Ink And Embers @ink-and-embers - Tumblr Blog

Posts

[ navigation ]

- every story here was planted with love, watered with ruin, and left to grow wild..

“between the bloom and the decay — that’s where the story lives.”

———————————————————————————

[ daryl dixon masterlist ]

[ geralt of rivia masterlist ]

lest we forget | daryl dixon

PAIRING - daryl dixon x fem!reader

SUMMARY - out on a quiet scouting run, you and daryl stumble across a field of wild poppies. you tell him how, back before, they were worn to remember the fallen — how they grew where soldiers once bled. it feels fitting somehow, in this world stitched together by loss. he listens, silent as always, until you tuck one into his pocket.

WARNINGS - grief / tenderness / emotional intimacy / light angst / established relationship

NOTES - remembering my great grandfather, private arthur nicholson, great great grandfather, private matthew proctor nicholson, and my great great grandfather captain edwin dargue - who was awarded the crois de guerre of france.

[ masterlist ] | requests are open

———————————————————————————

The woods were thick with the smell of wet earth — that deep, green scent that came after rain. Your boots sank slightly into the mud with each step, and every time you glanced up, Daryl was a few paces ahead, scanning the trees like he expected the world to break open again at any second.

It had been like this since he came back. Quieter. He still spoke when he needed to, still moved like a man who knew exactly where every sound came from — but something had changed. Maybe it was the weight of being gone too long, or maybe it was the way you’d kissed him before he left.

You hadn’t talked about it since. Not that night, not after. Just those few breaths of closeness, the rough warmth of his hands on your face, the taste of something that could’ve been hope if you’d let it. Then he was gone again, like he always seemed to be.

Now he was back — and the air between you was crowded with everything unsaid.

“Keepin’ up?” he muttered, glancing back.

You huffed softly. “You’ve been walking like the dead are on your heels for an hour.”

He half-smirked, eyes catching yours for the briefest second — that same look that used to precede another kiss when the dark pressed too close. But out here, in the grey light and dripping branches, it just lingered in the space between you, raw and unspoken.

You walked on, side by side now. Your shoulder brushed his once, twice — and when it didn’t happen a third time, you found yourself missing it.

Every so often, he’d point out tracks or motion for silence, that wordless rhythm you’d both learned to live in. Still, you caught the smallest details — the mud caked on his boots, the tired curve of his shoulders, the faint shadow of a bruise just beneath his collar. You’d noticed those same things the night he came back to Alexandria — when you’d almost reached for him again before stopping yourself.

Now, the sun was breaking through the trees, pale and thin, catching in his hair. It turned the damp strands to copper, made the lines around his eyes softer somehow.

You slowed as the woods began to thin, something bright flickering in the corner of your eye — a flash of red between the grass. For a second, you thought it was blood. Instinct kicked in, hand darting to your knife, until you looked closer.

It wasn’t blood.

You took a few careful steps forward, heart skipping when you realized what you were looking at.

“Daryl,” you said quietly.

He came up beside you, crossbow slung low, brow furrowed. “What?”

You crouched down, brushing your fingers against a single red petal. It was soft. Fragile. Impossible.

“Poppies,” you breathed.

Daryl crouched beside you, brow pulled tight as he looked at the small red bloom like it was something impossible — some relic left behind from a world that had burned down long before either of you had the chance to mourn it properly.

“They ain’t supposed to be here,” he muttered, fingertips hovering but not touching. “Not this far out.”

You shook your head softly. “They show up places they shouldn’t.” Your voice dropped, smaller, like saying it too loud might break it. “They always have.”

He looked at you like he wanted the translation — the one only you could give him — because you were the one who remembered the stupid little historical oddities no one cared about anymore.

“The poppies grew on battlefields,” you said quietly. “Real ones. Europe. First World War.”

Daryl’s eyes flicked to yours — that alert, steady gaze that never really missed much.

“People said,” you whispered, brushing a petal with the very edge of your knuckle, “they grew where the blood soaked into the ground.”

His jaw tightened — not dramatically, just a faint pull at the corner like the story slotted something in place he already understood instinctively. Violence birthing something soft. Horror sprouting something beautiful because it had nowhere else to go.

You straightened slowly — not moving away, staying close, your shoulders almost touching.

He opened his mouth like he might say something — but the wind rustled through the grass and his voice caught before it ever formed. Daryl Dixon had never been good with poetry when it came out of his own chest. He could recognize it — sure — he just wasn’t the type to voice it.

So you did it for him — in motion instead of words.

