#the walking dead oneshot

[normanplusdaryl]

You, you, you.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Era: Season 10

Word count: 1.2k

Plot: After a long night, Daryl comes home and you decide he needs a little break.

Warnings: It's not smut but its implied? It's nothing explicit ig.

A/N: This is my second fic and I can not believe I'm actually doing this lmao, this is one of my favorite scenes on the show and I've always thought Daryl deserved someone who take care of him after a rough night. Thanks to my friend @weretheones for all the amazing help, I seriously couldnt have done it without u, muah!

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The dawn was beginning to come out when the gates of Alexandria came to Daryl’s sight, it had been a long night for him, where everything that could go wrong actually did.

The walk home was silent between the archer and his best friend, the only sound intercepting the thick tension were the grunts of the hooded whisperer trying to set himself free. This would end up really bad, he could feel it in his gut. 

Daryl’s mind was spinning around what happened, trying to understand Carol’s actions. He knew she wasn't the same after what Alpha did, but after all these months he could only hope her grief was at least healing — he was clearly wrong. There was something he couldn't identify in her eyes, more than anger or revenge, something that scared him.

Gabriel saw them coming inside and hurried once he spotted their hostage.

“You put us all at risk!” he barked at Carol.

“We need to find that horde before it shows up in our gates” Carol replied.

“So you decided for all of us? Knowing what it could mean?” Gabriel angrily answered back.

“Don’t matter anymore, we still gotta fin’ them” Daryl's voice came from behind the livid father — “We will figure it out'” he stated, ending the discussion as he started to walk home, to his home. To you. 

He opened the door slowly trying to be quiet, you were probably still asleep and he would be damned if he perturbed your very needed rest.  Daryl placed his crossbow down on the table you reserved for it.  “Come on baby!” you pouted, “This way you can always know where you left it and it’s easy for you to grab it on a run! It’s a win - win, don't you think?”  Your eyes were so wide with excitement he couldn't say anything else but to peck your lips while nodding “Alrigh’” he simply answered. 

The memory made him smile, then, it hit him. That was the reason why Carol’s intentions to stir things up scared the hell out of him: he was finally happy.  After so many years of walking on eggshells just surviving, being with you gave his life meaning, and the idea of you being in danger for her impulsive actions unsettled him, he couldn’t lose you.   Daryl sighed as he began to take his vest off, a fresh pair of clothes should be enough to remove the smell and fatigue from the night before.

“Hey, you’re back” your voice broke his thoughts. Daryl turned to you and his heart jumped.  You were together for more than 6 months now and he still couldn't believe he was lucky enough to behold you like this.

“Msorry, didn't mean to wake ya, go back to sleep angel” he softly said.

You frowned, something was wrong. “What happened? Is everything ok?” you replied with a sweet tone in your voice. 

He bit his bottom lip, staring at the window. “It’s Carol, she took one of em’ here, I, huh, helped her '' he wasn't certain why, but he felt ashamed as he spoke —“We will try to make him talk”.

Your mouth formed an “O” picking up on what troubled the archer. Alpha could take retaliation if she knew what happened. Shit.

“Come on baby” you softly said, raising your hand so he could take it. “We need to get you clean first”.

You led him to the bathroom. Unsure of what was happening he followed every step you made with the feeling of thousands butterflies in his stomach. The way his old shirt embraced every one of your curves barely covering your bottom made his heart race. He never thought getting a shower could be this exciting.  Sitting on the sink, Daryl watched you unbutton his shirt very slowly, pecking at the skin revealed with every button that was undone. Soon, his broad chest was displayed and you smirked with satisfaction. Bringing your hands to his neck, you brushed his lips just a little and whispered “Let me take care of you, please”. 

Daryl trembled, he didn't feel tired anymore. 

Once you were satisfied with the temperature of the water, you took your robe off getting into the shower. Daryl couldn't help but stare as he got rid of his boxers, the sight of your naked body wasn't something he would ever get used to. 

The hot water splashed against his ached body, making him gasp with delight. You chuckled at the action “I thought you didn't like showers, huh?” you teased him.  “I like them with ya” Daryl sheepishly answered.

Your eyes traced his whole body searching for injuries that might need more than just some cleaning, to your relief, there wasn't anything new. Taking a sponge, you delicately started to wash his chest, paying extra attention to every one of his scars, caressing them gently, wishing they could disappear along with his pain, just like the soap with the water. Daryl’s eyes were glued to the action, feeling a warm sensation spreading over his broad frame, god, he loved you. 

“I know you’re worried” he looked into your eyes, listening to your words closely, “But I need you to understand, whatever happens, I’m here for you, we can always fight together”  You placed his hand on your left breast, “Do you feel it? My heart beating?” Daryl nodded, lost in the sensation of your soft skin against his rough hand. 

You kissed him deeply, wanting to make him forget about the troubles of the world he always felt the need to carry on his shoulders. “I love you Daryl” you whispered between kisses. Daryl felt like crying, he wasn't used to this kind of burning, unconditional love. “I love ya too” Daryl managed to answer, unable to concentrate in anything else but the feeling of your lips on his, you were the only thing in his mind. Every fiber of his body was consumed in you. You, You, You. 

Soon, the steam from the hot water wasn't the reason the bathroom was boiling, it was the way you both got lost into each other until you became one.

Daryl came out of the house with his hair dripping, Gabriel approached him as soon as he spotted him. 

“Did you take a shower?!” he said with a hint of surprise in his voice “I thought we were going to check on that whisperer guy?”

Daryl remained stoic to the father's questions but he felt himself blushing, just when he was about to brush him off Aaron caught up with them.

“Hey! We were looking for you!” he exclaimed, pointing at Daryl — “You showered?!” Aaron’s eyes widened with disbelief and Daryl left a frustrated grunt.

 “Can't take a damn shower or what?” Daryl growled as he walked away from the two men with a hidden grin on his face. 

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon the walking dead #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon reader #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon you #the walking dead imagine #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead daryl dixon #daryl dixon x you #the walking dead oneshot #twd fanfiction #daryl fixon fanfiction #norman reedus #norman reedus x reader #daryl dixon smut #twd smut #norman reedus smut #daryl dixon fanfic smut

[haruhey]

Wish I Never Met You

check out my masterlist!

Word count: 4k

Fluff | Angst | Thank you @weretheones and @normanplusdaryl for betaing <3

You’re part of Daryl’s past, but you could also be his future.

or

A bad day leads the two of you to each other.

or

Whoever said it’s better to love and lose Never loved and lost you

Daryl barely made it through sophomore year.

In all honesty, he was impressed he even got to junior year. When Merle left at the tail end of spring, he - in all of his younger brother naïveté - thought he would come back before the semester ended, taking him from the dump they called a house and from that asshole they had the unfortunate pleasure of calling their old man.

But July came and went, then August, and by the time the new school year rolled around, Daryl stopped waiting for him - just shouldered his backpack and went to school because where the fuck else was he supposed to go?

He gave the whole school thing two weeks. It was enough time to mark off attendance - to lay low before he traded his backpack for his crossbow and started hunting for that weird butcher shop three blocks down to make some money - and he had intended on following it.

Intended, being the right word, because the plan went to shit the second Mr. American History started pairing people up for those dumb, mandatory, biweekly collaborative projects.

Intended, because it just had to be you he was paired with, didn't it? His stupid classroom crush he tried so hard to stop thinking about?

He remembers seeing you for the first time in some math class in sophomore year, and he’d, in his hormone-ruled, bored-out-of-his-mind teenage brain, spent the better half of the period just looking at you. He never worked up the courage to say anything about it to anyone, but you were the prettiest thing he’d seen in his 16 years on Earth, and he hated the way you made his hands all clammy.

Even years later, he looks back on the months he spent being your friend, and he still feels that crushingly familiar clench of his chest.

Maybe it wormed its way almost permanently into him those weeks he first sat next to you in American History. It was a compulory course and both you and he hated it. The teacher - Durand, but Daryl took to calling him Dickhead and Deranged just to see which would make you roll your eyes the hardest - was a notorious douchebag, round glasses over a nose that was entirely too big to stay on his face and three strands of gray hair that seemed to be holding onto his head by spite alone.

He never seemed to take Daryl seriously, even though Daryl knew more than double the amount of history you did. You could pick his brain for hours about the pirates and the Sumerians and the Cherokee and their legends, and he’d let you, despite the glare that marked over his face for anyone else.

In exchange, you let him pick your brain, too. Over the piece of apple pie the two of you would share on the rare occasion you’d both scraped together enough to figure it would be worth buying, he asked about your future. He tried picturing himself with you through it all despite knowing there was nothing for him outside of this shithole town, and he listened to you talk.

He could listen to you talk for hours.

You had big dreams, considering you came from the same place he did, but he had faith you could do it. He knew you could, and even looped his pinky with yours, your thumb pressed up against his while he promised to make it to graduation. He had to watch you toss your cap and flip the bird at 4 years of hell, didn’t he?

But then winter came, and with the Christmas break rounding the corner, Merle came back too, peeling into the dirt road in front of the Dixon dump and taking Daryl along with him. You remember coming back when the second semester started, the same room that had once been used for History now a Government class, and you had hoped to suffer through it together.

You made it through one school week until you’d started asking around.

Nobody got themselves involved with the Dixons - with their surly tempers and their permanent scowls, but you’d gotten into the habit of ignoring those words when you were with Daryl - so when no answers turned up, you weren’t really surprised.

You figured he must have finally gotten his out from his old man.

It was only at graduation that you’d found out what happened to him, overhearing one of the principals talking about how both of Will Dixon’s sons had run away from home and how he’d drunkenly bragged about finally beating sense into them, and, though you knew it was selfish, as the ceremony ticked on, you still hoped Daryl would come back in time to watch your cap toss.

He never did.

When he finally did come back to Georgia, it was a little over a full year later. The old lady that ran the diner the two of you hung around after school had told him that you got a scholarship offer in May - some bigshot school out west - and that you’d packed your bags and left in August.

You weren’t set to come back until the year ended in April, and he wasn’t planning on staying.

He wasn’t planning on making staying anywhere a habit, and, in the blink of an eye, twenty years passed.

A second blink and the world fell.

Everything changed so quickly that it truly did feel like an instant as minuscule as a blink - the dinosaurs had the meteor, and life before them had the ice age - and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was just a breath before a new age flooded in.

It seems like everything he thought about was about the future. Some of it he would have considered trivial before - when the next meal would come, when the next time he’s going to fill his canteen is and where the next source of freshwater is - but, in this blip of time, he hesitates to call it that.

Sometimes, when he went out on his bike or shouldered his crossbow and slipped his knives into his holsters, he thought about how Li’l Asskicker and Carl would grow up - how they would never really get to be kids in the same way Rick probably wanted them to be - and almost nothing he did felt trivial anymore.

It scared him, he guesses - how much he cared about those kids and how much everyone else did, too.

He wished someone cared about him like that when he was younger.

It was good, though, this pressure. Daryl was never really one to half-ass anything in the first place, but with the intake of Woodbury and the Council’s decision to start bringing people in, there was a new drive to care. It rippled through the prison, and he liked it, being a part of something bigger than himself.

He felt like someone new.

Someone that mattered - that did good - instead of being some asshole with a bigger asshole for a brother.

At least, he did until he saw you.

Two weeks after taking in the people of Woodbury - with one week spent out recruiting and another spent in the infirmary because they’d met some less than friendly people who definitely did not fit the recruitment criteria - he saw you from around the corner, an all too familiar face helping Carol with meal prep in the courtyard.

He didn’t eat lunch that day, and to say he avoided you was an understatement.

There was something about you that brought back feelings he would have rather left in the past. You reminded him of when he was a teenager, stuck in his shitty hometown with his piece of shit old man and no way out. But at the same time, you reminded him of those nights spent down at the creek, skipping stones and staring at the stars, that comforting lack of second-guessing because he knew he was, for the first time in his life, in the company of someone who actually wanted to spend time with him.

You reminded him of that diner with the warm apple pie, and he never could forget the first time his heart ever beat against his ribs like it was too big for his chest.

But, most of all, you reminded him of first love and his broken promise - of a future he could never have had.

Daryl hated it, being confronted with his past like that.

So yeah, maybe he did revert back to his old ways of hiding and just trying not to think about his problems, and yeah, maybe he did take one too many runs back to back so he wouldn’t have to keep fighting the urge to look for you despite simultaneously being scared shitless at the thought of talking to you, but it was successful in staying away from you, and that’s all he cared about.

Or, well, he thought it was.

Because, though it’s been nearly two decades since you’d thought about high school - with it long since becoming college, and college into adulthood - it’s crossed your mind more than you’d liked to admit lately. It’s an odd feeling, an ill-fitting nostalgia creeping through the holes of your blanket-covered cell bars, but it was oddly comforting. You never thought you’d ever think of that place as comforting, but maybe it wasn’t high school that you found yourself chasing in the dead of night.

It was him.

Daryl never really knew how popular he was - here, and back then, when those minutes before and after gym class divulged into shushed remarks about his looks and half-serious confessions of crushes muttered to the secrecy of the changeroom’s four walls - but you did. You were always on the other side of it, silent in your agreement.

Woodbury - or, well, ex-Woodbury - was no different.

He’s a far cry from that scrawny little kid you split your lunch with all those years ago, but there's still the linger of boyish handsomeness to him that made your cheeks heat when you thought about him too long. There was no mistaking him for anyone else, but that subdued, ultraviolet warmth you’d grown familiar with was gone from his eyes.

He’s not seventeen anymore, flipping his uncut hair from his face as he taught you how to skip stones and catch fireflies, but you wanted to talk to him all the same. There’s not much left from the old world - let alone much that you could have considered good, or wanted to remember - but he’s one of the few things you’d cared enough about to keep safe from the pulling tide that faded your memories.

He made that shitty town more bearable, even if it was for those few months. Gritting your teeth and enduring had become tiring until he’d grimaced at that first History Inquiry project and made you laugh with the annoyed upturn of his lip. 

You’d planned on thanking him at graduation, but he’d left months before then. 

You’d planned on a lot of things to be frank, but there’s no reason to linger in the past when now is a shell of what then was.

There’s even less of a reason when now feels heavier than then ever was.

Today would have marked ten days without incident, a first foray into the monumental double digits until the sun had set behind the return of the run crew’s RV and Beth was forced to flip the number back to zero.

It’s been four hours since they came back - a quarter of the group gone from the unfriendlies they’d met, another dealing with the aftermaths of the encounter and one more made up from those the crew’s recruited - and it’s the first time in those four hours that you’ve left the dingy wing of the infirmary.

You didn’t hate it in there. Far from it, actually, with Hershel and the others being half-decent company and seeing the work you did benefiting people, but the infirmary, especially on days when the crews rounded back, meant the stinging smell of blood and death lingered no matter how much you scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. It stuck to every crevice on your body, and it permeated. Guilted you for not trying hard enough and not knowing enough.

On days like this, everywhere you went seemed too small and too unforgiving, and you’re not sure if you can stand tossing and turning in your bunk. The night sky is a friendlier sight than your ceiling, and the view from the abandoned watchtower is a hell of a lot better than the tiny, barred-up window at the corner of your cell.

If you’re lucky enough, maybe sleep will steal you for a couple of hours before the sun comes up. At least enough to make it through the next day.

You have faith it will - you can already feel the first wave of exhaustion pull at your bones.

Taking a breath, you press your hands into your pockets after pushing the door to the Prison open and slipping out. Autumn is beginning to seep through the cracks of summer and the nights are starting to get colder, but your jacket should be enough until you climb up and find sanctuary in the sleeping bag you’d left there three days ago.

It doesn’t take long to reach the door - if you jig the knob to the right before twisting and skip the third step from the top, the trek upwards is close to silent - but when you open it, the creak yields, at first, an expletive before the annoyed voice tears through the quiet.

“I already told ya I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout-”

The volume of him makes you take a step back, the sound of a man making your body lock up for just a second before you recognize the mess of hair atop his head and the wings stitched on the back of his vest, and you make quick work getting to him, crossing the platform in a single stride.

“Daryl?”

And he’s quick to realize the person speaking to him isn’t Carol like he’d thought. Though he really really really hopes it’s not you, the familiarity of your voice leaves little room for speculation, even before he turns his head and - for the first time in a long time - really, really looks at you.

“Oh.”

His heart beats in his ears and locks his throat before he can muster up anything else to say, and for a second, you wonder if you should introduce yourself to him. 

“Sorry, I, uh, wasn’t expectin’ no one to be here.”

But the knowing upturn of his eyebrows - his apology, and the way he scoots himself over to make room for you the same way he did in those library reading nooks - tells you you don’t need to, and your shoes slide against the concrete as you drop down to a sit.

He remembers you, too, the sweat of his hands too obvious with the fact, even though he wishes he didn’t.

He wishes there wasn’t a familiarity in the way you sidle your body against his, swinging your legs underneath the railing and over the balcony, and he wishes he couldn’t feel the heat coming off of you.

He wishes it didn’t wrap him up like the warm rays of sun, and he fights down a smile at the fact that you always were so bright. He wishes he didn’t remember you like that - glossed over in a blinding, yellow hue.

Daryl wishes he never remembered you like sunshine - he wishes he didn’t still.

Picking up the glass next to him - just to occupy himself and bide the time until his nervousness hopefully washes away into general apathy - he takes a sip before setting it down and taking a pull of the cigarette in his other hand.

The smoke is slow to fill his lungs, but he welcomes it anyways, holding it there as the nicotine-drawn buzz settles in his brain, and then he breathes it out, angling his head up and away from you.

You never liked it, the Malboros he’d swiped from his old man that he’d keep tucked in the smallest pocket of his worn-down backpack, but you’d told him one night, not unlike the one you’re both trying to find solace in right now, that you were scared of what his father might do if he found out.

Then you slipped in the obviousness of his health, just to break the tension of vulnerability, but it hit Daryl like a truck, the fact that he’d never had someone think about him like that before - like they actually cared.

“Heard your brain cells can rot if you do that.”

He raises an eyebrow at you only to be met with a small smile playing at your lips and the slightest bit of a sparkle in your eye, and the taste still lingering on his tongue reminds him of what he’s been doing. The glass is half full with the room-temperature whiskey he’d tried to make himself feel better with after stitching up his own wounds, and there’s ash from his smoking gathered beside one of the railing's poles, and despite the knowing you’re probably right, he sighs, waving your concern away.

“Ain’t worried. Don’t got a lotta them anyways.”

The cigarette between his fingers is lit still, and he takes another drag before the grayed end of it crumbles to the floor, fighting the upward tug of his cheeks at the sound of your amused huff and your quick response.

“That’s why you gotta take care of the ones you still have, Daryl.”

Scoffing, he tilts the edge of the glass towards you, holding it out for you until you take it from him, and he tries not to think about how the tips of his fingers burn when they brush up against yours. It’s not as sweet, the innocence of a teenage crush long since faded into the dull pang of expired love and loss, but it rushes through him all the same.

He would have offered you a cigarette, too, but you’ve never been one to pick up habits that bad.

A comfortable silence falls over the two of you then, the sky offering a serenity the two of you are less than strangers to, and you wince from the liquor when you finally take a sip. It’s nothing like the moonshine he’d smuggled from his dad’s stash - it went down a hell of a lot smoother than you remember that shit going - but your tolerance has taken a nosedive since weekends unwinding and inter-departmental parties had ended.

Besides, the only places you could get alcohol back in Woodbury were way above your paygrade.

Placing the cup back onto the concrete, you steal a glance at Daryl, spending just a second studying the curve of his nose and the jut of his cheekbone. He’s more handsome than he’s ever been, and you can feel the heat rush up your neck before you blink away the thought.

Get a hold of yourself.

But you can’t, not when he’s so close, and you’re not sure if it’s wholly unselfish, what makes you drop your eyes down from his face, but you do, and you realize why he was so on edge when he heard the door open.

He’s fidgeting. Ever since he put out his cigarette, he’s restless and can’t quite figure out what to do with his hands in the same way he was when you’d asked him why he never wanted to go home back in the school library, and it sends you back, too, a familiar pit growing in your stomach. It’s like he’s that kid again, scared of telling you - or, well, people - things that hurt because his stupid brother and dad drilled into him that he’s less of a man for even feeling hurt in the first place, and it’s equal parts infuriating and concerning.

You can tell that the gears are turning in your head as you try to piece him together; a run crew came back just today, and you haven't seen him in a little while. It doesn’t take a genius to make the connection - especially with everyone’s propensity to talk about how Daryl brought them in - and though you might regret it, you decide to pry.

Not pry, just ask.

Conversation used to flow so easily between the two of you. Were you naïve to hope it would again?

“Bad day?”

It’s small, your voice, teetering in the air with its uncertainty, but Daryl doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he glances down at the space between you, wrapping his fingers around the highball before meeting your gaze, and he bites the inside of his cheek, weighing the option of telling you or not.

“Jus’ tired is all.”

And though he hesitates those first few words, your eyes are so kind - so genuinely caring - that he can’t stop himself from saying more.

That was what he was scared of.

Why hasn’t he let you go? 

“Sick’a fuckin’ losin’ people.”

The frustration when he speaks is palpable, and you’re not sure if it’s bravery or stupidity that makes you move - maybe it’s both, culminating in your own desire that someone would finally see through your crippling bravado and offer you a hug or something - but your hand snakes out to grab his before you even think, shaking it slightly in the strength of your squeeze.

Then he freezes, and for a second, you think you must have overstepped - that he’s going to push you away and yell at you and leave - but he doesn’t. He just takes a breath, the heft of it rising his shoulders then dropping it as he squeezes your hand back harder, a silent thank you in the press of his fingers against yours.

But still, he lets go, afraid the warmth in his chest might make him do something he regrets, and you chew at the dried skin of your lip, thinking about the right thing to say.

Fuck, you could never navigate things like this - it got better as you got older, sure, but words always seemed to fall short when it came to you and him - and when you finally settle on something, half of you wonders if it was just because you thought it better than nothing.

“I feel you.”

Because what else are you supposed to say? That it’s going to be alright and that he shouldn’t blame himself because it's so blatant he is? It’s thin ice you’re walking on, the fear of sounding patronizing drowning out the spark of hope you want to light him with, because you remember the man he was. He’s never had anyone fighting in his corner, and you’re not callow enough to think he thinks of you as something - someone - different.

But he does. He does think of you as someone different, and he wants to say more, but he doesn't know where he stands with you, or with himself. If he says what he’s thinking - that he feels like it is his fault and that he’s not sure if he could ever stop feeling like that. That he’s scared shitless and like it’s some big joke that people actually look up to him for things - wouldn’t that make it feel too real?

So he doesn’t. He just tips the lip of the glass against his and takes another sip to make sure his mouth is occupied, staring down at the bottom ridge of it until you speak again, and he’s helpless to do anything but look at you.

