lasers at the run down piece of wood.

It didn’t fall off.

Didn’t run off on its own.

Somebody fuckin’ took it.

Her lip trembles—and she bites down on it to make it stop. But she can’t do anythin’ ‘bout the tears in her eyes, or the ache in her chest. She took a shuddering breath, scannin’ all over the area, before confimrin’ her suspicion that it wasn’t there.

She shoved her shoes back onto her feet, laced them quickly, ‘fore making her way back to the boy in the river—who..wasn’t actually in the river anymore. Daryl leaned himself against a tree, seein’ her approach, he asked—“got everythin’?” Which, she shook her head violently too.

“No.” Her voice was waverin’, and she had to take a deep breath before continuing.

“Not everything.”

It was really dark—like super dark. She could’ve misplaced it, maybe a deer or somethin’ came and took it away, but deep in her gut, she knows it ain’t there.

“You sure you ain’t seen it?” He pushed himself off of the tree, walkin’ up to her. She wasn’t sure why he was bein’ so easy with this. Didn’t ask her what the stupid thing meant, didn’t berate her ‘bout gettin’ all emotional cause of a jacket. But she could feel his patience was runnin’ thin.

“I know where I put it.”

“Yeah, but ‘s dark. Maybe you should check when you ain’t trippin’ over yourself.” She shook her head promptly, a scowl formin’ as she stared at the ground.

“If that happens you’re comin’ with. ‘S your fault I left it to begin with.” He scoffed at her words, and she could feel his eyes on her—but she didn’t look up.

“Issa jacket. You’ll be fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

Silence falls between them both, before she speaks up again.

“‘S only thing I got left of my dad.”

Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. The regret doesn’t hit her instantly, but it seeps into her with every silent moment that passes. Daryl lost someone—his mom. Lost ‘er in a fire. He ain’t got nothin’ left of her. One second she’s there, the next she’s not. She remembers the day it happened, how the fire trucks were screamin’ throughout the town. How everybody went to see.

She didn’t know Daryl then. Hell, she barely knows him now. She don’t know if what she said made him think about his momma or not. A big part of her really wished she hadn’t.

He clicked his tongue, waitin’ a few more beats—she realized how most of their time spent together was consumed in awkward silence—‘fore he spoke up.

“I’ll getcha home. Meet me here at ten. No excuses.”

She faintly smiled at his worn down tone, lookin’ up at him gratefully.

“No excuses.” She repeated.

But his promise didn’t make the aching her chest go away. She was worried—really, really, really fuckin’ worried. She needed that jacket back. Needed to know that it wasn’t ripped up by some dog.

The ache only worsened when they couldn’t find it the next day.

And worsened when she had to figure out what she was going to do.

And worsened even more when she thought about never seeing it again.

It’s been a week since she lost it.

Lost the last piece of him.

The last piece of herself.

She was layin’ in her uncomfortable bed, mattress to thick and blankets to thin, replayin’ all the bad moments of her life as she stared mindlessly at the ceiling—when she heard it.

A small ‘thunk’ against her window.

She paused, and then when nothing else happened, she went back to what she was doin’.

And then a louder, ‘thawck’ ‘gainst her window—already had her sittin’ up.

She carefully slid outta her bed, and to the window.

Another object hit it.

In her mind, she played out who could possibly be outside, drunk assholes? Rude girls? Angry pedestrians? She peeled back her curtain, revealing the youngest Dixon, in all his unwanted glory—barely illuminated by the moon.

They eyed each other up for a moment—her eyebrows drawn tightly together, before she attempts to ask,

“Daryl..?what are you—“

She was cut off abruptly.

“I know where your jacket is.”

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t-folklore13 · 3 days ago

Text

── .✦ 𐔌 𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄? 𐦯

[ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 ⊹ 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 ]

✧ pairing: dbf!daryl dixon x fem!reader

✧ contains: age difference. nostalgia. fluff without end. thirst. a flicker of angst. dbf trope. soft past moments with toddler! & little girl! reader. failed attempt of mild-humour. biker!daryl. reader is rick‘s and lori’s daughter.

✧ warnings & triggers: huge age gap—reader’s twenty but daryl’s in his late forties. language. mention of past violence & crime. drug traffic mention. reader had a childhood bond with daryl. sexual tension at the end? kinda.

✧ setting: alternative universe! no outbreak. small town in atlanta, georgia—more specifically king county.

✧ word count: i wrote this in tumblr, so i don't really know the exact number. maybe 2.5k?

summary: after ten years on the road, daryl dixon returns to georgia hoping to catch up with his old friend rick and visit the children he once adored. but when daryl knocks on that front door, he’s met not by the sweet pink-bowed baby girl who used to cling to his vest—but by a confident, grown woman with a dangerous body and the same big eyes that once made him melt. and he instantly knows he's fucked.

The Dixon brothers were infamous for stirring up trouble on the outskirts of Atlanta’s otherwise beautiful cityscape. Wheter they were getting tangled up in shady deals with dangerous people —deals that often ended with the police hot on their trail— or trafficking illicit substances in seedy bars, their reputation for mishief and crime was impossible to ignore.

Especially for King County’s sheriff, Rick Grimes, who knew all too well the headaches they caused to his department.

So when the oportunity to slap the cuffs on Merle Dixon finally came, Rick didn’t hesitate to put him behind bars once for all.

But what the sheriff didn’t expect was the firecraker Merle had for a brother bursting into the station like a goddamn banshee, swinging fists and cursing like hellfire as he demanded his brother's inmediate release.

That encounter ended with both of them —Rick and the youngest Dixon, Daryl—, bruised and glaring at each other in the station’s infirmary. And from that chaos? A brotherhood stronger than blood was born.

That’s how Daryl Dixon became more than an ally—he became Rick’s unwavering right hand, and, in every way that mattered, family.

He remembers the first time he held you. Seven pounds of tiny pink and chubby cheeks, fussing and wailing in that baby way, with your face all scrunched up like you were mad at the whole damn world.

He had you nestled in his arms, your tiny hands balled into fists as you cried out in hunger. Daryl had gently tapped your little nose with his finger, and his heart all but melted when you immediately grabbed it with your tiny hand.

“Look at ’er… just like ya, man” he’d breathed, his wide, soft eyes never leaving your adorable little face.

And from that moment on, you had him wrapped around your little finger, without even knowing it.

He’d cuddle you for hours, let you drool all over his shoulder while you slept peacefully in his arms, give you your bottle when you were hungry, and call you every cheesy nickname he could think of under the sun —princess, sweetheart, babygirl, cupcake, pumpkin, sugarbean.

You were a tiny little bundle of joy in his life, and even if you weren’t his daughter, you sure as hell were his little sweetheart.

And of course, the feeling wasn’t one-sided, Daryl was your favourite person in the whole world. Not daddy. Not mommy. Just Daryl.

He was the one who was always by your side.

When Rick’s voice got too loud and Lori’s scolds felt like sharp stings to your tiny heart, Daryl was the one who scooped you up and rocked you gently until you calmed down. When Lori refused to buy you candy, Daryl was there to sneak you chocolates behind her back. Even when you were being a little handful for your parents, Daryl was always there to settle you down.

He was your safe place. Your home. The one you ran to whenever you were sad, the one who spoiled you with more love than anyone else ever could, and the one who understood you better than anyone in the world.

It was as clear as day that you loved Daryl, and that Daryl loved you. It was the kind of love that didn’t need to be explained. You were just a kid, all scraped knees and sunshine, and he was the gruff redneck who always kept you safe.

So when Merle got himself wrapped up in something real bad —the kind of trouble that had men showing up with guns and cold eyes— Daryl didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t involved in whatever shit Merle was into, not really. But he couldn’t let Merle face it alone. That wasn’t who he was. Blood meant everything to him… even when it broke his heart to leave.

You cried like your world was ending. Sobbed into the fabric of his vest, your little fingers clutching it like it might anchor him to home. Your chest heaved with hiccups, tears spilling faster the harder you begged him not to leave you.

He crouched down in front of you, calloused hands cupping your tear-soaked face as he kissed your forehead—soft, lingering, like he was carving the moment into his bones. He promised he’d be back before you even noticed he was gone, and then he left the porch without even more words.

But ten years is a long damn time.

The motorcycle engine rumbled beneath Daryl, steady and fierce. Sweat drops slided down the back of his neck, soaking into his already heavy jacket after hours under Georgia’s relentless sun. The hot summer wind rushed against his face, offering almost no relief—just a teasing, warm brush that only made his flushed skin feel even hotter.

Rick had sounded very excited on the phone when Daryl told him he was finally coming home. He went on about how Carl was a teenager now—smart, strong, and already turning into a handsome young man, though the hormones and mood swings were hitting him hard, since he was always snappy and grumpy with everyone.

