Heyo! My name’s Ky (pronounced Kai) and welcome to my blog! This is a safe space for everyone, whether it is to rant or vent or to simply read comfort fanfictions with your comfort characters! I hope what I write can provide you with some comfort, if not just a distraction!
Bachelor's of Science in Biology
Reading: --------------
Currently watching: TWD
Listening to:
Currently stressing over: upcoming doctor's appointment
Latest drawing was of: ducks
Favorite color/s: red and black
Hobbies: drawing/painting, writing, singing, dancing, color guard, crocheting
Fun Fact: I have a B.S. in Biology, work as a naturalist, and teach color guard!
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
Daryl noticed you absently rubbing at your shoulder out of the corner of his eye. It wasn't the first time. "Yer shoulder botherin' ya?" he drawled.
"Huh? Oh—just a little. It's fine."
He hesitated for a moment. "I never really asked ya... what happened?"
Your hand stilled, staying frozen cupped over the round of your shoulder.
Daryl's stomach sank. "'M sorry. I shouldn'ta asked. Ya ain't gotta say."
You sighed and then glanced over at him. "It's okay. I will tell you sometime." You offered him a small, sad smile and Daryl felt his heart jump.
"Whatever it was... 'm sorry I didn't know ya then. I woulda tried to stop it," he said, ducking his head a bit bashfully.
Your smile widened. "I know you would have." You were brave enough to reach over and gently touch his arm. "You know I would've tried to do the same for you," you said.
He nodded. "Yeah." He gave you a boyish half-smile and your heart fluttered.
pairing: you x daryl dixon (established relationship)
summary: you and Daryl finally reunite at Alexandria after being separated at the prison.
warnings: didn't proofread, can't think of anything else.
This is part of my rewrites collection
word count: 1.2k
When the governor tore down the prison, you were forced to run and leave everyone behind or die trying to round up everyone who was either already dead or already running.
You waited for Daryl, you waited for his bike, but the explosions from the tank drew too many of the undead to cross your one clear path to your meeting place, and you had no choice but to abandon the man you loved.
While Rick and the others were on the road, exposed, finding one another along the way, you weren't on the road for any longer than two days when you stumbled across Aaron; when you noticed his clean-shaven face and clean clothes, you knew he was staying somewhere good.
Alexandria gave you a fresh start with new faces, and you needed it, but no matter how busy Deanna made you with odd jobs around her community, you couldn't stop thinking about Daryl. You needed to know if he made it.
Daryl couldn't stop thinking about you, and he looked for you every opportunity he got. When a walker resembled you with similar clothing or hair, he had to make sure it wasn't you, just in case. His heart would jump into his throat and pound loudly in his ears until he knew it wasn't you, and his fear fell away the moment the walker dropped lifelessly to the floor.
When he couldn't finish searching the shipping containers at Terminus, Daryl convinced himself that you were gone. That you were still in prison, trapped, or suffered a worse fate out there on your own. After losing Beth, Daryl couldn't get his hopes up anymore; he needed to mourn.
You were out of a run with Deanna's sons, Aiden and Spencer, which should've been a day's job at most, but unfortunately, when the overrun warehouse plunged into darkness, the three of you were gone for five days. Ruthlessly and strategically fighting your way out with no guns or dropping a single supply; luckily, you were experienced and driven enough to make sure the three of you would make it out alive.
Arriving back in Alexandria in the middle of the night wasn't what you wanted, but another night of sleeping in the car with two brothers who had a serious snoring problem would've killed you off for good.
"We're done for today." Aiden smiled, wiping some blood off your forehead.
You smiled back, "I think we're done for a long while after that," you managed to laugh lightly before saying good night and going back to your home, dragging your feet, feeling sore and tired.
You climbed into bed, too tired to erase the four days' worth of blood, dirt, and grime built up on your body and face, and went to sleep; little did you know Daryl was three doors away, alive and under a roof not too different from your own.
When you first walked into Alexandrea and went through Deanna's gruelling interview process, you felt reluctant to share your story with her. Still, when you were promised that Aaron would do his best to track down your people, you couldn't stop yourself from telling her everything.
"Daryl is hard to figure out at first," you smiled as you made yourself comfortable on Deanna's couch, enjoying her lit fire, "he doesn't let people in."
"He let you in, all the way it seems," Deanna responded, her gaze intense.
You nodded your head, "Yeah, but it took him a long time to trust me, we've been together since the start... we're always together, this is the longest we've been apart."
"Is he a good man?"
"Without a doubt. Daryl and that group are my family, I wouldn't be here if it weren't for them."
When you were on that run with Aiden and Spencer, Aaron lured Daryl and his group back to Alexandria. Whilst they were rightfully wary after what they went through at the prison and terminus, when Aaron name-dropped you and gave them a picture of you looking alive and happy, they agreed to go with him to this new community.
Deanna put every one of them through the same process, shoving her camcorder in their presence, asking them question after question, but it was Daryl who was the most impatient and on edge; unable to keep still.
"Where is she?!" Daryl grumbled, "Am gettin' sick of waitin!"
"She's on a supply run with my two sons," Deanna replied calmly with a smile, "she'll be back soon."
"Where is she?!" Daryl repeated, pacing around the room.
"An old warehouse, a couple of miles out, they are clearing through it and are coming back," she sighed, feeling slightly anxious at the thought of her sons not returning, "if she isn't back by tomorrow night, I'll send for others to search for her.”
When your eyes opened the next morning, you forced yourself into your shower, scrubbing away the dirt caked on your face and neck before digging the dried blood from underneath your fingernails. When massaging your scalp under the warm running water, scrubbing in the shampoo you took from the warehouse, you could hear Daryl's voice, calling out your name.
At first, you thought you were still dreaming, trapped in a nightmare or experiencing another reality similar to what life was once like, but when you finished your shower, got dressed and could still hear his voice, you knew this wasn't a dream, and you knew you weren't hearing things.
"Daryl! Daryl, stop!" Rick's voice boomed.
Your eyes widened as you ran down the stairs, your hair still damp and your feet sockless.
Daryl tried every door in the community, trying to force his way through people's homes to find you, convinced that you were being hidden from him. Rick had to grab him and use all of his strength to pull him away from the last door he hadn't opened: yours.
Your hand brushed at the doorknob and you gripped it with tears welling up in your eyes. As you pulled the door open, Daryl looked up with hope and froze for a split second in disbelief that you were standing right in front of him, without a single scratch or bruise.
Rick let go of Daryl, his arm dropping and dangling by his side.
"Is-Is that really-" Rick started almost breathlessly.
"Daryl-"
He rushed towards you and lifted you up in his arms, his face nuzzling into your neck, inhaling the scent of your soap. Your heart thumped ferociously against his, and you wrapped your arms around Daryl tightly, afraid that if you let go, he'd vanish into thin air.
"I thought-" Daryl sobbed.
