twdgrxmes

[twdgrxmes]

Trouble (Remastered) - TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon x GoodGirl!Reader (Part 2)

Warnings: Drinking, Fight Scene

Word Count: 2.8k

The rest of the day dragged by painfully, especially after you had holed yourself up in your room to avoid your father’s glare heated with disapproval, and even worse – disappointment. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t drag your mind away from Daryl Dixon and his hands.. His arms, how the muscles of his bicep jumped as he worked under the hood, his skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat and–

The shrill, sudden brrrrring of the house phone sliced through your thoughts like a knife. You jumped, still tense from the kitchen standoff, and drooling over Daryl, and stepped toward the receiver mounted on the wall by the pantry. The cord curled like a snake, yellowed from age, and you pressed it to your ear with a practiced motion.

“Hello?”

“Soph?” came the voice on the other end, bright and insistent, laced with excitement. “Tell me you’re not holed up at home.”

It was Jess — your best friend since fourth grade, the one person who could always sniff out the truth under your good-girl surface.

“I’m on house arrest,” you sighed, trying to keep your voice steady, even light.

She didn’t sound surprised. “What happened?”

You exhaled slowly and leaned against the counter, coiling the cord around your finger. “My dad lost his mind. Came home early, caught me talkin’ to Daryl Dixon.”

The line crackled. 

Then, “You what?”

“He was just showin’ me somethin’ under the hood. The engine he was fixing,” you added quickly, as if justifying your own actions.

“Oh, girl.” Jess’s voice dropped into that half-mocking, half-serious tone she used when you’d done something she wasn’t sure if she should be impressed or worried about. “You really got a death wish, huh?”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to — I just went out to give him some water..,” you mumbled, cheeks hot again even though there was no one around to see it.

Jess sighed dramatically. “Well, whatever he was showin’ you under that hood, it’s done now. You need to come out tonight.”

“I can’t. My dad will be watching’ me like a hawk.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Jess said, sing-song. “Besides, Shane’s throwin’ something at his place by the lake. Real party this time. I heard Rick Grime’s bringin’ fireworks.”

You frowned. “Shane?”

“Yeah,” she said. “He asked if you were comin’. Like, specifically.”

Of course he did.

You felt your stomach twist. Shane Walsh. Monroe High’s golden boy, god, your dad loved him, especially last summer when he was all over you. 

But Shane was trouble too, not that your daddy cared, the kind that wore a clean button-down and came from a family with old money. You’d kissed him once the summer before, caught up in a late-night moment under the stars and cheap beer haze, but it hadn’t meant much. Not to you, anyway. He’d kept calling after, showing up, brushing too close in the school hallways.

“I dunno,” you said, voice low. “Shane’s… persistent.”

“He’s an idiot, but he throws good parties. And look — you need to get out of that house. I’ll swing by around eight. Wear somethin’ cute. I’ll climb in through the back if I have to.”

You hesitated, chewing your bottom lip.

Jess wasn’t wrong. You couldn’t sit around the house all night replaying the sound of your father’s voice or the way Daryl had looked at you, biting your lip over his flexing biceps..

And Shane’s party wasn’t exactly dangerous. Not the way talking to Daryl was. Not the kind of trouble that would stick to your skin and shift the air around you.

Still… it didn’t sit right. Something about Shane always felt like a performance, all slick smiles and practiced hands.

“Alright,” you said finally, against your better judgment. “But just for a little while.”

Jess squealed in your ear. “That’s my girl. You’ll thank me. Trust me.”

You weren’t so sure.

When you hung up, you stood in the kitchen for a minute longer, the soft buzz of the disconnected line humming in your ears as you leaned over the counter.

Outside, the sky was already beginning to blush into evening, streaks of gold and rose bleeding into a velvet horizon. Fireflies blinked lazily in the tall grass out by the fence, and the world felt slow again, warm and waiting.

You slipped upstairs quietly, careful not to draw attention. Your daddy was in the living room, the TV turned low, a beer bottle clutched loose in one hand. You knew the rules. You’d learned how to walk past him without stirring the air.

In your room, you hesitated in front of the mirror. Your fingers hovered over the hangers in your closet before settling on something simple — a sundress, soft yellow with white lace. It was a little shorter than you were used to, a little tighter too, but it flattered you. You left your hair down, let it fall over your shoulders in loose waves, and added a hint of peach gloss to your lips.

By the time Jess rolled up in her beat-up car, the sky had deepened into twilight. You slipped out the back door while your father snored lightly in his recliner, unlikely to wake up until the morning.

“Damn,” Jess said, eyeing you from the driver’s seat with a grin. “If Shane doesn’t fall at your feet tonight, he’s more brain-dead than I thought.”

“Don’t,” you said dryly, climbing in, “I’d much rather he didn’t.”

She chuckled and the radio crackled to life as she pulled out onto the road, the roads twisted out past town, past the lights and the noise, out into the dark edges where the woods started thick and wild. Shane’s place wasn’t far, but it sat back behind a stretch of trees, overlooking Lake Wren, with a long gravel driveway that kicked up dust in thick clouds behind Jess’s tires.

By the time you arrived, the air was thick with bonfire smoke, and bodies moved around the firelight, music thumping low through busted speakers propped up on truck beds.

But what you didn’t see was that he was there, tucked into the shadows, leaning against the hood of a beaten up truck, cigarette tucked between his fingers. His shirt was half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing the same sun-warmed skin and oil-smudged forearms you’d seen in your driveway.

Daryl Dixon.

You jumped down from Jess’s truck and headed towards the yard, quickly finding the drinks table. 

You turned to Jess, ready to offer her a drink, but she was already halfway across the yard, shouting something to Rick and a couple others from school. You hesitated, stomach in knots, unsure whether coming really was such a good idea. 

You hesitated, stomach in knots, unsure whether coming really was such a good idea.

But before you could turn back toward Jess, a voice slithered in behind you, slick and familiar.

“Well, well,” Shane drawled, that signature smirk curling his lips. “Didn’t think I’d actually see you here tonight.”

You stiffened before turning to face him. He was standing too close, the red-and-gold light of the bonfire flickering across his face, shadows dancing in the hollows of his cheeks. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows, his collar open just enough to look like an accident—but you knew better. Everything about Shane Walsh was practiced, posed, polished for effect.

You gave a polite smile, just tight enough to warn him off. “Jess convinced me.”

“She’s a damn miracle worker,” he said, stepping even closer. His eyes dipped down for just a second too long, skating over the curve of your dress, the way it clung at your waist. “You look…” He whistled low, his eyes dropping even lower. “Damn, Soph.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, shifting a half-step back.

He noticed. “Aw, come on,” Shane laughed, soft and coaxing, “don’t be like that. We’re just talkin’. It’s a party. Relax.”

He held out a red Solo cup, already full, and you hesitated.

“It’s just beer,” he said, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. 

You took the cup, if only to avoid drawing attention, but didn’t drink from it right away. Shane clinked his own cup to yours and took a long swig, watching you over the rim.

“I know your dad’s probably got you locked up like Rapunzel or some shit,” he went on, voice lowering just slightly, “but tonight, you’re free. Ain’t nobody out here but us. You can let loose.”

“I’m just here to hang with Jess,” you said firmly.

He grinned like that was the funniest thing he’d heard all night. “Sure, sure. But you and me, we go way back, don’t we? I mean… I was your first kiss, wasn’t I? Last summer..”

Your skin crawled.

“That was a long time ago,” you said coolly, bringing the cup to your lips just to keep from saying something harsher. The beer was lukewarm and sour, and you grimaced slightly.

But Shane’s grin only widened. “Still counts. You didn’t seem to mind it then.”

“It was a mistake.. We had been drinking,” you muttered, half to yourself.

He leaned in, too close now, the smell of beer and cologne thick on his breath. His hand brushed against your bare arm, too slow to be accidental.

You stiffened, stepping back again, but he reached for you — fingertips grazing your waist, lingering a moment too long.

“Don’t,” you said, voice low, firm. “Shane.”

“Come on, Soph,” he said, half-laughing, like you were being unreasonable. “I’m just playin’.”

“You’re not.”

But Shane only chuckled, backing off half a step, hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Let’s just chill, huh? I brought the good stuff.”

He held out another cup. The liquid inside was darker — probably whiskey and Coke, or something stronger. You didn’t want it. You really didn’t. But people were starting to look your way, and Shane was still watching you with that smug smile, like he knew he’d get his way eventually.

You took it, scared of being labelled a prude by not drinking.

It’d just be one drink anyway, you’d told yourself.

Except it wasn’t just one. Shane kept them coming, always managing to slip another into your hand before you could think to say no. And your head was spinning now, your cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire and the liquor warming your throat. You’d lost track of Jess, still hadn’t noticed Daryl and the weight of his gaze on your shoulders, and the world had softened around the edges, laughter and music warping like ripples in a pond.

“Let’s go someplace else,” Shane murmured close to your ear. “It’s loud out here.”

He guided you, hand uncomfortably low on your lower back, toward the treeline, just far away enough to be out of reach from the light of the bonfire. You tried to protest, but your tongue felt heavy, and the liquor in your system clouded your better judgement.

“I should find Jess,” you said, voice slurred and weaker than you’d hoped.

“She’s fine,” Shane said easily, settling down beside you and tugging you gently to sit. “Relax.”

He was closer now. His hands on your waist, steadying you. He smirked down at you as he let his grip slip downwards, his fingertips tracing circles across your lower back.

“Shane,” you murmured. “No...”

He leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek. “You used to like it when I touched you.”

“I said no,” you said, louder this time. You turned your head away, but his hand reached up to cup your chin, squeezing a little too hard.

“Don’t be like that,” he muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. “You’re actin’ all high and mighty, but I know you, Soph. I know what you want.”

He let his other hand wander downwards to your ass, but you pushed it away, the motion sloppy from the alcohol, but determined.

“I said stop,” you slurred, heart racing. 

Shane frowned, his brow furrowed in anger as his grip on your chin tightened further, making you whimper in pain. He shoved you backwards, hard.

You stumbled back onto the grass, your hands scraping against the dirt as you caught yourself, your drink spilling beside you, your face a picture of shock.

For a split second, you froze, cheeks heated with embarrassment, the interaction had earned an audience now and it seemed like everyone was watching, covering their mouths as they gasped and whispered.

Shane seemed to enjoy the attention, he smirked down at you, “You’re a real stuck up slut, Bennet–”

But he didn't get to finish. 

There was commotion, people gasping and yelling, someone pushing through the crowd that had gathered. 

You blinked, your vision swimming. Shane was suddenly gone from your sightline, ripped backward as though he weighed nothing.

Daryl.

He had Shane by the collar, dragging him up off the ground roughly.

“What the hell?” Shane shouted, arms flailing.

“You outta your goddamn mind?” Daryl snarled, voice deep and raw with rage, his fist flying right to Shane’s jaw.

Shane staggered sideways, colliding with the side of a pickup truck with a metallic clang, the impact brutal. He groaned, dazed, but it didn’t stop him from trying to stand, from making things worse for himself.

“She’s a damn tease,” Shane spat, blood already slicking the corner of his mouth. “Actin’ like she’s better than me—”

The second hit came faster. Daryl’s knuckles split against Shane’s cheekbone, sending him stumbling back down into the dirt.

“Daryl—” you breathed, heart hammering, vision swimming from alcohol. But he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

Daryl continued, relentless, grabbing Shane by the front of his shirt and hauling him up just enough to drive a fist into his stomach. The air was forced out of Shane in a wheeze, and he collapsed again, coughing hard.

There was another hit, clean across Shane’s jaw, something popped and Shane dropped like a stone.

“You ever touch her again,” Daryl growled, looming over Shane’s crumpled body, “you won’t be so lucky.”

Shane spat blood and laughed, broken and cocky. He looked past Daryl, straight at you.

“This your new thing, Bennett?” he croaked. “You foolin’ around with trailer trash now? Jesus. Didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”

You shook your head in objection, about to deny it when Daryl’s entire body tensed. His eyes darkened.

And then he lunged.

He tackled Shane straight to the ground, the two of them collapsing into a tangle of limbs and fists. Daryl was on top in an instant, fists raining down in a flurry, sick, wet sounds filled the air as knuckle met bone and Shane cried out beneath him.

You scrambled up to your feet, heart racing, hands shaking. You stumbled as you raced toward them, voice tearing out of your throat, slurred and unsure.

“D-daryl! Stop, please, he’s had enough!”

Someone grabbed you.

“Soph!”

Jess. Her eyes were huge, breath ragged, face pale under the firelight. She yanked you back, away from the chaos.

“You need to leave. Right now.”

You blinked, dazed. “Jess, what..?

“Your dad’s on his way. Someone called the cops, they said your name. Soph, he knows.”

Your blood turned to ice.

“No, no! I can explain, I’ll tell him what happened..”

“No, you can’t,” Jess hissed. “You want him to find you here, at a party, drinking, anywhere near Daryl? He’ll lose it. Come on.”

You turned, eyes wide, just in time to hear the crunch of tires on gravel.

A cruiser’s headlights cut through the trees like lightning. Blue and red strobes flashed across the clearing, casting across faces in sharp, disorienting bursts.

Your dad’s voice rang out, loud and furious. “Everybody back up! Now!”

You froze.

There he was, stepping out from the car, the fire reflecting in the cold steel of the badge on his chest. His gun was unholstered, hand resting on the grip as he took in the scene.

Daryl had frozen too. He was panting, bloodied, a split at his brow leaking down his temple. Shane groaned in the dirt beneath him, unmoving. Daryl raised his hands slowly, chest heaving, eyes darting to you by the treeline.

Your father stormed forward, shoving past the circle of onlookers. “You wanna tell me why you’re throwin’ punches, Dixon?!”

Daryl didn’t answer. 

Sheriff Bennett didn’t wait. He grabbed Daryl by the arm, spun him roughly around. A second officer followed, already pulling cuffs from his belt.

Daryl didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch. He just let it happen, jaw clenched tight.

“You’re lucky I’m only arresting you,” your father growled, slamming Daryl’s chest against the hood of the cruiser. “You think I don’t know my daughter’s involved in this? That she was here tonight?”

The cuffs clicked into place. Daryl still didn’t speak.

“If I ever find you near her again, if I ever find out you’ve so much as breathed near her” your father continued, voice like gravel, “you’ll wish it was just jail time I gave you.”

Jess was already pulling you backward, toward the trees, her grip iron-tight around your wrist.

You didn’t fight either.

[twdgrxmes]

Trouble (Remastered) - TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon x GoodGirl!Reader (Part 1)

part 2

Warnings: None

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: So, I have thought about it and there are many parts/factors that i would like to change in my story, and so, I am rewriting! This will be available on both my wattpad and ao3 as well as here.

The summer of 1984 came in hot — thick heat rolling in off the Georgia asphalt, clinging to your skin like honey. Everything felt slow that year, syrup-slow and sun-bleached, the kind of summer that seeps into your bones and stays there, humming like a forgotten song. 

You remember the sweat behind your knees, the cicadas screaming in the trees, the clink of glass bottles against wood porches, and the smell of gasoline thick in the air.

And you remember him.

Daryl Dixon.

The first time you saw him, it was like watching a lit match fall into a field of dry grass that had been doused in gasoline. Unavoidable. Dangerous.

You already knew his name, everyone in Monroe County did, and yes, he attended your high school.. on occasion. The Dixon’s were infamous: the kind of people mentioned behind hands, in whispers, in warnings. Merle had done a stint in the military and came back worse than he left — strung out and selling to the same kids you cheered beside at football games.

And Daryl? He kept to himself mostly, fixing up bikes in the local garage. He didn’t go looking for trouble, but it always seemed to find him anyway — in the form of messy fights, broken noses, and bruised knuckles.

You were the complete opposite to all that. You got straight A's but would never bring them up unless someone asked, even then downplaying the achievement. You smiled politely, were captain of the cheer team, wore pressed skirts and soft perfume. People looked at you and saw a future. Clean lines. White picket fences. Safety. You had a reputation purer than a blank canvas.

But none of that mattered when he showed up at your house.

It was a Saturday, the first of Summer — late morning, the kind where the sunlight was soft and gold, slanting through the blinds of your bedroom window like a secret. You were still half-draped in sleep, tangled in sheets, your hair a mess and the scent of strawberry shampoo lingering faintly in your pillow. It could’ve been just another quiet day.

Until the sound came. Metal against metal, sharp and grating, foreign in the hazy drapes of sunlight across your lawn. Not like the usual hum of a lawn mower or the familiar creak of your neighbors’ porch swing. 

Curious, you pulled yourself up, walked barefoot across your plush carpet, and peeked through your window.

There he was.

Crouched over the rusted hood of your daddy’s ‘72 Chevy, his arms slick with sweat and oil, head ducked low as he worked. A cigarette clung to his lips, forgotten, the ash nearly to the filter. His black tank top was clinging to him like a second skin, dirt streaked across his collarbone, the curve of his throat exposed and glistening under the southern sun.

Your breath caught.

You didn’t know what you expected — maybe someone rougher looking, meaner. But Daryl wasn’t just a troublemaker. And you thought that there’d be no way that he would be allowed on your property, especially not with your father being the sheriff. Yet here he was, knuckles deep in your daddy’s engine like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You were halfway through the thought when he looked up.

Just a flick of the eyes, like people do when they feel the weight of someone’s eyes on the back of their head. 

Then those blue eyes met yours through the glass.

Your cheeks flushed as your eyes met his, flustered at having been caught watching.

You moved to step back, embarrassed to be caught watching, but something in his gaze held you still. He didn’t smirk, didn’t wink, didn’t give you some cocky grin like the boys from school would’ve. No, Daryl looked at you like he was seeing something he didn’t expect. 

Then, just as slowly as he had looked up, he turned back to the car, flicked the ash from his cigarette, and continued with his work.

But your heart wouldn’t stop hammering.

~ 

You spent the rest of the morning pretending you weren’t thinking about him. Pretending like your fingers weren’t fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, like your heartbeat wasn’t faster than it should’ve been. Like you hadn’t spent the last hour by your desk beside the window, peeking through the lace curtain, catching glimpses of Daryl Dixon working beneath the hood of your father’s truck.

You tried not to think about the way his eyes had caught yours earlier, like he could read you, strip down your polished good-girl layers with just a glance. You hated how much that thought stuck in your head.

Worse still was how none of it made any damn sense. Sheriff Monroe had spent years dragging the Dixon name through the dirt, arresting Merle, even Daryl, like it was part of the weekly routine. He didn’t trust that family. Didn’t like them. So why Daryl? Why now?

But you knew your father well. Knew how practical he could be when his pride got backed into a corner. If no one else in town could get the engine running, if the local mechanic had packed up for the weekend, maybe he figured the devil he knew was better than a stalled-out truck.

Still… it didn’t sit right.

You were halfway down the stairs when your father’s voice drifted up from the front hall — clipped and casual, but with that familiar undercurrent.

“I’m headin’ into town for a few. Daryl’s workin’ on the truck — leave him be.”

There it was. That warning tone tucked inside his slow Southern drawl. The one that said: I know how curious you are, don’t even think about it.

You hesitated at the foot of the stairs, skirt brushed smooth over your thighs, the pleats pressed sharp. Your white knee socks were pulled up snug, just an inch shy of the hem. You were dressed like your father liked. Neat, sweet, proper.

“What’s he even doing here?” you asked, voice light but too interested, absentmindedly standing up on your toes to get a peek of him outside the window.

Your father paused in the doorway, narrowed his eyes.

“Fixin’ the damn thing. Ain’t like I had a whole lotta options. Don’t talk to him, Sophia. He’ll be gone by this afternoon.”

You nodded. Quietly. But you didn’t promise anything.

The screen door slammed behind him, and the silence that followed stretched through the house like a held breath.

You waited. Counted the seconds. Let the sound of his truck fade into the distance, the rumble swallowed up by heat and dust. Then you slipped out the front door, your shoes quiet on the porch steps, sunlight licking at your skin.

The air outside was heavy with the scent of cut grass and grease. The sky blazed clear blue, and the heat soaked through your clothes like a second skin.

Daryl was still crouched over the engine, his black sleeveless shirt clinging damp to his back, streaked with sweat and dirt. His jeans sagged low on his hips, loose and worn at the seams. 

