#the walking dead drabble

[violettwrites]

jealousy, jealousy 🏹 daryl dixon

summary: daryl noticed you growing closer to another member of the group and becomes increasingly jealous as days go by. when you finally confront him, it leads to confessions of feelings that had been pushed down.

author’s note: hi guys !! this is just something that i vaguely wrote at work until i had time to edit it 🥲 it’s been sitting in my drafts for days now but i hope you enjoy !

don��t forget to like, reblog, leave a comment, or give me a follow ! i appreciate the support 🫶🏻

as always, my ask box is open for requests x

warnings: angst ?? vulnerable!jealous!daryl

word count: 1,295

— — —

life in the apocalypse had turned into a ( somewhat ) steady rhythm of survival, yet often overtaken with moments of fear, exhaustion, and fleeting happiness. you’d always felt fortunate enough to be apart of such a strong group— strangers that had turned into close friends and family. and as the days blurred together with long hours on the road to find a new place to call home, you had found yourself spending more time with glenn. he was easy to talk to; wise, a good listener, and had a calm presence that made the chaos of the world a little easier to handle.

but daryl noticed.

he noticed every laugh, every smile you shared with glenn. at first, he tried to shrug it off. of course you’d get along with glenn; he was a great guy, trustworthy. but the more he watched the two of you, the more he felt the knot twist in his chest, a feeling he wasn’t familiar with at all.

jealousy.

he’d never been the kind of guy to voice his emotions like that, never been the one to let himself care too much. especially in a world like this, when you could be ripped away from him in seconds. caring got people hurt, and in this world, there was no room for distractions. but no matter how much he tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter, it did. and everytime he saw you with glenn, it became harder to ignore.

days passed, and his usual gruffness turned colder, his responses to you were shorter. you had noticed the shift in his energy towards you— the way he had become distant, pretty much avoiding you completely. confusion clouded your mind as you wonder where it had gone wrong. daryl had always been protective over you, but this was different. he was pulling away from you, and you had no idea why.

after a long day of clearing out walkers from the gates of the prison the group had decided to make their new home, you found daryl sitting alone on the rooftop of the prison lookout tower, sharpening his knife. the moonlight illuminated his face, highlighting his tensed jaw. taking a deep breath, you stepped closer towards him.

“daryl,” you spoke softly, careful to not spook the male.

he didn’t look up. he continued to work on his knife, the scraping of metal filling the silence between the two of you.

“daryl.” you repeated, your words a little more sterner as you stepped towards him, minimising the space between the both of you. “what’s wrong? why are you ignoring me?”

daryl paused, his hands stalling their moment before he finally looked up, blue eyes glimmering from the moonlight. “nothin’,” he muttered, but the edge in his voice betrayed him.

you crossed your arms over you chest, brows furrowed in confusion and a little bit of frustration. “it’s not nothing. you’ve been acting weird to me for days now, and i don’t know why. what did i do?”

the brunette male scoffed, shaking his head as he stood up, sliding his knife into its holder on his belt. “ain’t about what ya did,” he muttered, his voice gruff.

“then what’s this about?” you pressed, blocking his path by stepping in front of him as he tried to walk around you. “talk to me daryl, please.” you had always been much better at confrontation than he had, and it was something he admired about you. the way you got straight to the point, instead of avoiding it all together like he did.

daryl stopped when you had stepped in front of him, his shoulders tensing. there was a long silence before he finally let out a breath, frustration and… something else flickering over his features.

“yer gettin’ real close to glenn,” he said, his voice low. almost a growl. “real close.”

you furrowed your brow in confusion, taken aback by his words. “glenn? what does he have to do with anything?”

daryl huffed, running a hand through his hair. “ya don’t see it, do ya? e’ry time i turn ‘round, yer with him. laughin’, talkin’— it’s like ya don’t even see me anymore.”

your heart skipped a beat as the realisation of his mood change set in. “wait.. are you.. jealous?”

he looked away, clenching his jaw, annoyed you had somehow caught on so quickly to his shitty mood. “ain’t about bein’ jealous. just.. i dunno.. you and him? feels like ya don’t need me around anymore.”

“daryl,” you sighed softly, stepping closer to him. “glenn’s just a friend. i’m not interested in him like that— plus he’s got the hots for maggie.” you raised a brow at him, eyes locked on to his as you gaged his reaction.

“then wha’ about me?” his eyes held your gaze, uncertainty written across his face. the question hung in the air, heavy with all the things that had been left unsaid for so long. your breath caught in your throat as you realised this was the moment. the moment to either push forward, or walk away.

“daryl,” you whispered his name again, taking a step closer to him. “i’ve always needed you around, and i always will. more than anyone else.” you watched the lump in his throat as he swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt. and when he didn’t find any, he copied you, stepping closer to you, closing the distance between your bodies.

“thought.. thought maybe ya didn’t feel the same way,” he admitted, his voice strong with vulnerability.

you reached out for him, hand pressing gently against his bicep. “i’ve always felt this way about you, daryl. i just didn’t think— i didn’t think you wanted that.”

a low breath escaped him, and he closed his eyes for a moment as if he was trying to steady himself. when he opened them again, there was a softness there that you hadn’t really seen before. a tenderness that made your heart ache. “been tryin’ to push it down,” he said. “didn’t think i had the right.. not in this world.”

you shook your head, stepping even closer to him so you were inches apart. “you have every right, daryl. we both do. the world might be broken, but we’re still here. we’re still allowed to feel.”

his hand slowly lifted, hesitating for a moment before he cupped your cheek, his thumb ghosting over the skin of your cheekbone. you leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand causing your heart to pound against your chest.

“dunno how to do this,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“you don’t have to know,” you replied, your own voice quiet. “we’ll figure it out together.”

for a moment, everything else fell away— the dangers, the fear, the uncertainty of tomorrow. all that mattered was the way daryl was looking at you. the way his thumb continued to stroke the skin of your cheek, grounding you in this moment.

slowly, he leaned down, his forehead resting against your own. his breath was warm across your face, and for the first time in a long while, you felt safe. like everything might actually be okay.

“i’m here,” you whispered, your hands gently resting on his chest. “i’m not going anywhere.” and with that, the last of daryl dixon’s defences crumbled. he wrapped his arms tightly around you, pulling you into him as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. you held him just as tightly, feeling the unspoken promises in his embrace.

in a world full of loss, you had found something worth holding onto. and for the first time, daryl allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still something left to fight for.

[gh0ulkitty]

"Thirst"

Negan x Rick Oneshot

Pt 2/2 to "Pulse"

[18+ ONLY]

cw: blood drinking, smut

▪�� ▪︎ ▪︎

Rick hasn't slept in days.

He isn't sure if it's the consistent phantom ache on his neck or if it's just the sheer image of Negan's canines that's the problem. Maybe it's the heavy weight of the Alexandrians who are depending on him, every burden his own to bear.

Either way, he feels like a walker. Directionless and disjointed.

As soon as Negan rounded up the other Saviors on the scavenging hunt that day, he dropped Rick off at Alexandria. He didn't even spare him a glance, opting to make cheerful conversation with the other passengers after throwing them the first aid kit. They looked strewn out and near death, but that didn't seem to deter Negan's relentless chatter.

His jolly behavior almost seemed forced, in a way.

Rick had stumbled through the gates, looking pale, but he waved off help in favor of going home and resting, insisting he was alright. The doctor was busy, anyway, and he didn't need to add to that growing queue of people.

The growing queue of people that could've been helped by the medicine at that overrun urgent care.

Their assurances that he did his best fell on deaf ears; he was an utter failure. A joke of a leader and father, if you ask him.

Alexandria needs antibiotics desperately. Both The Sanctuary and Alexandria are dangerously low on medicinal supplies.

But, unlike the Saviors, the Alexandrians are dealing with a lethal illness that suddenly struck the town with the force of a tsunami. It's flooding the doctors office and plaguing every citizen with a deep sense of unease and despair. It's written on everyone's face.

The town is weak, withering under the pressure of disease, but it's also slowly getting crushed under Negan's heel. Rick is like a lapdog at Negan's beck and call. It's humiliating and helpless.

Their deal is simple: the Saviors would spare their doctor to Alexandria if the Alexandrians worked with Negan to get weapons for the Saviors. And, if they got lucky, they could even take half of any medicine they found on runs ("A very generous fuckin' deal!" as Negan had said).

But only a few are healthy enough and prepared enough to go on these runs. Already, they were running thin. So Rick has been taking the bulk of the responsibility, tirelessly scavenging with his enemies and scraping together valuable weapons to meet quota and keep the deal going.

Rick tosses for the final time in bed before sitting up, grumbling as he rests his head in his hands. He longs for Michonne's presence by his side, but he hasn't risked it. The mark on his shoulder is too obvious; he doesn't want to have any confrontation about it with her. Hell, he hasn't even confronted himself about it.

It's swollen and bruised and bestial with two ragged punctures parallel from the other.

He's still grappling with the idea that Negan is.. not human. It makes sense, given how soulless he is, but he thought it was just metaphorical until now.

It's not the craziest thing he's come across (although it is up there), but it's still deeply disturbing. He doesn't know if he should tell anyone or not, and he's perpetually debating with himself about it. Would it put anyone he told in danger? Negan didn't tell him to keep it quiet, but it's not like he needed to.

Rick knows better than to say anything. When Negan sunk his fangs in and fed from his veins, an unspoken agreement was signed in Rick's blood.

Thinking about it is enough to start a dull ache behind his eyes. The whole thing was so weird and he can't deny how strange he felt from it.

His mind is incessant, constantly pushing unwanted images of that day to the forefront of his memory.

Negan's teeth on his skin, his tongue lapping at the sore flesh. His bloody smirk.

He involuntarily shivers, wrapping the covers around him tighter. This is getting ridiculous.

He swallows dryly, feeling hot.

His skin is too tight, clothes too restricting. He can smell pine and leather and blood, feel muscles pushing him against cold metal, taste the desire.

He shoves the thoughts away, rolling out of bed, the stinging on his shoulder threatening to remind him of what he's trying to forget.

It's late, but he needs a shower. A cold one. One that can wash the heat on his skin down the drain.

The involuntary reactions of his body stir anger and bewilderment in the depths of his chest, colliding together in a sickening swirl of pain. He feels smothered.

He can't stand this, can't stand being at Negan's whims like this even when he's not here. It makes him sick. He runs his hands over his face and staggers to the bathroom.

He exhales sharply through his nostrils, looking into the mirror and leaning over the sink. His face is rosy with humiliation. Tousled curls frame his face messily, and a vein threatens to pop on his forehead.

He shakes his head and turns the shower on, discarding his clothes and stepping into the cold spray. He hisses at the shock, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes. The heat in his stomach and groin dissolves slowly, too slow for his liking.

Negan would be laughing at how pathetic he is.

The thought is unbidden, abrupt, and should've been infuriating. But Rick realizes with growing horror that it was having quite the opposite effect.

He puts his face beneath the cold stream of water and pats his cheeks as if he's trying to wake up from a nightmare.

The sleep deprivation is getting to me. Negan is an actual blood drinking monster, and Alexandria is dying. I'm going crazy.

He breathes out, long and heavy, water running in rivulets down his back. He's being eaten alive by Negan.

He shudders. His fingers find their way down his torso, hesitant, warm despite the cold droplets of water. He pauses just above the crest of his pelvis, breathing heavier than before. The images of him were making it difficult to dissolve the arousal, even in the cold shower.

He moves his hands away with great difficulty and digs his fingertips into the fat of his thighs.

He can't be weak like this. He's already failed in so many ways. He can't let Negan have this above him, too.

He huffs in frustration and finishes the rinse, towel drying his hair as he steps out. He glances at the bruise on his shoulder in the mirror. Feeling too weary to get more gauze, he decides to just go to bed without the dressing.

Negan is coming again tomorrow. He needs to sleep.

His nightmares are filled with the savage gleam of fangs.

•

He stands on his porch with Judith balanced on his hip. The warm afternoon air and sunlight are almost sufficient enough to make him forget what has him anxious.

Judith babbles happily in his arms, and he coos at her, affection in his gaze. He brushes her soft cheek gently.

"Hey, Rick, can we talk?"

Rick looks up to see Michonne at the bottom of the steps, sheathed sword slung lazily across her shoulder. Her thumbs are hooked in her belt loops and she meets Rick's eyes with a concerned line between her brows.

Rick's lips thin into a line, unsurprised. Its not like he can avoid her forever. He knows that. But he wishes he could.

He sighs and nods, gesturing her over, resigned to the inevitable.

She scoops Judith from his arms, caressing her hair and bouncing her idly on her hip. Rick's heart aches at the tender sight.

He wonders what could have been between them--what could still be between them--if Rick could just.. get himself together.

"I know a lot has been weighing on you recently. I just.. want to know if you're okay. Or, at the very least, how I could help," she finally says, looking up from Judith to Rick. Her skin shines with the golden sun beaming down behind her, illuminating her soft features drawn with worry.

He doesn't reply for a minute, content to soak in the domesticity of the noon, stalling only a little. She allows him to.

"I won't lie to you and say I'm alright, Michonne. Things 'round here... they've taken their toll." he confesses, leaning back on the stair railing, weary.

"But it's nothing I can't handle. Nothing we can't handle." he adds, the sharpness of his jaw ticking with resolve.

Michonne regards him carefully, observant and sharp as usual. She purses her lips in a skeptical manner.

"You've been distant patricularly after scavenging the urgent care center." Rick tenses up, pointedly avoiding her eyes at the observation. His throat clicks.

She barely knows half of it.

She continues, eyeing his reactions, "I know you're taking it hard, not being able to get the medicine. But, Rick, these people are looking to you right now. Im looking to you. You need to take care of yourself."

She trails off, voice strained. She distracts herself by tending to a cooing Judith as she waits for his response.

Rick knows he's been off. He knows it's obvious, but it still stings to hear it. He runs his fingers across the coarse hairs of his stubble, a nervous habit.

"I know. I know and I'm.. I'm sorry." he apologizes, earnest. He shifts on his feet, causing her expression to soften.

"I know you're trying. You've stretched yourself thin and you need to rest," Rick opens his mouth to argue, but she silences him with a look.

"Stop it, Rick. You need to rest so you can be your best for the people. For all of us. You're not the only capable person here. You can't seriously believe you can do this all alone." she says firmly.

"Negan won't like that." he reasons, tone bitter, as if Negan's name alone is making him ill. Her lip curls slightly at the mention of him.

"He can learn to live with it." her eyes burn with fiery resolve, and she nods to herself. Rick doesn't know if Negan would buy that.

And it's more than just what Negan says. It's about the fact that Rick can't live with himself if he allows his people get hurt doing something he could do alone.

Any response he might have made is interrupted by the grumbling sounds of vehicles approaching the gate. Michonne and Rick exchange knowing glances. The familiar rumble of the Savior's engines makes his skin crawl.

"I'll go meet him. Just take care of Judith, okay?" she puts her in his arms before Rick can protest and is already hurrying away.

Judith begins fussing, and he has no choice but to take her inside while Michonne handles Negan. His stomach curls as Negan's booming voice begins its tirade at the town entrance. No doubt is he looking for Rick.

He sets Judith in her high seat and begins tending to her. Outside, the voices reduce to muffled, intangible sounds. He feels uneasy.

Will he think I told Michonne?

He wets his lips and wipes his palms on his jeans, casting an occasional glance to the door as if someone was going to break it down any second.

He's in the midst of spoon feeding Judith some applesauce when the door opens, creaking on its hinges. Coiled as tightly as a spring, he has to relax his initial reaction to attack, careful to put the applesauce down as to not spill it on Judith.

"Dad, hey. Negan is- uh, he told me to come get you. I can take Judith." Rick's heart settles at the sound of Carl's familiar voice, only to sink once again at his words.

He expected this.

Carl shuffles inside, looking apprehensive. Rick kisses Judith on her head, softly, before moving away.

"Alright, Carl. Thanks. Make sure she finishes her food." he walks to the door and pats Carl's shoulder affectionately on the way out. Carl relaxes a fraction at his touch, casting him a small smile.

Pride swells in his chest, and he can't help but linger at the door for a moment to watch Carl care for Judith, gentle and sweet. This is what he's fighting for. His children. Alexandria's future.

Reluctantly, knowing he can't procrastinate for long, he pulls away and jogs down the steps, hurrying to the gate entrance.

He hears Negan as he approaches, as vulgar and colorful as usual.

"Whew, this place just warms my soul. I gotta get a damn vacation home here!" he whistles and twirls his bat like a baton, chuckling to himself as he mock admires the houses around him.

When he catches sight of Rick appearing from around the corner, he grins widely, adding, "Preferably, one that looks right into the bathroom window of ol' Ricky." He emphasizes the words by licking his lips hungrily. His eyes glisten with a predatory gleam, pupils dilated, the same look he gave Rick before shoving him against the car.

Rick fixes him with an unamused look, although his thoughts make it difficult to keep his head on straight.

Fishhooks tug in his skin. A deeply rooted primitive instinct shrinks at the full attention of Negan, as if something were innately wrong.

Negan, undeterred as ever, slinks over to Rick with the grace of a cat, dodging any Savior or Alexandrian in his way. Not that he has to do much work for that because everyone gives him a wide berth.

His all-encompassing presence is feverish, threatening to devour Rick in one bite. Rick feels the urge to run.

"Rick, Rick, Rick... it's the man of the hour! I was worried you wouldn't show up and I'd have to come get you myself!" he winks at him and throws an arm over his shoulders. Rick grimaces at the casual contact, tilting his head away from Negan.

The adjustment away from him causes his shirt to slide ever so slightly off his collarbone. Just enough to reveal the bruised flesh. He doesn't notice, but Negan sure as hell does.

A pleased sound rumbles in his throat, akin to a purr. Absently, he swipes his thumb across the exposed mark.

Rick stiffens, eyes widening, shoving Negan back and fixing his shirt back in place before anyone else can see it. Negan doesn't resist, throwing his hands up in a surrender gesture, a wry look on his face.