“At least it’s beautiful out tonight.”

He’s sent back to twenty years ago then - the scrawny redneck you’d somehow deemed good enough to be your friend forcing his old habits back to the him of the present - and he can’t help the squeaked little noise of a response. Words have always been hard for him, too. They’re hard for him to think of and even harder for him to form, and it’s made worse by the fact it’s almost like he’s back at 16, convinced that you’re too pretty to talk to.

“Yeah.”

And though you hear his hum of agreement, he never looks away from you, admiring the curve of your familiar smile and the rise of your cheekbones.

The lurch of his heart comes back then - the same beat against his ribs that he hated all those decades ago - and it’s stark then, the realization you’ve never really left him.

“Ain’t never seen nothin’ like it.”

Pressing his lip to the edge of the glass once more, he welcomes the burn of whiskey when you smile at the moonlit horizon, and he watches as you lean your chin against your arms.

You’re beautiful - more beautiful than all the colours in the star-speckled sky - and he could stare for hours.

#haruwrites #daryldixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon angst #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead daryl dixon #daryl dixon x you #the walking dead oneshot #twd

[dreamingdixon]

Eyes on me

Anon request: “can you do something like what happened to Maggie with the governor when her and Glenn were kidnapped? maybe the reader was in that situation, and Daryl finds out and is like comforting them?”

This fic contains sexual assault, and everything that comes afterwards. This could be potentially triggering, so please keep that in mind before continuing. My intention is not to trigger, upset or make anybody uncomfortable. I will post an edited version, that will have any graphic content (including the SA itself, and any mentions thereafter) removed, so this story can be enjoyed by those who do not want to read the full/graphic version, but still enjoy the hurt/comfort element of a soft Daryl <3 If anyone is in a situation where they have experienced anything along the lines of harassment/SA, my ask box is always open to be a listening ear and a friend. I wrote this story from a place of my own understanding and experience, and I found it comforting to write a different 'afterwards'.

17,349 words.

“I’m sorry about Merle.”

You’d kept your gaze trained on the bloodied denim on your thighs when the heavy door creaked open, managed to keep your eyes averted even when you heard footsteps against the harsh concrete. You’d told yourself you weren’t even going to so much as look at the man who’d dared to hold a knife to your throat and drag you from your friends. 

But this was a different voice.

Snapping your head up, you quickly blink away the fog in your vision to reveal a man, his hands held up high, palms towards you. There’s a smile on his face that you immediately hate and you instinctively pull against the tape on your wrists as he edges himself closer to you.

“Sometimes he just doesn’t know when to stop. I’ll be having a word with him.”

There’s a rawness to your skin when you continue to move your hands, your mind begging for your small movements to be capable of breaking the layers of thick tape, desperate - pleading as he reaches the other end of the table. He doesn’t seem overly satisfied when he asks ‘May I?’, gesturing towards the chair and receives no answer, his only response a continued glare, but he sits regardless and places a towel on the metal in front of him. 

“I hope he didn’t hurt you too much, that’s not the way we do things around here. Especially not to young women, survivors like yourself.”

The sickly sweet voice phrases itself like a question that makes your skin crawl as he sits so casually, one leg over the other, hands across his lap. He carries himself well, you think to yourself. Powerful, or he thinks he must be - power that he’s brutally taken, not earned - as he watches your face for any sort of reaction to his presence or words. He continues when he sees none. We don’t want to hurt anybody, we’re a community of good people. People, food, walls. Woodbury. 

He gestures around the damp room, apologising for the ‘inhospitable accommodation’ one of his men brought you to. It seems like a storage room, bits of old furniture leaning against the bare walls and corrugated metal sheets, and there’s a faint bitterness to the air - cold from damp gathering on the roof and an unwelcome breeze from the outside world making its way inside, and you can’t ignore the goosebumps prickling against your exposed arms. 

“I’m not staying.”

Your nose and cheek throb from your movements to speak, but your words come out firm and final exactly how you intended, no trace of the fear that’s slowly building up inside you. You have your own people, food, and walls. You have gates you’re carefully reinforcing against men like this, people who have done more for you since you joined them than others had your entire life prior to the fall, and there isn’t much food but it’s better than anything this man could ever offer you. You ignore the blood that trails down past your lip and the metallic taste on your tongue. His confident smiles only widens with your words, shrugging carelessly as if you hadn’t turned him down - like he was happy with your answer.

“You don’t have to. We can just take you back to your people, I’d escort you personally, make sure you get there safely, maybe strike a deal with your group for extra protection, share supplies, ammo.. What do you think, would your group be interested?”

You wonder how many people have fallen for his act. In the span of what you’re assuming to be a few hours, you’ve been forcefully taken, knocked out, your nose most likely broken in your struggle and you’ve been tied up, and this man has the audacity to offer a deal? You manage to swallow down the laugh that you’re desperate to vocalize, but a small smirk escapes onto your lips instead. 

“I think my group will kill you on the spot when they find out about you. No fucking deal, asshole.”

Your brows furrow because he laughs at your words, deep lines forming between your eyebrows because he doesn’t seem phased. He’s acting like he didn’t expect this conversation to go any other way, like he’s about to shake your hand and send you on your way and you’re confused. Waking up in the situation you did, you’d expected a few threats and a gun to your head at the very least, but it doesn’t come, so you wait. Leaning forward, he watches you, studies you and he can tell you’re not acting - you’re tough. You’re sitting up straight, but he knows you’re uncomfortable by how you flex your shoulders occasionally against the pull of the awkward angle of your restraints. Like a racing horse with blinders, you haven’t taken your gaze away from his - not even once - like you’re not in the precarious situation you’re currently in. Your chest isn’t heaving with nerves like others who sat in the same chair just last week, and he admires you for it.

Bringing himself to his feet, he grabs the towel as he edges himself closer to you and your mind runs, pure anxiety tainting all of your thoughts and you’re ashamed of the wave of cold that suddenly courses through your veins and you shiver.

Stepping behind the chair, the hairs on your arms stand upright because you can’t see him anymore. White noise fills your head because he isn’t even walking, there’s no footsteps to be heard until you’re being suddenly dragged, a deafening scrape of metal as your chair is slowly turned 90 degrees and he gradually brings himself into your view again. 

There’s fear now, he realizes, from removing himself from your line of vision. It gave you courage to have your eyes on the man in charge and taking that away for even just a moment gave that courage a shake - and he likes that, given him just a tiny bit more control. Your eyes are wider now, not narrowed like just moments ago. He could get off on that fact alone, so he crouches down in front of you to drink in the sight.

He’s looking at you like a child looks at the highest ticket prize at an arcade, full of want, a craving to be satisfied and unthinkingly your nose scrunches in disdain but oh my god that’s a mistake because you can feel your pulse in your nose and a dull twinge that shoots through you at the motion that has you sucking air through your teeth. 

He whispers a ‘shhh’ that absolutely repulses you, and his eyes don’t leave yours as he slowly brings the towel in his grip up to your face and he lightly dabs at the skin above your lip, the white terry cloth coming back a deep crimson. It takes a second to realize he’s trying to clean you, and he’s doing it like it’s second nature but his other hand is resting on your thigh when he goes to repeat the motion for a second time, but this time you’re ready because he’s touching you and there’s rage bubbling inside of you because who the fuck is he to be responsible for your broken nose, then have the audacity to mop up the evidence?

Before the material reaches your lip, you muster the energy and ignore the strain on your muscles and you spit on him. It’s discoloured from the blood that made its way between your lips, and it’s revolting and it’s the least he deserves. How dare he touch you?

The man scoffs before taking the towel in his hand and erases any trace of you from his cheek, as he raises his eyebrow and suddenly the air seems heavier and the room just got darker because so did his eyes, and within a second he’s behind you again, but he’s not silent or at a distance - the material of his trousers are pressed against your restrained hands behind the cold bars of the chair and he’s got an arm wrapped around your neck. The pretend silkiness gone from his voice, replaced with a gravelly ‘I was right, you’re feisty’ and he’s applying just enough pressure with his forearm for you to not move, and you don’t.

You’re completely still as you look right ahead, you’ve stopped your fight against the tape because he’s everywhere behind you and if you’re completely still maybe you can ignore him, but you can smell his cologne and it’s so light and delicate but it’s overwhelming. Waiting for the inevitable blow that doesn’t come, he adjusts his grip as he lifts his forearm slightly, tilting your head upwards against the pressure and when your eyes angle towards the ceiling, he’s staring down at you, shaking his head, tutting his disapproval. 

The towel's still in his grip, but he’s rougher this time as he brings it to your nose - tugging the scratchy material firmly against broken skin, replacing the gentle patting of the earlier attempt and it drags out a throaty whimper from your throat and he feels the vibrations against his arm as he repeats his actions two, three, four times. Eyes screwed shut, you feel his grip harden against your throat when you try to pull your head away but the pressure against your windpipe increases and you’re not going to black out so you do your best to hold still instead, groaning at the feel of rogue droplets of blood escaping down your throat from the angle, and the way your face absolutely throbs by the time he lets go.

Stepping back in front of you, he assesses his handiwork and tells you ‘see, that’s so much better’ before striding out of the room, a thunderous clang of the door ringing in your ears after he leaves. 

Hours are spent rotating between a few tasks - wondering how you’re going to murder this man, planning your escape, counting the individual bits of furniture in the room and thinking about the group. It has cost so much to clear the prison, people have paid with their lives for the remainder to have somewhere safe to call home, you will not be the reason it falls by giving anybody the location. This entire situation solidifies what you already knew - you’d die for the rag-tag assortment of individuals and you’d call them family any day of the week. You think about how lucky you were to be taken in by them after crossing paths on a random dirt track months ago, and how they spread their scarce rations even thinner to take you in. 

Family.

Struggling to find the strength to hold yourself up, you sit with your head limply resting against your chest, the occasional thin streak of crimson collecting on the neckline of your vest. Stiffness dominates every part of your body by the time the door swings open again, and you roll your eyes at the familiar man who isn’t smiling this time.

He approaches slowly, and by the time he’s next to you he’s offering you a plastic water bottle that you reluctantly ignore by sealing your lips and turning away. The bottle gets placed on the table, and he tells you to ‘suit yourself’ before grabbing your chin, tugging you to face him and he’s relieved to see the flow of blood has slowed despite the majority of your upper lip, chin and down to your chest decorated in cracked, dried crimson. He tells you you’re looking in bad shape, and he’d love to take you back to your people so I’ll ask again - where’s your camp?

The back and forth gets him nowhere, and the frustration becomes visible. His velvety voice becomes forceful and loud in his demands, fists hitting the table when he’s answered with another ‘fuck you’ and his jaw clenches hard. 

“Okay. We’ll try something different.”

He slips the mask back into place, allowing the mellow tone returns to his words, but there’s still an edge to his voice. He’s worked up, but he sounds like he’s got a plan and you don’t like how he perches himself in front of you again, but you like it even less when his fingers toy with the bottom of your shirt.

“You wanna tell me before or after I cut this shirt off of you?”

Your blood runs cold at the question. You stare at him while your brain goes into overdrive, how can I get myself out of this? But without any hesitation, he brings the knife to the base of your shirt, holds the material taut with his other hand and drags the knife all the way up, catching the skin of your abdomen and your chest a few times on the journey. It cuts so easily, like scissors through wrapping paper and the bloodied material hangs limply by the straps until he easily nicks through the remaining fabric, and you feel completely helpless when he holds the destroyed shirt in his hands before tossing it in the direction of the door. 

You’d known violence since the fall, but this was a different shade of cruelty - one that had your chest heaving and embarrassment showing itself with redness on your skin, and you had no control over the trembling that took over you within seconds and it only worsens when he returns to his favourite spot behind you, and you wait for the first cut against your skin but instead, he carefully slices some of the tape away, splitting the section binding you to the metal frame of the seat while maintaining the integrity of the layers around your wrists as he pulls you to your feet, shoulders lifting away from the frame painfully. 

He’s staring at you like you're rare mixture of gold and silver and diamonds, like you’re there exclusively for him and he's not planning on sharing his riches with anybody, without a care in the world for the redness around your eyes or the tears that are threatening to spill over, or the fresh blood pooling around tender wrists where you’re furiously fighting with the tape that somehow feels even stronger now. 

He ignores your whimpers, telling you ‘it doesn’t have to be like this, you’re in full control here, got it? How this plays out is up to you, don’t cry, shhh.’ as you try your best to stand tall, you’re not going down without a fight.

“This is how it’s going to happen, alright? I’m going to ask you questions - about where y’all are hiding out, about your group, and for every question you don’t answer, I’m going to take something else off of you until either I know everything I need to know, or there’s a nice pile of clothes over there. Ball’s in your court, sweetheart, cause I’ll do much worse than this to them when I find ‘em, and trust me, I will find ‘em.”

Fear and hatred consume your features, and he whispers a ‘don’t move’ when he steps closer to you and you step backwards, his hand delicately moving overgrown hair away from your eyes and tucking it behind your ear. Despite the light movement of his fingers, the touch feels like sandpaper and you silently promise to cut off each and every one of his fingers with the dullest knife you can find. Standing in front of you, he starts with his questions. “How many of you are there?” which seems harmless enough, but you already know you can’t win in this game so you remain silent and sob when he cuts through the wire of your bra, letting it fall to the floor. 

You wonder how this man came to be as he eyes you up and down. You try to pretend you aren’t completely exposed by wondering if this place - Woodbury, he said - existed from the beginning, or if he had a role in setting it up. Nowhere’s safe anymore, and you swear the only decent people who are still alive are your people who you pray are currently out looking for you. Would Rick try to interrogate him first, like he did Randall at the farm? Would Daryl - the man with the thickest shell, who’d warmed up to you slowly - hesitate to kill him for you? Would Carol hold your hand when you tell her what happened? Would Beth think of you when she sang over the campfire?

Frustration hits you like a wave when the man's eyes linger over your chest, and you swear you’ve never hated anyone more in your entire life so you do the only thing you think to do in that moment, you bring your head backwards for momentum and you aim for his nose to return the favour, longing for the sound of a crunch that doesn’t fucking happen. He’s too quick, too practiced. Fast reflexes and learned instinct told him what you were about to do, so he swerves and you loose your footing, a stagger towards that leaves you barely on your feet.  

Disappointment hits you like a tonne of bricks, the chance presented itself to you on a silver platter and you were too slow. You’ve barely found your balance before there’s a bruising grip around your biceps, warm fingers digging painfully into haggard muscles and chilled skin, and the hot breath against your neck telling you to ‘turn around, slowly.’ brings bile to your throat that you swallow down as you follow the instruction. He re-adjusts his grasp when your eyes meet, bringing his fingers to your chin instead, tracing the discolouration along your jaw. 

“Nice try. What’s it gonna take until you spill, huh?”

He notices the tremor in your muscles, the involuntary vibrations beneath the palms of his fingers that have you shaking. He’s telling you again about how he doesn’t want to hurt you, and you’re so desperate to call him out on his lies but he’s got the upper hand and you know it, so the words die before they’ve even began to form.

He takes his time. It’s almost worse when he isn’t actually doing anything to you, it’s like the anticipation builds and builds until you’re breathing is short and fast because he’s playing mind games - and winning. You’d almost prefer if he’d just get it over with, whatever it is. 

There’s so much fire behind your eyes despite your sore state, so he decides to up the stakes.

“Okay, time for round two. For every question you don’t answer, not only do you lose something you’re wearing, keep in mind you’ve not got a whole lot left, but somebody from your group dies. Simple as that. You’re at two so far, and I’ll give you the honour of deciding who.”

His hand trails from your jaw, fingers tracing the curve of your neck to your collarbone, across the flaky, dried blood on your chest before drawing an agonizingly slow line up and down your sternum but his eyes never leave yours - threatening.

“Might even give you a pretty dress for the show, since it looks like you won’t have anything left on you by then.”

There’s tears forming that you aggressively try to blink away, burning against your dry eyes. He’s asking you then, where’s your camp? Must be near by, right? How long d’you reckon it’ll take my soldiers to find, hmm? But his fingers are just below your navel, now, and you’re shuddering because you want to be anywhere but here. 

He waits. Patient in his resolve. Whatever your people have, he wants it. He counts your accelerated breaths in his mind, still smiling and it widens sickeningly when your features warp into terror and panic as his index finger reaches the skin just below your breast, vaguely following the curve of the flesh but his eyes are still trained on yours and he just watches the way your nostrils flare and eyes widen because he did that. He’s proud to get a reaction out of you, but you still haven’t answered his question, so he brings his fingers just a tiny bit higher, that tiny bit closer to where he shouldn’t be anywhere near and he’s humming, a firm reminder to answer. A question in itself.

But the question remains unanswered, and his patience has run out.

“Get on your knees.”

There’s no time to react before his hand moves from your torso to your shoulder, pushing down while his other drags down firmly against your now bruised bicep. You buckle against the momentum, your arms still restrained leaving you off-balance and you’ve never felt like an easier target in your life. Your knees collide painfully with the concrete, and you wince against the jolts that burst up your thigh from the harsh collision. 

Your thoughts run rampant. Is this your execution, or something else? Is he going to bring a knife out again and murder you, a sharp puncture to your skull to prevent the turn, or will he drag it out by holding it to your throat first? Would the group ever find you, hidden away in a storage room of a community they don’t even know existed?

Would Daryl be the one to find you, to bring you back to the prison and bury you, even if you’d turned? You imagine him sweating in the prison’s yard, a shovel gripped between bleeding, sore fingers while you lay there, covered by a sheet and the tears flow down your face like a running tap at the thought. When he’d promised to look after you, you’d vowed to do the same and you meant it, and he’d wrapped his arm over your shoulder at the way you’d said it - so full of sincerity and commitment. If you didn’t make it out of this room you wouldn’t be able to carry out your promise and that made your chest ache. 

Your face is angled upwards forcefully, thumbs brushing away the salty tears streaming down your cheeks. He’s telling you it’s okay, shushing you quietly as he continues to drag the pads of his thumbs across your cheeks, the warmth from your tears and his movements smearing blood across your cheeks haphazardly. He smiles softly, telling you once more that it’s okay, that he’ll be gentle before his hands move to the back of your head - one gripping the nape of your neck, the other against your crown and he tugs you towards him.

You collide with the rough material of his trousers nose-first in a way that makes you howl with pain, it shoots into the back of your eyes and you’d swear you’d felt something shift that shouldn’t. He presses you against the crotch of his pants, forehead digging into the cold metal of his belt buckle and pulling against him gets you nowhere, only a firmer grip against the nape of your neck that you’d swear just yanked out strands of hair. He holds you still, ignoring your wailing and he moves his hips against you, smears of blood staining the fabric with evidence of his violence. The warmth of his body heat and the fact you can smell the metallic edge of your own blood and you’re going to vomit any second. The room is too cold and the denim too rough and you can feel the gathered-together tape digging into the oozing blood gathering around your wrists. You try to focus on anything else you can - the design etched into the material of his pants, the feeling of how you wiggle your toes, the pattern of your breathing, anything to give you an escape.

He moves you then, making you look to the side until your cheek is pressed into the fabric instead, and he simply holds you there, and that’s when you decide this will be easier if you close your eyes - if you can’t see what he’s doing, maybe it won’t exist. But it does, and suddenly he’s grabbing fistfuls of your hair, a rough grip that burns with so much intensity that it prickles down your neck and spine and he tugs you away from him. He speaks then - something about your eyes, but you’re completely unfocused until he repeats himself, emphasising his words with a harsh tug and when your eyes shoot open - he looks so proud of himself. 

The sound of his zipper is the next thing you hear, a dull noise that seems to echo way too loud against the metallic walls, vibrating against your ears until you start counting backwards in your mind in a desperate attempt of distraction that doesn’t work.

/

When the door squeaks open suddenly, and you feel like you’re saved when the man talks about a breach, men with weapons and he needs to come immediately, panic written all over his features as he stumbles over his words with white knuckles over the barrel of his gun, but always keeping his eyes averted from your direction. The man holds you where you are while he listens, completely shameless when he grinds against you one last time before telling you I’ll be back, before tugging you backwards and pulling up the zipper of his pants.

You’re left with your knees against concrete, tears that won't go away and the heaviness in your chest feels like you can’t breathe because you can still feel the lingering grip against the base of your skull and the roughness of his trousers pressing against you, and when you can’t shake the sound of his breathing out of your mind you lean over and empty your stomach, retching from your hunched over position until there’s nothing left but stomach acid and it burns.

Time doesn’t exist anymore, there isn’t a single window in the entire room and you’ve truly lost your sense of timekeeping - has it been a few hours or an entire day, maybe more? The way the air is colder now makes you think it’s the milder evening air seeping in through the walls, fresh and bitter in contrast to the usual daytime Georgian dry heat that you suddenly crave against your skin. You curl in on yourself, back against the furthest wall from the door, the metal behind you only adding to the uncomfortable position but you swear if you don’t lean against something you’re going to keel over and die so you’ll take it, ignoring the discomfort of your wrists digging into your lower back.

If it’s night time, you wonder if Judith is asleep and if Glenn and Maggie got back safe, are they together now? Are you missed? Is Daryl using his tracking skills to bring you back home, like he promised you he would after you lost Sophia, when he vowed he’d never lose you?

You feel like you’re waiting for the inevitable, a reminder of sitting in the hospital waiting room for hours as a teenager after falling on your arm - you knew it was only broken, the result of an unsupervised houseparty, but what if they found something else on the x-ray and told you in 6 months you’d be dead? Your mother was adamant that wouldn’t happen, but what if? Turns out it was a hairline fracture, and you wouldn’t be dead in 6 months because of it, but your mother held your hand regardless, promising to take you out for dinner in exactly 6 months to celebrate - and so she did. But you’ve never forgotten the experience of sitting in the waiting area and how sterile everything was and how everything was so blue and bright made you vow to never need a hospital visit again. This felt the same, like waiting for the terrifying result of that xray that you were so sure was going to give you an expiration date - but it’s worse, there’s no exit or your mothers soft skin against your own, no nurses to make you laugh when they see your anxious eyes, there’s only the heavy metal door that wouldn’t budge when you tried to kick it, the scraps of fabric that you can’t wear anymore, the empty space and the occasional trickle of warmth down your chin. 

You bring your knees up to your chest and cry, because it’s all you can do and you shake from the intensity of it all. You’ve never felt so useless, you’ve been so productive and exhausted and helped keep everybody safe for so long and now you’re here, playing a waiting game with a villain. Like a mouse caught in a trap with your own vomit a few feet away. 

There’s a commotion outside that you try to ignore, scrunching your eyes closed and you wish you could cover your ears and pretend it doesn’t exist - so that’s what you try to do. Resting your forehead against your knees you just pretend. You’re not trapped and you’re not crying and you’ve definitely not just had him touch you like that, but then you hear gunshots and there’s only so much pretending you can do.

