shadowcitrine

[shadowcitrine]

Fanfiction of him already!! Aaaaaah!

Just Wrap Me Up in Chains (Part 1)

Pairing: Daniel Pine x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Typical John Wick Violence; allusions to illness; SPOILERS FOR BALLERINA

Summary: Uncle Winston relocated you from The Continental New York for your own safety. At your new location, you cross paths with a little girl. Her presence is a mystery. Almost as big of a mystery as Daniel Pine in room 315. Strangers to friends to lovers.

A/N below the cut! Cause—SPOILERS.

Thank you for your brain @shadowcitrine 🩵

A/N: Fell in love with these two characters: Daniel and Ella Pine. Had to write them. So—notes! No real Daniel in this chapter but we’ll get to him in the next one. I took some liberties with Ella’s age. I found that the original script had her as 6 years old. That may have changed but that’s what I ran with. There aren’t a ton of spoilers in this chapter but there are spoilers. I’m doing my best with John Wick universe lore. I’m definitely no expert but this is fun. I’ll update this if I can remember other things I need to say.

“That going to 315?” You asked, circling the cart. The banana split that was nearly spilling over the silver plated boat was impressive. An extra bowl of cherries sat next to it. There was no whipped cream. That was a pity. It was the best part, in your opinion. “Guy sure does like ice cream.”

“He orders food too.” Tobias shrugged. “Lots of it. He just—orders ice cream more.”

You nodded, stepping out of the way as the cart squeaked into motion, one wheel wobbling in a way most people wouldn’t notice. You noticed. Of course you did. You were trained to see things that others didn’t, down to the finest detail where the hotel was concerned. You were raised to be aware. Your Uncle Winston saw to it.

He wasn’t really your uncle. He was your godfather. When your parents were taken from you at such an early age, you were brought up within the walls of The Continental New York. Over the years, you had watched the best of the best partake in the unique services offered. The weapons, medical, and ‘dinner reservations’. You had also seen it house the worst of the worst.

Winston had protected you without directly shielding you. You were an integral part of the hotel’s functionality. Your jobs were important, but mundane, giving you the appearance of just another staff member. He couldn’t let you be seen as anyone important to him. He had too many enemies to show that sort of attachment. It would have certainly spelled disaster for you.

It was for that reason that you had been sent away when bad blood had bloomed between Winston and John Wick. The Baba Yaga. Not that John—Jonathan, as Winston had called him—couldn’t find you with ease if he saw fit. Winston had to make you seem expendable. Inconsequential. Nothing more to him than an employee transfer.

Prague wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great. The Continental ran under the same rules. The same expectations. Only the manager knew of your true ties to the New York hotel and had pledged you’d be looked after.

Just as it had been back home, you worked as the head of housekeeping. Most of your work was managerial, so a short flowy black dress and lightweight cropped blazer were sufficient in lieu of a standard hotel uniform. It was your duty to oversee that the elegant rooms remained on the level of reputably unimpaired—not one speck of dust, nor a single bead of blood. Crisp sheets, fully stocked minibars, and the plushest towels were your weapons in the Underworld.

Most of the patrons welcomed your staff, eager to be pampered and catered to during their stay. But not 315. Not Daniel Pine, as the occupancy list had indicated his name to be. He allowed no one in his suite. And he never left. Not once in just over a week. Sheets, towels, food, toiletries, and other amenities authorized by The Manager were left outside the room. Furthermore, the door never opened while anyone remained in the hallway.

Never.

It certainly wasn’t the oddest behavior you’d witnessed given the surroundings of your profession. So, it was with a shrug that you carried on about your own business and left Mr. Pine to his.

That was, until the Dvorak brothers incident. Three rooms left in shambles. Two employees killed and several others injured, leaving the hotel shorthanded until The Manager could pull off a miracle.

“There is no one else.” Dominik pushed the cart towards you, a wheel trundling up onto the toe of your impractical stiletto.

“Ow! Why can’t you do it?” You asked, fingers wrapping around the curved handle. You already knew the answer. Dominik was security. It had been a miracle for the kitchen staff to convince him to lay hands on that cart at all. Sensing the futility of questioning, you waved a hand and begrudgingly wheeled the thing towards the service elevator.

The ascension to the third floor was silent, the audio system still inoperative since yesterday’s incident. Somehow, it seemed to compound the strange feeling that was stirring in your gut. Anxiety, maybe? You felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, wondering if you’d catch a glimpse of Krampus.

The doors parted and you found the first corridor empty. Unsurprising for that time of evening. The patrons were likely out seeking their next bounty or hiding behind closed doors to ensure their own bounty wasn’t collected.

There was a reason no business was permitted to be conducted on Continental grounds. After all, the hotel was open to the public. Certain floors, like the one you currently navigated, were used by members of the Underworld. As were a number of the lounges. Even if only one side was aware, the two worlds coexisted without much of a problem. Most of the time.

Regardless, that hardly mattered when you were delivering a room service ice cream medley to a dangerous assassin with an apparently massive sweet tooth.

You positioned the cart just so outside the door, ensuring it could be pulled through the entryway without an issue. Knocking firmly, you called out “room service” before pivoting on a heel to return towards the elevator. As you walked, you pulled your access badge from the inner pocket of your blazer. With your usual grace, you fumbled the card, cursing in a whisper when it tumbled onto the floor with a soft sound just before you rounded the corner. Rolling your eyes at your own carelessness, you turned and crouched as ladylike as you could to retrieve your keycard when you heard the click of the lock disengage just down the hall.

You blinked. Once. Twice. An arm was extending from the door, a large hand wrapping around the handle of the cart. The ring he wore was dark against his tan skin and clinked lightly against the metal. But that wasn’t what held your attention. It was the small girl standing just inside the door. Her eyes mirrored your own, wide and curious. Stunned. Neither of you looked away, even as the door closed.

Who was she? Why was she there? There was no record of a kid being on that floor and it wasn’t ‘bring your child to work day’ in the Underworld. Your first thought was to fear for her safety. She was in a room with a dangerous man, after all. However, she hadn’t appeared to be afraid. Just—surprised to see someone near the door.

There was a sound from down the hall. It wasn’t the lock, but something was happening inside the suite. Muted clicks and thumps before it all went quiet. You stayed put, still crouched with eyes narrowed and ears straining while building a myriad of scenarios by sound alone.

You finally heard the little girl giggling from the room followed by a scrape of a spoon on the porcelain bowl that had been provided. A man’s voice, distinct in its dark, rich timbre. Another giggle and then the faint but familiar tune of Under the Sea from The Little Mermaid. If the little girl was there against her will, she was being spoiled rotten.

Fetching your badge and rising to walk away, you told yourself to stay out of it. It was none of your business. Uncle Winston would have granted you a two hour lecture if he had even an inkling of knowledge that you were merely curious about the affairs of anyone wrapped up in the life of the Underworld.

But Uncle Winston wasn’t here.

So you had no problem volunteering to deliver the meals and ice cream the next day—after a trip into town for something that could hopefully go unnoticed by Mr. Pine but draw the eye of the little girl. If she was in trouble, it would be a message to inform her that she had been seen. If she wasn’t, then it was just a gift.

Beneath the serving dish of ice cream, barely noticeable, you left a sticker. A rolling pin with eyes and a smile that said you’re a-dough-rable. You weren’t sure if she could even read but the image was cute enough. After delivering the dessert, you waited downstairs, busying yourself with your duties. If Mr. Pine had noticed, he’d surely make a call to the desk. Or maybe he wouldn’t. There was no way to know for sure.

But when you collected the cart and dishes, the sticker was gone.

At dinnertime, there had been no contact. So you left another sticker: a teapot with a smile that said you’re a cu-tea. When the cart and dishes were returned this time, the sticker had been removed and the adhesive paper had been left behind. Smiling to yourself, you made a decision.

In trouble or not, this little girl was going to know she had a friend in The Continental.

You continued to hide stickers on the cart with each food delivery. One day, a smiley face born of red crayon had been left for you on a napkin. It was a small gesture but it was enough to ensure you knew your efforts were appreciated.

Things continued this way until today. You were walking by the concierge desk when you heard Josef speaking into the phone.

“Mr. Pine? Mr. Pine, are you there?” He appeared to wait, his expression unreadable.

You froze, keeping your eyes averted while straining to listen. The concierge hung up, only for the phone to ring again with the same outcome. Something was fishy. “What’s going on?” You queried, leaning on the opposite side of the desk. You strived to appear mostly uninvested, likely an endeavor you were desperately failing.

Josef sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Room 315 has called about seven times. There’s no response when I answer. I’m gonna have to send up a tech to check the phone lines.” When he picked up the receiver, you watched his fingers begin to dial an extension. Something was definitely off.

“Did he order food and ice cream today yet?” You asked, rounding the desk. Josef didn’t answer for a moment before roughly hanging up the phone.

“No one’s answering in maintenance.” Now he was pinching the bridge of his nose, frustration etched into every line of his face. “No. No orders today.”

Shit.

The phone rang and you snatched it up before Josef could even flinch. “Concierge desk.” You were met with silence. Licking your lips, you glanced at Josef before angling yourself away. “Mr. Pine, would you like your normal ice cream order?” No answer aside from quiet breaths on the other end of the line, too soft to be that of a grown man. Lowering your voice, dropping to a whisper, you added “I can send two stickers this time.”

“I need medicine to make daddy better.”

Your eyes shot wide. It was her. And Mr. Pine—was her father. You took a deep breath, risking a glance at Josef. He was watching you with a furrowed brow and curious stare. “I apologize for the inconvenience with the phone lines, Mr. Pine. Let me call you from my personal line and I’ll handle this issue myself.” You didn’t wait for a response before replacing the receiver on the base. “I think I know what the issue is. I’ll take care of it.”

“You sure? When did you get so tech savvy?” He chuckled, his tone teasing.

“Shut up. I dealt with these kinds of issues all the time in New York. I got it.” You shook your head and pulled out your cellphone. Running a finger down the occupancy list, you found the direct line to room 315 and swiftly dialed it. Playing it cool, you gave Josef a thumbs up and walked away, pressing your back to the wall around the corner. The call connected but there was no answer. “It’s me.” You said, your tone calm and hopefully soothing. Still nothing. “My name is Y/N. What’s yours?”

A beat passed. “Ella.”

“Hi, Ella. Thank you for the smiley face drawing.” When she didn’t respond, you continued. “Ella, can you tell me what you need?”

“Daddy’s sick.” Her voice was small, but remarkably even.

“Okay, what’s wrong with him?” You began walking toward the service elevator, pulling your badge from your inner pocket.

“He’s hot.” You could hear her moving around. “And he’s not waking up.” The rustling of the sheets. Then a barking cough.

Definitely not good.

“Okay, I’m coming up and we’ll figure something out together. Are you okay with that?”

Once again, there was an extended silence. “You can’t use the door.”

The elevator opened and you stepped inside, your finger hovering over the button. “Why can’t I?”

“It’s dangerous.”

Finally pressing the button, the elevator lurched as it began to ascend. “How can a door be dangerous?” It wasn’t the strangest thing you’d ever heard out of a kid’s mouth, but it was up there.

“It just is.” You could have laughed at the indignation in her tone. “And you can’t tell anyone daddy’s sick.”

This was just becoming more and more of a mystery. “Why’s that? We have a doctor here.” The silence stretched to the point where you thought she might have hung up. Lowering your phone from your ear, you glanced at the screen. Still connected.

“He says we can’t trust anyone.”

Narrowing your eyes, you stepped out of the elevator after the bell chimed. “Then why are you trusting me?”

“You gave me stickers.”

You did chuckle this time. “That’s not exactly sound logic, kid.” You reasoned as you traveled the halls toward room 315.

“I’m 6.”

Stopping outside the door, you balanced the phone against your shoulder and grasped the door handle with one hand while your other held the badge. You were seconds away from passing the card over the reader before you let go and stepped back. “Okay, then how am I supposed to get in if I can’t use the door?”

“I’ll open the window.” Ella stated matter-of-factly.

Your jaw fell open. “To the balcony?!” Her problem solving skills definitely needed work if this was her solution. That or she needed to cut back on the cartoons.

“Mhm.” You could hear movement coming from inside the room. Another cough, a low groan. “Can you hurry?”

She wanted you to scale the ledge from the next room. What the actual fuck? Was this some sort of trick? Were you getting too close? So close that Mr. Pine was planning something and willing to use a little girl to do it? “I—”

“Please?” That word in her little voice shifted something inside you. Something you didn’t really like but couldn’t ignore. You thought back to those big eyes meeting yours from the doorway; the red smiley face napkin. If this was some ploy, this girl was a damn mastermind.

“I’m not Wonder Woman, kid.” You ran a hand over your hair, trying to reconcile what she was asking with the urgency of the situation.

“You have to be careful.” It was as if she hadn’t heard your last words at all. Like she knew you had already made up your mind to help.

“Well, yeah. It’s a balcony. On the third floor.”

“No. Not that.” Ella whispered as if someone might overhear. “Sometimes there are bad people outside.”

“You mean—” Of course she meant snipers. You wouldn’t be surprised if some had just taken up permanent residence on the roofs of nearby buildings. Probably even split the electric bill with the owners.

“Please hurry.” Her voice had begun to wobble. It was when you heard the quiet it’s okay, daddy that your resolve absolutely crumbled.

Jesus fuck, what were you getting yourself into? “Okay.” You sighed. “Okay, but I’m in heels. This might take a minute.”

[shadowcitrine]

I love that people feel so connected that they want to share experiences of their favorite celebrities but this??? This is VILE.

'Even if it wasn't sexual' implies that that's what they're really hunting for. Sexual stories about a real person. Not a character. Not fanfiction. Real.

This is the kind of sleezy behavior is why so many celebrities stop interacting with fans. This is why they cancel events and delete social media.

If the script were flipped and we were talking about a woman instead of a man this would be seen as 100% predator behavior. An obsessive stalker masking their obsession as adoration and 'love'.

It doesn't matter if they're in the spot light, they deserve respect AND privacy. It isn't funny. It isn't cute. I don't give a fuck who you are--

BE BETTER.

Hello everyone! ‼️‼️

I’ve decided (if you have had the pleasure) that people who have been with Norman Reedus need to speak up and repost this with details of what he’s like.

even if it wasn’t sexual, if you have been close or have even just met him, this is where you HAVE to share that information.

I want only the truth.

I need this to reach the people!

[shadowcitrine]

Can we all just take a moment to appreciate how absolutely spot on for characterization this is? You can hear Negan so well, every ounce is canon quality.

That said, excuse me while I melt into a puddle. It's so sweet <3

pls more dad negan (including reader like in your drabble) 😭🙏 that drabble was so cute!!! <3

summary: Negan wakes up with the two people he loves most

word count: 1.3k

“Negan? Negan, are you awake?”.

Negan knows it’s a good morning when your voice is the first thing he hears. Another day in this apocalyptic paradise— which is something he doesn’t say lightly.

