Pls can i have a thin crust pizza with pepperoni and veggies, kinda like your last fic were he over hears reader saying she’d marry him during f marry k, maybe all the girls are fussing over Judith and cooing over her and Carol asks if you had to a baby with someone they know who would it be any Reader obviously says Daryl given her fat ass crush.
The prison cell block had gone quiet in that rare, fragile way it sometimes did between walker alerts and supply runs. Sunlight slanted through the high barred windows in dusty golden shafts, catching on the specks in the air and warming the patch of concrete where you’d all spread out an old blanket. Judith was the center of it — the tiny, beating heart of whatever this place had become.
She was in the dress Rick had brought back three days ago. Soft pink cotton with little white polka dots and a ruffled hem that barely covered her chunky thighs. It was absurdly, heartbreakingly sweet against the gray walls and the ever-present smell of concrete and death. Rick had looked almost embarrassed when he handed it over, muttering something about “saw it and figured…” before disappearing again. But Judith didn’t care about the world outside. She was currently on her back, kicking one leg like she was trying to launch herself into orbit, the dress riding up to show her soft belly. Every so often she’d let out a bright, gurgling coo that made all four of you melt in unison.
“Look at those cheeks,” Beth sighed, leaning over to brush a finger along Judith’s face. The baby immediately grabbed it with surprising strength, shoving it toward her mouth. “She’s getting so big. This dress actually fits her now.”
Maggie snorted softly from where she sat cross-legged, one hand absently rubbing her own stomach like she was already imagining the day her own kid would be here. “Rick’s gonna have to go on another run just for bigger sizes. She’s gonna outgrow everything in a week at this rate.”
You were sitting with Judith half in your lap, one arm looped under her back so she could look up at you. She reached for the collar of your shirt, tiny fingers curling and uncurling, and you felt that familiar ache in your chest — the one that always came when you held her. She smelled like the weak soap you all shared and something sweeter underneath— pure baby. Her eyes were wide and dark, tracking your face like you were the most interesting thing in the universe.
Carol watched from a few feet away, folding a stack of towels with practiced efficiency, but her eyes kept drifting back to the baby. There was a softness in her face that only ever showed up around Judith these days.
“She’s got that look,” Carol said after a minute, voice low and warm. “The one that says she knows she’s got all of us wrapped around her finger.”
You laughed quietly, bouncing Judith a little when she started to fuss. “Can you blame her? Look at this face. She’s perfect.”
Judith chose that exact moment to blow a spit bubble and kick both legs at once, the pink dress fluttering. All four of you made embarrassing cooing noises at the same time. It was stupid and soft and the closest thing to normal any of you had felt in months.
The conversation drifted the way it always did when the four of you got like this — soft, half-whispered, careful not to wake the baby or draw attention from the men on watch. Talk of how fast Judith was growing, how she needed more clothes, how the group was holding together better than anyone expected. Then Carol’s voice cut through, casual but pointed in that way only Carol could manage.
“Alright. Honest question.” She set the last towel down and looked straight at you, one eyebrow raised. “If you had to have a baby with anyone here… who would it be?”
The words landed like a stone in still water. Beth’s head snapped up, eyes wide. Maggie’s mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. You froze with Judith’s tiny hand still wrapped around your finger.
Your brain short-circuited.
You didn’t think. You didn’t weigh options or try to be diplomatic. The answer was already there, had been there since the quarry outside Atlanta, since the first time you’d watched Daryl Dixon melt into the trees with that crossbow and come back with dinner when everyone else was starving.
“Daryl.”
It came out soft but certain. The second it left your mouth you felt heat flood your face, but there was no taking it back. Judith made a happy little noise and patted your cheek like she approved.
Carol’s eyebrows climbed higher. Beth let out a tiny, delighted squeak. Maggie actually laughed under her breath.
“Daryl Dixon,” Carol repeated, slow and amused. “Didn’t expect you to say that out loud.”
You could’ve stopped there. Should’ve. But once the dam broke, everything you’d been holding in for months came spilling out in a rush of whispered words while you kept your eyes on Judith’s face so you wouldn’t have to see their reactions.
“I know it sounds crazy,” you said, voice low and a little breathless. “But it’s him. It’s been him since Atlanta. He’s just… he’s so steady. Doesn’t say much, but when he does it matters. And the way he looks out for everyone — for Judith — without ever asking for anything back. I’ve seen him with her when he thinks no one’s watching. He gets this look on his face like he’d burn the whole world down before he let anything happen to her. He’d be the same with his own kid. The kind of man who’d teach them how to survive and still make them feel safe.”
Your thumb stroked over Judith’s soft knuckles. The words kept coming, quieter now, more honest.
“And there’s… more than that. The way he moves. Those arms, those hands… God, his hands. I think about what it would be like if he ever looked at me like how I look at him. If he ever decided I was his to take care of. To claim.” Your voice dipped even lower, almost embarrassed by how much you were giving away. “I’d want it to be him. I’d want him to be the one. If I had to build something real in all this mess… it’d be with Daryl. He makes me feel like maybe we could actually have a future. Even here.”
You laughed softly, self-conscious, and pressed a kiss to the top of Judith’s head to hide your burning face. “Sorry. That was a lot. I just… yeah. Daryl.”
Beth was smiling so wide it looked like it hurt. Maggie looked like she was storing every word away to tease you with later. Carol just watched you with that knowing, almost maternal expression she got sometimes.
None of you noticed the shadow that had gone still just outside the open doorway.
Daryl had been coming back from checking the outer fence line, crossbow slung over one shoulder, boots quiet on the concrete. He’d heard your voice first — soft, warm, the way it always got when you were with the baby — and something in his chest had pulled tight the way it always did around you. He’d meant to keep walking. Meant to grab water and disappear back to his perch on the walkway like he usually did.
Then he heard his name.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
The crossbow strap dug into his shoulder as his grip tightened. He stayed just out of sight, shoulder against the cold wall, and listened while you kept talking. Every word sank into him like a hook.
You wanted him.
