#twd writer

The prison was quiet in the way that only came after something bad.

Not peaceful,, never that, but emptied. Hollowed out. Like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting to see who would be left standing when the dust settled.

You sat on the concrete steps outside one of the cell blocks, knees pulled up to your chest, fingers twisting absently in the hem of your shirt. There was dried blood on your sleeve,, someone else’s. You hadn’t bothered to scrub it off yet. It felt wrong to erase the evidence that people had almost been lost today.

From somewhere inside, you heard Beth’s voice, soft, steady, singing low to calm a crying child. She’d been doing that more and more lately. Stepping in when things got too heavy. When words failed.

You smiled faintly at the sound.

And then “You alright?”

Daryl’s voice. Gravelly. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to ask.

You looked up to see him standing a few feet away, crossbow slung over his shoulder, posture tense even now that the danger had passed. There was a fresh cut along his cheek, already scabbing over. You hadn’t noticed it earlier.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

He didn’t move. Didn’t buy it.

“…You’re shakin’.”

You hadn’t realized you were until he said it.

You exhaled, letting your arms fall from around your knees. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

Daryl hesitated,, just for a second, then stepped closer. Not too close. Never too close. He crouched down beside you instead of in front of you, gaze fixed on the ground like eye contact might break something fragile between you.

“Beth said you ran back,” he muttered. “When the gate jammed.”

You shrugged. “Someone had to.”

“That was stupid.”

You laughed softly, the sound brittle. “You ran back too.”

He huffed. “That’s different.”

“Because you’re you?”

“…Yeah.”

You glanced at him then, catching the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite himself.

Silence settled between you,, not awkward. Familiar. The kind that had grown over weeks of shared watches, scavenging runs, quiet meals eaten side by side without needing conversation.

Daryl shifted, resting his forearms on his knees. “She’s been askin’ ‘bout you.”

“Beth?”

“Yeah.” He nodded toward the cell block. “Says you ain’t been sleepin’. Says you keep givin’ your blanket to other people.”

You sighed. “Traitor.”

A pause.

“She worries,” he added. “We all do.”

The we hung there, heavier than it should’ve.

You swallowed. “I’m okay, Daryl. Just… a lot today.”

He nodded slowly. Then, after another moment, he reached out,, hesitant, like he might pull back if you flinched, and placed his hand over yours.

Rough. Calloused. Warm.

The shaking eased almost instantly, like your body had been waiting for permission to stop.

Daryl didn’t comment on it. Just kept his hand there, thumb brushing once,, accidentally, probably over your knuckles.

“You don’t gotta be strong all the time,” he murmured.

Your throat tightened.

“Someone’s gotta be,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. “Yeah. I know.”

⸻

Later that night, you found yourself sitting near the fire in the common area, Beth across from you, knees tucked under her, guitar resting against her side.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

You nodded. “Daryl already checked on me.”

Her lips curved into a knowing smile. “Of course he did.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she said innocently. “I just think he cares about you. A lot.”

You poked at the fire with a stick. “Daryl cares about everyone.”

She tilted her head. “Not like that.”

Before you could respond, boots crunched behind you.

Daryl stopped short when he realized you weren’t alone, ears turning pink. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” Beth said easily, standing. “I was just heading in.”

She gave you a quick squeeze on the shoulder,, and a pointed look at Daryl before disappearing inside.

The silence she left behind felt louder than any argument.

Daryl cleared his throat. “She, uh… singin’ help?”

“Yeah,” you said. “It always does.”

He nodded. Then, quieter, “You help too.”

You looked up at him, surprised.

He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. “Just… wanted you to know.”

Your chest ached in the best and worst way.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He lingered a moment longer, then sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. Neither of you moved away.

The fire crackled. Somewhere inside, Beth’s singing picked up again,, hopeful, steady, carrying through the walls.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe that quiet things could still survive in a world like this.

That maybe just maybe, so could you.

you and glenn don’t really walk anywhere anymore.

it’s more like… drifting. slow steps. pauses every few feet. glenn stopping to point something out like it’s still the old world,, “look, d’you think that used to be a bakery?” and you pretend to consider it seriously because you like the way his face lights up when he imagines normal things.

his hand finds yours automatically. no hesitation. fingers lacing like muscle memory.

glenn is big on quiet pda. nothing flashy. just small things that say mine without needing words.

his thumb brushing over your knuckles. leaning in a little too close when you stop walking. his shoulder bumping yours like it’s an accident (it’s not).

when you sit on a curb to rest, he drops down beside you and presses a quick kiss to your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like there isn’t a whole apocalypse happening.

