Graveyardshifted

[freerangebabe]

New posting schedule, I will be writing/posting on the weekends and wed-nes-day. Just so I can put everything together and keep it together and a weekday to tide you over. I also am still taking requests to those who are asking and I've been eyeing a few ideas from @dixondisease in the meantime. Starting next week!!!!

Link to my masterlists and all the stories

I might also write for other norman characters just to spice things up <3

[freerangebabe]

I know I've been gone for a minute, but I'm happy to say I'm rewatching the walking dead and I feel like the delay in the continuation of Rebirth is that the next chapter will probably be the last. Hopefully it brings comfort to those who have been patiently waiting that it's not over yet. With that being said, in the mean time, I've revisited some old ideas and I have two I have decent progress on that could be consistently updated.

Next series between/after Rebirth

Mac, 8 year old son of Daryl Dixon, takes place in season two-current

Oakley, 14 year old niece of Daryl Dixon reuniting with him after years. S5-6ish

Remaining time: 14 hours 24 minutes

[freerangebabe]

Mend

You'd parked yourself on a log, shrugging your half-full satchel off, letting it sink into your lap as you turned your arm over, examining the split seam curling open along your sleeve. You'd just gotten this sweater from Aaron and you didn't want walkers' blood on it, no brains decorating the fuzzy fabric, so instead of a simple kill, you fell back.

It helped, traveling like this, that you weren't alone. You could let an eager neighbor nab the kill.

But once the dead had its senses set on you, it mumbled and moaned, trudging forward on two uneven legs to get you.

You had the advantage of space. Every half-step it took, you gave it a full one back. Still, you saw no interference today.

You figured you'd just go around, maybe toss the dead deer it had been feeding on, let it scramble to something more its speed, but you backed into a tree.

A hanging branch threaded through your sleeve like you were meant to be hung there with it.

"Y'alright?"

You hadn't heard Daryl come over. Big guy, but he moved quiet.

"A couple hours," you hummed, recalling the small excitement of getting the sweater. Your lips pressed together for a second, something sheepish flickering across your face. "I've only had it a couple hours."

"Lasted this long," he muttered. "Reckon a few stitches put it back together again."

You didn’t say much after. You didn’t have to.

He stepped over the log and eased down beside you.

He gently caught your wrist, guiding your hand to lay palm-flat on the patched rip in his jeans, right on the hill of his knee.

"Sit still," he murmured. More reminder than command.

You nodded.

At first, you watched him. Really watched him. The way he dug through his bag, rough and quick, like he knew it by feel more than sight, pushing things aside until he found what he needed. It made your mouth twitch, a small, private smile you tried to hide behind your teeth.

His eyes flicked up at yours. Just for a second.

Enough to catch it.

Enough to make your breath hitch, barely there.

Then he was back to work.

He slipped the needle through the first lip of the tear, careful not to go too deep, not to graze the scratch on your arm. His head tilted, lining up the angle just right as he pulled the thread through, slow and steady.

A clean stitch.

Further along, you noticed his tongue pressing faintly against the inside of his cheek when he focused, just barely there when he dipped his chin.

He looked… pretty, in the sunlight.

Hair clumped into damp strands over his eyes, sweat catching along the ridge of his cheekbones. A few strands of gray threaded through his stubble.

People used to fear that.

Now it was all anyone wanted. chance to get there. To age. To live long enough for it.

He wore fifty years well. Still strong, still sharp. Just… quieter about it.

"We move out in five."

Rosita.

Her voice carried before she came into view.

You didn’t mind. Not really. It just meant you got to sit here a little longer, close enough to feel the heat off him.

Maybe that was why you were warm. Not the sleeves. Not the thick air.

Just him.

Leaves crunched under Rosita’s steps as she came into view. Her hair had been braided back somewhere between stopping and now, and she’d torn her tank into a cropped knot, like the heat didn’t get to decide anything for her.

Her nose crinkled when she took you in.

Not judgment. Just a clear, silent: why?

Why long sleeves in this heat?

Her eyes dipped, taking in your hand still resting on Daryl’s knee.

Then back up.

One brow lifted.

There it was. Quick as a blink. Gone just as fast.

But not before the corner of her mouth twitched, like she knew something you hadn’t said out loud yet.

By that logic, why’d she have a jacket tied around her hips?

Daryl looked up once, tilting his head back just enough to shift his hair from his eyes. He paused, pinching your sleeve, needle poised but not yet through the last bit of torn fabric.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

He’d known her longer. Knew that shift in her stance meant she was already halfway out.

