#you x daryl

[itsmeatballworld]

| silence in the library |

pairing | boyfriend!daryl dixon x f!reader

summary | when searching through Alexandria’s local library, Daryl decides to take advantage of his moment alone with you.

wc | 2k

warning | SMUT so 18+ only! p in v (wrap it irl), mutual masturbation, praise kink, etc. it’s smutty lol

a/n | thank you to my lovelies @weretheones @devnmon @ivuravix @finalgirlrick​ @normanplusdaryl​ @spncupcake​ for beta reading my mess <3 ily!!!

MDNI banner from @/cafekitsune

“Higher.”

He grunted as his hands slid past your knees.

You wiggle forward, but it was pointless. “Just a bit higher, Daryl.”

He adjusts his grip on your legs again.

“Okay, now hold it there.”

Right there. With all your strength, you reached out.

“Got it!” Your fingers wrapped around the leather spine, cradling it close to your chest. The book was dusty but just the one you’ve been looking for.

Daryl tightened his grip, “alright?”

“Yeah,” you replied. “Just don’t drop me, baby.”

“Nah. Never.”

You dipped your head, staring down at your dark-haired boyfriend. Straddling his shoulders was the only way you’d be able to reach the selves without a ladder. Plus, it was fun. Why spend time searching for a ladder when you had him standing next to you?

After your feet touch the ground, the leather-bound book drops to the table.

“This was the last one.” You admired each of the old and new books, quickly organizing them into piles. “I think we’ve got enough.”

“Good,” he steps closer to examine the stack of novels. He leans into your side, sliding his arm around your waist. His muscles tighten as he pulls you back against his broad chest.

“We really need those too?”

He pointed down to a set of old farmer almanac books.

“It’s on the list,” you murmur between flipping pages. “Take it up with Michonne.”

When you and Daryl signed up for the run, Michonne gave you a list of books they needed to plan the community gardens. There were hopes these works would still be available, considering agricultural books weren't always flying off the shelves compared to other genres.

Old English Farming Book. Mini-Farming. All filled with self-sustaining concepts to produce crops and allow people to thrive beyond consumerism. And with thanks to you and Daryl, you managed to gather enough readings on the list.

“Pussy…willow?”

“It’s a type of flower.” You rolled your eyes but couldn't fight the stupid smirk on your face. “Are you reading over my shoulder?”

“Mhm.” His hand pressed into the curve of your side.

The local library was smaller than the others around Alexandria, which made it much easier to search. This room was set back off the main floor, tucked behind rows and rows of dark wooden shelves stacked with books. Even at the end of the world, you didn't dare ruin the librarian’s methodical arrangements.

With one arm keeping you close enough to feel his chest rise and fall, Daryl’s other hand settled on your shoulder. He started kneading at your tight muscles, digging his rough fingers into your skin a bit more each time.

You scanned the pages of the book, but nothing stuck. Each word you read seemed to drift off the paper and into thin air, vanishing from your mind. Sentences started and stopped without meaning. Restarting the page didn’t change where his hands were and what you wanted him to do with them.

His fingers were gentle yet strong. All you could think about was how he circled and dug in. Again and again.

“Daryl.”

You tried to ignore how he responded to your voice. His fingers spread out, then he palmed at the muscle.

Daryl wasn’t direct when he wanted something. But when he wanted you, he gave noticeable hints. First, he’d find a way to twist himself against you or wind his hands under your shirt. It was always light but obvious contact.

And with him there was always a time and place for intimate moments. Daryl wasn't the kind of guy to grab you and fuck you without a plan. He liked the comfort of your bedroom. He liked the opportunity to be close and confined with you.

He wanted time to worship you, feel you, pleasure you–without the risk of the dead or living invading the rare moments he gets you all to himself. But today was different. There was something in the way his eyes lingered on you. How every time he stepped into your space, his hands would find themselves on your skin.

You cleared your throat, trying and failing to curve the fluttery feeling in your belly. He was your boyfriend but you hated getting distracted. Especially on a run.

“It… uh, it says we should be able to grow beets and squash too. Maybe if we can find some okra seeds, we can plant those next to the tomatoes–”

“Mhm.”

You glanced over your shoulder. He was not reading with you anymore.

“Are you just gonna stare at me all day?”

“I’m thinkin’ bout other things.” His hands slid down before finding the clasp of your belt. Daryl’s thumb hooks your belt loop as his big hand splayed out across the front of your jeans.

Still watching him, you flipped a page in the book. That page turn sparked something behind those deep blue eyes. He dropped his chin so his lips were inches from yours.

“Put the book down,” he grumbled. A sly smile crossed his face as he dipped lower. “Help me get these pants off.”

Like something magnetic tugged you together, his lips caught yours. Chests were flush against one another as Daryl hoisted you up and onto the table. Your back jammed into a book edge but Daryl was already clearing the space.

He was quick to slip each piece of clothing off that was necessary, leaving only your bra clasped to your chest.

Spread out for him like this was exciting. He hungrily watched you as the pile of clothes grew beneath his feet. Yet he was still dressed. So you squirmed, reaching for his belt –

He stopped you.

“Stay still.”

“But I wanna make you feel good,” you murmur.

With one hand he undid his buckle and tossed it to the side. “Nah, that’s my job.”

His hunger for you was avid and obvious from the bulge in his boxers. But when he lowered his mouth to your exposed pussy, it was even clearer.

There was something so powerful about him when he was between your legs. He had an unbreakable hold on you that made your head spin. His tongue was dangerously good at this and he knew it. It wasn't very hard to get you close when he went down on you.

He was gentle yet rough as he took his time to work your pussy. He licked your sensitive clit with broad strokes, then tighter circles, making you see stars. You shut your eyes, twisting your fingers through his hair as he lapped at your core.

You gasp, “Fuck–Daryl.”

That pattern was magical.

His mouth sucked and licked as you buck up against him. His hands slowly moved closer to your breasts, squeezing you through the fabric. You gasped, wishing the constant pleasure would both end and never stop. Almost like he heard you, Daryl moved.

“Hold on,” he pants.

A cold chill tickled your skin where he slipped away, which had your hands reaching to pull him back. But when your eyes rested on him, you stopped.

Taking himself in his hands, he stroked his throbbing cock. He ran his thumb across his swollen tip, working the shaft in tight circles.

“Touch ‘ur self.”

Hesitant, you sat up onto your elbows. Daryl rolled fist and pumped himself, struggling to quiet his moans.

“Now?”

Ignoring your question, he continued to pump himself. There was something so sinfully hot about watching him jerk himself off. Your fingers slip past your stomach to your pussy, gently finding the swollen and sensitive spot he’d been deliberately stimulating.

He was aching, twisting and pumping himself slow then fast. He couldn't help himself from muttering praising words about how good he felt and how good you were doing.

That’s my girl.

Faster.

Just–uh–like that.

Every single word kept you going. His voice was gruff and scratchy as he praised you. So you returned the favor.

You like that?

God, you feel so good.

You’re so big.

Coaxing you closer and closer, each moan was stifled by your own will. But it was getting harder to wait. Watching him above you working himself raw was starting to make you crazy. You bucked up, fighting the urge to give in before he did.

“Oh god,” you gasp as you rub and circle your swollen clit.

“My girl,” he whined. “Fuckin’ sexy.”

It took all your strength to stop. You sat up, hooking your legs around Daryl to pull him back to you. “Inside me.” Everything sounded like a plea, as if you’d implode without his touch. “Inside. Me. Now.”

Daryl didn’t think twice. He leaned over you once more and thrusted his slick, aching cock inside you to finish.

“‘s my girl,” he grunts. “Like that?” His hips rut into you again as he grabs hold of your ankles.

Yes. Each thrust was deep and mind-numbing. Your hands cling to his vest in an attempt to hold yourself steady. He pushed your legs closer to your chest as he cradled your ankles, making himself sink deeper. A cry escapes your lips as his pace slows with the angle shift, dragging his cock in and out in short yet deep strokes.

Words seemed lost on your tongue. Yes. Yes, oh god, yes. But all that you could muster were earth shattering moans.

Waves of heat and pleasure that built up for so long came crashing down with haste. Moans were the least of your sounds. Desperation to ride out your high fueled your own movements as his hips rocked against you. You were pulsating around him, tightening and releasing without thinking anymore when he came. It was hot and fast, leaving Daryl grunting as he tightened his grip on you.

There, in the final moment of pure ecstasy, he lowered your legs and pulled you in close. Your lips met before Daryl breathed into your neck. “Ain’t yah… supposed to be quiet in these places?”

Through hot and ragged breaths, an exasperated chuckle left your lips. “Technically.”

“Shit.” He put his boxers back on and passed your jacket. “Sounded better with us in ‘ere.”

Clothes were still piled below in random stacks. Each piece was handed out quickly as it was getting late.  

You lowered yourself onto the dusty rug and slipped on your pants. But like the unspoken gentleman he is, your boyfriend helps you dress, winding your belt back through its loops.

“I can do that,” you murmured.

“Nah. I got it.”

Even now, you couldn't help but smile. Daryl was rough around the edges, but beyond the rough exterior was a sweet soul.

There was a softness to his touch that drove you wild. He cared about every inch of you and did his best to show you. Taking care of you in the smallest, silliest ways was important.

But you could dream about him later when these books were dropped off. After finishing with the clothes, each of you grabbed a stack of books. As you meandered through the library one last time, you strangely wanted to stay here.

In your own world, in this silly little bubble beside shelves of agricultural books. It was a haven.

Near the lobby, you were inches from the door when he stopped.

“Hold up.” Daryl drops the stack of books, hopping over the main counter. He scanned the table, shoving things around until a crooked smile pulled at his lips.

“‘Ey. Hand ‘em over.”

Curious, you place your stack down next to his and watch as he lifts a stamp. Property of Alexandria Public Library. Each bookcard was marked before he joined you again.

You smirked, “having fun?”

“Mm-hm.” With his free arm, he circled you close to his chest. Daryl kissed your temple before shouldering the front door open.

“Pop the trunk.”

The door shut behind you with a thump.

“That was fun.”

“Wanna go again later?”

With a mischievous smile, it was finally time to head home.

><<>><

><<>><

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

Invisible, tugging strings, Pt. 1

When - chronologically after souls stripped bare, which means the Chupacabra episode of Season 2.

What - Daryl is hurt and hallucinating at the bottom of the ridge, while you are at the farm, wondering why you are overcome with really insistent dread that he’s hurt.

Relationships - why do the two of you feel like there’s a string tugging at your chests? (slow burn Daryl x Reader)

Perspective - Him 3rd, You 2nd

Pronouns - they/them neutral

TWs - language, description of pain and injury, and those signature crappy screenshots from the episodes the Slowpoke Series tends to have, and one poor pic from the internet of Patricia

What stories should I read first? - souls stripped bare! A measure of reverence Parts 1 and 2 came before it, but definitely souls stripped bare so you get what went on

Will reading this one take me all day? - no, slowpoke, about 15 minutes :)

Can I check out the Masterlist? - please do! There’s the official one here in purposeful nonlinear publishing, and the purely chronological one here. They both have the same Slowpoke stories, just in a somewhat different order. (Reader Requests are in the official one)

There’d been that damned snake, so the horse reared, and down Daryl went.

His neck should’ve gotten snapped, tell you what. For real, he should’ve broke a few fingers or something on his way slip-sliding down the world’s most painful fucking waterslide that was the rock ridge he’d tumbled down before finally crashing into the water below. Maybe he did break some shit on the way down but just doesn’t notice yet?

Whatever, he’s just grateful Y/N ain’t here with him. Because if they’d fallen too, with the injuries they already got going? The two of them would be in this shit instead of just him, and he has no idea how he’d be able to get Y/N out of it. He can’t even get his own damn self out of it.

All his lazy-ass has gotta do is just—fucking—ow! He can’t seem to get any higher, come on! He’s halfway!

It’s because the bolt notched in the top of his crossbow decided to move out and notch its damn self in his left side while he was busy careening his way down the goddamned ridge. Least he was able to fish out his crossbow from the pool at the bottom. And most importantly, he has the doll.

He found her doll! Yeah, that’s right, the one that little Hispanic girl—sorry, ‘Lila’ or ‘Liza’—the doll she gave to Sophia.

He’s seen it from the top of the ridge and was trying to figure out a way down, was walking the horse along the top to find the best spot to climb, when bam. There was a rattler, it scared the poor nag, she fucked off to who-knows all while Daryl crash-banged his way down the slope in record time.

And now, he can’t get any higher. ’Cause he’s a damned pussy.

Son of a bitch, and even now, he’s glad Y/N isn’t here to hear him call himself a ‘pussy’ because they wouldn’t like that shit. At least that invisible string that felt like it was tied to Y/N, whatever the hell that was, either snapped on his way down or he can’t feel it as much right now because everything else hurts so damned much.

Okay, Darylina, all you need to do is buck up and prove your balls dropped and get your ass up the rest of the way and get back to the farm.

He groans in pain and wills his nausea to go down.

“Oh, come on. You’ve done half. Stop bein’ such a pussy,” is his version of a pep talk, and with one final “Come on,” he uses all his strength to lunge himself up closer!

Yes!

Only — it’s the dizzy part he isn’t expecting, along with the way everything in his stomach lurches up, and the way the soil is far too loose and he can’t find a decent grip. Panting to help curb him from upchucking right then and there, he feels himself fail to find a root or branch to grasp.

Next thing he knows, his world is spinning again.

There’s a snapping sound, a searing pain in his side that spreads everywhere, and before he can think, his breath is gone an—

................................................

You

Daryl is hurt just jumped into your mind again and you have no idea why.

He’s gone out on his own before, why are you filled with dread all the sudden? Whatever happened late this morning to you two is really throwing you for a loop.

This morning, you don’t know, but after all happened with him, you feel like you’re welded together. You know it sounds weird.

Still, you do not like that he’s not here, that he’s alone. You know the feeling will ease, but it really sucks right now and you’re really not liking how that sudden dread just appeared in your brain, and loudly, way more loudly than when it happened the first time, like 30ish minutes ago? And the invisible string is still tugging away.

Maybe it’s just the caffeine crash after the espresso incident early this morning. That, combined with latent worries about the blood transfusion and how thoroughly exhausting today was. How the past few days have been…

“Carl, baby, how do you feel?” you ask to distract yourself.

“Creeped out that blood is going into my arm.”

Lori kisses her boy’s hand and shares a quiet laugh with Patricia. Rick cracks up, Hershel smiles politely from his chair.

“Does your back hurt or do you feel itchy? Cold?” Those are the things Patricia said to be on-alert for.

“Nope.”

“Are you out of breath?” Heck, you’re out a breath…

“Y/N, you’re making me nervous.”

Okay, fair, you need to get out of this room, you feel like you can’t breathe enough.

You stick your tongue out just in case Carl notices there’s something off with you (that punk notices almost everything). “Doct—Mr. Greene, would you like me to get more sweet tea?” you check, hoping you seem normal.

Genuine concern for him aside, it can’t hurt to be extra polite after Jimmy went on the search with Glenn today without consulting Hershel or being clear with his mother about it, turns out. And how Daryl…stole a horse.

Mr. Greene nods from the chair he hasn’t left since donating a pint of blood about 40 minutes ago. “I wouldn’t mind, in fact. Thank you.”

Slightly unbalanced from having your injured arm slung and tied to your side, you take his glass from the crocheted coaster with your free hand. Once in the hallway, you close the door behind you and start to hyperventilate. You aren’t really aware of walking there, but you end up at the kitchen counter pouring tea into the glass while tears pour from your eyes and you gulp down air.

Your hair’s still wet from the shower, so riddle you why it feel like it’s 105º in this place? What the hell is going on, dude? Why are you panicking over Daryl, he’s fine, he’s always fine! Just say a prayer and get on with it, you got shit to do.

Wipe, sniff, swallow. Okay.

With a final wipe for good measure, all you need to do is poke your head back in and put the filled glass on the counter. You’ll be nearby to help if anything happens to Carl or Hershel. Nothing should, but you never know.

After delivering the iced tea, you begin to make your way to the porch—but then pause, because don’t want Shane seeing you right now. Every heaving inhale makes your sore stitches burn and your shoulder/chest injury pinch, but you can’t seem to stop! This isn’t cool, this really isn’t cool.

There’s a side-door in the kitchen, you’ll use that. You need air.

two hours ago

“Sweetie, what happened to you two?”

“I don’t know.”

You couldn’t and still can’t shake off the feeling you’d gotten a glimpse into Daryl’s very soul. You didn’t want to take your eyes off him as he ran to—you weren’t sure, but probably to the stables.

There was a tugging in your chest as you watched him hurry away. You didn’t want him to go far.

You didn’t want him to go, period. It felt wrong that he was alone, that you weren’t going with him.

Carol asking you “What do you mean?” got interrupted when Maggie called from inside the house, “Y/N?” and ran out to the porch where Carol was escorting you in.

“Hey,” you panted, finally dragging your eyes from Daryl and looking at her frown. Her coloring matched her last name as she stared at the bloodstained part of your shirt.

“Did one of the infected people do that, Y/N?”

“No, it’s the stitches. Don’t tell your daddy? He already thinks I’m an idiot,” you asked, nervous.

Letting out an exhale and nodding, she said, “I’ll get Patricia,” before jogging back inside.

“This is why I changed my shirt before comin’ back, didn’t want no fuss,” you muttered to Carol.

She was crying softly as she continued to guide you inside. “Well, it looks like you bled through it.”

“Shane and Rick ain’t come back yet, right?”

“Not yet.”

“Good,” was all you could respond to that. You were in too much pain to be in any patient mood.

One, Shane not being back meant he and Rick might have come back with Sophia in tow, and two, it meant that you could get cleaned up before your brother saw what a mess you’d made of yourself.

If he saw you like this, he’d get angry, use it as proof about how you all shouldn’t be out there, then would go off about how there’s no point in searching anymore because statistics say that the little girl’s dead.

And you didn’t like how you were tiptoeing around him. That in itself was a red flag, he’s better than that, and yet…

 A final, exhausted glance to see if you could still see Daryl, and Patricia was there as you and Carol entered the farmhouse. “Come into this room to your left, let see what the damage is,” she directed, kit in hand.

“I’m sorry, Miss Patricia,” you whispered.

Carol took your backpack off carefully and murmured that she’d wash your bloodied shirt(s) and grab you fresh clothes from the line. Patricia has her take off your soiled top right then and there, Carol also takes Dale’s watch off you to return.

It was only Patricia in there, so it was okay, you didn’t feel too exposed without a shirt.

She sanitized the area and snipped the sutures. You did need new ones. They hadn’t popped, but the skin around them tore and pulled and bruised.

That her now-dead husband was the one to so expertly do the original ones hurt more than the actual physical pain, believe it or not. Maybe you were feeling too much elsewhere or simply felt too drained and numb from earlier to have that strong a reaction to more?

“Sweet pea, you didn’t do anythin’ wrong. Ain’t no need to apologize,” you heard her tell you. “Otis wouldn’t want you to be.”

There was a brief pause in the suturing process because you broke into a cold sweat and she worried you were about to get sick. “Once we’re finished, I’m going have you head upstairs to take a nice, warm shower again. There’s plenty of fuel left in the generator. Don’t worry, we won’t be shy about sending y’all out for more when the time comes.” She handed you the small emesis basin for you to hold with your good side, and continued.

Halfway into resuming the stitches you ended up needing to use it. As you did, Patricia made motherly shushing noises and cooed how it was okay, then took away the container and put it on the tiny shelf near the door.

You like how she talks, she’s twangy like you are.

“Alright, what happened to you out there, Y/N? Didn’t you go searchin’ with the, uh, Dixon—Merle Dixon from the prescription bottle—his younger brother? I heard the bike drive back.”

“We had a rough morning.” You stifle a sigh in relief and pain in as you felt her make the final suture. The snip of the scissors cutting the excess surgical thread was music to your ears. “Daryl d-drove me back ’cause I hurt too much.”

Daryl. Just the thought of him out there, alone, made your chest tug again and a lump grow in your throat. And you really hoped nobody noticed that he most likely stole a horse 10 minutes before.

