Masterlist!

(updated Oct 2024) I DON’T MAINTAIN TAGLISTS! SORRY, LOVES! All content here is Daryl, with exception of the Wicked Wednesday feature for Negan. Follow and turn notifications for the blog on if you want to make sure you don’t miss anything! :) IMPORTANT NOTE: Although I do not own the characters or specific events depicted in The Walking Dead, this blog contains transformative fan fiction protected under the Fair Use Act and I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION for it to be copied and pasted, posted on other platforms or accounts, shared through videos or audio or screenshots, etc. without the express written permission of myself. Sharing can be done with the ‘reblog’ button or sharing a direct link to my original work ONLY. Please ask permission to use any of my work as “inspiration” for your own fictional creations. I retain the right to refuse any requests and retain all rights to the work here under copyright 2025.  Requests are OPEN! Send them to my Ask box! Not all requests will be fulfilled. Commissions are OPEN! DM me for details to commission a fic. Price list here. You can also support me by buying me a coffee (or the dogs some kibble!)

Weiterlesen

good idea — sirius black

Trying to get over your feelings for Sirius, you decide to bring a date to Professor Slughorn's Christmas party this year. But Sirius seems oddly angry about it… friends to lovers, jealous!sirius ♥

"You're bringing him? As a date?" 

To be honest, Sirius doesn't know why he's so irritated by this. Every year he gets invited, and every year he doesn't go to Slughorn's Christmas party because, frankly, it sounds boring as hell—a bunch of stuffed shirts bragging about themselves while stuffing their faces with party food—but now…now all of a sudden, he's feeling downright offended that you'd bring a date and not him.

It's stupid. But that doesn't change the fact that he's furious about it.

You look at him uncertainly, a little frown pulling your eyebrows together. Sirius kind of wants to smooth it out with his thumb, but that's probably not a good idea.

"Um...yeah?" you say, and your voice tilts up at the end like it's a question, and Sirius doesn't know if you're asking him or yourself, but he does not like it. "I mean, Slughorn said we could bring a plus-one, so... I'm bringing Ollie."

"Ollie," he repeats, derision dripping from the word like the name itself is rotten. Then, because he's bitter and a bit of an asshole, he adds, in the most disparaging tone he can muster, "Seriously? Ollie? The guy who once nearly exploded a classroom because he couldn't transfigure a knife and fork properly?"

Sirius didn't think your frown could get any deeper, but apparently it can, and now he feels kind of bad for putting it there. 

But then you scowl and cross your arms, and your lovely blue dress tugs at your lovely hips, which draws his eyes to your thighs and forces him to look away and think about Quidditch and essays on different varieties of unicorn blood and exploding potions.

"He wasn't going to explode anything," you snap. "The cauldron had a hairline crack. All he did was—you know what, I gotta go!"

You brush past him, and Sirius smells that delicious, honeyed fragrance you always wear, and he just…he just…

His hand snaps out and grabs your arm.

You stop, glancing back at him, and Sirius would normally never manhandle you like this, but now that he's doing it, he doesn't want to let go. You look so angry, though; your chest heaving with your quick breaths, your skin warm under his fingers, soft and plush.

But you've obviously had enough of whatever this is, because you raise your eyebrows and say flatly, "Let me go."

It feels like his hand doesn't want to obey him. "Sorry," he mutters, and it's sincere, but he doesn't release you. "I'm sorry. Just...what's so great about Ollie?"

"I like him."

"No you don't."

"What?"

Sirius blinks, trying to figure out what's coming out of his mouth. He just...he doesn't like this. The mere idea of you going out with Ollie makes his skin crawl. Not because he likes you or anything, no. You're pretty, yeah. And funny, and smart, and when he first met you, being your friend was the last thing on his mind, sure, but then he got to know you, and—fine. Maybe he does like you a little bit more than he probably should.

But you're way too good for him. You're certainly way too good for Ollie. 

"Ollie sucks," Sirius says. It's not an eloquent statement, but it's a true one. "He's boring. He's an asshole. You're..."

His words trail off as he stares at you. His eyes fall to your lips, lipstick-red and soft-looking and parted in surprise, and they're just right there, and maybe he could just…just once…

"I'm what?"

He kisses you. He can't help himself.

Sirius has kissed a lot of girls, but this...this is different.

One hand is still holding your arm, but the other comes up to touch your cheek, trace your jaw, skim down the side of your neck, feeling the way your pulse is pounding beneath your skin and under his fingertips as his mouth moves over yours. Your lips are soft, the little noise you make in the back of your throat even softer, and he wants to hear it again.

And again. And again.

Sirius breaks the kiss first.

You stare at him. Pupils blown wide. Lips red and glistening. "You kissed me."

Sirius brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.

"I did."

"You...did?" Now you're sounding breathless. Like you can't quite catch your breath.

"I did." Sirius moves in closer, crowding you against the wall yet not quite touching you. "You didn't stop me."

