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summary: with the Emergence looming, the Eternals reunite; only Druig knows where you are, but he hasn’t seen you in two centuries, and maybe you like it that way
pairing: druig x eternal! female reader
word count: 4.7k
warnings: mentions of war, violence, druig’s use of mind control on reader, that’s all i think? idk
a/n: sooo i don’t think anyone reads druig fics anymore buttt i rewatched Eternals and liked it soo much more on rewatch and im obsessed with druig again so yeaaa i hope yall give it a chance? luv ya ;)
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575 BC - Babylon
Your legs laid out peacefully across the lapaz stone you rested on. Soft chatter filled your ears as village girls twisted your hair into soft braids, weaving bright orange and white flowers in. Your hands fidgeted in your lap as you sat patiently for the young humans. You didn’t mind, every second you spent with them was precious, especially the children.
The girls wrapped the end of your hair, pulling it forward to show you their work. You smiled softly at the youngblood, admiring their fragile work. The humans never ceased to amaze you.
“Il likrubk,” you said sweetly. May the Gods bless you.
As you admired the braid, you began to hear excited yet secretive giggles from the girls circling you. Looking up, you saw the girls chuckling at each other yet trying to hide it from you. You shifted your gaze from them to look to your side, seeing Druig walking over. When you looked back, the girls ran off, leaving a trail of laughter and flowers in their wake. You just smiled smugly to yourself.
“My, my they did a beautiful job on you,” Druig’s voice was intoxicating, it always was to you. Slick and sly, always with a bit of wit and mystery; dripping with a hidden intention only he knew.
“Do the flowers suit me?” you asked.
“Everything suits you, my radiant Y/N,” he said. You ducked your head, desperate to hide the blush blossoming across your cheeks.
He crouched beside you, resting beside you with his charcoal cape flowing across the stone ledge. From the peripheral view of your gaze at the city below, you could see him eyeing you up and down. His eyes were hungry with desire and adoration. His head tilted as he smirked, leaning in and giving you a soft nudge with his shoulder.
“We should get going, back to the Domo. I think Ajak wants to speak with all of us,” you said, nervously trying to shift the mood to hide your butterflies.
“Ahh is that so, dove?” he said, leaning back on his palms and flashing a dangerous smile at you- doused in charm.
“Yes!” you said, hopping up and offering your hand to him. “Now come on, we can brave Icarus’ obnoxious tirades together.”
His head dropped in laughter and suddenly your stomach was twisted in knots, lungs short of breath. He was beautiful. He grabbed your hand and pulled you off towards the ship. You kept it to yourself, but you couldn’t help but relish in his firm and protective grip on your supple hands.
Present Day - Amazon Rainforest
“Druig, this is serious,” Sersi said, standing from her seat in the chapel to face the dark-haired man.
“I’ll tell you what’s serious. I’ve just been told I’ve been sent on a suicide mission for the past 7000 years, and that my entire existence is a lie,” Druig snapped, confronting her as he stalked forward. He was always able to keep such a serene and stoic demeanor. Yet, seeing his “family” together again after centuries seemed to have left him shaken. There was something eerie about seeing them all together. All except one. “So excuse me for not giving a shit about your plan right now.”
Druig turned and stormed to the door to leave, hoping to erase the encounter from his memory as soon as possible. If only he could warp his mind the way he could others. The sooner he left the room the sooner he could go back to his life, pretending they had never come.
“Don’t you think Y/N would want you to help?” Sersi asked.
Druig froze as his hand hovered at the door. He felt the muscles in his mouth twitch at the mention of your name. Bile in his stomach churned. He tried to stay calm, to keep himself composed, but he couldn’t bite his tongue. Before he could stop himself, he spun around, marching back over to them.
“Don’t mention her. Not to me,” he said, his jaw taut with anxiety and dread. “You don’t know what she’d want. Besides, she’s not even here.”
Sersi couldn’t respond before he had bolted out of the chapel, leaving the barn doors slamming behind him. The tension hung in the room so thick you could almost choke on it. Thena sighed, stroking the lizard perched across her lap, before speaking.
“You should know something about him and Y/N.”
1521 AD - Tenochtitlan
You stood beside Druig, leaning into the hard muscles of his side. You had tried to control your fear, but it always seemed to get the best of you. He kept you grounded- safe and secure. You cherished that, needed that. Especially now.
Thena tried to kill you and Makkari; she attacked the entire group. Druig had to carry you to Ajax himself. You were trembling in his arms as your legs shook and bled. Even now that you were healed, he couldn’t get himself to remove his grip on your waist. You knew she didn’t mean to harm you, she wasn’t herself. This was something else. Mahd Wryry.
“It is not important if you remember or not,” Ajax said, her hands slipping through Thena’s hair as she tried to calm her. Trying to convince her everything would be okay, that it was no big deal. But how could it not be, she would lose her memories; all the experiences and life that made her Thena. “Your spirit will remain, you will always be Thena deep inside. Trust me.”
“Why should she trust you?”
You looked over, hearing Druig’s deep voice speak up. You could feel his grip on you tighten yet his hands still shook. Your brows furrowed, noticing the tension in his neck and jaw. You tried to stroke his back, to calm him down, but he was already fed up. His hand gave your waist one last squeeze before leaving your side. You suddenly felt the cold chill of his absence as he walked towards Ajax.
“You’re asking her to let you erase who she is,” he said. You knew him better than anyone, you could hear the tremor in his voice. His tone was callous and dripping with resentment.
“Dru…” you said, trying to get him to relax. Your voice must’ve been too soft to drown out the boisterous drums in his head, playing that same beat of rage and disappointment over and over again.
“Druig, I know you’re upset, but-” Ajax tried to get him to understand, but he wasn’t having it anymore.
“Upset?!” Druig shouted. You were startled, stumbling back a bit at the tone of his voice. “We’ve trusted you for 7000 years, and look where you’ve gotten us.”
You bowed your head, knowing his resentment over the last seven millennia was finally bubbling over and unleashing on everyone in the room. You had listened to his troubles on countless nights. You knew how much it tormented him to watch the humans he cared for so deeply harm and destroy each other. You were always his shoulder to cry on, his to seek solace in. This was nothing new to your ears.
“I’ve watched humans destroy each other when I could stop it all in a heartbeat,” he said. You ducked your head, hearing the shake in his normally strong voice. You knew if you glanced up you’d see that quivering bottom lip you’d become so acquainted with. You couldn’t do it, you just looked down. “Do you know what that does to someone after centuries?”
You noticed Sersi and Phantos glancing at you, perhaps hoping you’d step in. They all knew of your confusing relationship. You’d never labeled it, never defined it out loud. Never confessed undying love in a secluded dwelling, soon to wed surrounded by family. But there was something. Something that kept you tied at the hip, something that allowed him to hold your hand and rest his head in your lap. There was something undeniable.
But you couldn’t say anything; to an extent, you understood Ajax. Druig knew you didn’t adore his power. You would never hold it against him, you’d never blame him for what Areshem gave him. But you believed it was a gift that had to be used responsibly. You had expressed to him it was something you believed should only be used in dire circumstances- to save a life or prevent disaster. But you knew something that made humans so special was their conscious free will and autonomy. You couldn’t rob them of that.
“Could our mission have been a mistake?” Druig asked, “Are we really helping these people build a better world, huh?”
You glanced up to see he had turned to look at you. The single tear slipping down his cheek stung in your chest. You could see it in his eyes as if he was pleading for you to say something. To beg him to calm down, to just talk. To take his hands and pull him to you. But you didn’t.
Druig’s jaw clenched as he turned on his heels, making his way out of the temple and down the steep set of stairs. His thick cape wrapped against your legs on his way out. You couldn’t hear his words as he stepped outside, the raging war filled your mind as you contemplated your role in your mission.
“It ends now,” Druig said.
Suddenly, you hear the clashing of swords and screaming come to a halt. You knew his eyes would be glowing a vibrant gold if you could see them. Before you could say anything, Ikaris swept past you; his arm slammed Druig into the stone wall behind them. You felt your stiff legs break free, bringing yourself to the pair desperate to break them up.
“Let them go,” Ikaris said.
“You’re gonna have to make me,” Druig said.
“Please stop!” you said, coming up beside them. Your hand reached for Druig’s but Ikaris stood between you. You felt Ajax approach behind you, sending Ikaris a stern look. He backed away, leaving the three of you. You stepped forward, taking Druig’s hand in yours. It shook as it gripped yours with vigor.
“If you want to stop me, you’re gonna have to kill me,” Druig said.