Rick mentally chastises himself for forgetting to bandage it. If Michonne had seen it...

"Rick, your fine people have told me that you're on break right now. Is that so? Last time I checked..." he looks around, examining every person paying attention, and then continues, "I'm the god damned boss here. Not you, not samurai lady, no one but me."

Rick fights to keep a neutral expression, probably failing as his pride burns his throat.

He waits for Negan to continue, not giving a response.

"Alright. Round up the scavenging groups and get ready to leave." Negan distinguishes the tense moment, ordering his men around and turning away from Rick. Rick swallows his growing irritation and burns holes in Negan's back with his intensity.

Negan's muscles are effortlessly highlighted underneath the gold of the sun, rays licking at the curves of his leather shoulder blades that flex with each spin of Lucille.

Negan suddenly turns to face Ricks direction one again, meeting Rick's steely gaze. A shark-like grin dances across his features. Hungry.

"And as for you, sweetheart, you're coming back with me to The Sanctuary." Negan proposes. He leans back onto his heels, smug, tongue between his teeth.

Rick is slack jawed.

"What?! What are you talking about?" Michonne's explosive voice interjects before he can even register Negan's words. She marches up to Negan, leaving behind the small group of people she was speaking to moments prior.

Negan's eyebrows raise at the outburst, turning his attention on her. His grip on Lucille is ever so slightly tighter than before.

Rick bristles, ready to jump to Michonne's defense if needed, unsure of which reaction he could expect from Negan.

He's about as predictable as a firecracker.

Amusement seems to win out this time, thankfully. His grip relaxes once again, and he shrugs his shoulders. The tension in Rick's muscles dwindle a fraction.

"Wow... you seem real mad that I'm giving you exactly what you asked for. God, I'm way too fuckin' generous to you ungrateful fucks." Negan scoffs, propping himself up on Lucille, running a hand through his gel slicked hair.

Michonne balks. "You're taking him hostage! You can't do this, we have a deal." she argues, standing protectively near Rick. She's buzzing with energy and barely restrained fury.

Negan shakes his head in over-exaggerated exasperation, looking around with wide eyes as if to say, "This chick is crazy!"

"No, darlin', quite the damn opposite, actually. I'm giving him a once-in-a-lifetime ticket to luxury for the duration of his break. You should be thanking me right now." he sidles up next to Rick, much to Michonne's chagrin, and Rick decides to speak up. He doesn't want Michonne to have to speak for him.

"It's fine, Negan. Let's just go scavenging. I'll go grab my things-" he begins, trying to move away. Lucille promptly blocks his path, barbs hooking the front of his shirt.

"Nope! I've already fuckin' decided and I'm not changing my mind. Your little girlfriend was insistent that I let you get some rest, and who the hell am I to deny the samurai lady her request?" he wiggles his brows at her, teeth flashing with menace. Rick watches the canines with growing caution, anticipating a deadly protrusion through the gums.

Michonne is positively fuming, opening her mouth to speak again when Rick puts a hand on her arm to stop her. She glares daggers at the man before them, but complies with Rick's silent command.

Rick meets Negan's look unflinchingly, expression carefully composed. He weighs his options, subtly gnawing on the inside of his lip as he does so.

Negan waits patiently, whistling a nonchalant tune and surveying his men bustling about.

"How long?" is all Rick asks, feigning ease. With great difficulty, he relaxes his tense posture, rolling out the muscles. Negan glances at the movement.

Negan wants him to react. It's all apart of their special game of cat-and-mouse.

He has no idea what Negan is trying to get at with all of this. A small part of him is curious. How far is Negan going to take it?

"Don't entertain him, Rick." Michonne steps in once again, but Negan ignores her.

"Two days, how 'bout that? A weekend getaway with your ol' pal Negan." to give credit where its due, he really does look like he's greeting an old friend at some kind of demented high-school reunion.

Rick has to make a conscious effort to remain visibly unaffected. But the questions in his mind make it increasingly difficult.

Two days, doing what? Sitting around at The Sanctuary while his people waste away in Alexandria? He boils at the notion. But what choice does he have?

Negan observes him for a few seconds longer, evidently waiting for a reaction. Rick gives him none. Somehow, this still pleases Negan.

"Rick, can we talk about this?" Michonne pleads, placing herself in the middle of the two men. Negan rolls his eyes.

"No. Like I said, I've already made up my damn mind. You two have got five fuckin' seconds to say your heartfelt goodbyes and then we're hittin' the road." he pouts his lower lip in a dramatic pantomime of tragedy, twirling Lucille dangerously close to Rick's face.

Rick doesn't waste any time. "Take charge while I'm gone. Please take care of Judith and Carl, and don't let Carl do anything stupid." he rushes the words out. He has so much to say to her, unable to make it count.

"I'll be here." she promises, voice firm. Loyal in spite of her qualms with the situation. Steadfast in her faith in him. He chokes down a sudden swell of emotion. He is so immensely grateful for her and has no idea what he did to deserve her support.

She must see it in his expression because she reaches forward to squeeze his bicep in reassurance. They share a meaningful look.

It's only two days, but in an apocalypse, it might as well be years. There's no guarantee in this world anymore.

Their moment is promptly disrupted by a suffocating weight being thrown across his shoulders once again. He stamps down a snarl.

"Alright, pity party over. Let's go." Negan manhandles Rick away from Michonne with more force than necessary. He bears with it.

Michonne gives him one last nod, brows set in conviction. Rick knows the Alexandrians are in good hands. But it doesn't make it easier to leave.

Once they're out of earshot, Negan leans in real close to his ear and whispers conspiratorially, "You two knockin' boots?"

Despite the blatantly inappropriate question, the hairs on the back of his neck raise at the proximity, tingling.

Rick sneers at the inquiry, bristling more so at his bodily reactions than at Negan's quip itself.

Negan chuckles heartily, but his fingers subtly tighten their grip and find their way to the tender spot on Ricks shoulder, applying pressure. Pinpricks of pain intertwine with pleasure. Rick hisses at the sensation, a fire lighting in his stomach.

At the gate, Negan releases Rick, much to his relief. The relief is short-lived, however, because moments later, a featherlight touch on the small of his back is coaxing him outside. Rick almost jumps at the unexpected touch. Tingles surge up his vertebrae.

Negan simply nods to Eugene, who is currently manning the gate, and strolls his way out, side by side with Rick as if he didn't do anything.

Rick seethes and focuses on the crunch of gravel beneath his boots to ground his unwinding composure.

If there's one thing hes good at, it's looking composed when he isn't.

"Head out." Negan commands the scavenging groups awaiting his orders, resting Lucille on his shoulder as he watches them depart.

Then, with a chivalry like demeanor, he guides Rick to the remaining vehicle. His gait is confident and borderline cocky.

Rick, by contrast, is stalking around like a paranoid veteran. Negan follows his movements with growing amusement, much to Rick's dismay.

"What's on your mind, Rick?" Negan asks once they're both situated in the car. He not-so-subtly glances at the concealed bite on Rick's shoulder.

Rick burns as if kissed by embers at the bold implication. He wonders if Negan can hear his heart rate spike, or if he can somehow taste the endorphins rippling like a current in his bloodstream. A monster like him probably could.

Maybe it's his imagination, but he can see Negan's nostrils flare when his heart thumps harder on his chest.

He shakes the ridiculous thoughts away before answering as concisely as possible. No need to get friendly.

"Nothin'."

Negan huffs. "I get that you're not much of a conversationalist, Rick, but God damn. You're on vacation for cryin' out loud, when's the last time you could say that?" Negan gestures wildly as he says so.

Rick only grunts, resting his head on the cool glass of the window, watching as the birds scatter to the treetops, startled at the sound of a running engine.

Negan's knuckles turn white on the wheel, and Rick braces himself for the inevitable burnout of Negan's short fuse. But, mercifully, Negan seems to reign his control back in.

"Answer me when I talk to you." Negan says. His tone leaves no room for questioning.

Is this the hill I'm going to die on?

He can taste the bitter tang of resentment on the back of his tongue like bile. Everything is a power struggle when it comes to Negan.

"Sorry." he manages to say through clenched teeth, fingertips digging into his palms.

Negan only responds with a simple "hmph" and a long, uncomfortable silence ensues.

For a long time, Rick can only adjust himself in his seat over and over again as his mind hurtles through topics at a break-neck speed he can't keep up with. From Alexandria to The Sanctuary. From the Saviors to Alexandrians. From Michonne to Negan. From the deadly disease to the doctors. From his home to his impromptu 'vacation'.

To Negan again. To his teeth, to his fangs, to the blood on his mouth, to his lips on Rick's throat-- Rick halts himself right there, not daring to move. What if Negan can read minds?

He sucks in a sharp breath, shame and other more foreign feelings swirling in his head.

He swears he can see a knowing smirk on Negan's face in his peripherals. But maybe that's just his face all the time.

He shifts his attention to the twinkling spikes on Lucille, counting each one, visualizing in painstaking detail the blood on every point. To remind himself of the monster he's sitting beside. To remember why these strange feelings are completely and utterly wrong.

And it works. Revulsion roils through him in waves, and Rick has to fight back nausea.

It has to be the exhaustion getting to his head. He's taking this too seriously. He's just stressed and exhausted. The way he feels right now doesn't mean anything..

Warmth on his thigh snaps him back to reality, and he glances sideways, startled.

"Earth to Rick! We're home." Negan squeezes, quickly but bruisingly, and releases him when he has Rick's attention. The ghost of his fingertips singe where he touched.

He gauges Rick's reaction to the intimate action, visibly satisfied with whatever he sees. Heat threatens to climb the back of Rick's neck.

Rick swings the door open, a little too quickly, desperate to put some distance between them. He stumbles out less than gracefully. How long had he been zoned out?

He can hear the beginnings of a chuckle from Negan, but he cuts it off by slamming the door shut.

He opts to scans his surroundings.

The Sanctuary is a blight on Earth. It's industrial and angular and far from anything welcoming. A complete eyesore.

Of course, that's the point.

Chain-link fence secures the perimeter, decorated with tethered walkers to ward off the dead and intimidate the living. Spikes coated in rotted flesh and viscera guard the weaker blind-spots where the look-outs can't see and tired looking workers scatter about like ants.

The smell of metal and death accompanies the sight.

Rick already can't wait for this all to be over.

"Not as pretty as Alexandria, but twice as efficient," Negan brags as he slithers next to him, Lucille at his leather flank.

"What are you expecting me to do here, Negan? What are you getting at with this?" Rick at last sounds the questions plaguing him. He feels helpless here, angry at being torn away from his people. His people who need him right now.

He looks at Negan expectantly, impatient.

Before Negan can answer, a man with a scarred face appears around a corner and begins speaking to him. Rick vaguely recognizes him as one of the men he's scavenged with before. Rick listens curiously.

"A fight broke out during one of Simon's pickups. One of his men killed a boy." The man briefs Negan on the situation, pointedly avoiding saying anything that might be advantageous to Alexandria, to Rick's displeasure.

Rick waits in silence, arms crossed. Idly, he studies the creases in Negan's leather jacket, the alluring sharp lines of muscle undulating beneath it. He has just enough presence of mind to look elsewhere.

Negan pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration at the news. He pulls the other man aside and they speak in lowered tones for a few moments. Rick strains to overhear, but only catches irrelevant pieces of the conversation.

Negan then claps his back and says, "Thank you, Dwighty-boy. I can always count on you."

Dismissed, the man--Dwight--only glances at Rick before walking off to tend to whatever Negan wanted him to.

"As you were saying, Rick?" Negan prompts. He leans onto his bat lazily.

"Why am I here?" he reiterates, annoyed. He thinks back to Carl and Judith, restless at the idea of them alone.

"Jesus, haven't we already been over this? You're here to relax, of course." Negan disguises his growing irritation with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes and then gestures Rick to follow him.

Rick knew he wasn't going to get an answer out of him just by asking. He's just going to have to go along with whatever messed up game Negan is playing.

He reluctantly trails after Negan, stopping at a railing that overlooks a mass of people and stalls, rustling and clattering about like a beehive.

Negan quirks a brow at Rick in a "watch this" kind of way, then bangs Lucille against the metal bars.

In a domino effect, everyone who looks up and notices Negan get down on their knees. The people who didn't see Negan watch their peers kneel and follow their example.

Soon, the once bustling room is silent and on its knees. Rick is disgusted.

Negan, on the other hand, is basking in it. He prods Rick with a huge smile on his face, catching his lower lip with his teeth.

For a split second, the arc of Negan's canines looked unnatural. He isn't sure if he's seeing things or not, but before he can think any further on it, Negan is speaking to the crowd.

"I'm here to announce that we have a very special fuckin' guest here for the next two days and if you see him, you better treat him like he's my god damn second hand man." his voice rings clear throughout the warehouse, echoing off the bare walls and reverberating.

Rick doesn't react to the blatant humiliation attempt, but internally, he's shrinking. The people kneeling don't even look up.

Negan purses his lips, letting the silence permeate. His shoulder brushes Rick's, just enough for Rick to notice. Rick glances sideways, but Negan is still looking to the crowd.

"Get a good look at him and then get back to work." he orders, brief and to the point but nonetheless intimidating.

Rick grits his teeth and bears with the heat of dozens of eyes on him. The people are back up and moving again.

"Get used to living like a fuckin' God."

Rick despises how Negan puts himself on such a pedestal, and he sneers at his words. It's arrogant and oppressive. A monument of his hubris. His Achilles heel.

"Seems more like living like a dictator." Rick observes boldly. He has to call it like he sees it.

Negan quirks a brow and then laughs heartily as if Rick were his personal jester, causing Rick to scowl.

Negan squeezes his shoulder, brushing against his goosebumps; he lingers for just a moment too long before he ultimately pulls away. His fingertips graze his collarbone on the way down.

Rick knows he's doing it on purpose at this point.

Negan knows what he's doing to Rick. Something beyond plain teasing. Whittling away at his sanity with a chisel.

Negan sighs and stretches, arms above his head, his shirt riding up and revealing a sliver of skin with a tantalizing happy trail leading to the waistband of his jeans. He catches Rick's line of sight and winks.

Rick has the decency to look embarrassed.

"Take a picture and it might last longer, darlin'," he slides a tongue in his teeth in a cheeky grin. The pet name makes Rick cringe, stomach flopping from being caught ogling. He swears that he didn't mean to look, honestly, but it's not like Negan will let him explain anyway.

God, is Negan always this insufferable? His lip curls with scorn and disgust and he shakes his head.

"Let me give you the grand tour. You're quite the lucky man, Rick, being shown around by the boss himself." he says with flourish, gesturing to himself. Rick remains unimpressed. Negan, of course, doesn't care.

After trailing Negan like a lost puppy for the better part of an hour or so, the novelty is growing old on Rick. Not that there was much novelty in the first place.

The entire time, Negan showers him with innuendo and vulgarity, throwing in the occasional physical contact that somehow always manages to throw Rick off guard.

At some point, Rick had to start tuning out his endless babble to preserve his own state of mind. He had tried to memorize the layout of The Sanctuary for strategic purposes, but quickly realized after one too many turns that The Sanctuary is a neverending maze.

He tunes back in when he finds himself at the entrance of a fancier room furnished with couches, a bar, and a TV. The room is lit by incandescent bulbs, the atmosphere bordering on cozy if it weren't in an industrial hellscape.

It's a striking distinction from the majority of the compound. If Rick has to guess, he's reaching the part of the tour that only a few get to experience.

Lucky me. he thinks sardonically.

The room isn't void of people, however. A group of women are dispersed throughout the room, lounging in short dresses with wine in their palms. He takes in the scene with a questioning purse of the lips.

Is this a harem or something?

His suspicions are, unfortunately, confirmed as he has to stand witness to Negan drawing a brunette woman into his arms. He plants an obscene kiss to her mouth.

Even worse, he has the gall to cast Rick a wry smile as he does so, eyes on him despite the woman in his embrace.

Rick stands uncomfortably, sucking his teeth and hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. His mind conjures the image of Negan when he had him pressed to the car, his lips brushing against his neck. He bites his tongue, fighting the urge to turn away.

They draw away from each other after a needlessly long kiss that almost makes Rick roll his eyes.

"Ladies, this is Rick." he motions to Rick unceremoniously. "He's my extra special guest. Rick, these are my beautiful wives."

Wives? His nose scrunches in disgust briefly, which he schools into a neutral expression.

Negan draws away from the woman, and all of the eyes in the room are on Rick now. They seem faintly curious, but don't ask any questions. They just nod politely and continue what they were doing before, much to his relief.

The brunette woman approaches Rick as Negan grabs a bottle of wine and pours himself a gracious serving. The red liquid fills the glass, disturbingly close to the image of blood in Rick's mind.

He has to blink the thoughts away.

"My name is Sherry. It's nice to finally meet you, Rick." The woman introduces herself with a small smile. Her cheeks are touched with blush, and her eyelashes are darkened with mascara. She smells like shampoo and light perfume.

Rick nods in greeting to her. He can't help but feel sympathy for her situation. Is Negan forcing these women to be his wives?

The notion is repulsive.

He elects to ask Negan later, giving him the tiniest benefit of the doubt. It's not like he can just ask in front of all the women outright. Causing a confrontation is a good way to get killed.

"It's nice to meet you, too." he replies, curt but polite nonetheless. Negan is sipping on the wine as he maneuvers back to them.

"Mind holding this for me, darlin'?" he asks Sherry, handing her the glass. She nods and takes it from him.

Negan smiles gratefully and begins to strip off his jacket.

As he does so, Rick swallows hard and looks down at his shoes. He doesn't want his eyes to wander more than they already have; he's embarrassed himself enough.

He soothes himself by focusing on the fact that one day, he's going to kill Negan. And none of this humiliaton will have mattered; none of these thoughts or feelings will have any merit because Negan will be gone, wiped away like the nasty stain he is.

