Okay but teacher Grace on Erid having very little say in which kids get filtered into his class, though he is aware that the selection process is super specific and that most of the kids he gets are high performers with star academics and some even with influential parents. He isn't quite comfortable enough with Eridian culture yet to object to the selection process and make it more inclusive, however. That is, until he learns about the special needs kids.
Obviously, there are Eridian kids with special needs, and a few of them even filter into his classes. But one specific type of special needs kid has never shown up in his classes, and the only reason he even learned of the condition is because Rocky and Adrien's first pebble has the condition.
It's initially quite a struggle for them to deal with, and Grace sympathizes of course, because the child will apparently have huge learning and academic struggles and will likely never be able to live on their own. That is, until he learns the details of the disability.
Basically, it's a condition where the part of the Eridian brain that gives them their eidetic memory isn't fully developed, and so these kids just... can't remember things the way most eridians do. And in a culture where an eidetic memory is the norm, all things cater to that, so not having that is actually a massive disability.
But Grace is like, so... this kid just learns the same way a human does, or something like. Which is nothing new to him, though he is somewhat boggled at how much Rocky and Adrian struggle with their infant and their "slow" learning curve, even as far as initial developmental stages. Grace, on the other hand, simply treats the kid the same way he would a human infant, and Rocky and Adrien are impressed with his patience.
But, through this, it occurs to Grace that there must be other kids out there with this disability who likely aren't getting the attention and chances in life that they deserve, because Eridian culture is particularly hostile toward this disability, and actively views those with it as unable to function in regular society.
So Grace demands that a special course be put together where he teaches kids with this disability specifically. Rocky is hesitant, as most kids with this disability are home schooled and kind of... kept shut away. But Grace insists and as one of Erid's saviors, he gets what he wants eventually.
His first class is super small, maybe only three kids because so few parents were willing to advertise that their children have this disability. And because of the stigma around it, even those who agreed to it are super unsure and want to be present during the lessons, perhaps paranoid about the impression it will leave on Savior Grace, who is so accustomed to only teaching the most gifted students.
But Grace knows exactly how to deal with these kids. Some of them have varying degrees of function when it comes to their memory banks, which isn't so unlike teaching kids on earth. And so Grace is able to introduce all these tools and teaching techniques that were previously unheard of on Erid (though very normal on Earth) like having textbooks for reference with you at all times and having strategies that are less focused on memorization for understanding, and providing these kids with tools like calculators and teaching them the art of taking notes to look back on, etc etc.
Suddenly, with all these tools that most Eridians don't need, these kids are learning at a much faster rate, and succeeding with the help of all their little tools. And because so many normal eridians are ignorant of Grace's actual biology, it's shocking to them that Savior Grace doesn't have an eidetic memory either (shocking to everyone but Rocky anyway)--that his brain functions quite similarly in capacity to these "disabled" children.
Once this news gets around, suddenly there's more kids in his special classes, and there's all kinds of discourse being inflamed because the real reason these kids can't live on their own or function is lack of support from Eridian society.
If Savior Grace, who is well respected as a genius in his own right amongst the Eridians, can function so successfully, they why can't these kids?
I dunno, I just think it's an interesting premise.
I think there's a great chance the existence of mirrors/reflective surfaces silently fucks Rocky up.
Like, Grace is in the bathroom, shaving, the curtain pulled to the side and suddenly he stops and says "stop touching my stuff". Rocky, frozen, somewhere behind him, can't fathom how Grace sensed that. He was so quiet. The razor is so loud. Grace's still facing away from him. What the fuck.
Grace repairing some panel or other and asks for a tool. Without even turning around, he says "no, not that one, the one to its left". Rocky's like are you shitting me. I know for a fact your hearing is ass. You can only see in one direction and I'm not in it!! What?!
What doesn’t get talked about enough is that, all those 40-something years, Rocky had all the supplies he needed to go back home. He had the fuel, he had the food. But he didn’t. He tried and tried and tried. He kept going. He took measurements, gathered data, built new Astrophage samplers but could never get it right. He maintained the Blip-A, a ship that was built in a hurry and just kept breaking, for over FORTY YEARS. When Grace found him, Rocky wasn’t just sitting idle in orbit. He was still working, still trying, he hadn’t given up. He was tracking the stars, probably to watch for a potential second mission from Erid, when he spotted the Hail Mary in reverse-thrust. Rocky calls Grace brave. Truly, Grace is. But I’d compare Rocky more to Stratt. How much of yourself would you be willing to sacrifice to save your planet? Rocky was willing to stay at Tau Ceti for the rest of his life until he either found a solution, or died.
Tbh, I think everyone getting very attached to Tall Adrian™️ kinda makes them miss the potential of the canon reality that Eridians average at 50cm tall.
Grace is living on a planet of toddler sized rocks with twice his strength. If at ANY point he forgets to look where he’s going he is Going Trip Over An Ambassador. Unstoppable force vs. immovable object except Grace is very much stoppable.
Eridians either get used to talking to his shins, craning on their tippy toes to get a good look at his face, or begin forcing him to sit criss-cross applesauce for literally any important meeting. Picture him joining the Erid equivalent of a UN press conference and having to curl up his awkward water body and hug his knees for the whole thing.
He can conceivably be picked up by an alien the size of a hard helmet against his will. He’s surrounded by space roombas with perfect memories and attention spans shorter than his San Francisco classroom who can’t believe he’s incapable of solving complex math in three seconds. He has step stools around his house for them to climb so he can feel like he’s “looking them in the eye” even though Eridians think that’s stupid since they lack both eyes and directional perception.
His students are probably all palm sized. Once he starts teaching he’s fighting cuteness aggression all day every day. They could all break his fingers with hands the size of a button. That knowledge does not stop his cuteness aggression. THIS IS GRACE’S REALITY.
Something else I see people keep forgetting: between humans and Eridians, we are the astronauts. And we are good at it.
Eridians' perception of the world relies on something that is completely absent in space — sound. They haven't been looking at the stars their entire existence the way we have. Their concept of aliens might only be as old as their discovery of astrophage. They made a bad ship, because it was their first one ever! Rocky himself says they rushed it, and that multiple (vital) things broke. Their mission was just as much of a Hail Mary pass as ours was — they had no idea what they were doing, if they could even travel in space safely. And, as it turns out, they couldn't.
Humans are the ones who have been doing it over multiple lifetimes. Mary is state of the art. We've been space farers longer than most humans have been alive. We can actually see through space. We are more likely to survive exposure to the void. We can encase our lighter, more flexible, more mobile bodies in a material that lets us walk outside of our ship, and, to a degree, we can get our bearings out there in a way Eridians just can't.
Eridians are not looking at Mary and thinking she's a bad ship. They are not thinking humans have no idea what we're doing. They are looking at this species that can walk in the stars, have been perfecting machines to take us to them for decades, have been dreaming about them and mapping them and naming them for millennia, and used all of that to save them, and thinking, wow.
At some point on the journey back to Erid, Rocky gets around to asking Grace exactly why he was so mesmerised by seeing the astrophage in the Petrova line.
Grace describes it as best he can, but all he can really manage to get across to Rocky is that he was surrounded by small floating lights.
Later on, Grace is talking about the stars and how important they've been to human cultures for millennia. “What do the stars look like, question?” Rocky wants to know.
Oh, y'know, they're a bunch of small floating lights.
There's a disco ball on the Hail Mary. Grace says it's there because it “makes me happy”. “How does it make Grace happy, question?” Rocky wants to know.
Oh, it creates the illusion that he's surrounded by small floating lights.
Rocky begins to do some research.
Glitter: a substance invented by humans to make things look like they're covered in small lights.
Human jewellery: mostly involves gemstones or polished metals, designed to reflect small lights.
Christmas lights. Candles. Lanterns. Fireworks. Glowsticks. Glow in the dark paint. Rocky is beginning to notice a pattern here, statement.
It takes Grace a fucking while after getting to Erid to notice that a lot of the gifts he's receiving from grateful Eridians are either a) sparkly, b) incredibly shiny, or c) fitted with lights.
While the last one is obviously a concession for his human light sense, he's confused about the former two. Are Eridian materials usually this shiny? Is there some quality about sparkly or highly polished surfaces that makes them sound better? Or is there something about Eridian geology/metallurgy that makes their materials like this?
He asks Rocky about it.
“Simple. I tell people humans like lots of small lights. Humans are easy to make happy.”
Grace kind of wants to protest that humans are much more complicated than that.
But honestly… it fucking works. Like yeah the polished gemstones, shiny metals and glittery rocks are beautiful. Yes those Christmas lights you put up around the house did markedly improve my mental health, Rocky. Thank you, I hate it.
Grace spends a lot of time trying not to think about whether his species' urge to explore the cosmos (that saved their planet and nearly killed him several times) is tied to the same instinct that made his students like glitter gel pens.
Grace playing “Sisyphus” with the pebbles during recess in his dome where he rolls them in their balls up the hill and then lets go so they roll all the way back down to the bottom before he rolls the next pebble back up the hill.
The pebbles love it, it’s like going sledding given how cold the dome is, but Rocky wants to know why Grace calls it Sisyphus and not sledding.
So Grace explains the myth and the punishment. Sisyphus still thinks he’ll be able to get the boulder to the top and that he’ll still outwit the Gods one final time. It’s only his hubris that is grander than his cleverness and frustration in believing he is capable of completing an impossible task. Trapped forever believing he will be successful in pushing his boulder up the hill.
