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mulders-too-large-shirt · 28 days ago

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s5 episode 15 thoughts

long day. i want scully and mulder time.

ooh, looks like this episode will be about mr. mulder! mr. william mulder, i should specify; i am not just referring to OUR mulder with that title.

will we also see baby CSM?! will the puzzle pieces fit together, or drift further apart?!

i think mr. mulder is kinda cute. like a clean matty healy.

(WORDS I LIVED TO REGRET TYPING!!!!!)

now, what mischief has he gotten up to today? killing people? i’m not really shocked.

so, it looks like we will not actually get any scully and mulder time, but i’m open to change after the CSM episode. it was really interesting. let’s see what is in store.

‼️HATER ALERT‼️i should not have been open to change. this episode pissed me tf off. what do you mean we are changing mr. mulder’s face and making roy cohn put spiders in your belly? HELLO? can you even hear me? did i really just watch this?

we begin in 1990 in wisconsin. strange place to be. a sheriff is here, coming to get someone who is locked in a house.

“i don’t much enjoy evicting old folks”, says the sheriff. wow. almost a conscience there.

but the guy he is with promises this old person shall change his mind. and from the spooky music that is playing, i am inclined to also think something is about to go down.

edward skur is being evicted, and he is not opening up his door. but something in the house smells very bad. uh oh. this is never a good way to start an episode.

this house is very messy and dark, and mr. skur seems to be watching from a distance. it’s covered in bugs. icky.

the other guy sees something horrible and throws up!! let me guess: a body?

UGH! i wasn’t technically WRONG, but it’s a MUMMY in the bathtub!!! it looks really old!!!! like, ancient kind of old!!

which raises the question: do mummies smell bad? i kind of assumed after a few centuries it just went sort of… neutral

i need to research this later.

anyway, skur tried to grab the sheriff, but he fired his gun. he hit mr. skur, and as he dies on the ground, foaming at the mouth (??), he calls for MULDER????

huh??

idk if either of the mulders can help you with your smuggled mummy... i just really do not know 💔 i fear we may need to call the authorities to get that mummy back to its sarcophagus or perhaps bog home

(i assume it will be some kind of alien, but you have to admit it looks like the result of a tomb robbery)

intro time!!! yeah yeah yeah make some noise!!

and they shortened the intro again...! must be for a good reason?

(NO. NO GOOD REASON)

so it’s still 1990 here. and mulder is going somewhere…. to an apartment. looking for arthur dales.

he introduces himself as a profiler with the behavioral sciences unit (aww! baby mulder! he looks pretty much the same as current mulder, but with longer hair)

oooo, this dales man used to work for the bureau… he opened up a case on edward skur in 1952!!!

arthur claims he doesn’t know what went down

mulder brushes some hair out of his face (aww, the slightly different hair style, they really want us to notice it)

“do you know what an x file is?!” “it’s uh… yeah, it’s an unsolved case” <- ohohoho, do i, the viewer, ever know what an x file is!

arthur clarifies: “no, it’s a case that’s been designated unsolved” <- hmm okay. so they basically didn’t want to bother solving it because it might be incriminating. pretty important distinction if he's telling the truth.

apparently, skur disappeared many years ago after killing a bunch of strangers and removing their organs. most of the report on the matter is censored. but now he was found and shot last week, and a man in his bathroom found with all his soft tissue removed. yuck.

so NOT a stolen mummy nor an alien. for the sake of historic preservation, i am glad skur was not a guy who kept mummies in his bathtub. we need those for research purposes.

ohhh!!! arthur tries to shut him out, but mulder asks how tf skur knew his name!!! an excellent question.

“you ever heard of HUAC, agent mulder, the house un-american activities committee?” <- not sure if i knew before this that HUAC was pronounced “hew-ack”, which is a really terrible way of pronouncing a word, but i guess it makes sense for the time.

arthur says mulder wouldn’t know about HUAC… girl, that man is a walking encyclopedia. don’t doubt him.

“they found practically nothing. you think they would have found nothing… unless nothing… was what they wanted to find?” <- very cryptic. i like the idea that the red scare was a coverup for alien stuff. makes more sense than what actually went down. but on the other hand, it kind of undermines the senseless destruction that came with mccarthyism by giving it an in-universe purpose.

so i changed my mind. maybe i don't like it.

mulder again plays with his hair (lmao) and says that he’s sorry, but doesn’t see the connection. aww, he’s a little baby! he cannot even see a connection! and then arthur slams the door on him. rude af.

mulder is watching news footage from the mccarthy era to research this case. roy cohn is mentioned, and every time i remember that roy cohn was a real person, i have to take a deep breath.

apparently the term “fellow travelers” referred to those sympathetic to the communist cause back then? i genuinely had no idea. damn, my modern history knowledge is lacking! listen, they don't teach you much past WWII in US history 101 and 102

god. roy cohn mentioned, again. he is said to be the man who “brought the rosenbergs to justice”. this makes my skin crawl.

(little did i know what this episode had in store for me...)

mulder has a little card that identifies edward skur as a member of the communist party. now, i understand that was a controversial group to be a part of, but i fail to see how this leads to stealing organs. we’re missing some context.

look at mulder with messy hair and glasses!!! he rewinds the tape and recognizes someone in the background of the hearing!!!

good lord…. he’s attractive.

(perhaps the highlight of this episode was mulder in glasses. it gets me every time)

anyway, it’s his dad he recognizes. which is obviously very shocking.

AWW, he brings mr. dales some coffee the next morning :,) he shall not be deterred!

mr. dales tells him to go ask his father, and mulder says “my father and i don’t really speak” <- damn… are we going to get the story behind that?? i mean, we know a decent part of it. maybe that is enough.

BAHAHA dales slams the door again and i was thinking “buddy, he will subpoena you” and then mulder says just that lmaooo

and this works on him; he opens the door back up and says that edward skur worked for the state department just like mr. mulder. our mulder must have known that, but said nothing!

OHHH he asks if his father was involved, and dales just lets out a big sigh. (shocked mulder voice) how??

and how did he remove the organs but not the skin??

is mulder smoking right now?? i guess hearing your father was involved with a bunch of murders is stressful enough to make a guy open up a pack.

(i literally could not figure it out. it just looked vaguely smoky. i didn't see a cigarette being brought up into his mouth. does anyone know? because if mulder smokes or smoked at some point, i'm going to need to add that to my internal list of facts about his character and then analyze what that says about him. please tell me, and thank you)

dales says he can tell you how the organs were removed, but not why. what do you know?!?!

in regards to the communist allegations- that is what "they" all said "they" were!! this clears up very little

way back in the olden days, dales is arresting mr. skur!! they plant a communist card on him… or else they really did find it as soon as they arrested him, which i find hard to believe. his wife and kids watch this happen :( poor kids

dales is at the bar getting a drink after busting reds all day. someone calls the bar looking for him!! it’s his partner!!! skur was found dead!

this is stressful for dales…. he drinks his bourbon.

he has to go tell mrs. skur that her husband died, and it was his fault for arresting him. drinking and driving is not advisable, but this is not stopping dales. he’s waiting outside the skur’s house trying to find the words when he sees edward skur run by!! this ought to be impossible!! due to the dying!!

chase scene!!! WHAT THE FUCK DOES SKUR HAVE LIZARDS IN HIS MOUTH??? he pins dales down and SOMETHING emerges???

the neighbor hears them scuffling and skur runs away!!!

HUH??? MOUTH LIZARDS?

okay.

dales clocked in the next day after almost getting eaten. his partner has something to tell him. now he has pictures of the dead skur taken BEFORE dales was attacked last night!

dales clarifies he didn’t have *that* much to drink. and his partner says to leave him out of the report, but he already turned it in!

the justice department is calling him!! they need to chat! oooo dales is in trouble...

(these scenes are very bright and foggy to indicate they take place in the past and it’s a little distracting lmao)

HE’S GOING TO SEE ROY COHN?? HE’S A CHARACTER IN THIS SHOW???

woah… he sits next to dales. scarily. and asks if he knows who he is. “then you know how important my work is” yeah. they must expel the communist vermin. sure, sure.

“everything is political, agent dales” <- very ominous.

dales seems to be the only one that can identify the man who attacked him as skur, because his wife and the neighbors sure deny it.

does roy cohn know about the aliens???

he’s just staring at dales. he knows he has to edit skur out of his report, but he’s not sure why. “you’re not supposed to understand; you’re supposed to follow orders” <- damn. very very creepy guy.

(tbh, i don’t really know what real young-ish roy cohn looked like, so i cannot comment on if this guy is the spitting image of him or not. but he is very unsettling)

so, dales changes his report, saying the suspect is unknown. and all the information on skur is blacked out, just as we saw in present mulder’s hand!

but skur was already out doing murders, so dales cannot leave this mystery behind. they go in the murder house where they find a german song playing, and a picture of the house's owner- a doctor- shaking the president’s hand. hmm. who is this german doctor guy?

it smells like hospital in there, his partner reports. not a great smell.

and they find the german guy’s body… it’s really grotesque!!!

the cops arrive at the scene, telling the agents to put up their hands. they have no idea who tf these agents are. then who called them there?!?!

ohhh, dales finds a coaster from the bar that says “come alone”….. secret code....

he’s in this little secluded booth thing at the bar (what? i thought it was a confessional at first? did bars back then have a random little private booth section? what was the purpose of this?)

anyway, this new guy says he was trying to SAVE the dead german doctor, but he was too late, and skur killed him. and dales will be next.

meanwhile, his partner is at home bringing in the groceries, and i can imagine what will happen next….

OHHH HE HAS A CUTE ORANGE KITTY. highlight of the episode.

back in the booth at the bar, mystery guy says that skur and “the others” are patriots who work at the state department. skur, gissing, and oberman. and now the other two are dead by their own hand!! they couldn’t live with what they’d become!!

they (cohn and the government?) had to put out a story to cover up what they did to skur…. what did they do?!

WAIT, THIS GUY IS MR. MULDER? he looks different than the other mulder actor!! did he get a new actor?? did they just change?? am i crazy? is that the same guy? is he lying?

(i was second-guessing myself so much that i went back to rewatch the part of apocrypha that had him in it and i KNEW. i KNEW that was a totally different guy. one that looked like a clean matty healy and who i had grown attached to. this dude is just someone else entirely! is it some sort of plot trick? a recasting? what is afoot?!?!?)

((if this WAS done for plot reasons, you can tell me. because it would make me feel far less annoyed. even if the reason is a later surprise like "gasp! turns out bill and william mulder were DIFFERENT PEOPLE". you don't have to specify anything. you can just say they did it for a reason. but i have a feeling this is not the case)

“mulder” (i am suspicious) claims that he cannot keep this secret any longer, and he risked his family to come here and tell dales.

meanwhile, his partner sits down to watch mccarthy do his thing on the TV, but the cat knocks his beer down

mr. bill mulder says that mr. cohn and mccarthy are involved in this…. skur wants revenge for what they did to him. and skur thinks that dales and his partner are involved!!

dales gets up and asks for the phone, and he’s calling his partner, whose number was “klondike 5 0133”, making me realize i know nothing about how old phone numbers work. but his phone has been unplugged!!!

and skur is going lizard or bug mode or something on the partner!!

WHAT THE HELL?? I REALLY REALLY REALLY DISLIKE HOW THOSE LEGS CAME OUT OF HIS MOUTH AUGHHHH

the next day, the coroner is trying to examine the body. and who rolls in but roy cohn! he says that they can’t take the body to the morgue.

OH SHIT: “what are you talking about, i’m no communist” “you are if i say you are” daaaaamn. that is crazy. backed right into a corner there.

roy cohn, how did you turn that guy into a spider on the inside…

“when your partner dies, a piece of you dies with him” <- okay so mulder and scully, take notes. you can’t die on each other, okay? thank you.

dales needs to avenge his partner’s death!! so dales must find out what happened to the other two men who mr. bill mulder said are now dead, but also had that “thing” done to them.

OH this secretary put the info on one of those guys in an x file!! “why don’t you file them under ‘u’ for unsolved?” “that’s what i did until i ran out of room” <- LMAO queen… THE x file creator!!! everyone say thank you to her

(i feel this is a definite retcon of the x file lore, but whatever. what do i care? they already changed this dude's whole face)

gissing was found dead with his doctor, but the don’t know how the doctor just… collapsed.

gissing had some recent surgery… his body is still in the morgue. dales says CUT HIM OPEN NOW even though the coroner says the family will yell at him he does, in fact, do the cutting open

waugh… something in the esophagus… EAUGH I CANNOT LOOK. IT’S A SPIDER??? SPIDER SEWN INTO HIS STOMACH??

i do not like that.

dales runs back to mrs. skur to try and explain her husband was discredited to cover up roy cohn putting spiders in his belly, i guess.

“it’s called xenotransplantation” <- that doesn’t sound gooooood. at all. THE GRAFTING OF ANOTHER SPECIES INTO THE HUMAN BODY??? augh. and i was going to have dessert after this.

so it’s a nazi thing, and the german doctor must have been continuing his experiments in the US! yes, operation paper clip, we have spoken of this before on this TV program

dales wants to expose the truth, and he needs skur’s help to do so. he leaves mrs. skur the coaster with a mysterious message….

when who pulls up but mr. cohn!! telling dales to get in the car. and mr. bill mulder is there, too.

mrs. skur is sneaking out the back door, lifting up the hatch to a fallout shelter, going to find her husband. he’s in incredible pain, and he starts to go spider mode and eat his wife!!!!

roy cohn takes dales to the FBI. damn. and the lore dumping begins from mr. hoover. there are more soviets than capitalists now, btw, and this is very bad.

dales points out that those random men who were experimented upon were not communists, which makes hoover counter that they must do even what their enemies would be afraid of. like put spiders in your belly.

dales has one chance to save himself. he is to go meet with skur and then the other men will come get him. so that is why mr. bill mulder was sent to talk to dales! not out of the kindness of his heart. “i follow my orders”, he says, and that famously is *not* a good reason to do terrible things.

dales is alone in the bar, waiting for skur, pouring a drink. and skur arrives, saying his wife is dead.

