Morgan Myst

im Alexx, she/her, musician, 31, MINORS DNI, bi, follow me, im fun once u get to know me, married! ,in a band, WWE fan since birth(kinda), VERY WEIRD, trying my hand at novel writing, shipping-world1994 is other blog

[axelwolf8109]

I personally don't give a flying fuck if you insult me. But the fucking second you choose to call someone Autistic as a fucking insult, I will block you. People with Autism have shit hard enough. They are not there for people to make fun of or for people to use their disability as an insult on other people. That's disrespectful, childish, pathetic, and all around disgusting. Whoever uses Autism as an insult is a terrible person.

[thoroughlymagicalmonument]

Henry Cavill - "In the Grey" 🔥🔥🔥🔥

[axelwolf8109]

Does anyone use something to organize their characters for books or fics? Docs only goes so far and I can't sign in to Word....and notebooks can only do so much...also my handwriting is ass

[the-skeleton-speaks]

Tumblr wont let me reply for some reason but Obsidian!! I use it for everything from dnd to ocs to writing- its got neat little web nodes that connect your writing too! And its free. You can get it for phone or pc too!

Obsidian - Sharpen your thinking

The free and flexible app for your private thoughts.

[axelwolf8109]

THANK YOU!!!!

[zomquette]

Hello! If you are taking requests at the moment could you do female reader with Daryl? Something simple and cute where she's trimming his facial hair? I don't have any preferences just wherever your imagination takes you. Thank you!

Still Breathing, Ain’t I?

Daryl Dixon x fem!reader

Summary: You're fussing over Daryl after that dumbass got himself shot.

Author's note: Just a lil Drabble, hope you like it 😛

Main Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You keep squirming like that and I’m gonna nick your throat,” you muttered, scissors poised dangerously close to Daryl’s jaw.

“Ain't squirming,” he grumbled, voice thick with annoyance. “You’re sittin’ on me like I’m a damn barber chair. This is stupid - don't need a trim.”

You leaned back just enough to glare at him. “Yes you do. You’ve got porcupine stubble, it's getting scratchy or me.”

He huffed, clearly unimpressed with your evaluation. “Ain’t tryin’ to impress nobody.”

“Oh, I know,” you said sweetly. “But I live with you. I have to look at your face. So yes, this is selfish.”

He grumbled something under his breath that sounded vaguely like could just grow a beard, see how ya like that, but you ignored it, tilting his chin up with two fingers.

The scissors snipped quietly in the space between you, the sound oddly calming. Outside, Alexandria was unusually still—no hammering, no kids screaming, no patrolling boots. Just a warm breeze through the cracked window and the occasional protest from Daryl when you tugged too hard.

“You’re mad at me,” he said finally, not looking at you.

Your hands paused mid-snip. “No I'm not. I was mad at you. Now I'm over it.”

"Bullshit," he huffed, shifting slightly under you, sucking a breath through his teeth when his side caught on the movement. “Weren’t supposed to go that bad. Was just watchin’ the alley. Didn’t even see the guy ‘til—”

“Yeah, well, I saw the blood. And the trail. And the puddle you left in the infirmary when you refused a damn stretcher.”

“Didn’t need no damn stretcher.”

You snorted, resuming your trimming. “Get over yourself.”

He went quiet again, letting you work. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, that familiar coil of guilt and defiance. Always too proud to admit he was hurting, too stubborn to stay still.

Your thumb skimmed the rough edge of his jaw as you angled his face toward the light, blade hovering like a warning. “You can pretend you hate me fussing over you,” you said, voice sweet as arsenic, “but we both know the truth.”

His brows tucked in, mouth set, but he didn’t pull away. “Do we now.”

“We do,” you hummed, dragging the razor in a careful line. “You like me takin’ care of you.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh.” You tipped his chin with your knuckle. “Stop lyin’. I can feel you purring.”

“Pff. Don’t purr,” he muttered, which was a lie and you both knew it.

