TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, mild angst, walkers (Zombies), medical procedures, hand removal, thourghts of unaliving, breif attempt to unalive (if you squint, it's like a sentence or two.)
A/N: This is a little less edited then my usual stuff, but the other chapters will be more polished !
This is a Merle x Reader that becomes a Daryl x Reader slowburn
Part 2
Between Brothers - Part 1
The clang of the metal door echoes into the heat.
You stagger into the sunlight, arm thrown up against the glare. The rooftop radiates with baked concrete, burnt tar, and the sharp, metallic scent of old blood.
The city stretched out before you in a haze of smoke and heat shimmer, broken windows glinting like jagged teeth in the late afternoon sun.
Below, the moans of the dead crawled up from alleyways, from between cars, from every shattered doorway.
The staircase behind you felt like it had swallowed all your strength. But you weren’t planning on walking back down.
You didn't cry. You were past crying. Just…empty.
You stepped toward the edge—each footstep crunching concrete, slow and sure.
Your fingers trembled as they gripped the ledge.
Then—
“Aww, hell. Y’ain’t one o’ them geeks, are ya?”
You flinch, startled.
The voice was coarse and southern, soaked in sarcasm and cigarette smoke. You stared forward, silent, frozen somewhere between confusion and dread.
“Gotta ask… you fixin’ to jump, or just enjoyin’ the view?” he smirked, though his eyes didn’t match it. They were sharper, clearer than you'd expect from a man cuffed on a rooftop.
Your eyes flick toward the sound. He’s sprawled by the far railing—a man, shirt soaked in sweat, sunburn peeling along his shoulders, a wrist handcuffed to a pipe. The glint of metal is harsh against his skin.
He shifts—languid, almost like a predator stretching in the sun.
“C'mon Sugar, you real?” he mutters, squinting at you like you might vanish. “Or just a real damn cruel heat mirage?”
You stare, frozen halfway between the door and the edge of the world.
You weren't looking for him. You didn’t even know he existed. But now you're here—and so is he.
“Well don’t just stand there gawkin’, girlie Come say hello to Merle Dixon.”
His grin is crooked. There’s no charm in it.
Just teeth and trouble.
You approach in slow, uncertain steps. Your boots crunch on concrete, dust rising in the sun. Your eyes flick to the cuff, the rust on the pipe, the torn skin on his wrist, raw and angry.
He follows your gaze.
“Yeah. Ain’t exactly Club Med up here.”
You shift your weight, not speaking yet. He sizes you up—boots to fingertips to face. Lingers too long.
“You’re a funny-lookin’ bird,” he says finally. “Not funny bad. Just… different. Got a voice on ya?”
You nod. Quietly.
"I’m not from here.”
“Yeah, no kiddin’. What you wander in from Narnia.”
You flinch at the jab—unsure if it was meant to wound.
Merle notices.
And laughs. A rasping sound that could’ve been amusement or something meaner.
“Don’t look so damn delicate. Ain’t got the breath to bite you.”
You kneel, carefully, pulling your canteen from your bag. Wordlessly, you offer it. He watches your hand like it’s a trap. Then takes it.
“What’s a girl like you doin’ on a roof like this?”
You glance at the ledge. “I was looking for… a way out.”
“Well now,” he mutters, tipping back the water, “ain’t we all.”
Time ticks by. You sit a little ways off, knees hugged to your chest. Merle’s trying not to groan, but you can see the pain in his shoulders, in the way he leans toward you without meaning to.
Then he speaks again—voice lower now. Almost quiet.
“You ever killed one?”
You blink. “One…of those ...?”
“A rotter."
He snorts softly at your hesitation.
“Didn’t think so. You still smell like shampoo.”
You almost flinch again.
He doesn’t seem cruel—not really—just observant. But it's unnerving.
"World like this?” he adds, turning to look at you full-on. “You ain’t gonna make it unless someone keeps you safe.”
You meet his eyes, hesitant.
"Someone like you?”
“Damn right.”
His voice dips, just slightly. Something in it sharpens.
“You help Ol' Merle out and I’d keep you real safe, girlie. Real close like. Ain’t none of them bitters touching ya”
You tilt your head, curious, naïve to the layered meaning. All you hear is protection. Safety. Stability. What you crave.
You nod—tentatively.
Merle watches you. The way your lashes drop. The way you just quietly believe him.
Something in him stutters.
He expected fear. Flinching. Hell even anger.
He didn't expect trust.
And it unsettles him more than the sunstroke ever could.
You finally speak.
“We gotta get you free.”
He chuckles darkly.
"Ain’t got the key, honey.”
Your silence as you drop your eyes is answer enough. You don’t need to say it.
Your follow his eyes to the bag of tools, the hatchet, and bile rises to your throat.
His eyes flicker from the tools to your face.
“You know what I'm sayin’ darlin' ?” he murmurs, voice losing some of its swagger.
You nod. “You’ll bleed out if we don’t stop it fast.” You say fishing out a half finished bottle of whiskey and a lighter from your pack.
"Well, ain’t you just full of surprises.”
You take your shirt off—to rip the cleanest piece of cloth from underneath. His eyes dart briefly, but for once, he doesn’t speak. He looks at the blade instead.
"Guess we doin this now.”
You nod. Shoving your shirt back on. Your stomach is in your throat. You can’t look as he starts.
But you hear it.
Meat and rust.
A grunt—half-snarl, half-cry.
Then silence.
He’s shaking, blood pouring, face twisted in something between agony and sheer will.
You press the cloth tight.
“You done this before?” he rasps.
“Nope.”
He laughs through the pain.
“Hell of a first date.”
The flame licks across the fabric. It glows a sick flickering orange. The smell is unbearable.
You look to him.
"Ready?”
“Not even a little, Girlie." Despite the circumstances his grin is wolfish.
He doesn’t scream.
But his eyes roll back for a moment, his boots scuffing against the rooftop. When the wound hisses the sound is animal.
You press. You count. You cry—quietly.
And when it’s done, you wrap the stump with trembling hands. He’s gone pale, eyes unfocused. But he’s breathing. He’s alive.
You help him stand. His good hand slings around your shoulder, heavy with sweat and blood. He leans more than he means to.
As you guide him toward the door, he mutters.
“Didn’t peg you for the type to stick around.”
“Do you ever, shut the hell up?” you whisper.
He chuckles—barely.
“You keep this up, girlie, I might have to marry you.”
You don’t laugh.
The stairwell groans under your weight, every metal step shuddering like it might snap. Merle leans heavily against your side, half-conscious, face pale and damp. You’ve wrapped his cauterized stump as tight as you can, but the bleeding hasn’t stopped completely, and his breath is ragged.
“Ain’t exactly a smooth exit,” he mutters between shallow inhales, voice slurring. "Damn, sugar... you smell like hell’s perfume.”
You glance at him—tight-lipped. The blood on your hands is mostly his. You barely feel it anymore.
The lower levels are dim, windows boarded up or broken, and the scent of rot swells the deeper you go. Somewhere below, a walker growls, low and hungry.
You tense. Merle feels it.
“Don’t freeze up now,” he whispers, words brittle but aware. “Ain’t nothin’ down there that wants you more than I do.”
You think it’s a joke. You hope it is. But there’s no time to ask.
You shoulder open the final door, into the Atlanta heat and chaos.
The streets boil with summer heat and death.
Cars are overturned, the blacktop glittering with shattered glass. A body hangs out the driver’s side of a cab, jaw torn clean off. Somewhere in the distance, a wave of groans—but not close. Not yet.
Merle staggers as you half-drag, half-carry him across the sidewalk.
He's heavy heavier then you expected and your grateful he's still conscious enough to help. He curses under his breath with every step.
“Ain’t how I pictured us walkin’ into the sunset, sweetheart.” He drawls.
You don’t reply.
You’re watching everything. Every alley. Every rooftop. Every sound.
Eventually, you spot it—an old apartment building, stone facade crumbling, but intact. The lobby is quiet. Dead quiet.
You push through the broken glass doors, helping Merle up a half-collapsed stairwell. Second floor. Room 208.
It smells faintly of mildew and wood polish. The bed is made. There are dishes in the sink.
Furniture upturned. Whoever had lived here left in a hurry—but they didn’t die in it.
It’s... quiet.
Safe.
For now.
You lay Merle down on the bed, gently easing him onto his side to protect his wound. His breathing slows. His head rolls toward you, dazed, but trying to focus.
“You stickin’ around?” he mumbles.
You nod. Then—
“Gonna look for food.”
“You ain’t ready.”
You pause at the door.
“Maybe not, but it's not like your in a position to help." You quip.
Merle’s eyes follow you as far as they can before they close. He mutters something you don’t catch. It might have been “stupid girl”, or maybe “be careful.” You’ll never know.
The hallway is narrow. You walk softly, fingertips brushing the wall. You can feel your own heartbeat in your throat.
The door to Apartment 206 is slightly ajar. Inside, silence.