He nodded in the direction the others had gone.

Ready.

You didn’t realize how much time had passed until he leaned in closer, pulling the thread through one last time. Steady. You felt the tug of it along your arm.

Then

He brought the thread up and bit it.

Quick and clean. No hesitation. Like using his hands hadn’t even crossed his mind.

For a second, his forehead brushed lightly against your arm as he pulled away.

You curled your hand into a loose fist, lifting your forearm so your knuckles rested near your shoulder. The smallest shift of air kissed the irritated skin, enough to sting.

"Solid," you said, a smile breaking through as you turned toward him.

He nodded, hesitant, gaze dropping to the forest floor.

"Mind if I test it out?"

Now he went shy.

Like he’d just realized how close you were. Your thigh against his knee. His hands still resting near your arm, not holding, just… there.

He cleared his throat, trying for something casual.

Didn’t quite land.

He watched you curiously.

He just didn’t expect you to reach for him.

Your fingers lifted, guiding a damp strand of hair back, tucking it carefully behind his ear.

Now you could see his eyes. Clouded, soft in a way that didn’t come easy to him.

You felt it before you saw it, that quick shiver he tried to bury under a shift of his shoulders.

He straightened a little.

It only lasted a second before his hand came up, catching yours lightly, caging it for a moment against the worn leather of his vest.

"Here," he whispered.

He pressed something small and plastic into your knuckle, his fingers slipping between yours just long enough to pass the needle and thread.

Then he pulled back fast.

Hand dropping to his lap, already fidgeting with the clasp of his bag like he hadn’t meant to linger.

Like touching you hadn’t been part of the job.

You didn’t mind.

You didn’t say it.

But it showed, just a little, in the way your thumb brushed once over where his hand had been before you curled your fingers around the needle.

Before you could speak, the group started weaving back into view. Murky pastels, soiled flannels, blood-streaked denim.

"That’s five," Rosita called, already moving past, not slowing.

But not before she glanced once more.

Quick and knowing.

Then gone.

"Guess so," you hummed, tucking the needle into the thread so it wouldn’t slip away.

"Thank you, Dixon," you added, glancing down at your sleeve.

He grunted, chest rising with it as he stood, stepping over toward Theresa to take back his crossbow.

"S’go."

And you did.

[freerangebabe]

PLEASE WHERES THE REBIRTH'S CONTINUATION????

I am so sorry to you and others who have been waiting. I've been going through some personal stuff and writing had to stop for a minute, but I haven't forgotten. I promise. I'm working on it. Thank you for your patience.

[freerangebabe]

Got an idea!!! (Rubs hands like birdman)

[freerangebabe]

Working on a college au

[freerangebabe]

Open Season

It wasn’t the way his five-year-old crawled into his lap, hands steadying against his sunken shoulders as he scooted close enough to smell the carrot soup you’d made for lunch, the scent still clinging to his hair, that made Daryl want to take their little trek through the woods.

It was the sticky patch against his boy’s cheek as he stared wide-eyed at his dad, head tilted back against Daryl’s arm, hands pressed into Daryl’s knee like he was holding himself still while the widest grin spread from ear to ear.

“Daddy,” he started, “what do we do outside?”

Daryl thought about it for a second. “I find people,” he said. “Bring ’em home.”

“Sometimes even animals,” Daryl added with a small shrug.

The little boy gasped like he’d just been told the moon was a planet, his face lighting up with pride.

“Really? Really?”

“Really. Really,” Daryl said with a small nod, wrapping his arm around his son.

“Home like we home?” he asked again, and his father nodded once more.

“Home like in yer belly,” Daryl teased, pinching at his son’s sides. The little boy giggled, little hands pushing at Daryl’s arm as he rocked back and forth, howling with laughter.

The giggles filled the afternoon air. Daryl tickled him until he was nearly red in the face, his skin warmed by the sound of it.

So here the Dixon boys stood, walking sticks in hand, backpacks full, and eyes set in determination. Daryl held the hand of his youngest, partly because he wanted to, and partly because the kid looked ready to take off into the wild like a rocket to space.

The eldest fixed both hands on the stick that hovered over him like a shadow, tilting it in a circle and smacking the ends against the earth with little psh, psh sound effects.

“All right,” Daryl grunted, letting the kid finish his “secret fighting moves,” as he liked to call them. He watched him step back in line when his brother reached for his hand.