"I know, I thought too," you cried, your voice wobbly.
"You've been 'ere, the whole time?" he asked, his voice gruff, reluctantly pulling away.
The rest of the group piled around outside your house, watching with wide smiles and tears in their eyes, relieved that you made it.
"The whole time," you sniffled as Daryl wiped a rolling tear away.
Daryl shook his head, "If you didn't come back, I..." his croaky voice trailed off, and you shushed him.
"It's okay now," you cooed, "it's okay."
Daryl finally put you down but still kept his hand around yours, allowing the rest of the group to come and embrace you in tight hugs, and as you scanned the group, you noticed new faces you had yet to meet, but noticed the absent faces of those you were certain had safely left the prison unharmed.
A/N: I’m loving writing for Daryl. I hope you all are enjoying my work, too! Pls, it’s so late at night and I don’t even know if the ending is even comprehensible. I’ve worked 6 days straight and I’m so tired but I wanted to write instead of sleep lol.
Setting: Pre-prison, during the winter
Warnings: fever, illness, throwing up
Georgia’s winters were harsh. Brutal winds, below-freezing temperatures, and feet upon feet of snow. Hershel’s farm had been overrun, and now your found family is left to survive like madmen. To no one’s surprise, the middle of nowhere Georgia offered very little shelter, and even less food. It was getting harder and harder to move and to survive. Then the sickness started.
Everyone had their fair share of sniffles, headaches, and near frostbite, but your symptoms progressed. You had developed a strong fever, leaving you weak and barely conscious every so often. Nausea passed through you in waves, yet often ended with strong stomach cramps from lack of substance to throw back up. Your condition had only declined, leaving the group to do nothing but find some place somewhat suitable to stay until you recovered. This led to all of you camping out under a half-collapsed barn, using the old rotted boards to maintain a persistent fire.
You were sat as close to the fire as you possibly could without the risk of catching yourself or your belongings on fire. The fire had melted away some of the snow, and Carl and Lori were kind enough to shovel snow out of the way as best they could so you could have a warmer place to lay. Your backpack served as your pillow, and an old battered winter coat as your blanket. You shivered, from the fever or the weather you were uncertain, but sweat poured down your face and into your eyes. You drifted in and out of sleep, too weak to keep yourself awake for too long. Eventually the sweat in your hair froze, leaving it stuck in clumps against the back of your neck and the sides of your face. When you were conscious, you’d watch as Daryl would come and go from the fire. Carol would ask him why he was moving so much, and he’d always say he was warming himself up, or checking for walkers, to tending to the flames.
You were drifting in and out of sleep when you felt weight drift over you, then be tucked around you. Opening your eyes, you see Daryl kneeling in front of you.
“Hey, shhh,” he said softly. Registering your surroundings, you take in the darkness enveloping you. It must be the middle of the night. “Didn’t mean ta wake ya,” Daryl continues. “Go back to sleep.”
You hum softly, then screw your eyes shut as nausea takes over. A warm hand rests on your forehead, then moving to your cheek. “‘S ok.” A moment later and the feeling is gone. When you open your eyes again Daryl looks almost… worried? You couldn’t tell.
“Daryl?” you manage quietly, your voice raspy and weak. “Mhmm, y’ doin’?”
“Checkin’ the fire.” You don’t believe him for a second.
“Mhm?” Your eyes narrow.
“Yer blanket fell. Jus’ keepin’ ya warm.” Without another word, he stands up and walks away. You go back to sleep.
Rick watches as Daryl makes his way back over you for the third time within the past hour. He was supposed to be asleep, his shift having ended hours ago but the archer couldn’t seem to sit still. From afar, Rick sees Daryl walk towards the fire, push it around, maybe add a stick or two, then look down at you. From this distance, Rick can’t read the man’s emotions, but his actions speak a thousand words. Daryl sits down beside you, so close that his thigh touches the top of your head. He leans against the side of the old barn, pulls his poncho tighter to him, then gently spreads his blanket over you. Shifting his attention, Rick looks away.
Daryl can’t sleep, no matter how hard exhaustion pulls at him. He’s too afraid that if he stops looking after you, you’ll stop breathing. You could freeze to death, or the fever could get too high. You could choke on your own vomit for Christ’s sake, and those thoughts kept him up. He knew the others were watching him, noticing how close he’d get, or how much he’d tend to you, but he didn’t care. He rested his hand on your forehead again, pushing away the half frozen damp hair from your eyes. You didn’t move. Leaning over, he could hear your raspy breathing pass through your lips. That was good enough for him.
When morning came, he checked one last time that you were still breathing before heading off to scout for supplies. The snowfall had lightened up, and Daryl began his journey. He found an old home a mile away, tucked away in the shelter of the woods. There was a fireplace, and that was enough for him. He quickly trekked back to the barn, informing the others of what he found.
You were still asleep when he returned, curled up under your blanket and his own. He knelt down beside you and placed a hand on your shoulder. “Y/N?” Anxiety took over when you didn’t react. Shaking your shoulder ever so slightly, Daryl spoke again. “Hey, Y/N. Wake up. We gotta go.” You grumbled, and he huffed a sigh of relief. Your eyes opened, but they were tired and bloodshot. You tried to sit up, however your body was too weak, and you fell forward right into Daryl's chest.
“Hey, ‘s ok. I gotcha.” he picked your backpack up off the ground and slung it over his shoulders. Tucking the blankets as much as he could around you, he scooped you up into his arms. “Yer fever’s worse.” He said it more to himself than to you. You wanted to protest and say you could walk, but even you knew it would be a complete lie. Instead, you leaned into your friend and soaked in his warmth for as long as this journey lasted.
It was a tight fit, but everyone was able to cram into the small house. A fire was started, and you were settled down in front of it, Daryl had made sure of it. Glenn and T-dog had managed to hunt a few squirrels, while Maggie, Beth, and Hershel melted ice and created soup.
You were awake now, sitting up against a small armchair tucked in the corner of the room by the fire. You still felt violently ill, but being out of the brutal wind and at the mercy of the fireplace made you feel a little better.
Beth had placed a bowl of soup on the floor in front of you. As desperate as you were to drink the warm liquid and get something in your stomach, your hands were shaking too violently to be able to hold both the bowl and the spoon. Luckily for you, however, there was a certain someone always keeping an eye on you. Instead of sitting in the comfortable recliner behind you, Daryl parked himself right beside you, his knee brushing yours he was so close.
“Ya ok?” he asked quietly, attempting to not be heard by the group and they chat quietly amongst themselves. “Y’ain’t eatin.”
You shrugged. “My hands are shaking too much.” Before you could say much more, Daryl had set aside his own bowl to pick up your own, slowly lifting the spoon to his lips to blow and cool the liquid before moving it to your mouth. And that’s how you got the stone cold archer to soften up just enough to spoon-feed you dinner.