/////////////

It wasn’t supposed to turn into a bloodbath, but it was their fault.

A new woman - Michonne, was the only reason they had any lead about where you might be, and of course it was risky to go along with it, but this was you they were talking about, and it was a risk that was absolutely worth taking. Daryl would have gone alone if he needed to, because seeing Glenn and Maggie run through those doors without you had his heart in his throat, and when Maggie started speaking ‘I didn’t see who took ‘er, she was right behind us when we went inside, then there was a.. A yell, and by the time we came out there was a car drivin’ away.’ he already had his crossbow over his shoulder and a goal of getting you back.

On Rick’s command, Daryl slowly pulls the bolt securing the door, easing it carefully enough to avoid drawing the attention of whoever - or whatever - was potentially inside. The rusted metal rang when it rested on the other side and he placed his hand on the frame, ready to push with the signal. A last look around confirms they’re alone except the unfortunate outline of an man who’d raised his gun towards the wrong people, and when Rick gives a nod of his head, Daryl’s swift in his movements, opening the heavy door with one instantaneous push and he’s inside with a single stride, gusts of lingering smoke following the movement. 

There’s a vague smell of damp to the room, mingled with something else - something bitter that hangs densely in the air until there’s a faint taste in the back of his throat. Rick follows the archer’s lead, a crossbow and gun darting around each corner of the room, and within a second they’ve both detected the few items of clothing - one by the door and as Daryl inches closer around the table, there’s a bra that comes into his view. Behind him, Rick makes his way towards the shirt, he’s about to get Daryl’s attention because he recognises it, it’s yours, you’re here somewhere but Daryl’s already next to you.

When your eyes meet Daryl’s, your chest fucking heaves and you cry from relief because he’s right here and he promised he always would be, that he’d find you and he did. His crossbow points at your chest for only half a second before it’s quickly dropped to hang loosely from the strap over his shoulder and he’s running towards you, calling over to Rick that he’s found you.

He’s kneeling next to you, face only inches from yours and you want to touch him but your shoulders ache in resistance and your wrists sting but you need to touch him to see if he’s real but you can’t and you’re hyperventilating, pulling harder, cutting deeper into already broken skin. Panic sets in and it’s so ridiculous because why are you crumbling now? Daryl’s softly calling your name and trying to meet your gaze but your ears are flooded by the resounding noise of your own pulse and your eyes are darting between the concrete floor, the open door and Rick who’s keeping his distance - he doesn’t want to add to your fear by towering over you so he turns towards the door, protective, guarding. 

“Hey, hey, you’re alright. It’s alright, I got ya.”

The voice is grounding, it brings you back just enough to look at him and see him properly. 

“There ya go, keep those eyes on me, okay?”

So that’s what you do, you keep your eyes on him and it helps. It doesn’t stop your heart racing or the cold sweat that’s forming against your temples, but you direct all of your focus to him because he told you to and it’s all you can do because it’s Daryl.

He’s trying to keep his features soft in feigned confidence and calm, praying some of it transfers to you because you’re shaking so much he can see it and your eyes are blown so wide that he wonders what happened to you? He’s never seen you like this before, he’s not sure how present you actually are, or the extent of the damage, but he can see that your nose isn’t in the best condition - there’s a deep gash across the bridge and there’s a bump where there wasn’t before. He’s determined to keep his eyes on yours so he relies on his peripheral vision to tell him the blood trails down, ending in a thickly caked mess down your chest.  His gaze doesn’t follow the stream of crimson, instead, his eyes stay on yours as he tells you ‘I’m gonna give ya my vest, gonna put it right here until we get ya on your feet’ as he gently tucks the material in the space between your raised knees and your chest, and the chilled leather warms you in a way that’s entirely new. 

“Good girl, there ya go. Lemme see what’s goin’ on with your hands.”

He inches to the side, so when you shuffle forwards slightly he can see the bloodied skin and the grey tape around you in thick layers. He’s only got his crossbow on him, so he tells you ‘I’m gonna get Rick over, alright? He’s got a knife, shh, yer fine, then we can cut ya free and get ya back.’ before calling the man over. Rick’s next to you both then, kneeling down and asking if you’re okay - Daryl nods on your behalf when you don’t seem to have the strength to. 

“Look at me an’ only me, that’s it.”

He reminds you, soothes you while Rick slices through the mess on your wrists despite the fury that’s bubbling up inside the archers chest. You look terrified at the sensation - the back and forth of the blade and the pull against your irritated skin has you pale, oxygen trapped tightly in the confines of your lungs because you’re preparing yourself for pain until Daryl’s prompting you to ‘breathe’. 

He’s on alert, ears perked against any footsteps, voices or gunshots he might hear. Usually he’d never have his back to the door, but Rick has his eyes towards the entrance and his crossbow is loaded and ready on his shoulder and right now you’re his priority.

“There ya go, feel better?” 

You want to speak, but the simple ‘yes’ catches in your throat like a dry pill so you simply nod instead, slowly rolling your shoulders against the tightness of your muscles to bring your hands in front of you to confirm they’re actually still attached to you. The cold air nips at the broken skin but Daryl watches the cautious wiggle of your fingers and hears the quiet hum of relief that escapes you from the newly found freedom, and your downcast eyes miss the tiniest smile that lifts the corner of his lips and how Daryl’s expression softens just a little.

It’s taking a stupid amount of effort and self control to not throw you over his shoulder and just run miles and miles and miles away until you’re safe, until you’re somewhere he can run you a bath, hold you, - or not, whatever you wanted - make you a warm meal with some tea and maybe even hold your hand because he always wanted to, and he was so fucking scared that he’d lost the opportunity to ever intertwine his fingers with yours, to have you safely tucked against him. You’d only been gone a day but he ached with longing, and he still would until you were safe.

“C’mere, lets get ya up.”

He notices how your hand wraps around his vest that’s still gathered at your chest, tightly clutching a fistful of the black leather like a lifeline while your other hand positions itself against the floor in an attempt to pull yourself up, and Daryl stays low, mostly to avoid towering over you but also so he can give you a hand if you need.

If this were any other day, any other situation, he’d have unabashedly grabbed your hand to pull you to your feet but he’s afraid of crossing a new, unknown boundary and making everything worse. He knows your broken nose will heal quickly, a few weeks at most with Hershels knowledge, but this is a different sort of healing that he isn’t familiar with and he’s going to have to wait to hear you to know how to help. 

He ignores the twinge that shoots through his chest when you ignore his outstretched hand.

Your body aches against every movement, like when you’d catch the flu as a child and stay in bed for days until you felt better, only to be left with fatigued, aching muscles from disuse. Wincing against the burn of everything, you see Daryl coyly offer his hand but you can’t take it - you already feel so humiliated. It feels like you’ve lost some of your dignity to have needed a rescue, to be sat in a corner so exposed, so you need to prove to yourself you’re capable of something, trying your best to subdue the want of Daryl’s hand in yours that dominates your mind.

Finding your balance on wobbly feet, you manoeuvre the leather over your shoulders as Daryl averts his gaze to the other side of the room. He listens until he’s heard the pop of the fasteners on his jacket before he turns his head back towards you, just as Rick announces ‘we’ve got company’, the urgency in his voice followed by a much louder pop, a deafening gunshot in retaliation to the ones suddenly don’t seem so far away.

Daryl’s crossbow is in his hands with remarkable speed and he’s telling you to ‘stay behind me, alright?’, and you glue yourself right behind him as he makes his way over towards Rick but all you can focus on is the jumble of deep voices that are approaching much too quickly. Rick reaches behind Daryl, handing you a loaded gun with a reassuring nod - it’s heavier than you remember, but it’s familiar in your grip. You silently pray you won’t need to aim or fire with the shakiness in control of your body. 

Rick leads the way with Daryl closely behind, and you obey without question when the southern drawl directs you, telling you to stand in front of him when the gunfire seems to come from behind or when he urges you to watch out. There are multiple casualties but none of them are you or your two saviours, and you’re back at the car before you know it. 

The drive back towards the prison is strange, the atmosphere thick with jumbled emotions and unspoken words. It’s entirely dark, now, only the black outline of the trees visible against the deep navy of the sky that’s void of any stars tonight - they’re hidden away, ashamed and remorseful of what they allowed to happen.

Rick’s desperate to apologise, to tell you how he wishes he’d never asked you to go on the run, or how he simply should have gone instead because this is a trauma he can’t take back - that you shouldn’t have had to go through, and that’s on him. He feels the responsibility and blame somewhere deep inside him, a failure as the leader of a group he’d sworn to protect. He grips the steering wheel harder.

You’re desperate to apologise for endangering the group, to scream because you’re so overwhelmed but you remain silent because you’re empty at the same time, there’s a medley of relief, anxiety and fear consuming your mind that it’s turned into a forcefully loud static, an unbearable cacophony painfully gnawing at the back of your eyes. You dig your nails into the palm of your hand for a shred of relief - it doesn’t work.

Daryl’s desperate to apologise, to whisper a quiet promise of revenge but he knows this isn’t the time, so he doesn’t. He feels entirely chagrined, furious that he didn’t get to you sooner, that he couldn’t prevent some prick from hurting you - no, thinking about you - anything without your permission. He tries his best to swallow his anger, to focus on the comfort of the fact you’re alive, that you’re right next to him because you asked him to be. It makes his jaw twitch but he does it.

There’s an empty space between you and Daryl and it hurts so much more than the throbbing in your nose or the ache in your hands, because that space has never existed until today - you’ve always sat shoulder to shoulder, crammed into the back of the car or lounging together in the RV laughing over some ridiculous story, but you’re not squeezed right against him or begging him to play UNO with you over the table in the RV - you’re both sat by the windows and the middle seat feels like the size of a football field and it’s devastating. 

“Keep me company?” The shyness in your voice surprised him, like you’d expected him to say no, but Daryl would never deny you of anything let alone his company, so he grabbed a blanket from the trunk before joining you in the back, gently throwing the thick material over you.

It isn’t a long journey, but it’s an exhausting one and by the time you park up by the prison gates your adrenaline has completely worn off and you’re shuddering under the blanket, grasping the scratchy material for a shred of warmth and there’s a familiar uneasiness in your stomach that you do your best to temporarily swallow down. Daryl’s watching you from the corner of his eye, protective.

He jumps out first, opening your door for you while Rick marches ahead to ask Hershel to check up on you. You peel the blanket from your bloodied skin as you shuffle yourself out of the car onto wobbly legs as a result of pure exhaustion, you’re so drained from today’s events and you’re so pale - so Daryl acts on instincts, reaching behind you for the abandoned blanket on the back seat. You’re shaking as he brings himself in front of you, and you do your best to overlook the unreasonable fear that forms from his towering figure.

It’s Daryl - just Daryl. Your Daryl, the same man who specifically went into a Walmart on his last run to get you fluffy socks because you’d told him the Prison was chilly, followed by a story about how you didn’t spend a single night without fluffy socks before the fall because it was your thing. He’d stuffed his bag on the next run, he already knew the Walmart was wiped of medicine, camping gear and food, but the clothing section was almost entirely untouched and it was worth the detour because you were ‘chilly’.

The same Daryl that jokingly told you he’d build you a treehouse because ‘don’t you think it’s the best way to survive an apocalypse? Daryl, shut up, why are you laughing? They can’t climb but we can, it’s logical.’ and technically you weren’t wrong, and maybe one day he will.

He’s so ridiculously tender as he opens up the bundled blanket, gently placing the fabric over your shoulders to protect you from the breeze. It feels risky, but he’s rewarded with a small smile and a quiet ‘Thank you’ that sounds so meek but genuine and it almost floors him, and he pulls the blanket just a little more snug around your shoulders, motioning you inside to get you fixed up. 

Maggie’s the first to see you, and she’s so relieved she basically runs to you, pulling you in for the tightest hug that squeezes the air from your lungs but you’re so happy to see her that you don’t mind. When she steps back she takes a moment, scanning you up and down and it dawns on her that nothing looks right - and within a moment she’s calling for Hershel, a kind hand on your lower back guiding you to the veterinarian’s cell. 

Daryl doesn’t move until you glimpse at him over your shoulder, and he hates himself but he hesitates, do you want him to go with you? Would he be intruding if he joined, or do you need time to talk without him? His feet feel heavy because why is every decision suddenly so big, so critical? 

Your hand reaches from under the cloak of the blanket, reaching for him with outstretched fingers. You’d only taken your eyes off Daryl for a moment in your approach to Hershel, and that moment was all it took for an unsettled feeling to rip its way through your chest and your vision to blur because you can’t be without him right now. You’re somewhere between a rock and a hard place - you want to be alone but suddenly he’s a lifeline, a lantern in the darkness of the abandoned prison that you’re being pulled towards like a moth to an open flame. Maggie’s hand on you feels comforting but you want more - and that’s exactly what Daryl is, he’s more.

Maggie watches the interaction with hopeful eyes as Daryl slowly paces over, knuckles white over the strap of his crossbow over his shoulder and his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth, nervously wearing away the dry skin out of - habit or nerves? 

There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to reach out and touch you, and he wonders if he should just follow to prove he understands your gesture because he’s been burning for your touch for so long and he doesn’t want this to be a gesture born from fear -  anxiety of whatever trauma you’ve just endured, but if it’s what you want, he’ll give it to you tenfold. If it brings you even a modicum of comfort, he’d keep his fingers intertwined with yours until the second apocalypse rolled around. He’d like that, and he doesn’t realise that you’d like that, too. 

Wiggling your fingers just slightly, you prompt him and when he slips his hand into yours, Maggie feels your exhale through the muscles of the small of your back as you head towards Hershel again. There’s a clamminess on both of your palms from a combination of stress and adrenaline, and it’s an awkward grip because your wrists and fingers ache and Daryl doesn’t want to hurt you, but it’s him and it’s you so that makes it perfect.

You’re both too tired, too weary to blush and tease each other like you normally would have, but it’s a different sort of intimacy that relaxes the muscles between your eyebrows and warms a tiny corner of your stomach against the continuous queasiness. 

Your hands rests lazily against your thigh as Hershel assesses the damage, and you’re all too aware of the small audience that’s accumulated by the door of your cell. You can feel the tension, the way everyone’s barely holding back the questions on the tip of their tongue, what happened? Who? How? but nobody speaks, and neither do you. Daryl's thumb traces your knuckles with indistinguishable shapes, and it’s a welcomed distraction. 

His hand doesn’t move from yours when Hershel points out how there’s some bruising forming under your eyes now, a clear sign of a break, he says. He tells you he could try to re-shape it, put the bone back into place - an offer you fervently decline. You’d seen far too many accident and emergency shows way back, and you simply couldn’t bring yourself to willingly let somebody crunch your nose, so you’re content with keeping the small bump. 

Daryl watches you the entire time, monitoring your reactions and gauging your body language, squeezing your hand just a little tighter when you flinch against Hershel’s touches. He tries to ignore the waves of protectiveness that wash over him with every wince, but he hisses out a ‘careful with her’ when you visibly recoil against the prodding on the side of your nose - a comment that doesn’t bother Hershel because your eyes flick over from your lap to Daryl’s and he’d have to be senile to miss the way your lips twitch into the smallest smile at the comment. Maybe you find it funny, maybe you’re grateful to have somebody watching over you - either way, he’ll let this one slide.

“Whoever did this, they didn’t hold back, did they? But you’re tough. Looks like the jaw is just some superficial bruising, but it might be sore for a while.”

No, he didn’t hold back. Not at all - you can still feel the pull of your hair and the impact of his palm against your jaw when you didn’t follow his directions quickly enough.

He asks if there’s anywhere else, any other injuries. Despite the fact you’re fully aware of the pattern of cuts between your chest and abdomen, you say nothing because the sting isn’t bothering you enough - it’s the least of your worries. When the only response he receives is a blank stare, Hershel speaks to both Daryl and Maggie, asking ‘If one of you could help her clean up, I’m sure she’d appreciate it.’ and gesturing to some clean towels.

Focus seems to be a thing of the past as you simply sit and exist. Maggie comes into your line of vision but it doesn’t matter because you can’t feel anything. Daryl’s hand on yours, the mattress, the cold.. It’s all there but you’re unaffected, in an unfeeling bubble. Maybe you’re safe there, maybe you’re not. There’s no way of knowing anymore.

Going through the motions, you follow Maggie to the showers instead, because there’s vomit caked in your hair and you’d rather die than have someone else ‘clean’ you with a towel again, so you opt for the constant stream of water instead.

‘Stay?’ was all you’d managed to rasp out from your bruised throat, and Daryl followed immediately with a nod, sitting outside the shower door with Maggie as they waited.

Maggie sits with clean clothes - baggy, dark colours. No bra. Daryl dug out a clean pair of the socks you loved as if they would be a magic touch, like they would heal you immediately. Maybe he hoped they would.

“The water might open up those cuts on her chest, dependin’ on how deep they are. Might need you to help me convince her to get stitches.”

The fact that you even have cuts, even a single cut makes his blood boil. He doesn’t fully understand what Maggie’s asking though - there’s nothing he could do differently to her, or Hershel. Maggie would disagree, though. Everybody in the prison would disagree. 

“She’s struggling, Daryl. I think she’s gonna be leanin’ on you after this. She’s strong, and we all know it - stronger than most of us. But this is a different kind of pain.”

She’s leaning in just a little closer to Daryl to emphasize her point. Maggie’s always hoped you two would find a deeper connection with each other, been waiting for it to happen. It was inevitable. She’s heartbroken with the circumstances and she doesn’t pray as much as she used to, but there’ll be quiet prayers uttered from her bunk tonight - prayers for healing and connection and love, despite the anger in her heart at God.  

“What’re ya telling me for?”

You are strong and he knows it, he’s witnessed it daily ever since you met.

“She looks at you different, Daryl. She’s already wanting you around a whole lot more than she wants anyone else around, she must feel safe with you.”

Chewing at his lip, he wants that to be true. He wants to be safe for you, he always has, because you’re safe for him, and it’s not a feeling he was familiar with before meeting you - there was a pull that couldn’t be ignored, a pull that was even stronger now.

“How is she?”

Rick joins then, sitting opposite your two guards.

“She’s been better. Broken nose, but she doesn’t want Daddy to fix it. Bruised jaw.. Saw some bruises on her back. Her wrists are pretty raw, too. Might need stitches on a few of the cuts on her chest, but we’ll only be able to tell when she’s cleaned up.”

Rick only nods, grateful you’re able to stand up long enough to take a shower.

“More worried about her head. Mentally, I mean. I don’t know exactly what she went through, but I think we’ve all got a good idea based on what y’all saw. She’s gonna need time.”

She tells the men about ‘traumatic shock, and how it’s similar to PTSD but different. She was so zoned out Rick, she was just starin’ at the wall. Helped her out of her clothes ‘cause she just couldn’t, and I wouldn’t expect her to be alright after today either. There was a literal handprint on the back of her neck..”

Rick can only bring himself to nod, but the information makes his heart hurt. He makes eye contact with Daryl, where there seems to immediately be an understanding between the two men - The Governor, and anybody involved will pay a heavy price, tenfold what you’ve been forced to feel. 

When the shower shuts off, Maggie heads back inside with the clean clothes, guiding you to your cell to inspect your now clean injuries.

////

The night drags and counting sheep does nothing to help. It’s been hours and the pattern of the springs of the bunk above are ingrained in your mind in an attempt to keep your thoughts on anything but him. You bounce between thoughts, memories, people and events but nothing’s powerful enough to keep the feeling of his hands or the whispering against his ear away. It’s exhausting but overstimulating.

The metal frame of the squeaky bed is too hostile and the rusty shade grey is far too similar to the cold Woodbury walls and it’s making you want to crawl out of your own skin, and the silence within the cell block is so awful you’d swear it’s giving you double vision. It’s all so cold and the stupid 

mattress is suddenly the most uncomfortable thing in the entire world - frustration rips through you, quickly turning into anger as you twist yourself into a sitting position and the thin blanket tangles around your calf, it feels like a hand grabbing at you and oh my god, anger turns into panic and it consumes you like you’re on fire, a lit match to sensitive skin and everything inside you is gasoline. 

You burn and writhe, sweating as you wrestle against yourself until you hit the concrete floor with a dull thud, your spine taking most of the impact, and the pressure around your calf only increases in your struggle but it doesn’t matter because you’re being grabbed, but it isn’t just your leg - there’s more now, large hands around your arms and you’re gasping for air but there isn’t any. 

“Hey, hey! Eyes on me again, c’mon, look at me.”

Everything’s so foggy, there’s a voice somewhere in the darkness but it feels so distant, maybe the words aren’t even directed towards you. It’s familiar but barely, you want to give the voice your complete attention but you just can’t because your heart feels like it’s in your throat and you need the grip on your leg to go away, it feels like the man who forced you to your knees - a tight, malicious hold that wants to hurt you again, but even your kicking and thrashing doesn’t shake it off. 

The hands around your arm are so mild in comparison, they aren’t dominating or restraining, they’re just there - a light hold around the tops of your arms, warm. The voice is there again, shushing you and you didn’t even realize you were screaming until you have to quieten your cries to hear it for yourself. 

“Shh, you’re okay. It’s just me, just me an’ nobody else.”

The voice is a tether keeping you where you need to be. You’ve never heard a southern accent so soft yet so authoritative - it’s telling you again, eyes on me, and it takes all your strength to try.

Your dreary cell slowly comes into focus, blurry outlines of your bunk and the door forming hazy lines in your vision. It’s Daryl - you know that now. He’s the only person in the world to ever be so patient with you, always the first by your side. It’s like he can read your mind, he’s so tuned into you it’s ridiculous, like you’re both on the same wavelength, harmonious even on a bad day. 

He watches your eyes slowly come into focus and he makes a point to breathe slowly, albeit somewhat dramatically, in the hopes you follow his lead - and you do. His hands slide down from your biceps to your forearms where they rest just above your wounded wrists, hovering slightly. He held your hand earlier because you wanted him to so he prays this is okay, that his calloused fingers don’t feel uncomfortable against your skin or that he isn’t crossing a line. He wants- no, needs you to feel him, to understand that his touch is, and always will be harmless. When he sees no fear in your eyes and feels you steady beneath him, he lets his hands fully rest around the curve of your forearm. 

“It’s just you an’ me in here, ya understand?”

You respond with a nod between shaky breaths, but his raised eyebrows tell you it’s inadequate. He waits because he needs to hear you say it, needs to know that you can distinguish between the cloud of anxiety fogging your mind and reality. 

Patient. He’s so patient as he sits cross-legged on the floor of your barely lit cell, giving you all the time in the world to come back to him. He feels your pulse calm beneath his grip, a slowing beat under cold but clammy skin, hears your breathing even out until it matches his. You’re looking at him in such a daze and you look so exhausted - dark circles and the bruising at your jaw a daunting contrast against your skin, he wants to brush it all away with his thumb until there’s nothing left except unblemished skin - to be the reason you don’t hurt anymore.

