I’m On My Like 3rd Rewatch Of The Last Of Us, And I Just Watched The Kansas City Episodes.

The End Will Justify It All

a/n - Season 7 of TWD, Negan is just... he's so bad but so good. I have a small series in mind to follow this one, but it's a loosely formed plan…more like the whisper of a plan. Trying out third person POV for a y/n story. It might be a stinker. Feedback is welcome!

warnings - gore and death, a little innuendo, some language, Season 7 spoilers

Relationship is Daryl x female reader, y/n

“Wait!” she shouted, as she lunged herself forward and fell at Negan’s feet, halting him in his steps. “Please… take me with you.” She could feel the atmosphere change. Shock tensing the air. She could feel her friends’ confusion behind her. She could barely register any of it, though, the way her mind was racing.

The plan was barely formed, a shadow searching for shape in the back of her mind, but she pushed it away. She would have to work that out later. There was only one objective right now - stay with Daryl. It was now or never, as Negan left them with instructions for the first offering in a week. She’d barely managed to stop him before he walked to his vehicle.

“He’s mine now.” Negan’s claim on Daryl was ringing in her ears, fueling her. Her Daryl, not his. She would not let this maniac have him. Would not let him cut Daryl up. She would not lose him, not without giving her last breath fighting for him. For all of them.

Everything that had happened was on a constant slideshow loop, flashing through her mind, in sharp, horrible detail. The thump of the first blow of the barbed wire wrapped bat and Abraham’s ginger hair turning a morbid shade of red. Glenn’s eye, then his guttural promise to Maggie. Rick’s strong defiance exuding from him as he swore to Negan he would kill him. His posture now, bent and broken, no trace of that promise left in him. Daryl being dragged off and thrown in that van like a captured animal.

Her knees were stiff and aching. They had been pushed into the gravel for the last several hours, supporting her full bodyweight on the sharp rocks. As the images played again in her head, and the weight of Negan’s words sank deeper into her, she couldn’t think of an alternative – or not one she could live with, anyway. She pushed through the pain, willing her body to move, and sat back on her heels to look up at Negan with pleading eyes.

“What is this?” Negan chuckled as he peered down at her, his bloody bat hanging near her ear, filling her nose with a nauseating metallic tang.  “Have you been here the whole time? Has she been here the whole time?” He directed the second ask to his men. He got amused smiles and shrugs in return.

He looked back to her, eyes beaming with something she couldn’t quite name, but recognized its malicious nature. “Why exactly would you want to leave your band of merry men and come with me?” He asked, as he swept that damn bat in the direction of the half circle of her people.

“I – I can’t go back with them,” she stuttered out, bracing herself as she prepared her explanation. It was going hurt. He raised his brows in question at her words. “I didn’t see it before but now I see how weak Rick is. I thought he was someone who could protect his people, but… after this,” she gestured to the two messes on the ground where her friends' heads should be.

“I can’t follow him back.” She let her mind picture every man that had ever let her down before, every person who had been too weak to protect her, or to even try.  Her father in the old world. Her fiancé as the chaos descended. The “friends” she’d made in the months following, before she’d found Rick’s group. All their memories making her stomach turn and filling her eyes with rage and disgust.

“Anyone who can bring him to his knees like this, break him like he is broken now… and inspire this kind of loyalty…” she tilted her head in the direction of the large group of Saviors around them, “that is a person I can follow.”  Awe, and a bit of intrigue, was the look she forced on her face as she met his stare again, trying to shut out the knowledge that the people she loved had heard every brutal word.

Negan’s eyes raked her from head to toe, taking in every inch of her with an animalistic gleam. She was wearing what she referred to as her tactical leggings, a skin-tight pair of pants with enough pockets to carry any knives she’d need outside the walls (and space for condoms if she was with Daryl), a belt that made the pants perfect for tucking in handguns, and they were thick enough to keep her warm in the early fall weather. She couldn’t deny her favorite feature was that they made her ass look fantastic.  “Ya can’t wear them pants,” Daryl had once told her while they were preparing for a run together, “when ya wear ‘em the only place I can look is at your ass. ‘at’ll get me killed.” She wore them anyway. He never complained. She’d put them on when she left this morning with Michonne, Glenn, and Rosita to track Daryl, hoping they’d be an asset in persuading him to give up the hunt for Dwight. The fitted long sleeve shirt she wore - made of a sweat-licking material for athletes in the old world - clung to her form in a way that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Her curves had filled out a bit in the last month, now that she was eating three square meals a day, softening the harsh angles that months of traveling and near starvation on the road had given her. She wasn’t a vain person, but as Negan worked her over with his eyes, she knew he’d like what he saw.

“I’m willing to… pay for my admittance,” she said with enough emphasis on the word pay to convey her meaning, but she threw a suggestive glance at his belt as she bit her bottom lip to make her offer clear. She fought back the bile creeping up her throat as her brain worked out what this implication might bring later. She knew it wouldn’t matter, that she would do anything to keep Daryl alive. This world needed him. Their family needed him, especially with what was lost today. It would be a small sacrifice in comparison, and one she wouldn’t think twice about if that’s what it came to.

Negan searched her face as he contemplated. “You hear that, Rick?” he asked, throwing a cocky smirk at the exhausted man in the gravel, “This – what’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Y/n”

“Y/n wants to know what a strong leader looks like. I think I’m gonna show her.”

A couple of Saviors took her by the arms and half walked, half dragged her to the double doors of the van that now caged the man she loved.

“Now you can’t leave ‘em all without saying goodbye, can you, sweetheart?” Negan heckled from behind her. She half-turned to look back, sweeping across the faces of the group before reaching Rick’s. Fury. That’s what she read on each of them. Fury, hatred, rage, a twinge of heartbreak as she met Carl’s glower. She found Rick’s eyes, and had to stifle her surprise. In them she did not see so much as a hint of the anger she expected. Instead, in his bright blue gaze, she saw understanding. He nodded at her, and she gave the most subtle dip of her chin in return. Then she narrowed her eyes, and turned, climbing into the van without another word.  

¨ ¨

The Saviors had been gone for maybe three minutes, but it felt like thirty. Everyone sat in silence, still on their knees on the hard ground, processing the horrendous events of the night. Sasha broke the silence. “What the fuck?” she breathed out. “Y/n?” 

Rick turned to look at her. “It’s okay.”

“What do you mean, it’s okay?” Michonne asked, indignant.

