Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Daryl never figured himself for the type who'd got proposed to, not in this life, not with these hands and this dirt under his nails, not when half the town still called him Merle’s brother and the other half pretended not to know him at all. But here he was, standing in the low gold light of The Grimes mansion—Rick’s mansion, though sometimes it felt like the house belonged more to the memory of the wealthy cop’s dead wife, or maybe to all the shadows pressed up in the corners.

He shifted his weight, boot scuffing the edge of a rug that probably cost more than his old pickup, feeling the heat of Rick’s blue gaze like the summer sun through dirty glass. They’d been drinking—bourbon, good stuff, not the kind his brother used to steal from a truck stop or stashed under the seat. Daryl’s tongue was slow and heavy in his mouth, words catching on the back of his teeth, but the other man was talking easy, low voice steady as always, something smooth and measured in it tonight. He always did that, making the redneck feel like he could relax, let his guard down a little. Like maybe there was a place for him here, even if he’d never really believe it.

Then Rick did it, reaching across the table, palm open, the ring nestled in the hollow of his hand—a sharp, black stone set in silver, more beautiful and severe than anything Daryl’d ever touched. Jet, maybe or a dark diamond, something people couldn't find in Senoia pawn shops. It wasn’t feminine or pretty, it was bold and hard and shining, and Daryl stared at it for a second, not sure if he was meant to take it or if the wealthy man was just showing off some family heirloom.

Rick didn’t flinch, just waited, steady and stubborn the way he always was. “You’re the one I’d do this for, you know,” he said, voice rough at the edges, that sheriff drawl thickening like old honey. “Ain’t never figured I’d do this again after Lori...but you—hell, you’re more stubborn than she ever was. Never met anyone I’d rather come home to.”

Daryl’s throat closed up. He wanted to laugh—wanted to spit it out, make some joke about rich boys and their shiny rocks, about how he wasn’t made for this kind of thing, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he felt his fingers curling tight against his thigh, every old wound aching in the memory of what it was to hope for something. He tried to look away, but Rick caught his chin, thumb rough against stubble, and tipping his face up. “You gonna say yes, or you want me to get on my knees?” His lips quirked as he smiled but there was something dark in his icy blue eyes, something hungry and certain as he tilted his head to one side in that way he often did when he was concentrating on the other party. Daryl snorted, but his heart was beating so hard he thought the other man could hear it.

“Ain’t gotta do all that, man. You know I ain’t good at—hell, I never even wore a ring in my life.” Rick’s smile softened. “Then you’ll get used to it. This little thing just means you’re mine. You want it, don’t you?”

He did. God help him, he did—wanted the man’s hands on him, the place at his side, the safety and the fire and the fury, all of it wrapped up in this man who somehow saw straight through him and never looked away. But still, Daryl hesitated, glancing at the ring like it might burn him.

“Don’t gotta answer now,” Rick stated, quieter, voice lowering as if Carl might hear them from upstairs. “But I want you, Daryl. All of you. Let the rest of ‘em talk. We’ll do it right, you and me.” Daryl nodded, mouth going dry as he took the ring and held it, thumb rubbing over the cold stone, trying to imagine it on his hand—his, not Rick’s, not some dead woman’s, not some rich bastard’s fantasy. Just his.

He met Rick’s eyes, blue and burning in the lamplight. “Guess I already said yes, didn’t I?” His voice was rough, barely there. Rick leaned in, breath warm against Daryl’s jaw. “Yeah, you did. And I guess we’ll have to make it official.”

And then Rick kissed him, slow and sure, fingers sinking into Daryl’s always greasy-looking dark brown hair, his eyes full of possessive need. The ring felt heavy on his finger, like a promise he didn’t know how to wear, and the night around them pressed in thick and soft, full of the old house’s creaks and the hush of rain against the windows.

Rick watched him, without even blinking, didn’t look away even when Daryl shifted under the weight of that gaze, trying to play it cool, trying not to flinch from the hunger in the cop’s sky-blue eyes.

