Deva 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

[smilefortae]

I need more maze runner fanfics

[thecutegirlkisser]

"incest/rape/stalking etc depicted as romantic in fiction is gross because it's romanticizing crimes!!" everyone romanticizes crimes in fiction dipshit it came free with your innate desire to explore taboos from a safe distance

[letdevabe]

‧₊˚ ⋅Let me see you ⋅˚₊•

Pairing: carl grimes X reader

Summary: After Carl loses his eye in a gunshot accident, he refuses to let you tend his wound, asking instead for Enid. Misunderstanding his reasons, you feel hurt and replaced, fearing he no longer wants you

Tw: Injury description (Carl’s eye wound), emotional hurt/comfort.

୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ

You’d seen gunshots before.

Hell, you’d patched up bullet wounds and infected knife cuts

But nothing — nothing — prepared you for Carl.

He wasn’t supposed to be the one carried in, unconscious, barely breathing, Rick’s hands shaking and blood soaked through his shirt.

He wasn’t supposed to look like that. So still. So broken.

And when you saw the bandages, you froze.

You hadn’t seen it yet. The eye. Or… what was left of it.

⸻

It took days. He was unconscious, fading in and out, feverish and silent. You helped Denise stabilize him, your hands steadier than hers, even if your heart was racing the whole time.

But when the fever broke, and he opened his one good eye — blue, glassy, tired — you saw something else in him.

Shame.

⸻

“I’m not letting you do it,” he mumbled.

You knelt beside him, a bowl of warm water in one hand, gauze and antiseptic in the other. “You need to have it cleaned.”

“I said no.”

“Carl,” you said softly.

He turned his head away — not from the pain, but from you.

I’m not letting you do it,” Carl said again", voice low but firm.

You stood there frozen for a moment. “Carl, please. It’s infected. You need it cleaned.”

He turned away on the cot, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “Get Enid.”

You blinked, unsure you heard him right. “What?”

“Just—get Enid. I don’t want you to see it.”

And that was it.

No explanation. No softness. Just a wall.

You stood there, hands numb and chest tightening. “Okay,” you whispered, barely audible.

Carl didn’t even turn around.

⸻

You waited outside the infirmary, arms crossed tightly over your chest even though it wasn’t cold. You could hear faint voices inside. Denise. Enid. Carl.

You imagined her hands where yours were supposed to be. Her voice comforting him. Her eyes seeing what he didn’t want you to see.

Maybe she was stronger than you. Maybe she didn’t flinch.

Maybe he didn’t feel broken when she looked at him.

Your throat burned.

You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you were being stupid — this was about him, not you — but it didn’t stop the ache from crawling up your chest and curling into something sharp behind your ribs.

You wiped your eyes quickly before anyone could see.

He didn’t know you stayed.

He didn’t know you were just outside the door, biting your lip so hard it nearly bled

_____

You didn’t plan to go back in.

You just wanted to return the bowl, leave the supplies, and disappear before anyone noticed the tears in your eyes.

But the door creaked louder than expected.

And Carl saw you.

His gaze snapped toward the doorway from where he lay, half-upright on the cot now. Enid had already left. Denise was busy elsewhere. And there you were — eyes red, lip trembling, clutching the metal bowl like it was the only thing holding you together.

You didn’t meet his eye. You couldn’t.

“(Y/N)?” he called, voice raw.

You shook your head quickly, pretending to busy yourself setting the supplies down on the table. “I was just dropping this off.”

“Wait,” he said, stronger now. “Please—don’t go.”

Your fingers tightened around the bowl before you slowly turned, keeping your eyes down.

“I didn’t mean to…” he began, but trailed off when he saw your face properly. “You’ve been crying.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Guess I’m not as tough as Enid.”

Carl’s expression twisted in confusion — and then realization.

“No,” he said. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

“Doesn’t matter.” You tried to move past him, but his hand caught your wrist — gently, but enough to make you stop.

“It does matter.”

His voice wasn’t defensive. It was… pleading.

“I asked for Enid because I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he admitted, eyes locked onto yours now, no more walls, just bare honesty. “Not because I didn’t want you. I just—”

He swallowed. “I thought if you saw what I looked like now, you’d never look at me the same again.”

You stared at him, the ache in your chest turning into something heavier — not rejection, but shared fear.

“Carl,” you whispered, your voice cracking, “I thought you didn’t want me.”