Despite the skulls he’s had to crack, the years he spent behind bars and the losses he’s had, Negan would do it all over again if it meant meeting you… and the other special lady in his life. Speaking of which, he’s starting to wonder why he didn’t wake up to her usual wailing.

He grunts slightly as he opens his eyes.  The warmth of the bed feels just right for the cold day. 

“Morning darlin,” Negan greets you with a sleepy grin “we finally getting some mama and daddy time?”.

You smile, swiping a stray strand of hair off his forehead. “I wish but…” you sigh tiredly “look down”.

With wary eyes, Negan tilts his head down and finds his little heat source cuddled in between you both, staring up at him with wide eyes.

“Hm, was wondering why the bed was so warm” he says, bringing a finger down to trace her small face.

You let out a laugh as you get comfy beside your husband. “She woke me but it’s too early to start the day” you mumble against your pillow.

“So she’s been promoted to our bed now, huh?” Negan raises an eyebrow, his eyes still on the little terror. Suddenly a small hand comes up, fingers clenching and unclenching.

Giving into her (like always), Negan lifts your daughter up so she’s resting in the centre of his chest. It’s only in times like this do you notice how much she’s grown in the past few months, still so small but full of so much personality. 

“You tryin’ to steal all the attention I should be giving mama?” he asks her “is that your masterplan?”.

Stifling a yawn, you shift onto your side as you shuffle down the bed and tug the blanket up to your shoulders. “Just like her father, she loves the attention” you tease.

“But I think she’s got your stubbornness,” he says softly, a slight chuckle escaping his lips.

Negan settles back into the pillow, cradling the baby against his chest. His hand gently brushes her wisps of hair.

Give it another month or two and she’ll have hair long enough to tie up and style properly. You can already imagine Negan trying to style her: tying her hair up into a tuft full of bows and glittery hair bands. After all, it’s only the best for his little girl.

“You ever think we’d be here? Doing this?” he murmurs, pulling you out of your daydreams “I mean, hell, I’ve been through some shit, but this… this is different”.

You smile, watching him with an affectionate gaze “It’s everything, isn’t it?”.

The baby babbles as if to agree. Her legs kick out slightly before she relaxes again. Despite being up since 4am, she’s still not tired and opts to listen in to your conversation instead of resting her eyes like you hoped.

Negan rubs her back soothingly, watching as your baby tries to cram her fist into her mouth. Trying to carefully corral her hand away from getting gnawed, Negan mutters “Now, if we can just get her to sleep through the night, I’ll be even happier”.

You smile sleepily, still trying to shake off the fog of an early wake-up. 

“She definitely has you wrapped around her finger,” you comment, watching as she loses interest in trying to get her fist into her mouth and tries to tug on one of Negan’s fingers instead. “Literally” you add.

He grins down at the baby, making a funny noise that gets her to coo in response. You snicker “Oh yeah, she’s definitely got you figured out, Mr. Tough Guy”.

Negan looks at you with exaggerated offense, feigning a dramatic gasp. Clearly entertained, the baby gurgles and babbles as Negan continues his one-man show.

“What? Me? Tough guy? I’m a loving father, damn it! I’m a doting… badass… fucking machine daddy. And nothing more!” He kisses the top of the baby’s head with an exaggerated ‘mwah!’ sound. 

Negan looks over at you with a wink but before he can notice how your eyes are growing heavier, the baby coos for his attention again. 

“But this little princess on the other hand?,” he talks in an exaggerated manner “Oh she’s gonna be trouble!”.

You let out a small, sleepy laugh but it’s quickly swallowed up by a yawn. “Yeah, well, she already thinks she’s the boss” You shift a little, getting more comfortable.

Negan chuckles, looking down at the baby like she’s his new best friend. It’s uncanny how much your little baby girl can look so similar to your husband— and yet if you say that out loud, Negan will insist she looks more like you.

Negan raises her tiny fist as if she’s about to start swinging. “Damn right she’s the boss!” He exclaims “Just wait until I teach her the good shit. Killing walkers, turning on the charm— oof!”.

He stops when you poke his side under the blanket. With a lazy smile you mumble “Maybe wait until the baby can walk first before teaching her to kill walkers”.

Your eyelids feel like they’re made of lead and the bed is so warm and comfortable, it feels impossible not to close them just for a while. You snuggle deeper into the blankets, your body practically melting into the mattress. 

“Alright, alright, mama has a point” Negan concedes before getting back to playtime with his mini-me.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t start teaching ya how to work that charm. First lesson: how to look cute and get everything you want” Negan says as if she can understand every word.

The baby blinks, her mouth open as she listens closely. Negan laughs softly, completely amused “Already a pro”.

“Actually and while we’re at it,” Negan continues “I’m gonna have to teach you how to change your own diapers, you’re like a goddamn fire hose attached to a sewerage plant!”.

As he rambles on, he notices how quiet you’ve become. The soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your head is slumped against the pillow, all hint that you're completely out of it. 

And to confirm his theory, you let out a small snort in your sleep. 

Negan pauses, a small smirk forming in his face. “Huh, guess that’s our queue to leave, kiddo” he whispers.

Trying his best to move slowly, Negan pulls back the covers just enough for him to get out. Manoeuvring out of the bed, Negan keeps your little offspring close to his chest. The baby gurgles, as if threatening to cry if Mama doesn't get out of bed too. For once, Negan shoots a glare at the baby, holding onto the look for a few seconds no matter how guilty it makes him feel. 

“Shhhhhh hun, let your mama sleep” he tells her, watching to make sure you don’t stir. Negan knows how hard you work. Despite how much he helps out, Negan can’t feed the baby off his man boob, nor can he lull the baby back to sleep with the same success as you. 

Without you, he knows he wouldn’t be in this situation. He would've never found a woman willing to spawn out his demonic kids and look hot as all hell while doing it!

You’ve always been his exception. You gave him hope. Not just in this world, but in himself. “C’mon you little pipsqueak you’re stuck with me for a while” Negan whispers, giving you one last look before walking out and carefully shutting the door behind him.

If there’s anyone who needs some peace and quiet, it’s you and Negan has no problem helping out with that.

[shadowcitrine]

The details are so good you can taste the humidity in the air and the quiet says so much more than I ever could. <3

Halfway to Anywhere

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Pre-Apocalypse

Warnings: Allusions to abuse, eventual TWD type blood and gore; angst

Summary: Fleeting moments that somehow became everything.

A/N: Angst ahead! Fluff and angst! That’s the story. Definitely listen to the song! As of right now, this is a one shot with no plans of continuing.

🎶Anywhere by Evanescence🎶

Forget this life

Come with me

Don't look back, you're safe now

Unlock your heart

Drop your guard

No one's left to stop you

The old porch swing groaned and creaked with each gentle sway. The thing was older than you were, installed on the doublewide’s too small porch, damned to be more of an eyesore than an amenity. Your dad had never painted it to match the trailer, though he’d have needed several shades and a patience he didn’t possess to conquer that feat. The wood was splintered and slivers dug into the back of your legs below your denim shorts as you enjoyed the final tingling sensations of a nicotine buzz.

The grass was overgrown, the warm breeze inspiring the rolling waves of a dark tide in front of the house with lightning bugs acting as stars on a coastline horizon. You were loath for management to enforce the ordinance that lawns must be maintained no higher than five inches, lest they strip you of your late night escape. For someone who had never left Georgia, you had seen your own ocean. 

You always saw him during those hours spent in your little paradise, skulking around in the dark on the heels of his brother, likely traipsing in after a long night of drinking, drugs, and women. While the older of the two staggered and hollered, the younger walked quietly behind him with unsure strides not born of alcoholic influence. Maybe he had a few drinks in him, but living in that trailer park all your life had shown you the difference between drunk and damaged. 

You knew of the Dixon brothers. Hell, there wasn’t a person in the whole park who hadn’t been scorned by Merle in one way or another. The men were threatened, the women degraded, and the children scared. The man had a remarkable lack of decorum. His younger brother, Daryl, was an entirely different enigma. He had a mouth on him that was usually reserved for defending his sibling in situations of the elder’s own making. Otherwise, he was quiet, his face decorated in a permanent scowl. 

You rarely saw one without the other and had never spoken to either of them, allowing your silence to be your defense in the face of Merle’s advances. Daryl’s gruff  leave ‘er alone, man never fell upon deaf ears. He wasn’t exactly a knight in shining armor but you appreciated his attempts at granting you a reprieve nonetheless. 

You heard the uncoordinated cadence of boots on the gravel-ridden pavement before you saw them on their usual path, the pale illuminance of an old street lamp barely enough to light their way. Merle had a half empty bottle of Jack in his hand, waving it like a conductor’s baton as he slurred the lyrics of some song you’d never heard. Daryl was behind him, his gait steadier than that of his sibling. His head was down, his arms swinging at his sides. His stiff shoulders suggested he had little interest in being privy to Merle’s escapades. Come to think of it, you weren’t sure you had ever seen him without that coil to his demeanor: quiet but ready to strike should the need arise. 

Placing another cigarette between your lips, you never considered how the glow of your lighter would give you away. Your eyes were focused on the flame, the blurred silhouette beyond it coming to a halt as your gaze lifted a fraction of an inch. Your thumb released the fork to extinguish the light, leaving Daryl’s still form in your sights. You didn’t need to see past the shadows that blanketed him to know he had seen you, and Merle was too inebriated to take notice, continuing his trek toward their trailer at the far end of the park. 

The high-pitched buzz of a mosquito by the shell of your ear was all that could be heard beyond the older Dixon’s bellowing and even that was filtered into white noise as you and Daryl maintained your stances. He didn’t move for moments that passed like hours, the stretch of time not exactly uncomfortable though the logical part of your brain said it should have been. You didn’t know him. 

With your vice balanced between your lips, you tapped the cigarette pack against the side of your hand to urge one forward and, before you could take even a second to rethink the decision, you plucked it free and held out the offering toward the man across the way. You briefly considered that he likely had his own, embarrassment blooming as a tight twist in your gut before fizzling out when he took that first step toward your porch. 

A sudden unease sparked to life within you, exacerbated by each tread of Daryl’s boots. What if your daddy woke up? Finding a Dixon at his door would be bad even before you took into account the copious amounts of beer he had ingested before passing out in his Lazy Boy. The ball of your bare foot pressed against the porch to halt the swing as it leveled out. Using that momentum, you pushed off the seat and padded over to the two crooked steps, intercepting Daryl before he could ascend. 

The cigarette was accepted in continued silence. He didn’t ask for a light, but pulled his own from his pocket. When the flint ignited, it was the first time you had seen his face up close. The flame danced in his irises before it was douted, filling you with a foreign disappointment at not seeing their color. 

And so it continued: periodic draws and billows of smoke dancing through the umbrage over your bowed heads. Flicking ash, you drew your bottom lip between your teeth and gnawed at it. Surely he hadn’t walked all the way over just to smoke and stare at his boots. It certainly hadn’t been your initial intent to invite him in the first place. 

You flinched when he cleared his throat, eyes coming up to find him staring at his cigarette, the stick rolling between his forefinger and thumb. “Name’s Daryl.” His voice was a quiet rasp. 

“I know.” You caught his gaze when he glanced at you, eyes narrowed. It shouldn’t have come as a shock that you knew, but his expression was telling. He had to be aware of the reputation the Dixon name carried. When he looked away in the direction of his trailer, the moonlight carved out a section of his face. Blue. His eyes were blue. “I’m Y/N.”

“I know.” He commented without looking back. 

He knew your name? It shouldn’t have been a surprise to you either. Your father had solidified a reputation of his own, instilling in the neighborhood that you were poor, pitiful Y/N. You kept to yourself but the bruises were always dark and profound and your swing was your refuge, leaving the mars on your skin to be public knowledge. No one could begin to understand why you stayed. You weren’t a child. But your father couldn’t care for himself. Right? 

“Daddy’s a drinker.” You weren’t sure why you volunteered the information. It wasn’t his business and he likely didn’t care. Still, maybe he would get it. He was no stranger to the unbridled anger of an alcoholic parent. 

“I know. Mine was too.” When Daryl’s father had passed away, it had been a relief to most of the residents. Will Dixon was worse than Merle in his own way. Their first trailer had been further away from the rest of the park, the fire that had claimed it, along with Daryl’s mother, not reaching the other homes. 

Another trailer had been brought in only days later, placed in a closer lot and away from the pile of debris that remained even all those years later. You had been a child but you could still remember seeing the brothers run down the street toward the blaze only to be stopped by officers already on the scene. Will had been at the bar and appeared more inconvenienced than grief stricken when he had finally dragged himself to what was left of his home. 

“I know.” You hated to admit it but hated the thought of lying to him even more. When your existence sought out the kindness in others in order to sustain itself, honesty was empowering—even if it hurt. 

Daryl nodded and sniffed, but didn’t turn your way. It was if he was waiting for something, but what came had his shoulders sagging. 

“Darylina!”

He stared in the direction of his trailer, the stumbling shadow of his brother silhouetted behind the ragged blinds. Clearing his throat, he held up the cigarette. It was nearly down to the filter. “Thanks, uh…thanks for the smoke.”

“You’re welcome.”

You watched him walk away, the street lamp flickering as he walked beneath the pale halo. As his shadow disappeared and you heard the chaos erupt from the Dixon singlewide, you felt a twinge in your heart of something foreign. 

“Y/N!”

Wincing at the slurred holler of your name, you turned toward the door, casting one last glance over your shoulder. 

“Coming, daddy.”

“It’s easy,” you smiled coolly. “You just make a loop and interlink it.” You held up the partially constructed pattern for his inspection. “See?”

Daryl squinted. “Nah.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette and placed it back in his mouth to dangle loosely from his lips. “Got no idea what m’supposed to be lookin’ at.” He shifted his focus back to the object on his lap. 

Over the last few weeks and several silent smoking sessions, activities such as these had become recurrent: you sitting just beside the railing on the porch with Daryl below. He had never ventured further than the bottom step, but that seemed to be just fine for the both of you. 

Pursing your lips, you continued crocheting, glancing over to watch his hands work. “What’re you working on?” 

“Hmm?” He hummed, apparently completely absorbed by the task at hand. When you remained quiet, he glanced up and back down, then up again. “Oh. Uh, tuning the carburetor for Merle’s bike.”

“Ah.” You both resumed your individual pursuits. “Why isn’t he doing it?” You queried, keeping your eyes on the yarn, skillfully weaving the tight, red stitches. 

Daryl huffed, the sound approaching something spiteful, as he stubbed out his cigarette on the narrow walkway. “Cause he’s prolly four beers in on a tab he ain’t gonna pay.” 

You smiled down at your work. “I must be more fun than drinking if you’re not with him.” You teased lightly. 

He snorted. “Yeah, you an’ your knittin’.”

You feigned offense, dramatically dropping your current project onto your lap. “How dare you. It’s crocheting.” When he shot you an exasperated scowl, you smiled, all teeth and sparkling eyes. Shaking his head, he went back to his tinkering. 