You push in slowly, scanning.
Canned goods on the counter. A half-open pantry. Jackpot.
You gather quickly, stuffing a tote bag with beans, fruit, powdered milk. You turn—relieved.
That’s when you hear the scrape.
You freeze.
The walker stumbles out from the bathroom—a woman, or what used to be one. Her jaw hangs loosely, skin like old paper, eyes white and hungry.
Your body locks up.
You don’t move.
You don’t breathe.
Until it groans—and lunges.
Then you scream.
You fall back, the tote spilling, cans clattering. The walker grabs your shirt, teeth snapping inches from your throat.
You grab the only thing near—a cast iron frying pan from the stove—and slam it down.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Until she stops moving.
Until her skull is cracked open like a dropped melon.
You sit there, panting, spattered in black-red blood, the pan slick in your trembling hands.
And then you cry.
Not loudly.
But enough.
Because you’re not who you were twenty minutes ago.
And you know it.
When you push back into the apartment, the sun’s gone lower. The room is quiet.
You are coated in blood.
Hair matted. Eyes wide and unfocused. Tote bag in one hand. The frying pan still dangling from the other slick with blood.
Merle stirs.
Opens his eyes.
Freezes.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes scanning you. “You look like hell’s housekeeper.”
You don’t speak. You just set the bag of food on the dresser, then stand there. Silent. Shaking.
Merle blinks.
"You didn’t… get bit, did ya?”
You shake your head.
He exhales, muttering something.
Then, slower this time:
"What happened out there?”
Your lip trembles.
Your voice cracks.
"I killed her. She had... she had rollers in her hair.”
Merle looks at you. Really looks.
And for once, doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke.
He shifts in the bed, groaning as he props himself slightly.
"C’mere.”
You hesitate.
“C’mon now. Ain’t gonna bite. Just sit.”
You do. At the very edge of the bed.
He looks at you for a long time.
"First time’s the worst,” he says, voice quieter now. “Ain’t no shame in feelin’ it.”
You glance at him, blood drying on your neck.
"Will I stop? Feelin’ it?”
He holds your gaze. "...Yeah. And then one day, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
synopsis: you get spooked on your way back to camp... and ed learns a valuable lesson.
cw: canon typical violence, gore, profanity, mature themes, cannibalism (zombies), zombies (obviously), racism (Merle), reader is black, reader is from jersey, reader is a mechanic, reader was raised native (ish), reader's a bit of an atheist
a/n: this'll all make sense trust
When the sisters at St. Eloise's School for Wayward Girls preached about the end times, you always thought it was bullshit.
Talk of earthquakes, and pestilences, and false prophets, as if those things didn't already exist.
It was stupid.
And you thought all the other girls who believed in that shit were stupid, too.
In fact, you found the whole Catholic thing to be utterly stupid.
There was no being up above, surveilling the world and providing wisdom and comfort to his followers.
There was no sunshine-and-rainbows afterlife, where you'd spend the rest of eternity in living it up in luxury.
There was no greater purpose or higher calling, or reward for living a life of virtue and righteousness.
The whole Catholic thing was nothing but a mass of death-fearing assholes wanting a way out of paying for their crimes by "confessing their sins".
It was all bullshit.
And you had the cane scars to prove it.
But... if there was one thing they got right—of all things—it was the resurrection of the dead.
You let out a silent chuckle, carefully peering down the shaft of your arrow as you set your sights on a nice, fat goose.
If there was a God, he had a fucked up sense of humor.
Narrowing your eyes, you watched as the bird ruffled its feathers, dipping its wings in the pond before brushing them over its head, cleaning itself as it waded through the water.
"That's right..." you muttered, allowing it to drift closer. "Line up, duckie."
You held steady, lying in wait as you crouched among the tweeds and the tall grass.
Until it finally lined up just right.
Without hesitation, you released your arrow, the snap of the bowstring punctuating the goose's life as you shot it dead in the cheek, killing it instantly.
"Thank you, Kehetu," you sighed, standing to your full height.
Your foster father.
He was native—Comanche—and never had the privilege of having his own children.
But he loved and cared for you all the same, and taught you everything he and his forefathers had ever learned.
How to live off the land...
How to hunt for your food...
Complex wilderness survival...
Typical teen girl stuff.
Trudging through the mud, you crossed the bank and stepped into the shallow end of the pond, snatching up your kill by the neck and yanking the arrow out its head with a sick squelch.
'Better start headin' back... m'gonna lose the light soon.'
You hummed to yourself, glancing up at the sky as you used the rope slung over your shoulder to attach your bird to the three other geese you hunted.
Letting out a soft grunt, you slung your bow across your back, starting off back toward camp.
If you were being honest, you didn't have the slightest idea as to why you were holing up with a bunch of strangers.
It wasn't like you needed protection.
Or assistance...
Or comfort...
With your survival skills, you had gotten along the first two weeks of the apocalypse perfectly fine.
Almost eerily so.
But to you, there wasn't much difference from your routine pre-outbreak.
Snag a Honey Bun from the corner store, show up late to your old man's car shop, start working, and then return to his cabin in the sticks for a rabbit dinner and a beer.
Only change now was that Honey Buns were practically nonexistent.
But you'd stumbled across these people about two weeks ago, and quickly realized that a great many of them weren't going to last a month.
They were too cushy... too accustomed to the luxuries that came with modern life... too attached to the normalcy they'd been living in for so long.
Hell, you were sure that if you dropped any number of them out in the woods on their own, they wouldn't last a single day.
You sighed, tightening your grip on the rope as you trekked up a small hill.
Call it pity... call it empathy... hell, call it the charity Sister Margaret wouldn't shut the hell up about.
But something in the pit of your chest couldn't leave these people to fend for themselves.
Not like this.
Not with the world as it was now.
Nearing the clearing, you took notice of some rustling, instantly snapping yourself out of your thoughts and focusing up.
With practiced ease, you readied your bow, quietly pulling an arrow out of your otter-skin quiver.
You lowered your stance, stalking carefully as you slowly approached the edge of the trees.
'No way it's a biter... they never come this far up the mountain...'
Inhaling a sharp, silent breath, you lunged into the clearing, drawing your arrow on the first thing that moved.
Only to find it was Dale and the others, weapons ready as they stood around a half-eaten deer.
"Fuckin' Christ," you groaned, lowering your bow with an annoyed snarl. "Hell's the matter with you assholes? I almost shot Dale."
Quickly surveying the group, you realized there was a new face among the bunch.
A man... with scruffy stubble, a white tee, and an authoritative air about him
"Who the hell is he?"
"I—"
"Son of a bitch," a familiar voice spat, emerging from the woods to the right of you.
'Fuck me...'
"Thas' mah deer!" Daryl exclaimed, trudging toward where it lay, right next to a dead walker. "Look at it. All gnawed on by this..."
His brows furrowed as he dealt swift kicks to the corpse's stomach.
"Calm down, son. That's not helping," Dale sighed, resting his hands on his hips.
"What do you know about it, old man?" Darly scoffed, stepping around the carcass to get in his face. "Why donchu take that stupid hat and go back to On Golden Pond?"
"Ay, watch your fuckin' mouth, trailer park," you spat, sizing the man up with a sharp glare.
"Fuck you," he scoffed, turning around to tug his bolts out of the deer. "I been trackin' this deer for miles... was gonna drag it back to camp... cook us up some venison."
Leaning down, he traced the area where the walker had eaten its lunch.
"Whaddya think? You think we can cut around this chewed up part right here?"
"I would not risk that," Shane denied, hanging his arms on the shotgun resting around his neck.
"Thas' a damn shame," Daryl sighed. "Well, I got some squirrel—'bout a dozen or so. That'll havtah do."
"I picked up about four geese," you chimed, holding up your rope. "Should be more than enough."
Glancing over in your direction, Daryl's eyes narrowed slightly, not very appreciative of the one-up.
But you flashed him a small smirk, pleased.
'Serves you right, asshole...'
You and your fellow hunter had been at odds since the moment you met—mostly because of his racist-ass brother... but odds nonetheless.
Merle was not quiet whatsoever about his distaste for "your kind", and you took quite a great deal of offense to that given you were one of the main members feeding the damn group, as well as making sure all the vehicles were in shape for a speedy getaway.
But anyone who had beef with Merle, had beef with Daryl, no matter how well-founded.
Just then, the head of the decapitated walker groaned back to life, blinking its cloudy eyes with a harsh snarl.
"C'mon, people. What the hell?" Daryl scolded, stepping forward and shooting it in the head. "It's gotta be the brain."
He scoffed, roughly tugging his bolt out its eye before walking off.
"Don't chu know nothin'?"
"Can someone explain to me how the women wound up doin' all the Hattie McDaniel work" Jacqui grumbled, plopping down a hamper of dirty clothes next to the creek.
"The world ended. Didn't you get the memo?" Amy chuckled, dryly.
