Imagine: Can you do an imagine where the reader was abused by her father and one day Daryl sees her scars and he comforts her and tells her she’s not alone? – Anon
A.N: I just wanted to say that I don’t take abuse lightly, and if you’re suffering from anything at all, please speak to someone. I am always quite hesitant to write abuse stories, as it’s such a sensitive and real subject. If I ever write anything that crosses any lines, please let me know. Also, I know I wrote this a little ambiguously but I hope you enjoy anon.
Warnings: Mentions of abuse, scars.
Word Count: 1488
Long sleeves and shame were my two favourite summer trends, unfortunately living in the south made my life a living hell. When I had survived alone, I felt free enough to wear skimpy vests. Letting my skin breathe felt like heaven. Being alone wasn’t worth the cost of bare skin, so when Glenn and I crossed paths, with his promise of security and food, I accepted. That was in the winter, and hiding my scars from my new family had been easy and painless. Now with spring in the air, my anxiety rose along with the pollen count. I felt people stare, confused but far too polite to question my outfit choice during our quick run into town. My long sleeves agitating my every move.
Daryl, the one person in the group who hadn’t spoken to me, not properly. Just the occasional nod of assurance or grunt. Those observant eyes of his burned almost hot as the Georgia sun, I felt every lingering look pierce me; questioning me. I avoided him as much as possible. Today however, luck was not on my side. We were ambushed outside of the store, a small group of men jumped out of a parked van. Ready to steal what our hard working asses had gathered, they were easy enough to deal with, but we didn’t come away unscathed. Daryl had taken a hit, a bullet wound to his shoulder. Stubborn as the hunter was, he paced beside his bike, huffing and grumbling.
“Daryl, we need to get you back home,” Glenn chastised, “you can’t ride your bike while bleeding out, get in the car.”
“Ain’ leavin’ it behind, only jus’ got it back.” He wasn’t budging. Before Glenn lost his mind, I stepped up.
“I can ride…” The group fell quiet, I wasn’t the type to pipe up.
“Like hell yer touchin’ it,” Daryl retorted defensive, wincing at the pain.
“Look like you got many options there bud?” I scoffed, stepping up to him. He stared me down, and I made sure to show the sincerity in my eyes. He looked down at his feet, nodding briefly.
“Fine, but I ride at the back.” He applied pressure to his bleeding wound, sweat coating his face.
“Daryl, that’s not safe, what if you pass-”
“Won’t pass out, she ain’t riding without me there.” That was final, he wasn’t budging. Everyone boarded their vehicles, including me, the pressure of riding his precious bike weighing me down.
“Ain’t got all day, you comin’?” He huffed, waiting for me to sit.
I straddled the bike, revving the engine, a cat like grin creeping up my face. I hadn’t ridden since before the world ended. Tentatively, Daryl wound his good arm around my waist and I felt my body flush; not expecting him to touch me. I shook my head, scolding myself for the inappropriate thoughts that caused a familiar warmth to pool in my lower stomach.
Casting a quick look behind me, avoiding his intense scrutiny I checked if he was ready. With a small nod, I took off, a little wobbly at first but soon easing into the ride. Enjoying the wind in my hair, I let out a laugh, the first genuine laugh I’d had in what felt like years. I felt Daryl shake his head, but I didn’t have the capacity to care in that moment, I was happy.
After a while, I noticed Daryl’s grip loosening and noticed he looked peaky, so I pulled over. He was losing far too much blood, I hopped off the bike, facing him, his eyes filled with anger but without the energy to fight he simply allowed me to tend to him. I peeled his vest and shirt away from his drenched body. He groaned in protest but he needed medical attention now before it was too late.
Luckily, the bullet had passed straight through, I examined the two bullet holes on either side of his shoulder. The blood loss was taking its toll on him though. Without hesitating, I tore his shirt into strips, wrapping them as tight as possible around his wound. Tying a not to hold them in place before stepping back from him, reaching to place his vest back over his bare torso. Until, my eyes scanned the expanse of his back. Before thinking, I reached out and ran my fingers delicately over one of the many littered scars. He flinched, head whipping round to meet my startled gaze.
“I-I’m so sorry, I just…”
“Jus’ what?! Gimme ma vest woman!” He snatched it out of my grasp, and I quickly scampered to return to the bike, hastily driving us home.
Upon returning, Daryl stormed off, I called after him but he paid me no mind. I swallowed thickly. I’d been such a fool, but seeing his scars made me feel somewhat at peace. Glenn approached me, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Are you alright? What happened out there?” His concerned eyes watching me carefully.
“I’m fine, just think I stepped out of line with Daryl is all… Patched him up a little on the drive back, he was losing too much blood… I…” catching myself, I shook my head. “I need to rest, sorry,” and I fled.