“Whatever.” 

“Whatever.” You clapped back in a mocking tone. 

When the silence ensued, it was never uncomfortable. It hadn’t been from the start. Despite his rough exterior, Daryl was easy when it came to companionship. There were no expectations. Just two people enjoying the stillness of the trailer park after the sun was low enough in the sky to send the youngsters inside for the evening. 

The rickety step creaked when the younger Dixon pushed on it to get to his feet, bike part and tools in hand. You never said goodbye or even goodnight, always parting like the next meeting was simply a continuation of the one before it. 

“Hold on.” You interjected, seeing him still out of the corner of your eye. He didn’t show any symptom of impatience as he waited, something you took as a compliment with how he would always rush his brother when in his company. Once you fastened off the yarn, you placed the supplies aside and held out the finished product. “For you.”

Eyeing the thing suspiciously, Daryl piled everything into the crook of one elbow so he could accept the offering. “What is it?” He turned the thing over and back, his knitted brow something approaching comical. 

“It’s a hat, stupid.” You punctuated the final word with a dramatic roll of your eyes.  

A ghost of a smile played at one corner of his mouth, disappearing before you could marvel at the rare glimpse. “What m’I supposed to do with this?” 

You knew he was teasing in his own way, an act you had picked up on after a few times of mistaking it for dismissal. “Put popcorn in it and go to the movies. What do you think you’re supposed to do with it, Daryl Dixon?”

“Sure as hell ain’t wearin’ it.” He griped, spinning on a heel to start the journey up the vacant street. 

Standing and stretching, you dusted off the back of your shorts and leaned against the tottering pillar to cross your arms. He was just past the illuminated patch of pavement when you saw him stretch the material over his head. “I knew you liked it!” You called.

You saw his middle finger raise above his head before he circled around to the back of his trailer and out of sight. 

“I’d hate to see the other guy.” 

“What?” Daryl looked up as you descended with your first aid kit in hand. When you took a seat next to him, it was as if he had seen a unicorn, his mouth hanging open with his eyebrows rising toward his hairline. Just as he had never ventured beyond the bottom step, you had never left the porch. 

“You trying to catch flies? Close your mouth.” You teased while opening an antiseptic wipe. You reached for him and he reeled back, giving you pause. You didn’t question it, didn’t push him. “You wanna do it yourself?” Flipping your hand, you waited for him to accept the small square. 

Daryl’s eyes darted between your face and the wipe. After what appeared to be careful consideration, he dropped his head and fumbled with a pack of cigarettes. “Nah. It’ll keep.”

“Daryl.” You gave him a look, holding it in silence until he finally turned your way. He had a smoke halfway to his lips but lowered it with a sigh. Victory. 

You were gentle when grasping his chin, gentler still when dabbing the cut across the bridge of his nose. His eyes were lingering toward the right, seemingly avoiding your gaze at all costs. Eye contact wasn’t your strong suit either. 

“What happened?” You asked, shifting your focus to a similar injury on his cheek with a light urging to turn his head. 

“S’it look like?” He had barely moved to scowl at you before you used your grip to correct him. Daryl huffed a breath but made no move to try again. 

“Looks like you were fighting Merle’s battles again.” 

You’d known of nights like this before, though it was the first time you had witnessed the aftermath of such altercations up close. Why he had come to you that night would likely remain a mystery. 

You watched his eyes lower with no reply but you didn’t need one. Daryl was always in some sort of trouble that wasn’t of his own making. The only time he hadn’t followed Merle was when the older of the two had gone to prison. 

Your benign touch returning, you guided him to face you once more before trading the wipe for a fresh one. “Why do you follow him?” You hadn’t meant it any sort of way other than genuine curiosity. Dabbing the split in his lip, you flinched when he lurched backward, his arm coming up between you. 

“Ow, fuck!” He inadvertently licked the area, spitting the antiseptic tinted saliva onto the concrete. “He’s my brother!” His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was the first time that any level of harshness had been directed toward you.

“I just don’t understand—”

“Ya don’t gotta!” He yawped, sobering almost immediately without even sparing you a glance. “Ya don’t gotta understand.” He repeated glumly. 

Your hands had lowered to rest on your thighs as you assessed him, unsure whether or not you should continue to engage at all. You settled on a muted “okay.”

Neither of you moved after that. Neither of you spoke. Marking its inception was a feeling of palpable unease. The tension was stifling by the time he rose to his feet with the unlit cigarette still between his fingers, his boots carrying him in heavy steps past the sanctum of the old street lamp’s glow where he disappeared into the shadows. 

The night had never felt more despondent.

Where is it? You stared at the word search, the diluted lambency of the crooked sconce by the front door not doing you any favors when seeking out the elusive string of letters that amounted to locomotive. Your pen and puzzle book balanced in one hand, you lifted your cigarette to your mouth with the other and indulged in a generous draw, letting the smoke billow from your lips before forcing the remainder out through your nose. 

The rhythmic drumming of the rain on the tin roof was an adequate replacement for your customary moonlight and wind-blown sea of greenery. Never one for The Weather Channel, the storm had been unexpected, but you found solace in the lightning and claps of thunder all the same. The boisterous sonance drowned out your thoughts and veins of luminosity burned away your pensiveness. 

You had seen Daryl since the night you had tended to his injuries. Each time, he had been doing his customary trailing on Merle’s heels, never sparing you a glance even when his brother cat-called you with a string of degrading expletives. The intentional avoidance hurt. You weren’t exactly sure that you could call the thing between you a friendship but it was something. It was tangible and assuaging and you missed it. 

That train of thought derailed within a peal of thunder. You placed your book next to your hip and leaned to look up at the sky, the old swing creaking beneath your shifting weight. Rivulets of rainwater trickled from the malleable metal and dripped onto your face, your eyes squinting and blinking in defiance. 

“S’really comin’ down.”

Your head snapped around to find Daryl standing in your walkway, his hair matted to his head and his clothes clinging to his broad frame. His shoulders were drawn up near his ears. You could only make out his face when pencil strokes of lightning blazed overhead. Standing, you ambled over to the pillar just beyond the railing. 

“What’re doing out there?” You called, your voice lost in the downpour. Daryl angled his head as if straining to hear you. His knee bent slightly, boot lifting as if he were considering a step, but placed back on the ground. “Daryl, you’re drenched!” With a glance over your shoulder, you could see your father still passed out in his chair. Your tongue ran across your lips as you considered your next words carefully. His name was already rolling off your tongue as you turned back to him. “Daryl, come on! Get out of the rain.” He made no move to follow your command. “Get up here or go home!” 

He looked over his shoulder then. You weren’t sure what was happening inside his head, but the way he looked up toward you before he strode forward to stop at the bottom step, you gathered that there were things happening in his home that he wanted no part of. 

You looked up as if unable to remember if your porch covered that step. It didn’t. “Daryl, get up here.” His hand came to rest on the railing, but he hesitated. “Please.” You added, watching his fingers bend to press down against the wood. You had to sidestep out of his way when he darted upward, stopping at your side to stare at you down the ridge of his shoulder. His expression was unreadable. “What, uh—” You fidgeted under the weight of his gaze. “What’re you doing here?”

He seemed to rethink the entirety of the last five minutes, his eyes darting between you and his singlewide. Your throat tightened at the blatant discomfort he was displaying, and for a moment, you thought he would run. He dug through his pocket instead, the pressure of the action wringing water from the fabric. A pack of cigarettes emerged, the outside decorated in thick droplets.

“Do you want one of mine?” You asked, eyeing him as he pulled one free of the pack. Beneath the dim lighting, the paper seemed to be dry, protected by the branded foil. 

“Nah.” He offered it up, watching you place it between your lips. The filter was damp and cool, but not ruined. You turned to fetch your lighter where it was sitting neglected beside your puzzle book. A repetitive grinding click and soft glow of a flame gave you pause, your eyes sliding back before your head turned to position the end of the cigarette over his lighter. 

“Thanks.” The word was accompanied by a thin gray cloud. Daryl nodded, having at some point placed a cigarette of his own in his mouth. He lit it quickly and shoved the lighter back in his pocket, scowling as if offended by the wet feel of his pants. 

You took a heartbeat to consider his intentions, the silence lingering in the air as you smoked, periodic drags taken in unison, though his were substantially longer. He was wearing anxiety like a heavy cloak, his shoulders tense as if he were battling the weight of it. 

“You don’t have to, you know.” You sniffed, crossing your arms but holding your cigarette away from you. You looked down toward that street lamp but could feel his eyes on you. 

“Don’t hafta what?” He asked gruffly. 

You took a heavy draw and exhaled. “Apologize.” You heard him huff something akin to a laugh through his nose and pinned him with your gaze just as he looked down at his boots. 

“Wasn’t gonna.” The way his brow furrowed, his weight shifting from foot to foot, told a different story. 

Satisfied with that mere assumption, you smiled and allowed the shared quiet to enclose your porch once more. The rain had never ceased its onslaught, puddles spreading into dark vibrating pools on either side of the walkway. 

Your cigarette was nearly down to the filter when Daryl flicked his off the porch, the cherry extinguishing with a hiss that went unheard. He turned from you, looking down the steps, his intention to descend clear.

Your fingers were barely touching his hand, a ghost of a caress that spoke the word you dared not give voice to. 

Stay. 

You watched as his forefinger moved, a twitch that was perhaps out of nervousness rather than intent. Daring to raise your head, you found him mimicking your actions, your eyes meeting, gazes saying everything and nothing. 

“Y/N!” The front door bounced off the inner wall as it was flung open, your father’s anger worn as a red face and wild eyes, his shotgun in his hands. “S’a fuckin’ Dixon doin’ on my porch?!”

“Nothing, Daddy!” You intercepted him at the screen door, sliding inside to place your hands on the gun, your cool touch covering his knuckles in hope that your gentleness could persuade him to stand down. Glancing over your shoulder, Daryl hadn’t moved, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Go.” You mouthed. 

There was the smallest, almost imperceptible shake of his head, the lightning painting his eyes a haunting glow of silver. 

“Go.” You tried again, your expression pleading. You knew what awaited you, but Daryl’s fate could be so much worse under the assault of your father’s rage. “Please.”

Daryl’s jaw worked back and forth, his hands now curled into tight fists that trembled next to his hips. Finally, thankfully, he moved off the porch, glancing back and pausing frequently as if it physically pained him to walk away. 

Maybe it did. 

And when the first hit struck, you knew he had seen. 

“It’s not that bad.” You winced in anticipation of a touch that never came. Daryl’s hand hovered next to your face. You could feel the heat of his skin, almost leaned into it but the lingering ghost of violence from your own flesh and blood had left you fearful. As if a single trace of Daryl’s fingertips against your bruised cheek would summon your father from thin air. 

“Sonuvabitch.” His fingers curled into a fist as he lowered his hand, a muscle twitching in his cheek while he looked away at nothing in particular. 

“I’m okay.” You lied. The sidelong scrutiny he gave you made it clear that he knew better. Dropping your head, you kicked at the rocks with the toe of your sneaker. It was the first time the two of you had interacted away from your porch. What should have felt like a milestone in whatever this was between you and Daryl only felt like a force of hand.

“Ya can’t—” He began, looking over his shoulder toward his own trailer, a man you didn’t recognize loading gear into the back of Daryl’s truck. “Let’s get outta here. You an’ me.”

You blinked at him, eyes wide, but he kept his head down when he turned back. He was waiting for your rejection. 

“You mean, like a ride?” You queried, ducking and angling your head to try and catch his eye. His hand came to his mouth, his teeth worrying the side of his thumb. The skin there was already red. 

“Nah.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

He couldn’t possibly be suggesting—

“Leave?” You asked, a note of caution in your tone. Daryl dropped his hand, even as he continued to pick at the irritated skin with the nail of his index finger. He nodded, shifting from foot to foot. 

It was your turn to look over your shoulder, envisioning your father in his chair. You could already feel the next punch, the next kick to your ribs. 

“Okay.” You said quietly. “Okay.” You repeated a little louder. When you turned back to him, he was already searching your eyes, squinting as if he didn’t believe you. “Where will we go?”

He arched a brow. He hadn’t put thought towards anything past the point of asking you to go. Perhaps the offer wasn’t even something he had truly considered until he saw the state of you. 

“I dunno.” He shrugged. “Anywhere.”

You smiled in spite of yourself. “But what about your brother?” The question was genuine though you felt asking it would bring upon some epiphany that would result in a rescinding of the offer. 

Daryl shrugged again. “Can fuck up just fine without me.” 

Not the answer you had expected, but you nodded anyway, considering where exactly you were supposed to take the conversation from there. You couldn’t just up and leave, could you? But exactly was keeping you there? Some twisted sense of responsibility for a man that hadn’t really made any attempt to raise you? You should have said that you would think about it. You should have smiled and thanked him before rejecting the offer. But when you looked at him—really looked at him—you could see the concern, the sincerity, the hope. “I guess daddy could get his own beer.” You shrugged. Had you just made up your mind? The implication both thrilled and terrified you.

Daryl stepped into your space, his movements slow and calculated. His hand came up again to hover next to your cheek. He was giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. The first brush of his rough fingertips had your eyes dancing between his, your head tilting to press into his warm palm when he finally rested it against your skin. “Goin’ huntin’ with my uncle. Ya be ready by ten tonight. Meetcha right here. Merle’ll be at the bar an’ your daddy’ll be passed out.” “I’ll be ready.” You nodded, the calluses on his hand scraped minutely over your cheek. 

For a moment, you thought he would kiss you. Maybe that’s exactly what he intended to do because when you stepped back, you saw the glimmer of disappointment in his expression. “Not yet.” You teased, watching his brow furrow in the face of your coy smile. “I wasn’t gonna—” Daryl’s cheeks flushed, his head ducking and tilting so he could glance at you, his thumb traveling toward his mouth for him to gnaw on the side. You’d need to get him out of that habit and apparently, you’d have time for that. “Liar.” You walked backwards toward your doublewide. You had some packing to do. The man you now surmised to be Daryl’s uncle was moving around the truck at Daryl’s place. 

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, but there was a ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it had appeared. “When would ya—” When would you let him kiss you? The thought alone sent a thrill up your spine. “I don’t know.” You grinned, holding your arms outstretched as you spun around, your spirit unburdened for the first time in as long as you could remember. “When we’re halfway to anywhere.” Daryl watched you, his expression unreadable, but there was a certain something in his eyes. A promise. A promise of adventure, of freedom, of things you couldn’t fathom to name at that moment. “M’gonna hold ya to that.” He nodded, taking a step back. “See ya tonight. Be ready.” “I’ll be ready.” You watched him go, smiled as he looked over his shoulder one last time before he climbed into the driver’s seat of his truck. The man in the passenger seat was grinning as they pulled away from the singlewide, likely teasing Daryl if the scowl that soured his expression was anything to go by. You watched the truck until it was out of sight. “I’ll be ready.”