"She's with us," he replied calmly. "She's gonna bring Daryl back."

♥️

Things that don't make you less of a writer:

-Writing dark topics/sad or tragic endings -Writing fanfiction -Writing a lot of projects at the same time or just focusing on a single one -Having difficulty naming things -Having difficulty writing dialogue or descriptions or action sequences -Having areas in writing that you find difficult -Only writing in a single genre -Only really covering one topic in your writing -Being scared to branch out of your comfort zone -Never wanting to publish -Being rejected by publishers -Not using clever word play in your writing -Having literal writing style -Writing slower than those around you -Being unable to finish any of your projects you start -Having to take long breaks even though you didn't write a lot -Getting exhausted by writing (it's not that you don't love it, it's just exhausting!)

There are so many more things I can add to this list. Literally every single habit of writers, I could add to this list. These are just some really big ones I've seen people get down on themselves about. So just remember: you are no less of a writer than those around you. Be proud, love your writing. You put the time and effort into it. No one has put the time you have into it, so you should love it more than anyone in the whole world.

Love your writing, no matter what kind of writing it is, no matter how diverse the subjects and genres are... it doesn't matter. YOU made it. You alone.

🔥

This is amazing

Heels

Daryl sees reader walking around in a pair of high heels from her new closet in Alexandria and it drives him wild!

Warnings: loving smut!

Daryl Dixon was a leg man. 

Whether it was the models in Merle's nudie magazines or the real live girls in his hometown, the first thing the shy younger Dixon brother noticed was a nice pair of legs. You had the best he'd ever seen. 

When you appeared at the gates of the prison in a t-shirt and shorts as Daryl and Maggie were clearing walkers from the fence, you were sunburned and bug bitten everywhere. They gave you a bottle of water, asked you three questions, then let you in. Daryl hadn't thought about things like attractive body parts since the world ended, until he watched you walk away up the dirt hill with Maggie. He was suddenly glad he had walkers to take his sudden, overwhelming frustration out on.

Daryl was glad you kept those shorts after washing them, and wore them often, even if it distracted him. But it wasn't just your legs. It was your smile, your kindness, your work ethic, your playfulness with Judith, and your devotion the group. Daryl fell in love with every part of you. 

You only saw enough of him to be intrigued. He never stopped, never rested, never stood still, and certainly never had a full conversation with anyone. He only said what was necessary and got back to it, whether it was going on a run or a hunt, building or fixing something, or keeping to himself. He wanted to talk to you the most, but he couldn't do small talk, he didn't know how to express his feelings for you, and he was afraid to say the wrong thing, in the wrong way. You tried to initiate many times. You could tell his gruff exterior shielded a shy, sensitive soul, but you never got very far. You mostly learned things from each other during runs, when the other members of the group got you both talking. You kept thinking there would be time, that at some point the two of you would become more than friends. Then the prison fell.

Daryl didn't know you escaped with Carol and Tyrese. He laid awake every night mourning you, regretting that he was too awkward and insecure to even be around you, despite how much he wanted you.

As he kneeled in front of a slaughter basin at Terminous, believing he was about to die, he saw your face and had a brief moment of peace, hoping to see you again on the other side. Carol caused the explosion that saved everyone, then led Daryl back to you. He fell to his knees when he saw you, wondering if he was already dead, but feeling like he was in heaven either way. You went straight to him, knelt down in front of him, and swept his long dirty bangs away from his eyes. 

"There you are," you whispered through happy tears. 

For the second time in less than an hour, Daryl Dixon broke down in a woman's arms. But he wasn't pried away from you as quickly or easily. 

Life on the road to D.C. didn't afford much time for romance. More fighting, more separation, more death, starvation, and moments of hopelessness kept you both from verbalising how much you felt for each other. But you both knew there was something between you. Fighting side-by-side had to be enough, though, for now. As long as your two legs kept trudging on, Daryl would follow you anywhere. 

Then Aaron brought you all to Alexandria. You and Daryl walked through the gates hand in hand. You both prayed that the safety and comfort of the community wasn't just an illusion. You hoped it was a place where you could finally stop and get to know each other. 

Once your group split up into separate houses, you and Tara shared one of the smaller houses a few doors down from Rick's house, where Daryl set up camp in the basement. 

It had only been a few days. There was still so much to do. You'd get to each other eventually. 

The night of Deanna's party, you went for a little while to be polite, looking for Daryl the whole time. After one drink you couldn't fake any more small talk or avoid Spencer's flirting and went home.

You walked around the few barely lit streets, still searching for Daryl, but gave up and went back to an empty house.

You didn't know what to do with yourself. Free time - what was that? 

You decided to snoop through your own house. It was only your second night there. 

You decided to dig into the closet first. You had pulled a few pieces of clothing from the shared pile when you all arrived but every house was full of necessities and luxuries.

The style wasn't exactly "you," but everything was brand new, clean, no holes, rips, tears, blood stains, or mud-caked fabric. There were pajamas, underwear, and stacks of shoe boxes. Most were loafers or sneakers, but you were shocked to find a pair of black high heels mixed in with the other unassuming shoe boxes. They weren't too fancy or dressy, just plain black patent slingbacks, about 4 inches high with a rounded toe. To you, it was like finding buried treasure.

You practically lived in high heels in your old life. As a teenager you never took a job where you couldn't wear them. You wore them to the grocery store, family bbqs, even church (surely God didn't mind a little kitten heel). 

You checked the inside for a size. 8 medium. Just like you. You sat on the floor of the walk-in closet and slipped them on. It was like going home. It didn't matter that were wearing a long boring skirt, that your hair was in a messy bun, that no one would ever see how fan-fucking-tasticly you slayed in those shoes. You felt it. You owned it. That feminine pride was just for you. 

Of course you could still walk in them. Bitch, please, you never forget how to do what you were born to do. You did a lap around your bedroom, the click-clack on the hardwood floors sounding like your second pulse. You strutted over to the wall-length mirror and rolled the waist of the skirt up. After the fall of civilization and 2 years of near-death experiences, the last fuck you gave was about any physical insecurities. So what about length, shape, scars, ankle width, thigh gaps, knee fat (which sounded absurd even in the old world), if your ass was too big, too small or not high enough. You were still alive, you had 4 walls and a roof, food to eat, people you loved, and a pair of classic high heels on your feet. 

