the flowers cover over everything.

i don't know if this is a permanent goodbye. i hope that it's not, because rping on this site has been a giant part of my life for years and i genuinely want to be here, but at the same time, i can't take care of myself if i am.

if you want to keep up with my writing, i decided that i'll be posting ( mostly daryl-centric / twd-centric ) fanfics on ao3. i'll also be posting on a sideblog here, but it'll just be somewhere to dump my daryl / twd edits and i won't be actively engaged or checking notifs very often.

i sincerely appreciate everyone here and i love the things we've been able to create together. this community is full of wonderful writers and amazing people, and it's been a great privilege to meet and write with y'all. genuinely, thank you for the love you've always given to daryl and i on this blog. i cannot express enough how it truly means the world. ♡

tl;dr: my mental health is significantly better off without this site, so i'm stepping away. i'll still be writing and creating, just not here.

if we're mutuals and you want to keep in contact, please feel free to come find me anywhere listed below if you haven't already!

dscrd ( mutuals only ): glargyldixon edits sideblog: @finaldixon ao3 username: aintashes

A drought was probably the last thing anyone wanted to happen in a post-modern world such as this when resources were already scarce to come by. If the water were to run out, people would be dropping like flies from dehydration. At least when they had droughts back home you were still able to pop into the 7-Eleven and grab an ice-cold bottle of water from the refrigerated section. Out here, there was nothing. You just had to pray for rain if you wanted to quench your thirst. That was miserable.

Though right about now, they both would prefer being dry to being soaking wet the way that they were right now. Nimble fingers peeled her shirt away from her chest only for it to snap right back with a quiet wet smacking noise. There was no way they were getting dry any time soon. Adjusting in her seat, she propped her feet up against the dashboard and propped her elbow up on the door beside her so that her head could lean against her hand, attempting to get comfortable for the long night they were both foreseeing.

an amused snort meets her suggestion. even though he's sure she's joking with him, sarcasm and a smile coloring her tone, daryl thinks that one of the very last things he'd want to do right now is sing— especially something so repetitive and lengthy. his eyes glint with matching mischief, though, as he indulges in her teasing.

‘ y'know one time, when i was a kid, i wanted to try gettin' through that whole song. seein' how long it would take. i barely made it to 95 bottles before merle told me he was gonna knock my damn teeth out if i didn't shut the hell up. ’

it's not a nice story despite his lighthearted delivery, and he knows that. he's not oblivious anymore to the fact that his upbringing was what it was. but with juniper, daryl doesn't feel the need to hold back as much; he knows that he can talk about his childhood and tell her these stories without her judging him or looking at him with some kind of undesired pity.

‘ was prob'ly for the best. i can't sing anyway. ’ he smirks softly with the admission. although he can't deny that most music would be a pretty nice time-killer, the sound of the rain hitting the glass and metal body of the car is a pleasant soundtrack to their current predicament. rumbling thunder booms somewhere above their heads and vibrates his chest. this is the kind of weather daryl enjoys resting in.

"for chrissakes," he mumbles through gritted teeth but RELENTS for now. the bar's stuffed into the inside of his jacket. it's not going anywhere. they don't find something? he's gonna go right back to it. even if he tosses the archer a god damn annoyed as hell side-eye when he tries to poke the already ruffled bear about dean thinking daryl might need someone to take care of him.

a brow lifts. "well. someone's gotta try at least. since you won't do it yourself. and you're not much good to anyone dead. or wonky out of your skull cause you're not eating. we hunt for some small game and we eat. deal?" they'll at least find a damn squirrel or gopher or some shit right? even a snake will do. honestly? he's had daryl's fire-cooked snake before and it wasn't really that bad. neither was the squirrel. when you're hungry? you're hungry. even if dean, just like daryl, had gone hungry plenty of times as a kid just to make sure sam was eating right?

they didn't need their heads clouded to hell and back while they were out here trying to provide for their family back home. cause they aren't providing shit if they're dead. or slow. or both. all things considered. canteen still held against his chest from where it was pushed--he takes another sip and caps it. tucks it away for safe keeping right after, too.

