Unfortunately I’ve come to the conclusion that I will no longer be writing fics.
It was short lived lovely part of my life that got me through a horrible time trying to figure out what was going on in my brain but I think it’s time to hand up my coat.
Since my hiatus, I’ve noticed a massive decline in numbers on my blog which is demotivating, not that I do this purely for numbers but when I’m use to a certain amount of notes it makes me question myself when I don’t reach those goals and that’s a toxic thought process to have!
So I’m just going to write for myself (which might be a good thing, so I’m not scared to explore different things, just like my newest series which wasn’t a hit 😂) I’ll still be here lingering, reading my favourite writers fics all the time of course!
Anyway, thank you all for your support over these past few months ❤️ I love you all!
Edit: here is my master list just incase anyone wants to read my old fitcs ❤️
Summary: Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days after the outbreak, you are discovered in an abandoned community college, covered in filth and barely able to speak a word. Despite the showers (multiple) and rehabilitation attempts (also multiple), it's apparent that your mind is elsewhere. Beyond saving.
This new world is chaos, but you're lucky to find good people in it. More so than any is a man named Daryl, patient enough to let you put yourself back together—one stitch at a time.
There’s no space left on the walls.
The thought sickens you; bile backs up into your throat before you swallow it down. There has to be something, somewhere—a small patch of unmarked paint for you to draw your next tally line. Desperately searching, your hands shake with realisation. There’s no more space on the walls. Nowhere left for you to mark the day.
How many had it been, again? Four-hundred—more?
You start counting the tallies in multiples of five, beginning with the wall nearest the door and working clockwise around your bedroom. It had been a supply cupboard initially, scarcely big enough for you to lie flat. Blankets were scrunched at your feet, the result of yet another restless night, and your few belongings sat tucked into built-in shelving. You had committed it all to memory—every inch, a map of your isolation.
There’s a thunk in the distance, barely there. You pause mid-breath. Soon enough, another follows. It’s a distant, hollow thud that sends ripples of panic through your body.
The response is immediate. The tremors start with your fingertips before spreading upwards. Every breath exacerbates them, and soon you find yourself violently shaking. Something is approaching. You know it before you hear the next noise, a clink some ways off that cuts through the stillness.
Instinct takes over. You’re on your feet before you can think it through. The hatchet under your pillow is cold, its handle familiar. It becomes an extension of your limbs as your fingers mold around it. Your voice, alarmed, races through your head:
How’d it get in—what entrance had you missed? How many? How many?
You find your footing. The supply door creaks as you toe it open; it needs greasing again. There’s a jerry can in the music room downstairs—you know—but you’d lacked the energy for the trip. The hunger pangs had been keeping you bedridden, and only when dark spots crept into your vision did you dare venture out.
Now you have no choice. Something’s coming, and you need to deal with it.
As you creep through the door, the smell of decay hits you. Gore and innards have seeped into the floorboards, your bare feet squelching atop the ichor. Before you, the corridor is lined with undead, their bodies shoved up against the walls to form a pathway through the middle.
At first, you’d made an effort to clean them away—burying and burning and scrubbing and praying. But as the days went on, they just kept piling up. There were only so many bodies one person could attend, and even that took its toll. Before you knew it, they were under your nails and in your hair, then sometimes your head.
It was pointless.
It didn’t matter if you locked them away in the auditorium; you were never truly rid of them. Eventually, you gave up altogether. They were just another fixture of your life. Another layer of filth that had come to define this world.
They’re watching you now. You feel them. Judging you, condemning you. Stop it, you think, fixing onto one—it’s face half-shredded, an eye hanging from the socket. Don’t look at me like that. But its gaze is unrelenting. You swallow hard, and continue past the corpse. He was a kind man, once. Back when he had been one.
Your hatchet is weighing you down. It’s far heavier than you remembered, and your body, more sluggish. Most of the food has perished by now—only a few cans left rolling about the cafeteria. You didn’t pick through them anymore. There were too many memories in there. Too many things left behind.
Malnourishment had taken its toll on you. Despite covering all the mirrors, you couldn’t avoid the contours of your hands, skin stretched taut over boney fingers, topped by brittle nails. In certain lights, you were not dissimilar to the undead—slowly wasting away.
“Man, this place is god-awful.”
You freeze. Voices slice through the cloying air.
“I’m telling you, something ain’t right here,” one says, close enough to spit. “Bunch’a dead walkers and you don’t stop to think, why? We got the meds, food’s nothing but dust, so what are we sticking around for?”