His brother also said that you were already in college, halfway through your degree, adding the fact that you had grown into a beautiful young lady, sassy and bratty, the kind of attitude that sometimes got under Lori’s skin. But beneath it all, you still had that golden heart you’ve always carried with you, now mixed with just the right hint of mischievous sweetness.

This made Daryl chuckle, though he couldn’t shake the guilt that had taken rot in his mind. He had promised you he’d be back soon, and instead, he ended up returning a decade later.

He’d missed the most important moments of your life—your elementary school graduation, your first day of high school, your first love… if you’d ever fallen in love with someone at all.

He just hopes you can forgive him for breaking a pinky promise. But if you don't, he'll spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to you.

He revved up the motorcycle, the engine rumbling beneath him like a restless heartbeat. He couldn’t wait to see his favorite girl waiting on the porch, with that bright smile of hers and those little hands waving at him.

Daryl foolishly pictured you as the little ten-year-old girl he’d left behind all those years ago. In his mind, you were still that same bright-eyed kid who’d always ask for cuddles or piggybacks, not the grown young woman you surely were by now.

A part of him almost wanted to keep that image frozen forever, because it felt safer, simpler—a version of you that still needed him more than anyone else.

Maybe you still needed him more than anyone else.

All he could hope was that you hadn’t forgotten about him, because he hadn’t spent a single moment without carrying you in his thoughts.

Daryl was definitely not prepared for this.

He had parked in front of your house less than five minutes ago. It took him a few seconds to get off the bike because he was sweaty and hot, and the last thing he wanted was to greet Rick smelling like that, especially if he knew he was about to get pulled into a hug.

Even more so if you were going to come running and throw yourself into his arms the way you always did.

So he needed to compose himself a little. Wipe away some drops of sweat on his face, or finally get rid of that fucking thick leather jacket he was wearing because it wasn't helping at all to refresh him.

Meanwhile, he stared around the place. The house looked the same —white, cosy and familiar—except for some new flowers out front that Lori probably planted. Daryl chuckled under his breath, remembering how Rick always said he didn’t have a green thumb for shit.

Damn, it has been a long time.

He kicked the stand down and got off the bike, taking a deep breath to finally head to the front door of your home and ring the bell.

1…

2…

3…

And nothing.

He rang the bell again and waited for a few seconds.

1…

2…

3…

…

Still nothing.

He sighed and turned around, thinking no one was home—that’s what he gets for arriving unannounced. Well, he had indeed said that he’d return in the following days, though he didn’t mention when.

At least he tried. That has to count for something, right?

And just when he was about to leave, the front door creaked open behind him.

At first he thought he was at the wrong house —maybe you had finally moved in while he was gone, which would make sense, since Lori always complained about how much she disliked this county and its residents— because there's no way in hell this tall, stunning, gorgeous woman is-

“Daryl?” Your sweet voice came out in a surprised gasp as your eyes widened in shock, as if you’d just seen a ghost. Well, maybe you had.

Oh, yes. Yes she is.

The moment you said his name, his throat went dry. Oh God, help him. Because the way your lips moved in that soft, hypnotic pattern to pronounce his name out loud was almost sinful.

What the fuck happened?

You’re standing there, all sweet and pretty, wearing a tiny, tight white tank top that hugs perfectly the swell of your chest, and low-rise flared jeans that show off your hips in ways that should be illegal. Your hair’s down, wild and soft, and there's a faint sheen on your skin like you just stepped out of the heat.

He can’t breath.

And when you finally seem to snap out of your shock and beam at him so wide and bright —like a kid on Christmas morning— the realization hits him in the chest like a truck.

You’re still that sweet little baby girl who used to demand cuddles all the time and ask with the sweetest voice to be picked up and spun around by him. Just… all grown the fuck up.

“Oh, Daryl! Is that really you?!” Your syrupy voice echoed in his ears like a siren’s song as you practically threw yourself into his arms, wrapping yours around his neck and pressing up tight to his ribs.

Jesus Christ… Now you’ve grown soft in places you weren’t before, and your chest feels so full and warm against him that he fears he’s going to pass out. Every curve fits perfectly against his hard chest, and it’s driving him insane.

He can smell your sweet perfume mixed with summer heat, and it shoots a flicker of something straight to his gut.

“Uh...” his mouth opens to say something, but nothing comes out. He just stands there frozen, his arms holding your waist loosely and awkwardly.

The fuck is he doing?

“God... I fucking missed you so much!”

Um... since when do you curse?

He quickly takes a step back to create some distance, though his hands remain on your waist to avoid making you think he’s rejecting you.

“Yeah, ya too, sweetheart. Yer… fuck. Look at ya…” he rasps almost breathlessly, swallowing hard as his eyes roam over your face and body. You’re still looking at him with that excited smile, but your face no longer carries the babyish softness he remembers so vividly.

Those chubby cheeks are gone, replaced by high cheekbones and a blush so cute it makes his heart hammer violently against his ribcage. Your lips, which used to be stained with strawberry juice, are now glossed in a soft baby pink.

“At what moment did my sugarbean turn into... that?” the question slipped out before he could stop it.

And you giggle —the same damn giggle that used to make him melt, now doing dangerous things to his lower belly— as you take a step forward.

He instantly takes one back.

His hands are still gripping your waist tightly, and when he realizes he hasn’t let go, he forces himself to, desperate to keep his mind from literally combusting.

“Well… You missed all the way there, Daryl. It’s not my fault you didn’t get to see me bloom into a pretty flower.” you winked.

His pants suddenly felt way too tight for his own comfort.

And he hated himself for it.

He opened his mouth to say something —maybe a smart remark, maybe a warning— but all that came out is a strangled, “Shit…”

His hands twitched at his sides, as if they wanted to grab you again. But he shoved them into his pockets instead, trying to hide the way they were shaking.

“Bloom, huh?” he finally managed to rasp out, voice low and rough. His eyes flicked up and down your figure like he can’t help himself, tracing every curve, every new softness. “Yeah… ya sure did.”

You giggled again, tilting your head playfully. “Don’t act so surprised… You always told me I’d grow into a heartbreaker someday.”

Fuck. He does remember saying that, in some hazy summer long ago, when you ran around in the yard with messy pigtails and sticky hands from ice pops. You’d grinned up at him, baby teeth showing, and he’d ruffled your hair and joked, “One day, princess, you’re gonna break hearts left and right.”

Now, you’re standing here in front of him, all soft hips and pink lips, breaking his in ways he doesn’t even understand yet.

“Yeah… guess I did,” he muttered, eyes dropping to the ground as if it’ll save him.

“Daryl?” Your voice snaps him out of it again. You step a little closer, eyes glinting mischievously as you lightly touch his forearm. He jolts under your fingers like you just shocked him.

You lean in, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Relax… I don’t bite.” You pause, smirk curling at the corner of your glossed lips. “Unless you ask me to.”

He stops breathing. Literally stops. His heart slams so hard against his ribs it almost hurts.

What the actual fuck.

You straighten up, still grinning like the sweetest little devil. “C’mon… it’s too hot to stand out here, and you probably wanna come inside to… refresh yourself, don’t you?”

He fumbles for words, mind short-circuiting. He wants to spit out some pathetic excuse, something like “Actually, gotta head back to the road, think Merle needs sumthin’” —maybe never come back here again, maybe even move to another damn country— but before he can even open his mouth, you’re already turning around, stepping inside.

And when you turn, his eyes drop helplessly.

They land on the curve of your ass in those low-rise jeans.

Juicy. Plump. Soft. Bouncing slightly with every step.

His throat closes up, and something dark and heavy pools in his gut, sliding lower until his cock twitches painfully in his jeans.

Jesus Christ.

He curses under his breath, so low you don’t hear. His fingers curl into fists inside his pockets, nails biting into his palms as he fights the urge to grab you, to pull you back, to take you in his arms, shove those pants down and get his way with—

Oh, he’s so, so fucked.

So fucking fucked.

a/n: finally came back! 😭 i'm so sorry, college keeps me so busy. but now I've got plenty of free time, so I'll start working with lots of ideas and fics. 🥳

hope u liked this! i really enjoyed writing it, and maybe if you ask me, i can do a second part. 👀

pd: I'm sorry if there are any grammatical or spelling errors. english isn't my mother language, and even though i'm at an advanced level, i still make some mistakes. 🥺

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t-folklore13 · 3 days ago

Text

Peach Cobbler

Summary: Carol had asked the Dixons to bring something to the next group dinner which means that you are baking while Daryl dicks around in the kitchen.

Warnings/Tags: domestic!daryl, married pair, pure fluff, wife!reader (she/her), season seven, no use of y/n

Word count: 520

A/N: After writing a bunch of angst, which will be posted later, I needed a lighter story to write. This was inspired by a prompt from @fromdove, and I had a great time writing it. It felt good to let Daryl have a moment of peace. This is basically just him being childish and terrorizing his wife.

