xanaxiii

[xanaxiii]

ok ok ik we have daddy daryl but hear me out

a more like light hearted kind of sibling-like relationship with him. all that good protector daryl stuffs, but at the end of the day you two can make gross jokes and drink beer and .......arent afraid to get a little rough with eachother ;;3

i see this as such an easy way to get daryl to manhandle u around under the guise of 'omggggg guys hes like a brother to me' to everyne else

or am i weird

“you gunna call it?” daryl asks, and you can’t see his face, because, well - he’s got his chest pressed to your back and his arm around your neck, bicep in your face. but you can tell he’s smirking. he’s literally choking you out, holding you in such a tight headlock that you really do want to call mercy just to get a full breath of air, but you’re not going to give him the satisfaction.

you make a noise that tells him no, and he chuckles, slightly loosening his grip. and when he does, because you’re so mad that he is so much stronger than you, you bite into his bicep and he lets go of you so fast, you almost drop to the ground.

victory, then? you’ll take it.

“goddamn,” daryl mutters, scoffing as he backs away from you. “fuck is wrong with you?”

you just huff, walking back to the rest of the camp. daryl follows you, but as he makes his way next to you, he gives you another shove. it’s a light shove, but it nearly sends you toppling over, because it’s unexpected.

you love to play rough with daryl, to prove that you can handle it, that you’re strong, just like him - but the truth is, he’s so much stronger than you that it’s not even fair. fucking daryl and his stupid strong arms. you’ve never even beat him in an arm wrestling match, and you sort of just wish he’d let you win sometimes.

you make it back to camp, bickering with daryl, and the group parts like the red fucking sea. people hate being around you and daryl when you get into these play fighting moods, mostly - because it’s annoying to listen to the bickering, and also because they don’t want to see you get your ass kicked every fucking time.

“how is this fun for you?” maggie asked you one day, after she saw daryl putting you over his shoulder and threatening to throw you into the river until you let go of the last beer he found on a run. in reply to maggie, you just shrugged, sipped from you water bottle and told her the honest truth. “daryl’s a really good friend. sorta makes me feel like i have a brother or something, you know? it’s just fun to fuck around.”

you don’t tell her that you drip in your panties every time daryl shoves you against a tree and holds your hands behind your back while you squirm, call out mercy because the bark hurts your chest and cheek. you don’t tell her, that whenever daryl puts you in a chokehold, that you smell his musk and feel his strength - and you feel his cock, hard in his pants, pressed against you.

no. you don’t tell her that. she wouldn’t understand.

the next day, daryl starts his shit up again. you’re just walking with the rest of the group, when daryl comes up behind you and pulls your scrunchy out of your hair. it’s not a big deal, the pony tail thing, but it’s annoying, and you stop walking and stomp your foot and even when daryl laughs and jogs up ahead of you, you follow him and shove him as hard as you can.

“what?” daryl asks, while the rest of the group pretends like you both don’t exist. they literally just keep walking, ignoring the scene playing out right in front of their eyes. “you said you wanted to know what it’d be like to have a brother. jus’ doin’ what you asked,” he says in defense, but you just huff. there’s a twinkle in his eyes when he says it, a knowing smirk - and your entire body feels hot and electric.

even so, you plan revenge when the group finds somewhere to sleep later that day. daryl’s siting on a rock, and when he takes a sip of water, you spring up behind him and shove it out of his hand. rick, sitting beside him, looks at you with a poker face and then a sigh, getting up and shaking his head while you smile victoriously.

it’s okay though. because daryl throws the plastic bottle at you as you walk away, and you give daryl the rest of your water. and when you go down to the river to wash up, he pushes you in the water. tells you that you needed to wash your clothes, anyway.

you can’t even be mad. you see the way he looked at your tits in your wet t-shirt.

but today, you started it.

“give it to me,” daryl barks, still playful, but there’s something that’s actually a little pissed in his tone. it’s probably because you took the granola bar he found on a run that he’s been bragging about all day, but it’s not like you’re really going to eat it.

you hold the bar above your head, trying to keep it out of his reach, but it doesn’t actually do anything. daryl is taller than you, and his reach is longer than yours, but when he reaches above your head he doesn’t grab the bar.

no, he pins your wrist to the tree you’re up against, and the granola bar falls from your hand, onto the ground. “daryl,” you say, like you’re about to apologize, but he just shakes his head.

“yer fuckin’ crazy. was gonna share it with you, if you asked nicely,” he says, and you know that’s true. daryl and you are close, and you share everything, just like the rest of the group does. you’re all family.

“just a joke,” you tell him, because everything is just a joke with the two of you. you push and push, and daryl pushes you, and you touch each other and get physical under the guise that this is what friends do. this is what siblings do. whatever is going on between the two of you is fun and platonic.

except: it’s not. not one bit. you know this, from the feeling of your achey core now that daryl’s got you pressed up against a tree, and daryl knows this because his knee is slipping between your thighs, and you’re wearing a skirt, and -

oh.

his grip on your wrists tighten.

“let me go,” you say softly, so half assed, because there’s no use in lying or pretending. you don’t really want him to let go. daryl knows what you want. you know what daryl wants - you see it pushing against the zippered part of his pants right now.

“no,” is all he replies with, moving his knee just enough to make you whine. the material of your panties is thin, and it’s been so long. so, so long since you last had a chance to touch yourself. since you last got fucked.

“this isn’t what brothers do to their sisters,” you tease, but your breath is hitched and - it’s a lot. daryl nods, leans in and presses his forehead against yours. “no, ‘s not,” he says back.

he kisses you. and then -

he ends up fucking you right there against the tree, keeping your arms above your head, and when you cum - when you ask him to go harder, deeper, when he finally lets go of your wrists and holds you up against the tree, you cry out mercy while you cum all over his cock.

just seemed fitting.

back at camp, you share the granola bar. seated on an old log, your hair all messed up, daryl and you bumping shoulders because you just can’t stop touching.

rosita walks up to you, frowns, hand on her hip as she looks between the two of you.

“you okay?” she questions, before glaring at daryl. “you’re too rough with her, dixon. she’s half your size, you shouldn’t,” but daryl cuts her off with a wave of his hand.

daryl seems smug. you blush, wondering how rough you must look if rosita felt the need to say something.

daryl easies her worries, throws an arm around your shoulders and fucks up your already messy hair by rubbing the top of your head all roughly. you whine.

“she’s fine,” he assures, voice all calm. casual. “she knows what she’s doing. you should’ve heard her earlier, calling out for mercy.”

credit to: @nastydogpublishingco for the bones of this idea and the sexy details <3

[xanaxiii]

hiya!! i loooove ur writing sm, tbh aching for some domestic playing house w daryl <33

daryl has never had a home. 

well, he has. just - not like the home he has with you. 

he’s never had a warm meal that someone cooked just for him. has never had anyone that’s asked about his day, or had someone that wants to know if he ate lunch, if he drank enough water. has never had anyone ask him if he wants dessert after dinner or an extra blanket when he goes to bed. 

when you first moved in together, it was mostly about convenience. there were more and more people coming to alexandria every single week, and the homes were quickly getting filled up. and you - you were all alone, came to the community with your boyfriend and then he died on a run and because you were all by yourself, daryl let you come stay at his place. it was only him, and two other members of his group…but then those two hooked up, asked for their own place because the woman was expecting a baby, and that left just the two of you two. 

the relationship progressed quickly. you were, are, pretty quiet - and daryl likes that about you. reminds him of himself, especially with the way you act like you don’t need anybody. you hate asking for help, hate drawing attention to yourself - which makes your life pretty hard, since you’re so damn pretty that everyone’s always paying attention to you. trying to help you out, be your friend. be more. 

daryl knows all about that. he’s never pursued a woman like he did with you, but he couldn't help himself. you’re just too damn sweet, caring - and you’ve been through some shit. he can see it on you, in your hesitant smiles and the way you flinch when a man gets too loud around you. and it’s not just a reflex, either, picked up from this fucked up new world. daryl’s seen you fight off a walker half asleep, so it’s definitely a man thing. 

but one day, after months of being roommates, you told daryl that you felt safe around him. and that’s the best damn compliment he’s ever received. living together went from awkwardly sharing a pot of coffee in the mornings, you telling him he made you feel safe, and then somehow you were talking and kissing and sharing a bed. but even before the sex - daryl has never experienced emotional intimacy with anyone before you.

maybe that’s why he lets you fuss over him. take care of him, in the ways nobody else has ever been allowed to before. because you hate when he fusses over you - but he wants to. wants to make sure you eat and drink enough water, wants to be sure that you’re carrying your weapon with you whenever you step out of the house. wants to make sure you have enough blankets when you sleep, a jacket when it’s cold outside, clean socks and -

but he knows how it feels when someone outwardly shows they care. he gets it. he gets you. it’s uncomfortable, feels yucky sometimes, like there’s a big spotlight looking down on you, highlighting all the ways nobody ever cared before. so instead of making it obvious that he cares, with words or affection that you both shy away from, he brings home an animal that he’s killed for dinner, and he lets you cook it for him. you eat it together, and this way, you both can show how much you care about each other without making it awkward.

tonight, daryl walks in the door and wipes the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. he hears you in the kitchen, and he smells something really fucking good. you’re a good cook - he’ll give you that. know how to make pie and cookies and your own canned everything, if you have the supplies. you say it’s fun, keeps you useful, and daryl would go to the ends of the earth to give you whatever it is you still find fun in this horrible world. 

he really would. has the scars from failed supply runs of the past to prove it.

“whatcha cookin?’” he asks, washing his hands in the sink in the kitchen. you’re in a pretty apron, and you look like a doll. cheeks flushed from the heat outside, windows open and the oven on. your apron is stained with red, which means you’re either bleeding to death or making daryl’s favorite cherry pie. he hopes it’s the latter. 

you grin. beautiful. “cherry pie,” you answer, tone a little like you’re mocking him because it's obvious what you’re cooking, but the corner of daryl’s mouth tugs up anyway. cute. he leans against the counter and watches you, arms crossed. your silly oven mitts, the way you place the pie on the stove to cool. daryl never thought of himself as a traditional type of man, but watching you barefoot in the kitchen with an apron on, baking him a pie - he starts to understand the appeal of tradition. 

“good day today?” you ask, taking the stupid mitts off. you look so fucking cute, but daryl doesn’t know how to tell you that. can’t verbalize that having you waiting at home for him, baking for him, asking how his day is - it’s the most spectacular thing he’s ever experienced. almost makes up for his hunting partner nearly losing a leg today, when he got a little too close to a walker that was hiding behind a tree. 

“sucked. same as usual,” daryl replies, drying his hands off on a towel. “better now that i’m home.” you laugh a little, and then daryl can’t control himself. awkwardness be damned. he reaches out for you, tugs on your apron a little, ignores the soft batting of your hands warning him to be careful. guess you’ve only got one of those sexy little things, and daryl makes a mental note to find out where he can get you another. 

“c’mere,” he murmurs, breathing you in when you’re close. your breasts press against his chest, and his hand lands on your back, playing with the strings of the apron. you smell clean, like soap, and a little like the lavender lotion a woman in the community made for you. it’s irresistible, especially with the smell from the pie in the air - and when daryl dips his head to press his mouth to yours, all he can think about is sweet sweet sweet. his free hand grips your hair, keeping you in place while he licks into your mouth. 

you take it. you always do. but that’s just because daryl has never given you anything you didn’t want. daryl doesn’t push, doesn’t shove, doesn’t take more than he’s offered or allowed to have. and because of that, he gets it all. you let him have it all. you stand on your tiptoes ever so slightly, and you moan at the feeling of his wet, warm tongue grazing your bottom lip. 

“daryl,” you say, and you don’t want to break apart from the kiss, but this is important. “daryl,” you murmur against his lips, placing your hands on his chest, and because he’s daryl he pulls away completely. so different from the other men you’ve been with in the past. daryl lets go of your hair, but keeps his hand on your lower back to keep you close. 

“what?” he asks, and then you turn around and gesture to a lump on the kitchen counter, covered in a plastic bag. daryl quirks a brow, silent for a second before asking, “the fuck is that?” 

“it’s a turkey,” you explain, turning back around to him. “it’s our dinner. i just,” you don’t know how to say this without seeming like a total fucking baby, like you can’t handle the one job you were given in the community, which is to cook, but there’s something about the turkey with his head still on that’s giving you the shivers. someone dropped it off because they had an extra - trying to do something nice, for all the times daryl has caught food for everyone else. 

“you what?” daryl asks, walking over to the lump and pulling back the bag. there’s a dead animal in there, alright - but nothing that he hasn’t seen before. it takes him a minute to understand why you’re fussing, and then he realizes: he always cleans up whatever he catches before giving it to you. if it’s a bird, he’ll pluck the feathers and do the dirty work, so you can just make the meat pretty and taste good. but this -

daryl tries to fight back a little laugh. you’re scared of the fucking turkey. 

“you need me to make it pretty, is that it?” he asks, pulling the bag off of the animal, and he swears he hears you gasp. it’s one thing to see something like that on the road, but in the nice kitchen you’ve got in alexandria? it’s freaky. and it might not be a big deal to tell daryl you want him to fix it up for you, but you hate asking for anything. you hate being a burden, you hate - 

before you can finish that thought, daryl covers the turkey up. he walks to you, turns you around, presses his front to your back, and barricades you against the kitchen counter between his strong arms. “why you gettin’ all shy now? ‘s okay, you know. to ask me to help with shit. you do a whole lot. don’t need to make it a big deal,” he says softly, referring to your hesitation to ask for some help. you shrug against him, feeling small and fragile against his body like this. 

“it’s my job though, daryl. i have to take care of the food, and the house, and,” daryl shushes you with a kiss to your neck, his scruff tickling your sensitive skin. he’s silent, breathing you in and peppering your neck with kisses, and you know his confidence with his affection is because you’re not facing each other. you get it. you get him. you like it, and you sigh, lean into his hard body. 

“yer only job is to do whatever you feel like, you hear me? cookin’ whatever you wanna make. cleain’, only if you feel like it,” his hands move from the counter to rest on your hips, gripping hard enough to be a little uncomfortable, but it feels nice. “so long as you’re here lookin’ pretty, can do whatever you want.” 

you blush, because his words do something to you. remind you, that daryl just likes you. not what you can do for him and this community. and that realization feels so good. 

suddenly, daryl stops, and then he reaches for the bowl of leftover cherry pie filling in front of you. he dips two fingers inside, then brings those fingers back to his mouth. he moans a little, maybe without realizing it, and you whip around to get a view of the sight. he’s so pretty sometimes, although you’d never tell him that. 

“‘s good,” he confirms, nodding his head. “real fuckin’ good,” and then he dips his fingers in the bowl again, only this time, he holds the digits up to your mouth. you open like the good girl you are, suck the pie filling and your boyfriend's spit off of his fingers. 

“good, right?” daryl asks, and you nod, but you hate admitting anything you cook is actually good. it feels…conceited. but daryl doesn’t stop there. he gets in these moods sometimes, where he wants you to say something nice about yourself - you wish he would let you do the same to him. “say it,” he says, watching you with an intense expression. “admit you’re a good cook.”

“daryl,” you warn, but he keeps looking at you that way. finally, you relent. “‘m a good cook,” you grumble, looking down. you notice the makings of a bulge in daryl’s pants, and the idea sends a hot rush through your entire body. “and i hate you.” you turn and walk away, and daryl smacks you on the ass so hard you gasp.

“hey,” he asks, as you walk out of the kitchen to change your clothes. you smell like a bakery, and you wanna catch your breath, away from the sexy man in the kitchen. “we got ice cream?” you hear the sound of the cabinets opening, and you rush back into the kitchen to scold him.

“daryl,” you warn, grabbing the pie away from him before he can cut a slice. “not before dinner!”

[xanaxiii]

Could you do bicep choking 🌚🙈

Daryl Dixon x Reader Grip

Summary: You let something slip—just a thought, just a passing comment—but Daryl hasn’t been able to shake it since. A week later, the tension between you reaches a breaking point.  tags: smut MDNI 18+, awkward pining, pinv, breast play, praise kink. awkward daryl & fmc, bicep choking obvi a/n: hello my love! thank you so much for this request and for your patience. in a second ask, anon did specify that they meant Daryl bicep choking. fair warning, I did not reread this a ton / proofread much. please lmk of any mistakes/errors!

The sun hangs low over the trees, heat pressing in heavy as you weave through the abandoned gas station, boots crunching softly over broken glass. Daryl moves a few steps ahead, bow slung across his back, knife in hand, moving with that effortless quiet of his. Always aware. Always in control.

And his arms.

You tell yourself you’re just paying attention—watching his movements like he watches everything else around him, staying alert. But your gaze keeps catching on the shift of muscle beneath his skin, the way his forearms flex when he grips his knife, the lazy tension in his biceps every time he lifts his arm to wipe sweat off his brow.

You shouldn’t be looking.

But it’s hard not to.

Especially when he plants a boot on a fallen shelf, using his weight to pry open a rusted metal door. The strain makes his muscles coil tight, veins standing out just enough to make you swallow hard.

"Well?" His voice snaps you out of it.

You blink. "What?"

Daryl jerks his chin toward the darkened storage room behind the door. "You goin’ in first or what?"

Shit. You’ve been staring.

"Yeah. Right. On it."

You step past him, ears burning. The space inside smells like old rot and motor oil, a few overturned boxes scattered around. You crouch, rifling through some supplies, heart still kicking too fast. It’s stupid. You’ve been on runs with him before. But something about today—the heat, the silence between you, the way he’s been rolling his shoulders like his muscles are wound too tight—has you hyper-aware of every damn thing he does.

A tin of peaches clatters loose from a shelf, and you reach for it at the same time he does. Your fingers barely brush his, but the contact is enough to send a jolt up your arm, like static crackling under your skin. He pauses. Just for a second. And when he draws back, you swear you catch the flicker of his gaze sweeping over you before he looks away.

You can feel your pulse in your throat.

You should let it go. Should get back to work. But the words are out before you can stop them.

"You ever—" You hesitate, pulse hammering, but you push through. "You ever, I don’t know, choke somebody with your arms before?"

Daryl stops. Slowly, he turns his head toward you, eyes narrowing just slightly. His bicep shifts as he adjusts his grip on the tin in his hand. "The hell kinda question is that?"

Shiiiit. You fucked up.

But instead of retreating, you force yourself to keep looking at him, tilting your chin up just a little. "I just mean, you’re strong." A shrug, like it’s no big deal. "Bet you could hold somebody down real easy."

Silence.

Then, Daryl exhales through his nose, shaking his head. But there’s something in his expression—something flickering behind his eyes, sharp and considering.

He tosses the tin into your hands and mutters, "You’re weird." and walks away.

═════════════════════════

Back at the prison, dinner is quiet, the usual hum of conversation mixed with the occasional scrape of utensils against tin plates. Most people are too tired to talk much, a day of tending to the gardens, cleaning out cell blocks and keeping walkers at bay making everyone look forward to the slower evenings. The air in the hall feels thick with the kind of exhaustion that settles deep, making everything feel slow, heavy.

You should be eating, but your stomach isn’t interested.

Because Daryl’s staring at you.

You haven’t looked at him, not really since you got back, but you can feel it. That steady weight from across the room, the burning of your ears, it makes it almost impossible to keep your stomach from doing somersaults. 

You should’ve kept your mouth shut on the run. Should’ve swallowed the words down, let them die in your throat. But no—you had to go and say it. Maybe it was your stupid hormones, the way he seemed to speak to some primal part of you that evolution put in your dna, maybe it was just some stupid impulse you couldn’t control. Either way, it’s too late now.

Not like it meant anything.

Except, if it didn’t, why was he still looking at you?

Your fingers tighten around your fork, but you don’t move to take another bite. Instead, you stare at the food on your plate, willing yourself to focus on anything other than the way your face feels too warm, the way your pulse is pressing a little harder than it should.

Maggie shifts in her seat, nudging Beth’s arm. “You good?”

You blink, glance up. Beth tilts her head, studying you, while Maggie smirks like she already knows something you don’t.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost today or somethin’,” Maggie says, “The run go that bad?”

“N-no,” you stammer, already feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, “It went fine. Got a lotta good stuff, actually.”