As night began to fall yet again, and the snow began to fall harder, Hershel recommended you sleep more upright to try and help you breathe better. Of course Daryl didn’t argue. Not that you needed his permission or supervision. Regardless, he scooped you up in his arms, very careful to not jerk you around and make you nauseous. He gently laid you down in the chair, gave you a pillow, and tucked your blankets around your body. It didn’t take long for you to drift off.
While everyone slept, Daryl scoped out the rest of the small home. He quickly found a large basket tucked away in the closet of a small master bedroom overflowing with blankets. He tossed them over his shoulders and jumbled them in his arms, quietly splaying them over the sleeping survivors of the farm. He saved the softest, warmest blanket for you. Creeping over to the recliner, he made sure the blanket was tucked snugly under and around you. When he made sure you were still breathing and still asleep, he went back to scavenging. If Daryl believed in a higher power, he’d be thanking it at the sight of Nyquil and Tylenol hidden inside a bedside table drawer.
His hands were so gentle when waking you. It started as just a hand on the shoulder, then moved to the side of your face, running his thumb over your cheek every so slightly to pull you from slumber. Your head lolled to the side, then your eyes cracked open ever so slightly.
“Hey,” he grumbled softly. “Found some meds for ya.” Daryl could tell your fever had gotten worse, your breath rattling and the dazed look in your eyes. You looked out of it. Taking a few of the painkillers into the palm of his hand, he pressed them to your lips, followed by a sip of water from his canteen. Then came the liquid Nyquil. Daryl pressed the small medicine cup to your lips, but the foul medicine touched your tongue, you threw yourself over the side of the chair and threw up. Daryl leapt out of the way, shocked. How had you not woken anybody up?
Your broken sobs tore him from your thoughts, and he quickly sat on the arm of the chair. “Hey, shh, ‘s ok.” In your delirium, you leaned into his side, seeking his warmth and comfort. He spilled a few more pills into his hand, and pressed them to your mouth.
Crying, you shook your head and let out soft, “No”s as you tried to fight him.
“Please,” he begged softly. “‘S ta make ya feel better.” Between hiccups he was able to push the pills into your mouth, making sure you swallowed them before pouring more of the liquid Nyquil.
“No, Daryl,” you whined, burying your face further into his side.
“Ya have’ta.” Gently, without hurting you, Daryl quickly tilted your head back and poured the medicine into your mouth, then held it shut until you swallowed. You only cried harder. “I know, sweetheart. I know.” He unscrewed his water again, pressing the cool container to your lips for you to drink. “‘M sorry. Ain’t lettin’ you die from somethin’ stupid like a fever.”
The Nyquil quickly took effect, and you drifted back to sleep with your hands clutching Daryl’s poncho. He knew if he’d move, it’d only wake you, so he accepted his fate and made himself as comfortable as possible on the arm rest of the chair. He tucked you in as best he could, then rested his head above yours. As long as he could hear you breathe, he could sleep. It took an hour or so, he would have to guess, for the medicine to take effect, but your fever slowly reduced and your breathing became less raspy.
When Rick was the first to wake up, he could only wish for a camera to capture the sight before him. The strong, uncaring Daryl was a hair’s width away from falling off the edge of the chair you were asleep on, with you clutching him like a child with their baby blanket.
This story was not generated using AI. DO NOT use my writing in generative AI.
(Series) Summary: After escaping a Red Room sister program, you find refuge in Avengers Tower under Natasha Romanoff’s protection, trying to rebuild a life you were never meant to have. As you struggle to survive your past while adjusting to the Avengers, meeting Peter Parker forces you to confront a kind of hope you don’t trust—and can’t easily accept. Will that hope survive when the people who made you start coming after you, and everyone you now hold dear?
Warnings: Angsty! Descriptions of violence and injuries, slight descriptions of violence towards women in this part. References to past abuse and captivity, human experimentation. Slight themes of the aftermath of trauma.
This is “Chapter Zero” for this story. Peter isn’t in this part, but he will be appearing soon. This story is not going to follow canon events, AKA I am an Endgame denier. Everyone, including you, is 18+ in this story. MDNI.
The pale reflection peering back at you in the mirror is tired. Your choppy hair has grown out haphazardly, someone seems to have cut it in a hurry, without considering if the layers matched or were even. Your gaze moves to the swollen skin under your left eye, the surface shiny and bruised purple and yellow. The eye itself was stained red, capillaries burst. A huff of air escapes from your nose as you tug your old ball cap back down on your head, pulling your hoodie up and over. The bag over your shoulders makes your lungs ache; the straps pressing on sore, bruised shoulders. Gotta push on.
Just find Natasha. 
Electricity buzzes from the convenience store beyond the bathroom wall. The water bottle you grab from a cooler starts to sweat against your hand. You pay and smile politely, and make it outside. The city air reeks of sulphur, smoke, and something else you can’t quite place. The aroma is hot and heavy against your cheek. The trudge through the city begins, trying to find this stupid tower that news articles had fawned over.
After navigating the city for an hour and a half, you suddenly find yourself in front of the glowing juggernaut of architecture. Stumbling through the door, the environment around you swallows up any air you had left in your system. A few curious gazes meet your black eye before you make the unconscious decision to move to the front desk.
“Hello there, can we assist you today?” The man behind the desk tilts his head, unable to find your gaze.
“Where can I find Agent Romanoff?” leaning against the wood, you realize your legs are starting to feel like jelly beneath your tired weight. It’s getting harder to speak, and your vision begins to swim.
Almost there, we’re almost done.
“Excuse me? I couldn’t hear you.”
An exasperated sob rips itself out of your throat, “Romanoff, please, where is Natasha Romanoff?!” The panicked gaze that meets the man takes him aback; his eyes go wide when he sees the state of your face.
“Kid?”
Turning to the right, your gaze finds Natasha just as your vision goes black around the edges. “I found you, Tash,” you sense your body crumpling under itself, Natasha’s arms catching you as your vision goes black.
You wake after a few hours, eyes protesting to the bright, sterile lights overhead. Your head is throbbing before you fully wake up, taking in the room. There are some IV drips in one arm, some monitors connected to your chest. Turning the other way, you find Natasha staring from the room's corner, seated in a small chair.
“Hi Tash,” a smile forms between your lips, tears welling at the corners of your eyes.
“You scared the hell out of me, walking in here and fainting like that.” Her eyebrows raise, smiling back. “You okay, kid?” She stands and moves to the side of the bed.
“I got away,” mentally you start debating on telling her everything that had happened from the last time you had seen her until now. “For good.”
She nods, smoothing a hand over your hair, hand coming down to cup a cheek. “You’re pretty banged up, but you’re safe here. I can promise you that.”
“Can I get out of here?” sitting up slowly, you grunt as your muscles protest to the movement.
“Not yet, Doctor needs to come in to make sure they don’t need to do anything else for you, after that you should be good. Want me to grab him?”