A second voice, lighter, and a bit strained rebuts, “I don’t remember making you in charge. Keep walking, and I’ll keep pretending like I didn’t see you stuff that bottle of pills down your pants.”
Pills? You blink, your mind struggling to piece the words together. There were pills in the sick-bay down the hall—yes. That was true. So these people… Were they real?
You deliberate for a moment. In your entire time here, you hadn’t seen another person since the outbreak. Not a real one at least—or living.
No, you decided. They were undead. They had to be.
The shuffling of footsteps grows louder. They’re close now. Too close. You’re shaking so viciously that your bones ache. It’s now or never. As the undead round the corner, you are decided.
You aim for the head when you swing.
Thwack.
The impact is solid—satisfying. But beneath the hatchet, the wall crumbles. There is no corpse, no contact with flesh. Before you, a man stares wide-eyed, his jacket crumpled in the fist of his companion, who had pulled him backwards in the nick of time.
Your breath catches in your throat as you ready yourself for another go.
They won’t fool you. There’s space in the auditorium—you’ll make space.
“Jesus Christ, put the axe down!” yells the man.
Each word is raw, grating on your ears. You don’t move; you can’t move.
“Bob, stop,” snaps the first man. His hands are up now, palms flat as though facing off with a wild animal. “Look, we’re not going to do anything,” he says, punctuating each word. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
Beside him, the other one reaches for his gun. Your mind flashes—weapon. They want to hurt you. They’re going to kill you. Your knuckles turn white.
Your head shakes of its own volition. You know fear; you’re looking at it in his eyes.
Was he… afraid of you?
“You’re alone, right?” he asks, unmoving. “We can take you back with us.”
No reply comes. Your head swims. You don’t trust him. You can’t trust him. But something in his tone—something warm and steady—pulls at you. You’re not sure why.
Something stirs inside of you. Back?
Despite your silence, your expression must have given you away. The man stands straighter, slowly letting his arms retract and settle in at his sides.
His eyes flicker to your hatchet before he clears his throat, “We have a community. It’s not much yet but we’re making it into a home,” he says, gesturing between himself and the cautious man. “Us and a few others.”
Your body is screaming from exertion at this point. The hatchet trembles in your hands, but you don’t lower it.
“Th—there—”
You pause; your voice isn’t coming out. It’s ragged and the stutter is a new development.
All this time… had you forgotten how it felt to speak?
You force a swallow and try again. “There are o—others?” you eventually manage.
The man with the frightened eyes doesn’t respond, but his companion—Bob, you recall—crosses his arms over his chest. “How long’s it been since you seen someone, huh?” he asks brusquely.
Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days.
You shake your head. The action seems to irritate him. He dares an approach, and like a trigger pulled, your trembles evolve into full-blown convulsing. Your heel slides back on a pool of blood, the shift in balance unsettling you.
“Hey, hey—” A voice breaks through, fixing your attention. “Look at me.”
The man whose name you do not know crouches just enough to toss his gun to the floor. The weapon lands with a dull splatter. Bob’s follows—much to his dismay.
The action does little to ease your concerns.
What if these men weren’t real?
Your mind has done this before—crafted strangers out of silence. It wouldn’t be the first time you mistook the undead for a familiar face. Worse thoughts suddenly cross you:
What if they are real? What did they want with you—what would they do to you?
Quick as a blink, you’re back on guard.
The weaponless man sighs. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been through, or how you’ve managed to hide out here this long…” he says, pausing for a moment. “But you can’t stay. This place reeks of death.”
The word lingers in the air. He directs a grimace at the audience of blue-black corpses behind you.
“God, it smells so bad.”
Before you can reply, he's back looking at you—through you, almost—like he’s staring into the very foundation of your being.
“You don’t want to rot away here, do you?”
You stand frozen, unable to respond. Your throat tightens as you search for words, but none come.
Bob’s impatience cuts through the moment. “Glenn, let’s get out of here already. You can’t save ‘em all. This one’s bat-shit,”
The words don’t sting; they barely register. In this moment, your eyes are only trained on the man whose head you almost dislodged from his shoulders—Glenn.
He’s waiting. You can discern no pity in his face, no judgment. Just an offer.
You say nothing.
After a beat, Glenn gives you a small nod and concedes. Bob counters with a told-you-so sort of look before retrieving his pistol from the floor—wiping it over his jeans.
They prepare to leave.
