Any time you think that photographers or their pictures are too expensive, remember that only maybe a tenth of our time is spent taking the pictures...
Downloading, cataloging, culling, editing, watermarking, uploading... each picture individually.
Add in the equipment, the digital storage and the cost of sales platforms... I'll let you do the math, because I'm too scared to 😅
(For context, the number you see below is from ONE event.)
"¡Da la vuelta!"
His words rang out again, sharper and more urgent.
“Turn around!” He shouted, and the mass of walkers stirred, more direct now.
Daryl’s jaw tightened, his crossbow trained on the man. The stranger sighed, shaking his head.
“You should probably run!”
The group didn’t move, but Carol’s gaze shifted uncomfortably between the man and the walkers.
“He’s going to have every walker here coming for us if he doesn’t shut the hell up.” She said through gritted teeth. Codron raised his rifle and pointed it at the man.
“Yeah, that probably wouldn’t be such a good idea.” The man called, nodding towards the gulley as he dropped his hands to his sides. He looked back at the walkers and then back at them.
Then, without hesitation, he ran.
But not away.
Straight into the horde.
Summary: Daryl and Rosita were both affected by Denise’s death, whether they want to talk about it or not. So they look for comfort in the bottle of a whiskey bottle.
Word Count: 6k
Notes: takes place immediately following Denise’s death in Season 6 Episode 14: Twice As Far. During the Alexandria era, right before the Savior arc. Rewatched the episode last night and seeing these two together and the opportunity just presented itself. I feel like they deserved it lol
I asked you to come with me because you're brave like my brother and sometimes you actually make me feel safe.
Daryl’s lungs burned. His arms ached, every muscle pulling tight with each motion as he drove the shovel into the dirt. He felt the beads of sweat as they rolled down his brow and into his eyes. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
And I wanted you here because you're alone. Probably for the first time in your life.
His fingers clenched around the wooden handle, rough and splintered, gripping it tight like it was the only thing holding him together. Carol stood across from him. He could feel her eyes on him, but she didn’t speak. She knew he wouldn’t talk about it even if she asked.
And because you're stronger than you think you are, which gives me hope that maybe I can be, too.
Denise’s words played through his mind as he shoveled harder. Faster. As if he could dig the sound of them from his memory.
He gritted his teeth and shoveled another heap into the hole. Then another. The late afternoon sun was hot on his back and he welcomed the feeling of the way it burned through his shirt. The ache in his muscles gave him something to focus on.
Something other than the gnawing weight in his chest.
And it makes me sick that you guys aren't even trying because you're strong and you're smart and you're both really good people, and if you don't wake up... and face your…
The angry growl that rumbled up from his chest sounded too far away in his own ears as he threw the shovel to the ground, the metal clanging off the dirt and stone. His breath was ragged as he stormed off towards the house. He had to get out of here. Away from… this. The walls that were supposed to be a promise of safety and security felt like a prison cell. One that he had to escape. Now. He didn’t want to stay in this cage.
Not tonight.
The streets of Alexandria were quiet. Too damn quiet. Usually, people were out, talking on their porches, walking around. Now, it was like the whole place was holding its breath.
Daryl barely noticed. His boots hit the pavement hard, his steps quick and focused. He took the porch steps two at a time and pushed the front door open without bothering to shut it. He wasn’t staying long enough for that to matter anyways.
Inside was just as quiet.
He moved straight to his room, peeling his blood and dirt stained shirt over his head and tossing it into the corner before grabbing a fresh t-shirt from the pile on the chair and pulling it on.
The bottle he had come back for was exactly where he’d left it the night he’d put it there– shoved to the back of the kitchen counter. His fingers tightened around the neck of the glass as he turned for the door.
His crossbow was slung over his shoulder in one fluid motion, a practiced habit. He was already stepping through the doorway, ready to keep moving, when something caught his eye.
Rosita.
She was walking up the steps, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, her head tipped slightly downward like she was deep in thought. The way she held herself– like she was looking for something, or maybe running from it– was too familiar.