You wished you had discovered them earlier. Maybe you could've worn them to the party? No, you wouldn't have. It was still the apocalypse, you were all fighters, you never knew what shit would hit the fan at any given moment, and being caught in heels or bare feet could mean your end. You all needed solid, practical boots and shoes to kick ass or run on a dime. And Spencer would've done a lot more than just flirt. 

But maybe Daryl would've seen you in them. Maybe he would've finally stopped - just stopped - and talked to you. 

You sighed and went downstairs for a drink. Every house had liquor in it too, and another glass of wine, in your heels no less, sounded like a perfectly civilized evening for a woman to enjoy.

After Daryl left Aaron and Eric's house with a stomach full of spaghetti, he ran into Glenn and Maggie walking home. 

"Y/N still there?" He asked, gesturing to Deanna's house. 

"She left hours ago," Glenn shrugged.

"Alone?" Daryl asked, cautiously. Did one of those pretty Alexandria boys get to you first, or was something wrong. 

"I think so. She just wasn't comfortable," Maggie said. "It's gonna take time to adjust, you know."

Time, Daryl thought, was all you had now. Time to build bikes and have dinner at a table and talk to the person you fell in love with.

"A'right, thanks," he said as a goodnight and headed to your house.

He climbed the few steps up to your door and saw the window blinds were still up. None of you were used to having any kind of privacy, and wanted to see what was going on around you at all times anyway. Before knocking he peeked into the window to see if you were alone. If any of those shiny assholes were with you, making you smile or worse, he didn't know what he'd do. But at least he was prepared for the possibility. The unexpected sight through the glass knocked him on his ass in a different way.

You were sitting sideways on a stool at the counter, nursing a glass of wine, your beautiful legs crossed under a short bunched up skirt, and high heels hooked in the foot rests. You were admiring your own feet, extending your leg out in front of you, letting the shoe dangle off your toes, then reaching down to slide the strap back up your heel. You looked as sexy as you felt. 

Daryl was frozen as he felt all the blood in his body rush to one place. 

You suddenly felt someone watching you and looked over at the window. You jumped when you saw Daryl standing there staring at you and you quickly kicked the shoes off. He snapped out of it as you ran over to open the door.

"Daryl? You scared me!" You said with a smile, trying to play it cool, like he didn't just see you acting privately ridiculous.

"M'sorry sorry, I just, I wanted, I gotta," he stuttered and stumbled over his words.

"You wanna come in? I found a really good bottle of wine," you asked, to his relief.

He cleared his throat, put his hands in his pockets and bounced his leg to calm himself down, then nodded and followed you inside.

You ran ahead to kick the shoes where he hopefully wouldn't see them and hopped back on one of the stools. Daryl walked over to the stool next to you but didn't sit. He looked over at the shoes, knowing exactly where they were, and where he wanted them to be.

"Why'd you take 'em off?" He asked in that low, gravelly voice that immediately turned you on.

You didn't lie or play dumb. You finished your glass of wine in one gulp and said, "I was just being stupid. Can you please forget you ever saw me in those?" You felt your face burning and concentrated on your empty glass.

"No, I can't forget. Don't wanna either," he confessed. 

You looked up at him as every part of you started tingling. His blue eyes were burning into yours. He moved closer, looked down at your exposed legs, and asked, barely above a whisper, "Will you put 'em back on?" He then bit his lip, almost ashamed at what he'd just asked you. 

You were silent, dumb-founded. Just as Daryl was about to say nevermind and run out, it was your turn to surprise him by asking "Will you put them on me?"

He spun around to pick the shoes up, then knelt down at your feet. He had no idea what he was doing. He'd never even held a pair of high heels before, nevermind knew how they went on, especially with that strap. But he finally had the chance to be so close to the perfect legs that he longed to touch for over a year. If he could literally worship you at your feet, he'd figure it out as he went. 

You held up one pointed foot for him. He slid the right shoe over your toes. As your arch rested against the sole, he realized how to place the strap, just as if he was re-stringing his crossbow. When both shoes were on he kept a hold of your ankle and softly ran his other hand up the inside of your calf. Both of you held your breath as he reached your knee and looked up at you, silently asking if it was OK to go further. You nodded and parted your knees a bit. Daryl stood up and stared you down as his fingers gently advanced up your inner thigh. Just before he got to the soaking wet center of your underwear, he moved to the other leg, this time caressing your outer thigh. He stepped closer to you, in-between your now open legs. 

"I've wanted to touch these legs since the day you walked up to that fence," he sighed peacefully as he finally got to hold the object of his desires.

"I would've let you," you said eagerly as you pulled him even closer and pressed yourself against him. "I'm letting you now." You lifted one leg to his waist and he panted as he rubbed all the way up your thigh to your hip. 

You reached up to cup his face and bring it down to yours. You moaned into each other's mouths as your parted lips joined. You could feel his chapped lips and the soft wet inside as your mouths joined. When your tongues began to dance, you lifted your other leg, wrapped it around his waist, and melted into him.

You both released a year's worth of pent-up yearning in the kiss. You leaned back against the counter and gasped when you felt his hard bulge pressing into your center. You moaned louder and started grinding against him. 

"Daryl? Take me upstairs?" You begged as you looked into his eyes.

He grinned and said, "Only if I can watch you walk up in them heels."

You laughed softly and bit your lip sheepishly.

He released your legs and you hopped off the stool and sauntered across the living room. He followed you but stayed at the bottom of the stairs as you ascended, watching you confidently sway your hips with each step higher. Daryl's leg twitched rapidly as more of the back of your thighs became visible and his cock was straining against his pants. When you reached the landing and looked down at him over your shoulder, he bolted after you, clearing 2 or 3 steps up at a time. When he reached you he pulled you up off the ground and you wrapped your legs around him again. He pushed you against the wall and kissed you deeply.

"You got the sexiest fuckin legs I ever seen," he grunted as he rubbed into you.

"Oh, these old things?" You grinned before capturing his lips again. His grinding became overwhelming and you cried out into his kiss.

"Which one's yours?" He asked, looking down the hallway leading into three bedrooms. You pointed to the closest one. He carried you in and kicked the door shut behind him, then laid you on the bed. He tried to stand up but you locked your ankles together behind his back and held on. 

"I'm not letting you go!" You smiled. "I've waited too long for this! Please, Daryl? Can we finally do this? All of it?" You turned serious. "Please stop avoiding me."

"I was never…" He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself for causing you to think such things. "I don't know how to say things. 'Specially to you. And it kills me cuz I never wanted to say so much to somebody before." He gulped and kept going. "Never loved a woman the way I love you. Never thought a woman like you would want me."

