love-is-a-dagger

[love-is-a-dagger]

"my kid is better than your kid" kind of dads

[love-is-a-dagger]

It’s always going to be so funny to me that for a split second Eugene actually thought he could square up with Daryl.

[love-is-a-dagger]

All at Once, This is Enough

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader Setting: Alexandria (Whisperers Arc) Warnings: Descriptions of childbirth Summary: Baby Dixon is impatient, an experience you and Daryl will never forget. A/N: I actually love writing Daryl as a dad (or soon to be dad). I think I’ll continue this with little drabbles here and there, but for now, this is the last installment.

The door flew inward and bounced off the wall from the force of Daryl’s boot, wood chips flying but it seemed to still be functional. He turned his body to shield you in case of any threats inside, but the one room cabin was empty save for some old, run down furniture. You curled in on yourself with a pained wince, clutching your rounded belly as the muscles tightened and rippled under your hands. 

“Tha’ ‘nother one?” Daryl asked, gently placing you on the decrepit couch, Dog lying obediently by your feet. You nodded, breathing through your mouth, slow and deeply. “‘Bout four minutes maybe.” He mumbled to himself. He had no way to time but Siddiq had told him to try. In a rush of movement, the archer tore the old sheets off the bed, sending dust up in a cloud. He glanced at you apologetically while digging the extra blankets out of the pack. You had stuffed the damn thing full, so he could only pray there were things that would be useful. 

“I’m sorry.” You sniffled when the pain ebbed away and you had a moment to relax. He was spreading a blanket over the mattress but stopped to look at you over his shoulder. 

“Wha’ fer?”

“I begged to come with you. Now, we’re here waiting for Siddiq and what if something goes wrong and Daryl, what if the baby… what if I…” You felt his hands on your face, not even realizing he had moved. 

“Hey, hey. Ev’rythin’ s’gonna be okay. He’ll be here soon. Okay?” 

Your eyes danced back and forth between his but you nodded and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, pulling his hand to your mouth. Your lips were so soft against his palm. He smiled at you, small but genuine, and moved his hand so he could press a kiss to your mouth before going back to work on setting up what Siddiq said was needed. 

He made it two steps when he heard your breathing pick up and then a whine of his name. Glancing at you and then the bed, he came back and kissed your temple while gently lifting you. It had only been about three minutes since the last one. 

With the utmost care, he placed you on the mattress with the two pillows to prop you up. His poncho was draped over them to keep any dirt or dust away from you. 

“Daryl… it feels like…” You had begun to sweat, even in the freezing interior. There hadn’t been time for him to start a fire yet. 

Daryl took hold of your hand, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “Feels like wha’?”

“It burns.” You hissed. The archer felt his stomach flip and thought he might vomit. He had no idea what that meant or how to help you. 

He let go of your hand and patted the back of it before snatching up the radio. “Siddiq.” He heard the static and waited, driving his boot through an old coffee table. He had to start a fire. When there was no answer in the time it took him to break up enough pieces to burn, he pressed the button harder than necessary. “Siddiq!”

“I’m here, Daryl. Ran into some walkers. Tell me what's happening.”

“She’s hurtin’ ‘bout ev’ry three minutes now. Says it burns.” He could have cried when the flame caught so quickly. Jogging back over to you, he started unfolding the second of three blankets. They were small and not very thick but they would cover you and help with the chill. That would do for now. 

“Okay. Have you checked her to see if the baby is crowning?”

“Not a doctor, man.” 

“Right. Sorry. I need you to look and tell me what you see.”

Daryl felt dizzy. A part of you that he was so intimately familiar with now scared the living hell out of him. He was out of his depth, but he had no choice. You and the baby had to be okay. “Yeah…um, okay… hang on.” He dropped the radio at the foot of the bed and then placed the blanket next to your hip. “Hey, I, uh, need ta look at ya.”

“Help me get these off.” You seemed utterly unbothered, pulling at the soft elastic waistband of the jeans. With a nod, Daryl took over, pulling them and your panties down your legs once you had raised your hips. He tossed them aside and placed one knee on the bed.

“I don’ know wha’ ‘m doin’.” The archer whispered, voice trembling. 

“You’re just looking right now, Daryl.” You said between quickening breaths. When this one hit, your fingers dug into the blanket, twisting it, and you threw back your head with a scream. Daryl moved then, a hand on each of your knees, he separated them and reached behind him for the radio. 

“I…don’t even know how describe wha’m lookin’ at.”

“Try, Daryl.”

He lifted his other hand from your knee and wrenched your fingers from the blanket, letting you squeeze his hand instead. At least now, he didn’t feel completely useless. Now, he was staring at your poor vagina and trying to think of a way to describe what exactly was going on down there. 

“It, uh…it looks like half a peach with the pit still in it.”

“Shit.”

That did not inspire confidence. “Shit? Whaddaya mean shit?!” Looking up, the archer met your eyes, wide and terrified. He gave your hand a squeeze. This was all too insane and he knew if he thought about more than the here and the now, he would lose his goddamn mind. Here and now, you needed him. His baby needed him. He couldn’t think past that. 

“I think the baby is crowning.”

“Th’fuck that mean?” 

“It means that your baby is going to be born before I can get to you.”

His heart was pounding furiously, his chest literally hurt with each beat. You were looking at him, mirroring the terror he knew was showing naked on his face. His hand trembled as he pressed the button on the radio. 

“Tell me wha’ ta do.” 

“Daryl.” You cried, barely able to catch your breath while the grip on his hand tightened. 

“I know, Sunshine.” The radio remained silent other than static. “Siddiq?” You were repositioning yourself as best you could while refusing to let go of him. “M’gonna kill ‘im.”

“Yeah, do that, but first…could you maybe catch our baby?”

“Wait… wait, wha’?”

You could feel another contraction coming, leaving you very little time to speak. “I helped with Hershel and with RJ. I can do this. Just… don’t pass out.” With a deep breath during the first spasm of the next contraction, you pushed, teeth clenched with a scream brewing behind them. 

“Won’ pass out.” He wasn’t very sure of himself but he couldn’t let you down. It wasn’t an option. Daryl moved to the area just below your feet, holding your knees to give you some kind of grounding connection. He was supposed to say something, right? Encourage you? It felt like the right thing to do. You’d surely tell him to shut up if it wasn’t. “Ya, uh… ya got this.”

You fell back, feeling like you got absolutely nowhere. It still burned and the pressure was incredible. “Fuck. Ow.”

Daryl’s thumb swiped back and forth over your kneecap. “Wha’ can I do? Whaddaya need?”

“I need this baby out of me!” You panted, your fingers flexing in the blanket. 

“Well, tha’s the endgame, Sunshine.” 

You were making a conscious effort to not end up like the women in movies. All “I hate you” and “you did this to me,” especially when Daryl was looking at you with an expression somewhere between worry and that he thought you hung the moon. You couldn’t imagine yelling at him during the most important event of your lives. 

Then the next contraction came and it was time to push. Maybe yelling at him would make this easier somehow. It didn’t matter because the pain was unbearable and you couldn’t form words if you tried. 

“Yer doin’ great. Holy shit, baby’s right there!”