Tossing and turning in bed that night, I couldn’t rid myself of the guilt that washed over me in fresh waves. Sleep evaded me. I groaned into my pillow, my mind twisting from the gut wrenching guilt to thoughts of how soft his scars were… and the feel of his arm around me, the feel of him pressed tightly against me on the journey home. I sighed, I had to make it up to him. Make him understand my idiotic actions.
Throwing my sheets off, scantily clad in my nightshirt and underwear, I padded off down the hall towards his room. Torn between hoping he was awake and hoping he’d be resting, so I could return back to the safety of my room and not do what seemed almost insane.
After staring at this door, I brought my trembling hand up to knock; a ghostly knock, I had barely heard it myself. A moments pause, my breath held painfully in my chest.
“Who’s it?” Gruff, tired and pained. I sighed, now or never.
Hesitantly, I crept in. A stream of light cast across the foot of his bed where he lay atop the sheets, his good arm holding up his head. From what little light there was, I swore he frowned, and I hoped the world would swallow me whole.
“Whaddya want?” He spat, while I closed the door behind me. Certain that his hunter senses could pick up my anxious state.
“About today, about… your back, I-”
“Forget it.” He interrupted, expecting pity from me.
“No. Daryl, I…” Lost for words, I knew that I would probably upset him further. Instead, opting for a more forward approach. I removed my shirt, he made a sound of protest before I turned and revealed my scars.
Silently trembling, I heard a shuffling come from his bed, before footsteps neared me. It felt like hours passed before I felt the ghostly touch of his fingers across my longest, meanest looking scar. Swallowing hard, not even attempting to hide my tremors. He retracted, clearing his throat.
“I just, I didn’t think, I felt so…”
“Stop,” his voice was strained. I turned to face him. His eyes misty behind his matted hair. I stepped into his space, reaching up to cup his cheek; the stubble tickling my palm. He looked cautious but calm as I stepped on my toes to gently press a soft kiss on his lips. A confused groan left him, the sound tingling at our joined lips and I couldn’t help the needy moan that came from me. His good arm pulling me in, pulling me up to him, pulling me home. Carefully, we made our way to his bed, there was something almost innocent and clumsy in his affections; it was endearing.
He kissed me fervently, running his hand down my stomach, across a multitude of scars, eyes shooting up to meet mine. The vulnerability we shared seemed to heighten the moment. Hesitantly, he dipped his head, placing a chaste kiss on the scar, before moving to the next. No words needed to be said, as we each shared our biggest shame filled secrets to one another. Silently claiming the others pain as strength.
It had been weeks since that night, Daryl and I becoming almost one, an unspoken understanding shared between us. The group hadn’t questioned our sudden closeness, or how Daryl was more than happy to let me ride his bike. I had thrown out the long sleeved shirts, after he had scoffed at me sacrificing my health just to hide myself. He assured me in his way, that was entirely Daryl’s, that I was beautiful, accepted, strong… his. __________
please note that, after “does it have a connection to asexuality, aromanticism, or newt?” the most important question i asked myself before putting a song on this playlist was “would blasting this at full volume cause hermann gottlieb to insult my taste in music??”
move! - i fight dragons // call me newt - pacific rim soundtrack // oh no! - marina and the diamonds // my way - i fight dragons // don’t fall in love - danko jones // kaiju groupie - pacific rim soundtrack // hall of fame - the script // good friend - cloud cult // firework - katy perry
“I don’t want to feed that part of me, and the first choice is to separate myself from people who encourage that viciousness.”
I go through this rolling wave destruction every so often, mostly when things I let build up become too pressing. It’s almost reminiscent of the first planet that they stop on in Interseller. No, darling, those are not mountains, but giant waves. Destructive, disastrous, end of times waves. And honestly, drowning with no hope of every touching land again is a nightmare I’ve had before.
I get fucked by people. Sorry, mouth of a sailor. Not because of those people, but because I allowed myself to get fucked. I take too personally, I allow people who have already proven they don’t care to not care about me. It’s said no one can hurt you, unless you somehow deem them important enough to actually do damage.
I’m 25. I don’t need to have all the answers, but as long as I take the time to consider the question, my choices, and the consequences, then I really can’t be doing too bad.
I know there is a mean side to me. It’s the snarl and bite of a threatened she wolf. I’d much rather allow us to become pack mates, a mutual sense of loyalty, and devotion to simple things like the cycle of the moon and running together. Survival as a pack mentality.
Not with women it seems, or even men. All for one dissipates into the air as soon as it’s said. One for all seems to make you a target for the derision of the universe.
Instead, I feel like I have to bare my fangs and with raised hackles I back away with eyes telling you I will rip and tear, but I would much rather leave with out blood on my chops.
My wolf has a twin, inside me. Two wolves, a distorted mirror. One is a sweet and patient, who works for the simple things and works hard. The other is a vicious bitch, ready to fight, who feeds off anger and sneers, material possessions and status in a fucked up heirarchy. I don’t want to feed the wicked wolf. I don’t want the people I surround myself with to make her hungry.