“they’re not coming, you know. they wanted me to kill you, or you wouldn’t be here” oh shoot… is he telling the truth…? is dales being set up?

now skur is going after dales, with mr. bill mulder having to be restrained from going in the bar to save him!!!

dales manages to handcuff skur before the spider can emerge, but he runs away and hides!!

cut to a baffled present day mulder. “i can’t believe my father threw in with these men (very deep sigh) he let them dictate his conscience” <- well, that seems to be a reoccurring theme with bill mulder

“you keep digging through the x files and they’ll bury you too” <- that is promising! /s

but how was skur able to get away and live in obscurity? was he kept in a lab? maybe someone let him go?

MR. MULDER GAVE HIM THE CAR KEYS AND LET HIM GO!!!

in the hope that the truth will someday be exposed??

the end.

huh. what am i even supposed to think here?

well, all i can think about is how different bill mulder looked.

i can’t even fully articulate WHY this episode made me so mad beyond its sheer absurdity and the fact that i am obsessive about details and a recasting always gets under my skin. except that i am also darkly fascinated by the comic book villain level hijinks that the real roy cohn got up to, and using him as a prop in the alien show could have been kinda interesting, but i feel that making him the spider guy was NOT the move. who did this benefit? anybody? was there not another case for mulder and scully to tackle? who on the writing team said “you know what this needs? mouth spider”

and putting aside the whole new body mr. bill mulder somehow obtained- perhaps there is a good reason for that, and i am being judgemental without knowing the full story, but still, you cannot fool me- he let the spider guy go?? knowing that he would be slurping insides for the rest of his life? and is this supposed to be heartwarming? because my heart isn't warmed.

i mean, if skur managed to go most of his life without slurping, until the very end, that is... good, i guess? but then he slurped once more and an innocent guy died. so. uh.

earlier i spoke about the different categories of x files episodes, specifically the bad ones. i have copied those notes from before below:

"category a is: this is blatantly offensive. who approved this? (gender bender, excelsis dei)

category b is: this writing is so out of character i feel disgraced (3, the parts in oubliette where scully is just mean af to mulder and tells him to stop trying cpr??? and rift-era episodes)

category c is: just kinda boring af, monster isn't even camp it's just weird, also tends to be overly dark in theme to the point where no one is having fun (calusari, the walk)"

i'd place this in category c. if you were going to use some of the most notorious figures in 20th century history as plot points, DO something with them beyond "he puts spiders in their tummies to fight communism". i am not compelled by this. i do not think anyone would be. and if i am supposed to think "oh, poor mr. bill mulder, he was so morally conflicted" i guess i just don't... really care that much. at least not in this particular instance. choosing between his kids was intense and fascinating, plot-wise. choosing to free the lizard guy helped no one but lizard guy, who went on to do more murdering.

and there wasn't even scully!

#the only things i'm pondering are “did mulder actually smoke?” and “do mummies smell bad irl?”#and “where did OG bill mulder go?” (but i know if i look that up i'll get spoiled somehow)#this episode more annoyed me than anything else #not enough to provoked the impassioned kind of response that other episodes have #just very forgettable except for the retcons which i will remember and the sheer irrelevance #i learned literally nothing about any of our characters except some mr. mulder lore that did nothing for me #okay. so what now?#juni's x files liveblog #the x files #txf

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blackwomeninstarwars · 2 months ago

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Reprioritize, Reprioritize, Reprioritize

From @ micahinATL (Twitter):

"if your political work begins & ends with presidential elections, now's the time to change that! join an org, find your lane, learn your local political landscape, figure out who's fighting, make a plan.

no matter who wins, there's going to be so much work to do."

"where is your local jail? who's caged inside of it? who's bailing people out? what's the police/sheriff budget of your city/town? where's the money for affordable housing? who's doing abortion access work? what are the mutual aid groups? who are your local electeds?"

"what climate action is your local or government taking or not taking? what's the status of public transit? who's doing disability justice work? what's the budget for the library? for parks? for schools? who's working to get cops out of schools?"

"who actually calls the shots in your city? what time is your city council meeting, and who shows up? who gets taxed and who gets tax credits? what are the major development projects happening, and how are they impacting the local community?"

"who's the district attorney? who's the sheriff? who's the police chief? what recent direct actions have happened in your city? who is mobilizing for palestine? for sudan? are there alternatives to policing in your city? is someone trying to build one?"

"who's doing restorative justice? who's coordinating pen pal programs with incarcerated people? supported incarcerated organizing? what are the local labor unions? do they need support? who's gearing up for the next local election that will get far less attention?"

"what immigrant detention centers are there near you? who's working to end collaboration between municipalities and ICE? what are the mental health resources in your county or city? are there city pools for kids during the summer? youth recreation opportunities?"

"what's your congregation up to? are the people in your book club taking action? do you know your neighbor? do your streets have pot holes? are there bike lanes? who's doing land defense work? stopping pipelines? stopping cop cities?"

"who's organizing tenants? doing eviction defense work? is there a local homeless union? when do cops do sweeps of homeless encampments?"

"the list goes on and on. we need people everywhere! we need people organized! everyone can plug in somewhere. it's hard, but you have to find something or start something, and do it with other people!"

#blackwomeninstarwars #politics #community justice

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workingclasshistory · 2 years ago

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On this day, 19 May 1920, a shootout took place in the town of Matewan, West Virginia between striking miners and the Baldwin-Felts Detective Agency, who had arrived in town to evict miners’ families from their mountain encampment, in what would become known as the infamous Battle of Matewan. What made the situation in Matewan so unique was that the sheriff, Sid Hatfield (pictured, left), supported the miners rather than the coal companies. So the detectives brought along a fake warrant for the arrest of Hatfield, which he refused to respect, and shooting broke out. Seven Baldwin-Felts detectives were killed, including two of the Felts brothers themselves, as were two miners – Bob Mullins, and Tot Tinsley, an unarmed bystander – as well as the mayor Cabell Testermen. Hatfield and 22 other people, mostly miners, were subsequently arrested and put on trial for murder in what was at that time the lengthy murder trial in West Virginia history. But they were all eventually acquitted by a pro-union jury. Having been unable to secure a conviction, Baldwin-Felts agents would later murder Hatfield alongside his deputy, Ed Chambers, on the steps of a nearby courthouse. None of the killers were convicted of any crime. More info in our podcast episodes 57-58 about the WV mine wars: https://workingclasshistory.com/podcast/e57-west-virginia-mine-wars-1902-1922/ https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=628686199304599&set=a.602588028581083&type=3

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ddarker-dreams · 2 years ago

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Us and Them.

Daryl Dixon x F Reader.

Tags: Not SFW, follow up to Hierarchy of Needs, takes place from Daryl's POV. Simping o'clock. Some typical TWD horror elements. Word count: 11.5k.

It takes a great deal to crack Daryl’s focus.

The life he’s led up until this point necessitated the fact. To ensure he’d hit his mark or continue tracking the elusive fauna hiding in the thickets, he needed to block the rest of the world out and hone in on his objective. This tendency bled into the other aspects of his day-to-day existence as well. It’s made him notoriously reliable, a reality he doesn’t take pride in, for he’s just doing what he thinks anyone should do. Shaking this cornerstone of his identity is no easy task.

Unless you’re thrown into the mix, that is.

Then it’s as if every functioning brain cell he has decides to jump ship in favor of seeking you out, no matter how detrimental it may be to him. Truth be told, he can’t even bring himself to mind half the time. You’re a distraction he’d hold the door open for. That being said, as much as he’d love to entertain thoughts of you 24/7, it’s an unrealistic dream. There’s work to be done and he can’t take up residence in la-la land. He’ll be forcibly evicted most of the time, should he not leave of his own volition.

His present predicament does well to remind him of this.

“You with me, Daryl?”

Rick’s voice is a scythe cutting through the overgrown verdure of his mind. Daryl grunts, probably agreeing to something he should’ve been paying closer attention to. It’s too late for him to play it off, he can tell by Rick’s expression alone. He’s giving that raised eyebrow, head tilted look you once theorized to be the byproduct of being a sheriff for years. Officer Friendly’s changed a lot since they first met, but that look has remained reliably consistent.

“That so? Mind telling me what I just said then?” Rick challenges.

Daryl doesn’t even bother to entertain the charade. He knows when to cut his losses. “Sorry. Wasn’t listening.”

“Mhm,” Rick nods his head in the direction Daryl’s been staring. “Let me guess. It got anything to do with our social butterfly over there?”

Daryl doesn’t know why Rick’s asking when he likely already knows the answer to the question. Indeed, Daryl’s been keeping an eye on you while Rick discussed various happenings. You were reading Frankenstein beneath a gazebo for a whopping five minutes before an interloper made himself known. One of Deanna’s sons — Daryl can barely tell them apart, they leave so little of an impression — decided to strike up a conversation with you. The complete and utter disregard for your personal time has him fuming. You’ve been so busy shadowing Deanna that you’ve barely had a moment’s respite, you deserve to read your damn book in peace.

He knows you’ve been working yourself to the bone. Alexandria is important to you, you’ve been doing everything possible to guarantee a future for your tight-knit group here. It helps that Deanna’s taken a shine to you; the opportunities this granted have been paramount. You’re slowly winning over the skeptical residents and explaining away any errant behavior from your group. Whatever tale you're spinning, he figures it must be working. He can at least walk around without being gawked at. Regardless, you confided to him that there's still much to do. Tensions are brewing faster than you can reconcile them.

“Hardly see ‘er no more,” Daryl scoffs. “Yuppies are takin’ up all her damn time.”

Rick gives a thoughtful hum. “It’s good, what she’s doing. Building up trust. Might help us if things are headed the way I think they are.”

What was no doubt intended to lift Daryl’s spirits does the opposite, plunging them down into a deeper depth. He feels he’s deceiving you somehow by not mentioning Rick and Carol’s ‘backup plan’ should the Alexandria inhabitants prove beyond help. He also knows you loathe feeling used — a vulnerable confession owing to a drink too many — and that’s what this feels like. Using the good graces you’ve painstakingly established for an ulterior motive.

Daryl keeps quiet. Fortunately, Rick is quick to catch on and changes the subject.

“You know,” he starts, looking away from you to focus on Daryl, “I’ve noticed something’s different between you two. Ever since the night of that welcoming party.”

Daryl assumes a poker face. He knew he should expect this line of questioning at some point, because things did change between you, in a way that exceeded his wildest dreams. Still, the way Rick’s sizing him up makes him feel like a teenager being greeted by your dad at the front door before your first date. He doesn’t know how to deal with this shit. The only person close to Daryl in terms of their protectiveness over you is Rick. Is this some type of test? That can’t be right; Rick’s been trying to convince him to shoot his shot with you since the prison. He probably just wants to know everything’s fine. Ever the worrier, holding the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“She, uh,” Daryl focuses on his scuffed boots, before finally managing to look Rick in the eye. “She knows.”

Rick’s countenance betrays his disbelief. “You told her?”

Well, it’d be more accurate to say you told him by kissing him silly and putting his many doubts to rest, but he isn’t about to go around announcing that. He’ll hold this near and dear to his heart.

“Yeah.”

“And?” Rick presses, borderline impatient for the information Daryl’s so stingy on handing over. “What’d she say?”

Daryl can’t stop his lips from quirking into a closed-mouth smile. “Feels the same.”

Unlike Daryl, Rick doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin. “What’d I tell you, huh? That’s— that’s great. I’m happy for you. For both of you. It’s about time you both stopped dancing around things.”

Daryl wants to grumble over Rick giving him a hard time, but he can’t bring himself to, because the man’s right. While it may not have been love back at the quarry, even then he thought you were the prettiest damn woman he’d ever had the blessing to lay eyes on. His attachment to you only grew from there. By his estimation, that’d place it somewhere around two years of having the hots for you without ever making a serious move. While he doesn’t regret the time dedicated to deepening your friendship, it would’ve saved him a lot of grief if he knew you reciprocated his affections. He’d lost track of the nights spent tossing and turning, contemplating just how out of his league you are.

“While we’re on the subject, Glenn’s got some condoms on him, should you need any.”

Daryl coughs into his hand to hide the wicked blush rising to his cheeks. “The hell, man?”

“Just sayin’,” Rick puts his hands up in defense. “It’s best to be proactive. Sometimes you look at the girl like you’re ready to pounce.”

He fights back a groan at the new ammunition Rick has to tease him with. It is good knowledge to have, though, so he makes a note of it. You had only slept together once on that fateful night roughly two weeks ago. Daryl was mistaken in thinking getting a taste of you would calm the raging flames of desire that burn him from the inside out. If anything, it’s as if they’ve been doused with gasoline. Every little thing you do nearly drives him mad with need. When you chew on your bottom lip in contemplation, bend over to grab something, or make those cute little noises when you stretch, the list goes on and on. You’re making it a damn challenge to think with his head and not his dick.