"Hey," she said quietly, but questioningly. Like she didn’t expect him to be there.
Daryl barely lifted his head. "Hey," he mumbled back, gripping the bottle a little tighter.
She stopped on the step just below him, rocking back slightly on her heel. Her eyes flicked over him, reading him the way she always did—quick, precise, like she could see straight through whatever bullshit he was trying to put up.
"You good?" she asked, tilting her chin up just slightly, like she already knew the answer.
He worked his lip between his teeth for a moment before nodding, his gaze dropping to the porch.
Rosita let out a breath, shifting her weight, and glancing at the bottle in his hand. She made a small, unimpressed noise in the back of her throat, not quite a scoff but close.
"Where you going?"
Daryl shrugged, adjusting his grip on the bottle. “Don’t know.”
She studied him for a second, then tipped her head. “Mind if I come?”
He finally looked at her. She didn’t look away.
He could’ve said no. Could’ve walked past her, left her standing there. But he didn’t.
There was something else in her expression that he didn’t catch before. Something sad… not quite a plea, but something buried deep below the surface.
“Nah” he muttered.
Rosita gave a small nod, a barely-there smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, and then she moved. She didn’t wait for him, didn’t ask again—just stepped off the porch, heading toward the truck like she’d already decided. Like it wasn’t up for debate.
Daryl let out a breath and followed.
Neither of them spoke as they walked out of the gate and climbed into the truck. The engine rumbled to life, and just like that, they were gone.
—
The truck sat in a clearing on the edge of the quarry. What was once filled and brimming with walkers now just housed a few dozen stragglers wandering aimlessly around the bottom. Their dirty, dust-covered figures moving in and out of shadows in the quickly fading sun.
Daryl stood by the back of the truck, his arms resting over the side as he swirled the contents in the bottle before turning it up. The whiskey burned its way down, warm and steady, already starting to blur his edges.
He welcomed it.
Rosita sat on the hood, one knee bent, her boot propped against the metal. She didn’t say anything, just watched him as he took another swig before passing the bottle her way. She took it without hesitation, tipping it back, letting the burn settle into her chest before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
The air between them was thick with something unspoken, but neither of them moved to fill the silence. The only sounds were the distant rustling of trees and the distant, hollow moans of the walkers below.
Daryl exhaled sharply, shifting his weight. The alcohol was working its way through him, dulling things just enough to take the edge off. He stared out over the quarry, watching the way the last bit of daylight slipped behind the treeline.
He kicked a rock, watching it skitter and disappear over the edge, a small cloud of dust rising up under his boot.
Rosita let out a quiet breath, rolling the bottle between her palms. She hesitated for a moment before she spoke.
“I saw him go into Sasha’s house.”
Her voice was steady, but there was a roughness underneath it, something raw. She took another swig from the bottle.
Daryl didn’t react. Just let the words sit there, pressing down like an extra weight on his shoulders.
Rosita scoffed under her breath, shaking her head slightly. “I guess I already knew.” She said, quieter this time.
She walked over to stand beside him, peering over the edge, her eyes tracking the slow-moving walkers below. Without looking at him, she reached out and handed him the bottle.
Daryl took it carefully and lifted it to his lips. The whiskey burned on the way down, but he welcomed it, letting it settle deep in his chest.
Rosita crossed her arms, shifting her weight onto one leg. “Guess I was just stupid enough to hope I was wrong.”
Daryl wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, exhaling through his nose. He didn’t have anything to say to that. Not anything that’d make a damn bit of difference anyways.
For a while, neither of them spoke. They just stood there and appreciated the rare silence as they passed the bottle back and forth.
The night was creeping in, the last bit of light stretching thin across the trees. The air was cooling, but the whiskey kept the warmth settled in his gut. Daryl blinked slow, his ears buzzing, a steady thrumming setting in behind his temples. Not enough to knock him down, but enough to make his limbs feel heavy, his edges dull.
