Daryl not wanting to let you get up in the middle of the night, grumbling something unintelligible while tugging you back into his arms.
Daryl waking up before you and watching your back rise and fall, not moving a muscle lest he disturb your sleep. It feels good to know you’re safe and healthy.
Daryl pitching a fit under his breath when you’re big spoon, but you know he loves it. Deep pressure therapy king.
Daryl telling you little anecdotes and stories, both true and made up, until you fall asleep.
Daryl only being able to use the L-word when you’re deep asleep, but he means it.
Daryl grunting and making other sleepy noises while he gets comfortable, especially when he’s in a real bed. Snug as a bug!!!
warnings: imprisoned Negan, Sort of forbidden love, kissy, sad at the end
Pt. 1 here
Monotonous was an understatement. Weeks had gone by, and Michonne wasn’t back. Other groups had returned, some of them offering to take your place and deliver some of Negan’s meals, but you refused. To their face, you said you only wanted to respect Michonne’s decision to only have a trusted member interact with him. You wanted to believe it was the truth, but it wasn’t. The truth was, you’d been talking to him for hours each day.
With the others, it wasn’t like you felt uncomfortable talking about your past exactly, it just felt shameful. You wanted them to trust you. But Negan was something different, something strange. You didn’t admire him, but you felt a sort of taboo kinship, relating to the times he hid behind the mindset of “anything to survive”.
Not that you’d ever tell him that.
The mornings were getting colder as the trees lost their colorful foliage, and it showed. Negan was usually in bed when you came down instead of his usual pacing or sitting up against the wall. Today was the same, though he sat up when he saw you. He stepped forward as you slid the tray beneath the bars, resting one of his weathered hands on a support beam running along the inside of the cell.
“Hate to trouble you, but I am warm blooded, hard as it is to believe.”
He tried to keep up his usual dry wit, but his fingers shook, his breath whispering into vapor in front of his face.
“Trust me, it is.” You shoved an extra blanket under the gap beneath the bars, and he picked it up with a small exhale of effort.
“Thank you.” He murmured, and you nodded, turning.
“No shrink talk today?”
You paused, exhaling softly.
“You think we’re settling into some routine?” You retort. His defenses raise a bit.
“No. Please, feel free.”
You rolled your eyes, turning to face him again.
“You can’t guilt trip me if I don’t care about your feelings.”
“So I’ve got feelings after all.” He picked up an apple from the tray, tossing it upward and catching it absentmindedly.
You sighed, taking the bait. You sat in your usual place, a crate pressed to the wall opposite his cell.
“We’re trying to figure out what to do with you. Can’t keep you down here all winter, you won’t survive.”
He nodded, pacing leisurely.
“Gonna have to bring me topside, then.”
His eyes met yours just as he smiled, and it felt like he saw you; amid all the bullshit you were dealing with, the weather, community disputes, repairs…
He put the blanket around his shoulders as he sat down with his meal. The steam trailed upward into the air, around his greying beard. It made you remember one of the reasons you’d come down, apart from delivering his food. You waited until he finished eating before showing him.
You opened a box containing a handheld mirror, razor, and shaving solution. He betrayed a hint of surprise, letting the blanket fall to lay on his bed as he stood.
“Judith’s idea.” You explained briefly. His expression became softer, more genuine.
“Course’.” He murmured.
“Stand back..”
You don’t worry about him bolting, but rather what’s going to happen next as you step inside the cell. You allow him to use the tools, under the condition of supervision.
“You’re just gonna.. watch me?” He mused, lathering his face. He stands in front of the small water basin, the mirror propped up on the wall above the faucet.
“I’m handing you a blade, I have to watch you.”
“What am i gonna do? Hold you at razor-point?”
“Negan.”
Your tone surprises and embarrasses you; speaking to him with an almost fond exasperation instead of the curtness you should be showing. He doesn’t miss it, the razor idly turning in his hand as he took his time facing the mirror again.
The blade glided down over the coarse hair, swathes of grey decorating the black strands in that effortless way which only grew better looking as the years passed. Infuriatingly so. The stubble underneath wasn’t quite smooth; he left a bit lingering there. He rinsed the blade before tracing the next line, your eyes carefully following its path. In that tiny compact mirror, your eyes wander upward until his own are looking back at you through his reflection. He pauses for a moment before speaking lowly.
“You want to give it a go?”
You’d already crossed several lines just having these thoughts, and now he was extending a branch that looked hauntingly welcoming in your stressed state. You don’t answer, slowly stepping forward and letting the razor transfer from his hand to yours. Eerily, he doesn’t make a snarky remark, instead watching your movement in the mirror.