"you make shit fucking impossible being so god damn bullheaded. you know that. right?" there's no maliciousness to his voice. just fact. how they talk to one another, really. dean respects the shit out of daryl. that's not gonna change. in spite of how fucking horribly immovable object meets unstoppable force they are.

with that, he waves for daryl to lead the way.

daryl has always said that he's better on his own. he's always meant it, too. he has nothing but the deepest love for his people, but when it comes to being out here? being in his element and doing what he does best? other people only slow him down. it doesn't matter who it is— it's always the same.

daryl knows that he can't blame them, though: it's nobody's fault that they give a shit about him. that they worry. sometimes it just prevents him from getting done what he needs to get done; or, at the very least, it makes it much more difficult.

he's fine. he doesn't need the damn granola bar, even though dean seems to think he does. hell, daryl will dig some worms out of the ground and eat them before he takes that wrapped up little morsel from someone who needs it, and dean is included in that statement. he can call daryl what he likes— bullheaded, mulish, stubborn as fuck, whatever. so long as he leaves it alone and doesn't try to shove food down his throat.

‘ uh-huh. sounds like someone else i know. ’ sarcasm coats his tone and he gives dean a bit of a side-eye, his trademark glare glinting in his gaze. contrary to what it may look like to someone who doesn't know him as well, he's not angry with his companion. if he were, dean would know. he's moreso annoyed; the kind of annoyance that brushes away easily when afforded a few minutes of space.

Neither of them need to say anything, at least not right then. A silent understanding passed between them. Words weren't always necessary. Daryl saved his life, Aaron returned the favor. It was a give and take, regardless of the circumstances. That was just what they did for each other.

He squeezed Daryl's hand a bit tighter before releasing it.

Aaron's brows draw together in concern at Daryl's voice, rough and raw. ❝Close to a day.❞ Aaron told him.

Aaron's mind reels back to what landed them here in the first place. The Whisperers. The fight that had broken out. He had been so hell-bent on taking them down, perhaps been more reckless than he should've. He thought about the others, what he had seen of the fight and the aftermath.

He remembered the others trickling in with a few injuries, but nothing as bad as Daryl's. He had talked with Siddiq and Gabriel briefly upon his return to the infirmary, and they hadn't lost anyone. The fight with The Whisperers wasn't over, but for the moment, things were quiet. He nodded. ❝Everyone's okay.❞

Aaron finally tore his gaze away from Daryl, from watching for signs of distress. ❝Hang on, let me get you some water.❞ He rose from the chair to pour a glass of water from the pitcher across the room.

He stifled a yawn, the exhaustion from the last twenty-four hours catching up with him. Still, he returned to Daryl's bedside with the water. Nurturing instincts easily took over as he gently urged Daryl to tilt his head up to take a drink, and held the glass for him.

a whole day. losing time like that is hardly ever harmless in their current situation. his responsibilities are many as it is, but with the whisperers lurking around every dark corner, daryl is well aware of the fact that he can't afford losing mere hours, much less an entire day.

it's only made worse by the fact that he's going to need to recover now— a couple of days, minimum ( and he's sure that if aaron himself doesn't find a way to keep daryl resting firmly in this bed, he'll find someone else who will ). any moment longer than what he's already spent here feels like a moment too long; what if the whisperers take this as an opportunity to strike again while some of them may be down? what if this is the beginning of something much bigger?

before his mind can spiral too much in that direction, aaron offers him a nugget of hope: everyone's okay. it's the absolute best thing that he could have hoped to hear, short of the whisperers miraculously disappearing into thin air. an invisible weight rises from daryl's shoulders. someone like aaron, who has known him for this long, may even be able to see the slight difference in his posture.

more focused and awake at this point, daryl watches his companion stroll across the room to fetch water. aaron looks tired. although, he imagines that everyone probably does after dealing with all of this. with walkers innumerable on their side, the whisperers are a constant antagonistic force; one that has been a vicious drain on both the resources and morale of the coalition's people for a long time.

unfortunately, it's quite lucky that many of them are just tired. some of their people can't say as much. it seems that daryl was almost one of them.

