â The morning light filtering through the window would wake you first, carrying with it the scent of wet earth from rain that had fallen sometime during the night. You'd roll over, an arm still draped around your waist, and a smile would settle on your lips at the sight of the man sleeping beside you. His brow was relaxed, his mouth slightly parted, and the soft, gruff snoring you'd grown to prefer over silence filled the room. You'd rub the sleep from your eyes before reaching up to cup his cheek, careful not to stir him awake. It was still early, and if anyone deserved to sleep in, it was Daryl. Your palm met the warmth of his face, the familiar scrape of scruff against your skin, and for a moment, you simply stayed there, quietly admiring the rare peace that sleep brought him. He stirred awake slowly, feeling your eyes on him before he ever opened his own.
Watchin' me sleep again, ya creep?
Don't ruin the moment, jerk
â Daryl wasn't much of a cook, but if there were a few things he knew how to make, it was jerky, moonshine, and most importantly, pancakes. You'd shuffle into the small kitchen in your socks, drawn awake by the buttery smell long before the coffee finished brewing. His back would be turned to you, shirtless, scarred, standing over a cast-iron skillet as the batter hissed the moment it met the hot surface. He knew exactly how you liked themâcrisp around the edges and drowning in maple syrup he'd tapped and boiled down himself from the trees surrounding the land. You'd climb onto one of the kitchen chairs, tucking your legs beneath you as his shirt hung loosely over your frame. Resting your chin in your hand, you'd watch him work before breaking the comfortable silence.
Whatcha cooking, good looking?
He would only huff and shake his head.
â Most mornings, you'd wake to the comforting weight of Daryl beside you. But on the rare occasions he had to leave early with the group for supply exchanges or patrols, the bed would be empty by the time you opened your eyes. Sometimes, in his place, you'd find a note resting on the pillow, his handwriting messy and nearly illegible to anyone but you, telling you to stay safe. When the moment called for a little more sentiment, he'd leave behind a freshly picked flower, morning dew still clinging to its petals, a reminder that he would always make it back to you. And every year, without fail, you'd wake to a gift. Never wrapped neatly, never anything extravagant, but always thoughtful. When Daryl struggled to put his feelings into words, he never failed to show them with gifts.
â Even though you were both hermits by nature, living quietly on the outskirts of the gated community, Sunday mornings were different. Every week, when the Commonwealth market was in full bloom, you would make the trip together. Colorful tents lined the streets, vendors displaying handmade or scavenged goods. Daryl always kept a small wad of currency tucked in his pocket while you carried a basket filled with homemade goodies: fresh bread, preserves, and bottles of wine you had made yourself for trade. Daryl made sure they gave you what they were worth. He had a way of haggling without ever needing so much as a grunt. When a vendor once questioned whether your homemade wine was a fair trade for a silk scarf, Daryl had only folded his arms and waited, because intimidation sometimes worked better than charm.
Looks real pretty on ya, sweetheart
Everything in between
¤ Somewhere during the day, between chores and the endless work of keeping the cabin running, Daryl would sometimes disappear for a while. You would find him lying on a patch of moss beneath the open sky, one arm folded beneath his head, his crossbow resting nearby. For once, there was no tension in his shoulders, no guarded look in his eyes. Just Daryl, watching the clouds drift lazily overhead. Every now and then, he would tip his chin toward one, pointing out a shape hidden in the sea of white.
That one. Tell me that ain't somethin'
That doesn't look like a fox
Ya blind? Look at it. Got a tail 'n everythin'
¤ Around midday, when the sun sat high above the pines, a familiar face would usually stop by the cabinâsometimes to share news, sometimes to borrow or return equipment, and sometimes simply to see how the two of you were doing. Carol often arrived with a tin of homemade cookies and a pocketful of interesting stories she insisted weren't gossip, no matter how much Daryl claimed otherwise. Eugene would occasionally return a book you'd lent him, usually something about extraterrestrials, time travel, or a mystery with so many twists that not even he saw the ending coming.
I married a dork
Say that again, Daryl, I dare you
Once his responsibilities were finally out of the way, even Rick would stop by as well. He'd knock on the front door, and the moment you opened it, the warm scent of something baking would drift out into the yard. Before he could step inside, you'd remind him to leave his boots at the door, making Rick glance at Daryl, who'd simply shrug from somewhere behind you. Around your cabin, muddy boots didn't make it past the threshold, and even Rick had learned not to argue with the house rules.
Jus' listen t'her. It's strict 'round here
¤ In their home, clocks were mostly decoration. Time was measured differently there. It was the rhythm of daily habits, the familiar sounds and routines, that told him what hour it was. He would get lost in a task for hours, like the damn pickup he'd challenged himself to fix, grease streaked across his hands and brow, completely unaware of how much time had passed. Then he'd hear the familiar footsteps rounding the cabin. You would appear carrying a tray with two mugs and freshly baked sourdough bread with rosemary on top. The scent would reach him before you didâthe sweetness of honey, the brightness of citrus peel, the warmth of butter melting into yellow puddles over the crust. Daryl would look up from the engine, blinking like he'd been pulled out of another world.
Three already?
Mhmm. Come sit with me
¤ With the sun setting, the sky painted in shades of pink and lavender through the pine trees, you loved taking evening walks behind the cabin to the creek. Hand in hand, the two of you would wander down the familiar path until you reached that little piece of heaven. The water stayed warm from the day's sun, shimmering beneath the fading light as fireflies began to drift through the trees. You'd slip off your shoes while Daryl tugged off his boots, both of you rolling up your pant legs before settling on the edge of the old wooden plank, your feet sinking into the gentle current.
Wanna go skinny dipping?
I'm an old man. Ya tryin'ta kill me, woman?
Nights
â When the summer nights came, you'd trade Daryl's shirts for wearing nothing at all, leaving the bedroom windows open in hopes of catching a breeze. As much as you loved cuddling, your husband ran hot, and while you appreciated his warmth during the winter, the last thing you wanted in the thick Southern heat was skin against skin. You kicked lightly at his ribs whenever he crossed the invisible line you'd drawn down the middle of the linen blanket. He crossed it anyway, too stubborn to sleep any way but the one he knew. One arm slipped around your waist, pulling you in until your back rested against his chest.
It's too hot
Don' care
â First came the curtains. Then the framed pictures on the walls. Flowers found their way onto every spare surface. Little by little, the cabin became a homeâa museum of everything you loved instead of a shelter filled only with what you could carry on your back and what you needed to survive. You came home from a quick trip to see Carol to find Daryl kneeling beneath the electric panel, busy fastening something. A television. Old. Bulky. Perfect. He looked over his shoulder, wiping his hands on his jeans.
Now ya can watch them movies ya keep bringin' back from the market bins
Friday nights now ended with a movie on the couch. Your legs sprawled across his lap while the television flickered to life. If you sat close enough, the static danced across your arms until the tiny hairs stood on end. Half the time the picture rolled, the sound crackled, or the screen threatened to give out altogether, but neither of you cared.
Let's watch this one
Ain't doin' no romance
Daryl would fall asleep before the movie ended every time.
â It didn't matter how much time had passed or how good the day had been before he settled beneath the coversâthe nightmares never left him for long. They startled him awake, his hand reaching through the darkness for you, just to make sure you were still there, still in one piece. You'd hush him back to sleep more out of instinct than thought, still caught somewhere between sleeping and waking. You'd kiss his temple and whisper that you were alright. Sometimes that was enough to lull him back to sleep. Other nights, he'd slip out of bed to check the latches on every door, even though he'd already done it during his nightly walk around the cabin. He'd step onto the porch and stare into the dark woods as though daring whatever figment lurked there to come any closer. You'd join him eventually, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the quiet, waiting for the sunrise. Only then would his shoulders drop.
â It was another ritual of yours to save the ending of a book for bedtime. Good, bad, or open to interpretation, it always had to wait until the stars came out and the crickets began their nightly song. Daryl would watch you, his head propped on one hand, studying your face as your expression shifted from concern to relief, from quiet smiles to wide-eyed gasps. He never needed to read the last page himself. The way you closed the book told him everything. A quick snap of the cover meant the ending hadn't earned your approval. Dog-earing the corner of the page meant it was so good you'd be reading it again by morning. He'd ask how it was with nothing more than a low grunt, and once you started talking, the words never seemed to end.
Other nights, the routine got in the way. He'd decide he'd rather have your attention than share it with a few hundred pages. As your eyes drifted from line to line, his hand reached for the book instead. You huffed and tried to pull it back, but whatever protest you had dissolved the moment his lips brushed the curve of your throat.
Want ya, sweetheart
And you want him too, always.
Note: I love, LOVE domestic Daryl. I yearn for the cabin life. I liked doing them in this format more, fleshing out a few headcanons instead of listing multiple short ones. Finished this in the midst of editing some angst just to lift my spirit. Didn't work.
This work of fiction was written while listening to...
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Daryl waited for you.
He waited in the trailer for two whole months, stubbornly clinging to routines that no longer made sense. He kept the porch light on every night even after the power failed. He checked every car that managed to pass the road with the irrational hope that somehow, against all reason, you'd be behind the wheel with Benjamin in the backseat. He kept expecting the sound of your voice, kept thinking he'd hear you fussing over him. But nobody came.
Merle, of course, had no patience for hope, or a tragic love story, specially not one that involved you.
By the first week, he had already grown tired of watching his baby brother sit on the porch every evening like some faithful dog waiting for its owner.
"Boy, she ain't comin'."
Daryl barely glanced up from the knife he was sharpening. "Quit it."
"I'm serious."
"Didn't ask."
Merle snorted.
"Didn't ask? What are you? Thirteen?"
Daryl's jaw tightened. "Shut up."
"Nah, you gon' listen." He sat down heavily beside him, cracking open a beer. "You waitin' on a woman that ain't even thinkin' 'bout you no more."
Daryl's eyes narrowed.
"Don't."
"I'm just sayin'."
"Don't."
"World ended, baby brother. Rich folks got themselves bunkers and private compounds. Hell, if she made it, she probably snuck herself into some fancy-ass shelter with enough food to feed the next generation and a bunch of rich people drinkin' wine and bitchin' 'bout the apocalypse."
"Shut the hell up."
Merle raised his hands dramatically.
"What? You know I'm right."
"Nah, I know yer an asshole."
Merle scoffed. "Boy, I been tellin' you since day one. She was slummin' it with ya."
Daryl stood immediately. "Watch yer mouth."
"Or what?"
"Or I'm gonna forget you're ma brother."
Merle simply laughed.
"You think I don't remember? Every damn night after work you'd disappear with some rich brat you met on the side of the road. Thought you'd gone stupid."
"She ain't no brat."
"Oh, come on. You really thought y'all had a future?"
Daryl didn't look mad, he looked sad. Even his family replicated what your parents tried to glue to your heads. You didn't belong together.
Merle noticed, and for some miracle, his expression softened slightly.
"Ain't sayin' she didn't love ya" he admitted quietly. "Girl gave ya Ben, didn't she? That's somethin'."
Daryl's eyes dropped.
"Yeah."
"But if it weren't for that boy, she'd've left years ago." And there it was again.
"Look, I'm just sayin'... maybe if she made it, she had to make choices that didn't envolve you."
Daryl swallowed. He knew there was some sense to Merle's line if thought. You were stupid rich, but still, he never heard from you about a plan B bunker casually there to be lived in, he figured that's something he'd know at some point, still, he wondered. But ever stopped looking. Not even when Merle called him a fool, or after the trailer was overrun and they were forced to leave.
When he joined Rick's group, he never mentioned you, not once. He felt like explaining it out loud made your absence real, and that made him stupidly vulnerable. So nobody knew. Nobody knew he had someone, maybe thinking if him too. Nobody knew he had a boy, old enough to be in high school, if fate had been kind.
Nobody knew that every time Carl laughed, Daryl's chest tightened with memories of a little boy who used to sit on his shoulders and tug on his ears.
When Sophia disappeared, Daryl made it a personal quest, he had to find that girl. Every time he faced Carol's despair from losing her only child, he'd think if you, what if you'd been though something like that and he wasn't there for you?. And the thought made him shiver.
No one knew his real reasons behind it. He was pure if heart enough to be this invested if he didn't have kids too, but all that crossed his mind was you and Benjamin, and how he had to cling to hope that if he could find this little girl, then maybe he could find you too.
He'd considered, many times, to open up about his past to Carol. When he saw her mourning someone that she wasn't sure was really gone, he saw himself on her, he wanted to approach and say he understood the feeling better than anyone could. But before he could wonder more about tearing down his walls, the barn happened, and the girl appeared. Lifeless, her body only moving by command of that devious infection. And Daryl build his walls right back up.
He recalled feeling physically sick, not only because Sophia was gone, but because a terrible thought had wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed hard. What if that was what waited for him? What if after years of searching he found you or Ben like that? Would he even survive it? For the first time since the world had ended, he was afraid of hope itself. Because hope implied answers, and answers had the power to destroy him.
The weeks that followed only taught him that monsters had always worn human faces long before the dead began walking. They had built more than a shelter, but a home, at the prison, and before he could stop to breathe, once again the world crumbled beneath his feet, and he felt stupid for ever hoping again. After the governor's attack, he got separated from everyone, stranded with Beth Greene.
Daryl found himself in the strange company of someone too young and too stubborn to accept his usual grunts as conversation. Beth had a gift for prying into people's souls while smiling sweetly enough that refusing her felt almost cruel. What began with innocent questions eventually became more personal, until one evening she casually asked whether he'd ever been married. Daryl had answered with the first thing that came to mind. "Sorta."
The answer immediately fascinated her. She laughed, insisting that "sort of married" wasn't an actual category, and spent the next ten minutes pestering him with increasingly ridiculous theories. By the time he surrendered, he'd found himself smiling. And then, quietly, with the fire crackling between them and the stars spread overhead, he told her everything. About you. About the rich girl with the broken-down car who had changed his life. About Benjamin. About the breakup neither of you had wanted. About loving each other anyway. Beth listened with tears shining in her eyes and the kind of hopeless romantic expression only she could wear without embarrassment. "You've been in love with her for fifteen years?" she'd asked in disbelief.
Daryl had looked away immediately, embarrassed. "Closer to sixteen now, ain't never let go." Beth had laughed softly and shaken her head.
"Oh, Daryl, that's the saddest and sweetest thing I've ever heard." He'd scoffed, muttering that she was crazy, but she simply smiled and asked the question he'd spent years avoiding.
"Do you think they made it?"
The answer had come before he could stop it. "Have to." His voice had broken around the words. "Don't know how not to."
And as if the world kept pulling distasteful jokes with him. He lost Beth too. After that, Daryl it felt like a piece of your memory had gone with her, because for the first time since the world shifted completely, someone else had known about you. Someone else had known learned your name, and Ben's. She had known about the life he'd lost, about the love he carried around like an old wound, and somehow she'd made him feel less alone with it.
So when he carried her lifeless body out of that hospital and heard Maggie's screams echoing around him, something inside him broke all over again. Sitting outside afterward, his face buried in his hands, tears streaming freely while the others grieved around him, Daryl found himself thinking of you as he always did in moments of unbearable pain. And despite the pain, despite the losses, the growing certainty that the world was cruel beyond reason, one stubborn, irrational part of Daryl Dixon refused to let go.
