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!
Katsuki Bakugo, who cares for his anxious partner in his own way.
A/N: This is a little based off me, as someone who suffers with anxiety more so specially gad! i wanted to write how bakugo would be like with a partner who has it!! This is based off my own experience with gad, and does NOT represent everyone! everyone has their own experience! this may or may not be ooc, its been awhile since i last wrote so bare with me!! if anyone wrote smth similar lmk!! Id love to see ^o^
Content Warning: GN! reader, Sfw, fluff, comfort, anxiety, anxiety attack, reader has implied anxiety disorder
Katsuki Bakugo who silently grabs your hand under the table during lunch when he notices that nervous lip bite, and that small but repetitive leg bounce. He gives your hand a few squeezes for reassurance, all while paying attention to the others talk, but still seemingly having his observant attention on you every so often.
Katsuki Bakugo who notices as you suddenly hesitate whenever a message comes in, or whenever someone calls out your name. who notices the over caution as you try to write a message. Constantly rewriting a text, worried that you'll say something that could cause harm without realizing.
Katsuki Bakugo who notices the small turmoil building up inside of you as you stand beside your shared group of classmates. Who notices the labored breathing, the small shake in your hands, and the nervous tics of playing with a stray hair or even messing around whatever you held. Who takes out a cold bottled water from earlier, which he then presses to your arm as a way to bring you back. To ground you back into reality away from the wavering worries that cloud your mind. Who then silently stares in a way of asking "are you okay?" without having to say it. Who allows you to grip onto his uniform sleeve as a way to put you back in that moment.
Katsuki Bakugo who occasionally wears a bracelet in order for you to fidget with whenever out in public. Specifically a bracelet you had made, with the colors of his hero costume and yours. Along with a threaded bracelet that matched yours, one you both had gotten from a festival at that time.
Katsuki Bakugo who notices your presence missing from the common room. Who goes out to your dorm room only to see you hiding in a corner as you held onto your chest in anxiety. Who notices the flinch whenever you hear a noise or even the ceiling fan move. In which he goes to you slowly before muttering a small "hey". Who proceeds to sit next to you before wrapping an arm around you as you slowly break into the comfort of his warmth. Who notices the tension leaving your shoulders as you let tears fall from the constant worry that follows for no reason. Who ushers small words of comfort in his own way, who talks about stuff the others had done earlier as a way to pull you away from the overbearing thoughts.
Katsuki Bakugo who stays until you fall asleep, seeing the stress and tension leaving your body. He then carries you over onto your plush mattress not wanting for you to get uncomfortable in an odd position especially after an emotional draining day.
Katsuki Bakugo who always notices when you get that weird heavy feeling in your chest like if it was a sixth sense. who feels when you tap on the back of his palm as an unspoken signal for comfort.
Katsuki Bakugo who sometimes practices breathing exercises with you. Despite having a temper like his where his first thought is to act rather then think. But for you, he would try as long as you felt that heavy burden go away.
a/n: this might be ooc...but i tried....lmk how i did...again this was based off how anxiety comes to me and not everyone relates to how i feel it but tbf i lwk am super anxious jst trying to post this lol!! i do feel like there’s more I could’ve added but my brain was lwk not thinking enough, but i hope someone can relate to this in the way i do!! 💗
“Mmm come back here baby girl” Daryl grumbles as he sleepily pulls you back against him when he sleepily realizes in the middle of the night that you’ve slipped away slightly while sleeping. He then nuzzles the crook of your shoulder and places a soft kiss there before sighing and going back to sleep.
A/N: Enjoy this piece I wrote a few days ago. I'm going on vacation and have like a 15 hour car ride so send me all your ideas pls
Warning/s: panic attack
Setting: Pre-Negan Alexandria
Daryl’s learned how to quickly observe a space before he fully enters it. That’s part of what years of survival teach you. That’s how he knew something was wrong before he even walked through the front door to his home. The house was quiet. Too quiet for someone who usually greeted him when he came home. You always call out to him. Ask how the run went. Complaining about something at the very least.
Instead, there was nothing.
“Y/N?”
No answer.
Daryl’s stomach immediately dropped. You were supposed to be home, that’s where you said you would be. It was too late in the day for you to be anywhere else. Setting his crossbow down, Daryl begins looking for you. He starts with the kitchen. Maybe you were making something to eat? Except it was empty. Then he moves to the living room, hoping to see you napping on the couch. It was empty, too. Just as he was about to turn and bolt up the stairs, he caught a glimpse of you.
You’re not on the couch, but curled up on the floor beside it, tucked away between it and the armchair. Your arms are wrapped around your knees, keeping them pulled tightly against your chest, and you’re trembling so hard it rattled the side table behind you. Your breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps, as if you can’t seem to catch your breath. Your eyes are open, but glossed over as if you weren’t really seeing anything.
“Y/N?”
Daryl dropped to his knees beside you.
Nothing. No reaction. Not even a quick look at his direction. Your gaze remains fixed somewhere beyond him, far away, lost. Daryl’s heart starts pounding.
“Sweetheart?” Still nothing.
Your hands are hugging your knees so tightly that your knuckles are white. You’re still trembling hard enough that Daryl could practically feel it through the hardwood floor. It’s then that the archer realizes what is going on. You’re having a panic attack, and by the looks of it, one of the worst ones you’ve had in a while.
“Hey.” He slowly moved into your line of sight, trying to catch your gaze. “Look at me.” Your eyes don’t move. It’s almost as if you can’t even hear him, not really. The panic was too loud. Everything around you was drowned out.
The room.
The house.
Even Daryl.
All of it felt distant, as if you were drowning under water.
“Damn it.” Daryl isn’t angry, he’s petrified. He’s never seen you like this before.
He carefully reaches out, gently pulling one of your hands out of your tight grip on your legs to take into his own. Your skin is ice cold, fingers trembling so hard they hurt.
“Sweetheart, c’mon.” You don’t respond. Tears stream down your face, but you don’t seem to notice. Daryl shifts closer, enough so that his knees are pressed against your shins. Close enough that you couldn’t possibly miss him. His free hand reached up to cup your cheek. It’s warm, solid, and real. The touch makes your eyes flicker, just for a moment. There, that’s what he’s attempting to do.