You nod, catching her hand “Stay while they’re in here, please?”
“Of course, kid.”
The doctor comes in after a few minutes, giving you essentially a “good enough” bill of health, instructing to take it easy. You nod.
Natasha provides some clean clothes, sweatpants and a crewneck that is a size too large, before guiding you both up to the top of the tower. “Listen, you’re about to meet a lot of people, but I can tell you I trust each of them enough to know that you are safe. They won’t hurt you, okay kid?”
She slowly walks down a hall, at the end of which a few voices can be heard discussing something with each other, which you slowly realize to be you. Another nod, and Natasha continues to lead the way.
From behind her, you can safetly listen to the cacophony of voices slowly die down as Natasha appears in the doorway. She looks back over her shoulder, jerking her chin to say “come here”. A few small, careful steps, and you make your way to her side, staring down. There is a deep repressed pit in your stomach, aware of how horrible you feel, let alone look, especially in front of company. You press it down, shake your head.
None of that now, not anymore.
You lift your gaze to look up around the room, flitting from one set of eyes to the next, all of which are trained back on yours. Natasha whispers gently, “You ready?” A small, anxious smile graces your face as you whisper back, “Okay.”
Walking slightly behind her, you fix your gaze forward as Natasha introduces the group of people to you. Some are recognizable, notably Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, remembering the news clips you had seen of them on TV. Natasha nudges your side gently.
A quick “Hi,” spills out of your mouth before you can stop it, “Thank you, Mr. Stark, for having me. I’ve been looking for Natasha for a very long time.” Your gaze shifts up to his face, analyzing his reaction.
Natasha walks over to a couch amongst the group and you follow behind slowly, sitting silently beside her. The following conversation turns into background noise as your nervous system catches up to where your body physically is.
“She was also taken by the Red Room,” Natasha explains, “A sister program, technically, but it was all the same to us.” another absent nod.
“So,” a deeper voice cuts through, catching your attention, “are you also a deadly assassin like Romanoff over here, do you have some kind of hidden dagger?” looking up to meet Tony’s gaze, your eyes stop at his crossed arms for a second before meeting his eyes.
“Not exactly,” you furrow your brows, and then glance over to Steve. “They wanted us to be like you, actually.”
The room freezes. Steve’s entire demeanor changes, his jaw tightening. Tony’s smirk vanishes within a second.
“Pause,” your eyes go back to Tony. “Are you saying you have a shield shining business, or am I missing something?” Without looking over to Natasha, she rubs your shoulder, and you continue.
“The sister program that I was in was focused on replicating the super soldier serum. They couldn’t ever get it to work all the way, there was always something slightly off. So, a lot of us ended up stronger, faster… They were designing us for stealth. Tweaking the serum to make us leaner or even curvier..They thought a woman with Captain America’s strength would be unassuming.” A drop of sweat beads at your forehead as you shift in your seat.
“They wanted an army of pretty soldiers, Barbie dolls that could rip a car’s door off its hinges.”
The room still feels stagnant. Steve exhales slowly, the information that had just been revealed settling onto his shoulders as an invisible weight. His expression softens.
“But you got away,” Steve says quietly.
You hum, “I’m the only one.” and wipe a tear that has rolled down your cheek. “The other girls either went mad or didn’t survive the serum. There were few of us who weren’t severely affected. The ones that fought were…” you feel the need to stretch your neck, “disposed of.”
Natasha rubs your shoulder again, "That's enough for now, gentlemen.” She gently pulls you up, stating it had been a long day and you needed your rest. She brings you to a bedroom, hers, you realize.
“Are you okay with sleeping in my room, kid?” the air is colder in her room, just as you remembered. You follow along silently.
Your bag is already sitting in a corner of the room, shoes politely sitting next to it. “Do you have any water?” you ask, pulling at the hem of the crewneck as you walk back over to Natasha. She silently hands you a bottle.
“How’d you get away?” you don’t look at her as you contemplate her question, weighing if telling the truth is worth it.
“I ran.” She nods, and pulls back the covers for you to lay next to each other, staring at the ceiling. “Do you believe that?” You hear her shift around, before she answers.
“Not at all.”
The next morning you’re greeted by a bright light filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Natasha’s room. Her side of the bed is empty, and as you continue to look around, you spot a note with your name written on it. Natasha’s tight handwriting is found across the page as you unfold it.
Hey kid, you’re welcome to take a shower in here or wherever. I had Tony find some of Wanda’s old training clothes for you, they should fit you fine. If not, feel free to rifle through mine, we’ll get you some of your own eventually. Breakfast should be happening in the kitchen, come on down when you’re ready.
You spot the clothes Natasha had mentioned, some tight fit t-shirts and leggings folded nicely on a chair sat next to the dresser. The sound of a hot shower sounds great, and you decided to do exactly as Natasha had recommended before making your way down the hall, where you hear more jovial conversation occurring.
The moment you walk in the room, the conversation dampens. You swallow once. “What, the beat-up kid walks in and no one can laugh anymore?” Tony snorts before ushering you to come over to him.
“Alright Karate Kid, this is everyone,” Tony gestures around, “Everyone, this is Karate Kid.” A few smiles are on the faces around you and polite wave from the only other woman you’ve seen thus far. “So listen, if you’re going to crash with us, you’re gonna have to pull your own weight, capeesh?” You nod before looking around for Natasha, realizing she isn’t here.
“What do you need me to do first? Clean or cook or what?” A confused look crosses Tony’s face before he shakes his head.
“The first thing you can do is eat, and then go and meet up with Natasha for some training.” Now you’re the confused one. Tony smirks. “Natasha told me what you’re capable of. Don’t worry, she left out all the nitty-gritty, just get some fuel in you before training. Welcome to Avengers Tower, kid.”
Daryl thinking of or someone mentioning how they never would’ve met before the apocalypse and it just breaks him that he wouldn’t have had reader?
A Life Without You - Daryl Dixon
A/N: Thank you so much for sending in this request! I’m really enjoying writing for Daryl and you all have been so helpful in helping me get back into writing. I hope this turned out ok!
“Daryl?” Your voice breaks the silence that’s been hanging over you since you left Alexandria to go on a run with your boyfriend.
“Hm?” The tracker glances your way, continuing to tiptoe across the forest floor.
“Do you ever think about what life would be like? You know, if this never happened?”
“I try not to,” he admits. “Do you?”
You shrug, kicking and smushing an anthill in your path. “Sometimes.”
“What do you think about?”
“My family.” Daryl stops and stares, knowing this is a sensitive topic for you. You ignore taking the topic further, instead listing other things you think about. “Us. Like, what are the chances we would have ever met?”
“Very slim.” He takes a step closer to you.
“I know. And that makes me sad. You mean so much to me, and it hurts knowing that if things were different, I would never have you.” You finally meet Daryl’s gaze. “What do you think about it? When you do?”