You’d been thinking about him since Atlanta — the same way he’d been thinking about you. The same way he watched you when you weren’t looking, the way his eyes tracked the line of your throat when you laughed, the way his cock stirred when you bent over to pick something up or when you held Judith and he let himself imagine, just for a second, what you’d look like carrying his.
And now you were saying it out loud. Saying you’d want his baby. That you’d want him to claim you. That you trusted him to be the one.
Daryl’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. Heat flooded low in his gut, thick and immediate. His cock twitched against the front of his pants, thickening fast at the mental image of you round and glowing with his kid, of getting you that way — spreading you out somewhere private, holding you down with those rough hands you’d just been talking about, fucking you deep and hard until you took every drop. He could almost hear the sounds you’d make. Could almost taste the salt of your skin under his mouth, feel the way you’d shake when he bit down just hard enough to leave marks.
He shifted his weight, trying to ease the sudden ache, but it didn’t help. His breathing had gone rough and quiet. One hand flexed at his side like he was already reaching for you.
You still didn’t know he was there.
You were still sitting on that blanket with Judith in your arms, cheeks pink, voice soft and honest while the other women teased you gently. Oblivious to the way Daryl Dixon was standing ten feet away, heart hammering like he’d just sprinted through a herd, cock hard and mind spinning with the sudden, feral certainty that he wasn’t going to be able to keep pretending he didn’t want you anymore.
Not after hearing that.
Not after knowing you wanted him back.
He stayed in the shadows a second longer, listening to the sound of your laugh mixing with Judith’s happy coos, and felt something dangerous and possessive settle deep in his chest.
You were his.
You just didn’t know it yet.
The nap didn’t come easy.
You’d excused yourself from the others with a quiet “I’ve got tower duty tonight—need to get some sleep while I can,” and Carol had given you that look again, the one that said she knew exactly why your cheeks were still pink. Beth had smothered a smile. Maggie had just smirked and told you to “get some rest… or don’t.” You’d rolled your eyes and slipped away before they could tease you more.
Your cell was dim, the thin mattress and threadbare blanket waiting. But when you pulled the blanket back, your breath caught.
A single wildflower lay on your pillow.
Small. Delicate. Purple petals, a little crushed at the edges like it had been carried carefully in a big, rough hand. No note. No explanation. Just the flower, soft and out of place against the gray concrete and faded sheets. You knew instantly who’d left it. The same man whose name had fallen out of your mouth hours earlier without permission.
Your fingers trembled as you picked it up. It smelled faintly of earth and the woods outside the fences—him. You pressed it gently between the pages of the old paperback you kept hidden under the mattress, heart hammering so hard you were sure someone would hear it. Then you lay down, the ghost of that flower still on your pillow, and tried to sleep.
It didn’t work.
Every time you closed your eyes you saw Daryl’s face—the way he moved, the quiet intensity in his eyes. Your body felt too warm under the blanket. You shifted restlessly, thighs pressing together as your mind supplied images you had no business thinking about on a prison mattress— Daryl’s hands on you, his low voice in your ear, the weight of him pinning you down while he made good on the thing you’d blurted out loud.
You didn’t touch yourself. Not fully. Just let your fingers drift once, twice, over the waistband of your pants before you yanked them back like you’d been burned. Not here. Not now. Not when you had to be sharp for watch.
Eventually exhaustion won. You drifted into a thin, restless sleep.
Rick woke you with a gentle shake to your shoulder. “Hey. Tower’s yours. Sun’s down. Don’t fall asleep up there.”
You blinked up at him, nodded, and sat up. The flower was still safe between the pages of your book. You touched the cover once like a talisman before you geared up—knife at your hip, pistol holstered—and headed for the stairs.
The guard tower was cold at night. Metal and concrete and open air. You climbed up, settled into the chair with the binoculars, and scanned the fences. The prison below was dark and quiet. Most everyone was asleep or on minimal watch. The only sounds were the distant, occasional groan of a walker and the wind moving through the trees beyond the perimeter. You pulled your jacket tighter and let your mind wander back to the flower. To him.
You didn’t hear him come up.
Daryl was good at being quiet.
One second you were alone, the next the door at the top of the stairs creaked open and shut with a soft click. You spun, hand going to your knife on instinct—then froze when you saw him.
He stood there in the low moonlight, crossbow slung across his back, vest open over his chest, that same intense blue stare fixed on you like he’d been thinking about this moment all day. The air in the tower changed instantly. Thicker. Charged.
Neither of you spoke.
Then his voice came, low and rough, barely above a whisper so it wouldn’t carry.
“Heard what y' said earlier.”
Your stomach flipped. Heat flooded your face—and lower.
“Daryl—”
“About wantin’ a baby with me.” He stepped closer. The tower was small. Two steps and he was right in front of you, close enough that you could smell leather and smoke and the blood on him. “Said it without even thinkin’. Said you’d been thinkin’ 'bout me since Atlanta. That I’d be the one you’d trust with that.”
You swallowed hard. Your back hit the edge of the console behind you. There was nowhere to go.
He didn’t look away. “Left that flower on yer pillow. Figured you’d know it was me.”
“I knew,” you whispered.
His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat, the way your jacket had fallen open. When he spoke again his voice had gone even rougher.
“Been hard all fuckin’ day thinkin’ about it. You. Sayin’ my name like that in front of them. Tellin’ ‘em you wanted me to put a kid in ya.” One big hand came up, calloused fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, then lingering at the side of your neck. “That what you want, girl?”
The question hung between you like a live wire.
You nodded before you could stop yourself. “Yeah. I—I meant it.”
Something dark and satisfied flickered across his face. Then he was on you.
The kiss was nothing like the soft ones in stories. It was hungry. Possessive. His mouth claimed yours like he’d been waiting months for permission, tongue sliding deep, teeth catching your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You gasped into it and he swallowed the sound, one arm banding around your waist and hauling you flush against him. You felt how hard he was already, thick and insistent against your hip.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, voice wrecked. “Y' got no idea what hearin’ that did to me.”