“Tell me ya understand. Need to hear it.”

His words are demands but he says them so softly, and the way he’s looking at you makes you feel so good, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. The blue of his eyes is so him, so clear as he watches you behind unkempt waves and he acts as an achor, and all you can do is be still.

“I understand.”

The words sound so tired as they pry their way up the dryness of your throat, clawing their way up despite the tightness of your muscles. Daryl can see how much effort it takes to speak, and he nods in silent praise. 

“Who’s here?”

He watches as you take a cautious look, a sweeping stare around the cell behind him. He gives your arms the tiniest squeeze in motivation. After inspecting every outline and every wall, you answer.

“Me and you. Nobody else, just us.”

You echo his words because he’s right. There’s nobody else here, despite Daryl’s presence being so overwhelming in the best way possible it is just the two of you, hidden away in the darkest corner.

“That’s right, ya wanna tell me what happened?”

“It was- fuck, it was around my leg and it just, it felt like-like him and I just, fuck.”

You slide your hands out of Daryl’s grip, bringing your hands to your hairline out of pure annoyance, clutching a fistful of hair as he shifts his gaze towards your outstretched legs where he understands immediately, nimble fingers unraveling the sheet around the bottom of your calf, letting it fall to the floor. Like it was so simple.

This is so fucking annoying, is this the life you’re sentenced to now? Crying over a sheet?

Weakness, is that what this is? 

Conflicting emotions muddle together in a hazy barrier, separating fact from fiction. 

Daryl’s looking at you so softly, eyebrows raised ever so slightly from his usual scowl and it changes his face entirely, and you wonder what you’ve done to deserve having his eyes on you so attentively, so caringly. He should be asleep, it’s the middle of the night, and he’s always the first one up every morning but you can’t bring yourself to send him away - not yet, anyway. 

Guilt joins your already mixed emotions, because Daryl’s such a powerhouse, yet you’re here keeping the man who does so much awake for no good reason. Clutching tighter, you tug at the strands of hair still in your grasp until your scalp burns in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from the cesspit of the direction of your thoughts.

“I’m okay.”

Too quick. Too unbelievable. Try again.

Loosening your grip, your hands fall into your lap in a fidgety attempt to look sane. People who are genuinely okay don’t pull at their hair, and it’s difficult but you manage. 

Inhale. Exhale.

“I’m fine, really. It just- it was too similiar to, y’know.”

“Nah, I don’t know. Ya wanna talk to me about it?”

He truly doesn’t know. He assumes, but a million different things could have happened while you were captive, and he doesn’t want to assume wrong. There’s no guessing game when it comes to trauma. 

“Not tonight.”

He wants you to talk about what happened - he’s always been somebody to bottle everything up inside and suffer because of it. He’s hauled memories and scars for as long as he can remember and he’ll be damned if he lets you do the same. It’s too damaging, too corrosive to carry alone and he knows that better than anyone. ‘Not tonight’ is good enough for him because it’s not a ‘never’, it’s simply ‘later’, and if that’s what you want then he’ll take it - he’d take anything you gave him. 

Forcing the corners of your lips into a smile, you want to show Daryl you’re okay enough to survive the night. Daryl sees right through it - it’s the most insincere smile he’s ever seen in his life, especially when your eyes tell a completely different story.

“Okay. Not tonight.”

Sitting back, he gives you some space to acclimatize, to breathe.

He asks if you want him to stay the night on top bunk, which you decline. You convince yourself you’d be awful company because at times you don’t even feel like you exist. Other times you just want to cry and pace around your cell, and you don’t want to disturb him more than you already have.

‘I’ll be just in that guard room out here, ya know the one. Just yell if ya need me, okay?’ He tells you, emphasizing with a ‘M’ serious, ya come get me if somethin’ don’t feel right.’ as he stands in the doorway, hesitant to leave you alone. 

After convincing (lying to him) that you’ll be okay, you spend most of the night cleaning your weapons and pacing the confined space of the cell that’s completely miserable. Too dark, too lonely.

Daryl finds you before dawn. He’d watched you during the night as you dragged your thin mattress from the creaky bed, out into the walkway outside your door. He was moments away from coming over, to ask what you were doing before he saw you simply lay down with your back against the wall. You had to have a different view, a different environment before you lost you mind. Hauling the mattress was easy even if you did have a headache afterwards, but the open space just felt so much better - windows, even with the discoloured bars, they were a blessing with the dark treetops in the distance. It was just a little bit easier out here, so there you sat until dawn.

//

In the morning, Daryl heads out, but not before checking in on you. He checks your nose and your jaw with delicate prompting, telling you to get some sleep ‘for me, please?’ even though you both know you won’t. 

While Daryl’s gone, you find yourself trying so hard to exist and it’s difficult. Everybody’s trying so hard to distract you, to interact with you and give you something else to think about - and you’re grateful, but it’s so obvious. Beth talks to you the most and it’s nice, there’s no pity or questions, she just talks like she always does and although your answers are lacklustre she doesn’t complain.

“Ya alright?”

His voice takes you by surprise. There’s packs of candy in his arms, and a small, pink, fleece blanket that he places on the table, which Beth grabs. She excuses herself, telling you she’s going to give the newborn that’s currently asleep in Carol’s arms the new blanket. 

“Yeah, just a bit tired but I’m okay.”

You look tired. Truly tired, it physically hurts him to see the dark shadows creeping into your face, but he knows the bruising isn’t helping your overtired features. He tries to convince himself it’s the lighting or a bad angle - the shades of purple almost look black beneath and around your inner eye, and your jaw isn’t much better.

“Hm, did ya eat?”

“There’s stew over there, did you eat??”

So, no, you didn’t eat. 

It’s not quite a feeling of nausea or needing to vomit, yet it’s something more than just a ‘lack of appetite’. You don’t have a logical explanation, and you don’t try to come up with one, either.

“I’ll get some later.”

Any other day, you’d both be first in line for any meals going, relishing in the game you’d managed to catch earlier in the day. There was always a satisfaction verging on pride when you’d bring anything back, which was almost every time you and Daryl went out together. The teamwork you both shared was striking, celebrated amongst the group. 

“Promise?”

Pointing his nose into the air is all the confirmation you seem to be getting, but you take it.

“What is it, are you okay?”

He’s alternating between chewing on his bottom lip, and his thumb. 

“Got somethin’ to show ya.”

There’s no eye contact with his words, in fact there’s the opposite - is he.. Nervous?

Twiddling with his crossbow and biting his lip, the ground must suddenly be very interesting because it’s all he’s looking at now. 

“Really? What is it?”

“Wanna see ya eat somethin’ first.”

“I already.. Fine.”

You change your course when you see the raised eyebrow. Knowing fully well he knows you’re lying, you make your way over to grab a bowl of the still hot stew, sulking as you swallow it down.

He’s quiet as he leads you outside, pebbles crunching beneath you as you make your way through the humidity towards a lone guard tower. His nerves make you nervous as you walk up the stairs behind him, but you’re so curious. 

“It aint a tree house, but I know ya ain’t been sleepin’, so, uh..”

The door is held open for you at the top of the stairs, expecting to see yet another drab, cold guard tower.

“Daryl.. Oh my God.”

Oh my God.

It’s a guard tower - but it’s not drab, and it certainly isn’t cold. It’s colourful and homely and a chill runs up your spine from the thought that went into this - into the transformation he’s created because it’s wonderful. You were in this one just a few weeks ago. Rick wanted somebody to join him to finish clearing the area and the guard tower itself, and he’d asked you ‘Saw one of them in full protective gear, and I want your good aim for the job’ so you did without hesitation. There were some guns, some ammo, you’d told the group. Forgetting to tell them you’d peeled the gun from a grey corpse, the barrel aiming towards his own jaw was simply an accident.

There was no trace of that incident, now. Anything worth taking was with the group in the main prison, and the walls were.. Fluffy. Cracked windows were now draped with thick blankets acting as curtains, the floor almost entirely covered with similar fabrics and pillows in every colour. It was an absolute eyesore and you loved it.

“You did this?”

Disbelief has your mouth agape. Appreciation has you walking around, fingers tracing everything you can touch. Even the scruffier blankets feel nice, but those are over the windows, cloaking you from the afternoon sun. Tip-toeing around, you lean down to admire the absolute pile of softness at your feet. There’s so many. Light blue and knitted. Multicolour patchwork that’s just a little bit itchy to touch. Pale yellow, crocheted with thick, silky yarn.

Daryl nods with a grunt, using the excuse of chewing the nail on his thumb.

“This is.. Amazing. So amazing. The cell just, doesn’t work for me right now. I miss sleeping so badly, my eyeballs hurt. This is really for me?”

This feels magical - nobody’s ever gone to so much effort for you. There are tall candles standing atop the control panel with a box of matches right beside them, ready for nightfall. 

“Course, can’t have ya in that cell right now. I ain’t like it, either. Found a Hobby Lobby while I had the car today. Didn’t know what half the shit was in there.”

You make a mental promise to pay him back tenfold. He broke into a Hobby Lobby for the sake of a few hours sleep, all for you. You knew he was soft for you, but this? Images of him lugging armfulls of fabric into the back of the beaten up little car flood your mind and you can’t help but smile at him.

When you’re done admiring, you head back into the prison to keep busy. Carol and Beth are experimenting with some of the prison supplies for dinner, so you try to be productive until Hershel pulls you to the side, to check in. He asks how you’re feeling, how you’re holding down food, sleeping, pain on a scale of one to 10.. Hershel knows you’re lying with most of your answers - you’re stubborn, not wanting to draw any more attention to yourself and your situation, so he lets you go after reminding you he’s always available to talk to.

Daryl subtly observes how you play with your food, but still thankful you’ve managed some. Pushing re-hydrated mashed potato around your plate with heavy eyes and an orange glow from the fire, he’s trying to not stare but his efforts are in vain because he can’t help but shift his gaze to you, wanting to make sure T-Dog isn’t sitting too close, or that your wrists aren’t hurting too much even though he watches how you occasionally rub the tender skin. 

While dinner gets cleared up, you make your way over to the archer who’s adjusting the string of his crossbow with a furrowed eyebrow. 

“Busy?”

He finishes twiddling with a gruff ‘Nah’, standing to join you, crossbow in hand.

Good. You’ve wanted to slip away since the group gathered together. There’s so much love for every single individual sat around the log cabin fire Daryl built, but there were moments you were filled with exhaustion, craving peace and chunky knitted blankets instead. You adored when Beth sang, when Rick’s beautiful daughter cooed and the excitement that came with having an actual meal with friendships that were essentially family ties.

But not tonight.

Linking your fingers with his, Daryl doesn’t even consider protesting as you gently pull him behind you towards your little safe haven. As you walk, you miss the sympathetic smile from Maggie, and the one full of hope from Beth.

Once inside, Daryl tells you he can sit outside and guard, but you’re quick to remind him he can do that from the inside, too. There’s anxiety in your thoughts, nerves from wondering if those men will find you again. Find your camp, your people, Daryl. It occupies a dark, weary corner of your mind that you’re desperate to not think about for one night, you’re simply craving peace and rest. Daryl sits facing the door, quietly continuing his mission with his crossbow.

“You should lie down, too. Only one of us needs dark circles this bad, and I’m already claiming it.”

He scoffs, but oh how he loves hearing you tease. The playful edge in your voice sounds spent and dreary, but it’s still there and it sparks an entire new wave of thankfulness and admiration through his soul - feels it so deeply as he watches you gather a handful of fabric, clutching it by your chest like a child would a comforter.

He tells you he will, that he just needs to finish fixing this one part first. It’s a blatant lie - what he means is, he’s waiting to make sure you actually get some sleep. Actual rest. Not only do you deserve it, but you need it at this point. Your voice is barely above a whisper when you tell him ‘don’t take too long, okay?’ The room is so dark but you’re still so bright for him. He’s still not over the fact that somebody could willingly hurt you, someone so honest, so selfless - he can control his anger right now, mostly grateful you’re here in his company.

It takes a little while until you seem settled, when you toss and turn just a little bit less, only then does he close his eyes for just a moment, back still against the wall ready to defend against anyone who dares try to disturb you tonight.

/

Everything’s so bright tonight - the stars and the moon look like they’re trying to lure you in, desperate for attention against the pitch black of the night sky, and the air is muggy but it’s a welcomed distraction. Another failed attempt at sleeping finds you bundled out on the balcony with heavy eyelids and a million thoughts, but absolutely nothing you can focus on, nothing’s distinct enough or sharp enough to latch on to, so it’s easier to not try - looking at the sky is easy, and you don’t have to try, so it works.

You tried for hours. Sleep simply did not want to be your friend again tonight, and it was so frustrating. Every way you tried to lie was uncomfortable for no apparent reason, and when you felt a headache forming in your temple, you almost screamed into your pillow before remembering you had company. Daryl was slumped, a thick yellow blanket draped over his shoulders against the metallic chill against his back, despite the blistering heat that had the entire group in a chokehold every moment of the day.

“Can’t sleep?”

You’ve been so engrossed in the sight before you - the stars, the moon and just how captivating they are, that you don’t notice the footsteps of heavy boots against metal flooring behind you and you almost give yourself whiplash with the speed you turn to face the source. Daryl’s stood just a few metres away, back leaning against the frame of the open doorway with tousled hair, concern hidden behind a sympathetic expression and a question he couldn’t stifle.

“No chance, apparently. I could ask you the same question, though.”

Rubbing your eyes as you speak, you turn yourself back to the direction of the thick canopy of trees. You can feel the puffiness beneath your eyes, and the fragility of the delicate skin - a prominent display of just how exhausted you are, and you sharply inhale at the throbbing sensation that pulses beneath your fingers from the bruising. 

Was it his fault that you couldn’t sleep? Was he too close to your personal space, too invading? He hesitates by the door, already fumbling over words that haven’t even formed yet, chewing down on his bottom lip as his gaze lingers on your dark silhouette.

“D’ya want me to go? If it helps ya sleep better, I can-”

As much as he wants to stay, if you need to be alone he’ll go - he’d find an excuse to be somewhat close, maybe he’d patrol the fences or collect some firewood, but not behind thick walls because he wouldn’t be able to see or hear you from inside and you might not know it yet but you’re his responsibility now. You’re fully capable and he knows it - so powerful and stubborn, passionate and perfect and Daryl's never had a single doubt in his mind about your ability to fight or overcome, and he isn’t about to start now because it’s you, and although you don’t need anybody to protect you, he still wants to. Right now you just need some time to heal and he’s consumed by the desire to help - to absolve you of the pain you’re going through because you deserve better. He would take your experiences and endure it tenfold if it gave you peace, he would kiss away the bruising around your eyes with the gentlest, most angelic brush of his lips if you let him because he only exists to make you feel better. 

The words die in his throat the moment you turn back towards him, because there’s a trace of a smile on your lips as you tell him ‘No, I don’t want you anywhere but here.. only if that’s okay with you, though.’ and Daryl can hear the way you second guess yourself, the way the second half of your sentence drips with insecurity - don’t you know he longs to be by your side, aches to be yours, to get you through the turmoil you’re currently trying to dissect?

You watch as he makes his way closer until he’s next to you, crouching down until his eyes are level to yours and he shuffles himself until he’s sitting next to you, legs swinging over the edge of the balcony. There’s a warm breeze and you feel yourself relaxing into the warm gust of air, letting your head lull backwards and your eyes close for just a moment - the night sky and warmth used to be enough to pull you into a nights sleep, so why isn’t it anymore? 

Your mind flashes with memories - you can feel them, hear the way your friends would laugh into plastic cups and the crackling embers of a fire, a blanket around your shoulders and the way your body would relax so deeply into the shape of your hammock that you could have slept for days. The breeze feels the same and despite your closed eyelids, you know you’re still sitting beneath the same flickering stars. You’re so deep in the memory and the calmness that corresponds to it that you might as well be back there - then it hits you that you’re not. There’s no overflowing party cups and no gossiping around the campfire, you lost your hammock long before the world fell and there’s an absence of burning ashes lingering in the air, and although you could swear you heard the repetition of jokes and laughter so distinctly that it must have been real - it isn’t. 

But there’s a slight smell of smoke, and you know it’s real and you’re not losing your mind and it smells so much like your favourite evenings that you take a deep inhale, then another before slowly opening your eyes, letting the memory fade out as you focus on the stars for just a moment.

Your friends aren’t here anymore, but Daryl is. 

Daryl watches you, wondering exactly where you went. He’s so content just observing you, admiring the rise and fall of your shoulders and the strands of hair that move ever so slightly in the Georgian breeze that he just can’t take his eyes away from your profile, doting on how you look beneath the silver of the night sky. He’s never seen anything so beautiful in his life, and when you open your eyes and turn towards him, it only solidifies what he already knew because the moonlight is reflecting in your eyes just right, and out of everything you could be looking at, you’re choosing to look at him, and when a light gust of air sweeps a cluster of hair into your face, he moves on instinct.

He’s slow as he raises his hand, and he expects your eyes to switch to his moving fingers, but your gaze remains on his as he inches closer. 

You catch yourself, resisting the natural urge to simply push the rogue strands away, instead you find yourself yearning for the simple gesture - and when his rough fingertips brush over your cheek, you find yourself leaning into the friction, the way his calloused skin feels so effortless as he glides the hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. There’s a pang of something that shoots into your chest so suddenly, but as daryl’s fingers delicately trail the shape of your ear, you realize what that feeling in your chest is - it’s not fear or dread, it’s affection, and it’s blooming so intensely it’s threatening to spill over through your eyes because you’re not scared, you’re something that you can’t quite give a name to, but it feels good.

Slowly, Daryl reminds himself. Every movement is steady and gentle, two fingertips trailing one after the other in tiny little shapes and squiggly lines just below your lobe, and he swells with pride as you quietly sigh, comfortable enough to close your eyes against his touch, so he continues - mapping the contours of your face from your hairline to the slight dip beneath your cheekbone, gently tracing the discoloration along your jawline. The touch is so soft, so barely there that it almost tickles and it’s incredible. You spend minutes just letting yourself be touched, focusing solely on being in control of your emotions and how this is special, how Daryl is special and how this is completely okay and he’s not hurting you and he never would.

The archer changes his movements then, using his hand to cup your jawline, hovering lightly over the bruising, and when you open your eyes and focus on him again, he repeats the motion on the other side until he’s holding your face gently between both of his large hands, angling himself in front of you.

“Let’s get ya back inside, alright?”

You’re so pliant and warm and soft for him, completely oblivious as you relax into his hands. He’s supporting your weight with his palms as he traces his thumbs across your cheeks, every fraction of a movement is brand new territory, and he’s concentrating hard to not scare you - he’s not going to move until you do, because he might be the one touching you, but you’re in control, he’s not going to make any decisions on your behalf, no matter how small. As far as Daryl’s concerned, this is your world - he just lives in it.

You want to stay just like this, because he’s tracing over your darkened bruises with so much tenderness, and the damaged skin is so sensitive - the combination feels magical. Your gaze drops, suddenly you can feel the lethargy rest heavily on your eyelids because since when were they so heavy?

“Think you’re ready for a good night’s sleep, c’mon, let’s get you tucked in.”

When you finally nod, he’s careful as he takes one hand away first, giving you a moment to adjust to the lack of support, with just one last brush of his thumb from below your eye to your cheek before he pulls away, bringing himself to his feet beside you. Your hands slip into his outstretched ones, supporting you as you steady yourself against the dull thud of the metal beneath you, and he leads you back into the mess of tangled sheets.

There’s a moment of ‘when do we let go?’ when you’re inside, neither of you entirely sure because you simply don’t want to. Thick pillows call your name, and you’re the first to lower yourself against a velvety throw blanket, and in succession, as if he’d been doing it his whole life, Daryl follows the gentle pull of your locked hands, but he’s oh so careful to subtly leave space between your thigh and his - he hasn’t been invited to touch anything but your hand, so he doesn’t.

The softness beneath you is so potent you can feel it through your clothing, and although it feels like the most inviting thing ever, your attention quickly shifts from the gentle back and forth of his thumb over the back of your hand to the gap he’s purposely left between you, and you’re heartbroken. 

Insecurity surges through every neuron in your body with so much ferocity that you feel absolutely annihilated, paralysed - your entire chest constricts, tightening at the sudden awareness of how feeble you feel, how damaged. Pulling your hand from his, your thoughts race with such force - why is there so much space between you? What did you do wrong?

You swallow hard at the lump in your throat, and Daryl watches the smile fade from your lips, and your knees pull up to your chest. He waits only a moment before perching himself by your feet, eyes on your downcast ones.

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

How can he sound so concerned, so doting when you’re so.. Broken?

He’s calling your name so softly, voice just above a whisper but you squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to block him out. Even just his voice feels like an assault on your senses, and the small percentage of you that wants to listen is overpowered by the crushing weight in your chest, the doubt in your mind.

He waits a moment - caution at the front of his mind. He doesn’t understand exactly what just happened, but he’s going to fix it because he can see the way your hands tremble ever so slightly as they cover your eyes, hear the way your breath catches in your throat and he hates it. For every fear-induced vibration of your fingers, he vows to cause an hour of pain - no, a day, for the man who did this. He’ll slice off a finger for every cry he causes. He starts a tally in his mind.

“You’re gonna get through this, ya know that, right?”

He receives a shaky exhale in response, so he carries on.

“You’re gonna get through this ‘cause it’s what ya do best. You survive.” 

Patient is all he can be right now, and he does it well. Lets you calm down, to process whatever it is you’re feeling right now without intruding, and when you finally speak, he can’t disguise the flash of anger that forms in the pit of his stomach.

“He- The Governor, when I wouldn’t tell him where my camp was, he..” 

Inhale. Exhale. Again. 

You can’t bring yourself to look at the man in front of you when you raise your head, quickly dragging your sleeve across your damp cheeks. Shame builds in your throat - if you don’t tell him what happened right now, this very second, you swear you never will but you need Daryl to know. If anybody’s going to know, it’s him.

“That’s when he cut my shirt off, that’s how I got the cuts on my chest. He left.. When he came back he kept asking. I would never, ever tell anyone about the prison, please trust me. I never told him.”

Daryl knows, and he tells you this as you pat the skin under your eyes a little too harshly. 

“He.. He forced me to my knees, Daryl. I had to-”

You don’t bother wiping the tears away anymore as they ferociously spill over. Chills and shivers make their way down your spine as you recall the event and you can only imagine the pity - or worse, disgust that must be all over Daryl’s face right now. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t shy away from your confession, instead he dips his head lower to get your attention. When your red eyes reluctantly meet his, you’re surprised by his features - the lack of repulsion or horror, you’re astonished because he seems to have shuffled just a little bit closer, not further away, and he nods - there’s more, and he knows.