“What now?” the little boy asked, looking up at his big brother and then at his dad.

Daryl nodded toward the trees. “Now we hunt.”

They moved deeper into the woods, the crunch of leaves and snap of twigs underfoot setting a rhythm that was easy to follow. The younger boy’s eyes darted from tree trunk to tree trunk, catching glimpses of birds, squirrels, and the occasional flash of sunlight between the leaves. His older brother, stick held like a staff, followed more carefully, balancing the stick while keeping an eye on the ground for anything interesting.

“Rule number one,” Daryl said, crouching so he was level with the boys. “Never go too far. These woods got ways of lettin’ folks wander off.” He placed a steady hand on the younger boy’s shoulder, letting him feel the firm guidance without stifling curiosity. “Stay close. Yer eyes. Yer ears. They’ll tell ya what’s out there.”

The little boy nodded seriously, gripping his stick like it was a sword. He crouched low, squinting at a patch of dirt with a small pile of scattered leaves.

“Look!” he whispered. “Tracks!”

Daryl knelt beside him, squinting down. “Ain’t deer. Maybe a raccoon. See the shape? Round, little toe prints. You can tell who’s been here by the pattern. That’s trackin’.” He tapped the ground with his finger. “Follow the patterns, but don’t touch ’em. Just watch.”

The younger boy’s eyes were wide as he carefully traced the path with his finger a few inches above the dirt, barely daring to brush it. His older brother tried to mimic him, lifting his foot carefully over a small patch of mud, pretending not to step in it.

“Good,” Daryl said with a small nod. “Seein’ tracks is just as much part of huntin’ as catchin’ anything. You notice the world around you first.”

A sudden rustle in the trees ahead made the younger boy freeze. His hand gripped Daryl’s arm, eyes wide.

“Daddy… look!” He pointed toward a small clearing where a deer grazed quietly, ears twitching at every sound.

Daryl squatted low, letting the boys get a better view. “Now,” he said softly, “we don’t touch it. We don’t chase it. Sometimes the woods just let ya watch. Admire it. Learn from it.” He let the boys stay quiet for a few long breaths, just watching the animal nibble at grass, sunlight catching the white spots on its back.

The older boy let out a tiny breath and whispered, “It’s… it’s so big.”

“Big, and fast, and smart,” Daryl said. “We respect that. That’s part of rule number one too. Knowin’ what’s safe to follow, what’s safe to admire, and when to leave it be.”

After a few more steps, the boys noticed some bright red berries hanging low from a bush. The older boy pointed eagerly. “Look, Daddy! Berries!”

Daryl crouched beside him again. “Rule number three,” he said, brushing a few leaves aside. “Never touch what you don’t know. Could be safe, could be poison. You look, you don’t touch unless I say so. That’s how the woods keep you alive.” He plucked a berry and showed it to them. “These? Edible. But any other berries, leave ’em. Always leave ’em.”

The boys nodded seriously, their curiosity tempered by the lesson. The younger boy poked at a nearby stick, imagining it might magically turn into a berry-picking tool, while the older one carefully observed the bush, noting its leaves and branches.

They kept moving, stopping now and then to peer under logs or glance at the birds flying overhead. Daryl pointed out broken branches where squirrels had leapt, small holes in the dirt where mice had tunneled, and the faint, musky smell that told him a raccoon had passed by not long ago. The cool shade pressed against their skin, and the earthy smell of damp moss hung heavy in the air.

Finally, the sound of trickling water led them to a small creek, sunlight making the ripples shimmer like tiny stars trapped in glass. Daryl crouched beside the creek, letting the boys squat next to him.

“Last rule,” he said, voice soft but firm. “Water is life. Don’t waste it. Fishin’ ain’t just for eatin’. It’s payin’ attention. Watch the ripples, the bugs, the shadows. Patience.”

He handed the older boy a small stick with a line tied to it, a makeshift fishing pole, while the younger boy leaned over, toes skimming the cold water. “Now,” Daryl said, settling behind them, “let’s see what these woods got for lunch.”

The boys were silent for a long while, focusing on the water. Every ripple, every shadow, every splash of a fish made their eyes widen. Occasionally, the younger boy let out a small squeak when a fish jumped, and Daryl chuckled quietly, careful not to startle them—or the fish.

A few nibbles and patient tugs later, the older boy finally reeled in a small trout, eyes wide with excitement. “Look, Daddy! Look what I got!”