You realized how much he'd confessed before he did.

"You love me?" You asked as tears welled in your eyes.

He nodded and rubbed your noses together. "You don't gotta say it back."

"You think I let just any man between my legs?" He smiled and shook his head, ticking your face with his long dark hair. "I love you, Daryl. But right now, I'm not that interested in talking," you continued, feeling bolder than ever. "So if there's something you don't know how to tell me, can you show me instead?"

"I can do that," he said in a confident, heated voice. He stood up, turned the bedside lamp on, and pulled his vest off. You sat up to help with the buttons but he gently stopped your hand and held it. His eyes turned sad and vulnerable.

"You can leave it on," you said softly. 

He shook his head and swallowed hard. "I want ya to know. Just… never showed nobody before." 

He released your hand and you both unbuttoned it together. You pushed his shirt open by rubbing your hands across his chest and felt the raised, bumpy scars before seeing them. They stopped you cold, and you suddenly understood a whole lot more about him. 

He hung his head and looked down, ashamed. You lifted his chin and pushed the hair away from his eyes. "Don't you ever hang your head, Daryl Dixon."

He huffed appreciatively, humbly, with a faint smile. You pressed your right hand over his chest and wrapped your left around his back, only to feel more jagged lines marking his strong body.

"The back is worse," he said, barely above a whisper.  

"You can tell me," you said as you both held each other.

"Later," he said dismissively but assertively before kissing you deeply again. His fingers hurriedly bunched up your shirt to pull it over your head. He tugged at your bra straps too, then pushed down at the waistband of your skirt. His hands roamed everywhere but his mouth never left yours. You shimmied out of your underwear too and kicked off one shoe but he broke away and said, "leave 'em on."

You smiled and stepped back into it. He took a few steps back to look at you as you stood there in nothing but the heels. You felt instantly self-conscious, unsure of what to do with your hands, but Daryl's gaze steadied you. He nearly dropped to his knees to worship you but he willed himself to stay strong and instead asked, "You even real?" 

"I'm real," you answered in a voice breaking with emotion. "And I'm yours." 

You sat back on the side of the bed and waited for him. He began undoing his belt and jeans as he approached you. The size of his bulge was even more impressive up close. Once he was immediately in front of you he kicked his boots off and pushed his pants and boxers down, finally freeing his extended length. You wrapped your fingers around him and leaned in with your mouth open but he growled, "No." 

"I… I'm sorry," you said, taken aback.  

"Nah, don't be," he corrected, cursing himself for reacting so harshly. "S'just… I want your body, not yer mouth."

"You can have whatever you want, Daryl," you said in relief. You leaned back and lifted your legs up with your knees bent but still together. You raised your eyebrows and smiled. "I know you like these," you said as you kicked your right leg out to him. 

He smirked and grabbed your leg, lifted it straight up, and rested your ankle on his left shoulder, slightly parting your legs. He started kissing at your ankle and caressing up and down your calf and inner thigh, still bewildered that his year-long fantasy was actually happening. His mouth and hands had free reign on the pair of stems that he dreamed about, longed for, and jerked himself to every day and night at the drab, sterile prison you once called home. He pushed your other leg to the side and grazed your folds with his fingers. He worried that his lack of knowledge and experience between any woman's legs would betray him and leave you cold but your quiet little noises turned to prolonged groans. The sight and sensation of Daryl stroking your clit overwhelmed and weakened you, and you dropped flat on your back. He almost drooled at the sight of you splayed out in front of him, willing and begging, gripping his arms tighter with each movement 

"Daryl! Please! Now!" You cried. He couldn't wait anymore either. His jaw tightened as he held his cock and started dragging his tip through your juices. You bit your lip and whimpered, then begged some more, until he finally pierced your opening. You held on to his arms as he began to fill you. You both lost control of your voices, filling the entire house with half-finished words, yelps, and groans, the gibberish of ecstasy. You closed your eyes and felt every inch slowly invade your senses, stimulating places throughout your body and being that you didn't even know existed. When you opened your eyes you only saw the curtained windows upside down, realizing you had thrown your head back in the first throws. It was suddenly silent and you looked ahead to see Daryl again. He stood still, fully engulfed in you, his eyes squeezed shut, breathing through his nose like a bull, gripping your ankle as if it was his lifeline keeping him from falling into an abyss. 

"Daryl?" You asked hesitantly, almost afraid to pull him from wherever his mind had gone for balance. He opened his eyes and his jaw dropped at the sight of where you were fully joined. He inhaled like a drowning man coming up for air and whimpered as he tried to push into you further, rubbing the top of his groin area against your clit. You cried out his name and he froze again.

"Daryl? Are you ok?" You asked, growing concerned.

"S'fuckin good. So… fuckin good," he said through heavy exhales. 

"Come here," you said as you pulled him down over you. He released your leg and knelt on the bed. You wanted to ask if this was his first time having sex but didn't want to embarrass him. He seemed overwhelmed by the stimulation and unsure of what to do or how to move. He was indeed inexperienced but not completely. He'd only been with the only two other women - one paid by Merle to take Daryl's virginity at 15, the other a drunken girl he barely remembered who threw herself at him, then nearly threw up on him when it was over. But you, this, all of it - the connection between you, your survivor's body, your loving gaze, tender motions, and acceptance of a marked-up, middle-aged redneck - it floored him. 

You planted your feet on the mattress and lifted your hips, then dipped back down, pulling him out, but not completely. The loss of your tight, heated grip on his shaft spurred him into action. He lifted your legs from under your knees and started rapidly rocking back and forth into you, holding your lower half in the air as he pounded you. You gripped the quilt above your head and watched him fuck you as if he would lose you if he didn't. You knew he wouldn't be able to release his grip on you to bring you to your peak. You reached down to strum yourself with one hand and pinched your own nipple with the other. It only took a minute before you splintered internally and screamed his name. The sight of you pleasuring yourself and coming hard as he took you was too much for Daryl. The force of his heavy thrusts moved the bed on its wheels and knocked it into the nightstand. You felt him begin to sputter as you came down from your high. Despite not having protection, despite your shared risk aversion, despite watching Judith grow up without a mother, nothing on earth could stop either of you from experiencing Daryl finishing your first time together inside of you. It was too late anyway - he didn't have time to pull out before he exploded suddenly and deeply. 

