Daryl's playtoy

23-she/her-ethel cain and TWD luvur

[cherryno1]

MASTERLIST ( hardly)

Daryl Dixon x reader >>>

A woman again

part 2

part 3

[hollowhuntress]

thinking about daryl down on one knee by the front pipe of his bike, a cigarette hanging from his lip and his hair falling in his eyes. a few feet away, rick is leaning against the hood of the truck, a wrench in his hand, talking low about the afternoon perimeter runs.

the tool makes a sharp, heavy clink against the bike frame, then stops the second you’re near.

daryl doesn’t look up right away. he stays still, head tilted, listening. but rick’s voice cuts off mid-sentence. you feel rick’s eyes shift to you first, his brows lifting in sudden, quiet surprise, before he awkwardly clears his throat and looks down at his boots, suddenly taking a very deep interest in the dirt.

when daryl finally raises his chin, his eyes slide slow up your legs, hitch hard at the short hem of the denim, and lock onto the deep, low scoop of that white tank top.

the smoke shifts to the corner of his mouth. his brow furrows deep, a dark, heavy scowl cutting across his face as he realizes exactly why rick just stopped talking.

you tilt your head, completely oblivious to the sudden, suffocating tension drop in the garage. you hoist a woven basket full of bright red tomatoes and fresh green zucchini onto your hip, wiping a stray smudge of dirt off your cheek with the back of your wrist.

“just came back from the garden,” you say brightly, stepping closer and giving them a wide, innocent smile. “look how big the tomatoes got overnight! i thought we could–”

daryl spits the cigarette straight into the dirt and stands up, looming over you. he doesn't bother with a rag; he just wipes his greasy palms straight down his thighs, leaving black streaks on his jeans. he deliberately shifts his weight, his broad shoulders completely blocking you from rick’s line of sight. his eyes haven't left your chest.

“you walked across the whole damn camp like that?” he grunts. voice like gravel being crushed.

you blink up at him, entirely confused by the thundercloud on his face. “duh. it's ninety-five degrees out, daryl. the tomatoes were burning up.”

“ain't enough cloth on ya to clean a spark plug,” he snaps, stepping right into your space. he cuts a sharp, warning glare over his shoulder toward the truck, telling rick without words to keep his eyes to himself. rick just shakes his head with a faint, knowing smirk, raises his hands in mock surrender, and turns completely back to the truck engine.

daryl looks back down at you, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling heavy. “i know for a fact every loose-jawed idiot by the guard rails was gapin' at ya while you were bent over pullin' weeds.”

“they were just saying hi,” you say, your voice perfectly sweet and entirely naive as you adjust the heavy basket, forcing him to step back half an inch. “everyone was being really nice today.”

a muscle in daryl's jaw twitches so hard it looks painful. he reaches back without looking, yanks his own heavy, faded flannel off the bike seat, and shoves the bunched-up fabric hard against your stomach, right over the basket of vegetables.

“put it on,” he mutters, his hand lingering for a second, his thumb catching the bare skin at the edge of your hip, his grip tightening just enough to make his point.

his eyes suddenly flicker up to your mouth, narrowing dangerously as they lock onto the bold color painted on your lips. his hand leaves your hip, his heavy, grease-stained thumb pressing firmly against the corner of your mouth. with a rough, deliberate swipe, he drags his thumb straight across your bottom lip, smudging the red lipstick out past the line of your mouth and leaving a dark, engine-grease streak across your skin.

he stares down at the mess he just made, his chest rising and falling heavy.

“you ain't taking one step outside this yard looking like that again.”

[cherryno1]

Oh hell yeah!!! Possessive Daryl and your writing has my heart gahhh

[cherryno1]

Just curious what do you imagine happens next in “ a woman again” fic? I have a few ideas but I want to hear your thoughts.

[azaablue]

the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.

[cherryno1]

A woman again~~ Part 3

Hi again! I worked so so hard on part 3 (like genuinely reached flow state) and I'm really proud of it. I really hope you guys enjoy. Also, if this fic were a visual media, the theme tune is "Enjoy the Silence" by Depeche Mode. pls listen with this fic in mind. Im just super happy rn that its going somewhere ahh. Anyway, read it. Luvs ya xx

4.7k words

maybe swearing

Summary: party time baby, jealous!daryl, locked in a pantry... enjoy..

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

The party was officially too loud. Not in a bad way. Just in a way that made your social battery start waving a little white flag.

For the last two hours, you’d been pulled in every direction imaginable. Rosita wanted help fixing her eyeliner.

Carol had spent twenty minutes trying to convince everyone that face masks should become a weekly event. Tara had somehow spilt wine on herself twice. Maggie kept disappearing and reappearing with increasingly suspicious amounts of alcohol.

And every five minutes, somebody thanked you for the supply run. You felt appreciated, really.

But you were starting to feel like the guest of honour at your own funeral. So when Carol mentioned they were running low on wine, you immediately volunteered.

“I’ll grab some.”

Maggie pointed toward the community pantry.

“There’s supposed to be another box in storage.”

“Perfect.”

You escaped before anyone could give you another task. The cool night air felt nice against your flushed skin as you crossed the street, slightly stumbling from the buzz of booze. The further you got from the music, the quieter everything became. For the first time all evening, you could actually hear yourself think.

Unfortunately, that meant thinking about Daryl. You groaned. ”Absolutely not.” 

You pointed a warning finger at yourself.

“Nope.”

The universe ignored you. Because the second his name crossed your mind, your brain immediately replayed the fight at the gate. Your jaw clenched.

Then, annoyingly, it replayed him sitting on that porch all evening looking miserable. Which was somehow worse.

You shoved the thought away and stepped inside the pantry. Rows of shelves stretched along the walls. Canned goods. Dry food. Boxes stacked to the ceiling.

You light a gas lantern, casting warm light across the room.

“Okay…” you muttered. “Wine. Wine. Where would I hide wine?”

After a few minutes of searching, you found a dusty box tucked behind several crates.

“Bingo.”

You crouched down and dragged it free. The movement kicked up enough dust to make you cough. Still holding the box, you nudged the pantry door with your foot. The door swung shut.

Click.

You froze.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

You looked up.

“…No.”

You set the box down and walked over. Tried the handle. Nothing. You tried again. Harder. Nothing.

The lock had engaged.

 Who the hell puts a self-locking door on a pantry?

You stared at the door. The door stared back.

“No.”

You rattled the handle, but it didn’t budge.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

The realisation settled in that you were trapped. Inside a pantry. At the party, you fought so hard for. Surrounded by approximately six months’ worth of canned beans.

You slid down the wall until you hit the floor, stared at the ceiling and sighed.

“Fantastic.” 

The party carried on without you for longer than it should have. Long enough that Carol eventually noticed.

“Maybe she went home?” Maggie suggested. Carol wasn’t convinced. You weren’t exactly the type to leave any party.  Carol’s eyes immediately found Daryl, sitting on the porch, still looking miserable.

She sighed.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“What?” Maggie asked. Carol was already walking. Daryl spotted her approaching and immediately looked annoyed.

“Whatever it is, no.” Daryl knew her too well to know the conversation would turn into something he didn’t want to get into.

“I haven’t said anything.” She put her hands up while walking up the steps, in an attempt to seem innocent.

“Don’t gotta.”

Carol sat beside him anyway.

The murmur of the party chatting away engulfed them.

Daryl stared into his beer. Carol grinned at him.

Finally, she sighed.

“You know, this is the worst party face I’ve ever seen.”

Daryl grunted.

“Ain’t a party person.” Not looking at her.

“No. But usually you at least look like you’re having a bad time on purpose.”

That earned a small snort, and Carol considered that a victory.

For a moment, they sat and took in the antics of what was happening outside the porch, then she nudged his shoulder.

“You should talk to her.”

Immediately, Daryl groaned.

“There it is.” He knew this was coming. He’s been bugged all evening, and he knew Carol was waiting for her turn.

“I’m just saying.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to say.”

“Really?” Carol raised an eyebrow. 

Daryl looked away. Which was answer enough. Carol smiled to herself.

Then she casually added,

“Haven’t seen her in a while.”

Daryl was already scanning the crowd, looking for you. You were probably off with Spencer, and jealousy was all over his expression, and his knuckles turned white around the bottle. But maybe you were in trouble. Maybe walkers breached the fences, and they found you first. Carol had to bite the inside of her cheek to not laugh.

“Oh, don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” His brows furrowed in anger and defence.

“Never mind,” she said smugly, reading him like a book.

Daryl let out a puff of impatient air.

“Where’d she go?”

“Maggie said she went for wine.”

“When?”

Carol watched the realisation of where you might be, slowly crossing his face.

“A while ago.”

Daryl stood immediately. Beer forgotten. Carol smiled.

“There he is.”

Daryl pointed at her.

“Don’t.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinkin’ it.”

“Maybe.”

He shook his head and started walking.

“Daryl.”

He glanced back.

Carol’s smile softened.

“Be nice.”

With a grunt, he turned and headed down the street. Carol watched him disappear toward the storage buildings, then looked up at the sky.

“You’re welcome”, she muttered to absolutely nobody. 

The first ten minutes had been spent yelling and pounding on the wood hard enough to make your palms sting. The next ten had been dedicated to kicking the bottom of the door and inventing increasingly creative insults for whoever thought self-locking pantry doors were a good idea. After that, there wasn’t much left to do except wait.

So you’d sat yourself down on an overturned crate and tried not to think about the party happening without you.