This unwanted lust is a product of his hatred, he decides. There's a dangerously thin line between hatred and lust, after all. He's only a man at the end of the day, driven by carnal desires and unable to distinguish between two passionate emotions.

It doesn't have to be anything more than that.

Negan discards the jacket onto the bar table and settles into the couch, patting the spot beside him. Assuming he's waiting for Sherry, Rick settles on leaning back into the wall, resigned to dealing with whatever awkward shit Negan is about to make him see.

Negan snickers and spreads his arms out on the top of the couch, his biceps flexing in the process, pale skin reflecting the warm glow of light.

"Rick, come have a seat. You're as wound up as a fuckin' virgin on prom night." Sherry takes a seat next to Negan, the opposite side that he patted, and gives him his wine back.

Rick's eyes widen a fraction before narrowing, clocking Negan's intentions and dreading them. Hesitantly, he trudges over to him, stiffly taking the spot on Negan's left side. He perches himself as far away from Negan as he can be on the modest sized couch.

The other women chatter amongst themselves casually. Rick is thankful he doesn't need to interact with more people than he needs to, at least.

On Negan's part, he's undressing every woman in the room with his gaze shamelessly, catching their eyes and winking like some kind of cheesy rom com protagonist. If Rick wasn't so uncomfortable, he would laugh.

Sensing his eyes on him, Negan abruptly stops his ogling to frown at Rick.

"Jesus, can't even wind down in a room full of my beautiful wives? Y'know, Rick, I'm startin' to think you're battin' for the other team." he looks sly, tone dropping an octave toward the end of the sentence, his left leg pressing against Rick's.

The suggestion makes Rick fully blush for the first time that afternoon. He has to fight to not hide his face in his hands, the tips of his ears burning red.

Rick has never really thought about his sexuality. He's never needed to. He's just.. always been attracted to women.

But obviously, things have been different recently. He would die before admitting that to Negan, though.

He isn't sure if the exhaustion excuse cuts it anymore.

Rick splutters and shakes his head adamantly, trying to scoot further away but failing.

At this reaction, Negan's face lights up like a kid in a candy shop to Rick's horror. Negan chuckles lowly and raises his brows.

"I'm just messin' with you, Rick." he taunts as Sherry leans into him. He strokes the locs of her hair and catches it in his fingers. He gives Rick a meaningful look, knowing.

Rick feels sick at the sight of it, wanting to snarl and lash out at him for being so fucking arrogant.

"I can't stay for long, Sherry, I've gotta show Rick to his room. But if you want to see me tonight, you know where to find me." he talks to her with a velvety voice, a voice meant for her ears only.

But Rick is in earshot, and Rick suspects Negan is fully aware of that fact. He shivers, unsure if it's from irritation or something else.

Negan glances back at Rick only briefly as he and Sherry finish having their hushed conversation. Negan's leg brushes Rick's occasionally, which Rick pointedly ignores, even though it makes his muscles jump every time.

Rick decides to watch one of the women read a book while he waits, uninterested in whatever else the two were talking about and wanting to focus on anything except the warmth on the side of his thigh.

A few minutes later, Negan is standing up and snatching his leather jacket and Lucille from the bar. He motions for Rick to follow and says his goodbyes to his "wives".

When the door shuts behind them, the majority of the light filtering through the hall is cut off, engulfing the two men in relative darkness. The air is colder somehow, more restricting in the darkness than the light. More intimate.

Rick can't bite his tongue for long.

"What's the deal with that?" he accuses. He tilts his head questioningly, fixing Negan with narrowed eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Negan plays dumb, strolling along with Rick. He looks momentarily surprised that the usually silent man is finally talking, regarding him with a shrewd eyebrow raise.

Rick suffocates in the silence before finding his words.

"Your... 'wives'. How does that work?" he treads the topic mindfully, not wanting to set Negan off.

He's too tired to fight if he needs to, and he can't afford to be reckless. Not when his people are waiting.

"Why? Are you interested?" he wiggles his brows and sways into Rick's personal space, unable to resist making him squirm.

Rick leans away, his mouth set in a firm line as he crosses his arms as a physical barrier. "I'm serious."

Negan sighs, backing up, evidently following Rick's train of thought.

"Not that it's any of your god damned business, but I'll tell you because I don't want you to get the wrong idea." he prefaces. Rick waits, expectant. The echo of their boots bounce off the barren walls, resonating around their isolated silhouettes, reminding Rick of how utterly alone the two are right now.

"They give me blood in exchange for awesome fucking privileges. Simple as that." he states, not breaking his stride.

"The sex is just a bonus; they choose it. Turns out, fangs are lady killers." he remarks, flashing a winning smile at Rick, which Rick deflects with a glower. "Not that the general Savior knows this, of course. To them, it's just prostitution. Sex in exchange for privilege."

He shrugs nonchalantly. The stray light bulbs flickering above them cast a menacing shadow behind Negan, long and dark, reaching out to Rick with outstretched claws. Rick subtly shifts farther away from him.

Admittedly, Negan's sound reasoning is a relief to Rick. At least there's one line that Negan won't cross. He chews on the idea for a moment longer until Negan speaks up again, voice startlingly clear in the silence.

"Well, did my elevator pitch convince ya?" Negan bats his eyelashes in Rick's direction, once again trying to close the space Rick very deliberately put between them.

"Convince me of what?" Rick scowls, scratching his stubble, meeting Negan's manic gaze.

"Becoming one of my wives." Negan deadpans, without missing a beat.

Rick almost trips over his own boots, coughing into a fist to compose himself from the slip-up.

They both halt their steps. Rick straightens, coming face to face with him, holding his breath.

They're so close that Rick's brain stutters in place, unsure of how to function. This close, the idea of killing Negan is suddenly not so appealing anymore, replaced by a need for something just as passionate, but much different.

"Judging by the way your heart just started racing, I'd say it did." Negan's grin splits his face hungrily, the curve of his smile sharp as a knife point. "But I'm patient enough to wait for you to admit it."

Rick gapes at the presumption, unable to believe what he's hearing and also subconsciously trying to make his heart go silent.

This arrogant bastard.

"What-"

"Here's your room, darlin'. You know where to find me." he cuts Rick off, echoing his earlier words to Sherry. Rick has a distinct feeling, though, that they were never meant for her in the first place.

He's so close, Rick can almost taste the sultry words from his mouth.

Negan then turns on his heel, sparing Rick one last wink. The sound of whistling disappears down the hall, and a whoosh of air fills the empty space Negan leaves behind.

Rick stands in stunned silence for a few seconds, blinking dumbly.

Did Negan just come onto me?

He opens the door to his room and slams it shut behind him, not even bothering to look around as he finds the bathroom.

He doesn't dare look at himself in the mirror. He doesn't want to see what he looks like while he's seriously considering Negan's blatant offer.

He splashes his face with cold water, a frantic tremble in his hands. Maybe this will wake him up from whatever nightmare he's dug himself into.

But not even the cold is enough to shock away the temptation, heat tingling where Negan's words fanned across his face.

He sighs sharply, barely drying his face off before kicking the door open and collapsing onto the bed. Cold droplets cling to the edges of the curls framing his jaw.

He groans, shucking his clothes off and tossing them on the floor. When he's down to his boxers, he slips under the covers.

He just needs to sleep this off. Whatever this is will pass. He just needs to get through tonight and tomorrow so he can go home and lead his people again.

He twists under the covers and closes his eyes, resolute.

.....

....

...

..

He turns, unable to escape the growing heat pooling in his groin. He bites his lower lip, hard, hands twitching. He holds the sheets to steady them.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, thinking. He tries to focus on anything else. His breathing, the weight of his body on the mattress, anything. But he keeps getting dragged by the ankle right back into his wild current of thoughts, choking and drowning in them.

...Maybe he just needs to get this out of his system.

It's wrong, he knows that, but a selfish part of him just wants this neverending burning to finally go away. He just wants to be able to sleep.

He tries to justify the allure of the other man with useless, selfish excuses. All he can think about is the grace with which Negan moves, every step confident, always taking what he wants. The confidence of a predator stalking its prey.

The gouges on his neck burn.

Rick is disturbed to find that his inhibitions have slowly been whittled down into nothing with every touch and jab and innuendo Negan has thrown his way. Every justification has become easier to accept. Every fantasy easier to justify.

Whatever it is that is so intoxicating to Rick about Negan doesn't matter. All that matters is that it's enough that he's willing to throw away his reservations to taste more of it.

He wants to taste Negan's impulsivity on his tongue, feel the flex of his muscles, smell the heat of sex. He wants to tear Negan apart, pull him to pieces, and see his own fury reflected in Negan's pupils. Two opposite ends, united in their pride, united in their fury. Not as different as Rick may like to believe.

His hand has trailed its way down his torso, achingly slow. His breath is labored, chest heaving, head tilted back, spine arched. He slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, setting his jaw, and he traces the hard length of his erection.

He takes himself in his calloused hand and squeezes. He groans through his teeth, dizzy, imagining a certain set of canines...

He strokes steadily at first, but his movements get more desperate within seconds.

He tries, fruitlessly, to keep Negan out of his head. But he's invading every bit of Rick, exactly the way Negan intended. All consuming and bloody, hovering over him with claws and teeth.

He thinks about the brushes of contact between them. The electricity crackling between them when they're angry, neither man willing to swallow their wrath. He thinks of the day that Negan fed from his vein and shoved him against a cardoor, reckless and frenzied.

The vulnerability they both unwittingly found themselves trapped in, at the others whim.

His voice in his ear and the tight, bruising grips he subjects Rick to. Rough.

The friction doesn't feel like enough. His hand doesn't feel like enough. He keeps chasing his peak but it's always just ahead of him, teasing him with a familiar wolf-like grin.

Fuck. He aches and throbs, sweat trickling down the nape of his neck, following the phantom touches of Negan's fingers.

He whines in frustration, letting go of his swollen cock. It twitches against his stomach at the loss of contact.

He runs a hand over his face, flushed. He writhes uncomfortably, hips grinding the air, his stomach rolling with unreleased pleasure.

Defeated, he pulls his boxers back on. He sits for a long minute with a throbbing, insistent boner. He knows he's on a knifes edge right now, about to make a decision he's going to regret, as fragile as glass.

He crosses the threshold as soon as he begins putting on his clothes again, tugging the denim up his thighs.

Thrumming with anticipation, he gets up and trudges out of his room, leaving his shame behind as he shuts the door.

●

All day, Negan has been completely blue balling himself. Every hint he threw at Rick was like talking to a brick wall. Gaze always fixed ahead, unflinching. Carved in marble, perfect but indifferent.

But Negan knows better than to take him at face value.

The brushes of contact made Rick's heart flutter like a trapped butterfly. Hints of blush would crawl up his throat temptingly with each innuendo. And God damn, the look on his face when he implied Rick was gay is unforgettable.

He wishes he could print it out and hang it on his wall.

Negan is a patient man, despite what it may seem like. He's content to chip away at Rick's resolve with sweet talk and touching. Having Rick in his arms is worth waiting for, he decides.

He licks his canines, feeling their sharpness. Theyre protruding with arousal. Damn, thinking about Rick like this is gonna make it hard to sleep.

He wonders if his offer to Rick was a step too far. He's afraid he came off too strongly, breaking the fragile attraction Rick was building toward.

But he was getting antsy after a whole day of having the stoic man trail behind him, subtly blushing like a shy girl. Can you blame him?

He imagines the curve of Rick's throat and the steely eyes he always fixes him with. Like Rick can't tell whether he wants to kill him or fuck him. He hopes it's the latter.

Jesus, he's hard as diamonds now.

Groaning with annoyance, he flops onto his mattress. He's hungry.

He's always hungry for blood, of course. It's a constant in the back of his mind, always aware of beating hearts in his vicinity, always aware of the crimson rushing through the human veins surrounding him. It's icy and hot all at once.

It takes enormous self-control to be a monster. He can understand the walkers to an extent.

But it's not just blood he's hungry for right now. He wants so, so much more than that. Something darker and sicker.

He wants Rick. Hes wanted him since he had him on his knees before him and hes wanted him even more since he sucked the blood from his veins, vivid and brilliant.

He couldn't believe his luck when he was presented with a perfect opportunity to bring him to The Sanctuary, although he knows the decision was mostly malicious.

Still, he's never claimed to be a saint.

He just wants to grab his pretty fucking curls and force his--

Negan pauses suddenly, sitting up.

Thump, thump-thump, thump...

Negan's breathing slows to a halt as he listens.

Am I imagining things right now?

A very familiar heartbeat is wandering down the hall. Closer to his door. He can practically taste arousal in the air, and he's (almost) positive it's not coming from himself.

A crooked grin forms on Negan's face once the shock wanes. He can't believe this. He's on the edge of his bed now, coiled up and ready to pounce. His senses cast outwards and encircle Rick's presence, teasing him.

When a hesitant knock finally sounds at his door, Negan has to force himself to not look too excited. He saunters to his door, takes a breath, and opens it with a devilish smirk.

Unsurprisingly, there Rick stands. He's giving him those intense fucking eyes that he loves and it takes serious control not to grab him and sink his teeth in right then and there. His throat constricts, fingers itching to take and take and take.

"Well, hello there, cowboy, what brings you her--" his arrogant welcome is abruptly cut off as Rick shoves him backwards, kicking the door shut behind him. Negan's brows shoot up to his hairline, his hands instinctively flying to his belt where he usually keeps a dagger.

His surprise and instinctual attack is muffled by Rick's mouth on his own, his hands roughly gripping the front of his leather jacket and tugging him forward to deepen the kiss.

Pure, raw electricity surges through Negan. Rick's bold, overzealous heat clutches onto him with want and need, dizzying in its intensity. He groans into the kiss, grinning, fangs hooking Rick's lip. Rick shudders and opens his mouth in invitation, which Negan doesn't hesitate to take.

Negan is always taking. He takes and takes until there's nothing left, still never quite satisfied. He has every intention to do the same with Rick.

Just like he imagined earlier, he tugs at Rick's curls with reckless abandon, relishing the way Rick comes undone in his hands. His throat tingles with the taste of Rick, the heady, masculine scent of him. They pull away briefly and Negan devours the sight of his dilated pupils and messy hair and blushed cheeks, inhaling the warmth he exudes.

Bloodthirst and lust battle in a frenzy. He finds the same battle mirrored in Rick, albeit his bloodthirst is obviously different. He wonders if Rick is going to fuck with as much intensity as he fights, and the idea lights him up like a firework.

"Fuck, Negan, you did this all on purpose." Rick growls, breathless, pinning Negan up against the wall with his chest pressed tightly against his own. His touch is none too gentle beneath Negan's shirt, feeling up his muscles, groping and squeezing. His calloused fingers leave goosebumps in their wake.

Negan slides his leg between Rick's and takes advantage of Rick's momentary fluster at the sensation to switch their positions.

"Maybe I did." he murmurs into Rick's throat. His lips, being so close to the arteries of his neck, have his fingers trembling in Rick's hair. The rush of arousal makes it hard to stay in control of the more predatory instincts driving his actions. The tips of his fangs tingle at the proximity.

Rick's pulse is pumping hard under his touch, much to Negan's pleasure. His mouth waters, craving more. He grinds his knee against Rick's groin again, swallowing up his moans with his mouth. Rick's tongue grazes the points of his fangs and he shivers.

Rick forces them apart and begins desperately pulling off his shirt, which Negan gladly helps him with, eager and restless. As soon as it's off, Negan is all over his bare chest, nipping at it and sucking, not quite breaking skin, too manic to stop and admire.

His fingers find the bite on Rick's shoulder, and he swipes his index across it, causing Rick's muscles to jump against his lips deliciously. Negan chuckles, the sound growling and dark.

He harshly manhandles him to the bedroom as he parts from his chest to kiss him again.

He can't get enough. His entire being is encompassed by Rick, making it hard to keep a grasp on himself, making it hard to even remember where he is. Rick bites at Negan's lips, nipping at the swollen flesh and clutching Negan's thighs. Negan trails his fingers up each rib, taking pleasure in every gasp it draws from him.

Rick ends up on his back on the mattress, hair framing his head like a halo, his heart stuttering with Negan's scrutiny.

"Take your shirt off." Rick orders, pulling Negan out of his admiring by yanking him forward and on top of him. Negan feels hot at the command, head rushing, still reeling from the shock of the situation.

He allows Rick to help him shuck his shirt off, discarding it on the floor. Rick's hands are all over the bare expanse of skin. Negan's breath hitches in his throat as he grazes the scar on his stomach, warming the cold skin with his touch.

"Who's the boss here, darlin'?" Negan teases, but he likes the push and pull that is Rick, his strength that rivals his own. He likes the impatience he's seeing, such a stark difference to his typical iron demeanor. Always content to wait. Until now.

Rick scoffs, "You'd have to kill me to make me submit to you." he challenges, fingers already working on Negan's belt. His heart rate betrays his nerves. Negan tastes it.

Negan grins and grabs his wrists, pinning them above Rick's head and halting his progress on his belt. Rick struggles against him helplessly, unable to do much with Negan's weight on top of him. Like a trapped rabbit in the jaws of a fox. Negan purrs.

"You already have." Negan whispers, making him squirm, gasping when Negan's fang grazes the sensitive area between his neck and ear. He kisses down the column of his throat, trailing past his collarbones, making the threat of his teeth known.

Rick groans, grinding his hips up against Negan's, seeking friction. The blood rushes through Rick's body with fierce heat, his face pink with the exertion. Unable to resist much longer when the blood is so freely rushing, Negan tests the water, fangs snagging the surface of Rick's chest.

Negan's throat catches with the feeling, his grip on Rick's wrists suffocatingly tight. Rick's heart is beating faster, internally struggling against his base instincts to make it all stop. To fight or to run.

Even though it takes every fiber of his being, he waits for Rick's approval, breath fanning across his chest.

It's a bad idea to feed when you're in the throes of passion like this, but it's not like he's thinking straight right now. Rick's breath stutters.

