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I hope you're not overwhelmed with requests but if they're still open would you please write headcanons (or whatever you prefer) with Daryl Dixon and a reader like this?
reader probably met the main cast around the time the group stayed with the Greene's (they lived in an abandoned building in the nearby town maybe – that detail probably doesn't matter) they have a very calm and composed nature but they're not shy and don't take unnecessary shit. they got grit💪
when they get closer to the group they often go out to get supplies and food/water for them, rather than verbally or physical expressing care
I do like to imagine they're polite and thoughtful but not outwardly affectionate? they're not hostile just closed off. but they have a soft spot for kids, and they seem to often have Daryl's back
they used to babysit a lot before the outbreak, but the kids they basically saw as their own babies didn't survive the beginning of the apocalypse and they had suppressed that grief until they quietly breakdown infront of Daryl one night?
maybe around their time in Alexandria
anyways I hope you're having a lovely day! thank you for all the Daryl content, he's so beautiful I love him💜✨✨
Hey!!! Thank you for the request, they are most definitely still open!
When you guys first met he didn't care much for you (obviously). He stayed out of your way and you stayed out of his
Since you frequently volunteer to search for supplies, he would probably like you more because you weren't just a waste of resources
You stood out a lot more to him when you wouldn't let Shane walk all over you (yes, Shane will ALWAYS be the villain in my stories)
You definitely talk back but not in a rude way, more in a "don't tell me what to do or how to act" way
You also probably volunteer to watch over Carl when Lori and Rick couldn't
Daryl also definitely has a soft spot for kids
Time skip to prison era
Since there are a lot of children during the prison era, you use your free time to teach them
You likely do supply runs with daryl now
^He doesn't mind taking you with him because he does not see you as a liability
This is how you get close, you guys work really well as a team which is something he likes
You don't talk much and he doesn't talk much but somehow you guys always know when the other needs help
Time skip to Alexandria
Since he's probably not great with relationships, I hc that it takes you guys this long to be "official"
It would probably be one of those late-night talks, not a pillow talk though. Yk those times when you stay up with someone until like 2-3 am and you guys start having some deep conversations?
It's late and you both let your guard down, which made it easier for you to speak more openly
I picture you guys to be reminiscing about the prison era and eventually get the the fall
You would think about the children that were saved, which just ended up reminding you of the ones that weren't
You would say it in passing, but somehow that made it more real
Daryl wouldn't say much, the silence was inviting
The more you talked about your kids, the more you realized the reality
he wouldn't really know how to comfort you, he might put his hand on your shoulder or gently rub you back
He wouldn't be able to come up with the right words
He would try comforting you with small touches or just by keeping you company, letting you cry it out without judgement
Once that was over, he would give you the space to talk more about it or simply just sit in silence, coming to terms with your world
The next day, he would not talk about it unless you did first, but he also wouldn't completely ignore what had happened
He would be nicer to you that day and maybe even do some extra tasks for you
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Sorry if this wasn't up to standards. I was afraid to mess up your character lol. Feel free to request any changes <3
You had just caught Daryl in the middle of the night, sitting on your couch, focused on fixing one of your pistols that had jammed earlier that day, right after you and Rick had returned from a long and exhausting supply run. The atmosphere was silent, except for the occasional sound of metal being adjusted and the slight creaking of the couch under his weight. You stood in the doorway, wearing only your nightgown, watching the hands of the man intently, trying persistently to find a way to fix that piece of metal that seemed to be the last one on Earth. He hadn't yet noticed your presence there, immersed in his thoughts and the task at hand.
You had known for a long time that you harbored feelings for Daryl, and you knew he felt the same way about you; it was a feeling that intensified with each passing day. But seeing him sitting in your living room, so engrossed in something that was yours, was a shock.
The sounds of the metal being tuned ceased suddenly, and you noticed Daryl was looking at you in a way you'd never seen before. It was an expression of fear, a vulnerability that contrasted with his usual strong and fearless demeanor. Your eyes met in an instant that seemed to stretch for an eternity, making you both stiffen, and the silence around you became almost palpable.
You try to return to your relaxed and friendly nature, striving to remain calm amidst the tension of the moment. "I wasn't expecting a visitor…" you say, attempting a calming tone, but then a nervous laugh escapes your lips, and you find yourself averting your gaze from the man sitting on the sofa, who still displays that strange and confused expression, as if trying to process the situation.
Daryl, soon after, tries to articulate some words to answer you, but they seem to get lost inside his mouth, as if they were struggling to find a way out. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, only unrecognizable grunts that echo in the silent air. Meanwhile, he averts his gaze, focusing anywhere but you, as if that could help disguise the shame that overwhelms him.
You, noticing Daryl's state, can't help but find it extremely endearing how this man, who during the day seemed so carefree and fearless, now appeared like a wet dog, embarrassed for having been caught in an awkward situation. The way he tried to compose himself but failed to hide his own vulnerability only made everything even more captivating and cute. "Can you help me understand what's going on here?" You ask, somewhat curious to know what he would answer.
"I found this broken gun and figured I’d try fixin’ it… that’s it," Daryl said in a low tone, but still trying to be confident, even knowing that this excuse was extremely blatant at that point. He tried to look at you with an expression that mixed nervousness and determination, as if he were trying to convince not only you, but himself, that what he was saying was the truth.
“And why would you be doing this in my house exactly?” You asked in a somewhat ironic tone, raising your eyebrow slightly, knowing that what he had said was a lie. The situation was almost comical, because he knew that gun was yours, and you were sure it wasn't the first time Daryl had done something like this without giving you an explanation. One day, you complained to him that something in your house was breaking or about to break, and the very next day, everything was in perfect condition, as if what you had seen was an illusion.
Daryl remained silent, lost in his own thoughts in response to your question. He knew there was no escaping this embarrassing situation, but at the same time, he didn't want to succumb to his pride in any way, so he continued sitting there, his eyes fixed on the floor, as if he wished to disappear at that moment, to vanish completely from the world that surrounded him, if that were somehow possible.