His hand slipped from your grasp. He turned away from you with a soft look before descending the temple. You watched as his eyes glowed and the humans below stood in wait for him. You glanced back at Ajax, your eyes pleading for her to stop him. But she did nothing, instead nodding for you to follow him. You ran down the stairs, your legs still weak and recovering. You stumbled as you chased him.
“Druig!” You shouted as you caught up to him, “Please wait!”
Hearing your messy footsteps, he stopped and turned to see you. Worry overtook his eyes as he watched your weak legs attempt to keep up with him. Quickly, he met you a few stairs up; his hands grasped your arms to hold you steady.
“Hey, what are you doing? You’re recovering,” he said, his concern for you halting his current plans. The yellow in his eyes dulled away as he looked at you. His brows trembled and unease widened his eyes.
“Druig, please don’t leave,” you said. Your hands reached for the fabric of his cape, as if holding him tight enough would keep him there with you. “Tensions are high right now, I get that. But please don’t leave.”
“I have to go, dove,” he said. His thumbs rubbed soft circles into your arms.
“Don’t leave me,” you said.
Druig’s gaze dropped, returning to your shaking legs. His stomach knotted and his chest ached at the thought of leaving you. Not being there to hold you in the night. To see your smile each time you saw the sparkling constellations in the sky. To soak in the look you reserved just for him, teeming with adoration and something else he was too afraid to name.
“Come with me,” he said, still guarding his gaze.
“Druig, this isn’t the answer,” you said.
Finally, he locked eyes with you again. He could no longer hide the red burning in his eyes, the tears coming to the surface. You knew this wasn’t the way, isolating himself, taking control of humans. You knew this wasn’t the answer. Not for the rest of time.
“You should stay,” you said, desperate to get him to listen.
“You won’t come?” he asked.
You just looked down.
He had his answer. Before you could get another word in, he took you and sat you on the steps. Steadying you into a more stable position. His hand tangled into the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you close one last time and pressing a long kiss to your forehead. You felt his tears soak into your skin before he pulled away. His hand began to slip from yours as he turned to leave, but you stopped him. Perhaps one last attempt to keep him there with you.
“Please, Druig,” you said. He glanced up, noticing Ajax watching the two of you from the temple.
“Sersi will help you down,” he said, swiping his thumb tenderly across your hand before pulling it away.
And just like that, he was gone.
Present Day
Druig leaned against a sturdy tree, staring up at the stars peaking through the brush above him. He couldn’t shake your voice from his head.
You were right.
This wasn’t the way. He had kept those people safe, he knew that. But as Sersi asked him to free them as the Deviant raided their village, he felt it. For the first time, he felt like the bad guy. He couldn’t shake the thought. He knew if you were there, if he had listened to you, none of this would have happened.
Perhaps Ajax would still be alive. Gilgamesh definitely would be. That was on him.
“Druig?” the voice startled him, shaking him from his thoughts as he saw Sersi approaching. She quietly stood beside him, glancing up at the stars he had just been studying.
“She was right,” Druig said, sinking to the ground as he hugged his knees to his chest. “Maybe I’m just as bad as the deviants.”
“What?” Sersi said, resting a hand on his knee. “Who said that?”
Druig just glanced at her, swallowing the hard lump forming in his throat.
“She would never, ever say something like that to you, Druig,” Sersi said. “Y/N adores you.”
“She didn’t have to say it,” Druig said, fidgeting with the pendant on the cord dangling from his neck. The soft texture of the blue and white glass slipped between his fingers. “How could she not think that?”
“Druig, Thena told us what happened in Molyvos, Y/N wrote to her. When was the last time you saw her?”
“I don’t know, at least a century. She used to come visit here, but after a while, she stopped. I went to see her in Greece. That was the last time I saw her.”
Sersi sighed, watching as Druig clutched at the necklace in his hand.
“We need to find her Druig. And we need you, please. For Y/N?”
1826 - Molyvos, Greece
Druig watched as your feet danced down the stone steps of the village to greet him, the thick linen of your skirts tickling your ankles as they flowed around you.
“You came!” you said, giggling as you reached him.
He couldn’t contain the infectious smile that seemed to spread across his face at the sight of you. His hands grabbed for your soft body, lifting you as he held you close. Your laugh trickled into his ear as you burrowed your face into the crook of his neck. He took in the potent scent floating off you as he set you down; seawater, wood, and roses.
“So this is where you’ve been spending your time lately, huh?” he said, nudging you with his shoulder. You smiled to yourself as you took his hand.
“This island is so calm. It’s what you’ve always wanted,” you said, leading him up the stairs.
-
You’d spent the following days guiding him through the village and showing him your life; how it intertwined with the people in your small community. Fishing, sewing clothing, and selling fruits at the market. It was peaceful, something he’d always longed for.
You reminisced on your days together all those centuries ago. Holding his head in your hands, soothing the pounding aches in his head from all the thoughts of others swirling through his mind. You knew it couldn’t have been any better back in the forest.
Sure, all the times you visited it was calm. But was that where he belonged? Isolated with no one to watch over him and make sure he was safe. You saw how drained he’d been, taking care of everyone else. And you couldn’t shake the feeling that the village would be fine without him. Not that he wasn’t valuable, but they needed to live a life of their own. So did he.
You’d hoped bringing him here would convince him. Give him the push he needed to finally leave it all behind and focus on him. To let the village flourish on its own.
You sat with him on the stone wall along the steps winding up to your home. Overlooking the sea below you, the waves crashing against the harbor and swaying the fishing boats tethered to the docks. The winding branches of white wisterias shaded the two of you, petals of the flowers occasionally blowing across your face in the wind.
You glanced over to Druig, the tunic he wore loose on his chest. His hands, normally wringing in his lap, were soft and relaxed. He gazed around the island before him, a smile subtly placed on his face. He may have been the mind reader, but you were his. You knew him so well, that you could read him like an open book. Even if he didn’t want you to. He was happy. You knew he wanted to stay.
“This is for you,” You said, reaching out to hand him the small trinket. He turned to see your sweet face, your eyes sparkling as the sun danced in your irises. He looked down to see you’d placed a small glass pendant in his hands. He studied the object, smiling to himself as he turned it in his fingertips.
“It’s an evil eye, the humans here believe it will protect you from evil spirits,” you said as you watched him. “It has to be gifted to you by someone, so I wanted you to have this.”
“It’s beautiful, dove,” he said.
Red splashed across your cheeks like watercolors at the name. He had always loved calling you that, watching you fluster before him in search of a response.
“You should stay,” you said, glancing down at your hands. You picked at the lace trim of your long blouse. You’d thrown the thought out into the open, and expressed your deep desire to him. You just hoped if he was going to reject you, it wouldn’t be as painful as you imagined.
“Y/N, you know I can’t,” he said. Quickly, he slipped the pendant into his pocket and stood from his seat on the wall. He felt the sudden urge to flee, to return to the village. He couldn’t be there any longer. Because if he had to say no to you again, to leave you while you begged for him to stay another time, he would crumble. How could he not when he was denying everything inside of him that pleaded for him to just stay?
You began to panic as he walked off. You couldn’t let him leave again.
“Dru please, you can’t keep doing this,” you said, following after him. “You have to live your life.”
“I have a life, that village is my life,” he said, turning back to you.
“You should let them go, Druig. It’s time,” you said, taking a step forward. “Come stay with me.”
“Y/N, that village is important to me,” he said, struggling to find a reason you weren’t right. Deep down, he knew you were right.
“And I’m not?” you asked.
Druig furrowed his brows in distress, fearing he couldn’t make the right decision. Why couldn’t he just stay? Just be happy here with you?
As the thoughts swirled in his mind, he felt the tension in his head building. The headache pounded harder in his skull as he watched you turn on your heels and make your way up the stairs. With a hand holding the tender space on his forehead, he chased after you.
“Dove, please wait,” he said.
“Just go, Druig,” you shouted over your shoulder. “If that’s what you want, then go!”
“Please, just stop!” he said. He could feel the pain building, the panic in his chest growing. He couldn’t leave you on a bad note again.
He pleaded behind you as you left him, chasing you up the stairs and begging for you to just stop.
“Y/N please!” He shouted desperately.
Suddenly, you stopped. As if your body wasn’t your own, you turned to face him. His eyes were glowing yellow and you couldn’t move.
Before you could even grasp what was happening, it was over. You shook your arms as control returned. Druig’s eyes were his normal blue. But they were distressed, regretful, and panicked. He messed up.
He controlled you.
