#Daryl Dixon x Reader
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YOU GUYS????? 1k notes??????? THANK YOU I LOVE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU WHO HAVE LEFT A COMMENT, LIKED, REBLOGGED, MESSAGED ABOUT THIS LITTLE SLUTTY MINI SERIES
the love you continue to show me makes me immensely grateful for this fucking app and I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I didn’t get back into writing fanfiction after 10 years ❤️
Seriously, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you.
Teach You
Daryl Dixon x Reader
warnings: smutttttt
notes: daryl has 0 game, 0 experience, and is eager to please. I thought about this as I was falling asleep last night and couldn't wait to write it for you. Inspired by Norman saying if Daryl ever got down and dirty there would be premature ejaculation
She/her pronouns, foreplay only, gets straight to it
The invitation had been innocent enough, though Daryl had found a way to make it a minefield in his head. Dinner at her house. Nothing fancy, she’d said. Just them, some canned spaghetti, and maybe a drink.
He’d almost said no, but the way she’d looked at him—smiling soft and easy, like she wanted him there more than anyone else—made him mutter, “Yeah, alright.”
Now, he’s sitting on her couch, shoulders stiff, his crossbow propped awkwardly by the door. She hums in the kitchen, clinking dishes together. He wonders if it’s too late to leave.
“Don’t sit too quiet in there,” she calls, teasing. “You’ll scare the furniture.”
Daryl huffs a laugh through his nose. “Furniture don’t need me to make it nervous.”
She steps into the room, carrying two mismatched bowls. “You kidding? You’re terrifying. Real menace, Dixon.” She hands him a bowl, sitting close enough for her thigh to press against his.
Daryl shifts, his grip tightening on the bowl. “S’not what people usually say.”
She gives him a sidelong glance, lips quirking. “What do they say?”
He doesn’t answer, staring into the spaghetti like it’s gonna save him. She leans in, the bare skin of her arm brushing his, and he forgets how to breathe.
“You’re not used to this, huh?” Her tone is light, but her eyes are searching.
He shrugs. “Dunno what ‘this’ is.”
“Someone flirting with you,” she says, blunt as ever, setting her bowl aside. “How’s that feel, by the way?”
He almost chokes. “Ain’t what you’re doin’.”
“It’s exactly what I’m doing.”
His ears burn, and he fights the urge to stand up and bolt. “Y/N—”
She cuts him off, leaning closer, her voice dropping to something softer. “If I haven't made it abundantly clear lately: I like you. A lot.”
The words hit him harder than any walker ever could. He swallows, glancing at her, then quickly away. “Ain’t right.”
“Why not?”
“I’m… too old.” He shifts again, looking anywhere but her face. “You could do better.”
Her laugh is quiet, almost disbelieving. “You really think that?”
He nods, his jaw tightening. “Don’t got think ‘bout it. It’s true.”
She tilts her head, watching him for a long moment. Then, setting her hand lightly on his knee, she asks, “When’s the last time someone told you you’re wrong?”
He tenses under her touch but doesn’t pull away. “Not wrong—”
“Daryl,” she interrupts gently. “You’ve got this whole big, twisted idea in your head about what you deserve. And it’s bullshit.”
He stiffens. “Ain’t—”
“Bullshit,” she says again, firmer this time. “And I’m gonna prove it.”
She stands, setting her bowl aside, then his, and turns to face him. Her hands are on her hips, her gaze steady as she looks down at him. “Can I ask you something personal?”
He frowns but nods hesitantly.
“Have you ever… been with someone?”
His face flushes crimson, and he drops his gaze to the floor.
“That’s a no, then.” Her voice is warm, not teasing, but it makes him flinch anyway.
“Don’t mean nothin’,” he mumbles, fidgeting where he sits.
“It means everything,” she counters, stepping closer. “Because if no one’s shown you what it feels like to be wanted, how’re you supposed to know?”
His heart hammers against his ribs as she moves between his knees, crouching down and resting her hands lightly on his shins. He stares at her like a deer caught in headlights. “What’re you doin’?”
She smiles, tilting her head. “Only what you want me to. But you have to tell me if you do.”
He swallows hard, his hands gripping the edge of the couch. “I...I dunno.”
“It’s okay to want, Daryl,” she murmurs, moving her legs up and onto his lap with a slow, deliberate movement so she's straddling him, her hands now resting delicately on his shoulders.
His breath catches, and he freezes, his hands hovering uselessly in the air, "Okay," he breathes.
Her voice drops lower, softer. “You don’t even know where to put your hands, do you?”
“I— I can’t—”
She gently lifts his wrists, guiding his hands to the curve of her hips. “Start here.”
He stares at her, wide-eyed, his fingers twitching against her waist. “You sure ‘bout this?”
“I’ve never been more sure.” She says, her hand coming up to cup his jaw, the touch sending electricity into his skin, “I’ll show you what you’ve been missing. Only if you want me to.”
His grip tightens slightly, a shuddering breath escaping him. “Yeah. I want it. I want you.”
Daryl barely has time to process anything before she tilts his chin up, forcing his gaze to meet hers. Her hands are steady, her expression soft but laced with something deeper-desire, maybe? His throat goes dry.
"First things first," she murmurs, brushing her thumb along the line of his jaw. "You ever kissed anyone before?"
He shakes his head, his breathing becoming irregular.
Her smile softens as it spreads across her face, endearing and non judgmental. She leans in, her breath warm against his lips. "Then let me teach you."
Her mouth brushes his softly, testing, like she's giving him the chance to pull away. He doesn't. Instead, his hands tighten on her hips as she deepens the kiss, her lips moving against his in a way that makes his head spin.
"Relax," she whispers against his mouth, pulling back just enough to guide him. He exhales shakily, his shoulders dropping slightly. When she kisses him again, he leans into it this time, his lips parting hesitantly.
She hums in approval, her hands threading into his hair, tugging gently to encourage him. He nearly lets out an inhuman noise at the feeling of her fingers curling in his hair, but he swallows it down, instead focusing on her soft lips on his.
"That's it," she breathes, her voice low and sultry. "Just follow me."
Her tongue traces the seam of his lips, and he jerks slightly, his breath hitching. She pulls back, laughing softly. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he rasps, his face burning. "Just... wasn't expectin' that."
"Well, get used to it," she teases, leaning in again. This time, when her tongue slides tentatively into his mouth, he meets her halfway, mimicking her movements as best as he can. It's clumsy, but she doesn't seem to mind, her soft moans sending heat straight through him. It suddenly occurs to him that she might be enjoying this just as much as hime.
As the kiss deepens, her hips begin to move, rolling slowly against his lap. Daryl tenses, his fingers twitching against her sides as she grinds against him, finally drawing a low, shaky groan from his throat.
Her lips brushing against his stubble and eventually against the shell of his ear where she whispers, "You like that?"
"Yeah. Feels-feels good." he nods, swallowing hard.
She smiles, pressing a kiss to his jaw before pulling back just enough to grab the hem of her shirt. Slowly, she lifts it over her head, tossing it aside to reveal bare skin and soft curves that leave him staring, wide-eyed and trozen.
"You're beautiful," he mutters before he can stop himself, the words tumbling out unfiltered.
Her smile softens, and she cups his face in her hands, searching his eyes. "Could say the same about you. Touch me, Daryl."
His hands flex nervously on her hips, now pressing into bare skin that feels hot to the touch. "Don't wanna mess it up."
"You won't." She reaches for his hands again, guiding them upward until his calloused fingers brush the swell of her breasts. He sucks in a sharp breath, his touch featherlight and hesitant.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice rough with uncertainty.
"It's perfect," she murmurs, arching into his touch. "Here, let me show you."
She places her hands over his, guiding his fingers to knead and explore, her soft sighs of pleasure encouraging him. He grows bolder with each movement, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, drawing a gasp from her lips.
"Like that," she breathes, her hips grinding down harder against him. "You're doing so good, Daryl."
Her praise sends a jolt of heat through him, and he pulls her closer, burying his face against her neck as his confidence grows.
"Never done nothin' like this before," he admits, his voice muffled, his lips tracing the column of her neck and moving down to her shoulders, onto her clavicle and chest.
"You're a fast learner," she says breathlessly, tugging his hair gently to make him look at her. Her lips find his again, hungrier this time, and he responds with a desperation that surprises even him.
His hands continue their kneading of her breasts, traveling around her to hug her tight against him, the swell of them pressing into his clothed chest, his hips beginning to move instinctively beneath her. The thought occurs to him that he hates clothes.
She gasps against his mouth, breaking the kiss to press her forehead to his.
"You're incredible," she whispers, her voice breathy. "I've wanted this for so long."
Daryl swallows hard, his chest heaving.
"Don't know what you see in me, but... I don't wanna stop."
"Then don't," she murmurs, kissing him again. "I'll take care of you. Just let me."
With newfound confidence—or maybe just desperation—Daryl leans forward, pressing his lips against the soft skin of her chest. He works his way down, his kisses slow and clumsy, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her breath hitches when his mouth brushes between the swells of her breasts, and when he kisses the top, then the underside, he swears she arches into him on purpose, trying to drive him out of his damn mind.
Then, tentatively, he takes her nipple into his mouth. The sound she makes—low and ragged—has his cock straining so hard against his jeans he thinks he might lose it right there. Her hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging lightly as his tongue flicks out, testing, tasting her. She gasps, and that sound drives a hunger in him he’s never felt before.
His hips shift beneath her as she continues grinding against him, her movements deliberate and unrelenting. The friction is almost too much, the ache in his lap unbearable. He grips her hips hard, trying to slow her down. “You’re gonna drive me crazy,” he mutters, his voice rough, lips brushing against her neck.
She exhales a shaky laugh, a smile teasing her lips. “That’s kinda the point.”
Before he can respond, she leans back slightly, her hands moving to the waistband of her jeans. “Here,” she says, popping the button open with practiced ease. His breath catches as she begins to slide the zipper down, revealing the curve of her hip.
His mind races. He’s never had a woman like this before—so wanting for him, so sure of herself. His chest tightens at the thought of messing this up, of not being enough for her. But at the same time, his heart pounds with anticipation. God, he’s thought about her like this more times than he can admit. What her skin would feel like. What her lips would taste like. And now, it’s happening, and he feels so far out of his depth he doesn’t know where to begin.
She must notice his wide eyed stare, because her other hand tilts his chin up then, catching his gaze, "Only if you want to," she says again.
His throat is suddenly very dry, and all he can do is nod.
She smiles, and his chest tightens. She guides his hand beneath the waistband of her jeans, the soft skin of her pubic bone brushing his fingers first. The light tuft of hair there is the only thing rougher than her skin, and when his fingers graze lower, they slide easily over the slick heat of her center.
A growl rumbles in his chest, unbidden, as he realizes how wet she is. For him. His head spins, his blood roaring in his ears. When his fingers dip lower, pressing into her, her walls clench around them greedily. She moans—loud, uninhibited—and the sound nearly undoes him.
"Yes, Daryl, that's it," she breathes. "Curl them, baby."
He does as she says, his fingers pressing into her, finding that soft, spongy spot that makes her cry out and buck against him. His palm brushes against the swollen nub at the apex of her sex, and the way she moves against him, grinding against his hand, has him gripping her hip with his free hand to ground himself.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, his voice raw as he watches her, awestruck.
She’s beautiful—blissed out and needy, her body moving with his like they’ve done this a hundred times before. He can’t take it anymore. His free hand comes up, fingers curling lightly around the back of her neck as he pulls her down to kiss him. The kiss is desperate, hungry, and the little sounds she makes against his lips make his body tighten unbearably.
“Don’t stop,” she gasps against his mouth, her voice trembling. “I’m so close.”
Her words send a jolt through him, and he groans low in his throat, the tension in his core mounting to an unbearable peak as he groans against her lips, gasping for breath as his high flushes through him. Before he can stop it, his release hits him hard and stars break against his vision. Her whimpers rise to full on ragged moans as she presses into his hand then one last time, his fingers knuckle deep inside her as they press against her spongey walls as she tightens around them, sucking his digits further into her as the climax breaks over her.
His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, her kisses trailing down his jaw and neck as her hips slow, her ragged breaths giving way to soft, contented sighs.
When she pulls back, her cheeks flushed and her eyes hooded with lust, she looks down at him and smiles. “Did you just…?” she asks, her gaze dropping to his lap.
His face burns as he remembers himself, the wetness in his pants prominent as they both look down. Slowly, he pulls his hand from her, the loss of contact making her frown slightly. He bows his head, shame tightening his chest as he presses his hands into his lap.
“That is so hot,” she murmurs, her voice rich and warm, not even a hint of laughter behind it.
Daryl’s head jerks up, his breath catching in his throat. “Hot?” he rasps, his voice cracking slightly.
She nods, her smile soft and utterly disarming as her fingers trail along his jaw. “Yeah. You’re so worked up just from me, Daryl. That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her words make his head spin. She’s serious—dead serious—and it hits him like a freight train. She isn’t mocking him, isn’t annoyed or disappointed. She likes him. Wants him. And not just in some passing way.
“You really mean that?” he mumbles, his hands twitching where they return to rest awkwardly against her hips.
Her brow furrows slightly, her expression turning tender. “Of course I mean it. You have no idea how crazy you drive me, do you?”
He stares at her, stunned silent, his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t understand it—can’t wrap his head around why someone like her would want someone like him—but the look in her eyes leaves no room for doubt.
Her lips brush against his, slow and teasing. “Wanna go again?” she whispers, her voice like honey. “I’ve got a few more things I can teach you.”
His heart stutters, and he swears the heat in her gaze alone could undo him all over again. She’s not just enjoying herself—she’s reveling in it, like she’s been waiting for this moment as long as he has.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, rough and hoarse. He swallows hard, his body stirring again despite the lingering haze of his release. “Yeah, okay.”
Her smile widens, and it’s nothing short of radiant. She leans in, her mouth covering his in a kiss that feels deeper this time, more confident. He lets himself relax, his hands finding her waist, and for the first time, he lets himself believe this is real—that she’s here, wanting him, and not judging him for a second.
Her hips roll against him again, slow and deliberate, and his fingers tighten instinctively on her waist. When she breaks the kiss, her lips curve into a smirk, her voice dropping to a sultry purr. “Good. ‘Cause we’re just getting started.”
Part II
#1k notes#daryltwdixon#daryl dixon smut#daryl fanfiction#daryl one shot#daryl dixion imagine#daryl dixon x reader#the walking dead#twd
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together in one
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 — summary; separating yourself from the group and finding yourself tucked away in Daryl’s tent, but things get heated (Daryl Dixon x fem!reader)
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 — setting; farm era
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 — warnings; not full on smut, minors do not interact!!!, dry humping, daryl cums in his pants, mutual pinning, kinda subby!daryl, reader + daryl are both outsiders in the group, that’s it really
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 — word count; 959
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 — a/n; working through some of my own ideas the now before i write reqs, just cause of my 600 event
twd masterlist | main masterlist like daryl? join my taglist !
you’d been feeling different in comparison to the group lately, pushing yourself away and growing closer to the group’s other outsider; Daryl.
both of you grew closer after what happened at the CDC, finding comfort in the others silence.
but when Daryl upped and moved his tent far away from everyone else, it caused a little rift between the both of you.
so when you stalked up to his tent, you had the intention of talking things out between the both of you, but when you seen him sprawled out on his cot it had your words turning to mush.
Daryl leaned back on his elbows, one of his eyebrows raised in questioning while something akin to a smirk toyed at his lips.
“you’ve been out here yourself for a bit, wanted to check up on you”
you broke the silence, a welcomed change to the empty and quietness of his tent.
he huffed, lip curling at the corner before he nodded. his own little way of saying it was okay to stay.
“am fine..”
he told as you sat at the end of his cot, letting your eyes flicker up his body until they met his.
the thing with Daryl was that he’d only let you in, so when he caught the way your eyes flickered across his body it caused a pool of warmth inside him.
he gulped, his adam’s apple bobbing before he grunted. you seen the way his hips shifted, quickly averting your gaze as he spoke.
“need y’r hand”
the request was upfront, and unlike him usually. but it piqued your interest.
tilting your head back to him, eyes falling to the bulge straining in his jeans while heat shot through your body.
“only feel like this ‘bout you”
when your eyes met his again, the sincerity was prominent. his pupils were blown wide, a mix of his sincerity and the lust he had for you.
you couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped past your lips before you crawled into his lap, a whine falling from his lips at the feeling of you on top of him.
“like this baby?”
you asked softly, the pet name making his head fall back and his eyes screw shut. you leaned in, capturing his lips with yours before you started to slowly roll your hips against his.
hearing his breath hitch, both of his hands moving to grab your hips as his cock throbbed in the confines of his pants.
his desperation fuelled something inside you, his willingness for you to take charge causing your panties to dampen with your arousal.
continuing to roll your hips against his, lips pressing to his again in a desperate row of kisses. nipping at his bottom lip and a whine toppling from his lips again, his hands squeezed at your hips as his hips rocked up against you.
the whole scene was desperate, heady breathing and needy grinding.
with each pass of your hips, his cock throbbed with need. aching against the zipper of his jeans, desperate for release.
Daryl had never felt like this with someone before, had never had his climax build so quickly. but god, did you make his head fuzzy with want.
“oh fuck—“
he cursed, back arching up off of the cot as his head threw itself back. your lips curved into another smirk, watching him amused as you gave another roll of your hips.
he whined again, before his whines turned to whimpers. his hips canted up against you, his bulge pressing just right against your centre and causing the coil in his belly to wind impossibly tighter.
you could sense that he was teetering on the edge, could feel the insistent throb of his cock through both of your jeans as his hands pawed desperately at your hips.
leaning in you kissed him again, teeth nipping at his bottom lip before you whispered out to him.
“yeah bubs?”
something akin to a growl left him, your tone was teasing despite the softness that you spoke with.
his hips bucked up against you, in a frenzied pace that confirmed every suspicion on his impending release.
with a couple more rolls of your hips, and another kiss to his lips he was toppling over the edge with a strangled groan.
smirking against his lips as his hips bucked again, feeling him twitch through both sets of your jeans as he spilled his release into the denim.
the pool of arousal in his belly quickly replaced with embarrassment, everything in his post high glaze screamed at him for finishing like that.
“hey don’t be embarrassed, that was hot”
you reassured him, hands soothing across his chest. he lay back against the cot with a sigh, eyes flicking between your face and the roof of his tent.
his grip on your hips softened, thumbs drawing absentminded shapes across your denim clad skin before he grumbled out.
“never done tha’ a’fore”
his accent thickened, despite the remnants of embarrassment in his tone you could hear the pleased, blissed out part of him.
appreciating the warmth that spread through him at the pleasure you’d just given him, god he wouldn’t be able to live without you now.
“well, it was really hot”
you repeated, catching his lips again before laying against his chest. head laying on his shoulder, feeling him glance down at you before a breath passed his lips.
his right hand moved from your hip to run across your back, fingers trailing the length of your spine as he spoke.
“don’ feel hot, feels sticky ‘nd messy”
that pulled a laugh from you, shaking your head before pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw and then whispering in his ear.
“a hot sticky mess”
reblogs are highly appreciated !
#[ 💌 ] louie writes —#𝜗𝜚 daryl dixon#daryl dixon#daryl dixon smut#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl dixon twd#daryl dixon the walking dead#daryl dixon x female reader#daryl dixon imagine#twd daryl dixon#twd daryl#twd#the walking dead#daryl x reader#daryl twd#daryl fanfiction#the walking dead daryl#the walking dead fanfiction#the walking dead smut#twd x reader#the walking dead x reader
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gif is not mine
Y/N: I hate you with every inch of my body!
Daryl: Don’t hate me very much, do ya?
Y/N: You—okay, that was a good comeback.
#murda writes#daryl dixon#generated + original#daryl dixon incorrect quotes#twd incorrect quotes#the walking dead incorrect quotes#the walking dead#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl dixon x female reader#daryl dixon twd#daryl dixon the walking dead
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Here He Is, Finally
Synopsis: “When’s it gonna be my turn? Open me up, tell me you like it, fuck me to death, love me until I love myself—” This is a story about the inner struggles of a desiring Daryl who just wants to be free of the perceptions the town, and his own mind, have put on him, so he can love you and love himself, in the ways he’s always wanted to.
—or: As Daryl becomes the talk of the town, insecurity sets in that hinders him from having sex with you— the thing you most want to do.
Details: Daryl Dixon x fem!reader, ambiguous age gap, mixing early seasons’ + later seasons’ personality of Daryl, the town being mean but also thinking Daryl’s hot because he is, discussions of gossiping, insecurity, and poor self-image, Daryl fights someone :), and smut— unprotected + he’s nervous but then it gets good, and it’s their/Daryl’s/your first time in whatever way you want it to be.