Merle had left around 8:30 on his motorcycle. You had watched him from the porch swing, thankful he hadn’t seen you. You had wanted to enjoy that last cigarette at your childhood home, your feet languidly kicking as the chain creaked and groaned while you swayed. 

You had discovered around 9:03 that your upright suitcase did not make for a good seat with the handle digging into your left ass cheek. It had been your mother’s, a vintage leather briefcase style trunk with the lockable hasps. If Daryl didn’t tease you about it, then you’d be shocked. 

You had packed your meager belongings early in the day, just after Daryl had left, hiding your suitcase until your father had passed out. You took only your clothes, toiletries, your favorite yarn, and a 5mm hook. Everything else was trivial and could be replaced. 

When Daryl wasn’t home by ten, you didn’t panic. You really didn’t think much of it at all. If his uncle was anything like Merle, Daryl was likely still trying to coerce him into the truck while a can of lukewarm PBR was being waved in a careless fist. 

By eleven, you were bouncing your feet and chewing your nails. Maybe they had come across some game, bagged a nice buck. They would need time to field dress and load it up. Daryl was always in a better mood when he’d visit you after a successful hunt. 

Your eyes flicked over to movement down the lane. A middle aged couple hurried from their trailer, the slams of their car doors loud in the quiet park. A loose belt whined as they accelerated out of the neighborhood before even turning on their headlights. They hadn’t even closed their front door. 

“That was weird.” You muttered. 

The night wore on, but still you waited. It was 1:26 when you began to pace. Maybe his uncle had insisted they went to the bar. That would mean corralling both older Dixons into the truck and loading Merle’s bike. It made sense. 

And it kept you hopeful. 

Until 5:42, when the birds started to sing and the vast darkness above you began to lose the stars and shift from black to a deep blue. Soon it would be burnt orange but as long as you could still see the moon, you could keep believing that it was still the night you were supposed to run with him. 

What if something had happened to him? Over your time spent becoming friends, becoming whatever it was you were, you had grown so accustomed to his presence, to his silent support. The mere thought of that being torn away from you made your heart ache and your throat tight. 

But what if he had intentionally stayed away? 

No. He wouldn’t. And you’d accept no other answer. That was that. 

Something had kept him away. 

At 7:13, you placed your suitcase inside your closet. There was no need to tip toe. Your father kept the television so loud that you were sure half the park knew the weekly forecast without access to cable or radio. 

You blinked aggressively at the sting behind your eyes while you moved around the kitchen, forcing yourself into the routine you had thought you would be leaving behind. Dishes before cooking hot food for your father and a bowl of cereal for yourself. 

“Strange behavior and aggressive encounters reported in urban areas…”

You glanced at the tv as you scrubbed last night’s dinner dishes, your eyes narrowing. A female reporter was interviewing a woman with a thick white bandage on her upper arm. 

“…came outta nowhere and he—he bit me! He didn’t look right, y’know? Like he was sick…”

Suds dripped from your hands as you approached the area behind your father’s chair, his snores nothing more than background noise as you watched the report. Water dripped onto the leather of the Lazy Boy when your hand wrapped around the remote, your thumb pressing the button to scan the channels.

“…hospital is in chaos as the bodies of patients earlier pronounced dead roamed the halls..”

“…vicious attacks…multiple deaths reported…”

“…cannibalism…”

“…officials advise people to stay inside…”

You flinched when a scream from outside seemed to reverberate down your spine, the remote slipping from your fingers to bounce on the thin brown carpet. You opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch, watching the scene unfold. 

Your neighbors ran, children and bags in their arms, ducking into their cars. On the sidewalk was Mrs. Haley, her body jerking as two men bowed over her. You had never seen so much blood as the men began to disembowel the poor old woman. 

Your hand went to your mouth as you listened to the screams. Some people moved with haste while others were slow, their actions jerky and the worst sounds coming from somewhere in their throats. 

So. Much. Blood. 

“Y/N!” 

You jerked when your father grabbed your shoulders. “Daddy, I—”

“Get in the damn truck, girl!” He barked, giving you a shove off the porch. You nearly tumbled onto the walkway. 

When you were close enough to reach for the door handle, you found yourself still moving, crossing the pavement beneath that old street lamp. You could  imagine Daryl’s silhouette way back on that first night, just before that initial shared cigarette. 

Climbing the steps of Dixon porch, the bottom piece of wood wobbling beneath your feet, you smacked your palm against the door. “Daryl!” You called desperately. His truck wasn’t there. Neither was Merle’s bike. But your heart wouldn’t believe it. “Daryl, please!” 

“Y/N, what the fuck’re you doin’?” Your father cried out. You could hear his boots on the pavement. 

Your fingers folded into a fist against the door, a single tear sliding down your cheek as a rough hand wrapped around your upper arm, your father’s angry voice in your ear as he pulled you away. 

Your eyes roamed the trailer, committing everything you could to memory. Everything that would remind you of the man who almost set you free, the man who had wanted to run away with you to anywhere. The sideways shutter on the living room window. The motorcycle headlamp on the porch’s faded plastic chair. The crocheted red hat lying on the dresser you could see through the broken blinds. 

With a smile that was just as broken as your heart, you took in a shaky breath, your hand pressing against the glass when your father slammed the truck door. “Goodnight, Daryl.”

[shadowcitrine]

Kinda short but hella sweet. There's this pining that's gentle but also a bit feral. Delightful. ;)

note: part 4. language, smidge of smut, minors do whatever you want but know you’re responsible for it. I hope I got Daryl’s pov right. Third person writing is hard.

He broke his right arm when he was twelve. Fell out of an oak tree in the woods just behind his house and it’s given him trouble ever since.

He learned how to do several things with his left though, steer a motorcycle, feed himself but never quite mastered the art of jerking off. Never could get the grip right so when his cock jerks at the memory of you running your soft hands up his stomach then along his chest to gather the material of his shirt in your hands a quiet groan escapes him and he lifts his face to the hot water flowing from the shower head. Think about anything else. Rotting corpses. Carol’s meatless meatloaf. The way your eyes look when you’re hiding in the dark - watching him from the rim of your coffee cup, the faint rays of early sunlight hitting them just right and making them shine like jewels. The way your hands felt on his back a few nights ago when you showed up with medicine to help him. The last person that deserves it. He’s the one that’s supposed to help people, not the other way around.

It’s why he’s always stayed a safe distance from you. Shane’s group needed him, to track and hunt and gather but watching you sitting by that quarry at the start of all this he knew he’d let every one of them burn for you.

The thoughts unsettling but it helps with his boner. He sure as fuck can’t go back out there and have you lather him up with muscle rub with it raging between his legs so he focuses on the fact that your group is doomed the closer you get to him and that meatless meatloaf shit he was forced to eat last week.

It instantly returns when you look up at him from his bed - on your knees and waiting. “F-fuck.”

“You okay?”

You’re so goddamn sweet. Beautiful and kind, a badass with a knife and a decent mechanic. Yep, Rick maybe your brother but he’d burn this whole fucking world for you starting with their leader.

“Y-yeah.” Daryl crosses the room and sits at the edge of the bed, eyes closing as your knees sink into his sides and you begin to warm some of the muscle relief cream between your hands.

Straight to business, you have to be sick of coddling him by now but when your palms meet his back they move slowly and skillfully across his skin - minding the shoulder and bruises along his ribs but working hard into the tight muscles in his back. It feels like fucking heaven and the groan that leaves his chest slows your fingers further. “I’m not hurting you right?”

Your voice is so soft, breath fanning over the menthol medication as his head hangs forward and a deep pleading no rushes from his lips. “O-okay.” You work your thumbs along his spine just close enough to the tightness in his shoulder without making it worse. “…f-fuck… f-feels so fucking good…” You swallow hard and continue, trying to ignore the disparity in his ragged words and the way they light up your insides filling you with desire. You want to hear them again but whispered against your ear while he’s buried inside of you. “S-shit.” His back rises with a deep intake of air as he asks what’s wrong causing your fingers to falter again, chest tight as you scramble for something to say. You’re throaty moans and sexy words are turning me on Daryl Dixon isn’t it so you place your hands back to his skin and whisper something that your brain can’t even process - feeling a rush of heat crawl up your neck as you take in your own deep breath.

“H-how did you get these?” You whisper with a shaky breath, running your finger along the longest scar across his back - watching a shiver run through him. Silence fills the room as you wait, running your hands along the muscles beneath the scar and receiving another quiet groan. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.” You assure him softly, bringing your fingers over the smaller scar and up to his left shoulder.

“Leather strap. Dad would get black out drunk and take his anger out on me. A lot.”

You’re not surprised by his answer but it still hurts you just the same, tightening the muscles in your chest as you work your fingers down to his lower back. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” Daryl grunts, lifting his good shoulder in a slight shrug as he assures you it was a long time ago. “You said it was just you and yer old man? How was he?”

“Mostly a happy drunk. He liked to gamble so we never had much. My mom died when I was little so it was always just us. He tried his best, he was a good dad.”

The thought of you having at least one decent parent relaxes his muscles further as Daryl takes in your words. “Mom died when I was a kid too…, but she wasn’t much better than my old man. At least ya knew where ya stood with him. Don’t remember my mom ever havin’ much t’say to me.”

You find yourself alternating between rubbing Daryl’s back then gliding your nails gently across his skin, watching his head fall forward with a happy sigh. “I guess we can’t pick our parents…, we can only strive to be better than they were.” You watch him nod slightly as your nails creep close to the base of his skull and he leans back into your touch. “Y-yeah.” He whispers bringing on your smile as you sink your fingers into his hair and massage his scalp.

“Ya do this shit before the world went to hell?” Each word is but a mumble of syllables as you work your fingers deep into the nape of his neck, loosening the tension along his shoulders as a quiet sigh rushes from his lips. “Nope.” You’re not sure if he’s listening but you explain you’ve never given anyone a massage before him - fingers hesitating at his shoulders as he whispers how good it feels - sending that tingling feeling back into your core.

Daryl Dixon is putty in your hands, you could ask anything of him in this moment and he would die trying to give it to you. The thought is thrilling. You also think he’s almost asleep by now heavy his head is getting. “Daryl?”

“Mmm?”

A whimper rushes from your throat as he whispers your name followed by please don’t stop in an almost inaudible moan that has your fingers tightening in his hair. You’re not sure how much more of that you can handle but luckily (or unluckily) that’s all you’re blessed with tonight because in the next minute Daryl’s gone slack and you have to grab his arms to keep him from falling forward. Shit.

It takes you several minutes to maneuver around him (he’s nearly twice your size) and guide him to his back as he turns - almost trapping you as he takes in a deep breath. You force him to move further up the bed so he’s not half on half off then place your hands on your hips to catch your breath. If you’ve ever wrestled a bear this is what it feels like you think as you take in the sight before you.

You’ve mostly seen Daryl ready to strike at any given moment, wound tight and skeptical but right now he looks so innocent - almost vulnerable and it fills your heart with an emotion that scares the shit out of you. So much that you cross the room and cut out the light, fumbling your way back in the dark to crawl into the side chair in the corner of his room. Once your eyes adjust to the darkness you study his handsome face - the fading bruise along his cheek from who only knows what, his full lips - idly wondering how they would feel pressed against yours. You listen to his even breathing, watching his chest rise and fall peacefully as he lulls you into your own dreamless sleep.

[shadowcitrine]

Mild whump but the setting tension is something to be studied.

Whumpuary 2025 1 & 13

Prompt 1: Headache

Prompt 13: “I’m fine.”

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Typical TWD violence & gore

The concrete tilted and wavered as you walked, making it difficult to conceal your current plight: a massive headache that had been brewing behind your eyes for the better part of a day. These were usually handled in secret. There was no need to worry the others, especially Daryl. He tended to hover where you were concerned, more so if there was any sort of threat or injury.

You knew your suffering could pose a danger. That’s why you had opted to watch the doors while Daryl and Glenn had gone inside the convenience store in search of anything useful. From the state of the broken windows and the debris of wrappers and boxes left outside, it had been looted several times over. Regardless, your crew left no stone unturned. Ever.

Unlikely as it was to find anything substantial, there was always the chance something had been missed before. The practice had paid off more than once and that alone made these trips worth the risk.

“Ow.” You whimpered, pinching the bridge of your nose. You were sure to leave one eye cracked, though it was tunneling and littered with gray floaters. It wouldn’t do for a walker or another person to take you by surprise.

“Y’alright?” Daryl’s rough tone startled you into nearly dropping your gun, his quick reflexes allowing him to catch the barrel before it could clatter and accidentally discharge.

“I’m—” The sudden jerk of your head had your vision swimming and made focusing on Daryl’s silhouette nearly impossible. “I’m fine.”

He hummed with a skeptical undertone. “Right. Found a attic. Couple’a poor bastards checked out up there but had some food, medicine.”

Worth it after all. “That’s good.” You made the mistake of nodding, the pain it brought summoning bile into your esophagus. “Real—real good.”

“Y’sure you’re okay?” He still hadn’t relinquished the weapon to you.

“Yeah, Daryl, I’m fine.” You brought a hand toward your head, desperate to shield your eyes from the sun, but withdrew at the last second.

“Yeah, m’callin’ bullshit.” As if he knew Glenn would be there just at the right moment, he held the gun out to the side, the younger man almost walking into it while slipping his full backpack onto his shoulders.

“What the hell, Daryl?” Glenn asked with obvious annoyance.

“Take this,” was the archer’s only reply before one of his arms was cradling the small of your back while the other swept behind your knees. “S’get outta here.”

“I can walk, Dar—” You hissed under the onslaught of the bright sunlight and turned your face into Daryl’s chest, fingers twisting into his vest.

“Sure ya can.” The door of the old sedan creaked and groaned as it was opened, the seat soft beneath you. You thought you would have the entire backseat but that notion was quickly dismissed as one door closed and the other opened, your head gently lifted and pillowed on someone’s lap. There was no need to subject yourself to the light in order to know it was Daryl.

“Thank you.” You whispered.

“Mhm.” A large hand cradled the back of your head with a thumb rubbing gentle circles into your temple. “S’getcha home.”

[shadowcitrine]

I don't think I've ever read something poor quality from them. Big fan is an understatement XD

「 ✦ MASTERLIST✦ 」

✧₊⁺⋆☾⋆.˚₊✩ requests are open ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

>drabbles masterlist<

Negan Smith Fics

Game On -> what’s the best way to distract Negan while playing video games with him? Dirty talk of course! !NSFW!

Nightmare Comfort -> just a quick drabble about Negan comforting you after a nightmare

Reflections -> pure smut with a mirror lol !NSFW!

Know It -> Negan realises you’re insecure about becoming a parent and gives you some much needed reassurance 

Kneel -> Negan reminds you what you’re supposed to do whenever you see him in the Sanctuary !NSFW!

Thrill of It -> You open up (in more ways than one) when Negan notices your quiet mood, TW: mentions of self harm & suicidal thoughts, !NSFW!

World of Trouble -> Your Halloween costume leads to a punishment from the man himself... !NSFW!