The music drifted faintly through the walls, little more than a muffled hum now. Now and then, a burst of laughter would reach you, reminding you exactly where everyone else was while you sat trapped between shelves of canned beans and dried pasta.

At least if you died here, you’d die well-fed.

The thought had just made you snort to yourself when you heard footsteps.

Your head immediately lifted.

For a moment, you stayed perfectly still, listening. Then they came again, crunching against the gravel outside the storage building.

You were on your feet in an instant.

“Hello?” you called, moving toward the door. “Anybody out there?”

The footsteps stopped.

A beat of silence followed before a familiar voice answered from the other side.

“Uhhh .. hello?”

You froze.

Then immediately rolled your eyes.

Of course, it was him.

“Daryl.”

There was a pause. Long enough that you could practically picture the confused expression on his face.

He didn't know whether he should leave you to it or regret investigating.

“The hell are ya doin’ in there?”

You stared at the door and let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“What am I doing in a pantry?”

“Yeah.”

“The door is locked, and I can't get out.”

Another pause.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeated.

“Didn’t know if you both…. You want me to open it?”

“Well, duh!” Getting impatient.

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“You both decent?” His voice cracked.

You scoffed and looked up at the door in disbelief that he'd assume your first fuck in years would be in a dusty pantry.

“What the hell do you mean by that? Me and the tinned peaches are just fine” Annoyance loud in your voice. 

Outside, you heard the handle turn.

The door swung open instantly.

Just like that.

No struggle.

No effort.

No dramatic rescue.

You assumed now that the stupid thing only locks from the inside.

You stood there blinking as Daryl searched behind you, expecting a half-naked Spenser in the room with you.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Daryl tried and failed to hide a smirk. “ What? Spencer couldn’t save you?”

He almost looked proud.

The emotions from the gate immediately flooded back to you.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you are trying to prove.”

“Ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

“You are absolutely doing something.”

Before he could answer, voices drifted faintly from outside.

The party.

Still going.

Daryl glanced over his shoulder.

“You comin’?”

You looked around the pantry and at the box of wine sitting forgotten near the shelves.

“Oh.”

Right.

The wine.

The entire reason you’d come in here.

You moved toward the shelves and crouched to grab the box.

Daryl stepped inside to help.

The heavy pantry door swung shut behind him.

Click.

Both of you froze.

The sound echoed through the room.

Slowly, very slowly, Daryl turned toward the door.

You watched the realisation hit him.

Whatever pride or bravado he held before dissipated in an instant.

He looked at you, and you folded your arms in anger.

“No.”

Daryl grabbed the handle.

Turned it. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing.

The lock had engaged.

A beautiful silence.

Your mouth swung open as you bore your eyes at him.

Daryl stared at the door in disbelief.

Then closed his eyes briefly. A grin spread across your face before you could stop it.

“Daryl.”

No answer.

“Daryl.”

He sighed.

“What?”

“You got stuck in the pantry,” you said in a taunting tone and poked his shoulder with a single painted finger.

“Ain’t stuck.”

“You are literally stuck.”

“Ain’t.”

You pointed at the door.

“Open it.”

Daryl grabbed the handle again.

Pulled.

Nothing happened.

Your grin widened.

“Oh, my God.”

“Shut up.”

“You came to rescue me.”

“Shut up.”

“And now you’re trapped too.”

For the first time all evening, you laughed. A real laugh. The sound filled the pantry. You found it amusing that his knight in greasy armour act failed, even though it meant you were trapped alone with him now. He couldn’t be happier with the sound he induced from you.

Eventually, he gave up on the handle and stepped back. You watched him eye the door. Then the frame. Then the hinges.

“You’re a big guy, can’t you just kick it?” you asked.

Daryl stared at you. Then, at the thick metal frame surrounding the pantry door.

“This ain’t somebody’s bedroom door,” he said, shaking his head.

You frowned.

“Damn”

The pantry had originally been part of Alexandria’s storage buildings. The door was reinforced, designed to keep supplies secure.

Unfortunately, it was doing an excellent job, and some asshole installed the locks wrong. 

Daryl kicked his heavy boot against the door anyway. The entire frame rattled. Shelves shook. Several cans clattered somewhere behind you.

The door didn’t move. Not even slightly.

You raised an eyebrow.

Daryl pointed at you immediately.

“Not a word.”

The laugh escaped before you could stop it.

His expression darkened.

Not angry.

Just annoyed.

“Done?”

“No.”

“Figured.” Daryl leaned against one of the shelves in defeat, arms folded across his chest.

You sat back down on the crate, still smiling.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The laughter from the party felt farther away now. 

Muffled sounds of people having a good time.

Unlike the two of you.

Eventually, your smile faded.

The silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable.

Long enough for the reason neither of you wanted to be alone together to creep back into the room.

Daryl looked anywhere except at you. You stared at your aching feet from your new heels.

The heavy, unspoken fight sat between you.

Finally, you sighed.

“So.. uh…How’d Carol talk you into this?”

“What?” His eyes lifted.

“Finding me.” You shrugged. “You weren’t exactly lining up to talk to me earlier.”

Daryl’s jaw tightened.

“Carol said nobody’d seen ya.”

“Hm.” The answer came out flatter than you intended.

You hated how awkward everything felt now.

Once upon a time, the two of you could argue for hours without thinking about it.

Now every conversation felt like stepping on broken glass.

“You could’ve apologised, y’know.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Immediately, Daryl looked away.

You laughed bitterly.

“There it is.”

“What?” Daryl snapped.

“That thing you do.”

“Ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

“You never do anything, apparently.” attitude laced in your voice.

His expression hardened.

You regretted the comment immediately.

Not enough to take it back, but enough to know exactly where this was headed.

He dipped his head to make you look at him, and you obliged, hesitantly.

“You think I’m happy about what happened?” Daryl sounded pissed off. With himself? With you? You weren't sure.

“I think you called me a slut.”

The room went quiet.

Neither of you moved. Neither looked away.

For a second, it felt like the gate all over again.

Like one wrong sentence would send everything spiralling.

Then Daryl rubbed a hand over his face.

Tired.

You suddenly realised you were tired too.

Tired of being angry.

Tired of replaying the fight.

Tired of pretending it didn’t hurt.

You leaned back against the wall.

Daryl stared at the floor.

And for the first time since he’d walked in, neither of you seemed interested in winning the argument anymore. The silence after the snap didn’t feel sharp anymore.

It just felt… heavy.

Like both of you had run out of steam at the same time, and neither of you knew what came next.

Daryl pushed off the shelf first, still avoiding your eyes as he scanned the pantry again, as though the solution might suddenly appear if he looked at it hard enough.

Then he exhaled through his nose.

“Who the hell makes a pantry lock from the inside?”

You glanced up.

“What?”

He turned slightly, gesturing at the door like it had personally offended him.

“Who makes a pantry door, lock from the inside?”

You blinked.

Then, despite everything, a short laugh escaped you.

“Apparently, Alexandria does.”

Daryl shook his head.

“Ain’t even a good idea.”

“You’re the one who got stuck in it.”

“I was tryin’ to get you out.”

“And now you’re in here too.”

He shot you with one of those long, flat looks.

You smiled faintly despite yourself and leaned your head back against the wall.

The party outside was still going. Still alive . Still warm.

Inside the pantry, it felt like a different world entirely.

Smaller. Quieter. Harder to avoid each other in.

Daryl finally moved again, testing the door one more time out of pure habit more than hope. It didn’t budge. He sat on the floor, leaning against the locked entrance, elbows resting on his bent knees in front of him.

He sighed, long and rough. Then looked at you. Really took in your polished appearance this time. He looked at you with…admiration? Quickly, he looked away again, as if he were in pain. He gripped his shirt over his chest and expelled a short, breathy exhale through his mouth. 

You noticed. Of course you did.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothin’.”

You huffed a laugh.

“That’s your second favourite word tonight.”

He ignored you but held your gaze again. His expression was softer, drinking in how angelic you looked that night.

Daryl scratched the back of his neck.

“You still mad?” 

He looked at you like a sad puppy with pleading eyes. Like he was guilty and innocent all at the same time.

You didn’t answer straight away.

Because the honest answer was messy.

You weren’t as mad as you were earlier, but you weren’t exactly fine either.

So instead you said,

“I don’t know.”

That seemed to land better than anything else you could’ve said.

Daryl swallowed hard and nodded once like he understood that more than he wanted to admit.

Then he muttered,

“Ain’t meant it like that.”

His voice had dropped lower. Less defensive and more certain. In the creamy glow of the lantern, you could see the internal battle in him. Bravery to apologise and fear of saying something stupid.

“Doesn’t matter how you meant it,” you said quietly.

That made him flinch slightly. Not visibly. But enough. He knew it wasn't the time to be a coward now.

Daryl finally got up off the floor and walked toward the crate opposite you and sat down heavily, elbows resting on his knees.

For a long moment, he just stared at his boots, expecting you to move away or chirp another remark. When you didn’t, he broke the silence with cautiousness. 

“You said you went out for all that stuff ‘cause it mattered.”

You frowned slightly, wondering what this was leading to.

“It does.”

He nodded once.

Slow.

Like he was still working through something in his head.

“Didn’t get it at first.”

“I noticed.”

That earned you a brief look like he was pleading with you to be patient with his explanation.

Then he looked at his thumbs brushing over each other. Almost to soothe himself in this unfamiliar territory.

“But I get it now.” He barely whispered.

The words weren’t fancy.

They weren’t polished.