“you okay?” he asks, soft. always soft with you.

you nod, and before you can even answer properly, he’s smiling,, this relieved, boyish smile like the world still makes sense as long as you’re right there.

sometimes he pulls you in by the belt loop or the sleeve of your jacket. sometimes you steal a kiss first and he laughs into it, cheeks warm, pretending he didn’t love it.

glenn rhee is the kind of guy who holds your hand in public like it’s a promise.

like if he lets go, everything might fall apart.

The sound of the engine wasn’t something you heard much anymore. Too loud, too reckless, too tempting for the wrong kind of attention. But tonight, it didn’t matter. Tonight, the walls and the watch shifts and the endless scavenging had been pressing down too hard, and Daryl had caught the way your shoulders stayed tense even when you were laughing.

“You need out,” he’d said, voice low, not really a question.

And maybe he was right, because now you were on the back of his bike, arms wrapped tight around his waist, hair whipped back by the night air. The road blurred beneath you, gray streaks broken by weeds clawing through the cracks. The world felt hollowed out, but here,, just here, it felt like freedom.

────୨ৎ────

Daryl’s old CD player was lashed together with tape and wires, the kind of contraption only he could’ve coaxed into still working. When he shoved a scratched disc inside, the speaker coughed, then wailed. Punk guitars poured out, sharp and ragged, the sound tinny but alive.

You laughed, too loudly, half in disbelief. “You’re kidding me. You listen to this?”

Daryl didn’t turn, just leaned into the throttle. “Why not?”

The corners of your mouth pulled higher. “I thought you’d be, I don’t know… country. Banjo. Something real southern.”

He huffed, almost a laugh, the wind eating the sound. “Ain’t that simple.”

You leaned closer, chin brushing his shoulder as the chorus kicked in. “Guess not.”

────୨ৎ────

You stopped at an old gas station off the highway, its windows smashed and weeds growing through the concrete. The bike ticked as it cooled, music still spilling out faintly.

Daryl dug in his saddlebag and tossed you a bottle of lukewarm water. You drank, then sprawled against the bike’s back wheel, letting the faint stars overhead burn through the dark. The speaker hissed, then another track started, one you knew by heart.

“God,” you whispered, almost to yourself. “I used to have this on repeat. I was sixteen. Thought I was gonna change the world.”

Daryl crouched beside you, fiddling with the laces on his boots. His hair hung in his eyes, hiding his expression. “Yeah? I had this tape in my brother’s truck. Played it ‘til it broke.”

The name alone,, brother, hung in the air. You didn’t push, but the fact he’d offered it at all sat heavy in your chest.

────୨ৎ────

The road pulled you further out, past empty fields where fireflies blinked like weak sparks. You rode until the gas needle threatened empty, then rolled into the shell of another forgotten town.

The bike idled quiet, both of you listening to the music slip into silence. Daryl finally spoke, rough and low.

“Ever think about it? Who ya’d be… if all this never happened?”

You thought about malls, movie theaters, shitty jobs you would’ve hated, crowded concerts where sweat and music blurred into something holy. You thought about versions of yourself that might’ve grown older without learning to gut walkers.

“Yeah,” you said, honest. “All the time.”

His eyes flicked over, restless. “Reckon I wouldn’t’a met ya.”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe we would’ve. Same music taste? Maybe I’d see you at a show. You’d be the guy in the back, arms crossed, pretending you weren’t enjoying it.”

He smirked,, actually smirked. “You’d be the one screamin’ the lyrics, huh?”

“Obviously.”

His gaze lingered on you, longer than it should’ve. You felt the weight of it, heavy, warm.

────୨ৎ────

You ended up breaking into the gas station, the doors hanging crooked, shelves stripped. Nothing left but dust and a cracked counter. The two of you found an old radio, gutted for parts. Daryl tried to fix it anyway, his calloused hands moving with surprising gentleness.

“Doesn’t bother you?” you asked after a while.

“What?”

“Noise. The music. I mean, it’s dangerous. Too loud.”

He didn’t look up. “Ain’t no livin’ if you’re scared of bein’ heard.”

Something twisted in your chest at that. Because he was right.

The radio sputtered once, then died. Daryl cursed under his breath, sat back on his heels. You caught yourself smiling again, even through the ache.