Your hand stilled; you leveled him with a look. “You got your dumbass shot, Dixon. Sit still and let me fix the damage you didn’t dodge.”

“I did dodge. Bullet just… kept comin'.” He tried a grin; it tugged his side and he hissed, then tried to cover the hiss with a cough. “M’fine.”

“Weaponized understatement,” you said, unimpressed. “Next you’ll tell me it’s ‘just a scratch.’”

“Could be,” he offered, hopeful.

You snorted. “Blink at me like that again and I’m switchin’ to the rusty razor.”

That got you the ghost of a laugh. He sobered, eyes finding yours—narrowed, defensive, and soft under both. “Ain’t used to sittin’ still,” he admitted, quieter. “Ain’t used to bein’ fussed over.”

“Too bad,” you said, nose bumping his. “You’re benched. I’m benchin’ you. Consider this court-ordered pampering.”

His hands found your hips—one loose, one instinctive—and he exhaled like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the energy or the death wish. “Could do worse than havin’ you hoverin’.”

“Damn right,” you said, but your mouth tugged despite yourself. You went back to work, shaving another clean path. “Also, for the record, you look ridiculous with half a mustache.”

“Thought you liked me rugged.”

“Ido, but I also like you alive” You wiped the blade, then traced his lower lip with your thumb to catch a stubborn fleck of foam. “Hold still, cowboy. One twitch and I'll nip your jugular. That gunshot wound will be the least of your worries then.”

You swiped the last clean line, checked with your thumb for strays, and set the razor in the tray. “There. Face restored. Dignity pending.” You started to stand, kit in hand.

His fingers hooked your wrist and reeled you back in—gentle, insistent. You planted your feet. “Ok, I’m putting this away and you’re finishing that sandwich that I made for you.”

He didn’t try a joke this time. The fight went out of his shoulders in a slow exhale. “Wait,” he said, voice low and honest. “I shoulda listened, been more careful.. I scared ya.”

You held his gaze, let him sit in it. “Yeah. You did.”

“I ain’t sayin’ it was smart. Just—” his mouth twitched, shame and stubborn in a tug-of-war—“M'sorry. I ain’t used to... havin someone back home waitin' for me. But I’ll try bein' more careful. For you.”

You studied him, really looked—the set of his mouth, the way his shoulders tried to make themselves smaller, the steadiness in his eyes that didn’t duck or dodge. He wasn’t hiding. He was just… new at this. Being the one someone worried over. Your hurt—born from watching him bleed—put guilt in his hands with nowhere to set it down. You could see him trying to square it: that you were in pain because he mattered. It sat strange on him, but true.

“...Say it again,” you murmured.

“I’m sorry.”

Some of the tightness in your chest let go. You set the kit down, slid your hands up his jaw you’d just rescued from half-a-mustache, and bumped your nose to his. “Good. Don’t do it again.”

He nodded, grip at your waist easing like he’d been holding on too hard. “Won’t—” A beat. “I’ll try.”

“Better,” you said, and kissed him—soft, sure, the kind of kiss that says truce before it says anything else. He kissed you back and immediately winced when it tugged his side.

“Easy, Rambo,” you scolded against his mouth, smiling despite yourself. “You’re on thin ice.”

"Yes ma'am."

[belleeebelleee]

Daryl Dixon (The Walking Dead) x fem!reader

Daryl figures out you're touch-starved. It ruins both of your lives.

Daryl Dixon figured out you were touch-starved entirely by accident.

Which honestly made it worse.

Because once Daryl noticed something—

Really noticed it—

He became impossible about it.

And unfortunately for both of you, Daryl noticing you practically melted under casual affection ruined the remainder of your lives permanently.

It started small.

Tiny things.

The prison had become strangely gentle lately.

Not safe exactly.

Never safe.

But calmer.

There were routines now. Gardens growing in the yard. Laundry lines swaying in the breeze.

People laughed sometimes.

You still startled when people touched you, though.

Not in fear.

Just surprise.

Like you weren’t used to it.