For a moment, your gaze drops to his lips, and Sirius feels a surge of triumph. "What—what was that for?"

His fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head back. You smell like flowers. Like honey. Like something he wants to devour.

"Don't go to the party with Ollie."

It was, apparently, not the right thing to say.

You duck under his arm, and Sirius is so surprised, he doesn't manage to stop you from escaping.

"Don't kiss me just because you want to sabotage my date," you say, and boy, you sound angry. "Especially don't kiss me and then not tell me why."

"I wanted to kiss you."

"That's your excuse?"

"Is it not a good one?" 

Sirius is feeling slightly out of his depth here. He thought the kiss would be pretty self-explanatory. But apparently not. This hallway, with its tapestries and old portraits and suits of armor and half-dressed witches, is beginning to feel stifling.

He tries a different tactic. "I think about kissing you a lot."

"Stop."

"It's true."

If looks could kill, Sirius would be ashes on the ground right now.

"The first time I thought about it was after Potions," he says, pressing his advantage. You're listening, at least. And you haven't turned to leave yet. That has to mean something. "When you spilled that solution all over yourself and started laughing about it. You have the best laugh."

"Seriously—"

He steps closer. "And your mouth...fuck, it drives me crazy."

"Don't—"

He backs you up against the wall again. Now, he's touching you, one hand on your waist, feeling the way your body curves so nicely beneath his palm, the other splayed on the wall next to your head.

"Take Ollie to the party," he says. "See if I care. But you're going to spend the whole time thinking about this."

He leans in close, then pauses, mouth inches from yours, your breath mingling together. He feels you swallow, watches the way your pupils dilate.

Then, before he can change his mind, he dips his head and kisses you again. 

Harder this time. 

Less tentative. 

He wants to remember this kiss.

"Was that a good excuse?" he whispers when he pulls away.

Your mouth works soundlessly for a moment, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. Sirius wants to hear you say something, but the words aren't coming, so he tilts your chin up with his thumb and leans in.

"Are you thinking about it now?"

Your lips part, soft and silken, and you exhale a small puff of breath. "I hate you."

"You don't hate me," he says, his mouth still almost touching yours. You taste like honeyed tea. Like a cozy summer afternoon spent lounging on the grass. He could live in this feeling forever. He could die in it. "You're thinking about me. You're thinking about this. My hand on your waist."

He squeezes, digging his fingers into the flesh of your hip.

"My lips on your neck."

He kisses the skin under your ear, then drags his mouth down the side of your neck until he reaches the curve where your shoulder begins. 

You make a soft sound; a moan, a sigh. Sirius can't really tell. But, fuck, does he want to hear it again.

He pulls away and waits for you to look at him, to really look at him. Your eyes are so lovely. And your face...he wants to memorize it.

"Don't take Ollie to the party." Sirius slides his hand down your arm until his fingers lace with yours. "Take me."

Well...it certainly feels like a good idea.

『 roaring through time 』

꧁ paring: (dean winchester x fem!reader)

꧁ summary: trapped in the 1920s with no clear way home, dean and the reader find themselves tangled in a world of smoky speakeasies, dangerous secrets, and shifting timelines. but as the past pulls them in, so does something else—something neither of them is ready to face. time is slipping through their fingers, and if they’re not careful, they might lose more than just their way back.

꧁ warnings: eventual smut, jealous!dean, jealous!reader, slow burn!, cussing, men in the 1920s, smoking, drinking, gore, violence, idiots in love, best friends to lovers, prohibition, protective!dean, protective!reader, I will add more as I write.

꧁ word count: 32.3k

『 chapter index 』

꧁ chapter one

꧁ chapter two

꧁ chapter three

꧁ chapter four

꧁ chapter five ❤︎ smut

꧁ chapter six new!

This series will contain smut. I will put a warning when it comes time but I am not responsible for your reading consumption. (mdni) Minors do not interact with the chapter that contains smut.

『 sneak peak 』

The bunker was suddenly gone. You were standing in the middle of a street bustling with old-fashioned cars, the scent of cigarette smoke and perfume thick in the air.

Dean had grabbed your arm immediately, his grip tight as his body tensed like he was expecting a fight. “Tell me you’re seein’ what I’m seein’,” he muttered, his voice tight.

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. The people around you were dressed like they’d walked straight out of The Great Gatsby. Men in suits and fedoras, women in beaded dresses, their lips painted a deep red. A streetcar rattled past, kicking up dust, and a newspaper boy hollered from the corner, “Extra, extra! Read all about it—Prohibition raids downtown!”

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh, hell no,” Dean muttered.

You turned to him, your own panic reflected in his wide green eyes. “Dean… I think we just got zapped into the 1920s.”

Dean let out a sharp breath, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’ve gotta be freakin’ kidding me.”

author’s note: well, here’s another series I’m starting up! this was supposed to be a oneshot but then the ideas kept coming and coming until my oneshot had 16k words…yeah…ANYWAYS… get ready for speakeasy’s, dean in 1920s attire, and lots of tension!