You wanted to ask questions as you sagged against the pillows, feeling like you got no reprieve before you’re sitting up again to push. Daryl’s talking, encouraging you and squeezing your knees until he isn’t. You have enough conscious thought to miss the contact but then you’re being torn in half. You screamed, the pain white hot and new and then the most intense relief that you have ever known. 

That angry wailing was the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. 

You did it.

Panting hard, near gasping, you look at Daryl. His eyes were wide and shining, his arms moving to wrap the little bundle in a blanket. He looked so adorably alarmed and lost that you would give anything to wrap both him and the baby up and hold them. 

“There’s a…uh,” he lifted the cord that was still attached and you remember there was still work to be done but your body knew what to do. Right now, you just wanted to see this little person that you and Daryl created. 

“It’s okay. Just leave it.” You reach toward him and he automatically offers up the newborn while a tear rolls down his cheek. 

“S’a boy.” Daryl says quietly while you position your son close to your chest. Offering up a nipple while careful not to pull against the cord, you’re surprised at how easily he latched on.

“Wow, hungry little guy. Definitely yours.” You smiled up at the archer to find him still looking awestruck. “You’re a daddy.” He nodded carefully while moving to sit beside you, blue eyes flickering between you and the baby. “He looks just like you too.”

“Poor kid.” With slow, gentle movements, Daryl brushed a finger over the baby’s soft, light hair before pressing a kiss to your temple. “Yer amazin’.”

“I bet you say that to all your baby mamas.”

“Stop.”

Daryl did not, in fact, kill Siddiq.

Baby Dixon was now a week old. You and Daryl had settled into a routine of such domestication that you could almost forget the dead walked outside the walls. He had turned over anything that needed done around the community to someone else, aside from hunting. He made sure Carol and Michonne were there to help you when he had to go out. People had to be fed and it was winter. It was the one job he couldn’t ignore. 

Your eyes opened to the moonlight peering through the window. You propped yourself up on your arms and looked around the room. The other side of the bed and the bassinet were empty. You were alone. 

That meant there was only one place Daryl could be. 

When you pushed open the nursery door, you found your archer sitting in the rocking chair with your son tucked in the crook of his elbow, talking softly. 

“Yer uncle Merle was a real sumbitch but he’da loved ya. Well, after he told me wha’ a pussy I was fer settlin’ down with yer mama.”

“Language.” You whispered around a smile. 

Daryl didn’t seem surprised to see you there. “He was fussin’ n’ he only ate a hour ago. Didn’ wanna wake ya so we came in here. M’sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You walked over and brushed back the archer’s hair before leaning on the back of the chair to gaze at your son. The baby was staring intently between the both of you, gurgling and cooing around his fingers. 

“He likes stories.” Daryl informed you, never looking away from the tiny bundle. “Keeps ‘im from squaling when he gets changed if I tell him somethin’ new.”

“We should name him soon.” 

“Yeah. Lil’ bean ain’t what I wanna saddle the poor kid with.”

You chuckled. “You called Judith lil’ asskicker.”

“Kid eventually got a name.” Daryl stood carefully, holding the baby in one arm while the other reached for your hand. You laced your fingers through his and followed him back to your bedroom. With the baby in his bassinet, Dary wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his side. He pressed a kiss to your temple. 

“I think I know what we could name him.”

“Yeah?”

You smiled up at him. “Yeah, I think so.”

Michonne moved around your kitchen, putting together plates for everyone. She and Carol would bring food over to make sure you and Daryl were eating while adjusting to being parents. Carol was snuggling the baby and pointing out which features belonged to Daryl and which were yours. 

“Definitely Daryl’s ears.” She laughed. 

“Wha’s wrong with my ears?” Daryl gave her a light kick on the ankle. 

“Nothing, Pookie. They’re adorable.” Carol smiled sweetly and Daryl flipped her off. You had all just sat down to eat when the hungry whimpers began. “I think this little guy wants his dinner too, mama.”

You accepted your son and sat down on the couch, sliding your arm through one sleeve so you could pull up your shirt without it continuously falling down while he tried to nurse. There was no need to cover up. It was just the five of you. Judith and RJ were at Aaron’s with Gracie. 

The baby latched on eagerly. “There you go, little bean.”

“You two ever gonna name him?” Michonne queried. You and Daryl exchanged a knowing look. 

“We already did.” The archer noted before sipping from his water glass. 

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense here!” Carol beamed, food forgotten. 

You smiled at Daryl and he nodded. “Well,” you began while stroking your baby’s cheek. “We’d like to formally introduce you to Merle Richard Dixon.”

Daryl kept his eyes on you but could feel Michonne looking at him. “Fer the brother I’s born with and fer the one that chose me.” 

The room went quiet save for the sounds of little Merle suckling away without a care. 

When Daryl saw you shift your gaze, he finally turned to Michonne. “Is, uh…is tha’ okay?” There were tears in her eyes with one escaping to travel down her cheek. 

After a moment, she smiled and nodded. “Yeah. I think he’d love that.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, watching relief wash over Daryl as well. You shifted Merle to sit upright on your lap with your hand under his chin while the other rubbed his back. “Then it’s settled.” There were smiles and nods shared before everyone went back to eating. 

And the baby let out a burp worthy of an adult man. 

“Yeah, Merle fits.” Carol teased. The air in the room was lighter with laughter and everything seemed perfect. At least for now, but you’d definitely take that. 

[love-is-a-dagger]

My problem is that I like collecting things and putting them on a little shelf

[love-is-a-dagger]

*Daryl getting called Father Daryl*

Y/N: Oh I’m gonna make him a father for real

Daryl: What?

Y/N: You heard me right sunshine

Daryl: *blushing*

[love-is-a-dagger]

jesus christ.

[love-is-a-dagger]

Why is this so true?

Meme made by Inknopewetrust

[love-is-a-dagger]

[love-is-a-dagger]

Disaster

Summary: Marc's mental health takes a turn for the worse when you give him some news. After chasing him to Chicago, you, Steven, and Jake are left to pick up the pieces.

Pairing: Steven Grant x f!Reader, Marc Spector x f!Reader, Jake Lockley x f!Reader

Word Count: ~5.9k

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort with a happy ending, mental health issues, excessive drinking, tense encounter with police, insensitivity (insensitive language) towards mental illness, pregnancy, mentions of past child abuse and trauma, mentions of abortion. If there's anything else please let me know!

A/N: Please read the warnings! Let me know what you think! Happy holidays!

Marc Spector is a disaster. 

He’s a walking red flag. 

His mind is fucked up, and he’s never known how to deal with it. 

There are triggers and tripwires inside him that even he can’t guess at, that he doesn’t want to look at. 

His knuckles are bleeding, the palms of his hands scraped raw, and he can’t say whether he was in a fight or if he fell. 

Did he stumble and fall? 

Why is no one ever there to help him up again?

Something swirls inside him, a voice telling him to stop, but he won’t listen to those voices tonight. He won’t be the guy shouting on a street corner to a person no one else can see, to people no one else can see.

There are, some part of him knows, people to help him up again. 

He’s just left them behind, shut them out.

“You’ve gotta go buddy.” The voice is American and gruff. It confuses him because he’s not sure how he got to the States. He glances up and around, vision blurred and doubled and tripled but he manages to make out the logo of the Cubs on the far wall of the bar. 

