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sinsandsweetness · 10 months

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Wellllllll…… I just read one Rec from someone and holy. Stepdad Rick isn’t my thing but still hot. I was thinking what if it was Shane instead. Or Daryl. Sneaking around behind Rick’s back. But ugh, Rick is so hot tho. Decisions decisions. More like Dad’s best friend maybe?

now that’s hot as hell. Idk who Dad would be but best friend trope could work for any combination possible I would think… (all of them!? 🙈 short of a orgy, I can’t see either Dixon putting up with Shane even for something like that but hey)

been thinking about this every hour since it appeared in my inbox… (Shane is my guilty pleasure fr. would let him do disgusting things to me)

I think I’m seeing your vision… lemme know what you think💗

PICK YOUR POISON

(Rick & Shane & Daryl x fem!reader)

warnings- 18+, smut, alcohol consumption, smoking, references of sex, multiple partners, the boys are kinda pervs but it’s ok cause ur legal and this is fiction <3 2.1k word count

You open the door to the garage and make your way down the stairs. Not even bothering to slip any shoes on. Your mom keeps the epoxy floors absolutely pristine, so there’s really no reason. Plus, your toenail polish is still a little tacky. Bright, bubble gum pink polish and a silver toe ring adorning your foot. The smell of liquor and smoke has filled the garage. Accompanied by the deep, rugged voices and dry laughs coming from your fathers closest friends.

“You know mom hates it when you smoke in the house.” You say all matter of fact, leaning up against the bar-tops, marble counter. You can feel your tank top strap slipping down your shoulder. But the animalistic looks coming from your dads three closest friends, force you to let it drop. To let them see.

Your father puts his cigarette out in the ash tray on the bar. Rolling his eyes at you. “Well good thing we’re in the garage then.”

You ignore his attitude.

“Mom needs you.”

“For what?”

“To drop her off at Cindy’s.”

He seems irritated. But all five of you can hear the rain. There’s no way any half decent husband should let his wife walk to her monthly book club meeting in this weather.

“Just- keep your mouth shut about the smokes. And grab everyone another drink. Make sure they don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.” You father jokes, ruffling up Daryl’s hair on his way to the door, grabbing his jacket and keys.

You wave an innocent goodbye as you watch him through the garage door windows, backing out of the driveway. Your mother in the passenger seat, smiling sweetly at you.

“Well… whatcha drinkin’?” You ask Rick, who’s sat in the middle. Glass empty, with a lone, melting ice cube clinking around in the bottom.

“Rum and coke.” He answers, licking his lips.

“Spiced?” You ask. A flirty smile playing on your face as you bite your bottom lip.

They’re all staring. Jaws clenched and breathing slowly.

You know what you’re doing. You can tell by the way they’re all looking at you. You can practically see the wheels turning in their brains.

They shouldn’t be thinking this way about their friends daughter. About their best friends little girl. Well… not so little anymore. You’d just turned 21. Hell, they were at the party. Giving you the exact same looks they’re giving you right now.

The ones they definitely shouldn’t be.

But they are.

They’re thinking about your thin, frilly, pyjama shorts, and how they can see the purple g string pulled up over your hips. How they can see your belly ring through the fabric of your tank top, and imagining what it would feel like against their lips as they kiss their way down your stomach. And you know they’re thinking about bending you over the bar counter and taking turns at fucking you until they hear the sound of your dads diesel pulling into the driveway. How you’d have to play pretend for your father, ignoring the fact that your panties are soaking through with three different men’s cum, and maybe even a mix of your own. The salty liquids threatening to drip down your inner thigh as you politely excuse yourself from the garage. Coming up with any bullshit excuse to go lay on your bed and rub your clit until you’re seeing stars. Imagining each of their faces in between your legs, spreading you open and eating you up.

You know they’re thinking it, because you are too. It’s the only thing you can think about in this moment, while pouring Rick a double spiced rum and coke. Taking a sip and then handing it him. Making sure your fingers touch.

When you turn to ask Shane what he wants, he gets up. Insisting that you won’t know how to make an old fashioned. You only just turned 21 after all. You probably haven’t even had one before.

But he’s wrong. They’re your dads favourite and you’d been making them for him since you were 16. But you didn’t tell Shane that. Instead you let him walk around the bar, come up behind you and press himself against your back. Letting a tiny gasp escape at the feeling of his, very hard, cock pressing into your bum. Pushing you even further against the counter. His chest is warm against you. And his hands are big and calloused as he guides your own, pouring the perfect amount of bitters, simple syrup and bourbon over a huge, king sized ice cube that he’d retrieved from the freezer.

Finally, taking a slice of orange, meticulously cut up and organized in little containers on the bar top. It was something your mother was always very fond of; organizing the liquors and the garnishes, ensuring that your father could host a proper poker night or barbecue. Or whatever the fuck they stayed up all night doing in their little man cave. Not knowing that you were upstairs, awake and playing with your favourite vibrator, listening to their rock music through your bedroom floor.

“And then you twist it, like this…” Shane’s lips are actually brushing your ear. And you don’t mean to, but your eyes flutter shut at the feeling. His free hand moves to your waist as he tosses the orange peel in the drink, lifting it up and bringing the cold glass to your lips.

“Try it.” He says. And though you can’t see him because he’s still behind you, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

You take a sip. A small one. Immediately scrunching your face at the two men still sitting across you. Their lips curl into an amused smile as they watch you swallow the amber liquid.

“Not my favourite.” You whisper as Shane leans back. Only for a second before he’s turned you around and trapped you once more, back to the bar this time.

“Well we did forget one thing,” He says, reaching over to a jar on the counter. Maraschino cherries. Your favourite.

“And I know how much you like these.” He teases, referring to all the cherries he caught you adding to your piña coladas at a neighbors pool party only a couple weeks ago.

He dips a single cherry in the drink. Taking it by the stem and lifting it to your mouth. You don’t hesitate in wrapping your lips around it. The bitter taste of the bourbon on the fruit doesn’t last long. A sweet, sugary syrup bleeds over your tastebuds as you bite into the cherry. And a moan manages to escape your throat. It’s quiet. You think maybe it was subtle enough to go unnoticed. But the smile on Shane’s lips and the dry laugh coming from behind you, tell you that it didn’t.

Shane is still pushed up against you, cock strained in his jeans and pressed right against your stomach. His hand gripping your hip and forcing you to stay against the counter. And the way he’s looking down at you. Fuck, the way they’re all looking at you. Watching you start to squirm under their gaze.

“It’s good.” You swallow. Trying to maintain a confident, big girl attitude. But truthfully, you just want them to peel your clothes off, and let you melt into their arms as you cum all over their cocks.

“Daryl’s drink is still empty, sweetheart.” Rick’s gravelly voice pulls you back.

“Right.”

Shane gives your hip one last squeeze before he walks back to his barstool. Next to Rick. They cheers quietly and sip on their drinks. Watching intently as you try to compose yourself.

“What’s your poison?” You turn to the last man, lighting what was probably his second or third cigarette of the night. Glancing up at you and taking a draw. Slowly inhaling and exhaling. And though your mother was not a fan, you fucking loved it. You wanted to crawl onto his lap and have him blow the smoke right between your lips as you rode his cock, letting the other two men watch and touch themselves to the sight of you getting off on another guy.

But you didn’t.

“Just a beer, sunshine.” He pushes his empty glass forward for you. You grab it and put it in the dishwasher. Grabbing a brand new, frosted mug from the freezer.

“Which one?”

“Bud’s fine.”

You grab a bottle and skillfully pour it into the mug, coming around the bar this time to hand it to him. Intentionally placing yourself between him and Rick, reaching over and setting the glass in front of him.

To no one’s surprise, you feel a warm hand on the small of your back. Rick’s fingers tracing dangerously close to the thin band of your panties.

“Those are really bad for you, y’know.”

You get bold again. Stepping onto the foot rest of Rick’s barstool, and taking a seat right on his lap. The hand on your back only helping guide you on to him. Quickly finding its way around your waist as you make yourself comfortable.

Daryl only grunts. Hiding a smile at your silly comment. He’d seen you smoke. Hell, he’d snuck out of multiple dinner parties to have one with you.

“You gonna share?” You ask.

Hesitantly he hands it over, and you take it with two fingers. Taking a long drag in and then turning to face Rick again, before you slowly exhale. Trying to focus the smoke onto his lips more than anything.

“What the hell would your father think if he could see you right now?” Shane asks, leaning back in his chair and palming the hard on, still evident in his jeans.

“Think he’d probably try and beat you’re asses.” You say. And while you’re answering Shane, your focus is solely on Rick. The scruff on his face. His bright blue eyes, taunting you and begging you to lean in. Just an inch closer so that he can catch your lips.

“Think he’d win?” Rick asks, glancing down at your own lips.

“Not a chance.” You smile.

He closes the space between you, and you taste rum on the tongue that traces yours. Rick’s hand going to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss as you blindly try to put the cigarette out on the ashtray. You start to move. Trying to maneuver your position so that you’d have a leg on either side of him, straddling his very apparent bulge. But right as you start to moan against his mouth, you hear the truck pull up and park. Practically jumping off of Rick and standing in between him and Daryl’s barstools. Fixing your hair as the heat rises to your cheeks. The men chuckle at your flustered appearance. Waiting for their friend to enter through the side door of the garage.

“Hi dad.” You say, smiling politely and pulling your tank top down to cover the strip of skin visible where it had previously rode up.

“Hey, hun. Glad to see they weren’t too much trouble for ya.” You father aproaches and slaps a hand on Shane’s back. Sitting down next to him and grabbing the pack of smokes from his jacket pocket.

“Y’wannanother drink, daddy?” You ask. Daryl clears his throat. And you see Ricks eyes go wide as Shane tries to hide his smile.

“Please. Old fashioned, darling. Y’want some of that pink stuff we found last week? Bubbly… something or other. It’s in the fridge.”

You watch Shane the whole time that you make the old fashioned. Clearly showing him that you knew exactly how your dad liked it. Carefully placing the cocktail on the counter in front of them.

“Thanks doll.” Your dad says, continuing to smoke his cigarette. Reaching over the counter and handing one to Rick who lights it. Watching you the whole time. Tendrils of smoke, floating up to the ceiling of the garage. You turn around. Bending over and being sure to stay searching for the bottle of rosé about thirty seconds longer than you really needed to. You pour a glass as the men discuss what the next move was. What they should do for the night. Considering it’s still a work night, and they all have a supply run pretty early in the morning.

“You wanna play some cards, sweetie?” Your dad asks. You scrunch your nose at him, taking a nice long sip of your sparkling wine.

“What? You got somewhere better to be?” Shane teases.

You huff a semi-annoyed breath, looking around for a spare stool. Even though you already knew there were only 4. Ricks eyes glimmer as he pats his left thigh, inviting you back on.

To your surprise, your dad pays you no mind, already starting to shuffle the deck of cards as you hesitantly take your seat back on top of Rick. Loving the way his hand curls around your thighs and tugs you even further on top of him. And the the way that Shane looks a little jealous that he hadn’t offered first. And you’re especially loving the way Daryl shifts on his stool just the tiniest bit closer, so that his leg grazes yours every now and then.

“All right, here’s the rules…” You hear your dad starts to explain, already dealing you each some cards. But you don’t hear him. You don’t even look in his direction. You’re way too focused on the taste of Rick that lingers on your lips, and the way your clit is actually fucking pulsing. Begging for attention. And truthfully, your mind can’t help but wander, thinking about what might have happened if your dad had taken any longer to get back home.

part 2

(I’m picturing readers dad as Tobin in Alexandria. Someone like that at least. With a Carol-esque mother. But picture whoever you’d like! Just thought I’d share what I was kinda thinking…)

taglist - @rickswh0r3 @elnyrae @catt-leya @murder-jacket @miinbun @ankhmutes @eternalrose81 @cl0wnb0yyy @grimesthinker

#rick grimes #rick grimes smut #rick grimes fanfiction #rick grimes x y/n #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x y/n #shane walsh x you #shane walsh x reader #shane walsh smut #shane walsh fanfiction #smut #rickyl smut #rickyl x reader #dbf!rick #dbf!daryl #dbf!shane #dads best friend trope #pick your poison

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lu-vin-it · 1 year

Text

Made It

── ⋅⋅⋅ ────꒰ ୨ ♡ ୧ ꒱───────

Summary: After years of being apart, not knowing whether the other is alive or dead, you and your husband have reunited.

Pairings: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Pronouns Used: None mentioned, but Y/N is called Momma

Word Count: 898

Warnings: I hate this

A/N: Ty to @stqrluvr for proofreading, ily!

“That all of ‘em?” You ask, wiping your forehead. Your sister, Candace, nods. Sighing with relief, you pull your dagger out of the last walker you had killed. You wipe it on your pants before putting it in its holster.

“That was a lot.” Candace says, sitting down against a wall. She starts rummaging through her bag before pulling a water bottle out.

“Take a minute, but then we gotta get back to the truck.” You walk into the hallway and start pacing. You hated being gone this long. The run, which was only supposed to be a few hours, turned into a two day stop when you found a small urgent care. You were itching to get back to Alexandria, to your daughter, to your home. You knew she was probably worried sick. Even though she was only eight, she knew enough about this new world to know that if a person doesn’t return when they’re supposed to, it probably means the worst.

Candace walked into the hallway a few seconds later, and the two of you left with bags full of medical supplies.

You made it home in an hour, Candace volunteered to take the findings where they belonged while you rushed to Emily’s, the woman who babysat Janis from time to time.

“Emily? Janis?” You yell as you barge into her house. You run into the living room where you see Janis and Emily sitting on the couch. Your eight year old immediately springs up and runs to you, crushing you with a hug.

“Momma!”

“Hey sugar!” You hug her back tightly. “I’m so sorry, Auntie C and I found a little doctor’s office that hadn’t been looted, so we cleared it out and got some great stuff.” She pulls out of the hug and looks at you with the saddest eyes.

“I was really scared.” You can feel your eyes welling up.

“I know, baby, I’m very sorry. I wanted to come home to you the entire time.” You rub her cheek with your thumb. “I got you something!” You take your backpack off and put your hand into the side pocket, pulling out a necklace. It was silver with a small diamond on it. “Here, so we’ll match.” You put it against your own necklace which had your engagement and wedding rings on it.