All The Way -> You’ve always told yourself the reason you would never hook up with Negan is because of his uncommitted, womanizer personality, but after a steamy night together, the tables turn and you’re the one running !NSFW!

The Christmas Party -> Your first year at Alexandria High is going smoothly, until you accidentally offer to plan the staff Christmas party! MULTI-CHAPTER

~that's all for now!

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶

my goal was to write at least one fic for every JDM character but then I watched In the Blink of an Eye and omg that was such fucking dogshit it actually made me realize I am not God's strongest soldier and there is no way I could write for every single JDM character

but I'm up for the challenge and will try to write for any/all JDM characters!

[shadowcitrine]

Seriously wonderfully worded. I had to lean back in my chair and say omg. Genuinely one of my favorite Negan writers of all time.

All The Way

Summary: You’ve always told yourself the reason you would never hook up with Negan is because of his uncommitted, womanizer personality, but after a steamy night together, the tables turn and you’re the one running.

Is this the aftermath of a one night stand, or the beginning of something new?

Pairing: Saviors Era Negan x f!reader

Word Count: 4.8k

Tags: !NSFW! smut, one night stand, morning after, emotionally stunted idiots in love, hypocrisy, alcohol consumption, shame and conflicting emotions

Everything hurts... well, one area in particular. 

Without moving, you know he’s there. His steady breath against the side of your neck tells you he’s still asleep, having not moved an inch from the night before. 

There’s a part of you that’s truly relieved to have woken up first. You didn’t really think this part through but making sure he stays asleep seems like a good start.

Despite the warm bed practically begging you to stay, you cautiously slide yourself out from the sheets. You keep your movements slow and practical, taking as much time as necessary to remove Negan’s arm from your torso.

There’s not a doubt in your mind that Negan would make this whole ‘morning after’ thing a living nightmare for you, and so taking your leave now is the best solution.

Once you grab your clothes, the rest is easy. Hiking your panties and jeans back up, you notice two empty glasses on his nightstand. You remember only having one drink last night but you nursed it throughout, wanting to take the edge off. 

Negan had about two glasses of whiskey, which made him more talkative than usual — if that’s even possible. What started off as you venting to him, slowly turned into him venting to you and then, somehow, you both ended up bed.

As much as you want to regret your choices, you can’t. There’s something undeniably magnetic about Negan, a charisma that pulls you in like a moth to a flame. His laughter is contagious and when he flashes you that big grin, the rest of the world fades away. 

That’s what last night felt like, as if it was just the two of you left in the world, too busy enjoying your bubble of shared giggles to care. Even with his reputation as a womanizer, you can’t help but feel a warmth in your chest when his attention is on you.

You know Negan wouldn’t hurt you on purpose but he’s a man with not just one, but multiple wives. He has always been vocal about having no issue with getting more wives but that just isn’t you. 

Up until last night, that’s why you were hesitant to get involved with him. It’s why you would ignore the glimmer in his eyes whenever he looked at you, chalking it up to being a part of his game.

Now that the inevitable has finally happened, here you are, scrambling to cover your tracks and trying to erase the memories of the night before. You already know that you’ll be another notch on his bedpost, another woman for him to smirk at in the hallways as you both reminisce about your short lived fling. 

Congrats, you're just another woman Negan successfully talked into bed. 

Sure, you held out a lot longer than most but it still happened. You can feel your cheeks warming up as you sneak out of his room and down the corridor. Skipping some of the steps as you hop down the stairs, you let out a long sigh…

Negan licked his lips, his voice low and husky. “You’re so beautiful when you let yourself go, Sweetness,” he encouraged, his hand moving to cup one of your breasts. As he scattered light kisses up the side of your face, he promised to make up for the “damn shitty day” you had dealing with some of the other Saviors.

Nope. You shake your head, snapping yourself back to the present. Last night is something you do not need to replay in your head. 

When you make it to the lower level of the Sanctuary, you’re met with swarms of people going about their daily business. Shit, you don’t even know what time it is!

Walking swiftly to the makeshift cafeteria, you ignore the dull ache in your lower stomach. The humid air clings to your skin, making your clothes stick uncomfortably.

As you pass the workers already prepping for lunch, you realise you’ve completely missed breakfast. A grunt escapes your lips as you see no food, not even any scraps left from the morning rush. 

Once you both made it to the bed, clothes were carelessly tossed everywhere. “Now, how about we move onto the main course, hm?” he smirked, his hand sliding down your body and teasingly brushing against your sensitive folds “That what you want, baby?”.

Negan chuckled at your eager moan in response, his fingers finally entering your wet heat. He pumped his fingers in and out, stretching your tight opening and making you perform a symphony of whimpers. He was in no hurry, knowing he had all night to take his time. Negan brought his mouth to your ear, whispering the filthiest sweet nothings you’ve ever heard.

Shaking your head, you almost tell yourself out loud to stop. Yes, it’s a good idea to think about something else to distract yourself from the hunger but don’t think about that!

Negan groaned, his cock finally pressing against your entrance. Slowly, he pushed inside, filling you up. You gasped, clutching the bedsheet beneath you as he went deeper. Negan was there to comfort you, his determination unrelenting as he put his hand on top of yours, silently reassuring you that he was there with you – all the way.

Goddammit. 

Reminding yourself about last night will only make it worse whenever you inevitably see Negan. In fact, that’ll only give him the satisfaction he wants!

Frowning at yourself, you make your way outside. The blinding sun doesn’t bother you as much as it usually does, your mind too preoccupied by the simple task of trying to walk straight. But your distracted state doesn’t last long.

“Hey!” One of the newer Saviors jogs up to you and you try to remember his name “I thought you were going on watch an hour ago”. 

“Oh, shit,” you run a hand down your face “sorry about that, I’m all over the place today”. You give a small laugh, hoping to ease things over quickly. 

He huffs but doesn’t contest your excuse, simply passing you the rifle slung over his shoulder “Well, here. You’re on until dinner. DJ said he’ll watch the northern side so you’re by the fence on the east side, got it?”.

Fantastic. Now you’re going to miss lunch too.

“Hey,” the Savior snaps you out of your thoughts before you can wander too far “you with me?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah” you reply, hoisting the rifle over your shoulder “I’m good”. You give him a firm nod, trying to seem less distracted. 

“Alright, shouldn’t be that hard, y’gotta just watch the fence” he also nods, giving you a once over before he starts to walk away.

With a tight lipped smile, you stroll over to your position. 

His thrusts got harder, his fingers digging into the plush of your hips as he pushes the entirety of his cock into you, over and over again. Negan’s other hand slid down between your legs, teasing your clit. "Like I got heaven wrapped around my dick,” Negan panted heavily as he grasped your thigh, pulling your leg up firmly against his shoulder. 

“Oh god,” you gasped, your back arching off the bed. 

“Fuck, I've wanted to be buried in your sweet cunt for so long. Who’s making you moan, baby? Tell me who…” 

It’s a miracle you didn’t drop dead right then and there as the memories flash before your eyes. If you can’t even think back to last night without getting all flustered, how will you handle it when Negan is purposefully trying to get under your skin?

You shift uncomfortably at what your future encounters with Negan might be like. A small voice in the back of your mind sows seeds of doubt. Maybe the other women who Negan has managed to catch in his venus flytrap will be able to tell you’re the newest casualty that landed in his snare. 

Maybe they’ll show pity or maybe they’ll just be glad he’s done toying with you and hope he might go back to showing one of them attention instead…

No memories come flooding back this time, the dread of seeing him again overwhelming you. Wandering off to one of the quieter parts of the fence, the levity of your impulsive decision starts to set in. 

Mindlessly playing with the strap of the rifle, you wonder if you could stay out here until night or if it’s possible to avoid him forever. 

“Fuck…” you curse yourself.  

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

For the first time in a long time, Negan has a smile on his face when he wakes up. Despite all he has in this new world order, this is a rarity for him.

He may not know what’ll happen today, tomorrow, next week or even next year but he’s damn sure he knows who’s beside him now.

Negan doesn’t need to open his eyes to know it’s already late in the day. But who could blame him for sleeping in? Especially with the workout you both had last night.

He bucked up into you as you bounced on his cock, meeting you each time. “That’s it, baby” Negan cooed, driving his hips up erratically “Wanna feel ya squeeze me". 

He smiles at the fond memories, hoping to make some new ones once you have some food first. He’s well aware you’ll both need the energy.

Negan sprawls his arm across his bed, trying to feel for your warm body. Funnily enough, he always pegged you as a cuddler but the lack of spooning tells him otherwise.

His eyebrows knit together as he runs his arm across the bed again, unable to find you. Negan begrudgingly opens his eyes, expecting to see you somewhere on the bed but he’s greeted by empty sheets. This doesn’t dampen his mood though, if anything, it makes him think he’s picked a real winner.

You’re already up and going to grab him some breakfast downstairs? Negan knows he’s being spoiled.

"Fuck, you’re incredible," Negan groaned against your lips, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. 

A smug smile spreads across his face. Perfect. Everything is perfect. Except, if he’s to nitpick, there’s a lack of smell.

There’s no mouth watering waft of bacon reaching his nose or smell of eggs gracing his morning. Though, Negan is quick to dismiss his concerns, chalking it up to you taking your sweet ass time so you don’t drop the food on the way up to his room.

He stretches out, going full spread eagle as he lays naked and waiting. A part of him still can’t believe you finally let last night happen. If you were to ask him, Negan thinks you both did that whole ‘will they, won’t they’ thing for far too long. It was about time he got to give you a good show.

And now you can both eat some breakfast when you get back, fuck again, then Negan knows he’ll probably have to shout at some pricks, make sure Simon can handle shit for the day and afterwards, fuck you yet again. 

Now, that sounds like one fantastic day to him. 

Negan closes his eyes as he waits, feeling a strange wave of peace that he hasn’t felt in years, even when the world was still working. He thinks of you, your body, the way you came undone again and again — all thanks to him.

You stayed on his lap despite your juices seeping down from your core and leaving a glaze on Negan’s thighs. He kept his arms around you the whole time, rubbing your back soothingly. His hands slowly drifted down to your ass, gently squeezing and massaging as you rested on top of him. 

“You feel so good,” Negan murmured, his voice hoarse from exertion. 

“I don’t think I’ve been fucked that good since… well, since forever” You said honestly, pressing your lips to his. Rolling you on to your side, Negan let his duvet envelop you both. You moaned softly as you felt him slowly softening inside you.

“You give me a few minutes to recharge and I’ll be ready for round… three? Four?” Negan raised an eyebrow, the passion of the night blurring together. You giggled, tracing a finger down the side of his face “Pretty sure it’s round three. You sure you’ll be able to keep up?”.

Negan gave you a glare. “Damn right I am” he said, his voice filled with playful determination.

“Boss? I know you’re not dead because you’re not trying to bite my face off,” the not so sexy voice of Simon wakes him. 

Negan grunts, opening an eye to look at his second in command as he subtly makes sure his body is covered under the sheets.

“There a reason you’re trying to perv on me, Si?” he huffs, running a hand down his face. Your absence doesn’t go unnoticed by Negan, even with the abrupt interruption of Simon. 

Simon stays rooted at the door frame, not daring to enter his bedroom any further. “Well, the lieutenants have been up my ass wondering where you are and nobody else has seen you today so I thought I’d come check on ya… seems like you had quite the mighty night” he replies.

Negan nods, a smirk on his face as he can’t help but brag, his bruised ego from you leaving slowly recovering. “What do you expect from a guy that has more wives than shits to give?” his grin says it all.

Simon barks out a laugh, letting a short silence simmer before eventually sighing. 

“Funny, I already checked with them,” he reveals “and I’m sure those girls are fun… but they said they haven’t seen you since yesterday afternoon”. 

Negan hums, losing some of his friendliness. He hates when Simon does this. Just because he’s second in command doesn't mean he needs to overstep. Sometimes minding his own damn business is the preferable option. 

Letting his head fall back on to his pillow, Negan lets out a groan. “What time is it?” he makes a poor attempt to change the subject.

“Just past five”.

“Are you fuckin’ shitting me?” Negan grunts, huffing as he reluctantly moves. Shifting, he lets the blankets pool around his waist as he scans the floor for his clothes. 

“You waited this fucking long before coming to check everything’s alright?” He starts to lecture Simon, reaching out to yank his boxers up from the floor. 

Simon faces the door to give him some privacy. “Thought you’d need the sleep, boss,” he replies “and it looks like I was right considering you were sleeping like a log when I came in”.

Negan snorts, muttering curses under his breath as he pulls his jeans on. “Well, thank you for your concern, Si” he grumbles, his tone sharp with sarcasm. 

He stands, fumbling with his belt. “But the next time my ass isn’t downstairs for the morning meeting, you come get me. Hell, what if something was going on? Could’ve been a fucking riot for all I know” Negan continues to rant on.

Simon shrugs, his gaze trained on Negan now that he has some modesty “Everyone’s fine. No one’s started a mutiny yet.”

Negan lets out a long breath, not bothering to hide the irritation creeping into his voice. “Yeah, well, just cause it’s fine doesn’t mean shit’s smooth” He grabs a shirt from the pile of clothes on his armchair and pulls it on, the fabric rough against his skin. 

Negan runs a hand through his hair, snatching his leather jacket before pacing towards the door. He reaches out to grab Lucille and Simon moves just in time for Negan to pass by without a word. Left standing there, Simon watches as Negan storms off, his mind clearly elsewhere.

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

It’s just after dinner when he appears. You’ve slowly started to relax, the hot meal you decided to splurge your points on making you ease into the evening. And of course, just as your guard comes down is when Negan has to make an appearance.

Like a wave, all residents of the Sanctuary kneel as Negan bodes overhead, making his way along one of the high up walkways. You have to force your body to join the crowd.

Head down, knee bent and unmoving.

You act as if your tyrannical (and great in the sac) leader is a dinosaur that can sense movement. Or fear.

You stay still. Everyone simply waits. 

Negan stands tall, Lucille present over his shoulder as he peers down, trying to pick you out from the crowd. He scans his sea of followers, a frown slowly settling on his face. The more Negan thinks about it, the more apparent his annoyance is. 

After making him wait for so long, you just vanish the next morning? Not even a thank you? Negan huffs.

He has a goddamn empire to run, the last thing he needs to be dealing with is non-committed people; whether that be Saviors who can’t deal with shit when they need to or you deciding to high tail it out of his bedroom.

You can feel your legs shake, the pounding you got last night not helping your need to stay still. The more you try to force your body still, the more it yearns to move. 

The silence stretches on until finally, Negan speaks “Alright, listen up you fuckers”. 

You shut your eyes. Great, this is exactly what you need. A speech.

“I know shit’s been tough but hey, look at us! Persevering. Ain’t that the life, huh? We are doing good!” He exclaims, his eyes trying to study each person, a task that’s harder than it sounds when most refuse to look him in the eye “And I want each and every one of you to know, I am getting the job done for you! I’m getting my hands dirty, no matter how tight it might get. I go all in”.