You watch the scene intently, trying to decipher what was going through his mind. He certainly didn't want to admit why he was there, and you could feel the resistance in his posture, and, knowing Daryl the way he is, you knew the last thing he would do would be to confess the real reasons behind his actions—you wondered if he even understood what he was feeling.
“Could you at least tell me why you’ve been fixing my things?” You ask, trying to sound as neutral as possible, but your tone carries your frustration, already aware that he would probably remain silent, leaving you without an answer like always.
“I just wanted to look out for you or somethin'," Daryl murmurs, his words coming out hesitantly, as if each syllable required considerable effort, but still looking directly at you this time.
A slight smile appears on your lips as you realize what those simple words really mean to both of you.
Ok! Check this out! Here’s a little grump/sunshine, enemies to eventual lovers Daryl Dixon fanfic. Quickly written and not proofread but if you like it (and lemme know!) I’ll fix it up real nice. Enjoy!
DarylxFem!Reader, language I think. Some mutual pining. A little sexy. Hell I can’t remember. Minors beware.
“Daryl!”
Daryl’s shoulders tensed under the sweat-dampened shirt that clung to his broad back. Not because he didn’t like the sound of your voice.
Because he craved it.
It slid over his skin like warm honey, sweet and bright, wrapping around him in ways that pissed him off more than it should. It drifted across the quarry, calling to parts of him he didn’t even know existed until the first time you spoke to him.
He kept his head down, jaw locked tight. Maybe if he just ignored you you’d go back to where you belong—far the fuck away from him.
“Daryl!”
Your voice was closer now, dropping lower, a little breathless from jogging after his stubborn ass. He stopped and spun around with a mean scowl already twisting his mouth, eyes narrowing.
“What?”
You were still coming down the slope toward him, balancing a paper plate in both hands like a peace offering. The setting sun caught on the curve of your neck, the swell of your chest rising with each breath. That damn smile lit up your whole face—tired eyes turning warm, lips soft and inviting.
He hated that smile.
Hated how it made heat pool low in his gut every single time he saw it. Most people looked at him like he wasn’t worth the trouble—you looked at him like he was everything you’d ever wanted in this fucked up world.
“You missed dinner again.”
“Ain’t hungry.”
The lie was barely out before his stomach growled, loud and traitorous. The smell of fried fish hit him first, but quickly faded into your sun-warmed skin, faint soap, and something so damn sweet underneath it made his mouth water.
Your smile widened knowingly—and a little teasing. You loved catching the cute archer off guard, watching the flush of embarrassment light up the tips of his ears bright pink.
“Shut up.”
A laugh escaped you, the kind that made his eyes fall to the ground between you before coming back to focus on the sweat glistening at the hollow of your throat.
“I didn’t say anything.”
You held the plate out, stepping close enough he could see your pulse fluttering under the delicate skin just below your ear.
“Here.” Your voice dropped lower as Daryl glanced at the fish and beans on the plate. Probably one of the last decent meals anyone would have for a while.
“Give it to one of the kids.” He grumbled, taking a step away from you.
“They’ve already ate.”
His blue eyes narrowed as they lifted to yours while you nudged the plate closer like you were trying to convince some stray dog not to bite.
“Give it to somebody else then,” He growled. “I ain’t your damn charity case.”
“Daryl—“
He snatched the plate out of your hands hard enough that the beans slid to the dirt, causing you to startle as you stepped back from him quickly. Then that stupid smile was back.
Like he hadn’t just been rude as hell.
Somehow that made him even madder because he didn’t have any business being an asshole toward you. You were the only person in this fucked up camp that didn’t look at him and his brother like they were trash.
He didn’t want to snap at you every time you braved the tree line to show him an ounce of kindness—but he had no idea how to talk to you like a decent human being.
Not when you made his blood run hot every time you looked at him.
So he did what he did best.
“Tastes like shit.” He growled around a bite of over cooked fish, eyes still glaring despite your smile only spreading across your pretty face.
“I didn’t cook it.” You assured him, searching his eyes as he took another bite.
Daryl chewed harder than he needed to, jaw working fast. The fish was actually decent—better than the crap him and Merle usually scavenged—but admitting that felt too much like letting you in. Instead his gaze dragged down your body against his will, memorizing the way your thin tank top clung to your waist from the humidity as you stood there like you had all the patience in the world for his bullshit.
He shoved another bite in his mouth, eyes still locked with yours as he forced the plate back into your hands. You watched him lick at his fingertips, letting your eyes fall to his lips as they smacked against the digits aggressively—waiting for him to say something.
Thank you.
Fuck off.
“Go back to camp,” He finally muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans as he turned away like you weren’t even worth the breath it took to say the words. “Ain’t nothin’ out here for you.”
Daryl didn’t wait for your reply, boots digging into the dirt as he stalked through the trees, shoulders rigid, crossbow strap cutting into the tense muscle along his back. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal—fear licking its way up his spine. He was terrified you’d actually believe him this time—that the light in those beautiful eyes would finally dim and you’d stop looking at him like he was worth the trouble.
~~~
His brother went missing two days later.
Except Merle wasn’t really missing—this new guy—Rick, knew exactly where the fuck he’d left him.
Handcuffed to a roof in the blazing Atlanta heat, surrounded by walkers. Merle’d cut off his own hand to escape certain death and now Daryl didn’t know if the only family he had left was dead or dying—or out there roaming the city as one of these dead fucks.
He couldn’t leave him like that.
A pop of a thin branch under heavy boots lifted his eyes slowly, back pressed hard against a thick oak a little ways from camp, knees drawn up, crossbow resting beside him like a sleeping dog. His arms rested on his knees, hands dangling between them, fingers stained with dirt and someone else’s blood.
He watched you step into the quiet clearing without a word, unable to deliver his usual scowl as you took a seat beside him—careful not to get too close. The group was scattered, licking their wounds and pretending they weren’t waiting for the next horror.
Shane was strutting around with I told you so on his lips while they buried Ed and Amy. The silence stretched, heavy and oddly comfortable. You watched the last light bleed out of the sky while he picked at the dirt under his nails, jaw tight.
