#tlosg

[antiticketmaster]

Brunette Taylor strikes again 😍

[watchingwisteria]

turns out all the wi$hli$t and opalite discoursers are actually just susceptible to ragebait bot propaganda, everyone say thank you rolling stone!!

[waynesxx]

Ruin The Friendship

"gif not mine" carl grimes x f!reader angst imagine summary: “My advice is always ruin the frienship” — a The Walking Dead one-shot. Because sometimes, even at the end of the world, love is the only thing that survives.

The smell of smoke and gasoline is the first thing you feel. The second is the sound — distant, almost a growl — of an old engine tearing through the silence. You don’t move. You’re too tired to feel fear, and maybe fear doesn’t have room inside you anymore.

The world ended weeks ago, maybe months. Time lost its meaning when the watch on your wrist stopped ticking — right after your mother stopped breathing.

You remember her still holding your hand. “Run, sweetheart.” And you ran.

Since then, the world became a desert of echoes. Sleeping turned into a threat, eating into a miracle. Until one day, luck — or fate — put you in his path.

The motorcycle screeches to a halt. A tall man with tired eyes gets off, gun raised — but there’s no hostility in his gaze. “Still alive?” he asks, voice rough, laced with suspicion and surprise.

You only nod, lips cracked, throat too dry to answer.

He studies you for a moment, then lowers the weapon. “I’m Daryl.” He glances around. “My group’s camped by a quarry nearby. You can come with me.”

You don’t ask if you can trust him. At this point, trust is the same as breathing — you do it, even if you don’t know why anymore.

The place is a mix of hope and exhaustion. Makeshift tents, rusty pans, voices that sound too human for this new world.

You can feel all the eyes on you — a new survivor, another story no one wants to hear but everyone wants to understand.

And then you see him.

A thin boy with a crooked sheriff’s hat, holding a can of beans like it’s treasure. He stares at you from a distance, curious but not hostile.

Later, when you sit by the fire, he approaches.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m Carl.”

You hesitate. You can’t remember the last time someone greeted you without a weapon in hand.

“Hi.” Your voice comes out low, rusty.

He smiles, shy, and holds out a spoon. “Want some? It’s terrible, but it’s food.”

You take it. And in that simple act — sharing something in a world that only knows how to take — it all begins.

Days pass slowly there. You help Carol with laundry, learn to use a rifle with Shane, and sometimes you keep watch with Carl atop the rocks, staring at the ruined city in the distance.

Carl doesn’t talk much, but when he does, there’s a living curiosity in every word. He asks questions that don’t seem to belong to the apocalypse:

“What was your favorite food before?” “Did you like going to school?” “Do you think the world will ever be normal again?”

You answer what you can, but sometimes you just watch the light in his eyes — that rare kind of brightness in a world made of gray.

One night, you’re alone together on the hill. Cold wind drifts through the trees, and the fire crackles below.

Carl fiddles with his hat, embarrassed. “I’m… I’m glad Daryl found you.”

You look at him. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Because you make things feel less bad.”

Your heart beats strangely. And for the first time since the end of the world, you feel something that isn’t fear — it’s warmth.

When the group leaves the quarry, you go with them. The road is long, every stop a battle. But between fear and fatigue, there are moments that stay with you:

Carl falling asleep on your shoulder; You sharing the last dried apple; The two of you whispering bad jokes to forget the smell of the dead.

Sometimes Daryl watches from afar, as if he knows something’s growing there — a bond even the apocalypse couldn’t kill.

And at night, when the group sleeps, Carl whispers:

“When all this is over… I wanna show you somewhere beautiful. A place just for us.”

You smile, not really believing in “after.” But he does — and somehow, that’s enough.

The gate creaks shut behind you. After years sleeping under open skies, the sound of iron locking almost feels… safe. Alexandria. The place that promised a new beginning — a bubble of normal in the middle of chaos.

But peace, for those who’ve seen the end of the world, always feels suspicious. You walk between clean streets, painted fences, people who still smile like they haven’t seen hell. Carl walks beside you, eyes sharp, hand never far from his gun.

“Feels wrong, doesn’t it?” he says.

“What does?”

“Having houses. Beds. People planting flowers.”

You look around, sighing. “Yeah. Feels like a dream that’ll wake up any second.”

He smirks. “Then… let’s dream while we can.”

*********

Days stretch into an uneasy calm. You help at the community school; Carl works in the garden, sometimes takes patrols with his dad. People start laughing again — and you almost forget the sound of the dead.

But not him. Carl is everywhere.

He shows up on your porch with two cups of lukewarm coffee. He calls you for guard duty “just in case” — but you end up talking for hours, about before, after, and everything that might’ve been if the world hadn’t ended.

Sometimes he takes off the hat and scratches his head, nervous, and you realize how much he’s grown. The boy from the quarry became a man — and you feel, with a tightness in your chest, that time has moved faster than you did.

It’s in the watchtower that everything changes.

You take turns keeping watch. One night, the sky is clear, stars mocking you — shining too bright for such a broken world.

Carl rests his rifle on the railing. “Remember when I said I wanted to show you somewhere beautiful?” he asks.

You chuckle softly. “Of course. You never did.”

“I’ll show you now.” He points to the horizon, to the distant glow of the community lights. “This. A place where you can still believe.”

You watch him — his face lit by moonlight, his calm, steady gaze. So much like his father’s, and yet… gentler. More yours.

Silence lingers. Your heart beats hard, pushing you forward.

Carl feels it too.

For a moment, you lean in. Your noses almost touch. The world holds its breath.

