God this chapter was a doozy. I wrote it, didn't like it, so I restarted from the beginning.
I haven't heard a single thought on my cure idea, which is quite disappointing because the whole reason I started this story was because of a conversation I had with a friend about the zombie virus and how to cure it.

anywhoo, enjoy!

Hold on track
Make sure you're there when I call you back
You know I'm scared, but you know it's true
Know that I got you there

Tell me what you want, did you want me here?
I don't really know, but I know that stare
You keep watchin' me as I go back to it
Back to the flare
Back to your stare

FLARE by ASHWARYA

Chapter 46 - Father's Daughter

"How do I look?" you ask, stepping onto the front patio, where the warm glow of the sunset casts a beautiful backdrop. Merle and Jamie are seated on the swing chair, while Daryl leans against the front patio railing. All three turn to look at you. Jamie, with a plate of casserole in his hand, smiles with his mouth still full, while Merle exhales smoke from the cigarette he's smoking.

"Ridiculous," Daryl says, drawing your attention to him as he scans you from head to toe.

"Really?" you question, glancing down at your cream-colored dress, which flares out at the waist, and your small black heels. Your hair is brushed and flowing freely. You decided to explore the clothes storage and brought in a variety of outfits for both you and Daryl, which he hasn't touched yet.

"Nah, ya look like yer old self," Daryl clarifies, his gaze lingering on you with a nostalgic expression. A smile tugs at your lips as you take a step closer to him, biting your bottom lip, only to be interrupted by Jamie's exaggerated gagging noise as he looks back and forth between you and Daryl, making a sappy face.

"Don't mind Brooklyn," Merle laughs, extending his hand to pass the half-cigarette to his brother. "He's just jealous, plain and simple. Can't handle the fact that the Mexican girl's been turnin' him down, eatin' away at his ego."

"She ain't turning me down, alright," Jamie counters, playfully waving his spoon at the older Dixon. "I'm just waiting for the right moment for that big and dumbass to fumble his chance with her."

Rolling your eyes at their banter, you turn towards your husband. "Come with me to this dinner?" you ask.

"Hell nah," Daryl scoffs, his voice filled with resistance. "What am I gonna do there, sit around and scratch my ass?"

"Why would you need to do that?" you ask, watching him blow out smoke, his face clean yet still dressed in his dirty clothes. It didn't take a lot of convincing to get him in the shower with you and put on clean clothes, but in the morning, he was back in those filthy clothes he had on since the prison.

Stepping closer, you adjust his collar with a sigh. "You're an intelligent and interesting man, but I get it." You know that gathering and socializing is not really his thing, especially in situations where the spotlight would be on him, as you suspect this dinner will be.

But it's more than just that. You've noticed throughout the day how much his demeanor has changed since Jamie and Merle were given jobs by Deanna. Jamie has been assigned to the construction crew, and Merle is now part of the scout team, recognized for his hunting abilities. Even though Daryl hasn't voiced his feelings, you can see it in his body language, how it's affecting him. It makes you wonder if he has been left feeling like the odd man out.

"Well, ain't you gonna invite me to this dinner party?" Merle interjects with a sly smirk on his face.

"It looks like y'all already cooked," you point out, gesturing towards Jamie's plate.

"Nah," Jamie replies, talking with his mouth full. "Carol brought a whole batch."

"Well, eat that," you retort with a scoff. In the few days since you've been here, Carol has been taking care of your meals. It dawns on you that you have a home now and you're a wife, which means you need to learn how to cook soon.

"Oh, I guess we can't all be like ya," Merle teases, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It must be real nice, huh? Gettin' yer ass kissed like that by Deanna." He leans forward, looking up at you from his seat. "Tell me somethin', sweet cheeks, does she kiss yer left cheek or right cheek? Or does she crack it open and plant one right in the middle?" Jamie bursts into laughter, nearly choking on his food as he clears his throat.

