+ Welcome! Thank you so much for taking the time to read. I am late to the fandom, and new to writing fanfiction. I have a complicated relationship with creating. Currently, I am trying to reframe my idea of what it means to create things and what it means to be an artist. I’m not young but I also don’t think I’m old…perhaps I am wise.
+ Quirky/Interesting things to know:
+ I can communicate in two languages.
+ I have entire invented conversations in my head regularly… maybe even right now.
+ My world is ADHD inspired
+ I currently use writing to escape my day job.
+ I can talk to you about cats, jeeps, parenting, chronic illness and whatever my current hyperfocus is. (ahem, Daryl Dixon)
+ I am the queen of imposter syndrome, but also, maybe not.
I hate doing this. Last time I needed to raise money, I received the most hateful messages. I’m gonna turn off my anon asks for the time being because I have enough on my plate. Please don’t hesitate to message me with any questions, though. Just please be gentle.
I will add that I do work a few hours (all my doctor allows) but it is absolutely nowhere near enough to remain afloat.
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Summary: After thinking you were dead and you suddenly showing up like a sign from friggin God, your family was whole again. But how long can you and Daryl go with pretending the loss your family endured simply never happened?
Warning: Some fluff, hurt/comfort, angst angst angst, smut, pretty suggestive smut tbh but it's there.
Author's note: So 'when I'm gone' is a fic hat I've noticed getting a lot of attention recently so this is a part 2 to that (but can be read separately if you don't wanna read the first part cuz its pretty depressing - just know that Dani is your and Daryl's daughter and you have a leg injury). I was meant to post this in October cause there is like some halloween themes ig cuz they are watching a slasher but hey better late than never. 🙈 Enjoy
The house had finally gone soft around the edges the way it only did after a long day—lamps turned low, kitchen wiped down, the faint ghost of icing sugar still hanging in the air from Dani’s victorious raid on Carol’s cookie tin. (Carol said “one.” Dani heard “as many as your small hands can smuggle.”) Your leg throbbed in that steady, sullen way it did when you’d been upright too long; the bandage itched under denim; the crutches leaned against the coffee table, forgotten.
On the TV, a grainy slasher limped into its third act. Blood the color of ketchup, violins sawing themselves ragged, a moon too big for any sky glowering over a lake. You and Daryl were experts in this particular brand of nonsense—half the fun was muttering through it like sport commentators.
“That boat's got a motor,” Daryl said, deadpan, tipping his beer cap against his knee. “How’s he sneakin’ up on ’em if he's makin' all that noise?”
“Maybe they can't hear it over he buzz of their stupidity,” you said, solemn. “They're skinny dipping in a lake in the middle of the night while there's a serial killer on the loose - they ain't exactly sharp.”
Dani had face-planted sideways across your stomach, sugar crash demolishing even her legendary stubbornness. She drooled once—right on your shirt—and snored like a tiny truck, then melted heavy as a sandbag. The movie wasn’t exactly child-appropriate, but you told yourself you weren’t winning Mother of the Year this quarter anyway, and tucked a throw over her.
Daryl’s eyes slid off the TV and found the small, warm hill of your daughter asleep on your chest. It hit him like it always did now—quiet and sudden—a smile he couldn’t stop, the kind he thought he’d never earn again. For a long second he just looked, cataloguing the proof: her starfish hand splayed over your collarbone, the soft whistle of her nose on the exhale. Home, all of it.
He leaned in and ran a hand down her back. “Time for bed, bug,” he murmured—less a question than a ritual. You hummed assent.
He rose and eased her off you with the care of a bomb tech: one broad palm under her bottom, the other cradling her head, peeling her weight a breath at a time. She made a tiny grunt, brows knitting, then melted again, cheek finding his shoulder like it had directions. Your shirt held her warmth; your chest felt suddenly, comically empty.
He straightened, the couch sighing in relief, and the room did that soft shift it did whenever he picked her up—everything quieter, as if the house itself was holding its breath. Dog fell into step automatically, nails ticking the floor: the night watch. Daryl’s steps went careful on the hallway boards he knew would creak; he tilted his head to keep her steady, her socked toes bouncing against his thigh, her hand flexing once to catch at his shirt.
You watched them go—a man and his shadow, and the dog that decided everything was his job—and the ache yawned open in your chest in the best way. Lamp glow, warm shoulders, the soft hush of a door half-pulled. You blinked fast and lost a few tears anyway, laughing at yourself as you wiped them with the heel of your hand.
Lucky, you thought, and didn’t bother arguing with it.
He came back a minute later smelling faintly of strawberry shampoo and sleep-warm drool, yawning into the back of his wrist. He dropped into his usual spot beside you with a theatrical groan, the cushions giving like the couch had been holding its breath for him.
“Thinkin’ tonight we might get lucky—she’ll only wake up once,” he announced, slumping dramatically as his arm found its way around your shoulders again.
“When did you get so… hopeful?” you asked, eyebrow up.
His eyes flicked down the hallway, then slid back to you, doing that sneaky end-of-day scan he’d perfected since—well, since. “I dunno. Turnin’ a new page, I guess.”
He didn’t need you to say it; he could read the way you were keeping weight off. “How’s the leg?”
“Staging a protest.” You waggled your foot like it had its own opinion. “Thinking I’ll just crawl up the stairs.”
“We should get ya an elevator.” He caught your ankle, gentle as if the bone were made of glass, and stroked his thumb over denim just above the bandage in slow, absent circles, like he could rub the ache into his own hand.
For a breath or two the room was only warmth and hum: fridge whispering, the clock ticking, Dog’s nails clicking as he settled on sentry duty outside Dani’s door. Normal wrapped itself around you in a slightly frayed blanket—still warm, still yours, stitched with new seams you could feel if you looked for them. You did, sometimes. Tonight you pressed your cheek to the cushion and let them be.
Onscreen, the Final Girl leaned over the boat for roughly the fiftieth terrible idea in a row.
“Oh look,” you said, deadpan. “She’s about to inspect the suspiciously calm water. What could go wrong.”
“If I was there an’ she fell in, I ain’t fishin’ her out,” Daryl muttered, settling deeper, his arm tightening around you like punctuation.
You tipped him a grin, and his mouth did that reluctant thing back—the flash of soft he never meant to show. You always caught it. You always would. His hand drifted from your ankle to your knee, thumb moving slow, absent circles that told your leg to stand down.
The Final Girl leaned too far; the lake exploded with a very obvious stuntman. Both of you flinched, then groaned in perfect harmony.
“Shoulda seen that comin’,” he said.
“Plot twist,” you sighed. “The real killer is the production company that funded this shit.”
A soft rustle drifted from down the hall—the whisper of a small body turning over, the drag of blanket against sheet, Dog’s muffled chuff like a guardian clearing his throat. You felt Daryl’s shoulders lean toward the sound before he even moved, that automatic tilt his whole frame does now, the tiny hitch of breath in the first second of quiet and the one after. You slid your fingers to his wrist and left them there, warm and steady. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. He glanced down, found your face, and the crease between his brows eased as if your touch had pressed it flat.
On the screen the credits stuttered, pretended to be done, then spat out one last lake-hand jump scare, cheap as a carnival prank. Daryl yelped, flung the remote like it had personally insulted his mother, then snatched it midair without looking, the reflex so clean it made you bark a laugh. The laugh tugged your thigh; pain sparked; he winced on instinct and rubbed slow circles just above the bandage, like his palm had a telephone line straight to your nerves. The heat of it soothed more than the motion ever could.
“Y’know,” he said after a beat, chin rasping against his knuckles, “the other day when you were at physio with Sid, I stepped out to get Dani. She got it in her head she was eatin’ candy ‘fore dinner. Pulled that face you make when you smell fish.”
You groaned. “Oh God. Not the fish face.”
He nodded, mouth tipping, eyes lazy with the memory. “Little thing was windin’ up right there in the street. So I full-named her.”
“You what?”
“Mm-hm.” His smirk went downright sinful. “Said, ‘Danielle Dixon, if you don’t get ya butt up those steps, I’ll tell your mama on ya.’”
Your mouth fell open and stayed there, scandalized delight flaring warm in your chest. “And?”
“She marched up them stairs like the law was waitin’ at the top, gave you a hug like nothin' happened, and waited till after dinner.” He shrugged, pleased and sheepish at once. “Kept the candy in her pocket an' all.”
“Why,” you breathed, half laughing into the cushion, “have we never used that dark magic before?”
He made a noise that said he was absolutely planning to abuse it henceforth. The room quieted again—not just the absence of film noise but that other kind of hush, the one that arrives when the night climbs down off its elbows and gets comfortable. The house settled. The lamp hummed. Somewhere a pipe clicked as it cooled.
“Did she ever…” you started, then let the words find pace with your breathing. “Sleep alone. In her bed. When I was… gone.”
The question landed like a pebble in a still river—soft sound, widening rings. He went still in the way that says I heard it and I wish I hadn’t. The almost-yawn died unfinished. Something small and sharp crossed his face and was gone; he shook his head once, quick and mean, like batting away a fly that had already bitten. “Not at first,” he said, voice roughened down. “Took me a while to go back in there.”
You looked anyway and there it was—the hurt that refuses to be dramatic, sitting plain as a bruise. He scratched his jaw like the memory itched under the skin and kept his gaze on the dead-blue square of the TV.
“We slept on the couch,” he went on, softer now, the words as much for the room as for you. “Couple weeks. Then we tried our room again. She’d make it till one, maybe two, then come padding down the hall sayin' she'd wet the bed again... and crawl right between my ribs. I ain’t… ” He swallowed. “I didn’t mind. Just… your side of the bed - it was like it was haunting me.”
Your hand tightened on his wrist. You knew better than anyone else that your husband liked to pretend some things in the past simply never happened. To him, he got you back; those weeks without you and what they did to your family, never happened. Because he got you back.
But what he didn't consider is what if you didn't come limping through those gates...
“Daryl,” you said, quiet, laying your hand over his. “We should talk about it.”
“Nah.” It came out too quick to be a snap—more like a plea wearing a rough coat. He kept his eyes on the dead blue wash of the TV.
You let a breath out slow. “I know. I hate it too.” You tasted the next words before you gave them up. “Those weeks I was gone—it was hell. But, baby… people die every day. You know that better than anyone.”
He leaned forward, arms slipping off you to his lap, shoulders rounding. Suddenly he found the floor very interesting. You felt him go—inch by inch—back behind that old wall.
You followed. Your hands settled on his shoulders, thumbs tracing slow circles into the knots there. “We have to be able to live through it if—when—it happens to us,” you said, voice low, steady. “For Dani.”
His jaw ticked. He didn’t look up.
“You have to be able to lose me.” The words scraped coming out; you said them anyway. “And I… I have to be able to lose you.” You squeezed, a gentle anchor. “We can’t both go under.”
He was already shaking his head. “Fuck that,” he said, voice sanded down to the grain. He finally looked at you and it wrecked you a little—those eyes glassy with sleep and something older, his mouth carved into something that wasn’t anger so much as refusal. “You don’t know—” He swallowed, and it looked like it hurt. “You don’t know what it was like. Can’t ask me to just… be ready for that again - fuck that. You don’t get it..”
Your throat closed; you nodded. “So tell me.”
He dragged a palm over his face and left it there for a beat; when he spoke his voice had that wrecked tilt you’d only heard a handful of times, the kind of raw that makes you want to cover it with your hands. “Couldn’t sleep in our bed,” he said, words careful, like stepping around glass. “Wasn’t a bed without you in it. Every damn thing in the house was you. Every corner. Dani kept askin’ where you were and I—” His mouth folded; he shook his head. “She just couldn’t understand— why you left. Why I let that happen to you. She couldn't sleep by herself. Wouldn’t talk for days sometimes. Just… went small.”
You felt tears slick into your lashes and didn’t bother wiping them; he needed to see you hearing him. His stare stayed on your bandage like it held answers he could knife out if he just looked hard enough.
“Killed me, what it was doin’ to her, ’cause I couldn’t fix it,” he said, voice low and sanded thin. “And it was everything. Food didn’t taste right. Couldn’t talk to nobody ’cept Carol ’cause… I was the sorry-ass widower of the town, failin’ his kid ’cause he don’t know the first damn thing ’bout bein’ a single dad.”
The weight of it pressed through your ribs. There wasn’t a sentence in the world that could make that right. You tipped forward and set your forehead on his shoulder.
The room filled with quiet and your small, embarrassed sniffles. He stayed still, hands perched on his knees as he had that pensive looked that slightly worried you.
“If you hadn’t walked through that gate,” he said, and the roughness went from his voice to his hands, which flexed and stilled on his knees, “I was gon’ leave with her. Try and find you. Couldn’t stay if you weren’t here. It was—” He blew out a laugh with no humor in it. “Hell.”
“I’m so sorry,” you said, ache starting somewhere in the marrow and working out. “I’m so—”
He shook his head too hard. “Don’t.” It wasn’t sharp so much as frayed. He finally looked at you. “Just don’t.”
Your hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers finding that small warm place that always turned him toward you. He tried to look away again; you didn’t force him—just held there, asking.
“I’m not saying it to hurt you,” you whispered. “I’m saying it because I love you. Because we can’t pretend it didn’t happen. If—God forbid—something happens again, Dani can’t be the one keeping you afloat. She’s four, Daryl. We owe her more than that.”
He blinked at you like a kicked dog—rib and fight and that new, terrifying trust. You watched the door in him slam most of the way and then… stop. His hands found your hips—one loose, one clamped like he could pin you to the world and make it mind him.
“I can afford to lose you,” you said quietly, the words sour on your tongue. “And you can afford to lose me—”
“No.” He didn’t raise his voice, but it hit like a hard thing set on a table. “I ain’t losin’ you. You ain’t losin’ me. Dani ain’t losin’ neither of us.”
