Daryl Dixon (The Walking Dead) x fem!reader
Daryl tries to romance you. Unfortunately, he's Daryl. So it goes.. interestingly. Luckily for him, you're a lil gone for him.
The first time Daryl Dixon tried to romance you, he accidentally insulted your shoes.
In his defense, he had not intended for it to come out like that.
In your defense, it absolutely did.
You’d been sitting outside the prison with Maggie, cleaning canned goods for the pantry while the late afternoon sun warmed the yard.
Daryl had spent the last twenty minutes pacing nearby.
Not obviously pacing.
Daryl-style pacing.
Which mostly meant hovering around pretending to check things that did not need checking.
You noticed immediately.
Maggie noticed immediately.
Daryl apparently did not notice that he was noticeable.
“He’s doing laps,” Maggie murmured under her breath.
You bit back a smile.
Sure enough, Daryl wandered past again carrying exactly one arrow.
Then he stopped near you awkwardly.
Silence.
You looked up.
Daryl looked at your feet.
Then immediately said:
“Those boots look stupid.”
Maggie choked violently beside you.
Daryl froze.
Your eyebrows lifted slowly.
“…Thank you?”
“Shit,” Daryl muttered instantly.
His face twisted like he physically heard himself too late.
“I meant— they ain’t stupid.”
Maggie outright turned away laughing.
You stared at him trying very hard not to smile.
Daryl looked deeply distressed.
“They look fine,” he corrected aggressively.
“Wow,” you said solemnly. “You silver-tongued devil.”
Maggie nearly fell over.
Daryl glared at both of you.
Then, incredibly, doubled down.
“Just sayin’ the old ones looked better.”
You burst into laughter.
And Daryl—
Daryl’s brain immediately short-circuited because apparently making you laugh mattered more than preserving his dignity.
He stood there red-faced and grumpy while you laughed into your hands.
Then muttered quietly:
“…Worth it.”
Your heart did a weird little flip.
Unfortunately for Daryl, his romance attempts did not improve from there.
The problem was that Daryl genuinely did not know how to flirt.
At all.
The man approached romance like it was a hostage negotiation.
Awkward. Sweaty. Slightly threatening for no reason.
But he was trying.
Which honestly made it worse.
Because every attempt was so painfully sincere that you physically could not stop yourself from falling harder for him.
Like the flowers.
One afternoon he disappeared into the woods for hours.
Nobody thought much of it.
Daryl did that.
Then he came back looking vaguely annoyed carrying a fistful of crushed wildflowers.
He stopped in front of you.
Held them out.
Silence.
You blinked.
Daryl blinked back.
Then grunted:
“Found these.”
Your chest melted instantly.
“They’re beautiful.”
Daryl shrugged too quickly.
“Mostly weeds.”
“Daryl.”
“What?”
“You picked me flowers.”
His ears turned bright red immediately.
“Ain’t picked ‘em.”
You stared.
“…You are currently holding them.”
Daryl looked betrayed by reality itself.
Carol walked by at that exact moment, took one look at the flowers, and immediately started cackling.
“Oh my God.”
Daryl scowled at her.
“Shut up.”
“You picked her flowers.”
“Ain’t—”
“You absolutely did.”
You carefully took the flowers from his hands.
Daryl watched your face the entire time.
Like he needed to know whether you actually liked them.
Which you did.
Desperately.
You smiled softly.
“Thank you.”
Daryl’s entire expression changed instantly.
Tiny shift.
Small enough most people wouldn’t notice.
But you did.
Soft.
Warm.
Like your happiness physically relaxed something inside him.
Then he ruined it immediately by blurting:
“Almost fell in a creek gettin’ those.”
You laughed helplessly.
Daryl looked relieved.
His next attempt involved food poisoning.
Not intentionally.
Mostly.
The prison kitchen was chaos on a good day.
And Daryl had apparently decided that cooking for you would be romantic.
This was objectively insane behavior.
“Has he ever cooked before?” Glenn asked nervously while watching smoke pour from the kitchen.
Carol crossed her arms thoughtfully.
“Not successfully.”
You arrived halfway through the disaster.
Daryl stood over a pan looking furious at it.
“What’s happening?”
Daryl looked over sharply.
“Nothin’.”
The pan burst briefly into flames.
You blinked.
“…Is the food on fire?”
“No.”