His hands were everywhere—rough palms sliding under your shirt, calluses dragging over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. You arched into the touch with a soft sound you couldn’t quite bite back. He kissed down your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point like he wanted to bite down and mark you right there where anyone could see tomorrow.
“Y' said I’d be good at it,” he rasped, voice low and filthy against your skin. “Said I’d protect what’s mine. That you’d want me claimin’ ya. Fillin’ ya up.” One hand slid lower, popping the button on your pants with practiced ease, fingers slipping inside to find you already wet and aching. He groaned when he felt it. “Jesus, girl. You’re soaked. Been thinkin’ about this too, huh?”
You nodded frantically, hips rocking into his hand as he stroked you—slow at first, then firmer, two fingers sliding through your slick and circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees weak.
“Daryl—fuck—someone could—”
“Ain’t nobody comin’ up here,” he growled, nipping at your collarbone. “Told ‘em I was checkin’ the south fence. We got time.” His fingers pushed inside you, thick and relentless, curling just right. “And I ain’t leavin’ this tower till I hear y' come on my hand thinkin’ about me puttin’ a baby in ya.”
The words punched the air out of your lungs. You clenched around his fingers, a broken moan slipping out before you could stop it. He kissed you hard again to muffle it, tongue fucking into your mouth in time with his hand between your legs.
It didn’t take long.
You were already wound too tight—from the flower, from the nap you didn’t really sleep through, from months of wanting him in silence. His thumb worked your clit while his fingers thrust deep, and when he growled low in your ear, “Come f' me. Let me feel it,” you shattered.
Your orgasm hit hard, thighs shaking, face buried in his neck to keep quiet as you pulsed around his fingers. He worked you through it, murmuring rough praise—“That’s it, good girl, fuck, yer squeezin’ me so tight”—until you were limp and panting against him.
He didn’t pull away.
Instead he kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense, and when he finally eased his fingers out he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean while holding your gaze. The sight made your spent body clench again.
Daryl’s eyes were dark, pupils blown. His cock was still hard against you, straining against his pants.
“This ain’t done,” he said, voice gravel and promise. “Not by a long shot. But I ain’t fuckin’ y' for the first time in a goddamn tower where I can’t take my time.” His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip. “Yer mine now. Ya hear me? That shit y' said… it settled somethin’. Y' want my kid? I’ll give it to you. When I’m ready. When I can lay you out proper and make sure it takes.”
He kissed you once more—slow, deep, like a seal—then stepped back just enough to let you breathe. His hand lingered at your waist, possessive.
“Get through yer shift. I’ll come find ya after. We’ll talk.” His mouth curved in something that was almost a smirk but darker.
Then he was gone—silent down the stairs like he’d never been there, leaving you flushed and trembling and aching in the cold night air of the tower, the taste of him still on your tongue and the ghost of his fingers between your legs.
Below, the prison stayed quiet.
But nothing felt quiet inside you anymore.
The morning light in the prison was thin and gray, filtering through the high windows. You’d made it through the rest of your tower shift in a fog—eyes gritty, body heavy, mind looping the same reel over and over— Daryl’s fingers inside you, his voice in your ear, the filthy-soft promise of I’ll give it to you when I can lay you out proper.
You hadn’t really slept after. Just dozed in fitful bursts on your bunk, the wildflower from your pillow now tucked safely in the inner pocket of your jacket like a secret. Every time you closed your eyes you felt him again. By the time the sun was properly up you were wandering more than walking, half-delirious with exhaustion and want, the ache between your legs a low, constant throb that wouldn’t let you rest.
You were sitting on the bottom step of the cell block stairs, elbows on your knees, forehead pressed to your hands, when a shadow fell over you.
Daryl.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just crouched in front of you, close enough that you could smell the night on him. His eyes flicked over your face, taking in the tired slump of your shoulders, the way your eyelids kept trying to drift shut even now.
“C’mon,” he said quietly. Rough voice, but soft underneath. “Not here.”
You let him pull you up. Let him tuck you against his side with one arm around your waist like you might drift away if he didn’t anchor you. He walked you past the occupied cells, past the common area where a few people were already moving around, and deeper into the block—toward the far end that hadn’t been fully cleared yet. An empty cell at the very back, door half-off its hinges, a thin mattress someone had dragged in weeks ago and never used. It was quiet here. Private. The kind of place people only came if they were looking for trouble or trying to disappear for a while.
Daryl guided you inside and nudged the door mostly closed behind you. The light was dimmer, softer. He turned to you and the look on his face made your tired heart squeeze—something between hunger and careful tenderness.
“Yer wrecked,” he murmured, big hands coming up to cradle your face. Thumbs stroked your cheekbones. “Didn’t sleep after, did ya?”
You shook your head, leaning into his touch like a cat. Your arms slid around his waist on their own, cheek pressing to his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. “Kept thinking about you,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and need. Your fingers curled into the back of his vest. “Just want you. Please. I’m so tired but I… I need this. Need you.”
He made a low sound in his throat—half groan, half something sweeter—and kissed the top of your head. “I got ya.”
He took his time with you. No rush. Just quiet, steady control as he walked you backward to the mattress and eased you down onto it. You went willingly, pliant and affectionate, reaching for him the whole time. He stripped your jacket off first, then your shirt, pausing to press a kiss to the center of your chest like he was memorizing the beat of your heart. You shivered, but not from cold.
When he got your pants and underwear off he didn’t dive straight in. He looked at you—really looked—spread out on the thin mattress in the low light, eyes heavy-lidded and soft for him. His hand rested on your belly, warm and broad, thumb stroking just above your hip.
“Still want what y' said yesterday?” he asked, voice low and rough but gentle. “Me puttin’ a baby in ya? Claimin’ ya like that?”
You nodded, slow and honest, too tired to be shy. “Yeah. Want it. Want you to fill me up… make it take.” Your hand covered his on your stomach, pressing down lightly. “Want to feel you there.”