You froze, this time of your own doing, considering what had just happened.
“Dove, I’m so, so sorry,” he said, rushing towards you; the realization of what he’d accidentally done dawned on him.
Quickly, you took a fidgety step back away from him. He paused, taking in the situation. You were afraid of him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, tearing his eyes from your line of sight. “I didn’t realize I, I’m sorry.”
Finally coming back to yourself, you tried to reach for his hand. But he had already left.
Present Day - Belfast, Ireland
Druig walked up the steps to the ornate building in front of him. Sprite and Thena followed behind as he took in the large campus. It was only fitting that you'd end up teaching at a university. You were one of the smartest people he knew. And you loved to watch the humans grow and learn.
He waited on the steps as students filed out of the building. Sprite had figured out when your class would let out. Now he just had to wait.
The sea of lively students chatted amongst themselves as they rushed from the doorway, he desperately searched the crowd for your familiar face. When he finally saw you, it was as if the breath was knocked from his lungs.
You hadn’t changed much. But two centuries of fashion did take him by surprise. Instead of the modest, linen dresses he’d last seen you in on the coast of Greece, you wore a loose pair of grey pants, a long and flowing cream blouse, and brown flats. He never got tired of seeing how each culture and century dressed you.
Before he could turn back to the women behind him, he felt something tick in his brain. When he glanced back at your face, he saw your eyes meeting his. He could have sworn his brain was malfunctioning, you smiled at him.
You stopped in your tracks as you took him in through the crowd of people passing between you. He looked the same. The same clothing, the same hair. But what was new was the evil eye strung around his neck.
You couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face as you locked eyes with his blue ones. Your head gestured back to the building behind you, before turning back inside hoping he’d follow.
-
“So you’re saying I’m a robot?” you asked Sprite as you leaned against the counter behind you.
“Well, kinda,” she said, trying to help you grasp the situation. “But that doesn’t matter. You need to come with us.”
You glanced to Thena for her opinion. Her lips became a flat line as she nodded in agreement with Sprite.
The young eternal kept rambling, but you weren’t processing it. You couldn’t stop staring at Druig. He paced around the art studio, taking in all the large canvases that sat on easels and racks.
“Could we have a minute?” you asked the two, still looking at Druig. He froze at your request, making it clear he was still listening despite how he tried to keep up his aloof demeanor.
Sprite scoffed as she made her way out of the room, pretending to gag as she glanced at Druig and you. Thena smiled to herself, giving your shoulder a soft squeeze as she followed Sprite out.
Druig stirred by the window, unable to face you yet.
“I missed you,” you said. Your head tilted as you continued to examine his movements. He was nervous, it was obvious ashe fidgeted and picked at his cuticles.
“Did you get my letters?” You asked.
He paused. Of course, he got your letters. Every single one. They were bundled together with string and tucked under his pillow back at the village.
You never went a month without sending one. Ever since he left that island that day. You’d told him of your travels, everywhere you ended up over the decades. He’d read them all by candlelight after the village had long turned in for the night. He ruminated over each word; all the smudges of ink by your shaky hands, all the chicken scratch handwriting as you always wrote too fast in an attempt to catch up with your thoughts. He got every single letter. And he could recite them all if you asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said, finally turning to face you.
Your smile faltered as he began to unravel.
“Druig,” you said, trying to stop him.
“No, I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know how many times I can say it,” Druig took slow steps towards you as if preparing himself for you to stumble away from him again. But you didn’t
“I didn’t mean it, it just happened. I was overwhelmed and I couldn’t handle everything, but it’s no excuse. And I just-”
“Dru, it’s okay,” you were suddenly in front of him, your hands taking his. The tremors he could seem to control all those decades suddenly stopped.
“I’m not mad, it’s okay. I understand,” you said.
“I let them go. I’m done, Y/N,” he said, stepping closer to you. “I don’t wanna be a monster, dove.”
Your heart fluttered at that damn nickname. You fucking missed it.
“You were never a monster, Druig. What you can do, what you have to deal with. I’ll never understand it. But I just want what’s best for you,” you slipped a hand through his soft hair as it fell in front of his face. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“I missed you, so fucking much,” he said, resting his forehead to yours.
You chuckled to yourself, brushing your nose against his as you smiled. Your lips slowly slipped across his, as if asking for permission. As if he’d been waiting for the moment, Druig pulled you close, his lips hungry for you. 7000 years of hunger.
When you finally pulled back, he was smirking like an idiot. You took your hand and ran your thumb across his red lips. He chuckled to himself.
“My beautiful, beautiful Y/N,” he said, his grip on your waist tightening. His accent slurred as he smiled against your cheek.
“What?” you asked, a soft laugh slipping from your lips.
“You’re gonna get killed with me trying to stop this emergence?” he said, jokingly.
“Oh absolutely.”
“I’d kill any celestial if it meant not forgetting you.”
---
hope you liked it heheh its not the best but hey, a new character :)
summary: You're a housemaid who is sent away by her employer to an estate nestled deep in the Carpathian mountains. On the first night, your dreams become very bizarre, and you are no longer so sure of your purpose at the Castle.
word count & w a r n i n g s: 3.7K | female reader, smut, period cunnilingus, vampire coercion, invasion of privacy, scent kink, technically dubious consent and somnophilia (cos Orlok likes to touch when reader is sleeping and it gets a little blurred there), blood mention, decay mention, monsters, vampires,, bloodplay, biting, drinking blood / blood loss, mentions of accents, shadow play (fingering), possession kink.
a/n: I feel like I should apologize in advance because this one feels weirder than my last one. again, you either get it you don't. nevertheless, I hope it is as good! thank you for reading if you do!!! MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR NOSFERATU 2024! banner by @/strangergraphics!
↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!
With a sharp crack of a whip and a high-pitched whinny, you are alone.
It’s snowing when you arrive. You look back down the pathway, unable to see the carriage any longer; the flurries obscure your vision. The coach that brought you to the looming doors of the entrance is long gone, as is the safety of it. The only sound that can be heard amongst the deafening silence of snow is the fading squeak of hinges and the clip clop of the horses’ hooves as they return home, wherever that may be… far away from this dreadful castle. As you gaze skywards, looking up at the castle, you wrap your shawl around your frail shoulders, shuddering. There is something that roils in your stomach like a malady, twisting and turning your insides until they ache so. Foreboding…
You had been sent here by your employer, a ruthless man who lacked any empathy, only possessed an insatiable greed for fortune. He had requested that you be sent away, to tend to a man who resided deep in the Carpathian Mountains. He had a large estate – a castle in every sense of the word – and needed it maintained. Your darling mother fretted the entire night, feeling as though it was an unwise and dangerous proposition; a young, unmarried woman going into the dark and cursed woods of Transylvania, forced so under the pretenses of mere employment. Though, you had been promised riches. This man, Count Orlok, would reward you handsomely for your duties. Or so it was said.
At first glance, the looming castle provides no welcome, nor does it beckon you inside. Though, the longer you stare, shivering in the snow like a lost child, the more inviting it becomes. As fearsome and ominous as it is, you know that within those stone walls, lies a comfort, a warmth of some kind. Another person to provide company.
With footsteps crunching down into the snow, you approach the doors. Your fist raises to the doors, poised to knock as hard as you can to alert the occupant that you’ve arrived. As you do, your knuckles pounding against the wood but once, both the doors swing open slowly, revealing a grand, but barren, courtyard. White blankets everything, obscuring any foliage that might have greeted you.
“Hello?” Your voice is swallowed up by the snow.
All at once, you hear scampering beside you, accompanied by a huff of breath from something and quickly pivot around, clutching your breast. When you turn back around, you’re met with a startling visual; a tall, intriguing silhouette, stands near another entryway. He’s stock still, the only movement is that of the furs that he wears, which blow delicately in the wind. After a moment, he turns, and disappears into another open door.
“Sir! Please, I beg of thee, wait for me!” Gripping your satchel in one hand and holding your shawl shut with the other, you hurry behind him, praying to get out of the biting cold. He does not wait for you.
Once inside, the castle provides little reprieve. It, too, is bitterly cold; the stone walls have absorbed the chill of the winter and seem to radiate out onto anyone who dares pass by, like long fingers, reaching out to pilfer any warmth that passes.
The staircase is dark, staggeringly so. It curls around a column, trailing ever upwards. He is gone from your line of sight, until you climb the last step, and enter the main room. It is dark, save for a robust fire that consumes the left hand side of the room, drenching it in warmth. Dropping your belongings, you hurry over to it and quickly stretch your palms towards the glow, the heat licking at your frigid fingertips.
