Literally just a conglomeration of all the fandom's I am apart of. I am uber fandom trash..... oh, and also WHUMP (I am also plus-ultra-oneshots, if you get a message from me in regards to that blog, I am the same person lol XD )
Hey! Can i have a thin crust with veggies and a cookie (Daryl eavesdropping on a round of fuck, marry, kill that the reader is playing with the others. Leads to a lil confession moment), please?
fuck, marry, kill
pairing: daryl dixon x reader
w/c: 2419
warnings/tags: fluff, soft Daryl dixon
masterlist // pizza party
The sun had finally dipped low enough to paint Alexandria in soft gold and lavender- the air around you cooling down from the normal Virginia summer heat. For once there were no alarms, no distant growls, no one running for their life. Just the five of you in the gazebo with a half-empty bottle of the peach wine Maggie had been hoarding and a rare, easy quiet.
Rosita kicked her boots up on the railing, swirling the last of her drink. “Alright. I’m calling it. We’re playing Fuck, Marry, Kill before the world remembers it hates us.”
Maggie snorted, nearly choking on her sip. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” Rosita said. “Michonne, you’re up first. Give us something good.”
Michonne’s smile was small but real, the kind that reached her eyes these days. “Fine. Rick, Shane, and… Negan.”
The table erupted.
“Kill Negan, obviously,” Carol said immediately. “Fuck Shane because that man had issues but the arms were disrespectful. Marry Rick because he’d actually remember your anniversary and probably build you a house.”
Rosita pointed at her with the bottle. “See? She gets it.”
They went another round- Abraham, Tyreese, and Ezekiel- full of cackling and increasingly unhinged reasoning. The wine was making everyone loose and loud in the best way. Then Maggie turned to you, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Your turn,” she said. “Daryl, Jesus, Eugene.”
The gazebo went quiet except for the crickets. Four pairs of eyes landed on you.
You felt the heat crawl up your neck instantly. “Wait, what? That’s not fair.”
“Those are the rules,” Carol sing-songed, far too pleased with herself. “Daryl, Jesus, or Eugene. Go.”
You took a long sip of wine, stalling, but they were all grinning like sharks. “Okay. Fine. Kill Eugene.”
Rosita cackled. “Brutal.”
“He’s like… a very smart, very awkward little brother,” you defended, waving a hand. “I couldn’t. It would feel wrong. Like kicking a puppy that quotes Star Trek.”
Maggie was already laughing. “Fair.”
You took another breath, cheeks burning. “Fuck Jesus.”
That got a round of dramatic “oooooh”s.
“Because have you seen him fight?” you continued, emboldened by the wine and the safety of the game. “The hair, the staff, the whole mysterious thing. He’s objectively hot and he knows it. Temporary. Fun. Done.”
Michonne raised an eyebrow, amused. “And Daryl?”
You looked down at your cup, suddenly very interested in the peach sediment at the bottom. Your voice came out quieter, but steady.
“Marry Daryl.”
The silence that followed was louder than anything they’d said all night.
Carol’s grin spread slow and wicked across her face. “I knew it.”
You groaned, hiding behind your hands. “It’s not-”
“Oh it absolutely is,” Carol cut in, delighted. “You think we haven’t noticed the way you light up like a damn Christmas tree every time he walks back through those gates? The way you hover when he’s patching up after a run? The way you watch him when you think nobody’s looking?”
“I do not hover,” you protested, but it came out weak.
Maggie leaned across the table, eyes bright. “Girl, you got it bad. Like, full-blown, write-his-name-in-a-notebook bad.”
Rosita was cackling into her cup. “Marry Daryl Dixon. The man who communicates in grunts and roadkill. Bold choice. Respect.”
“He’s not just grunts,” you mumbled, face on fire. “He’s… steady. He shows up. He’d burn the world down before he let anything happen to the people he cares about. And he’s gentle when it matters. You just have to pay attention.”
Carol reached over and squeezed your wrist, voice softening just a fraction. “We’re teasing, honey. But we see it. And for what it’s worth? He looks at you like you hung the moon, too. Even if he’d rather die than admit it.”
You opened your mouth to deny it again- because that was safer, because saying it out loud made it real- but the words died in your throat. You couldn’t lie. Not about this. Not when your chest felt too full just thinking about him coming home safe.
The girls dissolved into warm, tipsy laughter, shoving at each other and at you, the moment light and safe and full of the kind of love that only came from surviving hell together.
Unbeknownst to any of you, Daryl Dixon had been twenty feet away the entire time.
He’d been walking the perimeter, crossbow slung low, telling himself he was just checking the fences one last time before dark. In reality he’d slowed when he heard your voices drifting from the gazebo, the rare sound of all of you laughing like the world wasn’t still trying to eat you. He’d meant to keep moving. He really had.
Then he heard his name.
He froze mid-step, one boot still raised, heart slamming so hard against his ribs he was half-convinced the dead could hear it.
Kill Eugene. Fuck Jesus. Marry Daryl.
The words looped in his head like a bad radio signal he couldn’t shut off.
Marry Daryl.
He took a stumbling half-step backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. His back hit the side of an empty house and he stayed there, hidden in the shadow, staring at nothing while his brain short-circuited.
She said marry me. Out loud. In front of everybody. Like it was obvious. Like it made sense.
His hand came up to scrub over his mouth, rough and unsteady. He could still hear you trying to backpedal, the soft embarrassed laugh in your voice when you explained why him. Steady. Shows up. Gentle when it matters. Every word landed like an arrow he didn’t know how to pull out.
Jesus. She’d rather fuck Jesus- Jesus with his stupid hair and his smooth talk- but she’d marry him?
Daryl’s stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the dead and everything to do with the terrifying, fragile thing blooming behind his sternum.
He couldn’t stay. If he stayed any longer he was going to do something stupid like walk over there and-
No. Absolutely not.
He pushed off the wall and started walking, fast, boots hitting the dirt harder than necessary. The streets of Alexandria blurred past him. Someone called his name from a porch- he didn’t answer. His house came into view and he took the steps two at a time, then stopped on the top one like he’d forgotten what doors were for.
He sat down hard instead, crossbow clattering beside him.
Marry me.
The words wouldn’t stop echoing. He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and took a drag that did nothing to calm the storm in his chest.
She couldn’t have meant it. It was a game. A stupid, drunk game girls played when the world gave them five minutes to breathe. But your voice had gone soft on his name. Not playful. Not joking. Real.
Daryl exhaled smoke into the cooling night air and let his head thunk back against the porch railing.
“Fuck,” he muttered to no one.
Because now he couldn’t un-hear it. Couldn’t un-see the way you’d looked down at your cup like the answer cost you something. Couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like to be the person you chose when the dust settled. To come home to you instead of just… coming home.
He stayed there on the porch long after the cigarette burned down to the filter, staring at the dark shape of the gazebo in the distance, heart still doing that stupid, painful, hopeful flip every time the words replayed.
Marry Daryl.
The next few days in Alexandria were strangely… full of Daryl Dixon.
You noticed it immediately.
He wasn’t obvious about it- no one else would’ve caught on- but you did. Because you’d seen him that night. After the game, after your face had been burning and the girls had been howling with laughter, you’d glanced toward the tree line and caught the unmistakable shape of him slipping away into the dark. That slow, careful gait you’d memorized without meaning to. He’d heard every word.
And now he was everywhere.
On Tuesday he “just happened” to be fixing the loose board on the porch steps right outside the house you were helping restock. You stepped out with an armful of canned goods and nearly tripped over him crouched there, crossbow leaning against the railing like an afterthought.
“Steps are a hazard,” he muttered without looking up, hammer in hand. “Coulda broke your neck.”
You smiled, heart doing something stupid and fluttery. “Thanks, Daryl.”
He grunted. Stayed until the job was done. Then lingered an extra minute like he didn’t know how to leave.
Wednesday he showed up at the community garden while you were weeding, wordlessly dropping a basket of fresh tomatoes beside you before vanishing again. Thursday he walked you back from the armory even though your shifts didn’t line up. Friday he sat on the gazebo steps sharpening bolts while you and Michonne talked nearby, close enough to hear every word but pretending he wasn’t.
It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so painfully endearing.
The man who could disappear into the woods for weeks was now following you around Alexandria like a scruffy, crossbow-toting lost puppy who didn’t know what to do with his own feelings.
And every time you caught him looking- really looking- his ears went pink and he found somewhere else to stare.
You let it go on for three more days.
On the fourth, you decided enough was enough.
You found him on his porch that evening, the sky turning that soft bruised purple that meant summer was settling in for real. He was sitting on the top step again, cigarette unlit between his fingers, staring off into space.
He heard you coming- of course he did- but he didn’t move until you stopped right in front of him, arms crossed.
“Daryl.”
His shoulders went stiff. “Hey.”
“You heard me that night.”
Silence.
He flicked the unlit cigarette between his fingers, jaw working. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because I saw you. You were by the big oak. You walked away right after I said I’d marry you.”
His head snapped up so fast you almost laughed. The tips of his ears were already turning that telltale red. “I wasn’t- I mean, I was just walkin’. Ain’t my fault you girls were loud enough to wake the dead.”
“You stayed and listened,” you said gently. “Didn’t you?”
Daryl made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Wasn’t tryin’ to eavesdrop. Just… heard my name. Couldn’t exactly un-hear it after that.”
You took a step closer. He looked like he might bolt, but he stayed rooted to the step, eyes darting everywhere except your face.
“So you heard me say I’d kill Eugene, fuck Jesus, and marry you.”
He made another pained sound. “Jesus Christ, woman-”
“And you’ve been following me around like a lost puppy ever since.”
That got his attention. His eyes finally met yours, wide and flustered and so Daryl it made your chest ache.
“Ain’t a puppy,” he grumbled, but there was no heat in it. Just embarrassment. “Was just… makin’ sure you were alright. After the game. And the wine. And- hell, I don’t know. You said some shit and I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about it and now I’m standin’ here like an idiot and-”
“Daryl.”
He stopped. Swallowed hard.
You softened your voice. “I meant it. It wasn’t just the wine or the game. I like you. A lot. More than like you, if I’m being honest.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You… you do?”
“Carol told me you look at me like I hung the moon,” you added, smiling. “She wasn’t exactly subtle about it either.”
Daryl groaned, dropping his forehead into his hands. “That woman’s gonna be the death of me.”
“She’s not wrong, though,” you said quietly. “Is she?”
He peeked up at you through his fingers. The look in his eyes- raw and hopeful and terrified all at once- nearly undid you.
“I ain’t… I ain’t good at this,” he said, voice rough. “Ain’t good with any of it. You deserve someone who can say the right shit. Someone like-”
“Jesus?” you teased gently.
He huffed a laugh despite himself, the sound small and warm. “Yeah. Or anyone who ain’t me.”
You stepped between his knees where he sat on the step, close enough to feel the heat of him. “I don’t want Jesus. Or anyone else. I want the guy who shows up even when he doesn’t know how to say why. The one who fixes porches and brings tomatoes and follows me around because he heard me say I’d marry him and it scared the hell out of him.”
Daryl’s breath hitched. His hands twitched like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed.
You decided for him.
You leaned in and kissed him.
It was soft at first- tentative, almost shy on his end, like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. His lips were chapped from the sun and he tasted faintly like the cigarette he never lit. One of his hands came up, hovering near your waist before finally settling there, careful, like he needed to ground himself back to reality
Then you felt him relax. Really relax. The tension bled out of his shoulders and he kissed you back properly, a little clumsy, a little desperate, like he’d been thinking about it for days and still couldn’t believe he got to.
When you pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. His thumb brushed your hip in a slow, wondering stroke.
“Been drivin’ myself crazy,” he admitted, voice low and gravelly. “Couldn’t stop hearin’ it. You sayin’ my name like that. Like it meant somethin’.”
“It does,” you whispered. “It means everything.”
He let out a shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Ain’t a lost puppy.”
You grinned, brushing your nose against his. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Daryl’s rare, small smile- the one that barely curved his mouth but lit up his whole face- appeared like sunlight through clouds. He tugged you closer until you were half in his lap on the porch steps, arms looped around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Stay a while?” he asked, quiet. Hopeful.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the other. “Yeah. I think I will.”
summary: Daryl runs into you by chance, and he is taken aback by your blunt and harsh manner. After spending months on the road, Daryl shows you how to trust again. WC: 4.1K
warnings: Swearing, fluff, tiny bit of angst, description of kidnapping and robbery, brief description of blood and injury, mean!Rick
author's note: As requested by the lovely @brideofvecna, this story is so cute I love the lone wolf idea where these two just have their own little language that they communicate in! I hope I could do your request justice!!
Daryl burst through the door of the grocery store that had most likely been barricaded when everything fell down. Debris swiftly moved through the air as he stepped inside. The scattered cans and empty shelves told Daryl exactly how long this place had been abandoned.
He searched the aisles, looking for anything that had 'baby' on it. Judith was just a month old now, and supplies weren't exactly plentiful inside the prison that the group was staying in for the time being.
Except, Daryl stared at the different kinds of baby items with a blank face. He had no clue what babies needed. He'd never had any children of his own.
Up until now, he'd thought the store was empty. Empty enough that he didn't need to clear it.
That was his mistake.
Shuffling from the next aisle over made his ears work in overdrive to hear who or what that was. He set down the cans of food he was holding and replaced them with his crossbow, raising it to take aim.
"Gonna come out or are ya' just gonna stalk me?" Daryl called out to the mystery person. The fact that growling hadn't immediately followed his words told him that this was a person.
Which made the situation all the more precarious.
With a deep sigh, you stepped out into the aisle with your hands raised. Fuck it. If you were going to get killed, at least you had a full stomach for once.
But to your surprise, the pain never came, and the man just stood there with his crossbow aimed right at your face.
In his bag, you could see baby formula sticking out. There it was, a foot in the door.
If you could help him out, maybe he'd let you go without killing you.
"How old?" You mumbled.
"What?" Daryl exhaled, and his crossbow wavered slightly, aimed squarely at your forehead.
"How old is your baby?" You spoke more firmly, words separated by short pauses to emphasize. Daryl let your harshness slide for now. This world could turn the sweetest soul into a hardened shell of a person.
"It ain't mine." Daryl started speaking.
"And I didn't ask you if it was. Do you want my help or not?" The man's eyes narrowed at you, almost in disbelief that you would help him when he had a weapon aimed right at you.
What were you playing at?
Because even Daryl would admit that if he were the one at the end of the crossbow, he probably wouldn't give a damn about the person aiming it.
"A month." He muttered, crossbow aimed at you far longer than you'd prefer, but he hadn't shot you yet.
So there was hope of getting out of here.
"You're gonna need these." You grabbed diapers, formula, and other items that would suit an infant. With a bag stuffed full of items for Judith, you bid the man farewell by tossing him one more item.
A teething ring for the baby.
Daryl had no idea what it was, but he was thankful regardless. And just as he went to show his gratitude, you were gone.
The slowly closing grocery store door hinted at where you had gone. Daryl raced after you, frantically zipping up his bag and snatching his crossbow from the dusty floor.
"Hey! Wait up-" His words made you freeze in your spot.
A woman all by herself out in the open was an easy target, and you weren't about to let yourself be one.
"Take one more step. I dare you." You spun around on your heel with a gun raised at Daryl. "Whatever this is, I want no part of it. We split ways, and you leave me alone."
Now it was Daryl's turn to raise his hands up in a way that spoke, "I'm innocent".
"Not tryin' to take nothin' from ya'." He slowly grabbed the teething ring from his bag, pulling out the pink circle and holding it in front of him.
"Jus' wanna know what this is. It's safe for babies?" Daryl's brow furrowed at the way you snorted softly to yourself.