“Don’t need a ton of pressure… take your time..”
His voice is low and softer than you’d ever heard it other than his murmurings in his sleep. Not that you ever visited when he was sleeping, watching his soft breathing and the pale moonlight cover his face. Nothing like that.
On the more difficult areas of his jawline or chin, his hand guided yours, his palm surprisingly warm.
“Not bad..” He murmurs, careful not to move his mouth too much. His face looked more trimmed now, groomed and clean. It made you wonder what it would be like if he taught you other skills, how to handle a gun or blade. Would he stand behind you, guiding you? Brush his lips against your neck? And when you did, would he let you know just how proud he was by kissing away the stress from every inch of you?
You gently thumb over the newly groomed stubble, and his hand catches yours before you pull it away again. His stature has him tilting his head down to meet your eyes.
“I always wondered.. how you lured those guys in. The ones you stole from.”
It wasn’t a barbed inquiry. After all, you were the one who told him all about those nights, the burning of your lungs as you ran for your life, surviving on the depravity of men.
“It only worked if it was a bad person.” You say quietly. He continued to shave, cleaning up the spots you’d missed.
“Maybe I’m a bad person too, from their point of view. But it never took long for them to initiate something. A touch, a remark, whatever. You can tell when a man feels entitled to your body.. like him gifting you a piece of fruit when you’re starving grants him access to his wildest fantasies. I guess this all was a fantasy for them. Surviving the apocalypse, saving the girl…getting to fuck her.”
You rested your back on the wall, studying the concrete floor. You felt his eyes on you, but didn’t look up. He spoke quietly, the faucet the only noise in the cell aside from his voice.
“And the ones that didn’t? Did you still steal from them?”
“No. But it wasn’t often that was the case.”
A soft sigh escaped Negan, a sound you never pictured coming from him. Resignation.
“I’m sorry. That you had to do that.”
“Maybe I should have tried harder to find another way.” You retort.
You thought about leaving it at that, walking away and cutting your losses, but when you looked up, his softened eyes startled you. When no reply came, he turned back to the mirror. You didn’t speak, and neither did he. You took a rag from the sink, wiping the residue off his skin. With your face still inches away, he spoke.
“Why’re you doing all this?”
The words were soft, tentative. So very not Negan-like.
“I don’t know..” You replied honestly, your voice almost hoarse with the same sort of reverence. You stifled a sharp inhale of breath when his hand brushed yours, taking the razor and cloth and setting them aside without taking his eyes off you. You leaned in ever so slightly, hoping to quell any doubt within his movements, and it seemed effective as his hand came up to hold the side of your face.
“This is the part where you pull away.” He remarks, of course. But that tilted smile is what drives home your urges to lean in, kissing him.
The cold had dried his lips some, but there’s warmth underneath, enough for the both of you. His other hand mirrors the one on your cheek, cradling your face for a moment before one slides down to the small of your back, if only to hold you closer. It feels so wrong and achingly perfect, a sin and a breath of air. When your hands smooth over his chest and shoulders, he only sighs, falling further into the kiss that had begun to pick up intensity. The low noises from him that you could catch, you treasured, silently willing him to continue.
You didn’t realize you were crying until you parted from him to breathe, his thumbs wiping away your tears. Your throat burned with repressed guilt, all you’d done and all you’d probably end up doing, over and over just to see tomorrow. Your voice came between you in the form of a whisper.
“I should have found another way..” You breathe, nearly trembling.
Negan searched your eyes, nodding. He wasn’t one to pity somebody, but he saw his own guilt in your tears.
Stay with me now. Season 11 Negan. As he ages, he tires more easily, his bruises fade slower, and sometimes his body can’t keep up with his head. It’s humiliating for him, after spending years being so untouchable, so vicious, now he’s feeling his years, both mentally and physically. He hates feeling weak, but this greyed Negan has taken up way too much space in your head.
Something about the way his face screws up when he’s bandaging himself, the way he leans against things constantly, unintentionally displaying his lithe frame. And during fights, even though he might not be as fast, you can see the remnants of his old self, fragments of his brutalism. The difference is that now he has a good reason to resort to killing. Protecting people is something he’s good at thanks to his violent past, and in his mind, it’s the only good thing he has to offer anymore. Your staring, on the other hand, is less tasteful than his newfound willpower.
You can’t stop, and he catches on before you even realize why your eyes linger. You weren’t quick to brutal violence the vast majority of the time, but seeing that shameless, deadly skill set displayed as a shield to place between you and danger? It made your pulse beat rapidly in your ears, your skin ache for him. He really was skilled, anyone still alive was unless they had someone better to rely on. Nonetheless, watching him navigate combat and strategy for, maybe not good, but *better* reasons, had you practically dreaming about him.
