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could’ve actually fucking cried.

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old pictures buuut

his freaking HAIR!!!!!!!!!! i can’t do this…

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Jensen Ackles as Mark Meachum COUNTDOWN (2025). The show will premiere on June 25th. [x]

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Norman Reedus 6/10/2025 at the Taormina Film Festival.

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New bruises, old stories.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x reader.

Masterlist | Author's blog note | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: None

Era: Early Prison. Season 3

Word count: 1.3k

It had been your dumbest mistake to date but if you’d known it would end this way, you would’ve done it the minute the group found the prison. You and Daryl had been clearing rooms, trying to carve some semblance of safety out of the ruins, when you stepped into the old engine room and the door slammed shut behind you. It took hours to force it open, hours filled with bickering and blame, long silences thick with frustration and moments of rest that somehow softened into tired laughter from you. Giggles that made his heart race in a way he wasn’t sure he hated.

His deadpan muttering, always right on the edge of sarcasm, made something in your chest relax when you least expected it and then there were long stretches where you didn’t even try to get out. Not because you couldn’t, but because something about the situation felt unusually right.

A few nights later, unable to sleep, your feet lead you back to that room and there he was, sitting in the dark like he'd been waiting for you. After that day, it became a thing. Not out of restlessness, but out of choice. It became a sacred hour carved out of the daily chaos that no one knew about, where nothing was demanded of you except that you be.

Daryl was still hesitant in all the ways that mattered. Rough around the edges, unsure of the softness he deserved but you kept testing the lines, inching closer, teasing gently and the strange part was that he let you. Maybe even needed you to.

He’d been out scouting the day before and didn’t come back until well into the afternoon. He had spent the rest of the day fixing things, shadowing Rick, saying very little like always but when night came and the world went still, you knew exactly where to find him.

The moonlight painted silver lines across the floor, softening the shadows as rain fell, steady and heavy yet not loud enough to pop this bubble you were in. Daryl sat still at the top of some steps, your weight against him a kind of tether, grounding him more than he’d ever admit out loud.

Your head rested on his thigh, your fingers working slow, practiced strokes against the blade you were sharpening.The candle next to you both flickered in the breeze running through the room, casting soft shadows across the cold concrete and dancing light on your face. It was just enough for Daryl to see it, a thin line of raw skin and crude stitches breaking the familiar curve of your brow. He leaned forward slightly, squinting as his eyes adjusted in the dim glow, the hand that had been resting behind him now reaching toward you. His rough fingers brushed your hair back with more care than you expected, as though afraid you’d shatter beneath his violent touch. He didn’t say anything at first, just let his thumb hover near the wound like the skin there might burn him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet like he didn’t want to wake the moment.

“Wha’ happened?” 

You didn’t look up, didn’t stop running the blade over the whetstone, only let out a soft breath through your nose before muttering “Fell of the bed”

The corner of his mouth twitched, not with amusement but disbelief. 

“We lie t’ each other now?” He asked, eyes never leaving your face. There wasn’t anger in it. Just a quiet kind of hurt, the kind that grows in the space where trust used to sit too comfortably. The silence stretched, only broken by the sharpening stone, the rain and the candles’s fragile flame next to you.

You chuckled quietly.

“We?” you repeated, eyebrow raised. It was the first time you ever heard him say anything like that “I’m already here Dixon. I don't know what else you want”

“The truth, for starters”

You rolled your eyes, a smirk pulling at your lips “Come to me tomorrow with some kind of list and you’ll find out why i spend so much time sharpening this” 

You tilted the knife, letting the candlelight glint off its edge, more in a teasing manner than a threat. 

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “Quit it with the threats ‘n start talkin’”

“It’s stupid”

He shrugged, like he had all night and you sighed, finally setting the knife and stone aside, letting the weight of it all settle in your chest. Slowly, you looked up at him and he looked down at you. His icy blues locked in, steady and relentless like they always were with you. 

“‘M sure whatever ya accidentally hurt yourself for was important t’ you.” he said, his voice low, even. “And we both know y’ain’t stupid”

Your lip curled. “‘We’, first and now compliments? Wow, you must be high”

He snorted, one of those quiet laughs that never made it past his throat “Talk”

The word was simple but it carried weight. Not a demand nor a plea, just a space. One he’d cleared for you.

“When I was little, I loved witch movies and one day I stole a rune book from the library…it wasn’t allowed for my age range. I must have read it a thousand times ... .So I started drawing runes on things wherever I thought it was needed” You wanted to stop there, but when you met his eyes, he was intently listening. You sighed “Anyway, I stopped at some point when I thought common sense should’ve kicked in but lately, I've been having some nightmares about being ripped apart by walkers—I said ‘fuck it’ and did what I used to when I was younger as my last resort. I got under my bed and drew one” You paused but Dayl didn’t speak, knowing there was more.

“Might’ve doodled something under yours too.” 

He blinked but his expression didn’t change much, just a slight lift of his brow, the faitest twitch at the corner of his mouth. You continued.

“Glenn caught me. I panicked and smacked my head on the metal bed frame trying to get out from under it like a damn racoon”

“Let me get this righ’,” he said, that gravelly voice coated in something between amusement and something far softer. “Ya got under m’bed t’ draw…magic symbols…’cause you were scared I migh’ die?”

“Well, when you say it like that it sounds bad…”

He chuckled, a real one that travelled through the room and over the rain hitting the outside walls. “Ya know, coulda just said somethin’. Like a normal person”

You groaned when he didn’t stop.

“Magic symbols…now I gotta get under there t’ see. Might lose an eye in the process”

“They’re called runes” You corrected, almost out of habit, voice soft. You sat up beside him, knees pulled close, the chill of the concrete floor seeping through your clothes. “Told you it was stupid,” you murmured, avoiding his gaze.

He didn’t respond right away. Just leaned back slightly, arms draped loosely over his knees, his expression unreadable. The quiet stretched thin between you, until even the rain seemed to hush, waiting. Then he shrugged, mostly to himself.

“Dun care if it’s runes or rabbit’s feet. If it helps ya sleep…if it means somethin’ t’ ya…’s good ‘nough for me” he paused “It still don’t mean it ain’t gonna take a lot fer ya t’ get rid’o me…” he turned to face you, his voice impossibly lower “Ya know tha’, righ’?”

You didn’t realize how close you’d moved until your eyes locked again, breath catching in the space between you. ALL you could offer was a short, hesitant nod. Your faces seemed to inch closer, the quiet moment stretching taut.

Then, like a whispered sigh, a sudden gust of wind swept through the room, cold and unexpected, raising goosebumps along your skin and snuffing out the candle’s gentle flame. The warmth vanished, leaving the shadows to hold onto that moment, that fragile secret, for a while longer.

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PEDRO PASCAL The cast of Materialists plays 'Something Old, Something New'

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N°8 - Purcon9 - 2025 - Jensen

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PEDRO PASCAL & DAKOTA JOHNSON Answer Rapid-Fire Questions | Off the Cuff - Vogue

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