It was always there, just under the skin—an edge that made Daryl feel seen and hunted, stripped bare and pulled close all at once.

Rick stepped in, the whiskey glow gone from his voice, nothing left but want. “You gonna let me?” he murmured, hand splayed wide against Daryl’s chest, the thumb tracing over the line of buttons like he owned the damn shirt, owned the breath in the redneck’s lungs, the heartbeat kicking hard beneath his ribs as Daryl swallowed, fighting the shiver crawling up his spine, but the man was already pushing, already making him move—back towards the wall, back into the low shadows where nobody could see, where he could have what he wanted without the world watching.

"Let ya what?" He tried to play shy although he knew exactly what the other man expected. “C’mon,” Rick whispered, leaning in so close he could feel the scrape of stubble, the warm, rough catch of full lips against his jaw, not quite a kiss, more like a claim.

“Let me see you, cause I've been waiting long enough. Gonna let me have you, Daryl Dixon, or you want me to beg you more?”

Daryl’s hands fisted in Rick’s shirt, pulling him in instead of pushing him off, the room spinning slow and sweet around them. The cop’s mouth slid down, over the side of his neck, teeth grazing skin, tongue flicking out to taste salt and cigarettes smell and whatever it was that made Daryl his, only his, no matter how many people talked, no matter what ghosts lived in this house and the redneck let his head tip back, eyes slipping shut, breath hissing between his teeth when Rick’s hands finally started to undo those buttons, slow and careful, knuckles brushing over scars and muscle and the ugly places Daryl never let anyone see, not even in the dark.

He took his time, fingers shaking a little now, but he never stopped—one button, then another, knuckles gliding over the ring, the stone cold and sharp against Daryl’s skin. “You know what this means, don’t you?” Rick’s voice was raw, thick. “Means you’re mine now. Means I get to take you apart, slow as I want, make you remember who you belong to every day 'til the rest of our lives.” Daryl made a sound, half protest, half plea, but Rick swallowed it, kissing him deep, rough, hands sliding under the open shirt to grip his waist, thumbs pressing into bone, the kind of grip that left bruises.

“Turn around,” Rick growled, voice all horny and raspy now. “Want to see all of the body that owns my wet dreams.” Daryl hesitated, but the other man just pressed closer, hard cock grinding against his ass, promise of everything that was about to happen laid out right there, no room for shame.

“Don’t gotta hide, babe. I'm your soon to be husband.”

And Daryl turned, letting Rick guide him to the bed—covers still made, house so quiet they could hear every gasp, every catch in Daryl’s voice when Rick slid hands down his back, over jeans, palming his ass, kneading hard, like he’d waited all his life to do it. The sound he made was almost a growl—hungry, desperate, nothing left of the good cop, just a man who wanted.

Clothes hit the floor in fits and starts—Rick taking off his own shirt slow, baring his sculpted chest to the lamp’s low burn, every line mapped by the other one’s eyes, Daryl letting his jeans slide down, the ring glinting every time his hand moved.

Rick caught him by the wrist, turning him back, pressing him to the bed, body heavy and solid and hot. “Look at me,” he ordered, soft but sharp as he grabbed the lube from the drawer, slicking his fingers, hand rough and gentle at once, every touch more a promise than a question.

He opened Daryl up slow, careful at first, whispering low filth and praise in his ear—how tight he was, how fucking beautiful, how nobody else would ever get this, not now, not ever. “You’re mine, baby. All mine. Now I can do whatever I want with you, okay?” His words were thick with need, with something that sounded too close to worship. “Ain’t nobody ever gonna touch you like this, make you feel like this. Want you to remember every second.” Daryl shuddered, hips jerking, breath coming hard—he was open now, Rick’s fingers working him, sliding deep, curling until he cursed, voice raw and broken.