“There ya are,” Daryl says softly. His thumb brushed the tears beneath your eye. He’s slow, gentle, repeating the motion over and over, trying to give you something to focus on. Something real, something safe, something predictable.
Your breathing hitched. It’s still too fast, but your eyes flick to Daryl again. Just for a moment, then they disappear again.
Daryl takes a breath, then does the only thing he can think of. His arms reach out, pulling you against him. He’s careful, moving slowly so as not to startle you. His arms wrap around you, holding you tightly against his chest. He wants you to feel safe, protected, contained in a way that you don’t feel threatened, but you aren’t able to accidentally hurt yourself.
“I got ya.” His voice rumbled through your hair as he rested his chin on the top of your head. It’s low, steady, and he repeats the same thing over and over.
“I got ya.”
A hand moves up and down your back.
“I got ya, sweetheart.”
Over and over, Daryl repeats the phrase.
Again and again, you can’t hear him. Not fully, anyway. But eventually, your body picks up on his pattern. The steady pressure, the warmth, the voices. Even his heartbeat beneath your cheek.
It’s Daryl. He’s safe. He’s home. He always makes sure you’re ok.
The panic doesn’t immediately disappear, but it starts loosening its grip on you little by little. Your muscles begin to ache, every one of them. It’s as if you had been running for miles, never ending. Your hands tingled, then burned, then went strangely numb. The same happens to your feet. It’s the result of being tense for so long. You hate the feeling.
“D-Daryl…” The word barely came out.
His entire body relaxed. Finally, you had heard him.
“There you are.” The relief in his voice is impossible to miss.
You try speaking again, but your voice fails you. Your jaw is throbbing. Your chest burns. Every part of your body is aching.
Daryl immediately adjusts his grip now that you are more coherent. One hand moves to the back of your head, supporting you. “Easy.” Your legs are weak, completely useless as they fall limp against Daryl. The panic has wrung every bit of strength from your body. When Daryl tried helping you stand, your knees nearly buckled.
“Whoa.” He catches you instantly, arms still wrapped around you. “Easy, sweetheart.”
“I can’t feel my hands.” The words came out slurred, slow, exhausted, and breathy as you still can’t get your jaw from aching.
Daryl’s expression softened immediately. “Yeah?” He removes one hand from being wrapped around you to take one of yours, squeezing it gently. “That happens sometimes.”
Your eyes slowly drift down to your feet. “Or my feet.” Daryl can tell just by looking at you that you were miserable and completely worn out. You looked as if you had fought a war. If you were being honest, it felt like you had.
It takes a few minutes, but Daryl manages to slowly guide you to the couch. He wraps you in blankets, a glass of water on standby, and one of his hands still wrapped around yours. He refuses to let go, even for a moment. Every time your breathing sped up again, when it felt like the panic would consume you, his thumb brushed across your knuckles. It helps ground you, keeping you in the present and out of your head. It keeps you with him.
Hours pass, and the worst of it has come and gone. Your head rests against Daryl’s shoulder. Hands still tingling, body aching, voice rough, you manage a soft, “Daryl?”
“Yeah?”
You swallow, sitting in silence for a moment. “Sorry.”
Without hesitation, Daryl pulls you closer. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“‘Pologize.” His cheek rests lightly against the top of your head. For a moment neither of you speak. Then quietly, he says, “Ain’t gotta survive everythin’ by yourself, sweetheart.”
Your eyes sting, however not from panic this time. Something else, something warmer. He’s been using the nickname he’s reserved only for special, rare occasions. One’s where he doesn’t know quite what to do, but he knows that the name calms you.
And there, tucked against his side, listening to his heartbeat and feeling his hand wrapped around yours, you finally believe him.
Daryl accidentally makes you cry. He becomes borderline manic, in that awkward Daryl way, in his desperation to make it up to you.
The first time you cried in front of Daryl Dixon, he reacted like a man who’d just been shot.
Not loudly.
Not gracefully.
Just sudden stillness, blue eyes blown wide, shoulders locking so hard it looked painful.
And then absolute panic.
The prison had been tense for days.
Not the normal kind of tense, either. Not walkers-at-the-fence tense or food-running-low tense. This was people tense. Too many close calls. Too many arguments. Too many exhausted survivors trying to pretend they weren’t unraveling.
Everyone was frayed thin.
You especially.
You’d spent the entire morning hauling water, patching torn clothes, helping Hershel with the sick, and trying to keep two terrified children from crying after another nightmare. By the time evening rolled around, your head hurt, your back ached, and all you wanted was ten minutes alone.
Instead, you got Daryl storming into the cellblock covered in mud and blood after a disastrous run with Rick.
He looked furious before he even opened his mouth.
“Where’s the damn medical bag?” he barked.
The entire room went quiet.
You looked up from where you were sorting canned food. “What?”
“The bag.” He yanked an arrow from his quiver harder than necessary before immediately shoving it back in. Agitated. Pacing. “The one from storage.”
“I moved it to the infirmary yesterday.”
“Well it ain’t there now.”
His voice cracked through the room like a whip.
Normally, you would’ve snapped right back. Daryl respected people who bit back. But today every nerve in your body already felt scraped raw.
“I didn’t lose it, Daryl.”
“Didn’t say ya did.”
“You’re acting like I did.”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can nobody in this place put shit where it belongs?”
The words themselves weren’t even the problem.
It was the tone.
Sharp. Angry. Exhausted.
And because you were already hanging by a thread, it felt personal.
You stared at him for a second too long.
Daryl noticed immediately.
His irritation faltered.
“...What?”
You swallowed hard. “Nothing.”
“Ya got somethin’ to say, say it.”
That did it.
Not because he was being cruel intentionally.
Because he wasn’t.
Because Daryl’s rough edges usually hid something careful underneath, especially with you, and right then you were too tired to brace yourself against the impact of his temper.
Your eyes burned before you could stop it.
Embarrassment hit instantly afterward.
God, no.
Not here.
Not in front of everybody.
You looked away fast, but it was too late. Your vision blurred and suddenly tears were sliding down your cheeks before you could suck in a steady breath.
The silence afterward was horrific.