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

my works

© maddie0101 do not copy or repost my works without my permission

Rightfully deceived

Series Masterlist

Summary: When a marriage promise forces Y/N to step up for her younger sister, she gets something she always wanted. But when the truth comes out, her new husband Dean is not so happy about the mix-up. Will she loose it all? Or will she be surprised in the end?

Pairing: AU!Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: arranged marriage, lying, abbondanment, forced proximity, jealousy, fluff, smut and a couple of other things.

A/N: Hello! 😊 On to the next one. I do have to say that "Outlander" and some of my fav books influenced me here. We'll be going to scotland in the 1800's somewhere. I actually had a similar dream and I could not get it out of my head. So, I hope you like it too.

My Masterlist

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Epilogue

Series complete!

Mobile Masterlist

Dean x Reader Series

Drunk Last Night: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 (conclusion)

There and Back Again (AU w/ resurrected John Winchester): Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 coming eventually

The Arrangement (rich!Dean AU): Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 (the gala) - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 (conclusion) - Epilogue - Epilogue 2

Hold On, I’m Coming (Firefighter!Dean AU): Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 (Conclusion) Sequel: Part 1 - Part 2

Dust (Modern Cowboy!Dean AU): Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 (conclusion) - Epilogue

Dean x Reader One-Shots & Drabbles

Sleep Without You  

Mistaken Identity

Weiterlesen

The Arrangement Masterlist

Summary: in an AU where the Winchester family owns a multi-million dollar company, Dean’s in a bit of a pinch. Grandpa Samuel is threatening to cut him off if he doesn’t straighten out and stop getting into trouble. Instead of taking some responsibility, Dean comes up with an ingenious plan: find someone to pretend to be his girlfriend. You and Dean have never gotten along, but a fake relationship seems to be beneficial to you both… 

Part 1

Part 2 -  Sam disapproves of your little arrangement, and you and Dean have you ‘first date’

Part 3 -  Dean reflects on your first date, and makes plans. The second date goes a little better, and Dean finds out how good your acting skills really are.

Part 4 -  You spend the night at Dean’s place

Part 5 -  Dean struggles to deal with the rest of the morning, and then gets an unexpected call. The two of you go on a double date with Sam and Jess.

Part 6 -   Jess informs you about Dean’s past, and Sam teases Dean. After dinner, Dean brings you home to find someone unexpected waiting for you, and helps you deal with it.

Part 7 -  Dean meets your mother, and you go dress shopping with Jess.

Part 8 -  You and Dean head out to his hometown, where you finally get to meet Mary and John. The sleeping situation causes some minor problems.

Part 9 -  You and Dean have an interesting morning, but Sam interrupts. Later, you and Mary have a little heart to heart, and Dean says something surprising.

Part 10 - The gala finally arrives, and Dean is absolutely floored by your dress. An interaction with Samuel leaves Dean fuming, but you calm him down. Dean finally admits his feelings.

Part 11 -  Dean reflects on the evening, and the two of you have a talk

Part 12 - someone delivers some unexpected and unpleasant news, sending you running. Sam and Benny confront Dean, and the three of them go looking for you.  

Part 13 -  you head to the only safe place you can think of. A talk with your father gives you the courage to return to work, where Dean finds you immediately. But he’s not expecting your reaction. Charlie and Cas come to the rescue. 

Part 14 -  Dean tries to cope with your breakup, and then gets a surprise visit from Crowley. Your friends take you out to try and cheer you up, but eventually you head home alone, only to find someone waiting for you.

Part 15 -  You have an encounter with Mark, and Dean shows up just in time. The next morning, the two of you talk things out. Sam arrives with some news.

Part 16 (conclusion) -  Dean responds to Sam’s news. The two of you pay a visit to Samuel, who lashes out. Secrets are revealed and threats are made, leaving you reeling. You and Dean discuss the future.

Epilogue - A few months after the events of part 16. Sam and Jess’s wedding, a housewarming party, and revealing conversations.

Epiloge Part 2 - The Fourth of July finds you and the Winchester clan at the lake to celebrate the holiday. Jess shares some news and Dean surprises you with an important question.

this is home

Jensen Ackles x Actress!Reader / Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader <platonic>

not saying anything about anyone. this idea materialized and went with it.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Jensen had barely stepped into the terminal before the chaos began.

Flashes. Voices. Pens. Phones.

“Jensen! Over here!”

“Jensen! Just one shot, man!”

“Can you sign this, Jensen?”

He gave his trademark half-grin, the one that made crowds light up, and started signing with an ease that only came from years of practice. Photos, posters, a few weird objects. He didn't ask questions. Just kept it moving, just like always.

TMZ was in the mix, too, and so were a few of those guys with binders full of photos they’d resell online. Jensen didn’t love it, but he handled them the same way he handled everything else in public — smooth and unbothered. Or at least, looking that way.

“Where’s Y/N today?” someone called.

