Sometimes, I do things.

'Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I've ever known.' — Chuck Palahniuk Hetero Life Mate of the Murda <3

[shadowcitrine]

Small note: lots of life stuff happening. It keeps happening. I've got stuff I am working on, but I haven't had time to do it. Immaculately slow progress on everything.

~ Daryl Dixon ~ Negan Smith ~ Connor MacManus ~ Murphy MacManus ~ Boondock Saints

<*> Thanks to @enlightndone for teaching me how to Tumblr, and gently encouraging me to make the list.

[stellar-waves]

murphy + fem!oc ⋆˙⟡ my darling dear ˎˊ˗

connor + fem!oc ⋆˙⟡ staring down the sun 🌞 ˎˊ˗ connor + fem!reader ⋆˙⟡ the only heaven i'll be sent to ✷ ˎˊ˗

connor + unnamed fem!oc ⋆˙⟡ love is watching someone die ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ stay on my side tonight ✷ ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ two pennies ˎˊ˗ connor + fem!reader ⋆˙⟡ and this is how it starts ✷ ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ do you feel it? ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ when your heart beats in stereo ✷ ˎˊ˗ brothers with unnamed fem!oc ⋆˙⟡ prayer changes things ˎˊ˗ muse moments ⋆˙⟡ that moment ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ make you cry ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ be okay ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ so badly ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ back to the disaster ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ he kills me ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ everything ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ he means nothing ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ and i knew ˎˊ˗ ⋆˙⟡ hope ˎˊ˗

connor / murphy + fem!reader ⋆˙⟡ fluffy february 2025 💗 ˎˊ˗

[shadowcitrine]

If you don't have enough Boondock Saints in your life... These stories give me LIFE

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Setting: Alexandria era

Warnings: Vague mention of injuries; mildly suggestive.

Summary: Daryl Dixon vs household chores.

A/N: I lost a productivity challenge and writing Daryl doing the very things I fail at was my punishment. It was fun to write so it wasn’t much of a punishment. Suck it, @shadowcitrine and @enlightndone (lovingly).

Daryl Dixon hated being idle.

He’d rather be knee-deep in walker guts than stuck inside. His leg was propped up, healing from a knife wound that, according to Denise: “needed rest or it’ll open right back up.”

Stupid, if you asked him. 

You had gone out with a run crew that morning, promising to be back before dinner. That left Daryl alone in the small Alexandria house. Alone and twitchy.

He tried sitting still. He really did. Ten minutes in, he was glaring at the door like it had personally insulted him. The silence buzzed in his ears. The TV didn’t work, only there for aesthetic purposes. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He had put a bullet in the screen last month when a storm had startled him awake.

He tried reading but the sounds of people enjoying their freedom outside had him tossing the book over his shoulder with a quiet sonuvabitch. 

So what was he supposed to do? 

He looked around. The place could use some tidying. Wasn’t that what normal folks did when they were bored? Why else would anyone want to clean a house?

Well, he would uproot the place and move it two streets over with his bare hands if you asked him to. So surely he could manage a few simple chores for you.

Chore 1: Laundry

Simple enough, right? You had shown him how the washer worked once.

Daryl gathered up the dirty clothes—his, yours, and one of Carol’s towels he’d borrowed weeks ago—and dumped them in. He wasn’t sure about the soap amount, so he just poured until it ‘looked right.’

When the machine started rattling and foaming like a rabid walker, he realized it had only looked right. It was, in fact, very wrong. Suds spilled across the floor, creeping towards the door like some sort of soap monster. He grabbed a towel and ended up slipping, catching himself on the counter with a loud thunk.

By the time he got it somewhat under control, the entire hallway was slippery with errant suds and smelled like lavender and defeat.

Chore 2: Dishes

He figured this one couldn’t go wrong. It was just water, dishwashing liquid, and a sponge.

Except—soap from the laundry fiasco was still all over his hands, and when he reached for a glass, it slipped and shattered in the sink. He cursed under his breath, staring at the shards. When he tried to pick them out, he promptly nicked his right hand.

Now the counter had blood on it. 

Helluva job, Dixon.

Chore 3: Cooking

You had left a note: Don’t worry about dinner, I’ll bring back stew.

He worried anyway. He wanted to surprise you. Prove he wasn’t useless while stuck at home.

So he wiped down the counter, wrapped his hand, limped to the pantry, and pulled out ingredients. How hard could soup be? Throw stuff in a pot. Boil. Done. The battlefield that was a kitchen was your area of expertise. He never cooked unless it was game over a campfire. 

Still, he was confident that he could manage.

A little confident, anyway.

He found half an onion, a carrot, two potatoes, and what he thought was beef stock. Smelled like one of those fancy candles you were always excited to find on a run. Maybe expired? Oh well. You wouldn’t have kept it if it couldn’t be used, right?

Ten minutes later, the kitchen smelled like burnt sugar and onion.

Narrowing his eyes at the jar, it was clearly labeled vanilla extract.

Oh.

Well, fuck.

It could still be good though. You had put sugar in chili once. He had balked but it was actually tasty. This could work.

He stirred, tasted, grimaced, and muttered, “ain’t that bad.”

When he hobbled away, he gave a full-bodied shudder and a noise that suggested he may have just swallowed battery acid. 

Maybe it just needed salt.

Or an exorcism. 

Chore 4: Repairs

He was good at fixing things. This would be a piece of cake. 

The porch step had been loose for weeks. He had always cursed at it when it had wobbled, given it a ‘I’ll get you, my pretty’ scowl. 

Armed with a hammer, nails, one good hand, and a bum leg, he crouched awkwardly where the porch met the walkway. His good leg was bent while the injured one was straight out to the side. It was just a sad, wobbly superhero pose. Surprising exactly no one, he managed to hit everything except the nail head. He shook out his stinging hand when gripping the hammer too tightly. One particularly bad swing sent the tool flying into the yard. 

He remained crouched, watching it land in a bush, and decided the porch was fine the way it was.

The look on your face when you opened the door was priceless.

Laundry bubbles oozed into the kitchen from the hall, a bloody cloth was on the countertop next to a spray bottle of cleaning solution, the air smelled faintly of vanilla-onion disaster. And Daryl stood—balanced on one leg—in the middle of it all, appearing every bit the perpetrator at a crime scene.

“What happened?” You asked, trying hard not to laugh.

He pulled a face between a scowl and a pout, looking everywhere but at you. “Was tryin’ to do somethin’ to help.”

You stepped carefully over the foam, stifling a grin. “You did something, alright.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking about as sheepish as a man like him could. “Didn’t go like I planned.”

You kissed his cheek, soft and amused. “You’re sweet, Dixon. But next time? Just sit still and heal, okay?”

He grunted. “Ain’t built for sittin’ still.”

“And the house isn’t built to withstand your attempts at domestication.” That defeated slump of his shoulders made your heart hurt. “Still, I think I should show my appreciation for your efforts. I can think of ways to keep you busy without wrecking the house.” You teased, arching an eyebrow.

That earned you the faintest smirk. “Yeah? Might like them ways better.”

And just like that, the stir-crazy hunter was tamed.

Well, for the rest of the evening, anyway.

[shadowcitrine]

DOMESTIC DISASTER

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

I’ll Keep You Close and Keep My Secret Safe

Daryl Dixon x Reader (unestablished)

Setting: The Greene Farm

Warnings: Small depiction of hunted animal

Summary: Daryl had never actually liked someone before. So he shows you the only way he knows how.

A/N: I read this in a post somewhere and when I went back to my dashboard to get their username, I couldn’t find it. Thank you, whoever you are. This is for you.

Daryl never meant for you to notice. Not really.

Hell, he didn’t even know why he was doing it at first.

It started small. He was out hunting more often than not. Mostly for Sophia until she was found. In that barn. Then he went out just to escape, but when he came back with a rabbit one evening, he decided to leave it by your tent before dawn. He figured you might need it more than the others. You’d been helping Maggie and Beth, wearing yourself thin, and he’d caught you skipping meals more than once.

He didn’t care. He didn’t. He just didn’t want to hear everyone bitching when you ran yourself into the ground.

It was just a damn rabbit. He was just being useful. It was no big deal.

Until he heard you squeal.

It was early, the sun barely up. The sound carried across the pasture, sharp and startled. Daryl had been half-hidden near the fence line, checking a few snares he had set here and there. He froze—crossbow half-raised—before realizing it wasn’t danger. It was you. Standing outside your tent, hands hovering like you didn’t know what to do with them. You were staring down at the uncleaned rabbit he’d dropped off a few minutes earlier.

You looked confused. Disgusted. Then guilty for being disgusted.

He felt like an idiot.

That night, he didn’t bring anything. Didn’t even look your way at dinner. Why would he? He didn’t care. You hadn’t wanted the food.

But you needed it.

The next kill, he cleaned it. He skinned it right there under a hickory tree and cooked it over a small fire beside his tent. Far away from everyone. Made sure it didn’t burn. He was no chef, but it smelled good enough. When the meat cooled, he wrapped it in cloth and left it where your tent flap met the grass.

He didn’t wait around.

He just walked away, keeping to the edge of the trees, pretending to check snares while he watched you find it.

You looked around like you expected someone to jump out and explain. Then your mouth softened, and you smiled. Smiled. Small and real. You took the food inside your tent and didn’t say a word to anyone.

That smile stuck with him all damn day.

Fuck. He did care, didn’t he?

After that, things were different. Whenever you were out with Maggie or helping Hershel, Daryl would drift a little closer, acting as a silent shield between you and any threat. He wasn’t obvious. Daryl Dixon never was. But he was there, watching from the treeline. Bringing you rabbits and squirrels—cleaned and cooked, of course. Fixing your tent when it sagged. Sharpening your knife when you left it out.

He didn’t know what to say to you. Words were never his thing, and feelings sure as hell weren’t. But he could do things. Quiet things. Things that kept you safe, kept you fed, kept you smiling.

Because that smile. That smile was everything.

One night, by the fire, you caught his eye across the flames. Everyone else was talking, but you just—looked at him. Long enough that he felt it deep in his chest.

You mouthed a silent thank you. And then that smile.

Daryl just nodded, pretending not to know what you meant. He absolutely did not blush.

But later, when he returned to his tent, there was a little bundle waiting by his bedroll—a piece of cornbread wrapped in cloth, still warm.

He didn’t need a note.

He just smiled into the dark. Just another quiet thing. Maybe he understood a little more about feelings than he thought.

[shadowcitrine]

MY FAVORITE KIND OF FLUFF

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2025 No. 21

Prompt: Kneeling

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Warnings: Allusions to torture; mentions of canonical character death

The Sanctuary looked even worse up close—an industrial graveyard turned fortress. Smokestacks coughed ash into a bruised sky, and the hum of generators drowned out the silence that used to mean safety.

You’d been watching for days. Counting guards, memorizing patrols, waiting for a moment. There was no good moment. But you couldn’t stand another sunrise knowing Daryl was trapped inside.

You slipped through a gap in the fence near a loading bay, every step a prayer and a curse. The hallways smelled of oil and blood. Every clang of your boots sounded too loud. Somewhere deep inside, you could feel him like gravity pulling you toward the pain.

You were halfway down a narrow corridor when the barrel of a rifle pressed against your neck.

“Now, what do we have here?” Simon’s voice oozed mockery. He tilted his head, grinning like this was a game. “A little mouse in Negan’s house.”

They dragged you through the halls, and every turn made the dread sink deeper into your gut. When the doors opened, you saw him.

Daryl.

He was standing against the wall, filthy and hollow-eyed. The sight hit you like a blade to the ribs. His wrists were cuffed, and he barely looked human anymore. But when he saw you, his whole body went tense.

“No.” He rasped. “The hell ya come here for?!”

You tried to speak, but a shove from Simon sent you sprawling at Negan’s feet.

And there he was. Smiling. Lucille gleaming in the dim light like something alive.

“Well, damn.” Negan drawled, leaning on his bat. “Ain’t this a sweet surprise? I gotta hand it to you, sweetheart, breaking in here? That takes some balls. Big, stupid ones.”

You glared up at him, biting down your fear. “Let him go.”

Negan barked a laugh. “Oh, honey. That ain’t how this works. You don’t waltz in here and start making demands. But I gotta say, this?” He waved between you and Daryl. “This is beautiful. Look at him. Look at ol’ Daryl there. He’s been giving me that silent treatment, real stoic tough-guy routine. But now? Oh, I see it. I see the crack.”

He crouched down beside you, his voice dropping into a mock whisper while he eyed Daryl intently. “You love her, don’t you?”

Daryl didn’t answer. His jaw flexed. His eyes stayed on the floor.

Negan grinned wider. “That’s what I thought. So here’s the thing, buddy. You join me. You say the words, you stand with the Saviors, and she walks out of here alive. Hell, maybe even in one piece. But if you don’t—”

He raised Lucille, the barbed wire glinting. “Well, we both remember what happened to that redhead gorilla and the sweet kid with the wife?” Negan squeezed one eye shut, opening the other wide. “Maggie—I’ll find you.” 

His mockery of Glenn’s final words made you nauseous, bile boiling over the heat of fury in your gut. “Don’t—don’t listen to him, Daryl. Don’t you dare.”

Negan looked amused. “Aw, look at that. She’s trying to save you. That’s adorable.”

He turned back to Daryl. “So what’s it gonna be? You gonna watch me turn her skull into soup? Or you gonna wise up and kneel?”

Daryl’s chest heaved. His hands clenched against the cuffs. He wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t give Negan the satisfaction.

“I ain’t yours.” He muttered, voice low but steady.

Negan sighed theatrically. “God, I love the tough ones. Makes it so much sweeter when they break.”

He lifted Lucille.

You screamed Daryl’s name. “Don’t do it! Don’t give him—”

The sound that followed was deafening—Negan’s roar, your gasp, the swish of Lucille swinging through the air.

And then—Daryl moved.

He dropped forward, knees slamming into the concrete with a hollow echo.

The bat froze an inch above your head.

The room went deathly still.

Negan turned, surprise flickering before triumph swallowed it whole. He stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “Oh, would you look at that?”

He circled Daryl slowly, savoring every second. “Now that right there is a picture, folks. Rick’s right hand, down on his knees.”

He tilted his head with his eyes on you and his bat pointed at Daryl. “You know what comes next, right?”

Daryl didn’t move. His voice was raw, scraped out from somewhere deep and bleeding.

“M’Negan.”

Negan’s grin spread like a wound. “Damn right you are.”

He lowered Lucille, tapping Daryl’s shoulder like a twisted benediction. “That’s my boy. That’s family right there.”

You couldn’t breathe. The words hung in the air like smoke. You wanted to scream at him, to tell him he didn’t mean it, that it wasn’t real—but when you met his eyes, you knew.

He was breaking. Doing it anyway. For you.

Tears burned hot down your face. “Daryl—”

He swallowed hard, eyes glistening just once before he turned away. “Don’t.” He said softly. “Don’t make this harder’n it already is.”

Negan stood tall, satisfied. “Well, this has been one hell of a day. Ain’t love somethin’? Tragic. Pathetic. Beautiful.” He looked at you both with a wolfish grin. “You two enjoy your reunion. You’ve earned it.”

When he left, the sound of Lucille’s barbs dragged against the floor, fading into silence.

You crawled to Daryl’s side, shaking. “You shouldn’t have done that.” You whispered, voice breaking.

He didn’t look at you. “Ain’t losin’ you too.” He said again, almost to himself.

You reached for his hand, and he let you.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. Just the hum of Sanctuary around you, the sound of something fragile trying to survive in the dark.

[shadowcitrine]

One of the best if not THE BEST Negans I've ever read. Holy shit. Everyone's characterizations were bangerang start to finish.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2025 No. 13

Prompt: “I hate this job” (alt prompt)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Warnings: Typical TWD violence & gore; blood; injuries

Summary: Saving people is tough business.

The night had gone sideways fast.

What was supposed to be a quick run turned into chaos the second the small group of survivors stumbled out of the woods, screaming and waving their arms like they’d never heard of being quiet. Daryl had barely managed to curse before the groans rose from the trees behind them—a whole herd shuffling through the dark like a death tide.

“Go!” You yelled, pushing a woman forward. You felt the pressure of a walker’s grip on your arm, yanking you back and across the rough bark of an old oak. You heard the pop of your shoulder more than felt it. Skin tore, blood smearing across the trunk, but you didn’t stop. Swinging around, you stabbed the corpse and felt its hold fall away. Daryl was right beside you, crossbow firing with sharp, efficient rhythm.

“Keep movin’!” He barked. You saw him thrown off balance and into the barely hanging door of a sedan, a pained sound forced out of him before he swung the crossbow like a bat. The walker that had made him stumble dropped like a sack of potatoes. 

The group scrambled toward the abandoned gas station up the road, Daryl and you covering the rear. By the time the doors were barricaded, both of you were heaving for air, blood smeared across your clothes—some yours, some not.

You slumped against a counter, wincing. “You hurt bad?”

He grunted. “Nah. Just a scratch.”

“Wait. What kinda scratch? Daryl, were you—” 

“Not that kinda scratch.” He replied immediately, quietly invested in soothing your panic. 