So maybe one night he gets you alone. Gets you to admit it through angry, gritted teeth. Maybe he smiles and says he doesn’t mind a bit, especially if you’d be willing to let him show you just how gentle a bad man can be. Maybe you don’t let him finish before you’re kissing him, head tilted up to push your weight into his.
You feel his ribs under your palms, hands sliding up under his jacket as he returns your advances with practiced ease. There’s a hint of his smile leftover in the kiss, your lip momentarily bumping into his teeth. The reminder of that look he always gives you, sometimes covered in dirt or blood, it makes you back him up against the wall. A satisfied laugh shakes his chest at the controlling action; you could control him any way you liked. When you separate to breathe, you’re still so close, your thumbs feeling his greying stubble on either side of his face before one hand wanders to the hair at the back of his head.
“Well.” He breathes, smiling again. “Can’t say I didn’t see that coming..”
Your hand tightens in the strands of his hair, and he inhales carefully, his eyes flickering shut with a pleased noise. They open again when you speak.
“Just waiting for me to do the work?”
He huffs a quiet breath of amusement.
“Looks like you throw me around just fine..”
This time, you dont hesitate to kiss him, only holding on tighter when his hand cradles your head. You hadn’t doubted his ability, but kissing someone with decades of experience and an attitude to match was more satisfying than you’d pictured.
A call of your name from the other room causes you to reluctantly break the kiss, still breathing deeply with want. He glances in the direction of the voice that had called for you, lazily stepping aside so that his hands slip from their place on your nape and lower back.
“Go on..”
When you hesitate, he places a small kiss on your temple before retreating with a single phrase that makes you shift your weight with anticipation.
EDITED: needed to straighten out some things to set up part 2 coming soon
Warnings: reader has done some things (murda), Negan talks about his wives, some adult themes
You’d think after relinquishing three communities from an arrogant, violent dictator, Alexandria would be a warmer community to each other. But since Negan was in a cell instead of in the ground, the dispute of whether the right decision was made forged a bitter divide. Some got into fights about it, others isolated themselves. Family dynamics were strained if they didn’t align in the category of Negan’s punishment. Even sitting in a cellar, he was on everyone’s mind.
It was hard, because you didn’t have a side to stand on. You’d been with the group since Beth was still alive, but you weren’t there when Negan took Glenn and Abraham. Until that final showdown, when Rick spared Negan, you had tried to keep your distance altogether. The less he knew of you, the better. At least that’s the reason you told yourself. You knew the truth, and so did Aaron; you’d spilled over cigarettes and liquor a few weeks into Negan’s ridiculous trade exchanges. Damn his big empathetic eyes, always getting you to open up. Regardless, your secret wasn’t pretty.
You were brought into the group toward the end of their time at the prison when you saved Daryl from losing an ear to a walker, but before that, you chose solitude. More specifically, you chose a slightly unethical strategy of survival. It started with the first stranger you ever trusted, who you shared with and looked out for. One night you were on watch, Mike, as he’d introduced himself, was sound asleep. While looking through some supplies for your canteen, you found a strip of condoms. A creeping horror trailed up your spine, rattling you enough that you didn’t notice Mike sit up.
Up until then, you could have written him off as just.. a little too eager. Presumptuous, maybe. But there was something in your gut that told you otherwise.
He had crept closer, startling you. He tried to laugh it off, but when you didn’t join in, his front crumbled. He started mumbling about compensation, about companionship, you weren’t supposed to find out this way. But the longer he talked, the closer he got, and he was not happy when you ran.
After a few days of looking over your shoulder, nauseous with anxiety and loneliness, you figured that if people were acting like that so soon after the world fell apart, it would only get worse from here, and you needed to find a way to make it work in your favor. So you played it up. Limping toward any lone man you came across, feigning as if you wouldn’t be able to run away. If they showed no interest in capitalizing on that, you’d leave them be, disappear in the night. But if they had that look in their eye, the one that told you ever disgusting detail of their thought process without them saying a word, you’d stay until they fell asleep, then take off with everything of value they had that you could carry. If they stayed put, the worst they suffered was the theft. If they woke up, it wouldn’t be for long. Given how much some people had on them, you only had to do the song and dance every once and a while as you wandered Georgia. Daryl was going to be the same until he brought you to the prison, and you saw what they had. You had to admit, something was different about them, all of them, from Judith to Hershel. It was a strong front. So you decided to try to be a team player too.