“How’d it happen?” she pressed. Finished cleaning up what she used for the stitches, she stood to check your shoulder. “You weren’t like this this morning, Y/N, this mornin’ you were the energizer bunny.”

The front door opened, and a knock came on the door of the room you were in. “It’s me,” Carol spoke from outside.

“Come on in.”

She opened the door and slipped inside, carrying a complete change of clothes for you, and promptly moved to take away the container you’d just vomited in.

“No, Carol, leave that, I can do it. I just need my shirt on.” Having so much skin exposed isn’t your usual.

Granted, that’s when Patricia requested, “Let me get a look at your range of motion and all that first before puttin’ a shirt back on, it’s easier when I can press against the skin directly.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t taken care of before, Y/N,” Carol softly reminded you, and took the container away.

To be polite, you asked Patricia to grab the hand sanitizer from your backpack before she did her thing. Smelly underarms are caused by bacteria and sweat; you knew you’d gotten sweaty. You already felt so humiliated and raw, you didn’t have a damn shirt on, you just threw up in front of her, you were crying; smelling less offensive was something over which you still had some control.

Patricia then started to do similar movements to what Mr. Greene did last night. Everything ached worse than yesterday, so much worse.

“Now, how’d this happen? It weren’t this bad before, certainly not this morning.”

“I overdid it,” you mumbled.

“I’ll say.”

The pictures of the family you’d just buried started to pop up in your mind. The image of them in their grave, that big blanket over them, popped up, too, as did the sensation of carrying them in your arms to get them there. The tears fell harder. “I-I had to.”

“Sweet pea, I’m sure you had a very good reason,” the woman soothed.

Really, if you had a dollar for every time you’ve cried in the past four days (not that you could do much with it, but), you’d probably have a $50 bill.

The door opened a second time.

You were grateful it was just Carol again, not Hershel or Shane. She brought you a small glass of sweet tea, which you held in your free hand but didn’t drink.

“Y/N, I wanna make sure that Daryl didn’t hurt you or try to.” Patricia was blunt.

You weren’t offended on his behalf; that she asked meant she was concerned and wanted you safe. “The opposite, ma’am,” you responded softly.

“Hm?”

“He picked me up and carried me when I couldn’t get myself up.” You tried a sip of tea to help swallow back more tears. It was very sweet tea, you gagged at first. “He dug when I couldn’t no more.” A sob worked its way up as you coughed out “God, I r-really wish he weren’t all alone out there right now.”

Carol took the mostly full cup from you and placed it on the dresser, while Patricia’s hands slowed where she was examining you. “Why’d y’all dig?” she asked.

You slumped where you sat. “The family who’d boarded up their house, the ones from Mexico?”

“The Bardales?”

Your lips wobbled and you could only nod to tell her yes, that was them, then shake your head back and forth to try and relay what happened to them.

She understood. “All of them?” she whispered.

“Th-there’d been a break in, and they’d,” you had to wait until your voice stopped shaking, “they all caught the fever, besides.”

That’s when her hands stopped and you could feel her go rigid. “Was they dead or infected?”

You had no idea what she meant and were too tired to get clarification. “Both.”

“Patricia, I’m going to get you a glass, too,” Carol murmured, and stepped out.

You and the woman sat in silence. When you tried to put your shirt back on, she put a hand on your arm to stop you.

Carol came back and handed Patricia the glass filled with iced tea.

“How did you know they was infected if they was dead?” she finally voiced.

You looked to Carol because you didn’t know what to say or what Patricia meant. She returned your concerned expression and spoke up. “I think she’s asking, um…in what way you found the family.”

Patricia nodded.

“Turned.”

And the words “Infected doesn’t mean they were dead,” cursed from Patricia’s mouth in a tone of voice you’d never heard her use before.

Talk about feeling humiliated and naked and having your soul bared, you literally did not have a shirt on.

“That is what infected means,” Carol disagreed out loud, to your surprise.

Patricia countered, angry and quiet. “Infected means sick.”

But Carol remained gentle and even. “I know it hurts when you’ve lost a loved one to it, but there’s no cure because the person dies first.” She looks down and shrugged in her shy, unsure way. “That’s the one thing we can’t cure.”

“But they come back, we see it.”

“Not alive,” you were able to verbalize as your stress stutter decided to make an appearance. “Not even the CDC c-could fix it. All they found was that infected people die, and the virus takes over.”

“They ain’t found a cure yet,” the woman spat. “A lot of things can look like dyin’, the heart rate can slow—”

“—They die and you know it. What we see walkin’, it-it-it’s just their bodies, ma’am, just the basest part of the brain. The soul is,” there you went swallowing back another sob and failing, “gone because they died and are still dead.”

“We were there, Patricia,” Carol spoke up again. “At the CDC, we talked to the only man still there, we saw proof. There’s nothing left.”

“Don’t lie to me in my own home,” she warned her.

“Don’t insult guests in your own home,” you hissed back, furious that she’d accuse Carol of lying. You clenched your teeth, held back your groan as you stood, wiped the hot tears from your cheeks with your good arm, and tried to put on your shirt so you could walk out with Carol—who stopped you.

She hadn’t lost an ounce of her gentleness yet. “Y/N, don’t get angry. This family hasn’t seen what we have.”

“Well, w-we seen one who’s head got sliced off and it still tried bitin’, but they still think we’re stupid, heartless murderers for laying their bodies to rest!”

“Look what they’ve done for us.” Carol gestured to your stitches. “Look at what they’re doing to help us, what they’ve already done.” She then gestured outside to your group’s campsite, then toward where Carl’s room is.

You still fully expected to get thrown out, but Patricia sat there, lost in thought. She inclined her head to where you’d been sitting by way of inviting you to stay. You remained by the door anyway, you felt too absolutely-fucking-like-garbage to have sat down then.

“You saw one with their head cut off still tryin’ to attack?” the woman then asked, staring at nothing with her brows drawn close. “Wasn’t no nerve reflex, or, or…” she trailed off.

“They’ll keep attacking unless their brain is damaged,” Carol replied. “That’s where the virus, um—you know.” Her eyes turned wet again and she bowed her head as tears of her own fell on her lap.

After more silence, you whispered to Carol for help getting your shirt on. “I just want to lie down before Mr. Greene expects me.”

“No, sweet pea, come back. I wanna help you get some range of motion back, come on.” Patricia, who apparently could hear your whisper just fine, waved you over and patted the spot on the bed. “I’m sorry. Thank you for sharin’ with me. There’s some…things I’ll need to think more on, discuss.” To herself, she muttered, “I need to, I need to talk to Hersh about this.” She next locked eyes with the two of you. “But until then, any walkers you find on our property, tell us. Don’t do nothing, just tell us first.” Then, she pointed to you and made an apologetic smile. “And here,” she held out the mini tissue box from the far end-table. “You need one awful bad.”

The mood in the room improved. She gave an extremely thorough, long massage to your neck, shoulder, and arm muscle on your bad side. Homegirl must weight lift or something, because she gave you back so much range of motion that you created a false memory of having taken painkillers.

“You didn’t give me anythin’, Miss Patricia?”

“No, but I will before you head upstairs to shower off, maybe antibiotics, too, but let’s wait and see if you develop an infection first. Oh, and you’ll need a waterproof bandage, let me find one in here.” She rummaged around her kit, found one, and handed it to you. “Take it off the site once you towel dry.”

now

Daryl is hurt. He’s alone and hurt!

Use the walkie, brainless.

Those words snap into your (brain?) where you’re hyperventilating against the brick chimney in the back of the farmhouse. Carol has the pink one, Glenn has the yellow one; all you need to do is find one of them.

It crosses your mind that he might would’ve radioed if he was hurt.

Which in the next moment, flips into the idea that what if he’s too hurt to even use it?

Which then quickly devolves into wondering why you’re being such a dramatic idiot. He probably doesn’t even remember he has it, it’s probably turned off, and he would be too proud to use it, anyway…

…who cares, you still need to try, you need to know if your friend is safe.

You push off the wall you were leaning into and — ohh whoa.

What is — oh no, you remember this feeling.

You waver where you stand, then turn to press your forehead against the cool, rough bricks. Shoot, how are you gonna get out of this, how are you gonna get back inside?

Your body flushes with heat, your stomach turns cold, and a sensation in between pain and panic burns your chest and lungs as you try to catch your breath; you’re about to pass out for the dumb-ass mistake of not drinking enough fluids. Shittttt, why didn’t you drink that glass of tea, in the least?

“Y/N?”

Rick. That’s Rick’s voice.

“Ricky,” you slur, “don’t freak and don’t tell Shane, but I need f-faint for sec…”

................................................

Him

“Daryl, why aren’t you usin’ that walkie? This was the whole point of them, mangy hick!”

Y/N.

Y/N?

He tries to open his eyes. Did they get stitched up and have enough to drink? Is their shoulder okay? They probably have a sling again, he’d bet money on it.

“It’s okay, man, leave your eyes closed. I know you’re exhausted.” A nudge. “M’sorry, I should oughtn’tve chided you about the walkie.”

No, he wants to open his eyes, he wants to see Y/N! Everything hurts so fucking much but their voice makes him feel safer. The tugging in his chest is back full-force — Y/N is here!

“Dude, I ain’t really here, you know that.”

What? He tries to pry his damn eyes open so he can see them, he needs to see their face.

“But you do know that you’re gonna need to get up soon. Find the walkie if you can, call for help, okay? Please.” He feels their hand lightly touch his wrist. “I’m worried about you, so is Carol.” Their voice sounds like they’re smiling now. “And our Carl’s gonna want to see the doll you found. Daryl, you found her doll!” A giggle. “And you know I’m gonna wanna tease you about how you’ve ripped the sleeves off yet another of your poor shirts.”

He finally got his eyes open and saw…a blur. Green. Leaves, branches.

Y/N.  

Ugh, fuck, opening his eyes made his head hurt, though. “I can’t believe you were right about the damned walkie talkies,” he grumbles, cracking up as best he could but fuck, it hurt.

A strange static noise comes from his left. Is that the…that’s the walkie, isn’t it?

Y/N makes a face. “At least it’s nearby. I’m glad. It sounds funny, though, might could’ve gotten broken on the fall down. Maybe waterlogged.”

“I wish you were really here.” Hell, if they’re all in his head, he can be as big a pussy as he wants.

Their smile fades. As they trace their fingertips along his hairline, he could swear it felt real. “Daryl, you need to get up. I know how bad it hurts, and I’m so sorry you’re alone right now, but you need to get up. Please.”

He tries to lift his head. Pain and spinning and nausea.

So he tries to twist to his side instead and is met with more pain, that damn bolt is still lodged in there. Shit, he feels like he’s gonna hurl. “Y/N. I don’t think I can,” he admits, unable to hold back a groan.

“Quarter.”

He would have snorted, but it would make the pain worse. “Fuckin’ serious, I d-don’t—I don’t think I can—” Great, he’s starting to cry, which is making everything hurt worse because his breathing gets faster. “I don’t think I can, Y/N.”

“Bullshit. You can and you will. Now, honey — turn your head, you’re gonna get sick.”

Sure enough, he feels his mouth water, his stomach lurch, and there it comes.

Their cooing reaches his ears, just like earlier today when he was bugging out over some dirt.

It was only a second, and he was done. He turned his head back and rested it against the rock or whatever it was he was laying on. Just so damned tired…

“No. Daryl, you can’t do that, not now.” They sounded firm but still so gentle at the same time. “I-I think you need to get that thing out — I get leavin’ it in until you make it to help is the usual way of things, but it’s gonna do worse damage with it in there ’cause of where it is. You’ll be able to stop the bleedin’ better once it’s out.” They look him in the eyes again. “Do what you need to do to get yourself home to us.”

“Back there ain’t ‘home.’”

They huff. “Not with that attitude, it ain’t.”

He can’t help but smile. That’s how Y/N would’ve reacted, no damn doubt.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re not so bad at this imaginary stuff,” they tease him. “Maybe you should imagine yourself a chupacabra, encourage you to move.”

When he wills himself to open his eyes again, hoping to see them smiling, they aren’t. Instead, they look like they got the wind knocked out of them. They’re sweaty, drained, like they’d been when he’d left them back at the farm.

“This is goin’ to be rough as hell and it’s gonna hurt like it, too. But ain’t that just like so much other shit you been through? Now, you listen good,” and their finger pressed against his chest right where the tether between them was. “Don’t die, don’t get bit. I told you that as you left, Daryl. But if you don’t get up and get that thing out of your side so you can wrap it tight and come home, you are gonna die. Even if there weren’t dead people walkin’ and making things ten times more dangerous.”

How was it that he was strong enough to dig and carry and do so much just a few hours ago, and now he can’t manage turning onto his side or lifting his head? Even talking hurts right now.

“Just—Y/N, how do I get up?” he groans and winces, trying and failing again to sit upright even a little. “Why am I bein’ such a pussy that I can’t I get past this part?”

After grimacing, then mumbling for him to not use that word that way, they point behind themselves with their thumb. “I think he’s gonna have to help you with that part. I wish it could be me, but you know. Stitches and shoulder.”

“‘He?’” he repeats.

“As lost as you’ve felt without him—when he bullies you, if-if you can’t stand up for yourself, please try not to believe the lies, okay? Cruel don’t mean true, a lot of the time it’s the opposite.

He looks again to try to see who was there. Didn’t see nobody.

Y/N included. They were gone.

Upset to be alone again, and zapped from trying to lift his head and strain to see who was there, he lowers his head back down and rests his eyes.

................................................

You

“He probably doesn’t even have it on. Asshole.”

“You’re like, really upset, Y/N.”

“I guess!”

Glenn rolls his eyes. “What happened to you guys today, why are you like this? And with a sling again? And you literally fainted, Rick said?”

He’d been trying to recover an escaped chicken when he noticed Rick sitting with you on the ground, against the chimney out back while you glugged down a glass of sweet tea and a bottle of water.

“We j-just,” you don’t know how to describe it, “it was heavy, a-and I just want him back safe at home, is all. With Sophia.” You make one last attempt to contact him, lightly blowing into the walkie’s mic… before finally giving in and whispering “Daryl, please answer!” After a few moments in expectant silence that proves fruitless, you slide the walkie back into Glenn’s pocket and reach with your usable arm to pat the successfully-caught chicken he’s got snuggled in his arms like a football.

You lean back against the brick chimney and picture a teapot being taken off the burner. “And I passed out for only a mite, nothin’ exciting. Didn’t hydrate enough.”

Glenn nudges you gently with his tennis shoe. “Day’s not over yet. He’ll be back when the sun goes down.”

You inhale deeply, exhale slowly. “You’re right.”

“Tell me about earlier?”

You shake your head. “Later. Now, um, n-now’s not good.”

“Okay.” Glenn nods and looks down. “Sorry it was a bad day.”

“Maybe Sophia will come home and it’ll be a good one,” you mumble, not really believing it but wishing you did. “But we are pettin’ a chicken, so it can’t be all bad. Tell me about your day before I head back in?”

“I…tried talking to Maggie this morning. I don’t know what I was trying to do.” He rubs his face. “I brought the guitar we found on the highway over to the porch, and, I don’t know, was hoping she knew how to play so she could teach me, or something?”

Oh my. “You walked up to somebody’s front porch with an instrument you can’t play in the hopes she knew how?”

He gets red in his cheeks, forehead, and ears.

Good Moses, your face is warming on his behalf, too. “Glenn, is that where you were while we were goin’ over the day’s plans?”

“It gets better. I tried to act all tough, too.”

“You are tough, though.”

He mutters a quiet “thank you,” then stops stroking the hen in order to scratch his neck. “But, like, I tried to act all confident.”

“Confidence ain’t a bad thing,” you offer, albeit 100% out of your depth. You can offer objective advice only, not really anything from experience.

“Cockiness is, though…”

“Oh no.” Glenn acting cocky? That ain’t kosher. Maybe he’s misreading his own actions? “At least you tried? You weren’t rude or pushy or nothing, right?”

“I don’t think so? I wouldn’t want to be.”

“Did you say anythin’ that if somebody said it to you, you’d feel unsafe?”

“Ew, no.”

“Good.” You have to rub your chest for a moment to get rid of the tugging. Leave it to you to dramatize a caffeine crash and dehydration as a sign from heaven that something bad happened to Daryl. “I’m gonna head back in, Hershel donated a pint to Carl. Best make sure both are doin’ well.”

“He what? Shoot, let me find Jimmy, I’ll do more stuff around here to help out.” He helps you stand. “And hey, if Hershel brings it up—dude, I had no idea that all Jimmy’d told his mom was that he was ‘gonna help’ us, and that he didn’t end up asking Hershel.”

“That was way more on Jimmy than on you and the rest of us. You kept him safe out there, that’s gotta count in our favor.”

“Except Daryl stealing a horse is definitely not in our favor.”

You sigh and feel that strange tugging again. “We’ll make it up to them.”

................................................

Him

It felt so much better to keep his eyes closed, but someone’s standing over him now. Must be whoever Y/N said would help him get up.

What was that they said about ‘missing’ and ‘bully?’

He strains to get his eyes open so he can see whoever is above him.

His eyelids feel so damned heavy, man, he just wants to close them again.

All he can see is the green of the treetops at first.

The outline of a person’s head come into view once his vision stops being blurry.

Then it clears.

A smile finds its way to the corners of his mouth. He’s missed him. Felt so lost and out of place without him. His own blood.

“Why don’t you pull that arrow out, dummy? You could bind your wound better.”

Yeah, that was him alright. He’s missed him so much. 

“Merle.”

................................................

next part > here! <

> Masterlist link here <  

and our teeny tiny taglist :D

@spenciepoo338 @its-freaking-bats @whistlesalot @buffy-the-assbutt-slayer  @dreamingaboutthewonderland @kwazii-kat @darylsmavis​

(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore,  just let me know, we’re all friends here!) 

................................................

Bonus for those who survived til the end of Part 1:

This is why he doesn’t have any sleeved shirts left.

follow for more DIY shirt ideas #upcycle

[corvidcrossbow]

~•♡•~ I Like It Long

➳ Summary: While out on a run, you and Michonne start lightly teasing Daryl for having his hair grown out. But there's a hidden reason as to why he won't cut it. (Daryl x Fem!Reader)

➳ Setting: Alexandria, post Savior war

➳ Word count: 1.4k

➳ C/W: Just smut n hair pulling

➳ A/N: This spawned from me writing the context plot of another fic and I was like… wait (And thank yall for the attention on that Mother's Day post??? Yall are so sweet 😭🫶)

My hair is really similar to Daryl's when it's partially or almost dry and it's actually my favorite thing about myself like xbsosjdjdneisnsiasjebeiisjabajissn

You loudly banged your forearm against the glass door of a long abandoned drug store, not hearing any noise inside. Vines and weeds had grown through cracks in the concrete, winding up the sides of the building.

“Sounds pretty clear,” You shrugged, holstering your bow and opting for hand-held blades as Michonne pulled open the handle. You, her, and Daryl were clearing through a nearby town while out on a supply run, opting to make quick work of the task in favor of getting home.

You three entered the building, keeping your guard up in case of any straggling walkers that weren't roused by the initial attempts to lure them towards you. The interior wasn't large, so you could comfortably split off from each other and still be close.

“Seems mostly ransacked. Not much left,” Michonne commented, katana lowered but out in front of her. This had begun to grow repetitive and boring, energy matching the grayness of the lighting.

She took a pair of hair cutting shears off the shelf in front of her, holding them up to your gaze a few isles over. “Think he could use these?” She asked as a smile played the edges of her mouth, nodding back towards Daryl, looking for mischief. His hair had grown quite long over the course of the last two years, the tawny blond darkening into a rich brown, accompanied by a shaggy cut.

“Oh definitely. Jus’ gotta determine which onna us can hold him down long enough to cut it,” You replied with a chuckle, eyes following hers to where the archer stood at the endcap of another lane.

“Shuddup, will ya?” Daryl scoffed, shaking his head with grunt. His gaze didn't break from the advertisement in front of him, trying to ignore your antics. “Ts'fine.”