“W—wait.”
It’s barely louder than a breath, but Glenn hears it. He stops, turning just enough to face you.
Your chest is heaving now, the anxiety, palpable. Every instinct screams at you to run, to hide, to stay locked in the little supply cupboard at the end of the hall.
“I’ll go,” you say instead.
Glenn doesn’t smile—there’s nothing triumphant about it—but his own fear seems to have left him. He keeps a good distance but beckons you with his hand; it’s clean.
“Come on then,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”
—
Bob is dry-heaving in the passenger seat.
The heat of the truck only amplified the stench of death clinging to you. They were right; it is awful. Back at the college, you did your best to bathe somewhat, with whatever water you could scavenge. But it was never enough. The foul miasmas had seeped into everything: your clothes, your skin, your sweat. It would take some time to air out.
Curling tighter to the door, you try to avoid Glenn’s strained expression in the rearview mirror.
“Told you it was bad,” he says. His tone is light, far too casual; it makes you want to sink into the seats. “Nothing a good shower won’t fix, though?”
You can’t bring yourself to nod. Perhaps you’d feel ashamed had it not been for the unadulterated panic ripping through you. Everything is too much: the thrum of the engine, the weight of the hatchet on your thigh, the sunlight—
How long had it been since you’d seen it? Four months?
That’s right. It had been four months since the generator had sputtered out, leaving you to exist in the dark for the remaining two-hundred-and-sixty-odd days. In truth, you’d grown used to it. Most windows you’d pasted with newspapers from the old art room, so even the sunniest days were reduced to a shadow. The open sky feels wrong to you now, like it’s exposing you to things you’d forgotten how to face.
You try not to blink. Each time the sun slices through the trees, it adds to the utter overstimulation. Your muscles are spasming, sapping the little energy you have left. The movement is making the smell worse. Glenn flicks the fans in a poor attempt to cycle the air, and almost immediately, you’re greeted by warm wafts of your own stench.
Bob sticks his head further out the window. You cough wetly—trying not to vomit.
“Deep breaths,” Glenn reminds. You catch his eyes flicking between you and the road. “We’re almost there.”
You don’t answer; you can’t.
“Though I am going to warn you about something,” he adds. Hesitation lines his voice, doing nothing for your nerves. “I don’t want you to freak out, but… our community is, uh, in a prison.”
A prison?
The word ricochets in your head.
Your jaw slackens as you process the words. Glenn hurriedly continues. “Hey, it’s okay,” he blurts, “We’re not gonna lock you up or anything.”
His reassurance does little to stem the panic.
“We’re locked up now anyway,” Bob mutters from the passenger side. “Stuck in this hotbox with a raging loon.”
Glenn smacks him. The truck veers as he forfeits the wheel, but he's quick to correct it. He finds your eyes in the mirror again. “I promise it’s safe. Safer than anywhere else we’ve found.”
You don’t believe him.
But before you can spiral any further, the truck slows, rolling to a stop in front of a chain-link fence. Beyond, a prison looms in the distance—a great hulking thing absent of any colour—and from it, a figure comes jogging to open the gates. You're here.
At the sight of another unfamiliar face, your doubts make themselves known.
Run. You have to get out. Run. Run. Run—
The door handle is in your hand before you realise it. The truck hasn’t fully stopped, but you shove it open anyway. The rush of motion tilts the vehicle, and Glenn curses as he hits the breaks.
The ground comes up fast. Your legs give out the moment they hit dirt. Above you, the sunlight is blinding. This time, you’re sure you’ll be sick.
“Whoa, hey, hold up!”
A woman’s voice brings you back. Before you can react, there’s a pressure under your arm—hands, firm but steady. You instinctively jerk away but you’re too weak to pull free.
“Don’t struggle. It’s okay,” she soothes. Trembling, you force yourself to look up.
Crouching before you is a woman with cropped hair, her features delicate yet hard. As her eyes sweep over your body, you catch a flicker of sadness in them.
“Goodness, you poor thing,” she murmurs. “Seems like Glenn’s brought home another stray.”
Her arm slips under yours again, and this time you let her help you up. There’s no fight left in you; it’s taking every morsel of strength to hug your hatchet to your chest. Each step is heavier than the last, but her encouragement—almost motherly—keeps you moving.
You try not to stare as she leads you toward the main building. People move around the yard. Real people. More than you’ve seen in months. Their voices blur together, too loud, too close, and you want nothing more than to shrink away from all of it.