Maggie hums, unconvinced, and you watch as her eyes flicker behind you when she says, looking back at her plate, “Looks like someone’s got a little crush.”

The fork slips from your fingers, clattering against the plate, “I do not!”

But your reaction is what does it– it’s too sharp, too defensive. Beth startles a little, but Maggie just stares, slow realization spreading across her face as you lock eyes with her.

“I was only kiddin’." she says incredulously, "I meant the grouchy archer sittin' across the room, he keeps starin’ atcha.” she shakes her head, eyes lighting up. “But I see I’ve been mistaken.” She leans in. “You like Daryl?”

Your stomach drops.

Beth gasps, slapping Maggie’s arm. “Oh my god.”

Your face is on fire. “I don’t—”

Maggie grins. “Holy shit, you totally do.”

Beth’s trying to stifle a giggle. You shake your head fast, like that’ll help, like it’ll undo the last five seconds, but it only makes Maggie look even more certain. You can feel the walls closing in, feel their eyes on you, but worse—you can still feel his.

It’s too much. You push your plate away and mutter a quiet, “Not hungry anymore,” before standing and heading for the stairs, their laughter echoing behind you.

You don’t look back, because if you were to turn around and find those ocean blue eyes still on you, it would be your undoing.

═════════════════════════

The book in your hands is old, pages yellowed and brittle at the edges, the spine cracked so deep you have to be careful when you turn the pages. You’re not even sure what it’s about. Something about a man lost at sea. Maybe.

You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for the last ten minutes.

It’s not that it’s boring. It’s just that your mind refuses to focus.

You shift on your cot, tugging the blanket over your lap, trying again, but it’s useless. Your brain keeps circling back, over and over, to dinner. To Maggie’s knowing grin, Beth’s giggles, and—worst of all—Daryl.

You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling sharply. You should’ve never said anything. Should’ve kept that stupid thought locked away where it belonged.

A quiet scuff of boots outside your cell makes your stomach jolt. There’s a pause, then a hesitant knock against the frame of your open door. Not loud or rushed, more like a question.

You look up.

Daryl stands in the doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets, head slightly ducked. His shoulders are hunched, like he’s already thinking about leaving before he’s even fully stepped inside.

For a moment, neither of you say anything.

Then, he clears his throat. “Didn’t know ya read.”

You blink. It’s such a small thing to say, but something about the way he says it, like he’s searching for an easy way in, trying to settle into the conversation, makes your stomach tighten.

You glance at the book in your lap. “Yeah. Helps pass the time.”

Daryl nods, his eyes flicking around the small space of your cell, like he’s looking for something else to comment on, something to delay whatever it is he actually came here for. Between your haphazardly taped posters and handmade streamers, he doesn’t find anything, so instead, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, exhales through his nose, then finally says:

“That thing you asked me.”

Your stomach drops. Of course. You should’ve known that was why he was here.

Your fingers tighten around the book, but you shake your head quickly. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry if I made you–”

“You think I can?” he asks, huffing.

You frown. “Think you can what?”

His jaw tenses, and when he speaks again, it’s lower. Almost cautious. “Forget it.”

Your breath catches slightly.

He shrugs, but it’s not casual. It’s forced. “Ain’t exactly somethin’ you just let go of.”

Your chest feels too tight all of a sudden. You can’t quite place the look on his face—something careful, something guarded, like he’s trying not to let on that it’s been sitting in the back of his head since you said it. What went through his mind when you asked him?

You shift on your cot, swallowing. “Daryl, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

His gaze flickers, just barely. “Yeah?”

You nod, but something in the way he’s looking at you makes your throat dry out. He still doesn’t seem convinced.

“You think that’s what I am?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge there, frustration starting to rise in his voice. “Some kinda animal? The kind of man who would kill someone with–” he shakes his head slightly, jaw clenching. “You think I’m like that?”

The realization hits you hard. Your stomach twists. “Daryl, no,” you say quickly, sitting up straighter. “That’s not—”

He shakes his head again, looking at the floor. “Wouldn’t blame ya.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs. “That’s not what I meant.”

Daryl exhales, folding his arms over his chest, still avoiding your eyes. “Then what did you mean?”

You hesitate. Because now he’s looking at you. Not guarded, not distant—just waiting.

Your fingers press into the book in your lap. This is your chance to brush it off. Laugh it away. But you can already feel the heat creeping up your face, and Daryl is still standing there, still waiting, and if you don’t say it now, he’s just going to keep thinking the worst.

You shift slightly. “I meant…” Your throat feels tight. “I meant in bed.”

Daryl blinks.

His whole body stiffens, like his brain short-circuited, like the words hit him sideways and he can’t quite recover. His face is already turning red, slow at first, then creeping all the way up to his ears.

Your own face burns, and you clear your throat, pushing through the embarrassment. “I meant—if you’d ever choked someone in bed. With your arms.”

A silence falls over the room. A long, unbearable silence.

Daryl shifts, dragging a hand over his mouth. He scratches the back of his head, looks anywhere but at you.

Finally, he exhales, mutters, “Jesus,” under his breath, then huffs out a quiet, almost nervous laugh.

Your stomach clenches. “I know. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s—uh. That’s what ya meant?”

You nod quickly, still burning. “Yeah.”

Daryl looks at you for a second. His fingers flex slightly at his sides, like he’s thinking too hard about where to put them.

Then, after a long pause—his voice comes out quieter.

“You’d want me to?”

Your stomach drops.

Your eyes snap to his. “What?”

Daryl shrugs, but it’s forced, like he’s trying to play off how red his face still is. “I dunno. Just—” His mouth twitches slightly, like he can’t believe he’s even saying this. “Sounded like somethin’ you were real curious about.”

Your breath catches.

He’s not teasing, not quite—but there’s something in the way he says it, something light, something almost amused. Like he’s surprised at himself, surprised at you, but now that he’s said it, he’s not taking it back.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Your hands are way too warm.

“I wouldn’t—” you swallow. “I wouldn’t not want you to.”

Daryl huffs out another soft laugh, shaking his head, glancing toward the hall like he’s wondering how the hell this conversation ended up here.

Then he looks back at you, eyes a little sharper now, lips twitching.

The heat in your face flares as he just chuckles under his breath, rubbing at his jaw before he steps back toward the door.

“Get some sleep,” he says, still smirking.

He turns, but not before you catch it—just the slightest flicker of something in his expression.

Something knowing. Something interested.

And when he finally walks away, you can’t do anything except stare at the empty doorway and try to remember how to breathe.

═════════════════════════

The past week has been unbearable.

It’s not like anything has happened, not really. No one has said anything, no lines have been crossed, but the air between you and Daryl hasn’t been the same since that night in your cell.

It’s in the way his eyes catch on you more often now. The way he lingers a little too long before walking away. The way your skin prickles when he’s nearby, too aware of the space he takes up, too aware of how small you feel in comparison.

And now, you’re on another run together.

“Last one went well,” Rick had said, shoving packs toward both of you. “Might as well stick with what works.”

The drive into town is quiet. Neither of you talk much, just like last time, but it’s not the same. There’s a different kind of weight, and you’re grateful that the open road on the motorcycle leaves little conversation to be said over its echoing roar.

When you finally reach an old pharmacy on the outskirts, the sun is starting to climb higher in the sky, heat burning your neck and the pavement glimmering.

Inside, dust clings to everything, thick in the air. It smells stale, like old paper and time left to rot. Shelves are overturned, bottles and boxes scattered across the floor.

You do your job, scanning for anything useful, but your focus keeps slipping.

Because every time you glance up, Daryl is there.

He’s not doing anything different. Not saying anything. Just moving through the space like he always does—quiet, efficient. But somehow, it feels like every single movement is deliberate. Like every shift of muscle under his skin is something you shouldn’t be watching, but you are.

The dust-covered counter at the back of the building gives you something to focus on, something to do besides thinking about the weight of Daryl’s gaze. You hop over the counter and crouch down, scanning the lowest shelf, rifling through half-empty boxes of medication, checking for anything still worth taking back.

A prickle of awareness crawls up the back of your neck.

It’s not the usual kind of awareness you get on a run, not the instinct that tells you someone—or something— dangerous is lurking nearby. It’s different. Warmer. Closer.

When you stand, a bottle of pills in your hand, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Daryl is right there, barely a foot away, standing between you and the only way out.

Your breath stutters. He doesn’t usually get this close without reason.

He’s blocking the exit, but it doesn’t feel like he’s trapping you—it feels like he’s stopping himself from walking away. His weight shifts between his feet, his arms twitch like they want to cross, but he doesn’t move, just watches you with something unreadable in his eyes.

Your fingers tighten around the bottle in your hand. “Wha—what’s up?”

Daryl doesn’t answer at first. He just looks at you, quiet and considering, something simmering beneath the surface. His teeth catch against the corner of his lip for a second, his fingers flex at his sides, but it’s like he still hasn’t worked out how to say whatever it is that’s sitting heavy on his chest.

Then he exhales through his nose and mutters, “Can’t stop thinkin’.”

His voice is rough, like the words have been stuck in his throat all day.

Your pulse jumps. “Thinking... about what?”

He shifts again on uneven footing, glancing toward the counter before dragging his gaze back to you. The moment stretches, thick enough to smother, before he finally speaks again.

“Since last time,” he mutters, voice quieter now. Your stomach flips. He shakes his head, almost to himself. “You got me all fucked up, girl.”

It’s not frustration, not really—it’s more like exhaustion, like he’s tired of pretending that something between you hasn’t changed. And when he steps forward, closing the last bit of space between you, your body reacts before your brain catches up.

Your back hits the wall behind you.

The old metal shelving is cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat rolling off him. He’s so close now, close enough that you catch the faint scent of pine and sweat clinging to him, close enough that every nerve in your body locks up, unsure whether to tense or melt.

His arms come up, hands bracing against the metal on either side of you, and suddenly you can’t look anywhere but at him.

Your breath feels too shallow.

Daryl dips his head slightly, breath warm against your cheek, and you hear the way he inhales, slow and deep, smelling the remnants of the apple shampoo you used days ago. 

“S’not like I haven’t thought of ya before.”

A shiver runs down your spine, and your lips part, but you don’t know what to say. You can barely think straight with him this close, his voice this low. He smells of musk and leather and summer sunshine, something distinctly masculine and Daryl all at once. His words sink in, heavy and real, and before you can even process them, he huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head against the side of yours.

“Thought of ya a lot, actually.”

Your stomach twists, heat flaring under your skin.

Daryl pulls back just enough to look at you, and that’s when you see it—the way his pupils are blown, the way his breath comes slow and measured like he’s still holding something back. His jaw is tight, his fingers flex slightly against the metal, and you don’t know whether he’s waiting for permission or for you to push him away.

“Say somethin’,” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel in your ears. “Please.”

You reach up then, your hand trembling slightly as your fingers brush along his jaw, skimming over the uneven scruff growing in patches on his face. He exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you trace up along his cheekbone, down the side of his neck, feeling the tension there, the way his pulse beats strong beneath your fingertips.

“I think of you a lot too,” you finally manage to say, and it’s barely louder than a whisper.

His eyes open, still blown wide as they flicker between yours, then drop to your lips. His breath is slow, measured, like he’s forcing himself to hold back.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you breathe. It’s more than just a response—it’s permission, it’s consent, letting him know that whatever he’s thinking, whatever’s been running through his mind, you want it too.

And like you’ve just cut the cord that’s been wound too tight between you, he pushes forward, his lips crashing into yours with urgency.

You’re surprised just how soft his lips are, how gentle he tries to be, but the way he moves is anything but hesitant. There’s no testing, no waiting—he’s done holding back, done second-guessing. He kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like it’s something he’s wanted for too damn long, and you can’t help but act in equal fervor.

Your fingers tighten against his jaw, then slide up into his hair, gripping, pulling. He groans into your mouth, the sound low, wrecked, sending a sharp pulse of heat straight through you. His hands move without restraint now, gripping at your waist, fingers pressing into your hips, pulling you closer like the space between you is unbearable.

You barely register the sharp clatter of bottles knocked from the shelves as your back presses harder against the metal. Daryl doesn’t seem to care. If anything, the mess spurs him on, makes him more reckless, more desperate.

He kisses you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your legs weak, makes your stomach tighten. He’s breathing hard, fingers digging into your sides, body pressing fully into you now, until there’s nothing between you but heat and friction.

His lips drag from your mouth down to your jaw, then lower, his breath hot as he murmurs against your skin. “Been losin’ my mind over you all damn week.” His teeth catch on the pulse in your neck, not biting, just grazing, making you shudder. “Longer than that, if I’m bein’ honest.”

Your nails bite into his shoulders as he kisses lower, pressing into the spot just beneath your jaw, the one that makes your breath hitch. His hands are everywhere—roaming, gripping, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt. His fingertips brush against bare skin, warm and rough, and you arch into his touch without thinking.

“Daryl…”

He groans at the way you say his name, a quiet, broken sound that sends a deep shudder through his body. He presses his forehead against yours for a second, breath ragged, like he’s trying to steady himself but failing. Then his hands tighten on your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the counter of the pharmacy.

You gasp softly, but he’s already between your legs, already pulling you flush against him, the heat between your bodies unbearable. His lips are on yours again, claiming, devouring, his hands moving up your thighs, squeezing, gripping like he can’t get enough.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as you kiss him harder, the urgency between you growing into something more frantic, more consuming. His hands slide beneath your shirt, pushing it up and over your head, and you shiver as his palms drag over your ribs, rough and warm.

His mouth leaves yours just long enough to mutter against your skin, voice thick with something wild, something unraveling. “You sure about this?”

Your only answer is to pull him back in, crashing your lips to his, fingers fisting in his shirt as you tug him closer, needing him, needing more.

That’s all he needs. His shirt is gone in the next instant with yours following suit, and the moment the fabric is over your head, his lips are on you again, everywhere. You arch into his touch, heat rolling through you as his mouth works down your neck, trailing over your collarbone, then lower. Each kiss leaves behind something electric, something you feel everywhere, and when he drags lower still, down onto your bare chest, his lips and teeth and tongue worship everywhere but where you want him most.

Your breath hitches, your hands restless, gripping at his arms, his shoulders, his hair—anywhere you can reach, anywhere you can pull him closer. He’s between your legs now, his body solid, burning against yours, his hands gripping your thighs, fingers flexing like he’s holding himself back.

You look down at him, ready to beg, but the sight of him wrecks you.

Daryl between your legs, his lips on your skin, mouth open, breath warm as he stares at you like he’s never seen anything like you before.

Any coherent thought vanishes the moment his lips close around your nipple.

A breathless moan leaves your lips as his tongue flicks over it, hot and slow, sending a deep ache curling low in your stomach. His rough fingers knead your other breast, rolling and pinching your sensitive skin in just the right way, his touch deliberate, like he’s learning you, like he’s memorizing every reaction.

You arch into him, pressing closer, needing more, but he keeps the pace slow, like he’s savoring every second, like he wants to soak in every feel of your body against his. 

His tongue swirls over the sensitive bud, lips tugging gently before he soothes it with another slow flick, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. His other hand stays firm on your breast, rolling, kneading, fingers rough with callouses as he works you over with slow, steady intent. It’s almost too much, yet not enough, and you feel yourself tilting between the two sensations, every nerve in your body locked onto the way he’s touching you, kissing you, like he never wants to stop.

You’re barely aware of your own sounds, the quiet gasps, the soft moans, the way your hands dig into his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, needing him closer. His mouth moves lower, lips dragging down your stomach, his hands sliding along your sides, gripping your waist like he’s grounding himself.

Then, just when you think he’s going to keep going, he stops.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, lips slick and parted. His hands squeeze at your waist, thumbs brushing slow over your skin, and he swallows, throat bobbing as he exhales through his nose.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, thick with something dark, something unfiltered.

Your breath catches.

You do as he says, shifting, dropping your feet to the floor and gripping the edge of the counter to steady yourself as you twist in his hold. The air feels even thicker now, hotter, your pulse hammering as his hands slide over your hips, guiding you exactly where he wants you.

His palms press firm against your lower back, tracing down to your waist before his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants. There’s no rush in the way he tugs them down, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every new inch of skin he reveals. The scrape of fabric against your thighs sends a shiver rolling through you, and when they finally pool at your ankles, his hands smooth back up, gripping, kneading, pulling you back into him.

A sharp inhale leaves your lips when you feel him press against you, his breath warm at the curve of your neck. His fingers flex at your hips, gripping tight, like he’s still trying to hold himself back, like he’s at war with the need running through him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t have time to respond before his lips are on your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin, hands gripping you tighter, pulling you flush against him. The heat of him seeps through you, burning into your skin, your body molding against his like you were always meant to fit there.

Then, slowly, his hand slides up.

You barely register the shift before the weight of his arm is curling around your neck, firm but careful, forearm bracing across your throat, holding you in place. The solid strength of his muscles—it’s everything you imagined, everything you tried so hard to ignore when the thought first crossed your mind.

A low, rough chuckle rumbles against your ear.

“This what you wanted, ain’t it?” His voice is gravel, wrecked, thick with something primal as his breath ghosts along your jaw. His hold tightens just slightly, just enough to make you shudder. “My arm around this pretty neck?”

His words send a shudder through you, pooling heat low in your stomach as your hands grip the counter harder. His arm is thick around your neck, a steady weight that makes you dizzy with want, and when he tightens it just slightly, enough to make you feel it, a whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it.

“Yes,” you breathe, voice barely there.

Daryl stills for half a second like he wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily. Then he makes a noise low in his throat, something rough, something wrecked, and his grip on you tightens.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his voice thick, warm, almost tender in contrast to how strong he feels behind you. His nose brushes against your jaw, his lips grazing over your pulse as his other hand trails lower, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your hip. “What a sweet thing you are”

The praise sends a jolt through you, your breath catching, fingers twitching against the counter as he shifts behind you. Then you hear it, a belt coming loose and buckle clattering to the floor with the jeans he was wearing and suddenly you feel him– heavy and thick as he nudges against you, the heat of it pressing right against your slick entrance.

Your whole body tenses, then melts, nails digging into his arm where it rests against your throat. 

Daryl lets out a slow, shuddering breath, nipping lightly at the edge of your ear before murmuring, “Christ, barely touched you and you’re all wet. This all for me?” His hips press forward again, slow, teasing, and you let out a quiet whimper, pushing back into him without thinking. His cock notches into you then, and you both let out a sudden gasp.

“That’s it,” he praises, lips pressing against the shell of your ear, his voice low and soothing and coaxing as his cock sinks deeper into you. “You’re so damn good. Feels good, don’t it?”

You don’t think you’ve ever heard him talk like this before, soft and filthy all at once, like he’s pouring everything he has into the way he touches you, the way he holds you. You nod, swallowing hard. “So good, Daryl.”

His breath turns heavier, warmer against your skin as he pulls you back onto him, slow and steady, letting you feel every inch as he buries himself inside you. His grip tightens at your hip, steadying you, holding you exactly where he wants you, but the real weight—the one that sends a full-body shudder through you—is his arm, still firm around your neck. You back arches against him, leaning into the muscles of his forearm as he holds you into the crook of his elbow.

“There you go,” he rasps, his voice strained, wrecked. His hips rock forward again, sinking deeper, stretching you, and a ragged moan slips from your lips. His grip flexes, and he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, lips warm, tongue flicking against your pulse before he nips at it, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin. “Knew you’d take me so good.”

Your nails dig harder into his arm, fingers curling around his wrist where he holds you, your breath hitching as he starts to move. Slow at first, testing, drawing himself out before pushing back in, each roll of his hips deliberate, each thrust pressing deeper, setting a rhythm that already has you unraveling.

His arm around your neck tightens, just slightly, just enough to make your next breath stutter, to make the heat between your legs coil tighter.  His breath is hot against your ear, rough and ragged, the tension in his body coiled so tight you can feel it thrumming through his chest, through the arm braced around your throat.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans, his voice raw, nearly pained as he rocks into you. "You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me."

His hips move with slow precision at first, teasing, working you open, dragging out every sensation like he wants you to feel him, to know that he’s the one making you come apart like this. His fingers dig into your hip, pulling you back onto him, the blunt head of his cock pressing deep with every thrust.

