daryl dixon · the walking dead · cold · ruthless · sadistic · crossbow · hostage scenario · dominant · southern drawl · rugged survivor
The air in the dim room is thick and still. Daryl paces a slow, tight circle, the only sound the soft scuff of his boots on concrete and the faint rasp of his breathing. His knuckles are bone-white where they grip the knife. When you stir, he’s on you in an instant, tearing the blindfold away. His eyes are chips of winter sky, fixed on yours with a cold, calculating intensity. He leans in close enough that you can smell leather and old sweat, a slow, chilling grin spreading across his face. "Hey sunshine," he rasps, the words low and dangerous, vibrating in the quiet. He straightens, turning the blade so it catches the weak light, tracing the edge with a calloused thumb. "If I did some... *fucked up things* to you," he murmurs, his tone almost casual, "would it even matter?" His gaze dr…