Regardless, that ‘scratch’ turned out to be a deep gash across his belly, visible when he pulled his vest aside to check. You gave him a look that could’ve melted through metal.

“Daryl, that’s not a scratch. That’s a—”

“—scratch.” He repeated, stubborn as a mule.

You hissed as you tied a strip of fabric around your own arm, your fingers trembling. You had been lucky the tree had broken the skin and not the walker’s nails or teeth. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, well.” He muttered, squinting at your shaking hands before taking over. “You’re bleedin’ all over the damn floor, so don’t start with me. What happened here?”

“Just a scratch.” The corner of your mouth twitched, but he found no humor. 

“What kinda scratch?”

“Not that kind.” You managed a weak laugh in the face of his grumbling. “We make a great team, huh?”

He snorted, pulling the knot tight enough to make you hiss again. “Ain’t sure ‘bout great. More like suicidal.”

Outside, the herd was still moaning, scraping at the boarded windows. The survivors—five of them, all terrified—huddled near the back. Daryl bowed over the counter, forehead thumping lightly against the surface.

“I hate this job.” He muttered.

You barked a short laugh, then winced as pain flared through your shoulder. You’d have to have him pop that back into place soon. “You say that like you’re getting paid for it.”

“Should be.” He said, straightening to shake his head. “Hazard pay. Extra for idiots runnin’ into herds.”

“You mean us?”

He gave you a sidelong look. “Yeah, ‘specially you.”

“Funny.” You shot back. “I seem to recall you being the one who said c’mon, it’ll be quick.”

He sighed through his nose, the ghost of a grin still hanging. “Remind me not to take ya nowhere ever again.” He stepped into your space, strategically taking hold of your arm. With a whispered countdown and calculated movements, your shoulder popped back into socket.

You smiled faintly after your indignant yelp, sliding down to sit against the counter. He followed suit, slumping with his hand pressed against the wound that had begun to clot.

“Sure, Dixon. But only if you remind me to remind you.” With a grin, you closed your eyes and leaned against him.

He grunted in mock annoyance but didn’t move away.

Outside, the groans started to fade—the herd finally losing interest. Inside, you both sat there— bleeding, exhausted, but alive with five strangers staring at you like you were about to steal their wallets. 

Despite everything, when Daryl muttered again under his breath—“I really hate this job”—you couldn’t help but laugh. Even if it hurt like hell.

[vampirevelvet]

"They’ve spent many hours like that, five-year-old Daryl and fourteen-year-old Merle, huddled together in front of a cassette player, with the volume knob as far up as it could go, to drown out the sound of everything else."

sound credits (x) (x) (x)

[shadowcitrine]

Isolation

Whumptober 2025 prompt 3

Post Negan Era. Negan's locked up. SFW.

Word Count 383

My first Whump-y? fic. (Cause it's so short does it make it a whimper??) Short read. Blame @angelwings-crossbowstrings cause they encouraged me to post something.

Sitting on his bed, eyes transfixed on the window too small to get through even before they added bars, Negan's face crumples. He doesn't know which is worse; longing for the freedom he can't have or living with the fact that he's used to it. Used to the bars and cinderblock walls. Used to meals he was pretty sure Maggie spit in, that is, if she deigned to deliver.

Hell used to be fire and brimstone, hot pokers and boiling oil. Now it was iron and concrete and blanket that made him scratch until his skin felt raw. No comforts. No work. Just a tiny window and a tennis ball.

“You don't look like a Wilson.” he hucked it at the far wall imagining it being able to hit the sun he rarely saw. He caught it and tossed it again. Imagined shattering that beast of a fire ball in the sky if only so he could plunge the whole world in to the same dark he suffered day after day.

He could live without light. He'd proven that. Lucille dying… the whole world had turned to pitch and him right along with it. That's why he was here. He'd made sure everyone knew what his isolation tasted like. And now? He was forced to eat that crow, day after day, after day.

The ball snaps against the wall, the floor, his palm; over and over until his shoulder aches. It wears him down but there isn't anything else to do when he's stuck by himself. Hell! Even jerking off has lost its luster. Surprise Gabriel once or twice and suddenly the whole thing is fucking mundane.

Frustration changes the rhythm. The ball pops off the wall, skipping the floor and it skims his outstretched fingertips. The thing goes wild and he's scrambling for it seeing just a half second before where it'll land.

“Shit!” he bangs his knee on the floor as it rolls between the bars. His shoulder slams into the iron, bruise like pain blooming along his collar and the side of his face but he's too late. Hand outstretched he's reaching for something else he can't have.

It taps the far wall and stops.

Just like him it was stuck on the wrong side of the bars.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2025 No. 4

Prompt: “Don’t be scared, I’ve done this before”

Pairing: Unestablished Daryl Dixon x Reader

Warnings: Typical TWD violence & gore; Depictions of serious injury

Summary: Daryl finds you on the highway instead of T-Dog.

A/N: Credit for this idea goes to my beloved Anon🌷

The smell of sunbaked asphalt and rot hung heavy over the highway. With a herd of the dead passing through, Daryl scanned the wreckage, boots crunching against stray glass. The others were farther back, scattered and hiding, but he’d caught the faintest sound. He’d learned from a life hard lived to listen to his instincts. And right now, they were screaming at him to investigate.

He rounded a rusted sedan and froze.

You were slumped against the rear door, shirt sleeve soaked through with crimson. A twisted shard of metal jutted from your arm, gleaming wet. A walker shambled towards you, mindless intent clear. 

“Hell,” Daryl muttered under his breath, rushing forward. Creeping up, he pulled his knife and made his move. Wrenching the corpse’s head back, he plunged the blade into the base of its skull. It went limp, silent, and he followed it down. 

After a finger to his lips, he clasped your ankles and dragged you away from the car, draping the dropped walker over you. Daryl moved quickly and wrenched a corpse from the seat of the car you had been against, hitting the ground with his own rotted camouflage lying on top of him. 

The passing of the herd was slow, their unsteady gaits dragging the intensity out until the weight of the body above him seemed unbearable. He couldn’t move, lest he give himself away. He wanted to look at you, make sure you were still with him. He wasn’t even sure why. You weren’t anyone special. Another survivor with whom he had saddled himself. 

You were already shoving the walker away from you when he rolled over. He watched you grit your teeth, hands clumsy but determined as you yanked the shard free with a wet, sickening sound. Your head lolled on your shoulders, sweat beading your forehead.

“Stop that!” Daryl barked as loudly as he dared, grabbing your wrist before you could press at the wound again. He examined the puncture closely. Deep, a lot of blood. How in the flying blue hell had you managed to hurt yourself in such a way?

“I’ve—done this before,” you said, voice slurred but defiant. “It’s—nothing new.”

Daryl’s jaw tightened. He’d seen plenty of folks act tough, but there was a quiver in your voice that told him you were barely holding on. “Done what before? Yanked out the thing that was keepin’ most’a the blood on the inside?” He tore a strip from his shirt with a swift rip and pressed it hard against your arm.

You gave him a look too weak to be a glare. 

“Don’t matter if ya done it before. Ain’t lettin’ ya bleed out here.” He growled, eyes flicking around the empty highway like it might swallow you up if he blinked too long.

Your eyelids fluttered, and for the first time you let yourself lean into him. “Reckless,” Daryl muttered under his breath as he kept pressure steady, “but tough. Damn tough.”

The distant sound of voices drew closer—Rick, Glenn, the others. But Daryl didn’t move, didn’t call for them right away. For now, it was just him, keeping you anchored to the world.

“Done this before.” You whispered again, weaker this time.

“Heard ya the first time.” Daryl said, voice softer now. Something was shifting but he couldn’t focus on that. You needed help. “Y’ain’t doin’ it alone no more.”

[shadowcitrine]

HOW CAN YOU NOT LOVE THIS

[svicklidoodle]

Perfect day to draw Daryl🎀

[shadowcitrine]

SIR

[weirdoneattheparty]

Not your regular Tuesday night

Pairing: Murphy MacManus x fem!Reader x Connor MacManus

Summary: This was supposed to be your regular movie night: some dumb action film, beer with snacks, and lighthearted jokes. But the night quickly took a very unexpected turn—as most good things do when they aren't planned.

Tags: MDNI 18+, no y/n, porn with plot if you squint on a plot part, threesome, dumb jokes, dirty talk, pinv, both f & m receiving oral, creampie, some brotherly competition, moderate amounts of swearing, there is no twincest, let me know if I missed something important

Word count: 11k

A/N: it's heeeeere!!! First of all, thank you @dixonsdarkelf for beta-ing this. You're a saint. I learned some new stuff. And thank you, everyone whom I tormented with promises of this, without you, it would be just another half-finished idea. And I tried to be fair to both of them, but you know I have a favorite.

You met the MacManus brothers about a year ago. They were sweet guys, but God, they loved to get themselves into trouble. And so it became your routine—they get into a bar fight, and you patch them up if it’s not too serious. Ah, what a simple life it was back then. Now they were dubbed The Boondocks Saints, and your worry for their lives grew exponentially.

This was your typical evening. Your place, the beer, and some movie. Murphy on your right, and Connor on your left—always like that, like some kind of unspoken rule.

You begged for the millionth time to be with them on the job. “But why can’t I join you guys?”

“Do you even know how to use a gun?” Connor cocked his eyebrow.

“Well… I can learn. Can’t be that hard if you’re doing it,” you teased with a stupid grin on your face.

Murphy started laughing uncontrollably, knocking over the beer bottle and falling off the couch. The conversation was now successfully forgotten as you all laughed. Murphy scrambled to the couch, fighting his brother for making fun of him. You were caught between brothers, fending for your life as they continued bickering.

“Okay, okay, relax, guys.” You tried to push them away from each other, unsuccessfully though. As you continued, you raised your voice.Over the time spent with them, you figured out that the ‘teacher voice’ worked instantly on them. “If you don’t stop right now,” you raised your voice. “I swear to God, one of you will miss and you’ll end up without a nurse!”

The guys instantly stopped fighting, both flustered and panting. Murphy looked like a puppy that tore your favorite shoe. Connor, on the other hand, was smirking happily.

“No need to bring up God’s name into this, lass,” Connor chastised you.

You just smiled at them, snaking your arms behind the couch and hugging them closer to you by the shoulders. “Will you ever grow up, you little shits?”

“No,” both brothers said at the same time, and you all laughed.

You continued watching yet another action movie Connor picked out. Though watching is a strong word—you mostly drank beer, smoked, and you and Murphy made fun of the scenes in the movie.

“But will you teach me how to use a gun? For protection purposes of course?” you asked, suddenly changing the topic of the conversation. Although not sure there even was a topic.

“No,” both brothers said at the same time.

“But why?” you pouted, drawing out your words and batting your lashes over-dramatically.

“Why’d you need protection anyway? You have us!” Connor exclaimed, all excited about being your personal bodyguard.

“Sláinte!” Murphy declared, smiling over his beer bottle. All of you clanked your bottles together. Though why you were smiling, you didn’t quite know. You shouldn’t have been, since your request was denied. But who could stay mad at them for more than a second?

“Oh look, I love this scene!” you gushed with sparkling eyes. The film was reaching its conclusion, and the main guy was kissing a girl.

“Thought you hated it,” Connor sounded offended.

“No, hate the movie, love the scene.”

“Oh yeah?” Murphy smirked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Loooove yourself some kissies-shmissies?” He started making smooching sounds at you, grabbing your arms, and pulling you closer. All in good fun, right?

But the rest happened so fast.

You giggled uncontrollably and writhed in his arms. Then suddenly, probably from the amount of alcohol he’s had, Murphy fell backwards, tugging you along with him. Your lips landed on his. You both froze, not continuing but not pulling away either.

“Whooh-ooh!” Connor howled. “Damn right brother.” You quickly scrambled away, your chest feeling tight at the action.

“I’m sorr’, I think I fell or somethin’.” Murphy’s face turned red, unable to look you in the eye.

“You fell?” Connor was wheezing by this point. “You fell? That’s the stupidest excuse I've ever heard.”

Murphy was sliding away on the couch, tucking himself in the corner.

“Shut up, Connor!” You glared daggers at him. “It was an honest mistake, right Murph?” You looked softly into his deep blue eyes. You hoped your expression showed that you’re not mad. Deep down, you weren’t sure which answer you would like best. You scooted over to him, gently cupping his cheek. He gasped softly, barely audible if you weren’t so close. “I’m not mad, okay?”

Murphy gulped; it was now or never. If he chickens out now, he wouldn’t hear the end of it from Connor for the rest of his life. He leaned in closer and pressed his lips gently to yours to see if you were really not mad. Your eyes widened, yet again you froze, but then your hand, on its own volition, moved towards the back of his head, pulling him closer. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you kissed him back, capturing his lower lip between yours, softly gliding your tongue over it.

“Ugh-um,” Connor cleared his throat. “Still here, you know.” You both backed away from each other, though not as panicked as before. “You know, if we are reenacting the scene, I’m a hero too. Therefo’, I deserve me some kisses from the pretty lady too.” He was smirking.

“Oh yeah?” You looked at Connor on your right, eyes screaming—you dare me?

“Just a small one?” His eyes quickly darted towards Murphy and back to you, as if he were using his proverbial twin powers to ask for permission. You looked back at Murphy biting your lower lip. He smiled sheepishly but gave you a small nod.

“Okay, just a small one,” you warned him with your finger, like scolding a schoolboy. Sometimes you thought those boyish traces never left them. Connor grinned, happy on cloud nine. You leaned in a bit. This felt more awkward than with Murph, even more so because he was watching. Connor quickly closed the distance, planting his lips hard on top of yours. He didn’t wait, didn’t linger, just shoved his tongue into your mouth. You didn’t quite catch on to what was happening and let him in. His kiss was sloppy, all over the place, drunk—but you felt that familiar tug in your lower belly. You moaned quietly. And at that moment, you snapped out of it and pushed him away.

“I said a small one!” you yelled, face bright red with embarrassment, panting heavily.

“Seemed like you were enjoying it.” Connor flopped back against the couch lazily and quite happy with himself.

Oh God, did Murphy hear that too? You were ready to fall through the floor and into the deepest pits of hell. That’s it—you’d have to move out of the city. No way you can look them in the eye after this.

“Oh, come on, man. That’s not fair.” Murphy broke your train wreck of thoughts. He didn’t seem angry or disgusted, or anything you could’ve imagined him to be. He looked like he genuinely was hurt that his brother got more of you. There it is, that boyishness coming out—two brothers fighting over one favorite toy.

“Sorry, brother. You snooze, you lose,” Connor teased him further. Next thing you know, they're fighting again with you stuck between them on the couch again.

“Hey…!” you started, slapping both of them anywhere you could reach—arms, legs, thighs. You were pretty sure you smacked someone’s butt at one point. “What the hell is it all about?!" You were pissed at this point. This was getting old, and all the booze didn’t help either; it had made you more short-tempered.

The brothers exchanged looks like they could read each other's minds. “You!” they said together.

Your eyes widened, blush was creeping up your neck. "You" was echoing in your head.

“Wha— what d’ ya…” Before you could finish, the twins looked each other in the eyes, though this time it was for a fleeting moment—a check-in. A ‘you good?’ type of thing. And then they both pecked you on the cheek from their sides of the couch.

You wanted to be mad, furious even, but you couldn't. Your stomach made that weird flip again. Sure, they kissed you on the cheek before, but this had a different feel to it.

“Guys, what the hell are both of you playing at?” You wanted to sound offended, but everything came out just confused.

“You see, a while ago…” Connor scooted closer to you.

“We figured out that we both like ye…” Murphy mirrored his brother.

“And we made a pact—no one goes for it.” Connor slid even closer, his thigh touching yours.

“That is, if you don’t go for one of us first. And you screwed this up real bad tonight.” Murphy wrapped his arm around the couch, his fingertips lightly brushing the hair on the base of your neck.

“I… I screwed up? How?” A shiver ran down your spine. It wasn't unpleasant, it was as if you were tingling with anticipation.

“Well, you didn’t exactly choose, did ye?” He leaned in, his lips lightly brushing your ear as he spoke. “Not exactly fair either. I want that same kiss too.”

“Um… ” you looked Murphy in the eye. There was no malice, no ill intentions. Just pure affection, and maybe a little bit of hurt that he wasn’t treated as well as his brother. “Okay,“ you more breathed out than spoke.

Murphy cupped your cheek and turned your head to him. His eyes were roaming your face, drinking every feature, every expression like a man starved. He placed his lips to yours as gently as before. Your eyes fluttered shut, and your pulse skyrocketed. He brushed his tongue on your bottom lip, asking for permission, which you gladly gave him. At that moment, like a switch had flipped in him, he understood you weren’t bluffing. His arms came around you, pulling you closer, chest flush against his. The kiss was passionate, tongues swirling around, exploring one another. Although it wasn’t as desperate as Connor’s.

Shit, should I even compare? you wondered. God, Connor is sitting right there.

