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daryltwdixon · 3 months ago

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Daryl Dixon x Reader

You’re not sure what to make of the gruff, rough-around-the-edges redneck who lurks the farm when the group arrives with a wounded boy. He’s mean, distant, and nothing like the boys you grew up around—but for some reason, you can’t seem to stay away.

soft/girly reader, gruff aloof daryl, light smut, virginity loss, s2. Hershel’s daughter. little bit of angst in there too. reader has a dog.

a/n: this sat in my drafts for weeks, aimlessly adding bullets here and there. so I finally edited it to be a little more like a story, but without so much filling in the gaps. thought this would be a fun format to try.

Maggie and Beth always made fun of you for refusing to change when the world fell apart, when people started getting sick and tearing into each other like rabid dogs. But you never gave in. You kept your dresses, your lacy things, your cute little skirts. If the world was gonna end, it could do it without taking that from you.

You got used to life, different as it was. You missed the little things—seeing your friends at school, splitting a milkshake at the diner, swearing you’d call them later after your chores. Missed the way your stepmom would huff at you to get off the damn phone and go to bed.

When the group arrived with the boy who’d been accidentally shot, it felt wrong—like your little bubble had been popped, the ugly reality of the outside world bleeding in.

Your dog hated men. Hated strangers. Bared his teeth at anyone who got too close, even Jimmy sometimes. He especially hated the one who bossed his own people around, the man in the baseball cap who strutted like this was his farm, not your daddy’s. But your dog never even showed his teeth at the redneck with the crossbow. That scruffy, sharp-eyed bastard could even scratch behind the mutt’s ears sometimes, rough fingers brushing through his patchy fur like it wasn’t any big deal. Like they had an understanding.

Everyone cringed when Daryl Dixon got too close—his dirt-smeared face, his permanent scowl, that gravel-thick drawl that made people shift uncomfortably in their boots. But you never pulled away. Never flinched when he stood too close, never wrinkled your nose at the scent of sweat and sun-baked leather. You never once made a joke about his bad grammar or the way he talked.

He was everywhere. In the barn when you mucked stalls, boots and skirts coated in dust. In the woods when you picked berries, fingers stained red. You’d turn around, and there he was—watching, muttering, shaking his head like you were a problem he couldn’t figure out. You followin’ me or somethin’? you teased once. You wish, he muttered.

He wasn’t nice to you. Actually, he was downright mean sometimes. Called you "Daddy’s girl" like it was a curse. Rolled his eyes at your skirts, at your soft hands, at the way you smiled too much. Scoffed whenever you talked about something that wasn’t hunting, food, or survival. "Priss," he’d mumble, shaking his head when you’d trip over a tree root or complain about the heat.

But for someone who wanted you gone, out of his way, off his back—he sure had a habit of sticking around.

One morning, you found a wildflower tucked into the strap of your saddle as you got ready for a ride. Small, a little crumpled. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But when you glanced at him, he was already looking away with a red tint to his ears.

Then your dog started following him around. Just a little. Enough that you noticed. Enough that your chest would tighten watching the mutt's tail wag when Daryl would talk to him.

The joke in the kitchen wasn’t even funny. Beth, dropping her voice into some exaggerated drawl, mimicking Daryl like he was some cartoon of himself. You hadn’t meant to laugh, weren’t even laughing at the joke—just at how ridiculous Beth sounded. But when you looked up, he was there in the archway, watching. Expression blank, but eyes of fire.

He was gone all day after that. Nelly was missing from her stall when you went to clean it, which only meant one thing—he’d taken her out to search. Your anxiety skyrocketed. Nelly wasn’t a trail horse, she wasn’t even a reliable pasture horse half the time. She spooked at her own damn shadow, and now she was out in the woods? What if she bolted? What if they ran into someone sick? What if neither of them came back?

When he finally did return—battered, stabbed, blood streaked—you barely heard the others talking over the rushing in your ears. He looked half-dead as they dragged him inside, face pale beneath all the grime, blood trickling from where that woman shot him. You sat at his bedside the entire time, jaw tight, hands clenched in your lap. Not praying, not talking. Just watching. Because if he woke up, you wanted him to see you were there. And if he didn’t—well. You didn’t want to think about that.

You stayed by his side as your daddy stitched him up, hands steady despite the deep gash along his side. You helped where you could—pressing a cloth to the worst of it, handing over supplies—but mostly, you just sat there. Watching. Listening. Daryl didn’t say much outside explaining about finding a doll out in the creek, barely even grunted in pain, but you could see it in the way his fingers twitched, the way his jaw clenched tight as the needle pulled through his skin.