A/N: He’s literally me (I’m a girl).
— With love from writella. ♡
There it was. You finally said it. You told Daryl that you were ready to have sex.
When you told him, the two of you were having a quiet morning and he was about to leave. Pulling yourself up to his height, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, and he took you by the waist, one hand reached up to hold your head, rubbing his thumb there. Good, you had thought, he’s reciprocating. That let you know he was okay, but still, underneath, you knew he was embarrassed about last night. You weren’t going to bring it up though, not then. You wanted to move forward, to show him that you didn’t care. “Daryl,” you started, words slow, uneasy in voice but sure in intention, as you whispered to him from above his shoulder, “I just wanted to tell you– that– I feel like I’m ready.” You paused for a moment. “And whatever you feel, I’m okay with it. Just talk to me.” As silence ensued, you kissed him on the cheek, “I love you,” you said, and pulled back.
Daryl kept his hands in yours as he looked at you. His features were sad and soft as much as they were unreadable. He kissed you on the forehead. “I love you too,” he said– it wasn’t the first time you two had exchanged those words– and then he left. Just like that.
You had no expectation for how he would react. You only knew he wouldn’t give you a flat-out no, so this, was understandable. But still, there was something hollow about it, even if his kiss and words were tender. It was another relationship moment that reminded you that these things never happen as they do in fairytale romances.
You see, you had always pictured him or whoever you were with at the time, bringing you close, kissing you, their fingers trailing down and under the hem of your skirt or pants, asking you if you were ready, if you were sure, if you wanted them to go slow, slower, but Daryl— as it turns—was incredibly pure, or at least pretending to be. Either too nervous or sensitive about these things, possibly inexperienced, or much more innocent with his intentions than you ever expected. It’s like you knew Daryl like the back of your hand, but when it came to anything about you as a couple, his history, who he’s dated before– you were clueless. You didn’t know what it could be.
One thing you did suspect, although Daryl has never told you, is that he thought of you as precious, something to be delicate with, like a flower. Sometimes you’d tell him he didn’t have to be so slow or soft when you were kissing– he was always a little sloppy anyway– and whenever there was a task to get done you’d be the first to tell anyone you could do it yourself, he knew this about you. And it’s not like he babies you or anything, that was never his way. Like when you two were fighting walkers, or doing work around the communities, or when he’s teaching you how to do something. You’ve even told him that he could be a bit demanding sometimes, grouchy, rough, and he agreed– that was true. He didn’t do it on purpose, the whole being hard on you thing. But alone? When he was on top of you or you over him? Waking up to you? Feeling your hand reach for his own in the dark? Even just eating dinner with you? The guy was a mess! A little boy, even. Heart racing. Eyes averted at times.
Whenever he nipped you, on the lips, or the neck, maybe he pushed you on the bed too hard, grabbed your waist too tight that it squeezed the bone, there were always silent apologizes of gentle circles, sweet kisses, and tongue licks to soothe the pain or possible bruises he left on you. And sometimes, when you’re home alone or you shower together, and he starts to kiss you or pull you in by the waist, he almost always sets out with the intention that this time he’d finally do it— the sex thing— he always wanted to. Only if you knew! Honestly, he’d feel like such a pervert if he let you know how many times, both before and after you got together, that he’s thought of being inside you, or you on your knees for him, or him kissing up your thighs and tasting you– he genuinely thinks he’d really like it, all of it, but especially that. But every time you’ve kissed and kissed enough, he’d get too overwhelmed about how to proceed or too nervous to even try. He tells you that you two should shower or go to bed or that he has to go for whatever reason. So all you’ve done is grind on each other, a lot, but that’s about it. You know he’s gotten hard and you’ve gotten wet, but you’re not sure if he’s ever noticed. He wants to put his hands in your pants, he wants to rip your blouse, he wants to squeeze your tits and slap your ass, but every time he thinks about actually doing it, he feels it's too forward or raunchy, or maybe it's not actually like him in the way he’s pictured in his head, or maybe you’d hate it, and specifically the way he did it. And he has thought about doing it slowly, romantically, but every time he thinks about doing that, he feels stupid, thinking he’ll come off as clumsy and pathetic to you. He doesn’t exactly get the concept of slow and sexy yet— reaching up, breathing you in, letting his fingers linger, or hands caress and massage. It’s not that he couldn’t do it though, or so he thinks, if he really tries; it's that doesn’t even think he’s sexy to begin with.
The only thing Daryl knows for sure are the things people call him when they think he’s not listening.
“Deep and… grunty,” one much too young girl said to her equally young friend who giggled, indicating her agreement even if she was too afraid to verbalize it. “I just like his voice,” the first girl said, “it’s sexy.” Or, “Wild,” as one of Aaron’s friends whispered to him, “Like he could throw me around, do it in front of the whole town, and wouldn’t care who saw.” To which Aaron scoffed and replied, “That’s literally my fucking friend.” But in truth, it’s not like he hadn’t thought about it himself, how Daryl looked underneath his vest and button-downs– it was just once though!– he promises!– as if he needed to explain it to himself. He even told his husband about it; they had agreed on Daryl’s attractiveness. Eric called it “rugged,” and they laughed about it over dinner. Now, Aaron would repeat that word as he overheard another group of ladies discussing ways to describe or trademark some of the male leaders in town. As Aaron passed by, “rugged,” was his suggested alternative to the word “beast” when one older lady described Daryl, in a way that would make anyone not a part of the conversation cringe, “Beast, sexy armed beast.” But Aaron was only met with silence and weird hums until a girl replied that “sexy armed rugged,” doesn’t make any sense. To that, all the ladies agreed. As Aaron walked away, wanting nothing more with this kind of conversation about his friends, he caught the new suggestion: “Daddy,” a girl had said with the widest smile on her face— she wasn’t a teenager, but it was obviously her first time being vocal about these things. She must have felt she said something so salacious. And as much as Aaron wanted to gag, there was also a part of him that reluctantly stopped himself from laughing and blushing with the rest of the woman. One of them rolled her eyes saying, “They can’t all be daddy,” to which another girl said, “But they kind of are!” and then he was too far away to hear anymore.
Daryl didn’t get any of it.
The only ones that truly bothered him though were when they added, “I know he’s a little ugly but,” or “I know he’s not my type but,” or “I know he looks a little dirty but,” “And he never does his hair but,” “And he’s not like the smartest but,” but, but, but—
It all made him feel bad about himself; more confused.
Even when it was just generally flattering, he found it hard to take any of it as a compliment. Sometimes he would, maybe the whispers of him being “kinda hot,” on the days when he’d return to his cut-off sleeved shirts, or maybe those moments when a lady would be talking to her friend saying how he’s “handsome,” or how she just knows “he’s packing–big–” and what’s better than a big dick, right? At least that is what Daryl thought– it's the bit of Merle in him– and he bets Negan wished he had one— Daryl was pretty sure Negan’s is a tiny little bitch just like his personality. No one gets to kill one of his best friends and gets more than a three-incher. Right, J.C.? If you’re even up there? Not that Daryl would mind if you were or weren’t, or cares if you did, he wouldn’t mind– Daryl didn’t think about religion that much anymore. And on that note, he realizes that he doesn’t do a lot of the same things he used to anymore. Like the way he would walk around without a care, even confidently sometimes, not thinking about how much he swung his arms or the way he talked or the way his hair fell that day. There was this one time, as he was walking over to Rick in the garden, telling him he couldn’t find whatever particular tools Rick wanted, he yelled, “They ain’t there no more, Rick!” that he heard some older guy say to his friend that Daryl sounded like a “human gremlin,” to which the friend tried to one-up him by saying, “more like a garbage disposal.” Then another day, some girl said he looks like a “wet rat sometimes,” especially when his hair is flat or, as said in the phrase, wet; and he never forgot it, either of them or anything anyone has ever said about him. It’s always been like this. Even when he was a kid.
Daryl tries to remember that people have just gotten too comfortable now that Alexandria is back on track, at least that’s basically what you had said. One day, Daryl came into your room, huffing and throwing himself on your desk chair, saying, “Some people don’t know how to keep their mouths shut.” To which you had asked him what was wrong, but he shook his head.
“Well,” you begin, responding to his un-answer, “some gossip is misogynized. It used to be a way for women to spread information, but–” you avoid the lecture— “I get what you mean.” You look at him, seeing the way his eyes still drift. “I can’t tell you everything, but Rosita and I had heard some people speculate on the whole her and Saddiq and Gabriel thing.” You shook your head, your eyes rolling a little, “It made her upset. I could tell. But it took her a while to talk about it. I think some people forget they can talk behind closed doors now. Our porches aren’t as private as they used to be, and people have gotten mean.” To that, you both nodded in agreement and then you climbed toward the edge of your bed to hold his hand. Something was obviously wrong. “Has anyone said anything about you?”
Again, he shakes his head and you have to leave it at that— all he wanted to do was ask questions about you now, and he wouldn’t let you change the subject.
But at home, alone, he stares at the mirror, trying to see what other people see: handsome, rugged, possibly wild… but all he saw were things he didn’t l understand, things that made him feel he wasn’t good enough. Did they really think he was attractive? And if so, why did they always have to bring up that there was something completely unattractive about him before the compliment? And why were those remarks always easier to believe? Or was it all just some weird fantasy they felt dirty about having? And was being rude behind his back was some sort of justification for it? Was it all of them above? Most importantly, did you think any of this?
Next Saturday, a week after you told him you were ready, the town gathered in the church during the evening for the monthly communal meal. This was something that started during the rehabilitation of Alexandria, another thing that the population was getting too big to contain, but Rick and Judith liked it. So, Michonne agreed to keep it— for now— despite reasoning that “this is what holidays are for, Rick.”
It was about an hour in, 6pm and sunset now past. Some people who had been busy working were still filing in, little by little, but for the most part, a majority of citizens were seated, eating, and chatting. There was a steady rain outside that made everything smell fresh, and if it wasn’t for all the chatter, you could even possibly hear the light drumming on the church walls. Everyone was quite pleased about it, spring seemed to be coming early.
Daryl had not come to see you last night and left early this morning so you didn’t know where he went or what he did, but what you did know for certain is that he never carried an umbrella. Therefore, when he finally arrived, 30 minutes later, his hair was soaked, and since he didn’t even wear his jacket, the long sleeves of his shirt were drenched with water droplets sticking to his vest and shoes that sloshed and left wet footprints on the wooden floor.
Obvious to say, he was noticed by all.
There is a fine line with Daryl between not giving a fuck about how he was perceived, and caring far too much while not willing to do anything about it, and of course, with all that has happened in the past few weeks, it was the ladder. He hated being the center of attention, but it was hard for him to not be noticeable, it never was, especially now. He felt ridiculous.
As he walks onto the stage– where all the tables of food are placed– you follow him.
“Hi,” you say next to him.
“Hi,” he replies, calling you by your nickname kindly enough, but not ever looking at you.
“You know, I think Rick was hoping you were coming back on time. I don’t know why he put all that stuff on his chair if it wasn’t for you or Michonne and Michonne sat with me.”
He simply nods, humming as acknowledgment.
“Daryl,” you move to the other side of the table as he gathers his food so he can look at you. Quietly you say, “We don’t have to talk about it now, but– I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable the other day. Or if it was about the night before, you just have to tell me.” You poke his shoulder, “You’re acting weird and you know it.”
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” is all he grumbles.
“But I still want to say I’m sorry if I did.”
Daryl quickly finds some napkins to dry his hands and wrists with and comes over to place them on the sides of your head to kiss you there. “You ain’t got anything to be sorry about. Alright? I’m fine.” His hands drop and holds you by the neck for a moment, the movement makes some water droplets bleed onto your clothes, you feel it but you say nothing. The only thing Daryl notices from you is that your eyes look almost identical to his despite the differing color– his mood is affecting yours, but he doesn’t know what to say right now to make you feel better so he opts for something he always know is true, “You’re perfect. You know that right?” And I’m just fuckin’ weirdo, he wants to add, but he doesn’t.
You were smiling at him. He doesn’t get it. He looked like an idiot all soaking wet and you were smiling at him. There couldn’t be a better reaction, but still, it’s moments like this where he can’t believe you’re real. All you say is “Okay,” never taking a compliment, just like him, instead of finding a way to break-up with him like he always nearly suspects. “Come to me when you finish, alright? We can leave if you want?”
“Alright,” he responds and you leave him be.
As Daryl goes down the rows of tables picking out what he wants, he heads to the last one. The way the event was set up was that everyone who came early had the opportunity to take a seat at one of the four tables that were placed along each corner of the stage and the rest sat in the pews, but despite the higher vantage point the stage gave, that did not mean Daryl couldn’t hear what those around the stage were saying around him— as always. It must be a hunter’s ear or something.
“Be careful,” a woman says smirking, her eyes gesturing to Daryl. “Let’s hope he doesn’t wet us.” The friend in front of her snickers, looking back to see that Daryl is now by the table just above theirs. Whispering, the first woman continues, shaking her head, “I don’t know how Rick or the girl put up with it. She just acted like nothing was wrong. He’s mudding up the whole damn church!”
Daryl keeps his back turned. This ends up being his last straw. “How about you shut the fuck up,” he mutters.
“Excuse me?”
Louder, facing no one in particular he yells, “Why does everyone act like I don’t got ears?”
You look up, synchronized with everyone in the church and get up with Rick who is already slowly approaching him, but Michonne yanks you down.
“What is your problem?”
To that, he turns back to the woman, “How ‘bout you say what you said again and stop talking shit under your breath.”
“What?”
“I said,” he starts yelling again, “if you got somethin’ to say about me lady, say it to ma’ face. That’s what I said.”
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Rick asks almost warningly, but not before someone yells, “Who the fuck are you talking to, man?” from one of the aisles in the back. It was her husband, now standing from his seat. He and his wife make eye contact, and instantly he’s moving closer.
Daryl walks to the edge of the front stage, barking a quick “move” without any pause and Eugene and Siddiq violently bob their heads and grab their plates as Daryl steps on the table and jumps to the floor.
Rick tries to push him back but it’s no use, Daryl pushes him in return and he and the husband are charging at each other, speaking over each other: “What did you say to my wife?” “Told her to shut the fuck up. Thought I said it loud enough–” “Nah, man you were mumblin’ like always–” “Or d’you need me to say it louder with ma garbage disposal mouth?” Daryl pushes him, “Huh?” “I’m not fighting you, man.” But Daryl persists, getting in the man’s face, their noses almost touching. He whispers, “You know, maybe your wife’s got everyone’s name in her mouth because she don’t fuckin’ like you.” The man keeps shaking his head, but Daryl surprises him, he isn’t the only one the town gossips about. “She’s fucking Mark,” he tells him. That was true, and people knew it. “He’s your friend, ain’t he? Maybe that’s why she’s always–” But no, not him, her husband did not know, so he punches, straight in the eye. Daryl almost smiles as he takes the next swing.
The two are tussling, but not for long as Rick takes the chance to get Daryl from behind, taking him away with Gabriel’s help. “You done?” Rick asks as Gabriel holds him on the other side, His grip honestly does nothing though and Daryl shrugs him off. Poor Gabe looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm to see the church– practically his church– in such disarray.
With that, and with Daryl raging too much to contain, he shrugs Rick off and stomps out.
Michonne finally takes her hand off of your wrist and you make you way to leave too. As you walk, you look back to Rick who is already trying to follow, and wordlessly tell him that it’s your turn now, then, turn to awkwardly dodge the people still standing in the aisle and collect your things to go.
Daryl was not hard to find. It almost made you think he wanted to be found or knew you’d go after him— he’s being such a child today. Despite the town lights, you hold out your flashlight to find him sits on a tree stump on the edge of town next to one of his favorite trees. The leaves did a terrible job of covering him from anything but you knew he didn’t care. It was almost laughable honestly. Still, you take pity, he was yours and you were concerned. “I know you don’t care about getting wet,” you say with no malice or disappointment in your voice, “but all that water in your shoes can cause blisters. You didn’t even wear the ones that don’t have holes.”
He just shakes his head, as always, and water droplets fall from the tips of his hair.
“Remember when that happened to me and you drained them with needles even though Saddiq told us not to?”
He stares at you, stone-faced for a moment. “You’re the one who told me to do it.”
“Because they hurt really bad!”
“You were being a baby.”
“Really?” You ask ironically. “So if I’m the baby why are you acting like one right now? It’s been raining since morning, Daryl! Not even a jacket? You’re obviously upset about something but I’m not going to continue this with you in the rain, looking like a sad, wet puppy.”
He sneered at the comment, wet.
“Let’s just go home, okay? Let me take you.”
“We don’t live together.”
You frown. “Don’t be mean, Daryl,” you gently warn. “You know what I mean.”
You hold your hand out for him, water collecting in your palm as you wait. It was more of a gesture than actual help as you two were still a few feet away from each other. “Please? You could have already ran away on your bike or gone home and locked your door but you didn’t. I don’t know what’s going on but don’t act like I don’t know you.”
Reluctantly, he gets up, walking to you in almost slow motion. You wish you could call him the drama queen he is right now, but it was time to get out of this rain– you would hold it in for the time being.
As you enter the small place, you make no conversation. You simply get to work and he doesn’t stop you. You take off your rain jacket and boots, then you take off his vest and boots. You drag him to his room and hang up your sweater and take off your jewelry, then you empty his pant pockets. Finally, you hold his hand as he trails behind you and into the bathroom. You unbutton his shirt and unzip his pants and place them all in the hamper. He takes off his underwear and helps you take off your clothes too. When you’re done, you turn on the water and go in, he follows. You bathe and wash his hair in silence. You are tender and gentle, and he knows it, he appreciates it, but his mind is loud, and angry, and he feels so pathetic as you wash him like he’s 5 years old. You turn around to start washing yourself as he takes care of cleaning his legs and lower area. After he’s done, all he can do is look at you, your body, the soft humming you can’t help but do when you shower. It’s exactly as he said, you’re perfect. He wants to bang his head against the wall because of it.
When you two finish, you sit on his bed, wearing one of his white shirts and a pair of boxers, he wears the same except his bottoms are sweatpants. He hates these kinds of casual clothes actually, he’s only okay with wearing it sometimes, but he has nothing else at the moment. All he had to do was give his clothes to Carol to wash, but he didn’t. He hasn’t really done anything this week.
“Ms. Ellen is a bitch.” You finally say, giving him an ice pack for his eye. “And so is Mr. Gary and they both have the whiteness names in the world. And they’re both lazy as fuck and reek of nepotism because they only had one of the biggest houses and biggest egos in Alexandria because they were friends with Deanna and they’re still bitter that their house being destroyed in the fire— which I get— but it’s not okay that she uses her bitterness to talk shit about everyone. And it’s also not okay that you used your anger to fight someone who didn’t deserve it. That wasn’t like you.”
“Maybe it is. You didn’t always know me.”
“Well, sure, can act like a tough—”
“I don’t act like anything—”
“Fine, I’ll change it: Can you be a tough guy? Yeah. But do you pick fights and make big scenes in front of the kids like that? No, you don’t.” You stare at him, tapping him on the knee and forcing him to look at you. “You not talking is obviously not working, Daryl. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
He takes a moment. “I just—”
“What?”
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” he finally says lowly.
“I don’t think you could,” you answer, “I’m not even now, I’m just frustrated. Or confused really. Why do you think you would?”
He lowers his ice pack, “Cause I’m not fuckin’ Rick.”
You laugh a little. “Well, I did have my suspicions, but great, that’s good to know. I’m glad you’re not fucking Rick.”
He sucks his teeth. “Be serious.”
“Have you not realized I’ve been trying to be? For weeks now? It obviously doesn’t work.” Both of you look down as you continue, “And I finally tell you how I feel and what I want and you just leave and barely talk to me for the rest of the week. And before you even mention coming into my bed at night or saying goodnight or good morning to me and telling me what you’ll do that day, that’s not talking, it's just saying stuff. At some point I can’t always chalk it up to Oh, that’s just Daryl; at some point, a person starts thinking that they're the problem. That I’m the problem! That I’m not good enough.”
A tear falls down your cheek involuntarily, then another; you were clenching your jaw after you finished speaking but it was no use. After everything, all the bullshit and the girls and the punch to his eye that really fucking hurt even though it was his fault he got it, this is actually the worst thing that has happened to Daryl in the past months– making you cry.
“You’re more than good enough,” he says in his mumble, still not looking at you. “I’m just stupid.”
“You’re not stupid!” You yell frustratingly as you wipe tears away. “Stop talking down about yourself!”
Daryl looks off into the window. He wants to speak, he does. The words are all on the tip of his tongue but they cannot come out, they never do. As he watches you wipe away your last tears, he thinks everyone is right, that that guy is right, he has a garbage mouth, his voice is poison. He never makes any sense and he always says the wrong thing. Why speak anyway?