“Woah!” She awes. “Put it on me!” She eagerly spins around.

Twenty minutes later, you’re back at your house, changing your clothes as Janis tells you about her previous day at school.

“Y/N?” You hear your sister shout, followed by the front door closing.

“In my room changing!”

“Get down here!” You furrow your brows.

“Why?”

“New people.. you’re gonna want to see one of them.” You raise an eyebrow at your daughter and the two of you shrug.

“K.. one second.”

“You have Jan, right?” You adjust your shirt before walking out of your room.

“Yeah.” You walk downstairs, Janis right behind you. Candace was waiting for you with a grin. “C’mon then.”

You all walk to the gates of Alexandria where Deanna, Aaron, and Eric stood in front of a group of thirteen strangers. You gave Candace a confused look before looking each stranger up and down. Stranger, stranger, stranger, stranger, st—what. You gulp. It couldn’t be.

“Daryl?” Everyone’s eyes snap to you in sync. The man glares at you for a moment before his eyes soften and all of a sudden he’s dropping his crossbow and running towards you. “Holy shit!” You call out as you wrap your arms around your husband. Your eyes well up and soon enough, you’re laughing through sobs. Daryl is squeezing you so hard that you think you might explode, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Y/N.” He breathes out.

“Hi honey.” You cry into his shoulder. You feel something crash into your legs, you glance down and realize it’s Janis. You pull away from the hug and Daryl reaches down to pick up your daughter. She buries her head in his neck and cries while holding him tightly. You wrap your arms back around both of them. All three of you are sobbing at this point.

“Daryl? Who is that?” Rick asked inquisitively. Neither of you move away from each other.

“She’s his wife.” Candace supplies. “Don’t y’all have anything better to do than stare?” She snaps, glaring at the fellow Alexandria citizens. Most scatter off. You pull out of the hug and put your hand on Daryl’s cheek.

“I.. You’re.. You made it.” He cries. You laugh and nod.

“I made it. We made it. I knew you’d find me, never doubted it, not for a minute.” You rambled. “I missed you s—“ He cuts you off by kissing you. God if felt good. For the first time since the dead started walking, you felt at peace.

“Eww!” You pull apart and you both laugh at your daughter. It was a beautiful sight to everyone else, seeing this man reunited with his wife and daughter. “Where were you Daddy? I missed you.” Janis whispered, rubbing his beard because it felt funny just like she used to do.

“I missed you too, pumpkin. I was helping out some friends but I’m back. I’m here. I ain’t going anywhere. Okay?” She nods with a smile.

“Okay.” She wraps her arms around his neck and hugs him tightly.

── ⋅⋅⋅ ────꒰ ୨ ♡ ୧ ꒱───────

#daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon imagine #domesticated daryl dixon #daryl dixon x y/n #the walking dead imagine #the walking dead fic #the walking dead x reader

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djarindroid · 2 months

Text

Marry Me

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: Daryl proposes to you under the stars (Established relationship. Setting- Alexandria)

Word Count: 712

Comments: I just wanna write endless fluffy fics for Daryl 💕

The evening breeze carried a feeling of peacefulness as you and Daryl sat outside. This had become routine for the two of you, after a long run or a day's hunt, you’d enjoy a quiet breath of fresh air together. The light from the porch lantern cast a soft glow over the both of you as Daryl meticulously cleaned his crossbow, each movement practised and methodical.

You, perched up on the porch railing, stared at the clear night sky. You’d always found solace in the stars, sparkling way above you, not affected by any of the horrors down here on earth. You almost envied them, so removed from everything, but if you hadn’t faced the uncertainty of this world you wouldn’t be here, with the man you love.

The amount of times Daryl had cleaned his crossbow allowed him to keep his eyes on you as he worked. His gaze was filled with nothing short of adoration as he watched the starlight dance across your skin. To be truthful, if he could spend eternity watching you gaze at the stars he’d be a very happy man. Deciding this was the perfect moment to break the comforting silence, he uttered two of the most important words he’d ever said. ‘Marry me.’

Instantly bringing your attention away from the sky you looked to Daryl, finding him watching you with a soft smile. His request settled around you, making the night air warmer as you felt a grin gradually spreading across your face. You hopped down from the railing and crossed the short distance of the porch to stand in front of Daryl. His eyes never leaving your face, he looked at you as if you were his whole world. You were sure the look on your own face was a mirror of his.

You’d face everything you'd been through all over again if it meant you’d end up here, in this moment. You knew you’d do anything for the man in front of you, and couldn’t fathom a life without him.

You gently cupped his face with your hand, ‘You sure you wanna marry me D?’ You couldn’t help but ask, though you were sure of the certainty behind his words.

‘Yeah,’ he responded without a second thought. The corners of his mouth lifted even higher as he added, ‘never been more sure of somethin’.’ He cupped one of your hands in his and tilted his head to place a delicate kiss on your palm.

You always knew you’d spend the rest of your life with Daryl but hearing him so sure and eager to do so caused happiness to overwhelm every fibre of your being. It was so overwhelming that you couldn’t stop the tears that slowly rolled down your face.

Daryl, ever the man of few words, spoke through his actions. Putting his crossbow to the side he stood up, his eyes stayed glued to yours. He brought his calloused hands up to tenderly cradle your cheeks, using his thumbs to delicately wipe your tears away.

‘Marrying me that bad huh? Didn’t think ya’d cry,’ he jested quietly as he rested his forehead against your own. You laughed quietly with him.

Saying yes to Daryl was as easy as breathing, ‘I’m just so happy and being Mrs Dixon is everything I could ever want,’ you confessed whilst lovingly wrapping your arms around his neck. Fireflies had circled around the two of you, as if the stars themselves had fallen to witness this moment of love that had survived the apocalypse.

‘Good, because I dunno what I would’ve done with this if you’d of said no.’ He pulled out a simple silver ring from his pocket. It was perfect, not too flashy, just a perfect reminder of the connection between the two of you.

Time seemed to stretch around you as he carefully slipped the ring onto your finger, the weight of its significance settled into your heart. Life was no longer about surviving, it was about building a future together. As you gazed into Daryl’s eyes, gratitude washed over you, thinking about how lucky you were. You knew the stars you loved to stare at didn’t contain all the answers, but in Daryl’s eyes you saw a galaxy shining just for you.

#just another short lil fluffy piece for Daryl #🥰#like this is just how I pictured him proposing to someone #simple and loving #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon drabble #daryl dixon #TWD #the walking dead

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lazyneonrabbitt · 7 months

Text

Elaborating on the Daryl x Nun!reader filth.

🔞 enjoy! 🔞

Her dreams become sinful after his arrival and have her wake drenched in sweat. She meticulously cleans herself to rid her of the physical remnants of those impure dreams and prays her days away but when she keeps running into him her thoughts get worse.

He seems to have an interest for her. He isn't as guarded as he is around the others. His walls are down and his door stays unlocked when she's watching over him. He's intrrested in this one.

One morning he wanders around a different corner, deviating from his usual path to breakfast and catches the sound of her voice coming from a small, wooden area in the main church hall. He doesn't catch all of her words due to the thick, wooden door and the distance that separates them but he does catch her speaking of impure thoughts and sinful dreams.

That night he decides to bathe, leaving his door ajar so his watcher would be able to see him. When she arrives she announces her presence as requested. Each one did so, to let him know someone was there and he wouldn't be alarmed by noises at his door.

"Sir," she peeked in, seeing him sprawled out in the tub, water clear and barely hiding his features. She quickly averts her gaze but no matter where she looks she sees them together on which ever piece of furniture her eyes land on.

Her upper body bent over the desk with him pressed deep inside, his hands on her hips and behind.

Her hands fisting the sheets as he lays on top of her, the most angelic sounds coming from him as he has his way with her.

Her figure straddling his hips as he ruts into her from below. Their intimate parts hidden by the high edge of the tub.

Her chest pressed into the old rug as her hips are being held up and used for his pleasure.

She hadn't noticed he had gotten out of the tub and approached her in nothing but a towel around his hips.

"Who were ya talkin' to this mornin'?" His raspy voice pulled her from her thoughts and back to the here and now where she saw that which haunted her dreams and quickly turned around to avert her eyes. "I spoke to god. I asked for forgiveness." She mentally begged he wouldn't ask any further, and he didn't.

He got worse.

"I'm sure he'll forgive ya for anythin', yer a good girl." His hands found her hips and his body pressed up against your backside.

"Heard ya tall about bad thoughts and dreams." He pulled her hips back against his so she'd feel his hard member press against her ass. "How 'bout ya tell father Dixon about those?"

She stumbled over her words, saying a quick prayer for forgiveness before giving in. "I'm at your service this night. You may ask anything of me I just beg you to be gentle."

He takes her to the bed carefully strips her of her attire to leave her in just her necklace that she refused to take off.

Daryl's towel had found its place on the floor by the time she was nude and his fingers danced right above her core. "Relax now, it'll be good." He lowered his hand and his fingers found their way into her core, curling to pull the sweetest sounds of her, muffled by hands that held the silver cross against her lips. His fingers brushed right over a spot that had her seeing stars. "Ahh.. ah g-- god.."

Daryl's voice almost growled in excitement. "Yeah, tell the man how good yer feelin' right now. He'll forgive ya if he hears how good this is for ya." With a whine she comes over Daryl's fingers that are soon replaced by his cock. He presses in oh so slow, making sure she's comfortable and starts at a slow pace and only speeds up as her pleasured noises return.

She finished quickly after, only for Daryl to move her around the room towards the desk, bending her over it and continuing.

"Ah please-- so good I.. hhhmm" Daryl's pace picked up and easily pulled another orgasm from her only to pull her onto the floor with him.

She's shaking by now but that doesn't keep him from moving his thumb to rub over her clit as he pounds into her from below, her cross necklace caught between his teeth "Please--" her begging and his grunts fill the room.

"Please what? What d'ya want?" His pants get louder and thrusts get sloppier with each word.

"Please forgive me, ple-- forgiveme" she's chssing her own release, bouncing on Daryl's cock like her life depended on it and came with a loud whine "forgivemeplease, ahhhforgivemeahh--"

A few more quick thrusts had Daryl spilling deep inside her and roll the both of them over. He moves across the room with jer in his arms and slowly lowers her into the lukewarm bath. She shivers at the sudden coldness. "Just a quick rinse, gotta clean ya, alright?" He wipes her down and helps her out, dries and dresses her and sets her in bed before he makes his way to the small couch.

"Please, sleep here tonight?" He stops at the sound of her voice, makes his way over to her to lay down and spend the rest of tonight with her in bed.

#sometimes i write #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #twd: daryl dixon

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yevmarie · 5 months

Text

Light My Fire | Chapter 2

Masterlist

< Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 >

Plot: having lost everything you are drowned in depression, which had happened to you a year ago. Now you need to struggle with the apocalypse as well with no sparkle in your heart. But there is one man who can light your fire to live.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader

Word count: 1.8k

Pronouns: you, she/her

Warnings:

angst;

mentions of depression;

implied suicidal thoughts;

abuse;

swearing;

smoking (by main character as well);

differences from the main plot may occur;

bad English (not my first language).

If I miss something, please let me know. I hope you enjoy :).

You approached Shane while he was checking his gun, Lori standing in front of him, silently saying something. When she noticed you out of the corner of her eye, her facial expression changed, as if you had caught her in something.

Your relationship with her was an enigma to you. Once your friend distanced herself from you without any explanation. You attributed this to her mental condition; after all, her husband was in a coma, leaving her alone with their little son.

Following your primal belief, you sought to avoid conflict and not come across as a bad person.

“Are you okay with having invested a pile of dough to change yourself but still going down the beaten path? Huh, Y/N?” you asked yourself.

Shane interrupted your thoughts. "I’ll go for Rick. Thank God we haven’t gone too far. Lori and I have settled it."

You stood rooted to the ground. Carl was everything you had, and despite that, you still had feelings for Shane. You weren't prepared to lose him too. But who were you to oppose?

Shane brought you back to reality. "Whatever happens, don’t split up. Lori, Y/N, are your phones still charged?"

You both nodded.

"Good. If anything happens, just run. I’ll call you and find you," he assured, stepping up to Lori and kissing her forehead. Your heart sank. Yes, they were friends, but this move...

"Take care," you told Shane. He looked at you and silently nodded. You turned and went to your car. As you closed the door, the surrounding chatter suddenly became distant. Placing your hands on the steering wheel, you laid your forehead down, feeling your shoulders shake as tears fell.

Footsteps neared your car. Raising your head, you saw Daryl turning back to his car. Perhaps, he wanted to return your cup. You opened the door. Daryl approached.

"Here ya are," he handed you the cup, noticing your tear-streaked face. "Brewed this yourself?" You nodded with a sad smile. "Um, take this too," he handed you a silver Zippo. You thanked him with a smile. Daryl felt his cheeks started blushing. He nodded and hurried back to his car. You closed the door, leaned back, and watched him leave, feeling your body relax as you fell asleep.

---

A dull explosion made you awake, the car slightly shaking from the blast. People were screaming and running. You turned and saw Lori rushing toward you.

"Y/N, please look after Carl."

"What's happening?"

But she had already distanced herself.

"Don’t split up, yeah?" you thought.

Military airplanes flew overhead, causing your ears to clog. "Y/N," Carl's voice barely reached you from inside the car. Opening the door, you sat next to him.

"What's going on?" the boy's voice trembled. Another explosion shook the car. You held Carl close. The drum-like rhythm of explosions echoed in the city. You closed your eyes, trying to hold back tears, but they escaped, grieving for your friend buried in your mind.

---

“Inhale…” the woman’s voice was talking to you calmly. You inhale and hold your breath. “Exhale…” you exhale and hold your breath again. “Well, there you are. This technique is quite simple, isn’t it? And let’s repeat it. Inhale…”

---

Returning to reality, Carl still held you in a hug, soothingly stroking your shoulder. "Y/N, it’s okay, it’s okay" he reassured. He was an intelligent and empathetic child. When Rick told Carl about your mental health issues, he promised to do all but impossible to support and comfort his aunt. And that’s what he did. Nothing extraordinary, just simple hugs, words of support, and a pinch of unconditional child love.

