Pairing: Daryl Dixon X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Beginning at the quarry and heavily following the series

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore, canonical character death, poorly written smut, masturbation, allusions to abortion, medical blood draw, vomiting, allusions to suicide, minor canonical character death, child injury, pregnancy complications [Will update warnings as we go]

A/N: The series will heavily follow the timeline and events of the show but there will be additional non-canonical events/injuries/etc.

Chapter Moodboards by @dannyo000: Pg 1, Pg 2

Summary: Daryl met you while hunting to feed the group he saddled himself with at the quarry. It was just sex, no strings attached. Until it wasn’t. Strangers to friends to lovers. A bit of slow burn and angst.

•Chapter 1

•Chapter 2

•Chapter 3

•Chapter 4

•Chapter 5

•Chapter 6

•Chapter 7

•Chapter 8

•Chapter 9

•Chapter 10

•Chapter 11

•Chapter 12

•Chapter 13

•Chapter 14

•Chapter 15

•Chapter 16

•Chapter 17

•Chapter 18

•Chapter 19

•Chapter 20

•Chapter 21

•Chapter 22

•Chapter 23

•Chapter 24

•Chapter 25

•Chapter 26

•Chapter 27……in progress

Gorgeous moodboard by the amazing @dustbunniess ❤️

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (COMPLETED)

Summary: Part of a band of travelers, your party is slowly picked off one by one, until there are only two of you left. Finding an abandoned cabin in the woods, you decide to make camp there until you figure out your next move. As the seasons change, the nights get longer and longer…

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

High Infidelity Masterlist

Coming Every Tuesday in April!

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Rating: Mature Explicit

Summary: When Tommy lands himself in prison, you and Joel fall into familiar, dangerous rhythms.

Tags: Tommy x Reader, Joel x Reader, Tommy's Wife Reader, infidelity, emotional affair, slow burn (as much as you can get for 5 chapters), Tommy goes to jail, Reader has had a child

Warnings: cheating, affair, smut/explicit content, fluff, the shitty judicial system, prison,

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV - Coming 4.23.24

Part V - Coming 4.30.24

LMK if you'd like to be on the tag list!

Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

endure & survive

genre: horror

joel miller x f!reader (eventual). the last of us x the purge au.

start date: october 5, 2023

synopsis: y2k brings something much more visceral than a cyberattack to the united states. the worst of this happens to joel miller on his birthday in 2008.

installment warnings: extreme violence including death (canon-typical for both stories). strong political themes. altered universe including alternate history. rated r, for 18+ readers only.

chapter one: so help me god

September 15, 2001

Washington, D.C., United States of America

With a new millennium come new beginnings.

The 90s were difficult on the United States, to say the least. Losing the Cold War had been no small thing, and President Reagan had left the White House in disgrace. What followed were a series of lackluster presidential administrations who seriously fumbled the postwar recovery of the country, and America became vulnerable-- not to outside forces, but to itself. In times of great strife, people have a number of options, but it usually comes down to two: either a society bands together to fix its problems and restore a sense of security to the nation, or it gives way to fascism. The United States, regrettably, took the latter path.

The New Founding Fathers of America harnessed the power of faux populism to appeal to the hungry, frustrated masses, convincing enough voters to choose them that they won. Of course, simply winning wasn't good enough for the NFFA, and soon, the entire government of the US was overthrown and rebuilt by the party. No other party was allowed power in the newly reformed legislature, and the US became a full dictatorship. Somehow, this didn't seem to bother people as much as it should have done, and the NFFA managed to hold on to relatively high approval ratings, though the numbers were likely doctored.

With the stated goal of trying to restore peace, order, and stability to the people of the USA, the NFFA concocted a plan, one that would fundamentally change the fabric of not only American society, but human society generally. The proposal of the annual Purge was met with shock, horror, and condemnation by a majority of other world governments. Both the United Nations and NATO advised that, were the US to actually enact the Purge, they would be expelled from the alliances, and Canada, China, and Mexico, among others, warned that all trade relations would be severed. Naturally, the NFFA ignored every admonishment that was leveled at them, and pushed forward with their plans.

The Purge would take place once a year, in September, when the weather was nice enough in all parts of the country to be outside for prolonged periods of time. Only a handful of rules applied: no harming high-level government officials, no heavy weaponry, and no biological agents. Other than that, basically everything was fair game. For one night, one twelve-hour window every year, crimes would no longer be crimes. Anyone could do anything they wanted, from robbing banks to going on murder sprees, and they would face no repercussions granted the acts took place between 7PM and 7AM. It was first tested in 2001, confined only to New York City, as it was deemed unwise to test it on a large, uncontrollable scale. For the NFFA, it was deemed a major success, despite the fact that the Statue of Liberty was completely demolished. They used this as promotional propaganda, stating that the destruction of old American monuments was in line with their vision of a new America, unshackled from its past. Particularly harrowing was an image of her head, decapitated, lying sideways on the ground with a broken crown. Her nose was cracked, her eyes hollow, her expressionlessness making her seem especially dead.