“Gotta make use of whatever supplies we find, no?” You continued your teasing, trying to hide the grin on your face at his reaction. “You were sweatin’ like a pig all summer, hair tangled all over yer face ‘n what not. When was the last time you cut it?”

“Don’ kno’, don’ care,” He grumbled, and you eyed Michonne again. It's definitely been since the prison, at least. He moved on from the stand. “Plus, winter up ‘ere's gon be colder. Will keep me warm.”

“Daryl, you're ‘bout the only one who didn't freshen up since we got to Alexandria. Don't you at least want a trim?” Michonne pestered, raising her eyebrows at him and shifting her weight to one leg. “You remember Rick's whole hobo-beard.”

“Ain't got no ‘hobo-beard’.”

“But you do look like the only ‘scissors’ you know is the recently searched on your go to porn site,” Michonne chaffed, barely able to contain herself.

Daryl froze for just a second, face flushing as his head whipped to stare back at her. And you two burst out laughing, to which his expression soured.

“Give it up, alrigh’?! Ain't nothin’ wrong with mah hair!” He snapped, accent thick with embarrassment, bowing his head slightly in an effort to obscure it. He readjusted his hold on his crossbow. “Gon shoot tha botha ya.”

“Ay, ay! Jus’ sayin’. Rick scrapped the beard and… maybe you'll finally get some play too,” She winked, followed by a lighthearted snicker.

Daryl groaned again and rolled his eyes, beginning to walk off, but caught your gaze for just a second.

It's not that he didn't want to cut his hair - he didn't care about it – but he wasn't really allowed to either way. There was one major, sexy, moaning reason he didn't cut his hair.

❥-》》—————➣

“Oh, god, Daryl! Fuck! Don't stop… god don't stop,” You cried out, hands clutching his shoulders as your nails began to dig into his flesh. His grip on your hips was bruising, keeping you steady as he pounded up into you at a relentless pace. That grip was the sole thing grounding you in the reality of the present moment.

“Ain't gon stop,” He affirmed, voice gravelly. You moaned wildly, head weakly falling to his chest with exacerbated breaths, his own heaving against your temple. He leaned closer when he could, harshly sucking at your clavicle and boobs, leaving behind a litter of hickeys and little bites that colored you in reds and purples.

The springs of the bed beneath you sounded like they were gonna fold in on themselves, headboard sporadically banging against the wall as Daryl shifted down a little to hit into you at an angle, your clit brushing against him with each thrust. Your back arched overtop of him, shoving his dick into your belly.

“Baby, please… fhuuuckkkk.” You couldn't even think, every thought consumed by the feeling of him. The way he just destroyed you like it's an art he'd mastered, tip brushing against every sweet and sensitive spot inside you, walls desperately trying to cling on, balls hitting up against you, clit grinding on him, slickness coating his pelvis and your inner thighs, his clutch on you just so fucking strong.

You pulled yourself together, lifting your head to see him. His long hair was dark and dampened with sweat, matting up as it stuck to his forehead, obscuring part of his vision. But he was too focused on using you to fix it, didn't dare to remove his hands unless God willed him to.

You moved up, swiping it away, and his blue eyes instantly connected with yours, pupils blown with lust. He (somehow) sped up, starting to slam your hips up and down to meet him instead of just keeping them stationary, now just beating your cunt.

“Tha's it girl. Jus’ keep takin’ me good like tha’.”

His words made you shiver, and you partially fell forward again, nestling your face beside his and snaking an arm behind his head. Your fingers weaved through his messy hair, tangling at the scalp, then tugging harshly as another wave of pleasure ripped through you.

And he whined. There it is. His breathy gasps and grunts mingled with strained whines, and whimpers, as you pulled tighter and tighter at the roots of his locks. His face contorted, eyes nearly squeezing shut, that one vein bulging from his neck, directly on the verge of so much.

“Daryl… inside.., Dar-” You panted, cut off as everything went white and you hit your peak. Your whole body felt electrified, tensing, twitching, walls spasming, toes curling and claws clinging to his frame.

Daryl tipped over the edge almost immediately after, having just been waiting for you to cum first. He desperately pumped into you a few more times, before curving up once more and simultaneously ramming you down as he came deep in you, the warmth of his release spreading through your core, and he threw his head back with ragged breaths.

You were both left a sweaty mess, gasping for oxygen, feeling full and satisfied. Your muscles couldn't keep you up, and you collapsed onto him, loosening your hold at his scalp, his hold on your hips doing the same.

He recovered a bit quicker than you, bringing a hand up and brushing your own messy hair away the second he had the energy to do so.

“Ya alrigh’, sunshine?” He asked between hitches, hoping he hadn't been too rough. He soothingly rubbed his palm over the curve of your body where bruises were sure to form.

You nodded faintly, moving your head so you could breathe better, and you could feel him relax beneath you from the reassurance. He held you tenderly for a while, giving you time to regain your composure. Your eyes were closed in bliss. Few things beat the feeling of Daryl under you, rising and falling with his torso, hearing his low humming as he steadied himself – his softening cock still buried deep inside you, cum ever so surely beginning to dribble down.

You lazily remained in his arms, not wanting to deal with getting up, or the shower you two definitely needed. You took a strand of his hair, affectionately curling it around your finger like a tendril, then letting it go and repeating.

“Ya actually want me tah cut ma hair?” He eventually asked, thinking back to your light mocking from earlier, how you'd laughed as Michonne layered it on. It didn't matter much to him, he'd do whatever pleased you.

“Fuck no. Was just messin’ with you, Dixon,” You replied, kissing the skin of his collarbone right below you, and moving up to find his lips. “You know I like it long.”

The long hair suited him, he looked good with it. You loved to wash and play with it, brush and braid it while he laid in your lap. But mainly, it was easy to grab at, pull on – and close to nothing in existence sounded better than those whines and whimpers every time you did so.

©corvidcrossbow 2024. I do not give permission for my works to be copied, modified or adapted to other platforms. My work may be translated only if asked and with proof of given consent.

[xoxo-sarah]

My Wife

↝a/n: 2,605 w/c... I like this one, guys.

↝pairing: Season 1!Daryl x wife!reader

↝warning: usual walking dead stuff, angst, animal death (mentions blood. No details), reader being sexualized?, creepy men, harassment, the creepy guy getting punched (he deserved it), cursing, protective Daryl, Merle (ew), crying, moody and soft Daryl, sassy Daryl (it's season one, what do you expect?), slightly proofread

|| Disclaimer: I do not own Daryl Dixon, or any character from The Walking Dead. I only own y/n and any characters I create with my own brain. ||

↝⎙ 10.2.24

Before the apocalypse, you'd say your life wasn't bad. You had a decent job that paid well. A husband, a dog, and a house you owned all on your own, without any help from your parents.

You had met Daryl fresh out of college. He was staying with Merle at the time. In a rush to get away from your parents, you found a rent-to-own house on the outskirts of Atlanta. It wasn't extravagant, only having 2 beds and one bath. It was still a house-your house.

The first time you went to the grocery store to stock up before you started work since the big move, an old man had hit on you. Daryl listened from afar, not wanting to cause any more trouble for you. He knew you hadn't been in these parts of town before, he hadn't seen you before.

After many attempts at shooting the guy down, Daryl had to intervene. The guy had grabbed your arm, and before you knew it, the guy was backing away from you.

“She said she's not interested.”

“My bad, man. Didn't know she was yours.” He raised his hands, grin still on his face. It was a game to him.

“So you only take no for an answer if I 'belong' to someone?” Venom laced your voice, disgust painted into the wrinkles between your eyebrows and frown lines, glaring through the guy. A chuckle rumbled out of his chest, followed by a smoker's cough that told you he had more tar in his lungs than he had sense in his brain.

“Ma'am, will all due respect-”

“I doubt anything respectful comes out of that raunchy mouth of yours.”

His grin dropped, eyes slanting in your direction. “This one sure has a mouth on her,” his attention moved back to Daryl. “She have that mouth in the sack?”

You scoffed, glancing down at the floor, collecting the words you wanted to shoot back at him.

In the time you looked away, Daryl had put the 12-pack of beer down and swung. You snapped your head up at the sound of a fist colliding with a cheek. Daryl glared, spitting at the man as he held his cheek in shock. “Give the lady some respect, prick.”

“Damnit, Dixon!” An elderly man came running down the aisle, a manager tag clinking against the pins on his shirt. Safe to say both men had been kicked out.

After checking out, you caught sight of Daryl hunched over, looking at his bruising knuckles.

“Here's for helping me.”

Daryl's head shot up, eyes flickering to the 12-pack in your outstretched hand. “Ya didn't have to.”

“You didn't have to.” He shrugged, taking the box from you.

the rest was history.

You eventually got together, then, moved in together. He supported you in your job, making jokes about you “bringing home the bacon”. The only downside was his brother.

“Damnit, Merle.”

An intoxicated Merle flopped on your couch, cackling up at Daryl. You watched from behind the couch, arms folded across Daryl's shirt draping over your form. Daryl's own top half was bare, his muscles flexing when he folded his arms in disappointment, glaring down.

“What? Did I interrupt you 'n your housewife duties?”

You scoffed, turning around to walk back to your room, the dog Daryl had gotten you for your birthday following after you. Merle watched your movement, lowly whistling. “I'd be a housewife for that piece, too.”

Daryl grabbed the collar of Merle's shirt, bringing him to eye level. “Don't talk about my wife like that.” He threw him back against the couch, “You're out by the mornin'.”

The world had gone to shit right in the middle of your workday. Everyone was running around, yelling and panicking. You tried making a beeline for your car, getting pushed and pulled every which way. The traffic was the worst you had ever seen, when you had finally made your way onto the road.

When you finally got home, the door was open.

You rushed in, looking in every room. There was no sign of Daryl besides the place being completely trashed, in a rush to leave. He wasn't there. You had no clue where he was, if he was safe, if he knew what was happening.

You cracked the backdoor open, nearly falling to your knees. A body laid on the back porch, blood dried on its way down the person's forehead. A lump of fur and blood was right beside it. A sob racked your body on your way back to your car. Your knuckles were ghostly white as they gripped the steering wheel, as you made your way out of town, away from the life you worked hard to get and worked harder to keep.

You eventually got stuck in even more traffic. Everything only got worse when your car ran out of gas.

You had to hide in the city, which was run with zombies. Luckily for you, you had found a few bodies that hadn't turned yet, stealing anything that could be used as a weapon. You were able to stay safe, hiding in an empty office building. Living off of the vending machines and what was left in the break rooms.

You regularly walked up to the roof, getting fresh air, wondering where Daryl had gone and if he was thinking of you. Sure, a part of you wanted to be mad at him for leaving without you, but you knew he had to have his reasons. Merle had to of made him run away with him when the news first got out.

While you looked over the edge, watching as dead bodies herded together, feasting on whatever had run into the city on your way up here, you saw quick movement to your left. Swirling around, you held your gun up, pointing it at the kid in front of you.

“Woah, Hey! I'm alive- I'm alive! Not going to hurt you.” The poor boy might as well have been shivering in his boots. His hands shook in the air. He was probably the third person you've seen, alive, since you squatted in the top floor. He didn't seem like the guy to kill you just to take your stuff. “Look, there's a guy in the tank down there. I'm just trying to help him.” You thought back to the sounds of pained neighing you heard when you first stepped onto the roof, but you had shrugged it off, figuring you were going insane already. No sleep and being isolated will do that to you. “C'mon, dude.” He was practically begging you to not shoot him in the head.

What would Daryl do in this situation? He wouldn't just trust anyone when it comes to survival. You reluctantly put your gun down, watching as he sighed in relief. You hid the shake in your hands when they fell to your sides, not wanting him to know you didn't want to kill him even if he were dangerous.

“We have to get down there to help him.” The boy leaned over the edge, at the tank and the 'geeks' that surrounded it.

“We?”

He looked back at you, then to the tank. “The extra help would be appreciated.”

Somehow, you followed after him, climbing down fire escapes and counting the amount of bodies in each alleyway. He was quick, but you kept up with him with ease.

He led you down the alleyway, hiding behind the trashcans and gate separating you and a painful death. “You have good aim? I need you to shoot that big guy closest to the tank.” He whispered, fixing the hat on his head.

You glanced at him, watching as he awaited your next move. You whispered back, “it's empty.” You held the gun up in emphasis. You weren't going to tell him that when it was pointed at him. He huffed, throwing his head back. “I only have a knife.”

He shrugged off his backpack, grabbing the empty gun and throwing it in there. It was useless with no bullets, and it only took up a hand, making it harder for you to climb.

“Alright, change of plans.” He grabbed the walkie, bringing it to his mouth before pressing the button. “Hey, you alive in there?”

A frantic voice broke through the static, “Hello? Hello?!”

The next thing you knew, you were running downstairs with the young boy, Glenn, you had figured out, and the guy you nearly died saving, Rick. Glenn led you two to another alleyway, before the door to the building in front of you busted open, 2 people filing out with gear and helmets on, attacking the walkers wondering in front of you.

“Lets go!” Glenn jumped over the bodies on the ground, running through the door, you and Rick following. As soon as you were through the door, you were pushed to the other side of the wall, before Rick was pushed back, a gun aimed at his face. “You son of a bitch! We ought to kill you.” A blonde woman was seething, ready to put a bullet in Rick's head.

“Just chill out, Andrea. Back off.” One of the guys who bashed the walker's head in pulled off the armor, glaring at the blonde.

“Come on, ease up.”

“Ease up? You're kidding me, right? We're dead because of this stupid asshole.” The gun was pointed at you next, “And her.” Her finger twitched on the trigger, but you were at a loss of words.

“She helped.” Glenn was ignored.

“Andrea, I said, back the hell off. Or pull the trigger.” The same guy from before stepped forward, closer to Andrea. It was silent for a second, before Andrea dropped her hand, lips quivering with oncoming tears. You took a breath, having the room to do so when a gun isn't pointed at you.

“We're dead,” Andrea sobbed, “All of us.” Her gaze moved back to Rick, “Because of you.”

You wondered after everyone as they walked through the old building, listening as they scolded rick for firing his gun.

“No signal. Maybe the roof.” The man, who was introduced as T-Dog, said, holding the walkie. Before anyone else could reply, a gun shot fired, echoing from above.

“Oh no, Is that Dixon?”

“Dixon?”

Andrea stopped her movement, looking back at you. “Yeah. What, you know 'em?”

Sadly, you were met with a distasteful Merle on the roof. He refused to tell you about Daryl-about how Merle had to drag in out of the house. About how Daryl wanted to pick you up and take you with them. About how Daryl had gone back, against Merle's wishes, and found you nowhere in the house. But you weren't told that, so the nerves in your stomach still fluttered, making you feel like you were going to vomit any minute. The only thing he told you was that Daryl was with the rest of the group by the quarry.

The nerves still fluttered even on your way to the said quarry. The thought of Merle being trapped in the roof was at the back of your mind, the thought of seeing Daryl for the first time in God knows how long, being front and center in your mind. Your leg shook with nerves as you sat in the back of the van, hitting a bump every once in a while, and knocking into one of the other people.

The van pulled up to the quarry, people piling out of the back, running to their families.

You were introduced to a woman named Carol. She was surprised when you told her that you knew Daryl. The short time she had known the man, she couldn't think of him having a soft spot for anyone, but here you were. She told you that he had gone hunting and that he should be back before dawn.

You sat around, getting to know everyone. As soon as Carol's husband raised his voice to her, you had kept an eye on him, instantly feeling protective of the woman. As she silently did for you. She kept an eye on you, making sure you felt comfortable among all of the strangers.

Night fell and there was still no sign of Daryl. You distracted yourself by helping Carol with whatever, or Dale with lookout. You hadn't told anyone much about you and Daryl. Mostly because you couldn't form a coherent sentence with Daryl on your mind. Where was he? Was he okay? Why wasn't he back? The band around your ring finger became a fidget habit. You spun it around any time the thoughts got too much.

The crisp morning air did little to wake you. You might as well have been a walker with how you sluggishly moved around camp, helping with anything, wanted to be helpful and pull your weight.

Carol handed you another pair of soaked pants, to ring the water out and hang it up to dry. While doing so, your eyes caught sight of Rick and Lori. They had been reunited. When was it your turn?

“How did you and Daryl meet?” Glancing back up at Carol, you cleared your throat to speak.

Before you could utter a word, a scream echoed throughout the camp, followed by Carl's screams for his mother.

Everyone stopped what they were doing, a few running toward the screaming, ready for the worst.

You walked behind the group, watching as Rick, Glenn, Dale, Shane, and a few others beat the walker that had made it from the city.

Dale swung down with his axe, cutting the head clean off the walker's body.

“It's the first one we've had up here.” He heaved, “They never come this far up the mountain.”

“Well, they're running out of food in the city, that's what.” Another guy, Jim, said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Branches snapped, followed by more footsteps. The guys with the weapons moved toward the sound, weapons ready.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He hadn't seen you yet.

Daryl stepped over branches, slightly taken aback with everyone standing in front of him, ready to strike.

Everyone took a step back, “Oh, Jesus.” Dale's shoulders released the tension.

“Son of a bitch.” Daryl cursed, “That's my deer!” He walked to what was left of the poor animal.

He looked how he did when you first met. Frustration clear on his brow. You had helped him get rid of the constant scrunch of his brow and frown on his lips, and here it was, making its appearance in a dramatic manner.

“Look at it, all gnawed on by this-” He kicked the headless body that laid on the ground, “filthy,” kick “disease-bearing,” kick “motherless,” kick “poxy bastard!”

“Calm down, son. That's not helping.” Dale peeped, infuriating Daryl more.

“What do you know about it, old man?” Daryl walked closer, getting in Dale's face. "Why don't you take that stupid hat and go back to “On Golden Pond”?"

“Daryl.”

Daryl paused, his face dropping. He turned to the voice, his knees nearly collapsing from underneath him.

Before you could say anything else, his crossbow was dropping to the ground, followed by the string of squirrels on his shoulder. He rushed over, his body colliding with yours. His calloused hands pulled your face closer to his.

He didn't care if everyone was watching. Or if the scene made them think differently about his tough-guy thing he had going on. His lips moved against yours.

“I didn't know where you were.” He mumbled against your lips. “I tried looking everywhere-”

“I know, I know. Doesn't matter.”

•2021-2024 by xoxo-sarah on Tumblr•

•My work is not to be translated, copied, modified, and/or reposted on any other site without my permission. [I don't give permission!]

[allagogtoreblog]

[dixonsbrat]

𖥔 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 𝐏 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 𖥔

⊹ being a good girl and letting him use your mouth

⊹ daryl said he was handy, in more ways than one, so you tell him to prove it. he took it literally.