He didn’t look up, just said, “She’s across the country shooting right now.”

“Oh, that’s with Pedro Pascal, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jensen chuckled as he handed back a marker. “Lucky bastard gets to hang with her all day.”

Laughter rippled around him. He leaned into the joke, let it deflect any of the sting. He was cool with Pedro. Friendly, even. It wasn’t weird.

Mostly.

Then someone from the crowd — guy with a beard, phone out — pushed closer.

“Hey Jensen, you seen the new photos from set?”

Still signing, Jensen blinked. “What photos?”

The guy turned his phone around.

Three photos.

The first: you and Pedro laughing with the director, looking like a couple of kids in the best kind of trouble.

The second: Pedro saying something that had you smiling so wide Jensen could practically hear the laugh that went with it.

The third one hit a little lower. You, tucked under Pedro’s arm, head resting comfortably on his shoulder, the two of you watching something off-screen like you’d done it a hundred times before. Like it was natural. Like it belonged.

Jensen’s jaw ticked.

Barely.

He gave the phone back.

The guy raised an eyebrow. “What’s up with that, man?”

“Uh, nothing, man.” Jensen shrugged, light as air. “That’s common on set when two lead actors are playing each other’s love interest and they’re close friends like they are.”

Another signature. Another fake smile.

“You just have fun with it all and enjoy the ride. I know how much she likes working with the guy and how much fun she’s having on set. And that’s important, you know? Because other than the director, they’re the leaders on set — they set the tone for the rest of the cast and crew.”

He was answering without thinking now, defaulting to PR mode as the weight of the third photo stuck with him. How natural it looked. How comfortable you were in Pedro’s arms. How Jensen had never seen that particular smile when you were with him.

He wrapped things up quickly after that, making excuses about catching his flight, shaking hands, thanking the fans. Cool. Calm. Collected.

He stayed that way all the way to the gate.

All the way to his seat in first class.

All the way until the plane door sealed shut and he finally exhaled, jaw unclenching as he pulled out his phone.

He typed, erased, typed again.

Finally, he sent the message:

Need you to call me ASAP. Saw the new set pics.

He stared out the window.

Trying — and failing — not to replay the way your head rested on Pedro’s shoulder like it had every right to be there.

You were sitting in your trailer with your makeup half-done and your feet kicked up on the little sofa when your phone buzzed.

Jensen 💚: Need you to call me ASAP. Saw the new set pics.

Your stomach dropped.

You stared at the message for a second too long, rereading it like the words might change if you blinked hard enough.

You pulled up Instagram. Nothing on your feed yet. No tags. Then you checked Twitter — and there it was. A trending post. Your name. Pedro's. Someone had zoomed in on a few candid shots from set.

First one: You and Pedro laughing your asses off as the director waved her hands around. You remembered that moment — she’d made a joke about Pedro's "hero stance" being too dramatic, and Pedro had played it up even more. You’d doubled over laughing.

Second one: Pedro standing in front of you, making faces while the hair stylist adjusted your wig. You were grinning, wide and unfiltered.

Third one: …oh.

Oh.

You were leaning into him. Your head on his shoulder, his arms loose around you, like it was the most normal thing in the world. You looked calm. At peace. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

You swallowed hard.

Because yeah, it was normal on set. You’d spent weeks rehearsing together, shooting long days, figuring out the chemistry of your characters. You and Pedro got along — scarily well. He made you laugh when you needed it, offered you his coat between takes, always remembered to bring your favorite snack from the craft table.

But that photo. It didn’t look like friends. Not in the context of a trending topic. Not in the context of—

You clicked back to your messages.

No follow-up text.

You dialed him immediately, chewing at your thumbnail as it rang.

Once. Twice. Voicemail.

You hung up and called again.

No answer.

You hated this feeling — this wedge that had dropped between you from one image, one that wasn’t even about anything. But to him… it probably looked like something else. Something intimate.

Your trailer door creaked open and Pedro popped his head in. “Hey, we’re being called back in like, five—”

You must’ve looked pale or something, because he stopped short. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… give me a minute?”

He hesitated. “Alright.” He lingered. “If this is about the photo stuff—”

You looked up sharply.

Pedro sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Someone showed me on set. I didn’t think it’d blow up like this. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” you said quietly.

He gave you a small smile. “If he saw that third one, I get it. He’s probably just—y’know. Human.”

You nodded. “Yeah. He is.”

Pedro gave you one last look before closing the door behind him.

You stared at your phone again. The silence from Jensen felt louder than anything else.

You hated that one still frame — one unintentional, unguarded moment — could undo so much. Or make someone you love doubt what’s real.

You tried calling again.

Voicemail.

This time, you left one.

“Hey, babe. I just saw the photos. I know how that last one must’ve looked, and I’m sorry if it hurt you. It wasn’t anything, I swear. Pedro and I were waiting to shoot a scene, and I was freezing — I didn’t even realize someone took a picture. I should’ve texted you more from set, I know things have been hectic. But please don’t think for one second that you have anything to worry about. Okay? You’re it for me.”