They spent more time wandering than he could count, after going though extreme hunger, they were forced to eat dog and found some kind of shelter. That's when they found out they were being chased by a man who allegedly wanted to help, Daryl was already too scarred to trust that easy, but something that came out of that man's mouth broke his brain entirely.
The man was tied to the pillar, explaing his mission and the story of his community, when he mentioned a name. Deanna.
"What's that you said just now?" Daryl grunted, his heart beating rapidly to his ears.
"Uh-um that we're all assigned functions by our leader, she uh-"
"Yeah, I got that part, what's her name?" Daryl cut him impatiently
"Deanna."
"And the place is called?"
"Alexandria."
Daryl's breath broke rhythm, he turned to Rick and said in a whisper "We gotta check this place."
"Why?"
"It's- uh... It's a long story."
"Might be an important one to make it worth putting ourselves on risk for." Rick impatiently added.
"Trust me in this." Daryl pleated. "Please."
Rick reluctantly agreed. He trusted Daryl's instincts, afterall. He turned to the tied down man on the pillar and cut the cord, his pupils staring straight into the stranger's.
The large banquet room was dimly lit, casting shadows and dark corners, perfect for Daryl to stand in and avoid the crowd. He scoffed aloud at the ridiculousness of the 'ball' that Pamela was hosting. The dead walked just outside the walls, and here people were drinking champagne and engaging in old world politics.
You, on the other hand, saw the benefit of this sort of thing. The exclusivity bothered you, but you could see why the Commonwealth was trying to preserve some of the old world.
The only reason you were even invited to thing 'ball' was because you 'worked' for the local newspaper, similarly to Connie. She was on the job, but you were more so expected to catch the gossip and make the Commonwealth sound great, whereas Connie was interviewing different people and trying to get the real information. Daryl was allowed in because he was a Commonwealth soldier, expected to go wherever he was told, and Mercer demanded that he be here as backup. He was allowed to dress in regular clothes, as to blend in, like many of the other soldiers who were, for all intents and purposes, undercover, in case anything went south.
You had felt his eyes on you throughout the night, but whenever you looked his direction, he turned away, pretending like he hadn't been watching you. You knew the archer better than that, though. Your relationship wasn't exactly established, but it was no less meaningful. The two of you had been through so much over the years, and up until recently, there was never any time to explore the chemistry between you.
Behind the safety of the Commonwealth walls, though, you began pressing him more than you normally had. Standing closer, lingering touches, longing looks, teasing comments... You were treading slowly, but you wanted Daryl to know - without any doubt - how you felt about him.
"Hey, you," a shy smile toys at your lips as you approach your favorite person. His well defined arms are crossed over his chest as he leans against the wall, half of his face shadowed by the low light and his loose strands of hair drooping in the way.
"Mm," he acknowledges you, glancing your way before returning his gaze straight ahead, taking in the scene around him.
"Hiding over here?" you tease, turning to lean against the wall by his side. Daryl turns his gaze back to you, shooting you a look before his eyes dropped down to your body, looking at your dress. You catch your bottom lip between your teeth as he quickly takes you in. The simple, knee length black dress hugged your body in all the right places, but wasn't overdoing it.
Daryl's eyes are back on yours as quickly as they had left them, but you had seen him looking you over.
"Not hidin'," he grumbles.
"Sure," you tease, looking out at the groups of people mingling. "This is weird," you comment, referring to the dance.
"Very," he agrees. " S'stupid."
"Maybe, but it's kind of nice too,"
He looks over at you like you have three heads, scoffing.
"'Course ya think so," he mutters.
"What? It's nice to have some things from the old world," you shrug.
"If ya say so," he grumbles, clearly not agreeing.
The pianist start to play a slow beat, and couples fall together. You actually recognize the song, one that you used to like before the world ended.
"Oh my God," he rolls his eyes and shuffles awkwardly beside you.
"Aw," you mumble, finding it nice to see people feel safe enough to dance together. "I know this song," you mumble, sadness filling your heart as you remember singing it in your car so many years ago.
"Really?" he asks, seemingly surprised.
"Yeah, it's a good one," you tell him, and he looks at you with an unreadable expression, the way Daryl usually does when he's really listening.
You feel the invisible force pulling you to Daryl, as you have so many times before, and glance up at him hesitantly. He catches your eye, and spots the light blush on your cheeks.
I'm jealous of the rain
"Wha'?" he asks, and your eyes drop from his to his hands, which are toying with his black cargo pants pockets. His thumbs are inside of the pockets, with the rest of his thick fingers still visible.
You wonder what it would feel like to interlock your fingers with his. It was a thought that had crossed your mind many times before, more than you'd ever admit to. How they'd feel in your hair, on your hips, your face... other places...
That falls upon your skin
Your lip stings where you bit it unconsciously, bringing you back to reality, where Daryl is studying you.
"You gonna ask me to dance, Dixon?" you tease, grinning up at the taller man. His eyes widen slightly, taken aback by your forward request. He looks at you for a long moment, probably only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity in his intense gaze.
Then Daryl scoffs, rolling his eyes at you.
"Yeah, okay," he responds sarcastically, brushing you off like you couldn't possibly be serious.
"What? You can slay walkers and people but you can't dance with a girl?" you tease, bumping his bicep with your own, trying to keep the teasing light, but also pushing your luck, seeing if you could actually somehow get this man to dance with you. You're sure Daryl would rather cut off his fingers than to dance, but you just had to try. When would the opportunity ever present itself again?
"Yup," is all he says, shuffling in his boots.
"Ugh, you suck. You're gonna make me go find some poor guy to force to dance with me?" you ask. Daryl's eyes lift from where he was studying his boots, meeting yours with an icy intensity.
He didn't like that.
"What? You won't dance with me but I can't dance with someone else?" you ask, and he actually makes a sound in agreement.
"Can't dance," is all he says, catching you off guard. You expected him to say how stupid it was, or make some other rude comment - not that. Does that mean he wants to? That he would oblige?
"Neither do I," you shrug.
He snorts in amusement. "Ya wanna dance but ya don' even know how?"
"Well, slow dancing is easy, Daryl. You just sway. Look."
He looks around, seeing the other couples. Most were just swaying in place, not even moving much. Then he looks back at you, studying you for a long moment as you look at the other couples, almost longingly.
It's closer than my hands have been
Oh I'm jealous of the rain
With a huff, Daryl stands up straight, and before he can think too much about it, offers his hand.
You are caught off guard, looking between his extended palm and his face.
"Really? I was teasing you, I didn't expect you to agree..."
"C'mon, woman, 'fore I change my mind," he grumbles softly, seemingly embarrassed.
You hesitantly place your smaller hand into Daryl's palm. He stands there for a moment, looking at your hand in his, seemingly a little unsure what to do - then his feet start moving and guiding you out a few paces. Not far from the wall, on the very outskirts of the crowd, keeping plenty of distance from the others.
Daryl stops, turning to face you, very unsure of himself. Your heart is pounding in your chest as you take him in. You hesitantly twist your hand in his, turning it so you can hold it more properly, then take a step closer to him, invading his bubble. He chews on his bottom lip, letting you get him into position, his blue eyes watching your every move.
Reaching your left hand up, you place it on his right shoulder, gently, almost like you were afraid he would recoil if you moved too fast. There's still plenty of space between the two of you, but you're afraid of moving too fast. You watch as Daryl's right hand comes to rest at your waist, very hesitantly, kind of moving in slow motion.
You have never been this close together unless you were fighting off the dead, or one of you was hurt... Sure, you'd sat together plenty of times, your knees or arms have brushed... But this was different. You were pretty sure Daryl Dixon had never danced with a woman before in his life.
You take one more hesitant step toward him, then sway a little to the left, finding the beat. "See?" you smile lightly, looking up to catch his eye. He tears his eyes from your hand in his, meeting your gaze, but says nothing.
You hum under your breath, quietly, the words coming back to you. There is a woman singing her own version of the song, a very slowed down version of the way you remember it, but you like it.
I'm jealous of the wind
That ripples through your clothes
You never in a million years would have expected that you'd be able to get Daryl to dance with you. If Carol could see you... She'd be grinning from ear to ear.
There's a burning heat inside of you as you sway with Daryl. You feel small in his arms, like he is your personal protector, your person. His fingers wrapped around your hand feel warm and safe. It's a funny thought - Daryl is probably one of the most dangerous people in this room (and in most rooms), yet you feel the most safe in his arms.
It's closer than your shadow
Oh I'm jealous of the wind
You glance down from his blue eyes to his pink lips. His expression is hard to read, but he doesn't look like he's searching for an escape route. He's looking back at you, studying you the same way that you are him. His feet move slowly, unsurely, but following your pace. You barely move, it's really less of dancing and more of swaying in one place - but it's perfect. His fingers tighten ever so slightly on your waist, just above your hip bone, where your body curves - holding you a little more securely, more certain.
"Words are weird," he mutters, and you chuckle softly.
"They're sweet," you counter.
"'I'm jealous of the wind?'" he quotes the lyrics the woman just sang, raising a skeptical brow, and you chuckle again.
"It's about longing to be near the person you love," you explain. "The rain that falls on their skin, the skin that you can't touch. Not actually jealous of the rain or wind, just that they can't touch them, or be with them..." you explain, not meeting his eye, instead looking over at the woman as she sang.
When you look back, Daryl is watching you. He studies you, taking you in, paying attention to you.
"Sounds like ya can relate," he drawls. "T' the song."
With a slight gulp, you shift your hand on his shoulder nervously.
"I can," is all you say. Daryl doesn't respond, and he doesn't take his eyes off you, either. There's an understanding in his eyes, like something has clicked,
I'm jealous of the nights
That I don't spend with you
I'm wondering who you lay next to
Oh, I'm jealous of the nights
Daryl catches you off guard by pulling you closer, shifting the way he was holding you so that your chests are nearly touching, and his right hand is fully grasping your waist, securely, tightly. You look up into his eyes, finding an expression that you don't recognize. He says nothing, but his hands speak louder than words.
"Me too," he mutters lowly, so quiet that you almost didn't hear him.
His left hand moves so that it is resting against his chest, near his heart, still cupping yours. His warmth radiates off of him onto your own body. You can smell the woodsy smell on his clothes, a mixture of trees, fire and cigarettes - a smell that you have come to recognize as Daryl. The combination of his touch and smell is dizzying your senses, hypnotizing. You adjust your hand on his shoulder to lower it, allowing it to drag down his chest, agonizingly slow, memorizing it.
Even with his black button down in the way, you can feel the hard muscle beneath your hand, which moves slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until it is resting slightly above his pec, the tips of your fingers splayed across the bottom part of his shoulder, palm over his upper chest. You can see some of the exposed skin behind the one single button left undone, the tiniest bit of chest hair showing and part of his collar bone.
The thought of resting your head on his chest crosses your mind, but you find the urge, not wanting to push him too far. His right hand moves as you take another swaying step, shifts to the middle of your back, making it so his arm is loosely wrapped around your frame. Being this close to Daryl makes your head spin, and you try to take in the moment as best as you can - memorizing his touch, how gentle he is being, the comfortable but charged silence between the two of you.
Wordlessly, you look up from his chest, meeting his eyes. His gaze shifts from your hand on his chest to your eyes, and suddenly your faces are very close. You can smell the cigarette and whiskey on his breath, sees the lines in his lips, the small scars littered across his face. His eyes drop from yours to yours lips, making your heart beat so loud in your chest that you think he must be able to hear it.
He chews on his bottom lip, his nervousness getting the better of him and he leans back, just an inch or so, putting a little space between your faces, but not letting go of you even a little. He'd never admit it, but he was loving every moment of this - he never wanted to let go of you.
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daryl dixon yearning for his best friend reader who already has a boyfriend (he sucks) you can decide how this can go from here but eventually he and reader kissđ¤
A/N: I enjoyed breaking down Daryl's character before writing this one. Thank you so much for the idea~! đ¤ And yes, this is inspired by the song from Hercules, Daryl's just denying his feelings, as always.
Won't Say I'm In Love
The forest air held a chill and a scent that bit through the layers of tactical gear, but it was nothing compared to the hollow, gnawing ache that had lived in your chest since the bridge went down.
You moved through the undergrowth with a silence that rivaled the wind, your dual scythes sheathed against your back, and a pair of modified gardening tools that had become extensions of your own limbs. They weren't elegant, and they certainly weren't efficient for anything beyond an armâs length, but they were vicious. They allowed you to decapitate a walker without making a sound, a necessary skill for a woman who had spent a lifetime existing on the periphery.
You hadn't always been like this.
Years ago, your life was defined by the adrenaline of a getaway driverâs seat, the flashing lights of police cruisers, and the calculated risk of bank vaults. You were good at taking things that didn't belong to you, but you were better at holding onto the people who were the only family you had. When those people were torn away, by bullets, by betrayal, by the collapse of society, you learned to look for them. You learned to sift through the aftermath of disasters, hoping to find a body to bury, a sign of existence, anything to prove that they had been real.
That was the common ground you shared with Daryl Dixon.
It had started months ago, during the exhaustive, soul-crushing search for Rick Grimes. You had been the only one who didn't look at Daryl with pity. You didn't tell him to stop, didn't tell him he was wasting his time. Instead, you had simply tracked alongside him, your eyes scanning the riverbanks and the mud with the same relentless, desperate hope that fueled his own. You remembered the moment he finally looked at you, really looked at you, and saw the jagged edges of your past mirrored in his own.
"Why do you care?" he had asked, his voice a low scrape against the silence of the woods.
"Because I know what itâs like to leave someone behind," you had replied, cleaning your scythe with a rag. "And I know what itâs like to need to know if theyâre still breathing."
Since then, your dynamic had become a silent pact. He provided the long-range precision with his crossbow, and you provided the close-quarters brutality when the herd got too thick. You fit into his world like a piece of a puzzle he hadn't realized was missing. Yet, even as your bond tightened, your life in Alexandria remained fractured.
Dante was your boyfriend, a man who had seemingly appeared from nowhere, fitting into the community like a ghost. He was charming in a way that felt polished, almost too clean for the grime of the apocalypse. You knew about red flags; you had tripped over enough of them in your previous life to build a barricade, but you were lonely, and in the harsh light of survival, Dante offered a semblance of domesticity that you were desperate to believe in.
It was a lie, of course. A shallow, pathetic lie.
"I'm heading out," Dante said, not even looking at you as he checked his equipment. He didn't offer a kiss. He didn't ask if you needed anything. He was simply moving on to his next task, treating your presence in the room as an inconvenience rather than a partnership.
"The borders are shifting," you reminded him, your voice sounding thin in the quiet room. "The patrol said there was activity near the northern gate. Maybe we should stay close."
Dante laughed, a short, dismissive sound that curdled in your stomach. "They can handle it. Iâve got things to do. Don't wait up."
He was gone before you could answer, leaving you in a space that felt colder for his absence. It wasn't the first time he had dismissed your concerns, and it certainly wasn't the first time he had left you to fend for yourself when the threats intensified. He was a man who acted as though he was always one foot out the door, never fully committed, never truly there. He was the opposite of Daryl, who seemed to materialize whenever you were truly in trouble, like a storm front you could set your watch by.
