Sinners // Interview With the Vampire "No Pain" // The Vampire Armand // Bit // The Shiver of the Vampires // The Lost Boys Musical // Inside Broadway's Lost Boys // The Strain // A Dowry of Blood // Midnight Mass
Summary: The world taught Daryl to fear you, not love you. You are everything and nothing like what haunts the dark and the world's nightmares, and he will do anything for you to make you happy.
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Strigoi!Reader
Word count: 3k
Additional tags: The Strain/The Walking Dead crossover, Strigoi AU aka freaky vampire AU, body horror, reader is half human/Strigoi so there's no worms, blood drinking, mildly smutty (reader is down bad for that man), Daryl is afraid but a sweetheart, can possibly be read as the reader having an eating disorder (not intentional, but the reader does have to starve themselves for their safety), set post Saviors era, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Author's note: me writing The Strain crossover fanfic in 2026? More likely than you think! (other than like... the two off-hand fics that came before it, The Strain was my first real fandom I wrote for so I'm going back to my roots but also horrifying young me for being a #monsterfucker)
Also before you read, this is NOT a typical vampire AU. The reader is a half human/Strigoi similar to Quinlan in the books/show The Strain by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan. Because of this, the reader is physically the same as those Strigoi (has a cloaca and feeds via stinger) but doesn't have worms/can't infect anyone like Quinlan.
🩸 read on ao3 🩸
It’s been days without any blood.
Your gut aches with every movement, muscles sluggish, head pounding — or maybe it was just the constant, horridly loud beat of everyone’s heartbeats taunting you. With no chance to get away, you had been forced into not eating. No matter how much it pained you to starve, you couldn’t risk anyone walking into such a scene.
You just had to wait it all out, until you could sneak away and find something, someone, to eat.
With the weather steadily growing colder, you’re needed around Alexandria more. Snow building up forces everyone able to work more, and with the abundance of food in the community, you had no choice but to push through the aching in your gut.
Another day passes; everyone completely ignorant to your plight, your daily — hourly, almost in case the foundation had smudged, despite your constant vigilance — makeup routine keeping such things hidden. No matter how much the stress of it pained you, you had no choice. If anyone saw, anyone ever considered it, it would be the end of it.
Only when Daryl got back from… somewhere — in your starving state, you couldn’t be sure where anymore — were you able to eat.
Every time he went hunting, whatever he had caught would be brought back to Alexandria. Ungutted and whole; always with as much blood left as possible — as long as the kill was clean, and leaving the guts were safe and wouldn’t spoil the meat.
You just enjoyed making blood pudding; that’s what the rest of the town knew, to most’s disgust. Only once did you have to make it, thankfully, when someone was curious, but when food wasn’t so scarce, everyone else was content to leave you to your acquired taste.
Little did they realize it had nothing to do with matters of taste, but your literal survival.
Only this time, he didn’t come home with anything that you could eat.
Somehow, he knew, and fed you when you couldn’t. Without asking, just doing more work to keep you healthy as any one else in Alexandria, as any other human, despite everything pointing to the far too obvious look that you were not wholly human when you weren’t wearing makeup. He didn’t treat you differently — though his heartbeat picked up far too often when you were around since the revelation, the heady scent of fear all too noticeable. Not once had he ever said anything about it though.
Despite the fear, he still fed you, didn’t treat you any differently, once the terror of it settled down and he remembered how you were before. Even when there was nothing else, and the only choice between starving and not was him, he offered his blood up without a second thought.
All your life such things were a fantasy. No one could ever know what you truly were, unless you were willing to risk mutilation or worse. Animal blood was the only safe option, though the few times you could go out alone and had free pickings of Saviors were the best. Animal blood kept you full and alive, but the heavy warmth human blood brought was entirely different.
Just as much the feeding as it was the sport; cornering your prey in the woods, cut off from any wandering eyes. The overwhelming fear made your cells hum, empty veins eager for the bloody warmth.
It was easy to lose yourself in it. With other monstrous humans, you didn’t try to hold back. Though careful to keep it quick and painless with animals, it was never the same rush as the monster realizing they were not the only one; that they were the prey this time.
Your father had given as much a gift as a curse with it. Less pain for those who didn't deserve it, no horrible agony as the worms burrowed into their flesh to deliver them to Him. And the cruelty of time for those that deserved such; no risk of turning, your only worry was drinking too much too fast.
And now, it was as close to a gift as it ever could be.
.
.
.
As the sun slowly starts to rise, you take the extra moments comfort in your shared home. While full, it was annoying, the bright rays of light prickling your skin, but when starving, it was agonizing. You get short tempered and irritable, even moreso than what the hunger pains did to your already sore mood. Every moment of the sunlight clawed at your skin, feeling sun-burnt even in the dead of winter after only a few moments time. It wouldn’t kill you, unlike others, but as the days wore on, that death almost felt like a comforting release.