It was late evening when you kissed him, the sun long gone and nothing but candlelight illuminating his pretty face. Just a quick, barely-there press of lips against his cheek, his skin still warm from fever. He didn’t react at first, just kept staring at the ceiling like he wasn’t sure it even happened. But when you pulled back, his eyes were on you, deep blue and swimming with uncertainty, his cheeks a deep flush of pink under the wrap he wore around his head. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But the air between you felt different.

Not long after, your daddy stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Come to dinner. You didn’t move. His voice hardened. Now. You knew it was coming the second you closed the door behind you, his face set like stone. No pleasantries. No warm-up. Just: What’s goin’ on with you and that hick boy? Your stomach twisted, but you kept your chin up. His name’s Daryl, daddy. / And? You shrugged. Your hands felt too warm. Your lips still burned from that barely-there kiss. He’s just a friend. he scoffed. I’d rather he wasn’t. You sighed through your nose. I'm not a baby anymore. He studied you, like he was trying to find the girl he raised somewhere beneath all that you’d become. Then, a slow exhale. No. I suppose you’re not.

The first time you kissed Daryl, you’d thought he’d push you away. Hell, you’d expected it—a sharp grunt, a muttered insult, maybe even a full-on retreat. But when you pressed up on your toes, hands against his chest, lightly pushing him back against the rough bark of a tree while out searching for the little girl, he didn’t move. Didn’t shove you off or scowl or tell you to quit it. His hands hesitated, hovering above your waist before they finally found your lower back, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress.

And then… the barn. You didn’t know. You swear you didn’t know. When that little girl came out of the barn that day, your heart felt like it had split in two when you saw his face, when you heard her mother’s cries. Daryl—please, I didn’t—Otis was the one who— But he wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t stop walking as he gathered his things and took his own tent past the broken stone wall, far from everyone else, even his own people. You followed anyway. Daryl, I didn’t know. I swear to God, I didn’t. He stopped short, turned so fast you nearly tripped. Yeah? Or maybe you just didn’t wanna know. Maybe you liked pretendin’. His voice was sharp, but his eyes—his eyes were worse. Cold, unreadable. Guess that’s easy when you grow up on your little fairy tale farm. Playin’ house while the rest of us were out on the road, if not dying of starvation then dyin' by one of them dead assholes you were keepin’ all safe and cozy. You flinched, but he wasn’t done. You lock up walkers like they was just sick. Like they’d get better. But they don’t. And you—he scoffed, shaking his head—you're too stupid to get it.

You’d stormed off after his last words, tears blurring the steps back to the house, to your room where you flopped down, shaking, hollow. Your family—gone. Your world—a lie. He was right. You’d been living in a fairytale, pretending things weren’t as bad as they were. And now, with the barn empty and Daryl’s words still cutting through you, you weren’t sure what was left.

It had been days. Long enough that you started to think he meant it, every last word. But then, late that night, you heard it—soft at first, a knock against the window frame. You hesitated, heart hammering, before sliding it open. He stood there in the dark, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure if he should be here at all. Didn’t mean all that shit I said, he muttered, barely looking at you. Most of it, anyway. His voice was rough, gruff like always, but there was something else under it, something uneasy. You crossed your arms, watching him. Then why’d you say it? He exhaled sharply, rolling a tense shoulder. Dunno. Ain’t good at this shit. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, just for a second. He looked sorry.

You let him inside, and he crawled through your window. He hovered near the bed, stiff and awkward, like he didn’t know where to put himself. He wasn’t touching you, wasn’t saying much, but he wasn’t leaving either. You stepped closer first, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him down, pressing your lips to his. He went still—real still—like he was holding his breath. Then his hands came up, slow, hesitating at your waist before settling there, warm and steady. I’m sorry, you murmured against him. Me too. You kissed him again, and this time, he kissed you back, something messy and unpracticed but desperate all the same.

You pulled him onto the bed with you, and he didn’t resist. Just let himself be guided, let you press up against him, let your hands roam over warm skin and tense muscle. His breathing was uneven, fingers twitching at your waist like he wasn’t sure where to touch. You hesitated, heart hammering, then reached for the hem of your dress, fabric slipping through your fingers. His eyes snapped down, throat bobbing.