Casting your glance over your shoulder, he stands near the table. You hum quietly to yourself, and turn back to the fire.
“Count Orlok…” you start, your voice feeble. You stare at him now, desperately trying to discern his features. Though he is unmoving as he watches you, the shadows which dance across his face obscure him. You swallow. “Pardon my –”
“Thy lord…!” he bellows, startling you. Despite the volume, his voice was low, deeper than any man’s voice. It was almost a growl, carnal and demanding obedience. You dare not defy him, not when he sounds as such. You furrow your brow to the fire, looking deep into the flames to hide your shame.
“My lord,” you started again. “I mean not to offend. I was only going to ask you to pardon my urgency in coming to the fire, I fear I may have caught my death had I been out in the storm any longer.”
“You,” he booms, his voice seeming to vibrate the air around you. He gestures, extending his long fingers towards the table. “...are weak with hunger… eat.”
You glance apprehensively at the expansive feast behind you; fruits, roasted meats, breads. It was enough to satisfy several men. “Are you not… not joining me, my lord? Surely, this is too great for my appetite.”
“…I shall sate myself… later….”
His response serves as nothing but confusion to you, for it is nightfall. Perhaps, you think, you are not accustomed to the habits of the area. You turn your attention back to the table; you are unable to deny the gnawing in your belly, and the enticing aroma of the food calls to your hunger, seducing you with promises of a full stomach, and a delightful, food-induced sleep. You get to your feet and approach one the chair, carefully setting yourself down upon it, smoothing out your petticoats as you do.
Wordlessly, you reach forward, plucking a single piece of fruit from the plate. Its glossy skin glistens underneath the flickering candlelight, and as you bring the succulent fruit to your mouth, its sweet nectar coats your tongue. You hum happily, and savor the taste, rolling it around on your tongue before gnashing it up with your teeth. Next, you reach for the fork that sits at the plate’s edge, and pierce the flesh of a morsel of meat. It’s tender; the prongs of the fork giving way, and the intoxicating aroma of herbs and spices fill your nose.
Though the food is delicious, it does little to distract you from the fact that you’re being watched. The Count sits across from you, his presence an ominous shadow that threatens to swallow you whole. You chew once, twice, and raise your gaze to his. It’s dark and envelops you like an embrace, one you cannot deny.
“My lord,” You say, swallowing the remainder of the meat. “Pray tell, who cooked this delicious meal? I was told that you resided here by thineself, hence your need for a ma–.”
Before you can finish speaking, his words slice through the space between you. “No… more questions. Eat.”
“I was only –”
“Hush now. You are too weary to have such… conversations.”
His words rang true; you were exhausted from the journey and the food was only increasing your fatigue. Now, with a full belly, you felt the first, soothing touches of sleep running its fingers through your tresses, beckoning you closer. You stifle a yawn, not wanting to appear rude in your present company.
“I long to become familiar with you, my lord. I have many questions… but perhaps, I’ll rest…” You say as you wander over to the fire, longing for its warmth once more. You fold yourself to the floor, resting your arms and head on the seat of the ornate wooden chair that sits in front of it. “If only just for a moment.”
With the crackle of the fire lulling you away, it isn’t long before the drowsiness takes you, your form drooping slightly in the chair as you nod off. It is not a restful sleep, however; it is a disturbed slumber, filled with bizarre dreams that feel like waking nightmares.
Shadows claim your body and soul as you sleep, drifting farther and farther away from your consciousness. Slender, phantom fingers graze over your heartbeat, feeling it, tasting it with physical touch, and they graze the fullness of your breasts. Lingering touches chill every inch of your flesh; your neck, between your legs, and along the length of your arms. You dream of being intertwined eternally, though if asked, you couldn’t explain what that meant. Pain, braided with throngs of indescribable pleasure.
You aren’t sure how long you sleep, but awake when the sun’s rays reach through a nearby window. You stretch your limbs as far as they’ll go, the muscles shaking with exertion. Then, unexpectedly, your palm flattens atop a cotton pillowcase, the tips of your toes feel sheets beneath them. A bed. The fire, you think. I fell asleep at the fire. He must’ve carried you to bed in the night – a thought that, while somewhat comforting in its thoughtfulness, concerns you. You remember not the feelings of him cradling you in his arms, carrying you to bed like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. You remember not the feelings of being tucked in like a child, delicate and small. But you remember your dreams.
Pleasures that capture your sleeping body, controlling it so that you thrash and turn on your bed. Long, slender fingers ghosting over your jawline, desperately twitching to pull your mouth into a bruising kiss. The overwhelming scent of Earth, the irony scent of blood, paired with a sickly scent that you can’t place. Stinging pains as the shadow in your room consumes you. Whispers of promises, of ownership, of eternities. Things that you cannot comprehend, but wish to agree to willingly.
Your eyes open fully, having now adjusted to the light. The realization dawns on you; your lewd dreams had been about your new employer, the mysterious man who had only insisted you eat. Knowing not what time it is, you quickly throw the covers from your form, and get to your feet. You’re still clothed, but the buttons on the front of you are peculiarly undone. Your fingers work fastidiously to redo them, before you cross the small room to the door.
Hurrying down the stairs, you return to the once warm dining room, now flush with sunlight, but still freezing. The fire has burned itself out, and the table remains full of food. The meat has likely spoiled, but the fruit and bread… You eye them both hungrily.
“My lord?” You call out into the emptiness as your heart pounds in your chest, a staccato rhythm against your ribcage. You wait… but nothing comes, no response, nor sound. Satisfied that you are alone, you rush to the table, hurriedly taking up a piece of bread and some of the fruit. You scarf it down in a very unladylike fashion, but no guilt taints your urgency; you’ll need energy to do your duties.
As you chew, you decide to meander some, and still, fail to find the Count. Your exploration yields very little aside from the discovery that this castle looks all but abandoned in the daytime. At night, at least there is a fire in the hearth to tell stories of the living craving warmth, but during the day… It is nothing but emptiness. The castle itself is so vast, so decrepit, that you have a hard time navigating it without feeling like you’re running yourself in circles. Most everything looks the same, and frustratingly, most of the doors are locked, try as you may to enter them. How is one intended to clean if they do not have access?
~
After several hours of cleaning to the best of your ability; sweeping up leaves and dusting away long abandoned cobwebs that hung in the recesses, you pause to wipe your brow, and in doing so, catch a glimpse of the setting sun. Like an overripe fruit, it hangs heavy atop the silhouette of the castle, and disappears, sinking into the horizon as you watch it. Has it been that long? Or had you originally slept much longer than you’d thought?
Gradually, the castle is submerged in darkness. You hum to yourself, retrieving the rag from the floor and return to the main room. The visual before is laid out as it was the night prior and you are equally as perplexed.
The fire roars once again, and the Count, with his tall, menacing silhouette, stands in front of it. As soon as your foot hits the last step, he turns, gripping his fur coat at the side. His fingers seem to go on forever, only lengthened by his sharp, pointed nails. You bring your hands to your lap, shifting nervously.
“You have been hard at work, I see…”
“I… yes, my lord. Though, most of the rooms are locked. Might I have access –”
“No.” He says lowly, curtly. There is an unsaid warning, discouraging any persistence.
“My lord…” You quiver, fighting against your own nerves. “Might I ask… what is my purpose here then? If not to clean thy castle… why for?”
He is suddenly beside you, his tall frame dwarfing yours. “You will… provide me… company.”
Your heart squeezes within your chest, tight, as though his hand had reached through your skin and gripped it with all his might. The rag drops from your grasp, falling to the stone floor silently.
“I’m afraid I don’t… I don’t understand.”
But you do. You understand that you were sent here under a falsehood, an arrangement disguised as employment. As you recollect, the terms in which you were sent away were very sudden, very demanding and very specific – he had requested a young unmarried woman. You thought it to avoid any incessant mail, perhaps, but realize, the reason is far more personal.
“Fret not,” he says, his fingers reaching up to brush across the warmth of your cheek. They are cold to the touch, frigid even, and you shudder underneath the gesture. His dark eyes suddenly seem to widen, his nostrils flaring. As he inhales sharply, he dips closer to you, his claws reaching towards your clothed hips.
All at once, his long arms wrap around you, seizing you, pulling you into a desperate, hunger-driven embrace. He tastes your flesh, licking from the nape of your neck to the hollow between your full breasts. It is not tender, nor is it heartfelt. It is insatiable, it is dark, yet… your supple frame melts into his grip, allowing him to support your wilting body in his grasp.