“I’m sorry about Merle.” You murmured, mostly to yourself—knowing he wouldn’t welcome the concern but unable to sit there and pretend your heart wasn’t hurting for him anyway. Merle was… an acquired taste to say the least… but that didn’t mean you thought what Rick and the others did was right.
You watched Daryl spit into the dirt between his feet before his voice came, low and gravel-rough.
“Tough bastard cut his own damn hand off just to get free.” He muttered to the dirt with the shake of his head. “That’s my brother thought, too stubborn to die easy—too mean to live quiet.” His shoulders slumped a fraction, the fight draining out of him for once. “I ain’t got nobody else left. Just me. It’s always just me.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything he’d never said to anyone. You didn’t push. You just sat there beside him, close enough that your knee brushed his, letting him feel seen without demanding anything back.
After another loaded moment Daryl pushed himself up with a grunt, watching you rise with him—slower, like you were afraid any sudden move might spook him.
The last of the sun had bled away, leaving everything in cool shadows and the distant crackle of the camp’s fire. Tomorrow the group was headed back to the city—to the CDC in hopes they could find some help for Jim, who’d been bit during the struggle last night—but tonight… you stepped closer.
Your hand lifted slowly, giving him time to pull away. Surprising you when he didn’t. Your palm settled against his chest first—right over the worn fabric of his shirt, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm. The touch was gentle but the way your fingers spread, pressing just enough to feel the solid wall of him, sent a spark straight through his chest. Your other hand rose to his jaw, thumb brushing the scruff there, tracing the tense line like you wanted to memorize every sharp edge.
You looked at him like you could see straight through his facade to the man underneath all that hurt.
“Daryl…” You breathed, eyes locked on his. Your body leaned in, chest nearly brushing his as your fingers slid up into the damp hair at the nape of his neck. The scent of you—warm and sweet—wrapped around him as your thumb stroked along his jaw again, slower this time, while your palm stayed pressed to his racing heart like you were trying to calm the wild thing inside him.
It was too much.
Too good.
Heat flooded through every cell in his body, stealing his breath as his hands fisted at his sides to keep from touching you. He had no right to touch you. For one second, he let himself lean into it, eyes dropping to your mouth.
Then the switch flipped.
The vulnerability cracked open something ugly and terrified inside him. His hand shot up, grabbing your wrist hard enough to make you gasp then he shoved you away from him roughly, forcing your back into the biting bark of the tree behind you. In the same motion he jabbed his finger right in front of your face, eyes narrowing as something ugly and familiar bubbled in his throat.
“Stay the fuck away from me,” He snarled, blue eyes blazing with self-loathing. “You hear me? I don’t need your pity. Don’t need your soft little touches or your fuckin’ smiles. You think you can fix me? Save the poor redneck? Fuck that. You’re just another dumb bitch who’s gonna get herself killed sticking her nose where it don’t belong.”
You flinched hard, eyes wide with hurt as you watched his chest heave with it. The warmth drained from your face so fast it made his stomach twist, but the meanness poured out anyway, sharp and deliberate, because it was easier than admitting how badly he wanted you.
Daryl turned on his heels before you could respond, boots pounding into the dirt as he stormed off into the trees. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles ached—heart slamming in his chest where you’d touched him. Rage—at himself, at Merle, at this whole fucked up life—burned through him like wildfire.
He’d made sure you’d finally seen him for what he was—mean, broken—unloveable—and the worst part? He already hated himself for it.
~~~
That night, sleep wouldn’t come.
Daryl lay on his back in the cramped tent Carol had given him when they first showed up, one heavy arm slung over his eyes, the other fisted tight at his side. The Georgia heat clung to everything, turning the air inside the small space into something thick and suffocating.
Or maybe it was just the memory of you pressed against him earlier—your palm on his chest, fingers in his hair—that soft voice saying his name like a prayer. His cock was rock hard, throbbing against the rough denim of his jeans despite trying to ignore it—jaw locked, reminding himself he was just a piece of shit asshole who didn’t deserve you.
He lifted his arm as the tent flap opened, watching you slip inside without a word—the zipper’s quiet rasp cutting through the heavy silence. Your body filled the tight space carefully, knees brushing his thighs as you crawled in. The air turned thick with shared heat, warm skin, and that sweet scent that always drove him crazy.
Daryl sat up fast. “Thought I told you to stay the hell away from me, girl.” He growled, voice gravel-rough but it cracked on the last word, betraying the hunger clawing at him. His eyes dropped straight to your mouth, watching your lips part softly as you breathed him in while moving closer—swinging one leg over his until you were straddling his lap completely. The position forced your bodies flush together in the tiny tent—your thighs squeezing his hips, the heat of your core pressing right down against the thick, aching bulge in his jeans.
Your hands came up exactly like they had earlier—one palm settling firmly over his chest, fingers spreading wide to feel the frantic hammer of his heart beneath the worn fabric. The other carded into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, threading through the strands and tugging lightly.
You didn’t kiss him—just pressed so damn close that your forehead touched his, noses brushing, hot breath mingling in the sliver of space between your mouths. He could taste the sweetness of it—hands hovering at your sides, trembling with the need to grab you.
He didn’t know how to touch something this good without ruining it.
“Do you really want me to stay away, Daryl?” You finally whispered, voice breathy against his lips as your weight settled against him, hips rolling slow—grinding down as his breath caught with a groan. “You’re so hard—feels like you want me to stay right here.”
Daryl’s hands finally settled on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to feel the give of your skin through your shirt. He wanted to pull you harder against him, to slide his palms up your bare back, taste the sweat at the hollow of your throat—but he held back, breathing you in like he was drowning. Your forehead stayed pressed to his, eyes half-lidded as you looked at him through your lashes.
“You don’t have to keep pushing me away,” You breathed, lips ghosting over his again, so close he could feel their softness. “I see the good in you, Daryl Dixon. Let me take care of you.”
His grip tightened on your waist, hips jerking up once to meet your slow grind as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in the cramped, heated space—
Daryl jolted awake with a sharp gasp, bolting upright in the empty tent. His chest heaved, skin drenched in sweat, heart pounding like he’d just run through a horde. He raked both hands roughly over his face, dragging them through his damp hair as he tried to catch his breath. The dream still clung to him—the weight of you in his lap, the brush of your lips, those breathy murmurs that had him aching for everything you offered.