A week later, the illness hit like a tidal wave. Slow, at first. But gradually getting alarming.
It started as a dull throb behind your eyes, a persistent, rhythmic beating that suggested a fever was brewing. You tried to fight it, pushing yourself through the daily chores, the training, the patrol duty. But by the third day, the world felt like it was tilting on an axis you couldn't control. Your limbs turned to lead, and the simple act of standing upright made your vision swim with black spots.
You were lying on your cot, shivering violently despite the warmth of the blankets, when Dante finally deigned to stop by. He walked in, his eyes scanning the room with... impatience.
"You're still in bed?" he asked, his tone laced with irritation rather than concern.
"I think Iâm sick," you whispered, your throat feeling like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. "Dante, I can't... I can't breathe right. Can you get me some water? Or find Siddiq?"
He sighed, a loud, theatrical exhaling of breath that made your head pulse.
"Youâre just exhausted. Everyoneâs tired, Y/N. Youâre overreacting. Just sleep it off. Iâve got to go report to the council."
He didn't touch you. He didn't check your temperature. He just turned and walked out, leaving you to the silence of the room and the suffocating heat of your own skin.
Hours bled into days. You drifted in and out of a haze of fever dreams, where the faces of your old crew morphed into the faces of walkers, where the sound of the rain outside sounded like the ticking of a countdown clock you couldn't stop. You were burning up, the illness stripping away your defenses until you felt like a child lost in a forest.
Then, the door creaked open.
You barely had the strength to turn your head. You expected it to be Dante, coming back to finally acknowledge that you were dying, but the silhouette that filled the doorway was broader, heavier, and carried the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth.
Daryl.
He didn't speak. He just moved into the room, his eyes scanning your prone form with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. He took in the state of the room: the untouched water, the mess, the way you looked, pale and sunken in the dim light.
"Dante said ya were fine," Daryl muttered, his voice rough. He crossed the room in two strides, his hand pressing against your forehead. His palm was calloused and warm, and the contact was so startlingly gentle that you let out a ragged sigh.
"I'm not," you managed to choke out.
"I can see that," he said, his brow furrowing in a mixture of anger and concern. He retreated, only to return a moment later with a basin of cool water and a rag. He sat on the edge of the cot, his weight dipping the mattress, and began to wipe your face.
He didn't ask what you needed. He didn't ask if you were sure. He just started working. He had already gone to see Siddiq, you realized, as he began to administer a mixture of electrolytes and bitter, herbal medicine. He was methodical, stripping away the layers of your confusion with the same precision he used when tracking a target.
"Where's Dante?" you asked, your voice barely audible.
Darylâs jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek jumping. "Don't worry about him."
"Daryl..."
"Drink," he commanded, though the harshness of the word was undercut by the way he gently supported your neck, ensuring you didn't choke.
For the next two days, Daryl Dixon didn't leave your side. He brought food that you couldn't eat, but he sat there until you managed a few bites. He kept the room cool, he kept the water flowing, and he kept the silence, a companionable, heavy silence that made you feel safer than you had in years. He was the anchor you hadn't realized you were dragging behind you.
On the third night, the fever finally broke. You woke up drenched in sweat, your head feeling clearer than it had in a week. The candle on the nightstand had burned down to a nub, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. Daryl was still there, slumped in the chair beside your bed, his head resting against his chest, his breathing steady and deep.
The sight of him, exhausted and disheveled, doing this for you, for a woman who, technically, belonged to someone else, tightened your chest in a way that had nothing to do with the sickness.
"Yer awake," he noted, his voice gravelly from disuse.
"You stayed," you said, stating the obvious.
"Someone had to," he replied, shifting in the chair. "Ya weren't gonna make it if I didn't."
The world shattered shortly after you recovered.
The news ripped through Alexandria like a wildfire. Siddiq, the man who had been the pillar of the infirmary, was dead. And Dante? Dante wasn't just a survivor. He was a Whisperer. He was the hand that had brought the plague into your walls.
You sat on the floor of your home, the walls feeling like they were closing in. The betrayal was a physical weight, a sickness that settled in your stomach that no amount of water could cure. You had let a monster into your bed, into your life, while the man who actually cared for you stood on the periphery, watching you destroy yourself.
The door creaked open. Daryl didn't knock. He didn't have to. He stood there, his shoulders hunched, his eyes dark and heavy. He didn't say a word about Dante. He didn't say "I told you so." He just walked over and sat on the floor across from you, his boots scraping against the wood.
"They're taking 'im to the holding cell," he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "Itâs done."
You hugged your knees to your chest, your hands trembling.
"I let him in, Daryl. I sat there, and I let him pretend to be something he wasn't. How could I be so stupid? I thought I knew what a predator looked like. I lived as one for years."
Daryl shifted, his hand moving tentatively toward you before settling on the floor between you.
"Ya didn't know. Nobody did. He was a snake, Y/N. Snakes don't show their teeth until they're ready to bite."
"I should have seen it," you whispered, the guilt clawing at your throat. "I have this knack for picking the wrong ones. Itâs like Iâm wired to find the people who are going to break me."
"Ya ain't wired for that," Daryl said, his voice rising in intensity. "Ya were lookin' for somethin' real in a world thatâs mostly fake. That don't make ya broken."
You looked up at him, your eyes burning.
"Why are you here? After everything? After I chose him? Iâm an idiot, Daryl. Iâm a liability."
Daryl leaned forward, his face illuminated by the flickering light of a single candle.
"Ya ain' a liability. Yer the only person who sees me, and I see ya. Dante? He was playin' a part. He never saw ya. Not really."
"And you do?"
"I've always seen ya," he murmured. The admission was raw, stripped of all the defenses he usually kept raised.
"Every time ya walked through those gates, every time ya went out into the woods with those scythes a' yours. I watched ya. I worried about ya. I didn't say nothin' 'cause ya were with him, and I wasn't gonna be the one to cause trouble. But I watched."
The realization hit you; the quiet, consistent loyalty he had shown you during your illness wasn't just friendship. It was the only honest thing you had experienced in years. The shame of your past choices felt suddenly, violently distant, eclipsed by the sheer gravity of the man sitting in front of you.
"I don't know how to do this," you confessed, your voice cracking. "I don't know how to be with someone who isn't a disaster."
"Maybe ya stop lookin' for the disaster," Daryl murmured, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over cold stone. He didn't reach out immediately. His hand hovered in the space between you, fingers twitching as he fought the instinct to pull away. When he finally pressed his palm to your jaw, it was with a clumsy, heavy sort of reverence, as if he were terrified that his touch, or the simple act of claiming you, would be the very thing that broke you.
He didn't look at you with the smooth confidence of a man sure of his footing. His gaze was frantic, darting over your features as if he were trying to memorize them before they were stolen away. His eyes were wide, haunted by a lifetime of names and faces that had slipped through his fingers no matter how hard heâd gripped them.
You leaned into him, hungry for the solidity, but his body was rigid. He wasn't just holding you; he was bracing himself against an impact he was sure was coming.
"Iâm done with the noise," you whispered, the truth of it anchoring you against the floorboards.
Daryl flinched, his jaw tightening until the muscle bulged.
"Noise⌠it don't stop, Y/N. You think it does, but itâs always waitin' right outside the wall. Itâs in the trees. Itâs in the air."
He looked down, his knuckles turning white where he gripped his own knee.
"You want somethin' real? Real is hurtin'. Real is watchin' people turn into nothin' before you can even get your hands on 'em. You want me? Youâre askin' for a heavy kind of weight. I ain't the kind of man that keeps folks safe. Iâm the kind of man that people lose."
"I don't need you to be a shield, Daryl," you said, reaching for him. "I just need you to be here."
The kiss was not an act of bravado. It was a surrender. He leaned in, his lips meeting yours with a hesitation that spoke of years of self-imposed isolation. He kissed like a man stepping into a minefield, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the explosion. It tasted of salt and the lingering, metallic tang of the apocalypse, of a man who had survived by keeping his heart buried so deep it barely beat.
His hand slid into your hair, gentle, holding you in place as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He was trembling. You felt the strength in him, the hard-won muscle and the grit, but underneath it all, he was shaking like a leaf. He was terrified of the connection, of the vulnerability that came with letting someone in. He was waiting for the moment when your eyes would turn cold, when he would fail you, when the luck heâd always counted on would finally run dry.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing shallow and ragged. He looked like a man who had just touched a live wire.
"I can't save ya," he breathed, the admission tasting like ash in the small, cramped room. "I try, but I... I lose everyone. I don't know how to do this without waitin' for the sky to fall. Every time I get close to someone, every time I let 'em get under my skin... they end up gone. I don't know if I can watch that happen to you. I don't know if I can survive it."
You looked at him, the man who had carried water for you when you were delirious, the man who had stood by you when you were foolish, the man who carried the world on his shoulders and felt every crack. You realized then that he wasn't rejecting you; he was trying to protect you from the shadow of his own history.
"Iâm not them," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "And youâre not the one who decides when I go."
Daryl let out a shaky, jagged breath. He pulled you close again, his arms wrapping around you with a possessive, protective weight that bordered on desperate. He didn't treat you like a prize; he treated you like a fleeting gift he was terrified to break. In the quiet of your room, while the world outside continued to spin in its chaotic, violent orbit, he was trying to learn a language heâd never been taught: the language of staying.
You lay back against the floorboards, pulling him with you, the danger of the Whisperers and the betrayal of Dante feeling like echoes of a life you were finally leaving behind. Daryl Dixon was a man of few words, a man of grit and survival, but in the silence that followed, as he held you, he was finally admitting that he couldn't do it alone.
Hiiiii i just want to tell you that your wring has gotten me through a really hard week in my life. Itâs been like my own little private escape from my problems and I know it sounds stupid but I just thought I would let you know. Thanks for taking your time to share because it makes people (me!1!!!!) happy :) hope youâre having a good day/night xx
this is the sweetest message i've ever gotten đ¤ thank you for reaching out love, hearing that my writing was a comfort to you means the world to me. if you ever feel the need to vent some more, my messages are always open! i really hope you'll feel better soon. here's a mini drabble in case you need some extra comfort!
Daryl exhales as the door falls shut behind him. God, he missed this. It felt nice to be out in the woods again, sure. He still hadn't fully adjusted to Alexandria with it's clean streets and meal plans. But things had changed, whether he liked it or not. Recruiting with Aaron just wasn't the same as surviving out there with you by his side.
It was his first time being seperated from you in months, and if he's being honest with himself, he thought he'd handle it better.
Didn't think it would be this upsetting, especially knowing you're safe behind Alexandria's walls, enjoying the comforts of civilization. Constantly thought about you â what you were doing, if you were alright, whether you missed him as bad as he did you. Barely could think straight, actually.
Nah, they'd have to work out something else in the future, he thought as he stepped into the hallway, carefully placing his crossbow in its spot on the floor. Maybe you'd just have to come too next time. His boots thumped on the wooden floor as he made his way into the living room. But before he could ponder on it for longer, his eyes fell onto you.
Oh... Something tugs at his heart, it cramps together painfully at the sight of you. Sunken into yourself, legs pulled against your chest. Tense. A pillow clutched tightly against you. You were asleep, lying on your side, messy hair spread out like a halo against the couch cushions. His eyes softened at the sight.
It was barely evening, but you had closed the curtains. The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting a dim golden glow across the room. You never sleep in the afternoon. Something obviously isn't right.
Daryl stepped closer instinctively, but the sudden motion must have startled you. With a small noise, you flinched, head jerking up as you took in the sight in front of you. The arm that had shot up to protect yourself limply fell back onto the cushions. You slumped back into the sofa, a tired expression on your face.
"Shh... 's only me."
You try to smile, but your lips quiver and the sight damn near breaks his heart.
He's next to you in a hearbeat. Shrugs off his leather vest in a fluid motion, discarding it somewhere on the floor. Now, he's only in his worn plaid shirt. It's dirty, sprinkled with dried walker blood in some places and mud in others, but you've never minded that. Right now, this is more important.
Daryl sits down on the sofa and engulfs you in his big arms. Instantly, you melt into his touch. A soft sound slips out of your lips, and he feels the tension in your body give away. His hand comes up behind your head to pull you closer into him, he's hugging you so tightly that everything else fades away like background noise. For his comfort or yours, he isn't even sure. Just knows that he missed you, and he's so glad to be back with you.
Something clearly happened while he was gone, but he doesn't press. You're like him in that regard, keep things locked inside, figuring them out on your own. He knows that you know he's ready to listen anytime.
Instead of questioning you, he toes off his shoes. "Hold on."
You pull away, and when your eyes meet his for a split second, he's shocked to discover that they're entirely devoid of light. There's a dull sadness shimmering below the surface. You look terribly exhausted, and Daryl curses himself for leaving in the first place.
He pulls his legs up so he's sitting sideways on the couch, leaning against the armrest. Motions for you to come lie between his thighs. And then he pulls you back against his chest, cradling your body. One hand rests on your shoulderblade, idly drawing circles into your skin. The other comes up to the small of your back, holding you snug against him.
You clutch his shirt, face buried in the skin of his neck, breathing him in. He smells like earth, cigarette smoke, sweat and something so distinctly Daryl that the hug immediately has a comforting effect on you. It feels so good to have him close again, everything else seems small in comparison. And you're still feeling tired to the bones, but he just holds you through it, chest rising and falling rhythmically beneath you. His heartbeat is steady, and it's calming you down.
Daryl presses a featherlight kiss into your hair. The tension in your shoulders melts away, and something in your heart breaks open. Quietly, a tear rolls down your cheek.
He feels it. Nudges your shoulder so you raise your head. His heart breaks at the sight of your puffy eyes... he hates seeing you sad like this. And knowing he wasn't there to prevent it.
His thumb comes up, brushing over your cheek. Daryl's voice is low, cracking slightly in the silence of the dimmed living room.
"Hey... s'fine. 'm here now, a'right? Yer okay."
You give a small nod. It's not very convincing. You sniff, and another stray tear rolls down your cheek. He leans in a bit and then, before you realize it, he's kissing the teardrop away, lips brushing just below your eye.
It feels vulnerable, such a tender gesture. He's cradling your face with both hands now, placing yet another peck on your other cheek. Then your jaw. Both eyelids, right as they flutter closed. His greasy hair tickles against your skin, and you can't help but smile. He's being extra sweet. Another one your nose...
Daryl stops just short of your lips. Your eyes have fallen closed, expecting a kiss. But he halts, and you feel his breath fanning across your jaw. Glance up at him, and he seeks your gaze. His eyes are soft, impossibly so.
When he speaks, it's a deep rumble in his chest. "I got you. Y'know that, yeah?"
And then, his lips land on yours. Gentle, it's barely more than a brush of the lips. You smile against his mouth, and his shoulders visibly relax at the sight when he pulls back to look at you.
Daryl huffs, pulling your head to rest against his chest again. "... Scared me there for a second."
He's deliberately careful with his words, not wanting to put pressure on you. There's a certain anxiety in his voice that you pick up on, as if he's scared he somehow caused your sadness despite being miles away.
You shake your head, giving his waist a small squeeze. Not your fault.