You feel the edge of his nails gently caress your body, fingers wrapping around the flesh of your arm with their length. Your lids flutter as his mouth nears your ear, his labored breathing hissing into the tight space between the two of you.
Deep between your legs, an incessant want pools. It is hot, greedy, and coils in your stomach like a venomous serpent. Your lids grow heavy with need. Above you, Orlok nears ever closer, dipping down until the bridge of his nose presses into your sternum. He inhales deeply, as though inhaling your very essence. He makes a sound akin to the low, warning growl of a wolf, though it’s tinged with something far more satisfied.
“That which terrifies you….” his full-bodied voice snarls above you, consuming you. “....pleases you.”
Your breath catches in your throat as you realize what he’s just done, what provoked such a bold claim from his lips. He had smelled your blossoming state, your throbbing arousal and inhaled deep into the confines of his very lungs. No man has ever done such a thing, and the thought leaves you reeling, shuddering in his grip. Because, you know… he is no man.
“My lord,” you whisper. “I… I…”
“Speak,” he urges, his voice thickened with lust, with hunger. You can feel his breath upon your breast, upon the exposed column of your neck. He nears closer.
“I cannot! My words fail me, my lord… I know not what I speak of… what I feel deep within my chest.”
He growls, considering that for a brief moment, before speaking again. “Your body speaks loud enough.”
With your breath catching in your mouth, you quickly utter your next words. “I think I may retire… early this evening, my lord. I feel faint.”
“If you are… unwell, it would be in your best interest to do so.” His words are strung together so laboriously, punctuated by wheezing breaths and his heavy accent. You swallow again, looking up into his unimaginably dark eyes. There is a hunger there, a flash of something that frightens, but moreso, arouses you, and you gasp, turning quickly on your heels, heading back up the nearby steps. “I bid thee goodnight!”
You run down the corridors as though he is pursuing you. Hunting you. And as soon as you are in the safety of the room that he once carried you into, you shut the door, collapsing against the back of it. You pant, trying to make sense of what had just happened, but you cannot ignore the clawing lust that you feel.
You dress yourself in your nightgown, and quickly get into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin as though that is some ward, some protection from the shadows which plague you. As before, it is not long before the warmth carries you off to sleep, the comfort of the bed acting as a tranquilizer for your nerves.
The dreams come again, wrapping themselves around your body and cradling you in their enticing embrace. They are heavy, like the weight of a lover atop of you, and they ghost along your legs, trailing along the curve of your thigh. You whimper, taking fistfuls of the sheets.
“I beg of thee… please…” you murmur, sleepily. Still, it is a call, a beckoning, and the shadow in your dream heeds it. Immediately.
You shift, kicking your legs and thrashing your head to the side, whimpering pitiably in your slumber. The sheets are cold and seem to cling to your thighs, bringing you no comfort and do not free themselves when you move your legs. There is a pressure, a pulling deep between your legs. You whine again, bucking your hips. Against something.
Your eyes snap open, your body jerking with unimaginable arousal. The first thing you see is the ceiling, decorated with shadows and uncertainty. The second thing is that your nightgown is pushed up to your waist, exposing your lower half to the chill of the room. The third, and perhaps the most startling, is that Count Orlok is nestled between your thighs, his lengthy fingers gripping your hips tightly, not fazed by the rocking of them as you feel, feel deeply, what he is doing. He pulls you closer, and you immediately feel his cool tongue as it laps at your center. He swallows loudly, wetly, and you immediately smell the harsh, irony scent of blood. As he gulps, you feel an ungodly pulling sensation, as though the essence is being drained from between your legs.
Realizing, you yelp and push your hips into the mattress, pulling his mouth from your cunt with a slick sound. His mouth chases you, but in the second in which the moonlight hits his angular face, you see that the lower half is coated in blood. You wince, and tighten your grip on the sheets. You had heard stories as a child of a mystical, monstrous creature… strigoi, nosferatu, vampyres… many names for one being you’d never thought you’d meet. And certainly not in this way. But you realize, as his mouth hovers over your core, his cool, wheezing breath washing over you, you do not want him to stop. The nerves, the anxiety, it had all been because his aura had captivated you, called out to you like a beacon in the storm.
“Give thyself to me…”
You nod once, unable to hide your true nature. Your hand drifts to his bare, decaying shoulder, urging him back between your legs. Orlok’s tongue snakes out once again, delving deep into your entrance and lapping up the viscous fluid that leaks from it. You nestle back against the pillow, allowing yourself to feel everything, to drown in the sensations. It is unclean, monstrous but you cannot contain your cries, the lascivious sound echoing off the stone walls. Your hips continue bucking into his mouth, your hand gripping his aged flesh with all the power you have left.
He laps at your cunt, starved for the sanguine nectar mixed with your sweet arousal, and your body quivers and shudders with each pass of his tongue. You feel the sharp points of his fangs grazing your swollen clit, a teasing, dangerous feeling. You dig your nails into his cool flesh, pulling him closer still and you feel that serpent return, coiling around itself until it threatens to burst.
“Pl-please… my lord…! I’m… I feel as though I might…!” But he does not relinquish his feasting, nor does he slow.
Your body seizes up, muscles spasming as your back arches desperately, the fire of your orgasm reaches a peak, crashing over you like waves on a shore. Your hips buck violently up into his greedy, hungering mouth, crying out.
Finally, as the pulsing subsides betwixt your thighs, he is above you, lowering himself down upon your breast. His lithe fingers spread apart the pieces of your nightgown, exposing your skin to his waiting mouth. A white, hot lance of pain erupts over your sternum as his teeth puncture the waiting flesh there, the ache sprawling its stinging tendrils down the length of your arms and to your fingertips.
You gasp, your pupils dilating. The feeling is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, and you know, unlike anything you’ll ever experience again – a feeling, a craving that only he can sate. The room is filled with your weakening moans and the slick, gulping sound of Orlok as he drinks from you. Your menstruations were not enough, and yet, neither was a singular orgasm. Your hips writhe with a desperate plea, though he is too far buried between your breasts.
A dark cloudiness rings the edge of your vision. No… not sleep. Not now…. I beg of thee…
The world fades from your grasp, like water through thine fingers, the only sensation is that of your skin chilling, paling as he drinks your sweet, warm blood.
One of the coolest parts about being a fan of fanfic is you can actually contact the author. And they will respond. And then you can message them nonstop until they allow you into their lives and then you’re becoming their beta reader and suddenly you know multiple authors of all types of fiction books and fanfic authors who will drag out their deleted fics for you to read at a moments notice.
Anyway. Comment on fics and message authors. It’s absolutely worth it.
rick overhears you and some alexandrian women gossiping, and he decides to confront you.
𑣲 drabble I @murdrdocs
𑣲 what was supposed to be our last night I @specialagentlokitty
𑣲 request I @dollfacefantasy
𑣲 when you love him part 2 I @itsgrimeytime
𑣲 when he clarifies things I @/itsgrimeytime
𑣲 when your his rock I @/itsgrimeytime
𑣲 feelin' flirty I @/itsgrimeytime
Being a long-lost friend of Maggie's, you wind up at the prison, a line of dead walkers behind you. You are promptly confronted with one Rick Grimes, and it's suddenly your life's goal to flirt with him as much as you can. Rick doesn't usually respond, but what if one day he does?
𑣲 i know i got him I @/itsgrimeytime
Ever since you showed up, you've had an effect on Rick. At least, that's what everyone said. Initially, you hadn't recognized it. But after one too many coincidences, it's starting to become a little impossible to ignore.
𑣲 the life we could've had I @/itsgrimeytime
Rick knows you're gone, he does. He just keeps seeing you in everything -the distant smell of coffee in the morning, or the sand beneath his toes (when he finds himself on a beach.) And as he tried to scrub what pain he felt out of his head, he wondered just when he could see you again.
𑣲 the nurse I @/itsgrimeytime
Before all this, you were a nurse. A nurse who had patients, one of which was a man in a coma. A sheriff, you think, it was all kinda fuzzy now. When it all went sideways, you set up what you could for the man - but had to leave. You'd always wondered where he'd ended up; until in your search of shelter, you run into a familiar face.
𑣲 little one had other plans I @cultofdixon
Timing is never perfect when it comes to babies coming into the world. Rick just wished the group wasn’t…homeless when his baby decided to make an entrance
𑣲 time I @myanmy
You just got to Alexandria and are settling in, however Rick seems to have forgotten he has a girlfriend.