Echoing his words that feel like they were said so long ago, "Bite me."

Negan doesn't have to be told twice.

He sinks his teeth in, head spinning as blood gushes onto his tongue. The taste is just as rich as he remembered, a satisfied groan leaving his lips. It invades every tastebud with a frightening ferocity. He can't help but gulp it down like a starving dog.

He feels like he's hurtling off a cliff, like air is rushing past his ears and he's plummeting closer and closer to the ground.

Rick bucks up into Negan again. The pleasure sends tingles through Negan's legs, and paired with the high of blood, it could be enough to make him faint. He loses himself in the frenzy, lapping, latching, drawing more blood from the vein.

There's a reason why he doesn't feed when he's having sex. He can't control himself.

His grip on Rick's wrists must've loosened from the euphoria because Rick is wrenching him away by the jaw now, his hold unyielding and abrasive.

That's the difference here. Rick's strength. His ability to manhandle Negan when he gets out of control. Negan's head buzzes, and they're clashing teeth again, Rick's tongue swiping the blood off his lips, following the trickle of blood down his chin.

Negan doesn't even register that he's on his back now. He's kicking off his boots with Rick, neither of them letting up on their desperate grabbing and kisses.

Rick has a handful of Negan's hair, tugging it similarly to how Negan tugged his own as he sits up. Red stains his chest and chin, a feral look in his eye.

Negan decides he likes this look on him.

He pauses his frantic groping and looks down at Negan, appraising him, painstakingly analyzing him inch by fucking inch. Negan is tracing up Rick's vertebrae in the meantime, flexing his shoulders and licking the residual blood on his chin.

"Like what you see, sweetheart?" Negan looks up at him through his lashes, the beginnings of a smirk on his face. His voice is velvet, unsteady as he comes down from bliss.

"I wish you didn't have to look so fucking good." Rick finally says, borderline pained to admit it. Negan quirks a brow, unapologetic, pleased at Rick's reluctant praise.

Rick shakes his head as if banishing any doubts and he resumes his work on Negan's belt. Negan catches a nipple in his fingers, savoring Rick's shiver and gasp from the action. He's like putty in Negan's hands, involuntarily arching into his touch.

He finally pulls the belt free, throwing it to the side with a clatter. Negan sits himself up, interrupting Rick again, connecting their lips as he starts working on Rick's belt.

Rick's hands impatiently try to find the buttons on Negan's jeans while he does so.

Negan can hardly keep himself up straight, still reeling from the arousal and blood. Rick takes advantage of this and pushes him down again, running his hands down Negan's chest. His jaw is set, and his brows are furrowed in concentration.

Negan chokes down a whine, simultaneously turned on by Rick's dominance and annoyed by it.

He finishes taking off his belt for Negan and tosses it aside. The anticipation shared between them coats the air with enticing thrill, difficult to breathe under.

"Fuck, Rick.." Negan mumbles, eyes lidded as Rick leans forward and kisses down Negan's chest, leaving bites along the way, as if mimicking the touch of Negan's fangs. Negan's hands find purchase on Rick's ass, and he squeezes the firmness of it, causing Rick to curse against his stomach.

Rick's kisses lead him to the waistband of Negan's jeans and Negan's hands have found their way up to Rick's hair once again, tugging.

Rick looks up at Negan through his lashes and he keeps eye contact as he kisses his V-line and slowly starts pulling down the denim. Negan's mouth feels heavy, his tongue swiping his teeth, dick throbbing in his jeans.

Negan's hips jerk involuntarily. Rick smirks at him, the rare sight breaking Negan's skin into goosebumps.

"Shit..." is all he manages to say as his pants are yanked off in one smooth motion. Exposed to the air, he exhales sharply, his cock twitching against his stomach.

A blush crawls up Rick's face as he takes in the sight of it, as if he didn't expect it. Negan's stomach quivers at the sight.

"Come on, Rick. Show me what that mouth is good for." Rick's face burns red to the tips of his ears, his heart rate spiking. Negan revels in it, twisting a curl in his finger, lazily pulling it and watching it bounce.

"First time?" he prompts, grinning.

"Just shut your mouth, Negan." Rick snarls, but it has no bite. Something tells Negan that Rick likes the sound of his voice.

That's good, because Negan does, too.

The idea of being the first cock in Rick's mouth is undeniably hot to him. Judging by the way Rick eyes him, suddenly unsure despite his previous confidence, it definitely is the first time.

Negan's crooked smile lengthens, and he takes a hand full of Rick's curls and guides him to the tip of his swollen erection. He watches, hungrily, as Rick takes it into his mouth, hesitant and shy.

He grits his teeth to prevent shoving his face all the way down, anxious to feel his mouth. But, as it turns out, he doesn't need to push Rick's head around after all.

"Rick, fuck..." he manages to gasp out as Rick eagerly swallows down to the root. The tight, wet mouth around his cock, throat constricting the tip, has his muscles jerking and his head tilting backward. Rick chokes, gagging, eyes watering as his fingertips dig into the flesh of Negan's thighs.

Negan barely has the presence of mind to pull him back up to let him breathe. He splutters as he surfaces, hot breath fanning across Negan's groin. Negan can't wait for long, impatient, gripping Rick's hair and forcing him back down. He looks down at Rick's teary-eyed face, pleasure radiating down his cock, throbbing in his throat.

Rick doesn't resist. He moans as he's forced down, choking again, and the vibrations have pre-cum already beading at the tip of Negan's cock. His thighs clench beneath Rick's fingers, his vision zeroed in on Rick and Rick only. The tears on his face. His glistening curls. Negan's spine arches.

"Rick... Jesus christ, fuck. You're doing great, just... just like that, Rick." he encourages him, voice a trembling mess. Rick's unpracticed tongue only makes it feel that much better.

He gradually finds his rhythm, bobbing his head in time with Negan's thrusts, his choking subdued. Negan isn't gentle, even though he tries to be. It's just so difficult when it feels so fucking good.

Just as he's cresting his finishing point, he forces Rick off of him, saliva dribbling down Rick's lips. He shivers, cock jumping, begging to be finished off. He bites his lip hard enough to draw his own cold, dead blood.

He's not done yet.

He has to make a conscious effort to not finish on Rick's pretty face when he looks up at him.

Rick, dazed from loss of breath, doesn't protest when he's pushed to the side.

"Take off your jeans, darlin'." he demands, reaching to his nightstand and yanking open a drawer. He fumbles around and grabs a bottle of lube, drawing himself up onto his knees.

Rick's jeans are on the floor beside Negan's. He's panting from the blowjob, mouth open temptingly, wiping the saliva from his chin. Negan takes in the sight of the bare man laid out next to him, momentarily forgetting whatever he was doing.

Holy fuck.

His skin is glistening with sweat, flushed chest rising and falling heavily in time with his pants. His torso is muscular, every curve and angular line a testament to his power. Old scars litter the surface of his skin in tantalizing lines, and Negan finds that they get him going. Who doesn't love a man with scars?

His neglected cock bounces in the air, the tip blushed, leaking slightly. Negan sucks his teeth at the image.

Rick goes red from the scrutiny. Cute.

Suddenly starved, he's situated between Rick's legs and gripping the meat of his thighs, running his hands up the sides of his body and tracing every scar. He's fucking beautiful. Every God damn bit of him.

Rick trembles from his touch and he returns the favor by sliding his hands up Negan's back and shoulders.

"I'm gonna fuck you, Rick." Negan says plainly, throaty voice in Rick's ear, tickling the hair around it. Rick hums in approval, heartbeat ever present in the back of Negan's mind, spurring him on.

Negan gently applies pressure to Rick's entrance. Warmth encompasses his finger as he pushes in slowly, patiently. Rick squeezes the sheets beside him and sets his teeth, squirming.

He presses a chaste kiss to Rick's temple and leans back, applying a generous amount of lube to his fingers. Rick watches, cautious, vulnerable at Negan's disposal. Negan's heart clenches in his chest.

Negan hovers above him, faces close, and he kisses the corner of Rick's lips with unprecedented gentleness. A small part of him chastises himself for being so intimate with a quick fuck like this, but something about the way Rick whines makes it hard not to feel a little soft.

Thankfully, Rick is too busy taking a finger up the ass to read into any of Negan's tender behavior.

"Relax, baby." Negan whispers against his mouth. Rick shudders at his words, obediently relaxing around Negan's finger. Steadily, Negan curls his finger, quivering with arousal at Rick's soft whimper.

Rick nods, which Negan takes as a signal to add another finger. He does, stretching the man below him at an aching pace.

His fangs are heavy in his mouth, his cravings for Rick's pierced flesh as urgent as ever. He forces himself to be patient, even though he's practically scorching with the desire to rut into Rick like a crazy animal.

Rick must see it written all over his face.

"Hurry up." is all he says, sliding down onto Negan's fingers, panting. He clenches around Negan eagerly, and he fixes him with a desperate look.

Negan hums, granting his request and slipping in a third. He picks up his pace now, pumping in time with Rick's movements. Rick's hips jerk upward, seeking friction pathetically, cock barely grazing Negan's stomach.

Negan's own cock is throbbing with anticipation, brushing against Rick's. He pulls his fingers out as Rick's movements become more hurried and desperate. A whine reverberates through his chest.

"Hah... fuck. Hurry up and fuck me, Negan." Rick growls, head tilted back into the pillows. Negan practically purrs.

"Gladly, darlin'."

He squeezes more lube into his palm, and Rick grips his thigh relentlessly. Negan moans shamelessly, cursing under his breath as he strokes himself from root to tip. He shudders and can feel Rick's eyes on him, hungry, wanting.

He doesn't keep him waiting.

He presses his tip to Rick's ass, his cock pulsing at the contact. He intends to go slow and give Rick time to adjust, but is interrupted with a sharp peak of pleasure as Rick wraps his legs around Negan's torso and forces him inside.

Both men cry out, holding the other with enough force to leave marks. The pure bliss of the warmth around his cock, of Rick clenching tightly around it, has Negan shaking like a leaf. His curses are swallowed up by Rick's mouth.

Roughly, he begins to thrust up into Rick, who is gasping out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, stretched wide for the man inside him. He bites down on Negan's shoulder to cope with the intensity, and Negan grabs his jaw and forces his head back down into the pillows, maintaining eye contact.

"I wanna watch.. wanna watch you while I fuck you." he huffs between groans, his hold on Rick's face iron-like. Rick nods, unable to speak, breathing hard and flushing a deep red.

They grind into each other wildly, Rick fucking himself onto Negan in time with his strokes. Negan clumsily takes Rick's neglected cock into his free hand once he has the composure to think, thumb swiping the tip. Rick's mouth hangs open with quick breaths, hips grinding into his palm.

He finds purchase on Negan's back, and he rips at the skin beneath his nails, enjoying the way Negan hisses in pain and squeezes his jaw tighter.

It's not pretty by any means.

It's harsh and desperate and a constant push and pull like opposite ends of a magnet trying to connect. Their sex is angry and frantic and passionate, each trying to get one over the other, trying to take more than the other.

Hands tug and squeeze and tear, teeth leave marks and bruises, and muscles strain.

Negan is rapidly approaching his orgasm, movements sloppy and disjointed. The only thing he can focus on is Rick's baby blues, rolling into his head with dilated pupils. His senses are overrided with every gasp of the man below him.

All he can feel is the heat of Rick wrapped around his cock, all he can hear are his breathless moans, all he can taste is his blood and skin, all he can smell is sex.

Rick isn't faring much better. In fact, he seems to be reaching his peak much faster than Negan.

"Fuck, Rick, I want you to cum for me, baby." Negan manages to gasp out. He strokes the cock in his fist, encouraging Rick with praises that make his dick throb in Negan's hand.

"Be good for me, Rick."

Rick's eyes widen a fraction before squeezing shut, brows furrowing and his head tilting backward, exposing the swollen marks on his throat. He clenches around Negan's cock and his muscles tense, nails clawing down Negan's back.

Negan's breath is labored. He thrusts up into Rick, pouring out borderline nonsensical praises as he does so.

"Shit, Negan--" he spills over Negan's fist, cum spurting over his stomach and managing to reach his chest. His cock pulses and the muscles in his stomach jump as he rides out his high, crying out.

Negan only lasts a few more seconds after that. The image of Rick coming undone is so immensely hot to him that he couldn't possibly last any longer.

His vision blots out, heat surging through his body like lightning, and he's suddenly biting down, hard, rich iron rushing into his mouth.

Holy fucking fuck fucking shit.

High doesn't even come close to describing the cloud nine Negan is on. Every muscle in his body is scalding, his brain hums in time with the pump of Rick's vein, his flesh vibrates with startling electricity. He doesn't even know his own God damned name. Euphoria is a burning hot bliss in the depths of his stomach, churning, begging him for more. He's a slave to himself, a slave to blood, a slave to Rick.

He doesn't feel it when Rick tears him off.

When he comes to, he's slumped on top of him with blood trickling down his chin, heaving. The heat of Rick's body and the rapid heartbeat in his chest reassures him that he didn't kill him during his frenzy.

He drunkenly props himself up to get a look at the man he's crushing and notices that Rick was--and still is-- stroking his back in soothing circles while he rode out his orgasm.

They look at each other through half-lidded eyes. Rick seems to hesitate for a moment, as if contemplating something, before briskly brushing his lips against Negan's. The timid contact is just as thrilling as the intense fucking, if you ask Negan.

Jesus, he didn't know Rick was such a romantic. He finds that he doesn't mind it, though.

He takes Rick's face in his hands, caressing the stubble, returning the tender gestures. Rick noticeably tenses up, and Negan almost stops, worried he might scare him off during the afterglow. But, to his relief, he relaxes into the touch again.

Reluctantly, Negan tears himself away from Rick to grab a couple of tissues. They're silent as he cleans them both up, Rick settling into the mattress, basking comfortably. He dabs at the sore bite wounds on Rick's chest, gentle, but Rick still hisses at the stinging.

Negan opts to put his boxers back on, as does Rick, and he shuffles to the bathroom to grab a first-aid kit.

When he comes back to his room, he finds Rick half asleep under the covers, eyelashes fluttering when he enters. The sight is so... domestic. Negan's throat feels tight, and he coughs it away.

"Get up, darlin', you don't want those getting infected." he warns, pulling the covers away, even though he wishes he could slide underneath them and hold Rick instead.

He must be tired out of his mind to be so soft.

Anyway, he can't let his favorite leader die on him because of a couple of bites. That would be an embarrassing way for Mr. Badass to go out, he thinks.

Rick huffs in annoyance but doesn't protest when he begins to disinfect the bites, evidently too tired to really care.

He just bears with it, like with most things.

Negan observes Rick, knowing this is a rare, vulnerable moment that he will probably never have with him again. He wants to cherish it, fleeting and sweet, hold it close to his chest.

He never knows if the next time they meet will end with the other dead or not.

He notices that Rick is doing much of the same as him, observant.

"What're you thinking?" he asks as he finishes patching him up. He stretches tiredly, leaning back onto the mattress and slithering under the covers. Rick purses his swollen lips, quiet for a long moment.

"I'm thinkimg about sleep." he answers, yawning, clearly dodging the actual question. Negan considers pressing it but ultimately decides to let it slide. He's too tired to do any prodding right now.

He opens an eye and waits to see if Rick is going to get up and leave, expectant.

But, surprisingly, after seemingly battling with himself for a tense minute or so, Rick settles back beneath the covers and rolls over.

Negan has to resist taunting him over it, knowing his big mouth will ruin this rare opportunity. He elects to draw him into his chest instead, cautious.

Rick's muscles tense up, but he doesn't move away. Instead, he presses himself into him, his heart skipping a beat. Negan hums with satisfaction into his curls, grinning, and Rick responds with a sigh.

Rick sleeps the full night for the first time since Negan shoved him up against that car.

Nothing will ever be the same.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

a/n: wow, that ended up being a lot longer than I expected... I just had so many things I wanted to address and get out into the open. I hope this didn't disappoint :)

[mysticalmallard]

Left and Found

Pairing: Abraham Ford x Fem Reader

Word count: 292

Description: Abe finds a lost woman in the forest

Warnings: none?

MainMasterlist || Rules & Requests

Abraham stood on the edge of the forest, surveying the area around him. In the distance, he spotted a figure struggling to make their way through the dense undergrowth. Abraham hesitated for a moment, knowing that the safest choice would be to keep moving and ignore the stranger's plight.

But something tugged at his conscience, and with a weary sigh, he began to make his way through the forest towards the figure. As he got closer, he realised that it was a woman who was struggling to move due to something wrong with her foot.

Abraham approached the woman cautiously, scanning the area for any signs of danger. “You all right?” he asked, his hand resting on his hatchet.

The woman looked up at him, her face etched with pain and exhaustion.“I think I twisted my ankle,” she said, gritting her teeth against the pain."My friends left me here said i was too slow"

"Your friends just left you here?" Abraham asked incredulously, kneeling down beside her to take a closer look at her ankle. "Why the hell would they do that?"

"I don't know, they left yesterday and took my bag said they needed more than me"

Abraham shook his head in disbelief, gently touching her swollen ankle.

"Bastards. They left you here defenseless and alone?"

The woman nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't know what to do. I can't walk on my ankle and I don't have any supplies to sustain myself."

Abraham was torn. He knew he should keep moving, but the thought of leaving this woman alone and desperate tugged at his heart. "Alright," he said with a sigh, "I'll stay and help you. But first, let me figure out something to wrap that ankle."

[walking-mf-dead]

I was on the brink of having a breakdown and needed to redirect my energy to something else so I went to my notes app and uh… yeah. A shitty little drabble. Enjoy ☺️ (May be cross-posted to Ao3!) ((also the format looks funky because I wrote this in my notes app and copy/pasted it onto here via phone))

Pairing: Daryl Dixon/Reader

Relationships: Rick Grimes/Reader (Adoptive Daughter), Negan Smith/Reader (Biological Daughter)

Warnings: The Walking Dead typical violence, thoughts of death/suicide, self-deprecation, Canon Divergence, Death/Murder

________________________________

A Warning

I can't hold on anymore.