You cleared your throat nervously.

“I brought you some water,” you said, almost too soft to be heard.

He turned slightly, glanced over his shoulder.

No smile. 

Your heart stuttered.

His eyes dropped to the glass in your hand and lingered there.

You swallowed hard, cheeks already flushing. “It’s just—hot out, and I figured maybe…”

You trailed off, embarrassed by how unsure you sounded.

Daryl stood slowly, stretching out to his full height. The sun caught in the strands of his hair, damp and curling slightly at the ends. He didn’t step forward, but he didn’t back away either.

“You meant to be out here?” he asked, voice rough and low, with the barest edge of teasing.

You gave a one-shouldered shrug, trying to play it cool. “It’s my lawn.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth and he reached out, taking the glass, his fingers brushing yours and lifted it to his lips. You looked away, only to glance back too soon, gaze tracing the way the muscles in his throat shifted as he swallowed.

He set the glass down on the edge of the toolbox and wiped his hand on the side of his jeans.

“Your daddy be happy with you talkin’ to the likes of me?” he asked.

You crossed your arms, trying to look unfazed. “He said not to bother you.”

A beat. Then a smirk, faint but real.

“Well, reckon you’re doin’ a real fine job of not listenin’.”

You didn’t answer. 

He turned back to the truck, then hesitated. Glanced over his shoulder.

“You ever look under a hood before?”

You blinked. “Not really.”

“C’mere,” he said, voice softer now, but with a pull to it. “I’ll show you somethin’.”

You stepped closer, and the moment stretched — long enough for you to realize what you were doing. What it would look like. What your father would say. But the thought didn’t stop you.

Daryl stepped aside, just enough to let you in next to him. You moved slowly, careful where you stood, gravel shifting beneath your shoes. The heat from the engine made the air shimmer.

“Stand here,” he said, nodding to a spot in front of the grill.

You moved — and then felt him behind you.

He leaned over, one hand braced on the edge of the open hood, the other pointing to a cluster of wires. His chest was just behind your shoulder, his breath stirring the loose strands of hair at the side of your face.

You could smell him now — soap, sweat, smoke. Clean and rough all at once.

“Starter solenoid’s right here,” he said, voice low and even. “She’s busted. Most folks’d replace the whole damn thing.”

“But not you?” you asked, not trusting yourself to look at him.

He shifted, just slightly, and you felt the warmth of his body even closer behind you. “Ain’t about what I would do. It’s about what your daddy’s willin’ to pay for.”

You glanced at the wires, trying to focus. Your skirt rustled faintly as Daryl’s hip brushed against your lower back.

“So… what do you do?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

He leaned in just enough that you could feel the heat of him against your back, the whisper of his shirt nearly grazing yours.

“You figure out how to work with what’s broke.”

He reached forward, long fingers grazing over a frayed connection, and you watched the movement more than the part itself. His arm brushed yours, a spark flying up it and to your shoulder. 

“See this?” he murmured. “This one’s melted. Means you’re only gettin’ a partial circuit. That’s why the engine clicks but don’t crank.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He kept talking, explaining each wire, each component, his tone never shifting. Like this was normal. Like you weren’t standing there, flushed and quiet, every inch of your skin aware of his presence behind you.

Then, after a beat, he paused.

“You ain’t listenin’.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He was smirking. 

“You’re starin’. Not listenin’.”

You turned, just enough to glance up at him, only to realize how close he really was. His gaze was steady, a little sharp around the edges, but not unkind. Like he could tell exactly what you were thinking.

You opened your mouth to say something, maybe to deny it, maybe not, when the rumble of your father’s truck pulling onto the driveway cut the moment clean in half.

You both turned at the same time.

Your father slammed his truck door closed and stepped out, arms crossed, face stern.

“I thought I told you to leave him be.”

Daryl let out a small breath of air and stepped backwards, rubbing his hands on his jeans.

You looked away, gaze fixed on the floor, your cheeks tinted red with embarrassment.

When your father’s eyes finally found yours, he spoke, his voice sharp. Cold. “Inside. Now.”

“Daddy—”

“Don’t make me say it again, Sophia.”

You stepped back. Heart thudding. You didn’t look at Daryl — couldn’t. But you felt him watching, even as you walked back across the lawn, even as the door clicked shut behind you.

Inside, the air felt too cool. Too still. You stood in the kitchen, back straight, hands clenched.

Your father followed you inside, slamming the screen door shut behind the both of you.

“You don’t get it,” your father said, voice low and angry. “He’s trouble. That family — they ain’t good people, and you damn well know it.”

You stared at the floor.

“No daughter of mine’s gonna go throwin’ herself at some Dixon boy, you hear me? People see you out there, talk’s gonna start. And I won’t have that.”

You nodded. Quiet. Obedient.

But inside, your chest burned.

You weren’t a child anymore. And you weren’t “throwing” yourself at anyone. But you also weren’t about to say that to your father — not when his jaw was clenched that tight, not when the veins in his neck looked ready to snap.

You stayed silent. That was for the best. You’d learned that young.

Your father exhaled sharply and scrubbed a hand over his face. The anger shifted, folded into something heavier — weariness, maybe. Frustration. A quiet fear he’d never admit to.

He sighed again. Softer now.

“You’re a good girl, Sophia. Don’t forget that.”

And just like that, he turned and walked out of the kitchen, boots heavy against the floorboards. Left you standing there in silence, the screen door creaking gently in the breeze.

You didn’t move right away.

Your hands loosened slowly, nails unpeeling from your palms.

Maybe you were a good girl.

But that didn’t mean you had to stay that way.

[twdgrxmes]

HELP!!!

Not even sure who will see this, but I am struggling to find a path for my story "Trouble - Trailer Park! Daryl Dixon x Reader" to continue, and am thinking of rewriting it completely, which will probably work better on my wattpadd acc (the same username as my tumblr one) and also my ao3 (again, same username). I'm trying to come up with a direction and would appreciate feedback! So please, if you have any ideas or pointers, let me know.

[twdgrxmes]

Summer of Sin - Dbf Joel Miller x Reader (Part 2)

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: None tbh, making out?

The bar was nothing like the ones near campus. No pulsing bass or sticky floors or packs of sweaty undergrads screaming over each other for tequila shots. This one was smaller, quieter — tucked into the edge of town like it had always been there. Old neon signs glowed in the windows, their buzz faint under the soft drawl of country music playing inside. It smelled like cheap beer, wood polish, and something fried — comforting, in a way that made your shoulders ease as soon as you stepped through the door.

You spotted her instantly.

Carly was perched at the corner of the bar, waving a long-nailed hand like she’d been waiting all night. Her hair was piled on top of her head in that signature messy bun, gold hoops glinting in the low light. Same infectious smile, same denim jacket, same way of looking at you like no time had passed.

“There she is!” she hollered, sliding off her stool and wrapping you in a too-tight hug that smelled like peach body spray and nostalgia.

You laughed into her shoulder. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“And you’re a whole damn grown woman,” she said, pulling back with a grin. “Look at you, all glowy and shit. College did you good.”

“Still figuring things out,” you said, shrugging. “But yeah. It helped.”

“Sit. Drink. Tell me everything.”

You obeyed, letting her shove a margarita glass toward you. The salt stung a little as you took your first sip — tart and cold, grounding. Carly was already rattling off stories: who’d gotten married, who’d broken up, who was secretly dating who — like no time had passed since high school. You listened, nodded, laughed in the right places. Let yourself feel pulled back into the rhythm of old friendship.

But Joel still tugged at the back of your mind.

“You okay?” Carly asked, halfway through her second drink. “You’ve got that faraway ‘thinking about a boy’ look.”

You blinked. “That obvious?”

“Gabs. Please. I’ve known you since kindergarten.”

You looked down at your drink, traced the rim with your finger. “It’s… complicated.”

“Ohhh.” Her eyes lit up, conspiratorial. “Is he hot?”

Your lips twitched. “Yeah. But… he’s older.”

Carly raised an eyebrow. “How old?”

You hesitated. “Like… older older.”

She tilted her head, smirking. “Married?”

“No.”

“Kid?”

“Yeah. A daughter. She’s not around anymore, though. Moved out.”

Carly nodded, leaned in, wiggling her eyebrows. “Well, who’s the lucky guy?”

You bit your lip gently. “Joel Miller.. ”

“Damn, I don’t blame you. That man’s been Dad Crush Material since forever. Hot, handy, broody as hell.” She narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Are you seriously telling me something happened?”

“No. Not really. I mean…” You sighed. “I don’t know. It’s just—he’s always been around. And now I’m not a kid anymore. And I swear there’s something there but I can’t tell if I’m making it up.”

Carly grinned so wide it hurt. “Oh babe. You are not making it up.”

You gave her a skeptical look. “How would you know?”

“Because you’re somkin’! You probably give that man a damn near heartattack everytime he sees you.”

Your smiled, shaking your head softly, “Shut up..”

“Mmhmm. Don’t give me that innocent face. That man would be drooling over you, especially if he saw your get-up tonight..”

You shook your head, trying to fight the heat rising to your cheeks. “He’s my dad’s best friend. It’s… messy.”

“And hot,” Carly said, raising her glass. “So hot.”

You clinked glasses, even as nerves twisted in your belly. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That Carly was reading too much into a glance, a shift in tone, a loaded silence.

But it didn’t feel like nothing.

It felt like pressure building in your chest, like something just waiting to tip over.

~

The glass in your hand felt lighter with every sip, the ice rattling against the sides as the tequila sunk in. It wasn’t your first drink of the night, but it was the one that made the edges of the room soften, the lights dim just a little, and the noise fade into something distant, like a hum instead of a roar.

Carly had wandered off to chat with someone, leaving you alone with your thoughts. But thoughts felt like they were slipping away — you could feel them dissolve with every second, leaving you floating in the buzz of alcohol. The bar seemed quieter now, the chatter around you muffled, like a cozy blanket wrapped around your head.

You didn’t see him at first, not until he slid onto the stool next to yours. His voice was low, smooth, like he was trying to be heard above the hum of the place, but it was warm, familiar in a way that pulled you in.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, a half-smile playing on his lips.

You blinked, realizing how close he was. His dark hair was starting to gray at the temples, the kind of silver that made him look more distinguished than old. His shirt was tight enough to show the muscles in his arms, but not too tight — just enough to make you think, for a second, that maybe he worked with his hands, like Joel did. You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat.

“Nope,” you said, your voice coming out a little softer than you meant. “It’s open.”

He took a sip of his drink, watching you over the rim of his glass. “I’ve not seen you around here before. You come in often?”

“Not really,” you said, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Just tonight. I needed a change of scenery.”

“Seems like you got it,” he said, a grin playing on his lips. “What’s your name?”

You hesitated for a second before answering. You weren’t used to this — talking to strangers like this. But the alcohol had already loosened the grip on your inhibitions.

“Gabriella,” you said, eyes flickering away for a second. “And you?”

“Luke,” he said, holding out his hand.

You shook it, the warmth of his skin sending a little jolt through you.

“Luke,” you repeated, testing the name. He had a comfortable, easy smile, the kind of guy who didn’t rush things, who knew how to lean into a conversation without forcing it. “What brings you to a place like this?”

He chuckled, his voice like velvet. “I like the quieter places. Don’t get much of that in this town, you know?”

You nodded, sipping your drink again. The alcohol was starting to feel better now, easing the tightness in your chest. You had no idea why you were talking to him, why you felt so drawn to him, but somehow the space between you didn’t feel so wrong. He wasn’t Joel. He wasn’t even close.

But you were still aching in a way you couldn’t quite explain. So, you leaned into the conversation.

“I get that. The town’s… it’s small, right?” you said, leaning a little closer, letting the tension slip from your shoulders. “Everyone knows everyone, and sometimes it feels like there’s nowhere to hide.”

Luke raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering with interest. “You got something you need to hide?”

You froze for just a beat, then laughed, the sound bubbling up unbidden. “No,” you said, shaking your head. “I guess we all just have our secrets.”

His smile deepened, and you felt his gaze drop to your lips for a second before he leaned forward.

“Well, I’m not one for hiding. I like to make things clear.” His voice dropped lower. “What do you say we get out of here?”

The words hung in the air between you, a challenge, a suggestion — something in his eyes that made your breath catch. You felt a little spark of rebellion flare inside you. You were tipsy, you were far from home, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself feel like you weren’t the “good girl” for just a second. You wanted to leave with him, not for anything serious, but for something that felt easy, uncomplicated. For something to stop the ache you couldn’t quite explain.

You turned on the bar stool, face warm. “I don’t know…” you started, but the thought fizzled out as his fingers brushed your wrist, warm and deliberate.

“Come on. Just a few minutes. We’ll talk, get some fresh air.”

You could almost hear Carly’s voice in your head, urging you to have fun. To do what you wanted. You told yourself it wouldn’t mean anything. It wasn’t a big deal.

You slid off the bar stool, feeling a little wobbly as you stood. Luke’s hand was at the small of your back, guiding you toward the back door. You felt like you were on autopilot, like your body was moving without your mind fully in control.

The noise of the pub faded as you stepped into the cool, damp night air, the door slamming shut behind you. Luke’s hand was firm on your lower back, guiding you through the narrow alley that stretched behind the bar. The buzzing of your pulse drowned out the muffled music and chatter from inside. You could feel the tension hanging between you, thick and heavy, a strange mix of excitement and something else you couldn't quite place.

Once you reached the back, the dim lights barely illuminated the grimy brick walls. The air smelled faintly of stale beer and cigarette smoke, and for a second, you felt a pang of regret — what the hell were you doing? But before you could second-guess yourself too much, Luke was right there in front of you, his eyes dark with intent.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “You sure you want to stay out here?” His voice was a quiet whisper, the low hum of the alcohol still in your veins making everything feel blurry and distant.

You didn’t answer immediately, not sure if you were still thinking clearly. But you let him pull you closer, his lips brushing against your cheek, and before you knew it, his kiss found yours — slow and deliberate. His hands slipped around your waist, pulling you even closer, his lips demanding but not overly forceful.

For a moment, it felt like you could let go. Like you could forget everything that was weighing on you, everything that had led to this moment. But then, the sharpness of reality cut through the haze. Joel’s face flashed in your mind, his expression hard and distant, the way he’d looked at you just before you walked out. You weren’t just running from him. You were running from yourself.

You pulled away, hands pushing against Luke's chest, your heart racing. “No,” you said, breathless, as you took a step back. “This isn’t right.”

Luke hesitated, his gaze searching your face. He wasn’t about to give up easily, though. His hands found your arms, pulling you back toward him. “It’s just a kiss,” he said, voice low, coaxing. “No harm in it.”

Luke blinked, surprised — then smirked. “Come on,” he said, brushing your hair back, leaning in again. “Don’t play shy now.”

You shook your head, more firmly this time. “I said no, Luke.” You didn’t know why, but something deep inside you was screaming at you to stop this before it went any further.

But he didn’t move back. His hand slid to your hip, fingers digging in.

And then—

“What the hell are you doing?”

The voice snapped through the air like a whip. You froze. Luke stepped back. You turned.

Joel.

He stood at the mouth of the alley, shadowed and still, but the fury in his eyes was unmistakable. His jaw was tight, hands curled into fists at his sides.

Luke scoffed, casual. “We were just talking, man. Chill out.”

Joel didn’t even look at him. His eyes were on you. Disappointed. It stung.

“You done?” he asked, voice flat.

You opened your mouth, the words stuck behind a knot in your throat. “Joel, I—”

But Joel didn’t seem like he wanted an explanation. He just turned on his heel, his voice cold as he walked away. “Get your shit together, Gabs. We’re leaving”

You stood there for a beat too long, the echo of Joel’s words settling like stones in your stomach. The guilt hit harder now — not just because he’d seen, but because he sounded so disappointed.

When you finally mustered the nerve to go back inside, the air felt heavier, thicker with the weight of what had just happened. Your heels clicked against the sticky floor as you stepped through the door, scanning the room until your eyes landed on him.

Joel was leaning against the far end of the bar, arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw clenched when he saw you walk in — and it wasn’t just because of Luke.

It was the dress.

His eyes dropped to it, lingered there for half a second too long before he dragged them back up to your face. His lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

“What the hell was that?” he said as you got close, voice low but biting. He didn't yell — Joel never needed to. His restraint was worse than shouting.

You looked away, suddenly aware of just how short your dress was, how bare your shoulders felt under his scrutiny. “Nothing happened,” you muttered, wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

“Didn’t look like nothing.” His gaze was fire, but it wasn’t jealousy. It was disappointment. Disgust, even. “You let some random guy feel you up in the alley behind a bar, what would your father say?”

You flinched. “Joel, I was— I’m not—”

“You’re drunk,” he cut in, voice sharp. “Jesus, Gabriella. What were you thinking?”

You didn’t answer, because you weren’t sure you had been thinking. You looked down, suddenly hyper-aware of how unsteady you felt. The buzz that once felt warm and thrilling now twisted into nausea, shame simmering under your skin.

Joel let out a sharp breath, running a hand down his face. “Let’s go. I’m driving you home.”

You hesitated, but your legs felt like rubber and your head was spinning. There was no fight left in you.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He just turned and started walking, and you followed.

~

The silence in Joel’s truck was suffocating.

He hadn’t said a word since you slid into the passenger seat, cheeks flushed, legs wobbly, the sting of his disappointment still buzzing under your skin. The radio was off. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight you could hear the leather creak beneath his fingers.

You stared out the window, the cool glass against your temple grounding you just enough to keep you from unraveling completely. But the alcohol was still in your bloodstream, loosening your mouth, making your emotions rise sharp and hot.

You’d never felt more humiliated. 

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“I wasn’t doing it to piss you off,” you muttered.

Joel didn’t look at you. “Didn’t ask.”

“Well, I’m saying it anyway,” you snapped, turning to face him. “I wasn’t trying to make a scene or whatever. I just— I was horny, Joel.”

That got him. His head turned slowly, eyes narrowing like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

You pressed on, bitter and bold. “I wanted to be touched. That’s all.”

He didn’t speak. Just stared at you, his jaw tense, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

You leaned in, sloppier than you meant to be, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Why don’t you touch me?”

Joel’s breath caught. You could feel the weight shift in the cab, the way his body suddenly wasn’t quite as still. He didn’t move away — but he didn’t move closer either.

You reached across the console, hand clumsy and uncertain, fingers brushing his thigh. “You act like I’m made of glass,” you said, voice thick. “Like I’m gonna break if you want me too much.”

“Gabs,” he warned, low and strained.

You ignored it. Your hand slid higher. “Do you want me?”

He grabbed your wrist then — not hard, but firm, stopping your hand halfway to where you were heading.

His eyes burned into yours. “You’re drunk.”

“So?” you whispered, leaning in, your face so close to his it felt like the air between you might snap. “You think I don’t mean it just because I’ve had a few drinks?”

“I think you don’t know what you’ll regret in the morning,” he ground out.

You gave a bitter laugh, eyes searching his face. “The only thing I regret is not saying this sooner.”

You leaned in — reckless, desperate — and kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t soft. It was all heat and ache and unanswered questions, your lips pressing against his like they could force him to feel what you felt.

For a second, he didn’t move. And then —

He kissed you back.

Hard.

But just for a second.

Then he pulled away, panting, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathless.

“Don’t do this,” he said, voice ragged. “Not like this.”

Your heart sank. “Why not?”

He exhaled shakily, eyes screwed shut. He let go of your wrist and turned away, hand reaching to kill the engine.

“Let’s get you inside.”

~

The truck door slammed behind you with a thud that echoed too loud in the quiet street.

Joel didn’t say anything as he walked you up the path to your house, his hand hovering near your back but never quite touching. You knew he was trying to keep some kind of line between you — as if that line hadn’t already been crossed in the truck.

The porch light buzzed overhead. You fumbled with your keys, missing the lock twice before Joel gently took them from your hand and opened the door for you.

You stepped inside, blinking at the darkened living room. Empty. Still. You turned slowly, leaning against the door as it closed behind him.

“You can go,” you said softly. “My dad’s out of town. Won’t be back ‘til tomorrow night.”

Joel hesitated in the doorway, his jaw tense again, like he was working through a war in his head. “You shouldn’t be alone like this.”