The rough voice is still speaking to him when a hard hand grips his upper arm. He’s dragged upright but he doesn’t remember falling to the floor. There’s a bottle of something in his hand, amber liquid turning around the inside of the glass that feels like shards of a broken mirror in his brain. 

Look, look, look, the mirror says. Look what you said you’d never become again.

He jerks away from the hand on his shoulder, memory like draggers, like the shape of a mother’s love and broken promises, twisting deep inside him. 

The bottle clatters to the floor. It doesn’t burst, the glass is too thick for that, but the sound of it makes him frantic, reminds him of slamming doors and mistakes long past. 

Someone is crying, someone is shouting, someone is hitting him -

No. 

His own hands. 

A whine lodges in his throat, his face smarts. He manages to still his hands.

The hands on his shoulders are shoving him now. “Get this fucking guy out of here. He’s fucking crazy. Something’s wrong with him-,” 

He lands on the street in a heap, and it's cold. 

It’s winter and it’s cold and there are Christmas decorations on this street. Winter decorations, the city of Chicago would probably say. White lights that twinkle overhead when he lands in the gutter, that spin and smash into each other before separating and diving away.

His hands are still smarting and the hard press of iced over snow and slush only makes it worse. 

“Hey,” there’s a voice, feminine and kind, “What’s your name? Are you okay?” He can’t focus on the face that swims in front of him. 

“Marc,” he manages. 

He wants to go home. He wants to go home, he wants this person to call-

“Get away from him, lady! He’s fucking crazy. Someone call the cops, he’s gonna freeze out here-,” 

“Marc,” he manages to meet her eyes. She’s older, eyes familiar.

“It’s gonna be okay, Marc," she says.

Marc doesn’t move, but he nods. 

He blinks and blinks and blinks, until his eyes stay closed and the woman is tugged away. “Let them handle it. Cops’ll be here soon enough-,” 

“Cops are going to-,” 

The voices fade away, he stops listening. 

His shirt is wet, his jeans too, and he doesn’t have a coat anymore. 

He thinks about his mother and how he doesn’t want to be like her but it seems like it's inevitable that he will be. He thinks about how he’s shoved Jake and Steven so far away he hasn’t heard their voices in days.

Last, he thinks about you. About the tears slipping down your cheeks when he left, about the way his throat had been scraped raw with the blunt nails of his voice. The things he’d said to you, the fear in the pit of his belly, that poisoned seed long ago planted that spread blackened vines over his body.

Blue and red lights flash, and he finally hears one of his alters. Steven, panicked and worried, and Marc, what have you done now-

He’s answering, the voice in his throat choked, like there’s something wrapped around his lungs and heart. “Fuck off, Steven!” His voice explodes out of him, and the guy from the bar that dumped him on the ground jumps. “I didn’t do anything! I did what I had to-,” 

He’d left you, he’d said horrible things to you, when you said- 

Marc, I’m pregnant.

It should have been okay. 

That should have been okay. 

He should have been okay, should have been able to talk it out and over with you. 

But it wasn’t, he isn’t. 

Another bender.  

He thought he was past this. He hasn’t done this in…eighteen months? Longer? Since he decided to be better for you. Since he decided he couldn’t keep doing that to you - disappearing and getting fucked up and not calling and coming home to you crying. 

How many days has he been gone? Are you okay? What if something happened to you while he was out here fucking wallowing and screaming inside his own mind -

There’s nothing about you that he understands. He’s never understood how you could bear it. How could you bear it? When he does this, when you have to pick up the pieces, when Steven has to clean them up and Jake has to smooth things over with you?

But it's been more than a year, of reconciling his identity, of learning to live with Steven and Jake and not shove them down, of getting help and letting you help support him. 

And now, this. 

Pregnant. 

One word had undone months of work. 

For no reason. 

He wants to go home to you, apologize, work it out with you. 

But he’s drunk and he can’t move. 

The blue and red lights flash behind his eyelids, rough hands again grip his shoulders, sick rolling up from his gut at the feeling of hands against his skin. Hard hands, rough hands. 

Marc doesn’t want to be touched. 

“Stop-,” 

“He’s drunk.” 

“Don’t touch me-,” 

“Hasn’t been violent yet but he’s talking to himself. Something’s fuckin’ wrong with him but we didn’t want him to freeze to death. Some lady said his name is Marc.” 

“Stop, stop-,” 

“Okay. We’ll throw him in the drunk tank, let him dry out.” 

“Stop touching me,” he manages not to slur, to speak clearly. 

Still- 

“What was that, pal?” 

It’s too much. 

Marc throws the hands off, stumbles away from the touch that burns like coal. He doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want-

He’s knocked into the snow, handcuffs cold around his wrists, so cold they’re hot. He’s trapped and something is burning him and - 

~

“-fucking kidding me?” Your voice is incensed. It comes to him warbled, like he’s hearing it through a tunnel. “His skin is raw. He’s fucking bleeding. He’s bruised.” 

“It was for his own protection. He assaulted an officer and tried to hurt himself.” The voice that responds is feminine and surprisingly calm. “We didn’t have anywhere to put him besides the drunk tank. Couldn’t have him causing problems.” 

Marc shifts, pushing himself upright. His hands are still behind his back, cuffs digging into his skin. His cheek hurts from being squished against the metal bench he’d been slumped on. 

There’s a long silence before you take a breath and sigh. “Okay.” 

A buzzer sounds and then a door slams. “You’re lucky,” another voice says, much harsher than the first. “If that lawyer hadn’t called he’d be facing charges right now. He should be facing charges right now.”

You let out a humorless laugh as Marc stands, shuffling past the other drunks, most of them sleeping, to the door of the holding cell. He tries to peer down the hall, tries to catch a glimpse of you. 

“Right. Lucky he’s bleeding and bruised and near hypothermic because of the negligence of this department.” 

“You’re lucky he’s not dead in a fucking gutter,” the harsh voice says, male and aggressive. It raises Marc’s hackles, because no one should be speaking to you like that. Not his brave girl, standing up for him in a police department like that wasn’t completely fucking dangerous. “Word of advice, sweetheart? Drop him. He’s not worth it. Guy doesn’t even know his own fucking name. He’s batshit crazy. He should be institutionalized.” 

A door bangs shut again, the receptionist’s voice returns now, much gentler, “He needs help, honey. Serious help.” 

“He’s not-,” you sound broken and raw. “He’s not crazy. We don’t use that word. He’s fine, usually. There was just - something happened that triggered him.”

“He talks to himself,” the receptionist says, not unkindly. Marc leans into the bars of the holding cell, the metal cold under his skin, against his cheek. There’s a heavy pause, the sound of a tissue being pulled out of a box. ��My son was diagnosed with schizophrenia and-,” 

You blow your nose and Marc misses the rest of the sentence. “He’s not schizophrenic,” you say. “Thank you, though.” Paper being folded, shoved into the interior pocket of a coat. “Can I take him home now?” 

Hesitation. “Are you sure you don’t want to call someone else? To help you at least? He was fairly agitated earlier.”

The meaning of her words are clear, and shame wells deep inside him, threatening to swallow him whole.  

“He would never hurt me,” you reply immediately and vehemently. “He knows me. He would never.”