“I can’t help you or at least try to understand if you don’t say anything. I know it's hard— I don’t like doing it either. I was scared to tell you what I did last week. But it just starts with one thing.”
“It's too hard to.”
“But I’ve never judged you, right? ”
He shakes his head. You haven’t.
“The first thing that comes to your mind when I say, ‘what’s wrong?’, what is it? Just say it. I don’t care what it is. I’m not going to judge you, I’m not going to say you’re wrong, anything—”
“People think I’m ugly,” he interrupts, “I’ve heard them say it.”
Your eyes widen, in shock for him and in shock that people could still care about such stupid things right now. “Who said that to you?”
He shakes his head. “That’s why I mentioned Rick. No one says stuff like that about Rick.”
“Well, I don’t want you to be like Rick and you don’t have to be.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
He gestures to himself, slapping his hands on his thighs, “Look at me.”
There’s something about the way his hand then reaches to cover his eyes in frustration, the way he slides it down to scratch his beard, accidentally magnifying to you the wisps of salt and pepper among the brown that gives you a clue to what he means. “I’m not some little girl, and I haven’t been for a long time.”
“I know, but you’re not my age either. And I don’t always think about you when it comes to it, it’s about me- I think about me.”
“So what about it? When it comes to the hair on your head and your eyes and the way you talk— that has nothing to do with how old you are, that’s just who you are. You didn’t choose to look as you do. And you and Rick have always looked the same age if I have to mention him, and his beard is whiter than yours at this point. Neither of you look old, or bad.” Your words do nothing so far. “You also have a better build than plenty of people in town. You’re stronger too.”
“But when they talk about Rick, all they say is that he talks too much and that he’s bossy and hardass and at least that’s true.”
You couldn’t help but smile, almost laughing a bit at that. It kind of was true.
“I’ve never heard anyone say things about him the way they say about me. Never anything about how he looks. But when they talk about me— they think I’m a fuckin’ animal.” There is silence after this. The word wild lingers in his mind and animal in yours. Again you want to ask, who could say that and have they not realized all Daryl has done for this place? Then, the more you listen, the more you realize that hidden beneath those with endless respect are some with hearts of cruelty and minds stuck in the regular old world ways that don’t exist anymore. “And sometimes, when I think about why you like me, I think that maybe it’s despite other things.”
“Despite?”
“Despite.” He practically spits.
“We all have bad qualities though. We’re not perfect.”
“I mean that I’m not some regular good looking guy.”
“Why would I want regular?” Your smile fades as his sad eyes persist. “Daryl, I can’t change your mind or make you feel the way I do about you, but why can’t you trust that I like you, and that I want to be around you? And that I’m,” you blush, “very attracted to you and I’ve felt like an embarrassing teenage girl the past few months waiting and trying to get you to have sex with me!” Quietly you say, “Have you not realized how much I really want you? How much I care? Everyday I feel lucky.”
He can’t take it. “Guess it’s like you said— can’t believe it if I don’t see it myself.”
His mouth is screwed shut, his throat tight, but just like you, it’s no use, a tear rolls down his cheek. Immediately you hug him. He holds you tightly in return and even though it makes your ribs hurt a little, you let him. All of this makes you see how much you two are alike than you’ve ever realized.
“You know,” you say into his hair, “there was this one time, I was up super early and couldn’t go back to sleep so I went out for a walk. I passed by Olivia’s house and she waved me over from her window and asked me if I could help her restock the pantry before Rick came later in the day to check it because she had this huge migraine. Well, that turned into me doing the whole thing for her. She said she was going inside for a break and some water and the next thing I know she’s asleep on her couch! And you know how her niece lives with her? I guess she runs in the morning and while I was finishing up, her and her friend lean up against one of the garage doors and I hear them talking. I was just about to open the door to leave but then she says, ‘She’s sweet but kind of a kiss-ass, right? Like a try-hard?’ And then her friend goes, ‘Yeah, she really wants to be one of them,’ ‘But all she is, is just Daryl’s little girlfriend.’” Daryl lets go to face you, his eyes incredulous just as yours were when he said someone called him ugly. “And then they started saying how I insert myself into places or something, so thought if I came out right then and they see me having done Olivia’s job for her… I didn't want them to get an up-close look of them being right. So I waited until they went in the house and then I left and for the whole rest of the week I was upset because I thought I was becoming friends with those girls but really I wasn’t, and I questioned if Rick and Michonne or Rosita or Glenn and Maggie even thought of me as a friend because they actually like me or if I’m even good enough to be one or if it’s only because I’m associated to you that they care to talk to me. I felt pathetic too.” You pause. “So, I’m really sorry, Daryl. You don’t deserve to feel like you’re being picked on in the town you live in— in the place you helped create.”
“It ain’t your fault.”
“That doesn’t make a difference. I should have said something.”
“You didn’t have to. I wanted that to happen.”
“But I wish I knew. Cause I would have if I knew. I feel like I let Michonne stop me because I didn’t understand. And all I’m saying is whether I've had it as bad as you or not, I do get it. And I’m angry for you. And you don’t have to be embarrassed to tell me things like this. It was dumb of me to keep my feelings in, just like you do with everything.”
Daryl swipes his hair to the side, parts of it are dry and waving while other areas are still wet, making him think about the rat joke. “No one likes you because of me,” he says. “You’re likable because you’re you and you care. And fuck those dumb-ass girls. They’re idiots for saying that.” He rubs your thigh. “I didn’t say anything the other day because when we were in the shower the night before I,” God, he feels stupid, “I got hard and you saw it and I realized it was the first time you saw it like that before and, I don’t know, I got scared.”
“Did you think that I’d think you’re ugly?”
“I don’t know.”
“Daryl,” you tisk, “after the amount of times we’ve showered together already?”
He gets defensive, “I don’t know! Felt different.”
“People usually get excited to know their partner is excited because of them.”
“I just feel like you’re gonna be disappointed.”
“Why do you always think that? I don’t have any expectations. I just want you to show me you love me.” You begin to look nervous, “I want to feel wanted too.”
“But I do… I do want you.”
“Then show me.”
“I don’t know how.”
You try to think, “Daryl— what is it that you picture when- when you want to do it?”
“I picture you,” he says simply.
“You do?” Your face is immediately warm.
He laughs, “Of course I do.”
“Well what do I do? Or what do you do to me?”
“Depends.”
“Pick one,” you say, almost desperately.
“Sometimes it just starts with what we always do. Kissin’. Maybe you’re on top of me.”
You waste no time; you get on top of him.
“And I press you down.” Daryl’s hands are now heavy on your hips, your hands are on his chest, you rock into him slowly.
“And sometimes I think about you bouncing on me or-” he pauses, the way you rock and the way he pushes up to you hitting a perfect spot of friction that makes the both of you gasp.
“Say it,” you tell him.
“I’m fucking you from behind. Or you're on the bottom and I’m going hard or being all gentle and shit like you but I don’t know how.”
“You know we can do all that, right?”
Daryl is red. Both you and him are surprised at yourself, but his bashfulness almost brings it out of you naturally. And honestly, your jacked and grumpy dilf boyfriend has left you repressed for far too long— you’re horny.
Suddenly, you move yourself onto one of his thighs and start palming his bulge as you rock. “Do I do this in your dreams?”
He almost groans, “Now you do.”
You move yourself from his thigh and lay down to start kissing him. He reciprocates, grabbing your face and pulling you close. Daryl starts nipping at your neck and you try your hardest not to yelp so he won’t stop. As you two continue, your slick starts to wet his boxers and you press your legs together as he gets harder under his sweatpants.
“Have you ever noticed how wet I get when we kiss?”
“Only at night,” it’s hard for his words to come out as you continue palming him, “when you don’t have clothes on.”
“And you never did anything about it?” You whine. “Do you know how bad I need you? How much I think about you?”
“I think about you more.”
“You do?
“Yes.” Daryl swallows, whimpering a little. You now stroke him, his dick riding up against his thigh, and it feels too good. “What- What do I do in your dreams?”
“You lay me on the bed and put your dick in me and fuck me and it feels amazing,” you say between hot breaths. “And you’re not scared to do it.”
“I wanna do it.”
“So, please, Daryl, do it. I want it so bad.”
Daryl uses your words as courage. He takes you off of him and goes over you.
You both take off your shirts and he strips you from his boxers and him from his sweatpants.
Finally, without regret or without him turning away you see his cock stand. It’s proud, meaty, and you can’t lie, a little scary, but you’ll never tell him, even if your widening eyes give you away. It’ll fit, you assure yourself. You won’t be afraid.
“You okay?” He asks, timidity setting in again.
But you nod assuredly. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
You pout, he’s stalling. “When you look at me, what do you see?”
“Beautiful.”
“And you're handsome. No pretenses. No exceptions.” You come up on your knees to face him, kissing his lips softly. “It’s like we said, we’ve dreamed about this.”
You lay down again, and Daryl places his hands on your inner thighs to spread them, making space for himself. You watch as takes hold of himself, mouth agape and pumping himself a few times as he stares at your body before slowly entering you. Your pussy is drooling at the sight.
Your eyes instantly close and scrunch. Although it worries Daryl, he’s glad you’ve shut them so he can continue looking up and down— up at your face to see if you’re in pain and down as he watches his cock enter you for the first time. You were incredibly tight to him, tighter than he ever imagined, he wasn’t used to this feeling and he liked it, a lot. It made his stomach clench and all his muscles flex as his breathing gets heavier, trying to stop the possibility of him moaning at the sight of it all.
“Are you okay?”
It was big and there was something about it that felt good but it hurt, the stretch indescribable, but you nod and tell him, “I like it,” because that was true, and everything else felt like too much to explain right now, your thoughts almost dissipating.
“You sure?”
You just nod again, whining.
“Alright,” he says, putting his hands on the bed to start.
Once more your eyes screw shut. He almost takes himself out before he pushes back into you again. He doesn’t know if he went slow enough but he tried. Your eyes wrinkling because of how hard you closed them doesn’t help though. He wants to tell you to relax but he’s not even relaxed himself to even make it sound believable.
He tries again, not going so far out this time and slowly goes back in to the hilt again, so slowly in fact he thinks that must have been awkward for you. He stops, tries one more time, then stops again. Your sounds seem like you’re hurt. He knows you’ll say it’s just pain and adjustment to his size but he instantly perceives it as disgust. He knows it’s not, but he can’t help it, he can’t. He must be ‘too much’; ‘too big,’ that’s what it is. Those are things he has heard in porn tapes Merle used to give him or things he noticed in porno mags he maybe used to read that he had found in a store near Hershel’s farm all those years ago, and supposedly it was a good thing for it to be too much, but now, look at you: you were in pain. And it was taking everything in him not to ram into you. He felt pathetic, again. Stupid, again. Like he didn’t know what he was doing. Maybe he should just withdraw right now, clean you up, try to give you a sympathetic look through his hair that said he was sorry for defiling you and not even make you feel an ounce of pleasure in the process. Everyone was right, he is a joke.
“Daryl,” you say, looking up at him, “you don’t have to keep stopping for me. I just need to relax and you just need to be slow. I think I can take it.”
“I know,” he responds, kissing your forehead.
“Close your eyes,” you tell him. “Do what feels right to you. You have to trust me to tell you if it hurts or not.”
He almost laughs at that. You think he’s so strong; that he has all the power. It’s so strange to him.
Daryl puts his head in the crux of your neck, closes his eyes, and tries again. He holds your waist, thumb on your ribs and the other fingers on your back as he pushes his hips into you.
You hug his chest and feel all of it. “Make yourself feel good Daryl, it’s gonna feel so good to me if you do that, I promise.” After his 4th small pump you let out a whiny moan of relief. “Oh- okay- keep going.”
Daryl moves his elbows to the bed by your head and starts pushing his hips against you, finding a rough yet steady rhythm. He loves the slapping sound your bodies are making and can’t help but speed up. He goes deeper and you start moaning. He already feels he’s losing himself. He tries to kiss you to slow down, but realizes he can’t plow into you the same way he just found out he likes. He goes back to it and he starts grunting and groaning— there is a part of him that is embarrassed by it but it just feels so good. “Are you gonna come?” He asks between sharp thrusts.
“Don’t focus on that,” you tell him. “Stay like this. Please.”
You didn’t have to tell him twice, he really can’t think of anything anymore than continuing to pump himself in you so he does. You try your best to rock up into him, but he has full control, his hands on your hips still as tight as ever as he pushes into you, making you and the bed bounce at his mercy.
You’re more than fine with it all. Even better, you couldn’t believe this meant that Daryl was about to come inside you. Something in you knew it was about to happen. It was the way he placed his elbows by your head and started cursing and ramming into you harder and even whimpered in your ear and gave you these little puppy kisses there before getting back to it. You were surprised by how noisy he was but you didn’t dare say a word other than panting and whining back into him so he’d continue, even in moments when it felt too much and too hard. He was forgetting all his doubts and that was the goal right now. You lock your legs around his hips and tell him, “You feel amazing inside me. My handsome man,” and that does it, “Oh, fuck,” he says as he releases every last drop of himself inside you.
Now, as he slows down, he looks at you, thumb on your bottom lip and chin as he tries his best to keep rolling his hips on you as he comes down from his high, but you ask, “Will you kiss me down there, Daryl? I’ve always wanted that.”
“You don’t want me to make you come?”
“I think it’ll happen if you do it like that. I just want to know what it feels like.”
He stops for a moment deciding if this means he’s failed or not, but he simply says, “Okay,” all kindly and nodding like it was your idea even though it was because this means another one of his dreams were coming true.
Instantly, he’s licking you, feeling more assured of what he could do— this was one of his most vivid fantasies so even though he doesn’t know for sure, he thinks he’s got.
“Oh, oh my god,” his tongue is bringing up wetness to your clit and sucking on it, “that’s good.” He starts licking your clit, going fast, “Daryl, that’s so good.”
He looks up at you, dazed already, “Yeah?”
“Oh, yes.” You fix his hair and he loves the feeling. Truly, he was going a little too fast actually, going up and down and this way and that way too much, but the sounds his mouth and your pussy were making together were too glorious. You let him go, you let him be proud, and either way, you’re whining and moaning because of it. He’s perfectly imperfect and he doesn’t even know it. But you’re too in love with the feeling of him to explain what that means right now so all you say is what he told you about yourself in the church, “I think you’re just perfect.”
To that, he stops again and he looks up at you, smiling. It’s one of those rare ones he seldom does, teeth and all, and your slick coating his lips all the while. His eyes are shining, and he gives you the smallest, sweetest, most innocent kiss to the most obscene place on your body— your clit.
At this point all your sounds have been short, quiet, filled with whines but to this, you moan at the sight, full and loud. It’s involuntary. It’s pornographic. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard in his life. His cock stirs, springing up again as he goes back to giving you your first and forever the most slobberiest head of your life.
After a while he beckons you from below, “Hey, angel,” he calls.
“Mm,” you respond lightly. You’re nearly blissed out. He’s going to make you come.
“I think those girls were right.”
Your eyes become so cute yet so sad— you just want him on you again. “What do you mean?”
“You are sweet. Sweetest thing I’ve ever had in my life.”
“Oh,” you whisper, moaning again as he goes back to licking your clit. “Oh. Fuck.”
He starts licking and kissing your puffy lips, making wet sounds with his tongue, slurping little bits of you where he can. He loves how slick and noisy your pretty pussy is. Your clit throbs and he hums into it all dark and grumbled and husky going, “Mmmmmm.”
You tell him, “God, it’s so good, Daryl.” To which he responds, referring to a different it, “And it’s mine.”
Oh, so he’s cocky now? Well, that’s new for him. You lay back at the thought, at the feeling, reveling in delight.
Here he is, finally.
#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon x fem!reader#daryl dixon x female reader smut#daryl dixon x reader smut#daryl dixon x y/n#daryl dixon x female reader#daryl dixon x you#daryl dixon fluff#daryl dixon smut#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl dixon imagine#daryl dixon fanfic#daryl x reader#daryl x y/n#daryl x you#daryl x female reader#the walking dead fluff#the walking dead fanfic#the walking dead fanfiction#twd fanfiction#twd smut#the walking dead smut#twd fanfic#twd fluff#twd imagine#daryl imagines#daryl imagine#the walking dead imagine
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Protective!Daryl always hits the right spot in the heart😭💖
You'd never seen such alarm on Daryl's face before and it seemed to cut right through you, but still you struggled to get up again.
"Please sit down," Daryl urged you. "'M beggin' ya. Yer bleedin'. Y/N, yer hurt, yer sick and—and I can't let ya go back out there. It'll kill you!"
You drew in a deep breath and fought against another wave of pain that made you almost dizzy. "I need—"
"Ya need to live!" Daryl barked at you, his eyes fearful and flickering over your face. "I need you to live," he said. "We let this one go and we—we fight a different day! 'M not gonna let ya die! It ain't worth it. yer worth so much more than—" he cut himself off and sighed, his eyes closing and his shoulders slumping. "'M gonna take care of ya, okay? We're gonna patch ya and yer gonna rest and we'll figure out the rest later."
Prompt: "You're bleeding. You're sick and hurt and—and I'm afraid I can't let you go back out there. It will kill you." / "I need—" / "You need to live!"
#protective!daryl#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl dixon twd#twd fanfics#daryl dixon drabbles#daryl imagines#daryl dixon x reader#daryl x y/n#the walking dead#fanfics#twd drabbles
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"Fight or fight." Daryl Dixon Imagine.
The Dixon brothers know there are only two options when faced with a problem: fight or fight, but maybe that lesson isn't such a bad one for Marley when she tries to defend her friend.
A/N: I'm not satisfied with this story but it's 4am in Peru and I didn't want to go to sleep without writing something. I hope you like it♥ (I'm sorry if anything Merle said was offensive, I really tried to think like him but I apologize anyway)
The smell of coffee and maple syrup fills the Dixon home.
There’s a faint scent of cigarettes too, permeating Daryl’s clothes as you pass him in the kitchen, (Something Daryl only did when he was very anxious) him grunting a good morning in response as his hands (experts at holding guns, making arrows, and killing walkers and people) clumsily attempt to make the best lion head pancake: scraps of strawberries for the fur and blueberries for the smiley face. When his mom was around and not drowning in alcohol and substances, she used to make Daryl and Merle these breakfasts, (a caress in the middle of the blows, or a show of peace to cushion the fact that there would be more pain) distant but never blurry stories from their childhood, good stories they could count on their fingers—but there’s something about Daryl’s frown, the way his concentration is about to pass the limit of fixation.
“Why are you so grumpy, huh?” You chuckle, playfully slapping his butt.
“I ain't grumpy.”
“Oh, no? Tell that to your brow. Are you like this because Marley’s leaving again?”
The thought makes Daryl’s heart clench.
“She ain't leavin' me. Ma baby’s goin' to preschool.”
You giggle, but you realize you’ve hit the nail on the head about his irritability because you never said leaving him, even though Daryl saw those 3 hours of classes, with a neighbor in the community who used to be a teacher, as she leaving her home, even though Marley was 5 years old and still had trouble tying her sneakers, which prevented her from running very far. But with breakfast ready, you and Daryl walk to the dining room table where Marley is sitting next to Uncle Merle, who, with his vast experience in street fighting and multiple arrests, shares with his niece some street smarts as he calls it.
“And listen, honey, if any of those uptight pricks try to mess with ya, ya clench yer fist and lean back to get some momentum 'fore ya hit 'em. Always go for the nose, ya hear me, lil' bunny?”
Marley smiles, oblivious to all kind of conflicts, the arguments, and the fights outside the walls because she grew up in a close-knit, loving, non-dysfunctional family—quite the opposite to the men’s previous lives in their house.
“Don’t tell her that, you ass—” You press your lips together, just to avoid the torrent of unfiltered words Merle easily earned. “It’s preschool, not a battlefield.”
Daryl shrugs, elbows on the table and hands clasped in front of him.
“I had ma first fight at 6.”
“Me at 4.” Merle replies, not wasting a second to pick up the thread of the conversation, full of pride. “Marley is a Dixon, sweetheart, so s'only a matter of time 'fore she uses those knuckles.”
With a mental slap, you ask Marley to finish her breakfast, but as the minutes tick by, your daughter’s dormant curiosity awakens with every second, asking you if you ever did that, too.
“I’ve never fought anyone.” You try to defend yourself, to create a safe space for her, but you can’t help but narrow your eyes when they scoff, almost in sync like besties.
“Didn’t yer grandfather teach ya how to punch?” Daryl chuckles, one corner of his lip lifting into a smirk.
“And don’ even get me started on that girl who tried to hit on ma baby brother.” Merle lets out a laugh at the memory, tense seconds after that girl said she could handle you when Daryl told her he was married. “Poor soul. Those sugartits of hers must be rottin’ away now.”