You shrugged, arms crossing loosely under your chest, trying to act nonchalant. “I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t move. Just stood there, silhouetted in the doorway, eyes flicking over you — from your tousled hair to the straps slipping down your shoulders. The fabric of your dress had ridden up just slightly, the hem hugging your thighs in a way that made your skin burn under his gaze.

You could see it in his face — he didn’t believe you.

You sighed softly, “Fine, Joel, just stay.”

~

He followed you down the hall in silence, his footsteps heavy behind yours. You pushed open the door to your bedroom, heart hammering, suddenly unsure if this was a good idea — not because of what you wanted, but because of how much it mattered.

Joel stood in the doorway, still as stone. Watching.

You turned your back to him, fingers fumbling at the zipper of your dress.

After a beat, you heard him move. The floor creaked as he stepped closer.

His hands barely grazed your back, making your breath catch. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his presence overwhelming in the room. The moment he touched you, it was like everything else in the world stopped. Your pulse raced, your skin flushed under his fingers.

He gently tugged at the zipper of your dress, the sound of it pulling down the fabric of the night, each inch leaving you more exposed to him, to the weight of what was happening. His breath was steady but shallow, like he was fighting something inside himself.

As the zipper slid all the way down, the cool air hit your bare skin. The dress, heavy with the weight of unspoken words, slipped from your shoulders and down your body. You were standing there in nothing but your lace underwear, your heart pounding in your chest.

His hand lingered on your back for just a moment longer than necessary, the tension between you two nearly suffocating.

You turned to face him slowly, your eyes locking with his. You were bare before him, vulnerable, but you didn’t feel afraid. You felt alive. The rawness of the moment, the intoxicating mix of need and hesitation, left you breathless.

He looked at you, eyes dark, and the air between you crackled with something more than just the tension of the night.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice hushed, rough with restraint.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. Your throat was dry, the anticipation between you almost unbearable. You stepped closer to him, barely a breath separating you now, your body leaning into his. His hands hovered, as if waiting for permission — or for the courage — to touch you again.

Without another word, you closed the distance between you, your lips finding his in a kiss that was slow at first. Gentle, as if he was testing the waters, feeling for the pulse of this moment.

But you weren’t about to let him pull back. You kissed him harder, deeper, your hands finding the sides of his face, pulling him closer, as if you needed more, as if you needed him now. His hands found their way to your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the heat of him pressing against you.

Joel’s breath hitched as he kissed you back with a raw intensity that left you gasping for air. His hands roamed over your skin, urgent, but never rushing. Like he was memorizing every inch of you, every curve of your body.

You could feel him trembling slightly, fighting something — maybe the same thing you were. The knowledge that this wasn’t just a kiss, that it was more, so much more. There was a fragility to the moment, but also an undeniable force, a push and pull of attraction, need, and desire.

Your hands slid down, tracing the muscles of his chest, feeling the heat of him beneath the fabric of his shirt. You could hear his breath quicken, and the sound of it made you burn.

Joel pulled back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily.

“Gabriella,” he murmured, his voice thick with want, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you might slip away. “This is a mistake.”

But even as he said the words, his lips found yours again, desperate, a low groan escaping him. He kissed you as if he couldn’t stop — as if there was no going back. And in that moment, you didn’t want to.

You didn’t want any of this to stop.

You kissed him back harder, and he responded with the same intensity, his hands tracing the curve of your body, his touch possessive, needy, like he was marking you, claiming you.

His lips moved down, kissing your neck, your jawline, the place where your pulse beat fast and frantic. Every touch, every kiss, seemed to shatter the walls between you, the walls you’d both built so carefully.

You pulled away breathlessly, giggling, "When's the last time you got laid, old man?"

Joel stiffened, something flickering in his eyes—desire warring with something darker, more resolute. His hands, which had been gripping your waist, suddenly loosened. He took a step back, creating space between your bodies that felt like a chasm.

"Christ," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. The muscles in his jaw worked as he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor, deliberately avoiding the sight of you standing there in your underwear.

"Joel?" Your voice came out smaller than you intended, confusion creeping in where confidence had been moments before.

He shook his head, reaching down to pick up your dress from the floor. "Put this back on," he said, his voice rough as he handed it to you, still not meeting your eyes.

"What's wrong?" you asked, clutching the dress to your chest, suddenly feeling exposed in a way you hadn't seconds ago. The cool air raised goosebumps on your skin—or maybe it was the sudden shift in his demeanor.

"This," he gestured between you, finally looking at you with eyes filled with regret, "this is wrong, Gabriella."

"It didn't feel wrong," you countered, taking a step toward him.

He held up a hand, stopping you. "You're drunk. You don't know what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," you insisted, a flash of anger cutting through the fog of desire. "I'm not a child, Joel."

"No," he agreed, his voice softening slightly, "you're not. But you're.. You’re my best friend’s daughter, and you've had too much to drink, and I'm..." he trailed off, cursing under his breath.

"You're what?" you challenged, refusing to let him off the hook.

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm taking advantage of a situation I shouldn't be."

"That's bullshit," you said, hurt making your voice sharper than you intended. "I kissed you, remember?"

"And I should've stopped it right then," he said firmly. "I'm stopping it now."

You clutched your dress tighter, feeling tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. "So that's it? We just have to pretend this never happened?"

Joel looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment, his expression softened into something that made your heart ache. "Gabriella," he said, your name like a prayer on his lips. "You deserve better than this. Better than some... heat-of-the-moment thing you might regret in the morning."

"I wouldn't regret it," you whispered, taking another step toward him.

He shook his head, more firmly this time. "Put some clothes on, Gabs. You should sleep this off."

"Joel—"

"I need to go," he cut you off, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I shouldn't have stayed in the first place."

You watched, frozen in place, as he turned away from you, his shoulders rigid with tension. He moved toward the door, each step deliberate, like he was fighting the urge to turn back.

The sound of his boots on the hardwood floor echoed through the house as he walked away, followed by the soft click of the front door closing behind him.

You stood alone in your room, the dress still clutched to your chest, the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin. The space where he'd been felt impossibly empty now, and you weren't sure if it was the alcohol or the rejection that made your head spin.

Slowly, you walked over to your wardrobe, pulling a shirt on over your head, not bothering with pants. You sank onto the edge of your bed, replaying the evening in your mind—the way his eyes had darkened when you kissed him, the heat of his body against yours, the taste of whiskey on his tongue. It had been real. All of it.

But as you lay back on your bed, staring at the ceiling, you couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he was right. Maybe you did need to sleep it off. Maybe in the light of day, things would look different.

Or maybe they wouldn't.

Either way, there was no going back now. Something had shifted between you and Joel tonight, something fundamental and irreversible. And despite his words, despite his retreat, you knew one thing for certain:

This wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

[twdgrxmes]

Summer of Sin - Dbf Joel Miller x Reader (Part 1)

next->

Word count: 3.1k Warnings: None, Just an introduction chapter w/ a little bit of flirting.

The heat hit you first.

Stepping out of the car felt like slipping into a memory — familiar, warm, and just a little too much. The Texas sun hadn’t changed in the years you’d been away. It still wrapped around you like a heavy blanket, pressed against your skin, clung to your clothes, filled your lungs with dry, cicada-humming air. The wind carried that scent you hadn’t smelled in so long: sun-baked grass, barbecue smoke from somewhere down the block, the faint sweetness of honeysuckle growing wild along the neighbor’s fence.

You blinked against the brightness and adjusted the strap of your sundress, your suitcase wheels catching on the gravel of the driveway. The light cotton clung to your skin in the heat — pale yellow with little embroidered flowers, the kind of thing you wouldn’t have worn freshman year. You’d grown into it since then, into soft curves and the way your hips filled the fabric. No longer the scrawny girl who left for college with too much eyeliner and a suitcase full of dreams. Your hair was longer now, tucked half-up in a velvet bow, and your lips were painted with just enough gloss to catch the light. You liked who you were becoming — slower, surer, a little quieter.

College had been good to you. Not perfect — you still didn’t know what you wanted to do with your life — but it gave you something to push against. Nights spent cramming in the library, mornings nursing bitter coffee, a few friends who came and went, and one heartbreak that still stung a little when you let your guard down. You came back with more stories, stronger boundaries, and a new habit of biting your bottom lip when you were thinking too hard. You weren’t a kid anymore. Not by a long shot.

The front door creaked open before you could knock.

“There’s my college grad!” your dad grinned, arms wide, beer sweating in his hand. His face was a little more weathered than you remembered — deeper lines at the corners of his eyes, a few more silver threads in his hair — but that same easy warmth lived in his voice.

You dropped your bag and let him hug you, his flannel shirt scratchy against your cheek. “Hey, Dad.”

“Look at you. Dress, nails, little ribbon in your hair—you been hanging around those fancy art kids again?”

You laughed. “Maybe.”

“Well, you look beautiful, sweetheart.” He stepped back and smiled. “Grown up.”

You smiled, proud of gaining your dad’s approval.

As if on cue, he jerked his thumb toward the backyard. “Barbecue’s already going. Joel’s out back manning the grill.”

There it was.

That name. That twist low in your belly.

Joel Miller.

You hadn’t seen him since the summer before sophomore year. He’d sent a card for your birthday. Your dad’s best friend since forever. The man who was always around. Fixing things around the house, joining the two of you for breakfasts, lunches and dinners, teaching you how to check the oil in your beat-up first car. All those memories lived in the in-between spaces of your childhood — and yet, none of them felt innocent anymore.

Not since you started seeing him for what he was.

Not since you realized that the warmth in your chest wasn’t just affection.

You swallowed. “Still making him do all the hard work, huh?”

Your dad snorted. “He insists. Says I’d burn the place down if I tried to grill. And he ain’t wrong.”

You forced a smile, heart beginning to thud behind your ribs. “Guess I should say hi.”

You stepped through the house, past framed photos of old birthdays and middle school sports trophies, and opened the back door to a wall of sunlight and the scent of charcoal.

And there he was.

Joel Miller.

Standing over the grill, tongs in hand, a bottle of Shiner resting against his thigh. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, showing off strong forearms dusted with salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a worn button-down, sweat-darkened at the collar, and those faded jeans he always seemed to wear — snug around thick thighs, torn just slightly at the knee. His hair was longer than you remembered, brushed back and curling a little at the edges, flecked with silver. His beard was thicker, too — full and streaked with gray, making him look even older, even more…

Unreachable.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

But then, he did.

His gaze flicked up from the grill, and he froze.

Only for a second. But you saw it — the pause, the shift, the flicker of something behind his eyes.

You weren’t sixteen anymore. You weren’t a kid in jean shorts and braces calling him Uncle Joel. You were twenty-one, in a sundress, lip gloss shining, your hair catching the golden light.

And Joel Miller saw you.

His expression gave nothing away, but his hand tightened around the neck of the beer bottle.

“Well,” he said, low and measured. “Look who finally came home.”

Your smile trembled at the edges, but you held your ground. “Hey, Joel.”

He didn’t answer right away — just looked at you. Like he was trying to reconcile the girl he used to know with the woman standing in front of him now.

“College treat you alright?”

You nodded. “You could say that. Definitely feel more grown up”

That almost-smile tugged at his mouth as he gave you a slow once-over, his gaze lingering. “Yeah..Sounds about right.”

Your dad’s voice broke the spell as he stepped onto the porch behind you, clapping a hand to Joel’s back.

“She made it through all four years, can you believe it?”

Joel’s eyes lingered on yours for a beat longer before he turned back to the grill. “Yeah,” he said. “I believe it.”

But his voice was a little quieter than it should’ve been.

~ 

The backyard had always been the same: patchy grass, sagging patio chairs, the old oak tree you used to climb with skinned knees and a juice box in hand. But it looked smaller now, or maybe you had just gotten bigger. Older. The memories didn’t quite fit the same anymore.

Your dad handed you a drink — something cold and fizzy in a red solo cup — and you made small talk with neighbors you hadn’t seen in years. Mrs. Garcia still wore floral perfumes and overshared about her cats. The Murphy boys, once scrawny and sticky with popsicles, were now tall and awkward with half-grown beards and matching smirks. Everyone greeted you with wide smiles and some version of, look how much you’ve grown!

But you only half-heard them.

Because every time you glanced toward the grill, Joel was there.

And every time you looked, he wasn’t looking at you — but you wished he would. He moved slowly, deliberately, flipping burgers and handing off plates with a grunt, sipping his beer between tasks. But when he wiped his hand on a dishrag and caught your eye across the yard, your breath caught before you could stop it.

He still hadn’t said much.

But he didn’t have to.

The sun dipped lower as the evening wore on, smearing orange across the sky. You sat on the porch steps, bare legs crossed, drink cradled in your hands as the hum of conversation dulled into background noise. The food was mostly gone now, and your dad had drifted inside to grab something from the fridge, leaving Joel alone by the grill as he shut the propane off and packed up the tools with practiced ease.

You didn’t think about it — you just stood up and walked over.

“Need a hand?” you asked.

Joel glanced over his shoulder, eyes scanning your face first — then slowly dropping lower. You felt his gaze like a warm palm skimming over your skin. Not obvious. Not inappropriate. Just a beat too long.

“Nah,” he said. “Almost done.”

You hovered anyway, arms folding across your stomach.

“It’s weird being back,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, just for him. “Everything looks the same, but it all feels… smaller.”

Joel made a soft sound in his chest, almost like agreement. He wiped down the grill and didn’t meet your gaze. “That’s how it goes. You grow up, and the places stay the same. Makes ‘em feel smaller, not ‘cause they changed—but ‘cause you did. You’ve definitely changed.”

That settled into you, deeper than you expected.

You studied his profile — the strong line of his nose, the scruff of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. There were new lines around his eyes, and the hollows of his cheeks looked a little sharper. Tired, maybe. Or just older.

“I missed this,” you said softly. “The quiet. The barbecues”

Joel looked at you now, the intensity of it grounding.

His voice was low. “You miss me, Gabs?”

You froze.

Was he.. Flirting? No, it was just a genuine question, Gabriella, snap out of it.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out right away. Your heart fluttered. 

You nodded, honest. “Yeah. I did.”

Something passed between you. Not a spark, exactly. A recognition. A flicker of something old and unfinished.

Joel looked away first. He cleared his throat, straightened up, and wiped his hands on the rag again like he needed something to do.

“Well,” he muttered, “you’re home now.”

And somehow, that sentence made your chest ache.

You wanted to stay standing there. You wanted to ask him whether he missed you too, whether he thought about you in your absence like you did him. Why the look in his eyes tonight made it feel like he saw you — not as his buddy’s kid, not as a girl, but as something else entirely.

But your dad stepped outside again, and the moment snapped like a twig.

Joel took a step back. You took one too.

And just like that, the space between you returned — measured and polite.

But when the night ended and the yard emptied, when the folding chairs were stacked and your dad dozed off on the couch in front of the game, you passed by the front window and caught the headlights of Joel’s truck flick on.

You paused.

And through the windshield, he was looking at you.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile.

Just watched.

And then he drove away.

You stood there for a second too long after his truck disappeared down the street — the taillights swallowed by the dark, cicadas still buzzing like a warning in the trees.

The heat clung to you even now, long after the sun dipped past the horizon, turning the sky dusky purple. But it wasn’t the weather that made you press a hand to your chest. It was that look.

He had been watching.

And not like someone who’d known you since you were a little girl. Not like a family friend. 

It was something else. And you couldn’t tell if it thrilled you or scared you.

Maybe both.

You locked the front door quietly behind you, your footsteps light across the hardwood as you climbed the stairs to your old bedroom. The posters were gone, the bedspread replaced, but it still smelled faintly like childhood — like lavender laundry detergent and sunscreen. You dropped onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly above, mind reeling.

You miss me, Gabs?

He said your name like it meant something. Like it still meant something. Like he remembered you as more than the tagalong daughter of his best friend. Like maybe, in the quiet spaces between years, he’d thought of you too.

You rolled onto your side, hugging the pillow to your chest, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped.

This was dangerous territory. You knew that.

Joel was older. Joel was your dad’s best friend. Joel was so odd limits and you knew it, but fuck, did it only make you want him more.

~

You spent the next few days slipping back into old rhythms — mornings on the porch with your dad’s too-strong coffee, afternoons spent sorting through boxes in the garage, evenings helping chop vegetables in the kitchen while the game played low on the living room TV.

Joel didn’t show up.

Not at first.

But his absence was almost worse than seeing him. It made your skin feel tight, your breath short. You kept waiting for that knock on the door, that lazy drawl through the screen — “Need anything fixed?” — like he used to.

Three days passed before he finally appeared.

You were in the backyard again, barefoot, wearing a white, cotton sundress that wrapped around your thighs when it blew in the gentle breeze. 

You didn’t hear his truck.

You just turned, hearing the gate creak open — and he was there.

By the back gate. One hand on the latch. The sun behind him.

Your heart kicked once, then galloped.

“Hey,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “Your dad home?”

You blinked. “Uh… no, he ran to the store. Should be back soon.”

Joel nodded once. But he didn’t move.

His eyes dragged over you — legs bare to the thigh, the dress pinching in around your waist, hair pulled up with little wisps clinging to your cheeks in the heat.

It looked like it pained him to drag his gaze away. 

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not.”

Silence hung between you. Heavy. Charged.

He shifted his weight, glanced at the laundry line, then back at you.

“You doin’ alright?” he asked, and there was something softer in it this time. Something that sounded like concern — or maybe restraint.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just... adjusting.”

Joel's jaw ticked once. He looked down, then up again.

“You look different.”

You smiled faintly. “You already said that.”

He stepped forward, slow, careful. The kind of movement a man makes when he knows what he's doing is toeing the line — and decides to do it anyway.

“I mean it.”

You could feel it again — that coil tightening inside you.

Dangerous.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Just for a second. Then back up.

Your voice was steadier than you felt. “You gonna help me hang these or just stare?”

That made him snort — low, almost surprised. “Bossy now, huh?”

“Grown up now. Remember?”

His mouth quirked and he stepped closer, took the clothespin from your hand without breaking eye contact, and reached up to hang the damp sheet. His fingers brushed yours as he did, and your breath caught.

It was nothing.

But it felt like everything.

You stood there, a damp sheet fluttering between you, its edge catching in the breeze and brushing against Joel’s shoulder. He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. Just kept his eyes on yours like the fabric wasn’t even there, like the rest of the world had faded out behind it.

He hung the last corner slowly. Deliberately. The clothespin clicked into place with a soft snap, but even that small sound felt louder than it should’ve. Like it split something open.

Joel stepped back, just a half-pace. Enough to stop touching, not enough to pull away.

You watched him — the way his shirt clung to his back in the heat, the sun gilding the curve of his jaw, the steady rise and fall of his chest. He wasn’t saying anything, and neither were you, but the silence between you was alive. Buzzing. Fragile.

“You still hate tomatoes?” he asked after a beat, nodding toward the scraggly garden bed behind you.

You blinked. It felt absurd, the question. Almost funny.

“Only when they’re raw,” you said. “Still think they taste too mushy.”

Joel huffed — a small breath of amusement that didn’t quite reach a smile. “Still dramatic.”

You walked toward the bed anyway, brushing past him. You swore you felt the heat of him as you moved — the way he didn’t shift out of your path, the way his eyes tracked you. You crouched near one of the plants, poked at the dry soil with your fingers.

“You always used to overwater them.”

“Oh, you’re the tomato expert then, are you?.”

You giggled, glancing over your shoulder at him, “Yeah, pretty much.”

You stood, dusted your hands off on the skirt of your dress. Walked back toward him slowly, your heartbeat ticking higher with every step. He stayed rooted in place. Waiting. Watching.

“You know I used to make excuses to come outside when you were working?” you said. “I’d sit on the porch just to hear you talk to my dad.”

Joel’s eyes snapped to yours.

“I know,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “You knew?”

“I ain’t stupid. You were a kid to me then."

“What am I to you now?”

That held in the air. Unanswered.

He didn’t confirm it — not with words. But he didn’t deny it either. His gaze dropped again, not to your mouth this time, but to your hands. Your fingers fidgeting at the hem of your dress. Then back up.

The space between you was so thin it felt like a mistake. Or a choice.

He took one step forward.