Inside the kitchen, you are measuring different ingredients and peeling the skin off a batch of peaches. Daryl had joined you and was admiring you as you worked. He always thought that you were cute when you focused. Things had finally calmed down in Alexandria, so it was nice to enjoy this small bit of normalcy. For whatever reason, Daryl decided to perch himself up on the counter, and he was absentmindedly swinging his feet. This earned an eye roll from you.

“Why is your dirty ass on my clean counter?”

“Ain't that dirty. I washed up yesterday.”

“Oh, that makes it so much better.”

You were being sarcastic, but you couldn't stop yourself from smiling a little at his antics. As you chopped the peaches, Daryl was taking pieces when you looked away and sneaking bites. He thought that he was being stealthy, but you quickly noticed and lightly swatted his hand away.

“Would you stop that? Ain't gonna be able to make a cobbler if you keep eatin' all the fruit.”

“Can't help it, sweetheart. They're real good.”

You were trying to be stern, but the look on his face and his simple answer made you laugh. He was right, though. These peaches came from Hilltop and they were damn good. You looked over at him and saw that he had gotten peach juice in his beard. You grabbed a nearby kitchen towel and wiped his face while playfully scolding him.

“You're fuckin' ridiculous, y'know that? Like havin' a toddler.”

Squirming, he pretended to be offended and gasped softly. “That ain't fair. I ain't nothin' like a toddler.”

“Whatever. Just stop takin' shit. Especially since you ain't even helpin' me.”

At the idea of having to bake something, Daryl groaned and dramatically slumped against the cabinet that his back had been resting on. You just rolled your eyes again and tried to stifle another laugh. Entertaining this little stunt would only encourage him further.

“See what I mean? You're like an overgrown baby.”

“Am not. Just ain't understandin' why I, the man of the house, should have to bake.”

You knew that he didn't actually believe that, and he was just teasing you, but it always riled you up. That's exactly what your man wanted. Shooting Daryl a playful glare, you softly smacked one of his legs and pointed a finger at him.

“Don't you start with that patriarchal bullshit. I ought to make you get down and bake this cobbler yourself.”

“I was just fuckin' with you, sweetheart. You ain't gotta do all that.”

Despite his protests, you grabbed Daryl's hand and pulled him off the counter. He sighed loudly, but allowed you to drag him over to where you'd been standing. You positioned him in front of the cutting board and handed him the knife.

“Get choppin', dickhead.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Daryl begrudgingly helped his wife prepare and bake the cobbler. He bitched and mumbled the whole time, but he did enjoy spending time with you. Part of him even liked baking, but his stubborn ass was would never admit that.

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t-folklore13 · 3 days ago

Text

I KNOW HE’S SO FOUL BUT I LIKE HIM A LOT! -> D. DIXON

— [ THE RICH WHORES. ]

table of contents; reader is 18 and daryl is in his early 20s, brief references to past abuse, you’re very flirtatious, it’s giving lizzy grant, mutual pining, sexual tension, hb is down bad, you bond over dysfunctional topics, loser!daryl, mildly implied gooner!daryl, implied panty fetish, he’s so awkward bless him, he’s got a staring problem, fluffy, public touching and kissing.

this is based on a super cute request sent in by my lovely bubbles anon <3

he used to see the way merle looked at girls like you and it repulsed him.

you’ve gotten close with the greene sisters; namely beth. you’re close in age and clothes size, too. beth’s jeans are a little tight on you but daryl’s not complaining. the way they hug your hips and cling to your legs. . . they look good on you.

the other day he noticed a little butterfly inked to the skin at your naval. a simple print that probably cost you twenty bucks; but it’s dainty and feminine, like you.

well, perhaps not dainty.

you’re not meek like your mother. you’ve got your father’s temperament. ed peletier.

daryl scoffs. gone too late. fucker had it coming.

though unlike ed—your temper is easily tamed. but feminine, oh yes. you’ve got your mother’s soft features. kind eyes, a gentle voice and one of reason. you’re the light of the group. the breath of fresh air. the innocence—though foolishly assumed and falsely perceived. daryl’s got a hunch about that seeming innocence of yours and its authenticity.

and there’s something in the way you smile.

you’ve smiled less and less since your little sister went missing, but still you find it in you to muster the odd one; which is where you differ to your mother who spends her time weeping, sleeping, or weeping herself to sleep.

your smile? well, it’s endearing.

no, no that’s not it.

it’s. . . enticing?

no.

dangerous. simply put, you’re poison to all men.

a venus flytrap, if you will—but for men.

whenever you smile at him daryl feels as though he’s in enemy territory. treading on thin ice. crossing some sort of boundary. you make him question his morals, like to look at you bends his code of conduct. he doesn’t really have a code but he knows he shouldn’t be looking at you like this, or thinking about you the way he does.

which is hysterical in the grand scheme of things since he’s barely two years your senior and you are a young woman. very young. jail bait, if daryl wasn’t just as young. but merle looked at you the same way back at the quarry.

just as bad as him. daryl muses, picking at the blades of grass at his feet. he scoffs.

then your bubbly laughter carries across the field and crawls up the hill to his tent, and why? just because. and you’re talking to glenn again, who daryl suspects had the hots for you (not that he blames him) before he met maggie.

thank god for maggie.

though he doesn’t think you like glenn any more than you do rick or shane.

then there’s the issue of sex. it’s all he thinks about when you’re around. he wonders if you’ve ever been with anyone. you dress revealingly, though you blame the georgia heat. tonight you’ve borrowed one of beth’s dresses—a summer dress that cuts off at the knee. it’s lacey and floral and super pretty.

there’s a chill in the air and the breeze is damp, but still you insist on wearing barely anything. it must be deliberate. he’s not calling you promiscuous but you have this nimbus about you.

daryl’s never felt the warmth of a woman squeeze him. the closest he’s gotten to that is the rough skin of his palm, or that one time merle paid one of his call girls to take his little brother’s innocence. (he bolted the second she stripped to her underwear.)

he’s just never been that into someone, or so he tells himself. it’s better than admitting he’s undesirable, not that he really cares—he also tells himself.

but he can’t help wondering what you must think of him. he’s never concerned himself with the opinions of others and far less with their opinions of him.

then you had to come along with your prettiness—effortless and natural—and a pair of legs that go on like route 66.

it’s ridiculous and he hates you for making him so smitten. no he doesn’t, not really. so he’ll just keep loving on you from afar if it means he won’t feel so vile for it. stupid, again.

and he can just hear merle’s voice now.

‘look atchu, little brother. watchin’ ‘er from afar like you ain’t never seen a woman before. . . she’s a fine piece’a ass though, i’ll give ya that. so what’cha waitin’ for? stop chasin’ ya own tail an’ get yer virgin dick wet!’

“fuckin’ prick.” he grumbles, flicking the dirt beneath his nails.

“that’s not very nice now, is it?”

his shaggy brown hair slips from his brow when he snaps his head up, blue eyes landing on you. he never heard you coming. “didn’t mean you.”

“talking to yourself?” you ask him, amused, and tilt your head when he ducks his.

“nah,” he mumbles, barely loud enough for you to catch it, and resumes fiddling with the grass.

you smile like you always do, even in times of trouble, and pinch your dress to your sides when you settle beside him on the ground. “that’s okay. i do it, too.”

your shoulder bumps his and he tenses, then side-eyes you through a curtain of mousy hair. “want somethin’?”

“thought you might be lonely.” you shrug, looking out over the farm, hair floating aimlessly behind you.

“nah,” he eyes you, then looks down again. “prefer my own company.”

you hum, not making any attempts to move. all you’re doing is fucking sitting there and still you manage to slow the world to a stop.

daryl flicks his hair back over his eyes, anything to keep them from finding their way back to you. “shouldn’t ya be with yer mom?”

“every time i come over, you try to get rid of me.” you turn to face him, leaving his question to hang emptily and unanswered in the air. “why?”

he gnaws at his lip, then shrugs. “said i prefer my own company.”

you watch as his hands delve into the grass again to twiddle a weed. “you don’t like me, or something?”

“nah.”

you sigh, hands falling defeatedly into your lap. “was that a ‘nah’ as in you don’t, or a ‘nah’ as in you do?”

he huffs. “i do.”

you frown. “then why is it that whenever i try talking to you, you act like you’re allergic to me or something?”

he shrugs again and you roll your eyes, leaning toward him. he freezes. “you allergic to girls, daryl?”

only the pretty ones.

“nah.” he repeats again.

you purse your lips. “okay, then.” and stand up to fix your dress. as you do, his eyes wonder just high enough to catch a glimpse of your underwear. he swallows.

“good talk.” you tell him with a flat smile that looks almost painful to wear.

he watches as you turn, then as you start back down the hill. “fuck.” he throws the grass from his hand, then scrubs the green dew against his jeans. “hey, wait up!”

you stop and turn back to him, hopeful. “yes?”

he should’ve thought of something to say first.

when he says nothing, you nod and start to turn away again.