“I didn’t think I- I thought he was going to.. Until you came. I knew you’d come, but I was so scared. I was terrified. I fought back, that’s how I got the bruise on my jaw. After that he just held a knife to my throat.. Told me to be extra careful.”

Almost on instinct, your hand delicately touches the front of your neck, where you’d felt the sharp blade dig into your skin just enough to keep you docile. 

“And you’ve been.. Here, right next to me ever since, and I know it’s stupid but when you sat down, you felt so far away and I thought I’d done something wrong, or that I’m.. ”

Daryl watched and listened as you spoke, heard the panic creep into your speeding up voice, saw you wince from the torment that was so clearly playing in your mind. Every word you’d just spoken had bile rising in his throat, an acidic taste to be quickly swallowed down because this is your ‘not tonight’, this is when he sits and listens. This is your experience to talk about, your trauma to unpack. He already had a vague idea of what happened - an assumption of your ordeal - and actually hearing it were two very different things. He can’t even fathom that you’d think he was even capable of thinking about you badly, that you’re..

“Broken, disgusting.. Patheti-”

“Hey, that’s enough. C’mere.”

He reaches out to you with open arms, and you sob an absolutely gut wrenching sob because Daryl’s always felt like home, and despite the voice in your head telling you how unworthy you are of his support, he’d never deny you. Shuffling into him, he cocoons you with his arms without a moment of hesitation, pulling you against him just a little more because it’s what he’s always done - he’s nervous, ready to release his hold at the first sign of unease. Instead he feels you press yourself further against him, tucking your head beneath his chin. 

“Ya aint none of those things. An’ I’ll tell ya that every day if I need to, alright? Ya ain’t never, and never gonna be broken or pathetic. Sure yer gonna feel that way sometimes, don’t mean it’s true, and ya ain’t disgusting for what someone else did to ya, that aint how it works.”

Soft spoken words tickle the crown of your head as you take in the little patches of heat where his body overlaps your own, and there’s a warmth blooming in your chest like a bouquet. These words are so special, even more so because they’re coming from him, in a little hideaway he built to keep you safe.

Hearing your thoughts out loud forced him to voice his own that had accumulated over the last few days. Daryl’s no stranger to trauma, he’s masked his own distress and memories with a need to be protective - support the group, hunt, track, find shelter. There’s almost a responsibility that’s bubbled to the surface to prevent the people around him feeling even just a snippet of what he’s felt over the years, and he does it willingly, out of a love that he himself doesn’t even understand - and it’s a feeling that’s always been more prominent with you. He couldn’t let another moment go by with you thinking that way about yourself - ‘you didn’t do this, the Governor did, an’ your worth don’t change ‘cause of a prick of a man’s actions.’ Daryl’s careful as he tells you this, hoping and praying he’s choosing his words correctly. He mumbles into your hair that he’s ‘sorry about not sittin’ right next to ya, I just thought maybe to just.. I dunno, we were already’ holdin’ hands and I didn’t wanna cross no line. ‘M sorry.’ and although the tears don’t stop, the excruciating weight on your chest lifts just slightly, faintly circling his palm against your back to calm you.

“Aint nothing you could’ve ever done to deserve any of this. Nobody here thinks any different of ya, and I’m gonna be right here until you’re okay again, we all will.”

You’ve been by his side since you stumbled across their camp by the quarry. You had your sister back then, like he had Merle. Suddenly neither of you had your siblings, your best friends to survive the world with, but somewhere down the line you found solace in each other. You clung to cigarette smoke as he did your unfamiliar softness and the group could only admire from a distance - an admiration that only grew stronger, as did your affinity towards each other. 

There’s a pause to his words, and before you can wonder why, he places the most delicate kiss against your hair. His stubble itches your scalp, and your heart flutters at the tender press of his lips - another source of warmth that has you raising your head and bringing your eyes to meet his.

“Fuck, ‘m sorry. I didn-”

You idiot. You didn’t ask, she’s going to hate you and rightfully so. His mind floods with regret immediately, waves upon waves of quick scenarios running through his mind - will you never talk to him again? Walk away from him, never to return? His arms relax around you just slightly, ready for the inevitable moment where you pry yourself out of his grasp.. But it doesn’t happen? The inevitable doesn’t happen, and when your gaze meets his, he’s surprised.

“It’s okay.”

Delicate. Fragile. Powerful. Understanding. Pretty. Soft. Gentle. Strong. Warm. Kind. Forgiving. Patient. Loving. Accepting.

Daryl sees every single good thing there is about the world in your face. You’re telling him that it’s okay, with your tear-streaked rosy cheeks and sad smile. Loss after loss after tragedy and you’re still here smiling at him, tucked between his arms like it’s where you belong, and he’s astonished when you re-adjust yourself until you’re sat across his thighs, but astonished would be an understatement when you willingly lean your forehead against his lips - innocently pining for the feeling of him against your skin.

Giving you exactly what you want, you’re so momentarily content with the control that you have with his lips against you, exactly where you wanted him - exactly where he wanted to be. It’s pure and beautiful and he doesn’t hurt you when he places a hand on your lower back to support you, nor does he when his other hand cradles the nape of your neck. Not forcing, not grabbing you or keeping you still - but there to hold you, like his only purpose is to be a pillar supporting a temple of worship. The man who hurt you - his hands were softer, free of calluses but malicious, whereas daryl’s are rough and dry from hard work, but every single movement towards you has always been filled with grace.

The same hands that pressed over yours the first time you used his crossbow, and guided you until you got your first successful shot on a walker. He’d been proud of that moment, teasing about how ‘you’re a natural’.

The same hands you’d babied from fights - scratches and burns, wear and tear from being in a fallen world. ‘M fine, stop wastin’ shit on me’ he’d tell you, and you’d always ignore him as you dotted lotions on broken skin and wrapped him in gauze.

Those same scarred hands weren’t to be afraid of, you’d refuse to be timid of Daryl. He was capable of so much and you’d seen it. Watched him take on dozens of the dead, unafraid to take on the living with dangerous weapons to protect his people - to protect you. He was there for others to be fearful of, not you. 

But even if you were afraid, were cautious he would understand. He would hide his hurt feelings because they weren’t the priority here, he would back up and apologize and leave you alone with a single word and you know this. He knows trauma, acknowledges the healing that comes afterwards even if he never got it - he’ll sure as hell make sure that you do.

There’s a long pause before either of you move, you both simply sit and breathe and soak in the closeness and admiration that’s growing tenfold every moment. Your hands ended up resting on his hips for the most part, with the occasional play of the buttons on his vest as he continued to lightly knead into the knots of stress in your neck, his lips never wandering far from your forehead. 

“Tired?”

He mumbles into your hair when you yawn, tears prickling your eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve slept in days. Yes, I’m tired”

Prominent dark circles are an obvious answer to his question, but he just wanted to hear the lighthearted teasing in your voice he’s been hoping for - not that you’d ever disappoint him. Daryl’s willing to stay up until dawn if sleep wasn’t going to take you, but he’s thankful at the opportunity that you might actually get some sleep tonight. You both agree to lay down, and you ruefully peel yourself away from him.

There’s an echo that rings when heavy, ill-fitting boots are pried from threadbare socks before Daryl’s shuffling, rustling blankets along the way until he’s crouched by your muddy shoes. Gesturing to your laces, he waits until there’s an unashamed smile and a giggle before un-doing the tangles, pulling them off your feet despite quiet protests of ‘Oh my God, they must smell so bad, I’m so sorry’ before joining you back against the pillows. 

There must be a specific blanket and pillows store he stripped bare for your comfort, and you’re nothing but thankful when you come back into contact with chilled fleece and fluff. Pressure’s been lifted from your mind, alleviated just enough that breathing actually feels possible for the first time in days, and Daryl’s laying on his side, watching and cherishing the peace he can see between your bruises. 

You join him, then. Rolling onto your side until you’re face to face, suddenly shy beneath his gaze. He asks how your nose feels - and when you tell him ‘it’s not awful, but I’m sure it looks awful, Daryl don't look at it, jeez!’ he can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. Awful is the least it feels - he remembers the day he broke his as a teenager. The man who did that to him didn’t apologise either, but he’s certain he was less bruised than you and it was tender for months.

Jokingly, you hit his shoulder and his grin kills you. There are strands of hair across his forehead and his eyes are creasing ever so slightly and you’re so flooded with the sincerity of him that you feel tears forming in your eyes again. There’s no desire to cry and you’re not upset, and you try to blink them away before he notices but he does. 

You’re cocooned in a homely comfort as he grabs an extra blanket, bringing it over and tucking it below your chin, whispering a ‘thank you’.

“Look at me for a sec. I aint him. Gonna keep ya safe, want ya to know that.”

Nothing above a mumble in volume, but thunderously loud in promise. Safety and refuge abundantly thick in his words and immediately you’re curling in against his him, dragging the blanket with you until once again, you’re wedged beneath his chin, chest to chest because you want to feel his words, physically feel the shields that are his arms and hands. You don’t have to wait more than a second for reciprocation - he’s immediately understood, adjusting himself until he’s got an arm over yours and a hand cradling the back of your head. You tell him that you know.

It’s just perfect.

Innocent intimacy that just feels so right, so natural. He holds you so close, like it's a necessity, and honestly it might actually be.

Careful, gentle touches from rugged fingertips lulled you to sleep that night, and many, many nights after.

/

Hours turn into days, days into weeks, weeks into months.

Healing was difficult, especially when the war broke out. People - good people lost their lives. Friends were lost, blood spilled and the prison fell and things were hard.

Almost nothing was consistent - not the company, meals or housing. The sun would rise and things would change, the sun would set and things were dangerous. Daryl was consistent, though. The tips of his fingers against your skin were consistent, as were his lips against your forehead, your cheek, and one day, the very corner of your own lips.

He watched as you gained your confidence again, how you’d zone out just a little bit less every week. It wasn’t consistent. There were good days, and there were days you’d wake from paralyzing nightmares but he was there, ready to pull you against him - what’s goin’ through that head of yours, huh? He’d whisper with a gentle nudge of his fingers below your chin.

His presence was healing you, you would tell him - and he would always correct you. ‘Nah, this is all you. It’s you doin’ the hard work, not me.’ and you would always disagree, even if he was right.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon fic #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon drabble #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon oneshot #twd #the walking dead #twd fanfic #twd oneshot #twd fic #twd drabble #twd imagine #the walking dead oneshot #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead drabble #the walking dead fic #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x oc #daryl dixon x reader

[ruewrote]

𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓𝑖𝑠ℎ.

PAIRING: carl grimes x fem!reader WARNINGS: strong language GENRE: angst SONG INSPIRATION: selfish by madison beer WORD COUNT: 556 PARTS: one two

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ever since the group had gotten settled into alexandria you and carl had definitely drifted from each other. he’d deliberately go off with the other kids. even when you had tried to make plans with him, he blew them off.

once he had changed schedules for his supply runs, that’s when you really had stopped trying. 

that didn’t stop you from still watching over him and his family, you often went over and helped rick with judith and he was incredibly appreciative and for sure had brought up that he noticed the drastic change to yours and his son’s friendship.

three months ago today you had finally found this wonderful place. you should be over the moon, filled with joy even. it never came.

you sat with your knees pressed to your chest, tears running down your cheeks - playing with the friendship bracelet that was still attached to your wrist which was a gift from him back when you guys were at the prison, it was now worn out but of course you kept it.

footsteps were heard walking toward you, so you quickly wiped your eyes and covered up the band. looking up and were met with the last person you wanted to see.

your eyes were back to being glued to the ground, sat in the same way as you were before as he sat beside you. a what was once comforting silence now awkward surrounding the two of you.

tears stung in your eyes as you glanced over at him, “i hate you.” your voice shook as the tears started to fall. his own filling with regret.

“i hate that you think you can just walk over here and act like everything’s perfectly fine between us when it’s clearly not!” carl sat and listened to what you had to say - what was well overdue.

“you’re selfish. y-you abandoned me when i needed you the most,” the lump in your throat only getting worse as you spoke.

his eyes locked onto your own, “i never left. i’ve been right here.”

his empty words made you scoff and roll your eyes, making it seem like he hadn’t made such an effort to be as far away from you as possible.

you stood up abruptly - looking down at him. “i can’t believe you, you will sit there and lie to me after you know you did literally everything to not see or be near me. god even your dad thought it was weird that we weren’t around each other.”

“so don’t you fucking dare try and tell me you were there for me when you clearly weren’t.” he only got angrier.

“you were too goddamn clingy y/n, you were never not latched to my side, you needed to grow the fuck up.”

the pain flooded throughout your body, his words dug deep into your heart. he tried to reach out and hold you and apologise, but it was too late. you pulled away from his touch, the words coming out of his mouth sounded distant and muffled. that’s all he thought of you? all that time?

your steps staggered backwards, carl walked closer to you still trying to explain himself, you started to walk away from him but not before you ripped the bracelet off your arm and threw it at him.

© ruewrote.

#carl grimes #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes oneshot #carl grimes oneshots #carl grimes imagine #carl grimes imagines #carl grimes fanfic #carl grimes fanfics #chandler riggs #chandler riggs x reader #chandler riggs oneshot #chandler riggs oneshots #chandler riggs imagine #chander riggs imagines #chandler riggs fanfic #chandler riggs fanfics #twd #twd x reader #twd oneshot #twd oneshots #twd imagine #twd imagines #twd fanfic #twd fanfics #the walking dead #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead oneshot #the walking dead oneshots #the walking dead imagine #the walking dead imagines

[lowkeyrobin]

Fine I'll give you fluff 🙄....Carl and reader find this huge museum and decided to check it out for supplies to find out the museum has been untouched there's no signs of walker or human and since Carl and reader are still children they decided to fuck around and even give themselves a tour of the museum and it ends with sweet first kisses 😚

- ♣️

heyyyyy ♣️ of course and thank you. the Luke castellan req u sent me is already hurting and I've barely written any of it yet LMFAO ; also didn't know how to do the kissing bit so I'm sorry :( I've never been to a museum so ifk djsndmsm ; I should've scrapped this it's so bad wth

CARL GRIMES ; museum

summary ; you and carl go on a run and take a tour of a museum

warnings ; language, mentions of knives

genre ; fluff

word count ; 1k

masterlist

You and Carl approach the large building, gazing upon the well-founded structure. It was a curvature shape, large glass windows covering it, pulling in gallons of sunlight each day. You couldn't imagine the amount of sunbleach on the floor inside if it was that familiar thin carpeting like in arcades or inside al Chuck E Cheese's across the globe.

As you walk closer, killing any stray walkers with your knives, you notice there's a whole layer below the upper, circular part of the building. It's held up by pillars, protected by shade, and only covered in a few tall windows here and there. Below that, it sinks into the ground a bit with the help of some staircases on each side behind the sign and little wall to prevent casualties. It was more boxy, however, still covered in windows. The whole structure looked freakishly modern, like the world didn't end back in 2010 here, like the world just kept spinning up til now, apparently. It was a little freaky seeing it, but you brushed it off. Whatever this place was, they probably pulled in millions of dollars a month to look like this.

You approach the front, seeing Virginia Museum of History & Culture in bold lettering above the main doors.

Now, you and your long-time friend Carl never got to learn all that much about history or culture, seeing as the world ended in the middle of your fifth grade year. All through elementary school, it wasn't something anyone was teaching a bunch of little kids who'd forget within an hour over recess.

The two of you share a shrug and nod, deciding to go in to look for any food or resources. You keep your weapons ready and in hand, prepared to take down as many walkers as need be.

The first challenge was getting inside, however. The door was locked. Luckily, Carl was able to pick the lock with a spare safety pin he kept in his pocket for this exact reason, and he slowly pushed the door open with his foot. His boot leaves a print on the door from the dirt and dust on the ground, leaving the stainless steel door a little messy as you both enter.

You clear out each large room, finding no signs of life, or death for that matter. You closely examine all of the WW2 replica artifacts and read the little signs, teaching you about the nearly hundred-year-old war. It was pretty interesting to you, considering the only war education you'd gained was being part of one yourself with the whole Negan and the Saviors thing.

Carl notices you reading as he breaks open some protective glass, opening a stash of rifles that'd been found post-war on the battlegrounds in Virginia.

"Think they still work?" He asks you, holding one up in his hand.

You shrug, "How would I know?"

He nods and shrugs, agreeing with your statement. However, you'd take anything you could get your hands on at the moment, food, guns, ammo, anything.

You two unlock a long forgotten childlike curiosity, exploring the museum for all its knowledge. You learn a lot about cultures and wars walking around the building, about ancient Aztec civilizations and the Civil War.

You ended up finding a little bit of food and some guns and ammo. I mean, a museum would never be a go-to for apocalypse rations anyway.

The two of you sit down in front of the windows near the front of the building, giggling and gasping for air after playing tag for a solid twenty minutes. Your cheeks are flushed and you run a hand through your hair, trying to cool yourself down a bit.

"I didn't know you could run so fast" Carl chuckles, lightly nudging your shoulder.

You shrug with a light smile and reply with a sarcastic and snarky tone, "My urgency to get away from you is showing"

"Hey!"

⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

You stick close to Carl, heading into a locked portion of the building, staff only. You wield your knives, cautiously turning the lights on.

Nothing, once again.

Another lunch room, weird enough. But it had plenty of non-perishables you could take. Including spaghetti-o's, which you hadn't had in years. The warm, metal taste could already be tasted on your tongue as you imagined the beautiful taste of the noodles and sauce again.

Carl turns to you, "Ready to go? It's nearly dark"

You nod, "Go on without me, I wanna go in that section we didn't really explore yet"

He shrugs, "I'll come with you"

"It's fine-"

"You wanna learn more, don't you?"

You shrug and nod.

"Nerd" He teasingly chuckles, "C'mon, let's make it quick"

You quickly run out to the section you didn't get to explore much, learning all about JFK's assassination. God, if the internet got to progress any further, you'd be all over Reddit sharing conspiracies and theories about this right now.

"Holy shit, dude took two bullets, what the fuck?"

"Damn"

You begin to rant as you read the little book on the podium, silencing Carl as he sits on the floor. His feet hurt, and his shoulders were beginning to ache, so he decided to sit down like this was kindergarten storytime.

You stand and speak, using your hands to communicate through body language as he attentively listens to you. He looks up at you with admiration, like he was genuinely focused on you and only you. You stop to breathe, your throat dry as you shut the book.

Carl fixes his hat, handing you some water.

"Ready to go home and eat these spaghetti-o's that I know you're dying to eat?"

"Yes please!"

#lowkeyrobin #twd x reader #twd preferences #twd teens #twd fanfiction #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes #chandler riggs #chandler riggs x reader #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead preferences #the walking dead oneshot #carl grimes oneshot #they/them reader #gender neutral reader #gn reader

[oneshotnewbie]

how are you??

i was looking at your list and saw that you write for the walking dead and was wondering if you’d be willing to do a request on it for me? thank you!!

so it’s basically maggie greene (rhee) x teen!reader where reader is like a daughter or a younger sister to her. it’s nothing special or major, but maybe just a cute little story where reader gets sick or hurt and maggie takes care of her and is all motherly/big sister-like with reader?

also reader’s carl’s age, so i think about fourteen then? again, you can change the age if you need to, i don’t mind!

- 🍄 anon

Authors note: Hey, sweet mushroom. I am doing okay so far, I hope you are doing great! At the same time, I hope you like this little story ♥

ᕚ---ᕘ

The world was a shadowy landscape of ruined buildings, deserted streets and the faint echoes of past civilization. The earth, once vibrant with life, now lay in the grip of a post-apocalyptic silence.

In the middle of this desolate scenario, between rusty walls, lived Maggie with her small "family" - a group of survivors who had come together to survive in this unnatural world. Among them you, whose real name had long been lost in the turmoil of time.

It was the icy wind of a wintry morning that intensified the already bitter cold of the Forsaken Land as an ominous cough snaked its way through the silence of the house. Maggie sensed the icy breath of sickness beginning to spread through the ranks of the community. You, who had previously been a steadfast and indestructible pillar of the group, were among those affected and woke up with a feverish chill.

The symptoms appeared quickly: fever, chills and an exhausted look that bore the marks of suffering. But Maggie, a woman with an aura of determination and keen eye for your needs, recognized the gravity of your situation. Your body heavy, limbs aching, and eyes bloodshot from the fever that burned within you like a raging fire. "Hey, how are you feeling today kiddo?"

"Mags, I feel like I've been torn apart by a pack of wild dogs," you whispered, every movement making your body tremble as the older one approached your bed. Your voice, a faint breath in the gloomy silence, betrayed the exhaustion and weakness that the illness brought with it.

She sat down in an empty spot on your bed and gently placed a hand on your forehead. "You're literally burning. I have to see what I can find to help you. Otherwise the fever will kill you," she spoke with a look that told stories of loss and will to survive as her inner turmoil filled the air. "You want to leave me?"

"Just to get you and the others medicine,“ The group had hardly any remedies left to fight the disease. Medicines were in short supply, and the improvised teas offered no protection against the creeping germs. The post-apocalyptic world was not forgiving, and illnesses often became inescapable judgments. But the woman in front of you refused to just abandon you to your fate. Her connection to you was deeper than anyone else's. You had become like a little sister to her, someone she wanted and even needed to protect and support. "Carol will stay with you for the time I'm gone and take care of you. I'll get back to you as soon as possible. I promise."

With one last goodbye kiss, she left you in bed and set off with Daryl to do everything they could to bring you relief while, without her, time blurred into an endless succession of feverish hours and cough-ragged days.

The sun had long since hidden behind the toxic clouds in the sky when the search for medicine became a fight for survival in the shattered ruins of the buildings. The footsteps on broken glass and the constant gusts of wind blowing through the dilapidated shutters seemed to underscore the urgency of the mission.

She searched for medication in numerous abandoned pharmacies and barricaded doctor's offices. Her hands, battered by the cold and the endless digging through rubble, searched for the glimmer of hope amid the devastation until she finally came across locked cupboards, the only contents of which were a few bottles, expired medication and a few blankets. Maggie wasn't discouraged and took everything she could find. With a tenacity driven by her love for you, she returned to make use of what little she had found.

"Here, take this, sweetheart," she said, handing you a handful of expired medication. "It's not much, but it should at least bring down the fever a little." You smiled weakly and accepted the pills gratefully, barely getting into a sitting position. "Thanks. I don't know how I would do this without you."

She waved it off as if it were obvious. "In these times, we need to stick together. No one should wander alone in the dark. Especially not you," she helped you take the pills and then spread an extra blanket over you. "You're like my little sister, y/n. If something happened to you- I would never be happy again."