Daryl’s eyes darkened, but the way he touched you stayed careful. He leaned down and kissed you—slow, deep, tongue sliding against yours like he had all the time in the world. One knee nudged your legs apart and he settled between them, the heavy weight of him grounding you in the best way. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held on, nuzzling into the side of his throat, breathing him in while he kissed along your jaw.
He opened his pants just enough, freed his cock—already hard and hot against your thigh—and stroked himself once, twice, before lining up. He didn’t push in right away. Just rubbed the head through your slick folds, teasing your clit until you whimpered and rocked your hips up in sleepy little movements.
“Easy,” he murmured against your mouth. “I got ya. Gonna take care of ya.”
When he finally sank into you it was slow. Inch by careful inch, stretching you open while he watched your face for any sign of discomfort. You were still a little sore from his fingers last night, but the ache only made it better—deeper, more real. You let out a soft, broken sound and clutched at his shoulders as he bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside you.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, forehead resting against yours. “So warm. So fuckin’ perfect around me.” One hand slid under your lower back, lifting your hips just enough to angle you better. The other stayed on your belly, possessive and gentle at the same time. “This what y' need? Me right here, fillin’ ya up?”
You nodded, eyes half-closed, legs wrapping loosely around his hips. “Yes… Daryl… please move.”
He did. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged every inch of him against your walls. No pounding. No frantic pace. Just steady, thorough thrusts that made you feel every ridge, every pulse of him. He kept most of his weight off you but stayed close—chest to chest, mouth brushing yours between quiet groans. Every time he pushed deep he stayed there for a second, grinding, like he was already trying to press his come as far inside as it could go.
“Ya feel that?” he rasped, voice husky and low right against your ear. “Gonna put a baby in ya just like y' asked. Gonna keep fuckin’ ya full till it takes. You’d look so pretty carryin’ a kid… all soft and swollen. I’d take care of ya. Keep ya safe. Keep both of ya safe.” His hand pressed a little firmer on your belly as he thrust deeper. “Mine. Y' hear me? This pussy, this body… gonna be mine in every way.”
The words washed over you like warm water. You were too tired to do much more than hold onto him and moan softly into his neck, but every filthy-gentle thing he said made you clench around him, made fresh slick ease the way. You kissed whatever skin you could reach—his throat, his jaw, the corner of his mouth—affectionate and clingy, fingers stroking through his hair.
“Daryl…” you whispered, voice dreamy. “Love how you feel… love you like this. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He kept the pace slow and deep, one hand sliding between you to rub your clit in lazy circles that matched his thrusts. The combination—his cock hitting that perfect spot inside, his fingers on your clit, his low voice telling you how good you’d look pregnant with his kid—pushed you over the edge before you even realized you were close.
You came with a soft, broken cry, pulsing around him, face tucked into his shoulder as your whole body trembled. He held you through it, murmuring praise—“That’s it, good girl, let go fer me”—and kept moving, drawing it out until you were boneless and whimpering.
Only then did he let himself go.
His thrusts stayed controlled but got a fraction deeper, a little more urgent. He buried his face in your neck, breathing hard, and when he came it was with a low, guttural groan against your skin—hot pulses flooding deep inside you. He didn’t pull out. Just stayed buried to the hilt, hips rolling in tiny movements like he was working every drop further in, one hand still protectively over your belly.
“Gonna keep it right here,” he whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. “Let it take. Y' want that, don’t ya? Want me to breed ya proper?”
You nodded sleepily, arms still looped around him, legs loose around his hips. “Yeah… want it so bad. Want you.”
He stayed inside you for a long time after, softening slowly while he kissed your face—forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose—like he couldn’t stop touching you. When he finally eased out it was careful, and he used his fingers to gently push what had leaked out back inside, eyes dark with satisfaction.
Then he pulled you into his arms properly, tucking your head under his chin, one big hand stroking slow lines up and down your bare back. You were already half-asleep again, body lax and warm and full of him, the exhaustion finally winning now that the need had been soothed.
“Rest,” he murmured against your hair. “I got watch later but I’ll stay till yer out. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
You made a small, content sound and nuzzled closer, one hand resting over his heart. The wildflower was still in your jacket pocket on the floor beside the mattress. Safe. Just like you felt right now—claimed, filled, and gently held by the man who’d heard every word you’d said and decided you were his.
can i get aaaaa thin crust with veggies and a 23 salad (“you have my full attention”) and a bit of a cookie with an ice cold Dr. Pepper?
Cookie: (bf!daryl with a yapper girlfriend who sits by him when he’s doing menial tasks and just talks his ear off about any ole thing.)
Thank you!!!!!!
sunny days
pairing: daryl dixon x reader
w/c: 1.6k+
warnings/tags: age gap, sunshine! reader, opposites attract, fluffy fluff
masterlist // pizza party
The sun was barely up when you awoke in your tiny cot. The first thing you realized was that Daryl wasn't next to you like usual. He was already moving, quiet as always, buckling his crossbow strap across his chest.
You sat up fast, hair messy, a bright smile already pulling at your mouth. “Morning, handsome. I had the craziest dream. We were in this huge field and you were teaching me how to shoot that crossbow, but every time I missed, a little bunny would hop out and steal the bolt. Like, full-on cartoon bunnies. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
Daryl glanced over his shoulder. The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough that your chest felt warm. He grunted, low and soft, the sound he made when he was listening.
You scrambled out of bed and followed him into the common area, bare feet padding against the cold floor. “Rick said something about reinforcing the south fence today. Are you going out there? Can I come? I won’t get in the way, I promise. I can hold the wire or hand you tools or just… talk. You like when I talk, right? I can tell. Your eyes get all soft when I ramble. It’s my favorite thing.”
"'Course I do."
His hand found the small of your back for a second as he steered you toward the tables where breakfast was being set out. Carol gave you both a knowing little smile. You beamed back at her.
“Carol, did you sleep okay? I heard walkers on the fence last night and it made me nervous, but then Daryl rolled over and pulled me closer and I felt safe again. He does that without even waking up all the way. Isn’t that crazy? Like his body just knows I need him.”