Rocky watches as Grace, years after arriving on Erid, finally having regained some muscle mass, gently pushes another xenonite ball up the gentle sandy slope of their beach. Rocky can hear the laughing tones of the pebble urging teacher-Grace to push them higher because they want to roll further than student-Ruby. Rocky can hear Graces smile and thinks, one must imagine Sisyphus happy.
i think we should start openly mocking male creatives who can't figure out how to write women. like actually i think it's embarrassing that it took elliot page transitioning for christopher nolan to give him a good role. why did it take like ten years to get the first female lead in a marvel movie? why is it a Known Fact that stephen king can't write women? why is 50% of the population omitted from large ensemble works? i asked my friend to name a movie directed by a man with a majority female cast and he said ghostbusters 2016. ghostbusters. ghostbusters. g
synopsis : after months of stability in the commonwealth, you and daryl finally decide to try for a baby
table of contents : season eleven, commonwealth arc. daryl dixon x fem!reader. explicit sexual content—mdni. established relationship. baby making. foreplay. worshipping. piv. fingering. creampie. breeding kink. size kink if you squint. unprotected sex. (don’t do this).
a/n : kinktober is right here. ᡣ𐭩 hope u like this.
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The apartment was unusually quiet as a result of Judith’s and RJ’s absence. Without their chatter or footsteps hammering across the floorboards, the silence pressed down with a strange sweetness in the air. Like a warm blanket draped over the place, blocking out the chaos and noise of the world.
For once, there was no sound, no responsibility pulling at you both. Just stillness. Soft and intimate.
Outside, the Commonwealth hummed as it always did —vendors calling at the market, hurried boots walking on stone paths, troops doing their periodical patrols— but none of it reached the confines of your temporal home.
Here, behind closed doors, time stretched and softened, leaving only two individuals floating in its tender pause.
You were stretched out on the bed, head resting on soft pillows. The air, tinged with autumn’s coolness, raised goosebumps over the bare skin of your arms and legs, making you shiver slightly, though the sweet anticipation kept you warm for him.
Your bra and panties were the only barriers left between his eyes and your body, delicate pieces of fabric that had already begun to feel unnecessary for a few minutes now.
Daryl sat before you at the edge of the mattress, knees bent and feet tucked beneath his thighs. His broad, bare chest rising and falling steadily to the rhythm of his calm breathing. The only thing keeping him from being completely naked were the worn boxers that hid a visible bulge underneath.
At first he didn’t move, just looked—those ocean-colored orbs studying your form with calculated precision, as if you were something precious and untouchable. Something taken directly from his dreams.
His hand dragged slowly over your thigh, calloused fingertips awakening sparks of heat and desire in their path. His touch, however, felt hesitant, unsure, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged here after all.
“Ya sure ‘bout this?” his voice came out rough, almost nervous. That gravel rasp softened almost to a whisper. He cleared his throat, shifting slightly, feeling embarrassed of the question that just slipped through his lips.
His eyes flicked up to yours then, “don’t… don’t gotta do nothin’. We can stop ‘ere if ya want.”
The ache in your chest was instant. How could he still doubt himself after everything you’ve been through? After years of your love, after all the nights where you had held him through grief, after all the mornings where his touch had been the first you had felt?
How could he still doubt he was the only one you wanted to spend the rest of your life with?
Yet that was Daryl—the boy who had grown into a man without anyone telling him a single time how much he deserved by just being him. His wounds and pain largely shaped the man he is today, and though he eventually came to know how worthy of love he is, those insecurities that took root since his childhood were still there, tormenting his mind more often than not.
So, even here, even now, he still needed your reassurance from time to time.
You slid your hand over his, interlacing your fingers to anchor him back. “Daryl…” you murmured, eyes filling with immense unconditional love. “I’m more than sure I want this, baby,” your voice came soft and steady, like a tender balm for his aching heart. “I want a family with you, Dar. Just you and only you. There’s no doubt about it.”
His throat worked, jaw flexing, and for a second he looked away, like he didn’t know what to do with those words. Then he leaned down, pressing his lips against your knee—rough beard scraping your skin, the heat of his mouth lingering for a few more seconds, until the next kiss, this time a little higher, followed.
He took his time with you, pecking up the inside of your thigh, making your breath stutter each time his lips grazed dangerously close to your most sensitive place. His stubble just added more to the sensations.
He paused every few inches, letting his mouth hover over the next spot, teasing, tasting the electricity between you until you practically begged for him. His fingers dragged over your hip, pressing firm but gentle, a slow exploration with the purpose of worshipping you as you deserve.
You arched, shivering every time his hands skimmed over your bare skin. “God, Daryl…” you whispered, voice shaky, “Stop teasing me.”
He groaned low in his throat, nuzzling the side of your leg as he breathed you in. “Don’t be so impatient,” he rasped. “We got ‘nough time. Wanna do this right…”
By the time he mouthed over your panties, your hips jerked off the bed, needy and desperate, making him chuckle.
“Hurry up!” you whined, a cute frown already forming on your face.
“Always so desperate, huh?” before you could even answer, his fingers hooked into the hem of your underwear and yanked it down with one swift motion, causing you to squeal. He tossed them aside without a care in the world, more focused on the sight ahead rather than the place where they landed.
“Fuckin’ hell…” His breath hissed through his teeth, hands spreading your legs wider for his hingry gaze. “Look at ya… Ya don’t even know what ya do to me.”
You whimpered softly at his words, letting him kiss low across your belly, going up over your ribs, until his mouth reached your breast. It didn’t take long for him to shove your bra up and close his lips around your nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth. Your back arched, fingers tangling in his hair, and he groaned, low and guttural, against your skin. “Ya taste good everywhere,” he muttered, pulling back just long enough to bite softly at the swell of your tit, feeling the weight of it in his palm.
Then his hand slipped lower, dragging down your stomach until his fingers brushed lightly over your folds, spreading the slick gathering there. “Yer fuckin’ soaked,” he circled your clit through your wetness, gentle at first, letting you writhe, letting your hips tilt up to him with soft little sighs. “So fuckin’ wet, baby…” he murmured, looking fascinated with your body. “All this jus’ for me?”
You nodded, words lost somewhere deep in your throat. He slid a finger inside you slowly, very very slowly, giving your body time to adapt to the sudden intrusion, though the stretch made you gasp anyway, made your walls flutter around him in anticipation.
His jaw clenched tight, feeling your insides pulling him in. “Goddamn it— ya squeezin’ me already.” He pumped once, twice, then crooked his finger, finding the spot that made you cry out in pleasure.
“More,” you begged, voice creaking softly.
He didn’t make you ask twice—a second finger pushed in beside the first, thick and rough, moving in sync to bring you to orgasm. He curled them inside you, grinding the heel of his hand against your clit. His lips found yours then, messy and hot, tongues sliding against each other in a sinful dance.
The heat in his mouth was almost overwhelming. His taste, his love, his feel—it all made you dizzy with heat. And oh, the way he pressed you into the mattress? It made you feel so small in the best way possible.
Your hips jerked against his hand, the wet sounds of him fingering you filling the room, obscene and filthy. “Listen t’ that,” he groaned against your mouth, fucking you harder. “Yer makin’ a goddamn mess for me.”
You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he added a third finger, curling inside you again, gently but insistently. Each press, each little stroke, made your body tighten around him, made your breath come in little broken gasps.
“God, Daryl…” you moaned, voice shaky. “Don’t stop—!”
He muttered something you barely caught, too immense in pleasure to pay attention. “Ain’t stoppin’, sweetheart…” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. His fingers flexed again, rubbing that spot that made you shiver, moan, lose all sense of time, over and over.
“Daryl I’m—! I’m gonna…” you gasped, clinging to him, nails biting into his shoulders. Your climax coiled tight, ready to snap. And as soon as he felt it too, he added more pressure to your clit, rubbing it faster, rougher, coaxing your climax. “C’mon, sunshine,” he urged, low and raw. “Wanna feel ya cum on my fingers.”
The way he said it —desperate, dirty, almost needy— tipped you over the edge. Sparks of pleasure spread from head to toe in intense waves, making your toes curl and your back arch, almost to the point of pain. You came with a cry muffled into his shoulder, clenching around his fingers so tight he groaned like it hurt. He kept moving, working you through it, mouth pressed to your neck panting. “That’s it, baby… Jus’ like that— fuck, yer perfect.”
When the euphoria and his movements ceased, you allowed yourself to close your eyes for a moment, savoring the feeling.
A few minutes passed after the all-consuming orgasm you experienced. Your mind was slowly coming down from the high, though your body was still suffering the aftershocks. At some point, Daryl cuddled you tighter, keeping you anchored to earth with his strong body.
“ya a‘right?” he asked, voice filling with worry. His concern has always been your well-being, whether it was outside the walls, or here in bed.
You smiled softly, eyes fluttering open to meet his. “mhm... feel like I’m on cloud nine.”
However, that affirmation was not enough to calm his troubled eyes. “ya sure? Ya still wanna go on?”
You gave him a smug smirk. “Are you saying this because you're already tired, big guy?”
He scoffed, rolling his eyes with apparent annoyance, though the fleeting smile that appeared in his face betrayed his act. “Fine, I get it,” he sighed, shifting a bit. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He pulled his fingers out, glistening with juices. The sudden movement brought a small, breathy sigh from you. He stared at them for a second, and then shoved the three digits into his mouth, sucking your release off with a groan that vibrated through his chest. “Taste so sweet,” he muttered, voice shredded. “Could eat ya right now.”