You hesitated before hanging up.

Then, softer: “I miss you.”

Jensen had just leveled out in the air when he finally put his headphones in.

He didn’t open a movie. Didn’t scroll through music.

He played your voicemail.

It was quiet at first — your voice hushed, gentle. He closed his eyes.

“Hey, babe. I just saw the photos. I know how that last one must’ve looked, and I’m sorry if it hurt you…”

His jaw clenched. It didn’t hurt. I’m fine, he told himself, which was the first lie of the day.

It had hurt. Not in a full-on betrayal way — he trusted you. Of course he did. But that photo had snagged something in his chest and refused to let go. The way you looked with Pedro... relaxed, safe, like he was your home.

It was his shoulder you were supposed to lean on like that. Not someone else's.

“Pedro and I were waiting to shoot a scene, and I was freezing — I didn’t even realize someone took a picture…”

He knew. He knew. He’d been in this industry long enough to recognize what was real and what was camera bait. But still — your head on Pedro’s shoulder, his arms around you — it was too real-looking. It felt like something private, even if it wasn’t.

“I should’ve texted you more from set…”

Yeah, maybe. But he hadn’t exactly been blowing up your phone either. You’d both been busy, missing each other in that quiet, painful way people do when life gets loud.

“Please don’t think for one second that you have anything to worry about. Okay? You’re it for me.”

His throat tightened.

God, he missed you. Missed your laugh, your late-night ramblings, the way your hand always found his knee when you were curled up next to him. Missed your presence, like something about the world clicked into place when you were near.

“I miss you.”

He pulled out one earbud, let the quiet hum of the plane fill the silence. His eyes stayed on the seat in front of him, unfocused. He didn’t replay the message again — didn’t need to. Your voice was already echoing in his head.

He tapped out a reply before he could overthink it:

I miss you too. Let’s talk when I land, okay? We’ll talk.

He picked up the call on the first ring.

“Hey,” your voice came through, soft but steady.

“Hey,” he said back, eyes shut as he leaned against the seat. His voice was lower than usual, gravelly from holding too much in.

“I didn't want to wait.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

A pause.

“You okay?” you asked.

He let out a quiet breath, one hand scrubbing down his face. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t. But I’m better now.”

“That photo—”

“I know,” he cut in gently. “I know it’s nothing. I know how sets work. Hell, I’ve probably looked that cozy with co-stars more times than I can count.”

“Still… I hate that you saw it that way.”

“I didn’t want to,” he admitted, voice raw around the edges. “Didn’t want to feel that flash of… I don’t even know what it was. Just hit me out of nowhere.”

“It was cold. Pedro offered his jacket. I leaned. That was it.”

Jensen gave a humorless huff. “Pedro’s a good guy. I know that. I like him.”

“I know you do.”

“But seeing you in his arms like that—” he stopped, forcing his words to even out. “It looked like I’d been replaced.”

“You haven’t been,” you said, firm now. “Not even close.”

He stayed quiet, letting the weight of that truth settle between you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t check in more,” you continued. “We’ve both been running non-stop. And I know how much that messes with things.”

“I should’ve called too,” he said. “Should’ve made time. We’re both guilty.”

“You didn’t ask for pictures like that to be taken.”

“You didn’t ask to go viral for existing on a film set.”

That made you laugh — just a little — and he felt something in his chest loosen.

“I meant what I said in the voicemail,” you added. “You’re it for me, Jensen. Okay? Even when it’s cold. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m a thousand miles away.”

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

“I needed to hear that,” he said quietly. “Because when I saw that photo… I didn’t feel like ‘it.’ I felt like the guy who got left behind.”

“You didn’t. You won’t be.”

He leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees, voice almost a whisper now. “Can we be better about this? You and me. Even when it’s crazy. Even when the press starts making shit up. Just… keep each other close?”

“I want that,” you said instantly. “I want us solid, no matter where we are.”

“Okay,” he said. Then softer: “Then we’ll do it.”

Another pause. A gentler one this time.

“Are you headed to the hotel?” you asked.

“Yeah. I’ll call you when I get there. Maybe FaceTime. I wanna see your face.”

“You’re not gonna make me show you I’m not cuddled up to Pedro again, are you?” you teased lightly.

He chuckled, finally — a real one. “Nah. But I’ll make you prove you still smile bigger when you see me.”

“You better believe I do.”

He leaned back in his seat again, a quiet smile on his lips as the overhead chime announced arrival.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” you answered.

This time, it didn’t just feel like words.

It felt like coming home.

The hotel room was dim, lit mostly by the warm amber glow of the bedside lamp. Jensen tossed his duffel on the floor, kicked off his boots, and let out a groan as he flopped back onto the mattress.

He didn’t even bother with the TV. All he wanted to do was see your face.

