Daryl Dixon was the first to fall, but you have to be the one to make the first move.
Before they lost Merle, that fucker would tease the hell out of Daryl anytime he saw his little brother glance in your direction.
Let's face it, Merle was a little jealous that you seem to take more interest in Daryl them him.
Daryl being the pushover he was when it came to Merle, pushed you away when he realized Merle was upset about it.
Last thing he wanted was a little crush making his life harder!
But after they found themselves at the farm, and Daryl was away from Merle’s toxic influence he was able to open up a bit about how he really felt.
Don't let that fool you, his lips were sealed!
He did not say anything about thinking you were cute or nothing!
He just stopped telling you to fuck off every time you came up for a chat.
He didn't know why you kept coming around when he had been an asshole so many times.
He figured it was because your choices for companionship was limited.
He wasn't complaining.
When he got hurt while out looking for Sofia, he'd never admit it, but he thought for a moment that he was going to die, and that fear made him think of you.
Who would look after you when he was gone?
Sure he never went out of his way to ask you how you were or if you needed anything, but he did look after you!
He’d take note of which meats were your favorites and how you liked them cooked, and he'd do what he could to make sure the food was good so you'd eat.
He would always look you over after walkers are dealt with, even if you were nowhere near it!
He just had to make sure.
Daryl would prefer to wait for you to go to sleep before he did.
He had to know where you were at all times, never asking anyone but always looking around for you.
What he didn't know, is that you noticed these things, and that's why you kept coming back.
When the farm fell, he refused to think about you while him and Carol slowly made their way back to the highway.
Worrying about you would throw him off, the man needed to focus.
How was he supposed to keep him and Carol alive if he was busy crying over you?
But the release of pressure in his chest when he saw you standing there made him realizes just how whipped he was.
Still never said anything or let his eyes linger to long.
It was in the road(Before the prison) that you cornered him.
You were all hold up in a house. Daryl was taking watch at the front door while the rest if the gang slept upstairs.
You were supposed to be sleeping, but your mind wouldn't shut up.
He definitely didn't smile a little when he recognized the sound of your feet coming down the stairs.
He didn't let his eyes wonder at you when you came to stand by him at the boarded up window.
And he most definitely didn't blush as dark as a strawberry when he felt you wiggle under his arms and press into his side.
He just let you rest in his arms until you started to get sleepy, and without having to say anything he lead you to the couch and let you rest your head in his lap while he tried not to squirm.
But he did vow to let you hold him as much as you wanted from then on.
He was after all touch starved and became very clingy after you gave him a taste of genuine affection.
So if he happens to notice you laughing a little to hard while chatting with Rick that’s not his business.
If you wanna sit by Glenn at the campfire instead of him, that’s your loss.
The fact of the matter is he doesn’t give damn what you do and who you do it with.
Except he can lie to himself all he wants but you read him like a book.
He always does the same shit, huffing and rolling his eyes, brushing you off.
Part of you wants to fold and promise to never even look at another man.
The rational part of you knew if whatever you two had was going to last he needed to learn that just because you laugh at a joke doesn’t mean you wanna fuck them.
At first you’d seen nothing but a possessive angry man, but the closer you saw there was more to it to that.
So after a day of letting him avoid you, you’d gone to him in your tent, he was quite.
Clearly to tired to start anything up again.
You’d tried watching him and waiting for him to look back at you but he kept fining something to do to avoid having to look at you.
“Why can’t I do anything with anyone else without you thinking I wanna fuck them?”
“I don’t care what you want.” Was all he said.
You should have known what you’d signed up for with a stubborn man like him.
His words had been harsh and full of energy but his body language screamed that he was exhausted.
You'd waited for him to settle into his spot before you moved in.
That way he had no chance of getting away.
“You're a blind man, Daryl Dixon.”
It was every other day he found a new reason to think you were enraptured with someone else.
Even so, he never actually pushed you away or broke things off.
It took almost a whole winter of being with him for things to click I to place.
“Daryl, do you think I'm out of your league?”
He never stopped putting things in place in the cell he'd claimed, barely even glanced your way.