As you make it inside, the air is cooler but no less stifling.
You're in a cell block. It's stark, structurally plain. Metal bars, concrete floors, and the faint scent of bleach that doesn’t quite mask something darker. In the center of the room is a makeshift cooking area, a hodgepodge of furniture surrounding a lunch table poached from the outer yard. A small group gathers there.
You do a quick count: Man. Man. Child. Woman. Baby—
Your brow furrows. Baby?
The woman cradling the infant has dark skin and neat locs, as opposed to the child, whose parents were probably another casualty of this world. She maintains her distance.
“Rick,” the woman at your side calls out, garnering the attention of everyone.
A man responds to the name. He cuts through the group with measured steps. His stature is lean, his features weathered. He’s dressed simply—dark jeans, boots, a tan button-down rolled to the elbows—but his stance, the set of his jaw, that air of gravitas… It all screams leader.
You plant yourself firm into the floor.
The man—Rick—scarcely spares you a glance. “Another one?” he asks Glenn from over your head. “Where d’you pick ‘em up this time?”
“Old community college,” Glenn answers.
Rick lets out a short, tired breath. “Okay,” he says, before directing his attention toward you. “Then answer me this: how many walkers—”
He stops mid-sentence. For the first time, he really sees you. His expression sours as he does a quick scan, taking in every detail from your bare feet to the stained-red hatchet embedded in your chest. You see his nose twitch as he inhales.
“Rick...” the short-haired woman interjects, placing a hand to his chest. “Not now,” she says firmly.
“Not now,” Rick echoes. The frown lines marring his brow soften slightly. “It’s okay,” he says instead. “You’re safe now.”
You blink once.
Safe? Why does everyone keep saying that—Like it’s some guarantee?
Something in his eyes tells you he doesn’t believe it either; like he’s said those words too many times before.
“It’s not much, but it’s a roof and four walls. It’s a place to raise our kids.” Rick nods his head at the child with his likeness, a brown-haired boy in a deputy hat, and then to the woman holding the baby. “We’ve got water here—food. Daryl’s a hunter, and a damn good one. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
You’re only half-listening. At the mention of another name, your eyes drift past Rick, settling on the figure at the edge of the group.
That’s the hunter—Daryl. You can tell by the crossbow slung across his back, and the dirt stains on his skin, far greater in number than the rest of them. His stance was casual but guarded, his sleeveless shirt exposing corded muscle. You catch his eyes, pinned under a mop of tawny fringe.
They’re the kind that don’t miss a thing.
You can tell he’s studying you just as closely as you’re studying him. There’s a tension in his posture, like a rubber band ready to snap at a moment’s notice. It unsettles you.
It frightens you.
“She should lie down,” Glenn says, breaking the silence, “Let Hershel take a look at her when he’s back.”
Rick nods. Instinctively, he reaches out to steady you as you sway on your feet.
“I can walk,” you mutter, words barely audible. “I can walk.”
No one listens.
There’s an exchange of glances between Rick and the short-haired woman. Then, with a gesture so slow it feels deliberate, she steps in close again, threading your arm through hers. Her grip is firm but unobtrusive; you feel yourself leaning into her without meaning.
Glenn attempts to relieve you of the hatchet, but you twist away, eyes flashing with warning. He raises his hands in surrender.
“Okay. You can keep it,” he placates.
The next thing you know, you’re being led into the prison’s interior. The cell they bring you to is small, the cot inside neatly made. But the room feels too open, too exposed. You hesitate at the doorway.
“This one’s yours,” Rick states simply. As he points, a keychain jingles at his belt.
You fixate on it. “The—The key?” you question.
Rick’s brow furrows. He hesitates, then thumbs through the chain until he finds the one he’s looking for—a long, slender thing with a dull shine.
“Here,” he says. “Take it if it makes you feel better.”
It does.
You don’t mean to snatch it from him, but the warmth of his hand is unexpected, and you find yourself clawing for the key. Tucking it into your palm, you slide the gate shut. It latches with a clink, and a shaky breath escapes you.
“Right, well...” Rick steps back, giving you space. “Get some rest. We’ll come check on you in a bit.”
He lingers for a moment longer, his hand hovering over the bars like he’s deliberating prodding an animal at the zoo. When you don’t respond, he straightens and beckons Glenn to follow him out. The kind woman gives you one last reassuring nod before retreating, her boots echoing down the corridor.
Alone again.