You can’t help but shift, slightly uncomfortable at his wording. Suddenly his speeches have a certain edge to them.

His eyes immediately go to you, watching as you roll your shoulders, head remaining down. Negan smirks, no longer caring about speeches now that he’s won his game of Where’s Waldo.

“So let’s not waste any more time. Keep it tight, keep it hot and keep fuckin’ moving. Go!” he quickly wraps it up.

By the time everyone has scrambled back up to their feet, Negan’s on the stairs. His boots clank under each step, like a warning bell going off every time he moves closer. You stand and look, his eyes meeting yours in a stare off like no other.

His mouth juts out into a pout, his gaze hard and unwavering. You’d almost find the look endearing if it wasn’t directed at you.

Spinning on your heels, you rush out of the open room and into the smaller corridors of the Sanctuary. You don’t need to have some awkward confrontation, especially in a crowded room. It’s too exposing, even if the others don’t catch on to what’s happened between you both. 

You weave through the corridors of the Sanctuary, purposefully making your direction confusing. You go up some stairwells just to dart along the floor and go back down the other set of stairs on the opposite side of the building. The last thing you want is Negan to follow you.

Your footsteps echo off the cold concrete floor. The dim overhead lights casts long, flickering shadows that play tricks on your eyes. The air feels suffocating but when you stop and listen for any following footsteps, the stillness only deepens and the silence stays. 

It takes a while but eventually you manage to loop around and make it back to your room. Some Saviors mill around but you take no notice, so close to the only place in this godforsaken building you can stop running and actually breathe.

In your room, you’ll have time to think, time to plan out what to do next and how to get past everything that has happened.

You open your door, a long huff pre-emptively leaving your lips at the stresses of the day. But it’s not over yet.

There, Negan stands in the middle of your room, glancing your way as the door opens. After all that, you walk straight to him.

“W-what are you doing here?” you ask as if he doesn’t have the right to waltz into any room in his Sanctuary.

“What do you think?” he scoffs “Knew you’d come running in here to hide from me”. Negan takes a few steps closer, glaring down at you as he gently pushes the door shut with Lucille. 

That suffocating feeling comes back, running up your spine and wrapping around your throat. It’s a heavy weight when you lay eyes on Negan and the first thing you want to do is run. It doesn’t matter how silly or embarrassing it may be, the idea still seems enticing.

Yet despite your nervous disposition, Negan smirks, smug to have caught you off guard.

You freeze, unsure what to do now that you’re within Lucille’s range. Even with all that has happened between you both in the past 24 hours, you know better than to relax when Lucille is so close.

“So what’s the deal? Couldn’t even stick around to have a bedroom rodeo the morning after?” Negan says, his tone utterly mocking.

You eye the bat and unfortunately, he notices.

He lets out the ghost of a chuckle as he adds “Damn, doll, now you got me wondering if you’re that scared of commitment or maybe your scared you’ve upset dear ol’ Lucille here”.

You know Negan well enough to understand what he wants. He’s egging you on, yearning for you to blow up in his face and give him the argument he desires. It’s frustrating to know that’s his angle but what makes it worse is that you give in.

“You’re going to act as if I’m the problem?” your temper flares at his audacity “Act as if I’m the one who’s scared of commitment?! Really, Mr-Ten-Wives?”.

Negan narrows his eyes, not appreciating that comment but keeping his mocking tone nonetheless. “It’s six wives, actually. And if you took the time to actually get to know me instead of just wanting to get into my pants, maybe you’d know that” his voice is laced with sarcasm. 

At this point, there’s little holding you back from socking him in his handsome face. How dare he! First, his issue was that you wouldn’t jump into bed with him but now he’s acting as if that’s all you wanted?!

Even if there's a part of you that might be afraid of commitment, the idea of Negan of all people calling you out on it feels wrong. 

It doesn't matter if he’s right, he’s being an asshole. The last thing you want to do now is concede his point, especially when Negan will only see it as a victory thanks to his taunting.

“So what?” you throw your hands up as you begin to pace, wanting some distance from him “You wanted me to stay this morning so I could listen to you snore and then stroke your ego when you finally wake up?”.

Letting Lucille rest against the wall, Negan shrugs.

“Well, I was kinda thinking you could stroke something else,” he smirks, thinking back to how he imagined the morning going. Negan chuckles, his tongue running over his teeth as he gets lost in his fantasy. You glare, not wanting to even think about what’s going through his head.

His eyes flicker over you for a moment, sighing when he sees your stern expression. 

Pushing his lewd thoughts away, he continues “Look, sweetheart, we both know I'm not winning any ‘Lover of the Year' awards when it comes to the emotional side of things, but at least I don't skedaddle when things get too real".

This is the part of Negan you equally love and hate; his honesty. Given his larger-than-life persona, you'd expect his ego to stop him from accepting when he's wrong but instead, Negan possesses the rare ability known as humility.

It’s one not many Saviors seem to possess but that’s what lends weight to Negan’s opinion, making it harder to dismiss as the musings of an egomaniac. Besides the rare occasion, you know when Negan confronts you on something, he tends to have a point.

That doesn’t make this any easier. If anything, it makes you want to dig your heels in more. If he’s going to hold a mirror up to your own flaws, why not do the same to him?

"And if I did skedaddle,” you admit flippantly, “have you thought that maybe it’s because I didn’t want to be waking up next to a grown ass man that’s scared of being vulnerable? Of letting anyone get too close or of actually feeling anything!”.

Negan’s face hardens, his jaw becoming rigid. For a moment, you’re glad he’s no longer holding Lucille.

"You think I’m scared of feeling?” his voice drops low, dark with a mix of anger and something else “Sweetheart, I’ve been through hell and back. Damn fuckin’ right I’m careful who I let in."

A silence stretches between you, thick and heavy. You don’t fire back with some snappy retort just to fill the space. Instead, you look at him, quiet for a long moment, then finally murmur, "But you let me in".

Neither of you speak, allowing for the tension to shift. The sharp look in your eyes loses its power. The anger starts to soften around you both, like a storm that has run its course. 

It’s as if the brief pause pulls you out of the whirlwind, giving you time to stop before you say something you can’t take back. A tiny, flickering awareness that this fight is pointless hits you both.

“I did,” Negan agrees after a moment “course I trust you, baby. Hell, even after this shit, I know I can still turn to you”.

You sigh, allow your vulnerable side to rear its head. You wrap your arms around yourself as you think before you speak.

“Negan, you know I like you and I had a good time last night…” you try to get the words out “but it’s a lot, y’know? I don’t want last night to fuck up our friendship and I’m not the type of girl to get involved with a guy that has te– six wives”.

His lips tug up but this time it isn’t a smirk. It’s a small smile as he comes closer, his hands stretched out as he gently takes hold of your arms. “Hate to break it to ya, but you already involved yourself with a guy like that,” there’s a sincerity in his eyes and you can’t help but want to give him every benefit of a doubt.

“Good news is…” he continues “you picked one handsome motherfucker to get involved with, darlin’”.

You give a quick laugh but you don’t deny his claim. Nor do you try to break free from his grasp. 

This isn’t like before. Neither of you rush it. In fact, it seems like the opposite of your first time with Negan. This isn’t an intense bout of passion. This is relaxed, a comfort between you both as your lips met in a tentative kiss.

The lingering frustration dissolves with each passing second. Negan’s hands move up and cup your face tenderly as your lips meet over and over again, parting gently to allow your tongues to dance together.

The kiss is slow, a sensuous exploration that sends warmth through you. Your breaths mingle, hearts beating faster as you once again get lost in each other.

Acting on instinct, your hands go for his jacket, easing it off his shoulders as you blindly guide him towards your bed. Negan goes for your jeans, popping open the button before slowly drawing the zipper down.

Clothes scatter the room, shoes getting kicked off and t-shirts being flung onto the floor. 

In one swift motion, Negan grasps your hips and brings you down onto the bed. You land softly among the blankets and pillows, a surprised laugh escaping your lips. 

“You gonna make it up to me for your disappearing act?” Negan asks, leaning over you as he leaves rough kisses along your neck. 

“Depends,” you run your hands through his hair “you gonna make it up to me for breaking into my room?”.

He chuckles, the low rumbling sending pleasant vibrations tingling across your skin. “I guess we’ll be here for a while then…” he replies, his eyes finding yours before he continues down further.

And just like that, you end up exactly where you were the night before, unable to resist the temptation that is Negan.

As he kisses down from your collar bone to in between your breasts you try to give yourself some credit. Technically, this isn’t the exact same predicament as the night before.

This time, it’s your bed.

[shadowcitrine]

THE NEW MASTER LIST IS BANGERANG

+ Requests are currently OPEN

+ Daryl Dixon

+ Carol Peletier

+ Welcome! Thank you so much for taking the time to read. I am late to the fandom, and new to writing fanfiction. I have a complicated relationship with creating. Currently, I am trying to reframe my idea of what it means to create things and what it means to be an artist. I’m not young but I also don’t think I’m old…perhaps I am wise. 

+ Quirky/Interesting things to know: 

+ I can communicate in two languages.

+ I have entire invented conversations in my head regularly… maybe even right now.

+ My world is ADHD inspired

+ I currently use writing to escape my day job.

+ I can talk to you about cats, jeeps, parenting, chronic illness and whatever my current hyperfocus is. (ahem, Daryl Dixon)

+ I am the queen of imposter syndrome, but also, maybe not.

Thank you for reading!

[shadowcitrine]

MY OLD ERIC NORTHMAN OBSESSION HAS BEEN REBORN. GIMMIE

I Never Knew Daylight Could Be So Violent

Prologue

Warnings: None

Stray wisps of chestnut hair fell into her eyes as she moved. Lost in the complete obscuration of creative unawareness, she never took notice. The brush deftly swept across the canvas in elegant strokes of various colors, the portrait slowly morphing from an abstraction of warm hues and gentle undertones into a person, a balcony, a window.

She had only seen him from the car window, driving past after her uncle’s wake in Bon Temps. The town gossip had affirmed him as a vampire, unwanted even in his mostly docile solitude. His courtship of a waitress had riled up the locals, such a simple thing earning him their hatred and discrimination.

As she lowered her brush, eyes squinting, she could only see a man. He was bathed in loneliness, and he was weary. He had fallen in love with someone who he would watch grow old—watch die—without him. It was surprisingly human of him to willingly seal such a fate.

The existence of vampires never really affected her one way or another. The news had broken and there had been widespread panic. While most humans had taken to arming themselves and rioting, she had been little more than curious. Would she find them harder to capture in her brushstrokes? The answer was no.

She left them alone and they, her. It was highly unlikely a vampire even knew she existed. That was just fine. She didn’t care to have many people—human or otherwise—in her life. That would require emotions she wasn’t entirely sure how to wield.

No, Julia Graham never minded the presence of vampires—until a leather jacket clad Viking came strutting into her life.

[shadowcitrine]

How can you just not love Murphy???

I’ll Throw Away My Faith, Babe, Just to Keep You Safe

Part 1

Pairing: Murphy MacManus x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Violence; Blood and injury; That damn iron; Suggestive themes

Summary: “If love is what you need, a soldier I will be”

A/N: Finally, after a year. I hope it was worth the wait. I'm a little proud of it, so I hope you are too.

“Supermarkets are the worst.” You had just returned from grocery shopping, placing one bag at your feet in order to fish your keys from your pocket. Door unlocked, you went inside and placed the first bag on the countertop and returned for the next. Your fingers had just gripped the top of the bag when the old elevator dinged and two men stumbled out. 

“Still with me, dear brother?” The one with lighter hair asked in a thick Irish accent. He was all but dragging the second man against his side. Both were bleeding. You had only seen that amount of blood on a person in the movies. 

“Aye.” The man with the darker hair rasped without lifting his head. You barely heard it. 

“Hey, uh—should I call an ambulance?” You straightened, groceries all but forgotten in favor of possibly being of some assistance. 

“Kind of you, lass, but we’ll be just fine once we—” The light-haired one staggered when any aid the other offered in carrying his own weight suddenly vanished. “Murph? Murphy? Fuck!” Their trek to their own unit had come to an abrupt halt, the dark-haired one now limp as a ragdoll. 

“I’m calling an ambulance!” You had barely stepped into your door when he called after you, a frantic edge to his voice. 

“I beg you, please don’t.” He adjusted his grip on the other, still appearing as if the weight might take him down. 

“Are you, uh—are the two of you in some sort of trouble?” That was a ridiculous question.  There were bloody prints leading from the elevator, their clothes saturated, rivulets dripping onto the cheap linoleum flooring. “Just—here, come inside.” He studied you with narrowed blue eyes. You could tell a refusal sat on the tip of his tongue, but the other man coughed in a spray of crimson. 

“Damnit.” He cursed. 

You snatched up the other bag of groceries and jogged over to the countertop, depositing it roughly. You needed a blanket, towels, water, and your pitiful excuse for a first aid kit. “Blanket. Blanket, blanket, blanket.” The top of the hallway closet was difficult to reach for you, half the contents spilling out onto your head when you tugged on the quilt’s edge. 

“Let me put this on the couch. You can lay him there.” You rambled quickly in passing. The man was dragging the other with some measure of difficulty and had just crossed into the doorway as you spread out the blanket. Without really thinking, you sprinted over to drape the other arm across your shoulder and take some of the burden. 

“Thank you, lass. Heavier than he looks, my brother.”

The trek to the couch was more coordinated with your help and soon the stranger was lying prone, breaths shallow and skin pale. There was so much blood but it was alarmingly obvious that it was not all his. 

“I have a first aid kit but I’m not sure it’ll—”

“Have all we need in our own place. Start cleaning what you can see, I’ll fetch the iron and bandages.”

You blinked, your hand stilling just over the man’s shirt. “Iron? As in tablets or—?”

He shrugged, expression grim. “I’m Connor. That’s my brother Murphy.”

“I’m—” He was already gone. “I’m Y/N.” You sighed and started picking at the saturated clothing. Most of the injuries were shallow, superficial. The bullet wound to his left flank, however, was immediate cause for concern. It was not through and through.  “Okay, Murphy. It’d be nice to get some answers because my boring day just got really interesting, really fast and my head isn’t equipped for this much chaos.”

Using the scissors from the kit, you cut away his shirt and spread the two sides. A rosary hung from his neck, long enough to slide from his chest and over his arm. You didn’t remove it, that didn’t feel right. Handling it carefully, you let it hang over the couch arm. By the time Connor returned, you had wiped away most of the blood and were pressing a towel against the hole in his side. 

He placed an iron—that’s a fucking iron iron—on the coffee table with some gauze. As he drew away his hand, you noticed the blood seeping out from beneath the sleeve of his black coat, dripping from the tips of his fingers. 

“Are you hurt too?” 

“Aye, but it’ll keep. Murph first.” Connor hovered, blue eyes flitting back and forth between the saturated towel and his brother’s slack face. 

