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High school reunion

Daryl Dixon x Fem! reader

Summary: You, Daryl and Michonne make a run to your old high school. The walk down memory lane gets weird when you come across and old classmate of yours who has been living in the school since the beginning. To put it mildly, he isnt exactly over his highschool glory days with you...

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore, harassment, profanity, insecure man-child, SMUT (eventual), graphic 18+ smut (Creampie, quickie, exhibition kink?), suggestive innuendos, I think that's it.

Author's note: Oof sorry I haven't been active lately i have no excuse 😝 this has been sitting in my drafts for AGES, since the start of July i think. I will be getting to requests dw just gotta clear some shit out of my drafts hehe. IMPORTANT ‼️ The character Randy Gardner featured in this fic is an antagonist i came up with for this story, not to be mistaken for Randal in season 2. I just realised the link lol and I wanted to clear that up so there isn't any confusion. Anyway enjoy 🙈

The school looked more like a tomb than anything else.

The double doors groaned on their hinges as you stepped through them, the sunlight cutting sharp and angular through grime-smeared windows, casting fractured beams across the scuffed linoleum floors. Dust swirled in the light like ash. Every sound echoed — your footsteps, Michonne’s quiet hum of disapproval, the distant clatter of something falling in an unseen wing. The place hadn’t just been abandoned. It had been left behind like a bad memory.

Lockers lined the walls in various states of disrepair — dented, some hanging open with rotting textbooks still slumped inside. A faded banner for a long-forgotten spirit week still fluttered limply from the ceiling, half-shredded by time. You could still smell the chemical tang of floor polish beneath the rot. Someone had once tried to keep this place clean. Tried to preserve something.

“Jesus,” Michonne muttered under her breath, the sound barely carrying. Her eyes swept the halls like she was expecting a walker to lurch out of a guidance counselor’s office at any moment. “You went here?”

“Briefly,” you murmured, fingers brushing the cool metal of a locker as you passed. Number 117. You didn’t remember what was inside it anymore. “Moved halfway through freshman year. Didn’t exactly leave a legacy.”

“Coulda fooled me,” came Daryl’s voice from up ahead, echoing lazily off the tiled walls.

You turned instinctively, catching him just as he emerged from a hallway junction with something in his hands. Your stomach dropped the second you recognized it — a cracked, dust-covered photo frame. You already knew what it was before he turned it around.

And there it was. A grainy, overexposed team photo. Girls in sweat-streaked green and white jerseys, mud splattered across their cleats and knees. In the middle, nearly buried beneath a too-big trophy, was a younger version of yourself — sweaty, triumphant, hair in a crooked braid, grinning like you hadn’t a care in the damn world.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Burn it. Burn it immediately.”

Daryl didn’t move. Just tilted his head, squinting at the photo like he was genuinely studying it. “Huh. S’funny,” he muttered. “Coulda sworn ya told me you was a nobody in high school.”

“Shut up.”

Daryl tucked the photo under his arm with a grin that said he was definitely not letting that thing go.

“Think I’m keepin’ this,” he said. “Yeah - I’ll hang it up in our room.”

You pointed at him, backing slowly down the hall. “You hang that thing up I’ll string you up too.”

You waited for when he wasn’t looking and you lunged for the photo.

But Daryl saw it coming before you’d even twitched and immediately yanked the frame high above his head, just out of your reach. Your hand slapped uselessly at his shoulder, and you let out a frustrated sound somewhere between a groan and a growl.

“Give it here, Dixon.”

He stepped back, cocky grin in full bloom. “Nah. Think I’ll hold onto it.”

“Daryl.”

“Look at ya,” he said, holding it even higher, eyes gleaming with mischief. “All grumpy n’ red-faced. Betcha’d’ve been just like that if you lost a game.”

Well I guess we’ll never know.

You didn’t dignify that with a response. You just lunged again, fingers grasping for the edge of the frame. He twisted, spinning out of your reach, and you followed, nearly knocking into a toppled trash can in the process.

“Oh my god,” Michonne muttered, watching the chaos unfold with a deadpan expression. She leaned against a locker, arms crossed, sword still casually in hand. “Children. You’re both children.”

“I’m dealing with something deeply traumatic,” you shot back, ducking under Daryl’s arm as he blocked you with an obnoxiously smug smirk. “That haircut. Those shin guards. My chubby cheeks. I need this destroyed for the good of mankind.”

“Definitely a heart breaker huh?” Daryl mused.

You gasped, hand to your chest in mock horror. “You’re sleeping on the floor tonight.”

Before he could say something clever you managed to tackle him around the middle with enough force to send both of you stumbling into the lockers behind. They rattled with a clatter loud enough to wake the dead—or at least earn you a sharp look from Michonne, who was clearly weighing whether you were worth saving if something came shambling down the hallway.

You wrestled with him for another few seconds—his grip annoyingly unshakable—before finally giving up, breathless and laughing.

“Fine,” you huffed. “Have it. I don’t even care! Just… keep it away from me.”

“Gonna get it framed proper,” he muttered, mock-proud, tucking it protectively under his arm as he finally let you go. “Hang it right over the bed.”

Michonne snorted. “I’m telling Rick you two need to be separated.”

“I second that,” you muttered, brushing dust off your pants as you walked ahead, pulse still racing—not from the fight, but from the way Daryl’s hand had lingered just a second too long at your waist.

He let you go, but the photo stayed in his hands.

You rolled your eyes, but despite the dust and decay and looming threat of walkers, you couldn’t quite smother the small smile tugging at your mouth.

As you walked, you gestured vaguely at familiar corners, memories rising like dust from the scuffed floors.

“That was my locker… my homeroom… made out with Sam Goldberg behind that stairwell once. He had braces. I ended up with a split lip. Safe to say, it didn’t last.”

Daryl raised a brow, clicking his tongue. “You got a type?”

“Apparently—greasy-haired boys with too much attitude and unresolved trauma.”

Michonne snorted behind you. “Checks out.”

You smirked but didn’t push it, the three of you falling back into a familiar rhythm as you moved through the ghost of your past. Classroom by classroom, you swept through overturned desks and forgotten lesson plans. Daryl jimmied open a locked filing cabinet and found a small hoard of pens. You pocketed a few crayons from a kindergarten drawer, bright wax sticks still intact. Survival didn’t always mean bullets and canned beans.

Then—

“HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

The sound cracked through the empty hall like a gunshot. Without hesitation, the three of you took off down the corridor, boots thudding against warped linoleum, the echoes bouncing in every direction. It made it harder to pinpoint where the voice was coming from—but not impossible. Daryl led the charge, his crossbow already raised, and Michonne flanked his side, katana in hand. You followed close, heartbeat hammering.

Another scream.

“PLEASE, SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

You burst into the cafeteria—and chaos.

A man was backed into a corner by the serving counter, flailing a broken mop handle at a swarm of walkers clawing toward him. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more. He was sweating through his clothes, shouting hoarse, cornered like a scared animal—and he wasn’t going to last much longer.

One walker lunged low, teeth aimed for his calf—

Thwip.

A bolt lodged into its skull, dropping it mid-lunge. Daryl didn’t stop moving.

You and Michonne charged forward, weapons swinging with brutal precision. You took out the one nearest the man’s side, your machete slicing through rotted sinew. Michonne dispatched two with practiced ease, blade singing in the air. Daryl reloaded and dropped another. The room filled with the sickening squelch of torn flesh and the thud of corpses hitting tile.

When the last walker collapsed, the silence was loud enough to hurt.

You turned to the man, breathless, heart still pounding. He hadn’t moved—still crouched awkwardly behind the counter, wide-eyed and shaking. The guy looked like a walking cliché of the apocalypse: tangled beard, tattered hoodie, clothes baggy from too much time between meals. He didn’t look as bad as he smelled—but he didn’t exactly smell like roses either.

“You can come out now,” Michonne said, lowering her sword. Her voice was calm but clipped.

Still, the guy didn’t move.

“Hey, man…” you tried, stepping forward with a small wave. “You alright? You need a hand or something?”

His head snapped to you so fast it made you freeze. His eyes locked on your face, and then—he lit up. Like really lit up. That goofy, disbelieving, full-face grin that made your stomach twist with secondhand embarrassment.