He let out a quiet breath, then turned back towards the truck, moving to the tailgate. He climbed up, sitting on the edge with his legs hanging off, his fingers rubbing absentmindedly at the glass bottle before taking another drink.
Rosita stayed where she was for a moment, watching him. Then, without a word, she walked over, stopping in front of him. She tilted her head, watching him take another drink. “I was gonna leave,” she admitted. “After everything. Just… go.”
Daryl didn’t look at her, just fidgeted with the bottle in his hands, his thumbnail picking at the edge of the label.
He knew the feeling.
“But I didn’t,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “And now, I don’t even know why.”
She reached out for the bottle, and as she took it from him, her fingers brushed against his—just for a second, just enough for him to feel the warmth of her skin against his knuckles.
Daryl didn’t move, didn’t pull away. Just watched as she brought the bottle to her lips, tilting her head back for a slow drink. He shifted his weight on the tailgate. “Ain’t always so easy to just walk away.”
Rosita smirked, but it was small and tired. “No. It’s not.” She looked at him for a moment before she asked, “You ever gonna leave?”
Daryl worked his jaw, staring past her toward the treeline. He didn’t answer right away, just let the question settle, rolling it over in his mind.
Rosita didn’t push. Just waited, quiet, studying him like she was trying to read something written beneath his skin. The slight sway in her stance made it obvious that she was feeling the effects of the liquor as much as he was.
Finally, he exhaled, slow and measured. “Don’t recon I got anywhere else to go.” His voice was low, rough around the edges.
Rosita held his gaze for a second longer, then gave a small nod. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Same.”
She took another sip, then handed the bottle back. This time, when their fingers touched, it lingered. Just for a second longer than before.
Daryl felt it. The warmth of her skin against his, the way her fingers curled just slightly before letting go. He swallowed, looking down at the bottle as he took it from her.
Rosita shifted her weight, crossing her arms over her chest, her boot scuffing against the dirt. “Sometimes I think I should’ve just gone,” she admitted. “Before it got messy. Before it got complicated.”
Daryl huffed, shaking his head. “Ain’t never not messy.”
She let out a quiet laugh, the sound dry, almost bitter. “Yeah. No shit.”
They fell silent again, the night stretching out around them. The whiskey was working its way through him, muting things just enough to make the quiet feel comfortable. His ears still hummed, the edges of everything a little softer.
Rosita glanced up at the sky, the stars just starting to burn through the darkness. “Ever think about it?” she asked. “What’s out there? Past all this?”
Daryl rubbed a hand over his mouth, fingers dragging along the stubble on his jaw. “Used to.”
Rosita watched him for a second, like she was waiting for more, but he didn’t offer anything else. Instead, he just took another slow drink, letting the burn settle deep.
She exhaled through pursed lips as she turned and braced her hands on the edge of the tailgate and pulled herself up beside him. The metal groaned as she situated– their shoulders close, but not quite touching. She stretched her legs out, crossing them at the ankles, her boot knocking lightly against his.
Daryl glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing.
Rosita sighed, tipping her head back slightly. “I think about it all the time,” she admitted. “Just getting in a car. Driving ‘til the road runs out.”
Daryl huffed a faint laugh, staring at the bottle in his hands. “What’s stoppin’ ya?”
She looked at him then, really looked at him. The corner of her mouth twitched, something almost like a smirk, but there was something else behind it. Something quieter.
Rosita didn’t answer.
Instead, she reached for the bottle again, her fingers grazing his as she took it from him. He watched her as she took another swig, her throat moving with the swallow before she exhaled through her nose. The bottle lowered, resting loosely between her hands, her fingers tapping against the glass in a slow, aimless rhythm.
Daryl rubbed his palms against his jeans, the warmth from the whiskey settling in his gut. She lifted the bottle again, took a drink and then handed it back. This time, when their fingers met, it wasn’t just a brush– it was slower, heavier. A beat too long. Neither one of them moved right away.
Daryl swallowed, his throat suddenly dry for reasons that had nothing to do with the whiskey.
