Walking Dead Imagines #1
Walking Dead Guys Reacting to You Stealing Their Clothes
Rick Grimes
You didn’t think he’d notice. It was just a flannel. Warm, slightly too big on you, and smelled exactly like him. And with how many shirts Rick owned, what was one missing? But he had noticed. He found you sitting on the front porch one evening, sipping from your cup like nothing was wrong. His flannel was draped over your shoulders like it had belonged there this whole time.
The porch creaked as you leaned back in the chair, pretending to focus on the fading light instead of the warmth blooming in your chest. You didn’t miss the way his steps slowed when he reached the end of the walkway, like he was fighting with himself about turning back. Sure enough, a moment later, Rick came around again and settled on the porch rail beside you. He folded his arms, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“You know,” he said, eyes flickering to the flannel draped around you. “I wore that thing near every day back at the farm. Didn’t think I’d see it again.”
You smirked into your cup. “Guess it wanted a better home.”
His laugh was quiet but genuine this time, breaking through the tired edge he always carried. “That right? It just… wandered off and found its way onto you?”
You shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”
Rick shook his head, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he let the silence stretch, his gaze fixed on the treeline like he was keeping watch–but his body stayed loose, angled towards you. After a while, he said, almost too soft, “Glad it;s you wearin’ it. Makes me feel like you’re safe. Like I’m right here even when I ain’t.”
Your chest tightened, and suddenly the flannel felt heavier, like it carried more than just warmth. You swallowed, fingers brushing the fabric. “Guess I’ll have to keep it then.”
This time, Rick didn’t hide his smile. “Guess you will.”
Glenn Rhee
It started with a screwdriver. Then one of his hats. Then a hoodie. Glenn pretended not to notice at first, but after the fifth item vanished into your mysterious hoard, which he found buried against the wall on your side of the bed. He decided he’d had enough. So, naturally, he staged a full-blown intervention. In front of everyone.
He burst into the common room like a man on a mission, making everyone else look up for half a second before going back to their business. You, however, barely flinched, curled up on the couch with your legs tucked under you, flipping through a dog-eared magazine you’d found on a run. Glenn marched over, dropped himself onto the cushion beside you, and crossed his arms. “We need to talk.”
You blinked, giving him the slowest, most innocent look you could muster. “About?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he jabbed a finger toward the hoodie you were currently drowning in–his hoodie, grey and soft, the sleeves hanging long past your hands. “That’s mine.”
Your lips twitched up for a split second. “Is it?”
“And so is the hat you wore yesterday,” he continued, his voice climbing theatrically, “and the screwdriver you swore you ‘just found.’ Oh, and don’t think I didn’t see you using my toothbrush the other day.”
You froze mid-page turn, eyes darting up to him. “...Okay, that one was an accident.”
Glenn narrowed his eyes like he was weighing the severity of your crimes. He tried, truly tried, to hold the glare, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. A grin slipped through.
“You know,” he said, shaking his head, “in most cases, I’d be annoyed. But considering I kinda like seeing you in my stuff…” His gaze flicked over you once, lingering just long enough to make your cheeks warm. “...I’ll allow it.”
You let out a laugh, leaning back into the couch cushions with exaggerated relief. “Oh, thank you, Your Highness. I’ll try not to steal anything too important, then.”
Glenn leaned back smugly, clearly enjoying himself. “Glad you understand. But if you steal my snacks again,” he added, pointing a stern finger your way, “I’m calling war.”
Your mouth dropped open. “War? Really?”
He nodded gravely. “Full-scale. No survivors.”
You burst out laughing, pulling the hoodie tighter around you like a shield. Glenn watched you with that same stupid grin– the one that softened all his edges and made it very clear that, for all his dramatics, he didn’t actually want any of his stuff back. Not really.
Daryl Dixon
You’d borrowed one of his vests. Once. Weeks ago. Just to run out on watch when the evening chill had crept in sharper than expected. You’d meant to give it back, honestly you had, but somehow it never found its way out of your things.
Daryl never mentioned it. Not once. He wasn’t the type to fuss over clothing anyway. But every time you wore it, you caught him looking. Not in a give it back way. More like a don’t know what to do with these feelings. The kind of look he never quite held long enough for you to call him out on.
That day, you’d been helping Maggie mend some fencing, Daryl lingering nearby with his crossbow slung loose. You’d tugged the vest closer around you when the wind picked up, and sure enough, when you glanced over, there he was–eyes flicking to you, then back down, jaw tight like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. You set the wire cutters down and tilted your head. “You want it back?”
His eyes lifted to yours, unreadable for a beat too long. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “Nah.”
You frowned faintly, waiting for him to add something else, but he didn’t. He never did.
“…You sure?” you pressed.
Daryl shifted, thumb hooking against his belt as if he’d rather be anywhere else than standing under your gaze. Finally, he gave a half-shrug, eyes darting away again. “Smells like you now.”
The words were quiet, almost muttered — like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud at all.
Your breath caught in your throat. For a moment, the world seemed to still, the wind, the distant voices, all of it drowned out by the echo of what he’d just admitted without really admitting.
Before you could form a response, he cleared his throat and straightened, brushing dust from his jeans like it was the most important task in the world. Without another word, he hitched the crossbow back into place and started walking off, shoulders stiff. You stared after him, the weight of his vest suddenly heavier on your shoulders, warmer somehow. He hadn’t just let you keep it. He’d given it to you. In the only way Daryl Dixon knew how.
Carl Grimes
It was just a hat. His hat. The one he’d worn forever — scuffed, sun-bleached, the leather band cracked from years of use. You’d tried it on once as a joke, tilting it low over your eyes and giving him your best cowboy impression. Somehow… you never gave it back.
Carl never said anything. At first. He’d glance your way sometimes, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, but he never asked for it. You figured if it really bothered him, he would’ve spoken up.
Then one morning, he walked into breakfast, rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking every bit the picture of teenage exhaustion. He paused mid-step when he saw you already at the table, hat tipped back on your head like it had been yours all along.
Carl let out a long, exaggerated sigh as he slid into the chair across from you. “I think you’ve officially worn it more than I have.”
You grinned over your plate. “You mad?”
He grabbed an apple from the basket in the center of the table, rolling it absently between his palms. “No.” He bit into it, then nodded at you, a little smirk sneaking out. “You look cute.”
The word landed heavier than you expected. You froze, fork halfway to your mouth, blinking at him. “Wait—what?”
Carl shrugged, suddenly fascinated with his apple, though the tips of his ears betrayed him by turning pink. “I dunno. Just… kinda like knowing you’re wearing something that was mine.” He risked a glance at you, then quickly looked back down. “Makes it feel like we’re… connected or something.”
Your face went hot instantly, and you ducked your head, mumbling something incoherent into your food. Carl didn’t push. He just leaned back, chewing leisurely, clearly pleased with himself. And when he finally glanced up again, that smug little smirk was still tugging at his mouth.
He’d never admit it out loud — not yet, anyway — but you knew in that moment he wasn’t planning on asking for the hat back. Ever.