"You disgust me," you tell Merle, your expression contorted in disdain as you turn to walk away. As you move, you hear Merle's laughter trailing behind you, but you lift your middle finger up, flipping him off in response.

You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts with all your chess pieces ready. "It's showtime," you tell yourself as you ring the doorbell. Moments later, the door swings open, revealing an older man. He towers above you, his tall frame complemented by greying hair and a gentle smile on his face.

"You must be Doctor Dixon," the man says, his voice carrying a soft-spoken warmth. "I'm Reg, Deanna's husband." He stretches out his hand for a handshake, his warm gaze meeting yours.

"Oh, it's nice to meet you," you reply, shaking his hand firmly.

"I have to be honest; I was expecting someone much older," he remarks, his kind eyes twinkling with amusement.

"I'll take that as a compliment," you respond, returning his smile with one of your own. There's something genuine about him, unlike his wife, who tends to keep her cards close to her chest.

Just as Reg steps aside, allowing you to enter, another voice chimes in from behind him. "You should," one of them says as two young men approach the door. "I'm Spencer, and this is Aiden," Spencer introduces, and you assume they must be Deanna and Reg's sons, given their resemblance to their father.

"He was so bummed when Mom told him there was no interview video for you," Aiden quips, playfully nudging his father.

"Intrigued is the word I would use," Reg confesses with a smile, glancing between his sons and you. "I like to watch the interview videos for all the individuals we bring in. It gives me a sense of understanding each and every person we are responsible for." He motions for you to enter further into the house.

Their home is similar to the one you were given, yet theirs feels cozy and well-lived in. Every corner is thoughtfully organized and adorned with tasteful decorations and picture frames. The crackling fireplace casts a soft, flickering glow, creating an inviting atmosphere as they lead you past it and into the kitchen.

Reg continues to share his thoughts, his sons following closely. "And to hear that one of the most extraordinary group joined our community was very exciting. But even more miraculous was the fact that one of them knows the cure. You can understand the suspense when my dear wife told me there was no interview video."

Your laughter fills the air, as you look up at the man, "Well, I hope I don't disappoint."

Just then, Deanna emerges from the lower level, a bottle of wine in her hands. "Oh, you're here! Perfect timing," she exclaims, looking at you with a smile before ushering everyone into the dining room. "Come, Come, dinner is served."

The dining room awaits with soft lighting and a pristine white tablecloth draping the wooden table. Delicate china and polished silverware are meticulously arranged as you take your seat. The tantalizing aroma of home-cooked food fills the air, with a creamy spaghetti dish and roasted chicken breast— or what you assume is chicken— in the center, accompanied by bowls of steamed vegetables. You can't help but take in the scene before you, reflecting on how just a week ago, you were sharing a can of beans with two people.

"I hope you enjoy the spread," Deanna says with a warm smile as she takes her seat.

As the dinner progresses, conversations flow effortlessly, punctuated by laughter and shared stories. You can immediately see that they're a tight-knit family. Initially, the questions are light and casual, focusing on your impressions of the community so far, where you attended college, and what you did before the fall. But you understand why you are here. Deanna didn't invite you to this dinner out of the goodness of her heart. She's not just going to take your word about the treatment, like Abraham did with Eugene's idea of the cure. They want to hear the validity of your claim.

With each casual question, you sense a genuine curiosity brewing beneath the surface. So, you jump right into it, giving them the same story you told Rick's group way back during the early weeks of the prison.

"So you're saying that since we are all infected with this virus, you believe it has two faces: dormant and active," Reg questions, his food barely touched as he leans forward, clearly intrigued by what you have to say.

"Yes, that's something I know for a fact," you affirm, taking a bite from your chicken and then turning your attention towards the head of the table to look at the man.

"And you think climate change caused all of this?" Spencer asks from beside you, his curiosity evident.

"That's just my theory, at least," you reply with a shrug of your shoulders.

"In what sense could climate change cause all of these events?" Spencer counters, everyone at the table fully engrossed in the conversation, their food momentarily forgotten. "It's not like this is the first time the planet has been hot."