“Fuck.” He muttered hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut. He could still smell you. Still feel the ghost of your hands on his chest and in his hair. Morning light was already starting to creep under the tent flap, and the group would be heading out for the CDC soon.
Daryl dropped his head back against the canvas with a frustrated groan, willing the ache in his chest to fade.
~~~
The CDC felt like another world.
Hot water. Clean clothes. Full stomachs. For the first time since the dead started walking everyone’s shoulders eased just an inch.
Lingering laughter spilled down the sterile halls.
Jenner kept refilling glasses, and somehow everyone kept drinking.
Even Daryl.
You watched him from across the table, unable to look away. His cheeks were flushed, those sharp blue eyes hazy with wine. He slouched in his chair, one heavy boot hooked on the rung, actually laughing—deep, rough, unguarded—at something Glenn said. The sound rolled through you like thunder, low and warm, settling heavy between your thighs.
For once he looked… peaceful. Almost relaxed. Worn flannel shirt stretched across his broad chest, sleeves ripped off to show his corded forearms. You wanted to climb into his lap right there and feel that rare laugh vibrate against your mouth.
His gaze lifted slowly, eyes locking on yours.
The smirk on his face died instantly—something darker flickering in its place. God, he was beautiful—even when he was prickly or yelling in your face—there was good inside of him.
You looked away before Daryl could ruin the image you painted of him in your mind.
Again.
Once the wine went dry you decided to call it a night, moving through the narrow hallway to the room you’d chosen earlier. You turned another corner and walked straight into a solid wall of muscle and heat.
“Shit—” Daryl’s voice was gravel-rough, thick with wine and something else as your hands landed on his chest to steady yourself. God, he was warm. You could feel his heartbeat slamming under your palms, fast and panicked.
He didn’t step back.
Neither did you.
“Sorry,” You whispered, but it came out quick—startled. The last time you spoke to him he told you to stay the fuck away from him and here you were with your hands still on his chest. “I think I’m lost.”
Daryl’s eyes dropped to yours, then lower—tracing the way your lips parted with a soft exhale. The half-empty wine bottle hung forgotten at his side.
“Yeah,” He muttered. “Me too.”
The air between you thickened. Hot and electric. Just the distant hum of the building and the sound of your breathing.
“You’re drunk.” You whispered, pressing closer to steal away some of his warmth.
“Not hardly.” His voice had gone dangerously low, free hand coming up slow, bracing on the wall beside your head, caging you in without touching. The heat rolling off his body made you visibly shiver. You tilted your face up, close enough to smell wine and smoke and that wild, masculine scent that was pure Daryl. Close enough that your breasts brushed his chest.
“Daryl…” His name left your lips like a plea, watching his jaw clench so tight the muscle jumped. Eyes dark, pupils blown. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard.
Then he moved.
His hand slid to your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise as he walked you backward until your back hit the cool wall. A gasp slipped out of you as his hips followed, pressing in until you felt the thick, heavy line of him grinding slow and deliberate against your lower belly.
“Fuck,” He growled under his breath, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel that?”
You whimpered softly, nodding, hips rolling up to meet the slow grind of his. The friction made heat pool slick and aching between your legs, hands fisting against the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer. One of his thighs pushed between yours, pressing right against your core—the pressure dragging a broken moan from your throat.
His mouth hovered over yours—barely an inch away. You could almost taste him. His grip on your waist tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh as he rocked against you again, harder this time, letting you feel every inch of how badly his body wanted you.
Your hand slid up, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. His other hand finally touched you—rough palm dragging up your side, thumb brushing against your waist. For one dizzy, perfect second, his lips parted like he was finally going to kiss you.
Claim you.
Ruin you right there against the CDC wall.
Then his whole body went rigid.
Reality slammed back in.
He shoved away from you violently, chest heaving—hands clenched into fists at his sides like he didn’t trust them anymore.
“You still don’t fuckin’ get it,” He snapped, voice raw and cracking. His eyes were narrowed—furious at himself more than you. “I don’t give a fuck about you—don’t need you out here fuckin’ up my head! Gettin’ me killed!”
The words sliced deep.
You stared at him, chest still rising fast, lips tingling from how close he’d been. He wouldn’t look at you now—eyes fixed on the floor.
You swallowed the burn in your throat and nodded once.
“Okay.”
This time your smile was small.
Sad.
You turned and walked away without looking back. Daryl stayed frozen in the hallway long after your footsteps faded, back pressed to the opposite wall, chest hollow.
He’d finally pushed you too far—and it felt like the worst mistake of his fucking life.
Daryl figures out you're touch-starved. It ruins both of your lives.
Daryl Dixon figured out you were touch-starved entirely by accident.
Which honestly made it worse.
Because once Daryl noticed something—
Really noticed it—
He became impossible about it.
And unfortunately for both of you, Daryl noticing you practically melted under casual affection ruined the remainder of your lives permanently.
It started small.
Tiny things.
The prison had become strangely gentle lately.
Not safe exactly.
Never safe.
But calmer.
There were routines now.
Gardens growing in the yard.
Laundry lines swaying in the breeze.
People laughed sometimes.
You still startled when people touched you, though.
Not in fear.
Just surprise.
Like you weren’t used to it.
Daryl noticed because Daryl noticed everything about you.
The way you froze slightly anytime Carol squeezed your shoulder.
How your entire expression softened whenever Beth linked arms with you.
How you lingered embarrassingly long after hugs.
At first, he didn’t think much of it.
Then one evening Glenn threw an arm around your shoulders while telling some stupid story during dinner.
And you—
You leaned into it instinctively.
Tiny movement.
Barely noticeable.
But your whole body relaxed like someone finally loosened a wire pulled too tight.
Daryl stared.
Because the look on your face—
Jesus.
Like warmth physically surprised you.
Then Glenn let go after a second and you smiled like you were trying not to miss it already.
Something uncomfortable twisted in Daryl’s chest.
The realization hit fully a few days later.
You’d gotten hurt on a run.
Nothing major.
