#noname

The Walking Dead || Daryl Dixon.

────୨ৎ Pairing; Daryl Dixon x reader | no mention of reader name.

Setting; Season one era

Warnings; None really. Bad language (swearing) and zombie killing.

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────୨ৎ Author’s note; i love me some Daryl confessing feelings!! I hope this is the vibe you were looking for!! It’s the idea that popped into my head as soon as I read it!!

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Word count; 2.09k

I STARTED NOTICING DARYL ACTING DIFFERENTLY A FEW WEEKS BACK-. At first it was small things, the kind you'd miss if you weren't looking. Fixing things before I even asked, patching up loose tent flaps or reinforcing weak fence posts like it was nothing. On runs, he stuck closer than usual, crossbow always angled just a little more in my direction than anyone else's. And instead of the usual grunts he gave most people, I got actual words. Not many, not always pretty, but real conversation. Sometimes he'd even offer to partner up before I could offer myself.

For a while, I thought maybe I'd imagined the way he'd look at me, like he was trying to figure something out and then didn't like the answer. And just as quickly as it started, it stopped.

He went quiet again, quieter than before somehow. Now, when I ask for help he just looks at me for a second too long, like he's about to say something, then doesn't. Just jerks his chin towards someone else or waits until Shane or someone steps in. Conversations dry up before they even begin, and runs together. Never happened anymore.

"Don't need ya comin' no more." Daryl's voice cut through the morning air, low, rough and final. I froze halfway through checking my gear, thinking I'd misheard him. "What?" I asked, looking up. He didn't meet my gaze, only stood a few feet away, his posture stiff and his crossbow slung over his shoulder.

"Said, don't need ya," he muttered.

The words landed heavier the second time around. An unwelcome flicker of hurt rose in my chest "I wanna come," I said firmly. Standing and stepping towards him. "I always come."

That had been our thing, quiet mornings slipping into the woods together, Daryl teaching me to track and hunt, us surviving side by side. No tension and no distance.

He exhaled through his nose, a low irritated sound, like my presence alone was a problem he didn't want to deal with. "Don't need to be watchin' your ass," he said, finally glancing my way, the glance was cold and guarded "mh too slow."

The words hurt more than they should've. Not because they were true, they weren't. But because of how easy he said them, like pushing me away didn't cost anything to him. "Since when?" I shot back.

Though he didn't answer, just shifted his grip on his crossbow and tightened his jaw. "The hell's your problem?" For a moment I thought he might actually answer me.

But, he just turned away.

"Stay," he muttered.

As the woods began to swallow him, I knew the one thing I wasn't going to do was stay. I'd learnt more from Daryl than anyone gave me credit for. And more than that, I'd been watching him. How he moved, quiet and deliberate, making sure never to leave a trace. If he slipped, he'd cover it up without a sound. I noticed the way his arrows cut through the tree trunks with a surgical precision. How the wind and the weather shaped the path he'd chose.

Every step he took, every decision he made, it was always a lesson. One I had repeatedly etched into my mind.

Food on the ground was getting scarce, scarcer than I thought it could get. But we were in luck, the birds were moving, migrating or maybe just fleeing from the chaos. I didn't fully understand the timing or the routes, but I knew it meant one thing, the chances of Daryl pigeon shooting with his crossbow was highly likely.

The morning air was still, almost too still but it moved just enough to make the trees whisper. It was hard to tell which way it came from, which way it was going. I pulled out the black bandana he had given me on one of our runs, pinching it lightly between my thumb and forefinger, letting the breeze carry it.

North.

I tossed my backpack into the corner of my tent, the canvas rustling like leaves in a storm. I wasn't even going to try for food today. All I wanted was to tail Daryl, watch him, figure him out. The further north I went, the more deadheads I found, slumped and stiff, like the forest had swallowed their screams.

I knew I was going in the right direction.