You beheld the magnificent sight of Daryl Dixon's moment of pure ecstasy as the muscles and veins in his neck bulged while he leaned his head back and wailed at the ceiling, his biceps flexed to keep your open legs high, his scarred, heaving chest beaded with sweat. 

He stayed locked in place as his high ebbed away. When he finally shifted his weight and pulled out, you lowered your legs and rotated to lay with your head on the pillows. You patted the bed next to you Daryl smiled, then joined you. He laid on his side to face you and pulled your left leg up over his hip.

"You really love my legs, huh?" I teased.

"Can't get enough of these," he grinned as he stroked my thigh. 

"Do you mind if I take the shoes off now?" I asked.

"Alright. But just for sleeping," he joked. "Ya can't ever get rid of those."

"Never!" I promised.

Thank you for reading!

@littlegodzilla @mariannambl @darylsgarden @minervadashwood @ravenwings73

Michonne: So... who's the big spoon and who's the little spoon?

Y/N: We're chopsticks!

Tara: Well... that's cute!

Tara: Does that mean you two snuggle together perfectly?

Daryl: Nah, means if ya take one away, only thing the other s’good fer is stabbin’.

“I Should Like to Worship You Tonight”

This is probably (definitely) the most niche smut I’ve ever written, or even daydreamed up. I grew up in the Bible Belt and Feature Films for Families were a staple in our home. Rigoletto (1993) was my favorite. I’m a sucker for a Beauty and the Beast themed story, and the music was so beautiful. And of course, as an adult, I’m wildly attracted to the MMC. (Confession - I find that with any BatB story, I tend to prefer the “Beast” before his transition in the end. What does that say about me? Maybe I’ll ask my therapist.) I recently rewatched the movie a thousand times, and I have a whole fic plotted out with stories before this one, but I needed to get this one out of my head an onto “paper.” I hope someone enjoys my warping of a family movie into something not family friendly at all. ;-)

It had been three nights since I was last alone with him, my brooding master of the manor. Three nights since I’d somehow mustered the courage, or maybe it was simply a lack of inhibition?, to boldly confess how my body ached for his touch and burned with the thought of his lips trailing kisses down every bare inch of my skin.

My work had certainly suffered in the days following, constantly drifting into a daydream -memory, really- of the passion that followed . I’d find myself forgetting why I entered a room, not knowing how long I’d been standing there staring at nothing, or holding an item I didn’t remember picking up. The trance his touch had left me in… the spell I was under… it was incurable and unbreakable, save one remedy.

As I tiptoed through the dark manor, conscious of every little sound, my heart racing at who might be around the next corner, who might catch me on my secret quest, I prayed he was awake and as hungry as I.

I’d had little opportunity to be near him, and none at all to be alone with him since that night. Hans, the ever loyal manservant, had -unfortunately- finally recovered from his days long illness that had allowed me such closeness with Ari to begin with. I’d made sure to tiptoe past his door first, where I was relieved to hear him snoring like a bear.

As I descended the last few stairs to the main foyer, the door to his study and music room in sight, my prayer was answered. He was awake, and playing his pianoforte, as he did more often than he didn’t. It was his most beautiful quality, although his voice rivaled it, and the songs he made the instrument sing often filled the halls of this enormous house. I had been haunted from my first day here with the enchanting loneliness of the tunes that seemed to pierce straight to my soul. As the days went on, though, they turned to somewhat brighter notes, lonely but with a tinge of hope. From there they drifted into scores of longing, an unrequited love. Since our union three nights ago, the halls had been filled with lovely romantic tunes, sometimes sultry and passionate, sometimes light and airy like rays of sun slipping through the trees in the early morning hours. It was this type of tune I followed now, my bare feet padding lightly on the wooden floors.

I slipped through the sliding door of his study, silently closing it behind me, and through the open doors into the room beyond I saw him, his long, dark hair shining in the gentle candlelight. I could see the shadows dancing on the scars of his face as he moved with the music. I thought to walk over and touch them, to caress the evidence of all the pain of his previous life. But tonight, I was feeling a bit playful.

As his tune drifted like those morning rays of light over a misty field, warming and awakening something deep within me, I began twirling and moving with the rhythm. I have never been accused of being a lovely dancer, but I felt graceful as I lightly moved across the room. I stopped in front of the bay window, opening the curtains to let the rays of moonlight in. The beauty of the full moon illuminating the front courtyard gave me pause and for a moment I was lost in the night, with the low, beautiful melody of his song in the background.

I don’t know how long it had been, but I suddenly became aware that the music had stopped some time ago. I turned my back to the window and found him still at the piano, but with his hands stacked on his cane, watching me. I had the feeling he’d been staring at me for quite a while, and the feeling brought a blush to my cheeks. I felt bared naked, though I was still wrapped in my silk robe.

“You are a goddess,” Ari finally broke the silence.

I smiled shyly at him, trying to think of something clever and flirty to reply. My words failed me as he rose. The light tap of his cane filling the quiet room as he moved slowly toward me.

He towered over me, his gaze piercing mine, as he held my chin between his thumb and forefinger. I closed my eyes, desperately wanting him to close the distance between our lips, to start our dance together.

His hand left my chin and as I opened my eyes in confusion, I felt the belt of my robe tugged undone. As he slipped it from my shoulders, baring my completely naked body, my breath caught in my throat.

“I should like to worship you tonight,” he continued his thought, his eyes raking over every inch of my moonlit form.

His hand found my waist and gently pushed until my back touched the window, a gasp escaping my mouth at the shock of the cold glass on my skin.

He grinned devilishly at the sound, and using his cane for support, made his way down onto his good knee. Before I could make another sound, he’d lifted my leg and draped it on his shoulder, baring my flower to his hungry gaze.

He began with slow, warm kisses at the top of my thigh. It tickled and I giggled, but ran my hands through his thick hair in encouragement. His kisses moved inward, finding my petals, and the tickles quickly turned to tingles. He moved inward still, his lips finding the center of me, and his kisses became sucks. His tongue began making long, lazy strokes, and I knew I was dripping wet from more than his mouth. My groans could not be stifled as he continued, alternating between sucks, licks, and kisses.

The sudden sensation of fingers entering me caused a yelp of pleasure, and I felt him smile against me before continuing his skilled work. His fingers moved as expertly as his tongue, and I soon felt the crescendo of an orgasm building within me. My hands tugged in his hair, my back arching away from the window and pushing my core further onto his face. His remaining hand cupped my ass, and as he forcefully sucked one long time, I unraveled against him, gasping sharply and exhaling his name, “Ari”.

