soft whispers

salvia ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ • 18 • writer • she/her | sfw & nsfw, mdni!!

🪽i will write: fluff, smut, angst, poetry, free verse, drabbles for my favorite characters! (daryl dixon, arthur morgan, rick grimes, joel miller, leon kennedy)

🪽i will NOT write: rape/noncon, piss/scat, emeto, any gross stuff in general, incest/fauxcest, proship, abdl/ddlg, ageplay, blood/knife kink, kidnapping, some darker themes.

i love to send my songs into the void, so please don’t yell when a whisper is warranted. i don’t tolerate racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, or anyone with a hateful voice. this page is for harmony, peace, and safety.

© salviastears 2026, all rights reserved. don’t tell secrets (copy, claim as your own, etc) to others!

herbalism

daryl dixon x healer!reader

warnings/tags: no warnings! pure fluff, a bit of hurt/comfort, sick comfort, mentions of being sick but nothing graphic, gender neutral reader, daryl has the flu and reader is well versed in herbalism and soothing cures— had a lil witchcraft in mind making this! cheers to those who garden and wildcraft 🫧

finding things to forage was never hard for you. it was how you survived, and you were hellbent on it. wildberries and root vegetables had kept you living until you met daryl, an equally-stubborn forager in his own right. he went for the visceral side of things, though— you shrieked when he brought a mud snake into the house.

but now, his boldness had fizzled out, and for one reason only.

daryl had gotten sick.

you hated seeing him like this, all sluggish and tired. it wasn’t like him to stay inside all day instead of being out in the open, hunting for game to bring back to the house or shooting walkers with his beloved crossbow. it pained you as much as it did him.

you could ward off his pain, though, at least for a while. you’d been keeping daryl company in the living room, keeping the space comfortable enough for him to recover peacefully. the fire crackled gently in the wood stove, the pleasant scent of yoir simmer pot filling the room: star anise, cloves, cinnamon, and all sorts of earthy spices. it made the gloom of sickness a lot more bearable.

“oh, daryl,” you cooed when you took his temperature again. “good. your fever went down.”

“ain’t bad,” daryl tried to protest, his voice more rough than usual. “s’just a fever.”

“daryl, you’ve got the flu. i don’t want to hear it,” you scolded, pulling up the sleeves of his black shirt. “keep these above your elbows. you don’t want to trap heat and make it worse.”

although you rolled your eyes at his stubbornness, your gaze softened when you turned back to him. “are you feelin’ any better?”

daryl only grunted, pulling up the old blankets around him. dog seemed to notice the change in him, too, insistently laying over his knees.

“i’ll make you a nice dinner,” you suggested, running a hand over his messy brown waves. “something good and plain, so it won’t mess up your stomach.”

daryl nodded shyly after a long moment, giving in to your domesticity. he was used to being cared for, ever since he’d settled in with you.

you gave him a soft smile, leaning in to press a kiss to his fever-warm forehead.

daryl settled back into the cushions, the crooked pillow not doing much for the crick in his neck. if only he could sleep well when he was sick. he knew he’d sleep well after the meal you’d give him, though. he always did. real food, home-cooked in your shared cabin, made him feel safe enough to let his guard down for once.

soon enough, you came back into the living room with your materials in hand, not wanting to leave daryl out of the process. tucked in your arms was a large white thing, oblong yet roundish, with a scuff on the bottom. he wanted to raise an eyebrow, but he just looked puzzled. you giggled.

“puffball,” you explained, holding up the mushroom. this’ll help you get your strength back.”

“the fuck’s a puffball?”

“mister forager don’t know what a puffball mushroom is?”

“ah, shit. go on.”

you held it up, putting it down on your cutting board with a pleasant plomp. with the knife daryl gave you, it cut easily, almost like bread, smooth and fluffy white. it squeaked when the knife slid out.

“it’s full of protein and minerals. it’ll fill you up good enough to keep away the ache,” you explained to him, setting the pieces aside. you’d cook it later.

“don’t gotta eat,” daryl protested, but you were his weakness. he knew he was lying, himself.

