How the walking dead men would react to you ignoring them because your mad at them
Daryl wasn't used to being ignored. Back in his old life, people either feared him or needed something from him. Now, with you, he was met with a warm, loving embrace. So, when you turned your back on him, a frown etched its way onto his face.
The first time you ignored him, he thought you were just busy. Maybe you were engrossed in a book, fixing something around the house, or simply lost in thought. He gave you space, figuring you'd come around when you were ready.
But the silence stretched on. You moved around him like he was a ghost, your eyes never meeting his. He'd try to catch your attention, clearing his throat or asking a simple question, but you'd brush past him as if he hadn't spoken.
Daryl was a man of few words, but he observed everything. He knew your routines, your habits, the way your eyes sparkled when you were happy. Now, your eyes were clouded, your movements stiff, and a knot formed in his stomach.
He started to wonder if he'd done something wrong. Had he forgotten an anniversary? Said something insensitive? His mind raced, replaying recent conversations, searching for a clue to your sudden coldness.
The uncertainty gnawed at him. He wasn't good at expressing his feelings, but he hated the thought of hurting you. He needed to know what was wrong so he could fix it, even if it meant swallowing his pride and apologizing.
Daryl decided he couldn't take it anymore. The silence was suffocating, the distance between you agonizing. He had to break through the wall you'd built.
He found you in the garden, tending to the vegetables you'd planted together. He approached slowly, his boots crunching on the gravel path.
"Hey," he said, his voice rough but gentle. You didn't respond, your hands continuing to pull weeds with a vengeance. He sighed and tried again. "(Y/N), what's wrong?"
You remained silent, your back still turned to him. Daryl's frustration grew, but he tamped it down. He knelt beside you, his calloused hand reaching for yours.
"Talk to me," he pleaded, his voice laced with vulnerability. "I can't fix it if I don't know what I did."
You flinched at his touch, pulling your hand away and standing up. You walked past him, heading back towards the house without a word. Daryl watched you go, his heart sinking.
Daryl was a simple man, but he wasn't stupid. He realized you were deliberately ignoring him, and it stung more than he cared to admit. He wasn't used to being denied affection, especially from you.
He started to crave your attention, your touch, your smile. He missed the way you'd lean into him at night, the way you'd laugh at his grumpy jokes, the way you made him feel like he belonged.
He found himself lingering in doorways, hoping you'd acknowledge him. He'd offer to help with chores, hoping to spark a conversation. He'd even leave little gifts for you – a flower, a smooth stone, a freshly caught rabbit – hoping to soften your heart.
Daryl's tough exterior began to crack. He became almost pathetic in his attempts to get your attention. He'd follow you around the house like a lost puppy, his eyes pleading.
He'd sit next to you on the porch, nudging your arm with his. He'd hum your favorite songs, hoping to jog your memory of happier times. He'd even try to imitate your voice, teasing you in a way he knew you usually found endearing.
It was all to no avail. You remained unmoved, your silence a constant reminder of his failure.
One evening, you were sitting by the fire, lost in thought. Daryl watched you from across the room, his heart heavy. He couldn't take it anymore.
He stood up and walked over to you, his movements slow and deliberate. He knelt in front of you, taking your hands in his. This time, you didn't pull away.
"(Y/N)," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "Please. What do you want from me? I'll do anything."
Tears welled up in your eyes, and your voice broke as you finally spoke. "I'm mad at you, Daryl. Really mad."
Relief washed over him. At least he knew what was wrong now. "What did I do?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
You explained that you were upset because he'd taken unnecessary risks on a recent supply run. You were worried about him, scared that you'd lose him.
Daryl listened intently, his grip tightening on your hands. He hadn't realized how his actions had affected you. He'd been so focused on providing for you, he hadn't considered your feelings.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice sincere. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to make sure we had enough."
You sniffled, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. "I know," you said. "But you have to be more careful. I can't lose you, Daryl."
Daryl pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling your familiar scent.
"I promise," he whispered. "I'll be more careful. Just... don't ignore me like that again. It hurts."
You hugged him back, burying your face in his chest. "I won't," you said. "I'm sorry too. I just needed you to understand how I felt."
Daryl pulled back slightly, cupping your face in his hands. He looked into your eyes, his own filled with love and tenderness.
"I understand," he said. "Now, how about we forget about all this and just... be together?"
A small smile appeared on your face. "I'd like that very much," you said.
Daryl leaned in and kissed you, a slow, gentle kiss that spoke volumes. It was a kiss of apology, of reassurance, of love.
After the kiss daryl picked you Up bridal style carrying you to your shared bedroom, laying you down to cuddle and be close making sure you knew how much you meant to him and how much you both loved each other.
You're mad at Rick. Maybe it was a misunderstanding, a decision you disagreed with, or just built-up stress in the apocalypse that finally overflowed. Whatever the reason, you're giving him the silent treatment, and the great leader, the hardened survivor, is utterly lost without your attention.