The younger boy clapped his hands, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I wanna catch one too!”

“Slow and steady,” Daryl said, adjusting the line for him. “Patience. That’s the trick.” He let the boy dangle his line, humming quietly to the rhythm of the creek. Soon enough, the younger one felt a tug, and with Daryl’s steady hands guiding him, he pulled in a small but wriggling fish.

“Good job, little man,” Daryl said, ruffling his hair. The boy beamed, holding up the fish like it was a trophy.

After a while, they packed up their small catch, placing the fish carefully in a makeshift pouch. Daryl lifted the youngest onto his shoulders, the older one balancing carefully beside him, both boys holding sticks like they’d just completed a great adventure.

Back at the cabin, the smell of carrot soup still lingering in the air, Daryl set the boys down. “Mom’s gonna wanna see what we got,” he said.

The boys ran ahead, bursting into the kitchen with shouts of excitement. “Mom! Look! Look what we caught!”

You crouched down to their level, eyes widening as the boys showed off their catch. “Well, I’ll be,” you said, laughing. “You two went on a proper hunt, huh?”

The older boy handed you his trout, chest puffed out. “We learned all the rules, Mom! Daddy taught us!”

Daryl leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching them. “They did good.”

The younger boy held up his fish proudly, a sticky grin on his face. “We stayed close, we listened, we watched the water, we waited!”

You laughed, taking both fish carefully. “Looks like a feast is about to happen. You boys did good.”

Daryl ruffled the younger boy’s hair and nudged the older one’s shoulder. “Woods teach you a lot, but nothin’ beats bringin’ it home.”

He lingered a moment, watching the laughter and chatter fill the cabin like sunlight spilling through the windows, feeling the weight of these little moments, how fast they’d grow, how fleeting afternoons like this were. He tucked that thought quietly away as he smiled.

[freerangebabe]

Coming back in 4k, sorry for the wait.

[freerangebabe]

Carol

The cold in Alexandria had a way of sneaking through coats, settling into bones, but the girls did not seem to notice it. Cheisa skipped ahead with the little lantern Denise had rigged up, its light bobbing over the snow-dusted street. Chia clutched Camila’s mittened hand, tugging her along with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where the next stop was.

“Slow down,” you called, laughing as Camila nearly tripped over her own boots.

Daryl followed just behind you, crossbow slung out of habit even tonight, a knit scarf looped awkwardly around his neck courtesy of Carol. He looked out of place in the way he always did when things felt normal. But his eyes stayed on the girls, soft in a way he would never admit.

The first house opened before you even knocked. Aaron stood there with a grin, a tray of sugar cookies balanced on his arm.

“Caroling already?” he asked.

Cheisa cleared her throat dramatically and started the song. Chia joined in, Camila a beat behind, her voice small but determined. Their breath fogged the air, sweet and off-key and perfect.

When they finished, Aaron applauded like they had just performed on a stage. He handed over a tin wrapped in twine.

“For you,” he said. “And I think I have something for the girls too.”

Camila gasped when he produced three little scarves, each a different color. She pressed hers to her cheek like it was treasure.

“Thank you,” she whispered, solemn.

Daryl nodded once. “Appreciate it.”

House to house, the night unfolded the same way. Laughter spilling from doorways. Hands reaching out with cookies, bread, little jars of jam. The girls gave back the baskets you had spent days putting together. Dried apples, candles, bits of ribbon tied crooked but earnest.

At one porch, an older woman pressed a cookie into Daryl’s palm instead of the basket.

“For you,” she said gently. “You look like you could use somethin sweet.”

He blinked, caught off guard, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Later, as the girls compared treats and argued over which song to sing next, Daryl leaned closer to you.

“They’re good kids,” he said quietly.

You smiled at him, at the way his shoulders had finally relaxed, at how his hand brushed yours like it was second nature now. “They get that from you.”

He huffed softly, but he did not argue.

By the time you headed home, the baskets were empty and your arms were full. Camila rode on Daryl’s shoulders, humming to herself. Chia clutched your hand, sticky with sugar. Cheisa walked ahead, lantern swinging, lighting the way back through Alexandria.

Christmas, you thought, did not look like trees or lights anymore.

It looked like this.

[freerangebabe]

Good nights

The static buzzed in your ears before Daryl’s voice cut through, low and cautious, like it had always been.

“I… thought you’d be asleep,” you admitted, fingers tightening around the CB like it was the last lifeline to him.