"S'for babies. A teething ring for when the teeth come in. They chew on it." You hadn't lowered your gun yet, the expression on your face unreadable as you spoke.
Before he could get a word in, you were already placing your gun into your holster and making your way down the street. Daryl could have left then, ignored you completely.
But he decided to follow you. To chase you.
It wasn't every day that a stranger helped someone for nothing in return.
Daryl thought about the questions that Rick asks people to gauge whether they'd be a good addition to the group. It'd be better to ask you now and then beg Rick for forgiveness later.
"How many walkers have you killed?" Daryl's rough voice penetrated your racing thoughts, and it was then that you heard his footsteps trailing after you.
"Y'know, walking away from you means I don't want to keep talking." Adjusting the way your backpack sat on your shoulders, you hissed as the straps brushed over a rash that had formed from weeks of walking on the side of the road.
"How many?" Daryl pressed the topic, now walking in tandem with you.
You narrowed your eyes at him. "Over a hundred. Not limited to killin' walkers, so don't try anything." Your threats fell somewhere in the distance between his shoulder and yours as you walked together.
Because it was like he didn't even hear it.
"How many people have you killed?" Daryl noticed the way you froze for a second. Just a brief pause where something hid.
The answer came out before you had a chance to stop it. "One." Images flashed in your mind, the very reason for your general distrust of anyone you came across.
Daryl asked his final question. "Why?"
"What, I'm just supposed to share all my secrets with you? This ain't a damn sleepover." You scowled at him, stopping in your tracks.
"Jus' wanna know."
With crossed arms, you let out a deep exhale. "Self-defense. Took all my shit and wanted to take me too." Daryl tossed you an absent nod, lost in thought. Would Rick take you in?
"You happy? Happy you got to figure me out?" It had happened a couple of months ago. The man held you up at a little pharmacy along the road and asked for all of your stuff.
Well, demanded under gunpoint.
After handing him your belongings, he was quick to try and overpower you.
The knife holstered on your ankle came in handy.
Daryl stared at you with apprehension. You were right. A pang of guilt ran through him.
He hadn't meant to badger you about this. Hadn't meant to bring up something painful, a scar that never healed properly.
Daryl rubbed the back of his neck with a deep sigh.
"I got a group." Daryl watched as you tossed your bag over a chain-link fence, hopping it with little effort. With the fence separating the two of you, he felt like his chance was slipping away.
His chance at bringing an extra pair of hands to the prison. The fact that bluntness rolled easily off your tongue was only a bonus in Daryl's mind.
"Wait-" He leaned against the metal fence, his voice just barely reaching your ears. It was somehow enough to make you turn around.
Of course you wanted to stay with a group. To have that safety. But that safety often came with strings, came with violence and hardship.
Daryl's voice broke your thoughtful trance. "We got food, guns, shelter." He knew he probably shouldn't be expelling all this information, but he was sure that you weren't a threat.
That your intimidation was all smoke and mirrors. A ruse you put on to protect yourself.
Because that was him not even 2 months ago. All those walls, all those sharp teeth pointed at everyone that dared to come near.
"We're up at the prison. Ya' know where it is?" Daryl asked you, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the metal spokes that poked out of the chain-link fence. He'd walk you back himself if he thought you would come with him.
But from the way you had retreated away from him, he could tell the chances of walking back with you were slim.
Oh you knew the prison. Your father had many stints in those cells when he'd have a rough night and too much alcohol. Many times, you had to pick him up when he had nobody else to call.
A scoff left your lips. "Yeah."
Daryl noticed the sad smile on your face, and his brows furrowed as he tried to place the reason for it. Maybe you'd been there before.
"Don't have to decide now." His eyes met yours, falling on the way you scanned the area while he spoke. "But you should know we're good people."
Part of you wanted to believe him.
"Here." Daryl pulled a half-full water bottle out of his bag and tossed it over the fence. It landed with a thud onto the grass. "Name's Daryl, by the way." He didn't ask for your name; he knew you'd never give it.
If you'd asked for his name at the start of all this mess, he'd have shrugged off the question like it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.
You plucked the bottle from the grass and held it in your hand, eyes never leaving the man standing in front of you. "Thanks."
With that one word still settling in the space, you turned on your heel and walked away.
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
It had been about two weeks since Daryl had seen the mysteriously harsh woman who reminded him of himself. Two weeks since he offered up the location of the prison.
He hated the thought that you weren't coming. Or worse, that you had a group yourself. And now he had just willingly given up the location of the group to a woman he had just met.
While working on the fence, he'd catch himself glancing out at the expanse of forest, searching for you. Hoping that somewhere, maybe you were observing them, and that you'd come out of hiding and ask to be taken in.
And today, while tending to something inside the layers of fences with Beth, he saw it.
The same color shirt you were wearing. He saw it out of the corner of his eye, making him do a double-take.
It was real. It was you.
Rick had already set his sights on you before you could even get close to the opening. He was walking up to the entrance, hand firmly pressed to his holstered gun.
"Stop!" His low-toned shouting made you halt, just feet away from safety. At least temporary safety.
Daryl could tell that Rick was not exactly open to visitors in this moment, which was why he jogged over to help.
"Rick. Seen her before." Daryl placed a hand on Rick's shoulder to pull his attention away from the murderous intent seconds before.
This whole time, you were panting and nervously glancing around yourself. Growls were low whispers, signalling that they were close by.
Rick hadn't taken his gaze away. "You know her?"
Daryl nodded at Rick's question. "Asked her the questions. She's good."
The skepticism on Rick's face made Daryl's heart race. After the promises he made to you, after gaining even a shred of your trust, it was all about to crash down.
"It's not that I don't trust you, brother. I want to be sure." Now Rick's head was fully turned toward Daryl. Leaving you in Daryl's view.
His jaw clenched when he saw the state you were in. Your body was covered in a mixture of dried blood and dirt. He noticed the way your legs were shaking, of exhaustion no doubt.
Rick asked you the three questions again. And this time you didn't even say anything. Instead, your eyes found Daryl.
"Gonna make me repeat myself?" You asked, tone laced with something harsh and blunt.
Rick did not look happy. "Fine. We'll leave ya' out there."
Daryl answered for you. "She's killed about a hundred walkers. And one man. Self-defense."
Rick sighed. "The point is for them to tell us." He pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "And why kill that one man?"
You didn't hesitate. "Took my stuff, tried to take me. I took him." You could see the way that Rick searched you for lies, watched your body language to see any classic tells.
Rick ran a hand over his mouth in realization that you were indeed telling the truth.
Or a damn good liar.
"Alright. But Daryl, if she tries anything. Anything. She's gone." Rick spoke with venom on his tongue, his tone sending a shiver down your back.
So much for a warm welcome.
"Thank you." Despite it all, you were able to mutter out something that proved to Rick you at least had some manners.
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
Daryl had been your sole lifeline, your one and only connection inside of the prison. He'd helped you secure yourself a nice cell beside his. He even brought you into conversations, insisting that you had a right to voice your opinion.
And sure, you talked with the other members of the group. You made conversation with Carol and Hershel, albeit stuttered and separated by quiet pauses.
They tried. They really did. Glenn and Maggie asked about your love life, to which you gave half-hearted replies and shrugs. Beth and Hershel gave you polite waves and smiles whenever you'd pass by in the cell block.
But every time, they were met with a wall. A wall that prevented anyone from getting close enough.
Today, you were carrying a basket of crops that had grown outside the fencing. The heavy weight had made your shoulders ache as you made it to the fence. Rick was near the entrance, adjusting something with the fence.
Walkers were approaching you; their growling and gurgling made your hair stand up in fear. There had been a few close calls these last few months, and you definitely did not want to have another one.
When you glanced back, Rick hadn't moved from his spot. Then you noticed it.
He had his back turned to you, hammering relentlessly against the metal of the fencing.
You dropped the basket and tried to pry open the gates yourself, fingers becoming raw from the jagged metal. If you hadn't left your gun in your cell, you would have already fired off a couple of rounds into the walkers.
All you had was a knife.
You had to rely on someone, had to ask for help now.
"Rick, can you open the gate?" You called out to him.
You grunted to yourself and took in a deep breath of air. You shouted his name loudly, loud enough for the sound to penetrate through the hammering.
Loud enough for the walkers to be alerted.
Rick perked up at the sound of you and dropped what he was carrying. He tried to sprint over to you, tried to get there on time.
Daryl had beaten him to it.
He was out hunting deer and squirrels, and he came back around the same time you did. That's when he saw you.
The numerous walkers that were approaching you. There were at least five surrounding you, mere feet away. And more stumbled out of the tree line, jaws hanging open, hungry.
And he saw Rick with his back turned, only turning when you had shouted for help.
Daryl raced over with his crossbow and took out the few that were approaching from the treeline. He continued to move closer to you, this time knifing the stray walkers that were surrounding you.
You had pulled your knife out of its holster before he came over, placing punishing blows into the heads of walkers with the sharp blade.
Once the area was mostly cleared, Daryl grabbed the basket with one arm and led you inside.
"The hell was that?" Daryl shouted at Rick after the gate was closed, after the threat of walkers was gone.
"Could'a got her killed!" Daryl knew you weren't exactly fitting in, but there was absolutely no excuse to not give you some backup out there.
Especially considering how you were still recovering from the injuries that you had when you showed up.
Rick clenched his fist and let out a deep sigh. "I didn't hear her." Guilt raced across his features.
"Next time we'll send someone out with her." Rick ran a hand over his face, his face furrowed into a deep frown.
"Ain't gonna be a next time. She'll come out with me." Daryl snapped, his eyes meeting yours for a split second, as if to ask for your approval.
But you didn't give it. Because nobody was going to be responsible for you. Nobody ever did that before, so why would they care about you now?
"I can handle myself." You muttered, shoving your knife into the holster and grabbing the basket from Daryl with a forceful pull.
You could hear the sigh escape his lips as you walked away.
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
The prison outlook tower was your escape away from the rest of the group. It gave you space to think, to look upon the group members and just observe.
It made you feel guilty, being away from them so often. But you thought about Rick, and how it would have been that easy to lose everything because of blind dependency.
After the events this morning, you were wary of asking anyone for anything.
That included bandages.
When you had tried to pry open the gates yourself, you had sliced your hand open on the sharp metal. Pressing a cloth to the wound, you winced as the blood pooled onto the fabric, red stains covering your arm.
The door opened without warning, making you nearly jump out of your skin. Stuffing your hands in your pockets, you hid the wound from the incoming visitor.
It was Daryl.
He brought you some food and water.
"Dinner." Daryl set it down on a table and stood parallel to you. Shame boiled over inside you, having him bring you things and be nice to you.
And you had nothing to give in return.
"Gonna show me your hand?" Daryl spoke unflinchingly, eyeing the hand that was stuffed into your pocket.
Eyes widened, you met his cool gaze. "What? I don't-"
"Will ya' just show me yer' damn hand?" He reached out to you, hand gesturing for your own.
"It's fine." The throbbing in your palm was getting harder to ignore. But you could handle this. You could push away the pain so you wouldn't have everyone tending to you, wasting their resources, acting like you were family.
"Christ, woman-" He scoffed at your stubborn manner. "Just ain't gonna learn, are you?"
You froze in your spot, eyeing him with a furrowed brow. "Learn?"
"You don't have to carry everything yourself. Could let us help." Daryl watched as your eyes trailed off, lowering to stare at something as a distraction.
"I'm not like you all. I don't have anything to give." The words tumbled out, landing softly in the quiet room of the lookout. The sun was setting, casting an orange glow through the windows. All of a sudden, the group's daily routine seemed so interesting while Daryl was confirming his suspicions.
"Don't have to give nothing." He shook his head in disbelief. "Just want you to stop livin' like a damn stray."
"A stray?" The word hurt somewhere deep inside, because part of it was true. Everyone walked around with judgement in their eyes, only tossing the occasional supplies and food when you managed to get close enough.
As if tossing a scrap of food at a scrawny, starving dog.
"Yeah." Daryl gave you a tight-lipped smile. "They used to treat me the same way. Like I was gonna snap at 'em if they got too close."
You snorted softly. You could tell that Daryl was more standoffish than the rest of the group from just a few hours of observation, but you didn't know the full extent of his journey with them.
And the progress he'd made.
"Gotta trust a little bit." His hand lightly brushed your arm, eyes trailing down to the hand that was still crammed into your jean pocket.
"C'mon, at least give me a little trust." He spoke with a smile, his hands moving in a 'come here' gesture.
You thought about the grocery store, how Daryl immediately took your help with nothing but maybe a little bit of suspicion.
He trusted you enough after three questions.
He offered you what he had, expecting nothing in return.
You swallowed and pulled your hand out of your pocket, hissing at the stinging sensation. The cloth was now soaked in blood.
Daryl's eyes widened in realization. "Fuck-" He held your hand softly in his, unwrapping the cloth and gently pulling it away from your skin. "Sat in here for hours not askin' anyone for help." He tsked.
His words weren't meant to harm, but tears pricked at your eyes anyway. "Didn't want to waste supplies-" A teary sniff cut off your words.
You hated this. Hated being so emotional around him. He was just wrapping your hand, not saving you from your damn death.
Daryl's eyes found yours immediately, concern consuming his features. "S'not a waste if you need 'em." Daryl didn't know what came over him, but he felt the desire to comfort you.
He moved closer to you as he tended to your wound, his shoulder pressed against yours to ground you. The mixed warmth of your bodies did the work to calm your emotions.
As he finished wrapping the wound, he held your hand in his, fingers tracing circles on your knuckles. "Done. Was that so hard?" The smug smile on his face made you roll your eyes.
"Thanks." You swiped at the tears that had fallen down your face.
Daryl sat with you that night and ate dinner with you, sitting cross-legged with you on the floor watching the sunset.
And he made you promise that you'd put more effort into trying to open up.
・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・
The following couple of months had been full of Daryl practically following you around and teaching you how to trust again. Your relationship had grown into something more, though neither of you made an effort to name it.
And he was always the first person to volunteer to help you.
Just as long as you asked.
Rick had assigned you and Daryl to a run together because the two of you had formed a close team. Daryl could anticipate your needs just as much as you did his. Plus, you knew more about baby products than Daryl, so Rick sent you with him in case you ran across something for Judith.
You were picking through an old suburban community, grabbing whatever you could find. As the two of you entered the house, you split up to cover more ground.
A couch was propped up against the wall, separating you and a room full of what looked like medical supplies.
In true independent fashion, you attempted to grab the couch and move it. Only, it was much too heavy for one person. You set the furniture down with a heaving sigh, hands placed on your knees so you could catch your breath.
And then you tried again, grunting helplessly as the couch didn't budge. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him.
Daryl was standing behind you, just watching. A smirk on his face. His arms were crossed across his chest.
"You're just gonna stand there?" You placed your hands on your hips, scoffing at him.
Daryl shrugged. "Depends. You got somethin' to say to me?" He moved closer to you, hands finding your waist and pulling you firmly against him to get you out of the way.
With a roll of your eyes, you tried to shove him away from you. "Don't be so proud about it, asshole."
He quickly overpowered you, swaying teasingly. "Mhm, keep dodging the question."
Your body went limp in his grip, signalling that you'd given up. "Fine. Can you help me?" You muttered in a low voice.
Daryl moved his face closer to yours. "What was that?" He couldn't contain the wide smirk on his face.
"Can. You. Help. Me?" You spoke in stuttered, solid words. Daryl grunted in approval and moved to the couch in one stride.
The two of you lifted the couch and pushed it against another wall out of the way.
"Wasn't so hard, was it?" Daryl pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Asshole." You managed to slip out of his grip to shove the medicinal products into your bag.
c/w: daryl dixon (season 5); mentions of walkers and mild peril; past character death referenced (Merle); emotional vulnerability, tears, and soft angst with a comforting ending.
