#rough hands

tw: panic attack

The panic started in your chest. Everything was too much, too loud, too close, too big. It was too much for someone so small, so helpless. You focused hard on Rafe’s words, trying to say the exact right thing. He was lying. You’d chosen your outfit because you thought it was cute. You hadn’t worn it for him. But he didn’t want the truth from you. Think. You didn’t know the right thing to say. You never knew the right thing to say. Everything started to tangle in your head. 

You were failing him. Something bad was looming, something you could not prevent if you were completely alone in this world. If you lost Rafe, you’d be alone. 

“Baby, it’s okay-”

It absolutely wasn’t. Realizing you might not be enough for him was crushing. You shook your head violently, no air in your lungs. You heard yourself whimpering but your mind was already far away. 

Distantly, you were aware of Rafe’s coaxing, of his hands wrapping around you. Strong arms enveloped you and you were able to take in a small breath. He was solid, unyielding, able to take anything he wanted to you, and yet you were clinging to him. 

“Jesus …I’m sorry, baby.”

Pressing your forehead against his chest, your fingers fisted into his shirt, you gasped for air. No way out, no one can help, not even Rafe. Help me, please.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Rating: Mature (Heavy Tension, Grinding)

Summary: The adrenaline from the run hasn't worn off yet.

​The door to the cell hasn’t even clicked shut before he’s crowding you, a wall of heat and leather and the scent of pine that somehow clings to him even when everything else smells like rot. Usually, Daryl is careful. Usually, he treats you like you’re made of glass.

​Not tonight.

​Tonight, the adrenaline is still humming under his skin, a vibration you can feel when he presses his body flush against yours. His hands are rough—calloused maps of every arrow he’s nocked and every engine he’s fixed—and when they slide up your waist to grip your hips, the friction sends a shockwave straight to your core.

​He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. He just ducks his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his stubble scraping sensitive skin, hot breath making you shiver. He nudges your legs apart with a heavy thigh, pressing upward, a steady, maddening pressure that makes your breath hitch in your throat.

​"Daryl," you gasp, your hands tangling in his greasy hair, pulling him closer if that’s even possible.

​He growls, a low vibration in his chest that rattles through you. His grip on your hips tightens, bruising and possessive, anchoring you to him like you’re the only solid thing left in the world. He grinds against you, slow and deliberate, watching your eyes roll back, watching you come undone for him.

​"Gotcha," he murmurs against your jaw, his voice rough with need. "I gotcha."