Could you do another lamb!reader x Merle, maybe fast forward when him and Daryl reunite during the prison (alter it slightly) and Daryl (and the others) are shocked at how soft he is with reader. ? Xx
────۶ৎ run first, think later
or... daryl meeting the little thing that saved his brother's sorry ass back in Atlanta those months ago.
warnings : canon typical violence && cuss/curse words, again this series is completely platonic but.. yeah, Merle is a horrible person and i'm keeping it that way.
♱ *ೃ.⋆
The air tastes like ash and gunpowder.
Screams echo in every direction — men and walkers alike. Fires bloom in the streets. Windows explode. Woodbury’s safe little illusion is disintegrating like wet paper.
Daryl stumbles through the smoke behind his brother, heartbeat thudding in his ears like it’s trying to escape his chest. Merle’s half-limping, half-dragging him through the back alley behind the pit — the one they were just forced to beat each other bloody in like goddamn circus animals.
And now?
Now the town is burning.
“Where the hell are we going?” Daryl hisses, coughing against the smoke.
Merle didn’t answer.
He just grabbed his little brother by the elbow and hauled. Through fire. Through smoke. Through screams and a hundred blind, panicking people.
Woodbury was burning.
“What the hell’s over here? The gate’s the other way!”
The house was small. Tucked between an old bakery and a barbershop. One of the quiet ones where Governor placed his “trusted” folks. Daryl followed his brother through the broken fence, adrenaline pulsing so loud he could barely hear.
Merle didn’t hesitate. Straight through the back. Into the dark.
“Merle—” Daryl hissed. “You left somethin’? We’re runnin’ for our lives and you left behind- what, your crossbow? What the hell-”
“Shut up and follow.”
Merle’s already pushing through a gate, sprinting across what looks like a side yard, shoving open the back door of a small, nondescript house nestled between the outer buildings.
The inside is… clean.
Too clean for Merle Dixon.
It’s quiet here — insulated from the chaos outside. A folded blanket on the couch. Dishes in the drying rack. The distant boom of gunfire sounds muted behind the walls.
Merle doesn’t stop. He storms down the hall, past a half-empty shelf, past a pair of small, worn shoes by the door, into a bedroom. Daryl follows, breath catching.
There’s only one bed.
And you’re in it.
You don’t wake at first. You’re curled under the thin blanket, half-sprawled on your stomach, long lashes brushing your cheek, one arm tucked under your face. Soft pajamas — printed with tiny blue stars — cling to your form.
You were always a light sleeper —learned that the hard way. You wake with a gasp, blinking up blearily at the shape above you.
“Merle?”
His hand finds your arm. “Get the bag, lamb. The one under the bed. Boots on. We gotta go. Now.”
The urgency in his voice is like a jolt of electricity. No softness now. No cooing or teasing. Just danger.
You sit up fast, heart racing, limbs already moving before your brain catches up.
You don’t see Daryl yet. All you know is the sound of gunfire outside is closer now. Shouting. Screams.
You grab the gym bag, just like he taught you. You tug on your boots, no time for socks or your coat or your sanity. You’re still in your thin cotton pajamas — the old blue ones with little faded flowers — and the cold bites down your spine.
But Merle doesn’t tell you to change.
Merle’s pulling you by the wrist and saying “good girl” like that’s all the armor you need.
And that’s when Daryl finally finds his voice again.
“Who the hell is she?!”
You blink, startled.
Your eyes meet his for the first time —face sharp like Merle’s but not like Merle’s. There’s something steadier behind his expression, even if it’s currently being swallowed by rage.
“How old is she?” he barks. “You got a goddamn kid in your bed? Are you—?”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it right now,” Merle snaps, checking his gun and peeking out the curtain in one seamless motion. “Just help me get her outta here.”
Daryl can't stop staring, his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. A horrified fish out of water.
“There’s only one bed in this house.”
“Yeah,” Merle shot back. “There’s also one door, one closet, one toilet, and one person I give a shit about enough to come back for while the whole town’s burnin’.”