“Baby,” you breathed, cupping his cheek and bringing him close enough to feel the heat off his skin, “I know, but—”
"I can't." It slipped out, raw. His jaw jumped; his breath hitched like a misfire. "Ye can't ask me to do that. I won't." His eyes went wet and mean at the corners, not angry—just cornered.
The lump in his throat caught up to him and he couldn't speak. He bowed his head in that familiar way and you guided him down, pressed his face into your neck where he belongs. “Hey. I know.” Your palm slid into his hair; your other hand traced his spine slow.
“I’m not asking you to be fine,” you said quietly into hair. “I’m asking you to survive. With me. For her.” " “Look at me," You said, easing his face up, thumbs sweeping the wet from under his eyes. "Hey, Dar look at me.”
When he finally did your heart broke just a tiny bit. Eyes red rimmed, stubborn, cracked.
“We’re gonna be okay,” you said, voice shaking but steady enough to stand on. You pressed your forehead to his. “We’re gonna be okay.”
He swallowed, the movement tight in his throat, eyes squeezing shut like he could muscle the future into behaving. When he pulled you closer it was almost clumsy, too much strength with nowhere to put it, as if pressure alone might be the answer. You kissed him once—quick, sure—then again, longer, and felt the coil in him ease by half a turn.
When you drew back for air, he followed—no space, no let-go—mouth finding yours again like a promise he had to re-sign. The kiss changed in the seam of a breath: not frantic, not pretty, just deep and certain. His hands slid up, big palms bracketing your skull, thumbs fitting into your hairline like he could hold your thoughts still with the heel of his hands. He made a sound into you—low, torn—and shifted his weight, the couch dipping, the room tightening down to the warm press of him and the way your ribs made room for him.
“I got you back,” he breathed against your mouth, words rough with stubbornness. “Ain’t lettin’ you go again.”
You opened under him without thinking, slipping quiet beneath the older part that knows his shape. His thigh eased between yours, careful of your bad leg without him needing to look; his hips pressed in a slow, anchoring drag that said I’m here more than anything else, and heat arrowed low enough your breath caught on it. You broke the kiss, startled by oxygen, and he was already there waiting, watching, eyes bright in the lamplight like he was making sure you hadn’t slipped the seam of the world.
“Dar,” you said, nothing reasonable left in your voice. “Please.”
He didn’t make you repeat yourself. Your buttons gave under his fingers—one, two, three—more haste than finesse, the kind of rush that would earn teasing later if your brain ever came back. His own shirt went the same way, a scatter of plastic tapping the cushion as he shrugged it wide. Skin met skin and the relief of it hit like a warm tide; his mouth mapped your throat, your shoulder, then came home to your mouth again. You slid your hands along his bare torso, scouring the familiar map of him—sun and scar, muscle jumping when you traced a spot you both knew. He kept tucking strands of your hair behind your ear with that clumsy tenderness that was its own language, tipping your face to memorize it all over again in case the world tried to steal it twice.
The slow press of him became friction and the friction fried thought. Your fingers fumbled at his belt, too eager to be deft; he huffed a laugh into your mouth even as his own hands went greedy at your waistband.
“Easy,” he murmured—then failed his own advice, working you out of fabric with a care that moved fast, pausing only to tip his chin toward your leg. His hands slowed where the bandage kissed skin, palms wide to keep from tugging, mouth apologizing to the places that flinched. His eyes asked what his mouth didn’t risk.
You answered by lifting your hips and catching his mouth, a yes he could feel.
“I need you,” you said into him, raw from crying and want, a little wild around the edges. “Now.”
He hooked a finger under the back strap and found the clasp like he’d been born knowing it; the bra sighed open and your spine met the cushions again. His mouth was on you before the fabric even slid away—lazy, reverent pulls that made your skin pebble—tongue and teeth learning you like he’d forgotten nothing. One broad hand framed the swell he wasn’t tasting; the other drifted down, down, unhurried like a threat, skimming your ribs, your stomach, the soft place that always made you breathe wrong.
By the time his fingers found heat, your head tipped back and a sound left you you’d never make in daylight. It embarrassed you and pleased you at once; your hand snapped around his forearm—not to stop him, never that, but to say right there, please, harder, don’t you dare slow down. He answered by pressing in just enough to redraw your nerves, his thumb settling into a rhythm that made your thoughts go bright at the edges.
“Talk like I can lose ya,” he murmured against your skin, voice weirdly steady for a man coming apart on top of you. His thumb circled, cruel-sweet. “But I can feel how bad you need me.”
“Oh, shut up,” you meant to scoff; it fell out a gasp, your hips chasing his hand. He smiled against your breast—felt rather than seen—then sucked gently, tongue flicking in time with his thumb below until your back arched like a bow. He lifted just enough to watch your face, pupils blown, lips parted, and the look he gave you said he’d bottle that sound if he could, keep it on a shelf for bad nights.
“Say it,” he breathed, fingers working you open, patient and sure.
“Daryl,” you managed, breath sticking. Your nails bit his wrist because you needed something to hold. “Need you. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He said your name like he meant to keep it safe, and your body like he meant to keep it, and then he slid two fingers into you—slow, sure, a long clean push that flipped your world for a second. He knew you too well; he always had. He found that place like a magnet, curled just enough to pull a gasp out of you, then set a rhythm that made your lungs forget their job. When your breath hitched he caught your mouth, kissed you through it, coaxing air back in on the drag of his lips.
Your hands climbed into his hair without you telling them to, anchoring him. You tugged him down to your chest so you could feel his groan against your skin; the sound went through your sternum like a struck bell, a low note you answered with your hips. He kept you there—one arm braced beside your head, the other working you open—thumb slick and steady, fingers stroking deep-deep, the heel of his hand grinding just right. Every pass tightened the coil; every curl told your body the truth before your mind could catch up.
Two months. Too long—longer than either than you could tolerate. The first wave hit like water after heat—shocking, necessary, greedy. You broke apart around his hand messy and fast, a helpless stutter that surprised you with how hard it took. He swallowed the sound you made, eyes going soft and proud and a little feral all at once, and kept you riding it—pressure and praise, kiss and breath—until the sparks eased to shiver.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your mouth, thumb gentling but not gone. “Atta girl. Just like that.” You felt the smile split against your teeth when you chased his lips again, still fluttering around his fingers, the aftershocks tapping out a rhythm he knew by heart.
“Take ’em off,” you managed when your voice came back, tugging at his waistband like a drowning person grabbing rope. You were still breathing hard—him too. “Now.”
His eyes flicked to your leg even wrecked, because he’s still Daryl. “You sure?”
“Honey—pants off. Now.”
That did it. You sat up to meet him, caught his mouth, and worked his belt open by feel—buckle, button, zip—impatient fingers skimming heat and the thick weight of him. He hissed when your fist closed around him, hips stuttering into your palm. Patience left the room. You guided him, greedy-sure, and he let you.
The first press of him was a homecoming that knocked sound out of you—less moan than relief, a long yes that lived in your bones. He groaned like something in him gave, forehead dropping to yours, eyes blown. “Christ,” he murmured, even as he sank in slow, careful of your bad leg without needing to look, one hand bracing behind your knee to angle you.
“Don’t go easy on me now,” you breathed, clutching him—blade of shoulder, cut of hip, mound of his ass—pulling him deeper when he was already as deep as you could take. He answered with a low curse and a roll of his hips that set you alight, the kind of fit that felt inevitable. You tightened your hand at the nape of his neck to keep him right there, and he was—solid, heavy, home—while your body opened around him like it remembered the way before your mind did.
“You're right,” you managed, tears fresh on your cheeks for a different reason, the truth of it landing heavy and sweet. “You’re right—about everything. I can't lose you.”
He kissed the words off your mouth and moved—long, careful strokes at first, keeping you open with one hand and cupping your skull with the other. The room was cold around the edges and it didn’t matter; the only heat that counted was between you, the only sound that mattered was your name in his throat and his in yours. He guarded your leg without making a show of it; you forgot it existed. All you knew was DarylDarylDaryl.
He watched you like he couldn’t bear to blink—the way your mouth fell open, the way your eyes rolled and then fought their way back to him, the way your body clenched around him without permission or mercy. When his pace turned more desperate you started to crawl up the couch with each thrust; he caught your waist and yanked you back down, breath breaking on a laugh that had no room for humor, only relief and love and something like worship. Your head tipped; hair poured off the edge of the couch; the ceiling swung and the world narrowed to his palm under your nape, cradling, steadying, insisting stay with me.
It all crested at once—pleasure, grief, the jagged memory of cold water and empty nights—and your voice broke open with it. “I tried,” you gasped, words hitching as he rocked into you, “you need to know, I tried—God, I tried so hard to get back—” Another roll of his hips stole your air; you clutched at his shoulders, nails biting, needing the hurt to prove the hurt. “It was the hardest thing I've ever done—harder than anything—” Your cheeks were wet again and you didn’t bother to hide it. “I didn’t leave you—I didn’t leave her, I’d never—I fought like hell—I need you to know I didn’t ’t leave, that I was stuck but I never left you, I’d never—”
“I know, baby,” he murmured, and the knowing lived in his hands and hips as much as his voice; he didn’t falter, didn’t slow, just kept you anchored and opened, the rhythm turning certain. “I know. I know.” His mouth found the wet tracks at your cheekbones and kissed them like absolution. “You came home. Ya found us.”
Your breath hitched hard and then tumbled. “I hate that you went through it—I hate that I’m the reason—if I could fix it I would and I—”
“I know,” he said again, low and rough, pressing his forehead to yours so you had to feel the truth of it. “Hey—you ain’t the reason for the world bein’ shit. You’re why I’m still in it.” His thumb stroked your throat, steadying the tremor there; his other hand spread wide at your hip to keep you from slipping, keeping you open for him. “Ya came back. Ya fought cuz it’s who ya are.”
“I thought I wouldn’t make it,” you confessed, voice fraying, the words falling out between the push and pull of him, “and then I thought if I didn’t—if I didn’t—you'd never know and Dani—” Your chest hitched; your hands framed his face like you could make him hold still for the truth. “I kept thinking of you guys and—and I kept going, I swear it, I swear—”
“Shhh, I know,” he breathed into your mouth, catching the swear with his lips and swallowing it like a vow, “I know, I know, it's ok, you're here,” and he kissed you slow and deep while his body said the same thing in longer sentences—I’ve got you, you’re here, I’m here, you did it, you did it. The pace shifted faster, each stroke drawing something unknotted out of you until the apology dissolved into sound.
You broke again—half sob, half laughter punched out on a gasp—and he held you through it, never looking away, never letting you drift, the couch, the room, the whole damn night held still around the two of you while he kept repeating it into your skin, into your hair, into your open mouth: “I know, baby. I ain't letting' ya go again.” And the way he said it, the way he kept moving like prayer made flesh, turned the guilt to heat and the heat to light, and you clung to him while it all remade you, breathless and shaking and finally, finally believed.
“Look at me,” he said, the words not a command so much as a tether, and you tried—you really did—but the edge came up hot and tidal and your head tipped back, lolling toward the couch’s seam until the ceiling blurred. His palm found you before the world could, big and warm at your nape, lifting you back to him, holding the weight of your skull the way a man holds something he can’t afford to drop.
“Hey—eyes on me,” he breathed, hips settling into that deep, even rhythm that always felt like a promise kept, his thumb circling low with a patience that only made the heat climb. You were shaking your head because language was slipping, the first broken syllable catching in your throat—“fuck, I’m gonna come—” —and he caught that too, the other hand covering your mouth in a soft seal that wasn’t silencing so much as sheltering.
“Shh,” he murmured, close enough that you felt the shape of the word against your cheek. “We don’t wanna wake Dani.” He kissed the heel of his own palm where it met your lips, a small, wrecked smile ghosting there. “Breathe for me. Right here.”
You nodded under his hand, tears stinging sweet, and he talked you through the break like he always did when he was scared you’d slip away—praise and direction in the same breath. “There we go, that’s it—right there. I gotcha.” His arm banded your back, keeping you tight to him while your body shook and clenched and learned him all over again.
Two months without this had left your nerves dry and eager; you pulled air in on his inhale, let it go on his exhale, and the rhythm belong to both of you. He adjusted—just a fraction, the angle he knew—and when your eyes found his again, the look he gave you said he felt the shift too.
“Do it with me,” he said, voice gone rough at the edges, not quite pleading and not quite prayer. “Together.”
Your fingers climbed for the back of his neck and held, not to guide but to anchor. “Ok,” you managed, the word half breath, half vow, and he answered with a low yes that lived in his chest and traveled into yours where your bodies met. He didn’t rush; he only kept you there, consistent and deep, letting the pressure build until thinking wasn’t helpful anymore and you were only flesh and pulse and the way he kept your gaze when the world tried to tilt you away.
The crest took its time, then took everything; it rolled through you like heat off a road, slow at first and then absolute, your back bowing, your mouth opening under his hand as sound tried to come out and he cradled it quiet, gentling the noise without stealing it. He held you in the quake—“that’s it, give it to me”—and somewhere inside your own shudder you felt him break too, felt control pull loose in him as his rhythm hitched and stuck and his forehead pressed hard to yours, both of you catching on the same beat.
The release wasn’t a snap so much as a long, drowning bloom; His eyes blew wide; his forehead fell to yours; a curse broke in his chest, swallowed fast when you covered his mouth with yours. He shuddered hard, coming apart inside you, all heat and relief and the weight of him pinning you. You felt him spill with a fierce, swallowed curse you took into your mouth, and he felt you clamp and flutter around him like your body was trying to memorize him all over again.
He kept his hand at your nape so you didn’t slide when your muscles went soft and treacherous; you kept yours at his jaw so he couldn’t look anywhere else, both of you riding the tail of it down until the shakes eased to a fine tremor and the room remembered to be quiet.