Over the next few days, your bedroom became a kind of makeshift hospital room and she began to care for you with a mix of old survival instincts and an unwavering caring nature. Blankets and hot water bottles became weapons in her fight against the invisible threat that took over your body.

The wind howled around the corners and an icy storm raged outside as the brunette spent the next few days cooking soups that she laced with fever-reducing drugs. She woke up by your side nightly, placing wet towels on your hot forehead and whispering soothing words into the darkness while you slept. The nights were long and quiet, interrupted only by the patients' wheezing and the crackling of their movements.

The group watched as the woman, who otherwise seemed so stoic and aloof, cared for you tenderly and self-sacrificingly. The others, who otherwise only knew the harsh reality of everyday life, witnessed a love between strangers that became family and that was more precious than any resource in these times.

Time crawled by and the disease tried to tighten its ugly claws. But Maggie's care and love proved to be powerful weapons. You fought against the disease, strengthened by their tireless help and solidarity support.

You lay weak, but your eyes still sparkled with life. In the quiet moments between feverish bouts, you and Maggie found time to talk quietly. "You have to stay strong, y/n. The world may have fallen apart, but we can't let it break us," she spoke as she cooled your forehead.

You smiled weakly, your eyes glassy with tiredness. "You're like a mother to me, Mags. I really can't imagine what it would be like without you."

Maggie just sighed quietly. "You are my family. I can't imagine what it would be like without you either."

The days passed and the illness slowly faded away like the side after a storm. You struggled back to your feet, strengthened by her unwavering belief in survival. The post-apocalyptic world may have been one of destruction and loss, but in this small corner of reality, humanity shone in its purest form, igniting a flame of hope for every survivor who walked the streets of Alexandria.

#the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead oneshot #the walking dead imagine #the walking dead imagines #the walking dead fic #the walking dead x you #the walking dead x reader #twd x you #twd x reader #twd fanfiction #twd fanfic #twd oneshot #twd imagine #twd imagines #maggie greene #maggie greene x you #maggie greene x reader #maggie greene fanfiction #maggie greene fanfic #maggie greene oneshot #maggie greene imagine #maggie greene imagines #maggie rhee #maggie rhee fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot #imagines

[gr7mes]

GR7MES’ MASTERLIST.

i will not be writing smut, male!reader, weird stuff (incest, rape play, etc). i mainly write for carl grimes but i can write for other characters as long as im familiar with their character.

THE WALKING DEAD:

glitch : “we were supposed to be just friends.” c.g x fem! reader fluff

comics and cold hands : “with his calloused, cold one.” c.g x fem! reader fluff

tea parties and tear stained cheeks : “the teacup in judith’s petite hand.” c.g x fem!reader fluff

photograph : “we keep this love in a photograph.” c.g x fem!reader angst

falling behind : “everybody’s falling in love but i’m falling behind.” c.g x fem!reader fluff

stupid : “love makes you stupid.” c.g x fem!reader angst -> slight fluff

THE HUNGER GAMES:

coming soon !

reqs are OPEN as of 4.23.24

#carl grimes #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes x y/n #the walking dead #twd x reader #twd #carl grimes angst #carl grimes fluff #carl grimes x fem!reader #carl grimes oneshot #the walking dead oneshot #carl grimes imagine #twd imagine #carl grimes smut

[weretheones]

You’re Different

Plot/Request: A close call pushes Daryl to confess; if he was gonna die, he wasn’t gonna go without telling you why he’d take a bullet for you in the first place, or why, for him, you were so different than everyone else. (Season 3)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count:
 3k 

Warnings: mentions of gunshots, violence, hmm I think that's it! 

A/N: hi-- I forgot about this fic for MONTHS. I think I wrote it in between breathe through it and doctors orders??? oops!! but I rediscovered it recently and with a bit of editing, I think she’s ready for you!! 

thank u to @dreamingdixon for helping me with this one. check out her stuff, it is exceptional. loves u <3 

—————————————————————————————

The day would come. Daryl knew that, he anticipated it. One day he would meet his end; his heavy shoulders would rest, his eyes shut permanently as all consciousness, all of him, slipped away. He was alright with that reality, especially if it meant keeping his family safe. 

Keeping you safe. 

But in the aftermath of such a stunt— that clearly didn’t leave him dead, only a bullet ripped through him– his peace with an inevitable death did little to soothe the pain in his side. His eyes hadn’t even opened yet, but he was acutely aware of the throbbing pain where that bullet pierced him, instead of you. When Daryl’s eyes finally did open, he shut them tight again. A curse slipped from him and you bit back a chuckle as he raised a hand to block the direct ray of sun. 

“Morning, Dixon,” you smiled as you moved to sit at the edge of his bed. 

He let loose a deep groan, shifting in the bed and hissing at the sudden sharp pain at his wound. At least the throbbing was tolerable. 

“Take it easy, you’ve been out for a while,” you muttered, pushing your palm flat against his chest. His eyes flickered between your hand and your face, curious, as if orienting himself to the sudden closeness. 

“Tha’ bastard shot me,” he remarked, a wave of memories crashing from the sight of the white bandage under his torn shirt. 

“Well, you did jump in front of his gun,” you scoffed, “you’re lucky Rick’s got good aim– asshole died before he could do more damage.” 

Daryl noticed the hint of guilt in your eyes. Dark and festering thoughts swimming in the subtleties of your expression; the way your mouth only twinged up at one corner, or how your eyes slanted lower, like even keeping them open was a struggle. He broke your gaze, looking at his surroundings, instead. There was a bowl of bloody water sitting next to his bed and some stray straps of blood stained fabric tossed around. Underneath the brown discolouration, he could recognize the ugly bright blue and a few petals of those equally obnoxious yellow and green flowers. 

He remembered your teasing, too— before some unhinged survivor tried to steal everyone’s gear and fired a shot meant for you. 

“I think it’d look good on you, Dixon.” 

“Shut up.” 

He bit back a scoff at that, a smirk loosely hanging off his lips. Then he looked back at you, noticing the smears of what must’ve been his blood up your arms. But he was clean, he noticed, and remembered the bowl of water. You were much less panicked now, but that same look of regret settled heavily over your features, and he remembered the second mention of that shirt in a much less fond manner. 

“S’look good on me?” 

You didn’t laugh at that, not like he hoped. Instead you pressed harder. He could barely register his deep groan over the pain of you using that horrendous button-down to try and slow his bleeding. 

Your voice wavered,“I swear to God, Daryl, if you make me bury you in this thing…” 

He didn’t remember the rest of your threat. Barely remembered getting out of there, or getting in this bed. Hell, even how long he’d been stuck lying here was a mystery. 

At the thought, he asked, “How long I been out?”

“Two days, almost. Hershel had to give you some serious meds for the pain and infection. He got the bullet out, though.” 

“Damn,” he cursed. 

“I’ll go tell him you’re up,” you leaned over, placing a brief kiss on his forehead, before leaving to find the vet. 

It was a sweet gesture and you’d always been nice to him— to everyone, Daryl reminded himself. Nothing to get excited about, even if his skin was tingling. The aftermath of your touch, so soft and light compared to the heavy ache of his sore body, caused a fluttering in his chest. It was hard, impossible really, to not think about you or your gentle care when you treated him so sweetly— and when all he wanted was for your lips to sink a bit lower and meet his. 

Daryl anticipated the guilt, the shame, of hoping that he could get away with interpreting your care as anything but friendly. Familiar. Perhaps it was his injured state, slipping back into consciousness after a long rest, or the painkillers he probably still had swimming through his system, but that feeling never came. Instead, he felt a rush, not of guilt, but something else. Something assured and positive. 

And it hit him, the memory of what had to be the result of blood loss and Hershel’s concoction of drugs. A dream he had in his recovery sleep that let him indulge in the hope of reciprocality. 

Or maybe he’d just gotten that desperate. 

Completely head over heels for you, he was at the mercy of his subconscious to imagine what he yearned for; where he could confess to you, free of plaguing insecurity and self-doubt, and kiss you like he wanted. It was a good dream, he thought, one he might hold onto for a good while. 

Hershel came by and left, clearing Daryl from bedrest so long as he took it easy. Daryl mumbled an agreement, but both he and the older man knew it would be broken in a day at most. 

But for now, he sat in the guard tower with you, watching over the rest of the group as they moved around the field and courtyard completing various tasks. Keeping watch seemed like Daryl’s best chore right now. Despite already sticking by his side for the entire two days he was out— according to Hershel— you decided your order of rest from Rick would still be best spent with Daryl. 

When you weren’t watching him back, Daryl stole glances at you, his heart beating even quicker than normal at the sight of your irresistible smile and alluring eyes. He wondered how smooth your lips really were. In his sleep, it’d felt like the softest kiss possible, like you thought he might break under the pressure. But if he really kissed you, right now, perhaps, would it be that light? Chapped, smooth, whatever– he didn’t care, because he’d be kissing you, and that would be all that mattered.

Glancing up at the bright blue sky, he looked away for a moment of thought. He remembered how certain he’d felt in his confession. Of course, now he was still plagued by the usual insecurities and awkwardness that haunted him, unlike in his subconscious world, but he thought that he could be brave enough to make up for it. 

You deserved that, he decided. Even if you didn’t feel the same, his dream-self was more of the man he wanted to be than this boy who could barely form a coherent sentence around you. If his time on this world was limited, the wound on his side was a definite reminder, he needed to be the man you deserved. Reciprocated or not.

Daryl wasn’t necessarily proud of it, but at least fifteen minutes of silence passed before he finally told you, “Y’know, I get if ya feel bad ‘bout me takin’ tha’ bullet, but ya shouldn’t— ya shouldn’t feel bad ‘cause, uh, ya mean a lot to me, n’ I’d do it again if it woulda kept ya safe.” 

“I know.” 

Daryl’s brow furrowed at your steady demeanour. 

“Ya know?”

“Mhm,” you smiled, looking along the prison field without much concern for the confession that’d taken him relentlessly denying his feelings for months, getting shot, laying in that damn bed for two days, and having some drug-induced dream about you to finally admit out loud.

He inhaled, watching your eyes flutter between the distant figures of the group. Daryl would have admired your sense of certainty and calm, especially in a world as chaotic as this, but right now it served as a frustrating reminder that he needed to be clearer in what he meant. Of course you’d assume he’d do the same for anyone in the group— because he would. 

But you were different. 

“I don’t wan’ ya to get hurt. I don’t wan’ anythin’ bad to happen to ya. Ever. Couldn’t live with myself if…”

“I feel the same. I thought you knew that.” You reached for his hand. 

Almost speechless by the adoring smile on your lips and the way your hand fit in his, he stumbled over his words, “Ya— I— goddamn it,” he groaned softly, but in his mind screamed to get himself together already and get your mind outta the damn friend-zone. 

He sighed, feeling your fingers begin to rub the back of his palm. 

“‘M sorry, jus’ ain’t never been good at talkin’.” 

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” you smirked. He didn’t miss the way your eyes flickered to his lips, but he didn’t understand why you’d grown so affectionate and downright flirty with him. 

Maybe he should’ve taken a bullet for you months ago. 

He thought about the similar sense of certainty he had in his little dream. The way he’d told you, under the soft glow of lantern light, that you meant most to him in this world. 

How did he phrase it again? Oh, right. 

“Yer different to me,” he echoed from memory, “I don’t mean I care for ya like I do ‘em. I care for ya.” He watched as your expression shifted into what seemed like an intrigued perk of your smile. The sight brought a swell of hope within his chest, and he leaned in a little, as if to coax it out of you, “Y’know wha’ I mean now, right?” 

Then you laughed. 

In a second, Daryl’s face had fallen into a scowl at the embarrassing rejection. Then, in an equally quick manner, you pressed yourself up to him. Your hand slipped out of his, resting in the hair at the back of his head and sinking into a gentle, but strong kiss. It wasn’t like the light, barely there one he’d dreamed of. There was something else released into it, like you had let go of all hesitancy. Like kissing him was normal. 

When the shock wore off, he kissed you back, of course. His hands reached to your waist— no hips would be better– as he let his finger ever so slightly trace your curve. Just as he was thinking if he should reach up to hold your cheek, maybe brush his thumb against your skin so he could gently deepen the kiss, you pulled back. Loosely hanging off your grip around his shoulders, the smile that lit the mouth he’d just been caressing was worth the premature end. 

“Did you hit your head when you fell?” you asked, and eyed him carefully.

“Nah?”

You leaned in close again, placing a quick peck at his lips once more before he noticed the shift in your eye. That same one you got when you caught Maggie and Glenn sharing whispered giggles, or Carl sneaking one of the last candy bars in all of Georgia into his cell. 

“You told me this last night, Dixon. Almost word for word.” 

— 

“Thought I was dead n’ in hell, seein’ tha’ ugly thing again.” 

Your head snapped up from Daryl’s bloody forearm in your hands. His eyes were open now, but his head was still tilted, his cheek pressed against the pillow. You followed his line of sight, recognizing the heavily stained strips of the once ridiculously brightly coloured shirt. 

“You’re not,” you scoffed, blinking away the small tears of relief pooling in your eyes. 

“I know.” A dopey smile grew on his face, the sight a stark contrast to his typical shyness, “A woman like ya… ya’d never be in my hell.” 

“Who knew getting shot would make you such a flirt, Dixon?” 

“I ain’t. Jus’ the truth.” 

The bashful smile that tugged at your lips almost distracted him from the pretty pink hue growing at your cheeks. Almost. 

Daryl watched as you continued to wipe the drying cloth along his arms, where his blood was splattered and dried. You asked him how he felt, and he mumbled some kind of response. Too drugged up to reign in his thoughts, he was overwhelmingly distracted by the feeling of your fingertips brushing along his forearms. Every time you passed over a spot with the cloth, your warmth presented a stark contrast from the tepid dripping sensation down his arms. He spoke up when you finally pulled the cloth back to wet it again.

“Why ya so sweet to me, anyway?”

Despite the murky water, your fingers froze beneath the surface for a moment, until you blinked again, as if to regain consciousness. You wrung out the stained cloth, pressing gently into his palm, still working at the dried blood.

“Why’d you take a bullet for me?” you whispered, finally meeting his unfiltered gaze. 

“Ya coulda died” 

“You could have too.” 

“I’d die for ya.” 

You sharply inhaled and almost dropped his hand. 

“You— why— why would you do that?” 

“Jus’ the way it is,” his endearing tone and the way his fingers began to dip into your palm chipped away at your frustration, fueled by fear. 

“Always the hero,” you gave a bittersweet smile as you brushed his hair away from his eyes, “we’re all so lucky to have you.” 

“Nah,” he shook his head at your implication, then settled into your touch again, “ya don’t get it. Ya never did.” 

Your brow furrowed. 

“For someone so damn smart, ya sure can be dense,” he chuckled, and your eyes softened for a second at the noise. 

How many painkillers had Hershel given him? 

“Its different wit’ ya. I don’t care for ya like I do ‘em. Yer different to me.” 

“Different?” 

“Mhm.”

Then, in the way he looked between your now intertwined hands to your face again, you caught it. A loud look of certainty and a hint of anticipation behind his heavy eyes. The pace of your heartbeat picked up and before you could question his meaning again, he pulled his hand from yours to brush away a stray hair. Like you had to him, just moments earlier. 

The movement was gentle, but lacked the calculated and maybe even hesitant tension that usually followed when Daryl touched you— the rare occasion. This was clumsy. If his fingers hadn’t only lingered against the warmth of your skin, he might’ve poked your eye instead. 

“Ya ain’t like anythin’ I seen ‘fore,” he mumbled your name, like it was the simplest thing in the world. It almost made you feel ashamed, to have missed something that seemed so obvious– according to him. 

“Daryl?” 

“Mhm?” he hummed again, but the smile from before had slipped away. Your attention lifted to his eyes instead, almost shocked at the way they seemed so innocent when his words had been nothing but. 

“Do you feel okay?” 

He nodded slowly, and you thought you might’ve imagined the way his sight flickered to your lips before settling back on your eyes. 

A soft knock at the doorway broke your gaze on the injured man. Maggie stood at the dark entrance, the reach of the lantern barely flickered across her face, but you didn’t miss the way her smile curved with a hint of mischief. Briefly, you wondered how long she’d been standing there— and how long she’d tease you for whatever she heard. 

“Rick needs ya, jus’ for a minute.” 

You nodded and turned back to Daryl, anticipating she’d slipped back into the darkness of the prison block, leaving you alone again. When your eyes settled back on him, a familiar sense of longing came over you. No doubt worsened by his endearing words. 

Then he groaned, a deep rumble erupting from his chest, “Stop.” 

At his demand, your posture straightened, “What? What’s wrong?” 

“Damn, always lookin’ at me like tha’. How do ya expect me not to take a bullet for ya.” 

You laughed when you realized the groan was out of dramatics, not pain.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m different for ya, too,” the obvious roll of his eyes reminded you of the drugs pumping through him to make him act so carefree, “don’t ya know it's cruel to give a man false hope.”

Your gaze softened. The shift was so clear, you almost felt the way your eyes began to overflow with a deep look of admiration– or maybe it was the small tears collecting in your eyes. Regardless, you shook your head at him, but with his eyes slowly falling more and more from exhaustion, he hadn’t noticed.

“It’s not.” 

“It is,” he drawled, characteristically stubborn. 

“No,” you chuckled, “no— I mean, it’s not false hope, Daryl. You’re different for me, too.” 

He squinted, “Ya screwin’ wit’ me?” 

You reached to raise the blanket across his body from his chest down, placing a quick kiss on his forehead before speaking a soft but adamant, “No.”

His eyes stayed open long enough to watch you pull back,“Ya sure?”

You smiled, “Yes,” and leaned down once more to place maybe the softest and sweetest of kisses possible to his lips, shutting him up entirely, before you muttered a goodnight and slipped into the dark beyond his cell. As if your moment of affection was a lullaby, Daryl slipped into another type of darkness.

—

You raised your eyebrows, expectantly, as the words sunk in, “Must’ve been some pretty strong painkillers. You were kind of… forward, considering how you are.” 

He could only scoff, but the heat at his cheeks and your smirk told him he was blushing something fierce, “Thought I dreamed tha’. Ya kissin’ me. All a’ it.” 

“You weren’t dreaming. But, if you want to pretend you were, maybe you can wake up and tell me again so I get more excuses to kiss you.”

“No. I wanna be real wit’ ya,” he brushed your cheek with the back of his knuckle, “but, I’ll tell ya over n’ over for the rest a’ my life, if that’d make ya happy.” 

You smiled against his lips, sinking into the subtlest touch before whispering against him, “As long as you’re here, Dixon, I’m happy.” 

—————————————————————————————

A/N: daryl rlly manifested that, huh!

if you’re reading this, thank you! I hope you enjoyed this fic. please feel free to leave feedback, it helps so much and I love to read it. have a lovely day <3

#daryl dixon x reader #Daryl x reader #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #Daryl Dixon twd #daryl dixon imagine #Daryl Dixon oneshot #Daryl Dixon fluff #Daryl Dixon angst #daryl dixon #Daryl Dixon / reader #daryl / reader #Daryl Dixon x you #daryl x you #twd daryl #twd #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead oneshot #the walking dead fluff #bro these r the worst part of posting LOL #madi writes

[a-writer-on-elm-street]

Who Do You Belong To?

Pairing: Negan x Fem!Reader

Summary: Negan fucks you against a wall. That's it. No plot whatsoever lol.

Warnings: Strong language, fingering, choking, rough sex, unprotected sex.

A/N: Think I'm starting to get the hang of this lol.

You could barely keep your eyes open as Negan curled his fingers inside of you, his beard scraping against your bare chest as he held you against the cold wall. You could feel his dick slapping up against your thigh with every thrust he made inside you with his fingers which sent jolts of pleasure through your body.

"Negan." You panted, throwing your head back against the wall as you struggled to catch your breath. "I need you...inside me."

"You gotta wait sweetheart." He growled as he pushed his fingers into you harder.

You couldn't even say anything back to him because heat was beginning to pool in your belly, your release getting close. All you could do was moan loudly when he dug his fingers deeper inside you, his mouth closing over your nipple.

Your entire body felt like it was on fire as you bucked into his hand, desperate for more friction. And when you finally came on his fingers, he slipped them out of you with ease, bringing them to your lips.

You moaned when he swiped his fingers over your bottom lip, coating your mouth in your release. You flashed him a smile before you took his fingers into your mouth, sucking them clean.

"That's my dirty girl." He smirked before you felt his cock finally brush against your folds. "You ready?"

You gave him a weak nod before feeling him push himself all the way into you, burying himself.

"God!" You cried out, your back arching off the wall as he stretched you out with his thick cock.

He let out a low chuckle before bringing his hand up to wrap around your throat, squeezing tightly as he started to move inside you.

You let out a strangled moan when he pulled almost all the way out of you before effortlessly sliding back in, his fingers still digging into your neck.

The sensation of his dick rubbing against your walls felt amazing, and it almost sent you over the edge when he kissed you and he groaned into your mouth.

You reached up to grip the back of his neck with your hand, your other hand lazily resting on his shoulder. And with each hard thrust he made inside you, you dug your fingernails deeper into his flesh, making him hiss in response.

"Who do you belong to?" Negan suddenly asked, his eyes filled with lust as he watched you.

When you didn't answer, he squeezed your throat tighter, cutting off your air.

"Who do you belong to?" He asked again, slapping his hips up harder against you making your head hit the wall.

"Negan!" You cried out, screwing your eyes shut as he continued to pound into you at a brutal pace. "I belong to Negan!"

"That's right." He said proudly, loosening his grip on your throat slightly as he slammed into you.

You could hear your body knocking against the wall as he pushed himself inside you, his cock beginning to hit that sweet spot deep inside you. He was watching you with a proud smirk as your face contorted with pleasure.

And it didn't take long for you to reach your release again as the fire began to burn hot in your stomach. Negan pushed into you one more time, making you cry out as you came around his cock.

He continued to fuck you through your high whilst chasing his own release. And when he finally stilled inside you, you could feel his warm release filling you as you both remained pressed against the wall together, your bodies slick with sweat as you breathed heavily.

Negan buried his head in your chest then, his beard scratching against the sensitive skin.

"Fuck." He groaned against your flesh. "That was fuckin' amazing."

[Main Masterlist] [Negan Masterlist]

TAGS: @neganswoman @scorpioempress

#negan smut #negan x reader smut #negan x reader #negan x fem!reader #negan x reader oneshot #negan #negan fanfic #negan twd #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead oneshot #the walking dead smut #twd #twd oneshot #twd fanfic #twd smut #jeffrey dean morgan

[maggierheeluverr]

SHE LOOKS STUNNINGGGGG💋💋💋

#maggie rhee #laurencohan #maggie rhee imagine #maggie rhee oneshot #the walking dead #the walking dead oneshot #maggie rhee x reader #dead city

[normanplusdaryl]

Back to black.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Era: Season 9

Word count: 2.5k

Plot: Daryl comes home after many years to face the consequences of his actions.