Outside, the world is red.
Fires burn in corners of the street. Gunshots echo like thunderclaps.
You don’t look back.
The two men guide you like you’re glass —one ahead, one behind. Merle keeps barking orders at Daryl. Daryl keeps snapping back with questions.
“Who is she?”
“None of your damn business.”
“Merle—”
“She’s mine, alright?”
Daryl follows at Merle’s back, fuming, barely keeping it together.
“She got no goddamn clue what you are,” he shouts. “She looks at you like you’re some goddamn hero! And you got her in fuckin’ pajamas, Merle!”
“She was sleepin’, you dumbass,” Merle grunts, never stopping. “Would you rather I left her for the goddamn walkers?”
“You shoulda left her outta your bed in the first place!”
Merle snorts, tugging you behind a dumpster as soldiers run past in the distance. You stay quiet, clutching his sleeve.
“Oh come on, Daryl,” Merle says over his shoulder, clearly thriving in the outrage. “Ain’t you ever slept next to a girl who trusts you to not be a bastard?”
“She’s sixteen!”
“She ain’t naked, is she?”
“MERLE!”
“I ain’t touchin’ her, goddamn!” Merle finally shouts, whirling around as the three of you crouch behind a half-burned SUV. His face is blood and fury. “She saved my ass once, and I kept her alive since. That’s it. I ain’t a fuckin’ creep —even I got standards, baby brother. She’s just… mine.”
Daryl stares at him, chest heaving.
You speak up.
“I’m fine,” you spit fiercely, already fed up with this same situation repeating itself all over again. “He never—he never made me do anything. He just protects me, for god's sake.”
Daryl looks at you.
Merle smirks at Daryl again, leaning closer, voice dripping with mockery. “See? I’m a fuckin’ saint.”
Daryl punches him.
Right in the face.
They’re still arguing when you reach the ridge outside of Woodbury —the road long and cracked and dark ahead.
The car is already running when you get there, dented, engine growling low. You don’t recognize the faces in the front.
There’s a man in the driver’s seat with a sheriff's uniform and a storm behind his eyes. Out of the car , a dark-skinned woman with blade-callused hands and fury in her jaw. In the driver's seat, another man, Asian, lip split and eyes narrowed with a pretty, short-haired, brunette girl squeezed next to him.
They all turn to look at you.
And the silence is violent.
You freeze. You must look insane : a sixteen-year-old girl in pajamas and half-laced boots, clutching a dirty gym bag like it holds your soul, eyes wide, face pale, holding Merle Dixon’s hand like it’s an anchor.
The sheriff's jaw tightens.
The sword woman takes a step out of the car—fast, predatory—but the driver throws an arm out to stop her. “Michonne.”
Merle pushes you gently behind him, one hand still on your arm.
“Y’all can put the pitchforks down. She ain’t what you think,” he says, cool as hell, even as Michonne looks like she wants to carve his guts out. “She’s not a hostage. She’s mine.”
“Goddammit,” the sheriff man sighs. “Just get in!”
Now you’re being shoved into a car.
Not by Merle this time —by him. The younger one. Daryl. His brother. His “baby brother.”
You can barely process anything. There’s shouting, boots pounding, doors slamming.
“What the fuck is he doing here?!”
You flinch.
“And who the fuck is that?” the young asian man snarls, pointing at you.
You shrink back against Merle’s side instinctively. His arm slides across your shoulders before anyone can even blink.
“That’s my lamb,” Merle says flatly. “Back the hell off, Chinaman.”
“You don’t get to call me that—!”
“Then stop actin’ like one!”
“Both of you, shut up!” The driver’s voice snaps through the car like a whip. “Glenn, sit back. Merle, you speak again without being asked, I’ll throw you out the goddamn door.”
Merle just chuckles darkly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “Nice to see you again too, Rick.”
You glance around the car.
You don’t know any of these people.