Suddenly, everything didn’t feel natural. You didn’t know where to put your hands, going off rhythm a couple of times. Murphy noticed a shift and pulled away slightly, his lips ghosting over yours. As he was about to ask you what’s wrong, you unexpectedly, to his and your surprise, whimpered. Both of you had wide eyes, so overwhelmed and not registering where this was coming from. Murphy didn’t waste time. Almost on instinct, he moved in and kissed you hard and needy, swallowing your moans. After a couple of moments, you started to get more of your senses back, rather than only the feel of Murphy’s lips on yours. You felt it. Connor was kissing your neck, sucking gently but firm enough to leave marks. He scraped his teeth from your neck down to your collarbone. Your back arched, your hand going to grab him at the back of his head, bringing him even closer. Your reaction seemed to only spur Murphy on. He glided his hands down your sides, gripping firmly at your hips and maneuvering you to straddle him. You never let go of Connor’s temple, involuntarily tugging him along with you. He let go of your neck in the process, finding his face right at the side of his brother’s. You panted, opening your eyes and looking at Connor, both of you not knowing what to do. Murphy sat there under you—chest heaving, eyes closed, blissfully unaware of what was going on. You stroked his cheek gently, urging him to open his eyes. He looked up at you, smiling, giddy with excitement. Only after a moment, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Connor right next to him, trailing his fingers up and down your back. He gulped the lump in his throat. This was definitely a scenario the MacManus brothers, much like any brothers, discussed before, though never thought that it would be you.

“Mind sharin’?” Connor broke the silence.

“Nah… ye okay with this, lass?” Murphy squeezed your shoulder lightly to get your attention. Your head was swarming with so many thoughts, but you couldn’t catch any of them.

How is this a thing? They’re both handsome, obviously, but… them, really? Why? They’re my friends. We shouldn’t…

You didn’t notice how you started nodding to Murphy’s question.

“No, use your words, sweetheart,” he continued.

“We need to hear you say it,” Connor added.

“Um, yeah… I guess.”

Murphy squinted his eyes, not really satisfied with your dubious answer.

“No, I mean yes. Yes, I’m okay with it. Can we stop talking? This is turning weird,” you stammered.

Both brothers chuckled at your response. Your eyes darted from one MacManus to the other, not knowing what to do. These were uncharted waters.

Connor got your attention by gently guiding you with his hand on your neck to capture your lips in yet another passionate kiss. Murphy’s hands started sliding under your shirt up your sides. You gasped from skin-on-skin contact, making Connor smile against your lips. Murphy brushed his thumbs in gentle circles over your waist, slowly moving up. You'd make a noise—a gasp, a whine, a moan, and his hands would twitch, gripping you a bit tighter for a moment

“Mmgh,” he groaned quietly, his hips bucking up from the sensation. “Yer so soft,” he whispered in your ear.

You took it as an invitation, feeling bolder, now realizing this is as much new to them as it is to you. You ground your hips slowly, making him groan louder this time. Murphy hid his face in the crook of your neck. You could hear his labored breathing, so you continued your ministrations. At the same time, Connor was absolutely devouring you, sent into a frenzy with all the need building up in him. You eventually had to pull away to take a full breath, him chasing your lips anyway. His face was red, pupils dilated, taking in the picture before him—you grinding in his brother’s lap, cradling his head close to your ear. Murphy was muttering something, something only for you, not for Connor’s ears.

“Should we move somewhere more comfortable?” Connor asked, not taking his eyes from you. He was captivated by the image before him. You were so lost in your pleasure, sweet whines escaping you once in a while. Something about seeing you like this from the side made him painfully hard. He had to shift in his seat.

“Yeah,” you said softly, pulling away from Murphy only to feel his grip tighten at your waist and pulling you back in.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’re just moving to bed.” You took his face in your palm, smiling at his neediness.

You slowly peeled yourself away from him, and all of you moved to the bedroom. You sat on the edge of your bed watching as both of them pulled their belts from their jeans and took off their t-shirts. It was so synchronous, so captivating, one might think you were watching some Broadway show. The boys exchanged glances.

“Now what?” Murphy broke the silence.

“How the fuck would I know? This isn’t my regular Tuesday night,” Connor answered, obviously frustrated. And both of them looked straight at you.

“Well, don’t look at me. This is my first time, too,” you said, crossing your arms.

“So what d’ you want to do then?” Murphy said sheepishly, that beautiful blush creeping up his neck.

“You.” You looked at both of them, feeling a bit more cheeky. Something about them being so not in their element only spurred you on.

The brothers looked at each other, grinning smugly.

“Don’t just stand there. Come sit, we’ll figure it out.” You patted places on your left and right for them, scooting up the bed so all of you could have some room. It was endearing how they chose their natural places—Murphy on your right and Connor on your left. It was the way you always sat on the couch watching movies, and your heart stuttered at that. This felt intimate, not dirty. This is the closest you’ll ever be, and even if it’s one one-time thing, you’ll treasure it for the days to come. It won’t be awkward, and you won’t have to move out of the city. This only seals the trust you have in them, in their inability to hurt you in any way.

You bit your lower lip, trying to contain the smile that was starting to form. You looked between both of them. They were right, you hadn't chosen one of them. How could you? Even now, you were struggling to choose whom to kiss first.

Murphy's brow furrowed as he watched your face. "We don't have to do this, lass. We can stop whenever you want."

"No, no. I want to. It's just…" a small giggle escaped you. "I can't choose where to start." You looked at Connor and then back at Murphy.

The boys erupted into a fit of laughter.

"You're something else, you know that?" Connor was catching his breath while he gingerly placed his hand atop your thigh and squeezed gently. He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your ear, sending shivers down your spine, his voice low but loud enough for Murphy to hear, too. "You don't have to choose, love. You have both of us."

Connor nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his movements soft and gentle. You closed your eyes, tilting your head for him and reveling in the feeling until you felt the scrape of his teeth. The action made you gasp audibly, and your eyes shot open. You felt him grin over your skin as he started placing small open-mouth kisses on your neck.

You glanced over at Murphy, and if your head wasn't spinning before, it certainly started now. The look on his face—hungry as he watched his brother's movements, or rather, your reactions to them. You took his chin in your hand, forcing him to look you in the eye.

"What are you waiting for?" you smiled, stroking Murphy's lower lip with your thumb. You felt his breathing stutter, but he was still glued in place. You slightly dragged his lip down with your finger. That made his internal switch flip.

He was on you in a second, kissing you feverishly. His tongue plunged into your mouth without warning, taking your breath away. This time it was different—raw and unfiltered, nothing cautious about it. Your hand moved from his chin into his hair, scratching on his scalp, making him groan loudly into your mouth. Murphy broke the kiss, leaving you panting as he trailed his lips over your cheek and jaw, groaning as you kept scratching his head.

"Jesus, man, yer loud," Connor grumbled over at 'his' side of your neck.

"Shut up, Con!" Murphy bit back.

They never stop, do they?

The bickering made you giggle, and you moved your other hand into Connor's hair, making the same scratching movements as with Murphy. That effectively made him groan too, and you giggled again.

"Not so quiet now, are ye?" Murphy snickered.

"Ye little shite." Conner reached over, smacking Murphy on the shoulder. Murphy was about to retort when you pulled on both of their hair, making them groan and relax, settling on their respective sides of you.

"That's all it took? Damn, I wish I knew this trick sooner," you chuckled, tilting your head back, enjoying their slow kisses on your neck. "You're too easy." They both abruptly stopped and leaned back, making you whine at the loss of contact. You looked between them, confused. "What?"

"Oh, ye think we're easy?" Murphy grinned.

"Yer sure you want to use those exact words, lass?" Connor mirrored his brother's grin.

You gulped nervously, recognizing the mischievous look on their faces.

"Let's see how easy you are." Connor ducked his head to your neck. While you were busy with Murphy earlier, he paid close attention to your little sounds and movements, and now he knew exactly where your sweet spot was. He latched onto the sensitive skin above your collarbone, gently nipping at it, sending shivers down your spine as you arched into the feeling.

Murphy ghosted his fingertips over your jawline, slowly moving to your neck, shoulder, and down your arm, only to come back up and grab at your waist a little harder than you expected and eliciting a gasp from you. He inched his hand up, making lazy circles with his thumb. Once he grazed the underside of your breast, you could swear he gasped.

"You never wear a bra, do ye?" Murphy whispered, his fingers lingering on the same spot, not going any farther.

"Not at home, no," you said breathlessly.

Connor, upon hearing the conversation, dragged his teeth along your neck. "Little tease ye are, lass. Always wearing those flimsy t-shirts, making it hard to think." He continued his ministration on your neck.

"What do you mean? It's 3 times my size! You can't see anything," you said defensively. Mentally, you tried to remember if any of your home t-shirts are a bit see-through.

"Yeah, but yer apartment's always cold…" Murphy inched his thumb up, lightly grazing your nipple. Your muscles tensed as you pushed your chest into his touch, a small whimper escaping your lips. "… if you catch my drift." He circled his thumb again, this time with more intent. The pressure and the texture of his calloused finger over your shirt made you moan.

Connor smiled over the skin of your neck, whispering, "What do you say we get rid of this?" He gently tugged on the collar of your shirt.

"Yeah, yeah, good idea," your voice was barely audible when you eagerly pulled the shirt over your head, tossing it across the room.

For a moment, both of them just stared, completely captivated by you. Their eyes raked over your form like it was the first time they’d seen a naked woman.

"What?" you smiled, starting to feel a little self-conscious at their lack of response.

"God, yer beautiful," Connor spoke first, his voice filled with admiration and growing desire.

"Don't take God's name in vain," you giggled as you parroted the phrase with which they loved to chastise you, although you always thought it was more to annoy you.

"I think God won't mind in this instance," Murphy smirked, starting to trace his hand from your waist and up your side.

"Aye, this is the work of art. And art should be appreciated," Connor chimed in and moved to kiss the newly exposed skin just under the collarbone. You sighed into the feeling, closing your eyes for a moment.

When you opened your eyes, you were met with a searing gaze from Murphy. His hand gently rubbed up your side, squeezing once in a while. His eyes, never leaving your face, drank in every little expression, every little noise you made. You licked your lips, and his hand squeezed your flesh just a little bit harder. You smiled at him, cupping his face, and brought him closer.

"You like watching, Murphy?" you whispered into his ear.

"Yer so gorgeous…" his voice was barely above a whisper. He cupped your face with both of his hands, stroking your cheeks with his thumbs before pulling you into a kiss. You hummed when his tongue delved deeper, finding yours. He was slow, meticulous even, like he wanted to study you, to know everything about you, to know what made you moan.

Little did you know, Murphy was desperate. He couldn't tell where this was coming from, but he felt an all-consuming need to make you moan his name, specifically make you moan his name before Connor's.

While you were busy with Murphy, Connor slowly made his way to your breast. He looked up at you making out with his brother—your hand on Murphy's chest, his hands making their way into your hair. Connor scrunched his face as he looked at Murphy a second too long. Suddenly, he wanted to get your attention, all for himself. He gingerly licked your nipple, his eyes never leaving your face, watching for a reaction. You seemed a little too busy to notice, and he licked again before wrapping his lips around it. That's when he heard a gasp, and he smiled over your skin. His other hand traveled to your right breast, kneading at the flesh. The combined movement made you moan louder, your hands snaked into Murphy's hair, tugging him closer into the kiss. He groaned and his hand moved down your side, grazing Connor's hand that was working on your chest. He suddenly broke the kiss, snatching his hand away like he had just been scalded by boiling water.

"Oi! Stay on yer side!" Murphy exclaimed. This was proving to be more awkward than whatever teenage fantasy they were reliving, but it was amusing to watch.

Connor ever so slowly released your nipple from his mouth, making you whine."You were busy," he said with a smirk.

You giggled at the whole exchange.

"What yer giggling about, lass?" Connor teased as his hands continued massaging your chest.

"Don't know…it's just so stupid. Incredibly hot, but stupid." Your face flushed as your thoughts wandered to where this was going.

Murphy took your chin between his fingers, his gaze deep and his face serious. "Stupid? You want to stop, love?"

"No, no, no way," you answered immediately, shaking your head. The boys chuckled at your eagerness, and you blushed even more.

Murphy smacked Connor's hand. "Move over. I wanna taste too. Bet yer so sweet." His eyes glanced at you, twinkling with mischief and desire.

"Mmmm, she is." Connor lazily moved his hand away from your right breast.

Murphy was on you in seconds, his lips latching on your already sensitive nipple, sucking and lapping with his tongue. He squeezed your breast, trying to fit more of you in his mouth. Connor, upon seeing your reaction, went back to work too. His movements were different—slower, more calculated. He was done playing with you, now he wanted to make your head spin. He grazed your nipple with his teeth, and you arched your back, leaning your head against the headboard. Your hands found their way into both brothers' hair, grabbing it harshly between your fingers, pushing them both closer into your chest. One of them whined, and it sent a jolt of electricity down your spine. You couldn't be sure who it was, but you really wanted to find out.

"F-u-u-ck," Connor groaned, letting go of your nipple and placing a small kiss. You shuddered. You hadn't realized how sensitive you already were from his teeth. He nuzzled his way up, licking a particular spot. "Think I'm gonna leave a little autograph." He latched onto the spot right under your collarbone, sucking hard to leave a mark. Connor leaned back, grinning and admiring his work.

"Jesus, Con, are you 14? A hickey, really?" you chastised, but in reality, you loved every second of it—both the feeling of his lips on you and the fact that he left a mark.

The only reaction he gave was turning his smile into a full-blown shit-eating grin.

All the while, Murphy made his way down your stomach and to the waistband of your jeans. He was toying with the button but not fully undoing it. He noticed you weren’t paying attention, so he pinched your side gently. That earned him a small yelp and a smack on the hand from you. Murphy smiled and looked at you, expectantly still gliding his fingers along the waistband.

"No, you first," you smirked, pushing Murphy and Connor away from you.

Boys jumped up from the bed, hastily removing their pants. Murphy climbed back in, all but yanking your jeans off, making you slide down the bed and giggle. He looked up and down your legs, focusing on your panties—simple white cotton with a tiny bow on the waistband.

"Mmmm, these are real cute." He glided his finger over the bow, causing you to shiver. Before you could process anything, he dove in, pressing his face into your center, nuzzling and inhaling. "Oh, lass, yer so ready, aren't ye?"

All you could do was whimper, finally getting attention right where you wanted it.

"Move. I want to." Connor pushed on Murphy’s shoulder, and the latter reluctantly moved away. Connor leaned in and unceremoniously pressed his tongue against you, tasting your soaked panties.

"Sh-i-i-t," you groaned.

Connor grinned, peeking up from between your legs. He nuzzled in again, moving down your inner thigh, placing small kisses and bites. He climbed back up, capturing you in a heated kiss, whispering against your lips. "Ye taste so sweet, darlin'."

"Fuckin' finally," Murphy muttered when Connor moved up your body. He slowly peeled your underwear, looking at you and licking his lips instinctively. "Well fuck me. This is pretty." The words uttered with such conviction, such confidence, as though it was a hard fact, made you blush.

"Oh, brother, yer making her blush," Connor smiled, cupping your jaw and brushing his thumb across your cheek.

Murphy didn't waste any time, diving in and all but devouring you like he hadn't drunk all day. His movements were sloppy, like he couldn’t get enough of you. His tongue moved between your folds, slurping and humming. The man didn't care whatsoever, and it only drove you crazier.

Meanwhile Connor just watched you—the way you mouth parted, the small moans escaping you, the way your back arched and eyes screwed shut, how beads of sweat started covering your neck and chest, how your hands fisted the sheets. He palmed himself through the boxers, his cock twitching at the contact, making him groan. Your eyes shot open, raking over Connor sitting next to you. You smirked, reaching out and placing your hand over his, pressing down harder on his length. He hissed at the contact and folded his arms behind his head, enjoying the view.

"Let's get these off, yeah?" you managed between sharp breaths and sighs, tugging on his boxers.

Connor quickly lifted his hips, discarding of the garment, and your jaw went slack. He was big, almost intimidatingly so. You glanced down at Murphy, your mind wondering if he's the same. If that were the case, you were in some trouble.

"Jesus, you both this big?" That earned you a chuckle from both of them, Murphy’s sending vibrations through your core and making you moan.

"Yer scared, love? Connor teased, almost daring you. You narrowed your eyes at him. You weren't the type to back out of a challenge, if you could call this whole thing that.

You wrapped your hand firmly around him, giving him a firm stroke. Connor's whole body shuddered, and his eyes struggled to stay open, enjoying the sensation as you continued. You watched him for a while—how his neck and chest got red, how his breath hitched when you gave him a harder squeeze. Connor wouldn't know, but the cause of said action was Murphy hitting a particular spot, making you gasp and instinctively tighten your hands—one in the sheets and the other around Connor's cock.

You looked down at Murphy, and the sight alone could kill you. He was buried between your legs, holding onto your thighs with eyes closed and focusing on the sounds you were making. You watched as he pressed himself against the mattress, grinding his aching cock to relieve some of the tension, and all you wanted to do is to help him.

"Switch," you barely managed between panting and moaning.

Murphy's head shot up immediately, voice hoarse but determined. "No!" And he dove back in, doubling his efforts.

He would be the reason for your first orgasm. That he'd make sure of, that he was craving. He circled his lips around your clit, sucking and flicking his tongue, earning himself a string of curses and oh-my-gods. His finger inched to your entrance, circling and gauging your reaction. The jolt of pleasure ran down your spine, and you pushed your hips into him. That was all the encouragement he needed—he slipped his finger in, groaning around you at how easily it entered. With the second thrust, he added another one, making you arch and your hands tighten.