"Thank you, Carl, you've helped me a lot," you said through tears. The car door suddenly opened. “Shane?” you exclaimed.

"We all need to talk," his face filled with concern. Lori was sobbing. You stepped out. Carl followed you glancing between Shane and his mother, puzzled.

“I’m sorry…” the man said.

Everything around you felt like in slow motion.

“Damn it!” you screamed in your thoughts but the face was showing no emotions, they had been sobbed out in the car before. Sitting on the asphalt and leaning on the car, your body shook, breath trembling, and the noise deafening.

“This can't be happening to me. No, not me. I’ll wake up in my cozy bed now, then brew some coffee, go outside to the park, call my mom, and chat with my dad. I’ll go to work. And after the work day, Shane will pick me up. We’ll call Rick. He’ll be glad to invite us over. We’ll buy some expensive and nice wine for Rick and Lori, and a toy for Carl. And after that Shane and I get back home and we’ll get drowned into each other's embraces till the morning. Yes, it will be this way, only this way…”

Your thoughts were interrupted by a silver-haired man in safari clothing talking to Shane.

“We’d like to settle a camp nearby. I know that place well, used to fishing there. Would you like to join us? I think we all need to rest and then come up with a plan. Please don’t take me wrong, there are a lot of children, and some of the families fled without any armor or food. We need to stick together. And I won’t be lying your help would be valuable.”

Shane glanced at Lori, who nodded in agreement. "Good," said the old man.

---

"What’s happening there, Merle?" Daryl inquired, observing an old man conversing with Shane through the rearview mirror.

“Some old fart gatherin’ the group.”

“Got it.”

"Really? Then pack your bag.”

“Why do we need to join ‘em? We’ll tough it out alone.”

“You silly arse. We can clean ‘em up while they sleep and go west then.”

“I see ya got one solution for everything.”

“And I see ya learned nothin’ in your useless life. Want to save our hides, you dork? Go on and talk; your innocent face works better.”

Daryl gasped and headed toward the man.

"Hey, we'd like to join too."

The old man glanced concerningly at Daryl, then at Merle. "I think..."

"We’ve got food and armor," Daryl interrupted, nervously biting his lower lip.

"Okay," the man nodded after a few seconds.

"Thanks," Daryl glanced in your direction, relieved that your eyes hadn’t met. You were occupied with packing your belongings. Daryl awkwardly shuffled away.

---

Several hours passed as your group settled at the camp. You all agreed on the plan for the following day. Some would venture into the city to assess the situation, while others would hunt, understanding the impossibility of entering the city on the first try. A round-the-clock watch was set up, with Shane volunteering to start.

You sat near the campfire with Lori and Carl while they ate. Unable to eat due to food sticking in your throat, you idly played with the zippo Daryl had given you, gazing into emptiness.

Shane approached and settled on a nearby log.

"Carl, please rest. I’ll join soon," Lori said, ensuring Carl had gone into the tent. Shane started telling in great detail. “I’m sorry, I’m not ready for this yet,” Lori interrupted sobbing and then followed her son.

"Go ahead," you rasped dryly, wanting water but almost vomiting the last time you tried to drink it.

"I’m sorry," Shane whispered after finishing his story.

"It’s not your fault," you replied emptily, clicking the lighter in your hand. "I’ll take a walk."

"It's not safe, Y/N," Shane's voice lowered, growing aggressive.

"You know I can stand up for myself," you stepped away.

"You are a pain," he growled, a chill running down your spine.

"Need a painkiller?" you replied sarcastically.

Before you realized, he was already standing next to you, gripping your forearm.

"It hurts," your voice devoid of emotion.

"I'm tired of constantly rescuing you."

"Ironic that you never did it for me. But good for you, Rick is dead. Now you can enjoy a new role."

"Piece of garbage!" Shane said through gritted teeth, pushing you away. Off-balance, you made two steps and walked toward the quarry.

---

“Your shitty plan went tits up, Merle.” Daryl told his brother while he was savoring whiskey from the flask.

“Ya could’ve thought of something better.” Merle sipped and whizzed nastily.

Daryl screwed up his face, took a crossbow, and headed outside.

“Where are ya goin’?”

“Check up the territory”

“Should I hand to?”

“Fuck off, Merle!”

---

Keep holding on

When my brain's ticking like a bomb

Guess the black thoughts

Have come again to get me

You sat on the hill's edge, observing the moon's reflection shimmering on the water's surface while absentmindedly toying with a butterfly knife. Checking its sharpness, you noted that it wasn't the most reliable tool for self-defense.

Suddenly, the silence shattered by rustling plants nearby. You cautiously stood up and headed towards the sound on bended knees. “Here we go,” you thought gulping nervously. A bead of sweat traced its path down your spine. Your breathing grew irregular, louder, prompting you to hold it in. Each passing second seemed to amplify the sound of your racing pulse. Out of the darkness, a crossbow glinted, followed by the silhouette of a well-built man. Realizing escape wouldn't be easy, your blood pressure skyrocketed, and a persistent ringing filled your ears.

That's right

Trigger between my eyes

Please strike

Make it quick now

The man stepped forward. It was Daryl. He lowered the crossbow as he recognized you.

“You fucking idiot!” you yelled, bending over trying to catch your breath. Daryl stepped up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that seriously. You’ve scared the shit out of me,” you said, wiping sweat from your forehead. Your legs felt weak, and you collapsed back onto the ground where you were sitting earlier. Retrieving a cigarette, you lit it.

“What are you doing here?” Daryl grumbled.

“Just catching my breath, resting early. And you?”

“Nothing much,” Daryl replied, looking a bit embarrassed.

“Hmm,” you hummed with the cigarette between your lips.

Click! “Nice lighter,” you paused. “But a regular one would be handy too.” You offered Daryl the shimmering silver zippo you had.

“There you go. Take it, it's yours,” he said.

You thanked exhaling the burning smoke.

“Wanna keep me company?”

Daryl hesitated for a moment, then sat beside you.

Both of you sat in silence, unsure of what to talk about. You decided to start a conversation somehow.

“What's your brother's name?”

“Made a pass at him?”

You laughed coughing a bit. Daryl grinned subtly in response.

"Merle,” he replied.

“A charming man,” you put on an act pretending to be impressed.

Daryl chuckled softly. “Nobody's ever called him tha’ before.” His voice softened and became more cheerful.

“Pleased to be the first,” you continued, still putting on an act.

Daryl couldn't recognize himself, covering his face with his arms and almost crying from laughter. “Stop it, womaaan!” he said.

You laughed, took another drag of the cigarette, and realized you had momentarily distracted yourself from troubling thoughts.

< Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 >

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sirensvcubus · 10 months

Text

Only Tonight

Season 7

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Genre: Mostly Fluff <3

Back story:

This takes place during season 7, Daryl and Y/N are in love but after Negan takes you and Daryl hostage, your forced to become Negan’s wife while Daryl is Tortured.

Summery:

You per sway Negan to let you stay one night in Alexandria, shortly after Negan and The Saviors leave you are reunited with Daryl who’s escaped and get one night together.

———————————————————————

“Please baby, one night? You know I wont run, and even if I wanted to I know what you’d do to my friends.”

You begged looking up at him with puppy dog eyes and a pleading smile. Negan stood there with a smirk, thinking it through.

“Id be so….so grateful,” you said caressing his cheek.

“One night,” He said looking around. “Because I am a generous, gentleman…”

Negan turned down to you with a serious stern look. He grabbed your chin making sure you focused in. “If you run I will find you. If you hide I will find you, and tomorrow when I come to collect you, you will show me..how grateful you truly are. Mk?” Negan whispered, to which you replied with a nod.

He left you standing there in your low cut black dress and silver strap heals that he’d forced you to wear. A part of his wives attire, that led everyone to know your his and only his. How you loathed him. Everyday you missed Daryls soft touch more and more. When you were trapped there you would sneak Daryl good food and hold his hand under the crack of the door; as you both sat there listening to that god awful music he was forced to listen to, over and over. If only Daryl were here, you thought.

As soon as the cars drove out of Alexandria followed by the clanging of the gates, Rick ran to you and you collapsed in his arms crying. You finally felt safe and at home surrounded by your people, your family.

“Thank god, your alright.” Rick said with a tear himself.

“Daryl.. we need to” you gasped saying between sobs.

“I know, I know, shhh, we can come up with a plan, a safe plan; while your here, you can help.”

“Ok” you said with a sniffle backing away.

Daryls POV

——————————————————————-

After Daryl got the note that now was the time to escape, he waisted no time. He snuck through the dimly lit corridors and stole some clothes and food from what appeared to be Dwights room. He quickly slinked through the building picking up and old pipe for defense. He bolted to the nearest motorcycle. Thats when he saw the guy that tricked him the first time he tried to escape. His anger surfaced and he swung and swung the pipe, snagging a gun from his corpse.

“Daryl?” He heard Jesus from behind him.

(I was an atheist… until I saw Jesus in my living room- I hope y’all know that audio)

He helped him back to Alexandria on a motorcycle, stopping a mile or two before the gates to observe. After they saw Negan and his trucks shuffle out, they ran up to the gates.

“Hey let us in, its Daryl and Jesus.”

Jesus yelled.

The gates swiftly opened and Rick along with some others ran up to Daryl hugging and greeting him. Thats when the crowed cleared as he saw her. In a well fitting black dress heals in hand, barefoot on the pavement. Daryl ran to her and, her to him and she leaped into each-others arms. Reuniting in a tight, warm embrace.

______________________________________

You felt his hot breath on your neck as you both cooed finally back in each others arms. Your hot tears pooled onto his shoulder as he placed you back on the ground. His hands caressing your whole body as he got reunited with you. You missed the touch of his rough hands. Your embrace turned into a hot passionate kiss that went on till both of you needed air. It ended with you holding onto him tight with your head burrowed in his chest rocking back and forth.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” You repeated and so did he. Daryl let out small sobs while looking into your eyes.

“Your alright?” He said with concern.

“Yes.”

“You cant go back, you cant.”

“I have to Dar, you know what he’d do.”

You both sobbed in each others arms and soon your hug became a group hug as Rick, Carl, Michonne, Rosita and many more beyond your vision joined.

After everyone said there peace and celebrated his return. You walked hand and hand with Daryl back to your shared house.

“Im gonna clean you up, get you something good to eat and somthin clean to wear, were gonna eat and dance and drink good wine. Ill show you the joys of a bubble bath.” Which you both knew you loved immensely even in the apocalypse.

“You needa stay, I wont, I cant let you go back.”

“Shhhhh, we have one night, I’m not spending it arguing with ya.” You said holding his hand tighter as a tear dropped down his face. “I have to go back we both know I do”

You spent the night doing as you planned starting off with a nice warm bath. You looked into his bright blue puffy eyes and leaned your head against his chest, un-buttoning his shirt, as water filled the tub. You grabbed a cloth and two cozy towels. Daryl took of the rest of his clothes and so did you meeting him in the bath, while pouring bubbles around mixing them in a bit. You sat behind him washing his back and pooling cups of water onto his scalp dirt and blood ran in streams down his back. You dabbed his scars kissing them after you cleaned each one.

So much washed off of him that you had to drain and fill up the tub again swirling around more bubbles in the hot water. You both washed up before laying on top of Daryl with his arms wrapped around you. He kissed you cheek and down your neck, cradling your boobs in his hands. You both stayed like that for over an hour. You finally turned smiling facing him as you plopped bubbles on his head causing him to chuckle. Daryl dabbed some bubbles on your nose causing you to wince. He swooped over you laying you on your back in the water as you kissed one another. The sound of swishing water mixed with coos and I love you’s. He melted into you biting your bottom lip as each kiss ended.

After the bath you got out and Daryl wrapped you in the warm blanket and his towel around his waist, leaving his chest and muscles exposed. He knew it would get the best of me. You sat in the living room after getting dressed and shared a bottle of red wine. He put on the song Lover You Should Have Come Over, by Jeff Buckley on the record player inviting you up to dance, knowing how much you loved it. He was usually stubborn about dancing but he did it without hesitation.

His huge warm arms wrapped around your waist. You both swayed back and forth to the song. Then finally you went to stir in the tomato sauce with the spaghetti you had boiling.

“This is going to be the best meal you’ve had in ages, baby.”

“Considering I’ve been eating dog food sandwiches, I would have to agree. Although from what you’ve told me your shit at cooking.” He said and you both chuckled.

“Well Ive gotta learn, and you cant really go wrong with pasta.”

You both lapped it up in silence and finally snuggled into bed his warm body pressing against your back and large muscled arms wrapping tightly around you. He kissed your neck holding you into him tighter.

“See you in the morning.” He said.

“Yes…then-“

He shushed you and you pressed your face against his.

“Goodnight, I love you, so so much Daryl.”

“I love you to Y/N, more than you could know.”

——————————————————————-

Thanks for reading!!! <3

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tvshowscouples · 2 months

Text

If you love Dixon&Silver (90210) and you want reblog or like,this is the link of my reblog couples :)

thank you!

#sixon #silver and dixon #dixon and silver #erin silver #dixon wilson #tristan wilds #90210 #jessica stroup #dixon x silver #silver x dixon #team sixon

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puppypopcornpizza · 7 months

Text

"Don't Stop"

Warnings ➳ suggestive

Pairing ➳ Daryl Dixon x F!reader

Word Count ➳ 595

It was dark in Alexandria, the gravel sparkling from the recent storm and the air cool. Her steps were fast as she walked back to the house, breath shuddering by the time she caught a glance of the archer sitting on the railing.

She watched his hand lazily glide over the crossbow as he cleaned the weapon, nimble fingers stopping in certain areas before moving on. Stomach fluttering at the sight, any cold she had left in her body was replaced with a heat by the time her boots found the porch.

"Ya starin'." Her gaze snapped to his face, his eyes down as she watched a smirk play on the corner of his lips. At this point, her body was on fire.

"Oh um…" She cleared her throat to try and allow words to leave it. "You're just really good with your hands."

Daryl's eyes found her through a dark fringe, face unreadable as he slowly ran the stained cloth down the barrel. She wasn't sure how she wasn't drooling. She cleared her throat again, the asshole was teasing her.