Except Daryl. And Merle. Your Merle.
“Jesus fuck,” Glenn mutters, pressing a hand to his face. “He’s got a kid. A literal kid. What is this shit?”
“I’m not a kid,” you immediately retort, nose wrinkling into a scowl. Oh, how tired you are of people calling you a kid as if you haven't seen as much death as them.
“Hey.” Daryl twists in the front seat, voice like gravel. “Ease up, Glenn. She’s scared outta her mind. Ain’t her fault Merle’s a crazy bastard.”
“Crazy bastard?” Michonne repeats, low and venomous. “He’s a criminal. Worked for that psycho. And now he’s got a girl chained to his hip like some prize?”
“I’m not chained!” You squeak out, embarassment and anger curling behind your eyes all the same. Why does everyone keep on thinking you're some kind of tragic victim?
“Bullshit,” Maggie mutters, arms crossed tight.
“She saved my life,” Merle says, loud and sure, like he’s trying to sear the words into the car’s metal frame. “Back in Atlanta. Long time ago. Pulled my sorry ass off the roof you all left me to rot at.”
Rick glances at you in the rearview.
“You were in Atlanta?” he asks quietly.
You nod.
“With Merle?”
“I—um, well, I found him. He was… handcuffed to a pipe. Alone.”
“She’s been with me since,” Merle cuts in. “Two weeks ‘fore we even got picked up by Woodbury. I ain’t done nothin’ but keep her safe. You all can lose your shit later.”
Nobody says anything.
For a moment, the car is only the sound of tires chewing up asphalt.
Daryl breaks the silence first.
“You got a name?” he asks you, turning in his seat slightly.
You nod again.
Merle answers for you. “Lamb.”
“That ain’t her real name.”
“Don’t matter, fuckin' chinaman. It fits.” One of those, I'm going to make it even worse, smirks of his crosses his lips slow before: “She’s soft. Gentle. Like a lil’ lamb.”
Glenn groans. “I’m gonna puke.”
“I ain’t touched her,” Merle says. “You think I’m that far gone, you best get your head checked.”
Michonne bristles. “You think we believe a single word out of your mouth?”
Merle shrugs. “Don’t care if you do. Daryl knows. That’s all I give a shit about.”
You tug on Merle’s sleeve, voice barely a breath: “Who are they?”
Daryl hears. He glances to you from your right side, eyes a little softer this time.
“They’re with me,” he says. “The man drivin’— that’s Rick. He’s our leader. He’s a good man.”
You nod slowly.
“The guy in the passenger's seat —that’s Glenn. He’s alright, just real protective. The girl’s Maggie. She’s his.”
You glance at Maggie, who’s glaring out the window with a sour frown.
“He and..um, Merle, have some problems to work through.”
“No shit” Merle snorts, rolling his eyes.
Glenn is quick to chime in with a defensive: “We are not going to work through anything!”
“And Michone” you complete, eyeing the woman with the sword. Daryl nods, sparing Merle a quick glance that clearly conveyed 'you two know her?' to which Merle just shrugged.
You look back at him. “Do you trust them?”
Daryl hesitates for half a second.
Then: “Yeah. I do.”
You believe him.
From the front, Rick finally speaks again.
“We’ll talk more when we get to the prison.”
It still doesn’t make the tension in your chest ease. You’re still in your pajamas. Still in the backseat of a car full of strangers who clearly want your protector dead. Still not sure where you’re going or what’s waiting when you get there.
But one thing you know for sure, everybody seems to have a huge ass problem with the man who's kept you safe for the last three months and a half.
okay so we obviously know about the slytherin boys with bunny! reader, BUT i was thinking about them with other animagus types 😩😩😩
like squirrel! reader- who’s like really anxious and always seems on edge and more than not burrows herself into the boys clothes.
or deer! reader- who is absolutely clumsy, like a talking disaster but she’s so sweet and gentle. and the boys help her during yule ball practice not to fall.
or raccoon! reader- who is a total night owl and she’s up in the middle of the night trying to collect things and the boys are like “go to bed”.
maybe sheep! reader- who’s like so sweet and kind and she just keeps giving pieces to herself out in order to make people happy.
cat! reader too- who is always sleepy and likes her hair being played with, but with one wrong move she’ll completely ignore you and the boys constantly want her attention.
or goose! reader- who is absolutely feral and bites enzo’s ass whenever he pissed her off.