"You're right, our planet has experienced extreme heat before," you acknowledge, taking a sip of your wine and leaning back. "But never like this, not since humanity has existed. The first ice age occurred 2.5 billion years ago, long before complex lifeforms existed." Passion resonates in your voice as you begin to explain, "But do you know what existed 2.5 billion years ago? Viruses, bacteria, germs, fungi... microorganisms. Now for the first time ever, the ice on Earth is melting at an accelerated rate while complex life forms—like humanity—are present, releasing viruses that have been trapped billions of years ago, giving it the perfect host."

The room falls silent as your words sink in. The weight of your theory hangs in the air. "So you think we did this to ourselves, allowing these two culminating factors to meet," Reg speaks up, his face reflecting deep thought. "That's an interesting theory, one I haven't considered before."

"I'll be honest with you, I thought it was created in a lab," Aiden chimes in nonchalantly.

"No, it's obvious it's not," you respond with a smile, recalling Glenn expressing a similar sentiment back in the day. "Nature never does things just once. It's all about patterns and repetitions." Taking another bite and a sip of your wine, you delve deeper into the explanation.

"There are other microorganisms, like fungi, that can do what the walker virus does—but not to humans because we're not the perfect hosts. There are other viruses that have two faces—herpes, CMV, HIV, hepatitis. These viruses go dormant and active, so this means that this virus isn't completely new to us."

Aiden interjects eagerly, a smirk on his lips, more interested in the potential cure than the biology lesson. "Yeah, so what's the cure?"

Reg shakes his head, looking at his son. "I, too, am very curious to hear this idea," he adds, acknowledging the shared anticipation in the room.

Deanna speaks up for the first time since the discussion began. She had been observing you closely, analyzing your every word and expression, while her family members bounced around with their questions. "Aaron mentioned that you have a treatment idea," she says, her eyes focused on you. "How could you possibly treat something like this?" Her question cuts through the theories and brings the conversation back to the practical aspect that truly matters to her—the search for a cure.

"Well, we know that we, the living, have the dormant virus, and we can live a healthy life alongside it," you begin, and the room grows tense as everyone leans in, eager to hear your solution. "We also know that walkers have the active virus, and we can get infected from a bite. So ideally, the solution is to make walker bites ineffective."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Her voice carries a hint of hope, despite her attempts to conceal it.

"The best option is to create an antiviral agent that disrupts the process when we get bitten, essentially reversing the virus back to its dormant state," you explain.

"So you're saying that when we get bitten, your cure will essentially pull the plug and put the virus to sleep?" Spencer interjects, his fingers resting on his chin as he contemplates the concept.

"In theory, it's a clear-cut solution," Reg interjects, his gaze shifting between his son and you. "But I don't think it will be as simple as you're making it out to be."

"As Merle would say, this ain't no voodoo magic or snake oil remedy," you state, nodding your head to acknowledge Reg's perspective. "The task ahead of us is almost impossible." Even before the fall, finding a cure would require years of research and collaboration among countless doctors, with abundant resources at your fingertips.

"But I'm also not reinventing the wheel. A lot of the groundbreaking work has already been done for other viruses—we just have to apply similar tactics," you continue, your determination evident in your voice.

"For example, the HIV virus is another virus that enters a dormant state. However, unlike the walker virus, it never remains dormant forever. Instead, it attacks in stages. The treatment for HIV works by disrupting the process of cell reproduction, preventing the virus from replicating and allowing patients to live alongside it."

Deanna leans back in her chair, deep in thought. "One of my roles as a senator involved reviewing state budgets, public health agency reports, and pharmaceutical regulations. The availability of resources and manpower will play a crucial factor in production of the cure," she reflects. "So, what are you thinking? A vaccine? Pills?"

You lift your glass and take a sip of the wine, allowing the moment to build. Knowing that this is something you have thought about extensively, you continue, "No, I was actually thinking of something more along the lines of like an EpiPen—an emergency injection."