But something felt off. Small inconsistencies, footprints that didn't belong. Daryl's boots usually cut clean and purposeful through the dirt, but here, they faltered. One print dug into the slope as if dragging something, yet it wasn't a deadhead.

An arrow jutted from the trunk of a tree, the fletching black in the dim light. When walkers starve long enough, they go still, slump against bark, pretend to be at peace even with half a jaw missing. That's exactly how I found this one, pinned grotesquely, its empty eyes reflecting the grey sky, frozen in a moment of unnatural rest.

I crouched low, scanning the arrow lodged in the deadhead's skull. Blood dripped from the tip, dark and wet, my heart was thudding. This meant Daryl wasn't far. He never left an arrow behind, not like this.

Not when he could just take it.

An earlier run in the city, we'd almost been overrun. Streets choked with walkers in every direction, walls of death closing in with only a tight, dangerous gap barely wide enough for us to slip through. Daryl had fired an arrow straight through a deadhead's skull, but he didn't just leave it. He stopped to pull it out from the corpse, even as the horde closed in.

I grabbed his arm, my fingers barely able to wrap around his bicep, and yanked him back. Inches, mere inches from those teeth. My heart was pounding.

A rustle in the underbrush snapped me out of my daze. A cold gust skittered past my ear before I could even react. I stumbled to my feet, heart hammering like it wanted out. Another deadhead lay sprawled, an arrow buried deep in it chest. My eyes darted around, then I saw him, Daryl. He emerged from behind a tree, crossbow raised and trained on me. His expression was sharp, wary, like a lone hunter sizing up a threat he couldn't quite trust.

"You gone shoot me, Daryl?" I asked nonchalantly. "Thought I told ya to stay," He said, his voice low and hard. "You know as well as I do," I shrugged, "I weren't about to stay."

The deadhead beside me let out a low, gurgling moan, thrashing on the ground like some dying insect, its arms flailing as the arrow lodged in its chest held it down. I yanked the knife from the strap on my thigh, my boots crunching against the debris strewn floor as I stepped closer. The smell of decay hit me before I swung, one clean cut and the relentless groaning finally stopped.

"Don't worry, I got it," I said trying to keep it light. "Finish your side." Daryl didn't so much as flinch. No chuckle, no huff, no shrug. Just..nothing. "What the fucks your problem?" I snapped. He frowned but didn't answer.

I squared up and closed the distance until our faces were almost touching. "Huh?" I shoved him in the chest, just a little. And that's when I knew something was wrong. Normally, a push like that wouldn't budge him, not an inch. He'd of been solid, immovable, like hitting a brick wall. But now, the slightest touch made him stumble back.

"Answer me goddammit!" I snapped, stepping closer. "Are you even listenin' to me, or am I just wastin' my damn words?"

Nothing.

His jaw clenched, eyes dark and stormy and then, without warning he shoved me back. Hard. I stumbled, almost losing my footing on the uneven ground. My chest hammered, part fear and part disbelief as I stared at him.

"This is exactly what I meant! why are you pushing me away?" I shouted after steadying myself, my hands still trembling. Daryl's face twisted with anger and something deeper, maybe pain mixed into his eyes. He took a step forwards, I flinched, bracing myself for another shove. But instead, he dropped his head muttering so quietly I almost didn't hear it. "You're ma problem."

"What?" My voice wavered. I blinked, unsure if I'd heard him right. His head lifted and this time I saw him, really saw him. His eyes were glassy, raw and haunted. "Yer my problem." I reached out, fingertips brushing his bicep, just a gentle touch meant to smooth, to anchor him, but he jerked back. "Don't!" He shouted.

I softened, worry threading through my words "Please, Daryl. Tell me what I've done." He muttered to himself, almost inaudible. "You deserve better, someone not broken, struck in his own damn head." My eyes followed him as he paced back and forth. "Daryl stop," I pleaded, but he persisted, walking faster than before. The tension between us was thick enough to taste. "Daryl!" I shouted again, desperate, aching for him to finally face me.