“well, tisk tisk. you’re eating, and that’s an order.”

daryl only nodded. he was used to feelings much worse than hunger, but even he couldn’t stand an empty stomach on top of his sickness. he watched as you walked away, already missing your presence as soon as you went out back to look for more onion-grass.

you didn’t even need a plan when it came to cooking. your technique was well-practiced enough to be quite precise, but you still kept the rugged edge of wild-caught foods.

first was the mushroom, which you put in an old cast iron pan over the stove. a good deal of salt and pepper was all you needed, mindful of daryl’s sensitivity. you let it fry for a good while, leaving the pan to rest while you went at two potatoes, dicing them well. they were both red, the sweet kind that grew easily.

you fetched the stepstool from under the sink and reached up towards the ceiling, picking a few sprigs of rosemary and oregano from the bundles you kept hanging from the rafters. you cycled through spells in your mind, sizzling with intent: luck, happiness, and protection.

in went the onion grass, finely chopped, to banish the bad energy from daryl’s body. you couldn’t grow chives for the life of you, so wild would have to do. it smelled heavenly, too.

but something was missing…

thank goodness the bones were done simmering on the back burner. you discarded the fat into an old mason jar, keeping it along with bits of bone for dog to gnaw on later. you tasted the broth with a dip of your wooden spoon. it was wonderful.

at last, when the kitchen was full of all sorts of lovely smells, daryl’s dinner was ready. you poured him a little cup of broth, crossing your fingers, hoping it would nourish him quickly back to health.

then, you came into the living room, where daryl was set up on the pull-out bed.

you sat down at his bedside, serving him his dinner: the roasted puffball mushroom, bland potatoes, and a little cup of bone broth, hot from the stove.

“eat it slow,” you told him, sitting beside him to keep him company. “don’t want you getting sick again.”

daryl listened. he always did. abiding by your word, he ate slowly, not once hesitant to try the puffball mushroom. in fact, he downed it right away and moved on to the potatoes.

“you like it?” you asked him, giddy with pride at your cooking.

“mmm.” daryl nodded, mouth full. “tastes like meat.”

you beamed. that was the goal!

you stayed by his side, keeping him company as he ate. slowly but surely, a tiny bit of color returned to his face. you let out a long sigh, relief heavy across your knees.

“feeling any better?” you asked, running a comforting hand over his hair. daryl leaned into your touch, a saddened animal looking for warmth. his skin was still hot, eyes drifting closed at the feel of your touch. he nodded.

“i want you to sleep, alright?” you told him, more of a soft command than advice. “you know rest is the best medicine.”

daryl mumbled something back, perhaps about not needing to sleep, either. he insisted on protecting you and the house— especially you— but he knew you were more than capable. he trusted you, a rarity in his case.

“jus’ be careful,” he muttered, his voice still sounding run-through. “ya know what to do if…”

“i know, daryl,” you soothed him, gently urging him to sink back into the pillows. you pulled the quilt up over him, settling in beside him. you didn’t care if you got sick. anything was worth keeping daryl healthy.

you blew out the little lantern illuminating the side table, pressing a gentle kiss to daryl’s forehead.

“…sweet dreams.”

sweet smoke

trailer park!daryl x gn!reader

warnings/tags: fluff, daryl and reader shyly yearning, smoking, mentions of abuse, daryl confides in you, sharing snacks and cigs with your dreamy crush

daryl was on the couch, wrapped up in your favorite white blanket, smoking a cigarette. his face was calm, almost contemplative, despite his state. the space under his right eye was dark, tinged with purple and green, a scuff mark on his left cheekbone.

he’d escaped to your place again.

you came out from the den kitchen with a bowl of cherries, letting the juice burst on your tongue. daryl couldn’t help but let his eyes wander up to your lips, watching the way you moved. you hypnotized him.

“what’s wrong?” you asked him, noting the way he looked at you. “you’re starin’.”