Rick pressed his hard as a rock cock to the tight entrance, slow, steady, every inch a battle, every inch a homecoming, hips flush against Daryl’s ass, hands gripping so tight Daryl knew he’d see marks in the morning. The rhythm started slow—Rick pulling out almost all the way, pushing back in, grinding deep, making sure the beautiful redneck felt every inch, every hungry claim. He murmured filth against Daryl’s neck, voice gone low and dangerous, promising things he never said in daylight—how he’d ruin him for anyone else, how he’d fuck him in every room of this house, how nobody would ever hear Daryl make those sounds except for him.

Daryl tried to fight it, tried to hold back, but Rick was everywhere—mouth on his shoulder, hands on his hips, cock driving deep and hard and perfect, grinding into that spot that made his whole body go white-hot, making him bite the pillow to keep from crying out.

Rick fucked him until there was nothing left but sweat and heat and the pounding of their hearts—until Daryl was clawing at the sheets, pushing back, begging without words, desperate to be filled, to be taken, to be claimed over and over. Rick’s rhythm got wild, frantic, hands fisting in Daryl’s hair, mouth at his ear, voice gone to pieces. “Say it,” he growled, thrusting deep. “Say you’re mine. Say nobody else gets this. Say you want me.” Daryl gasped, words spilling out rough and desperate, “Yours. Fuck, Rick, I’m yours...”

The cop lost it then, hips snapping, thrusts brutal, relentless, fucking him through the bed, through every old hurt, every wall Daryl ever built until the redneck man couldn't take it any longer, they were doing it from behind and he finished on the expensive silky sheets, almost trying to push the other man off when his orgasm hit.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Rick whispered, not a question, not a threat, just a promise while Daryl was still trembling beneath him, sweat cooling on his skin, the sharp press of the cop’s teeth lingering on his shoulder right next to the demons tattoo, the sting a brand that made him clench up inside every time he shifted.

He hadn’t caught his breath, hadn’t pulled himself together, hadn’t even wiped himself clean when Rick just held him there, chest slick against his back, hand heavy over his heart as if he was making sure it didn’t break free and run.

The ring pressed against the sheets, cool and alien, and Daryl stared at it, dazed, listening to Rick’s heart thunder, feeling Rick’s cock still inside him, softening only a little, thick and pulsing, leaking warmth.

The cop’s hips jerked, just a little, not letting go, as if leaving Daryl’s body was the one thing he couldn’t do—not now, not after their engagement.

“You think I’m done?” His voice, rough and low, lips close at Daryl’s ear. “Think I could stop after that? Look at you. Look at what you do to me. You make me fucking crazy, Dixon.” His hands slid up, palms pressing down Daryl’s arms, holding him pinned, making sure he couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to—though the truth was Daryl’s body was humming, legs aching, but he didn’t want distance, didn’t want to be let go.

The pinned man let out a shaky breath, pressing his face into the pillow, shivering at the sensation of Rick still hardening again, dragging inside him. He bit his lip, caught between the dull ache and the rush of heat blooming new under his skin, his body so used up it should be sore, but Rick just pressed back in, slow and heavy, hips grinding in lazy, punishing circles.

“Gonna keep you filled up all night, you know that, baby?” Rick whispered, hand coming up to fist in the longish dark hair, not pulling hard this time, just holding him there, anchoring him.

Daryl choked out something halfway to a laugh, broken and tired and turned on, pushing back into Rick, feeling the stretch all over again. “Yeah, you talk a lot, Grimes,” he muttered, voice rough, “but you keepin’ your promises?” Rick’s answer was another thrust, deeper, steadier this time, and Daryl felt his whole body clench in answer, nerves still raw from the first orgasm, heat coiling in his belly again whether he was ready or not.

“Tell me, did you ever let anybody else fuck you like this?” He demanded, voice gone sharp and possessive, teeth nipping at the shell of Daryl’s ear. “You ever let anybody in this deep, make you feel this fucked out, love? Tell me, I wanna hear you say it.”