But they were honest enough that your chest tightened slightly anyway. The corners of your mouth twitched up without you trying, as you looked at how nervous he was. The cast of the lantern brought to light his vulnerability, and as you examined his face, you thought he had never looked more beautiful. His eyes fell on yours, comfortably. The quiet didn’t feel like avoidance this time.

It just…was.

Then Daryl let out a quiet, jagged breath and shook his head slightly, taking both of you out of your trance. 

“Still think it’s stupid we’re stuck in a pantry, though.” He said, cracking a small grin.

“Well,” you said, trying for something lighter, “if we can’t go to the party, the party can come to us.” You pulled out a bottle from the crate next to yours, unscrewed the top and sloshed it back, gulping a few times.

“Sauvignon Blanc, Monsieur?” You handed him the bottle.

“You speak French?” He said, utterly confused.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” And you shot him a sickly sweet smile. “Speaking French isn’t one of them.”

Daryl read the label and caught on. He took a swig and immediately spat the liquid back into the bottle and made a disgusted face.

“Eww, Daryl!”

“You drink that?” 

You scoffed. “What’s wrong with wine?”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Tastes like somethin’ went bad on purpose.”

That made you laugh, short and surprised, and you shook your head as you set it down on the crate between you. “Right. Of course you’d say that.”

You both shared a laugh, and when it died down, it was quiet again.

Daryl moved his crate so he could lean back against the shelf and, although he wouldn’t admit it, be closer to you. You could feel the shift back toward something more serious, like the air itself remembering what had happened earlier. Neither of you knew what to say. 

“I wasn’t just pissed off earlier,” he said suddenly.

You didn’t quite know what he was talking about, but you sat patiently for him to carry on. 

He wasn’t looking at you.

That was starting to feel like a pattern you didn’t know how to interrupt.

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening like whatever he was about to say wasn’t easy for him.

“I was scared.”

That made you still completely.

Not because it was dramatic — but because it wasn’t. It sounded like something he didn’t say often, or ever, and definitely not lightly.

Daryl kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke again, voice rougher now, less guarded in a way that felt almost uncomfortable to witness.

“When you go out there alone… stay out longer than ya said… it ain’t just today.” He paused, rubbing a hand briefly over his forehead, like he was reliving the worry. “It’s been buildin’ up.”

You didn’t interrupt. You couldn’t, not really.

“I kept thinkin’ one day you’re just not gonna come back.”

The words landed heavier than anything he’d said before. There was no accusation in them now, no anger to hide behind — just something plain and unfiltered that sat between you both without defence. When he finally glanced at you, it was quick, almost like he couldn’t hold your gaze for too long. He put his elbows back on his knees.

“I didn’t mean what I said at the gate,” he added quietly. “I just saw all that stuff and thought you nearly got yourself killed for somethin’ I didn’t understand.”

Your throat tightened slightly at his confession, like that painful lump before you cry.

“It wasn't for nothing,” you said carefully.

That made him nod once.

“I get that now.”

You placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you”, and you meant it, and he could feel your sincerity. 

The quiet dragged, but it didn’t matter. It felt like both of you were standing in the same space for the first time since everything had gone wrong, trying to figure out what came after understanding instead of argument.

You broke it first, mostly because staying in it too long felt dangerous in a way that Daryl will be stuck in a pantry with a pretty, crying mess.

“So,” you said, nudging the wine bottle lightly with your foot, “you don’t drink wine.”

Daryl snorted immediately. He was kind of relieved you permitted him to drop the subject.

“Hell no.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “What do you drink then? Hand sanitiser?”

That got a short, reluctant huff of laughter out of him.

“Beer.”

“Helpful.”

“There’s usually somethin’ stronger if you look hard enough.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“Funny you say that.”

Daryl finally looked at you properly.

“What?”

You pushed off the shelf.

“Carol used booze in one of her recipes a few weeks back. This place always has something stronger hidden somewhere. People just forget where.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he followed you anyway, muttering under his breath as you started shifting boxes and crates along the back wall. The search didn’t take long before you found it. A bottle of whiskey was tucked behind a sack of dried goods, like someone had been saving it for a moment that never came.

Daryl looked pleased.

“…Huh.”

You grinned. “Told you.”

He took it from you, turning it once before uncapping it and taking a sip without hesitation. The reaction was immediate — a sharp pull of his face that made you laugh before you could stop yourself.

“What?” you asked.

He handed it back.

“That tastes like regret.”

You took a careful sip yourself.

“Yeah,” you admitted, exhaling slightly, “kind of does.”

But it warmed you anyway.

Not just the drink but the space between you. The absence of sharp edges for the first time all night.

Daryl sat back down on the crate, bottle between you instead of the wine, like the earlier version of the night had already been quietly discarded. You settled across from him again, leaning against the shelf, and this time the silence didn’t feel like something that needed fixing.

After a while, Daryl glanced at you again.

Not quickly this time.

Properly again and plastered with a grin.

“So,” he said gruffly, “you always this much trouble?”

You raised an eyebrow slightly. “I got locked in a pantry once.”

“Twice,” he corrected immediately.

You pointed at him.

“That second one was your fault. And don’t tell me you ain’t enjoying yourself, Dixon”

He didn’t argue.

Just laughed into the bottle and took another drink.

Daryl shifted slightly, boots scraping faintly against the floor.

“You really go out there alone that much?” he asked, like he was picking at something he wasn’t sure he should touch.

You hesitated.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t like that answer. You could tell by the way his jaw tightened, even if he didn’t argue right away.

“That ain’t smart.”

You let out a short breath that almost became a laugh. You grabbed the bottle from his hands and sipped.

“You think I don’t know that?”

He looked at you through squinted eyes, assessing you. Like he was trying to understand where the line was between what you had to do and what you were willing to risk.

“You ever think about not doin’ it alone?” he asked.

The question bounced around your head, trying to work out if he was implying what you thought he was. 

You looked down at the bottle in your hands, mind still racing.

“Yeah,” you said after a moment. Honest. “But people are busy. Or injured. Or already out. And it’s easier.”

Daryl made a low sound in his throat. Not approval. Not disagreement either. 

He knew where you were coming from, after all, he spent so much time alone on runs. He knew it was easier risking his own life over someone else's, someone he couldn’t stand losing. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing you, even though he hides it behind insults and meaningful grunts.

“That’s dumb,” he finally coughed out.

You huffed a small laugh. “That’s your emotional support vocabulary, isn’t it?”

He raised a brow.

“What?”

“‘Dumb.’ ‘Ain’t.’ ‘Shut up.’ You’ve really got range.”

That got a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth again, like it kept trying to happen without permission.

“Ain’t my fault you make bad decisions, girl,” he muttered.

You mimicked his pose. Elbows on your knees and your face inches away from his. 

“You followed me into a pantry.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

He opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

“…Shut up.”

That time you both laughed. Properly. Not loud, not dramatic. Just enough to cut through the last bit of tension still clinging to the air.

Daryl leaned back against the shelf again and repositioned himself to get more comfortable, but this time his clothed knee rested against your bare knee. Didn’t create space where there didn’t need to be any.

A long pause followed.

Then, quieter—

“You were kinda scary when you shouted at me, after I got back,” you admitted.

He looked utterly pained at your words and avoided eye contact.

“Yeah,” he said after a while. “I figured.” Regret threaded in his words.

There wasn’t a script for it. Not really. Just two people trying not to step back into the parts that had already hurt.

Daryl exhaled through his nose.

“I don’t got a way with words,” he said finally.

He scratched the back of his neck again, restless in a way that didn’t have anywhere to go in a room this small.

“What I said…” he started, then stopped. Restarted. “Ain’t somethin’ I shoulda said.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“Was mad. Didn’t think. Just—saw red.” His voice roughened slightly at the edges. “But that don’t make it okay.”

You nodded slowly. 

A long silence followed, full of things neither of you was rushing to solve.

Eventually, you nudged the bottle towards him as a peace offering.

He took it, but didn’t drink immediately.

“You forgive me?” he said, turning his head to yours.

You didn’t have to think about it. Somewhere and somehow, your sharpness for him had burned itself down into something softer. 

“Yeah," you whispered and reached up slowly to brush a strand of his hair out of his eyes and cupped his cheek softly.

His skin rose red under your touch.

He stared into you and flickered his eyes to your lips, then back to your eyes and darted away with a clearing of his throat. He fidgets in his chair, and you smile to yourself at how flustered he seems.

“Good,” he said, glad the argument was behind them.

The lantern flickered slightly as the flame settled.

Outside, the party continued without you noticing it as much anymore.

Inside, the pantry didn’t feel like a trap now. Just a room. A small one. Shared.

Daryl finally took a drink again, slower this time.

Then, almost reluctantly,

“…Still your fault we’re in here.”

You smiled into your hands.

“Absolutely not.”

He grinned at you.

You grinned back.

Neither of you remembered why you were sitting in a pantry.

Maybe the asshole who installed the lock wrong wasn’t such an asshole anymore. 

TAGS ❤️: @deathispeacefullifeisharder @callmemcee @crazyunsexycool @yustlove13 @comme-un-reve @nemelimpo @chuuyas-world @little-mops-booknook @kendramix @philiasoul @diaryofafeelsaddict 

[cherryno1]

My boyfriend read my Daryl Dixon“woman again” fanfic ( yay supportive bf) and he said it reminded him of the song “enjoy the silence” by Depeche Mode.

AND HOLY FUCK HES SO RIGHT!! I LOVE HIM SM!!

“Words like violence

Break the silence

Come crashing in

Into my little world

Painful to me

Pierce right through me

Can't you understand?