Hey! Love your writing, especially “Lost little lamb” (Merle doesn’t get the love he deserves imo” but I was wondering if we could get a part two or maybe just some more Merle?
────۶ৎ pretty accesory
or... merle having fun not helping the allegations.
warnings : canon typical violence && cuss/curse words, i want to clarify that in this fic Merle is painted by how Andrea sees him: aka, a possible predator or pdf archive. HOWEVER he is not, this is completely platonic but.. yeah, Merle is a horrible person and i'm keeping it that way.
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: merle i love you.
♱ *ೃ.⋆
The room smells like sweat, metal, and power.
Three men —two armed with rifles, one with a clipboard— sit across from Andrea and Michonne. The interrogation is a formality. Woodbury is always watching, always measuring. But when Merle Dixon strides into the room, it stops feeling formal.
He walks in like he owns the damn floor and Andrea freezes.
“Merle,” she breathes.
Merle stops mid-step, head tilting.
“Well hell,” he says, grinning with yellowed teeth. “Ain’t this a blast from the past.”
He gestures loosely to the clipboard guy. “Give us a minute, yeah?”
The guards back off, watching but silent.
Andrea stands slowly, her voice uncertain. “You’re alive.”
“Been that way since the roof,” Merle says, lips twitching. “Lost a group. Gained a town. Fair trade.”
Michonne doesn’t speak, eyes locked on Merle with blade-edged disgust.
Andrea swallows. “And you're with... the Governor now?”
“Right-hand man,” he replies, signaling to the ugly and raw scar healing badly around the hand the cuff had been tied to. “No pun intended.”
He paces, eyes flicking between them. “So. You girls dangerous?”
Andrea starts to respond, but that’s when it happens:
The door creaks open.
You don’t knock. You just push the door open. Nobody stops you anymore. Not in Woodbury. Not when you’re Merle Dixon’s shadow.
You're clean. Well-fed. Hair brushed neatly down your shoulders. You wear a soft-looking cardigan and a slightly torn-at-the-edges white skirt. You’re holding a small rag in your hand, maybe from the laundry room or kitchen.
You eyes fall on the two women. One is blonde and wide-eyed, like she’s seen a ghost. The other one —taller, darker, harder— stares at you with an expression you’ve seen before. You don’t know the word for it, but it feels like being weighed.
You pause.
But only for a second.
Because then you see Merle.
He’s standing near the table, one boot kicked up on a chair, relaxed and in charge. You love how he always looks like he owns the room. Like he doesn’t care who’s watching. He turns at the sound of the door and when he sees you —his expression softens instantly.
“Merle!” you chirp, all brightness and sugar.
The white woman's head whips around.
You don’t see the way she stiffens.
You don’t see the way the other woman's jaw clenches.
Merle smiles, low and crooked, then clicks his tongue like he’s calling a pet. You move instantly. Sprint to him and collide into his side, cheek pressed to his ribs.
He wraps his arm around your shoulder and squeezes you in tight.
“There she is,” he murmurs, lips brushing the crown of your head. “Thought you were busy with chores, girl.”
You beam, tilting your face up to him. “I was. But I finished and The Governor said you were here and that I could come find you now.”
He chuckles, low in his chest. “That so? Well, you found me, lil girl.”
The blond makes a sound. A sharp, horrified exhale.
Merle hears it. Of course he does.
He doesn’t look at her yet. Just tightens his grip around you, claiming. You lean into it without hesitation.
You hear the shift before you see it — the quiet snap of someone’s composure breaking.