Rosita’s eyes flicked to his– just a glance, quick, unreadable– before she pulled her hand away and settled it back in her lap.
The night stretched around them, quiet except for the rustling trees and the chorus of crickets and cicadas that filled the warm summer air.
Daryl rolled the bottle in his hands, his pulse thudding a little harder against his ribs. “You ever gonna leave?”
Rosita took a second, her lips pressing into a line as she gave him a gentle shrug. “Don’t know,” she admitted. “Sometimes I feel like it would be easier out there.”
Daryl hummed low in his throat, lifting the bottle to his lips. He could feel the weight of her eyes on him, the same way he could still feel the ghost of her touch against his skin. It made him restless. Like he needed to move.
He slid forward, his feet thudding the ground, his balance a little uncertain at first. The ground seemed to shift beneath him, so he put a steadying hand on the truck until he was sure his legs wouldn’t betray him. He thought that his small stumble went unnoticed, until she let out a small laugh.
He shot her a look and she smirked, tipping her chin toward him. “You good?” But the way she said it was in that low throaty tone that made it almost sound like a purr falling from her lips.
Daryl grunted a soft laugh, shaking his head lightly, more at himself than her. “M’fine.”
Rosita hummed like she wasn’t entirely convinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she reached for the bottle again. This time, she didn’t wait for him to hand it over, just plucked it from his grip, her fingers sliding against his as she did.
That damn touch again. Fleeting, but warm. Enough to make something coil low in his stomach.
She took a drink, long and slow, before lowering the bottle and licking a stray drop from her bottom lip. The movement was unintentional, effortless, but his eyes followed it anyways.
She was leaned to the side, propped back on one hand, the bottle clutched in the other. Perched on the edge of the tailgate, she looked so casual, so at ease. Her dark hair fell lose over her shoulders, contrasting sharply against her white tanktop that had ridden up, showing a small sliver of her stomach just above the waistband of her jeans. Daryl corrected his gaze, realizing that the flush that crept up his neck wasn’t just from the whiskey.
She must’ve noticed something in his expression, because her smirk faded slightly, her dark eyes lingering on his. “What?” she asked, her voice lower than what it had been just a minute ago.
Daryl shook his head, turning his attention back in the direction of the quarry. “It's just funny.”
Rosita arched a brow, shifting on the tailgate, the liquor already lacing her voice with humor. “What’s funny?” she asked as she tilted her head slightly, watching him. Her eyes gleemed brightly in the dim light. And when he turned his gaze back to hers, their eyes met for a moment before he spoke.
“Instead of goin’ somewhere, doin’ sometin’,” he exhaled sharply through his nose, “we’re just sittin here on the side of this damn quarry,” he motioned back towards the gaping hole just in front of the truck, “gettin’ drunk in the dark.”
She laughed then, shaking her head. “Yeah, guess neither one of us is as smart as we think we are.”
She let her legs swing lightly beneath her as she watched him, he was working his bottom lip between his teeth again as he stared out into the distance.
She offered the bottle out to him again, and he took a step closer, his hip brushing against her knee as he took it from her. His gaze was still on the horizon.
“I mean,” She said, the humor in her voice slowly fading, “There are worse ways to spend a summer night...” He turned his eyes back to her then, and she watched as his smirk faded into something else. Something softer.
He gave a small grunt in agreement, shifting his weight slightly from one foot to the other. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He said, though his eyes never left hers.
Silence stretched between them, laced with something thicker than it had before, broken only by the steady song of crickets and the occasional groan of a walker far below.
Daryl passed the bottle back to her, and this time, when their fingers met, neither of them moved right away.
The touch lingered.
Warm.
Deliberate.
He felt the way she let her fingers trail down his before wrapping around the bottle and pulling it away, slow and unhurried.
He felt his pulse thrum in his throat, but he didn’t look away.
Rosita kept her eyes on his as she brought the bottle to her lips again. She took a sip, slow and measured, the whiskey burning down her throat. She didn’t flinch, didn’t break her gaze.