His eyes are soft, maybe even sad. It’s always hard to tell with him. “The same thing. How I’d never have you.” You reach over, taking his arm and hugging it close to you as he keeps speaking. “I’d be with Merle still, prolly, gettin’ inta trouble.” He takes a long moment to pause, his eyes raising towards the sky as he begins walking again, you right next to him. “Wouldn’t have ya. Then I stop thinkin’, cause it’s hard to imagine a life without ya in it.” He pulls his arm out of your grasp to squeeze your hand. “It’d break me. Now I ain’t saying the end of the world is a good thing, but it gave me you, and that’s what’s important to me.”
You smiled, tears brimming your eyes. “I agree.”
Shaking off his emotions, Daryl scoffs and raises the hand that wasn’t holding your to wipe the tears from your eyes. “Stop yer cryin’. We got food to find.”
A/N: Hello everybody! This is my first time writing in quite a while, as well as my first ever TWD fic! I’ve been wanting to write for Daryl for so long that I’ve made it almost halfway through season 10 as I’m writing this. Please don’t be too harsh, I’m trying to write again. Thank you @lilak-at for the suggestion! <3
Setting: Negan/Alexandria time
Ask: Ooo I love me a Daryl Dixon Story! Maybe something about saving the reader from the governor? Or Negan? I’m only familiar with the first few seasons of TWD but I love reading the stories people make.
Warnings: near SA, read with caution, throwing up
There wasn’t any sunlight, hadn't seen it in days. Maybe even weeks, you weren’t sure. There wasn’t any artificial light, either. Just the small sliver of light under the door. Your eyes ached from straining to see in the dark. There wasn’t much to see, to be fair, but when your food was dropped off once or twice a day it was hard to eat. Not that you had much of an appetite. One song blared on repeat until your head throbbed so much it made you physically sick, unable to stomach the food left for you.
You were cold, numb, and barely conscious. They had taken your clothes, leaving you exposed and embarrassed. Your only cover was yourself, curled up in the far corner of the small closet-sized room you had been locked in. You couldn't even cry anymore, too dehydrated to produce tears. You had no sense of time, or even a sense of self really, as you laid there motionless. You hated every second of this. You wished nothing more than for someone to come save you.
The song repeating loudly quickly faded to silence, and then there were footsteps. The small streak of light under the door became shadowed as a key turned the lock. Bright light flooded your senses as the door opened and a Savior stepped into the small room.
“Well, well, well.” His smile was fake, oh so fake. It took a second for your eyes to adjust to the light. Your head was throbbing so loud it was hard to hear. “There’s so much room in here, why don’t you stretch out a little?” You only hugged your knees tighter. “I said,” he dragged out with slight anger. “Stretch out.” At the sight of you not moving, the Savior kicked your feet, causing your legs to collapse and expose yourself. You scrambled to bring them back to you, but the man was faster, kneeling on the ground and holding your legs down by your ankles.
You tried to kick him off, fighting against his grip to no avail. You were weak, and couldn’t defend yourself. You could only watch in horror as the Savior smirked, knowing he was about to get his way. You were reduced to tears and whimpers and begging, your voice mumbled and nonexistent.
It was hard for you to remember what happened next. You were consumed with fear, blurry vision from the throbbing migraine and bright light. But what you could remember was the man slowly moving further up your body, and just before he could really touch you, he was dead. You weren’t sure how, it was such a blur. But his body was laying motionless beside you. There was a faint memory of someone else standing in the doorway. Then, there were hands on your shoulders, then your face, then your hair. They were everywhere. You tried to scream, to hide away, but a hand clamped over your mouth.
“Shh, Y/N, ‘s me.” You tried to fight back. “Stop, please, Y/N, hey…” The hand not on your mouth gripped the side of your face to make you really take a look at the figure in front of you. “See? ‘S me. Daryl.” You stopped screaming, just whimpered as you realized the state you were in. It seemed as though Daryl did too, taking a quick glance over you whilst still trying to be respectful. “God…” your hearing faded out. “...’m here now, ya’ here? ‘S ok now.”
You don’t remember anything past that. Your head was fuzzy, pain still lingering deep down. It hurt to move, you felt weak and ill. You remember dazing in and out of consciousness, trying to take in your surroundings but failing. It took several attempts for you to finally open your eyes, feeling a damp cloth dab at your face.
Panicked, you tried to sit up. The pain in your head intensified, sending you back to where you were laying. A wave of nausea rose in your chest, and vomit spilled down your chin as you heaved.
“Woah, woah.” A bowl was quick to appear in front of you, and your matted hair was pulled away from your face. “I gotcha,” a voice muttered softly. “Yer ok, promise.” You sucked in a quick shallow gasp, falling onto your side. The wet cloth from earlier gently wiped at your mouth, cleaning you up. Tears streamed down your temples as you kept shaking your head, taking in sharp breaths and releasing them quickly.
“Hey.” through blurry eyes you could see Daryl sitting beside you. “Ya need ta calm down. Workin’ yerself up too much.”
You reached out to him. Through sobs and straggled breaths, you managed a weak “Daryl?”
Taking your hand, Daryl gave it a slight squeeze. “‘S me. Yer safe.” You tried to look around the room but your vision was spinning. “Shh, take a deep breath,” he started. “Yer gonna make yaself sick again.”
“Help,” you muttered. Daryl was quick to move from his stool to sit on the side of your bed.
“‘M right here.” The hand not holding yours brushed hair from your face. “‘S ok.” He then pushed against your chest a little to provide some sort of comfort. It took several moments for your breathing to slow. “Thas it,” he soothed. “Jus like tha’.”
“Where-?” you tried to speak.
“Alexandria. Home, our home. Yer in yer bed.”
“What happened?” If you knew any better, you’d think Daryl’s eyes didn’t soften just the slightest bit, or look at you with pity. “Did you find me?”
“I did.” Memories began coming back, bit by bit. Looking down at yourself, you were drowning in Daryl’s t-shirt, and that’s when you noticed his bare arms through his sleeveless jacket. “Don worry,” Daryl started quickly. “I stopped him before he could do anything.”
“How…”
“Don’t worry about tha now.” He brushed your matted hair away from your eyes again. “All tha matters is yer safe, ya hear?”
“Stay?”
A huff passed through his lips. He shook his head once, muttering a soft, “yeah,” as he settled back into the stool beside you. He tossed the now soiled rag to the floor and picked up a new one, soaking it in a bowl of water before dabbing at your wounds again. “Jus’ rest, ya? Lemme take care of ya.”
I really want to start writing again, and I wanna start with some down bad daryl dixon comfort. Anyone have any ideas? Like im talking make me wanna cry it's so comforting lol
Summary: Since you came back from Woodbury, you've been skittish and avoiding men- especially Daryl- like the plague.