It’s the blonde woman. Her voice cuts through the moment like a blade:
“Merle. What the hell is this?”
Your head lifts slightly, but Merle doesn’t let go.
“Well I’ll be damned. Andrea.” He huffs. “Don't be so happy.”
Andrea. You don’t know that name. You blink at her, curious.
She doesn’t look at you like the others do. She looks at Merle. Then at you.
And something cracks in her face.
“She’s a kid,” Andrea snaps. “Are you serious right now?”
Your brows furrow.
Merle chuckles —low and smug. “Easy now. Don’t get your panties twisted.”
“Jesus Christ, Merle,” Andrea says, jaw clenched. “What are you even doing with her? What is this? You're sixty and she's- she can't be older than 15!”
“Fifty-two,” he corrects lazily. “And she’s sixteen. She ain’t no baby, ‘specially not out here.”
Michone takes a determined step forward and the other men in the room shift, eyes narrowing. One of them reaches for his gun, half a second from raising it.
“Careful now,” Merle drawls, calm as ever but with teeth underneath. “Ain’t no call for agression, Michone. We’re all friends here.”
“She’s a child.”
Merle doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs. “She’s alive. She’s safe. That’s more than I can say for most.”
Andrea is shaking. Visibly. She looks at you, not with disgust —but with ache. With horror. “Sweetheart…” she says gently. “Do you want to be here?”
The laugh that Merle barked out made Andrea's eyes sharpen and narrow, giving him a scowl that wasn't nearly as threathening as she wanted to.
“Sorry, Sorry, my bad” he says, still laughing. “Go on, lamb, tell her what you always tell 'em.”
“Merle’s a good man.” You affirmed, looking at Andrea like she was crazy for looking so panicked and agressive. “I helped him and he's kept me safe me so far.. I like being with him.”
Merle beams. Andrea’s face drains of color.
“He’s not a good man,” Andrea spits, then looks at you. “She's a hostage.”
That word hits something strange in your chest. Your eyebrows pull down and you let go of Merle's side to step towards the blond woman, Michone's hands twitching at her sides.
“No, I am not.” You say, firmly. “Merle’s good to me.”
Michonne’s eyes never leave you. Not once. Cold. Calculating. But not angry —not at you. Something in her jaw twitches.
“I like it here,” you add. “I like spending time with him. He’s never hurt me.”
One of the guards laughs. “Girl’s got taste.”
Another elbows Merle. “What you feeding her, Dixon? Obedience training?”
Merle grins. “Just givin’ her what she needs. Protection. Routine. Love, even.”
He clearly isn't doing you a favour acting like that, you let him know by looking over your shoulder with a deadpan expression. He chuckles and raises his hands in playful surrender.
Andrea explodes. “You’re disgusting. You always were. This—this is a whole new low.”
The guards level their rifles.
“Enough,” one snaps.
Merle holds up a hand, calming. “It’s alright, boys. She’s upset. She don’t get it.”
His tone turns mocking. “Back in the old world, sure. This’d be… frowned on. But now? Hell. She ain’t no worse off than anyone else. Better, really. She eats. Sleeps. Don’t gotta fight off rapists in the woods.”
He turns to Andrea with a cold smile.
“You wanna talk morals? In this world? You’re lucky she’s got me and not someone worse.”
Andrea’s voice drops low. “There is no one worse than you.”
You stiffen slightly at her tone. Merle feels it.
He steps forward, for the first time behind you instead of infront, and his hand reaches out to squeezes your shoulder. Praising. Reassuring.
“C’mon now, girlie,” he says. “Let’s leave the ladies to their judgin’. We got night guard to take, yeah?”
Your eyebrows pull down even more, noise scrunching up under Andrea's and Michone's gaze, before letting out a huff and noding. Merle hums in approval, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you walk over to the door.
You don’t see the smirk he throws the women over your head —filthy with triumph.
You don’t see the way Michone has to physically grab Andrea’s arm to keep her from lunging.