Daryl stiffened.

Before you could say another word, the guy vaulted the counter like it was nothing and pulled you into a bear hug with the kind of force that knocked the wind out of you. Your feet actually left the floor.

“What the fuck—!”

It happened fast. Daryl yanked him off you mid-lift and slammed him chest-first into the counter with a sharp thud. The man gasped, hands flying up in surrender as Michonne closed in, sword angled, eyes sharp.

“Keep ya damn hands off o her!” Daryl growled, the edge of his voice dark with something cold and possessive.

“Wait—wait, wait!” the guy choked out, pinned and breathless as he twisted his head toward you. “Y/N—holy shit, it’s me! It’s Randy!”

You froze, blinking. “I—sorry, what?”

“Randy Gardner!” he gasped, eyes wide and hopeful like that might be enough to bring everything flooding back. “We went to high school together—come on, you have to remember—”

You stared a moment longer, searching. His beard didn’t help, and the apocalypse had done no one favors, but then something clicked. Your mouth opened in surprise.

“Oh my god.” You took a half-step back, eyes scanning his face. “Randy-G-in-bio-period-three Randy?”

Randy’s grin nearly split his face. “Yesss! Shit, I assumed you were dead. I mean, I hoped not, but—damn, look at you!”

You folded your arms with a mock-glare. “You look like you got eaten and spat back out.”

He laughed, breathless and still flattened against the counter. “Okay, fair. But you—I mean, you I mean, God, you look… incredible.”

Daryl hadn’t moved an inch. Still had him pinned, one hand on his shoulder, the other hovering near the knife on his hip. You could feel the tension radiating off him, like coiled wire.

You stepped in and laid a gentle hand on Daryl’s wrist. “It’s okay,” you said quietly. “He’s harmless.”

Daryl’s eyes didn’t leave Randy for a long second. Then, slowly—reluctantly—he released him with a grunt, stepping back just enough to let the guy breathe again.

Randy exhaled hard, rubbing the counter-shaped dent in his ribs, and turned back to you with a grin that hadn’t dulled since he recognized you. “God, I haven’t seen another living soul in weeks—then I walk into you? Of all people?” He gave a laugh, shaking his head. “What are the chances huh Trouble?”

You blinked, surprised. Trouble. That was his stupid nickname for you back then. “It’s a small world I guess - jeez how do you remember that?”

“‘Course I remember.” He gave you a crooked smile. “First time I saw you throw hands with Tasha Lipman for stealing your hair brush, I knew I had a type.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the heat blooming in your cheeks. “Please. That girl was asking for it.”

Michonne raised an eyebrow from the side, but said nothing, arms folded as she watched the reunion unfold with mild curiosity.

“You two were close?” she asked after a beat, glancing between you and Randy.

Randy chuckled, a little breathless still. “You could say that. We used to skip gym and hang out behind the band building. She’d steal the janitor’s keys, and we’d sneak into the auditorium to smoke and make out. Practically got expelled together. Right, Trouble?”

Daryl’s eyes sharpened.

You laughed, brushing imaginary lint off your jeans to hide your face. “Yeah, well. That was a long time ago.”

“Still,” Randy said, that look lingering just a little too long. “If I had to run into anyone after all this time… I’m glad it was you. I mean that’s gotta mean something right? Running into eachother?”

Daryl’s jaw ticked.

You cleared your throat. God it was stuffy in here.

Michonne gave a dry snort. “Yep. This definitely just got interesting.”

“Ya’ve been livin’ here?” Daryl finally snapped. His eyes darted around the cafeteria walls like they were proof of some kind of crime. “Holed up in a high school?”

Randy’s shoulders lifted in a defensive shrug. “Didn’t have much of a choice. First days, when it all went down, I got chased by rotters down the street. Ended up gettin’ shoved inside by the crowd. Once I shut the doors, I… just stayed. Every time I try to make a break for it, there’s another pack waitin’. Ain’t exactly got your skills with them.” He shot you a half-grin, like you’d get the joke. “But I ain’t dead yet, am I?”

You traded a look with Michonne, then with Daryl. That was impressive, in its own way. Not smart, maybe, but stubborn. And you knew stubborn.

“What were you doin’ up on the counter?” Michonne asked, cool as ever.

“Emergency stash.” He pointed upward. “Got supplies hidden in the ceiling panels. Food, water, a couple things I kept just in case. Was tryin’ to grab some when they cornered me.”

Your brows rose. The three of you didn’t even need to speak. The glance between you, Daryl, and Michonne said it all: supplies for safe passage.

You leaned back on your heels, crossing your arms. “Alright, Randy. Here’s the deal. You get us your stash. We get you out of here. We have a community, it’s safe. You pull your weight there you might just fit right in. Sound good?”

For a beat, he just blinked—then his face split into a grin so big you thought it might crack his cheeks. “Good? That’s the best damn deal I’ve heard in years.”

You looked up at the ceiling and positioned yourself directly under it. “Alright then, gimme a boost.”

Daryl had already moved closer, nodding slightly—until Randy, quicker and more eager than he should’ve been, stepped in first. His hands landed firmly on your waist, fingers splayed like he had any right to be touching you.

You froze.

It was instant—Daryl’s arm shoved Randy off with enough force to knock him back into the wall of trays and serving carts. Metal clattered. Randy held his hands up like it was nothing.

“Shit, sorry—thought she meant me.”

Daryl didn’t even glance at him. “She didn’t.”

Randy let out a quiet scoff, rubbing his shoulder. “Yeah, nah. My bad.”

Michonne’s jaw ticked but she said nothing, choosing instead to kick one of the pantry shelves aside.

You cleared your throat and lifted your arms again—this time only when you knew for sure Daryl was there.

That’s when it clicked for Randy. Daryl’s touch; it was familiar, his hands gripped your thighs like he had done it so many times before. You guys were together.

“Ok, let’s uh… try that again, shall we?”

He grunted, sliding his hands beneath your thighs as he hoisted you up, rough and certain.

And just like that, you were up and over.

——————

It started in the hallway outside the gym, where the sunlight knifed through broken blinds and caught you square in the eyes. You squinted, hand up like a visor, already cranky from the heat.

“Thought you said it was left at the lockers,” Daryl grunted, stopping at a dead end.

“I did,” you snapped, pinching the bridge of your nose. “But you insisted you knew better despite this being my old School. We covered this corridor before so congratulations, we’re lost.”

He shot you a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Ain’t lost. Hall’s just… different since last time.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. The hall moved.”

His jaw twitched. “Maybe if someone didn’t talk my ear off while I was countin’ steps—”

You stopped in your tracks. “Oh my god, are you blaming me for your sense of direction?”

Daryl gave a short laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “Shoulda known better’n lettin’ you lead. You’d get turned around in a straight line.”

Your hands flew to your hips. “Excuse me? I’m not the one who thought the music faculty was the cafeteria.”

“Didn’t see the piano.”

“Uh-huh,” you drawled. “One time we nearly got eaten because you can’t tell a kitchen from a music classroom.”

Michonne walked on ahead, carrying the box of supplies you had collected from the ceiling, wisely pretending not to hear any of it.

But Randy wasn’t so polite. He lingered near the lockers, watching with raised brows and a little twitch of a smile. To him, it didn’t sound like banter. It sounded like cracks—like a woman snapping at her man, tired, exasperated. The kind of exasperation that maybe had room for someone else to step in.

“God, I’m starving,” you groaned, fanning yourself with your hand. “Bet the mice got more rations in their stash than we do.”

Daryl snorted, adjusting the strap of his crossbow. “Ya eat more’n the horses, woman.”

You gasped, clutching your chest in mock offense. “Excuse me? Bold talk from a man who eats squirrel innards for breakfast.”

His lip twitched, eyes flicking over you. “Still, reckon you’d put down the whole coop if we had one.”

You narrowed your eyes and smirked, bumping your shoulder against his. “Mm-hm. And I bet you’d still skin it and serve it to me. Spoiled, that’s what I am.”

That made him smile, because he totally would.

You spun on your heel so you were walking backward, facing him with that smug little grin that always spelled trouble. “Maybe I’m keepin’ up my figure for my other boyfriend. He likes me all plump and curvy.”