Daryl Dixon x F!Reader, 1.1k words
Era: Prison (post-Glenn and Maggie in Woodbury)
⚠️TW FOR SA. ⚠️TW FOR SA. ⚠️TW FOR SA. ⚠️
It's discussion of the aftermath and not active SA, but it is discussion of the reader being raped/SAed. Feelings of guilt and shame from the assault, mentions of isolation, fear of men, and suicidal ideation. This is not a light read. Author is.... working through some things, to say the least.
I'm, against my best judgement, engaging in this bastardized version of Russian Roulette Febuwhump/Kinktober for March that I'm affectionately calling Trinket's Cause of Death. It's basically 50/50 whump/kink where I generate a number corresponding to a prompt.
Day 11: Sexual Assault with Daryl (whump)
When you, Maggie, and Glenn came back from Woodbury after Merle forced you there, something was different. Glenn was beat to hell, Maggie was angry, and you… you were skittish. Quiet.
Glenn has barely spoken to Daryl, Merle having driven a wedge between them right when it was starting to feel like Daryl was finally fitting in. You were a close friend. Rick trusted him with Little Asskicker and important situations around the prison. He was actually listened to and his opinion valued… until he brought Merle back with him.
Most if not all of the progress made between the youngest Dixon and everyone else was out the window, but nothing bothered him more than the way you suddenly avoided him like the plague. Skittering away any time he got even close or called your name. All of the men, actually.
If one of the men enters a room you’re in, you find the quickest reason to leave. You won’t eat meals with the whole group, either eating in your cell or secluding yourself away in a corner, back to a wall and eyes on an exit strategy.
Contrary to recently renewed belief, Daryl Dixon is anything but stupid. He recognizes these patterns and between you and Maggie… he doesn’t like the picture being painted.
So he takes the Daryl way of handling things and comes to your cell when the fewest people are in the prison, sleeping in their cells or on guard or doing god-knows-what elsewhere. He convinces himself that his heart doesn’t ache when he watches you startle, scared by the male silhouette in your doorway. You don’t relax when you meet his eyes and that is nearly as devastating as the change to your cell.
Gone are your belongings spread across the cell in a cheery attempt to make it look more as a bedroom. Your mattress has been dragged from your bed, shoved into the small nook between the wall and the head of the bunks. Your backpack, your boots, and your other belongings form a wall around the foot of the mattress, effectively blocking you in.
It’s not a bedroom anymore, it’s the equivalent of an animal trying to protect themselves in their den and he tries to ignore the faint crack of his heart breaking.
“What are y’doin’ in there?” His voice comes out gruff but attempting to be… what, conversational? He knows what he’s here to ask and it’s not about the weather outside. “Mattress goes on the bed.”
Normally that would’ve earned him a huff and a sarcastic comment dripping with easy wit, but all he gets is those scared eyes looking at him like he’s the big bad wolf. Like he’ll eat you whole.
“Just me,” Daryl softens his voice as much as he can and steps into the cell, slowly and making minimal noise. He ignores the way you flinch, stopping outside of arm’s reach, a trick he learned as a kid, and eases to sit in a mimic of your own posture. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”
The way you look at him screams that no, you don’t know that, so Daryl does something very rare and completely disarms himself. Not a knife, not a bolt, nothing on him other than his clothes, and he passes the weapons over to you. “Body’s tellin’ you I’m a threat. I ain’t a threat to you an’ you know it.”
A small sniffle as you grab his weapons and pull them into your makeshift nest. “Feels like a threat,” You mumble softly and wipe at your eyes. “Everyone does.”
He takes a moment to think about that before shaking his head. “Nah. Not everyone.” You know what he’s getting at and he knows you know, but you seem determined to be stubborn. That’s okay- he’s even more stubborn and a bastard to boot. “Y’get raped?”
The freezing of each and every atom in your body and the shift in the air tells him all he needs to know. You make some strangled attempt to protest, to deny the claim out of shame or fear or guilt, but he simply nods and holds eye contact. “Was it Merle?” His brother is a misogynistic, racist, homophobic piece of shit, but he’s never gone so far as to sexually assault someone- not to Daryl’s knowledge, at least.
If he finds out Merle laid even a finger on you, he’ll skin him alive himself and let you feed the walkers with the pieces. He’ll kill him if he hurt you, if he violated you in the worst possible way someone could be hurt.
“No,” you whisper softly with a shake of your head. He can’t deny the relief he feels that his brother had nothing to do with it, but that doesn’t ease the anger and concern for you.
“Governor?” Daryl lists the second name and there you go, freezing again and avoiding eye contact. Nail on the head. “Look…”
Daryl scoots closer on the floor until his boots are close enough to brush the blanket in your lap if you shift. Close but not too close. He’s an observant person. Everybody in the prison knows how much you thrive on touch, on physical closeness. It’d practically your lifeblood and as far as he knows, you’ve gone over a week without it. He’s extending an olive branch.
“Ain’t gonna make you talk,” He promises once you relax some, body realizing that if he was going to hurt you, he would’ve done it already. “Ain’t gonna make you pretend t’be alright. That’s bullshit, you’re the furthest thing from alright.”
It’s over 10 minutes of silence before the words slowly start to spill from your lips, a slow trickle at first before pouring out in a waterfall. How Merle got the drop on you. Being dragged into a room by myself. Having to listen to Maggie and Glenn scream while not knowing what’s happening, if they’re okay.
How the Governor tried to play good cop before forcing you to undress, making you bend over the cold table.
You’re sobbing in Daryl’s lap, face buried into his neck by the time you admit aloud just what the Governor did to you. The extent he forced you to take, the pain and the shame and the need to get away from everybody your brain deems a threat, which is everyone.
He lets you sob and wail, lets you grieve and work through your emotions silently. He knows you need someone to listen to you, not to pacify you. You need the physical comfort you’ve been lacking and the sensation of being safe. Daryl would kill a hundred men to keep you safe. To take this experience away from you, to take it for you.
And god help the Governor if Daryl ever, ever sees him again.
summary: things get heated, your brain flips, and you use the safe word you and daryl picked on a quiet night on the wall. he doesn’t pull away—he just listens, slows down, and holds you through the comedown.
warnings: emotional intimacy, implied sexual content (non‑explicit), anxiety/overstimulation, safe word use (“starlight”), past trauma implied, reassurance and grounding, light swearing.
-----------------------------------------The lights in Alexandria were out again.
Someone said it was the grid, someone else blamed a blown fuse, but you didn’t really care. The dark made the room feel smaller, safer, lit only by a couple of candles you’d shoved onto the dresser. Outside, you could hear a few distant voices on the street and the faint creak of the wall. Inside, it was just you and Daryl.
He sat on the edge of your bed at first, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to take up space there. Vest off, hair a little messy, hands twisting together in his lap. That alone tugged at your chest—Daryl Dixon, deadliest man you knew, nervous in a dim little bedroom because of you.