𑣲 three days too long I @inthe-dark-tonight
you wake up to a surprise after rick comes back from a three day long supply run
𑣲 rest I @weretheones
Some days, it felt like the weight of the world rested on Rick’s shoulders. The night after the farm fell was no exception.
𑣲 untied I @/weretheones
After months of friendship, Rick’s suddenly started avoiding you. You decide enough is enough and confront him.
𑣲 mean!rick I @gxtitobxby
𑣲 request I @grimesgirll
𑣲 request I @movidita
𑣲 dreamy I @paradisedixon
you’re tired of having to ask everyone for supplies after shane forbid you from going on runs for no reason, so you ask the next best man for permission.
𑣲 sweetheart I @virginsexgod69
𑣲 out of reach I @happy74827
Finding the right moment is a hard thing to do. Especially when it involves the man who's in charge.
𑣲 consequences I @catt-leya
You want to be close to Rick. Closer than just cuddling.
A/n: Let's get into those flashbacks! Hope you enjoy it!
Main Masterlist || Daryl Dixon Masterlist
PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER
Your sickness got worse. So much worse.
And you were all alone with it—until Daryl and Merle showed up.
At first, Daryl didn’t know why Merle bothered. He wasn’t the kind of guy to play nursemaid, and he sure as hell wasn’t the type to stick around when things got tough. But for some reason, he kept dragging Daryl back to that rundown trailer in the middle of nowhere, like it was just another stop on their endless list of bad decisions.
Being there for you was probably the best decision the two of them had ever made.
But it wasn’t.
And you let them in—not just into your house but into your life and heart.
Daryl didn’t get that either. You should’ve known better, should’ve realized they would only bring trouble and heartbreak. It never ended well with him and Merle around. Then again, Daryl figured you didn’t have much left to lose anyway.
You were getting worse by the day, skin paler than it had any right to be, bones jutting out where they hadn’t before. Every time he saw you, it was like looking at a ghost that hadn’t figured out it was dead yet.
And still, you smiled.
Even now, coughing up blood into a tissue, you grinned at them from your spot on the couch like it was just another Tuesday.
“At this point, the Grim Reaper must be scared of me,” you wheezed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Just doesn’t wanna show the fuck up.”
Merle let out one of those wild, barking laughs of his, shaking his head. “Shit, girl, I don’t blame him. You’re stubborn as hell.”
“Damn right.” You stretched, wincing, but you didn’t let it show too much. “I oughta start charging him rent if he’s just gonna keep circling and never really move in.”
Daryl didn’t laugh. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching you like you might disappear between one breath and the next.
Because you might.
Merle, either oblivious or just refusing to acknowledge reality, sprawled out in the recliner across from you, kicking his boots up on the coffee table. “So, what? You gonna outlive all of us just to spite that bony bastard?”
“That’s the plan.”
You and Merle grinned at each other like it was all some big joke.
Daryl didn’t think it was funny.
You were wrapped in that same old blanket you always had, the one with holes in it, the one you swore was perfectly fine even though Daryl had half a mind to steal it and replace it with something that wasn’t falling apart.
That night, when Merle was outside smoking and talking shit on the phone to some guy Daryl didn’t care about, he sat on the couch beside you. Not too close—just close enough to remind himself you were still here.
Your hands trembled when you reached for the glass of water on the coffee table. Daryl saw it before you could pretend otherwise and handed it to you instead.
You nodded in thanks, taking a slow sip before leaning your head back against the couch. “You’re quiet tonight.”
Daryl huffed, staring at a crack in the wall. “Ain’t got nothin’ to say.”
“Yeah, you do.”
He glanced at you, scowling. “No, I don’t.”
You smirked like you knew some big secret. “You get all quiet when you’re mad about something.”
Daryl looked away. He didn’t want to admit you were right. Didn’t want to admit that his heart skipped a beat because you noticed that little fact about him.
You sighed, running your fingers over the rim of the glass. “You don’t gotta be mad for me, y’know.”
He clenched his jaw. “Ain’t mad.”
You gave him a look, all sharp and knowing. “Bullshit.”
Daryl inhaled through his nose, tapping his fingers against his knee. His hands felt restless, like they should be doing something—fixing something, fighting something. But there wasn’t shit to fight. Nothing he could win anyway.
“I don’t like seein’ you like this.” The words came out rougher than he meant, but they were the truth.
You exhaled slowly. “I know.”
“Feels like…” He trailed off, frowning.
“Like what?”
Daryl shook his head, restless energy thrumming under his skin. “Like you’re just sittin’ here waitin’ to die.”
You didn’t look surprised by that. Maybe you’d already thought the same thing yourself. Maybe you’d been thinking it longer than he had.
After a long pause, you said, “I don’t think I’m waiting to die. I think I’m just trying to live while I still can.”
Daryl swallowed hard, shifting in his seat. “That ain’t much better.”
You shrugged. “It’s all I got.”
And maybe that was what pissed him off the most.
That you’d accepted it. That you weren’t fighting. That you were making jokes about the damn Grim Reaper instead of doing something.
He knew it wasn’t fair. Knew this wasn’t something you could punch your way out of. But that didn’t stop the anger from curling hot and sharp in his chest.
Didn’t stop him from wanting to do something.
You must’ve seen it written all over his face because you sighed and nudged his arm with your knee. “C’mere, Dixon.”
He frowned. “For what?”
You patted the couch beside you. “Just come here.”
Daryl hesitated, then shifted closer. You tugged the edge of your blanket over his lap and leaned your head against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Daryl froze, shoulders tense. “The hell you doin’?”
“Relax, would you?” You sighed, closing your eyes. “You feel like a damn rock.”
He let out a breath through his nose but didn’t move away.
“You ever just let yourself be still?” you murmured.
He didn’t answer.
You hummed, like you already knew. “You should try it sometime.”
Daryl stayed stiff for a long moment before slowly letting himself relax.
Just a little.
Your breathing was steady, soft—like maybe, for the first time in a while, you weren’t in pain. Like his presence was better than any painkiller you’d ever taken.
And for the first time in a while, Daryl let himself believe—for just a second—that maybe you’d still be here tomorrow.
I really don't understand how "without getting kudos or comments a fanfiction author is going to assume that people who clicked their fic didn't like it" became a controversial take.
I don't know why some people think an author should imagine, or guess that people who click their fic enjoyed it it when nobody is telling them that.
If you're re-reading a fic constantly, or leaving it up in your tab so that it re-loads every day for a hundred days the author is not going to know that unless you tell them. They'd love to hear it. It would make their day.
And if you don't tell them you liked their fic, there's no reason for them to assume you did.
This is why I hate the “nobody owes you anything” mindset. To me, it makes any interaction sound transactional and that’s just exhausting. If you like something, let the author know! That’s the whole point of fandom is to interact with others and make friends!
A/n: So I had this little idea for a one-shot for a while now, it was supposed to be just something really really short but it kinda turned out to be more than that, so it'll be a smoll shortie series of flashbacks and late night conversations between Daryl and Rick, maybe someone else too??? We shall see. Hope you enjoy it!
I'll add the taglist in the comments later on, probably
Main Masterlist || Daryl Dixon Masterlist
NEXT CHAPTER
The fire crackles between them, casting long shadows on the ground. The night is quiet—too quiet—but neither of them seems to mind.
“I had someone… 'fore it all began,” Daryl mutters, breaking the silence.
Rick glances at him, just for a second, before casting his gaze back to the fire. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask. If Daryl wants to talk, he’ll let him.
Daryl exhales, shaking his head. “Real dead girl walkin’.” A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Would’ve fit right in.”
Rick frowns, waiting.
“She’d have liked me callin’ her that, too,” Daryl continues, voice quieter now. “Had a sick sense of humor. Always laughin’ at shit she shouldn’t. Couldn’t ever tell if she was tough as hell or just didn’t give a damn.” He huffs. “Got along with Merle, though. Ain’t many could say that.”
Rick tilts his head. “That so?”
“Yeah. Thought he was funny. Thought I was funny, too.” Daryl lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “Never did get why.”
A beat of silence stretches between them before Rick asks, “What happened to her?”
Daryl’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t look up. “Hell if I know,” he mutters. “She was barely survivin’ before the end of the fuckin’ world. Always sick, never gettin’ out much. Was born like that.”
Rick watches him carefully, but Daryl just stares into the fire, lost in his own head.
It was a shitty day, too damn hot, and Daryl was already in a bad mood when he stomped up the rusted steps of the trailer.
Merle had dragged him out here to some backwoods lot, said they were meetin’ up with an old buddy for some “business.” Daryl didn’t ask too many questions.