Daryl’s ears went a little pink, but he kept eating his share of the oatmeal without comment. You talked through the whole meal — about how Beth’s voice sounded pretty when she sang at night, how Carl was getting better at helping with chores, how you wanted to try growing tomatoes if they could find seeds. Daryl listened to every word, eyes on his bowl but head tilted toward you like your voice was the only sound in the room that mattered.
When he stood up, you were right behind him.
The south fence needed work. A section had bowed overnight from walker pressure. Daryl crouched in the grass, gloved hands working at the chain link, crossbow propped against his thigh. You sat cross-legged beside him, picking at a dandelion.
“You know what I was thinking earlier? Before the bunny dream? I was thinking about how quiet you are and how loud I am and how weirdly perfect that is. Like… you don’t have to fill the space because I’m already doing it, and I don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing because you never make me feel stupid for talking too much. Most people would tell me to shut up by now. You just… listen. Like every single word is important. It makes me feel…” You trailed off, suddenly shy even though you never really were with him. “It makes me feel loved. Even when you don’t say it.”
Daryl paused. His hands stilled on the wire. For a second he just looked at you — really looked — those blue eyes steady and warm in a way only you ever got to see. "Y' are loved."
Then he reached over, rough thumb brushing a smudge of dirt from your cheek. The touch was so gentle it made your throat tight.
You kept talking while he worked, voice softer now. “I don’t care that you’re older than me. I know some people might think it’s weird, but I don’t. You’ve lived more. You’ve seen more. And you still choose to let me follow you around like a puppy. That means something. You could’ve picked anyone else. But you picked me. Or… I picked you and you let me. Either way, I’m keeping you.”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest — rare and precious. He shook his head once, but there was fondness in it.
By midday the fence was fixed and your legs were a little sore from sitting in the grass. Daryl stood, wiping his hands on his jeans, and jerked his chin toward the tree line just beyond the yard. A quick hunt for small game, maybe. You perked up immediately.
“Can I come? Please? I’ll be quiet as a mouse. Well… quieter than usual. I can try. I just like being with you. Even if we’re walking in silence. Your silence is nice. It’s not empty.”
He studied you for a long moment, then gave a single nod. Your heart did a little flip.
The woods were dappled with sunlight. You walked a half-step behind him at first, then beside him when he slowed his stride to match yours. Twigs snapped under your feet— you talked in a hushed, excited whisper about everything you saw.
“Look at that bird! It’s so blue. Do you think it knows there’s an apocalypse? Probably not. Birds are lucky that way. Oh! And that patch of mushrooms — can't eat those, right? I remember you telling me once. See? I listen too, even when you only say like three words.”
Daryl’s mouth curved again. He reached out without looking and took your hand, fingers threading through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your chest felt too full.
A little ways in, he found a small cluster of wildflowers pushing through the undergrowth — tiny white blooms with yellow centers. He crouched, picked one carefully, and tucked it behind your ear. Your eyes went wide.
“Daryl Dixon, are you giving me flowers? In the middle of the zombie apocalypse? That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
He huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh and brushed his knuckles along your jaw. Then his posture shifted — alert. You went still automatically. A single walker stumbled through the trees twenty yards away. Daryl moved fast and silent, crossbow up, bolt flying true. The body dropped. He retrieved the bolt, wiped it clean, and came back to you like nothing had happened.
You exhaled shakily and threw your arms around his middle, face pressed to his chest. “You’re so brave. And fast. And quiet. I love that about you. I love everything about you, actually.”
His arms came around you, strong and sure, one hand cradling the back of your head. He held you like that for a long minute, the forest quiet around you both. When he finally pulled back, he looked down at you with something soft and fierce in his eyes.
“Keep talkin’,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel. “Like the sound.”
Your smile could have lit up the whole prison.
Back inside the fences by late afternoon, the group was settling into evening routines. You stayed glued to Daryl’s side while he cleaned his bolts and checked his gear. You told him about the book Beth had lent you, about how Glenn and Maggie kept sneaking looks at each other like teenagers, about how you wanted to learn to cook squirrel the way he did because it actually tasted good when he made it.
He didn’t say much. A small answer here and there. But every time you paused, his eyes were already on you, waiting for the next words like they were oxygen.
Dinner was loud with everyone together. You sat pressed against Daryl’s side on the bench, his thigh warm against yours. You chattered with the others but kept one hand on his knee under the table, grounding yourself. He ate steadily, occasionally bumping your shoulder with his in quiet affection.
When the sun dipped low and people started drifting toward their cells, you followed Daryl back to yours. The moment the door creaked shut behind you, you wrapped your arms around his waist from behind and rested your cheek between his shoulder blades.
“I had so much fun today,” you murmured. “Even the boring parts. Because you were there. I don’t need big adventures. I just need you letting me follow you around and listening. You make me feel safe and silly and loved all at once. I don’t care about the age thing. I don’t care that you’re quiet. I love your quiet. I love how you look at me when I talk too much. I love you, Daryl Dixon. So much it makes my chest hurt sometimes.”
He turned in your arms. One rough hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. For a long moment he just looked at you — really looked — like he was memorizing every bright, bubbly inch of you. Then he leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep and sweet, the kind of kiss that said everything he didn’t have words for.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“You’re it for me,” he said simply. “Y' feel like home.”
You felt tears prick your eyes, happy ones. You kissed him again, softer this time, then tugged him toward the cot. He followed without hesitation, letting you curl up against his chest like you always did. Your voice dropped to a sleepy murmur as you told him about tomorrow’s plans — maybe helping with laundry, maybe trying to teach him a card game, maybe just following him wherever he went because that was your favorite place to be.
Daryl’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your back. He didn’t interrupt. He just listened, the steady beat of his heart under your ear the only answer you needed.
You talked until your words blurred into sleepy mumbles. Daryl stayed awake a little longer, holding you close, eyes half-closed, the smallest, rarest smile on his face.