Daryl had never understood that whole flower thing.
To him, weeds were weeds. They grew, they died, they covered the ground or told you if the soil was any good. That was it. He knew a few by survival instinct—which ones bore fruit, which were poisonous, and which could handle the winter. But never, in all the years of his life, before or after the dead started walking, had he stopped to think about what a flower could mean.
You changed that. Not all at once, but slowly, the way daylight changes, so gradually he didn't even notice when he started paying attention.
Because you had this thing. This way about you. Whenever you passed through some trail and spotted a flower—any flower, even the scrappiest one, with wilted petals and a crooked stem—your eyes would transform. They'd catch a different kind of light, a brightness Daryl didn't see in anyone else in that gray, broken world. You'd stop, crouch down, and for a few seconds you'd forget the danger, forget the walkers, and forget the hunger and the fear. You'd just stay there, admiring it, like that fragile little thing was the most important thing of all.
And he'd watch. Not the flower. But you.
At first, he thought it was silly. Then he started finding it curious. Then, without realizing it, he began waiting for those moments. He'd end up looking for flowers along the path just to see if you'd notice. And when you did, when your eyes lit up and your mouth curved into that smile, his chest would warm. It was a weird thing, something he couldn't name. A good kind of ache. A tightness that hurt and comforted at the same time. He didn't understand it. But he didn't want it to stop either.
He remembered one afternoon especially. A while back now. They were camped by a creek, the whole group exhausted after days of walking. You'd found wild tulips growing between the rocks, near the water. You knelt in the damp earth and stayed there, your hands hovering over the petals without touching them, afraid of hurting them. You started talking. You said tulips stood for true love and renewal because they were the first to push through the soil after winter. You explained that each color meant something different—red for passion, yellow for joy, and white for forgiveness.
Daryl was leaning against a tree, arms crossed, pretending he was just resting. But he remembered every word. The way your hands drew shapes in the air. The laugh you let out when you realized you were talking too much. Your eyes shone so bright it almost hurt to look. He stored it all away in some quiet place inside himself, a place he didn't even know existed before you showed up.
Time passed. Things changed. Alexandria came along, bringing walls and some safety. But what didn't change was what Daryl felt. It only got bigger and deeper. He still didn't name it. Maybe he didn't know how. Maybe he was afraid to.
Until one day the idea came. Small, almost silly. He was on a supply run, passed through a clearing full of wildflowers, and thought of you. Imagined your eyes lighting up. Imagined your smile. His chest warmed. And the idea took root.
He was going to find you a field of flowers.
It wasn't easy. He spent weeks on it. On his runs, he started straying from the usual routes, paying attention to something he'd never paid attention to before. He learned to read the land with different eyes—not just for danger, but for beauty. Once he found a small field, but it was full of purple flowers he didn't recognize and didn't know if they were any good. Another time he found a patch of daisies near a road, but it was too close to the walls, too easy. You deserved something special. Something he'd really searched for.
He almost died twice. The first time, a herd passed too close, and he had to hide in a sewer pipe for hours, the smell of death soaking into his clothes. The second time, a walker came out of nowhere while he was checking a trail and nearly sank its teeth into his arm. Daryl handled it with his knife, quick, but his heart raced in a way it didn't race anymore.
One night he slept out in the open. He'd gone too far, the sun dropped, and he had to wedge himself into the branch of a tree, his back aching against the bark, his crossbow in his lap. He didn't close his eyes. He listened to the groans below, but his mind was on you. What you'd say if you saw that field. Your eyes. Your smile.
And then, on an afternoon of fierce sun, he found it.
The field opened up before him like something alive. Wild daisies as far as he could see. The wind made waves, and the yellow swayed like the ground was breathing. The smell was sweet and fresh, a light perfume. Daryl had never smelled before. He stopped. His crossbow lowered. His eyes swept over the vastness of color, and for a long time he just stood there, in silence. He thought of you. Of your voice talking about tulips. Of the light in your eyes.
His chest ached. But it was a good ache.
He walked slowly through the field, the flowers brushing against his boots. He crouched down. His calloused hands, used to the crossbow, the knife, and hard and rough things, touched the stems with a care no one would ever believe he had. He picked them one by one. He chose the prettiest ones, the ones with the most open petals, the deepest yellows. Some were so pale they looked almost white at the center; others were golden and vibrant, like they'd swallowed the sun.
He gathered them into a bunch. He tied the stems with a piece of old twine he carried in his pocket. His hands worked slowly, thick fingers making a clumsy but firm knot. When he finished, he held up the bouquet and looked at it. It was crooked. The flowers weren't perfectly lined up. But they were alive. They were beautiful. He hoped you'd think so too.
And then came the problem. How to carry them back?
The backpack was impossible—the petals would get crushed, the stems would snap, and he'd arrive in Alexandria with a handful of yellow dust. Carrying them in his hands was the only option. But the image flashed through his mind like a mocking ghost: Daryl Dixon, the tracker, the lone wolf, the guy everyone looked at with a mix of respect and caution, crossing miles of deserted road with a bouquet of fluffy flowers in his hand. He almost snorted out loud.
But then he thought of you. Of the look on your face when you saw them. Of the brightness that would spark in your eyes. And the pride, that old thing he carried like a second skin, shrank. Became small. Ridiculous.
He held the flowers in his left hand and started walking.
The way back was long. The sun burned the back of his neck, and sweat ran down his spine, sticking his shirt to his body. He kept his right hand free, ready for the crossbow, his eyes sharp for any movement. But his left hand stayed steady on the stems, his fingers forming a protective shell around the twine.
Every now and then, he looked at the daisies. He watched a petal come loose and float to the ground. He stopped. Looked at it lying in the dusty earth. He pressed his lips together. Adjusted the flowers with even more care and kept going.
Another petal fell. Then another. He felt a tightness in his chest, a foolish, childish fear that the flowers would wilt before he got there. That you'd never see how beautiful they were. That all that effort would be for nothing.
If Merle were still alive, he'd laugh. He'd laugh until his soul left his body. He'd say Daryl had gone soft, a sap, a lovestruck idiot. But Merle wasn't there anymore. You were. And that was all he thought about as the hours passed and the road stretched on and the sun sank slowly toward the horizon.
When the walls of Alexandria appeared, Daryl's heart kicked. It wasn't the fear of walkers. It wasn't the adrenaline of the hunt. It was something else — a new kind of anxiety, a nervousness that rose up his throat and left his mouth dry and his hands sweating. He looked at the flowers one last time before going in. Some petals were crumpled. One daisy had lost more than half its yellow. But the bouquet was still beautiful. He wanted so badly for you to like it. He wanted so badly to see that brightness.
The gate groaned, and he stepped inside.
Alexandria was quiet, that warm space between afternoon and evening. A few people were walking down the main street—Eugene waved from a distance, and Rosita passed by carrying a box and said something he didn't register. Daryl didn't answer anyone. His eyes were already sweeping the place, searching.
His left hand squeezed the stems harder than he meant to. Then he saw you.
You were sitting on the steps of the house. The house you shared—well, the house you split, each with your own room, each with your own space, but the same door, the same porch, and the same comfortable silence at the end of the day. You had a book in your lap, but you weren't reading. Your gaze was far away, lost in the clouds drifting slowly across the orange sky of dusk.
The light hit your face in a way that softened everything. Your hair was half loose, messed up by the afternoon wind. You were nibbling your lower lip, distracted, thinking about something he didn't know—maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
Daryl stopped. A few yards away, he stopped and just looked.
There was a peace in your expression that he couldn't find anywhere else. People were always tense, always armed, always on alert. But you, in that moment, were at peace. It was a simple, quiet beauty. And it hurt. It hurt in his chest in a good way, a way he'd never felt before you.
He started walking again. His boots made noise against the old asphalt. The sound brought you back. You blinked, came out of your daydream, and your face turned toward him.
First, your eyes swept over his body. It was a gesture you always made, automatic, instinctive. You checked his shoulders, arms, torso, and legs. He looked for blood, tears in his clothes, and any sign that something had gone wrong. Your eyes were quick and efficient. And when you saw he was whole—dirty, tired, but whole—your shoulders relaxed. An almost invisible sigh escaped your lips.
But then your eyes dropped and stopped on the flowers.
Daryl saw the moment. He saw every detail. It was like watching a door open in slow motion. First, your eyebrows lifted, just a little, a millimeter, barely anything. Then your lips parted. Your hands, which had been resting absently on the book, went still. Frozen. The world seemed suspended for a second—the wind stopped, the distant sounds of Alexandria vanished, and everything faded.
"Daryl…?" Your voice came out as a thread. It wasn't really a question. It was more like you were testing reality, checking if your eyes were lying. His name left your lips, carrying an emotion; you didn't even try to hide the surprise, disbelief, or something deeper that vibrated between the lines.
He didn't answer.
His throat was dry. Words always fled from him in the important moments. He just stopped in front of you. Close. So close he could see the tiny golden flecks in your eyes, things he'd never noticed before, or maybe he'd always noticed and just never admitted it. His hair hung over his face, dirty from the road, but he didn't push it away. Instead, he raised his left hand and held the bouquet out to you.
His eyes, always so hard, always so closed off, were different now. Open. Vulnerable. There was nervousness there, an almost childish fear of rejection. There was an expectation. A flicker of hope. But there was also a tenderness he'd never let anyone see. Because no one had ever gotten close enough. Only you.
He didn't know how to make speeches. He didn't know how to declare anything. He didn't know how to turn what he felt into pretty words. But he could do this. He could give you the flowers and wait. Wait for you to understand. For you to read between the lines of the gesture, everything he couldn't say.
Three seconds passed. Maybe four. An eternity. And then your hands moved.
It was slow. So slow. Like you were afraid to touch the flowers and find out they weren't really there—that it was a dream, something that would dissolve at the slightest contact. Your hands rose, hesitant, and settled over his.
The touch was electric.
Your fingers met his over the green stems—yours, soft, with short nails and warm skin; his, rough, calloused, covered in small white scars. They were completely different hands, but they fit together right there as if that was the only place they were ever meant to be. Daryl felt a jolt run up his arm, a warmth that spread fast and settled right in the middle of his chest.
You took the bouquet with both hands and pulled it close to your body. You pressed it against your chest like you were holding something precious, something that could break. Something sacred.
Your eyes dropped to the flowers. And what he saw on your face made the air disappear.
You ran the tips of your fingers over the petals. One by one. With a delicacy that was almost a prayer. You felt the texture, the remaining freshness, the small imperfections. Some daisies were bruised from the journey—crumpled petals, one stem slightly bent—but you didn't seem to mind. Your eyes traveled over the different shades of yellow with a quiet reverence, and your mouth curved slowly, very slowly, into a small, incredulous smile.
And then you lifted your eyes to him. And they were full of water.
It wasn't sadness. It was an emotion so big it overflowed. Your eyes shone, and the tears gathered in the corners, trembling, not yet falling. Your lashes grew heavy. You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice came out choked, almost a whisper.
"You brought me flowers." It wasn't a question. It was a realization. But there was so much wonder in your voice, so much gratitude, so many unspoken things, that it sounded like you didn't quite believe it yourself. Like no one had ever done a gesture like this for you. Like it was the first time.
Daryl looked away. He always did when something moved him too much. He scratched the back of his neck—that old tic, that shield—and looked at the ground. At his own boots. At the fallen petal between you. At anything but your tear-filled eyes.
"They're daisies." His voice came out low, almost a mutter. "Don't know what they mean. You're the one who knows that stuff."
You let out a wet laugh. It was a beautiful sound, half broken, half sweet. You lifted one hand to your face and wiped away a tear that had escaped. Then you looked at the flowers again, and the smile grew.
"Daisies mean purity, loyalty, and patient love." Your voice still trembled, but now it had a different warmth. A sweetness. "They're simple flowers, but they say a lot. Whoever gives daisies is saying they'll stay."
Summary: You get way too much unwanted attention from Shane. He takes it too far - but the man you harbour feelings for is here to put the former police man in his place.
Warnings: Trigger warning! Shane – he's a huge warning here, lots of swear words and cussing, angst? Shane trying to get in Reader's pants without her wanting it, harassment, Shane getting kinda physical, PROTECTIVE!DARYL, fluff, idiots in love, mentions of Daryl's abusive past, a fight, blood, mentions of walkers
Set in Season 2!
Word Count: 3,7k
a/n: Woke up one morning a few days - weeks? ago, had this idea and brain was like: Write that down. So, I did. Turns out that this is probably one of my favourite stories I ever wrote.
Quiet Love (part 2)
°☆• discover more... •☆°
"Ya been sittin' here 'n just starin' at me fer fuckin' forever. Wha' is it? Know there's sum'thin' ya wanna talk about." You blinked; eyes lifting to look at Daryl sitting across from you. Only the small campfire between the both of you. He was occupied with carving some kind of spear or more likely a spit out of a thicker branch to grill the fish he had angled in the river earlier.
Ever since the archer had shut himself off quite a little from the group - from the farm, and camped outside of the Greene property, you found yourself way more often out here than close to the others as well.
Logically.
Yes, you missed Daryl and his presence.
Yes, you enjoyed his company more than probably everyone else.
Yes, you felt safer with him than with the group.
And yes, you might've caught feelings for the 'rough and tough' redneck.
However, the main reason you spent most of the time up here was another. The one that got you staring rather absentmindedly at the man sitting across from you...
You swallowed at Daryl's words; taking a deep breath and just watched him work the branch with his knife for another moment before you finally spoke up - for the first time since you came here. "It's just... Shane..." As the name of the former cop left your lips, Daryl froze in his movements - knife stopping mid slice. His blue eyes snapped up to meet yours; darkened, dangerous and almost angry - not at you, though. "Tha' asshole say sum'thin' to ya again?" Daryl asked with a deep growl.
It was no secret that the archer didn't really like Shane. He honestly never did. The little respect he had for him flew right out of the window after his first proper search for Sophia. Shane was aggressive, acted rash and the only ones he really cared about were Carl and Lori. The others? He didn't give a shit. Just like about Otis. Daryl was almost sure he sacrificed him at that school. He would sacrifice everyone for 'his family' - even his best friend. Daryl wasn't stupid. He was good at reading people. Dale knew it as well.
"Did he touch ya?" He questioned further; voice dropping another octave. You shook your head. "N-No, no... Not... yet. He just..." "Those stupid comments 'n all tha' shit?" You nodded.
Daryl knew. You had often told him about this. Silent complaints. Seeking help. Despite Shane's quite 'obvious' undying love for Lori, he liked to hit on other women. Especially you - as it seemed. He had often attempted to try and get inside your pants. It had started 'harmless'. Little comments here and there. Flirtations. Talks. His intentions had been clear right away - and you had told him 'No' from the very start. Shane wasn't the man you craved or wanted physical touch with.
Things escalated more and more - and now that Daryl wasn't around the farm anymore to send Shane a threatening glare from time to time, it seemed like the former police man used this current situation to his 'advantage'.
"Not just comments anymore, though... He... He often tries to... corner me. Like... against a wall, o-or tree, o-or even the henhouse yesterday as I got eggs for Patricia to cook. I feel like it gets w-worse and..." You paused for a heartbeat to swallow hard; fingers fumbling nervously. "...I don't know how, uh, long I'll be able to... escape this."
Daryl got what you meant. Of course, he did. His jaw ticked; muscles tightening. "Tha' son of a bitch," he literally growled; one hand squeezing the branch tighter - before he threw the piece of wood and his knife to the grassy ground beside him. Within the blink of an eye he was on his feet. "Gonna tell tha' piece 'a shit a few words. Ask 'im if he's deaf or jus' stupid 'cause he ain't understanding what 'No' means," he grumbles; already starting to march away before you could even react or speak up. "Yer gonna stay here. Keep an eye on tha' fire."