"... Anythin' ya wan' me ta do?"
God, he's sweet. Looking at you so attentively. You know he's ready to get into a fight with anyone who might've made you like this.
You look up at him, giving him a small, tired smile. "Just... hold me a little longer, please?"
Daryl's jaw tightens. Fuck, he really wishes he could do more. Shoot an arrow through whatever inconvenience had the audacity to make you feel like this, but it seems more complicated than that.
He knows you'll tell him about it eventually, when you're ready. Right now, you just need him to be there for you. And he won't let you ask him twice. So he just nods and gives you another kiss. You sink into him, and his heart warms at the sight.
Summary: Daryl isn't the type to use cutesy nicknames with his partner, especially not within earshot of others. But on the rare occasion he lets one slip, the reminder of your undeniable connection hits you both like a jumpstart to the heart.
Warnings: canon-typical violence
Word Count: 750
â headcanon that Daryl calls you babe normally, sweetheart to comfort you, girl when heâs irritated, and sunshine on good days.
On a seldom quiet afternoon, Daryl finds himself kneeled over working on his bike. The solitary pastime keeps his mind and hands busy when things get unnervingly quiet.Â
His grease-covered hands are too preoccupied to wipe the sweat off his brow, let alone grab the wrench he left annoyingly out of reach. When he catches a glimpse of you passing by at the perfect time, you hear that familiar drawl call after you with surprising casualness.Â
âBabe!âÂ
You double back just to be met with sheepishly avoidant eyes. Before either of you can really process or address the slip of tongue, Daryl gives a curt nod towards the open toolbox sitting a few feet away.
"Gimme a hand, will ya?"
You hand the wrench over along with a smug look, which earns a warning glare and a begrudging grumble of thanks in return.
Frantic voices cut through the ongoing gunfire and permeate the staticky airwaves over handheld radio. While it's reassuring to have your found-family fighting at your side, the absence of your other half when the chaos begins distracts you. Steadfast directions are thrown out to maintain some semblance of order, but it's difficult to absorb details as panic begins to rise.
Like a shining beacon, the buzz of Darylâs worried voice cuts through the surrounding frenzy from the walkie glued to your hip. As soon as you respond, the ensuing exchange is a concise flurry of âwhere are you?âs and âare you okay?âs from both ends. The huff of his breath is enough to tell you that heâs rushing to you as fast as he can, but he assures you anyway.
âJusâ hang in there, sweetheart. âM almost there.â
The endearing term slips through the cracks of panic, but itâs enough to steel your nerves and remind you of what youâre fighting for.
Black blood splatters on your skin and decorates your clothes as you take down your targets one by one. When a walker nearly knocks you on your ass, Daryl is there to take it out with a swift arrow to the cranium. With a sharp thwack, the walker crumples to the ground in a limp heap. A rough yank on your arm pulls you to his side.
"What's the matter wit' chu, girl?! Ya got s'mthin' to prove?âÂ
He takes the brief moment to lay into you before setting off again, clearing a path for the both of you back to the group. Something about the way he growls out the warning prior to effortlessly parting a sea of walkers has you following along without argument.
He may loathe your reckless insistence on sticking near the frontlines and putting yourself in harmâs way, but he has your back without fail.
Solo runs with Daryl are one of the only times you get him all to yourself nowadays. Venturing away from the group may come with its fair share of unpredictable concerns, but those worries are pushed to the back of your mind today. All you care about is the afternoon sun warming your skin, your hair whipping back like ribbons in the wind, the rumble of the bike beneath the leather seat, and the man you currently have your arms wrapped around.
Itâs been so long since your last outing alone together that this feels more like a date than a supply run. The notion puts a soft smile on your face.
Those mushy thoughts are abruptly interrupted by an unanticipated lurch of the bike that sends you reeling back as it picks up speed and roars down the open road. Your resulting flinch has you clutching him tighter, palms pressed to his front as you will your racing heart to climb back out of your ass.
Daryl spares a glance over his shoulder. The glimpse you get of an amused twitch at the corner of his mouth stirs up a familiar fluttering in your stomach. He returns his attention to the road, but not without laughing at your expenseâa deep rumble that you can feel more than hear.
âWatch those hands, sunshine,â he calls back over the drone of the engine. The rare levity in his voice is unmistakable. One of his hands leaves the handlebar to firmly readjust your grip around his waist.
âAt least wait âtil we stop movinâ tâ feel me up.â
You know heâs only joking, but that doesnât stop the very tempting idea from lodging in the back of your mind for the rest of the ride.
authorâs note: you just read my first ever fic! i started stitching together this teensy collection of daydreams on a whim and have been sitting on the draft for a long while now. considering sharing more substantial fics soon. lmk what you think! anyways, hope u liked it & thnx for reading âĄ
Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ⢠Prison Era ⢠Fluff ⢠Hurt Comfort ⢠No smut but sexual innuendo ⢠Established relationship ⢠short fic â˘
Summary: Daryl gets hurt during gate duty, and is too stubborn to get checked. Reader offers to kiss it better.
Hershel sat on one of the cell block benches, carefully dabbing antiseptic over the scrapes on Carl's knees after the boy had taken a tumble in the yard.
Nearby, Daryl lingered against the railing, favoring his left arm as he watched the scene with growing indecisiveness, unsure if to go get his arm checked or just man it up and let it be.
Hershel was still recovering from the loss of his leg so Daryl believed that he didn't need another patient crowding him while he was tending someone already.
Out of habit, he reached for his cantee with his injured arm and winced, before giving up and grabbing it with his left hand.
That noise of discomfort was enough for her to drop her book and stand from her spot at the bottom of the metal steps to the top cells.
Before Daryl could leave the room, she stepped into his path. "You've been avoiding using that arm all day. I've noticed," she said, matter-of-factly.
He narrowed his eyes. "You spyin' on me, woman?"
She folded her arms. "When am I not?"
He scoffed, weirdly flattered. "It ain't worth botherin' him over it," he muttered, pointing his chin towards the cell where Hershel worked.
"So let me take a look intead."
"Ain't broke."
"No," she agreed, "but if you keep pretending it isn't injured, you might make it worse."
"An' since when're ya a doctor, sweetheart?"
"Since when are you this stubborn, Daryl? Just sit down."
He looked ready to argue, but instead he lowered his gaze, grumbled something under his breath, then took a seat at the nearest empty bench.
She gently turned his arm, careful not to jostle it, but still, he hissed. "Easy, yer handlin' a livin' person not a walker."
"Shh, just want to see how bad it is..."
Daryl huffed, feigning annoyance even as he let her fuss over him. He had to admit, he didn't mind it as much as he thought he would. Having her so close, tending to him with gentle hands, made something warm settle in his chest.
Her brows were knitted together in concentration, as though scowling at the bruising hard enough might shame it into healing faster, and, who knows, maybe it would.
He hissed through his teeth as she gently eased his arm into a folded position against his chest. Once it was settled, she tied the ends of the wrap into a secure knot over his shoulder, keeping his arm comfortably supported.
"There," she murmured. "It's just for a few days so don't take it off, unless you plan on showering, but that's just hope talking."
"Funny."
Daryl then immediately reached for the wrap.
She swatted him. "What did I just say?"
He lifted his free hand in surrender. "Alright, alright."
She inspected the arm sling one last time before tilting her head. "Does it hurt?"
"Nah."
"Oh?" She nodded thoughtfully. "Guess I don't have to kiss it better, then." She hummed to herself as she slowly turned on her heel, as if about to leave.
But thenâ
"...It does hurt."
She paused mid-step and glanced back over her shoulder, doing her best to keep her expression neutral. "Hmm?"
Daryl rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand, cheeks warming beneath dirt. "Got confused with the heat an' all... Didn't hear ya right the first time."
A grin spread across her face. "So it does hurt? Awww."
His eyes widened at that patronizing sound. "Never mind, dammit!"
"Too damn late," she teased, reaching into her back pocket. She pulled out something that looked like a black bullet. After removing the cap and twisting the bottom, it revealed itself as red lipstick.
"This right here has healing properties," she said, twisting the lipstick up, "but only with multiple applicationsâŚso I will have to keep checking on you. Yep, Doctor's orders."
"Ya makin' fun of me?"
She applied her lipstick with practiced ease, a skill all on its own without a mirror, then pressed her lips together. "Never," she whispered. "Now hold still for me."
She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder right below the edge of his leather vest, lingering a moment longer than necessary.
His whole body went rigid, ears burning red as he fixed his gaze on the opposite wall, refusing to look at her. She continued her descent down his arm, unhurried, each kiss warm and soft, leaving behind a trail of lipstick marks that only made him more flustered.
When she reached his bicep, just above the edge of the wrap, she settled there, feeling the strength beneath her lips. She didn't move on right away this time, letting the moment stretch.
Then she looked up at him, and he finally flicked his gaze toward her from the corner of his eye, cautious, almost shy.
She gave his bicep one last kiss before resting her hand gently on the wrap. "Poor baby," she cooed. "You won't be able to use this arm for a while..."
Daryl forgot how to breathe, his face somehow turned even redder. Damn her
"...But I'll lend you a hand whenever you need it."
He groaned at the suggestionâbecause there was no way in hell she could look at him with those hooded eyes, like she wanted to be dragged back to their cell in the middle of the day, and not mean it any other way.
"Y/Nâ"
She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "You should let others take care of you more often," she whispered, her voice now gentle intead of teasing. "So don't hide when you're hurt, okay? Not from me."
He turned his head away. "Don' wanna be weak, is all..."
"You're not weak, Daryl." She cupped his cheek so he'd look at her. "But you are made of skin and bones and that has its disadvantages... You take care of me, and you don't think I'm weak, do you?"
He sighed, then kissed her palm. "Nah... Real pain in the ass, though." He muttered, pulling her in by the waist with his good hand until she was settled between his legs.
She giggled leaning forward to rest her forehead against his. Noses brushing, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Come on, let's take a nap."
His grip on her waist tightened. "Yes, ma'am."
Quick fic I wanted to write after I saw this silly picture on my feed:
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You kept your relationship heartfelt over the years. Neither of you had ever mastered the art of indifference. You asked about his life because you genuinely wanted to know how he was sleeping, whether his shoulder was still bothering him, whether he had finally fixed that leak in the trailer roof he'd been complaining about since Benjamin turned six. And Daryl, for all his awkwardness, never forgot to ask how your job were going, whether you'd finally gotten that promotion, whether your mother was still driving you crazy in that special way only mothers could. There was never any bitterness between the two of you, only the quiet ache of two people who had loved each other too deeply to allow resentment to survive the separation.
People often remarked on how unusually well you coparanted. Your friends admired it. Therapists applauded it. Other divorced couples in your circle envied it. Nobody ever seemed to realize that kindness had never been difficult for the two of you. The difficult part had been learning how to love each other less, and neither of you had ever really succeeded.
Daryl never missed a birthday, never missed Christmas, never missed a single baseball game, a school recital or one of Ben's painfully awkward middle-school performances where half the audience spent more time filming than watching. Somewhere between fishing trips and teaching him how to ride a bike, between helping with science projects and attending parent-teacher conferences, Daryl had become the sort of father men twice as wealthy and twice as educated often failed to be. And you had watched all of it with a pride you never quite knew what to do with.
Benjamin inherited his father's eyes and your smile. At thirteen, he had already grown tall enough to tower over you when he remembered to stand straight, though he slouched with the same unconscious stubbornness Daryl had carried. Watching them together sometimes felt surreal. There were moments when your son laughed exactly like his father, or furrowed his brow in concentration while tying a fishing hook, and you would have to blink away tears because life was cruel enough to separate you from the man you loved, yet kind enough to leave pieces of him scattered all over your child.
Every year without fail, by the end of Ben's birthday parties, you followed the same ritual. Friends and relatives would leave, Benjamin would disappear upstairs to unwrap and play with his gifts. You and Daryl would find yourselves sitting together with the remains of cake and half-empty beer bottles, catching up in that comfortable, familiar way that had somehow survived everything life had thrown at you.
Eventually, after enough alcohol had softened the sharper edges of caution, one of you would ask.
"So..." you'd say, pretending not to care. "Are you seeing anybody?"
And Daryl would always huff softly into his bottle.
"Nah."
Then, after a beat "You?"
And the answer was always the same. "No." Of course it was no. You tried to date once or twice, so did he. But nobody lasted or stuck, no once fited like he did.
Neither of you commented on the absurdity of it. You simply let the conversation move on, discussing work, Benjamin, or whatever movie he'd recently forced the two of you to sit through. Yet somewhere deep down, you kept expecting things to change. Surely one day Daryl would meet somebody. Surely one day you'd wake up and discover that all those years of loving him had finally faded into something manageable. But it never did.
And perhaps that should have told you something. Benjamin's thirteenth birthday had ended like every birthday before it. His friends had gone home. The house had quieted.
There was something weirdly comforting in the routine of cleaning together. It felt like playing house. Daryl washed while you dried. You moved around each other with the ease of people who had spent years sharing kitchens and bathrooms and sleepless nights. Every now and then your hands brushed, and neither of you seemed particularly eager to pull away.
While you kept drying dishes, Daryl had taken another trash bag to gather the paper plates with excessive frosting left. Somewhere in between that task, he simply stopped to watch you, you felt his gaze burn to your back and turned to look, his eyes softened immediately when he realized you'd caught him, his ears adorably turning pink.
And instead of looking away, he smiled. In that moment, you didn't see your ex boyfriend, or your son's father. It was the smile of the twenty-year-old mechanic who had stopped his motorcycle beside your broken-down car because you'd looked miserable.
And, perhaps because alcohol had loosened the restraints adulthood had taught you so well, perhaps because Benjamin was fully grown, your parents were old and life suddenly felt too short, or perhaps simply because you were tired of pretending, you found yourself smiling back in a way you hadn't in years.
Neither if you intended it, it was the lie you'd told yourselves. But none of you mattered when the distance between you grew shorter every second that passed, until you were getting pinned to the balcony with Daryl's tongue slipping into your mouth, getting betrayed by your own desire when a small moan escaped your mouth.
"You wanna go upstairs?" you whispered to his ear, you were already a mess. Daryl only stared at you, quietly asking "Are you sure?" before he captured you wanted this as much as he did, then nodded.
He carried you bride-style up to your room, making you giggle childishly, feeling like the honeymoon you'd never had. He locked the door of your room, crawling on top of you, and stopped for a second to glare at your face before he captured your lips again.
Daryl cherished your body in a way he never had before, he was always the type to worship you during sex, but this one was nothing like the times before, it was teeming with pulled back desires, years of yearning and the fact that he was knowing your figure all over again, after nearly a decade only dreaming to touch you like that again.
His hands were rougher now, calloused by the hard nature of his job, but every touch seemed stupidly gentle at the same time. You let him do whatever his mind came up with, sharing the moment until the black sky outside started to fade into different shades of orange. When you finally woke up, unsure of when you went to sleep, Daryl was still there.
You got up carefully not to wake him, and made breakfast for the three of you. When Benjamin came down the stairs, you and Daryl were having breakfast together, giggling like teenagers, and he avoided asking questions as to why was his dad there so early â and wearing the same clothes he had yesterday â contented by his presence, he simply stated a "Good morning, dad!" and you smiled at the scene, feeling a piercing pain to your heart you didn't allow yourself to have that for so long.