Daryl froze completely.
You heard Glenn quietly go, “Oh, man.”
Like someone witnessing a car crash.
“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, wiping at your face. Which only made more tears come. “Forget it.”
Daryl looked genuinely horrified.
Not uncomfortable.
Horrified.
Like he’d accidentally kicked a puppy off a cliff.
“Hey,” he said immediately, voice dropping hard. “Hey, I—I weren’t yellin’ at you.”
You shook your head once, mortified beyond belief. “I know.”
But your voice wobbled.
Daryl visibly panicked.
“No, I didn’t mean—shit.” He took a step toward you and then stopped like he wasn’t sure if approaching would make things worse. “I weren’t mad at you.”
“It’s fine.”
“It ain’t fine, you’re cryin’.”
“Please stop saying that.”
His eyes widened further.
Wrong thing. Wrong thing.
Everyone in the room suddenly found somewhere else to be.
Carol disappeared first, because Carol was smart.
Rick abruptly remembered he needed to check the fences.
Glenn physically dragged Maggie away while whispering, “Do not stare at them.”
Within seconds, the entire cellblock emptied out until it was just you and Daryl standing there in unbearable silence.
You covered your face with your hand.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
And Daryl looked like that sentence stabbed him directly in the chest.
“Why’re you apologizin’?”
“Because now you feel bad.”
“Well, yeah, I feel bad!” he burst out. “Yer cryin’!”
You made a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and another sob.
Which somehow made him even more frantic.
“Jesus Christ.”
Daryl started pacing.
Actually pacing.
You’d seen him fight walkers with less visible distress.
“I didn’t mean t’make ya cry,” he said rapidly. “I weren’t mad at you, I was mad ‘bout the run an’ Rick keepin’ dumb shit from me an’ then the bag bein’ gone an’—”
“It’s okay.”
“It ain’t okay!”
He sounded deeply offended by the very concept.
You stared at him through watery eyes.
Daryl stopped pacing long enough to point at your face helplessly.
“That’s not okay!”
You let out another watery laugh despite yourself.
And for one tiny second relief flashed across his face.
Good. Laughing was better. Laughing meant you weren’t devastated. Maybe he hadn’t permanently ruined everything.
Then you wiped your eyes again and his panic returned full force.
“Don’t cry again,” he said immediately.
“I can’t exactly turn it off.”
“Try harder.”
You blinked at him.
Daryl looked horrified at his own words the second they left his mouth.
“Not like that,” he said quickly. “Shit. I mean—”
Another laugh escaped you.
Small, shaky, but real.
Daryl seized onto it like a lifeline.
“There y’go,” he said urgently. “See? Better.”
“You’re acting insane right now.”
“Probably.”
He rubbed both hands over his face hard enough to drag his skin downward.
Then, abruptly, he vanished.
Just turned and walked away so fast you barely processed it.
You blinked after him.
“…Okay.”
An hour later, there was a dead rabbit outside your cell.
You stared at it.
Then at Daryl.
He stood three feet away with his arms crossed, aggressively refusing eye contact.
“…Is this an apology rabbit?”
“No.”
“It’s definitely an apology rabbit.”
“Ain’t.”
“It has flowers.”
There were, in fact, several badly crushed wildflowers shoved beside the rabbit’s ear.
Daryl looked furious you’d noticed.
“Carol said girls like flowers.”
Your mouth twitched.
“You asked Carol for advice?”
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
“She said I was bein’ stupid.”
“She’s right.”
Daryl grunted.
You crouched carefully beside the rabbit, emotion swelling unexpectedly in your chest.
Because this was Daryl.
Daryl, who barely spoke when he didn’t have to.
Daryl, who hated emotional conversations so much he treated feelings like active landmines.
And somehow this man had decided the solution to making you cry was emergency gift-giving.
“I really am okay,” you told him softly.
He finally looked at you.
Still guilty.
Still miserable.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “didn’t look like it.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
The thing was, Daryl wasn’t good with polished comfort. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d sit you down and talk through emotions gently.
Daryl loved like an animal did.
Protective. restless. instinctive.
He’d sooner bleed for someone than say something vulnerable out loud.
And right then he looked ready to crawl out of his own skin because he thought he hurt you.
“It wasn’t really about you,” you admitted quietly.
His brow furrowed immediately.
“What?”
“I was already overwhelmed.”
“You still cried ‘cause of me.”
“You just… happened to be the last thing before I cracked.”
That somehow looked worse.
“Oh, that’s great.”
“Daryl—”
“So yer sayin’ everybody else managed not t’make ya cry an’ I’m the one dumbass that pushed ya over?”
You stared at him.
“That is not what I said.”
“S’what happened.”
He looked genuinely stricken.
Like this revelation had devastated him personally.
You stood slowly. “You didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“Still did.”
There it was again.
That brutal honesty.
No excuses. No defensiveness.
Just guilt.
You stepped closer carefully. “Hey.”
Daryl’s eyes flicked toward yours.
“You’re not a bad person because you snapped after a terrible day.”
His jaw tightened.
“You cried.”
“You’ve yelled at Rick worse than that.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He looked at you like the answer should’ve been obvious.
“Because it was you.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your heart stumbled hard against your ribs.
Daryl seemed to realize what he’d admitted a second too late.
He immediately looked away.
“Forget I said that.”
“No.”
His ears went red.
“It come out wrong.”
“It came out honest.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Breathing space suddenly too small.
Daryl shifted awkwardly, looking cornered now in a way walkers had never managed.
“You hungry?” he blurted.
You blinked.
“…What?”
“I cooked the rabbit.”
“You cooked my apology rabbit?”
“Was I supposed t’keep it as a pet?”
A startled laugh burst out of you.
Daryl visibly relaxed again at the sound.
“There it is,” he muttered quietly.
“What?”
“That laugh.”
The way he said it made warmth spread through you so quickly it almost hurt.
He looked embarrassed immediately afterward, like he regretted letting the thought out.
So you saved him.
“You know,” you said carefully, “most men just say sorry.”
Daryl scoffed softly. “Most men ain’t me.”
“No,” you agreed. “They’re not.”
Something unreadable crossed his face then.
Something soft.