But you could see the tightness in his shoulders.
It was heartbreaking to think the man you'd grown to love had spent this whole time thinking he didn't deserve you.
He spent every moment you were laughing and smiling so sweetly at someone else thinking you only put up with him because there weren't many options.
He spent so much time wondering how on earth you settled for a grubby red-neck like him.
He was just happy you hadn’t be given up on him yet.
But with you asking that, he was afraid you were finally catching on that you could be doing better.
It made you angry.
You didn't hide it.
“Are you kidding me, Daryl? You think I'm settling?”
All he could do was shrug.
As much as he yells when he's angry, he clams up when he's on the receiving end.
Not to mention he was still convinced this was the “I'm not interested anymore.” talk.
“I don’t want anyone else, you’re it for me, Dixon. I’m happy when I’m with you, I’m safe. I don’t love anyone but you.”
It had been the first time ever that anyone ever said they loved him.
Not his dad, mother, never even Merle.
It didn’t sound real, but the way you latched onto him, holding him close and firm against you he found it hard to not believe you.
He didn’t say it back. No right away.
This whole loving someone thing was new and intimidating.
Not to mention his love language is not words.
He preferred to show you his affections by doing things for you, bringing you things from his runs.
He’d leave food out for you on the bedside table for when you woke up.
He’d rub your back at night if you were sore.
He’d bring you books and trinkets that reminded him of you.
Little things that showed you how much he cared even if he never actually said it.
All this time though, you said it.
You’d complement him and kiss his hands when you held them. Peck his cheek before and after runs.
Never his lips though, he wasn’t ready for that just yet; you could tell.
“I love you.” Was the first thing you’d say when you woke up beside him, and the last thing before you fell asleep.
“I love you.” When he did something sweet or when he just looked to cute and you just had to tell him.
It got to the point where if you went a little to long with out saying it he’d get worried you were mad at him.
He’d approach you like a lost puppy, you’d see him and smile, and he’d relax only a little.
Those were some of the only times he’d be the one to initiate a hug or something.
You’d swoon and say, “I love you, Daryl.” And he’d instantly be much happier.
You think with how often you told him that it would start to loose it’s value.
But it never did. Every time he heard you say it it felt like the first time.
It made his chest and face warm and he had trouble not smiling.
He felt like a child at a birthday party for god sake.
Even when you were angry, or just generally upset about something he said or did, you find it in your heart to still love him.
He couldn’t believe his luck sometimes.
It was one night, curled up in the bottom bunk together that he finally said it.
The Woodbury fiasco was over and done, and the citizens had moved into the prison.
There had been a close call in one of the fights, where you fell to the ground.
He watched you fall, and in his eyes he watched you die.
It took you only a minute to rip your sleeve and wrap the bullet wound on your leg.
You were up and shooting back before he had time to run to you.
He watched you like a hawk for days.
He’d pace and watch you from the courtyard out in the field doing some farming.
It’s all they allowed you to do with your leg still healing.
It had been long enough though that the wound was almost completely scared over.
But it had stuck with him.
He had nightmares here and there about you ending up like Merle.
He’d find you, unable to have saved you, you’d have turned.
Nightmares about not being able to put your corpse down, being your last meal.
It was that night that he woke from said nightmare. But you were their, curled up beside him, alive and well.
You stirred wake with his squirming and heavy breathing.
Neither of you said anything, you didn’t need too. He just held you tighter and threw those scary thoughts out the window.
He felt at home when he felt you press a gentle peck to his jaw, the only place you could reach from your position. 
He felt so warm and giddy inside.
You were safe and you loved him, that’s all that mattered to him.
He returned the favor by pecking your head.
After that the words just sort of fell out.
You didn’t wanna make it a huge deal and make him nervous so you just smiled and kissed him again.
“I love you too Daryl Dixon.”
After he said it that’s all you would say when he did something for you.
He’d bring you a plate and he’d sit beside you, eyeing you until you started eating. “I love you too, now eat something.”
He’d give someone a nasty look if they came across as rude to you, “You’re to sweet, I love you too.”