“ya don’t have to leave.” he then blurts, halting you. “i ain’t good at talkin’ but, uh, i’m good at sittin’.”

you smirk. “i’m allowed to stay so long as i sit in silence and watch you pick grass?”

he blinks, swallows, then nods. you snort. “alright, then.” and make your way back up the hill.

“ya don’t have to if ya don’t wanna—”

“shush, we’re playing the quiet game, remember?” you plonk yourself back down and hug your knees to your chest. your dress slides down your thighs when you do, bunching where your hips bend. he stares for a moment, and suddenly the grass is fascinating again.

you drum your finger against your knees, then blow a escapee hair from your face. you’re dramatic about it, making a deliberate raspberry-like noise.

daryl stops fidgeting to shoot you a fed-up glare.

“what? i had too much air in my mouth.” you tell him, then gasp and smack a palm to your forehead. “oops, does that mean i lost? that’s a damn shame. . . unless you wanna go for round two?” your smirk broadens when the double entendre swoops straight over his head. or maybe it doesn’t.

he rolls his eyes, but you spot the faint hint of a smile trying very hard not to show itself. “whatever, crazy girl.”

“crazy? me?” you press a hand to your chest, clutching your invisible pearls. “i lose one round of the quiet game and suddenly i’m the local rebel? coming from a bad boy, no less.”

daryl scoffs. “ain’t a bad boy.”

“well, you certainly look the part.” you grin and rest your cheek atop your knee, smushing it. he averts his gaze from you, afraid his mask will slip if he looks too long.

“says the girl who looks like she got lost on her way to church and wound up at the local strip joint.”

you let out a rambunctious laugh. “a girl can’t believe in god and expose her ankles? sorry, did i get lost on the way to church and wind up in the nineteen-sixties?”

daryl smirks. “yeah, better put those legs away before i jump on ya.”

then he clears his throat, ‘cause where the hell did that come from?

your brows shoot up. this is the most he’s said to you since the apocalypse started. “what, these old things?” you outstretch your leg, not bothering to pull your dress back down when you do, and scoot it against his. “try not to shoot any blanks now.”

his leg tenses against yours, but he doesn’t pull it back or nudge yours away. “more of a boob guy myself.”

he hasn’t seen a pair in his life, other than in merle’s magazines.

you throw your head back with a chuckle and he huffs out a laugh of his own. if he knew you were this easy to be around, he wouldn’t have spent so much time avoiding you. for a second, he forgets why he did in the first place.

then you roll your head to the side, hands cemented behind you. your hair falls back over your shoulders, neck and chest curving into the moonlight.

then he remembers.

he looks away, face suddenly serious. the air around you goes cold and you frown. “daryl?”

“should probably turn in soon.” he mumbles.

“did i do something?”

“nah.”

‘cause you didn’t, and never do. you don’t have to do a damn thing to make him feel this way. not anything at all. you could be a mute and he’d still be floored.

“will you stop saying that? my father died and my baby sister is missing. forgive a girl for needing a little fun.” you hug yourself, eyes drifting over the fields as they water. “thought you’d need some too with merle getting left behind and all.”

daryl joins you in your daze, his eyes finding a distant tree to focus on. “don’t need fun.”

you scoff. “right, no. you want peace and quiet. well, don’t worry, message received.” and take to your feet again.

a rough hand reaches for you, clasping you by the wrist. it’s unsure in its grip, fingers flexing. you pause halfway up, brow arching expectantly. he drops his hand, but this time he’s able to hold eye contact for longer than a nanosecond. “got grass stains on your ass.”

you heave out a frustrated laugh and rake your hands through your hair. “what is it with you?”

he watches with an unreadable expression as you pace the small space of his camp, hands on you hips.

“you tell me to leave, then you ask me to stay but i mustn’t speak to you; then you flirt with me, then you go all quiet and stare at the grass; then i try to leave again and you reveal that you can stare at my ass, but you can’t bear to look me in the eye.”

he lowers his head, ‘cause it is pretty bad when you phrase it like that.

unsure of what to say or if it’s even worth finding the right words anyway, he opts for silence. in his experience, it’s usually the safer option.

“then when i call you out on your bullshit, you’re at a loss for words.” you scoff, head shaking as you look around at nothing in particular. “sorry i ever bothered you. sorry i tried to be your friend when no one else wants to, i’ll let them know not to bother.”

he just sits there and takes it. he knows you’re right, knows he’s been a grade-a windbag. he should let you go. let you forget him. let you go fuck glenn or shane or whoever—‘cause at least they can say more than three words to you and not grow sweaty under the collar at the mere sight of you.

he should save you the trouble—let you hate him. but he already hates himself enough for the both of you.

“hold up!” he calls to you, actually standing up this time. as soon as your pretty face—crestfallen and lost—turns to him, silver beneath the moonlight and framed by hair that curls against the breeze, he almost forgets his own name.

the pause must’ve been a long one, ‘cause you turn away from him with a roll of your eyes, legs glistening under the stars as you wade through the tall blades of grass.

“ya don’t bother me.” he says anyway, the words clumsy and goaded by gravity with their leave. part of him hopes you don’t hear him and keep walking. but you stop, maybe listening, probably seething.

“ain’t good with girls,” he carries on, picking at his fingers and the various cuts and calluses they brandish. “never ‘ave been, never will be.”

that makes you look over your shoulder, a soft frown pinching your brows together.

“ain’t had a girlfriend, not since kindergarten.” he swallows, staring down at his feet like he’s only just discovered them. “lasted ‘bout ten minutes ‘cause she held hands with some other boy when he shared a crayon with ‘er.”

you can’t help but laugh at that. the fact that he’s not trying to be funny, but is being deadly serious. you wouldn’t be surprised if that actually happened, condemning him to a romance-less life ever since.

the sound of your laughter draws his gaze up, surprised. pleasantly.

a’right, keep sayin’ shit like that.

“i, uh, didn’t expect ya to stay this long.” he scratches his head.

dick.

you smile, arms folded as you lean your weight onto one leg. “that’s alright, it’s the thought that counts.”

he grimaces. “nah, it’s actions that matter most. i’ve been a prick.”

“you’re shy.” you start to approach him again, slow. “nothing wrong about that. in fact,” you keep walking, dress scrunched at your thighs to avoid dampening its hem. “i like my men kinda shy.”

he takes an awkward step back but you keep walking.

“you intrigue me, daryl dixon.”

he blinks, gormless, like you’re speaking a foreign language or asked him to recite the alphabet backwards.

“ain’t that interestin’.” he shrugs, then pockets his hands.

“well, you’re interesting to me.” you sit yourself back down and pat the space next to you.

it would seem you’re a believer in second chances. and third, fourth, and fifth.

“yer forgivin’.” daryl comments, joining you after a moment’s hesitation.

“there’s nothing to forgive.” you smile. “it’s natural to be nervous around your crush.”

his cheeks stain red and he averts his gaze. “ain’t crushin’ on ya.”

wanna protest any harder, jackass? his inner monologue berates.

“oh, yeah?” you grin, finding his embarrassment cute. “why’d you mention your kindergarten girlfriend and the fact you haven’t had once since, then?”

he fumbles, siphoning through his mental filing cabinet for a half-decent excuse. “makin’ conversation.”

“usually people start with the weather.” you prop your chin in the cup of your palm, fingers feeling the earth beneath you like his did.

“my mama used to tell me never to mention the wind in front of ladies.” he watches your fingers, then mirrors you with his own.

“yeah, the breaking of wind, perhaps.” you take notice of the way his shoulders have softened slightly, his demeanour less cagey. “you never talk about her. is she alive?”

those shoulders stiffen again and you eat your words.

“. . .nah.”

you should’ve followed your own advice. the weather it is. “it’s not so chilly tonight.”

he steals a glance at your attire. no shit.

“it’s quite pleasant actually, since it’s so hot during the day, and all.” you smile hopefully at him, silently encouraging him to engage with you. you know he’ll avoid you like the plague—or this brain virus—come tomorrow, anyway.

“yeah.” he agrees, sheepish.

you sigh. “have i saddened you? i’m sorry.”

“she died years ago.” he pulls at the lose threads that stray from the frayed seams of his denim. “doesn’t make me sad anymore.”

“it’s okay to be sad, daryl. she was your mom.” you place an ambiguous hand on his, experimental. chancing. testing the waters. “my dad was an ass, but i have my days where i miss him. or maybe it’s just sadness for my mom, or the fact that i don’t have a dad anymore and wish i did; or wish when i did have one, he was better.”

“never said i don’t miss ‘er.” he mumbles, hand still beneath yours. “i do—just ain’t sad anymore.”

you nod, unsure of what to say next. “okay. well, that’s a good thing.”

“m-hmm.” his finger flexes against yours, but whatever he’d built the courage to do, he thinks better of it.