Her feet felt heavy as she moved to sit opposite him on the railing, knees to her chest as he continued to work. Head resting on her arms as her eyes followed his fingers.

"S'dya need somethin'?" She hummed to his voice before breaking from her thoughts. His eyebrow raised at her blank face.

"Not really," she shrugged, returning her chin to her forearm as she watched him through lashes. "Don't stop on my account."

He gave something between a scoff and a short laugh at her reply, eyes crinkling in the corners ever so slightly. She smiled, heart swelling at the thought of one day maybe being the cause of his grin or laugh.

"I really like your smile," the words escaped before she could stop them.

"Like yours too." Their expressions matched, equal part of shock and embarrassment. He paused on the crossbow and their gazes locked, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Horribly timed images flashed in her mind of soft moans, her back making contact with the wall as calloused fingers gripped her thighs. Skin going red and purple through pure ecstasy. The both of them chasing a high with incoherent words whispered into each other's necks.

Her lips parted as he slowly leaned back, still quiet and his mind still processing his confession. Her brain was broken - it was wrong, she was being stupid.

"I like you," she wanted to laugh at how innocent it sounded after what her brain just conjured.

"Ya like me?" Voice gruff and quiet, head cocked to the side.

"I like you," she repeated. "And I can't stop thinking about you, and I want to-"

She clamped her mouth shut, more words threatening to spill over. Heart aching and screaming at the thought of being laid bare to hurt, she was sure her own fear matched his.

"I like having you around and I don't want to lose you," her fingers ruffled her hair to make the knot in her stomach leave.

He leaned forward, maybe to listen more or maybe so he could run if she carried on speaking. Eyes glinting from silver light, he watched her carefully. Her entire body went numb.

"I…" She scoffed, the brief confidence she had leaving her. "I'm sorry I shouldn't-"

"No, ya ain't-" he cut her off. Trying to rake his brain for the right words. "Ya didn't do nothing wrong."

"But you… a-and me and the fucking world's over," she sighed. "Daryl-"

"I like ya too."

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd daryl #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #fanfiction #my writing

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celtic-crossbow · 3 months

Text

Whumpuary Day 9-10

Prompt: “Stay. Please.”

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Wife!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of injuries

A/N: This one is just a drabble. I was not in a great mood when I wrote it and it probably reflects that. I’m sorry for the subpar work. I hope you still love me.😭

gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

“Daryl, she needs you.” Carol implored, blocking the infirmary exit. The archer tried to side-step but the woman just knew him too well and moved with him.

“Damnit, move!” Daryl all but roared at his best friend. He knew she meant well, he did. But he had to stop them. He couldn’t let them hurt anyone else. He’d failed enough by allowing them to get to you. It was eating him alive. He didn’t know how else to deal with the guilt. It was fueling his rage like gasoline on a fire.

“You’re not thinking straight!”

“M’thinkin’ jus’ fine! Move, Carol!”

“You can’t go out there like this!”

“I can’ believe this! Ya saw wha’ they did ta ‘er!”

“And that’s why you need to stay!”

“Nah, tha’s why I gotta—”

“Daryl.” Your voice was low, strained. It was weak. But he heard it. Of course he heard it. The archer didn’t give Carol a second glance when he crossed the space to you in two long strides. The silver-haired woman walked behind him with her arms crossed, eyes rolled. She knew all it would take was your specific persuasion to calm Daryl down. She was only hoping to hold him off long enough for you to awaken.

“Hey, m’right here.” He sat down on the edge of your bed in the infirmary, his hip pressed against yours. You looked so small, fragile in the large bed. Pale and bruised with stitched lacerations and butterfly sutures. “Yer gon’ be okay, ya hear me?”

Your smile was tired and small but it was genuine. “I know I am.” You opened your hand and he took it immediately, pressing his lips to your busted knuckles. “I know I am because you’ll be here to protect me, won’t you?” You blinked slowly and watched his expression fall.

“Ya know I gotta—”

“You don’t gotta do anything.” He looked like he might start to argue so you began to sit up, wincing with an arm around your middle to brace your broken ribs. Daryl was all don’ do that and stay still but you showed him what it felt like for your pleas to be ignored. Finally upright, you panted while Carol rushed to lift the head of the bed for you. You could breathe easier sitting up. You could also look your husband in the eye properly. “All you need to do is be here with me until a plan can be made.”

Carol smirked, seeing the very moment Daryl’s resolve began to crumble. When he glanced at her, most likely for backup he knew he’d never get, she was quick to turn her head, her smile hidden behind her hand.

He sighed, deeply but not yet resigned. “I can’ jus’—”

“Stay.” You whispered, bringing the hand that was still holding yours to your cheek. “Stay. Please.”

And that was that.

Carol closed the door behind her just as Daryl situated himself on the bed with you so you could settle against his chest. When it came to Daryl Dixon, there was nothing anyone could say or do once he had set his mind on something. Except she now had a secret weapon.

You.

Taglist:

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theteasetwrites · 1 year

Text

Merciless Beauty

Chapter 5: While Yet the Wound Is Clean

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: mild swearing, violence, references to sexuality, slight creep behavior, scary situation ❧ Word Count: 9.3k (aka very long)

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary (you're gonna need this.)

❧ In This Chapter: The king is hosting his annual jousting tournament, an opportunity for Sir Daryl and other knights to display their cavalry prowess, and a cause for celebration. The party is soon interrupted, though, by a man whose name has haunted the kingdom of Alexandria for months, but his face has remained a mystery, until now.

❧ A/N: Just as a heads up, I definitely recommend popping open the glossary for this chapter because there are going to be a lot of terms thrown at you that might not make sense (lots of armor/jousting terminology). Plus it's just kind of interesting to learn about medieval stuff, so I highly recommend checking out the glossary! It will help immerse you more. Anyway, guess who's here... Finally, after so much buildup, our main antagonist makes his appearance. I don't want to spoil it, but you probably already know. And sorry in advance that this part is so long. I had a lot to fit in here! Hope you enjoy it though.

Daryl never much cared for tournaments.

But it was part of the whole knight thing, of course, and, considering the fact that he was the first knight from outside the castle walls to attend King Ezekiel’s court in just over ten years, it was an unspoken obligation for the knight to compete.

In usual circumstances, knights would use this opportunity to display their battle prowess, and to sharpen their marshal skills in preparation for the real thing. Daryl found little use for the practice, however, but there was one aspect of the tournament that did interest him, something that Duke Richard had been reminding the knight of on a near-constant basis.

“If you lose,” said the duke, amusedly watching the knight struggle to strap the steel plate pauldron to his shoulder, “I’ll personally inform the king that you’re bedding his daughter.”

He didn’t even want to joust at all, frankly, but the duke insisted, and filled the knight’s head with all kinds of fantasies of impressing you, and even bearing your favor for all to see. But, that would be too bold, he thought. Still, the idea spurred him on, influencing him to participate in the tournament’s most anticipated event―the joust.

Long before the Scourge, King Ezekiel hosted numerous tournaments in the castle courtyard throughout the year, with knights from far and wide traveling to Alexandria to display their skill and valor in armored competition against one another, followed by a luxurious banquet held in the great hall. When the plague spread through the land and the kingdom was closed off, the castle’s drawbridge was raised, too, and tournaments were scheduled only once a year, and only the knights already present in court could participate.

This year, though, was the most exciting tournament in ages. With a new knight at court to display his skills, the other knights were eager to rise to the challenge, but there was anticipation in the air, as it was known that Sir Daryl’s skill in the joust was not to be underestimated. In fact, he’d never lost the handful of jousts he’d participated in, and at least three of the knights he defeated had died from their injuries. Well, that was par for the course, after all. Jousting was dangerous, and oftentimes, it was a fight to the death.

“I won’t lose,” replied the knight with a huff, now buckling on heavy silver gauntlets over his suede black gloves. Upon the steel, the motto of his family was engraved in gold at the wrist: Fortes Fortuna Juvat―Fortune Favors the Bold. “‘Sides, if you told the king that, you’d be lying.”

Richard turned to procure the favor you’d gifted him a fortnight ago from the knight’s bedside table. “Then what, pray, is this?” the duke laughed, twisting the lush red silk around his finger as he shook his head. “Unless there’s some other maiden you’ve been spending all your free time with.”

“Pfft,” scoffed the knight. If only he could have already put on his helmet, then he wouldn’t have to endure the embarrassment of the blush upon his cheeks. “Means nothin’.”

Richard carefully replaced the delicate fabric. “Means you’re her favorite… Means she fancies you.”

Though the idea was painfully sweet to him, he had to deny it, lest the duke get his hopes up about the nature of your feelings for him. He had to convince himself of some other truth, some other reality that was, in actuality, much further from the truth.

“Means she’s grateful for my help, s’all.”

“Mhm… Anyway, you’ll be competing against the great Sir Shane.”

Daryl’s eyes rolled nearly to the back of his head as he draped a tabard, emblazoned with his the Dixon coat of arms, over his steel plated cuirass. “Don’t remind me.”

“Why not? You should be eager to knock a dalcop like him off his horse. He could surely use it, prancing around like a puffed up peacock the way he does.”

“Yeah, I don’t care,” replied Sir Daryl, with his usual air of nonchalance. But it was a facade this time, for the first time in all his years of jousting. For once, he did care about winning, about emerging triumphantly unscathed from the perilous performance. Why? Well, he’d never jousted in front of a particular beautiful princess before.

It was a crisp spring morning, bright and cheery, as the annual tournament always brought with it a feeling of mirth, as though the world wasn’t replete with terror and the constant looming threat of death. The courtyard was always beautiful, but it became a colorful display of pageantry as a procession of nobles from court flooded into the stands. The castle’s resident merchants and servants set up booths to offer refreshments, namely mead and chilled cider, while the king’s favorite minstrels played a jaunty tune to underscore the boisterous laughter and cheerful talk amongst the gathering of a hundred or so fancily dressed noblemen and women.

Today, you looked upon the scene with rose-colored glasses, though usually you hardly even bothered to attend the tournament, instead opting just to show up for the banquet. Food was a great motivator, but watching knights on horseback bash each other’s chests in with big sticks was hardly of interest to you.

Until Sir Daryl informed you he’d be participating, that is.

Your interest in the event was now twofold: for one, you were terrified of your favorite knight being knocked from his horse, suffering the wounds of the joust that could undoubtedly lead to his demise. Your second, more base, interest was in seeing the knight triumph, the idea of his skill in battle exciting you despite your pacifist nature. Indeed, even your father was surprised at your presence, questioning you as you each sat elevated above the tiltyard in the royal balcony, watching the servants arrange the finishing touches before the joust began.

“I must say, I was not expecting you to attend,” remarked the king. “Since when are you interested in seeing the joust, my dear? I seem to recall you often referring to the sport as ‘barbaric.’”

You took a nervous sip of cider from your pewter goblet before speaking. “Well, I… I wanted to please you, father, since you always put so much effort into arranging the tournament.” You offered a sweet faux smile to bolster your fib.

He didn’t seem to catch on, his jolly laugh carrying in the gentle breeze as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder with a playful shake. “I’m happy you’re here. Oh, look! There’s your bodyguard.”

Trying not to appear too enthusiastic, you calmly craned your neck to follow the king’s extended arm, your eyes landing to the spot where he pointed. Oh, my.

Sir Daryl walked almost gracefully in the cumbersome armor, having been experienced in the practice of carrying such bulky steel upon his person. You’d never seen him so decorated, his body ornamented by a full set of the most protective armor money could buy. Its shine was nearly blinding, the reflection of the high late morning sun shimmering off the freshly polished steel. His helmet, like all jousting helmets at the time, was of the frog-mouth variety, his eyes and the surrounding skin the only part of his visage that could be seen through a narrow ocularium. Despite this, it was easy to spot the knight, his characteristically broad shouldered frame standing out even beneath all the armor, and his family’s crest painted upon his shield and tabard.

Beside him was his horse, Phantom, similarly dressed for the occasion, with barding of steel plates covering his face, neck, back, and hindquarters. Draped above these essentials was the steed’s caparison, boasting alternating checkers of red and yellow, to match his knight’s crest, of course.

Without a second thought, you rose from your seat to greet him, but quickly you remembered your father’s presence beside you. “Oh, father, may I―”

“Yes, yes, go on, but be quick. The tournament’s about to start.”

You weren’t entirely sure your father even knew what you were about to ask, but you were just fortunate that he was agreeable to whatever you were going to say. The mead was probably helping to lubricate his inhibitions.

“Thank you, father,” you said before bestowing a kiss upon his scratchy cheek. “I won’t be but a few moments.”

As you hurriedly side-stepped through the seats, you skipped down the steps and rounded the corner to meet the knight, the skirt of your particolored heraldic gown of yellow and green, your family’s colors, bunched up in your delicate hands to prevent you from tripping over yourself in your excitement.

“Sir Daryl!” you called out over the heads of a passing group of nobility.

The knight’s vision was terribly limited, but above the anonymous heads of people whose names he did not quite care enough to learn was the shining reflection of your simple pewter coronet, with two meticulously constructed braids coiled into circles on either side of your bright, freshly rouged face. He almost didn’t recognize you, him being so used to seeing your hair down or in a much less boldly colored gown, but you looked like the picture of beauty to him in any case.

On your way to him, you asked a passing merchant for a shiny red apple, which you held out to Phantom as you gracefully approached the armored destrier. He sniffed the fruit for a moment, then took it in his mouth in one fell swoop, while your other hand gently stroked his chamfron.

“Poor thing,” you cooed most woefully at the horse. “Such a gentle creature being forced to compete in this barbaric, savage sport.” You side-eyed the knight, his face completely unrecognizable, as it was locked away in a large, almost comically shaped helm. Snickering, you held back your laugh.

“What’s so funny?” asked Daryl, his voice muffled underneath the helmet. He knew, though, that he looked, for lack of a better word, stupid. He never liked armor, especially not the kind used for jousting. It made him look so pompous, he thought, and the bright reds and yellows of his tabard and shield, combined with a gaudy blue panel adorned with three large white stars, was just too flashy for his taste, but if he didn’t compete, he was sure Duke Richard would never let him hear the end of it.