“You don’t gotta look so tense,” you teased gently, nudging his knee with yours. “I’m not gonna bite.”
He snorted, eyes flicking to you with the quickest of smirks. “Yeah, well. Can’t say the same ‘bout you a few days ago. You nearly took my head off for stealin’ your coffee.”
You rolled your eyes. “That was justified.”
The small talk calmed you both. Eventually his hand found its way to yours, fingers brushing your knuckles, rough skin dragging over softer. When you didn’t pull away, he laced your fingers together, looking down at the way your hands fit like he was memorizing it.
“Still sure ‘bout this?” he asked, voice low, accent thicker in the quiet. “Ain’t in no hurry if you ain’t.”
You nodded, heart skipping. “I’m sure, Daryl.”
He swallowed, nodded once, then leaned in.
The first kiss was soft—softer than you expected from a man who spent most of his days covered in mud and blood. He tasted like cigarette smoke, his hands moving up to cradle your jaw with surprising care. He kissed you like he was trying not to scare you off.
You leaned closer, fingers sliding up into his hair. He made a sound low in his throat, almost surprised, and the kiss deepened. Slowly, carefully, he let the tension bleed out of his shoulders.
Minutes passed like that—slow kisses, quiet breaths, both of you finding your rhythm. When he shifted to guide you back onto the bed, he paused halfway, eyes checking in.
“Still good?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still green.”
He huffed a little laugh at the word, remembering the conversation. “Alright then.”
You lay back, and he followed, bracing one arm beside your head so his weight didn’t crush you. His other hand roamed—over your ribs, your waist, the curve of your hip—always broad, always warm, but never grabbing. Each touch gave you time to feel it, recognize it, decide if you wanted more.
You did.
He kissed down your neck, slow and reverent, drawing out a shiver. “You’re shakin’,” he murmured against your skin. “Cold?”
“Not cold,” you admitted, cheeks burning.
“Good.” There was a smile in his voice now. “’Cause I ain’t bringin’ no damn blanket.”
You laughed, and the sound loosened something in him. His mouth wandered, his hand slipping under your shirt to rest flat against your stomach. His thumb traced mindless shapes there, the touch sending little sparks through your nerves, but nothing overwhelming yet.
Time blurred.
He explored in inches, not miles—up your spine, down your side, pausing every so often to ask, “Here okay?” or “This alright?” Each time, you answered yes. Each time, you meant it. The slow build made you feel safe, anchored, wanted.
You almost forgot there was a world outside that room.
Eventually, though, the heat crept higher. The kisses grew a little hungrier, his breathing rougher against your cheek. His leg slid between yours as he shifted his weight, pressing you more firmly into the mattress.
At first, the pressure felt good—solid, grounding. You curled your hands into his shirt, pulling him closer, chasing the warmth of him. He went willingly, a soft curse caught in his throat.
“Damn,” he rasped, nose brushing your jaw. “You’re gonna kill me, girl.”
You smiled, dizzy in a good way. “You’re the one on top of me.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and fond. “Lucky me.”
He trailed kisses down to your collarbone, his hand sliding higher under your shirt, fingers splaying over your ribs. The sensation made your breath hitch—but still okay. Still wanted.
Then his grip tightened without meaning to, his fingers pressing into old bruises and old memories. The combination—his weight, the trapped feeling, the way your lungs suddenly felt too small—sent a flicker of static through your brain.
It wasn’t a hard shift. It wasn’t a violent snap. It was more like the volume in your head turning up one notch too far.
Your chest started to feel tight.
You tried to focus on him—the warmth of his breath, the familiar scent of sweat and leather and smoke. But your heart was beating too fast now, and your body was sending mixed signals. Half of you was still here, wanting him; the other half was somewhere else, pinned down by hands that didn’t listen, years ago.
“Daryl,” you tried, voice thin. He hummed against your skin, not quite catching it.
The pressure didn’t increase, but your awareness of it did. His forearm bracketed your head, his thigh between yours, hand spread under your ribs. You could move if you needed to—you knew that—but your body didn’t fully believe it.
The air felt thicker. Thoughts started jumbling.
You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowed, and reached for the one thing that cut through it: the word you’d chosen together, sitting on the wall with his boots kicked up and his eyes on the trees.
“If you ever say it,” he’d told you, “I ain’t gonna argue. I ain’t gonna sulk. We just… stop. Reset. That’s it. No shame, no nothin’. Just means we listen.”
Now, you listened to that promise.
“Starlight,” you said, clearer this time. “Starlight.”
Everything slowed, like someone eased off the gas instead of slamming the brakes.
He stopped moving immediately. His hand went still, his mouth lifting from your skin. He didn’t vault away or make a scene; he just shifted his weight off your chest, moving his knee so you had more room.
“A’right,” he said quietly, breathing hard but steady. “Okay. We’re pausn’. You good to sit up? Or want me to roll off first?”
The calm in his voice grounded you more than anything else.
“Roll off?” you managed.
“Gotcha.”
He eased himself to the side, careful and deliberate, leaving one hand resting light on your forearm—there but not heavy. Once he was on his back beside you, he tilted his head, watching you with those searching eyes.
You drew in a few deeper breaths, feeling the room widen out again. The ceiling came back into focus. Your heart started to slow.
“There she is,” he murmured, a little relief coloring his tone. “Talk to me. Head too loud?”
You nodded, wiping at your face before you even realized you’d gotten teary. “It was good and then it just… flipped. Didn’t wanna ruin it.”
He shook his head faintly. “You didn’t ruin nothin’.” The drawl wrapped around the words, warm and sure. “You said starlight. I stop. That’s how this works.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You make it sound easy.”
“Ain’t easy,” he said. “But it *is* simple.” He tapped the mattress between you. “This is the deal: you listen to your head and your gut; I listen to you. If that means we stop, we stop. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you. Doesn’t mean I’m mad. Just means we’re smart.”
You turned your head toward him, searching his face for any hint of frustration. All you found was concern and a gentleness he probably didn’t even know he was showing.
“You okay?” he asked. “Like… do you need space, or you want me closer?”
“Closer,” you said immediately, surprising yourself.
His mouth twitched into a tiny smirk. “Yeah? Thought so.” He scooted just enough that your shoulders touched, then slowly—very slowly—lifted his arm in silent invitation. “You wanna…?”
You moved into him before he finished, tucking yourself against his side, head on his chest. His arm came around you, resting easy at your back. No pressure. Just warmth and steady weight.
Your fingers curled into his shirt, feeling his heart still thumping fast under your ear. “You’re still… um,” you said, flushing even in the dark.
“Worked up?” he supplied, a low chuckle rumbling under your cheek. “Yeah. Ain’t gonna lie. But that’s my problem, not yours. I can walk it off. Or think ‘bout Merle singin’—that usually kills the mood.”