He was so, so gentle. You could tell it was the kind of man he was, though the others would never believe you. His hands, though calloused and rough, caressed you like he was mapping every inch of you, trying to memorize, trying to take his time. His lips brushed your shoulder, your collarbone, your ribs, slow and careful, like you might break beneath him.

Jesus, he muttered, voice wrecked as his palm splayed against your bare skin. He was so warm. His fingers flexed, hesitant, skimming over the curve of your waist, dragging over the softness of your thigh. Ain’t never— he swallowed, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. Ain’t never done this before.

Me neither. Your voice was barely above a whisper, shaky, unsure. But you curled your fingers into his shirt, tugging, urging him closer, pressing your lips to his again, and he melted into you like he couldn't stop himself. But you're the only one I’d want to--I want you, Daryl, you'd said.

His hands moved lower, rough fingers trailing over delicate skin, a sharp contrast that made your breath hitch. He was so careful, like he thought he wasn’t allowed to touch you the way he wanted to. But when you arched into him, gasping as his thumb brushed between your legs, he groaned, forehead dropping into your neck.

Tell me to stop, he rasped, voice strained, breath coming heavy. You wouldn't dare. Instead, you reached for his hand, guided it exactly where you wanted it, and watched his resolve snap like a thread pulled too tight.

Through little gasps and murmured whimpers, Daryl brought you to the edge quickly despite all his talk of inexperience. The electricity coursed through you as you caught your breath, his mouth on yours to quiet any noises that could travel through the house. His fingers slowed, teasing, dragging you back from your high just enough to make you squirm beneath him. His breath was heavy against your throat, his body tense, like he was fighting some war with himself.

You sure ‘bout this? His voice was wrecked, hands still trembling slightly as they skimmed up your bare thighs, pressing them apart just enough to make you shiver. You nodded, pulling him down into another kiss, desperate, warm, needy.

He stripped off his shirt, and you ran your hands over the scars, the rough-hewn strength of him, the warmth radiating from his skin. He shuddered when you touched him, let out a ragged exhale when you rocked up against him, feeling how hard he was beneath his jeans. Fuck, he muttered, rolling his hips just slightly, just enough to make you gasp, make your nails dig into his shoulders.

His belt came undone with shaky hands, and when he finally pressed into you, he did it slow, painstakingly slow, stretching you inch by inch. His forehead pressed to yours, breath heavy, arms caging you in. Jesus, girl… his voice was a rasp, like he was barely holding on.

After some time adjusting, you were squirming beneath him, desperate for him. Move, Daryl, you whispered, please, breath hitching as he sank deeper, until he was fully seated inside you, until you were wrapped around him so tight he thought he might lose his mind. He pulled back just enough to look at you, searching, making sure you were okay, that you felt just as good as he did.

Then he moved--It started slow, every thrust dragging a soft gasp from your lips, his name barely forming between them. But when you wrapped your legs around his waist, when you arched into him, he lost whatever restraint he had left. His pace turned desperate, his grip tight on your hips, his groans buried in your neck as he drove into you again and again.

Your name slipped from his lips like a prayer, rough and broken, right before you clenched around him, back arching as pleasure ripped through you. The sound you made had him gripping your face with his large hand to quiet you, but it still sent him over the edge, his thrusts growing erratic, desperate, until he buried himself deep with a sharp, breathless groan, his body shuddering against yours.

He stayed there, arms trembling slightly as he held himself above you, catching his breath. You traced slow patterns along his back, your touch grounding, steady. He finally lifted his head, eyes flickering over your face, still dazed. Did I hurt you? / No, of course not, you murmured, breathless, still trying to catch up to everything that had just happened. It was— it was perfect, Dare.

Hours later, when your eyelids felt heavy and sinking, Daryl slipped out from under the covers, reaching for his clothes. You blinked up at him sleepily. Where are you goin’? / Don’t wanna get my ass kicked by your dad before sunrise. You smiled, a breathy laugh escaping you, but maybe he saw the sadness in your eyes at the thought of him leaving you alone in the quiet. He pulled his shirt over his head, slipping his legs over the windowsill. I’ll see you in the mornin’.

But before he swung outside, he paused, glancing back at you. For a moment, he didn’t move, like he was thinking too hard about something, like he wasn’t ready to go just yet. And then, in two long strides, he was back at your bedside, leaning down, hands cupping your face, kissing you hard. It stole the breath from your lungs, left your fingers gripping onto his arms just to keep yourself steady.

He pulled back, eyes dark, lingering for just a second longer. Goodnight, he whispered, and then he was gone.

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