Oh, my little girl

All I ever wanted

All I ever needed

Is here in my arms

Words are very unnecessary

They can only do harm

Vows are spoken

To be broken

Feelings are intense

Words are trivial

Pleasures remain

So does the pain

Words are meaningless

And forgettable”

[cherryno1]

Bruh tumblr has made me a pervert. All I can think about is older brother Daryl Dixon choking and using my body to get himself off… like hmmf.

I need a fan fic NEOW!

[wastheclockorange]

Pre apocalypse Daryl Dixon

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

[vitopreacherson1991]

Daryl is coded by Ethel Cain, and nobody can convince me otherwise.

[thegirlnextdoor411-deactivated2]

Please

[msmeeda]

Someone on a tumblr repost said that young Norman Reedus looks like Willoughby Tucker.

And now I understand how Willoughby got his own album dedication. Because if I lost him, I would just jump in a lake with a cinder block with no letter left behind. Or run away with a man named Isaiah.

[cherryno1]

A woman again~~~ Part 2

Hello all! Here’s part 2 yay. Thank you all for the lovely messages and comments on part 1. I didn’t think these scenes were gonna be so detailed so definitely more action(and smut hopefully) will be in part 3. Didn’t think this was gonna be so slow burn damn.

Hope you like it! Luvs ya xx

2.9k words

Warnings: Swearing I think idk

Summary- Daryl is pissed after the argument, you look the bomb.com and get flirted with

~~~~~

The party had barely started and already half the men in Alexandria looked confused.

Rick stood near one of the tables outside, nursing a drink while watching groups of people gather beneath the string lights.

The women had completely taken over. Everywhere he looked there was laughter.

Carol was wearing lipstick. Rosita looked like she’d declared war on every eligible man within a ten-mile radius. Even Michonne had done something different with her hair.

It was strange…But nice. For once.

“You seein’ this?” Abraham asked, appearing beside him with a grin.

Rick huffed out a laugh.

“Hard not to.”

Abraham gestured vaguely toward the crowd.

“Whole damn town got ambushed by hairspray.” Abraham snorted. “Seriously though. They look happy.”

Rick nodded. They did.

Glenn was beside him, smiling as Maggie showed him her freshly painted nails for what had to be the fifth time.

“They still look nice,” Glenn assured her.

“You didn’t even look.”

“I did.”

“You absolutely didn’t.”

Rick couldn’t help smiling. Maggie left to get another drink.

“I think Rosita threatened Eugene with eyeliner.” aaron said replacing her spot.

“That sounds right,” Glenn laughed.

Eugene immediately pointed across the party.

“For the record, I was not threatened. I was aggressively encouraged.”

“Same thing,” Aaron said.“I walked into Carol’s house earlier and got kicked out because apparently I wasn’t allowed to see the ‘final reveal.’”

Glenn snorted.

“Yeah that's carol for ya.”

The conversation drifted naturally toward the topic everybody had been talking about all evening.

You.

Aaron shook his head.

“She really found all that stuff?” Aaron asked.

“Yep,” Glenn replied.

“Whole drug store.”

“Damn.”

Rick shook his head.

“Wasn’t exactly thrilled she went alone.”

“No kidding,” Abraham muttered. “But do the ladies look HOT!”.

A few chuckles followed.

The conversation might’ve stayed there.

Except Aaron suddenly looked past Rick.

Toward the opposite side of the street.

A grin appeared on his face.

“Oh.”

Rick followed his gaze.

Then Glenn.

Then Abraham.

Almost immediately, all four men started smirking.

Because there was Daryl. Sitting by himself.Again.

He was leaning against a porch railing with a beer in one hand, looking thoroughly miserable.

“Uh oh …He’s still sulking.”

“Ain’t sulking.”

Daryl hadn’t even looked up.

Glenn exchanged a glance with Maggie.

“Sure.”

“Ain’t.”

Aaron folded his arms.

“You’ve been sittin’ there all night.”

“Ain’t been all night.”

“It’s been an hour.”

“Same thing.”

Glenn bit back a smile. Daryl shot him a warning look. Traitor.

Rick took a sip of his drink. “Heard what happened at the gate.”

Immediately Daryl’s jaw tightened.

“Don’t.”

“Just saying.”

“Don’t.”

Rick ignored him.

“She scared the hell outta everybody.”

“Exactly.”

“But that ain’t no excuse for how you talked to her .” Silence.

Daryl stared at the ground. The music from the party drifted through the air. Laughter echoed from somewhere down the street.

Finally he muttered,

“I know.”

The answer came so quietly that Glenn almost missed it. Aaron’s eyebrows lifted.

“You know,” Aaron said carefully, “most people apologize after callin’ somebody a slut.”

Abraham winced at the abruptness of the Conversation. Daryl looked like he’d rather let the walkers have at him,

“Ain’t need a damn lecture.”

“Didn’t say ya did.”

“Then shut your damn mouth.”

Rick sighed.

“Daryl.”

The archer scrubbed a hand over his face. Already irritated. Already tired. Mostly because they weren’t wrong.

Maggie appeared beside Glenn carrying two drinks. One look at Daryl told her exactly what was happening.

“Oh good,” she said dryly. “We’re still doing this.”

Daryl groaned.

Maggie ignored him. “You really hurt her.”

His shoulders tensed.

“Know that too.”

The answer surprised everybody.

Including him.

Because there wasn’t even any fight left in it.

Just guilt.

Maggie’s expression softened slightly.

Only slightly.

“She did all that for us.”

Daryl didn’t answer.

“Not for attention.”

Still nothing.

“Not for men.”

His jaw tightened. Because that’s exactly what you’d said. Word for word. And hearing it repeated made him feel worse.

The silence stretched.

“Look,” Glenn said carefully, “she was trying to do something nice.”

Daryl rubbed a hand across his face.

“I know.”

“Then why’d ya say it?”

The question landed hard because Daryl didn’t actually have an answer.

Not one that sounded sane.

Because saying:

Because I thought she’d gotten herself killed.

Because every time she leaves the gates I can’t breathe right until she comes back.

Because seeing those bags made me realize she almost died for something I didn’t understand.

…wasn’t exactly an option.

So instead he grunted.

Everybody immediately knew he wasn’t going to answer.

“That’s what I thought,” Abraham muttered.

Daryl wasn’t paying attention to whatever they were saying anymore.

The words had turned into background noise. None of it registered.

Because you’d just walked out of the house.

For a second, Daryl genuinely forgot how to breathe. The porch suddenly felt too small. Too hot. Too crowded.

You stood at the top of the steps laughing at something Rosita said. The dress Carol had bullied you into wearing fit like it had been made for you. Your hair fell in soft curls around your shoulders. Even from across the street, Daryl could see the effort that had gone into it. The makeup wasn’t heavy. Wasn’t dramatic.

Just enough.

Enough to make you look like the woman you’d been before the world ended. Or maybe the woman you’d always been. Daryl wasn’t sure.

What he was sure about was that he couldn’t stop staring.

“Wow.” Aaron’s voice broke through the fog.

Daryl ignored him. Your smile widened at something Rosita said.

And there it was. That smile.

The one he’d spent all day wishing he’d never taken away.

Something twisted painfully in his chest. Because you looked happy. And he hadn’t been the reason for it.

For once, You looked completely free of him. No arguments. No bickering. No eye rolls. No yelling.

Just happy.

The realization hit harder than he expected.

“You should probably close your mouth.”

Daryl immediately snapped his jaw shut.

Aaron grinned.

“Thought so.”

“Shut up.”

Aaron laughed into his drink.

Across the street, Carol appeared beside you and immediately started fussing with your hair. You swatted her hands away. Carol ignored you and fixed it anyway.

The sight made something unexpected tug at the corner of Daryl’s mouth.

For years he’d watched you fight with everybody who tried taking care of you.

Carol.

Rick.

Maggie.

Him.

Especially him.

Stubborn as hell. Always had been.

You said something that made Rosita throw her head back laughing. Then you laughed too. Daryl felt the sound all the way from where he stood.

And God help him, you looked beautiful. Not because of the dress. Not because of the makeup.

Because for the first time in a long time…

You looked alive.

The thought hit him like a punch.

Suddenly he was back at the gate. Back to seeing those bags. Back to hearing your voice shaking with anger.

‘I didn’t do this for men.’

Back to watching tears gather in your eyes.

‘I’m tired of surviving like I’m already dead.’

Daryl swallowed hard.

Because now he understood. Looking at you standing there surrounded by people who cared about you…

He understood exactly why you’d done it. And somehow that made him feel even worse.

As if sensing it, your eyes lifted.

Across the crowd. Across the street. Straight to him.

Everything in Daryl’s body locked up. For one stupid second he thought maybe you’d smile.

Maybe wave. Maybe something. Instead your expression cooled instantly.

Like he was any other person at the party.

Then you looked away and kept walking.

The smile returned the second rosita said something else.

Somehow being yelled at would’ve hurt less. At least then you’d still be looking at him.

The moment you stepped outside, the noise hit you all at once.

Music. Laughter. Voices overlapping under the glow of string lights stretched between old houses.

Alexandria looked… different tonight.

Warmer, somehow.

Or maybe that was just what everyone was pretending.

You adjusted the dress Carol had insisted on helping you into, suddenly hyper-aware of how it sat on your body. Not uncomfortable. Just unfamiliar.

Like you were wearing a version of yourself you hadn’t met in a long time.

Rosita was talking beside you, but you only caught half of it.

Something about “not letting men ruin a good eyeliner moment.”

You laughed anyway.

It felt easier than thinking too hard.

Carol reached over and fixed a strand of your hair that had already fallen out of place.

“You’re gonna undo all my work,” she said softly.

“I didn’t ask for this much effort,” you replied, swatting her hand away.

But you didn’t really mean it. Not fully.

You felt people watching you as you moved down the steps.

Not in a bad way.

Just… aware.

Like you’d stepped into a version of yourself that existed before everything got sharp and loud and covered in blood.

For a second, your chest tightened.

Then Rosita bumped your shoulder.

“Relax,” she said. “You look good.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I look like I survived a makeover apocalypse.”

“That’s basically what happened,” she shot back.

You laughed again.

Easier. Lighter.