⊹ he comes back from a run to find you waiting for him in his cell

⊹ he loves taking you from behind, burying you deep in the couch

⊹ he loves to tease you and get you dripping wet first

⊹ he says he's inexperienced but he's always hitting the right spots

⊹ he's been away on a run all week and he’s feeling touch starved

⊹ him needing you so badly the second you're alone in alexandria

⊹ the group notice you and young!daryl missing from time to time when you’re supposed to be helping out around the farm

⊹ when the cell block is empty, daryl refuses to waste an opportunity to be inside you

⊹ you love helping him relieve tension when he comes home after a long day at the commonwealth

⊹ you sneak into daryl's cell but there's only so much you can do without risking getting pregnant

⊹ you were being extra bratty and he needed to teach you a lesson

⊹ young!bf!daryl who always sneaks into your room during the night when he needs to get away from his own house

⊹ young!daryl loves treating you like the pretty little slut you are

⊹ young!daryl loves watching you squirm as he thrusts deep into you

⊹ you’re always shocked by how good it feels when he’s inside you

[feral4daryl]

masterlist || MDNI

sweet scent.

perv!daryl x fem!reader

summary: while looking for his crossbow around the house, daryl ends up finding a pile of your dirty clothes and... used panties of yours. and when no one's looking, he decides to have some fun with them.

warnings: EXTREME AGE GAP (daryl is in his late 30s/early 40s and reader is 18), not entirely proofread, smut, mean!daryl sort of, corruption kink, daryl being an absolute pervert, panties sniffing, daddy kink, masturbation, cussing, daryl imagining himself doing the dirtiest things to you (unprotected p-in-v, squirting, face fucking, praising, loss of virginity, cunnilingus and i think that's pretty much it)

word count: 2.8k

a/n: please proceed with caution, this piece of work portrays a few extreme or unusual fetishes, so if you're not comfortable with any of those i've listed above please do not ready this. the idea that inspired this work originally belongs to @dilfsandmartinis.

if there was something daryl absolutely hated, it was the feeling of uselessness.

since andrea had mistaken him for a walker and shot him from afar, grazing his head, useless was exactly how he felt, having to lay down on a bed the whole day and night, doing absolutely nothing but be left alone with his own thoughts. and oh, what a disgraceful fate.

everytime he wasn't focused on hunting, fighting or surviving in general, the farmer's sweet younger daughter flooded his mind. your hair, your face, your stupidly adorable sundresses, everything about you was so... distracting.

daryl wasn't ever the kind of guy to simp for a woman, but that one specific girl made him feel emotions and sensations that were hidden deep within his being for years, maybe even decades. feelings he thought had vanished from his heart a long time ago were now blooming all over again, like he was some stupid teenager looking at a playboy magazine for the first time.

there was something about your innocence, your adorable mannerisms, your sweet voice and your kindness that had awakened something in him, something he wasn't quite sure what it was.

no, he wasn't exactly a young man. and while being aware that you were very young, he couldn't help but feel so guilty for having those feelings. whenever you bended over to pick something up, he had to fight demons not to have a glimpse of your panties. he often wondered how could you be so careless by exposing yourself like that, even if you didn't do it on purpose.

and there was him again, thinking about you. it's like no matter how hard he tried to push those thoughts away, they were like water, always finding a way in.

he huffed, feeling defeated. he knew he was still recovering from the incident, and that he should rest, but why was he following orders around anyways? he wasn't a damn puppy. plus, everybody else had left him there to go looking for sophia. he wanted to be able to help too. he was alive after all, and if he was alive, he believed he should be on his feet.

so that's what he did. he slowly lifted his right foot, resting it on the floor, then he did the same with his left one. his body reluctantly lifted itself up, and he immediately could feel the consequences for laying down for so long, his back killing him and his vision a bit foggy. anyways, he ignored any discomfort and started walking slowly, his head still a little dizzy.

then, he remembered he needed his trustworthy crossbow, he couldn't just leave unprotected like that. he looked around the room he was settled in but it was nowhere to be seen. he knew it was still in the house, so he left the room. he started walking down the corridor, his eyes attentively looking for any signs of his crossbow. he was even starting to think that his mates might've hidden it to force him to stay in the house when he spotted a halfway open door.

his calloused hands pulled it open, revealing a small bedroom, all pink themed and stupidly decorated. no, his crossbow wasn't likely to be there, it just looked like it belonged to one of hershel's daughters, but it was like something was calling him in.

he stepped in the room and it almost looked messy. the dressing table on the corner had lipsticks, combs, all sorts of make-up and girly stuff all piled up and... a perfume.

it was happening again, images of you flooded his mind and it was like he could almost smell you. oh, your sweet scent had the power to make him hard like nothing else. just by looking at that small bottle, just by imagining your scent, he could feel little shock waves travelling all the way down to his cock, threatening to awaken it.

he knew it was wrong, so fucking wrong thinking about a much younger girl like that. and it was even worse considering that you were the daughter of the man that provided him shelter in such difficult times. it felt ungrateful.

when he saw you for the first time, he didn't think much of you. he was actually careful, treating you like the stranger you were. and even when time passed, he never really got close to you. now and then you tried to share a word, even if just a little bit, but it seemed useless since he would reject all your attempted approaches. he didn't hate you like he tried to after acknowledging his disgusting desires for you, but he just couldn't allow himself to interact with a girl that made him sick to his stomach for all the wrong reasons.

your sweetness was almost annoying. the entire world had gone to shit, for goodness sake! dead bodies walking around and eating all the people they could find. how could you act so clueless all the time? daryl even wondered if you had ever seen a walker before, if you knew what was really happening out there. after all, it was very obvious that you were a daddy's girl, always protected under your father's wing.

but strangely enough, acknowledging that only made him protective towards you. he was always somewhat watching, always around you making sure you were safe and he barely knew why, he just felt like he should.

so he didn't stop himself from reaching over to your small perfume bottle. the design was very simple, no labels to be seen, time had probably faded it away. the cap was baby pink and heart shaped, and when he removed it, he immediately brought the bottle to his nose, giving it a gentle sniff.

fuck.

now, he was 100% sure that was your room. the fragrance was the same one that filled his nose and made him drunk in you everytime you walked by. he wondered if that was the scent he would feel if he ever hugged you, burying his face into your chest.

in that moment, he couldn't think about anything else, not rick, not carol, not his chores, not surviving, not even sophia. you were everything that he had in his fucked up mind.

he wouldn't feel so fucking guilty if his thoughts were only about your innocence and sweetness, but they were also dirty as fuck. countless were the times when daryl imagined groping you, running his hands all over your delicate body, feeling every texture, squeezing every junk and listening close to your every little whimper. he would pull your hair, gently at first, just to get it off your face and neck so he could pamper them with little wet kisses, gently scratching his teeth along them. he imagined he'd have to keep you on your feet himself, since you'd struggle to because of how weak your knees would get at all the sensations he would provide you and...

wait, no.

what was he thinking? was he out his fucking mind? he needed to stop those absolutely disgusting thoughts right away. he couldn't keep having those thoughts about you, not when you're out taking care of such important business with the others. he put the perfume bottle back on the dressing table, determined to let all that go. he knew he couldn't just let himself get so distracted like that over something so mundane and unimportant as his own sexual desires but then...

...he spotted a basket filled with clothes when he turned around to leave. his mind immediately started to rush all over again, and for the 100th time that day, he turned careless. he slowly approached it. shorts, tops, pants and so on could be seen at the top of the pile.

in that moment, he had totally forgot why he had entered that bedroom or even left his bed in the first place. he couldn't even remember the existence of his crossbow or his duties.

and then... he gets an idea. he starts going through the pile of dirty clothes and in no time, he finds your panties. they were white with a pink ribbon on the front, a clear reminder of your innocence. for a moment, he just looks at it, contemplating the possibilities. then, he remembers seeing you in it when you bended over to pick some off the floor the day before. he remembers catching a glimpse of it under your yellow sundress when you went to change his bandage.

that meant that those panties had been freshly worn.

if just your perfume ignited such vile desires in him, he couldn't even imagine what your natural scent could do to him. and he was oh so curious to find out. he still felt guilty, but that man had been sex deprived for so fucking long, he didn't even masturbate very often. he knew damn well he was about to commit a big mistake, maybe even starting something he was sure he couldn't finish, but he finally made up his mind.

he flips the small piece of cloth over, eyeing the soft-looking lining of the panties. he gulps, feeling his mouth water right away. god, what was he doing? what was right, what was wrong wasn't even important to him anymore. he just wanted to embrace his sickness.

there was a small stain on the lining, probably from you wearing it. just that sight alone was enough to get him off, and once again, he found himself having to face that tingling sensation inside his pants. he knew damn well what that meant and what was about to happen. but honestly, he couldn't give a single fuck anymore.

in one quick motion, he brought the fabric to his face, giving a long sniff while he rolled his eyes to the back of his head. that fucking scent of yours got him drunk the moment it filled his nostrils. so intense, so feminine and raw, daryl couldn't remember the last time he felt that type of pleasure, or if he had even felt anything like it before.

it made him needy like a horny teenager. he felt himself going back to puberty when all he could think about was jacking off day and night. and it was all your fucking fault.

daryl palmed himself through his denim pants, never taking your panties off his face not even for one second. the natural scent of your cunt was more than successful to make him hard as a rock, the sensation of being in his pants started to get uncomfortable as his dick grew bigger and bigger.

just palming himself wasn't enough.

he slowly unbuttoned his pants and unzipped them, inserting one of his hand in his briefs to catch his hard cock in it, freeing it for the first time in a while. his angry-red tip was literally pulsating while a clear and sticky liquid dropped down his length.

he wasn't able to hold a small grunt as he wrapped his calloused hand around his cock, the rough sensation of his fingers causing him to feel a jolt of pleasure so fucking delicious and guilty at the same time. the archer brought his hand to his mouth, catching some of his saliva to use as lube.

oh, how he wished you were there. he'd make sure you'd get his cock nice and wet with your spit so you could rub it up and down. and then, without warnings, he'd just shove it down your throat, forcing you to prove how much of a good girl you could be just for him.

and just for him. he wanted you all for his own. daryl never really liked to share, specially when it came to a girl like you, so princess like, so adorable looking. your plump lips looked so fucking perfect, and they would look even more wrapped around his big cock.

knowing how fragile you were, he knew you would definitely choke and gag on him, struggling to fit all of him in your mouth. he would whisper sweet encouragement words to you like “tha's it, tha's ma good girl”. he imagined how he would hold your head in place and keep a hand on your throat so he could feel his cock while he aggressively pumped it in and out, making you drool all over him. “just like tha', yeah, show daddy how fuckin' good ya are fer him”.

in his imagination, you would look up at him with those big doe eyes of yours, with a mix of uncertainty and desire to make him proud. “am i doing this right, daddy?” he could almost hear your voice saying it whenever you would take him off his mouth to catch your breath for a moment, never disconnecting your small hand from his thick length.

he started pumping faster, squelching sounds were all that could be heard in that silent room, a proof of his degeneracy. the grunts and stifled moans were only getting harder and harder to hold back. he was sticking those panties to his face and sniffing on them like his life depended on it, like he was a desperate virgin.

a virgin. he wondered if you were one. you sure looked like it, your dad never let you out of sight for long enough for you to try something like that, he supposed from what he knew about your relationship. he imagined how would it feel like to be the one to pop your cherry for the first time.

oh, he would teach you so many things, everything he knows. he would guide you through it all along, teaching you where to touch, where to kiss, where to lick. he would make your virgin little cunny cum so many times it would get all puffy and red. he even wondered if he could make you squirt, stuffing you with his fingers, brushing against your sweet spot over and over again until you were a quivering mess, squirting all over his skull tattoo. and yes, he would make you lick his fingers clean, your sweet little tongue dragging across them, and then, he would kneel down in front of you, not wanting to waste a single drop of your sweet release, attacking your sensitive clit and slit with his lips and tongue.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

he was so fucking eager to taste your slick, to revel in your salty taste. he imagined how fucking good the smell he was getting from your panties was from the actual source. he would lick it all, your lips, your slit, even your ass, but he would give special attention to your little clit, flicking his tongue on it, making it cum again just for him. he would never grow tired of it.

and when he felt you were finally ready for him, he would bend you over just like you used to do so absentmindedly. he would be gentle at first, but knowing himself, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold himself back for too long before absolutely railing the shit out of you, making you cry out and scream his name in pleasure and pain.

and when he flipped you over on your back, he would be able to see the bulge on your lower belly caused by his big cock inside you. just by imagining that he felt himself getting close to the edge. he would press his hand on it, making the little room inside your pussy even tighter. fuck, he imagined the sweet sounds you would make just for him.

all those dirty thoughts and your sweet scent from your panties were more than enough to make shivers run down his spine and his whole body tremble. he kept his eyes shut tight as he licked a stripe on the lining of your panties, trying to get some of your delicious taste. meanwhile, he hadn't stopped his hands not even for a second, harshly rubbing his cock up and down until it was too much.

in a strangled moan, his cock started shooting spurt after spurt of thick cum onto the floor, the dressing table and pretty much anything that was around. he couldn't remember the last time he had such an intense orgasm, the sensation making his mind completely empty except for your image.

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?”

[PART TWO]

a/n: i know, i'm disgusting. i'm sorry. (just a quick reminder, english isn't my first language, so please excuse any grammar mistakes or awkward phrasing lmao, and tysm if you read it this far)

[dixonzzgirl]

imagine… 

finding daryl a really cool zippo lighter and seeing him mindlessly flick it open and close throughout the day.

sitting with your feet in his lap while you both relax on the porch swing (alexandria era).

pinky linking instead of full on hand holding. 

finally getting to the playful butt swat stage of your relationship + him winding up his t-shirt and chasing you around the house. 

him praising you whenever you kill an animal: “nice shot, girl.” “look at you.“ “atta girl.” 

reading a book with your legs crossed on his work bench as he tinkers with his bike.

getting a cold and when daryl dips down to kiss your lips, you turn your head away from him. “daryl, don’t! i don’t wanna get you sick!” and then he grabs your chin and presses a firm kiss on your lips anyway.

daryl finds a cowboy hat and drops it on your head. you let out a giggle. “what’s that saying? save a horse, ride a cowboy?” you smirk. his cheeks darken and he turns away from you. “think ya’ got tha’ backwards..” he drawls. “no? pretty sure i’m right…”

eating a lollipop and daryl walks right up and pulls it out of your mouth and puts it in his (or vise versa).

having a journal that you can both communicate in. we all know daryl isn’t the best at communicating his feelings verbally and maybe you aren’t either, so you just write back and forth to each other.

i love the journal idea because you would use it for everything. daryl has to be up early to help rick with something? he’ll scribble a quick “helping rick. come find me.” and as soon as you wake up and feel the void in bed beside you, you go right to the journal.

him getting hard as fuck when you give shane attitude (farm era).

you get into an accident on a run and ending up losing a lot of blood and you wake up later in the infirmary. “ya’ lost a lotta blood,” he says. “then i bet you did too…” you smiled groggily knowing that he gave you some of his (he’s a universal donor).

rubbing aloe vera on his sunburnt skin and he just lets out these sexy ass heavy breaths.

him watching you get visibly frustrated when someone else is helping you with something, but not doing it the way you want it done, so daryl steps in and tells them to get lost.

daryl giving you cold medicine while you’re sick and he makes you take it in front of him and open your mouth to show him that you swallowed it.

a/n: these are my favorite scenarios to imagine when I'm in class :) if you wanna use any of these ideas for a fic, tag me! i'd love to see them!

[fordaryl]

REMEMBER.

minors dni. 2.6k words. smut. daryl dixon x fem!reader. protective daryl. hint of size kink. strength kink.

It's easy to forget his strength when his touch is always so gentle. When you're safe, he lets you forget everything he's capable of; the reason you've both made it this long.

Safety lets you forget.

And then—when it inevitably all it all goes to shit again—you remember.

"Get in!" he calls through the wall of bodies separating you. He keeps the attention of most of them, but there's a few stumbling in your direction—too many for you to handle alone. "Now!" he shouts as he takes another growling walker down.

It goes against every instinct you have—to leave him to fight this alone. But this was his domain. This was when you did whatever the fuck he told you to do. It was how you survived.

You drag the door of the container open, grunting as the heavy metal fights back. It's a makeshift prison cell, one that was supposed to be filled with live bait for the walkers. It would be if it weren't for Daryl. He was almost single-handedly dismantling whatever fucked up enterprise you'd both stumbled upon.

One of them reaches you before you'd manage to push the gate open enough to slip through.

One is fine. You can handle one.

Turning around to deal with it gives you a split second to check in on Daryl. He's making a dent in the mass of bodies, but it's not enough. Not with the shouts of the living making their way closer.

You kick the walker you've knifed back into the mass of bodies approaching, giving you just enough time to slip through the crack you've made in the sliding door and slam it closed behind you.

Locking it is another story.

You have no hope of accomplishing that.

Still, it's enough for now. It's enough to let Daryl keep his focus where it needs to be as you deal with as many as you can through the bars.

Then one gets shot down. Daryl, is your first thought. But then two are shot down at once. And then the voices reach your ears. Voices are bad. Walkers you can handle. The living was another story. Nothing stoked the fear constantly simmers in your gut like the voices of the living.

They shout over each other, calling directions as they pick off the mass with a spray of bullets. You can't see Daryl anymore. He's either dead or hiding.

Hiding. Hiding. Hiding.

You shift back into one of the dark corners of the container as the shouts draw nearer.

“What the fuck happened?! Don't shoot them you dumb fucks! Get any you can back into holding!”

Any second now... any second they'd find Daryl and your world would end. The living were different. The living were monsters of a different kind.

"They're bunched up around this one!" someone shouts.

You hold your breath.

"Well check it out then!" another demands.

Oh, fuck. You grip your pistol. Your aim was decent. You could take one out, maybe two. But there's a whole group... and they were coming for you.

You scramble to the other far corner as the last of the walkers are cleared from the entrance, hoping to take advantage of the darkest shadows. Daryl would be watching... waiting. Any extra moment you could give him could be vital.

"You better come out now," a man calls from outside. He's just out of your sights, prepared for you to be armed and ready to fight. You'd hoped to have the element of surprise. "I ain't asking."

You know what'll happened when they find you. It's the same thing each time. You're prey to people like these—something to hunt in a world without consequences for that kind of thing.

Your silence buys you less than a minute before the first of them are dragging the metal gate open. If you shoot, they'll shoot back. It's not something you'll survive cornered like this. So you bet on them being the same as the rest. You let them know you're prey.

"Please," you call, as meek and afraid as you can manage—vulnerable. Not a threat. "I'm—I'm unarmed."

Then a bright light blinds you.

"What the fuck?" one of them exclaims. Then, "Where'd the fuck this little thing come from?"

There it was. Little. Thing. You were nothing. You're not a threat. You'd bought Daryl more time.

"Come on out, girl. Come on." They call you like you're a dog, something less than human. That's how they see you. Something to use.

You take a small step forward, still blinded by their flashlights. Daryl was alive. He was alive and hiding and he was waiting for something.

You just had to stay alive.

"What do you... want with me?" you ask, still taking tiny steps towards the light. Weak. Vulnerable. No threat.

You get muffled laughter in response. Guards down. Distracted.

"What do we want? We want a little fun, honey. That's all. Just a bit of fun."

They're flash lights drop as you approach the entrance. They've pulled the gate all the way across.

Five. You count five. If you kill two...

"Why is she alone?" one of them questions. He's younger, a little less distracted.

The rest ignore him. Then one of them has you by the arm, dragging you the rest of the way out of the makeshift cell. They're hands send a wave of repulsion through your body as they grab at you, pulling you around and shoving you in front of them. They may as well be the undead the way their touch feels against your skin.

The young one doesn't move out of the way when you reach him. Instead he stares into you, suspicious and angry. "Who are you with?" he asks. Even then, his gun is lowered. Even to him you aren't a threat.

"Get the fuck out of the way," the man gripping your arm says, clearly irritated and impatient.

"But—"

"Now."

His eyes narrow, but then he steps aside—his back pressed to the wall to let the rest of the men past. It's now that you get a look down into the pit of walkers, the one's they've managed to recapture rather than take out. They reach up towards you, hands grabbing for you.

Then, only a few steps later—you're stopped. The man with his hand wrapped around your elbow leans over your shoulder, his rancid breath invading your nostrils as he speaks. "You alone?" he asks. "You tell me right now."

You blink away the burn threatening to pool tears in your eyes. Were you alone? If you were...

The man's grip tightens, the only warning you get before you're forced to your knees and staring down into the pit of hungry walkers. "Speak," he demands, nails carving into your skin. "I'd hate to waste you like this."

There's two other men behind you. Three surrounding you in total. You could take one out for sure. They hadn't even searched you for weapons. They expected nothing out of you at all.

But then there'd be two, only counting the ones in reaching distance. How long would it take the other two further away to aim their guns in your direction?

You were dying tonight if Daryl was dead, that was certain. Your only hope was that he was waiting and watching... but what would he be waiting for...

Your pistol sits at your hip, a comfortable weight.

You take a deep breath. You could wait to die. Or fight now and hope that's the moment he's waiting for... if he's waiting at all.

The man holding you drops to one knee behind you. He leans over to speak in your ear. You wouldn't need to rely on your aim for the first kill, only any that followed. It was a headstart you weren't likely to get again. You reach for your pistol and before the man can open his lips and taint your senses with his rot once more, you shoot him through the underside of his jaw.