He was gentle as he continued his work while I came down from my high, and when he finally set my leg down and rose, his own arousal was evident under his robe.

He stopped me when I moved to reach for his erection, more than willing to return the favor. He smiled as he kissed me, moving my hand to his face.

“I said I would like to worship you tonight,” he whispered onto my mouth, “how should you like to be worshiped next?”

I kissed him deeply, and then led him by the hand back to his piano bench.

“With the piano, I think,” I said, giving him a sincere smile.

The melody he played will follow me the rest of my days- it’s beauty, I’m convinced, can never be matched.

Daryl, knees cracking as he stands: Fuck.

Y/N: Jesus. Are they gonna glow in the dark tonight?

Daryl: …

You should feel proud of your writing.

You shouldn't cringe when you reread your own writing. Cringe culture, especially in writing, is so overrated. Love your writing. Remind yourself what made you so passionate about your WIPs to start with.

You'll be surprised how much more motivated you feel to write when you allow yourself to space to actually be proud of and love what you're doing.

Thank, author, you for this 🥵

MORE FREEUSE JOEL PLEAKSE

Bail (Free use)

850 words / Joel x f!Reader / master

CW: unsafe P in V, consensual somnophilia, consensual objectification, very light manhandling. Sleep anon. I8 mdni

Joel gets a call from Tommy in the middle of the night. Again. He’s pissed but tries not to wake you up as he goes to bail Tommy out. When Joel gets back, he’s tense and wound up and knows he won't be able to sleep for a while.

But you. You're resting peacefully, head on your pillow. Fast asleep, not a care on your pretty face. You turn over and sigh in your slumber, and Joel twitches with the knowledge that this beautiful creature is his. All his. And your body is all he needs to calm down.

He carefully undresses. He doesn't feel like talking and prefers to let his intrusion wake you up. By the time he’s nude, he's at full mast, hand wrapped around his swollen shaft, in desperate need of release. He pulls down the comforter leaving just the sheet on top of you.

"Cold," you mumble and curl up in a ball.

“Shhhhh. I’m comin’, baby.”

Joel slides into the bed behind you and you stir in your sleep. "What happened?" You murmur.

"Shhhhhh. It's okay." He'd really rather you not talk. You settle again with a little sigh.

You're curled up on your side. He slides his hand down your side and lets out an exasperated sigh when he reaches your panties.

"Why to bed," he mutters to himself.

He grabs a handful your ass, can't help himself, and takes your panties down. He yanks the bottom side of them out from under you and tugs them down almost to your knees to make room for himself.

He presses his warm chest against your back, then he uncurls your body. He aligns your legs with his so he can feel your soft, smooth skin against his lightly hairy legs. He gets frustrated with the panties, tugs them down past your knees, then uses his foot to push them off altogether and fixes your legs again. He reaches around and presses on your mound to tilt your hips for access, then he dips his middle finger into your pussy to see how wet you are. He gathers saliva and spits into his fingertips. That'll do until your body obliges. He wets his cock, nestles the tip at your entrance, then wraps his arm over you.

He holds you so your back is firmly against him for leverage, then sinks his stiff member into your tight little hole as far as it'll go. You sigh and the sweet sound makes him swell even harder. His forearm and elbow dig into your torso as he pushes further and you moan as he bottoms out, filling you up completely. You're probably waking up now, but mercifully, you don't squirm or say anything.

Your warmth wrapped around him sends a rush through his body. On another night, he might stay just like that. Have you keep his cock warm all night. But he has too much pent up tension.

His first few thrusts are slow, letting your wetness gather around his cock. And when it's slick enough, he picks up the intensity, ramming all the way into you every second or so with a grunt. He gropes your tits as he pounds you with all his pent up frustration. The force of his hips moves you up toward the headboard until he takes his hand from your breast and curls it around your shoulder instead, pulling you down on his cock as he pistons into you faster and harder.

-

Fully awake now, you silently extend your own hand to brace yourself on the headboard. You tilt your hips to help his angle and he breathes, "fuck, perfect" as he pummels you with his full length. He slows down the rhythm but adds even more power, slamming into you over and over, to the hilt each time. The intensity is startling but welcome. He's obviously fucking away some frustrations so he can sleep. It's not the first time and it won't be the last. You don't mind waking up to the stretch of his girth when he fucks you this good.

He holds you tight, cupping a breast. He breathes heavily, vocally, grunting, "Mm" each time your bodies are flush, or "Ah." The head of his cock nudges the right spot inside you and you twitch, then contract around him.

"Shit," he whispers. He's not done pounding his frustration into you, and he knows he won't be far behind when you come.

You try not to make a noise but a soft sigh spills out as you're riding your high. He grabs desperately at your breasts and gnaws wetly at the nape of your neck as he plunges into you hard and deep. Then groans as he bottoms out and pulses heavily inside you, spilling his seed in huge bursts. He sighs and his arm loosens around you.

After a couple of minutes, the rhythm of his breathing slows. As his dick softens inside you, his cum begins to trickle out. You slowly, carefully start to reach for a tissue, not wanting to disturb him. But his arm tightens before you can move an inch. He would let you move if you said something, but instead you stay put and relax into him.

"I love you, baby," he whispers sleepily into your hair.

"Love you, too."

Within minutes, he's snoring.

-

Use the #free use!Joel☠️ tag for previous stories with this Joel. For free use OF Joel look at my objectification HCs.

As always, thank you so much for your engagement! 🖤 I always notice and appreciate every comment and reblog even if I don't comment.

PLEASE CHECK YOUR CONTENT SETTINGS. Many of my posts seem to get flagged very quickly now even if they aren't explicit (like lincoln 1) so if you don't want to miss anything, you might want to follow me and check my profile regularly (filter to "my fics" from my header) or get on the joel tag list.

-

All joel: @ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose  @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @lokanda @blackvelveteen1339   @manazo @wolvesandvampires  @taeslarityy @str84pedro @kyloispunk

The End Will Justify It All - Chapter 3

A Negan Series

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Warnings - not too much in this one. Adult themes and some language.

Feedback is always welcome! This series is challenging me for sure, and I'm loving it. Every time I work on it it gets a little longer and starts heading a direction that was unexpected even to me. I hope you'll hang in with me! I think it'll be worth it in the end.