How can he not, when he’s experienced how exhilarating it is to become one with the person he loves most? The sights and sounds of that night play on a loop in his mind constantly. The teasing banter, the taste of chocolate on your lips, the mind-numbing pleasure that exceeds anything he’d felt in his life… it’s got to be a special kind of torture to know he can have that with you, if he only he could get you alone. He swears every force in the universe is working against him. You’re living in a house packed like sardines, your schedules don’t line up (he’s an early riser, you love ‘your beauty sleep’), and you’ve been busy as a bee.

In your benevolence, you’ve treated him to some fleeting kisses and hugs, which, while he treasures those more than the air in his lungs, can’t satisfy the excruciating need he has for your body. He has to stop himself from undressing you with his eyes the few times of day you’re around. You’re just so gorgeous, so exuberant, lighting up the room in the way only you can and leaving a cold emptiness inside him when you’re gone.

He used to harp on lovesick fools for gushing over their ‘other half’, but now he gets it, he truly does. Going without you for any length of time is a unique agony that twists his guts into a knot.

Glancing back over your way, his blood freezes over at the sight he’s greeted with.

The prick had the audacity to put his hand on your lower back while Daryl was preoccupied. His eye twitches and his nostrils flare, hands balling into fists by his side. Rick senses the change in demeanor and follows Daryl’s line of sight to identify the reason, instantly piecing together the problem. Right before Daryl can charge over and rip the asshole’s slimy hand off you, Rick steps in, motioning for him to slow down.

“Hey, hey, look at me—”

“He’s fuckin’ touching her,” Daryl seethes, barely able to hear anything over the sound of his heart thumping in his ears. “She’s uncomfortable, I’m gonna—”

This time, it’s Rick who interrupts him. “I get it, I really do, but we can’t afford to go makin’ a scene over something like this. [First] wouldn’t want that. You know she wouldn’t. So let’s take a moment and calm down.”

“The hell do you know ‘bout what she wants?” Daryl challenges, his voice raising enough to attract some nearby attention. He juts his shoulder out of the way when Rick tries to lay his hand on it. “We both know why you’re letting ‘er play nice.”

Rick’s eyebrows furrow, hurt at the insinuation. “Daryl…”

He turns on his heel and storms off.

Rick calls out to him a few more times, but he makes a point of ignoring him, along with the stares his outburst garnered. A quiet, reasonable voice whispers to him that he’s blowing things out of proportion. This sensible counsel is overpowered by his Dixon blood yelling otherwise. He’s always been quick to default to anger, it’s an emotion he can make the most sense of when everything’s confusing. Rage is all-consuming and familiar. It gives him an easy target to release his pent-up negative emotions.

There’s just too much for him to work through. The gnawing insecurity, that in this stable environment, you could do so much better than him and he wouldn't have the slightest clue how to stop it. He’s not a smooth talker, can’t excuse confidence in spades. Hell, he couldn’t even confess to you first, you had to come to him. Who in their right mind would want a man like that? A man like him?

His jaw feels like it could snap from how hard he’s grinding his teeth together.

When he gets back to the group’s shared residence, he slings his crossbow into place and makes for Alexandria’s gates. He’s got to get away from here before he pulls an even dumber stunt he’ll surely regret later. The lone guard stationed there looks about ready to give him a difficult time until he sees the grave expression on Daryl’s face. That’s enough for him to wordlessly grant passage to the outside world.

Daryl opts for using his knife to take out the walkers prowling past the entrance. Adrenaline pumps throughout his body as the blade breaches a skull, then another, the bodies sagging to the ground with a satisfying thump. He cleans the gore off his knife and sets out for the woods, grateful to leave the oppressive community he’ll never fully fit into behind him.

Out here, he’s in his element. Weaving in and out of paths he’s already started to memorize, hearing the coos of mourning doves and shrill chirps of cardinals. He isn’t meant to fraternize with some hoity-toity folks who still think carrying a gun around inside the walls is excessive. His previous anger simmers down into frustration with each step he takes. In his haste, he hadn’t grabbed that many arrows. He knows he shouldn’t be out here for long.

However, the alternative is just as undesirable. He’ll man up and give Rick the apology he’s owed, but there’s no doubt his stunt today hurt what you’ve been trying to build. The folks wearing their polo shirts and khakis will probably go back to staring at him like he’s some sort of bogeyman come to life. He scoffs quietly to himself at the thought, bending over to inspect some fresh-looking tracks in the dirt. A deer must’ve come through here not long ago. Snagging a catch like that would do wonders for lifting his dampened mood. It’s tangible proof that he belongs, that he isn’t some freak like his brother would have him believe.

It’s strange to care about what he’s gone his entire life ignoring. When you have a reputation like the Dixon’s did in the town he grew up in, ostracization was to be expected. He’d lost count of the times he’d have to bail Merle’s ass out of the county jail only for the process to start back up a few months down the line. They might as well have kept a parking spot with his name written on it, as often as he stopped by the place. The stares, the whispers. They followed him everywhere he went. He learned to stop caring, he didn’t really have any better alternatives.

He thinks of you — how quick you are to fit in — how wide the chasm is that separates you. It’s been a while since he’s had to grapple with these misgivings, the farm must’ve been the last time. Daryl knows it’s shameful, but he likes when he’s the one providing for you. Not so he could lord it over you, he wouldn’t dream of that. It’s more so how it justifies him being in your orbit. Solidifies his place by your side.

No one else can take it if it’s carved out in his shape.

The sun begins its lull in the sky. Shades of brilliant amber and gold trickle in through the interstices of the trees overhead, cascading like embers. Daryl mulls over what you might be doing now as he gulps down water from his canteen. Are you having dinner with Reg and Deanna? Or are you back at home, encouraging Judith to eat her veggies and trying to convince Carl there are more things to read than comics? Have you noticed his absence? Or are you too preoccupied to realize he’s gone?

His heart plummets down to his stomach.

Daryl crouches over, inspecting some flowers that have been chewed down to the stem. It’s still glistening with saliva. A deer’s doing, no doubt. This paired with the tracks he’s been following promises that he’s getting closer. Any other day, personal qualms would be the last thing on his mind when he’s about to land a deer, but you’re an apparition that won’t stop haunting him. He misses you. He sees you every day, yet it isn’t enough. He misses hearing your lame jokes that you laugh at (and he laughs at too, occasionally), the weird thoughts that occupy your pretty little head (seriously, who ponders over the origin of the phrase ‘elephant in the room’?), arguing over if Back in Black or The Dark Side of the Moon is the better album (he caught you humming Time to Judith once, trying to indoctrinate her early, no doubt).

He misses you so badly it makes him physically ache.

The crackling of foliage ahead temporarily releases him from his bitter rumination.

He fastens his crossbow into place, mindful of his every step. He makes his way through a clearing. It’s the scent he notices first, the miasma of rot. Then there’s the sound of flies buzzing and wet, vicious squelching. Ripping and tearing. Daryl knows what he’s destined to see before he even lays eyes on it. A group of voracious walkers gorge themselves upon the fallen deer, too preoccupied with devouring the viscera to notice his presence. Rigor mortis hadn’t even set in yet, he’d just barely missed his window.

It’s one of those days, he supposes.

The trek back to Alexandria is noticeably devoid of thought. He gladly welcomes the reprieve, wanting nothing more than for his head to hit the pillow so he can sleep today’s events off. Alexandria’s walls loom in front of him soon enough. He calls over to be let back in. Without delay, the gate creaks to the side, revealing the last figure he expected to be greeted with upon his return.

You.

You stand a few paces ahead, relief visible on your features when you establish eye contact. You’re wearing a yellow gingham blouse, white denim jeans, and those sneakers from what he’d consider the best day of his life. Your hair that you’ve been complaining is too long is tied up in a high ponytail, revealing that neck he longs to smother in kisses again. You’re so fucking radiant it should be illegal. Intelligent thought flies out the window, though luckily for him, you almost never run out of things to say.

“Are you alright?” Is what you decide upon, your voice sweeter than candy. He’d eat it up if he could.

He nods, his body recalling how to do basic motor functions after a sizable delay. You secure the gate behind you, muttering some gratitude to the guard Daryl scowled into submission earlier, then jog to catch up with him. He swears he could distinguish the sounds of your footsteps in his sleep. As much as he’d love to, he doesn’t look at you, choosing to fixate on the road ahead. After the events of the day, he doesn't trust himself not to pull anything stupid.

“Daryl, hello hello,” you say with a singsong lilt, “You do notice me, right? I’m not that short.”

“Tired, s’all,” he murmurs.

“Have you not been sleeping well?”

He shrugs. “Guess not.”

There’s a beat of silence. Unable to bear it, he turns toward you, immediately noting the uncharacteristic frown on your features. A deep pang resonates inside him at the sight. He knows he’s worrying you, causing extra strife you most certainly don’t deserve to deal with, but he can’t think straight. The culmination of two weeks’ worth of navigating foreign feelings he’s never experienced before is taking a toll on him. You mentioned having an ex-boyfriend to Maggie in the past — a notion he’s hardly surprised by, considering you got him of all people falling head over heels — so this must be familiar territory for you.

“When I asked if you were fine earlier, I didn’t just mean physically,” you nudge him playfully with your elbow, although your expression is serious. “Is something up?”

“Jesus, I’m fine, woman,” Daryl huffs. The tone he takes has you pursing your lips. He no longer hears your footsteps struggling to keep up, you must’ve stopped. He does too. Turning himself to face you is no easy task, yet he somehow manages. What remains of the sunset basks your features in a gentle glow. He can make out each fleck of color in your iris’, finding the distinct splash of color to be his favorite. You have every right to be annoyed with him, you should be, honestly — and still, there are no traces of irritation. That alone melts his heart.

You’re just looking at him, trying to piece together what’s brought him to this point. You never assume the worst of him, you never have. Instead, you choose to carefully comb through the information available to understand what he barely understands himself. This is one of your strengths he’s always admired.

When he once asked you why you gave others the benefit of the doubt, you compared it to his tracking process.

“There’s more going on than what’s visible at first glance, right?” You reasoned. “You have to stop, slow down. Take time to inspect things a little closer. If you don’t, you risk missing what’s truly important.”

Waves of guilt crash over him like the roaring ocean upon the shore. You’re so good — the epitome of everything worth preserving in this decaying world.

“... ‘m sorry,” Daryl swallows thickly. “Just… bad day, is all.”

Your visage softens. “Hey, it’s okay.”

He flinches. You’re far too quick to forgive.

“Nah, it ain’t. I shouldn’t take it out on ya.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” You offer, still refusing to hold Daryl’s shortcomings over his head. “I, um, actually had something I wanted to show you. It’s somewhere quiet. It’d just be us there.”

He parts his lips, ready to reinforce the fact you should be upset with him, when he sees your smile. This is the kind you’ve only ever graced him with. There’s this innate understanding in your eyes, a compassion to the curve of your lips. A look of pure love. He’s committed every facet of you he can to memory, he knows no one else is the recipient of this specific tenderness. It’s reserved solely for him.

There’s a gravitational pull around you that draws him close and refuses to let him go.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Positive.”

You hold your hand out.

He hesitates, wondering if he deserves to take it.

When he does, the way your smile grows tells him he made the right choice.

It’s him following you now. There’s a pep in your step, he can feel the excitement radiating off of you. A few Alexandrians he hasn’t bothered learning the names of yet give a wave upon spotting you, an act you gladly reciprocate. You haven’t the slightest ounce of shame about the rugged man trailing behind you. An insecure part of him that stubbornly refuses to die suggested that as you integrate into the community, you might leave him behind. Find a man that fits in here rather than sticking out like a sore thumb as he does.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The guilt returns, slithering its tendrils around his person and preparing to bite down hard. He’s been weaving falsehoods about you because of his own problems. You aren’t that type of person. He needs to get out of his own head and accept that maybe, just maybe, this’ll be his shot at happiness. The concept is so surreal that his body has been rejecting it like it were a foreign invader. He doesn’t want to fall prey to his natural tendencies anymore, he has to fight it.

He imagines it’ll be a slow and tedious process, uprooting the thorny vines he’s grown to protect himself. You’re worth the effort, reckons. You always have been.

Suburbia surrounds you on both sides. This must be another residential area of Alexandria, one that is vacant from what he can tell. You pause in front of one of the homes, nestled toward the end of the street. It’s the picture-perfect representation of the upper-middle-class ideal. A two-story high house styled like the others, with beige siding and a light gray roof. After letting him take it in for a second, you pull a set of keys from your back pocket, then grin.

“I bought us a house,” you twirl the jingling keys on your pointer finger. “My credit wasn’t the best, and we’ll probably have to do a reverse mortgage in a decade, but it’s ours.”

Daryl squints, trying to deduce how much of what you’re saying is in jest.

“I’ve been working with Deanna to get our group more settled in, since this looks permanent. We finished ironing out the details today, and, uh, yeah. We get a house all for ourselves.”

Your voice grows smaller toward the end of your sentence, almost tentative. You’re gauging him just as much as he is you.

“Ya wanna,” he takes a moment to find the right words, “Ya wanna live with me?”

You shrink into yourself. “I do. O-Only if you want to, of course! If this is weird, or, I’m uh, being too forward, then just— oof!”

You’re never given the chance to finish your sheepish ramblings, for he lifts you in the air, spinning you once then wrapping you in a tight embrace. You give him a breathless laugh and return his affection in kind. He nuzzles his nose into your neck, breathing in the familiar scent of cocoa butter and shea. In any other circumstance, he’d shy away from such a bold display in public, but he’s too damn ecstatic to care. Let anyone who happens by watch. See for themselves that you’re his and he’d sooner keel over than let you go.

“I take it that’s a yes, then?” You hum as he carefully puts you down, treating you like you were made of glass.