This image became a core memory for you. As you stood in front of the television the day after, a 16-year-old girl barely becoming aware of what politics even meant, you knew you were repulsed by it. You knew you wanted something better, but, heartbreakingly, you felt powerless to change it, and this sense of weakness and despair would follow you for years.

***

September 26, 2008

Austin, Texas, United States of America

It was Joel's 35th birthday.

Ever since he had Sarah, he hadn't put much importance on his birthday, but she sure had. Ever since she could grasp the concept, she'd gone crazy for his birthday, waking him up when she was five by bringing him nothing but a can of Funfetti frosting and a spoon. Ever since that morning, the only reason he even kept it on the calendar was for her.

This birthday was no exception. Joel woke up to a perfectly prepared breakfast, eggs and bacon and sweet, fluffy pancakes, and despite the fact that he wasn't the biggest fan of pancakes, he polished off the whole plate. They rode to school together in Tommy's truck, Joel planting a kiss on Sarah's curls as she hopped out, and then he was off to another long day of work.

The radio crackled on the drive, after Sarah left. It had always been staticky in Tommy's truck, and though Joel had offered to replace it multiple times, Tommy had always turned him down, noting the charm of the old stereo. "Good morning Austin," said the DJ, less cheerful than he normally was. "Don't forget: tonight marks the sixth annual Purge, sponsored by the New Founding Fathers of America and the NRA. The Purge lasts twelve full hours, from seven PM to seven AM, during which time all crime, including murder, is legal and permitted. Stay tuned for more details as the day continues, and keep a television in your house tuned to channel nine for updates during the event. May God have mercy on your souls."

The Purge wasn't always on Joel's birthday, but since the date changed yearly to place it on a Friday, occasionally it would inevitably fall on his day. This was the first time it had happened, and Joel internally crossed his fingers and prayed to a God he didn't believe in that once, just this once, nothing terrible would happen to him in those twelve hours. In 2003, someone had set fire to their house. In 2005, someone had stolen the work truck he shared with Tommy. Last year, someone had gotten into the house next door and killed his elderly neighbors, leading him to shut off all the lights, turn off the television, and hide Sarah under his bed, sitting in front of it with his gun in his lap. Thankfully, the killers skipped over their house, believing it empty, and the siren sounded an hour later.

Joel and Tommy looked at each other, a palpable nervousness rising between them. "Looks like no birthday dinner, huh, big brother?" Tommy asked, his chuckle insincere. Tommy had fared much worse, as far as Purges went; in 2004, his fiancée had been brutally assaulted and murdered, leaving him in such fear that he hadn't found anyone else since. He dreaded Purge Night more than anyone else Joel knew, and Purge Night made Joel approximately ten thousand times more protective of Tommy than he normally was, and that was saying something.

For as protective as he was of Tommy, he was even more defensive over Sarah, his freshly 16-year-old little girl. If she hadn't been born before the instatement of the Purge, he probably wouldn't have had her. He didn't love the idea of having brought a child into a world like this one, and he never would have done it knowingly. Sarah had been the result of a one-night stand, and her religious mother had insisted on keeping her, but skipped town only a few months after her birth. Joel had kept up with her whereabouts in case Sarah ever got curious, but other than that, he had nothing to do with her, and he never would again, as she had died in the 2006 Purge. At the time, he had decided that Sarah was old enough to know, and told her.

"She's dead?"

"Yeah, she's dead." Joel ran his fingers through his curls, worried about how Sarah would react.

"Am I... am I a bad person?" she asked, startling him.

"What? How could you think that?"

"I don't feel anything," she explained, her eyes unable to meet his. "I'm not happy, but I'm not devastated. Am I wrong for that?"

He wrapped her up in his arms, hoping his steady embrace would be enough to break that thought pattern. "No, baby, you're not a bad person," he reassured her, rocking back and forth gently. "She was a stranger to you. It makes sense that you'd feel this way."

"Dad?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"I'm sorry."

He leaned back to look at her. "Why?"

"You deserved better." Sarah sighed, with too much world-weariness for a teenager. "You deserved someone who would love you."

"Well, lucky for me, I got you out of it," he countered. "It's a different kind of love, sure, but it's a hell of a lot of it."

"I love you too, Dad."