“nothin’,” daryl said shyly, finding the courage to keep his eyes on you. “jus lookin’ at you.”

you scoffed under your breath, bare feet on the carpet as you made your way into the den. you sat down next to daryl, sinking into the couch cushions, relieved that your fan was still working. late june brought in cooler nights, but the den always seemed to trap the heat.

maybe it was daryl, snuggled up in that blanket.

you pushed back into the cushions beside him, and he let you stay close. he smelled of laundry and fresh smoke, something clean and fragile and cracked down the middle. daryl never told you, but he secretly loved smelling like you, being wrapped up in the security of your blanket. your house was safe to him, a sanctuary he could return to again and again when hiding became unsure.

“wanna go?” he offered, holding out the cigarette to you. you took it from his hand, holding it carefully between your fingers. daryl watched as you inhaled, savoring the bitter, earthy taste. marlboros had always been your favorite. it was something you and daryl bonded over.

you hadn’t a clue how to do all the little tricks he did with the smoke; the rings, the swirls, the french inhale that made you swoon. you tried anyway, inhaling too quick and landing hard with a pathetic cough.

“easy,” he chuckled, reaching a hand up to soothe your back. “you just kinda… do it. like this.”

and he did, just as casual as he’d spoken. he took the cigarette from you, a warm ache in his chest at the taste of your lip balm on the edge. he parted his lips and blew slowly, rings of smoke drifting away.

“no fair,” you grumbled, pouting and leaning into him.

“oh, shut up,” daryl jabbed, but his tone was soft. “you know I’ll teach ya.”

he handed the cigarette to you, but didn’t pull away. “here.”

he held it to your lips, and you melted. daryl’s heart may as well have blew into bits at the sight of you. you breathed in, simply holding onto the taste of him, mingling with the tobacco. the nicotine buzz was getting to your head. you let it go, smoke curling away from your lips.

daryl let you stay close, one hand sneaking down to steal some cherries, the other blindly passing his cigarette back and forth between you. he felt a little terrible for crashing in your den time and time again, but it wouldn’t be that bad if he stayed at your house for a couple more days.

maybe then, he’d get over his nerves for you.

music box dancer

saviors/sanctuary era, ballerina!reader

warnings/tags: brief canon-typical violence, negan and his manipulative ass, men being gross mean men, and some angst. this is horribly inaccurate but i’m starting ballet again soon and i’m yearning for my past

ever since the day you were brought to the sanctuary, people knew you were different.

you looked just like everyone else, grimy and unsure of yourself, desensitized to the world. you were taller and athletic in stature, a fighter, they all figured. your clothes were simple, exactly what you’d been wearing when your community fell: a stretched-out long-sleeve shirt with a loose tee overtop of it, the design long-faded and withered away. it used to be a smiths shirt. now, it was a dull green, with a few bleach stains.

you belonged to an old gated suburb that had been closed off when the outbreak started. houses were converted into shops and medical facilities. you were in your mid twenties, still going strong as a ballerina, your own home turned into a studio where you taught the children of the community. it was once your favorite places to be, the rooms once holding laughter and piano music.

on the day your community fell to the hands of the dead, you were devastated. there would be no more dancing, no more excitement every morning when the little girls and boys came in to learn. dreams were pushed to the side now, and the world favored bitterness and survival of the fittest. still, you kept your past close to your heart, locked in your studio, surviving off of the food stocks you kept in the pantry.

when the saviors came, everything changed.

you were handed over to negan right away, being one of the rare healthy survivors they found. he got you cleaned up, found you new clothes, kept you fed. when you told him you used to be a dancer, he laughed in your face and told you that you would be working in the marketplace. you lived and worked next to a woman in her 40s that sewed and darned clothes, and it only reminded you of all the countless pairs of pointe shoes you used to sew.

you got used to the rank system of the sanctuary, already comfortable with the strict leadership of your past ballet company. having russian teachers made you learn the hard way.

living here wasn’t simple, though. here, under negan’s rule, you had to give up a bit of yourself to get by. you didn’t think it would be easy to live under his control, considering the things you saw in the following weeks as you adjusted— fights, armed guards, hot irons against skin.

negan brought the ease himself, even with his brutality. eventually, he swayed you with his charm, making an agreement with you in order for you to stay and find another role in the hierarchy. “distractions,” he had told you, his deep voice leaving no room for protest. “we could use someone to show off around here.”