Your hand around Connor's length tightened right on the tip, making him moan your name. You opened your eyes, seeing Connor already watching you with a half-lidded gaze. You smirked, repeating the motion this time on purpose. His head fell back, eyes rolling back in his head. He bucked his hips up into your hand, releasing a guttural moan. You never heard men being so vocal, and you never thought about how much that would turn you on. Your wandering thoughts caused you to clench around Murphy’s fingers.

Murphy took it as a good sign and increased his pace. Your free hand flew into his hair, pressing him even closer to you. The sharp tug caused him to whimper. He…he was the one who was whiny earlier. The thought and the sound made you moan his name.

"Oh God, Murphy…oh f-fuck…"

If his mouth weren't so busy, he'd be grinning like a Cheshire cat, and all he wanted was to make you moan his name again. He let go of you for a moment, making you whine in return, his lips close enough to brush against you as he chuckled.

"Come on, lass, you can do it. Cum fer me." His voice was hoarse, and his accent much thicker. He was smiling with that proud cunty smile of his—the one he'd always wear when making a dumb lewd joke, the one that always earned him a slap on the shoulder and a laugh from you. But now, combined with his flushed cheeks and eyes burning into you with desire, it made you gulp. How the fuck you never noticed he was this handsome?

"Please…" you whined and pushed your hips into his face, and he only tightened his grip around your thighs, preventing you from moving. The action made you groan with frustration; you were so close, and he was just sitting there grinning at you.

"Don't be a prick. Give the lady what she needs," Connor intervened, causing Murphy to glare daggers at him.

But Murphy didn't argue. He leaned it once more, setting a brutal pace with his fingers and making you gasp his name again.

"Oh God, Murphy…yes…please…fucking hell." You writhed under him, his hand trying to keep you still. Your hand tightened around Connor once more.

"Yeah, just like that, princess. 'S that what ye needed?" Connor whispered right into your ear, making you shudder.

You tried to keep your pace on his cock, but your hand was struggling as your brain was effectively melting from Murphy's mouth. You felt a deep pull in your lower abdomen, and soon after, a wave of pleasure hit you, making your legs tremble and try to clench around Murphy’s head.

"That's a good gerl. Cumming so well. Jesus, look at ye, practically drowning the man," Connor purred in your ear.

God, he's obscene.

You let go of Connor’s cock, causing it to slap heavily against his stomach making him groan. Your hand flew to his chest, clawing at it as you were riding out your high. The man hissed at the contact, but it would be a lie if he said he didn't enjoy the feeling and the view.

When your body started relaxing and your moans turned into exhausted, quiet laughs at the disbelief of the whole situation, Murphy slowly pulled out, sitting back on his knees. His face was glistening with your slick, lips puffy from all the making out he did with your pussy, cheeks red and eyes twinkling. He got what he wanted—made you scream his name, and he was damn proud of that. The little cunty smirk slowly returning to his face.

"Yer amazing, darlin'," he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and moved his jaw around, relieving some tension. That made you giggle. "What? I was giving ye my best," he said a little defensively.

"I know, I know…you did so good. Fuck…like really good." Your voice got a little dreamy. And to be honest, you couldn't remember the last time you came so hard, but there was no way in hell you'd admit that and boost their already big egos even more.

"Come on, move, I want a taste too," Connor said, already moving down the bed.

"What? Right away?" You were still very sensitive, and the thought of Connor licking you up was both exciting and a little scary.

The boys chuckled.

"Think you can't handle it?" Murphy slid up to your side, grinning and purring into your ear. "I have something to distract you."

"Jesus, Murph, where d' ye find that line?" Connor mocked his brother, making you giggle. It did sound like a line from a bad porn, on that you could agree.

"Shut it, Con!" Murphy bit back with a slight defensiveness in his voice. "Use that smartarse mouth of yers on some better things." That made you laugh again. They could be so insufferable in the best way possible.

Connor glided his hands over your thighs, placing gentle kisses. Your skin felt like it was being set on fire, still sensitive from Murphy, but already craving Connor.

"Come on, lass, on your knees." Connor squeezed your waist to get your attention. Your brow knitted in confusion at what he was getting at, but you listened nonetheless. Connor smirked at your obedience and quickly flipped onto his back. "That's it. Come on, sit down."

You craned your neck to look at him. "You sure?" you asked quietly.

Connor chuckled and, without an answer, pulled you by your thighs to sit right on his face. A deep growl escaped him as you made contact with his lips.

"Fuck..." You threw your head back. Right then and there, you knew you were going to finish so fast that it'd be embarrassing.

Murphy grinned next to you, stripping off his boxers. His expression was almost giddy with excitement. You tried focusing on him, but your eyes kept closing with each lick Connor was placing.

Murphy sat up on his knees right in front of you, with one hand gently holding your chin and looking you directly in the eyes, and with the other holding himself firmly.

"Only if yer ready," he whispered.

"Ye-e-e-s," you moaned, making him chuckle.

"Yes Connor? Or yes me?" he teased.

"Yes everything." You already started leaning forward, licking your lips. Connor groaned under you as you shifted the position.

"Can ye breathe down there, brother?" Murphy chuckled.

"Fuck off!" Connor's muffled voice came out from under you, making Murphy laugh, and you moan louder at the vibrations it sent through you.

You leaned forward, tentatively taking Murphy in your mouth. You could feel his body twitch at the contact, making you smirk. You were gonna ruin him, that was the only goal for you now. You slowly took him further, flattening your tongue under him.

"Mary, mother of Go—," Murphy threw his head back, his hand grabbing you at the back of the head. "Easy, gerl, yer gonna kill me."

You slowly let go of him, smiling up at him. His eyes were dark, the icy blue of his irises barely visible. You held his gaze, darting your tongue out, placing the smallest lick at his tip. Despite holding himself at the base, he still twitched at your touch. You smirked again and took just his tip in your mouth, sucking hard. You saw his breath hitch and him groan, screwing his eyes shut. You were about to move forward when you moaned loudly around him.

Connor's previously slow and careful licks turned into a ravenous make-out session with your pussy. Murphy's hand tightened in your hair at your reaction.

"Not gonna last if ye keep doin' that." Murphy panted, his chest and neck covered in splotches of red. He was getting dangerously close, and you barely did anything. If he weren't all red in the face already, he was sure he'd blush at the thought now.

"Don't need you to last." You weren't doing any better. Connor's ministrations were driving you closer and closer at an insane rate.

You leaned forward, taking Murphy as much as you could reach and setting the same pace Connor used on you. As you kept working, Murphy's little pants turned into quiet moans and whines. The way his hand tightened in your hair every time your tongue would graze his slit, the way his hips would buck trying to get you further—you knew he was getting close. You yourself were already chasing your high, grinding on Connor's face with no care in the world. The man seemed to enjoy it way too much—groaning into you, grabbing your hips and ass, kneading at your flesh. In Connor's mind, he was already in heaven.

You moaned louder, feeling your orgasm building, and you fought hard not to clench your jaw. Eventually, you let go of Murphy, causing him to whine in disappointment.

"Gonna…fuuuck…" You felt Connor double down his efforts. "Gonna bite it off if I keep going." You managed to answer Murphy, your voice breathless and hoarse.

Murphy smirked. "He's doing ye that good, huh?" You nodded, and Murphy's grin widened. "Don't be scared, lass. Yer not gonna bite me. Come on, open up." He gently cupped your jaw, brushing your lips with his thumb.

You obeyed, and he pushed his index and middle finger between your teeth. "See, not gonna bite me," he said so gently that it actually touched you. In one fluid motion, he pushed into your mouth, groaning as he moved way further than you took him before. You choked, and tears stung at your eyes.

"Shhh…you can take it. Yer a good gerl, right?

All you managed was a muffled 'mhmm', and he continued moving slowly, relishing in how your throat constricted around him. As you were right at the edge, you kept moaning around him. His gentle hand in your hair was a stark contrast to how his hips drove into your mouth. If not stuffed full of his cock, you were sure the whole building would've heard you by now.

Murphy could feel your jaw tense, biting down on his fingers, but he couldn’t care less. The things you made him feel were divine. He tried to hold back, letting you ride out your own waves of pleasure, but god, the way you whined and moaned around him was driving him insane.

"Come one, darlin'. Suffocate that bastard with yer pretty pussy," Murphy gritted through his teeth. You knew they both were dirty, but this much? That was definitely new, especially for Murph.

Connor's fingers were digging into your ass as he lapped at you. You felt your band snap, and you came hard, your legs trembling and threatening to collapse. Your throat constricted, causing Murphy to groan and push further as he spilled into your mouth.

Murphy carefully pulled out, cursing under his breath as he saw some of his load trickling down your chin. He gently pulled you up, your body pliant in his arms, and laid you down on the bed.

"Yer alive, man?" Murphy looked down at his brother sprawled on his back, eyes closed and face glistening with your release.

"Not sure. Think I saw God," Connor mumbled in hoarse voice.

"Yeah, me too," Murphy chuckled, and turned to you. "Yer okay there, lass?" Murphy caressed your cheek gently. He lay down next to you, brushing his fingers over your collarbone. You looked absolutely stunning, almost glowing. Your arm was draped over your eyes, and your chest was heaving.

"Yeah, just need a minute." You let out something between a huff and a chuckle.

He brushed his hand through your hair, just looking at you and smiling softly. It was like his dreams, which he always felt guilty about, came true, and here you were right next to him. Perfect. Well, almost perfect—Connor was here too, but he could live with that if that's what it took to have you. He chuckled quietly with a little disbelief in his voice. "I tell ye what I need. I need another beer." Murphy sat up, swinging his legs off the bed.

"Ugh… me too." You opened your eyes at the suggestion. You were starting to sober up and were not ready for the reality of the situation to sink in.

"Oh hell no. Yer not going anywhere, lass." Connor's fingers closed around your calf, yanking you down the bed where he was lying. You giggled as he scooted up, wrapping his hand around your midriff.

"Aye, don't leave the man hanging or he might explode, ruin the sheets and all." Murphy laughed.

"Didn't you want to go get that beer, Murph?" Connor glared at his brother while kissing up your body, slowly making his way to your neck.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going." Murphy stood up, feeling just how weak his legs were, and made his way to the kitchen. He didn't close the door behind him, though. He loved the way you sounded.

"Fucking finally," Connor muttered against your neck.

"Aw, don't be grumpy. I'm here, aren't I?" You stroked the nape of his neck, making him nuzzle into you more.

"And I'm making the best of this opportunity." He smirked, gliding his hands up and down your side. He kneaded your thigh, hitching it over his waist, his lips making their way to yours in a hungry, impatient kiss. He started grinding into you, groaning against your lips. His hand gently brushed your temple and cheek, eyes boring right into yours. He pressed his forehead to yours, nuzzling your nose and inhaling deeply. "You ready, lass?"

You nodded, and he slowly pressed in, making you gasp. That little smirk returned to his face, and he pushed in farther. "Come on, let me hear that pretty little gasp again," he whispered as he buried himself to the hilt. That, combined with the feeling of him filling you up, elicited another sound from you—something between a gasp and a whine. "Yer okay, love?" Connor caressed your face, waiting for your response.

He could feel you gripping him like a vise, and having been worked up for so long, he was now fighting for his life. However, your response was to hook your other leg around his hip and to press the heels of your feet into the small of his back. The action made him groan and drop his head to your shoulder.

"Fuck…point received," Connor chuckled and bit down on your shoulder. He held your hip firmly with one hand and started slowly but forcefully driving into you. He kept looking at your face, drinking in every little reaction you gave him, every little gasp and moan.

He kissed and nipped on your neck, pushing slow and deep. His hand was pressing down on your hip, keeping you in place, almost in a bruising manner. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, nails digging in as your body fought against his grip, arching up. The stretch felt overwhelming. Your whole body, sensitive from previous orgasms, felt like it couldn't take it, but your mind craved for more.

"Such a scratchy little kitten you are," he groaned against your skin.

In the kitchen, Murphy was getting beer from the fridge. He could hear your voice drowning in pleasure, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could almost tune out Connor's voice. Murphy felt himself getting hard again, but then he would hear Connor's voice whispering to you, calling you his good girl, and his cock would soften just a little. He groaned, grabbed three beers, and moved back to the bedroom.

There you were, looking so so pretty with your legs on Connor's shoulders and him holding you around your thighs and pounding into you. Murphy set the beers on the nightstand and quietly sat down on the bed, leaning against the headboard and lazily sipping his beer. Now, this was easier. Despite Connor being there, the sight of you, the sounds you made, the way your eyes rolled back a little when he thrust harder—all of it was getting to him, and fast. He cupped his half hard dick, tugging and squeezing on it, moaning softly. That made your eyes snap open, and you looked up where he was sitting above you, lazily stroking himself with one hand and with a beer bottle in the other. The image would’ve made you laugh if you weren't so busy moaning under Connor.

His eyes trailed down your body and fixated on how his brother's cock was slipping in and out of you. He imagined himself in Connor's place, squeezing himself, picturing that it was your walls gripping him. Murphy felt dirty watching like this. It was his brother after all. It was all wrong, but damn if it didn't make him excited.

You kept twisting your head to look at Murphy. The way his hand moved slowly up and down, his eyes straining to focus on you, the way his breath hitched as he moved down and palmed his balls, made you want to observe him, drink in his every little movement and expression.

"What? You like watching too?" Connor said with a tinge of mockery in his voice. You only whined in response, and he chuckled. He gently slapped the back of your thigh and carefully lowered your legs from his shoulders. "Turn around then."

You listened and switched positions, sticking your butt out to Connor. His hands immediately landed on you, tugging you closer to him. He leaned in and placed a bite to your ass cheek, causing you to yelp and giggle. God, your laugh was like music to their ears.

Murphy spread his legs so you could lie down right in front of him. He took your chin between his fingers, making you look up. Your fucked-out face would be his undoing, he was sure of that. He swiped his thumb over your lip, and you didn't hesitate to take it in your mouth and suck. Murphy groaned squeezing his cock harder. The sight of him milking that little bead of precum out of his tip made you moan in return. Suddenly, you bit down on his finger, causing him to hiss in slight pain. He looked up and saw Connor starting to enter you again. His gaze fixated once more on Connor's cock sliding into you, his hands gripping your ass and pulling you onto himself. Murphy thought that as long as he doesn't look at his brother's face, as long as he just imagines himself there, it's all fine. Right?

You watched Murphy's face—how his eyes fixated behind you, fluttering heavy and slowly, how his chest started rising and falling faster with every moan and gasp that escaped you, how he gripped himself firmer. He was a piece of art. They both were, and you were trying to remember every little detail of him that you won't be able to see again, but that was proving to be difficult as your mind was getting more and more dazy and you could only concentrate on the sensations of Connor stretching you out, the lewd wet sound of his cock slowly driving in and out of you, the way he gripped your hip firmly but his thumb was brushing slow soft circles on your hip bone.

"God, you two are such perverts," Connor said through his teeth, noticing his brother watching the process. You whined, and Connor slapped your ass for a good measure.

Murphy immediately looked away, feeling embarrassed, and grabbed his beer from the nightstand, just to do something with his hands. You noticed the look of shame on his face and how he kept sipping the beer, picking on the paper label. His other hand gripped his thigh, fighting the urge to touch himself despite how obviously worked up he was.

"Con! Be nice!" You looked at him over your shoulder. Even though you were also blushing from being called out like that, because you indeed liked watching him watching you, you cared more about Connor making Murphy feel bad.

"Aw, you need princess here protecting yer feelings?" Connor snickered.

Murphy grumbled a quiet "shut up" and looked down at his lap. Con was right—he was a pervert for watching it like that. Who watches another man's dick? Let alone his brother's dick?

"Connor!" you yelled, turning to glare at him again. "Quit it!"

You placed your hand over Murphy's, giving him a squeeze. He looked up at you, his gaze broken but pleading. Even though he felt bad about it all, he didn't manage to get his erection down. "Let me," you whispered, only for him to hear and licked a long, slow stripe from his base to his tip, causing him to let out a low whimper.

"Alright! I'm shutting up. No need to get so damn sensitive about it," Connor grumbled. You were about to talk back, something about him being mean, but he thrust deep and hard into you, and your only response was to moan and clench around him. He smirked at that. "Now that's a good gerl."

He set a brutal pace, and all you could do was bury your face into Murphy's crotch, licking and giving him sloppy kisses. Connor placed a hand on your lower back, pressing you down into the mattress. The slight change of angle got you gasping and gulping for air.

"Oh God…Con—," you moaned. He was hitting that spot inside of you just right. Your jaw went slack, your breathing getting more labored as your face pressed more into Murphy's crotch, a bead of drool dripping down right on his balls.

Murphy watched your expressions intently, gripping the beer bottle hard. He whined quietly, the sight of you driving him crazy, but the contact you were making not nearly enough. He wanted, no, needed, to be inside of you. His other hand moved into your hair, scratching your scalp gently, moving to the nape of your neck and shoulders. He dragged his nails delicately across your skin, feeling the goosebumps rise.

