Daryl Dixon (The Walking Dead) x fem!reader
You're a little chaos gremlin. Daryl Dixon thinks its adorable. Not that he'd ever tell you that.
The first time Daryl Dixon realized you were going to be a problem, you were hanging upside down from the roof of the RV.
Not metaphorically.
Actually upside down.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, staring up at you where your knees hooked over the metal edge, your body dangling freely while you rummaged through a ripped backpack. “What the hell’re you doin’?”
You looked at him with all the calm confidence of someone not currently one bad grip away from a concussion.
“Inventory.”
“You’re upside down.”
“Blood flow helps me think.”
“That ain’t a thing.”
“Says who?”
“Says common damn sense.”
You grinned at him then—bright, crooked, utterly unashamed—and tossed a can of peaches down toward him. Daryl caught it automatically against his chest before glaring harder.
“See? Teamwork.”
“You’re gonna break your damn neck.”
“But I haven’t yet.”
“That’s not comfortin’.”
You dropped lightly to the ground beside him, boots crunching against gravel, and dusted your hands off like none of this had been strange. Which, unfortunately, was becoming normal for you.
Daryl watched you shove another two cans into your bag before wandering toward the tree line like a raccoon with opposable thumbs and absolutely no fear of God.
He should’ve been annoyed.
Probably was annoyed.
But somewhere beneath the headache you constantly gave him was something warm and helpless and dangerous.
Because you made this dead world feel alive again.
The group called you many things.
Rick called you a liability.
Carol called you “resourceful.”
Glenn called you “the human equivalent of a lit firecracker.”
Michonne once stared at you for a full thirty seconds after catching you trying to teach Judith how to throw knives and simply said:
“No.”
You’d smiled innocently.
“Okay.”
Five minutes later Daryl found you in the yard showing Carl how to pick handcuffs with a bobby pin.
“You ever listen?” Michonne snapped from the porch.
“Not particularly!”
Daryl nearly choked trying not to laugh.
That was the problem.
Nobody else saw it.
To everyone else, you were chaos incarnate. Tiny disaster. A gremlin in human form who somehow survived entirely on caffeine, spite, and poor decisions.
But Daryl saw the little things.
The way you made Judith laugh when she cried.
The way you always gave someone else the bigger food portion when supplies got low.
The way you stayed awake beside people having nightmares because you knew what it was like to wake up afraid.
You hid kindness under sarcasm and recklessness.
Daryl knew something about that.
Which was probably why he kept ending up near you.
Even when he swore he wouldn’t.
“You are banned from traps.”
“I don’t think you can legally ban me.”
“I ain’t askin’ legal permission.”
You sat cross-legged on the floor of the church, pouting dramatically while Daryl dismantled the horrifying contraption you’d built from fishing wire, a soup can, and what looked concerningly like a fork.
“It was defensive.”
“It was pointed at the bathroom door.”
“In case of intruders.”
“It nearly took my damn eye out.”
“You still have both eyes.”
“Woman…”
You snorted.
He tried to stay irritated.
Then you smiled at him.
Daryl hated that smile.
Not because it was bad.
Because it wasn’t.
Because it made something inside his chest go soft and stupid.
You leaned back on your palms, watching him work.
“You’re pretty when you’re grumpy.”
Daryl almost stabbed himself with the screwdriver.
“I ain’t pretty.”
“You kinda are.”
“Shut up.”
“You blush really easy for a scary redneck.”
“I ain’t blushin’.”
“Your ears are red.”
“Cold.”
“It’s August.”
He glared at you.
You grinned wider.
And Christ.
That grin was going to kill him someday.
You had absolutely no survival instincts.
That became obvious during a run when you found an abandoned toy store.
“Absolutely not,” Daryl said immediately.
“But—”
“No.”
“There could be useful supplies.”
“You’re lookin’ at a stuffed giraffe.”
“It could contain medicine.”
“It contains fluff.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know exactly that.”
Twenty minutes later, Daryl walked out carrying ammunition, canned food, and somehow three stuffed animals because you’d shoved them into his arms with an expression so heartbreakingly hopeful he physically could not say no.
“You’re manipulative,” he informed you.