A twisted ankle and a few cuts after slipping down an embankment.
Still enough that Hershel ordered you off your feet for the day.
Daryl found you sitting alone in one of the prison cells that evening changing the bandage around your ankle.
You looked frustrated.
Mostly at yourself.
“Need help?” he asked from the doorway.
You startled slightly before relaxing.
“Oh. Hey.”
Daryl crouched beside you automatically.
Large rough hands reaching for the bandage.
You hesitated only a second before letting him help.
Silence settled comfortably.
Then—
When Daryl’s hand wrapped carefully around your ankle to steady it—
You went still.
Not tense.
Still.
Your breath caught softly.
Daryl glanced up immediately.
You looked embarrassed suddenly.
“…Sorry.”
His brow furrowed.
“For what?”
You shrugged awkwardly.
“Nothin’.”
But your face had softened in that same strange way again.
Like simple touch affected you too much.
Daryl stared at your ankle in his hands.
Then slowly:
“…When’s the last time somebody took care’a you?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
You blinked.
Then looked away.
Daryl’s stomach dropped immediately.
Because that silence?
That silence was answer enough.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
You laughed awkwardly.
“It’s not a big deal.”
The words sounded rehearsed.
Like you said them often.
Daryl hated that instantly.
He finished wrapping your ankle carefully.
Then without really thinking about it, his thumb brushed lightly over your skin once.
You visibly melted.
Not dramatically.
Just—
Your shoulders loosened.
Your eyes fluttered slightly.
Tiny reaction.
Huge impact.
Daryl’s brain short-circuited completely.
Because suddenly he understood.
You weren’t just shy.
You were touch-starved.
And apparently nobody had been taking proper care of you.
Something deeply possessive and furious rose inside his chest.
Not at you.
Never at you.
At the idea of someone going this long without softness.
Without affection.
Without being held.
Daryl swallowed hard.
“…That feels nice, huh?”
Your face immediately turned red.
You looked horrified at being noticed.
“I—”
Daryl’s expression softened instantly.
“Hey. Ain’t makin’ fun.”
You stared at him uncertainly.
Then quietly:
“Yeah.”
The honesty in that tiny word wrecked him.
After that, Daryl couldn’t stop noticing it.
And once he noticed it—
He started doing something about it.
Not consciously at first.
Instinctively.
Like his body made decisions before his brain caught up.
He’d hand you things and let his fingers linger slightly.
Stand close enough your shoulders brushed.
Rest his palm briefly against your back guiding you through doorways.
Every single time, you reacted.
Subtle.
But there.
A tiny breath.
A softened expression.
A quiet almost-startled look of relief.
And every single time, Daryl felt like he was losing his damn mind.
Because you looked at touch like it was something precious.
Like you weren’t used to being handled gently.
It made his chest ache.
The first hug happened because of a nightmare.
You woke the prison with a scream.
Daryl was moving before he fully woke up.
Knife in hand.
Heart pounding.
He found you sitting upright on your cot breathing hard, eyes glassy with panic.
No danger.
Just fear.
Daryl lowered the knife slowly.
“Hey.”
You looked up immediately.
Humiliation crossed your face.
“Sorry.”
Again with the apologizing.
Daryl hated that too.
“You ain’t gotta apologize for nightmares.”
You rubbed at your eyes quickly.
“M’fine.”
Bullshit.
Daryl stepped closer carefully.
Then stopped.
Because he wanted to touch you.
Badly.
Wanted to comfort you.
Wanted to ease that awful lonely look in your eyes.
“You want a hug?”
The question came out rough.
Awkward.
Like he physically wasn’t used to offering things like that.
You stared at him like he’d spoken another language.
“A what?”
Daryl shifted uncomfortably.
“A hug,” he repeated. “Jesus Christ.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“You’d hug me?”
The sheer disbelief in your voice nearly fucking killed him.
Of course he would.
Jesus.
Daryl’s chest tightened painfully.
“…C’mere.”
You moved instantly.
Like your body decided before your brain could.
And the second Daryl wrapped his arms around you—
You collapsed against him.
A tiny broken sound escaped your throat as your hands clutched weakly at the back of his vest.
Daryl froze.
Because nobody had ever held onto him like that before.
Like he was safety.
Like he was home.
Your entire body relaxed by degrees in his arms.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like you were afraid it might disappear.
Daryl tightened his hold immediately.
Protective instinct hitting him so hard it almost hurt.
“It’s okay,” he murmured awkwardly into your hair. “Gotcha.”
You trembled once against him.
Then whispered so quietly he almost missed it:
“Thank you.”
And that—
That absolutely ruined him.
After that, things escalated quickly.
Because now Daryl knew.
And now you knew he knew.
Which meant every bit of affection became charged with unbearable awareness.
Daryl started touching you constantly.
Not even on purpose anymore.
A hand at your waist.
Your knee pressed against his during dinner.
His arm slung around your shoulders during watch duty.
And every single time, you unconsciously leaned into him like a moth to a flame.
Daryl became addicted to it immediately.
The way your eyes softened when he touched you.
The sleepy little sighs you made.
How naturally you started seeking him out afterward.
It destroyed him.
Completely.
Carol noticed first.
“You’ve gotta stop looking at her like that.”
Daryl frowned.
“Like what?”
“Like she hung the moon and invented kindness.”
Daryl looked offended.
“Ain’t lookin’ at her like nothin’.”
Carol stared.
“You carried her juice box across the yard yesterday.”
“…She asked.”
“She was fifteen feet away.”
Daryl grunted and walked off.
Carol laughed herself breathless.
You were not doing much better.
Because Daryl Dixon touched like he meant it.
Careful.
Steady.
Protective.
Every casual touch from him felt devastatingly intimate because Daryl wasn’t casually affectionate with anybody else.
Only you.
And the worst part?
He always looked at you afterward.
Like he needed to make sure you were okay.
Like your comfort mattered to him more than breathing.
One evening in the common area, you ended up tucked against Daryl’s side beneath a blanket.
Halfway through the conversations, you realized his fingers were absentmindedly rubbing slow circles against your arm.
Your brain nearly shut down.