Like you could almost forget the way your hands still remembered holding weapons better than anything else.

Across the street, you saw him.

Daryl.

You didn’t mean to look.

It just happened.

He was sitting with the others, half in shadow, beer in hand.

Not moving much. Just watching.

You couldn’t read his expression from here. You weren’t sure you wanted to. Your stomach tightened anyway.

The memory of the gate flashed through your mind before you could stop it.

His voice.

Your voice.

The word.

You swallowed and looked away too quickly, pretending Rosita had said something funny again.

She hadn’t.

But you laughed anyway.

Because it was easier than letting your mind go back there.

You told yourself not to think about him.

Not tonight.

Not now.

Not when everything was supposed to feel normal.

“You’re doing that thing,” Maggie said, joining you.

“What thing?”

“Thinking too hard.”

You scoffed.

“I’m not.”

Maggie just smiled like she didn’t believe you.

You followed her gaze without meaning to.

And there he was again.

Still watching.

Still not doing anything.

You couldn’t tell what you were supposed to feel about that.

Anger? Relief? Nothing?

You settled on nothing.

Nothing was safer.

So you turned back to Rosita mid-sentence and forced yourself to laugh again.

But your awareness of him didn’t leave.

It just stayed there. Quiet.

At the edge of everything.

Like a door you weren’t ready to open.

Someone stepped into your space. Not close enough to be rude. But close enough that you noticed immediately.

Spencer Monroe. Of course.

He had that easy, practiced smile on his face,like the world hadn’t ended and he was still allowed to be confident in it.

“Hey,” he said.

You blinked, slightly thrown off. “Hey.”

Rosita’s expression shifted instantly beside you, like she was already bracing for entertainment. Maggie, a little further back, raised an eyebrow.

Spencer ignored them both. Or tried to.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you like this before,” he said.

You glanced down at your dress automatically.

“Oh. Yeah. That’s probably because I usually look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

Rosita snorted. Spencer smiled wider.

“I was gonna say… you clean up pretty well.” There it was. The compliment.

Simple. Harmless.

Still made something weird tighten in your chest.

You weren’t used to that kind of attention anymore. Not soft attention. Not normal attention.

You shifted your weight slightly.

“Thanks.”

A pause.

You suddenly became aware of how many people were nearby.

How many eyes were not-so-subtly drifting this way.

Including his.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

Spencer tilted his head slightly.

“You’re the one who went out for all this stuff, right?”

You hesitated.

“Yeah.”

“That was… pretty impressive.”

You gave a small shrug like it didn’t matter.

“It was just a run.”

“It wasn’t ‘just’ anything,” he said.

That made you pause. Because it sounded like he actually meant it. Not in a flirty way. Not exactly. Just… genuine.

Rosita leaned in toward Maggie behind you, whispering something that made Maggie try not to smile.

You ignored them.

Spencer shifted a little closer—not invading, just settling into conversation.

“So,” he said, “you going to enjoy the party you basically saved, or are you gonna stand here pretending you don’t like being told you did something good?”

That made you laugh. A real one this time..

“Did I save the party now?”

“I mean,” he said lightly, “you brought back civilization in a bottle. So yeah, kinda.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth was still curved.

“Civilization in a bottle. That’s dramatic.”

“I’m a Monroe. We do dramatic.”

That got another laugh out of you.

Easier again.

You didn’t notice the shift at first. The way Spencer’s tone softened slightly. The way he stayed where he was instead of stepping away. The way he was looking at you like you were something interesting, not just someone surviving.

You felt it across the street before you saw it. That pressure. That awareness.

Like someone had gone very still.

You didn’t turn. Not yet.

Spencer continued talking, saying something about how Alexandria had needed this kind of night for a long time. You nodded occasionally. Half listening, Half aware of something tightening in your stomach that had nothing to do with him.

Then he offered you a drink. You took it without thinking too hard.

“Thanks.”

And that was when you finally looked up. Not at Spencer. Past him. Across the street. 

Daryl.Still on the porch. Still watching. Completely still now.

The expression on his face was unreadable from here. But something about the way his shoulders sat made your chest tighten anyway. Like he’d gone quieter. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just… gone inward.

You held his gaze for half a second too long. Something flickered there. You couldn’t name it. Then your expression shifted on instinct.

You didn’t smile.

Didn’t wave.

Didn’t soften.

You just… turned away. Back to Spencer.

Like it meant nothing.

Like it was easy.

Spencer was still talking, unaware of the shift. You laughed again at something he said. It sounded normal. It felt normal.

But your attention wasn’t fully here anymore. It was split now.

Between the conversation in front of you…

And the silence you could feel across the street.

Daryl should’ve left.

The second he saw you walk into the party, he should’ve gotten on his bike and disappeared for the night. Instead, he made the mistake of staying. Now he was miserable.

He leaned against the porch railing with his beer, staring stubbornly into the distance. Absolutely not looking at you. Not even once. Not at all.

“You’re starin’.”

Daryl didn’t look away from the street.

“Ain’t.”

Aaron appeared beside him, following his gaze directly to where you stood laughing with rosita.

“Mhm.”

Daryl took a long drink.

“Ain’t starin’.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Aaron’s grin widened.

Daryl hated him a little.

Then daryls hunter eyes saw spencer monroe making a bee line for you.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Aaron muttered.

Daryl watched him stop beside you.

Watched you laugh at something he said. Watched Spencer smile. Then smile again. Then lean a little closer.

The beer bottle creaked in Daryl’s grip.

Aaron noticed Immediately.

“Uh oh.”

“Ain’t nothin’.”

“Daryl.”

“Ain’t nothin’.”

Aaron looked delighted. “You know Spencer’s flirting with her, right?”

Daryl’s jaw tightened. “No he ain’t.”

“He definitely is.”

“He talks like that to everybody.”

“He really doesn’t.”

Spencer laughed at something you’d said.

You laughed back.

Daryl looked like he wanted to fight God.

Aaron barely held it together. “Oh my God.”

“Shut up.”

“You are jealous.”

Daryl nearly choked on his beer. “The hell I am.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Ain’t.”

“Look at your face.”

“My face always looks like this.”

“That is unfortunately true.”

Daryl glared at him.

Aaron grinned.

Then things got worse. Much worse. Spencer offered you a drink. You accepted.

Daryl straightened immediately.

Aaron noticed that too.

“Wow.”

Daryl ignored him.

Spencer said something else.

You laughed again.

The sound carried across the street.

And somehow that annoyed Daryl most of all.

Because after everything that happened today…

After the fight.

After the yelling.

After seeing you cry.

Some asshole in a button-up shirt was getting more smiles out of you in five minutes than Daryl had managed all week.

The realization sat heavy in his chest.

Before he could stop himself, he pushed away from the railing.

Aaron blinked.

“Where are you going?”

“Need another drink.”

“There are drinks literally behind you.”

Daryl stopped , Thought about it. Then sat right back down.

Aaron burst out laughing. “You were gonna go over there.”

“No.”

“You absolutely were.”

“No.”

“Daryl.”

“Shut up.”

By now Glenn had wandered over.

“What’d I miss?”

Aaron pointed toward Spencer.

“Daryls not feeling this party”

He mouthed very discreetly the word “jealous” to Glenn and he understood instantly.

His smile grew.

“Oh.”

“Don’t.”

Glenn failed spectacularly at hiding his amusement.

Maggie arrived a few moments later carrying another drink.

One look at Daryl.

One look at Spencer.

One look at you.

And she immediately groaned.

“Oh, he’s even worse than I thought.”

“Thank you,” Aaron said.

“Shut up, both of ya.”

Maggie folded her arms.

“You know she’s doing that on purpose.”

Daryl frowned.

“What?”

Across the party, your eyes briefly flicked toward him.

Just for a second.

Then away again.

Back to Spencer.

Back to smiling.

Maggie’s grin widened.

“Oh, yeah.”

Daryl’s stomach dropped.

Because suddenly he wasn’t so sure Spencer was the one in control of that conversation.

And judging by the tiny smirk on your face…

You knew exactly what you were doing.

TAGS ❤️: @deathispeacefullifeisharder @callmemcee @crazyunsexycool @yustlove13 @comme-un-reve @nemelimpo @chuuyas-world @little-mops-booknook

[elizabethinfurzz]

need a slow burn reader x daryl dixon that’s agonizingly slow…

[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.

[hollowhuntress]

filthy li’l thing.

⌖part two⌖

daryl dixon x fem!reader

➶➴ summary: the night passes. the pull doesn’t.

➶➴ tags: nsfw/mdni/18+, dom!daryl (kinda), brat!reader (kinda), power imbalance, power struggle, praise kink, degradation kink, humiliation kink, obedience kink, control dynamics, possessive behavior, rough handling, minor pain play, forced proximity, enemies to lovers (sorta), mutual obsession, sexual tension.

wc: ~5.8k

⌖part one⌖

the dawn came low and heavy, bleeding a pale, sickly yellow through the slatted walls of the barn. the rain stayed away, but the fog had rolled in to replace it.

you woke up with the cold deep in your bones, the phantom weight of his hand still pressed against your mouth, and a deep, burning ache between your thighs that felt less like satisfaction and more like a brand. across the loft, daryl was still out, buried in his thin, dirt-stained bedroll, his back a curved, impenetrable wall of dark denim and shadowed canvas. his breathing was deep, slow, and measured—the only rhythm in the dead quiet of the morning.

you didn't look at him for long. the defiance that had been burned out of you the night before was crawling its way back up your throat, sour and demanding.

“this changes nothing.” those were your words. you meant them. but as you looked at the broad line of his back, a toxic mix of humiliation and desire coiled in your gut. he had made you crawl. he had used his fingers and his knife to peel back your armor until you were nothing but a shivering, sobbing mess in the hay, begging for a touch he gave like a handout.