“Yeah,” he reassures. He huffs in amusement at the stars that are practically glittering in your eyes. “Guess that means the others’ll know ‘bout us.”

You’re quick to fall back into your usual demeanor, now that you know he wasn’t put off. “Are you embarrassed of me, Mr. Dixon?”

He rolls his eyes at your theatrics, replying lightheartedly, “Stop.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure the others already know,” you say. “Well, some of them, at least. Women have a sixth sense for these things.”

Daryl raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I mostly plead the fifth. Rosita and Maggie keep smirking at me though. I think we developed some sort of witch coven-level bond while out on the road.”

He lets out a ‘pfft’ at the phraseology that’s so distinctly you. He’s always loved hearing you talk, he swears you could make an instruction manual on how to set up a dresser entertaining. Aside from how unfairly pretty you are, your mannerisms are what caught his eye. You have this way of creating a comfortable atmosphere. Back at the quarry, you stubbornly worked to peel back his layers, one at a time. You somehow knew what conversations to broach and which to steer clear of. Before he knew what was happening, you became his favorite person to spend time with, and he actively sought you out; ignoring Merle’s disparaging remarks along the way.

The rest is history, as they say.

You both walk up to the porch, taking in every last detail. The spacious front yard, bushes that Daryl makes a mental note to trim later, and the little stone pathway which leads up to the steps. A soft breeze passes through, encouraging the rustle of towering tree branches. The scent of daisies and honeysuckle wafts in the cool evening air and he deeply inhales nature’s aromatic perfume. You trace the porch’s white pillar with your fingertips, seemingly entranced, disbelief written over your features.

“From a prison cell to this,” you shake your head. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“Nah. You ain’t.”

You point at the closed garage. “You can park your bike there, turn it into a workshop or something.”

Next, the empty garden.

“And— and we can plant carrots, peas, zucchini… maybe find a blueberry bush. Flowers too. Oh, I love hydrangeas, they can be tricky though. We should also plant a fruit tree. What about apple? Yeah, let’s do that. The kids’ll love it. Apple pie, apple cider… did you know Carl’s never had apple cider? How is that even possible?”

There’s a glossy tint to your eyes as you ramble on, so taken by the idea of a future that you don’t know what to do with yourself. He has to fight against a lump threatening to form in his throat. Daryl hugs you from behind, holding you against him as if you’d disappear like sand through his fingers should he let go. You feel so good in his arms. So right.

“We have to make this work, Daryl,” your voice is tight. “We have to. No matter what.”

This serious declaration takes him back weeks prior, to the day your fates became permanently intertwined. You’ve been pushing yourself to fulfill what you said then and now. He’s sure you’d much rather spend time with your group, your family, but you’ve been building the groundwork for a future. The very same groundwork he’s been undermining by plotting outside the walls with Rick and Carol, well-intentioned as it may be.

“I gotta tell ya something,” he murmurs, placing a chaste kiss atop your head. Your hair smells heavenly. “Has to do with earlier.”

After feeling you nod, he continues, albeit hesitantly.

“Me, Rick n’ Carol have been talking. ‘Bout Alexandria. What we should do here. They’re thinkin’ we might hafta take over, if worse comes to worst. These people… they’re weak. Don’t know a damn thing ‘bout what’s happenin’ outside them walls.”

He loosens his grip as you twist around to face him. Once again, he braces himself for heavy rebuke; a confirmation that you’ll be as upset as he imagined upon learning about this. You place both your hands on the railing behind you while looking up, your head tilting to the side.

“I already knew about that.”

Daryl knits his eyebrows together, incredulous. “You— what?”

“Not the specifics, maybe, but I got the gist of things,” you confirm. This further reinforces his belief that you’re perceptive to a freaky degree. “I mean… I get where you guys are coming from. What we’ve been through… what we’ve seen… God… I never let myself think about it for long. I can’t. I push that shit down as deep as it’ll go. Lock it up and throw away the key.”

You sigh and give him a weary smile that tugs on his heartstrings. “I’m not going to say that you’re in the wrong, because honestly, I haven’t the faintest clue. I wish I did, but I don’t. All I know is that it doesn’t hurt to try. What’s that adage Rick is so fond of…? Ah, yes, let’s ‘see what we see’. If you do, and still think they’re a lost cause, then… I’ll trust your judgment. I always have. Always will, too. There’s no one I trust more in this world than you, Daryl. Not even myself.”

You’ve stolen the air from his lungs and words from his mouth, it’s like he’s been sucker-punched. He tries and fails to string together a coherent sentence. It shouldn’t be too difficult, the assembly of vowels and consonants, yet every word in the English language slips his mind. He’s long since held the belief that you’re an angel incarnate — you might as well be, given your beauty — but thinking that way is ultimately doing you a disservice.

You’re scared, you’re confused, you’re human. Blood pumps through your heart, not ichor.

Daryl takes your pretty face into his hands, wishing he could smooth away the lines of worry. “I’ll try. Promise.”

You kiss his inner palm. “That’s all I could ask for.”

“What you said… ‘bout not trustin’ yourself…” he trails off, almost wincing at hearing the words spoken aloud again, “You should. Trust yourself, I mean. You're smart. Crafty. Made some damn good calls I never woulda thought to.”

“Are you buttering me up, Daryl?” You teasingly suggest. “Flattery will get you everywhere with me.”

He grunts. There you go with your tendency to keep things light-hearted when they get uncomfortably personal again.

“... Really, though, thank you,” the inflection of your voice reverts back to sincere in record time. You almost give him whiplash with the ease in which you shift moods. “We probably should’ve had this talk sooner, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry ‘bout that. I wanted… wanted to surprise you, and I got so swept up in that, I missed what’s really important.”

Daryl feels his lips twitching into a smile at your subconscious elision — Carol once pointed out that you sometimes talk like him, and vice versa. She said you guys hang out together so often, it’s to be expected. He’s picked up your favorite idioms and rubbed off his tendency to curse on you, even if you don’t do it anywhere near as often as him. To think that two years ago, his preppy princess went from having the cleanest mouth around to dropping expletives without batting an eyelash.

“‘S fine. Still don’t think ya did anything wrong.”

“You’re a bit biased, don’t you think?”

“Mm. Maybe.”

You laugh at his candidness. “It just occurred to me that all our best conversations happen on porches. Is that why you lived out on the porch for our first few days here?”

“Nah. Had to keep ya safe,” Daryl runs the pad of his thumb over your cheekbones. “Can’t let anything happen to ya, butterfly.”

You preen at the personal touch to your infamous nickname, evidently liking it as much as he does. “I told you, I’m more of a caterpillar for the time being.”

He snorts. “Coulda fooled me.”

“Hm… a cocoon, then? Agree to disagree?”

“Ain’t calling ya a fuckin’ cocoon, woman.”

“Oh, but if it’s your voice saying it, I’ll get all hot and bothered,” you lean forward, pressing the swell of your chest against his. He swears he can feel his blood rushing south. “You could make anything sound good. Even… hm… let me think… the word foible.”

Daryl scrunches up his nose. “The hell? That’s a word?”

“Sure is. It might be the only one that hasn’t found its way into Eugene’s impressive lexicon yet.”

“You couldn’t pay me ‘nough to say that.”

“It’s a good thing the economy is in shambles then,” you wink. Then you stifle a laugh with your hand. “Huh. I really need to get better at flirting. I’m rusty… way out of practice. Mind helping me out with that, Dixon? If not, Maggie’s gonna get stuck dealing with the brunt of it.”

The look he gives has you showing your palms in surrender. “I told you! It’s witch coven level stuff between us now. I’m waiting with bated breath for someone to suggest a blood oath.”

“Don’t need no practice, all ya do is flirt with me, damn vixen.”

He pinches your cheek, content to see how they’ve filled back out after two weeks of eating regularly.

“Took you long enough to notice.”

You guide his hands to your hips and he’s more than happy to place them there. Next, you secure your arms around his neck, then start swaying side to side. Everything about you is so magnetic. God, that expression is nearly lethal. You’re gazing up at him through lidded eyes, worrying your lower lip beneath your teeth. He feels his cock twitching to life. You barely need to do a damn thing and he’s ready to fall to the ground and worship you.

Daryl has to fight off a debauched noise as you stand on your tiptoes, your tongue poking out to coat your lips in an enticing sheen. He feels your hot breath fan against his face and tightens his grip on you to keep himself steady. You pause, content to stay where you are, so close to where he wants you yet cruelly far away. You breathe in one another’s air for a few, agonizing seconds, your noses touching. Then you’re moving again. Right when he thinks he’s going to be treated to your taste, frustration boils within when you kiss the corner of his mouth instead. He could take whatever he wants from you — his immense strength speaks to that — yet there’s something so undeniably charming about letting you think you’re in control.

He figures he can play along a while longer.

“Do me a favor, sweetheart,” you whisper, the huskiness of your voice causing goosebumps to erupt all over his skin, “Grab what’s in my back left pocket.”

Curious, he does just that. His fingers come into contact with a plastic serrated edge. He knows what it is before he even pulls it out.

“This time, I can’t say I didn’t plan things in advance,” you take pride in admitting.

He frowns. “Just have these on you?”

Despite knowing it’s entirely unreasonable, he can’t suppress a sting of jealousy. He silently hopes you haven’t been carrying these things around for long. Not if you wanted to use them with someone else.

“Mhm. I had some at the farm, then the prison,” if you notice how his expression darkens, you don’t mention it. “There’s this guy who caught my eye, you see, a very handsome one. I’ve wanted him to have his way with me for ages. Couldn’t work up the courage to admit that for the life of me, though. Until very recently.”

He mentally sighs at the reassurance no one’s gotten to touch you while he was stuck silently yearning from afar. There were a few panic-inducing moments that drove him crazier than he’d ever admit, due largely in part to your friendly personality. You’re touchy-feely with those you care about. While he reaped the benefits of this, it’s a double-edged sword. You hug your friends, fall asleep on their shoulder, and dote over them at every chance. He once mistakenly snapped one of his arrows in half when he saw you run and jump to embrace Rick.

Daryl knew it was wrong to feel possessive over a grown woman who he wasn’t in a romantic relationship with, yet his heart refused to listen to his brain. People were drawn in by your wit and charm, there wasn’t much to do about it. It wasn’t like he could station himself by your side every waking hour to scare off any asshole who thought they had a shot at you.

… He has considered the idea, though.

“That right?” He asks, maintaining eye contact while his hands go to give your ass a squeeze. He’s never felt the most confident when it came to flirting, yet you make him feel wanted, like you’re into him as much as he’s into you.

“Right as rain,” you give him those doe eyes that make him weak in the knees. “It made me have to settle for the next best thing.”

Daryl’s entirely under your spell and he wouldn’t want it any other way. “What’d that be, princess?”

He bites back a knowing smirk at the way you shiver, your eyes glazing over with lust. Learning your little thing for hearing him call you princess was a piece of knowledge he fully intended on making good use of.

“My hands,” you murmur. He knew what you were implying, but hearing you say it out loud almost makes him lose his fucking mind. “I’d think about how strong he was, how good he’d make me feel. I was always scheming, y’know. Wearing short shorts, low cut shirts. Think it may have caught his attention?”

Oh, so that’s how it was, huh? He’d always get caught between feeling grateful for seeing so much of you and possessive when he realized everyone else got the same privilege. A few men and women back at the prison let their eyes linger far longer than he would’ve preferred. He’d spend balmy nights tucked away on his lonesome, wrestling his belt and pants down so he could relieve himself to the thought of you. Guilt would rear its head when he saw you the next day, running over to excitedly greet him, oblivious to how he objectified you in his mind hours prior.

It comes as a mild relief to know that was what you intended.

“Don’t needta think. Know for a fact it did.”

You pout, upping his urge to kiss you by a hundred percent. “Are you sure? He hasn’t tried to touch me lately. It’s starting to hurt my feelings.”

“Hard to touch a woman who ain’t there,” Daryl huffs, indignant.

“Well, I’m here now,” you reassure. “Maybe you should make the best of it, hm?”

You don’t need to tell him twice.

He snatches the keys and wastes no time unlocking the front door, motioning for you to go in first. He enters immediately after. The lock is redone in anticipation of what’ll come next, you’ll both be needing your privacy. Daryl loves your little group, would die for them in a heartbeat, but he’s been waiting what feels like eons to get you alone again. He’s surprised with the amount of self-control he’s exercising, the urge to rip your clothes off and take you against the closest available surface is overwhelming. You bring out this animalistic side to him he never knew existed.

You start making your way upstairs after leaving your shoes by the door. From this angle, he’s treated to a lovely angle of your hips and shapely ass. His nerves are set aflame by the mere thought of seeing you bare again. He damn near sprints to catch up with you, not caring to hide his desperation in the slightest. He scoops you up bridal style along the way — he really might have a thing for manhandling you, although he’s never rough — the ease in which he can maneuver your body just feels right. Satisfies what little ego he has when it comes to romantic endeavors.

“I never have to use my legs when you’re around,” you giggle.

“That’s the goal.”

In more ways than one, he hopes.

Daryl brings you into the first bedroom he sees. You’re gently laid down atop the plush comforter, while he gets to work ridding himself of his clothes. The condom from earlier is placed on the bed’s edge. He pulls his angel wing vest over his head, kicks off his boots, then his jeans. The weight of your gaze on him is tangible, you look at him as if he were a piece of art. He’s unsure if he should feel embarrassed or prideful by your unabashed staring. A blush dusts his cheeks when he catches you rubbing your thighs together, causing him to lean toward the former.