“listen,” you clear your throat, the now somber mood contradicting your intentions. “thank you for your help with finding sophia. without your tracking skills, i fear our attempts at finding her would be a lost cause, so. . . thank you, daryl.”

he’s silent for a minute, glances at you, then back down at the ground. you see a flicker of shame. “she’s still missin’.”

“not for much longer, i hope.” you look away, also—up at the sky. “me and mom have been praying for her safe return.”

“been prayin’ to the guy who let ‘er go missin’ in the first place?” daryl asks, bewildered, a little frustrated. then he scoffs, ripping the thread he’s been playing with from its lining and chucking it somewhere behind him. the breeze takes it. “some god he turned out’a be.”

you’ve got nothing to say to that. you suppose he’s got a point, but abandoning your belief would mean facing reality; something you don’t want to do. not yet. not now.

because then you’d have to consider the possibility of never seeing your sister again, and your god has been keeping you sane so far. that much he’s been good for, at least.

“if yer askin’ him why he won’t let us find yer sister, mind askin’ him why he allowed a goddamn apocalypse to happen while yer at it?” he harshly adds. “would love to hear his reasons.”

“if you’ve got a bone to pick, it’s not with me.” you tell him, exasperated. “i don’t want my first proper conversation with you to be a fight.”

“my fight ain’t with ya.” he meets your eyes now. really meets them. there’s a switch in his expression, subtle. you barely catch it. “it’s with that fucker up there—he’s got’a lot to answer for if ya ask me.”

“well i didn’t.” you snip, holding eye contact. there’s anguish swimming within those blues. anguish, deprecation, and sincerity. maybe tenderness, or something similar.

he drops the subject, tearing his gaze from yours to look out over hershel’s land. your stare lingers for a second longer, then you allow your eyes to drift out over the fields.

“your dad teach you how to hunt? you’re good at it.”

in your peripheral, he tenses. brittle and unannealed. “nah. just somethin’ i picked up through the years. merle taught me some stuff, but he was away a lot.”

you nod, getting the feeling you shouldn’t pry about his father. “doing what?”

“jail time.” he tells you, casual. “but before that, servin’. with the army.”

you reckon the topic of merle is a safe-ish middle ground to meander into. “so he’s served two different kinds of time?” you try to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t laugh or so much as smirk.

“uh-huh.” you see him visibly relax, more comfortable in and of himself. and with you. “got discharged from active duty for punchin’ out his general. served multiple sentences for drugs, mostly. few vandalisms, couple drunk an’ disorderlys. one battery charge i think, maybe two.”

your brows almost become one with your hairline. “wow, he always seemed sort of. . . untouchable.”

“sure thinks he is.” daryl lets out a chuckle, one of nostalgia and greater times. “truth is, he’s fuckin’ soft in the head. hard-hearted, though.”

you watch him divulge to you, embracing his openness. you feel special, like you’re the first and only girl he’s revealing such things to. you probably are.

“was always there for me, though. we were just always on the road—driftin’. all the drug shit an’ him runnin’ from the law. . . we could never stay in one place. all i’ve known is the road, mostly. after my mom. . .”

he zones out a little, the rest of his sentence never reaching the surface.

“my dad was in trouble pretty often, too.” you hug your knees to your chest, chin propped against your forearm.

“what for?” though daryl suspects the answer is obvious.

“domestic stuff.” you offer him a flat, tight-lipped smile. “but he never did time, just got a slap on the wrist.”

daryl shakes his head, brows knitted. “an’ you miss this guy?”

you shrug. “he was my dad, y’know?”

“yeah, i do know.” he bristles. “my dad beat me black an’ blue as a kid. hell, merle only joined the army so he wouldn’t kill him.” he tsks, eyes narrow. dark. “don’t miss him at all. not one bit.”

you sigh, wondering if attempting to befriend the mysterious daryl dixon was worth it.

“an’ since ya believe in that stuff, yer lookin’ in the wrong direction if ya wanna talk to yer pops.” he comments, jutting his head toward the ground.

“i do believe; but i don’t talk to him.” mist starts to roll over the hills, condensation settling on the grass. you inhale, hold it, then let it out. you feel alive, like you can breathe freely and without fear of consequence. “do you believe in hell. . . or your own version?”

“don’t ‘ave to believe in hell to think bad people go to bad places when they’re gone.” he bends his legs, knee bumping yours. “our dads are havin’ a blast together, i’m sure.”

you snort at that. “yeah, probably.” you nudge him with your shoulder. “sorry your dad was a dick.”

he side-eyes you, then nudges back. “right back atcha.”

you don’t move away when his arm remains pressed against yours, and you don’t look away to gaze at nothingness and ponder the meaning of life.

he doesn’t look away either.

think of somethin’ to say, genius.

“yer, uh. . .”

c’mon, mister big shot.

he wishes he was as good at talking to you as he is with himself.

anythin’s better than nothin’.

“you don’t have to keep thinking of something to say, daryl.”

thank god.

“just kiss me.”

shit. his eyes dart.

“or tell me i’ve read this wrong.” you know you didn’t. you see the way he looks at you when he doesn’t realise you’re watching. you’ve noticed the way he’s been acting tonight—nervous, giddy, and eventually, like himself.

“i know you’re sweet on me, daryl.” you recline onto your side, propping yourself up with your arm. “i like you, too. why’d you think i’m up here?”

he lets his eyes wander you, only landing on your lips briefly before they slip past your neck where they hover at your chest, then down to linger at your legs.

it’s not ogling or invasive or hungry. you don’t feel violated, you don’t even feel self-conscious.

you feel seen and appreciated. he makes you feel beautiful. like you’re the only girl ever.

you lean a little closer. he doesn’t back away, but he doesn’t meet you in the middle either. you frown. “what, never been kissed before?” it’s said in jest, but he doesn’t even try to deny it.

“oh, wow,” you don’t mean to sound so surprised, but you are. he’s just got that look.

the typical bad boy look.

the guy that all the girls want. the one who’s waiting outside school with his motorcycle, cigarette in-mouth whilst he smirks at passersby and onlookers.

you clear your throat and he does the same.

“like i said, always been on the road. . .” he rubs at the back of his neck, then slings his arm to dangle lazily over his knee. “ain’t like i never wanted to, never tried. ain’t ever been a good time.”

“please, don’t explain yourself to me.” you place a comforting hand atop his forearm and squeeze. “it’s no big deal.”

not to someone who’s been kissed.

he glances at your hand, fingers twitching with an ache to touch you. hold you.

he’s just so bad at this. how can someone who’s never felt love’s embrace know how to give it? learn to identify it and when to reciprocate it?

“just thought we could both use a distraction, y’know?” you lift yourself off your hip to straddle him in one swift motion, hands planted on his chest. he quickly straightens his legs to accommodate you, but he’s not sure what to do with himself beyond that.

“think about something other than the fact our lives didn’t get any worse when the world ended.” you flick your hair off your shoulders, fingers curling under the straps of his vest. “if anything, they got a little better. . . since i got to meet you and all.” you grab his hands and situate them at your waist. “you can touch me, daryl.”

he nods, gripping you a little tighter. “this yer idea of a distraction?” he swallows when you lower yourself, face inches from his. you’re even prettier like this. “workin’ yer way through the group?”

you arch a brow, provocative. “yes, you’re my final stop.”

he snorts, eyes flitting between yours and your pouty lips. you smile until it balls at your cheeks and crinkles your eyes; his heart stops. “rick’s married, glenn’s with maggie, shane doesn’t know whether he needs a shit or a haircut, and dale’s triple my age. i only want you, daryl.”

his name sounds angelic on your tongue, like it was written for your voice.

“why do you find that so hard to comprehend?”

he eyeballs you, his lids droopier than usual—so much so that you can’t see much past the blonde wisps of his lashes.

“never had a pretty girl sit on my lap an’ tell me she wants me. expect me to know what the fuck i’m sposed to do?”

“i already told you what to do.” you murmur, low. your breath fans over his lips, teasing.

so he closes the distance, slowly. hesitant. his nose brushes yours, five o’clock shadow scratching against your chin like velcro.

your eyes flutter shut when you finally feel his lips graze yours, cautious. unsure.

so you slide your hands up over his shoulders, nails nipping at the nape of his neck before scraping their way up through his hair.

it’s greasy, split, rat-taily and matted. you scrunch it, drawing a groan out of him, granting you the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

your face tilts, lips parting against his. he’s inexperienced, unpracticed, messy.

and you love every second of it.

he’s more confident now, too. his hands start to roam south, fingers creeping toward those pink frills.

the air isn’t so cool anymore, like you’ve both created your own humidity; and as he starts to grope you with a bit more need, you feel his hardness probe at you.

it’s actually pretty foul. all tongue, teeth, and claw.

and you’re finally living again.

it’s the distant call of your name that pulls you apart, the sloppiness of your separation almost echoing— tinny and crude as it floats over the land.

you’re breathless, fingers tangled in his hair and your lips kiss-bitten. “it’s my mom.”

daryl groans, his own lips swollen and spit-slicked. “let ‘er look.” and he leans in again, but you push yourself off of him with a sly, bubbly giggle.