Despite your fatigue, you don’t move to the cot. It’s far too clean. Instead, you yank the sheets from it, piling them onto the floor in the furthest corner of the room. They bunch at your feet, turning the colour of rust as dried blood flakes from your skin. Quietly, you sink down into your new bed.
For once your mind is empty. Your eyes, unblinking, stare at the expanse of wall. It feels wrong in some way you can’t quite place. Instinctively, your fingers find the loose match in your pocket—the one you kept for emergencies. You strike it and watch the flame quiver for a brief moment before blowing it out.
With the blackened end, you draw a tally mark on the stone before you:
One.
There’s plenty of space on these walls.
A/N And that's chapter one! It's been years since I've written anything like this, but I have big things planned. My style has definitely changed (hopefully for the better) and this series will be heavier than my previous stuff... But that hopefully means better payoff.
I'd love to hear your thoughts. In all honesty, I was a little nervous about sharing this. I don't know if anyone still reads my stories, or even cares, so some feedback would be appreciated :)
See you in the next one x
Hii! Could you plz write a fic where the reader finds out that Daryl's ticklish and a tickle fight break outs between them?
You obviously don't have to if you don't want to! :))
Boots And All
Drabble: Based on this ask. I strayed a little but hopefully it scratches the itch (no pun intended).
Masterlist
It had taken some time for Daryl to become comfortable around you.
Sure, the two of you had been a thing for some time—sneaking off here and there, swapping shirts for purpled neck bruises.
But those were fleetings moments; there was no real comfort in them. They consisted of rushed encounters, usually when the tension had become so unbearable that the pair of you were at each other’s throats.
Things were different now. Alexandria had given you the space to slow down. And slowness was something Daryl wasn’t accustomed to. He couldn’t get used to the porch-watching, the grass-mowing, and the domesticity of it all.
Especially now, as he found himself at the entryway of the shared house, struggling to find the words to say to you.
‘I’m home’ didn’t sound right; neither did ‘I’m back.’
You hadn’t been waiting for him after all—or had you?
Daryl stood dumbfounded. He'd never had trouble with this stuff before, but this suburbanite hellscape had him guessing his every move. What if you didn’t want him anymore?
He shook his head. Footsteps echoed across the hall, and not wanting to get caught mid-agonising, Daryl tried to busy himself.
"Dixon," you greeted, before a furrow pinched your brow. "Boots."
Daryl’s eyes followed your pointed finger, landing on the trail of mud he'd dragged over the ornate welcome mat.
"Damnit, woman," he cursed. "Been gone all day an' tha's all I get—boots?"
“Boots,” you confirmed, and disappeared back into the living room.
Daryl grumbled before sinking to his knees to undo his laces. Here he was wracking his brain for the perfect greeting and you’d settled on fucking boots.
It could be worse, he thought. At least that meant you wanted him to stay.
The fire crackled low as Daryl trudged into the living room. You were slumped down on the couch, legs tucked under you with one arm draped lazily over the backrest. Your attention was on a book he knew you'd already finished.
Daryl deliberated for a moment dropping into the space nearby. He kicked his legs up onto the stool before him, watching the way your eyes flickered over before returning to your page.
There was a tension in the air—subtle but persistent. He wondered if this was as strange and new to you as it was him. Perhaps you didn’t like him all that much now there were other options. He scowled, and tried to put the thought away from him.
“So…” you began after a moment, setting the book down onto the table. “How was it? Find anything good?”
Your voice was softer now, and Daryl felt himself relax slightly. “Nah,” he muttered. “Same ol’ shit. Few walkers—not much else.”
You shifted, and as you did, your hand brushed against his foot. A jolt sparked through his body; he kicked his leg out instinctively.
“Jesus, Daryl," you yelped. "What was that for?”
Daryl opened his mouth to retort, but as he did, you readjusted once more, grazing the base of his foot with your fingers.
He immediately recoiled. “I swear to sweet shit, do that again an’ there’ll be hell.”
A look of realization flashed across your face—and god, did Daryl hate it.
“Are you…” you paused, the disbelief in your voice too great to conceal, “ticklish?”
Daryl groaned. He suddenly felt five-years-old again, wishing he could keep a straight face.
His lack of reply spurred you into action. “You can’t be,” you announced, goadingly. Daryl felt his muscles grow taut, preparing for the worst. As much as he wanted to escape, part of him missed this—missed that look in your eyes when they weren’t clouded by worry and expectation. “Everywhere?”