He freezes when he gets to his black button-up shirt. The last time you were intimate, it was dark enough that he didn’t feel entirely exposed. As much as he loves seeing you painted in warm hues of orange and red, that means he’ll be fully visible too. Every inch of his body and its testament to a life of hardships. You’d seen the scars on his back when tending to his injuries back on the farm, yet you didn’t dare to make a comment. The way he flinched and shrunk away told you everything you needed to know.

Sensing his hesitation, you stand to your feet and approach him. Your fingers settle on the top button, though you make no movement past that. He can practically hear the cogs turning in your head.

“If you don’t want—”

“I do,” he cuts you off, knowing what you intend to say. “I trust ya. Just…”

“Just…?”

He shrugs, the tips of his ears burning. “Want ya to like what ya see.”

“Oh, darling,” you croon, the unexpected pet name makes his blush infinitely stronger, “Maggie used to call me out for drooling over you when you wore those sleeveless shirts. Made me wish I had a pair of opera glasses. You’re handsome. Unbelievably so.”

He doesn’t know what to say, caught in a swirl of embarrassment and delight over the praise you wholeheartedly offer.

You undo the first button, then stop, looking up to check with him again. When he nods, you keep going, revealing the skin that closely hugs his defined muscles. You don’t recoil in disgust or give him pity-filled glances when spotting his scars, instead, you look mesmerized. He can hear your breathing pick up and see the way your pupils dilate.

Daryl thought he was too old to get butterflies in his stomach, but there’s nothing you’re better at than revealing parts of himself he didn’t know existed.

You smooth your palms over his pecs. “I really am going to start drooling.”

He huffs and shrugs off his shirt, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. “Lay your ass back down, girl.”

You give a dorky double thumbs up and do just that.

He joins you not long after, both his arms caging you against the bed.

Daryl nods toward your still-clothed body and quirks his head to the side.

“What? You don’t wanna be the one to undress me? I’m sure you’ve thought about it.” You provoke. His hands almost start trembling from the sheer excitement the prospect stirs up in him. You’re such a coquettish little thing, playing dirty whenever you’re presented with the choice. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it, though. You know how to rile him up.

“Once or twice,” he replies, nimble fingers finding the hem of your shirt and lifting. You raise an eyebrow, challenging his purposefully low estimation. He gives a throaty chuckle, soothing your ire by kissing you on the forehead. “A day.”

You look pleased with the revelation. “There. Much better.”

He greedily takes in every inch of skin that’s revealed to him as he lifts your shirt. Heaven itself couldn’t compare to the beauty that is your body, he almost forgets how to breathe when he sees the start of your chest. His heartbeat rises in a crescendo as he slowly pulls the fabric upward. Finally, he gets an unobstructed view of your tits, wrapped up nice and pretty in a black bra. He wets his lips and bites back a groan. His large, calloused hands immediately set to work on kneading the supple flesh. There’s nothing he loves the feel of more.

“Ya really did plan this,” Daryl has to stop himself from rutting against the bed like an animal, the desperation you instill in him is unreal. “Wanted to drive me fuckin’ crazy, huh?”

“Maybe a little.”

He pinches your nipples then, earning a gasp so lovely from you that a guttural growl leaves his throat. He’s just as obsessed with your voice as you are with his. There’s a sweetness to it that tickles his ears just right. Whether you’re laughing, moaning, or simply saying his name in that way only you can, there’s this lilt that has him hooked. Nicotine be damned, you’re an addiction that surpasses all else.

His fingers make their way to your back, undoing the clasp of your bra. “A little, hm?”

You nod after a moment’s hesitation.

“Ya never were a good liar,” Daryl muses. He’s always found this positively adorable about you. Once he taught you the rules of poker and you joined in on some game nights, it became clear that wasn’t your area of expertise. You’d squirm in your seat, glare or beam at your cards, your intentions practically announced for the whole world by your transparent body language. He’d lost count of the number of times he had to bite back a smile when watching you.

He wraps his mouth around your nipple, alternating between suckling and licking it with his tongue. If given the chance, he’d sit here and do this for ages.

“Is that— mm— a bad thing?”

He pulls back from his important task long enough to reply, “Nah. Love that ‘bout ya.”

While he contents himself by playing with your tits, you grow adorably impatient, wriggling in an attempt to get some friction where you want it most. He grabs your hips and holds you still to stop your indulgence, eliciting an irritated huff from you. He hadn’t anticipated this brattier side of you, but there’s something about it that gets him going. Electricity crackles between you, filling the atmosphere with thick tension.

“There somethin’ you want, girl?” He teases, attention flittering between the coat of his saliva on your chest and the depraved curve of your countenance. He can feel precum leaking from his tip when you try to grind on him again, your frustration fucking delicious.

Your eyes widen when he pulls away, much to his amusement. “Asked ya a question, butterfly. You best be answerin’ it.”

“What do you think I want, Daryl?” The little whine you accentuate your words with works wonders on him.

He shrugs, playing ignorant. “Dunno. A nap, maybe. Ya act all pissy if ya don’t get your eight hours.”

“I told you, my beauty sleep is important,” you huff, directing a halfhearted glare his way. He exhales sharply, betraying his bemusement. You’re about as intimidating as a bunny rabbit to him. “Admittedly, while the prospect of a nap is tempting, I’d rather you fuck me until my brain is scrambled.”

This vulgar side of you is a damn treat he’ll never tire of devouring.

“That so, princess?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Take them pants off then.”

You oblige without protest. You hook your thumb on the waistband, maintaining smoldering eye contact as you drag it down oh so slowly. He palms at his hardened length while you put on your little show, the throb of his cock close to constant. His eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets when he spots your panties. They’re the same shade of black as your bra, the fabric next to scant, hugging your curves tightly. He can see the outline of your folds against it, your wetness seeping through. His tongue slips out to moisten his lips when he remembers how amazing you tasted. He’s brought back to the blissful experience, the softness of your thighs around his face, how you wriggled and squirmed so delightfully for him…

“My eyes are up here, Mister,” you hum. Normally, he’d have a clever remark ready to match you, but he’s completely at a loss. You’ve rendered him speechless.

You were wearing this all day, just for his viewing pleasure?

Maybe there is a God after all — some higher power has got to be smiling down on him. You could make a zealot out of the most impious man.

By the time he manages to break from his reverie, your pants have been tossed aside. It’s you who approaches first, crawling over to where he sits still as a statue, looking up at him through your eyelashes. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, completely and utterly smitten by you. Your breath hitches in your throat when you notice the prominent outline of his cock against his boxers. If that visceral reaction does something for his ego, he’ll never admit it.

You settle onto his lap like it’s where you belong most — he’d argue until he was blue that it is — both of you releasing a content noise at finally having contact where you want it most. Your lips are on his in a feverish kiss. His hands start at the dimples on your back, then move down, cupping your ass and encouraging you to grind against him. You use his shoulders as leverage to better control your movements. He groans when your fingernails dig into his flesh, and you take the opportunity to sneak your tongue into his mouth, getting drunk on the taste of one another. Today, you taste like lemonade. The tart flavor is best when sampled from you.

His mouth smothers your whimpers and soft moans of his name. When you pull back, he’s initially disappointed, until he realizes this grants him the perfect view of each twist of your face. You appear hazy with pleasure, your bare chest heaving and glossy lips parted. There’s a telltale tensing in your thighs that catches him off guard.

“You gettin’ off on this?” Daryl asks, his voice heady with lust. “Grindin’ on me, making all them sweet lil noises?”

“Yes,” you whimper, your shame long forgotten. Not that you ever have much when it comes to him.

This is better than anything he’d concocted in his wildest fantasies. You wanting him as much as he wants you, chasing after your high without reservation. He faithfully does his part to help you along. He follows the rhythm you set, his eyes never leaving your face, deriving unmatched satisfaction from knowing he’s the reason you’re like this. It’s him who knows how to fire you up and cool you down, him who you’re humping against like depravity is your natural element.

You’re gripping him tighter, nails digging deep. He savors the slight ache, intending to wear your marks like a badge of honor.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice raspy. “C’mon. Show me how good ya feel. Wanna see it.”

You’re nothing if not obedient, once in a blue moon.

You come undone, throwing your head back, your eyes squeezed shut as you savor your release. He fixates upon the muscles of your neck, on display like a canvas ready to receive his designs. His lips hover over your racing pulse, the stubble of his beard against your skin prompting a fit of giggles. He mouths at your skin, humming low in appreciation at the saltiness coating it. You sure do get yourself all worked up over him. Knowing that does things for him, stokes the flames of an already raging fire.

“God, I’m obsessed with you, Daryl Dixon,” you confess, moving your head aside so he can have better access to your neck. “You’re all I think about. We’re just— we were made for one another, weren’t we? You’re my best friend, my — I don’t know — does boyfriend sound kinda silly at this point, or is it just me?”

Love blooms in his chest, temporarily overpowering his lust. Or perhaps the two are mixing to form an entirely new color. “I’ll be whatever ya like, so long as I get to see that again.”

“Even my…?” You cut yourself off, and he pulls back, finding himself unable to read your countenance. That’s an exceedingly rare occurrence.

“Your…?” He prompts, the both of you whispering like you’re exchanging precious secrets.

“No, it’s—” you suck in a deep breath and shake your head. “Ahem. Too soon for that.”

You try to distract him by pawing at his waistband. It is a clever move on your part, but he musters up the willpower to stop thinking with his dick for a few seconds.

“Nah. Ya ain’t doin’ that. Finish the damn sentence, woman.”

This is a rabbit hole he wants to explore. His intuition offers a suggestion that’d fill in the blank, yet he shrugs it off, scoffing internally. There’s no way you possibly meant that, his brain just isn’t working properly. No, a pretty thing like you couldn’t possibly want to marry an asshole redneck like him—

“Marriage is off the table until we at least go on one date. Your treat. I’m ordering appetizers and a dessert, too.”

Only you would essentially propose to him while throwing in a joke for good measure. Yeah, that’s the love of his life alright. A hot mess. Heavy emphasis on hot. Somewhat lighter emphasis on mess.

“... Orgasm felt that good, huh?”

You swat at his chest. “Shut up, I’m sleep deprived and not thinking clearly.”

Daryl notices that you’re looking everywhere but at his face, embarrassment prominent. He props himself up some so that you’re able to pull his boxers off, his dick springing out of its restraints. There are about a million things he wants to say to you, some teasing, some entirely genuine, but when you wrap your soft hands around the base of his cock, he blanks. He pants your name as you start pumping him. Pearls of cum are quick to coat his length, making the process even easier for you.

You bend forward, your tongue licking up everything that oozes from his flushed tip. Then your mouth starts taking him in. The warm wetness feels divine and he keens. The noise surprises you both, encouraging you to keep going. You hollow out your cheeks, then start sucking, all the while jerking off what isn’t in your mouth yet. Caving into instinct, his hands fly to either side of your head. He helps ease you up and down his length.

Daryl wonders if he’s dreaming — he doesn’t want to pinch himself to find out, just in case that’d wake him up.

The fact a girl as stunning as you is sucking his dick with unbridled enthusiasm simply doesn’t compute. His peak is growing more and more imminent. The tightness of your mouth, how you’re moaning against him like you’re the one being pleasured; it’s too much in the best of ways. He was already worked up to a frenzy after witnessing you come from grinding on him.

Briefly, he entertains the thought of what it’d be like if he released his load in your mouth. He’d make sure you swallowed every last drop. Knowing you, however, you’d probably do so without his prompting, swallowing while looking him straight in the eye. You know what you do to him. That you have him wrapped around your pretty little finger. You know it and love it, maybe almost as much as he does.

Daryl utilizes every last ounce of self-control in his body and pulls you off his weeping cock.

A trail of saliva connects your lips to his tip, a sight he intends to burn into his memory forever.

“Hey, I was enjoying myself,” you complain with an exaggerated sigh.

“Me too.”

He reaches over to grab the condom from earlier. Ripping into it with his teeth, he rolls the plastic over his sensitive cock. Once it’s on, his hands go to your shoulder, gently pushing so that you’ll lay down for him. You pique his interest by shaking your head. You must have plans of your own, for you reclaim your spot on his lap. He’s plenty content to accommodate this apparent desire of yours and leans back.

You line him up with one hand and tenderly cup his cheek with the other.

Slowly, you sink down onto him, lulling your head back while you do so. He helps hold your hips in place so you can adjust to him at your pace. Instinct begs him to rut up into your accommodating warmth, but he values your comfort more than his own carnality. Your eyelashes flutter shut whereas he keeps himself trained on you. When you’re halfway down, he kisses your inner wrist, grateful for the pulse beneath your skin.

“You’re takin’ me in well,” he praises. If there were ever a man capable of penning hymns dedicated to you, it’d be him. “Just like that. Nice n’ easy.”

A high-pitched whine leaves your lips when he’s fully inside you.

“That’s it, good girl.”

You reopen your eyes, granting him the sight of what’s become his favorite color ever since he met you.

“You’re spoiling me with all these compliments.”

Your hands run over his jaw, then the tensing tendons of his neck, finally settling on his sun-kissed shoulders.

“Ya deserve it,” Daryl murmurs. “Beautiful woman.”

Dizzying pleasure thrums throughout him when your walls clench, his words hitting your sweet spot. Sweat coats both your bodies in a light sheen. You rotate your hips, allowing him to stretch you out, the slight friction far from enough yet tantalizing nonetheless. Finally, after what feels like an excruciating wait, you lift yourself off him and come back down. The decadent pleasure builds and builds with each repeat of the motion. He’s close, painfully so, but letting you take what you want from him is given top priority. The sinful sounds pouring from your lips with increasing urgency hint that you might not last long either.