He shook his head slowly. “I was trying to protect you. I didn’t think you’d want to be near me if you saw what I am now.”

You sat beside him, finally, reaching out and gently brushing his cheek — just near the bandages.

“What you are now,” you said, eyes glassy but steady, “is still the person I want.”

He looked at you like he didn’t deserve that.

But you leaned in, resting your forehead against his, breathing in the silence between you, letting it heal what words couldn’t.

“I was scared,” he admitted again, softer this time. “Not of the pain. Of you not loving me anymore.”

You closed your eyes.

“I never stopped.”

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[letdevabe]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ Worth staying for ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Pairing: daryl dixon x reader

Summary: In the quiet aftermath of another supply run, you find yourself waiting again for Daryl to come home. Between silent conversations, shared glances, and the ever-watchful eye of Carol, you and Daryl begin to confront the unspoken bond that’s grown between you. It’s slow, raw, and a little broken… but in a world falling apart, maybe love doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to feel like something worth staying for.

Setting: Alexandria, safe-zone

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆ ˚｡

The moon hung heavy over Alexandria, casting silver lines across the porch. You sat on the wooden steps, the cool air brushing your skin, one of Daryl’s jackets wrapped around your shoulders. It still smelled like him — pine, sweat, smoke, leather.

You heard the crunch of boots before you saw him.

“You gonna freeze out here, sittin’ like that.”

You smiled into the night, not turning yet. “Was waiting on you.”

Daryl shuffled closer, hesitating a beat before he sat next to you, crossbow still slung over his back. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It never was with Daryl — more like a blanket you both could breathe under.

“Everything went okay on the run?” you asked softly.

“Yeah. Nothin’ we couldn’t handle,” he grunted. Then, a pause. “Saw a pack near the gas station though. Might need clearin’ soon.”

You nodded, trying not to look at the dried blood on his sleeve.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

He glanced over, eyes softening under the mess of his bangs. “Yeah. Me too.”

⸻

Later that night, the living room glowed dimly with lantern light. Carol sat across the table with a mug of herbal tea. You stirred a half-cup of beans in a pot, trying to make them stretch.

“You two keep doing that weird thing,” Carol said, sipping. Her smirk was slight but unmistakable.

You blinked. “What weird thing?”

“That thing where you’re talking without talking. It’s cute. But also kind of maddening.”

You laughed. “It’s just how we are.”

“Mhm. Maybe. Or maybe Dixon needs a little push.”

“I don’t think he needs pushing. I think he needs… space. To come to things on his own.”

Carol studied you, then looked past you toward the hallway where Daryl had disappeared moments ago. “You give him a place to land, you know. That matters.”

You didn’t say anything, but your fingers tightened slightly around the wooden spoon.

⸻

You found Daryl outside again, tinkering with his bike, fingers black with grease. He didn’t look up as you approached, but you knew he knew it was you.

“You ever sleep?” you teased.

“Could ask you the same,” he muttered, tightening a bolt.

You leaned against the fence beside him. “Carol thinks we’re weird.”

“She’s not wrong,” he said after a beat, and you both chuckled quietly.

There was a beat of silence before he set the wrench down and finally looked at you.

“You scared me today,” you admitted. “When you didn’t radio back.”

His jaw clenched slightly, eyes darting to the side. “Didn’t mean to. Got caught up.”

“I know,” you said. “I just… I wait for you, every time. And I hate that I don’t always know if you’re coming back.”

That got his attention.

Daryl stood up, rubbing his hands on a rag, the tension in his shoulders unreadable.

“You think I don’t wait for you too?” he said, voice low. “You think I don’t count every damn second you’re not in sight?”

You blinked, surprised.

He stepped a little closer. “Ain’t good with this stuff. You know that. But I feel it. Every time you’re out there. Every time I don’t know if I’m gonna see you again.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered, but he cut you off.

“I wanna,” he said. “Just… let me do it my way.”

You nodded, heart thudding as he hesitated — then reached up and brushed a bit of grime from your cheek with a rough thumb. His touch lingered.

“You feel like somethin’ good,” he murmured. “Like maybe there’s still things worth stayin’ for.”

Your eyes stung, and you leaned into his touch.

“You are worth staying for,” you whispered. “You always have been.”

He kissed you then, quiet and raw, like the world might break around you but he’d keep you standing through it. Like maybe this little piece of safety was something he was finally ready to believe in.