“You like me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“You carried the giraffe.”
“…Shut up.”
You beamed like you’d won something.
Maybe you had.
The prison changed things.
Not all at once.
But slowly.
Quietly.
Daryl got used to hearing your footsteps beside his.
Got used to your voice drifting through cell blocks.
Got used to finding little stupid things left for him.
Half a candy bar.
A sharpened hunting knife you’d spent hours fixing.
A note that said:
found this. thought of your grumpy ass.
You never signed them.
You didn’t have to.
And Daryl—
Daryl started smiling more.
Not big smiles.
Tiny ones.
Rare enough that the entire prison noticed.
“You like her,” Glenn said one evening.
Daryl nearly walked directly into a wall.
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“She’s literally sitting in your lap.”
Daryl froze.
You were.
Somewhere during game night, you’d apparently climbed onto the bench beside him, gotten comfortable, and eventually ended up sprawled half across his lap while arguing with Maggie about card rules.
Neither of you had noticed.
Or maybe you had.
Because when Daryl looked down, you tipped your head back to look at him upside down and smiled sleepily.
“You comfy?”
Every thought left his head.
“…Yeah.”
Glenn made a face like he wanted to scream.
The thing about you was that you trusted Daryl completely.
Without hesitation.
Without fear.
You’d hand him your weapons without thinking twice.
Fall asleep against his shoulder.
Reach for his hand automatically in crowds.
And Daryl, who’d spent most of his life feeling unwanted, didn’t know what to do with that kind of trust.
Especially because he wanted more of it.
Wanted all of it.
Every smile.
Every laugh.
Every terrible impulsive idea.
Every moment.
It scared the hell out of him.
“You ever gonna tell her?”
Carol sat beside him on the prison tower roof while Daryl cleaned his crossbow.
He didn’t look up.
“Tell who what.”
Carol snorted softly.
“You’re hopeless.”
“Ain’t ask for commentary.”
“You look at her like she hung the moon.”
Daryl immediately scowled.
“I do not.”
“Mmhm.”
“She drives me insane.”
“You’re smiling right now.”
His face flattened instantly.
Carol laughed outright.
Below them in the yard, you were attempting to roller skate using scavenged children’s skates two sizes too small.
“You’re gonna bust your ass!” Daryl yelled.
“I believe in myself!”
“You shouldn’t!”
Two seconds later you crashed directly into a fence.
Carol nearly cried laughing.
Daryl was already climbing down the ladder.
“Y’alright?”
You sat in the grass blinking up at him after your spectacular wipeout.
“One day,” you announced solemnly, “my athleticism will reveal itself.”
Daryl crouched beside you, trying and failing not to smile.
“You got a death wish.”
“You caught me last time.”
His expression softened before he could stop it.
Because he had.
Months earlier.
You’d slipped climbing a shelf during a supply run and Daryl had caught you before your head hit concrete.
You’d stared at him afterward like he’d hung the stars.
Daryl remembered every second of it.
Now you looked at him that same way again.
Open.
Warm.
Fond.
Dangerous.
“You always catch me,” you said quietly.
Something painful tugged in his chest.
He looked away first.
“C’mon. Let’s get ya cleaned up.”
You took his hand immediately.
No hesitation.
Never hesitation.
The first time Daryl kissed you happened because you almost got bitten.
Which honestly felt fitting.
You’d split from the group during a run after hearing a dog barking somewhere nearby.
Because apparently your survival instincts had fully evaporated.
Daryl found you cornered in an alley with three walkers closing in.
Afterward, after the blood and panic and violence, after he killed the last walker with brutal fury, he grabbed you by the shoulders hard enough to make you stumble.
“The hell were you thinkin’?!” he shouted.
You looked startled.
“There was a dog—”
“You coulda died!”
“I didn’t—”
“You don’t get to run off like that!”
Your face changed then.
Not angry.
Hurt.
“I said I’m sorry.”
Daryl stopped breathing.
Because your voice had gone small.
And he hated that.
Hated being the reason for it.
You looked down, rubbing your arm awkwardly.
“I just thought maybe if it was alive—”
Before he could think better of it, Daryl grabbed your face and kissed you.