He was still insecure and easily got jealous, but now he didn’t yell at you or push you away.
He would sort of just wait for the day to be over so he could have you all to himself in your cell.
He wait for you to settle in before curling up in your chest and just bask in knowing you’d always have your arms open for him.
He knew there were better options: nicer people, easier people. People who didn’t punch first ask later, who didn’t look down on everyone and their mother for no fucking reason. People you were far more gentle and caring then he knew how to be.
You don’t have to tell him, he knew.
But if you were blind enough to only see him, he would keep his mouth shut just to keep you to himself.
Daryl was not at all a PDA person.
But if the air was tense, if you were nervous or worked up about something he didn’t hesitate to set a hand on your back or shoulder.
He just needed you to know he was there for you.
You knew, you knew that Daryl would die for you.
What Daryl didn’t know is that you, gentle loving Y/n, would go father.
If something were to happen to him, the anger and grief would likely drive you to madness.
You got so heated when you’d see someone look down on him for being the quiet reserved man he is.
You’d overheard a man from Woodbury talking up some shit about him.
“You think Dixon realized how nasty he looks?Looks like he’d been out in the woods fucking corpses he’s got so much shit on him!”
You didn’t know what he was talking about, but no way in hell anyone is saying fucked up shit about your man.
You wanted to cuss him out but it didn’t quite seem worth it.
Plus if you did no doubt Daryl would find and and overthink his appearance.
Like he needed another reason to hate himself.
You probably would’ve left it at that if the fucker did go and start a fight with Daryl the very next day.
You found Daryl getting a busted lip and bruised cheek looked at by Maggie.
You saw red, you wanted blood.
But that seemed a bit extreme, and Daryl needed kisses and snuggles to feel better.
So murder could wait.
You waited for that idiot to join you and some others on a run.
The fucker was gross and perverted. Making comments about some of the women back at the prison behind their backs.
He even admitted to stealing some chicks underwear when he was back in Woodbury.
So you hated this guy.
So when walkers came round a corner in a supermarket you guys were clearing you waited a bit longer to step in and help.
The man fell back, walked above him, biting down at his face, nearly getting him.
He looked over and saw you just watching, he begged.
It was when you knew he couldn’t keep it away anymore that you took care of it.
Your face was stoic but your eyes screamed murder.
What the hell did he do to you piss you off that bad?
He didn’t say anything when Glenn had come to see what the commotion was, making sure you guys were okay.
He didn’t say anything the whole ride back to the prison.
And he didn’t say anything when Daryl greeted you at the gates with a smile and a cheek waiting for a kiss.
It was then he realized what he did to deserve that.
Glenn mention to Daryl what he had pieced together.
Daryl didn’t know whether to be proud, worried, or horny for kisses and cuddles.
You going that far to stand up for him made parts of him stir.
He knew it would be so easy for him to do something like that for you, but the fact that you were apparently willing to to the same was fascinating.
That night he’d surprised you in bed by smothering you with kisses. He’d held you so close and played with you hair, saying “I love you.” Over and over.
It was a bliss he prayed lasted forever.
But it didn’t.
The next day was the day The Governor decided to return for his revenge.
Amongst all the chaos and death he lost you.
Didn’t see where you went, or if you got shot.
He screamed your name, searching the fleeing crowds for you.
He saw your shoe.
Laying on the ground with you nowhere in sight.
He scooped it up and cried your name a few more times before he couldn’t stick around any longer.
He found himself in the woods with Beth screaming and punching a tree.
Since you accepting request for TWD right now, could you do a Daryl x male reader? I am thinking of it being set on season two where reader and Daryl already knew each other a bit before everything went to shit, so when he starts pulling away from the group in the later half of the season and reader decided that it would be best to confess since they literally could die anytime and before he pulls away too much from him as off the group
Fluff because I am a pussy who can't handle sadness lol
(This feels really shitty I am sorry, I just really like this type of fics even if they can be a bit corny sometimes and I am really liking Daryl so far, but I am like EP 1 of season 3 so I can't do a more proper request for him, I am sorry)
Man-child
Daryl Dixon x Male Reader
Summary: The world went to shit, so what was the point in holding everything in anymore?