your new job wasn’t exactly important, but you would certainly bring a little light to the rusted, rotting steel. the best part was that you could return to your old self. after all, you were able to do something that the other workers wouldn’t think twice about.

you could dance.

every evening, you’d grace the makeshift stage made out of crates, a source of entertainment for the members of the sanctuary. it wasn’t like the raked stages you were used to, grand and glittering and lit by expensive spotlights. this space was smaller, bleak and grey, uncomfortably intimate. still, you learned to appreciate it, the floor stable enough under your feet.

the longer nights were the worst. the men would sneer and mutter obscenities to each other under their breath, no doubt discussing all the ways they could play around with you. you knew it by their faces, the way they’d eye you carefully and lean back in their chairs. one of them would yell out an encore, watching you dance until your feet were sore.

most nights would end with you returning to your little living space with a dead pair of shoes and terribly sore feet. even with the toe pads that the seamstress had lovingly sewed for you, you still hurt. there were no ice baths to keep you numb anymore; just cold walls to rest your heels on, rolling through relevé slowly, stretching and cooling down. pain medication was hard to come by, but you didn’t need it. you were used to the pain. there was an art to suffering, and suffering in art.

you simply couldn’t have one without the other.

gonna be making a daryl dixon x nonverbal! reader fic soon! i’m planning on the character to have situational muteness (formerly, selective muteness). can anyone help me write in some traits or behaviors that people with this condition would exhibit? i’m working really hard on this project and i want the character to be comfortable, believable, and accurate.

thank you dearly,

sparkle queen

high school!daryl dixon x fem!reader

warnings/tags: totally not inspired by the virgin suicides, smut, high school era characters but they’re both 18, p in v, make-out sesh, insecure reader, consent checks, reassurance, crying at one point, implied aftercare?, first time nerves, virginity loss, daryl being so sweet it hurts

homecoming used to be something you didn’t look forward to. it was always a little boring, stuck in the corner dancing with your shadow while others bounced and cheered in the glowing lights. you never thought you’d ever find a guy that would go with you, let alone offer to dance with you. but this year was different. you’d worked up the courage to approach your long-time crush, daryl dixon, over the summer, and everything changed for you when the autumn winds came calling.

you and daryl had just had the time of your lives. crowned prom queen and king, you two snuck out of the party in the gym, wanting to find a place to watch the stars.

somewhere in your mind, you knew stargazing with the school’s pretty boy would lead to what you’d been hoping and longing for.

butterflies soared in your stomach, the both of you lost in each other on the deserted football field. his lips were on yours, sharing the sugary flutter of first love. daryl guided you through it, and you were glad he took over, letting you slowly gain your confidence as you went.

daryl’s touch moved downward, getting a handful of your ass, smirking when you giggled against his mouth. you peppered little kisses all along his jaw, watching his pale skin flush, his eyes gleaming in the misty moonlight.

you could feel the moment pushing further, knowing from the feeling in your stomach exactly where this was going. daryl knew it too, his touch growing more insistent. you were just as desperate, but still so scared.

“want you…” you admitted, a tremble in your breathless voice. daryl reached for you, not to touch your chest just yet, but to take off your sash, following with his own.

daryl licked his lips, pretty eyes heavy-lidded. “i want you too, baby.”

when you kissed him again, a million emotions flooded over you. wonder, ecstasy, and melancholy all at once, all at war with your fragile mind.

he was so warm, so fucking handsome… his eyes, his hands all over you… his lips feel so good… were you being immature? could he see the stretch marks on your legs? how could he ever love someone as pathetic as you, let alone fuck?

you opened your eyes, tears slipping out from the overwhelming surge of it all.

“i just.. jus’ can’t believe I’m doing this.”

he stopped, the look in his eyes almost as shy and soft as yours.

“you know we don’t gotta do this, ‘ight?”

“no, no, no, please— i really want to.”