There was a pause. Then his voice, rough but familiar, drifted across the airwaves. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Your chest tightened, memories of the long, quiet nights under open skies flooding back. Nights where the world had been nothing but stars, firelight, and the sound of his breathing beside you. You had taken those moments for granted then, never realizing how much they would haunt you now.

“Yeah…” you whispered, voice small. “I just… wanted to say goodnight.”

Another pause, longer this time, and then a grin you could hear in his words. “Goodnight.”

The static hummed between you, but it did not feel empty. Somehow, even miles apart, the world shrank back to those nights, quiet, simple, and just yours.

[freerangebabe]

Sorry, guys. I've been sick

[freerangebabe]

Should we add to Extraction series?

yes

no

Voting ended onDec 8, 2025

[freerangebabe]

Rebirth

Your legs quivered, knees knocking together under the force of another harsh contraction. Daryl’s hand wasn’t enough to brace you, not against the pressure clawing up your spine. It felt like something was trying to crawl out of your bones, dragging itself from the deepest part of you.

Your eyes crinkled with the strain. Your nails dug into the meat of Daryl’s hand. He grunted, easing his grip so your palm could slip against his, but he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t complain. He had no right.

Watching you writhe, watching your hips shift against the springy mattress like you were trying to shake the pain loose, he looked like he’d take it from you if he could. But he couldn’t. He did this to you. And all he could do was watch.

“Breathe,” he whispered, maybe hoping the word alone could keep you tethered.

“I… am… breathing,” you gritted, another contraction dragging your hips forward. The heat pooled low in your belly and spilled between your legs in hot bursts.

“Right.” His voice stayed soft. No argument. No frustration. Just presence. And somehow that made everything hurt worse, knowing how you unraveled while he wasn’t there.

Your breath stuttered, fogging the cold air as the next pulse of pain rolled through you. You hated that he stayed so steady. So grounded. You wanted to fold him into the ache, make him feel a fraction of what ripped you apart.

Your head tipped back, chasing a breath you could barely find. Daryl shifted closer, his thigh touching yours, anchoring you to a bed that felt too soft to hold you through this. You could feel the tremor in his arm under your fingers. He wasn’t nearly as calm as he pretended.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice close to your ear, “look at me.”

You tried. Through the blur of tears and exhaustion, you tried. His face came into focus, wrecked and helpless, hurting not because you were here… but because he couldn’t take any of it from you.

His thumb brushed the corner of your eye, catching a tear before it could fall. The gentleness of it nearly broke you. You wanted to scream, to shove him away, to pull him closer, all at once. The next contraction tore through you before the emotion could settle. Your breath hitched and you folded over your belly, gripping his arm so tight he hissed through his teeth.

"I don't wanna do this anymore," you hiccuped, leaning back against the pillow, chest rising with shallow breaths, your hand going limp in his.

"No, no, no." Daryl’s panic stayed small, tucked in the corners of his voice, even as his warm hands wrapped around your limp wrist. He gathered your fingers gently, cupping them like he was trying to keep something precious from slipping through.

"Hey," he whispered, breath shaky, eyes locked on yours like he could anchor you back into your own body if he just held on tight enough. "You still with me?"

You weren’t sure. The next wave of pain pulsed low and deep, curling through your hips and spine. It stole the air from your lungs before you could answer. Your jaw clenched. Your toes curled. Your vision speckled at the edges.

Daryl leaned forward, forehead almost touching yours. His breath brushed your lips, warm in a room that felt cold everywhere else. "Look at me. C’mon. I need you here."

"I can't," your voice broke under a whisper at the fact.

You couldn't do this. Not for him, not for yourself.

Daryl shook his head, leaning in until his forehead pressed to yours, his breath trembling against your lips. “Yes you can,” he whispered, like saying it soft would make it true, “and I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Your eyes fluttered open, lashes tacky from tears, your whole face pulled tight with strain. There was nothing left in you but pain. Not the anger you carried for the man at your side, not the shaken love for the life you were fighting to bring into the world.

Just the raw stretch of your nerves and the twisting pressure racing up your spine, pulling you between refusal and surrender.

The room wavered in your vision, shapes blurring at the edges, colors bleeding together. Nothing looked right. Nothing felt right.

For a moment the haze shifted, and what you saw felt more like a memory than a hallucination. Something quiet. Something calm. Everything you thought you would be when this moment came, instead of the unraveling, frantic shadow curled on a bed, fighting through the storm she once vowed to weather without breaking.