You just walk with Merle, wrapped in his arm like a favorite coat.
And as the door shuts behind you, Andrea whispers:
or... a little lamb walking herself into the mouth of the big bad wolf..
warnings : canon typical violence && cuss/curse words, dark platonic, Merle is a warning himself..
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: so.. yeah, i love merle dixon. yes i know he's an asshole. no i do not care.
♱ *ೃ.⋆
The sun carved holes into his skull.
That’s how it felt, anyway. Every second up there was a second longer under a blinding, burning god that had no love for sinners. Merle Dixon’s wrist was raw, the handcuffs biting into flesh slick with sweat and old blood. His shirt stuck to him like a second skin made of filth. His mouth was sandpaper and his tongue a dead lizard stuck in his throat.
His wrist was rubbed raw where the handcuff bit skin—meat now, really—and the damn roof cooked like a skillet. Below him, behind that rust-bitten door, the walkers were snarling like dogs with broken teeth, slamming against the weak hinges, the metal shrieking in protest.
“I see ya,” he muttered to no one, half-choking on his own spit, eyes darting to the door. “I see ya, ya ugly sacks of rot.”
His voice cracked. He wasn’t even sure if he was talking to himself, the walkers, or to the ghost of Rick Grimes, walking around all high and mighty with his badge and baby-blue eyes, pretending to be justice in a world already six feet deep in hell.
Merle’s mind had started drifting hours ago. The sun was eating through his skull, his lips splitting. Every few minutes he blinked and thought he saw Daryl—little brother coming for him—but it was just the heat warping air. Mirage boy. Not real.
He laughed. A short, ragged bark. “fuckin’ Rick and his fuckin’ moral compass and his fuckin’ stupid sheriff hat.”
Then he heard it.
Creak.
The door. Slow, like it had forgotten how to move.
Merle’s body tensed. That door was his funeral march. His blood turned to ice. “Aw hell,” he hissed under his breath, struggling upright, the cuff digging deeper.
This was it. Final act. Curtain call. Time to meet the teeth.
But when he looked—
It wasn’t death.
It was a girl.
It was you.
A ghost, maybe. Pale as moonlight, with tangled hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush since the world ended. You stood framed in the sun, a silhouette of skinniness and shock, clutching a butchered axe like it was both teddy bear and weapon.
Eyes like two moons locked on him. Bruised. Too big for your face.
You didn’t speak.
Merle blinked hard, squinting. Real. You were real.
A stray. Lost little lamb standing in the wolf's den. So he smiled. It was slow, syrupy. The kind of smile that once got him drinks and beds and trouble alike. But this wasn’t charm. This was survival.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he drawled, soft and sweet, voice like a man talking to a spooked horse. “Ain’t you just the prettiest little thing I ever seen.”
You flinched at the sound, right shoulder and hip tilting towards the door like ready to bolt.
Merle adjusted, quick. Trying to cover up the panic that surfaced for a split second “Hey, hey—easy now, lil’ lamb. Don’t got to be scared. I ain’t gonna hurt you. You can see that, right?” He lifted his wrist with a wince, rattling the cuff. “I’m the one in chains.”
“You’re real, yeah? Not another sun-dried dream of mine?” he asked you, eyes narrowing. “‘Cause I been seein’ all kinds of things. Hell, thought you was a damn angel for a second.”
You stepped in, uncertain. The axe dropped slightly in your hand, still held but no longer raised. Merle’s smile grew more tender at that. Calculated, practiced.
“There you go,” he cooed. “Knew you were a smart one. You got that look. Soft, but not stupid. You been through it, huh?”
You nodded. Just once. Jerky.
“Bet you lost your folks,” he said, voice dipping lower. “Bet it happened fast. Or slow. Either way, you ended up out here all by yourself. Walkin’ through hell with nothin’ but that axe and those big sad eyes.”
You didn’t deny it.
"Yeah," Merle whispered. “You’re a lost little lamb alright.”