He even makes the sign of the cross over his face, almost convincing you that Merle believes in God, even though Merle only believes in Merle. But the table falls into an almost tactile silence when the baby of the house’s gaze saddens, blue eyes turning cold like her world.
“What do we do when someone is bullying someone, mama? Daddy?”
The promise of physical or mental pain in Marley makes Daryl hold his breath, but when silent gazes meet wondering what to do, he manages to let out the air before speaking.
“Is someone bullyin' ya, angel?”
“S'that damn Chinese kid, isn’t it?” Merle leans in toward her, like he’s trying to get information out of her like the bad cop. "Tell me the truth, honey, Uncle Merle will take care of everythin'."
“Uncle Merle, Hersh is Korean!” Marley frowns in frustration, but she shakes her head to ease all your concerns. “No. Miss Elena teaches us about bullying and that it’s bad for self-esteem.”
An hour later, when you open the door to your house, the sun is shining and fluffy clouds adorn the endless horizon, painting everything in beautiful shades of blue like Marley’s eyes, as bright as the idea that awakens her heart, the promise of living a different life outside of home, learning from books like her mom, and enjoying games with other children her age like her dad and uncle when they were kids. Hershel is 6 and walking down the street, accompanied by Matty, a 5-year-old boy with caramel-colored hair like candy, sweet like his shy personality when he sat reading on his porch with his round-framed glasses, but he's a little gentleman, always saying hello and have a nice day.
“Hey, Auntie (Y/N)!” The eyes of Maggie and Glenn’s son narrow adorably as he smiles, happily taking in your greeting and the way Daryl waves back and nudges Merle to make him swallow his racist comments. “Are you ready, Marley?”
Marley takes a few steps toward the porch stairs, but she stops, her mind screaming at her to do what she always does before saying goodbye.
“Bye, Mommy, bye, Daddy, bye, Uncle.” She waves, turning on her heels then to head down the stairs.
Daryl watches her go with a heavy heart, her brown hair like his own blowing in the spring wind and her excited walk, almost jumping with every step, her brown capybara backpack following her movements. Colors have no gender, and neither did the clothes you two dressed Marley in, always neutral because she never liked dresses or tiaras for her unruly hair like her father's.
But the moment Matty and Hershel take his daughter’s hand, Daryl and Merle’s scowls become more prominent with the surprise and the overflowing anger that is born within them in a single second.
“What the fuck?” The brothers say, in unison.
“I knew that damn Chinese boy wanted somethin' with ma bunny.” Merle’s words sour his mouth, but he makes the monumental effort not to spit out.
“Hershel is Korean, you fuc— racist.” You grimace in disgust, free to blurt out those words on an empty street.
“Whatever.” He answers, without a drop of regret, his voice deepening with the confidence in his words. “We have to do somethin' 'fore one of those bandits steals our baby, lil' brother, that Chinese boy or the nerd one.”
You exhale, because your body can’t take any more of the stupidity you hear from him.
“Matty is sweet and he’s not a nerd just because he wears glasses. I wore reading glasses too.”
“Yeah, but ya looked cute, he looks stupid.” Merle scoffs, looking back at Daryl. “What are ya sayin', baby brother? Are we makin' it look like an accident or what?”
You want to roll your eyes at all the nonsense you hear, but alarm bells go off with a panicked expression from you, eyes slightly widened in response to Daryl's silence, who, you can see, is seriously considering the idea.
“You two are damaged, really.” You squint, but annoyance makes you shake your head in disbelief. “Although their names do in fact rhyme, Marley, Matty…”
Your laughter dies when Daryl narrows his eyes at you, because the bile by that confusing feeling in the pit of his stomach makes his mouth sour as well.
“Stop it, woman, I’m warnin' ya.”
You chuckle, tilting your head slightly to look at him sarcastically.
“Or what?”
“Or there is no sex for ya tonight.”
He says it so seriously, normal words that cause a laugh in Merle, so open because time had given Daryl the confidence to joke about your intimacy in front of his brother.
“You know what? It would be better if you slept in Marley's bed or with your dear brother tonight.” With your head, you point to the accused present, although Merle frowns in displeasure. “Leave those children alone, you assholes. And now go do something useful with your lives instead of killing Marley’s friends with your eyes. I have to go back to work so please wait for her for lunch. And I beg you, don’t do anything stupid.”
With a tired sigh, because life had rewarded you with 3 children and not just one, (a titanic task of raising them because the older ones were already programmed with wrong ideas) you go to work at the infirmary. But in the company of their primitive thoughts (although not wrong ones unfortunately), their eyes meet and they come to a revelation.
“We are doin it. Hell yeah.” Merle chuckles. “But if yer dear wife finds out, she’s gonna kick yer ugly ass and mine as well.”
Daryl wants to say no, but that sixth sense of fatherhood that awakened in him when Marley was born is sending too many signals to his body to ignore.
“Whatever, I’m sleepin' in ma kid's bed anyway whether this goes wrong or not.”
“That’s the attitude, brother!" Merle smiles. "Cause I ain't lettin' ya sleep with me, over ma dead body.”
An hour and a half later, the Dixon brothers are standing to one side of Elena’s house, in the shadows of the wall where the sunlight can't reach, while a small group of children are playing in the makeshift playground in the backyard. Marley runs around the place like a free soul, laughing in a world rising from the ashes. She loved to walk barefoot in the dirt outside Alexandria’s walls, exploring and discovering with her body what Mother Nature still had to offer.
But the picture darkens when a boy Marley’s size that Daryl recognizes well, (a ghost of the typical bully Merle used to be), pushes Matty to the ground to take away the toys he was sharing with his daughter.
Beside him, Merle laughs watching the scene.
“The lil’ prick can’t even protect himself.”
Daryl's choice is to intervene now or see the altercation unfold, but his fatherly instincts kick in hard when Marley steps in front of the boy to protect Matty, earning a shove to her fragile body that the green grass receives. As if the world were painted red, as if his little girl's life were in mortal danger, Daryl runs to defend Marley, but he stops short (Merle's body crashing into his) when Marley stands up cleaning her small hands on her pants, only to push the boy as well with a force that is more than physical, the adrenaline that shoots through and makes her stronger than her short 5 years.
“Eat dirt, asshole!” Above his body, Marley pushes his face with her hands towards the ground.
It’s crazy to Daryl, crazier than thinking the dead came back to life when he grabs his daughter by the waist to remove her from the boy, away from the confusion and blurry vision, though her eyes remain fixed on her target—I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Daryl thinks proudly.
But on the way back home, it’s still absurd to Daryl that he heard his little girl say a bad word after having protected her innocence from anything offensive.
“Marley…” Daryl looks down to meet his daughter’s curious eyes, blue ones that are as deep as her feelings at her young age. “Who taught ya to say asshole, sweetheart?”
Now that the word was free in the wind, he didn’t see why he should not say it, or avoiding. But holding Uncle Merle’s hand, Marley’s innocence leads her to look at the eldest Dixon brother, only to then look at her daddy with a shrug, saying silently: I don't know.
“Ha! That's ma lil’ bunny.” Merle smiles, proud.
But when the men see you sitting on the couch on the porch of the house, Daryl looks down again.
“Good news, angel, daddy's sleepin' in yer room tonight.”
Oblivious to reality, Marley smiles.
@fluffy-dixon
#daryl dixon imagine#daryl dixon x reader#dad!daryl dixon#daryl dixon x y/n#daryl dixon twd#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl dixon
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american teenagers — ii.
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the sun was dipping low behind the trees, bathing the trailer park in shades of orange and gold. sunsets had always made you happy— and for a rundown old place like the trailerpark, it sure had some beautiful views. the smell of smoke from merle’s bonfire filled the air, mingling with the sounds of harsh laughter and musing blaring from the open windows of his beat up truck. his so called “party” was in full swing, with half the trailer park and a few strangers from who knows where hanging around, holding onto beers and swapping stories.
you sat on the hood of an abandoned truck— one of the many rusted vehicles that had been left to rot in the trailer park —the metal warm from the sun and sipping a beer that was already a little too warm for your liking. daryl was leaning against the front fender, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, absentmindedly flicking ash onto the ground.
“your brother sure knows how to throw a classy event,” you teased, lowly gesturing towards the chaos. someone had already started yelling about a card game gone wrong, and a couple of merle’s friends were attempting to set up a wrestling match on the grass.
daryl snorted, taking a drag. “yeah, real high society,” he muttered, his tone dry. you had always noticed that daryl had never been the biggest fan of merle’s friends, and you didn’t blame him. you weren’t either. but you noticed how tense he was whenever they were around.
despite the rowdiness, there was a comfort in being here with daryl. you two had a way of carving out your own little bubble, even amidst the noise. he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against your knee as he moved to place his beer on the hood beside you.
“you gonna stick around long?” he asked, his voice low, almost lost under the sound of someone revving a dirt bike.
“depends. you plan on staying sober enough to walk me three steps home?” you teased, though you knew daryl never drank much at these things. one of you had to be the responsible one, and it was almost always him.
“guess that means i’m stuck babysitting,” he chuckled softly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that formed on your features.
as the night wore on, the crowd around the fire grew rowdier. the air filled with the sounds of loud laughter, hollering, and the occasional crackle of a beer can tossed into the flames. you hopped off the truck hood, brushing your shorts off.
“i’m grabbing another drink,” you told daryl, gesturing towards the cooler by the fire. “you want anything?”
“nah,” he shook his head, but his eyes flicked to the crowd near the bonfire, his posture shifting slightly like he was already on guard. “hurry up, though. this crowd aint exactly sunday school.”
you rolled your eyes but waved him off, weaving your way through the small group of people. you had grown up around events like this, and you were definitely fiery enough to hold yourself. as you reached the cooler and bent down to grab a beer, a hand landed on your waist. the grip was firm, too firm, and when you straightened up, one of merle’s friends was standing way too close.
“hey there, sweetheart,” he drawled, his breath reeking of whiskey and cigarettes. his grin was wide, too much teeth, and his hand trailed up your arm now, tightening it’s grip around your forearm. “haven’t seen a pretty face like you ‘round much. you merle’s little sister or somethin’?”
you tensed, trying to pull your arm away, but his grip only tightened. “not his sister,” you said sharply, giving your arm another tug. “now let go.”
“aww, don’t be like that,” he slurred, leaning in closer. “just tryin’ to be friendly.” but you knew he meant anything but friendly.
your pulse quickened and disgust rose in your chest as you glanced around for an escape, but the guy was blocking your path. before you could muster a response, there was a sharp, familiar voice behind you.
“she said let go.”
daryl.
he appeared out of nowhere, but you knew he most likely had been keeping an eye on you. his presence was like a storm as he stepped between you and the man. his hand shot out, grabbing the guy’s wrist and wrenching it off your arm with a force that made him stumble back.
the guy’s, still nameless— though you could care less— expression twisted with drunken indignation. “what the hell’s your problem, dixon?” he snarled, puffing up like he had any chance of intimidating daryl.
“my problem’s with you touchin’ her,” daryl snapped, his voice low and threatening. “you’re gonna back the hell off, or i’ll make you.”
the guy laughed, a hollow, ugly sound. “oh yeah? you gonna make me?” he teased, imitating a baby voice as he shoved daryl’s shoulder. a stupid move if there ever was one.
daryl didn’t waste a second. his fist shot out, connecting with the other male’s jaw, a sickening crack sounding through. the man staggered, but didn’t go down, swinging wildly in retaliation. his fist hit daryl’s shoulder, but it wasn’t enough to phase him.
daryl grabbed the guy by the front of his shirt, slamming him into the side of an old truck. the sound reverberated through the air, and the party came to a screeching halt as everyone tuned in their attention to watch.
“think you’re real tough, huh?” the man spat, blood dripping from his split lip. he swung again, but daryl ducked, driving his knee into the guy’s stomach and sending him crumpling to the ground.
“get the hell up,” daryl growled, though his boot pressing square into the man’s chest said otherwise, his voice ice cold.
the man groaned, trying to push himself up, but daryl pressed his foot down harder, fists clenched at his sides, ready for more.
“daryl!” you shouted, stepping forward and grabbing his arm. “stop, he’s done!”
for a moment, you weren’t sure he had even heard you. his chest was heaving, eyes blazing with rage as he stared down at the man. but then he turned to you, and the tension in his body seemed to drain away almost instantly.
“you okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, but his gaze didn’t waver from yours.
“i’m fine,” you said, your voice shaky but sure.
“good,” he muttered, his attention snapping back to the man still trapped under his foot. “stay the hell away from her, you hear me?” he spits, finally releasing the man from being trapped.
the man nodded weakly, coughing and wiping blood from his mouth as he crawled away, clutching his stomach.
merle’s laugh broke the silence, loud and obnoxious. “that’s my baby brother!” he hollered, clapping his hands. “knew you had it somewhere in ya!”
daryl ignored him, his focus still on you. “c’mon,” he said, nodding his head in a direction away from everyone else. “let’s get outta here.”
he didn’t wait for an answer, his hand brushing your arm as he led you away from the fire and the stares. your heart was pounding, but not just from the fight. the way daryl had looked at you— protective, furious, and something else entirely —lingered in your mind as you followed him towards your trailer, vacant from anyone else.
as the both of you reached the small porch, you glanced at him, noticing his red knuckles and tight jaw.
“thank you, daryl,” you spoke softly, looking up at him.
he glanced at you, his expression softening for just a moment. “ain’t nothin’,” he muttered, but the way he gripped the door handle before pushing it open told you it was more than that. and as you stepped inside, the noise of the party faded behind you, the silence almost jarring after the chaos outside.
you sank onto the couch, still somewhat shaken, and daryl stood near the door, arms crossed over his chest, tension radiating from him.
“why’d you do it?” you asked softly, breaking the silence.
he glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “what do you mean?”
“why’d you step in like that? you didn’t have to go that far.”
for a long moment, he didn’t answer. his gaze locked onto the floor, his jaw working like he was trying to figure out the words occupying his brain. finally, he met your eyes, and there was something raw in his expression.
“i don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low and almost hesitant. “i just— i had to. couldn’t stand seein’ him touchin’ you like that.”
the honesty in his voice hit you like a punch to the chest, a for a moment, all you could do was stare at him.
“daryl…” you started, but the words caught in your throat.
he shifted, looking uncomfortable under your gaze, but he didn’t move to leave. “you’re all i got,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “ain’t gonna let nobody mess with you.”
your chest tightened, and you felt the sting of tears you didn’t want to shed. instead of speaking, you stood up, making your way over to him and wrapping your arms around his torso, squeezing tightly. “thanks,” you spoke softly, the word carrying more weight than you could put into it.
he didn’t say anything, but you felt him nod his head as his arms wrapped around your figure, holding you close. and in that quiet moment, the unspoken connection between you felt louder than anything else.
hi guys !! i hope you enjoyed chapter 2 !! i had a lot of fun writing this one and im excited for you guys to see the rest of what i have planned 😈
i am still unfortunately going thru it a little, but writing this is helping me keep my mind off everything. i love you guys and your support means so much to me
as always! if you enjoyed reading this, don’t forget to show your support by liking and reblogging! if you’d like to be added to my tag list, comment below!!!
tag list: @rotten-biter @negansbestie @moonbaby6 @sunnykittyzz @twd4life7
#🦇 — vi writes#🥀 — trailerpark!daryl#trailerpark!daryl dixon#trailerpark!daryl#trailerpark daryl dixon#trailerpark!reader#daryl dixon au#daryl dixon x reader#young daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon imagine#daryl dixon imagines#daryl dixon oneshot#daryl dixon oneshots#daryl dixon fanfic#daryl dixon fanfiction#american teenagers — au#the walking dead#twd#the walking dead fanfic#the walking dead fanfiction#twd fanfic#twd fanfiction#the walking dead imagine#the walking dead imagines#twd imagine#twd imagines#the walking dead oneshot#the walking dead daryl dixon#twd oneshot#twd daryl dixon
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Good Boy
Daryl Dixon x Reader one shot
Warnings/Tags: not proof read!!!, sfw, some swears, shane.
this is my first fic on this account, my first time attempting to write a fic in 4-ish years and my first time trying to write a twd fic. honestly it’s probably not great but I hope it’s at least somewhat decent. :-)
(also written and posted mobile so not sure how it will appear on browser, hopefully not too terrible!)
“Leave me the hell alone.” You harshly whispered, turning on your heels and storming away from the scene in front of you.
Your best friend reuniting with his wife and son. Alive. Not dead. This whole time he had you believing that Rick was dead and gone, never coming back. Yet your eyes were seeing a whole different story to the one Shane painted out for you a couple months prior.
Shane followed pursuit, ignoring the former comment you had made and put a firm hold on your wrist before pulling you behind Dales RV to conceal you from the others.
“Hey, hey . I swear to you Y/N, he was dead when I left that hospital room. He wasn’t breathing. Th- the monitors, they all stopped. Everything went dead. He was dead.” Shane iterated, time and time again.
You feel the anger bubbling up inside you, just like all those other times when Shane had told you Rick was dead and to get it through your head he isn’t coming back. Your hands curled into fists, your nails stabbing into your palm leaving crescent shaped indents.
“Except he wasn’t. Is this why you didn’t want me to go there? Didn’t want Lori to go there? Because you knew if you swooped in and saved her and Carl when Rick couldn’t that what- she’d become your damsel in distress? Is this why? Just so you could get your leg over and fuck your partners wife and become Carls daddy? You’re pathetic Shane.” At this point your head was swarming with thoughts and ideas of what you wanted to do to Shane but better judgement got the best of you.
You began to walk off when a hand reached for you again, this time rougher. Shane pushed you against the RV, his brows furrowed and sweat dripping off his temples- smoke nearly coming out of his ears at this point.
“I don’t know what you think you know but you’re wrong either way. I think you’re forgetting that I didn’t just save Lori and Carl, I saved your sorry ass too. I didn’t have to. That was on me Y/N, That was on me. An’ I ain’t ever looked at Lori like that before, she was Ricks wife and he was my best friend. It happened because I thought he was dead.” He all but growled at you in a hushed whisper.
You remained quiet and stoic for a few moments, registering your thoughts before smirking slightly and speaking again. Pushing Shane’s hand off of you, you began to walk away but not before turning and giving one last snide remark, “I think I know right. And, by the way.. really interesting use of the past tense in those last few sentences there.”
Dickhead.
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“I’ve been here for quite a few hours now and yet, still no hello?” You looked beside you to see Rick crouched with a smile on his face, placing an arm around your shoulder which you leaned into graciously.
“Sorry Grimes.. just- a lot to take in y’no.” You said.
“Na’ I get it. Shane told me what happened.” Rick remarked whilst kissing his teeth and shaking his head.
“He did? Really? What did he say?.”
To say you were shocked was an understatement, Shane had really gone out of his way to-
“Yeah.” He breathed out, “Told me how it started, he tried to get me from the hospital but I wasn’t breathing and he thought I was dead. How he saved you and Lori n’ Carl and got you all here.”
“He told you that huh.” You should have known.
Rick started to stand back up, giving you a pat on the back and a kiss to the forehead first “I’m gonna go get some shut eye, you need too aswell. Talk more in the morning Y/N.” Rick turned to walk back towards camp, not before turning and speaking again, “Y/N.. go nice on Shane though ok? He’s a good guy, you just gotta give him a chance.”
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You wake up the next day to the sound of what you thought was - for once - peace and quiet. Until you hear the shouts outside and a woman screaming stop.
Debating between laying back down and just going back to sleep or getting up and out of your tent to see what was going on, you went with the better judgement and begrudgingly dragged yourself to get changed and step outside.
Shielding your eyes from the rays of light beaming off the Atlanta sun with a sigh escaping your lips at the slight breeze that hit your clammy skin.
“You’d best let me go!”- what the fuck was happening this time?
Walking closer you take sight of Shane with his arms wrapped around Daryl’s neck. A fuckin’ cop getting someone in a choke hold the minute they raise their voice? New worlds maybe not as different from before.
“I’d like to have a calm discussion on this topic, you think we can manage that?” Rick spoke calmly whilst he crouched in front of Daryl, his chest heaving with rocky breaths as Shane’s tight grip didn’t let up just yet.
“You think we can manage that?” Rick repeated.
You zoned out at this point, eyes boring into the side of Shane’s skull with anger.
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“I’m coming.” You didn’t hesitate to jump at the opportunity to get away from camp for a while. The rising tension taking over was beginning to grate at you.
“That’s five”
Shane piped up “It’s not just five, you’re putting every single one of us at risk.” “Just know that Rick”
“Come on man you saw that walker. It was here.
It was in camp.
They’re moving out of the cities.
They come back, we need every able body we’ve got.
We need em here, we need em to protect camp.”