Joel slowly returned to reality, shrugging. "Guess not, little brother." He clapped a hand on Tommy's shoulder. "You're welcome at ours tonight anyway, you know that. Especially... you know, on nights like this."

Tommy swallowed, and his eyes became misty. "Thanks, Joel. I promised Sandra I'd keep guard for her tonight, though." Sandra, Tommy's neighbor, was a single mom, and a very kind woman, who Tommy liked to help. There was nothing romantic between them; they had simply become good friends after living next door to one another, and Tommy had become "Uncle Tommy" to her kids. He took pride in that, and made sure to be the best influence in their lives that he could be. That included being their armed guard on Purge Night, which seemed to be the only thing that kept him sane during the event.

"You're good to that family. They're lucky to have you."

"I'm lucky to have them." He didn't acknowledge why.

The workday itself was as uneventful as ever, save for a tension that needed a saw, not a knife, to cut. Hardly anyone on the jobsite enjoyed Purge Night, and most of the guys barricaded themselves indoors with their families. A few had lost family members, and there was no Purge bereavement leave, which meant mental health rapidly deteriorated in the days following the event. Some of the guys couldn't survive it. If three people lost family, one of them would be dead within the month, guaranteed. The NFFA didn't fund mental health services, promoting the false notion that if you weren't strong enough to beat it without help, you weren't strong enough to be alive anyway. It made Joel seethe with rage, considering the way he had watched Tommy grapple with PTSD since the death of his fiancée. To think that the government didn't even care if Tommy did okay, that they didn't care if he ever got better, that they even thought that the world was a better place without him in it, made Joel see red.

He barely made it home in time, racing out of the car after Tommy dropped him off and slamming and locking the door behind him. 6:53 PM. Sarah sat in front of the television, visibly shaking, likely thinking that her father was not going to make it back. Joel didn't bring it up, preferring not to upset her further, or plant the thought in her head, if that wasn't what she had been thinking about. "Got a cake, like you asked," he said, holding up the sheet cake he'd bought at the grocery store, nothing fancy or custom, but enough for him and his kid.

"Cool, Dad. I guess this is the best night possible to set the house on fire, considering the amount of candles we're going to need for you."

"Hardy-har." There couldn't have been a worse night, not really. If the house burned all the way down, they'd have nowhere to shelter, and be exposed to attacks. She probably had a bit of a point, though, since the last time their house had caught fire on Purge Night, Joel had acted quickly enough to pull off a little bit of insurance fraud before the sirens blared to get himself some extra cash for the repairs. After seeing how simple that had been, he'd spent further Purge Nights stealing money for Sarah's college fund, hoping to be able to ship her off to Canada and get her the hell out of the United States.

You, too, were a fraudster. As a youth, you had been very much the indoorsy type, learning everything that you could about computers and the Internet, and during the first actual Purge, you stole $200,000, all online. This money wasn't all for floating your personal lifestyle, though; you used much of it to furnish Purge shelters for the homeless and unemployed, or people who didn't have secure enough housing. Part of it went to your college fund, and part of it to the simple things about staying alive, but most of it was for charitable causes. The local mayor hated you, as he had been able to trace your activities, but he couldn't do anything about it unless he wanted to completely torpedo his own political ambitions. What you were doing was 100 percent legal, even if the powers that be didn't like it. Purge 2008 would be your last in D.C., as you needed to get out from under the mayor's watchful eye, his constant stalking to try to catch you doing something that wasn't entirely above board.

Austin wasn't better. It had been a great city before the rise of the NFFA, the most vibrant and artistic in the state of Texas, but it had since devolved into a rather beige wasteland. Joel missed the music, the street murals, the block parties, everything that had made growing up in Austin special. He wished he could give Sarah the same childhood he had had, but that was long gone.

Both of them jumped out of their skin when the Emergency Broadcast System sounded, even though they had both known it was coming, as it had come every year. The tones nearly split Joel's psyche in half, knowing the distress that Sarah and Tommy were about to experience for twelve or more hours. He'd made Tommy promise to text him once every hour.

A placid female voice began to read Joel's least favorite words. "This is not a test," read the TTS. "This is your Emergency Broadcast System announcing the commencement of the annual Purge sanctioned by the U.S. government. Weapons of Class 4 and lower have been authorized for use during the Purge. All other weapons are restricted. Government officials of ranking 10 have been granted immunity from the Purge and shall not be harmed. Commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours. Police, fire, and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning at 7AM when the Purge concludes. Blessed be our New Founding Fathers and America, a nation reborn. May God be with you all."