This was something you had pondered early on. Knowing that people with severe allergies carry EpiPens for emergencies, the idea struck you—why not have something similar for walker attacks? An EpiPen-like solution that would be quick and easy to inject, and could be distributed among other survivors effortlessly.

"An emergency injection!" Reg exclaims, his eyes widening with enthusiasm as he leans forward. "Something we can all carry, and in case of a bite, we can administer the injection ourselves. That's brilliant!"

His sons look at their father, exchanging a look at his excitement before breaking into laughter. Their laughter uplifts the energy in the room, and you can't help but join in.

"Yes, that's the short-term solution," you remark, still smiling. "In the long term, as our society grows, we can explore the possibility of distributing the treatment directly into our water supply. That way, it remains in our systems at all times. Even when natural deaths occur, the virus will stay dormant—no more turning."

There is gleaming light in Deanna's eyes, her excitement palpable as she leans her small frame over the table and gently grabs your hand. "It has always been my vision for this community to grow and thrive. That's why I plan to appoint Rick as our constable. Someday, there will be a government here, with industry, commerce, and proper infrastructure. We will grow and evolve to meet the demands of the future."

"Yes, this is truly exciting," Reg remarks, rising from his seat abruptly. "Back when I was a professor of architecture, I used to tell my students at the beginning of each semester: Rome wasn't built in a day. Creating something complex takes time and requires creativity."

"Where are you going, dear? You know it's not happening today," Deanna calls out to her husband, a smile on her face.

"I'm inspired!" he exclaims, pausing by the dining room door to look back at all of you with warmth in his eyes. "I'm going to get started on designing this lab."

"Oh here we go," Spencer says with a chuckle and rises from his seat, beginning to collect the plates. Taking the cue, you also stand up, gathering your empty plate and glass. The dinner has come to an end, and one by one, you all follow Spencer into the kitchen, each carrying your own dirty dishes.

As the boys continue cleaning up, Deanna grabs your hand, stopping you in your tracks. "Thank you," she says, her expression genuine. "Thank you for coming to dinner, for sticking around. I know there's a lot of pressure, but I want you to know that we are all with you."

You squeeze her hand in response. "Thank you for having me. It was a lovely dinner." With that, she follows you into the living room, intending to end the night. However, you both come to a halt when you see Reg in the living room, a large book open in front of him as he scribbles away in a notebook.

But it's not just Reg that catches your eye; it's the wooden chess set sitting on the coffee table. "Oh, are you heading out, already?" he asks, his gaze following yours to the chess set. "You play?"

"Yes," you respond to both questions, your eyes lingering on the small wooden pieces. It reminds you of the last chess set you had, the one Merle brought you at the prison, now lost along with everything else. "Do you think I could have that?" you ask, unsure of what prompted you to make the request.

Reg's smile lights up his face, his voice softening. "Oh, did you hear that, boys? She wants my chess set," he says, amused. "How about this: I'll play you for it."

Surprised by the offer, you can't help but smile. "Deal," you reply, accepting the challenge.

Reg looks up at his oldest, spencer, "Son, why don't you fetch us another bottle of wine?"

"No need, this won't take long," you interjected with a mischievous smirk. Aiden bursts into laughter, thoroughly entertained by the friendly banter unfolding before him.

"Ooh, shots fired! You can't lose now, dad!"

It takes less than 24 hours.

"Yo, Alie! You gotta come see this!" Jamie's voice echoes through the lower floor just as you finish making the bed. You lift the laundry basket with a sigh, wondering if he's bantering with Merle again.

"What's going on? Where's Daryl?" you call out, basket perched on your hip as you start descending the stairs. You had planned to force your husband out of those dirty clothes, either wash them or burn them, you're unsure which one you'll pick. After all, there's a whole collection of clean, brand-new clothes waiting for him, which he seems to be avoiding like a plague. "I was about to do laundry—what's all this?" Your voice trails off as you take in the scene before you, shifting your gaze from Jamie to Merle and the coffee table.