You tilted your head slightly to look at him.
Daryl noticed immediately.
“What?”
“…Nothing.”
His hand paused.
“You want me t’stop?”
Immediate panic hit you.
“No.”
Too fast.
Too desperate.
Heat flooded your face instantly.
Daryl stared at you.
Then very slowly resumed the gentle motion against your arm.
Something soft and wrecked crossed his face.
Like that answer affected him way too much.
Truthfully?
It did.
The breaking point came during a storm.
Heavy rain hammered against the prison roof while everyone crowded into the cafeteria overnight.
Space was limited.
Blankets everywhere.
People sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder.
You sat beside Daryl shivering slightly from the cold.
Without a word, he opened one arm toward you.
Invitation.
Your heart stumbled.
“Y’sure?” you whispered.
Daryl looked at you like the question offended him.
“Get over here.”
You curled against his side carefully.
Daryl immediately wrapped his arm around you fully.
Warm.
Solid.
Safe.
Then—
Without thinking—
You nuzzled slightly closer.
Tiny movement.
Instinctive.
Daryl stopped breathing.
Because holy shit.
You trusted him.
Trusted him enough to seek comfort from him naturally.
His hand tightened carefully against your shoulder.
And then quietly, rough like confession:
“Ain’t nobody been takin’ care’a you right.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
You looked down.
“No,” you admitted softly.
Daryl went still beside you.
Then after a long moment:
“Gonna change that.”
Your breath caught.
You looked up slowly.
Daryl was already staring at you.
Eyes dark.
Intense.
Terrifyingly honest.
“Don’t think I can stop now anyway,” he muttered.
And suddenly you realized something equally devastating.
Daryl wasn’t just comforting you because he pitied you.
Daryl liked touching you.
Needed it too.
Maybe almost as much as you did.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Daryl…”
His hand slid carefully up your back.
Slow.
Gentle.
“You got any idea what ya do to me?” he asked hoarsely.
No.
No, you really didn’t.
But judging by the way Daryl looked at you right now—
Like touching you had become something dangerous and necessary all at once—
You were starting to understand.
Then finally, slowly, Daryl pressed his forehead against yours.
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Daryl isn’t one to hide his affection for you, he simply expresses it in ways that most people miss if they aren’t looking close enough.
Whenever one of you comes back from a supply run and you spot the other, he doesn’t hesitate to pull you in for a hug.
Whenever everyone is huddled around a campfire, he never moves away from you no matter how close you get. If you sit flush against him with your arms and legs touching, he welcomes the warmth but doesn’t address it.
Whenever you two are working together and he gets a cut somewhere, he doesn’t push you away when you gently grab him to see if he’s okay.
Whenever you two are in the back of the truck, he gets out first and turns back with his hand out incase you need it. If it were anyone else getting out the truck after him, it wouldn’t even occur to him to offer his hand.
Sure, Daryl isn’t the type to profess his love from the rooftop or pull you in for a kiss when there’s an audience, but everyone can see how he’s softer with you than anyone else.
They see the way he doesn’t pull away from your touch, the way his shoulders relax when you’re with him, and even the way he starts to expect some small affectionate gesture when you pass by.
He may not be the ideal man for pda, but he never denies himself your affection. He considers himself to be a very lucky man.
if you liked this, my reqs are open for short blurbs similar to this and hcs <3
If Renee Waller had her druthers, she'd be weathering the end of the world from the comfort of her family home back in North Carolina. Instead she's three hundred miles and a world away in Atlanta stuck towing her unreliable, addict brother and a lost six year old through hell. If she's going to make it -- if she's going to keep that little girl alive -- she's going to have learn to lean on the other survivors....and perhaps one grumpy redneck in particular.
Starts pre-season one near the beginning of the outbreak.
a knock on your door wasn't uncommon, but one in the dead of night was confusing. you were half asleep, hoping it would just go away. you’d figure it out in the morning if it was important. the knocks, however, persisted for much longer than expected. when you finally went to answer it, though, they had stopped, and you swung open the door to look.
daryl dixon was pissing in your yard. grumbling to himself, he swayed while he peed in your bushes. once he realized you had seen him, he quickly tucked himself away and cleared his throat, struggling to stay balanced. "y'didn't answer the door, i had t'piss," he slurred.
you didn't look impressed, but quickly realized he was drunk. so, instead of yelling at him to scram and leave you alone, you let the pathetic man in your house. sitting him down at the center island, you got to work grabbing him some water and bread. he felt out of place, being taken care of like this. but god, he loved being in your home. it smelled like you, made him warm and floaty. he liked your hands, small and soft, grabbing him a glass. too drunk to think, daryl’s lips moved before his brain did, and he made a fool of himself.
"you smell good," he mumbled. "y'look nice. thanks fer this. sorry i pissed in yer yard."
you sighed, tired eyes focused on getting daryl water. a shake of your head, and you shoved it in his palm. “slow sips. if you vomit on my carpet, i’m makin’ you lick it up.”
“yes, ma’am,” daryl muttered, head down in shame.
watching him take small sips begrudgingly, you kept your arms folded. “you piss on my daisies?” you asked flatly.
daryl paused, blinking slow. he didn’t fucking know. had no idea. he barely remembered doing it. a shrug.
you sighed, rubbing the bridge of your nose, before making an executive decision to walk over and grab the glass. you examined his face, glassy eyes, the kicked puppy frown.
“you’re a messy drunk,” you murmured, reaching up to stroke his cheek.
daryl flinched, before leaning into it, “yeah… i know.”
“so why’re you drunk?”
“missed you.”
“that’s not an answer.”
“it is…” daryl chewed the inside of his cheek. “was jus’… thinkin’. about’cha. wanted to… see you.”
“you drank before you got here, though,” you clarified, hand falling from his face. “so what was up before?”
daryl didn’t answer. instead, he leaned in, and let his forehead rest on your shoulder. you could’ve pried it out of him, but you couldn’t help wrapping your arms around him. “you’re an idiot,” you whispered.
“you smell nice,” daryl mumbled.
“you mentioned that,” you rolled your eyes.
a/n: here have this while i spiral into oblivion. thanks for your patience & support as always. mwah.