As the terrible siren blared its warning call, Joel shuddered, nearly dropping the cake he still held. "Shut that damned thing off," he mumbled, shaking his head. "Don't need the noise."

Sarah did as he asked, and then walked with him to the kitchen, taking the cake from him. "Dad."

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

This time, she didn't need to explain herself. He knew what she was apologizing for. "Ain't your fault, kiddo, but thank you."

They only ended up lighting one candle, as they didn't want to spend long with the flickers of light being able to be seen from beyond the house. Joel blew it out, openly wishing that this Purge would be the last. Sarah nodded, but said nothing, and cut the cake. Once they had finished, they walked to the master bathroom and barricaded themselves inside, preferring to spend the night in a room with no windows and only one door. Joel sat with his gun loaded, pointed at the locked door, and Sarah sat in the bathtub, lined with pillows, watching videos on her laptop with headphones on so no one could hear.

Joel listened to music to pass the time, but only with one earbud in. He didn't think he could afford to dampen his sense of hearing entirely, as much as he wished that he could just block out the rest of the world, save for Sarah and Tommy, and disappear. The fucking Purge. How could one day of the year make the rest of it so goddamn intolerable? Of course, he knew it wasn't the Purge that made the rest of the year intolerable. It was the NFFA, those fascist shitheads, those good-for-nothing, controlling motherfuckers. The rage Joel felt was always barely, barely contained, always rippling beneath the surface of his strained exterior, always threatening to snap more easily than a twig under his boot. One of these days, he'd go ballistic. It wasn't a question of if, but when, something that was guaranteed to happen at one point or another, and when it did, he'd probably aim to break one Purge rule in particular.

As Joel was working his magic on his own laptop, hours after the sounding of the first siren, securing more money for Sarah's college, his phone began to ring. A chill shot up his spine when he read the caller ID-- Tommy. "Where are you?" he said as he answered, skipping over the formalities.

"Downtown!" A hail of gunfire rang out, Tommy's boots crunching on the gravel as he ran. "One of Sandra's kids ran off! Can't find her!"

"Goddamn it, Tommy."

"I wouldn't have left if it wasn't a child, Joel, you know that!"

"I know." Joel massaged his temple with his free hand, feeling a migraine incoming. "You need cover, don't you?"

"That's why I'm calling. I get it if you can't leave Sarah."

Sarah's hand landed on Joel's shoulder. "Dad, go," she urged, her headphones looped around her neck. "Go help Uncle Tommy. I'm safe here. No one's gonna know where I am."

Joel stared into Sarah's earnest eyes, the ones that so matched his own, but with more kindness, more softness. "Sarah, I--"

"Go," she insisted. "One of these days, I'll have to weather my first Purge without you. Might as well be now."

"You're just a kid."

"I'm 16, Dad, not six. I might not be an adult, but I have my wits about me." She threw her arms around him, squeezing tight. "I love Uncle Tommy, I really do, but he doesn't stand a chance out there without you. He needs you right now more than I do."

Joel hugged her back, feeling tears welling up in his eyes. "How'd you get so selfless, huh?"

"Learned from the best." Sarah pushed Joel away, shooing him. "Get out of here. You bring my uncle home safe."

Sarah was wrong, fatally wrong, but none of them would know it before it was too late.

Joel rushed to his truck, vigilantly watching his six. He scrambled in and started it, backing out of his drive without really watching. If he had been more careful, he might have noticed the men waiting, lurking, in the yard next door, but he was so focused on trying not to panic that his eyes weren't fully open.

Tommy did make it home. They were able to locate the missing child, and got her back to Sandra with nothing more than a few scrapes and bruises. Joel only witnessed a brief part of the reunion before rushing out to go back to his own child, his own responsibilities, but he was about to have those responsibilities stripped forever.

Sarah wasn't home anymore. Joel returned to a house with smashed-out windows, a fire burning in the kitchen. The glass on the floor resembled the shattered state of his very soul, upon knowing that his only baby wouldn't be where she was meant to be. With his heart in his throat, he raced up the stairs to his bathroom, his worst fears confirmed, yet more glass scattered across the floor and giving him the brief, morbid thought that he should use one of the shards on himself if anything happened to her. But where? Where could she have gone? True to form, clever Sarah had hidden a note for her father, scribbled in black marker under the lip of the sink: JEANNIES, it read.

Jeannie's was a nearby coffee shop that was popular with the local high schoolers and young adults. Sarah spent a decent amount of time there with her friends after school, usually coming home about the same time Joel did, so she could spend her evenings with him. Had she short-changed a barista or something? She wasn't the type...

Boys.