You plucked the single poppy from its stem — careful, reverent even — and stepped closer, reaching for him. You felt the warmth of his body before you touched him, that familiar heat that no one ever warned survivors they would miss.

You slid the flower gently into the breast pocket of his shirt — the faded, frayed edge of old denim swallowing the bright red like it belonged there.

Daryl froze. Not stiff from fear, but still in the way he always went still when something meant more than he thought he could handle. You smoothed the pocket flap down with the tips of your fingers, letting them linger there just a half second too long — a silent acknowledgment of the kisses you’d shared in dark rooms, behind closed doors, on nights when neither of you were sure you’d live till morning.

His throat flexed as he swallowed. His eyes stayed on yours.

“Why?” he asked, low, rough.

You offered the smallest, saddest smile — the kind that only existed in a world that had already taken too much.

“Because poppies remind people to remember,” you whispered. “Because they matter.”

You said it like a truth carved from bone.

And you said it like you meant him.

You didn’t look away when you said it — you held his eyes, steady, unflinching, like you needed him to hear what was underneath that sentence. He didn’t move at first, and the woods around you both stayed quiet enough that even the dead felt far away — just wind, just leaves, just the two of you in the middle of a world that didn’t remember how to be gentle anymore.

“They represent the ones we lost,” you continued softly. “The poppies. The color. The fields. They’re not just flowers.”

Daryl’s gaze flickered — not confusion, not avoidance — but that thing he did when memory hit too hard or too sharp all at once. He didn’t ask you to name them — he didn’t have to — but you did anyway, because the names shouldn’t just live in your head like ghosts.

“They grew on graves,” you said. “On battlefields where soldiers fell. And I think…” you swallowed, voice quiet, “…I think about Glenn. And Abraham. And Carl. And all the others. I think about how the world just keeps making places like that over and over.”

Daryl didn’t turn away. Didn’t shut it down. Didn’t make it lighter for your sake or his.

“You were there,” you whispered. “You survived them. And you carry every single one.”

His jaw clenched again, but not with anger. With ache.

“So maybe poppies matter here too,” you said gently. “Because maybe we should remember. Maybe it keeps them from fading out entirely.”

You reached up and smoothed the edge of the pocket one more time — your fingers brushing the fabric, then steadying right over where the flower sat, pressed against his chest like a brand.

Daryl inhaled slow — one deep breath — and then leaned down just enough that his forehead almost touched yours before his lips brushed against your mouth. Not hungry. Not desperate. Just soft. Almost reverent. His scarred palm lifted to curl around the base of your neck, thumb lightly tracing the spot just below your jaw — as if grounding himself in the fact that you were here, real, warm, breathing.

It was a kiss that wasn’t about possession or hunger — it was a kiss full of the quiet kind of love people built after the world ended. Earned love. Hard fought love. Love that survived ugly things and still chose softness anyway.

When he pulled back, just far enough to speak, his voice was barely above gravel.

“…thank you.”

Two words that weighed more than speeches. Two words he didn’t waste unless he meant them in full.

You just shook your head slightly, leaning into his hand.

“You don’t have to thank me for remembering,” you said.

But he looked at you like he needed to anyway — like it mattered to him that someone else held the weight too. His eyes dropped briefly to the poppy again, then back to you.

“This world don’t give nothin’ back,” he murmured. “But you do.”

[ geralt of rivia masterlist ]

- some tales end in blood. the rest just fade quieter..

“folk call ’em stories. i call ’em what’s left after the fight.”

———————————————————————————

[ reader archetype ]

a traveling healer and herbalist, hired by villages to treat the aftermath of monster hunts. you walk the same roads as witchers, not for glory but for purpose — a patient soul who mends what others destroy.

———————————————————————————

[ fluff ]

the wolf and the lantern: sometimes a storm can lead you through the dark..

#geralt x fem!reader #geralt of rivia smut #geralt of rivia fluff #geralt smut #geralt fluff #geralt of rivera #geralt x you #geralt x reader #witcher geralt #geralt of rivia #the witcher fandom #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic #the witcher #the witcher imagine #the witcher geralt

[ the wolf and the lantern ]

PAIRING: geralt of rivia x fem!reader

SUMMARY: a storm drives you both into an abandoned chapel. you light your lantern and sit near the altar, drying herbs by its glow. he sits in the dark until you offer him half your cloak without a word. when thunder rattles the ceiling, he mutters, “you’re not afraid.” you answer, “you only scare the ones who don’t see you.”

WARNINGS: injured roach if you squint

NOTES: first of my geralt pieces, starting with how he met the reader - hope it’s okay!

[ masterlist ] requests are open

———————————————————————————

The storm came crawling over the horizon long before it broke.