When Daryl returns, he finds you hiding off in the kitchen. Head in the fridge, poking at the ground meat thawing in a small bowl. Still mostly frozen, small pricks in the bottom of the bag let the beginnings of thawed blood drip into it. If it was only you, the meat would’ve been left out all night to thaw, without a care of it going bad… but, you suffered worse, and even with the abundance of food now, you couldn’t waste any in the dead of winter.
It was no where near enough, barely a mouthful, but you’re desperate. The aching can’t be pushed aside any longer. It’s better than nothing at all.
Grabbing the bowl, hand on the bag and about to open your mouth to drink the few drops, Daryl’s hand touches your shoulder, startling you. Whirling around, you snap your jaw shut as the glass shatters on the floor, the panic making your hands tremble.
At first you don’t really see it’s him, just another person, another person who couldn’t see you at your worst — and what if they found out, what if they told others, what if…
“Easy,” Daryl says, low and soft, his hands held out in front of him. His voice cuts off your panicked thoughts, slowing down enough to really see it was him. “Sorry, I thought you heard me.”
Your breathing hitches, clutching your bloodied hand to your chest and grimacing at the crunch of glass underneath your foot. “S-sorry,” you force out, swallowing the insistent lump in your throat. “My… my brain’s not working. Things are…” you trail off, gesturing haphazardly around your head, as though the jerky, uncoordinated movements could explain your useless, hungry mind.
“I know.” He reaches out and grabs your wrist, pulling it away from your chest. The movement smearing the thick white blood over his sleeve, mixing with older, darker red blood. “I didn’t get anything. Everything’s hunkering down — got another storm comin’.”
He pulls you along with him, up the stairs and into his room. Despite the sticky warmth on his hand, he doesn’t flinch away from it. How long had it been, before he trusted you to know that you weren’t infested with worms and could handle your blood safely? If you hadn’t been so starved, the contact would’ve warmed your heart.
“I can’t wait any longer—” Desperation claws at your mind. You couldn’t wait out the storm, you had to go out, go find something, anything — anyone. “I… I need to get out there…”
“Stop,” he cuts you off, pulling you along with him onto the bed. “You got me.”
The mattress groans under your combined weights, your body too starved to fight it as you land above him.
“No. I can’t do that—”
Same words as every other time, practiced to the point of speaking without thinking.
“I told you. It's fine,” Daryl says, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes. Tilting his head back and pulling the collar of his shirt down, baring his throat to your mouth, he's as relaxed as you've seen him all week. Willing, eager almost, if you could forget the much too fast thump thump of his heart. Content to let you do what you wish.
It makes your gut sour as much as it makes your heart warm; willing and so trusting, despite your nature, despite everything the world forcibly taught him. He's eager to let you harm him, drink him. Consume whatever it took from him to ease your agony.
“You shouldn't be so okay with this,” you say, the familiar itching in your throat crawling up your insides at him baring his neck to you. It makes you choke back tears, eyes burning with the threat of spilling out and adding to your already pathetic state. “Why are you okay with this?”
It wants to be freed, to come out and take what would finally sate your hunger, but you swallow it down. Like swallowing your tongue, you refuse to let him see more of the monstrous things he knows so little about. No matter how many times he offers it up, the though of him seeing everything, so up close and personal, leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You can’t do it. Just can’t.
“You need to eat too,” he says without hesitation.
“I don’t need your—”
He cuts you off with a pointed look. “What happens if you’re sloppy again?”
Your eyes drop from his, anxiety swirling in your insides. He’s right; when you feed, it’s hard to think. Much too easy to forget about your surroundings — and it’s even easier for everyone who doesn’t know what you are to turn on you before you ever recognize the danger.
You don’t blame anyone for it; as much as you work to help everyone else, you are what they fear. And for good reasons.
No one stops to think that maybe, just maybe, there’s one stinger out in the world that isn’t about to kill them in the most horrid way possible. There was never any time to contemplate such theories; your half-siblings made that an impossible fantasy.
That Daryl had been so willing to keep you around after learning about your nature was nothing short of the biggest miracle in the world.
He really was your only true chance at a normal life.
“I hate hurting you,” you say, fingers digging into the bedding beside him.
“I hate seeing you starve.”
“You’re afraid of me,” you snap.
You don’t mean it to sound so accusatory, but it still comes out that way. No matter what he says, he is afraid of you. But despite the aching loneliness it leaves in your bones, you can’t blame him. Only he knows what you are; before, everything else had taught the world to fear your other half.
You may prove that you aren't something to fear every day, but instincts to survive don't go away. No matter how true or not they are. Still, he fights that fear, feeds you, cares for you no differently than before.
“You need to eat,” he insists again, lifting his hand to rub his thumb over the line of your jaw.