Daryl’s head snapped so fast you half-expected to hear it crack. “The hell you just say?”

Your laugh bubbled out, and you darted a step away before he could grab you. “Exactly,” you shot back, teasing. “Thought so.”

He lunged anyway, catching your arm, and you squealed as he dragged you in against his chest. “Smartass,” he grumbled into your hair, but the twitch of his mouth betrayed him.

You shoved lightly at his chest, grinning. “Jealousy’s not a good look on you, Dixon.”

His arm looped around your waist, keeping you anchored, his voice low like a warning. “Keep talkin’ like that, I’ll toss ya over my shoulder ‘n’ leave ya in the gym.”

You gasped, laughing harder. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He leaned close, lips brushing your ear. “Try me.”

He squeezed your sides — the bastard knew you were ticklish — and your squeal echoed down the hall, your laughter spilling over like it always did with him. Daryl’s mouth twitched into that rare, quiet half-smile he never showed anyone else, and you were still breathless when a voice cut in, sharp and misplaced.

“Hey. You don’t gotta talk to her like that, man.”

You both froze, blinking in sync before you turned to find Randy standing too close, shoulders squared like he’d just stumbled into some grand rescue.

Daryl stared at him for a long second, his brow furrowing in sheer disbelief, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right. He didn’t move, didn’t even bother to explain himself — just looked at you like is this guy serious?

Then Randy stepped forward, his hand closing around your arm to pull you slightly aside. “Calling her greedy like that,” he said, jaw tight, voice dripping with misguided chivalry. “She’s just hungry, we all are. Ain’t right to put her down for it. She’s beautiful no matter what size.”

Ok who does he think he is?

The air went flat. Daryl’s jaw flexed, but he still didn’t rise to it — just squared his shoulders, his silence speaking louder than anything. You could feel it, though, the temper thrumming just under his skin.

And that was enough.

“Randy, I need you to really listen to me when u say this.” Your voice was sharp now, cutting through whatever fantasy he’d built up in his head. “We went to high school together for, what, five minutes? That was literally decades ago. We may as well be strangers.” You stepped back toward Daryl, shaking off his grip. “So quit acting like you know me, and stop coming on so strong.”

A heavy silence lingered in the hallway, Randy shifting uncomfortably like he wanted to argue but had nothing solid to stand on.

Then you felt the warm weight of Daryl’s palm settle against the small of your back. “C’mon,” he muttered, steering you forward without a second glance.

Except he did glance — over his shoulder. The look he leveled at Randy was sharp enough to cut glass, a death glare that promised if the man tried anything like that again, he’d regret it.

-----------------------------

The art faculty was half shadows, half dust, like time had locked it up and walked away. Canvases leaned crooked against the walls, their surfaces cracked and curling, a kiln crouched in one corner with its door hanging open, and the whole place smelled faintly of rot and turpentine.

Randy had been buzzing with words, pointing into corners, mumbling about a stash he swore he’d left here, though he couldn’t remember where. His hand twitched toward you—“Me and you can—”

“No.”

Daryl didn’t even raise his voice, but it cut like a blade. He didn’t look at Randy when he said it, either, just tipped his chin toward the hall. “You and Michonne. Down there. Take the rooms at the end.”

The air dipped taut for a moment, and then Randy shrank back with a muttered, “Ah. Yeah. Okay.” He disappeared into the hall behind Michonne, his footsteps scuffing until they were gone.

That left you and Daryl.

You huffed, crouching in front of a tall cabinet. Its hinges groaned like a complaint when you tugged it open—and the next second a heavy thud knocked into your chest, bursting cold and wet.

“Shit!”

The gallon tub of white paint rolled to the floor, its lid barely clinging, leaving your shirt soaked and smeared, paint dripping down in messy streaks that clung to every curve. You swore, swiping at it with the rag tucked at your belt, but all you managed to do was spread it wider. The fabric clung tighter, plastered in streaks of chalky white.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you grumbled, rubbing harder. “This is just—perfect. I look like a prostitute on a Saturday night.”

You glanced up, ready to ask for more towels—“Can you—”

And froze.

He wasn’t moving.

Not a twitch.

He stood rooted to the spot, his crossbow still slung lazily at his back, his hands hanging at his sides like he’d forgotten what they were for. His eyes were locked on you, wide, dark, unblinking. Like someone had carved him out of stone, only his jaw ticking, throat working as he swallowed hard.

Your lips tugged slow, wicked. “What?” you asked, feigning innocence. “Never seen a girl get a paint job before?”

His mouth twitched, the faintest grimace, the faintest smirk. His voice came out rough. “Jesus Christ.”

You dropped the rag, dragging your palms over your chest deliberately, smearing more paint across the ruined shirt. “What?” you teased. “You don’t like my new look?”

His nostrils flared. He still didn’t move.

“Could use some help getting it off,” you added, softer now, tilting your head just so.

That cracked him. His eyes dragged lower, over your shirt plastered to your skin, up to your throat, and back again, heat plain on his face.

“Fuck,” he muttered, barely audible, like the word had clawed out of his chest on its own.

You grinned. “That’s not very constructive criticism, Dixon.”

Your boots creaked across the floor as you crossed to him, slow, deliberate. He still didn’t move. Didn’t back away. Just stood there watching you come closer like he wasn’t sure whether to step forward or bolt. When you stopped right in front of him, close enough to feel his breath mingling with yours, you murmured, “You’re staring.”

His throat bobbed again.

“If you want something,” you whispered, your breath brushing his lips, “all you gotta do is ask.”

The leash snapped.

His mouth crashed to yours, all teeth and heat, messy, desperate. You gasped into it, startled at the sudden ferocity, then clutched his shoulders, kissing him back with equal fire. His hands found your waist, paint smearing his palms, his shirt, gripping like you were water.

A strangled sound broke from him against your mouth, and then your feet weren’t on the floor anymore.

He lifted you without pause, hauling you up against him like you weighed nothing, spinning until your back hit the counter. The kiss didn’t break—it only got rougher, hungrier, his mouth greedy against yours, his fingers digging into your hips through the sticky paint.

You tore back just long enough to pant against his jaw. “We're supposed to be... looking for-”

“I'll be quick,” he rasped, breath harsh, already fumbling at the hem of your shirt. “Just a quick one, please.”

Your laugh was breathless, a whisper against his skin. “We really shouldn't...”

It wasn't a protest so much as a statement. His breath was fanning against your lips; you were so close that your lips kept brushing together. "Cmon, baby, we've got time."

You crashed your lips against his again, and you lost all reserve, if you had any to begin with.

“Better.. mmmfh… take your pants off then,” you mumbled against his lips.

It was when your pants were halfway down your thighs when Daryl finally lost his patience. He groaned low into your mouth like the sound was being dragged straight out of his chest, like even undressing you felt like too much to bear. His hands shoved the rest off in one rough tug, dragging your underwear with them, the cotton snapping against your skin before hitting the floor. You gasped at the cool air, but it was gone just as quick—replaced by him, all heat and weight and hard muscle pressing you into the counter.

You barely got his belt undone before he ripped his cock free himself, hissing at the sudden relief. He was already slick at the tip, flushed and heavy, and the second he pushed against you, your whole body arched forward like it had been waiting all day for this exact moment.

His cock pressed hot and heavy against your belly as he shoved his boxers down just enough, the heat of him smearing precum into your skin.

“Fuck—” he rasped, voice torn up. His forehead dropped to yours, sweat already beading at his hairline. “Goddamn baby—”

“I need you inside me. Now,” you breathed out and he swallowed your breath like it was his soul source of oxygen.

“Yes ma’am.”

When he finally sank into you, there was no patience, no testing the waters—it was a sharp stretch, a filthy, wet slide that had both of you gasping into each other’s mouths. The first thrust punched the air right out of your lungs. The slap of his hips against yours echoed loud in the empty art room, each movement wet and unforgiving, the counter rattling under your spine. His rhythm was messy, frantic, like he couldn’t pace himself even if he wanted to. His mouth crashed to yours, biting, sucking, drowning out your moans until he had to pull away just to breathe. The counter rattled against the wall, your back arching hard as you clung to him, and he held you tighter, hands spread wide on your thighs like he thought you’d slip away.