It feels like the pit in my chest is getting deeper. The lump in my throat getting bigger, harder to swallow down and ignore.

My eyes burn with unshed tears and my clenched teeth hurt my jaw.

The palm of my hand is being indented with the ragged nails I had chewed and bitten off overtime with my anxiety taking over me.

Never did this thought of death feel so appealing until now. Not until we got to Alexandria and it all went to shit. I knew it was all too good to be true.

My knees are aching on this forest floor.

Negan starts his little song, his voice vibrating up my spine. Giving me goosebumps. Forcing bile into my mouth as his bat points directly at my head.

I follow the bat up to his eyes.

“Well darlin’! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He kneels down and gently grabs my chin, forcing me to keep eye contact.

“I’m almost tempted to skip you darlin’. You can come home. Mm? Wanna come back home to Daddy?”

The venom on my tongue is searing, “Fuck you Negan.”

“That’s no way to talk to your father, kid.” His face steels has he stands up.

I smirk up to him, “Go on Daddy. Do it. Like you do to every one else. Swing.”

“Do NOT fucking do this. Do you really think I want to bash in my own kids head? Huh?” His eyes look wild, as though his psyche is breaking slightly. Only slightly.

“How about, we try this again, hmm gang?! Let’s try this again and if it lands on this lovely lady then so fucken be it!” He yells out to his loyal subjects who break out into cheering.

“Eeny… Meeny… Miny… Mo. Catch… a Tiger… By… His Toe. If… He Hollers… Let Him Go. My Mother… Told Me… To Pick… The Very… Best… One. And you… Are… It.” He drawls out once more but this time, this time it was with purpose. The bat swings by me and points to Abraham. No.

“Anybody moves, anybody says anything, cut the boys other eye out and feed it to his father. And then we’ll start. You can breathe. You can blink. You can cry. Hell… You’re all gonna be doing that.”

CRACK!

The bat brutally hits into Abraham’s skull.

But he sits back up, his face mangled.

“Would you look at that! Takin’ it like a champ!”

WHACK!

Oh God.

Abraham’s blood is splattered on my face. I still. My body shaking and I lose focus on where I am and what’s happening.

Before I can clock it, I’m standing, barreling into Negan while Abraham’s dead body lays beside where I was. His head melding into the ground below.

I wail all of my force into punching my fathers face. He quickly overpowers me and throws me off. He stands up, grabbing Lucille from the ground and in pure rage he slams the bat into my abdominal area.

My scream echos into the surrounds and I feel my body and clothes tearing as the barbs pull back up on the bat.

My hands shake as I hold onto my stomach, looking up in pure fear at Negan. And he stares back, the same look of fear on his face.

“Baby, baby no. No no no. Fuck. FUCK.” He kneels down and pulls up my shirt despite my denial, and assess the wounds.

I look over to Daryl. His face is ghost white. “Daryl… Honey I love you.”

“Consider this a warning.” Negan announces, standing up.

“A big fucken warning. I’ll be around in 2 days to settle an arrangement. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes Negan. Perfectly clear.” Rick strains out.

Negan gives me one last look before calling his men away to go back to The Sanctuary.

Rick and Daryl rush over to my side. Daryl brushing my hair from my face and giving me a solid kiss on my lips.

I look to Rick. “Will I be okay?” He nods. But I don’t know if I believe him. Not yet.

Rick, Carl and some others return to Alexandria to plan what’s happening with Negan while Daryl, Glenn, myself and Maggie head to Hilltop to use their medical services.

Daryl clutches onto me, hoping I make it through the next few days.

[dreamingdixon]

reblogging my fav 💖

thank you to anyone who's taken the time to read, reblog, like, and comment on this beast of a story that has a very special place in my ❤️

Eyes on me

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

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

17,349 words.

“I’m sorry about Merle.”

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

But this was a different voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not staying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family.

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

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

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

“Okay. We’ll try something different.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get on your knees.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

/

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me an’ only me, that’s it.”

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

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

“There ya go, feel better?” 

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

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

“C’mere, lets get ya up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’re ya telling me for?”

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

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

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

“How is she?”

Rick joins then, sitting opposite your two guards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

////

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand.”

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

“Who’s here?”

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

“Me and you. Nobody else, just us.”

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

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

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

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

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

Weakness, is that what this is? 

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

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

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

“I’m okay.”

Too quick. Too unbelievable. Try again.

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

Inhale. Exhale.

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

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

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

“Not tonight.”

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

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

“Okay. Not tonight.”

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

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

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

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

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

//

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

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

“Ya alright?”

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

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

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

“Hm, did ya eat?”

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

So, no, you didn’t eat. 

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

“I’ll get some later.”

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

“Promise?”

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

“What is it, are you okay?”

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

“Got somethin’ to show ya.”

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

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

“Really? What is it?”

“Wanna see ya eat somethin’ first.”

“I already.. Fine.”

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

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

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

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

“Daryl.. Oh my God.”

Oh my God.

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

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

“You did this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Busy?”

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

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

But not tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

/

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

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

“Can’t sleep?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s get ya back inside, alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inhale. Exhale. Again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Broken, disgusting.. Patheti-”

“Hey, that’s enough. C’mere.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, ‘m sorry. I didn-”

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

“It’s okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tired?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just perfect.

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

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

/

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

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

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

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

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

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Y/N, giggling: You sneeze like a girl.

Daryl: How ‘bout I pound ya like a boy?

Daryl: …

Daryl: That didn’t come out right.

Y/N: I know what you meant. Your place or mine?

Daryl: Yours.

[feral4daryl]

need a part 2 of sweet scent with pervy daryl trying to explain it to you but you couldn't get it cuz you'd never done anything like it so he says he's gonna show you how good it feels and has to muffle your screams so no one in the house hears you as his cock practically splits your tiny cunt in half and he uses his thumb to rub ur clit to try and make u relax.........

I'm crazy but I'm free

masterlist and other infos || MDNI

sweet scent pt2.

perv!daryl x innocent!fem!reader

summary: after getting caught sniffing your panties by you, daryl persuades you into giving your precious virginity away to him while your dad's just in the next room.

warnings: EXTREME AGE GAP (daryl's is in late 30s/early 40s and reader is 18 [or older, it's up to you]), 18+ smut, praising, dubcon? (reader lacks enthusiastic consent at first and daryl has to do some convincing), panty gagging, p-in-v, blowjobs, cunnilingus, masturbation, manipulation, petnames, daddy kink, orgasm denial, mentions of dumbification, mentions of degradation.

word count: 6.2k

a/n: the following content contains some extreme fetishes and kinks that some readers might find disturbing, so if you're not comfortable with any of those, please do not proceed. click here to read part 1.

<previous chapter>

[...] His movements got slower until they stopped and he let go of his now sensitive cock. He sighed after catching his breath. he was left with that afterglow and the feeling that he made a huge mistake. suddenly, he felt dirty like before. He opened his eyes slowly, removing your panties from his face and putting them in his pockets. yeah, he knew it was wrong, but he was still planning to keep them for later.

Then, when he averted his gaze to the mirror on his side, he saw...

You. Standing on the doorframe with a shocked look on your face.

"U-uncle Daryl?"

---

Shit.

You definitely weren't what Daryl expected to see when he opened his eyes, the remains of his freshly busted nut all over his hand and his cock out, fully on display. For a good 5 seconds, he just freezed, completely unsure of what to do. But then, it hit him. He freaked out.

His eyes got as big as they possibly could and he immediately pulled his cock in his pants back again, clumsily trying to regain his composure, taking a little longer than usual due to his nervousness. Meanwhile, you just stood there with an unreadable expression. You didn't look exactly shocked, or angry, or anything like it. You looked strangely curious, with your head slightly tilted to the side.

Daryl shook his hand to get rid of some of his essence that was still sticking to it and then rubbed it on the side of his pants, on the hip area. Still not capable of looking you in the eyes, he quickly glanced at your frame and finally broke the awkward silence.

“Y/N? W-What'r'ya doin' here?” Stuttering was very unusual for Daryl, considering that although he was a man of very few words, he was always very direct and precise with them. Maybe playing it cool as if you hadn't just caught him in the act was the way out of that unpleasant situation.

“Well...” You let out a small chuckle and took a step closer to him. “This is my room.” His awkward smile immediately faded away.

“Oh, uh... I was jus’...” He looked around the room, searching for anything to use as an excuse for being there. But before he could start, you interrupted him.

“I didn't leave with the others, daddy told me to stay here to take care of you. He's in his room.” Your sweet girly voice had a way of calming Daryl, making him a bit more relaxed despite the current scenario and the shame he was feeling. But at the same time, just hearing you enunciate that one little word 'daddy' had him taking a deep breath to control his urges and not have another erection right there and then. You said that so innocently, because, well, it was in fact innocent since you referred to your actual father Hershel, but still, Daryl's twisted mind made it sound suggestive in his head.

“Take care'a me?” He pondered. Daryl wondered why your reaction was so calm considering what you had just witnessed. Maybe you didn't see much.

“You know, somebody's gotta change your bandage.” You smiled and pointed to his head that still had the bandage around it. “Actually, can you step to the side a bit? So I can...” You gestured to the dressing table behind him. He didn't say anything and just did as you said, moving to the side a little so you could approach the piece of furniture. In that moment, Daryl was the definition of what they call a standoffish.

“I was expecting to find you in your bed, resting. As you should, uncle Daryl.” Your voice carried a hint of playfulness along with a sincere worry. But the way you called him uncle for the second time that day gave him mixed sensations. He wasn't sure if he was aroused or weirded out by it. Or both.

You extended your hand, meaning to pull the drawer open to collect the items needed to change his bandage, which included the gauze, antiseptic wipes, medical tapes, sterile dressing and other kinds of medical stuff your dad had taught you how to handle, but you had to stop your hand midway when you noticed a white slimy thing dripping down the furnishing.

He followed your eyes, noticing how stared at the liquid. The farmer's sweet young daughter had just noticed the results of Daryl's arousal while it coated the dressing table. His mind started rushing with apprehension, you could tell your dad and everyone else how much of a perverted old man Daryl actually was, and he could be kicked out of the group, being left alone in the woods to fend for himself. It's not that he wasn't capable to make it on his own, but his family was important to him, he didn't wanna lose them over that type of thing that could change the way they looked at him forever.

“What's this?” You bended your knees a little, leaning forward and squinting your eyes to take a better look at the unknown substance. Now, you had completely forgotten the reason why you came into that room that was changing his bandage. Daryl lifted one of his eyebrows out of confusion. Did you really not know what that was? If that was the case, it kind of made sense.

Of course. Living on a farm far from the city, you had a close-knit relationship with your family in a way that they were pretty much all the people you would interact with. You had never had boyfriends, or kissed, or anything remotely romantic like that due to your dad's overprotectiveness, after all, you were his youngest daughter. All you knew about the existence of sexual stuff had been taught by him, when he mainly warned you about the terrible consequences of that type of action and that you had to stay innocent.

You didn't really know what he meant by all that, since he was very vague in his descriptions about sex. Hershel just used to say that there were certain areas on your body that you should never let a boy get near and you knew better than to disobey your father's orders, being aware that he always knew what was best for you. Not even your own hands had ever darted down your body to meet those spots more than once or twice before quickly pulling away. You wanted to remain innocent, whatever that meant.

But Daryl was the observant type, and he quickly caught up that you knew nothing about that type of thing. He knew you had always lived in that farm, away from the perverted hands of boys your age (or older like him) so connecting the dots wasn't tricky at all.

Oh, the things he could show you. That thought alone brought a somewhat creepy smirk to Daryl's face as he stared into the wall, contemplating the opportunity he had in hands to finally have his way with you. He knew he still had to be careful though.

“Daryl?” Your voice snapped him out of his trance. You turned your head to look at him before turning your entire body to face him. Your gaze was curious.

“This?” He motioned with his chin towards the dripping substance on the piece of furniture, looking out of place. “Ya don'... know wha' it is?” He double checked, wanting to make sure you were actually unfamiliar erotic nature of what you saw him doing.

“Well, I saw where it came from.” You revealed, not sounding accusing at all, just simply stating a fact.

“...How long 've ya been watchin' me?” He asked with an almost audible gulp. Though he was considerably excited about teaching you all that new stuff, he was still unsure if he should or not. It'd been so long since his last sexual interaction with someone else that he could barely remember it. And doing it with the daughter of the man that gave him a roof to put over his head in times like these? That was risky.

“A while.” You stated. Now, Daryl could notice how you started staring at his crotch area with a renewed sense of interest. That meant you had definitely seen his dick despite his efforts to hide it when he first got caught just moments ago. He wondered if you knew what it was or its purpose.

You stepped even closer to him and he couldn't help but step back slightly. “I've never seen somebody pee like that. Are you... Sick?” You raise an eyebrow. “The bathroom's just in the next room, you know...” Your worried tone was awfully adorable to Daryl. And well, he was indeed sick, but not in the way you meant it. Nonetheless, the amusing way you mistook his semen for urine made him share a light chuckle.

“Nah, tha's... Tha's not piss.” He bluntly let out. You walked across your room and over to your bed, sitting on its edge. Daryl followed you until he was standing in front of you. He crossed his arms.

“How so?” You tilted your head to the side with a sincere curiosity displayed on your face. You had seen the way he rubbed that one thing of his that you weren't sure how it worked until that slimy liquid started oozing out of it, deeply stimulating your curiosity.

“Ya sure ya wanna know?” His tone sounded more dark and his voice turned hoarser, however, that didn't seem to faze you. You nodded frantically. “Aigh', i'll show ya.” Once again, a smirk creeped onto his face. Your eyes were all sparkly as you attentively listened to him. “Sometimes people touch themselves ta feel good, ya know?” You shrugged, not really sure of what he was talking about.

As he spoke, he took light and slow steps towards you, like a predator preparing to hunt its prey, until his knees was almost touching yours. “Ya ever touched yerself, darlin'?” Despite the raspiness in his voice, it was now rather calm, with a surge of some sweetness to it.

“Like how?” You asked.

“Like here...” He extended his hand with a gentle movement, his finger tracing a path from the valley between your breasts down to your bellybutton. The slightly ticklish sensation made you flinch a little. Then, his finger continued making its way down to your lower belly, stopping inches above your clothed pussy. “'N here...”

Your breath hissed, and you started remembering how your dad told you those parts were sacred and shouldn't be touched by anyone, no matter who. The uncertainty was obvious in your face as you discreetly pushed his hand away. “Uncle Daryl...”

“Ya can call me jus' Daryl, sweetheart. 'M yer friend, remember?” He tried his best to sound convincing.

“Yes, Daryl...” You corrected yourself with an awkward chuckle. “I... I think I shouldn't.” You avert your gaze from his.

“Why not? Dontcha wanna know wha' it's like?” He leaned in a little closer, resting his hands on your thighs. You made a motion to try to push him away again, but he insisted on his touch. “Don' be scared, doll. 'M not gunna hurt ya. Quite the opposite.” He smirked while practically whispering the last part, making sure to sound extra coaxing.

You weren't really sure what you were afraid of, exactly. You just knew that you wanted to make your father happy and proud of you, since he'd always been so caring towards you and your family. In the end, you just wanted daddy's approval.

“I'm... I'm not sure. I don't know, it doesn't feel right.” You confessed, your voice filled with worry. Daryl knew how to be intimidating when he wanted to.

“'S okay, doll.” He spoke the way one would speak to a puppy. And giving you no time to protest, he used one of his hands to tug at the hem of your white tank top and pulled it up in one go, revealing your bare tits to him. He bit his lips, noticing you weren't wearing a bra. As quick as he did so, you felt so ashamed of your sudden nudity that you lifted your arms up to try to cover yourself up from his hungry eyes. “D-Daryl...”

“Shhhh...” He shushed you against your ear, making shivers run down your spine. Although you were uncertain, the way he spoke to you made certain parts of your body warm up, an unusual sensation for you. “Ya got such pretty tits... Ya shouldn't hide 'em away from me.” As he said that, he gently grabbed one of your breasts, giving it the slightest squeeze not to startle you. You couldn't help but let out a small squeak at the unfamiliar sensation. Weirdly enough, it felt good in a way you had never felt before.

“Ya like tha'?” He whispered. “It's nice, but... Daddy wouldn't like that. I just wanna make daddy happy.” You just wanted to be a good girl. Perhaps, you could find a different way of doing that.

“Yeah?” He muttered practically to himself as he got an idea. “Well, I can be yer daddy for today. Like tha', ya could make yer daddy happy in a way. Yer jus' gotta lemme lead ya, aigh'?” He didn't feel guilty in the slightest for making you engage in one of his twisted fetishes while you were barely aware of it.

“H-huh?" You were uncertain about the reason behind his suggestion.

“Ya can pretend 'm yer daddy.” He continued playing her mind. You weren't really sure if you liked the idea to depict him as your old man, but you tried to convince yourself to play along.

“But... What will he think of me when he finds out?” You fidgeted with your fingers. Meanwhile his grip on your breast continued to intimidate you.

“He don' have ta know. C'mon, dontcha wanna make daddy happy?” He conveyed in a hush against your ear, his thumb now grazing your sensitive nipple, making you feel that one funny sensation again. You couldn't help but lean into his touch.

You closed your eyes, darting your tongue out to lick your lips. The nervousness in you due to the newness of it all made your lips dry. The way Daryl was making you feel was curious, and you just wanted more of it. He took your silence as a confirmation.

“Good girl.” He cooed before capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, very gently sucking on it. The feeling made you arch your back instantly.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

You just wanted to be a good girl. And if following Daryl's lead was a way to do it, you were all in for it. Your senses awakened as a cascade of unfamiliar yet electrifying sensations coursed through you, a dance of pleasure that tingled on your skin. In that moment, a subtle warmth enveloped you, as if you had discovered a secret realm of bliss previously unknown.