Terrified.
Hopeful.
He cleared his throat roughly. “C’mon. Before Carol steals half the damn food.”
You started noticing things after that.
Maybe they’d always been there.
Maybe you’d just finally learned how to see them.
Daryl lingering near you constantly.
Daryl silently handing you the better portion during meals.
Daryl checking the fences nearest your cell first every night.
Daryl appearing out of nowhere anytime someone upset you.
And God help anyone who did.
A week after the crying incident, one of the newer survivors grabbed your wrist too hard during an argument.
Daryl saw it from twenty feet away.
The transformation was immediate.
One second he’d been skinning a squirrel.
The next he was across the yard like a storm.
“Take yer hand off her.”
The man let go instantly.
Mostly because Daryl looked fully prepared to kill him.
You touched Daryl’s arm quickly. “I’m okay.”
He didn’t look away from the man.
“Didn’t ask.”
The survivor backed up fast and wisely disappeared.
Daryl stood there breathing hard for another second before finally turning toward you.
“You okay?”
The difference between the softness in his voice now versus the anger from before nearly melted you on the spot.
“Yeah.”
His eyes scanned your face carefully anyway.
Checking.
Always checking now.
Like he never wanted to accidentally hurt you again.
You reached up before you could second-guess yourself and touched his wrist lightly.
Daryl went completely still.
“You know,” you said softly, “one crying incident doesn’t mean I’m made of glass.”
His gaze locked onto yours.
“Ain’t worried you’re glass.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
His throat worked once.
“That somebody’s gonna hurt ya.”
Your heart nearly stopped.
Because he meant everyone.
Including himself.
You stepped closer.
“So don’t.”
Daryl looked wrecked by that sentence.
Absolutely wrecked.
Like wanting you was the most dangerous thing he’d ever experienced.
“You make this real hard,” he muttered.
“How?”
His laugh came out quiet and disbelieving.
“Sweetheart, I about lost my damn mind ‘cause you cried once.”
Your breath caught.
Sweetheart.
He seemed startled he’d said it aloud.
But this time he didn’t take it back.
You smiled slowly.
Daryl stared at you like the sight hit him directly in the chest.
Then, with the hesitant uncertainty of a man approaching a wild animal, he lifted a hand and touched your face.
Rough fingertips.
Unbelievably gentle.
“You cryin’ now?” he asked suspiciously.
You laughed softly. “No.”
“Good.”
“You’re still panicking, though.”
“Ain’t panickin’.”
“You brought me three different flowers today.”
His expression turned defensive. “Found ‘em while huntin’.”
“You hate flowers.”
“They were there.”
You grinned.
Daryl groaned quietly, realizing you were making fun of him.
Then his thumb brushed your cheekbone once.
Tender. Careful.
Like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.
The smile faded from your face slowly.
Not sadness.
Just feeling.
Too much of it.
Daryl noticed instantly and looked alarmed again.
“Oh hell, are you cryin’ again?”
“No!”
“You got that face.”
“What face?”
“That face before the tears start.”
You burst out laughing.
Real laughing this time.
Daryl stared at you for a second before something in him finally loosened completely.
Relief flooded his face so openly it made your chest ache.
“There y’are,” he said quietly.
And before fear could stop either of you, you leaned forward and kissed him.
Daryl made a startled noise against your mouth.
Then he kissed you back like he’d been starving for it.
One rough hand cupped the side of your face immediately, protective even now, while the other settled carefully at your waist like he was afraid you might disappear.
When you finally pulled back, both of you breathing hard, Daryl rested his forehead against yours.
“You got any idea what ya do to me?” he muttered.
You smiled softly. “Probably something close to a panic attack.”
He barked out a laugh.
“Yeah. Sounds ‘bout right.”
Then he kissed you again.
And this time, when you smiled into it, Daryl smiled too.
A/N: I love Daryl so much, here’s another piece lol. Also, if anyone has any good Daryl x reader comfort ideas please send them my way I’m running out of ideas.
Setting: early prison era
It had been a relatively terrible day. Not to say any day was good anymore, but some were better than others. Unfortunately for you, today was not one of them. It was as if the universe was working against your favor, and every moment only frustrated you more. You had dropped a box of canned food, the bottom giving out as they tumbled and rolled across the floor. A can of corn busted open, soaking through your shoe and making a mess on the floor. Then, later that morning, you’d gotten into an argument with Rick about an upcoming run. That ended in heated discussion, slight yelling, and both of you storming off in opposite directions. The cherry on top? You had tripped over your own feet not once, but twice as you were clearing out land for farming out in the prison yard. Glenn, Maggie, and Beth were there to witness it.
That’s how you got here, sitting along the prison fence line. The afternoon sun was warm, canceling out the slight chill from the occasional breeze. It was quiet, peaceful, with no prying eyes. It made it difficult not to cry out of pure frustration and embarrassment. You wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you whole. That would be a lot easier than facing the rest of the group, with all of the mistakes and arguments and embarrassment from the day.
Unfortunately for you, one person in particular always seems to notice when someone is missing, when something is wrong. You hadn’t been alone for more than 20 minutes before you could hear footsteps approaching. You didn’t have to look up to know who it was, dirty boots stopping in your line of sight.
“You look miserable.”
“Go away Dixon.”
“No.”
Your eyes lift to glare at the man. He’s standing just in front of you, covered in what you could assume was dirt and grime from a vehicle. A wrench in one hand, his bandana in another. He’s in a t-shirt and his vest, black marks all over his skin. You don’t bother meeting his eyes.
“What do you want?”
“Nothin’.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Silence falls between the two of you before the archer speaks up again. “C’mon.”
This time you look up at him, frowning slightly. “What?”
“C’mon.”
“That’s not an answer, Daryl.”
“It ain’t supposed to be.” He leaves it at that before nodding somewhere behind you. He takes a few steps before turning to see if you are following him. Curiosity gets the best of you, and you have nothing better to do, so you follow him.
Daryl leads you to the other side of the prison by the main gate, just beside the front yard. His motorcycle sits there, and he’s standing beside it. You can’t help but stare.
“No.”
Daryl gives you a look. “What d’ya mean no?”
“I mean absolutely not.”