You could smell it first — that copper tang of lightning still caged in the clouds. The forest had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that meant even the birds had found cover. Only the wind moved, tugging at the hood of your cloak as you followed the road that sloped toward an abandoned chapel you remembered from a past journey. The villagers said it was cursed. You called it shelter.

You were just rounding the bend when you saw him.

A lone rider, black horse slick with rain, silver hair already darkened by the downpour that hadn’t yet reached you. He dismounted slowly, as if the weight of the world — or of the blades on his back — required him to think about balance.

You recognized him by reputation, if not by name. A Witcher.

You might have kept walking, another traveler passing with a polite nod, but he was staring down at his horse’s leg — something wrong, a limp maybe. Instinct tugged at you the way it always did. You approached.

“She’s favoring the right foreleg,” you said, voice low enough not to startle the animal.

He turned at the sound, those yellow eyes catching the faintest bit of dying daylight. “You see that from here?”

“I see most things limping,” you replied, offering a ghost of a smile. “I’m a healer.”

He said nothing, but didn’t move away when you came closer. You knelt, fingers brushing the mud-caked fetlock, careful not to crowd the mare. The wound wasn’t deep — a stone bruise, perhaps. You pulled a small pouch from your satchel, the scent of crushed comfrey rising with the damp.

He watched as you worked, the kind of silence that felt like studying rather than suspicion. When you straightened, rain began to fall in fat, heavy drops that stung against your skin.

“There’s a chapel ahead,” you said, nodding up the path. “Stone roof, mostly intact. You’ll want cover before that turns to a storm.”

His eyes flicked toward the black line of trees, then back to you. “You’ll want the same.”

You didn’t wait for agreement — only turned and started walking. The rhythm of hooves followed a few steps behind.

By the time you reached the chapel, the sky had split open. The door resisted your shove, wood swollen with years of rain. He stepped past you without a word, shoulder braced against the frame, and it gave way with a low groan.

Inside, it smelled of dust and ash, old prayers clinging to the stones. You lifted your lantern, striking it to life, and warm light spilled across the empty pews.

The Witcher paused in the doorway, rain running down his armor in rivulets of silver. You gestured toward the shadows.

“Come in,” you said simply. “No use letting the storm have us both.”

He hesitated — then followed you in.

The Witcher turned, closing the door against the storm. The sound of the rain softened once there was wood between you and the world — distant now, a steady heartbeat against the chapel walls.

You lifted your lantern higher and took in the ruin. The roof sagged in places, but the altar still stood, stone veined with moss and candle stubs melted down to ghosts of wax. You’d slept in worse.

He stood by the doorway a moment longer, water dripping from the ends of his hair, cloak heavy with it. The faint scent of iron and wet leather carried through the chill.

“You can come closer,” you said, kneeling to set your satchel down. “No sense guarding the door. Whatever hunts out there will wait until dawn.”

He gave a sound halfway between a hum and a sigh, then stepped forward, boots echoing softly on the stone. The horse outside huffed once before settling, and for the first time since the road, the silence didn’t feel dangerous.

You struck a few bits of tinder together until the lantern’s flame grew, brightening to a steady gold. Its glow kissed the walls and touched the edges of his armor. Without the storm’s blur, he was sharper — all scars and steadiness and the quiet gravity of someone built to endure.

You began unpacking the essentials of your trade: rolls of linen, glass vials bound in twine, a pouch of herbs that smelled faintly of mint and earth. You spread them out on your cloak, letting the warmth of the lantern draw the damp away.

He watched, wordless, as you worked — not intruding, not offering help, simply existing in the shared hush. When you finally glanced up, his eyes caught the lantern light like molten gold through smoke.

“You travel light,” he said at last.

“I have to. I go where I’m needed.”

“And people pay you for it?”

“Not always,” you said, voice soft. “Sometimes they just feed me, or let me sleep in their barns. The Path takes care of its own.”

That earned you a faint lift of his brow. “You sound like a Witcher.”

You smiled at that — small, honest, fleeting. “I patch what you kill. I suppose that makes us opposite sides of the same coin.”

He looked at you for a long time, then glanced toward the door again. The thunder cracked closer this time, shaking dust from the rafters. You moved toward the altar, pulling your cloak tighter.

“Sit,” you said, gesturing toward the broken pew opposite yours. “Storm’s only getting worse.”

He hesitated — a creature of instinct, of distance — then finally obeyed.

The lantern burned between you, throwing both your shadows against the walls.

Outside, the storm began to howl. Inside, there was only breath, and warmth, and waiting.