“You realize I have no idea what I’m doing, right?” You lifted the towel and winced at the thick crimson bubble that broke into a stream trickling down his side. 

“Between the two of us, we’ll have him right as rain, lass.” 

“Right.” You sighed heavily, pressing the towel against the wound once again. “I suppose the bullet needs to come out.”

“Aye.” He scrubbed his unsullied hand over his face. 

“And how exactly do we do that?” The corner of your bottom lip found its way between your teeth. How exactly did you end up in this position? Two strangers, bruised and bleeding, in your apartment. Sure, you weren’t exactly in the best neighborhood and you didn’t own a penthouse, but the place had proven to be safe enough. Mostly quiet. 

You had never seen the men before. You knew there were other tenants, but you had never met any of them. You were perfectly content in your little bubble of solitude. 

But then there you were, a man bleeding out on your couch, his brother using a pair of needle-nose pliers to dig into a gunshot wound—thank god you had managed to take it long enough to clean the tool with some rubbing alcohol. 

“Got it.” He announced triumphantly, holding up the bloody slug. Both were discarded onto your coffee table as if it were a surgical tray. The unconscious brother hadn’t moved an inch, his skin pale, clammy, and damp with perspiration. He didn’t look well at all. 

“Are you sure about an ambulance? He isn’t looking so hot.” You were headed toward the kitchen, hastily grabbing a dish towel and wetting it under the tap. 

“I’m sure, lass.” Connor replied. When you returned, he was plugging the cord of the iron into the socket closest to the couch. 

“Whoa, whoa, wait!” You slid onto the couch by Murphy’s hip folding the towel. “You’re not actually going to burn him, are you?” Dabbing the sweat from the other man’s forehead, you felt nauseous at seeing Connor approach from the corner of your eye. “Can’t we just stitch it?” 

“He’s bleedin’, love. It’s needin’ to be stopped.”

“Shit.” Choosing to stay seated where you were, you helped shift Murphy onto his right side but swiftly turned your head as the iron came down. The sizzling sound was horrible enough but the second the smell of burning flesh wafted into your nostrils, you gagged. How was Murphy remaining unconscious through it?

“It’s done.” 

“Good. Go me for keeping down my lunch.” You panted. “Let’s, uh—let’s get him all bandaged and then I can look at you.” Connor nodded, gingerly removing his coat. “Don’t expect me to use the iron.”

The apartment was cast in shadows, the moon beginning its shift. Connor had fallen asleep not long after you had, indeed, used the iron on his arm. Unfortunately, your lunch did not survive the second onslaught of burning flesh. 

You had finally been granted an opportunity to put away your groceries. Why you had also felt the need to clean up the blood in the hall and the elevator was beyond you, though the crimson trail leading right to your door might have had something to do with it. It was a miracle no one had been on the lift since the brothers. Well, not really. The building had few tenants. After that task, you had told yourself to keep your eyes on the men, but the sight and smell of blood on your skin proved to be very persuasive in the mental argument on whether or not to shower. 

Your hair was still damp by the time you sank into the chair opposite of where Connor slept. The brothers were exhausted, as were you, but at least you had no injuries. You’d love nothing more than to crawl into your bed, but showering was one thing. Sleeping was an entirely different matter. 

Maybe you should have called the cops. It was logical. These men were obviously into some bad stuff. Still, there was something about them, something you couldn’t put your finger on. Something good. To sense something like that when one of them had yet to speak to you—well, it was curious. 

And curiosity killed the cat. 

Lost in your thoughts, you must have allowed your eyes to close at some point. The next moment of awareness you could identify was met with a deep groan. Connor was still asleep in the same position you had last seen him. Murphy, however, was sitting up, arms draped across his knees with his head hanging. 

“Murphy?” You uttered, sliding to the edge of your chair. 

He was a little slow to react, expression dazed as he sought you out. He lingered on Connor for a moment, the little tension—you hadn’t even noticed—in his shoulders visibly dissipated. Once his gaze found you, you immediately noticed how the moonlight made the same blue eyes you had seen on Connor appear more silver. 

“Who are you?” He croaked, clearing his throat with a hand flying to his left side. 

“I’m Y/N. I, uh—your brother brought you here.” Feeling nervous without Connor awake to corroborate your story, you rubbed at the back of your neck. “You were really hurt and he didn’t want an ambulance.” 

“Turn us in then, will you?”

“If I was going to turn you in, I would have done it before the iron was plugged in.” You curled your lip at the memory of the stench. “I think I’m traumatized.” The man chuckled quietly, dropping his head again. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

“Aye.” He sounded exhausted. Being unconscious was likely not as restful as a decent night’s sleep. “Water would be nice, lass.” 

“Sure.” Pushing yourself out of the chair, you crossed in front of him on your way to the kitchen. His hand moved faster than you thought him capable of given his current state, wrapping around your wrist in a touch that could only be described as tender. You jerked to a halt and dropped your head to regard him, finding him looking right back at you. God, the man was handsome.

“Thank you.” He offered, his accent thick and sweet like honey. You barely suppressed a shiver. “Truly.”

“It’s no big deal.” It was very much a big deal. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into, but you were surprised to find that when he let go, you missed the warmth of his touch, replaced by the tingle it left in its wake. Maybe you had been alone too long. That had to be it. With a soft upward tilt of your lips, you continued to the kitchen, the glass quickly filled to the brim and spilling over onto your hand whilst you found yourself staring at the dark-haired brother. No, you had no idea what you were getting yourself into, but you were quickly going to find out.

“I’m not saying it’s wrong, I’m just saying that not everyone wants to get wasted just because it’s Saint Patrick’s Day.” You smiled over the rim of your glass, opting for a soda instead of beer, much to the MacManus brothers’ dismay.

“You bite your tongue, lass.” Connor feigned offense, a hand splayed dramatically over his chest. Murphy was shaking his head beside his twin.

“Oh, stop clutching your pearls, Con.” You jested, throwing a foot out from the rest at the lower part of the stool to playfully nudge the toe of your boot against his shin.

“Everyone’s Irish on Saint Patty’s day, love.” With a nod toward Doc, another beer was slid straight into Murphy's hand. “It won’t hurt you to have a little fun.” When he stepped into your space to offer the drink, you had no control when your eyes flitted to his lips and back, orbs dancing back and forth as if comparing the two pools of brilliant blue that stared with a suffocating intensity. The corner of his mouth slid up into a smirk that had you tingling in all the right places.

Over the past few months, you had grown close to the brothers, more so with Murphy. He would separate himself from his twin to visit your apartment more than you visited theirs. Quiet conversations, moving closer to one another on the couch with each social call. It wasn’t long before you were perched with your legs folded beneath you, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, and your head on his chest. It was just dialogue, catching one another up on the events of the day. 

He was open about their efforts to rid the city of those that caused harm to the innocent. While you didn’t understand how they could just walk around, unbothered and unrecognized, you found yourself comfortable with what they did. You helped treat their wounds and offered your apartment as a safe haven, should one of their targets send someone to act violently in their stead. The aggressors had no reason to suspect you. Aside from the bar, you were never seen with them. Murphy made sure of it.

“Just one drink, lass.” He insisted. You knew he would back off if you said the word, so you didn’t feel pressured, just persuaded. With a roll of your eyes, you lifted the glass to your mouth and made a show of taking the first sip. “Hurá!” He exclaimed, weaving his arms underneath yours to lift you off the stool. 

“Murphy!” Your beer sloshed in the glass, spilling over the rim and onto your jacket. “Aw, man!” You pouted, opting to stand when he attempted to place you back on the stool. You unzipped and pulled off the article with a huff, revealing your bright green shirt with gold lettering of Kiss Me, I’m Irish. 

“What’s this, love?” Murphy chuckled, his eyes so obviously on your chest. 

“It’s a shirt. More specifically, those are my boobs.” His eyes flitted up to your face, that smirk returning. The man had no shame. For Catholics, the brothers had some questionable morals. 

The drinking went on well after the doors had been locked and the open sign extinguished. You were still nursing your first beer—barely buzzed—the twins too drunk to notice. It was your first Saint Patrick’s Day with the small group, Doc the only one other than you that was resembling anything close to sober. 

When the dark-haired brother staggered toward you, throwing an arm across your shoulders and pulling you into his side, you decided they needed to be cut off. 

“Okay, boys, last call.”

Romeo was protesting loudly to the old man, but your focus was on the brothers. While you knew you needed to accompany them home, it would be the first time you would be with them on the streets. 

Before you could give it too much thought, Murphy was spinning you, hands on your shoulders at arm's length, eyes unfocused and a drunken flush to his cheeks. With a face too serious to be genuine, he ran a finger over the golden four leaf clover just below your breasts. 

“Tell me, love. Do you have any Irish in you?” His attempt at stoicism was bellied by his slurred syllables. 

“No, Murph. I don’t.” 

“Would you care for some?” A lopsided smile formed regardless of his obvious attempts to hold it at bay. You patted his arm with a shake of your head. 

“You’re wasted. Time to get you boys home.” There was a shimmer of disappointment in those blue eyes, so profound that you almost wished you could show your own dismay. Your feelings for Murphy were strong—unnamed but strong. It had been years since your last relationship, one so devastating that you weren’t sure what love was supposed to feel like anymore. Maybe you were simply drawn to his mystery, his ability to make you feel anything at all. 

“It’s early yet.” It was a weak argument, the pout he pinned you with proving his knowledge of it. 

You pointed toward the door and grabbed your jacket.  “Walk, MacManus.” The man grumbled beneath his breath but still staggered to where Connor impatiently protested by the door. 

“Get a room, little brother.” He slurred. 

“I came out first. Settled this, I thought.” Murphy was quick to correct. 

Rolling your eyes as the bickering continued, you steered both of them out the door, calling back a night, Doc over your shoulder. The night air was still chilly for March. You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, the scent of beer strong from the spilled drink earlier. 

“What’s on your mind, love?” You felt the weight of Murphy’s arm across your shoulders before you even realized he had shifted closer, his stumbling pushing you off balance. 

“The hope of staying vertical while chaperoning a set of drunk twins.” Using your elbow, you pushed him aside, reaching for his black peacoat to keep him on his feet. Chuckling, you wound your arm around through his. “Let’s just focus on getting you two home and in bed.”

“Whoa there, lass.” Connor interjected, his arm falling around your shoulders. “We draw the line at falling into bed together with one woman.” 

“Oh my god!” You threw back your head with a drawn out exasperated noise. “You’re insufferable.” Bracketed between the brothers, you kept up the slow pace toward the apartment building. 

With Conner face-down and snoring into his pillow, you turned your attention toward Murphy, who was currently attempting to fight his way out of his coat. Your smile was fond, your capable hands grabbing his forearms. 

“Wait, wait, wait.” You laughed, stilling his movements. His lopsided smile never wavered while you helped him. “Stop smiling, you idiot.”

“You’d rather I frown then?” The deliberate pout was something beyond adorable. With a snort, you dislodged his arms and held out the article of clothing. 

“Time for bed, Murph.” Rubbing his left eye with a fist, the Irishman finally appeared as if he would acquiesce. “Goodnight.” Your arms slid around his neck and you squeezed lightly. As you made to retreat, his own arm slid around your waist and held fast. “Murphy?”

“Stay.�� He had angled his head, his lips against the shell of your ear. You could smell the Guiness and cigarettes on his breath, a surprising tonic that made him almost irresistible. 

Almost. 

“I need to go. And you need to sleep.” His other arm wrapped around the middle of your back, both holding loosely. You knew he’d release you if you willed it. 

“Stay.” He said again, nuzzling the side of your head. The heat of his body was rapidly melting your defenses. The last thing you wanted was to wake up to Connor’s jibing at Murphy’s expense—though it wouldn’t be the first time. The two were just such children sometimes. 

However, as his hands languidly explored your back, you felt that snuggling was not what was on his mind that night. That made it easy to unwrap yourself from his hold and step out of reach. Though you had told yourself long ago that you would take that leap with him without hesitation should he ever offer, he was drunk. It wasn’t even a consideration. 

“You don’t want me to stay, Murph. Not like this.” Needing one last touch, you patted his cheek and nearly melted when he leaned into your palm. 

“I do, lass.” He retorted, staggering when your hand pulled away. You chuckled. 

“If you still feel that way in the morning, you know where to find me.”

“Y/N.” He called as you opened the door, pausing to cast him a gentle smile, disappointment hiding just behind it. 

“Goodnight, Murphy.” Once in the hall, you pressed your back against the door and closed your eyes. If only the words could have left a sober tongue, you would have stayed. No, you would have invited him back to your own apartment where privacy wouldn’t have been a concern. 

You wondered how his lips would feel on yours as you pulled out your keys and unlocked your door. How would his hands feel on your skin? His mouth? How would he taste? You imagined the sounds he would make, the breaths and moans. 

Slamming your keys down onto the countertop, you shook your head. “Get a grip, Y/N! He’s your best friend and he’s drunk!” When a whisper of your name, breathless and blissed out echoed in your head, you muttered to yourself, “okay, I need a cold shower.”

The water was lukewarm at best, but did little to cool your skin, flushed with arousal. You shouldn’t have been thinking of Murphy as you lathered up your body, or when your hand ventured between your thighs, but you couldn’t help it. He was all you had ever wanted: kind, loyal, funny, and exquisitely handsome. Reaching the precipice within moments, it didn’t take long for the shame to descend upon you, the guilt of imagining your friend in such a manner. 

“Fuck.” You cursed your weakness, the fragility of your defenses when it came to the opposite sex. You had been burned so many times that it was only natural to assume that anything changing in your relationship with the man—including those depraved thoughts—would destroy what you had built with him.

Clean—at least physically—you crawled into bed and pulled your sheets up to your chin, covering your face with your hands. This had to stop. You were torturing yourself, it was bound to seep into reality eventually, ruining everything and ejecting him from your life. 

It wasn’t until there came a knock on your door that you jolted awake, only then realizing that you had fallen asleep. The morning light crept across the floor and laid warm against the sheets. You could stay there, warm and safe, and you could stay away from Murphy—at least until you could rid yourself of your yearning for him and what could never be. 

The knock came again. 

It was early, maybe 6am. The boys wouldn’t have even rolled over in their beds. So who was at your door?

“Hold your horses!” You barked, clambering out of bed and grabbing blindly for your robe. The front untied, you were in your camisole, sleep shorts, and bunny slippers, the soles loudly scuffing the floor as you reached for the doorknob. “Yeah?” You asked lazily, scratching at your disheveled mane with one eye closed. 

The man wasn’t small. He was big and burly, donned in a trench coat over his button-up and slacks, the shoulder rig holding his twin pistols visible just behind the double breasted buttons. His grin was wicked. 

“You’re not here to sell me Girl Scout cookies, are you?” You squeaked, immediately attempting to slam the door but he was faster with a boot over the threshold. “Mur—” You tried to yell before he tackled you with a hand over your mouth. 