“You’d be fun in another life,” you teased. “Reckon we’d get in a lot of trouble.”

His mouth curved, slow. “Ain’t too late for that.”

────୨ৎ────

The sky began to pale at the edges when you finally rode back, the CD skipping, the speaker barely clinging to life. You rested your cheek against Daryl’s back, not caring that the leather smelled like smoke and dust.

For a moment, you let yourself imagine it,, that other life. The one where the ride was just a joyride, the music wasn’t salvaged, and you’d end the night at some diner, grease on your fingers, his smirk across the booth.

Instead, you clung to him tighter as the bike roared down the empty road, and when his hand brushed yours briefly on the throttle, neither of you pulled away.

────୨ৎ────

Your eyes fluttered shut, but sleep kept teasing you, pulling you toward it in fits and starts. Carl noticed immediately, his arm curling over your waist before you even realized it. The warmth pressed against you felt different tonight,, heavier, more deliberate, like he wanted to make sure you didn’t drift too far without him.

“Hey,” he murmured, low and rough, his voice just above a whisper. “Don’t go off on me yet.”

You hummed softly, half asleep, feeling the weight of him settle closer. His other hand found yours, fingers lacing in with a possessive squeeze.

Carl shifted slightly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his thumb tracing a lazy circle along your cheek. “You look too good to sleep like this,” he whispered, the words thick with something heavier than affection. Your pulse fluttered at the intimacy, the heat of him so close.

When your lips parted in a soft yawn, he leaned closer, letting his breath ghost along your ear. “I could keep you like this all night,” he said, voice husky, teasing. “Can’t let anyone else get to you… not even sleep.”

You shivered,, not from cold, but from the way his arm tightened ever so slightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Your eyelids finally gave in, but Carl stayed awake, brushing his nose against your temple, whispering soft promises that made your pulse quicken even as you sank into the haze of sleep. “Mine,” he murmured once, almost purring, “all mine.”

It’s late enough that the woods have gone quiet. The cicadas hum soft and steady in the dark, and the creek is nothing more than a silver strip caught under the moon, shallow water slipping over rocks like a secret. You sit at the bank with your toes dipped in, leaning back on your palms, Dog stretched out nearby with his nose tucked to his paws. He looks content. You wish you could say the same for Daryl, who’s only just trudging back from the trees with a handful of something dangling by the tails.

You wrinkle your nose. “Tell me those aren’t squirrels.”

“They’re squirrels,” he says flatly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He tosses them into the basket set aside for tomorrow’s fire, wipes his hands against his jeans, and finally comes down to where you are. He doesn’t sit right away,, he lingers, looking at the water like he’s debating whether or not it’ll bite him. Then, without ceremony, he drops into the creek beside you with a low grunt.

Water splashes your calves. You shove at his arm. “Hey.”

“Ya wanted me t’cool off, didn’t ya?” There’s a faint curl of humor to his mouth, there and gone before you can catch it. He leans back on his elbows, legs stretched in the current, the tips of his boots still on the bank.

You steal a glance at him,, the slope of his shoulders, hair damp against his temples from the heat of the day, lashes half-lowered as if he’s already half-asleep. For all the world he looks like a man who belongs here. Feral. Untamed. And yet softened by the glow of moonlight.

He must feel you looking, because his mouth twitches again. “I ‘member when we first met,” he says, voice rough with the accent he never bothers to hide around you. “Ya couldn’t even look me in th’ eye when I came outta the woods with these things hangin’.” He jerks his chin toward the squirrel basket.

You laugh, because he’s right. “You looked like some wild beast dragging trophies. I thought you were gonna hang them up as warning signs or something.”

“Could’ve.” He smirks, though it doesn’t last,, he never lets himself get too comfortable with smiling. “Ya looked scared o’ me.”

“I was,” you admit softly. “But I don’t think it was because of the squirrels.”

That gets his attention. He turns his head toward you, eyes sharp under the dark strands of his hair. There’s something about the way he looks,, like he’s seeing through you and still choosing to stay.

The current moves around you both. Dog lifts his head at the shift in quiet, watches you, then lays it back down, trusting whatever’s unfolding.

“Don’t reckon I was all that easy t’be around,” Daryl says after a moment. He picks at the hem of his jeans, voice low. “‘Specially then. Didn’t know what the hell t’do with people. Still don’t, half the time.”

You bump your knee against his under the water. “You’re not as hard as you think you are.”