"Ben, do you have your bags packed, honey?" you asked as he stuffed a spoonfull on pancake to his mouth, and the boy only nodded.
"Bags?" Daryl asked confused
"Yeah, we're enjoying his summer vacation to take a little trip to my aunt Deanna's place in Virginia, Benjamin had never met this part of my family yet, my folks thought it was about time."
"Mhm" he nodded, trying to hide the disappointment, part from being set aside on a family plan, part from the fact you still listened to your parents.
"I'm sorry, I was going to tell you yesterday but- we uh- got distracted." you blush a little, remembering what exactly got you distracted from conversation. "You're welcome to come with us, though. If you want" you added. "My parents aren't going."
"I'm stuffed at the shop." he seemed genuinely upset.
"I figured. We won't be long tho, maybe just a week or two and then we'll be right back."
You sent Ben to pick up his bags as you packed your own. On his way out, Daryl stole a kiss from you, leaving you flushed as he whispered something along the lines of "I'll be waiting for you."
And that was the last conversation you remembered having with Daryl. When the world caved and you couldn't leave Alexandria safely with a 13 year old to care for, you settled right there for the next two years, raising your child and mourning once again what your relationship could've been, but this time fearing you would actually never have a chance in love again.
You had a bitter feeling in your gut that what you've had was it. That when you finally had to balls to do what you wanted, to give you and Daryl the chance you deserved, the world itself wouldn't let it happen. You felt guilty at times, that your ex crossed your mind far more than your own parents did. But then again, you were grateful for the life they gave you, but no money in the world lived up to how much Daryl made you feel loved, in ways your family never did.
So much that you'd spend your nights awake wondering if he was alive. If he was looking for you. If he assumed you were dead and moved on. You had nightmares constantly, your brain betraying you with gut wrenching scenes of his end, dying while he waited for you to get back.
Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ⢠Prison Era ⢠Fluff ⢠Hurt Comfort ⢠No smut but sexual innuendo ⢠Established relationship ⢠short fic â˘
Summary: Daryl gets hurt during gate duty, and is too stubborn to get checked. Reader offers to kiss it better.
Hershel sat on one of the cell block benches, carefully dabbing antiseptic over the scrapes on Carl's knees after the boy had taken a tumble in the yard.
Nearby, Daryl lingered against the railing, favoring his left arm as he watched the scene with growing indecisiveness, unsure if to go get his arm checked or just man it up and let it be.
Hershel was still recovering from the loss of his leg so Daryl believed that he didn't need another patient crowding him while he was tending someone already.
Out of habit, he reached for his cantee with his injured arm and winced, before giving up and grabbing it with his left hand.
That noise of discomfort was enough for her to drop her book and stand from her spot at the bottom of the metal steps to the top cells.
Before Daryl could leave the room, she stepped into his path. "You've been avoiding using that arm all day. I've noticed," she said, matter-of-factly.
He narrowed his eyes. "You spyin' on me, woman?"
She folded her arms. "When am I not?"
He scoffed, weirdly flattered. "It ain't worth botherin' him over it," he muttered, pointing his chin towards the cell where Hershel worked.
"So let me take a look intead."
"Ain't broke."
"No," she agreed, "but if you keep pretending it isn't injured, you might make it worse."
"An' since when're ya a doctor, sweetheart?"
"Since when are you this stubborn, Daryl? Just sit down."
He looked ready to argue, but instead he lowered his gaze, grumbled something under his breath, then took a seat at the nearest empty bench.
She gently turned his arm, careful not to jostle it, but still, he hissed. "Easy, yer handlin' a livin' person not a walker."
"Shh, just want to see how bad it is..."
Daryl huffed, feigning annoyance even as he let her fuss over him. He had to admit, he didn't mind it as much as he thought he would. Having her so close, tending to him with gentle hands, made something warm settle in his chest.
Her brows were knitted together in concentration, as though scowling at the bruising hard enough might shame it into healing faster, and, who knows, maybe it would.
He hissed through his teeth as she gently eased his arm into a folded position against his chest. Once it was settled, she tied the ends of the wrap into a secure knot over his shoulder, keeping his arm comfortably supported.
"There," she murmured. "It's just for a few days so don't take it off, unless you plan on showering, but that's just hope talking."
"Funny."
Daryl then immediately reached for the wrap.
She swatted him. "What did I just say?"
He lifted his free hand in surrender. "Alright, alright."
She inspected the arm sling one last time before tilting her head. "Does it hurt?"
"Nah."
"Oh?" She nodded thoughtfully. "Guess I don't have to kiss it better, then." She hummed to herself as she slowly turned on her heel, as if about to leave.
But thenâ
"...It does hurt."
She paused mid-step and glanced back over her shoulder, doing her best to keep her expression neutral. "Hmm?"
Daryl rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand, cheeks warming beneath dirt. "Got confused with the heat an' all... Didn't hear ya right the first time."
A grin spread across her face. "So it does hurt? Awww."
His eyes widened at that patronizing sound. "Never mind, dammit!"
"Too damn late," she teased, reaching into her back pocket. She pulled out something that looked like a black bullet. After removing the cap and twisting the bottom, it revealed itself as red lipstick.
"This right here has healing properties," she said, twisting the lipstick up, "but only with multiple applicationsâŚso I will have to keep checking on you. Yep, Doctor's orders."
"Ya makin' fun of me?"
She applied her lipstick with practiced ease, a skill all on its own without a mirror, then pressed her lips together. "Never," she whispered. "Now hold still for me."
She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder right below the edge of his leather vest, lingering a moment longer than necessary.
His whole body went rigid, ears burning red as he fixed his gaze on the opposite wall, refusing to look at her. She continued her descent down his arm, unhurried, each kiss warm and soft, leaving behind a trail of lipstick marks that only made him more flustered.
When she reached his bicep, just above the edge of the wrap, she settled there, feeling the strength beneath her lips. She didn't move on right away this time, letting the moment stretch.
Then she looked up at him, and he finally flicked his gaze toward her from the corner of his eye, cautious, almost shy.
She gave his bicep one last kiss before resting her hand gently on the wrap. "Poor baby," she cooed. "You won't be able to use this arm for a while..."
Daryl forgot how to breathe, his face somehow turned even redder. Damn her
"...But I'll lend you a hand whenever you need it."
He groaned at the suggestionâbecause there was no way in hell she could look at him with those hooded eyes, like she wanted to be dragged back to their cell in the middle of the day, and not mean it any other way.
"Y/Nâ"
She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "You should let others take care of you more often," she whispered, her voice now gentle intead of teasing. "So don't hide when you're hurt, okay? Not from me."
He turned his head away. "Don' wanna be weak, is all..."
"You're not weak, Daryl." She cupped his cheek so he'd look at her. "But you are made of skin and bones and that has its disadvantages... You take care of me, and you don't think I'm weak, do you?"
He sighed, then kissed her palm. "Nah... Real pain in the ass, though." He muttered, pulling her in by the waist with his good hand until she was settled between his legs.
She giggled leaning forward to rest her forehead against his. Noses brushing, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Come on, let's take a nap."
His grip on her waist tightened. "Yes, ma'am."
Quick fic I wanted to write after I saw this silly picture on my feed:
Rules: go on pinterest, type in the prompts down below, and whatever image pops up first is your image: color, quote, character, hobby, accessory, song lyrics, & flower.
Iâm so obsessed with your writing your so so talented the way you write is so beautiful i was wondering if you could do a fluffy fic were itâs Daryl x reader in Alexandria and theyâre both still adapting especially Daryl but Readers pregnant (she was before they arrived there) and seeing reader feeling safe and so much less exhausted due to finally able to rest and relax properly, plus getting more food. Daryl slowly eases to the idea of the place especially when Carol tells him that one of the residents is a midwife. Daryl decides that he needs to adapt not only for the safety of reader but for their baby to. đŚ˘
hi 𦢠anon!! this was such a lovely idea, i had a lot of fun writing it. i hope this has the vibe you imagined & that you like it of course! writing pregnant!reader was a challenge since it comes with an amount of established feelings that i haven't ever written before. thank you so much for requesting and reading my stories, i'm so happy you enjoy them (Ëśáľ áľ áľËś)
He wasnât happy when his mother burned alive. Not when his fatherâs alcohol habit got worse and they had to move to the trailerpark to support themselves. Not whenever he regained consciousness somewhere on the dirty floor at night, sporting a new black eye and a split lip. Not when his brother dragged him along into trouble. Not when Merle left for the military, not even when he came back. Not when he was high, not when he was drunk, and most certainly not when he was sober.
Actually, you couldnât really say that Daryl had ever been truly happy and at ease with himself and his life. It was like â something went wrong somewhere at the start and he just couldnât manage to repair it. Like everything from that point on was tainted, and nothing he touched stayed intact for very long.
Itâs okay. He has accepted it long ago. Being Daryl Dixon, useless redneck lowlife, drifting around the world without anything to hold onto, and nothing more than that.
Didnât think it would ever change. Most of the time, he didnât know if he wanted it to. There was this⌠this rage curling inside him, anger, at what, or whom, he didnât know. He was just convinced that the world had given up on him, so he gave up on the world.
But then, there was you.
You came into his life so suddenly, so unprompted and without reason that he didnât even pay any attention at first. Too dazed and caught up in his self pity to realize that this was different. That maybe, there was something for him in this life after all, something good that wasnât drugs or riding.
And he wouldnât have, that he knows, if it hadnât been for you showing him. Forcing him to see what this could become, almost violently, with a power he didnât think you possessed. Not that gentle soul, way too innocent to even get caught up in those circles you navigated with ease. A ray of light inmidst fistfights and black eyes.
Too caught off guard, Daryl didnât even get a chance to fight it. To grab something to hold onto to stop him from falling, hard. He was slipping, hands reaching out desperately, but they caught nothing. Then â your hand.
Again, he only blinked in disbelief, because he hadnât fallen into the dark abyss he feared, but it didnât make a difference. He was still down bad, and that in spite of standing in the same place. Holding your hand, too.
You just had this way about you, he began to learn as time passed. This way of taking all his fears away somehow. It was⌠strange, really. He didnât think there were people like you. Didnât think that there was anyone capable of making him feel like this, either.
⌠Happy. Yeah, thatâs what it was. And you were the reason for it. Huh.
With you by his side, it was like nothing could stop him. Not even the apocalypse. No, quite the opposite, it was like with the dead walking, he finally had something to offer to you in return. Protection, his survival skills earned with scars and sweat. Not that you had ever complained about what he gave you. Being beneath you was only something he worried about, never you; for in Daryl Dixonâs arms, you were right where you wanted to be.
Yeah, this was good. This was a type of love neither of you ever expected to experience. It was breathtaking in the best way, that one where you didnât even feel you needed air to live if you had his kisses instead.
Daryl was content with the way things were, more than that.
Yet, that day at the prison, everything changed and you managed to surprise him once again.
Pregnant. You were pregnant. He wasnât sure he heard you right at first. But surely, that was what you had said. Repeated it when he stayed silent, at a loss for words.
A million thoughts raced trough his head at once.
Ah, so thatâs why you were acting so strange the last couple of days. It explained a lot. For a minute there, you had him worried. Thought youâd led him here to that secret spot behind the cellblock for something else. If he didnât know any better, and if it wasnât for the years of whispered promises and forevers, heâd think you were going to break up with him.
He felt glad at first, but the relief was immediately overshadowed with reality catching up. You were going to have a baby. He couldnât believe it.
Lori was still fresh on his mind. The way they had taken care of her, done everything in their power to keep her healthy all winter, under the worst possible circumstances. The way Rick had looked at her, the way they had been prepared as best as possible, with prenatal vitamins and Hershel and â and the way it hadnât made any difference. How this was still the end of the world, and they had dug another grave that day.
Daryl stared at you. Into your eyes, pictures and memories of that time flashing trough his head. But you brought him back to the present, without even saying anything. No, it was that hesistance shimmering behind the colors in your iris. That⌠holding back. You looked insecure in a way he hadnât ever seen on you before. And it hurt, god, it hurt, because it made him realize that you had been cautious on purpose. Scared of his reaction, possibly.
He couldnât take it. You had every right to be, you knew him, and thatâs why you brought him here, to a place away from everything else. Why you had waited until this very moment to tell him.
Daryl knew you were right, but suddenly he felt the strong wish you had told him as soon as you had found out yourself. Because with one glance into your eyes, your own worries were laid bare. And he hadnât spent all those years living beside you to fail to understand that you where thinking about Lori, too.
So, without saying a word, he pulled you into his arms. Something broke, the tension, and finally, you sobbed, face buried in his shirt. And Daryl? He just tightened his grip around you, one hand coming up to hold your head, as if trying to shield you from the whole outside world. He was shaking. There you were, just beside the fences where walkers snarled and it reeked of decay, desperately holding onto each other, hoping it would keep you from being pulled down into the abyss after all, rotten hands clawing at your feet, but you stood upright, steadied by each otherâs presence.
It did.
It really did. Time continued to go by as if nothing had changed at all. And yet, between you, something had shifted.
Nobody knew at first. There was still the thought of an abortion looming in the air, it was just too early to tell them. Neither of you had made up their mind.
Yeah, you thought of Lori⌠but then again, there was also that image of Daryl, eyes glowing as he held baby Judith for the first time. And Daryl remembered the way it had felt, her tiny fingers wrapping around his, and he just couldnât help that warm sensation blooming in his heart.
Ultimately, he wanted you to decide. It was your body, after all, even though the risk would be lasting heavily on his shoulders, as well.
Daryl knew you had wanted children before the outbreak. It made sense, you were that kind of person. It would suit you perfectly, any kid would be lucky to be raised by you.
And yeah⌠he would be lying if he hadnât thought about it himself back then. Of course, it was mere fleeting thoughts, what-ifs, nothing more. The memory of his dad still too present; those scars on his back began to burn whenever he thought about it for too long.
He was terrified of being a father. Before you, it had never been part of the equation. Hell, there was no fucking equation, he was alone and convinced it would stay that way.
But then again⌠after only one month of knowing you, Daryl was sure that he could never deny you anything. That conviction only settled with every single one that followed.
And it was still the same, even now that the world had gone to shit. He realized it only a few days after you had told him. Spoke to you about it. And his eyes softened when you confessed that you just⌠just couldnât bear to lose another person. If it had been someone else, heâd have had half a heart to remind them that there was no person. Just a clump of cells, a mistake if you would. A moment of thoughtlessness.
But he would have been lying. Because right there in your stomach, something was growing. Not a person⌠more than that. A whole damn future.
So he told you that instead.
Still, nothing had been officially decided. It just⌠became a point of understanding between you that you would have it. And the pair of you remained convinced of that, even when the prison fell and with it, the idea of a life as the group had previously entertained it.
It didnât matter, because your and Darylâs future was right there inside of you.
With how protective he became, it wasnât long until the others found out. Heâd been possessive before, glued to your side to take out every walker that dared take a step towards you. If that hadnât been bad, it was most definitely worse now. There was this almost manic glint in his eyes, burning like fire. You were to only one capable of bringing him back, calming him down a bit in his paranoia.