"Such a pretty girl. Yer gonna cum for him, aren't ye? Gonna milk him dry?" Murphy spoke, but you were too far gone to respond.

Connor's hand snaked under your hip, finding your clit. He started rubbing slow and feather-light circles, careful not to overstimulate you. The movement—an absolute contrast to how hard his hips were thrusting—making your upper body drag over the rough sheets, your hard nipples becoming almost too sensitive. The sounds you made were drowning out all the filthy things Murphy was whispering to you. And despite how hard you tried to listen to him, the only things you could here were your own moans getting high-pitched and skin slapping on skin, making obscene wet sounds.

Your vision blurred, and you had to screw your eyes shut as that hot band coiled tight in your lower abdomen. Your ears filled with white noise, and total darkness behind your closed eyes turned into TV static. The only coherent thought you had was that this is probably the best you'll ever have, and it would make you sad any other time, but right now your were coming hard, squeezing the life out of Connor and drooling all over Murphy's cock.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

"Ohhh…fuck…" Connor thrust a couple of more times, his grip tightening on your ass, definitely leaving bruises for tomorrow. And then with a groan, he spilled, filling you up. You could feel him twitch inside you as he gave you a few more uneven thrusts, but it was as though you were behind matte glass—technically there but not really present as you came down from your own high.

For better or for worse, Murphy knew exactly what that groan meant. He heard it far too many times behind the paper-thin wall between their bedrooms. He scampered to his knees, already moving behind you. "Move. I wanna." He shoved Connor on the shoulder. It came out more desperate than he wanted, but at this point, he couldn't care less.

Connor groaned. He wanted to stay inside of you forever. But he loved his brother far too much, even though he would never say that out loud, not to share with him just how heavenly you feel. He's not a total dick after all.

He pulled out, and both of them watched his cum drip out of you. "Fuck," they said simultaneously. Connor flopped down onto the bed next to you, giving out a small chuckle of disbelief. And as soon as he was out of the way, Murphy unceremoniously thrust into you.

"Jesus Christ." His eyes rolled back as he felt you still spasm from your previous orgasm. A broken sob escaped you at the intrusion, your walls gripping him tight and pulling him in before you could even process it.

Connor immediately turned to you, whispering in your ear. "Yer alright, lass? Need a little break?" He placed a soft kiss on your cheek.

"N-no-o…" you whimpered. "But knees hurt."

"Aww.. you poor thing. Can't stand no more but still want some cock?" Connor whispered into your ear and caressed your cheek. You managed to nod. "Hey, Murph, let her lie down. Our gerl is tired," he said louder to his brother. You whimpered, hearing him call you their girl.

Murphy pulled out with a groan, helping you onto your back. He leaned over you, placing a soft kiss to your lips. "Why didn't ye say so right away?" He reached for the pillow, tucking it under your lower back. The change eased the pressure in your back, and you sighed with a soft smile.

"Too fucked-out to speak?" Connor added with a smirk.

"Yeah…" you barely managed a hoarse response, making both brothers chuckle.

"You think you can give me one more?" Murphy whispered against your lips. You nodded fast, and it made him laugh a little. "Yer such a dirty gerl, aren't ye? Want me to fill ye up to the brim, huh? Want these two Irishmen's cum dripping out of ye all day tomorrow?"

Well, he got his confidence back fast.

"Yeees," you moaned, wrapping your hands around his neck and tugging him into a kiss. He grinned widely at that, and you couldn't capture his lips between yours. "Stop smiling, can't kiss you," you pouted, but eventually just giggled into his lips.

Connor was observing the two of you and huffed a small laugh, but he couldn't help a warm smile creeping up onto his face. "You two are ridiculous."

"Shut it, Con," Murphy grumbled.

Connor leaned in and placed a kiss on the top of your head before sitting up. He grabbed one of the beers and grinned. "I'm just gonna enjoy the sight." He stretched and yawned as he watched you, sipping on his beer.

Murphy glared at him. "And you were giving me shit for watching!"

Connor just grinned and shrugged.

"Yer such a dick!" Murphy bit back with a slightly offended tone to his voice.

Connor was about to say something snarky back, but you interrupted with a stern tone before they could begin their usual thing. "Behave, you two."

"Aye, aye, ma'am," Murphy said and leaned in to kiss on your neck, forgetting all about his brother's antics. And something about the word or the way he said it made your pulse quicken.

Murphy hitched your leg over his waist and was about to enter you when Connor spoke up. "Put her leg on yer shoulder. She liked it better that way."

"Ye think I don't know how to fuck a woman?" Murphy said through his teeth, and of course, he didn't listen, but he did hitch your leg higher along his side. He slipped in so easily, it made his head spin. He looked down as he slowly started moving in and out, Connor's cum lubing you even more, dragging all over his cock. He cursed under his breath.

Just don't think about it, he told himself.

You wrapped your hands around his neck, tugging him over you, and as soon as you had enough reach, you slid your fingers in his hair, raking your nails over his scalp. He practically purred, and the fact that his reaction was identical to Connor's made you smile. Murphy buried his face in the curve of your neck, nipping and kissing as his thrusts became deeper.

"Goddamit, lass, ye feel so good," he whispered just for you to hear. His movements were slow, gentle, like he was trying to savor it, remember every little squeeze you gave him. "Is that me? Or you still coming from his cock?"

For a moment, you wanted to say 'no, it's all you,' but in reality, you weren't too sure. The pleasure flowed through you fast, transforming from one feeling into another. "Don't know," you whined. "Both."

Murphy chuckled into your ear, his hoarse voice sending shivers down your spine. "Well, then I better make sure ye do know." He thrust deeper, stronger, but still kept the same excruciatingly slow pace. He placed featherlight kisses on your neck and jaw, moving up to your cheek. His lips ghosted over yours, and you tried to catch them in a kiss, but he leaned back, grinning at you. "Aww, don't pout. You'll get what you want…eventually." He kissed the tip of your nose, making you groan in frustration.

"Man, that's just cruel at this point," Connor chimed in. You turned to look at him sitting at the head of the bed, nursing his beer with that stupid smile on his face. "Ye just say the word, lass, and I'll take care of you."

"I know what I'm doing, Con. Shut it," Murphy grumbled, taking your chin in his hand, turning you to look back at him. "Keep yer eyes on me. Got it?" He sounded almost stern, and if not for his adorable face, you'd probably obey in a beat, but now it only made you smirk.

You tugged him closer, cradling his face, whispering in his ear. "Baby, you're too cute to pull off that kinda thing." He grumbled in response and bit your shoulder hard, making you yelp.

"Not cute," he mumbled, but secretly, he adored it when you called him that. He always did, but now, buried deep inside you, your hand so gentle on his cheek, he loved it more than ever.

You were about to protest, tell him that's not a bad thing, but he leaned back, moving your leg to his shoulder, gripping your waist tight and putting all the force into that one thrust as if to prove his point, knocking the breath out of your lungs. He placed a soft kiss on your calf before holding it tighter and pushing down on your other leg, spreading you more for him. He set a powerful pace that had you seeing stars and moaning like something straight out of a porno.

Fuck, Con was right, he thought. You did like it better this way.

You were grabbing at the sheets, trying to tether yourself back to this world. Connor took your hand gently in his, intertwining your fingers. He smiled softly at you and slid down the bed, kissing at your neck. You were gripping his hand so tightly, he was amazed at how you had so much strength in you. You were practically sobbing at this point. Every little thing was so overwhelming, every little touch from Connor amplified by the sensations rippling through you from Murphy's thrusts.

"Shhh…let go, darling. Yer almost there…" Connor whispered to you, moving his kisses down your body.

"Ye sound so good, lass. Come on, one more, ye can do it," Murphy grunted, each word punctuated by his heavy breathing. "Yer being so good, maybe I'll give you a taste of both of us." You moaned as the image of what he was suggesting filled your mind.

Both of the brothers exchanged glances, chuckling at your reaction. Neither of them could’ve ever imagine you were this filthy, and yet here you were in their arms. Connor's lips latched onto your nipple, sucking and flicking his tongue over it. His hand reached out to your other breast, squeezing and tracing circles over your nipple. And that was the final push, tipping you over the edge. Your mouth fell open, but no sound came out as intense pleasure overwhelmed you, your leg on Murphy's shoulder trembling. If he wasn't holding it so tight in place, you sure would've hit him in the face with it.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck…" Murphy cursed as he kept thrusting, but you squeezing down on him made his rhythm falter. He didn't even notice when it happened, but he was coming hard, the edges of his vision blurring slightly. He stilled, buried inside you, catching his breath, his hold on your leg easing a little.

He pulled out with a groan, watching cum spill out of you. He didn't hesitate before plunging two fingers into you, making you whimper. "Shh.. shh… shh…" He curled his fingers, coating them in his and Connor's release, and the action made you cry out. He wasn't even trying, just found that spot that made you see stars right away, but right now, you were too overstimulated. You tried to squirm away, little tears forming in your eyes.

"It's okay, it's okay. It's over." He pulled out. "Promised ye, didn't I? And ye've been such a good gerl for us." He brought his fingers right to your lips, and you immediately opened up sucking on them.

The realization that you were tasting both of them and yourself at the same time made the heat pool in your stomach again. You hummed as you licked the pads of his fingertips. Both brothers groaned at the sight. And after you released his fingers, licking your lips, Murphy flopped down onto the bed next to you.

"God, yer so dirty." Connor grinned, moving closer to you.

"Can say the same about you two," you mumbled, your eyes already closing as you stifled a yawn.

"Ah, but see, ye already knew that about us," Connor quipped. "Ye, on the other hand, were a complete surprise."

"Aye. Turns out yer a proper menace, lass," Murphy added.

You only hummed in response, feeling incredibly tired. The brothers chucked, both placing soft kisses to your cheeks and nuzzling closer to you from both sides.

'Sweet dreams, princess' was the last thing you heard.

[shadowcitrine]

One of the best 'read this and you won't be sorry'ies I've ever had.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Just Wrap Me Up in Chains (Part 1)

Pairing: Daniel Pine x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Typical John Wick Violence; allusions to illness; SPOILERS FOR BALLERINA

Summary: Uncle Winston relocated you from The Continental New York for your own safety. At your new location, you cross paths with a little girl. Her presence is a mystery. Almost as big of a mystery as Daniel Pine in room 315. Strangers to friends to lovers.

A/N below the cut! Cause—SPOILERS.

Thank you for your brain @shadowcitrine 🩵

A/N: Fell in love with these two characters: Daniel and Ella Pine. Had to write them. So—notes! No real Daniel in this chapter but we’ll get to him in the next one. I took some liberties with Ella’s age. I found that the original script had her as 6 years old. That may have changed but that’s what I ran with. There aren’t a ton of spoilers in this chapter but there are spoilers. I’m doing my best with John Wick universe lore. I’m definitely no expert but this is fun. I’ll update this if I can remember other things I need to say.

“That going to 315?” You asked, circling the cart. The banana split that was nearly spilling over the silver plated boat was impressive. An extra bowl of cherries sat next to it. There was no whipped cream. That was a pity. It was the best part, in your opinion. “Guy sure does like ice cream.”

“He orders food too.” Tobias shrugged. “Lots of it. He just—orders ice cream more.”

You nodded, stepping out of the way as the cart squeaked into motion, one wheel wobbling in a way most people wouldn’t notice. You noticed. Of course you did. You were trained to see things that others didn’t, down to the finest detail where the hotel was concerned. You were raised to be aware. Your Uncle Winston saw to it.

He wasn’t really your uncle. He was your godfather. When your parents were taken from you at such an early age, you were brought up within the walls of The Continental New York. Over the years, you had watched the best of the best partake in the unique services offered. The weapons, medical, and ‘dinner reservations’. You had also seen it house the worst of the worst.

Winston had protected you without directly shielding you. You were an integral part of the hotel’s functionality. Your jobs were important, but mundane, giving you the appearance of just another staff member. He couldn’t let you be seen as anyone important to him. He had too many enemies to show that sort of attachment. It would have certainly spelled disaster for you.

It was for that reason that you had been sent away when bad blood had bloomed between Winston and John Wick. The Baba Yaga. Not that John—Jonathan, as Winston had called him—couldn’t find you with ease if he saw fit. Winston had to make you seem expendable. Inconsequential. Nothing more to him than an employee transfer.

Prague wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great. The Continental ran under the same rules. The same expectations. Only the manager knew of your true ties to the New York hotel and had pledged you’d be looked after.

Just as it had been back home, you worked as the head of housekeeping. Most of your work was managerial, so a short flowy black dress and lightweight cropped blazer were sufficient in lieu of a standard hotel uniform. It was your duty to oversee that the elegant rooms remained on the level of reputably unimpaired—not one speck of dust, nor a single bead of blood. Crisp sheets, fully stocked minibars, and the plushest towels were your weapons in the Underworld.

Most of the patrons welcomed your staff, eager to be pampered and catered to during their stay. But not 315. Not Daniel Pine, as the occupancy list had indicated his name to be. He allowed no one in his suite. And he never left. Not once in just over a week. Sheets, towels, food, toiletries, and other amenities authorized by The Manager were left outside the room. Furthermore, the door never opened while anyone remained in the hallway.

Never.

It certainly wasn’t the oddest behavior you’d witnessed given the surroundings of your profession. So, it was with a shrug that you carried on about your own business and left Mr. Pine to his.

That was, until the Dvorak brothers incident. Three rooms left in shambles. Two employees killed and several others injured, leaving the hotel shorthanded until The Manager could pull off a miracle.

“There is no one else.” Dominik pushed the cart towards you, a wheel trundling up onto the toe of your impractical stiletto.

“Ow! Why can’t you do it?” You asked, fingers wrapping around the curved handle. You already knew the answer. Dominik was security. It had been a miracle for the kitchen staff to convince him to lay hands on that cart at all. Sensing the futility of questioning, you waved a hand and begrudgingly wheeled the thing towards the service elevator.

The ascension to the third floor was silent, the audio system still inoperative since yesterday’s incident. Somehow, it seemed to compound the strange feeling that was stirring in your gut. Anxiety, maybe? You felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, wondering if you’d catch a glimpse of Krampus.

The doors parted and you found the first corridor empty. Unsurprising for that time of evening. The patrons were likely out seeking their next bounty or hiding behind closed doors to ensure their own bounty wasn’t collected.

There was a reason no business was permitted to be conducted on Continental grounds. After all, the hotel was open to the public. Certain floors, like the one you currently navigated, were used by members of the Underworld. As were a number of the lounges. Even if only one side was aware, the two worlds coexisted without much of a problem. Most of the time.

Regardless, that hardly mattered when you were delivering a room service ice cream medley to a dangerous assassin with an apparently massive sweet tooth.

You positioned the cart just so outside the door, ensuring it could be pulled through the entryway without an issue. Knocking firmly, you called out “room service” before pivoting on a heel to return towards the elevator. As you walked, you pulled your access badge from the inner pocket of your blazer. With your usual grace, you fumbled the card, cursing in a whisper when it tumbled onto the floor with a soft sound just before you rounded the corner. Rolling your eyes at your own carelessness, you turned and crouched as ladylike as you could to retrieve your keycard when you heard the click of the lock disengage just down the hall.

You blinked. Once. Twice. An arm was extending from the door, a large hand wrapping around the handle of the cart. The ring he wore was dark against his tan skin and clinked lightly against the metal. But that wasn’t what held your attention. It was the small girl standing just inside the door. Her eyes mirrored your own, wide and curious. Stunned. Neither of you looked away, even as the door closed.

Who was she? Why was she there? There was no record of a kid being on that floor and it wasn’t ‘bring your child to work day’ in the Underworld. Your first thought was to fear for her safety. She was in a room with a dangerous man, after all. However, she hadn’t appeared to be afraid. Just—surprised to see someone near the door.

There was a sound from down the hall. It wasn’t the lock, but something was happening inside the suite. Muted clicks and thumps before it all went quiet. You stayed put, still crouched with eyes narrowed and ears straining while building a myriad of scenarios by sound alone.

You finally heard the little girl giggling from the room followed by a scrape of a spoon on the porcelain bowl that had been provided. A man’s voice, distinct in its dark, rich timbre. Another giggle and then the faint but familiar tune of Under the Sea from The Little Mermaid. If the little girl was there against her will, she was being spoiled rotten.

Fetching your badge and rising to walk away, you told yourself to stay out of it. It was none of your business. Uncle Winston would have granted you a two hour lecture if he had even an inkling of knowledge that you were merely curious about the affairs of anyone wrapped up in the life of the Underworld.

But Uncle Winston wasn’t here.

So you had no problem volunteering to deliver the meals and ice cream the next day—after a trip into town for something that could hopefully go unnoticed by Mr. Pine but draw the eye of the little girl. If she was in trouble, it would be a message to inform her that she had been seen. If she wasn’t, then it was just a gift.

Beneath the serving dish of ice cream, barely noticeable, you left a sticker. A rolling pin with eyes and a smile that said you’re a-dough-rable. You weren’t sure if she could even read but the image was cute enough. After delivering the dessert, you waited downstairs, busying yourself with your duties. If Mr. Pine had noticed, he’d surely make a call to the desk. Or maybe he wouldn’t. There was no way to know for sure.