‘ thanks, ’ he says softly as the glass is brought over to him, carefully adjusting his position in preparation. he's about to reach out and take the water, but aaron has other plans, bringing the cup right to his lips with a wordless direction to drink from it. bright blue eyes linger on his companion's face for a moment before he allows it, gulping several slow mouthfuls down and pulling back gently once he's had his fill. he rests back against his pillows and clears his throat, voice almost back to its normal deep register with the water's help.

                                 "I USUALLY ALWAYS WATCH WHERE I'M GOING because human bones break easily during a fall," he disagrees. And this brittle skeleton is, unfortunately, no longer protected and hardened by divine power. It's annoying as Hell to take care of a vessel like that, to nurture and feed it and ensure it stays warm and dry. Sometimes, Castiel deliberately forgets everything as if he wants to give Heaven and his dwindling grace the finger. Then Dean finds him nauseated and with trembling knees somewhere in a corner of the camp and has to force water and some food into him. Castiel never thanks him for it, and Dean never complains. They both know that an angel robbed of his divinity is no bed of roses sometimes. 

                                  Anyway, today, Castiel is in an exceptionally good mood, and the stranger thus gets a second smile. "But I saw a rare specimen of Epeoloides pilosulus and that distracted me pretty well." He looks back to the blueberry bushes, but the bee is gone, probably startled by the whole zombie business. What a bummer. But Castiel sees two more porcini, so he's not too crestfallen. Crouching down to cut them, he puts them to the other mushrooms in his basket. 

some kind of scientist. an environmentalist, maybe. that's what this guy has to have been before the outbreak. at the very least, it would explain his... peculiar way of speech and his seemingly deep knowledge of the nature around them. daryl doesn't know what an epeo-something pilo-whatever is, but most people who don't work in that kind of field don't just know things like that.

that being said, eugene is a perfect example of someone who did just that, a glaring exception to the rule: learned a hell of a lot of things about a hell of a lot of different subjects despite not working in any applicable field and used all of it to his advantage once the world ended. castiel actually reminds daryl a lot of eugene in a way. admittedly, though, he is much easier to understand— for as useful as eugene can be, he's insufferably verbose to the point where daryl sometimes just wants to punch him for it.

the way that castiel scrutinizes him, seeming to look him up and down, is met with daryl's own intense stare. the camp he speaks of doesn't ring a bell. for all he knows it might not even be real— the fact that he's so inviting about it, too, leaves a bitter taste on daryl's tongue.

seth    had    attacked    roman    first.    then    him.    over    and    over    and    over    again⸺    until    the    world    turned    blurry    and    eventually    dark.    fuck,    neither    of    them    had    a    chance.    both    of    them    defenseless    when    it    happened,    when    seth    rollins    decided    ;    man,    today    is    the    day.    great    day    to    betray    his    brothers.    his    family.    a    tragedy    not    over,    not    as    long    as    he’s    still    alive.    whatever    that    may    be    worth.    

moxley    turns    his    head    just    enough    so    baby    blue    eyes    can    look    up    the    other    guy.    didn’t    recognize    him.    as    unfamiliar    as    this    place.    distrustful,    broken    ability    to    accept    kindness    …    of    any    sort    really.    “    mox.    “    dirty    blond    mumbles.    “    the    fuck    am    i    at    ?    sounds    like    a    bunch    of    people    out    there.    “    

daryl wouldn't blame him if he were skeptical. the sanctuary is nothing but a rundown warehouse, after all; it's not exactly the most inviting place to wake up in. not like the townhomes of alexandria, or the cozy brick halls of the kingdom— hell, even the looming mansion of the hilltop is more welcoming than this dump.

but for as survival-hardened as he looks, mox is being surprisingly cooperative. maybe it's because they successfully fixed him up, or maybe it's because he knows he's probably outnumbered. either way, daryl will answer his questions... in his way.