All you could do was watch him stomp away and mumble a quiet "'Kay."; eyes following him. You didn't intend to stop him. Daryl was your safe space. The only one - besides probably Dale who had the balls to confront him. And you wanted this shit to end. Therefore, you let Daryl do his thing. You just hoped it wasn't going to escalate. Both men with a temper and not the longest fuse. Both men hot-headed.
So, you sat there - at Daryl's little campfire. A little shaken up and nervous, but kept an eye on the fire like he told you. Watching the flames dance in the warm late summer air with the slowly darkening sky above you had something utterly calming. Almost hypnotic. Yet, your mind stayed sharp. You weren't behind safe walls or fences... A geek could stumble across here anytime.
You didn't know exactly how much time passed before you saw Daryl approaching the little camp again, but it certainly wasn't that much. Your eyes scanned him from tip to toe as soon as you recognised his frame in the distance; checking if he was okay. It seemed like it.
Wordlessly, but with a signature grunt, the archer sat across from you again and picked up his task where he left off.
You blinked; eyes still on him for another quiet moment. That was is? No words, just a grunt?
"What, uh, did he say?" You asked after another beat of silence; carefully and in a quieter voice than usual. Daryl shrugged his shoulders. "Ain't much. Told him 't keep his wandering hands off 'a ya. Gave 'im a last warning 'n left."
You knew exactly that Daryl was most likely describing this confrontation more friendly than it actually played out; not wanting to put you through this shit.
"Okay," you mumbled and offered him a soft smile. "Thank you."
Daryl being Daryl, said nothing in return and just gave you a nod and another grunt.
Silence spread between you two then. It wasn't uncomfortable or unpleasant, just thoughtful but actually nice. Most of the times, you didn't need words to communicate with Daryl anyway. You got his body language; could read him most of the times - even if you didn't know why. The chemistry between the both of you just seemed to click.
He handed you the spear he just carved, broke another branch over his knee and carved another spear. You watched him work; his survival skills remarkable. You didn't know him long but you did know that he was made for this world. Probably one of the few people for whom the apocalypse was a blessing.
Once he was done, he handed you one of the gutted fishes he had caught.
Dinner.
He always looked out for you. Silently. Made sure you ate enough, got weapons on you and so on. It never was a huge gesture or words. Small things. Quiet things. That's how he showed you he cared. His love language.
Together, you cooked the fishes over the fire and ate together; with the sun sinking deeper and deeper beyond the horizon.
"Daryl?" You spoke his name quietly; still watching the dying flames dance and flicker - casting shadows on his handsome features. The archer's eyes snapped up to focus on you again - a silent answer.
"Can I... sleep with you tonight?"
His blue orbs widened to the size of plates - and you realized how easy it was to misunderstand the sentence you just dropped.
"I-I mean in your tent! Here! Not alone at the camp w-with the others!" You instantly corrected; kinda backtracking.
Nevertheless, the damage was done - at least for Daryl. He stood up quickly and turned his back to you; occupying himself with anything - just so that his flustered self didn't have to look into your eyes at the moment. He was blushing. Hard.
You silently watched him move across his camp; 'cleaning' up and avoiding eye contact. Shit, you thought. I screwed it up. Your brain already came up with a trillion different apologies; wanting to repair what you had destroyed - but then...
"Ya comin' or wha'?"
You blinked and looked up at Daryl again; seeing how he held back the flap of his tent for you to crawl in. A smile crossed your face and you stood up; stepping past the dying campfire and inside the tent. "Thought I crossed a border. Thought I was making you uncomfortable. Don't want that. Ever." You received a low grunt in return, followed by the sound of the zipper being shut before he turned on his knees to face you again - head ducked, chewing nervously on the pad of his thumb and shrugged his shoulder. "Didn't say tha'...," the archer retorted in a low, quiet voice.
You just gave him another soft smile; deciding to drop this 'topic' before you'd really make him feel uncomfortable. "'Kay. Thanks for letting me sleep here. I just... I don't wanna see Shane again today or cross his path." The man across you gave you an understanding nod. He got it. Of course, he did.
You slept way better that night than any night before; knowing that no geek and no Shane could harm you here. You were at the safest place on this world - with Daryl. Not yet in his arms, but that would hopefully change someday...
Barely a few days later - on another quite hot evening in late summer, Daryl made his way through the high grass of the meadow to reach the Greene farm. He wanted to check in on Carol - subtly, of course. He cared about her a lot as well - but he'd never admit that out loud.
His senses were sharpened, of course. They always were nowadays; blue eyes scanning is surroundings, one hand resting on the knife attached to his belt. No crossbow, but never unarmed.
Daryl was still a few yards from campsite when something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He shifted his gaze. Two frames behind - or well, for him in front of the barn. He stopped; alerted and narrowed his eyes a bit with his hand on his forehead to shield his blues from the sinking sun. No walkers, that was certain.
But who then?
His feet picked up their task again and brought him forward. The closer he got, the clearer the shapes became - and once he recognised the people, his attention got drawn even more... He could clearly make out your frame - and a bigger one. Shaved head, no beard, tall and broad. Shane - and the archer's temper kicked in. Steps quickening.
He analyzed the scene playing out in front of his eyes and quickly realised what was happening; connecting the dots. You and Shane were clearly arguing - and he had gotten physical; hands on your wrists. He had cornered you again; shoven back against the wooden wall of the barn.
A huge wave of anger rolled over the archer. He had told Shane - warned him, and now he had enough.
His pace quickened again. By now he was running the last few yards separating him from you and the former policeman; hopping over the fences and any other obstacle in his way. Daryl was determined - and before Shane could even turn around to see what was awaiting him, he got roughly pulled back from the archer - away from you.
Your fearful eyes met Daryl's - and he could visibly see how you instantly relaxed at least a little; pure thankfulness and relief mirrored in your Y/E/C orbs.
The moment you and the archer shared, gave Shane just enough time to recover... "What the hell, man?!" He barked at Daryl - who instantly instinctively changed his position to stand in front of you like a human protective shield. "What do ya think you're doing, huh?" Shane continued; glaring. "Could ask ya the same," Daryl growled back. You stayed silent; too shaken up to speak. This time was very close... "Told ya to leave 'er alone." Shane huffed out a laugh. "You ain't her boyfriend, man."
Daryl scoffed. What a ridiculous thing to say... As if this would have to do anything at all with that. Bad attempt at talking his pathetic ass outta this, the archer thought.
"Ain't hafta be her boyfriend 't know how 't treat 'n respect a woman right and know wha' a fuckin' 'no' means."
Shane scoffed as well and ran a hand over his bald shaved head.
"No, huh? You don't see how she's lookin' at me. Playin' all coy and shy every time I make a move but I know she wants me."
Daryl shook his head; knowing exactly that this was nothing but delusion and wishful thinking. You wouldn't have come to him so many times - desperate and afraid; literally fleeing from campsite if you would really want this, too.
"She dun wanna have yer dick. She ain't Lori, asshole - or are ya delusional? Can't tell the difference anymore 'cause yer obsessed."
That was it. The moment things were going to escalate between those two hot-heads. Daryl knew it. Shane knew it. And you knew it as well.
The former police man huffed out another laugh; ran his hand over his head again - before he lunged at Daryl. The archer - a 'professional' when it came to brawls - ducked Shane's attempt and started an attack himself. His fist connected with his jaw; sending him tumbling back a few steps.
Daryl did that a lot in his past. Brawling. Fighting. Especially with a brother like Merle and an abusive father. He knew how to fight.
Shane needed a short moment to recover; blood dripping from his lip where it split due to the impact. A look that could kill darted across his face, before he lunged at Daryl again.
And you? You just watched; still frozen in place like a frightened bunny. You didn't know what to do. Intervening could end painful - and words wouldn't stop them.
The noise of the fight, though, attracted the attention of the other group members. It didn't take long for most of them to come running over to the barn as well; the men instantly working to separate Shane and Daryl.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Yelled Rick; pulling his 'best friend' together away together with T-Dog. Glenn and Dale working on Daryl. "What is going on here, huh?!" Rick asked - eyeing his friend and the archer, as they were finally apart; everyone panting hard.
Daryl ripped himself free from Glenn's and Dale's grasp to wipe his bloody hand on his shirt with the torn off sleeves; spitting out a little blood. "Warned ya. Told ya I was gonna beat yer ass into the ground if ya touchin' 'er again!" He growled at Shane; pointing at him. Rick instantly connected the dots; realising that this must be about you. His eyes found you - still a little shaken up. "Y/N?" Rick's voice grabbed your attention. "Can you tell me what's been goin' on here?"
You swallowed hard and opened your mouth to voice what - or well, who, has been bothering you since weeks - but then you felt it... The gazes of the others. All group members had their eyes on you - except Daryl, who kept on glaring at Shane. Sure, most of these gazes were sympathetic and concerned, but for you highly discomforting. You felt cornered again - in a different way.
"I-I-I..." You started; stammering and overwhelmed. Your body told you to run. To escape this situation. So, you did. "S-Sorry," was all you said before you turned your back and fled.
Daryl fought the urge to follow you - although that he knew you probably needed a moment alone. First, he had to step up for you, though. And he did - without hesitation. "Been hittin' on Y/N. Constantly cornerin' her 'n tryin' to get inside 'er pants," Daryl growled; explaining what he had been trying to protect you from. Rick turned to his best friend. "Shane? That the truth?" The accused man huffed out another laugh and shook his head. "C'mon, man. You know that I'd never do that." "Bullshit!" Daryl cut in immediately. "Ya'd take advantage 'a 'er without even thinkin' twice. Prolly already would've if it wasn't fer me!" The archer wanted to take a step closer, but got instantly held back by Glenn and Dale.
Rick's eyes wandered again from Daryl to Shane, while the others just held their breaths; shocked and probably too afraid to just cut into this conflict without having witnessed anything.
At the look the police officer threw his former colleague, he once again ran a head over his shaved head. "Really, Rick? You're gonna believe this obscure redneck more than me?" Rick clenched his jaw. "No, I didn't say that, Shane. I'm just tryin' to understand both sides and-"
Daryl had already heard enough again. This was pointless. Like he said before... This group was broken. Another reason why he had closed himself off.
"This shit's pointless," the archer cut the leader off mid-sentence and just started to stomp away; exiting the scene as well - but not without having a last few words for Shane. "Next time ya try anythin', it ain't gonna stay with jus' a fat lip." He threw another warning/threat Shane's way - hoping that he finally learned his lesson now. Especially now that the others caught wind of this as well.
The archer made his way back to his little camp; holding out for you, though. He didn't see you somewhere outside the farm - what calmed him; knowing that you were most likely out of danger and somewhere safe. The bright and shiny moon had replaced the sun by now almost entirely as Daryl zipped open the flap of his tent. With a grunt he crawled inside - only to find nobody else than you sitting on his bedroll; hugging your knees to your chest and with dried tears on your cheeks.
"Y/N." His name rolled so effortlessly over his lips; making you shiver - in a good way. "S-Sorry... I didn't know where to go, s-so I just came here..." You said; sniveling. Daryl shrugged his shoulders and turned again to zip the tent shut. "'S a'right. I dun mind." You gave him a soft smile and a thankful look. He nodded in return and just... looked at you for another moment, before he shuffled awkwardly and started to 'clean up' a little. A.k.a making space for you so you could stay the night. Daryl wasn't sure what to do. If he should ask how you were or not. If you needed something or not. He didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable. He was very uncertain, so he rather occupied himself with something else than letting you know.
You watched the archer 'work' for a few moments in silence, until your gaze landed coincidentally on his hands. With shock you realised that he was hurt. His knuckles were stained with blood. Some dried, but still seeping a little. "Daryl..." You spoke his name, catching instantly his attention. His head snapped up to face you.
"Yah?"
You moved, inched slowly closer to him. "Y-You're bleeding..." You whispered and cautiously reached for his hurt hand to inspect the damage - but giving him enough time to pull his hand away in case he didn't want the touch. He didn't. The archer was like rooted to the ground; holding his breath as your gentle fingers brushed his skin.
Physical touch wasn't easy for him - after all the bullshit he had been through in his childhood and youth. He had learned the physical contact mostly caused pain. But this... This was different. So fucking different from what he knew.
"Y-You split your knuckles... Do you have a first aid kit or something? Anything to treat the wounds?" Daryl blinked; ripped out of his thoughts. His blues met your Y/E/C. "Yeah, over-" His voice cracked. He tried again. "Over there." You followed the jut of his hand, gently let go of his hand to gather the first aid kit, only to return a few moments later to hold his hand again. "Sit. L-Let me help you."
Wordlessy, the man sat down on the bedroll beside you and letting you treat his split knuckles. And admittedly, Daryl had a hard time coping with this situation. Coping with so much... tenderness and gentleness. It was unknown territory - but it felt... right.
"There we go..." You said; tying the bandage around his hand, then shook your head. "Didn't want you to get hurt because of me..." You added in a quiet voice; blaming Shane but also yourself.
Daryl instantly shook his head; getting his shit together again. "Ain't yer fault. Asshole had it comin'. Deserved it. This ain't nothing," he gestured at his knuckles. "Gonna heal quickly. Had worse."
You sighed, "Yes, but... I don't know. Feeling guilty anyways." and without thinking leaned your head against his shoulder; arms and thighs brushing. You and Daryl had been close - but never this close before.
The archer froze once again; brain going blank for at least a solid minute as he tried to comprehend what was going on.
His skin was warm; biceps slightly sweaty but radiating nothing but warmth and comfort. Your eyes slipped shut. This felt so right. You never wanted to leave Daryl's side. Since he didn't shove you away, you thought he felt the same - or at least similar. Nevertheless remained a quiet voice of doubt.
But then something you couldn't quite foresee happened... Slowly, quietly, the archer wrapped his arm around your shoulders; big, work worn hand resting gently on your upper arm. The 'sudden' touch sent another shiver down your spine.
"Ya okay?" His voice deep and concerned, yet soft and caring. You started to smile and nodded, before you shyly reached for his free hand to loosely intertwine your fingers. "Now I am."
After failing to save Sophia in time, Daryl goes hunting to clear his head. He finds a girl running away and despite his better judgement, he decides to help her. As Lucy joins the group, she slowly becomes closer to everyone, including him. He finds himself struggling to cope with his growing feelings towards her. Lucy can't help but be drawn to the man. But she's convinced that they aren't good for one another-- that he doesn't care about her.
How much time does it take for two people convinced they don’t need love to fall for one another?
Warnings/Tags: Canon Typical Violence, spoilers, attempted/implied non-con/rape, murder, blood, etc. you've seen the show, you know the gore, Slow Burn! protective Daryl, jealous Daryl, eventual smut, eventual romance, Daryl Dixon falls first, Daryl is bad at feelings. (this fic is going to be ridiculously long)
Warnings!!: slow burn, reader is an adult!!, gore, mentions of blood, implied sexual threat, sexism, mature themes, strong language, angst, mutual pining.
Summary:
(You’re trying to survive, trying to hold onto the hope that your people are alive, but somehow you’re stuck trying to figure out Daryl Dixon.)
A/N: ohh I was cheesing whilst writing this. Enjoy!!
The birds chirped loudly beyond the windows. The sun cracked through the glass, shining a shade of orange through your eyelids, almost as a wake-up call.
Your face still hurt, but not as much now as it had yesterday.
You stretched out, a groan escaping your lips, your boot contacting something.
You opened your eyes immediately.
Daryl.
He was sleeping, sat up, head tilted to the side slightly.
You retracted your boot away immediately when you realised that it was him that you’d knocked into.
You sat now, your elbows resting on your knees, eyes glued to the floor.