Carol paused a moment, glancing back at her husband, Ed, who leaned idly against one of the truck beds.
"It's just the way it is," she sighed, setting aside a clean shirt.
"Not how it should be," you scoffed, muffled by the knife between your teeth as you plucked your third goose.
"Well, I do miss my Maytag."
"I miss my Benz... my Satnav," Andrea agreed.
"I miss my coffee maker with that dual-drip filter and built-in grinder, honey," Jacqui groaned, wistfully.
"My computer... and texting," Amy huffed.
You paused a moment, wondering on what pleasure you missed that wasn't readily available.
"Cold beer... maybe my truck," you stated, pulling out another tail feather.
"I miss my vibrator," Andrea blurted, making you snort.
"Oh!" Jacqui smirked, turning to the woman with a knowing look.
"Oh, my God!"
Making sure the coast was clear, Carol looked around, before turning back to the group.
"Me, too."
At that, the lot of women burst into laughter, you included.
Out of all of you—besides Lori and Miranda—Carol was the only one with an actual husband or partner to speak of.
It was a surprise to see she hadn't gotten much recently.
'Never thought people would have trouble puttin' out in the apocalypse...'
"What's so funny?" Ed suddenly chimed, appearing out of nowhere.
"Just swappin' war stories, Ed," Andrea chuckled, riding out her laughter.
But Carol was less amused.
In fact, her face immediately fell the moment she set sights on her husband.
The action sent a spike of anger coursing through your veins, and introduced a certain furrow to your brow.
Ed was a do-nothing, abusive asshole, who was known for putting his hands on Carol, and their young girl, Sophia.
You'd seen the bruises before, and their fearful silence, and you offered more than once to handle the situation for them.
With society collapsed there was no law, and with no law, there was no murder.
And whether it was Ed or goddamn goose made no difference to you.
A carcass was a carcass.
But Carol insisted you stay out if it, and you respected her wishes.
Though... that didn't mean you had to like it.
"There a problem, Ed?" you asked, sharply, as you drew the knife from your mouth, turning to glance at him with an annoyed glare.
"Nothin' that concerns you," he fired back, taking a puff of his cigarette. "And you ought to focus on your work. This ain't no comedy club."
"Oh, yeah? 'Cause I'm lookin' at somethin' real funny right now," you spat, staring him down.
"(y/n)," Carol whispered, sharply.
"Nah, he don't like how his laundry's done, he can do it his damn self."
Rising to your feet, you snatched up a wet pair of pants, tossing it into his chest.
"Go 'head. Feel free to pitch in."
Roughly, he threw it right back, hitting you square in the neck.
"Ain't my job, missy."
You scoffed, eyes widening at his audacity.
"(y/n), don't—"
"What is your job, asshole? Bum around smokin' cigarettes?" you barked, cutting Amy off.
"Well, it sure as hell ain't listenin' to some smart mouth bitch. I tell you that."
"This bitch is makin' sure that yo' fatass fuckin' eats tonight."
"C'mon. Let's go," he ignored you, his orders directed toward Carol.
"Nah, she ain't gotta go anywhere witchu," you denied.
"It's none of your business. Come on, now. You heard me."
Whipping around, you turned to the woman, your eyes softening.
"Carol."
"(y/n), please. It doesn't matter."
"Hey," Ed stepped forward, getting into your face. "Don't think I won't knock you on your ass 'cause you some city-born cooze, all right?"
"Knock who? You wanna settle this, we can settle this right here."
"You don't wanna keep proddin' the bull here, okay? Now I am done talkin'. C'mon."
Lunging forward, he snatched up Carol's arm, getting ready to pull her off.
"No, Carol," Andrea stepped up, resting a hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to—"
"She don't havtah what?! I tell you what!"
Ed's hand suddenly whipped up, striking his wife across the face with a harsh slap.
And you took that as the a-okay.
As the women screamed, you flipped around your knife, slashing him across the cheek before shoving him to the ground with the heel of your boot.
"You don't fuckin' touch her!" you shouted, holding your weapon at the ready in case he got back up.
"Cmere!" Shane suddenly appeared, stepping over Ed's body and grabbing him by the shirt before landing a harsh punch on the man's eye.
Gasps echoed throughout the group as he beat on the man mercilessly, slamming hit after hit after hit after hit into his face meat.
Shoulders sinking slightly, you let out a quiet huff, sheathing your knife in the belt loop next to your crowbar as you stepped back to watch the show.
You weren't remorseful in the slightest.
Shane was doing what you'd been dreaming about for the longest.
Though, you could tell that things were going downhill fast as he kept his pace, not letting up as a minute went by.
'Shit.'
"Shane, stop!"
"Stop it!"
"Just stop!"
"Ed!" Carol sobbed, having to be held up by Jacqui and Amy.
"He's limp, man," you sighed, crossing your arms over your chest. "Don't kill 'im in front of his wife."
Pausing a moment, Shane grabbed Ed by the face, leaning in nice and close.
"You put your hands on your wife, your little girl, or anybody else in this camp one more time, I will not stop next time. Do you hear me? Do you hear me?!"
"Yesh..." Ed slurred, barely able to see.
"I'll beat you to death, Ed."
With that, Shane landed one final blow, before finally rising to his feet, sending a swift kick to Ed's stomach before storming off.
"Oh, Ed!" Carol cried, running to her husband's side with tears in her eyes. "Ed, I'm sorry!"
With a sharp huff, you turned to head back to the creek, plopping yourself back down on your rock and picking up your goose.
Shoulders tight, you glared down at the bird, roughly slicing off its down feathers.
Daryl is so gentle and caring afterwards. For sure will cuddle you until you fall asleep.
B = Body Part (Favourite body)
He likes his arms. Before he met you, he never paid much attention to his appearance, but your constant stream of compliments about his arms changed that. His favourite body part on you is your eyes. He loves how bright they are, and the way you look at him gives him butterflies. He just loves everything about you, even the things you saw as ‘imperfections’ such as scars or stretch marks. You are perfect to him.
C = Cum (Anything to do with cum).
He likes cumming inside you. He’s not entirely sure why he likes it so much, but fucking you hard and cumming deep inside your walls makes him so hard.
D = Dirty Secret
Daryl secretly wants to fuck you out in the forest. The idea of pining you against a tree and thrusting inside you has been a fantasy of his for a long time.
E = Experience (How experience is he?)
When you first got together, Daryl was not very skilled. Before the apocalypse, he never had a girlfriend that lasted more than a week, and when it came to sex, he would always be in an intoxicated state. So the first few times you had sex, he was unsure and a little clumsy. But he is a fast learner, and can now make you cum by merely using his fingers.
F = Favourite Position
He likes it when you are on top because he can see all of you. He loves to admire the way your body moves against his: the way your hips roll back and forth over his cock, the way your tits bounce when he thrusts up into you, and most of all, he loves watching your face contort in pleasure as you come closer to your release. He is a very visual man.
G = Goofy (Is he goofy or serious in the moment?)
Daryl is serious when it comes to sex. His mission is always to get you to cum at least twice, so he takes that undertaking very seriously.
H = Hair (how well groomed is downstairs?)
It is the apocalypse, neither of you are too fussy about what it looks like down there, though Daryl will put some extra effort in for you and might trim.
I = Intimacy (How romantic is he?)
He is romantic when it comes to sex. Having sex with you is special to him, so he likes to put the effort in. He won’t light candles or anything, but he will lay extra blankets down, make sure you are comfy and kiss every inch of your skin. Overall, he just becomes a massive softie.
J = Jack Off (Masterbation headcanon)
Daryl rarely masturbates, he is usually too busy or stressed to do so. But if he does, his thoughts will be filled with you the entire time.
K = Kink (What are his kinks?)
He has a thigh riding kink. Watching you grind yourself against his thighs makes him incredibly hard.
Definitely has a breeding kink. One of his favourite activities is to fuck you and fill you with his cum.
He also has a body worship kink (giving and receiving). He loves to worship every inch of your skin with hot kisses. He never thought he’d like to receive it himself, but when you murmur compliments in his ear, it makes him feel hot inside.
L = Location (Favourite place to fuck)
He likes to have sex in places that are safe, such as the bedroom or somewhere with secure walls. He would like to fuck you in the forest, but he doesn’t want to put you at any extra risk.
M = Motivation (his turn on’s)
One of his biggest turn on’s is when you sit on his lap. Feeling your ass pressed up against his cock gets him going like nothing else.
Another turn on is when you tease him in public. For example, running your hands over his chest or placing your hand on his thigh. When you do that, all he can think about is how he is going to to fuck you when you have some privacy.
N = NO (What he won’t do)
No spanking or choking. The idea of hurting you is off the table for him, plus he doesn’t like any unnecessary violence because of his past abuse.
O = Oral (Giving, recieving, skill level)
One of his favourite sights to see, is your lips wrapped around his cock. But what he loves to see even more than that, is your head swung back and your shaking thighs around his neck as his tongue slowly fucks you. He is obsessed with using his mouth to pleasure you. The way you taste on his lips and the way you whimper his name is almost enough to make him cum right then and there.