Your ears ring as his body drops. But you were ready. The men behind you aren't.

You were nothing. Prey.

The few seconds that affords you are priceless. You manage to shoot one more through the head before he can get hands on his own weapon.

The third is another story. His gun is pointed at you for what must be milliseconds. They drag though, those moments with an enemy weapon pointed at your head always do.

But then Daryl is there, strangling the man with a rifle and shoving his body into the ground with a force that reverberates through the metal. It's only when he snaps the man's neck you spot the bodies behind him.

He'd been waiting for you.

You watch him stand, hair hanging in his face and his chest rising and falling with his deep breaths.

Then his eyes are on you.

Then his hands.

Those hands... the same ones he'd used seconds earlier to break a man's neck. His fingers are feathers across your skin as he brushes the hair back off your face. "Okay?" he asks, soft and a little shaky.

You nod.

"You did good," he says, that deep gravel back in his voice. "So good, sweetheart." His hand makes a trail down to your neck, gentle and slow over your pulse point to rest at your clavicle. "We gotta go," he says. "Stay close for me, yeah?"

—————

The first time after is always the same—after you're forced to remember. It adds something to the way his gentle hands feel as he reaches over your hips to dip between your legs. To the way his body feels pressed up behind yours.

His thick fingers slip between your slick folds as he holds you tight against his chest. Heat. It's an overwhelming heat. He crowds you, practically curled around you.

"You like that sweetheart?" His voice is almost sweet as his lips graze your ears and his long hair tickles your skin. "Huh? You like that?"

You nod with a small whine, pressing your hips back into him—desperate.

He sighs, finger prodding over and over at your swollen entrance—a teasing little hint of what's to come. He dips in slightly, his calloused fingertip pressing into your slippery, spongy entrance just enough to have you whimpering his name.

"Fuck," he grunts. "You need me here? Huh? You all fuckin' empty?"

"Yeah," you whine with a desperate nod. "Empty."

His grip around your ribs tightens for a moment before he's pressing you into the ground—cushioned by the few blankets you carry. He's rolled you onto your belly as he covers you completely, his warmth seeping into your skin from his calves to his hot breath on your neck.

"What do you need?" he asks. As if he doesn't know; as if he didn't always know.

"You."

"Hm?" he hums, sweet and coaxing. "How?"

You reach blindly to find his wrist, gripping it firmly. "Hold me tight," you gasp between jagged breaths. "Please... Please."

His weight is heavy over you as he drops his lips to your neck, a silent acknowledgement of your pleas.

Then he's scooping you up, lifting you and rearranging you exactly the way you want him to. Because he fucking knows.

He has you pressed to his chest with your tits against his skin as he lays back into the makeshift bed you've created for the night. His arms wrap around you, one across your shoulder blades and the other around your waist—secure and firm. His fingers press sporadically into your skin a little more than needed, like he's testing his grip on you; like he's testing he has you in his arms good and tight.

Then he hooks one leg under yours, a gentle guide to part your legs just the way he needs.

"You ready for me, sweetheart?" he breathes against your temple as one of his hands leaves you. It's temporary, you remind yourself. He'd be wrapping you up securely as soon as he'd buried himself deep; once his cock was guided safely into your throbbing cunt.

You nip at his neck in response, chasing with a delicate lick at his salty skin. "Please," you ask softly.

Then he's adjusting you against him a little, ensuring you're exactly where he needs you to be. "I got you," he says as his leaking tip prods at your entrance. "Got you," he repeats. He mumbles this way as he teases; as he plays. This was what he did: pushed you to the brink of desperate sobs as he guides his cockhead over your slippery, throbbing cunt... over and over.... and over...

Saying he liked you needy was an understatement.

Then, eventually, he slips inside. Just the tip.. and not far. Just enough so that he can wrap his arms around you again. Just enough that he can have you whimpering his name as he prevents you grinding down to take him deep inside.

This is when he gives you a hint of his strength. It's easy to keep you from your goal, his strong arms pressing you into his torso a little harder each time you attempt to resist.

He keeps you there, just with a taste of that fullness—a taste of having him as close as it was possible to be. "Kiss," he says, simple and a little croaky.

You obey, pressing your desperation between his lips. It's messy and interrupted by moments where you simply need to breathe, heavily—his lips chasing yours as you attempt to catch your breath.

"Daryl," you gasp eventually. "Now. Please."

His grip around you tightens a little as you drop your face to his neck.

Then he pulls you down to meet his cock, to fuck himself deep. It's hard, exactly like you need it—exactly the way he knows you want it. You bite into his neck weakly as he keeps you there, stuffed full—the thick throbbing length of him stretching you out so completely.

Then, "Like that?" he asks, that sweetness back in his voice—like he's offering you a gentle back massage instead of holding you down on his cock.

You nod weakly in response.

His fingers press into your skin moments before he's moving, fucking himself with your cunt as he pulls you down to meet his messy thrusts. You're completely pliant like this, all control relinquished.

He's got you.

His breathing is quickly transformed into uneven pants as he attempts to grunt broken sentences into your ear. "Sucking me in... sucking at my cock with your messy little cunt... aren't you, baby? Hm?"

One of his hands moves to your hair occasionally, a temporary and seemingly subconscious attempt to get a better grip—or just to hold you closer. His fingers tangle in the strands, never tugging hard—never hurting.

"My girl," he grunts. "My needy little girl."

It's only when he's nearing his end that he flips you onto your back and you get a real display. He grips your hips and tugs you down to meet him as he uses you, each thrust a slapping of skin and punching a helpless sound from your lungs.

Strength. Everything you've been forced to remember.

"Daryl," you gasp. "Daryl, fill me. Please."

His fingers dig a little more into your skin, his hair falling over his eyes. Then his lips part, a grunt... a broken, "Fuck."

He falls over you as he floods you, his cock twitching and pumping you full—just like you asked. But even then, even as he loses himself, he catches his fall—arms landing either side of your head to cage you in. "Got you," he gasps out between desperate lung fulls of air. "I got you."

[xd-m1a]

I love how Norman just casually takes the HARDEST pics of himself. AND HE ALWAYS LOOKSBSO HOT INALL OF TJEM

[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.

[itsmeatballworld]

| been through hell and back |

pairing | daryl dixon x f!reader

summary | crazy things keep happening. When a series of terrifying events occur in Alexandria, you seek comfort from your friend, Daryl. 

wc | 2300

warning | trauma (season 6a), brief depictions of explosions, mentions of violence. Hurt-comfort with fluff!

a/n | this was supposed to just be fluffy? And it’s now a mixed bag of hurt/comfort and softness so… sorry? Or yay? And tysm to @ivuravix for being my beta reader *mwah* ilysm!!! <3

Spoilers for TWD—this mentions season 6 issues. 

When thunder roared and rain pounded against Alexandria's townhomes, you sat up in bed. Nestled under the sheets, watching the lightning flash in hot white streaks across the black sky, you could almost pretend life was normal. There were no dead, soulless creatures roaming behind the four-poster bed. Cotton sheets kept you comfortable instead of leaves and moss. 

And then you had a crazy idea to run outside and smell the rain. 

To run through the streets of Alexandria, bracing the winds and rain, and fall in love with the world again. But instead of the dramatics and soggy pajamas, you settled with sitting on the porch. The rain would smell the same from a dry, comfortable spot. 

Slipping on shoes and a robe, you headed to the front door and paused. There on the steps was your friend.

Angel wings. Beautiful yet torn, the tarnished wings spanned across his back. It was his favorite piece of clothing. He never left the house without it. You loved that vest but not as much as you loved the man wearing it. 

Hovering at the door frame, you contemplated going outside. Daryl Dixon had been your friend after joining Rick’s group at the Georgian prison. He was standoffish and reserved at first. He liked his personal space and quiet time. But after everything that happened, you became closer. Daryl being reserved and standoffish wasn’t who he was now. 

Daryl was sweet to you. He’d look for you in the crowd and make sure to say hi after returning from a run.He also loved to check in on you. The quick ‘you alright’ would slip from his lips just before closing your bedroom door. If everything was fine, he'd say good night. But if you weren't – Daryl wasted no time. He’d bring you into the kitchen and steal some of Carl’s stash of cookies and split them with you. 

All of these little close instances with Daryl have warped your perception of what you two really are to each other. Because you’ve fallen for him. A damn crush on your best friend…how cliche. And here on the porch, staring at those angel wings, a twisting feeling burned in your chest. So you had to ignore those feelings.

Daryl stared ahead, sitting on the staircase with his legs stretched out. Even though you didn’t want to disturb him, there was only one porch. 

“Hey.” 

He turned at the sound of your voice. The blue hue of his eyes seemed to brighten. 

“’Ey.”

“You’re still up.” You weren’t surprised.

He grunts, “smoke.” A beaten pack of cigarettes appears on command.

Daryl didn’t question why you were awake so late in the night. It wasn’t up for debate. He knew you well enough now to not question your actions. But that didn’t mean you weren’t going to tell him. 

When his eyes drifted over your face, you plopped down next to him on the covered stairs.

“I wanted to smell the rain.”

He mumbles, tapping the cigarette box. Each of them were bent or crinkled but he wasn't picky nowadays. He had an itch to scratch, a need that was invisible to the naked eye. You hated it, but it wasn't your call. Maybe one day cigarettes would cease to exist. But then you’d miss the smell of musk and tobacco that blended so blissfully on Daryl. 

But tonight you wanted to smell the rain.

“Don’t light that yet.” The lighter snaps open. “Please?”

On cue, his lighter slips back into his pocket. 

You inhale, “thank you.”

He nudged you playfully. “Mhm.”

You sink closer to the broody man. He stiffened for a second, but relaxed as your cheek rested against his shoulder.

The humidity died down, giving this storm the perfect amount of cool temperatures and heavy chilling downpours. The rain had begun to flood the grass, pooling at the sidewalk’s edges. Small patches of flowers planted in the front sank deeper into the saturated ground. Red and pink petals flaked around the plant aimlessly.

Even though you were a bit groggy, you couldn’t stop yourself from talking to him. “Did you know I'd come outside?”

He paused. Daryl’s head dipped as he stared down at you. His eyes flickered across your face with an odd softness he rarely shows. “...always do,” a sigh escapes his lips. 

“So you waited for me. Huh. You waited for me.” Closing your eyes, all you could hear was the rain. “Admit it, Dixon.”

Daryl’s chest rumbles under your cheek as he laughs. Leaning a bit more into you, he kept his voice low. “I ain’t admittin’ shit.”

“Mhm. Sure.” Adjusting your seat, you twist so your back is pressed close to his front. His arms wrap around your midsection and he pulls you in tighter. 

Maybe it was nothing or maybe it was something. But being this close to him was making it hard to ignore how much you cared for him.

“You waited for me.”

He stays quiet. 

His chin drops to the top of your head. 

The rain sings louder.

You grin.

“Wait. I’m not gonna kill you…” He paused, twisting his gun between his fingers. The man glanced down to the paved road as a manic smile washed over his face. “You know what? Yes I am–”

There was an explosion. Fire and smoke billowed from the earth-shattering sound. Parts of machinery and bodies were scattered in every direction. You gawked at the chaos, dragging yourself to your feet. 

Sasha was talking. You saw her mouth moving but the words were so muffled. No, it was like the words were ringing. You rubbed your ears to no avail. 

All of your people were still here. You double checked, making sure to stare long and hard at each of them. Abraham stood tall and unfazed. Sasha brushed off some dirt from her jeans. Daryl emerged from the truck's side, unbothered, holding a massive grenade gun. Instinctively, you reached him and grabbed his elbow. He didn’t push back as you wrapped around his arm tightly. Instead, he pulled you farther from the blazing mess. 

“Let’s go,” you begged. “We need to go.”

But there was so much smoke–

Your eyes sprung open. Sheets wrapped around your legs like rope, twisting you in a maze of fabric. Sweat dripped down your back as the memories from before burned into your brain. You wished everything that happened in your dream was wrong—but it wasn’t. 

The storm loosened sand and dirt which made the quarry filled with walkers collapse faster than planned. Rick had to act quick and adjust, meaning you all had to move fast. 

You had your orders: ride along with Daryl, Sasha and Abraham for backup. But then everyone was separated. And when you all finally made it back to each other, these random people with guns tried to steal your things. All for a man named “Negan”. 

Then the first explosion happened. 

You thought what happened to you was all the damage your friends’ experienced. But when you got home, it was clear this was far from over. Walkers broke past those tall steel walls. The destruction at home seemed irreversible. People were dead or dying. 

The hours that followed were unimaginable. With everyone’s help and another explosive device, the dead were finally dead. All that remained was a blazing fire from the lake and corpses scattered across the pavement.

When the dust finally settled, and the survivors waded through the aftermath, you couldn’t do much of anything. It was like your brain was stuck in an endless loop. 

We were safe. We weren't safe. We were safe. We weren't safe. We’re not safe here. 

Now, days later, you’re still unsure of what comes next. 

You fought off the sheets, kicking until they collapsed to the hardwood floors. Your ears were still ringing. It had been weeks but smoke still lingered in the air as it clung to your hair and skin like tar. You needed fresh air. You needed to get out of here. 

As you passed the bedroom window on your way downstairs, it was raining again. 

There was only one place you were going. 

“You alright?”

“It’s raining.” Your voice was barely coherent. 

“Yeah.” His heavy boots stopped behind you. “Come back inside.”

“Just…just one more minute.”

The staircase was cold against your skin. Not bothering with a robe or something clean, you stumbled out onto the porch in your sweaty clothes.

The rain must have started late. It wasn't heavy yet, but rather a light mist that coated everything in sight. The pavement was darker than you remembered. 

Maybe that’s from all the blood. 

You blinked at the splotches in the sidewalk, wishing they’d just wash away. Wash away the memories of what happened here. 

Those ‘w’ people… the gun wielding strangers… then the herd of walkers. So many people died.

“We could have died. Right?” A tight squeezing pressure rattled through your chest, and before you knew it, you were crying.

Daryl didn't say a word. He just slipped down to your spot, leaning close to you. You let out an exhale as the choking sob took over again. He’s here, right here.

He clenched his fist.

“You could have died,” the words were sour on your tongue. Everything hurt and felt so unfair. Why did this have to happen? Why did our safety and comfort get ripped away from us again?

“I could have lost you.”

His attention snapped to you. And just like that the confusion of these past few weeks disappeared. Heartache filled its place.

“I’m right here,” he whispered.

His hand shifted closer. Still barely touching, but close enough to feel his warmth.

You watched him with glassy eyes. He was still bruised and exhausted yet he was still comforting you. 

The light rain was teeming now as another storm was passing again.

You wiped at the tears spilling down your face. But it was useless. The tears stung, fuck, they burned. You started weeping, and no matter what you wanted to do, this pain wouldn’t go away.

“I don't know what I would've done if you–”

Daryl leaned closer, “‘ey.” 

But you couldn't look at him anymore. It was killing you that he had to see you like this. 

“Y-you should go to bed. I’ll be fine. I should leave you alone anyway.” 

“Don’t,” his voice softened as his large hand encompassed yours. “Come ‘ere.” He pulled, gently tucking you under his arm and into his warm embrace. 

Then his arm dipped and wrapped around your waist. You didn’t realize you were up until the sound of rain became muffled. He brought you back inside, back into your bedroom. 

In the dark, a bright flash of lightning illuminated the room. 

Shit. The room was a mess. Pillows and sheets were tossed in every direction but the bed. 

He lowered you down to the mattress. “Look at me. You’re safe.”

A blanket fell across your shoulders as the mattress sank next to you. His arms wrapped around you once more. It felt normal having him pressed against your side. Like it should have always been like this. You and him, tangled in each other’s warm embrace.

“You’re still here with me. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“Promise?” 

Daryl rested his chin atop your head. “I promise.”

Sitting in the silence, you both held each other. Between the flashes of lightning and rolling thunder, you lie tangled in each other’s embrace. His arms were better than the blanket but you didn’t want to say that. You couldn’t ruin this. 

Your cheek rested against his shoulder. Daryl tightened his hold on you. 

“Get some sleep.” 

You heard him but his arms never loosened. There was a moment where you thought about asking him to stay. It was stupid, but there was something lingering between you. Don’t ruin this, you thought.

With a nod, you wiped the drying tears one last time.

As you inched away, Daryl relaxed his grip. 

But his eyes hovered just above yours. Locked in an endless gaze, he studied your face in the darkness. It must have been the shadows and the bolts of light playing tricks on you. But for a second, his eyes softened. His lips parted. 

Callous fingers brushed your skin, falling to the nape of your neck. 

His mouth hovered above yours. Neither of you moved. It was like a strange force was pulling you together–begging for you to touch him, to feel something other than this ache in your chest. 

You raised your hand to his cheek. The tips of your fingers glide across his skin.

“You could stay tonight.” 

“Yeah?”

“I’d like that,” you murmured. “If you stayed with me.”

He didn't speak. Thunder rumbled off in the distance. Daryl’s fingers pressed a bit harder against your neck before cradling your face in his palm. Bright blue eyes flicker around your face like he was memorizing the parts that make you… you.

It was like that force drawing you in finally snapped. The friendship and closeness you’ve had was all a front for how much you loved him. And by the way his lips were just brushing against you, the feeling was mutual.

You kissed him. It was tentative and soft at first, like he was afraid to commit. But within seconds that changed. One after another, your lips push and pull like a sweet dance.

There was something so endless in the way he kissed you. The world could explode and you’d still feel him on your skin. 

His kisses were fire, burning so deep and so pure. And you melted into his touch.

You’re okay. 

As his lips pulled back, they came crashing down again. And again.

The pain didn’t vanish. It would never be that simple. But being with Daryl softened its harsh edges, giving a chance to breathe the fresh air.

Lightning shot across the night sky.

His lips caught yours once again.

><<>><

><<>><

a/n 2.0 | *mwah* hope you liked it <3

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

I don’t hate you

When - 40ish minutes after The first Christmas ‘without,’ Part 2. You were unable to successfully nap. And the turkey is still not ready to eat, but there are cookies!

What - there are cookies!, skimming stones, yearning, forgiveness (working on it), reconciliation, healing, found-family and a slow burn Daryl x You at Christmastime, y’all. You spend time with Rick to remind yourself that you don’t hate him.

Genre - found family fluff and slow burning

Perspective - You 2nd person, Daryl 3rd Person

Pronouns - neutral they/them

TWs? - some language, some anger, and Carl looks at mushrooms growing on a tree stump eww

Which stories should I have read first? - A fu--in’ great Christmas, The first Christmas ‘without’ Part 1 and 2. Like a traditional Sunday dinner will help you know what they’re talking about while y’all are eating cookies. There’s reference to souls stripped bare.  Then, read every other chapter!

How much time will I need to read it, troublemaker? - 25 minutes? It depends :D

Do you have a Masterlist? - there are two for The Slowpoke Series, the main one here in publishing order (recommended), and this one here in chronological order if you prefer!

      40ish minutes later

Him

............................

“Who got the most?”

Y/N turns from their spot on the ground facing the lake and subtly does that hand gesture thing that means they were finishing up a prayer. “Beth, then Glenn, Mags and me tied for third, Carl came in fourth. Oh, and Glenn was trying to convince us to do a chicken swim at some point while we’re here.”

He hums, smiles (on the inside) at the memory, then wonders how would he have done if he joined the rock-skipping contest?

You know what, why wonder? He’s gonna try skimming stones right now.

“Careful about gettin’ too close to me, Daryl, I’m almost done eating a spoonful of peanut butter.” They hold up the spoon with the extra long handle and wave it a little in warning.

“Nasty.”

Y/N shakes their head and winks. “Delicious.”

Confused at himself as to why he suddenly feels shy, he picks up a smooth-ish rock and looks sideways at his friend and tries to digest all the damn butterflies in his stomach. “Shoulder still good after pelting rocks?”

They nod and take the spoon out of their mouth to confirm, “Very. Not to brag, but I haven’t grieved it up in a over a month.”

He rounds his arm, throws—aw, shit, the only thing it did was go ploosh. Well, that was embarrassing, fuck.

“That was the warm-up, try again,” Y/N chuckles.