The thought occured to Joel before he was even ready for it, but that had to be it. Sarah was a pretty girl, and she'd probably turned a boy down for a date. Joel knew that some men and boys could be horrifically violent when being denied what they wanted, including actual human girls and women, and a scream of anger ripped from his throat. These boys, whoever they were, were going to pay.

The coffee shop was so close to the house that Joel thought it best to run there rather than driving, knowing that he didn't want to waste time trying to find somewhere to park the truck, or risk being noticed by Sarah's attackers prematurely. By this point, it was already 6:45 in the morning. With any sliver of luck, the siren would go off before they could-- he didn't even want to think the thought. There were too many awful things that they could do to her.

Sure enough, when he reached the coffee shop, he could see through the front windows that Sarah was tied down to a chair, a group of young men taking turns hitting her, kicking her, spitting on her. Joel found a pipe lying on the ground, ready to use it in defense of his kid. He didn't know how many of them he could get through before the Purge ended, but he certainly didn't plan on showing mercy. Knowing the door would be locked, he smashed the glass with his pipe, ducking to walk through it, appearing on the other side with nothing but murder on his mind. "You think you're gonna take my kid and get away with it?" he growled, his eyes flicking from man to man.

"I do, actually," said one of them, one of the shortest. "Daddy come to save you, princess?"

"What do you want with her?"

"Your little bitch turned me down," the leader hissed, smacking his open palm across Sarah's already bleeding face, the splits in her skin reflecting the brutality of a mediocre man scorned. "Girls don't get to turn me down, not without consequences."

Joel ran toward them, but found himself on the business end of a gun. "She's 16 years old, you bastard. How old are you? 30?"

"27." He looked pained that Joel thought him older.

Joel scoffed, spitting in his face. "Pervert. She's a kid."

"She's old enough."

"She ain't!" Joel landed a blow on the attacker's head, getting himself shot in the arm for it, but it didn't stop him.

"Kill the girl," the attacker managed to choke out, just before Joel broke his jaw.

He wasn't quick enough. One of the accomplices, already standing right in front of Sarah, raised his gun and fired, dissolving Joel's world in less than a second. The last thing Joel saw on Sarah's face, strangely, was a look of acceptance, possibly trying to still her heart in her final moments. A ringing started in his ears, but he didn't know whether it was due to blood loss or grief; in any event, it led him to continue beating the living shit out of the man who orchestrated the whole kidnapping, until he was as good as decapitated, there was so little left of his head. The other accomplices left him to it. They seemed to think Joel deserved the catharsis, or perhaps they were afraid of him turning his fury on them.

When Joel grabbed another one by the collar, he was shot again, this time in the back. Before he could retaliate, the most terrible sound rang out loud: the end siren. The Purge was over. He stared at each of the men individually, not needing to tell them what he would say next. "There's always next year," he promised. "Say your fuckin' goodbyes while you can, if you got anybody to say them to."

"It wasn't our idea," one of them, the one who shot Sarah, protested.

Joel whirled on him, pushing him to the floor. "You went along with it, didn't you? And you shot my daughter? I'm gonna start with you, I think, and I'm gonna work my way through every last one of you. You're dead. You're all fuckin' dead." He put a boot on the man's chest, holding him down while he took out his wallet and read the ID. "Jeremy Fisher. See you in 364 days."

The cowards ran off before Joel could change his mind, unsure how he was even able to control himself. He fell to his knees and gathered Sarah in his arms, knowing there was no hope for her. His knees almost came out from under him as he slipped in the gallons of blood running over the tiles, and he wished it would have made him slip, cracked his head, either put him out of his misery or woke him up from this nightmare. CPR wouldn't work. She was gone. He rocked her body back and forth until he finally passed out, ready to join her if possible, but the first responders found him.

Joel survived, but his heart did not.

Safer

Summary: After the fall of the prison and a brutal assault, Daryl cares for you.

NOTE (please read): A mutual requested this a while ago. Took a long while to write, and tbh I considered turning the req down given the premise and my firm stance on writing graphic SA which you can find here. However, they explained to me that they are a victim of a violent s*xual assault, and they expressed it would be healing in a way to have a story where they were cared for by their comfort character. After some consideration, I decided to go for it. I'm sure a lot of us have been victimized by people who couldn't control their urges, or those who lacked respect for our boundaries, bodies, and consent. Myself included. So, this story is for us, to those of us that can stomach it. 

DISCLAIMER: There are no scenes of graphic SA, only the aftermath. While I will not be telling any descriptive scenarios of being assaulted, I do want to clearly express that this is a generally heavy story and it may not be suitable for all audiences. Please consume responsibly.

