twd one-shots

gone for good (part 2) - daryl dixon

Plot: If the Governor's brute attack on the prison hadn't been enough to remind you how cruel people could be, this certainly was.

Requested by anon on Tumblr <3

Paring: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count:
 6k

Warnings: massive warnings for attempted SA/mentions of SA, generally disturbing implications/dialogue, swearing, gore, violence. its the claimers scene.

A/N: more protective daryl, but in a slightly different light this time. I hope you enjoy <3 

read part one first!!

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It turned out, even through all the tears and blood, luck had been on your side after all— had, being the key word. Some days, you might not have had much food or a roof over your head but you always had your family.

For the first time since the dead rose, you were alone. Two long days of hiding in some cabin, slipping between sleep and alert consciousness with every creak of the old wooden floors. The flu had taken its toll on you, leaving you an exhausted and paranoid mess for those first few days. It wasn't until your thirst became unbearable that you finally left those four walls and rickety roof, even if you were still cursed by fatigued and drained of all hope and optimism.

Loneliness was a bitter thing, festering in the pit of your empty stomach and bubbling up with every growl of the dead surrounding you. A constant reminder that there was a newfound lack in your life; something you'd never had to experience before, not until it was brutally ripped away from you. The weight of survival, of your life, sat on your shoulders this time. No backup to fire a much-needed shot. No one to depend on. No one to make you laugh when all you wanted to do was sit and cry.

It was just you.

After you found a precious bottle of water and packed a small backpack of stray supplies, you began to wander. Stuck to the roads. The woods had never been your forte, filled with too many hiding spots and unknowns to find appealing; the thicket of trees provided cover from the dead and the living, true, but it also sent your head spinning with each blow of the wind. You teetered on the edge, blending just within the tree line but keeping the cracked pavement always within your sight.

There was a wide, one-story building just up ahead. It had a slanted green roof with a faded sign above. Two miles back, your toes had started to feel cramped in your shoes, and a mile ago a blister began burning down your left heel, but the image of an animated pig made your stomach roar and your feet pick up speed.

Joe & Joe Jr's BBQ Shack.

When you were finally close enough to read those washed-out letters, you smiled.

Then, through the quiet air, a muffled cry broke. Your heart dropped. Walkers didn't cry.

You still weren't used to this; the prison might've fallen to violence and brutality, but its year-long lull of security and peace had made its mark.

Cursing yourself under your breath, you raised Daryl's pistol in your shaky hands and pushed your back to the wall. The chill of the stone wall stuck to your left cheek while you watched the doorway, waiting for another noise. There was feet scuffling and a sniffle, then a low groan— much too low for the high-pitched whimpers you'd been listening in on. Your eyes snapped up the road to see a man's approach, dried blood ran down his mouth and neck, and his left foot dragged behind his right.