Three days. That’s how long she’d been here. Three days of watching, waiting, learning. Three exhausting days of pretending to want to be one of them and taking advantage of every second alone to search for Daryl, which hadn’t been many. Between the dinners with Negan, and being stuck in the wives’ room, she had only had a few hours yesteday and today to explore. Three damn days in the enemy’s home and all she had to show for it was a wedding ring. Married to a monster.

She had searched every hall she could reasonably claim that she’d gotten lost in while looking her room, or the bathroom, or the kitchen, or whatever else she could think of. After three days, that excuse was losing merit - she should be more familiar with this place by now. Her heart was racing as she tiptoed, barefoot, down another empty hall of closed doors, quietly trying each doorknob. Locked. Locked. Locked. Leaning her ear against the doors, she couldn’t hear anything or anyone inside.

She tried the next. Another locked door. She was starting to lose heart; this hall was yet again a dead end. Would she ever find where they were keeping him? She twisted the next knob – locked. She sighed, glancing at the next door, when something caught her eye. Light. Two doors down at the corner of the corridor, streaming into the hall from…an open door? She flattened herself against the door in front of her, quieting her breath and listening for any sound of someone in the open room. After several minutes frozen there, she tiptoed closer, stopping every few steps to listen again. As she approached, she noticed a red chair against the opposite wall. It sat empty, facing the open door. Flattened against the wall at the edge of the door she paused one last time, before slowly creeping around to peer in.

The apartment before her was small. There was a sink and counters against one wall, a single bed, a chair, and a metal rack of clothes – mostly flannel button down shirts. No people. She ducked inside to get a better look. The apartment was well stocked. A toaster oven, a tv, lamps, a bookcase full of books, and she noticed a few potted plants. The furniture was well used, but slightly dusty. There was no evidence of anything personal in this room, nothing bought or collected like the other rooms she’d snuck into. No evidence anyone had been here recently. This room was waiting for an inhabitant, she realized. She was about to turn and leave when she heard footsteps coming around the corner. Low voices, male, were growing closer.

Her heart racing, she quickly surveyed the room again, this time searching for the best hiding spot. Under the bed wasn’t an option, the mattress was laid on stacks of wood crates. There were not enough clothes on the rack to hide behind. The cabinets on the wall were too small for her to fold into. The footsteps were getting closer, she only had one option.

She ducked behind the solid door just as she heard a voice greet the approaching steps. “Dwighty boy” she heard, and dread filled her. That was Negan’s voice.  He instructed someone to leave so he could speak with Dwight, and she heard rustling of steps outside the door. She squeezed in close and peeked through the crack of the open hinged door. Her heart stopped.

There he was. Daryl. Three days, not even a hint or whisper of him, and now here he was, less than four feet away from her.

---

She’d hoped when Negan had agreed on her first night to let her try out for the Saviors that she’d be able to ask someone about Daryl. Or that she’d be able to talk to any of them at all, learn anything about the place. She’d had no such luck.

She awoke on her second day in the Sanctuary hopeful and eager to start exploring. She dressed in the most practical clothes she could find in her wardrobe, and even asked the guard at the wives’ door for some boots. He’d obtained them for her, just in time to dawn them before… sitting. And waiting. And waiting. She asked him if she’d been sent any instructions on where to go or who to meet with about training or a job. He told her that her orders would come. So, she’d continued to wait.

The wives had pulled her into different activities in the meantime. Scrabble was a favorite of Frankie’s, and they introduced her to their “spa day” ritual, which she gathered was every day. Homemade face masks, manicures, makeup before dinner. It seemed expected of them to be beautiful, and at least it was a way to pass the time. Her impatience grew, however, with every hour that passed. Each wife often left the dorm to walk around the compound, getting some movement and some air, or smoke a cigarette. They seemed to have unquestioned access to wherever they needed to go. She took advantage of that when it was obvious that she wouldn’t be missed. She’d come up empty handed on those brief searches, and each time she returned, she’d asked the guard if her orders had come. He’d just shook his head.

By the time the instructions came for her to join Negan for dinner a second night, she was fuming.

She stomped into his apartment with as much attitude as her high heels would allow, her arms crossed, demanding to know why she had been cooped up in that room all day when he’d agreed to let her be part of a Savior team.

Negan’s answering smile didn’t meet his eyes, and it made her uneasy.

“Good evening to you, too,” he drawled, holding out her chair at the table for her. “Would you like to eat before you continue to rip me a new asshole, or should we do this on empty stomachs?”

She huffed as she sat and began piling her plate with the potpie in front of her.

“We’ve only been married for a day and you’re already angry with me?” Negan teased her.

She willed herself calm and forced an apologetic smile on her face. She needed to stay on his good side, throwing a fit this early might raise questions or make him change his mind about her access. She needed Negan to trust her.

“I’m sorry,” she began, “I have always had a quick temper. I told you, I’m not great at sitting around. I got impatient. I apologize.”

Again, his answering smile didn’t meet his eyes, but he seemed satisfied with her apology.

“I’d like to play a game to start our evening,” he said after a quiet few minutes of eating. “To get to know one another a little better. We are married now, after all.”

“What game?” she asked around a mouthful.

“A drinking game,” he replied, standing and walking to his bar cart in the corner. When he returned, he brought two shot glasses and a decanter of an amber colored liquid.  “I’ll ask you a question, and if you answer - honestly - you get to ask me a question in return. If you don’t answer, or if I think your answer is unsatisfactory, you take a shot and I get to ask another question.”

“I see. And do the same rules apply to you?”

“Sure,” he replied, mischief dancing in his eyes. “I take the rules of games very seriously.”

This made her nervous. She had no way of knowing what he would ask. She could always skip the question if she didn't like it, but too many questions skipped would certainly raise suspicions. She steeled herself as she took her last few bites of food, preparing for the worst.

When she raised her head, she found Negan watching her. She nodded and plastered a smile to her face.

“Sounds sexy. Let’s play.”

He grinned as he poured two shot glasses of the drink and slid one across the table to her.

“My first question,” he said, “is how long were you part of Rick’s group?”

She silently released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She felt a little relief at how simple the question was. She recounted the basic story of coming upon Rick's group in a small church in Georgia several weeks before they found Alexandria, and traveling with them to Virginia, looking for the family of one of their guys.

“How did you all find Alexandria?” Negan asked as her short story came to an end.

“I think it’s my turn for a question,” she teased him, “unless you want to skip that do a shot?”

He grinned in response and gestured for her to ask her question.