Rick notices the shift immediately. It's like the sun dimmed a little. He walks into your shared space, a hopeful smile on his face, ready to greet you.
"Hey darlin'," he says, his voice a low rumble that usually makes your heart flutter. You offer a curt nod, your eyes focused anywhere but on him.
He frowns slightly, tilting his head. "Everything alright?"
Silence. You busy yourself with some mundane task – sharpening a knife, mending clothes, anything to avoid eye contact.
His confusion deepens. He hovers, unsure if he should press. Rick isn't used to being ignored, especially not by you. It throws him off balance.
Rick becomes hyper-aware of your every move. He watches you from across the camp, his brow furrowed with concern.
He notices the way you pointedly laugh at something Carl says, completely disregarding his attempt at a joke earlier.
He sees you offer a comforting hand to Daryl when he's clearly in a mood, while Rick’s own attempt to sit next to you at the watchtower resulted in you moving away.
He can practically feel the coldness radiating from you, and it makes him ache. He knows something is wrong, even if he doesn't know what.
Rick tries to initiate small talk. "Need any help with that?" he asks, gesturing towards the clothes you're mending.
You shake your head, your lips pressed into a thin line. Your needle moves with quick, precise movements.
He tries again later, "Heard anything on the radio today?" Another shake of the head.
His frustration grows, but he tries to keep his voice even. "Look, Y/N, what's going on? Talk to me."
You finally meet his gaze, your eyes flashing with hurt and maybe a little anger. But you quickly look away, offering nothing but silence. This hurts him more than any yelling could.
Desperate, Rick seeks out Michonne. "She's not talking to me," he confesses, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what I did."
Michonne raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Think hard, Rick. What have you been doing lately? Have you been listening? Really listening?"
He thinks back, replaying recent conversations, his decisions, his actions. He remembers brushing off your concerns about a scouting mission, dismissing your opinion during a planning session because he was stressed and thought he knew best.
The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. He hasn't been listening. He's been so focused on leading, on surviving, that he's neglected your feelings.
"Damn," he mutters, his face etched with guilt. "I messed up."
Rick doesn't do grand gestures in the traditional sense. He's not going to serenade you or buy you flowers (because, well, apocalypse). His grand gesture is vulnerability, honesty, and a genuine attempt to make things right.
He finds you alone, sitting by the campfire, staring into the flames. He sits beside you, close but not touching, giving you space.
"Y/N," he begins, his voice soft and sincere. "I'm sorry. I haven't been a good partner lately. I've been so caught up in everything that I haven't been listening to you, and that was wrong."
He continues, "Your opinion matters to me. Your feelings matter to me. You matter to me. More than you know."
He reaches for your hand, his calloused fingers gently wrapping around yours. "Tell me what I did wrong. Tell me what you need. I'll do whatever I can to fix it."
Your resolve starts to crumble. Hearing his apology, seeing the genuine regret in his eyes, melts the ice around your heart.
A tear slips down your cheek, and you finally turn to face him. "You didn't listen," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "I felt like I wasn't being heard."
The floodgates open. You pour out your feelings, your frustrations, your fears. You tell him how his dismissiveness made you feel small and insignificant.
Rick listens intently, his eyes never leaving yours, his grip on your hand tightening. He nods, acknowledging your pain, taking responsibility for his actions.
After you've said your piece, Rick pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace. "I understand," he murmurs, burying his face in your hair. "I'll do better. I promise."
He holds you for a long time, just breathing you in, feeling your warmth against him. The silence is comfortable now, filled with understanding and forgiveness.
He becomes incredibly needy for your affection. He follows you around like a lost puppy, constantly touching you – a hand on your back, a brush of your hair, a lingering kiss on your neck.
He needs to reassure himself that you're not still angry, that you still love him.
At night, he holds you even tighter than usual, his body pressed against yours. He whispers apologies into your ear, peppering your face with kisses.
"Don't ever shut me out like that again," he murmurs, his voice laced with vulnerability. "I can't stand it when you're mad at me."
Later, as you're drifting off to sleep, Rick gently nuzzles your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
"Y/N?" he whispers. "Tell me you're not still mad."
You sigh softly and turn to face him, cupping his cheek in your hand. "I'm not mad, Rick," you say, your voice full of love. "Just don't do it again."
He leans into your touch, his eyes searching yours. "I won't," he promises. "I need you, Y/N. I need your voice, your opinion, your love. Please don't ever take that away from me."
He presses a soft kiss to your lips, then another, and another. Each kiss is filled with gratitude, relief, and a desperate need for connection.
"I love you," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.
"I love you too, Rick," you reply, pulling him closer.
From that day forward, Rick makes a conscious effort to listen to you, to value your opinions, to be a better partner.