“Boys!” He grunted, his meaty fingers nearly covering your nose as well. It was difficult to breathe. Three more men entered, gazing around your apartment. None of their weapons were drawn. There was no way they could know that the boys lived just down the hall. “Give it a good going over. We want them to know that we were here.” His thick accent was easily recognizable. Italian. 

Your eyes watered from how wide you held them, watching the goons raze your possessions as you were hauled to your feet, hand still silencing you.

“Are we gonna kill her, Luca? Send a message?” One of the men asked as he stepped on your jewelry box. You began to struggle, shouting behind the large palm until the cold muzzle of a gun was pressed roughly into your temple. 

“Not unless she doesn’t leave us a choice.” Then his sour breath was against your ear, the biting metal of the gun grinding against your skull. “You hear that, doll? You be a good girl and you’ll get to live. For now, at least.” He released you and uncovered your mouth, and you sank your teeth into your lip.

Yeah, fuck that. 

Stomping his foot, you threw back a fist and connected with his groin, bolting for the door when he doubled over with a shout. 

“Murphy! Murphy, Connor! Help! Mur—” Your path was blocked, a hand fisting into your hair to slam you against the unforgiving wall. 

“Don’t kill her!” Luca ordered, catching his breath with a hand still cupping his crotch. “Boss wants her alive. Bait for the Saints.” Once he recovered, the bastard grabbed your arm and sharply yanked you away from the other man. The back of his hand snapped your head to the side. You fell onto your hip, catching yourself on your hands with a misting spray of blood from your mouth. “Behave, bitch, or I’ll just have to tell the boss that you pulled a gun and I had to put a few holes in you.”

“Fuck you.” You spat. 

“Maybe. We’ll see how the night goes.” He smirked, slapping your throbbing cheek with a mocking pat before giving the room a once over. “That’s enough. Let’s get out of here before—”

The first shot came from the doorway, the sound muted by the long silencer on a handgun held just in view. The thump of a body hitting the floor from your right made you flinch. Murphy was still fully dressed, t-shirt and jeans rumpled from sleep, while Connor donned only his boxer shorts. Not exactly rescue attire, but you would laugh about it later. 

Hopefully. 

“Get down, lass!” Connor shouted as he stepped into the room. After an elbow to Luca’s gut, you dropped and curled in on yourself, arms wrapping around your head. 

You didn’t dare watch the scene, the gunfire being enough of a motivator to keep you pinned to the floor. Something heavy hit your thigh and drew out a cry of protest. That was going to leave a bruise but it was substantially better than a bullet wound. If some contusions and lacerations were the extent of your injuries, you’d be fortunate. 

Your belongings were shattering, wall plaster crumbling. There was shouting, wails of pain and rage. And you were cowering on the cold floor, your thoughts a myriad of fear, distress. The brothers could be dying and you were doing nothing. 

Three quick huffs through your mouth, you amped yourself up but just as you unfolded, the room went silent. Was it over? Where were the boys? Palms on the floor, you dared to raise your head just as a hand softly gripped your arm. You drew back a fist. Fight or flight had been activated and you’d be damned if you’d run. 

“Easy, love.” Murphy’s hand wrapped around your clenched one, gently urging you to lower it. “It’s over. You’re safe, but we need to leave.” Striking blue eyes gave you a once over. “Can you stand?” You nodded. “Up we get then.”

“Are you okay?” You inquired, dizzy with concern and a possible concussion. There was a cut on his cheek,—the graze of a bullet—blood trickling down his jaw. 

“Right as rain, lass.” His hand dropped yours in favor of clasping your chin, turning your head left and right. You still tasted the iron on your tongue, felt the sting of the hand that had struck you. 

“Fine. I’m fine.”

Connor shuffling behind him, Murphy narrowed his eyes. It was a moment before he seemed to accept your response and stepped around to your side. Hand pressed against the small of your back, he steered you towards the door. 

“Let’s go then.”

[shadowcitrine]

~ Spa Day | 18+?

[shadowcitrine]

~ Craft Store

[shadowcitrine]

~ Couch

[shadowcitrine]

~ Coming Soon

[shadowcitrine]

~ Sunbathing |18+

~ If You Do That Again

~ Alone Time |18+

~ Quiet

[shadowcitrine]

IT WAS UPDATED

HELLZ YES

Part 13  Masterlist

Pairing: Daryl Dixon and Female Reader 

Era/Timeframe: Alexandria

(Some timeline liberties taken)

Content: Typical TWD, implied trauma, trauma response, violence in a sleep state, violence between partners,  angst, some profanity.

Summary: Decisions and agreements have been made, but damage doesn’t disappear. A kiss does not mean happy ever after.

A/N:  Thank you for reading, reblogging, or commenting. Read the warning if you are sensitive to partner violence and make good choices for your own well-being. 

Barriers

You hear the thrashing and grunting before you even open your eyes. For a moment, you can’t separate it from the gusts of wind rattling the trailer walls.  Glancing over from your spot curled up on the couch, you witness Daryl on the twin bed, wrestling with unseen forces surrounding him in his sleep. Standing up slowly, you move closer. The aggressive evening wind blows through the open window of the trailer, threatens a storm, and steals the warmth left from your blanket. In the silver light that glows through the mesh, you see beads of sweat running down his face, and the tension in his body, muscles taut, as he tosses, shouts, and sometimes even whimpers. 

Since his return from the Sanctuary, he was struggling and there was nothing you could do but wait and let him work through it. He was careful with you, but his rough edges were sharper now that he was away from Negan and the torture he inflicted. Moments passed where you could see his body tense, or tremble. He was even quieter. The wheels were turning in his head and you knew when the time came, and he had the opportunity, that he would rain hell down on the Sanctuary.

Despite your moment of reunion and agreements, there was a barrier between you. You weren't sure if it was yours or his, but it was one that held you at a distance. It was as if the possibility of  closeness itself was too much, too consuming, too much of a risk.

“Daryl, you're dreaming.” Your syllables slice through the nighttime sounds, the wind against the trailer. You hope that your voice will rouse him. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you pause, trying to decide how to reach through the torrent he's experiencing. “Daryl!” You raise your voice louder as a gust of wind sweeps through the window, almost slapping your skin, but there is no response. If anything, he seems more wrapped up in what is happening to him. The pounding of your heart drums in your ears, drowning out the night. It is unknown what it is he is reliving, but you know that reliving it is torturous. Knowing how real that terror can be, how it surrounds and pulls at you, your heart races even faster as he seems to escalate. “Daryl,” your voice brisk and urgent, “you need to wake up, you’re dreaming, you're not there, it's not real.” You tentatively step closer, gently reaching out to brush your fingers along his arm.

In an instant flurry of movement, your feet lift from the floor, and you feel yourself carried through the air, landing against the far wall, knocking the breath from your lungs. Time moves unusually fast and then shifts so you experience the moment in fragments. His grip on your arms is painfully harsh. Using what breath you force into your lungs, you croak,  “Daryl, Stop,” before bringing up your knee full force into his groin. He drops you and doubles over, suddenly looking surprised and alert.  You clumsily rush away along the wall to the side, feeling the upset of a kitchen chair and side table, the latter corner assaulting your hip. The sound is explosively loud, shattering the surrounding silence. And then, then time moves strangely, and you find yourself standing at the end of the trailer knife in hand, ready to defend yourself. The familiar desire to lash out whirling its way to the surface. 

Minutes pass as he tries to focus past the pain between his legs.  He looks down at his hands and then over at you. “M’ sorry, shit..ya hurt? Did I hurt ya?! ’R ya okay? Lemme look atcha?!” Each phrase grows in intensity and volume.  Panicking, his voice makes demands that you know you can’t meet. He starts moving towards you quickly.

Pulling air into your lungs through the muddied time, you raise your hands up in front of you, still wielding your knife, motioning for him to stay away while you stumble backwards, disoriented but determined to keep space between you.  With your control tenuous, it is not about protecting yourself from him, but making sure you don't give into your own frenzy. You can’t find your voice or consistent breath. As you slide down the wall and bring your knees to your chest, you hear the trailer door slam, and he is gone, your knife clattering to the floor beside you. You rip the air through the tension that still permeates the trailer, trying to fill your lungs as you tremble with the energy of disrupted potential.

Outside the trailer, Daryl paced, trying to piece together what just happened. The wind forcibly corralled between the trailers played with his hair, his clothes, focussed by the small space. The pain in his groin made him nauseous, or what just happened made him nauseous as the adrenaline faded. He couldn't be sure. A door captured by the force of the gusts slammed somewhere, and Daryl turned to see Tara approaching him from one side, as Jesus stepped out from the  next trailer over. They must have heard it. 

“What's going on?” Tara asked, watching Daryl as he paced chewing on his thumb and huffing.

“She  musta woke me up and.. was dreaming, grabbed ‘er,  dun know if she's okay, won’ let me near'er.” Tara could hear the panic in the raised pitch of Daryl’s voice.

“I'll go check on her.” Jesus offered.

“Nah, she don't really know ya… make it worse.”

“I’ll go. I'll make sure she's okay.” Tara hoped that you were holding it together, because she had no idea what to do with you if you weren't. But she knew Daryl couldn’t think clearly until he knew one way or the other if you were okay.

Daryl nodded. Jesus slid closer to Daryl with the intention of trying to talk the man down and reassure him. Jesus witnessed Daryl lose control as he was escaping the Sanctuary when  he bludgeoned a man to death. He could almost see the tension rippling off of him. “Daryl, whatever’s going on with you, after where you were..”

Daryl cut him off almost immediately. “Ya don’ understan’,” Daryl found that he was terrified of what those few moments would mean for you, for him. He sat down on the step and put his head in his hands as random gusts pushed against him. “S’not okay.” Lifting his head and gesturing towards the trailer,  “Tha woman in there,” he started to angrily unload, leaning forward as if lunging with his words, “fights her way back from everythin’. Some of that shit she’s never told me, bad shit. Ya didn't see ‘er. Mind all messed up, giving up, bruised up. S’ a miracle she even talks t’ people. Now I fucked tha’ up who knows how bad. Some damage ain't fixable.”

Jesus nodded and listened. “Sounds like she's pretty tough. Looked pretty badass to me.”

Daryl grunted in response, still thinking too quickly. 

“She might be just as worried about you as you are about her.” Jesus’ calm, quiet logic and observations could inspire moments of stillness and reason in most.

By the time Tara entered the trailer, the world stopped spinning, and air was easier to find. You look up and recognize her in the moonlight. She stops to light a lantern and slowly approaches you so she can see you better. 

“There's a seriously freaked out man out there who needs to know you are okay…so what's the damage?” She sits down in front of you, her presence shifting the claustrophobic air to something lighter. She chews on a piece of licorice mindful of your space, but looking you over. “What happened?”

“I was stupid,” you start. “I know what it's like when someone wakes you up from one of those. He thought I was whatever was attacking him. He had me by my arms, God, so fast. I didn't expect it, knocked the wind out of me. He stopped when I yelled at him and kicked him awake. But it spun my head. I needed a minute to get it together, but he was right there. And loud. I couldn't… He's going to think…It wasn't his fault.” Your words rush from your lips, leaving little space for breath.

“But are you hurt?” Tara spoke slowly, her eyes prodded you, forcing you to pause and think about how your body feels. You look at the bruising beginning on your upper arms from where he grappled you. It  just added to the smattering of pre-existing bruises. You register a dull ache and probably bruising on your back from where you hit the wall.    

“Just bruised. Had worse.”

“What about in here?” She reached forward and tapped your head with her index finger.

You close your eyes and breathe deeply as your thumb moves to grind in your palm. Surprisingly, there is a stillness there you were not expecting. “I'm…here.”

Tara stands up and offers you a hand up.  You realize she wants to make sure you can move easily and that when you said you were bruised that you were telling the truth and not hiding something.

“I'm okay, really. I can breathe fine. Nothing's broken.” 

“What do you want to do about him?” Tara gestures towards the door.

“Give me a minute.” You move to dig through some clothes that had been left for you and grab a button-down shirt to cover your arms. He didn't need to see it.

Minutes later, Tara exited the trailer. Daryl and Jesus both looked at her. “She says she's okay.” Making eye contact with Daryl Tara continues, “She's grinding her thumb into her hand, but says she's good, seems good.”

You watch Daryl enter the trailer from your corner of the couch, your blanket over you for comfort. Breathing deeply, you carefully calm the surge of nervousness that tries to take hold.

He steps into the trailer slowly, although the tension in him reveals that he would cross the room in three strides if he thought you wouldn't bolt. 

You both look at each other for a moment, both of you not sure where to start.

“M’...”

“I'm..” you both try to start at the same time. 

You breathe, “It's okay, you were having a nightmare.” 

“M'sorry, did I hurt ya?” His voice rough but gentle. Still, you can hear the self-loathing behind it. Worry lines his face. “Let me see ya?” 

He takes a few slow steps forward, watching closely for your reaction. 

“I'm fine.”

“Ya must be hurt.”

“I'm tougher than I look, and you aren't that impressive when you are not in reality.”  Hoping your nonchalant words will downplay the situation for him is short lived. From the intensity in his eyes, you realize he isn't going to let this go and you shrug off the long sleeves so he can see the marks on your arms. He steps within an arm's length and hisses as he looks you over.

“It's just going to be some bruises. I already had a bunch. How's your junk?” You deliberately choose your words to stress that you got your own hit in and to ease the moment.

“M'sore” He takes a step back, and air fills the space between you.

“Yeah, I bet..sorry.” 

“Nah, you did what you shoulda’ done.” There is a pause that feels like the opening of a fissure. “S'not safe around me right now.”

Your eyes dart to his, but your words are measured and deliberate. “It wasn't you. That would never be you. Not with me. That was Negan and Dwight. That was the weapon they made. And it failed. Not. You.” You punctuate those last two words as if you were driving stakes into the ground to anchor something to.  Watching him closely, you silently urge those words to cut through the noise in his head, hoping he hears them as he chews on his lip.

“I held my hands up to you because I didn't want to lose it, not because I was scared of you. Not because I ever thought you would hurt me. I was holding a knife, and I... I don't remember picking it up. It was automatic. I didn't want to slice up…my friend because he had a bad dream.” You let out a breath and pause. “Still working on the self-control thing.” Your attempt at humour falls into the awkward stillness in the room. “Do you hear me, like really hear me? I'm fine.  If we are looking at safety and predictability, I pulled a knife on you first. Remember?” Somehow, you are standing squarely in front of him.

He nods. His hair and the shadows cast by the lantern compete to conceal his expression, making him near impossible to read.

Reaching up, you push the hair away so you can see his eyes. “There you are.” Their sheen betrays the dissipating squalls below the surface.“You're okay, or you're going to be. You’re not what they tried to make you into.” Your soft words float between you. His hands gently brush over your arms where they had gripped you earlier.

You offer him a small reassuring smile as you hold his gaze.

“Y'alright. Ya tellin’ me the truth?” 

You nod, and the room itself breathes.

A  hint  of mischief flits across his face. “Appreciate ya not slicin’me up.” 

“Thought you might.”