“If you’re sure-,”

“I am,” you answer without hesitation. “Can you - Do you know who asked you to call me? If it wasn’t Marc-,”

Marc closes his eyes, presses his face harder into the metal, eyes clenched shut. “He - uh -  introduced himself as Steven. Sounded British, I guess.” A pause, and then, “Multiple personalities then, not schizophrenic. How many personalities does he have? Are you sure none of them are dangerous?”

Your voice is tightly controlled, a nugget of familiar embarrassment digging into his gut. “Sorry, I’m - I’m not comfortable talking about that. I would just say - just in case you ever deal with someone else like Marc - they’re alters, not personalities. That’s important. It’s called Dissociative Identity Disorder.” Your correction is gentle and Marc isn’t sure why he feels like crying. “And no. None of them are violent. It’s a terrible stereotype.” 

The receptionist doesn’t respond, but he imagines her nodding. “Of course,” she says eventually. “And the others know you too?” 

“Yes,” you sniffle. “They work together really well, usually.” 

“Of course,” the receptionist says, clearly placating now, clearly beginning to believe you were delusional about the truth of your situation. 

“Okay. Let me see him now,” you say, voice thick. Marc knows you hear it too, the sympathy and empathy that was rapidly drying up.

And a moment later you’re moving down the hall. You’re there and meeting his eyes, and the look in them is flush with relief. “Marc,” you say, his name safe in your mouth. 

The cell is unlocked by an officer, a different one to the aggressive, angry one. The cuffs are taken off his wrists only slightly roughly, and then your arms are coiled around him, squeezing tightly. 

“You’re so cold,” you’re saying in his ear, a ringing in his ears that makes it hard to hear you. “Honey, you’re so cold. C’mon. Let’s go home.” 

He follows you down the hall, through the buzz of a door and into the lobby. 

Home. 

Home, where?

“Merry Christmas,” the receptionist calls after you. “Hope everything works out.” 

“Thanks,” you say, hand around Marc’s, even though neither of you celebrate Christmas and he isn’t sure there’s anything to work out between you anymore. 

~

The car is a rental. 

It smells new and the seats are still warm. 

You reach into the backseat and hand him a coat.

He pulls it on, lets you fuss over his bruised wrists, the scrapes and cuts and blood that coats his skin. 

You’re pissed, but he can’t tell at who or what.

“Marc,” you murmur and tug his hands to the air vents. Your voice is sweet, like a balm to him. His hands are cold, like icicles, and he hadn’t even realized. “Keep your hands here ‘til they’re warm,” you say before releasing his fingers and reaching to shift the car into drive. 

Chicago is grim in the daylight, gray and flat, a winter that will last too long. Snowmelt drips from overhead, and the streets are all black slush. 

He’s still not sure when, or how, he got to Chicago. 

His hands start to feel warm again and so he sits back in his seat, not saying anything, not for a long time, not until you pull the car into the hotel’s parking garage and you’re opening the door. 

“They’re right, y’know.” 

You settle back in the driver’s seat, one foot on the ground, one leg in the icy cold. “What? Who?” 

“I need serious help. You’re better off without me.” 

You just stare at him, one tear trailing down your cheek that you flick away with an irritated hand. “C’mon,” you prod. “Let’s go.” You get out of the car, you shut the door and wait.

But you don’t deny it. You don’t say it's not true. 

Marc watches you for a moment, fists shaking in his lap. “Marc,” Jake says, his eyes watching him in the rearview mirror, the first time he’s heard his voice in days. “Let go, hermano. You can rest now.”

He shakes his head, closes his eyes, tries to shove Jake down. 

But he’s there, he’s not going anywhere. 

“Don’t be so fuckin’ hardheaded, Marc. You need to rest. We need to take care of the body. You’re going to upset -,” 

“I won’t,” he snarls, catching the way you jump at the outburst, even through glass and metal you hear him. He’s exhausted, close to burn out, already in the middle of a never ending melt down. He won’t upset you again. He won’t. “I won’t upset her. I will not,” he enunciates and shoves the door open. 

You hold out a hand to him and Marc takes it, letting you guide him through the hotel lobby to the bank of elevators. He knows as soon as he steps inside that he’s made a mistake. The elevator is mirrored and when he meets his reflection’s gaze-

~

“Querida,” Jake says, tucking you into his side, nose against your temple. He inhales the icy scent of your skin. You smell like cold, like Marc’s soap. “I’m sorry. We tried to get him to go home. We tried to call you but Marc-,” 

“Where is Marc?” Your eyes are wide and wet and Jake feels something inside him sink. “Why did he leave?” 

Jake doesn’t know what to say - he only remembers bits and pieces of the last few days, he remembers almost nothing of the conversation that had sent Marc into a self-destructive spiral. Jake settles for what he knows to be the truth, “He needs to rest. He’s exhausted. I need to take care of the body.” 

You nod and the elevator stops. 

He follows you to the room you’d checked into. It’s small but nice. Clean. The bathroom has a bathtub. A big one with claw feet, the way you said you’d always like to have in a house someday. 

“Can I help?” 

Jake turns, finds you in the doorway to the bathroom. “I want to help you clean up. I missed you.” 

Jake nods. 

He feels sick, hungover and groggy. He feels dirty. He looks dirty and tired when he meets his eyes in the mirror over the sink. There are circles beneath his eyes and his cheeks look hollowed out, like someone has dug a spoon into the meat of him.

 “Yeah, if you want,” he concedes. 

Jake doesn’t want you to see them like this but you already have and so he might as well accept your kindness, your warm touch. He doesn’t know what Marc’s done, and so it might be the last time.  

You run a bath, you settle Jake in the water, you sit on the edge of the tub and wash his hair. The scratch of your hands against his scalp is nice, soothing. The smell of the shampoo bothers him a little but not enough to say anything. You dig your hands into his hair, into the muscle at the base of his neck until he relaxes into your touch. 

When he’s clean and you’re cupping his chin, running a razor over his jaw and cheek, you ask, “Do you remember what happened?”

“No. Wasn’t aware until we were here and it felt like Marc’s heart was going to-,” 

Jake had come to in the cemetery at the foot of Randall’s grave. Wendy would be to his left, but Jake didn’t dare look that way. 

“No. No, I don’t remember, hermosa.” 

You nod and touch his cheek. “Can I tell you? Is Steven listening?” 

Jake nods, touches your hand. “It’s just us. Me and you.” 

“Jake,” you say. “I told Marc that I’m pregnant.” You swallow and continue before he can answer you. An odd feeling lodges in his chest, hot with something unknowable. “I should have told him in a different way but-,” 

Jake remembers now, flashes of Marc’s despair, the worry gnawing at his gut. The panic and the memories and the fear. It was too sudden, too much-

You. 

Pregnant. 

With his child. 

Marc hadn’t known how to handle it, his mother’s face swimming before his eyes. All the damage he’d be able to wreck on a tiny little life. 

We aren’t ready. 

I know, that’s why we’re talking about it. 

So, what, you want to get rid of it? 

I didn’t say that. I just wanted you to know so we could-

It’s okay. I know I’d be a terrible fucking parent. Just get rid of it. I don’t know why you even told me. 

You’d shrunk away from Marc at that. Marc, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I’m trying to say. 