You reached for his head, the feeling of your delicate fingernails scratching against his scalp and pulling him closer sent tingling sensations all over his body. Instinctively, you slightly opened your legs at the pleasure and that drew a smirk onto Daryl's face.

“Eager fer daddy, huh?” The way he referred to himself like that made a faint blush spread across your cheeks, although you couldn't wrap your head around the reason why. It felt so wrong but so right at the same time.

“I need ya to trust me, 'kay?” He said as he pulled your shorts down and then tossed them aside, revealing your white cotton panties. Once again, you felt to urge to hide, not knowing how to deal with someone else seeing you naked for the first time. But before your legs could involuntarily close, his big hands groped your thighs, keeping them spread apart. “'S okay, sunshine.” He practically manhandled you, gently but firmly pushing your body downward so you rested you back on the mattress.

The new position made you feel strangely vulnerable, but it wasn't exactly a bad feeling. Your doe eyes had a mix of unsureness and curiosity as they meet his. Sensing the mixed sensations within you, Daryl leaned in to place a small peck on your plush lips, aiming to make you more comfortable. The feeling of his rough lips against your soft ones so suddenly almost made you flinch, but they felt rather inviting. As he pulled back, a confident smirk could be seen displayed on his face.

The archer's rugged fingers traveled their way down your body once again until they found the soft fabric of your panties, making your breath hiss. He brushed his index and middle fingers against your clothed pussy lips. Just with that, the dampness was so obvious that a small wet spot could be seen on the cotton fabric right where your slit would be. He dragged his fingers across it until they reached your clit.

“This lil spot righ' here...” He kept his hand there. “...is magical." For now, he just added a small pressure, testing the waters and watching close to your reaction, but that was enough to draw a whimper from you, the unknown sensation making you grasp his forearm. It indeed felt magical. You bit your lips and though you couldn't see it, Daryl shared a satisfied smile at the way he was able to get you all hot and bothered with just a simple touch.

Your legs squirmed a bit and he took that as a good sign, so he continued. Now, he started slowly rubbing your clit in circular motions over the fabric of your panties. Your back arched again, and you accidentally let out a dangerously loud moan.

“Nuh-uh.” He brought his other index finger to his lips, gesturing for you to be quiet. “Ya gotta be quiet, ya hear me?” His tone was mostly reprimanding, which strangely excited you. You nodded, enjoying the authority he guided you with through those new sensations. You had touched yourself there before, but never like that. The sensation always felt somewhat wrong, but with Daryl, it was totally different.

You were still kind of upset at yourself for disobeying your dad, but the way Daryl worked his fingers so skillfully had you seeing stars. You never thought you'd be handing out your innocence for some old redneck you met just a while ago, but there you were, completely given to him.

In the beginning, Daryl used to always kind of avoid you, despite your attempts of trying to get to know at least a little bit about the mysterious archer. He knew that deep down, those desires towards you were always there, since the very first time he saw you. At first, he tried to brush them off, but now, all he wanted was to be the one to feel your tight virgin cunt for the first time.

In a swift motion, his big hands tugged at the hem of your underwear. “Up.” He ordered, gesturing for you to lift your hips so he could pull them down. You didn't argue at all and promptly did as he said, reveling in the control he had over you. It was like he dominated your weak mind. “Good girl.” He cooed once again. Oh, if only he knew what that did to your little inexperienced pussy.

After tossing the piece of fabric aside, he reached for you knees, gently spreading them apart. The sight of your glistening bare cunt had his mind rushing through all the things he could do to it. He wondered if he would be able to hold himself back and be gentle or if he would end up losing control. After all, he hadn't done anything like that in such a long time that his whole body was aching for it. He stared at it in an almost scary way, you'd never seen his eyes so hungry.

If his cock hadn't awaken until that moment, now it was hard as a fucking rock. He had to really fight the urges to pull it out his pants and dick you down right there and then, but he knew he had to take it easy on you at least for now and get you nice and ready for him, even though you were already visibly dripping wet.

“Is this all fer me?” His tone was almost mocking. You weren't sure what he meant by that, not fully understanding the concept of natural lubrication, but you just nodded with your eyes closed. Something about being in that position felt so right, so freeing that it had you wondering why you never did that before, and why you were so afraid of trying it in the first place.

Daryl's hands sensually traced their way down your body, exploring your every contour until they reached the back of your thighs, pushing them back until your wet cunt was all over his face. He tried his best to control himself, but his own arousal was practically taking over his mind, so he buried his face on it like a starving man. As soon as his wet tongue made contact with your sensitive little clit and he lapped at your abundant juices, you immediately gasped, gaining a look of disapproval from Daryl.

“I warned ya.” That was all he mumbled before taking your panties he had just took off you and sticking them into your mouth almost aggressively. You could taste yourself on the white fabric, and although it felt strange, it turned you on even more. Now, your little sounds were muffled by the piece of clothing as he resumed eating you out, flicking his tongue on hour clit and burying it between your folds. You never thought a feeling like that could actually exist as you experienced that overwhelming rush of pleasure, a novel sensation coursing through you sending shivers down your spine as a delightful warmth enveloped your entire being. You tried your best to hold back your sounds since your dad was home and could hear you if you slipped, but Daryl's skilled tongue and lips made it an extremely difficult task, even with your panties stuck in your mouth.

He continued working your clit with his mouth, and maybe a little sooner than it should, a tingling sensation forming in your lower belly caught your attention. Daryl noticed the obvious shift in your demeanor and took the panties out of your mouth so you could speak. “D-daddy...” You experimented the honorific he had previously suggested. “I-I feel funny.” You whimpered, squirming a bit harder than before as it started feeling as if you were gonna burst at any moment. Daryl smirked against your skin and gave your pussy a last peck before pulling away, making you whine in disapproval. It had only been seconds but you immediately missed the sensation. You craved it.

“Not yet, sweetheart.” He said. Not yet what, you wondered. But you still wanted to be good for him, so you nodded as the good girl you were. You couldn't think of anything you wouldn't do for him in that moment, considering how desperate you were to feel that pleasure again.

Your curious eyes followed his hands as they reached to unbuckled his own belt, setting it aside. He undid his pants and pulled them down just enough to reveal his boxer briefs to you. There. There was the place where you saw that sticky white thing shooting out from. Now, the excitement in you was unbearable as you propped yourself up on your elbows to watch his movements closely. Your eyes visibly lighted up and that didn't go unnoticed by Daryl.

“Yer gunna love this, lil' girl.” He bit his lips. Something was very obviously bulging in his boxers, which you found odd since it didn't seem to look so obvious when it was in his pants even though now it looked so big. Either way, you were completely drawn to it. You glued your eyes to his crotch while he pulled his underwear down.

You had heard about it, but you had never actually seen one of those before. In the aftermath of the apocalypse, his pubic hair had grown wild and untamed, a reflection of the makeshift survival and the absence of the once routine grooming practices. Not that he used to care a lot about that kind of thing before the outbreak. In a way, you thought it looked charming, suiting his rugged looks and personality.

You could feel your mouth starting to water at the sight of his cock standing tall and proud in front of you. Since the archer had touched his mouth to your cunt, you wondered if you could do the same to him in that same area on his body. As if he could smell your thoughts, he brought a hand to your head, gently pulling you closer to his crotch while he held it by the base.

“Ya wanna have a taste?” He slyly suggested and chuckled at your frantic nodding. Leaning closer to it, you felt the musky and raw scent that emanated from it, which made you even more drawn to the possibilities that ran through your mind. But at the same time, you didn't know what to do or how to handle it.

Bringing his hand to his mouth, he collected some saliva from it and rubbed the wetness on the tip of his cock to lubricate it. “Gimme yer hand.” He reached out his hand, and instantly you complied, allowing him to direct it towards his cock. He enveloped your hand around it, keeping his atop yours, slowly starting to move it up and down. It felt warm and hard against your soft fingers, and the way he threw his head back and quietly groaned made your stomach churn with butterflies. “Fuck baby, tha' feels good.” He had to whisper due to the dangerous presence of your dad in the house threatening to put your little playtime to an end.

You smiled proudly at yourself. You liked the way he sounded and you wished to draw more of those grunts from his lips. And Daryl, being just as eager as you, removed your hand from his length, holding it by the base. His other hand found its way to the back of your head, his touch almost feeling impatient as he pulled you closer to his cock. “Open yer mouth.” He didn't have to tell you twice. Therefore, he guided his swollen tip to your awaiting tongue, smearing his salty pre-cum all over it. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying his best to hold back any compromising sounds.

Your lips instinctively closed around his tip, trying to mimic the way he sucked on your clit, aiming to make him feel as good as he previously did to you. The act not only gave him pleasure, but it also brought you a deep sense of satisfaction, making you hum against his sensitive skin. The vibrations from your vocal chords sent a chill through his body and he couldn't hold back this time, the warm sensation of your mouth being so tempting and promising that he pushed his hips forward a bit too much, causing it to hit the back of your throat and you to gag on it.

He immediately retracted his body, removing his cock from the velvety confines of your mouth. Your eyes got a little watery but you smiled either way. “Sorry, princess.” He said with a hint of awkwardness in his voice.

“It's fine, I liked it.” You confess, looking up at him with those big doe eyes of yours, sitting at the edge of the bed while he stood in front of you. Your innocent expression contrasting with the dirty nature of your encounter made him impossibly hornier, and he didn't feel like waiting any longer. “Fuck” He almost whined. Eagerness to feel you wrapping around him filled his body, so he grabbed you by the arms, not too rough so he wouldn't hurt you, and put on your feet against the pink wall of your room.

He brought a hand to your head, pressing it against the wall. You gasped a little at his roughness but soon you felt him brushing the tip of his cock on your slicky slit and clit. “'S gunna feel good, I promise.” He mumbled against your ear, making your body hair stand on end. The sensation had you biting your lips to try and not make any sounds, but your efforts were proven useless as you felt the pressure of his tip carefully going in your cunt, causing a burning sensation and you accidentally let out a loud cry.

Daryl's hand went immediately to your mouth, forcefully pressing his palm against your lips to muffle your sounds, your dad shouldn't hear Daryl using his sweet daughter in his own home after all. “Shhh, shhh.” He shushed you, resting his chin on the top of your head for a moment. You wrapped around him so tight even though he only had his tip in yet that he couldn't restrain himself from pushing his hips forward a little more, intensifying the burning sensation while he stretched your virgin cunt out.

“'S okay, ya can take it.” In that moment, you were confused at why he was making you feel so good just a moment ago, and now he's ripping your little pussy apart. But even though it hurt, it was somewhat pleasant to feel so full in such a new way, so you stuck your ass towards him, inviting him in. While still keeping his hand pressed on your mouth, he brought his other one to your hips, gripping them a little too tight.

Without warnings, he buried his entire length in you in one swift motion, filling you up to the brim and worsening the burning to a whole new level. The only thing that kept you from letting out a scream at the sudden invasion was his hand muffling your pathetic sounds and the fact that you'd be in deep trouble if your dad found out about that, but even so, Daryl couldn't help but quietly grunt at the intense sensation. He didn't know he missed fucking a warm cunt so badly until he was completely inhumed inside you. “Good girl. Yer being so good fer daddy.” He praised you. His words had an immediate effect on you, making your pussy even wetter, if that was even possible.

You didn't even care if it hurt or not anymore, so you just stood there, caught in the paradox of sensation — a mix of pain and pleasure etched across your face. The twinge felt like a sweet ache, and yet, an irresistible allure pulled her deeper into the experience, as if the discomfort held a hidden charm that she couldn't resist exploring.

Despite the pain, you found herself oddly drawn to the sensation, craving more as if the discomfort carried an inexplicable appeal that kept you coming back for another taste. So you slightly wiggled your ass against Daryl's body, moving his cock a little inside you. The feeling of being stretched out had you desperate for more.

Daryl's warm breath hit your ear as he let out a light-hearted laugh at your reaction, sending delicious goosebumps all over your body. His hips started going back and forth to meet yours in a sensual dance. He tried to be gentle at first, but your virgin cunt was just so wet and warm that he couldn't help it but succumb to his primal desires. “Jus' like tha', princess. Take this fat cock.” He whispered loud enough so only you could hear, making you weak in the knees.

His calloused hand let go of your hips to find your clit, starting to rub it with just the right pressure to make you squirm under his touch. The mixed sensations of intense pleasure and pain confusing your brain, making you melt like putty in his hands. Overwhelming waves of pleasure surged through you, leaving your head blissfully empty as if every thought had been swept away by the sheer intensity of the sensation, which was exactly what Daryl wanted, to turn you into a brainless little fucktoy for him.

If a few months ago somebody told you that you'd be letting some perverted older man take advantage of you in your own room, you would've laughed right in their face. Giving your innocence away to anybody used to feel like such a distant reality, and now there you were, pressed against the wall by Daryl's sweaty body while he mercilessly pounded your no longer virgin cunt, making you experience the most pleasurable pain you could ever feel.

As he continued bucking his hips like a desperate animal, you drooled against his hand, your brain now reduced to putty due to the overpowering sensation that dominated your every sense. “Nngh...” Your muffled moans stirred an even deeper desire within Daryl, turning him as primal as one could be. Your body language made it obvious that you were close to your orgasm, and this time, he didn't plan to deny you of it.

But you had never experienced something like that. You didn't know pleasure could get so extreme that could made you burst, so as the sensation built and grew stronger, it also made you unsure about where it was taking you, and you tried to fight the feeling. Daryl's skilled fingers working your clit only threw you even closer to the edge and you felt like your legs could fail at any moment.

Noticing the shift in your demeanor, he muttered against your ear. “Jus' let it go, baby. Trust me, don' hold it.” His tone was strangely sweet considering what you were both up to, but his encouraging words relaxed you a little, and as he intensified the rubbing on your clit, you knew you wouldn't be able to hold it in not even if you wanted to, whatever it was.

Then, it hit you. An entirely unfamiliar and intense sensation washed over you, catching you off guard. It felt like uncharted emotional and physical territory, leaving you completely stunned, wide-eyed, and grappling with the unexpected intensity of the experience, something that almost made you mad at your dad from convincing you of staying away from it for so long.

Daryl had to intensify the pressure of his hand against your lips, but even so, he wasn't able to muffle your cries completely as your body convulsed and you were sure you lost consciousness for a few seconds. “Good girl, cum for me.” You didn't know what that word meant, but considering the situation, you understood that it probably had something to do with the new type of pleasure you just experienced.

As the orgasmic sensation slowly faded away, it was replaced with an even more overwhelming feeling of overstimulation. You squirmed even harder and you swore you could cry if he continued using your cunt like that, not giving you any breaks to catch your breath. You'd been turned into a whimpering and drooling mess, a total slut for his cock. You wanted him to have his way with you and you knew that if he wanted to, you'd let him fuck you all day without arguing.

The intense clenching of your tight pussy around his length initiated his own orgasm, and now it was his turn to experience the compelling feeling of being right on the edge of pleasure. “Fuck, turn 'round." He desperately voiced, but he didn't even waited for you before decisively grasping your shoulders, swiftly turning you to face him. As he did so, he removed his cock from inside you and stroked it hard and fast for a few seconds with just enough pressure to make himself burst.

Your mesmerized eyes watched as the pleasure took over his body. And now, it all made sense as he started shooting his load aiming right on your bare pussy, just as he was doing earlier today when you first caught him in your room. The warm sticky substance coated your cunt and it was so much that it felt like it would never end, leaving you astonished. You couldn't help but smile at the sight before you.

You two stared into each other's eyes while desperately trying to catch your breaths, sharing a small chuckle and satisfied smiles. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead and now, you knew who to come up to when you feel that funny feeling in your lower belly again. You knew Daryl had what it took to take care of your needs.

Without saying anything else, he pulled his briefs and pants back up again, adjusting his clothes. Then, he reached for his pocket, pulling out those panties he had stolen earlier and putting them on you again, leaving his load smeary and sticking to your skin. “Leave it there.” He hoarsely voiced, ordering you to walk around with his cum inside your clothes while no one else knew of it except the both of you.

“And these...” He walked over to your bed and bended his knees a little so he could reach for the white cotton panties he had tossed aside right before railing you and put them in his pocket.

“...'M gunna keep these fer later.”

a/n: omg guys the first part of sweet scent got over 1.1k notes and that's like??? insane??? tysm for all ur support, that's crazy. it was so much fun to write both parts and i'm so thankful if you read it this far!! i hope y'all have a great and happy holidays xx

taglist: @imagininghim , @murdadixon , @epilepsywarrior8787 , @darklydixon

[thewalkingdilf]

can we all just agree that daryl would definitely love to smoke a cigarette while you ride his thigh.

his sex drive hasn’t always been able to compare to yours, and him being a decent bit older than you definitely doesn’t help, but he could never deny a little angel like you the pleasure that you craved so badly.

so there you were, propping yourself up in his lap excitedly, getting yourself settled in the perfect position on his denim-clad thigh, with help from daryl’s strong arms keeping you steady while you adjusted yourself, of course.

the cigarette not only helped him relax in his own way, just as you were relaxing by making a mess of his strong thigh- it also served as a way for him to stall, to test your patience, a sort of timer if you will.

you’d rut yourself against him, whining and blubbering about how bad you needed him, meanwhile he’d continue to sit back in his chair, gripping your waist with one hand while the other would be raised toward his mouth, taking a long, deep draw from the cigarette, gently blowing the smoke toward you.

occasionally, if he was in an extra good mood that day, he’d flip his cigarette around in his fingers, resting it between your lips for you to take a couple puffs as well. he was typically against you smoking; he didn’t want someone like you falling into such a bad habit like him, but he couldn’t deny how much he loved to see you like that in the moment; fucking yourself against him so desperately while you blow the smoke in his face, the small nicotine buzz making you feel a bit lightheaded and dizzy, adding to your overwhelming pleasure.

“don’t worry baby, i’ll make you feel good, just lemme finish my smoke, yeah? you can be patient and do that for me, can’t ya’?”