Hard.
Desperate.
Like he’d been holding it back for months and finally snapped.
You made a tiny surprised sound against his mouth before kissing him back instantly.
Like you’d been waiting too.
When he pulled away, both of you were breathing hard.
Daryl looked horrified with himself.
You looked delighted.
“Well,” you whispered. “That’s one way to communicate.”
“I—”
“You really need healthier coping mechanisms.”
He groaned and dropped his forehead against yours.
You laughed softly.
Then kissed him again.
And Daryl Dixon, perpetually grumpy survivalist, realized he was completely and utterly screwed.
Dating you was a nightmare.
Not because you were difficult.
Because you were impossible.
You stole his shirts constantly.
You hid plastic spiders in his bedroll.
You once convinced Glenn to help you paint tiny smiley faces on all of Daryl’s bolts.
He discovered them mid-run.
“What the hell is this?”
You looked unbearably pleased with yourself.
“Morale.”
“You vandalized my weapons.”
“They’re happy weapons.”
“Why are they winkin’?”
“Artistic flair.”
Daryl stared at the bolt.
Then at you.
Then back at the bolt.
And despite every effort not to—
He laughed.
A real laugh.
Rough and rusty from disuse, but real.
Your entire face lit up.
There it is, your expression seemed to say. There you are.
And God.
Nobody had ever looked happier to hear him laugh.
You loved him loudly.
Openly.
Without shame.
Daryl had no idea what to do with that at first.
You kissed his cheek in passing.
Curled against him at night.
Told him you missed him after short supply runs like he’d been gone for years instead of hours.
And every single time, Daryl looked vaguely stunned.
Like love was something he still didn’t fully believe belonged to him.
One night, lying together beneath a threadbare blanket while rain hammered the prison roof, you traced the scars on his arm gently.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” you murmured.
Daryl shrugged.
“Nothin’.”
“Liar.”
He stayed quiet for a long moment.
Then finally:
“Ain’t never had… this before.”
You looked at him carefully.
“This?”
“Someone carin’ this much.”
The honesty in his voice nearly broke your heart.
You shifted closer immediately until your forehead touched his.
“Then I’ll care enough for all the years nobody else did.”
Daryl stared at you like he physically didn’t know how to process that sentence.
Then he kissed you slow and deep and aching.
Like he was trying to memorize the feeling.
The prison fell.
Everything broke after that.
But not you two.
Never you two.
Even separated, even terrified, even covered in blood and grief and exhaustion, Daryl searched for you like breathing.
And when he found you again—
God.
He nearly collapsed from relief.
You ran toward him through the trees so fast you almost tripped.
Daryl caught you around the waist as you slammed into him.
“You idiot,” you choked out, crying and laughing at once. “You’re alive.”
He buried his face against your neck.
Couldn’t speak for a second.
Because you were alive too.
And that was everything.
Absolute everything.
“I gotcha,” he muttered hoarsely.
Your arms tightened around him instantly.
“I know.”
And you did.
You always did.
Years later, after Alexandria, after wars and grief and rebuilding, after all the ugly parts of surviving finally softened around the edges—
Daryl still woke up every morning with you tangled around him like a sleepy octopus.
Still found random objects hidden in his vest pockets.
Still watched you climb things you absolutely should not climb.
Still heard your laughter carrying through whatever place became home next.
And every single day, Daryl loved you more.
Even when you filled his motorcycle saddlebags with stolen candy.
Even when you taught Judith swear words “educationally.”
Even when he found you sitting on the kitchen counter at two in the morning trying to train a possum you’d found outside.
“You cannot keep that thing.”
“He likes me.”
“It hissed at me.”
“That’s just his personality.”
“You said that about me once.”
“See? Soulmates.”
Daryl stared at you holding the possum like a proud mother.
Then he shook his head slowly and stepped between your knees, hands settling automatically on your hips.
“You’re a damn menace.”
You smiled lazily, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“But I’m your menace.”
And there it was again.
That feeling.
That soft helpless warmth that had started the first day he found you hanging upside down from an RV roof.
Daryl pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“Yeah,” he murmured quietly. “You are.”