Warnings: ANGST, pure ANGST!

A/N: I've been wanting to write this shared idea I had with @finalgirlrick for a while now, I hope I can break your heart (affectionate).

@weretheones I couldnt done it without u, like always! Ily <3

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Daryl was in pain and he knew it.

He tried to ignore the pang running through the wound for several days but the burning sensation wouldn't cave in and the medical herbs were not being really helpful. 

Deep down he knew he needed help but somehow the idea of coming back to Alexandria stung more than the freshly cut on his face. 

The river flowed quiet and calm, leaving barely any trace of the storm that crashed hard the day before. With one knee on the ground, Daryl watched the water following the trail while contemplating his options. 

It’s been so long since he visited Alexandria. 

When he decided to follow the river in hopes to find Rick’s body he never thought it would take so long, until days, weeks and months passed by.  But he couldn't stop, the promise he made to Michonne drove his body incessantly. 

He would never admit it, but there were moments when a small part of his heart hoped the reason why he couldn't find a trace was because his brother was alive.

After many years, that hope slowly started to fade away. Every day became harsher, colder, more dangerous. Sometimes he just survived for instinct, not because he really wanted to.

Days like this were tougher, he could deal with some injury across his face but he wasn't sure how devastating it would be for him to come back home and face everything he left behind to pursue something he wasn't successfully accomplishing. 

He never let his mind ramble too much about what was going on back in Alexandria, he knew if he thought about it too much he wouldn't be able to resist dropping everything to go home, to Michonne, to Judith and RJ, to you.

The first years you visited him constantly, bringing food, blankets, fresh clothes or even weapons, anything that could help him out in the woods, trying to be close to him.

Still, that meant you were exposing yourself to the dangers of the path along the river. 

He knew you were capable of handling yourself out in the open but Daryl couldn't bear the thought of you being in danger trying to find him. This was his task and no one should suffer with him the consequences of his decision, especially you.

“It’s been years, Daryl, you need to take at least a break, come back home, we can think of a new strategy, maybe this time I could come with you and…”

“Just stop” Daryl spoke in a growl without letting you finish. —“Ya shouldn't be here”.

You sighed, you knew you were pushing some dangerous buttons but after so many times of the same conversation over and over, you needed to make sure he heard you.

“I understand Daryl, I really do, but we need you too, I need you.” you begged.

Daryl’s gaze was glued to the ground, paralyzed with the fear of catching your eyes, he knew if he looked at you nothing would stop him from finally hearing your pleas.

“I talked to Michonne, you know? and she isn't expecting you to fulfill the promise, she just wants you back home, we all do” you continued.

Usually, you could read him like a book but right now, you couldn't point out what was going through his mind.

“I… I…  dont think Rick would’ve wanted to see you like this either, Daryl”.

Daryl’s head snapped towards you. His face carried a trace of anger and sadness. 

“I’m never gonna stop looking” he finally said, his tone of voice lower than usual  — “This stops now, I never asked ya to be here”

The feeling of a thousand needles pinching through your body washed you over. You blinked twice, as fast as you could, trying to swipe away the tears that were forming in the corners of your eyes.

It took two long deep breaths for you to finally be able to speak.

“What does that mean Daryl?” you said almost in a whisper, afraid of an answer you already knew. 

Hell, you knew it from the moment that bridge exploded, your legs ran towards Daryl so fast to the sound of the dynamite invading the forest, by the time you got there the flames started to fade away, giving space to dark a fume that took over the sky. 

Your eyes searched everywhere for Daryl until you spotted him a few miles away, crossbow in hand. You yelled his name, twice, and when he finally turned to you, you knew, you could see it in his eyes, devastation consuming his body. Nothing would ever be the same from that moment but you loved him enough to fight and delay the inevitable for years, clinging to a hope that now was slipping right between your fingers.

Daryl took a step back, breaking your thoughts. He paced back and forward trying to gather the courage to speak.

“It means ya need to move on like I did” Daryl’s voice echoed in the silence of the quiet woods.

Daryl closed his eyes to the memory and sighed, that was the last time he saw you.

The way your face contorted with pain when he pronounced those words haunted his dreams almost every night. He knew he hurt you, and he regretted it everyday for the last couple of years.

Sometimes, he wondered if you could forgive him, maybe if he came back home and explained to you he never meant that, you’d take him into your arms like all those nights in the tiny basement of your house in Alexandria. 

His skin was burning, but inside his veins felt loaded with ice, making him shiver.

That wasn't a good sign. The fever was rising fast, shit, there wasn't another option, he needed to go now before he was too weak to make the ride. 

-

The guards of the guard tower recognized him immediately, the sound of the angry motor was something hard to ignore. “It's Daryl, let him in!” someone yelled from the inside.

Daryl drove through the gates giving them a thankful nod. Alexandria was different from the last time he was there, the community was thriving under Michonne’s leadership, they were not taking any new members for a long time now but still it felt bigger than usual. 

 “I thought I heard a bike” Aaron approached as soon as the doors closed behind him, extending his arms to give him a big hug.

“It’s been a while” Daryl squeezed his friend’s arm in response.

“It shouldn't be, this is your home too” Aaron gave him a sympathetic smile.

Home He might be back to the place he once called home but he knew the meaning of the term was gone the day he lost you.

“Jesus Daryl, that looks infected” Aaron broke the silence pointing to Daryl’s cut across his face.

“S’ not that bad” Daryl said as he shrugged.

Aaron’s expression changed as soon as he understood the reason behind his sudden visit, tension slowly invading his features.

“Daryl, I think we should talk before you go to the infirmary” Aaron’s tone of voice became serious. “Look, you probably don't know this but…”

“Daddy!” The sudden scream of a child interrupted the conversation. Both men followed the direction of the sound, finding a little girl walking towards them, pouting with fresh tears along her cheeks. 

“What happened sweetheart, are you okay?” Aaron took the little girl in his arms, swiping away the tiny drops. “I’m sorry, let me take her home so we can talk” he frowned — “Don't move, I’ll be back in a minute”.

Daryl nodded watching his friend leave, confused by his words and sudden change of demeanor.

Once the residents spotted him he felt exposed. People greeted him with surprise, some of them came forward to ask him how he was doing while others just stared, clearly unaware of who he was.

Anxiety took the best of him, the chances of running into you were high the longer he stayed there, he thought it was for the best if he could sneak in, get his antibiotics and leave before you notice. 

He owed you at least that.

The small white house came into his sight, pots full of flowers carefully placed following the road to the stairs. His heart raced when he recognized which kind they were: tulips, your favorite ones.

The curtains on the window were open, leaning on the corner outside the door he peeked inside in hopes to see Siddiq there, but what he saw made him freeze, feeling every inch of his skin electrified. 

You were there.

Time didn't seem to pass by you cause he could’ve sworn you looked the same as the last time he saw you, except the pony tail you used to wear everyday was gone, and your hair looked shorter. He smiled recalling how many times you complained about being too long for the damn summer. 

God, he missed you. 

Daryl endured a lot of things down the river, but being away from you was the hardest one.

After your discussion in the woods, he made himself a promise. To make it through, he could never allow himself to think of you. Not because he didn't want to but because he was certain he wouldn't survive if he did it. 

All the feelings he captured inside him all these years were coming out in waves, leaving him in a daze. He wanted to leave, this wasn't what he was planning on, but Daryl felt hypnotized. He drank you in, memorizing for one last time every corner of your beautiful face. 

Siddiq’s frame appeared next to yours, whispering something in your ear that made you chuckle. The scene had a hint of intimacy hidden in the way you both looked at eachother. 

And then, Siddiq’s hands took your waist, pulling you closer to him, until the distance between your bodies disappeared. He placed one kiss on your forehead followed by another one on your lips and you smiled at the action.

Oh

That's why Aaron wanted to talk to him first.

Daryl’s breathing hitched. No, no, no.

Siddiq looked different from the last time Daryl saw him, older, more mature and he could’ve sworn even taller.

He looked like the happiest man on earth. Daryl couldn't blame him, once he felt like that too.

He took your hand giving it one last kiss before waving goodbye, Daryl’s eyes were glued to the action, feeling a strange sense of relief once he left the room.

He didn't know how long he stood there in front of the door but he couldn't move, it felt like the strength from the earth was nailing him to the wooden deck, immobilizing his body.  Everything hurt, if the fever didn't kill him this certainly would.

Immerse in his thoughts he missed the sound of your steps approaching the door, you opened it before he could make a move.

“Da.. Daryl?!” your eyes widened at him. — “What are you doing here?!”

The shock of having you suddenly so close left him flabbergasted, he remained silent feeling the lump on his throat getting bigger, words couldn't physically come out of his mouth.

Your eyes scanned him, you knew Daryl and the only reason he would come back was if he was dangerously injured.

His skin looked pale, and the bags under his eyes were starting to have a purple look but what really concerned you, was the swollen massive cut across his right eye.

You brought your hand towards his forehead, he was burning.

“Oh my god! Come in, come in." — " We need to take care of that, it’s already infected” you rushed him in as fast as you could.

Daryl nodded, still unable to talk.

Sitting on the stretcher Daryl watched your trained hands hurriedly clean up his wound, the smell of your sweet perfume captivated his nostrils every time you leaned over to apply some ointment. He hummed inwardly with delight, even as you were trying to be really careful to not hurt him further, he couldn't feel a thing, his mind was consumed in the sensation of your delicate touch.

“Here, you need to take one in the morning before eating, make sure to have something in your stomach, please” you softly said while giving him a bottle of pills.

“Ya sure don't need this?” guilt pang him, he was strong, two pills would do the trick, he didn't need more.

“Don't fight me, please?, I know what I’m doing” you scolded him tittling your head.

“Yeah, I know” Daryl’s voice came out almost in a whisper.

The tension in the air was palpable, filled with a thousand emotions. There was so much history between the two of you, even if you weren't together now, both of you knew you would always love and care for each other to the end.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were afraid you’d faint right there. You knew you would see Daryl again, sure, but not like this, not after Siddiq just left. 

It took a long time before you could feel like yourself again, days and sleepless nights wondering for years why you weren't enough. Sometimes you would go outside the gates of Alexandria determined to search for him and talk, beg for him to take you back, to love you again. But his words rang loud in your head whenever you approached near the river “It means ya need to move on like I did”.

“M’ sorry” Daryl broke the cruel silence. “I didn't knew”

You closed your eyes, facing the window, unable to look at his face. It was crazy how deep down the feelings you had for him still burned like fire, hearing the sound of his voice made your heart race, attempting to jump out of your chest.

“Are ya happy?” Daryl continued, standing from the stretcher walking over to you. — “I need to know”.

You were happy indeed. Siddiq brought something different in you, a version you enjoyed. His love was calm, easy, steady, exactly what you needed after so much time alone feeling pity for yourself. A breath of fresh air for your drowning soul. 

Sure, it wasn't the fervent passionate love you felt for Daryl, but it was enough to make you happy.

“I am” you simply answered. “And I hope you found the peace you were looking for”.

Daryl nodded, trying to keep himself together. He was truly glad you were happy but the sorrow he felt knowing he wasn't the reason behind overwhelmed him. 

He couldn't blame you. You fought hard for many years to be close to him but the grief blinded him until it was too late. He told you to move on, so you did. It wasn't that hard to understand.

“Thank ya for the medicine and everythin’, angel.” he managed to answer.

Your head buzzed at those words, it took all of your strength to not run into his arms.

“Daryl, I…” you mumbled, hugging yourself afraid of falling apart into pieces. 

Wishing he was a better man, Daryl walked towards the door crushed by the reality he was facing. He raised his eyes to yours for one last time.

“My heart will always belong to ya.” Daryl pronounced before crossing the frame of the front door, landing every word right inside your aching heart.

You watched him leave wondering if you were making a mistake, but fully aware that right now, there was nothing you could do.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon the walking dead #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon reader #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon you #the walking dead imagine #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead daryl dixon #daryl dixon x you #the walking dead oneshot #twd fanfiction #daryl fixon fanfiction #norman reedus #norman reedus x reader #daryl dixon smut #twd smut #norman reedus smut #daryl dixon fanfic smut

[haruhey]

It’s Not Enough Anymore

check out my masterlist!

Word count: 3.3k

Angst | Follows the events of Season 7, episode 1: A Day Will Come When You Won’t Be | Thank you to @belatalbotgf and @dxrylswalker for betaing

Everything that could go wrong goes wrong.

or

A full-throttle dive into the Negan plotline after avoiding it forever. 

It wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

When you went out, the only goal in mind to get Maggie to a doctor because she looked so sick and so fucking pale, it wasn’t supposed to end up like this.

Abraham wasn't-

Gravel digs into the knees of your sweatpants, the blaring lights blinding you into deafness, and the throbbing in your head is accompanied by a scorching numbness down your cheeks. You look a mess. You feel it, too - a mess of tears, of sweat, of shaking limbs and bloodshot eyes - but everyone does. Knelt here, in front of these people, everyone you care about and have cared about is a mess.

The only ones who don’t are too familiar with the warfare hung at the tip of this asshole’s bat. 

You can barely hear Sasha whimpering to your left as you watch each swing - your own sobs threatening to bubble up from your throat and rip past the quiver of your lips. The rush and deflate of adrenaline making your head feel like cotton - and even though you want to, you can’t look away. Abraham’s head is pulp battered into the ground, some of his blood running almost black against the shine of headlights as streams of it map down whatever is left of his neck, and you hate the gait of the man in front of you.

Negan twirls his bat then, too carefree and too jovial, and in a second, something hits you. It’s warm, the streak of it marking across your forehead and gathering where your eyebrows furrow, and it takes a second before you realize what it is.

It’s Abraham.

It’s his fucking blood.

You can’t even will yourself to move and wipe it off. The second Negan opens his mouth, you freeze, each neuron in your body refusing to fire as your chest tightens up again. Hands balled up against the middle of your thighs, you think you can feel your fingernails through the layer of fabric you’re clenching, Your head drops, the shock holding your eyes open finally slinking away, and fat teardrops wet your knuckles, blurring your vision.

Maybe it’s for the best, the fact you can’t see through the haze of your own torment.

But you can hear him. You can hear him move. He walks away from you, the crunch of gravel sounding with each step, and you whip your head in his direction when it stops.

No.

Rosita.

It’s frantic, the way you wipe away your tears, liquid coating the flesh of your thumb, and when they come into your view, they’re red, a sick mixture with Abraham’s blood painting wet on them. Bile rises from your stomach to replace your swallowed-down scream, and the mortified look on Rosita’s face haunts you from across the lineup.

He just took one or six or seven for the team, Negan taunts, so take a damn look.

His voice sounds like scratching, like rope burn against an open cut and the twist of a dull knife.

So take a damn look.

Then it all happens so fast; the spring of a bulky figure rising to his feet, the hard right hook he lands on Negan, and the only person you could think of with enough courage and stupidity to be that fucking headstrong is-

“Daryl-“

Your throat is dry, the length of it feeling cracked from breathing in the miserable midnight air, and his name barely even comes out above a whisper. Your body surprises you with the way it moves - an inch, maybe, your knees driving your upper body forward - but you know you can’t get to him.

Even if you could, what would you do?

It’s not the forest he knows like the back of his hand. It’s not some abandoned warehouse or apartment building you and Daryl were assigned to scavenge. It’s not digging out a bullet he took a little too close to the femoral artery. You know this. After all that’s happened, how could you not?

The two of you against the world, it just isn’t enough.

Not anymore.

But it doesn’t stop you from moving, your shoulders sitting past your knees as the skin on your palms rip from the jagged rocks on the ground. It’s stupidity that fuels you. It must be. Daryl’s misplaced courage and his overwhelming stupidity must have rubbed off on you, but you’re not as headstrong as him.

In the same way it had propelled you forward, your body stops you, freezing you rigid as Negan’s men tackle him to the ground. You hear him then, another twist of the blade as he yells his disapproval towards Daryl, but then you hear him chuckle - watch him amble in a circle and crouch down to where his people are holding Daryl down - and you’re terrified.

This is the end.

A man comes running out of the crowd then, half his face burnt and a mop of thin blond hair, and it doesn’t take long for you to realize the crossbow he’s holding is Daryl’s. You know that crossbow - you’ve held it and laughed when Daryl watched you miss the practice targets, felt the sore weight of it in your arms as you became accustomed to its draw, took it apart and cleaned it when he broke his finger tinkering with his bike - and you’ve saved his life with it more than once since the prison.

But it’s just a crossbow, no matter how much it means in your hands or Daryl’s, and the man holds it as such, pointing it at Daryl’s head as if he was an animal meant to be put down.

He looks it, swollen eyes darting around and held to the ground, a hand pulling his hair like he’s meant to be inspected. 

Your blood runs cold as you watch, helpless and shrinking while Negan toys around with Daryl’s fate in his head, and the only thing you can do is hope and pray to a god you’re not sure even exists that Daryl will come out of this alive. 

But then Negan says no, and it takes you aback, a relief washing over you as he gets dragged back between Rosita and Michonne, but it doesn’t last long. The second Negan starts up again - a hand on his hlp and a gesture of his bat - there’s no relief to be found anywhere. 

The first one’s free, then what did I say?

It torments, his tongue, dancing along weighted syllables.

I need you to know me

You feel it crush your lungs, and it steals your ability to breathe, the implications of his words dawning on you.

He’s going to kill someone else.

He’s going to kill someone else and he’s going to make you watch.

Again.

In a split second, he turns, his back to you as he lifts his bat, and though it happens so quick, time stands still.

You hear Glenn’s skull crack on the first swing, and you physically recoil. The second one makes you sob, and you’re sure it’s not him, but the force of Negan’s swings makes it feel like the ground is shaking. You wish it was. You wish the earth would tear apart and swallow you into it whole. You wish anything would just happen so you wouldn’t have to just sit and watch and listen.

Negan taunts. All he fucking does is taunt and taunt and taunt. He laughs and patronizes and leans in close as if fascinated by the blood rushing down Glenn’s face and the eyeball popped out of his socket. He plasters on fake concern, a fake apology lining his lips as if he felt any semblance of actual remorse for his actions while Glenn gathers the last bit of coherence he can to talk to Maggie, but he can’t fool anyone.

Each time he brings his bat down, it’s an ever-present ringing in your ear. Again, again and again - laughing, laughing and laughing.

You can’t be here.

It feels like a nightmare, but each time you breathe, you can feel a breeze on your wrist, the arms propping you up falling and surrendering your weight to your forearms instead. No matter how much you try to convince yourself this isn’t real, each broken puff of air reminds you it is.

So you close your eyes.

You rest your forehead on your stubborn wrist and close your eyes and hope that if you just blinked hard enough, you’d wake up. That this, this would stop.

It doesn’t. It doesn’t stop because it’s not how reality works.

But he does. Eventually, when his arms tire and there’s nothing left that you can recognize as Glenn, Negan stops, his voice straightening you back into a sit.

You were supposed to watch, and you’re terrified of what would happen if he had caught you.

Even after he stops, reprieve doesn’t come. The smell of metal lingers in the air, stinging your nose and making your skin crawl, and the only thing you can hear are the sobs ripping through Maggie’s throat. It’s muffled at first, the water you’d felt like you were under ebbing away, your brain returning to you as if it had shut off to keep you from even conceptualizing what you’d just seen, but its efforts can’t stop you from replaying every single goddamn thing.

Time drags on forever, drawing the sun up from under the horizon and painting a haze of fog over the trees, and exhaustion pulls at you. You’re in a limbo, teetering on the edge of fatigue and anxiety-induced restlessness. Your arms have long since forced themselves into a rest - somewhere between Rick getting into that RV and the overwhelming waves of nausea - but you’d long since given up on trying to control your body.

It’s your head that you need to control.

Because you keep seeing Negan’s first swing - keep seeing Abraham brace for it - and you can feel his blood on your forehead.

Then it’s Glenn, the crack of his skull and the twitch of his lifeless body.

Then it’s everyone.

You watch it happen to Rick, to Michonne. You watch it happen to Eugene, to Sasha, to Aaron and to Carl. It’s so vivid behind your eyelids that you’re not even sure what’s real anymore. You want to scream into the gravel just to feel the raw tear of it at your throat, but you can’t find the power to do it. You’re not even sure you can lift your neck from the way it falls limp toward your chest. 

Steadying your breath, you clench your fingers to force blood to return to them as you hear the engine run closer, and you pull your arms up from underneath you, lifting your head. Your breath is trapped in your lungs as you watch the RV roll in, your gaze passing brain matter and guts before it’s stuck on the front door. Rick’s been gone for hours by now, and you’re not sure if he’s even still in there.

The door swings open then, slamming against the side of the truck before Rick’s thrown out of it. You swallow hard at the way he hits the ground, shoulder first and dazed in a way that you can’t find any words to describe. Negan comes soon after, a nonchalance in his swagger before he picks Rick up by the collar, and the way he drags him across the gravel punches up into your chest.

Rick’s struggling to keep up - to find his bearings - but he never does, palms breaking against the ground for some semblance of balance and a panicked look on his face. He lands that way too, on shaking knees while Negan spews another monologue, the same twist, twist, twist of that dull knife returning to you. 

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Rick like this - this defeated. 

There was always a drive in him to accomplish. He needed it to continue. It drove everything he’s ever done to show Carl that there was a whole future out there that was possible, but that drive in him is slowing, almost speeding to a stop.

He’s weak on his arms as his eyes dart around him, all of you listening as Negan just keeps talking and talking and talking. You hate the sound of his voice, but you find yourself wishing that it was all he would do. If he just talked then he wouldn’t be able to really do anything.

It’s all hope, though. All useless hope because it doesn’t take long for him to gesture with a gloved hand and for a cacophony of subservient triggers to sound behind you. You can feel cold metal lingering just an inch from the back of your head, and you bite your lip until it bleeds when Negan calls Carl up.

Michonne tries. Even through her tracks of tears and her quivering voice, she tries to reason with Negan, but nothing gets through to him. Rick knows already. Rick understands - probably better than anyone, you want to scream it out to him - but you know it won’t do anything. So you keep your mouth shut and fight the pool at the corner of your eyes as you avert your gaze for your own safety, the hopelessness in you churning and churning into something more explosive.

Nothing messy, clean, 45 degrees. Give us something to fold over.

God, does he ever just fucking shut up?

Rick’s begging easily cuts through your thoughts, crying and pleading for it to be him - for it to be him and please not Carl - but Negan berates him, screaming and yelling so loud it sends you into yourself, flinching away and trying to get as far from them as possible. Your head knocks against the gun behind you and there’s a forceful push to your head to get it back to where it was, and the air around you sears your lungs as he counts down.