CW: Soft angst - Established friendship - Fluff - Love confession - Reader is a country boy - Kiss
Words: 3.2k
A/N: I was doing my best not to have angst, or at least as little as possible because of the reasons he pulls away from the group. Literally re-watching the show when you sent the request in, so I decided to start all over again to get as accurate as I could but still some inconsistencies. I'm also so happy to see you send another request, I love when mutuals request!
Daryl Dixon. It was a name and a face you’d grown fond of—maybe too fond—after the world went to hell and took the map with it.
You’d known the brothers before the turn, if only in passing. You ran into ‘em on a hunting trip deep in the Georgia pines, back when the only thing you had to worry about was the game warden or a dry season. Merle, you never much cared for. He had a loud, jagged way about him that reminded you too much of your own old man—a hard-ass who’d spent twenty years tryin' to beat a "good, honest" work ethic into you until your knuckles stayed permanently scarred.
Daryl, though....Daryl was different. He grew on you like moss on an oak—slow at first, then all at once. You still remembered the weight of that damn crossbow bolt pointed dead at your eyes after you’d bagged a buck he’d been tracking for three miles. He’d been all spite and vigor then, snarling about his deer, but there was a quietness in his eyes even then that matched your own. By the time the dead started walking and the world turned into a slaughterhouse, that crossbow wasn't pointed at you anymore; it was the only thing keeping you breathing.
In the camp, you kept your jaw shut. You’d always been a man of few words, a trait that served you well around the Dixons. Merle couldn't keep his mouth shut if you paid him in gold, and Daryl seemed to treat every spoken word like it cost him a dollar he didn't have. That left you to be the bridge between 'em—the one who noticed the small things. You saw the way Daryl sharpened his bolts when he was agitated, or how his shoulders hunched just a hair tighter when the "city folk" started yapping.
Everything changed when that newcomer, Rick Grimes, showed up with a badge and a guilty conscience. When he opened his mouth about leavin' Merle handcuffed on a rooftop in Atlanta, you felt the air in the camp turn brittle. You saw the switch flip in Daryl’s head—that raw, frantic loyalty taking over. But when you finally made it back to that roof and saw nothing but a bloody hacksaw and a severed hand....you felt Daryl start to slip away right then. It was like he’d decided if he couldn't protect his own blood, he wasn't gonna let anyone else get close enough to try.
Then came Sophia.
Daryl threw himself into that search like a man possessed. He was out there in the heat and the brush every day, pushing himself until he was nothing but bone and grit. For a second, you thought he’d found a new purpose—something to anchor him back to the world. You’d catch him looking at you across the campfire, and for a heartbeat, the ice would melt.
But then the barn doors opened.
The world went silent as that little girl stumbled out into the light, grey-skinned and snarling. When you stepped forward to catch Carol, holding her as she came apart in your arms, you didn't look at the walkers. You looked at Daryl.
The hope you’d seen in him over the last few weeks didn't just die; it burnt to ash. Every step he’d taken toward being part of the group—toward being part of you—was gone. You could feel the distance growing between you already, ten miles wide and getting deeper by the second. He was pulling back into that shell, and this time, you weren't sure if any amount of country grit was gonna be enough to pull him back out.
The woods around the Greene farm didn't feel like sanctuary; they felt like a cage. Ever since that barn door swung wide and the world found out what Hershel was keepin' in the dark, Daryl had turned into a briar patch—all thorns and no give.
You’d watched him all morning. He’d snapped at Carol until she looked ready to break again, and he’d nearly taken Lori’s head off just for askin' if he wanted a plate of squirrel. He even tried that shit with you earlier, growlin' some half-cocked insult about you "gettin' too cozy with the farm folk" while you were haulin' water. You didn't even think about it—your hand just flew out, crackin' him upside the back of his head like a mama bird correctin' a fledgling.
"Watch your mouth, Dixon," you’d barked, "before I wash it out with what’s left of the lye."