Daryl noticed because Daryl noticed everything about you.

The way you froze slightly anytime Carol squeezed your shoulder. How your entire expression softened whenever Beth linked arms with you. How you lingered embarrassingly long after hugs.

At first, he didn’t think much of it.

Then one evening Glenn threw an arm around your shoulders while telling some stupid story during dinner.

And you—

You leaned into it instinctively.

Tiny movement.

Barely noticeable.

But your whole body relaxed like someone finally loosened a wire pulled too tight.

Daryl stared.

Because the look on your face—

Jesus.

Like warmth physically surprised you.

Then Glenn let go after a second and you smiled like you were trying not to miss it already.

Something uncomfortable twisted in Daryl’s chest.

The realization hit fully a few days later.

You’d gotten hurt on a run.

Nothing major.

A twisted ankle and a few cuts after slipping down an embankment.

Still enough that Hershel ordered you off your feet for the day.

Daryl found you sitting alone in one of the prison cells that evening changing the bandage around your ankle.

You looked frustrated.

Mostly at yourself.

“Need help?” he asked from the doorway.

You startled slightly before relaxing.

“Oh. Hey.”

Daryl crouched beside you automatically.

Large rough hands reaching for the bandage.

You hesitated only a second before letting him help.

Silence settled comfortably.

Then—

When Daryl’s hand wrapped carefully around your ankle to steady it—

You went still.

Not tense.

Still.

Your breath caught softly.

Daryl glanced up immediately.

You looked embarrassed suddenly.

“…Sorry.”

His brow furrowed.

“For what?”

You shrugged awkwardly.

“Nothin’.”

But your face had softened in that same strange way again.

Like simple touch affected you too much.

Daryl stared at your ankle in his hands.

Then slowly:

“…When’s the last time somebody took care’a you?”

The question slipped out before he could stop it.

You blinked.

Then looked away.

Daryl’s stomach dropped immediately.

Because that silence?

That silence was answer enough.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

You laughed awkwardly.

“It’s not a big deal.”

The words sounded rehearsed.

Like you said them often.

Daryl hated that instantly.

He finished wrapping your ankle carefully.

Then without really thinking about it, his thumb brushed lightly over your skin once.

You visibly melted.

Not dramatically.

Just—

Your shoulders loosened. Your eyes fluttered slightly.

Tiny reaction.

Huge impact.

Daryl’s brain short-circuited completely.

Because suddenly he understood.

You weren’t just shy.

You were touch-starved.

And apparently nobody had been taking proper care of you.

Something deeply possessive and furious rose inside his chest.

Not at you.

Never at you.

At the idea of someone going this long without softness.

Without affection.

Without being held.

Daryl swallowed hard.

“…That feels nice, huh?”

Your face immediately turned red.

You looked horrified at being noticed.

“I—”

Daryl’s expression softened instantly.

“Hey. Ain’t makin’ fun.”

You stared at him uncertainly.

Then quietly:

“Yeah.”

The honesty in that tiny word wrecked him.

After that, Daryl couldn’t stop noticing it.

And once he noticed it—

He started doing something about it.

Not consciously at first.

Instinctively.

Like his body made decisions before his brain caught up.

He’d hand you things and let his fingers linger slightly. Stand close enough your shoulders brushed. Rest his palm briefly against your back guiding you through doorways.

Every single time, you reacted.

Subtle.

But there.

A tiny breath. A softened expression. A quiet almost-startled look of relief.

And every single time, Daryl felt like he was losing his damn mind.

Because you looked at touch like it was something precious.

Like you weren’t used to being handled gently.

It made his chest ache.

The first hug happened because of a nightmare.

You woke the prison with a scream.

Daryl was moving before he fully woke up.

Knife in hand. Heart pounding.

He found you sitting upright on your cot breathing hard, eyes glassy with panic.

No danger.

Just fear.

Daryl lowered the knife slowly.

“Hey.”

You looked up immediately.

Humiliation crossed your face.

“Sorry.”