moving like oil, you slipped out of the hay. your boots didn't make a sound against the floorboards; you’d learned how to walk light before the world ended, and years of dodging the dead had made you a ghost when you wanted to be.

you crept toward the corner where his gear was stacked. his crossbow sat leaning against a splintered post, looking like a piece of salvaged iron. the black nylon strap hung loose. you reached out, your fingers wrapping around the grip. it always felt bulkier and cruder than the bows you’d grown up with, but you knew how it handled by now. proving that the girl he had pinned and muffled could still strip his prized weapon right out from under his nose while he slept was worth the risk.

you slung it over your good shoulder and slipped down the ladder into the gloom of the lower floor.

unbolting the heavy main barn door just enough to slip your body through, you eased yourself out into the wet cold of the woods, pulling the heavy timber shut behind you so it sat flush against the frame while you were gone.

the fog was so thick you could taste the river on your tongue. everything was slick, the mud clinging to the soles of your boots like wet clay, trying to drag you down with every step.

as you crawled through the dripping brush, keeping low to the damp ground, your mind kept slipping backwards, trapped in the memory of the loft. every time a wet branch bounced against your cheek, you felt the rough drag of his thumb across your bottom lip. your thighs rubbed together with every step, the friction a sharp, stinging reminder of how wet you’d been for him, how easily he’d unraveled you with nothing but a few low words and a steady rhythm.

“filthy li’l thing.” the words repeated in your head, a degrading pulse. he looked at you like you were something he’d found in the dirt, yet he’d consumed you with a hunger that felt personal. it made your stomach flip and you hated him for it.

your eyes caught the muddy, wet line of tracks near a collapsed sweetgum tree. three turkeys scratching through the damp leaf litter.

you dropped to one knee, the cold mud soaking through your denim instantly. you brought the heavy crossbow up, resting your elbow against your thigh to steady the weight. the sight aligned. your fingers were steady on the trigger, but your heart was hammering against your ribs. you didn't want his praise anymore. you wanted to provoke him. you wanted to see that mask of his crack until the wild, angry animal underneath came roaring back out.

you breathed out, watching the fog rise from your own lips, and squeezed.

the thunk of the string was a flat, wet sound in the mist. the bolt took the largest bird out clean, striking where the neck met the body. the animal dropped instantly. the other two vanished into the morning mist.

"ain't hard," you whispered fiercely into the quiet woods, a bitter imitation of his drawl.

you retrieved the bolt, wiping the thick blood against the wet grass, and slung the massive bird by its legs over your shoulder opposite the bow. its dead weight pressed hard against your back, the warm fluid slowly soaking through the fabric, staining your back with the sharp copper smell of blood. the hunt had taken longer than you’d meant it to, and by the time you turned back toward the sagging silhouette of the barn, the sun was high enough to turn the fog into a blinding, white glare.

when you pushed the main door open and stepped inside, you turned immediately and threw the iron bolt home. the metal latch dropped into place with a heavy, final click, securing the perimeter before you even turned to face the room.

the air inside was already thick with malice, feeling like a weight against your chest.

daryl was standing at the base of the loft ladder, out in the wide, open center of the floor space where the ashes of last night’s fire sat cold. the dirt around his boots was scuffed, kicked up where he’d clearly been tearing the lower level apart searching for his weapon before realizing that you and the crossbow were both gone. his bedroll was packed, his vest pulled tight, and his knuckles were white where his hands clenched at his sides. when his eyes found you, the breath caught in your throat.

"told ya," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly scrape that barely carried across the dirt floor. "don't touch my shit."

you didn't back down. the adrenaline from the hunt morphed into something uglier, something sharp and combative. you walked right into his space, letting the massive bird hit the dirt floor between you with a wet, solid thud.

for a long, tense beat, daryl’s eyes flicked down to the carcass, taking in the clean, precise puncture where the neck met the body. he stared at it, then his gaze traveled up to the crossbow slung over your shoulder. a flicker of impressed annoyance crossed his features—he knew exactly what kind of shot that took, and he hated that you’d pulled it off. his jaw tight, his expression locked down instantly.

"brought you breakfast," you said, your voice dripping with a mocking, sweet defiance that you knew would prick his pride. "since you can't seem to bring back anything bigger than a fist."

daryl stepped forward, crowding you. before his chest could even brush yours, his boot shot out, kicking the massive bird out of the way, sending it sliding across the dirt floor where it hit the base of an empty horse stall. he pressed into your space, trapping your boots.

"think you're real smart, don't ya?" he hissed, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and angry against your skin. "you ain't nothin' but a damn headache."

"the headache that's keeping us from starving," you shot back, matching his heat note for note, leaning up into his space until your jaw was set against his. "maybe if you spent less time throwing tantrums and more time looking for actual game, i wouldn't have to do your job for you."

"do my job?" he muttered.

before you could even blink, his hand shot out. his fingers didn't just grab the bow; his palm slammed against your collarbone, shoving you backward with a violent force. he kept driving you back, away from the central clearing and the entrance, forcing you deeper into the barn until your spine cracked against the splintered wood of the horse stall wall.

as your back hit the wood, your head jarred back, catching a sudden glimpse of pale gray daylight cutting through a low-set, broken window pane along the side wall of the stall. the jagged remainder of the glass was caked in grime, casting a dull shadow into the corner.

his hand lingered for a fraction of a second, his thumb intentionally catching the edge of the raw skin where the nylon strap had dug into your shoulder again like he had done yesterday. the crossbow clattered against his foot, breaking its fall to the dirt, before he shoved it to the side with his boot.

he closed the distance, pinning your hips with his thighs, his coarse denim pressing against your aching center. his hand wrapped around your throat—not enough to choke you, but enough to force your chin up, his thumb digging hard into the soft skin beneath your jaw.

"runnin' your mouth," he growled, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear until you whimpered. "keep stealin' my damn bow. actin' like ya got somethin' to prove."

he let out a short, mocking grunt that vibrated against your throat. his free hand snaked down behind you, his broad palm flattening against your lower back. his fingers smeared against the cold wetness on your shirt, pulling his hand back just enough to look down at the sticky streak of animal blood on his skin. his jaw tightened, a sharp, venomous smirk cutting through his features.

"can’t ever just listen, can ya?" he spat.

the words hit the room like a blow, making your core instantly tighten with a violent, electric gush of heat. you pulsed around the words, your belly turning over as he stared down at you with resentment.

his eyes flicked toward the discarded carcass by the stall, then to the blood smeared on his hand, then back to you. "what, ya some kinda bird dog now?"

instead of reaching for your buttons, his hand shot straight down to your crotch, cupping you hard right over the thick fabric of your jeans. his palm flattened against your center, his fingers spreading wide to lock you in place.

the absolute stillness of the contact was cruel. it was a physical declaration that he controlled your body and he wasn't going to give you the friction you were desperately craving. a helpless whimper escaped your throat, your hips instinctively twitching against his palm, begging for movement, but his hand remained like stone, pinning you flat against the stall wall.

"shut up," he ordered, his thumb pressing harder into your throat, cutting off your breath just enough to make your head spin.

he abruptly pulled his hand away from your jeans, reaching down to yank a steel bolt free from his quiver. with a dismissive, mocking flick of his wrist, he tossed it across the barn. it skittered through the dirt, traveling far across the floor and coming to a halt underneath an old wooden feed trough against the opposite wall.

he didn't drop his hand from your throat; instead, he used his grip to give you a firm, downward shove, pushing you until your knees hit the dirt floor with a dull thud. daryl dropped down with you, crouching on the balls of his feet to bring himself perfectly level with you as you landed on all fours in the shadow of the horse stalls.

“fetch it.” he commanded.

your jaw tightened, the last remnants of your pride flaring up in your chest. you glared up at him through your eyelashes. “fuck you,” you spat.

“i ain't askin’ ya, i'm tellin’,” he growled back, his voice a low, rumbling vibration.

the sheer authority in his tone cut straight through your defiance, making your body submit before your brain could even protest. annoyed at yourself, furious at how easily he could pull your strings, you quickly resolved that if he wanted you to crawl again, you weren't going to make it easy for him this time.

you moved forward, intentionally dropping your chest low, arching your back, and rolling your hips with a slow, deliberate swing as you crawled across the barn floor toward the far trough. it was a silent, mocking provocation—using the very submission he demanded to mess with his head.

daryl’s breathing hitched. his boots shifted heavily in the dirt, a sudden, ragged intake of air betraying just how much the view was tearing through his restraint. his knuckles went white, and his eyes locked onto the movement of your hips with a rigid fury. you could hear the tense, tight clicking of his jaw; your slow, seductive movements were turning his own game into a torment, driving a spike of raw tension through him.

you reached the shadow of the trough, deep in the perimeter of the barn and far from where the low window sat. instead of reaching out with your hand, you leaned down, parting your lips, and clamped your teeth firmly around the cold metal shaft of the bolt.