The empty, hollow feeling in your gut can only be ignored for so long. If put off any longer, you wouldn’t be able to hide it from everyone else, and would without a doubt get killed — and likely Daryl too.
“Trust me,” he whispers.
And you do.
Before he can move, you press your hands on his chest. Warm and soft, steady under your trembling hands. His heartbeat picks up under your touch, sending shivers down your spine.
“Arm,” you grit your teeth, forcing the word out. Despite the thrum of his blood through his neck calls to you, you know what such marks look like. It will bruise, will scar, will mar such skin that he offers up so often.
He just shakes his head. “Just do it.”
The crawling in your throat is too much to fight, and at his insistence, you give in to the overwhelming hunger.
Shutting your eyes tight, unable to see the fear in his eyes, you open your jaw. Letting your stinger out, the cool air sends shivers down your spine, but at the warmth of his skin it fades.
You latch onto his neck, just above the collarbone, where the skin was the thickest, yet would feed you quick. A shiver wracks through his body as the sharp point pierces his flesh, and the scent of his fear floods your nose as his warmth fills your belly. Yet still, he does not move.
“Fuck,” he grunts under his breath, hands grasping at your hips. His voice was shaky, caught between fear he could not hide and love for you. “There you go. I got you.” Still, he forces the words out, holds you steady, as though you were the terrified one, the one hurting.
His love hurts you. Leaves you aching and empty, gutted with every messed up inside hanging out where it doesn't belong. You don't belong with him, and yet, he loves you. Every terrible, monstrous inch. Despite what you are and aren't, despite the fear he cannot hide yet braves each day. He loves you.
Daryl is yours, and every inch down to the marrow of you is his.
As warmth fills your belly, you can't help but let your mind wander. What would it be like to do this as there is nothing between the two of you? To be one, as much as yours and his kind to be. Full and sated, to be wholly his and him yours.
Would it be as kind as your mind conjures? Or would the scent of fear sour it all, leaving you hollowed out and cold?
Does he even want to touch you that way? Though everything that would make you wholly human does not exist, nothing but simplest of biological design from something too cruel to be a god. Would such things even arouse? Or is as your feeding, would be nothing but fear and heartache?
This, with all the itching to see, to feel as what you half are and aren't, would have to sate such urges.
You will not ask; he offers so much, so often, so willing. You will not ask for more than he freely gives. Already he gives too much as it was.
You need to give more in return; as though nothing would every be enough, as it will never be enough.
He saves you, mind and body, soul and… whatever the other half of you could be, each day.
Nothing in the world will ever be enough, but still, you try.
Your insides warm as your belly fills, his heartbeat steady but slowing. Still tinged with fear, but slowed as the hazy, uncomfortably coolness of loss takes over.
It’s all too easy to be lulled into complacency, with a warm, full belly and blood on your stinger, everything fades into the background. Your mind goes hazy, only the warmth of him against you and in you keeping your mind from being lulled asleep completely. His hands tighten on your hips, the scent of fear sharpens in your nose, his skin paler. And yet, he doesn't complain nor push you away, his life completely in your hands.
It would be much too easy to give into your other half, and take and take and take, until he couldn’t push back, and yet you pull away before that ever comes near. Letting go of his neck and swallowing down the rest.
Your belly sits full, and warm, and now you must do the same in turn.
“I love you,” you murmur, wiping the blood from the small cut, licking it off your thumb. Already it starts to bruise, angry and reddening, confused at why the rest of him doesn't fight back against the monster that hurts him.
His hands squeeze your waist. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes, unable to be blinked away in time.
“I know,” you say, when he opens his mouth to speak.
Raspy and hoarse, fighting to get anything out. It always hurts, leaves it too hard to speak, like everything had been forcibly pulled out through his throat — and yet each time he still fights the pain to speak. “Was… was it enough?”
“Plenty.”
At your assurance, he relaxes some, sinking back into the bed. Letting the rest of the fight to keep focused fade back, and the sharp tang in the air fades back into the comforting scent of your home.
Fighting back a yawn, you pull back, hands lingering on his arm. Each time you want to curl up against him, sleep until the sun set, but you push through the steadily growing fatigue. Ducking your head down, nudging your nose at the underside of his jaw. “Thank you,” you murmur, lips tracing lightly over the reddening skin.
“You gotta eat.” He never took the thank yous or the apologies, always brushing it off as nothing. “Don’t worry about me.”
Still do, you want to say. To say more and confess and confess until your mouth was bloody with white blood, but you keep quiet. By now, the blood loss is hitting him, and sleep and food and comforting love was what you needed to give, not words that always made him squirm uncomfortably.
He falls asleep soon after, and you do in turn, and in a few hours you would wake up first before the sun rose and make his favourite food for breakfast and tea for his throat, and clean up the mess you made on the floor. But until then, you just slept in the comforting warmth of his arms. For now, you could just relax, truly relax, for the first time in days and hold him while he slept off what you had done.
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