But then — footsteps. A guard comes to change shifts.

You both pull away, awkward, the kiss trapped in the air — along with everything you never dared to say.

A few months later, you notice something different. Carl always carries a worn notebook, writing late at night, sometimes tearing out pages and tucking them into his pockets.

One day, while cleaning weapons together, you tease him:

“Turning into a writer now?”

He laughs without looking up. “Maybe. Some things… you can only say on paper.”

You feel the weight of the words, but don’t press.

What you don’t know is that inside that notebook are pages with your name. Letters never sent. Words hidden between lines and silences:

“If the world were different, I’d kiss her without thinking.” “She still looks at me like I’m the same boy from the quarry. But I’m not. And she’s… she’s the reason.” “Maybe one day I’ll tell her. If I’m brave enough.”

But the apocalypse is a thief of time — and courage always comes too late.

People start to notice. When you’re with him, others watch. Rick, quiet, with a half-smile of someone who understands; Michonne, protective, folding her arms, pretending not to see.

“He talks about you a lot,” she says one day, casually.

You blush. “Really?”

“Enough for me to know you’re important.”

Important. The word echoes in your head, heavier than a gunshot.

The calm ends with the first Savior attack. The sound of bullets replaces birdsong. The sky turns gray again.

You and Carl fight side by side, as always. But there’s something different in his eyes — determination, urgency.

After one skirmish, when the group regroups, he walks toward you, covered in blood and dust, chest heaving.

“Promise me something,” he says.

“What?”

“That if something happens to me… you keep going. You live. For both of us.”

You cup his face with both hands, firm. “Don’t talk like that.”

He smiles, broken. “Just promise.”

You promise — not knowing it will be the last time you’ll see him whole.

Days later, Carl disappears on missions with Siddiq, and you’re sent to Hilltop. You talk rarely over the radio. He always ends transmissions the same way: “Take care of yourself, okay?”

You laugh. “You should be the one hearing that.”

He never answers — just that short silence before cutting the line, as if saving what he couldn’t say aloud.

Then, one night, the radio hisses with desperate voices. Explosions. Screams. Alexandria is under siege.

You call his name again and again, but only static answers. Fear returns — that ancient fear from the quarry, of losing everything. But this time, it has a name.

Carl.

The radio falls silent.

Hilltop freezes. You pace the infirmary, trying to ignore the sounds of war — gunfire, blasts, cries. Every noise could be him.

Jesus tries to calm you. “Rick will bring them back,” he says, but his eyes betray doubt.

And when the gates finally open — when Rick and Michonne walk in — you understand without words.

Carl isn’t there.

Rick’s eyes are red, his hands shaking. You already know, but still ask:

“Where is he?”

Rick swallows hard. “He… he was bitten.”

The world stops. No sound. No light. No ground. You fall to your knees. Tears don’t come — your body can’t understand what it just heard.

Michonne kneels in front of you. “He wrote letters. For everyone.” She holds out an envelope. “This one’s yours.”

His handwriting. Your name. The paper crumpled, stained — almost damp with tears that might’ve been his.

You don’t open it. Not yet.

The group grieves in silence, but yours is a scream the apocalypse swallows whole.

Carl Grimes. Your best friend. Your almost-love. Your what if.

That night, you finally open the letter. Hands trembling. Candle flickering.

Hey, quarry girl. If you’re reading this, then… I guess I didn’t get to say everything. I need you to know that I loved you. From the first day. When Daryl brought you to camp and you looked at me with those scared eyes — I knew I had to protect you. I knew I needed you. We survived so much that sometimes I thought we were immortal. But no one is. I never wanted to ruin what we had, but now I see… what I felt couldn’t stay hidden forever. I dreamed of a future where we’d have our own house. You’d laugh at my stupid hat and say I finally looked like a man. If that future doesn’t come for me, I want it to come for you. Live. Love. Laugh. Promise me that. — Carl.

The candle flickers. Tears finally fall.

You press the letter to your chest, as if paper could still pulse — as if his heart still beat there.

“I loved you too, Carl,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Since the very first day.”

The days crawl by, slow and colorless. Rick barely speaks. Michonne drifts like a ghost. You move on autopilot.

Enid tries to comfort you, but there’s an emptiness inside you no one can fill. Sometimes, in the still of night, you hear his laugh echo through the halls — and for a heartbeat, you believe he’ll walk in, dirty and smiling, saying it was all just another scare.

But the apocalypse never gives back what it takes.

Pain becomes routine. You read and reread the letter until the ink starts to fade.

And one night, standing before his grave, you whisper:

“I should’ve kissed you anyway.”

The wind stirs, the flame flickers. Maybe coincidence. Or maybe him — still close, somehow.

Carl Grimes. The boy from the quarry. The man who taught you how to live — and how to love.

[pinkorchidsinspring]

This made my day so much better… 🩵🧡🩵🧡

[kkarmaismygirlfriend]

sometimes i feel like taylor swift releases a new album to make you appreciate her last album more than ever, and then releases another which makes you appreciate that album more then ever, then releases

[gracious-midnight]

HEAR ME OUT FATHER FIGURE BUT ITS LUKE AND PERCY

IM HEARING YOU LOUD AND CLEAR KING

[kkarmaismygirlfriend]

with this album release, taylor is turning into a halsey type artist where her creative eye and artistic direction is so unparalleled that her music could never hold up against the beauty of the visuals

[deli-cate-ly]

this album release being followed by another version of the same crappy songs advertised with an ai video is so fitting