turning around slowly, you carried it back to him crawling, holding his intense, burning gaze the entire time. when you stopped right in front of him near the stalls, daryl didn't move. for a long, torturous beat, he just looked at you, his eyes dark and dilated.

his gaze dropped to the bolt clenched between your teeth. for a second, he just stared. then, his fingers slid over your hair once—petting your head.

"atta girl."

the softness lasted for a split second before his grip snapped tight. his fingers tangled roughly into your hair right at the roots, pulling back with sudden force. the sharp yank caused your jaw to drop, the steel bolt clattering out of your mouth and hitting his lap before he tossed it aside in the dirt.

daryl then pulled you hard toward him slightly, dragging your face up to his as he surged forward to sloppily kiss you. it was a collision of teeth and tongues, wet, desperate, and completely devoid of the restraint he’d tried to maintain all morning. a low groan ripped from his chest as he moved against your mouth.

meeting his frantic energy, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pushed him hard from his crouching position. daryl went down, his boots sliding as he landed firmly on the ground, his back slamming hard against the wood of the stall with his legs spread out in front of him. your mouths never disconnected. you scrambled over his thighs, crawling directly into his lap and straddling him, your movements urgent and maddened by the sudden shift.

breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second, you gasped for air, looking down at his flushed, dirt-stained face. the temptation to push him further was too strong. "look at you," you whispered, trying to flip the power dynamic. "on the floor, begging for a piece of—"

"said shut up," daryl shot it down instantly, his voice a dark growl that sliced through your words.

his hands clamped onto your hips, checking your movement before you could reply. with brute, uncompromising strength, he forced your hips down, grinding you heavily against him right over your clothes. the sudden friction against your denim-clad core was a shock to your system.

with that single movement, the masks of resentment you both wore fell away. the pretense crumbled. the sheer, overwhelming reality of how good it felt took over completely. daryl’s head fell back against the wood, his face deeply flushed, his breathing ragged and uneven. you let out a loud, uninhibited moaning sound, your hands gripping his shoulders as he pulled you against him again and again.

suddenly, a sharp sound cut through the barn from the side wall.

every muscle in daryl's body locked up. his eyes snapped toward the broken pane of the low-set window right at the end of the stall row.

through the jagged opening, a rotting gray face suddenly pressed against the frame. a bloated, decayed arm shoved blindly through the shattered gap, its grey fingers clawing at the empty air, scraping aggressively against the splintered frame. the remaining shards of glass rattled as the creature rammed its weight against the outer wall, yellowed teeth snapping as it tried to force its way through an opening far too narrow for its body.

pure panic flashed in both of your faces. you were completely vulnerable on the dirt floor, and with the walker suddenly at the side window, the space felt incredibly small. thanks to your earlier caution, the main door was securely bolted shut, but the raw sound of the intruder at the glass turned the momentum between your bodies into a knot of frantic adrenaline.

neither of you stopped. but the rhythm changed—it became a frozen, agonizingly tight struggle against the silence.

your breaths came in short, panicked gasps against his neck. daryl’s face was strained, his eyes squeezed shut as he rode the edge of falling apart. his right hand left your waist, moving quickly up your chest to clamp his broad palm firmly over your mouth, stifling your whimpers into the dirty skin of his hand. he leaned up, his mouth pressing directly against your ear, his breath hot and completely wrecked as he silently acknowledged how hard it was for you to hold it in.

the dead fingers kept scraping against the wood surrounding the window, the low, wet gurgle in its throat rattling right through the slatted wood. you both froze completely, chests heaving, hips locked in a torturous, unmoving press as the shadow lingered right at the glass, its arm still thrashing through the gap, trying to find purchase. the threat remained, stretching the quiet into an unbearable, terrifying weight.

tears gathered in the corners of your eyes from the sheer, agonizing pleasure of the static pressure.

“shh. i know, i know,” daryl murmured in a harsh, mocking, strained whisper against your ear, his voice trembling with the dual strain of the danger and the heat between your thighs.

your body tightly wound, resuming your movements at the sound of his words and trembling under his hands as you struggled to keep silent against his palm, the danger sharpening the sensation into something blinding. daryl looked at you, his face a mask of undone, desperate intensity as he neared his limit. "you're... i fuckin’ hate ya," he whispered, the insult breathless and trembling, losing all its venom to the pleasure breaking him while pulling his hand from your mouth.

outside, the frantic clawing against the window frame finally ceased as the walker failed to find leverage through the narrow pane. the shadow shifted, the weight leaving the window as the arm dragged back out through the gap, leaving the remaining glass to give one last, quiet vibration. the shuffling scrape of its boots began to fade, crunching slowly away through the damp leaf litter and back into the wet woods.

"i can tell," you shot back, your voice a broken, triumphant whisper against his ear the second his hand slipped from your lips.

daryl completely fell apart before you, his body tensing into a rigid, trembling line as he spilled himself entirely in his pants. his head buried itself into your neck, a muffled, trembling groan escaping him. as he came down, his body went entirely sensitive, a low, vulnerable whimper escaping his throat as his hips twitched helplessly beneath yours.

the sight of him completely undone—the fierce, cold hunter reduced to a panting, sensitive mess under your lap—was too much. a violent wave of heat crashed through your belly, the intense visual bringing you straight over your own edge, your back arching as a powerful orgasm tore through your core, leaving you shaking against his chest.

for a long minute, the only sound was the uneven rhythm of your breathing fading back into the silence of the barn.

daryl suddenly shoved you off his lap, his movements quick and efficient as he scrambled to his feet. he didn't look at you, his jaw tight and his face averted as he gave his pants a sharp tug, adjusting himself back into the rigid armor of the survivor.

he walked back toward the stalls, reaching down to snatch the dead turkey off the dirt floor by its legs with a tight, angry grip.

“grab your shit,” he growled, his voice once again short, dismissive, and cold as he turned toward his other belongings. “and let's go.”

[cherryno1]

Perfect perfect perfect! No notes. Eating ts up

[cherryno1]

Saw this and screamed

[cherryno1]

A woman again

HEY! so this is my first ever fan fic, I'm shit nervous so please be kind but criticism is welcome. I defo have plans for a smutty angsty part 2 (yum) so maybe you'll enjoy. Anyway, luvs ya xx I also am very new to tumblr so bare with me. P.S i forgot which characters live in Alexandria so if i got things wrong SUE ME. let a bitch have some fun.

2.3k words

tw: swearing and mean!Daryl

summery: reader goes out for a run for beauty supplies and Daryl gets pissed.

Alexandria had been buzzing for days over Deanna’s stupid party idea. Most people were excited for it; a chance to pretend things were normal again. To wear fancy clothes. To laugh without checking over their shoulder every five seconds.

You thought it was ridiculous at first.

Then you remembered what it felt like to be a woman before the world ended.

Perfume. Lip gloss. Soft skin. Pretty dresses. The little things that used to make you feel human.

So you went on a run.

A dangerous one.

Alone.

You’d practically had to beg Rick to let you take one of the cars, swearing you’d stay close and be back before dark. The entire drive, you kept telling yourself it was stupid, risking your life for makeup and nail polish. But every time you found another unopened bottle of perfume or untouched makeup palette, you couldn’t stop smiling. For once, it wasn’t about survival. It was about feeling alive.

The gates of Alexandria groaned open just as the sun started dipping low.

The second your tires rolled through, you spotted Daryl storming across the street toward you.

Oh, great.

His crossbow hung over his shoulder, jaw tight enough to crack teeth. The second you climbed out of the car, he started yelling.

“Where the fuck ya been?” he snapped in that thick southern drawl. “Ya outta ya damn mind? Does Rick know ya went out there alone?”

You shuddered in hate.

You slammed the car door harder than necessary. “Jesus Christ, Daryl, shut up. S’none of your business where I went.”

“The hell it ain’t!”

“It’s handled, okay? I’m back alive.”

“Barely, probably.”

You rolled your eyes and reached into the backseat for the bags, but Daryl snatched one straight out of your hands before you could stop him.

“What the- give it back.”

He looked inside. His face darkened instantly.

Boxes of makeup. Fake lashes. Nail polish. Perfume bottles wrapped carefully in cloth.

For a second he just stared. Then started breathing heavy through his nose in fury.

Then he looked at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Are ya fuckin’ serious?” he barked. “Ya almost got yerself killed for this shit?”

You folded your arms defensively. “It matters to us.”

“To who?”

“To the women here! To me!”

Daryl scoffed, angry in the way he only got when he was scared.

“All this so ya can look pretty for some asshole at a party?”

Your expression hardened.

“Excuse me?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice, rough and mean.

“Really are a stupid slut sometimes, y’know that? Riskin’ your neck just to get laid. For a dick to suck. Pathetic.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You have always butted heads with Daryl ever since Rick saw something in you and kept you safe at the prison. But this… Daryl took this too far this time.

For a second, you just stared at him.

Dumbfounded. The words knocked the air clean outta your lungs. Then your face twisted into something cold and furious and something in you snapped.