He grabs another, flings it.

Ha, that’s right! Three skips, motherfucker!

Take that, you fucking lake.

As his friend bursts out laughing, he becomes aware that he said the lake thing out loud.

Cheeks flaming up like a burner on a gas stove, he holds back a snort and deadpans, “I’m here to entertain,” as he reaches down to find another rock that was flat enough for skipping. He peeks behind him. “Gonna join?”

A pretend whine detailing how they “just got comfy, exceptin’ the fact that my butt is an ice pop,” comes before they stand up and grab a stone of their own. With a twist to the side to fling their rock onto the lake, they naturally mimic his “‘Take that, ya fuckin’ lake,’” as they throw. Their rock makes two big skips and one little one.

That they’re smiling makes him smile. He wonders if they saw him smiling like an idiot when they waved at him from over on the rock when they were sitting with Glenn. He then wonders if they were smiling back…

His turn, so he hurls another one out there and gets—four skips? Hell yeah!

“Four? Nice!” they praise. Already prepped with another rock, they take their turn and toss out there, getting two short hops. With a shrug and a smile, they tell him, “You could give Rick a run for his money, he’s good at this.” Y/N then wipes the dirt off their fingers and looks out at the water, tucking their hands under their scarf to warm up. “Did you notice that asshole’s ambidextrous?”

Which came out…not at all how they sound when they’re joking around. “You feelin’ any better than before?”

There’s a longer pause before they respond, “Y-yeah, I think so.”

“Quarter.”

Y/N makes a little huff and, sorry, that shit still makes Daryl smile on the inside. He unbuttons the pocket of his coat and pulls out his new nicotine gum. Let’s see if the stuff works… “Want me to kick his ass for ya?” he grunts (as a joke), poking out a piece from the foil packet.

Y/N lightly elbows him. Their eyes look brighter. “One of these days I might could say yes—you’d best be mindful of those offers, sunshine.”

He pops the gum into his mouth and shrugs. “I can kick his ass, no problem.”

“Ain’t saying you can’t.” Good, they’re close to giggling, he can tell.

“That ambidextrous thing, though,” he mumbles, “that coulda complicated stuff, thanks for the heads up.”

“Nah, Shane always bested him, you’d do fine.”

“Shane bested me, too, so, I dunno.” He chews the gum and few times and adds, “So did you, for that matter. You even fought T-Dog off unt—”

—ohhh shit. Okay, that was intended as an honest observation, the way they’d been able to fend off more than one person like that was badass and impressive as fuck, but reminding them of that night was brainless as fuck. The imaginary knee that hasn’t kicked his balls in something like two months shows up and knees him good.

That night, most of the group, in one way or another, had helped to either take Y/N’s weapons away, physically restrain them, or talk ’em down.

Then they’d left, which was huge for them. Huge for everyone. It didn’t last long, he’s damn grateful for it, like, they’d even told Carl it was temporary. But still. Them leaving ‘their’ Carl was big.

And he gets one final knee to his danglers when his friend makes light of it. “But together, y’all conquered, and a good time was had by all.”

Always with the making light, this one, even when they’re clearly trying to swallow so they don’t cry, and smiling even though it’s not fooling anyone. Such as right this damn minute. Well done, Daryl.

He can’t seem to grab the right words to smack into a sentence, what’s the protocol for this?

Also, why are they smiling at him? And pointing a spoon at him?

“Uh-oh, dude, if you’re fixing to get all awkward and apologetic or uncomfortable around me, I’ll go scoop more peanut butter onto this spoon and chase you with it.”

Hands up in surrender, he catches himself cracking up. “I’ll go get the jar right now, slowpoke, where’s it at?”

With another head shake and a giggle, they lightly cup their hand on his upper arm. “Alright, s’go back, Dary-bear. Carol, T-Dog and Beth were making a surprise, let’s see if it’s ready yet.”

............................

You

............................

New baking secret learned today: baking cookies on a piece of tinfoil on top of a woodstove is somewhat tricky and requires flipping, however, it makes the room smell heavenly! They weren’t ready when you and Daryl poked your heads in, but after you and Lori came back from doing laundry, the water department building was toasty warm and smelled like a bakery.

Another secret you learned about two hours ago, unrelated to baking, is to not forget to push the front seats back when napping in the truck. This way, when you roll over in your sleep, you don’t fall into the wedge between the backseat and the floor; your nap was very short (nonexistant), and the mp3 ran out of charge anyway.

Back to the cookies, they were made with farina, corn starch, applesauce from those little sealed cups, some of the sugar rations, other stuff. You started bouncing as soon as you took your first bite. You’re still bouncing at your spot by the window where you’re doing your shoulder PT while nibbling on one.

Lori is cranking up the little rainproof crank radio with the plugs and charging ports (and flashlight!) in it. It’s got a little solar arm out to speed up the process, but all told, it’s not very efficient.

And there’s no turkey ready for consumption just yet, but there are cookies.

“Lore, want another?”

“I want more than just another,” she muses under her breath. “I’m gonna stick with the two I already ate. I might take a walk around the lake to get way from them, in fact,” she laughs. “The mp3 is almost at four bars.”

The nod you make in response that the music player is almost ready doesn’t match the uneasy look on your face. You can feel your facial muscles not cooperating to make you look relaxed and chill.

Best change the subject: “It is Christmas Day, it’s a requirement to eat too many cookies. Besides, you can relax the willpower a little when you’ve got a baby in there. Oh! I’m gonna find the Frog and Toad story about the cookies and read it to your belly!” you babble.

Her hand briefly rubs along her very tiny bump. Crazy that she was able to feel them moving two or three weeks ago, it was so early! “People are already beginning to…” she pauses, then shifts closer to you. “You know how Hershel doesn’t want to be treated as delicate? How you don’t like needing help or admitting when you need to take it easy?”

“That’s never happened ever,” you deadpan, which makes her smile.

“As the months go on, I’m going to need more help, and, and attention, whether I want it or not. So before that, I-I don’t want to accept any special treatment. You understand.”

Munch, munch, munch. You chew slowly in an attempt to make a point. “It’s a cookie.”

“No special treatment. And I’m just so…” Her eyes shut for a moment. She opens them and looks embarrassed. “Oh, Y/N, I’m just so hungry,” she softly confesses. “All the time. At the house, there was an old box of baking soda in the closet.” She opens her eyes and appears embarrassed. “I almost tossed it into the toilet to stop myself from eating it. I had to give it to Carol. That’s what I’ve started craving, it’s — anyway, I’m pretty certain I’ll lose it and pig out in front of everyone one of these days. And we’ve already been far too,” a pause to find the right word, “humbled enough around each other.”

“And she draws the line at eatin’ a third cookie, ladies and gentleman,” you poke fun while pausing your PT to book it over to the med bag for the vitamin supplements. Lori tends to get nauseated when she takes them, but craving baking soda, something non-nutritive? An extra vitamin can’t hurt. “Just a sec, that’s the cute name for this new cookie recipe. Why, we should oughta make ‘special treatments’ every Christmas henceforth!”

“Yo, why are we saying ‘henceforth?’” Glenn calls over with his mouth full.

“I named the cookie special treatments and said we’ll have to make ’em every Christmas henceforth.”

“What does that even mean? That name sucks, dude.”

True. Rude. “Well, what grand name do you got?”

“The ‘water departments.’”

“Eesh, y’all stink at names,” is all T-Dog will deign to say as he paces around doing a little food dance of his own while he savors every bite. “How about: the ‘apocalyptic masterpi’—nah, that won’t work, this ain’t the Apocalypse, it was just an outbreak of a novel or mutated disease, most likely a viral one,” he narrates to himself. That’s what all the news stations had been reporting before they went out. Dr. Jenner had seemed to echo that hypothesis, you guess.

Maggie starts chuckling to herself over “The water treatments, is that a better name?”

“The, um, special departments…” is Beth’s contribution, and the lengthy “special water department treatments,” is what Carl giggles from the floor where he and Beth are laying, staring at out the window while they indoor cloud-watch.

“The water department specials?” Lori offers, accepting the vitamins from you and quickly taking them down with some leftover coffee.

In terms of the other choices, that was pretty solid. Sounds more like a civic tax discount, but, “Yeah, I’d eat those.”

Glenn’s grinning wide. “Now we have something to serve with our trademarked drink.”

Trademarked drink? “Hold up, you mean ‘The CDC?’ Or did we go with the ‘Dr. Jenn—no, not that name, I’m deletin’ it,” you mutter.

Glenn hesitates, “‘The CDC’ is an okay name.”

“I guess,” you start to think, but catch eyes with T-Dog. “Teddy, you remember how Glenn drained his so quick?”

“And all that wine, and how he felt the following morning, yes I do.”

Maggie starts laughing. She’s heard the story quite a few times. You grin at her as you lean against the windowsill by Lori and say, “How about we rename the drink ‘The Glenn?’ That sounds cool.”

The namesake seems cool with it. “Oh heck yes! You know why that name sounds cool?”

“’Cause he is the coolest,” you drawl, as cheerful as you’d felt this morning when you all prepped for making sure Christmas would still feel relatively normal, especially for Carl.

The cheerfulness goes *poof* when you hear Lori calmly tell you in your ear, “It’s charged up, honey.”

You turn.

Look.

She’s holding out the mp3 player and new(ish) earbuds you just been gifted.

To explain: back closer to when it happened, it was how she’d help you to spend time with Rick, how you could stay calm but still reestablish your bond with him. That’s why you brought it up to him earlier, you’d figured it was a good idea…

Lori also knows that during that big fight with Glenn you’d had about a month back, when he name-called you ‘Nurse Ratched,’ you’d taken that very personally. It hit as if he were saying you’d lost yourself the way Shane had, like your conscience had become deformed. Whenever you fight with Glenn about Hershel, you kinda might could still be scared that others see you as a cruel, unfeeling ticking time-bomb.

Back to your music-listening with Rick, a plus was that it gave you full leave to get some of your aggression out via (playfully?) insulting his taste in rockabilly.

Your eldest sister had just about every genre on her old mp3 she gave you; hard rock, screamer, Motown, Gregorian chants, big band, P&W, R&B, Bollywood, reggae, classical, musicals, pop, Latin, Korean—you name it, she had it. She also added music and made playlists for friends and family. Including rockabilly for her good friend’s husband/stepbrother’s best friend.

Which isn’t so bad, it’s just mildly entertaining how into it Rick is compared to stuff like Zeppelin or Jimi or Cash. In his defense, he can’t help but bounce along to Britney, though.

Right, you have to answer Lori, don’t you?

“I don’t want to” is what untactfully hops out of your mouth. You were supposed to be subtle about it, Y/N.

“Honey.”

“I’m meant, um, I’m good now. I don’t need to.” It’s too late, stop trying.

“Maybe he needs you to,” she gently hints.

Needs you to? Did Rick—Rick noticed that you’d gotten angry about him again, didn’t he? That asshole always notices.

“Lori, he’s the resident atheist, he’s not gonna wanna sit though me playin’ Christmas carols, anyways, you know how he gets about God stuff.”

She still holds out the music player.

Fine. Mindful that you are on the grumpy side after your failed attempt at a nap, you accept the mp3 from her hand and put your hat back on. But before you bust out there to listen to music with (say it, Y/N) your brother, you first call out the door, “Daryl, can I have my coat back?”

As much as you don’t want to take off Daryl’s poncho, you’d like your other, deceased brother’s coat back on.

Either to remind Rick of him or because you feel more grounded in that old coat because it still smells like Shane and home a little bit, you aren’t clear.

............................

      1 minute later

............................

Daryl’s letting you keep the poncho on, he says he’s comfortable in just his leather jacket for now. In thanks, you impulsively took your scarf off and flopped it around his neck (you were worried that he’d get cold in just the jacket. It’s darned chilly out.)

You feel better that you can keep his poncho on. Safer, you guess.

Is that silly? It’s not like it’s armor. 

And why would you need armor in the first place?

............................

Him

............................

He figured he could keep watch while he and Maggie were about to start guard duty, anyway. It was regular guard duty, by the way; the group stopped being on edge about Y/N being unaccompanied around Rick the second week after their brother was killed, it hadn’t taken long.

And it’s not like he’s gonna stand over them, he’ll just be nearby. No big deal. He’s just — it’s not the weird, nice feeling in his chest this time exactly, it’s more of that damn invisible string thing happening again. When it happens, it feels right to be a little closer to Y/N, make sure they’re safe, he guesses. And seeing them wearing his clothes makes him wanna stand taller, so he turned down his poncho even though he’s kinda cold.

Right, um, anyway, walkers had a way of sneaking up on people, never mind that other living people could be a way bigger threat to his two distracted friends listening to music and staring out at the lake. So, he’ll keep an eye on them.

There are some bolts he needs to sterilize and sharpen, anyway.

............................

     1 more minute later

You

............................

Sleeping bag in hand so your butts won’t get too cold, you silently walk with Rick around the edge of the lake as to be in view of the little building. You get to the water’s edge and flop the sleeping bag on the mossy part near the bank. The water’s frozen over just a bit.

Through your yawn, you state, “You get one Ronnie Dawson song and Yakety Yak, then it’s carols, Rick.”

He catches your yawn and stretches as he replies, “Sounds good.”

You both sit and silently look out at the water. But it’s in your periphery that you notice you aren’t quite alone. With a glance first at Rick, you turn and stare openly for a moment because you’re slightly annoyed.

Is he the babysitter or something? That he’s whittling the points of his bolts isn’t fooling you.

Murmuring to Rick in a light, self-deprecating tease, “Daryl’s our warden this time,” you hold out one earbud for him and gesture toward where your favorite redneck is loitering.

“It’s not like that,” Rick murmurs back.

What you’d probably describe as a knowing smile spreads across your face. “Is it not?”

“No.”

You nudge him softly with your arm as what anger remains inside you is carried off in the breeze. “Not even a little, though?”

“Go on, troublemaker, let’s listen to some music,” he ribs in response. “And believe it or not, I wouldn’t mind carols. It’s been a fuckin’ great Christmas.”

Your mouth falls open because, first off, Rick doesn’t cuss. Second off (is that a term?), that’s the exact phrase Daryl said earlier. Your cheeks heat again and you’re smiling like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “Did my punk repeat something he should oughtn’t have?”

His eyes crinkle and he chuckles, “I ‘might could’ have overheard you and Daryl with him around the fire earlier.”

“Well, now your son is one quarter richer.”

“We’ll have to put it in the bank, save it up for college.”

Once he’s got the earbud in his ear and he gets comfortable, you click play. It’s the live version of one of his favorites. The opening lyrics “Gimme the downbeat, maestro!” bleat out, and, per usual, Rick cannot help but jive along (and snap off-rhythm). It’s very cute.

He mouths along with the lyrics, too, knows them all. Two and a half minutes later, you feel up to joining him in singing along to final words, “Hear me? Whoa! Action packed!”

The next song is equally bouncy and old, so much that you drowsily check to see if your boots turned into saddle shoes.

Your fatigue is briefly overcome when ‘Toxic’ starts to play. Rick snorts and starts to giggle like a little kid while you mouth every lyric (you don’t actually know the exact lyrics, just what they sound like, you feel?) and grooving along to the tempo. His off-rhythm snapping comes back with a vengeance until the song ends.

The Christmas carols finally start after, and your sleepiness returns and goes into overdrive. You lean against the rock behind you. Rick does, too. The sun is shining enough to keep you cozy, the music is softer.

Ricks yawns and stretches again. When the instrumental version of Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel plays, your eyelids are sinking…

............................

Him

............................

Are they both asleep?

Shit, look at that. Both just snoozing, like, right there.

How long’ve they been like that? Damn, it’s a good thing he’s out here keeping watch—keeping watch in general, not specifically on them.

But yeah, might as well let them cop some Z’s.

............................

    ? minutes later?

You

............................

A familiar tune that you haven’t heard in over three months stirs you very awake. You’ve been avoiding it on purpose, why is it playing? Make it stop, make it stop, make it st—

—You pull the earbud out and sit up with a sharp inhale.

“Kiddo, you okay?” He only uses ‘kiddo,’ when he’s feeling protective.

“Yeah, um, ain’t nothing, it, it j-just got to be too much noise,” you make up on the spot. It sounded casual enough, right? You blink the grogginess away and blindly stare at the clouds as you rest your arms on your knees.

“I saw you were still out, figured that one would help you stay asleep. Your family’s song.”

“You’d think we was making commission, how often Mama or the girls or Shane played it over the years.”

“Shane listened to that song for everything. Insomnia, break-ups, failed tests, rough calls, arrests he didn’t feel right about. In fact he,” his voice gets softer. “He played that song almost nonstop, absolutely nothing else other than that for three whole weeks after your dad passed.”

“Mama replayed her Boyz 2 Men cassette durin’ that.” You were very young when that happened, but that’s the most vivid memory you have. That and the smell of all the casseroles neighbors and such brought over.

“I still remember the streaky sounds the CD player would make when he’d hit the back button. It was something, he ended up not being able to stand the song for four months after.”

“Imagine that,” you mumble. You’ve got the ‘22’ pendant between your fingers again. “Well, Shane was a drama-king,” you joke.  

“In his defense, so am I,” Rick almost sounds nervous to joke back.

“At least you’re more Shakespearean than he was. Stronger moral backbone, too.” Fuck it, you’ll speak honestly. You loved him, you would’ve killed and would’ve been killed for him, and you pray that he’s resting in peace, but you know what Shane’s faults were.

“Shakespearean?” Rick repeats.

“Yeah, Shane sounded like a hillbilly compared to you, the way you always talk good and give speeches.”

A groan follows you comment about ‘speeches,’ but then he gets a mischievous look on his face. “I talk ‘good?’”

Aw man, you walked straight into that one. Your mildly British accent comes back out. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, I meant to say that you speak well.”

He gets brave enough to use Shane’s old nickname for you. “Weirdo.”

You don’t mind, you gave him an old nickname, too. “Pork-chop.”

The quiet tinkling of the pendant’s loop running over the small links in the chain as you pull it back and forth, back and forth, fills the silence that follows. It’s an okay silence, too. You’re glad that Lori convinced you to do this today, you think, as you snuggle deeper into your coat and inhale deeply—wait.

You sniff again.

Again.

Your stomach drops to the ground.

Crap. “D-did Daryl smoke in this?”

“Barely. You know how he’s been doing short little spurts, less than a minute. Hey, Y/N, why are you taking the jacket off? It’s cold out.”

“Just checkin’ something.” The chill doesn’t bother you as you press the collar to your nose and sniff. Cigarettes. Daryl. Wood-smoke.

You try sniffing the back of the collar. Daryl. Wood-smoke.

You check the shoulders. Wood-smoke.

Finally, when you try lower down on the coat, you relax and hug it in relief.

Shane’s scent isn’t all gone yet, neither is the faintest hint of Mama’s perfume that would always linger on things she wore.

A few tears well up and flow out as you feel your pulse going down.

“Does it still smell like him?” Rick wonders very quietly.

“Mmhm,” you mumble, your cheek resting against the soft, fluffy, very worn lining. You bury your face in the fluff and breathe in again.

“Y/N, I wish th—” he stops abruptly and doesn’t finish his thought.

There’s a lump in your throat you try to swallow away.

The sounds of geese flying overhead fill the air. A gentle, cold breeze picks up and you could swear you get a whiff of peanut butter. You start to feel cold again.

From the little building, laughter reaches your ears. Carl, Beth, Glenn. Lori and T-Dog’s voices you think you hear, too.

“Wanna wear it for a while, Ricky? It’s a good coat,” leaves your mouth.

He doesn’t seem to know how/what to reply, so you decide for him and hand it over. Doing that thing where someone looks at another but not in their eyes, he unzips his coat and trades with you.

Oo, his jacket is warm! You begin to unzip the hoodie you have on, quickly remove the poncho underneath, then just as fast zip your hoodie back on and bundle into Rick’s coat before all the body warmth on it disappears in the wintry chill.

His coat also has a fuzzy lining around the neck so you rub your cheek on it. You can imagine Daryl asking “What are ya, a cat?” and it makes you grin.