“Baby,” you breathed into his ear, voice wrecked and playful all at once, “we really… need to stop… fucking on runs.”

You meant it as a joke, and it landed—the broken laugh he huffed against your jaw was half-amusement, half-desperation, like even now he couldn’t believe you. “Shut up,” he rasped, biting at your neck before kissing the sting away. “Ain’t stoppin’ now.”

His hips ground against yours in slow, relentless drags, the coarse hair at his base and his pelvic bone scraping your swollen clit just right, and it was unbearable—the way he moved like his skin was on fire, like the only way to soothe it was to burn himself deeper inside you. His groans tangled with yours, teeth catching your lip, hands sliding over every inch of you like he didn’t know where to hold first.

The air was damp with sweat and paint, the tang of sex already thick around you. Your thighs trembled against the counter’s edge, your fingers tugged at his damp hair, and the taste of him—salt and spit and hunger—filled your mouth.

“God, Daryl”, you gasped between kisses, your forehead pressed to his, “you fill me so... so well—”

“Yeah?” His smirk was ruined by the wreck in his voice, by the way his hips stuttered even as he tried to sound cocky. “That why we keep endin' up like this?”

You laughed into his mouth, breathless and bright, but it dissolved into a moan when his thrusts turned deeper, more desperate. His was painted now from rubbing against yours, his pulse hammering under your palms, and when he groaned again—low, guttural—it vibrated through your bones like it was yours too.

And for a moment, there was no run, no danger, no world beyond these four walls—just the frantic slap of skin, the grind of hips, the desperate way he kissed you like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning.

Randy crept down the hall, knife clutched too tight in his sweaty hand. The noises had started low, muffled by walls and echoes—grunts, moans, the thud of furniture. It had to be walkers, cornered in one of the classrooms. He told himself this was his chance. He could handle this. If you saw him kill one—just one—maybe you’d finally stop looking at Dixon like he was the only man alive worth leaning on.

Don’t be a wimp. Dob’t be a wimp.

He crept closer, heart hammering. The sounds sharpened, not the hollow rasp of walkers but something hotter, wetter, human.

“Baby—oh fuck I’m close—”

The words froze him. His chest went tight.

That was your voice.

Randy’s throat clicked dry as he edged toward the window in the door, knife trembling in his grip. He shouldn’t look. He needed to look.

What he saw on the other side hollowed him out.

You were bent back across a desk, bare legs and feet flailing with Daryl perched in between them, your shirt tugged halfway down your chest, skin streaked with white paint and flushed pink with sweat. Your breasts bounced with every thrust of Dixon’s hips, your face twisted in pleasure so sharp it almost looked painful. Your mouth fell open on another broken moan, your fingers clawing red down his back like you couldn’t get him close enough.

And Dixon—Jesus Christ. His head was buried against your throat, hair damp, jaw tight, eyes shut like he was praying into your skin. His hand was braced on your thigh, forcing your legs wider, the other pushing your shirt down farther, desperate for more to touch, more to lick, more to claim. He fucked you like a man starved, hips driving so hard into you that the desk screeched against the tiles.

Randy’s grip on the knife tightened.

The sounds bled through the wall—your gasps, your whimpers, his guttural growl vibrating low in his chest. He watched Dixon’s mouth latch on your breast, sucking hard, wet, greedy, like he couldn’t get enough, clearly not fazed by the paint. You arched up into it, crying out, and Randy’s stomach flipped with heat and shame.

There was nothing gentle about it. This wasn’t comfort. Wasn’t survival. This was want, raw and shameless, painted across both of you. Literally.

And it hit him like a punch to the ribs: this wasn’t something he could compete with. Not strength, not skill, not devotion.

Everything he saw in Dixon was the kind of man he could never scrape himself up to be—solid, unflinching, the kind of strength that made people follow without a word. But what made Randy’s stomach twist, what made his throat close, wasn’t the muscle or the grit. It was the way Dixon moved with you. The way he touched you like he owned every inch, like he knew what you needed before you even asked. And worse—you gave it back. Your sounds, the way your body arched into him, the look on your face—pure surrender, pure pleasure.

Randy’s eyes dipped lower against his will, and bile clawed at his throat. Christ. Dixon wasn’t just strong, wasn’t just fearless—he was hung, thick and heavy, stretching you in a way that made Randy’s skin crawl with jealousy. Watching him slide in deep, watching you come apart on him—it was obscene, like something ripped from the kind of fantasy Randy had never been brave enough to voice, let alone live. He wanted to look away. He couldn’t.

You let your head fall back, eyes rolling, chasing that sweet, brutal edge, body chasing that brutal edge, pleasure pooling low and mean, when the haze cracked. Something flickered in the corner of your vision, behind the glass. Your lashes fluttered, blurry focus sharpening until the heat in your blood turned cold.

The strip of glass in the door. A shape. A face.

Randy.

Watching.

The bottom fell out of your stomach. Your pulse jackknifed, mouth drying even as Daryl’s cock hit deep, over and over. “Daryl—” you gasped, your voice tangled in a moan you couldn’t bite back, panic snapping into the sound like static. Your arms flew up, clutching at his shoulders, dragging yourself up and pressing against him so he was covering your bare chest with his body. “We—we gotta stop. Randy, he’s watching us—”

But Daryl didn’t lift his head. Didn’t even turn. His pupils were blown wide, his lips dragging wet against your throat as he groaned, low and dangerous, like a man too far gone to be pulled back. “So let him.” His voice was a rasp, guttural, and his hips didn’t falter. They snapped forward harder, rougher, each thrust a greedy slam that made your teeth click and your thighs shake.

“Daryl—” you whined, torn between panic and the molten ache spreading through you, your voice breaking when his hand clamped your thigh, pinning it higher against the desk. The angle made you sob out loud, your head falling back again even as your eyes flicked, terrified, to the window. Randy hadn’t moved. Still there. Still staring.

Daryl’s breath dragged harsh across your ear. “Let the fucker watch,” he growled, and the raw hunger in his tone made your whole body jolt, traitorous shivers chasing down your spine. His thrusts turned reckless, almost violent in their need, as though the idea of being seen only made him want to tear you apart more, claim you deeper, grind every sound out of you until there was no mistaking who you belonged to.

Your nails clawed red into his back, torn between shielding yourself and pulling him closer, the edge of humiliation tangling with the white-hot flood of sensation. “Baby hold on—oh my god—” you whimpered, the words half-muffled against his jaw. You didn’t want this, not like this, not with Randy’s wide, stunned eyes drinking in every second—and yet, with Daryl snarling into your skin, fucking you like he’d die if he stopped, your body didn’t care.

This would usually be very unlike Daryl, but you knew better - he only got like this, so reckless and driven when he was upset or horny. Sometimes both.

Your vision blurred at the edges, white flooding through the cracks, and your body gave before your mind caught up. The coil inside you snapped, vicious and sudden, tearing a raw cry from your chest as your cunt clenched down hard around him. The gush of release was hot, unstoppable, spilling down your thighs, soaking both of you. Daryl’s answering groan was guttural, wrecked, his forehead pressing hard into your shoulder as his hips lost all rhythm. He jerked, stuttered, desperate and undone, spilling inside you with sharp, frantic thrusts until every last drop was driven deep.

You shook through it, trembling, your nails dragging at his damp back, his breath ragged against your skin. The world narrowed to the sounds—the wet slap of his hips still pushing through aftershocks, the broken curses he gasped against your neck, the sharp hitch of your own breathing.

Slowly, the rhythm ebbed, leaving only the throb of your pulse in your ears. The room spun around you in muffled silence.

Daryl practically collapsed against you, his head suddenly feeling too heavy laid peacefully on your shoulder but his arms stayed locked around your back, iron-tight, his cock still buried deep, twitching weakly inside you as though his body wasn’t ready to be done. You held him the as he panted against your skin, chest heaving, every exhale hot and damp at your throat.

You stroked his damp hair back, your voice barely a whisper. “You good killer?”

He didn’t move. Just groaned low, the sound nearly a laugh, and finally rasped against your shoulder, rough and ruined, “Told ya I’d make it quick."