Calloused fingers work to rub messy circles against your clit. This added layer of stimulation has you moaning incoherently near his ear, half-legible sentiments tumbling out.

“Feels so good,” you whimper, almost delirious. “I wanna be yours. Please.”

You’re growing increasingly erratic as your second high looms on the horizon. The telltale tensing of your muscles has him picking up momentum. One hand guides you up and down his cock, the other pleasuring you where you need it most. Your declaration envelops him, making him feel impossibly warmer. How you vacillate between uttering the naughtiest and sweetest things is a mystery to him he won’t bother solving. All he knows is that his adoration for you won’t ever stop growing, no; this is where a new chapter of it begins.

“You are. Always ‘ave been.”

Daryl knew it couldn’t have just been his imagination, the once-in-a-lifetime connection that formed soon after your paths crossed. It strung you both together. Whenever one wandered too far from the other, the rope would go taut, forcing you to stumble back where you belonged.

Your walls tighten around him and you snap, back arching, pressing those perfect tits against his chest.

He grunts at the sensation of you coming on his cock, thrusting upward to meet your stuttering hips. He loses himself in the aroma of sex and you. You go partially limp when you’ve come down from your high, which allows him to maneuver your body with greater ease. The release he denied himself minutes prior threatens to consume him once again. How could it not, when he got to witness your blissed-out face, hear the sounds of your gratification?

Daryl’s hands latch into the soft flesh of your waist hard. He slams into you a few more times, the sound of skin slapping skin reverberating throughout the room. His cum spurts out into the condom’s plastic confines, filling you with his warmth. He faintly registers that you’re lavishing his neck in sloppy kisses as he basks in his high.

Both your chests heave as you pant, greedily taking in the air you willingly deprived yourselves of during the act.

Your shaky fingers comb through the mess that is his bangs. Daryl lets you do as you please, too busy admiring every inch of your face to care about anything else. You press a chaste kiss against his forehead, then his nose, and finally, his awaiting lips. He chases after yours when you pull away, an action that makes you laugh. He huffs at the return of your brattiness. When he sees how wide you’re smiling, however, it becomes difficult for him to maintain his disgruntled facade. Your joy is contagious.

“Plannin’ on stayin’ there all night?” He nods at the junction where your bodies remain connected. His cock has gone soft and you’ve made no sign of getting off him yet, not that he’s complaining. He knows you’re real fussy about cleanliness (a concept that eludes his understanding, since it’s the damn apocalypse), so he’s pleasantly surprised you haven’t run off to wipe yourself down.

“Would you be opposed if I said yes?”

“‘Course not.”

However much you’d both love to live in this little slice of reality, you know it isn’t meant to last. People will come looking if you’re both gone too long. He sighs when you climb off him, already missing the feeling of being inside you. You both get to work on making yourselves presentable, you more so than him. You smooth out the wrinkles in your clothes and fight with your hair while he perches himself on the side of the bed, lost in thought.

“Did ya mean it?” Daryl breaks the silence.

“Hm?” You glance over your shoulder, blinking rapidly. “Mean what?”

He fights the urge to roll his eyes at you for acting innocent; you’re too smart to not know what he’s talking about.

Although, when he struggles to get the two-syllable word out himself, he can sympathize with your efforts.

“... Marriage,” he drawls, heat flooding across his face. He feels better when he sees you’re similarly embarrassed. You pad quietly against the hardwood floor (he’s always marveled over how silent your footsteps are, perfect for joining him on hunts), and sit beside him. Your arms come to wrap around his bicep. Taking a deep breath, you rest your head on his shoulder, as you’ve done multiple times prior. On the road especially.

He pulls you in closer and lays his head against yours.

“It kinda feels like we already are,” you admit. He can hear the fond smile in your voice. “You’re my home. The person I depend on most, someone I can’t do without.”

Your grip on him tightens. “However much life ahead of me I have… I want to spend it with you. If that’s alright.”

Daryl feels so light he thinks he might be floating.

There’s an underlying melancholy — the uncertainty which comes as a consequence to the world you now inhabit — yet you never let that stay the focus. You always find ways to plant seeds of tentative hope in what appears to be corrupt soil. Maybe it’s for the reason you said earlier, that you can’t let yourself dwell on the bad in fear of what it’d reduce you to, but he can’t bring himself to mind should that be the case.

What matters is that you shine bright to illuminate him when he thinks darkness is all he’ll ever know.

“‘If that’s alright’?” He repeats, incredulous. “I ain’t ever lettin’ ya go, butterfly.”

You relax, knowing Daryl’s nothing if not a man of his word.

“You’d really wanna be my husband?”

He looks at you like you have three heads. “Shouldn’t I be askin’ why the hell you wanna be my wife?”

“Because I have good taste. Also, I’m secretly aiming for your assets. We’re not getting a prenup just for that reason alone.”

Daryl snorts and shakes his head. Assets, this woman says. As if he had any in this world or the last.

“Fine by me,” he kisses your temple. “You know I’d give ya anything ya asked for.”

“... Even your crossbow?”

“Last I recall, ya could only hold it for ‘bout ten minutes ‘fore complainin’ your ‘muscles were shriveling up.’”

“You make it look so easy!” You complain, lightly hitting him on the chest. He smirks at the roundabout compliment. Your fingers linger, splaying out and making their way over to where his heart steadily beats. “Hm… can I have this, then?”

“Already do.”

He’s certain you’re well aware of the fact. After all, you are his freakishly perceptive woman.

Regardless, no matter how many times you may ask, he’ll gladly remind you, each and every time.

Ah, the things you do for the ones you love.

“We should probably head back to HQ before Rick sends a search party out for us, huh?”

Daryl’s muscles go taut at the mention of Rick. You wriggle free from beneath his arm so you can examine his face, inquisitive as ever.

“Didn’t part on the best terms with ‘im,” Daryl reveals. He takes another moment to collect his thoughts. “Kinda what started this whole thing today. Saw that Monroe kid touchin’ ya, it got me all riled up. Was aboutta make a scene til Rick stepped in. He said… said ya wouldn’t ‘ave wanted that. Thought ‘bout how he was letting ya cozy up to the folks ‘ere, knowin’ full well he planned on usin’ it to his advantage. I dunno. Made me see red.”

Your eyes hold an indescribable softness for him. “Thank you.”

“For what? Makin’ an ass of myself?” He scoffs.

“Always having my best interest in mind,” your way of wording things always sounds better. “It’s okay, though. Like I said earlier, I get why Rick’s doing what he’s doing, even if I don’t fully agree. Ultimately, we’re all on the same team.”

Daryl shakes his head. “... You’re too forgivin’, butterfly.”

You shrug. “Hafta be with family. Holding onto things never does any good in the long run. Which is why I’m sure it’ll be fine, once you talk with him.”

He doubts he’ll have a lengthy heart-to-heart like whatever you’re envisioning, but he keeps the thought to himself.

“Let’s get going, okay?” You stand and start pulling on his hands. He gets up with some reluctance, not entirely willing to leave this little world where just you and him exist. “Carol made this delicious lemonade, it’s to die for. Metaphorically.”

He gives a crooked grin. “Yeah, I know.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

Daryl tugs you back to him in a mess of surprised exclamations and tumbling limbs. He secures you on his lap, fully intending to savor you a little while longer. It doesn’t take you long to relax. Not when he’s the one touching you.

“Ya already gave me a taste.”

#i'm totally normal about him i swear #daryl dixon x reader #the walking dead x reader #twd x reader #reader insert #not sfw #my stuff

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lawofficeofryansshipp · 2 months ago

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New Florida Law Speeds Up Process for Property Owners to Remove Unauthorized Occupants

Occupant Removal If you’re a property owner in Florida, you may already know how complicated it can be to regain control of your property when someone is staying there without permission. A new Florida law, Florida Statute §82.036, is here to make that process faster and more straightforward. Effective as of July 1, 2024, this law aims to give property owners a quicker path to remove unauthorized…

#complaint to remove unauthorized occupants #eviction alternatives Florida #eviction attorney Florida #eviction lawyer west palm beach #eviction without lease Florida #Florida landlord legal rights #Florida law unauthorized occupancy #Florida property law changes #Florida property owner rights #Florida Real Estate Attorney #Florida real property law 2024 #Florida Statute 82.036 #Florida trespass law 2024 #immediate removal unauthorized occupants #Law Office of Ryan S. Shipp #new Florida eviction statute #property owner remedies Florida #property possession Florida law #regain possession residential property #remove trespassers residential property #residential property rights Florida #Ryan S. Shipp eviction law #sheriff removal unauthorized occupants #tenant vs. trespasser Florida #trespass removal law Florida #trespasser eviction process #unauthorized occupants removal Florida #unlawful entry residential property #unlawful occupancy Florida #wrongful removal statute Florida

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scotianostra · 9 months ago

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April 11th 1882 we saw an incident during the Highland Clearances happened on Skye that has become known as The Battle of the Braes.

Lord MacDonald sought help from the law to evict the stubborn crofters, and in April 1882 the locals woke to the sight of a sheriff officer. Charged with issuing eviction notices, the sheriff was met with an angry reaction and forced to burn the notices.

Following this initial confrontation, reinforcements were requested from Glasgow. 50 police officers travelled to Skye with the intention of evicting the crofters, who once again stood their ground.

Arriving at Braes, the police were faced down by a mob of around 100 men, woman and children from the local community, many of whom were armed with an array of primitive weapons. Wielding clubs, sticks and stones, the Battle of the Braes erupted and the crofters clashed with the police.

Several people were injured in the Battle of the Braes while others were arrested and subsequently fined for their involvement. Despite the outcome, the crofters still stood firm in their refusals and military intervention was considered.

The Battle of the Braes sparked similar unrest elsewhere in Skye, with locals in Glendale incensed at the treatment of other islanders.

Notably, the incident prompted a public outcry. Sympathetic press coverage of the dispute galvanised widespread support for the crofters. Sensing the mood, the government refused to authorise military intervention and a commission was launched to examine the plight of the crofters.

The Napier Commission, chaired by Lord Francis Napier, ultimately led to the introduction of new legislation aimed at improving security for crofters via the Crofters Act of 1886.

The Act was modelled largely on the Irish Land Acts of 1870 and 1881 and granted crofters security of tenure.

Today, the Battle of the Braes is a celebrated event in both the history of Skye and broader Scottish history. A monument commemorates the efforts of the crofters while a popular folk song also celebrates the event.

#scotland #scottish #history #isle of skye #civil unrest #the highland clearances

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domesticatedanimal · 4 months ago

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FFXIVWrite2024

Prompt 13: Butte

Implied offscreen child harm. This one was an experiment, not my best, but wanted to try out a new style. Dawntrail spoilers.

She Carried Fire

It was nearing noon as the two travelers rode into the tiny town by the railroad tracks. A tavern, a few ramshackle houses, and a low platform of hewn logs serving as a train station. The strangers left their chocobos near the outskirts of town, tying them loosely to the old dead tree near the well. As they stepped toward the tavern, one of the riders lifted a roughly-rolled cigarette to her lips, snapping a spark from her fingertips to set it alight.

Two shetona, by the look of it, one dark as coal, the other pale as snow. Both with ebony black hair that seemed to shed any sunlight that fell on it. As they reached the center of town, the female stopped, standing casually in the dust as her male companion continued to sidle into the tavern.

The woman seemed to be too comfortable for a stranger, though it was true that she had never been here before. With the banditry and violence that had run rampant in Tural since the dome appeared, she should have been terrified. No woman stood alone, outside, unless she had tired of living.

But there was an air about the woman. Some cold shadow that seemed to hang over her, something earned from turning your eyes to the dark corners of the earth, seeing the evil that lived there, and facing it with a smile, again, and again.

A crash rang out from the tavern, glass hitting polished wood. A few moments later, the male returned, slightly faster and with a bit less confidence. He was followed through the door by a massive lump of a man - a new Roe in town that called himself Mud.

Mud was as burly as he was stupid, and in the few short weeks he had been around, he’d already put two card cheats into the dirt. With no sheriff and no guns to turn to, the townsfolk had little choice but to tolerate him, and hope that the next group of bandits through town would recruit him and relieve them of his presence.

But it seemed like that was about to change.

The sun was high, now, burning and heavy in the sky. The air shimmered in the heat. Even the incessant whine of desert insects had fallen quiet. Too hot for crickets, it seemed. The male stranger paused at his companion’s side, whispering something to her, before moving past her toward the opposite end of the street.

Mud stopped in the middle of the road and stared at her. A handful of gawkers had been pulled outside in his great wake, and they now gathered on the porch of the tavern, half-hidden behind old dried out posts.

“There a reason you dust bunnies are interrupting my game?” Mud shouted, laughing to himself about the joke. What he lacked in wit, he made up for in memory, and he had been holding onto that insult for years. "Here to try to evict me?"

The stranger did not bristle. She finished a drag on her cigarette and let the warm butt fall to the dirt.

"This is bigger than that, now," the reply was barely above a whisper, but it carried through the town all the same. "You need to give me some information."

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” A tinge of anger already rose in Mud’s voice. He tossed his ratty poncho over one shoulder, revealing a rusted but menacing looking culverin dangling from his hip. “Who exactly do you think you are?”

The stranger threw open the sides of the dark linen duster that hung over her form, one hand now resting on the handle of a long revolver.

“Today, I'm just a bounty hunter that was supposed to be on vacation.”

The word ‘bounty’ was all the excuse Mud was looking for. With surprising dexterity, he lugged the massive gun up out of its holster, and into a two-handed grip, with the barrel fixated straight ahead.