Tags:

[letdevabe]

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆Ashes and wildflowers ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Pairing: Daryl dixon x reader

Summary: You’re a lone survivor — ex-nurse, guarded and self-sufficient — who reluctantly agrees to stay in Alexandria after a run-in with Rick’s group. You keep your distance, especially from the crossbow-wielding tracker who seems to orbit your presence without ever stepping too close. Then a supply run with Daryl change everything

Setting: Alexandria Safe-Zone, post-epidemic timeline (S6–S7 vibe)

Tw: Injury, fever, emotional vulnerability

୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ-୨ৎ

You never meant to stay.

You told them as much when Rick found you on the road — clothes torn, a stitched wound on your ribs, eyes hollow. He offered a place in Alexandria. You said no. Then you saw the place. Kids everywhere, who looks joyful, it really looked like the old world. And something in your chest pulled tight.

“I’ll stay a few days,” you’d muttered.

That was two months ago.

⸻

You don’t talk much. You never needed to.

But you watch.

You see Carol carrying too much weight in her silence. You see Rick’s eyes never stop scanning, even when he’s holding his daughter. And you see Daryl always on the edge, always ready to bolt, but he never does.

Especially not when you’re near.

He doesn’t speak to you, not at first. He just starts appearing near wherever you go. Fixing something when you’re in the garden. Sharpening his bolts when you’re hanging laundry. Dropping little things by your door: a clean cloth, dried berries, a book missing its cover.

You never ask why.

But the first time you clean a cut on his hand and say nothing, just hand him a bit of jerky in return, he looks at you like he understands you in a way no one else ever has.

⸻

Then comes the supply run.

It’s just supposed to be a two-person job. You and Daryl. Quick in and out — a medical outpost near the old high school.

Things go wrong.

You’re crossing a broken floorboard when the wood gives out and something jagged drives straight into your thigh. You scream — more out of shock than pain. But Daryl’s there in seconds.

“Shit, hold still.”

Blood everywhere. Your hands shaking. The wood still inside you.

“Don’t—pull it—yet,” you gasp, already dizzy. “Could be arterial—”

He surprises you by listening. He doesn’t panic. Just lifts you gently, careful not to jostle the leg.

“I got you,” he murmurs, jaw tight.

⸻

The ride back is a blur.

You drift in and out — fever coming on fast. The wound gets worse. Infected. The wood must’ve been dirty. You barely remember when Carol starts taking care of you, or when Rick checks in and says something like, “She’s strong. She’ll pull through.”

But mostly… you remember him.

You wake in flashes.

Once, to the sound of Daryl whispering something — soft and raw — to Judith, who toddles in and curls up near your bed.

Another time, to the feeling of his rough fingers brushing your forehead, checking your fever.

And again, to his voice: “You ain’t dyin’. Not like this. You hear me?”

⸻

Your fever lasts a full week.

Seven days of nothing but dreams and ghost-voices and heat.

When you finally wake fully, it’s night. The room is dim. Quiet. You try to sit up — groan in pain.

“Don’t.”

His voice. Always rough. Always softest when it’s for you.

Daryl’s there in the chair, elbows on his knees, looking like he hasn’t slept in days.

“You stayed?” you rasp.

He meets your gaze, and for once, doesn’t look away.

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Your chest tightens. Not from pain this time.

⸻

Over the next few days, Carol helps you change the bandages. Judith brings you little flowers — most are weeds, but you keep every single one in a jar by the window.

Rick stops by too. “You’ve got people now,” he says with a quiet smile. “Even if you don’t know what to do with that yet.”

You look toward the porch, where Daryl leans against the rail, eyes scanning the treeline.

“I’m figuring it out,” you whisper.

⸻

It’s not until your strength starts returning that you ask him.

“Why’d you stay? All that time?”

Daryl shrugs. “Couldn’t leave you.”

You watch him. He fidgets with the strap of his crossbow. Won’t look at you. But there’s something tender in his voice, buried under years of scars.

“You didn’t owe me anything,” you say.

“I know.”

A long pause.

“But I wanted to.”

⸻

That night, when you walk out to join him on the porch, he glances over — surprised — as you sit beside him and lean your head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t speak.

But his hand slowly finds yours in the dark, rough fingers wrapping around your palm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And just like that, you start to believe maybe wildflowers really can grow in the ashes.

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