"Been thinkin’ about this," he murmurs, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "Bout how tight you’d feel, how fuckin’ perfect you’d take me. You feel that, baby?" He drives into you harder then, pushing you flush against the counter, stealing your breath with the sheer force of it. "Feels better than I ever imagined."

Your nails claw at his arm, breath ragged as his grip tightens just slightly around your neck, just enough to hold you there, to keep you at his mercy. His hips snap into you then, harder and faster now that you’ve adjusted to the sheer stretch of his cock. 

"Shit," he groans, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against your jaw, sucking at the delicate skin before biting down, his voice going strained. "You like this, don’t ya? Bein’ held like this? Wrapped up in me, nowhere to go."

You whimper, pushing back into him, chasing the heat, the pressure, the way he’s unraveling you piece by piece.

His free hand slides down, dipping between your legs, his fingers finding you slick and swollen, rubbing slow, purposeful circles that make your knees shake.

"Fuck, look at you," he mutters, pressing his forehead to the side of your head, his breath coming harder now. "Gettin’ all worked up, takin’ it so damn well." His fingers flick over your clit, pressing just right, and you let out a broken moan. "That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. Been dreamin’ ‘bout these sounds."

His thrusts grow rougher, deeper, and the tension in your belly coils tight, too tight, everything building.

Daryl feels it.

"Yeah," he breathes, his voice shaking now, wrecked with how good you feel around him. "I know, sweetheart. Feels like your body’s beggin’ for it, huh?" His lips drag over your jaw, his hips pounding into you now, chasing that high. "Wanna cum all over me, don’t ya?"

The coil snaps at his words, white-hot and blinding as his arm tightens, stealing the breath from you completely. Your entire body goes taut as pleasure crashes over you, so sharp and overwhelming as your lungs scream for air. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing tight, and Daryl groans deep in his chest, his rhythm going sloppy, erratic.

"Shit, you’re milkin’ me, baby," he groans, his fingers moving to grip your hips, "Goddamn, you feel like fuckin’ heaven." 

He holds you, hips pinning you against the counter as he buries himself deep, shuddering against you as he spills inside you.

His hold around your neck finally eases, his hand smoothing over your collarbone, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses against the side of your neck as both of you come down together.

"You alright?" His voice is quieter now, rough around the edges, but there’s something tender in it, something real.

You exhale shakily, your body still humming from the aftershocks, a slow, blissed-out smile creeping across your lips. "Yeah. That was… that was so hot."

Daryl huffs out a small, breathless laugh, pressing a lingering kiss against the side of your neck. His hands keep roaming, slow and absentminded, smoothing over your waist, tracing lazy circles along your hips, like he doesn’t want to let go just yet.

"Yeah?" He nuzzles into your shoulder, his lips grazing your damp skin. "Ain’t never tried it before." His voice is warm, a little smug, but softer than before, like he’s still coming down from it too.

You hum, stretching slightly against him, still pressed chest to back. "Me neither. Somethin’ about you, Dixon."

Daryl makes a sound deep in his throat, something pleased, something almost knowing. His fingers tighten just slightly at your hip, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw before he murmurs, "Ain’t gonna be the last time, neither."

“Promise?” you chuckle, turning in his arms to snake your hands around his neck.

Daryl smirks, slow and lazy, his breath warm against your skin as he tilts his head, letting your fingers slip into his hair. His hands slide lower, resting at the curve of your back, holding you against him like he has no intention of letting go.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice rough but sure. "Promise."

His lips find yours again, softer this time, slower, like he’s savoring it, like he’s already thinking about the next time, about how he’ll take his time with you, about all the things he wants to do.

[xanaxiii]

━━━ ✧˖° 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 𝐱 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

you kiss daryl’s arms and have to explain what cuteness aggression is after you bite his bicep ♡

“the hell are you doin’?” daryl asks, yanking his arm away from you. you bite the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing, shrugging your shoulders while he scoots away from you on the couch so that you’re no longer touching.

such a big baby, you think, although you did just try to sink your teeth into his arm. you can’t help it, and honestly, you’ve been trying to control your weird urges - but it’s daryl’s fault. all those sleeveless shirts, showing off his biceps like it’s his job. his arms are so strong, so muscular, so hot. especially when he’s sweaty and tan from being outside and -

with the thought in your mind, you reach towards him and pull his arm to you again. “hey,” he protests, making an irritated grunt at your movement. he tries to yank his arm away from you but you tighten your grip. daryl could easily grab it back, but not without hurting you. which he’d never do. again, you find yourself biting back the smirk of victory. “the fuck is wrong with you?”

you hold his arm in front of your face and press a kiss to his bicep. every single man in alexandria is in shape, with bulging muscles from all the physical activity they do.

but nobody’s got arms like daryl.

maybe it’s from holding and using that crossbow all the time. you squeeze your legs together, one crossed over the other in your sitting position on the sofa, because thinking of daryl wielding a weapon turns you on. you press another kiss to his bicep, and then you scoot closer to kiss up to his shoulder, leaving a trail of faded lipstick marks all along the way.

“just,” you pause, another kiss, “love your arms, is all. they’re so big,” and daryl scoffs, but he makes no move to pull away. he actually leans back against the couch, lets himself enjoy whatever you’re doing, but you see from the corner of your eye that he’s looking around the room. making sure nobody else can see.

you giggle.

“yer really something, you know that? fuckin’ weird,” he grumbles, but when he lets you rotate his arm, you know he likes it. you know daryl well enough now to know that he does want affection. just - not in front of anyone else, and he doesn’t want to ask for it or make a big deal out of it.

which makes you perfect for each other, because you’ve always been overly affectionate. he never has to ask for anything from you, because you’re already giving it.

“‘m not weird,” is your rebuttal, mischief glinting in your eyes. daryl just looks so cute, cheeks pink and a shy expression on his face while you love on his arm. and, okay - maybe you are a little weird, but you don’t really care. “just love your arms is all,” and then your teeth graze his bicep, the part where the muscle slightly bulges out, perfectly built and -

you bite down on him. gently!

daryl pulls his arm away from you so fast, hisses like he’s a kitten who’s tail was just pulled. you feel a little bad, but he’s being so dramatic. he’s been stabbed and shot at, and a little bite is making him act like this? you roll your eyes, even when he stands up to put distance between you two. he shakes his head like you’re insane.

to be fair, you sort of are?

“stop biting me. jesus christ,” he’s grumbling, looking over his arm like someone just tried to saw it off. drama queen. “you left teeth marks. what, you been around walkers too much, so you wanna act like one? you,” he goes on, but you cut him off, trying not to burst out laughing at how funny it is that he’s comparing you to a walker.

“cuteness aggression,” you say simply, standing up and walking over to him. you swear he backs up, likes he afraid of you, even though he’s twice your size. daryl looks at you like you’re crazy, obviously not familiar with the expression. you explain.

“you’re so cute, it makes me sort of angry. you know, when you see a really cute puppy or a baby? like judith, when she smiles and starts to crawl,” daryl obviously doesn’t understand, and every word out of your mouth seems to be making him more and more confused. disturbed, even. you try harder.

“when something or someone is so cute, you just wanna hurt them, not really but your brain does. they’re so cute that you can’t handle it. you get it?”

daryl literally gazes out the window like a widow waiting for her husband to return from war, then turns back towards you but looks at the ground first. he shakes his head, then pauses, before his eyes meet yours.

“nah,” he finally says, letting out a deep sigh. “you wanna hurt judith?”

you sigh, then walk towards him and grab his hand. he lets you tug him to the couch but comes willingly, sitting down, keeping a little bit distance between the both of you. “babies and puppies are just an example. i don’t want to hurt anyone, i just,” you lace your fingers with his, resting your entwined hands on his thigh. “you make me feel so much, ‘s like it comes out of me in a weird way. you know?”

daryl doesn’t know, but he gives in, lets you cuddle close to his side and rub his arm again, kiss over the lipstick marks you already left. bicep worship? is that a thing? that’d be a freaky new kink even for you.

a second later, something must click for daryl. maybe it’s because his dick is hardening, watching the physical manifestation of how much you love him, or maybe it’s just because he’s a…hands on learner. he pulls his arm away, scoffing playfully at your disappointed whine, and he wraps that arm around your shoulders. his fingers play with your hair that he can reach.

“think i get it now,” he tests, humor in his tone. “cuteness - whatever the fuck you called it. like the way i feel when your eyes water when you’re suckin’ on my,” you pull away and smack him on the arm.

“daryl, no!”

“hey,” he says, pulling you back to him. he kisses the top of your head. “‘m just trying to learn!”

[xanaxiii]

Just Ride

daryl x reader

warnings: smut, face riding, lowkey sub daryl, yeah…

⸻

It all started because Eugene can’t mind his damn business.

You weren’t even in the room when it happened, which was a blessing and a curse. Because the story reached you through Tara, who was still crying laughing when she told it, and the secondhand embarrassment alone was enough to make you want to move out of Alexandria.

“Dude,” she wheezed, barely able to speak, “Eugene walked in on Rosita. On Abraham.”

You raised a brow. “On Abraham?”

“On. Like. Riding his face. Just full blown porno energy! I swear I’m not lying!”

You stared at her, horrified and already laughing.

“And the best part,” Tara said, “is Eugene trying to explain it like it’s some kind of… military maneuver. Called it a—what did he say?—a reverse frontal oral saddle maneuver. I swear to God.”

You choked. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“Means Rosita was sitting on Abraham’s face and Eugene’s whole worldview shattered,” Tara said. “He was rambling about it to me in the kitchen when Daryl walked by and heard the tail end of it. Just stopped and stared, like he saw a ghost.”

You blinked. “Daryl?”

“Oh yeah,” she nodded. “He heard the words ‘face’ and ‘saddle’ and turned bright red. Never seen that man move so fast… just turned around and booked it.”

At the time, you brushed it off. But later that night, back in your shared room, tucked into your warm little corner of post apocalyptic domestic bliss, you started to notice something… off.

Daryl was quiet. More than usual. Sitting on the edge of the bed, picking at a tear in his jeans, jaw tight like he was thinking hard.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing your hair out in the mirror.

He grunted. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence. Then came,

“Hey… you ever… sit on someone’s face before?”

You froze. Slowly turned around.

“…What?”

Daryl’s face was serious. Practically glowing. He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the floor.

“Jus’… heard somethin’. Earlier. From Eugene. Somethin’ ‘bout Rosita. An’ Abraham. Tara said she was… y’know. On his face. Thought that was a thing women liked.”

Your jaw dropped, then you burst out laughing.

“Oh my God, Daryl—”

“I ain’t jokin’.” he huffed, crossing his arms, now fully defensive. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that before. Sounded kinda… I dunno. Hot.”

You bit the inside of your mouth, just to keep from grinning too hard. He was so serious. Nervous like a schoolboy. But his pupils were blown, his voice just a little breathless.

“You wanna try it?” you asked, tilting your head.

He hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yeah. Wanna see what it’s like.”

You didn’t even get to the bed.

Daryl was already sprawled out on the rug by the window, shirt off, looking like he was about to be sacrificed to the gods. His hands were clenched at his sides, nervous, lips parted like he didn’t know how to breathe right.

You stood over him slowly, watching his eyes trail up your body.

“You sure?” you asked gently.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I’m sure. Wanna… feel you.”

You crawled up over him, your knees on either side of his head, and his breath hitched as your thighs brushed his cheeks. He looked like he’d died and gone to heaven. His hands lifted slowly, reverently, to grip your hips.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, eyes wide. “You’re so wet already…”

“Yeah baby,” you murmured, lowering yourself inch by inch, your slick dragging along his lips. “Been wet since you asked.”

He whimpered.

The moment your cunt settled fully on his face, Daryl groaned. Loud and desperate. His tongue shot out, licking up your folds in a long, messy stroke, hands digging into your thighs like he never wanted to let go.

“That’s it,” you gasped, threading your fingers through his hair. “Just like that.”

He was eating you like a man possessed. No hesitation now, no nervousness… just pure, hungry devotion. His tongue licked and lapped, his nose bumped your clit, and every time you rocked your hips down just a little harder, he moaned. The sounds he was making sent heat rushing straight to your core.

“Good boy,” you whispered. “My good boy.”

He whimpered into you, again. You looked down, and your stomach flipped.

He was grinding into the floor. His cock flushed and hard, untouched, smearing precum on his own stomach. The desperation in his hips made your head spin.

“Baby,” you cooed, cupping his jaw, “are you that worked up already?”

He nodded under you, lips glossy and wet. “Feels so good,” he gasped. “Could stay here forever…”

“You wanna come like this?” you teased. “Just from eating me out?”

He moaned something that sounded like please.

You couldn’t help yourself. You rode his tongue harder, grinding down, your thighs shaking as the heat built and built until—

You came with a cry, clenching around nothing, thighs trapping his face while he kept going like he needed it to live. When you finally pulled off him, his face was soaked, his eyes dazed, lips swollen and shining.

“Fuck…” he breathed.

You lied down beside him. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Fuckin’ obsessed with that,” he mumbled. “Think you broke my brain.”

You smiled and kissed him.

Daryl muttered, clearer this time,

“Wanna do that again?”

⸻

a/n i wrote this really quick PLZ ignore the rushed ending and lowkey sloppy writing okay bai

[xanaxiii]

He has a particular set of skills.

[xanaxiii]

Guard Dog || Worst!Logan x Single Mom!Reader

summary: Marie's biological dad and your ex shows up out of the blue threatening to ruin everything you had built but Logan isn't having it.

warnings: fem!reader, asshole ex (he's sexist and a dick), mean comments about the reader being a single mom, threats of violence, Logan goes full protective mode, slight violence

a/n: I LOVE protective Logan and well I've been wanting to write this for a while so here we are :)

wc: 2.9k

kitty and marie series

The domestic life was treating Logan well. Better than he could have hoped. He still lived with Wade but at this point he was over at your apartment practically every day.

Today Marie decided she was done with tea parties and has moved on to space. Logan was sitting on the couch as Marie drew on the coffee table. A kids show about space was playing as you finished a few things for dinner. Logan had asked to help but you shooed him away. As much as you love the man...he was kind of a disaster in the kitchen.

"Why is the moon yellow?" Logan asks as he leans over to see what Marie was drawing.

"It's made of cheese." She replies as she adds a few holes into it. Logan looks at you and you just shrug. He won't ruin her fun now. The interest in the stars and planets has been a welcome change from being forced to drink from a plastic tea cup.

"Marie! Go wash up, dinner is almost ready."

"Okay mommy!" She drops her crayons and runs to the bathroom. Logan takes the opportunity to sneak his way into the kitchen. His arms wrapping around you as he presses a kiss to your cheek.

"Looks good." He purrs.

"Didn't know you were such a fan of pasta." You joke and Logan spins you around, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

"Wasn't talking about the food." He hums and you tug at the loops of his jeans. He leans in to kiss you but freezes.

His brows furrow as a vile scent fills his nose. His senses suddenly turn to high alert and he doesn’t know why.

“Logan, are you okay?” You ask, seeing the shift in his face. He lets out a low growl as someone knocks at the door.

“I know you’re in there!” A loud voice shouts from the other side. Logan bristles at the hostility as he flexes his hands. His claws itching to come out.

“Go get Marie and keep her in her room. Now.” You say sternly.

Logan doesn’t want to listen at first. He wants to protect both of you from whoever was on the other side. But you look at him pleadingly. He nods silently and walks towards the bathroom. Scooping up Marie and bringing her to her room. Keeping his ear out for any sign of distress. You let out a sigh once Logan is out of sight. The knocking continues and you will yourself to answer it. Your heart had dropped to your stomach. You know that voice. God you could never forget that voice.

Every late night fight that ended with a shouting match and tears pouring down your face. The vitriol of his voice when you told him you were pregnant. You open the door and see him again.

Wyatt. Marie's biological father. Ugh you don’t even want to call him that. He’s no father. He’s simply a sperm donation as far as you’re concerned.

“What the hell are you doing here Wyatt?” You hiss. How dare he show up like this.

“I’m here to see my daughter.” He pushes past you making you wince as your back hits the door.

“She’s not your daughter asshole. You gave that up when you walked out on us.” He rolls his eyes and you wish you could slap that stupid face of his.

You can’t even begin to describe the whirlwind of emotion going through your head right now. If you were meaner you would have let Logan deal with him but he has to go through you first.

“Last time I checked it takes two to make a baby.” He scoffs as he looks around the apartment.

“She’s my kid and you can’t just keep her from me.” He argues.

“She may have your DNA but I did everything to raise her. She doesn’t need a deadbeat father who finally decided to come back when it’s convenient for him.” You have to stop yourself from yelling. If Marie wasn’t here you would be unleashing every ounce of anger on Wyatt. The rage that’s been simmering for years.

“I’m going to see her whether you like it or not.”

“Go fuck yourself Wyatt and get the fuck out before-“

“Before what?” He laughs as he puffs his chest out. Trying to scare you by getting in your face. He grabs onto your wrist tightly and pulls you close to him.

“What are you going to do? Don’t tell me you finally grew a fucking spine.”

“Hey asshole.” You both look to see Logan standing in the living room. You breathe a small sigh of relief before it's overtaken with worry. He gives you a small nod, letting you know that Marie is just fine.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’d let go of her right fucking now bub.” Logan growls.

A fury in his eyes you’ve never seen before. He’s got his arms crossed but you can see the twitch in his hands. His claws are desperate to come out. Give him one reason. Just one.

Wyatt looks startled, letting go of you. He looks between the two of you and his cocky demeanor returns.

“Oh look at that. You finally got yourself a guard dog.” He says smugly. He tries to size himself up next to Logan but its like a scrawny little purse dog next to a great dane.

“How did you trap this poor soul? There’s got to be something wrong with him. I mean seriously no one wants to be dragged down by a single mom.” Logan almost lunges at him but you stop him. Resting a hand on his chest. You can feel the rumble in his chest. His lips forming a snarl as he stares down your ex.

“Down boy, no biting.” Wyatt mocks.

“That’s enough. Get out.” You snap. Logan tilts his head slightly and Wyatt just scoffs and shakes his head.

“Whatever. This isn’t over.” He storms out of your apartment and slams the door behind him. The adrenaline drains as you feel your legs going weak.

Fuck him and fuck his audacity.

“Where’s Marie?” You ask, hoping she didn't hear any of that.

“With Wade in our apartment. I called him and he came through the fire escape.” Logan says. Wade wasn’t his first choice to babysit. Or second. Actually he's at the bottom of the list but he wasn’t going to let you deal with that asshole alone.

“Are you okay sweetheart?” Logan whispers as he wraps his arms around you. Gently guiding you to the couch. You let your head fall into your hands.

“No.” You whisper as you lean into him. He rubs your back as you spill everything about your past.

How you and Wyatt met and how you were so desperate to be loved you ignored how he treated you like shit and how left you alone and pregnant. It was embarrassing how many tears you cried over him. How after he left you still missed him. Logan listened without judgement, just letting you explain everything.

“I felt so broken and alone. It took so long to build myself back up and to be strong for Marie.” You wipe your eyes roughly and Logan stops you. Replacing your angry hands with his thumb to wipe away the tears.

“And now he shows up to ruin it all.” You cry. A part of you feels stupid for letting him get to you still but Logan assures you it's not. Pain doesn’t just go away, it's natural for old emotions to be stirred back.

“I won’t let him. We won’t let him.” He says firmly.

“We?” You mumble weakly.

“If you want me to be here I will.” He says, slightly worried he’s over stepped.

“I just don’t want to drag you into this. It’s not your problem.”

“Hey, I meant it when I said I wanted all of this. I love you and Marie and you’re crazy if you think I’ll let you deal with that dick by yourself.” There's nothing you could ever do to drive him away.

His life has never been better than this right here. He’s so happy. He wakes up every day filled with purpose and like a new man. He won’t let your ex ruin what you’ve built together.

“Oh Logan…” You cup his face and pull him into a kiss. He groans as he snakes his arm around your waist. Lowering you gently to the couch.

“I love you so much.” You whisper as you pull apart.

”I love you too.” He dips his head down to nip at your neck.

“We should go get Marie. Knowing Wade he’s feeding her frosting and teaching her curse words.” You say with a sigh. Logan knows you’re right despite his urge to keep going.