P = Pace (Slow or fast?)
It depends on his mood. In general, he will use deep and slow thrusts to fuck you. He likes the way you grind against him and beg for more. But if he is stressed or frustrated, he will fuck you fast and hard. Either way, he is just happy to be inside you.
Q = Quickie (His opinion on quickies)
He doesn’t mind quickies. They are a common occurrence since you both are pretty busy. Though he does prefer taking his time with you.
R = Risk (Does he experiment/take risks)
He will happily try out new positions or techniques, but he will not do anything that would put you at risk.
S = Stamina (How many rounds can he go?)
This man has great stamina. He can and will go for multiple rounds and will happily fuck you for hours if you let him.
T = Toys (His opinion/does he use them)
It is pretty hard to come by toys in the apocalypse, so it is not something he really thought about. But when you find a vibrator on a run, he will gladly tie you up and watch you squirm.
U = Unfair (How much does he like to tease)
When he is in more of a playful mood, he likes to delay your orgasm until you are practically shouting his name. The way you beg him to keep fucking you is such a massive turn on.
V = Volume (How loud is he?)
Daryl is pretty quiet. At first he was completely silent, but when he got more comfortable with you, he would moan your name from time to time.
W = Wild Card (free headcanon)
He is a switch. Sometimes he likes to have full control over your body as he fucks into you, though other times he is a complete sub. He loves watching you sink down on his cock as you fuck him and use him for your own pleasure. He also likes to be tied up when you fuck him.
X = X-Ray (What size is he?)
He is about 5 inches, and pretty girthy. Plus, he sure as hell knows how to use it.
Y = Yearning (How high is his sex drive?)
It depends on how stressed he is. On days where there is a lot to do, or if he has to go on missions, he has a low sex drive. But on more chill days, all he wants is to fuck you.
Z = ZZZ (How quickly does he fall asleep afterwards?)
He falls asleep fast. He will make sure you are alright, before pulling you into his arms. One time he was in the middle of speaking and just fell asleep mid-sentence.
Old Haunts [Daryl Dixon x FEM!Reader]; After getting injured on the river, he gets haunted by old memories from his past. (featuring young Daryl, werewolf au)
Bedtime; Daryl put his daughter to bed before having a small conversation with his wife.
Drabble:
Bad Luck; A young teen leaves after being attacked by her own group verbally. She gets picked up by Negan. He put her back together and made her stronger than she was before. A true soldier.
A/N: So, I have thought about doing this and here it is!! This is a series rewrite for The Walking Dead. I DO NOT own twd or any of the characters. So, no copyright infringement or whatever is intended at all. This is going to be a reader insert and I will do it episode by episode. Some days I may post a couple at a time, and then I might not post it for days on end. Please, let me know what you think of this. And as always, feedback and any kind of CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM is welcome. However, if I get any hate, you will be ignored and I won't post whatever you say. Also, let me know if you want to be tagged in anything!! And I will most likely make a separate Masterlist for this specifically that will be linked in the regular Masterlist(eventually). My Request box is always open. This will most likely get gruesome at some point, so if you get queasy by the thought of blood, I suggest you read something of mine that doesn't involve it. Read at your own risk. Thanks for reading!!
Tagging: @bubbly-demon @weirdnewbie @totallovelesson @rickdixonandthefandomlifeposts @zoevesper @dom-joonie @soldierplum @winchestergirl-13
Requests are always open!
Fandom List Masterlist Series Rewrite Masterlist
Previous: Wildfire Season 1 Episode 5
Next: What Lies Ahead (coming soon) Season 2 Episode 1
This is the end of Season 1. I will begin work on Season 2 soon.
You all were standing there in shock for a moment before you all made your way inside. You all were very wary though. Everyone was ready to put up a fight, should they need to.
"Hello?" Rick called out. "Hello?"
"Close those doors, and watch for walkers." You heard Dale say. Since you all had made it in, you were all still wary, since you saw no one around. That's when you heard the other voice.
"Hello?" He said, and you turned and saw a man standing there, with a gun, and you all pointed yours at him. "Any of you all infected?"
"One of our group was, but he didn't make it." Rick replied.
"Why are you here and what do you want?" He asked again.
"A chance." Rick replied.
"That's asking an awful lot these days," The man said, while slowly going forward again.
"I know," Rick said.
The man in turn, looked at all of our fearful faces, and finally said, "You all submit to a blood test, that's the price of admission."
"We can do that." Rick said, nodding his head.
"If you have stuff to bring in, bring it in now. Once this door closes, it stays closed." He said quickly, putting the gun down. They all rushed to grab the bags, and the rest of us held the doors open and were waiting a bit away.
Once they were back in and the doors closed, he swiped a card and spoke saying to close the main doors.
"Rick Grimes," Rick introduced, holding out his hand.
"Edwin Jenner," He replied, and only looked at his hand. He led you to an elevator, and you all got in.
"Doctor's always goin around, packing heat like that?" Daryl asked with a tilt of his head.
"Well, there were plenty left laying around, so I familiarized myself with them." Edwin replied. "And you look homeless enough. Except you, I'll have to keep my eye on you." He said jokingly to Carl. He laughed a bit, and then we finally got off. He led us down a hallway, and Carol spoke.
"Are we underground?" She asked.
"You claustrophobic?" He replied.
"A little." She said.
"Try not to think about it." He replied. You all came to the end of the hallway to a big room and Edwin spoke again. "Vie, turn on the lights in the main room." And then a bunch of lights came on, and he turned back to you. "Welcome to zone five."
Right after we began to follow him, you spoke up. "Where is everybody? The other doctors and staff."
"I'm it. It's just me here." Edwin replied.
"What about the person you were speaking with? Vie?" Lori asked.
"Vie, say Hello to our guests. Tell them, welcome." He said, and a few seconds later, a voice said, "Hello guests. Welcome."
"I'm all that's left." He said. "I'm sorry." He led you all to a room where you would get your blood taken.
"What's the point? If we were bitten, we'd have a fever." Andrea asked, watching him draw her blood.
"Look, I've broken every rule in the book letting you in here. Just let me be thorough. " He replied
When Andrea got up, she was dizzy, and stopped before moving again with Jacqui's help.
"What's wrong? Is she okay?" Edwin asked concerned.
"Yeah. She just hasn't eaten in days. None of us has." Jacqui responded. The drawing of blood went smoothly after that, and you were all done shortly after. That night, you were all sitting around a table, drinking wine, and having a good time. Most of you adults were tipsy at the most. Everyone was laughing, until Rick noticed that Edwin wasn't joining in.
He tapped a knife on the glass and said, "It seems we have yet to thank our host properly. "
"He is more than just our host." T-dog said. They then went and got kinda loud again, but not before Rick raised a glass to him, and said "Thank you." You followed his example and raised your glass, and nodding your head at him. He raised his glass awkwardly at the both of you, and nodded his head slightly, back.
"So when are you gonna tell us what the hell happened here doc?" You brother asked. "All the uh, the other doctors. The people who are supposed to be figuring out what happened, where are they?"
"We're supposed to be celebrating Shane." Rick said. " No need to do this now."
"Woah, wait a second. This is why we're here right? This was your move, supposed to find all the answers, instead, "Shane said, with a light scoff, "We found him. Found one man. Why?"
"Well when things got bad, a lot of people just, left. Went off to be with their families. And when things got worse, when the military cordon got overrun, the rest bolted." Edwin replied.
"Every last one?" Shane asked.
"No, many couldn't face walking out the door. They, opted out. There was a rash of suicides. That was a bad time. " He replied, and everyone was sobered up while he began to talk.
"But you didn't leave?" You asked, tilting your head. "Why?"
"I just kept working, hoping, to do some good. " He replied.
"Dude, you are such a buzzkill man." Glenn said. After a bit more of time, Edwin led you all to different rooms, while explaining what was happening, had happened.
"Most of the facilities powered down. Including housing, so you'll have to make due here. Couches are comfortable. But there are cots in storage if you like. There's a rec room down the hall that you kids might enjoy. Just, don't plug in the video games, okay? Or anything that draws power. The same applies if you shower, go easy on the hot water. " He said and they nodded their heads, before taking off to there.
"Hot water?" Glenn asked, with a grin adorning his features.
"That's what the man said," T-dog replied, and everyone took off to find themselves a showers and couch. You all were taking turns and your time in the showers. It felt amazing to get the dirt and grime off of your body. And then, after a few moments of just letting the water run over your body, before you got out of the shower. You had just been lazing around, not doing anything.
You had crawled onto a couch and gotten under the covers, and for the first time since the end of the world, you got a good nights sleep.