You didn’t move.

“You know I’m not seventeen anymore,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Joel looked at you then. Really looked. Not just with his eyes, but like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face. The softness of your voice. The edge of want in it.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered.

“Not scared of a little trouble, are you?”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something smart — or maybe stupid — but before he could, the sound of a car pulling into the drive broke the tension clean in two.

Joel turned his head, shoulders stiffening. You both stood frozen for a beat, like deer caught in sudden light.

Your dad’s voice called from the front yard. “Hey! Gabs, can you grab the eggs before I drop ‘em?”

Joel stepped back fast — too fast — like he needed the space to think straight. His hands went to his hips, his head shaking slightly like he was silently cursing himself.

“I should go,” he said gruffly.

You nodded, pulse still skittering in your throat. “Okay.”

He hesitated. Looked at you like he wanted to say more. Like he wanted to reach out and take something that had been on the tip of his fingers for years.

But he didn’t.

He just opened the gate, stepped through it, and shut it behind him with a soft click. Didn’t look back.

And just like that — the moment passed.

But it didn’t leave.

It clung to your skin like heat. Settled in your chest. And you had a feeling it wasn’t finished.

Not even close.

[twdgrxmes]

Lot 16 - TrailerPark!Reader x TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon (Part 2)

WC: 2454

Tags: Friends to lovers

You woke up to the sound of rain dripping from the trailer roof, steady and rhythmic like the ticking of a broken clock. Pale light seeped through the dusty blinds, casting long lines across Daryl’s cluttered bedroom. For a second, you forgot where you were.

Then you felt it — the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back. Daryl’s arm was draped over your waist, warm and heavy. His breath tickled the back of your neck, and his fingers were curled loosely beneath the hem of your t-shirt. Not in a way that crossed a line. Just... close. Steady.

Your cheek throbbed faintly where your mother had slapped you, but it felt distant now, tucked behind the quiet warmth of this moment.

You shifted slightly. Daryl stirred but didn’t open his eyes.

“You awake?” you whispered.

He grunted, low and hoarse, but nodded.

“Sorry I cried all over you,” you said after a second, voice rasped from sleep. “Probably drooled too.”

That made him smirk—just barely. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You swatted his shoulder, and he caught your wrist, tugging your hand back toward his chest. You let it rest there, fingers splayed over the soft cotton of his shirt.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. It didn’t feel like you needed to.

But then Daryl opened his eyes, looking over at you through a messy curtain of hair. His voice was quiet, rough around the edges. “You okay?”

You looked at him for a long beat. Most people asked that question like they expected a lie in return. But not Daryl.

You swallowed. “Not really.”

He nodded like he understood. Because he did.

“I don’t wanna go back,” you added, voice barely audible. “Not today. Not to her.”

Daryl’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t push. “You can stay here. Long as you want.”

You blinked. “Your dad—?”

Daryl shifted behind you, his body going still for a second. The rain tapped louder against the roof, filling the space between your words.

“He ain’t gonna be around,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Took off last night. Probably won’t come back for a couple days.”

Something tightened in your chest. 

You turned over slowly, facing him. His eyes found yours through the mess of sleep and shadow. Up close, he looked tired. There were old bruises on his arms, a thin scratch healing just under his collarbone.

You wanted to reach out and trace them. 

“Daryl..” you sighed.

Daryl shrugged, eyes flicking away. “Don’t matter.”

You didn’t press. You knew what it meant when someone dodged a question like that. Knew what it was to live in a house where the wrong answer could cost you.

He looked at you again, brow furrowed like he was searching for something on your face. “You can stay,” he said again, firmer this time. “Ain’t gotta go back to her, not now. Not ever, if you don’t want.”

The way he said it—quiet but certain—made your throat tighten. Like it wasn’t just an offer. It was a promise.

You reached out then, fingers brushing his, and he let you take his hand. No hesitation. His grip was warm, rough, steady.

“Thank you, but she’s still my mama, Dar, I gotta go back” you whispered.

He nodded, jaw working like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. So he pulled you closer instead, your forehead tucking beneath his chin as his arm wrapped tighter around your waist.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, the silence between you felt like safety.

~

You had spent the weekend at Daryl’s, tucked in the comfort of his room. It was small, but it felt more like home than your own did, and that was nice considering the shit storm that went down the night before. 

By Sunday evening, the rain had finally stopped, but the clouds still hung low and heavy, like the sky hadn’t made up its mind. You stood just outside Daryl’s trailer, hoodie tugged tight around your face, arms crossed against the damp chill. Daryl leaned beside you on the steps, his shoulder brushing yours.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, but it didn’t feel sure. Not really. “She’s still my mama.”

Daryl didn’t say anything at first. Just stared out toward the trees like he was trying to see through them. You knew he hated this—sending you back when everything in him wanted to protect you. But he also knew what it meant to feel like you owed something to someone, even when they didn’t deserve it.

“She say somethin’ to make you feel like you gotta go back?” he finally asked.

You shook your head. “She won’t even remember what she said. Or did.”

That was the truth, and somehow it made it worse.

“She’ll be sober now. For a day or two, maybe. And she’ll act like none of it ever happened.” You swallowed hard. “And I’ll let her, it’s easier then bringing it up again.”

Daryl turned to look at you. His eyes were tired, guarded. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “But I’m not ready to leave her. Not yet.”

The silence stretched between you.

“I just, I’m not ready to give up on her yet,” you added, voice barely above a whisper. 

Daryl gave a stiff nod, then leaned forward and gently pressed his forehead to yours. 

“You come back if she lays a damn finger on you again,” he muttered. “Or if she looks at you wrong. I don’t care what time it is.”

You gave him a watery smile. “I know.”

He walked you to the edge of the trees, then stopped. You turned the rest of the way on your own.

The trailer looked the same as always. Same busted lawn chairs. Same crooked steps. Same flickering porch light she always forgot to turn off.

When you pushed open the screen door, the air smelled stale and sharp—cigarettes, sour coffee, old anger. The TV was on too loud, casting flickering light across the thin walls.

Your mother was in the kitchen, hair tied back in a limp knot, robe hanging open over a tank top. She didn’t look up when you came in.

“You eat?” she asked flatly.

You blinked. That was it?

“No.”

She grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and slapped some leftover stew in it without looking at you. “Well, there’s some still warm. Don’t let it go to waste.”

You took the bowl quietly. Sat at the table. The seat still had a chip in the vinyl, just like always.

She lit a cigarette and sat down across from you like nothing had happened. Like Friday night hadn’t happened. Like she hadn’t slapped you hard enough to leave a mark.

Neither of you said anything. You just sat there, picking at the food, pretending this was fine. Pretending you were fine.

~

You woke up to the sound of the TV still on in the other room — some old game show rerun playing to no one. The house smelled like stale coffee and ash, a sour reminder that nothing had changed overnight. You blinked up at the ceiling, eyes gritty, head thick. The bruise on your cheek didn’t hurt as much now, just a dull ache beneath the skin.

The clock by your bed blinked red — 6:32 AM.

You lay there a minute longer, cocooned in the blankets you didn’t remember pulling up over yourself. Maybe your mom had done it. Maybe not. You didn’t really care.

By the time your feet hit the floor, the linoleum felt cold through your socks. You moved through the morning in silence, brushing your teeth, tugging on jeans that still smelled faintly like Daryl’s trailer — pine, engine grease, and that stubborn trace of campfire smoke. You didn’t have the heart to wash them just yet.

In the mirror, the swelling had gone down. The bruise was yellowing at the edges, like a fading sunset. You tugged your hair forward to cover most of it. It worked, kind of. You didn’t care if people noticed. You just didn’t want the questions.

You poured a mug of coffee from the pot your mother had made hours earlier, lukewarm and bitter. She was already gone — either to work or back in bed, you didn’t check. A cigarette sat half-smoked in the ashtray by the sink. The silence in the house felt thicker than usual. Like it was holding its breath.

You slipped out the door without saying a word.

The sky was a flat gray, heavy with the threat of more rain, but for now the air was just cool and damp. You walked to school, hoodie pulled over your head, hands shoved deep in your pockets. The streets were still quiet, the world not quite awake yet. You liked it better this way — when everything was still soft and slow.

By the time you got to school, the parking lot was filling up. You kept your head down as you moved through the front doors, shoulders hunched like you could fold yourself smaller. Kids laughed and shoved past you in the halls. Someone sprayed too much cologne. Lockers slammed shut. It all felt too loud.

You made it to your locker before anyone stopped you. Just as you were swapping out books, you heard a voice behind you.

“Okay. What the hell, Becs?”

You flinched at her tone. “I’m fine.”

She stared at you like she wanted to shake you. “You’re not fine. You look like you got jumped. And Daryl — Jesus, have you seen him?”

Your silence was answer enough.

Jess stepped closer, her voice softening. “Was it your mom?”

You looked down, chewing the inside of your cheek. That was all she needed.

She sighed, sharp and trembling, then gently brushed your hair back. “God, Becs. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” you whispered. “It all happened so fast. I just…I just—I stayed at Daryl’s the weekend. I couldn’t be at home.”

Jess tilted her head. “Does he know?”

You nodded, “Yeah, ‘course he knows.”

Jess was quiet for a long beat. “Good,” she said finally. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

You nodded, blinking hard, your throat tight.

She squeezed your arm and stepped back. “You want me to walk you to English?”

You nodded, “Sure.” 

~

School dragged by painfully slowly, the fluorescent lights of the halls and classrooms where overbearing, but no matter how zoned out you were, you never would miss an invitation to a party, certainly not to a bonfire party, Jamie Carter’s bonfire party.

You hopped into the passenger seat of Daryl’s truck, letting the door close with a soft thud behind you. The evening air was cool, and the hum of the engine filled the silence as Daryl started the truck. You buckled your seatbelt, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. There was something different about him today—something off. His usually calm, guarded demeanor seemed even more distant, like he was lost in his thoughts.

“So,” you started, trying to break the silence, “Jamie Carter’s throwing that party by the lake friday night. He asked me if I wanted to come.”

Daryl didn’t respond right away. His knuckles gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, his eyes focused on the road ahead. You figured he wasn’t really into the idea, but you couldn’t resist throwing it out there anyway.

“I mean, it could be fun,” you continued, trying to sound casual, “Bonfire, music, drinks. You should come.”

Daryl’s eyes flickered toward you briefly before going back to the road, a small frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Not my scene,” he muttered, his tone flat.

You shrugged, not entirely surprised. “C’mon, Daryl. You’d hate for me to go alone, right?” You glanced at him playfully. “We could have some fun.” 

That made Daryl laugh under his breath, and his jaw tightened just slightly, a flicker of annoyance in his gaze as he shot you a side-eye. “Jamie’s got a thing for you.”

You shook your head quickly, trying to brush it off. “Nah, you’re imagining things. He’s just being... friendly. He doesn’t like me”

Daryl didn’t respond immediately, his eyes still narrowed as he drove, his fingers tapping the steering wheel rhythmically. You noticed his grip on the wheel had tightened even more, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was a little more bothered than he was letting on. You were about to ask him what was really going on in that head of his when you remembered something else that had been nagging at you.

“Well,” you said casually, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye, “Amber’s been giving you some looks lately. She seems to be pretty interested.”

The mention of Amber had Daryl’s jaw tightening again, but he only muttered a short, disinterested, “Yeah? Doesn’t matter.”

You couldn’t help but grin a little. “She’s got her eye on you. I mean, you might wanna, you know, watch out for her—she’s kinda persistent.”

Daryl didn’t look at you when he spoke next, his tone flat. “I’m not interested in her.”

You blinked at his response, surprised at how nonchalant he sounded about it, but you didn’t dwell on it. Instead, you grinned, shaking your head. “Come on, Dar, don’t make me beg.”

Daryl’s silence hung between you two for a moment, and it made you uneasy in a way you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 

Finally, he cleared his throat, “Fine. I’ll meet you there, just go with Jess or somethin’.” 

You smiled, reaching over and giggling, pecking his cheek dramatically, “Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Daryl’s head tilted slightly, and for a moment, you could swear you saw a hint of a smile tug at the corner of his lips, even though he was trying to suppress it. He kept his eyes on the road, but you could feel the slight tension in his body ease.

“Don’t get all dramatic on me,” he muttered, though his voice held a trace of affection, despite his attempt to sound annoyed.

You leaned back in your seat, grinning. "You know I can’t help it. You’re such a softie, Daryl Dixon.”

He rolled his eyes but said nothing more, the rest of the drive passing in relative quiet, save for the faint hum of the truck’s engine and the occasional rattle of gravel under the tires. The familiar roads seemed less familiar now, like something was about to change, but you couldn’t put your finger on what it was. The air felt different—charged with something unspoken, a tension you hadn’t noticed before.

[twdgrxmes]

Lot 16 - TrailerPark!Reader x TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon (Part 1)

WC: 2154

Tags: Friends to lovers

You remembered the first time you met Daryl Dixon like it was etched into your bones.

You were both eleven. He was standing barefoot outside his trailer in Lot 16, knees scraped, nose bleeding, shirt too big for his bony frame. You were walking your dog — or trying to — as the mutt barked wildly at everything that moved. Daryl didn’t flinch. Just stared warily.

“He ain’t gonna bite,” you’d said, tugging on the leash.

Daryl had wiped his nose with the back of his hand and shrugged. “Can I walk him with you?”

You’d stared back for a second, then replied, “Sure.” Just like that. Maybe because he looked like someone who didn’t have anyone. You knew what that was like.

He offered you a half-eaten Twix from his back pocket as you walked. You took it.

That was the beginning.

Over the years, the friendship became a lifeline. In a place like Pinewood Trailer Park — all rusting aluminum and shattered windows, neighbors shouting through the walls — people like you and Daryl stuck together. You had your mom, when she was sober and decided to stick around. He had Merle, when he wasn’t gone or passed out. But mostly, you had each other.

Now you were both seventeen, and it was still the same: late nights, sharing cigarettes, comforting one another. 

~

The storm rolled in slowly. Not loud at first. Just a distant growl of thunder over the hills, the way it always started. You hated storms. You always had. They reminded you too much of shouting matches and slammed doors, of your mother disappearing in a flurry of perfume and curse words, only to come back hours or days later with mascara down her face and gin on her breath.

You sat on the edge of your bed, hugging your knees, trying not to jump at the flicker of lightning out your window. Rain tapped against the thin pane of glass, soft at first, but picking up. You reached for your phone, checking the time. Nearly midnight. You hadn’t heard from your mom since yesterday morning.

Then—

Three knocks.

You jumped, heart lurching. But then came two more — fast, familiar.

You were up and across the room in seconds, flipping the lock.

“Daryl,” you breathed.

He was soaked. Hoodie dripping, hair plastered to his forehead, a bruise blossoming under his eye. His lip looked like it had been bleeding earlier. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you with that same guarded, half-broken look you’d come to recognize over the years.

“Get in,” you said, pulling him by the sleeve.

He stepped inside without a word. You locked the door behind him, tension crawling up your spine like ivy. He smelled like rain and smoke and something metallic—blood.

“He do that to you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice level.

Daryl didn’t answer. He never did, not when it came to his father. He just peeled off his wet hoodie and ran a hand through his hair. His knuckles were scraped. He looked exhausted.

“I told you, you can come here any time,” you said, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “You don’t gotta wait till he—”

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You’re not.”

Daryl sat down on the foot of your bed, soaked socks squelching against the floor. You grabbed a towel from the bathroom and threw it at his head.

He caught it, half-smirking. “Thanks.”

“You hungry?”

“Nah.”

“You’re lying.”

He shrugged.

You sat next to him, your shoulder brushing his. The room was dim, lit only by the battery-powered lamp on your nightstand. The power had already flickered three times.

The thunder cracked again, louder this time. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

Daryl noticed. “Still scared of storms?”

You looked away. “Not scared. Just... don’t like ‘em.”

He didn’t say anything, but his hand was warm when it brushed against yours.

“You can sleep here,” you said after a moment. “In my bed. Again. If you want.”

Daryl looked at you. His eyes were so blue in the low light, it made your chest ache.

“You sure?”

“‘Course I’m sure.”

It wasn’t the first time. He’d stayed over before—on the couch when he was younger, in your bed when things got worse. You never talked about it. It just... was. And maybe not all opposite sex friends shared beds on the regular without it being considered weird, but you trusted Daryl, you loved him and in most ways, he was the only person you had. 

You both kicked off your shoes and climbed under the blankets. You pulled the comforter up to your chest, still in your oversized t-shirt and flannel shorts. Daryl lay on his back, one arm folded under his head.

The thunder rumbled again.

“I hate him,” you said quietly.

Daryl didn’t respond.

“I mean it,” you whispered. “I hate your father. I wish he’d never touch you again. I wish I could stop him.”

His jaw clenched, and for a second, you thought he was going to snap at you. But he didn’t. He just turned his head slightly, looking at you from the pillow.

“I know, Becs,” he said.

You blinked. Daryl never said things like that. Never admitted anything.

You reached out and rested your hand lightly on his bruised cheek. He flinched, not from pain — from surprise.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured.

He shook his head. “Not your fault.”

“It feels like it is.”

He turned to face you fully then, inches between you in the dark. “You’re the only good thing I got,” he said.

Before you could answer, before the moment could settle, the front door banged open.

You froze.

“Shit,” you whispered.

Daryl sat up, alert.

Then came the footsteps—stumbling, unsteady.

“Baby girl?” your mother’s voice slurred. “You home?”

You scrambled out of bed and pulled on your hoodie. “Stay here,” you whispered to Daryl.

He didn’t move.

You stepped into the hall just in time to see your mother sway into the living room, one hand braced against the wall. Her lipstick was smeared, her eyes glassy.

“Where the hell you been?” you asked.

“Out,” she snapped. “What’s it to you?”

“You left me here for two days. Again.”

She waved a hand, wobbling. “Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

You blinked up at her, her audacity was jarring – it had been near enough two days since she’d last had some kind of contact with you – and yet you should be used to her little disappearing act by now, it still pissed you off that she’d come back and pretend like nothing happe–

There was a crash from your bedroom, something falling off a shelf.

Your mother's eyes narrowed. “Is someone here?”

Shit.

Before you even had the opportunity to open your mouth, to conjure up some responde, she was storing toward your room. You chased after her, but she was already at your door.

“Get outta my way,” she snapped, throwing the door open.

Daryl sat on the bed, shirtless, blinking against the light. He looked like a kid caught in headlights.

Your mother laughed — a sharp, mean sound. “Well, ain’t this sweet?”

“Mama—”

“You little slut,” she hissed. “Bringin’ boys into my house? While I’m gone?”

“It’s not like that—”

“Don’t lie to me!” she shouted, staggering forward.

Daryl stood, quiet but protective, like a shadow stepping between you. That only made her angrier.

“Get him out,” she snapped. “Now. Or I’ll call the damn cops.”

Your chest burned. “He didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the one who left. You don’t get to come back and—”

Her slap was fast. Open-handed. Cracked across your cheek like a whip.

You gasped, hand cupping your cheek. Your mother was drunk, yes, but there had only been a handful of times where she was physically violent with you. 

Daryl grabbed your arm before you could fall back. His grip was steady, grounding.

“Don’t you ever touch her again,” he said, voice low and shaking.

Your mother sneered. “Oh, big man, huh? Get the hell out of my house.”

Daryl looked at you. You nodded, lip trembling.

He grabbed his hoodie and your hand, and pulled you along behind him, the two of you leaving your trailer and stepping out into the rain.

~

Lot 16. You could’ve found it blindfolded.

The trailer was dark when you both got there, crouched under the black sky like it was trying to disappear. Daryl’s father must have taken off after their… altercation. 

Daryl took you around the back, stepping over some trash bags and a rusted bike frame, leading you to his bedroom window. It was already cracked open. He climbed in first, then reached back out for you.

You hesitated, hand trembling just slightly before you let him lift you up. His grip was strong, familiar. 

Your feet hit the floor inside and the window shut behind you with a quiet click.

It was dim in the trailer — a single lamp casting a pool of warm, golden light over the bed. The air smelled like old smoke and something metallic. The place was small, rough around the edges, but you didn’t care. It was far enough from her. It was with him.