Your hands trembled. You kept staring at the cuff. The axe. Him. Back and forth.
Merle’s tone turned lighter. “You get me outta here, sweetheart? I swear on every bullet I ever shot that I’ll keep you safe. Ain’t no lambs last long out here alone. But me? I’m a hunter. A killer of bad things. I’ll get you outta this place. We’ll find food. Water. Shelter. You won’t have to run no more.”
He paused.
“You want that, don’t you?”
Your eyes filled with tears, silent ones. You weren't a talker, that was alright, he preferred his companions silent either way.
Merle nodded slowly, guiding you with his voice. “That’s right. Come on now, little lamb. Be brave.”
You stepped forward.
Closer.
Closer.
You knelt beside him.
The axe bit into metal.
When the cuff finally broke, Merle exhaled like he’d been born again. His wrist was shredded, but he laughed—wild, choked, relieved. He cradled the broken chain and looked at you like you were something holy.
“You got a name, sugar?”
You stared, eyes glazed. “…don’ wanna.” Your voice cracked like brittle glass, obviously not that willing to share it.
“Ain’t gotta give me it yet,” he said, way too quick. Nodding easy, soft. “You can keep it. Hold it close. World’s mean, names get stolen.” He smiled again, more crooked now. “I’ll just call ya lil’ lamb. Suits ya.”
And that’s when he leaned in, real slow. He took gently took the axe from your hands with his bloodied and dirty ones.
You blinked.
Then he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, guiding you toward the door, stepping over a broken chain and leaving the rooftop behind.
“C’mon now, lil’ lamb,” he whispered, grinning as your hands tentatively reached and grasped at the side of his shirt. “Stick with ol’ Merle. I’ll teach you how to survive.”
And the wolf walked with the lamb, not because he’d found grace—
but because even monsters get lonely in the dark.
♱ lamb! reader who was part of a large traveling survivor group, one of the ones with “family units,” assigned chores, and makeshift schools.
♱ lamb! reader whose parents were killed during a walker ambush, possibly while trying to protect her. she saw it. all of it.
♱ lamb! reader who was “passed around” within the group afterward. different adults tried to care for her, but no one stuck.
♱ lamb! reader who eventually, during a supply run gone wrong in Atlanta, got separated and wandered alone for over a week. surviving off dried cans and rainwater caught in broken flowerpots.
♱ lamb! reader who saw a lot of bad things in those lonely days: dead kids in cars, a walker dressed as a bride, other survivors that looked at her like prey.
♱ lamb! reader who learnt real fast to hide first, trust never.
♱ lamb! reader who wears baby tees, mostly in washed-out pinks, whites, and soft pastels. most are a little too tight or too small, stretched and stained by time, but she won’t part with them.
♱ lamb! reader who is completely silent around strangers. not just quiet—mute. big blue eyes peering out from behind Merle or ducking into his side like a shadow.
♱ lamb! reader who clings to Merle’s jacket or arm when they walk and sleeps curled up beside him at camp, like a scared pup.
♱ lamb! reader who is bound to break if her only safety is torn away from her.
✧. ┊ lamb! reader.
lost little lamb - s1! merle dixon x lamb! reader / dark platonic.
pretty accessory - when andrea reunited with merle.. only to find you with him / dark platonic.
run first, think later - or daryl finally reuniting with his brother and.. his controversionally young companion / dark platonic.
hi guys so if i were to write another animal inspired!reader but this time for Shane Walsh (bambi!reader with Daryl, lamb!reader with Merle, hyena!reader with Rick).... what animal should she be?
pls remember that the 'animal' the reader is going to be inspired with means the reader will share it's main characteristics! aka: lamb reader being innocent and naive and Merle being like the big bad wolf, bambi reader being shot by Daryl because he confused her with a deer because of how soft and careful her footsteps were, and hyena reader having a really bad and negative reputation due to her BPD but actually being social and sweet just in an unhinged way, etc..