Daryl always knew you were suppressing something, but once you saved their asses a few times, he let it go. No one else had ever questioned your past, and you liked it just fine that way. You weren’t exactly guilty, but proud? Not exactly that, either. The truth was, you couldn’t pin down Negan as one of the men you would have stolen from or not, and it got under your skin. He was complicated. Over the years, Alexandria came to accept Negan’s place in that cell, mostly returning to functional life. You didn’t interact with him, but found yourself asking the people who did if anything had changed. Michonne remarked ‘not much’, and Gabriel was still trying to get him to open up, even at the detest of the others. You admired that.
“There isn’t someone else who can do this?”
You begrudgingly take the food tray from Michonne so that she can pull on her pack.
“I have to go, and I only let people in there that I trust, you know that. And i’ve seen you coughing, I’m not letting you come out on a search when you’re already getting sick.”
Alexandria was relatively barren, nearly everyone out helping look for some kid that had snuck out and hadn’t returned.
“I’m not-"
“I got two kids already, don’t act like a third.”
You sigh.
“You sure you trust me?” You joke as a last resort, but Michonne didn’t budge, her silence letting you know exactly that. You sigh.
“Okay. Go find the kid..”
You watch Michonne go with the others before taking your sweet time walking down to Negan’s cell. Maybe he’s asleep. God, that would be weird to see, but you wish for it. Unfortunately, he’s not, instead sat up against the wall with a tattered book in one hand. His eyes raise to meet yours, almost curious before melting back into smugness.
“Well, good afternoon..” He smiles crookedly. If you didn’t know any better…
But you do. You slide the tray underneath the bars and straighten up.
“You’re uh.. oh, don’t tell me..” He looks up as if to ponder before speaking your name with finality.
“Right?” He tries to urge you to reply.
You don’t. You turn to leave, but the hem of your shirt snags in the padlock of the cell. You grunt in annoyance, a flush of embarrassment making your skin prickle as Negan’s smile grows. He steps forward.
“Can I help with that?”
His hand extends, and you pull your knife warningly.
“Get the fuck away from me.”
His big stupid grin doesn’t falter as he holds up his hands.
“Yes ma’am.”
You huff softly, tugging again on where your shirt is stuck.
“Fucking thing..”
Negan runs a hand over his untrimmed jaw, the course hair smattered with grey.
“You sure you-"
“Yes, I’m sure. Get back, up against the wall.”
He laughs softly. You want to punch him in the throat.
“You know how those.. little dogs are always the snappiest? Trying to start fights with the big guy on the other side of the fence?”
“Do you ever stop talking?” You snap, but he continues.
“And then.. when the fence is gone.. suddenly they’re quiet. Because there’s nothing in their favor anymore. Just… natural consequence.”
You still for just a moment before yanking hard, a piece of your shirt ripping off. The scrap of fabric stays trapped in the padlock’s eroding steel while you step back, and, against your better judgement, unlock the cell door and throw it open.
Negan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t say a word when you hold a blade to his stubbled throat. Honestly, he looks a little too into it.
You step forward, an angry breath slowly leaving your nose.
“Fence is down. And I’m not new to men like you.”
The hazy look in his eye as he eyed the blade only grew.
“Well shit, I knew that... I know because you left them alive.”
A strange twinge settles in your gut as you process his words. It was true; you never killed anyone that didn’t try to kill you first, which wasn’t often, because you did your thieving while they slept. You didn’t want blood, you just wanted their food, their weapons. But one of those men you left alive was bound to have found Negan. Told him all about it. Identified you for him.
“You knew who I was the day you saw my face..” You breathe. You felt like an idiot, and he knew it. His smile returned.
“Smart girl..”
You refocus your blade to touch his skin, and his smile fades, his hands raising warily.
“Easy.”
“Easy..” You repeat incredulously. “What’s your angle? What do you want with me?”
“Theres no angle.”
“You’re full of shit.” You step back, closing the cell door and fastening the padlock. He sighs, rubbing his jaw.
“Am I? Or did you just decide that’s how you’re going to see me no matter what?”
You laugh, but it’s not funny.
“Should I feel bad for you?”
“No.” Negan snaps, exhaling before sitting back down on the cot where he sleeps.
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“Well look at that, we agree on something.” You remark dryly, checking the padlock one last time before stepping back further. He loosely grips a bar of the cell with one hand, the other reaching through and thumbing over the fabric stuck in the lock that had ripped from your shirt. He seems to think for a moment.
“So it’s true. You used to.. what, rob people blind and get away in the night?”