Daryl hadn’t moved much, still sprawled heavy against you, skin damp, chest rising slow against your back. His hand curved over your middle in that absent way he always did now, like he couldn’t stop reminding himself you were both there. He pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder, then another, his lips dragging clumsy along your neck until you squirmed.

“Quit it,” you whispered, laughing.

“Nuh huh,” he muttered, voice rough, half asleep and half drunk on you. He shifted just enough to nudge your hair out of your face, fingers brushing gentle along your temple. And then, almost like it slipped out of him, low and simple—

“Y’know I love ya, right?”

It wasn’t a grand confession, not some big cinematic reveal. It was just Daryl, rasping out what you both already knew, like stating the weather, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. But it still hit you, warm and sharp, made your grin stretch wide enough it hurt.

“Really?” you teased, tilting your head to catch his eye. “Lil' old me?”

His mouth twitched into that reluctant half-smile, the one he never gave anyone else. “Shut up,” he muttered, and he face planted into the crook of your neck again.

You giggled against him, hand stroking his back. “Love you too Dixon... god you're so sappy after sex .”

“Yeah? Still ain’t hearin’ you complain.”

“Maybe I don't hate it,” you shot back, grin cocky, and he huffed that little almost-laugh into your throat, holding you closer, like he couldn’t help it.

You let your cheek rest on his temple, groaning into his hair finally;“God we are both covered in paint.”

He hummed against your skin, his voice hoarse and his eyes shut as if you were pulling him to sleep by just holding him. “Totally worth it.”

That earned him another grin, wide and wicked, and you cupped his face, pulling his face up so you could see that love lien face he he always tried to hide. You leaned in, kissing him slow, almost lazy, lips dragging against his like you had nowhere else to be. He kissed back with the same kind of stubborn gentleness that always undid you — sweet, steady, like he was sealing the words he’d just spoken straight into your skin.

By the time you pulled away, you were both smiling too hard to kiss again without laughing, foreheads pressed together, breath tangling. It was nothing new — the teasing, the banter, the ease — but right now, in this dingy classroom with paint still drying on your shirt and his hand tucked under your shirt like he owned you, it felt like everything.

And Randy, still rooted at the window, felt it too. That sharp, frantic hunger he’d seen in you minutes ago had shifted, softened into something worse — something he wanted even more. Not just the heat. Not just the frenzy. But this. The tenderness. The familiarity. The way you made it look so damn easy.

Randy couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

The way you laughed into Daryl’s mouth like you’d been doing it your whole life. The way Daryl let his forehead rest against yours, eyes closing like that smile of yours was the only thing keeping him upright. It wasn’t frantic now. It wasn’t hunger. It was soft, achingly soft, and Randy felt it punch a hole straight through his chest.

He wanted that. God, he wanted that.

“Really?” came a voice behind him.

He flinched so hard he nearly dropped his knife. Michonne was standing in the hallway a few paces back, arms crossed tight across her chest, her expression carved from stone.

Her eyes flicked once to the window, then back to him. And the judgment there was so sharp it made the hair on his neck prickle.

“You seriously standin’ here spying on them?” Her voice was low, even, the kind of calm that promised nothing good. “What a creep.”

Randy’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

She shook her head slowly, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was looking at. “Gross,” she muttered, before stepping past him without another glance, her boots heavy against the tile as she moved toward the other end of the hall.

stomach twisting, the sound of your laugh still spilling faint through the cracked-open door. He’d seen more than he should’ve, more than he wanted to admit, and for the first time since the world ended he almost wished the walkers had gotten him at the start. At least then he wouldn’t have this burned into his skull.

The door creaked wider and you and Daryl stepped out, both of you flushed and breathless, streaks of white paint smeared down your shirts. You grinned, raising the battered duffel over your shoulder like a trophy.

“Yahtzee,” you announced brightly. “Jackpot.”

Randy’s throat clicked as he swallowed, forcing a smile that wobbled at the corners. “Never thought a supply run could be that… productive.” His eyes flicked between you and Daryl, too long, too knowing.

Your grin faltered just enough for the innuendo to sting, and you made a point of turning away from him, brushing past like he wasn’t even there.

“Let’s go,” Michonne snapped, already striding down the hall. No room for discussion, no patience for Randy’s tone.

Daryl lingered a beat longer. His stare was flat, unreadable, but when he shouldered past Randy he did it hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Randy doubled over, gasping. Daryl didn’t even look back.

And if Randy did manage to get out of this school alive, he knew one thing for certain: Daryl Dixon would make him regret it.

————

The second your hand pushed on the crash bar, you knew it was wrong.

The doors rattled under the weight of bodies pressing from the other side—groans muffled through glass, teeth clicking against panes already spiderwebbed with cracks. Two dozen, maybe more, and the instant they heard you all inside, the sound swelled, frantic, hungry.

“Back,” Michonne hissed, raising her blade, but it was too late.

The glass gave out in a thunderclap, shards spilling like rain as gray hands surged through, clawing, reaching. The stench of rot punched the air.

“Shit—MOVE!” Daryl barked, shoving you toward the hallway.

You bolted, boots hammering across the tile. One walker lunged from the side, and for a half-second it was Randy’s dumb voice shouting, “Help!” that cut through everything. He’d tripped—of course he had— the box of supplies sliding across the floor from his grip and a set of jaws was already snapping inches from his throat.

You didn’t think. You just grabbed a mop from the broken custodial cart as you ran and jammed the splintered end through the thing’s eye. It crumpled, and Randy scrambled up, panting, wide-eyed. He looked at you like you’d just given him a Valentine.

“Cmon dumbass, get up!,” you snapped before he could even open his mouth. You picked up the box of supplies because clearlt he couldnt be trusted.

Michonne’s voice cut sharply. “We won’t make it through the front. Need another way.” Her eyes scanned the walls, the ceiling. Then she nodded, decisive. “Vents. Cafeteria runs straight above the loading bay—there’ll be a drop. It’s tight, but it’s clear. We can double back for the supplies when we get a window.”

Randy perked up, nodding like it had been his idea all along. “Yeah—yeah, that’ll work.”

“Then let’s move,” you said, already running for the nearest ladder bolted to the wall. You didn’t hesitate, plopping down the box of supplies. “Guess I’ll go first. Pussies.”

You hauled yourself up, shoving at the grate until it gave way with a squeal of metal, and slipped inside. The shaft was narrow, dark, stinking of dust and rust.

Behind you, Randy put a foot on the ladder. “I’ll—”

“Fuck that.”

Daryl’s voice was low, final. His hand clamped around Randy’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “Not you.”

Randy bristled. “I owe her—”

“You don’t owe her shit,” Daryl cut him off, his eyes flaring, jaw tight. “She don’t need ya watchin’ her back.” His gaze flicked up toward where your boots disappeared into the vent, then back to Randy.

Randy swallowed hard, shrinking an inch under the weight of it.

And then Daryl was climbing up, leaving his trusty crossbow behind so he could fit and sliding into the vent after you. He gritted his teeth against the cramped space, crawling forward on his elbows, the sound of your knife scraping faintly ahead of him, your scent—paint and sweat—hanging in the air.

The view of your ass didn’t hurt either.

No—fuck that. That was the reason. Not some bullshit about owing you. Not a chance in hell.

Daryl smirked faintly to himself and kept moving.

----------------------------------------

“You good back there, big guy?” you called, breathless, sweat beading along your hairline.

A rough grunt came from behind you. “Yeah… jus’—fuck—It's so tight. M'too damn big fer this.”

You bit down on a smirk, shoulders shaking. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’ll squeeze in just fine if you keep pushin’.”

“Shit,” he muttered, voice gruff and frayed. “Ain’t got much room ta move.”

You stifled a laugh that came out more like a gasp. “Guess you’ll just have to deal with it. Can’t exactly swap places now, can we?”

A pause. Then a sharp sting cracked across your backside—Daryl’s calloused palm finding its mark. You yelped, your laugh spilling out so loud it rattled through the shaft, but you kept going.

“Daryl!” you hissed back, scandalized, though the grin on your face was wide enough to ache.

“Quit wigglin’ it at me, then,” he drawled, absolutely not sorry in the least.