Neither of you moved for a while. He stroked your hairline with his thumb, slow and absent, breathing rough against your lips as if exhaling the last of the fear; you spread your palm over his heart and counted the beats until they settled into something that felt like an answer. He didn’t pull out; the thought of it made your throat ache; he stayed where he was, forehead to yours, his breath evening in slow passes. You were still trying to catch your breath, relearning how to breathe, and his mouth brushed yours in a laugh that didn’t want to be loud. “Breathe, baby,” he said against your mouth, and the command found your lungs before your brain did. Air came back in an instant.
“Most stubborn out of the two of us,” you managed, voice wrecked, thumb petting along his cheek as if he were the one who needed soothing.
He huffed a laugh, fanning your face. “You’re the lesser of two evils.”
“High praise,” you said, dragging your nose along his in a clumsy nuzzle. Your heart was still racing; you pressed your forehead to his and let the truth be simple. “I think we came to a pretty good consensus,” you whispered. “Don't you think?”
He made a sound that wasn’t a word. “Definitely,” he said finally, and pulled you in as if there were still space left to close, as if the world might try one more time and take you and he needed it to know: nope. fuck that.
WHUMPTOBER is a month-long, prompt-based creation CHALLENGE (think: Inktober, but whumpier). There are four prompts for each day of the month, giving 124 for you to play with! There is also a list of 18 alternative prompts that can be subbed in for any day to give participants as much creative freedom as possible.
All prompts are meant to serve as inspiration without being taken literally (e.g. you don’t have to include the exact wording of prompts into your work). Feel free to run rampant on interpretation. For example, if the prompt is “flame", you could create something with reference to a candle/campfire, your character could have suffered a burn, or the flame could be a reference to an ‘old flame’ - an old relationship. It’s truly down to you!
You can produce work in any media you choose, including but not limited to: writing, visual artwork, photo/video/audio edits, paper crafts and elaborate recommendation lists (not just a list of links). You can participate as much or as little as you want (i.e. you don’t have to do ALL the prompts if you don’t want to) and prompts can be used in any order. They are also free to use even after the event ends.
Please make sure to read the Event Info and FAQ carefully, as most of your questions will be answered there already. For everything else, you are welcome to come to our ask box or ask questions in our Discord server here.
Information on how to TAG is here.
This year’s AO3 Collection can be found here.
This year’s playlist can be found here.
The ‘Anatomy of a Whumptober Prompt’ post can be found here.
And our 'Resources for Writing Sensitive Topics’ post is here.
We’re very excited to see the community come together for yet another year of Whumptober! Go ham with the prompts, and support your fellow creators - we wish you all the best of luck, but most importantly: HAVE FUN!
Happy whumping,
Mods Vanne, Yenn, Kitty and Surro
Text versions of the prompts, including a google doc format, are posted below the cut!
A Google Doc of the prompts can be found here for easy copy-and-pasting!
Whumptober 2025 Prompt List
No. 1: “Please don’t cry”
Lamb to Slaughter | Ceremony | Beg for Forgiveness
No. 2: “You’ve got a lot of nerve to dredge up all my fears.”
Prophecy | Sewer | Taking Accountability
No. 3: “I look in people’s windows, transfixed by rose golden glows.”
Isolation | Candlelight | Found Family
No. 4: “Don’t be scared, I’ve done this before.”
Non-Human Whumper | Iron Rod | Loss of Powers
No. 5: “My panic’s at the ceiling, but I’m face down on the carpet.”
Quivering | Dream Journal | Phobia
No. 6: “No grave can hold my body down.”
Caught in a Net | Medical Restraints | Pinned to the Wall
No. 7: “Tell me that you’re okay, and I’m fine.”
Trapped with the Enemy | Elevator | Pushed Beyond Breaking Point
No. 8: “Oh horror, oh horror, what did you see?”
Self-Inflicted Injury | Held at Gunpoint | Dissociation
No. 9: “We’ll make it alright to come undone.”
Touch | Flashbacks | Scalding
No. 10: “There’s nothing you can ever say, nothing you can ever do.”
Without Consent | Secrets | Lips Sewn Shut
No. 11: “Can you get through all the pain inside you?”
Hidden Injury | Laceration | Forced Reveal
No. 12: “It’ll be for nothing.”
Cardiac Arrest | Sacred Place | Withholding Medical Treatment
No. 13: “How dull is it to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished.”
Never Enough | Insignia | Forced Retirement
No. 14: “In the end, it’s worthwhile.”
Ignoring an Illness | Body Bag | Wounded Caretaker
No. 15: “You can take a break, if you just tell me that it hurts.”
Failed Rescue Attempt | Body Part in the Mail | Live-Streamed Torture
No. 16: “I’ve had the rug pulled beneath my feet.”
Repressed Trauma | Permanent Marker | Disorientation
No. 17: “Tell me there’s a hope for me.”
Internal Bleeding | Coma | Redemption
No. 18: “As the world caves in.”
Dystopia | Ruins | Environmental Whump
No. 19: “You’re on your own, lost in the wild.”
Dehumanisation | Living Weapon | On Patrol
@where-imagination-runs-free, aka Faith Ann, has done it to @daryl-dixon-daydreams again. Is this the fourth time? Fifth? We've honestly lost track.
Last night, @daryl-dixon-daydreams discovered that Faith had again stolen one of her drabbles and done her usual work-up. She adds a little drivel in the beginning like she's hoping no one will notice what she has copied pretty much word for word farther down.
As you can see, the original post by @daryl-dixon-daydreams was posted on May 6th, 2025.
The plagiarized post was posted on June 25th, 2025 under Faith's latest account name. (@/where-imagination-runs-free)
At this point, she seems to have already wiped all her Daryl content, so she must have at least heard through the grapevine we're going public again and know what she did. But we've already got all the proof we need, hun. Too late.
SEEK HELP. This is insane behavior. This is something you need professional help for... STOP HARMING CREATORS or this shit is going to start affecting your life offline.
If you're a creator in any of these listed fandoms below, you may want to check her blog for plagiarized content of yours, and at minimum block and report her. We need an IP ban at this point. This is absurd.
Attention to the following fandoms:
- Angels of Death
- Assassination Classroom
- Attack on Titan
- Avatar: The Last Airbender & The Legend of Korra
- Death Note
- Demon Slayer
- Disney
- Dragon Ball Z
- Fairy Tail
- Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them
- Harry Potter
- How to Train Your Dragon
- Invincible
- InuYasha
- Jujutsu Kaisen
- Jurassic Park & Jurassic World
- Kpop Demon Hunters
- Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit/Tolkien universe
- Marvel
- Maze Runner
- My Hero Academia
- Naruto
- Supernatural
- The Walking Dead
- Tokyo Ghoul
- Yuri On Ice
Reblog and spread to your favorite creators.
What exactly is the Fanfiction Plagiarism Watchdog Group (FPWG)?
To be blunt, we are a group of Tumblr creators who are fucking fed up with immoral assholes who like to steal the work of others for fake internet points.
After watching a repeat offender have essentially only very minor consequences over and over, watching lie after lie, "poor me" after "poor me", we're taking a stand and empowering creators to protect themself and spread awareness of bad actors in the Tumblr community.
What this blog is:
1.) A list of blogs, accounts, and/or persons who are or previously have engaged in the blatant theft of fanfiction writing, AKA a place for creators to check if their followers or people interacting with their work have been highlighted as plagiarists
2.) A place to share evidence and documentation of said offenses
3.) A community of support for victims of online plagiarism of their work
4.) A place to share resources for dealing with situations of online plagiarism
5.) A way to raise awareness of the true harm plagiarism does to the fanfiction community
What this blog is NOT:
1.) A place for hate, fear mongering, doxxing, or anything that is not in line with Tumblr's community standards. Replies and asks will be heavily moderated and if you cannot adhere to these policies you will be blocked and removed from this community.
If you have questions or would like to submit an incident of plagiarism to be highlighted on this blog, reach out via ask or private message. In order to have an incident of plagiarism featured on this blog you MUST have proof. That means, screenshots/receipts, dates and times, etc. This is to prevent mistakenly accusing a true creator. We, as moderators, reserve the right to use our discretion in which cases we feature on the blog.
FEATURED PLAGIARISTS:
@/teddygrahamsam admitted to stealing writing for "recognition" and to "build community"
Faith Ann aka "Chaos" aka "Ann" (current usernames @/where-imagination-runs-free and @fandom-reblogs-and-things)
Update 1 - Faith Finds This Blog
Update 2 - Faith Steals A Creator's Blog Rules Post
Update 3 - Faith Plagiarizes a Quotev Fic
Update 4 - Faith Steals a Creator's Blog 'About Me' Style and Language
Update 5 - Faith Deletes the Stolen Fic & Posts it as 2 Stolen Imagines
Update 6 - Faith Deletes Her Blog (Again)
Update 7 - Faith is Back with a New Blog
Update 8 - Faith Denies Being Who She Actually Is on Her New Blog (and accidentally tags her old account in the very next post LOL)
💥 Small Writing Habits That Genuinely Changed How I Write 💥
listen. i’m not here to sell you a productivity system or convince you that waking up at 5am will make you a novelist. i am deeply Not That Girl. HOWEVER, here are 5 chaotic little writing habits that quietly rearranged my brain chemistry:
✏️ typing BEFORE i know what happens
i used to think i had to outline everything before writing. wrong. i get more done when i let the scene surprise me. just start with vibes and a line of dialogue. the rest shows up once you start moving.
🗣️ saying the scene out loud like a play
no joke. talking my scenes out like a script?? life-changing. the pacing, the emotion, the rhythm of it all makes more sense when i act like i’m gossiping about my blorbos in a voice memo.
⌛ 20-minute timers (not for productivity, just to start)
i tell myself “just 20 minutes.” sometimes i stop. sometimes i blink and it’s 2 hours later and someone’s been emotionally eviscerated in chapter 12. this one’s black magic. use wisely.
🕯️ re-reading my WIP like a book
no editing, no judging, just reading through with snacks like it’s already published. changes how i see the pacing and emotional arcs. also reminds me it doesn’t completely suck.
🧂 leaving in the messy parts
i used to delete scenes that felt “off.” now i just write a little comment like “THIS IS BAD BUT KEEP GOING.” turns out momentum matters more than vibes. shocking, i know.
A/n: I haven't written smut in so long but this just felt right
Genre: Filthy smut
Warnings: unprotected p-in-v sex
Era: Mid season 10
Word count: 2.1k
forgotten how to breathe without him in it…and so had you.
You were in the shower, letting hot water ease the ache that had crept into your bones hours ago. It wasn’t just your body that hurt, it was everything. The silence, the waiting, the not knowing… .Daryl had been gone a long time, off chasing fading leads about Rick and though you kept yourself busy, between scattered visits and the work in the communities, it was never enough to keep the emptiness from creeping in.
So you let your eyes slip closed, just for a moment, letting the warmth wrap around you like a blanket, like the arms you missed more than you cared to admit.
Then the sound came. Soft, unfamiliar…wrong. Your eyes snapped open.
Stillness. You strained to listen, waiting to decide if it had just been your mind playing tricks, some imagined echo of a world that used to feel safe. Then it came again.
You moved fast, adrenaline wiping the heat from your skin. You stepped out, not even bothering to dry off. One of Daryl’s old shirts hung nearby, soft, worn, it still smelt of him and you slipped it on, the fabric clinging to your damp skin. The water kept running behind you, a decoy you didn't have time to shut off.
Gun in hand, you swept through the house, room by room, heart hammering, until your weapon locked on a broad back hunched over your fridge, pulling something out with the ease of a man who knew exactly where everything was.
“Do you mind?” you asked, voice sharp, your stance unflinching as the water on your skin and shirt started to cool off.
He turned slowly, eyes flicking from your gun to your face, utterly unbothered. “I do, actually”
The second your gun caught up to your heart, you lowered the gun. It clattered softly against the counter as you rushed to the bathroom and twisted the faucet off. Then you were back, crossing the space in a blur and wrapping your arms around him. He held you just as tightly.
“Hey, sweetheart…” he murmured into your head into your soaked hair, voice low, grounded, like it hadn’t been weeks since you’d last heard it. “Wha’s wrong?”
“I missed you.” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. You pulled back just enough to search his face, needing to be sure he was real. “I was thinking about leaving early tomorrow morning to come find you…what are you doing here?”
His hand cupped the back of your neck, thumb bruising your damp skin. “Missed m’ wife,” he said simply, like it was the most natural truth in the world.
“Oh yeah?” you sniffed, a crooked smile forming. “With your nose buried in the fridge?”
“Ya were in the shower”
“Could’ve joined me. What? You’ve grown scared of showers again?” you teased, a spark returning to your eyes.
He let out a low, humorless laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “Funny”
“Hilarious, actually,” you grinned, breath catching when his fingers found your sides, squeezing just enough to make you squirm. A soft laugh escaped you and before you knew it, you were walking him backward through the kitchen, his lips chasing yours between stolen words and smirking threats. The backs of his knees bumped the edge of a dining chair and with a grunt, he dropped onto it. You followed, straddling his lap, slow like the moment itself was sacred. His hands were everywhere now, calloused palms sliding beneath the damp hem of the shirt that hung loose on you, the one that still smelled like smoke, pine and the wild outside that had never really left him.
Your hands framed his face, thumbs bruising the scruff along his jaw as he looked up at you like he’d been gone longer than his body could bear. You leaned in, kissing him slow, letting the heat build between the pauses. You could feel him breathing you in like he needed to convince himself you were real, that this was still allowed and that it was his to take.
“Y’ain’t real,” he whispered against your skin, more reverent than teasing.
You smiled softly, hands tracing a slow path down his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your hands. When you reached his lap, you felt the firm pressure straining against the denim, his body already betraying how long he’d gone without this. Without you.