He crosses his arms, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly. “Why?”
You point to the motorcycle. “Because that’s a motorcycle.”
“Good observation.”
If you could just punch him. “They have 2 wheels.”
“You can count?”
You glare at him. “I can’t ride anything with two wheels Daryl?”
“Daddy never teach you how?”
“Do you always have to be a jerk?” You step away from the motorcycle. “He did, actually. But I had a pretty bad bike wreck. Haven’t gotten on one in 10 years.” The memory makes you nervous, anxiety pooling in your stomach. You wrap your arms around yourself and glance at the bike again.
“So?”
You looked back at him. “So?”
“So,” he shrugged. “That was a bicycle. 10 years ago.” He motions to the motorcycle. “This is different.”
You look to the bike, then back to him, wary. “Daryl.”
“Doin’ wonders for my confidence here.”
It takes a lot of convincing, but he finally gets you to at least sit on the motorcycle. That doesn’t mean you don’t panic, though. You’re gripping the handlebars so tight your hands are turning white, and your face is turning red. The motorcycle wasn’t even on, but you were still convinced disaster was seconds away.
You barely take your eyes off the handles. “I’m calm.”
“Yeah right. You look like yer fightin’ the handlebars.” You immediately loosen your grip. “That’s better.”
The lesson starts slowly. Unfortunately, it never speeds up, because you’re frightened. Every time Daryl explains something, you immediately assume you will fail.
“What if I drop it?
“You won’t.”
“What if I crash?”
“You won’t.”
“What if–”
“Y/N, you won’t.” You glare at the man, and he looks at you right back. “‘M right here. Won’t let nothin happen to ya.” His words calm some of your anxiety. “Now, focus.” You quickly turn back to the front of the bike, embarrassed.
Eventually Daryl manages to convince you to turn the bike on. It rolls a few feet forward. Then a few more. Nothing dramatic or fast or flashy. It wasn’t dangerous, just slow consistent movement. This does nothing to comfort you, however. You grow more anxious the further the bike rolls.
“Daryl…” he can hear the hesitation in your voice.
“What?”
“I’m gonna fall.”
“You ain’t.” He continues slowly walking beside you as you drive through the yard.
“Daryl-”
“You ain’t.” His hands quickly settle over yours just long enough to adjust your grip. His grip is steady, practical, simply showing you where to place them. This movement caught you off guard. Not because it was anything unusual, but because it immediately made things feel easier, less intimidating, more manageable.
“There.” His voice was calm. “Try again.”
The bike rolled forward, steadier this time. It wasn’t as rough as before, more smooth and less jerky. Daryl continues walking beside you, keeping pace and watching carefully, prepared to step in if anything went wrong.
Several minutes passed. Then 10, then 20. Gradually, very gradually, you stopped expecting to fail. By the end of the hour, you were actually moving around the yard. You weren’t an expert by any means, but you were moving at a decent speed. When you finally stopped, your face was flushed with excitement and disbelief.
“I did it,” you smiled widely at Daryl.
He nodded. “Told ya.”
His response paired with your joy made you laugh. It was the first laugh he had heard from you in a while. Daryl’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close.
“You know,” you said, climbing off the bike, “I was sure this was gonna end terribly.”
Daryl huffed. “Still got time.”
You shoved his shoulder slightly. He glances at you through the corner of his eye. The tiny smile appeared finally. For the first time that day, neither of you were thinking about walkers or survival, just the motorcycle.
The open yard.
The fact that you had managed to do something you thought you would never be able to do again.
As Daryl heads back to the cell block, he glances over his shoulder.
“You did good.”
The words were rough, simple, but genuine. You could tell he was being sincere in his good ole Daryl Dixon way. Somehow, that meant more than anything anyone else could have said to you that day.
A/N: The grip my Daryl Dixon fixation has on me is so strong right now. Like, I’m thinking of him 24/7 and how he’s awkwardly comforting. Don’t judge, my doctor’s appointments aren’t giving me answers and I’m turning to a fictional man lol. Anyway, I’ve finished TWD, and I’m trying to find time to watch all of the spin offs during my free time.
Warning/s: arrow removal
Setting: late season 2, when the Greene farm is overrun
Everything was a blur. You couldn’t remember the exact order of events, or even how you got to where you were. You knew Shane was dead. You remember the burning barn, and then the swarm of walkers. There had to have been hundreds, if not thousands quickly approaching. There was fear, so much fear you could hardly breathe as you began running. You were fighting as hard as you could to protect yourself, just your bow, a few arrows hanging from your belt, and your knife to keep you safe. You saw the only clearing open up, leading towards the woods and down the old gravel road. Not missing your chance, you ran.
It was so dark, the light of the burning barn quickly disappearing behind you. You were going into the forest blind, not knowing what you could run into, where you were stepping, or where you were running to. You were alone, that much you knew. You rushed into the cover of the trees, running like if you didn’t, you wouldn’t make it.
You remember stumbling a lot, over tree roots and vines and stray rocks. Eventually, there were voices. Yelling, sounded like your friends. You hoped more than anything that it was them, that they were ok, and that you would be able to find them. There was the sound of vehicles, but you could have sworn you were so far into the woods that you wouldn’t be able to hear them drive away. You saw lights flashing in the distance, only motivating you to run even faster.
All of a sudden, you were on the ground. The air was knocked out of your lungs and you tumbled down the side of a decently deep ditch. Your ankle throbbed, and you could only assume you had stumbled over a big tree root and lost your footing. Your entire body ached, however red hot pain stemmed from your thigh. You screamed out in pain, quickly rubbing your hands down your leg until you felt one of your few arrows sticking out of the side of your leg.
You were in so much pain, but you couldn’t stay here. Not like this, not right now. You tried standing, prepared to run towards the sound of vehicles, away from the walkers, but your body wouldn’t let you get far. The fall must have twisted your ankle, the arrow in your leg making it unbearable to move, and you were now drenched in creekwater. Tears streamed down your face, and you couldn’t help but whimper and cry as the pain grew worse with every passing second.