He hit FaceTime, thumb hovering for just a second before he pressed “Call.”

It rang once. Twice.

Then you answered.

“Hi,” you said, appearing on his screen, wrapped in a hoodie — his hoodie, he realized — hair pulled back, eyes tired but warm.

He exhaled, a sound like something uncoiling inside him.

“There you are,” he murmured.

You smiled. A real one this time. “Here I am.”

He angled the phone so you could see him too, stretched out on the bed, shirt wrinkled from travel, hair a little messy from the flight.

“You look good,” you said quietly.

He huffed a small laugh. “I look like I just went twelve rounds with airport security.”

“Still,” you said. “You look like home.”

That did something to him. His chest ached in that gentle way it always did when you cut straight through his walls without even trying.

“I hated that we fought without actually fighting,” you said, voice softer now.

“We didn’t fight,” he replied. “We… stumbled.”

You nodded. “Well. Let’s not do that again.”

“Agreed.”

You were quiet for a moment, studying him through the screen like you were trying to memorize every detail. He could see the exhaustion in your eyes — long day, long week, maybe just missing him more than you’d let yourself admit until now.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”

“I am now.”

He swallowed. “I know that photo caught me off guard. But I trust you. Even when it stings. Even when I hate sharing you with the world.”

“You’re not sharing me,” you said. “Not really. The world gets pieces. You get all of me.”

His throat tightened. “That better not just be the sleep talking.”

“It’s not,” you whispered.

You just watched each other for a moment — no talking, no pressure. Just two people staring through a screen and wishing it were a window.

“You wanna stay on the call while you crash?” he asked eventually. “I’ll just leave you propped up. We don’t have to talk.”

You blinked. “Like fall asleep on FaceTime?”

“Yeah. Old school teen romance style.”

You smiled, curling deeper under your blanket. “That sounds perfect.”

He angled his phone against a pillow so you had a good view — just his face and that soft, sleepy look in his eyes. You did the same.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said quietly.

“Goodnight, baby.”

He didn’t care how cheesy it was. Didn’t care about time zones or bad lighting or how far away you were.

Right now, he could see your face.

And for the first time in days, Jensen felt like everything might just be okay.

The soundstage was quiet for a rare moment — reset lights buzzing, crew shuffling softly, the buzz of production dulled under the weight of fatigue and late-afternoon haze. You stood near video village, holding a paper cup of now-cold coffee, eyes skimming the script pages you already knew by heart.

But your mind was somewhere else.

Back in that hotel room with Jensen’s face on your phone. Back in his voice, low and tired, but honest. Back in the look in his eyes when you told him, You’re not sharing me. The world gets pieces. You get all of me.

You knew what that had meant to him — how much it had taken for him to believe it. And still… how hard he was working to keep believing it.

Because Jensen had been burned. One too many times.

People didn’t always love him. They loved the version of him that opened doors. The famous name. The charming face. The connections. The spotlight. The screaming fans. His impeccable good looks.

But when the lights dimmed? When the camera stopped? That’s when the cracks formed. That’s when the sniping started. The cold shoulders. The slow unraveling of something that had never been sewn with kindness in the first place.

He’d told you about it one night, half a bottle of whiskey deep, voice rough and eyes downcast. How he stayed too long. How he kept trying to fix things, even when the only thing breaking was himself.

She made him feel small. Over time, piece by piece. Until he forgot what it was like to be seen with softness.

He didn’t realize it at the time — how much damage that kind of love could do. How deeply it could root itself in the way he saw the world.

He still caught himself, sometimes. When you fought — which wasn’t often — he’d sometimes shoot too fast. A sharp word. A subtle jab. His shoulders would go rigid like he was bracing for a war that wasn’t coming.

And you’d told him. Calm, clear, unmoving.

I love you, but I won’t let you treat me like that. That’s not love. That’s defense. And if you want to be in this with me, then that pattern ends now.

He’d listened. He’d heard you.

And he was trying. You saw it every time he paused to rethink his words. Every time he caught himself and took a breath instead of a verbal swing. Every time he looked at you like he was scared — not of you, but of losing you — and chose to trust instead.

You knew he was trying to be the kind of man who didn’t carry the weight of his past into the room with him.

You knew that meant more than any trending photo or paparazzi buzz ever could.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said gently.

You blinked out of your thoughts to see Pedro beside you, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, expression warm and easy.

“Hey,” you replied, offering a small smile.

He gave you a look. That subtle, careful kind — the kind only good friends know how to give.

“Everything good?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “After… y’know. All the TMZ drama?”

You let out a breath. “Yeah. We talked. He’s good. We’re good.”

Pedro nodded once. “I figured. He seemed like the type to pull it together once he had the facts.”

You glanced at him. “He’s trying. It’s not always easy for him.”

Pedro gave a soft, understanding smile. “No, I get that. People don’t always realize how much shit someone’s carrying until it spills out all over the place.”

You nodded slowly. “He’s been through a lot. Stuff he doesn’t always talk about. And when he does, it’s… heavy.”