“You came here to check?” you teased, your voice low, lips ghosting over his jaw.
He let out a soft huff of a laugh, his hands tightening on your thighs as you began rotating your hips.
“Maybe I forgot how good home feels,” he muttered, his voice rough, edged with something deeper than hunger.
You tilted your head, brushing your lips across his again “Want me to remind you?”
His only answer was a slow breathless “Yeah” like he hadn’t realized just how much he needed to feel grounded again, anchored in something that still felt safe.
And you, soaked shirt, damp skin, heart thudding against his, were more than home. You were a promise kept.
Your fingers moved with practiced ease, tugging at his belt, the soft clink of the buckle loud in the stillness between you. He watched you, eyes dark with need, but his hands remained steady on your hips, letting you take your time and letting you lead.
You freed him from the confines of his jeans, the heat of him pulsing against your palm as you pumped him slowly. The air between you shifted, becoming thicker and heavier.
His breath hitched as your touch lingered teasingly. You became impatient, impossibly needy. Lifting your hips and lining him up to sink down on him, pain be damned and all. Your wince turned into a moan, matching his.
“That what you came home for?” you asked, a playful spark in your voice. You began to move, slow at first, finding a rhythm that matched the unspoken ache between you. His hands gripped your hips, not for control, just to hold, to anchor himself in the moment.
He reached up, brushing damp strands of hair from your face, voice low and earnest. “Ya told me t’ be a little more selfish last time I saw ya”
“I did” you agreed, a tad breathless from the sudden peak in pleasure, sweet slick soon creating a film between you.
The room was bathed in shadow, quiet except for the soft rhythm of your breath and the faint creak of wood beneath you. Moonlight pilled faintly through the window, painting silver lines across his shoulders, the curves of your body. His hands gripped your hips with a reverence that nearly undid you and the way his eyes drank you in from beneath his lashes had your heart tightening painfully in your chest.
“Slow down” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your neck as a low groan rumbled through his chest “We got all nigh’”
Your breath caught, your body pulsing with want but you still found the edge of a smile. “You’re not exactly in a position to make demands” you managed, voice shaky with pleasure. You tilted your head back, a sound slipping from your throat that made the air between you burn hotter.
“Fuck” he cursed under his breath, rough and helpless, as his fingers fumbled with the buttons of the shirt that clung to your damp skin. When he finally opened the fabric, he buried his face in the curve of your chest like it was home, like he’d spent a lifetime missing it. “Been dreamin’ ‘bout this,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by your chest, raw and honest.
You cradled the back of his head, your fingers threading through his hair as you moved. Each roll slow and deliberate. You didn’t want to ruin it. You didn’t want to say it but you had to “You need to stop…asking me to stay” you managed, breathless, your voice catching somewhere between resolve and heartbreak.
He shook his head almost immediately, forehead pressing against yours, his palms cradling your waist like you were something breakable. “Livin’ out there…that ain’t wha’ ya deserve.” he whispered “I need ya safe”
You could feel it then, in his grip, in the rasp of his voice, in the tremble beneath his steady exterior. This wasn’t about fear, it was about losing pieces of himself every time you walked away from him, about the way home hadn’t felt like a place since he met you— but a person.
You closed your eyes, your voice barely a whisper “I can’t keep walking away.”
The confession hung between you, raw and trembling, before you leaned into him, forehead to shoulder, clinging to the warmth like it was the only thing keeping you alive. The sounds spilling from your lips grew louder, less guarded, echoing softly through the dark house like a truth long withheld.
Daryl’s hand came to your face, coaxing you to look at him. He tilted your chin with care, his eyes searching yours like he needed to be sure that you meant it. Then, as if reading the tension that still lingered in your bones, his thumb brushed over your bottom lip, swollen and parted from breathless pleas. He leaned in, his voice low, rough with affection and heat.
“Open”
You did without hesitation and when he slipped his thumb past your lips, your eyes fluttered closed, a quiet moan vibrating against it. It wasn’t just the act, it was the way he looked at you while doing it. Like every piece of you, no matter how bruised or tired, belonged to him.
It didn’t take long for you both to chase what was missing, this familiar high that made you both dizzy. You bounced on him with purpose, chasing something that felt less like lust and more like a memory your body had been aching to relieve, his tip pressing deep, tapping your cervix in a way that would force you to remember the feel of him for the next few days.
His moans were low, guttural and breaking your restraint. You drank them in like a secret indulgence, an addiction you no longer cared to hide, not when your body pulsed around his.
Your lips fell open, releasing his thumb with a gasp. You threw your head back as an orgasm crashed through you, your name breaking in his throat as he followed, forehead pressed to your chest like he needed to feel your heartbeat as he spilled his seed inside of you.
The stillness of the house wrapped around the both of you, filled only by your uneven breaths. Sweat cooled against your skin, your limbs still trembling. There was no real need for words until he made you look at him. His hand cradled your jaw, guiding your gaze to meet his. His voice was quiet but there was no mistaking the weight behind it.
“I meant it.” he said “I need ya safe. Can’t be out there like this if i’m worried sick ‘bout ya…all I’m askin’ is for a bit more time. Can ya do tha’ fer me?”
Your eyes softened, your forehead resting gently against his, the intimacy of it all blurring the lines between what you wanted and what was right. “I can try,” you whispered, breath brushing against his lips.
“Tha’s all I ask for” he pressed a kiss to your mouth, slow, tender, full of everything he couldn’t say.
A small smile ghosted over your lips when he finally pulled back, breath still mingling with yours in the dark. “This is an unfair way to negotiate” you murmured, voice light but edged with ache.
Daryl’s hand lingered on your waist, rough thumbs brushing the skin just beneath the hem of the shirt. He huffed a quiet laugh, barely a breath.
“Ain’t a negotiation,” he said, eyes never leaving yours “Just tellin’ ya how it is. I want ya safe and i want ya home”
The way he said the word home made your chest tighten, like the weight of every moment you’d spent apart was finally settling in your bones. You nodded slowly, your hand brushing along the side of his face, thumb pausing at this jaw as if to memorize the shape of him again.
He leaned into your touch for a breath, then pressed a kiss just below your palm, eyes never leaving yours.
“Good,” he whispered, voice still low and warm “How bout we go clean up now?”
You smiled, soft and worn, carrying all the unspoken words tangled deep inside. For now, he was home and you told yourself quietly, that maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
Warnings: Typical John Wick Universe Violence; Allusions to illness; SPOILERS FOR BALLERINA
Summary: Uncle Winston relocated you from The Continental New York for your own safety. At your new location, you cross paths with a little girl. Her presence is a mystery. Almost as big of a mystery as Daniel Pine in room 315. Strangers to friends to lovers.
A/N below the cut! Cause—SPOILERS.
Thank you for your brain @shadowcitrine 🩵
A/N: Fell in love with these two characters: Daniel and Ella Pine. Had to write them. So—notes! No real Daniel in this chapter but we’ll get to him in the next one. I took some liberties with Ella’s age. I found that the original script had her as 6 years old. That may have changed but that’s what I ran with. There aren’t a ton of spoilers in this chapter but there are spoilers. I’m doing my best with John Wick universe lore. I’m definitely no expert but this is fun. I’ll update this if I can remember other things I need to say.
“That going to 315?” You asked, circling the cart. The banana split that was nearly spilling over the silver plated boat was impressive. An extra bowl of cherries sat next to it. There was no whipped cream. That was a pity. It was the best part, in your opinion. “Guy sure does like ice cream.”
“He orders food too.” Tobias shrugged. “Lots of it. He just—orders ice cream more.”
You nodded, stepping out of the way as the cart squeaked into motion, one wheel wobbling in a way most people wouldn’t notice. You noticed. Of course you did. You were trained to see things that others didn’t, down to the finest detail where the hotel was concerned. You were raised to be aware. Your Uncle Winston saw to it.
He wasn’t really your uncle. He was your godfather. When your parents were taken from you at such an early age, you were brought up within the walls of The Continental New York. Over the years, you had watched the best of the best partake in the unique services offered. The weapons, medical, and ‘dinner reservations’. You had also seen it house the worst of the worst.
Winston had protected you without directly shielding you. You were an integral part of the hotel’s functionality. Your jobs were important, but mundane, giving you the appearance of just another staff member. He couldn’t let you be seen as anyone important to him. He had too many enemies to show that sort of attachment. It would have certainly spelled disaster for you.
It was for that reason that you had been sent away when bad blood had bloomed between Winston and John Wick. The Baba Yaga. Not that John—Jonathan, as Winston had called him—couldn’t find you with ease if he saw fit. Winston had to make you seem expendable. Inconsequential. Nothing more to him than an employee transfer.
Prague wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great. The Continental ran under the same rules. The same expectations. Only the manager knew of your true ties to the New York hotel and had pledged you’d be looked after.
Just as it had been back home, you worked as the head of housekeeping. Most of your work was managerial, so a short flowy black dress and lightweight cropped blazer were sufficient in lieu of a standard hotel uniform. It was your duty to oversee that the elegant rooms remained on the level of reputably unimpaired—not one speck of dust, nor a single bead of blood. Crisp sheets, fully stocked minibars, and the plushest towels were your weapons in the Underworld.
Most of the patrons welcomed your staff, eager to be pampered and catered to during their stay. But not 315. Not Daniel Pine, as the occupancy list had indicated his name to be. He allowed no one in his suite. And he never left. Not once in just over a week. Sheets, towels, food, toiletries, and other amenities authorized by The Manager were left outside the room. Furthermore, the door never opened while anyone remained in the hallway.
Never.
It certainly wasn’t the oddest behavior you’d witnessed given the surroundings of your profession. So, it was with a shrug that you carried on about your own business and left Mr. Pine to his.
That was, until the Dvorak brothers incident. Three rooms left in shambles. Two employees killed and several others injured, leaving the hotel shorthanded until The Manager could pull off a miracle.
“There is no one else.” Dominik pushed the cart towards you, a wheel trundling up onto the toe of your impractical stiletto.
“Ow! Why can’t you do it?” You asked, fingers wrapping around the curved handle. You already knew the answer. Dominik was security. It had been a miracle for the kitchen staff to convince him to lay hands on that cart at all. Sensing the futility of questioning, you waved a hand and begrudgingly wheeled the thing towards the service elevator.
The ascension to the third floor was silent, the audio system still inoperative since yesterday’s incident. Somehow, it seemed to compound the strange feeling that was stirring in your gut. Anxiety, maybe? You felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, wondering if you’d catch a glimpse of Krampus.
The doors parted and you found the first corridor empty. Unsurprising for that time of evening. The patrons were likely out seeking their next bounty or hiding behind closed doors to ensure their own bounty wasn’t collected.
There was a reason no business was permitted to be conducted on Continental grounds. After all, the hotel was open to the public. Certain floors, like the one you currently navigated, were used by members of the Underworld. As were a number of the lounges. Even if only one side was aware, the two worlds coexisted without much of a problem. Most of the time.
Regardless, that hardly mattered when you were delivering a room service ice cream medley to a dangerous assassin with an apparently massive sweet tooth.
You positioned the cart just so outside the door, ensuring it could be pulled through the entryway without an issue. Knocking firmly, you called out “room service” before pivoting on a heel to return towards the elevator. As you walked, you pulled your access badge from the inner pocket of your blazer. With your usual grace, you fumbled the card, cursing in a whisper when it tumbled onto the floor with a soft sound just before you rounded the corner. Rolling your eyes at your own carelessness, you turned and crouched as ladylike as you could to retrieve your keycard when you heard the click of the lock disengage just down the hall.
You blinked. Once. Twice. An arm was extending from the door, a large hand wrapping around the handle of the cart. The ring he wore was dark against his tan skin and clinked lightly against the metal. But that wasn’t what held your attention. It was the small girl standing just inside the door. Her eyes mirrored your own, wide and curious. Stunned. Neither of you looked away, even as the door closed.
Who was she? Why was she there? There was no record of a kid being on that floor and it wasn’t ‘bring your child to work day’ in the Underworld. Your first thought was to fear for her safety. She was in a room with a dangerous man, after all. However, she hadn’t appeared to be afraid. Just—surprised to see someone near the door.
There was a sound from down the hall. It wasn’t the lock, but something was happening inside the suite. Muted clicks and thumps before it all went quiet. You stayed put, still crouched with eyes narrowed and ears straining while building a myriad of scenarios by sound alone.
You finally heard the little girl giggling from the room followed by a scrape of a spoon on the porcelain bowl that had been provided. A man’s voice, distinct in its dark, rich timbre. Another giggle and then the faint but familiar tune of Under the Sea from The Little Mermaid. If the little girl was there against her will, she was being spoiled rotten.
Fetching your badge and rising to walk away, you told yourself to stay out of it. It was none of your business. Uncle Winston would have granted you a two hour lecture if he had even an inkling of knowledge that you were merely curious about the affairs of anyone wrapped up in the life of the Underworld.
But Uncle Winston wasn’t here.
So you had no problem volunteering to deliver the meals and ice cream the next day—after a trip into town for something that could hopefully go unnoticed by Mr. Pine but draw the eye of the little girl. If she was in trouble, it would be a message to inform her that she had been seen. If she wasn’t, then it was just a gift.
Beneath the serving dish of ice cream, barely noticeable, you left a sticker. A rolling pin with eyes and a smile that said you’re a-dough-rable. You weren’t sure if she could even read but the image was cute enough. After delivering the dessert, you waited downstairs, busying yourself with your duties. If Mr. Pine had noticed, he’d surely make a call to the desk. Or maybe he wouldn’t. There was no way to know for sure.
But when you collected the cart and dishes, the sticker was gone.
At dinnertime, there had been no contact. So you left another sticker: a teapot with a smile that said you’re a cu-tea. When the cart and dishes were returned this time, the sticker had been removed and the adhesive paper had been left behind. Smiling to yourself, you made a decision.