You almost whimpered.
He wiped his hand on the sheets and pushed himself up, settling back on his knees, eyes full of something you couldn't quite tell. “But that’ll be for next time, right now we have a lil’ one to make,” he rasped, hand going to the waistband of his boxers, eyes locking on yours. The air between you thickened with the inevitability of what was going to happen.
He shoved his boxers down slowly, baring himself to you inch by inch. Your breath caught, not because you hadn’t seen him before —years together had given you every little part of him— but because of the way he looked right now. Rough and undone, chest heaving, eyes on you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.
His cock jutted hard and heavy against his stomach, flushed dark and red, the head glistening with droplets of precum. He wrapped a fist around the base, stroking once, twice, feeling a little bit impatient.
“Daryl,” you whispered, reaching out. Your fingers brushed his wrist, guiding him closer.
His throat bobbed. For a second he hesitated, his gaze flicking between your eyes and the slick heat waiting for him. Then he crawled over you, bracing on one arm, the other guiding himself to your entrance.
He teased your dripping hole with his tip, letting you feel it, let yourself wrap around him, before slowly, impossibly slowly, he sank in, inch by delicious inch.
The push stole both your breaths. His vision blurred when the blunt head pressed past your folds, stretching you open. Your nails dug into his shoulders, the thick burn of him filling you making your hips twitch.
“Jesus…” he groaned, forehead pressed against yours, jaw tight. “So fuckin’ tight.”
You gasped when he bottomed out, buried to the hilt, the weight of him seated deep inside. You felt so full you swore you could feel him in your fucking lungs.
“Ya okay?” he rasped, breath hot against your lips. His hand came up to cup your jaw gently, stroking your cheekbone with a rough thumb.
“Yeah,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Perfect.”
He stayed still a moment, letting you get used to his length, before thrusting in again softly. The drag of his cock against your walls was overwhelming, every nerve pulsing with need. A moan slipped past your lips, helpless.
That sound ripped one from him, too—a guttural groan torn from his chest. He dropped his face into your neck, beard scraping your skin, hips rocking steady. “Fuck, sunshine… yer squeezin’ me so good.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, ankles locking at his lower back, pulling him deeper. Each thrust hit the spot that made your breath stutter, your body clench around him.
“Faster,” you begged, fingers tangling in his hair.
He obliged, hips snapping harder now, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the quiet room. The bed creaked under the rhythm of his thrusts, the air thick with sweat, with need, with the unbearable smell of sex. He wasn’t graceful —Daryl never was— but he was relentless, every movement fueled by want and something deeper, something reserved only for you.
His hand slid down between your bodies, finding your clit with calloused fingers. He rubbed in messy circles, not practiced but desperate, watching your face twist in pleasure.
Each thrust was a little deeper now, not frantic but steady, like he was memorizing the way you felt around him. His chest pressed flush to yours, the heat of his skin sticking to you, his beard scratching over your cheek when he mouthed soft kisses against your jaw.
“Always wanted this,” he muttered, the words raw like they had been carved out of him. His lips brushed your ear, breath hot and ragged. “Wanted ya like this—in my arms, flushed and sweaty, letting out those pretty sounds for me.”
Your breath hitched, hips rising to meet every movement of his. The drag inside you was obscene, every inch stretching you perfectly, even with the deliberate pace he set up—driving in deep until your toes curled, pulling back slow enough to make you whimper.
“Daryl—” you gasped, the sound breaking, “feels so good—!”
He groaned, low in his chest, he pressed deeper, his pelvis grinding against yours. “Yeah? S’good?” He kissed you quick and messy, like he couldn’t stand being away from your mouth. “Wanna make ya feel real good, darlin’. Wanna give ya everything ya want.”
You tugged at his hair, dragging his face back down to yours, swallowing his groan with your tongue. The kiss was all heat, all teeth and sweetness.
When he pulled back, his eyes were molten, pupils blown wide. He shifted his weight, braced on his knees, and hooked his arms under your thighs. The sudden angle tilted your hips up, spreading you open for him, and the next thrust slammed deep enough that you cried out, back arching.
“Fuck,” he hissed, voice breaking. “Right there—ya like that, huh?”
You nodded frantically, the words tangled in your throat. The angle had him brushing every sweet spot inside you, the head of his cock kissing your cervix over and over until you saw stars. He rocked into you with a rhythm that bordered on worship—steady, consuming, each thrust pushing the air from your lungs.
His hands gripped your thighs tight, thumbs rubbing soothing circles even as he fucked you harder. His forehead rested against yours again, sweat dripping down his temple. “Ya take me so well,” he rasped. “Like ya were made for me.”
The praise made your chest ache. You pulled him down for another kiss, softer this time, lingering, your lips trembling under his. “I was,” you whispered against his mouth, voice shaking. “I’m yours, Daryl. Always.”
He froze for a split second, like the words cracked something open inside him. His thrust faltered, then picked up again, rougher, driven by something deeper. His voice was wrecked when he answered, “‘m yers too.”
Your body clenched around him at that, the pressure building fast. You dug your nails into his back, dragging down hard enough to leave marks. The drag of his cock inside you was relentless, each thrust grounding you deeper into the mattress.
He kissed you again, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, the words falling out between each press of his lips. “Gonna give ya as many lil’ ones as you want. Everything. Fill ya up so well ya won’t need nothin’ else.”
Your hips rolled against his, desperate, chasing more friction, more of him. The wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, loud and perfect.
“Yer squeezin’ me so tight,” he panted, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep, slow enough to make you keen. “Goddamn—it’s like yer beggin’ for me.”
You whimpered, clinging to him, pressing kisses across his jaw, his throat, tasting the salt of his skin. “I want it, Daryl,” you gasped, voice cracked. “Want it all. Want you inside me. Want—want your baby.”
The sound he made was broken, guttural. His thrusts turned harder, deeper, his hips grinding down to make sure you felt every part of his cock. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “Don’t say that—fuck... Yer drivin’ me crazy.”
“Don’t stop,” you begged, voice desperate. “Please don’t stop.”
He shifted again, bracing one hand against the headboard, the other sliding down to splay wide across your stomach. His rough palm pressed firm against the spot where he filled you, where his dick was seated deep. His eyes locked on yours, hungry and tender all at once. “Right ‘ere,” he rasped. “Wanna see ya round with me. Wanna know m’seed’s sittin’ right here, growin’ in ya.”
The words sent a shiver straight through you. You clenched tight around him, a helpless moan ripping free.
“That it?” he groaned, hips slamming harder, the bed rattling under you both. “Ya like hearin’ that? Knowin’ I’m breedin’ ya?”
“Yes,” you sobbed, body arching into him. “Yes, Daryl, please—”
He cursed, low and ragged, his lips catching yours again. The movements were messy, almost frantic, but sweet at the edges, his tongue sliding against yours like he needed to devour you whole. He groaned into your mouth with every thrust, his rhythm growing more desperate, like he couldn’t hold back anymore.
You broke the kiss on a gasp, your head falling back into the pillow. “Deeper—please—”
“Sweetheart, I’m already balls-deep,” he rasped, voice broken with a low chuckle even as he obeyed, angling your hips higher, driving into you with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs. “But I’ll give ya more if ya want it, greedy lil’ thing.”
Your thighs trembled where he held them, the muscles straining, but he didn’t let go. He kept you wide, kept you open for him, every thrust sinking all the way in.
“Ya feel that?” he grunted, hand pressing a bit more into your belly, right above where he stretched you. “There will be a lil’ part of me here.”
Your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed, but his voice dragged you back.
“Look at me,” he demanded softly, nudging your nose with his. His tone wasn’t rough, wasn’t harsh—it was pleading. “Wanna see ya when ya fall apart for me.”
Your eyes flew open, meeting his. The heat in his gaze nearly undid you—raw, unguarded, full of love that wrapped around the filth of his words.
As he rocked into you, his thumb found your clit again, circling it, rough but careful, desperate to push you over the edge. “C’mon, baby,” he whispered, his voice fraying. “Take me with ya.”
You cried out again, undone, feeling so full and overstimulated. Heat bubbling low in your belly, threatening to explode. “D-daryl—!”
“Yeah? Ya close, sweetheart?” he panted, hips still driving into you.
“Y-yeah,” you choked out, teetering right on the edge.
“Go on,” he urged, rough and low. His thumb pressed harder, faster, syncing with his thrusts. “Go on, baby, let it go for me.”
Your climax tore through you for the second time, blinding white, clenching so hard around him it made his rhythm falter. You sobbed, nails raking his back, body trembling with release.
“That’s it,” he groaned, fucking you through it, hips snapping harder like he couldn’t stop. “Fuck, ya feel so good—squeezin’ the life outta me. Milkin’ me dry…”
Your orgasm pulsed around him, dragging him closer to his own edge. His thrusts grew sloppy, erratic, his breath ragged against your neck.
“Fuck… I’m close,” he warned, voice breaking. His forehead pressed to yours again, eyes squeezed shut. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum.”
“Yes,” you gasped, still trembling under him, clinging tight. “Inside, Daryl. Please—don’t pull out.”
That broke him. He shoved deep, buried to the hilt, and with a guttural moan he spilled inside you, hot and heavy, flooding you with everything he had. His body shuddered, every muscle locked tight as he came hard, hips grinding through the aftershocks.