“Nothing,” you replied, voice rippling with giggles. “Nothing at all.” Your gaze trailed playfully up and down his silver-covered body, right down to his sabatons. “I think you look rather… dashing, actually.”

He huffed inside his helmet. “I look like an idiot,” he said.

“No, you do not,” you replied, more seriously now. “You look like a knight, and that’s what you are.” Peering over his shoulder, you looked across the tiltyard to see Sir Shane outfitted in similar armor, though his heraldry was of his own house―Walsh. His tabard and shield, as well as his horse’s caparison, were of red and black. As you sized him up from a distance, your face blanched with worry. “Do be careful,” you said. “Sir Shane has never lost a joust in all the ten years he’s been at court. One knight lost his eye jousting him just last year.”

A strange surge of bitterness rose up in his throat like bile. Could it be… jealousy? Subconsciously, his chest seemed to puff up as he turned to look towards the other knight. “It will be easy,” he said, somewhat boldly as his rarely displayed confidence began to show. “‘Sides, I’ve never lost either, milady.”

Just then, a young flaxen-haired squire, Henry, you knew him to be called, approached the knight with a hook-shaped arret which he affixed to the knight’s cuirass, for the purpose of keeping his lance steady as he charged.

“Good day, Henry,” you said with a smile. After a brief “your highness,” and a nervous bow, the boy scurried off to gather more of the knight’s equipment, then, while Daryl’s mind began to wander as he became lost in the red of your lips, coated in that intoxicating rouged balm he knew too well. “Well, I should―”

“Wait,” interjected the knight. That particular shade of red had reminded him of something he had packed into the saddlebag beneath Phantom’s decorations. Lifting the brightly colored caparison, he dug clumsily around the small leather pouch, his large gauntlets causing him much frustration as he grunted under his breath, eliciting another small laugh from you as you watched him fumble in his clunky armor. “Goddamnit,” he huffed again, his confidence slowly waning about as quickly as it had waxed. “It’s in ‘ere somewhere…”

Finally, he triumphantly procured the red silken fabric. Your favor.

“Oh, Daryl! You still have my favor!” you said, taking the silk sleeve into your own hands to feel the familiar fabric once again.

“Course… Is―is that all right?”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course. It’s yours to keep. You must let me tie it round your arm for good luck. I’d be honored for you to be my champion.”

Your champion. He was queasy with your sweetness, and with the sudden tingling he felt… below his belt, he was reluctant to admit.

“Yes, your highness,” he replied, holding out his arm. He couldn’t let himself even breathe as you twisted the fine scarlet silk tight around his right rerebrace, the feeling so wonderfully snug and warm, even if he couldn’t physically feel the sleeve there at all.

“There,” you said proudly. “Now you’re my champion, whether you win or lose.” Your once confident voice became unstable with quivering anxiety. “But please win, my knight. I… I just could not bear to see you hurt.”

And I, you, my princess.

In the distance, the knight marshal called out to announce the beginning of the tournament. Quickly, Daryl hoisted himself onto his horse, while the lance handler passed to him his weapon, a lance that swirled with red and yellow stripes. The ten foot long pole was menacing as you watched with wide eyes while Henry affixed the strap of Daryl’s shield to his left forearm.

“Good luck, Sir Daryl,” you said to the knight, then your eyes averted to the Friesian horse below him. “And to you, as well, Sir Phantom.”

I love you, he wished to say, but he had neither the courage nor the confidence to say such a thing at a time like this, or ever.

Instead, he simply nodded your way, then watched you through the narrow opening in his helmet as you returned to your place in the balcony, beside the king, who raised his goblet towards him.

Sir Daryl returned the sentiment with a subtle but intentional upward tilt of his lance, while the knight marshal instructed the jousters to come forward.

You watched with bated breath as the match began, Daryl’s black horse cantering towards each other, each on either side of the wooden tilt that divided the tiltyard. The closer they came to colliding, the more they each lowered their lances, mirroring each other in an almost artful fashion, until Sir Shane’s lance drove into Sir Daryl’s underarm, eliciting a shocked, but entertained, awe from the crowd.

“Oh!” you gasped in fear, covering your agape mouth. “He―he… Father, that should not be allowed.”

To your shock and horror, the king only laughed at your dramatics. “My dear, it’s only the first pass, please. Look, Sir Daryl is fine. No lances broken.”

“But he could be hurt… Oh, this game is vile. Is there not some other way for knights to prove their skills?”

“Yes,” replied the king, his eyes still transfixed on the next pass, during which Daryl’s lance intersected Shane’s breastplate, but not enough to knock him from his horse. Still, the knight marshal announced that five points were granted to Sir Daryl of House Dixon, with Sir Shane holding four points thus far. “But what better way to test a cavalryman’s marshal skills than a good old fashioned joust? Look.” The king pointed towards the knights, their horses each cantering towards each other once again for another pass. “It takes precision, grace… Tis an artform… Ahhh haha!”

The king stood tall, cheering with the crowd as they all stood up with their hands outstretched in a celebratory motion. “What’s happening?!” you cried out over the crowd’s cheers, yourself now standing to try to see past the dancing hands that obstructed your vision.

“Sir Daryl won the first match!” he said triumphantly. “Look! Sir Shane’s lance is broken, marking the end of the first match.”

The rules of the joust were arbitrary, in fact. They varied from tournament to tournament, but King Ezekiel’s tournament always required three matches, each one ending when a knight’s lance broke from the impact of the other knight, or when a knight was knocked from his horse. A knight could also yield honorably to the other at any point, at which the knight who yielded would lose the match, but be commended for his chivalry.

But of course, you didn’t much care for the rules, all you cared about was Sir Daryl, his underarm visibly wounded from the way he awkwardly wielded his shield as he prepared for the next match, Phantom shaking his head as he whinnied and pawed at the straw-covered dirt. Sir Shane was given a new lance from one of the handlers, while the runners cleared the field of the broken bits of wood that had splintered off Daryl’s shield.

“He’s hurt,” you sighed. “Under his arm…”

“At ease, my dear. Watch, the next pass begins.”

Your father was captivated, his pupils ping-ponging between Sir Daryl and Sir Shane as the two began another canter towards each other, their lances about to intersect again.

Daryl only saw red during a joust, his opponent becoming nothing more than a moving target. Whatever chivalry he had, he could put it on display for the crowd of nobility, but inside him was a raging bull, much more concerned with winning than impressing. Well, except you―the princess, whose wide, terrified eyes he could feel tickling his skin, even beneath all that armor.

I’d be honored for you to be my champion, your voice echoed almost ghostly in his head. My champion repeated relentlessly, over and over and over for God knows how long, until an uproarious cheer from the crowd tore him from the delightful torture of your sweet voice and your intoxicating words.

Phantom’s hooves had kicked up a great deal of dust in the swift canter of his movements, but as the horse turned, Sir Daryl narrowed his eyes through his helm to see the opposing knight writhing on the field, his horse displaced from underneath him and his lance torn to shreds beside him.

A gaggle of valets and runners filled the tiltyard, some of them assisting Sir Shane and lifting his helm to inspect for damage, but the knight tore his arm away as he rose to his feet, replacing his helmet with a deep, frustrated grunt. It seemed that the two knights had yet another thing in common: they were both sore losers, and that was not very chivalrous.

The knight marshal announced another five points to Sir Daryl for unhorsing the knight, who climbed back on his mount despite his torn tunic and cracked cuirass. The final match began, with the two knights barrelling towards each other with more tension in the air than before.

“I cannot even bear to look,” you said, despite the fact that your eyes were glued to the scene. “Someone could get killed, never mind the injuries.”

“He’ll win,” remarked the king, though that did nothing to ease your worries. Seeing Sir Shane’s fall was enough to give you heart palpitations.

But winning was all that mattered to Sir Daryl in this moment, his mind completely occupied by you―your voice, your scent, your touch, your taste… He could only imagine the taste, of course, but it was sweet, just like everything else about you.

Your champion… I will be your champion, no one else. I am yours, my princess… My queen.

With another roar of the crowd, the knight returned to this plane of existence, where the coronel of his lance shredding through Sir Shane’s cracked steel cuirass to deliver another blow strong enough to unhorse the knight, his body crashing to the ground as a cloud of dust enveloped his frame in a cruel miasma of defeat.

Your heart stopped for a moment, not only because the poor knight had surely suffered a great pain, but because your knight was victorious.

“Huzzah!” the king cheered, standing with the rest of the crowd as they tossed brightly colored streamers and waved the miniature blue flags of Alexandria. In celebration, the marshal raised the banner of House Dixon upon the high wooden flagpole hovering over the tiltyard, triumphantly bearing the colors, arms, and slogan of the old family.

“I never doubted you for a moment, good sir,” laughed the duke, his arms crossed as he watched the knight lift his helm from his head in relief. With a smug grin, Richard bowed before Daryl.

“Pfft,” he scoffed, just before shaking out his sweat-soaked hair. Not eager to boast about his accomplishment, he turned towards the fallen knight, who was being lifted into a wicker stretcher, carried by two valets. “He gonna be all right?”

“A few broken ribs, a little internal bleeding,” sighed the duke. “He’ll live…” Richard squinted his eyes as he examined Daryl’s disheveled appearance, his face blotted by dirt and a bit of blood from his face hitting against the inside of his helm. Jousting may have been considered a gentleman's game, but it was hardly dignified in the end. “Get yourself cleaned up,” he laughed. “And put on your best clothes.”

“For what?”

Richard crossed his arms as he shook his head, amused by Daryl’s lack of attention to the day’s schedule. “The king’s banquet, fool.”

“A toast!” the king announced, holding his goblet of mead so high and with such vigor that you were sure it’d splash over your head. “To our champion knight, Sir Daryl of House Dixon!”

The great hall hadn’t been so lively in years, it seemed. Even the previous banquets paled in comparison to the mirth that echoed through the corridors of the castle. The feast was grand, indeed, with two pigs’ heads on either end of the long refectory table. In the center, of course, was the king’s prized swan, roasted and seasoned with only the best exotic spices, saved for the annual occasion.

Only the noblest of the court’s nobles were seated at your table, which was raised upon the dais and overlooking a dozen or so smaller tables, where the lesser nobles raised their goblets to join in the king’s celebration of the knight. While he typically would've sat lower, Daryl was placed ceremoniously at the high table, an honorary distinction for his victory at the joust that morning.

As you raised your glass with the others, you noticed the anxiousness in Daryl’s face as he tried to muster a smile, but you were sure he felt horribly nervous. You knew that he hated being looked at, or any attention to be solely upon him, and there were about fifty or so people looking at him, paying him quite a bit of attention.

In fact, all night, Daryl seemed distracted, and indeed he was. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. At least, when you weren’t looking.

Tonight, you wore the prettiest gown he’d ever seen―a gown of mauve colored velvet, with a lighter lilac shade of detailing gracing the wide neckline that barely clung to your exposed collarbones. Down the front, the seam was decorated with the very same detailing, adorned with glittering jewels, pearls, and delicately embroidered designs. The impressive bordering continued at the split of your sleeves, exposing the cool, pure white of your long-sleeve chemise underneath.

In your hair was a silver circlet encrusted with matching pearls, with a thin, translucent veil of white draped perfectly over your intricately braided hair. He felt unworthy just to look upon your face, the skin so plump and smooth and without a blemish in sight. To even breathe the same air as you now seemed improper―he’d rather suffocate than dishonor you with his presence, his impure stare threatening to sully you and your perfect virtue that he’d risked his life to protect.

Even now, surrounded by nobility and sitting only a matter of feet from the king, your father, he still couldn’t help but think of you in ways he knew to be wrong, some downright sinful. As much as he tried to tear his mind from you, for fear that he’d corrupt you just from the thought of touching you, he just couldn’t do it. By the time dinner ended, he’d explored every square inch of you, if only in his head.

The revels only continued after the feast, with now slightly inebriated nobles dancing in a circle about the great hall, their feet stepping in sloppy movements to the lively tune of Dance of the Forest of No Return, with the king’s favorite troubadour, Luke, leading the other minstrels with his fiddle.

When Daryl tired of sitting with the remaining nobles at the king’s table, he used the energetic chaos of the dance to snake through the crowd and take cover beside a wide stone pillar, where he could recover from seemingly endless conversations that went nowhere with people who’d never cared to speak to him before today.

With his arms folded across his chest, he leaned against the pillar to watch them all dance―one of Duke Richard’s hands was interlaced with that of Lady Michonne, whom Daryl had known his lord was laying with. It did not bother him, for he did not care about what the duke did in his spare time, but he found that their affection for one another was enviable, and he’d never felt such a way before.

Love had never interested him. He’d always poured himself into his skills―practical things. Love was much too grand, too intangible. What Daryl trusted most in this world was what he could touch, the mundane. He did not have the time nor the interest for flights of fancy like love. Of course, the only aspect of love he knew of was that of a carnal nature, because that was what he could wrap his head around.

Long before he was a knight, he’d gone adventuring to distant lands, accepting work as a guard or hired military for whatever king or constable would have him. In between breaking up drunken brawls in dark, dingy taverns or slaying nameless faces in a battlefield somewhere, he found his relief, more or less, in “unchaste” women, but only when he couldn’t reach particular itches by himself.

Even in those times, he never thought of love, nor wanted it. He was sure he’d never felt anything even remotely close to it, until you

What he felt for you was more than lust, and even then, he knew his lust was different than anything he’d felt before. It wasn’t motivated by his own need for release, but by his desire for you―to please you, to know you in every way, to show you how much he cared for you. His lust was not born out of selfishness, but out of love, and there is nothing selfish about real love.

He knew it was real, too. It consumed him, mind, body, and soul. You consumed him, to the point that he found himself searching for you in the chain dance, both to keep his eye on you, as your bodyguard, and to allow himself the pleasure of your sweet face, and the curves of your body so perfectly accentuated in that gown… He found you, dancing in the circle, your hands each joined by two other men.

The circle split then, your arms tugged by one of the men from your left, while the man on your right joined with the woman to his left. He pulled you into a rambunctious dance, his hands appropriately situated upon your hips, but much too low for Sir Daryl’s taste.