Staying focused when Shane’s voice is droning on for what seems like eternity is quite the mission lately. Listening to him is beginning to seem like nails on a chalkboard.
“-Shane is right. Merle Dixon? He’s not worth one of your lives, even with guns thrown in.”
Hearing Loris voice made you gain attention again.
“If someone left Rick behind-“ you began to join the conversation, maybe with the words aimed at Shane slightly. He clearly picked up on it as his eyes shot to you, if looks could only kill, you’d be six feet under.
“Would you want them to go back for him? Or would you let him stay handcuffed to a roof to die slowly?” Your eyes landing on Lori.
“That’s different. Rick.. he.. he isn’t like Merle. He wouldn’t get himself into that position in the first place.” The stern mom tone coming out as Lori tried to keep her composure and not snap in front of Carl.
“You think Merle purposely got himself into that position? He’s an asshole yeah, and he may have deserved it. But he didn’t expect to be handcuffed and then left behind. Not knowing if anyone was going to go back for him. It may have been an accident. But he shouldn’t have to sit there wondering if he’s just going to die from thirst and hunger or if he’s going to get torn to pieces at the hands of walkers. He may not be your family, but he’s someone’s family. You have your husband, your son. You have Shane. Merle is all Daryl has.” You’re not sure if you were even breathing during that, your chest rising up and down at a rapid speed. You felt rage. How could anyone justify this bullshit?
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Sitting in the back of the van was a bit more awkward than you anticipated. Glenn and Rick up front. You, Daryl and T-dog in the back. Maybe the tension in the back of this van was worse than the tension at camp?
You looked up smiling at T-dog as he avoided Daryl’s intense stare, before he got up and headed to the front to talk to Glenn and Rick.
Daryl kept shooting you glances whenever he thought you couldn’t see, a grunt leaving his mouth every so often as if he was about to talk but decided against it.
Just as you looked up at him, he was already staring with his open yet no words seemed to come so he just scoffed and averted his eyes anywhere but at you.
You began to grow a bit frustrated at him. “What?”
“Nothin’” he all but murmured.
“Stop grunting and scoffing at me like a dog who didn’t get enough treats, be a good boy and just say whatever it is you’ve been wanting to say for the last 15 minutes.” You couldn’t help but chuckle at yourself.
You could have sworn you saw a light tinge of pink cross his cheeks before his head dropped down facing his lap.
His mouth opened and closed, before opening once again “Why’d ya stick up for me.. for Merle back at tha’ camp?”
Oh. That’s what this was about? The intense looks he gave you before this made you think it was about anything but this.
“What do you mean?” You had to admit you were somewhat confused at this.
“Ya said it y’self, Merle, he’s an asshole. So why’d ya go out of ya way to defend him? Why didn’t ya just side with the others and leave him?” Head dropping once again as his thumb found its way to his lips as he gnawed on the nail.
Silence.
You were stuck for words. “He is an asshole. Maybe one of the biggest assholes I’ve ever known. But he’s your brother, maybe not the greatest one but still your brother no matter what. He’s all you have left. The others may not understand, but I do.” Taking a deep breath in and thinking about your next words carefully, “I honestly couldn’t give a shit about him. Doesn’t mean I want him to suffer up there on that roof. No one deserves it. Well I mean maybe some people y’no? Really bad people. And maybe Shane. Merle, he’s not necessarily one of those really bad people. He makes mistakes, says things he definitely shouldn’t and has actions that match, but don’t we all in one way or another?”
Daryl was slightly overwhelmed. Not expecting you to be so honest and caring? Somewhat caring anyway. He didn’t know what to say.
You hummed and tapped your fingers against your legs, “Nothing to say?”
“I dunno what you want me to say.”
A grin made its way to your face.
“How about a thanks?”
“Thanks.” He grumbled trying not to scoff afterwards to avoid being called a dog again.
The van began to come to a stop, Glenn saying something about walking from here.
You stood up whilst stretching your arms above your head.
“That’ll do. Good boy.”
You smirked at him before opening the back of the van and climbing out. Leaving a blushing Daryl in the back trying to hide his face as he groaned standing up.
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authors note: it’s not the greatest, I am very aware. but I really wanna get back into writing in general and I thought starting with twd would be the best place to start as it’s one of my comfort shows. there’s not much happening, it’s very heavily based on s1 e3 obviously but it’s mostly just to try and get back in the swing of things! if you have an constructive feedback or any comments you’d like to make, please feel free as it will be much appreciated :-) I’m hoping to improve my writing skills more and more. It will probably take a while (I’ve literally had the first half of this thing in my notes app since June 2024) but I hope to get to the point of making some good fics! thank you for reading if you managed to make it this far!:)
#the walking dead#daryl dixon#daryl dixion imagine#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon fanfiction#the walking dead daryl#twd daryl#twd x reader#daryl dixon oneshot#daryl dixon imagine#twd fanfiction
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Wow she’s my first post to cross 150 notes, thanks y’all 🖤
Y/N: Dar, can you go get Maggie for me?
Daryl: Yes ma’am *turns and walks away*
Y/N: *takes a deep breath, doubles over with her hands on her knees*
Rosita: Whoa, hey, are you ok?
Y/N, staring at the ground and nodding: Yeah, yeah I am. My…
Y/N: *takes another deep breath*
Y/N: My stomach just did the thing.
I get it because the 'yes ma'am' gets me every time
General taglist: @raddydaddydude @lovenormandixon @angeldemoncrowley @negansbestie @holdmytesseract @dixons-sunshine
GIF by me, divider by @anitalenia
#daryl dixon#original incorrect quotes#twd incorrect quotes#daryl dixon incorrect quotes#the walking dead incorrect quotes#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon x female reader#daryl dixon x y/n#daryl dixon x you
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#daryl dixon#daryl dixon twd#wwwbigbaldhead#bigbaldhead#Norman reedus#norman reedus x reader#norman reedus smut#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon smut
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this house is sick so are we
#I'm have plans to giving him a weird girlfriend#like a totally off putting girl#daryl dixon#twd daryl#twd daryl dixon#daryl dixon fanfiction#the walking dead#daryl dixon imagine#moodboard#daryl dixon headcanons#daryl dixon x reader#Spotify
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Possibly the best fic I’ve ever read
Ladybug
young daryl dixon x original female character
pre and post apocalypse
PART I : BEFORE
-
Stevie St. James was an odd girl.
She knew this.
Everyone else knew it, too.
And they liked to remind her. Often.
"You’re really weird, Stevie," Daryl said one day.
It was after church, and they were playing on the rusted playground set in the courtyard. The swings creaked, and the metal slide was chipped and worn. Daryl’s mama was nearby, chatting with Stevie’s Gran, voices a soft hum against the backdrop of their play. Daryl’s mama was always talking to Gran, ‘cause his mama was real good friends with Stevie’s mama when they were little like them. So, after church, they spent hours gossiping while the kids entertained themselves in the sun.
But why was Stevie so weird? It couldn’t have been because of the spider she was holding.
She had found it on the slide, nestled in the cracks of the old metal, its tiny legs twitching. Daryl had almost crushed it, but Stevie had yelled and scooped it up. It wasn’t a dangerous one, just a little baby Hobo Spider— Tegenaria agrestis, she’d read in one of her bug books.
She stared at the spider, her small hand cradling it carefully, a focused look in her eyes as she examined its body in the afternoon light. Daryl was still there, his face scrunched with confusion, eyes squinted. She was absorbed in the creature, trying to explain it to him in that serious tone that made adults laugh at her.
“The Hobo Spider,” she began, her voice taking on the cadence of someone reading from a book, “also known as Tegenaria agrestis, is a large spider in the Agelenidae family. In Britain, they’re called ‘funnel weavers’ or ‘cobweb spiders’ ‘cause of the way they build their webs. They—”
“Stevie, baby! Time for lunch!” Gran called.
She broke off mid-sentence. She stood up, still holding the spider delicately in her hands. Daryl just stared at her, a mix of awe and confusion on his face, but she barely noticed. The spider had to go back where it belonged.
She walked briskly to the trees, her worn Mary-Janes crunching on the leaves. She placed the little spider gently on a tree, far from the slide and the noisy church. Then, she turned and ran back toward Gran, Daryl trailing behind her in silent bewilderment.
-
They weren’t in the same class at school. Daryl was in fourth grade, and Stevie was only in third. But they still sat together at lunch and played together during recess.
It was a crisp fall day, and Stevie was eating the soup her Gran had packed her. Daryl, though, had no lunch. His mom had forgotten to pack him anything. Again. Mrs. Dixon was drunk most of the time, evenon Sundays. Gran said she was a lost soul. Sometimes Stevie wondered how Daryl got by at all.
Gran always made sure to pack extra food for him, even when money was tight. It was just how things were. Gran had taught Stevie to share, even when they barely had enough for themselves. Stevie handed over a ham sandwich, packed just for Daryl, watching him unwrap it without a word. She didn’t expect a thanks, not really. Daryl didn’t say much, ever. But neither did she.
As Stevie watched him, something caught her eye. There, on his cheek, was a big black-and-blue splotch against his pale skin. Her stomach tightened as she stared at it, her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.
"Daryl," she said quietly, her voice faltering just a little, "What happened to your face?"
Daryl didn’t look up. He took a big bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly, eyes on the table. He didn’t answer.
Stevie bit her lip, unsure of what to say next. She knew he got hurt a lot. Daryl was a roughhouser, always fighting with his older brother Merle, who was already in high school and had no time for Daryl anymore—except when they were fighting. Then there were the hunting trips with his dad, the ones Stevie didn’t know much about.
Stevie didn’t know much about daddies. She’d never had one herself, so she couldn’t exactly say what a good one looked like. But she knew Daryl’s daddy was no-good.
She’d heard the way Mrs. Dixon, with bruises like Daryl’s, talked about him in the few moments of clarity she had. Bastard was the word.
She reached out tentatively, touching the edge of the bruise with a soft finger. Daryl winced, pulling away.
“Was it Merle?” she asked. She didn’t like Merle, not much at all. He was loud and rude and smoked cigarettes - she hated the smell. And he always tugged at her braids, which Gran had braided just perfectly, and made fun of her for all sort of things.
Daryl’s face twisted, and his jaw clenched. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something, but instead, his lips pressed tight together. He pushed the sandwich aside with more force than necessary, his fists curling.
“Nah,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and sharp. “Just—just leave me alone, Stevie.”
Stevie shrank back. She hadn’t meant to make him angry. Daryl was mean sometimes. But he was her only friend.
“I just-“
He shot up, his chair scraping against the floor with a harsh noise that made the other kids in the small lunchroom glance over. Some of them giggled at the outburst, but no one dared approach. Daryl’s anger was well known.
“Stop bein’ such a nosy bitch!” he yelled at her, his face flushed. His voice cracked as he turned on his heel, his too-small shoes scuffing the ground as he stormed off.
Stevie’s eyes went wide. She hated bad words. And Daryl had started to say them a lot, just like Merle, just like their daddy.
Some of the other kids now turned their attention to Stevie. A few whispered, eyes flicking from Daryl’s retreating figure to her. Stevie shrank further into herself, pulling her shoulders up toward her ears, wishing she could disappear.
Her hands trembled as she sat there, the remnants of her lunch forgotten in front of her. Her throat tightened, her face burning with embarrassment. She wanted to call out to him, to apologize, to tell him she didn’t mean to be nosy. But she didn’t - couldn’t.
The bell rang, sharp and jarring, signaling the end of lunch, and the other kids began to scatter. Stevie remained seated, her hands folded tightly in her lap, staring down at the table, willing the earth to open up and swallow her whole.
-
Stevie was a girl who liked routines, the kind of order that made the world feel predictable.
Gran braided her hair the same way every morning. Her dresses were always floral and ironed neatly. The ruffles of her socks stayed pure white, and the scuffs on her shoes were polished away.
Stevie found comfort in the small things—organizing her books into neat stacks by size, keeping track of the bugs she found in the woods with Daryl, and the way the soft wool of her favorite sweater felt against her skin.
When something disrupted that peace—her routines—it felt like the ground beneath her feet became unstable.
Daryl disrupted her routines. He didn’t mean to; it just happened. He was unpredictable, like people always were. Stevie didn’t like being around people much. It wasn’t that she disliked them exactly—she just found them difficult to understand. That was why Stevie stayed away from people as best she could. But she couldn’t seem to stay away from Daryl, even if he ruined her routines.
Sometimes, when they were supposed to play in the woods, his daddy would keep him home. Sometimes, when he was supposed to eat lunch with her, he wouldn’t come to school. Sometimes, when he was supposed to be nice to her, he would be cruel.
When everything felt disturbed, Stevie turned to bugs.
When she found a new bug, her heart raced with excitement. She crouched down, her fingers gently brushing the grass or cracked sidewalk, careful not to startle her tiny subject. She would watch it for what felt like hours, her eyes locked on its every movement, her mind cataloging its size, color, and behavior.
She had towering stacks of books on bugs from the library, which she read and reread so many times that she could recite nearly everything she had absorbed.
Gran always smiled when Stevie talked about her bugs, even if she didn’t quite understand why her granddaughter cared so much about them. "You gotta eye for the lil’ things, Stevie," Gran would say, patting her head affectionately. "The world needs more folks who pay attention to the small stuff."
The night after Daryl yelled at her at lunch, when the sun hung low and painted the sky in streaks of pink and gold, there was a knock at the door. Stevie peeked through the lace curtains and saw Daryl standing there. He looked dirty and out of breath, like he had ran the mile all the way from his trailer to her little house. A dark bruise shadowed his cheek, deeper in color than it had been earlier in the day.
Gran answered the door, her smile warm.
"Hi, ma’am," Stevie heard Daryl mutter. "Uh…Stevie ‘round?"
"She is," Gran said, stepping aside to let him in.
When he entered, his eyes locked on Stevie’s where she sat on the couch, a mason jar in her lap. She gave him a small smile and a wave.
"Why don’cha stay for dinner, hmm? You’re lookin’ too thin again," Gran said.
Daryl hesitated. "I ain’t wanna be a bother—"
"Nonsense," Gran interrupted, already heading to the kitchen. "Sit yourself down. I’ll make somethin’ you like."
“What’s that?” Daryl asked Stevie, pointing at the jar.
“Ladybugs,” she said, holding up the jar for him to see. He took it and brought it up to his eyes, watching the little red-and-black bugs wander around on a stick she had placed inside.
“Are you gonna keep ’em?”
Stevie rolled her eyes. “No. I told you already. They’re meant to live outside. They just come on vacation in my jar sometimes.”
Gran bustled in. "How ‘bout some fried chicken? I know how you love it, Daryl."
His ears turned red. "You ain’t gotta—"
"I want to," Gran said firmly. "Go wash on up, the both of you."
Dinner was a quiet affair, at least by most people’s standards. Stevie ate in her usual deliberate way, savoring each bite and watching Daryl out of the corner of her eye. He didn’t talk much, but she could tell he liked the chicken; he ate every piece Gran piled on his plate, right down to the bone.
When the meal was done, Gran brought out a pie she had baked that morning, the scent of apples and cinnamon filling the room. "Daryl," she said, her voice softening, "you’re welcome here anytime. Don’t you be a stranger now, you hear?"
Daryl nodded, mumbling a shy "Thank you, Mrs. St. James."
"I been tellin’ you, call me Gran."
Stevie watched him as he scraped the last bit of pie crust from his plate, and for once, she didn’t mind the disruption. Daryl might not have made sense to her, but he didn’t need to. He was just Daryl—unpredictable and sometimes cruel, but sometimes kind and comforting in ways no one else ever was.
As the night settled in and the dishes were done, Gran sent Daryl home with a warm hug and a Tupperware full of leftovers. Stevie sat by the window, watching as he disappeared into the dark woods.
“Gran?” she asked softly.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Did Daryl’s daddy hit him? Like he hits Mrs. Dixon?” She knew Gran had noticed the bruise. She had caught Gran staring at it with those puppy-dog sad eyes.
Gran was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know, Stevie,” her voice low and sad, very un-Gran-like. “I don’t know. But I do know we gotta give that boy love, you hear?”
-
As Stevie grew older, she began to look more and more like her mother.
She had never known her mother—never even met her, except for the day she was born, she supposed—but Gran kept the photos of her daughter up. Stevie’s mama’s school pictures lined the walls, along with scattered Polaroids on the fridge.
They shared the same shade of curly golden hair, the same smattering of freckles across their cheeks, the same wide gap between their front teeth, and the same round face. But Stevie’s eyes were brown, not green like her mama’s. She must have gotten them from her daddy, though she had no idea who he was. Gran didn’t have any pictures of him, because Gran didn’t know who he was either. Maybe he had brown eyes. Maybe.
Mrs. Dixon used to love telling Stevie how much she looked like her mama. Mrs. Dixon and Stevie’s mama had been the best of friends once upon a time. But Stevie’s mama was gone, and now Mrs. Dixon was too—she had died in a fire a year back. A few months after that, Merle enlisted in the army. After that, Stevie saw less and less of Daryl. He started missing school, and when he did show up, he barely spoke to her. Even though she kept inviting him over for dinner, he stopped coming. She didn’t know what he was up to these days. She didn’t even know if he would show up for school.
She hoped he would. She felt utterly alone—no friends, no one. Well, except for Gran and a few of Gran’s church and bingo friends. All old women who liked to pinch her cheeks and offer her baked goods.
She spent the summer doing what she always did when there was no school to keep her busy. She read books about bugs, searched for them in the woods, and spent hours on the library computer bidding on taxidermy bugs with her chore money. She meticulously prepared her bug displays, knitted with Gran, went to church with Gran, attended bingo night with Gran, cooked with Gran, tended to Gran’s garden, and watched old westerns with Gran.
Bugs and Gran. That was about it.
On the morning of her first day of high school, Stevie stood in front of the living room wall, staring at her mama’s school pictures. It was almost like looking into a reflection. Gran found her there, silent, and didn’t say anything. She just gave Stevie that sad smile—the one she always wore when Stevie’s mama came up.
Stevie was good at reading people. She noticed things others didn’t. She knew that Gran missed her mama terribly. She knew that Gran carried so many regrets. She also knew that in Stevie, Gran saw a second chance at raising a daughter.
Mrs. Dixon had told Stevie so many stories about her mama. "She was a total hippy," she would say. She wore long skirts and sandals, piled on layers of jewelry, and always had music from the seventies playing—especially Fleetwood Mac. That was her thing. It wasn’t just the music, either. It was the way she carried herself, carefree and wild, with a spirit that seemed to float just above the ground.
The one thing Stevie’s mama had done for her—the only thing that tied them together—was give her a name. Stevie Nicks, her mama’s favorite singer. That was her gift. She passed it down before handing Stevie over to Gran and skipping town, leaving without a word or a trace. Never to be seen again.
Gran didn’t talk much about Stevie’s mama, except to tell stories of how wild she had been, how full of life. Mrs. Dixon’s stories painted a picture of a woman who was always searching for something—something bigger than herself, something that couldn’t be found in a small town like this. Stevie often wondered if her mama had ever found whatever it was she was looking for.
As Stevie grew older, she started to understand why Gran didn’t talk about her. The absence was painful. Stevie’s mama was a ghost in their lives. For Stevie, her name was the one tangible connection to her. As soon as she could, she started playing her namesake’s songs over and over, searching for a thread of connection to the woman in the photos on the walls.
-
The first day of high school was already shaping up to be one of Stevie’s least favorite days of the year. She hated crowds, hated the noise of everyone shouting over each other in the hallways, hated the way the fluorescent lights hummed overhead and cast an unflattering glare on everything. The air smelled like cheap cologne and cafeteria food, and the sound of lockers slamming felt like tiny earthquakes rattling her nerves.
She found her first class—a cramped, stuffy room with mismatched desks and a chalkboard that still bore the faint ghost of last year’s lessons. Stevie picked a seat near the middle of the room, close enough to hear the teacher but not so close that she’d draw attention to herself. She took out her notebook and smoothed the edges of the pages, focusing on the familiar rhythm of straightening everything just so.
The bell rang, and the last few stragglers shuffled in. Stevie kept her head down, staring at her notebook, until she heard the scrape of a chair behind her. She glanced back cautiously and caught a flash of someone sitting down. When she turned slightly, she froze.
Daryl Dixon was sitting directly behind her.
Of course. It was an incredibly small school, and it seemed like Daryl had been held back, so it would make sense that he was placed in this class.
He looked about the same as the last time she’d seen him—messy brown hair that stuck out at odd angles, faint bruises that hadn’t entirely faded, and that same scowl that made him look like he’d rather be anywhere else. He didn’t seem to notice her right away, slumping into his chair and tapping a pencil on the desk.
Stevie felt her stomach flip. She wanted to say something—anything—but her tongue felt heavy, and her thoughts tangled into a knot of panic. What was she supposed to say? Hey, long time no see? How’s your summer? Why did you stop coming over?