Daryl felt something shift between them, something subtle and unspoken, but undeniable.
He should’ve looked away, should’ve said something to cut through whatever it was that was building between them. But he didn’t.
Rosita lowered the bottle, her fingers curling loosely around the neck of it. Her knee brushed against him again, just barely, but he didn’t move away this time.
The space between them felt smaller now. Closer. Like something had shifted without either of them moving much at all.
Daryl’s fingers flexed at his sides, a slow, restless motion. He could still feel the ghost of her touch against his skin, the weight of her gaze lingering on him like the heat in the air.
Rosita tilted her head slightly, watching him. “What’s on your mind, Daryl?”
Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.
Daryl swallowed, his throat working around the tightness that had settled there. He could’ve shrugged. Could’ve muttered nothin’ and put a safe distance between them.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t look away.
Rosita’s lips parted slightly, like she was going to say something else, but she hesitated. Instead, she set the bottle down beside her, her fingers lingering on the glass before she straightened.
And when she did, she was closer.
Not much. Just enough.
And somehow, her knees were on either side of him now.
Daryl still didn’t move.
Didn’t pull away.
Didn’t stop her when her fingers curled just slightly in the front of his shirt.
His pulse thudded harder now, rattling in his chest like something waiting to break loose.
Then she closed the distance.
Her lips met his, slow but sure, tasting of whiskey and heat and something else that had been simmering between them all night.
Daryl sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, startled by the sudden rush of it, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.
His hands found her waist, his fingers pressing into the fabric of her shirt, gripping tight like he needed something to hold onto. Rosita responded immediately, parting her lips against his, her fingers sliding into his hair at the base of his neck. It sent a shiver down his spine, a spark shooting straight through him, unraveling the last bit of restraint he might’ve had left.
The kiss deepened.
Rosita shifted forward on the tailgate, bracketing his thighs, pulling him in closer. Daryl let her. Let her push and pull and drag him down with her, because fuck, he wanted this.
The bottle tipped over somewhere beside them, rolling off into the dirt, forgotten.
His hands slid down, gripping her hips, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise as he pulled her forward. She shifted, legs tightening around him as she kissed him harder, more desperate now. Her hands tugged at his hair, pulling a low noise from deep in his throat.
His skin was burning, his head swimming, the whiskey mixing with something stronger—something that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way she was pulling him under.
Rosita broke the kiss just long enough to suck in a breath, her forehead pressing against his, her own breathing uneven.
“This a bad idea?” she murmured, her lips brushing his as she spoke.
Daryl swallowed, his grip on her tightening. “Prob’ly.”
She smirked, fingers trailing down the front of his shirt before slipping beneath the hem, her touch searing against his stomach.
“Good,” she muttered, then pulled him right back in.
The moment shattered, breaking apart like a dam giving way.
Rosita pulled him in harder, her fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him closer. Daryl let her, let himself get lost in the heat of it, in the whiskey and the way her body fit against his like they’d done this a hundred times before.
Her legs tightened around his hips, pulling him flush against her. The tailgate groaned beneath their weight, metal creaking as she shifted, pressing into him.
Daryl exhaled hard, his breath sharp against her skin as he broke away for just a second, but Rosita wasn’t having it. She chased his lips, her hands sliding under his shirt, nails scraping along his ribs, dragging another low rumble from within him.
His grip tightened on her hips, fingers pressing into the soft curve of her waist as he pulled her even closer, his mind buzzing from the alcohol, from her, from the way her mouth was working against his—needy and relentless.
She tugged at his shirt, frustration rolling off her in waves when it wouldn’t come off fast enough. Daryl helped, yanking it over his head and tossing it blindly behind him.
Rosita barely gave him time to breathe before her lips were back on his, her hands sliding up his bare chest, nails scratching lightly over his skin. He hissed at the sensation, heat pooling low in his stomach, thick and heavy.