“stop it.” you chastise, and dust yourself down with a smirk. “same time tomorrow?”

“will ya be wearin’ that dress?” he asks, wiping around his mouth with the back of his hand.

you correct your hair and swipe a thumb over your lips. “why, so you can rip it off?”

“i’d rather ya kept it on.” he retorts, expression dreamy.

why must he only know what to say when you’re leaving?

you shake your head, amused, then twirl on your axis to trot back to the rv.

“can’t ya leave yer lips?” he calls after you, cock stiffened angrily within its denim confinements.

you don’t answer, but a pair of panties land on his lap in response.

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t-folklore13 · 4 days ago

Text

Now I need to write a 20k+ fic only about his biceps

Daryl Dixon's Biceps

A Love Language of Their Own

The Gentle Lift:

you're reaching for something on a high shelf, stretching and straining, when suddenly, Daryl is behind you. Instead of just grabbing the item, he slides his hands under your arms, his biceps flexing as he effortlessly lifts you just enough to reach. He holds you there for a beat longer than necessary, his breath warm against your neck, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Need a hand?" he rumbles, a smirk playing on his lips before gently setting you back down.

The Shoulder Snuggle

You're sitting by the fire, a comfortable silence settling between you. Daryl, ever watchful, pulls you closer, not with words, but by simply flexing his bicep and nudging your head towards his shoulder. It's an invitation, a silent offer of warmth and protection. As you lean against him, the solid strength of his arm is a comforting weight, a reminder of the security he provides.

The Arm Wrestle Tease

A playful challenge sparks between you. An arm wrestle, just for fun. Daryl, of course, could win in a heartbeat, but he doesn't. Instead, he lets you struggle, his bicep bulging as he resists, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. He lets you get close to winning, his eyes sparkling with amusement, before finally letting you triumph. "Beginner's luck," he grunts, but the pride in his eyes is undeniable.

The Blanket Wrap

A chill wind blows through the camp, and you shiver slightly. Without a word, Daryl pulls you close, wrapping his arm around you in a protective embrace. But it's not just a hug; he deliberately flexes his bicep, creating a warm, muscular barrier against the cold. It's a silent promise to keep you safe, a tangible expression of his devotion.

The Piggyback Ride

After a long day of scavenging, your legs are aching. Daryl notices your fatigue and, with a rare display of tenderness, offers you a piggyback ride. He crouches down, his biceps taut as he supports your weight, carrying you back to camp with surprising speed and agility. The feel of his strong arms beneath you is both comforting and exhilarating.

The Bicep Pillow

Lying in bed together, the world outside fading away, Daryl turns to you, his eyes filled with a quiet intensity. He pulls you close, cradling your head in the crook of his arm, his bicep a soft, yet firm, pillow. As you drift off to sleep, the steady rhythm of his breathing and the solid strength beneath you is the ultimate comfort.

The Protective Hold

During moments of vulnerability, when nightmares haunt your sleep or anxieties overwhelm you, Daryl's biceps become your sanctuary. He holds you tight, his arms wrapped around you like a shield, his muscles flexing reassuringly. His strength is a tangible reminder that you're not alone, that he'll always be there to protect you from the darkness.

The Passionate Embrace

In the heat of passion, Daryl's biceps become an instrument of raw desire. He pulls you close, his grip firm and possessive, his muscles contracting as he holds you against him. The feel of his powerful arms around you is electrifying, a potent combination of strength and tenderness.

The Slow Dance Hold

Even in the apocalypse, moments of quiet intimacy are cherished. Imagine a crackling fire providing the only light as Daryl pulls you into a slow dance. His arms wrap around you, one hand resting firmly on your back, the other holding your hand. His bicep brushes against your side, a constant reminder of his strength as you sway together, lost in the moment.

The Wood Chopping Display

There's something undeniably primal about watching Daryl chop wood. The rhythmic swing of the axe, the flex of his biceps as he brings it down with force, the sweat glistening on his skin. It's a display of strength and skill, a reminder of his ability to provide and protect. And sometimes, he knows you're watching, and he puts on a little extra show, a subtle wink in your direction as he splits another log.

Beyond the Physical

These small gestures, these moments of playful teasing and tender affection, are what make a relationship with Daryl so special. It's about understanding the language of his touch, about recognizing the depth of emotion behind his gruff exterior. It's about finding comfort and security in the strength of his arms, knowing that you are loved, protected, and cherished by a man who would do anything for you. It's about the way his biceps subtly flex when he pulls you just a little closer, a silent promise that he's always there, always watching, always ready to protect you from whatever the world throws your way.

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t-folklore13 · 6 days ago

Text

Stay

Daryl Dixon x oc

Fluff + angst

Pre apocalypse

Both are 19 years <3

Not proofread

Word count - 974

Cara never really had her parents around her house for various reasons. For one her dad left when she was young and her mother is a doctor, a cardiothoracic surgeon to be specific so she made sure her daughter at least knew basic medicine.

Daryl Dixon always had his dad around in the dead of morning till that late of afternoon, waiting for the evening where he would leave to go on some bender or get kicked out of some bar. Daryl cherished those moments because he knew that he was safe from him and Merle wouldn’t be giving him shit for his only friend being a girl he met through their mom. Daryl had only said that he loved someone a few times and to the same person, his mom. Although she had her own problems of addiction he never hurt him, physically.

That night William Dixon was drinking hard as usual but when he got home Daryl was on the porch having a smoke. As Daryl saw him he knew that he wasn’t gonna leave without some sort of injury “did ya’ steal one of ma damn smokes boy” Daryl sighed taking one last draw “nah cuz yurs are shit anyway” the older Dixon grabbed him by the collar dragging him through the door “you ain’t talkin to me like that boy, fuckin piece of shit” closing the door and gabbing his belt

Cara was reading in the den fighting sleep while a small fire was burning. She knows she shouldn’t wait up for her mom but she can’t help it, the drive from Atlanta is already dangerous and with all the shifts her mom takes it makes it almost impossible for her to sleep. She readjusts the blanket when she hears a faint tapping noise coming from the door

12:37

A chill in the air is still noticeable from the days rain but when she opens the door it’s not the reason for her blood running cold, there stands Daryl Dixon in a white shirt stained with red and a bruise sporting his cheek leaning weakly against the door frame “hey Cara” he gives one of his side smiles as she rushes up to him tears in her eyes “D who’s done this to you?” Lightly hovering his face with her fingers she gasps. “I need to fix you up please don’t just leave again” he waits a beat and nods letting her help him walk

As she sets him down the couch and runs off to grab whatever he can feel his heart racing she’s gonna’ see my scars he grabs his shirt lifting it slowly to see how deep the gash on his chest is, he winces I’ll need damn stitches putting his shirt back down he can feel an ache on his back “Dar? Can you please take your shirt off? I need to get this done so you can rest, so I know you’ll be okay” he stares at the floor then at her with something she hasn't seen before. While he slowly takes off his shirt tears are running down her face but she gets to work silently disinfecting, stitching, and wrapping then finally just holding his hand

When she’s fully done they sit in a cold silence for what feels like hours, she takes in a deep breath and sighs taking her hands from his and placing them on both sides of his face minding the bruise “daryl” he cuts her off with standing up and shaking his head “don’t Cara please jus’ let me go” she stands up quickly and grabs his hand “don’t do this again don’t just shut me out because this time is different, I knew he hurt you but Daryl this is-“

“This is nothin and you don’t gotta worry” he trys to pull away but she relents holding on tighter “don’t say that D we have been together through so much but you didn’t let me see this you suffered through this alone when you didn’t need to im here I’ll always be here” he lets his head hang low because she’s right but he just couldn’t let her see them, how they marred and ruined his skin “but they ain’t pretty their ugly and bumpy, I hate em’ so much I jus couldn’t let you see somethin’ so disgusting on me, m not pretty”

He tenses as she wraps her arms around his neck lightly holding him “Don’t you ever say things like that about yourself Daryl Dixon, prettiest boy I’ve ever met no matter what you think. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you” he wraps his arms loosely around her waist “I’ll never understand why I get ta have someon like ya, too good fer me”

“No I think you have it completely wrong because I’m lucky to have someone like you, you are the sweetest most understood person I’ve ever got the privilege of knowing. Yes you are a bit rough around the edges but so am I, and Daryl no matter what anyone says you are you not your father”

“I don’t know where to go after this” she slowly let’s go and grabs his hand once again “then stay here don’t ever go back, you can move in here my mom loves you and I do too” that grabs his attention and he looks up “you love me?” She hears his voice barely a whisper and leads him though the door “yes” she eases him down on the bed and lays next to him as he looks at her “ I, I care for ya a lot” she smiles as he bites his thumb. She doesn’t mind that he didn’t say it back because she knows how hard it is but it means the world to her he said that

Pt 2?