The teacher started talking, sparing her from having to figure it out. She kept her head down for most of the class, her mind half on the lesson and half on the boy sitting behind her. When the bell finally rang, she gathered her things as quickly as possible, hoping to slip out before he noticed her.
“Stevie?”
His voice stopped her cold. She turned slowly, clutching her notebook to her chest.
“Hi,” Daryl said, his voice gruff but quieter than she remembered. He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking just as awkward as she felt.
“Hi,” she mumbled, staring at a spot on the floor near his feet.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.
“You, uh…you look different,” Daryl finally said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Stevie blinked at him, unsure if that was supposed to be a compliment or just an observation. “So do you,” she said softly.
He shrugged, glancing away. “How’s Gran?”
“Good. She’s good.” She missed you. Asked about you all the time.
He nodded. “You still, uh…you still got all those bugs?”
Her heart fluttered a little at the question. “Yeah,” she said, her voice picking up a bit of enthusiasm. “I got a whole new case. I found a Harlequin beetle on ebay. Spent all summer reorganizing my collection.”
Daryl gave her a small, lopsided grin. “Sounds like you.”
Stevie wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she didn’t. The silence crept back in, and she shifted on her feet.
“Wanna hang out sometime?” Daryl blurted.
Stevie’s eyes snapped to his, wide with surprise. “Uh…I…sure. I mean, if you wanna.”
“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal, but she noticed the way he shifted awkwardly. “After school, maybe. We could go to the woods or somethin’.”
Stevie hesitated, her mind racing through the possibilities—what they’d do, what they’d talk about, whether it would mess up her routine. But then she nodded. “Okay. After school.”
Daryl gave her a quick nod. “Cool. See you then.”
As she watched him walk away, a strange mix of nervousness and excitement bubbled in her chest. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel quite so alone.
-
Stevie had never given much thought to kissing. She read about it in books and saw it in movies, but the idea of actually doing it herself always felt foreign, distant—like something other people did, not her.
She was a sophomore when it happened, on a Spring evening in the woods behind her house.
Daryl had been quiet all day, quieter than usual. Stevie noticed the way he kept stealing glances at her, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his old jacket. He hadn’t teased her about her bugs, hadn’t made any sarcastic comments about the way she was still wearing her favorite dress even though it was full of holes.
“You’re actin’ weird,” Stevie finally said, stopping in her tracks. She turned to face him, folding her arms across her chest.
Daryl kicked at a rock on the path, avoiding her gaze. “I ain’t actin’ weird.”
“You are,” she insisted. “You’ve barely said anythin’ all day. Did I do somethin’?”
“No.” His voice was quiet, and he shifted uncomfortably. “You didn’t do nothin’. I just…” He trailed off, finally looking up at her.
Stevie tilted her head. “What?”
Daryl scratched the back of his neck, his face flushing red. “I was just thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’.”
“What?” she asked again.
Instead of answering, Daryl took a step closer. He hesitated, his hands twitching like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “Can I…Can I try somethin’?”
Stevie’s heart thumped in her chest. She blinked at him, the weight of the moment sinking in as she realized what he was asking. “O-okay,” she stammered, unsure what else to say.
Daryl leaned in slowly, his movements awkward and uncertain. Stevie stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. When his lips finally brushed hers, it was soft and hesitant, like he was afraid of doing it wrong.
The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like time had stretched, the world narrowing down to just the two of them. When Daryl pulled back, his face was even redder, and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I probably shouldn’t’ve—”
“It’s okay,” Stevie interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her cheeks were burning, but she couldn’t stop the small, shy smile that tugged at her lips.
“Yeah?” Daryl glanced at her, relief flickering across his face.
“Yeah,” she said, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel after something like that, but her chest felt warm, like she’d just taken a deep breath on a chilly morning.
They stood there for a moment, the woods quiet around them. Then Daryl gave her a lopsided grin and nudged her arm with his elbow. “Come on. I bet there’s still some frogs by the creek.”
Stevie laughed, the sound soft and light. She followed him down the trail, her heart still fluttering from the kiss. For the first time, she thought maybe kissing wasn’t so strange after all.
“Daryl?”
”Hmm?”
“Are we goin’ steady now?”
“…Guess so.”
-
“Call me when my dad ain’t home,” Daryl had said that morning while he was driving her to school. He did that almost every morning - pick Stevie up, drop her off at school, and go to work. He had dropped out, leaving her unfortunately utterly alone at school. But she didn’t mind much. “He won’t be back ‘round till late.”
Stevie had nodded, then she pressed a kiss to his lips before hopping out of his truck.
Later, she’d dialed the Dixon’s number.
It rang twice before someone picked up.
“What?” A gruff voice snapped on the other end of the line.
Stevie froze. That wasn’t Daryl.
“Uh… um…” She stammered, panic rising in her chest.
“Who is this?” The voice barked.
“It’s Stevie St. James, sir. Is Daryl there?”
She got no response. Only a huff, and then the cut-off slam of the phone.
That evening, she heard a knock at the door. Stevie jumped up from the couch, her heart leaping as she ran to answer it.
Daryl stood there, slouched and battered. His right eye was swollen shut, his lip split, and there was a cut along his cheekbone that looked like it hadn’t stopped bleeding yet.
“Daryl!” Stevie gasped, reaching for him.
“M’fine,” he muttered, brushing past her into the house.
“You are not fine,” Gran said firmly, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen with her hands on her hips. Her eyes softened when she saw the state of him. “Lord, child. Sit before you fall down.”
Daryl hesitated but obeyed, collapsing onto the couch with a wince. Stevie followed him, hovering nearby, unsure what to do.
“Go get the first aid kit,” Gran said, her voice calm but urgent.
Stevie nodded and dashed off, returning moments later with the kit. Gran knelt beside Daryl, opening it and inspecting his injuries with the practiced care of someone who’d done this too many times.
“This ain’t nothin’,” Daryl mumbled as Gran dabbed at his cheek with a damp cloth. He flinched but didn’t pull away.
“Don’t you dare,” Gran scolded gently. “Now, you wanna tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?”
Daryl looked down at his hands, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “He was mad ‘bout the phone,” he admitted quietly.
Stevie’s heart sank. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Don’t,” Daryl said quickly, glancing up at her. “Ain’t your fault.”
Gran sighed, shaking her head. “That man’s got no business puttin’ his hands on you. You hear me?”
Daryl didn’t respond, his jaw tightening.
“You’re stayin’ here tonight,” Gran said firmly. “No arguments.”
Daryl looked like he wanted to protest but thought better of it. Instead, he nodded, his shoulders slumping in relief.
Stevie sat beside him on the couch, her hands twisting together in her lap. She wanted to say something, to tell him how much she hated seeing him like this, how much she cared about him, but the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, she reached out and took his hand. He didn’t pull away.
Gran finished patching him up and stood, patting his shoulder gently. “I’ll make you some tea,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.
For a moment, it was just Stevie and Daryl, the room quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator.
“I hate him,” Stevie whispered, her voice shaking with the weight of emotions she didn’t know how to express.
“I know,” Daryl said softly, his fingers tightening around hers. “But I’m all right.”
She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “No, you ain’t.”
“Will be. ‘Cause I got you.”
-
Stevie’s senior year was a whirlwind of heartbreak and change.
Gran’s death in the early months hit her harder than anything ever had. One moment, Gran was bustling around the house like always, scolding Stevie for forgetting her umbrella on a rainy day, and the next, she was gone—slipping away quietly in her sleep.
Gran had left everything to Stevie: the house, the small savings account, even the old Volkswagen she’d loved so much.
Daryl was her anchor through it all. He spent every free moment at the house, fixing broken pipes, mowing the lawn, and making sure Stevie ate when she forgot. But he was struggling too. A few months after Gran’s passing, Daryl’s father died of a sudden heart attack (no doubt caused from years of alcohol abuse), leaving behind a mountain of debt and a broken trailer. Merle was nowhere to be found, not that Daryl expected him to step up.
Stevie offered what little support she could. She watched Daryl sell the trailer and everything his dad had left behind, just to make ends meet. And when he had nowhere else to go, she told him he could live at Gran’s house, with her.
One evening, long after the sun had set, they found themselves sitting together on the old couch in the living room. Stevie had been cleaning out some of Gran’s things earlier in the day and had stumbled across an old quilt. Now, it was draped over them as they watched a rerun of some black-and-white Western that Gran had loved.
Daryl was quiet, his arm stretched across the back of the couch, his fingers idly brushing against Stevie’s shoulder. She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest.
“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.
She nodded, her hand clutching a corner of the quilt. “I think so.”
“You’re doin’ good, Ladybug,” he said, using his nickname for her that he oh-so cleverly came up with a few years back, his hand moving to rest on her arm. “Gran would be proud of you.”
The mention of Gran made her chest tighten, but she didn’t cry. Instead, she tilted her head up to look at him. His face was lined with exhaustion, the weight of the past year visible in every angle.
“You’ve been good to me, Daryl,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You’ve been good to me, too.”
The air between them shifted, a quiet tension settling in as their eyes met. Stevie’s heart pounded in her chest, a mix of nerves and something deeper. She didn’t know who moved first, but his lips were on hers, soft and warm and hesitant.
Stevie loved kissing Daryl. They did it often. It only went past kissing a handful of times, but never all the way.
She straddled him, grinding down, making him gasp and clutch at the back of her sweater.
“Stevie,” he murmured breathlessly against her lips,
“I want it,” she whispered back, pulling at the hem if his shirt. “I want it. I want you.”
They moved slowly, carefully, as if afraid to break the moment. Daryl’s hands traced the curve of her back, his touch reverent, while Stevie’s fingers tangled in his hair.
“Are you sure?” Daryl asked, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm against her skin.
Stevie nodded, her voice steady despite the rapid beat of her heart. “I’m sure.”
What followed was quiet and tender, filled with whispered reassurances and gentle touches. It wasn’t perfect—nothing ever was—but it was theirs, a moment carved out of the chaos of their lives where nothing else mattered but each other.
Afterward, they lay tangled together on the couch. Stevie rested her head on Daryl’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as his fingers ran through her hair.
“I love you,” he said quietly, almost as if he was afraid to say it too loudly.
Oh.
He loved her.
Stevie grinned. “I love you, too.”
In the weeks that followed, Daryl moved his few belongings into the house. It was a bittersweet arrangement—born out of necessity, but filled with a quiet hope for the future. Together, they started to rebuild, turning the house into a home for both of them.
-
Stevie kept her head down as she wiped the counter. Ever since Daryl’s proposal on her nineteenth birthday, she felt like everyone who looked at her could see the ring on her finger. It wasn’t big or flashy—something small and gold from the pawnshop—but it was perfect. Just like the butterfly he’d given her, a Ulysses butterfly, encased in glass with vibrant blue wings that seemed almost alive. She’d never felt more loved in her life.
Charlotte, a fellow waitress a few years older than Stevie, leaned on the counter beside her, smile warm and easy. “So, Mrs. Dixon, when’s the big day?”
Stevie’s cheeks turned crimson. “I...don’t know. We haven’t talked ‘bout it yet,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes on the coffee pot she was refilling.
Charlotte chuckled. “Well, you better start talkin’. Weddings don’t plan themselves, Vie.”
She wanted to say that there wasn’t going to be a wedding, not in the traditional sense. Who would come? Both of them had no family around, hardly had any people they considered friends. They would mostly likely just go down to the courthouse the next day they had free.
Before she could say that, the door jingled, and Stevie stiffened, instinctively shrinking into herself as a group of men walked in, loud and boisterous. One of them, the same man who had been giving Charlotte trouble, looked around the diner and grinned.
“Well, if it ain’t my favorite waitress,” he drawled, his eyes locking on Charlotte.
Charlotte’s smile didn’t falter, though her eyes hardened. “What can I get for you today?” she asked, her tone cool but professional.
The man leaned on the counter, far too close for comfort. “How ’bout a smile to go with my coffee? Black. Just how I like my women.”
Charlotte, ever the professional, kept her cool. She just smiled largely, sarcastically. “Right on it.”
Stevie wasn’t brave like Daryl, but she couldn’t let this slide. She had only been working at the diner for a few months, but already, Charlotte became her friend. Her first friend in her whole life, besides Daryl. Charlotte didn’t mind her oddness, her quietness, the way she always seemed off in another world internally.
So, when the men finished ordering and went to sit, Stevie got started on the coffee. She fixed up a tray, and turned, facing Charlotte. Locking eyes with her friend, Stevie spit directly in the mug of black coffee, before turning back around and serving the men the drinks. She could hear Charlotte attempt to cover her laughter behind her, making Stevie smile to herself.
-
Stevie’s hands trembled as she set a coffee cup in front of a customer. The morning sickness wasn’t too bad today, but her nerves were on edge. Daryl had been quiet since she took the pregnancy test—she could tell something was eating at him.
She didn’t blame him. The idea of becoming parents scared her too, though her fear felt different—less like dread and more like a worry. She always wanted a baby, and she wanted Daryl to believe he could be a good dad.
The diner door jingled, and Stevie glanced up. A wiry man with a swagger that immediately put her on edge walked in. His eyes scanned the room before landing on her. His face broke into a wide grin.
Oh. She knew that grin.
“Well, if it ain’t lil’ Miss St. James,” he drawled, his voice too loud and too familiar.
Stevie stiffened, gripping the coffee pot tighter. “It’s Dixon now,” she said, her voice quiet, as she rounded the bar, putting a blockage between them.
Merle’s grin widened as he sauntered over to the counter and sat down. “Dixon, huh? So you actually went and hitched up with my baby brother. Always knew he had the hots for you. Why else would he follow you ‘round everywhere like a lost dog?”
Stevie forced a tight smile. It was awkwardly silent for a moment, Merle just grinning at her. “Got married a few months back,” she said, feeling uncomfortable.
“Well, congrats, Mrs. Dixon. Welcome to the fuckin’ family. Where’s my little brother, anyways? I went by that dump of a trailer, and some strangers were there. What the hell’s that ‘bout?”
Stevie hesitated. She didn’t owe him any explanations, but she also didn’t want trouble. “Daryl sold it.”
Merle’s expression darkened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “Sold it? That trailer was our dad’s. Daryl didn’t have no right to do that.”
“It was fallin’ apart. He needed the money. He couldn’t get ahold of you. He tried.”
“Excuse me, I was busy servin’ our fine country. That trailer’s got history. And you come along, and now Daryl’s sellin’ off family stuff like it don’t mean nothin’?”
“Daryl made the decision. If you’ve got a problem with it, take it up with him.”
Merle’s face twisted in anger as he leaned closer to Stevie, his voice dripping with disdain. “Take it up with him, huh? You think you’re real smart, don’t you? Bet you’ve got him doin’ whatever you say, like a damn puppet. You don’t know the first thing ‘bout family, do you? You’re just some dumb little bitch whose slut mama ran out on her the second she shot you out her pussy.” Merle laughed harshly, his eyes narrowing. “Bet you don’t even know how to take care of yourself, let alone him. Hell, you probably got the whole town thinkin’ he’s gone soft, runnin’ around with some retard-”
“Excuse me,” Charlotte said, suddenly, appearing behind Stevie, tone sharp. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Merle snorted, leaning back slightly but still smirking. “Oh, now the cavalry’s here? Look, lady, this is between me and my sistah-in-law.”
Charlotte didn’t flinch. “Unless you’re plannin’ to order somethin’ and sit down quietly, you can get the hell out.”
Merle stared at her for a moment, his smirk faltering under her unrelenting gaze. “Whatever,” he muttered, stepping back. He turned to Stevie, pointing a finger at her. “This ain’t over, lil’ girl. Tell my brother I need to talk.”
He stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.
“What a fuckin’ prick,” Charlotte scowled.
-
The smell of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove filled the small house. Stevie was curled up on the couch, absently running her hand over the small swell of her belly. Daryl shuffled in from the kitchen, carrying two plates piled high with spaghetti and garlic bread, handing one to her before collapsing onto the couch beside her.
"Thanks, Dar," Stevie said with a smile, already twirling a forkful of pasta.
Daryl grunted in response, though the corner of his mouth twitched up. He started eating, his knee bumping against hers on the cramped couch.
“Merle find a couch to crash on tonight?” Stevie asked between bites.
“Yeah, some guy he used to run with back in the day,” Daryl muttered. “Ain’t gonna last long if he don’t keep his mouth shut.”
Stevie rolled her eyes. “Typical.”
Daryl hesitated, swirling his fork through his spaghetti. “I got him in with that guy over at the junkyard. Said he’d give Merle a trial shift tomorrow. It’s somethin’.”
“That’s good,” Stevie said, her tone careful. She didn’t care for Merle—he’d been nothing but trouble since he’d shown up in town—but she saw how hard Daryl was trying to help his brother after he was discharged. Still, she refused to let him in her house. Daryl agreed.
They ate and talked idly about their days, Stevie scarfing down spaghetti, her feet in Daryl’s lap, the news on the TV humming in the background. She paused her recounting of seeing some Cicada’s in the backyard earlier when she hears the newscaster start to speak urgently.
“Reports are coming in of a mysterious illness spreading rapidly across parts of Europe and Asia…”
Stevie glanced at the screen, frowning. “That’s...weird,” she said, voice uneasy.
“Eh, prolly just some flu thing,” Daryl said, reaching for the remote. “Ain’t our problem.” He changed the channel to some sitcom, discarding his plate and melting into the couch, resting a hand on her ankle. “So, uh…you thinkin’ ‘bout names any?”
Stevie grinned. “Oh, yes. I have a list, actually. Up here.” She tapped her temple.
“A list?” Daryl raised an eyebrow.
“Of course.”
“Please don’t say no bug name.”
She rolled her eyes. “No Ladybug for a lil’ girl?”
“I already gotta Ladybug.”
-
PART II : AFTER
-
The diner buzzed with the comforting hum of a normal day. The smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee filled the air as Stevie wiped down the counter, her movements almost mechanical. The lunch rush had yet to hit, but the small-town chatter of a few regulars made the space feel alive. Charlotte, balancing a tray of plates, breezed past her.
“Table four needs a coffee refill,” Charlotte said, flashing Stevie a quick grin.
Stevie grabbed the coffee pot and made her way to table four, nodding politely at the older couple seated there. “Refill?” she asked, tone cheerful.
Before they could answer, a man stumbled in through the front door. His clothes were torn, and his skin was pale, almost gray. His eyes, wild and unfocused, darted around the room.
“Sir, are you okay?” Stevie asked, concern lacing her voice.
The man didn’t respond. Instead, he lurched forward, his movements jerky and unnatural. Stevie froze, the coffee pot trembling in her hand.
“Hey, buddy, you lost or somethin’?” one of the regulars called out from the counter.
The man suddenly snarled—a guttural, inhumansound—and lunged at the nearest person, sinking his teeth into their neck.
Like a damn animal.
Blood sprayed across the diner as screams erupted.
Stevie dropped the coffee pot, hot liquid splashing across her shoes. Her heart pounded as chaos unfolded around her. More figures stumbled into the diner, lifeless eyes locking onto the living.
“Stevie!” Charlotte’s voice cut through the noise. She was standing by the kitchen door, and eyes wide. “Run!”
Stevie snapped out of her daze and bolted toward Charlotte. A man with blood dripping down his chin grabbed at her arm, but she twisted away, nearly slipping on the blood-slick floor. Charlotte grabbed her wrist and yanked her into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind them.
“Lock it!” Charlotte shouted.
Stevie fumbled with the lock, her hands shaking violently. She managed to secure it, and the pounding started almost immediately. People threw themselves against the door, growling and snarling.
“Oh my God,” Stevie whispered, backing away from the door. Her breathing quickened, her chest heaving. “Oh my God, what is happenin’? What’s wrong with them?”
“Must be that thing—that disease.”
“Thought it was overseas?” Stevie could hardly breathe. There was blood all over her crisp blue uniform. Hot coffee all over her legs and pearly white sneakers. She felt dirty—so dirty.
“Stevie, breathe,” Charlotte said, grabbing her shoulders. “Look at me. Breathe.”
“I—I can’t!” Stevie gasped, clutching her chest. “Lottie, I can’t—”
“You can,” Charlotte said firmly, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. “You have to. Come on, breathe. That door is solid. You’ve gotta calm down, or you’re gonna pass out. It ain’t good for the baby.”
Stevie tried to focus on Charlotte’s voice, but the noise outside was deafening. Those people—whatever was wrong with them— were relentless, their pounding like a drumbeat. Her vision blurred as tears spilled down her cheeks.
“I want Daryl,” she cried. “I can’t—I can’t—I need—“
“Okay, okay,” Charlotte said, pulling Stevie down to sit on the floor. “We’ll do this together. Look at me. Breathe in—one, two, three. Out—one, two, three. Come on, Stevie.”