She smirked against his mouth, biting down on his lower lip before licking over it, slow and teasing.
Something in him snapped.
Daryl growled low in his throat and grabbed her thighs, lifting her effortlessly off the tailgate. She gasped as her back hit the side of the truck, but the sound melted into a breathy moan when he pressed against her, pinning her there.
Her hands found his hair, yanking him down as she kissed him harder, her body arching into his. The scent of whiskey and summer air clung to her skin, mixing with something distinctly hers—something warm and intoxicating.
Daryl barely had a second to think, barely cared to. His hands were on her, gripping, feeling, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of her shirt, pushing it up as his lips trailed down her neck.
Rosita gasped, her head tipping back against the truck, exposing more skin for him to claim. His teeth scraped against her pulse, and she shuddered, fingers twisting into his hair.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t want to.
Not tonight.
Rosita hooked her legs around him, locking him against her as she ground down, making his breath stutter, making every nerve in his body light up.
“Daryl,” she breathed against his ear, her voice rough and wanting.
That was all it took.
All the control, all the restraint, anything that had been holding them back—gone.
They weren’t thinking anymore.
Not tonight.
Just moving.
Hands desperate, mouths hungry, bodies pressing together like they needed this.
Like they’d fall apart if they stopped.
And neither of them wanted to stop.
Not now.
Not tonight.
Rosita’s breath hitched as Daryl’s hands moved—rough, desperate, fingers sliding beneath her shirt, palms dragging over the bare skin of her waist. She was warm beneath his touch, burning hot, and when she arched into him, he let out a sharp breath against her throat.
Her nails scraped down his back, pulling him closer, pressing her body flush against his. The truck behind them was solid, grounding, but everything else was spiraling—too fast, too much, and still not enough.
“Fuck,” she whispered against his lips, her voice breaking on the word as she tilted her hips, rolling them slow, deliberate.
Daryl gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening around her thighs, his breath ragged as he tried to ground himself. But she wasn’t giving him the chance. Wasn’t letting him get a grip before she was kissing him again, rough and hungry, like she wanted to take every last piece of him tonight.
His hand slid higher, under her shirt, fingertips trailing the band of her bra before pushing it up, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his calloused hands. She gasped into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders, and he swallowed the sound, pressing her tighter against the truck, holding her exactly where he wanted her.
Rosita reached between them, fumbling with his belt, cursing under her breath when the buckle refused to cooperate.
Daryl smirked against her skin, his lips dragging along her jaw. “Y’rushin’.” His voice was low, rough, a rasp of gravel and heat against her ear.
She exhaled sharply, her fingers yanking at his belt again, stubborn and unrelenting. “Shut up,” she muttered, but there was a smirk in her voice, breathy and reckless.
Daryl chuckled, deep in his throat, but it cut off when she rocked against him again, sending a sharp jolt of heat straight through him.
His patience snapped.
Grabbing her wrists, he pinned them above her head against the truck, his grip firm but careful. Rosita sucked in a breath, her dark eyes flashing with something wild, something daring.
Her lips parted, but before she could say anything, Daryl was on her again—his mouth covering hers, devouring, his free hand slipping down, pressing into the heat between them.
Rosita moaned, her head tipping back, body arching into his touch. “Daryl—”
That was it.
Whatever control he’d been holding onto was gone.
He kissed her hard, swallowing her gasps, letting his hands and his body tell her exactly how much he wanted this, wanted her.
Wanted to lose himself in her completely.
And Rosita let him.
Met him with the same raw intensity, the same fire.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Just heat.
Just this.
Just them.
Daryl’s breath was ragged, his grip tightening on Rosita’s wrists as he held them against the truck. His restraint was razor-thin, fraying with every breathless sound she made, every shift of her hips against his.
Rosita smirked up at him, lips swollen from his kisses, her dark eyes flickering with something wild. “You gonna do somethin’ or just stand there?” she taunted, her voice rough, teasing.
Daryl didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t think.
Didn’t give her the chance to say anything else before he crashed his mouth against hers, rough and unforgiving.