He collapsed against you, chest heaving, sweat slicking his back. His cock twitched inside you, still thick, still buried deep as his release leaked warm between you.
For a long moment, there was nothing but breath, nothing but the weight of him pressed into you. His face tucked into your neck, beard damp, lips brushing your skin with every shaky inhale.
Finally, he muttered, voice muffled and wrecked, “Ya think it stuck?”
You laughed softly, stroking your fingers through his damp hair. “I hope so. But if not…” you tilted his chin up, kissing him lazy and sweet, “…we can always try again.”
His cheeks flushed crimson, even under the dim light. He huffed, shaking his head, hiding back in your neck like he could escape the heat rising in him. “Yer insatiable,” he grumbled, though the words were ruined by the small smile tugging at his lips.
You held him close, both of you still tangled, still joined, the promise of tomorrow already burning in the quiet.
Staring - Carl Grimes X Reader
Rating - 15
Reading Time - 12 min 4 sec (1567)
Requested -
lovestriuck - I LOVE i need a # part two !!!
Y/n was utterly in awe of Alexandria, and Carl couldn’t help being smug about it. He showed her the houses, the crops, the solar panels and everything that made the place so heavenly after she’d been alone so long. He took her to the Grimes house and presented her proudly to Carl and Michonne.
“I found Y/n!” he smiled, his hands on her shoulders, “She can stay right?” He asked, as if he were asking to keep a lost puppy he had found,
“Ughhh…” Michonne began, wide-eyed as she deferred to Rick,
“Yeah, uhh, where did you find her?” Rick asked,
“Wandering the highway,” he shrugged, “She’s not bitten, and she has a shotgun and a pistol!”
“Hi,” Y/n politely waved,
“... Well… alright, she's staying in your room?” Rick sighed,
“Yeah,” Carl nodded,
“Okay, guess it’s fine,”
“Thanks dad,” He smiled immediately, dragging Y/n up to his bedroom.
As soon as they were inside, her jaw dropped in shock, and she looked around in utter awe and surprise at the place.
“This is… where you live now?”
“Where we live now,” he corrected her as he closed the door behind them, “It has everything, power, hot running water, soft sheets we get to toss in the dryer, home-cooked meals, you are going to love it!”
“And… I really get to stay?”
“Of course you do, Y/n,” he smiled, “I am never letting your butt out of my sight again,” He cooed,
She happily put her heavy backpack down, abandoning it on the floor, before she jumped on the bed and nuzzled with the sheets,
“Awwww, what a cosy little bug,” he laughed as he came over and petted her hair, “Oh, you are gonna sleep so good tonight, first safe night in so long.”
“But shower first?”
“Of course, you go and have the hottest shower or bath you want. Use as much body wash and shampoo as you want, okay, Y/n.” He told her, “I will set up our bed with some nice fresh sheets for us tonight.”
She nodded in agreement,
“And do you want me to toss your clothes in the washer?”
“Yes, please.”
“Consider it done,” he smiled, leaning down to kiss her forehead, “Go on, enjoy it.”
She nodded and happily got up from the bed, kicking off her boots already, “What do I wear when I get out? If you are tossing my clothes in?”
“You can borrow a shirt and some boxers,” he shrugged,
“And socks?”
“Yes, and socks, Y/n.” He laughed, “ohh is there anything… you want me to… avoid looking at in here?” he asked as he went to her backpack,
“Nope, I have no secrets from you, Carl,” she giggled as she ran off into the bathroom,
“Alright,” Carl nodded,
As soon as he heard the shower running, he got to work, he unpacked her backpack for her, placing all her camping gear in his closet, all her weapons down in the pantry with the family's own, placing her beloved trinkets and heirlooms in places around his bedroom, so she would seamlessly slip into this life he’d set up for himself.
He stripped his bed, removing all the grey sheets and covers and tossing them into his laundry basket. Then he emptied her backpack of clothes, regardless of how clean or dirty it seamed he tossed everything into the basket so it could be cleaned for her.
He took the basket downstairs, letting out a few grunts and grumbles given how heavy it was, taking it down to the laundry room and throwing her clothes into the washer.
On the way back to his room, he grabbed some fresh sheets from the airing cupboard and made his bed. Tossing on the blue plaid covers and sheets, and adding an extra warm blanket just in case she got chilly or just wanted something soft to nuzzle. Even if he knew she’d come and nuzzle him in both those scenarios.
He laid out an old pair of boxers that he rarely wore as well as a t-shirt that didn’t really fit him properly, but it would be too big for her in a very adorable way.
“Hey,” Y/n’s voice caught him off guard,
“Oh! Hey,” He smiled as he looked up, seeing her standing by the bathroom door in her little towel, water dripping out of her hair, “Good shower?”
“Mhm,” she nodded, “Very hot, and now I smell like pomegranate.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to see about getting you some toiletries of your own, so you don’t have to smell like me.”
“I like smelling like you,” She shrugged,
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, it’s comforting.”
“Well, at least it's now I smell now and now how I did over our second summer,” he laughed,
“Oh god, you were disgusting!” she laughed as she dried off, “you used to turn the flowers when you walked by,”
“I couldn’t help it!” He whined, “I had no access to a shower or deodorant. I’d been wearing the same clothes for months. And I was… a growing boy.”
“A gross teenager.”
“You never seemed to mind when it was lights out,” He teased her,
“Because you are the best for cuddles,” she smiled, “Or… were,”
“I think I still am, I admit I’m likely a little rusty. But it’s like riding a bike, I am sure as soon as you are back against my chest I’ll remember.”
“You haven’t been cuddling anyone else?” She asked as she took the boxers and began to work them on under her towel,
“Why would I be cuddling anyone? When you weren't here.”
“Surprised you kept your skills a secret,” she laughed, “You could have been trading girls' cuddles for comics and candy.”
“I- I am not a cuddle whore!” He laughed,
“I’m only kidding,”
“Good, I was about to go over there and tickle the life out of you.”
She rolled her eyes playfully as she tossed the t-shirt on and the towel off, giving it a slight adjustment.
Carl couldn’t help letting his eye run over her, from foot to crown. So much had changed about her body, but she would likely say the same about him. He suddenly felt very nervous and anxious, after all, Y/n wasn’t a little girl anymore, she wasn’t the same tiny little thing that shared seats, cots and hammocks with him. Their bodies had changed, and they had both grown up in many ways.
But it was while he was shamelessly staring that he saw something very beautiful against her thigh. It was a tattoo, a stick-and-poke style tattoo. With four beautiful flowers, a Chrysanthemum, an Azalea, a Rose and a Lavender flower all in a small bunch together.
“Hu… that’s new,” He chuckled softly to himself,
“Hummm?”
“You’re flowers,”
“Oh… yeah,” she blushed,
“How did you get them?”
“I… I did them.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I was held up in an old tattoo shop for a while, power was out, but they had a lot of books and tools, sealed products and all. I suppose I just… wanted a little something,”
“That’s sweet,” He cooed, “It is really beautiful,”
“Thanks,” she smiled as she grabbed her hairbrush and came to sit down on the bed,
“Here, let me help,” he smiled as he took her brush, moving to sit behind her so he could brush her hair,
“Really? Of all things, you missed brushing my hair for me?” she laughed,
“I did…” he admitted, “There was always something so… soothing about it,”
“You haven’t had anyone else's hair to do?”
“I have Judith’s, but she hasn’t got that much to brush.” He laughed, “But she does love it, braids, pigtails, buns, she loves it all. I suppose I should thank you for teaching me.”
“You’re welcome, I hope Judith enjoys it when you do her hair.”
“But still… I missed doing your hair, I missed you… everything we used to do, even just… having you close to me.” He cooed as he placed down the brush, wrapped his arms around her and lay his chin on her shoulder, “I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have my Y/n back.”
She blushed and smiled widely, “I feel… like I’m dreaming, that I get to have you back, Carl.”
“Yeah, me too.” He nodded, giving her shoulder a little kiss, “Y/n?” he whispered in her ear,
“Yeah?” she asked, keeping her voice hushed,
“Why… these flowers? I mean you… could have tattooed anything on yourself… Why these four beautiful flowers?”
She softly giggled, and took his hand from around her waist. She gave his chuckles a soft little peck before she guided his hand down to her thigh, “a Chrysanthemum, an Azalea, a Rose and a Lavender flower.” She smiled as she stroked his fingers over each,
Suddenly it clicked in his mind, and he wanted to cry, the first letter of each of the flowers spelt out his name ‘C.A.R.L’, “Ohh… Y/n,” He whimpered,
“I told you, I grieved you… I mourned you… I… I thought you were dead… and that I’d never see you again. For a long time, you were all I had in this world… When you were gone, I was alone… utterly alone. I wanted… something to remind me of you. Something that was a part of me, that I couldn’t lose.”
He turned her to face him and pulled her flush against his chest, pressing kisses into her hair, “I promise you, you won’t ever lose me again, I won’t let you out of my grip, let alone my sight! We found each other again, despite everything. I am never, ever gonna let you go again.”
this isn’t a request but i wanted to say I haven’t been on Tumblr in maybe ten years? And I just started watching twd and was looking for fanfic so I’m back online ofc. Pleaseeee write some more Daryl fluff smut whateverrr !!! It’s so good.