The storm worked its way inside the chapel’s bones. Wind rattled the shutters, and rain pressed against the walls as if trying to remind you that the world outside still wanted in.

You’d grown used to weather like this — storms that drove people into each other’s paths. He seemed less comfortable with it. Every thunderclap drew the faintest flicker of tension through his jaw, a readiness to fight something that wasn’t there.

You reached for your satchel again, half for distraction, half out of habit. “You should get out of that armor. It’ll take a day to dry if you don’t.”

He gave a low sound — not refusal, exactly, but resistance. “Not the first time I’ve ridden through rain.”

“No,” you said, smiling faintly as you sorted a few damp herbs onto a cloth near the lantern. “But maybe the first time you’ve done it with company who knows how to treat pneumonia.”

That earned you the smallest curve of his mouth. He unbuckled one pauldron, the metal clinking softly as it met the floor. The lantern’s light caught his profile — sharper now, but softer, too.

You worked in silence until he spoke again. “Geralt.”

You looked up. “What?”

“My name,” he said simply. “Geralt of Rivia.”

You nodded once, meeting his gaze. “Then I suppose I should tell you mine.”

He tilted his head slightly, waiting.

You gave it — quietly, as if the name might echo too loudly in a place like this. His eyes flicked toward the lantern, thoughtful.

“Not a bad one,” he said after a moment. “Has a steadiness to it.”

A small smile placed itself upon your lips.

A crack of thunder rolled through the rafters, deep enough to make the air tremble. You didn’t flinch, but the lantern swayed, sending your shadows dancing across the walls. He noticed — or maybe he was waiting for you to startle and didn’t know what to do when you didn’t.

“You’re not afraid,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You met his gaze through the shifting light. “You only scare the ones who don’t see you.”

The words hung there — simple, but heavier than they sounded. Something eased in his shoulders, like tension unwinding from years of habit. The thunder outside rolled away into distance, leaving only the steady rhythm of rain against stone.

He looked at you for a long moment, the sort of look that doesn’t demand understanding but quietly asks for it anyway. You didn’t shy from it.

The lantern’s flame wavered and steadied again, a fragile, stubborn thing — much like the moment between you.

You turned slightly, pulling your cloak closer and holding out one side toward him. “It’s warmer if you sit nearer the light,” you said, not quite an invitation, not quite a command.

Geralt hesitated, then crossed the few feet of empty chapel floor. He sat beside you, the bench creaking under the shared weight. The cloak bridged between you, half yours, half his.

For a while, neither of you spoke. His breath slowed, deep and even, and yours followed suit. The scent of rain and metal gave way to herbs drying by the lantern’s heat — chamomile, mint, smoke.

It wasn’t comfort, exactly. It was something quieter: the absence of fear.

When another rumble of thunder murmured across the hills, he said, “Most people would’ve run the other way.”

You smiled faintly, eyes on the lantern. “Most people aren’t used to what comes after monsters.”

He made a low sound — not laughter, but close enough to count.

Outside, the storm began to pass, its fury traded for drizzle. Inside, time seemed to loosen its grip.

You leaned back against the wall, eyelids heavy, letting the quiet take root. Beside you, Geralt rested one hand over the hilt at his hip — habit more than need — and the other lay open on the bench between you, empty, patient.

You didn’t take it. But you thought about it.

And for that night, that was enough.

all that’s left to wash away | daryl dixon

PAIRING - daryl dixon x fem!reader

SUMMARY - caked in mud, eyes hollow, refusing to wash. says it feels wrong — like moving on from the ones he lost. you don’t push; you just stay, talking him through each step, showing that cleaning up doesn’t mean forgetting. the moment is bare, human, fragile — his walls slipping down just enough for air to reach through.

WARNINGS - angst / emotional daryl / pure fluff

NOTES - i originally came up with this idea as a standalone piece, but I just felt that it follows perfectly from what’s left of home. both can be read alone, but feel free to read this as a part two 💕

[ masterlist ] | requests are open

—————————————————————————————————————————

He hadn’t said much since coming back.

Not that Daryl ever said much, but this silence was heavier—like it had weight, like it could crush him if he let it.

You’d been patching holes along the porch rail when you saw him again that morning, same clothes from when he walked through the gate, same dirt caked around his knuckles. You’d caught him looking at the bathroom more than once since then, that faraway look in his eyes—the one that meant his head was somewhere it shouldn’t be.

He stood at the edge of the room now, arms crossed, boots still on.

“You can’t sleep like that,” you said quietly, nodding toward the grime that coated his jeans, his shirt, his everything.