But when you collected the cart and dishes, the sticker was gone.

At dinnertime, there had been no contact. So you left another sticker: a teapot with a smile that said you’re a cu-tea. When the cart and dishes were returned this time, the sticker had been removed and the adhesive paper had been left behind. Smiling to yourself, you made a decision.

In trouble or not, this little girl was going to know she had a friend in The Continental.

You continued to hide stickers on the cart with each food delivery. One day, a smiley face born of red crayon had been left for you on a napkin. It was a small gesture but it was enough to ensure you knew your efforts were appreciated.

Things continued this way until today. You were walking by the concierge desk when you heard Josef speaking into the phone.

“Mr. Pine? Mr. Pine, are you there?” He appeared to wait, his expression unreadable.

You froze, keeping your eyes averted while straining to listen. The concierge hung up, only for the phone to ring again with the same outcome. Something was fishy. “What’s going on?” You queried, leaning on the opposite side of the desk. You strived to appear mostly uninvested, likely an endeavor you were desperately failing.

Josef sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Room 315 has called about seven times. There’s no response when I answer. I’m gonna have to send up a tech to check the phone lines.” When he picked up the receiver, you watched his fingers begin to dial an extension. Something was definitely off.

“Did he order food and ice cream today yet?” You asked, rounding the desk. Josef didn’t answer for a moment before roughly hanging up the phone.

“No one’s answering in maintenance.” Now he was pinching the bridge of his nose, frustration etched into every line of his face. “No. No orders today.”

Shit.

The phone rang and you snatched it up before Josef could even flinch. “Concierge desk.” You were met with silence. Licking your lips, you glanced at Josef before angling yourself away. “Mr. Pine, would you like your normal ice cream order?” No answer aside from quiet breaths on the other end of the line, too soft to be that of a grown man. Lowering your voice, dropping to a whisper, you added “I can send two stickers this time.”

“I need medicine to make daddy better.”

Your eyes shot wide. It was her. And Mr. Pine—was her father. You took a deep breath, risking a glance at Josef. He was watching you with a furrowed brow and curious stare. “I apologize for the inconvenience with the phone lines, Mr. Pine. Let me call you from my personal line and I’ll handle this issue myself.” You didn’t wait for a response before replacing the receiver on the base. “I think I know what the issue is. I’ll take care of it.”

“You sure? When did you get so tech savvy?” He chuckled, his tone teasing.

“Shut up. I dealt with these kinds of issues all the time in New York. I got it.” You shook your head and pulled out your cellphone. Running a finger down the occupancy list, you found the direct line to room 315 and swiftly dialed it. Playing it cool, you gave Josef a thumbs up and walked away, pressing your back to the wall around the corner. The call connected but there was no answer. “It’s me.” You said, your tone calm and hopefully soothing. Still nothing. “My name is Y/N. What’s yours?”

A beat passed. “Ella.”

“Hi, Ella. Thank you for the smiley face drawing.” When she didn’t respond, you continued. “Ella, can you tell me what you need?”

“Daddy’s sick.” Her voice was small, but remarkably even.

“Okay, what’s wrong with him?” You began walking toward the service elevator, pulling your badge from your inner pocket.

“He’s hot.” You could hear her moving around. “And he’s not waking up.” The rustling of the sheets. Then a barking cough.

Definitely not good.

“Okay, I’m coming up and we’ll figure something out together. Are you okay with that?”

Once again, there was an extended silence. “You can’t use the door.”

The elevator opened and you stepped inside, your finger hovering over the button. “Why can’t I?”

“It’s dangerous.”

Finally pressing the button, the elevator lurched as it began to ascend. “How can a door be dangerous?” It wasn’t the strangest thing you’d ever heard out of a kid’s mouth, but it was up there.

“It just is.” You could have laughed at the indignation in her tone. “And you can’t tell anyone daddy’s sick.”

This was just becoming more and more of a mystery. “Why’s that? We have a doctor here.” The silence stretched to the point where you thought she might have hung up. Lowering your phone from your ear, you glanced at the screen. Still connected.

“He says we can’t trust anyone.”

Narrowing your eyes, you stepped out of the elevator after the bell chimed. “Then why are you trusting me?”

“You gave me stickers.”

You did chuckle this time. “That’s not exactly sound logic, kid.” You reasoned as you traveled the halls toward room 315.

“I’m 6.”

Stopping outside the door, you balanced the phone against your shoulder and grasped the door handle with one hand while your other held the badge. You were seconds away from passing the card over the reader before you let go and stepped back. “Okay, then how am I supposed to get in if I can’t use the door?”

“I’ll open the window.” Ella stated matter-of-factly.

Your jaw fell open. “To the balcony?!” Her problem solving skills definitely needed work if this was her solution. That or she needed to cut back on the cartoons.

“Mhm.” You could hear movement coming from inside the room. Another cough, a low groan. “Can you hurry?”

She wanted you to scale the ledge from the next room. What the actual fuck? Was this some sort of trick? Were you getting too close? So close that Mr. Pine was planning something and willing to use a little girl to do it? “I—”

“Please?” That word in her little voice shifted something inside you. Something you didn’t really like but couldn’t ignore. You thought back to those big eyes meeting yours from the doorway; the red smiley face napkin. If this was some ploy, this girl was a damn mastermind.

“I’m not Wonder Woman, kid.” You ran a hand over your hair, trying to reconcile what she was asking with the urgency of the situation.

“You have to be careful.” It was as if she hadn’t heard your last words at all. Like she knew you had already made up your mind to help.

“Well, yeah. It’s a balcony. On the third floor.”

“No. Not that.” Ella whispered as if someone might overhear. “Sometimes there are bad people outside.”

“You mean—” Of course she meant snipers. You wouldn’t be surprised if some had just taken up permanent residence on the roofs of nearby buildings. Probably even split the electric bill with the owners.

“Please hurry.” Her voice had begun to wobble. It was when you heard the quiet it’s okay, daddy that your resolve absolutely crumbled.

Jesus fuck, what were you getting yourself into? “Okay.” You sighed. “Okay, but I’m in heels. This might take a minute.”

[shadowcitrine]

Fanfiction of him already!! Aaaaaah!

[darylsdelts]

Hello everyone! ‼️‼️

I’ve decided (if you have had the pleasure) that people who have been with Norman Reedus need to speak up and repost this with details of what he’s like.

even if it wasn’t sexual, if you have been close or have even just met him, this is where you HAVE to share that information.

I want only the truth.

I need this to reach the people!

[shadowcitrine]

I love that people feel so connected that they want to share experiences of their favorite celebrities but this??? This is VILE.

'Even if it wasn't sexual' implies that that's what they're really hunting for. Sexual stories about a real person. Not a character. Not fanfiction. Real.

This is the kind of sleezy behavior is why so many celebrities stop interacting with fans. This is why they cancel events and delete social media.

If the script were flipped and we were talking about a woman instead of a man this would be seen as 100% predator behavior. An obsessive stalker masking their obsession as adoration and 'love'.

It doesn't matter if they're in the spot light, they deserve respect AND privacy. It isn't funny. It isn't cute. I don't give a fuck who you are--

BE BETTER.

[bring-forth-his-sac]

pls more dad negan (including reader like in your drabble) 😭🙏 that drabble was so cute!!! <3

summary: Negan wakes up with the two people he loves most

word count: 1.3k

“Negan? Negan, are you awake?”.

Negan knows it’s a good morning when your voice is the first thing he hears. Another day in this apocalyptic paradise— which is something he doesn’t say lightly.

Despite the skulls he’s had to crack, the years he spent behind bars and the losses he’s had, Negan would do it all over again if it meant meeting you… and the other special lady in his life. Speaking of which, he’s starting to wonder why he didn’t wake up to her usual wailing.

He grunts slightly as he opens his eyes.  The warmth of the bed feels just right for the cold day. 

“Morning darlin,” Negan greets you with a sleepy grin “we finally getting some mama and daddy time?”.

You smile, swiping a stray strand of hair off his forehead. “I wish but…” you sigh tiredly “look down”.

With wary eyes, Negan tilts his head down and finds his little heat source cuddled in between you both, staring up at him with wide eyes.

“Hm, was wondering why the bed was so warm” he says, bringing a finger down to trace her small face.

You let out a laugh as you get comfy beside your husband. “She woke me but it’s too early to start the day” you mumble against your pillow.

“So she’s been promoted to our bed now, huh?” Negan raises an eyebrow, his eyes still on the little terror. Suddenly a small hand comes up, fingers clenching and unclenching.

Giving into her (like always), Negan lifts your daughter up so she’s resting in the centre of his chest. It’s only in times like this do you notice how much she’s grown in the past few months, still so small but full of so much personality. 

“You tryin’ to steal all the attention I should be giving mama?” he asks her “is that your masterplan?”.

Stifling a yawn, you shift onto your side as you shuffle down the bed and tug the blanket up to your shoulders. “Just like her father, she loves the attention” you tease.

“But I think she’s got your stubbornness,” he says softly, a slight chuckle escaping his lips.

Negan settles back into the pillow, cradling the baby against his chest. His hand gently brushes her wisps of hair.

Give it another month or two and she’ll have hair long enough to tie up and style properly. You can already imagine Negan trying to style her: tying her hair up into a tuft full of bows and glittery hair bands. After all, it’s only the best for his little girl.

“You ever think we’d be here? Doing this?” he murmurs, pulling you out of your daydreams “I mean, hell, I’ve been through some shit, but this… this is different”.

You smile, watching him with an affectionate gaze “It’s everything, isn’t it?”.

The baby babbles as if to agree. Her legs kick out slightly before she relaxes again. Despite being up since 4am, she’s still not tired and opts to listen in to your conversation instead of resting her eyes like you hoped.

Negan rubs her back soothingly, watching as your baby tries to cram her fist into her mouth. Trying to carefully corral her hand away from getting gnawed, Negan mutters “Now, if we can just get her to sleep through the night, I’ll be even happier”.

You smile sleepily, still trying to shake off the fog of an early wake-up. 

“She definitely has you wrapped around her finger,” you comment, watching as she loses interest in trying to get her fist into her mouth and tries to tug on one of Negan’s fingers instead. “Literally” you add.

He grins down at the baby, making a funny noise that gets her to coo in response. You snicker “Oh yeah, she’s definitely got you figured out, Mr. Tough Guy”.

Negan looks at you with exaggerated offense, feigning a dramatic gasp. Clearly entertained, the baby gurgles and babbles as Negan continues his one-man show.

“What? Me? Tough guy? I’m a loving father, damn it! I’m a doting… badass… fucking machine daddy. And nothing more!” He kisses the top of the baby’s head with an exaggerated ‘mwah!’ sound. 

Negan looks over at you with a wink but before he can notice how your eyes are growing heavier, the baby coos for his attention again. 

“But this little princess on the other hand?,” he talks in an exaggerated manner “Oh she’s gonna be trouble!”.

You let out a small, sleepy laugh but it’s quickly swallowed up by a yawn. “Yeah, well, she already thinks she’s the boss” You shift a little, getting more comfortable.

Negan chuckles, looking down at the baby like she’s his new best friend. It’s uncanny how much your little baby girl can look so similar to your husband— and yet if you say that out loud, Negan will insist she looks more like you.

Negan raises her tiny fist as if she’s about to start swinging. “Damn right she’s the boss!” He exclaims “Just wait until I teach her the good shit. Killing walkers, turning on the charm— oof!”.

He stops when you poke his side under the blanket. With a lazy smile you mumble “Maybe wait until the baby can walk first before teaching her to kill walkers”.

Your eyelids feel like they’re made of lead and the bed is so warm and comfortable, it feels impossible not to close them just for a while. You snuggle deeper into the blankets, your body practically melting into the mattress. 

“Alright, alright, mama has a point” Negan concedes before getting back to playtime with his mini-me.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t start teaching ya how to work that charm. First lesson: how to look cute and get everything you want” Negan says as if she can understand every word.

The baby blinks, her mouth open as she listens closely. Negan laughs softly, completely amused “Already a pro”.

“Actually and while we’re at it,” Negan continues “I’m gonna have to teach you how to change your own diapers, you’re like a goddamn fire hose attached to a sewerage plant!”.

As he rambles on, he notices how quiet you’ve become. The soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your head is slumped against the pillow, all hint that you're completely out of it. 

And to confirm his theory, you let out a small snort in your sleep. 

Negan pauses, a small smirk forming in his face. “Huh, guess that’s our queue to leave, kiddo” he whispers.

Trying his best to move slowly, Negan pulls back the covers just enough for him to get out. Manoeuvring out of the bed, Negan keeps your little offspring close to his chest. The baby gurgles, as if threatening to cry if Mama doesn't get out of bed too. For once, Negan shoots a glare at the baby, holding onto the look for a few seconds no matter how guilty it makes him feel. 

“Shhhhhh hun, let your mama sleep” he tells her, watching to make sure you don’t stir. Negan knows how hard you work. Despite how much he helps out, Negan can’t feed the baby off his man boob, nor can he lull the baby back to sleep with the same success as you. 

Without you, he knows he wouldn’t be in this situation. He would've never found a woman willing to spawn out his demonic kids and look hot as all hell while doing it!

You’ve always been his exception. You gave him hope. Not just in this world, but in himself. “C’mon you little pipsqueak you’re stuck with me for a while” Negan whispers, giving you one last look before walking out and carefully shutting the door behind him.

If there’s anyone who needs some peace and quiet, it’s you and Negan has no problem helping out with that.

[shadowcitrine]

Can we all just take a moment to appreciate how absolutely spot on for characterization this is? You can hear Negan so well, every ounce is canon quality.

That said, excuse me while I melt into a puddle. It's so sweet <3

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Halfway to Anywhere

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Pre-Apocalypse

Warnings: Allusions to abuse, eventual TWD type blood and gore; angst

Summary: Fleeting moments that somehow became everything.

A/N: Angst ahead! Fluff and angst! That’s the story. Definitely listen to the song! As of right now, this is a one shot with no plans of continuing.

🎶Anywhere by Evanescence🎶

Forget this life

Come with me

Don't look back, you're safe now

Unlock your heart

Drop your guard

No one's left to stop you

The old porch swing groaned and creaked with each gentle sway. The thing was older than you were, installed on the doublewide’s too small porch, damned to be more of an eyesore than an amenity. Your dad had never painted it to match the trailer, though he’d have needed several shades and a patience he didn’t possess to conquer that feat. The wood was splintered and slivers dug into the back of your legs below your denim shorts as you enjoyed the final tingling sensations of a nicotine buzz.

The grass was overgrown, the warm breeze inspiring the rolling waves of a dark tide in front of the house with lightning bugs acting as stars on a coastline horizon. You were loath for management to enforce the ordinance that lawns must be maintained no higher than five inches, lest they strip you of your late night escape. For someone who had never left Georgia, you had seen your own ocean. 

You always saw him during those hours spent in your little paradise, skulking around in the dark on the heels of his brother, likely traipsing in after a long night of drinking, drugs, and women. While the older of the two staggered and hollered, the younger walked quietly behind him with unsure strides not born of alcoholic influence. Maybe he had a few drinks in him, but living in that trailer park all your life had shown you the difference between drunk and damaged. 

You knew of the Dixon brothers. Hell, there wasn’t a person in the whole park who hadn’t been scorned by Merle in one way or another. The men were threatened, the women degraded, and the children scared. The man had a remarkable lack of decorum. His younger brother, Daryl, was an entirely different enigma. He had a mouth on him that was usually reserved for defending his sibling in situations of the elder’s own making. Otherwise, he was quiet, his face decorated in a permanent scowl. 

You rarely saw one without the other and had never spoken to either of them, allowing your silence to be your defense in the face of Merle’s advances. Daryl’s gruff  leave ‘er alone, man never fell upon deaf ears. He wasn’t exactly a knight in shining armor but you appreciated his attempts at granting you a reprieve nonetheless. 

You heard the uncoordinated cadence of boots on the gravel-ridden pavement before you saw them on their usual path, the pale illuminance of an old street lamp barely enough to light their way. Merle had a half empty bottle of Jack in his hand, waving it like a conductor’s baton as he slurred the lyrics of some song you’d never heard. Daryl was behind him, his gait steadier than that of his sibling. His head was down, his arms swinging at his sides. His stiff shoulders suggested he had little interest in being privy to Merle’s escapades. Come to think of it, you weren’t sure you had ever seen him without that coil to his demeanor: quiet but ready to strike should the need arise. 

Placing another cigarette between your lips, you never considered how the glow of your lighter would give you away. Your eyes were focused on the flame, the blurred silhouette beyond it coming to a halt as your gaze lifted a fraction of an inch. Your thumb released the fork to extinguish the light, leaving Daryl’s still form in your sights. You didn’t need to see past the shadows that blanketed him to know he had seen you, and Merle was too inebriated to take notice, continuing his trek toward their trailer at the far end of the park. 

The high-pitched buzz of a mosquito by the shell of your ear was all that could be heard beyond the older Dixon’s bellowing and even that was filtered into white noise as you and Daryl maintained your stances. He didn’t move for moments that passed like hours, the stretch of time not exactly uncomfortable though the logical part of your brain said it should have been. You didn’t know him. 