Daryl turned toward you. You were still standing in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around yourself. Your hoodie clung to you like a second skin, soaked through and heavy. You hadn’t said anything since you left your house.

He took a step closer, his brows drawn tight. “Hey.”

Your eyes flicked to his face. He wasn’t asking for anything. Just offering.

And maybe that was what finally broke the dam.

“I—I shouldn’t have brought you there,” you whispered, voice splintering. “I didn’t know she’d—”

“Stop,” Daryl cut in gently. “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

“She hit me.” You blinked fast. “She doesn't usually..”

His jaw tightened, and he took another step forward, slowly like you were something startled. “C’mere.”

You didn’t move at first, but then you did — fast, like your body gave up pretending to be strong. You stepped into him and his arms wrapped around you immediately, pulling you against his chest. He was still damp from the rain, his skin cool to the touch, but he was solid. Real.

You buried your face in his collarbone and cried.

Not loud, not sobbing. Just a steady stream of silent, exhausted tears, slipping hot down your cheeks and into the fabric of his shirt. Daryl didn’t say a word. He just held you. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers in your hair, and the other rubbed your back in slow, grounding circles.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, even though you didn’t know why. “I just—I can’t go back there. Not tonight.”

“You’re not,” he murmured. “You stay here. Long as you want.”

Your fingers clenched in the hem of his shirt. You’d never felt so small in your life.

After a while, your legs started to tremble. You were bone-tired. You didn’t even realize how much until Daryl shifted and started guiding you toward the bed.

“Come on,” he said, quietly. “Lie down. You’ll feel better if you sleep a little.”

You nodded numbly, letting him pull the blanket back. You slipped off your wet hoodie, leaving your t-shirt and shorts, and crawled into the bed that was barely big enough for one person.

Daryl pulled the covers up over you, then moved to lie beside you — cautious at first, like he didn’t want to crowd you.

But as soon as the blanket settled, and your fingers reached for him again in the dark, he moved closer. His arm slid under your head, tugging you into the space between his body and the wall. He held you to his chest — firm and warm and a little awkward, but safe. The kind of safe that made your chest hurt a little, just from how unfamiliar it felt.

You pressed your cheek to his skin, right over his heart.

“I don’t know what to do about her, Dar,” you whispered.

“You don’t gotta figure it all out tonight,” he said softly. “You just breathe. That’s all.”

You did. In and out. Slowly.

And when your breath hitched again, when the tears came back quietly, Daryl just held you tighter. His lips brushed your temple — the gentlest kiss, barely there — and his hand found yours under the blanket, linking your fingers.

“You’re not alone, alright?” he murmured into your hair. “We got each other, Becs.”

The words stuck in your chest, thick and tender.

Eventually, the rain outside softened to a whisper. The wind faded. You could still hear your mother’s voice, even with your eyes shut, tucked against Daryl’s chest. You focused on Daryl’s heartbeat, on the slow rise and fall of his chest against your cheek, on the feeling of his arms around you.

At least you had each other.

[twdgrxmes]

Trouble - TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon x GoodGirl!Reader (Part 15)

WC: 2623

Tags: Just pure smut, first time, loss of virginity (not a BIG big deal like not fetishised), oral (fem! receiving)

Later That Night

The house was dead quiet. Only the slow tick of the clock in the hall and the distant chirp of crickets outside filled the heavy dark.

You lay curled in bed, still in the same worn T-shirt and shorts, restless, aching, your body thrumming with leftover need from earlier. You hadn't been able to touch yourself. Not with your father stomping around downstairs, still pissed, still suspicious.

You twisted the sheets between your fingers, biting your lip, replaying every second of Daryl's mouth on yours — the way his rough hands had felt sliding over your skin, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, the hot, filthy things he’d whispered against your lips.

You thought about the way he’d looked when he left — flushed, wrecked, jaw clenched so tight like it hurt him to walk away.

You thought about it so hard that when you heard the faintest scrape at your window, you almost thought you were dreaming.

Then it came again. A soft tap-tap-tap.

Your heart stopped.

Slowly, you slipped out of bed, bare feet silent on the old wood floor.

You crept to the window and eased it up, your breath catching when a familiar face appeared in the moonlight.

Daryl.

Messy hair. Dark eyes. 

"Let me in," he rasped, voice low and urgent.

You didn’t even think. You stepped back, letting him hoist himself through the window with a quiet grunt.

The second he was inside, he was on you.

No hesitation.

No words.

He slammed the window shut, then backed you against the wall, caging you in with his body.

His hands came up to your face — rough, reverent — holding you like you were something precious and breakable.

"You drivin’ me crazy," he muttered again, voice wrecked. "Ain't slept a damn second thinkin’ about you layin’ up here all sweet in that fuckin’ bed."

You whimpered, grabbing at the front of his shirt, dragging him down into a kiss.

This kiss was nothing like earlier. It was rough and hungry — all teeth and tongue and desperate little gasps.

Daryl’s hands slid down your body, yanking you closer until there wasn’t a breath of space between you. You could feel every inch of him — the hard press of his jeans, the flex of his muscles, the heat radiating off his skin.

His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, your throat, nipping and sucking bruises into your skin that you’d have to pray your father didn’t see.

"You been thinkin' 'bout me, pretty girl?" he whispered, voice ragged, breath hot against your neck. "You been lyin’ up here all wet, touchin' yourself, thinkin' 'bout how I had my hands on you?"

You nodded your head frantically, trying to speak, but all that came out was a broken little whimper.

"You want me to touch you now?" he growled, nipping at your ear.

"Y-yeah," you breathed, so soft he barely caught it.

He groaned deep in his chest, one big hand sliding under your shirt, rough palm dragging up over your ribs, higher, cupping your breast. His thumb brushed over your nipple through the thin fabric and you gasped, arching into him shamelessly.

"Goddamn, Bennet," he muttered, squeezing gently, fingers tweaking and rolling until you were shuddering against him.

"Bed," he said, voice hoarse. "Get on the bed."

You stumbled back, heart hammering so hard you were dizzy, crawling onto the mattress.

Daryl yanked off his jacket, tossing it on the floor, then moved to lock the door – just to make sure.

He wanted you bad.

He climbed onto the bed after you, pushing you back against the pillows, slotting his hips between your legs.

"You tell me to stop, I stop," he rasped, forehead resting against yours. "Ain't gonna hurt you. Ever."

"I don't want you to stop," you whispered, voice trembling with need.

He cursed under his breath — a filthy, desperate sound — and then his hand was sliding back down between you.

This time he didn't tease. He slipped his hand under your shorts, under your panties, and found you slick and ready for him.

"Fuck," he hissed, eyes squeezing shut for a second like he was in pain. "Your pussy's so wet for me already, huh."

You mewled helplessly, hips rocking up into his hand.

Daryl stroked you slowly, carefully — two fingers sliding through your folds, finding your clit and rubbing slow, tight circles that had your toes curling into the sheets.

He was patient, almost torturously gentle, letting you grind against his hand, building you higher and higher until your thighs were shaking around his hips.

"That’s it, baby," he whispered, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. "C’mon, lemme feel you come for me."

You buried your face in his shoulder, sobbing out little desperate noises, clinging to him like you might fall apart.

It was too much. Too good.

You tipped over the edge with a muffled cry, body shuddering against his, your whole world narrowing down to the hot, slow drag of his fingers and the soft filthy words he whispered against your skin.

"Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. So sweet for me. So perfect."

He didn’t stop until you were trembling, wrecked, panting into his shirt.

When he finally pulled his hand away, he brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low, satisfied groan.

You watched him, dazed and breathless, heat flooding your cheeks.

He looked at you like you were something he’d die for. Something he would die for.

DARYL’S POV 

I looked down at her, heart pounding in my chest, trying to calm the fuck down.

She was so damn beautiful – all messy hair and swollen lips, hazy eyes.

I wanted her, fuck, I needed her.

Wanted to make her scream my name until the whole damn town knew she was mine.

But I had to be careful, I had to make sure she wanted this too. 

I cup her face in my hands, thumb brushing over her cheek gently.

“Baby, you know we don’t gotta do this,” I said softly. “We can wait. I’d wait for you.”

She shook her head, eyes clear and determined.

“No,” she said firmly. “I want this, Want you.”

I groaned at her words and she smiled, reaching up to pull me down into another kiss.

This one was slow and deep — tongues sliding together, hands exploring.

I took my time with her, kissing and touching every inch of skin I could reach.

I wanted her to feel worshipped. Cherished.

Loved.

I slid a hand under her shirt, skimming up her ribs, cupping her breast.

She gasped into my mouth, archin' into my touch, and I pinched her nipple gently.

"Daryl," she whimpered, hips starting to rock against my thigh that was slotted between her legs.

I growled low in my throat, feeling myself losing control.

I tugged her shirt off over her head, then leaned down to take one pretty nipple in my mouth.

She cried out, tangling her fingers in my hair, holding me close.

I sucked and nibbled until she was writhing beneath me, then switched to the other one, giving it the same attention.

"Please," she begged, so needy and sweet it made my heart hurt. "I need...I need..."

"I know what you need, baby," I murmured, trailing kisses down her stomach. "Gonna give it to you."

I hooked my fingers in her shorts and panties, tugging them down her legs slowly.

She blushed, trying to cover herself, but I caught her hands, pushing them away.

"No hidin'," I said softly. "Want to see all of you."

I kissed my way back up her thighs, taking my time, savoring the taste of her skin.

When I finally got to where she needed me most, I breathed in deep, eyes almost rolling back at the scent of her.

"Jesus," I groaned. "Fuckin' perfect."

I licked a slow stripe up her slit, tongue flicking over her clit, and she bucked against me with a sharp cry.

I grinned, settling in to feast on her like a starving man.

I ate her out slow and thorough, paying attention to every gasp and moan she made.

I wanted to map out every single thing that made her feel good — store it away so I could use it on her later.

When I felt her tensing up, I doubled my efforts, sucking her clit hard as I slipped two fingers inside her tight little cunt.

"Daryl!" she cried out, louder than she should. Sophia quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, remembering where she was.

I grinned wickedly at her. "Shh, we gotta be quiet, baby. Wouldn't want your daddy comin' up here to check on you."

I knew the thought of her daddy seeing her like this would be frightening, but it was also exhilarating. She was always so good.. It must feel good to be reckless. 

I added a second finger, pumping them slowly in and out as I thumbed her clit. She was panting now, her hips rolling against my hand, chasing her pleasure.

"Come on, baby," I urged, my voice a low rasp in her ear. "Let go for me. I wanna feel this sweet little cunt squeeze my fingers."

She came with a silent scream, her pussy clamping down around my fingers like a fist.

I worked her through it, not stopping until she was boneless and trembling beneath me.

When she collapsed back against the mattress, I crawled up her body, leaning down to kiss her deep.

She made a surprised noise, then moaned into my mouth when she tasted herself.

"Fuck, you’re hot," I panted against her lips. "You like how you taste, baby?"

She nodded, cheeks pink and eyes blown wide.

I smirked, pressing my jean-covered cock against her bare pussy.

"Feel what you do to me?" I growled. "How fuckin' hard you make me?"

She whimpered, rolling her hips up to grind against me.

I cursed, feeling like I might explode right there.

I needed to be inside her.

Now.

SOPHIA’S POV

You were nervous. This was your first time, and you weren't sure what to expect. Daryl seemed to sense your apprehension, and he took your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Hey," he said softly, "we don't have to do this if you're not ready. We can wait."

You shook your head, looking up at him with determined eyes. "I want this, Daryl. I want you."

He smiled, but there was a hint of tension around his mouth. He leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue sliding against yours. You felt your body responding, heat pooling low in your belly.

Daryl's hands roamed over your body, cupping your breasts, thumbing your nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt. You gasped into his mouth, arching into his touch.

He broke the kiss and started trailing his lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You tilted your head back, giving him better access.

"Daryl," you breathed, "please."

He chuckled low in his throat. "Please what, baby? Tell me what you need."

You were too embarrassed to say it out loud, so you reached down, tugging against the waistband of his jeans.

He cursed under his breath, "Fuck, you're so needy for me, aren’t you."

He pulled your shorts off from your ankles, along with your panties and discarded them on the floor somewhere, careless. He reached for his belt next, loosening it slowly, unbuckling his jeans, his eyes never leaving yours. 

His cock sprang free, hard and thick and practically pulsating with need. You swallowed hard, a little intimidated by its size.

Daryl must have seen the apprehension on your face because he cupped your cheek, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. "Hey, I'll go slow, okay?"

You nodded, taking a deep breath to steady your nerves.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom, tearing open the packet with his teeth. You watched as he rolled it on, biting your lip at the sight.

Once he was protected, he crawled back onto the bed, settling between your spread thighs. He rubbed the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your juices.

He pushed forward slowly, his thick length stretching you open. "Fuck," he groaned. "You're so goddamn tight."

You whimpered as he sank deeper, your nails digging into his shoulders. It was a strange mix of pleasure and discomfort, your body adjusting to the intrusion.

Daryl paused, letting you get used to the feeling of him inside you. "You okay?" he asked, concern etched on his face.

You nodded, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Yes, just...give me a moment."

He kissed you softly, tenderly. "Take all the time you need, baby. We've got all night."

When you felt ready, you gave him a small nod. He began to move, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in. You gasped at the sensation, your hips instinctively rising to meet his.

"Oh god," you breathed. "Daryl, you feel so good."

He grunted in agreement, his pace picking up as he drove into you again and again. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard hitting the wall gently with each thrust.

Your moans grew louder, leading to Daryl’s hand cupping over your mouth as he hit that spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He cursed under his breath, his muscles flexing as he chased his own pleasure.

"Fuck, Bennet," he panted. "You’re so fuckin’ perfect."

His words sent a thrill down your spine, your arousal spiking even higher. You could feel your orgasm building, your walls starting to flutter around him.

You whimpered at the feeling of fullness, your nails dragging along his biceps. It was almost too much.

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle and driving in even deeper. You had to bite your lip hard to keep from crying out, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

He smirked down at you, his chain swinging against his neck, his forehead covered in a thin sheen of sweat from the exertion. He leaned over you, brushing his lips against your ear, “I fuckin\ love you, Bennet. Fuck, I love you.”

You gasp softly, your breath hitching with moans and whimpers as you cling to him, ‘I love you.. Oh my God, Daryl.. I love you so much.”

"Yeah?," he grunted, sweat beading on his brow as he picked up the pace. "Take it, baby. C’mon, Soph, fuckin’ made for it."

You were so lost in sensation, it took you a moment to realize he was talking dirty again. And God help you, it only turned you on more.

"Daryl," you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm gonna come again."

He nodded, his hips never faltering. "You can do it, Soph, let go."

His filthy words combined with the friction of his cock pounding into you was too much. You came with a silent scream, your pussy clenching around him like a fist.

Daryl followed soon after, burying himself to the hilt as he found his release. He collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress as you both struggled to catch your breath.

"That was...fuck," he said finally, lifting his head to look at you.

You smiled weakly, still trying to process everything that had just happened.

"It was amazing," you agreed.

He kissed you softly before pulling out and dealing with the condom. He disposed of it quietly before sliding back into bed beside you, gathering you into his arms.

You nestled into his chest, listening to the thrum of his heartbeat.

[twdgrxmes]

Hi!

I was just wondering exactly how old Sophia is in your trailer park Daryl fic? I know she’s still in high school and he’s 21 so I was wondering if she was at least 18?

Yes!! Guys, Sophia is 18, she is a senior in High School.

[twdgrxmes]

Trouble - TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon x GoodGirl!Reader (Part 14)

WC: 1772

Tags: Fingering? Edging..? Almost caught

Author's Note: This is a filler, a reward for the wait for part 12.

A Few Days Later

The days blurred together in a haze of healing bruises and whispered conversations. Your body was getting better. Your heart... not so much.

It was worse now, having Daryl so close and yet so far.

After the incident with Shane, your father had made it clear: "Door stays open. He sits on the other side of the room. You so much as move funny, Dixon, you're outta this house, you hear me?" He didn’t trust Daryl. Maybe he didn’t trust you either.

So now, when Daryl came over — like he had this afternoon — he sat stiff-backed in the old chair across the room while you curled up on your bed. The door was propped wide open. You could hear your father's boots thudding downstairs. Every sound, every creak of the house, felt like a warning.

But Daryl... God, Daryl couldn't stop looking at you.

You could feel his eyes burning into you — sliding down your bare legs, exposed by the soft cotton sleep shorts you wore, then lingering on the loose neckline of your worn T-shirt. One he'd given you. One that smelled like him.

You stretched out on your stomach, propped on your elbows, pretending to read, but your pulse was hammering so loud you couldn’t even see the words.

Across the room, Daryl shifted in his chair. It creaked under his weight. You dared a glance at him — he was sitting wide-legged, slouched low, fingers twitching restlessly against his thighs. Jaw tight. Eyes dark.

He looked like he was seconds away from snapping.

Your skin prickled, heat pooling low in your belly.

You wanted him. God, you wanted him like you’d never wanted anything before.

You stretched again, arching your back just a little — feeling the hem of your shorts ride up your thighs. A soft, deliberate move.

You heard Daryl suck in a breath.

When you looked up, his knuckles were white where they gripped the arms of the chair. His jaw ticked.

"Soph," he muttered under his breath, so low you barely caught it.

You pushed up onto your knees, still on the bed, facing him.

"You okay?" you asked, all fake innocence, cocking your head sweetly.

He gave you a look like he was going to eat you alive.

"You know what the hell you doin'," he muttered, voice rough, accusatory.

You blinked wide-eyed at him. "M'just sitting here."

That was it.

Daryl stood up so fast the chair groaned behind him. He crossed the room in two long strides, standing at the edge of your bed, looming over you.

You tilted your chin up, challenging.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You could hear your father's radio crackling downstairs — the low hum of voices, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen.

The door was wide open.

Daryl's chest heaved once. Twice. Like he was fighting a war with himself.

Then his hand reached out — slow, trembling — and caught your chin between his fingers.

"You drive me crazy," he rasped.

And then he kissed you.

It started almost gentle — like he was testing the waters — but the second your lips parted under his, the floodgates broke. Daryl leaned in, forcing you back onto the bed, his mouth greedy and rough.

You whimpered softly, fisting the front of his shirt to pull him closer.

He braced himself over you, one hand gripping the bed beside your head, the other sliding around your waist, dragging your body up against his. The whole time, he was careful — angling you out of sight from the door, shielding you with his body.

His hands roamed hungrily, sliding up your sides, under your shirt, thumbs grazing the curve of your ribs.

You gasped into his mouth, thighs falling open slightly under him.

Daryl cursed, low and vicious.

"Gotta be quiet, baby," he muttered against your lips, voice thick with need. "Door's open, remember?"

You nodded frantically, but when his calloused hand slid lower — fingers tracing the soft skin of your inner thigh — a broken little sound escaped you anyway.

Daryl groaned, forehead dropping against yours.

"You tryna get me killed?" he whispered, voice wrecked.

Still, he didn't stop.

His hand slipped higher, skimming the edge of your shorts. His fingers traced the bare skin there, teasing, never quite touching where you wanted him most.

You arched your hips up, chasing his hand shamelessly.

Daryl caught your mouth in another kiss, swallowing your whimper, his hand finally — finally — slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts.

He cupped you through your panties, palm hot and heavy against your aching core.

"Fuck, baby," he growled, barely moving his hand, just holding you there, possessive and rough and so, so gentle at the same time. "You so fuckin' wet for me already?"

You nodded, eyes glassy, breathing ragged.

He pressed down a little, slow and maddening, grinding the heel of his palm against you.

Your whole body arched off the bed with a shuddering gasp.

"You gotta be quiet," he reminded you again, voice tight with restraint.

It was impossible when he was touching you like that.

You buried your face in his shoulder, biting the fabric of his shirt to keep from crying out.

Daryl chuckled darkly — proud and amazed at what he was doing to you — before slipping two fingers inside your panties, stroking along your slick folds.

You almost sobbed.

He was barely touching you, just petting, teasing, ghosting over the sensitive bundle of nerves that was already throbbing for him.

"Could make you come like this," he muttered, like he was talking to himself. "Right here in your pretty bed, door wide open, huh?."

You whimpered brokenly, nails digging into his back.