“Don’t ya dare,” he warned, though it lacked any real bite.
You grinned before edging closer, until you were sat straddling his lap. Daryl stiffened. His hands hovered above your hips, not quite confident to let them rest there.
“All the times I’ve touched you here,” you murmured, tracing a line up his chest, “or kissed you here”—your breath brushed against his ear, and he shivered despite himself—“did it tickle you?”
Daryl swatted your hand. “Yer fuckin’ ridiculous,” he growled.
You couldn’t help the laugh that spilled from your lips. It chipped away at Daryl's defences, leaving him even more exposed.
"And how about here?"
You tested a light prod at the ribs, to which he bucked beneath you, trying to unseat you.
“Fucking—cut it out,” he snapped.
And again, that smile of yours tugged at something deep within him.
“Alright, alright,” you conceded, raising your hands in surrender. “I’ve had my fun.”
He was about to bite something back, but the words caught in his throat. Your hair was splayed, catching the light of the fire as it framed your face, and on it, your expression was one of pure warmth. For a moment, all Daryl could do was stare. How many days had it been—weeks even—since he’d seen you like this?
You were so beautiful.
“I missed ya,” he admitted. The words came out of their own accord, barely above a whisper. “I wanted to get back to ya.”
His hands found your hips, and his thumb began tracing circles there.
"If you'll have me an' my muddy boots."
Your expression softened, and as you leaned down, Daryl left himself completely open.
You kissed him; it was unlike any of the others you shared before. It wasn't urgent, nor desperate—like the ones brought about by fear of getting caught.
You took your time with him, since there was enough now to spare.
“I missed you too, Dixon,” you murmured against his lips. “And I'll gladly take you, boots and all.”
A/N Sup... It's been about 2-3 years but I want to confirm that I'm alive. To be honest, I still read every comment I get and I can't believe people still love my work. I started this page when I was a wee 19-20 year old student, and now I'm 24, have bought a house, a dog, and am heading a company (crazy, I know).
That said, I wish I could go back to the days I would write and write and write. Unfortunately, I just don't have the time (and I'm a lot slower now due to the mental block I developed from aiming for perfection)... Though, my wish for 2025 is to devote a little time back to my hobby - no matter how small, nor how long it takes me.
To anyone still here, firstly holy shit go touch some grass (just kidding), but truly thanks for sticking with me. If you want to reach out, I'd love to rebuild some bridges and hear your suggestions!
P.S I know it's been a hot minute so if you want to be added / removed from my tag list, please let me know x
Drabble: Come morning, you leave behind nothing but crumpled sheets and your scent. But Daryl craves more.
A/N I'm starting a 10-min drabble series where I write something on my phone quick before bed. Here's the first.
Your scent lingered but you never did.
Daryl wondered why that was - why you'd pack yourself up and haul yourself out of town before his eye could crack open to the dawn.
It wasn't a commitment thing. You were committed to a lot of things: him, sex, chaos.
And you always came back.
You were always there when he needed - with fingers of ice but breaths of fire, and a heart a few degrees south of molten core.
But then you were gone. Away with the night and like a fleeting dream come morning.
The excuses would vary. "Supply run." "Weapon maintenance." "Some Alexandrian snob got a blocked drain (again)."
Daryl had grown tired. Tired of waking up tired to an empty pillow and a scent that always lingered.
Would it kill you to once stay for the dawn, to stay in his arms through morning and to only leave once the knocks came at the door?
It probably would. He knew that by now.
The only thing in this world powerful enough to tie you down was a headstone. And even then, he wasn't sure.
So Daryl stretched out his arms over the king-sized, royally pompous bed, and felt his fingertips brush the sheets where you had lain.
Warmth lingered there. But you did not.
And so Daryl spent half an hour more wondering where you had scuttled off to in your usual hurry, and why you'd kissed his chest so tenderly as you dressed near his bedside.
He'd been awake then. He always was when you left. And every time, you'd whisper him a chaste goodbye as though it were the last, and Daryl would struggle to feign sleep - fretting that it might really be.
Your scent lingered but you never did.
Yet that alone was enough for Daryl. Because there would come a day when neither would remain. And on that day, Daryl knew, this world would become a drop more cold.
I'm not sure if you take requests so feel free to disregard this but could you do one where daryl has a baby with someone in the 6 years off looking for rick and they're really close and the kid meets judith and rj and it's really fluffy?