Daryl shrugged, eyes flicking away. “Ain’t dirty that bad.”

You set the rag down, wiping your hands on your knees before crossing to him. The smell of smoke, sweat, and rain clung to him like memory.

“It’s been weeks, Daryl.” Your voice softened. “You need to clean up.”

He shifted, jaw tightening. “Don’t feel right.”

You tilted your head. “Doesn’t feel right?”

He swallowed, eyes darting to the window. “Feels like… if I wash it off, it’s gone. Them days out there. People I—”

He stopped. The words fell apart before they reached the air.

You didn’t push. You never did. Instead, you reached for his hand—the same hand that still bore the marks of his crossbow strap, rough and warm beneath the layers of dirt. “You won’t lose ‘em,” you said. “They don’t live in the mud.”

He let out a breath through his nose, shoulders sagging. “Ain’t that easy.”

“I know.”

For a moment, the world outside didn’t exist—just the hum of the pipes, the faint creak of the floorboards under your feet. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell too fast, that constant hum of tension under his skin.

“Come on,” you murmured, tugging at his wrist. “I’ll help.”

The words barely made it past your lips, but they hung there anyway — something fragile and impossible to take back.

Daryl’s eyes flicked to yours, uncertain. He didn’t pull away, though; he never really did, not with you. You gave his hand the gentlest tug, and when he finally followed, it wasn’t obedience — it was trust, scraped thin and trembling.

The walk down the hall was quiet except for the rasp of his boots on the floorboards and the soft hiss of wind against the windows. Alexandria was still — too still — and somehow that made it harder. You kept your hand in his, steadying him like you would a wild thing that hadn’t decided if it wanted to bolt.

Inside the bathroom, the air was cool, the light from the lantern low and gold. You turned the tap until the pipes groaned to life, steam starting to gather against the mirror. The smell of iron and dirt began to lift from his clothes before the water even touched him.

He stood there, rigid and unsure, eyes tracking everything but you.

“You don’t have to,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

You met his gaze. “I know. I want to.”

He nodded once — that tiny, broken nod that said more than words could.

You stepped close enough to touch the edge of his shirt. “Can I?”

Daryl swallowed, throat struggling to form words. Then he nodded again.

The fabric peeled away slow, the sound almost deafening in the quiet room. The collar stuck where mud had dried stiff. You loosened it with damp fingers, careful not to tug. He didn’t move — just stood there and let you, muscles tight beneath your touch.

His skin was cold under your palms, streaked with dirt, the lines of old scars catching faint light. You remembered tracing some of them once, back when things were easier — or maybe just less hard.

When you reached for his belt, he caught your wrist, eyes dark with something between fear and shame.

“Hey,” you said softly. “It’s just me.”

That broke something small inside him. The hand fell away.

You undid the rest without a word, folding each piece into a pile by the door — a ritual of care, not intimacy. When you straightened, he looked smaller somehow, not weaker, just… human.

Then, quietly, you began to undress too. Not for him — for the space between you. For honesty. For the kind of closeness that came with no pretense left to hide behind.

The steam thickened, curling around your shoulders like breath. The floor was warm now, the air humming with the sound of water.

You reached for his hand again. “Come on,” you said, softer this time.

He didn’t hesitate.

You stepped into the shower together.

The first touch of water made him flinch.

You felt it — the stiff jolt in his shoulders, the sharp breath he tried to swallow. The heat was soft, forgiving, but it struck him like memory, like rain on the bridge that swallowed Rick. For a second, you thought he might step out, retreat back behind the wall you’d just coaxed him from.

But he didn’t.

You stayed still beside him, shoulder to shoulder, both of you letting the spray soak through grime and silence. The dirt began to slide away in thin, dark lines down his chest, curling at the drain like ghosts leaving.

He stood motionless, eyes closed, head tilted slightly as if listening to something far away. You didn’t speak. You knew the look — that far-off place where Daryl went when the noise in his head got too loud. You’d learned that words couldn’t always reach him there. Touch, though — touch could.

You lifted a hand, slow and careful, and brushed his arm. His skin was slick with water, cold at first but warming under your palm. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to. His breathing shifted — rough, unsteady.

“’s just water,” he muttered, voice barely audible over the hiss of the shower. “Ain’t supposed to… feel like this.”

“Like what?” you asked quietly.

He hesitated, lips parting before closing again. When he finally spoke, the words came out cracked and low.

“Like it’s washin’ somethin’ off me that… don’t come off.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to tell him it wasn’t about getting clean. It was about the chance to breathe again — to stand still long enough for something soft to touch him without breaking. But you didn’t say that. You just stepped closer, letting the water hit your back instead.