Two blasts echoed through the town. The first, heavy and booming, as Mud’s weapon fired. The second was metallic and shrill, as his shot went far afield to put a massive dent in the side of the town’s water tower. The bounty hunter didn’t flinch. The bartender could have sworn she shined with a bright orange light, for just a moment, but would decide it was the glare of the sun as he retold the story over the coming years.

She raised her revolver with practiced precision, squeezing the trigger three times. Mud’s gun arm exploded, sending the weapon into the dirt under a pile of gore. The fourth round buried into his thigh, bringing him to his knees, and the fifth into his opposite shoulder, leaving his remaining arm dead and numb.

The stranger approached him, as Mud knelt panting in the dirt.

“Where’d you leave the girls, Mud?”

“What?” He whined, “What fucking girls?”

The stranger drove the barrel of her gun into Mud’s hefty ribs.

“The shetona girls your little posse rounded up last night.” Her thumb clicked back on the gun’s hammer. “I’m not asking twice.”

Mud gulped, blood running in rivulets from his lips.

“Warehouse,” he finally gasped out, “Other side of the tracks.”

“They hurt? You hurt them, Mud?”

“No! No, buyer pays more if they’re fresh.”

“Fresh?”

“He…”

Mud never got to finish that sentence, or any other. There wasn’t much left of him at all, in fact. When she was done, the stranger’s pistol glowed a dull red.

The two Viera riders had been in town for less than an hour, and left behind a story that outlived them both.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite #ffxiv #dawntrail spoilers

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anarchywoofwoof · 1 year ago

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and the suspensions were basically protocol. not for violating any specific policy. they were acting in accordance with department policy.

Mike Manko, a spokesman for the sheriff's office, confirmed in an email that 16 deputies were placed on administrative leave after the incident. They all fired their weapons, according to NBC affiliate WPXI of Pittsburgh. "We were aware of the actor's disdain for government when we went to serve the eviction notice which is why we had extra deputies on the detail," Manko said in an emailed statement Friday.

i just posted about this the other day in philadelphia.

we are in the middle of a full blown fucking class war.

and the opposition knows who they’re up against.

do you?

[nbc]

#fuck the police #fuck capitalism #fuck landlords #all cops are bastards #acab #news #class warfare #anarchy #anarchism

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reasoningdaily · 1 year ago

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At age 17, Donnell Drinks was one of many young men in Philadelphia who went to prison for life without parole. Today, the city has resentenced more of those prisoners than any other jurisdiction.

Published Aug. 15, 2023Updated Aug. 18, 2023

Donnell Drinks woke up one morning to banging on his door in the projects of North Philadelphia. It was the late 1980s, and Mr. Drinks, who was 15 and the oldest of three boys, had nodded off after taking his youngest brother to school. He should have been at school himself, but he had stopped going earlier that year. It wasn’t a truant officer at his door, though — no one had ever come knocking about that. Instead, sheriff’s deputies were waiting outside. They were there to evict his family.

The officers told him to get out, not bothering to ask if there was an adult around, which there wasn’t. Mr. Drinks’s dad had abandoned the family a decade earlier, and his mom was in the throes of crack cocaine addiction. For years, Mr. Drinks had been raising his younger brothers, and he had just become a father himself. He’d dropped out of school to support his family by selling drugs, a transition that felt so natural he hardly remembered how it happened.

Groggy and panicked, Mr. Drinks scanned the apartment for essentials, stuffed a shopping cart with clothes for his brothers and wheeled the cart up the road to his grandmother’s overcrowded rowhouse. The officers never asked where he was going.

“There was not one adult that said, Hold a minute. We need to call somebody,” Mr. Drinks said. “Not one adult said, That’s a child.”

At the time, Black teenage boys like Mr. Drinks were being treated less as children in need of help and more as if they were threats to society itself. Crime was rising nationwide, particularly in Philadelphia, where, in 1990, the city recorded 500 murders in a year for the first time. It was a terrifying period, especially for people living in poorer neighborhoods where the violence was worst. But the rhetoric, perpetuated by public officials and overheated headlines, suggested that a new morally depraved generation of teenagers — particularly Black teenagers — were to blame. This idea gave rise to the “superpredator” era and a raft of laws cracking down on juveniles that followed.

Mr. Drinks, now 50 years old, is a small man with a stocky frame and a warm, gaptoothed smile. He keeps his salt-and-pepper beard meticulously fluffed. An animated storyteller who is quick with a metaphor and a motivational quote, he becomes guarded when describing his upbringing — not just because it’s painful, but because he doesn’t want anyone to think he’s trying to justify what happened next. “This is context,” he said, “not excuses.”

In February 1991, when he was 17, Mr. Drinks and his 22-year-old girlfriend, who was a police officer, tried to rob a man named Darryl Huntley. They staked out Mr. Huntley’s house and forced him and his fiancée inside at gunpoint. That violent act led to others. Mr. Drinks stabbed Mr. Huntley, fatally, and was shot himself. Mr. Drinks was arrested while he was in the hospital recovering from his injuries.

By the time Mr. Drinks was brought to trial for Mr. Huntley’s murder, Philadelphia had a new district attorney: Lynne Abraham, a former judge who went on to hold the office for nearly two decades. Pennsylvania law already made life sentences mandatory for first- and second-degree murder convictions, but Ms. Abraham responded to the era’s surge in violent crime by aggressively pursuing the death penalty, an approach that once earned her the moniker the “deadliest D.A.”

She also called for tougher punishments for juveniles. In 1994, she pushed for legislative changes to give prosecutors more power to charge juveniles as adults. “You don’t get any bonus for being under a certain age,” she told The Philadelphia Inquirer at the time. The next year, the state passed a law that required prosecutors to treat children 15 and older as adults when they were charged with certain crimes.

Though Philadelphia had already sentenced many young people to life without parole, under Ms. Abraham’s watch — and with the city’s murder rate remaining high throughout the ‘90s — the number getting that sentence in Philadelphia rose quickly. For some, it may have been a deal worth taking to avoid the death penalty.

Mr. Drinks was tried as an adult and initially sentenced to death. In 1993, his sentence was reduced to life without parole. (His then-girlfriend, who received the same sentence, remains in prison.)

He most likely would have died in prison, but while Mr. Drinks was behind bars, a national effort began to rethink the culpability of young people in the eyes of the law. In the 2005 case Roper v. Simmons, the Supreme Court struck down the death penalty for minors, leaning heavily on new scientific research that showed — “as any parent knows,” Justice Anthony Kennedy wrote — that young people are not like adults. They are more impulsive, reckless and susceptible to persuasion.

The court did not question that minors should pay for committing heinous crimes, but in banning the most severe punishment, it affirmed the possibility “that a minor’s character deficiencies will be reformed.” Real change, Justice Kennedy suggested, was possible.

Mr. Drinks had been in prison for more than a decade when the Roper decision came out. Then one day, a Philadelphia lawyer named Bradley Bridge traveled to the upstate Pennsylvania prison where Mr. Drinks was locked up, and explained to him and the other men who had been given life sentences as boys what the ruling could mean for them.

Striking down the death penalty for minors was only the beginning, Mr. Bridge said. Soon, he predicted, the court would apply the same logic to outlaw mandatory life sentences for juveniles too, potentially giving Mr. Drinks and others serving such sentences a shot at freedom — and giving the city of Philadelphia a chance to rewrite its legacy.

A long list of friends

Mr. Bridge had been delivering his speech inside prisons throughout Pennsylvania for months before Mr. Drinks heard him speak. Mr. Bridge worked for the Defender Association of Philadelphia and had spent nearly three decades representing prisoners who were appealing their sentences. When the Roper ruling came down, he was involved in the case of a teenager facing a mandatory sentence of life without parole. He understood immediately the opportunity that the Supreme Court’s ruling presented not just for his client, but for scores of prisoners.

For Mr. Bridge, it meant pursuing a novel legal theory that might help dismantle what he viewed as a particularly unjust part of the justice system. “Children are children, and they make mistakes,” Mr. Bridge said. “But they grow and change.”

Mr. Bridge began the enormous undertaking of compiling a list of all the prisoners in Pennsylvania who were sentenced to life as minors. No one in the state had ever kept track of this group, who came to be called “juvenile lifers” in the courts and “child lifers” by some of the inmates themselves.

He expected the list to be long. He didn’t expect it to eventually include more than 500 names, nearly one-fifth of the more than 2,800 child lifers in the country. More than 300 of them had come through Philadelphia’s system, making a city with less than 1 percent of the country’s population responsible for more than 10 percent of all children sentenced to life in prison without parole in the United States. No other city compared. Even more glaring: More than 80 percent of Philadelphia’s child lifers were Black. Nationally, that figure was roughly 60 percent.

Racism “undoubtedly occurred in every phase of the criminal justice system,” Mr. Bridge said. “This created an opportunity to try to fix things that had been broken.”

After the Supreme Court outlawed the death penalty for minors, Bradley Bridge started encouraging inmates sentenced to life as children to prepare for the possibility that the court would eventually revisit the constitutionality of their sentences, too.

His partner in this work was Marsha Levick, who had co-founded the Juvenile Law Center in 1975 as an idealistic young graduate of Temple University’s law school and gone on to become one of the nation’s foremost experts on juvenile sentencing.

Mr. Bridge and Ms. Levick began traveling the state, arranging meetings with the people on Mr. Bridge’s list and adding names as they went. Mr. Bridge’s first stop was Graterford, a maximum-security facility outside of Philadelphia that, at the time, held more child lifers than any prison in the state. Dozens of men crowded into Graterford’s chapel to hear what Mr. Bridge had to say.

“People wanted to know what was coming down the pike,” remembered Kempis “Ghani” Songster, who was in the room that day. “Is this a ray of light flickering on?”

At age 15, Mr. Songster stabbed another teenager to death in a crack house. Both were runaways working for the same gang. He was given a life sentence for his crime, but it wasn’t until that meeting in 2006, nearly two decades after he went to prison as a scrawny kid who couldn’t grow a beard, that he realized how many other lifers at Graterford had also arrived as teenagers.

“It was like, Whoa, he’s been here since he was a kid, too?” Mr. Songster said. “A lot of us who were child lifers didn’t really know that we were in a distinct class.”

There had never been a reason to talk about age. The courts had treated them as adults, and if anything, being marked as a child in a violent adult prison would only have made them more vulnerable. Now, there was power in the identity.

The child lifers inside Graterford began organizing. They quickly formed a committee called Juvenile Lifers for Justice, which met weekly to discuss the evolving law and science around adolescent development. They drafted pamphlets, circulated newsletters to other prisons and their family members, and kept one another motivated around their common cause.

These conversations also started to change how some of the men thought about why they had committed such serious crimes.

Mr. Songster said he never felt “entitled” to be free. “I can’t wash the blood off my hands that’s on my hands,” he said. But the emerging research, which showed brains aren’t fully developed until people get into their 20s, gave him new understanding. “It made me curious about myself,” Mr. Songster said of the research. “I knew I was a good person, but I couldn’t reconcile the person that I became and I know I am with the person that committed that horrible act.”

The child lifers were also reaching out beyond the prison walls. They invited politicians to visit Graterford and partnered with nonprofit organizations to distribute supplies to local schools.

“We were always trying to break that wall down so people could see we’re humans,” said Don Jones, who was also sentenced as a minor and was the president of Graterford’s N.A.A.C.P. chapter during this period.

Mr. Bridge and Ms. Levick became frequent fixtures at the prison. At each of these visits, Ms. Levick was struck by how the men — imprisoned at such a young age and last in line for any prison edification programs because of their status as lifers — had mastered the nuances of the law and were orchestrating a statewide grass-roots movement from inside prison. “Their desire to come home was real,” Ms. Levick said. “It was palpable, and it made you want to do more.”

“We were always trying to break that wall down so people could see we’re humans,” said Don Jones, who was locked up at Graterford and has since been released.

Mr. Drinks had spent 10 years at Graterford, but after he was transferred upstate, newsletters coming out of Graterford and messages passed along from old friends became his lifeline. Without a lawyer of his own, he kept his case alive by adapting draft legal petitions circulated by Mr. Bridge. And he documented his accomplishments in prison — articles he’d written, certificates he’d earned, thank-you notes from the nonprofits he’d raised money for — until he had three manila envelopes’ worth of records illustrating all the ways he’d grown.

Still, he never quite let himself believe that Mr. Bridge’s prediction would pan out. He wanted to be prepared, but he was also prepared to be let down.

“It’s like throwing water out of a boat that’s sinking,” Mr. Drinks said. “You’ve got to do it anyway, because if you don’t, the water’s going to get you.”

Throughout this period, lawyers around the country, including Ms. Levick and Mr. Bridge, were bringing new cases, trying to apply the rationale in the Roper ruling to other kinds of sentences for juveniles. At the national level, a key leader in this work was Bryan Stevenson, founder and executive director of the Equal Justice Initiative, a nonprofit.

Mr. Stevenson saw a connection between the superpredator era and the overwhelming number of young Black boys who had been locked away for life.

“You had these criminologists going around saying that some children aren’t children. Some kids look like kids, but they’re really, quote, superpredators,” he said. “That narrative was so prevalent, so persuasive, that you see states all over the country lowering the minimum age for trying children as adults.”

In 2008, the Equal Justice Initiative found 73 children who had been given sentences of life without parole when they were 13 and 14 years old. And all of the people who received those sentences for crimes other than homicide were children of color.

“It just said something about the way in which race was a proxy for a presumption of dangerousness, this presumption of irredeemability,” Mr. Stevenson said.