All in all, you knew Daryl well enough to understand that he was very much in his right mind, even though his actions may have proven otherwise. He was just focused. Dead focused on keeping not only you, but the baby alive as well. No time to even think about whether this was the right decision after all.
Which was a good thing, because you knew about his fears. About his own childhood and the way he had looked at Carl after the boy had lost his mother.
It was all good. He was right to become your protector like that, it wasn't excessive, no exaggeration in the world you were living in. With the way you had morning sickness now from time to time or how you got weak if you went without food for too long. It almost never happened, though: Daryl was there after all, and he always managed to get you more than enough. You almost had to force him to take his half of the squirrel, because you truly couldnât eat another bite and he needed the energy just as much as you.
âBut youâre the one eatinâ fer two.â
âAnd youâre the one providing for three!â
That shut him up alright, though he grumbled something along the lines of you doing just as much as him.
In a way, keeping you and that child alive was a way to cope for Daryl. He had something to do â it mattered. The world may be crumbling all around you, but something pure and healing was growing inside of you, and it was a little bit because of him, too. There was more to reality than death, rotting and decay.
It felt good to know that. And sometimes, he allowed himself to dream for just a minute, of the future. He wasnât in those daydreams, mostly. It was only⌠you. You and your daughter, or son. He liked both ideas equally. How you would hold them in your arms, coo at them and that cute giggle he was sure youâd make. He wondered if it would do those too, crawling just like Judith was learning to right now.
It kept him going. That, and the way you kissed him thanks everytime he killed a walker before it could get to you. The way you squealed when the baby kicked for the first time, and how you immediately led his hand to your stomach to show him. The way he had something to protect, and you let him.
Even though you both know that you could have gotten that walker easily.
It did keep him going, yeah. Daryl wouldnât have minded continuing on like this, even though ultimately, he knew it wouldnât work out. On the run constantly, without home and safety. He didnât want you to give birth right there on the roadside. Good thing that there were still some months to go.
Still⌠it was a harsh blow having this taken from him.
Alexandria. He should have been filled with relief at the sight of the gates, the houses, the steady roads and well-kept front yards.
Still. To Daryl, it was a painful confrontation.
With white picket fences and a life he never got to live.
Alexandria is, yeah, pretty safe. Itâs what they always wanted to find, what Rick dreamed of and Hershel was so sure they would build someday. Itâs good, real good.
He should be happy about it. Hell, he is. Or at least, he felt immense relief the day they stepped behind those walls. And yet⌠itâs not the whole truth.
Daryl feels terribly guilty about it, but a big part of him wishes Aaron had never led them to the safe zone.
Itâs stupid, really. The town is perfect, actually. Thereâs enough food to last years, and guns, even though most of the people here donât even know how to use them.
Canned spaghetti and what, chocolate chip cookies? Wine⌠youâre not drinking any, of course, but thatâs only a small part of the generous buffet laid out at this pretentious welcoming party.
Now, Daryl doesnât mind cookies. Not like he loves eating raw meat, anyway. But⌠you hadn't even looked at the squirrels he brought back from outside, yesterday.
And thatâs what gets him. It doesnât even make sense, but⌠Well, obviously, Alexandria takes better care of you than he ever could. He hates himself for even thinking that, but itâs frustrating.
Itâs like⌠all these past months he has lived for you. To protect, to hunt, to provide â that had been his first goal everyday, hell, that was his expectation of the future. And he was really good at it, too. It wasnât easy, no. But he made it work. Brought back enough food to keep up your health. Even managed to scavenge a fucking jar of pickles once, when you craved them, from some cabin in the woods cupboard. Always gave you half of his portion, even though you insisted he should finish it. It was alright. He knew his limits. âCause there was really only one â you, keeping you alive. Heâd starve if that meant you would live, but he was also aware of the fact that you kinda needed him right now and forever, so death wasnât an option.
Of course not. You were too damn good a team.
Daryl noticed how it got more difficult right before they met Aaron. How quiet you got suddenly⌠Jaw clenched tight, he saw that the situation was hard on you. It physically hurt him to see you like this. Dragging yourself along the road, determined but exhausted. The morning sickness had really set in now, too, and you got dizzy more often.
He did everything he could to lift your spirits, despite the worry gnawing at his heart. Walked next to you, one arm slung around your waist, supporting your body. Gave you piggy back rides even though you protested, and that got a smile out of you. But he felt it fall against his shoulder, felt the effort it took you to hold on.
You were fine now.
Daryl knew that, though his heart hadnât fully caught on yet. His instinct was still to hover around you, ready to save you if something happened â but nothing happened. This wasnât the dark woods with snarling corpses all around, this was Deannaâs house.
This was a party, even though his flight instinct could have fooled him.
Nevertheless, he was watching. Observing, from the corner, making sure you really were as fine as your glowing eyes and the laughing suggested. Surrounded by a couple of Alexandria women, happily chatting away.
You looked pretty. As always. Stunning, as if you were made for cocktail dresses and social gatherings. Everything suited you.
Daryl felt uncomfortable. Like⌠he didnât belong here, in his muddy boots and the scruffy leather jacket. Frustrated, he took a sip of his beer. The only good thing at this party, except for your smiles.
âYouâre staring again.â
His eyes shot up. Hadnât even seen Carol approach, too caught up in his own thoughts.
Carol. She, too, seemed to fit right in. Hell, it was her who brought the damn cookies. Strange, truly. It was like everyone had become a different person overnight.
Slowly, his gaze drifted to you again. He didnât say anything, didnât have to. Carol probably saw right into his head, anyway. And there really wasnât any denying just what â who â he spent this whole evening looking at, either.
He felt the sofa dip as she sat down next to him. âHaving fun, pookie?â
A huff. Very funny. He probably radiated frustration. Would hope the Alexandrians knew you were together, otherwise this would look kinda creepy. Woud, if he cared about impressions.
He felt Carolâs eyes on him, didnât like it. How she assessed him with one glance, always looking right through him. If it was anyone else, he wouldâve felt uncomfortable.
â⌠She is.â
Daryl turned away from you across the room then, instead focusing on the woman next to him. âSâpose.â
And then Carol tilted her head, in that way that always made him yield and drop the act.
His voice was gruff, barely above a grumble. âAinât blaminâ her. Got all these new friends ân shit.â
âYou jealous?â Her eyes bore right into his, so he looked at his knees instead, picking at a loose thread in his jeans.
âNah.â It was the truth. Why would he be, when he knew you were happy? You deserved to have some fun. Last weeks had been exhausting for everbody, but they were straight up hell for you.
âBut you miss her.â
Daryl bit the inside of his cheek. Contemplating. Did he? You were right over there, after all. âAinât missinâ anyone. Just⌠making sure sheâs alrighâ.â
âWhy donât you go over and ask her?â
He looked up, then. Shot Carol a meaningful look. â⌠Sheâs busy.â
Carol just chuckled, and right now, he didnât like that sound. It was like she knew something about him he didnât. âOh, Daryl⌠Iâm sure sheâll make time for you.â
He scoffed. âDonât need âer ta.â
She raised a brow. âWhy havenât you spoken to her all evening?â
A shrug. He was looking at the floor again.
âWell even if you donât miss her, Iâm sure she misses you. You were glued together for months. Didnât leave her side. She must feel lonely, now.â
Daryl jerked his head into your direction, âThat donât look lonely to me.â
You were still smiling, sitting there with a glass of cranberry juice in your hands, nodding and smiling at something one of the ladies said.
âPookie⌠You really want to believe that, donât you?â Carol shook her head, a sympathetic glint in her eyes.
His head snapped back, frowing at her. âAinât just making that shit up. Sheâs happy, she deserves a break from everythinâ else.â
A pause. âYou mean from you?â
That silenced him for a moment. He meant⌠the world out there. Not himself in particular, but now that he thought about it⌠Yeah, sure.
âMaybe, I dunno.â He averted his eyes, didnât want to face her now. Too vulnerable.
Carolâs voice grew more quiet, then, gentle. She leaned in a bit, forcing him to look at her. âDaryl, sheâs gonna have a baby.â
His jaw tightened. âYeah, I know.â As if he didnât think about that constantly. He was scared shitless, even more so now that his coping mechanism â keeping you alive out there â was taken from him. No routes, scavenging, plans to take his mind off of things. No, he was just⌠thinking. Imagining the future.
He was really excited to hold it in his arms. Maybe itâd be like Judith. So small⌠Tiny enough to lay stretched out on only his forearm, reaching from elbow to palm. And heâd cradle it, heâd never want to let go. Cause it would be his, not someone elseâs.
Though secretly, he hopes itâll be just like you. With that glowing smile he loves⌠Nothing like him, hopefully. What he likes even more is imagining you holding it. He can see it clearly⌠And as soon as that day comes, he might just look away lest his heart explode.
⌠If that day comes.
Lori never got to hold Judith in her arms.
If he never got to hold you again, he isnât sure the baby could make up for that. He already loves it more than anything else, but if he lost you⌠Daryl isnât sure he could do that to the child. Maybe heâd have to ask someone else to raise it, then. Because seeing you in the baby everday⌠It would be so painful. His heart is already breaking just imagining it. Heâs not sure he could bear it⌠And he wouldnât have the kid suffer from that. No⌠heâs probably not gonna be a very good father anyway. If he didnât have you to help him, heâd fail for sure.
âDaryl.â Carolâs voice pulls him out of the darkness his thought were spiraling into with a rapid pace. Sheâs gripping his shoulders, looking into his eyes. Smiling, genuinely, not fake like she did when greeting Deanna earlier. âYou two are gonna have a baby. Thatâs a good thing!â
He suddenly feels tears burning behind his eyes, but he blinks them away, confused at his own reaction. His voice cracks slightly as he speaks. âWasnât a good thing for LoriâŚâ
Carolâs eyes soften. âItâs not gonna be like that.â
He exhales. âHow dâyou know that?â
She pats his shoulders comfortingly, then pulls back. Motions to one of the women surrounding you. âSee that lady? Green dress.â
He grunts, âYeah.â
âWell,â She glances at him from the side, triumpanthly. âSheâs a midwife.â
âA midwife.â Darylâs speechless. He knew that there was a doctor, surgeon or something, but that guy seemed a little off somehow. Father of two boys, and still so⌠cold.
âYou know what that is?â
He shook his head, voice low. âYeah⌠âCourse I do. Just didnâtâŚâ He trails off.
Carol smiles knowingly. Thereâs a teasing glimmer in her eyes. âWell, what did you think they were talking about?â
Daryl just shrugs, but for the first time in months, he feels confident. Or at least â not as scared. Like maybe, he likes Alexandria way better than he thought he did.
He sinks back into the cushions, shoulder bumping against Carolâs. The beer can rests on his knee, long forgotten. Instead, his eyes find you over the crowd again. Their favorite place to rest.
Warmth floods his heart, as he watches how animatedly you talk to that woman in the green dress. About what, he isnât sure. Doesnât matter, though.
Youâre happy. Thatâs all he cares about.
âItâs gonna be different, Daryl. It is.â
The get together stretches way into the night, becoming, well⌠A full blown party, actually. Thereâs liquor being poured, music, dancing even. Maggie and Rosita seem to be having the time of their life, dragging other people onto the âdance floorâ which is actually just the middle of the living room, now empty since Abraham has pushed the furniture to the side.
He doesnât care for parties, never did, though this is unlike any heâs ever been at. A grown-up party, one could say. For rich people. Very different from the ones Merle used to drag him to when he was younger. There was beer at those too, just, well, it wasnât as popular as other drugs being offered.
Today, Daryl has only had one beer and a few cookies, but he feels intoxicated anyway. Gets like that just from looking at you. Youâre not dancing, maybe because youâre not drunk, you only had juice the whole time. Instead, youâve been talking to Tara for a while now. Standing a bit on the side, apart from the others.
He feels relieved somehow, knowing youâre not completely been claimed by those Alexandria women. Itâs â incredibly reassuring to know thereâs a midwife in their midst, but still, heâs glad to see that youâre still with your old friends, too. Makes him feel confident heâll be able to drag you away, soon.
He loves seeing you happy, but you should get some sleep! Rest, for both your and the babyâs sake. And yeah, okay â maybe for his, too, cause heâd rather have you curled up against his side in bed right now than spend his time here with all the other people.
Darylâs been quietly waiting until what he thinks is an okay time to ask you to leave. But to his surprise, you make your way over to his corner a good half hour before that.
As soon as he realizes youâre walking towards him, his legs begin to move. He doesnât even think about it, just makes his way through the crowd and meets you halfway.
Wordlessly, right in the middle of the dimmed, noisy room, he slings his arms around you, holding you tight against his chest. You bury your face in his shirt, simply breathe for a moment. He physically feels the tension in your shoulders melt away. Just holds you like that for a while, grounding, until you pull away slightly.
And finally, he sees you smile again. For the hundredth time this night, and still, it has his heart beating out of his chest just like the first time all those years ago.
Your voice is soft, and you lean up to whisper into his ear so he hears it inmidst the loud thumping of the music. âTake me home?â
Home. Warmth floods his heart at the word, the word you use to refer to the house youâve been assigned. He didnât believe heâd ever think of Alexandria as a home.
He was a fool. A complete and utter idiot.
Lacing his fingers through yours, he nods. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and he starts walking, pulling you through the crowd. Thereâs people left and right saying goodnight, see you tomorrow, so nice getting to know you, and you wave at every one of them, kindly return their greetings, but he just keeps on walking until the door finally falls shut behind the two of you.
The sky is dark, the calm, cool breeze a stark contrast to the stuffy air inside. And itâs so, so quiet.
You exhale. Step a little closer so youâre leaning into his side, then. âWay better, huh?â
Daryl nods. Yes, infinitely better. Having you close again, and the noise far away. This is how he likes it best, and suddenly the thought occurs to him that even if it werenât for Alexandria, heâd be fine if you were standing next to him like this.
His arm comes up and slides around your waist. You take his free hand and lead it to your stomach, so itâs resting right against the faint bump.
Quietly, âI think itâs gonna be a girl.â
His eyes, formerly mesmerized by the sight of his fingers splayed across your tummy, come up to meet yours. âWhy?â
You smile. âI donât know. I just feel it.â
His eyes soften. âMhm. Iâd like that.â He rubs gentle circles across your skin, so careful, so terribly tender your heart warms.
âLetâs get going?â
He hums, hand coming up to take yours again like itâs second nature. âYeah. Yeah, okay.â
The town is quiet, only your footsteps echoing through the empty streets. It still feels safe. And Daryl lets his guard down for the first time in a long time. Relishing solely in the feeling of your skin against his, and the way you hold his hand tightly like you donât want to let go.
âShe kicked again today.â Your soft voice breaks the silence.
Daryl looks so excited, itâs really cute. Who would have thought the tough hunter could get so excited about small things! Except for you, of course. Youâve known him for years, and seen him giddy about many silly things.
âYou hurtinâ?â His brows furrow as he looks at you, squeezing your hand.