When you woke the next morning, you went to dining area, and saw at least half of the group, maybe more, eating breakfast. You went over, sat down, and made a plate before beginning to eat. T-dog was making eggs, and Glenn was obviously hung over. You weren't sure how much he drank, but he was the most hung over one there. His head was in his hands and he was just saying to not let him drink ever again. You giggled, and shook your head at him. Shane had walked in and he had scratches on his neck. He said he must've done it in his sleep, but from the way he was acting and looking at Lori, you knew something must have happened between the two of them. Edwin walked in, and you all told him that they didn't come here for the eggs. He then led you all to the main big room from last night, and asked Vie for a playback of TS-19.
"Few people ever got a chance to see this. Very few." Edwin said, and you all watched as the screen showed a whole picture/diagram like thing and got all up and inside the brain part. Shane asked him what the lights were.
"That's life. People's memory, thoughts, stuff like that. And you. What makes you unique and different." Edwin replied. Still watching the screen and Edwin, he explained in more detail the lights. And how it was someone dying. That someone was Test Subject 19. They had been bitten and infected and volunteered for them to record the process of their death. Vie was told to scan forward to the first event. You watched as the infection invaded the brain like meningitis, and then they died. They were still and there were no more lights on the brain. Then, he offered condolences to Andrea who was crying silently, at his words and because that's what Amy had had to go through. Vie then was told by Edwin to scan to the second event, where there were lights beginnings to appear again. But they weren't normal. You could tell that it was the infection that took over. And he had also told how the time varies before coming back to life.
"It restarts the brain?" You asked, as the lights had appeared and he shook his head.
"No, just the brain stem. Basically it just gets them up and moving." He replied.
"But they're not alive" Rick said, and Edwin stuck his hand out to the screen and said, 'You tell me.'
He went on to explain how the you part, doesn't come back. That it just becomes a shell. Dead, but not. And it gets driven off of mindless instinct. Then the gunshot that went through the skull and brain. And then it was over. The screens were shut down and he was basically saying how that once everything went dark, there was no communication and he had no idea if there were any other places like his. He didn't know.
"I know this is all taxing, but that clock over there. It's counting down. What happens when it hits zero?" Dale asked, noticing the one thing none of you did.
"The generators run out of power in the basement." He said, and then when asked what happens when that does, he walked away.
"Vie, what happens when the generators are out of power?" Rick called out, and received a response a minute later.
"There will be a system and whole building decontamination." The system responded, and you shook your head.
"We need to get out of here." You muttered. You watched Rick, Shane, Glenn and T-dog go down into the basement to check out any issues, and you stayed with the others, and had all of your things packed and ready to go, and went and told the others to do the same. But, they didn't listen. They liked the safety of the place and were being fools. You all got to the main room and Edwin locked the doors after a brief explanation. Which didn't tell much anyways. He locked you all in, and at least you had managed to get all the weapons and some food and water into your bags. Edwin began to start a recording, and was talking to low and quick for you to understand. But, everyone was panicking because he locked you all in. They were a jumbled mess of yelling and emotions. Vie was giving a definition of something deadly that was like a bomb of sorts. But there seemed to be no escape and you would all most likely die if you all couldn't get out. Which you couldn't then. The others were crying, and hugging their loved ones, and you only stood there in shock. They were all talking and being quite depressing so you decided to interject.
"You all are being depressing. Hope is still out there. It doesn't matter what you all think. Someone has hope. I do. Now, you need to open the door. Now. Or I will let Daryl kill you and then I'll take over." You interrupted them all, and Shane had a moment of insanity. He was so angry and had a shotgun which he fired at the other monitors. He was finally calm when Rick had him on the ground, though he was ready to butt the gun to his head.
"You all done now? Good." You said, and shook your head at your impatient brother. This time, you'd had enough.
"Alright, either open those doors, or I'll do it myself. Your choice." You said, and he didn't respond, so you moved him to the side and began to work on getting the doors open to be able to get out. You vaguely heard Rick and the others in the background while sitting at the desk.
"I've told you, topside is locked down, and I can't open those." Edwin said.
And he went over and entered a few buttons and the door opened. You saw Daryl with the axe and he had shouted for everyone to come on. You got up and was making sure everyone was alright and moving. You looked to Edwin in shock, before you mumbled, "Thank you." He nodded his head in response. You stayed back with Rick and Jacqui for a minute, before taking off, knowing they'd catch up in a minute. You followed after Glenn and Daryl through the hallways to get outside. Jacqui had chosen to stay back and everyone was ok, and said their good byes. You then heard that Andrea was going to be staying as well, and Dale stayed back and told you all to go. So you did. Up a staircase and through hallways The glass to freedom wouldn't break though. Until Carol stepped forward and had the grenade Rick had apparently picked up back in Atlanta. You all ducked and went for cover while Rick set the grenade up. It did the trick. The glass was completely broken. You all went outside and there were walkers, but not too many at that time. You all killed the ones that were going to be close and in your way while running. You made it to the cars and hopped in the truck, with Daryl on the other side. Right before you all started the vehicles up, you saw Andrea and Dale. They were coming with you. You all got down in each of the vehicles as the building exploded in fire. Looking and getting back up, there was so much fire and pieces of the concrete that used to be a building.
"Jesus..." You muttered, and you got up from being laid under Daryl's body. You glanced at him, before returning your gaze to everything else. You smiled to yourself, seeing him being protective of someone he didn't even know. And then the RV had started up and Daryl did the same. You were all driving to another place, and you didn't look back.
TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, angst, talk of sexual situations, SA? (Off page), walkers (Zombies), talk of amputation, alcohol consumption, talk of weed and liquor, nudity, lecherous behavior, MDNI.
Part 1
Between Brothers - Part 2
The apartment is still and humming with the distant song of the dead through the cracked windows. You move through the small kitchen in a daze, boots silent on cool linoleum. Your hands still tremble from earlier—ghost blood under your nails, dried in the cracks of your knuckles.
You open a cupboard and find a box of old matches, the label curling at the edges. You strike one near the stovetop just to check.
It flares.
The click-whoosh of flame.
Your breath catches.
Gas. Still working. Somehow.
Your heart lifts, a flicker of stunned disbelief cutting through the fog.
You rush to the bathroom—small, windowless, tiles yellowed from time. The tap sputters and growls... then flows.
You twist it hotter.
And when the steam starts curling from the faucet, your throat tightens with something that feels like gratitude and grief all at once.
You glance at the mirror above the sink, wiped a clean line through the dust. You lean closer—and immediately flinch.
You don’t recognize her.
There’s blood on your jaw. In your hair. A smear along your collarbone that dried like war paint.
Your eyes look too wide.
You touch your face and realize you're shaking again.
This is what Merle saw when you walked back in ? This is what you've become.
You strip down, mechanical, peeling away the layers until you’re just skin and sweat and silence. You step into the tub.
The first burst of hot water hits like a slap.
And then you sink to your knees.
Not crying.
Just breathing.
Because the warmth feels like permission to be alive again.
Merle stirs from the bed like a bear poked from hibernation, sluggish and sore. The sound of running water reaches him—steam leaking beneath the closed bathroom door.
He stretches his arm, winces at the bandaged stump, then smirks.
“Well, I’ll be... girlie found herself a damn shower.”
He grins lazily. Slips off the bed, boots scraping across the floor.
"Sure as hell beats a sponge bath.”
He moves with the kind of swagger that never left him, even bloodied and burned. His stump throbs. His pride less so.
Merle’s not used to asking.
Not for attention.
Not for touch.
Not after years keeping company with the kind of women who needed no convincing.
He knocks once—barely—and pushes the door open with the back of his hand.
Steam rolls out like fog from a horror film.
“Hey, darlin’...”
His voice turns syrupy.
“Mind if I join ya? Could use a lil’ scrub-down m’self.”
The steam wraps around you like a veil, your shoulders hunched under the spray as water cuts a path down your spine. For a few sacred moments, you almost forget the world outside. The blood in your hair circles the drain like a memory spiraling out of reach.
The pipes groan as water sputters to life in the dingy, rust-stained apartment shower. The mirror on the opposite wall is fogged now, obscuring your reflection—thankfully.
Blood swirls off your arms in faint spirals, washing down the drain like some other person’s nightmare. You scrub harder, like if you just try enough, the horror will lift from your skin. You flinch as your fingernails catch on a cut on your shoulder, but you don’t stop.
You don’t hear the door open.
But you do hear the gravel scrape of a boot on tile.
“Well, hell,” Merle drawls from the mist, his voice thick with heat and lazy amusement.
“Ain’t this a sight for sore eyes. Don’t mind if I—”
Your body whips around before you even think.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Your voice rips through the steam like a crack of thunder.
Water beats down on your bare skin, but you don’t flinch.
You’re too furious.
Too blindsided.
One arm clutches your chest, the other slams across your body as best it can, wild-eyed and burning with disbelief.
Merle halts mid-stride, brows lifting with crooked amusement. His eyes flick downward—quick, casual, entitled.