Hi! I’m really sorry Ive not replied ive not been on here much ❤️
So I’ve actually stopped writing but if I feel up to it I can give it a go at some point if people want to read that! If you’re wanting it quicker though probably best with another writer!
Name a better feeling than getting the first comment on a fic you were uncertain about and knowing that at least one person liked the tiny piece of your brain that you put on the internet
Summary: Before the outbreak, you spent your time writing award winning horror literature. Now you spend your time haunted with the irony of navigating a world only you could write about.
Era: Prison
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader
Warnings: Typical TWD stuff/ Language.
Guide - Italics are snippets from reader’s novel.
The dead had finally caught up to Harper after days of running and now she was staring into the milky iris of death holding it by the throat to keep it at bay. The harder she pushed into it’s jugular, the softer it became and old, dark blood poured down her arm. Harper’s other hand reached into her back pocket for a small stanley knife and quickly plunged it into the frontal lobe repeatedly making sure the small amount of exposed blade cut deep enough…
As the dead dropped to the ground, you allowed your breath to catch up with you and took a step back to get a better understanding of what had just transpired. With your clean arm you wiped the sweat off your forehead, trying your best to stop your bottom lip from trembling.
Snap out of it.
You needed to get to work, every building that had more than three undead you’d board up and mark just so that any other survivors stayed clear. A job that usually you'd just get on with, without thinking but today had been your breaking point.
You shut the main door behind you as you left messing with the handle to make it harder for the next person to enter, looking in your bag for the rock you usually used to batter the metal handle from the frame. As always the next step was the spray paint, ‘ DEAD INSIDE’.
The can of paint was next to empty but still you hung onto the can, just in case it came in handy. So far you managed to keep yourself from breaking down completely, keeping your mind occupied with any meaningless task, like now the task of absolutely having to get to the furthest tree in your vision and when you got there it was getting to the cluster of rocks just a little ways down the forest. The perfect place to set up camp, you thought.
It was only when you had your temporary camp set up and you were sitting on one of the rocks that you finally started to cry, one of those deep ugly cries.
You were so lonely, incredibly lonely. Your mother always told you the life of an author was a lonely one which was true but at least before the outbreak, you had the false company of the actors on the TV or the comforting sound of your sister's voice muffled by the loudspeaker on your phone. Now you were completely lonely, the kind of loneliness that would send anyone mad, you’ve written about this kind of loneliness, so sure you understood it in the ironic tortured artist kind of way but you didn't, not until now.
The fire crackled louder tonight than it ever had, Harper was mesmerised by the orange flicker and the embers that escaped the blistering heat, escaped her. Was it always going to be like this, alone forever? What was the point of fighting to survive when there was nothing to survive for.
It was starting to get dark and you had wasted so much time crying there was barely any time left to look for firewood and just as you were about to head off for a last minute scramble, you heard one of your cans rattling in the distance.
Shit.
Without a second thought, you picked up your knife and set your sights on the direction of the noise. This time you’d be much more prepared for an attack. No more wrestling with the dead. You ducked down behind the rocks, waiting to see what would lurk around the corner.
“Looks like someone was camping here” it was a man’s voice.
“Ain’t no more” another voice, another man. This one sounded a little more rough, more gritty. Part of you just wanted to jump out and hug them, rejoice in no longer being alone but this was the end of the world. People had changed, you knew that… you’ve experienced it. You couldn't give it all up now for some company.
“Better hurry up, don’t wanna end up like the sucker who’s stuff this is!”
They're here to take my stuff.
Now you had to risk it all otherwise they would take it all. You pushed yourself up from the rock and held up your knife towards the two men both so different in stature and looks, in an ideal world you’d never see the two of them together but again… this was the end of the world. You looked at their weapons, weapons that were now pointed at you. One had a crossbow and the other a knife, similar to yours.
“Please don’t take my things. They’re all I have” It wasn’t the intimidating approach you had planned but the weak tremble in your voice seemed to work, the men looked at each other and slowly lowered their weapons.
“We won't take your stuff “ the smaller one promised, the one with the knife. He smiled at you, it was a smile you could trust. It was an innocent smile, a sweet one that made you put down your own knife.
“Let’s go!” the man with the crossbow spoke, staring at you the entire time… he didn’t trust you and you couldn’t blame him.
“I’m Glenn, this is Daryl” Daryl scoffed at Glenn’s words, shaking his shaggy hair and taking a couple of steps back.