In trouble or not, this little girl was going to know she had a friend in The Continental.
You continued to hide stickers on the cart with each food delivery. One day, a smiley face born of red crayon had been left for you on a napkin. It was a small gesture but it was enough to ensure you knew your efforts were appreciated.
Things continued this way until today. You were walking by the concierge desk when you heard Josef speaking into the phone.
“Mr. Pine? Mr. Pine, are you there?” He appeared to wait, his expression unreadable.
You froze, keeping your eyes averted while straining to listen. The concierge hung up, only for the phone to ring again with the same outcome. Something was fishy. “What’s going on?” You queried, leaning on the opposite side of the desk. You strived to appear mostly uninvested, likely an endeavor you were desperately failing.
Josef sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Room 315 has called about seven times. There’s no response when I answer. I’m gonna have to send up a tech to check the phone lines.” When he picked up the receiver, you watched his fingers begin to dial an extension. Something was definitely off.
“Did he order food and ice cream today yet?” You asked, rounding the desk. Josef didn’t answer for a moment before roughly hanging up the phone.
“No one’s answering in maintenance.” Now he was pinching the bridge of his nose, frustration etched into every line of his face. “No. No orders today.”
Shit.
The phone rang and you snatched it up before Josef could even flinch. “Concierge desk.” You were met with silence. Licking your lips, you glanced at Josef before angling yourself away. “Mr. Pine, would you like your normal ice cream order?” No answer aside from quiet breaths on the other end of the line, too soft to be that of a grown man. Lowering your voice, dropping to a whisper, you added “I can send two stickers this time.”
“I need medicine to make daddy better.”
Your eyes shot wide. It was her. And Mr. Pine—was her father. You took a deep breath, risking a glance at Josef. He was watching you with a furrowed brow and curious stare. “I apologize for the inconvenience with the phone lines, Mr. Pine. Let me call you from my personal line and I’ll handle this issue myself.” You didn’t wait for a response before replacing the receiver on the base. “I think I know what the issue is. I’ll take care of it.”
“You sure? When did you get so tech savvy?” He chuckled, his tone teasing.
“Shut up. I dealt with these kinds of issues all the time in New York. I got it.” You shook your head and pulled out your cellphone. Running a finger down the occupancy list, you found the direct line to room 315 and swiftly dialed it. Playing it cool, you gave Josef a thumbs up and walked away, pressing your back to the wall around the corner. The call connected but there was no answer. “It’s me.” You said, your tone calm and hopefully soothing. Still nothing. “My name is Y/N. What’s yours?”
A beat passed. “Ella.”
“Hi, Ella. Thank you for the smiley face drawing.” When she didn’t respond, you continued. “Ella, can you tell me what you need?”
“Daddy’s sick.” Her voice was small, but remarkably even.
“Okay, what’s wrong with him?” You began walking toward the service elevator, pulling your badge from your inner pocket.
“He’s hot.” You could hear her moving around. “And he’s not waking up.” The rustling of the sheets. Then a barking cough.
Definitely not good.
“Okay, I’m coming up and we’ll figure something out together. Are you okay with that?”
Once again, there was an extended silence. “You can’t use the door.”
The elevator opened and you stepped inside, your finger hovering over the button. “Why can’t I?”
“It’s dangerous.”
Finally pressing the button, the elevator lurched as it began to ascend. “How can a door be dangerous?” It wasn’t the strangest thing you’d ever heard out of a kid’s mouth, but it was up there.
“It just is.” You could have laughed at the indignation in her tone. “And you can’t tell anyone daddy’s sick.”
This was just becoming more and more of a mystery. “Why’s that? We have a doctor here.” The silence stretched to the point where you thought she might have hung up. Lowering your phone from your ear, you glanced at the screen. Still connected.
“He says we can’t trust anyone.”
Narrowing your eyes, you stepped out of the elevator after the bell chimed. “Then why are you trusting me?”
“You gave me stickers.”
You did chuckle this time. “That’s not exactly sound logic, kid.” You reasoned as you traveled the halls toward room 315.
“I’m 6.”
Stopping outside the door, you balanced the phone against your shoulder and grasped the door handle with one hand while your other held the badge. You were seconds away from passing the card over the reader before you let go and stepped back. “Okay, then how am I supposed to get in if I can’t use the door?”
“I’ll open the window.” Ella stated matter-of-factly.
Your jaw fell open. “To the balcony?!” Her problem solving skills definitely needed work if this was her solution. That or she needed to cut back on the cartoons.
“Mhm.” You could hear movement coming from inside the room. Another cough, a low groan. “Can you hurry?”
She wanted you to scale the ledge from the next room. What the actual fuck? Was this some sort of trick? Were you getting too close? So close that Mr. Pine was planning something and willing to use a little girl to do it? “I—”
“Please?” That word in her little voice shifted something inside you. Something you didn’t really like but couldn’t ignore. You thought back to those big eyes meeting yours from the doorway; the red smiley face napkin. If this was some ploy, this girl was a damn mastermind.
“I’m not Wonder Woman, kid.” You ran a hand over your hair, trying to reconcile what she was asking with the urgency of the situation.
“You have to be careful.” It was as if she hadn’t heard your last words at all. Like she knew you had already made up your mind to help.
“Well, yeah. It’s a balcony. On the third floor.”
“No. Not that.” Ella whispered as if someone might overhear. “Sometimes there are bad people outside.”
“You mean—” Of course she meant snipers. You wouldn’t be surprised if some had just taken up permanent residence on the roofs of nearby buildings. Probably even split the electric bill with the owners.
“Please hurry.” Her voice had begun to wobble. It was when you heard the quiet it’s okay, daddy that your resolve absolutely crumbled.
Jesus fuck, what were you getting yourself into? “Okay.” You sighed. “Okay, but I’m in heels. This might take a minute.”
Summary: You’re a lone survivor — ex-nurse, guarded and self-sufficient — who reluctantly agrees to stay in Alexandria after a run-in with Rick’s group. You keep your distance, especially from the crossbow-wielding tracker who seems to orbit your presence without ever stepping too close. Then a supply run with Daryl change everything
You told them as much when Rick found you on the road — clothes torn, a stitched wound on your ribs, eyes hollow. He offered a place in Alexandria. You said no. Then you saw the place. Kids everywhere, who looks joyful, it really looked like the old world. And something in your chest pulled tight.
“I’ll stay a few days,” you’d muttered.
That was two months ago.
⸻
You don’t talk much. You never needed to.
But you watch.
You see Carol carrying too much weight in her silence. You see Rick’s eyes never stop scanning, even when he’s holding his daughter. And you see Daryl always on the edge, always ready to bolt, but he never does.
Especially not when you’re near.
He doesn’t speak to you, not at first. He just starts appearing near wherever you go. Fixing something when you’re in the garden. Sharpening his bolts when you’re hanging laundry. Dropping little things by your door: a clean cloth, dried berries, a book missing its cover.
You never ask why.
But the first time you clean a cut on his hand and say nothing, just hand him a bit of jerky in return, he looks at you like he understands you in a way no one else ever has.
⸻
Then comes the supply run.
It’s just supposed to be a two-person job. You and Daryl. Quick in and out — a medical outpost near the old high school.
Things go wrong.
You’re crossing a broken floorboard when the wood gives out and something jagged drives straight into your thigh. You scream — more out of shock than pain. But Daryl’s there in seconds.
“Shit, hold still.”
Blood everywhere. Your hands shaking. The wood still inside you.
“Don’t—pull it—yet,” you gasp, already dizzy. “Could be arterial—”
He surprises you by listening. He doesn’t panic. Just lifts you gently, careful not to jostle the leg.
“I got you,” he murmurs, jaw tight.
⸻
The ride back is a blur.
You drift in and out — fever coming on fast. The wound gets worse. Infected. The wood must’ve been dirty. You barely remember when Carol starts taking care of you, or when Rick checks in and says something like, “She’s strong. She’ll pull through.”
But mostly… you remember him.
You wake in flashes.
Once, to the sound of Daryl whispering something — soft and raw — to Judith, who toddles in and curls up near your bed.
Another time, to the feeling of his rough fingers brushing your forehead, checking your fever.
And again, to his voice: “You ain’t dyin’. Not like this. You hear me?”
⸻
Your fever lasts a full week.
Seven days of nothing but dreams and ghost-voices and heat.
When you finally wake fully, it’s night. The room is dim. Quiet. You try to sit up — groan in pain.
“Don’t.”
His voice. Always rough. Always softest when it’s for you.
Daryl’s there in the chair, elbows on his knees, looking like he hasn’t slept in days.
“You stayed?” you rasp.
He meets your gaze, and for once, doesn’t look away.
“Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Your chest tightens. Not from pain this time.
⸻
Over the next few days, Carol helps you change the bandages. Judith brings you little flowers — most are weeds, but you keep every single one in a jar by the window.
Rick stops by too. “You’ve got people now,” he says with a quiet smile. “Even if you don’t know what to do with that yet.”
You look toward the porch, where Daryl leans against the rail, eyes scanning the treeline.
“I’m figuring it out,” you whisper.
⸻
It’s not until your strength starts returning that you ask him.
“Why’d you stay? All that time?”
Daryl shrugs. “Couldn’t leave you.”
You watch him. He fidgets with the strap of his crossbow. Won’t look at you. But there’s something tender in his voice, buried under years of scars.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” you say.
“I know.”
A long pause.
“But I wanted to.”
⸻
That night, when you walk out to join him on the porch, he glances over — surprised — as you sit beside him and lean your head on his shoulder.
He doesn’t speak.
But his hand slowly finds yours in the dark, rough fingers wrapping around your palm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And just like that, you start to believe maybe wildflowers really can grow in the ashes.
Summary: In a world where the living have long since surpassed the dead in threat level, Tess Foster had made it one of her top priorities to keep her distance unless absolutely necessary. However, after a bad encounter leaves her barely standing, she may have no choice but to accept the forced company that is suddenly thrust upon her. A Daryl Dixon x Original Female Character sloooooooooooooow burn story that I would call largely platonic. A 'They have a Thing™️ but just don't know it' kind of deal
Chapter 1: Just Try
Chapter Warnings: Mild Language, Brief Mention of Blood and Injuries
Word Count: 1,214
10 More Seconds. Just hold on for 10 more seconds.
It was something her grandfather had always said to her. A Vietnam vet who always had a word of advice or a way to fight through something. It started when she was eleven. Tuesdays and Thursdays were P.E. days, and they always started the same - with running.
She was no runner.
It was never from lack of trying, though. She always wanted to be a good runner, had always had this romanticized fantasy of running freely through the woods or a lush forest, with nothing but a clear head and the wind rushing around her. An escape. For so long it had sounded like heaven to her. In theory, anyways. In practice...
She was no runner.
Regardless of the determination to improve and all the practice she had put into increasing her cardio and speed skills it never seemed to matter much. By the end of the year she had only improved her time by roughly five seconds, a trend that continued until she graduated high school. It also didn't help matters that puberty had not been at all kind to her. Her previous baby fat had multiplied and solidified and, despite her mother's desperate attempts to make her only daughter beautiful again, it wouldn't go away and would stick with her late into her senior year. And, naturally, of course, all the other kids were very good and consistent in letting her know that it was her weight that made her so slow. And lazy. And worthless. And… all the other cruel things kids are known to say. So when her eleven year old self had come home in tears one afternoon and was caught by her grandfather before she could make it to the shelter of her room, he refused to release her until she came clean about what had been bothering her. And just like always when it was only him and her, she caved quickly.
He let her cry everything out, continuously wiped her tears away while she launched into the long winded speech about how horrible her life was and how it would never get any better, and cleaned up her running nose when she finished with a much too dramatic declaration that she would never, ever, in her entire life, be happy again. He helped her through it and watched it all with practiced patience and minor amusement, that she luckily was too young and distraught to catch, speckling his warm brown eyes.
When she had finally wrapped it all up and had calmed down enough to quell the hiccups that always followed when she had a big crying fit, he removed her from the knee he had had her perched upon and stood her directly in front of him so he could look her straight in the eye.
"Now you listen to me little bird. The most important thing you can do in life is try. There's nothin’ wrong in not being able to do somethin’, and no shame in havin’ to ask for help, but you have to at least try. So, whenever you feel like you can't do somethin’, or that you have nothing left to give - just hold on for 10 more seconds."
She had simply nodded along and then finally retreated to her room when he allowed her to be excused. She never would have said it, least of all to him, but it had sounded dumb to her at the time. What didn't he get? If she could hold on any longer then it wouldn't be such a problem. But then she got older and, thankfully before his sixty ninth birthday and subsequent death the day after, she realized he had only been planting the seeds for her to harvest later on in life.
And so, as she stood here now, practically dead on her feet already, her head - along with the entire world around her, it seemed - spinning so badly she couldn't even take a guess as to what was up or down and ready to just throw in the towel already, she managed to get a slight glimpse of something off to the side of her peripheral vision.
Brown eyes.
Brown eyes that were never supposed to even be here. Big, dark and oh so depending that she instantly knew. This was one of those times.
Just 10 more seconds. Hold on for just 10. More. Seconds.
With one last spurt of gas she knew she shouldn't possibly have left, she dug down with everything she could muster and pushed against her current road block with everything she had. Her whole body screamed in protest and in her mind, she let out a primal scream for survival. She was almost positive she didn't, but it sounded good and seemed like a cool mental image to motivate herself with.
Just as she began to wonder what on earth this fucking couch was made of to make it so heavy and unmoving, she heard the scraping of wood on wood just before the whole thing lurched forward against the infinitely lighter book case she had first manged to brace against the door.
She collapsed to the floor and against the side of the couch. She took only a moment then made to reposition herself, but only managed to turn slightly so that she fell back and was now resting against the wall.
She just needed to close her eyes.