For a second, the campfire went dead silent. Daryl had looked at you like he was gonna gut you right there, his eyes blown wide and wild. But then, just for a flicker of a second, you saw it—that tiny, traitorous tug at the corner of his mouth. A smirk. He didn’t say a word, just spat on the dirt and trudged off toward the stables, but that look stayed burned into your mind.
By the time the sun started climbin' high, you were plumb worn out. You’d spent the last three hours helpin' Hershel in the barn. He was a good man, reminded you of your granddaddy with that quiet, steady way he went about his business, but even his company couldn't settle the itch under your skin.
You were a mess. Your tank top was soaked through with honest sweat, lookin' more grey than white, and the Georgia red clay was caked under your fingernails. Hair was plastered to the back of your neck, and you had one of Daryl’s old, threadbare flannels tied tight around your waist—a habit you weren't ready to break just yet.
You found him leaned up against a gnarled old oak near the stables, the shade doin' little to cut the humidity. He was whittling a piece of cedar, the wood shavings falling onto his boots like snow.
"You gonna wallow in self-pity 'til it kills ya, or you plannin' on joinin' the livin' at some point today?" you huffed, wipin' a bead of sweat from your brow with the back of a dirty hand.
Daryl didn't even look up. The knife slowed, but it didn't stop. "Go 'way," he grunted, his voice like gravel rubbin' together. "Ain't in the mood for no more preachin'."
You didn't budge. Instead, you marched right up into his space, blockin' out his light until you were standin' directly over him, your boots mere inches from his.
"Mood? Hell, Daryl, you ain't had a 'mood' since we left Atlanta, you’ve just had a damn tantrum," you snapped, the twang in your voice sharp enough to cut. "I’m tired. I’m tired of watchin' everyone act like they’re the first folks to ever lose somethin', and I’m damn sure tired of you actin' like I’m just another shadow in the woods. Look at me when I’m talkin' to you."
Daryl’s knife bit a little too deep into the wood. He went still, then slowly, he tilted his head back against the bark. His eyes were bloodshot, lookin' tired and mean, but there was a crack in that armor.
"I told ya to leave it be," he muttered, his jaw workin' hard. "Ain't got nothin' for ya. Not today. Maybe not ever."
"Well, ain't that just convenient for you," you countered, huffing a dry, bitter laugh. "You think you can just pull away 'til you’re gone? I’ve known you too long for that, Daryl Dixon. You might be a man-child with a temper that'd put a mule to shame, but you're my man-child. And I ain't lettin' you slip off into the dark just 'cause things got ugly. We’re already in the ugly. We’ve been there since the start.”
Daryl’s whittling knife froze mid-shave. For a second, the only sound was the cicadas hummin’ in the tall grass and the distant shriek of a hawk. Then, slow and deliberate, he tucked that blade into his pocket and stood up. He didn't just stand; he uncoiled like a copperhead. He was a good few inches taller than you, and he used every bit of it to try and loom, his eyes narrowed into slits.
"Your what?" he rasped, the words caught in the back of his throat.
"You heard me," you challenged, plantin' your heels in the dirt. "Man-child. Grumpy as a bear with a thorn in its paw and twice as stubborn."
Daryl let out a sound that was halfway between a growl and a huff of disbelief. "You got a hell of a nerve," he muttered, and then he lunged—not with a punch, but a heavy-handed shove to your shoulder that sent you stumbling back a step. It wasn't the kind of hit he’d give a walker; it was the kind of shove you give a brother when he’s talkin' sideways. "I ain't nobody's nothin', especially not yours."
You recovered quick, a grin tuggin' at your mouth despite the heat. You stepped right back into his space and gave him a two-handed shove right back, catchin' him square in the chest. "Seein’ as I’m the only one left with enough patience to put up with your sour hide, I reckon that makes you mine by default. Unless you’d rather go sit with Lori and talk about your 'feelings' over a bowl of canned peaches?"
Daryl’s face twisted, a genuine bark of a laugh nearly breakin' through his scowl. "I’d sooner eat the peaches and the damn tin they came in," he shot back. He reached out to grab your arm, tryin' to swing you around, but you twisted out of his grip, kickin' a bit of dust at his boots.
