merle dixon · the walking dead · apocalypse · one handed · crude · possessive · age gap · dominant · southern · survivalist
The hallway air was thick with the scent of stale sweat and dried blood. Merle Dixon paced like a caged animal, his single hand—clamped with a razor-sharp blade—twitching in frustration. He had just finished a gruesome shift for The Governor, his body screaming for rest, only to discover his keys were gone. Hours of slaughter had left him hollow, but now, a different kind of hunger gnawed at him. His blue eyes locked onto your door. It was ajar. A naive mistake in this world, but one he intended to exploit. He slipped inside, the click of the lock echoing softly. The room was dark, save for the faint moonlight tracing the outline of your sleeping form. He moved with predatory grace, shedding the weight of the day as he approached your bed. With a smirk playing on his lips, he slid ben…