ColiOli
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Paul faces the difficult dilemma of admitting to Daryl his secret. One that involves a deal he made with Negan in order to save his life.
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Prompt: "We are more than friends and you fucking know it!"
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You're Here With Me Now by ColiOli
Fandoms: The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead - All Media Types
09 Nov 2014
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They'd been in more desperate times before this.
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Filled for TWD Kinkmeme challenge:
"Daryl hasn't had very many good sexual encounters. All of his partners in the past were overly rough, slapped him around, called him names, etc. He expects his first time with Rick to be the same, but Rick encourages him and gently praises him, makes him feel loved and treats him tenderly."
WARNINGS: Physical abuse, sexual abuse and a brief mention of a rape scenario. -
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In this world, it isn't man or woman. It is human or the living dead.
Daryl realizes that if he were gone, the one's he has grown to care about would be lost. Almost being bit by a walker makes him realize how fragile their lives are, which leads him to being angry at Rick for not using more caution. A short fiction on their secret relationship and the bond they share when all eyes are turned away.
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This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He’d planned it all out, hadn’t he? Practiced in front of the cracked mirror in his new single bedroom apartment. Forced his unused voice past straining vocal cords. Again, again. Until he could seem like a passable version of his former confident, if not snarky, self.
This pathetic, shaking man clutching the cold seat of a toilet in the PTMC staff bathroom had never met that person.
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Or: I put all the angst tropes in a blender, smash Langdon into a wall, and force feed him the smoothie.
Bookmarked by ColiOli
01 Jun 2026
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Usually, Robby would not be caught dead at an after-hours social event with his coworkers.
But he’s not his usual self lately, and hasn’t been for the better part of a year, so he supposes it’s par for the course.
So tonight, he’s lingering in the corner closest to the TV, supposedly having a conversation with Santos, Whitaker, and Mel, nursing the insanely strong drink he had reluctantly let them press into his hands, and half-watching the muted Pirates game half-listening to the woman over the speakers sing about how you can watch me watch me party on you, yeah when the front door swings open and Frank fucking Langdon walks in.
Bookmarked by ColiOli
01 Jun 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
Langdon’s aggravatingly put together tonight in a way that makes Robby want to tear him apart, get his hands all over him, rough him up the way he knows Langdon likes. It’s a primal thing, this heady urge to see him in a way nobody else gets to, not even Abby, when they were still together — his chest flushed red and heaving, mouth hung open as Robby’s thumb presses flat against his tongue, that blissful, fucked-out look on his face. Eyebrows pinched up with a need that seemed to seep into his larynx as he would mutter Robby’s name against the skin of his thumb.
Adonai echad.
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There are three statements of life that Langdon knows as absolute fact:
1. Langdon is a straight man. Women are gorgeous, and he has a wife whom he loves very much.
2. The painkillers he uses from the Pitt aren’t the start of a bad habit. He’s not an addict—just a good son recovering from a back injury sustained moving some furniture.
3. His relationship with the medical field is mutualism. He saves countless lives, takes good care of people, but he benefits as well. It keeps his head too busy to think.Robby challenges all those assertions.
Series
- Part 1 of Waking Sleeping Dogs
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“This is so fucked,” Robby says, the laughter in his voice a cruel echo of the way he used to say that to Frank, the we’re-in-this-together exasperation of the ER’s worst days, and he drags his hand down his face to stop himself from flinching when he recognizes it. “Does your wife—”
“Don’t,” Frank says, voice sharper than Robby’s heard it all night. Sharper than he’s heard it in ten months, the sharpest it’s been since Frank had to dull the blade of it and turn it inwards to save his own hide. It’s a bark more than a spoken word, but Frank’s not a dog.
Dogs don’t talk, Robby thinks. Dogs don’t talk, and dogs don’t have wives.
It’s more fucked, Robby knows, that it’s the word wife rotating around in his skull and not her name. He knows her. He likes her, for god’s sake. He’s had holiday dinners at her table and shared fond eye-rolls across the appropriately-themed tablecloth at ridiculous things Frank’s said, that same we’re-in-this-together exasperation, and now — now Robby can’t even give her the dignity of thinking her name with his fingers in her husband’s mouth.
or: frank isn't very good at asking for forgiveness. robby isn't very good at granting it.
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So this is how it goes.
The thought came without drama. Just a simple conclusion reached ahead of his body, ahead of everyone else, ahead of modern medicine.
He grabbed the collar of T’s scrub with barely responding fingers, speaking through the liquid iron in his mouth. His voice felt like pounded meat. “No benzos.”
And then, just when the world started to narrow in static, as if it weren’t enough, his stupid brain refused to let go -
Robby is going to read the goddamned letter.
Or
During Robby's sabbatical, Langdon left for an expat mission. Could they survive the consequence?