**I will not be tagging anyone on the taglist due to the content of this story**

18+MDNI ||  WARNINGS: non-graphic allusions to SA, violence, mild nudity descriptions, generally heavy content so I can't say it enough: TW!!!

Banner from: cafekitsune

IF YOU READ BEYOND THIS POINT, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. I have made great effort not to trigger anyone, and to give all readers an opportunity to turn away if this story is not suitable for you.

        Daryl's vision was blurred as he blinked himself to consciousness. It took him some time to gather his thoughts and recognize his surroundings. His wrists and ankles were bound together, his mouth gagged with a cloth that tasted of sweat and filth. He stared up at the treetops towering over him. It was dark outside, save for the dim light of a dying campfire a few feet away. He lifted his head from the forest floor and looked down past his feet. Lumps of sleeping bodies under raggedy blankets and torn sleeping bags rested around him. His heart raced as his memories crept back in; of you, screaming his name, of him fighting off the group of men who caught him off guard, of twigs snapping and a searing pain over the side of his head. Was that why his face felt so sticky? Was it dried blood?

        His eyes strained in the fading light of ember and ash. Where were you? He noticed a crumpled form at the foot of a tree. Her breathing was shallow and her clothes were torn, pants not even pulled up over her bare behind. That much, he could see. His throat tightened. His eyes watered. What the hell had he let them do to you? How could he have let this happen? He had to get you out of there, and fast. If they hadn't killed him yet, that was surely on their agenda.

        He began to squirm and writhe against his restraints. Whoever tied him up had experience. Just as hopelessness began to set in and cloud his judgement with fear -- real, genuine fear -- he noticed a reflection in the leaves. Just a few feet past his boots, a man was curled up on his side, snoring lightly in the calm breeze. His back was turned to Daryl, and behind him set a grungy backpack with a blade sticking out of the smallest pocket in the front. He glanced back  to you, shivering on the ground, unsure if you were awake or unconscious or simply passed out from the exhaustion of prior events. 

        The sight of you in your disheveled mess was all her needed to kick him into gear. Carefully and hastily, he scooted himself down toward his only chance at redeeming his status as a loyal protector of the weak and vulnerable. Ideally, he'd be able to accomplish this in silence, but he was not in an ideal situation. His circumstances were heavy, laced in sweat and angst. The leaves beneath him rustled as his back slid across the ground, twigs snapping or moving to the side as he made his way closer to the large hunting knife. He'd pause between each scoot, studying the sleeping men around him for any sign of movement or wakefulness. When he'd decide the coast was clear enough, he'd resume. It felt like an eternity, but he made it there. 

        His core muscles strained as he sat himself up. He realized how sore he was. He must have taken a good beating. Seemed fitting, though. He was never one to go down without a fight. He left that sort of weakness in his past.

        He guided his shaky, bound hands over to the bag. He slowly slid the knife out of the front pocket. His heart raged against his ribs. He didn't dare take a single breath until it was secured. 

        Slow. Slowness. Slowly. He repeated every variation of the word in his mind as he positioned the knife between his palms and dragged it back and forth until the rope finally severed. A silent breath of relief escaped him as he ripped the gag from his lips and worked on the rope tied around his ankles. When he was free, he stood and counted the sleeping bodies beneath him. Excluding you, there were four. 

        He considered waking you up and running for the hills, but he couldn't leave any loose ends. No, he thought of it like when your t-shirt has a loose thread. You could leave it to keep unraveling, or you could burn it at  the base and extend the lifetime of your clothes. He decided he needed to burn this string before it could unravel any further.

        Starting with the man closest to him -- the one who so graciously left his knife in plain sight for the archer -- he krept over and crouched down, plunching the blade into the base of his skull. Then, he moved on to the next, and the next one, and the one after that, until they were all a problem of the past. Until that pesky little thread could do no further damage to the rest of the shirt.       

        When the dirty work was behind him, he dropped the knife and rushed over to you. Your wrists were tied like his, but you were tied to the tree so you couldn't run. He eyed you over and gulped. With your pants not fully covering you and your shirt all ripped up, he could see the finger-shaped bruises littering your skin. There was blood on your inner thighs. Your lips were swollen and cut. His blood heated until it hit a boiling point. His hands trembled as they hovered over you. Touching you  felt like a crime, but he had to wake you. He had to get you out of there.

        "(Y/N)." He whispered as he laid a hand on your shoulder. You were shivering in the cool air, but a thin layer of sweat blanketed your exposed flesh. He gave you a gentle shake. "((Y/N), c'mon. We gotta go." He pleaded softly.        

        Your body jerked and you jolted awake. You gave him no chance to explain as you scrambled to your knees and cowered away against the tree. 