You snorted, the mental image ridiculous enough to break the last of the tension. “That’s evil.”
“Effective, though,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “Point is, you ain’t gotta carry that. You ain’t responsible for every feelin’ flyin’ ‘round my dumb ass.”
You relaxed fully then, the guilt easing out of your muscles. “I’m glad we have starlight,” you admitted quietly. “I’m glad you… meant it.”
He pressed his chin lightly against the top of your head. “’Course I meant it,” he muttered. “Ain’t say things I don’t mean. ‘Specially not to you.”
The room settled into a softer silence. His thumb started tracing lazy circles where his hand rested at your side—a comforting touch, nothing more.
After a while, he asked, “You think maybe, sometime, we try again? Slower, or different. Only if you want.”
“Yeah,” you said, surprising yourself with how sure it sounded. “I do. I just… might need starlight now and then.”
“That’s what it’s there for,” he replied. “Hell, I might use it one day. You get me all twisted up, I might need a breather, too.”
You smiled against his chest. “Deal.”
His breathing evened out, syncing with yours. The candles burned lower, shadows crawling across the ceiling. Outside, the world was still harsh and unforgiving. Inside, wrapped in Daryl’s arms with your safe word honored and your voice heard, everything felt… survivable.
You didn’t feel guilty for saying it.
You felt trusted.
And in this world, that kind of safety was rarer than anything.
Could you possibly do a Daryl Dixon orrr Scud x reader seeing readers SH scars for the very first time? Chill if not but I saw your other post pertaining to SH and thought I'd ask!
AH SO THIS IS FROM A WHILE AGO IM SO SORRY BUT ITS FINALLY HERE!! if you guys want a scud version lmk! also this is my first time doing gender neutral reader so pls lmk if I messed up somewhere so i can correct it <3
I Saw Them, Y'know - Daryl Dixon x GN!Reader
Warnings: mentions of past SH, kinda angsty, Daryl talks about his child abuse, you get upset, hurt/comfort, not proofread
Wordcount: 992
Authors Note: if youre struggling, please get help. Youre not alone!!
You and Daryl were sitting down across from each other, staring into the flames of the fire that separated you. You had been apart from the group for a while, but Daryl wouldn’t let you panic. Everytime you began to freak out and overthink, he’d snap you out of it. “We’re getting back to them, remember? I promised ya that and I don’ break my god damned promises” is what he would say. It honestly did make you feel better.
You were fidgeting with your sleeve anxiously out of habit, not really thinking about it. It was silent besides the nightly sounds of nature, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You watched Daryl carve into a stick, making some sort of shank it looked like. You didn’t realise he was staring at you until he snapped his fingers in front of your face. You jumped a little and smiled sheepishly out of embarrassment.
“Damn, uh, sorry. Zoned out, I guess.”
Daryl grunted, shaking his head. “Tha’ all ya ever do?” He stabbed his knife into the ground and reached into his backpack, tossing you a can of beans. After quietly thanking him, you grab your own multitool and tore the lid of the can open and then dig into it with a spoon. You consistently glanced up at him, and he stared back.
“You not gonna eat?” You ask after finishing the can.
Daryl just shook his head and scratched his goatee. “Nah. Already ate earlier.”
You narrowed your eyes, not fully believing him but knowing it would be a lost cause. So instead, you just nodded and looked back down at the fire. Your hand had snuck up into your sleeve unconsciously, feeling the bumps and lines along your skin. They were fully healed now, since they were from your teen years, but they still haunted you to this day.
You didn’t notice Daryl watching you carefully. His eyes were softer than usual, not as rough or tense. It actually felt kinda peaceful at the moment. But it changed when he noticed you rubbing your arm, causing his chest to tighten and frown. He had seen your scars before, recognizing them for what they were. He had never said anything about it, not wanting it to become awkward.
“Yer gonna rub your arm off if ya keep tha’ up.” Daryl said. You tensed and chuckled, pulling your hand from your sleeve.
“Yeah, just habit I guess..”
Daryl watched you carefully for a moment, debating on if he should bring it up. After a few silent, tense minutes, he made up his mind. “Y’know, I’ve, uh.. Seen em’ before.” He mumbled, looking down. He began to stab his knife back into the ground, needing to do something with his hands so he didn't feel perplexed.
You went rigid, not expecting him to say that. You racked your brain to think of what he might be referring to, but you had an idea. “Seen what?” You asked, not looking up at him.
“Mm… y’know. The scars, uh, on ya wrists.”
You went red, feeling ashamed. You kept your head ducked and stayed silent, not knowing what to say.
Daryl watched you carefully, starting to feel guilty for bringing them up but he wouldn’t admit to that. He chewed his lip, poking at the fire with his stick. “Mm.. I, uh, got mah own scars.” He mumbled. “Not from tha’, but… still scars. I’mma ashamed of them too.”
You finally look up at him, your eyes brimming with tears. “Y-you do?”
Daryl hummed, not making eye contact. “Mhm.”
You nodded a little, watching his hands move the stick into the flames. “How.. How did you get them then?”
“My pa wasn’t a good man.” Daryl grumbled, his muscles tensing even thinking about it. “Would constantly come home drunk, or with prostitutes. If me or Merle were in tha’ way, or aggravated him at all..” He trailed off and cleared his throat. “Didn’t grow up with the white picket fence life, I guess.”
You inclined your head. “I’m sorry.. That sounds horrible.”
He just grunted. “It's whatever. Long time ago.” He made eye contact with you. “Ain’t wanting pity or nuthin. Just wanted... I dunno. Dunno how to comfort people.”
Your eyes softened. “Thank you, Daryl. I… It was a while ago I did it, but it still haunts me y’know?”
Daryl listened and watched you as you began to tell him about how you came around to start doing it, and how it had caused so much stress and tension on your life all these years. He did not interrupt, not once, just listened. It was nice to finally be able to just talk, not having to worry about him going off to spout your secrets to anyone else or his judgement. You knew he wasn’t like that. As much as he could be scary, you trusted him.
By the end of your rant, you had tears streaming down your face. You were hiccupping, wiping away the aftermath. “Sorry, just.. A lot.” You chuckled weakly. “You must think I’m a mess.”
Daryl stayed silent, but slowly stood. You watched him as he walked over to the log you were leaning against and he sat down beside you. He didn’t look at you or speak a word as he snaked an arm around your shoulders. Your eyes were wide, not expecting such comfort from this usually cold, stoic man. Your eyes quickly welled again and you rested your head against his shoulder. “Thank you.” You whisper, voice weak. You felt your body melt against his own warm one, his body heat soaking into your clothes.
Daryl grunted. “Just get some sleep, alrigh’?”
You nodded, feeling your eyes already droop from the emotional outburst and the exhaustion of running all day. Even though these marks on your body were permanent, so was this growing care for the man. Everything would be okay. You and Daryl would be okay.