Everything was so loud. Her heartbeat pounding at every pulse point, the blood rushing in her ears. It was all so deafening. She just needed it to quiet down some.
After some time, she couldn't know how long, the rushing slowed. The pounding lessened. Soon she was able to start catching hints of other things. Her ragged breathing. The hungry growls from the walkers that were still digging and clawing to get in. Then, just barely but there all the same, soft shuffling. It was that sound that called for her to reopen her eyes.
Brown. That's what she was met with. The familiar, warm brown eyes that were big and staring as always. Her vision was really starting to cloud heavier at the edges now and she couldn't help but to wonder if perhaps she was already dead, the way he seemed to just stare straight through her. But then his hand came up, clutching the same damn yellow hanky he was never without, and slowly started to wipe at the blood that had gushed from her nose and stained over her lips as it seeped down. There were other places. So many other places. But this was the area that seemed to cause him the most concern and it was that little bit of comforting touch that finally allowed her to release her breath.
They were fine. They were safe. For now only, maybe, but that was all that mattered. They just needed some time. Time to sort things out. Time to reevaluate. Time to just...be.
She wasn't even aware that her head had lolled off to the side. She wasn't aware of the concerned brown eyes that followed the movement.She just needed a minute. Just a few minutes to rest up. That's all.
Warnings: Allusions to abuse, eventual TWD type blood and gore; angst
Summary: Fleeting moments in a trailer park that somehow became everything.
A/N: First attempt at pre-apocalypse. Neeeervous. Angst ahead! Fluff and angst! That’s the story. Definitely listen to the song! As of right now, this is a one shot with no plans of continuing.
🎶Anywhere by Evanescence🎶
Forget this life
Come with me
Don't look back, you're safe now
Unlock your heart
Drop your guard
No one's left to stop you
The old porch swing groaned and creaked with each gentle sway. The thing was older than you were, installed on the doublewide’s too small porch, damned to be more of an eyesore than an amenity. Your dad had never painted it to match the trailer, though he’d have needed several shades and a patience he didn’t possess to conquer that feat. The wood was splintered and slivers dug into the back of your legs below your denim shorts as you enjoyed the final tingling sensations of a nicotine buzz.
The grass was overgrown, the warm breeze inspiring the rolling waves of a dark tide in front of the house with lightning bugs acting as stars on a coastline horizon. You were loath for management to enforce the ordinance that lawns must be maintained no higher than five inches, lest they strip you of your late night escape. For someone who had never left Georgia, you had seen your own ocean.
You always saw him during those hours spent in your little paradise, skulking around in the dark on the heels of his brother, likely traipsing in after a long night of drinking, drugs, and women. While the older of the two staggered and hollered, the younger walked quietly behind him with unsure strides not born of alcoholic influence. Maybe he had a few drinks in him, but living in that trailer park all your life had shown you the difference between drunk and damaged.
You knew of the Dixon brothers. Hell, there wasn’t a person in the whole park who hadn’t been scorned by Merle in one way or another. The men were threatened, the women degraded, and the children scared. The man had a remarkable lack of decorum. His younger brother, Daryl, was an entirely different enigma. He had a mouth on him that was usually reserved for defending his sibling in situations of the elder’s own making. Otherwise, he was quiet, his face decorated in a permanent scowl.
You rarely saw one without the other and had never spoken to either of them, allowing your silence to be your defense in the face of Merle’s advances. Daryl’s gruff leave ‘er alone, man never fell upon deaf ears. He wasn’t exactly a knight in shining armor but you appreciated his attempts at granting you a reprieve nonetheless.
You heard the uncoordinated cadence of boots on the gravel-ridden pavement before you saw them on their usual path, the pale illuminance of an old street lamp barely enough to light their way. Merle had a half empty bottle of Jack in his hand, waving it like a conductor’s baton as he slurred the lyrics of some song you’d never heard. Daryl was behind him, his gait steadier than that of his sibling. His head was down, his arms swinging at his sides. His stiff shoulders suggested he had little interest in being privy to Merle’s escapades. Come to think of it, you weren’t sure you had ever seen him without that coil to his demeanor: quiet but ready to strike should the need arise.
Placing another cigarette between your lips, you never considered how the glow of your lighter would give you away. Your eyes were focused on the flame, the blurred silhouette beyond it coming to a halt as your gaze lifted a fraction of an inch. Your thumb released the fork to extinguish the light, leaving Daryl’s still form in your sights. You didn’t need to see past the shadows that blanketed him to know he had seen you, and Merle was too inebriated to take notice, continuing his trek toward their trailer at the far end of the park.
The high-pitched buzz of a mosquito by the shell of your ear was all that could be heard beyond the older Dixon’s bellowing and even that was filtered into white noise as you and Daryl maintained your stances. He didn’t move for moments that passed like hours, the stretch of time not exactly uncomfortable though the logical part of your brain said it should have been. You didn’t know him.
With your vice balanced between your lips, you tapped the cigarette pack against the side of your hand to urge one forward and, before you could take even a second to rethink the decision, you plucked it free and held out the offering toward the man across the way. You briefly considered that he likely had his own, embarrassment blooming as a tight twist in your gut before fizzling out when he took that first step toward your porch.
A sudden unease sparked to life within you, exacerbated by each tread of Daryl’s boots. What if your daddy woke up? Finding a Dixon at his door would be bad even before you took into account the copious amounts of beer he had ingested before passing out in his Lazy Boy. The ball of your bare foot pressed against the porch to halt the swing as it leveled out. Using that momentum, you pushed off the seat and padded over to the two crooked steps, intercepting Daryl before he could ascend.
The cigarette was accepted in continued silence. He didn’t ask for a light, but pulled his own from his pocket. When the flint ignited, it was the first time you had seen his face up close. The flame danced in his irises before it was douted, filling you with a foreign disappointment at not seeing their color.
And so it continued: periodic draws and billows of smoke dancing through the umbrage over your bowed heads. Flicking ash, you drew your bottom lip between your teeth and gnawed at it. Surely he hadn’t walked all the way over just to smoke and stare at his boots. It certainly hadn’t been your initial intent to invite him in the first place.
You flinched when he cleared his throat, eyes coming up to find him staring at his cigarette, the stick rolling between his forefinger and thumb. “Name’s Daryl.” His voice was a quiet rasp.
“I know.” You caught his gaze when he glanced at you, eyes narrowed. It shouldn’t have come as a shock that you knew, but his expression was telling. He had to be aware of the reputation the Dixon name carried. When he looked away in the direction of his trailer, the moonlight carved out a section of his face. Blue. His eyes were blue. “I’m Y/N.”
“I know.” He commented without looking back.
He knew your name? It shouldn’t have been a surprise to you either. Your father had solidified a reputation of his own, instilling in the neighborhood that you were poor, pitiful Y/N. You kept to yourself but the bruises were always dark and profound and your swing was your refuge, leaving the mars on your skin to be public knowledge. No one could begin to understand why you stayed. You weren’t a child. But your father couldn’t care for himself. Right?
“Daddy’s a drinker.” You weren’t sure why you volunteered the information. It wasn’t his business and he likely didn’t care. Still, maybe he would get it. He was no stranger to the unbridled anger of an alcoholic parent.
“I know. Mine was too.” When Daryl’s father had passed away, it had been a relief to most of the residents. Will Dixon was worse than Merle in his own way. Their first trailer had been further away from the rest of the park, the fire that had claimed it, along with Daryl’s mother, not reaching the other homes.
Another trailer had been brought in only days later, placed in a closer lot and away from the pile of debris that remained even all those years later. You had been a child but you could still remember seeing the brothers run down the street toward the blaze only to be stopped by officers already on the scene. Will had been at the bar and appeared more inconvenienced than grief stricken when he had finally dragged himself to what was left of his home.
“I know.” You hated to admit it but hated the thought of lying to him even more. When your existence sought out the kindness in others in order to sustain itself, honesty was empowering—even if it hurt.
Daryl nodded and sniffed, but didn’t turn your way. It was if he was waiting for something, but what came had his shoulders sagging.
“Darylina!”
He stared in the direction of his trailer, the stumbling shadow of his brother silhouetted behind the ragged blinds. Clearing his throat, he held up the cigarette. It was nearly down to the filter. “Thanks, uh—thanks for the smoke.”
“You’re welcome.”
You watched him walk away, the street lamp flickering as he walked beneath the pale halo. As his shadow disappeared and you heard the chaos erupt from the Dixon singlewide, you felt a twinge in your heart of something foreign.
“Y/N!”
Wincing at the slurred holler of your name, you turned toward the door, casting one last glance over your shoulder.
“Coming, daddy.”
“It’s easy,” you smiled coolly. “You just make a loop and interlink it.” You held up the partially constructed pattern for his inspection. “See?”
Daryl squinted. “Nah.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette and placed it back in his mouth to dangle loosely from his lips. “Got no idea what m’supposed to be lookin’ at.” He shifted his focus back to the object on his lap.
Over the last few weeks and several silent smoking sessions, activities such as these had become recurrent: you sitting just beside the railing on the porch with Daryl below. He had never ventured further than the bottom step, but that seemed to be just fine for the both of you.
Pursing your lips, you continued crocheting, glancing over to watch his hands work. “What’re you working on?”
“Hmm?” He hummed, apparently completely absorbed by the task at hand. When you remained quiet, he glanced up and back down, then up again. “Oh. Uh, tuning the carburetor for Merle’s bike.”
“Ah.” You both resumed your individual pursuits. “Why isn’t he doing it?” You queried, keeping your eyes on the yarn, skillfully weaving the tight, red stitches.
Daryl huffed, the sound approaching something spiteful, as he stubbed out his cigarette on the narrow walkway. “Cause he’s prolly four beers in on a tab he ain’t gonna pay.”
You smiled down at your work. “I must be more fun than drinking if you’re not with him.” You teased lightly.
He snorted. “Yeah, you an’ your knittin’.”
You feigned offense, dramatically dropping your current project onto your lap. “How dare you. It’s crocheting.” When he shot you an exasperated scowl, you smiled, all teeth and sparkling eyes. Shaking his head, he went back to his tinkering.
“Whatever.”
“Whatever.” You clapped back in a mocking tone.
When the silence ensued, it was never uncomfortable. It hadn’t been from the start. Despite his rough exterior, Daryl was easy when it came to companionship. There were no expectations. Just two people enjoying the stillness of the trailer park after the sun was low enough in the sky to send the youngsters inside for the evening.
The rickety step creaked when the younger Dixon pushed on it to get to his feet, bike part and tools in hand. You never said goodbye or even goodnight, always parting like the next meeting was simply a continuation of the one before it.
“Hold on.” You interjected, seeing him still out of the corner of your eye. He didn’t show any symptom of impatience as he waited, something you took as a compliment with how he would always rush his brother when in his company. Once you fastened off the yarn, you placed the supplies aside and held out the finished product. “For you.”
Eyeing the thing suspiciously, Daryl piled everything into the crook of one elbow so he could accept the offering. “What is it?” He turned the thing over and back, his knitted brow something approaching comical.
“It’s a hat, stupid.” You punctuated the final word with a dramatic roll of your eyes.
A ghost of a smile played at one corner of his mouth, disappearing before you could marvel at the rare glimpse. “What m’I supposed to do with this?”
You knew he was teasing in his own way, an act you had picked up on after a few times of mistaking it for dismissal. “Put popcorn in it and go to the movies. What do you think you’re supposed to do with it, Daryl Dixon?”
“Sure as hell ain’t wearin’ it.” He griped, spinning on a heel to start the journey up the vacant street.
Standing and stretching, you dusted off the back of your shorts and leaned against the tottering pillar to cross your arms. He was just past the illuminated patch of pavement when you saw him stretch the material over his head. “I knew you liked it!” You called.
You saw his middle finger raise above his head before he circled around to the back of his trailer and out of sight.
“I’d hate to see the other guy.”
“What?” Daryl looked up as you descended with your first aid kit in hand. When you took a seat next to him, it was as if he had seen a unicorn, his mouth hanging open with his eyebrows rising toward his hairline. Just as he had never ventured beyond the bottom step, you had never left the porch.
“You trying to catch flies? Close your mouth.” You teased while opening an antiseptic wipe. You reached for him and he reeled back, giving you pause. You didn’t question it, didn’t push him. “You wanna do it yourself?” Flipping your hand, you waited for him to accept the small square.
Daryl’s eyes darted between your face and the wipe. After what appeared to be careful consideration, he dropped his head and fumbled with a pack of cigarettes. “Nah. It’ll keep.”
“Daryl.” You gave him a look, holding it in silence until he finally turned your way. He had a smoke halfway to his lips but lowered it with a sigh. Victory.
You were gentle when grasping his chin, gentler still when dabbing the cut across the bridge of his nose. His eyes were lingering toward the right, seemingly avoiding your gaze at all costs. Eye contact wasn’t your strong suit either.
“What happened?” You asked, shifting your focus to a similar injury on his cheek with a light urging to turn his head.
“S’it look like?” He had barely moved to scowl at you before you used your grip to correct him. Daryl huffed a breath but made no move to try again.
“Looks like you were fighting Merle’s battles again.”
You’d known of nights like this before, though it was the first time you had witnessed the aftermath of such altercations up close. Why he had come to you that night would likely remain a mystery.
You watched his eyes lower with no reply but you didn’t need one. Daryl was always in some sort of trouble that wasn’t of his own making. The only time he hadn’t followed Merle was when the older of the two had gone to prison.
Your benign touch returning, you guided him to face you once more before trading the wipe for a fresh one. “Why do you follow him?” You hadn’t meant it any sort of way other than genuine curiosity. Dabbing the split in his lip, you flinched when he lurched backward, his arm coming up between you.
“Ow, fuck!” He inadvertently licked the area, spitting the antiseptic tinted saliva onto the concrete. “He’s my brother!” His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was the first time that any level of harshness had been directed toward you.