Don’t feed her. She’ll only beg for more of those mean thoughts, the kind of thoughts and feelings that make her fur shiny like armor, she has scars, she’s got little to no softness in her, muscle made mean. She’s not thinking of anything but the hunger and the reward.
I want to feed the good wolf. I want to have strength, I want to be fierce. I want to be unafraid to defend myself without turning into that mean version of myself.
“We’re all women, we all have strong opinions.”
We’re all women, is right. But “strong opinions” doesn’t mean you’ll kick your fellow female down, it doesn’t mean you tear at her with your fangs in your thoughts, in your actions. It doesn’t mean you’ll trip and trick her. I consider the judgmental part of me a weakness, not a strength. Walk away if need be. Drawing blood isn’t a medal of honor.
I’m trying to help myself. I’m trying to feed my good wolf. I’ve been trying to feed my good wolf for years, I just didn’t know I was nurturing the bad one at the same time.
I get a lot of shit from people that I’m inauthentic. That I’m staged, and that the reason that I have no significant other, no really close girlfriends, is that I’m at fault for being fake. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about being fake. I’m trying to be good to myself, if I remove myself from something it’s because there was something that made me feel bad. In my gut, in my head, in my heart.
I’m never going to be the woman that will stick with something to be polite. I have to feed the good in me, or the bad will take over.
You can’t rely on other people to make you feel good about your mind, your body, your life. You have to look at yourself and not be afraid to admit to yourself your faults. Just because I don’t share them here, to 150,000+ people I don’t know, or to people who fuck me over in my life, or even the people who just don’t care as they are getting what they want from me no matter the cost to me, doesn’t make me any less of a person.
I’m not going to let someone feed a part of me that I’ve decided would be better off malnourished. I wasn’t even going to write about it, but now that I sit here, with this all spilling out. I feel good. I can stand a little taller, and I am a little stronger.
Humans are a vicious species, because our flight or fight has been desensitized by technology, and by people not owning their shit. By people lacking empathy. By spoiled lifestyles. By ignorance. By filling our mouths, ears, and eyes with all this bullshit that appeals to our desensitized senses. Not taking a moment to connect on an intellectual or emotional level with another human being. Or at the very least not pretending to care until it becomes inconvenient or uncomfortable.
I’m not going to surround myself with people who don’t care anymore for the reason that it’s more “cool” to not care.
So, that being said, I’ll be howling at the moon and running through the trees, and if you decided to come run too leave your bullshit where I won’t have to deal with it.
John watched in horror as Sherlock fell, once gain, over the edge. This time, it was out a window, and unknown to John in that second, only three feet high.
John hurried outside and ran to Sherlock, who was lying on the ground, just in the process of sitting up, looking simply stunned.
“What the hell–Sherlock–are–are you ok? Sherlock?”
John ran over to him and knelt down, already grazing Sherlock’s head for any blood. Sherlock stared at him in surprise. He narrowed his eyes at him as John continued to examine him, still not concluding that he was alright.
Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh my god,” he whispered.
John blinked and leaned back so he could look at him. Sherlock was fine, not even a scratch. He roughly stood up and inhaled slowly, urging himself to calm down. Sherlock stood up stiffly as he continued to stare at him in shock. John ignored his stare and squirmed underneath it, unsure what Sherlock was deducing from him.
“You love me,” Sherlock stated.
John’s eyes widened and he lifted his head up abruptly to gap at Sherlock. “What–no–I”
“It’s obvious now. Oh my–why didn’t I see it before?” Sherlock started stammering and muttering as he processed what he saw. John’s heart hammered in his chest nervously.
“No, Sherlock, I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John turned on his heel and began walking away, clenching his fist by his side. He didn’t know exactly why Sherlock was realizing that now, and he didn’t want to hear a rejection right now either.
“Wait, John, wait!” Sherlock ran after him. John picked up his pace.
“Just, forget about it. Delete it or whatever,” John muttered.
Sherlock grabbed his arm and turned him around. John refused to meet his gaze, and focused on the cement.
Sherlock exhaled shakily, and he seemed nervous too, although John didn’t want to think why.
“I love you, too,” Sherlock said, his voice heavy with relief. His mouth twitched with a promising grin.
John straightened up and stared at Sherlock, hardening his gaze. He rounded his shoulders and then flung his hand across Sherlock’s cheek.
“Don’t mock me,” he nearly growled. John turned on his heel and continued walking way, ignoring the stunned look on Sherlock’s face.
“No, John, wait–wait, watch out–!”
John ignored him, and continued walking, but then he was blinded by bright lights just before the car screeched to a halt. John collided with the front and rolled over the hood before landing back on the street, the world fading around him.