Daryl shook his head, breath hissing out as Rick moved, a relentless grind, a slow drag that made every nerve light up with overstimulation, pleasure just this side of pain. “Never,” he rasped, “ain’t nobody ever—”

Rick cut him off, lips pressing hard to the side of Daryl’s mouth, bending him awkwardly just to swallow the words, the taste of sweat and salt and breathless need between them. “That’s right,” he groaned, rocking in deeper, making the wasted man cry out again, softer this time, voice gone hoarse. “As I told you, I ain’t lettin’ anybody else touch you. They won't be allowed.”

Daryl’s hand scrabbled for the sheets, for Rick’s wrist, for anything to anchor him as the man kept fucking him—slow, relentless, rolling his hips so deep it felt like he’d never get out, like he wanted to leave something inside Daryl that wouldn’t ever wash away.

Rick’s free hand was everywhere—down Daryl’s chest, gripping his hip, sliding back between his legs to stroke him again, even though the poor man was still twitching from the first climax, overstimulated but helpless, desperate for more. “Come on,” he coaxed, his voice velvet and violence, “give me another. Let me see you come again, Daryl. I need it. Need to see you give me everything.” And Daryl, fucked open and aching, didn’t hold back—couldn’t, not with Rick’s body heavy on him, Rick’s voice in his ear, Rick’s cock inside him like it was the only thing holding him together.

His legs were shaking, thighs burning, every nerve raw, but the other man didn’t stop, kept thrusting, kept whispering, kept holding him there, pushing him past what he thought he could take while he gasped, shuddered, letting himself go again, coming with a hoarse cry, body convulsing, Rick’s name breaking off his tongue.

The man fucked him through it, slower now, then faster, desperate and ruthless, chasing his own edge, losing it finally with a sound that was almost a sob, spilling deep, holding Daryl so close it hurt.

They collapsed together, tangled and breathless, Daryl half-crushed under Rick’s weight, body thrumming with aftershocks and pain and pleasure both while Rick’s hands never stopped moving—stroking the ring, tracing bruises, pressing kisses to sweat-soaked skin, murmuring “mine”.

***

Now Daryl sat on the edge of the wide, soft bed, sheet pulled up over his lap, staring at the black stone ring on his finger. The house was quiet—just the hum of the AC, the faint clatter of Rick downstairs, making coffee or pacing or just doing what men like him did when they couldn’t sleep.

Daryl rolled the ring with his thumb, feeling the bite of the silver or the white gold, he didn’t know, the weight of it, like a shackle and a shield all at once.

He never figured this was where he’d end up, not even in one of those wild, late-night fever dreams he got out in the woods after too much whiskey and too little hope. Hell, even a year ago he’d have laughed in someone's face if they’d told him he’d be shacked up in a damn mansion, about to marry a man like Rick Grimes—rich, clean-cut, respected, every woman in Senoia probably having herself a fantasy about him every other Sunday.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He’d only got close to Rick in the first place for Merle’s sake. He remembered that first meeting too well, Rick, sharp as glass in that badge and pressed uniform, the kind of cop who got listened to in every damn room, voice calm but dangerous, hand on his gun like he was born with it. Daryl knew what he was then—Merle’s little brother, another Dixon nobody trusted. He knew Rick was the one put Merle away. He figured, hell, maybe if he played it right, got close, smiled a little, made himself useful—maybe he’d have leverage, maybe he could get Merle out. Maybe he could use Rick’s interest and form a friendship but that was before he figured out Rick’s interest wasn’t just about business, or getting another CI on the books.

Rick stared at him, with those blue eyes that didn’t flinch at scars or filth or the rough way Daryl talked. At first it was just a joke to himself — handsome cop, money, a wife before, could have anyone. Daryl wasn’t stupid—he saw the way folks in town acted, the way women looked at the curly-haired cop, handsome young men too, but he never thought—never dreamed Rick would look at him that way, slow and hungry, like he was worth something, worth wanting, worth loving. Not just a way to get close to Merle’s case, not just a body in a bed, but all of him.