Rick’s got the music player in his hand, but you see him peering at you — in the eyes, this time. “Why did you switch coats with him today?”

You’re mid-shrug when you notice how you’re hugging the poncho to yourself like a blankie. “I was shiverin’ this morning and he offered.”

“That was kind of him.” It’s unclear to you whether or not he’s teasing you about it (he never has), but either way, this is good. You’re really glad you’re doing this.

“It was,” you answer simply, feeling at peace.

“So, what are we listening to next? I’ll put carols back on?”

“Can you replay the song, Rick?”

“The Zeppelin one?”

You nod. “You can pick which version.”

“Um, sure, of cour—sorry, there are versions?”

“She uploaded the remastered version, the mandolin cover, a live recording from YouTube.”

The poncho, you finally pull back over your head and wear it properly this time, over everything else instead of under. “I feel like an old-timey gunslinger in this.”

With a quiet chuckle, Rick nods. He click, click, clicks through the mp3 for the song. “Of course she made a playlist of only this one.”

A smile forms on your lips. Yeah, your eldest sister made a playlist of only Going to California, with three versions in a row repeated three times. It was for (her step)Mama and (stepbrother) Shane.

He hands you the earbud you’d torn off. You thank him and place it back into your right ear.

The gentle strumming of the guitar starts to play.

Clouds pass overhead as the song washes over you. Three months, you haven’t listened to it. Barely touched Zeppelin entirely, Shane enjoyed them too much.

The mandolin soon joins the guitar’s pretty, soft melody. You don’t feel sick to your stomach this time.

Robert Plant’s voice begins to sing those silly, nonsensical lyrics. Man, you’ve missed this song.

You hear Rick make a shaky inhale, so turn to look. He’s all bleary-eyed, same as you.

“I don’t know why, but something about the tune gets me going,” he hushes.

A sob forms in your throat, so you nudge him with your foot and tease, “Drama-king.” You scoot closer to him. He scoots closer to you.

“Are we okay?” you hear him ask.

“’Course we are. We have been. It was just the holiday gettin’ to me earlier.” And you aren’t just saying it, you mean it. “We’re family.”

Rick swallows and rubs the scruff on his jaw. His eyes are now completely bloodshot. “So was he,” he whispers.

The sob moved up when you heard him repeat the exact three words you’d said to him that bad, bad night. Four simple phrases, nothing fancy or profoundly heartbreaking. But the first one, “So was he,” you dunno, but it hit him like kryptonite, so you learned.

Like, obviously there’s more to it, but no, you’re not gonna delve back down; what’s done is done.

Forgiveness, in it’s fullest sense (which means your anger has gotta go) is something you’re working on, therefore accepting the past and not living in it is important. And for Rick, your brother, he’s in desperate need of forgiving himself.

Though, because of that night, instead of saying ‘I love you,’ as true as those words are, when things are hard, you have a temporary, different way of wording them with him…

“Rick? I don’t hate you.” It’s a false equivalent, you know, but it’s what needs to be used as the translation for the time being

His breath hitches. Rick turns his head away and tugs at his hair for a moment before turning back. “Y/N? I don’t hate you, either.”

You wipe your eyes and say it again. “I don’t hate you at all.”

He smiles a little while staring at the lake. “Good, ’cause I don’t hate you at all, either.”

............................

Him

............................

Nice, they’re sitting close. Good sign. And good cookie, hot damn. Carol snuck some more out and was sharing them. “Thanks for not makin’ them peanut butter,” he remembers to tell her. Shit, a crumb fell out of his mouth when he said that. Damn.

“They would’ve come out so much better if we did, pookie, just letting you know.”

“Yeah, T-Dog reminded me.”

“He’s, um…” What’s she smiling all shy about? “He’s actually making peanut butter ones outside over the fire right now.”

He turns to look. Oh yeah, check it out. T-Dog’s got the flat pan thing balanced over the makeshift grill. “Nasty.”

“Better stay downwind,” is her suggestion. She’s smirking only a little.

He did not expect to become such good friends with Carol, of all people, but he’s real happy it turned out this way. Definitely didn’t expect to become friends with T-Dog, neither. Hell, at first, he couldn’t imagine becoming friends and getting close enough for that damn invisible string to tug every so often with Y/N.

Didn’t expect to stay with or get close to any of the people here, to be honest. It was the last idea in his head that he was gonna stay, and that they’d want him to stick around.

“Would you like another, Daryl?”

“Hell yeah.”

She pulls out a napkin-wrapped small bundle from her coat pocket and hands him two more. He shoves a whole one in his mouth, it’s so damn nice to have a fresh cookie.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Baby Spice Beth by the fire, waving to them from beside T-Dog as he calls over, “Carol! I think it’s go-time for our turkey!”

Beth’s teeny little voice shouts what he thinks is “I got all the fixin’s ready!”

He’s not at all ready for Y/N and Rick to suddenly start shouting, handguns out, “T-Dog, we’re coming!” and “Beth, get Carl and Lori and run to the Hyundai and hide, we’ll get you when it’s safe! T-Dog, find Hershel!”

From the other side, Maggie then shouted something like, “Is Beth hurt? What’s goin’ on?”

What the hell?

............................

You

............................

Today is just full of lessons, ain’t it?

Turns out that you and Rick having music playing loudly in one ear leads to the two of you, upon hearing raised voices but not hearing what they were saying, to immediately assume the worst and jump into action. You’d both thought your people were being attacked or overrun...

A minor ruckus ensued, it’s, um, it’s fine now.

Hershel was amused. You heard him sigh all the way from where he was, then watched as he waved his hand with the yellow walkie in it and continued ambling along on his constitutional around the lake. It’s good that he’s keeping his scarf over his mouth and nose to warm the air while he’s out and about.

Carol told you both that you and Rick looked “kinda cool” when you’d leapt up together and started making for the completely imagined emergency. “It was like one of those movies with the sheriff and the rookie.”

You, obviously, were quick to coo “Aw Rick, you looked like a rookie!”

It was good to see him smiling. When you’d heard the shouts, he’d gone from normal to sweaty in the approximate 10 or so seconds worth of time it took for y’all to get up-in-arms and ready to bust some heads → to becoming some sort of emotion in between embarrassed, confused, and annoyed at having reacted so strongly.

Not that you still won’t occasionally refer to Rick as ‘dicktator,’ but that man is constantly on-alert because he genuinely wants the group safe and protected. He took all responsibility upon himself that bad, bad night. And no matter your opinion on it, the other people in your group rolled with it; you don’t control their choices.

They concluded that it was safer together (which it is, and you’d have it no other way) and they openly accepted those really shitty terms and conditions Rick laid out (which you did not and aren’t pretending to).

You’re pretty sure Rick’s still concerned about the group splitting, or that the group was still “broken,” as Dale had said just over three months ago (which reminds you that you still haven’t done the kaddish thing for him yet today!).

Truly, that stopped being an issue over two months ago. It was only after his initial dick-tator speech and when you were still postal that your people had been flight risks.

The group isn’t broken. It took only like a week for you to calm down, therefore for the group to calm down, but Rick can’t…forgive himself, therefore thinks he can’t ‘fail,’ even in appearance, after having done what he did.

He’ll get there.

While he’s off with Lori and trying to process that today is a good day and he can rest, you took a guard shift early to relieve Maggie. Carl is beside you, just to hang. He’s of course got his deputy hat on, with his little pistol out.

“You’ve got the safety on, baby?”

After a playful whine, he reminds you “Not a baby.”

“Hey. I changed your diapers, you’ll always be a baby to me. Punk,” you correct yourself.

“The safety’s on.”

And you know he hasn’t fired it since two days ago so his gun is still fully loaded minus three rounds. When was the barrel last cleaned and oiled, though? “And you took it apart and cleaned it with your dad earlier, right?”

“Yeah.”

Why did that sound uneasy?

You turn to get a good look at him.

He’s still maintaining proper gun handling, but his head is stooped.

Timidly, he calls your name. “Are you sad about Uncle Shane today?”

“I was. I-I still am, a little,” you confess. Lying isn’t your thing, and besides, that boy notices things the way Daryl does. With a lift of your shoulder, you concede “I miss all of them, just like you do.”

Him and Lori were crying a little yesterday night about Evie (Lori’s sister, Carl’s auntie). After New Year’s last year, she’d secured leave for her first Christmas at home in like four years. When Lori remembered that this was supposed to be the first Christmas with Evie again, she crumpled. Carl, too. “It’s normal that around special days like Christmas, one can feel a stronger sense of loss.”

“But it’s different with Shane!” he blurts out. Wiping his nose, he then starts to shuffle one foot around the twigs and acorns and dried leaves on the ground.

“I know, bud,” you sigh.

He sniffs and starts to pace. You rub your thumb along Dale’s big watch on your wrist and wish there was more you could do to make things better. For stuff like this, it just takes time. Some days are simply gonna be not-so-good. You send up some prayers and ask what to do, then you worry: your nephew didn’t start to feel scared of Rick again, did he?

You’d hoped that was just a one-off thing from that bad, bad night. “Carl, did you feel unsafe around him today or yesterday?”

You have to turn to see him shaking his head. “Sometimes, when he’s angry,” he quietly admits. “But not today. It was, um, it was when I saw…” He sniffs again and runs his sneaker over an acorn. “It’s just that you were playing with the necklace a lot yesterday and today. Then I overheard you talking with Mom earlier…” His little mouth twists and his brows knit close. “Was it okay that I gave Dad the picture with him and Shane and us?”

“Yes.”

“Did it hurt your feelings?”

“Not one bit, I was proud of you.”

Now he’s staring at his shoes. “Are you angry at dad again, Y/N?”

Deep breath. “I was for a short while.”

He gives a little nod and looks down, then back into your eyes, mouth still twisted as if he’s nervous about your answer. “Did you hate him again today?”

“No. I didn’t hate him today, I ain’t truly hated him in a long time.” You shrug. “Today, I simply remembered what it was like to.”

“I know he’s…not a bad man,” he says more cautiously than he should be.

“He’s a great one and a good one. And I don’t hate him, I love him.”

A shy smile twists his mouth and he relaxes his grip on his gun.

Ew, but now he’s staring at some type of orangey, shiny, fairly large fungus. Funguses? Fungi? Whatev.

Grossed-out and wondering how you hadn’t noticed them until now, you automatically guide him back from it just in case of, you don’t know, um…spores (that’s a thing, right? Mushrooms are just so creepy).

But a sudden flashback to the way you’d been holding Carl so he wouldn’t get any closer to that buck—right before they both got shot—causes you to flinch and let go of his shoulders.

“Y/N?”

“Sorry, just went back to that day with the buck, kiddo, my bad,” you mumble. “Hey, if um, if you go get your mama, she might will know what that one’s called.” Lori’s the resident mushroom expert. Back in the before-times, you’d thought it was a disgusting unusual hobby. Joke’s on you, now. It’s a great skill to have when civilization collapses.

“They look cool.” His face lights up. “Wanna bet if we can eat those?”

“Ew, I’m bettin’ no way.”

“I’m betting yes way.”

You squint at him. “What’s the bet?”

“If I lose, I’ll give you one of my puddings.”

“High stakes, then. And I would give you what’s left in my can of Crazy-Cheez, but I don’t anticipate havin’ to. Are you sure you wanna bet the pudding, baby?”

What’s that mischievous look he’s making for? “I can’t wear your boyfriend’s poncho instead?”

Oh, that’s why. “Sure, yeah, totally — now since when are he and me behavin’ romantic, punk?”

“Well, why are you wearing his poncho? And he was wearing Shane’s co—”

“—My coat, not Shane’s. Daryl and I switched for funsies, how’s that?”

“Y/N, are you still scared of dating?”

Good Moses, kid. “I’m cautious and careful. Now, go get your mama, a puddin’ cup, and a spoon, please, ya punk-ass.”

“Pretty sure you owe a quarter for that,” he teases, holstering his pistol. He takes a few steps to head back, but turns around. “Don’t you like him?”

“I like everybody here.”

He huffs in a way not dissimilar to how you tend to. “You know what I mean.”

“I guess I don’t hate him. Happy?”

When you watch the punk-ass raise his eyebrows, redden, and start to giggle, you smile, confused, because: what just happened that you’re missing?

Well, whatever it was, Carl wags his fingers and scurries off to the little water department building, so, you shrug and get back to your guard duty. You chuckle despite the good/scared sensation in your stomach.

Sometimes, you get a tugging sensation from your chest toward that darn mangy hick, ever since that day he’d almost gotten himself killed trying to find Sophia. Other times, it’s just your standard butterflies. But every so often, it’s a good/secure/safe/nervous feeling in your gut.

Peeking back through the trees to make sure nobody is looking in your direction, you wrap the poncho tighter around yourself and you happily swing back and forth, grateful for the temporary peace and solitude. Your people are healthy, together, and happy…they’ve begun teasing you about you and Daryl…you get to wear his poncho…you can listen to Going to California again…

Tipping your head skyward, you whisper, “Thank you.”

Then it hits you: Carl noticed two and a half months ago how you (and his dad) started saying “I don’t hate you,” instead of “I love you” to each other…

Good Moses, and you just told him that…you didn’t hate…Daryl.

Oh my.

Ohh my.

Oh, poop, that punk-ass! That wasn’t what you meant, you love that mangy hick the way you love everybody here!

“Carl!”

............................................

> Masterlist link here <

and our teeny tiny taglist :D

@spenciepoo338​​ @its-freaking-bats​​ @whistlesalot​​ @buffy-the-assbutt-slayer​​  @dreamingaboutthewonderland @kwazii-kat​​​

(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore, just let me know, we’re all friends here!)

[heathermason6060]

Daryl Dixon x f!Reader Smut: Matchmaker Merle

Warnings: slight drug use, mentions of Lori, Daryl is a virgin, Shane being Shane, No use of Y/N, unprotected sex

Summary: Merle tries to get Daryl laid with an old family friend. Apparently, Merle is a master matchmaker? Buildup to smut. 

Notes: Sorry for having the buildup so slow, I'm really bad at porn without at least a LITTLE plot lmao

You were allowed a little leeway your first day at camp. Glenn had found you, confused and lost, covered in dirt and blood after the bombs had gone off and separated you from your friends and family. You were on the highway, like everyone else, but as soon as they saw the city being lit up, all hell broke loose. They started acting like animals. Running and screaming, looting. The dead coming back to life didn't help much either. 

On your second day, you were expected to start pitching in. You didn't mind helping, it was the way Shane approached you that rubbed you the wrong way. You offered to help hunt, fish, and go out looking for supplies, but he just laughed at you. He laughed like you were a child asking for a gun. He handed you a brush and sat you down beside Carol, who was washing clothes at the bottom of the quarry. 

You found comfort in familiarity. Which came in the form of something extremely unexpected, Merle Dixon. Maybe it was because you'd seen each other a few times at the corner store back near where you lived, maybe it was the fact he had respect for your folks, but when you were taken back to camp he didn't treat you the way he treated the other women. 

He wasn't respectful or chivalrous by any means, but he didn't treat you like a piece of meat. He didn't constantly try to get in your pants or speak to you in that slimy demeaning way he had with Andrea or Amy. You were grateful for it, even if you did catch him staring at your ass more than once, because he was the one thing that made you feel a little more at home with the group.

You'd never met his brother before. You'd seen him once, at the small mechanic shop near the corner store you'd occasionally see Merle in. Rednecks were anything but rare where you grew up, but something about Daryl felt different. He was quieter, more of Merle's shadow than his own person. But you knew just by looking at him that he was anything but somebody's shadow.

He saw you on your second day, after you'd done your morning “chores” and went to sit next to the campfire. He was carving something, maybe a bolt for his crossbow, and he barely looked up when you sat down across from him. 

Daryl looked up again, a spark of recognition in his eyes. His voice, strong and firm, called your name as if it was a question. 

“Yes?” You could see the exact moment the realization clicked that he did in fact remember you.

He didn't know much about you at all. He knew Merle knew your folks, and you lived pretty close, but he'd never actually spoken to you before. 

He did like to watch you, though, you'd always go into the corner store next to the mechanic shop and buy a coke and a bag of chips at lunch. He thought you were the prettiest woman he'd ever seen. Merle had a different set of words he'd prefer to use for you, but Daryl thought they felt too nasty. You weren't white trash, you were pretty, out of place, and the words ‘hot piece of ass' just didn't fit you. 

“Shit. Didn't think it was you when they said your name yesterday.” His fingers absentmindedly rubbed the length of his stick, looking over you a few times as he tongued the inside of his cheek in thought. “Huh. You seen Merle yet?” 

“Yeah, I got here yesterday morning.” You answered, the day before Daryl had been gone most of the day hunting. By the time he got back you were already in your new tent, something that Glenn had made sure to pick up when he brought you back to his group. 

“What happened? Your folks alright?” He asked, knowing it was strange for you to be here without your family and friends. 

“I have no idea. Don't remember much. We were real close to the city when the bombs went off, all I remember is fire and screaming and I woke up in the back of a gas station.” 

He nodded again, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he listened. 

Daryl wanted to stay with you, talk for a while, having a familiar face made him feel like less of an outsider. But from the corner of his eye he saw Shane with his hands on his hips in that stupid pose he liked to do when he was about to give someone  attitude. Daryl looked back to you and gathered his crossbow and bolts, muttering a quick excuse about needing to go hunt and that he'd see you around. He couldn't stand Shane, he'd only known him for a few weeks, give or take, and he was doing everything he could to avoid the wife fucker. 

Shane gave you a talking to that evening, warning you about the “backwoods rednecks”, even though you knew it wasn't out of the kindness of his heart. It was just another way to control the people in his camp, something he got off on doing. He didn't trust either of the Dixon brothers, that was for certain, but going out of his way to ‘warn’ you? It took everything in you to just nod and say okay. 

“When you gonna tap that, baby brother?” Merle's voice and the way he said it made Daryl cringe. He needed to do a better job about not staring at you so blatantly. 

“Not my type.” Daryl lied through his teeth, picking another strip of stringy squirrel meat from the stick he'd used to roast it over the fire. 

The Dixon brothers usually had a smaller, separate fire away from the main groups. It was mostly Merle's idea, he'd tell Daryl ‘they're not like us, keep your distance, we're just redneck trash to them.’. Not that Daryl gave a shit. He mostly thought the same anyways. 

You were at the group fire, sitting beside Andrea and Amy, who were busy chattering about how they wished they could catch some fish instead of surviving off tree rats and canned peas. You didn't mind it, even though you preferred larger game, meat was meat. You ate your squirrel like it was a gourmet dinner, something Daryl took note of.

“Not your type? Hah! That's bullshit and we both know it. She's everybody's type, boy, you better get on that before someone else does.”

Daryl wasn't sure who Merle was referring to. Glenn could barely speak to women, T-Dog was far too respectful, Shane was so far up Lori’s ass he had shit in his ears. (That's so gross I'm so sorry) 

The sound of harsh sniffing had Daryl looking away from you and back to his brother. He wiped the white residue from his nose and offered Daryl his large knife, containing another line. 

“Nah. I'm good.” Daryl waved him off, not feeling like being on uppers around all these people. Made his temper even shorter than it already was. “Careful with that shit, if Shane sees-”

“He ain't gonna do shit about it. I'd like to see him say somethin’.” The fact Merle was always looking for an excuse to butt heads had Daryl on edge. “Take it, and go take her off in the woods before I do.” 

It never took too much demanding from Merle before Daryl would give in. It was a fatal flaw in his character. He looked up to him and whatever he said went, even when he didn't really want to. So he took the coke and worked up the nerves to talk to you. 

You'd just finished washing everyone's stupid dirty dishes and went into the woods to piss when you saw Daryl again. You gasped as you walked around the tree you'd used for cover and saw him walking through the treeline, worried he'd seen you. But he was too focused on his steps, and that put you at ease. 

You walked up the half-assed trail to meet him, not feeling like chatting next to your pee puddle. 

“Hey, you going hunting?” You asked, slipping your hands in your shorts pockets. 

He shook his head as he reached you, snatching a stray stick out of his hair. “Goin’ down to some of the old shops down the road. Tired of all these canned peas. You comin’?”