But when the trailer door swung open, the last thing he expected to see was a girl—no older than him—leaning in the doorway with a cigarette between her lips and an amused look in her eyes.
“Merle Dixon,” you drawled, exhaling smoke. “Figured that was your ugly mug pullin’ up.”
Daryl blinked. You were pale—like real pale, the kind that don’t see much sun. Dark circles under your eyes, too, like you never slept. But there was somethin’ about you, the way you looked at him like you already knew him.
“And you,” you said, flicking your cigarette. “You must be Baby Dixon.”
Daryl scowled. “The hell’d you just call me?”
You grinned, tapping your temple. “Good guess. You just got that look, y’know? Like a kicked dog with a temper.”
Merle barked out a laugh, slapping Daryl on the back. “Shit, girl, you nailed ‘im.”
Daryl huffed, crossing his arms. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
You leaned against the doorframe, smirking. You introduced yourself like you were proud of your name. “Ain’t got no fancy title like ‘Baby Dixon,’ though. Guess you’ll just have to come up with somethin’ for me.”
Daryl scoffed. “How ‘bout ‘pain in my ass’?”
Your laugh was loud and real, shaking your head. “I like you, Dixon.”
He rolled his eyes, but damn it if he didn’t kinda like you, too.
Daryl swallows hard, the memory fading. He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face.
“She’d have made it fun,” he says, voice rough. “This whole end-of-the-world shit.”
Rick doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, finally—
“What’d you call her?”
Daryl huffs a quiet laugh. “Dead Girl.” His throat tightens. “She thought it was funny.”
Rick nods, watching as Daryl pokes at the fire with a stick, lost in thoughts of a girl long gone.
Warnings: pure angst, usual twd themes (e.g. descriptive gore, use of weapons, violence, cursing), major character’s death
A/n: This is a piece for @the-slumberparty writing challenge week 1! I’m so sorry I’m posting it right now, but I’ve just realized it was sitting in my drafts for weeks :“) Enjoy some angst!
☁ 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ☁ || ☁ 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ☁
You were withering like the bouquet of flowers he left on your bedside table almost two weeks ago. Your skin lost its glow, greying like the petals of the wildflowers. Your limbs felt too heavy for your body, and your hair framed your face sticking to your sweaty skin.
A/N: uggggh a little pre-apocalypse Daryl drabble with a role reversal that is *chef's kiss*
You were tempted to flip the middle finger at the cops gathered behind you as you left the station, taking quick steps to keep up with Daryl's hurried long strides.
"Where'd you get the money to bail me out?"
"Dun ask me..." he drawled.
"Too late. I just did," you said, following him out into the sunshine.
"S'Merle's stash so 'm prob'ly gonna get my ass beat for this," he said, shooting a sideways glance at you.
You shot him a worried look and then shook your head. "No you won't. We'll replace it before he even knows it's gone. No way you're taking a single hit on my account," you said.
"How?" he asked, stopping beside his bike and grabbing the helmet. "How the hell are we gonna do that?" He held it out to you and you accepted it with a smirk.
"Did you already forget what I was just in there for?" you laughed.
He rolled his eyes. "Why'd ya have to steal his goddamn watch anyway?"
"He was being an asshole!"
"Yeah, he was... but didn't ya think picking that off the fucking Chief of Police was a bad idea? Prick is gonna throw the book at ya." He pushed your hands away to adjust the chin strap on the helmet for you. You couldn't help the wash of heat and butterflies that rose up in your chest from the sweet action.
"So, let him throw it," you said carelessly. "We both know I'm quick on my feet and he can't aim."
"Christ, yer too much damn trouble. Maybe I shoulda left ya in there a bit longer."
"Daryl!" you snapped, swatting at his arm playfully.
" 'M just kiddin'! Calm down," he laughed. "Get on the damn bike so we can get outta here before ya do anymore damage."
Prompt: "Why'd you have to steal his goddamn watch anyway?" / "He was being an asshole!" / "Yeah, he was. But didn't you think stealing that off the fucking Chief of Police was a bad idea?
Pairings: Negan Smith x Female! Reader; Lucille Smith x Female! Reader; Negan Smith x Lucille Smith
Word count: 2,5k+
Warnings: usual twd themes, cancer mentions and treatment, nightmares, panic attack
If you're not on the taglist but would like to be tagged, let me know!
Main Masterlist || "The Cockroach" Masterlist
PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER
It had been days. Maybe longer. Time didn’t feel real anymore.
Your bruises were still ugly, your ribs still sore, but at least you could move without wanting to vomit. Progress. Physically, at least. Mentally? Different story. Sleep was a joke, and when it did come, it wasn’t relief—it was Murphy. His voice, his face, his name sitting heavy in your throat like a swallowed scream.
You shouldn’t have left him. You needed him. Murphy was your anchor, your world, and no matter what you felt for Lucille, no matter what this place meant for you now—you would not leave him behind.
The dim glow of the basement faded, replaced by warm sunlight pooling through white sheets.
Murphy’s smile. Bright, boyish, untouched by the weight of the world. He lay beside you, half-hidden beneath the covers, his messy hair a dark halo against the pillow. His blue eyes sparkled as he nudged your side, his body warm and solid against yours.
“You ever think about just staying like this forever?” His voice was hushed, like speaking too loud would shatter the moment.
You smirked, rolling onto your side to face him. “You’d get bored.”
“Nah,” he grinned wider, reaching out to push a strand of hair from your face. “Not with you.”
The sheets filtered the morning light, turning everything soft and hazy. It felt safe here, hidden away from all the bullshit. Just you and him.
You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re such an idiot.”
Murphy leaned in closer, nose brushing against yours. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”
You wanted to freeze time. Keep him here. Keep him safe. Keep him yours.
But the memory fractured—ripped away like torn fabric.
The dim basement light returned, washing the world in cold, sickly yellow.
The silence was unbearable tonight.
You sat at the kitchen table, thumb picking at a loose thread on your sleeve, knee bouncing. Across from you, Lucille sipped weak tea, her expression unreadable. The sound of the chemotherapy bag dripping into her IV filled the space between you. Or maybe that sound was just in your head.
Her gaze flicked toward you. She noticed. The restless energy, the way your fingers twitched like they wanted to wrap around something solid—like they needed something to fight.
“You should get some sleep,” she said gently.
You let out a sharp exhale, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’ll pencil that in right after my mental breakdown.” It came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t bother softening it.
Lucille exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. Her lips twitched, like she wanted to smile but wouldn’t.
“You’re restless.”
“Gee, what gave it away? You should be a detective,” you deadpanned.
She didn’t react to the sarcasm. Just waited. That was the worst part. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just giving you space to step forward or step back.
You rubbed a hand over your face, fingers pressing into your temples as you let out a slow breath. The words weren’t ready to leave you yet. But Lucille was patient. And patience was the one thing that always broke you.
“I left him.” The confession was barely above a whisper, pried from between clenched teeth.
Lucille didn’t ask who. Maybe she already knew. Maybe she just knew you.
Who else could it be? You had no boyfriend. No casual flings. Just you and Murphy. A relationship so tangled, so blurred at the edges that defining it was impossible. It was a whole thing.
A hollow laugh slipped from your throat. Sharp. Bitter. Fractured.
“Very dramatic. Blood, yelling—a real ‘go, save yourself’ moment. Would’ve been a hit in theaters.” You tried to make it sound like a joke, but your voice shook at the edges.
Lucille’s expression softened. “And now you can’t stop thinking about him.”
“Huh. You are perceptive,” you mocked, but it lacked any real heat.
She gave you a look. The kind that made you feel like a petulant child. The kind that Murphy used to give you when you got too stubborn for your own good.
You scoffed, crossing your arms.
“I should’ve fought harder.” The words fell out, raw and jagged. “I should’ve—I don’t know. I should’ve done something.”
You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat didn’t budge.
“And now he’s out there, and I’m here. Sitting on my ass like some goddamn—”
You cut yourself off, but the damage was done. The tears gathered, hot and stinging, burning at the corners of your eyes. You blinked rapidly, looking away, pretending they weren’t there.
Lucille leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. Drip. Drip.
“You don’t have to hold it in.” Her voice was soft, but firm.
You let out a tight, bitter laugh. Shook your head.
“No, I can’t.”
She frowned, but before she could argue, you pushed forward, voice quieter now. Raw.
“Because if I start, I won’t be able to stop. And if I can’t stop… then I can’t save him.”
Silence.
Lucille didn’t tell you it was okay. She didn’t feed you empty reassurances. She just let you sit in it. Let you breathe through it.