And it fucked him up, more than he’d admit. He’d gotten used to being invisible, to not being chosen. Rick made it hard to hide, hard to keep the old armor up. Even now, after everything—the sex, the fights, the proposal—Daryl couldn’t help thinking it was all a dream he was gonna wake from, and the real world would be waiting, hard and empty, Merle still in prison, Rick still the untouchable lawman.

But no—here he was. Ring on his finger, Rick’s bite marks on his shoulder, a promise between them that felt as real as blood. And that scared him worse than anything—because wanting something this much meant it could all be taken away.

He stared at his reflection in the window, the moonlight catching on his hair, his skin, the bruises the other man left behind. He looked like somebody else—somebody loved. And he didn’t know how to live with that, but he sure as hell wasn’t letting go.

***

Rick set his phone down on the kitchen table, watching the screen fade to black, the light from the chandelier pooling over half-finished lists and a crystal tumbler of bourbon he’d barely touched. His hand hovered over the invitation list—a short one, tight circle, no more than a dozen names if he had his way.

No gawking. No press. Just the ones who mattered, or at least the ones who could be trusted not to run their mouths.

The Rovia family was old Atlanta, respectable, a little distant, not the kind to make a fuss. His aunt had been surprised, but not upset, when he told her he wanted Paul to stand up for him. “It’d mean a lot,” he said, voice measured, polite. “After everything that happened with Lori, well. It’s different now.”

He hung up, setting his jaw, and reached for the wedding binder. It all looked so goddamn expensive—silk napkins, silver cutlery, everything in tastefully mournful colors—but none of it mattered, not really. He just wanted it done right, done quiet, nothing for the gossips to feed on, nothing to make Daryl bolt.

He ran his thumb over Daryl’s name, scrawled messy on the back of an RSVP card. He could picture the redneck’s face when he told him—how he’d scowl, make some gruff joke about high society, probably try to disappear into the garage for an hour before coming around. That was Daryl, wanting to act like he didn’t care about any of it, but he saw right through.

Saw how Daryl watched him when he thought he wasn’t looking, like he was still waiting for the ground to give out from under him.

Trust. That was the real bitch of it. Rick hadn’t talked about Lori, not after her death. Not about how the marriage went cold, how she’d kept secrets, how he’d kept some too—how the thing with Shane had burned through them like dry brush, ugly and bright and over before he’d even let himself admit what was happening.

He didn’t think about his former best friend, not if he could help it. Not about how quick trust turned into nothing at all.

But Daryl—Daryl was different. Not because he was good, not exactly. He was loyal, that was true, and it was the kind of loyalty Rick had learned to respect. It didn’t mean he could afford to get careless, though. He’d seen what money did to people, even the strong silent ones—turned them out, made them soft, made them greedy. He had built all this by being careful, by controlling what could be controlled.

He knew it was toxic, that need to have Daryl close, to know where he was, who he was with, what he was thinking. But it didn’t matter. He’d tried living without that man and he’d hated every minute of it.

Daryl was an itch under his skin, a hunger he couldn’t shake. No amount of money, no past mistakes, no threat of betrayal could change the fact that he needed him there in his bed, at his table, wearing his ring, carrying his name.

Maybe that was why he wanted the wedding small, private, locked down tight. He could control a room of twelve. He could keep the world out. Could make sure Daryl understood—this wasn’t just some kindness, or an offer, or a phase.

This was forever, and Rick would fight dirty to keep it.

He poured another finger of bourbon, letting it burn his throat, and thought about Paul—Jesus, as the kid let people call him now. It’d be good to have family there, someone who remembered him before all this, someone Daryl didn’t know yet. Maybe Paul would see the truth of it, or maybe he’d just be another set of eyes to watch, another reason to keep Daryl close.

Rick closed the binder, setting his glass aside, and stared at the ring box on the table. He’d chosen Daryl for a reason—not just because of the way his mouth felt, not just because he was the only one who ever stood up to him without flinching, but because Rick himself needed someone he could count on, someone he could shape, someone who’d choose him back every single night.

And if he had to be a little ruthless to keep it—well, Rick Grimes had never shied away from getting his hands dirty.