“i want it too, yknow. want you so bad.”

daryl dove in again, leading you with a tilt of his head. your hand came up to brush his jawline, so perfectly chiseled. you felt as if you were walking on a dream.

you both pulled away at once, and then he took your hand in his. “c’mere.”

he leaned forward for more of your sweet taste, lip balm and candy and something floral, dew on roses and fresh summer honeysuckle. all the while, he guided you until your back was pressed into the grass, neither of you minding the mist over the field.

daryl quickly came over you, the both of you tangled up in each other, furious kisses contrasting with gentle hands on each other, exploring, dancing, intertwining. your fingers worked on the buttons of his shirt, only undoing the top few, just enough to see the little tattoos on his chest and collarbone. you leaned up to kiss the tiny x at the junction of his shoulder and neck, sending a shiver through him.

you were so fucking proud of yourself for that.

still, it was as if your thoughts were linked, despite your experiences. if you were afraid to unbutton his shirt, he wouldn’t rip your dress off and throw his cares to the wind. he was a charmer, but he’d hate to scare away something so dear and sweet.

“fuck, you’re pretty.”

he trailed his hand up the skirt of your dress, bunching up the floral satin around your hips. he loved the way it fit on you, so flattering on the body that you hated. he drew his tongue across your bottom lip, and you answered his question, accepting him into your mouth. it only made your panties more damp, kissing him deeper like this. you figured out quick that you’d be asking him to do that all the time.

as daryl pulled away, he took a moment to gaze down at you, just to see how beautiful you were again. your sash had been discarded so he could paw at you, your little silver pendant visible along the elegant line of your neck. your face seemed to glow in the light of the moon that reflected off the dew-spotted grass.

he reached down, unbuckling his belt with shaking hands, pushing his pants down his thighs just enough to free his dick. you followed, hooking your fingers into your panties, pulling them down and off. you bit your lip at the sight, reaching out to stroke him while he spread your wetness over your folds.

“am i doing this right?” you breathed, already a mess this far in. daryl hissed at the feeling of your hand, pumping in that perfect rhythm, your thumb rubbing over his tip making him gasp.

“so right, baby,” he groaned, sighing in bliss as he let you take over, eventually pulling your hand away when he felt he was ready.

“m’gonna push in, okay?”

“mmhm,” you hummed back, nodding slowly, pressing your lips to his chin as he settled on top of you once more. “jus’ go slow.”

“promise.”

daryl ran his hand over himself once, twice, hands braced on your hips. “hold onto me.”

he eased forward then, slow and careful, his dick finally making its way inside you. a little whine slipped from your lips at the feeling, his tip running along your sensitive walls as he let you adjust. he groaned into your neck, fingers tangling in the grass. your head spun at the stretch, the slight discomfort giving way to a heady fullness that made your skin tingle with warmth.

“feels good, huh?”

“really good…” you mused, reaching up to run your hand over his soft brown hair. his nose bumped yours, and he smiled shyly, leaning down for a kiss, slow and saccharine-rich. you swore you’d never forget the flavor of him, bubblegum and the subtle earthiness of cigarette smoke.

he pulled back slowly, leaving space for you before he pushed forward again, grinding his hips in an easy circle. he watched as your lips parted, head tilting with a soft moan, partly of pleasure and the slightest bit of uneasiness.

“you okay?” he whispered, more to himself than you. “it don’t hurt, right?”

“no, no, i promise… keep going, dar.”

he ducked down to kiss your neck, chuckling against your skin, partly to hide the pang of timidness he felt. he may have been confident, but he still had those worries somewhere, bone-deep, wanting to please you as much as those models in the magazines he read. he started his pace, fucking you slow and steady, breaths slowly starting to match his rhythm.

you didn’t know where the hell to put your hands. you touched every inch of him, fingers running along his broad shoulders through the fine-threaded linen of his shirt. you felt as if you were floating as he took his time thrusting in and out, all those dreams you had of him at last becoming real.

“m’ sorry..”

daryl silenced you with a strong kiss, tongue boldly tasting yours, still going steady enough to draw a gasp from your lips as he pulled away.

“don’t be,” he murmured, tucking your hair behind your ear. “just feel me, kay?”

and you did. he filled you like nothing you’d ever had before. your hands were graceful, but they didn’t have the rhythm of daryl’s hips, gentle and calculated all at once, knowing exactly how to make you melt. this was his goal: to see that pretty girl he’d been wanting for so long come undone for the first time.