He kissed you again, deep and filthy, his free hand cupping your jaw, angling your face exactly where he wanted you.

You rocked against his fingers, desperate for more.

He let you, letting you grind on his hand, his fingers slick and hot against you.

"You’re killin’ me," he whispered. "Killin’ me, Bennett."

You were so close. So close—

Heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Your father's voice, booming up the hall:

"Time for you to head out, Dixon. Now."

You froze. Daryl froze.

He yanked his hand out of your shorts so fast it made you whimper.

He pressed his forehead to yours, panting hard, struggling to pull himself together.

"Shit," he hissed.

You shoved your face into his neck, burning and whining with frustration and shame and want.

He kissed your hair, then pulled back, rough hands adjusting your shirt and smoothing your hair down so you didn't look too wrecked.

When he stepped back, you could see how wrecked he looked — lips swollen, hair mussed, a thick bulge still straining against the front of his jeans.

He raked a hand through his hair, swearing under his breath.

"I’ll be back," he promised, low and fierce. "Leave your window open tonight."

And then he was gone, disappearing down the stairs, boots heavy on the wood.

You collapsed back against your pillows, heart slamming against your ribs, body aching for him.

[twdgrxmes]

Trouble - TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon x GoodGirl!Reader (Part 13)

<-prev next->

WC: 2721

Tags: None?

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay, school has lit been kicking my bum :( I'm tying to write but I'm genuinely so exhausted. I hope y'all like this.

Hospital Room – The Next Morning

The morning crept in gently, casting soft light through the blinds, painting thin gold stripes across the sterile white walls. The world was stirring outside—birdsong, muffled voices in the hallway, the occasional squeak of sneakers on tile—but in here, everything was still. Still and quiet and warm in a way that felt borrowed, like a moment not meant to last.

You were asleep.

Your head rested lightly on Daryl’s chest, tangled in wires and the thin, scratchy hospital blanket. His arms were around you, one slung over your back like a safety net, the other tucked behind his head. Both of you had drifted off sometime after sunrise—exhausted from the storm, but finally at peace in the wreckage.

Daryl hadn’t meant to crawl into the bed. Not at first.

But your hand had trembled in his. You’d reached for him in your sleep, a quiet whimper slipping past your lips like it was instinct. And Daryl couldn’t stand to leave you alone. Not after everything.

So he’d climbed in carefully, gently, cradling you to his chest like you were something breakable. Precious. His.

Now, the two of you lay like that—twined together in a silence that didn’t feel empty.

And that’s exactly how Sheriff Bennet found you.

The door creaked open with the soft, hesitant sound of someone expecting to find broken pieces. He stepped inside without knocking, boots heavy on the floor. His face was unreadable at first—drawn tight and stern, jaw clenched.

Then he saw you.

His daughter.

His little girl.

Asleep, curled into the arms of the boy he’d spent years trying to warn her about him.

And for a second—just a second—he didn’t say a damn word.

He just stood there, shoulders taut, hand hovering over the brim of his hat like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

The rise and fall of your breath against Daryl’s chest was slow, steady.

Daryl shifted in his sleep, tightening his grip around you.

The sheriff’s eyes flicked down to his bruised knuckles. His busted lip. His cut cheekbone. The same wounds Shane had. 

And then his eyes softened, just barely.

He took a quiet step closer. The chair beside the bed was empty. Daryl must’ve moved it sometime in the night. The sheriff stared at it like it held all the answers he didn’t want to hear.

He reached for your chart, pretended to glance at it, even though his eyes kept returning to you—safe, breathing, held.

And Daryl?

Daryl woke up.

He felt the shift in the air before he even opened his eyes. Something cold. Familiar. Authority pressing down like a boot on his neck.

His eyes opened fast, sharp, and the moment he saw the sheriff standing at the foot of the bed, his entire body stiffened.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away from you.

Didn’t pretend he hadn’t been there all night, holding you.

Sheriff Bennet stared him down.

“You got five seconds to explain why you’re in my daughter’s bed,” he said, voice low and full of gravel.

Daryl’s jaw clenched, but his voice didn’t shake.

“She was scared,” he said quietly. “Didn’t wanna be alone.”

The sheriff’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

The silence that followed was thick. A wire pulled tight between them, humming with the weight of unspoken history.

Sheriff Bennet didn’t answer right away. His eyes went from Daryl’s face to yours, the way you clung unconsciously to him in sleep—one hand curled into the front of Daryl’s shirt, your brow relaxed like you hadn’t been that peaceful in weeks. Maybe longer. There were still faint bruises on your cheek, the side of your head, the kind a father never forgets. 

“You should’ve come to me,” the sheriff said finally, quieter now. “You should’ve let me handle it.”

Daryl’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I tried,” he said, voice low. “Tried real hard to stay outta this. But she came to me. And I ain’t leavin’ her now.”

His hand slid over your back instinctively, like it wasn’t even something he thought about—just something he did. The sheriff saw it. Noticed the way Daryl moved around you with care, not possession. Like he was protecting something fragile. Sacred, even.

Sheriff Bennet looked away then, jaw working. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, glanced at the heart monitor beeping steadily beside the bed. The sound was so damn steady. So alive. It hadn’t been guaranteed last night. He knew that now—had played out every worst-case scenario on the drive over.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered, finally sinking into the empty chair beside the bed. “I don’t like you.”

Daryl didn’t flinch. “Yeah. I know.”

“But,” the sheriff went on, voice like cracked leather, “I saw the way she looks at you. Saw the way you’ve stayed with her this whole time.”

He let that hang in the air for a second.

“That’s gotta mean somethin’.”

Daryl looked down at you, at the soft rise and fall of your chest beneath the hospital gown. “It does.”

Another pause. The sheriff leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the scuffed toes of his boots like they might explain what the hell he was supposed to do now.

“I’m not sayin’ I forgive it,” he muttered. “The sneakin’ around. The fight. The lies. You put her in the line of fire, Dixon, and you broke her heart. Whether you meant to or not.”

“I know,” Daryl said again, barely a whisper.

“But,” the sheriff added, meeting his eyes, “you also care about her, look after her. And you never once left her side.”

Daryl swallowed. His hand was still resting against your spine, thumb moving in slow circles over the thin cotton of your gown.

“I ain’t gonna leave again.”

The sheriff studied him. Really looked at him.

Daryl didn’t look like a boy anymore.

He looked older. Raw. Something wounded and proud and impossible to scare off. There was no smugness in him. No bravado. Just fierce, worn-down loyalty.

Sheriff Bennet nodded once, like that answer settled something he wasn’t ready to admit.

“Then you stay,” he said gruffly, standing. “But you do it right. No more sneakin’. No more lies. If you want this—her—you face me like a man.”

Daryl blinked, surprise flickering in his eyes. But he nodded, once. Firm.

“I will.”

Your father hesitated at the door, looking back one last time.

“She wakes up, you tell her I’ll be back later. Bringin’ her home when she’s cleared. That’s still my daughter in that bed.”

Daryl didn’t argue. “Yes, sir.”

The sheriff lingered for a heartbeat longer—then left.

When the door clicked shut, Daryl let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He shifted slightly, looking down at your sleeping face. His hand found yours beneath the blanket again, fingers curling gently between yours.

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t lost you.

Not yet.

The room settled again into silence, but this time it wasn’t loaded. It wasn’t tense.

It was soft.

Daryl watched the dust motes dancing in the golden morning light, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, his thumb brushing slow arcs across the back of your hand. He didn’t know how long he lay there like that—just breathing, just watching you. You stirred a little against him, lashes fluttering, brows twitching like a dream was pulling at the edge of your sleep.

And then your fingers moved.

Small, sleepy, curling tighter into his shirt like you knew he was there before your mind had even caught up.

You woke slowly, the kind of waking where you’re not quite sure where you are at first, not quite sure what’s real. But the warmth under your cheek was familiar. Solid. And when your eyes blinked open, still heavy with sleep, the first thing you saw was him.

Daryl.

His face above yours, hair tousled, eyes a little bloodshot from lack of sleep but watching you like he couldn’t believe you were still breathing.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice husky from sleep and emotion. “Hey, Bennett.”

You blinked up at him, eyes glassy, confused for a second. And then it hit you—where you were. What had happened. The ache in your ribs, the sterile beeping beside the bed, the bandage on your temple. But also—Daryl. His arms around you. The way he hadn’t let go.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice scratchy.

He smiled—small, barely there, but real. “You okay?”

You nodded, slow. Then stopped halfway and winced.

His hand moved up to cradle your head gently, like it was instinct. “Easy.”

You leaned into his palm. “I’m alright,” you said, as if you still needed to convince him.

“You’re tough, Soph.”

A silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t empty—it was full. Full of everything you didn’t have words for yet. Fear and relief and tenderness tangled up in the sheets between you.

You glanced toward the door. “Did… my dad come by?”

Daryl hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. He saw us.”

Your eyes widened, panic fluttering up your throat.

“What did he—?”

“He’s mad,” Daryl admitted, more serious now. “Still don’t like me none. But… he saw you. Saw how we are together. I think that mattered.”

You nodded, leaning into his touch, his warmth. 

“He said no more sneakin’,” Daryl added. “If we’re doin’ this, we do it honest. Face to face.”

You swallowed thickly. “Do you want to?”

He didn’t even blink. “Ain’t never wanted anything more.”

Your breath caught. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You scared the hell outta me, girl,” he whispered. “Thought you got hurt real bad.”

“I didn’t,” you breathed. “You helped me, Daryl.”

Your hand found his shirt again, curled in the fabric like it tethered you to something real. And maybe it did.

Daryl kissed your forehead gently, before letting you curl back into his side. 

~

Going Home – That Evening

The sun was low when the doctors came to discharge you.

The golden haze of late afternoon filled the room, stretching soft across the floor and catching on the edge of Daryl’s boots where he sat by your side, one hand loosely wrapped around yours. He’d stayed right there since the morning—only getting up to help with your water or let the nurse check your vitals. Every time someone entered the room, Daryl stood a little straighter, like he had to prove something. But when it was just the two of you, he was softer again. Guard down. Quiet, but present.

He hadn't let go of your hand once.

The nurse came in with a clipboard tucked to her chest and a kind smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She looked at the two of you—how close you sat, how calm you looked together—and said nothing about it. Just gave a short nod, then looked at you.

“You’re good to go, sweetheart,” she said, voice gentle. “Doctor signed the papers. You’re banged up, but you’re stable. Just take it easy, alright? No cheer practice.” She turned to Daryl, “No fights.”

You gave her a weak smile. “I’ll try.”

Daryl didn’t smile. 

The nurse caught his look, then softened further. “She’s lucky to have you,” she said. Then to you, “And you—don’t be stubborn about rest. You’ll heal better if you listen.”

“I’ll make sure she does,” Daryl said quietly, like a vow.

She patted your chart and turned to leave.

It was quiet for a few moments after that. The room felt different now. Not like a pause, but like an end. Like something was closing, and something else had to begin.

You looked down at your hands—how small yours looked in Daryl’s. The bruises were still there, faint around your wrists, but your fingers looked steady again. You flexed them slowly.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

Daryl helped you stand, his hands warm and careful. You swayed a little at first, the stiffness from the hospital bed making your knees shaky, but he caught you before you could stumble.

“Got you,” he murmured, arm steady around your waist.

You leaned into him, heart full and aching. “I know.”

A soft knock came at the door, and then it opened. Your father stepped in.

He was still wearing the same uniform—though the shirt looked freshly pressed. A clean hat tucked under one arm. His face looked tired, but a little less sharp than it had that morning. Like he’d done a lot of thinking today.

He looked at you first. Always you.

“You alright to walk?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His eyes flicked to Daryl then. Something unreadable passed across his face.

“You bring her down to the car,” he said to Daryl, like it was an order and an offering all at once. “She ain’t walking outta here alone.”

Daryl gave a small nod. “Yes, sir.”

You expected your dad to lead the way, but he lingered just long enough to open the door and hold it for you. He didn’t touch you—just let you lean on Daryl—but when you passed by, he gave a quiet, “Careful,” that made your throat tighten.

The walk to the car was slow, quiet.

You could feel the weight of the world pressing back in. The wind was gentle, but cool. The parking lot nearly empty. Daryl helped you into the passenger seat, his hand ghosting over your back as he made sure you were settled before shutting the door gently.

He hesitated outside, hand braced on the roof of the car, his eyes on you through the open window. You could tell he didn’t want to leave. He didn’t know if he was supposed to follow or let you go. And he was waiting—for a signal from your father, maybe. Or you.

Sheriff Bennet stood on the driver’s side, arms crossed, silent.

Then, after a long beat, he nodded toward the back seat.

“You ridin’ with us, Dixon?” he asked, like it was no big deal.

But it was.

Daryl blinked, startled, then nodded once. “If that’s alright.”

Your father didn’t answer, just opened the door.

You watched Daryl climb in beside you, settling in close but not too close. His knee brushed yours. His hand found yours on your thigh. Your dad didn’t say a word about it. Just started the engine, jaw tight, eyes straight ahead.

It was a quiet ride.

The kind of quiet that held breath in its chest, waiting for someone to break it.

You watched the town blur by—familiar streets, fading daylight, the flicker of porch lights turning on one by one like a heartbeat restarting after too long on pause. This was your home. Still was. But somehow, it all felt new again. Fragile.

Daryl didn’t let go of your hand.

When your house came into view, your dad cleared his throat. “She’s not going back to school for a few days. Doctor’s orders.”

“Alright,” Daryl said.

“And she ain’t goin’ anywhere without me knowin’. Not anymore.”

“Understood.”

Your father pulled into the driveway. Turned the engine off.

Then he looked at the two of you in the mirror.

“I mean what I said. If this is what you want—then you face it. You do right by her, Dixon. No more half-ways. No more hiding.”

You glanced at Daryl, expecting nerves, maybe hesitation.

But his face was calm. Solid.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he said again.

Your dad watched him for a moment longer. Then finally turned to you.

“You need help up the stairs?”

“I’ve got her,” Daryl said, already opening his door.

Your father let out a breath. “Alright. I’ll unlock the door.”

As he stepped out, you caught Daryl’s eye.

“You sure?” you asked, voice small. “About all this?”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, his hand steady on your thigh.

“Ain’t nothin’ I’m more sure about.”

And somehow, you believed him.

Even if it was gonna be hard. Even if the road ahead was messy and narrow and paved with a thousand little reckonings.

You weren’t walking it alone anymore.

And for the first time in a long time, going home didn’t feel like the end of something.

It felt like the beginning.

[twdgrxmes]

sorry guys.. part 13 is coming.. i swear..

my lazy ass after writing one sentence while writing a fic:

[twdgrxmes]

Trouble - TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon x GoodGirl!Reader (Part 12)

<- prev next->

WC: 1937

Tags: Brief mention of injuries?

Hospital Room – Early Morning

The first pale light of dawn crept through the slats of the hospital blinds, casting long, golden strips across the linoleum floor. The world outside was beginning to stir — nurses changed shifts, machines beeped softly down the hall, but inside this room, time had frozen.

Daryl hadn’t moved from the chair in hours.

Not once.

He was slouched forward now, elbows on his knees, his broad shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller — like if he just folded tight enough, maybe he could shield you from the world. His hand hadn’t left yours since the second they let him in the room. His fingers, calloused and rough, were laced tightly with yours, unmoving except for the occasional, unconscious squeeze. Every so often, he’d shift slightly, just to press his thumb over your knuckles or brush a strand of hair from your cheek. His touch was so soft, like he thought if he held you too hard, you might slip away completely.

He hadn’t slept. The dark smudges beneath his eyes were stark against his already bruised skin. His lip was swollen, cracked open in one corner. His nose had bled earlier, dried rust-colored now along the edge of his nostril. But he didn’t care. Not about the pain. Not about the way his body ached from the fight, from the hours spent hunched in that unforgiving plastic chair. His jacket was crumpled over the backrest. He hadn’t touched it. The room was freezing, but he hadn’t noticed. His only focus — the only thing anchoring him — was you.

The doctors had tried to make him leave.

They’d gently asked him to go get some rest, to wait in the family room, to let them “do their job.” But he wouldn’t budge. He’d stood like a wall beside your bed, eyes burning with something unspoken and unmovable, and told them flat-out, “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” When one of the nurses tried again, Jess had snapped and told her, “She wakes up and he’s not here, it’ll be worse. Just let him stay.”

So he stayed. He sat there through the night, through the steady beeping of the monitors, through the soft murmur of nurses checking vitals, through the heavy silence of your stillness.

And now it was morning.

The sunlight had begun to wash away the harsh white hospital light, softening the room with gold. But you hadn’t stirred.

The ward was fairly peaceful, filled with the filtered rays of sunlight and gentle morning chatter.

But then—

The door burst open.

“Get your goddamn hands off my daughter.”

Sheriff Bennet.

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

He just looked up slowly, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper than any bruise.

“She’s okay,” he said softly, voice ragged from hours of silence. “Concussion, no swelling.”

Sheriff Bennet stormed into the room, fists clenched, face red with fury. His badge caught the light briefly as he crossed the floor with heavy boots. “I said get away from her, Dixon. Right now.”

Daryl didn’t move. He tightened his grip on your hand instead.

“No,” he said, voice low but steady. “Not leavin’ her.”

“You think I give a damn what you want?” the sheriff growled, stepping closer. “You’re the reason she’s in here.”

“No I ain’t,” Daryl said, finally rising to his feet. Slowly. Not with defiance, but with the calm of someone who had nothing left to lose. “And if you’d just listen, I’ll tell you what happened.”

The sheriff’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t speak.

Daryl swallowed hard. His voice was hoarse. “It was Shane. She told him it was over, and he didn’t take it well, he grabbed her and I intervened.”

The sheriff's eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Ask Jess,” Daryl said quickly. “She saw it too. He was gettin’ in her face, grabbin’ her arms. I stepped in. Told him to back the hell off. He took a swing at me, and I fought back.”

“And that’s when you knocked her down?” the sheriff snapped.

Daryl’s jaw clenched. His voice shook. “No. That ain’t how it happened.”

He looked down at you, eyes clouded with guilt.

“She tried to pull Shane back when we were fightin’. She didn’t want it to get worse. She put her hand on his arm—right when he swung again. His elbow caught her in the face. She went down hard. Didn’t even scream. Just—” His voice broke. “Dropped.”

The silence that followed was thick and ugly.

“I didn’t touch her,” Daryl whispered. “But I couldn’t catch her either. I tried.”

Sheriff Bennet looked at you then, really looked. His expression faltered just slightly when he saw the faint bruising on your cheek, the cut at your temple, the gauze taped above your hairline.

“She ain’t hurt ‘cause I was fightin’ him,” Daryl said. “She’s hurt ‘cause she thought she could stop it herself.”

“She shouldn’t’ve been near you,” the sheriff barked, eyes hot again. “I told her to stay away. Told you both.”

“You think she listened to that?” Daryl’s voice sharpened. “You think she’s just a little girl you can bark orders at and she’ll sit pretty behind her window?”

The sheriff stiffened.

“She wanted out,” Daryl said, softer now. “Outta this town, outta your rules, outta whatever cage you built around her.”

Sheriff Bennet’s fists were trembling at his sides.

“I love her,” Daryl said suddenly, the words leaving him like a punch to the chest. “And I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. And I tried to respect your wishes, I tried to stay away, but it broke both of us. But I ain’t leavin’ her side just because you can’t stand seein’ me next to her.”

The sheriff was silent for a long moment.

Then he exhaled—harsh, broken. Ran a hand down his face.

“You bring trouble everywhere you go,” he muttered. “You always have.”

Daryl didn’t argue.

“But if what you said is true,” the sheriff added, glancing at your unconscious form again, his voice lower, rougher, “then Shane Walsh is gonna have a hard time getting out of this.”

Daryl’s eyes snapped up.

“He’s in the holding cell,” the sheriff muttered. “Banged up. Loudmouth. But we’ll see how long that lasts.”

He stepped back toward the door.

“You’ve got an hour,” he said gruffly. “Then you’re gone. I don’t want to see your face in here again. This ain’t a blessin’, Dixon”

Daryl didn’t answer. He just sat back down, took your hand in both of his, and bowed his head like a prayer.

