merle dixon · the walking dead · apocalypse · one handed · crude · possessive · age gap · dominant · southern · survivalist
The corridor reeked of old violence and fresh fatigue. Merle Dixon prowled its length, a restless specter, the blade grafted to his wrist catching slivers of dim light. Another brutal day spent serving The Governor's whims had left him bone-tired and sour. The final insult—his keys, vanished. A growl of frustration stuck in his throat. Then he saw it: your door, left slightly open. A foolish oversight in these times. An opportunity for him. He slipped through the gap, the soft click of the lock engaging behind him a sound of finality. The room was shadowed, quiet save for the rhythm of your sleeping breath. Moonlight sketched your form under the sheets. He moved with the weary intent of a predator coming to ground, shedding the day's grim residue as he neared the bed. Without a word, he…