“It is actively burning.”
Daryl grabbed a towel and smothered the flames aggressively.
Then muttered:
“Was makin’ ya dinner.”
Your heart betrayed you immediately.
Because despite the smoke and the near death experience, that was genuinely sweet.
“You were?”
Daryl shrugged without looking at you.
“Ain’t a big deal.”
The kitchen smelled vaguely toxic.
You smiled anyway.
“What were you trying to make?”
He looked offended.
“Tryin’? I was makin’ spaghetti.”
You stared at the blackened pan.
“…I think the spaghetti lost.”
Daryl glared at the stove like it personally betrayed him.
Then after a second:
“…Can still eat around the burnt parts.”
Carol physically had to leave the room because she was laughing too hard.
You stepped beside Daryl carefully.
Then quietly:
“I’d love to eat burnt spaghetti with you.”
Daryl looked at you.
Really looked at you.
And the sheer affection in his face hit you hard enough your breath caught.
“Yeah?” he asked softly.
“Yeah.”
You both ended up eating terrible slightly-charred spaghetti on the prison floor while Daryl muttered death threats toward the stove.
It was honestly one of the best dates you’d ever had.
Then came the compliments.
Or rather—
Daryl’s horrifying attempts at compliments.
“You look less tired today.”
“Yer hair’s doin’ that thing again.”
“…You got nice elbows.”
You stared at him.
“My elbows?”
Daryl looked deeply uncomfortable.
“Forgot the word for… the other parts.”
“The other…”
Then realization hit.
“Oh my God.”
Daryl covered his face with one hand.
You laughed so hard you nearly cried.
Which unfortunately meant Daryl accidentally became addicted to making you laugh.
Even at his own expense.
Especially at his own expense.
Because every time you laughed at one of his disastrous attempts at flirting, you looked at him like he personally invented sunshine.
And Daryl—
God.
Daryl would’ve humiliated himself a thousand times over for that look.
The worst attempt happened during a run.
You and Daryl had stopped at an abandoned gas station scavenging supplies.
You stood on a shelf trying to reach a box when your foot slipped suddenly.
Before you could even react, Daryl grabbed your waist hard and hauled you safely against him.
Your breath caught instantly.
So did his.
Because now you were pressed directly against his chest.
One of his arms locked around your waist. Your hands braced against his shoulders.
Very close.
Daryl stared at you.
You stared back.
The air changed immediately.
Heavy. Warm.
Then Daryl, apparently deciding this was the moment to be smooth, said:
“Good thing I got fast reflexes.”
Not terrible.
Actually decent.
Until he immediately followed it with:
“Coulda fell and busted yer ass.”
You burst out laughing directly into his chest.
Daryl groaned loudly.
“Why am I like this?”
Your laughter softened into something affectionate.
“Honestly?” you smiled up at him. “I think it’s kinda charming.”
Daryl blinked.
“You do?”
“You’re trying.”
His face went strangely serious then.
Because yeah.
He was trying.
Trying harder than he’d ever tried for anyone before.
You touched his chest lightly.
“I know this stuff doesn’t come easy to you.”
Daryl looked away briefly.
Then muttered:
“Wanna do it right.”
Your heart physically ached.
Because Daryl Dixon trying to romance someone looked messy and awkward and deeply confusing—
But it was honest.
Every terrible compliment. Every burnt dinner. Every crushed flower.
All of it meant something because it was him.
You smiled softly.
“C’mere.”
Daryl looked wary immediately.
“What’re ya doin’?”
Instead of answering, you grabbed the front of his vest and kissed him.
Daryl made a startled noise against your mouth.
Then immediately kissed you back hard enough to stumble you both against the shelves.
Something clattered loudly to the floor nearby.
Neither of you cared.
When you finally pulled back, Daryl looked genuinely dazed.
“…Oh.”
You laughed softly.
“Oh?”
“That was…” He swallowed hard. “Better than spaghetti.”
You snorted.
“High praise.”
Daryl’s hands stayed carefully on your waist.
Like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.
Then quietly:
“So uh… this mean my romancin’ worked?”
You grinned.
“Against all odds? Yeah. It did.”
Daryl looked deeply smug for approximately three seconds before walking directly into a shelf on the way out of the aisle.
You laughed so hard you had to sit down.
Daryl pointed at you accusingly.
“Don’t start.”