When the door closed behind the sheriff, the quiet returned.

And Daryl whispered, voice cracking against the stillness:

“I’m right here, darlin’. Ain’t movin’. Not till you come back to me.”

~

Hospital Room – Early Morning (Continued)

Silence settled in again once the door clicked shut behind your father, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was thick — heavy with everything unsaid, everything broken. Daryl let out a shaky breath and leaned forward again, pressing his forehead gently to the back of your hand like he could pray through skin and bone.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. His voice was rough, a whisper of gravel. “I never should’ve left you.. I never should’ve.”

Your fingers twitched.

Just barely — the smallest motion, so slight it might’ve been a trick of the light — but it sent a jolt through him.

Daryl froze.

He lifted his head slowly, eyes scanning your face.

Then—

Another twitch.

Your lashes fluttered, lids fluttering in that fragile, broken way like a dreamer caught between worlds. Your brow creased just slightly, and your lips parted with a soft breath, dry and cracked.

“Hey,” Daryl breathed, voice cracking. He sat upright so fast the chair creaked beneath him. “Hey—Sophia—baby, you with me?”

Your head shifted, just a fraction, and you winced at the pain behind your eyes. A faint sound escaped your throat—hoarse, uncertain.

Your eyes opened, unfocused and glassy.

“D…Daryl?”

His name left your mouth like a question, like something sacred and far away, and it broke him in half.

“Yeah,” he choked. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.”

You blinked slowly, trying to orient yourself, and your gaze found his face. Bruised. Bloodied. Exhausted. Your breath caught.

“Your…face…”

“Don’t worry about me,” he whispered, cupping your hand between both of his. “I’m fine. You’re the one who scared the hell outta me.”

Your eyes flickered again, brow knitting. “The game… Shane…”

The memory came back in pieces — the yelling, the parking lot, the heat of hands grabbing your wrist. The fight. The blur of fists. Then the sharp snap of pain and—

Darkness.

“I—I tried to stop it,” you murmured, eyes glassing with tears. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt—”

“I know,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I know you did. You were tryin’ to protect me. But it ain’t your job to step in the middle of a fight like that.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shh, no. No, baby, I ain’t mad,” he said, brushing a strand of hair away from your temple, careful not to touch the bruising. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Shane—he caught you with his elbow. You were tryin’ to pull him back. He swung, and… he hit you.”

You looked around the room slowly, trying to make sense of it, and then your eyes sharpened just slightly.

“…Where’s my dad?”

The words were hoarse. Barely above a whisper. But they hung in the air like a stone dropped in water.

Daryl stilled.

“He—he was here,” he said gently, hesitating just a beat too long. “Came by a little while ago.”

You searched his face, your foggy brain trying to connect the dots. “But… he’s not here now?”

Daryl’s expression faltered.

“No,” he said. Quiet. Honest. “He left.”

You blinked again. Your heart sank. “He left?”

Daryl didn’t try to soften it with lies or excuses. He just sat there, still holding your hand, watching the shift in your face with something raw and aching in his eyes.

“He told me I had an hour,” he said quietly. “Before he made me leave, too.”

You turned your face away then, just slightly, staring at the ceiling as your throat tightened. You hadn’t even realized how much you needed to see him — needed your dad to be there when you woke up, to sit beside you like he used to when you were little and had a fever, whispering that it’d be alright. But now there was only the echo of his absence. And a deep, hollow ache that opened somewhere inside your ribs.

“He didn’t stay,” you murmured.

Daryl was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, he leaned forward.

“No,” he said again, voice low.

Your eyes filled then. You didn’t mean for them to. You weren’t even sure what you were crying for — the pain, the fear, the disappointment, all of it crashing down in the quiet of that sterile room. You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears slipping past your lashes like they’d been waiting all night to fall.

“I thought he’d be here,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “He’s my dad…”

“I know, baby,” Daryl said softly. “I know.”

You turned your head back to him, and he saw it — that little piece of you that had just broken. The part that still wanted to believe your father would always come through, even when he didn’t.

Daryl reached for you then, real gentle, real slow — like you were something made of porcelain, something fragile and precious. He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, then rested his forehead against your arm.

[twdgrxmes]

Trouble - TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon x GoodGirl!Reader (Part 11)

<-prev next->

WC: 2933

Tags: Violence, Concussion? Blood?

Friday Night - The Game 

SOPHIA’S POV 

The lot behind the stadium was mostly empty now. Just the flickering street lamps humming overhead, the occasional shout from across the field, and the crunch of your sneakers on broken gravel.

Your heart thundered louder than your footsteps. You could still feel the ghost of Shane’s hand on your back during the victory photo. The weight of his smile. The shallow pride in his voice when he’d pulled you into a side-hug and whispered, “Told you I’d win for you.”

It made you feel uneasy. 

You spotted him leaning against the side of his car like always — too confident, too relaxed, like the world owed him something. He turned when he saw you coming, his expression slipping into something smug.

“Took you long enough,” he smirked, arms folded over his jersey. “Figured you’d want to congratulate me properly.”

You stopped a few feet away, suddenly cold under your cheer hoodie despite the heat still clinging to the pavement.

“I need to talk to you,” you said. 

His smile dropped a little. He pushed off the truck with a frown, walking towards you. “What’s going on?”

Your stomach twisted. Your throat felt dry.

“This thing between us,” you began, voice quiet but steady, “it’s not working. It never really was.”

Shane blinked. “Wait, what?”

You glanced down. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been honest a long time ago. I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

“Lead me—?” His voice sharpened. “Are you serious?”

You nodded slowly. “I can’t keep pretending. You deserve someone who wants this. I’m not her.”

“You’re breaking up with me?” he scoffed, stepping closer. “Because of what? Because I wasn’t nice enough at the dance?”

You shook your head. “Because it’s over. Because it should’ve never started.”

His face darkened. “So that’s it? You’re just done?”

“I am.”

There was a pause. Then his voice dropped into something cold and bitter. “This about Dixon, isn’t it?”

You flinched. That was all the answer he needed.

Shane’s jaw clenched. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “I gave you everything. My time, my money, my protection. And you throw it all away for that dirtbag freak?”

He stepped forward fast, grabbing your wrist. Too hard.

“Shane—stop—”

“What does he have that I don’t?” he snapped. “What, he whisper sweet nothings to you? Make you feel special?”

Your heart pounded. “Let me go.”

“No,” he growled, dragging you towards his car. “You don’t get to humiliate me like this.”

“Let me go!”

And then, a voice came from the shadows:

“Get your fuckin’ hands off her.”

You both froze.

Your heart stopped.

Daryl.

Shane turned, incredulous. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Was waitin’ for her. ‘Til I saw you grabbin’ her like a goddamn psycho.” His voice was low. Dangerous. “Back the fuck off.”

Shane didn’t. 

Instead, he tightened his grip on your wrist out of spite, making you wince. 

Daryl didn’t wait.

He lunged.

The first punch landed square across Shane’s jaw, knocking his head sideways with a sickening snap. He stumbled, swore, then charged back, tackling Daryl into the side of a pickup truck.

Metal groaned. Fists flew. And suddenly, it was chaos.

You gasped as the two of them collided again — Shane swinging wild, Daryl dodging, his own punch landing in Shane’s gut with a brutal thud. Shane doubled over, gasping — only for Daryl to grab the front of his jersey and slam him against the truck again.

“You touch her again, I’ll fucking kill you,” Daryl growled.

Shane roared, elbowing him hard in the ribs. Daryl grunted, staggered — and Shane seized the opening, driving him backward across the lot.

They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and rage.

You tried to reach them, but they were locked in too tight — Daryl slamming his knee into Shane’s chest, Shane clawing and swinging, catching Daryl across the cheek. Blood sprayed from a split lip. Neither of them seemed to care.

Daryl tackled Shane to the ground, raining blows. His knuckles were already split, face wild with rage. Every hit landed with the sound of meat on pavement.

Shane struggled, grabbed a handful of Daryl’s shirt, pulled — and got a punch to the temple for his trouble.

You moved closer, heart in your throat, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Daryl—please! You’ll kill him!”

He paused. Just for a second. Breath heaving.

That was when Shane, with the last ounce of strength and a rage of his own, lunged blindly—

—his elbow swung back—

—and cracked you right across the temple.

Your vision exploded white.

You didn’t even scream — your legs folded under you like paper, and the ground hit you hard.

Distantly, you heard Daryl yell — not words, just raw, guttural noise. Then the sound of fists again, louder, heavier. You blinked through the dizziness, saw flashes of motion, gravel flying, Daryl pinning Shane down by the collar and slamming his fist into his face with everything he had.

Something heavy hit the ground next to you. A scuffle. A crack. A yell of pain.

Then arms were on you — warm, trembling, frantic.

“Hey—hey, sweetheart, look at me. Look at me—c’mon—fuck.” Daryl’s voice was wild, ragged, his hands cupping your face, brushing blood away. “You with me? Look at me, baby—please—”

You blinked slowly. His face swam into view — bloody lip, bruises forming around his eye, sweat dripping down his temple — but the fear there?

It gutted you.

“I’m… I’m okay,” you whispered, voice paper-thin. “I think…”

He pulled you into him, holding you like you’d vanish if he let go. “You’re not. You’re not fuckin’ okay—Jesus, he coulda—”

His voice broke.

Behind you, Shane groaned on the pavement, blood smeared across his chin, curled into himself and breathing hard. Daryl’s fist had done real damage.

But Daryl didn’t look at him again. He only looked at you.

You felt his palms frame your face gently, shaking slightly as his thumbs brushed across your cheeks, swiping at the trickle of blood dripping from your temple. His breathing was sharp, erratic — like he couldn’t catch it, couldn’t control it, like it was strangling him.

Your eyes fluttered open, barely. The world swam behind a thick, dizzy fog, lights bleeding into one another, the shadows bending and warping around the edge of your vision.

“D-Daryl?” you managed, barely more than a breath. You weren’t sure if it was real. If he was real.

“I’m here,” he rasped, voice cracking at the edges. “I got you, baby. I’m right here.”

You tried to sit up — stupidly — but the moment your muscles twitched, pain tore through your skull like lightning. Your stomach rolled.

“I—I don’t feel good,” you whispered, shaking now, your limbs cold and heavy like stone. “My head… Daryl, it hurts. I can’t think—everything’s spinning—”

“Shh, don’t move,” he breathed, already sliding a hand under the back of your head, supporting you like you were made of glass. “It’s okay. You hit it real hard, alright? You just gotta stay with me.”

He sounded terrified.

You’d never heard him like that before. Not angry. Not rough. Just scared. Like the sight of you like this had gutted him from the inside out.

You blinked slowly, your gaze trying — failing — to focus on his face. You caught pieces of it: his bloodied lip, the bruising blooming around his eye, the tear in his shirt from the fight. But more than anything — the fear. It was written in every line of his expression, tightening his jaw, his brow, the way he kept glancing at your eyes, desperate to keep them open.

Then the pain came back sharper — a pulse like fire behind your eyes. Your breath hitched. The nausea surged. And the world pitched sideways, color draining from the corners.

“Daryl… I think I’m gonna—”

And then everything blurred.

The light. His voice. Even the pain.

Your eyes fluttered once, twice—then closed.

Your body slumped fully against him, going limp in his arms.

“No—no, no, no—” His voice cracked as he caught you, arms locking around you in a vice. He sank to the pavement with you in his lap, one arm around your shoulders, the other holding your face. “Baby—baby, c’mon. Wake up. Don’t do this.”

Daryl’s voice cracked under the weight of it all — a trembling whisper against your skin as he held your unconscious body close to his chest, rocking slightly like it might bring you back. His hand was still cupping your cheek, trying to will life into you, thumb brushing over your browbone in a touch so gentle it barely registered.

“You just passed out,” he said under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. “That’s all. You’re okay. You’re okay, baby. Just breathe.”

But his own breath was shaky. Off-rhythm. Panic edging every exhale.

Your face, pale under the stadium lights, didn’t move.

Your head lolled slightly against his chest, lashes still, skin too pale under the flickering parking lot lights.

Then—

“Daryl?!”

Jess.

She came flying around the corner, eyes going wide the moment she took in the scene — Shane crumpled and bloody on the pavement, the distant shouts of lingering teammates echoing faintly from the field, and you, limp and terrifyingly still in Daryl’s arms.

“Oh my God—oh my God.” She dropped to her knees, sliding in beside you so fast she scraped her hands on the gravel. “What happened?! What the hell happened?!”

Daryl didn’t look up. His focus didn’t leave your face for a second. “He hit her,” he said hoarsely. “He caught her when we were fightin’. Elbowed her. She hit the ground hard. She was talkin’ for a minute, then—then she just—she just passed out.”

Jess’s face went pale. “Jesus Christ…”

She leaned in, her trembling fingers brushing your wrist. “She’s still breathing. Pulse is slow, but it’s there. Okay. Okay, that’s good.” 

Daryl didn’t respond. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes glassy, his arm like iron around you as if he thought if he let go, you might disappear entirely. Blood had begun to dry on his knuckles. His lip was split wide open. But he didn’t seem to notice any of it.

“She was tryin’ to break up with him,” he whispered. “Told him it was over. He got mad. Grabbed her.” His voice shook, venom sliding beneath it. “Tried to make her stay. I saw red. I didn’t—” He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

“You didn’t,” Jess said firmly, even though her voice was tight. “He did. You protected her.”

“She’ll be okay, Daryl,” she said, voice low. “She will. You’re with her. Just keep talking.”

~

Sirens.

They cut through the night like a blade — sharp, shrill, distant at first. Then closer. Closer.

Red and blue lights bloomed at the edge of the lot, painting everything in wild, flickering color. Jess stood, waving them down with one arm, the other pressed to her chest like it was the only thing holding her panic in. The gravel crunched under heavy boots as first responders poured in — EMTs with urgent voices, a pair of cops behind them shouting commands, ordering someone to keep the crowd back.

Daryl still didn’t let go.

Even as the EMTs knelt beside him and started asking questions — What happened? How long was she out? Can you move back so we can check her vitals? — he couldn’t move. Wouldn’t. His hand stayed cradling your head, fingers trembling against your temple where blood had stuck to your hair. His other arm stayed tight around your shoulders, grounding you to him like his own breath depended on it.

“She just passed out,” he rasped again. “She was talkin’ to me. She knew where she was. Then she—she just—”

One of the EMTs nodded, already sliding a gloved hand to your neck to feel for your pulse. “We’ve got her,” the medic said gently. “She’s still breathing. We’re gonna take it from here, alright?”

But Daryl didn’t move.

“Sir,” the medic tried again. “We’ve got her now, okay? Let us take care of her.”

Jess crouched beside him again, one hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Daryl. Let them help her.”

His jaw locked. For a second, he didn’t seem to hear.

Then, finally — like the words were dragging him up through water — he nodded once and let go. Slowly. Carefully. He loosened his grip on your hand. Let his fingers slide from your skin. He moved back an inch, then two. It looked like it cost him everything.

The medics began assessing your injuries, checking your pulse and pupils, bracing your head before gently lifting you onto the stretcher. Daryl stayed kneeling on the ground, his fists pressed to his mouth like he might scream if he didn’t keep it in.

“She’s riding with us,” one of the medics said to Jess as they prepared to load you into the ambulance.

“I’m coming too,” Daryl said before Jess could even speak.

He was already on his feet, limping slightly, blood dripping down from a gash on his cheek. His knuckles were raw, his face battered. He didn’t seem to feel any of it. His focus was entirely on you.

Jess stepped in front of him, blocking his path for a breath.

“Daryl, you need to get checked out too.”

“I don’t care.”

“Daryl—”

“I have to go. Please.”

That one word—please—landed like a stone in her chest. She stepped aside.

And then more shouting. This time from behind the ambulance. An officer running toward the crowd, talking into his radio.

Jess instinctively scanned the parking lot. Her breath caught.

Sheriff Bennet wasn’t there.

Of all the cops swarming the scene—none were him.

She didn’t know whether to be relieved or more afraid.

“Let’s go,” the medic said. “She’s stable for now, but we need to move.”

Daryl climbed into the back of the ambulance, his frame hunched as he sat beside the stretcher. He reached for your hand again immediately, cradling it between both of his, his thumbs brushing softly over your wrist. His eyes never left your face.

[twdgrxmes]

Trouble - TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon x GoodGirl!Reader (Part 10)

<-prev next->

WC: 2025

Tags: Arguing?

The Next Morning

SOPHIA’S POV

The sun was barely peeking through the blinds when your bedroom door creaked open. You were still wrapped in yesterday’s tiredness, face half-buried in your pillow, body tangled in the sheets, hair smelling faintly of hairspray. 

You didn’t need to lift your head to know it was him.

Your father.

He was whistling. Whistling. Like it was the best morning of his life.

“You awake, kiddo?” he asked cheerfully, his voice followed by the sound of his boots crossing the hardwood.

You groaned, rolling over. “Barely.”

“Well, you better get used to early mornings,” he teased. “Can’t sleep the day away when you’re a deputy’s girl.”

You opened your eyes fully, blinking at him. He was in full sheriff mode—uniform tucked and pressed, badge gleaming, mug of black coffee in hand. But instead of heading out, he was cleaning.

Actually cleaning.

He was picking up the throw blanket from your floor and folding it. Straightening your bookshelf. Plucking bobby pins off your dresser and humming like he was ready to break into song.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” you mumbled.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied, pulling open your curtains to let the light in. “You had a great night, didn’t you? Shane said y’all had a good time.”

You nodded vaguely, rubbing your eyes. “Yeah. It was… fine.”

“Fine?” he repeated, raising a brow like that was an insult. “Shane came by the station this morning. Dropped off your corsage—said it was too pretty to toss. That boy’s got manners. Real potential.”

You sat up slowly, back against your headboard. “You’re not gonna make me frame the corsage, are you?”

He laughed. “Not unless you’re already thinkin’ about wedding colors.”

You stared at him. “Dad.”

“What?” he said innocently, holding up his hands. “I’m just sayin’… it’s nice. Seein’ you with someone steady. Someone who’s got a future lined up. Hell, he’s already workin’ shifts part-time. You could do a lot worse than a man like Shane Walsh.”

Your stomach twisted. “We’re not engaged.”

“Not yet,” he said, pulling your desk chair in neatly under the table. “But don’t think I didn’t notice him eyein’ your ring finger last night. Boy’s serious about you, Soph. Wouldn’t be surprised if a promise ring shows up by Thanksgiving.”

You stared at the blanket in your lap, fingers curling around the edge of it like you could anchor yourself there.

“Things change,” he added, a little softer now. “But some things… they feel right from the start. And I got a feeling about this one.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Your dad moved to pick up the clothes draped over your desk chair, muttering something about laundry, and then paused.

He turned slowly.

“What’s this?” he asked, pulling a familiar lump of fabric from the pile.

Your breath caught.

There, crumpled between your hoodie and the hem of your dance dress, was his hoodie. Faded black. Worn at the cuffs. Smelled like smoke and cedar wood and memories you’d tried to bury.

Daryl’s hoodie.

Your father lifted it with a frown, holding it up like a strange artifact. “This doesn’t look like Shane’s.”

You sat up straighter, heart pounding. “It’s just—” 

You scrambled for words. “Jess’s. She left it here weeks ago.”

Your dad turned it over, inspecting the hem, the tag long faded.

“Jess wears Men’s Large now?” he asked, one brow lifting, skeptical.

You bit your cheek. “It’s her cousin’s. Or… something.”

Your father chuckled, but it was empty, blunt. 

“So Jess’s cousin just happens to wear the same hoodie that that piece of trash Dixon was wearin’ the night I had to drag his sorry ass off Shane at that damn party?”

Your eyes burned. “Please—just let me explain—”

“Oh, I’d love to hear this,” he spat. “Go ahead. Tell me how Dixon’s hoodie ended up in my house, in my daughter’s room. Tell me how long you've been lyin’ to my face.”

You swallowed hard. “Since… since he fixed the Chevy.”

His face twisted like you’d punched him.

“You mean to tell me,” he said slowly, dangerously low, “you’ve been sneakin’ around with that boy since he worked on my damn car? That was months ago. Hell, that was the beginning of Summer”

Your voice cracked. “I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” he roared, taking another step forward. “You lied to me. Repeatedly. You went behind my back. With him? After what his family’s done in this town? After what he pulled at the party?”