“Lets just order pizza and throw on Wall-E.” You say as you stand up, Logan following as you grab your apartment keys. Wyatt's loose threat lingers in the back of your head making your stomach turn. He grabs your hand and squeezes it firmly, sensing your unease.

“It’ll be okay, I promise.” He nudges your shoulder and you smile weakly. You really hope he’s right.

Wyatt had never been this persistent about anything before. He never cared this much when you were together but you think he’s getting off on the idea of ruining your life.

Most of his attempts to regain custody have failed. He had no legal right to Marie and he knows it. Still he’s been such a damn thorn in your side. Showing up to fight with you at work and even showing up at Marie's school one day. How he figures out where she went was beyond you.

He got as far as the front desk before the school called you. He’s lucky you didn’t run him over with your damn car. Logan had been a rock through it all. He happily took care of Marie and the apartment to take some of the stress off of you.

“I told the school to call me if he shows up again. Can you believe that he would do that!?” You ask frustratedly. Marie is asleep and Logan is trying to help you relax.

“I still think you should have let me kill him.” He says with a shrug.

“No, I’m not making you a killer for me.” You say sternly.

“Sweetheart I’ve done worse than that. I’d do anything for you two and you know that.” Logan says, he’s half joking but if you asked he’d do it.

“Logan.”

“Okay fine. No killing. What about a little maiming?”

“Logan!” You let out a tired groan. Life had just started to get really good again but this whole thing has brought nothing but stress and pain.

“Hey I’m joking, come here please.” He opens his arms and you cuddle close to his warm body. He kisses the top of your head as you press your face into his chest.

“What if he does something drastic? What if he puts Marie in danger?” There’s a million things that run through your head and each one is more scary than the last.

“I just want him to leave us alone.” You whimper softly and Logan feels a tug at his heart.

He tightens his hold on you, silently vowing to end this problem once and for all tomorrow. He doesn't want you to worry though so he stays quiet. Letting you find a moment of peace in his arms.

But this poor son of a bitch isn't going to know what hit him.

Logan was always the better hunter. His animal instincts came naturally. Years of having to survive through a world that hated him honed his skills to perfection. Which is why he was sitting on a bench near Marie's school. He knew that idiot would come back, push his luck just one more time. His ego wouldn't let him lose.

Logan gets up and starts walking along the sidewalk. His eyes dart around, observing the other parents who had gathered for pick up. Then that scent comes back again. He turns around and heads right for Wyatt who was standing near a tree.

With ease he grabs his arm and drags him away from the school. All the way to a small back alley nearby.

"What the fuck man!" Wyatt hisses as he pulls his arm from Logan's grip. Well, Logan lets him. He grabs his shirt collar and slams him against the wall.

"Listen here bub, if you ever and I mean ever show your fucking face around here again I'll kill you." Logan growls, his eyes flaring with anger.

"Yeah right, you won't do shit old man." Wyatt gloats. What a fucking dumbass. Logan chuckles as he brings his fist right to his neck. His claws sliding out slowly as he cages him into the wall. The sharp metal just misses the soft flesh of his neck. Logan can see the fear appear in Wyatt's eyes and he grins.

"You're a freak." Wyatt spits as he tries to squirm out of Logan's grip.

"Yeah I am, but I'm a freak with a family now and I won't let you hurt them anymore."

"She's not even worth all this. A good fuck maybe but-" Logan shoots out his middle claw. Pressing it right into Wyatt's throat, a small trickle of blood falling down his neck.

"Shut. The fuck up. You are a sorry excuse for a man and it's because of her that I don't shred you to pieces and feed you to the dogs." Wyatt lets out a whimper and Logan smirks.

"Marie is a smart, funny, wonderful child and that has nothing to do with you. It was all her. And you don't deserve to breathe the same air as her. She is strong, kind, gorgeous, and so much more than you will ever be you fucking prick." He sheathes his claws and throws Wyatt to the ground. The faint sound of the school bell ringing in the back.

"If you ever show your face around here I will not hesitate to hunt you down. Now fuck off." Logan fakes out Wyatt, pretending to lunge at him just to scare him.

It works as he scrambles off the ground. Running away with his tail tucked between his legs. Logan looks down at his hand, a faint smear of blood on his knuckles. He scoffs, that idiot got him dirty.

"Kitty!" Marie cheers happily as she sees Logan walking up to the pick up spot. He smiles as he scoops her up in his arms.

"Hey there kid, how was school today?" He holds her in one arm as she shows him the drawing she made.

It's pretty messy but Logan can make out three people on the moon. You and Logan are on the right and left while Marie is in the middle. She's holding both your hands as you stand on the cheese moon.

"Where are our helmets?" Logan teases as he looks at the photo.

"We don't need helmets." Marie says with a pout.

"No we do, or else we're all gonna explode into shredded cheese." Logan makes a poof gesture with his hands and Marie scrunches her nose up.

"Stoppppp." She whines as Logan laughs.

"Kittyyyy." She takes the picture back and folds her arms, pouting as Logan smiles.

"Alright I'm joking kiddo, it looks great." Her anger towards him doesn't last long as he promises to watch Wall-E again with her tonight.

Logan lets Marie sit on his lap as you lean close to him. The movie is playing for the 4th time this week but he doesn't care. He's just happy to be with the two of you.

"I haven't heard anything from Wyatt in a couple days." You say one morning. It had been oddly peaceful. No texts, no calls, just silence.

"Maybe he gave up." Logan says with a shrug as he pops a waffle into his mouth.

"Marie get over here!" He shouts and she comes running down the hall. He throws a waffle on a paper towel and places it in front of her. You narrow your eyes at Logan who continues to play dumb.

"Logan, what did you do?" You ask quietly as you pull him towards the sink and away from Marie.

"Nothing sweetheart, I just talked to him is all." He says and you give him a look of yeah right.

"I just told him to stay away from my girls." He leaves out the part where he threatened to kill him and bared his claws but you don't need to know that.

"Your girls huh?" You ask, biting your lip lightly as the phrase makes your heart flutter. He tilts your head to kiss your lips gently.

"Ew!" Marie gags as she sees the two of you kissing. He pulls back and rolls his eyes.

"Hurry up and eat your waffle." He points at her and she shoves the rest of it in her mouth.

"Rrggh!" She says proudly.

"Gross." Logan says, sticking his tongue out at her teasingly. He grabs her Barbie backpack and heads to the door. Before he can leave he sticks his head back in.

"Hey don't make plans for tonight, I want to take my girls to dinner." He winks and closes the door behind him.

Oh that stupid, amazing, handsome, idiot. You glance back to the drawing on the fridge, the one of all of you on the moon. One big happy family living on a ball of cheese, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[xanaxiii]

‎ ‎ ♡ 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ♡

you don’t hear the door creak open behind you. you're too busy with the task at hand - hunched over the kitchen table in your home in alexandria, tongue poking out of the corner of your mouth as you carefully fill in the wings of a butterfly.

it's been ages since you colored anything. years, even before walkers roamed the streets. you can't remember the last time you held a crayon or marker in your hand, and you forgot how much you love the smell of a fresh pack.

you suppose that's one good thing about this new apocalyptic kind of life that everyone's been forced into.

when life was normal, you'd never make time for something childish like this. you were too busy trying to make a name for yourself in your career field, too busy going to workout classes and worrying about how many likes the photos you posted got. too busy with dating apps and diet plans and paying off student loans. too busy filling your life with shit that just didn't matter.

but these days, you know what matters. friendship. found family. the little things, like one of the kids in the community letting you take his extra set of crayons and some paper home, even though supplies are limited for things like this. he just saw how much fun you had, drawing with him when you were in charge of watching the kids in the community one day.

things like that matter. and, okay - more than one good thing came out of this shitty world. you also met daryl, the love of your life, and you have a pretty amazing, close knit group of friends that are so tight they’re like family.

life's strange. and you're just trying to make the best of it.

but daryl interrupting you is a little bit annoying. you almost fucked up your picture.

“you colorin’ butterflies now, sunshine?” daryl teases. his voice sounds low, scratchy. really hot. your annoyance at him fades almost instantly.

you twist in your chair and turn around to face him, where he's leaning against the counter in the kitchen. you're still holding your pink crayon, and daryl's got his arms crossed, crossbow slung over his back, and whatever good mood he's in is contagious, because it's pretty rare that you see the little smirk he's wearing tugging at the corner of his mouth. you smile too.

daryl. you could just swoon.

“you scared me,” you huff, faking a pout. “i almost ruined my picture.”

“ain’t my fault you were so zoned in on your arts n’ crafts,” he shrugs, not even trying to hide the amusement in his voice.

you squint at him, trying to convey your seriousness, which just makes him laugh. then you turn around to pick up a crayon, not the precious pink one, and you throw it at him. it bounces off his chest and hits the floor, and he just shakes his head in amusement. walks over to you, but not before setting his crossbow on the kitchen island.

“you’re such a brat,” he mutters, but he takes the empty seat next to you anyway.

“that butterfly’s pink,” he says, like it’s a crime. you never thought daryl had any eye for the arts, truth be told, but surely he can see your vision? you scoff good naturedly, beginning to color your picture again.

“maybe i like pink butterflies.”

“don’t think i’ve seen one of those in real life.” he doesn't sound judgy, and you're grateful for that. but really - daryl's never been one to judge. not you, at least.

“maybe you’re not looking hard enough,” you say, bumping arms with him. “they’re out there. somewhere," you pause, then look at the crayons that you're already wearing down. "'m sure there's a craft store out there somewhere too. i need more paper. and maybe some markers."

daryl goes quiet for a second. then reaches into the box of crayons without a word, holds up a navy blue one like he’s inspecting a weapon. there's a look of confusion on his face that's so funny, you wish you could take a picture. but these days, you've learned to just enjoy the present. you smile.

“you got another page?” he asks, but that catches you by surprise.

you blink, and he actually rolls his eyes. drama queen. “wait. you wanna color?”

daryl shrugs. “ain’t like there’s a whole lot else to do. rick's drivin' us all crazy," and you giggle at that. "'sides…” he continues, a little gruff, not looking right at you. “you looked real happy. figured i’d see what that’s about.”

your stomach does that fluttery thing he always causes. pink butterflies erupting in your stomach, maybe.

you shamelessly scoot your chair closer to his, then you hand him a piece of paper.

you keep coloring. so does daryl. he presses too hard on the crayon and snaps one in half after three minutes, swears under his breath. you try not to laugh but the sound slips out anyway.

his knee bumps yours under the table, but he doesn’t move it.

you're dying to know what daryl is coloring, but you don't want him to feel like you're watching him over his shoulder. but eventually, when your butterfly is all done, you take a look at his drawing.

he’s coloring the sky above a tree, and it's a little messy, but really fucking cute, and you feel an emotion you've never quite felt. maybe it’s just love. it feels like something pure. something light, a feeling you'd never thought you'd feel again, since the sound of those alarm sirens went off in your city so long ago.

“you missed a spot,” you murmur, pointing to the corner of his paper. daryl literally moves his paper away from you, muttering something under his breath. he grumbles and fills it in. “bossy.”

“you like it.”

“yeah,” he says, soft and quick. and he doesn’t take it back. you feel your face heat up, but it's in a good way. and then you can't help yourself.

your fingers find his on the table a few minutes later. rough calluses and warm skin. so comforting, daryl dixon. you love him so much you don't even know what to do with yourself. you squeeze his hand.

you only unhook your fingers to write in the corner of your masterpiece. to daryl. love you. and you hand it over to him.

for the first time in a long time, the world outside doesn’t feel so heavy. and when you hang daryl's picture on the fridge with a magnet, and he folds your drawing and puts it somewhere real safe, your heart almost bursts. you wanna shout from the rooftops, show everyone how much you love daryl, but he likes to keep this thing with you close. so nobody can stick their fingers in it.

he wants to keep it yours. his. just for the two of you. keep it safe.

and you really fucking admire that.

you overhear him talking to deanna later that night, asking if she knows if there's any stores around here that might have...supplies. god, you love him.

but you think he's going to need to be a little more specific than that.

[xanaxiii]

━━━━━ ✧˖° 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 𝐱 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

warnings: mentions of a possible abusive relationship, mentions of sexual situations, hints of past drug use, implied age difference, very feminine! reader

word count: ~2k

shane doesn’t deserve you.

you love shane. 

well, you did. do? you’re not sure. as much as you obsess over your feelings for him, there isn’t enough time to actually come up with an answer. every single day is all about survival - what to eat, how to stay away from walkers, where the group is going to sleep. 

it’s exhausting, but the fact that you even have these questions about shane shows you how lucky you are. your grandmother used to say that problems meant you were privileged, although these days, you’re not so sure about that. 

because right now, your socks are wet, your favorite sweater has a stain on it, you’re more hungry than you’ve been in weeks, and you can’t even properly unpack what little belongings you have in your tent because the entire group will likely not be staying at the greene farm for much longer. 

fuck your fucking life. 

you just want to cry. the day has hardly started, and you literally just want to die. you’re not suicidal, just overwhelmed, and the shit going on between you and shane is not making your life any easier. maybe that's a good enough reason to end things with him altogether. 

you tried to talk to lori about it, but she acted all weird. told you to stay far away from shane, but her tone was hard to read and - whatever. you tried to talk to maggie about it, and she’s nice, friendly. but her advice was just to never speak to him again. unlikely. 

beth is too young to know anything about men, and glenn practically ran away from you when you tried to open up. carol’s too passive to tell you what she really thinks, and andrea and everyone else has the same opinion - leave shane alone. it’s so fucked up, because part of the problem is that he can’t leave you alone. asshole. 

stupidly sexy, tough, strong, good at kissing, good at fucking - ugh, shane really is an asshole. 

you fell in love with shane so fast. you’d had plenty of boyfriends back before the world went to shit, but they were nothing like shane. you don’t know much about the way shane was before all of this, but you do know that he likes to get his hands dirty. likes to be in charge. wants to be in charge, and truth be told, he has the potential to be a good leader…

so long as rick isn’t around. 

shane was such an amazing leader before rick joined the camp. really - he provided and organized and was so trustworthy, you’re pretty sure you blew him everyday to thank him for all the shit he did for the group. for you. 

from the minute the rest of the group found you, shane took you under his wing. you’d been in college when the world went to shit, so and were nowhere near your family. when the walkers started popping up on your campus and city, you fled with some friends, but most of them died along the way. when the group found you, you were all alone on the highway. starving. nearly dead. wishing to just die. 

but everyone was so kind, especially shane. so strong, the way he picked you up and brought you to a camper to let you rest up while a few of the others watched over you. you don’t remember it because you were so out of it when they found you, but you remember how it felt to be in his arms.

he was so nice, when he gave you food and let you sleep in his tent because you didn’t have one of your own yet. so safe, when you eventually found your way into his arms in that tent. 

and then, as it goes - he eventually found his way into you. which you wanted. god, you wanted it, from the moment you saw him on that highway with biceps so big they looked larger than your head.

and, okay - you can’t say that you hate his macho, mood swinging attitude. it’s sexy. at times. it’s dangerous. and you love when he loses his shit and he takes it out on you. drags you into the woods, or offers to carry you on his back. fucks you while holding you up against a tree, or pushes you down to the itchy grass of the ground and pounds you until your throw your head back and your ears ring.

you love shane. loved? but ever since rick came back and the group made it to the farm, he’s different. 

“fuck you snifflin’ for? not even lunchtime yet. what the hell d’ya have to be upset about this early?” the comment takes you out of your thoughts, and you stop picking at a loose thread on your pink, fucking wet sock. 

you know who it is. it’s daryl. he’s always giving you a hard time - at least in comparison to the way everyone else in the group treats you. everyone else treats you like something fragile, while daryl, and okay, shane, treat you like they’re not afraid you’re going to break. or maybe they just don’t care.

“i’m upset because i hate my fucking life. what, do you like living like this? is there anything to smile about?” you’ve know daryl for awhile now, and this banter is just what you two do. he scoffs at what you say, and he busies himself behind you but you refuse to look and see what he’s doing. you’re that stubborn. 

“sounds like you should just die, then. you want me to shoot you right here?” you cannot believe he just said that, and you can’t control it now. you’re sitting in the middle of the camp on a plastic chair that maggie dragged out for the group a few days ago, surrounded by tents and the cars and the camper. you’re sweaty and hot and miserable with a wet sock from stepping in the wrong place when trying to avoid a pile of mud (you’ve got sensory issues, okay) - and now daryl is offering to kill you? 

you know he’s got dark humor, but you can’t help it today. you’re sensitive. shane woke up in an amazing mood - kissed you and fucked you, muttered the three words you’d been waiting to hear from him into your ear while he came inside of you, and he promised he’d just fucking listen to rick today. to hershel. he promised. 

but then, at breakfast, he got into it with rick. you love shane, but surely he can see that rick is better equipped to be the leader of the group? he’s got his family to think about, and hershel actually respects him. 

but no - shane couldn’t handle it. he got angry, yelled at rick and shoved at him, then fucked off in a car with andrea all the while you ate a bruised apple and felt his cum leaking out of you. everyone looked at you - but you’re not sure what emotion was on their face. pity? or even worse, do they think you could ever possibly even try control shane? 

yeah, right. 

and then you stepped in a fucking puddle. god, you just want to sleep forever. 

“daryl,” you finally say, turning to glare at him while he rummages around in the basket of fruit that beth brought over this morning. so that’s what he’s doing. “fuck you.” 

daryl grabs a peach out of the basket. it looks like he wants to say something with the way his lip twitches, but he’s unsure - ultimately though, he speaks. 

fucking dick. 

“try talkin’ like that to that boyfriend of yours. he’s fuckin’ crazy, you know that, don’t ya?” 

you want to snap something back, but you literally can’t think that quick. you’re so fucking embarassed at the fact that other people have witnessed the fights you and shane get in. well, the fights shane starts that you just try to ignore, but it’s getting increasingly harder because he’s getting increasingly more mean. 

your face heats. you know what daryl is implying. if you can be bitchy to him, why can’t you give shane a hard time when he fucks with you in front of the entire group? 

“stay out of this, sweetheart,” shane will say, whenever you give an opinion or share an idea with the group. “lucky you’re so pretty, you know,” he said the other day, when you tripped over a big branch while on a walk. you two weren’t alone. “not much goin’ on in that head of yours. helps to be pretty.” and the list goes on and on. shane always has a backhanded comment, or a rough hand pulling you or pushing you somewhere. it’s mortifying, but with so much else going on, it’s easy to push the urgency of those things away. 

because shane takes care of you. and he loves you, right? he said it today. that’s got to count for something. 

great. you’re crying. maybe shane was right when he called you immature the other day, for reasons you don’t even remember. maybe you’re so immature, you still love this man when you should hate him. maybe -  

“oh, shit. yer cryin’? damnit,” daryl mutters, and you hear him say something about how he doesn’t have time for this, but truth be told, all there is these days is time. too much of it. not enough of it. you don’t even have a fucking clock, so. 

you hate your life. 

“‘m not crying because of you, meanie,” you say, wiping the tears spilling from your eyes. you’re glad shane is gone and that everyone else fucked off too. you’re not upset that shane didn’t take you with him, even if he was being a nightmare -

except you are.

as usual, daryl did his own thing and you hid in your tent to avoid doing anything, and now you don’t know where anyone is and you can’t find carol to see if she can get the stain out of your sweater, and why does life suck so bad? 

daryl hesitates but sits down next to you. on the ground. “should probably shut up,” he says, with kindness evident in his tone. you almost laugh, but you don’t. daryl continues. 

“cheer up. you wanna go for a walk or somethin’? should be pretty safe if we stay where the trees aren’t so dense,” you’re hardly listening to what daryl is saying, because all you hear is shane’s voice in your head telling you that you’re not allowed to leave the camp or the farm unless he’s with you. 

he said that when you were going to join rick and andrea one day, and you wondered if it was a little controlling but you brushed it off and just assumed it was because he was worried about you. which is valid. he loves you (he says), and you don’t make it easy on yourself with the way you present. 

pink socks and lilac sneakers and a sweatshirt with a picture of a bunny on it. a cashmere sweater that you can’t even think about parting with. clips in your hair and stained cheeks and lips that you’re only able to have because you found some berries. you’re reminded that when shane tried to kiss the berry taste off your lips, talked about how fuckin’ cute you are, that daryl and rick walked by and got mad at you for wasting food. some fucking life. 

you answer daryl. “i can’t,” you go to make an excuse, but daryl scoffs like he’s disgusted. 