Swords were not allowed in the great hall, unless one was a guard, but the knight was allowed one rondel dagger, just in case. He stopped himself when he felt his hand instinctively reach for its hilt, strapped to his belt.

It’s just a dance, he thought to himself. But, oh, how his heart ached, just at the sight of a man touching you that way. He tried to pull his attention away from the man, instead calming himself by relishing in your laughing face. But then, why couldn’t it be him making you laugh, swinging you around and squeezing your soft, warm waist…

“You should ask her to dance.”

Daryl blinked in surprise at the duke, Lady Michonne by his side as she held back a snicker. “What?”

“Ask her to dance,” Richard reiterated, this time himself laughing at the knight’s bashfulness. “Or would you just prefer to watch?”

“Pfft,” scoffed Daryl. “I’m not watching nobody.”

Lady Michonne stepped forward with her characteristic boldness. “Her highness speaks highly of you,” she said. “Very highly… She speaks of you ad nauseam, in fact.”

Now that was surprising. “She does?”

“Mm… Here she comes now.”

Daryl’s back straightened as he puffed his chest out and held back his shoulders, resuming his more formal stance.

You’d not spoken to him since that morning, just before his joust, and it had saddened you that his face was hidden by his helm. Now, in the warm light of the great hall’s flamed sconces and magnificent chandeliers, you saw him properly. All evening, in fact, you’d been just as entranced with him as he was with you. Whenever he averted his gaze from you, after several moments of studying you, you were doing the same―taking in every inch of him like he could’ve been taken from you at any second.

In the several months you’d known him, you’d never seen him so… princely. Granted, he still hadn’t quite mastered the art of combing his hair, with a few stray strands of chocolate-colored bangs hanging sloppily over his forehead, but he was dashing, as always.

You held back a soft giggle every time he shifted uncomfortably in his tight black doublet, its shiny brass buttons stretched to their maximum in order to accommodate his broad chest. The poor man looked terribly uncomfortable in the snug hose that graced his stocky legs, but you relished in the view.

“Good evening, Sir Daryl,” you spoke with a peppy lilt to your honeyed voice. “I do hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

Only when I see you, my princess.

“Yeah... Ahem, I mean, yes, your highness.”

You formed a smile at his blunder, not that it mattered to you. You were quite fond of his informal manner of speaking.

In the several moments you were entranced by the knight, Lady Michonne and the duke had slinked off somewhere, no doubt to afford you privacy with Sir Daryl.

“Well… Why aren’t you dancing?” You’d hoped that this line of questioning would somehow reveal your desire for him to ask you to dance. If you were more bold, you’d ask him yourself, but when those sapphire eyes fell upon you in an intense gaze, you were rendered meak and powerless. The hold he had over you was nearly frightening, but the adrenaline lit a restless, scorching hot fire in the pit of your stomach, one that moved lower with each breath he took as he held your gaze. Lower, lower… Starting a fire in your loins.

“I… don’t know how,” he said. “‘Sides, I’m s’posed to be watching you. I mean, watchin’ out for you.”

You tilted your head with a teasing smirk. “I do not think there is any peril here, Sir Daryl. I can assure you that I feel perfectly unthreatened. You are relieved of your bodyguard duties tonight. In any case, it’s a celebration of your victory.”

A shiver ran through you as you recalled the scene of this morning’s joust, the knight’s strength and skill in battle on full display. You shouldn’t have found it as… intoxicating as you did, but his body in that suit of armor hadn’t left your mind since.

“You were magnificent today,” you added, quickly shaking your head as you realized what you’d said. “I mean, very… good. You were very good today.”

“Thanks,” he replied in an attempt to appear nonchalant, when really his heart was pounding against the inside of his ribcage, demanding to be set free from its stuffy confines.

With a sudden pang of discomfort, he rotated his shoulder and grimaced at the soreness of his underarm, where Sir Shane’s coronel hit him during the joust. Memory flooded to you of the moment it happened, how terrified you were that he’d been injured.

“Are you hurt?” you asked, outstretching your hand to gesture towards his shoulder.

Daryl cleared his throat as he shook his head. “Nah,” he said, though he was hurt. He just couldn’t let go of his pride to admit it to you. “Just a cramp…” His train of thought was derailed most suddenly when he fixed his glance upon you, your whole face shining like an iridescent full moon hanging delicately in the night sky, your eyes sparkling like mysterious, faraway stars that he knew so little of, but often wondered about when he found himself lost in the clouds, daydreaming about beautiful things that eluded his earthly knowledge.

That warm, hearth-kissed glow of your plump, unblemished cheeks sparked a fire of confidence in his belly, one that would surely get him into trouble if he let it reach his head, but those flames tickled at his heart, the beat of which resounded over any rationalities his inner voice tried to spew.

He didn’t know the first thing about dancing, and he was already terrified of clumsily stepping on your feet or grasping too hard at your soft hands, but he was willing to embarrass himself if it meant he could touch you in this moment.

“Would you, uh…”

You blinked sweetly as you leaned forward, trying to better hear his soft, low voice underneath the cacophony of voices combined with the energetic music that echoed through the great hall all around you. “Yes, Daryl?”

Clearing his throat, he started again, this time, his voice louder and more confident as he looked you in the eye. “Your highness, may I―”

“AHHH!”

A sharp, blood-curdling scream erupted from the shadows of the great hall, followed by a terrified noblewoman running to the crowd, cowering in her husband’s arms. The dancing ceased as a discordant strum of lute strings punctuated the abrupt end of the festivities, while confused chaos spread like a plague to each partygoer, circling around the woman to see what had frightened her so.

Whatever it was, Sir Daryl did not hesitate, pinning you behind him as he withdrew his rondel. His immediate thought was the unthinkable―walkers. Though the event was nearly impossible, given how secure the kingdom and the castle was, there were always blind spots, and Daryl could name about a dozen of them off-hand, all of which could have easily been breached. Well, that was his first thought, but it was quickly dispelled when one of the king’s guards limped shakily towards the center of the hall, his hands bloodied and held together at his stomach, where a thick stream of scarlet expelled profusely.

No longer able to keep his body intact, the guard fell forward, with a tangle of shiny, loose intestines spilling out of him before his lifeless body hit the timber of the floor.

On account of the knight’s broad shoulders obstructing your view, you could only hear the gasps and screams and cries of the terrified people, and the voice of your father rang out, begging everyone to remain calm. When you peaked over Daryl’s shoulder, you couldn’t keep yourself steady, your head dizzied from the sight of the gore. “Oh!” you cried out, grasping tight to his waist for fear you might faint. “What is happening?!”

The knight only backed up, taking you with him as he wrapped his free arm backwards to grasp your hand. “Shhh,” replied the knight. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Daryl backed up until he reached a door that he knew led to the castle pantry, which surely would be a suitable place to keep you hidden from any danger, whatever it was, but as he turned, he was met with an unfamiliar knight in unfamiliar armor, draped with a tabard of black and red―the coat of arms featuring three red fleurs-de-lis and three white crosses. He only studied it for a moment as the enemy knight lifted the sharp tip of his sword to Daryl’s neck, pushing him and you back towards the crowd.

Reluctantly, you were ushered to the edge of the mass, where the king had pushed aside several nobles to kneel down beside the fallen guard. You watched your father turn over the man’s body, shaking his head in something between rage and anguish. “Who did this?!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the hall. He looked around the room, up and down, left and right. “Show yourself, coward!”

Only moments later, there was nothing but a disembodied voice that answered him. The voice was deep, unfamiliar… with a heavy dosage of arrogance.

“Well, shit,” the voice said. Everyone searched their surroundings, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice. “I’m terribly sorry, my liege. You see, sometimes… I just can’t help myself.”

His voice rippled with a conceited chuckle, a sound that was much too disturbing for the current situation. To hear someone laugh so callously at the poor man’s body, engulfed in a pool of deep red blood, was just horrific, so much so that you held back a sniffle as tears began to trickle down your once rouged cheek.

Slow, heavy footsteps approached, their slight rattling indicating that the man was armored, and, indeed, he was. As he appeared from the shadows like an apparition of the night, the warm light of the great hall illuminated the owner of the voice―dressed in ebony armor, with a matching black spiked morningstar mace dangling haphazardly from his gauntleted hand. Tucked in his belt was a blood-soaked dagger, dripping as he approached slowly, coming further into the light.

Behind him were several helmed knights, all wielding bloodied swords. You feared they had killed most of the on-duty guards, rendering the court defenseless against these brutes. The thought was enough to have you shaking as you squeezed Daryl’s hand, the warmth of his strong grasp providing some comfort, but not enough to soothe you, especially when the knight sauntered his way towards your father, holding his mace over his shoulder arrogantly.

Your father snarled as he sized up the unhelmed knight―a tall, thin man with hair black as a moonless night and slicked back to the nape of his neck. Upon his face was a short, graying beard, which looked almost as scratchy as his grating, deafening voice.

“You must be…” He paused for a moment, holding his finger to his chin as his eyes floated up to the ceiling. “Oh, King Ezekiel, the Kindhearted.” The knight bowed dramatically. “Silly me. I should’ve known.” With another laugh, he let his gaze wander the great hall, his head nodding while that infuriating smirk stretched over his face. “This is some place you’ve got here, your majesty.” He sauntered around, causing the court nobles to back away with a series of terrified gasps the closer he got. They did not seem to faze him, though, he only continued talking, admiring the beauty of the hall. “This place is magnificent!” he laughed, then let his eyes fall back upon the crowd, their hearts beating hard enough to nearly fill the silence.

“Oh…” The black knight’s hand rose to cover his mouth, his eyebrows furrowed in exaggerated faux sadness. “Oh, my… I―I interrupted something, didn’t I? Well, I hate to break up your… splendid soiree, but, tell me, good King Ezekiel the Kindhearted, why, praytell, was I not invited?”

The king stood straight, steadfast and unwavering. You admired him greatly, as you were sure you would’ve been much too frightened to say anything to the man, whose identity you were beginning to realize, though you did not want to admit it.

“Sir Negan of House Smith,” the king acknowledged stoically. “You’ve slaughtered my people, stolen our provisions, made a mockery of my kingdom… Why in God’s name would I invite you here, where you and your so-called Saviors are most unwelcome?”

Sir Negan narrowed his dark eyes, though he still smirked. It was not a smirk of good humor, though, but a sinister one.

“Well, I suppose I thought we had an understanding,” he began, now making his way through a cluster of people to take a vine of red grapes from atop the nearest table. He popped one in his mouth, then hummed loudly, so loud that his sound of pleasure echoed through the great hall. “Those are some good grapes! You people don’t mess around.”

“What is this ‘understanding’ that you speak of?” demanded the king. “And speak quickly.”

“Or what will you do?” replied Negan, approaching the king once again until he got so close that Ezekiel swore he felt droplets of grape juice spew from the knight’s mouth onto his face. “I’ve killed at least half of your manpower, I’ve raided your armory, and there’s about, I’d say, four times as many of us as there are of you.”

You worked up the courage to examine your surroundings, and now there were Saviors encircled all around you, blocking each and every exit. There were no guards to be seen. You were trapped, subject to the knight’s whims. He and his men could slaughter you all right here, right now. The suspense was the worst part.

“But that is of no importance now,” added Sir Negan, now pacing before the king, his mace swinging by his feet like a pendulum. “What is important, however, my good king, is our simple, clean-cut understanding, and our simple, clean-cut understanding is as follows: you give me what I ask for, and I won’t slaughter each and every last one of you sorry pricks.”

Another gasp erupted from the crowd, only serving to amuse the man. “That’s the spirit,” he laughed. “Now, because I’m a reasonable, merciful man, and a knight of chivalrous honor, I will spare you and your little kingdom tonight. This… tarriance, as it were, is only to provide you the courtesy of yet another warning, the previous of which has gone sorely unacknowledged. This shall serve as your second warning, and a third will result in more forceful measures being taken, if you catch my meaning. In fact, what I am most interested in at this moment, instead of killing all of you and pillaging your great abundance of resources, is laying eyes on my future bride. King Ezekiel the Kindhearted, won’t you show me your daughter―my princess?” He spoke the final words with a venomous laugh, as though the whole thing was a game to him, a source of amusement.

For Daryl, it was anything but. You felt his hand grip yours tighter, his body standing firm before you as his back straightened and his chest puffed up to its fullest extent. His breaths became labored and voluntary as the blood raced to his head, where images of striking the knight down before another filthy word about his maiden, his lady, his princess could spew from the bastard’s smug mouth.

For your part, you let your tears absorb into the fabric on the knight’s back, where you begged silently for the power to disappear into thin air and never have to hear the knight’s voice ever again. It stirred in you all the fear you’d tried so hard to escape, all the death of hope that plagued your darkest dreams and reminded you of the cruelty of the outside world. Now, you felt as though you had let that darkness in, and it eclipsed every beautiful thing you’d known.

“I will do no such thing,” replied the king. “You will leave at once, and never show your face here again. My daughter is not a bartering chip, and the kingdom of Alexandria will stand strong against you.”

Sir Negan’s smile slowly morphed into what could only be described as a poisonous scowl, while his hand gestured lazily to one of his men, who then disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

“I did not want to have to do this,” he said, his voice lower now, more menacing, and not nearly as arrogantly jovial. “But you forced my hand… Bring out the girl.”

Squirming in one of the knight’s arms was Beth, her mouth gagged by a red handkerchief and her hands tied behind her back as she let out several muffled whimpers. In your overwhelming fear, you grasped tighter to Daryl’s hand, whispering involuntarily, “Beth…”

A gasp erupted from the crowd, and even your father seemed to falter, his courage visibly draining from his once stoic face as another knight pushed down on the girl’s shoulders until she was kneeling before Sir Negan, who brandished his mace with too much ease for your comfort. The horrible man let the heavy silence settle in as he took slow, languid steps towards the girl, her eyes weighed down by pendulous tears as she sobbed against the fabric in her mouth.

“Let her go at once!” demanded the king, though the frailty in his voice reminded you that there was nothing he could really do to stop Negan. His guards were all dead, and the whole court was outnumbered by knights. It became quite clear at this moment that there was one person in charge of the events that would unfold tonight―Negan.