Shot, Stitched, Smitten | Daryl Dixon x Reader
synopsis: You’re the doctor’s daughter with trembling hands. He’s the bruised bowman who calls you “cute” like it’s fact. After a close call, he’s in your care—and suddenly, so is your heart.
setting: season 2; episode 6 "Secrets"
w/c: 7.7k
warnings: Daryl getting hurt, mentions of death, blood, violence
a/n: tumblr crashes every time i write a fic over than 5k ugh
navigation
The sun beats down on the farm with the same heavy silence it always carries now—too quiet, too still. The kind of quiet that only comes after the world’s ended. You wipe your hands on your apron and squint out toward the tree line, the fields stretching long and golden beneath the noon sky.
Sophia’s still missing. It’s been days. Too many.
You’ve been sorting through supplies in the kitchen, reorganizing bandages and antibiotics while trying to pretend your chest isn’t tight with worry. Everyone’s on edge. You can feel it in the way Maggie hasn’t smiled all morning, in the way Glenn keeps checking the time like it matters anymore. And in the way you keep glancing out the window, waiting for a glimpse of flannel and crossbow.
Daryl went out alone again this morning. You’d heard him leave early, before breakfast, boots crunching on gravel with that familiar determined stomp. He didn’t say anything—he rarely does—but he nodded at you on his way out. That same look in his eyes: wild, stubborn, and burning with the need to fix what’s broken.
He always looks at you like that. Like he sees you, even when he pretends he doesn’t.
You’re still clutching a roll of gauze when the shouting starts.
It’s faint at first. One voice, then two. Something frantic—Rick, you think. Then a louder one—Glenn? You can’t quite make it out over the hammering of your heart. You drop the gauze. You run.
Your boots slam against the porch as you tear outside, heart already in your throat. The others are clustered near the fence line, too far to see clearly from where you are. But then you hear it—someone shouting his name.
“Daryl!”
You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You sprint.
Your legs carry you faster than you thought possible, past the others who’ve frozen mid-conversation, past Maggie who calls after you, her voice faint under the ringing in your ears. The tall grass catches your knees, but you don’t stop.
Then you see him.
He’s collapsed in the dirt, shirt torn, blood darkening the fabric at his shoulder and along his side. Glenn and Rick are crouched beside him. Andrea’s standing off to the side, pale as a ghost, a rifle limp in her arms.
“I didn’t— I thought he was a walker—”
Her words barely register. All you see is him.
“Daryl,” you breathe, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands hover uselessly for a second before you force yourself into motion. “What—what happened? What the hell happened?”
“He was coming through the trees,” Rick says quickly, glancing at you. “Andrea panicked. Took the shot. Caught him in the side.”
“I didn’t know,” Andrea whispers, and her voice sounds far away.
But you’re already pressing your hands to his torso, to the entry wound. He’s bleeding, but conscious. Barely.
“You alright?” you whisper, voice shaking.
Daryl blinks up at you, his blue eyes hazy and a little unfocused. But the corner of his mouth twitches. “Ain’t my best day.”
You let out a breath that borders on a sob. “You absolute idiot,” you mutter, voice tight. “Runnin’ around out there like you’re invincible—”
“Didn’t know you cared that much, sweetheart,” he rasps, and somehow, even half-conscious, he finds the strength to smirk.
Your hands shake harder.
“Help me get him inside,” you snap, voice breaking as you look to Rick and Glenn. “My dad’s out. I—I’ll have to do it.”
They lift him carefully between them. You hover by his side the whole way back to the house, biting your lip to keep from crying. His blood is soaking into Glenn’s sleeve. You can see more bruises now—his jaw, his ribs. He’s filthy, scraped up from a fall. You wonder what else happened out there, what he was fighting through before he got shot by someone who was supposed to have his back.
He doesn’t say a word on the way back. Just watches you through narrowed eyes like he’s memorizing your face.
The moment you get him inside, everything kicks into motion.
You clear the kitchen table and help them lower him onto it, barking out instructions like your training is the only thing keeping you upright. Glenn brings your kit. Rick fetches clean towels. Maggie lingers for a second, sees the way your hands tremble as you rip open the antiseptic, and quietly steps out.
You’re left alone with him.
Daryl’s breathing harder now. You press a clean cloth to his wound and he flinches, gritting his teeth.
“You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” you whisper, trying to steady your voice. “Could’ve just asked for my attention like a normal person.”
“Didn’t know gettin’ shot was your type.”
You glance up. He’s watching you through half-lidded eyes, but there’s humor behind them, even through the pain.
“Shut up and let me work,” you murmur, cheeks heating.
You clean the wound as carefully as you can, pressing gauze to slow the bleeding. Your fingers brush bare skin and you realize how close you are—your body practically pressed to his, his chest rising and falling beneath your palms.
“Sorry,” you say softly when he winces.
“S’okay,” he mutters. “Your hands’re soft.”
You pause.
He opens one eye, a little grin curling on his lips. “Real soft. Didn’t think they would be. Figured you for the type who’d never done this before.”
You clear your throat. “I haven’t. Not like this.”
There’s silence. You focus on stitching the wound—slow, neat, deliberate.
“Didn’t mean that in a bad way,” he says after a moment. “Just… you look like someone who don’t belong in a place like this. Like your daddy still keeps you under lock and key.”
“Maybe he does.”
Daryl chuckles, a low rasp in his chest. “Then what’re you doin’ patchin’ up a dumbass like me?”
You don’t look up. “Because I care about you. And you scared the hell out of me today.”
He goes quiet again.
When you finally finish and wrap the gauze around his ribs, your fingers are still shaking. He notices. His hand finds yours, rough calloused fingers brushing over the back of it.
“You ain’t gotta be scared,” he murmurs. “I’m alright. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
You meet his gaze. He’s bloodied, bruised, stitched up and worn down—but still smirking at you like the world isn’t ending around you both.
“I know,” you whisper. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to worry.”
Daryl squeezes your hand gently. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to you.”
You raise an eyebrow. “How?”
“Dunno yet,” he says, a little more breathless now. “But I’ll think of somethin’. Somethin’ real good.”
You try to keep a straight face, but your smile betrays you.
And for the first time that day, your heart stops racing—not from fear, but from the warmth of knowing he’s still here. And he’s looking at you like maybe—just maybe—he wants to stay.
The house is still. Sunlight streams in thin beams through the worn curtains, catching the dust motes floating lazily in the air. Outside, the sounds of the others have faded—Maggie’s footsteps, Rick’s voice, even Glenn’s usual chatter. They’ve left to give you space, and now it’s just you and him.
Daryl’s lying back on the makeshift bed, propped up against a stack of pillows that definitely weren’t there earlier. You may have fussed. Just a little.
He watches you with those blue eyes—soft around the edges but sharp in the center. Always seeing more than he lets on. The wound at his side has stopped bleeding, your stitches neat and holding strong. But there are bruises blooming like shadows across his ribs, small scrapes along his arms, dirt and dried blood still smudged across his chest.
You’ve already rolled your sleeves up. There’s a bowl of warm water on the nightstand, a clean cloth in your hand. You tell yourself this is just care. It’s what you were raised to do. Your dad’s a vet turned doctor, and you’ve patched up more than your fair share of wounded creatures.
But none of them ever looked like this.
“You’re gonna have to take your shirt off,” you say, voice as neutral as you can manage. “What’s left of it, anyway.”
Daryl raises an eyebrow and tugs at the torn fabric, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Didn’t know you were so eager, nurse girl.”
You shoot him a look, but it does nothing to hide how your face warms instantly. “Don’t call me that.”
“What, ‘nurse girl’?” he teases, Southern drawl curling around the words. “Fits, don’t it? All bossy and sweet.”
Your hands are already busy peeling away the bloodied fabric of his shirt, so you don’t trust yourself to look up. He helps you—quietly, carefully. When the fabric’s gone, you suck in a breath. Not because of the blood this time.
Because he’s… him.
Lean muscle, hard-earned. A constellation of scars across his chest and stomach, some small and faded, others angry and recent. His skin is warm, dusted with dirt and sweat, and he smells like forest and smoke and sun—like everything outside this farm, like everything dangerous and alive.
You pretend your hands aren’t shaking as you dip the cloth into the water and wring it out. You focus on his shoulder, wiping away dried blood, the motion slow and steady.
He doesn’t flinch, but he does watch you. Closely. Quietly.
“You ever stare at all your nurses like this?” you ask, trying to sound breezy.
He smirks. “Only the pretty ones.”
Your hand pauses mid-wipe. “You’re impossible.”
“Nah,” he says, voice low. “Just honest.”
You don’t know what to say to that. So you keep cleaning, trying to pretend his words don’t buzz beneath your skin like a secret.
You work your way down, brushing over a cut along his ribs. His breath hitches slightly when you press too hard.
“Sorry,” you murmur.
“S’all right. Just didn’t expect you to be so… thorough.”
You glance up. He’s smirking again, but softer now. Less teasing, more… something else. Something that makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with worry.
“You really should rest,” you say, shifting to clean along his abdomen, careful with your touch. “You’re lucky the bullet went clean through. Another inch and it would’ve hit something serious.”
“Woulda been a hell of a way to go,” he mutters.
You still. Your fingers rest gently on his side.
“Don’t joke about that,” you whisper.
Daryl turns his head toward you, his expression unreadable for a second. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
You shake your head. “You could’ve died out there. Alone. And we wouldn’t have even known where to look.”
There’s a pause. Long and quiet.
“You mad at me?” he asks, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.
You let out a breath. “No. I just—wish you weren’t so reckless sometimes.”
His lips twitch like he wants to argue, but instead, he says, “I ain’t used to people worryin’ over me.”