“yeah, yeah. ‘cause of your fuckin’ old man,” but you cut him off and wrinkle your nose. it’s gross to hear daryl talk about shane like that. your old man. 

yuck. 

“he’s not,” but daryl cuts you off again. it’s comforting, in a way. you don’t know what it is, just - something about daryl dixon is like a heavy dose of xanax for your soul. 

which is what you need right now, truth be told. you sigh. 

“he’s too old for you. fuckin’ crazy bastard. yer too young, too sensitive,” but this time, you get angry. you shake your head. 

“does anybody ever have anything nice to say about me? too this, too that. i’m so fucking sick of -”

daryl stands. 

“too cute. too pretty, ya brat. jesus,” he grumbles. you sit in silence for a moment, trying not to let out another laugh when daryl finally bites into his peach and starts slurping it for some dramatic reason. it’s funny. daryl’s so….daryl. but you’re still trying to recover from his compliments. 

a few moments later, shane’s car pulls up. and that bitch andrea is right next to him, grinning? you tense up, and when shane gets out of the car, daryl says one more thing before walking off. 

“don’t owe him shit, you know,” he says. “know you talk about your love story all the fuckin’ time. how you met. but he wasn’t the one that carried you that day we found you on the highway, anyway.“

you think about what it’d taste like to kiss daryl with peach juice on his lips.

[xanaxiii]

[xanaxiii]

i’m arching. i’m barking. i’m meowing. i’m throbbing. i’m clenching. i’m spreading. i’m cumming. i’m squirting. i’m crying. i’m whining. i physically cannot put into words what this gif does to me. what this man’s arms do to me. this cannot be healthy for my psyche. daryl dixon let me worship your biceps for hours challenge. also, let me suck your dick. lord have mercy on my soul he is so fucking sexy.

[xanaxiii]

boyfriend logan howlett <3

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who is irrevocably in love with you, even if not very good at voicing it most times. he yearned for you for such a long time that now that he has you, he can’t help but literally kiss the ground you walk on and see you as someone meant to be in his life.

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who loves mornings with you. wakes up quite early so doesn’t blame you for being groggy, gently guiding you to the kitchen to make breakfast. pulls you to sit on his lap while he has his coffee and reads the newspaper - you’re mostly dozing off on his shoulder or spacing out but he doesn’t seem to mind it, pressing small kisses to your forehead every other minute.

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who tries not to melt on the spot when you come to stand beside him while he’s talking to someone, sliding your hand across his waist until you have your arm around it. he’d never admit it but he almost always stumbles on his words when you do it. logan’s waist being a soft spot.

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who does domestic chores as if they’re nothing. you’ll find him folding your clothes on a random afternoon or carefully learning how to iron them because he’s really trying. is absolutely hubby material from day one!!

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who might not mention it, but notices and makes note about every complain or unfortunate thing you mention. your shower’s water is too cold? you can be sure it’ll be magically fixed the next day. run out of your favorite perfume? logan will hand it to you a few days later like it’s a penny.

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who is sooo horrible with using technology. barely even has a cellphone until you insist he needs a nice one so you can text him when you’re away and send him silly videos, and who is he to tell you no? might write in all caps for the first few weeks but he gets the hang of it <3 is definitely a very dry texter but doesn’t mean to be.

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who will use petnames like ‘woman’ or ‘trouble’ in the most affectionate possible, the words always coming paired with a very much whipped smile. almost in a way of hiding his fondness for you, as if that could even be possible. not to mention he absolutely blushes the first few times you use sweet petnames on him, has a personal but very secret favorite, ‘baby’ <3

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who gets out of bed in the morning for a quick second so he can brush his teeth and come back to wake you up with fresh minty kisses. but if you tell him you also have morning breath, he’s quick to brush it off and tell you he really doesn’t care.

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan whose gaze turns gentle everytime you walk into the room, immediately wiping the constant frown he has on his face off. talks to you with an unusually soft voice that no one else gets to hear

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who gets extra grumpy when sleepy (even though he sounds more whiny than anything else), curling up into you and forgetting about his inner fragile masculinity for a split second. will even pout when you make fun of his bedhead.

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who is a sucker for hugs from behind. if he finds you cooking in the evening right when he was looking for you, he’ll be on you like an ivy in a matter of seconds. hugs your midsection gently, resting his cheek against yours with a gentle squeeze before kissing it and asking you about your day - all of it without letting go of you :)

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who will willingly drive you around in his truck, even if you have your own car and know how to drive. feels better knowing you’re dropped off and picked up safe. keeps his hand on your thigh at almost all times, squeezing it from time to time and bringing your hand to his lips for a quick kiss there. and god, you have to hold yourself back from drooling when he reaches a hand behind your seat to see properly when reversing the truck, muscly arm almost ripping through his tight tee.

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who always makes sure you’re eating well, even if you never gave him reason to doubt that. always makes you lunch when he can and takes it absolutely personally when you mention you didn’t have time to have a proper meal the whole day. definitely learns how to make your favorite foods just because.

⋆˚࿔ bf!logan who starts being extra careful when on a mission, not just because he really has a reason to live now, but because by now he has realized how much he means to you and would never willingly put you through the pain of losing him. not to mention never seeing your face again seems like torture to him.

honorable mention @purpleandredlavalamps <3

[xanaxiii]

━━━ ✧˖° 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍

‎ ‎ [ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

kinks: protective daryl, reader is extremely girly and feminine, fingering, very light dom/sub, fucking on a motorcycle, daryl sucks his fingers, pet names, oral sex, cum swallowing, slightly rough sex, some dirty talk, true love

warnings and triggers: age difference, reader is a former sex worker, trauma bonding, violence, death, slut shaming, bullying

word count: 13.4k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe.

you’re known as the princess of your group - soft, feminine, a girly girl who doesn’t want to get her hands dirty. despite the cruel new world you’re living in, you still hold on to whatever remnants of beauty you can find, hoping for a better tomorrow.

daryl is the opposite of everything you stand for. he’s hardened, rugged, ruthless - he’ll do whatever it takes to survive. despite your differences, you find yourselves drawn to each other in ways nobody, not even you two, can really understand. you bring softness to his strength, and in daryl you find a friend, a lover, a protector.

he’s everything you find warm and safe in this cold, scary world. you cling to him, and the best part?

daryl clings back.

“Cookies?”

The look Daryl gives you actually makes you crack a smile, and it’s a nice feeling. It’s been a long time since you smiled, now that you think about it - but it’s not like you’re keeping score. 

Because if you were - you’d probably be able to count the amount of grins that’ve graced your face in the last eight months on one hand. Life has been brutal to everyone this year.

“I know it sounds weird,” you explain, crossing your legs on the rock you’re sitting on. Daryl’s supposed to be keeping watch of the camp while Rick and a few other men from the group make a run into the neighboring town for supplies. The plan was, because even the smallest things need well thought out plans in this world, that the women and children of the camp would rest, and if Daryl saw any walkers, he’d wake everyone up. 

Sort of dumb, in theory, with how fast things happen when walkers are added to the equation, but it’s all this group has got. 

Plans and Rick’s hope. 

You’re supposed to be resting too, since yesterday was a travel day - long and exhausting. But you can’t sleep. You’ve got a headache, you’re hungry, and your sleeping bag is still a little damp from your water bottle, the plastic gone thin from having been dropped too many times, breaking while you drove from your last destination. Your tent is cold and you’re sharing it with a single woman who has a child, and their crying is really starting to bum you out. 

So you decided to join Daryl keeping watch. He’s perched on a little ledge that overlooks the rest of the camp, able to see anything coming or going before anyone on the ground can. You’re not great with a gun, but since the world went to shit, you can handle yourself pretty well.

You want to help protect the camp and everyone in it, especially since you asked Rick to pick up another reusable water bottle for you while he was in town. The look on his face was so priceless it actually made you a little sad. 

“Doesn’t just sound weird,” Daryl replies, shifting to get more comfortable on the grassy ground. There’s another rock for him to sit on, but it’s something you’ve noticed about him - Daryl always chooses to sit close to the ground, even if there’s a proper place for him to sit. “It is weird,” he grumbles the last part, busying himself with chucking a rock a few feet away while a squirrel scampers up a tree. He curses under his breath, no doubt pissed at himself for not securing another meal. 

You’re distracting him. You should feel bad, but you don’t. 

Before walkers and the end of the world as you knew it, you used to be so concerned with manners. Worried about what others thought about you more than you worried about your own well being. You’re not like that anymore. It’s a dark, although funny thought - that it took something as drastic as an apocalypse to finally rid you of your people pleasing habit. 

There’s a crunching sound a few yards away that has the both of you tensing up, frozen while you listen for the sound of growling, but it never comes. Daryl visibly relaxes after a minute, which is your cue to start talking again. He just listens, although from the angle you’re sitting at, you swear you see him roll his eyes. 

“You ever think about how weird it is, the stuff we miss?” You ask, but you already know he’s not going to reply. Daryl rarely replies, but you know he’s listening. You don’t have any real proof that he is - but what else would he be doing while you chat his ear off? He can stand up for himself, doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do - if he didn’t want you talking to him, he’d tell you to fuck off. 

It’s a small victory you hold close to your heart - the fact that he just puts up with you. You continue. “I mean, everyone always says they miss things like hot showers, electricity, or whatever. I do, but I guess it’s not the thing I miss the most. For me, it’s cookies. But not bakery cookies. The kind of cookies you get from the store, the cheap ones. When you flatten the cookie dough yourself, and no matter what, always burn them or undercook them,” as you talk about it, you can taste the ghost of cookies past on your tongue. It waters a little, your mouth, which goes to show you just how hungry you are. 

All you eat these days are protein bars and uncooked cans of whatever food the group can find. Sometimes, with your eyes closed and your breath held, you’ll try bits of squirrel or owl or whatever other animal Daryl hunts and shares with the group, but even the thought makes you nauseated. You never knew you’d be able to have preferences when the other choice is starving to death, but the difficult human spirit prevails, you suppose. 

Daryl glances at you, and although it’s pretty dark, the moon shines light enough that you can see his expression. You’d expect his face to be mean, aggravated - tired. Listening to a young woman ramble about baking cookies while his body is on high alert to protect an entire fucking camp - but instead, Daryl’s expression is soft. He lets you continue, although his reaction does remind you that you’re also on guard. But aren’t you always?

The gun strapped to your hip and the knife in the pocket of your boot feel extra heavy at the reminder. 

You clear your throat, trying to keep your voice low. God forbid a fucking walker kills you or anyone else in this group because you couldn’t shut up about cookies. 

“Maybe it’s stupid, you know? I just,” you look down, playing with the zipper on your jacket. Suddenly, you feel really embarrassed. On the spot. Daryl probably thinks you’re a fucking idiot. Your face heats up. 

But it’s not just the cookies. You leave out the part where the cookies remind you of your parents. How your mom, when she was alive, used to make them for you after a rough day. That those cookies were the staple of every sleepover you’ve ever had with your best friends. How those cookies were -

“It ain’t,” Daryl’s voice takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him, brows furrowed. You catch his eyes for only a second, before he looks away quickly, pretending to be occupied by something on the dirty ground. “It ain’t stupid,” he finishes. 

You wonder that night, after Rick and the others come back to relieve you and Daryl of your duty, while you’re laid up in your sleeping bag that hardly protects you from the cold - what does Daryl miss? Sure, out of everyone in the group, he’s most equipped at living this kind of life. Knows how to hunt, can stomach raw fucking meat, isn’t scared of anything, or so he says. What reminds him of home? What thoughts comfort him?

Surely, whatever those thoughts are, they’re not as dumb as store bought cookie dough. 

But what Daryl said stuck with you. Not stupid. You fall asleep, albeit with one eye open, feeling a little less cold. 

Because for a moment, Daryl’s understanding?

It made the world feel a little less broken.

────

“Gross,” you mutter, blood slashing on your face. You just shot a walker in the head, and your ears are ringing from the loud noise of the gun. You’ll never get used to firing that thing. How loud it is, the way your hand shakes even minutes after you pull the trigger.

Daryl comes from behind you, and he lets out a laugh. It’s low, short - if you weren’t trained to hear the noise, you’d miss it. Because really - it’s like you’ve literally trained yourself to look for little cues that Daryl is having a good time. Or, since you doubt anyone these days is having a good time, at least that he’s alright. That he’s not annoyed at you for hanging around him or talking to him or irritated at your presence in general. 

“Blood on your face grosses you out, but you’ll pick through walker guts for a bottle of nail polish,” he shakes his head, but it's not like he’s judging. In fact, Daryl actually seems a little…fond? He’s teasing you, and normally the reputation you have in this group as a girl that’s afraid to get her hands dirty, too girly to do anything for yourself - it stings. 

But not when it comes from Daryl. You can tell he’s teasing, and you roll your eyes playfully. 

“Didn’t dig in walker guts for that nail polish,” you remind him, even as he walks past you to lead the way. You glance at his back, the angel wings on his leather vest, and will yourself to stop the heat rushing to your face and the arousal pooling in your belly at how fucking strong he is. Big arms, muscles that look like he should be on the cover of a body building magazine instead of in these creepy woods with a crossbow. You gulp. “There was a little blood in the nail polish section when we did a run the other day. I cleaned it off the bottle I wanted. No biggie.”

Daryl scoffs, and you smile. “Yer crazy, girl,” he replies, and at that you look down at your nails. Baby pink, the same color you always used to choose when you’d get your nails done back at home. You could shiver with pleasure, just from thinking about the feeling of warm water on your hands, someone paying special attention to your cuticles - lotion, that you don't have to share with every other woman at the camp. The polish you’re wearing, painted just two days ago, is chipped and stained red with walker blood, but it’s better than nothing. 

Makes you feel a little more human. A little more like a woman. A little more like yourself.

Now, if only you could find some hairspray and a razor. 

You’ve been joining Daryl whenever he lets you - or, more truthfully, whenever Rick tells Daryl it’s okay for you to join him. Rick still doesn’t believe that you know what you’re doing, thinks of you as a liability, but you’re determined to prove yourself. You got to go on a run the other day, and today, Daryl went to check out the perimeter of the grassy hill the group is currently camping in, and you volunteered to go with him. 

“You sure?” Rick had asked when the plan was originally made, looking at Daryl with squinted eyes. He pretended like you didn’t exist, even as you were standing right next to him. Daryl nodded. “S’okay with me. I’ll look out for her. Bring yer gun,” he told you, and you nodded, skipping after him down the trail. 

Around Daryl, and maybe this is why you like him so much - it’s easy to feel like a woman. Easy to feel safe, too. Daryl just knows what he’s doing, and he’s so strong, big, can handle so much. Being around him feels good, but you know it’s all just a farce. 

You’re not safe and neither is Daryl, a fact that becomes even clearer when you almost trip on a dead body by a stream you’re both passing on the way back to camp, alerting a walker that was only a few yards away. Daryl was able to kill him with an arrow, but it was a close call. 

One minute, laughing and talking. The next, like you’re begging death to open the door after ringing his doorbell a few too many times. 

You walk back to camp in silence, walker blood splattered on the both of you. When you get back, it’s nearly dark, and you help a few of the other women finish some laundry and keep an eye on a few restless kids. Life sucks in this world as an adult - but you can’t imagine living like this as a kid. Although, you think, watching them throw dirt at each other and believe the food their mothers are giving them really tastes just like chicken nuggets, maybe being so clueless is for the best. 

After dinner, on your way to your tent, you see Rick and Daryl talking. You try to listen in, pretending that you’re just getting your sleeping bag ready for bed, but you don’t hear anything of importance. Meaning, you don’t hear either of them bring up your name. You feel like a highschooler, desperate for friends, eager to belong - hoping your crush notices you. 

Because that’s what this is with Daryl, isn’t it? You’ve got a crush on him. Butterflies, wanting his attention, looking for excuses to be around him. It’s pathetic but a little beautiful, you admit - that even in a situation like this, where death surrounds every person, no matter who they are - there’s room in the human spirit for a little love. 

A crush, you think again, fixing your nails in your tent. You can almost convince yourself that life isn’t so horrible, just for a minute, until the woman you share your tent with comes in for bed and complains that the smell of the polish is too strong and makes it hard for her to sleep. 

Okay, bitch, you say in your head. It’s not like the walker guts and dead bodies beyond our tent smell any better. You bite your tongue and walk out of the tent, making your way to the empty clearing a little ways away from the tents. It’s so quiet, there’s no way you wouldn’t hear a walker if one was to come around you, but you have a knife on you just in case. No gun, since the noise would just draw more to you. 

You think these things through. You just wish Rick, and the rest of the group, would see that too. 

It’s dark, except for the moon and the stars shining pretty above you. Maybe the little fact you read online years ago about the environment is true - people are the cause of everything bad and all the pollution. A little more than half a year into the apocalypse, and there’s no smog clogging up the skies. It’s a gorgeous night. 

You sit with your hands flat on the ground, waiting for your nails to dry. You get a good few minutes of silence, until the noise of footsteps has you nearly jumping out of your boots, reaching for your knife, only to realize that it’s not a walker, but Daryl coming to plop down next to you.  

“Gosh, Daryl. You scared me,” you complain, letting out a whine. He doesn’t say anything, just sits next to you on the ground, although he moves so his back is facing your back. Makes sense, so you're both safe from all angles. Daryl always thinks about little things like that. 

He’s quiet for long enough that you start to think of something to fill the silence. “Damnit,” you mutter, letting out a huff. “I ruined my nails.”

“Oh, quit it,” Daryl replies. “Whatcha doin’ out here all by yerself? You got a death wish, girl?” You’re mortified that Daryl is scolding you like you’re a kid, like you’re an idiot, and coming from him it just hurts even more. 

You’ve always had an even temper, but in this new world, you lose it more often than you used to. It’s probably just the way life is now - the stress, the hunger, the cold and the dirt and the sweat and the lack of anything that used to bring anyone joy. It makes everyone crazy. 

“Yeah, well - ‘m sure your buddy Rick hopes a walker gets to me. Know he was talking shit about me earlier.” You sniffle, but you’re not crying yet - it just really hurts, that you feel like such dead weight at this camp. You’ve never really been insecure, but you feel like nobody likes you. Nobody understands you. And yeah, surviving is more important than being miss popular with a group of people in the apocalypse, but everyone’s always talking about this group being family. Does that include you? It doesn’t feel like it these days. 

Daryl is silent, as you expected. Normally you don’t mind the company, even if it’s a mute one, but tonight you’re feeling on edge. Until Daryl speaks. “Rick ain’t my friend. No one wants you to die, kid. Yer too much,” he mutters, and then you stand up, aggravated and not wanting to take it out on him. 

You begin to walk away when Daryl reaches out and grabs your ankle to stop you. “Daryl,” you warn, as if you’d do anything to retaliate even if he pulled you on the ground with him. But you keep up the hard ass attitude - it feels good, you admit, being difficult for once. You don’t get to be anything but accommodating at camp. 

“Rick and I were sayin’ how valuable you are to the group. How much you’ve grown,” he explains, and you roll your eyes, make a show of stomping away, knowing, loving that Daryl is right on your heels. Because there’s no reason for him to stay in that clearing - he’s not on watch tonight. He was only hanging around there for you. 

Despite acting like Rick’s comment meant nothing to you, on the inside, as you walk to your tent, you fight a smile. So Rick has noticed your effort. That’s all you wanted, except - 

You realize that maybe approval you wanted so badly never needed to come from Rick - 

Because the approval from Daryl feels pretty damn good.

────

Daryl fixes you with a look that makes you burst out laughing. 

You’ve only been at this spot in the woods for a few weeks, but so far, quality of life among the camp has improved. Almost a year in this new world, and this is the first time anyone’s ever slept with both eyes closed since before people turned into the living dead. There’s a river nearby perfect for fishing, and tonight at the campfire, you had your first taste of - what did Daryl call it?

Sushi.