You were beyond hungry.
You took one last glance at Daryl; for the first time in what felt like decades, he looked…peaceful.
You didn’t want to wake him.
The refrigerator had alphabetical magnets on it. You arranged them into a message: ‘Gone on a hunt.’
Then you slipped through the front door.
You were searching for whatever you could find: a rabbit, a possum; you’d even go for a snake at this point.
The leaves cracked under your weight; the trees swayed in the breeze that filtered through the wooded area.
You noticed bear traps scattered around, hidden professionally rather than lazily; you guessed the person that was occupying the cabin before was a hunter.
That made things a lot easier for you since you didn’t have your gun now, just your knife.
You walked a little further and then you saw white fur poking out from one of the traps.
“Bingo.”
You disarmed the metal and pulled the rabbit out, poking your blade through its skull to make sure that it went out cleanly.
Then you heard your name being called from a distance.
Loud.
Southern.
“Daryl!” you yelled back. “Over here.”
You returned your attention back towards the rabbit, its blood seeping through your fingers.
You didn’t enjoy hunting; you weren't a hunter, you were a fighter.
“The hell are ya doin’?” Daryl panted, stopping just behind you.
You picked yourself up from crouching position, dusting yourself off, holding the rabbit by its hind legs.
“Finding food.”
“Ya shoulda woke me.” He said, his tone caught between frustration and a slight hint of worry that you could tell he was trying his hardest to hide.
You turned slowly, eyes catching his.
“You were sleeping, didn’t want to wake you.”
“Shoulda woke me.” He repeated, angling his hand towards you.
Your eyes flickered down towards his hand, then back up to his face.
You raised a brow.
“What?”
“Rabbit. Give.”
Your face scrunched up into one of offence.
“Why?”
“Cause you ain’t know what ta do with it,” he muttered, hand still angled out.
He sure as hell wasn’t giving up.
You huffed, shoving the rabbit towards his chest.
He caught it before it could fall, looking at you like he was personally offended by what you just did.
Touché.
“We can go out further,” you said, gesturing towards the route of the woods behind you. “See if there’s more rabbit.”
Daryl shook his head.
“Nah,”
He turned on his heel and started walking back towards where you’d just come from.
“This’ll do.”
You didn’t follow straight away, just watched him as he sauntered off.
A beat.
“C’mon.” He said, not stopping in his tracks.
You rolled your eyes.
Then you followed.
The cabin came into view through the trees. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney despite neither of you remembering lighting a fire that morning.
You froze.
Daryl stopped, raising his crossbow, the rabbit swinging loosely in his grasp by the metal ridging.
“You see that?” you whispered.
“Yeah.”
The two of you moved forward carefully, footsteps measured.
Daryl approached the door first, motioning for you to stay behind him.
You ignored that and moved beside him.
He shot you a look.
You shrugged, pushing the door open, its hinges creaking in response.
The smell of meat hit you immediately; something was cooking.
Then a voice.
“Well, I'll be damned.”
An older man emerged from one of the rooms, a shotgun raised in his hands.
Daryl’s grip on his crossbow tightened.
You weren’t exactly helpful in this position; you didn’t have a gun, and your knife wasn’t worth gold when a shotgun was aimed straight at you.
The older man’s eyes moved from you to Daryl, a scoff leaving his lips.
“You keep pointing that thing at me, son, and we’re going to have a very bad afternoon.”
Daryl’s head tilted, the space between you closing. His shoulder bumped against yours; you could practically feel the tension rolling off of him.
“Who are you?” You questioned, your heart thumping loudly in your chest.
A beat.
“I’m the owner of this cabin,” the old man chuckled. “The cabin you two been squattin’ in.”
“Ya been watchin’ us?” Darl asked roughly.
“Yeah,” the old man replied, shotgun still aimed. “I was.”
You stared straight down the barrel of the gun, the panic in your chest rising further.
“Look,” you uttered, pushing your knife back into its sheathe. “We don’t want any trouble.”
“I don’t think he agrees.” The older man accused, his eyes narrowing on Daryl.
Daryl grunted in response.
“Lower the crossbow.” The older man spoke firmly. “Then I’ll think about it.”
Daryl's jaw flexed, the muscles in his forearm tightening around the crossbow.
“Daryl,” you spoke lowly.
A beat passed.
Then Daryl exhaled sharply through his nose, lowering his crossbow slowly like it pained him to do so.
The old man's shoulders visibly relaxed at that.
“Good.”
Then he crossed the room and rested his shotgun against the fireplace.
You exchanged a brief glance with Daryl; you didn’t exactly trust it, and you could tell Daryl was thinking the exact same thing.
The man's eyes drifted towards the rabbit dangling from Daryl's hand.
“That from one of my traps?”
“What?” Daryl frowned.
“The rabbit.”
“Yes…” you swallowed, speaking up before Daryl could say anything.
“Well, we won’t need it.” The man spoke immediately. “Already got enough cooking on the fire.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“We?”
“You’re gonna want food ain’t you?” He chuckled. “Ya can have some of my share.”
“Ya done anything to it?” Daryl shot out, eyeing the hunter down.
“What do you think, son?” The man spoke sarcastically, crouching down by the fire and turning over one of the rabbits to let it cook further.
You chuckled awkwardly, glancing over at Daryl once again.
“What are your names?” The man asked, looking over at the two of you briefly.
You waited a moment, then you gave it.
Daryl didn’t speak; the tension was still reeking off of him to high heaven, so—
You spoke for him.
“…and this is Daryl.”
Daryl scoffed quietly at that.
The old man nodded, turning over the rabbit again.
“I’m John.”
You were still standing in the exact same position as you had been the moment you walked in here, your shoulder still glued to Daryl’s.
You didn’t trust moving, not yet. Neither did Daryl.
“You can sit,” John spoke. “Ain’t no point standing there like that.”
“I ain’t trust ya.” Daryl said abruptly, the crossbow hanging lower now, but his grip on it was still firm.
John turned at that.
“Listen, son. If I wanted to kill the both of you, you would’ve been dead by now.”
You trusted his words for the first time since you’d got in here.
You moved first, slumping down on the sofa you’d been lying on this morning.
Then hesitantly, Daryl followed.
“You two a couple or something?” John asked, eyes still on the meat.
The question was so abrupt that you couldn’t help but let the heat crawl up your neck.
“No—”
“We ain’t.” Daryl added dryly.
What on earth had brought that question on?
“Ya sure?” John asked, almost amused. “Cause’ it looks like she’s got you at her beck n’ call.”
Daryl didn’t say anything.
You looked at him briefly before turning your attention back towards John.
“Trust me, it’s nothing like that.”
“Whatever ya say.” John smirked to himself.
You felt extremely flustered now.
Embarrassed.
Nobody spoke another word after that.
The food was served up shortly after: a portion of rabbit and some cold beans.
The first bite hit you before you even registered how fast you were eating; you slowed only slightly when you noticed John watching you with quiet amusement.
Daryl ate more deliberately beside you.
John leaned back on his heels near the fire, shotgun resting within arm’s reach.
“Slow down,” he muttered, not unkindly. “Ain’t like it’s gonna run off.”
You didn’t answer. You just forced yourself to take smaller bites.
Daryl wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flicking once to the windows, then the door, then back to John.
“Why ya let us stay?” he asked flatly.
John gave a small shrug.
“Ain’t the kind to turn away folk.”
Daryl grunted, taking another bite.
“You been out there long?” John questioned.
“Not long.” you muttered.
John nodded.
A few minutes passed in relative quiet before John stood, stretching his back with a groan.
“I got a spare room,” he said. “You can take it if ya want.”
Daryl’s head snapped slightly. “We ain’t need—”
“We aren’t asking for charity,” you cut in quickly before he could escalate anything further because you knew that he would’ve.
John held up a hand.
“Ain’t charity. It'll be much better than sleepin’ on the damn sofa.”
A beat.
“…We’ll take it,” you said finally.
Daryl looked at you sharply.
Then he grunted. That sounded like a noise of defeat to you.
The spare room was average, but considering the conditions you’d been living in back at the prison, it almost felt like a luxury.
“Ya trust him now?” Daryl asked; you could tell he was slightly annoyed with how willing you were to take things so easily.
You dropped onto the mattress, hands pressing into the thin fabric.
“No,” you said honestly, not even wanting to entertain an argument. “But I trust him more than I do taking my chances in the woods.”
Daryl exhaled before finally setting his crossbow against the wall.
You sat cross-legged at the top of the bed, staring at the wooden ceiling.
“Think he really owns this place?” you asked after a moment.
Daryl rested back against the headboard with a sigh, eyes flickering shut.
A beat.
“Don’t know yet.” He answered finally.
You turned your head slightly to look at him—really look at him.
You adjusted slightly, the lighter in your pocket digging into your skin through the material of your jeans.
A reminder of the question you’d yet to ask.
You pulled it out without thinking, holding it in the palm of your hand.
“Daryl…?”
“Hm?”
“Why did you give me this?” You almost whispered, tapping your nail against the carving: D.D.
His eyes opened at that, looking down slightly towards the lighter in your hand.
He knew the gig was up.
A beat.
“Ya needed it,” he spoke simply with a small shrug.
“But it’s yours,” you said, flipping the lighter over in your hand. “You should take it back.”
His eyes returned to yours.
“Nah.”
Your expression shifted to one of surprise with the simplicity of his responses.
“Why…?”
“Cause’ I gave it ta ya,” he replied. “It ain’t mine now.”
You stared at him a little longer than you meant to, the lighter still sitting in your palm.
He had engraved this. This lighter was a personal belonging to him, and he’d just given it to you like it was nothing?
That made no sense. He made no sense. He never had made any goddamn sense.
“That doesn’t make sense,” you said quietly.
“Ain’t gotta make sense,” he muttered.
You looked away at that, back down to the lighter, flipping it over in your hand.
You didn’t know what to make of this; you didn’t know what to make of anything anymore.
Daryl Dixon was a damn nightmare to figure out; yesterday you’d seen him cry, and now he was back to acting like nothing mattered.
“Daryl,” you started, then stopped.
He didn’t answer.
“I don’t get you,” you admitted, your voice quiet.
His brows tightened slightly.
“Ain’t much to get.”
“I don’t believe that,” you said immediately, then hesitated. “I guess I’m just trying to figure out why you make everything you do seem so…simple.”
“Cause’ it is simple,” he muttered.
Daryl shifted like he was trying to settle into something more comfortable than this conversation.
“That’s not true,” you replied, eyes locked on his. “None of what you do is simple.”
“Ya ain’t know what yer talkin’ bout.” He replied, but his voice held no frustration; he just wanted you off his back.
You just watched him with furrowed brows.
A moment passed.
Then you shifted on the mattress, pulling his hand away from his chest gently, facing his palm upwards.
He flinched slightly, but he didn’t pull back.
You placed the lighter into his palm, closing his fingers around it; you couldn’t keep something that was clearly personal to him.
“Daryl,” you almost whispered, hand still lingering over his tensed hand. “This isn’t my lighter, it’s yours.”
He stayed quiet, his eyes still on yours.
You looked straight back and then—
The confusion you felt when you looked him in the eyes, the sadness you felt with everything that’d happened—it all hit you like a brick, and before you could stop yourself—
You kissed him.
It felt rushed—a complete burst of your emotions, and then when you realised what you were doing—
You pulled back immediately, hand tearing from his.
“Oh—” you choked out. “Shit—I didn’t mean to do that.”
Why on earth had you just done that?
Daryl didn’t utter a single word, his jaw ticking; you’d caught him off guard.
“That was an accident,” you blurted, face burning instantly. “I don’t know what I was doing, I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean—”
You stopped yourself because you were making this ten times worse.
Your hand went to your face for a second, like that might somehow fix it.
It didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” you said again, quieter now, mortified. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“…yeah,” he said, voice rough, his eyes tearing away from yours. “I know.”
You scrambled off the mattress quickly.
“I’m just gonna—” You gestured vaguely towards the door. “I need air. Or something.”
You didn’t wait for a response, leaving the room, the door slamming shut behind you.
“God, you’re so stupid.” You muttered to yourself, palm hitting your face.
How on earth could you have let yourself kiss Daryl damn Dixon?
Well, you’d certainly fucked everything up now.
The week passed by slowly; you barely uttered a word to Daryl after what’d happened. He barely spoke to you either.
But—
He was always still…there.
He was acting the same way as he had done after your injury.
Avoiding you but—
Always there.
It felt like you were back to square one in some ways. The feeling of that felt harsh in your chest—unusually harsh.
On the good side, however, John had been kind enough to lend you a pistol and a few rounds of ammo.
“You two leavin’ already?” John asked from the sofa, a bottle in his hand.
“Yeah,” you replied, not even daring to look at Daryl as he pushed an arrow through his crossbow. “We are gonna go look for our people.”
That was something you and Daryl had agreed on amidst the awkwardness.
You weren’t giving up on the others.
You’d also seen signs for a safe zone—a sanctuary called terminus or something. Maybe they had ended up there.
“You can stay if ya want to.” John replied.
“Nah,” Daryl spoke finally, slinging his crossbow over his shoulder. “Gotta get back on the road.”
John shrugged, taking a swig from the bottle.
“Thank you for letting us stay, John,” you started. “It means a lot.”
“Yer welcome back anytime,” John smiled.
You nodded once.
Then you were back outside.
You walked in sync with Daryl—not intentionally; it was just something that happened to happen.
Neither of you spoke.
The leaves crunched under your boots like they always did; the noise comforted you in some way because it distracted you from the tension between you and Daryl.
Relieved the silence.
Two walkers stumbled out from behind the trees, groaning as they stumbled through.
One of John's traps clamped around one of their legs, bringing it tumbling to the ground swiftly.
Daryl took it out with an arrow.
You stabbed the other one through the skull.
Then you both continued on your journey.
“We should split up,” you spoke finally, eyes fixed on the ground. “We don’t know how long we’re gonna be out here, and we should probably be looking for food.”
Daryl looked at you then.
“We ain’t doing that.”
“Yes. We are.” You replied firmly, eyes on his as you moved.
You were trying your hardest to take back control of your emotions, trying to hide from the embarrassment—it made you come across sharper than you’d meant.
You gestured towards the left side of the woods.
“You take that route.”
Then you gestured towards the right side.
“I’ll—”
“Ya can’t keep doin’ this.” He cut you off, stilling in his movements. “Ya can’t keep runnin’ off when ya know it ain’t safe.”
You shrugged.
This was foolish, but you wanted to set some kind of boundaries for yourself after what’d happened. You couldn’t let yourself do something like that again.
“I’ll be fine.”
He exhaled sharply.
“Look,” you started, your voice quieter this time, eyes flickering over his face. “We can mark our initials on the trees so we can track our way back to one another.”
The mention of initials nearly made your stomach twist.
The lighter.
The engraving.
You composed yourself quickly but not quick enough for Daryl not to notice it.
“We ain’t splittin’ up.” He repeated, the tone in his voice final now.
You stared at him.
For a minute there, you thought he might’ve said yes; clearly not.
“Daryl.”
He didn’t budge.
“We need food.” You said again, crossing your arms over one another.
“We ain’t need food yet.”
He was making this whole ordeal worse. You were trying your hardest to escape this suffocating tension that you two had going on for just a minute and—
He was just doing everything in his power to stop it.
You’d almost convinced yourself that he was enjoying it.
Enjoying your embarrassment, but—
You knew that wasn’t the case.
You knew he wasn’t acting like this because of the kiss because he’d been acting like this long before that had even happened.
Then, as though he were done with the conversation, he started moving again without a word.
“Daryl.” You called out from where you were stood.
No answer.
“Daryl.”
Nothing.