Again with the apologizing.

Daryl hated that too.

“You ain’t gotta apologize for nightmares.”

You rubbed at your eyes quickly.

“M’fine.”

Bullshit.

Daryl stepped closer carefully.

Then stopped.

Because he wanted to touch you.

Badly.

Wanted to comfort you.

Wanted to ease that awful lonely look in your eyes.

“You want a hug?”

The question came out rough.

Awkward.

Like he physically wasn’t used to offering things like that.

You stared at him like he’d spoken another language.

“A what?”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably.

“A hug,” he repeated. “Jesus Christ.”

Your eyes widened slightly.

“You’d hug me?”

The sheer disbelief in your voice nearly fucking killed him.

Of course he would.

Jesus.

Daryl’s chest tightened painfully.

“…C’mere.”

You moved instantly.

Like your body decided before your brain could.

And the second Daryl wrapped his arms around you—

You collapsed against him.

A tiny broken sound escaped your throat as your hands clutched weakly at the back of his vest.

Daryl froze.

Because nobody had ever held onto him like that before.

Like he was safety. Like he was home.

Your entire body relaxed by degrees in his arms.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like you were afraid it might disappear.

Daryl tightened his hold immediately.

Protective instinct hitting him so hard it almost hurt.

“It’s okay,” he murmured awkwardly into your hair. “Gotcha.”

You trembled once against him.

Then whispered so quietly he almost missed it:

“Thank you.”

And that—

That absolutely ruined him.

After that, things escalated quickly.

Because now Daryl knew.

And now you knew he knew.

Which meant every bit of affection became charged with unbearable awareness.

Daryl started touching you constantly.

Not even on purpose anymore.

A hand at your waist. Your knee pressed against his during dinner. His arm slung around your shoulders during watch duty.

And every single time, you unconsciously leaned into him like a moth to a flame.

Daryl became addicted to it immediately.

The way your eyes softened when he touched you. The sleepy little sighs you made. How naturally you started seeking him out afterward.

It destroyed him.

Completely.

Carol noticed first.

“You’ve gotta stop looking at her like that.”

Daryl frowned.

“Like what?”

“Like she hung the moon and invented kindness.”

Daryl looked offended.

“Ain’t lookin’ at her like nothin’.”

Carol stared.

“You carried her juice box across the yard yesterday.”

“…She asked.”

“She was fifteen feet away.”

Daryl grunted and walked off.

Carol laughed herself breathless.

You were not doing much better.

Because Daryl Dixon touched like he meant it.

Careful. Steady. Protective.

Every casual touch from him felt devastatingly intimate because Daryl wasn’t casually affectionate with anybody else.

Only you.

And the worst part?

He always looked at you afterward.

Like he needed to make sure you were okay.

Like your comfort mattered to him more than breathing.

One evening in the common area, you ended up tucked against Daryl’s side beneath a blanket.

Halfway through the conversations, you realized his fingers were absentmindedly rubbing slow circles against your arm.

Your brain nearly shut down.

You tilted your head slightly to look at him.

Daryl noticed immediately.

“What?”

“…Nothing.”

His hand paused.

“You want me t’stop?”

Immediate panic hit you.

“No.”

Too fast.

Too desperate.

Heat flooded your face instantly.

Daryl stared at you.

Then very slowly resumed the gentle motion against your arm.

Something soft and wrecked crossed his face.

Like that answer affected him way too much.

Truthfully?

It did.

The breaking point came during a storm.

Heavy rain hammered against the prison roof while everyone crowded into the cafeteria overnight.

Space was limited.

Blankets everywhere. People sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder.

You sat beside Daryl shivering slightly from the cold.

Without a word, he opened one arm toward you.

Invitation.

Your heart stumbled.

“Y’sure?” you whispered.

Daryl looked at you like the question offended him.

“Get over here.”

You curled against his side carefully.

Daryl immediately wrapped his arm around you fully.

Warm. Solid.

Safe.

Then—

Without thinking—

You nuzzled slightly closer.