His smirk deepens.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, sweetheart,” he says, voice like smoke and bad habits. “Ain’t nothin’ I ain’t seen before. Hell, I’ve seen more naked women than I’ve seen damn sunsets.”
Your lip curls in revulsion. That heat in your chest—humiliation, disbelief—surges higher, catching fire behind your tongue.
“And what you just assume I’ve seen a bunch of naked men before too, huh?”
That stops him.
His grin falters—just a fraction.
His eyes settle on you, slower this time. Studying. Recalculating.
“Well...” he starts, scratching the back of his neck with his good hand, “didn’t think you were that green, Sugar.”
He says it like he doesn’t quite believe it.
You just stare at him, jaw locked, cheeks red for more reasons than one.
And then he does something unusual for a Dixon.
He backs up.
Slowly, cautiously—like someone finally realizing they’re not the one in control of the room. He leans a shoulder against the doorway, the cocky facade draining out of his frame piece by piece.
His voice comes quieter. Not soft, but... more real.
“Y’know,” he mutters, “you sound just like my baby brother.”
You blink.
“You... have a brother?”
Merle chuckles—dry, bitter.
“Had. Still do, maybe. Hell, I dunno. That boy could barely talk to a waitress without goin’ red in the ears. Thought I could toughen him up.”
You say nothing.
He chuckles again—proud, in a twisted kind of way.
“Didn’t want nothin’ to do with girls. Or drink. Or nothin’.”
His grin turns amused, cheerful, fond.
“So y’know what I did? I made him a man, I did. Took him out backwoods, got him drunk as a skunk, real good dope too. Paid a gal I knew from Macon—real sweet piece—to give it to him the whole birthday package.”
Your face twists in revulsion.
“You paid someone to...?”
“To take care of him!” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Shit, he didn’t know what to do before that. Poor bastard was still goin' red in the face when a girl looked his way.”
He’s laughing. Like this is some fond memory. A milestone.
And all you can feel is sick.
Your voice comes small—shaken now, but steady.
“That’s not... how that's supposed to be.”
Merle stops laughing.
There’s a beat of silence. Just the water trickling down your spine. Your bare feet gripping cold tile. And Merle, standing there—suddenly unsure if he’s crossed some line that matters.
“The hell you mean, that’s not how it’s supposed to be?” he says, more defensive now. “Boy needed someone to help him out. Show him what bein’ a man’s like.”
You shake your head slowly, water curling down your form, your nakedness forgotten in your anger.
“You didn't make him man, you stole from him.”
He scoffs, quieter. Eyes flick down. Something—a flicker of doubt—ghosts through him.
You stare at each other through the steam.
He doesn’t try to come in again.
Just mumbles something about finding food, and disappears down the hall, the door shutting with a loud slam.
You stand under the stream until your skin wrinkles and your legs ache.
You think about Merle’s face when you told him what happened to his brother wasn’t right. How he’d puffed up like he was proud—and then cracked just a little when you pushed back.
Like no one ever told him that what he did was wrong.
Like no one ever told him he deserved better, either.
You’ve never felt more exposed, but it’s not the nakedness that sticks in your mind—it’s how deeply Merle’s broken idea of manhood is rooted in pain, and how he wears it like armor.
You wonder if his brothers still alive, part of you hopes he is, hell you want everyone alive.
You wonder what kind of boy survives being made in Merle’s image—and how much of a chance he's had to unlearn that image.
The door shuts behind him with a slam that echoes down the cracked plaster hallway. Dust shakes loose from the ceiling. Somewhere upstairs, a pipe groans. The apartment goes still… except for Merle.
He stands frozen for half a second. Just one.
Then—
“FUCK!”
His voice rips through the room like a whip, sudden and guttural. His boot slams into the side of a broken cabinet, splintering it against the wall. The wood groans, a leg gives out, and the whole thing collapses like a balloon deflating.
He starts pacing, wild and jerky.
Outside the bathroom, the rest of the apartment is silent, broken only by the hiss of the shower still running behind the peeling walls.
Merle paces the living room like a storm given legs.
He growls. Loud.
“Stole, huh? That’s rich—comin’ from some tight-ass who wouldn’t know a hard life if it crawled up her skirt and bit her!”
His boot connects with an overturned dining chair, sending it skidding across the floor with a loud crack. Dust plumes up around him, catching in the dim shafts of late sunlight cutting through broken blinds.
“You stole from him,” he mimics in a mocking version of your voice, tilting his head and fluttering his fingers in the air. “‘That’s not makin’ him a man’—what the hell would you know?!” he spits again, stalking through the apartment like a caged dog.
“She don’t know a goddamn thing. What the hell does she know about bein’ raised in piss and bar fights and gettin’ whipped with a switch ‘cause you looked sideways at your old man?”
He rips open cabinet doors. Slams them shut.
“Where the hell’s the damn liquor in this place? This is America, ain’t it? Where’s the fuckin’ bourbon!?”
There’s no answer.
Only the hiss of water behind the bathroom door. Steam curling out from the bottom like breath from a wounded animal.
Merle storms into what used to be someones living room, pacing in jagged lines, throwing open drawers and boxes with trembling fingers.
“Actin’ like she’s so high and mighty... just ‘cause she talks like a damn narrator, proably don’t know which end of a gun to hold.”
His voice rips through the silence—loud enough to scare away whatever rats haven’t already fled.
He swipes his hand across a end table, sending a pile of debris scattering. He wants a bottle—needs a bottle—but the apartment looks like its dry. Of course it is. The world ends, and he can’t even get a drink when he needs to drown.
"Where the hell’s the goddamn liquor in this place?!”
He’s rifling through drawers, tearing through a kitchen cabinet, slamming it shut hard enough that one hinge lets go with a metallic clack.
He stumbles backward, hand on his hip, stump twitching like it’s angry too.
“Preachy little bitch,” he growls, half to himself, half to the echo in the room. “Don’t know a damn thing about the world, ‘bout how things were. Comin’ in here all high and mighty—like she’s better’n me.”
His voice cracks, just a little, at the edges.
He kicks a crate hard enough to split it. The wood crunches, splinters fly.
“Stupid, dumb, lil doe-eyed—”
He stops. His eyes flick toward the closed bathroom door.
The hiss of the shower is still going. You haven't heard a word.
His expression warps—grateful for that. Or maybe ashamed. It's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.
“—don’t even know who Daryl is,” he mutters to himself. “Don’t even know what I gave him. Like I didn’t fight tooth and goddamn nail to keep that boy from turnin’ into our old man.”
He exhales hard. Drags both hand and stump down his face, wincing as he flare of pain reminds him his hand is gone. The fight goes out of his shoulders like a deflating accordion.
“You don’t know nothin’, girlie,” he whispers, not cruel now—just tired. “You don’t know what I seen. What I did so he wouldn’t have to.”
He sinks to the floor, back to the wall, head tipped toward the ceiling like it might offer answers.
His mouth twitches—somewhere between a laugh and a growl.
“Stole from him,” he repeats softly.
His eyes scan the room like a caged animal looking for escape. And then they land on a final unopened dusty kitchen cabinet. He stumbles toward it, yanks open the drawers.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon... there’s always somethin’ in places like this…”
He tears through boxes, jars, a broken blender—desperate now.
“Gimme one goddamn bottle…”
Finally, in the back, his hand closes on something, a dusty glass neck. He yanks it out.
Whiskey. Old. Half full. Lid closed tight.
He breathes.
“Thank fuck.”
He unscrews the cap and takes a deep pull like a drowning man clawing for air.
Then another.
And another.
The bottle shakes in his grip.
He sits—hard—on the edge of the couch, breathing like he ran a marathon. Elbows on knees. The bottle dangling between them.
“She don’t know what it’s like. Growin’ up watchin’ your old man beat your kid brother ‘til he can’t breathe and knowin’ you’re next. Ain’t no manual for that.”
He stares at the floor. Unblinking.
“Did what I had to…” he murmurs.
Then softer—
"Didn’t have a choice…”
He downs the rest in one long, grim swig, letting it burn straight through him.
And then?
He stares into the empty bottle like it might offer absolution
A beat.
He rubs his hand over his face and lets out a bitter huff of laughter.
"Figures good ole Merle stuck in the apocalypse, with some kinda goddamn nun!"
He throws a chipped plate across the room. It shatters against the far wall, and dust mushrooms up from the carpet.
The shower keeps running.
Merle pauses.
Stares at the hallway.
The room creaks softly, the silence thick after his outburst.
The shower finally shuts off.
A long silence follows.
Merle looks up, eyes narrowing as he hears movement again.
He stands up fast. Brushes dust off his pants. Puts the pieces of himself back where they belong—loud, brash, untouchable.
By the time you step into the room, drying your hair with a threadbare towel, he’s leaning against the window frame, cigarette between his lips, eyes on the grey skyline.
“Took you long enough, Lil doe. I was ‘bout to send in a rescue team.”
No mention of the plate shards.
No mention of the broken cabinets.