Hi there, how are you? I love your writing—can I ask you for something? Una porción de pizza de masa fina con pepperoni y muchísimas verduras, y una Pepsi, Daryl.
imnotyourboyfriendbaby
pairing: daryl dixon x grimes! reader
w/c: 1.7k+
warnings/tags: protective daryl, smut, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), hidden relationship, little sister grimes! reader, slight age gap
masterlist // pizza party
The late afternoon sun filtered through the thick canopy of trees as you and Daryl picked your way through the underbrush. Your boots crunched softly over dead leaves and twigs. The supply run had been long—too long—but the two of you had a decent score— a half-full bottle of antibiotics from an overturned pharmacy, three cans of beans, a pack of batteries, and even a crumpled bag of stale but still-edible potato chips Daryl had shoved into his vest pocket “for later.”
Nobody back at the group knew the real reason the two of you always volunteered to go out together.
It was supposed to stay that way. After all, you were a Grimes.
A low, wet growl rolled through the trees ahead. Then another. Daryl’s crossbow was up in an instant, his body going still the way a hunting dog does right before it strikes. You froze behind him, heart hammering.
“Eight, maybe ten,” he muttered, voice gravel-rough. “Too many t' take quiet. Cabin’s just up the ridge. Move.”
You didn’t argue. You never did when he used that tone.
The cabin was small, one-room, half-swallowed by vines and time. The door hung crooked on its hinges. Daryl cleared it fast—two walkers inside, dispatched with quiet efficiency—then dragged a heavy dresser across the entrance while you barred the windows with whatever furniture you could shift. By the time you finished, the sky outside had gone the deep bruised purple of true night. Rain started pattering on the roof, soft at first, then steady.
“Storm’s settlin’ in,” Daryl said, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere till mornin'.”
The single bed was a sagging mattress on a metal frame, but it was dry. Daryl shrugged out of his vest and draped it over your shoulders without asking. The leather was still warm from his body. It smelled like him— pine and blood and smoke.
“Sit,” he ordered, voice low. Not harsh—just Daryl. You sat on the edge of the mattress. He crouched in front of you, calloused fingers working the laces of your boots with surprising gentleness. “Feet’re soaked. Get these off.”
You let him. When both boots and socks were gone, he rubbed warmth back into your toes with his thumbs, eyes flicking up to yours once, quick and almost shy.
“Cold?” he asked.
“A little.”
He stood, stripped off his flannel, and handed it to you. Underneath he wore only a thin gray tank that clung to the hard lines of his chest and the scars that mapped his back and arms. You’d traced every one of them on other nights, in other dark places. He never let you linger too long on the worst ones.
“C’mere,” he said, and pulled you down onto the mattress with him. He arranged you against his side, one arm heavy and protective around your waist, the other hand resting on your hip like he needed the contact to breathe right. The rain drummed harder. Somewhere far off, thunder grumbled.
For a while you just lay there, listening to his heartbeat under your ear. His thumb stroked slow circles on your hipbone through the flannel.
“Been thinkin’,” he said eventually, voice barely above the rain. “Bout how we keep sneakin’ ‘round. Ain’t fair to ya. Sneakin’ kisses behind the armory, meetin’ in the woods at night… Y' deserve better’n that.”
You tilted your head to look at him. In the dim light his eyes were soft, the usual guarded blue gone gentle.
“I don’t mind,” you whispered. “As long as I get you.”
A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the one he only ever showed you. “Yeah. Well. Still. One day I’m gon’ walk ya back in front of everybody and tell ‘em you’re mine. Rick’ll probably shit himself. Probably 'll kill me bein' with his little sister but…"
You laughed quietly. Daryl’s hand slid up under the flannel, warm palm spanning your ribs. His touch was possessive but careful, like he was still half-convinced you might vanish if he pressed too hard.
“Tonight, though…” His voice dropped lower. “Tonight yer all mine. No sneakin’. Just us.”
He rolled you onto your back with easy strength, settling between your thighs. The mattress creaked. His mouth found yours in a kiss that started slow and deep, then turned hungry. Daryl kissed like he did everything else—focused, thorough, a little rough around the edges but always paying attention to what made you sigh. His tongue stroked yours, tasting you, claiming you. One big hand cradled the back of your neck; the other slid down to grip your thigh and hitch it higher around his hip.
“Lift yer arms,” he murmured against your lips.
You obeyed. He peeled the flannel and your shirt off in one smooth motion, then your bra. Cool air kissed your skin, but Daryl’s mouth was there a second later, warm and wet, sucking a mark just under your collarbone where your clothes would hide it. His teeth grazed. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to make you arch.
“Pretty,” he rumbled, voice thick. “All mine.”
He took his time. Kissed down the center of your chest, licked the underside of each breast before drawing a nipple into his mouth and sucking until you whimpered. His hand stayed on your other breast, thumb circling, pinching lightly, then soothing. Every touch said I got you. I’m here.
When he reached the waistband of your pants he looked up, eyes dark and steady.
“These comin’ off too.”
You nodded. He stripped you the rest of the way, then stood long enough to shuck his own clothes. The sight of him—broad shoulders, narrow hips, thick cock already hard and flushed—still made your mouth go dry. Scars crossed his torso like old lightning. You reached for him— he caught your wrist gently and pressed a kiss to the inside of it.
“Later,” he said. “Right now I’m takin’ care of ya.”
He sank back down and spread your thighs wider with his shoulders. The first slow drag of his tongue up your center made your whole body jolt. Daryl groaned like he’d been starving for the taste of you. He licked broad and flat, then focused tight circles around your clit, sucking it between his lips while two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right.
“Fuck—Daryl—”
“Shhh.” He glanced up, lips shiny. “Storm’s loud. Still gotta be quiet, baby. Can ya do that for me?”
You nodded frantically. He rewarded you by sucking harder, fingers pumping steady and deep. The wet sounds were obscene in the small cabin. Your hand flew to your mouth— Daryl reached up and gently pulled it away.
“Wanna hear ya,” he said. “Just soft. For me.”