Stevie tried to follow Charlotte’s lead, her breaths shaky and uneven. Slowly, the tightness in her chest began to ease, though the panic still hovered.
“That’s it,” Charlotte said softly, squeezing Stevie’s hands. “You’re doin’ good. Keep goin’.”
Stevie nodded, her eyes darting toward the door. “What if they get in?” she whispered.
“They won’t,” Charlotte said, though her voice wavered slightly. “Not right now. And if they do, we’ll figure it out. We’re not dyin’ in this damn diner, you hear me?”
“Okay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”
Stevie reached in her pocket, pulling out her flip phone. Charlotte did the same. Stevie tried to call Daryl, but the phone wouldn’t even ring.
“Ain’t workin’?” Charlotte asked, and Stevie shook her head. “Mine neither. Shit.”
They sat together on the cold kitchen floor, clutching each other, the horrid sounds outside continuing.
-
Every thud against the door made Stevie flinch, but she clung to Charlotte’s steady presence like a lifeline.
Then, soon, the noise began to fade.
Charlotte lifted her head, her brow furrowing. “Do you hear that?”
Stevie wiped at her tear-streaked face. “What?”
Charlotte tilted her head, listening intently. The pounding had grown sporadic, the growls quieter. After another agonizing moment, the sounds outside the door vanished altogether.
“Where did they go?” Stevie whispered, voice hoarse.
Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe they found somethin’ else to chase.” She stood cautiously, her hand gripping the nearest kitchen knife. “Stay here. I’m gonna check.”
Stevie grabbed her arm. “No! What if they’re still out there?”
“We can’t stay locked in here, Stevie. If the coast is clear, we needa get out while we can.”
Stevie hesitated but nodded, her hand going to rest protectively on her belly.
Charlotte unlocked the door slowly, the sound of the bolt sliding back deafening in the silence. She cracked the door open and peeked out.
“They’re gone,” Charlotte whispered, pushing the door open further.
Stevie followed, her heart hammering as she stepped into the dining area. The once-bustling diner was now a blood-soaked nightmare. Overturned chairs and shattered dishes littered the floor, and the air was thick with the tang of death.
“Let’s move,” Charlotte urged, her voice low.
They crept toward the front door, their footsteps careful. Just as they reached the exit, Stevie’s foot caught on something, and she stumbled. She looked down—and screamed.
It was the older couple from table four. Their bodies were crumpled on the floor, broken and torn apart. Blood pooled beneath them, dark and sticky.
“Oh God,” Stevie choked, stomach lurching.
Charlotte grabbed her under the arms and hauled her up. “Come on! Don’t look. Let’s go!”
Stevie tried to avert her gaze, but the image was burned into her mind. She let Charlotte drag her toward the parking lot, her legs wobbling beneath her.
Charlotte’s car was parked a few feet away, splattered with blood but miraculously intact. Charlotte yanked the door open and shoved Stevie inside before scrambling into the driver’s seat. She started the engine, her hands shaking, and threw the car into reverse.
“Buckle up,” Charlotte barked, glancing in the rearview mirror as she sped out of the lot.
Stevie fumbled with the seatbelt, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Where we goin’?”
“No fuckin’ clue,” she replied, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Your house. Then mine, I guess.”
Stevie tried her phone again, only to find it dead.
-
They had gone to Stevie’s house first.
It was silent, the front door still locked. There was no sign of Daryl, either. He’d left for work that morning, planning to come home at noon for lunch. It was nearing sundown, and he was not there.
Stevie had searched every room, calling out his name until her voice cracked. She found his hunting rifle and ammo in the closet, the sight of it hitting her like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t been here; he wouldn’t have left that behind, with everything going on out there.
Stevie went to their bedroom, breath hitching as she looked around. The walls and shelves were lined with the collection she’d spent her life creating. She couldn’t take them all, of course. There wasn’t room, and there wasn’t time.
But she could bring one, maybe. One could certainly fit in her bag. Charlotte said to get necessities. Stevie felt this was one.
On her bedside table sat the Ulysses butterfly Daryl had given her for her birthday just months earlier. She slipped the case into her backpack carefully before zipping the bag shut.
Charlotte had been quiet, standing guard and giving Stevie space as she packed what she could. Clothes, toiletries, her prenatal vitamins, whatever food was left in the pantry. She wrote a note for Daryl and left it on the kitchen counter.
“Let’s go,” Charlotte called from the doorway.
Stevie lingered for one last look at her gran’s house, the one she grew up in, before following Charlotte out.
From there, they went to Charlotte’s house. It was empty too, but not untouched. A few drawers had been pulled open, and the back door swung slightly ajar, creaking on its hinges.
“They left in a hurry,” Charlotte murmured, her brow furrowed as she looked around.
But her parents and her older brother Theodore were gone, and the heaviness in her chest was evident as Stevie watched her friend stare at the empty dinner table.
-
The search continued.
They checked the police station and the firehouse, hoping to find survivors or some kind of authority. Instead, they found chaos. The places were crawling with people—only, they weren’t people anymore. They were sick with something, their skin pale and torn, their eyes vacant and hungry.
Stevie had sobbed and sobbed that night, crying for Daryl, clutching her stomach as if holding her baby could keep her grounded. Charlotte sat beside her in the car, staring out at the darkness, holding Daryl’s rifle. She didn’t say much, but her presence alone the only thing keeping Stevie from falling apart entirely. She couldn’t do this alone.
-
For weeks, they drove through the town and its outskirts, searching for Daryl and Charlotte’s family. Every house, every store, every quiet road was the same—empty of answers, full of the sick.
They slept in Charlotte’s car, curled up under thin blankets. Nights were restless, full of the sounds of the sick shuffling outside or distant screams that neither of them dared to investigate.
One night, Stevie whispered into the darkness, her voice trembling. “What if they’re gone?”
Charlotte didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was quiet but firm. “Then we keep goin’. For you. For the baby.”
Stevie nodded, tears slipping down her face.
-
After weeks of searching, they were beginning to believe that they we’re the only living people left in Georgia. But then, one day, they heard it—a crackling message over a battery-powered radio they’d scavenged from a gas station.
“This is a message for any survivors. The CDC in Atlanta is offering refuge. Repeat, the CDC in Atlanta is offering refuge. Bring food, water, and any medical supplies you can carry. Stay safe.”
Charlotte looked at Stevie, then down at her belly, growing bigger as the days went by. “Atlanta ain’t a long drive.”
As they drove away from the town they’d once called home, neither of them looked back. Their hearts ached with the weight of what they’d lost, but the road ahead held a sliver of hope, and that was all they had left.
-
The CDC was destroyed.
Blown up—recently, based on the small active fires among the desolated building.
Charlotte stood beside Stevie, her shoulders squared but trembling slightly as they stared at what had once been their last hope. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sound of the wind rushing past the car and the distant groans of the sick filled the silence.
Charlotte broke first. Bowing her head, she whispered a prayer under her breath, her lips moving in words Stevie couldn’t quite make out.
Stevie glanced at her, biting back the bitter remark that rose to her lips. She’d grown up in church, mostly to make her Gran happy, but she’d never believed in any of it. Especially not now—not when the world had turned into this nightmare.
She looked back at the smoldering ruins, her heart sinking deeper. There was nothing left. No CDC. No rescue. No answers.
“What are you doin’?” Stevie asked, voice sharper than she intended. Perhaps it was the hormones, or perhaps the dread.
Charlotte didn’t look up, her voice low and steady. “Prayin’.”
“For what?” Stevie snapped, throwing her hands out at the ruins. “For a miracle? For some answer? Because this—” she gestured wildly at the destruction—“this ain’t look like the kinda thing God’s gonna fix anytime soon!”
Charlotte slowly raised her head, her face calm but weary. “I ain’t prayin’ for answers, Stevie. I’m prayin’ for strength. For both of us. For your baby.”
-
The drive back out of the city was silent. Stevie kept her eyes on the road, knuckles white as she gripped the wheel. Beside her, Charlotte stared out the window, face gloomy.
They pulled over just before sundown, parking on the shoulder of an overgrown highway. The car was nearly out of gas, and neither of them had the energy to go any farther.
Charlotte climbed out, rifle slung over her shoulder. “I’ll check the area,” she said, her voice brisk. “Stay here.”
Stevie didn’t argue. She sat in the car, her hands resting on her swollen belly.
What were they going to do now? Where would they go? Would they ever find Daryl—or anyone?
Charlotte returned a few minutes later, her face unreadable. “It’s clear,” she said. “We’ll sleep here tonight.”
As they sat together, the silence stretched on until Stevie couldn’t take it anymore. “Do you think it’s even worth it?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Charlotte looked at her sharply. “What?”
“This,” Stevie said, gesturing vaguely around them. “Survivin’. Tryin’. What’s the point if everythin’s just gonna fall apart?”
Charlotte stared at her for a long moment before answering. “The point is the baby,” she said simply. “The point is you. And me. We keep goin’ ‘cause that’s what we do. We survived, and we will survive. That’s all we can do.”
Stevie blinked back tears, her throat tight.
Charlotte leaned back in the seat, rifle resting across her lap. “I ain’t sayin’ it’s gonna be easy. Fuck, it ain’t been easy since day one. But if we give up now, then what’s all this been for?”
Stevie nodded slowly, wiping her eyes. “Okay,” she said softly. “We keep goin’.”
Charlotte gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Yeah. We keep goin’.”
-
More days blurred into more weeks which blurred into more months. Stevie and Charlotte stayed on the move, hopping from town to town, scavenging for supplies, and avoiding the sick as best they could.
Charlotte was the protector. Her father had been a hunter, and she’d grown up learning how to handle firearms. The rifle slung over her shoulder and the pistol at her hip had practically become extensions of her.
Stevie, on the other hand, avoided guns whenever she could. She’d grown up watching Daryl hunt, even shooting at cans for practice in the woods, but the thought of pulling the trigger on something—even something already dead—made her stomach turn. Charlotte never pressed her, instead taking it upon herself to handle the sick whenever they got too close.
“Don’t worry,” Charlotte said. “I’ve got us.”
Stevie nodded, hugging her knees to her chest. “I hate feelin’ useless, though. I’m slowin’ you down.”
Charlotte shook her head firmly. “You ain’t. You gotta sharp mind, you’re smart. The way you spot things, the supplies you find—that keeps us alive. We’re a team.”
The next morning, Stevie proved Charlotte’s point when she spotted a sick person lurking near an abandoned gas station before Charlotte did.
“Two o’clock,” Stevie whispered, pointing to the shadow moving between the pumps.
Charlotte nodded, her hand already on her pistol. She crept forward, her steps silent and deliberate. Stevie stayed back, gripping her knife tightly just in case. With one clean shot, Charlotte put the sick man down, and the area was silent once more.
“See?” Charlotte said, grinning as she holstered the gun. “A team.”
Stevie often thought about Daryl. Where was he? Was he even alive? The questions haunted her.
One evening, as they sat in a dusty motel room they’d claimed for the night, Stevie turned to Charlotte. “Do you think it’s always gonna be like this? Just us, runnin’ from place to place?”
Charlotte shrugged, cleaning her pistol. “Maybe. Maybe not. I ain’t much for thinkin’ that far ahead.” She glanced at Stevie. “But I’ll tell you this—if it’s just us, I’m good with that.”
Stevie smiled faintly, her heart aching with gratitude and guilt. “Thanks, Lottie. For everythin’.”
Charlotte gave her a small, wry grin. “Don’t get mushy on me now, Vie.”
As the months dragged on, they grew more efficient, slipping through ghost towns and taking only what they needed. They avoided other survivors when they could (upon concluding that they weren’t the people they were searching for), figuring that people could be just as dangerous as the sick—if not more so. They were two young women against a shattered world, but they’d made it this far together.
Even in the worst of times, Stevie couldn’t help but hope that somewhere out there, Daryl was alive, looking for her.
-
The house was their sanctuary. A big, two-story farmhouse surrounded by a sturdy iron gate, perched on the edge of a quiet wooded area. They’d stumbled upon it weeks ago, finding it intact and mercifully sick-free. The gate had been an old relic, likely once decorative, but it had held strong against any stragglers that wandered too close.
Charlotte had become the protector in every sense of the word, fiercely guarding their little corner of the world. She set traps around the property, patrolled the fence daily, and made frequent supply runs into nearby towns. Stevie, whose stomach had grown round and heavy in recent months, had tried to go with her at first, but Charlotte put her foot down.
“You’re stayin’ here,” Charlotte had said firmly one morning as Stevie tried to lace up her boots. “You can barely tie your shoes without gettin’ winded. I’ll be fine.”
Stevie had wanted to argue but relented, knowing Charlotte was right. Instead, she turned her focus inward, spending her days tending to the house and preparing for the baby.
The bookshelf in the living room was now packed with dog-eared books on childbirth and parenting, scavenged from libraries and abandoned houses. Stevie and Charlotte had poured over them endlessly, trying to absorb every detail, every bit of advice.
“You’re gonna be a good mama,” Charlotte said one night, her voice breaking the silence as they sat in the candle lit living room.
Stevie glanced up from the book in her lap, surprised. “You think so?”
Charlotte nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. You’ve got the heart for it. And the kid’s gonna have both of us. We’ll make it work.”
Stevie blinked back tears, her hand resting on her belly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said softly.
Charlotte smiled. “Good thing you ain’t havta find out. We’re sisters now, ‘kay?”
-
The early hours of the morning brought a bitter chill that seeped through the farmhouse walls. Stevie sat on the couch in the living room, staring out at the darkened yard beyond the window. She’d been restless all night, her body aching with a heaviness that she couldn’t shake.
Charlotte came in from her patrol, setting her rifle down by the door. “You good?” she asked, her voice soft but alert.
Stevie nodded absently, her hand rubbing small circles on her back. “I think so. Just… uncomfortable.”
Charlotte frowned, walking over to crouch beside her. “Uncomfortable how?”
Before Stevie could answer, a sharp pain shot through her abdomen, forcing a gasp from her lips. She gripped the armrest of the couch, her knuckles white.
“Like that,” Stevie said through gritted teeth.
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Okay, okay. Let’s get you to the room.” She slipped an arm around Stevie’s back and helped her to her feet, her voice calm but firm. “We knew this was comin’. You’ve got this.”
Stevie let herself be guided to the bedroom they’d prepared weeks ago—Stevie’s birthing chamber, Charlotte had dubbed it. It wasn’t much—a clean bed, a pile of blankets, and a few supplies Charlotte had scavenged—but it was all they had. Stevie lay down, the pain coming in waves now, each one stronger than the last.
“Lottie,” Stevie gasped, face slick with sweat. “I ain’t ready. I can’t do this.”
Charlotte knelt beside the bed, gripping Stevie’s hand tightly. “Yes, you can. You’re strong. Just breathe, okay? Focus on me.”
Hours passed, her water breaking and the contractions growing closer together, each one stealing Stevie’s breath and filling the room with muffled cries of pain. Charlotte stayed by her side, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth and whispering words of encouragement, as Stevie cried for Daryl and Gran, who she desperately wished for.
“Push, Stevie,” Charlotte urged when the time came, her voice steady but edged with worry.
“I can’t,” Stevie whimpered, her entire body trembling. “It hurts too much.”
“You can,” Charlotte insisted, her hands gripping Stevie’s knees, pulling her legs apart. “You can. You gotta.”
Stevie gritted her teeth and bore down, screaming through the pain. The minutes dragged on like hours, each push feeling like it might tear her apart. She felt like she was drowning, the world blurring around her. She never knew pain like this.
“Almost there,” Charlotte said. “Just one more, Stevie. One more.”
With a guttural cry, Stevie gave one final push, collapsing back against the pillows as a thin, wailing cry filled the room.
Charlotte’s face broke into a tearful grin as she held the tiny, wriggling baby in her hands. “You did it,” she said, her voice choked. “You did it, Stevie.” It was a boy. A baby boy.
Stevie sobbed with relief, her body heavy with exhaustion. “Is he okay?” she asked weakly, eyes fluttering.
Charlotte nodded, before she cut the umbilical cord and suctioned his little mouth a bit. She wrapped the baby in a clean blanket. “He’s perfect,” she said, laying him gently on Stevie’s chest.
Stevie looked down at her son, her heart swelling as his cries quieted and his tiny fingers curled against her skin. “Hi,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Hi, baby.”
Charlotte sat back, watching with a soft smile. “He’s got your stubbornness already. Took his sweet time gettin’ here.”
Stevie laughed weakly, cradling the baby close.
The room fell quiet, the weight of the moment settling over them. Outside, the world was still as dangerous as ever, but inside this little house, there was a new kind of hope.
“So…what do we call him?” Charlotte asked after a while.
They had been talking about names for a long time, going back and forth. Stevie wanted the baby to have a strong name—something solid, something that would carry them through this broken world.
She’d thought about naming the baby after Daryl or her Gran, Clara. But every time the names crossed her mind, they felt like too much—too heavy, too painful. Still, she couldn’t let them go entirely.
Stevie smiled down at the baby, her voice trembling. “I think…I think I’ll go with Charlie.”
“Charlie? That wasn’t on the list?”
“I know. I wanted to suprise you. Charlie for Charlotte. My savior, my sister.”
“Really?” Tears poured down her cheeks.
Stevie nodded enthusiasticly. “Charlie Daryl Dixon.”
-
The storm raged outside, its winds battering the house as if trying to tear it apart. Stevie sat in the rocking chair by the fireplace, cradling Charlie against her chest. His tiny face was scrunched up, his cries soft but insistent as if he could sense her worry.
Stevie’s eyes kept flicking to the door. Charlotte had been gone too long, on a run to find food.
“She’s fine,” Stevie murmured to her crying baby, trying to convince herself. “She’s fine. She’ll walk through that door any second.” Since his birth four months ago, Stevie and Charlotte had both taken to talking to him as if he could understand their words. It made them feel a little less alone.
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the emptiness outside. No sign of Charlotte. Just wind and darkness and the gnawing silence that probably meant something terrible was waiting. Stevie hugged Charlie closer.
Another minute passed. Then another. Stevie’s chest felt like it might cave in.
Finally, the front door unlocked.
Stevie shot up, clutching Charlie to her chest. Relief surged through her, crashing over her like a wave.
“Lottie!” she cried.
But her joy was fleeting.
Charlotte stumbled into the house, soaked to the bone, face pale as death. Her hand was clutching her shoulder, blood seeping through her fingers. The door slammed shut behind her, blown shut by the wind.
Stevie froze.
“Stevie,” Charlotte croaked, her voice trembling.
“Where…Where were you?” Stevie stammered, taking a shaky step forward. Then she saw the wound. A jagged, unmistakable bite, leaking blood.
“No,” Stevie whispered, her knees wobbling. “No, no, no! Tell me that ain’t...”
Charlotte leaned against the wall, strength failing her. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the rainwater. “I tried, Stevie. I tried to get back. But there were so many sick people, and the rain…I couldn’t see them until it was too late.”
Stevie’s legs gave out, and she sank to the floor, clutching Charlie tightly. Her tears came fast and hot, her chest heaving as the reality of the situation crushed her.
“You can’t do this to me!” she screamed, her voice raw. “You can’t leave me and Charlie! We need you, Charlotte!”
Charlotte knelt down in front of her, her own tears falling freely. She reached out, her shaking hand brushing Stevie’s cheek. “I ain’t wanna leave you,” she choked out. “God, Stevie, I ain’t wanna leave. But it’s already happenin’, I can feel it. I’m sick. You know what you gotta do.”
Stevie shook her head violently. “No. Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that! There has to be somethin’—some way—”
“There ain’t,” Charlotte sobbed. “You know that. I ain’t got much time.” She glanced town at Charlie, who was now wailing in Stevie’s arms, his tiny fists flailing. “You have to protect him, Stevie. You have to keep him safe.”
“I can’t do this without you,” Stevie cried. “You’re all we have, Lottie. I can’t do it alone.”
Charlotte leaned her forehead against Stevie’s, her tears falling onto Charlie’s blanket. “You can do this. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. You’re gonna make it through this, for him. For me.”
They stayed there, clinging to each other as the storm roared outside. Stevie’s sobs shook her entire body, her chest burning as she tried to breathe.
“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I’m so scared.”
Charlotte’s hand cupped her face, her thumb brushing away a tear. “I know. But you’re gonna be okay. And Charlie’s gonna grow up knowin’ how much you love him. How much his Aunt Lottie loved him.” Her voice broke, and she pulled Stevie into a hug, the baby between them.
When Charlotte finally pulled back, her face was pale, her eyes heavy with sorrow. “It’s time.”
Stevie shook her head, trembling. “I can’t.”