Spread out across the small table are at least six containers filled with delicious home-cooked food, emanating mouthwatering aromas that fill the living room. Some containers have small cards attached, with notes written on them, while others are covered with clear lids, allowing steam to escape and hinting at their freshly cooked nature. Nestled amidst the containers is a basket filled with plump strawberries and crisp apples.

"You're famous, baby!" Jamie exclaims, his mouth full as he holds an entire container of apple pie in one hand and a fork in the other, swiftly devouring another large bite. "People have been knocking all morning, dropping off stuff." He mumbles, his words slightly garbled due to his indulgence.

"He ain't lyin'—went out snoopin'," Merle chimes in from his seat on the sofa, his hand clasping a bottle of wine, most likely another gift. "Found out it's the boss lady's son, that cocky younger one, he's been shootin' his mouth off, talkin' 'bout some damn cure like it's the juiciest gossip in town. And let me tell ya, it's spreading like wildfire. Everyone's yammerin' about it, like a bunch of clueless fools."

A slow smirk breaks across your lips as you cast another glance at the array of food before you. Everything is unfolding precisely as you planned, even though you had initially anticipated Deanna herself to be the one to reveal the information to her people. However, Aiden running his mouth works just as well, especially in a community where there is nothing to do but gossip. It won't be long before all eyes turn toward you, and your opinions hold more weight than Deanna's.

Setting your laundry basket down on the ground, you step closer to the table, selecting a single strawberry from the basket along with the accompanying note. Your eyes scan the words on the piece of paper: "We're glad you're here with us. Do your best!" You toss the note back onto the table, shifting your gaze to the end table beside the sofa where your new chess set rests—the same chess set you had won fair and square. Your attention lingers on the queen piece, a symbol of your imminent victory. Checkmate, motherfuckers.

"Hey, listen, I've got a brilliant idea," Jamie interjects, waving his fork in your direction, a wide, goofy grin adorning his face. "You should start telling these ladies we're both single and available," he suggests. Your eyebrows raise in amusement as you take a bite of the fruit.

"I thought you were all about Rosita," you tease, playfully biting into the strawberry.

"I want her to see I have options," Jamie responds with a laugh before motioning towards Merle. "And who knows, maybe you can help Merle get some action too."

The older Dixon scoffs, a sly smirk playing on his lips as he looks at Jamie. "Worry 'bout yourself, boy. Just know that you ain't gonna catch me chasin' after a piece of tail like you do."

Rolling your eyes at their banter, you pick up your basket, unwilling to endure their merciless teasing any longer. "Put the food in the fridge and save me some of that pie, you greedy giant!" you call out at Jamie, making your way back to your chores.

You're out searching for Daryl when you witness the moment it happens. You see Daryl and you move toward him, only to catch Glenn, Tara, and Noah are engaged in a conversation with Aiden. Though you can't hear their words, their body language tells you that it's far from friendly. Suddenly, chaos erupts as Aiden unexpectedly throws a punch at Glenn, who swiftly dodges it and retaliates by landing a punch on Aiden's nose. The turmoil doesn't end there. Another unfamiliar man moves towards Glenn, but Daryl instinctively charges forward and body-slams him, sending the man sprawling to the ground, disoriented and stunned.

You rush to intervene, but Rick beats you to it. He promptly grabs hold of Daryl, pulling him away from the situation, urgently whispering something to him, though the words are lost in the commotion. Just as quickly as it began, the fight is over, as Deanna berates everyone.

However, it's not the fight that makes your heart sink; it's the expression on Daryl's face when Deanna looks up at Rick and says, "I would like you to be our constable. That's who you were and that's what you are." She says it with a small smile before turning to bestow the same title upon Michonne.

In an instant, it dawns on you. Daryl's reluctance to embrace the community, his hesitance to take a shower, only doing it to please you, and then immediately putting his dirty clothes back on. Your newfound fame and everyone in the house, as well as your entire group, receiving jobs from Deanna, while he remains as an outsider.