"Then stop actin' like a ghost!" you snapped, keepin' the pressure on even as you dodged his next swipe. "You’re chasin' shadows in the woods all day and turnin' into a stone wall every night. You think you’re protectin' us by pullin' away? All you’re doin' is makin' me wonder when the hell my best friend decided I wasn't worth the breath it takes to say 'hello'."
That hit home. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened. He lunged again, more frantic this time, his hand snaking out to catch your wrist. He caught it, alright, but he’d overextended himself on the uneven ground. His boot slipped on a patch of dry grass, and before you could plant your feet, he was goin' down—and he wasn't goin' alone.
He yanked your arm, taking your balance with him. You let out a startled "Hey!" before the world flipped. You hit the dirt hard, the air leavin' your lungs in a wheeze as you landed practically on top of him, your knees pinnin' his thighs and your chest flush against his leather vest.
The dust swirled around you both, settling on your sweaty skin. Daryl lay there in the red clay, huffing like a winded horse. He looked up at you, his hair a mess of tangles and dirt, his chest heavin' under yours.
"Get off me," he wheezed, though his hands didn't push you away—they just rested heavy on your waist. "Gawd....you're all gross. Covered in barn filth and sweat. Stink worse'n Merle’s old socks."
You let out a dry, dusty scoff, lookin' down at him with a raised eyebrow. "Since when did you become such a dandy, Daryl Dixon? I’ve seen you gut a squirrel and wipe your hands on your pants without a second thought. Don't act like my sweat’s gonna kill ya."
You didn't move. You stayed right there, usin' your weight to keep him grounded. The playfulness died down, replaced by something thicker, something that felt like the air right before a thunderstorm.
"I’ll cut a deal with ya, you stubborn mule," you whispered, your voice low and thick with that country twang. "You tell me what’s rattlin' around in that head of yours—why you’re tryin' so hard to vanish right in front of me—and I’ll get off and leave you to your lonesome. Deal?"
Daryl didn't look away this time. He couldn't. He just stared up at you, his eyes searchin' yours, lookin' smaller than you'd seen him in a long, long time.
Daryl didn’t move. He didn't even try to buck you off. He just lay there in the Georgia red clay, his chest rising and falling in heavy, jagged hitches. For a long minute, the only thing between you was the heat and the smell of sun-beaten pines. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low it was almost buried by the wind in the trees.
"Merle’s gone," he rasped, his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere over your shoulder. "Gone 'cause he was too loud, too mean....or maybe 'cause I wasn't fast enough to find 'im. Then that girl....Sophia," He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbin' in his throat. "I put ever-thin' I had into findin' her. Everythin'. And she ended up behind that door anyway."
He finally shifted his gaze, lockin' onto yours with a look that was raw and bleedin'. "You’re the only thing left that feels like....like before. If I keep you close, if I let you keep taggin' along like you're part of me....then the world’s just gonna find a way to take you, too. Pullin' away felt like the only way to keep the rot from touchin' ya."
You felt a pang in your chest that had nothing to do with the hard ground. You let out a short, sharp scoff, shakin' your head as you gave his chest a playful, heavy thud with the side of your fist. You didn't get up, though. You stayed right where you were, pinnin' him to the earth.
"You really are a piece of work, Daryl Dixon," you muttered, your twang thick and soft. "You think you’re doin’ me a favor by turnin’ into a ghost? I survived a hard-ass father and a world that went belly-up; I reckon I can handle stayin’ by your side without ‘the rot’ catchin’ me. You ain’t gonna lose me. Not today, and not to some shadow in the woods. Now stop actin' like a damn child before I actually have to start treatin' you like one. I’ve got half a mind to put you in a corner 'til you learn how to use your words."
A ghost of a smile tugged at Daryl’s mouth—a real one this time. It softened the harsh lines of his face, makin' him look younger, like the boy he might’ve been if the world had been kinder. But then, as he looked at you—really looked at you, pinned under your weight with your hair fallin' over your forehead and your hands restin' on his shoulders—something shifted.