“Just so you know,” you say, crossing a leg over the other on the little log you’re sitting on. The sun is going down, and the sky is a pretty shade of pink and even a little purple. You wonder if nature has always been this beautiful - you’d always just been too preoccupied to see it. You put a tiny piece of the fish Daryl caught and cooked into your mouth, surprised at the taste. You don’t have to fake your reaction. It’s not bad at all - but you wouldn’t necessarily say it’s good. Tastes better than another can of old spaghetti rings though, that’s for sure. 

Still, you can’t help teasing. You finish your original statement. “Sushi tastes much better than this.”

Daryl smiles, just slightly. And not the fake kind of smile he does when he’s just trying to be polite. Like when an elderly man from the group tells a joke no one else laughs at, or when the strap of your last bra broke and you started crying until Rick promised, cheeks red, that he’d look for your size on the next run.

Right now, it seems like Daryl’s actually having a good time. 

The thought makes you smile.

“Thank you,” you tell Daryl, and you swear you see him blush. “It's better than sushi, really.” 

“Yeah,” Daryl says, nodding. He’s grown uncomfortable with the compliments already. “It’s the best yer gonna get.” Others from the group join you around the campfire, and then Daryl takes off, but not before giving you one last lingering gaze. He has small eyes, you’ve noticed - a little hooded, but so beautiful. He’s incredibly handsome, in a unique way. A pretty, no, beautiful man. His stare burns you, warms you up even with the chill in the air.

It’s only later, when the rest of the group clears off and you and Daryl are alone again, that he speaks. He’s sharpening a knife, leaning on the side of a camper van for support, and you’re at a makeshift sink (bucket) washing the dishes. It was your least favorite chore before this new world, and it’s still your least favorite after. 

But, if you let your mind go there - something about the dynamic between Daryl cooking dinner and you cleaning the dishes up has you - 

No. You’ve got to stop acting so juvenile. 

On one hand, this little crush you have on Daryl is something positive that gets you through the day. Waiting to talk to him, excited to be around him - it shines light on a dark, terrible reality. On the other hand, getting attached to anyone at this camp is a bad idea. You just lost someone else a few days ago. 

The reality, that death really is lurking everywhere - that something could happen to you, or Daryl…it makes your palms sweat and your breathing become erratic. The reality of this new world is just so scary and cruel.

You’re done with the dishes and you dry your hands on an old flannel that the camp uses as a dish towel. You feel Daryl watching you, and you like it. 

“What are you looking at?” You tease, pushing some hair away from your face. “There a walker behind me or something? 

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t look at no walker like that,” he grumbles, but then he must realize what he said - what it really means. You’re so excited you’re almost vibrating, wondering, realizing now - that maybe this crush isn’t one sided. But you still try to play it cool, even as Daryl shakes his head, says, “Wasn’t lookin’ at nuthin.’”

You don’t know what to say to that. You begin to walk away, excited to spend the rest of the night in your tent going over this interaction until you fall asleep, but what Daryl says next stops you in your tracks. You freeze.

“Gotta get you a bra on the nex’ run,” he says, and your knees feel weak. “Those things almos’ poked me in the eye. You cold or sumthin’?’”

You fast walk to your tent, nearly crying from embarrassment - but your entire body is dizzy with excitement. It’s adrenaline, but not the same kind you get when you’re running or kill a walker and make it out alive - a different kind, one you haven’t felt since maybe even before the walkers. It lights you up inside, makes it hard to breathe - and the funniest part?

Daryl has no idea your nipples are hard because you’re aroused - all from watching him sharpen a knife. What can you say? A man who can handle a weapon like that can surely handle…other things.

────

The fire crackles as you sit back, the warmth from the flames doing little to ease the chill in your bones. It’s freezing outside, but you’re under a warm blanket, and if you delude yourself enough you can almost convince yourself that this is just a toasty evening with friends and not a risky fire that could very well lead walkers directly to the camp.

But there’s nothing the group can do - it’s simply too cold to go without a fire tonight. Even Daryl, king of having his arms always showing, is in a jacket tonight. Which sucks, because you really love looking at his arms…but this is survival.

There’s hushed conversation while Rick tells a story, a few pairs to the side chattering, and you feel left out until you notice that Daryl isn’t talking to anyone either. He’s just looking at the ground, then the fire, gaze flickering to you every few minutes. 

And you only notice that because your eyes can’t stay off of him. You can’t help it - it’s like you’re always looking for him. There’s something about that man, as dumb as it sounds, that makes him feel like your own security blanket. Even seeing him from across the camp, just a glimpse, can settle your nerves like nothing else. 

Suddenly, a voice from next to you tries to get your attention. It’s Derek, a decent looking guy about your age - but he’s pretty useless, as far as skills go. He accompanies the rest of the men for runs into town, can kill a walker if necessary, but he’s selfish and all about himself. Won’t even take watch at night, says it interferes with his sleep. You can’t stand him. 

You try to avoid his gaze and pretend to be busy, picking at your cuticles and hoping he leaves you alone, but no such luck. 

“Look at you, princess,” he teases, and you cringe so hard you wonder if it’s visible. It’s embarrassing, being referred to like that - so what, that you like the color pink and happen to be attractive? You’re not hurting anyone. The clothes you’re wearing, the pink clips you have to hold your hair back, the floral printed pillow case - those were all things you had before the world went to shit. 

You didn’t know the apocalypse had a dress code. 

You’re sick of being teased. Of being reduced to this overly feminine character - as if you don’t keep watch just as much as the men. As if you don’t kill walkers when they get close to the camp, while the other women hide. As if you don’t cook, and clean, and - 

Derek is still talking.

You sneak a glance across the campfire at Daryl, who holds your gaze for a minute before dropping it. You look back down too, play with your fingers on your lap. You’d go to your tent right now if you weren’t scared about the safety of falling asleep with no one actively on watch. 

“So, what’d you all do before this?” Derek asks, leaning forward. He’s asking the group, but he’s looking at you, which means - you’re supposed to go first?

You wonder if this has anything to do with what you told Cindy, someone you used to share a tent with before she found room in another one. There’s not much to do these days when you’re not cooking or cleaning or hunting or moving - lots of time to sit and talk. The apocalypse is so much more boring than you ever anticipated. You shared a lot about your past with her, but surely she wouldn’t gossip about you to the others in the camp?

You thought girl code was still a thing, even in these trying times. 

Everyone is silent, waiting for your answer. Even Daryl and Rick seem interested, which makes you feel even worse. You wanted to fit in, not be the center of attention.

You shift uncomfortably, before clearing your throat. You can feel Cindy’s eyes on you, sitting just a few people down. “Nothing special. Just,” you pause and shrug, unsure of what to say. “Whatever I had to. To survive.” 

Back then, surviving was all about money, and ever since your parents died when you were a teenager, money is the one thing you never had enough of. One thing you did have though, is your beauty. So you used it, to get the things you needed, and sometimes a little more - but it all boiled down to one thing, just like it does now - to survive. 

That’s all life is about, really? Take away the frills, the fun - people just want to stay alive, no matter how rough things get.

So - you had a boyfriend to pay your rent. A man that loved to take you shopping. A lonely guy who paid off your car. You’ve never lived in luxury, but you always made it. Always got by. Had the things you needed and a little bit more. Always -

“Yeah, well, we all knew you were a whore.”

The words leave Derek’s mouth and you’re frozen. Speechless - and that never happens to you. You’re so shocked at what he said that your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and it’s only then that you realize the bottle of hard liquor on his lap. 

You glare at Cindy, who quickly gets up and runs to her tent, more scared of you than walkers apparently - good, you think, because she’s such a bitch for talking about you behind your back. You try to be cool about it, to laugh it off like Derek is so wrong it doesn’t even deserve a reaction, but you’re so embarrassed you feel your chest aching. 

Has everyone known about your history the entire time you’ve been at camp? You shared those stories with Cindy in the beginning, one of the first nights you arrived, desperate for some comfort. Is that why everyone treats you so differently from the rest? Is that why you’re the black sheep of a fucking camp formed during the apocalypse?

Does Daryl know?

You’re ready to defend yourself, but you don’t get to. Because Daryl is around the fire so fast you don’t even have time to blink, grabbing Derek by the collar of his shirt and pounding his fists into his face. 

The sound of knuckles against bone is excruciating, makes you want to hurl - but you don’t tell him to stop. You’re frozen, and anyway, Derek deserves it, doesn’t he? 

It’s Rick, and a few other men that pull Daryl off of Derek, who’s sporting an eye so swollen it won’t shut and a busted lip, a cheek that’ll be purple for the next few weeks for sure. “Whore,” he spits, still able to talk, even as someone drags him away. “Man, shut up already,” one of the guys says to him, but nobody eases the sting of what he says. 

Daryl wipes sweat from his brow while Rick walks off to talk to Derek, but he can’t get a word in with the shit the other man is spewing. “Fucking whore,” he keeps grumbling. “There’s no money to milk from men anymore, is there? Bet you put out for that fish Dixon caught for you. Did you do the same for that new bra? Or that water bottle Rick brought back for you? Almost died you know, getting that shit for you, maybe you can thank me with,” Rick kicks him in the ribs before he can finish and tells him to shut up in that leader voice of his. 

You run off, now that the rest of the group has scattered, but you hear Daryl yell out, “Yeah, man, you should’ve died,” with a string of curse words. “All you fuckin’ people looking’ at her. Yer all whores in your own way. Useless too,” he continues, but you don’t hear it because you get into your tent and zip it up.

Great. All this drama, and now nobody is ever going to fucking like you now. You’ll be the black sheep forever, won’t you? It’s a harsh wake up call, and you’re thankful you’re alone. Your tentmate must’ve taken her daughter out to be with the other kids, away from the rowdiness at the fucking campfire. You sniffle, and climb into your sleeping bag. 

A minute later, before you’ve even had time to process what’s happening, Daryl enters the tent. He’s so big, it’s hard for him to fit, but he manages - cursing and crouching in a way that would make you laugh if this wasn’t such a depressing situation. 

He sits next to your sleeping bag. Knees bent, arms around his legs. He just sort of watches you. You look anywhere but his face, but you notice his knuckles are bloody red and torn, all because of you. 

“Didn’t have to defend me,’ you say, instead of thank you. “I wasn’t a whore, so,” but Daryl cuts you off. 

“Don’t matter what you were. He shouldn’t talk to you like that. Little prick deserves his ass kicked anyway. Can’t even shoot straight,” it’s like this moment is as uncomfortable for him as it is for you. You share a look, but you look away first, afraid of the intensity. You’ve never had someone stand up for you before - not like this. What are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do? 

You say nothing at all. A few more minutes go by, with your vision blurry as you stare at Daryl’s knuckles and he stares at the hole that shows the grassy ground in the bottom of your tent. Finally, he sighs, annoyed, and even though you’re not talking you’re still worried he’s going to leave. He’s your teddy bear after all, right? Your security blanket. Maybe you’re selfish - but you don't want him to go. 

And he doesn’t. Instead, Daryl adjusts his position so he can reach into his pocket and pull something out. It’s bright pink, satin looking - you wonder if he’s going to hand you a pair of racy panties just to seal the deal that he thinks you’re a slut. A whore. 

But is he wrong? The look of the muscles in his arm, at his sheer size - at the smell of him, so masculine and woodsy in this little tent it almost makes you dizzy with want. 

After what just happened, how can you be thinking about sex? Maybe you are a slut. A whore. You’ve done things for money before, but -

Daryl hands the piece of pink satin to you. “S’posed to be a ribbon,” he says, shrugging. He’s embarrassed you realize, and it’s cute. “Found it on a toy, er, teddy bear, thought you might like it. If you don’t, I,” but you cut him off, scoot closer to him as you tie it around your wrist. 

“Thank you, Daryl,” you say softly, sweetly - and it feels so natural to lean in and press your lips against his cheek. His body is warm, and when you grip his bicep every cell in your body is on fire with desire. He must’ve taken his jacket off after the fight. If it could even be called that, with the way Daryl jumped Derek. Fights are usually a two way street.

Your heart swells, at the fact that he protected you. Thought about you on a run. Saw something and thought of you. Men have bought you things before, of course - but never something personal like this. Never something you didn’t have to ask for beforehand, for nothing in return.

Daryl, he - he gives you feelings so fuzzy and pure in your chest that you almost forget you’re sleeping just a few feet away from a forest of dead bodies. 

He doesn’t wipe his cheek when you pull away after the kiss, which is a step in the right direction. You’ve seen Daryl lose his shit over the intimacy of a simple thank you hug with someone else from camp before.

You feel special.

“Was nothin,’” he says, before pausing. He looks at you, then away again, wringing his hands before continuing. “Don’t feel any typa way about doin’ what you had to do to survive, ya hear me? I know what it’s like to do what you hav’to to live, ya know? That fucker. He doesn't have a clue about makin’ it on your own. How tough it can be. Don’ listen to the shit he’s got to say. Don’t listen to none of these people,” he won’t look at you, but you look at him, the side profile of his face so handsome you want to reach out and touch him. But you refrain. 

Instead, you squeeze his arm, bicep tan and bulging. You lick your bottom lip. “Daryl,” you interrupt him and he looks at you, gaze on your eyes, then your lips, then to the pretty ribbon tied around your wrist. He visibly swallows, before looking back at your eyes. His eyes are blue, pretty. Too pretty for a man as rugged as him, but what’s the saying? 

A person who is good on the inside - their beauty shines through. You think that’s true about Daryl. At this moment, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man as beautiful as him. You breathe him in, going crazy over his pheromones - his smell. You can feel your body getting aroused at his closeness, and he’s not even doing anything sexual.

“Next time,” you say, teasing tone in your voice, “Can you bring the whole bear?”

────

“Look at us,” you say, trying not to skip beside Daryl. A mood this good feels eerie in this new world, but you can’t help the way you feel.

Daryl asked you to join him for a walk, and ever since that night when he gave you the ribbon in your tent - you’ve been closer than ever. You wear the ribbon around your wrist every single day, except for right now, when you’re wearing it to hold some of your hair back. 

You’re not sure what’s going on with you and Daryl, but there’s a freedom about it that fills you with joy. Helps you exhale easier in this crazy, cruel world - because he’s safe, and you like being around him, and he obviously likes you too, right? Or he wouldn’t ask you to go for a walk every single day, wouldn’t pay special attention to you during meals, making sure you’re eating enough - 

And he really wouldn’t have kissed you against a tree during his watch last week if he had any bad feelings towards you. 

Things at the camp are complicated, because that stunt Derek pulled separated the group. There’s people that hate you, because they’re really mad at Daryl - but nobody can be actually mad at Daryl, since he does so much for the entire group. Catches animals for food, is one of the strongest men besides Rick. You’re not exactly his girl, not even close, but you know that the only reason you haven’t been used as walker bait is because of Daryl’s status at the camp. 

When he kissed you, just a few weeks after that night in the tent - it was so much softer than you imagined. Because, yeah - you imagined what it would be like to kiss Daryl Dixon. Ever since you met him, really. He’s so tough, so crass, such a force. It’s always been an opinion of yours, that the toughest people really just need some softness. You wonder now, when he smiles shyly at you as you walk past a stream, if you’re that softness for him these days. 

“Look at us, what, girlie?” He asks, and you stifle a giggle, trying to remain serious for the bit of the joke. You brush your hand against his as you walk, wondering when he’ll grab it. Wondering when, if, he’ll ever claim you. But you’re trying not to rush things. It’s easy to get worried about time, when every single day is life and death - but there's something kind of beautiful about just going with the flow of what feels good. 

Living in the present, which is literally all you have now. All anyone has. And right now, your goal in the present, is to make Daryl laugh. 

“You’ve got your bow,” you say, gesturing to his weapon, “And I’ve got mine.” You flip your hair, showing off the pink, satin ribbon holding your hair away from your face. Daryl chuckles and shakes his head, but it only lasts for a second. 

Your face heats, pleased with yourself for making him laugh, and then your breath hitches when he grabs hold of your hand. 

“Yer sumthin’ else, girl,” he says fondly, and you walk into an area dense with trees before he nudges you against the trunk of one.

You don’t know what life was like for Daryl before walkers took over the population. You’re not sure if he had a lot, or a little, experience with women before this all happened. In fact, you don’t know a lot about Daryl at all. He’s closed off, he’s a little mean sometimes, too tough for his own good -

But god, the way he kisses. 

Hesitant, like he’s scared to take something he didn’t earn. You want to tell him that every single part of you, he has earned. You’ve known him for more time than your longest relationship. You’ve seen each other filthy, desperate, depraved. Covered in blood, covered in guts - starving, dirty, depressed. For a man that hardly talks, Daryl somehow knows you better than any man, maybe even any other person, ever has. 

He stood up for you. He tries to take care of you. He’s a good friend, he’s -

When he slips a hand to your hip and drops his crossbow on the ground, squeezes at your skin in a way that’s so possessive it makes your breath hitch, you literally let out a cry. Against your lips, Daryl murmurs, “Quiet, ‘less you wanna have a threesum with a walker.” His tongue tastes like cigarettes, a little bit like the apple juice one of the kids at the camp wanted him to try, because he’s a good sport, even if his resting bitch face might suggest otherwise. 

There’s something about him ordering you around that does it for you. You let him take charge of the kiss, but you grab his roaming hand and move it to your breast. He squeezes, but in your new bra, you don’t feel the friction you’re so desperately craving from him rubbing over your nipples. You want more, and you whine, trying not to be greedy but it’s just so damn hard. 

Against the tree, Daryl slips a leg between yours, and you shamelessly bend down to try to rub your aching core against it. “Daryl,” you whine, and he laughs, pulling away to look at you, his hair that’s getting longer plastered against his forehead with sweat. Everything about him is overwhelming. His smell, intense, his lips, delicious, his strength and size, so fucking hot you just want to curl up in the pocket of his shirt and stay safe forever. 

Because you don’t have a doubt in your mind - Daryl would keep you safe. You wonder, why you wasted your time with finance guys and entrepreneurs and men who’d never gotten their hands dirty, back when life was normal. Daryl, with calloused fingertips and his thick accent, a country boy through and through - he pleases you, makes you happier than anyone you’ve ever met before. 

Yeah, even in the apocalypse, you can find the romance. You kiss Daryl deeper. 

He moves his hand down from your breast to slip it into your pants, and he lets out a low noise in his throat at the feeling of your wetness already. Just from kissing him. You’re not ashamed - it’s been a long time since anyone touched your pussy like this, a long time since you even touched it yourself. There’s just no time alone, and you share a tent, and -

“Yer soakin,’” Daryl comments, and your entire body flushes with humiliation. But the good kind. You nod. “For you,” you whisper, and he leans his forehead against yours before capturing your lips in his again. 

Just as you expected, Darly is good with his fingers. He positions one of your legs over his hip so he has better access to finger you, rough hands, the calloused pads of his thumb dragging over your clit, so swollen after so long without cumming. It’s not going to take long, you know, to completely fucking burst. You want it so bad, to come apart on his fingers, to show him just how good you can be. He’s knuckle deep inside of you while still also putting pressure on your clit when you let out a screech, thankful you opened your eyes in time to see the walker coming from behind Daryl. 

You push him off of you until he curses and tries to pick up his crossbow, fingers still slick with your pussy, but you beat him to it. You grab the knife out of your boot, even though your body feels like jelly, and you slam it into the walker’s forehead as hard as you can. You huff and puff, because it takes a lot out of you, and when the walker is on the ground you slam your boot into its face a few too many times until the bottom of your shoe is covered with walker brains. 

“He’s dead,” Daryl says behind you. “Don’ waste yer energy.” You roll your eyes, wiping sweat from your face with a bandana you had in your pocket. 

“I know. That’s for him ruining my orgasm,” you say out loud, and behind you, Daryl lets out a low whistle. You’re really humiliated now, but what are the chances? A fucking walker trying to eat Daryl while you’re trying to get him to eat you? Some fucking luck. 

There’s still blood splattering on your face, and you turn to Daryl, wiping it with your sleeve. “Doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,” you say sheepishly, unsure of how to read his bland expression. But just because a walker interrupted, doesn’t mean you don’t want to continue your little fingering session. Just in case, shame out the window, you reach for him. Daryl backs away slightly. 

“Slow down,” he says, pulling away from you. “Don’ wanna fuck you in the forest,” and you understand, but also - where else can you have sex? Everyone’s always watching each other. When else can you get some time alone? 