The clock ticked. Your pulse slowed. The tears didn’t fall, but they were there—a storm behind your ribs, waiting for permission to break.
Lucille nodded once. Decisive. Certain.
“Then we’ll figure it out.”
And just like that, the conversation was over. No pity. No sugarcoated comfort. Just a plan.
You nodded back, exhaling.
The storm didn’t break tonight.
You headed upstairs, looking for something to do—anything to make the weight in your chest disappear. Anything that would silence Murphy’s voice, the echo of his last words still gnawing at the edges of your mind.
You didn’t have anything against his voice, but you sure as hell didn’t want to hear that moment replaying over and over again.
“Go.” The unsaid ‘save yourself’.
Like hell you could.
You pushed the thought down and stepped onto the porch, where you found Negan, slouched in a chair, smoking. He was back from wherever the hell he disappeared to, looking like he was trying way too hard to be unbothered.
You weren’t stupid.
He was doing it again—pretending. Acting like Lucille’s condition wasn’t sitting on his chest like a goddamn anvil. Acting like the slow creep of death in the next room wasn’t tearing him apart the same way it was tearing you apart.
But it was always there.
The sickly pale color of her skin. The wigs she insisted on wearing every day. The dark circles under her eyes, beautiful even as they dimmed.
Negan could pretend all he wanted—but you saw it. And he saw that you saw it.
Without a word, you sat down next to him, carefully keeping some distance between you. Close enough to share the moment, far enough that you wouldn’t have to acknowledge it.
“Share?” you asked, holding out your hand for the cigarette before he could even think about telling you no.
Negan sighed, side-eyeing you before handing it over. He didn’t protest, but you could tell by the way he rubbed a hand over his face that he wanted to.
And in true Negan fashion, he didn’t offer comfort—just commentary.
“You look like a kicked puppy. That a new aesthetic choice, or are we just leanin’ into the whole ‘existential crisis’ thing?”
You took a drag from the cigarette, exhaled slow, hoping it would settle you. It didn’t.
“Can you just shut up for once? Or is that too hard of a job for you?”
Negan let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.
“You’re the one who chose to come out here, sit next to me, take my damn cigarette—and now I need to shut up?” His voice curled with annoyance, every word growing sharper. “I think the fuck not.”
Your grip tightened around the cigarette, the burn of it grounding you.
“Jesus Christ, Negan.” You turned toward him, eyes narrowed. “I don't know how Lucille puts up with you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—am I not grieving properly for you?” His smirk was mocking, but his voice was cutting. “You wanna teach me how it’s done? Maybe I should sit in a dark corner and mope until I implode—that more your speed?”
Your jaw clenched.
“You are so goddamn exhausting.”
“And you are so goddamn predictable.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You think I don’t see what you’re doin’? The whole tortured, guilt-ridden, it-shoulda-been-me act?”
Your breath hitched, but you refused to react.
“News flash—you can sit here and hate yourself all you want, but it ain’t gonna bring your boy back.”
The world stopped.
You went still.
The cigarette slipped between your fingers, hitting the porch floor with a faint sizzle.
Negan’s eyes flashed when he realized he hit something real.
“Ah. There it is.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “That’s what this is about, huh? Poor little girl lost her best buddy, and now she don’t know what the fuck to do with herself.”
That was it.
Before you could think—before you could stop yourself—your hand lashed out.
Crack.
The sound of skin meeting skin cut through the night.
Negan’s head snapped to the side, jaw tight, the ghost of your slap burning red against his cheek.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Your hand trembled, but your face remained stone cold.
Negan slowly turned back to you, jaw flexing. His tongue ran over his teeth, and for the first time, he didn’t have a smartass response.
You saw the moment he decided not to react. The way he swallowed down the anger, the fight, the instinct to throw another verbal punch.
Instead, he let out a slow, low chuckle.
“That all you got?” His voice was hoarse, full of something you couldn’t place.
You ground your teeth together so hard it hurt.
Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms, the weight of his words pressing against your ribs like a vice.
You turned and walked away.
Your boots thudded against the wooden floorboards, each step carrying the raw, burning rage he’d just set loose.
Negan stayed where he was, watching you disappear into the house.
Neither of you said another word.
But the fight?
It wasn’t over.
The night crept in, slow and heavy, wrapping itself around you like a too-tight rope.
You tossed and turned on your makeshift bed, your body restless, your mind refusing to shut the hell up. It wasn’t about the discomfort—Lucille had done her best, piling blankets and pillows together until it almost felt like a real bed. Almost.
Hell, it was probably better than that shitty excuse for a mattress you had in your apartment.
But comfort had nothing to do with it.
It was the rage—boiling under your skin like molten iron, filling your chest, coiling tight around your ribs. It was the fear, cold and sharp, creeping up your spine, raising goosebumps along your arms. It was the guilt, thick and suffocating, curling around your throat like a noose.
And it was all so insufferable.
A well-deserved torture for leaving Murphy behind.
But eventually, your body betrayed you, exhaustion dragging you under despite the demons still clawing at your mind.
And it was worse.
“Oh, there you are! Missing me already?”
The voice—his voice—snapped your head up so fast, you almost stumbled.
Murphy stood a few feet away, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin pulling at his lips. His blue eyes were bright and joyful.
Just him.
Standing there like nothing had happened.
Your breath hitched, something sharp lodging itself in your throat.
“Murph…?”
The relief came so fast it almost hurt. You wanted to run to him, throw your arms around his shoulders, bury your face in his hoodie and just breathe him in.
He’d press his lips to your forehead, over and over again, like he always did after being apart too long. It was his ritual. His way of saying he missed you.
And every single time, you’d scrunch your nose and shove at his chest, muttering, “Eww, Murphy, you’re slobbering all over me.”
But the truth?
You never wanted him to stop.
You wanted him to do it now.
You took a step forward, a laugh bubbling up past the knot in your throat. “Miss you? That’s rich coming from you—don’t tell me you were crying in your sleep, Murph.”
Murphy gasped dramatically, hand to chest. “Me? Crying? You wound me, honey.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.
You felt warm. Safe.
For the first time in days, your ribs didn’t ache, your chest didn’t feel hollow.
It was just Murphy—his voice, his presence, alive and real.
“You really thought I wouldn’t find you?” He smirked, head tilting. “C’mon, honeypie, have a little faith.”
You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head. He always said that. Always.
And yet…
Something was wrong.
Your stomach twisted. The warmth started to fade.
The light around you dimmed.
Murphy’s smile twitched—just barely—but you saw it.
His body stiffened, the playful glint in his eyes flickering, dimming into something else. Something… unnatural.
His expression slackened.
His hands trembled.
“Murph?” Your voice wavered.
His mouth parted, lips forming a word—your name? No. Not quite.
And then—
His eyes clouded. His skin paled.
And his voice dropped into something hollow.
“You left me.”
Your entire body seized.
Murphy lurched forward, his face twisting, his mouth gaping open, rotting teeth, dark veins spreading down his neck—
No. No. No.
His arms snapped out toward you, fingers curling like claws—
“You left me.”
You ran.
You turned, bolted in the opposite direction, but your feet wouldn’t move fast enough.
His breath rasped behind you, wet, guttural, wrong.
“You left me.”
And then—
Darkness.
You woke up gasping.
A jagged, shuddering inhale that burned your lungs, your chest tight and constricted. Your body shook, fingers curling into the blanket like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.
Panic. Raw and suffocating.
Your throat was tight, your pulse hammering against your ribs, against your skull, against every nerve ending in your fucking body.
Your vision swam.
The walls closed in.
You weren’t in Alexandria. You were back there.
You were back in the moment you ran.
“You left me.”
A sob punched out of you before you could stop it, your hands flying to your mouth, fingers digging into your skin as you rocked forward, trying to breathe, trying to push it down, trying to stop the shaking.
But you couldn’t.
You couldn’t make it stop.
And then—
A voice.
“Sweetheart?”
Lucille.
Your head snapped up, wild-eyed, chest still heaving, vision still blurred.
Lucille was crouched in front of you, voice soft, gaze steady.
Not hovering. Not coddling. Just waiting.
You squeezed your eyes shut, exhaling shakily, grounding yourself in the sound of her breathing.
In. Out. Steady.
Slowly—painfully slowly—your pulse began to even out.
Lucille didn’t ask.
She just nodded. Then she stood.
“Come on.” She offered her hand. “I’ll make you some tea.”
And just like that, the world came back.
It didn’t make the weight in your chest disappear.