You bit your lip and let the sounds out anyway—tiny, broken moans every time his tongue flicked just so. He worked you with patient, relentless focus until your thighs started to shake around his head. When you came it was with a choked whimper, back arching, his name a prayer on your tongue. Daryl kept licking you through it, gentler now, until you tugged at his hair.
He crawled back up your body and kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His cock dragged heavy and hot against your inner thigh.
“Condoms are in my bag,” he said, voice rough. “But I wanna feel ya. Y' okay with that?”
You nodded, already pulling him closer. “Please.”
Daryl lined himself up and pushed in slow, inch by careful inch, watching your face the whole time. The stretch burned sweet. When he bottomed out he stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
“Fuck. S' tight. S' good.” His hips rolled once, testing. “Y' feel that? That’s me. Yer mine. Nobody else gets this.”
He started moving—deep, rolling thrusts that ground his pelvis against your clit on every stroke. One hand pinned both your wrists above your head, just enough to make you feel held. The other braced beside your head so he could watch you. Every time you moaned he kissed you to swallow it, or whispered praise against your ear.
“That’s it, baby. Take it. So fuckin’ pretty like this.”
“Yer mine. Say it.”
“Yours,” you gasped. “Daryl—yours—”
He groaned, hips snapping harder for a few strokes before he caught himself and slowed again, drawing it out. The rain hammered the roof. Thunder cracked somewhere distant. Inside the cabin there was only the creak of the bed, the slick slide of skin, and Daryl’s low voice telling you how good you were, how perfect, how he was never letting you go.
He let go of your wrists only to hook one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you deeper. The new angle made stars burst behind your eyes. He fucked you steady and deep, one hand between you now, thumb circling your clit in time with his thrusts.
“Come fer me,” he ordered softly. “Wanna feel it.”
You did—clenching around him, crying out into his shoulder as the second orgasm rolled through you harder than the first. Daryl followed right after, burying his face in your neck with a broken groan as he spilled hot and deep inside you. His hips kept moving in tiny aftershocks until he finally stilled, breathing ragged.
For a long minute neither of you moved. Then Daryl carefully pulled out, kissed the inside of your thigh, and reached for the canteen. He wet a clean corner of his shirt and wiped you gently, murmuring apologies when you shivered. When he was done he pulled you into his arms again, this time chest to chest, your head tucked under his chin. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare back.
“Stay right here,” he whispered. “Ain’t lettin’ go all night.”
You fell asleep like that—tangled, warm, safe. Daryl stayed awake a little longer, listening to the rain and the steady rhythm of your breathing. Every so often he pressed a kiss to the top of your head and whispered things too quiet for anyone but you to hear.
Pls can i order a thin crust pizza with pepperoni and
ginger ale and wings “i'm not gonna last long if you tighten up like that, sweetheart.” Reader watched Daryl play with their son or be all cute with him and is desperate for another baby. Thank you!!
undisclosed desires
pairing: daryl dixon x reader
w/c: 1.9k+
warnings/tags: smut, breeding kink, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving)
masterlist // pizza party
The late afternoon light spilled across the yard like honey, catching on the blades of grass and the faded red of your son’s little t-shirt. You stood on the back steps of the house, one shoulder leaned against the railing, a dish towel still in your hands from drying the last of the lunch plates. You hadn’t meant to linger there so long, but the sight in front of you had rooted you in place.
Daryl was on his knees in the grass, crossbow forgotten somewhere inside, every bit of his attention on the four-year-old tornado currently trying to tackle him. Your son’s giggles rang out bright and wild as Daryl let himself be “attacked,” rolling dramatically onto his back with an exaggerated grunt.
“Gotcha, Daddy!” the boy crowed, small hands planted on Daryl’s broad chest like he’d just won the world.
Daryl’s rare, full smile cracked across his face, the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and turned your heart into something soft and aching. “Yeah, ya did, little man. Got me good.” He let the boy sit on his stomach for a triumphant second before gently flipping them both, hovering over your son with a playful growl. “But now I got ya.”
Squeals of delight exploded as Daryl’s fingers found the sensitive spots along the boy’s ribs, careful, always so careful, even when he was playing rough. Your son kicked and laughed until he was breathless, cheeks flushed pink, dark hair sticking up in every direction. Daryl finally relented, scooping the small body up against his chest and pressing a rough kiss to the top of his head.
“Love ya, kiddo,” he muttered, voice low and gravel-rough, meant only for the boy. “More’n anythin’.”
You felt the words settle somewhere deep behind your ribs. That was your husband—the man who had looked terrified the first time you’d placed your son in his arms. Now he moved like he’d been born for this. Patient. Steady. Fiercely gentle in ways the world had never given him credit for.
Your son wiggled free and darted off toward the little wooden fort Daryl had built him last spring, yelling something about “walkers” and needing his “weapons.” Daryl pushed to his feet, brushing grass from his jeans, and glanced up. His eyes found yours instantly, like they always did. That small, private half-smile curved his mouth—the one that said I see you watchin’ me, woman.
You smiled back, but something hotter and sweeter was already curling low in your belly.
Watching him like this—sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes, muscles shifting under the worn black tank top, that rare laugh still echoing—did something visceral to you. It wasn’t just love. It was want. Deep, aching, bone-deep want. You wanted to see him do it all again. Wanted another tiny body in his arms. Wanted to watch his big hands cradle a newborn the way they cradled your son now. Wanted to feel your own body stretch and change again because of him.
The thought hit so hard your thighs pressed together unconsciously.
You wanted another baby.
The realization settled over you warm and certain, like the sun on your skin.
Dinner was loud and messy in the best way—your son recounting every second of the “battle” while Daryl listened like it was the most important story he’d ever heard, interjecting with gruff little corrections that only made the boy giggle harder. You caught Daryl’s eye across the table more than once. Each time, something passed between you, unspoken but heavy.
Later, after bath time and the long, slow ritual of story time—Daryl’s deep voice rumbling through the pages of a worn picture book until your son’s lashes fluttered closed—you eased the bedroom door shut behind you.
