Dating Daryl Dixon

Words : 682.

🍷: mutual pinning, mention of alcohol, kissing, friends to lovers.

It’s just the two of you. Again.

No group. No voices. No safety net.

Just trees stretching endlessly around you, the quiet hum of the night, and the kind of exhaustion that settles deep in your bones.

But tonight- You got lucky. A small abandoned cabin. Half-rotten, barely standing, but with a roof that holds and walls that block the wind.

And inside—A bottle.

You stare at it like it’s treasure. Daryl eyes it like it’s suspicious.

“Could be bad,” he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “Could be great.”

A beat. Then— You open it.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

It starts simple.

You sit on the floor, backs against the wall, legs stretched out, the bottle between you.

“I have never…” you begin, a small grin tugging at your lips, “stolen food before all this.”

Daryl snorts. “Really?”

You take a sip. “Your turn.”

He rolls his eyes slightly. “I have never… trusted anyone first.”

You both drink.

A quiet laugh escapes you. “Okay… that one’s a little sad.”

“Shut up.”

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

The game goes on. Questions get a little bolder.

The alcohol warms your chest, loosens the edges of everything. Your laughter comes easier. His answers come quicker.

And the silence between rounds— Feels less heavy. More… intimate.

You lean your head back against the wall, smiling faintly.

"Alright," you say, glancing at him. "I have never... kissed someone in the last year."

You lift the bottle to your lips. Take a drink. Then glance at him—And freeze.

Daryl hasn’t moved.

“…Wait.”

He shrugs slightly, avoiding your gaze. “Ain’t happened.”

You stare at him, then laugh softly, a little incredulous. “No way.”

He frowns. “What?”

“You’re telling me—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—you, Mr. Brooding Survivalist, haven’t kissed anyone in a year?”

“Not exactly a lotta options out here.”

You grin, teasing. “Still. I figured you had some secret charm going on.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, real charmer.”

You shake your head, amused. “That’s wild.”

A pause. Then your tone softens, just slightly.

“…It’s been a long time, huh?”

Daryl doesn’t answer. Just looks at you. And something shifts. The air feels warmer. Heavier.

You don’t look away. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, a small, daring smile forming.

“Well…” you murmur. “…we could fix that.”

He blinks. “Fix what?”

You lean in just a little. “This.”

Your voice is softer now. Closer.

“You’re overdue.”

His breath catches—just barely. “You serious?”

You don’t answer with words. You just lean in the rest of the way— And kiss him.

It’s slow at first.Careful. Like neither of you quite believe it’s happening. Your hand brushes his jaw lightly, grounding him, steadying both of you.

Daryl stills for half a second— Then responds. And it’s different than you expected. Not clumsy. Not unsure. Just… real.

His hand comes up to your waist, pulling you closer without hesitation now, like something in him finally clicks into place. The kiss deepens. Warmer. More certain. The alcohol hums in your veins, but this— This feels clearer than anything all day.

You shift without thinking, your legs sliding over his as he adjusts, pulling you onto his lap. Neither of you question it. It just… happens. Your hands find his shoulders, his grip tightens slightly at your waist, grounding you there, like he doesn’t want you going anywhere.

And the kiss— Turns. Not rushed. Not messy. Just deeper. Closer. Like months—maybe years—of something unspoken finally finding its way out. It’s the way your tongue brush his, the way you head angle to feel him better, the way you allow yourself to make some faint sounds of approval when his hand caress your leg, the way you, almost-, let your hips grind back and forth on his jeans when his hand grip your hair out of your face…

When you finally pull back, you’re both a little breathless. Foreheads almost touching.

Silence hangs between you— Then you laugh. Soft. Light. A little disbelieving.

Daryl huffs out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh slipping through too. “Damn,” he mutters.

You grin, still sitting in his lap, hands resting loosely against him. “Not bad for someone out of practice.”

He rolls his eyes slightly. “Shut up.”

But there’s no bite to it. Just warmth.

You glance down briefly, then back up at him. “…Guess I should thank the alcohol.”

He shakes his head faintly. “Ain’t just that.”

Your smile softens. “No?”

His gaze lingers on you. Steady. Honest. “No.”

A quiet pause settles. You don’t move. Don’t pull away. Just stay there— In his arms.

Warm. Close. Real.

And for once— The world outside doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

oh my fucking god i miss this hair so much it literally drives me insane like his little side part bangs are too cute i’m actually going feral

i think about this picture daily im not even joking the obsession is so bad like HELLO?? his face his HAIRRRRR im literally dead 🥹🥹

AHHH KENNY AND CLEM ppl always say season 2 is trash but it holds a special place in my heart, mostly bc of this duo 🥺

• he walks the dead world bound by the ghost he can't save.

The world ended, but daryl dixon didn't. you were the reason why. at least, that's what he tells himself on the good days. on the bad days he knows it's the other way around. the world ended, and it took you with it.

He still carries your crossbow, a sleek, black compound you'd been so damn proud of. his own red handled hunting bow feels heavier and more brutish, but it's what he's used to. yours is slung across his back untouched, a silent promise he can't bring himself to break. he tells the others it's for spare parts, a lie so thin it's practically transparent, but no one calls him on it. they see the way his thumb sometimes traces the carbon fiber limbs when he thinks no one is looking.

You haunt the quiet moments the most. when they're holed up in some decrepit house and the fire is crackling low, he'll swear he hears your laugh from the next room. a ghost of a sound that makes his breath catch in his throat. he'll find himself turning to share a joke with an empty space, the words dying on his lips as reality crashes back in. the smell of woodsmoke and stale beer will twist into the phantom scent of your shampoo. something fruity and cheap that you had splurged on during a run to a ransacked Target weeks before it all went to hell.

He talks to you. not out loud, never where anyone can hear him. it's a constant running monologue in his head, a conversation he's been having for years.

“See that darlin'? big one. took its head clean off. you'd've been impressed.”

“This place is shit. no good defensible positions. you'd've hated it.”

“Carol made a casserole. tasted like ass. you woulda laughed.”

Every walker he puts down is a message to you. a tally. a testament. he tracks them, a silent grim accounting. each one is a monster that can't get to you, a threat that can't hurt anyone else he might let himself care about. it's a penance for failing you, for not being fast enough, for not being strong enough on that day in the pharmacy when you got swarmed. he remembers the way you screamed his name, not in fear, but in warning, as you shoved him toward the back exit and bought him time with your life. he remembers the sickening, wet tear of teeth, the sight of your body going down under a tide of grasping hands and gaping mouths. he put them all down, every last one in that store, but it was too late. you were already gone.

Sometimes, in the deep dark of the night, he swears he can feel you. a cold spot on the bedroll next to him. the faintest pressure on his shoulder, a touch so light it could be the wind. he'll close his eyes and pretend, just for a second, that you're there, your head pillowed on his arm, your breathing soft and even. he'll imagine the weight of your crossbow is your arm slung around him. it's a fragile, pathetic comfort, and he hates himself for it, but he can't stop.

You are the ghost in his machine. the reason he flinches when someone gets too close. the reason he pushes away every kind hand, every offered piece of himself. to let someone in would be to betray you. it would be to admit that the space you occupy inside him isn't permanent, that it can be filled by someone else. and he can't. he won't.

You are his North Star in a world of rot and ruin. a constant, painful reminder of the man he was when he was with you, and the hollowed out thing he is now. he lives, he fights, he survives, all while walking hand in hand with a ghost. the story of daryl dixon is the story of a man who keeps walking, because stopping would mean leaving you behind for good. and that, he knows, is a fate far worse than any walker.