No mention of everything he just spilled to a room that couldn’t judge him.
TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, angst, walkers (Zombies), talk of amputation, lecherous behavior, fluffy storytelling, baby Daryl!!!
Part 2
Between Brothers - Part 3
The city is decaying in layers—rusted signs, scorched cars, and the constant scent of rot weaving through everything like invisible thread. The walkers are thinner now, but not gone. Just scattered. Wandering. Mindless.
You cling to the side of a crumbling building, chest heaving, trying to stay quiet while two of them shamble down the alley ahead. Your hands are shaking, white-knuckled around a kitchen knife that you still haven't used. The blade feels foreign in your grip, too heavy and too light all at once.
Merle peers out from behind you, smirking like he's enjoying a movie you don't understand. There's something predatory in the way he watches—not you, but the situation. Like he's calculating angles and outcomes while you're still trying to process that this is real.
You glare at him, irritation flaring despite the fear. He's been calling you every pet name in the book since yesterday—sugar, sweetheart, honey.
He clicks his tongue and sidesteps you, bold as brass, strutting forward like the dead things can smell confidence. The casual way he moves makes your stomach twist. This is a game to him, or maybe it's just Tuesday.
He whistles, low and sharp.
The closest walker turns toward him, its jaw hanging at an unnatural angle, black blood crusted around what used to be a mouth.
The sound it makes isn't quite human anymore, its like its choking and drowning.
"That's it, come t'Uncle Merle."
He waits. Lets it get too close. You want to shout a warning, but your voice catches in your throat. Then he slams his boot into its knee, sending it toppling with a wet crack. One sharp jab of a knife through the eye socket and it's over. The second one goes the same way—efficient, brutal, practiced.
He wipes the blade on his jeans, turns back with that same wolfish grin. There's blood spatter on his cheek, and he doesn't seem to notice or care.
"Gonna have t' toughen you up, sugar. World don't give a damn if you blush when the blood starts flyin'."
You swallow hard, your accent creeping in despite your efforts to hide it. "You used to do that to your brother, didn't you?"
Merle pauses mid-step. Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something rawer. For half a second, the mask slips.
"Yeah." His voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. "Daryl damn near pissed himself just lookin' at a dead possum first time he went huntin'. Had to drag him by the ear just to make him touch the damn thing."
There's something in his tone you can't quite place.
You find it relatively quick—an abandoned furniture removal van, lodged on a stretch of cracked railway track, halfway through a shallow overpass. The back door rolled open like a gaping mouth, revealing a cargo area empty save for a few old moving blankets and the lingering smell of dust and diesel. Someone had welded metal handles to what used to be a roll-up door—now it pulls down like a garage, sealing the back completely.
Merle slaps the side of it like it's a prize pig at the fair.
"Ain't exactly the Ritz, lil' doe, but hell, beats sleepin' in a tree. Nice and private too." His grin has an edge to it that makes you step back slightly. "Just you, me, and all the time in the world to get... acquainted."
He swings himself up into the cargo area, wincing slightly from his healing stump, and reaches down to help you in. You hesitate—taking his hand feels like crossing some invisible line. But the sun is setting, and the alternative is spending a night in the open with those 'things' that used to be people.
His fingers are rough and callused when you finally take them, and he hoists you up like you weigh nothing. His grip lingers a moment longer than necessary before he lets go.
"You still got both your eyeballs? Your pretty little limbs all still attached?" Merle says, moving toward the driver's seat. The van's engine turns over on the third try, coughing to life with a rumble that seems too loud in the outskirts of Atlanta.
You nod mutely, climbing into the passenger seat. The vinyl is cracked and sun-faded, sticky with years of heat and neglect.
His eyes rake over you as you settle into the seat—slow, deliberate, taking inventory in a way that makes your skin crawl. It's the kind of look that lingers too long, sees too much.
The kind of look you've learned to recognize and avoid back home, but there's nowhere to go in the confines of the van.
"Buckle up, sweetheart," he says, but his tone makes it sound like something else entirely. "Wouldn't want you bouncin' around."
You fumble with the seatbelt, acutely aware of his gaze.
"You look like you're 'bout two seconds from pissin' yourself."
You stiffen, heat creeping up your neck.
"I am not—!"
"Relax, girlie." He leans back against the headrest, still smirking as he navigates around an overturned sedan. "We all been there. First few weeks are hell. You ain't special."
"…Thanks?"
"Ain't meant to be comfortin'. Meant to be true."
The city starts to thin out as Merle takes an on-ramp that leads away from downtown. Abandoned cars dot the highway like scattered bones, some with doors still hanging open where people fled in panic. You try not to look too closely at the dark stains on the asphalt.
"But hell," he adds, shifting to reach into his pocket, for some crumpled cigarettes with his good hand while steering with his stump braced against the wheel. "You are lucky. You got me."
You scoff softly, eyes still darting to every shadow, every movement in your peripheral vision. "Some luck. You always like this?"
"What, charming? Hell yeah. Women used t' fight over me in gas stations."
He pauses, faux thoughtful, as he guides the van past a jackknifed semi.
"Course, that might've been 'cause I skipped the line and cussed out their meemaw."
You pause, frowning slightly. "Their what?"
Merle shoots you a look, eyebrows raised. "Meemaw. You know, granny. Sweet old lady with the purse fulla hard candies and a mouth like a sailor when you get her riled."
"Oh." You feel heat creep up your neck at the cultural gap. "We don't... we don't say that where I'm from."
"Well, ain't you just a little foreign flower." There's something in his tone—not quite mocking, but appraising. Like he's filing away another piece of information about you. "Where exactly you from, sugar?"
You deflect with a slight shrug, not wanting to get into it.
After everything—the blood under his fingernails, the casual way he'd killed those walkers, his clear lack of understanding when it comes to the word 'privacy', the fact that you barely know him—you don't know how much you should reveal.
That makes him grin wider, and you catch him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.
The highway gives way to smaller roads as they move further from the city. The air coming through the cracked windows smells different here—less smoke and rot, more earth and growing things. It's almost possible to pretend the world hasn't ended, if you don't look too hard at the abandoned houses they pass.
You flinch at the loud thud of a tree branch scraping against the van's roof as Merle steers off the main road and onto a dirt track that disappears into the woods. The van bounces over ruts and stones, and you grip the door handle without thinking.
Merle sits up straighter, shooting you a look.
"You keep doin' that," he says, "you're gonna be dead in a week."
You glare at him, defensive. "I'm not used to—"
"Exactly." He cuts you off, yanking the wheel to avoid a fallen log. "And I'm tryin' to un-use you."
He raps his knuckles against the door of the van, the sound sharp in the enclosed space.
"You hear that? Could be a walker. Could be the wind. Could be a possum with an attitude. Point is, you don't panic. You listen. You think. You play the game, sugar-tits."
The nickname makes you wince, but there's something almost educational in his tone. Like he's genuinely trying to teach you something, even if his methods are crude.
You're quiet a moment, watching the trees close in around them as the track gets narrower. Then you murmur, "But I'm scared."
Merle snorts, but it doesn't sound mocking this time. "Of course you're scared. Everyone with a brain's scared. The trick ain't bein' fearless. It's lookin' like you ain't."
He brings the van to a stop in a small clearing, the engine ticking as it cools. Through the windshield, you can see the last of the daylight filtering through the canopy above.
He leans toward you now, eyes gleaming with something sharper than amusement.
"So, let's practice."
"…Practice?"
"Yep." He points his stump at you, the bandages still stark against his tanned skin. "Say somethin' mean to me."
You blink, completely thrown. "What on earth for?"
"Insult me. Call me an asshole. Something. Anything."
You stare at him like he's grown a second head. His grin widens, showing too many teeth.
"C'mon now, don't make me beg."
You fumble for words, your accent thickening with uncertainty. "You're a... you're a rude, disgusting... pig."
He clutches his chest theatrically, throwing himself back against the seat.
"Oof. Right in the feelin's. That's good! Say it like you mean it next time."
Despite yourself, your lips twitch. There's something absurd about sitting in an abandoned van, trading insults with a man who lost his hand less than 24 hours ago and acts like it's a minor inconvenience.
"You smell like you bathe in syphilis and shame."
"Hot damn, now we're talkin'!" His eyebrows shoot up in genuie surprise as he laughs.
And for the first time since the rooftop—since you'd helped him and watched him saw through bone and sinew—you laugh. It bubbles up from somewhere deep, surprised and genuine.
"You're tougher than you look," he mutters, and there's something almost approving in his voice.
"You don't know how I look."
"I got eyes, don't I?" He shifts to face you more fully. "You look like one of them girls from them perfume ads full o' sad music."
You roll your eyes, but you're still smiling. "And you look like the guy parents tell their daughters to avoid."
He barks a laugh, loud and delighted. "Ain't wrong."
The back of the van feels smaller once you've moved your few supplies inside. The moving blankets smell like dust and faded sweat, but they're clean enough. You collapse onto them, exhaustion hitting you like a physical weight now that you're not moving.