“A slut?” you repeated quietly.

Daryl’s jaw tightened, but you kept going before he could say anything else.

“You think that’s what this is about?” You laughed once — sharp and humorless. “Jesus Christ.”

The words came out venomous before you could stop them. “God forbid women wanna feel good about themselves just because we do. Maybe if someone actually touched your dick once in a while you wouldn’t be so damn miserable all the time.” 

Something in Daryl’s expression hardened fast.

“Funny,” he said coldly. “Comin’ from someone so pathetic and desperate to be looked at, she’ll risk dyin’ for some lipstick.”

You ripped the bag from his hands so hard a bottle inside clinked loudly.

“You know what’s pathetic, Daryl? The fact that the world ends and somehow it’s still a man’s fucking world.”

His eyes like steel not backing down.

You stepped closer, voice shaking with anger now.

“You all get to keep yourselves. Rick gets to be a leader. You get to be the tracker, the hunter, the survivor.” You pointed toward the bag. “And the second women wanna feel like themselves again, it’s stupid? Dangerous? Slutty?”

“That ain’t what I—”

“No, that is exactly what you meant, asshole.” You shoved his chest in frustration. You knew he was stronger than you but he stumbled a step back anyway. Like he was weak.

Your eyes burned into his.

“We spend every damn day covered in blood and dirt, scared outta our minds, trying not to die. We don’t get mirrors. We don’t get softness. We don’t get to feel pretty or normal or human unless we fight for it.”

Daryl looked away for half a second, guilt creeping across his face, but you were too angry to stop now.

“I didn’t do this for men,” you spat. “I did it because I’m tired of surviving like I’m already dead.”

Silence settled heavy between you.

The wind shifted through the street.

“You know what?” you said quietly. “Fuck you, Daryl.”

You nudged his shoulder as you walked away with the bags.

And for once, Daryl Dixon had absolutely nothing to say.

You turned the corner fast, trying to outwalk the sting burning behind your eyes.

Your grip tightened around the bags in your arms hard enough to crinkle the plastic. The sound of the party preparations drifting through Alexandria suddenly felt ridiculous now — music, laughter, people pretending things were normal while your chest felt like it’d been ripped open.

“Hey!”

Maggie hurried after you, boots skidding on the pavement.

You didn’t stop walking.

“Hey, slow down,” she said softer this time, finally catching up beside you. “ you okay?”

You laughed bitterly under your breath. “Do I look okay?”

Maggie glanced back toward the street where Daryl still stood near the gate.

“Damn,” she muttered. “That looked intense.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You shoved open your garden gate harder than necessary, climbing the steps while Maggie followed close behind.

“He called me a slut, Maggie.”

Her face dropped instantly.

“He what?”

“All because I went out for this stuff.” You held the bags up angrily. “Like God forbid women wanna feel like themselves for five damn minutes without it bein’ about men.”

Maggie stayed quiet, letting you vent.

“He acts like wanting makeup or perfume is stupid because it doesn’t help you survive.” You scoffed, fumbling for your keys with shaking hands. “Like surviving’s the only thing we’re allowed to care about anymore.”

“What a douchebag?!” Maggie huffed. 

She helped you with the bags and set them on the sofa.

Maggie blinked.

Inside were makeup palettes still sealed in plastic. Bottles of perfume. Hair products. Nail polish in every color you could find. Face masks. Lipsticks. Brushes.

For a second she just stared.

“Oh my God…”

You pulled another bag open.

Fake lashes. Jewelry. Skincare. A curling iron you prayed still worked with Alexandria’s power.

Maggie’s mouth actually fell open a little.

“You found all this?”

You shrugged, trying to stay angry instead of emotional. “Drug store outside Richmond. Most of it was untouched.”

Maggie carefully picked up a small bottle of perfume, turning it over in her hand like it was made of gold.

Then she laughed softly, completely stunned.

“Carol’s gonna freak.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched.

“She better.” 

Maggie looked back into the bags again, eyes wide now as the reality hit her.

“You did all this for us?”

You swallowed.

“I just…” Your voice softened slightly. “I wanted one night where the women here could feel normal again. So I can feel me again” you admitted quietly. “Even if it is fake.”

Maggie’s expression softened immediately.

“It ain’t fake,” she said. “Wantin’ pieces of yourself back after everything? That’s human.”

Your eyes stung again at that.

“Ya know, I don’t think Daryl meant all that. Maybe you scared him.” she said rubbing your shoulder

“Well, he still said it.” you sighed. She knew there wasn't much she could say to comfort you so she gave up on the idea of trying.

Instead, she set the perfume down carefully and looked back up at you with a grin slowly spreading across her face.

“Well,” she said, already examining the products, “we are absolutely not wastin’ this.”

You finally let out a real laugh — small, exhausted, but real.

“Maggie.”

“Hm?”

“Rally the women.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“All of ‘em?”

“All of ‘em,” you repeated. “Tell ‘em to come to my house before the party.”

Maggie’s grin widened instantly.

“Oh, this is gonna be chaos.”

“Exactly.”

Your house was loud for the first time since the world ended. Not panicked loud. Not screaming loud.

Happy loud.

Music crackled through the old boom box sitting on the kitchen counter, the cassette tape warbling every few seconds while laughter bounced off the walls. Somebody had found wine somewhere. Somebody else was already tipsy.

The entire downstairs smelled like hairspray, perfume, and burnt hair from the curling iron currently plugged into the bathroom outlet. And somehow the power actually held.

“Oh my God, hold still!” Rosita laughed, yanking Tara back toward a chair while trying to fix her eyeliner. “You move one more time and I’m makin’ you look possessed.”

“I already look possessed,” Tara snorted.

Carol sat near the couch with a tiny compact mirror in one hand and lipstick in the other, looking genuinely stunned.

“I forgot how weird this feels,” she admitted quietly.

Maggie appeared behind her immediately. “Good weird or bad weird?”

Carol smiled softly at her reflection.

“Good weird.”

Across the room, Sasha was helping braid Enid’s hair while Rosita argued loudly that everyone needed winged eyeliner “for morale.”

“You are not touchin’ my face with that tiny weapon,” Michonne warned from the armchair.

“You survived Terminus but eyeliner scares you?”

“Yes.”

You laughed from the bathroom doorway, curling iron in hand. The sound felt foreign coming out of you after the fight with Daryl. For a while, you’d almost forgotten about it.

Almost.

“Okay, who’s next?” you asked.

“Me!” Tara yelled instantly.

“No offense,” Rosita said, “but I’m going first. My hair is a hate crime right now.”

“RUDE.”

The room erupted into laughter again. Music played louder as someone turned the volume knob up. Maggie immediately grabbed your hand, dragging you toward the middle of the living room.

“Nope. Absolutely not. You are participating.”

“Maggie-”

“You started this.”

Before you could argue, she shoved a hairbrush into your hand while Carol held up a dress she’d found in your bedroom.

Your jaw dropped.

“Carol!”

“What?” she asked innocently. “You’re wearin’ it.”

“I can’t wear that.”

“You absolutely can,” Rosita cut in immediately.

“You’ll look hot,” Tara added helpfully.

Michonne looked up from painting her nails. “You kinda have to now. Democracy.”

You groaned while everybody started talking over each other. And for the first time in years, it felt less like surviving. More like a sleepover. Like being women again.

Daryl sat alone on the porch steps outside Aaron’s house, cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.

He hadn’t moved in almost an hour.

The sounds drifting across Alexandria made his jaw tighten every time another burst of laughter carried from your street

Women yelling over each other.

The warped sound of some old cassette tape.

Your laugh.

He stared out into the dark, expression hard.

Truth was, you and him had been fightin’ since the day you met. Back on the road, before Alexandria, before any of this almost-normal bullshit.

You thought he was an asshole.

He thought you were spoiled.

First argument happened because you complained about mud ruining your boots.

Second because he caught you trying to wash blood outta your hair with their last clean water.

Third because he nearly got bit dragging your stubborn ass outta a department store after you stopped to grab a stupid denim jacket.

And somehow after that… the bickering never stopped.

You mocked his grunting and his attitude.

He mocked your “princess bullshit.”

You stole his cigarettes once just to piss him off.

He replaced your favorite knife after you lost it and never admitted it was him.

Half the time, neither of you even remembered what the arguments were about.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like hate.

Which honestly just made it worse.

Because Daryl knew exactly when things changed.

It was the prison. You’d gotten sick.

Fever so bad you could barely stand, still trying to help clear walkers off the fence because you were too damn stubborn to rest.

He remembered screaming at you for it. You screamed back. Then passed out twenty minutes later.

After that, he started watching you without meaning to.

Fixing things around your cell block. Leaving extra food near your spot. Checking if you came back from runs. And every single time he almost admitted he gave a shit, you’d say something smartass and ruin it.

Or he would.

Probably both.

Daryl took another drag from the cigarette, jaw tightening.

"Maybe if someone actually touched your dick once in a while you wouldn’t be so damn miserable all the time."

He shut his eyes briefly.

Yeah.

That one stung.

But not half as much as seeing your face after he called you a slut.

Because he didn’t really think that.

Not even close.

Truth was, when he saw those bags full of makeup and perfume, all he could think was how you almost died.

Again.

Over something he didn’t understand.

And fear always came out mean with him. Always had.

From down the street, another wave of laughter drifted through Alexandria.

Then music.

Then your voice yelling something over everybody else.

Daryl’s mouth twitched despite himself.

Still loud as hell.

Still drivin’ him insane.

Still the first person he looked for every time a gate opened.

[toxaemiia]

he deserved that smack for slaughtering that irish accent aha

[cherryno1]

na but its sexy tho