Behind you came a muffled curse, followed by a sharp, metallic scrape—his belt buckle catching, the noise ricocheting through the dark.

Then Michonne’s voice cut in flat, bone-dry. “Do you two even hear yourselves right now? Because we do. And it sounds exactly like I think it does.”

Your laugh burst out, echoing through the shaft until you had to clap a hand over your mouth to quiet it. Daryl groaned, forehead thunking lightly against the vent wall.

The truth was absurdly ordinary. Just four survivors, crawling belly-to-back through a dust-choked ventilation shaft, trying not to suffocate on rust flakes and old insulation.

The vent groaned as Daryl shifted closer, the metal clanging like it was ready to give. His breath hitched, low and ragged, and you could feel the vibrations of his body straining against the narrow walls.

The vent felt like a coffin—tight metal walls pressing in, every breath choked with dust, every inch forward a slow drag of knees and elbows. Your knife scraped along with you, clutched tight because you weren’t letting it go, not in a place like this. Behind you, the hollow thud of Daryl’s knees echoed, steady as a heartbeat, a quiet reminder that he was right there.

Until he wasnt.

The vent groaned under the weight as if to warn you.

Then came a single ping of a screw failing. Then another.

Your whole body went rigid. The metal beneath you dipped, then shrieked under the weight. Before you could even turn back, the panel gave out.

“Shit!”

The crash tore through the silence. Daryl and Randy vanished in a blur of flailing limbs and clattering bookshelves, the echo of their fall shuddering through the shaft. Dust rushed upward like smoke, choking the air, and then it was too quiet.

“Daryl!” you shouted down, clawing forward, your palms slipping on the vibrating metal.

Nothing. Just the groan of toppling shelves and settling rubble.

Your chest squeezed so hard it hurt. “Baby!?” The word rang out raw, the echo carrying through the library below like something broken.

At last, a rough cough answered. “M’ good!”

The breath tore out of you in relief, your forehead pressing against the vent floor.

“…Yeah, I’m fine too,” Randy called up. “Not that anybody asked.”

You ignored him, already shifting forward. “Hold on, I’m coming—”

“No.” Daryl’s voice snapped sharply, brooking no argument. “Ain’t stable. You keep movin’ forward. Michonne, double back. Go for the main entrance—it'll be clear now. Sound will bring 'em to us.”

"Wait what!? They're headed for us!?" Randy turned his head so quickly you thought he would have whiplash. The three of you ignored him ofcourse.

“Are you out of your damn mind? I'm not leaving you hear with snowflake here!” you spat back, fury boiling up through the panic.

“Would ya relax, nobody is leaving anybody, just meet us down there. Me 'n him are gonna make a break for the window.”

Your fist slammed against the vent wall, the clang ringing in your ears. “Don't get all smart on me Dixon. You are not pulling this macho bullshit on me—”

“This bullshit’s keepin’ ya alive, woman,” he shot back. “Would you fuckin' get—”

“You don't get to order me around, asshole!”

“Someone's gotta!”

The words collided, hot and sharp, until Michonne’s voice sliced through, exasperated. “Would you two shut up?" She yelled from across the gap in the vent, voice booming around the barren library. "We don’t have time for this.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. You pressed your forehead to the cold metal, teeth clenched, chest heaving. Finally, you forced the words out, shaky but steady enough. “…Fine. But you better meet me on the other side, Dixon. I swear to god.”

There was a pause—just long enough to make your throat tighten—before his voice came back, low and sure. “See ya there.”

You shoved yourself forward, and you heard Michonne doing the same, turning around to come back the way you came. Each scrape of your elbows against the metal was a promise, the ache in your chest heavier than the vent pressing down on you.

The library smelled like rot and mildew, all warped paper and dust that clung to the back of your throat. Daryl squatted near the window, testing the frame with one hand. The drop on the other side was steep—fifteen feet easy, maybe more. Not exactly something you could walk off.

“We ain’t jumpin’,” he muttered. “Need a rope.”

Randy hovered awkwardly by an overturned shelf. “So… like, curtains? Sheets?”

“Whatever the hell you can find,” Daryl said, already yanking the hem from a banner that had once hung across the wall, some pep rally relic of a world long gone. The fabric ripped in his hands, sharp and loud in the silence.

They worked in quiet at first, piling strips of cloth. Daryl twisted and knotted them tight, checking the give with a sharp tug. His hands were steady, practiced. Randy’s weren’t—his fingers fumbled clumsily, and when he spoke, it wasn’t about the knots.

“So you and Y/N, huh?” Randy asked, tone just a little too casual, a little too smug.

Daryl didn’t look up from the rope he was knotting together. Just gave a low grunt, clipped and noncommittal.

Randy smirked faintly, though it didn’t touch his eyes. “How long’s that been goin’ on?”

“Dunno.” Daryl tugged the knot tight, testing it with a sharp pull. “A while.”

Randy leaned against the wall, arms folded like he was settling in for story time. “Where’d you two even meet?”

“On the road.”

“Romantic,” Randy muttered, rolling his eyes. “Guess that’s all it takes these days, huh? Some guy with a crossbow shows up, does some grunting, and suddenly she's all doe eyed—”

“Stop.” Daryl’s voice was flat, a warning edged in steel, but the man either didn’t hear it or didn’t care.

“So what is it then? You save her from a couple rotters and she swoons? Or maybe she got sick of waiting around for someone better and settled for you?” Randy’s chuckle was sharp, humorless. “Back in school, girls like her… they didn’t look twice at guys like you.”

Daryl’s hands stilled. The rope dangled loose from his fingers, jaw ticking hard enough you could hear his teeth grind.

Randy smirked wider, mistaking the silence for an opening. “What, not gonna deny it? C’mon, man, you think if the world hadn’t ended, she’d even spare you a glance? She was—hell, she was outta my league too, but at least we make sense together. You guys? That don't add up—”

The sound of fabric slamming against the table cut him off. Daryl moved so fast Randy flinched back, his shoulders smacking the wall. One hand fisted tight in the front of Randy’s shirt, crossbow-calloused knuckles pressing into his chest.

“Enough.” Daryl’s voice was low, rough, but steady. “World ended. People changed. Accept it.”

Randy hesitated, then laughed under his breath. “C’mon, don’t tell me you really think this lasts. If the world hadn’t ended, she wouldn’t have even glanced your way. You wouldn’t have stood a chance. She had her whole life ahead of her. College, a career, a family—people like her weren’t looking at guys like you.”

The words hit their mark, and Randy knew it. He leaned in, emboldened. “You know I’m right. You’re a fluke, Dixon. A mistake she made because the world went to shit, and you just happened to be standing next to her when it did.”

The sound of fabric tearing was drowned out by the slam of wood against concrete. In one motion, Daryl had Randy pinned hard against the wall, forearm digging into his chest.

“You don't know shit,” Daryl spat, his voice low, but it carried like thunder, his breath hot with fury. His eyes burned, unblinking, so close Randy flinched. “World before don’t mean nothin’. Sooner you get that, the easier it gets. That girl you knew—she’s gone, man. Like everybody else. She’s who she is now ‘cause she fought for it. ‘Cause she survived it.”

Randy swallowed, face blanching under the weight of it. Daryl leaned in just a fraction closer, his words sharp as broken glass.

“You’re stickin’ your head where it don’t belong,” he said, each syllable deliberate, dripping venom. "If you make it out of here and tha's a big if, I don't wanna see you're ugly face near 'er, ya hear me?"

Randy’s throat worked around a pitiful gulp. He nodded, stiff and jerky, too choked to get a word out.

Daryl’s stare didn’t budge. His eyes were flat, cold as steel — the kind that let a man know he was looking straight at a predator, and all he’d ever be was prey.

The rope dangled from Daryl’s fist as he stepped back, shoulders heaving, his glare still locked on Randy like a loaded weapon.

“Get back to work,” he growled.

Randy straightened his shirt with shaking hands, no comeback this time.

------------------------------------------

The night air hit like a shock the second you wriggled free of the vent. It was damp, cool, full of the smell of wet asphalt and rot that clung to Alexandria’s forgotten corners.