“Then we’ll just let it try,” you whispered.

He opened his eyes then, slow, like it took effort. They found yours — blue gone almost gray under the light. There was so much there: exhaustion, guilt, that quiet kind of grief that never learned how to leave.

You reached up and brushed a strand of wet hair off his forehead, thumb trailing the line of a scar you’d traced a hundred times before. His eyes fluttered shut again, but this time not to escape. This time, to feel.

The sound of the water deepened, the air heavy and humid. You could feel his heartbeat under your palm — faint, stuttering, human in its imperfection.

When he finally spoke again, it was barely more than breath.

“Didn’t think I could come back.”

You swallowed hard. “You did.”

He nodded, water dripping from his chin, tracing down the scar on his throat. For a moment, you just stood there, your foreheads touching, the world quiet except for the steady rhythm of falling water.

There was no need for more than that. Just this — the sound of something breaking loose, slowly, safely.

You reached past him for the bottle of soap, the plastic slick from steam and water. He didn’t move, just stood beneath the spray like he could disappear inside it.

“Turn around,” you murmured.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t. Then he exhaled — long, resigned — and did as you asked. The scars on his back caught the dim light, uneven and pale like old lightning. You squeezed a line of soap into your hands, rubbed them together until they foamed, and touched him with care, not pity.

The water ran cloudy around your feet as you worked — the lather darkened with dirt and blood. He stayed quiet, hands braced on the wall, muscles coiled tight beneath your fingers. You smoothed soap along his shoulders and spine, tracing each scar the way you might trace a story.

When your lips brushed one near his shoulder blade, he froze. You didn’t apologize. You kissed another, softer this time, and murmured against his skin,

“Still here. Every mark, still here.”

His breath caught, a shudder more than a sound. Then he let it out and leaned into your touch, just slightly — a tilt, a surrender.

You moved higher, working through his tangled hair, the smell of soap and smoke mixing in the humid air. When you reached to rinse him, your fingers threaded through wet strands, massaging his scalp until the last of the dirt swirled away.

He bent forward then, sudden and quiet, his head dropping against your shoulder. The movement startled you at first — not rough, not desperate, just tired. His forehead rested against the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

You stilled, one hand still in his hair, the other resting on the back of his neck. His heartbeat was slow, steady — human in a world that had tried to strip that away.

“It’s alright,” you whispered. “Just breathe.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The way his shoulders eased told you enough.

You tilted your head and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Soap and rain and the faint taste of salt from his skin. The water hummed around you, steady and endless.

When he lifted his head again, there was something clearer in his eyes — like the water had finally reached the parts he’d kept locked away.

You touched his jaw, brushing your thumb along the stubble there. “See?” you said, voice barely a murmur. “Doesn’t make you forget.”

He swallowed, throat bobbing under your fingers. “Don’t make me remember, neither.”

“Then maybe it just lets you start over.”

For the first time since he walked through that gate, Daryl Dixon smiled — small, unsure, but real.

[ daryl dixon masterlist ]

— some things you don’t bury. you just learn to walk with ‘em..

“ain’t stories, really. just things that happened, and the folks that made it matter.”

———————————————————————————

[ reader archetype ]

a human survivor who’s learned to endure quietly — practical, loyal, and compassionate beneath a hard shell. you notice the smallest details and bring stability to a world that’s falling apart..

———————————————————————————

[ fluff ]

what’s left of home: first kiss after a long silence..

all that’s left to wash away: some things are harder to rinse off..

lest we forget: remembering the fallen..

what’s left of home | daryl dixon

PAIRING — daryl dixon x fem!reader

SUMMARY — daryl returns to alexandria after being gone for years — filthy, thinner, quieter than you remember. you’ve worked hard to stop checking the gate every morning, but the moment he walks through it, you realize you never really stopped waiting.

WARNINGS — angst / romance / daryl being daryl

NOTES — while these pieces are all standalone reader inserts, i thought it would be cool to give the character a bit of an archetype. to view it, check out the masterlist 💕

[ masterlist ] | requests are open

———————————————————————————

The first time you stopped checking the gate in the mornings, you told yourself it meant you were healing.

That you’d finally stopped waiting for ghosts.

It wasn’t true, of course. Every sunrise you still looked — not openly, not like before — but in the way your breath caught when you heard boots on gravel, or when a shadow passed along the fence line. You’d trained yourself to move slower, talk quieter, pretend you weren’t still waiting for him.

