twd one-shots

all you got (part one)

hiii<3 so, this is not a typical update. 

I'm posting part one here for exposure & the lovely people who I know read this (u know who u r)

this is a longer series im working on. it'll be about 12 parts (maybe more) and below is the first half of part 1. if you want to keep reading, please check out the book I have dedicated to this fic: all you got. you'll find the completed first part there <3

---

Plot: 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)

Paring: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count: 2k (first half of part 1) 

Warnings: description of injury, blood, violence, swearing.

---

Blood dripped between your clasped fingers, soaking the denim down your thigh. There was an unusual heaviness in your muscles, one that made keeping your attention on the door, and the wide-eyed man who'd just barged through it, exhausting. With every shaky breath you released, the aim of your gun weakened.

"Please..."

The man ignored your plea.

He bolted across the closet's small stretch without even a hint of hesitancy, grabbing your wrist and twisting the gun's aim away from his chest. Fast enough that there wasn't a chance to fire that bullet in your stupor, even if you had the guts.

The only logical course of action would be that gun at your forehead, cold metal pressing into cold skin, and then a bullet shattering your skull. That's what you expected. That's what this world taught you to wait for, with closed eyes and a last breath, laced with dust, sweat, and the iron of your flowing blood.

Yet, no cold metal bit your skin. Your anticipation lingered with a second, then a third, inhale of that musty air.

Rapid with apprehension and fear, your eyes blinked open. There was a quiver to your lip and chin as you tried to steady your breaths. The tension in his forearm caught your attention; muscles twitched under dirty, tanned skin as he held the weapon by his side, instead. It wasn't threatening. His effort had only meant to disarm you, which was a momentary relief, until the noise of shuffling feet made your gut twist all over again.

From the sound of it, the dead followed his trail, spilling into the cabin that only the closet's thin wooden door separated you from. The growls slipping past their hungry jaws made your stomach knot with panic because if he had found you so easily, why wouldn't they?

The stranger— that was only half true— didn't notice the way your hands shook or the way your chest seemed to be caving in on itself. Instead, he looked over his shoulder to watch the door, long dark hair slick with sweat and curved along the thick expanse of his neck. It wasn't until he turned back with a dirty finger in front of his lips, signalling to be quiet, that he met that panicked look in your eye.

If his frame, built of brute strength and force, was any indication of his capacity, you had no doubt this man was hell-bent on surviving— which might've been your only chance at survival, too, because when he finally got a good look at you, his face fell. An overwhelming hatred swarmed him as he finally recognized you.