You eagerly nodded, happy to be away from the group. They were nice enough, but since you normally hung around Merle, they treated you as someone they didn't fully trust. Especially Lori, Shane and Dale. The amount of times you caught Lori staring daggers into you every time you were within ten feet of Carl was starting to drive you insane. 

“Been wanting to get out and do something for days. Can't fucking stand Shane's micromanaging.” You said as you walked, wishing you would've known you'd be going on an impromptu supply run. You only had your knife, you'd prefer to have your Ruger your father had given you. It was in the RV, where Shane had taken it to ‘clean’. You were more than suspicious that he just didn't want you carrying a gun around camp. 

Daryl snorted. “Yeah. Can't stand that asshole. What kinda man-” He stopped himself, shaking his head. 

“What?” You looked over at him, careful not to trip on the multiple storm blown  branches from the larger trees. 

“Nothin’. Just don't like ‘em.” 

You were silent for a few minutes as you thought of something to say. You know, in apocalypse type situations, you mainly think about securing your next meal, how to not get killed in your sleep, how to protect your friends and family. But here you were, trying to think of what to say to a man you were steadily growing attracted to. You always thought he was cute before this, but seeing how capable he was, how he was so sure of himself, it was a side to him you didn't expect. It was like he was one of those people always secretly hoping for an excuse to go live in the woods and live in anarchy. 

“How attached are you to this group?” He asked, catching you off guard. 

“Not at all. Can't stand most of them. Why?” 

“Just thinkin’ about leavin’. Don't belong here with these people. Lori screamed at a damn snake the other day and got the kids all riled up.” He had a visible look of distaste on his face. Of all things to scream your head off at in an apocalypse, wildlife wasn't on your list. 

“Are you asking me to come?” You asked, unsuccessfully attempting to hide your excitement. The idea of splitting off with the Dixon brothers seemed your best bet, even if Merle was, well, Merle. You knew you were probably one of the only women on earth that didn't have to worry about him constantly trying to get in your pants. What you didn't know though, was that he was trying his damnedest to get his little brother laid, even if you were the daughter of a family friend. 

“Yeah. You don't belong here either.” You didn't know if it was true or not, but it felt true to you. 

“Sure. As long as I'm not gonna be a burden, or anything.” You knew you'd need to rely on the two of them for protection and some food, at least until you got used to your new life. You adapted fairly quickly. 

“Wouldn't’ve asked if you were.” 

“Alright, well, if you make up your mind, let me know.”

You arrived at the first store, a small gas station much like the one the two of you used to frequent back then. It was fairly untouched, but you knew it wouldn't be that way for long. 

You broke into a bag of jerky, thankful it was Daryl with you and not anyone else. If someone gave you a speech on taking care of the group before yourself you might just take off on your own without Daryl. 

He scored a bunch of chips, some cup noodles, and a 6 pack of beer for Merle. 

Instead of going back like you'd originally planned, you talked each other into going further off down the road to an old Dollar General. You stored your stash in a hollowed out log next to the road so you wouldn't need to carry it the entire time and carried on. 

“This was a great idea.” Your tongue was stained red from sour patch kids, you went through five bags and gave Daryl the greens and yellows. 

Daryl licked the sour crystals from his fingertips and grunted in agreement, tossing the empty bag over his shoulder off the roof that the two of you had gone up to to indulge in your spoils. 

You laid on your back and sighed, surrounded by empty snack bags and wrappers. “Fuck. I needed this.” Neither of you cringed at your corny comment, because although a cliche, you really, really did need this. 

Daryl hadn't eaten much besides the gummies, thanks to being pressured into taking the coke by Merle. He cursed himself for it, wishing he had the nerve to just say no and stick with it. 

He glanced over at you, your body orange in the light of the setting sun. You still wore those cute short Bobbie Brooks shorts he'd always seen you wearing around town. His eyes drifted to your legs and he let out a soft exhale, wishing he was as silver tongued as he thought his brother was. Even if the ladies rarely appreciated Merle's filthy flirting, he had to admit his one liners were pretty impressive sometimes. 

You opened your eyes and used your hand as a shield from the sun to look at him. You'd barely caught him staring at your legs, and felt a smile tug at your lips. 

“You wanna fool around?” You half joked, prepared to laugh if he turned you down. But the look on his face told you he really, really didn't want to turn you down. 

He froze for a moment, his eyes looking anywhere but you, his heart hammering against his chest. His thoughts ran frantic, from Merle telling him to have sex with you, and to you, who he was terrified to have sex with. He was suddenly very grateful for the coke he'd taken, and it clicked in his mind why Merle had been so insistent on him taking it. He knew he wouldn't last three minutes without it. 

“You serious?” He asked, his brows knitted tightly together from the sun and in concentration as he read your face. 

“Yeah, why not?” You shrugged, sitting upright so you didn't have to keep squinting up at him. You looked cool on the outside, but on the inside you were barely holding it together. You'd never thought of Daryl this way before, given you'd only seen him once before all this, but now that you were, it felt like you were about to potentially have sex with the hottest man on earth. 

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” 

Awkward was an understatement. Daryl didn't know what to do with his hands. His dick had been hard off and on the whole trip with you, despite the coke. He didn't know what would feel good to you, something he found himself oddly concerned with. His only experience with women was watching them getting fucked in porn, so he tried it that way. 

Your eyes widened in surprise when he quickly turned and leaned over you, his hands slipping up your shirt. He choked out a gasp, looking down at the outline of his hands as he squeezed your tits. You were caught off guard by his sudden boldness, and the way he was roughly groping your chest wasn't helping. You grimaced, about to tell him to ease up, but he caught your mouth in an unexpected kiss before you could speak. 

You were way too horny to care about how messy his kissing was. Truthfully, it was pretty hot, filled with so much desire and lust that it didn't matter he was inexperienced. The fact he was this eager just because of you had you moaning into his mouth. 

He took that as a sign he was doing something right and rolled your nipples between his fingers, doing what felt right. He pinched them, making you gasp against his lips, and he couldn't hide the crooked grin from his face. He pulled back just long enough to start unbuttoning your shirt. 

You took over for him, not wanting him to get impatient and rip off one of your only good shirts. When his eyes landed on your chest he whimpered, he fucking whimpered! You groaned at the sound and pulled him back against you by his shoulders, sinking your head into the crook of his neck to kiss the skin there. 

He hadn't expected you to do anything to him. In the videos he watched, most of the time the dude just rips her clothes off and fucks her in different positions for half an hour while she screams and moans like she's hurt. He hated that sound, the over exaggerated noises, he much preferred the noises you made. 

You laid down on your back, grateful the sun had sunk below the tips of the trees so it wasn't so bright anymore. He was on you in a second, now kissing your neck, eager to give you the same pleasure you were making him feel. The moan that rumbled in your chest made his heart jump, knowing he was doing something right. 

“God, s’so good.” You exhaled lazily, your eyes closing as he used his knee to kick your thighs apart for his waist. He quickly ground against you, a stifled groan stuck in his throat at the feeling of friction. 

“Take ‘em off.” He demanded, tugging impatiently at your shorts before he went to unbuckle his belt. You happily obliged, unbuttoning your shorts and dragging them down your thighs. 

When Daryl saw your lacy red panties he shivered. At camp, most of the underwear he saw hanging up were more… practical? The women had quickly changed their lace panties and thongs for boy shorts, but here you were, the skin around your hips indented obscenely from the way they hugged you like magic. 

“Fuck.” He exhaled deeply, his forehead resting against yours as he looked down at your body under his. He was really, really glad Merle gave him coke. Just the sight of you mostly naked under him had his cock throbbing painfully.

He finished with his pants, only pulling them down enough to drag his leaking dick out, his jaw dropping when he saw you shimmying out of your panties. His head spun, his mouth watered, and before he could even think he was scooting down to plant his face between your legs. 

You gasped, your head falling back against the rough flooring of the roof. He was so eager., so heartbreakingly eager to please you, it had your pussy so wet it was almost unbearable. His hot tongue was sloppy, inaccurate, it couldn't decide where it wanted to be. He'd be licking broad stripes one second, and the next he was swirling it around your clit. You were beginning to think maybe he wasn't as inexperienced as you believed. 

Daryl learned all he knew about sex from porn. If there was one thing he was fascinated about, it was giving head. One of the first things he always wanted to do was eat out a woman. He never thought it would be someone as hot as you. 

He tried everything he knew that made the women in videos moan, and to his surprise, you moaned the most when he kept it simple and just sucked your clit. So he did that, hollowing out his cheeks and sucking it into his mouth to roll his tongue around. 

You were in shambles. You tried desperately to pull at his hair, but it was too short to grab so you settled on sinking your nails into his scalp as you rolled your hips against his face and tried not to be so loud. 

Your jaw dropped and your eyes squeezed shut when he dug his tongue into the side of your clit, dragging your orgasm out so unexpectedly that you gasped. 

“Fuck, oh, oh god!” You sputtered, your thighs squeezing his head to hold him there as you came, your back arching and your toes curling so hard your foot almost cramped up. 

Daryl slipped his hand under him and grabbed his cock, stroking it as he felt your body tremble and jerk under him. He was sure this was a dream, he'd wake up any second in his tent with Merle snoring beside him and you all the way across camp. He squeezed his dick, milking the precum from his tip as your thighs finally relaxed. 

“My god. You're really good at that.” You panted, your eyes blurry as you watched him slide up your body and take its place on top of you. 

He grinned, knowing you were unintentionally starting to give him an ego. “Yeah?” He racked his brain for dirty talk, but since it was fried from making you cum, all he could come up with was “I got somethin’ I'm even better at.” Complete lie. 

You, on the other hand, had no idea he was a virgin, and grinned widely at the implications, shifting your body up till you felt his heavy cock graze against your inner thigh. The feeling alone sent a bolt through your body, and your chest heaved with deep excited breaths. 

He leaned up and grabbed your shoulder, signaling for you to turn over. You didn't question it and rolled over, propping yourself on your hands and knees. 

The sight of you from behind had him falling apart. He let out a quiet whimper and bit his bottom lip before grabbing his cock and scooting forward to push it against you. 

“Jesus, so fuckin wet.” He breathed, his heart beating so loud he could hear the blood in his ears. He slid his dick between your folds, going through all the steps in his head that he'd seen countless times. He even slapped it against your pussy a few times, missing the amused expression on your face, and pushed himself into you. 

What Daryl  didn't learn from porn was that usually, you go in slow when someone hasn't had sex recently. So when he just pushed his dick inside you with no hesitation you cried out, the burn from the unprepared stretching making you jolt forward. He grabbed your hips to bring you back against him, his jaw going slack as he felt your hot wet walls squeezing the life out of him. 

“Fuck!” You spat, the burning and stabbing pain almost enough to turn you off completely. “You gotta be slower than that, Daryl.” 

He was too deep to process what you said. He finally let out the breath he'd been holding with a deep, guttural groan, still frozen inside you. “Sah-Sorry.” He sputtered, his hands squeezing your hips so hard you knew for a fact there'd be ten little light purple bruises there tomorrow. 

Before you could say or do anything else he started moving, setting the pace quickly, snapping his hips against your ass so roughly your hands almost slipped out from under you. The uncomfortable stretch quickly faded into a deep, primal pleasure, and soon you were letting out short moans with every thrust of his hips. 

You barely got used to the feeling before he grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked it back, drawing a cry from your throat. You weren't expecting this from Daryl, he was so confident, so rough, it confused you but drove you absolutely wild at the same time. 

His other hand kept its tight grip on your hip, pulling you back to meet each of his demanding thrusts, making sure his dick went as deep as possible each time. The way you were moaning and gasping fueled him to fuck you rougher, wanting to hear every sound that you were possible of making. 

“Dirty little whore.” He grunted, his jaw aching from how hard he'd been clenching his teeth. 

His words earned a strangled whimper from you, making his lips curl up in a cocky grin. 

He fucked you for a while like that, hips pounding against your ass so hard that the noises of your skin slapping was making your cheeks burn in embarrassed arousal. So much for keeping it quiet. 

“Hey-” The words were hard to get out from his aggressive thrusts, especially now that he was hunched over your body so he could squeeze your breasts. “I- wanna turn over.” 

He raised his chest from your back and took the opportunity to catch his breath while you shifted under him to roll over on your back. The look on your face made him shudder with a quiet gasp. Your face was tinted a light red, blissed out, your pupils blown and hair all messed up around your face. He was back on you immediately, kissing you hungrily as he slipped his cock back inside you, much easier this time. 

“Y’feel so fuckin’ good.” He breathed against your lips, wet from his sloppy kisses, and he kissed down your jaw to your neck. His accent was much thicker when he was inside you, barely pronouncing any words fully anymore. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, and your legs around his waist, angling your hips up so he could drive his cock deeper into you. The new feeling made him moan pathetically into your neck, and he had to stifle the noises he didn't like with a bite to the skin where your neck met shoulder. 

The pressure of his teeth had your eyes rolling back in your head. There was so much stimulation, his dick driving relentlessly into your throbbing pussy, his fingers pinching your nipple and the other hand in your hair, pulling your head to the side to give him better access to your neck. A particularly deep thrust made you cry out, and you felt yourself nearing your second orgasm.

“Fuck!” You whined, your eyes squeezing tightly shut as you felt the tension building in your core as he fucked his dick into you. 

“That's it, y’gonna come for me?” His teeth drew away from your red neck, a string of spit connecting the two of you. 

All you could muster was an obscene “Mhmm!”, your thighs squeezing him tight around the waist. 

“C'mon girl.” His words were choppy from the force of his thrusts. He slowed for a second, readjusting himself before building back up to his former quick pace, each thrust sending your body scooting a little upwards along the floor of the roof. You were incredibly thankful it wasn't concrete. 

“Lemme hear it, c'mon.” His words alone were enough to send you falling over your edge. Your jaw dropped, your head tilting back as your back arched under his heavy body, and his arm slipped under you to hold your chest tight against his. 

The look on your face and the feeling of you cumming around his dick was all he needed. His face went slack and he let out a shameful whine, something he'd never heard himself make before, and came inside you. Neither of you noticed, too fucked out of your minds to even process it. 

You cried under him, twisting and squirming, impaled on his dick as your orgasm shook you to your core. Only when the final waves rolled off you did you relax, your eyes struggling to open as your breathing slowed.

Daryl raised his face from your chest and looked down at you, enjoying the look on your face as he regained his bearings. He ran his hands up and down your torso a few times, his eyes appreciating every little red mark on your neck and chest from his teeth.

 Only when the last jolts of pleasure left his body did he realize he came inside you. 

“Shit.” He grunted as he slowly drug his dick out of you, his breath catching in his throat when he saw the way his cum oozed out between your slick, puffy folds. 

“Hmm, ‘s fine.” You mumbled lazily, reaching up to push your hair from your face. “We're on top of a Dollar General. We'll get the morning after pill.” 

He nodded at your words, still hypnotized by the sight of his cum leaking out of you. A deep part of him wanted to stuff his dick back in you and keep it in, he didn't know why, but the idea was so hot he could've gone for a round two if you wanted. 

“We better get back.” You struggled to prop yourself up on your elbows, your weakened muscles protesting. The sun was well below the trees now, and if you got back when it was dark you knew Shane would throw a goddamn hissy fit. 

“We ain't gotta.” He half joked, a lazy grin on his face. “Can just stay here. Go back in the mornin’.”

You smiled, shaking your head, even though the idea was incredibly tempting. “Shane will kill us.”

“Fuck him.”

“I don't wanna piss him off when he's the one in possession of my gun right now.” Your words had him raising his brows and nodding in agreement. 

The two of you put your clothes back on and went through the back entrance, grabbing all your bags and making sure to pick up some morning after pills from the locked shelf behind the front desk. You caught him trying to discreetly grab some condoms, not knowing you saw, and you felt excitement bubble in your chest at the prospect of him expecting this to happen again. 

Thankfully Shane wasn't in camp when you snuck back in. He was down by the quarry, catching frogs or some shit, and you were able to share your spoils with the group before he came to ask questions. 

“Well, shit. Look at you.” Merle was smiling ear to ear, clapping Daryl on the back after he went to his brother's tent with a bag of goodies. 

It was extremely obvious what the two of you had done. Your hair was still messy despite you brushing it with your fingers on the way back, your face pink, your neck red. You were climbing into your own tent as Merle watched you from across camp. 

Daryl's neck and face were also red, and he had a few scratch marks on the back of his neck. 

And his fly was still down. 

“Shut up.” Daryl shrugged his brother's hand off him, opening a bag of Funyuns.

“My baby brothers no longer a fuckin’ loser!” He laughed, giving a wolf whistle before playfully ruffling his hair. “Atta boy. I told you.” 

“Ya’ ain't tell me shit.” Daryl grumbled, stuffing Funyuns in his mouth to hide the smile that was creeping onto his face. 

“Hey.”

“What?” Daryl groaned, exasperated already. 

“Think she’ll give me a ride?”

“Shut the hell up, man.” 

[ashbye]

Ok I'm sorry but if I see one more story labeled x reader and when I go to read it your fugly ass OC named 'nicole' or 'bridget' are in there IM GONNA LOSE MY FUCKING MIND! THAT IS NOT X READER! I know some of you could say "well just switch it out with your name"

NO I WILL NOT! ITS ABOUT THE PRINCIPLE OF FALSE ADVERTISING! STOP IT!

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk

And if you are one of the people that does this... I will find you and it will not be pretty

No hate to you if your name is nicole or bridget those re just examples

[darylbae]

𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡🩰

i think daryl would definitely not realize it at first, in fact i think the group would notice it before him. rick would see the way daryl's gaze would linger onto you when he'd talk about a risky supply run. rick would of course tell michonne, who would poke a little fun at him. "you like her!" "shut up, i do not!" and it wasn't until he'd laid down for the night, that he had realized it. he'd think about your eyes, and how bright they were when you'd be talking to anybody. he'd think about the nervous tells you had, like bouncing your leg, chewing on your lip and looking around the room. he'd think about how, sometimes annoyingly, bubbly you were no matter what. it would typically bother him how happy you were mid-apocalypse, but he lets it slide more often than not. he would not pick up on this stuff if he didn't have a crush. he'd be hyper-aware of how he acts around you, after admitting to himself he had a crush on you. he'd glance at you, then quickly glance away, but always end up looking back over at you. he'd study your lips and how they moved, wanting nothing more than to feel them on his. most of all, he'd keep it to himself. because the last thing he needs is everyone finding this out. and making your friendship with him tense. carol could see through daryl almost too easily, so she's the only one who can get away with poking the bear. besides you. "you like her, huh?" carol would ask, and daryl would just roll his eyes. "so what?" "do something about it!" daryl had no understanding of 'doing something about it', despite his moody, careless attitude, he cared deeply about your friendship and wanted nothing to ruin that. rick was playing matchmaker and suggested the two of you to go out on a run, much to daryl's dismay. now he'd have to deal with his constant reminder of his crush on you, as well as you. there you were, sat sweetly on the hood of a car waiting for him, a smile plastered onto your face as you spotted him. "ready to go?" you asked, your voice smooth as honey and it had sent shivers up his neck. "get in." he'd mumble. "yes, sir." let's not talk about your use of the word sir, and what it does to him. he couldn't explain it, the authority of the word sir, just hit him in his sweet spot. he'd constantly look out for you on runs, even when going along with others, he'd volunteer to split up but stick with you. it wasn't like you were a nuisance, not all the time anyway, he just loved being there for you. he'd walk behind you, trying to be a gentleman and stop himself from gazing across your body as you walked. you were the total personification of sex. "can i bring this back?" you'd ask, picking up something stupidly unnecessary, this time it was a small, pink, glittery cowboy hat attached to a pink headband. "will it help us?" he'd respond, not even looking your way, but still having to keep you entertained. "no." you'd respond, glum face as you look down at it back on the shelf. "then i think we found our answer." daryl was always a bummer, but you had gotten used to it. you knew how deeply he cared for his people, so what was a little grumpiness. but you'd always return back, and find whatever stupid thing you'd found on a run, sitting on your bed by the end of the day.