You dropped down into the grass, knees bending to take the shock, boots sinking into the wet earth with a muffled squelch. The night air hit you like a wave — damp and sharp, thick with the scent of rain-soaked soil, copper tang still clinging to your tongue after too long breathing in the duct’s stale, metallic breath.

You didn’t move.

You listened.

The world seemed to hold itself still for you: cicadas silenced, the wind pressed flat. And then—there. A rhythm that didn’t belong. Footsteps. Quick. Uneven. Too light to be a walker’s drag, too frantic to be deliberate.

Your throat tightened. Every muscle pulled taut. You raised your weapon, moving along the wall as if plaster and brick could make you untouchable. The rough edge of stone scraped your shoulder as you crept, breath shallow, pulse crashing like a drumbeat in your ears.

The steps came closer. Closer.

And then—you weren’t alone.

Both of you rounded the corner at the same time. Two shadows colliding. A figure low to the ground, shifting quick and jerky in the dark. You couldn’t make out the face, not at first—the moonlight cut only enough to frame it in edges. Instinct took you the rest of the way, blades lifted, ready, your heart pounding so loud you swore they could hear it too.

For a breath, the world collapsed into nothing but the gleam of steel and the harsh rasp of breath, two shadows poised to tear each other apart. The silence pressed thick around you. Then the figure uncoiled, rising out of the crouch, and the moon spilled just enough light across their face to catch on the familiar fall of braids and the sharp glint of a katana you knew all too well.

“Shit,” you exhaled, lowering your blade. "What the fuck, Mich!"

Michonne’s brow lifted, just slightly, though her sword didn’t drop until she gave the perimeter a final sweep. “Thought I was about to cut your head clean off,” she muttered.

You blew out a shaky laugh, wiping the sweat from your palms. “Could say the same.”

The reprieve lasted only a heartbeat. Overhead, a dull thud shook the quiet, pulling both your gazes skyward.

The library windows gaped black against the brick. From one of them dangled a length of knotted fabric—curtains and shirts, fraying where they’d been tied together. The rope swayed under the strain of weight. Daryl was halfway down, every muscle locked tight, his jaw clenched as he braced himself, his boots scraping slowly down the wall.

And above him, framed in the window, was Randy.

He lingered at the top, white-knuckled on the frame, knife glinting in his hand. His eyes darted everywhere but down, sweat shining at his temple.

Relief swept through you, so strong it was almost dizzying. He was almost down. Daryl was almost out.

But then—Randy moved.

His knife jerked, clumsy, catching the fabric. The sound of tearing ripped the night open.

“Daryl!” The scream ripped out of you raw, panic cutting sharp through your chest.

The rope snapped.

For one gut-wrenching second, he was weightless. Then the ground came up fast, and he slammed down just a few feet from you, the sound brutal enough to make your stomach heave.

You were on him before the echo faded, knees sinking into wet earth, hands scrambling helplessly over him. “Daryl!”

His face was pale, his mouth tight with pain, but his eyes—those defiant, sharp blue eyes—met yours through the haze. He coughed, tried to straighten, voice gravel-rough. “M’ alright.”

The lie cut sharper than the fall.

Michonne’s blade angled upward, her gaze locked on the window where Randy still poked his head out. His knife trembled in his hand, his face pale with something between fear and guilt—but not nearly enough of either.

Your vision tunnelled, your hands still clutching at Daryl’s shirt. Rage burned so hot it made your skin prickle.

“Son of a bitch,” you spat, the words shaking out of you, low and guttural.

Daryl's face was chalk-white beneath the streaks of dirt and sweat, jaw clenched so hard the muscle twitched. He tried to stand, stubborn as ever, and for a fleeting moment you believed his lie—until the sound tore out of him.

A strangled, bitten-off yelp that hollowed you out. His hand snapped to his side, fingers clutching tight, his body curling around the pain like he’d been stabbed.

Your legs moved before your brain did. You dropped to the ground beside him, one hand pressing his chest to stop him from rising, the other tugging his shirt up with shaking fingers.

“Hold still,” you demanded.

“’M fine,” he panted, breath short, sharp.

“Shut up.” You shoved the fabric higher, and your stomach sank at the sight. Bruising already spread dark across his ribs, angry and swollen, the skin warped in a way you knew too well. A rib out of place, maybe two. Not fatal—not yet—but dangerous if left.

Your voice came low, urgent. “Dislocated rib. If we don’t fix this now, it could puncture something - that is, if it hasn't punctured something already. We gotta get him outta here.”

He shook his head, still trying to straighten, because of course he would. “We gotta get the stash, we ain't leaving empty—”

“Oh my god, stop talking!” You glared at him, your fear too sharp to soften.

With Michonne’s help, you hauled him between you, his weight heavy, his steps staggered, each inhale catching like a knife in his chest. Every time his boot struck the floor you could hear it—the low hiss of pain he was trying to bury.

By the time you reached the van, his sweat had soaked through his shirt, his lips pale and cracked. You didn’t wait for him to argue. You guided him down onto the floor, your hands firm but careful, lowering him onto his side.

“Injured side up,” you muttered automatically, like it was just another box to tick on some apocalypse to-do list. Your hands moved without asking your brain for permission, all muscle memory and stubborn calm, while your stomach was tying itself in knots. Inside, you were screaming. Outside, you kept your voice flat, almost dry, because if you let the panic through, it’d eat you alive. You could panic later. After. Preferably not while trying to shove his ribs back where they belonged. Not unless you wanted to be the idiot who killed her own boyfriend by helping.

He didn’t fight, like every time you touched him, he relaxed slightly, though the tension in his jaw said he wanted to bolt. His body folded to your guidance, too tired to resist.

You shifted his head into your lap, your thighs cradling him, your belly curved protectively above him. His cheek pressed against your thigh, hot, damp with sweat, his breath fanning uneven against your shirt.

For a long moment you just stroked his hair back, grounding yourself as much as him.

His eyes dragged up to meet yours, glassy and half-lidded, but still sharp enough to cut. “That good, huh?” he rasped, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smirk but didn’t have the strength.

“Oh yeah. Fantastic,” you murmured, though your throat was tight and the joke landed like glass in your chest. You pressed your palm against the swollen rib, fingers spread, feeling the unnatural give beneath skin and muscle. “This is gonna hurt. Like—royally. But after, it’ll be better. Y’know, like puking up bad booze. You hate every second of it, but then you feel like less of a disaster after.”

He made a sound that was half laugh, half groan. “Nice one.” It was very unenthusiastic, especially considering he’d just burrowed his head harder into your lap, like if he could just get comfortable, maybe the whole ordeal wouldn’t exist.

“Hey, I’m trying here,” you muttered, the exhale shaky, your hand steady only because it had to be. “You trust me?”

His throat bobbed once, then again, and he gave you the smallest nod—barely there, but enough to split you open inside. Of course he trusted you. Always. And that was what made your chest ache, because you weren’t sure you deserved that kind of blind faith, not when it meant you were about to break him just to fix him.

You bent closer, your lips at his hairline. “Alright. Deep breaths for me baby—”

His hand fisted in your shirt, curled around your middle, knuckles white. “Just—do it.”

He breathed with you for a few moments, the smell of you filling his nose, calming him—

You steeled yourself, shifted your weight, and pressed down.

The crack of bone sliding back into place was nearly lost beneath the scream he gave. Raw. Guttural. It ripped out of him and straight into your stomach, muffled against your body as he buried his face there. His whole frame shuddered, his back arching, sweat soaking through your clothes, fingers clawing at your thigh like he could tear the pain out of himself if he just held tight enough.

And then—relief. A ragged gasp broke through, his body slackening all at once. He trembled violently, but the agony had dulled to something else, something survivable.

You stroked his hair, shushed him with care, your other hand smoothing down the length of his back, whispering over and over, “That’s it. That’s it, baby. It’s done. You did so good. You’re okay.”

His breath was hot against your stomach, uneven but steadier with every exhale. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “Ya were right—that sucked."

“I know,” you soothed, pressing a kiss to his damp temple, blinking back tears you couldn’t afford to shed. “Luckily, you got me.”

A sound caught in his throat, half laugh, half groan, and his arm curled around your middle, gripping you hard, anchoring himself to you.