Merle tosses you an unopened can of peaches, the metal warm from being in his pack.
"Dinner à la apocalypse," he drawls, settling onto his own makeshift bedroll on the far side of the cargo space. The distance he keeps surprises you—you'd expected him to try something, given his earlier looks and comments. "Romantic, huh? Got us a nice little love nest here."
He stretches out, propping himself up on his elbow, and the way he's positioned makes it clear he's still watching you. Still appraising.
"You know, sugar, most girls would be thankin' me right about now. Big strong man keepin' them safe, sharin' his food..." His voice drops lower, more suggestive. "Keepin' them nice and warm at night."
You crack a smile—tired, but real. "Food was my doing Merle, and your not going to be warming anything."
He scoffs and busys himself with his own can.
There's something oddly reassuring about the way he keeps his distance despite his crude comments, giving you space even in the confined area. For all his lewd suggestions and wandering eyes, he hasn't actually made a move. Yet.
"Gourmet," you agree, working the pull-tab with fingers that still shake slightly. You're grateful when he settles on the opposite side of the van from you, even if his reasons aren't entirely noble.
The peaches are sweet and syrupy, and you eat them with your fingers because neither of you thought to grab utensils. Merle watches you with an expression you can't quite read, something between amusement and calculation.
The way his eyes follow the movement of your hand to your mouth makes you suddenly self-conscious about the sticky juice on your fingers.
Later as you curl tighter into the blankets with full darkness settling outside. The van creaks with every gust of wind, and you can hear things moving in the woods—small sounds that could be animals or could be something much worse.
He shifts, rolls onto his side facing you across the narrow space, propping his head up on his good hand.
"You want me t' tell ya a story?"
You blink, surprised by the offer. "What kind of story?"
"The kind with a lotta drinkin', poor decisions, and one girl named Cricket who could pop her shoulder outta place just for fun."
You hesitate, not sure you want to hear whatever crude tale he's about to spin. But the alternative is lying here in the dark, listening to every sound outside and wondering if something's about to try to get in.
"Alright," you say skeptically.
Merle grins, settling in like he's about to perform.
"So there I was, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, drunker than a skunk at a beer festival. This was back when I still had both hands, mind you." He wiggles his newly acquired stump for emphasis.
"And this girl Cricket—Lord, what a piece of work she was. Built like a brick shithouse and twice as dangerous. Had this party trick, see, where she could dislocate her shoulder on command."
You can already tell where this is heading, and your expression must show it because Merle's grin gets wider.
"Now, you might be wonderin' what kind of practical applications a talent like that might have, and let me tell ya—turns out a girl who can pop her joints outta place real easy can get into all sorts of... interesting positions."
"Oh, for heaven's sake," you interrupt, pulling the blanket up to your chin. "You're disgusting."
"Ain't even got to the good part yet, darlin'. See, Cricket had this friend, Bambi—yeah, I know, what kind of parents name their kid Bambi—and these two girls, they had themselves a little competition goin'. Who could make a man holler the loudest, if you catch my drift. And Cricket, well, she had some real creative ideas about how to use that shoulder trick of hers. Let's just say she could reach places most girls can't."
He pauses, clearly enjoying your horrified expression.
"Had this thing she'd do where she'd—"
"Stop." You hold up a hand, though you're fighting back what might be a laugh despite yourself. "Just... stop. I get the picture."
Merle chuckles, low and pleased with himself. "You should see your face right now, lil' doe. Red as a tomato and twice as pretty."
"You're a pig of a man," you mutter into the blanket.
"Why, thank you kindly." He says it like you've paid him a compliment. "Anyway, long story short, after Cricket showed me exactly what that shoulder trick was good for—and trust me, sugar, it was educational—I ended up handcuffed to a radiator in some fleabag motel with nothin' but a bottle of beer and my wounded pride for company. Cricket took my wallet, my boots, and my goddamn dignity."
He pauses, staring up at the van's ceiling.
"Course, joke was on her in the end. Wasn't my wallet she took."
Despite yourself, you're curious. "Whose was it?"
"Some poor bastard named Wayne Dunlop who had about three dollars and a library card to his name." Merle's laugh is genuinely amused now. "I may be a pig, sugar, but I ain't stupid."
The silence stretches between you, comfortable in an unexpected way. Outside, something scurries through the underbrush, and you tense slightly before relaxing again.
"You got any stories?" Merle asks. "Bet a classy little thing like you's got some secrets tucked away."
"Nothing like that," you say quickly, which only makes his grin return.
"Nah, I bet you do. Bet you got all kinds of surprises under that proper little exterior."
"I'm really not that interesting."
"Every girl thinks that. Every one of 'em's wrong."
Another silence falls, and you think maybe he's done talking. But then he shifts again, his voice quieter when he speaks.
"You know, I ever tell you 'bout the time my baby brother caught his first fish?"
The change in topic is so sudden it takes you a moment to adjust. "No."
"Kid was maybe three, four years old. Tiny little thing, all knees and elbows and too-big eyes." Merle's voice has lost its crude edge, replaced by something almost fond.
"Our daddy took us out to this pond, figured it was time Daryl learned to be a man. 'Course, daddy's idea of teachin' mostly involved yellin' and drinkin', so it wasn't goin' too well."
You find yourself leaning forward slightly, drawn in despite yourself.
"So there's my baby brother, tryin' to cast this line that's bigger than he is, gettin' more frustrated by the minute. Daddy's gettin' madder and madder, callin' him useless, worthless—all the greatest hits, you know?"
Merle's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Kid's about ready to cry, but he won't do it. Not in front of the old man."
"What happened?"
"Well, I may be a sonofabitch, but I ain't heartless. So I wade out into that pond, quiet-like, and I guide this little bluegill right onto his hook. Kid thinks he caught it himself, gets all excited, practically bouncin' out of his boots."
A small smile tugs at the corner of Merle's mouth.
"You should've seen his face. Like Christmas morning and his birthday all rolled into one. 'Merle! Merle, look! I got one!' Just yellin' and carryin' on like he'd landed Moby Dick." His voice softens. "Proudest I ever seen that boy."
"Did your father notice?"
Merle's expression hardens again. "Oh, he noticed. Soon as we got home, he let me know exactly what he thought about me 'babyin'' him. But hell, it was worth it. Kid needed somethin' to feel good about."
You frown slightly, not quite understanding. "He yelled at you ?"
Merle gives you a look—sharp, almost incredulous. Then something shifts in his expression, like he's remembering who he's talking to.
"Yeah, sugar. He 'yelled' real good. Had a whole conversation with his belt, matter of fact." His voice is dry, matter-of-fact, but there's something hard in his eyes. "Left me with some real compelling arguments about mindin' my own business."
The meaning hits you slowly, and your stomach drops. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't—"
"Nah, you wouldn't, would ya?" There's no judgment in his voice, just observation. "Bet your daddy never laid a hand on you. Bet he was all 'please' and 'thank you' and 'how was school today, princess?'"
You don't know what to say to that, so you don't say anything.
You study his face in the dim light. This version of Merle—protective—doesn't match the crude, leering man from earlier.
It's unsettling in a different way.
"You really love him," you say quietly.
Merle's walls go back up so fast you almost hear them slam into place.
"Yeah, well. He's family. Only blood I got left, matter of fact." He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling again. "Gotta look out for kin, even when they're too stupid to look out for themselves."
The crude, dangerous Merle is back, and you're reminded again why you keep your distance. But now you've seen the other side too—the brother who would wade into a pond to make sure a little boy didn't feel worthless.
"You think he's still alive?" you ask.
Merle is quiet for so long you think he's not going to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough.
"Boy's tougher than he looks, and he looks plenty tough. Plus he's got skills—huntin', trackin', survivin'. If anyone's gonna make it through this mess, it's him."
"You're going to find him."
"Nah, lil-doe." There's steel in his voice now, absolute certainty. "We're gonna find him."
"We?"
Merle's grin returns, sharp and predatory. "Well, hell, sugar. Can't just leave you wanderin' around out here all by your lonesome. World's a dangerous place for a pretty little thing like you. 'Sides, I'm kinda gettin' used to havin' you around. You got a nice way of lookin' at a man, all wide-eyed. Does things to a fella."
His eyes rake over you again in that way that makes your skin crawl anew.
"Plus, somebody's gotta teach you how to survive out here, and I do love a good hands-on education. Real hands-on, if you catch my drift."
You don't ask what he means by that. You're not sure you want to know.
The wind picks up outside, rocking the van gently on its springs. You close your eyes and listen to the sound of Merle's breathing as it gradually evens out.
But sleep doesn't come easily, not with the image of a tiny kid stuck in your head—all knees and elbows and too-big eyes, desperate for someone to be proud of him.
And not with the knowledge that the dangerous, crude man lying six feet away from you once waded into a pond just to put a smile on his little brother's face.