She gasped into him, her fingers flexing where he held them, her body pressing into his as she hooked a leg around his hip, pulling him closer.
His free hand roamed lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her jeans, his fingers brushing hot, sensitive skin.
Rosita groaned, her head falling back against the truck, her breath catching in her throat.
“Fuck,” she whispered, her hips jerking against his touch.
Daryl growled low in his chest, the sound vibrating through him as his fingers pressed deeper, dragging another sharp moan from her lips.
Rosita tugged at his grip, and this time, he let her go.
Her hands were on him in an instant, shoving his belt out of the way, popping the button of his jeans, dragging the zipper down with a quick, deliberate motion that sent heat pooling low in his stomach.
Daryl sucked in a breath, his forehead pressing to hers as her hand wrapped around him, warm and sure.
His fingers clenched against her hip, his entire body tensing as she moved—slow at first, then firmer, teasing.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice breaking on the word.
Rosita grinned against his jaw, biting lightly before licking over the spot. “Thought I told you to shut up,” she teased.
Daryl let out a rough laugh, but it quickly dissolved into a groan as she squeezed just right. His patience snapped completely.
His hands were on her then, his fingers digging into the soft skin of her thighs as he lifted her.
She let him, wrapping her legs around him, arms locked around his shoulders as he slammed her harder against the truck.
“Now you’re gettin’ it,” she murmured against his lips, her voice breathless, shaky.
Daryl didn’t answer. Just kissed her again, swallowing her words, pressing into her, feeling every inch of heat, of need, of urgency between them.
There was no thinking, no hesitation.
Just heat.
Just hands and mouths and tangled limbs.
Just them, lost in the moment, in the whiskey, in the night.
And neither of them cared about anything else.
Not now.
Not tonight.
Daryl grunted as Rosita tightened her legs around him, the heat of her body pressing against his, sending another sharp pulse of want straight through him. His hands gripped her thighs, rough fingertips digging into smooth skin, holding her steady against the truck.
But it wasn’t enough.
He needed more.
Without breaking the kiss, he pulled back just enough to shift his grip, one arm sliding beneath her thighs as he turned, carrying her effortlessly to the cab of the truck. .
Rosita gasped, startled for just a second before she smirked against his lips. “Didn’t take you for the type,” she teased, her breath warm against his mouth.
Daryl huffed a rough laugh, kicking open the truck door, maneuvering them both into the cab with practiced ease. “Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it, his voice ragged with need.
Rosita didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate.
Daryl barely had the sense to shut the truck door before he was on her again.
She just pulled him down with her as he climbed into the seat, her back hitting the worn leather, her fingers tangling in his hair as she dragged him closer. She kissed him hard, raw, full of something neither of them wanted to name.
She was fire beneath him—burning hot, winding tight, her hands gripping at his bare skin, her legs tightening around his hips, pulling him deeper, harder.
The whiskey burned in his veins, but it wasn’t the liquor making him feel like this. Wasn’t the heat rolling off them in waves, fogging up the windows.
It was her.
The way she moved beneath him, the way she gasped into his mouth when he rolled his hips just right, the way she dug her nails into his shoulders, leaving faint crescent marks against his skin.
“Fuck, Daryl—”
The way she said his name, breathless and sharp, nearly undid him.
He growled against her throat, biting lightly at her pulse point, dragging his teeth over her skin before soothing it with his tongue. Rosita shuddered beneath him, her back arching, her nails dragging down his spine.
Daryl braced a hand against the door, the other gripping her hip as she shifted beneath him, heat pressing against heat, the friction making his breath hitch.
Clothes were in the way—too much fabric, too much space between them, and Daryl wasn’t having it. His hands were rough, fast, pushing her jeans down over her hips, shoving them past her thighs.
Rosita helped, lifting her hips, kicking them off until they were forgotten somewhere in the cab.
His jeans followed, shoved just low enough, his belt clattering against the seat as Rosita wrapped her legs around him again.