You weren’t sure how to explain it, but something in the room changed.

The air eased around you, just a little, like someone had lifted one brick off the pile crushing your chest. You could finally drag in a breath that didn’t scrape.

“Hey, you,” a soft voice murmured, warm and steady. Another pair of hands found you, light and sure in a way that made your body lean toward them without thinking.

“It’s Maggie,” Daryl said quietly, watching her settle at the foot of the bed.

“She’s gonna get you through this,” he promised, voice low, almost pleading for you to believe him.

“Just get this thing out of me,” you cried, collapsing deeper into the mattress as another wave pulled you under.

Maggie moved with a calm that felt unreal in the chaos of your body tearing itself apart. Her hands slid to your knees, guiding them apart, grounding you even as everything inside you felt like it was splitting open.

“Alright, sweetheart,” she murmured, voice low and steady. “You are close. I need you to listen to me now.”

You tried. You really did. But another contraction slammed through you like a hot iron dragged across every nerve ending. The sound that tore from your throat was not a word, not a plea, just raw pain that ripped the air apart. Your fingers curled in the sheets. Daryl flinched beside you at the sound, but he stayed where he was, holding what little of your hand you could offer in your spiraling state.

Maggie glanced between your legs, her expression shifting for the briefest second. Focused. Sharp. Not panicked, but alert. “Baby’s head is right there, but I need you to stop pushing for one moment,” she said.

You screamed instead. You could not stop it. Your body pushed without permission, every muscle firing even as you tried to obey. Maggie’s hand pressed firmly against your thigh, steadying you.

“Easy. Easy. You are okay,” she said. “Cord’s a little tight, but I got it. Do not panic.”

Daryl tensed. “What does that mean? Maggie, what does that mean?”

“It means I need her to breathe for a second,” Maggie answered, never looking away from you. Her voice stayed calm, collected, like nothing could rattle her. “Give me one breath, honey. Just one.”

You dragged in air that felt too sharp. Your chest heaved. Your vision swam. The edges folded in and out like a flickering candle. You could not speak. You could not form anything but the pain swallowing your throat.

Maggie’s fingers moved with impossible confidence. “There. That is it. Baby is fine. You are fine. Let your body work.”

The fear tightened your ribs. You sobbed, shaking your head, another cry ripping from you, high and panicked.

“I know,” Maggie whispered, brushing your leg, voice gentler now. “I know it hurts. You are safe. Daryl is right here. I am right here. We got you.”

Another contraction crashed over you with no warning. Your back arched. Your jaw locked. You screamed until your voice cracked and broke apart. Daryl pressed his forehead to your temple, breathing with you despite the panic shimmering in his tight grip.

“You are doing it,” he whispered. “You are doin’ it. Come on. Come on.”

You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered. Everything blurred. The world narrowed to the pressure, the heat, the tearing sensation that stole your breath and replaced it with fire.

Maggie shifted, bracing her hands. “Alright. Next one. You push. All of it. This is the one.”

You screamed again, a sound you did not recognize, animal and desperate. Your fingers slipped from Daryl’s hand because you could not hold anything anymore. Maggie reached up and braced your knee again.

“There you go. Good girl. Right there. Again.”

The room spun. Your ears rang. You were drowning in the pain, in the fear, in the pressure that felt like it would rip your spine open. You cried out, broken and breathless, and pushed with everything you had left, which was barely anything at all.

“One more,” Maggie said, eyes bright with something like pride. “Right now.”

Your entire body clenched. You screamed until your lungs emptied. And then suddenly the pressure released. Maggie’s hands moved fast, sure. The room filled with a different sound. High. Thin. Alive.

A baby’s cry.

Daryl’s breath hitched like he had been punched. His hand flew to his mouth. “Oh God,” he rasped, voice cracking open.

You could not speak. You could not breathe. Relief hit you too fast, followed by a wave of dizziness that swarmed your skull like smoke. You blinked hard, vision stuttering in and out.

Maggie worked quickly, wiping the baby, checking breath sounds, moving with the same steady confidence. “You did it. She is perfect,” she said, voice warm and full of something soft. “Let me get her on your chest.”

“I…” You tried to answer, but only a whisper came out. Your arms felt heavy, too heavy. You reached, but your fingers trembled and dropped.

Daryl’s head snapped toward you. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. You alright?”