“Well,” you murmur, brushing your hand over his side again, slower this time, gentler, “you’re going to have to get used to it.”
He stares at you. Really stares.
You don’t know why you said that. Maybe you do. Maybe it’s been building since the day he first showed up with that stubborn scowl and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much. Maybe you’ve been keeping this thing inside you—this soft, stupid flutter—since the first time he called you “girl” like it meant something.
His voice cuts through your thoughts, quiet and drawling.
“You’re nervous.”
You blink. “I am not.”
He grins, that half-lopsided thing that’s more real than anything else in this world. “You’re holdin’ that cloth like it might bite.”
You glance down. Sure enough, your grip is tight, your knuckles white.
“You’re the worst patient I’ve ever had,” you mutter, dabbing a bruise at the edge of his ribs.
“And yet, here you are. Still fussin’ over me.”
“Only because you’re injured.”
“Mmhm.”
You finish wiping the last of the blood from his chest and grab a clean towel to dry him off. When you lean in, your hip accidentally bumps his thigh.
You freeze. Your breath stutters. The contact was nothing—barely anything—but Daryl goes perfectly still.
His voice is low. Rough. “You keep doin’ that and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re tryin’ to make a man lose his mind.”
You straighten up so fast you nearly knock over the water bowl. “Shut up,” you hiss, but your voice comes out breathless.
He laughs. It’s quiet and raspy and it makes your chest ache.
When you look at him, he’s not teasing anymore. Not fully. There’s something gentler in the curve of his mouth, something unspoken in the way his eyes track your every move. He reaches out—not quickly, not presumptuously—and his hand brushes yours where it rests on the edge of the bed.
“Thanks,” he says simply.
You swallow. “For what?”
“For bein’ here. For patchin’ me up. For not lettin’ me bleed out in the dirt like I probably deserved.”
You shake your head. “Don’t say that.”
His thumb grazes your knuckle. You look down at where his fingers curl softly around yours, and your heart flutters.
“You didn’t deserve any of this,” you say. “You were out there risking your life. Trying to bring Sophia home.”
Daryl doesn’t say anything. But his hand doesn’t let go.
You should pull away. You should say something clever, something to break the silence that suddenly feels full of all the things you’re not ready to admit.
Instead, you stay.
You let him hold your hand like it’s something precious. And in the stillness, in the warmth of the sun and the hush of the house, you think maybe this—you and him, here—is the safest place either of you has ever been.
Night settles over the farm like a soft, worn blanket. The crickets have taken up their song outside the window, and the lamps flicker low in the corners of the room. It’s quiet—so quiet that you can hear every breath Daryl takes, uneven and shallow, the rise and fall of his chest hidden beneath the covers.
The others have gone to bed one by one. Hershel checked his vitals before slipping away with a hand on your shoulder and a tired nod of trust. Maggie left a thermos of tea on the nightstand. Even Glenn, after lingering awkwardly at the door like he wanted to say something comforting but couldn’t find the words, eventually disappeared down the hallway.
And now, it’s just you. Just him.
You sit by his bedside, knees tucked to your chest on the little wooden chair that’s too stiff to be comforting, but you don’t care. You’re not planning on sleeping anyway. The fever came on slow—subtle enough to miss at first, until his skin turned clammy and his breaths grew shallow. He’d muttered something unintelligible when you pressed a cool cloth to his forehead earlier, eyes fluttering beneath his lids.
You haven’t left his side since.
His shirt’s still off, the covers pulled only halfway up his torso, exposing the bruises and cuts you spent hours cleaning. His brow is damp with sweat. You dip the cloth into the bowl of cool water and gently press it to his skin again, dabbing along his temple, wiping the moisture away with careful strokes.
You don’t realize you’re whispering until you hear yourself.
“Please don’t get worse,” you murmur, brushing his hair back from his face. “I just got you back in one piece.”
Your voice is barely audible, more breath than sound. A prayer. A wish. A confession to the empty room.
Daryl stirs under your hand.
You freeze, cloth still pressed to his skin. His lashes flutter, and his mouth moves slowly before he manages to form anything more than a groan.
“Hey,” you whisper, leaning forward, your heart leaping. “Daryl? I’m here.”
He blinks sluggishly, like waking is too heavy a task. His gaze is glassy, unfocused—but it finds you. Somehow, even in fevered haze, he finds you.
He squints. “Why’re you always lookin’ so scared around me?”
Your breath catches. The cloth slips from your hand, falling into the bowl with a soft splash.
“W-What?” you stammer, not sure you heard him right.
His voice is raw, slurred with exhaustion but still unmistakably him. “You got this look… every time I talk to you. Like I’m gonna break you or somethin’.”
You try to pull your hand away, but before you can, his fingers wrap around your wrist—gentle, but firm.
His hand is warm, even burning, from the fever. But the touch is so real it sends a shiver down your spine.
“You don’t gotta be scared of me, y’know,” he murmurs, eyes blinking slowly, the weight of the fever pulling at him like gravity.
“I’m not,” you say softly.
He watches you through heavy lids.
You take a breath, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of… how I feel.”
Silence.
For a moment, you think maybe he’s already slipped back into sleep. But then his thumb brushes against the inside of your wrist. A slow, absentminded stroke. Like he’s memorizing the feel of your pulse.
“What d’you mean?” he asks, voice lower now, almost shy beneath the hoarseness.
You look down at your hands. His calloused fingers, rough from years of survival, are still wrapped around yours. You wonder if he can feel how your heart is racing.
“I mean,” you say, carefully, “that every time you call me somethin’ sweet, or look at me like you do… I feel like I can’t breathe.”
Daryl says nothing. But his hand doesn’t let go.
“You show up bloody, bruised, all grumpy and impossible,” you continue, the words tumbling now, your chest tight. “And still, every time I see you, it’s like the rest of the world just—pauses. Like it’s only you.”
You’re not sure what you expected. Maybe silence. Maybe teasing. But definitely not this:
Daryl’s thumb lifts to your palm, resting there like an anchor. And his voice, still raspy and fever-wrecked, is soft in a way that almost breaks you.
“Didn’t think I mattered that much.”
“You do,” you say. “You do more than you know.”
You don’t know how it happens exactly, but at some point, your head ends up resting on the edge of the bed. Maybe it’s the ache in your spine from sitting so long, or maybe it’s the pull of gravity made stronger by the warmth of his hand still cradling yours.
Your temple presses lightly against the mattress, your eyes closed just for a second. The fever’s ebbing slightly—his breathing has evened out, his skin less clammy under your touch. That alone is enough to let the fear in your chest start to ease.
You feel his fingers shift against your scalp. Then—tentatively, like he’s not sure he has the right—his hand brushes through your hair. A soft stroke. Once, then again.
“You’re real pretty,” he murmurs. “Even when you look like you’re two seconds from cryin’.”
Your eyes flutter open. “That’s not fair.”
“What ain’t?”
“Saying things like that when I’m tryin’ to be brave.”
He chuckles—barely—but it’s there. Low and scratchy, and so him it makes you want to cry for a different reason.
“I ain’t never had someone take care of me like this,” he says. “Not once. Not like this.”
You blink against the sting in your eyes. “Then I’ll just have to keep doin’ it. ’Til you get used to it.”
There’s a pause. A weight to it. And then—
“You fallin’ asleep down there?” he mumbles.
“No,” you whisper, though you very much are.
His fingers are still in your hair. Your hand is still in his. And the steady rhythm of his breathing is slowly pulling you under like a lullaby. The world outside the room slips away—the walkers, the danger, the grief, the noise. It’s just this. Just him.
And then, sometime between one heartbeat and the next, sleep takes you.
You wake to warmth and quiet. The morning light slips gently through the curtain, dusting everything in soft gold. For a second, you’re disoriented—your neck aches from where it’s still resting against the mattress, your legs stiff from sleeping curled in that awful chair.
Then you feel it.
A hand brushing softly through your hair.
You lift your head slightly, and Daryl’s already looking at you.
He’s awake. Clear-eyed. The fever’s broken. His thumb is stroking the edge of your hairline, careful, almost reverent.
“Mornin’, nurse girl,” he says, voice a low rasp.
You don’t say anything.
You just smile.
And for once, you don’t feel scared at all.
The sun spills through the cracks in the curtain like a gentle promise. It warms the wooden floor and dances along the edge of the bed where Daryl lies—more alert now, less pale, his breaths stronger. He’s propped up against the pillows you fluffed earlier, arms resting over the blanket, eyes already on you the second you walk in with fresh bandages in hand.
“Feelin’ better?” you ask, your voice still soft with sleep even though you’ve been up for an hour now.
He gives a small shrug, mouth twitching like he’s fighting a grin. “Felt worse.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s fond. Familiar. You set the bowl down beside the bed and sit on the edge of the mattress, knees close to his thigh, and motion for him to sit up just a little. He grumbles but obeys, letting you peel back the blanket and the loose flannel you draped over him earlier.
The wound looks clean. No new bleeding. The skin around it isn’t as angry as yesterday. You exhale through your nose—relief bleeding out of you with every heartbeat.
Your fingers move instinctively, checking the gauze, gently brushing against his ribs. He doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t stop watching you, either.
You feel the weight of his gaze before you dare meet it.
“What?” you murmur, glancing up.
He just blinks slowly, like he’s trying to decide whether to say something or keep it close to his chest.
And then he says it.
“Never met someone like you before.”