#twd fandom #first Daryl fic #pre apocalypse #twd daryl #daryl dixon the walking dead #daryl dixon #daryl x reader #daryl dixon fluff #not yet lovers #slow burn #t-folklore13 #fluff #daryl fanfiction #daryl x female reader #daryl angst #first walking dead post #Twd #the walking dead

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t-folklore13 · 6 days ago

Note

m0re daryl pleaase

- HALLOWEEN NIGHT ⋆☆ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

warnings - not really any? its just hella short im so sorry it was meant to be published for halloween, and i planned on writing so much more but writers block has me in a chokehold 😔

brown and deep auburn leaves crunched beneath your feet as you snuck around to the back of the dixons home. it was a small cabin in a remote part of town, the walls were damaged after years of neglect and piles of junk and rusted motorbike parts surrounded the walls and surrounding land.

you had been a neighbour to the dixons for a few years now. william dixon and his two sons had moved in a few years prior after the death of his wife who died in a house fire. it took his sons, merle and daryl a few months to warm up but after a few failed attempts of merle trying to hit on you and the odd occasion you’d actually get a more then a few words out of daryl, the three of you have been inseparable since.

tonight was halloween night. you had rented some movies from the near by town and picked up some discounted candy before sneaking your way onto the dixon property. william dixon wasn’t all too fond of guests, especially when it was a young girl around his sons.

approaching the back of the cabin you swung your bag over your shoulder before stepping up onto a few chopped logged stacked up against the wall, you tapped on the window a few times before peering inside.

“dixon!” you whispered, finally catching his attention.

looking up from his box tv that looked like it belonged in the eighties, a smile flashed across his face as he stood up to open the small window. “you’re late.” he spoke softly, taking the tapes and candy from you.

pushing the plastic bag through the window you let out a sigh of frustration. “it would have been quicker if you or your idiot brother gave me a ride.” you mumbled, beginning to hoist yourself upwards through the small window.

“merle dicked off to some party.” daryl spat bitterly as he helped your through the window. “saw it as an opportunity.” he said raising his eyebrows before wandering back to the couch. daryl began to look through the bag of tapes and candy, pulling everything out one by one. “these are all horror movies.” he scoffed.

dropped down to sit beside daryl you let out a quiet laugh, taking the tapes from daryls hands. “it’s halloween dixon, its like the law to watch scary movies on halloween.”

“night of the living dead?” daryl chuckled, looking at back of the tape to read the movies description. “for reasons unknown, the recently deceased are,” he paused for a second to let out a laugh before continuing. “are raising from the grave as flesh-hungry zombies. fleeing from the undead horde- this sounds so stupid.” he laughed, passing the tape to you before looking through the mixture of candy.

“it’s not stupid!” you exclaimed, “its a classic.” you added, standing up to put the tape in the vcr.

“a classic?” daryl scoffed, opening a bag of chips. “ridiculous.” he mumbled.

you giggled, sitting back down beside daryl. “you’re ridiculous.” you quipped, grabbing the remote to turn up the volume.

leaning your head up against his shoulder as you took a small hand full of chips from the bag sitting on his lap. as the opening credits of the film began to play, you and daryl settled in for the night.

around you the room slowly grew dark as the sun set beyond the georgian mountains. the soft glow of the television was enough for you to see the soft outlines of daryls face as he tentatively watched the movie.

“yer payin’ attention to the movie?” daryl huffed, not taking his eyes off the screen.

you sat up, letting out a soft giggle looking at daryl as he finally pulled his eyes away from the screen.

“you got eyes in the side of ya head or somethin’?” you asked, causing a smile to creep onto daryls lips. you were met with a scoff causing you to roll your eyes. “i was just makin’ sure you were watchin’ the movie.” you informed him, lying through your teeth.

daryl had been a long time crush that had been slowly, and deeply festering since you’d first met him. it was something unrecognizable at first, your heart would skip a beat or your cheeks would flush a deep shade of pink and slowly it turned into flirty comments from one another to lingering touches. but something you didn’t quite realize yet, was that daryl had been yearning for you.

every waking moment of his day you were always on his mind. if he wasn’t with you, he’d be thinking about you, thinking about what the two of you could be if he had the balls to make you his own. in fact, daryl had been thinking of halloween night for weeks. he had been subtly hinting to merle about a party in town and when he finally took the bait, daryl knew that he had to do something. tonight was the night.

the stillness in the room was palpable. the film slowly drifted into the background and all you could focus on, was daryls face under the soft moon light peaking through the dirty cabin windows. you both slowly leaned in toward each other. daryl could smell the strawberry shampoo you use, and it drove him near insanity. he had longed to touch, and hold you for so long and now you were finally close enough for it to happen, and he wouldn’t back out this time!

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t-folklore13 · 7 days ago

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Dude 💔

Clandestine | Phoenix 'Valentina' Lancaster

Series Masterlist

Dear Daryl,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m officially gone. I wish I could’ve found better words to start this off, but you know I was never good at being subtle.

First, I want to say I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I made you trust me, I’m sorry that I made you open up that part of yourself that you tried to keep buried. I’m sorry that when you finally let yourself believe in something good, it slipped right through your fingers. I’m sorry you’re hurting.

I want you to know something, and I need you to really hear me (or read me, I guess): you did not fail me. Not once. You never failed me. If anything, you saved me. You gave me something that I thought Negan and the world had taken from me — a reason to feel human again.

When I first met you, I didn’t think you’d let me in. I didn’t think you’d let anyone in, not after everything you’d lost. But you did. You let me see you — all of you — and you let me love you the way you deserved to be loved.

You always said you didn’t trust easy. I know you were scared. I was too. But we did it anyway, didn’t we? Even if it was for a little while. I wouldn’t trade that for anything, D, Not a single moment.

Please don’t let this make you close yourself off again. I need you to keep your heart open, no matter how much it hurts. Let the people around you love you. Let yourself love them back. Let yourself be happy — even if it’s not with me.

Look after Rick. Look after Carl and Judith and Maggie and Glenn’s kid. Look after Aaron’s little girl, if he decides to keep her, and also look after him. Look after Talia, if she sticks around. And look after yourself, damn it. Eat something that isn’t squirrel every now and then.

When you miss me, go out into the woods. I’ll be there. I’ll always be there, when you're stringing up traps, or in the back of your mind when you’re riding your bike or helping someone out. Pinky promises and all.

And when you’re ready, I hope you can forgive me for leaving you behind. I hope you can forgive me for not being strong enough to stay.

All my love, all my life — until the end and after,

Valentina ‘Phoenix’ Lancaster

A Year Later

Daryl tucks the letter carefully into his coat pocket, the paper worn soft at the edges from being read over and over. He pulls out the old plastic baggie — the picture of Phoenix and James still safe inside.

He kneels at her grave marker and hammers the picture in place, pressing his fingertips to the photo one last time before letting it go.

Behind him, Aaron watches, holding the baby Phoenix and Rick had found all that time ago.

Aaron clears his throat. “You good?”

Daryl shrugs. “Yeah.”

Aaron looks at the baby in his arms. “Hey, uh… would you mind watching her for the day? I’m heading up to Hilltop, gonna see Jesus.”

Daryl glances back at the grave, then at the baby as she starts to fuss in Aaron’s arms. He steps forward and gently takes her, settling her in the crook of his arm. She calms immediately, big eyes blinking up at him.

Aaron smiles, gives him a nod, and heads off down the path.

Daryl bounces her lightly, brushing a hand over her tiny head. He sighs, voice soft and steady.

“It’s okay, Phoenix,” he murmurs. “I got you.”

End.

Previous Chapter < > Next Chapter

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t-folklore13 · 7 days ago

Text

Clandestine | Series Masterlist

Completed

Phoenix Lancaster wasn't very open about where she was before Aaron found her, and she probably never would be, but what happens when a group of survivors enter the gates.

Daryl Dixon wasn't very open about the grief he feels from Beth's death, and he probably never would be, but what happens when a girl is forced to be a guide.

