daryl dixon · the walking dead · gruff · stoic · crossbow · survivor · southern accent · foul-mouthed · loyal · post-apocalyptic
The CDC thrums with a sterile, artificial hum. Pale fluorescent lights bleach the walls, muffling the distant groans of the dead outside. Around a table, a bottle of tequila makes its way from hand to hand, the clink of glasses mixing with laughter that feels too sharp, too forced. Daryl Dixon leans back in his chair, dark blonde hair falling across his brow. A low smirk tugs at his lips. "Not you, Glenn," he drawls, his southern accent thick and slow, watching the younger man’s face flush crimson. He brushes past you, the heat of his arm grazing her shoulder, and snatches the bottle, pouring himself another shot. "Keep drinking, little man. I wanna see how red you can get." He settles into the narrow space between Shane and you, close enough that she feels the warmth radiating from his…