The limited vision you had in the dark woods faded in and out as you kept moving. Your hearing was fuzzy, almost as if you were under water. You were fighting to keep moving, terrified for your life. Your friends were getting away. You wanted them to save you too. Through all of the confusion, you could hear your name being called in the distance. It was hard to tell who’s voice it was, or if what you were hearing was even real, but you yelled anyway. Your words weren’t coherent, coming out as more of a wailing sound than anything.
Not more than a minute later, a bright line shone down on you. The light blinded you, making it hard to see who had found you. As your eyes adjusted, you saw two figures.
“You alright?” a voice called out. Daryl. You knew that much.
You managed a strangled, “no.”
“Daryl, she has an arrow in her leg!” Carol.
“Shit.” The light was passed to Carol, and Daryl slid down the size of the ditch to get to you. His hands hovered over you, not knowing what to do. “Can you walk?” You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. Sighing, Daryl nods just once. “Ok. That’s ok.” He grabs your arm, wrapping around the back of his neck before taking slow but urgent steps towards Carol. “Grab her hand.” Carol grabs the hand not wrapped around Daryl, as he quickly scrambles up the side of the ditch to grab your other hand. They hauled you up, but the train on your leg made you cry even harder.
“It’s ok,” Carol hushed, helping Daryl walk you to his motorcycle. There wasn’t room for 3, they knew that. Just as they were about to discuss what to do, a vehicle sped up to them, then immediately slammed on its breaks. The window rolls down, and Glenn is taking in the scene.
“Get in!” He yells, looking in the rearview mirror to see some of the herd following them. Carol and Daryl waste no time loading you into the back of the vehicle. Through your tears, you reach out to Carol as she tries to leave.
“It’s ok,” she reassures quickly. “We’re getting somewhere safe, then we’ll meet again, ok? Glenn and Maggie have you now.”
“Carol, let’s go!” Daryl yells, and just like that, she’s gone. The doors slam shut, and Glenn waits for the two to get back on the motorcycle before he speeds off again.
Every bump and hole in the road makes the pain in your leg even worse, and you can’t help but cry. Maggie reaches her hand to the back seat to hold yours. “What happened Y/N?”
Through tears you explain, “I was running. I didn’t have a vehicle, I just ran. I tripped and fell down into the ditch and landed on one of my arrows.”
Maggie’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry. It’s ok now, you’re safe. We’re meeting the others soon, I promise. Then we’ll get that arrow taken care of.”
It doesn’t take long to reach the blocked off highway where Sophia went missing. Suddenly, those memories came flooding back, and you cried harder. Glenn and Maggie quickly got out of the car and helped slide you out and down onto the pavement. Not long after, Daryl and Carol arrive. Before too long, everyone except Rick and Hershel arrive. People are crying, worried, asking around.
“We need to get this arrow out of her leg,” Carol says to the group, kneeling beside you and resting a hand on your head.
“We need to wait for daddy,” Beth cries. “He can do it.”
“We don’t know how long that’ll be.” Glenn chimes in.
“It doesn’t look that bad, I’m sure it can wait for someone who knows what they’re doing.”
You’re crying too hard to register who would say that. Carol’s hand is running through your hair, and you’re frantically searching for her other hand. She gives it to you. “Carol, I’m so sorry,” you cry.
“Why are you sorry?” Her voice is soft.
“Sophia,” you cry. “Sophia went missing here. And now I’m hurt. I’m so sorry.”
Carol shushes you softly. “It’s ok Y/N. You’re ok. Don’t worry about that now.”
“Look at her! You think she can handle this pain for much longer?!” Daryl’s voice cuts through the crowd. “I’m doing it.” The man crouches down beside you, gently placing his hands near the wound, analyzing it. Your jeans block his view. “I need scissors, and any first aid we may have.” The rest of the group is hesitant but unwilling to argue, so they scavenge their vehicles. Maggie finds a small first aid kit in the trunk of her car, and Lori somehow finds scissors. Once he’s prepared, Daryl orders them to go away, to give you space. Carol stays, however, still running one hand through your hair and letting you hold the other.
Daryl quickly looks at you and says, “You’re gonna have a killer outfit, Y/N. I have’ta cut your pants.” You only nod. It hurts, the way your leg jostles and the fabric brushes against the arrow, but Daryl does it quick and easy. Then he looks at Carol. “I’ll need your help.” She nods. “Hold her down, this is gonna hurt.” Carol’s hands move to your shoulders, pressing down to keep you laying.
The second Daryl places his hands on your leg, you’re screaming, legs involuntarily pulled up. He’s quick to lay your legs back down, then moves so he is sitting on your knees. “I know, I know,” he says gently. “I gotta do this. It’ll be over quickly, I promise.” He thinks for a moment, then pulls his bandana from his back pocket, rolling it up and handing it to you. “Here, bite this, ok? We don’t need any more walkers.” Your hands shake as you take the cloth, bringing it to your mouth. With a small nod, you let Daryl know that you’re ready.
He works fast, pulling the arrow out of your leg and immediately dousing the wound with alcohol. The wound stings, burning worse than any wound you’ve had before. The cloth muffles your screams, but nothing can hide the tears that are streaming down your face. Daryl presses dressing against the wound, then gets off of you enough to raise your leg and wrap bandaging around it.
“There, ‘m done. ‘S ok.” His voice is uncharacteristically gentle. He wipes his bloody hands on his pants, then moves to sit beside you. As he looks over you, he can see how out of it you’ve become. You must be exhausted, the pain strong enough to darken the edges of your vision. He can see it, and is quick to ask Carol to find water, anything they can give you to dull the pain and bring you back to reality.
You are able to register her leaving, and the pain throughout your body. Someone carefully removes the bandana from your mouth, and you see enough of them to see that it’s Daryl. His name is shaky as it leaves your mouth.
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he said quietly. “It’s over now, I’m done.” Your hands are trembling, shaking enough it’s concerning him. He gently takes your hands into his, warm and stable, to ground you. “It’s ok.” Your eyes begin to drift shut, and Daryl begins to panic. “Hey, hey, look at me.” Slowly, they open again. “There ya are. Hey, talk to me sweetheart. What hurts?”
You whimper. “M-my thigh.”
“I’ve gotten that taken care of, it’ll stop hurting soon. What else?”