He’d scoffed, hadn’t looked at you. You think I’d be parent of the year or something? 

No, I’m-

So you don’t want it. 

No! Marc, stop putting words in my mouth!

Things had only escalated from there, egging you on until you’d burst, poking at you, demanding you say something hurtful, to push him away before he could damage you further. You or the - 

“Pregnant?” Jake asks, interrupting you and his racing thoughts, thinking that this is the kind of thing that Grant is much more skilled at handling. 

“Right,” you say, relaxing a little. And he supposes his reaction hasn’t been to antagonize you or run away and so it’s an improved one. “I just…needed to tell him. I needed to tell one of you. I felt so alone and-” 

Jake takes your hand, his skin wet against yours. “Are you okay?” 

“No.” 

“‘Course you aren’t,” he soothes. “‘Course not. How am I lookin’?” He swipes a hand over his face, and you nod to indicate you’re done shaving him. “Lemme get us dressed. Marc wasn’t eating. We can go for pizza.” 

Your face crumples and you nod, standing and shifting away from him. Something like grief flashes over your face but he can’t decipher why. “Okay,” you rasp, trying to clear your voice but it just cracks more. “Okay.” 

“Hey,” he tugs you back by your hand. “Te amo. Siento lo que pasó.” 

You nod again, but don’t comment, tugging yourself gently away. 

~

Steven glances up from a red and white checkered tablecloth. There’s a half eaten deep dish pizza on the table. The plate directly in front of him is streaked with red sauce and his belly is full.

He’s alone at the table and there’s classic rock playing over the radio and when he looks out the window it’s snowing. 

He’s confused. The last he remembers are police and pain and -

“Steven?” You’re suddenly there, sounding relieved, your voice like a spear of light into the darkness of his world. 

“Love,” he meets your eyes as you sit down across from him. “What happened?” 

“Jake…is he alright? I was only in the bathroom for a minute.” 

Steven nods and takes your hand across the table. “He’s fine.” Steven looks you over, the tautness in your features, the sallow tinge of your skin. Marc’s put you through hell the last few days and he feels irritation spike inside him.

How could Marc do this to you? Again? 

They - Marc hasn’t done this in ages. 

“I already told Jake,” you say quickly. “What set Marc off. I’m guessing you don’t know either. He - I told him I’m pregnant and he didn’t take it well. I shouldn’t have sprung it on him-,” 

“Pregnant?” Steven asks, suddenly realizing why Jake had walked out of the body so abruptly. You’ve just come back from the loo, and it’s clear you were just sick. It’s morning sickness and Jake doesn’t know how to handle that. But - “Pregnant? With - with ours?” When you nod, an unexpected elation curls up his spine. Pregnant. With their, with his, baby. “Oh, dear, that’s -,” 

No wonder Marc had a bit of a breakdown then. 

He stands, rips the napkin that’s tucked into the collar of his shirt out and sweeps Jake’s flat cap off his head, before he rounds the table to you. He tugs you into a hug when he sits next to you, curling his arms around you.

The breath you take is shaky against his chest, a hiccup in your voice. “Oh, Steven,” you whisper, hands curling into his shirt, one of Jake’s button-ups. You must have brought some clothes for all of them, had the presence of mind to remember Jake’s stupid cap he can’t live without.  “I missed you,” your voice is numb and raw and filled with longing. “I love you so fucking much. I love you.” 

“I love you too,” he chirps. “Very much. I’m sorry Marc-,” 

Steven stops. 

He’s sorry Marc - what? Ran off, relapsed into old coping mechanisms, worried you, left you utterly alone? All of the above?

“I’m just sorry,” he murmurs into the corner of your jaw. “So sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, baby,” you say, fingers digging into his hair, the palm of your hand cupping the back of his neck. “Nothing.”

He pulls back, tugs your hand into his, the warmth of it comforting. “Were you sick? Just then?” He asks, just to confirm. You nod. “Pregnant. Really?”

“You’re taking it better than Marc or Jake.” 

“Was Jake-,” 

“He was putting on a brave face. But I think it thoroughly freaked him out.” You nuzzle his hand when he cups your jaw, tilts your head back so he can see your face. You don’t meet his eyes, gaze downcast. 

Steven nods and releases your chin, let’s you curl into him. “Right. I think they just need a bit of time.” 

“Not sure that’s the case. Marc literally ran to another country to get away from me,” you say miserably. “Jake doesn’t know what to do or say. I think he just wants it to go away. And the really terrible thing is, that was what I wanted to talk to each of you about. What we’d do. I don’t know what to do or how to feel.” 

“You mean-,” Steven snaps his mouth shut. The last thing you needed was him dumping his own feelings onto yours, especially after Marc and Jake have made you feel unwanted and weird respectively. “Never mind that. I’m bloody thrilled. And if - if you don’t want to have a baby, then I’m here for you. I’m here for you no matter what.” 

You pull back and meet his eyes, brows pulling together as you search his gaze. 

For a moment, he thinks he’s made a terrible miscalculation as your lip wobbles dangerously but then your arms are circling his neck and you’re breathing out hard. “You’re amazing. Have I ever said before? You’re amazing.” 

“If anyone is, it's you, love,” he says, holding you close, feeling the beat of your heart against his. “Chasing Marc halfway across the world. I-I’m really not sure what we’ve done to deserve that.” 

You pull back and stare at him, your gaze guarded. “‘Course I came. You told the police to call me. I’d already figured out he was in Chicago when they called. I was on a layover in New York. But I had no idea where to go once I got here. The police were so fucking horrible. They-,” you stop and clutch him harder, like you mean to shield him from whatever happened. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter what they were saying. Marc is lucky Murdock likes Jake so much and that he had another lawyer friend in Chicago he could call.”

“You knew exactly what to do. We’re so lucky to have you.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry Marc left you like that. I’m sorry he gave you such a fright.” 

You shift, so your head is against his shoulder, and for the first time you relax a little. “No. It’s, I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault. He’s been doing so well for so long, and I just said it. I know how he is about -,” you force yourself to stop talking again. “Really, it was unfair of me. And then he had to hear the horrible things the police said, after everything he’d already been through.” 

“You defended us though, yeah? It’s alright.” Steven wasn’t there, but the moments come in glimpses, Marc’s shame and embarrassment, the way you’d spoken up for them, corrected the receptionist, done everything to help them. 

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s not okay, what happened.” You shake your head, vehement in your disgust. “They shouldn’t treat people like that. I know things could have been much worse but it doesn’t make it okay.”

“‘Course not. One problem at a time though, love. Nothing came of it. Okay?” 

It takes you a moment to respond, but eventually you nod back, swallowing hard. “Okay. Okay, Steven. Are you hungry? Jake said Marc wasn’t-wasn’t eating.” Your voice warbles. “Wasn’t eating, just drinking himself sick.” 

“No, I feel alright now. Maybe a bit hungover but fine. Just tired, really.” 

You nod and pull away, yanking your bag into your lap and searching for some money to leave on the table. “Do I make him that afraid?” You whisper, not looking up. “Have I misread everything so badly? That he’d hurt himself like that?” 

Steven shakes his head, “Not everything is about you, love. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, or himself, really.”

You nod, but you don’t look like you believe him. 