The words are quiet, gruff but certain. And they hit you harder than you expect.
Your hands still, fingers resting just above his bandage. “What do you mean?”
Daryl leans his head back against the pillow, eyes still locked on yours. “I dunno. You’re just… soft. Gentle. Even when you’re scoldin’ me like I’m some kid who scraped his knees.”
You try to laugh, but it comes out breathless. “That’s just basic medical care, Dixon.”
“Nah,” he says, a little firmer. “It’s more than that. You look at me like I’m worth keepin’ alive.”
Your heart skips. Stumbles. Catches fire.
You look away, suddenly fascinated by the edges of the new roll of gauze in your hand. “You are worth keeping alive.”
He hums. You feel the low sound in your chest more than you hear it.
“You always tease me,” you blurt, trying to change the subject, trying to breathe again. “Why do you always do that?”
Daryl shrugs again, one shoulder dipping slightly. “Guess it’s the only way I know how to say I like you.”
The world stills.
The air thickens with something unspeakable. Your fingers go slack, and the gauze tumbles from your grip to the bed.
He said it so simply. Like it wasn’t everything. Like it didn’t just shift the entire axis of your world.
You stare at him, lips parted, heart in your throat.
He doesn’t look away. If anything, he seems a little braver now, like saying it out loud loosened something in him.
“You don’t gotta say it back,” he mutters, scratching at the edge of the blanket with his fingertips. “Just figured… you should know.”
You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again, throat tightening.
“I’ve never…” you begin, voice thin and quiet. “Done anything. Not with anyone. I wouldn’t even know how.”
His eyes sharpen. Not in judgment—never that—but in focus. In attention.
You wring your hands, eyes fixed on your lap. “Everyone else always seemed to know how to flirt, how to touch, how to say the right thing. I didn’t. I still don’t. I just… I get nervous. And awkward. And then I—panic.”
You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just shifts, slowly, his hand reaching out across the blanket until his fingers brush your wrist.
“Hey.”
You look up, eyes glassy.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” he says, low and sure. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you.”
You breathe in, sharp and shaky. “But I wouldn’t know what to do. If something were to—if we—”
“I’d still want you all the same,” he says, cutting through your stammering. “You think I care about that?”
Your throat burns. “Don’t you?”
He shakes his head. “I care about you sittin’ up all night just to keep a wet cloth on my forehead. I care about you speakin’ so soft, even when you’re mad. I care about you takin’ care of everyone and pretendin’ you don’t get tired, even when I know you do.”
His fingers slide down to your palm, fitting there like he was always meant to.
“I care about you,” he says. “Not what you have or haven’t done.”
The tears come faster than you can blink them away. Not loud, not messy—just full and quiet, like something too long kept tucked away finally cracked open.
He sees. Of course he does. And he sits up just a little more, gritting his teeth at the movement, until he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you. All you know is that suddenly his lips are on yours—clumsy, dry, tentative, but real.
And God, it’s everything.
It’s not perfect. Your noses bump. You don’t know where to put your hands at first. But then his thumb brushes your jaw, and you lean into him, and the whole world quiets to nothing but the press of his mouth and the warmth curling in your chest.
You kiss him like you’re trying to say all the things you never dared voice before. And he kisses you like he already knows them.
When you finally pull back, your faces are still close. His forehead rests against yours. You’re both breathing harder than the moment probably calls for.
He speaks first. “That your first kiss?”
You nod, cheeks flaming.
He grins, just a little. “Coulda fooled me.”
You swat at him half-heartedly, but your smile gives you away.
“Shut up,” you murmur.
“Make me.”
So you kiss him again. This time, slower. Softer.
And when you finally pull away and sit back, the gauze forgotten on the bed beside you, Daryl just watches you like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
“Y’know,” he says, voice rough with emotion, “I meant it.”
“Meant what?”
“Everything. Especially the part where I like you.”
Your heart thuds. You brush a hand through his hair, already curling with sweat from the rising heat of the day.
“I like you too,” you whisper.
And it’s not just a confession.
It’s a beginning.
It starts slower than you expect.
Not because the fire isn’t there—it is. It’s been simmering under your skin since the moment Daryl leaned in and kissed you like he didn’t know where he ended and you began. But even now, with his mouth only inches from yours, with the confession still echoing in the space between your hearts, it feels fragile. Precious.
Like if you breathe too hard, it might break.
But then he leans in again.
And it’s nothing like the first time.
This time, it’s heat.
This time, it’s want.
His lips find yours with more confidence, more need, like he’s starved and just realized how close the feast is. His hand cradles your jaw, rough thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he tilts your head and kisses you deeper, slower. The kind of kiss that’s meant to be savored. Meant to undo you.
You’re undone.
He makes a low sound in the back of his throat when your fingers knot in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, and suddenly you’re not sure who pulled who—but you’re in his lap now, knees bracketing his hips, your hands sliding into his hair like you’ve done it a thousand times in dreams and never once in real life.
God, he’s warm. And solid. All lean muscle under your palms. You can feel the scratch of his stubble when he kisses you, the drag of it across your cheek as he mouths down your jaw, down your neck, hot and open-mouthed and hungry.
“Daryl,” you gasp, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.
His eyes are darker than before—heavy-lidded, hooded, like he’s barely holding himself back. He swallows hard, chest rising under you. “You alright?”
You nod too quickly, too eagerly. “Yes. Yeah. I just—keep going.”
That’s all he needs.
He surges forward again, his mouth catching yours with more urgency this time, his tongue sliding against yours in a kiss that’s messier, wetter, less practiced and far more real. He kisses like he doesn’t know when he’ll get to do it again. Like he’s trying to memorize everything about the way you taste, the way you tremble when he bites down gently on your lower lip and pulls.
Your hands are everywhere—his hair, his shoulders, his jaw. You’re pretty sure you moan when he grazes his hands down your sides, fingers splaying wide over your waist like he wants to hold you together. Like you’re something breakable.
But the truth is you feel anything but breakable right now.
You feel powerful.
You feel alive.
Because he’s looking at you like you’re the most wanted thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and his hands are moving like he doesn’t know how to stop touching.
His mouth leaves yours just long enough to breathe against your skin. “Didn’t think it’d feel like this.”
“Like what?” you ask, breathless, chasing his lips.
“Like I’m losin’ my goddamn mind.”
You don’t have time to respond before he’s on you again, kissing you hard, desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t stay close enough. His hands move lower, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer into his lap. The hard press of him under you makes you gasp, and he groans—low and feral—like he’s been holding that sound back for too long.
“Fuck,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re killin’ me, girl.”
You giggle—actually giggle—and it surprises both of you. But before either of you can say anything, your lips are on his again, softer this time. You kiss him slow. You kiss him like a question. Like an answer.
You rock against him without meaning to. He bites back a curse and buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your collarbone.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice strained and hoarse.
You shake your head. “I don’t want you to.”
His hands slide under your shirt, not rushing, just being there, palms warm on your skin, fingertips brushing along your spine like he’s still trying to believe he’s allowed to touch you like this.
You pull back just long enough to tug the shirt over your head, and Daryl’s breath catches.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks.
You’re suddenly aware of every inch of your skin. Of how exposed you are. Of how much you’re giving him without needing to say a word.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, like it’s some secret he wasn’t sure he had the right to speak aloud.
You lean forward, kissing him again—harder this time. All that emotion has nowhere to go but through him. And he lets it, lets you pour it into him with every press of your lips, every scrape of your nails against his shoulder blades.
He kisses you back like you’re oxygen. Like he’s been suffocating for years and only just now got to take his first real breath.
Your hands slide under his shirt, up over his chest. You can feel the scars, the tension in his muscles, the way his heart pounds just beneath the surface. You push it up, and he lets you, and then it’s skin against skin, heat meeting heat, and everything burns in the best way.
His hand cups the back of your neck, drawing you in for another kiss, slow and sinfully deep. You sigh into his mouth, dizzy from the taste of him, the weight of him, the way your body fits against his like you were made to be here.
This is more than kissing.
This is devotion. Worship. A thousand unsaid things spoken in the way his thumb strokes your ribs, the way your nose bumps his and neither of you cares, the way he pants against your lips between kisses like he needs you more than air.
“Daryl,” you whisper again, because it’s the only word you know.
He presses his forehead to yours, his voice wrecked. “Tell me what you need, baby.”
“I just… I need you. Here. Like this. For a while.”
His eyes soften.
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
You kiss him again, slow and aching. Like a promise. Like a beginning.
And in the low light of the room, with your bodies tangled, your breaths shared, and his hands still warm on your skin, you finally let yourself believe it:
This man—gruff, scarred, impossible Daryl Dixon—wants you.
And God help you, you want him right back.
The storm rolls in slow.
It begins with a low grumble of thunder that hums beneath the floorboards like a warning, followed by the soft patter of rain against the windowpanes. It’s the kind of night that feels like a secret—quiet, cloaked in shadow, with the house still and hushed in sleep. Everyone’s tucked away behind their own doors, their own dreams.
Except you.
You lie awake in bed, covers pulled up to your chin, heart thudding softly as you listen to the rain. There’s a peace to the sound, but you can’t seem to settle. Not when your chest still aches with everything that passed between you and Daryl earlier. The kisses. The words. The weight of it all settling like warmth deep in your bones.
You hadn’t expected tonight to feel like this.
But then again, nothing about him ever feels expected.
You’re just beginning to drift into that space between thoughts and sleep when a soft knock interrupts the quiet. Three quick taps—light, hesitant. You sit up, heart suddenly awake again.