It's just as Deanna said, "That's who you were and that's what you are." The statement likely struck a nerve because for Daryl, who he was before is 'nothing' and 'nobody.' That's how he saw himself. It's not just about feeling like he doesn't belong; it's about reinforcing the notion of worthlessness within him once again. Everyone has a role to play and is included in the community, except him. The sight of people leaving food and flowers at your door probably only worsens the situation. It serves as a reminder that, just like when you were young, your status in this new society is something he can't compete with.

Daryl paces like a caged animal for a moment before scoffing at Rick and Deanna, swiftly grabbing his crossbow, and marching off. Your instinct is to chase after him as you always do, but just as you take two steps, someone grabs your arm, stopping you. You turn back to see Jamie. You're not even sure when he showed up, but his eyes are also fixed on Daryl. "Don't. Just give him a moment," he says in a voice barely above a whisper.

As people disperse to resume their activities, Jamie nudges you forward, and you fall into step beside him. Random strangers smile and wave at you, and you return their gestures with the brightest fake smile you can muster, fully aware that for the next few weeks, you won't be able to escape your newfound celebrity status—at least until something more exciting happens.

"I don't know what to do," you confess, glancing at Jamie's profile. You know Daryl well enough to understand that he feels like trailer trash sitting on the steps of a house that's too fancy for him. You see it in the way people look at him. It's evident in the way people regard him, their eyes filled with apprehension and unease. They are scared of him, and his appearance only supports their perception that he's some kind of dirty dog, someone who doesn't belong behind their gates.

"You can't fix everything, Alie," Jamie says, sliding his arm over your shoulder and pulling you close. You know he's right. You can't make or force people to like or accept Daryl. And now, with Rick—someone Daryl considers a brother—shaving, cleaning up, and taking on a job as a cop, the contrast is stark. Of course, Daryl would revert back to wearing his dirty clothes. After all, a dirty Daryl is more emotionally stable in the post-apocalypse world than he was before.

"You know, when I first joined the military, I was assigned to various garrison towns across the US," Jamie begins as you continue your stroll. "Man, leaving Brooklyn, I felt completely out of place, like a fish out of water," he says, shaking his head as if he's reliving those moments.

"Being a young black man, combined with my size… it was worse than that for me," he says gesturing in the general direction where Daryl had gone. "Everywhere I went, people would give me strange looks, like I don't belong there. I could see white women clutchin' their bags tightly and crossing the street as if I would rob them in broad daylight. And don't even get me started on elevators... It was one of the loneliest times of my life," he says, laughing in a way that doesn't quite reach him, but you can sense he's grown past that moment.

Your steps slow down as you look at him intently. You've never discussed matters of race with him before, even though he can talk your ears off about various topics. "Then one day, I was out in my uniform, doin' something or another, and… things were just… different," he continues. "People no longer saw me, but only my uniform. Random dudes began thanking me for my service, and some places even offered me free drinks. Suddenly, I wasn't seen as a threat; I was their symbol of protection," he says, gradually slowing his steps and turning towards you. "I never took that damn uniform off after that," he says with a laugh, his eyes regaining a joyful gleam.

You don't know what to say, so you simply reach out and grab his hand. You can't imagine Jamie being a such people person, and how challenging it must have been for him. "People got used to me, and eventually they got to know the real me," he says, squeezing your hand. "What I'm trying to say is that you can't force people to like him. They have to come to that conclusion themselves. And he doesn't need you to hold his hand, you know that's not who he is."

"He's my husband, and it's my job to look out for him, just as he looks out for me," you state with a sigh, but deep down, you know Jamie is right. "If the situation were reversed, he would probably swing at half of these people by now," you sigh and Jamie chuckles, as if he can almost picture it.

"Look, men are simple. We want to feel powerful, useful, acknowledged," he states confidently. "If you want to do something, it's easy, just make him feel good about himself. Seriously, it won't matter what the world thinks as long as your woman got chu."