Pedro leaned against the edge of the cart beside you, casual but attentive. “He’s lucky to have you.”

You tilted your head. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he said, with a small grin. “Because you love him in a way that makes him want to be better. I see it in the way you talk about him — and in the way you look over your shoulder every time your phone buzzes.”

You laughed under your breath, cheeks warming.

Pedro bumped your shoulder lightly. “He’s not the only lucky one, though. You’ve got someone who’s trying to unlearn the shit that broke him. That’s not nothing.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. It’s not.”

He nodded once more, then added, “And hey — for what it’s worth, if he ever forgets what he’s got in you… I’m right here with a very long speech about how dumb he’d be to mess it up.”

You grinned. “Thanks, Pascal. I’ll keep you on standby.”

“Always,” he said with a wink.

You didn’t hear the knock so much as feel it — a jolt of electricity straight through your chest.

You crossed the hotel room in three seconds flat, yanking open the door like something in you had been waiting for this moment all week.

And there he was.

Jensen.

Ball cap, hoodie, boots. Tired eyes and soft smile. You didn’t even say hello — just grabbed the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him in.

He dropped his bag somewhere behind him as the door closed, his hands already finding your waist, your back, your face. His touch was everywhere at once — not desperate, just sure.

You kissed him like you hadn’t seen him in years. Like this was the only language you remembered.

He kissed you back just the same.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and slightly dizzy, Jensen rested his forehead against yours, voice low and rough.

“God, I missed you.”

You nodded, eyes still closed. “You feel like home.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “I feel like hell. That flight was brutal.”

“You still smell like your cologne,” you whispered, pressing your nose to his collar. “And a little like airplane.”

“You always this affectionate with guys who smell like recycled air?”

“Only the ones I love.”

He smiled into your hair, arms tightening around you. “That’s good. ‘Cause I was planning on staying.”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “For the night or for the week?”

He met your gaze. “As long as you’ll let me.”

The answer settled into your chest like sunlight.

You led him toward the bed, fingers laced with his, neither of you needing words to know what this meant. It wasn’t about sex. It was about presence. About closeness. About curling into each other like the answer to a question that’s lingered too long.

Later, after the clothes had been shed and the lights dimmed and the room had gone quiet except for the slow, even rhythm of breath, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“I hate being apart from you,” he murmured.

You turned slightly, meeting his eyes in the dark. “Me too.”

“I don’t care where you are, what time it is — I just want you close.”

“You’ve got me,” you whispered, tracing your fingers along his jaw. “You always do.”

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t just to prove a point. It was a promise.

The sun was starting to dip behind the soundstage, casting long shadows over the parking lot where the crew trucks sat humming, their sides splattered with dust and sunlight.

Pedro was leaning against one of them, sipping a bottle of water, still in costume — the desert wind teasing the edges of his scarf. He looked calm, unbothered. But his eyes tracked everything. They always did.

Jensen saw him before he said a word.

“Hey,” he called, jogging up the last few steps from the studio lot.

Pedro lifted his brows, amused. “Well look who actually exists in daylight.”

Jensen smirked. “Thought I’d swing by before you wrap up. Figured I owed you a face-to-face.”

Pedro nodded, uncapping his water again. “For what? You’re not about to punch me over a publicity still, are you?”

Jensen chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah. We got past all that. She and I talked. It’s good now.”

Pedro gave him a look — not skeptical, just curious. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

There was a beat. One of those heavy, unspoken pauses that says we’re about to get real, aren’t we?

Jensen crossed his arms and leaned against the truck beside Pedro, letting the silence settle before breaking it.

“I know you and she got close,” he said, not accusing — just honest. “I know how this kind of set brings people together. Long hours. Long scenes. Shared trailers and inside jokes.”

Pedro stayed quiet. Letting him talk.

“And I know,” Jensen continued, voice quieter now, “that you’ve never given me a reason not to trust you.”

Pedro tilted his head. “But?”

“No ‘but.’” Jensen looked at him. “Just wanted you to know I appreciate that. That line you never crossed? It means something.”

Pedro nodded once. “She made it easy. She never gave me a reason to question it either.”

“I know.”

Another quiet beat.

Then Pedro glanced over at him, tone lighter but sincere. “She’s good at making people feel like they matter. It’s… kinda her superpower.”

Jensen exhaled a small laugh. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

Pedro took another sip, then added, “You’re good for her, too. I see it. She’s been lighter since you got here. Softer.”

“She softens me too,” Jensen admitted.

They stood like that for a moment — two men connected by proximity, friendship, and the same fierce care for one extraordinary woman.

Pedro gave a small smile. “No offense, but I’m glad it’s you.”

Jensen raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“I’ve seen her look at you,” Pedro said. “You’re her safe place. That’s rare. Don’t fuck it up.”

Jensen laughed, low and dry. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, man.”

Pedro shrugged with a grin. “Anytime.”