“I just don’t understand—”
“Ya don’t gotta!” He yawped, sobering almost immediately without even sparing you a glance. “Ya don’t gotta understand.” He repeated glumly.
Your hands had lowered to rest on your thighs as you assessed him, unsure whether or not you should continue to engage at all. You settled on a muted “okay.”
Neither of you moved after that. Neither of you spoke. Marking its inception was a feeling of palpable unease. The tension was stifling by the time he rose to his feet with the unlit cigarette still between his fingers, his boots carrying him in heavy steps past the sanctum of the old street lamp’s glow where he disappeared into the shadows.
The night had never felt more despondent.
Where is it? You stared at the word search, the diluted lambency of the crooked sconce by the front door not doing you any favors when seeking out the elusive string of letters that amounted to locomotive. Your pen and puzzle book balanced in one hand, you lifted your cigarette to your mouth with the other and indulged in a generous draw, letting the smoke billow from your lips before forcing the remainder out through your nose.
The rhythmic drumming of the rain on the tin roof was an adequate replacement for your customary moonlight and wind-blown sea of greenery. Never one for The Weather Channel, the storm had been unexpected, but you found solace in the lightning and claps of thunder all the same. The boisterous sonance drowned out your thoughts and veins of luminosity burned away your pensiveness.
You had seen Daryl since the night you had tended to his injuries. Each time, he had been doing his customary trailing on Merle’s heels, never sparing you a glance even when his brother cat-called you with a string of degrading expletives. The intentional avoidance hurt. You weren’t exactly sure that you could call the thing between you a friendship but it was something. It was tangible and assuaging and you missed it.
That train of thought derailed within a peal of thunder. You placed your book next to your hip and leaned to look up at the sky, the old swing creaking beneath your shifting weight. Rivulets of rainwater trickled from the malleable metal and dripped onto your face, your eyes squinting and blinking in defiance.
“S’really comin’ down.”
Your head snapped around to find Daryl standing in your walkway, his hair matted to his head and his clothes clinging to his broad frame. His shoulders were drawn up near his ears. You could only make out his face when pencil strokes of lightning blazed overhead. Standing, you ambled over to the pillar just beyond the railing.
“What’re doing out there?” You called, your voice lost in the downpour. Daryl angled his head as if straining to hear you. His knee bent slightly, boot lifting as if he were considering a step, but placed back on the ground. “Daryl, you’re drenched!” With a glance over your shoulder, you could see your father still passed out in his chair. Your tongue ran across your lips as you considered your next words carefully. His name was already rolling off your tongue as you turned back to him. “Daryl, come on! Get out of the rain.” He made no move to follow your command. “Get up here or go home!”
He looked over his shoulder then. You weren’t sure what was happening inside his head, but the way he looked up toward you before he strode forward to stop at the bottom step, you gathered that there were things happening in his home that he wanted no part of.
You looked up as if unable to remember if your porch covered that step. It didn’t. “Daryl, get up here.” His hand came to rest on the railing, but he hesitated. “Please.” You added, watching his fingers bend to press down against the wood. You had to sidestep out of his way when he darted upward, stopping at your side to stare at you down the ridge of his shoulder. His expression was unreadable. “What, uh—” You fidgeted under the weight of his gaze. “What’re you doing here?”
He seemed to rethink the entirety of the last five minutes, his eyes darting between you and his singlewide. Your throat tightened at the blatant discomfort he was displaying, and for a moment, you thought he would run. He dug through his pocket instead, the pressure of the action wringing water from the fabric. A pack of cigarettes emerged, the outside decorated in thick droplets.
“Do you want one of mine?” You asked, eyeing him as he pulled one free of the pack. Beneath the dim lighting, the paper seemed to be dry, protected by the branded foil.
“Nah.” He offered it up, watching you place it between your lips. The filter was damp and cool, but not ruined. You turned to fetch your lighter where it was sitting neglected beside your puzzle book. A repetitive grinding click and soft glow of a flame gave you pause, your eyes sliding back before your head turned to position the end of the cigarette over his lighter.
“Thanks.” The word was accompanied by a thin gray cloud. Daryl nodded, having at some point placed a cigarette of his own in his mouth. He lit it quickly and shoved the lighter back in his pocket, scowling as if offended by the wet feel of his pants.
You took a heartbeat to consider his intentions, the silence lingering in the air as you smoked, periodic drags taken in unison, though his were substantially longer. He was wearing anxiety like a heavy cloak, his shoulders tense as if he were battling the weight of it.
“You don’t have to, you know.” You sniffed, crossing your arms but holding your cigarette away from you. You looked down toward that street lamp but could feel his eyes on you.
“Don’t hafta what?” He asked gruffly.
You took a heavy draw and exhaled. “Apologize.” You heard him huff something akin to a laugh through his nose and pinned him with your gaze just as he looked down at his boots.
“Wasn’t gonna.” The way his brow furrowed, his weight shifting from foot to foot, told a different story.
Satisfied with that mere assumption, you smiled and allowed the shared quiet to enclose your porch once more. The rain had never ceased its onslaught, puddles spreading into dark vibrating pools on either side of the walkway.
Your cigarette was nearly down to the filter when Daryl flicked his off the porch, the cherry extinguishing with a hiss that went unheard. He turned from you, looking down the steps, his intention to descend clear.
Your fingers were barely touching his hand, a ghost of a caress that spoke the word you dared not give voice to.
Stay.
You watched as his forefinger moved, a twitch that was perhaps out of nervousness rather than intent. Daring to raise your head, you found him mimicking your actions, your eyes meeting, gazes saying everything and nothing.
“Y/N!” The front door bounced off the inner wall as it was flung open, your father’s anger worn as a red face and wild eyes, his shotgun in his hands. “S’a fuckin’ Dixon doin’ on my porch?!”
“Nothing, Daddy!” You intercepted him at the screen door, sliding inside to place your hands on the gun, your cool touch covering his knuckles in hope that your gentleness could persuade him to stand down. Glancing over your shoulder, Daryl hadn’t moved, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Go.” You mouthed.
There was the smallest, almost imperceptible shake of his head, the lightning painting his eyes a haunting glow of silver.
“Go.” You tried again, your expression pleading. You knew what awaited you, but Daryl’s fate could be so much worse under the assault of your father’s rage. “Please.”
Daryl’s jaw worked back and forth, his hands now curled into tight fists that trembled next to his hips. Finally, thankfully, he moved off the porch, glancing back and pausing frequently as if it physically pained him to walk away.
Maybe it did.
And when the first hit struck, you knew he had seen.
“It’s not that bad.” You winced in anticipation of a touch that never came. Daryl’s hand hovered next to your face. You could feel the heat of his skin, almost leaned into it but the lingering ghost of violence from your own flesh and blood had left you fearful. As if a single trace of Daryl’s fingertips against your bruised cheek would summon your father from thin air.
“Sonuvabitch.” His fingers curled into a fist as he lowered his hand, a muscle twitching in his cheek while he looked away at nothing in particular.
“I’m okay.” You lied. The sidelong scrutiny he gave you made it clear that he knew better. Dropping your head, you kicked at the rocks with the toe of your sneaker. It was the first time the two of you had interacted away from your porch. What should have felt like a milestone in whatever this was between you and Daryl only felt like a force of hand.
“Ya can’t—” He began, looking over his shoulder toward his own trailer, a man you didn’t recognize loading gear into the back of Daryl’s truck. “Let’s get outta here. You an’ me.”
You blinked at him, eyes wide, but he kept his head down when he turned back. He was waiting for your rejection.
“You mean, like a ride?” You queried, ducking and angling your head to try and catch his eye. His hand came to his mouth, his teeth worrying the side of his thumb. The skin there was already red.
“Nah.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, let’s get the fuck outta here.”
He couldn’t possibly be suggesting—
“Leave?” You asked, a note of caution in your tone. Daryl dropped his hand, even as he continued to pick at the irritated skin with the nail of his index finger. He nodded, shifting from foot to foot.
It was your turn to look over your shoulder, envisioning your father in his chair. You could already feel the next punch, the next kick to your ribs.
“Okay.” You said quietly. “Okay.” You repeated a little louder. When you turned back to him, he was already searching your eyes, squinting as if he didn’t believe you. “Where will we go?”
He arched a brow. He hadn’t put thought towards anything past the point of asking you to go. Perhaps the offer wasn’t even something he had truly considered until he saw the state of you.
“I dunno.” He shrugged. “Anywhere.”
You smiled in spite of yourself. “But what about your brother?” The question was genuine though you felt asking it would bring upon some epiphany that would result in a rescinding of the offer.
Daryl shrugged again. “Can fuck up just fine without me.”
Not the answer you had expected, but you nodded anyway, considering where exactly you were supposed to take the conversation from there. You couldn’t just up and leave, could you? But exactly was keeping you there? Some twisted sense of responsibility for a man that hadn’t really made any attempt to raise you? You should have said that you would think about it. You should have smiled and thanked him before rejecting the offer. But when you looked at him—really looked at him—you could see the concern, the sincerity, the hope.
“I guess daddy could get his own beer.” You shrugged. Had you just made up your mind? The implication both thrilled and terrified you.
Daryl stepped into your space, his movements slow and calculated. His hand came up again to hover next to your cheek. He was giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. The first brush of his rough fingertips had your eyes dancing between his, your head tilting to press into his warm palm when he finally rested it against your skin. “Goin’ huntin’ with my uncle. Ya be ready by ten tonight. Meetcha right here. Merle’ll be at the bar an’ your daddy’ll be passed out.”
“I’ll be ready.” You nodded, the calluses on his hand scraped minutely over your cheek.
For a moment, you thought he would kiss you. Maybe that’s exactly what he intended to do because when you stepped back, you saw the glimmer of disappointment in his expression.
“Not yet.” You teased, watching his brow furrow in the face of your coy smile.
“I wasn’t gonna—” Daryl’s cheeks flushed, his head ducking and tilting so he could glance at you, his thumb traveling toward his mouth for him to gnaw on the side. You’d need to get him out of that habit and apparently, you’d have time for that.
“Liar.” You walked backwards toward your doublewide. You had some packing to do. The man you now surmised to be Daryl’s uncle was moving around the truck at Daryl’s place.
Daryl’s eyes narrowed, but there was a ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it had appeared. “When would ya—”
When would you let him kiss you? The thought alone sent a thrill up your spine. “I don’t know.” You grinned, holding your arms outstretched as you spun around, your spirit unburdened for the first time in as long as you could remember. “When we’re halfway to anywhere.”
Daryl watched you, his expression unreadable, but there was a certain something in his eyes. A promise. A promise of adventure, of freedom, of things you couldn’t fathom to name at that moment. “M’gonna hold ya to that.” He nodded, taking a step back. “See ya tonight. Be ready.”
“I’ll be ready.” You watched him go, smiled as he looked over his shoulder one last time before he climbed into the driver’s seat of his truck. The man in the passenger seat was grinning as they pulled away from the singlewide, likely teasing Daryl if the scowl that soured his expression was anything to go by. You watched the truck until it was out of sight. “I’ll be ready.”
Merle had left around 8:30 on his motorcycle. You had watched him from the porch swing, thankful he hadn’t seen you. You had wanted to enjoy that last cigarette at your childhood home, your feet languidly kicking as the chain creaked and groaned while you swayed.
You had discovered around 9:03 that your upright suitcase did not make for a good seat with the handle digging into your left ass cheek. It had been your mother’s, a vintage leather briefcase style trunk with the lockable hasps. If Daryl didn’t tease you about it, then you’d be shocked.
You had packed your meager belongings early in the day, just after Daryl had left, hiding your suitcase until your father had passed out. You took only your clothes, toiletries, your favorite yarn, and a 5mm hook. Everything else was trivial and could be replaced.
When Daryl wasn’t home by ten, you didn’t panic. You really didn’t think much of it at all. If his uncle was anything like Merle, Daryl was likely still trying to coerce him into the truck while a can of lukewarm PBR was being waved in a careless fist.
By eleven, you were bouncing your feet and chewing your nails. Maybe they had come across some game, bagged a nice buck. They would need time to field dress and load it up. Daryl was always in a better mood when he’d visit you after a successful hunt.
Your eyes flicked over to movement down the lane. A middle aged couple hurried from their trailer, the slams of their car doors loud in the quiet park. A loose belt whined as they accelerated out of the neighborhood before even turning on their headlights. They hadn’t even closed their front door.
“That was weird.” You muttered.
The night wore on, but still you waited. It was 1:26 when you began to pace. Maybe his uncle had insisted they went to the bar. That would mean corralling both older Dixons into the truck and loading Merle’s bike. It made sense.
And it kept you hopeful.
Until 5:42, when the birds started to sing and the vast darkness above you began to lose the stars and shift from black to a deep blue. Soon it would be burnt orange but as long as you could still see the moon, you could keep believing that it was still the night you were supposed to run with him.
What if something had happened to him? Over your time spent becoming friends, becoming whatever it was you were, you had grown so accustomed to his presence, to his silent support. The mere thought of that being torn away from you made your heart ache and your throat tight.
But what if he had intentionally stayed away?
No. He wouldn’t. And you’d accept no other answer. That was that.
Something had kept him away.
At 7:13, you placed your suitcase inside your closet. There was no need to tip toe. Your father kept the television so loud that you were sure half the park knew the weekly forecast without access to cable or radio.
You blinked aggressively at the sting behind your eyes while you moved around the kitchen, forcing yourself into the routine you had thought you would be leaving behind. Dishes before cooking hot food for your father and a bowl of cereal for yourself.
“Strange behavior and aggressive encounters reported in urban areas…”
You glanced at the tv as you scrubbed last night’s dinner dishes, your eyes narrowing. A female reporter was interviewing a woman with a thick white bandage on her upper arm.