AN: Autism fic. A bit rushed. I’ll rewrite this & make it better 🫶🏻
The prison was quiet for once. Not silent but quiet enough that the distant hum of crickets & praying mantis’ beyond the fences could be heard through the open cell windows.
Daryl usually woke before dawn. Years of sleeping rough trained his body to wake at every little sound, every shift in the dark. Usually he'd roll over, check the room, and drift back off..
This morning though, something caught his eye. You were asleep beside him. The thin prison blanket had twisted around your legs during the night, one arm tucked beneath your cheek. The other hand was curled against your chest.
Daryl frowned. Your fingers weren't relaxed like most sleeping people. They were folded in on themselves, wrists bent slightly in ward, hands tucked close. Almost like...
A small smile crossed his lips "Dinosaur hands.” His words merely a whisper.
He'd seen people do it before. Seen you do it once or twice when you got excited too. He never thought much of it.
Now that you were under his gaze, he thought about the other quirks you had. The way you always sat with one foot tucked underneath yourself. The way you'd cover your ears when noises got too loud. How crowded meals in the prison yard seemed to drain you, faster than any supply runs ever did. How you'd memorise things nobody else paid attention to.
You could tell him exactly how many cells were on each floor. Exactly how many cans of peaches remained in storage. Exactly which floorboards squeaked in every hallway.
At first he'd thought you were just observant. Then he'd realised you weren't simply noticing things. You needed to notice things. Needed the predictbility. The routine. The certainty.
His gaze softened. The pieces slotted together. Not all at once but just ust enough. Enough to understand. Enough to stop wondering why some days were harder for you than others.
You stirred slightly in your sleep. Your hand curled tighter against your chest.
Still Dinosaur hands. His smile grew. Cute he thought. He'd never tell you that though. Afew minutes later you woke slowly, blinking at the pale morning light. The moment you noticed him looking, confusion crossed your face.
"What?"
"Nothin'."
"You were staring."
"I wasn't."
"You definitely were."
Daryl snorted.
You sat up, rubbing your eyes. The movement disrupting the blanket and you immediately reached to straighten it.
Another thing. Everything had a place. Everything had an order. You sigh softly, seeming calmer once it was fixed.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
You nodded “mhm, why?”
Shrugging “ jus’ makin' sure."
The concern in his voice reaching you, your expression softened.
A beat passed, your body feeling a familiar unease. You narrow your eyes “you’re being weird”
"I'm always weird."
"True”
Daryl huffed a laugh.
You smile leepily. After a moment you leaned sideways until your shoulder nuzzled his.
Daryl resting his arm against yours. His gaze drifted down briefly again.
Your hand had curled up again into tiny dinosaur claws.
he didn't know every name for every little thing you did. Maybe he didn't need to. Daryl understood enough though. You were you and that’s all that mattered.
The rest? He figured he’d figure it out.
Sleeping peacefully, he relished in everything that made you you.
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You felt him glance over at you. His blue eyes were worried and intense, but you avoided meeting them.
"I don't care what they're saying about me," you said suddenly.
Daryl nodded.
"They weren't there," you murmured. "I did everything I could."
"I know ya did."
"It's not my fault," you whispered. "I almost didn't come back alive either. And they're all acting like I'm the one who pulled the trigger." You voice was constricted as your throat tightened with emotion. "They're all acting like they'd deal with it better if I'd died too."
"Hey," Daryl interrupted. "Fuck 'em. We dun need 'em," he growled. He sighed heavily and looked back out into the night. The bruising on half your face was still obvious even in the low light. "Ya got me. Fuck the rest of 'em. They're clueless."
You sighed again and finally glanced over at the archer. "You're all I need, Daryl. I'll be alright."
Prompt: "I don't care what they're saying about me."
Summary: After years of infertility, you finally get pregnant and get to tell your husband.
Warnings/Tags: husband!daryl, wife!reader, pregnancy, mentions of infertility, established relationship, female reader (she/her), season 11, no use of y/n
Word count: 696 words
A/N: This is a continuation of my fic “Begin Again” where the reader and Daryl are trying to get pregnant. As the title of this fic implies, their attempts were successful and she is now pregnant. I included this in the first piece, but there is a content warning for mentions of fertility issues. Please skip this if you find that to be triggering. I’m trying to combat a writing slump, so this is a shorter one. Anyway, enjoy this fun fluffy fic!!
Masterlist | D.D. fluff masterlist
The tears hit the moment you saw those two little pink lines. You and Daryl had been trying for a baby for years, now. After multiple negative tests, you’d accepted the fact that it might just not be in the cards for you two. Your husband had even suggested taking a step back from family planning. You hadn’t even planned on taking a test, but your “stomach flu” just wasn’t passing.
Now, this was the confirmation that you’d been waiting for. You were pregnant. Just as fast as the excitement had hit, you were flooded with anxiety. How the hell were you supposed to raise a child? What if this changed your relationship with your husband? While you silently panicked, Daryl made his way into the bathroom. He’d been on patrol, and you’d taken the test on your own because you’d expected it to be negative.
Caught off guard by your crying, Daryl rushed over to you and cupped your face in his rough hands. He assumed that you’d gotten a negative result again, and he immediately began reassuring you. His voice was soft in a way that it only got around you.
“Oh, honey. It’s okay. We weren’t even tryin’.”
You could tell that he’d misinterpreted the situation, and you quickly shook your head. Leaning into his touch, you laughed softly and pressed a kiss to his palm.
“Daryl, it’s positive. That’s why I’m crying.”
Momentarily in shock, Daryl froze and didn’t say anything. The man looked like a deer in headlights, and it took all your strength to not erupt into another fit of giggles. You leaned forward and kissed the underside of his jaw, which was comically hanging open. Your smile widened and you teased him lightly.
“Are you gonna say anythin’, my love? Or are you just gonna stare?”
Having collected himself, Daryl nodded and felt a little cocky. He’d finally succeeded in getting you pregnant. He was going to be a father. The idea was simultaneously terrifying and beyond exciting. Your husband just had to make a comment about his methods.