She bit down on his lower lip, pulling a low growl from him, and then he was moving, pressing his forehead against hers as his fingers gripped her thigh, hitching it higher around his waist.
Her breathing was uneven, her chest rising and falling quickly beneath him, but she still managed to smirk, her fingers dragging down his stomach, teasing.
“You sure?” he muttered, voice rough, barely more than a breath.
Rosita huffed, her lips curling up in something like amusement, but her eyes were dark, heavy with want. “Shut up and fuck me, Dixon.”
Daryl didn’t need to be told twice.
He shifted, positioning himself, and then—
Rosita gasped, her nails biting into his skin as he sank into her, slow at first, stretching, fitting, filling every inch of space between them.
Daryl’s breath hitched, his grip on her tightening as he fought to keep himself steady, to keep from losing it right there.
She was hot, tight, perfect around him, her body arching to take him in deeper, her legs locking around him to pull him closer.
Daryl let out a rough breath, his grip tightening before sealing his mouth over hers again, swallowing the sharp gasp she let out as he finally settled in.
“Fuck,” she whispered, her head tipping back against the seat. “Daryl—”
He groaned, low and ragged, as he started to move, slow at first, testing, savoring the way she felt beneath him.
Rosita didn’t want slow.
She met his thrusts, rolling her hips in a way that made his vision blur, made him tighten his grip on her thighs, made him bury his face in her neck to muffle the growl building in his chest.
Rosita arched up to meet him, her nails raking down his back as they moved together, a tangled mess of heat and hunger and urgency.
The truck rocked slightly with their movements, the windows fogging up, the whiskey-fueled haze mixing with the sound of breathless gasps, low curses, the rustle of hands gripping at fabric, pulling, needing.
Daryl’s head dipped, lips dragging along the curve of her throat, tasting salt and warmth, his breath rough against her skin as Rosita’s fingers clenched in his hair.
He wasn’t thinking anymore.
Neither of them were.
Wasn’t worrying.
Wasn’t holding back.
He let go.
Let her take him under.
Let himself drown in her, in this, in the way nothing else mattered in this moment except the way she felt, the way she sounded, the way she moved beneath him like she needed this as much as he did.
They lost themselves completely in the moment, in each other, in the way nothing else existed outside the heat of the cab, the way the world could’ve burned around them and neither of them would’ve given a damn.
Not now.
Not tonight.
And when Rosita clenched around him, shuddering, gasping his name, he followed her over the edge, pulling her closer, holding on tight as everything broke apart around them.
They stayed there for a moment, tangled together, breathing hard, the weight of what just happened settling in between them.
But neither of them moved.
Neither of them spoke.
Because for once, they weren’t running from anything.
Sometimes the toxic part of my brain wonders if Glen would’ve died sooner, would Maryl ever have been a thing 🤔 I could see Maggie having a thing for the “bad boys”
Maybe I’m the only one? Idk, but I think they would’ve been a power couple. And so freakin cute together.
If you love a slow-burn with morally gray characters and Beth Greene being a badass, you might like this (or hate it, idk)
Started writing this after watching Dead City and trying to decide how wild it would be to ship Negan and Maggie. Then I spent a lot of time pondering something even more unhinged that I ended up finding very fun. And, so, here we are.
The Edge of Redemption:
Beth Greene didn’t think she’d live this long. After losing her home and everyone she loved, she wasn’t sure she had anything left to live for. But at the Sanctuary, she found something she never expected – the strength to begin again.
Some see her as an outsider. Others, a rising force. But Negan? He sees her as something else entirely.
As Beth fights to keep hope alive in a world ruled by violence, lines blur, alliances shift, and survival is no longer enough.
But war is coming. And when the fight reaches her doorstep, she’ll be forced to confront the past she thought left her behind – and the question that haunts her: what kind of future is she really fighting for?
ellievsbear
gummygunk
baratheonpilled
titsay
andulkaphoto
germansingergirl
kaledo-art
turnnoffyourmind