The house felt smaller at night. Quieter. Just the two of you.
Daryl was already in bed when you slipped inside, shirt discarded, propped against the pillows with one arm behind his head. The soft lamplight traced every scar, every line of muscle across his chest and shoulders. He watched you undress down to your simple cotton panties and an old t-shirt, eyes dark and appreciative.
“Kid went out like a light,” he said, voice low.
You nodded, crawling across the mattress toward him. The second you were close enough, his arm hooked around your waist and pulled you in, tucking you against his side like he always did. Your head found the familiar spot on his shoulder. His fingers traced idle patterns on your bare thigh.
For a minute you just breathed him in— still your favorite smell in the world. Then you tilted your head up.
“I was watching you today,” you said quietly. “With him. In the yard.”
Daryl made a soft sound, almost a hum. “Yeah?”
“You’re so good with him.” Your fingers drifted over his chest, following the line of an old scar. “It makes me… I don’t know. It makes everything feel right. And it made me realize something.”
He waited, patient as always, thumb still stroking your skin.
You swallowed, heart suddenly loud in your ears. “I want another one.”
The words hung there for a beat. Daryl’s hand stilled. You felt the subtle shift in his breathing.
“Another baby,” you clarified, voice steadier now. “With you. I want to try for another one. I want to see you like that again—holding a newborn, teaching them to walk, all of it. I want our family bigger.”
Daryl was quiet for a long moment. Then he exhaled, slow and rough, and turned onto his side to face you fully. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
“Ya sure?” he asked, eyes searching yours. There was heat there already, but also something softer—wonder, maybe. “Ain’t sayin’ no. Just… ya really thought about it?”
You nodded, leaning into his touch. “I have. All evening. I can’t stop thinking about it. About you putting another baby in me.”
That last part came out softer, but the effect was immediate. Daryl’s pupils blew wide. A low, gravelly sound rumbled in his chest.
“Fuck, darling…”
He kissed you then—deep and hungry, like the words had flipped a switch. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wanted you while his tongue claimed your mouth. You moaned into it, already melting, already wet from the sheer idea of him.
Clothes came off in a tangle of limbs and quiet curses. Daryl’s mouth moved down your throat, sucking a mark just below your collarbone that would be hidden tomorrow. He worshipped your breasts with lips and teeth and tongue until you were arching and gasping his name, fingers twisted in his hair.
When he finally settled between your thighs, he took his time. Broad shoulders pushed your legs apart. He kissed the inside of one knee, then the other, working his way up until his breath ghosted over your slick folds.
“Look at ya,” he muttered, almost reverent. “Already drippin’ for me. Just from talkin’ ‘bout me breedin’ ya again.”
The filthy words sent a fresh rush of heat through you. You barely had time to whimper before his mouth was on you—tongue dragging slow and deliberate from your entrance to your clit, then sealing around the sensitive bud and sucking. Two thick fingers slid inside you at the same time, curling just right, and your back bowed off the bed.
“Daryl—oh, God—”
He ate you like a man starved, groaning against your pussy like the taste of you was the only thing that mattered. His fingers pumped steadily, scissoring, stretching, getting you ready for him. You came on his tongue with a broken cry, thighs shaking around his head, but he didn’t stop until you were tugging at his hair, oversensitive and begging.
He crawled back up your body, cock heavy and flushed, dragging against your inner thigh. You reached down and wrapped your fingers around him, stroking once, twice, loving the way his hips jerked and his breath hitched.
“Want you inside me,” you whispered against his mouth. “Want you to fuck a baby into me, Daryl.”
He swore, low and filthy, and lined himself up. The thick head of his cock nudged at your entrance, then pushed in—slow, stretching you open inch by inch until he bottomed out with a shared groan. You were so full, so perfectly full, the way you always were with him.
He started moving in deep, rolling thrusts that ground his pelvis against your clit on every stroke. One of his hands gripped your hip— the other braced beside your head. You wrapped your legs high around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he rewarded you with a particularly hard snap of his hips that punched a moan from your throat.
It built fast— glistening skin, the wet sound of him moving inside you, his rough breaths against your ear. You clenched around him without meaning to, the pleasure cresting sharp and sudden.
Daryl’s rhythm stuttered. A ragged groan tore out of him.
“Fuck… if ya tighten up like that 'm not gonna last long.”
The words—strained, desperate, exactly as he’d said them—only made you clench harder, the idea of him losing control because of you tipping you right over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you in hot, pulsing waves, your pussy fluttering and squeezing around his cock as you cried out his name.
Daryl buried his face in your neck, hips snapping faster, chasing his own release. “Shit—woman—ya feel too fuckin’ good—gonna fill ya up—”
He thrust deep one final time and came with a low, broken moan, cock pulsing as he spilled inside you in thick, hot spurts. You felt every throb, every wave of heat, and it dragged another helpless aftershock from you.
For a long minute neither of you moved, just breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other. Daryl stayed buried deep, hips twitching with the last pulses of his orgasm. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft again, thumb brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead.
“Ya okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.
You smiled, lazy and satisfied, and pulled him down for a slow kiss. “More than okay.”
He eased out carefully, but only so he could roll you both onto your sides, tucking you against his chest. One big hand slid down to rest possessively over your lower belly, fingers splayed like he was already imagining it rounded.
“Gonna take care of ya,” he murmured against your hair. “All of ya. However long it takes. Ya want this… I want it too. Another little Dixon runnin’ around.”
You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. “I love you.”
“Love ya more.” His arms tightened around you. “Ain’t lettin’ go of this. Of you. Never.”
You fell asleep like that—tangled together, his cum still warm inside you, his hand protective over your stomach, both of you dreaming of the future you’d just decided to build.
In the morning, your son would wake them with excited chatter about breakfast and adventures. Daryl would grumble but smile, already halfway to the kitchen to make pancakes shaped like whatever animal your boy demanded. And you would watch them again, heart full to bursting, already wondering if tonight you’d try again.
You had time. You had each other. And soon, God willing, you’d have one more.