And so you sat there, his head heavy in your lap, the world outside the van bristling with shadows and Michonne’s silent watch, while inside, it was just him and you—the steady rhythm of your touch, his breath beginning to even, the worst behind you.

The three of you waited out the night huddled in the van, the ruined school crouching in the dark like some giant carcass you weren’t finished picking clean. You tried to take watch, but Daryl’s arm was an iron band around you, even in sleep. Every time you shifted, every time you even thought about moving, his fingers flexed on your hip like his body remembered what his mind couldn’t. Michonne eventually smirked from her post by the window. “Ain’t no point. Man’s got you locked tighter than a bear trap.”

By dusk, the decision was made. The stash had to be retrieved. You weren’t about to limp back to Alexandria empty-handed after all this.

The gym doors were heavier than you remembered, their hinges shrieking in protest as Daryl and Michonne forced them apart. The air inside was stale with dust, rubber, and the faint rot that had seeped into every school since the fall. Your boots echoed on the polished wood, ghost cheers rattling somewhere deep in the rafters.

And then—bang.

Daryl yanked you back instinctively, his body covering yours as fragments of wood splintered where you’d been not even a second ago. The shot tore through the cavernous room, ringing against the walls so loud your ears screamed with it.

“FUCK!” Randy’s voice cracked from somewhere near the bleachers, the desperation raw. “You BITCH! That was my only bullet!”

You tried to shoot me, missed, and now I'm the bitch? Right. That makes sense.

You could hear him pacing, the scuff of his shoes on the floor, ragged breathing. He wasn’t even trying to hide.

“I had one shot,” he rambled, voice rising to a whine. “One chance to prove it—and you ruined it! You always ruin it, Y/N. Back then, now—it’s the same thing. You’d rather run around with him—” his voice spat like venom “—with that hillbilly—than with someone who you belong with. Someone who gave a damn.”

Your blood turned cold. You could feel Daryl’s whole body go still against your back, the quiet before the storm.

That was it. You were done. This loser has had enough spotlight for one day.

You bolted, Daryl cursing after you, but he was right behind, Michonne’s blade whispering free as her boots hit the floor. Randy shrieked when he saw you running towards him, panic ricocheting off the walls, and he ran. Of course he ran.

Through the gym, past the faded banners, toward the double doors—straight into the wall of walkers that had conveniently rushed to the scene when they heard the gunshot. How thoughtful. Randy skidded to a stop, tried to pivot, but more poured in from a side corridor.

Trapped.

You slowed just enough to watch it unfold. He bolted for the lockers, tried wrenching one open. His hands shook too hard, his screams rising high-pitched, almost childlike. He shoved himself halfway inside, scrambling like he could squeeze back into his teenage skin, back into the years that had already rotted away.

The door slammed on his leg.

The walkers hit him like a tide, tearing at the parts left exposed—his hands, his stomach, his throat straining above the edge of the locker as he screamed your name.

The sound cut off with a wet, ugly rip. Blood sprayed the faded paint.

Silence, except for the guttural chorus of feeding.

You stood there, chest heaving, sweat and paint still sticky on your skin. Michonne lowered her blade. Daryl’s hand closed on your shoulder, grounding you, steady as bedrock.

The three of you turned, leaving him exactly where he belonged—locked in with his glory days, devoured by the past he could never let go.

Daryl stepped back, slipping a hand across your back with quiet precision, fingers pressing against the base of your spine like he was still half on alert.

“You good?” he murmured, only for you.

You nodded, even though your pulse was still pounding and your stomach ached with leftover cramps and stress and that awful, sour taste of betrayal.

“Yeah,” you said. “`Let's just get our shit and go home.”

After doing just that, he opened the van door for you without another word. He helped you in, one hand steady on your elbow, as if he wasn't sporting a serious injury, then climbed in after. Michonne got behind the wheel, gave a last pointed look toward the school, then started the engine with a low grumble.

As the van rolled out of the cracked school lot, you leaned into Daryl like it was second nature. Your temple found his shoulder. His hand, without even thinking, dropped to your thigh—warm and solid, his thumb idly stroking through a rip in your jeans where the denim had stretched too tight to hold.

He didn’t seem to notice he was doing it. Didn’t care that Michonne was two feet away. She was family. She’d seen worse. In the art faculty, to be more specific.

“You sleepin’?” he asked softly, dipping his head a little to glance at you.

“Just resting my eyes,” you murmured.

The van bumped down a cracked road as trees flanked the path home. The conversation between the three of you drifted toward nothing in particular. Judith’s latest sass. Gabriel’s failed bread experiment. Rosita and Abraham are sneaking off again and thinking no one noticed.

Somewhere between the low hum of Michonne’s laugh and the feel of Daryl’s chest rising beneath your cheek, your body finally relaxed.

The van hummed low beneath you, Michonne’s steady hands on the wheel, her eyes fixed on the long stretch of road bleeding into dusk. The sky outside was bruised purple, streaked with the last scraps of daylight, but inside the van it was dim and warm, the air heavy with the smells of sweat, leather, and blood.

You were half-asleep already, body slumped completely against Daryl’s good side. His arm curled around you automatically, the weight of his hand a promise against your hip. Every bump in the road jostled you, but his grip never slipped. You could feel the steady thrum of his pulse under your cheek, the faint rasp of his breath where his jaw rested against your hair.

You blinked heavy-lidded, the world outside the windows a blur of dark trees and rolling asphalt, fighting the drag of sleep as you mumbled into Daryl’s chest. “It’s weird, y’know… Randy. He was just… stuck. Like he never made it out of high school. Like he froze right there forever.”

Your words vibrated faint against him, muffled by his shirt, and your fingers wandered in absent circles over the ink etched into his skin. You traced the angel wings spread over his collarbone, then followed the curve up to the skull just above. You’d done it a thousand times before, sometimes teasing, sometimes just to annoy him, but now your hand lingered like you were mapping a history, something deeper than bone and ink.

“I remember those days,” you murmured. “When I went there. But it doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Doesn’t even feel real. Like someone else’s memory I borrowed for a while.”

Your breath hitched on a quiet laugh, soft and tired. “Guess we all got ghosts from before. But compared to now, compared to this—it just feels… foreign. Like I couldn’t even fit into it again if I tried.”

Daryl’s hand flexed against your hip, a slow squeeze, and his lips brushed your temple. He didn’t answer right away, and you could hear the gravel of his breath stirring through your hair before he muttered, rough and low, “Ain’t just you. Sometimes I can’t even picture it no more. Like it’s a different world. Different people.”

From the driver’s seat, Michonne’s voice cut into the quiet, softer than you expected. “That’s because it was. That world’s gone. We’re what’s left.”

“Guess that’s why it’s hard. This one, I mean.” Your voice thinned to almost a whisper. “People like Randy… their big end-of-the-world moment was finishing high school. Moving towns. Ending relationships.”

You huffed a short, ironic laugh. “They didn’t stand a chance. Not when the real end came knocking. Sometimes I think… maybe I wish I’d been like that. Oblivious. Stuck in something simple.”

“No ya don’t,” Daryl rumbled, lips brushing your hair.

“Sure I do,” you teased back, but your voice softened. “Imagine it—thinking a bad hair day, or ruining your favorite shirt in the wash, was the worst thing you’d ever face. Back then, it was easier to tell the difference between living and surviving.”

His hand tightened around your thigh, his grip protective, grounding, and you clutched at his arm in return.

“Hey,” Michonne said, and when you glanced up, she wasn’t looking at the road anymore—she was looking at you, her eyes steady, certain. “We’re living. Believe me.”

Daryl grunted low, a sound that was almost agreement, and added, “Damn straight.”

The road stretched on, endless and quiet, the hum of the engine the only thing filling the silence. It was steady. Carrying you home.

You tucked yourself tighter into Daryl’s chest, your hand still drawing lazy circles over the rise of his ribs until your eyes began to betray you, lids drooping lower with every mile. His thumb brushed slow across the curve of your hip, keeping time with the rise and fall of your breathing.

And finally, when the pull of exhaustion won out, you let your eyes slip shut, lips parted just slightly as you dozed against the man who never once let you hit the ground.

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