        "(Y/N) it's me. It's Daryl." He attempted his most soothing tone of voice. "C'mon, let me get ya cleaned up."        

        He outstretched his arm, offering you his  hand. Without making eye contact you made a move to take it, but you were stopped by the restricting force of the rope that kept you anchored to the tree trunk. He moved quickly for the knife he tossed to the side earlier and returned with it. Without the pressure of remaining silent, he had your hands free in seconds.

        He wasted no time helping you to your feet and averting his gaze as he slid your pants up where they belonged. He found he had a hard time keeping his mind straight and focused as your weeping filled the quiet campsite. 

        "Shh.." He cooed, keeping one hand on your upper back as he ushered you along with him to gather his things and yours. A smart man would have rummaged through the belongings of the ones he killed, too, but he wasn't concerned with making a smart call at that point. He was only worried about you.

        "It's alright. C'mon. Let's get ya somewhere you can rest. It's alright. C'mon." He felt useless as ever, repeating the same generic words of comfort as you limped along beside him. He never urged you to up the pace, he didn't drag you along or have you carry your own bag. He felt like the least he could do was shoulder the weight of survival on behalf of you both. He couldn't get the image out of his mind of ou laying there,caked in blood, sweat, and bruises. A girl like you should have been caked in perfume and makeup. You hair should have been done up nice for a Sunday brunch, not matted with leaves and dirt. Your clothes should have been pristine and well fitting, unlike the filthy torn clothes that were beginning to hang off your frame like tender meat falling from the bone. You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve any of it.

        Eventually he found an acceptable spot that looked like it could have been a den for a hibernating bear. It was a big shrub by a little stream, perfectly indented to give you both enough room to crouch under its foliage. He gently set you down, dropping his bow and your bags beside him. He crouched down in front of you and scanned you, worry written articulately over his features. 

        Your eyes remained glued to the ground. Your nose was upturned in disgust but your eyes told a different story; one of pain and despair and mourning for the person you were before that night. Your frown was deep enough to leave a scar. 

        "(Y/N)..." He breathed. Your eyes slowly found their way to his and welled with tears all over again. Of all things you had -- meaning, being alive and away from those men -- there was nothing you were more grateful for than his blue eyes staring back at you. You hated the way he looked at you with defeat and pity, though. You hated that he had one more thing to worry about. Still, he was there, and he was welcome. "Let's get ya cleaned up, okay?"

        You nodded once, if absentmindedly. Your thoughts were elsewhere. You couldn't pinpoint their location, though. They were scrambled, swarming all around you, like gnats you couldn't swat away.

        He pulled an old shirt from his bag and leaned over to the stream, getting it nice and wet before wringing it out. He turned back to you and brought it up to your cheek, gently dabbing and swiping away at the dirt, grime, sweat, and blood. He moved on to your neck and hands, then he paused. You both looked down at your jeans. You knew it needed to be taken care of, and he did too, but the question was really about which one of you would be brave enough to work on the gruesome scene between your legs.

        One look at your expression and he knew it couldn't be you. But, how could it be him? He couldn't put you in such a vulnerable position. No, not him.

        That's when the lightbulb went off over his head. The stream, of course.

        "Here." He offered you a hand. You took it slowly and he led you to your feet. "Wanna get in the water?" He asked. You stared down at the serene flowing water, trickling just before your feet. He cleared his throat. "I don't gotta look."

        You almost could have laughed. After everything that had happened, Daryl seeing you bathe wasn't really a concern. Still, you had to maintain some shred of dignity, and washing those men off of you was a much needed stride toward leaving that horrid night in your past. So, you nodded, and he turned away to start a fire where you could warm up after rinsing off.

        The button was busted off of your jeans. You guessed they couldn't waste their time with something as simple as undoing a button. You let out a shaky sigh and gritted your teeth. You moved to bend over and slide your jeans down, but a searing pain shot through your insides. You whimpered. "I can't." You barely managed.

        "Huh?" He asked over his shoulder.

        "I can't." You spoke up with a tremble. "I can't get them off. It hurts."

        His throat tightened up. Had they really been so cruel to you?

        "Ya want me to..." He trailed off.

        "Please." You whispered and shut your eyes. He stood beside you and pulled your pants down to your ankles, kneeling down as he did so.

        "Grab my shoulder." He instructed softly. You did. "Left leg." He said. You pulled it out. "Now the right." 

        With your jeans off, he stood up and looked down at your face, which you his from him, avoiding his gaze. 

        "Your -- Uh.." He glanced down at your underwear. You nodded, not needing to see what he meant. He followed the same process with those and turned away as soon as he was done. You cleared your throat. 