“My an-ankle.” Daryl nods, glancing down to your foot.
“Same leg?”
“Mhm.”
He slowly lets go of your hands, moving down to your feet and removing your shoe. He sees it now, red and swollen and angry. He’s incredibly gentle as he wraps that, too, and slips your shoe back on.
Your eyes keep drifting shut, and Daryl panics again. “Hey, hey. Keep lookin’ at me kiddo.” He rests his hand on your hair. “Feel that?” You nod. “Good. Hey, look. The stars are out. Help me count them, yeah?”
Your voice is shaky, and you’re confused as to why the big scary archer is counting stars with you, but then you realize you aren’t crying as hard. It’s getting easier to breathe, and your body is beginning to settle.
“Daryl?”
“Yeah?”
“‘M tired.” His eyes drift to yours.
“Sleepy tired or passing out tired.”
“Sleepy.” He nods once, then looks towards the vehicles.
“Lemme carry ya to the car. We’ll get you settled and you can sleep, yeah?” You nod weakly. Carefully, avoiding your injured leg as best he can, Daryl slides his arms under you and lifts you to his chest. He’s warm, and somehow his heartbeat underneath your ear calms you even further. He’s gentle as he lays you back in one of the cars. Carol finally returns with water, helping you drink before settling you back down. Your body still trembles with the after effects of adrenaline and pain, and Daryl can’t help but notice. Without thinking, he slides his vest off his shoulders and lays it on top of you. It won’t do much, he knows that, but it’s the thought that counts.
Daryl figures out you're touch-starved. It ruins both of your lives.
Daryl Dixon figured out you were touch-starved entirely by accident.
Which honestly made it worse.
Because once Daryl noticed something—
Really noticed it—
He became impossible about it.
And unfortunately for both of you, Daryl noticing you practically melted under casual affection ruined the remainder of your lives permanently.
It started small.
Tiny things.
The prison had become strangely gentle lately.
Not safe exactly.
Never safe.
But calmer.
There were routines now.
Gardens growing in the yard.
Laundry lines swaying in the breeze.
People laughed sometimes.
You still startled when people touched you, though.
Not in fear.
Just surprise.
Like you weren’t used to it.
Daryl noticed because Daryl noticed everything about you.
The way you froze slightly anytime Carol squeezed your shoulder.
How your entire expression softened whenever Beth linked arms with you.
How you lingered embarrassingly long after hugs.
At first, he didn’t think much of it.
Then one evening Glenn threw an arm around your shoulders while telling some stupid story during dinner.
And you—
You leaned into it instinctively.
Tiny movement.
Barely noticeable.
But your whole body relaxed like someone finally loosened a wire pulled too tight.
Daryl stared.
Because the look on your face—
Jesus.
Like warmth physically surprised you.
Then Glenn let go after a second and you smiled like you were trying not to miss it already.
Something uncomfortable twisted in Daryl’s chest.
The realization hit fully a few days later.
You’d gotten hurt on a run.
Nothing major.
A twisted ankle and a few cuts after slipping down an embankment.
Still enough that Hershel ordered you off your feet for the day.
Daryl found you sitting alone in one of the prison cells that evening changing the bandage around your ankle.
You looked frustrated.
Mostly at yourself.
“Need help?” he asked from the doorway.
You startled slightly before relaxing.
“Oh. Hey.”
Daryl crouched beside you automatically.
Large rough hands reaching for the bandage.
You hesitated only a second before letting him help.
Silence settled comfortably.
Then—
When Daryl’s hand wrapped carefully around your ankle to steady it—
You went still.
Not tense.
Still.
Your breath caught softly.
Daryl glanced up immediately.
You looked embarrassed suddenly.
“…Sorry.”
His brow furrowed.
“For what?”
You shrugged awkwardly.
“Nothin’.”
But your face had softened in that same strange way again.
Like simple touch affected you too much.
Daryl stared at your ankle in his hands.
Then slowly:
“…When’s the last time somebody took care’a you?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
You blinked.
Then looked away.
Daryl’s stomach dropped immediately.
Because that silence?
That silence was answer enough.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
You laughed awkwardly.
“It’s not a big deal.”
The words sounded rehearsed.
Like you said them often.
Daryl hated that instantly.
He finished wrapping your ankle carefully.
Then without really thinking about it, his thumb brushed lightly over your skin once.
You visibly melted.
Not dramatically.
Just—
Your shoulders loosened.
Your eyes fluttered slightly.
Tiny reaction.
Huge impact.
Daryl’s brain short-circuited completely.
Because suddenly he understood.
You weren’t just shy.
You were touch-starved.
And apparently nobody had been taking proper care of you.
Something deeply possessive and furious rose inside his chest.
Not at you.
Never at you.
At the idea of someone going this long without softness.
Without affection.
Without being held.
Daryl swallowed hard.
“…That feels nice, huh?”
Your face immediately turned red.
You looked horrified at being noticed.
“I—”
Daryl’s expression softened instantly.
“Hey. Ain’t makin’ fun.”
You stared at him uncertainly.
Then quietly:
“Yeah.”
The honesty in that tiny word wrecked him.
After that, Daryl couldn’t stop noticing it.
And once he noticed it—
He started doing something about it.
Not consciously at first.
Instinctively.
Like his body made decisions before his brain caught up.
He’d hand you things and let his fingers linger slightly.
Stand close enough your shoulders brushed.
Rest his palm briefly against your back guiding you through doorways.
Every single time, you reacted.
Subtle.
But there.
A tiny breath.
A softened expression.
A quiet almost-startled look of relief.
And every single time, Daryl felt like he was losing his damn mind.
Because you looked at touch like it was something precious.
Like you weren’t used to being handled gently.
It made his chest ache.
The first hug happened because of a nightmare.
You woke the prison with a scream.
Daryl was moving before he fully woke up.
Knife in hand.
Heart pounding.
He found you sitting upright on your cot breathing hard, eyes glassy with panic.
No danger.
Just fear.
Daryl lowered the knife slowly.
“Hey.”
You looked up immediately.
Humiliation crossed your face.
“Sorry.”
Again with the apologizing.
Daryl hated that too.
“You ain’t gotta apologize for nightmares.”