You were not. Not really. Your body slumped back, muscles too weak to hold you upright now that the storm had passed. The room tilted. Maggie moved again, checking you, her voice suddenly more urgent even though her tone stayed controlled.

“You lost a little too much blood. Stay with us.”

You tried to keep your eyes open, but everything soothed and muffled around the edges. You felt the brush of something warm being placed against your chest. A small weight. A breath. A cry.

Your baby.

But your eyelids were too heavy. Your breathing too shallow. The sounds of Maggie’s voice and Daryl’s panicked muttering blended into a distant hum.

You fought to stay awake.

You fought to see her.

You fought.

Then the darkness folded over you, soft and final, as your body gave out completely.

[freerangebabe]

Unrelated to TWD: Started watching SoA. Jax Teller, the man you are.

[freerangebabe]

A Quiet Holiday

The others were marking the date in their own quiet ways. Carol had peeled a handful of potatoes even though there wasn’t much to mash. Glenn and Maggie whispered in the guard tower earlier, probably trying to build something that felt like home. But Daryl? He acted like the calendar meant nothing.

“Same as any other day,” he muttered that morning while tightening the crossbow strap across his chest. “Ain’t got time for pretend holidays.”

Which was fine. You didn’t push it. The world was different now, and even back when things were normal, holidays were never simple for him.

You cleaned the watch station, sorted ammo, helped Beth with laundry, and kept your hands busy. But under all that, a small part of you missed the feeling of sitting down with someone, even if it was just to breathe the same warm air.

By the time evening crept in, the cellblock was dim and quiet. You stopped by Daryl’s cell only because you thought he might want company… maybe even just someone to sit near. You expected him to be stripping a weapon or rolling his eyes at the world.

Instead, the door was partially pulled shut and something smelled… warm.

“Get in here,” Daryl called, voice low like he was embarrassed.

You stepped inside. The small desk was cleared off and a mismatched pair of dented tin bowls sat waiting. Daryl stood beside them, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other holding a pot wrapped in a rag to keep from burning himself.

He didn’t look at you as he muttered, “Ain’t much.”

“What is it?”

He grunted and set the pot down. “Pumpkin soup. Found a beat-up can on a run last week. Carol said it ain’t gone bad yet.” He nudged another bowl forward. “And I, uh… cooked some bacon. From them pigs we been fattenin’ up.” He cleared his throat, forcing out the quietest, “S’posed to go with it.”

You blinked, warmth flooding your chest. “Daryl…”

He cut you off, annoyed at how soft your voice sounded. “And–” He pulled a bottle from behind a crate. Bourbon. Half-full. Dusty, but intact. “Found this out in them woods. Figured… I dunno. People used to drink on Thanksgiving.”

You picked up the bottle, smile tugging at your mouth. “I didn’t think you cared about Thanksgiving.”

“I don’t,” he said too fast, eyes flicking away again. “But you do. Or… you miss it. I see things.”

The words hung in the air between you, rough-edged, honest.

You stepped closer until your shoulder brushed his. “Thank you. Really.”

He shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he couldn’t hide the pride of pulling this off.

“Sit down before it gets cold,” he grumbled.

You both sat on the narrow bunk, bowls steaming in your hands. The soup wasn’t perfect, the bacon was a little crisp, the bourbon burned on the way down… but it was warm. Thoughtful. Yours.

After a few minutes, Daryl glanced at you sideways, softer than he meant to be.

“Happy… whatever,” he muttered.

You nudged him with your knee. “Happy whatever.”

In the quiet of the prison, with the hum of the generator and the warmth of soup between you, it felt like the closest thing to a holiday you’d had in years. And it was perfect, because he chose it.

[freerangebabe]

Here

It started as a small thing.

His fingers brushed yours when you walked. Hardly a touch. Not even a hold.

You knew physical touch made Daryl squirm, but he still tried. For you. It was nerves, not distance. Not lack of wanting.

You looked at him when he brushed past you, his shoulder grazing yours before he pulled a foot ahead.

Your brows pinched. Your eyes softened.

He was on his way to a shift. It did not explain the tension, but it made it easier to accept.

You did this every day. Walked him to work. To get used to the place. To steal time together.

“Here’s fine,” he muttered. More to the air than to you. But you heard it.

And like always, he left five minutes early.

You had seen this pattern before. With your ex. Quiet reminders. Small steps back. Until you were not needed.

“Okay,” you said. You slowed. Hands in pockets. Let him go.