So when the gate clanged open that morning, you didn’t lift your head at first. Alexandria was waking up — hammers on wood, children laughing, the usual noise of survival. You kept sorting supplies, focused on the rhythm of work. Then someone gasped. The hammering stopped. The silence that followed was too sharp, too heavy.

You turned.

Daryl stood in the opening.

For a second, your mind refused to catch up with your eyes. He looked thinner, drawn, a wild thing dragged back into the light. Dirt clung to his skin and clothes, and there was a hollowness behind his eyes you didn’t recognise. His crossbow hung from his shoulder, the strap frayed and stained.

Someone muttered his name, half in disbelief. He ignored it. His gaze scanned the street — the homes, the people — until it found you.

Your breath left your body like a punch.

You didn’t think, just moved. The world blurred into motion — your boots slapping against the dirt, your chest tight, your throat burning with questions you didn’t know how to ask. By the time you reached him, your palms were shaking.

You managed to stop yourself from lunging at him, though it was a struggle.

“Where the hell’ve you been?” you said, the words breaking halfway through.

He blinked, slow and wary. His voice was hoarse when it came. “Out.”

That was all. No explanation, no story, just out.

You stared at him. “Out,” you repeated, flatly.

He looked past you — at the houses, the gardens, the rebuilt world he’d walked away from. There was a strange detachment in his eyes, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged here anymore. Maybe he didn’t.

You wanted to say you thought he was dead. You wanted to ask if he’d found anything — if he’d found Rick. But his silence told you enough.

Your throat ached, and before you could stop yourself a second time, you reached up and touched his arm. The flinch was small, but it was there. You dropped your hand like it burned.

“You look like hell,” you murmured instead.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Feels that way.”

And then, for the first time in weeks, you saw it — not hope, not really, but the faintest pull of something in his expression. Recognition. Relief. Maybe even guilt.

You didn’t know if he’d stay this time. But as the gate shut behind him with a heavy clang, you knew one thing for certain: you’d never really stopped waiting.

He didn’t stay long once they had closed the gates.

A few nods, a grunt when Carol hugged him, and then he disappeared before anyone could ask too many questions. Typical Daryl — back from the dead and already avoiding people like he was dead himself.

———————————————————————————

Hours passed, and you watched from the steps of the infirmary, arms crossed tight, pretending to inventory medical supplies you didn’t have. His return had set off a storm inside you that you couldn’t quite settle. Relief. Anger. Guilt for both.

By the time the sun started to drop, you found yourself heading toward the small house at the edge of Alexandria — the one that used to be his. Empty for years, left half-covered in ivy and dust. You told yourself you were checking if he’d settled in, if he needed anything.

It was a lie. You just needed to see him again.

The door was unlocked. It always was.

He was inside, crouched near the cold hearth, trying to coax a flame out of damp wood. His crossbow leaned against the wall, his jacket still on. The smell hit you first — dirt, sweat, smoke, and something older, something wild.

“You planning on burning the place down?” you said softly.

He grunted, not looking up. “Tryin’ to get warm.”

You hesitated in the doorway. The house looked smaller with him in it. Quieter. “You could’ve come to dinner. Everyone was asking.”

“Didn’t feel like talkin’.”

You stepped closer. “You never do.”

That earned you a faint twitch of his mouth — not quite a smile, not quite a frown. He struck the lighter again, finally catching a small flame. The firelight painted his face in flickering orange and gold, softening the sharp edges, highlighting the exhaustion beneath.

You knelt beside him before you could think better of it. “You eat yet?”

He shook his head.

“I can bring you something.”

“Don’t need nothin’.”

You almost laughed — almost. “You’re thinner than when you left. You need everything.”

That made him look at you, really look, and the silence between you changed — heavier, thicker. The air smelled like ash and memory. You saw the apology in his eyes before he looked away again.

“Didn’t mean t’be gone so long,” he muttered finally.

Your heart jumped. “Then why didn’t you come back?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared into the fire, shoulders rigid. You waited, because that’s what you’d always done with Daryl — waited for words he didn’t know how to give.

When he finally said, “Couldn’t,” it was barely a whisper.

And for a heartbeat, you wanted to reach for him again — to make him look at you, to say you still have a home here. But you didn’t. You just sat there beside him, close enough to feel the heat from the fire and from him, both too fragile to touch.

———————————————————————————

The rain started not long after you left his house that night.

A slow, steady drizzle that turned Alexandria to mud and silver. You tried to sleep, but the sound against your window only dragged your thoughts back to him — crouched by the fire, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the wall.

You lasted maybe an hour before you gave up and went back.

The door was still unlocked. The fire had burned down to embers, the faint glow lighting the room just enough for you to see him — still awake, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, staring at nothing.