If he wasn’t interested in listening to you, you weren’t interested in listening to him either, so—
You started moving in the opposite direction towards the route you said you’d take moments ago.
Five seconds.
It took five seconds and then he was back on you.
This was beginning to feel very similar to the time he’d followed you through the woods back at the prison.
You stopped, turning around slowly.
“Why are you being like this?”
He shrugged, adjusting the strap of his crossbow over his shoulder.
“Ain’t bein’ like nothin’.”
“But you are.”
He didn’t answer.
“Daryl Dixon, you are the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.” You scoffed, turning on your heel again, moving away from him.
He didn’t say anything.
It was like he didn’t want to talk to you at all.
That was what infuriated you the most.
The silence filled the space between the two of you as you moved. The kind of silence that felt unnaturally heavy in your chest.
You caught yourself looking back at him a few times, half expecting him to say something.
Anything.
But nothing came.
He just walked behind you, his crossbow in his hand now rather than over his shoulder.
You thought your mind would have benefitted from the silence, but…it didn’t.
Not one bit.
Then a noise shot through the silence.
It wasn’t coincidental.
Footsteps.
Daryl shifted immediately, his crossbow raising.
You raised your own gun, aiming it towards the direction the noise had come from.
Then—
Five, maybe six, men emerged from between the trees, their guns aimed; half of them focused on you, half on Daryl.
“Well, look it here.”
One of the men spoke first; he had grey hair and looked a lot cleaner than the rest of them.
“I’m claimin’ the girl,” another man let out a sadistic chuckle; he was an archer, like Daryl. “And the vest he’s got on. I like em wings.”
Your stomach dropped.
Claiming?
Was this some kind of sick game to them?
Daryl’s finger looped around the trigger at that—he didn’t pull it; you could tell he was weighing the situation up.
“Hold up, Len.” The grey-haired man spoke, studying the two of you closely. “Hold up.”
“Ya better keep walkin’.” Daryl spoke finally, the tone in his voice rough.
The grey-haired man barked out a laugh, pointing his index finger at Daryl.
“You,” he started. “You have got balls on you for someone surrounded.”
Then his eyes flickered towards you, narrowing slightly.
“And you,”
He chuckled again.
“You sure as hell got some fire in you considering you're a female pointing that gun.”
You tilted your head, your own finger looping around the trigger.
“Got to hell,” you spat.
“I already claimed the girl. She’s mine.” Len chuckled, pulling the string of his arrow back further.
“Ya ain’t claimin’ nothin’.” Daryl shot back, his patience with these men clearly wearing thin. He was ten seconds away from releasing one of his arrows.
The grey-haired man shot a hand up, signalling for Len to be quiet.
“If either of you pull those triggers,” he said calmly; the way he spoke gave you the heebie-jeebies. “My men will have you both shot and then I can’t stop Len claimin’ what he wants.”
Your eyes flickered towards the side of Daryl’s face briefly.
A beat passed.
Then the grey-haired man broke the silence.
“The names Joe.”
“Ain’t asked.” Daryl spoke abruptly.
Joe looked between the two of you again, studying, completely ignoring Daryl’s dismissal.
“You two been travelling together long?”
Neither of you responded.
“Alright.” Joe started, his brows furrowing. “Don’t gotta tell me. That’s fine.”
You hated the way Joe looked at you.
His gaze wasn’t like Len’s; Len looked at you like you were an object.
Joe looked at you like he was trying to figure you out, and that somehow felt ten times worse.
“You got a name?” Joe asked you.
You hesitated; you didn’t want to give it but—
You were surrounded, and you knew that being uncooperative would only make things harder.
You waited a minute, then you gave your name.
Joe nodded.
“And him?”
Daryl’s jaw tightened, his crossbow still up high.
You answered before he could.
“Daryl.”
“Daryl,” Joe repeated after you, a smirk flickering across his lips.
Another beat passed.
The tension was beyond suffocating.
“Now,” Joe spoke. “Here’s what’s gonna happen.”
Your grip tightened around the pistol as did Daryl’s on the crossbow.
Warnings: Major character death, graphic injury/implied violence, angst, emotional distress, unrequited/unspoken love, canon-typical apocalypse themes, this will hurt your feelings
Era: Season 2
Word Count: 1.6k
Summary: He loved you the only way he knew how. The world didn’t let him keep you.
Loving Daryl Dixon meant learning to live with what he never said.
You watched him now, your hands were busy patching a small hole in his vest. Needle weaving in and out of worn fabric you've mended more times than you could count. He sat on the edge of your bed, quiet, staring at the concrete wall in front of him–lost somewhere in his own mind.
He was probably just thinking about the run. He always did before one.
You'd been the one to convince him. The group was running low on food– lower than Rick liked–and even though Daryl said it was a bad idea, once you agreed to it, he just couldn't say no. He never said no to you.
You nudged his boot with yours. He cleared his throat, finally looking at you.
"Where's yer knife?"
You nodded to your pack resting against your bed. He grabbed it pulling the blade free and pressing his thumb carefully to the edge of it.
"Ya always let it get too dull,"
You smiled softly. "You always sharpen it."
He shook his head, like it bothered him how much you relied on him–how much you leaned on him–like it was something heavy.
You knew it didn't.
He stood and headed for the doorway of your cell. Then he stopped. Turned back toward you and for just a moment your breath caught–heart stupid and hopeful–thinking this might be it.
"Make sure ya double-knot yer boots."
And then he was gone.
You'd always known Daryl wasn't the romantic type. You never expected a candlelight dinner or pretty words. Still you couldn't help the ache you felt at the absence of three little ones.
Rick's voice echoed through the prison, calling the group together. Time to go.
Daryl walked close enough that your arms brushed every few steps, close enough to feel like a promise.
"If this stuff leaks in my pack again, I swear." You mutter, shifting the weight on your shoulder.
Daryl snorted like it's the funniest thing he'd heard all week. "As long as ya don't got anythin' nasty in there, ya should be fine," he nudged you with his shoulder. "Last time I almost made ya sleep in the watchtower with the way ya smelled."
You narrowed your eyes at him, biting back a laugh.
"Will you two be quiet."
You glanced past Daryl toward the man walking a few feet ahead, rolling your eyes playfully. "Come on Glenn," you teased. "It's not our fault Maggie didn't want to come."
He huffed, shaking his head, and you looked at Daryl with an amused smile.
The prison fence came into view, relief washing over you all at once. You'd been on plenty of runs–but making it back safe was always the sweetest part.
That's what you were.
Safe.
Until you weren't.
The walkers came out of nowhere. Nothing you hadn't handled before.
You didn't even realize you'd tripped–over a rock, a root, something stupid–until the ground slammed into you and rough fingers closed around your shoulder.
The pain was instant. White-hot. Blinding.
Your scream tore through the woods as teeth sank into you.
A bolt flew past your head, dropping the walker. Daryl was there before you could even breathe, crashing to his knees at your side.
His eyes were wide. Terrified. His hand shook as he brushed your hair back from your face.
"It's fine," he said–sharp, steady, like he could will it to be true.
He lifted you in his arms without hesitation. "I got you."
His eyes flicked up pleading–toward Rick, toward Glenn, toward anyone. Then they were back on you.
"I got you," He repeated.
Like if he said it enough times, you wouldn't slip through his fingers.
Time slowed down in a way that made every breath feel borrowed.
Rick helped Daryl lay you on your bed. He didn't say much–just gave Daryl's shoulder a firm pat and a look that said everything before ushering the others out of the cell.
Daryl paced.
Back and forth.
The room felt smaller with every step.
He refused to look at you.
That hurt more than the bite.
"Daryl," you called to him softly, a gentle smile pulling at your lips.
His eyes finally lifted. When they met yours he almost broke. You always smiled through everything–he never understood how you could do that.
"Sit," you coughed, wincing. "Please."
He nodded, sitting at the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands on his jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.
"You'll have to finish my food," you said quietly.
His shoulders tensed.
"You gotta make sure you read to Judith," you added, another cough tearing through you. This one burned. "Lord knows Rick'll forget, she's gonna be real smart–I can tell."
He looked at you then, really looked at you.
"Remember to grab your extra bolts before you leave," you whispered. "You always forget."
Tears blurred your vision. "And if your vest rips…make sure you patch it. If you can't, ask Carol. She'll–"
"Stop."
His voice cracked, anger sharp and desperate.
"Daryl, I know this is hard, but–"
"No," he cut in. "Stop tryin' to say goodbye. Yer not leavin' we can fix you. Hershel's good–we can do that for you."
You shook your head. The pain in your shoulder was unbearable now, heat crawling through your veins, your skin slick with sweat.
"Not this time." Your voice was soft, steady.
You'd already made peace with it.
He fists clenched.
"You made the end of the world feel so bright." You said, and he looked at you like it was something holy.
Your fingers reached for him. He hesitated–then took your hand, like it might disappear if he didn't.
"I–"
He stopped.
Shook his head. Let go of your hand and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.
And still–he didn't say it.
Daryl realized there was no version of this where he didn't lose you.
Your breathing had slowed. The room had gone impossibly quiet.
He looked at you–at the person he'd spent months protecting, caring for, laughing with–and he understood what you wanted before you had to ask.
"I'm sorry." he whispered. His voice cracked. His hands began to shake. "I should've done better. Shouldn't have let my guard down."
He was spiraling.
You shook your head even though it hurt. "No,"
All you wanted was to pull him close, to tell him it would be okay. That he'd done nothing wrong.
"Daryl, it's okay."
You reached for him again. This time he didn't hesitate–his hand covered yours, warm and steady despite the way his shoulders trembled.
"You've been so good to me," you whispered. "You've been perfect."
He wiped at his eyes, turning his face away like he didn't want you to see him break.
"It won't be easy," you said softly. "But I don't want anyone else to do it."
He nodded, he knew.
He moved closer, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours. You were the only person who'd never left his side. The only one he'd been so sure would make it out of this world with him.
He wanted to tell you everything–about the nights he dreamed of you waiting for him on a porch, a white fence, kids running through the yard. About the way he pictured you standing beside him at an alter, crying that soft, beautiful cry of yours.
He wanted to tell you so bad.
Instead he grabbed his knife.
It felt heavier than it ever had.
He lifted his head just long enough to press a kiss to your hair.
You coughed, your eyes fluttering as you fought to keep them open. You wanted one last look at him. You wanted his eyes to be the last thing you saw.
"Don't forget to take care of yourself."That was the last thing you said.
Your eyes slipped shut.
Your breathing slowed–
then it stopped.
Daryl had survived the end of the world–he didn't know how to survive the quiet after you.
His eyes stayed glued to your chest, the absence of that subtle rise and fall that meant you were breathing. Alive.
He stayed with you long after you were gone.
He tightened the laces on your boots. Smoothed your hair where it had fallen into your face. He knew you hated when it got in your eyes.
He reached for the knife at your waist, checked how sharp it was. Starting to put it back–then he stopped.
He held it tightly for a moment before slipping it into his belt.
He glanced at you, never for too long. He couldn't.
Rick called his name. Stepped into the room. Told him it was time. Told him that Carl had dug your grave.
Daryl nodded even though he didn't understand how the world was still going. How time hadn't stopped without you.
Daryl sat alone in the watchtower, staring out into the night sky.
You loved it up here. Loved the way the world felt so quiet, far above all the chaos.
He looked down to your grave. Close by the tower–Carl said it was so you could see the sky better.
"I–"
His voice caught in his throat.
"I love you."
He knew that loving him meant learning to live with the things he never said.
TW: lighting, tooth rotting fluff, physical contact, mentions of past abuse (briefly)
Part 28
Dead Weight - Part 29
The wind howls outside like a dying animal, tearing through the trees and slamming rain sideways against the warped wooden sides of the old barn. Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the rafters in stark, eerie flashes.
Every thunderclap rattles the loose boards, but your asleep, soundly nestled against Daryl, in the kind of hush that wrapped around the rafters and softened the harsh world outside.
Daryl was still watching you. His eyes hadn’t moved for a while.
You stirred.
At first, it was just a subtle shift—fingers twitching, chest lifting ever so slightly with a new rhythm. You didn’t speak. Not right away. The floor beneath you was cold through the blanket, but the weight of Daryl’s arm wrapped loosely around your waist anchored you in place. In safety. In him.
You weren’t sure what pulled you from sleep—until you caught the faintest whisper.
"…ya look peaceful.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But your heart picked up a little. Your eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy from slumber, fluttered open and searched the shadows. You found him watching you.
Daryl’s eyes widened a fraction—like a kid caught doing something he wasn’t meant to.
He started to look away.
But you whispered, soft and raspy from sleep.
“Have you slept yet?”
Daryl shifted closer, head tilted just enough that his nose brushed your temple. He hesitated before answering, the heat of his breath painting across your hair.
“Nah,” he murmured, low and gravel-edged, barely audible, “Just been... thinkin’. S’nothin’.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.
He could feel your eyes on him in the dark—soft, questioning, open in a way he’d never really known how to be.
“About what?” you whispered.
He sighed, the sound brushing against your hair.
A heartbeat passed.
"Nothin' he whispered "G'back to sleep."
His hand curled slightly at your side, just enough to pull you a bit closer—but not so much that it’d scare you off. He was always careful like that. Like you were made of porcelain, like he was always one twitch away from breaking something too good for him.
There was a stillness then.
Not awkward, not empty.
Almost like it's own Holiness.
You turned a little in his hold, enough that your noses almost touched—just the barest graze. Skin to skin. Breath to breath. Your eyes, half-lidded and uncertain, held his like a secret waiting to be shared.
He didn’t move.
But his breath hitched—and stayed. Like he was memorizing this. Like he couldn’t believe you were letting him that close.
Your hand found the collar of his shirt, your fingers barely curling in the edge of the fabric. No words. Just touch. Just trust.
“You don’t have to stay up, Daryl,” you whispered, lashes fluttering shut. “We're safe. You can rest.”
But his voice came back rough, warm, and close enough to feel in your chest.
“Ain’t about bein’ safe.”
You fell asleep facing him, your cheek brushing his collarbone, your breaths slowing.
He waited.
Waited until your fingers loosened from his shirt. Until your breathing deepened. Until the last bit of tension left your body.
He watched your face for a long while. The way your lashes rested on your cheeks, the delicate rise and fall of your chest. And then—he gave in.
He shifted slowly, cautiously. Didn’t want to wake you.
But didn’t want to not be close, either.
Daryl pressed his face into the hollow between your hair and the crook of your neck—a reverent, almost bashful nuzzle, his breath spilling out like a confession against your skin.
“Don’t get why you’d ever look at me like that,”
he whispered, lips moving as if the words could be tucked into your dreams.
“Not when you’re this soft… an’ I’m just...”
His voice faded. It wasn't self-pity. Just truth. Raw and low and barely a vibration against your skin.
Your body stirred gently, a soft little sigh from the depths of sleep as the warmth of his breath and the subtle movement of his lips called you back from the edge of dreaming.
You didn’t open your eyes.
Just made a sleepy, murmured sound as your fingers wandered up, finding the tangle of unkempt hair at the nape of his neck. Slow. Drowsy. Gentle. You threaded through the still damp hair like you’d done it more then a hundred times in dreams before.
Daryl stilled. Every muscle locked tight like he didn’t trust this was real.
But when your hand settled—palm resting against the base of his skull—he exhaled, long and low, like you’d just pulled the weight off his chest.
Daryl shifted closer, his legs tangled with yours under the worn blanket, his hand settling on your waist, fingers curling against the soft cotton of your shirt like he didn’t know if he was allowed to hold you—but needed to.
And then his lips...
They brushed the juncture of your neck and shoulder—a featherlight kiss, barely more than breath.
Then another.
And another.
Each one was cautious, unsure, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he was too bold.