This was more pressure than answering. It was a good opportunity to get information, maybe even find out where Daryl is, if she could ask casually enough... She would have to be very careful how she approached it. She decided to start slowly, not too eager to get telling information from him.

“How many communities do you have working for you?” She asked, after some contemplation. Maybe a train of questions that make her seem curious about his operation would seem less suspicious when she got to Daryl.

“A lot,” he answered proudly, “I won't waste time counting them all. It’s a lot though. It has to be, to feed all our people.” A lot. There were a lot of other communities nearby. Potential allies. She filed that information away for later.

“How did your group find Alexandria?” He asked again, now that it was his turn.

“They found us. Their scouts had been watching us on the road. All but starved to death, desperate, and nearly feral. They took us in and gave us jobs. Have you always been the leader of the Saviors?”

Negan’s dark eyes stared at his glass for a long minute. She wasn’t sure he was going to answer, when he finally said, “No, but the guy before me was weak, he didn’t know what he was doing. It’s been me for long enough, and we’re all better for it. You’ve seen what we’ve become. I got us here.”

There was a pause as she took in what he said. He wasn’t wrong. She didn't really want to be here, but she had to admit that it worked. People were safe and fed, and there was a sense of order. Had she found this before Rick’s group, she wouldn’t have hesitated to become part of it.

“If you only got there a month ago, how did Rick end up in charge?” Negan asked.

“Who said Rick was in charge?” she countered.

Negan gave her a pointed look.

“It wasn’t on purpose, necessarily. There was an attack from some crazy outside group – not your guys. A bunch of walkers got past the walls; lost a lot of people - including the town’s leader. Rick is just the sort of guy that others follow, so the natural option was for him to step into the role.”

She hesitated a moment. “What’s your plan for them?” she asked, risking the question. Hoping it felt like an organic follow up. Negan drained his shotglass, not giving anything away. Damn. “What’s your plan for Daryl?” she was risking even more, now, but she wasn’t sure she’d have an opening again.

“I lost a lot of good fighters,” he answered. “I need more, and I like his spirit. He’ll make a great Savior once I wear him down.” She buried the dread that rose in her at his words and willed her heart to stop pounding.

Now his turn, Negan asked her “Who is Rick’s secondhand man?”

Realization hit her like a slap to the face. She should have guessed sooner his purpose for playing this game. She’d been blind, too focused on her own agenda to bother considering his. She’d have to be more careful about her answers now. If she revealed too much about Rick or Alexandria, she could put her friends in even more danger.

“All these questions about Rick…” she said, with a raised eyebrow and a hint of seduction in her voice, “I’m starting to feel a little jealous…” She took her glass and threw the shot to the back of her throat. She coughed a little as she swallowed. Whiskey had always done that to her.

Negan searched her face before grinning and continuing, “I would hate to have my new wife feeling neglected this soon. Tell me, what did you do before the world fell?”

“That's more like it,” she said with a slight curl of her lip. “Although a little difficult to answer. I worked a lot of jobs; I was putting myself through grad school. Took as many part-time jobs as I could.  I had two semesters left, and was already working on my thesis when the outbreak began.”

“Psychology,” she added, as she saw him start to speak again. He confirmed that was his next question with a slight nod of his head. “Same question to you,” she asked, settling back in her chair to keep the room from spinning. She hadn’t done a shot in ages, and her time on the road left her smaller than she ever was during her college partying era. Another shot or two and she wasn’t sure she could trust herself to answer anymore questions.

“I worked with kids,” Negan responded. “Gym teacher and coach.”

She didn’t try to hide a look of surprise, which made Negan chuckle. “I get that a lot when I answer that question.” She would have to work through that information later, figure out what that said about him as a person. The types of people who chose teaching positions… well, it begged the question what had happened to form him into... this? She didn’t have time to flesh that thought out as Negan launched into his next inquiry.

“You studied psychology, and you spent some decent time with him… if you were me, what would your next move against Rick be?”

Shit. She walked right into that one. How was she so off her game tonight?

She searched his face for a minute, took the decanter of whiskey and filled her glass. She met his glare as she gulped the shot down, stifling her cough this time. As she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, she said, “I left their group to join you, but I don’t hate them. I’ll follow orders out there, but you can’t expect me to plot against them in here.”

Negan chewed his lip as he studied her, narrowing his eyes. She waited for his next question or her dismissal. She hoped for the latter.

“If you were me, what would your next move against Rick be?” he asked again, a malicious tone encroaching his voice.

She filled her glass again, but Negan’s hand appeared on its rim, pressing it to the table as she tried to lift it. “I’d like you to answer this one.” He said, threat in his voice despite the polite smile he wore.

As she made to protest, he cut her off. “You see, you asked to be more than just my wife - which stung a little, I won’t lie. But I am a generous husband, I like my wives to be happy. They always did say, ‘happy wife, happy life.’ I’m not one to argue with an age-old adage, but in order to do that for you, to make you happy… give you a job, if that’s really what you want… I gotta know what value you bring. I gotta know if you can do more than just take orders - I have enough obedient dogs out there. You’ve seen the way they bow to me. I don’t need another dog. What I need… is a wolf. A wolf, or a wife. The choice is yours.”

She stared at him, working to keep the rage she felt from burning through her glare. Bastard.

“I’ll give you until dinner tomorrow. Come back with something good, and I do mean something impressive, or settle in as a stay home wife, dear. You asked what I’ll do with Daryl – I guess you get to make that decision. I’d like him to become one of us, but what I need is information, and if you don’t give it, then I’ll get it from him however I have to."

"You’re dismissed.”

---

She’d played that conversation over in her head too many times to count since returning to her room last night. She worked through all her options, even options that weren’t options. How could she live with herself if she gave him all her friends’ weaknesses? How could she live with herself if she didn’t?

Seeing Daryl now, slumped in that red chair, staring into the room she hid in - her heart broke. He was filthy, his hair a level of greasy that was bad even for Daryl. His eyes were cloudy, dark bags hanging under them like he hadn’t slept in days. She shuddered to think what could put him in such a state - her strong, tough Daryl. She knew he wasn’t breaking, but she couldn’t tell how much he had left in him. He was so ragged, so run down.

Her decision was made. She wouldn’t be the cause of more pain for him. She could never forgive herself for that. For him, she could turn into whatever she needed to be. For him, she could be a wolf.

They’d see just how much of a wolf she was.

He’s my current hyper fixation and I’m good with it.

I'm coming to you sweetheart... 🖤

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AI