“Can’t sleep?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look up. “Didn’t mean t’keep you up neither.”

“You didn’t.” You hesitated, then stepped in, shutting the door behind you. “You always were a terrible liar.”

That earned you a flicker of something — a ghost of amusement, there and gone.

You crossed the room, grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch, and dropped it next to him. “You’ll freeze sitting there.”

He didn’t move at first. Then, slow and stiff, he took it. His fingers brushed yours — just barely — and the contact was enough to make your breath hitch.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said after a moment, voice low, almost uncertain.

“I know.” You sat down anyway.

The silence between you stretched. Outside, the rain thickened, drumming on the roof, the windows, the earth. You watched it run in rivulets down the glass, the same slow rhythm as his breathing.

“Didn’t think anyone’d notice I was gone,” he said finally.

You turned your head, surprised by the rawness in his voice. “Everyone noticed, Daryl.”

He shook his head. “Not the same.”

You leaned forward, trying to catch his eyes. “You mean me.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t look at you either. Just clenched his jaw like the words hurt.

“Of course I noticed,” you said softly. “You think I stopped checking the gate just because you stopped walking through it?”

That got him — a flicker of movement, a glance quick and sharp before he looked away again. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and you could see his hands flex against his knees, restless, uncertain.

“Didn’t think I had much reason t’come back,” he muttered.

Your heart twisted. “You always had one.”

When he finally met your gaze, it felt like the air went still. The rain faded into the background, the fire crackled low, and for once he didn’t look away.

You didn’t move first — neither of you did — but somehow the space between you vanished. His breath hit your cheek, warm and uneven, before his lips brushed yours once, soft and unsure.

It wasn’t perfect. It was hesitant, quiet — like everything else between you — but it was real.

When he pulled back, barely an inch, his voice was rough as gravel.

“Didn’t mean t’do that.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You did.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Rain pattered steady against the windows, the air between you heavy with heat and smoke and everything you hadn’t said. Then you reached for him — fingers curling in the collar of his worn shirt — and pulled him back in.

This time he didn’t hesitate.

The kiss was deeper, rougher, full of all the things that had been festering in silence — the fear, the anger, the relief. His hand came up, tentative at first, brushing your jaw before cupping the side of your neck. His thumb grazed your pulse, and you felt it jump beneath his touch.

He kissed like a man starved. Not greedy, but desperate — like he didn’t know how long he’d be allowed to have this. You didn’t either, so you matched him, pouring years of waiting into it. Every missed sunrise at the gate. Every quiet night you’d pretended not to think about him.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, his hand still softly against your neck. You could feel the tremor in him — not from fear, but something deeper.

“You shouldn’t…” he started, voice barely more than a rasp.

“Don’t tell me what I shouldn’t do,” you murmured, and he huffed a quiet sound that could’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so pained.

For a long moment, you just stayed there, foreheads pressed together, the world shrinking to the sound of the rain and the soft crackle of dying fire. It wasn’t a fairytale moment — it was raw and messy. You’d both lost too much for anything else.

Finally, you leaned back just enough to study him in the dim light. His eyes — blue, tired, but finally alive — met yours. You saw everything in them: the guilt, the confusion, the fragile thread of something like hope.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you said quietly. “Not tonight.”

He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple shifting. “Ain’t good at this.”

“I know.” You smiled — small, tired. “Neither am I.”

Outside, the rain softened to a gentle drizzle. The world was still dark, but there was a faint glow on the horizon — the promise of morning. You didn’t move when he reached out again, fingertips brushing your wrist, tracing the faint scar there like it was something holy.

Then, softer this time, he kissed you once more. No desperation now, no fire. Just warmth — a promise whispered in the space between heartbeats.

When he finally pulled back, he muttered, “Don’t go yet.”

You didn’t.

You stayed until dawn crept through the cracks in the window, painting both of you in pale light. Neither of you spoke again, but something between you had changed — fragile, maybe, but real enough to finally hold on to.

thorns-fixations

edgysunflower

Can you spare a minute to talk about our lord and savior James Buchanan Barnes?

buckysboobs

happiness looks so good on him

danahart

Shane from Stardew Valley. reblog if you agree

mimibtsghost

YOONGI WAS SEEN TODAY WEARING LGBTQ+ VANS ON HIS WAY TO MOTS POP-UP STORE!! THE SHOES HAVE THE WORD ‘LOVE’ WRITTEN IN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES AND RAINBOW COLORS.

| Cr twt Sopeworldzip

ink-and-embers

We stan an inclusive King!