You saw the gears grindin' behind his eyes. The smile didn't just fade; it turned into a look of pure, wide-eyed realization.
"Wait a minute," he grunted, his brow furrowin' deep. He shifted beneath you, but not to get away—just to see you better. "You....you like me. Like, that way."
He went still as a deer in the brush, his eyes searchin' yours like he was trackin' a new trail. "That’s why you keep sayin' I’m yours? Why you’re puttin' up with my hell?"
The sheer, dumbfounded look on his face was more than you could handle. You tried to keep a straight face, you really did, but the absurdity of it finally broke you. You threw your head back and barked out a loud, genuine laugh that echoed off the stable walls.
"God, you’re slow!" you managed to wheeze out between laughs, your shoulders shakin' as you looked down at him. "The world ends, the dead start walkin', and it takes a damn wrestling match in the dirt for you to figure that out? I’ve been wearin’ your flannel and haulin’ your gear for months, you thick-headed mule!"
Daryl’s face turned a shade of red that almost matched the Georgia clay. He looked away, his jaw workin' as he tried to find his dignity while pinned to the ground by the man he just realized was in love with him.
"It ain't funny!" he grumbled, his voice goin' back to that defensive, gravelly growl. "Quit laughin' at me. I ain't....I ain't used to folks wantin' to stay. Especially not for me."
He tried to huff a breath of air, but he still didn't push you off. In fact, his fingers twitched against your waist, like he was considerin' holdin' on.
Daryl was still grumbling, his face a hot mess of red flush and dirt, his mouth opening to probably offer up another clumsy excuse. You didn’t give him the chance. You were tired of talking, tired of the back-and-forth, and most of all, you were tired of him thinking he wasn't worth the trouble.
You leaned down, closing the small gap between you, and pressed your mouth hard against his.
It wasn’t some soft, cinematic kiss. It was grit and salt and the lingering taste of woodsmoke. It was a "shut up and listen" kind of kiss. For a heartbeat, Daryl went stiff as a board, his breath hitching in his throat like he’d been struck by lightning. But then, just as your eyes fluttered shut, you felt his hands—rough and calloused—tighten against your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he was trying, his lips moving against yours with a desperate, clumsy hunger that told you everything his words couldn't.
You pulled away just as things started to get heated, the ghost of a smirk playing on your lips. You stayed hovering over him for a second, watching his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
"There," you whispered, your twang low and steady. "That enough of a hint for ya, or do I need to draw you a map?"
You gave his chest one last, firm pat—the kind you’d give a prize horse—before you pushed off him and stood up. You brushed the red clay from your knees, feeling the ache in your muscles and the heat of the sun on your neck.
"——!"
Hershel’s voice rang out from the porch of the big house, steady and impatient. He needed help with the horses, or maybe more water for the barn. Either way, the world didn't stop turning just because a Dixon finally got his head on straight.
"Comin', Hershel!" you hollered back, cupping your hands around your mouth.
You looked back down at Daryl, who was still sprawled in the dirt exactly where you’d left him, looking like he’d been hit by a freight train. His hair was a wild nest of weeds and dust, and he was staring up at you like he’d never seen a man before in his life.
"Don't just lay there and grow roots, Dixon," you chuckled, adjusting the flannel tied around your waist. "Get your hide up and get to work. I expect you at the campfire tonight, and I ain't acceptin' no excuses about goin' out into the woods."
You didn't wait for an answer. You turned on your heel and started the trek back toward the farmhouse, your boots crunching rhythmically on the dry grass. You could feel his eyes on your back the whole way—a heavy, burning weight that told you he wasn't going anywhere. For the first time since the barn, the air didn't feel so heavy.
Daryl Dixon might be a man-child with a temperament, but he was your man-child. And as you walked toward the porch, you knew he’d be following you soon enough.
I heard yall wanted a loc infographic illustration? This is now the third infographic illustration- with the others being wash day and silk press season.
I’m also working on a cool project. - that’s secret right now with some locced cuties- stay tuneddd 🫶🏾✨
andulkaphoto
2087
annaxmalina
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
dededos
kaledo-art