"But I do got him," your voice rises as you step forward. "He knows that."

"I'm sure he does. Everyone can see how y'all two look at each other," Jamie says, his hand tightening reassuringly. "But it still don't hurts to be reminded."

"Hey, you good?" Daryl asks the moment he walks in, his eyebrows rising in surprise as he spots you waiting for him at the door. "Jamie said ya were lookin' for me." His gaze quickly scans your figure, ensuring that you're physically okay.

"Yeah, come in," you reply with a warm smile, reaching out to gently grasp his elbow and guide him past the living room into the cozy family room. The crackling fire in the fireplace casts a soft, flickering glow, infusing the room with a comforting warmth. You lead him to the couch, strategically positioned to face the dancing flames.

He looks at you with a quizzical expression, uncertain of why you've brought him here, but he settles onto the couch, waiting for you to speak. Taking a moment, you let your eyes trace the way the firelight enhances his rugged features and how his leather vest drapes loosely around him.

"What are ya doin'?" he asks, his voice tinged with curiosity, as you lower yourself onto your knees in front of him, leaning back on your heels.

"I made you dinner," you state, disregarding the mixture of curiosity and concern reflected in his expression. You take hold of his leg, bringing it closer to you as you begin to untie the ankle straps he always wears.

"You made dinner... you cooked?" he asks, his voice filled with confusion, his eyes shifting between your hands and your face as you release the tie on one leg and move on to the other.

"Why are you saying it like that?" you ask, laughter dancing in your voice, well aware that he knows you can't cook. "Okay, fine, I didn't cook, but I warmed up what we had," you state with an exaggerated huff.

"Hmm," he hums, his eyes narrowing at you as if he senses that something is amiss. You giggle once again, leaning forward with your elbow resting on his knees. Taking Jamie's advice to heart, you've decided to make Daryl feel good about himself, but you're not quite sure how to proceed. Daryl is not like most men; he doesn't easily respond to flattery. "What's up?" he asks again, but you lean your chest against his knees, grasping his hands in yours, planting a kiss on his knuckles.

"You know there's a star called Sirius? It's this big blurry white blob in the sky that you can see with the naked eye," you begin, unsure of where you're going with this, but allowing the ambiance of the crackling wood to fill the air, creating a soothing backdrop for the intimate moment. The warmth from the fire envelops the room, casting shadows that dance along the walls. "That's what you are."

"I'm a blob, huh? Thanks, sweetheart," he scoffs, though his confusion is still evident.

"Let me finish," you playfully scold, laughing as your hand releases its grip on his hands and slides down between his thighs, cupping his cock. He gasps in surprise, his hand immediately jerking to grab yours. You smile up at him as you rub him through his pants.

"Whatcha doing? Someone might walk in," he groans, glancing back as if to make sure you are alone, still holding your wrist but not pushing your hand away.

"When people look up at the sky, they usually miss seeing Sirius. Instead, their eyes are always drawn to those other little twinkling stars," you continue with your story, never taking your eyes off his face as his body responds to your touch, his cock quickly growing hard beneath your palm. "That's us: Rick, Michonne, Glenn, everyone."

Your other hand moves from his knee, fingers tracing up his thighs, heading towards the buckle on his pants. "But if you look closer, you realize Sirius is not just another star; it's the brightest star in our constellation. In fact, it's so bright that it outshines every other star known to man," you whisper earnestly, your voice filled with conviction. He gazes at you, his eyes half-opened, as you undo his pants and slowly unzip them.

"He sits far away, which makes him hard to see as clearly," you tell him, pulling him out of his pants, his hard cock standing firm before you. "You are the best of us, Daryl. These people here, they just can't see you, they can't see how amazing you truly are. One day, they'll figure it out. One day, they will see what I see and realize just how beautiful you are."

"Alie…" he whispers.