Daryl looks down at the bulge in his pants, and you reach down and grope him, like some kind of horny harlot. Maybe you are. He watches you, the color of your nails, your tiny hand - and he lets out a groan himself. 

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says, leaving you speechless and wet in the middle of the woods. He starts to walk away, but his head is turned to you and his eyes never leave you. You know it’s because he’s making sure you’re safe, watching over you, even with his dick chubbing up in his pants. He tugs his weapon up to rest on his shoulder. 

If that’s not a man, you don’t know what is. 

“Daryl,” you start to say, following him, about to beg him for something more, but he just throws an arm around your shoulders and tugs you along. You use the opportunity with his hand on your shoulder to tie the ribbon around his wrist, a small mark of your ownership. You wonder what he’ll say about that, if he’ll be mad -

He just squeezes your shoulder. “Not tryna deny you. I want you. Me and the little guy,” he looks down to his cock in his pants, obviously referring to that. “Yer just too pretty to do somethin’ like that in the woods. My tent, tonight?” You know that his tent mate is keeping watch tonight, so you’ll be alone for a good amount of time. Enough time to - you shiver just thinking about it. 

You nod eagerly. 

“You sure you’re not just disgusted at what I just did?” You phrase it like a joke, gently rubbing your lips on the healing cuts of his knuckles, but you’re serious. Maybe seeing a woman behave greedy, wanting, desperate - violent - maybe it was a huge turn off. 

Daryl shakes his head and tugs you closer, presses his lips to the top of your head. “Nah,” he assures, looking back down to the bulge in his pants. It’s even more noticeable than before. He takes the hand he used to finger you and sucks the digits, covered in your slick, into his mouth. The muscles in your cunt clench, at the way his cheekbones look, the level of lust in his eyes aimed at you. 

“That was fuckin’ sexy,” he assures, popping his fingers out of his mouth.

────

At dinner that night, which is squirrel - so you settle for half a protein bar and a bruised apple, Rick sits down beside you. You’re eating away from everyone else, because Daryl’s helping someone with something like he always is, but it’s alright because you’re in your own world, thinking about what’s to come later tonight with him. 

You’re in a trance, remembering the way he scratched at your scalp fondly when he walked you to your tent and watched you bend down to get inside. “Don’t sprain yer wrist before tonight,” he joked, insinuating you’d be finishing yourself off. He went off with a wink, leaving you reeling - because since when did Daryl Dixon joke around? 

You’ve been riding on a high for the rest of the night. 

Rick sitting beside you takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him and swallow the bit of stale protein bar you’ve been chewing for probably ten minutes, quirking an eyebrow at him. He’s so serious, it’s annoying. 

Don’t get it wrong - you like Rick. Appreciate everything he’s done, does for the camp - he’s just so intense, but he’s handsome in his own right too. Not your normal type, but then again - neither is Daryl. You just don’t understand a man like Rick, and he doesn’t get you. But he’s the best thing this group has, because he has everyone's interest at heart. Even someone like Daryl, well - 

He puts himself, and you by extension now, maybe - first. It’s not a bad thing, in fact, you find both sides of the coin admirable in their own way. 

“What’s up, Rick?” You finally ask. He looks down to his hands, before nodding behind you, and you turn and look at what he’s referring to - it’s Daryl, looking angrily at Derek, who’s by the fire drunkenly talking shit about everything while people try to calm him down. You sigh. 

“You and Daryl,” Rick says, and you’re not sure what to say to that - statement? Accusation? You just nod. “What about us?” You ask, and you really don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not sure why whatever you’re doing with Daryl is any of Rick, or anyone’s, business?

You expect a lecture. Something about needing to earn your keep, to stop distracting him, to make things right with Derek. Instead, Rick just pats you on the back, literally. 

“You’re good for him,” he says, before awkwardly walking off when someone calls his name. No doubt for a crisis that could easily be solved without his help. You feel sorta bad for Rick - people are so stressed, so traumatized in this new world, that they don’t want to use their brains at all. They put all their problems, no matter how small, on Rick, and that’s gotta be hard. 

You want to call out some sort of acknowledgement for all he does as he walks away, but Daryl begins walking towards you before you get the chance. You’re still looking towards Rick. “You checkin’ the boss out?” Daryl jokes, with something like possessiveness or jealousy in his tone. It burns you in the best way possible - that Daryl might worry about something like that. 

What can you say? You’ve always thought a possessive man was hot. 

Daryl plops down beside you. You’re sitting on a log, but he’s on the ground. Typical Daryl behavior. He wraps a hand around your ankle - and suddenly you’re very glad you got a chance to shave with the razor you stole from someone’s pile of toiletries after the last run. 

“That all yer eatin?’” He asks, referring to the empty wrapper in your hand. You shake your head and show off your sorry apple, but Daryl just shakes his head and scoffs. “Tha’s not enough. You can’t be picky about,” but he stops when he sees the expression on your face. 

You’ve talked to him about this before. He didn’t reply, but you know he was listening. Food - it’s the only thing you can be a little picky about. Everything else, you don't have any choice over. Where the camp goes, who you share a tent with. Food and now, this thing with Daryl - that’s all the power you have. Daryl nods, like he gets it but doesn’t like it, and then changes the subject. 

“Are you cold?” You ask, and Daryl laughs. As kind as he is to you, you know that he’s uncomfortable when you, or anyone, tries to show any kind of care for him. He nods his chin towards the ratty blanket you’re using. “You gon’ share with me, girlie?” You shake your head, a grin spreading across your face.

“No,” you say, tossing the blanket, the apple, and the wrapper into a duffle bag next to the log you’re sitting on. “Just thought I could warm you up in your tent.” Daryl looks like a deer caught in headlights as he peaks over your shoulder to where the rest of the group is getting ready for bed, his tent mate grabbing a gun before heading to the area where he’ll keep watch while everyone sleeps. 

Daryl nods. “Yer dirty,” he grumbles, standing up, but he runs his hands up and down his bare arms like he’s feigning being cold. “C’mon then. You gunna warm me up or what?”

────

The first time Daryl fucked you, he went slow. Took his time, opening you up with his thick fingers, even though you didn’t need the extra time. You were aching, wet - desperate for him to shove his cock inside of you, because you’d been thinking about it for too long. Too much kissing, humping, friction between the two of you - all you wanted, could imagine, was how his cock would feel against your throbbing center. 

When he finally thrusted inside of you, stretched you out and began to fuck into you, he didn’t let himself go like you always imagined. Insecurely, you narrowed your eyes, even as your back arched off of his sleeping bag. “When’s the last time?” You asked, referring to the last time he had sex. Daryl just let out a shaky laugh and calmed your fears with a thrust that made your toes curl and a moan escape your lips. 

“Long enough, pretty girl,” he assured, all while you huffed in brat and dug your nails into his shoulders. “Jus’ wanna enjoy it. We’ve finally got the time.” And Daryl was right, but really, when is he ever wrong?

The first time you had sex you got to enjoy going slow. But the rest of the times after that - and there’s been a lot now, it’s always a quickie. A rush, because shit hit the fan at your current camp soon after the first night together. The entire group had to move, you lost people to walkers (though not Derek, unfortunately), and now getting off with Daryl only happens in quick spurts whenever you’re alone. 

In a way, the drama surrounding the camp has made the two of you closer. 

When the entire group has to drive down a walker infested highway, normally you’d be in a camper van with the other women and children, but Daryl has your back. 

“You’re ridin’ with me,” he says, shooting Rick a look before anyone can object. As he walks off, he purposely bumps his shoulder into Derek, who scoffs and does the same to you. Daryl doesn’t notice, but Rick does, and he tells Derek off before Daryl can do anything drastic like beat his ass again. 

“Hey,” he warns, shoving Derek away from you. “Watch it,” Derek grumbles, glaring at you before hopping into the back of a truck with a few of the other men. “What?” He asks mockingly, because you’re frozen, watching him in a trance while Daryl starts up his bike. 

Derek just can’t leave you alone - he picks on you every single chance he gets. “You got Rick standing up for you now too, huh?” He says, shaking his head in disgust. “You let him fuck you too?”

It’s not his words that hurt so much, but it’s the fact that he’s saying them at all. You’ve never done anything to Derek, have only been nice, yet he looks at you like a target and it hurts so bad your eyes threaten to spill tears. Thankfully, Daryl comes for you, and you get on the back of his bike with ease. 

“You okay?” He asks, even though it’s hard to hear with the sound of the rumble from the motorcycle. You nod, and press your face into his back. Daryl takes off down the highway, leading the way while Rick follows behind, and you selfishly let yourself doze off against him. You trust Daryl, more than you’ve ever trusted another man - and that’s a lot of pressure. 

Trusting anyone these days means you’re putting your life in their hands. It’s exhausting. When you tell the women at camp you’ll watch their kids while they go to the restroom, or go for a walk - essentially what you’re saying is you’ll protect their kids if shit was going south. Even just the thought, being responsible for someone else - it makes your chest heave. 

Your arms are tight around Daryl as he drives. You’re not sure how long you’re on the road for when the motorcycle stops, but you know you’re much farther ahead then the rest of the group. In another life, you imagine Daryl happy and free - driving to a city, or another town on a brand new motorcycle. Maybe working in a shop. You feel a pang of sadness, that he’ll never get that. 

He deserves so much more than this shit. You all do. 

Except maybe Derek. 

And Cindy. Fuck that bitch.

Daryl stops the bike and you get off, stretching your legs. 

“You good, dolly?” He asks, and you wrinkle your nose at the nickname. You’re pretending not to like it, when in reality, it makes you tingle all over. You nod. 

“You go fast,” you say, and he laughs, steps off of the bike and walks to an empty field off to the side of the highway. “‘S the only way to go. Stay here,” he orders, before walking off. He grumbles something about taking a piss and you stifle a laugh, pretending to salute him. You see his hand twitch, like he wants to jokingly flip you off, but he stops himself. 

Something about that, that he won’t play rough with you, has your knees feeling wobbly. You feel like you can breathe, without the rest of the group breathing down your back, insulting you, accusing you of doing sexual things just to be treated like a human being. You try not to think about it, because you want to have a decent day and don’t want Derek to be the cause of tears when you’ve been through worse circumstances without crying. It’s hard though. 

You walk around the motorcycle, eyes on the ground. You catch a glimpse of your shoelace, pink against the black of your boot, because you used the ribbon for added flair when you gave your shoelace to someone at the camp who needed a belt. 

Daryl saw you, and promised you that night with his cock buried deep in your throat, “I’ll get you some more ribbons, pretty girl,” he assured, while you gagged and spit dribbled down your chin. “Too hard to hold your hair back when yer suckin’ me off like a pro.” 

That comment should’ve stung, but you know Daryl didn’t mean it like that. In fact, it was so hot that you did your best, until he spilled down your throat and you licked the mess you made off of his cock and balls and thighs. 

You’re lost in your thoughts, busy giving your pussy a heartbeat when you notice a little gold, bullet shaped thing on the ground. You’re not sure what it is, but if it is a bullet, you know having extra is always good. You reach down to grab it, only then realizing that it's a lipstick. 

You pop open the lid. It’s a pretty pink color, and while it’s used - you can’t even remember the last time you wore makeup. You wipe the top layer off before dabbing some with your finger and putting it on, trying to check yourself out in the mirror of the motorcycle when Daryl comes back. 

“The fuck are they?” He asks, zipping his pants up. He’s so, so, so - crass sometimes that it’s endearing. You shrug, and that’s when he notices the lipstick you’re wearing. His eyes are hooded, heavy with tiredness, and it makes him look all the more handsome. “There a makeup store aroun’ here I shud know about?” He teases, and you shake your head and hold up the lipstick tube. 

“Found this. How’s it look?” Daryl just nods, looking at you with a strange expression. You’re not sure what he’s thinking, until he tugs you closer to him by the wrist and tentatively presses his lips against yours. 

“Don’ care about the gloss,” he comments, and you resist the urge to explain it’s not gloss, it’s lipstick. “But I don’ call you pretty girl for no reason. Always pretty,” he says shyly, and Daryl is a perfect guy, but he never opens up. Hardly ever says how he feels, or what he thinks - but he’s being clear now. That he wants you, verbally, even though his actions in everything he do is always proving that to you. 

It’s crazy, the feeling of happiness bubbling in your chest, all thanks to Daryl Dixon. On the fucking highway filled with walkers probably silent in their cars, with flat tires and blood stains and ramsacked belongings, you stand on your tip toes and nudge the toe of your boots against his, grabbing hold of his handsome face and peppering kisses all over. You leave pink lipstick marks, but he doesn’t know that yet - and it makes you giggle. 

Putting your mark all over Daryl - you’ve never been possessive, but wow does it feel good. When you finally pull away, Daryl looks at you like you’re crazy. Then he takes a look down the highway to make sure nobody’s coming, before bending you over the front of his motorcycle. 

“Grab the handlebars,” he orders, a hand on your back before roughly pulling your pants down your ass. It’s risky, knowing that the rest of the camp could drive up at any minute, but who really cares? They already think so low of you. They already -

Your eyes shut as Daryl shoves his half hard cock inside of you, and your walls clamp down around him, so tight you feel him growing. It happened so fast he wasn’t even fully hard, but now he is, small thrusts so the both of you can get used to the feeling. Your hands are cramping where they grip the bars of his bike, so tight, until it almost starts to tip. Daryl has an idea. 

He pulls out, cock in hand with his fucking pants not even pulled all the way down, and he sits himself over his bike like normal. “Take em’ off,” he says, nodding towards your pants, and you obey, stripping them off until it takes too long because of your boots and Daryl just hauls you over to him. 

You almost trip as he lifts you onto the bike, bent over the handlebars, eyes on the road, before he slips his cock into you. It’s like you’re sitting on his lap, and he reaches around you, fully supporting your body while rubbing your clit. 

“Can you move?” He asks roughly, and you whine, trying to go up and down on his cock but it’s too hard at the angle. Daryl presses a kiss to your head, moves some of your hair back while he takes hold of your hips and ruts you back and forth over his dick. You know he’s strong, but feeling it first hand is something else entirely. It’s like you’re a doll with the way he easily controls your body, dick so thick it feels like he’s stretching your pussy into the perfect mold just for him.

“Don’ worry,” he assures, letting out a breath of pleasure right by your ear. “I got ya. Only time yer quiet ‘s when you got my cock in you, huh?”

He’s not wrong. You wish you could see his face, but this position, your back to his front, is pretty hot too.

It’s only a minute later, when his hand slips while you try to pull your body up to do some of the work, that he nearly pinches your clit and it’s the pain that sends you over the edge. You cum, that easily against him, and you cry out his name just as you both hear the sound of an engine in the distance. Daryl curses, throws his head back at the feel of your tight pussy squeezing him, and quite literally picks you up off his cock and puts you on your feet. 

“Knees,” he says quickly, and you obey, because of course you do, even though the gravel of the road is a little painful on your knees. He grabs you by your hair, and forces your mouth onto his cock where he spills his load down your throat. You swallow it down and kitten lick the head of his cock clean after, admiring the pink lipstick marks all over his perfect dick as he quickly zips tucks his dick in his pants and zips up, but not before helping you get your pants back up too. 

“If we live another day,” Daryl says, helping you straighten out your pants when the other cars pull up. He snaps the band of your panties, white cotton and floral print, against your skin while the rest of the group gets out of the cars to have a meeting over some bullshit, you’re sure. “I’ll return the favor,” he finishes. 

You don’t know if he’s joking or not, but you pull up his arm and cuddle into his side as he stands up, his tongue on your mind even though you just came all over his cock. You wish you could’ve had time to ride your orgasm out, but you’ll take what you can get.

Rick nods to Daryl as he gets out of his truck. He looks between the two of you, and for the first time, maybe ever, - you see him smirk a little. 

“‘S your color, man,” he says, closing the car door. Daryl is confused, and takes a look at himself in the rearview mirror of his motorcycle, notices all the kiss marks and another first happens -

Daryl Dixon blushes red.

────

“I wanna come,” you say, resisting the urge to literally stomp your foot as Rick and Daryl and a few other men head out on a run. 

It’s not like you actually want to go, but you can’t bear the thought of Daryl leaving without you. You know he can take care of himself, but the thought of him not returning - it literally makes you feel sick. You tug on the sleeves of your sweater while Daryl loads a bag of guns into the back of Rick’s truck, the other men exchanging glances that you know are them hoping Rick puts you in your place. 

Ever since people caught on about you and Daryl, they’ve kept their mouths shut in regards to you. Which is good. You’re still ignored, like before - but at least you’ve got a little respect. You cross your arms as Rick and Daryl walk towards you. 

“It’s dangerous out there,” Rick says, as if you’re an idiot who’s head has been buried in the sand for the past year. He sighs. “Look - we need you here. This is your role,” he looks like he wants to continue, but Daryl places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a look that Rick knows means let me handle this.

But you already know what Daryl is going to say to you, and you don’t want to fucking hear it. “I want to come, Daryl,” you say, trying not to whine. “I’m good with a gun, and since Derek can’t go,” you lower your voice, but Derek must’ve been slinking around. He pops up next to you, and Daryl tenses. 

“You,” Daryl warns, mood gone sour just from Derek’s presence. “Fuck off.”

Derek laughs, but he’s obviously pissed. He can’t go on anymore runs, at least not for a while - he’s too scared, after a walker almost bit him the last time. 

It’s only when you tense up, that Daryl realizes the other reason you don’t want to be left alone. 

You don’t want to be alone with Derek. Yes, there’s other women at the camp and a few other men, but Derek is a scary, loose cannon. He’s the last person you want to be around right now. Daryl’s jaw locks, and he looks between the two of you, at the way you’re uncomfortable. Someone in Rick’s truck blares the horn, and he turns around, stressed out, not knowing what to do. 

“Fuck face,” Daryl grumbles, running a hand down his face. He’s addressing Derek with a glare. He walks closer to him, chest to chest almost, backing Derek almost onto his ass. Derek can pretend to be tough all he wants - but he’s a bitch in comparison to a man like Daryl. 

“Stay away from her. Don’t even look at her. If I come back and you so much as,” but Derek smirks. “If,” he emphasizes, until Daryl literally shoves him. Rick calls his name, and Daryl backs off. 

You end up dropping whatever you’re saying, hating the position you’re putting Daryl in - like you’re a kid who has to have your way. Daryl is just trying to help the group, he has responsibilities - you don’t need to make his job harder than it is, so you wave him off. “I’ll be fine, Daryl. Just - come back safe.” You kiss his cheek and then he’s off.

You go to your tent to avoid Derek when the men going on the run are gone, but as you walk away you hear him speaking to you. “What’re you doing with that white trash? You might’ve been a whore, but you’re no trailer trash. You wouldn’t be with him if this was any other world.”

You stop in your tracks. “Don’t talk about Daryl like that,” you say softly, but firmly. For all Daryl does for everyone - you can’t believe Derek has the fucking nerve to talk shit. You want to flip him off, but he walks closer to you, and you freeze. You’re more scared of this man than a fucking walker, and your stomach flips with anxiety at his nearness.

“I worked in finance,” he says, like it matters. You actually have to stifle a laugh, confused at why his past matters - he’s so worthless that this is all he has to brag about? He thinks you care? Is he trying to relate to you, by putting Daryl down? He’s an idiot.

You smile sweetly, as if that’s anything to brag about. All the finance guys you knew in the city before all of this - they were horrible people. Of course that’s what Derek used to do. 

“Trust me, Derek,” you say, hoping it stings. “I know.”

You walk away again, but just as you do, he grabs you by the arm. You try to pull your arm out of his grasp, but he won’t let you go. He tugs you closer to him, and you wish anyone cared about you enough to help you. 

“Let go of me,” you spit, but Derek just shakes his head.

“You’re such a stupid bitch, you know that? Acting too good for any of us, treating all of us like shit. But you put out for fucking Dixon - let all of us hear you letting him fuck you in his tent and the woods. We saw you on your knees that day on the highway. I mean, it’s not a secret you’re a slut, but it’s another thing to see it. And now Rick is defending you? That why you were talking to him the other day for dinner? Offering yourself up for more rations or something? You’re sick,” Derek rants and raves, bruising your arm with his grip.

“Let me go,” you say, trying not to show how scared you are. “Or I’ll fucking scream.” 

