i|ɘ 𓉸

“You want me to go faster or slow it down? Use your words, honey.”

Overstimulated with pleasure, you weren’t able to respond yet, and tears streaked your cheeks. Daryl kissed them away and kept moving. The hand that wasn’t supporting his weight began stroking his hair, and he spoke again.

“C’mon, sweet girl. Not gonna know what you want if you don’t say nothin’. Want me to stop?”

Your eyes widened at the idea of Daryl stopping, and you frantically shook your head. It took a few seconds for you to speak, and your voice was tinged with desperation.

“D-don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“That’s a good girl. Answer my question?”

“Oh, maybe… a little faster?”

The hesitation in your voice made Daryl’s heart ache, and he redoubled his efforts. He wanted you to feel good, to feel heard. Your husband pressed a kiss to your forehead and quickened the rhythm of his movements. His fingers were still in your hair when he praised you again.

“Thank you for usin’ your words. You’re listenin’ so well.”

Knowing that Daryl wanted you to respond to him, you swallowed a whimper and nodded. The pleasure was overwhelming, but in the best way imaginable. Your voice trembled when you spoke between small gasps.

“Tryna be good. It’s a lot.”

“I know, baby. I know. You can take it, though.”

Daryl’s breathing was ragged as he continued moving inside of you. He could feel the euphoria pulling at his lower stomach, but he was more focused on you. It was obvious that you were getting close to that edge, and he was determined to push you over it. He changed the angle of his hips, and the orgasm immediately crashed into you. You cried out his name and tried to anchor yourself by clinging to his shoulders.

His peak soon followed, and it took all of his strength to not collapse on top of you. After thrusting a few more times, he smirked and nodded in satisfaction. His tone was dripping with cockiness.

“Pretty good, huh? I told you I’d make you feel good.”

It took several seconds before you could speak again, and you laughed breathlessly. Seeing your husband act boastful was always amusing. You grinned and nodded.

“Yes, my love. That was real fuckin’ good.”

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• He was loud, bright-eyed, and reckless as a child. He'd climb trees, go bullfrog catching, and go to his neighbors plot to use their dirt bikes.

• He was all those things until he had to start walking on eggshells. Being too loud or too quiet won him the same fate. It started with the back a hand–rough knuckles against his cheek, then a belt, then whatever tool was at his old man's disposal.

• He still remembers being in the garage and his dad reaching for a rubber hood-seal to use as a whip.

• He carried his scars both physically and emotionally.

• Whereas most people had to adapt to poor conditions, being exposed to the elements, hunger, and human depravity when the apocalypse happened, Daryl was already molded to face it from a young age.

• Hungry? Go hunt. It wasn't safe at home? Have a tent in the woods. Getting his hands dirty in a fight? It wouldn't be the first time.

• He hardened out of survival, because no one would ever dare to come close to a dog that bared its teeth.

• Preteen Daryl would tag along with Merle and his older friends. Merle would tell him to go get his jacket only for Daryl to go back and find they had left without him.

• It turned into him trying to prove himself. He'd pretend to handle bets like stealing from stores, burning himself with lighters to see how long he could last before his eyes swelled with tears, and drinking above his limits to appear grown.

• Merle would go along with the jokes—not wanting to show he actually cared about someone other than himself, but when his friends planned pranks on unconscious Daryl, like suggesting throwing him in the motel pool across the parking lot they were hanging around in, Merle would cuss them out then carry Daryl home like he were six again—Daryl's head against his shoulder.

• Daryl liked to remember his older brother that way. Like someone that would've changed for the better if the clock hadn't run out of time.

• Teenage Daryl was the kid your parents warned you about, not because he was a bad kid but because of the family name. He did dress the part, though—the bike, the permanent glare, the poorly made tattoos he did on himself.

• He's allergic to red tattoo ink, he found out.

• He started school later in life, and it showed from his social skills and reading and writing. He only liked books with pictures, and his writing was unreadable.