Sir Negan turned to point his mace towards your father with an aggressive jolt of the spiked weapon. “You, my king, are in no position to be making demands. See, I am holding court now, and as my first royal decree, you will show me the princess, or I will clobber this young maiden’s head in til it pops open like one of these succulent table grapes.” The knight fed himself the last grape, then tossed the vine over his shoulder. “Choice is yours, your majesty… But then, if you tell me no, I’ll just bash some more heads in. I can do this all night.”

Silence settled in again, with only the murmuring of the constable and the chancellor as they attempted to advise the king on what to do, though he only looked terrified now. You’d never seen the color drain from his face the way it did then.

But the knight lost his patience, clicking his tongue as he shook his head. “Do not make me count.”

The king silenced his advisors before taking a deep breath. “No more blood needs to be shed this eve,” he said. “I’ll give you anything you want―food, weapons, livestock… But not my daughter.”

“Five!”

No! you screamed in your mind until you swore your eardrums grew sore.

“Four!”

You tugged on Daryl’s hand as you whispered, “I have to―”

“No,” he replied.

“Three!”

“Please!” begged the king. “Don’t do this, there must be something―”

“Two!”

Sir Negan raised his mace high above his head, both hands gripping at the handle as he prepared to slam it back down. Beth’s sobs now echoed through the hall, despite the gag. Though it was hard to tell exactly what she screamed, you swore you heard the words, “No, please, no!”

You couldn’t let it happen. Besides, if he only wanted to lay eyes on you, there couldn’t be much harm, could there?

“Stop!”

Negan’s mace paused in mid-air, just before he was about to deliver the blow. He looked towards your voice, then, as you pushed with all your might to escape from behind Daryl’s body, his arm outstretched as a last resort to keep you from going any closer to the man.

Now, you swallowed back a lump in your throat, trying to remain dignified despite your fear, which manifested in a small, but noticeable, quiver to your voice. “I am (Y/N),” you said, with your precarious confidence fueling you enough to speak again, this time more nobly after you took in a deep breath. “Crown Princess of Alexandria, heiress to the throne… And by my royal decree, I command you to release her at once, or I will have your head.” An empty threat, but it proved you were serious.

Your father spoke your name in a tone somewhere between appalled and petrified. Before he could speak again, Negan silenced him.

“Ho-ly shit,” the vile man laughed. Such foul language was never permitted in the great hall. He was a scoundrel, of that you were sure. “Isn’t this something?”

With his mace dangling by his legs, he sauntered towards you, the whiteness of his teeth carving a dent in the lower lip of his wicked smirk. With each languid step he took, you tensed and shivered, while Sir Daryl breathed deep, guttural breaths, almost akin to a growl the closer the man got to you.

What could he have done at this moment? He could not hide you any longer, now that Negan had seen you. He could not strike the man, for there were far too many Saviors outweighed against him and the handful of other knights and noble warriors among the party. No, all he could do was pierce the man’s soul with a thousand yard stare to rival them all.

“You… are… fiery.” Each word was punctuated by another slinking step towards you, until Negan got too close for Daryl’s comfort. He fought with himself as he side-stepped in front of you, his mind telling him to stay put, his heart begging him to keep him away from you, his own body a sacrifice for your dignity, your honor. He could not let the man’s presence taint you.

Negan leaned back with a look of amusement, a sharp chuckle under his breath as he shook his head. Daryl only stared back through adroitly critical eyes.

“You’re more of a door than a window, my good sir,” laughed the black knight. “Pray, just who do you think you are?”

Without a moment to think through his words, he spoke quietly, just above a whisper, a simple phrase: “I’m the one who’s gonna kill you.”

“Sir Daryl,” you spoke shakily. If Daryl got himself killed right now for your honor, you’d never forgive yourself, or him. “Stand down.” He turned his gaze to you, your face pleading with him as little tears shone like crystals in the reflection of the light. Each tear was another laceration to his heart. “Please,” you whispered, your voice falling softly on his ears like a dewdrop on a trembling flower’s petal. He did not notice your hand grasping at his forearm, squeezing gently, as if to assure him that you were all right, though it did little to placate his rage at the man.

Wordlessly, he stepped away, all the while keeping his gaze upon Sir Negan. The growl that escaped below his breath was drowned out by the arrogant man’s triumphant chuckle. Indeed, Daryl had won once today, but what he felt now was an incredible, profound loss, or just the beginning of one. Somehow, the physical pain of this was a thousand times worse than a measly lance to the chest.

“Good,” he said, his eyes lingering over parts of you that would’ve been off limits to anyone but your hypothetical husband, all while his tongue wetted his bottom lip unabashedly. Bile rose in your throat, but you swallowed it back, standing up straight and stoic despite your desire to recoil in abject repulsion.

“You truly are… the most ravishing woman in the world.” The sudden earnestness in his deep, contemplative voice terrified you more than the sight of his mace, its spikes grazing against the fabric of your dress as he dangled it absentmindedly by his legs.

He slowly leaned closer to you, his hot, oppressive breath stinging the side of your face as he whispered through tight, sneering lips: “I cannot wait to ruin you, princess.”

You shuddered as his gauntleted hand rose up to caress your face, the cold steel burning like dry ice. Not far from you, Daryl grasped the hilt of his rondel, his daggered eyes roaming Negan’s armor to find any chinks for him to stab through, but he knew that, if he let his impulsiveness overtake him at this moment, it would only make matters worse. He had to keep what little composure he had, while he watched the scoundrel’s filthy hand assault your maidenly beauty.

“Keep your purity ready for me,” he whispered again, this time his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “I’ll be back for it.”

When he pulled away from you, you released a staggered breath of relief as your knees struggled to hold your weight. Soon, Sir Daryl’s hands gently held your upper arms. You lifted your weary head to face him with glassy eyes, while his begged you wordlessly for the answer to an unspoken question.

“I’m all right,” you whispered, though you did not have to say anything. His hand rose slowly to lift your quivering chin. It was wholly different from Negan’s touch, which was lecherous and cold. Sir Daryl touched you with concern, warmth, comfort… Love?

You hadn’t enough time to contemplate the meaning when Negan’s voice echoed through the great hall once more.

“Well, I don’t know about all of you,” he said, “but I had a great time!” He flippantly waved his hand to the knight holding Beth, who untied her restraints and removed her gag before she scurried towards your father. He took the weeping young girl into his arms, as she was always like a daughter to him. The poor thing was shivering in the king’s arms, but you thanked God she was safe.

“Leave now,” your father said. “And never come back.”

Sir Negan only laughed again. “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t do that. In fact, I’ve already cleared my itinerary to return in one week’s time. At that time, you will―and I mean will―hand over my bride―my prize―and whatever else I ask for… If you refuse, well, I’ll just have to take my prize by force, and then pillage your whole kingdom because, frankly, I’ve grown tired of not being taken seriously by you people. Actually, I might just take her by force, rob you, and burn your kingdom to the ground without even bothering to ask you first. Depends on my disposition that day, if I am feeling like giving you another chance. In any case, that woman is mine.”

He gestured his spiked mace towards you, once again tearing off your gown with his dark, perverted eyes. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he lamented with a smile. “Oh, well, I suppose we should take our leave, men. So long, lords and ladies, your majesty, your highness… Til next we meet.”

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weretheones · 1 year

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All You Got | Part 2

Part 2: One Bullet

Series Summary: Daryl Dixon hadn’t known much beyond anger and loneliness his whole life, until he found family at the end of the world. Everything he grew to care about was ripped away the day the prison fell; so when he recognized you, an enforcer of his loss, hiding in that cabin, he almost pulled the trigger. But after you end up saving his life, he couldn’t find the indifference to leave you for dead, even if you’d been on the Governor’s side. (Mid-Late Season 4)

Series Masterlist | AO3 Version

Paring: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Reader Word Count:  4.5k Warnings: description of injury, blood, violence. A/N: part twooooo! we learn a bit more about the reader here, maybe a couple more hints about the knife??? oh, and daryl finally asks some pressing questions. enjoy :)

Ropes of ivy invaded cracks in the road, expanding past what must have once been pristinely manicured lawns. The street was quiet. Sober of the previous night’s constant activity. Even the hungry bellies of the wandering dead had been settled by apathy, and, of course, a complete lack of consciousness.

It was odd to watch them this way.

Without a warm body to rip apart, they really just seemed lost. Unsure where to turn until a noise or smell drew their attention. If it wasn’t for their mangled limbs or grey skin, you might’ve forgotten how vicious they could be. Yet, the thought of becoming hollow like them, driven by hunger alone, was almost more terrifying.

You looked away.

Behind you, the man who’d saved you from those same vicious jaws was packing the few supplies he’d found in the house. A fridge full of expired cheeses and cabinets stacked with bottles of wine that must’ve cost a pretty penny, but not even a can of beans; beyond material wealth, even a house as appealing as this one was relatively empty. The new backpack he found, label still attached, was barely half full. Some batteries, newspaper, a couple of reusable water bottles, and one travel-sized bottle of ibuprofen. He’d already given you two to dry-swallow twenty minutes ago.

They were starting to kick in. You stood by the couch with only a dull throbbing to remind you of the fragility of your situation. Wounded by the one-eyed man you’d naively followed into battle and with no hope of reuniting with your friends— hell, even if their bodies hadn’t been riddled with bullets and teeth marks, you weren’t sure you’d want to see them again. Not after their willingness to shed blood, driven by fear, greed, and selfishness.

At least you could say it had only been fear on your part.

With a sigh, you leaned your weight on the arm of the couch, finger tracing down the curtain you held back, hoping to find an exit beyond the road. The white fabric was soft. Thick. An idea popped into your head.

“Do you have a lighter?”

The first words spoken since your defiance made him pause. Eyes narrowed in something other than contempt, for once, as he seemed to weigh his options.

He stood up and walked to the couch, digging in his front pocket. A small, silver zippo sat in his open palm, like an offering. You reached forward to grab it, but he was quick to snatch it back, dirty fingers wrapped tight, as if you were about to fight him for it.

You couldn’t hold back the flash of a scowl. This dynamic was more than clear. He didn’t like you, not one fucking bit. You couldn’t blame him, but it didn’t mean you had to like him, either. Every time those harsh blue eyes dragged across your skin, the grime that painted you felt ten times heavier, as if guilt was seeping through your pores to settle with all that blood and filth.

But of course, there was that pesky part of you, not as deep down as you’d prefer, that wanted to prove to him that you weren’t all bad. People-pleasing, even at the end of the world.

You took a breath and rationalized, “We can’t stay here, but none of those cars work and I can’t run. So we need a distraction.”

“Ya wanna set a fire.”

You shrugged. “Unless you have a better plan.”

His eyes flicked behind you.

“Curtains won’t work. Need somethin’ ya can throw, something that ain’t gonna get weighed down.”

The scowl slipped from your face, briefly replaced with a confused furrow of your brow. You hadn’t even mentioned the curtains. He was certainly observant.

“What about that newspaper you grabbed?” You limped toward the bag.

With a quick stride, he snatched the bag from your hands. Irritated, you were about to protest, maybe even snap at the man who’d been treating you like some child he was forced to babysit rather than the capable and worthy partner you internally swore to be. But he cut you off before you had a chance to do anything other than open your mouth and glare.

“Ya can’t run.”

Intent to set the distraction himself, he turned on his heel and walked down the hall.

—

The cars were staggered throughout the road, one parked by the sidewalk, another one in the middle of the lane, diagonal. A few stragglers had wandered on their right side, but the majority roamed the left. If there was a way to distract those outliers, to send them to the right side with the others, there was an opportunity to use the vehicles as cover while crossing the street.

Another house sat across the street, but from the look of it, the backyard opened into the woods.

That was the plan. Sneak out the side door, set the distraction, then use the cars for cover to get into the forest. There’d be more places for you to hide in the thicket of trees compared to the vast openness of suburban streets. And if you could hide, you could spend more time off that wounded leg.

It also meant more food. Squirrels, rabbits, and anything else the crossbow-wielding man could find.

That was if he’d bring it back for you.

The side door creaked open. He had one hand on the handle, the other holding that crossbow to eye level. Twisting from left to right to scan the alley, steady and cautious seemed to be his typical approach.

That bag, where he’d finally stashed your knife, was strapped across his back now. You glanced down at your empty hands and bit back a sigh— this was not how you wanted to escape a small herd. With your bare hands and a stab wound in your thigh that would just not stop throbbing, ibuprofen and all.

There was a stray biter from the back, hanging around the corner of the alley. It turned toward you, revealing the other side of its rotting face. Skin hung off decaying muscle and black blood dried down its chin and neck. Left eye missing. Its mouth opened, ready to release a strangled moan and alert the others, but a bolt stabbed through that empty eye socket, instead. Limp, it dropped to the ground. He held up a shaky hand, continuing to eye the biter. Waiting to see if the noise had alerted the rest of them and you’d have to retreat into that house for another night, after all.

A tense second later, his hand lowered. Gritting his teeth, he dragged the crossbow cord back until it clicked in place. Reloaded another arrow and turned back in the direction of the front of the house.

Following his lead, you started to move through the side alley. Growls and moans on either side, just out of sight, as cruel reminders of what was waiting for you if you tripped, made a noise, or any mistake. He moved slow, placing his weight on the gravel as even as possible. Thanks to a firm motivation to not die, you managed not to drag your foot with every limp forward, and to fight through the pangs of pain that shot up your leg every time you inevitably stepped on it.

At the corner, he crouched down and turned back to give you another signal to be silent.

As if you needed it— you were doing well keeping quiet, all things considered.

With a single, careful scan of the road, he pulled a wad of newspaper from the bag. He held the lighter, flickering with flame, underneath the edge of the paper. It caught quickly and he waited a second for the fire to catch higher before whipping it around the corner of the building. From the ruffled sounds of leaves and popping flames, the burning pages landed in a bush, which meant that a bigger fire was about to burst.

At least it’d be a good distraction.

When the dead started to shuffle toward the smoke and flame, the two of you moved from behind the house. Faster than you’d travelled the alley now that you had grass to soften the sound of your steps. The first car was a short sprint away. Once you reached it, aching leg and all, you were hidden from the biters walking into that burning bush.