You rubbed at your eyes quickly.
“M’fine.”
Bullshit.
Daryl stepped closer carefully.
Then stopped.
Because he wanted to touch you.
Badly.
Wanted to comfort you.
Wanted to ease that awful lonely look in your eyes.
“You want a hug?”
The question came out rough.
Awkward.
Like he physically wasn’t used to offering things like that.
You stared at him like he’d spoken another language.
“A what?”
Daryl shifted uncomfortably.
“A hug,” he repeated. “Jesus Christ.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“You’d hug me?”
The sheer disbelief in your voice nearly fucking killed him.
Of course he would.
Jesus.
Daryl’s chest tightened painfully.
“…C’mere.”
You moved instantly.
Like your body decided before your brain could.
And the second Daryl wrapped his arms around you—
You collapsed against him.
A tiny broken sound escaped your throat as your hands clutched weakly at the back of his vest.
Daryl froze.
Because nobody had ever held onto him like that before.
Like he was safety.
Like he was home.
Your entire body relaxed by degrees in his arms.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like you were afraid it might disappear.
Daryl tightened his hold immediately.
Protective instinct hitting him so hard it almost hurt.
“It’s okay,” he murmured awkwardly into your hair. “Gotcha.”
You trembled once against him.
Then whispered so quietly he almost missed it:
“Thank you.”
And that—
That absolutely ruined him.
After that, things escalated quickly.
Because now Daryl knew.
And now you knew he knew.
Which meant every bit of affection became charged with unbearable awareness.
Daryl started touching you constantly.
Not even on purpose anymore.
A hand at your waist.
Your knee pressed against his during dinner.
His arm slung around your shoulders during watch duty.
And every single time, you unconsciously leaned into him like a moth to a flame.
Daryl became addicted to it immediately.
The way your eyes softened when he touched you.
The sleepy little sighs you made.
How naturally you started seeking him out afterward.
It destroyed him.
Completely.
Carol noticed first.
“You’ve gotta stop looking at her like that.”
Daryl frowned.
“Like what?”
“Like she hung the moon and invented kindness.”
Daryl looked offended.
“Ain’t lookin’ at her like nothin’.”
Carol stared.
“You carried her juice box across the yard yesterday.”
“…She asked.”
“She was fifteen feet away.”
Daryl grunted and walked off.
Carol laughed herself breathless.
You were not doing much better.
Because Daryl Dixon touched like he meant it.
Careful.
Steady.
Protective.
Every casual touch from him felt devastatingly intimate because Daryl wasn’t casually affectionate with anybody else.
Only you.
And the worst part?
He always looked at you afterward.
Like he needed to make sure you were okay.
Like your comfort mattered to him more than breathing.
One evening in the common area, you ended up tucked against Daryl’s side beneath a blanket.
Halfway through the conversations, you realized his fingers were absentmindedly rubbing slow circles against your arm.
Your brain nearly shut down.
You tilted your head slightly to look at him.
Daryl noticed immediately.
“What?”
“…Nothing.”
His hand paused.
“You want me t’stop?”
Immediate panic hit you.
“No.”
Too fast.
Too desperate.
Heat flooded your face instantly.
Daryl stared at you.
Then very slowly resumed the gentle motion against your arm.
Something soft and wrecked crossed his face.
Like that answer affected him way too much.
Truthfully?
It did.
The breaking point came during a storm.
Heavy rain hammered against the prison roof while everyone crowded into the cafeteria overnight.
Space was limited.
Blankets everywhere.
People sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder.
You sat beside Daryl shivering slightly from the cold.
Without a word, he opened one arm toward you.
Invitation.
Your heart stumbled.
“Y’sure?” you whispered.
Daryl looked at you like the question offended him.
“Get over here.”
You curled against his side carefully.
Daryl immediately wrapped his arm around you fully.
Warm.
Solid.
Safe.
Then—
Without thinking—
You nuzzled slightly closer.
Tiny movement.
Instinctive.
Daryl stopped breathing.
Because holy shit.
You trusted him.
Trusted him enough to seek comfort from him naturally.
His hand tightened carefully against your shoulder.
And then quietly, rough like confession:
“Ain’t nobody been takin’ care’a you right.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
You looked down.
“No,” you admitted softly.
Daryl went still beside you.
Then after a long moment:
“Gonna change that.”
Your breath caught.
You looked up slowly.
Daryl was already staring at you.
Eyes dark.
Intense.
Terrifyingly honest.
“Don’t think I can stop now anyway,” he muttered.
And suddenly you realized something equally devastating.
Daryl wasn’t just comforting you because he pitied you.
Daryl liked touching you.
Needed it too.
Maybe almost as much as you did.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Daryl…”
His hand slid carefully up your back.
Slow.
Gentle.
“You got any idea what ya do to me?” he asked hoarsely.
No.
No, you really didn’t.
But judging by the way Daryl looked at you right now—
Like touching you had become something dangerous and necessary all at once—
You were starting to understand.
Then finally, slowly, Daryl pressed his forehead against yours.
Daryl isn’t one to hide his affection for you, he simply expresses it in ways that most people miss if they aren’t looking close enough.
Whenever one of you comes back from a supply run and you spot the other, he doesn’t hesitate to pull you in for a hug.
Whenever everyone is huddled around a campfire, he never moves away from you no matter how close you get. If you sit flush against him with your arms and legs touching, he welcomes the warmth but doesn’t address it.
Whenever you two are working together and he gets a cut somewhere, he doesn’t push you away when you gently grab him to see if he’s okay.
Whenever you two are in the back of the truck, he gets out first and turns back with his hand out incase you need it. If it were anyone else getting out the truck after him, it wouldn’t even occur to him to offer his hand.
Sure, Daryl isn’t the type to profess his love from the rooftop or pull you in for a kiss when there’s an audience, but everyone can see how he’s softer with you than anyone else.
They see the way he doesn’t pull away from your touch, the way his shoulders relax when you’re with him, and even the way he starts to expect some small affectionate gesture when you pass by.
He may not be the ideal man for pda, but he never denies himself your affection. He considers himself to be a very lucky man.
if you liked this, my reqs are open for short blurbs similar to this and hcs <3
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.