“He’s going to leave me, and take you and Jake with him.” 

“No,” Steven says, picking up Jake’s cap to stuff in his pocket as you both stand. “Never,” he cups your face between his palms. “We’ll never let that happen, dear heart. We can’t be kept away from you.” 

~

It’s dark outside when Marc wakes, wrapped in the sheets of an unfamiliar bed. 

He feels better. 

Clean and fed and rested, at least a little. 

He’s only wearing a pair of briefs, the comforter a heavy weight on his chest. 

You’re sitting up next to him in bed, your eyes glassy where they’re glued to the flickering TV. 

He says your name and you look at him, immediately sliding down next to him, fingers digging into his shoulder as you bury your nose in his neck. 

“Marc, I’m so sorry-,” 

He’s shaking his head but he can’t get the words out. Not your fault, not your fault, not your fault. 

It’s him. It’s always him. 

It was bad already, but the police station only made it worse, reminding you surely of why he’s not good for you, why you deserve better. 

“Don’t,” he says, voice harsher than he intends it to be. You go quiet, lips pressed together in a tight line. “It’s not your fault. It’s me. It’s always fucking me.” 

You stroke his cheek. “You’re wrong, you know.” 

He huffs out a laugh, cycling through everything he’s ever been wrong about. “Yeah.” 

“Marc,” you tilt his face into yours, so close that the air he breathes is your breath. You smell like his soap, like minty toothpaste. He inhales, holds the breath of you inside, sure this is the moment you tell him to fuck off. “You’re wrong about being bad for me. I’m not better off without you, that’s exactly why I followed you here. The shit they said -,” 

He dares to tuck you closer. 

His head is clear now, and he can feel Jake and Steven close at hand, watching and waiting, making sure he doesn’t fuck this up again. 

But the body has slept and his belly is full and he’s not drunk or hungover or standing at the foot of his little brother’s grave. 

He’s okay. He’s good. 

“This isn’t about that.” 

“Like hell it’s not.” Your voice is gentle. “You believe that shit.”

“No,” he sits up and pulls away from you, paces the length of the hotel room even though he’s freezing. “No.”

But it didn’t make it any better. Reminds him of what his kid would go through with him as a father.

Unstable. Crazy. Whatever you want to call it. 

“Marc,” you say his name again. 

Safe. He’s safe with you, always. Even when you disagreed, even when you were mad at each other. “Honey, look at me.” 

He does. 

You look vulnerable, swathed in the comforting mountain of sheets that aren’t yours. “Let me say what I need to.” You wait for him to nod before you continue. “I should have approached you about it in a different way. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry you ended up in that police station because of it.” He opens his mouth but you give him a look that dries the words on his tongue. “I’m pregnant. We did that together. We make the decision about what comes next together. All of us.”

He gives a short nod, panic welling in him again at the thought. 

Everything about it, about having a kid and being a father, reminds him of the sharp smell of booze, the clack of belt loops, the fear of death, rising tidewaters. 

But you’d be there. 

You’d never be that kind of mother, that kind of partner. 

“Even if I don’t - even if I’m not her,” he finds himself saying, the words unbidden and sagging with grief. “You’re right. The police station has everything to do with it. Even if I’m not her, I’m still this. I’m still what she made me. I’m still what people think of me.” 

Shame, he hates to admit that he still feels it, even with you. Sometimes he hates that you know, that he has to be reminded you know what happened to him, that you know Jake and Steven and might like them better than him. 

You hold a hand out to him, and Marc steps readily towards you. You pull him under the blankets, fingers digging into his skin, fussing and fidgeting with the necklace looped around his throat. “Marc,” you whisper, hands curling into his hair.

He loves the way you say his name, how often you say it. 

But his skin prickles with unease. “No kid needs to deal with all my shit. I’m never gonna be good for them, because of what happened to me.” 

You fold him close to you, cocoon him in your scent and the shape of your arms. “Or,” you nudge your nose against his. “You’ll be good because of it. I’m not afraid of you being a parent. I’m afraid of losing you.” 

Marc scoffs, “You don’t have a single fucking concern-,” 

“None. Not one. But we’re - we don’t have enough space. And I don’t know how a kid will fit into our life and our plans. We wanted to travel. I’m getting a promotion soon.” You touch his cheek. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. If it’s the right time.” 

Normal concerns, he realizes. Totally banal concerns, that is what has been plaguing you. 

“You get so afraid that you aren’t enough, that someone is going to leave you behind, that you self-destruct before anyone has the chance to explain what’s going on.” You lean your forehead into his. “You ran before I could explain.” 

“You’re mad.” 

“Yes,” you agree. It’s straightforward, it’s easy to understand and digest. “I’m mad. But not forever. And I’m not going anywhere.” You lace your fingers with his, kiss the backs of his knuckles. “You’ve gotten and are getting help. You try to be better every single day. We, me and you and Jake and Steven, we have a system that works for all of us. We have a way of making things work. Shit happens. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s just something that happened.” 

It’s hard to internalize, hard to reconcile. He’s broken and he hears the words that echo through years. It’s all your fault. 

“It’s always me-,” 

“No. It’s not. And either way, we’re here to help. Don’t shut us out.” 

He swallows, can’t think about himself anymore, or his mother, or his past, or the police station. You though, he can always think about you. 

A memory swirls up, staring at a picture Steven had taken of you at the park last spring. Back when benders were so common for Marc, but you were determined to see him to the end of the tunnel, the light at the end. He’d been drunk already, eyes wet, when the old lady next to him on the plane leaned over and said, “Beautiful.” 

Nothing more. Only that. 

“Pregnant. You’re pregnant,” he lets his voice lilt into a question. 

“Yes. I’m not sure how, we’re so good about condoms and birth control.” 

“Shit happens though, right?” He echos your words. “It’s just something that happened. We’ll deal.” 

“Together?” You venture. 

He nods, firm now. You believe in him, whether he’s crazy or not, fucked up or not, worthy or not, you believe in him. “Together.” 

Marc pauses, curls his arm around your shoulders. “And I’m sorry. Even if you don’t want me to be. I’m sorry about the last few days. I think - I can’t help but think about her. I don’t wanna be like her.”

“Marc,” your voice is firm. “You won’t be. But if you can’t trust yourself, trust me. I would not let what happened to you, happen to my baby.” 

And that -

Shocks Marc. 

He shouldn't have had to rely on his own mind to create protectors. 

He should have already been protected. His father, his father should never have let it happen. 

Marc looks at you, the fierce look in your eyes. No, you’d never let that happen. You’d never become his father. 

And somewhere inside him, he knows he’ll never be his mother. Not with Steven and Jake and you to guide him home. “Nothing is wrong with you,” you reiterate. “Nothing. This isn’t a question of whether you’d be a good parent, if you’d fuck up. This is about us, and what we need. All the rest will come as it may.”

Your hands are on his again, gentle over the bruises and cuts he doesn't remember getting.

"Okay."

Between the four of you, things would be okay.

"I'm not going anywhere, either," he says. "Not again. You won't lose me."

You shoulders drop, relief pours over him. .

#marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #jake lockley x you #jake lockley x reader #fic recs

[love-is-a-dagger]

my friends: “He’s violent and a murderer, and will hurt anyone who gets in his way”

me: “but…he’s so pretty 🥺👉🏻👈🏻”

[love-is-a-dagger]

The Sticky Note Game

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Summary: You have a silly little game that you, Jake, and Steven play. But someone accidentally messes it up and ends up finding out about said game.

Warnings: None that I actually know of. “Y/N” is used two times.

Author’s Snip: Just a cute thought I had and wanted to write about.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

  It was a game that was originally between you and Jake. It worked like tag where someone was it and they had to make the other person it. But instead of running around the flat and making a bunch of ruckus you would write on a piece for sticky note and hide it where the other would see it. You weren’t sure when this started but it was a thing the two of you did together and was actually really fun when it came down to watching and waiting for the other to see the note and then be it. Well, it was between just you and Jake till Steven found the sticky note that was meant to get Jake. 

  He was looking through the fridge to see if there were any items that would expire soon. Jake had some beer bottles on one of the shelves that he placed next to the oat milk which he was going to check until he noticed the sticky note attached to one of the bottles that had “You’re it >:)” written on it. He took it off and asked you why it was there.

  You laughed for a bit and told the even more confused Steven about this game you played with Jake. Steven nodded in understanding before looking back at the sticky note and then asking “So, what? Does this mean I’m it now?”.

  After that, you and Jake had changed the rules to make the game fair. You needed to write who its to, who it was making the tag, no double tags, and you couldn’t say if you knew where a sticky note was. Oh, and co-fronting when a sticky note was being made was cheating because the two alters could tag each other and if you are co-fronting when your tagging note was found by another it counts because you technically saw it.

  This game of three went on for a long while too. 

  Till there was a bit of an issue…

  It had been two whole months, and no new sticky note was found and you were starting to get suspicious. You were it and had made a note that would tag Steven by putting the note on the back of one of his books. But Steven made no sign that he saw it. Which didn’t make sense since the book moved spots. So he had to have seen it and had made a sticky note to tag someone else. But none appeared. You even went looking for a note, regardless of it would make you it again. 

  Out of all of the players to possibly cheat, Steven seemed like he would never. But you shouldn’t put it past him, Steven can be a bastard if he wants to be. 

  But it turns out that all three of you were silently eyeing each other up since there was no sign of and new tags. Soon Steven decided to go looking for a new sticky note in case it was just that well hidden.

  “Steven,” Marc said as he watched Steven looking through the whole flat for something from a nearby refection. “What the hell are you doing? Did you drop something?” he asked. “No. I’m looking for a sticky note, mate.” Steven responded. Marc jerked an eyebrow in confusion. “A sticky note? Wouldn’t that be where you put all your sticky notes?” he asked. 

  “No. It’s not any sticky note, Marc. It’s a specific one.” Steven clarified and he moved to a different spot to check. “Well, what’s it for?” Marc asked as he followed Steven with a new reflective surface. Steven sighed before speaking. “Okay. Don’t laugh. But me, Y/N, and Jake play this tag game using sticky notes and we put them places for us to find. But it’s been a while and no one’s found the bloody thing.” Steven explained. “I wanna make sure no one’s went on and cheated.” Steven says. 

  “Who was it last?” Marc asked. “I don’t know, mate. That’s the point.” Steven responded. “I think that would be Y/N.” Marc said out of the blue. “There was a sticky note on the back of one of your books from them to you but it just had a smiley face on it.” Marc confessed. Steven almost banged his head on the bottom of the table he was looking under. “What did you do with it?” Steven asked as if it were life and death. “Which one is it, Marc?” he said looking right at the surface Marc was on. “The green one. I killed a spider with it and saw it on the back.” Marc explained, “I took it off though cause I killed the spider using the back and it got on the sticky note.” he admitted. 

  “Finally!” Steven exclaimed as he went towards his desk to write on a sticky note to tag someone.

  “How long have you three been doing this.” Marc questioned. “Oh, I’ve been playing for while but the other two were the ones playing it originally, I just sort of walked into it and they let me be a part of it.” Steven explained as he took the note off of he pad and placing it in Jake’s hat. “Don’t tell Jake that’s there.” he said to Marc. 

  “Okay?” Marc said before standing there in the reflection for a moment. “Do you want to join? Seems kind of rude to tell you about the game and not let you participate.” Steven offered. Marc shrugged with a “Sure.”. 

  A week had passed, during which you heard Jake shout “Son of a bitch!” when he found the note Steven left. 

  You had woken up in the morning a few days after that and were getting ready to take your morning shower till you noticed a sticky note addressed to you on one of your shampoo bottles saying,

  “I’m playing the game now. You’re it. 

                                                 - Marc”

[love-is-a-dagger]

Congratulations to Bella Ramsey on their Emmy nomination for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series on The Last of Us.

[love-is-a-dagger]

Can we talk about how Sam was done kinda dirty in TFATWS?

Like even from episode one, he was doing what he felt was right: trying to honor his best friend in the way he thought was right.

But then Bucky comes and belittles him about his decisions, despite the fact that sam didn’t know the museum wasn’t ganna keep their word. And instead of acknowledging Sam’s feeling of betrayal, all the Bucky stans who watched the show immediately saw Bucky as the victim?

Even during the therapy scene, Sam was hurting too. He had every right to be annoyed at Bucky, who wouldn’t stop pestering him about the shield. But people only feel bad for Bucky during that scene cause “👉🏽👈🏽 he sad boy he tied his worth to the shield 🥺” instead of acknowledging the hurt that Sam also feels.

And then when sam and Bucky had their “tough love” talk, Bucky actually apologizes (rightfully so cause he was in the wrong) yet the only thing people seem to take from that scene is Sam giving Bucky advice, as if sam is either Buckys therapist, or they claim that sam can’t speak on Buckys issues. As if sam has no right to speak on the issues of the winter soldier, even though Sam himself was a victim of the winter soldiers violence? And Instead of viewing that conversation as an equal sharing of feelings, the focus instantaneously switches to Bucky?

Notice the continuing trend of people only paying attention to Bucky, and what effects Bucky, how Bucky feels, but won’t give Sam the same attention? And the most they deduce him to is “Buckys replacement for Steve” or “Buckys therapist” completely taking away from any of Sam’s own agency as a character? As if Sam wasn’t also hurting the entire show?

Gee i don’t know guys, am I overthinking this? What do you think hmmmm?🥺

[love-is-a-dagger]

me @ y/n when they do something i’d never do:

like babe this isn’t us ?? get it together

[love-is-a-dagger]

Lol my dad left again

[love-is-a-dagger]

Cold hands

Summary: Once it gets cold outside the reader gets cold hands and bothers everyone with them.

Word count: 1.533

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female reader

Setting: Alexandria, everyone is alive and well

Tags: cold extremities, touching without consent (not in a bad way!)

Notes: Just a little stupid something

You need to do something. Please!”

Rick towered over his right-hand man and brother in anything but blood.

The archer sat on his couch, sharpening his favourite hunting knife.

“Why me?” he grunted, not looking up.

“Because!” Rick threw up his hands in frustration.

“Because she is your girlfriend?” Rick tried.

Daryl just hummed softly. To him, that was all the more reason to stay out of it.

Rick pinched his nose. He knew Daryl, and he knew that he couldn’t win this fight with the archer right now.