“Ain’t never had this,”
he whispered again between kisses,
“not once.”
Your only reply was the quiet sound of contentment as you shifted, turning just a touch into his neck, burrowing sleepily against him.
And he let you, even if it was just this breathless, sleeping moment.
The others sleep across the barn floor—Rick’s soft breathing, Judith’s occasional whimper, Gabriel’s restless shifting—but to Daryl, they’re a thousand miles away.
You stir just slightly in his arms. A sleepy sound leaves your lips as your fingers loosen ever so slightly. Daryl, already so still, freezes completely.
Your eyes flutter open—half-lidded, blurry.
You were waking.
His face was still tucked in close, nose brushing the curve where your shoulder met your neck. The warmth of your skin still lingered on his lips.
When your fingers slipped from his hair, he hesitated—reluctant to pull away, but he did, just slightly, leaning back just enough to look at you.
Your eyes were barely open, sleepy and warm. A little dazed. A soft, dopey smile pulled at the corners of your mouth like you’d been dreaming of something good.
Daryl blinked slowly, his brows twitching down in the faintest flicker of confusion.
You weren’t supposed to look at him like that.
Not him.
Not like he was someone worth smiling at.
But you did.
He exhaled quietly, nostrils flaring slightly as he tried to steady himself. Then, in the dimness, his fingertips began to travel, moving up the length of your arms—slow, hesitant, like he was reading something secret off your skin.
Each touch was deliberate. Careful. Like you were breakable.
When he reached your wrists, he paused. His rough fingers worked gently, untangling yours from his hair completely.
And then—one of you moved.
Neither of you quite sure who. It didn’t matter.
Fingers threaded together like they’d been waiting for that all night. Both your hands, woven together. A subtle squeeze. That soft click of something falling perfectly into place.
There was a beat.
Neither of you moved.
You just looked at each other—like there was nothing else outside the walls of that ruined barn.
Then you noticed.
He was hovering.
Your back was on the floor, tangled in the nest of blankets, and Daryl was braced above you, one arm bent, the other not but both hands still tangled with yours. His chest close. His breath warm.
His eyes dropped—to your mouth, then back up to your eyes.
He swallowed hard.
“Y'alright?”
His voice was barely there, a low, whispered rasp.
“Didn’t know if you were… y’know. Awake. Before.”
You didn’t answer right away.
You didn’t need to.
Your smile just widened, soft and dreamy and still somehow shy. And that killed him. Because despite everything—you weren’t afraid. You trusted him.
Daryl lowered his head again, just a little. He hesitated, glancing up at you for permission—even if he didn’t say it aloud.
Your fingers are still woven through his.
His palms are callused. Yours are soft. The contrast is unmistakable.
And then you blink slowly, lashes fluttering, still drowsy.
“...What’re you doin’?”
You ask it softly—your voice thick with sleep, laced with curiosity, not fear.
“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”
The question isn’t sharp. There’s no accusation. Just a sleepy smile and half-lidded eyes that glimmer like you already believed you where dreaming.
Daryl’s breath catches in his throat.
You blink slowly, your lashes brushing your cheeks as you fight off sleep. The corners of your lips twitch with a faint, shy smile—almost like you’re embarrassed to ask, even though the question comes from a place of softness, not suspicion.
Daryl startles just a little. Not visibly, not with a jolt—but in the way his brows pull together and his eyes flicker away for half a second, like he was caught stealing glances.
His fingers twitch in yours.
You squeeze them gently in response.
Reassurance. Permission. A silent I’m here.
He licks his lips, unsure how to answer. His voice is rough, low like gravel in his throat, but quiet enough that only you can hear it.
“Ain’t… wasn’t doin’ nothin’."
His eyes drift across your face again, slower this time. He’s still hovering, still scared he’s overstepping. So he checks in, because Daryl doesn’t want to take anything for granted—not anymore.
“Y'good? I ain’t makin’ you uncomfortable or… nothin’, right?”
His body language is different now—still guarded, but gentler. He holds himself like he’s afraid to press his weight down, not just physically but emotionally—like he might ruin the one soft thing he’s been allowed to hold onto in years.
Your voice comes out low, sleep-thick and a little shy.
“No… you’re not. Just didn’t expect you to be so close… like this.”
There’s a pause. He looks like he’s about to pull back. But you squeeze his hands again, just a little firmer.
“I… I don’t mind.”
The words hang in the air like incense—thin, delicate, sacred.
He just breathes.
Neither of you speak. The silence isn't awkward—it’s thick, full of unspoken truths that haven't found the courage to be said aloud yet.
Your foreheads are nearly touching. Your fingers, still interlaced, are warm and slow between you. Your breath fans across his cheek and neck, and he soaks in the feeling like a man who’s spent his whole life in a storm and just found shelter.
He glances down at your mouth again—but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. Instead, he exhales like he’s releasing something he’s held for too long.
“Didn’t think you’d be okay with me bein’ like this,” he murmurs, eyes steady on yours.
He shifts slightly, adjusting his balance, but never letting go of your hands.
His thumb brushes a slow, absentminded stroke over the curve of your palm, like he’s grounding himself.
"I ain’t crossin’ no line?”
The way he says it—like he doesn’t trust himself not to hurt you—carries so much weight with it.
You squeeze his hands again, and this time you make sure he feels it.
“You’re not, Daryl. I’m… okay.”
Your voice shakes a little. Maybe from nerves. Maybe from the sheer softness of this moment, how careful it feels, like it might dissolve if either of you breathes too hard. But your eyes don’t leave his, and neither does the trust in them.
Daryl exhales. It’s quiet, barely there, but you see it in the slight collapse of his shoulders.
His head dips lower, tentative. His nose brushes yours—accidental, then intentional. The contact is fleeting at first, then slower, steadier. You feel the brush of his breath across your lip. Neither of you kisses. Not yet.
Instead, his forehead grazes yours, the skin cool and warm at once. Your noses bump again, soft and clumsy and perfect. He chuckles once, quietly, almost like he doesn’t mean to let it out.
“M'Sorry,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t move away.
Your heart is hammering now—not in fear, but in something far more sacred. His calloused fingers tighten just a little in yours, and when he nuzzles closer, cheek against cheek, you turn into the contact without thinking.
For a moment the entire world is still.
And he asks, voice barely a whisper, almost like a secret.
“Can I stay like this?”
It breaks something open in you.
Because that wasn’t a request for sex or even affection—it was a plea for belonging, a quiet hope whispered through years of silence. He isn’t asking for more. He just wants to be near you. To be wanted. To not be alone.
Your eyes close, your chest swelling with emotion that’s too big to name. And your answer is simple.
Just the barest nod.
He doesn’t move, not really. But something shifts. The way his body relaxes slightly, the way his thumb presses more firmly into your palm. He dips his face into the crook of your neck and stays—not like a man taking, but like a man finally allowed to rest.
You stay like that, just breathing together in the darkness.
The barn groans.
The storm doesn’t let up.
After what might be a moment but could be longer, Daryl’s face shifts upward, blue eyes meeting yours.
Something unnameable passes across his features—a relief, a tenderness, and a thousand walls crumbling at once. His posture eases, and he leans in slowly. His nose drags down yours slowly—tentative, careful, barely there.
He’s never been this close before, not like this, he’s memorizing the warmth of your skin, the shape of your smile when you think no one’s looking, the faded scar across the bridge of your nose.
You tilt your face toward him just slightly, a shy, instinctive movement. He exhales like he’s been holding it in for days, his breath warm against your lips.
Then, softly, his blue eyes meet yours again.
The kind of look that’s never asked for anything. The kind of look used when someone thinks they might get told no, and will accept it even though it might break them.
You nod.
Tiny. Gentle. Shy.
But it’s enough.
He leans down slowly, and when his lips finally brush yours, it’s not a kiss—not really. It’s a question in the shape of a breath. A touch so feather-light it barely qualifies.
His lips hover a heartbeat longer, then brush yours again—just once—a soft press, then a retreat, as if he’s afraid he might want too much.
When he finally pulls back just enough to see your face, you’re smiling.
Not big. Not bold.
Just… safe.
And Daryl?
He smiles, too.
Barely there, more in his eyes than his mouth—but you see it. The crinkle at the corners, the way the tension in his jaw eases. Like he’s home.
He watches you like you might disappear if he blinks. His blue eyes flicker across your face, lingering on your lips, your lashes, the blush creeping across your cheeks. His breath is shallow. His fingers are still tangled with yours, your hands a warm knot between your chests.
Daryl swallows, throat working visibly, and then lowers his head. There’s that delicate nuzzle again—The stubble on his jaw grazes your skin, but there’s no harshness to it. He’s learning you. Savoring the permission you gave him.
Then he kisses you again.
This time, it’s a little less hesitant—just a shade bolder. His mouth moves against yours like he’s searching for rhythm, his hand untangling from yours so he can brace beside your head. The kiss is still slow, reverent, but his lips part ever so slightly, tasting the edge of something he hasn’t dared ask for before.
And you respond in kind—tilting your head, catching your breath, your fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.
His hand finds your waist, cautious at first—fingertips brushing the hem of your shirt like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
Your body arches subtly into the touch, and he takes that as permission.
His palm unfurls across your hip, sliding along warm skin in a delicate exploration. You can feel the slight tremble in his fingers, the restraint in his grip. Daryl doesn’t take, doesn’t demand—its like he’s asking with every movement.
And then—
A soft sound escapes you. Not pain, not protest.
A whimper.
Instinctive. Breathless.
But Daryl freezes.
His entire body goes still above you, like a startled animal caught mid-step. He pulls back just enough to search your face, blue eyes wide with fear. Panic flickers across his expression like wildfire catching dry leaves.
His hands retreat instantly, as though he’s burned you. They hover above you helplessly before curling into fists against the blanket.
The old fear surges back—that he’s just like Merle, just like their father. That no matter how gently he moves, he’ll still break the things he cares about.
“Ain’t like I wanted to scare ya…”
“Didn’t mean to be like him…”
His voice drops on that last word, barely more than a whisper—so low it’s like he’s trying to bury it in the dirt.
You reach up, slowly, not to pull him back, but to anchor him. Your hand cups his cheek—warm skin beneath your fingers, rough with stubble and taut with tension. He flinches at first, but doesn’t pull away.
Your thumb brushes under his eye.
“it didn’t hurt.”
Soft words. A truth he doesn’t quite believe yet.
You take his wrist gently, guiding his hand back to your waist, resting it over the very place he had just touched. Your own hand covers his, holding him there. Safe. Welcome. Wanted.
“That sound… it wasn’t bad. Just… surprised me, I guess.” You say heat creeping up your neck.
Your eyes plead with him to understand—not just the words, but the feeling underneath. That his touch didn’t scare you. That he doesn’t scare you.
You can feel the minute tremors in him, the silent war between his desire to stay close and his instinct to flee before he ruins everything.
His voice breaks the silence, so soft it almost doesn’t exist.
“I ain’t never had nothin’ gentle.”
“I don’t wanna mess this up.”
You close your eyes and let your fingers trace the back of his neck, grounding him.
“You won’t.”
And he believes you—just a little. Enough to stay. Enough to let his hand remain where it is, pressed lightly to your side, no longer frozen in guilt.
The two of you lie there like that, skin to skin, breath to breath. Outside is rot and ruin, the rage of the storm, but here… here is something human again.
“Y'sure?” he asks again, low and rough, voice curling with that Southern rasp.
You nod, eyes still closed with complete trust, lips parted slightly with unspoken want.
He leans in.
This time there’s no pause, no hesitance—just the sure, gentle press of his mouth against yours. The kiss is bolder now. Still slow, still reverent, but there’s a weight behind it—need that’s no longer afraid to make itself known.
Daryl’s hands, begin to move. They unfurl, calloused fingers seeking the warm, smooth curve of your waist. He moves cautiously, as though touching something breakable—but the longer you stay close, the more he lets go.
His hands explore your sides, slipping just barely beneath your shirt to find the bare skin of your waistline your stomach, but no further. You shiver under his touch—not from fear, but from the heat it draws up your spine.
You answer him without words.
Your fingers trail along the front of his shirt, slow at first. Then you shift, one hand planting gently on his chest—feeling the solid weight of him there, the fast thud of his heart beneath flannel. You kiss him back slowly. There’s nothing demanding in your touch, just curiosity. Longing. Affection.
-------------------------------
Then your fingers move toward the buttons of his shirt hesitantly.
A soft slip.
The first button gives way. Daryl’s breathing hitches. His hand stiffens on your waist.
The second.
His lips stutter on yours, slightly. His brow furrows. His eyes open. There’s no anger—just something darker. Raw. Old.
It’s subtle. A slow, sharp inhale against your lips. His hand falters against your side. Your fingers have only slipped two buttons when you feel the change. He’s gone still—not from want, but fear.
His forehead rests against yours, eyes clenched shut. You can feel his jaw tight beneath your palm.
“Daryl…?” you whisper, uncertain.
He pulls back half an inch—just enough to look down, not at you, but away from you. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Shame is a silent, crushing thing in him. You see it in the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, like he’s trying to hide.
“S’fine,” he mutters after a moment. But it’s not. His voice is rough, guarded again. “Just… leave it. S’all right.”
But it isn’t all right. You can see it in the way he won’t meet your eyes. The way his sits up fingers fumbling to re-fasten the buttons.
You sit up slowly, carefully, he almost flinches. He’s bracing for rejection—has been since you started undoing the buttons.
He’s not scared you’ll mock him.
No.
He’s scared you’ll pity him.
That if you see the old scars on his back and realize what they mean—what kind of man he comes from.
That you’ll see him the same way he sees himself—broken, tainted by things he had no control over.
For a man like Daryl, who was taught love comes with pain, the act of being seen—really seen—is terrifying.
He finally glances at you. His eyes are dark with something distant.
Haunted.
“Ain’t nothin’ worth lookin’ at,” he says lowly. “Ain’t like I got anythin’ you wanna see.”
Your brows furrow gently. You don't understand, not completely, but that deep ache in your chest isn’t just for him, it’s for the boy he was. The one who was never told he didn’t have to carry shame for someone else’s cruelty.
You'd heard of his father, and while Merle wasn't cruel to you, you knew what Daryl's brother was capable of, but you didnt know all of it just enough to know why he flinches, you'd picked up on it long before he'd voiced it.
You reach for him again, slower this time.
Your fingers find his jaw, brushing it with the featherlight touch of someone who isn’t trying to fix him, just be with him. You guide his eyes back to yours, and there’s no judgment in them—just soft concern and something much deeper.
"Hey" you whisper "I'm sorry"
Daryl’s throat bobs. His lips part, but the words tangle.
"D'want you ta see… what I am.” he says eventually. Just that. Raw. Honest.
You shake your head, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.
“I already do,” you whisper. “I like who you are.”
He doesn’t answer. Just leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours again. This time, you feel him shake—not with fear, but with the slow unraveling of decades of guardedness.
"More sleep?" You ask quietly.
"Yea, C'mon" Daryl responds, a gentle hand guiding you down to settle against him, you curl and arm against his chest, laying your cheek against his shoulder. You don’t try to undo his shirt again. You just let him hold you.
Daryl shifts the blanket to cover you both, his arm curling you closer pulling you more firmly into him. His nose brushes your hair, just for a moment—barely there.
“Storm’ll pass,” he mumbles into your hairline. “Always does.”