“…came outta nowhere and he—he bit me! He didn’t look right, y’know? Like he was sick…”
Suds dripped from your hands as you approached the area behind your father’s chair, his snores nothing more than background noise as you watched the report. Water dripped onto the leather of the Lazy Boy when your hand wrapped around the remote, your thumb pressing the button to scan the channels.
“…hospital is in chaos as the bodies of patients earlier pronounced dead roamed the halls..”
“…vicious attacks…multiple deaths reported…”
“…cannibalism…”
“…officials advise people to stay inside…”
You flinched when a scream from outside seemed to reverberate down your spine, the remote slipping from your fingers to bounce on the thin brown carpet. You opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch, watching the scene unfold.
Your neighbors ran, children and bags in their arms, ducking into their cars. On the sidewalk was Mrs. Haley, her body jerking as two men bowed over her. You had never seen so much blood as the men began to disembowel the poor old woman.
Your hand went to your mouth as you listened to the screams. Some people moved with haste while others were slow, their actions jerky and the worst sounds coming from somewhere in their throats.
So. Much. Blood.
“Y/N!”
You jerked when your father grabbed your shoulders. “Daddy, I—”
“Get in the damn truck, girl!” He barked, giving you a shove off the porch. You nearly tumbled onto the walkway.
When you were close enough to reach for the door handle, you found yourself still moving, crossing the pavement beneath that old street lamp. You could imagine Daryl’s silhouette way back on that first night, just before that initial shared cigarette.
Climbing the steps of Dixon porch, the bottom piece of wood wobbling beneath your feet, you smacked your palm against the door. “Daryl!” You called desperately. His truck wasn’t there. Neither was Merle’s bike. But your heart wouldn’t believe it. “Daryl, please!”
“Y/N, what the fuck’re you doin’?” Your father cried out. You could hear his boots on the pavement.
Your fingers folded into a fist against the door, a single tear sliding down your cheek as a rough hand wrapped around your upper arm, your father’s angry voice in your ear as he pulled you away.
Your eyes roamed the trailer, committing everything you could to memory. Everything that would remind you of the man who almost set you free, the man who had wanted to run away with you to anywhere. The sideways shutter on the living room window. The motorcycle headlamp on the porch’s faded plastic chair. The crocheted red hat lying on the dresser you could see through the broken blinds.
With a smile that was just as broken as your heart, you took in a shaky breath, your hand pressing against the glass when your father slammed the truck door. “Goodnight, Daryl.”
The atmosphere is so expertly crafted in this. Phenomenally written, each word, the visual imagery, and the tension you build is perfectly constructed such that it is impossible to not feel each moment. Thank you for sharing your craft with us.
Can you do Daryl with an intelligent girl who maybe came from the same trailer park but went to nursing school or something
Summary: Daryl never could accept the fact that you were leaving him. He knew you were meant for more than the trailer park, that you were making something of yourself, chasing the kind of life he never thought he could touch. But that didn’t make it hurt any less when you got accepted into nursing school. So he did what he always did—lashed out with sharp, thoughtless words he didn’t mean, and let you walk away before he could ask you to stay.
|| angst, hurt with delayed comfort, tp!daryl, farm!daryl, kind of established relationship with no label, the man has a lotta feelings and has no clue how to handle them ||
notes: I'm so sorry this is probs NOT what you were expecting but god I love angsty Daryl. This is like what the ruins of us could’ve been if they’d just accepted their feelings.
The porch creaked when you stepped out, half-empty beer in one hand, the other bracing against the chipped doorframe. The air smelled like hot asphalt and cheap cigarettes—someone in the next lot over still had their music playing, something low and twangy.
Daryl was leaning against the railing, a nearly empty bottle dangling from his fingers. But he wasn’t where you left him—not lounged into the second rocking chair, hidden in the corner of the porch out of the baking sun like usual. He was standing now, stiff-backed and still, staring down at the paper in his hands.
“You weren’t even gonna tell me,” he muttered without looking at you, and he held up the paper.
Your opened acceptance letter.
You blinked. “I was. I am.”
His jaw tightened, like he didn’t believe you. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He dropped the letter onto the small cigarette littered table by the door. “So that’s it, then? You’re just leavin’.”
You stepped down from the doorframe to stand beside him, the wood warm from the sun even this late. “I told you I was applying. Daryl, they gave me a full ride scholarship. That’s not just—”
“Yeah, I know what it is,” he snapped. His arms folded across his chest like armor. “Ain’t gotta talk to me like I’m stupid.”
Your mouth opened, then shut. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Silence stretched out between you, thick and restless. The cicadas screamed in the trees. Down the road, a truck rumbled past with its headlights off.
“I thought you’d be happy for me,” you said after a long beat. Voice quieter now, uncertain.
Daryl let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? Well, guess I ain’t real good at pretendin’.”
You stared at him, trying to find the softness underneath all that bark, the boy who used to hand you bottle rockets and steal peaches from old man Gentry’s tree. The man who held you close at night, who kissed you in the bed of his truck on summer evening at the drive in.
“Why are you bein’ like this?”
He finally turned to look at you, and you wished he hadn’t. His eyes were sharp and wild and wounded.
“’Cause you’re actin’ like this place never meant nothin’ to you. Like I never meant nothin’.”
That landed hard. Your chest pinched around it.
“That’s not fair.”
“No?” His voice rose just a little. “You get to run off, play nurse, start some new life, and what? I just stay here? Fix Merle’s shit, watch Pop drink himself to death?”
“I never asked you to stay here.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t ask me to come with you, neither.”
That stopped you cold. Because you hadn’t. You hadn’t even thought to.
“Daryl…”
He looked away again, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Angry. Embarrassed. Small.
“You’ve always thought you were better than this place,” he muttered. “Better than me.”
You stood up then, heart pounding, beer forgotten. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. I’ve fought for everything. I worked my ass off to get outta here.”
He nodded, jaw working. “Yeah. And now you get to go patch up college boys and drink your little lattes and forget all about the rest of us.”
“You think I’m gonna forget you?”
“Ain’t that what you do?” he shot back, standing up, crowding your space. “Climb high enough, leave the rest of us in the mud.”
It hurt. God, it hurt more than you thought it would. More than it should’ve.
“I loved you,” you said, voice shaking. “I love you, Daryl. But I can’t stay here and rot just to prove it.”
Daryl’s mouth opened. Closed. He didn’t know what to do with that. With love. Especially not yours.
So he did what he always did. He lashed out.
“Go play nurse for all them rich boys,” he said, tone flat. “Bet they’ll eat that shit up.”
You flinched like he’d hit you. Over and over like each word he spewed as a hit to your gut.
The porch lights buzzed above you. Inside, the old box fan in the window rattled against the frame. You suddenly hated this place. Hated how it was in your lungs, in your clothes, how it would never let him go.
“I’ll call,” you said, softer now.
Daryl shook his head, not looking at you as he stepped off the porch into the Georgia night.
“Don’t bother.”
Daryl
Fourth day out.
The sun was high, thick in the trees. The air pressed down on Daryl like it had weight, clinging to the sweat on his back, his neck, the inside of his shirt. His legs ached, but it didn’t slow him. Nothing would. Not yet. Not until he found Sophia or dropped dead trying.
He hadn’t slept right in days. Couple hours here and there. Rested up in trees like he used to, one eye open. Rick kept saying they had to keep faith. Carol was hanging on by threads. And the others...hell, most of them didn’t believe she was alive anymore.
But Daryl did. Because she had to be.
The heat made his vision blur around the edges.
He’d been walking since sunrise, following signs—scrapes on bark, half a shoe print in the mud that might not’ve even been hers. But it was something.
His body was on autopilot now. Step, scan, step. Branches slapped at his arms. Sweat stung his eyes. He barely felt it.
He dragged the back of his dirty hand across his forehead, took another few steps up the ridge, eyes scanning the trail ahead. The air felt different here. Cooler. Stiller.
He paused.
Listened.
Something moved through the trees—soft, fast. Too light for a walker, too smooth for a deer. The trees were quiet. That kind of quiet that made his skin crawl, like the whole world was holding its breath.
Daryl raised his crossbow without thinking. “Sophia?” he called, voice rough from hours of silence.
No answer. Just another rustle. Closer. He moved toward it, careful.
And then... You stepped into view.
And the world stopped.
You looked like a ghost. Not clean, not untouched—no one was anymore. He couldn't tell if he was hallucinating or not. Standing there in jeans stained at the knees, a pack slung over your shoulder, sun catching in your hair like it always had.
His lungs quit working.
Then you said his name.
And Daryl Dixon, who had gutted walkers, walked through fire, faced death over and over, had flinched.
He knew your voice. Knew it better than anything. Could’ve picked it out blindfolded in a storm, could’ve followed it straight into hell. And here it was, soft and real and saying his name like he hadn’t shattered everything the last time you stood in front of him.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His brain went blank and loud all at once—static and screaming, every memory shoving itself forward like it had claws.
The memory of the last time he saw you, a memory he only saw in dreams now because he would shove it away every time it surfaced in the days afterward, was fresh behind his eyes. The things he said—sharp, stupid things—just to make you feel as bad as he did. You’d looked at him like he’d broken something between you, something that couldn’t be put back.
Now you were here.
And you didn’t hesitate. You ran.
Boots hitting the earth fast and sure, arms open, crashing into him like you were sure he’d catch you—and he did, though his feet stumbled back a step and his breath seized like he’d taken a hit to the ribs. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. He still wasn't entirely sure he wasn't hallucinating. That maybe he was dying on the ground from heat stroke and you were some angel come to take him to hell.
But your arms were real. Solid around his shoulders. Your body warm against his. And then his own arms, slow and unsure, wrapped around you like they were remembering something they hadn’t felt in years. They settled there—tight, desperate, almost trembling—and then he buried his face into the curve of your neck, because there was nowhere else in the world he wanted to be.
You still smelled the same, now with the undeniable scent of dirt and sweat from months of survival on your own. But you still had that faint, warm sweetness that had haunted him on nights he couldn’t sleep. His fingers clenched at the fabric of your shirt, bringing you closer to him like he was scared you’d disappear again. And for the first time in a long time, he let himself breathe. Let himself feel.
You held him like no time had passed. Like the years hadn’t hollowed both of you out. Like he hadn’t said the one thing he regretted more than anything in the whole damn world.
And that… forgiveness? That grace? That mercy cracked something open in his chest. Because maybe you remembered every word. Maybe you hadn’t forgotten a thing. But you were still here. Still choosing him.
He’d expected a reckoning if he ever saw you again. Silence. Distance. Maybe a slap. But instead, he got this. You pressed against him. Breathing him in. Holding him like coming back was never a question.
And he was surprised when it didn’t feel like punishment.
Because it felt like hope.
And when he finally opened his mouth, the words barely made it out.
“I’m sorry,” he shuddered into you.
“I know,” you breathed.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still warm where they rested on his shoulders. Your eyes searched his face, like you were trying to find all the pieces he’d buried and put them back together.
And then you did the thing he’d tried hardest to forget. The thing that twisted in his gut whenever it surfaced in the dark. The thing that lived somewhere just behind his ribs, where no one else could reach.
You kissed him.
And Daryl didn’t stop you.
Couldn’t.
He kissed you back, rough and aching, like something in him had come loose. Like all the time between then and now had built up behind his ribs, waiting to crack open the second your mouth touched his. There was no thought, no hesitation. Just instinct. Just you. His hand found your waist, pulled you in, desperate to feel all of you—solid, breathing, here.
The first kiss was quick. Too quick. Like he was afraid to take too much. But then you leaned into him, your hands curling into the back of his sleeveless shirt, and whatever hold he thought he had on himself snapped like dry twigs.
He kissed you harder. Messier. His mouth pressed to yours with a kind of hunger he didn’t know he still had in him. You were warm under his hands, grounding. Familiar and different all at once. And God, the way you held onto him—like you wanted this. Like you still wanted him—it nearly dropped him to his knees.
He didn’t even realize he was shaking until you slid your hands up to his shoulders, steadying him. He pressed his forehead to yours between kisses, trying to breathe, trying to think, but nothing made sense except your mouth and your hands and the way your breath caught when he kissed the corner of your lips.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, breathless, eyes squeezing shut like it hurt to say it. They were the only words he knew right then. Everything else was too big, too messy. But those—those three words—were the truth. They scraped up from somewhere deep, somewhere buried, and left him raw. “I’m sorry.”
He felt you nod, felt your hands curl tighter in his shirt, grounding him.
“It’s okay, Daryl,” you breathed, the words quiet but certain. He barely had time to register the sound of them before your fingers slid into his hair, fisting the short, sweaty strands around your knuckles. “It’s okay.”
He let out a ragged breath. His eyes stayed shut, like if he looked at you too long, it might break the spell. No one said things like that to him. Not like they meant it. Not without an edge, not without a catch. But you did. You always had.
The woods were quiet around you, all dappled light and heat rising from the earth. His hands stayed on your waist, thumbs brushing your skin just beneath the hem of your shirt. Not thinking about it, not trying to start anything—just needing that contact. That proof.
He finally opened his eyes, just a crack.
You were already looking at him.
Not with pity. Not with anger. Just that same steady gaze you’d always had when he was trying to hold himself together and failing miserably. Like you saw straight through all the armor and decided to stay anyway.
He swallowed hard. His throat was tight.
“You’re really here,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling just a little. “I am.”
He let out a quiet laugh—barely a breath. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever find you.”
And that hit something deep. He dipped his head, pressed his forehead to yours. Just stayed there. Breathing the same air, feeling the same weight settle between you.
It didn’t feel like a dream anymore.
It felt like a second chance.
And slowly—like you both knew there was nowhere else to go—you leaned in at the same time.
This kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about need.
It was about recognition.
About two people who had been carrying the same ache for too long finally setting it down.
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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.