You shift your weight. You had all the power to walk away, and yet you found yourself replying quietly.
“Not…random people.”
Negan folded his arms loosely, chewing his cheek as he observed you.
“Who, then?”
“Men that wanted to feel bigger than they were.” You tilt your head. “Like you…” You tack on, his disgruntled reaction giving you at least a small feeling of control.
“I never did what you think I did. And I didn’t let it happen to women at the Sanctuary, either.”
His tone was sincere, but you find yourself shaking your head skeptically.
“Carl told me everything. Your wives.”
“I didn’t lay a hand on those women.” He insists lowly. “The ones I…had nights with, I asked, they said yes. Some said no, and I didn’t. Sasha-"
“I know what happened with Sasha.” You interrupt, taking a breath. “Doesn’t make you a hero. She was still terrified for her life. And we’re not talking about that, we’re talking about the women that you stuck in dresses and herded around just so their family could live…” You shake your head. “What exactly makes you better than a man that ignores a ‘no’?”
He stares at the cell floor, his jaw flexing.
“I can’t change what I did. But i’m not doing that again. Ever.”
You nod, backing toward the staircase.
“Well aren’t you just a stand-up guy…” You mutter, turning and ascending the stairs.
He calls your name, but you continue, opening the door. Small snowflakes drift down and stick to the street. Your body roiled with tension, stuck, pulled between emotions. You take a breath, continuing back to the street.
We know from canon that Daryl not only accepts Deaf/hearing impaired people like anyone else, but makes an effort to learn ASL. This makes me imagine he would do the same for the visually impaired/blind, mute, etc. He just has a way with people who are considered 'different', because he still feels different. No matter how much he is doted on, though he does appreciate it, he still feels like a part of him is stuck as a kid. He carries pieces of his dad and Merle, but he doesn't let that change who he is. He can be blunt or ridiculous, obviously, that's him. But he's smart, and he's sensitive, and he can ALWAYS see through bullshit. Those are the parts of him that were nurtured and shaped his decision making. Also he is sexy
Daryl “that’s my wife” Dixon fixing up his bike with a lil half up hair situation cause it’s hot out, ditched his vest cause it’s just you and him out there, he doesn’t mind if you see his back
༻✦༺
Daryl “that’s my wife” Dixon throwing down what he’s doing when he sees you in tears coming home to him after a day of whoever lead the supply run yelling at you for tiny mistakes
༻✦༺
Daryl “that’s my wife” Dixon soothing you for a few minutes before slipping off and taking care of things himself, angrily throwing on his vest and finding the man that made his wife cry
You never wanted to consider yourself a ‘military wife’, even though it was technically true.
You were so far from the cheating and emotional constipation stereotypes with Johnny that you didn’t even want the label. He was enamored with you, every time he saw you, without fail.
You’d met through Laswell, a small chat at Price’s home property turned into talking for hours, which turned into a tidal wave of achingly cute dates, which turned into him being yours. He waited until you were ready, but as he said;
“Lass, I knew I’d marry you the minute we met.”
And he did; loud and proud.
You didn’t even know the name Makarov until Johnny was set to go on this mission. You didn’t see him for weeks before he was back in London, and then he was right back out, something about a hacker hiding Makarov in the tube tunnel. You kissed him goodbye at your porch, the wooden chimes hung on the awning clinking sweetly in the wind as he drove away.
He was dead before tea.
Of course you didn’t know, not until the next day. You heard a car in the driveway, but it wasn’t Johnny’s. When Price got out, you assumed Johnny had dragged him along to celebrate. And then Kyle followed, and Simon. Your husband was nowhere to be seen. Stepping back from the curtain, you felt a pull in your gut that nearly made you retch, refusing to believe what was clear.
You answer the door, your eyes not meeting the uniform and dog tags in Price’s arms for more than a moment before a pained noise tore from your chest.
They always told you that you were too smart for him.
You felt yourself crumple, more undignified noises choking from you before they dissolved into sobs. Price handed the belongings to Kyle, kneeling and supporting you.
“Breathe, love, don’t faint on me..” He says softly, that rough Captain’s voice nowhere to be found. Kyle winces as you begin to retch, Simon wordlessly helping you lean against the doorframe and setting the uniform in your arms.
“We can stay for a bit.” Simon says quietly, slipping the dog tags around your neck.
You sit on the porch with them, rocking back and forth slowly with your husband’s fatigues folded in your arms. Price’s hand smooths up and down your back as the nausea mounts in your throat, but you try not to start dry heaving again.
The four of you watch the sun go down over London, not one of you having a clue what to say.