You giggle like itâs cute that heâs worried. âAww⌠no. Itâs not painful kicking, more like⌠I donât know. Itâs hard to describe. Julie told me thatâs a good sign. Babies get excited about stuff that happens in the outside world, as well⌠She mustâve liked the cranberry juice!â
Daryl nods, listening attentively. As if filing away all that information for later and like heâs already plotting to bring you bottles full of that juice for breakfast tomorrow. Even if itâs not something heâll find outside, hunting.
âShe that midwife in the green dress?â
You look up, surprised. âYou heard?â
He shrugs. Bites the inside of his cheek, footsteps heavy on the gravel. âCarol told me.â
And then, a big smile stretches across your face. âIsnât that totally amazing? I was so glad they had a surgeon, but now a midwife, too! Alexandria is really the best thing that couldâve happened to us.â
ââm glad too.â Darylâs eyes soften as he looks at you. And for the first time in the couple of days youâve been here, he feels like itâs true.
Like youâre right.
Like Alexandria is really the best fucking thing thatâs happened to you in a long while.
And like thereâs gonna be a future.
Daryl hasnât quite adjusted to everything, no. Not to the sheltered people who havenât seen the horros of the new world. Not to the fact that spaghetti is something he can have everyday now. Not to the squeaking door leading to the porch that he still has troubles opening, while you figured it out on first try.
But you just laugh when he fumbles with the lock, before motioning for him to step aside and demonstrating the trick with the handle again.
That... that's what makes him so confident that things are gonna work out, Daryl thinks as you playfully bow in a gentleman like manner to lead him inside. He scoffs and shakes his head at your antics, but he knows you saw that small smile on his lips.
You, not the fact that there's a midwife. Or a surgeon. Or cranberry juice and chocolate chip cookies. Just... you. The way you believe not only that everything's gonna be alright, but how you believe in him, too.
Like he isn't useless all of a sudden, now that you're not fighting for your life anymore.
Like it doesn't matter that you've got everything you need to survive right hereâ Or, better even, like you never stayed with him for the mere sake of survival at all.
He knew that, of course he did. And still! His heart is overflowing when you pull him inside and close the door behind you. When you flick on the switch and the hallway is illuminated, and it's all clean and he places his boots next to your shoes on the floor.
When you shimmy out of your dress in front of the bedroom dresser, putting on one of his tattered sleeveless shirt instead. He tells you you looked beautiful tonight, you smile and say this is way more comfy. He raises a brow at that, cause he doesn't even know why he still carries that thing around in his bag at all. Itâs torn on the side and there's holes in it, but you insist that it reminds you of the time at the quarry. Back when he was still a grump with a temper and poorly concealed, overwhelming devotion to you, and you were just as perfect as now.
He tells you that you look beautiful in that, too, that you always do, be it in a fancy dress or in his old shirt that's just scraps at this point. Crosses the room in two strides and kisses you, all while realizing with amazement how far you've come. That his past self, when he first met you all this time ago would've never thought he'd ever get to taste your lips, and that he'd probably have ran if he knew that he was gonna get you pregnant someday.
... And that he'd have come back the next day, a little sheepish but ultimately surrendering to the sheer happiness that idea brought to him. Apparently, he wasnât all that different now, Daryl thinks as he lies down next to you, pulling the covers up and making sure you're tucked in well and warm as you shut the lights.
He's still a little scared. But maybe... maybe that's a good thing. He bets his father wasn't all that worried about becoming a good dad. If he was, he would've had to be so disappointed in himself that he might've been motivated to change up his way of parenting.
Daryl is anxious to do better than that.
Staring at the dark ceiling, the fear is just beginning to set in â but then you move. Let out a sleepy sound, mumbling something incoherent before you turn around and snuggle into his side, one arm splayed over his waist. His breath hitches, heart beating before he carefully, so as not to wake you, reaches out to slide his own arm around your shoulder, one hand behind your head to pull you even closer, resting comfortably against his chest.
You begin to snore softly, and he smiles into your hair. All worries forgotten in an instant... Because you're here, and he's not gonna lose you. And what can go wrong if he's got you right by his side?
Gently, his other hand comes up between your bodies... Resting on your stomach. Maybe she'll kick again tonight, he tells himself and tries to keep his excitement at bay. He'd like to feel it.
Really, he's just looking forward to the day he gets to meet her in person. To holding her, and seeing you cradle her in your arms. It's that simple. It's gonna be the happiest day of his life â if it weren't for every other equally blissful day he's got to spend with both you and her.
He won't mind if he doesn't feel her kick, Daryl thinks as he drifts into slumber. His hand stays right in place, though. No... He just wants the baby to know that he'll be there, and he's not ever gonna leave.
Tag game 𩶠got tagged by @velvetdevastation thank you. Your pictures are lovely! You being a teacher is fitting. Very Miss honey coded đŤśđť
Tagging @holdmytesseract @lavandine @carnivorousbites (no pressure to do so, though, pookies)
It was a challenge to find 6 pictures as someone doesn't use their camera. Here we have things I've baked, tomatoes from my garden, a book, and...bingo night.
You would think I'm an elderly woman smh đ¤Śđťââď¸
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⢠Young Daryl Dixon x Young Female Reader ⢠legal age of consent ⢠second person ⢠inner monologue ⢠Merle being charming as ever ⢠no apocalypse or pre apocalypse a/u ⢠trailer trash ⢠underwear fetishism â˘Â inexperienced smut ⢠oral f receiving â˘
Summary: It all started with your panties...
Daryl sat on the steps of his trailer with his elbows on his knees, a forgotten beer by his dusty boots. A bee had done laps around the rim before dipping its fluffy body inside sometime during those minutes he left it unattended, choosing to watch you instead.
His new neighbor.
The previous tenant was an old prick with a gambling problemâif winning a third of the time still counts as a problemâwho couldn't put weight on his right foot because of the missing toes, and he fought relentlessly to keep his grass tall enough to function as a fence. It never did work as one. All it managed to be was an eyesore that attracted mosquitoes.
Up to the heart attack, he fit right into this place, unlike youâhis estranged grandchild.
Pretty
Quiet
Naive
Before you'd even spread his ashes, you had started making the place your own. Potted flowers and herbs, lace curtains, fairy lights, and even a radio by a foldable lounge chair outside.
It only took a couple of hours for the radio to get stolen from your little piece of trash heaven, though it only took Daryl a couple of minutes to get it back. It wasn't even a nice radio, but the fact that it was so easy to take it from you was a good enough reason to do it.
Yet god forbid some bastard steal the view from his window: You turning red as a tomato, mouthing the words to songs that were older than you both combined.
You were across from him, laundry basket propped against your hip, hauling sun-dried items from the clothingline. You never bothered removing the clothespins properly; the tugging sent little plastic clips flying into the grass, where they'd stay forgotten until your next laundry day or until you had to retrieve them before his mower turned them into confetti.
He had warned you not to whine if and when his ol' reliable shredded whatever shit you left outside, and so far, that was the longest string of words he'd said to you.
Your sandals were his first victims
Your gnomes were a close second
Last time, though, he almost mowed over your underwear.
Daryl was ready to keep his word and run over that item of clothing that fell from the basket on your way back insideâbut he didn't. Instead, he found himself bending down, balling them in his hand, and stuffing them into his pocket.
Those panties with a blue bow were still in his bedside drawer, waiting for their next date with his fist and cock. If he kept watching you sweat through your tank top, a rosy blush spreading across your nose and bare shoulders, he'd be doomed to indulge every perverted movie running through his head tonight, assuming Merle didn't drag him off somewhere first.
He wondered if you missed those panties, if their absence would have you retrace your steps, leading you to him. If you saw him taking them, saw him bringing your radio back. Saw the scrapes across his knuckles, because that's the only way people kept their belongings off limits around here.
He wondered why he cared at all.
You pulled the last shirt from the line, tossed it into the basket, then glanced over your shoulder to send him a nod. It was a I've felt your eyes on me for fifteen minutes straight and I'm not making this a thing type of nod. Not that you owed him more than that, but still, it bothered him. You'd been neighborly before: small talk, weather, the usual. He'd gotten used to it, even though his dry attitude gave you the opposite impression. Guess it was a matter of time before you'd stop being friendly. That bothered him even more.
So he cleared his throat.
"I was thinkin'..." he began, his southern drawl cutting through the lulling sounds of late summer surrounding you both. The humming of cicadas, and the wind chimes hanging from your awning became background noise to whatever he was making an effort to vomit out. "Since I'm mowin' yer side, it's only fair ya do my laundry." Could've jus' talked about the heat, dumbass.
You blinked, glancing between him and the yard like you were checking if he was talking to someone else, not expecting him to start a conversation let alone makeâwhat you assumed wasâa joke. "I said I'd pay. You didn't take the money," you reminded him, thinking back at the first time he crossed the invisible line separating his side from yours two months ago.
~~~His short hair, the color of oats, stuck to the back of his neck as the lawnmower chewed through the weeds and anything in its way. You waved a couple of bucks, yelling over the motor for him to take it and asking if he wanted something to drink too. He didn't talk. Didn't even look at you; he just waved you off like a pesky mosquito buzzing too close to his face, then kept mowing. ~~~
"I ain't want ya money, girl. Maybe I jus' want my stuff to smell like roses too."
Playing along, you tilted your head as if considering it. "So you trim my grass...and in return...I have to clean skid marks off your boxers, correct?" Youd set the basket down and moved closer with a smirk. "Not sure if that's a fair labor trade."
"Watch it," Daryl snapped, but there was no real bite to it. He pushed himself off the steps to meet you halfway because, if he planned jerk-off to you later, he might as well get a good whiffâfor the sake of a vivid fantasy, of course.
It was the only motive behind the conversation, at least that is what he said to himself.
"Dirt and motor oil I can own ta that," he said. "But shit? Ya leave that to my brother, Merle."
You snorted, loud and a little apologetic, your eyes crinkling as you smiled at him. The unladylike sound made the corners of Daryl's mouth twitch, but he wiped that look off fast before it got comfortable enough to stay, though not fast enough that you missed it.
You couldn't really miss much standing so close to him.
He had eyes the color of wornout denim
Two moles on the corner of his mouth
Sweaty
Earthy
He smelled like concrete after lightning
"I'll bake you something," you said, folding your arms.
He blinked. "What?"
"I said...I would bake you something." Your eyes dropped to the ground as you rocked back and forth on your heels, suddenly feeling a little silly for suggesting it. Judging by the look on his face, it was as if youâd spoken another language. "You know...as payment for mowing my poor excuse of a garden."
He felt his ears burn. This wasn't part of the plan, though he hadn't exactly had one to begin with. "Suppose that ain't a terrible trade..." he muttered, scratching the hollow under his cheekbone; his eyes avoided yours and landing on the dumpster by his trailer instead. S'many goddamn bees 'round since you got here.
You smiled, victorious. "Good. We have a deal then, neighâ"
"Daryl."
One beat
"...Daryl," you repeated with such sweetness that he could hardly believe that was his name he was hearing. You turned to retrieve the basket before heading inside, waving goodbye as the screen door shut behind you.
By the time you had crossed the distance to your trailer, his heart sped up like it had accepted something before he had.
Ah, Fuck.
He took a step back and inhaled as if he'd been underwater. How he managed to keep a conversation with you going was one thing, but getting a cake from it all? Maybe he should've played the lottery while he was at it.
Maybe things were turning around for him.
Maybeâ
He sneezed loud enough to lose his balance.
He'd been so fixed on you that he hadn't realized he felt like complete and utter dogshit. He wiped his runny nose with his forearmâthe fever officially welcoming summer.
You hadn't seen or spoken to Daryl in two days. In fact, the man had not stepped out of his trailer once. You knew this because you'd gotten into the habit of watching him from behind your curtains. It had started as a way to pass the time after moving in, but somewhere along the way, curiosity had turned into something you couldn't name.
You'd learned that Daryl was a creature of habit.
He woke before the mourning doves even began to coo and vanished into the woods for hours, returning either with nothing at all or enough meat to last the week. He took on odd jobs around the trailer park, fixed cars for cheap, and spent most of his time alone rebuilding an old bike he'd salvaged. At night, he would leave with his older brother, and you wouldn't catch sight of him again until the next day.
The nights when he stayed in were the ones you preferred, because he would sit outside for hours and stargaze with such an unguarded look on his face that you felt compelled to look away, but you never did.
Perhaps, like everyone else, you were only meant to see the scowl he wore for the worldâand that version of him was like nightshade blooming, something rare in nature, reserved only for the crickets and the moon.
Or maybe, with proper care and patienceâand cakeâhe would open up to you too.
The lack of rain meant the grass was brittle and dying before it ever grew past your ankles, so his mowing wasn't in the cards yet. You could bake him something for the previous mowings, though. It seemed fair, and it was an excuse to go see him. You didn't want to dwell on why you wanted to see him, so you snatched your apron and got to baking instead.
Unsure of what he liked, you decided on something safe. He wasn't pickyâyou'd seen him haul roadkill enough times to support your theory that he would eat anything. Just nothing with peanuts, in case he was allergic.
An hour later, the cramped kitchen smelled of lemon citrus and powdered sugar.
The bees crawled up and down the screen door, desperately trying to get inside. They had claimed your basil and lavender as their own, but this cake was off-limits.
By the time it was cool enough to dust with powdered sugar and little daisies, the sky had turned indigo, and the streetlight had beckoned all the flying insects in a mile radius with its flickering to come closer.
You skipped the short distance between trailers with the cake in your hands.
It had been a long time since you baked something for someone else. Like your parentâ wherever they wereâyou had a persistent itch to move around with barely any money, which meant not staying in one spot long enough for strangers to turn into acquaintances. It felt nice, though, to put time and care into a place and someone else. You still weren't sure how long you'd stay at the trailerpark. The plan had been to put your time into being your grandpa's caregiver, knowing he would changed his mind and decided he would rather be alone eventually, but death took him before he ever got the opportunity to kick you out. You thanked thanked him for his timing.
You knocked on the door
Fixed your dress
The door opened
Your smile dropped
It wasn't Daryl
Merle stood there at the top of the steps instead, leaning against the frame with the same hooded yet ready-to-bite look he always carried around like a pocket knife.
"Well, well," he drawled. "What do we have here? Ya lost, little lady? Y'trailer is that way." He pointing downward with his index finger and made a small circling motion for you to turn around.
"Not lost, just wondering," you looked past him into the empty trailer, 'if Daryl is here?"
He scratched his chin. "Depends. That cake ya holdin'âis it for him?" His eyes landed on the cake, on your face, on your knees poking underneath the short dress, like he was giving his eyes enough time to decide what looked better, because for people like him, it was a sight for sore eyes.
Finding dog shit in his mailbox? Sure. Getting a brick thrown at his window because he may or may not have slept with someone's sister? Possible. A pretty youngling like yourself bringing cake to the Dixon residence? In his wet dreams.
"It is. For being helpful with mowing my side."
"That so? Quite the oasis y'got over there." He chuckled. "How about this. I will personally give it to him, alright? Heâs out. Somethin' about a headache. Dunno. Might be a while." He tilted his head toward the doorway. "Unless ya wanna wait inâ"
You shook your head before he could finish asking. 'Tell him thank you," you said, handing over the cake. "And that I hope he likes it."
"Will do." He smirked, lifting the cake to his nose and taking in a loud sniff. "Don' worry, buttercup. I know my baby brother appreciates such a tender gesture."