“Fine! Be that way! Let us all suffer.”

Rick turned on his heel and left the little house on the edge of Alexandria.

“Pfft. Y’know nuthin bout suffering from her.” Daryl grunted to no one in particular.

Right around the same time each year, when the wind changed to blow from the east and the temperatures dropped, you fought to keep warm. As long as you could remember, you were always one to be cold easily.

Living in the apocalypse didn’t change that. If anything, it made it all harder when there were no department stores where you could buy a winter jacket. Or a scarf. Or a hat.

So far, each Winter you had managed to find some ratty scarf and a hat, but you also managed to lose those things at one point. And when the next winter came around, you were back to square one.

Daryl had told you this spring after your hat and scarf were gone again that he wouldn’t help you find new stuff anymore. And you had forgotten to scavenge for them during the summer.

And here was the first biting cold day of the season, and you trotted after Daryl through the woods. Your hands were numb, your nose was freezing and your ears were so cold they were burning.

You had tried once to start complaining but after one look from your Lover you got silent. Because the truth was it wasn’t freezing. It was just wet and cold. You wouldn’t freeze off any limbs. It was purely you and your clinical condition. Because you were certain by now that it was some kind of medical condition that made your limbs get cold so easily.

Back at Alexandria, Michonne opened the door for you. When she turned to close it again, your time had come.

“Michonne. Feel how cold my hands are!” And with that you would stick them under her jacket, cold skin on warm skin, and the warrior woman jumped and shrieked.

Quickly you retreated before Michonne was able to go for her Katana.

“What the heck, y/n! Why do you do that each year?” She pulled down her clothes, shivering a little.

“Because my hands are cold, and you don’t believe me when I tell you!” you whined.

“Well, I believe you. Now split and warm your hands on Daryl or something.”

You had done this to Daryl exactly once. Pushed your cold hands underneath his shirt just as he was about to shoot a deer.

Needless to say the arrow missed and dinner was gone. But even worse was the archers’ punishment. He took you to the nearest tree, pushed you against it and worked to undo first your pants than his.

“Ya want skin on skin? Here ya go.” And then he fucked you against that tree, and afterward even your ass was ice-cold.

So you steered away from doing this to Daryl again. But the others were fair game.

Over the coming days, at least once a shriek sounded through Alexandria when you had found your next victim.

Maggie was next. You met her at the weapons chamber. She was reached for a rifle, and you put your cold hand down her neck. In surprise she swung the weapon towards you, and you could duck at the last second. “It’s your own damn fault if I had knocked you out.” she told you and left.

You caught Eugene at church. He sat next to you and was talking to Rosita when your hands wiggled their way under his jacket. He yelled in surprise and everyone, including Gabriel, send him an annoyed look.

“I have you know that it is inappropriate to touch people like that. Especially when your boyfriend is right beside you, sending me one of those looks.”

“What look? That? It’s because he is pissed to be here. There is no God and all.”

Gabriel cleared his throat and pointed towards the door.

Daryl shook his head and lead you outside, mumbling something about not taking you anywhere ever again.

You tried to catch Carol. But that was a delicate thing. She scared you almost as much as Daryl did. And she kept a close eye on you. She knew your shenanigans.

You had tried twice already with no luck, so you changed your course of action. After all, not only your hands were cold!

The two if you were in the kitchen. Carol was baking, and you were hiding from one chore or another. Like washing clothes. They always wanted to give you women tasks. But you were a fighter and a hunter, really.

“Can you hand me the tray?”

Carol was always glad when both your hands were full. So you brought her the tray, set it down, and you pressed your cold nose into her neck.

“Can you feel it? It could fall off any second!”

Carol pushed you away.

“If you don’t stop this, something else will fall off. Like your head. Have Daryl deal with it.”

“But he doesn’t.”

Carol just gave you a pointed look, and you sighed and sat down again.

That night, Carol caught her best friend outside smoking.

“Hey Pookie.”

Daryl just huffed in response.

“How long do you want her to terrorise us? You can end this right now.”

Carol snatched his half smoked cigarette from him for a drag.

“Dunno what ya mean.”

His friend just raised an eyebrow, and they ended up in a staring contest.

“Fix it Daryl.” with that she walked away his cigarette still in hand.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

“Too bad!”

And it continued.

The victim today had been Rick, and the former sheriff found himself again by Daryl’s side.

“I know why you do nothing to stop her!” Rick accused him, and Daryl looked at him through his bangs.

“‘s that so?”

Rick pointed a finger at him. “Yes! Because you enjoy it! It is your weird little entertainment when she runs around shoving her hands at us!”

Daryl didn’t say anything, but couldn’t hide a small smile.

“Took you long ’nough tah figure it out.”

Rick walked up to him. “Tomorrow she gets her winter gear. You hear me? Take care of it.”

“Hmm.” Daryl just hummed.

Later that night Daryl switched off the light in their tiny bathroom. To even have one after months on the road still felt weird. But having a pot to piss in was a welcomed change.

Y/n was already in bed reading. Daryl looked down at her, sighed heavily once, and then crawled into bed. Immediately the book was put away and you snuggled up to Daryl. Your cold nose was buried into his neck. Hands found their way under his shirt and your feet pushed between his legs. Only in bed he let you warm yourself on him.

And that was the torture he meant. Because your extremities were icy, there was no denying it. But your feet were always the worst. On the other hand, he enjoyed it when you practically crawled on him searching for warmth. So he never went to look for a scarf or a hat or thick socks right away. He rather toughed it out and cherished those nights when you would sleep entangled with him.

“Tomorrow yer getting yer winter gear.” he told you softly.

“Are you certain? I haven’t had the chance to show everyone how cold my hands get.”

Daryl snorted. “There is always next year, y/n.”

The next day you stood ready to go on the porch when Daryl stepped out in just a Flannel shirt.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Nah. We just go to the garage.”

“Garage?” you echoed and filled him.

He pushed the door up, walked around his bike and pulled out a cardboard box. When he opened the lid and you took a peak you saw all kinds of scarfs, hats and gloves in it.

“Started collecting those in the spring. Everyone did. Take yer pick. And better make sure not to lose them.”

You looked at him in surprise and awe. Everyone had thought about you all year long. It touched you deep inside. Since only Daryl was around, you thanked him first. You stepped close and kissed him, tongue and all. He was like pudding in your hands this early in the morning. That’s when he didn’t realise that your hands pushed under his shirt and you put them dead smack on his warm skin.

The archer shrieked and you stepped away quickly, grabbed into the box once and ran.

“Ya come back here! Y/n! Ya’ll pay for this!” He called after you, which only made you laugh harder.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd fanfiction #the walking dead #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x you #twd fluff #oneshot #fic rec

[love-is-a-dagger]

The way that things were so hazy when Joel was moving through the hospital searching for Ellie. It was shot out of focus, we watched his boots more than anything. The sound was muffled. He killed every single person he came across, even those who weren’t maybe necessary. It felt like a fugue state, dissociative, even.

Then the second he has Ellie in his sight, everything is clear again. When he shoots the doctor, it’s loud and in focus. He spares the nurses. He’s evaluating threats. He’s making plans. He’s cold and clinical again, the way we saw in past episodes when Ellie was in danger.

Genius