“there you go… shit, baby.”

you whimpered and gripped his shoulders, and he sensed it. he’d found your g-spot before you even could. you moaned softly against his neck, wanting to bury your head deeper in embarrassment. of course, he didn’t let you.

he pushed you gently back into the grass, focusing on how lovely you looked underneath him: long hair fanned out below you, tiara tilted atop your head, dress pushed up so he could have perfect access while keeping you warm enough on the cold, dew-spotted field. your cheeks were wet and rosy, a lovely warm flush that he could gaze at for hours on end.

“you like that? huh?” he smirked, rolling his hips in a teasing circle, tip brushing oh-so right against that place. “that your sweet spot, hmm?”

“uh-huh,” you mumbled in reply, completely drunk on the feeling it gave you. “c-can you do that again?”

and he did, a little harder this time, watching you twitch and cry out louder. he could tell you were holding back, scared to truly lose yourself.

“there’s nobody out here,” he reassured you, glancing over his shoulder, returning himself to you. “cry for me, baby.”

he adjusted his angle, holding up your leg and driving into you faster, hitting that sweet spot of yours over and over. you squeezed him hard enough to make him curse and clench his fist, your own hands curling into his arms for leverage. the two of you were a beautiful disaster, doomed from the start because of your awkwardness, somehow blooming into something far beyond what you thought you’d ever get. You being comfortable enough to be so vulnerable with him only made him fall harder.

“daryl…” you pulled back to look at him with nervous eyes. this was the only part you didn’t know the feeling of. “i think i’m gonna come.”

“me too, baby,” he murmured, lips trailing up your neck, leaving marks across your collarbone and chest that bloomed in burgundy and pink. he reached down to rub at your swollen bud, watching your legs twitch and your face twist in bliss.

“don’t you stop, sunshine.”

“o-oh my god— daryl, please!”

you clutched him tighter, and he let you, reveling in your sweet noises, those soft whines and moans that made him swoon further over you. he was everywhere — the scent of his shirt, the guidance of his hands, the warmth of his body moving over yours, the softness of his hair as you ran your fingers through it.

“dar… m’gonna… fuck, i’m gonna—“

“come on, baby. i gotcha.”

and you did, crying out as warmth flooded your skin, coating daryl’s length with your sweet release, he reached for your hand, gripping it tight as he his rhythm turned erratic. he thrusted into you sloppily, slowing down until he came with a groan, letting himself finish inside your heat. he collapsed on top of you, careful of his weight, holding you there on the field. the scent of sweat and daryl’s shirt surrounded you, the both of you dizzy on the comedown of your high, bodies tingling, exchanging shared breaths.

“you ok?” he finally asked, lifting himself up on his spent arms. you nodded, answering with a sleepy “mmhm”, hands cupping his face for one last kiss. it was slow and almost agonizing, knowing you’d never get to relive a time this good. that was what made your first time all the more special.

“how was i?” daryl asked, rubbing your shoulder where he’d bit a little too hard.

“the best i’ve ever had,” you sighed dreamily, squeezing his bicep weakly, as if to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

“the only one you’ve ever had,” he joked, playfully leaning in to peck and nibble at your neck. “you were fuckin’ amazing.”

“so were you…” you admitted, voice trailing off as he pulled out, drawing a whimper from your lips and a faint moan from his own. sensitive from your orgasm, you pressed your legs together, keeping his spend safe. “did i—“

“you were great, baby. don’t ever doubt it, ‘kay?” he reassured you, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. he pulled your panties back up, helping you sit up and put your sash back on.