“You gotta,” Charlotte whispered. “I ain’t wanna to hurt you, Stevie. I ain’t wanna hurt Charlie. Please. Do it before I lose myself. I’m sick, Vie, I’m hurtin’.”
Stevie trembled as she placed her crying baby in the playpen, before she reached for a knife on the table. Her vision blurred with tears, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Stevie crouched back down to where Charlotte now laid on the ground, practically convulsing, clutching the knife with trembling hands.
“I love you,” she sobbed, voice barely audible.
“I love you too,” Charlotte whispered. “My sister.”
She looked at Charlotte one last time, committing every detail of her face to memory—the curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes, even now, even at the end.
Charlotte closed her eyes, her tears streaming down her cheeks. “S’okay, Vie. S’okay.”
With a sob, Stevie jammed the knife into Charlotte’s temple .
-
Stevie’s face was pale and gaunt. Her clothes hung loosely on her frame, and the dark circles under her eyes told the story of too many sleepless nights.
Charlie squirmed in her arms, his cries weak.
“I know, baby,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Mama’s tryin’.”
Her milk had nearly dried up. The food Charlotte had stalked up on was mostly gone. The sparse handfuls of nuts, fruits, and the occasional squirrel Stevie managed to catch weren’t enough to sustain her. She knew she couldn’t keep this up. If she didn’t find food soon, she wouldn’t be able to feed Charlie.
With trembling hands, she wrapped Charlie against her chest in the makeshift sling. He nuzzled into her, his tiny body warm against her own. She kissed his head, a tear slipping down her cheek.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she murmured. “I hate leavin’ here, but we ain’t gotta choice.”
Grabbing the gun and the last few bullets she had, Stevie stepped out into the cold morning.
The car groaned to life, and she winced at the noise. She hated the way it echoed, hated how it might attract the sick.
The drive to the nearby town was nerve-wracking. Every shadow seemed like it could be death lurking just out of sight.
When she arrived to the marked area on the map (which Charlotte had luckily annotated months prior), the streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional moan of a sick person shuffling in the distance.
She parked and took a deep breath.
With Charlie strapped to her chest, Stevie stepped out, gun in hand. She hadn’t gone more than a few feet when a sick person lunged at her from behind a rusted car. She screamed, the sound startling Charlie, who began to cry. She fumbled with the gun but managed to fire a shaky shot, hitting the sick woman in the chest.
“Dammit!” she hissed, aiming again. This time, the bullet hit its head, and it crumpled to the ground.
More were coming. She could hear them. Stevie wiped sweat from her brow and forced herself to keep moving. She didn’t have the luxury of fear—not now, not with Charlie depending on her.
Inside a small grocery store, she searched frantically for anything edible. Most of the shelves were empty, picked clean long ago. Still, she managed to find a few cans tucked behind a stack of dusty boxes. Her relief was short-lived when she heard footsteps behind her.
Stevie whirled around, raising the gun with trembling hands. A woman stood in the doorway, a long sword-looking weapon in her hands.
“Stay back!” Stevie shouted, her voice cracking.
The woman raised her hands slowly, her face remaining calm. “I’m not here to hurt you,” she said evenly. Her eyes flicked down to Charlie, who was whimpering softly in his sling. “I see you’ve got a little one. I mean no harm.”
Stevie’s chest heaved as she kept the gun trained on the stranger. “What do you want?”
“My name is Michonne,” the woman replied. “Are you alone?”
“No,” Stevie snapped. Charlotte warned her how people could be in this new world. Cruel and merciless. Stevie couldn’t let her know she was alone - utterly alone.
The woman nodded. “You have a group?”
“Yes.”
The woman gave her a small, knowing smile. Stevie never was a good liar. “Well, I’m also with a group. We’ve got a community not far from here. We’ve got food, shelter…kids. Your group could come, talk to our council.”
Stevie’s heart ached at the mention of food. Her instincts screamed not to trust anyone, but when she looked into Michonne’s eyes, she saw no deceit. She was always good at reading people. With her nerves slowly calming, Stevie could sense that this woman seemed genuine.
“Actually…I am alone. ‘Sides him.” She nods at the baby strapped to her.
-
Back at the farmhouse, Stevie hurried to gather her few belongings. She packed clothes for herself and Charlie, the few belongings she’d gathered. Her hands lingered on the Ulysses butterfly on the nightstand. She wrapped it carefully in cloth and placed it in the bag.
Micchone was waiting for her outside. When she was ready to leave, Stevie looked around the farmhouse one last time. This place had been her world for over a year. This was where Charlie was born, ten long months ago. In the backyard was where she had buried Charlotte.
But she couldn’t stay. Deep down, she always knew this. She knew she couldn’t survive in her own, that she wasn’t strong enough.
Michonne waited by the truck. “You ready?” she asked when Stevie emerged.
Stevie nodded, adjusting Charlie in the sling.
The drive to the prison was tense. Michone asked her questions about herself, which Stevie responded to shyly.
When they reached the gates, Stevie nearly gasped. It was a prison, its fences lined with guards. She could see children playing in the yard, their laughter faint but real.
-
As the gates to the prison creaked open, Stevie stepped through hesitantly, clutching Charlie in his sling, Michonne having graciously taken her bag. Her eyes darted around, taking in the sight of people—men and women walking about, children playing under watchful eyes.
“This way,” Michonne said, motioning for Stevie to follow.
Stevie clutched Charlie close as she trailed behind Michonne, heart pounding. She hadn’t been around this many people in so long. It was overwhelming. It made her skin crawl. She was suddenly very conscious about her appearance. She had always prided herself in her cleanliness and upkeep. She must’ve looked terrible, insane, to these well kept people.
They entered a building, where Michonne gestured toward a small group of people.
“Rick, this is Stevie,” Michonne said to a man apporaching them. “And her son, Charlie.”
Rick stepped forward, face softening when he saw the baby. “Welcome,” he said warmly. “You’re safe here. We’ll get you settled in.”
Stevie nodded, throat too tight to speak.
She was introduced to a few others who lingering in the space. A young boy, Carl, who gave her a shy smile, eyes curious. An older woman named Carol greeted her gently, cooing at Charlie.
Michonne and Rick guided her to a prison cell. She almost let out a hysterical laugh. She never imaged she, of all people, would end up living in a prison cell, least of all with a baby, at just twenty years old.
The two people helped her set down her belongings, and Rick even brought her a cradle. He had a daughter, he told her, only a few months old. They were stocked up on baby supplies. This fact alone made her believe she made a good choice.
They even brought her food. Real food. Which she scarfed down embarrassingly fast with red cheeks.
They tried to talk to her some more, but Stevie hardly heard their words. Her nerves were fraying, exhaustion catching up. The bide her a goodbye, sensing her tiredness.
Stevie fell alseep in a prison cell after breast-feeding her baby, her stomach full for the first time in months.
-
She woke up to someone shaking her shoulder, making her gasp awake in fear and grab onto Charlie, who slept curled into her side.
“Sorry!” A voice said. “It’s just me. Carol, from earlier.”
Stevie sighed deeply as she sat up in bed, locking eyes with the older woman. “M’so sorry, ma’am,” she whispered.
She shook her head with a small smile. “It’s okay, no need to apologize. I wanted you to eat while dinner is still hot. You need some meat on those bones.” She held up a plate stacked high with steaming food.
Stevie offered a polite smile. “Thank you, ma’am.” Tentatively, she placed Charlie, still dozing, into the cradle and took the plate, her stomach growling at the smell.
Carol pulled up a chair from the small desk, sitting across from her, as Stevie began to dig in. “You doing okay?”
Stevie hesitated, glancing over at Charlie. “I think so. It’s just…a lot.”
Carol nodded. “I get that. Coming here, being around so many people again—it’s not easy. You and your baby are safe here. I promise.”
Stevie nodded. “It’s hard to believe that after everythin’.” She paused, voice trembling. “I’ve been alone for awhile. Just me and Charlie. I didn’t think I’d ever find other people. Nice people.”
Carol leaned forward slightly. “Don’t worry. We’re nice people, I swear.” She smiled at Charlie. “How old is he?”
“‘Bout ten months, ma’am.”
“You don’t have to call me ma’am. Call me Carol.” She gave a warm smile. “You gave birth alone? All by yourself?”
“No…” Stevie trails off, looking away from Carol’s tender gaze. “I was with someone. My friend, a waitress I worked with before. She died a few months ago. She got, you know…bit by one of the sick people.”
There was a beat of silence before Carol said, “I’m so sorry. His dad—was he…?”
Stevie swallowed hard. She didn’t see the harm in opening up to this woman. She seemed very nice, and sort of reminded her of a younger Gran, warm and motherly. “My husband and I were separated right at the start. I was a few months pregnant when everything happened. I thinks he’s…gone.”
Carol tilted her head, studying her closely. “Did you try to find him?”
Stevie nodded. “Lottie and I - that was my friend- we searched and searched all through town. Couldn’t find nobody. We just…kept movin’. Kept survivin’.”
Carol’s eyes narrowed slightly, her expression shifting as if something had clicked. “What was your husbands name?”
Stevie hesitated, as if saying it out loud would break something inside her. “Daryl,” she whispered.
Carol froze, her breath catching. “Daryl?”
Stevie nodded slowly, her brow furrowing at Carol’s reaction. “Yeah…why?”
Carol leaned back, her expression stunned. “What’s your full name, Stevie?”
Stevie frowned, confused. “Stevie Dixon.”
The room seemed to go silent, the weight of Stevie’s words hanging in the air. Carol’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out at first. Finally, she stood abruptly. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
Stevie’s heart began to race. “What’s goin’ on?”
“I’ll be right back,” Carol said, voice tight with urgency. Without another word, she hurried out of the cell, leaving Stevie staring after her, bewildered.
A few minutes later, Carol returned, but this time she wasn’t alone. A man was behind her.
A man she knew.
Daryl Dixon.
They locked eyes.
He stepped into the cell, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Stevie stood slowly, legs trembling beneath her. “Daryl?” she breathed, voice breaking.
He froze, his hand gripping the doorframe as if he needed it to hold himself up. “Stevie…” His voice was hoarse, barely audible.
Her hand flew to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Oh my God…I found you.”
Daryl took a step forward, then another, until he was standing right in front of her, his hand hovering near her shoulders, as if scared to touch her. As if she might fade away like a ghost if he did. “I thought…I thought you were gone. The diner…”
“I thought the same about you,” Stevie sobbed. “I looked a looked. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
Daryl cupped her face with both hands, staring at her like he couldn’t believe she was real. “I looked for you. For so long.”
Then, finanly, she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed into him, his arms instinctively wrapping around her. Her feet were off the ground, as he clutched her and cried just as she was.
“Stevie, Stevie, Stevie-“ He whispered, voice wet with sobs. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re here.”
A confused cry broke the moment.
Charlie had woken, and he was standing up in the cradle, holding onto the side, looking up at them.
Daryl’s leaned back from Stevie and looked down at Charlie. “Is…is this…?”
“Our baby boy. Charlie. I listened to you — didn’t pick no bug name.”
-
#the walking dead#twd#the walking dead fanfiction#the walking dead fanfic#daryl#twd daryl#daryl dixon#dixon#daryl dixon x reader#fic rec#fypツ
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gif is not mine
Y/N: As usual, Y/N has to save the day!
Daryl: As usual, Daryl’s gotta hear ‘bout it.
#murda writes#daryl dixon#generated#daryl dixon incorrect quotes#twd incorrect quotes#the walking dead incorrect quotes#the walking dead#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl dixon x female reader#daryl dixon twd#daryl dixon the walking dead
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Find Me Part One
Pairing: Daryl x reader
Rating: So far fluff
Warnings: Angst, fluff
Aaron returned to Alexandria along with Kelly and Jerry. Anxious to see your now husband again, you came out from the house you shared together. But there was several people missing—Carol, Connie, Magna, and Daryl. Aaron could see your face scrunched up for miles it seemed like, your brain running a hundred miles a minute. It was trying to rationalize why your husband hadn’t returned. It was surreal to call him your husband. You both hadn’t been married a long time—just a few weeks. Gabriel had officiated a small ceremony for you both at the church in Alexandria, the whole thing being intimate. Just you and Daryl.
“Aaron.”, you immediately began, heading towards him.
“Y/N, wait—I can explain—.”
“Where the hell is my husband?”
Daryl had found an old wedding band, just his size. It was important to you that you both wore rings as a symbol of your love for one another. That’s why Daryl did it. He did it for you. Had he gotten married before the apocalypse (which he wouldn’t have), he wouldn’t have worn one at all. If something happened to Daryl, at least someone knew he was married and belonged to someone. Someone would be missing him.
Aaron sighed. “Y/N, hear me out—”
“Aaron, where the hell is he?!”, you repeated, gritting your teeth.
“Y/N.”, Aaron responded calmly.
“Is he dead?”, you repeated, softer this time as your voice was beginning to break.
“No.”, Aaron responded, quickly. “He’s not dead.”
The look on your face told Aaron you wanted more answers. The kids began coming outside, including Gracie, Judith, and RJ.
“He’s out searching for another way into a cave. We were led into a cave by Alpha. She tried to kill us—Connie and Magna are still stuck. The cave—Carol was—I don’t know—all I know is she accidentally set off some dynamite and the cave collapsed just as we got out.”
“So my husband is out there searching for another way into this cave? Again, cleaning up someone else’s mess?”
Aaron sighed as Gracie ran over to him, calling for her daddy. “I’m sorry Y/N.”
You knew that Daryl and Carol’s friendship was taking a turn for the worst. Daryl was tired of talking some sense into her. There had been no reasoning or rationalizing with her. Things had became difficult for her and Ezekiel since Henry was killed. Their marriage was clearly strained, them seeming to avoid one another. One stayed in Alexandria and the other at the Hilltop. All Carol was focused on was getting revenge, killing Alpha.
Aaron gave you a sympathetic look as he walked off with Gracie. You were trying to give him some grace. You had a feeling who was at fault here and it wasn’t Aaron.
“Where’s Uncle Daryl?”, Judith questioned, coming up beside you.
“Trying to help some of our friends, Jude.”
Judith pursed her lips, clearly not pleased with the answer. “Why don’t you go look for him? I can go too.”
Michonne was on a trip to take someone who had invaded Oceanside back to their home. She said she would keep in contact with Judith, but it had been days since you all had heard anything. Michonne made you and Daryl promise that you both would look after Judith and RJ, keeping them safe no matter what.
“No.”, you said firmly.
“Why not?”, she whined, just like a normal child. “I’m a good shot and I need more practice.”
It almost caused you to smile.
“No Judith—I told your mom I would keep you safe and that’s what I’m going to do.”
Judith frowned, beginning to storm away. She was having a normal childhood temper tantrum, something you never knew you would miss until now. It made life seem somewhat normal. She had Michonne’s determination even if she wasn’t biologically hers. Once she had an idea in her head, she was going to do it come hell or high water, something she got from Rick. You began to follow after Judith, bending down to pick up RJ.
“Judith.”, you called after her, but she ignored you.
“Judith!”, you repeated.
She still ignored you, walking into their home. She stormed up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door shut. You sighed, holding RJ. Life was simpler when Judith was younger. You closed the door, smiling softly at RJ.
“At least you still like me.”
“Yes, I love you.”, RJ smiled before you kissed his head, going into the kitchen to make them something for lunch. You were also going to try and get your mind off what your husband might be getting himself into.
______________________________________________________________
As RJ was finishing up lunch, Judith’s plate was left full. She was still visibly upset with you but you had good reason. She just didn’t know it yet.
Suddenly, you heard footsteps racing down the stairs. You perked up, hoping they were Judith’s. Of course they were hers, silly. Who else’s would they have been? But this world had taught you to always keep one eye open. You could never be too sure.
“Is this why we can’t go?”, Judith held up the white stick.
The white stick you had apparently left in the bathroom on the sink. Dammit.
“Where did you find that?”
“You left it on the sink.”, she crossed her arms. “Not a very good hiding place.”
You sighed.
“And I know this isn’t mom’s.”
You nodded in agreement, trying to think of what to say next. “No, it’s not.”
“You’re pregnant.”, Judith stated matter-of-factly.
“You know what that means, huh?”
Judith came over to sit down at the table, laying your very positive pregnancy test on the table in front of you. “Does Uncle Daryl know?”
“Not yet.”, you sighed. “I wanted to tell him when he got home today but he didn’t come home yet.”
A knock came to the door, interrupting your conversation with Judith. You got up from the table, heading towards the door. Slowly opening it, you found Aaron standing at the door.
“Hey.”
“Hey Aaron.”
“Look, I’m sorry about Daryl. If you want, we can both head out and look for him together.”
“She can’t.”, Judith chimed in from behind you, causing you to look back at her and give her the ‘hush’ look.
As you turned back around, Aaron wore a confused expression on his face.
“She’s pregnant.”
“Judith!”, you looked back at her.
“You’re pregnant?”, Aaron asked. “Does Daryl know?”
You sighed, closing your eyes. “No. I was going to tell him when he got back today.”
Aaron sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his face. “I’ll go find him.”
“I want to go too.”, Judith stated.
TO BE CONTINUED....
#daryl dixon x reader#daryl twd#daryl dixon#the walking dead#the walking dead daryl#daryl dixon imagine#rick grimes
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Your choice, guys! Thanks for voting! 🤗
Tagging a few mutuals, friends, and peeps who might be interested in this voting... @muddyorbsblr @smolvenger @lokisgoodgirl @chennqingg @fictive-sl0th @loz-3 @eleniblue @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @dixons-sunshine @angelwings-crossbowstrings @thevegandarkelf @erebus-et-eigengrau @mayday2007 @making-the-most-0f-it @bigbaldheadname @mochie85 @anukulee @ffsjustletmesleep @vbecker10 @icytrickster17 @huntedmusicgardenn
#loki#loki x reader#loki laufeyson#loki x female reader#loki fanfiction#loki x you#tom hiddleston x reader#marvel loki#loki mcu#loki x y/n#loki laufeyson x reader#loki laufeyson x you#the baby fever au#the ice flower au#daryl dixon#daryl dixon x reader#the walking dead#daryl dixon x female reader#daryl dixon x you#daryl dixon x y/n#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl dixon twd#twd#twd fanfiction#the walking dead fanfic#echoes of hope au
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Prompt giving Ginny about Harry 😏🫶
Anyway, that whole little interaction with the boot and the jacket embrace...well, my my my 😌🥰
AND HIS NOT SO LITTLE REQUEST THAT WE WILL SOOO TAKE BECAUSE WE'RE NOT LEAVING HIM ALONE! ME DEAD😭🥰
"Daryl? Is that you?!" you yelled, hearing the front door open. You rushed toward the entryway and stopped in your tracks when you saw the condition he was in. He grimaced as he tried to toe off his boots. "Jesus," you breathed. "You're covered in blood. Why are you always covered in blood?" You rushed to him and knelt down to untie and loosen his boots. "What happened?"
He looked down at you kneeling at his feet and gulped nervously, feeling entirely unworthy of your care and concern. "Some asshole set spikes up on the road. I didn't see 'em," he drawled. "Tire blew. Bike laid down and I caught a good bounce..."
You looked up with wide, fearful eyes. "Thank God you made it home in one piece! Someone could have been waiting to—to do God-only-knows what." You stood close in front of him and started gently pushing his leather jacket off.
He pulled in a hiss of breath through his teeth as it dragged over the road rash on his arms and his aching muscles in his back and shoulders lit up with pain.
"Here—let me," you said softly. Your arms flew around him, almost in an embrace, as you worked the jacket down his arms and finally dropped it to pool on the floor. His breath hitched in his chest at your closeness. You gave him worried look as he inspected the abrasions. "Maybe we should get you to the clinic."
"'M fine," he said. "I just wanna crash," he drawled.
"Nuh uh. No," you said immediately.
"No?" he chuckled, casting a nervous glance in your direction with his bright blue eyes.
"Not until I'm satisfied that you're cleaned and patched up," you said, crossing your arms stubbornly.
Daryl's eyes crinkled a little in a smile and his expression was soft. He ducked his head. "Alrigh'. Yer the boss, clearly," he drawled.
You felt relieved. "Oh, good. You've finally figured it out then. I'll get the first aid kit and meet you downstairs." You started to turn away but felt Daryl gently take your hand and you turned around in surprise.
"I hate to ask ya for anythin'—"
"Ask me," you breathed.
"Once 'm cleaned up, would ya—would ya stay with me tonight?" He watched as you face brightened into a smile that nearly knocked his knees out.
"Of course I will."
Prompt: "You are covered in blood. Why are you always covered in blood?"
#hurt!daryl#hurt/comfort#daryl dixon fanfiction#daryl dixon twd#twd fanfics#daryl dixon drabbles#daryl imagines#daryl dixon x reader#daryl x y/n#the walking dead#fanfics#twd drabbles
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