You hum before leaning in to lick his head, eliciting a slight groan and shudder from him. You can feel his thigh muscles contracting beneath your touch. "It's just the two of us. No one is coming here for the next few hours," you mumble, moaning softly as you lavish the tip of his cock with your tongue, getting him slick and wet before taking him further into your mouth.

"Fuck," he curses, his fingers tightly gripping your hair.

Your tongue explores every inch of him, swirling around the tip, savoring the texture, and tracing the pulsing veins. With one hand at the base, you lightly jerk him, maintaining a gentle rhythm. When you flick your tongue to the underside of his head, you feel him spasm in response. Back and forth, up and down, you continue the gentle movements before sucking the head back into your mouth. The sound he makes sends shivers down your spine. This was meant to be about his pleasure, yet you find yourself equally into it.

One of your hands glides down your body, pulling up your skirt without hesitation. Your fingers shamelessly slip into your panties. Your eyes remain fixed on him, your mouth full, observing his head tilted back and his chest rising and falling rapidly.

You disregard the mess you're creating on the sofa and his dirty pants as you let your saliva coat him, from the base to the tip, licking and making him slick. Once again, you take more of him into your mouth, applying suction as you hear his groans above you. There's a distinct popping sound as you release him, allowing your hand to take over momentarily so you can catch your breath.

"Do you know how much you turn me on?" you ask, your voice vibrating against his cock.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, stroking the back of your head while maintaining his firm grip. You run your tongue up his shaft, maintaining eye contact. His nostrils flare slightly, his mouth tight. "God."

God is good enough, you think to yourself as your fingers move swiftly on your clit, now slick and dripping. Your lips enclose around him, coated in a mix of saliva and excitement. He easily slides past your pursed lips, covering your teeth until the tip of his head nudges against the back of your throat. Suppressing the urge to gag, you relax your jaw as much as possible and push a little further, your nose pressing against his pubic area.

Above you, you can hear Daryl muttering your name along with some mild swearing. You work diligently on his cock, combining the efforts of your hand, mouth, and tongue. He's so hard that it's a wonder he hasn't already reached his climax in your mouth.

The next time you take him to the depths of your throat, you hold him there a fraction longer. You can feel his legs trembling as he presses against the ridges inside your throat. When you finally pull back, a thick line of drool clings to his tip, extending from your lips as you gaze up at him with teary eyes.

God! Why is this so fuckin hot!

Your fingers rub harder on your clit, the sight of him pushing you closer to the edge.

His leg muscles flexed beneath you, his grip on your head tightening slightly as you eagerly suck him back in. With a steady pace, you take him to the back of your throat every time, feeling his cock throb inside your mouth, his hips bucking and jerking forward in his seat. Any second now, you think, anticipation building.

"Alie... I'm gonna..." he tries to warn you, but you quickly pull your hand out of your panties, grabbing both of his thighs and pushing yourself forward. You gag slightly, taking him deeper than ever before, saliva pooling in your mouth. Urging him back by tugging on his legs, he gets the hint and begins thrusting upward, using your mouth, throat, and face for his pleasure. He pushes forward, locking your head in place, and your throat muscles spasm as you gag, coughing around his cock.

He pulls back just enough to allow you to breathe, spit and pre-cum dripping down your chin. "Alie," he mumbles your name, a mix of swearing and moaning. You can only nod, opening your mouth slightly as you look up at him through tear-filled eyes, your vision slightly blurred. Your shaky hand returns to your underwear, pushing aside the flimsy fabric, and you finger yourself furiously while gazing at his messy hair and dark, intense eyes—no trace of blue remaining.

His hand moves from your hair to stroke the side of your face, where sweat begins to form, a few strands sticking to your flushed skin. "Fuck this," Daryl curses, swiftly getting up, his cock leaving your hand. You barely have time to process what's happening as he grasps your upper arm and pulls you up. In one fluid motion, he bends down and tosses you over his shoulder.

"Daryl!" you shriek, now upside down on his shoulder, one hand gripping your thigh and the other holding onto his pants as he begins marching towards the stairs.