Prologue

Chapter One | Newbies

Chapter Two | Nightly Stroll

Chapter Three | Stepping In

Chapter Four | New Recruiters

Chapter Five | Confessions

Chapter Six | Alfredo Pasta

Chapter Seven | Bald Man

Chapter Eight | Past and Present

Chapter Nine | Ambushed

Chapter Ten | Insulin

Chapter Eleven | Drive and Burn

Chapter Twelve | Vending Machine

Chapter Thirteen | Linked Pinkies

Chapter Fourteen | A Burial

Chapter Fifteen | Valentina

Chapter Sixteen | Deals and Death

Chapter Seventeen | Houdini

Chapter Eighteen | Silenced

Chapter Nineteen | Oh Thank Jesus

Chapter Twenty | Asylum

Chapter Twenty-One | All About Trust

Chapter Twenty-Two | We Are One

Chapter Twenty-Three | Worth It

Chapter Twenty-Four | The Run-Away Bride

Chapter Twenty-Five | Evading

Chapter Twenty-Six | All Good Things

Chapter Twenty-Seven | Come To An End

Chapter Twenty-Eight | Valentina 'Phoenix' Lancaster

AO3 Story Link

Wattpad Story Link

note from your author:

hello!

i do not own the walking dead (because obviously i would not be writing on wattpad/ao3/tumblr if i did), nor do i condone anything any character does in this fic.

usually when i write fics, i will finish the whole story than start posting, but i decided that i wanted to write as i post to maybe motivate me. i will try my very best to put out at LEAST a chapter a week, sometimes more if i'm feeling nice.

while i do follow the storyline of the show, some timing on shit may be a little off, so i do apologize. and will i deviate from the original canon? guess you'll have to wait and see :)

also, i will attempt to put trigger warnings at the start of chapters, but if they're wrong or one's missing, please let me know!

i will not be giving my OC a specific face claim, and if you go to some of my other stories (on AO3 more so), i use the name Phoenix Lancaster quite often with no real vision of her. if i use any descriptive language about her appearance, i'm honestly basing a good amount of it off of me, since it's easy to remember. she's honestly kind of a stand in for a Y/N at this point.

and no hate! i am a nineteen-year-old college student on her summer break (currently obviously), this is purely for fun, and when i go back to school it will be a stress reliever.

xoxo,

sammy

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t-folklore13 · 7 days ago

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I’m gonna make this my personality for the next week because the writing was sooooo good 😚

Black Hole Sun | Prologue

Series Masterlist

Bellona Hart tapped her pen against the battered notepad, its dog-eared pages creased from years of use overseas. She held it up to the gate agent for the fourth time, her scrawl clear and direct:

Any updates?

The young woman behind the counter — sweat gathering along her hairline — could only shrug helplessly. The entire terminal was sweltering without the air conditioning. Harsh emergency lights flickered overhead, casting shadows across anxious, hushed crowds pressed together like cattle waiting for slaughter.

POWER OUT, the agent signed in clumsy, halting gestures — Bellona appreciated the effort more than just written words. PLANES IN OR OUT NONE. DISEASE GOVERNMENT THINK. PEOPLE ATTACK PEOPLE.

Bellona’s pen paused. Her jaw flexed. ATTACK? she signed back, and the girl shivered at the intensity in her eyes before nodding.

That was all she needed. Bellona shouldered her pack — the same Navy-issued canvas bag that had seen more sand than Georgia clay — and turned away, scribbling one last note:

Stay safe.

She weaved through the terminal, boots quiet on the sticky tile floor. Every monitor flickered static. A child sobbed into their mother’s chest. Somewhere behind the locked doors of an airport bar, glass shattered, followed by a muffled scream. Bellona quickened her pace, heading for the exit.

A security guard stepped into her path just before the main doors, one hand raised, the other gripping his sidearm like he might need it any second. “Ma’am, you can’t go out there. Orders are nobody leaves—”

The door to the arrivals hall banged open. A man stumbled in — limping, shirt soaked dark with something thick and black. The guard shouted for him to stop. The man lunged instead, hands clawing for flesh. Bellona watched, frozen for half a heartbeat, as the guard’s shout turned to a gurgle — teeth sinking into his neck.

The sound that tore through the terminal then — primal, wet, final — snapped her back. She tightened the straps across her chest, adjusted the weight of her bag, and ran.

She burst through the side doors into the sticky Atlanta heat. Cars were screeching across the departure lanes, horns blaring, people shouting — and the moans. That sound. It gnawed at the edges of her mind, trying to dig in like a tick.

Bellona spotted a sedan with its engine running, a woman pounding on the windows from inside, screaming at a man in the driver’s seat. Before she could reach it, the tires squealed and the car fishtailed away, nearly clipping her.

She spun, scanning for anything else — and that’s when she saw him. A motorcyclist, visor up, helmet cracked, fighting off another one of them. The attacker’s jaw hung loose, like it had already broken apart from biting too hard. The motorcyclist didn’t stand a chance — he went down with a strangled cry.

The keys were still in the ignition. Bellona’s heart hammered once — twice — then she bolted. She threw one leg over the bike, jammed the clutch into gear, and twisted the throttle so hard her knuckles whitened.

North, she decided. She had to get north.

She flew down the on-ramp, weaving through gridlocked traffic, engines still rumbling where desperate people had abandoned hope. The farther she went, the more the city fell away behind her — a burning bruise on the horizon.

It felt almost calm on the highway — until it didn’t. The road ahead was jammed tight, a river of metal and chaos. Bellona slowed just enough to weave through a narrow gap between an SUV and a semi-truck. That’s when she saw him — a kid, maybe ten years old, darting out between the cars.

She braked hard, boots skidding against the pavement. The bike fishtailed, stopping inches from the boy. A woman with dark hair yanked him back, scolding him under her breath before looking up at Bellona, wide-eyed.

“I’m so sorry — he just — thank you.” Her southern drawl cracked under the strain. Bellona only nodded, forcing her pulse to calm. She was about to rev the throttle again when a low growl made her look up.

One of them — a man this time, gray-skinned, shambling — staggered toward the woman and the boy. Bellona didn’t think. She killed the engine, jumped off the bike, and barreled into the thing shoulder-first, knocking it backward. She kicked it in the gut — muscle memory from a hundred drills — sending it sprawling across the hood of a rusty sedan.

A man — lean, bearded, eyes sharp — stepped forward and drove a hunting knife into the creature’s skull. It crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Good kick,” he grunted, nodding at her. Bellona gave him a curt nod back.

The woman hugged her boy close, murmuring thanks, her eyes shining with terror and something like hope. The man looked around, then at Bellona, then at the small cluster of people drifting toward them.

“A good base gotta be somewhere,” he said. “We need to move. Ain’t safe here.”

An older man emerged from behind an RV, a hunting rifle in his arms. “There’s a quarry not far. Should be empty, easy to clear. Might buy us some time.”

A chorus of hesitant voices agreed. Strangers, brought together by fear. The woman turned to Bellona. “You should come with us. Safer together.”

Bellona’s throat tightened. Chicago felt like another planet — her family, her old life. The road there would eat her alive, not just the feral ones.

She stared at the woman, the boy peeking out from behind his mother’s arm. She thought of the gate agent, trembling hands and flickering lights. She thought of everything the Seals had put her through.

She gave a single, firm nod. Climbing back onto the bike, she fell into place behind the RV, the roar of the engine a promise that she’d keep these people safe — for as long as she could.

Previous Chapter < > Next Chapter

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t-folklore13 · 8 days ago

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Dunno 'er (Part 1)

Daryl Dixon x Wife!Reader

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

Era: Post-six-year time jump.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She said her arms were tired, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jokes on you - you married me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence that followed was heavier than any answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click.

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

The man beneath you stayed very still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“To serve The Creed is to survive.”

You blinked once.

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

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

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

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

…or they were completely unhinged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.” SNAP.

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

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

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

The body dropped like dead weight.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t look down.

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

Except for him.

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

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

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

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

The third arrow rested against the string like a promise.

“Three if you keep talkin’.l”

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

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

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

“Bag ‘em both,” he said.

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

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

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

And then he stepped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then nothing.

———-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——-

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

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

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

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

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

TO SERVE THE CREED IS TO SURVIVE.

The words from earlier - that man's final words

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

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

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

Daryl.

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

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

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

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

Not until they made him.

Not until they started looking for cracks.

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

Marshal.

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

Silence followed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daryl said nothing.

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

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

Still no response.

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

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

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

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

Another pause.

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

Nothing else. Just that.

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

But it wasn’t enough.

Not quite.

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

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

And then the crack came.

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

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

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

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

Another hit followed.

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

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

It felt like hours before they opened your door again.

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

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

And that was almost enough to break him. Almost.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

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

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

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

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

That’s why he’d avoided you altogether.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t answer right away.

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

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

“I know.”

And you did.

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

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

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

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

You hesitated, and that pause alone was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And then I saw it. Your scar.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught, chest rising in a silent hiccup.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stayed quiet for a long time after that.

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

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

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

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

But now it was full dark.

And Dani was alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You paused, voice nearly trembling with the memory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s gonna be fine.”

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

You looked over at him slowly, heart tight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Attagirl.”

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

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

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

_____

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

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

You were already awake.

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

But then the footsteps came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

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

He finally turned, his gaze landing on you.

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

Still no raised voice. Still no need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The smirk faded from your lips—just a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There is no place for it here.”

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

You couldn't breathe.

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

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

But you didn’t move.

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

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

And you just stood there. Because you had to.

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

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

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

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

The Commander turned without waiting for a response.

“Begin their assimilation.”

The words were dull, mechanical.

A switch flipped. A process resumed.

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

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