With your vice balanced between your lips, you tapped the cigarette pack against the side of your hand to urge one forward and, before you could take even a second to rethink the decision, you plucked it free and held out the offering toward the man across the way. You briefly considered that he likely had his own, embarrassment blooming as a tight twist in your gut before fizzling out when he took that first step toward your porch. 

A sudden unease sparked to life within you, exacerbated by each tread of Daryl’s boots. What if your daddy woke up? Finding a Dixon at his door would be bad even before you took into account the copious amounts of beer he had ingested before passing out in his Lazy Boy. The ball of your bare foot pressed against the porch to halt the swing as it leveled out. Using that momentum, you pushed off the seat and padded over to the two crooked steps, intercepting Daryl before he could ascend. 

The cigarette was accepted in continued silence. He didn’t ask for a light, but pulled his own from his pocket. When the flint ignited, it was the first time you had seen his face up close. The flame danced in his irises before it was douted, filling you with a foreign disappointment at not seeing their color. 

And so it continued: periodic draws and billows of smoke dancing through the umbrage over your bowed heads. Flicking ash, you drew your bottom lip between your teeth and gnawed at it. Surely he hadn’t walked all the way over just to smoke and stare at his boots. It certainly hadn’t been your initial intent to invite him in the first place. 

You flinched when he cleared his throat, eyes coming up to find him staring at his cigarette, the stick rolling between his forefinger and thumb. “Name’s Daryl.” His voice was a quiet rasp. 

“I know.” You caught his gaze when he glanced at you, eyes narrowed. It shouldn’t have come as a shock that you knew, but his expression was telling. He had to be aware of the reputation the Dixon name carried. When he looked away in the direction of his trailer, the moonlight carved out a section of his face. Blue. His eyes were blue. “I’m Y/N.”

“I know.” He commented without looking back. 

He knew your name? It shouldn’t have been a surprise to you either. Your father had solidified a reputation of his own, instilling in the neighborhood that you were poor, pitiful Y/N. You kept to yourself but the bruises were always dark and profound and your swing was your refuge, leaving the mars on your skin to be public knowledge. No one could begin to understand why you stayed. You weren’t a child. But your father couldn’t care for himself. Right? 

“Daddy’s a drinker.” You weren’t sure why you volunteered the information. It wasn’t his business and he likely didn’t care. Still, maybe he would get it. He was no stranger to the unbridled anger of an alcoholic parent. 

“I know. Mine was too.” When Daryl’s father had passed away, it had been a relief to most of the residents. Will Dixon was worse than Merle in his own way. Their first trailer had been further away from the rest of the park, the fire that had claimed it, along with Daryl’s mother, not reaching the other homes. 

Another trailer had been brought in only days later, placed in a closer lot and away from the pile of debris that remained even all those years later. You had been a child but you could still remember seeing the brothers run down the street toward the blaze only to be stopped by officers already on the scene. Will had been at the bar and appeared more inconvenienced than grief stricken when he had finally dragged himself to what was left of his home. 

“I know.” You hated to admit it but hated the thought of lying to him even more. When your existence sought out the kindness in others in order to sustain itself, honesty was empowering—even if it hurt. 

Daryl nodded and sniffed, but didn’t turn your way. It was if he was waiting for something, but what came had his shoulders sagging. 

“Darylina!”

He stared in the direction of his trailer, the stumbling shadow of his brother silhouetted behind the ragged blinds. Clearing his throat, he held up the cigarette. It was nearly down to the filter. “Thanks, uh…thanks for the smoke.”

“You’re welcome.”

You watched him walk away, the street lamp flickering as he walked beneath the pale halo. As his shadow disappeared and you heard the chaos erupt from the Dixon singlewide, you felt a twinge in your heart of something foreign. 

“Y/N!”

Wincing at the slurred holler of your name, you turned toward the door, casting one last glance over your shoulder. 

“Coming, daddy.”

“It’s easy,” you smiled coolly. “You just make a loop and interlink it.” You held up the partially constructed pattern for his inspection. “See?”

Daryl squinted. “Nah.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette and placed it back in his mouth to dangle loosely from his lips. “Got no idea what m’supposed to be lookin’ at.” He shifted his focus back to the object on his lap. 

Over the last few weeks and several silent smoking sessions, activities such as these had become recurrent: you sitting just beside the railing on the porch with Daryl below. He had never ventured further than the bottom step, but that seemed to be just fine for the both of you. 

Pursing your lips, you continued crocheting, glancing over to watch his hands work. “What’re you working on?” 

“Hmm?” He hummed, apparently completely absorbed by the task at hand. When you remained quiet, he glanced up and back down, then up again. “Oh. Uh, tuning the carburetor for Merle’s bike.”

“Ah.” You both resumed your individual pursuits. “Why isn’t he doing it?” You queried, keeping your eyes on the yarn, skillfully weaving the tight, red stitches. 

Daryl huffed, the sound approaching something spiteful, as he stubbed out his cigarette on the narrow walkway. “Cause he’s prolly four beers in on a tab he ain’t gonna pay.” 

You smiled down at your work. “I must be more fun than drinking if you’re not with him.” You teased lightly. 

He snorted. “Yeah, you an’ your knittin’.”

You feigned offense, dramatically dropping your current project onto your lap. “How dare you. It’s crocheting.” When he shot you an exasperated scowl, you smiled, all teeth and sparkling eyes. Shaking his head, he went back to his tinkering. 

“Whatever.” 

“Whatever.” You clapped back in a mocking tone. 

When the silence ensued, it was never uncomfortable. It hadn’t been from the start. Despite his rough exterior, Daryl was easy when it came to companionship. There were no expectations. Just two people enjoying the stillness of the trailer park after the sun was low enough in the sky to send the youngsters inside for the evening. 

The rickety step creaked when the younger Dixon pushed on it to get to his feet, bike part and tools in hand. You never said goodbye or even goodnight, always parting like the next meeting was simply a continuation of the one before it. 

“Hold on.” You interjected, seeing him still out of the corner of your eye. He didn’t show any symptom of impatience as he waited, something you took as a compliment with how he would always rush his brother when in his company. Once you fastened off the yarn, you placed the supplies aside and held out the finished product. “For you.”

Eyeing the thing suspiciously, Daryl piled everything into the crook of one elbow so he could accept the offering. “What is it?” He turned the thing over and back, his knitted brow something approaching comical. 

“It’s a hat, stupid.” You punctuated the final word with a dramatic roll of your eyes.  

A ghost of a smile played at one corner of his mouth, disappearing before you could marvel at the rare glimpse. “What m’I supposed to do with this?” 

You knew he was teasing in his own way, an act you had picked up on after a few times of mistaking it for dismissal. “Put popcorn in it and go to the movies. What do you think you’re supposed to do with it, Daryl Dixon?”

“Sure as hell ain’t wearin’ it.” He griped, spinning on a heel to start the journey up the vacant street. 

Standing and stretching, you dusted off the back of your shorts and leaned against the tottering pillar to cross your arms. He was just past the illuminated patch of pavement when you saw him stretch the material over his head. “I knew you liked it!” You called.

You saw his middle finger raise above his head before he circled around to the back of his trailer and out of sight. 

“I’d hate to see the other guy.” 

“What?” Daryl looked up as you descended with your first aid kit in hand. When you took a seat next to him, it was as if he had seen a unicorn, his mouth hanging open with his eyebrows rising toward his hairline. Just as he had never ventured beyond the bottom step, you had never left the porch. 

“You trying to catch flies? Close your mouth.” You teased while opening an antiseptic wipe. You reached for him and he reeled back, giving you pause. You didn’t question it, didn’t push him. “You wanna do it yourself?” Flipping your hand, you waited for him to accept the small square. 

Daryl’s eyes darted between your face and the wipe. After what appeared to be careful consideration, he dropped his head and fumbled with a pack of cigarettes. “Nah. It’ll keep.”

“Daryl.” You gave him a look, holding it in silence until he finally turned your way. He had a smoke halfway to his lips but lowered it with a sigh. Victory. 

You were gentle when grasping his chin, gentler still when dabbing the cut across the bridge of his nose. His eyes were lingering toward the right, seemingly avoiding your gaze at all costs. Eye contact wasn’t your strong suit either. 

“What happened?” You asked, shifting your focus to a similar injury on his cheek with a light urging to turn his head. 

“S’it look like?” He had barely moved to scowl at you before you used your grip to correct him. Daryl huffed a breath but made no move to try again. 

“Looks like you were fighting Merle’s battles again.” 

You’d known of nights like this before, though it was the first time you had witnessed the aftermath of such altercations up close. Why he had come to you that night would likely remain a mystery. 

You watched his eyes lower with no reply but you didn’t need one. Daryl was always in some sort of trouble that wasn’t of his own making. The only time he hadn’t followed Merle was when the older of the two had gone to prison. 

Your benign touch returning, you guided him to face you once more before trading the wipe for a fresh one. “Why do you follow him?” You hadn’t meant it any sort of way other than genuine curiosity. Dabbing the split in his lip, you flinched when he lurched backward, his arm coming up between you. 

“Ow, fuck!” He inadvertently licked the area, spitting the antiseptic tinted saliva onto the concrete. “He’s my brother!” His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was the first time that any level of harshness had been directed toward you.

“I just don’t understand—”

“Ya don’t gotta!” He yawped, sobering almost immediately without even sparing you a glance. “Ya don’t gotta understand.” He repeated glumly. 

Your hands had lowered to rest on your thighs as you assessed him, unsure whether or not you should continue to engage at all. You settled on a muted “okay.”

Neither of you moved after that. Neither of you spoke. Marking its inception was a feeling of palpable unease. The tension was stifling by the time he rose to his feet with the unlit cigarette still between his fingers, his boots carrying him in heavy steps past the sanctum of the old street lamp’s glow where he disappeared into the shadows. 

The night had never felt more despondent.

Where is it? You stared at the word search, the diluted lambency of the crooked sconce by the front door not doing you any favors when seeking out the elusive string of letters that amounted to locomotive. Your pen and puzzle book balanced in one hand, you lifted your cigarette to your mouth with the other and indulged in a generous draw, letting the smoke billow from your lips before forcing the remainder out through your nose. 

The rhythmic drumming of the rain on the tin roof was an adequate replacement for your customary moonlight and wind-blown sea of greenery. Never one for The Weather Channel, the storm had been unexpected, but you found solace in the lightning and claps of thunder all the same. The boisterous sonance drowned out your thoughts and veins of luminosity burned away your pensiveness. 

You had seen Daryl since the night you had tended to his injuries. Each time, he had been doing his customary trailing on Merle’s heels, never sparing you a glance even when his brother cat-called you with a string of degrading expletives. The intentional avoidance hurt. You weren’t exactly sure that you could call the thing between you a friendship but it was something. It was tangible and assuaging and you missed it. 

That train of thought derailed within a peal of thunder. You placed your book next to your hip and leaned to look up at the sky, the old swing creaking beneath your shifting weight. Rivulets of rainwater trickled from the malleable metal and dripped onto your face, your eyes squinting and blinking in defiance. 

“S’really comin’ down.”

Your head snapped around to find Daryl standing in your walkway, his hair matted to his head and his clothes clinging to his broad frame. His shoulders were drawn up near his ears. You could only make out his face when pencil strokes of lightning blazed overhead. Standing, you ambled over to the pillar just beyond the railing. 

“What’re doing out there?” You called, your voice lost in the downpour. Daryl angled his head as if straining to hear you. His knee bent slightly, boot lifting as if he were considering a step, but placed back on the ground. “Daryl, you’re drenched!” With a glance over your shoulder, you could see your father still passed out in his chair. Your tongue ran across your lips as you considered your next words carefully. His name was already rolling off your tongue as you turned back to him. “Daryl, come on! Get out of the rain.” He made no move to follow your command. “Get up here or go home!” 

He looked over his shoulder then. You weren’t sure what was happening inside his head, but the way he looked up toward you before he strode forward to stop at the bottom step, you gathered that there were things happening in his home that he wanted no part of. 

You looked up as if unable to remember if your porch covered that step. It didn’t. “Daryl, get up here.” His hand came to rest on the railing, but he hesitated. “Please.” You added, watching his fingers bend to press down against the wood. You had to sidestep out of his way when he darted upward, stopping at your side to stare at you down the ridge of his shoulder. His expression was unreadable. “What, uh—” You fidgeted under the weight of his gaze. “What’re you doing here?”

He seemed to rethink the entirety of the last five minutes, his eyes darting between you and his singlewide. Your throat tightened at the blatant discomfort he was displaying, and for a moment, you thought he would run. He dug through his pocket instead, the pressure of the action wringing water from the fabric. A pack of cigarettes emerged, the outside decorated in thick droplets.

“Do you want one of mine?” You asked, eyeing him as he pulled one free of the pack. Beneath the dim lighting, the paper seemed to be dry, protected by the branded foil. 

“Nah.” He offered it up, watching you place it between your lips. The filter was damp and cool, but not ruined. You turned to fetch your lighter where it was sitting neglected beside your puzzle book. A repetitive grinding click and soft glow of a flame gave you pause, your eyes sliding back before your head turned to position the end of the cigarette over his lighter. 

“Thanks.” The word was accompanied by a thin gray cloud. Daryl nodded, having at some point placed a cigarette of his own in his mouth. He lit it quickly and shoved the lighter back in his pocket, scowling as if offended by the wet feel of his pants. 

You took a heartbeat to consider his intentions, the silence lingering in the air as you smoked, periodic drags taken in unison, though his were substantially longer. He was wearing anxiety like a heavy cloak, his shoulders tense as if he were battling the weight of it. 

“You don’t have to, you know.” You sniffed, crossing your arms but holding your cigarette away from you. You looked down toward that street lamp but could feel his eyes on you. 

“Don’t hafta what?” He asked gruffly. 

You took a heavy draw and exhaled. “Apologize.” You heard him huff something akin to a laugh through his nose and pinned him with your gaze just as he looked down at his boots. 

“Wasn’t gonna.” The way his brow furrowed, his weight shifting from foot to foot, told a different story. 

Satisfied with that mere assumption, you smiled and allowed the shared quiet to enclose your porch once more. The rain had never ceased its onslaught, puddles spreading into dark vibrating pools on either side of the walkway. 

Your cigarette was nearly down to the filter when Daryl flicked his off the porch, the cherry extinguishing with a hiss that went unheard. He turned from you, looking down the steps, his intention to descend clear.

Your fingers were barely touching his hand, a ghost of a caress that spoke the word you dared not give voice to. 

Stay. 

You watched as his forefinger moved, a twitch that was perhaps out of nervousness rather than intent. Daring to raise your head, you found him mimicking your actions, your eyes meeting, gazes saying everything and nothing. 

“Y/N!” The front door bounced off the inner wall as it was flung open, your father’s anger worn as a red face and wild eyes, his shotgun in his hands. “S’a fuckin’ Dixon doin’ on my porch?!”

“Nothing, Daddy!” You intercepted him at the screen door, sliding inside to place your hands on the gun, your cool touch covering his knuckles in hope that your gentleness could persuade him to stand down. Glancing over your shoulder, Daryl hadn’t moved, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Go.” You mouthed. 

There was the smallest, almost imperceptible shake of his head, the lightning painting his eyes a haunting glow of silver. 

“Go.” You tried again, your expression pleading. You knew what awaited you, but Daryl’s fate could be so much worse under the assault of your father’s rage. “Please.”

Daryl’s jaw worked back and forth, his hands now curled into tight fists that trembled next to his hips. Finally, thankfully, he moved off the porch, glancing back and pausing frequently as if it physically pained him to walk away. 

Maybe it did. 

And when the first hit struck, you knew he had seen. 

“It’s not that bad.” You winced in anticipation of a touch that never came. Daryl’s hand hovered next to your face. You could feel the heat of his skin, almost leaned into it but the lingering ghost of violence from your own flesh and blood had left you fearful. As if a single trace of Daryl’s fingertips against your bruised cheek would summon your father from thin air. 

“Sonuvabitch.” His fingers curled into a fist as he lowered his hand, a muscle twitching in his cheek while he looked away at nothing in particular. 

“I’m okay.” You lied. The sidelong scrutiny he gave you made it clear that he knew better. Dropping your head, you kicked at the rocks with the toe of your sneaker. It was the first time the two of you had interacted away from your porch. What should have felt like a milestone in whatever this was between you and Daryl only felt like a force of hand.

“Ya can’t—” He began, looking over his shoulder toward his own trailer, a man you didn’t recognize loading gear into the back of Daryl’s truck. “Let’s get outta here. You an’ me.”

You blinked at him, eyes wide, but he kept his head down when he turned back. He was waiting for your rejection. 

“You mean, like a ride?” You queried, ducking and angling your head to try and catch his eye. His hand came to his mouth, his teeth worrying the side of his thumb. The skin there was already red. 

“Nah.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

He couldn’t possibly be suggesting—

“Leave?” You asked, a note of caution in your tone. Daryl dropped his hand, even as he continued to pick at the irritated skin with the nail of his index finger. He nodded, shifting from foot to foot. 

It was your turn to look over your shoulder, envisioning your father in his chair. You could already feel the next punch, the next kick to your ribs. 