KIAAA MY FAVE WRITER EVER!! I HOPE YOURE DOING WELL AND THAT YOURE NOT OVERWORKING YOURSELF ❤️
im feeling pretty angsty, so could you please make headcanons for Altaïr, Connor, Arno, Jacob, Edward, and Ezio about them having a nightmare where the reader dies? you seriously never fail to impress me so i came to you!! 💓💓
notes: AHHHHH it makes me so happy to know that I'm your favourite writer!! I'm doing alright at the moment, I hope you are too <3 I hope this post will continue to impress you hehe
characters: Altaïr, Ezio, Edward, Connor, Arno, Jacob
☾ ⋆ﾟ MASTERLIST / RULES / TAGLIST FORM
a l t a ï r :
It was a kick to your leg that woke you up and when you turned over to look at the culprit, you found your lover's face scrunched up and his body trembling.
You set your hand on his shoulder and gently shook him, calling out his name to try and wake him. He woke with a start and sat upright straight away, body turning as he looked at you, hands landing on your shoulders and then cupping your face.
He laid back down with you so that he could pull you into his arms and you made no protest, returning his embrace. After a while, you realised that he was still shaking and you could feel the wetness of his tears upon your head where he had buried his face. You tried to pull back a little, to wipe his tears away, but he stopped you, saying "Just let me hold you for a while, please." and not wanting you to see him cry. You stayed in his arms until he calmed enough to fall back asleep.
e z i o :
You were stirred awake by Ezio calling your name and turned around to find him shaking, hands gripping the sheets.
You sat up, lit the candle on your nightstand and began gently brushing the hair away from his face in a soothing manner, not wanting to startle him when he was so clearly having a nightmare. You took his hand with your other one and squeezed it gently, continuing to caress his hair until he woke up and looked straight at you.
He's holding your hand even tighter as he quickly tells you all about what happened, about how terrified he was of losing you too. You leaned down to kiss him softly, returning to lay down beside him, curled up into his side and you assured him that you were perfectly safe, that he would always be able to protect you and that you would be with him for a long, long time.
e d w a r d :
Another one where you're likely kicked awake or a hand goes flying out and lands against your back. When you woke to find Edward having a nightmare, you began calling out his name and asking him to wake up, hoping that perhaps some part of him could hear you and hearing that he was having a nightmare would be enough to wake him.
It seemed to work and his breathing was heavy as he woke up, sitting upright and looking all around the place, as if for danger, before turning to you and pulling you into his lap, cradling you to his chest.
He held you close and began to tell you all about his nightmare where he lost you to some crew that had boarded the Jackdaw. His breathing was ragged and you could tell that he was doing his best to not cry at that false memory of holding your corpse, the angry red gash across your throat. You wrapped your arms around his neck and peppered kisses all across his face as you assured him that you're perfectly safe and suggested that the two of you go back to sleep as he held you.
c o n n o r :
He doesn't really move or call out so you were suddenly very thankful that you were a light sleeper when one of his groans woke you up. You propped yourself up on your elbow and lightly tapped his chest, seeing how his face was scrunched up. You called out his name and he finally woke up.
He lets out a big sigh of relief when he sees you hovering over him, alive and well with the moonlight falling on you from through the window. He reaches up to cup your face and pulls you downwards gently to kiss your forehead and then your mouth.
You ask him about the nightmare and he tells you all about the ambush of redcoats, of the bayonet through your middle, of how you were barely clinging to life when the fight was over and how it all felt so real. You assure him that it was all just a nightmare and coax him to lay back down with you, Connor insisting on you turning over so that he can hold you close while he spoons you.
a r n o :
You woke to the sound of crying and in the dying light from the fireplace, you could see the tears on Arno's cheeks as he wept in his sleep. You brushed them away from his face and began calling out to him to wake up, gently shaking his shoulder.
He woke up with a gasp and you quickly told him that he was having a nightmare. He sat up and wiped more of the tears from his face and you asked him what it was about.
You leaned your head on his shoulder as he told you all about coming home one day to find you dead in the memento gallery, murdered. You assure him that everything's alright now though and stand up to put on a robe as you suggest a quick escapade to the kitchen to see what pastries you can help yourselves to as you grab a robe for Arno as well, the two of you making your way downstairs, his nightmare soon forgotten.
j a c o b :
I feel like he would be the worst before he wakes: the blankets are on the floor, there are limbs everywhere, he's calling out and flaying about, trying to fight while still asleep, tears in his eyes. You'll have to call out to him for him to wake up or put yourself at risk of being hit while he's still having the nightmare, it should work to wake him up if you're loud enough.
When he wakes up, he has to take a moment to take in his surroundings, where he is, assure that he's not wherever he was in the nightmare and that he never really was in the first place. His eyes land on you and that's when he finally seems to calm down, excusing himself as he goes over to the pitcher to pour himself a glass of water. You don't fail to notice how he smudges away his tears while his back is still facing you.
When he comes to sit down on the edge of the bed beside you, you make your way into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck, kissing the corner of his mouth and asking him what the nightmare was about. Not wanting to relive it, he keeps the details vague and says he watched you die and was fighting to get to you. You assure him that none of it was real and he was perfectly safe and that he certainly throws a better punch when he's awake and not asleep which makes him laugh a little. Once he's settled down, the two of you gather the blankets up from the floor and go back to sleep.
summary: when you end up getting hurt while out, you make it back home, but just barely.
genre: angst, hurt/comfort
characters: alastor, lucifer
warnings: talk of fighting, abuse, broken bones and getting hurt, being stabbed. essentially you’re hurt and they respond to you being hurt. blood and medical care by the characters too.
alastor
you walked into the hotel, staggering in, barely able to keep yourself up. every breath your feeble body tried to drag in aggravated another part of your body, causing even slight breaths to feel like you were being punched again.
you grimaced as you found stability against the wall next to door, leaning against it, your head hitting the wall. you micro-adjusted yourself trying to find a spot where you could breathe, knowing if you didn’t you would pass out. you couldn't find that spot, and were near tears. you couldn’t breathe, everything hurt, your eye was swollen shut, and you didn’t know what else to do. you had to get to your room but the thought of walking up those stairs and then down the hallway to your room seemed more of a torture session then you just got through.
that’s when you heard the soft pattering of feet and you looked up to see wide eyes.
red eyes bore into yours as the momentary shock of seeing alastor stopped your brain from thinking about the mind numbing pain you were experiencing. you watched him tighten his grip on his cane as he slowly made his way over to you, like you were a wounded animal.
“can you walk?” he asked, sizing up your figure and waving the cane away.
“i’m not… sure. i… got here… okay…. but my rooms… far.” you muttered out, long pauses between words to catch your breath. he nods, a dark shadow passing over his face along with apprehension, before he shakes his head and approaches you holding out his hands.
“may i carry you?” he asks.
“what?” your shock at his question causing you to not fully register what he said.
“will you allow me to carry you up to the rooms. i’ll help you with whatever injuries you have there.” he says slow and careful.
“i don’t know if… you can carry… me.” you murmur. he smiles a bit more now.
“i’m stronger than i look.” he replies back easily. you wave your free hand at him, giving him consent to go ahead. he gently places his arm under your knees and in a swift movement your in his arms, your body searing as your injuries are jostled.
“fuck.” you moan out trying to breath. alastor stays still and waits until you’re breathing somewhat regularly. he then starts taking you up the stairs, heading the opposite direction from your room.
“my room…” you say pointing behind him.
“i know. we’re going to my room. i have more first aid supplies then what charlie put in the rooms.” he replies easily, not breaking a sweat or even seeming out of breath. his door opens and he gently places you down on a chair near the opening to the forest. you try and find your breath again as alastor quietly darts off and comes back with a box of medical supplies.
he’s quiet as he examines you and asks permission to take off your shirt. he quickly assesses the damage to your ribs, your ankle and your face. checking your hands as well and glaring at the wounds on your knuckles. he starts with your ribs first, setting them and then wrapping them, forcing your posture straight. had you not been just trying to stay awake, you would have blushed at how gently his hands trailed your sides, piecing you back together. next he hands you a cold pack for your eye. you hold it up as he wraps your hand in gauze and ointment. you switch hands as he treats the other one.
“i don’t think your ankle is broken.” he says, “but at the least it’s sprained horribly.” he pulls out a stabilizer and gauze. “this will hurt.” you nod.
“do you worse.” you mutter, finally able to take deeper but still shallow breaths. he turns your foot to face up and your eyes widen as you scream.
“it’s okay. you’re okay.” he says, his eyes wide and worried.
“it hurts al. it hurts.” you cry, tears running down your face.
“i know. but let me finish up. it will feel better.” he assured you as he reaches up and wipes your tears away.
“go ahead.” you whisper. he quickly puts the stabilizer against your leg and then wraps it with gauze. tears running down your cheeks as you keep still and silent.
“it’s done.” he says leaning back as you sit in the chair feeling exhausted.
“thank you… alastor.” you voice no louder than a whisper but you know he hears you as he nods. he packs everything up and then moves you to the bed that magically appears in the room.
“i have a room al.” you say, sitting against the pillows.
“i know you do, but you can’t do anything in this condition. so you’ll stay here until i deem it okay for you to leave.” his tone leaving no room for argument and you nod. “now, who did this to you?”
your eyes widen as your head snaps up at him. gone was the man you saw before, replaced with what you knew as the radio demon. the shift happened almost instantaneously. “it was nothing alastor. i just… fucked up.” you say looking off to the side.
“i don’t take well with lying dear.” he says, his hand hovering over your ankle as a warning. you look at him disbelieving and he just tilts his head. almost as if he’s saying ‘try me’. you sigh.
“it was an ex of mine. he worked for vox and i left him before i came here. he was abusive and i had enough. but he found me and he knew i was at the hotel. said i couldn’t get away from him, and that we were meant to be. and when i tried to get away…” you motioned to yourself. you hoped your words came across as truthful and sincere. you internally sighed in relief as alastor nodded, and sent his shadow off. moments later husk appeared and alastor murmured something to him. you saw husk’s eyes widen as he looked at you and then alastor.
“i’ll take care of it.” husk said, his gaze steely as he left.
“relax my dear. you’re safe now and we’ll help you recover.” alastor said, as you moved to lay down, him taking up an arm chair by the bed and procuring a book from thin air. you closed your eyes as guilt consumed you. you had told alastor the truth but not the full truth.
you didn’t tell him that your ex mentioned that him “giving to you what was coming” was from vox and was to be a message to the radio demon. you knew that alastor would withdraw after that and that would hurt you more than any other physical pain anyone could put you through.
lucifer
you quickly shut the door to the house, leaning against it and taking a breath. you looked down to your abdomen and got a bit woozy seeing the blood spread across your white shirt.
“damn it.” you mutter, feeling a bit foggy from the blood loss. you shake your head trying to clear it. you knew that lucifer was home and you could only hold onto the hope that he didn't hear you come in. you were getting ready to make your way to the bathroom when lucifer popped in front of you.
“honey! you’re home!” he says, looking mostly at the papers in his hand as you straightened up much to the protest of your body, trying to seem like you had not been stabbed maybe 15 minutes ago.
“i- yup!” you responded, your voice tight as you tried to cover your wound with your hand. you moved your jacket over it so that it couldn’t be seen either. lucifer looked up at you as his eye squinted at you.
“are you all right?” he asks, coming closer to you, his focus on those papers in his hand all but forgotten.
“i-i’m fine, luce.” you smile, it not reaching your eyes though. you clear your throat, looking off the left, trying to figure out a way to stop him from really observing you. “i know you said you wanted to show me those new plans for the hotel, let’s go check them out!” you say, changing the subject. hoping that worked. you didn’t want to worry him, nor tell him why you were hurt.
“okay…” he says drawing out the word and then motioning for you to follow him. you start walking behind him, every footstep jostling you and causing your wound to bleed even more, when you reached the three stairs to his study. he crossed them easily but you stepped up on the one and gasped, feeling searing pain in your side. your hand coming out to hold the wall so you didn’t fall. your breath rushing in and out of you like you had ran a race, as your head swam, your body loosing more blood. you see the red substance drip from your hand and watch it fall to the floor, blending into the red carpet. you look up and see lucifer standing there, his eyes wide.
“what the fuck happened?” he cries, going to you and lifting you up, your hand falling from your wound and your jacket falling back, showing the slice through your shirt. he quickly makes a portal and gets you to your shared room. he gently lays you down on the bed, and dashes off to get some gauze. you try to get off the bed not wanting to ruin the sheets. he comes back to you flailing, trying to get up and pushes you back down, looking at you like you had completely lost it.
“the sheets…” you murmur, coughing and wiping your hand away seeing blood. “oh no.” you whisper and his eyes widen. he throws the gauze away and places his hands on your stomach.
“why didn't you tell me immediately?" he cries, shaking his head looking distraught. "i’m going to heal you, just... stay still.” he says closing his eyes. you grab his hand with the strength you had, though you felt all the strength in your body seemingly being siphoned just by laying on the bed. he looks at you, his eyes wide.
“it hurts you.” you say.
“don’t care.” he says, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. before you can argue again, his hands glow gold and you body starts stitching itself up, cell by cell, inch by inch. you can feel it all. you cry out as lucifer healing you seems to go on forever. the few minutes it takes seems like hours, as your mind swims through a sea of pain and exhaustion. finally the golden glow subsides and lucifer drops to his knees next to you. you grab his hand as he rests his head against you. both of you trying to recover. you can barely keep your eyes open feeling them closing. you drift off to a dreamless sleep, almost like your body forcing you to rest.
when you wake next you sit up quickly, looking around the dark room trying to find lucifer. your breath coming in short pants as you can't see anything but the darkness in the room.
“luce?” you ask, your voice hoarse and then you look next to you. lucifer was sleeping close by you. you sigh out in relief as you lay back down and brush his hair back from his eyes, kissing his forehead. “you saved me, again.” you murmur, gently resting your hand on his cheek, resting your forehead against his. his eyes open slowly.
“i’ll always be there to do so.” he smiles and sits up.
“i’m sorry i woke you up.” you said as he turned to you, drawing you to him and situating you to straddle his lap. clutching you close.
“i was so scared.” he whispered, not like he was asleep just a moment ago.
“i’m sorry.” you respond back. your head slotting in between his shoulder and neck. he lets you rest there for a moment and then pulls you back to look at you.
“who did this to you?” he asks, his eyes steely as he cupped your face gently. you shook your head not wanting to say. “darling, who did this?” he asked, the tone of his voice sharper and more impatient.
“i-“ tears start running down your face. “you’re going to be so upset… and i don’t want you to be. i don’t want.. you to pull away from me again. it’ll make you do that and i can’t bare that lucifer. i just-“ you start talking quickly, your breaths coming quick as you hold on to his shoulders, looking into his eyes even as tears pour from yours. lucifer’s eyes widen and his eyes are misty seeing how upset you are.
“i won’t. i promise you. i won't pull away, regardless of what you tell me. but i need to know who did this to you. tell me. now.” lucifer says, his voice firm.
“i-they were masked. they looked like sharks?” you phrased the last statement as a question. “they cornered me in an alley and said that i needed to take a message to lucifer. that they knew how to get to you, and they could use me to do that and you needed to give them what they asked for.” you said as you recounted the tale with your eyes closed. you opened them when you felt lucifer’s claws digging into your hips. you saw his eyes had turned red and his horns were fully out.
“and they stabbed you?” he ground out. you nodded. "that was their message?" you nodded again.
"that if you didn't do what they asked, they would hurt me." you explain, realizing near the end of the explanation that it probably wasn't needed. his eyes darkened as you spoke, and he moved you gently onto your side of the bed. he took a deep breath as he got up. he gently petted your hair and helped you lay down, his horns no longer out, but his eyes bright red.
“where are you going?” you asked, already knowing the answer.
“out. i’ll be back all right. stay here and go to sleep, you need it. i’ll be right back.” he says, a steely resolve in his eyes, and a gentle smile on his face. you nodded as your eyes felt heavy and fell asleep before lucifer even reached the door to leave. he straightened his jacket and walked down the hall. he had important work to take care of as he created a portal and stepped through it.
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