Red paint hot from the sun, you hovered beside the vehicle, waiting for his signal to move to the next. He curved the corner, keeping his crossbow high and attention focused on the dead ahead as you used the truck of the car as cover— just in case.

After determining the coast was clear, he waved his hand forward. Just like the first, you followed him behind the second car. It wasn’t much farther until you could use the cover of the house ahead to get away from the dead, who were much too busy swarming themselves around that smoking bush to notice, anyway.

All things considered, it had been a good plan. A smooth distraction.

Of course, it was in that home stretch when it finally slipped up. The archer’s eyes caught on something; attention narrowed in and his crossbow lowered, slow and hesitant. As if he’d fallen into a trance of sorts, eyes glossed over as he stared past the vehicle’s rear window. You briefly wondered if exhaustion was finally catching up, and if you were about to be the cushion for his collapse.

“Hey,” you whispered, “what’s wrong?”

Ignoring you, he trailed around the car without much care for the biters ahead and yanked the passenger door open. Every movement was harsh. Demanding. One hand held the crossbow, while the other pulled something out and clutched it. Inspected it. Fingers dancing along the orange and red fabric like it’d spell out something for him.

“This is—“ he growled, abrupt, while clenching his fist around the fabric. Neck corded with tension, it seemed the words caught in his throat.

“What?”

Towering over your crouched frame, he stood to his full height, head spinning in circles as he scanned the street.

“Get down!” you hissed, grabbing his forearm.

“Get your hands off’a me!”

Your eyes went wide, snapping between his snarling lip and the swarm of biters well within earshot.

One turned, sniffing the air.

You held your hands up and tried to reason in a hushed whisper, “They can still hear you.”

There seemed to be a split second of realization, the weight of his heavy stare lifting an inch at your meaning. His head bowed before he crouched again. The anger lacing the blue of his eyes seemed to slip away once they landed on the item in his hand, fingers still gripping tight. It seemed like just some sweater, or maybe a poncho, but the way his tone had shifted so suddenly, jaw still tense from the ordeal, you knew it meant something to him.

“Shit. Do you recognize that?”

That was the most you’d let yourself ask. Satisfy your immediate curiosity, don’t push your luck. He always seemed incredibly restrained and you didn’t want to steer a man you barely knew over the edge. Especially not now, with biters just around the corner, already alert and curious from his outburst.

His mouth drew in a thin line, but the vein in his forehead answered you, enough. Something squeezed inside your chest, ringing drops of sympathy from your heart. You knew what it was like, more than he might’ve realized, to find something that belonged to someone you lost. Left abandoned with no trace of them. You blinked as your expression softened, looking out to the street.

Gentle, you asked, “Do you recognize any of them?”

He shook his head.

Your mouth parted, hoping to ease some of that tension that traced his features; the subtle hints of self-discipline in his expression made your heart ache worse than it should have.

Instead, a growl ripped through the air, as rough as the lingering friction between you two. More importantly, it was close. Both your heads snapped over the car to see the dead from the backyard swarming the alley you’d just passed through. They were rushing forward, tripping over their own frail, broken ankles in their dash. Hungry monsters coming straight for you.

The smoke must’ve risen high enough to draw their attention, and when they’d turned into the street, it was the perfect view of you and the man still stuck at the side of that car. Sentiment holding you back.

“Damn it,” he cursed.

The poncho was stuffed in between his broad rib cage and the strap of his bag, and without another thought, you both started running— or, for you, it was the closest thing that could pass for running. Frantic limping, practically tripping over yourself. Hell, you probably didn’t look too different from the dead on your trail. But, if you let up, you were sure they’d rip into you, nonetheless. Blame that on your distinctive lack of rotting flesh.

Dashing across the front yard of the second house and then down the alley was the easy part. The road and lawn were even, so your limp didn’t get caught in roots or loose ground. The forest, on the other hand, wasn’t an ideal landscape. Though it was certainly better concealed than the open road, you had to pay special attention to divots and any other potential tripping hazard below. You weren’t clear of danger yet; biters didn’t tire, and they certainly weren’t held back by any type of wound, like you. You’d seen dead with their damn guts spilling out trap survivors before. Not much other than a bullet in the head stopped them.

Adrenaline could only do so much for you. Pain was heavy in your leg, and a part of you— a scared, pessimistic part of you— anticipated another collision with the damp earth.

It felt like the man ahead was moving ten times your speed, the dead at least five, and you tried not to think about the possibility of this being your end. Face flat in the earth, ripped apart by dull teeth and overgrown fingernails. Instead, you tried to focus on the simple facts that you hadn’t fallen yet, and maybe more surprisingly, that the man ahead of you had looked back to check on you not once, but twice.

Another flash of that orange and red fabric passed you by, only this time, it was stark against green grass. Time seemed to slow, glancing between the man, still moving with vigour ten or so feet ahead of you, and the object of his sentiment, falling to the ground.

If there was one thing you were realizing since meeting him, it was how fucking reckless you could be.

Problem was, it didn’t even feel like a choice. There was still fear in the back of your mind— there always was, it seemed— picking away at your last inch of perseverance, but the second you saw that poncho drop, you swooped down to pick it up, anyway. Even if that meant slowing pace and almost tripping over yourself. But if it’d been his knife, if it’d been you losing the last bit of him you had left, you’d want whoever you were siding with to fight for it, too.

Intentions could be good, but reality always caught up. Pessimism won and the damp earth finally collided with your cheek after a stick in the mud caught your toe. It was less painful than the fall yesterday, but the bruises from that ordeal were still fresh and began to welt again, almost immediately.

“Come on, girl!”

With a low groan, you bit the inside of your cheek, hard, and then pushed back up. Not quick enough, it seemed, because a hand— a warm one— wrapped around your bicep and yanked you up to his side. An arrow cut through the muggy, humid air above your head just as you caught your balance with your good leg, tumbling free of the man’s grip before continuing forward.

That damn poncho, still tight in your grip.

—

The next time you collapsed, it was intentional.

Dirt smeared across your jeans and hands, you palmed the ground you laid on.

Panting.

There wasn’t enough air, there wasn’t enough water, there wasn’t enough of anything— save the beat of your pounding heart. No matter how many deep inhales you tried to take, you ended up sucking in another, too quick, in a desperate attempt to catch the breath you lost miles back.

It’d been mutually decided that a fallen tree trunk was your best cover in case the dead did catch up from the approximate three-mile stretch between the herd and yourselves. A stretch that was hard to believe, but it’d been a while since you could properly hear their hungry growls. And considering that every part of your body was spent of energy, with nothing left to feed your muscles as the adrenaline wore off, you were content to extend your belief if it meant resting for a moment.

Even the pain in your leg had dulled, too weak to do anything but throb.

It was with your head resting on that large log that you finally let go of that poncho. With the little energy you had left, you tilted your head to him, eyes dragging over the drops of sweat rolling down his neck, pooling across the expanse of his similarly heaving chest. The loosened button of his shirt revealed a peak of damp, untanned skin, and his eyes were shut, lips parted to pull in deeper breaths.

You swallowed, then said, amidst heavy pants, “This belongs to you.”

His eyes fluttered open, lids still low, but he managed to turn his head to you too. Exhaustion tore his surly demeanour down; if he’d been trying to hold the usually mean stare he reserved for you, he couldn’t manage it.

A heavy hand landed on the poncho dropped between you. He gripped it as tight as he had your arm when you’d fallen, fingers dipped into colourful fabric.

In all honesty, he’d done most of the work to get here; navigating the forest, killing the biters that came too close, and grabbing you every time you fell behind. If it hadn’t been for his persistence, you weren’t sure if you’d be here anymore.

The poncho was the least you could offer.

You couldn’t tell how much time had passed lying in a mix of dirt and moss.

Eventually, both your breaths had evened out, and a while ago the man had even gotten up and began to make a fire from the smell of it. You’d been staring at the sky, instead. Between the trees, there were flashes of dark wings across the expanse of blue. Shadows of leaves fluttering in the wind, dabbling bits of sunlight across your damp chest. Eyes half closed, you listened to the soft rustle of the wind and the chirp of the birds. You were in your own world of exhaustion, it seemed.

Sometime between the smell of smoke and the glow of embers, your attention dropped from the open unknown above you, to the strong back of the man, similarly stained with uncertainty, ahead.

There was something captivating about him, and in particular, about his stubbornly loyal streak that seemed to get you on the receiving end of his help twice now. He could’ve left you for dead back there. A lot of people would have, or at the least, they would tell him he should have. It would’ve saved him a lot of trouble. Distracted the dead long enough that he could’ve stopped running miles ago, given him one less mouth to feed, one less wound to take care of. It might’ve even given him some type of relief to execute retribution on someone who’d wronged him and his people. Leaving you for dead could’ve solved, at minimum, half of his problems.

But he didn’t.

You stuck your neck out for him once, and he saved you after. That made you even. This made you something else. Allies or indebted, you weren’t sure. What you were sure of was his resilience, that much had been obvious since the moment you first met him. Hell-bent on surviving. You figured the stubborn will had something to do with that.

It was odd to know all that, and not his name.

“Hey,” you said, voice hoarse, but still stronger than any muscle in your body. “What’s your name?”

He stiffened, but glanced over his shoulder to meet your eye.

“Daryl.”

You nodded, briefly, before you offered your name with a shaky breath. You rolled your shoulders, adjusting your position across the fallen log. “I figured I should know who I’m thanking.”

His— Daryl’s— glare had always been intense. Abrasive, like it was dissecting you with a dull blade. You tried to soften it with a genuine thank you, slipping off your tongue with a sweet ring of gratitude.

Instead, it was like those two words snapped something within him, patience stretched to its thinnest.

“Ya used a bullet.”

His tone wasn’t a question, but it still caught you off guard.

“I— What?”

He dropped the bundle of sticks in his hand. Full attention on you, instead of the small fire. “Your clip was almost full.”

You caught on then— when he’d taken the gun from you, back at the cabin, he’d been using it to kill the swarming biters. You’d heard a couple of shots before you finally passed out, but considering how far he’d made it while carrying you, it made sense that he’d fired the rest.

Save that one bullet. The only one you’d used before you found that cabin. Before he found you.

“Just one,” you muttered.

“For what?”

Your voice slipped away then, resolve lost at the mention. Cracks of guilt began to run through your heart, deepening with every weak beat. “I didn’t—“ you shook your head, “I never wanted to—“

“I didn’t ask ya tha’,” he growled, standing up. “Who’d ya use it on?”

You swallowed. With every step closer, his want was as clear as his intimidation. No pleading, no regrets.

Just the truth.

“I killed someone.”

Concern twisted his features, just enough for you to realize that he was probably considering all of his people being on the receiving end of that bullet. Imagining the hateful, cruel look in your eye when they finally dropped dead. But if he could see past the anger swarming his vision, he might’ve noticed the curl of your lip, the rapid frequency of your blinks; disgust painted along your features, reserved for your own actions.

“Mitch.”

Daryl knew everyone at that prison. Everyone. Mitch wasn’t one of his people.

“The guy in the tank,” you clarified.

“Ya shot one’a your own?”

“He— he tried to kill a kid. We made it up to the planters, I was— I was trying to find my friend so we could—“

His eyes narrowed, and you backtracked. Only the facts.

“Some kid was fighting them off. He was reloading and couldn’t see Mitch coming, so I—“ you stopped to catch your breath. Slow and deep, just like he taught you years ago— fuck, you wished you had that knife, those initials to trace under your thumb.

“I stopped him.”

Daryl’s eyes were still tight on you. Unforgiving in the way they dug through your weak appearance, the way you tried to balance your fragile thoughts with a heavy inhale. The sight twisted his gut.

Instead, he narrowed his attention on trying to find any hint of dishonesty, insincerity, hell— anything he didn’t even like the idea of— lingering behind your words.

“Why?” he spat, as if he already knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

You shook your head and exhaled, “He was a kid.”

He looked down on you like something stuck on his shoe. Some small, inadequate thing; it made you feel weaker than any wound or sprint could.

Daryl snarled, “There were a lot of kids there. Sick ones. A baby.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Nah. Ya didn’t know shit ‘bout us, nothin’ more than those lies tha’ asshole told ya.”

From shame, your mouth was sewn shut. An apology hanging off your tongue, unable to break free, even if you knew it needed to.

Would it do anything, anyway? Nothing you could say would bring those fences back up, bring his family back together. Nothing would fix the mess of Brian’s wrath.

A brief moment of wonder passed you by— Brian had told you lies, so many lies, but the story of his daughter, of his town, was laced with such genuine pain and loss. You weren’t sure what had driven him to such violence and anger, or what made him rip away the only good thing left in this world— people. Maybe you’d never know.

Maybe it didn’t matter, anyway. It was over. They were dead, or gone. Nowadays, that felt like the same thing.

Without another word, he crouched by the fire again.

The way he handled the fire was gentle and calculated, even if he’d been so relentless and hostile with you, just seconds before. Eventually, the throb of your leg called your attention again. The sight of the red-stained flannel wrapped tight around your wound, and what it meant— Daryl’s aid, even with something as heavy as the prison’s attack weighing down your integrity— made something grip your heart just as tight.

“Then why’d you help me?”

His shoulders stiffened. For once, he refused you that look. The one that beckoned every harsh, guilt-ridden thought to consciousness. Made you hyper-fixate on your wrongs because there had to be a reason why he looked at you like that.

You weren’t sure how you felt about its lack, now. It might’ve been piercing, but it had a way of opening him up, too. People had always told you anger made you stupid. Even for a man as guarded as him, it broke him down and made those narrow eyes a bit easier to understand. Aggression made him vulnerable, or at least, a bit softer around the edges.

If there was any time you wanted to read him, it was now. Could you trust him to keep helping you, as he had with the biters? Or would you wake up the next morning, alone and defenceless?

The peak of sun shining between bright green leaves was lower than before. Golden light cascading on soft grass and the drops of sweat trailing down your chest. Sunset was close.

He never did answer you.

————————————————————

-> part three

A/N: ok daryl is a little mean but... can u blame him? u kinda fucked up, reader </3 but at least u saved him his poncho hehe.

thank u for the support on this series so far :D it means so much.

if you’re reading this, thank you! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. please feel free to leave feedback, it helps so much and I love to read it. have a lovely day <3

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