Derek actually laughs, shaking his head. You’re disturbed to know that he’s been watching you? Following you and Daryl? Because the both of you know - you only ever fooled around with Daryl when nobody could listen and see unless they were trying to. You wouldn’t do that, and neither would Daryl.

“If I’m such a stupid slut, that must make you pretty bad, huh? That I won’t even put out for you,” you hate that you even say those words, like you’d ever consider having sex with this man, but you want to hurt him. To get him to see that he's wrong about you - you want him to leave you alone.  

“You fucking bitch,” Derek says, pushing you to the ground.

You let out a cry. You should’ve never told Daryl and Rick you’d be okay, you should’ve -

Suddenly Derek is off of you. You’re frozen for a second, before you hear screaming and someone calling out your name. 

You’re in shock as someone helps you up. You know it’s Rick, because you notice his watch. “Damnit,” he curses, and you register the sound of Daryl’s voice. You look around for him, and when you find him, you see Derek on the ground, an arrow in his head. 

He’s dead - for now. That fast. Until he turns into a walker. 

Daryl walks to you, pulls you into his arms. “What happened?” He asks, and you’re worried he’s going to blame you, because you provoked him, and you stupidly left your weapons in your tent. You’re worried he’s going to think differently of you, that Rick will be mad that Derek is dead, and all these worries start swirling in your head until you can’t be strong anymore. You start crying so loud that you know you’ll be responsible for any walkers coming into camp tonight. 

Rick starts to talk, but Daryl, for the first time ever, shuts him down harshly. “No, man. I ain’t sorry. He had it coming,” he says sharply, and Rick just swallows, holds his hands up like he agrees. 

“Jus’ was gonna say to finish the job,” and you know he means, kill the fucker before he turns. 

But you don't want Daryl to do it.

No, this is a job you can do. 

Wordlessly, you pull yourself out of Daryl’s arms and walk towards Derek’s corpse. Everyone at the camp has gathered around now, too little too fucking late, but Rick tries to stop you from getting closer. You smack his hand away, and hold your palm out. It takes a minute, until Daryl finally orders Rick to give you what you want. 

Rick hesitantly places a gun in your hand - and you shoot Derek in the head.

────

You’ve never killed someone who hasn’t turned yet. Derek was the first.

What scares you the most, is how little you care. 

After what happened, you told Daryl everything that Derek said. You learned that night, from both Rick and Daryl, that the reason Derek was so horrible is because he wanted you - and how scary is that? What if he hurt you in another way once he had you on the ground? You’re lucky Rick forgot his gun and backpack on the run, that they had to turn around and come back to camp - the reason they got to you in time.

Rick assured you that you did the right thing. Which felt good, coming from the moral compass of the group. Everyone else was kind too, apologetic - you guess Derek scared more people into submission than you thought. 

But Daryl was just pissed. More angry than you’d ever seen him. Throwing shit, breaking stuff - burning Derek the minute he dragged him a far enough distance from camp. Derek never even got a chance to turn. 

Daryl threatened to leave the group with just you. It seemed like a good idea at first, until the reality that two people can’t survive on their own. No matter how resourceful, strong, and brave Daryl is. 

But that meant a lot, that Daryl was trying - but the important thing is to survive. 

The last few weeks, you’ve kept your head down. You clean, you help cook, you even take a few bites of whatever Daryl cooks because he pretty much forces you to - and because, secretly, you like how proud of you he looks when you try something new. 

You just wish the world was different. But Daryl’s been amazing. 

Rick’s been kind too. Everyone has, and maybe -

The sound of the zipper on your tent takes you out of your thoughts. You’re braiding your hair since you just washed it, but it’s proving to be a difficult task. You’re thankful for the distraction.

It’s Daryl.

“I already ate,” you tell him, worried that he’s bringing you some rodent that’s badly cooked. But you’re trying to be nice - he’s the only good thing in your world these days, so you soften your words. “Come inside and cuddle.”

Daryl squeezes inside the tent, and he leans on his side by your sleeping bag, just watching you. His head balanced on his hand, propped up on his elbow.

“Have somethin’ for you,” he says, not waiting for you to reply. In his hand is something wrapped in a tissue and you wonder what it is. He places it on your lap, and you look at him, excited but also a little upset. 

“I told you to stop risking your life to get me things,” you scold, because everytime Daryl goes on a run, he finds things for you. Ribbons, hair clips, a pink toothbrush the other day. Lip gloss and lipstick (he knows the difference now), a pair of socks with little bows on them that are a size too big but still your favorite. He’s always saying how cute you are, how he thinks about you whenever he sees something pink.

It’s the best compliment ever.

You look to the other end of your sleeping bag, where a teddy bear Daryl found for you on a run a few weeks ago faces you both. It’s missing an eye, has the ribbon, the first gift he ever gave to you tied around its neck, and you love it so much that you sleep with it every night.

It’s definitely seen better days, and you don’t really know where he found it, but it’s so special to you - partly because Daryl gave it to you, and partly because it’s a little part of him that’s always with you. Part teddy bear, part security blanket - just like him.

It’s also a little scraggly. Sort of rough, dirty - but cuddly just the same. Kind of like Daryl. You move it a little closer.

Daryl groans in frustration and you almost roll your eyes at the dramatics. “Hush, lady, y’know I can take care of myself. ‘S nothing,” he nods to the thing on your lap, and you sigh and open the tissue. 

It’s a cookie. 

Your brows furrow, and you look at Daryl, all confused. “What,” you start, and he shrugs, sitting up. He rubs a hand down his face. 

“Remembered what you said, about the cookies,” he’s sheepish, as if this isn’t the sweetest thing in the world. You gulp, trying not to cry at how touched you are, but you can’t help it. Tears brim at your waterline, and you wipe your eyes. 

“Oh,” he scolds, letting out a huff. “Don’ cry. I just remembered what you said, is all. It’s probably not good anymore, but you’re my girl, and I want,” you smile even as tears run down your face. 

“Your girl,” you hold that close to your heart, and Daryl nods, avoiding eye contact. You don’t care. You throw yourself into his arms. 

His hug is warm, strong, and you feel the stress leave your body as he kisses your temple. He was listening, all those times you were talking. 

Daryl Dixon, you think, the man that you are. 

Your silence must be unexpected. He pulls away, watches your thumb brush over the most likely stale cookie he probably found on a run. You’re not really gonna eat it - but it’s the thought that counts. 

“You talked about what ya miss, from before. But when I look back,” pretty blue eyes look at you. He cups your chin, presses his lips against yours. 

You make a note to ask for chapstick for the both of you on the next run. 

“Don’ cry, c’mon. You’re makin me soft,” he complains, even as he holds you closer. You want tell him that you can’t make him something he already is, but what he says next throws the sass right out of you. “When I look back, before I knew you,” he finishes shyly, “I just miss you, ya know?” 

Daryl says that he’s not romantic, but he’s the most romantic man you've ever met. He’s a good person. He’s kind, and thoughtful, and even though he’s vague sometimes, too quiet for his own good - you know what he means. 

You can’t believe there was a time you didn’t know - a time you didn’t love - this man. He’s everything to you.

And maybe, yeah - this world is hell. There’s death and decay and too much sadness to catch a break, but there’s one good thing in all of it. One thing so important to the both of you, that gives a little bit of meaning to this shitty, shitty world. 

You found each other. You have each other. 

You sniffle and nod, holding the cookie close, but Daryl even closer.

“Yeah,” you say, kissing his cheek softly. You feel him relax at your touch. “I’ve always missed you too, Daryl.”

[xanaxiii]

I like to watch your ass when you get ready

you're putting on that slutty dress you like so much while you wait for Frank.

when he enters the shared room he whistles. "you gonna wear that?" he asks, since you both are going to a semi formal party at your work.

"why? you don't like it?" you pout as you put on makeup.

"nah I love it, but those fuckers you call co workers are gonna be staring" he sits on the end of the bed, watching you get pretty in the bathroom.

"so?" he frowns "'so?' I don't like that shit"

"all of them will know you are the only one I want" you adjust your bra so your tits don't come out.

"all of them will know you're mine" he can't stop staring at your ass.

"what are you looking at, Castle?"

"I like watching your ass while you get ready"

"is that so?" you get closer to him meanwhile you put on a pair of gold earrings.

"mhm, you got me all worked out" he grabs you and makes you sit on his lap "see?" he knows well that you can feel his dick getting harder on his pants.

"we're going to be late" he kisses your neck slowly. "it doesn't matter" you smirk and give him a kiss. "don't you dare to ruin my dress". he pulls his pants down, lifting you a little bit, now you can feel him.

"the only thing I wanna ruin is you" he slowly gets his hand between your legs, feeling your panties already wet, his fingers slowly press your clit, you let out little moans. he moves your underwear to the side and slowly inserts his fat cock inside of you.

your hands grip his thighs at the overwhelming feeling, a little tear forms in your eyes, he just went for it with no prep. his big hands lift your ass and start pounding into you, your perfectly styled hair and makeup was completely ruined after a couple of minutes.

the tears running on your cheeks made a trail of your black mascara, your lipstick was smudged, you both were all sweaty, but he wasn't satisfied. one of his hands now pulled your hair towards him, he gave you a bite on your neck. his other hand was stimulating your poor clit, making your squirm as he kept fucking you.

"you gon' let me cum inside?" he groans into your ear "fuck! Fra- ah! yes-" he holds you steady now as he fills you up. he stays inside for a couple of seconds, and when he pulls out, he slaps your ass and put your panties in place.

"come on, doll, we are going to be late" !!

reposts and requests are appreciated :3

[xanaxiii]

sometimes when daryl comes back from a stressful supply run he’ll just beeline it right to wherever you are and tug you along with him to your room/cell and just start playing with your tits to calm himself down. you don’t say a word and he doesn’t say a word, just either pulls you into his lap to straddle him or pushes you down on the bed. if you’re already alone, he’ll come up behind you and just reach into your shirt, using them like stress balls. he’ll nip and suck at them, leaving behind trails of hickeys as his tongue swirls around your nipples effortlessly. he’ll let out small tiny whimpers and moans as your fingers gently coin through his dark locks, massaging his scalp to help release some more tension. sometimes he’ll rut against you as he’s mindlessly sucking on you, telling you how pretty you are, how pretty your own sounds are. he simply cannot get enough of you 𐑺

[xanaxiii]

it happened quiet | daryl dixon x fem!reader

Summary: [1.5k] What you and Daryl have is a soft quiet love.

Big Bald Ass Note: I’ve always had a love for Daryl Dixon. He was one of the first “older man” crushes I ever had many years ago. I’ve always loved his character and the way Norman Reedus has and still does portray this character is like no other. My favorite thing about him that I didn’t understand when I watched twd when I was young but grew into adulthood was his introverted character. And how his care for others was soft, quiet and subtle yet strong and profound all at the same time. As a person who has a quiet love, personally prefers it and deeply cherishes that quiet love. I had the sudden urge to write this. I’ve been getting back into my Daryl Dixon phase recently and I just couldn’t get this out of my head. Thank you to @moonpascal for giving me that little push I needed to just go for it while the juices were flowing despite my other fic waiting outside waving her hands hoping to be seen, This is a long author’s note but this piece is truly something that means a lot to me. Which is funny because this is literally fanfiction but it's still writing and it's still art and it's mine. 

Enjoy.

Daryl wasn’t an affectionate person. It’s never been something that just came easy to him. He never received it as a child and didn’t think anything of it once he got older. 

There was one time when he was really really young. He was waiting for Merle after school, his older brother’s school building a few blocks away, and he watched his classmates greet their parents. He saw the parents with bright eyes and wide smiles. Mothers kissing their sons on the cheeks and fathers rubbing the top of their heads.

 A strong deep feeling within his belly grew from the sight of it and it got bigger and bigger as the two Dixon brothers walked back home.

And when they got to their home, Daryl saw their mom had been exactly in the same spot where the two boys had left her. Face down into the pillow, an arm hanging off the side of the bed where a spilled bottle of Jack Daniels had stained seeped into the carpet. 

Daryl cried for the first time ever. He cried for something he never had. 

He didn’t cry when he saw kids on the streets with new bikes and scooters. Didn’t cry when his mom and dad would yell until the sun went down. But he cried for this. That deep strong feeling that he couldn’t name poured out of him and he cried. Standing in the hallway as he watched his mother sleep. 

Merle, barely a teen and was bitching about spilled liquor, thought he was crying because mom looked too still. His older brother checked her pulse and felt the faint thump, thump, thump. “She’s jus sleepin’ Daryl.”, he explained to him. But Daryl didn’t stop crying. He hunched over, clutched his chest like his heart had been twisted and shoved down into his stomach and cried.

When Merle finally found out why he was crying, the older brother placed his hands on each of Daryl’s shoulders, stooped to his level and looked directly into his eyes. 

“Dixons don’t cry. Not over that or anything else. We just weren’t made for that stuff.” 

Daryl never cried or wanted it again. 

Until now. 

Until you. 

When the world’s gone to shit and the dead are walking. You gotta learn how to start trusting the living. Well,  to learn how to trust your group. They don’t just become a group of people you survive with. They become your family whether you like it or not. 

And in the beginning, Daryl sure as hell didn’t like it. 

He tried to force it away. To keep himself on the outside like he’s always done. Still did even when his brother went missing when they went back for him on that roof. But when time goes on and people die you build something, you find something and you learn something. He warmed into being more into the group. To being something of importance to Rick and the others. More than just Merle’s younger brother.  

He remembers Carol telling him that he was meant for a leadership role but he’s never thought that about himself. And never will.

And getting closer to them came with affection. Came with a bond. With awkward hugs from Carol when he had spent day and night looking for Sophia. Her cropped hair pressed against his bandaged ear. It came with pats on the back from Rick and looks that meant something a lot more brotherly than he’s ever felt with Merle. With you and your small smiles and lingering eyes. 

He had to learn to accept it. To learn that it was okay and wasn’t out of pity. That it was something he was actually allowed to have. It took him a long time to and he still only takes it in doses. Giving Carol a Cherokee Rose or the brief massage of her sore shoulder. Patting Rick’s shoulder,  hoping he knows how much his brotherly bond means to him through it. Nodding his head at you with the tip of his ears a bit red as he turns his head away from you. 

You’ve been a part of the group for as long as he could remember. And the two of you didn’t become something immediately. Daryl was an ass to you when all of this first started. He was an ass to everyone. But when he would small smiles from the courtyard, he would feel something that had never stirred inside of him before.

You were a touchy person. 

Always within arms reach of someone. Giving Lori a reassuring squeeze of the hand or hug when she seemed like she would just break down in tears from the stress of being pregnant in this world. Kissing the top of Beth's head when she came to you with her anxieties over the group's safety. Or playfully slapping T-Dog’s shoulder when he used to make you laugh.

But when it came to Daryl you never touched him. And he felt off about it. Thankful but off.

 When the two of you were starting to become something more, he had subtly brought it up when the two of you were on watch. It felt like pulling teeth when he asked you. And he would rather have done that with a rusted wrench than do this.

“I know you Daryl.” you said to him with a shrug. 

That was the only thing that you said to him when he had asked but it was all that he needed. As your eyes never left his, he watched you smile softly. The moon giving your skin a light glow. You knew that he doesn’t respond well to physical affection. To hugs or kisses on the cheek (except from Carol who does it despite the awkwardness she laughs through). You knew it was something he just wasn’t used to. Or even maybe never had.  It was only four words but it meant more to Darly than he could even say in a lifetime. 

And if you ever told anyone that he was the one that made the first move and kissed you at the top of the prison tower. He will lie until he’s blue in the face and say he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. 

After that you became more affectionate with each other. More touchy than before. Not touchy like Glenn and Maggie. Kissing each other goodbye when the other would go on a run or a quick kiss good morning. Or hugging after a run gone bad and they almost lost the other. Public display of affection to his partner, to you, is something Daryl could never really get on with. 

But what the two of you had was a quiet love. A word Daryl still had a hard time saying and rarely ever said but knew deep in his heart that he felt it whenever he looked at you. 

It was a quiet love filled with small glances and innocent touches. His hand against the small of your back or a quick tap on your arm or thigh. Your small smile to greet him and the nods that greets you.  Holding his hand underneath the table. Feeling his calloused thumb rub against your hand once or twice. Checking on eachother during the other’s watch shift. Him adding some of his food on your plate as he walks past you. You giving him a snack of whatever random thing you have on hand in the evening. Placing your head on his shoulder very briefly when there's not many people around. A mutual meaning of a hug when it's late at night and you won’t see him for a while.   

It was a silent bond the others knew about by name(ish) and feeling  but not as much by action. Those actions were yours and yours alone. And you both preferred it that way. 

Tender kisses and tight hugs. Soft caresses on the cheek and tracing fingers across bare chests. Whispered stories of childhood that turn into bedtime stories throughout the night. Expressing moments of doubt, fear or anger. Tears that would fall on your face and the feeling of his lips pressed against the top of your head.  

Even in moments when you were sleeping next to him. Your head on top of his chest or his arm curled around your stomach. Daryl would feel your wrist, his thumb against your pulse to make sure it's still beating. Or hold as still as he can like he’s tracking a buck in the forest to feel the up and down of your body to ensure you’re breathing. 

You became a big part of his life. This group (his family)  became a big part of his life. Who knew that it would only take the end of the world for him to feel something more than just anger for the first time in his entire life.  

Daryl wasn’t an affectionate person. But he learned how to be. For the good of the group, for himself and for you. 

dividers by @saradika

[xanaxiii]

Frank would become an utter sap if he had an artist s/o who draws him, who pbserves his face whenever talking with them and just looking at him wondering how they will draw him later and just studying him with so much love.

He finds the sketches randomly and is just utterly love struck that someone would draw him especially multiple times, the little notes about what features make up his face and especially just a small comment to always draw 'his big puppy eyes' first.

I'm completely normal about this man I swear

good LORD, is this ever sweet. like I almost don't even want to elaborate on it too much because of how perfectly you've described it?? alas- let's both be 'normal' about him for a second together, ok?

I imagine that one of the things frank loves most about you (and the list is long) are your hands. how- no matter how often you scrub or soak them, they're perpetually covered in specks of paint or carcoal smudges. when he reaches for your hand, he instinctively brushes his thumb over the swell of hardened skin on your middle finger from holding the pencil too long.

he admires the dedication you have for your craft, and if he really had to dig a little deeper, he supposed that he was envious of it in a way, too. almost like when a higher being was sorting him out at the beginning of everything, they just kind of forgot to imbue him with any sort of passion for something. but then that isn't entirely true, is it? his devotion to you often rivals the depths of the mariana trench.

it's why he's often perplexed at how much time you spend watching him. like, why him? you know? like, of all the people in the world, you could have spent your precious moments adoring observing, you chose him. the notion of it never ceases to baffle him.

he feels your gaze before he sets eyes on you. it's rainy and dreary in hells kitchen, but your presence has always felt like warm sunshine to him. "you're doin' it again," he hums over a steaming mug of black coffee.

you swallow back your own sip of tea and shrug. "I'm just amazed that every time I look at you, I discover something new."

he huffs out an amused chuckle. "yeah? like what?"

you smile at him like you're the only one in on the secret. "like this scar, for instance," you lean across the table to trace a fingertip over the miniscule line of silver tissue just beneath his left eye. "I don't think I've ever noticed it until now."

he tips back the dregs from his cup before murmuring, "shrapnel." as if it were normal. as if going to war and single-handedly clearing an enemy compound were just your average, run-of-the-mill type situations.

"you deserve to be adored, frank." is all you say before getting up to head to the sink with his mug.

he doesn't believe it in the slightest, but it sure sounds pretty comin' out of your mouth.

it's about a week later when he stumbles upon the sketches in the office. he'd been looking for a newspaper clipping when he unearthed them. he gazes at the notes in the margins written in your scrawl- strong features; one of my most favourite noses. that makes him laugh. then a block of ice the size of jersey chips free from his left ventricle when he sees a note that says - his big, puppy dog eyes are the most expressive i've ever seen; tend to turn golden-umber when he's looking at me.

he doesn't allow it to happen often, but he suddenly feels overwhelmed with love for you. he's not exactly sure where to put it, so he lets it settle in right next to his heart for the time being, and makes a mental note to kiss you like his life depends on it when you get home.