He realizes that his strength as a leader comes not just from his decisiveness, but also from his ability to listen to and understand the people he cares about.
He still messes up sometimes (he's only human, after all), but now he's quicker to recognize his mistakes and apologize.
And he never, ever, wants to experience the agony of your silent treatment again. He would do anything to avoid that. He will be attentive, and understanding.
Negan's Reaction to Your Silent Treatment
Negan struts in, Lucille slung over his shoulder, a cocky grin plastered on his face, ready to shower you with affection after a long supply run. "Honey, I'm home!" he booms, expecting your usual bright smile and a playful jab about him tracking mud everywhere.
Instead, he's met with silence. You're in the living room, pointedly engrossed in a book, not even a flicker of acknowledgment in your eyes.
His grin falters slightly. "Babe? Everything okay?" He tries, his voice laced with a hint of concern masked by his usual bravado. Still nothing.
He circles you slowly, like a predator assessing its prey, but really, he's just trying to figure out what he did wrong. The confusion is written all over his face, a stark contrast to the confident swagger he usually exudes.
Negan's never been one for subtlety. He tries the direct approach. Kneeling beside your chair, he peers up at you, trying to catch your eye. "Alright, spit it out. What'd I do? Seriously, I'm drawing a blank here."
You deliberately turn the page of your book, refusing to meet his gaze.
He sighs dramatically, running a hand through his hair. "Come on, (Y/N). Don't do this to me. You know I can't stand it when you're mad at me." His voice takes on a softer, almost pleading tone, a side of Negan few people ever get to see.
He starts listing possibilities, each one more ridiculous than the last. "Did I forget to feed Lucille? Did I accidentally wear your favorite shirt? Did I…oh god, did I use the last of your (favorite snack)?"
As the silence stretches on, Negan's attempts at humor fade, replaced by a growing sense of unease. He needs your attention, your reassurance, your affection. It's like a physical ache.
He starts resorting to physical affection, hoping to break through your wall of silence. He gently takes your hand, his calloused fingers intertwining with yours. "Please, talk to me," he whispers, his voice rough around the edges.
He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment, breathing in your scent. "I hate it when we're like this. You're my best girl, (Y/N). Don't shut me out."
He might even nuzzle into your neck, like a giant, needy puppy. "I'll do anything. Just tell me what I did, and I'll fix it. I promise."
Negan's pride is a formidable thing, but his love for you trumps it all. He's not above groveling, though he'd never admit it to anyone.
He starts offering bribes. "I'll do the dishes for a week. I'll even clean the latrines. Hell, I'll let you have the last word in every argument for the rest of our lives. Just…please, talk to me."
He pulls out all the stops, reminding you of your favorite memories together, of the times he made you laugh until your sides hurt, of the quiet moments of intimacy and understanding you shared.
He might even threaten to unleash Lucille on himself, though he knows you'd never let him. "I swear, (Y/N), if you don't say something, I'm gonna..." He trails off, realizing how ridiculous he sounds.
Finally, stripped of his usual swagger and bravado, Negan sits beside you, his shoulders slumped, his voice raw with vulnerability.
"I know I'm not perfect," he admits, his gaze fixed on his hands. "I know I screw up sometimes. But I love you, (Y/N). More than anything. And the thought of you being mad at me…it tears me up inside."
He looks up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of vulnerability and desperate hope. "Just tell me what I did, and I'll make it right. I promise. Just…don't leave me in the dark."
This is the moment where he truly breaks through. The raw honesty, the genuine vulnerability, it's impossible to ignore.
Whatever the reason for your silence, seeing Negan so genuinely affected melts your anger away. You finally break your silence, explaining your frustration, whatever it may be.
Negan listens intently, his eyes never leaving yours, nodding occasionally, offering apologies and reassurances.
Once the air is cleared, he practically smothers you with affection. Hugs, kisses, whispered apologies, and promises to never upset you again (though you both know that's a lie).
He's incredibly clingy for the rest of the day, following you around like a lost puppy, constantly touching you, needing to be near you.
Later that night, as you lie in bed, wrapped in his arms, he whispers, "Don't ever do that to me again, (Y/N). I can't handle it." He presses a kiss to your forehead, holding you tighter than ever, cherishing the feeling of you safe and sound in his arms.
From that day on, Negan is even more attuned to your moods, more sensitive to your feelings. He makes a conscious effort to be more attentive, more understanding.
He still slips up occasionally, of course, but he's quicker to apologize, quicker to make amends.
And anytime you even look slightly annoyed with him, he gets that same panicked look in his eyes, the same desperate plea in his voice. "What is it, (Y/N)? What did I do?"
You can't help but laugh, knowing that even beneath his tough exterior, Negan is just a big softie who's completely and utterly head over heels in love with you. And that, more than anything, is what makes your relationship so special.