“daryl, please.”

“not yet baby, yer being so good f’ me, i know you can wait a lil’ longer.”

[dixons-sunshine]

A/n: Based on this post by @louifaith. An actual fic for this is in the works, but here’s this in the meantime!

Imagine calling Daryl Dixon your husband for the first time.

It was the apocalypse, meaning that having an official wedding was damn near impossible. The best one could get to a real wedding was wearing your least ruined clothes and having someone like Gabriel officiate it. However, Daryl didn’t want a big affair, so nothing ever happened—you were simply known as Daryl’s partner, and that was alright by you. Whatever made him comfortable, you were happy with.

However, when Carol started calling Ezekiel her husband, even though they never made it “official” official, due to Carol not wanting to make it a big deal, it started to change your mind about things. You and Daryl had been together for a long time. How would he react to you calling him your husband? Would he freak out? Would he correct you? Would he be mad? You didn’t know, and you thought you’d find out.

It was a random night when you let it slip. It was one of those rare occasions when there wasn’t any runs to go on, there wasn’t anybody to save, and you could just enjoy a quiet night with the man you loved. You had whipped up something quick and may or may not have swiped a bottle of wine from the pantry, and you and Daryl had just been having a playful argument over a glass of the delicious liquid when you called him your husband.

“Ya ain’t gon’ win this one, Sweetheart,” he had told you, smiling over the glass of wine he was taking a sip from. “Jus’ agree with me. It’ll be easier than arguin’.”

You had playfully rolled your eyes and shook your head. “Yeah, yeah. Happy husband, happy life, right?”

Daryl had stopped, looked at you, scoffed and took another sip from his wine in an attempt to hide his smile. “Pretty sure that ain’t how the sayin’ goes.”

He didn’t freak out. He didn’t overreact. He didn’t correct you. You took that as an amazing sign. You smiled at him and shrugged. “No? I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

You continued calling him your husband after that, and Daryl didn’t correct you. That’s how people started referring to Daryl as your husband, and you his wife. And if Daryl found you a ring a couple of weeks after that and nonchalantly slipped it onto your finger one night while cuddling, it definitely wasn’t supposed to be a big thing.

“Thought we might as well make it official,” Daryl replied nonchalantly with a shrug.

And if you found Daryl a ring as well, he wouldn’t be against wearing it. Just don’t make a big deal out of it, or the archer would be a blushing mess.

[sleepyangelkami]

BRO I NEEDDD MORE OF PERVERTED!!!! OMG LIKE YOUR MIND>>>>>

PERVERTED III c.grimes

 ����𝜚 WORD COUNT - 3.6K

CARL GRIMES X FEM!READER

 𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - after the perverted thoughts consume carl whole, he realises he needs to act on them and soon finds out that you need him to act on them just as badly.

 𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - smut, heavy innocence kink, corruption kink, pervert!carl, fingering, dom!carl, sub!reader, size kink, pussy eating, cum eating, aged up characters, thigh riding-ish, manipulative carl, praise kink, petnames, use of y/n, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷

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after that night in your bedroom, carl was downright desperate.

he realised that he needed to act upon his thoughts before it drove him over the edge of insanity. but there you were, prancing around in your little skirts and dresses, ditzy as ever. how was he ever supposed to explain his need to you?

that was just it, he was going to have to show you.

carl had been your best friend for a long time. you could trust him with anything in the world and carl would know if you'd ever done anything. that was the beauty in it. your innocence was bliss.

you were so innocent to the corrupt minds around you, not a single notion of the horrid thoughts of others. not a clue in your mind of just what carl wanted to do to you. no what he needed to do to you.

he knew he was going to have to ease you into it.

the first time carl had let you feel anything was during a rainy night of alexandria. the clouds were dull and full, slapping down on the outside windows. rick and michonne were on yet another supply run, no surprise there, and you and carl had been put in charge of taking care of judith.

it wasn't until she had been laid down asleep in bed that carl began to shift his mind back to you.

the clouds dulled until they were long gone. the night sky had settled in.

the tv displaying pretty images illuminated the room as you sat on carl's lap. when he'd asked if you'd like to sit there, it came as no surprise. you'd sat on carl's lap tonnes of times. whether it was just you two alone, sitting on the bed or perhaps you were in public, choosing to sit on his thigh rather than the bench occupied by the others.

however, what you didn't know was carl had much more in store for you than just watching the stupid movie that was playing.

you were engrossed in the flashing pictures, watching as each changed to another. you were the type of person to pay all your attention to one thing at a time, finding it hard to focus on more than one.

that was when your attention shifted.

it was a mere, 'innocent', bounce of carl's knee.

he did it as some sort of a test. he'd waited until you were so interested in the movie to do it. your two thighs had splayed at either side of his own. he'd waited until your cunt was snug on the jeans of his leg to rub it gently against you.

and by the sudden breath that left your lips, he deemed that you were almost as satisfied as he was.

nevertheless, you shook the feeling. you assumed the boy beneath you was merely trying to get comfortable so you tried to do the same, writhing yourself in the slightest.

that was when the smallest of whimpers left your mouth. with wide eyes, you clamped your mouth shut, hoping carl hadn't heard. "you okay?" he spoke softly in your ear, alerting you that he had heard.

only, you weren't trying to do anything wrong. like i said, you'd sat on carl's lap tonnes of times. but this time seemed... different. you were suddenly hyper aware of your skirt that was riding up ever so slightly and the way that fixing your position on his leg felt... good?

being in an apocalypse and all, you never really got too much education on... down there.

that was what carl was for, you supposed. he was basically your teacher in everything, any question you had went directly to him.

but what you did know was that parts like that were private and not to be shared. which is why you merely let out a small 'mhm' to indicate that you were, in fact, okay.

"alright." he mumbled back, his voice low as if not to disturb the serenity of the room.

you let a breath out, relaxing once more onto his leg.

carl knew he could have stopped there, letting you be all confused for the rest of the evening on just what that feeling you had was. but he didn't know how much you'd taken in, he needed to make sure that the feeling you felt was going to stick.

which was why he waited mere seconds before bouncing his leg again, like a kid in class riddled with ADHD.

you'd seen carl bouncing his leg like a maniac many times before. he'd do it under a table when he was nervous or angry or anything really. he often cracked his knuckles even when there was no air left to crack and shook his legs like there was no tomorrow. carl was always moving.

so how could you tell him to stop?

what would you even say?

did you even want him to stop?

there was an odd feeling in your stomach as he continued to bounce his leg up and down, hitting smoothly against your covered area. your breathing picked up but you did everything in your will to steady it.

some called carl grimes an ADD nightmare, this was a normal thing for him.

why was it suddenly not so normal for you?

perhaps it was the way his chin gently rested on your shoulder, gentle breath hitting against your neck or the way his hands soothed around your waist, his own calloused hands against your gentle skin where your satin dress lay on top.

the skirt of your dress bounced with every bounce of his leg too, exposing more of your thighs with each steady movement.

he was calculating and gentle, as if he knew you were becoming dizzy.

your throat itched too. you couldn't fathom why though you had a feeling it was a noise trying to crawl out.

you couldn't so much as stop yourself before your hands outstretched onto his thigh, stopping his movements.

he did so with the slightest smirk on his lips, knowing he'd gotten you exactly where you wanted. the way your thighs gently shook around him, you wouldn't so much as turn around. oh yes, you'd definitely felt it.

before he could question you in that gentle, condescending tone, the front door could be heard unlocking.

"gotta get my jacket." was the mumble that fell from your mouth as you helped yourself off of the boy's leg, grasping the pretty coat that sat on the other couch, where you'd originally been sitting. carl got up too, glancing down to his thigh. it was a wonder that there wasn't a large wet splotch on his jeans.

shortly after, rick and michonne entered the house, looking tired as ever. they asked a couple questions about judith, making sure you'd both been taking care of her right before they found themselves stating that they were heading up to bed.

carl gave somewhat of a disgusted look to the way they were looking at eachother. he din't even want to imagine what they'd be getting up to the minute they stepped into the bedroom.

"you sure you don't wanna stay the night?" he questioned, walking you to the front door of his home. you didn't live too far away which was the only reason he was letting you walk out in the dark alone. with his luck, he'd see you getting settled into your house while he still stood at the door.

you looked up at him with slightly wide eyes, you looked a little dazed. your hands were holding eachother behind your back, ignoring the feeling throbbing through your cunt. how had he done something so simple and left you feeling like this? "mhm." you hummed.

he gave you a look. "and you're positive you're okay?" tilting his head. "you seem a little off." he knew exactly why you were off.

but you weren't going to let anything on. "no, i'm okay." nodding your head, trying to convince both him and yourself.

"you know you can talk to me about anything, right baby?" he stepped forward, his words a little quieter as he spoke to you. his eyes flickered down to your bottom lip between your top teeth. "anything at all..."

you looked like you were contemplating, unsure if it was exactly appropriate to share with anyone even if it was just your best friend.

though your eyes quickly turned back to rick who was now standing in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water. "I'm okay." you quickly quipped.

rick turned around, swallowing the water. "you off, y/n?" you nodded, swallowing thickly. "right, night then, and thanks again for watching judith."

"anytime." you mumbled back, eyes flickering up to carl. "g'night, carl."

"night, angel." and so, you left.

the sky rose just as soon as it had gone down. carl hadn't steadied his movements since. hours passed, merging into days and carl was getting braver by the second. he couldn't help it, you were like putty, just so easy to mold.

by the time the saturday sleepover rolled around again, the boy was near ecstatic.

he'd gotten you exactly where he wanted in many ways, with little fluttering touches and words whispered gently, that could have been taken in any way. but he must say, his favourite place to have you was sat atop his thigh, gently bumping against it as he shook it from the ground.

he did it again now, maggie and glenn were long gone on yet another supply run, stocking up on the foods. they wouldn't be home until the next morning, possibly the morning after that.

but there simply wasn't anything else carl could think about other than the girl sat perched on his thigh. your hands were near your stomach, fiddling with themseleves, pulling on your fingers gently, contemplating.

carl didn't stop the bounce of his knee, moving it so accurately that you could feel a pool forming in your panties. you'd never felt like this before. and you were sure that carl knew this too.

this was the longest he'd ever done it, he should have stopped ages ago, knowing he didn't wish to push you too far. however, your little shaky breaths had his head spinning, he couldn't stop, not now.

you were contemplating asking him to stop. something about his shaking leg beneath you had you feeling awfully funny. but you couldn't decipher if it was a good feeling or not. besides, you couldn't understand why it was that his moving leg had your head feeling dizzy.

"carl?" your mouth got the better of you. it was supposed to come out as a steady question, voice stable, however, it came out more breathless than you'd intended, a slight whine to the back of your throat.

carl's hands had gently been resting against your waist. "hm?" he took the hint to stop, though.

beneath you, his leg froze.

your mind went sort of fuzzy then, that was when you realised it had, in fact, been a good feeling. your mind raced back to moments ago when the wet patch was forming on your satin panties. you couldn't even register what was going on before you slid yourself against his leg, not once, not even twice.

"sweetheart?" his voice was soft, calculated. it had you realising what you were doing, but still, your aching cunt dragged across his jeaned leg. "what're you doing? hm?"

a breath fell from your lips. you gently willed yourself to stop your movements before turning your face to the boy. you had pinched brows, lips bitten, desperation written all over your face. "carl, i―" the words left had you frowning.

carl merely rubbed his fingers against your waist. "somethin' wrong?" he questioned softly. "'s just me, you can tell me, baby."

and suddenly, it was your last straw.

but carl had already known that.

he'd moved his hands so gently around you for the past week, bounced you against his thigh every chance he got and whispered meak things to you, calling you such pretty names. he knew sooner or later you were bound to snap.

"you..." you let out a sigh, eyes avoiding the boy. "you can't laugh."

without a second thought, carl's fingers hooked themselves beneath your chin, angling your face up and forcing you to look at him. "'m not gonna laugh at you, angel." and his comforting features looked as though they were telling nothing but the truth. "jus' tell me what's going on."

you sighed, trying to avert your eyes. "everytime you bounce your leg... it feels funny." you tried to keep your voice as low as possible, throat closing and your cheeks heating up. it was hard trying to keep your composure in font of him, especially when talking about such a private thing.

"yeah?" seemingly unfazed by what you'd told him. "where's it feel funny?" again, your cheeks heated up, only this time you were sure that you were as red as a tomato. "baby, i can't help you if you don't tell me."

and you were sure you needed his help. after all, he was the only one that had made you feel so... worked up. instead of uttering a word, you practically whined before pushing your head into his shirt covered chest. you grasped his hand, sucking in as you guided it downwards.

carl couldn't help but smirk as you moved his hand to cup your shorts-covered cunt. you whimpered at the touch of his hand, quickly moving your own away, as if scared you were going to mess something up.

carl placed his palm against the pale shorts, his thumb moving up towards your clit and gently drawing circles. you whined loudly. "here's where it feels funny, huh?" you nodded your head quickly, breaths falling ragged as his gentle, tight circles moved against your clit. "y'gonna answer me?"

"y-yes." coming out as more of a moan rather than an answer. you were suddenly thankful that maggie and glenn were nowhere to be found in the house.

there was a sudden smile splayed on his lips. "good girl." he mumbled, sending electric shocks through your body and right down to your aching pussy. you couldn't understand how two simple words were enough to have you rutting your hips against the boys hands.

though instantly, your face heated again. embarrassment flooded you as you realised what was happening, stinging tears finding it's way to your eyes. "carl." you spluttered out, whimpering as you did so. carl merely shushed you, his free hand coming down to land on the back of your hair, holding your head close to it's place on his chest.

"wh's wrong, baby?" he waited for a response, all you could give him was a second whimper. "want me to stop?"

"no!" was your much too enthusiastic response that had his lips curving upwards. so you did want it as much as he did. "no, please don't stop."

"then tell me what you want." you shied away, cheeks evidently rosy and pink. but you didn't utter a word, much too sheepish.

suddenly, the feeling he was giving to your clit completely stopped. his hand still hung low but they didn't touch you. the whine you let out had your eyes turning glassy. he reminded you that he'd asked you to tell him what you wanted. but you could barely hear his voice now, mind too clouded with the previous pleasure. "f-felt..." your own hand attempted to replace his, rubbing at your covered cunt but it didn't give you the pleasure his had.

you felt his hand reach up and snap your wrist between his fingers, stopping your movements. "you wanna feel good, huh?" you nodded your head, tears stinging. "then the only hands that get to touch you are mine, understood?" you nodded before he squeezed on your wrist, not hard enough to hurt. "understood?"

"yes." was the breathless word as his fingers let go of your wrist.

"now, tell me what you want." almost instantly, his stern voice had disappeared and turned into one of softness again. it was almost scary how quickly he could turn from one demeanour to another. but you were much too hazy now to question anything.

you breathed heavily, cheeks warm. but carl just waited, his eyes looking at you full of admiration, a stark contrast to the stern look he'd had before. "i want..." he waited, not rushing you, patiently. "want you to make me feel good." your voice was so quiet, so small and you were looking anywhere but his face. you thought it was somewhat awkward in a sense, more scary really. he'd shrug it off for your natural shyness that simply never went away.

"see?" his voice gentle and loving. "wasn't hard, was it?" you shook your head no despite it being the hardest thing you'd done all year. "now get onto your back, angel." you did what he said, not wishing to disappoint him. he followed by climbing on top of you, watching your doe eyes slightly widen.

a breath.

he was so close, lips practically brushing against your own. you'd known carl a very long time but you were sure this was the closest he'd ever been. "'m gonna kiss you, okay?" you nodded, slightly unsure. you'd never been kissed before and you had no idea that it related to the feeling that you'd felt earlier. "it'll all make sense in a second, sweetheart." he mumbled, hands on your waist. "just... relax."

and suddenly, his lips were on yours.

his lips were even softer than they looked. and if that was what you thought of his lips, you could only imagine what he thought of yours. he kissed you gently, open mouthed kissing with his tongue slipping past yours.

now you understood.

it definitely related to the feeling.

as he was kissing you, you had the sudden urge to roll your hips upwards, into his own. carl had this way of making you feel so comfortable that you didn't have to worry the outcome. so you did. rolling your hips gently yet desperately.

you felt him let out a harsher breath into your mouth. his lips moved from your mouth. you felt him press a kiss to the corner of your lips, then to your chin and down to your neck. the feeling of him sucking against the supple skin had a whimper falling from your lips, then another and a long stretched whine.

his lips moved away and his tongue soothed down the hurt skin.

you supposed, you knew what sex was. it was an intimate form of love on your partner. was that what you and carl were going to do? sex? carl wasn't your boyfriend but he was the only one in the entire world you'd felt such a connection to. you supposed, if anyone was to have sex with you, it may as well be carl grimes.

"sweetheart." he breathed against your neck. "keep making sounds like that 'n i won't be able to last." to last? for what?

you didn't even care what he was saying, just the sound of his voice was enough to have you reeling. "carl, please just..."

"shh." he hushed you, practically cooing. "s'needy." before his hands moved back down towards your shorts. "can i take this off?" though he wasn't just grasping the band of your shorts but of your panties too. however, you couldn't seem to care. nodding enthusiastically before helping him guide the material off your body.

carl's breath hitched in his throat. he'd seen you before, he'd seen you when you were sleeping and he plunged a finger inside you, tasted you even. even so, it was like seeing you for the first time all over again.

he could see you red as a tomato above him, covering your face. you'd known carl forever, but something about being nude with him over you on your couch seemed like something a best friend shouldn't do. carl didn't allow the shyness to continue, peppering gentle kisses across the skin of your face. "hey, hey." gently removing your hands. "you're beautiful."

your hands suddenly pawed at the end of his shirt. if you were going to be bare, he should too, right? "can you..?"