“Because he was defending me!” you shouted through tears. “Because Shane wouldn’t take no for an answer and you didn’t want to hear it!”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, something flickered behind his eyes—guilt. But it vanished in the next breath, buried beneath fury.

“You think that excuses it?” he said, voice low and vicious. “You think that justifies crawling into bed with a Dixon?”

Your voice rose in pitch, barely coherent through your sobs. “I didn’t crawl into bed with anyone! We—we talked. We saw each other. He made me feel safe. He listened.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore. “You’ve lost your damn mind.”

You pressed your fists to your chest, trembling. “He broke my heart.”

That stopped him cold.

You wiped at your cheeks, shaking. “He told me he wasn’t good enough for me and just—just walked away. He left me, and I can’t even hate him for it because he thought he was protecting me from you.”

Your father’s face was stone, but his nostrils flared. “And you love him?” he asked, the words like poison in his mouth.

You nodded, voice raw. “I love him. And I never told you because I knew you’d react like this.”

Your father stepped toward you, towering, eyes black with rage. “You’re done. Do you hear me? Done. You will not see him. You will not speak his name. If I so much as see that boy near you—on the street, in this house, anywhere—I'll put him in a cell so fast he won’t know what hit him.”

“You can’t—”

“I can. And I will. I’ll make sure he never sets foot in this town again. He won’t get within a hundred yards of you without a goddamn restraining order.”

Your sobs filled the room, your father just shook his head firmly.

“I raised you better than this,” he said coldly. “You don’t know what love is.”

You stared up at him through tear-blurred eyes. “Then maybe you never taught me.”

The silence was deafening. Then he turned and walked out, the door slamming behind him so hard the walls shook.

You stayed there on the floor, clutching Daryl’s hoodie to your chest like it was the only thing left of him.

And for the first time in your life, you wished you weren’t the sheriff’s daughter at all.

~

The Next MorningBennet House – Back Porch

Jess didn’t knock.

She found you curled up on the back porch swing, Daryl’s hoodie draped around your shoulders like a second skin, your legs pulled tight to your chest. You hadn’t even made it to school. Hadn’t touched your coffee. The porch creaked gently with your weight, but the air was still.

Broken.

She crouched beside you slowly, like one wrong move might shatter you completely. “Hey,” she said softly.

You didn’t answer. Just stared out past the porch railing like the world had gone flat.

Jess slid down beside you, tucking her knees up. “You’re not coming to school today?”

You swallowed. “He knows.”

Jess’s eyes widened slightly. “About Daryl?”

You just nodded, eyes brimming with fresh tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, placing a steady hand over yours.

You laughed bitterly, no joy in it. “He said if he saw Daryl again, he’d have him arrested. Said he’d get a restraining order. He looked me in the face and told me I didn’t know what love is.”

Jess clenched her jaw. “God, I knew he’d lose it, but…” She shook her head, breath tight. “That man is more concerned with his image than your damn heart.”

You looked over at her finally, voice barely above a whisper. “He said Daryl wasn’t good enough. That I was the one who’d lost my mind.”

Jess exhaled hard. 

She took your hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’re not crazy. You hear me? What you had with Daryl? That was real. And if your father can’t see that, then he’s the one who doesn’t know love.”

You dropped your head to your knees. “He’s not coming back, Jess. Daryl’s not coming back. I never even got to tell him I loved him. It’s all gone.”

Jess went quiet.

Dead quiet.

Then she stood.

You glanced up at her, confused. “Where are you—?”

“To get that boy’s stubborn ass out of whatever hole he’s crawled into,” she snapped, grabbing her keys from her bag like it was war. “You love him. He loves you. And this whole mess? It doesn’t end like this. Not with you crying on a porch in his hoodie while your dad tries to rewrite your life.”

You blinked, stunned. “Jess, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” she said, already halfway down the steps. “Because I’m not gonna sit back while the best thing that ever happened to you runs off just ‘cause he’s scared of the consequences.”

~

The Garage off Route 9 – Later That Morning

DARYL’S POV 

The garage was already sweltering by the time Jess pulled up, dust kicking up behind her tires. Daryl was hunched under the hood of a rusted out pickup, sleeves pushed up, jaw set, a scowl permanently etched into his face. Sweat clung to his brow, but he didn’t so much as flinch when Jess slammed her car door and marched toward him.

“You better be alone,” she barked, stopping a foot away.

Daryl didn’t look up. “Ain’t in the mood, Jess.”

She scoffed. “Tough. You’re gonna hear this.”

He wiped his hands on a rag and tossed it aside, finally looking at her with guarded eyes. “What now?”

“She told him,” Jess said sharply. “Her dad. She told him everything. About the two of you. About Shane. About how she felt.”

Daryl froze.

“You left her to face that man alone, and she still stood there and defended you,” Jess continued, voice shaking with emotion. “You broke her heart, and she still loved you enough to fight for you. To tell the truth. Don’t you get that?”

He swallowed hard, shoulders tense. “She what?”

“She stood up to him, Daryl. And he tore into her like she was some damn criminal. Said if he saw you again, he’d arrest you. She’s home right now, crying in your hoodie like it’s all she’s got left of you.”

Daryl’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Jess shook her head, disgusted. “You really gonna let her think you’re gone for good? After everything?”

“She’s better off—”

“Stop.” Jess stepped forward, finger in his face. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to make that decision for her. She loves you, Daryl. She wants you. Not Shane. Not her dad’s fantasy of a perfect match. You. And if you can’t see how rare that kind of loyalty is, then maybe you’re the fool he says you are.”

Daryl’s jaw tightened, eyes wet.

“I’m scared,” he muttered. “Not just of him. Of her. Of not bein’ enough. Of ruinin’ her.”

Jess’s voice dropped, steadier now. “She doesn’t need perfect. She needs real. And Daryl, you are. She needs someone who’ll care enough to fight for her.” 

He blinked, struggling to breathe past the weight in his chest.

Jess stepped back and crossed her arms. “Come to the game Friday night. Talk to her then.”

And with that, she turned and left.

Daryl stood there a long time after her car was gone, the world muffled around him, heart thudding like it was ready to leap out of his ribs.

Maybe he didn’t deserve her.

But she loved him anyway.

And maybe that was all that mattered.

[twdgrxmes]

Masterlist

Started: 20/04/25 Last Updated: 20/04/25

The Walking Dead

Series:

Daryl Dixon;

Trouble

Rick Grimes;

nothing here yet

The Last Of Us/AUs

Joel Miller;

Summer of sin

The Punisher

Frank Castle;

nothing here yet

[twdgrxmes]

Trouble - TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon x GoodGirl!Reader (Part 9)

<-prev next->

WC: 2860

Tags: Violence (a little)

SOPHIA'S POV

School had started back up just over a week ago, marking the official end to what could only be described as a painfully eventful summer. The hallways buzzed with the usual chatter—homecoming plans, new classes, who was with who now—but it all felt a little distant to you, like you were moving through a world that had kept spinning while yours had cracked quietly apart.

Still… you had to admit it: the ache in your chest had started to ease. Just a little.

It wasn’t gone, not entirely. The weight of losing him still clung to the edges of your days, trailing behind you like a shadow you couldn’t quite outrun. And you knew it would stay there for a long time—buried, but never forgotten.

Daryl Dixon had left his mark on you. Not just a memory, but something deeper. Something carved into the softest parts of your heart, impossible to scrub clean.

You hated how often you thought about him. How certain songs still made your breath hitch. How you still caught yourself turning toward the back of the lot, half-expecting to see his truck parked there. How your fingers still remembered the way his felt tangled with yours in the dark.

And yet… Shane had been nothing but kind.

You almost hated yourself for admitting that too.

He’d shown up, just like everyone always said he would—dependable, polished, easy on the eyes. He came by for lunch a few times, charming your father with stories of football games, training to be a deputy, even calling him “sir” like it was second nature. He took you to the diner and didn’t complain when you barely touched your milkshake. He even drove you out to Lake Wren once, all smiles and patience, like he didn’t know—or didn’t care—that the place made your chest feel like it was caving in.

Because Lake Wren was Daryl. His crooked grin. The sound of his voice cutting through the trees. The way his fingers traced lazy circles against your thigh as you watched the stars blink into life above the water.

And still… Shane had tried. And for what it was worth, he’d been a gentleman through and through.

You couldn’t deny that your father adored him. He lit up in Shane’s presence in a way you hadn’t seen in years—laughing louder, slapping him on the back like he was already part of the family. Like this was the future he’d always imagined for you. Clean-cut. Predictable. Safe.

White picket fences. 

And maybe that’s what scared you the most.

Because no matter how many smiles you returned, how many dinners you sat through, or how many perfect-picture moments you played along with… the truth remained:

Your heart wasn’t in it.

Not fully.

Because your heart still hadn’t let go of Daryl.

Not yet.

But part of you was beginning to accept the fact that maybe Shane was the way forward, maybe this was a good thing for you, like your father had been saying for all this time. 

~

The dance was tonight.

You didn’t even know why you’d said yes. Maybe it was the way your dad beamed when Shane asked, his arms crossed like he was already imagining the wedding toast. Maybe it was the pressure, the weight of silence if you’d said no. Maybe it was just easier than explaining why your heart wasn’t in it.

Now you were staring into the mirror, trying to find yourself in the reflection. The soft curls falling around your shoulders. The simple blue dress Jess had begged you to try on weeks ago, before everything got complicated. You barely recognized the girl blinking back at you.

You tugged Daryl’s old hoodie off slowly, folding it and setting it on your bed like it might fall apart if you were careless. For a second, you just stood there, fingers lingering in the worn fabric.

Then you reached for the gold necklace Jess had given you—a tiny heart that sat just at your collarbone. She said it would bring out your eyes.

Downstairs, a car engine pulled up. Shane’s Camaro. 

Jess appeared in your doorway right on cue, already dressed. Her black dress glittered like starlight, short and fierce, and her messy bun somehow looked cooler than anything in a magazine.

She raised her brows. “Damn, Soph. You clean up nice.”

You tried to smile. “So do you.”

Jess stepped closer, adjusting your necklace gently. Her fingers were light but sure.

“You okay?”

You shook your head. “Not really.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, letting her hands drop to her sides. “Me neither.”

You turned, confused. “Wait… then why are you going?”

She smiled. “Because I wanna support you.” 

You smiled back, pulling her in for a hug. 

Jess’ arms tightened around you comfortingly before she pulled away. “Plus… Rick’s not so bad.”

“Rick?” you echoed.

“Yeah,” she said, slipping a pair of silver hoops into her ears. “Shane’s friend. Kinda awkward, but sweet. He asked if I wanted to go with him.”

You blinked, a little surprised. “And you said yes?”

Jess nodded, smoothing the fabric of her dress. “He picked me wildflowers. Said he didn’t know what kind I liked but thought I’d want something that didn’t feel bought. Like…” She trailed off, then shook her head. “Anyway. It’s not a date-date. I told him I’m not in the mood to be anyone’s girlfriend. He said he doesn’t expect anything from me.”

You nodded, heading downstairs, Jess following behind.

Shane stood near the front door, leaning casually against the frame like he belonged there. Like this was just another night.

His black suit was sharp, tie loosened just enough to look effortless. A corsage box dangled between two fingers. When he looked up and saw you, something flickered across his face—approval, satisfaction, maybe even pride—but not surprise. Like you were his.

Rick stood beside him, more nervous than smooth. He straightened when he saw Jess, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling, shy and sweet. 

Jess paused, then stepped towards him with a small grin, fixing his tie. 

Shane gave them a sideways glance, amused but silent.

Jess slipped her arm through his and turned toward you, her eyes softening. “Ready?”

You hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough to think of Daryl’s truck, the rough calluses on his palms, the rasp of his voice murmuring your name like it meant something.

But the second passed. And you nodded.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Let’s get it over with.”

~ 

The dance had been… nice.

Surprisingly.

That was the only word you could think of for it. Not unforgettable exactly, but nice. 

Shane had been the perfect date—attentive, respectful, even funny when he let his guard down. He twirled you during slow songs, told you you looked beautiful like he meant it, and stayed close without being overbearing.

Jess and Rick had taken off just after the last slow dance. She winked at you before slipping out the gym doors, leaving you and Shane alone in the sea of dim lights and streamers.

Now, the two of you sat in a corner booth at the diner, splitting a plate of fries and milkshakes while the buzz of neon signs and old jukebox tunes filled the air. It felt like something out of a movie. Shane leaned back against the vinyl seat, his fingers tapping absently against the table.

“You looked like you were having fun tonight,” he said casually, like he wasn’t testing the waters.

You sipped your milkshake and nodded. “I guess I was.”

His eyes searched your face for a moment, then softened. “You know, you don’t have to pretend with me.”

That caught you off guard. You looked up at him, brows tugging slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I know it’s not easy,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Being here, with me. After everything with Dixon.”

You flinched at the name. Not much, but enough that Shane caught it.

“I just want you to know,” he added, “I’m not tryin’ to take his place. I’m not expecting you to be over it. But I like you, Soph. I want to be here… if you’ll let me.”

Your stomach twisted. Because part of you wanted to believe him. Part of you wanted it to be that simple.

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded, looking down at the swirl of your half-finished milkshake.

Shane didn’t push. Instead, he smiled gently and stood, tossing a few bills on the table. “C’mon. Let’s get some air.”

You followed him outside into the cooler night air, your heels clicking softly against the pavement. The lot was nearly empty now, just a few cars scattered near the edge of the gravel. The glow from the diner lights cast a soft halo around you, and the night felt quiet in a way that made your thoughts a little too loud.

Shane stopped near the edge of the lot, just before the tree line. He looked back at you, his expression unreadable for a moment.

He walked you toward the edge of the lot, just far enough from the diner lights to be wrapped in half-darkness, just far enough to angle your body in the direction of the truck.

“You have a good time tonight?” he asked, voice casual as he leaned against the back of his Camaro, pulling you a little closer with a hand at your hip.

You nodded, hesitant. “Yeah. It was fine.”

“Just fine?” he teased, nudging your shoulder playfully. “I wore a damn suit for you, and I only get ‘fine’?”

That earned a small laugh from you. Soft. I'm a little tired.

“You looked good,” you said honestly. “You always look good.”

He grinned, cocky now, the compliment settling around his shoulders like a crown.

“You look beautiful, Soph,” he said, gaze flicking down the length of you in a way that made your stomach twist—not with butterflies, but something heavier. “Couldn’t keep my eyes off you all night.”

You looked down at your hands. You weren’t sure what to say to that. Compliments from Shane felt like sugar melting on your tongue—sweet, but not real. Not lasting. Not like his voice had been.

Shane’s thumb lifted your chin gently, coaxing your eyes back to his. His touch was soft, but there was an edge beneath it. Like he wasn’t asking.

“You don’t have to be nervous, you know,” he said, voice low. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

You gave a stiff little nod, your breath caught halfway in your throat. And then he leaned in.

You froze.

Not enough for him to notice. But inside, your whole body locked up.

His lips brushed yours, warm and confident. Like he expected you to melt into it.

But you didn’t, not right away.

At first, your eyes stayed half-open, your mind somewhere else. Somewhere far else. Somewhere with calloused hands and a cigarette-laced whisper against your skin. 

Somewhere with Daryl.

Still, you let Shane kiss you. Because it was easier. Because maybe this was what moving on looked like. Because maybe if you leaned into the illusion long enough, your heart would eventually follow.

So, you kissed him back—just barely. A slow press of lips that felt more like a performance than anything real. Not messy. Not breathless. Not like before.

And that’s when you noticed something shift in Shane.

He tilted his head slightly. Deepened the kiss, just enough. Pulled you a little closer, his hand splayed across the small of your back. His body angled in a way that felt… strategic.

And then he smirked against your lips.

Like this was a game.

Like someone was watching.

You pulled away first, brows pinched.

“Shane…”

He didn’t let go. Just looked at you with those smug eyes, like he’d already won whatever battle you hadn’t even realized you were fighting.

“What?” he asked, all innocence. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it.”

You took a small step back, chest rising and falling in a tight rhythm. Something didn’t sit right. The kiss. The way he held you. The way he seemed more interested in putting on a show than actually being with you.

“Why’d you bring me out here?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just glanced past your shoulder—past you—toward something you couldn’t see.

Then he turned back to you, grinning.

“Thought we could use a little privacy,” he said. 

You blinked. “Oh.”

His grin widened. 

But your stomach dropped.

And this time, you did turn.

Just in time to see truck headlights flicker on at the far end of the lot.

Your breath hitched.

Your heart knew, but your mind doubted yourself.

Shane wouldn’t have done that.. would he? 

You shook yourself out of it, convincing yourself that you’re just paranoid. 

You turned back to face Shane, looking up at him. 

Shane’s smile didn’t falter, but there was something in his eyes—too amused, too sharp—that made your stomach tighten.

You glanced over your shoulder, just to make sure.

There was nothing there.

Just the treeline and a few parked cars, shrouded in the dim orange spill of a flickering streetlamp. The truck—if it had ever really been there—was gone.

Still, your pulse didn’t slow. Something about the moment felt staged, like you'd been reading from a script you didn’t know you'd agreed to.

Shane spoke up, “You okay?”

You tried to shake the unease and turned back to Shane, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I’m good. Just… felt like you were showing off or something.”

He lifted a brow. “Showing off? For who?”

You hesitated. “No one. Forget it.”

But he was watching you too closely now, his smirk curling at the edge like smoke.

“Wasn’t much to show,” he said casually, but there was a bite underneath it. “Unless you think someone was watchin’.”

You looked away, cheeks burning. God, what if Daryl had been there? What if he’d seen?

He wasn’t there. You made that up.

The truck was gone. You’d imagined it. Just like you’d imagined the way your chest clenched when Shane kissed you. Or the way his lips didn’t feel right. Or how your body had refused to soften in his arms the way it had when—

No.

Yes.

This was right, this was what moving on felt like.

Daryl had made it very clear the last time you spoke, he wasn’t enough for you.

You didn’t agree, but you knew that he was stubborn. 

That if you spent your life waiting around for him to change his mind, it would be a life spent moping around, living vicariously in the past.

You cleared your throat and stepped back. “We should probably head back.”

Shane’s smile cooled, but he didn’t protest. He turned with you, his hand settling against your lower back in a way that felt too familiar.

But somehow, you had begun to feel comfort in the warmth of his touch. 

~

DARYL’S POV

He saw it. Clear as day.

Sophia. Kissing Shane.

It wasn’t long. Barely a second. But it hit like a punch to the gut.

Daryl didn’t remember leaving the diner lot. Just the slam of his truck door, the roar of the engine, and his foot hitting the gas like he could outrun what he’d just seen.

She kissed him. She kissed Shane.

Or maybe he kissed her. Didn’t matter. She let it happen.

The wheel creaked under his grip as he sped through the backroads, jaw locked, vision blurred with heat. Trees flashed past like ghosts. 

He barked out a laugh to himself, humorless and sharp. “Should’ve known,” he muttered.

She was never gonna wait around for a guy like him. Not when golden boy Shane was there, with his clean hands and clean life. A guy her daddy would actually let through the front door.

He’d told her to stay away. Said she deserved more. And now that she was moving on, it burned.

His chest ached, like something was trying to claw its way out.

He should’ve been relieved.

Instead, he felt like he was coming apart.

By the time he pulled up to his trailer, his hands were shaking. He left the engine running, slammed the door behind him so hard the whole frame rattled.

Inside was quiet, too quiet. Empty beer cans on the counter. Smell of old smoke and weed. Home.

He crossed the living room in three steps and drove his fist into the wall.

The plaster cracked under the blow. Didn’t make him feel better.

He hit it again. Harder.

Pain lit up his hand, but it didn’t stop him.

Again. Again.

Blood smeared the drywall. His breathing came fast, ragged. He pressed his forehead to the wall, chest heaving.

This was his fault. Every bit of it.

He pushed her away.

He told her she should.

And now?

Now she had.

He slid down the wall, knuckles dripping red, and let his head fall into his hands.

He didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.Just sat there in the quiet, blood pounding in his ears, trying to forget the way she looked at Shane like she used to look at him.