‘ a community, ’ he says plainly. just because he'll give an answer doesn't mean he'll be forthcoming with all of the extra little details. there's caution to be had at all times— mox could be a part of a community himself. the last thing the coalition needs is another negan to battle.

‘ i found you out there bleedin' out. brought you back here t'see if we could save your life. ’ daryl gestures to mox's clean white bandages, wrapped thick and tight around his body to cover his wounds. his recovery will take time. resources they don't have. it won't come at any cost to mox, but daryl will kick himself if it ends up that none of it was worth it.

he can't handle spending his kindness and his peoples' lives on someone like dwight again.

daryl  hasn't  been  with  them  too  long,  but  she  enjoys  his  company  greatly,  thinks  he  brings  something  much  needed  to  the  dynamic  she  and  sam  have.  usually,  she  would  be  far  warier  of  strangers,  especially  men,  but  daryl...  well,  he's  just  daryl.  he  reminds  her  of  home,  in  a  way.  she  knows  she  can  trust  him,  the  same  way  she  knows  the  grass  is  green  and  the  sky  blue,  it's  just  a  fact  of  life.

'  i'm  sorry,  darry.  i  promise  i  won't  use  your  giant  head  for  target  practice  in  future.  '  she  quips  in  return,  holding  out  her  hands.

giant head? sheesh. it's like having a sibling all over again. what's the use in losing the one he had if he's just going to have to deal with the same kind of shit coming out of someone else's mouth?

okay, he knows that's facetious. odie is obviously nothing like merle— not a single speck of similarity between them. not even sam resembles daryl's brother in any way, shape, or form. but the way she talks to him does feel like having another sibling much of the time. a smaller, younger, nicer-but-still-kind-of-an-asshole sibling.

THAT PERPLEXED, MAYBE EVEN JUDGMENTAL SQUINT? Noticed. Granted, Crowley hasn't heard anyone refer to this undead lot as zombies by now but kind of imagined it's not that foreign of a concept. At least Daryl's grumpiness gets a new nuance to it, now. Maybe that's the first step to a tale shared by soon-to-be besties! The retort betiding what quiet he's left between them prior, however, conjures a short huffed laugh. Ere Crowley shoots Daryl a look that more than obviously reads 'Are you kidding?' — he half-pivots on his heel to face the man with the untamed mane. Still with that expression across his face.

" I may look like an angel, but I didn't actually fall from the sky. " Brows upturned, he gestures along his own frame using both hands in an effort to direct attention to his attire; which definitely wasn't worn for weeks or months spent at an undead open-air party. " It was a tear in reality. A gate. Sounds insane, I know. But it's true, a way out. " Arms opening in a slow shrug does the demon finally avert his eyes from Daryl to vaguely point around. " Between us girls, what do you have to lose? "

barely a glance is afforded to what seems to be crowley's signature getup. anyone who wears a suit nowadays is already quite the chump in daryl's mind, but this guy takes the cake when it comes to unnecessary flourish— both physically and verbally. the more crowley talks, the closer daryl gets to the end of the thin line of his patience.

daryl's feelings surrounding negan's presence in alexandria's cell are complicated, to say the least. all he wanted for months was to see negan dead, and the people who believed in his preachings dead with him. but the day it was all supposed to end, rick and michonne made a different choice for everyone; one that's been impossible for daryl to truly accept and that's driven him to stay away as much as possible. he's tried to air his concerns to rick, but it's all been to no avail. negan remains, uncomfortable but alive, able to watch the world pass by through metal bars.

daryl doesn't believe in letting people like him rot. the only true way to end the whole thing, to end the influence he has, is to end the man himself.

but that doesn't mean that daryl is on crowley's side here. as much as a neganless ride would make him happy, he's no fool— he's not about to strike some kind of deal with a man who makes his skin crawl just as much as negan does.

more importantly, what's that he said about a tear in reality?... probably just more utter nonsense.