“It was totally the pillow thing, wasn’t it? I told you it works.”
You rolled your eyes and laughed even harder. Last time the two of you intentionally tried for a baby, Daryl made you lie on the bed with your hips propped up for an hour afterward. It was something that Merle had told him about when they were younger, and he was convinced it would make it stick. You had gotten pregnant though, so maybe he was right. Deciding to give him that, you nodded and brushed his hair from his face.
“Yeah, baby. You, your magic dick, and the “pillow method” got me pregnant.”
Seeing Daryl all relaxed and playful like this would never fail to feel rewarding. You silenced his joking with a deep kiss, and he instantly melted into it. Your husband’s arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer. He couldn’t stop smiling, so your lips would momentarily unlock. Your hands were tangled in his hair, and you pulled back to take a breath. He’d never admit it, but you could see the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and the way he blinked a bit too quickly. In true Dixon fashion, he brushed off the way he’d gotten choked up.
“This bathroom is kinda dusty. Someone’s oughta fix that.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s just the dust.”
Daryl wiped at his face and distracted you from his emotional display by redirecting your attention to the pregnancy test sitting on the counter.
“So, I guess we should start makin’ some plans, huh? Like, how we’re gonna tell Judith and RJ. They’re gonna be real excited.”
“Very true. Let’s discuss this in bed.”
First trimester fatigue was already kicking your ass. Daryl wasted no time picking you up and carrying you back into the bedroom. If you thought that he was protective before, you were in for a whole new level. Once the two of you were settled, the planning could begin.
If Renee Waller had her druthers, she'd be weathering the end of the world from the comfort of her family home back in North Carolina. Instead she's three hundred miles and a world away in Atlanta stuck towing her unreliable, addict brother and a lost six year old through hell. If she's going to make it -- if she's going to keep that little girl alive -- she's going to have learn to lean on the other survivors....and perhaps one grumpy redneck in particular.
Starts pre-season one near the beginning of the outbreak.
𝓭𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 doesn’t like to talk during sex. it makes him feel awkward. he’s all grunts and moans as he likes to put all his focus in touching you. in feeling your skin beneath his hands. the way you’re so soft compared to his calloused and worn palms. the way you curve and arch against him as he envelopes you in his arms. he buries his head in the crook of your neck and breathes in your scent. he loves being close with you. loves finally having someone he can be close with. and he’s wrecked the second he presses inside you. his breaths shaky and low, growing deeper and deeper as he too gets deeper and deeper.
reader pronouns: she/her
"Goddamn," Daryl sighed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "This is the best meal I've had in a long ass time. Is there a damn thing ya can't do?" he asked, settling back in his chair.
You smiled and felt the apples of your cheeks warm. Daryl seemed to have no idea of the effect his words had on you.
Rick and Michonne exchanged a knowing look. "Yes, is there?" Rick said, a twinkle in his eyes. "She can fight, she can kill walkers, she's the best damn sniper we've got after Sasha, and she cooks up a mean rabbit."
"All true. But you know what they say; 'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach,'" Michonne added with a small smile. You shot her a dirty look and the smile widened.
"Michonne," you murmured in a low warning voice, wishing you were close enough to kick her under the table. The heat in your face increased.
"Mmm," Daryl hummed in agreement. "Ya'll act like yer surprised or somethin'."
Amusement still colored Rick's face. "What do you mean?"
"The rest of us figured out on day 1 what she's capable of," Daryl said, pushing back from the table. "If it took ya this long to put it together ya'll must be a bunch of dumbasses," he growled, collecting his empty plate as well as yours and putting them into the sink before he disappeared downstairs.
You pressed a hand to your cheek, trying to hide your face.
"Yes, we must be," Rick agreed loudly. "A bunch of dumbasses." He grinned at you.
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♡ He always watches you intently, while fidgeting with his lips or fingers but feels like he can't even manage to look at you when you're talking to him
♡ There is no real confession just a moment when he's got no explaination left on why he always goes out of his way for you, when the only thing he can do is avoid your gaze and (not so secretly) check for your reaction - that's when you realize
♡ Slow burn, it takes a long time until you're finally together but the wait is definitely worth it
♡ You kiss him first
♡ Lots of mutual pining because the both of you are too scared to make the first move
♡ There is not a single bone in his body that even considers that you could feel the same for him
pale gold ribbons of sunlight flood the room like warm honey, turning floating dust motes into drifting stars. everything feels blurred around the edges, suspended in that hazy space right between a dream and waking up. daryl is buried under blankets on the mattress, but when his arm sweeps across the sheets and finds your side cold, his eyes blink open, slow and weighted, tracing the quiet until he hears the faint rustle of fabric.
through heavy eyelids, he finds you standing beside the dresser, holding a portable cd player in one hand while the wire from your headphones disappears beneath the collar of his vest. your own clothes are hanging on the clothesline outside, leaving you to steal the first thing you could find. his vest hangs loose on your frame, the worn, cracked leather nearly swallowing you whole against your bare skin and thin cotton underwear. completely oblivious, you fold laundry to a silent melody only you can hear, carrying the cd player with you every time you move across the sun-warmed floorboards, swaying lazily as the leather brushes your thighs. daryl doesn’t move, too content to break the spell, watching through tired squinted eyes.
then, you turn toward the window.
the sunlight catches the back of the vest dead-on, exploding into a bright halo around you. the faded angel wings stitched into the fabric look almost luminous, stretching wide across your bare shoulders. he watches, too tired to move, until the floorboard beneath your foot creaks.
you glance over your shoulder and freeze, suspended in the sunbeam with the cd player loose in your hand. there he is, stretched out beneath the blankets with his dark hair sticking up, squinting with an expression somewhere between amused and completely smitten. heat creeps into your cheeks as you pull one side of the headphones away from your ear.
“what?”
his gaze drops briefly to the vest, to the wings on your shoulders, and then back to you. his morning voice is a low, velvety rasp when it finally cuts through the quiet.
“c’mere, angel.”
you blink. “angel?”
the ghost of a smirk touches his lips, lazy and soft, completely melting the usual tension in his face as he looks at you like you’re the only thing left real in the world.