“c’mon… i’ll clean you up and drive you home.”

rick grimes x “sick” reader

warnings/tags: constable!rick x fem!reader but it can be gender neutral! smut, p in v, strangers to lovers, d/s dynamics, discussion of abuse and trauma (evil ex boyfriend), power dynamics, fake illness, emotional cheating, not entirely proofread

you’re alexandria’s mystery. kept inside, people wave at you in the window as they pass by. everyone knows you’re “sick”, wrought with all kinds of mysterious conditions. it’s hard enough being this way with walkers roaming around, but almost nothing scares you.

sitting on the porch one day, you lock eyes with rick grimes, the new constable in town. he looks like something only a dream could synthesize. his eyes are so beautiful…

your dream is short-lived, though, as your boyfriend comes out and scolds you gently for being out in the cold because of your sickness. it’s all performative, because when you get back inside, he yells at you and pushes your frail body right down the basement stairs.

rick knows your boyfriend is suspicious just from the look in his eyes, a dark, reflectionless haze that he’d seen in criminals from his old days as a police officer. he sees that man sitting on the porch, full of himself, smoking a cigarette and staring whenever rick drives by in his patrol car.

your life is hell until rick stops by one day after a noise complaint.

he finds you at the door, oblivious. your eyes are soft and sad, yet you’re pleased to see the new constable. there’s a brace on your hand, and fuzzy socks keep your feet warm. you can’t stand being cold and ill. still, you don’t know what he’s seen and done that led to his ability to see right through you.

you act like everything is fine, until you let him into the house to help you with your fallen medications. they’d been knocked over when you had gotten into yet another altercation. he asks you about your bruises, and you tell him it’s your condition, difficulty with balance making it hard to be stable for long. his brow furrows, but you ignore it. you don’t want to get on another man’s bad side.

rick visits you on occasion, disguising it as a simple “wellness check”. he gets used to your schedule, knows when you’ll be alone so you can speak to him without getting caught. one rainy day, sitting next to the fireplace with a cup of tea, you tell him everything.

it all started when your boyfriend found out you took sleeping pills. it was almost as if a switch flipped, and he became less of a partner and more like some. he replaced your pills with foreign drugs, kept feeding you odd supplements to keep you sick and docile, trying to keep you dependent on him so you wouldn’t leave. you go on and on, telling rick how he makes you do all the housework, calls you lazy and dumb, and beats you into a state of silence when you threaten to leave or call the cops — and you did, but nobody believed you until rick showed up.

the apocalypse was full of sick and twisted people. if he could allow himself some time, rick would tear into that man.

you weep in his arms, tears soaking into his jacket. it’s warm against your skin, soft fabric pressed to your wet cheek. his grip is gentle, yet you know you’re secure. rick feels different than your boyfriend does. safer. fuller.

ever since that afternoon, everything changed.

discussions and shared cups of coffee turn into lingering glances. simple touches lead to shivering embraces. when you need to be held, he lets you in. the feeling of his touch won’t leave your mind. you need him like oxygen. you need him to save you.

rick knows it’s wrong, so wrong to be growing close to someone so vulnerable. after all, he’s overstepping his boundaries as an officer. he could lose his damn job, for christ’s sake. but that look in your eyes never fails to keep him on that path.

the tension boils over, and you two come up with a plan to get you out. he’ll find you a safe place, one where you’re not hurt anymore. you kiss him, and it feels real. he’s drawn to you for your kindness and resilience, your will to survive. you’re drawn to him because he’s the only stable, loving caregiver you’ve had.

one day he gives in and finally fucks you over the kitchen counter while your boyfriend isn’t home. rick isn’t one to cry, but he tears up at the way your hands reach for his own, weak moans caught in your throat. you flutter around him, never this responsive with your own boyfriend. he doesn’t force you, doesn’t do anything you’re used to. he simply lets you lose yourself, firm thrusts coaxing soft whimpers from your lips.

“let it out, honey... let it alllll out.”

he finishes inside you, and you let him. the warmth soothes you as you come down, rick’s voice gently cooing praises into your ear. you’re so tired, so weary from your longing to escape, that all you can do is feel him.

of course, he gives you plan b the next morning, the first pill you feel safe taking. you two leave for good when your now-ex boyfriend is out at the bar.

you’re utterly exhausted, body ready to give out. still, you’re too scared to fall asleep in rick’s car. he keeps his eyes on the road, not without checking the rear view every ten seconds.

he carries you upstairs, your weight easy on his arms, and tucks you into bed for the first time in years.