To his credit, Daryl turned around. Gave you a small nod. Sometimes down. Sometimes out. His version of goodbye.

Sometimes you wanted to touch him. A hand on his shoulder. A small hold. Anything.

But you took what he gave.

You watched him disappear through the doorway. Boots on tile. The sound swallowed by morning noise. Then he was gone. Just another body in the stream of people and uniforms. And you stood where he peeled off.

It was not the space that hurt.

It was how familiar it felt.

Five minutes early.

A rushed “here’s fine.”

A nod instead of a goodbye.

You knew Daryl was not your ex. You really did. But your chest still remembered the pattern.

So you walked the long way back. Hands in your pockets. Replaying the soft brush of his shoulder like it was the only proof he wanted you. He was not cold. Just guarded. Bracing. Every stranger’s glance felt like a test he could not swing at. Acknowledging you felt like giving something up.

Still, it stung each time he stepped ahead like he needed more space than you.

By lunchtime, you had talked yourself into calm.

Told yourself it was fine.

Told yourself this was just Daryl doing his best.

You were not expecting him to show up.

He stood at the end of the courtyard bench, unsure if he could come closer. Hair messy. Shoulders tight. A paper bag in his hand like it might jump away.

Your eyes met. He looked away first.

But he didn’t leave.

He walked toward you, slow and careful. Like each step needed permission.

“Got somethin’,” he muttered, lifting the bag.

“For me?” you asked.

“For us,” he said. His voice rough. Then he sat. Right beside you. Not far. Not angled away. Shoulder to shoulder. His warmth pressed close.

He breathed.

Then breathed again.

Then said something you never expected.

“Didn’t mean to walk off like that.”

Your heart thumped once, loud and sharp.

“I know. I mean… I think I know.”

“Nah.” He shook his head. Jaw tight. “You don’t. Not all of it.”

He took two sandwiches from the bag. Both yours. Pickles and all. He handed one over like an apology folded in wax paper.

Then, under the table, his knee nudged yours.

Not pretending.

Not hiding.

Just holding.

“I ain’t good at this,” he said. “Never been. But I ain’t lettin’ you think I don’t want you around.”

Your throat tightened.

“I just… I thought maybe you were pulling away.”

He frowned. Confused first. Then annoyed with himself. Then softer. Much softer.

He shook his head again.

“This place,” he said quietly. “Takes some getting used to.”

You let out a small laugh. Uneven. Real. “Daryl, this is already more than I expected.”

“Good,” he said, taking a bite. “Cause I was thinkin’… we could do lunch like this more often.”

You stared.

“In public?” you teased.

He didn’t blush. But his ears did.

And he didn’t move his leg from yours.

“Yeah,” he said. “In public. With you.”

You looked at your knees touching. At the way he did not flinch. Did not shift. Did not care who saw.

No kiss.

No hug.

Not even fingers brushing.

Better.

Clearer.

Him choosing you out loud.

And the worry in your chest finally let go.

A shadow crossed your table. Mercer.

You saw him first. A flash of red armor. Daryl stiffened when Mercer slowed.

The Commander paused. Did not speak. Just scanned. His eyes landed last on you two sitting close. Knees touching. Sandwiches between you.

Then his gaze moved to Daryl.

A silent question.

Everything good?

Daryl cleared his throat. Straightened. Not defensive. Not hiding.

He held Mercer’s stare.

Mercer tipped his chin. Barely. Waiting.

You almost spoke, but Daryl moved first.

His hand lifted. Hovered.

Then settled over yours on the bench. Warm. Steady. Sure.

Mercer’s brows rose. Not surprised. Just confirming something he already suspected.

Daryl squeezed your hand. Quiet. Firm.

No speech. No explanation.

Just a wordless maybe this time I’m not running.

Mercer breathed out through his nose. Close to a smile.

He gave one slow nod. Approval without a single word.

Then he walked off. Boots heavy. Duties calling.

You watched him go. Then looked at Daryl.

His hand stayed on yours.

“Guess he doesn’t mind,” you said.

“Ain’t about minding,” Daryl answered. His thumb brushed your knuckles. “Just wanted him to know.”

The courtyard grew quiet around you.

Daryl’s hand stayed where it was.

And for once, he did not look like he needed the space between you.

[freerangebabe]

Out of my Ocs so far

whose story should we start with?

Joseph's mlm

Stephanie's Delivery

Voting ended onNov 19, 2025