• Most teachers were cautious, because they had already faced the older Dixon. Though Daryl, for the most part, surprised them in a good way.

• He kept to himself, quiet; he'd fidget with his pencil, chew on the pink rubber end. Only once did he get bullied, being called "trailer trash," and it ended with a visit to the school nurse for the other kid. After that, he was cast out by his peers.

• Math was his worst subject due to his dyscalculia. To this day, he still counts with his fingers—the tip of his tongue poking out in concentration. His favorite subject was history— stories about the revolution, and extracurriculars, like carpentry. He would carve small sculptures, and found buffing and glossing wood to be just as therapeutic as working on cars with Merle.

• His carpentry teacher once put a hand on his shoulder, saying he was proud, that he saw greatness in him. It was the most positive reaction he had gotten from school, from anywhere, yet that was what made him step back and decide he wasn't cut out for it—For books, schedules, and having someone expect something from him, so he dropped out at sixteen.

• If Daryl wasn't alone in the woods or working on something with Merle, you could find him at the local theater at any given hour, watching reruns—bucket of popcorn between his thighs. Rarely did he pay for the ticket, having figured out how to open the flimsy fire exit from the outside.

• Secretly, one of his favorite movies is Hook.

• It was a regular Tuesday when the outbreak happened.

• He was an adult now but still trying to survive like his younger self. Life was hard, with or without the end of days. The only difference was there were no social norms, meaning the masks people once wore dropped. If you were a bad person, there was no law to stop you; if you were poor, it didn't matter because money was something you used as a fire starter.

• And if you stayed soft, you got eaten.

• Daryl was in his element. People who once would have changed direction to not cross his path were now depending on him to learn how to hunt, to track; they trusted him to keep them in one piece in the face of a threat—undead or living.

• He could have lived his whole life alone in the woods if he wanted. The rest of the world could burn and rebuild itself, and not much of his routine would have changed. Staying hidden would have saved him from going through so much loss and heartache, that's for certain, but it was those moments that shaped him into the person he later became.

• Still quiet, still all bark and bite when provoked, just brave enough to let people into that place he guarded with clenched fists for so long.

• With age, Daryl is even more stubborn, but he has accepted his limitations with a grumble. He knows there's no way around his hair graying and his steps slowing.

• He used to believe his value came from what he could do for others: protect them, search for them, give them the food from his plate, and the vest off his back if they shivered in his presence.

• Getting old felt more like a burden than a privilege.

• But he is reminded that love is a give-and-take deal. That means caring for others and letting others care for him back.

• Old Daryl drinks black coffee while the birds sing in the morning. He works on his truck in the shed—bike resting against a wall, since it hasn't felt the dirt road for a few summers now.

• In the afternoons, he lights a cigarette, sits in his rocking chair, and lets the buzzing of cicadas lull him into a nap. There he sees old, familiar faces and hears the laughter of his children, who are now all grown up.

• When he wakes up from his nap, he denies ever letting his guard down. He takes the mug from his lover's wrinkled hands, then drinks. He takes his time, for there's no more running, no more looking over his shoulder. Just tea on his lips and stories to tell when the grandkids visit.

• Once, a long time ago, a girl told Daryl he would be the last man standing.

• Daryl is still living up to those expectations, just not alone.

Dividers by: @kthice

Note: Share your Daryl headcanons if ya'll have any! I love reading them. I didn't touch on Daryl as a partner/dad in detail because those can be a post of their own.

Been working on some fics in the shadows...

My drafts are tired of seeing my dumbass. I have a mechanic bf a/u, trailer park a/u, period comfort, and a doll collector fic to finish editing. Gonna post this first, and tomorrow I'll post something else. Unless I get cold feet. Haven't written a full-on fic since The Boy came out. YES, my type is quiet, dirty men. Bye.

🫶🏻 tagging the talented @holdmytesseract in this short n sweet headcanon post! Ain't gonna put ya through the mess I have in store for later🤭🤣

Daryl Dixon recent work:

Baby I'm Yours fluff-smut trailer a/u