“Okay.” You said quietly. “Okay.” You repeated a little louder. When you turned back to him, he was already searching your eyes, squinting as if he didn’t believe you. “Where will we go?”

He arched a brow. He hadn’t put thought towards anything past the point of asking you to go. Perhaps the offer wasn’t even something he had truly considered until he saw the state of you. 

“I dunno.” He shrugged. “Anywhere.”

You smiled in spite of yourself. “But what about your brother?” The question was genuine though you felt asking it would bring upon some epiphany that would result in a rescinding of the offer. 

Daryl shrugged again. “Can fuck up just fine without me.” 

Not the answer you had expected, but you nodded anyway, considering where exactly you were supposed to take the conversation from there. You couldn’t just up and leave, could you? But exactly was keeping you there? Some twisted sense of responsibility for a man that hadn’t really made any attempt to raise you? You should have said that you would think about it. You should have smiled and thanked him before rejecting the offer. But when you looked at him—really looked at him—you could see the concern, the sincerity, the hope. “I guess daddy could get his own beer.” You shrugged. Had you just made up your mind? The implication both thrilled and terrified you.

Daryl stepped into your space, his movements slow and calculated. His hand came up again to hover next to your cheek. He was giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. The first brush of his rough fingertips had your eyes dancing between his, your head tilting to press into his warm palm when he finally rested it against your skin. “Goin’ huntin’ with my uncle. Ya be ready by ten tonight. Meetcha right here. Merle’ll be at the bar an’ your daddy’ll be passed out.” “I’ll be ready.” You nodded, the calluses on his hand scraped minutely over your cheek. 

For a moment, you thought he would kiss you. Maybe that’s exactly what he intended to do because when you stepped back, you saw the glimmer of disappointment in his expression. “Not yet.” You teased, watching his brow furrow in the face of your coy smile. “I wasn’t gonna—” Daryl’s cheeks flushed, his head ducking and tilting so he could glance at you, his thumb traveling toward his mouth for him to gnaw on the side. You’d need to get him out of that habit and apparently, you’d have time for that. “Liar.” You walked backwards toward your doublewide. You had some packing to do. The man you now surmised to be Daryl’s uncle was moving around the truck at Daryl’s place. 

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, but there was a ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it had appeared. “When would ya—” When would you let him kiss you? The thought alone sent a thrill up your spine. “I don’t know.” You grinned, holding your arms outstretched as you spun around, your spirit unburdened for the first time in as long as you could remember. “When we’re halfway to anywhere.” Daryl watched you, his expression unreadable, but there was a certain something in his eyes. A promise. A promise of adventure, of freedom, of things you couldn’t fathom to name at that moment. “M’gonna hold ya to that.” He nodded, taking a step back. “See ya tonight. Be ready.” “I’ll be ready.” You watched him go, smiled as he looked over his shoulder one last time before he climbed into the driver’s seat of his truck. The man in the passenger seat was grinning as they pulled away from the singlewide, likely teasing Daryl if the scowl that soured his expression was anything to go by. You watched the truck until it was out of sight. “I’ll be ready.”

Merle had left around 8:30 on his motorcycle. You had watched him from the porch swing, thankful he hadn’t seen you. You had wanted to enjoy that last cigarette at your childhood home, your feet languidly kicking as the chain creaked and groaned while you swayed. 

You had discovered around 9:03 that your upright suitcase did not make for a good seat with the handle digging into your left ass cheek. It had been your mother’s, a vintage leather briefcase style trunk with the lockable hasps. If Daryl didn’t tease you about it, then you’d be shocked. 

You had packed your meager belongings early in the day, just after Daryl had left, hiding your suitcase until your father had passed out. You took only your clothes, toiletries, your favorite yarn, and a 5mm hook. Everything else was trivial and could be replaced. 

When Daryl wasn’t home by ten, you didn’t panic. You really didn’t think much of it at all. If his uncle was anything like Merle, Daryl was likely still trying to coerce him into the truck while a can of lukewarm PBR was being waved in a careless fist. 

By eleven, you were bouncing your feet and chewing your nails. Maybe they had come across some game, bagged a nice buck. They would need time to field dress and load it up. Daryl was always in a better mood when he’d visit you after a successful hunt. 

Your eyes flicked over to movement down the lane. A middle aged couple hurried from their trailer, the slams of their car doors loud in the quiet park. A loose belt whined as they accelerated out of the neighborhood before even turning on their headlights. They hadn’t even closed their front door. 

“That was weird.” You muttered. 

The night wore on, but still you waited. It was 1:26 when you began to pace. Maybe his uncle had insisted they went to the bar. That would mean corralling both older Dixons into the truck and loading Merle’s bike. It made sense. 

And it kept you hopeful. 

Until 5:42, when the birds started to sing and the vast darkness above you began to lose the stars and shift from black to a deep blue. Soon it would be burnt orange but as long as you could still see the moon, you could keep believing that it was still the night you were supposed to run with him. 

What if something had happened to him? Over your time spent becoming friends, becoming whatever it was you were, you had grown so accustomed to his presence, to his silent support. The mere thought of that being torn away from you made your heart ache and your throat tight. 

But what if he had intentionally stayed away? 

No. He wouldn’t. And you’d accept no other answer. That was that. 

Something had kept him away. 

At 7:13, you placed your suitcase inside your closet. There was no need to tip toe. Your father kept the television so loud that you were sure half the park knew the weekly forecast without access to cable or radio. 

You blinked aggressively at the sting behind your eyes while you moved around the kitchen, forcing yourself into the routine you had thought you would be leaving behind. Dishes before cooking hot food for your father and a bowl of cereal for yourself. 

“Strange behavior and aggressive encounters reported in urban areas…”

You glanced at the tv as you scrubbed last night’s dinner dishes, your eyes narrowing. A female reporter was interviewing a woman with a thick white bandage on her upper arm. 

“…came outta nowhere and he—he bit me! He didn’t look right, y’know? Like he was sick…”

Suds dripped from your hands as you approached the area behind your father’s chair, his snores nothing more than background noise as you watched the report. Water dripped onto the leather of the Lazy Boy when your hand wrapped around the remote, your thumb pressing the button to scan the channels.

“…hospital is in chaos as the bodies of patients earlier pronounced dead roamed the halls..”

“…vicious attacks…multiple deaths reported…”

“…cannibalism…”

“…officials advise people to stay inside…”

You flinched when a scream from outside seemed to reverberate down your spine, the remote slipping from your fingers to bounce on the thin brown carpet. You opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch, watching the scene unfold. 

Your neighbors ran, children and bags in their arms, ducking into their cars. On the sidewalk was Mrs. Haley, her body jerking as two men bowed over her. You had never seen so much blood as the men began to disembowel the poor old woman. 

Your hand went to your mouth as you listened to the screams. Some people moved with haste while others were slow, their actions jerky and the worst sounds coming from somewhere in their throats. 

So. Much. Blood. 

“Y/N!” 

You jerked when your father grabbed your shoulders. “Daddy, I—”

“Get in the damn truck, girl!” He barked, giving you a shove off the porch. You nearly tumbled onto the walkway. 

When you were close enough to reach for the door handle, you found yourself still moving, crossing the pavement beneath that old street lamp. You could  imagine Daryl’s silhouette way back on that first night, just before that initial shared cigarette. 

Climbing the steps of Dixon porch, the bottom piece of wood wobbling beneath your feet, you smacked your palm against the door. “Daryl!” You called desperately. His truck wasn’t there. Neither was Merle’s bike. But your heart wouldn’t believe it. “Daryl, please!” 

“Y/N, what the fuck’re you doin’?” Your father cried out. You could hear his boots on the pavement. 

Your fingers folded into a fist against the door, a single tear sliding down your cheek as a rough hand wrapped around your upper arm, your father’s angry voice in your ear as he pulled you away. 

Your eyes roamed the trailer, committing everything you could to memory. Everything that would remind you of the man who almost set you free, the man who had wanted to run away with you to anywhere. The sideways shutter on the living room window. The motorcycle headlamp on the porch’s faded plastic chair. The crocheted red hat lying on the dresser you could see through the broken blinds. 

With a smile that was just as broken as your heart, you took in a shaky breath, your hand pressing against the glass when your father slammed the truck door. “Goodnight, Daryl.”

[shadowcitrine]

The details are so good you can taste the humidity in the air and the quiet says so much more than I ever could. <3

[junkpuppet225]

note: part 4. language, smidge of smut, minors do whatever you want but know you’re responsible for it. I hope I got Daryl’s pov right. Third person writing is hard.

He broke his right arm when he was twelve. Fell out of an oak tree in the woods just behind his house and it’s given him trouble ever since.

He learned how to do several things with his left though, steer a motorcycle, feed himself but never quite mastered the art of jerking off. Never could get the grip right so when his cock jerks at the memory of you running your soft hands up his stomach then along his chest to gather the material of his shirt in your hands a quiet groan escapes him and he lifts his face to the hot water flowing from the shower head. Think about anything else. Rotting corpses. Carol’s meatless meatloaf. The way your eyes look when you’re hiding in the dark - watching him from the rim of your coffee cup, the faint rays of early sunlight hitting them just right and making them shine like jewels. The way your hands felt on his back a few nights ago when you showed up with medicine to help him. The last person that deserves it. He’s the one that’s supposed to help people, not the other way around.

It’s why he’s always stayed a safe distance from you. Shane’s group needed him, to track and hunt and gather but watching you sitting by that quarry at the start of all this he knew he’d let every one of them burn for you.

The thoughts unsettling but it helps with his boner. He sure as fuck can’t go back out there and have you lather him up with muscle rub with it raging between his legs so he focuses on the fact that your group is doomed the closer you get to him and that meatless meatloaf shit he was forced to eat last week.

It instantly returns when you look up at him from his bed - on your knees and waiting. “F-fuck.”

“You okay?”

You’re so goddamn sweet. Beautiful and kind, a badass with a knife and a decent mechanic. Yep, Rick maybe your brother but he’d burn this whole fucking world for you starting with their leader.

“Y-yeah.” Daryl crosses the room and sits at the edge of the bed, eyes closing as your knees sink into his sides and you begin to warm some of the muscle relief cream between your hands.

Straight to business, you have to be sick of coddling him by now but when your palms meet his back they move slowly and skillfully across his skin - minding the shoulder and bruises along his ribs but working hard into the tight muscles in his back. It feels like fucking heaven and the groan that leaves his chest slows your fingers further. “I’m not hurting you right?”

Your voice is so soft, breath fanning over the menthol medication as his head hangs forward and a deep pleading no rushes from his lips. “O-okay.” You work your thumbs along his spine just close enough to the tightness in his shoulder without making it worse. “…f-fuck… f-feels so fucking good…” You swallow hard and continue, trying to ignore the disparity in his ragged words and the way they light up your insides filling you with desire. You want to hear them again but whispered against your ear while he’s buried inside of you. “S-shit.” His back rises with a deep intake of air as he asks what’s wrong causing your fingers to falter again, chest tight as you scramble for something to say. You’re throaty moans and sexy words are turning me on Daryl Dixon isn’t it so you place your hands back to his skin and whisper something that your brain can’t even process - feeling a rush of heat crawl up your neck as you take in your own deep breath.

“H-how did you get these?” You whisper with a shaky breath, running your finger along the longest scar across his back - watching a shiver run through him. Silence fills the room as you wait, running your hands along the muscles beneath the scar and receiving another quiet groan. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.” You assure him softly, bringing your fingers over the smaller scar and up to his left shoulder.

“Leather strap. Dad would get black out drunk and take his anger out on me. A lot.”

You’re not surprised by his answer but it still hurts you just the same, tightening the muscles in your chest as you work your fingers down to his lower back. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” Daryl grunts, lifting his good shoulder in a slight shrug as he assures you it was a long time ago. “You said it was just you and yer old man? How was he?”

“Mostly a happy drunk. He liked to gamble so we never had much. My mom died when I was little so it was always just us. He tried his best, he was a good dad.”

The thought of you having at least one decent parent relaxes his muscles further as Daryl takes in your words. “Mom died when I was a kid too…, but she wasn’t much better than my old man. At least ya knew where ya stood with him. Don’t remember my mom ever havin’ much t’say to me.”

You find yourself alternating between rubbing Daryl’s back then gliding your nails gently across his skin, watching his head fall forward with a happy sigh. “I guess we can’t pick our parents…, we can only strive to be better than they were.” You watch him nod slightly as your nails creep close to the base of his skull and he leans back into your touch. “Y-yeah.” He whispers bringing on your smile as you sink your fingers into his hair and massage his scalp.

“Ya do this shit before the world went to hell?” Each word is but a mumble of syllables as you work your fingers deep into the nape of his neck, loosening the tension along his shoulders as a quiet sigh rushes from his lips. “Nope.” You’re not sure if he’s listening but you explain you’ve never given anyone a massage before him - fingers hesitating at his shoulders as he whispers how good it feels - sending that tingling feeling back into your core.

Daryl Dixon is putty in your hands, you could ask anything of him in this moment and he would die trying to give it to you. The thought is thrilling. You also think he’s almost asleep by now heavy his head is getting. “Daryl?”

“Mmm?”

A whimper rushes from your throat as he whispers your name followed by please don’t stop in an almost inaudible moan that has your fingers tightening in his hair. You’re not sure how much more of that you can handle but luckily (or unluckily) that’s all you’re blessed with tonight because in the next minute Daryl’s gone slack and you have to grab his arms to keep him from falling forward. Shit.

It takes you several minutes to maneuver around him (he’s nearly twice your size) and guide him to his back as he turns - almost trapping you as he takes in a deep breath. You force him to move further up the bed so he’s not half on half off then place your hands on your hips to catch your breath. If you’ve ever wrestled a bear this is what it feels like you think as you take in the sight before you.

You’ve mostly seen Daryl ready to strike at any given moment, wound tight and skeptical but right now he looks so innocent - almost vulnerable and it fills your heart with an emotion that scares the shit out of you. So much that you cross the room and cut out the light, fumbling your way back in the dark to crawl into the side chair in the corner of his room. Once your eyes adjust to the darkness you study his handsome face - the fading bruise along his cheek from who only knows what, his full lips - idly wondering how they would feel pressed against yours. You listen to his even breathing, watching his chest rise and fall peacefully as he lulls you into your own dreamless sleep.

[shadowcitrine]

Kinda short but hella sweet. There's this pining that's gentle but also a bit feral. Delightful. ;)

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumpuary 2025 1 & 13

Prompt 1: Headache

Prompt 13: “I’m fine.”

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Typical TWD violence & gore

The concrete tilted and wavered as you walked, making it difficult to conceal your current plight: a massive headache that had been brewing behind your eyes for the better part of a day. These were usually handled in secret. There was no need to worry the others, especially Daryl. He tended to hover where you were concerned, more so if there was any sort of threat or injury.

You knew your suffering could pose a danger. That’s why you had opted to watch the doors while Daryl and Glenn had gone inside the convenience store in search of anything useful. From the state of the broken windows and the debris of wrappers and boxes left outside, it had been looted several times over. Regardless, your crew left no stone unturned. Ever.

Unlikely as it was to find anything substantial, there was always the chance something had been missed before. The practice had paid off more than once and that alone made these trips worth the risk.

“Ow.” You whimpered, pinching the bridge of your nose. You were sure to leave one eye cracked, though it was tunneling and littered with gray floaters. It wouldn’t do for a walker or another person to take you by surprise.

“Y’alright?” Daryl’s rough tone startled you into nearly dropping your gun, his quick reflexes allowing him to catch the barrel before it could clatter and accidentally discharge.

“I’m—” The sudden jerk of your head had your vision swimming and made focusing on Daryl’s silhouette nearly impossible. “I’m fine.”

He hummed with a skeptical undertone. “Right. Found a attic. Couple’a poor bastards checked out up there but had some food, medicine.”

Worth it after all. “That’s good.” You made the mistake of nodding, the pain it brought summoning bile into your esophagus. “Real—real good.”

“Y’sure you’re okay?” He still hadn’t relinquished the weapon to you.

“Yeah, Daryl, I’m fine.” You brought a hand toward your head, desperate to shield your eyes from the sun, but withdrew at the last second.

“Yeah, m’callin’ bullshit.” As if he knew Glenn would be there just at the right moment, he held the gun out to the side, the younger man almost walking into it while slipping his full backpack onto his shoulders.

“What the hell, Daryl?” Glenn asked with obvious annoyance.

“Take this,” was the archer’s only reply before one of his arms was cradling the small of your back while the other swept behind your knees. “S’get outta here.”

“I can walk, Dar—” You hissed under the onslaught of the bright sunlight and turned your face into Daryl’s chest, fingers twisting into his vest.

“Sure ya can.” The door of the old sedan creaked and groaned as it was opened, the seat soft beneath you. You thought you would have the entire backseat but that notion was quickly dismissed as one door closed and the other opened, your head gently lifted and pillowed on someone’s lap. There was no need to subject yourself to the light in order to know it was Daryl.

“Thank you.” You whispered.

“Mhm.” A large hand cradled the back of your head with a thumb rubbing gentle circles into your temple. “S’getcha home.”

[shadowcitrine]

Mild whump but the setting tension is something to be studied.