And he did.

"I like you," he admitted, his voice cracking under its own weight. "Goddammit, I like you. More than I know how to say. That's the problem." He ran a hand through his hair. "Hell, I don't even know if you feel the same. But..you deserve better. And I'm not that guy. Not for you."

"Daryl" I whispered, taking a cautious step closer. "I like you too." His head shook violently, his eyes wide and wild, then he stumbled back, like my presence alone burnt him like a torch. "No," he said. "Yer don't understand."

"No," I said, my voice firmer now. "You don't get to tell me what I do and don't understand. Why the hell you think I've been spending all this damn time with you? I like.."

"You deserve someone.." he interrupted. "Someone who ain't scared. Someone tough like Shane," he spat the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

I laughed, loud and sharp, the sound echoing off the trees around us. "Fucking Shane," I said, almost questioning myself. "Why the hell would I want someone like him? Arrogant hot headed and sleeps around. Motherfuckers probably got problems he don't even know to fix."

Daryl let out a short, rough grunt, maybe a snicker, maybe not. I fell silent for a moment, studying him. "You don't get to talk about yourself like that, and you sure as hell don't get to decide what I do and don't deserve."

The tension eased, just a fraction, the silence was heavy but different. Less like a wall and more like waiting. Daryl stayed wary, muscles tight but he didn't back away. I let out a shaky breath and took a careful step closer. Both my hands found his face, rough and calloused moulding to the angles of his cheeks. I held him there, letting him know he didn't have to hide.  "You're exactly my type Daryl," I said softly. "Guarded, grounded, you know how to survive. I mean, come on..Shane? Guy's got the survival instincts of a fucking worm. Do you really think I'd ever like someone like him?"

A small, almost reluctant chuckle escaped him. "No," he murmured. I tilted his head up, forcing him to meet my gaze. Our eyes flickered down to each other's lips, hesitant but searching. "You're my type, Dixon."

Our lips connected like puzzle pieces finally finding their place, quiet and unhurried like it had been waiting for us. No urgency, no need for words, just the slow rhythm of our heartbeats. “Only you,” I whispered as we pulled apart. Daryl’s arm slung over my shoulders as we started back towards camp, each step slow and deliberate. “You know who I think you’d be better with?” I asked, tilting my head up to him.

“Huh?"

"Lori," I said with a grin. Daryl pushed me lightly on the shoulder, a rough chuckle rumbling from his chest. “Fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head and staring at the ground. “What..? I mean, I think you’d-“. Mid sentence, Daryl dropped something into my hand. I looked down and found a bracelet, simple but sweet, braided from scraps of tweed.

"What's this?" I asked, holding it up. "Yer like that kinda shit," he said gruffly.

"You got matching one?" I teased, raising an eyebrow. Daryl lifted his free arm, showing the same bracelet wrapped around his wrist. “You going soft on me Dixon?” I asked, smirking.

"Nah," he growled.

I laughed softly. "You're turning red."

He glanced at me, embarrassed, eyes flickering away. "Gone tell everyone?"

"Nah." I said.

"Good." He replied, relief washing over his face in that rare, fleeting way.

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Previous short - Comforts (Daryl x !Pregnant Reader)

The Beautiful & Talented Noname...

What do you call an oshikatsu whose fictional husband isn't real so she just cosplays as him instead to bring him to life?

Crazy. You call her crazy. 😂🖤

Anyways, here's my Xigbar cosplay. I don't do my man justice cause I'm not old and crusty enough, but hey...As if, am I right?

So. I’ve been playing Cookie Run: Kingdom. It’s pretty fun :)

(Wasn’t gonna post these, but my sister thought they were funny, and that’s a good enough reason for me)

So…yeah.

(Art: me)

(Also I drew another thing that like 2 or 3 people will understand, and I don’t really wanna put it to waste, sooooo)

For @carrrrino