He shut the door with his boot before you could ask about the headache.
The next day, sitting hunched on a milk crate with a screwdriver in hand, Daryl worked on replacing the clutch on his bike, muttering a deflated curse every time a stubborn screw refused to cooperate.
The flu had a tight hold on him. Every time he looked up, pressure throbbed behind his eyes, and every time he looked down, his sinuses clogged until he was forced to breathe through his mouth. His body begged for a few more hours of sleepâfor a bowl of chicken noodle soup, for a cool cloth pressed to the back of his neck.
Like a sissy, he thought, too stubborn to rest. He had lived his whole life without any of those things, so why expect them now? Hell, if his old man was still kicking, he would've gotten the whooping of his life for complaining or being useless.
Daryl had been so wrapped up in his own misery to pay attention to what was going on across from him. It took a loud crash to cut through that fevered haze that dulled his senses, and when his head shot up he found you getting cornered by a stranger.
The man laughed humorlessly, swinging his leg as far back as it could go before bringing it forwardâboot striking the ceramic gnome, sending it flying towards the side of the trailer, missing you by an inch, and shattering into pieces like the first one.
Daryl wasn't sure how he made it to you so fast, because one second he was by his bike, then the next he was pressing the tip of the screwdriver against the man's throat, as a string of pleas came out of their mouth.
Sharin'
Whore
Relax man
Don't!
"If I catch ya 'round here againâmessin' with my neighbor, I will have yer ass breathing through a custom airhole, understood?" He pressed the tip deeper, voice low, then louder. "Understood?!"
"Y-yes, yes! Understood!" The man begged, tossing his head back in a weak attempt to make space between his throat and the rusty tool.
Daryl used his last ounce of strength to hurl the man to the ground, where he stayed for a second, before scrambling back on his feet to run off. Daryl held his ground until the man disappeared from sight, and only then did his shoulders slump. He braced a hand against the trailer, visibly struggling to stay upright.
You quickly moved towards him, offering a shoulder for him to lean on. "Daryl, what is it?"
He shook his head, trying to straighten up on his own. "M'fine, girl. Just the heat."
You frowned, pressing your hand against his damp forehead. "You're burning up! Come on, let's go inside."
Daryl resisted yet somehow ended on your couch.
He groaned, watching the ceiling fan spin on the ceiling, though it was turned off. Or was it turned on? Everything in the room was spinning, regardless.
He turned to the side to find you hovering over him, messy hair spilling from your bunâbrows knit together, focused on taking care of him as if he was worth the trouble. You brushed the damp strands from his forehead before pressing an ice pack against it. He flinched at the cold shock, then sighed and melted deeper into the nest of cushions.
S'comfy... smells good...
"The hell is this?" He muttered, attempting to lift his head to look around, only for you to stop him.
"You're in my place. Now stay still. Don't be difficult."
"Difficult? I jus' saved yer ass."
You clicked your tongue, both grateful and mad at him. "Well maybe next time, don't tell other people I pay manual labor with cake, alright? Apparently, that's code for something else around here..." You tried to brush it off as a minor inconvenience, as a joke even, but it was clear you were shaken up by the situation. He could feel the unsteady grip you had on the icepackâeyes darting from him to the door as if expecting another unwelcomed visitor, sent by Dixon, to show up.
Daryl wrapped his fingers around your wrist, lowering your hand with the icepack. The kicked puppy look on your face made his chest ache more than any sickness. "Not sure if it's the fever, but yer makin' no sense. I didn't say any of that, y/n."
The gentle yet firm hold he had around your wristâthe way he called you by your name made your heart flutter. You wanted to believe that at least one person had your back around here. You wanted to believe him, especially.
So that meantâ
"Oh." You let out a dry chuckle at the realization. "Guess I made the wrong impression on your brother."
"Merle? What does he have ta do with this?"
"Last night, when I dropped off your cake heâ"
Daryl didn't need to hear the rest to figure it out. He abruptly got upâfever be damnedâready to beat the shit out of his own flesh and blood.
~~~He'd made his way back to his trailer late at night from a walk to the gas station for painkillers. He glanced at your trailer to see if all the lights were out before heading inside. He found Merle in front of the TVâmouth open, empty cans sprawled around his feet. Nothing out of the ordinary, but then he stopped and squinted, doing a double-take when he noticed a powdery substance around Merle's mouth. Damn pig, he thought, but he was too tired to question it, let alone care.
He would not know you'd been there a few hours ago. ---
"Merle, you son of aâ" He felt a flicker of disappointment for missing the cake you made for him, but it was overrun by the anger he felt towards Merle for running his mouth like thatâdragging your name through dirt before you'd even settled down. He knew how fast rumours spread around here, and how hard they clung once they did.
He wasn't sure if it was the fever that made him want to vomit on the carpet in that moment. No. It was the guilt in his stomach trying to claw its way out.
He had stolen from you.
Fantasized about you.
Like his brother, like that bastard moments ago...
He wasn't any better.
You pressed a hand to his chest, easing him back onto the couch before he could throw himself into a fight you knew he had no chance of winning in his condition. "Did you at least get to try the cake?"
Daryl just turned his head away.
You took that as a no and walked to the stove to make teaâsomething with ginger and honey for him. His voice was still charmingly rough, but you could tell each word scraped at his sore throat. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed you were the one who said those things about me," you said, grabbing two of your silliest mugs, hoping it would lighten the mood.
Daryl winced. "The hell are ya apologizing for? The only thing y'done wrong is move into this dump," he muttered, eyelids becoming too heavy to keep open.
Christ, if it was easier when the only thing I wanted was to jerk-off to yer panties.
The realization landed like a punch. He wanted you to bake for himâto fuss over him when he got sick. He wanted to stay on your couch, drink tea from that ridiculous mug with boobs on it... He wanted to know how your days went. He wanted to keep you safe, help you with your garden tomorrow, then the next day, and the day after that, for as long as you'd let him.
Daryl wanted whatever this was with you.
You sat down on the coffee table in front of him and set the mugs aside. Sometime during those minutes you were making tea, he'd stretched out, muttered something about you living here being a mistake, and then closed his eyes.
You knew better than to take anything he said in his state personally, yet you still found yourself sitting alone with your thoughts, and the possibility of staying or going.
You leaned forward to trace the slope of his nose with your fingertip, getting a twitch from him before he swatted lazily at your hand.
"You saying I should move away, Daryl?" You whispered it more to the room than to him, but still, you hoped he would wake up and tell you what you wanted to hear.
You could move away as many times as you wanted, but loneliness waited for you everywhere you went. It had become a sort of entity that, in its attempts to protect you from other people and the heartache that came with them, only made things worse.
Daryl saying that you being here was wrong felt like waking from a dream before the good part happened. Deep down, you were just a lonely girl who always kept a suitcase within reach, never stopping her dreams of the day she would turn around and find she was worth chasing after.
Maybe it was time for you to wakeup for good.
smut below the bow
You sighed, getting up to leave when a hand reached out for you.
Daryl's calloused fingers found their way to the back of your neck, pulling you in until his mouth crashed against yours, drawing a gasp out of you.
The kiss was messy. Salt from his fever mixing with the lingering sweetness from the tea on your tongue. Inexperienced. Teeth crashing. Noses in the way. Desperate. In its attempt to keep and possess something too precious to let go of.
He pulled you onto the couch, rolling on top of you, tossing cushions out of the way to make space. He wasn't sure if this was a fever-induced dream, but he couldn't stop kissing youânot when you were finally within reach, yet talking nonsense about leaving.
He felt your hands ball in his shirt, struggling to push him off. He groaned, unlatching from your mouth unwillingly, but with enough restraint left to do so.
You looked wrecked trying to catch your breathâeyes glossy, bottom lip swollen, a string of spit that could've belonged to either one of you on your chin, and sweat pooling in the hollows of your collarbone due to his fevered body heat. He cradled your face with his hand, and you melted into itâbreaths evening out and eyes fluttering shut to take in what just happened.
You looked so sweet that he couldn't believe it, so he pinched your cheek hard enough to make you yelp.
"Mm! What was that for?!"
He shrugged. "Jus' Checkin' if I'm dreaming.'
"That's not how that works, idiot!" you snapped, then turned your head away when he didn't break eye contact, like you were used to. Oh, and now he kissed you? The fever must've melted something in his brain, you thought, looking for an explanation for your dreams becoming tangible.
"You're not thinking straight. We shouldn't bâ"
"Not like I'm drunk, girl."
You rolled your eyes but couldn't help smile.
Then you noticed the hollows under his eyes and the tremors in his arms on either side of your head. Clearly, he was fighting to keep from collapsing on top of you, and you couldn't just ignore it.
"You need to rest, Daryl."
"Nah, I need..." He signed hard. "I need ya, please."
You swallowed the lump in your throatâheart racing, resolve crumbling just from a plea and from the way he looked at you, like you were the night sky. It made your hands reach for him before your brain decided otherwise. "Just go slow."
"Slow's alright."
You cupped his face, thumbs brushing the flush across his cheeks, before drawing him closerâhis eyes closing. The meeting of lips was slower this time, but just as needy. He let out a whine against your mouth, and the sound made heat pull between your thighs until you felt a heartbeat there. Your hands moved across his shoulders, tracing the curve of his strong biceps before sliding down his toned back. You found the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to slip your hands underneath the fabricâfingertips mapping the line of his spine, tracing the unexpected ridged scar tissue that made your brows knit together in wonder.
He tensed.
"Don't." The word came out harsher than he intended, but the vulnerability under it didn't escape you. "Jus' keep 'em on my hair."
"O-okay."
When he felt your hands settle in his hair again, he relaxed then kissed your neck, the space between your breast, your belly. His decent continued until he settled between your thighs, hoisting them so they would rest over his broad shoulders. He pushed up your dress, exposing another exact pair of the panties he took.
He cursed under his breath or maybe it was a prayer; you couldn't hear clear enough over your own breathing.
He leaned forward and tugged at the little blue bow with his teeth, the elastic snapping back against your skin with a sting. You giggled, nervously, and ruffled his hair. He smirked, nuzzling the damp spot forming in the center of your panties.
You gasped, lifting your hips to chase the teasing friction. He gave your clit a kiss over the cotton, then another. It felt better than you could've imagined, but it wasn't enough. You didn't want him to go slow after all. "More, fasterâanything," You whined, impatiently. "Please, it aches."
"Mm, that right?" He teased, hooking his finger around your panties to pull them to the side, exposing your drenched pussy. "Look at ya, S'pretty." He drawled, before he licked a stripe from your entrance to that engorged, pink button. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste and those shy little sounds you made after each kitten lick.
His poor cock was strained and leaking precum inside his boxers, so he couldn't help grind against the couchâdesperate to ease his own ache. If it wasn't for the fever he would've carried you to bed and fucked you properly by now. Make every fantasy he once poored into your panties a reality.
He tried not to think about it too much for the sake of keeping his load in, but it was easier said than done.
his cock bulging in your belly, cum spilling out when he was finished, only to go at it again and again, until you got knocked up with his redneck babiesâtrapping you forever.
Breathe, dammit. Gotta make her finish 'fore I pass out or cum, he thought, and then the possibility of just dying while eating you out made a delirious, gravelly laugh rumble in his throat.
The never-before-heard sound made your head clear up abruptly. You knew he wasn't in his right mind, but still, you felt your face burn from whatever it was he found so funny. Without so much as a second thought, you flicked his forehead hard, just in case he was laughing at you.
Daryl sent you a glareâgiving your hip a sharp smack in return, before he gave you something better to blush about. His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking on it until your eyes rolled back into your skull and your fingernails clawed at his scalp.
"Ohmmâfuck!" You cried, squirming under himâshyness out the window.
He groaned against your skin, his mouth relentless. That' more like it.
He swirled your clit over and over, guessing you were close by the drunk look on your face, and the way you began to fuck youself up into his mouth with short rocking motions.
"Ya like that, huh?"
"Y-yeah, baby, so good," you whimpered, the petname nearly undoing him on the spot.
Baby? Shit, I ain't gon' last.
Daryl lifted his head, replacing his tongue with his thumb, drawing tight circles around your clit, while he waited for saliva to gather under his tongue. "FuuckâCome on, sweetheart." He spit right on your pussy, thumb speeding up and mixing all the fluids together. "Y'can do it."
That definitely did it.
You cried out as the tight knot in your belly finally snapped. Insides spasming. Vision blurring. Heat spreading from your core to your limbs, until you trembled.
He groaned against your pussy as a warm gush of juices hit his tongue. He lapped every drop, like the parched mutt he was, until his poor cock couldn't take it anymore. He dropped his head on your lower belly cursing through gritted teeth as he drove his hips against the couch hard, until thick ropes of cum shot out, leaving a pathetic mess in his jeans.
The room fell silent as you both went slack, leaving only the electric hum of the old appliances and the patter of rain against the windows fill the space was once occupied by ragged breaths and pleasure-slick skin.
Then Daryl's breathless voice cut through the silence. "You move away, sweetheart...I'll hunt ya down."
The tender threat pulled you out of your dazed state. Your opened your mouth to say somethingâyou needed toâbut then you heard it. You lowered your gaze toward the sound, expecting blue eyes to be waiting for you. Instead, you found his cheek smooshed against your belly, brows relaxed, and his lips slightly parted.
Snoring
You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh, then ran your fingers through his hairâgentle enough not to jostle him awake, though even in sleep, he frowned and tightened his hold around your middle.
He could sleep for as long as he wanted, you thought, because for the first time in a long time, staying exactly where you were didn't feel like such a bad idea.
đ FIN đ
Note:
I love old Daryl, but I had this scenario of young 20's Daryl living in a trailer park snatching panties, and yup.
This is my first time writing smut, so have mercy on me!!!
The word clit doesn't sound like a real word anymore.
Anomia will forever kick my ass. It took me 10 minutes to remember the word curtain.
Hope ya'll liked it! This was so far the longest fic in my drafts. Never again. Gon' stick to shorter ones for a while. My poor brain.
(Dividers by: @uzmacchiato and @kthice )
Some little fun facts:
⢠Concrete after lighting is a perfume that exists.
⢠The title of the fic is the song reader was listening to while tanning.
⢠Read an article on autism symptoms improving amid a fever. Being sick = clarity of mind, better eye contact, less anxiety. That influenced how I wrote Daryl. I just noticed.
⢠Merle is an ass (Gotta love him though)
Why do I get the feeling that reader will not only get sick after this, thanks to Daryl, but get knocked up embarrassingly quick, like after their first time, and become young parents?? Uncle Merle is just relieved that his baby brother isn't a fairy, like he suspected for a second there. Pfft funny.
Bonus! perfume moodboard:
This work of fiction was written while listening to...
Dialogue accurate/episode based series. (semi accurate. Iâm not typing out racist shit from merle.)
About Reader: Female reader. Reader has glasses and hair long enough to grab. Reader is 29 years old. No race or other descriptive features mentioned however.
Content: Blood, Death, Gore, Horror, Swearing, Suggestive content, Slow burn, Age gap (not a gross one.)
Note: I donât know how long i want this series to last, but iâm going episode by episode. Chapters will be 1-2 episodes worth.