Jensen reached out, clapped his shoulder. “You ever need a beer and someone to complain to about LA traffic, I’m your guy.”

“Deal,” Pedro said, and the smile he gave was real.

They didn’t hug — neither of them were quite built for that level of mutual sentimentality — but something settled between them all the same. A kind of unspoken pact.

The woman they both cared about was safe. Loved. Understood.

And that was enough.

The car was warm and still.

Just highway lights flickering past, casting gold across the dash, the soft hum of tires on asphalt, and Jensen’s hand resting against your thigh — thumb brushing back and forth like it was muscle memory now.

You leaned your head against the window, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion, your body finally starting to unclench from the weeks of long shoots, late nights, and emotional tightropes. There wasn’t much left to say.

And you didn’t need there to be.

Jensen glanced over at you, his hat tipped back, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that soft, private smile he only ever gave you when he thought no one else was looking.

“You falling asleep on me?”

“Mm. Just resting my eyes.”

He squeezed your thigh gently, his hand warm and grounding. “You’ve earned it.”

You smiled, tilting your head toward him. “So have you.”

He gave a low hum of agreement but kept his eyes on the road. “You good? Really?”

“I’m good,” you said, voice quiet. “Feels like everything’s settled. For now.”

Jensen nodded once. “I like ‘for now.’ ‘For now’ got me here with you.”

You reached over, letting your fingers thread with his. “You were always gonna end up here with me.”

He brought your joined hands to his lips, kissed the back of yours without breaking focus on the road.

Silence fell again — but the good kind. The kind filled with weightless comfort. With the sound of trust. Of belonging. Of us.

You watched him drive, your heart soft and slow in your chest.

His shoulders had relaxed since he got to set. His voice, less guarded. You could tell he’d let go of something. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was doubt. Maybe it was just that quiet ache of missing someone and finally getting to reach for them again.

Whatever it was, he was here now.

And so were you.

Home wasn’t a place. Not tonight. Home was this drive. His hand in yours. The hush between songs on the radio. The weight of his love, steady and sure, in the space between your heartbeats.

You turned your face toward the windshield, eyes slipping shut.

And you let him carry you the rest of the way home.

The sun was already too bright when you shuffled into the kitchen, hair a mess, wearing nothing but one of Jensen’s ancient shirts from a tour he couldn’t even remember doing. You found him exactly where you expected — leaned over the counter with a mug in one hand, and a suspiciously crumb-covered phone in the other.

“Is that my cinnamon muffin?” you asked, eyeing the demolished pastry on the plate beside him.

He didn’t look up. “Define yours.”

You blinked. “The one I wrote my name on. In Sharpie. With hearts.”

“Oh,” he said, finally glancing up. “That muffin.”

“Yeah, that muffin.”

Jensen took a very slow, very exaggerated bite. “Never saw it.”

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms. “You’re lucky I like you.”

He grinned, unapologetic. “You love me. It’s different.”

You stalked over and plucked the last bite out of his hand, popping it into your mouth before he could protest. His jaw dropped in playful betrayal.

“Hey!”

You smirked. “Shared property. That’s how love works, right?”

“Not when it comes to pastries,” he muttered, but he was smiling again — that crooked grin that made your stomach flutter even now.

You moved in closer, sliding your arms around his waist, pressing your forehead to his chest. “We’re really home.”

His hands settled on your hips, warm and steady. “Yeah. Finally.”

You looked up at him. “Do I have to go back to work next week?”

He leaned down, nose brushing yours. “I can call in a fake scandal if you want. Something juicy. Keep you off the hook for a while.”

You laughed. “What, like you broke up with me because I ate your muffin?”

“Or I’m cheating with the craft services girl,” he said dramatically. “We bonded over croissants. It’s been very emotional.”

“Tragic,” you said, fake-pouting. “Guess I’ll have to make you jealous by flirting with Pedro again.”

Jensen raised an eyebrow. “That man could charm a potted plant. You wouldn’t even have to try.”

You grinned. “Might make you appreciate my Sharpie muffins more.”

He shook his head, pulling you closer. “You could eat all my muffins and I’d still pick you every time.”

“Even the blueberry ones?”

He leaned down and kissed you slow. “Especially the blueberry ones.”

You melted into it, laughter catching between your lips.

Home wasn’t always quiet. Sometimes it was teasing and crumbs and half-drunk coffee.

Sometimes it was just this — his arms, your laughter, and a life you’d built one stolen muffin at a time.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Heavily follows series timeline

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, illness, medical procedures, graphic descriptions of childbirth, allusions to child abuse

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

•Chapter 28

•Chapter 29

•Chapter 30

•Chapter 31

•Chapter 32

•Chapter 33

•Chapter 34

•Chapter 35

•Chapter 36

•Chapter 37

•Chapter 38……in progress

Gorgeous moodboard by the amazing @dustbunniess ❤️

Beautiful fanart by a lovely (my favorite) anon 🩵