        "Can you help me sit?" You whispered. He sucked in a breath. It wasn't that you were annoying him. Anything but that, actually. He was glad to help you in any way you needed. It was the simple fact that you needed the help that was eating him alive. The thought that those guys could hurt you in this way, to this extent, was infuriating and heartbreaking. 

        He turned back to you and hovered behind you, placing a hand under each arm to support you while you lowered yourself down into the water. Once you were sitting on the creek bed, you adjusted yourself and sighed.

        "Just, uh, watch for snakes, okay?" Was all he could say before turning his attention back to the fire finally.

        Your frown deepened as you stared down at your bloodied thighs. A plop beside you startled you before realizing it was just the old shirt he was using to clean you up.

        "Figured ya might need it." He mumbled.

        You gripped the cloth in your hand and stared at it. Blood and filth stained it. Your lip quivered as you ran it over your inner thighs, scrubbing your own dried blood away and watching it disappear in the gentle current. You hissed and winced as you cleaned yourself where you were really injured. 

        When you were done, you peered over your shoulder, where Daryl stared at the small flame. He felt your eyes on him and he looked up at you. 

        "Need some clothes?" He asked.

        "Please." You replied. He nodded once and rummaged through your bag. He could only find a semi-clean shirt, but no more pants. He pulled his own bag forward and searched for the new two-pack of boxers he'd scavenged awhile back. 

        "I, uh, didn't see no more pants, but... You can have those." He said, holding your shirt and the fresh boxers out to you.

        "Thanks." You pressed your lips into a thin attempt at a friendly smile. 

        He turned away again so you could change your shirt, but you needed his help with the boxers, which he did without you needing to ask, and without a single peek at you.

        He helped you back over to the den where you could warm up by the fire. You kept the blanket in your bag, so he made sure to wrap it around your shoulders while you sat.

        "Ain't got no food." He broke the silence after a little while. You nodded.

        "Not hungry anyways." 

        "Mm." He hummed. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

----

        By midday, you were on the move again, trailing right behind him as he stomped slowly over the underbrush so you could keep his pace. He'd stop every now and then, and though he didn't say it, you knew it was because he didn't want to overwork you. 

        By late afternoon, the sun was on the far end of the sky, casting an orange glow over the woods. 

        Daryl had barely been able to look at you, and you couldn't exactly claim any different. You two had taken a break again, sipping water and scanning around for any game or edible plants.

        "I want ya to know.." He cleared his throat, shattering the thick silence that glazed over you both all day. "I want ya to know I didn't see it. None of it."

        "I know you weren't looking." You deadpanned.

        "Nah, not at the stream. I meant -- I didn't see none of it." He clarified. He had a sneaking suspicion the reason you couldn't bare to look at him might have been the possibility of him seeing what had happened to you. He, however, just hated seeing you look so broken, knowing had he been more vigilant yesterday, none of those guys would have been able to sneak up on him. You looked at him finally.

        "I know. They hit you over the head 'cause you were fighting them."

        "Mm." He nodded. "I just... I need to tell ya I'm sorry." His voice cracked as he looked down at his hands and back up to you. His leg was bouncing anxiously and his gums must have bled from how hard he chewed at them.

        "Why?" You pushed your eyebrows together.

        "I shoulda been lookin' out. Shoulda protected ya. Shoulda--"

        "You were. You have been." You cut him off. "You've looked out for me every day since the prison. You've been protecting me since the quarry. You protect everyone. That wasn't your fault." You insisted. He just looked back down at his hands and sniffled, blinking back tears. He scolded himself for being the one to cry, when you were the one who got hurt. "Hey." You pressed on. "Listen to me. You got us out of there. You took care of them. You saved me. Then, you still took care of me. If we were still back there, they would have killed you and robbed you by now. And, if they hadn't killed me yet, I'd be wishing I was dead. I wouldn't be here without you. I would have never survived even before last night without you, and I wouldn't be sitting here telling you that today if it weren't for you."

        He looked you in the eyes as you spoke every word. It was a great relief to him that you weren't angry with him -- that you didn't blame him. Still, he felt so uneasy.

        "Can we camp here?" You asked suddenly. He shrugged.

        "Yeah. We can." He agreed. His voice was still broken.

        "Can I sit with you?" You asked. He looked confused but he still nodded, even if he was unsure what you meant.

        Ignoring the aches all over your body, you crawled over to him and sat in front of him, between his legs, leaning your back against his torso. He was stiff, unused to being so close to someone, but he didn't resist. As you settled in and got comfortable, he rested his arms by your sides.

        "You didn't fail me, Daryl. Nobody makes me feel safer."

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