"wan't me to take of my shirt, baby?" you only nodded, pressing your lips together. he nodded himself before placing his hands at the end of his shirt, bringing it up and above his head, tossing it off the couch. "your turn." he mumbled, pressing kisses to your neck before grasping the bottom of your own shirt. you allowed him to pull it over your own head.

it was no surprise that there was no bra found underneath, your perky tits bouncing gently. he moved his lips downwards, sucking on one and grasping the other between his fingers, flicking over your pretty nipple. you whined, back arching off the couch and hands finding his hair, tugging at the strands.

his lips popped over your nipple, letting go with a string of spit attatching the two of you. he pushed his large hand onto your chest, thumb at one end of your tits and other fingers at the other, pushing them together. you were so small compared to him, it had his own mind reeling. "so fucking pretty."

"carl." there was desperation in his eyes. the amount of times you had uttered his name would have made anyone think you were reciting it as if he were god himself. "need you." you didn't even know what you meant yourself. all you did know was that you needed him, in whatever way possible.

"i know, pretty girl." his fingers traced your cheek, cupping it ever so softly. "'m gonna touch you, okay?"

nervously, you found yourself nodding. you knew by him touching you, the ache would go away. how you knew that, you were unsure. perhaps it was because you put so much trust in carl to do what was right.

you expected the soft flutter of his long fingers, the gentle tracing of the pads against your skin. what you hadn't been expecting was the mouth that suddenly landed on your core.

as if on cue, your back arched against the couch once more. a moan of both surprise and pleasure fell from your lips. you felt the vibrations of a chuckle throughout your body, from him. he'd been waiting for this moment for too long to let it slip from his fingers.

the foreign feeling of a face between your thighs had you writhing. you allowed his tongue to explore your cunt, whining and whimpering while your hands clung to his hair, overcome with a foreign pleasure.

never, had you felt this good in your entire life.

an eerie sense was embedded right in your stomach, telling you that this was all wrong. the feelings you felt and the way his hands moved against your body, it had to be wrong. but the pleasure of his tongue lapping against your cunt told you that no matter how hard he tried, nothing carl could do would ever be wrong.

you felt him insert a finger into your hole and you were sure you'd lost it.

"carl!" you moaned out, unsure what words to use. "carl―nughhh!" no words could grasp your tongue signifying how good it felt.

your wetness seeped onto his tongue, decorating it with your pretty juices, and his finger had a rim of white surrounding it, belonging to you. his face moved up from your pussy, glancing to your own face. your head was thrown back, eyes shut and reflection twisted. "i know, baby." pumping his finger in and out of you in quick motions. "feels good, huh?"

you nodded your head, babbling incoherently despite the fact that carl couldn't make out a single word you said. he nodded with a smirk, anyway.

this was so much better now that you were awake.

"uh huh?" he was practically testing you, your moans coming out strangled and harsh. "yeah, told you i'd fix it, huh?"

and boy, did he fix it.

the sensation grew and you began to get a sudden knotted feeling in your stomach. it was foreign, new and strange. but despite that, you were sure you'd felt it before. perhaps in a dream? one of which carl had remembered all too well.

a sudden panicked state came over you. "carl" you babbled out, a hint of worry in your voice.

carl placed his free hand on your thigh, gently rubbing against it and shushing you. "shh, shh, you can take it." his mouth travelling back to where you needed him the most.

you couldn't even give him a warning.

the orgasm fell over you before you could even register what was happening. your back practically lept from the couch, good thing carl's hand had been keeping your stomach steady against the material. mewls fell from your lips, shameful mewls that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

your legs shook from around his head, his name falling from your red and swollen lips like a prayer, fingers tight around his little curls.

finally, his head reappeared from it's place between your thighs, a grin on his face.

your eyes were low, sort of red. and he swore it was the prettiest sight he'd ever seen.

"feel good, huh?" pride on his smug face. he came up to meet your own by the arm of the couch, hand moving your hair past your ear.

you had this sinking, gnawing feeling as you glanced up at him. "but... what about you?" thinking that surely couldn't have made him feel good. you'd never experienced pleasure like that before, you were sure everyone in the world should get to experience it at least once.

"don't worry about me, sweet girl." peppering gentle kisses to the nape of your neck. "next time." he spoke despite his hand moving against his dick, straightening it out after his own cum leaked through his jeans.

he came in his pants because of you. again.

main masterlist/carl's masterlist

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Daryl x Fem!reader Warnings: language

Daryl stirred on the pillow. His blue eyes blinking open but were still a little bleary, probably from the pain medication (or maybe the concussion).

"Hey," you soothed gently, leaning forward to grab his hand. "How are you feeling?"

Daryl stared at you for a long moment and then looked down at your hand around his. He had a queer expression on his face and averted his eyes back up toward the ceiling.

"Daryl?" you prodded him softly.

"W—where am I?"

Your brow furrowed. "In the clinic. Do you remember what happened?"

He glanced over at you again and his blue eyes studied you carefully. That same expression was written all over his face, a vague, foggy kind of look. He looked down at his hand again, now sandwiched between both of yours.

"Daryl?" you said again. Man, must be some good medication the man was on. Probably the anesthesia still wearing off too.

"Who, uhh... do—do I know ya?" he drawled, squinting at you.

You were stunned for a moment and then a smile grew on your face. You couldn't help laughing a little as you answered. "I'm your wife," you said. "You don't remember me?"

He looked confused and then shocked. "Yer my wife?" he drawled, not taking his eyes off you. "Goddamn..." he breathed, looking you up and down. "I fuckin' married up... Are ya sure?" he asked again, fixing his eyes back on your face.

You laughed again. "I'm pretty sure. You did give me this wedding ring I'm wearing. And you have one that matches so... evidence seems to point that way."

"Fuck me," he drawled, a dopey smile growing on his face. "Did I hit my damn head so hard I woke up in a daydream? How long we been married?"

"Five years," you said, grinning. "Together way longer than that."

"Shit... I must be the luckiest sonofabitch in the world," he drawled. "You're beautiful."

You shook your head, still smiling at him. He wouldn't take his eyes off you.

"You still gonna be my wife when I get outta here?" he asked dreamily.

You giggled again. "I think so."

"Fuck, I can't wait to get outta here," he murmured, more to himself than to you. You reached up tp brush his hair away from his eyes and the man looked like he really was dream-walking...

A/N: Ommmmg fuckin' hell this is so fluffy I can't handle it! It also gave me an idea for a similar one shot that I really wanna write ughhhhh! <3

[violettwrites]

a heart that knows — daryl dixon

a/n: sorry to the nonnie that requested this bcos i took forever 😭 it had been sitting in my drafts since i received it but i’ve been so focused on writing the first few chapters of dotd but here you go my sweet !

if you enjoy my writing, please don’t forget to like, reblog, and/or comment ! and give me a follow if you want to see more ! i really appreciate the support 🫶🏻

summary: daryl and reader were arguing when he moves too quickly and scares reader.

requested: anon requested ‘I would love to see something where tp!daryl and reader are arguing about something and he’s being expressive with his hands and she flinches out of instinct, and he realizes that things have gotten worse at home for her. He feels awful and ashamed so he makes it up to her by planning a special date and asks her to stay with him for a while and he promises her he won’t ever let anyone hurt her ever again. Just like super mega fluffy.’

warnings: mentions of abuse

word count: 1,056

resources: divider by @adornedwithlight

➵ mega masterlist

the sun was starting to set, casting a golden hue over the run down trailer park, and daryl’s voice echoed through the air as he paced in front of you. his hands waved in the air dramatically as he ranted about something—what, you couldn’t exactly remember. the heat of the argument had long since taken the actual topic of discussion and it had been twisted into something far deeper, emotions raw and rising between the two of you.

“ya just don’ get it, do ya?” daryl’s voice cracked with frustration, his hands slicing through the air. “i don’ understand why you gotta push me away all the time!”

the moment his hand moved to close, a reflex buried deep within you took over. you didn’t mean to flinch, but you did— just a little. the quick jerk of your body was instinctive, a reaction you’d honed after years of dodging your dad’s drunken outbursts. daryl’s hands froze mid air, his expression dropping immediately.

he saw it. he knew.

the silence between you both felt like a heavy weight. your eyes dropped to the gravel, cheeks burning with embarassment.

“i’m sorry,” you mumbled, trying to shake it off, but daryl was already moving closer, his earlier anger completely forgotten about. he reached out slowly, carefully, as if he didn’t want to startle you again. his calloused fingers brushed the side of your arm, and you glanced up to meet his worried blue eyes.

“hey…” his voice was soft now, barely above a whisper. “i didn’t mean to scare ya, i’m sorry.”

you nodded your head, but daryl wasn’t convinced. he could see it in the way you wouldn’t look at him directly, the way your body was still a little tense, like you were ready to flee if things went south. he swallowed hard, guilt clawing at him. he knew how you felt— life was the same for him.

“how’s… how’s your dad?” he asked, his voice rougher now, but not from anger. it was the kind of roughness that came from knowing too much, from understanding what he couldn’t fix on his own.

you shrugged, trying to keep it casual, but the walls you built up around yourself were thinner now, cracking under his concern. “he’s the same.”

daryl’s jaw tightened. he hated hearing that— how you tried to brush it off so casually. he knew “the same” meant worse, meant you were still walking on eggshells at home, trying not to provoke a man who had no right treating you— his own daughter the way he did. daryl knew about your situation from the day he had met you, but it still made his blood boil to think of anyone hurting you.

without another word, daryl pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you protectively. you melted into him, letting out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. his embrace was warm, solid, and safe— everything your home wasn’t.

“i hate that you gotta go through this,” he whispered into your hair. he knew it wasn’t easy, getting away from a home life like that. hell, he barely made it out alive himself. “i hate that ya flinch like that, like you’re expectin’ me to hurt ya. i’d never…”

you leaned your forehead against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your skin. “i know,” you whispered back. “i’m sorry.”

“don’ be,” he said firmly, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “don’ you dare apologise for somethin’ that ain’t yer fault.”

you didn’t argue. there was no point. daryl could be stubborn, but when it came to you, he was also fiercely protective.

“i ain’t lettin’ you go back there tonight,” he added, his tone final. “yer stayin’ with me tonight, okay? merle’s out for the weekend. it’ll just be us.”

you blinked, caught off guard by his offer. “daryl, i can’t—“

“ya can,” he interrupted, his hands resting on your shoulders as he gazed down at you with such intensity that it made your heart race. “i don’ want ya goin’ back there. not tonight. not any night. hell, ya can stay here as long as ya want. we got room.” he was right. he and merle had finally gotten their own little trailer in the park— simply to try and avoid their own father. sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

your eyes welled up with emotion, the weight of everything hitting you all at once. “you really mean that?”

“‘course i do,” he cupped your cheeks gently, brushing a thumb over your skin. “i ain’t ever lettin’ anyone hurt you again.”

his words were more than a promise— they were a cow. you could see it in the way he looked at you, the way his rough exterior softened when he was with you. he meant every word.

a tear slipped down your cheek, but daryl wiped it away with a tender smile. “don’ cry, baby. you deserve better than all this crap.”

“i know, but—“ you swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to pull yourself together. “i don’t know what i’d do without you,” you admitted, your voice trembling with gratitude.

“you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that,” he said, his tone gentle but full of resolve. “i ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

he gave you a small smile, and the tension between you both finally began to dissolve. daryl wasn’t much of a planner, but the next words out of his mouth were proof that he’d been thinking about this for a while.

“tell ya what,” he said, nudging you playfully. “how ‘bout tomorrow, i take you out? just us. get away from this place for a while. i’ll take ya to that diner ya like, and we’ll watch that stupid movie yer been goin’ on about.”

you couldn’t help but laugh through your tears. “you hate that movie.”

“yeah, but i like ya, so i’ll suffer through it,” he teased, and just like that, the heavy mood lifted a little more.

you reached up, standing on your toes to press a soft kiss to his lips, and daryl’s arms tightened around you, holding you close. “thank you,” you whispered.

“for wha’?”

“for making me feel safe.”

daryl kissed the top of your head, his breath warm against your hair. “always, darlin’. always.”

[grimesgirll]

back when you were shane’s girl, rick would barely look at you.

it didn’t matter that shane was banging lori behind both your backs. rick was still nothing if not wildly respectful.

you could’ve used the company back then on the farm when your relationship with your boyfriend was slipping. when quiet tent quickies weren’t enough for you.

now, what would shane think of the girl he thought wouldn’t be able to go on without him, happily getting her guts rearranged by his best friend?

rick had held out as long as he could but with lori long gone and carl not taking up any issue, there was no reason to deny himself you. in the wake of all that tragedy, there was nothing better to ease his mind than your sweet, sweet cunt.

shane would be seriously pissed off to learn that not one but both of your holes were being filled by your fellow original atlanta camp members.

the archer that ground his gears so much was taking up your mouth with his cock, enjoying the way that every thrust of rick’s sent you straight down his length.

if shane was in the room or even in the hallway, he wouldn’t be able to miss the downright debaucherous sounds coming from the three of you. rick lands a light slap on your ass, a reminder that you’re not the only ones within these walls. rick was nothing if not wildly polite.

you wiggle your hips back into him in response, feeling your core tighten as daryl fucks your mouth. shane could never fill you up this way: he was one man after all.

the record time that shane had you soaked and coming undone was nothing compared to how fast rick and daryl warmed you up. if they even breathed in your pussy’s direction you were suddenly squeezing your legs and starting to drip with arousal.

you miss shane, but even as you clamp down on rick in your pussy and hum around daryl in your mouth, you remember that everything happens for a reason.

[interloved]

dilf!rick grimes with age gap

description box: rick knows it’s wrong, but he can’t keep his hands off you.

warnings: slight nsfw warning, mostly a drabble , prison!era

RICK THINKS IT’S SO CUTE actually, this little crush you have on him. it’s so obvious by the way you’re always looking for him when you enter a room, or the way you always giggle at his jokes—they’re rarely actually funny but you seem to think they are—and the way you always puff your chest a little when he’s there, as if you’re trying to get his attention.

and he lets you. lets you indulge your little fantasies. lets you follow him around. lets you cling to his arm.

he knows he probably should put an end to it—for god’s sake, you’re half his age! he could be your father! but you’re such a pretty, young thing; such an emotional and sensitive soul and so dependent on him, you’re as cute as a button and he just can’t bring himself to.

you’re a crybaby. so sweet. can’t get anything done without him, but rick secretly likes it, he likes the way you need him to do simple things for you like opening a bottle. he’ll flex his arms while he’s doing it and watch you almost drool over his arm muscles. it’s so adorable, really, he thinks.

or when you need help reaching something high in the shelf. he’ll grind up against you, hand on your waist, as he reaches up. he loves the way your breath hitches nervously and the way your frame almost disappears in comparison to his height.

sometimes you’ll even fake problems. you’re not even trying to open that box, you just straight up make your way to rick, demanding he opens this box for you. you think you’re so clever; that he doesn’t notice, but he does.

you make him feel like he’s young again. like he’s twenty years old and still desirable. rick knows you think otherwise, by god you’ve made that obvious. he could’ve taken you right there at the shelf and he knows you would’ve let him, would’ve let him do unspeakable things to your body, would’ve let him have you. but he didn’t. because he has a ring on his finger. because he has a son. because he has a daughter. and although he doesn’t have a wife anymore, he restricts himself from any kind of contact this way.

but right now, he somehow doesn’t seem to care, not when he has you like this—legs propped up over his shoulders, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, tears and runny mascara on your cheeks and marks all over your neck and chest.

he loves it when you’re like this. so unravelled. so messy. so pretty.

and he can’t help himself—he just has to have you.

[hannyhann]

Dating Daryl Dixon (NSFW and SFW)

Apologies I haven’t made more, I just moved and I’m switching jobs atm. I’m writing a Daryl x Reader fic, it may not be long but I hope you still enjoy when it’s out. For now, enjoy some head canons.

This is both NSFW and SFW , so of course, minors DNI!!!!!

Dating Daryl Dixon would include;

Late night talks, this would be the only time you actually get to have peace, so of course you both take advantage of it

There would be no labels to you’re relationship until he either proposes to you or just randomly calls you his wife one day

Despite not having a label , you know you’re his and he’s yours

There would definitely be nights where you just fuck, he doesn’t care if people hear, he just wants to be with you

Daryl would be stern with you and you both would have arguments, but nothing to the point you are cruel with each other

This man would bring you flowers when you’re sad, dying on this hill!!!

You’d put flowers in his hair as well

You and Daryl’s first time would be kind of shit, much like Maggie and Glenn’s, but of course you find out each others likes and dislikes

Daryl would be rough, but naturally you’d teach him how to be slow, but of course you enjoy his roughness

Constantly grabbing your ass and putting his head on your shoulder as he does it

Daryl would start falling in love with you at the CDC (I’m sobbing)

He would reassure you and go “hey hey” and grab your jaw or waist and look at you

Daryl may not say much sometimes, but you know he’s listening

You would love Daryl and Carols friendship, you actually think it’s cute

Daryl would make sure you have a comfy place to sleep every night

Making sure you eat first is a definite

Daryl would love eating you out, the way this man would go insane over it oh my god

He would grab your hips/hip dips as he’s eating you out 😔🙏 don’t question the messenger

Daryl would love when you sit on his lap

He would be such a girl dad

He would make sure you are priority when you’re pregnant , he would annoy the others sometimes with it, but understandably so

Daryl visiting you while you’re pregnant at Hilltop

Daryl would be mean to you at first , but it’s only because deep down he knows he has a fat crush on you, he would call you all sorts of names and curse you out LMAO

Daryl tries to sass or be mean to you in the early days, but every time he looks into your eyes he falters hard and just yells “never mind!” and brushes you off

The first time yall kiss, Daryl would be the one to initiate it

My head canon for when you first kiss is you tell Andrea off about shooting Daryl in the head, of course yall fight, but you go to Daryl with a plate of food as he’s resting. Naturally you’re upset and crying, and Daryl’s like “hey- I’m alive ain’t I?” as he grabs your cheeks before he kisses you- MY HEART

I hope you enjoyed <33333

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

jesus christ.