It’s some sick game for him, you know it is, and all you want is for it to be over.

Metal slides against rock a few beats after Negan’s one, and though you’re not even looking in Rick and Carl’s direction, you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the squelch of sliding flesh and the sharp thunk of it meeting bone.

It never comes, though.

Thank God it never comes, but when you look back, there’s nothing in Rick’s eyes. As Negan yells at him and chastises him, there’s nothing but surrender and yielding. The drive is gone, replaced by an all-consuming fear of what’s next, and your stomach is unrelenting in the knots it twists.

All you can do is hope that it’s over - that you’ll be able to carry Abraham and Glenn back to Alexandria and give them a proper burial - but, there’s an odd feeling within you. While Rick’s fire is gone, yours is sparking, kindling alight. You’re exhausted, the fatigue weaving into your joints and the fibers of your muscles, but something swims volatile within it, too. 

Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s determination and fury and resentment mixing together and settling in the night that’s passed. You’re not sure. All you know is that it’s consuming you, burning away at your numbness and your hopelessness. 

It powers you enough to finally lift your eyes and drag them over everyone else. They look the same way you do, tracks down their cheeks and shoulders slumped, empty eyes and shaking breaths, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at Maggie. You can hear the way her sobs linger in her throat, and even if you try to force a glance, you’re scared you’ve cried all your tears and something inhumane will come up instead.

Please, just let this be over.

And it almost is. God fucking damn it, it almost is, but nothing good’s happened today.

Why would it change now?

Why would you hold on to that idiotic idea?

Negan calls a name then, a familiar one - the burn stamped to his flesh flushing up the memory of the crossbow pointed at Daryl’s head - and just as his arms loop underneath Daryl’s, the streak of red down his open chest blurs in your vision.

No. No, he can’t-

Despite everything - despite your shaking legs and your burning lungs - you lunge for Daryl as he kicks at the ground in a frantic attempt to secure his footing. Blood still lingers on your palms from the last time your body acted before your brain, and you realize, no, this is the stupidity. This is that dangerous mix of Daryl that you must have picked up, but it’s not just him. It’s also desperation.

Desperation not to lose him. Desperation not to feel alone again.

No, no, no - they took Abraham, they took Glenn - you’re not sure if you could handle-

“Daryl!”

There’s a grab of your shoulder then, pulling back with such force that it knocks you down to your side, a kick to your rib rattling through your torso, and you don’t have the energy to fight the pain searing through you. They’re too strong and you’re too drained, thick soles of hiking shoes and steel-toed boots digging hard against your bones, and the ground’s sharp rocks indent your skin as if to humiliate you further.

“No! Get off’a-”

They hold you down by the hem of your shirt and by the collar of your jacket as Daryl yells, his shoulders jolting against the hands on him with the same desperation yours are. He’s never had someone like you - everything that was good and could still be good, he believed in them because, even though he fought it, your stupid smile twisted his pessimism and tore it into hope - and he can’t be the reason you’re gone too.

It’s barely a scuffle - it takes no time for the two of you to be overpowered, both of you held in clammy, trigger-happy hands - and you watch from the ground as Daryl’s thrown into the car, hunched over and shifting on his feet as if waiting for an opening.

It never comes. His crossbow is pointed almost mockingly at him, and when the doors pull shut, there’s no proof he was ever there except the ground where he was knelt. The pebbles that once lied even now piled up around the clearing his knees had made. 

They don’t let you up until Negan’s done talking, something about liking Daryl and how Rick shouldn’t try anything unless he wanted him back in pieces taunting you in the back of your mind. When they finally let you go, they look down at you with nothing but duty in their eyes - an upturn of disgust on their lips - and there’s no remorse to be found anywhere on their faces.

To them, you’ll never be anything more than a nuisance. Nobody here could be, Negan made sure of it. You could barely even be considered a threat in the state you’re in, your cheeks stained with dried tracks and your hair streaking down your forehead from cold sweat. No, to them, you’re a chore.

They look at you and can smell the hopelessness permeating your body and swimming through your veins if they even cared to linger for more than a fleeting glance, but after they load back into the trucks and peel out, leaving you to pick up each piece of yourself and wipe away the haze of tears and bruises and blood with your trembling hands, something new settles within you.

Finally, anger comes, rooting deep in your chest. It burns through your blood and shakes each breath.

They took Abraham - they took Glenn - there’s no way in hell you’ll let them take Daryl, too.

#haruwrites #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon angst #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead daryl dixon #daryl dixon x you #the walking dead oneshot #twd

[ruewrote]

𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒.

PAIRING: daryl dixon x fem!reader WARNINGS: daryl is injured GENRE: angst, fluff SONG INSPIRATION: war of hearts by ruelle WORD COUNT: 771

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your heart sank to the bottom of your chest when you first heard the yells at the front gate, was it walkers? was it people? what’s going on?

chucking your gardening gloves to the soil, pushing yourself closer to the commotion, that’s when you saw a very bloodied daryl draped over jerry's shoulders.

bruised and deep cuts were scattered over him, he was barely standing as they struggled over to the infirmary. the sounds of the shouts echoed quieter until all you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears as you rushed over to be some sort of help.

thump. thump. thump.

tears filled your eyes as he was gently pushed to lay down on the gurney, grunting as they did so.

people pushing past you to get what they needed, it was only when the door had slammed shut you realised that you had been pushed out.

with sidiq getting to work on his injuries there was nothing to do but sit around and wait, so with shaky legs you brought yourself to sit down on the bench taking a deep breath in, pushing your hair up into a makeshift ponytail before letting it drop to your shoulders.

your heart full of anxiety, head full of worry.

what if this time it was all just too much for his body to handle?

you waited impatiently outside of the make shift medical building, biting your nails whilst your leg bounced up and down. people were worried, for him and for you.

aaron was on the run with him explaining the situation. it didn't make you feel better whatsoever, but you appreciated his honesty as he got up and left you with your thoughts.

it was now getting dark when the door had swung open, there stood the former medic with a smile that gave you some sort of hope as you made your way into the room, eyes landing on the wounded man in the bed in the far left corner.

he was calm, he almost looked peaceful. the pain must’ve knocked it out of him, examining his injuries as you sat down in the chair beside him, lightly holding onto his bruised hand.

without a word sidiq left you two alone, shutting the door behind him. that’s when you actually got a good look at him and god you felt awful.

he had a row of butterfly stitches starting at his eyebrow down to his upper cheek bone, if only i had gone with him this wouldn't have happened.

eyes filling with tears as you rested your forehead onto his bed, you sat there for a good ten minutes just crying into his side, thinking about the 'what ifs' or 'buts'.

"ya better not be crying over me." his voice was low and raspy but was most definitely there, immediately lifting your head to look up at him and that was when a sense of relief washed over you.

closing your eyes, whilst bringing your intertwined hands closer to you, biting your lip not letting the sob in the back of your throat out.

"oh that c-could never be me, no way." he tried to sit up but let out a loud grunt which made you softly push on his chest for him to lay back down again.

with the little strength he had he agreed, settling into the sheets below him. "you had me worried dixon. there's gonna be a day that your body's not gonna be able to keep on taking these beatings!"

your eyes strayed from his face as you scolded him, worried that you wouldn't be able to keep up this tough façade if you looked deep into his beautiful blue eyes.

that was until you felt his palm cup your cheek, his thumb on your chin tilting your head to look at him, "didn't know you'd get s'worried about me," he mumbled as his thumb traced up over to the edge of your bottom lip, stroking it slightly.

"i always worry about you. even if i know you're safe i worry about you, guess you just have that effect on me." the little space between the two of you was making it hard for you to breathe, the way his eyes were flickering between your eyes and your lips was making your mind run wild.

"is that the only effect i have on ya?"

you leant even closer, your lips hovering over his. your hand trailed up to the side of his neck, "no." that's when you had finally allowed your lips to connect.

and oh god was it worth the wait.

© ruewrote.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon oneshots #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon imagines #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon fanfics #twd #twd x reader #twd oneshot #twd oneshots #twd imagine #twd imagines #twd fanfic #twd fanfics #the walking dead #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead oneshot #the walking dead oneshots #the walking dead imagine #the walking dead imagines #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead fanfics #x reader #oneshot #oneshots #imagine #imagines #fanfic

[thatdamnmutt-exe]

Crave - Carl Grimes

Summary: nothing to say much here other than the fact that i wanna write a cute lil imagine of a cute lil make out with carl grimes bc i’m deeply in love with him.  Pairing: Carl Grimes x Male! OC Word Count: 660 Setting: Takes place in the prison Warnings: Cute fluff, some NSFW content, getting caught Extra: Carl and Remington are aged up to 16

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            “I want your love, I can't get enough.                    Feel so far above, oo, baby.”

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remington and carl have been in a relationship for around 3 months now, and let’s just say they had a hard time keeping their hands to themselves. 

every chance they were alone, their lips enjoyed the presence of the other while their hands roamed free on each other, never getting enough. the hunger for the other was just too strong to stop.

the two kept their relationship a secret from the rest, unsure if they’d accept them for being gay or just being in a relationship in general because ‘they’re young’. 

the two boys sat in remington’s cell that was in the top right corner at the very end, the farthest cell from the others. carl suggested they sleep in that cell tonight in hopes it would give them more privacy. 

remington was laying on top of carl, his hips on either side of carl’s as he grinded slightly against him. one of carl’s hands roamed the bottom half of remington’s body, moving up from his ass to the dip of his back. he throughly enjoyed the way remington arched just from his touch. his other hand was tangled in his boyfriend’s hair, tugging on it slightly. 

remington’s hands had carl’s shirt pulled up to his neck while his hands roamed his chest, playing with his nipples along the way which earned a muffled groan from the boy under him. 

carl pulled remington’s hair a bit more harshly so then he could have access to the boy’s throat. he nipped and sucked on along remington’s collar bone, enjoying the little mewls that left his lips. 

“mmm, carl, you’re lips feel so good.” remington whimpered, closing his eyes and getting lost in the pleasure. 

“god you’re so fucking pretty. i love you body and how you respond to my touch, i love the pretty little noises you make for me. i just love you.” carl growled slightly against remington’s skin. remington only smiled and blushed slightly from the praise. 

carl pulled away from remington’s collar bone to move up and go back to locking their lips. carl bit remington’s bottom lip which resulted in remington parting his lips so their tongues could meet. 

remington moaned a bit too loud on accident, completely forgetting about everything around them. the only thing on his mind was carl’s tongue. 

carl’s hand that was roaming remington’s back side snaked its way into remington’s shorts and started massaging his ass slightly. 

remington’s breath hitched slightly from the new feeling, the needy feeling becoming more apparent between the two. 

remington pulled away to get air, “fuck, carl, please, i want you to touch me.” he whispered. carl smirked against remington’s neck. 

“as you wish, pretty boy.” carl flipped them over so then remington was on his back and carl hovered above him. 

carl scanned his boyfriends body, absolutely loving every inch before him “are you sure you’re comfortable with this?” 

remington nodded, he reached for carl’s hand and moved it to be in his pants, “please, just touch me.” he breathed out.

carl obeyed and moved his hand down more slowly, “as you wish, pretty boy-” his movements were interrupted by daryl banging on the cell. 

“would you two keep ya noises down! some people are trying to sleep!” he grunted. carl immediately pulled away and fell onto the floor. remington grabbed the blanket to cover himself out of habit. 

“jesus daryl! don’t do that!” remington whined. 

“maybe dont fuck so loud!” was the only response he got as he heard the older man walk away. 

remington was a blushing and embarrassed mess while carl was more annoyed than anything. he got up from the ground and moved to take off his flannel and jeans before moving to lay with remington who was already shirtless due to earlier activites. 

“maybe later we can continue. i’m too nervous to continue.” remington giggled before smooshing his face into carl’s chest. 

carl smiled softly while petting his hair, “okay pretty boy. goodnight.” 

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       “Oo, I crave your touch, how you lift me up.                 Feel so high above, oo, baby.”

#carl grimes #the walking dead #the walking dead imagines #carl grimes imagines #carl grimes oneshots #carl grimes imagine #carl grimes oneshot #carl grimes x male #carl grimes x oc #carl grimes x male oc #carl grimes gay #the walking dead imagine #the walking dead oneshots #the walking dead oneshot

[oneshotnewbie]

Carol and f reader. Reader saves Sophia, but returns injured as hell, and tells Carol. "even if I die today.... seeing your smile at your daughters safety is all I need In the world"

ᕚ---ᕘ

In a world marked by chaos and destruction, you fought doggedly against an fast approaching zombie horde. Two days had passed since Sophia ran away in fear from a small horde of zombies and you had sworn to Carol that you would find her and bring her back. So you had kept your promise and set out on your own.

The sky was streaked with a poisonous orange-red color as the sun set in a faint glow, making the scene even more frightening. You had found Sophia safely in the swamp, a few kilometers from Hershel Greene's farm, and now you held her hand tightly as you hurried through the devastated streets in the dim twilight. Your breath was ragged and your face was lined with sweat and your own blood. Behind you, menacing moans could be heard from zombies stalking behind you in search of human flesh.

"Faster, Sophia. Come on," you complained, glancing quickly over your shoulder to make sure the distance to the undead was increasing. Frightened, the young girl clung to your sweaty and blood-soaked hand, her eyes wide in terror. She did not think for a second and followed you, even if her legs were already on the verge of giving up. “I am scared, y/n!”

"You are safe with me. I will take you home to your mother and the others," you said encouragingly as you quickened your pace and ran as fast as you could. The heartbeat in your ears drowned out the growls of the hungry undead as you desperately tried to find shelter for Sophia to take on the zombie herd alone.

You finally reached an abandoned building and disappeared inside with her. With shaking hands, you closed the door and leaned against it, panting and relieving at the same time. Outside, the first zombies were already pounding on the locked door, unable to reach the safe haven. You looked down at the girl kneeling on the floor, panting to fill her lungs with air. "You have to listen to me now, Soph,"

The person you spoke to tilted her head over her shoulder, looking at you with tearful and fearful eyes. Sophia nodded carefully, following your movements as you searched the entire house and opened the bathroom. "I am going to go out there and clear the way for us. You stay in here and do not come out until I get you or you hear me whistle, understand?"

"No, y/n. You will never be able to do this, there are too many!" Ignoring her pleas, you looked out the window to get an overview of the situation. Your resolve grew as you realized your responsibilities, it was the only way to avoid bringing the horde back to the farm and putting your entire family in danger. You had to fight. "No matter how loud it gets out there, you will not leave again. Promise?"

She nodded again and you took her to the bedroom for safety. You hugged Sophia, a promise of rescue in your eyes as you prepared to clear the path for you two before quietly climbing through the window in the bathroom at the back of the house, determined to protect your friend's child. The zombies noticed the movements and began to stagger in your direction. You fought quickly against the approaching horde. The clanging of your weapon cut through the silence as you desperately tried to force your way through. The zombies surrounded you, but you continued to fight despite your weakness. You did everything you could to protect the child until you could not anymore.

With a beating heart and a determination fueled by sheer will to survive, you charged through with deft movements, years of experience proving that you managed to keep the creatures at bay. The undead were relentless, their hungry eyes fixed on your life. With the last of your strength and the remaining adrenaline pumping through your veins, you plunged your machete into each rotten head, before you ran to get the zombies away from Sophia and stumbled, hearing your ribs crack as an iron bar pierced through yours boring left upper abdomen.

It was only with great difficulty that you managed to pull yourself up on the pole on your own and not give up despite the pain and exhaustion. You continued to fight your way through the stream of death and destruction, your movements slower and less coordinated as you faced the final two zombies. When the two of them finally fell to the ground, you briefly collapsed on your knees, using the energy you had left to whistle loudly and sharply.

As she carefully came out of the house, you were kneeling on the ground, badly injured, your face marked by pain and exertion. Blood was dripping from a wound onto the floor, already forming a wide pool of blood and you could barely move, let alone breathe properly. Sophia rushed to you, gently grabbed your shoulders and tried to get you up. "Y/n, come on. You have to get up, please."

With all her strength she helped you to your feet. You leaned heavily on the young girl who acted with amazing strength and determination. Slowly Sophia began to walk, carrying most of your weight as every movement caused you pain. "You can do it, you just have to stay awake long enough to tell me where we need to go. After that, someone will take care of you." Sophia was small but incredibly strong and determined to bring you home.

The two of you limped through the dark forest together, your gait became weaker and you began to stagger. The sun had already completely set and the darkness had bathed the land in a gloomy, ghostly light as she supported you as best she could. Despite the difficulties and the lurking threat, she didn't give up and listened to your whispered directions. The girl had absorbed some of your courage and wanted to take you to safety, just as you had, feeling the gratitude and deep trust in the way she cared for you.

Together you fought the pain and fatigue as you slowly but steadily moved towards your goal. A place where you were protected from the dangers of the world. "Y/n, you have to whistle. Whistle for me so they know we're back. COME ON!" her elbow pressed against your wound and you cried out, momentarily back in focus. With the last of your strength, you whistled as loudly as you could and took one step at a time across the meadow that separated you from the house.

Not a minute later you heard the door open, four people running towards you one after the other. Daryl and Rick immediately came to your side. Sophia was torn from your arms as the two men wrapped their hands protectively around your torso. They quickly dragged you the last few meters to the house and then laid you on the couch, where Maggie and her father were already getting to work taking care of you.

"You saved her, you brought my Sophia home again!" you heard a female voice echo before Carol's face poked out in front of your blurry vision. Tenderly, she took your hand in hers, stroked it and thanked you several times for your help. "Even if I die today, seeing your smile at your daughters safety is all I need in the world," you replied as you slowly drifted into unconsciousness, severely injured and exhausted from your heroic rescue mission.

#thewalkingdead #the walking dead imagines #the walking dead #the walking dead imagine #the walking dead oneshot #the walking dead one shot #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead x you #the walking dead x reader #twd #twd imagine #twd imagines #twd fanfic #twd fanfiction #twd oneshot #twd one shot #twd x you #twd x reader #carol peletier x you #carol peletier x reader #carol peletier fanfic #carol peletier fanfiction #carol peletier oneshot #carol peletier one shot #carol peletier imagine #carol peletier imagines #carolpeletier fanfiction #carolpeletier fanfic #carolpeletier x you

[devnmon]

intimacy w/ daryl dixon

taking this and running with it:

885 words, a blurb that i wrote inspired by this tumblr post.

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Daryl never wore jewelry. Like, ever. Not because he didn't like it, he would have just rather not hear backlash from his older brother and father for even thinking it looked cool.

In fact, Daryl loved all kids of jewelry. He never saw himself as an earrings kind of man, no. But a necklace or two? Even a couple of rings? He could get behind that.

He especially could if the pieces reminded him of you. After settling into Alexandria, all the chaos of uncertainty about the place, you'd found yourself in the living room of one of the neighbor's houses, tinkering with some pliers and wire. You'd created a small 'D' shape with it, paired with a loop so you could hang it around your neck with the one charm you already had.

When Daryl noticed his initial hanging around your neck, he innocently wanted to know about it, more than he thought he did. Sure, the two of you were official, you had been for what felt like months now. But the enamor inside Daryl only grew when he noticed the charm around your neck. You laid next to him in bed until his voice broke the silence.

"Is that.. my initial?" You looked down, instinctively grasping the charm in your hand and lifting it up to show him.

"Yeah, I made it. You like it?" Smiling at him, he took it in his fingers, skin brushing against the canvas of your neck.

"Yeah, I do. Can ya teach me how to make one? Wanna wear yours 'round my neck." Blushing a little, you nodded as he brought the piece of metal up to his lips, kissing it softly and letting it fall back onto your neck.

The next morning, you were sat at the kitchen table with Daryl, as he learned how to twist the wire into the shape of your initial. A careful hand helped him to hold the pliers the correct way, twisting all the ends in, as to not avoid any sharp edges.

"That looks so good, D." He smiled up at you, continuing to loop more wire around the initial of yours to create the loop that would hold it on the chain.

"Well, I learn from the best." You pushed him slightly, teasing at the fact that he teaches you how to mostly everything hunting and scavenging related.

You handed him the chain, your lovesick brain drifting off into thought as Daryl attempted to put the chain through the charm's loop. His bulky fingers gave him trouble doing so at first, but eventually the chain and charm were one.

"Not to be perverted, but you're gonna look really handsome with my initial around your neck." A twinge of blush rose on the apple of daryl's cheeks, just enough so you could see through the chestnut bangs hung over his face.

"Just like the way you look with mine 'round yours." Your hand went to the 'D' charm then, holding it in your palm with a protective instinct.

"Gosh, Daryl. I didn't know you were such a flirt." The two of you shared a smirk, knowing how Daryl usually is with choosing his words. You gushed internally at the possessiveness he had, after waiting for what felt like forever to confess his feelings to you.

You watched him pick up the chain, insisting he could put it on himself, not realizing that his big, strong hands wouldn't be accommodating to the delicate clasp of the necklace.

Daryl grunted to himself, a bit frustrated that a task this simple was harder than it looked. He wanted to prove to you that he could do it, so he hesitated in asking for your help. Though, he knew your hands were smaller than his, he just didn't want it to seem like he couldn't open the damn clasp of a necklace...

Daryl Dixon, always insisting he can do anything alone. Without help.

"Daryl I can-"

"Nah, I got it. Almost-" He grunted again, visibly frustrated this time. His arms were getting tired from holding them behind his neck to try to unclasp the necklace. He sighed in defeat as he placed his hands back on the table, still holding the piece of jewelry in his palm. You silently stood up, taking the chain from his warm grasp, moving to stand behind him.

Daryl felt your fingers brush the skin of his neck, as the chain lay against his skin now. You fumbled with the clasp a couple times before hooking it onto one of the loops of the chain.

"There." your hands rested on his shoulders, leaning down to leave a soft kiss on his collarbone. You walked around him, his hand catching your wrist and pulling you onto his lap.

You draped your arms around Daryl's neck, watching as he glanced down to see the silver chain laying perfectly against his skin.

"Thanks, sunshine." His chin tipped up to you, signaling he wanted a kiss from you. Pressing your lips together, you held the charm around his neck in your hands. You felt it added a protectiveness to his necklace and yours. These would serve to remind each of you that even when you'd be apart, you would still have each other, no matter where you were in the world.

-

a/n: likes + reblogs are appreciated!! it lets me know how much everyone enjoys my writing & sharing to others is a generous thing to do. much love & thanks :)

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfic #devnmon writes #devnmon blurbs #i had this idea since last night and i didn't want to let it die in the back of my brain so here you all go. #daryl x reader #daryl oneshot #the walking dead oneshot #daryl dixon oneshot #twd daryl dixon #the walking dead daryl #daryl fanfiction #twd fanfiction #daryl imagine #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x y/n