His mouth quirks, but there’s no denial, no biting comeback. Just a long silence that says maybe he needed to hear it.

The night deepens around you, and for a while, the only sounds are the creek and Dog’s slow, steady breaths. Daryl shifts closer, so close his arm brushes yours. When he speaks again, it’s softer than the water.

“Ain’t never thought I’d get t’sit ‘round like this. Jus’… with you. Makes me think maybe I don’t gotta be runnin’ all the time.”

Your throat catches. You reach for his hand, not sure if he’ll take it, but he does,, rough fingers curling over yours like it’s instinct. He doesn’t look at you while he does it, though. He stares at the water instead, jaw tight, like the admission cost him something.

“Daryl,” you murmur, and when he finally does glance your way, you lean in,, close enough your lips almost brush his. The air between you is thick with the kind of tension that’s lived there since the day you first met him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t dare ruin it.

Then, just before you can pull back, he tilts forward and closes the distance. The kiss is fleeting, clumsy even, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed,, but it’s enough to make your chest ache. Enough to make the whole forest seem to hush around you.

When he pulls back, his forehead lingers against yours. “Ain’t lettin’ no one take this from me. From us,” he mutters, rough and certain, like a promise only the creek and Dog are allowed to hear.

You rest your head against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and his arm comes around you without hesitation. The water laps soft against your legs. Dog sighs and shifts closer, pressing warm against your side.

The sun was merciless, beating down on Negan’s back as he shoved the shovel into the stubborn earth. Sweat slicked his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric across his broad shoulders, and every few minutes he’d pause to mutter some colorful string of curses under his breath. Rick called it “rehabilitation,” but to Negan it was nothing more than humiliation,, playing farmer boy while the world still burned outside the walls.

You leaned against the fence, watching him work. It wasn’t the first time. There was something magnetic about the way he moved,, fluid, powerful, like every swing of the shovel could break more than dirt if he wanted it to. His hair stuck to his forehead, jaw rough with a few days’ worth of stubble, and when he straightened up to wipe sweat off his neck, your eyes followed the motion a little too long.

“Well, don’t you look downright domestic,” you teased, a smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t think I’d see Negan Smith out here digging holes like a goddamn farmhand.”

Negan’s head tilted, that wolfish grin spreading slow across his face. “Sweetheart,” he drawled, leaning on the handle of the shovel, “trust me when I say I can plow a hell of a lot better than this dirt.”

Your cheeks heated, though you tried to mask it with a scoff. “You’re filthy.”

He dropped the shovel with a dull thud, stepping closer until the fence was all that separated the two of you. His voice dipped lower, gravel rough. “Filthy, sweaty, covered in dirt,, yet you’re still standin’ there watchin’ me like I’m the only damn show in town.” His eyes flicked down, then back up to meet yours, and the smirk that followed made your stomach twist.

You’ve never been a morning person, but somehow, the autumn air always makes it easier.

You crack an eyelid, squinting at the sliver of golden sunrise peeking through the curtain gap. The light is soft, the kind that makes the dust motes dance and the world feel momentarily paused.

The sound is what draws you fully awake,, the low, almost humming growl of Negan's deep voice. He's talking, but not to you. Probably to one of the Saviors on the radio,, something about a supply run or a perimeter check. Mundane, but it keeps you safe.

You shift closer, pulling the heavy, worn-out quilt up to your chin. His side of the bed is already empty, but the pillow still holds his heat, and the air around it smells distinctively of him,, leather, faint smoke, and that clean, sharp scent of his aftershave you bought him months ago.

You hear the clink of a mug. He walks back into the room, silent on the worn rug, and pauses by the bed, his shadow falling over you.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, intimate rumble that’s only ever for you. He’s already dressed in his jeans and a dark tee, but the leather jacket is missing, draped over the armchair. He looks tired, the lines around his eyes a little deeper than yesterday, but he’s smiling a little, the kind that doesn't quite reach his eyes but shows in the softening of his jaw.

He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead,, the stubble on his chin soft against your skin.

“Crisp out there. Got you coffee, just the way you like it. Stay put, babe. I got things to do, but I want you warm.”

He places the heavy mug on your bedside table. The ceramic is warm and you can see the faint steam rising, smelling of rich coffee and a hint of cinnamon. You pull yourself up, snuggling into his pillow, watching as he straps on his belt, grabbing Lucille on his way out.

“Be back before the sun’s high,” he promises, a wink adding that familiar swagger back to his stance.

Marvel── .✦

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