Tiny movement.

Instinctive.

Daryl stopped breathing.

Because holy shit.

You trusted him.

Trusted him enough to seek comfort from him naturally.

His hand tightened carefully against your shoulder.

And then quietly, rough like confession:

“Ain’t nobody been takin’ care’a you right.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

You looked down.

“No,” you admitted softly.

Daryl went still beside you.

Then after a long moment:

“Gonna change that.”

Your breath caught.

You looked up slowly.

Daryl was already staring at you.

Eyes dark. Intense. Terrifyingly honest.

“Don’t think I can stop now anyway,” he muttered.

And suddenly you realized something equally devastating.

Daryl wasn’t just comforting you because he pitied you.

Daryl liked touching you.

Needed it too.

Maybe almost as much as you did.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper.

“Daryl…”

His hand slid carefully up your back.

Slow.

Gentle.

“You got any idea what ya do to me?” he asked hoarsely.

No.

No, you really didn’t.

But judging by the way Daryl looked at you right now—

Like touching you had become something dangerous and necessary all at once—

You were starting to understand.

Then finally, slowly, Daryl pressed his forehead against yours.

And neither of you ever really recovered from it.

[buckyytorres]

[buckyytorres]

[axelwolf8109]

Does anyone use something to organize their characters for books or fics? Docs only goes so far and I can't sign in to Word....and notebooks can only do so much...also my handwriting is ass

[axelwolf8109]

The shopping/cheating joke is still funny

[haletostilinski]

Best MM Ship Ever: Group 1 - Round 1

Scogan (Scott Summers | Cyclops/James "Logan" Howlett | Wolverine) vs Adam Groff/Rahim Harrak

X-Men - Scogan (Scott Summers/Logan)

Sex Education - Adam/Rahim

Remaining time: 6 days 10 hours

[haletostilinski]

Best MM Ship Ever: Group 1 - Round 1

Tomarry (Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort) vs. Soriku (Sora/Riku)

Harry Potter - Tomarry (Harry/Tom)

Kingdom Hearts - Soriku (Sora/Riku)

Remaining time: 6 days 9 hours

[pullbackandrelease]

Hey, anyone who said this outfit would be perfect for Ghost King Phantom? Tada I posted this on a DPxDC discord server, and they said to "lemme reblog this on tumblr!!!" so here we are

[vesrose]

Signs you might not be so alive anymore

[rheitais]

Tucker: Go on vacation they said. Gotham isn't that bad they said. Slap me hard and call me Daniel Fenton because what are even the chances of me getting kidnapped?!

Cass: 1 in every 2 people.

Tucker: Wait seriously?

Cass: mhm!

Tucker: Ha. Haha. Hahahahaha.

Cass: you ok?

Tucker: I'm just plotting my best friends murders. Well i can plot Sam's. Danny maybe not.

Cass: Didn't come with?

Tucker: No. The love birds paid for my trip here while they went who knows where.

Cass: Bad friends. Gotham is never safe.

Tucker: Well I'm dumb for believing them before doing my research. I swear I can hear them mocking me from here.

Cass: You're not scared about this?

Tucker: Nah, I mean realistically I should be but like I've been through worse.

Cass: Like?

Tucker: Oh where do I even start? Being held hostage? Dragons, undead pirates, rockstars and like several other things that don't even come close. These guys are human and their knot work? Needs better work. *Jazz hands*

Cass: Pff. Yes it does. *also free*

Tucker: I knew you were cool. We should just leave. These guys might not even see us slip out if they aren't paying attention to us now.

Cass: Window over there should help us.

Tucker: I'll just follow you.

[Masterpost]

[breakfastatmiles]

Happy Halloween!

Enjoy some low quality memes 👻

[superfandomlife]

The Magicians - Season 1, Episode 03: Consequences of Advanced Spellcasting (2015)

[slasherstations]

the smirk eliot does when quentin tells him to kneel at the coronation scene #iknowthatgotbrospussywet