You don’t have to ask who it is.
You know.
You rise slowly, padding across the room and easing the door open just enough to see him standing there, damp from the rain, hair sticking to his temples, eyes soft in the dim light.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey,” you whisper back.
He doesn’t move until you open the door wider. And even then, he hesitates, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. You don’t say anything—you just reach for his hand, fingers curling around his gently.
That’s all it takes.
The door shuts behind him with a quiet click. He shrugs off his damp flannel, leaving him in a thin undershirt that clings to him in places. You hand him a towel without a word, and he mutters a soft thanks, rubbing it through his hair.
Then the silence stretches again—but it’s not uncomfortable.
It’s filled with something else now.
Something weightier.
You sit back on the bed, pulling the blanket aside slightly. He stands there for another second, looking at you like he wants to memorize the shape of your face in this exact light. Then—
“Y’sure?” he asks softly.
That’s all he says. Just that. No pressure, no assumption. Just that quiet, gravelly voice, checking if the door you’ve opened tonight is one he’s allowed to step through.
You nod.
It’s barely even that. Just the smallest tilt of your head, but it’s enough. It’s everything.
He joins you, slow and careful, like you’re a place he’s afraid to ruin. The bed dips under his weight, the space between you both charged and tender. You lie back first, scooting under the blanket, and he follows, settling beside you with a sort of reverence that makes your throat tighten.
Neither of you say anything for a while.
Not when your knees brush under the sheets. Not when your hand finds his beneath the blanket, tentative and unsure. Not even when his fingers curl around yours, rough and warm and steady.
He’s quiet. You can hear his breathing. You can feel it—deep and even, but not relaxed. Not yet.
So you speak first. Voice small, but sure.
“You make me feel brave.”
His head turns toward you. You can’t see much in the dark, but you feel his gaze settle on you like it always does—intense, all-consuming.
“I do?” he asks, as if it’s hard to believe.
You nod again. “When I’m with you… I don’t feel small.”
You turn on your side to face him. Your knees bump his. Your hand is still in his, hidden beneath the sheet, and his thumb starts to trace soft circles against your palm.
“Even when I’m scared,” you whisper, “you make me feel like I can handle it. Like I’m not alone.”
Daryl doesn’t respond right away. But when he does, his voice sounds like it’s been scraped raw with emotion.
“Ain’t never felt clean ‘til you touched me.”
You blink. “Daryl—”
“I mean it,” he cuts in gently. “I ain’t been… looked at the way you look at me. Not ever. Not like I’m someone worth bein’ gentle with.”
“You are.”
He huffs a breath—like he doesn’t believe it but wants to.
You scoot closer, forehead almost touching his, and his free hand finds your waist beneath the covers, resting there, just the weight of his palm. Not asking for anything. Just being there.
You press your lips to his jaw. Light. Soft. Then to his cheek.
“You are,” you say again. “You’re more than anyone’s ever let you believe.”
The rain outside thickens, pattering against the roof in heavy, steady rhythm. Inside, it’s just the two of you. The hush of breath. The shared warmth of your limbs tangled under the covers. His hand spreads slightly on your waist, holding you like he wants to keep you here forever.
And you let him.
There’s no rush. No hunger. Just the slow, sweet ache of closeness—the way his thumb strokes your ribs, the way his breath brushes your neck, the way your noses bump as you both shift closer. He kisses your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth. Each one slow. Measured. Like a vow.
Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt. You bury your face into his chest, breathing in the scent of rain and earth and him. He kisses the top of your head and pulls you even closer.
He doesn’t need to say anything more.
Because you feel it in the way his arms wrap around you like a shield. In the way your hand stays tucked safely in his. In the way your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces—imperfect but right.
Minutes pass like that. Or maybe hours. The storm rolls on, but inside, it’s calm. It’s safe.
Eventually, your eyes flutter closed, lulled by the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, by the scratch of his stubble against your forehead, by the soft way he exhales like he can finally let go.
And just as the pull of sleep begins to take you, you hear him whisper—
“Ain’t ever lettin’ you go now.”
You smile into his chest, your fingers tightening around his shirt.
“You better not.”
And in that tiny room, wrapped in warmth, wrapped in him, you believe it.
The storm has passed by morning.
The sun creeps in slow, casting golden light across the wooden floors of your room and warming the air with that fresh, washed scent only rain can leave behind. The birds are back to singing, distant but steady, and the house stirs softly with the sounds of waking—footsteps on creaky floorboards, the faint clang of mugs in the kitchen.
But none of it wakes you.
What does is the warm pressure against your back, the steady rhythm of Daryl’s breathing just behind your ear, and the calloused hand curled loosely around yours beneath the covers.
You shift slightly, enough to glance over your shoulder.
He’s already awake.
Of course he is.
Eyes half-lidded, hair a tousled mess from sleep, his face pressed into the pillow like he has no plans of getting up anytime soon. His chest rises and falls against your back, bare skin warm against yours, and there’s a softness in his expression you don’t get to see very often—unguarded, quiet, his version of content.
You smile before you can stop it.
“Morning,” you whisper.
He blinks, like he’s only just registering your voice, then hums low in his throat. “‘S nice wakin’ up like this.”
“Mm,” you murmur, nuzzling back against him just enough to feel the rumble of his chest when he lets out a breath. “We should probably get up.”
He makes a sound of protest that’s basically just a grumble and tightens his arm around your waist. “Ain’t no rush.”
You giggle, turning to face him fully, and you press a soft kiss to the scar just beneath his collarbone. He looks down at you like he doesn’t understand how you’re real. Like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“You’re in my bed,” he counters, a small, lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “I’m allowed.”
Technically it’s your bed, but you let it slide.
You stretch under the covers, and Daryl winces slightly as he sits up, rubbing at his shoulder.
“Still hurts?” you ask, instantly alert.
He nods once. “Little. It’ll pass.”
You frown, crawling up to prop yourself against the headboard. “You should rest more. Hershel said the wound needs another day before—”
“I’m fine,” he cuts in, but his voice is softer than usual. Teasing. “You ain’t gotta hover.”
“I’m not hovering,” you huff.
“You’re hoverin’,” he smirks.
You throw the pillow at him. He catches it mid-air, laughing—a real, genuine sound—and your heart just about combusts in your chest.
God, he’s beautiful when he laughs.
You don’t say it out loud. Not yet. But you file the thought away for later.
By the time you both finally leave the room, the house is in full morning mode. The scent of fresh coffee drifts in from the kitchen. Beth’s humming somewhere down the hallway. Maggie’s already outside feeding the chickens.
You walk downstairs side by side, and for a few minutes, it’s almost normal. Like you didn’t just spend the entire night wrapped around each other, sharing whispers and warmth and the quiet promise of something neither of you knows how to name yet.
But then you reach the kitchen.
And Hershel’s there.
He doesn’t say a word when he sees you walk in behind Daryl—hair still messy, shirt rumpled, lips maybe a little too pink—but the look he gives is unmistakable.
The Dad Stare.
The one that could stop a charging walker in its tracks. The one that says I know everything, and I’m just choosing not to bring it up right now.
You freeze.
Daryl clears his throat, awkwardly reaching for a mug.
Hershel just raises a brow, then sips his coffee and looks away.
You’re not sure if that’s better or worse.
Before you can even breathe again, Maggie comes through the back door, swinging it open with one hand and carrying a basket of eggs in the other. She takes one look at the two of you—standing a little too close, trying way too hard not to look like you’re trying—and grins.
“Morning, lovebirds,” she sings.
You nearly choke on your own breath.
Daryl grunts and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “gonna kill Glenn”, which becomes significantly more ironic when said man walks in not two seconds later and gives Daryl a very smug, very knowing high-five.
“Atta boy,” Glenn says, dead serious.
Daryl turns bright red. You can’t even look at him without laughing.
You try to brush past everyone quickly, but Maggie’s already at your side.
“Didn’t think you had it in you,” she whispers, elbowing you playfully. “About time someone cracked that man open.”
You duck your head, cheeks burning, and mutter, “Shut up, Maggie.”
“Oh, I will,” she says sweetly, “just as soon as you stop looking like you won the lottery.”
Later, once the teasing subsides and breakfast is done, you find yourself sitting outside on the front porch steps. The storm left everything fresh and quiet—the trees sway gently in the breeze, the grass glistens with rain, and the sky stretches wide and blue overhead.
You feel him before you see him.
Daryl sits down beside you without a word, his thigh brushing yours. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
Because after a moment, his hand finds yours again.
Under the railing, hidden from view, his fingers slip between yours like it’s second nature.
And just like that, your heart does that thing again. The soft flip. The ache of something good and terrifying and real.
You glance at him, eyes still on the field.
“What now?” you whisper.
He shrugs, slow and thoughtful.
“Now? I heal.”
You smile.
“And maybe…” he continues, voice a little quieter, “we go look for that kid. Together.”
Your heart lurches at that word—together.
You squeeze his hand. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He turns to you then, really looks at you, and there’s something in his eyes you haven’t seen before. Something steadier. Sure of itself.
“You stay close, alright?” he says.
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
You rest your head on his shoulder. “I know.”
You sit like that for a long while—quiet, warm, full of unspoken promises.
And even though there’s still a whole world of danger waiting out there, walkers and losses and fears you haven’t even faced yet, right now—here, with him—you feel ready.
Because this time, you’re not walking into it alone.