“Y/N” you announced, your eyes darting between the two men
“You out here on your own?” You nodded and chewed the inside of your lip, hoping they would take you with them, even if it was just for a day.
Glenn sent Daryl a look and the archer sent a stronger one right back but it was ignored.
“You should come with us. We have somewhere safe”
“Ain’t enough room!” You watched Daryl for a moment, the way he paced back and forth, how agitated he got so quickly.
“Ignore him, there’s plenty of space!” your eyes panned back to Glenn, who gave you another one of those trustworthy smiles again. You quickly nodded before Daryl could even chime in, even if he was right, even if there wasn't enough space for you, you’d make it work somehow. You had to.
-
It wasn’t a long journey back and it was mostly quiet, Glenn kept trying to engage in some sort of small talk with you but Daryl would quickly shut him up, kept telling him to let some guy named Rick do all the talking.
It was a prison they brought you back to, it looked secure and you were more than certain you could see people up the hill, chatting, eating, living as if all of this was normal. It looked like bliss. There were two sets of gates, the first set opened and the questions of who you were had already started. A girl had a walkie talkie attached to her hip, one she used to call the infamous Rick down.
It didn’t take long for him to come sprinting down the hill, followed by a young boy in a sheriff's hat. You watched Rick and Glenn as they spoke privately, you couldn't help but notice the way their leader held himself with such confidence. It intimated you but in a way that made you feel safe - a real leader.
“What’s ya name?” and of course a strong southern drawl.
“Y/N” you quickly responded, not sure if to offer him a smile, not even sure on how to stand in case it gave off the wrong message and blew your chance of getting in.
“As in the author, Y/N!” the boy in the sheriff’s hat quickly piped up, making himself seen from behind Rick.
“Yeah, That's uh, that's me!” A sigh passed your lips but you offered the young boy a smile.
He had a smirk on his face, he saw the irony of it… of you
“Weird” he whispered and you couldn’t help but agree.
It was weird.
“How many walkers have ya killed?” The question caught you off guard and you were almost stumbled to answer
“A lot… I didn’t count. Seemed too morbid” the rest of the group that surrounded you looked at each other as if they agreed with your answer and you had to stop yourself from smiling, like you had just passed a test.
“How many people have ya killed?” Rick followed up.
You just looked at him completely dumbfounded, how could he possibly know if you had killed anyone? Was it a trick question?
“One” honesty was the best policy right? You sure hope it was.
“Why?” Everyone went quiet, it felt like a spotlight had landed on you and a crowd of people were waiting for you to start your monologue. You couldn’t help your breathing becoming uneasy, a flood of horrific memories filling your brain. Memories you thought you could keep buried away, never to speak about again.
“Because he was trying to kill me, I didn’t want to… I had to” There was a long pause and a lot of stares but eventually Rick reached his hand out for you to shake.
“Welcome home”
-
A woman named Carol showed you to a spare cell, your new room. She was nice, she had a kindness about her, something in her eyes told you she had lived through it all, she was someone you could trust to make the right decisions.
Alone in your cell felt bitter sweet. You wanted nothing more to go mingle, chat but perhaps taking things slow was the correct path to take. Just let it all soak in but still you couldn’t help but weep a little, finally you were no longer alone in this world.
Harper sat at the edge of her new bed, a large smile creasing her cheeks. Has she finally found her people? Even if they weren't her people, they were people and she was in no position to be picky, not right now. Not only was she no longer alone, she finally had a home, a bed, somewhere safe and warm. She couldn’t remember the last time she was this happy.
-
A/N: So here it is, the first chapter! I hope you like it, I worked really hard on this and somehow it still feels rushed haha. ANYWAY. I hope the layout works and isn't too confusing. OH and sorry that the chapters not very long, It seems I can only really write in short chapters or I’ll lose interest, quick.
Tags: @browneyes528 @phoenixblack89 @srhxpci @jodiereedus22 @witch-of-letters
thanks for the tag @whiskeypowder
rules: make a new post and spell out your URL with song titles, then tag as many people as there are letters in your URL.
(done without the x’s)
w - where is my mind - the pixies
h - happy in the end - gabbie hanna
i - intergalactic - the beastie boys
t - teardrop - massive attack
e - elite - deftones
w - wish - nine inch nails
i - i’m sorry - joyner lucas
n - no - nasty
g - grain of sand - heart of a coward
e - everlong - foo fighters
d -daughters - the story so far
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o -oxycotin - billie eillish
v -vermillion - slipknot
e -ever - team sleep
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