Then came a series of breakthroughs. In 2010, the Supreme Court abolished sentences of life without parole for minors charged with crimes other than murder. Two years after that, Mr. Stevenson appeared before the court on behalf of two young men who were sentenced to life without parole when they were 14. In its decision in Miller v. Alabama, the Supreme Court struck down all mandatory sentences of life without parole for juveniles. Four years later, in a case called Montgomery v. Louisiana, for which Ms. Levick served as co-counsel, the court made that decision retroactive, fulfilling the prediction Mr. Bridge made in the Graterford chapel a decade before, and giving more than 2,800 child lifers across the country the right to have their sentences revisited.

Mr. Drinks remembers the first time he got a look at Mr. Bridge’s list. It was filled with the names of people he’d known for years, but had never known were child lifers. There was Abd’Allah Lateef, the soft-spoken guy he’d always admired at Graterford, even when he griped about Mr. Drinks’s loud music. There was Luis “Suave” Gonzalez, a big talker whom Mr. Drinks had encouraged to lead one of Graterford’s Latin American cultural exchange groups. And there was Don Jones, a friend so close, Mr. Drinks said, “my brothers call him brother.”

“That was my tear-shed moment,” Mr. Drinks said. “I knew I was on the list, but going down the list and seeing genuine friends?” Now, they might all have a shot at freedom — a shot, but not a guarantee.

A block in North Philadelphia. Donnell Drinks sold drugs in the area as a teenager and was convicted of homicide at age 17 in a robbery gone wrong.

‘The election changed everything’

The Supreme Court’s rulings in Millerand Montgomery marked an important rethinking of culpability when it comes to children who commit the most serious crimes. But the practical implications of the rulings were limited: the court hadn’t abolished all life without parole sentences for children — only ones where state laws made the sentences mandatory.And while child lifers now had a chance to make a case for their release, prosecutors could still seek new life sentences. In other states with high numbers of child lifers, including Michigan and Louisiana, as well as some parts of Pennsylvania, that’s just what they did.

In Philadelphia, however, all of the list-gathering and planning that had been taking place for more than a decade began to pay off. Most of the state’s child lifers had been prosecuted in the city, and it was up to its district attorney’s office and court system to move hundreds of people through the resentencing process. “Philadelphia was bad, and everybody recognized it was bad,” Mr. Bridge said.

Ms. Levick added, “In a way, the whole world was watching.”

Philadelphia soon began resentencing and releasing child lifers, starting with those who’d been in prison the longest. But while R. Seth Williams, Philadelphia’s district attorney, initially committed not to resentence anyone to life without parole, he stuck to strict new state sentencing guidelines, which meant that Mr. Drinks and others who had been swept up in the ’90s, would most likely spend many more years in prison.

Marsha Levick, an expert on juvenile sentencing, visited inmates. “Their desire to come home was real,” Ms. Levick said. “It was palpable, and it made you want to do more.”

Mr. Williams viewed this approach as the only way to honor the Supreme Court’s ruling, the Pennsylvania government’s consensus and the rights of the victims. “People often only look at the factors for the defendant. I understand. But they often forget there was a victim,” Mr. Williams said. “Someone was murdered. We just can’t just sweep that under the rug.”

Then came a twist that no one predicted. In March 2017, a little over a year after the Montgomery decision, Mr. Williams was indicted on charges including bribery and extortion and later sentenced to five years in prison. Almost as surprising was who was elected to be his successor: a sharp-elbowed former public defender and criminal defense attorney named Larry Krasner.

Whatever Ms. Abraham, the former district attorney, had been to the city in the 1990s, Mr. Krasner swore to be the opposite. (Ms. Abraham did not respond to requests for comment.) He had run against the death penalty and mass incarceration, and vowed to decriminalize marijuana and end cash bail. One of his first moves after taking office in January 2018 was to fire 31 prosecutors in a purge that became known as the Snow Day Massacre.

When it came to juvenile lifers, Mr. Krasner was more open than his predecessor to considering how people had changed in the decades since committing their crimes. Chesley Lightsey is a former assistant district attorney who worked on Mr. Drinks’s case and others under both administrations. “It took time for me to wrap my head around it: ‘Okay, now we can have much more of a conversation about this,’” she said about the change when Krasner was elected. “It was just a different perspective.”

Under Mr. Krasner, prosecutors paid special attention to reports drafted by mitigation specialists. Those specialists, who are essentially professional storytellers for defendants, interviewed juvenile lifers, their families and anyone else who could offer context. They asked questions about how the inmates had been raised, the trauma and pain that had influenced their actions, what they had done with their time in prison and what they planned to do upon release.

By the time Mr. Krasner took office in January 2018, Mr. Drinks had spent hours spilling his soul to a lawyer and mitigator named Rachel Miller. Over the course of countless calls and several in-person visits, Ms. Miller wove the story of Mr. Drinks’s life into a memo, complete with a two-inch stack of documents highlighting his accomplishments.

The memo covers the most painful moments of Mr. Drinks’s childhood: being abandoned by his father, his mother’s struggle with addiction, getting evicted. It describes how Mr. Drinks would skip school to collect the family’s food stamps before his mother could pawn them for drugs and how, when his mother turned violent, he would take the brunt of her beatings in an attempt to spare his brothers.

But the memo also tells the story of a grown man who spent his time behind bars trying to atone for the crime that put him there. Among the stack of documents is a community college transcript filled with A’s and B’s, an agenda for a workshop he organized with victims’ rights advocates and a photo of him beaming behind a giant check made out to Big Brothers Big Sisters of America. Perhaps most meaningful to Mr. Drinks were the letters he received from other incarcerated men who were members of a youth group he founded attesting to all the ways the group, and Mr. Drinks, had saved them. “I did not know the child that committed the crime he is in here for,” read one of the letters, “but the man I do know is not that same person.”

Before Mr. Krasner’s election, Mr. Drinks was offered a deal of 35 years to life, which would have made him eligible for parole in 2026. Shortly after Mr. Krasner took over in 2018, Mr. Drinks got a new offer: time served.

“The election changed everything,” Mr. Drinks said, referring to Mr. Krasner’s victory.

“I’m always conscious of the emotion, the hurt, the disappointment, the disdain, all those negative emotions that my actions led to,” Mr. Drinks said of the murder he committed. “I’ve got to live the rest of my life counteracting that.”

Mr. Drinks’s case was not unique. Researchers at Montclair State University have found that, under Mr. Krasner, prosecutors began offering child lifers new sentences that were, on average, 11 years shorter than the ones offered to those same people under Mr. Williams. Crucially, the researchers found that child lifers’ release had a negligible effect on public safety. Seven years after they started coming home, the rearrest rate for Philadelphia’s child lifers hovers around 5 percent. That’s small compared with the national rate, where 40 percent of people with past murder convictions are rearrested within the first five years, according to the most recent data from the Bureau of Justice Statistics. As of early this year, only three of the city’s child lifers who were rearrested have been convicted (for marijuana possession, contempt and robbery in the third degree), according to the Montclair State researchers.

For Mr. Krasner, these numbers reveal as a lie the idea that some people are so incapable of change that they should never be offered a shot at it. “It was always wrong to believe that people are either saints or they’re sinners,” Mr. Krasner said.

At his resentencing hearing in April 2018, Mr. Drinks read aloud from a letter before a gallery filled with friends and family, as well as the loved ones of Mr. Huntley, his victim. He apologized to Mr. Huntley’s family and said he knew he had no right to ask anyone in the room for forgiveness, and so he didn’t. But he did promise to spend the rest of his life making amends.

Mr. Huntley’s family members also made statements to the court. In a handwritten letter, Mr. Huntley’s sister described her brother as a loving and giving person. She explained how his murder had crushed her family, derailed her own education and deprived her children of ever knowing their uncle. “My mother still is deeply hurt and our family find it difficult to celebrate Valentine’s Day,” she wrote, “because these horrible, horrible actions took place that evening leading into his death.” She told the court that she did not want to see Mr. Drinks released.

Mr. Huntley’s sister did not respond to an interview request, but Suzanne Estrella, who runs the Office of Victim Advocate in Pennsylvania, said that many victims’ families “flat-out just do not” agree with the resentencings. But she said there were also many families that understood and accepted them. “You have survivors who have lost loved ones and survivors who have loved ones who are incarcerated,” Ms. Estrella said. “So you see all those perspectives coming to the table at the same time.”

As painful as it was, Mr. Drinks said he appreciated Mr. Huntley’s family’s honesty. “I felt it, and I understood it,” he said. “I’m always conscious of the emotion, the hurt, the disappointment, the disdain, all those negative emotions that my actions led to. I’ve got to live the rest of my life counteracting that.”

Three months after the hearing, having won the approval of the parole board, Mr. Drinks met his brothers as he walked out of prison for the first time in nearly three decades. Mr. Drinks remembers his sense of disbelief and being a little carsick as they drove the four hours back to Philadelphia, where he would move in with his brother Damon. The whole way home, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was following close behind. “I didn’t want to look back,” he said, “so I kept looking ahead.”

Donnell Drinks married Shekia Drinks two years ago. But he hasn’t been able to get the approval needed to move out of his brother’s home and in with his wife.

A return to the 1990s?

Of the more than 300 child lifers who became eligible for resentencing in Philadelphia in 2016, all but about a dozen have been resentenced, and more than 220 have been released, the majority of them on lifetime parole. That’s nearly a quarter of the roughly 1,000 total child lifers who have been released across the country. These numbers make Philadelphia, once an outlier in imprisoning minors for life, now an outlier in letting them go. By 2020, the city had resentenced more child lifers than Michigan and Louisiana combined.

What set the city apart, said Mr. Stevenson, of the Equal Justice Initiative, was not just the buy-in from local officials and public defenders, but also the community of child lifers who became their own best argument for release.

“It was the way they organized, the way they cared for one another, the way they modeled a kind of readiness to contribute to society,” Mr. Stevenson said. “These young people had been told they were going to die in prison. Some of them just never accepted that.”

Since the Supreme Court decisions, more than half of all states have outlawed life without parole sentences for children altogether, reducing the number of child lifers left in the country to fewer than 600, according to the Campaign for the Fair Sentencing of Youth, a national nonprofit. Mr. Stevenson’s organization is now working to raise the minimum age at which children can be tried as adults in 11 states, including Pennsylvania, where there is no age floor. Other states are considering abolishing mandatory life without parole sentences for people under 21.

While life without the possibility of parole sentences for juveniles are now rare, they are not unheard of. The now solidly conservative Supreme Court has issued a ruling that could lower the bar for judges to apply the sentence to children in states where it is still allowed. A prosecutor in Oakland County, Mich., is seeking life without parole for a mass shooter who was 15 when he killed four students at his high school in 2021. A judge will have to weigh the horror of his crime against the possibility that, over time, he could change.

The United States is still the only country in the world that gives courts the discretion to send children to prison without the chance of proving themselves later in life at a parole hearing. And the tough-on-crime rhetoric of the 1990s is making a comeback, thanks to a spike in violent crime that began at the outset of the pandemic. In Philadelphia alone, the murder rate has surpassed the record set in 1990 two years in a row, with young people emerging as both victims and perpetrators.

Mr. Drinks and Mr. Jones started an anti-violence group in Philadelphia and sometimes walk the streets handing out pamphlets.

Just as they did in prison, child lifers have come together to create a buffer against an outside world that often feels hostile and unwelcoming.

Though this uptick in crime is showing signs of decline, it has prompted a nationwide backlash against progressive prosecutors, including Mr. Krasner, whose comparatively lenient approach has become a lightning rod in local politics. Mr. Krasner was recently the subject of an impeachment effort by Pennsylvania Republicans, and even some Democrats raced to condemn his record during the city’s mayoral primary in May.

Those who were released have become some of the loudest voices for building upon the fragile gains they fought for while on the inside. Their fight now is about abolishing life without parole for everyone, getting young people out of adult prisons and addressing the underlying causes of the violence plaguing Philadelphia and other major cities.

“If you would have dealt with a lot of my issues,” Mr. Drinks said, “they probably would not have escalated to crime.”

It’s not that Mr. Drinks and his fellow activists believe juveniles convicted of murder should not be held accountable. “When we talk to legislators, we don’t say: Throw the doors open, and everybody’s coming home,” Mr. Drinks said. “Our conversation is always that everybody deserves an opportunity to show they’re worthy of coming home.”

Today, Mr. Drinks coordinates a network of former child lifers through the Campaign for the Fair Sentencing of Youth. In any given week, he might be found with two cellphones in hand, flying to Alabama to urge progressive prosecutors to stay the course, organizing retreats for formerly incarcerated men and women, or canvassing city streets through an anti-violence nonprofit he co-founded with Mr. Jones, his friend from Graterford.

Mr. Drinks and other child lifers know that they embody for the public what all the research said about a young person’s capacity for change, and they are keenly aware that their example could help secure other people’s freedom. But they are also wary of being used to suggest that the system works, or allowing it to conceal just how difficult their re-entry into the outside world has been.

While several of Philadelphia’s child lifers have gone on to become an Ivy League lecturer or nonprofit executive, many more are working minimum-wage jobs or are unable to find work. Some are in bad health. Four have died. Nearly all of them are on lifetime parole, with the possibility of being sent back to prison forever looming.

Mr. Drinks credits his brothers, Damon and Kareem, for making his homecoming easier. Throughout Mr. Drinks’s incarceration, the three brothers had remained as close as the prison system would allow, keeping up visits even when he was transferred far away. Often, Damon Drinks would bring along Mr. Drinks’s son, who was just 3 when his father was arrested, and is now a grown man with a family of his own. It is thanks to his brothers, Mr. Drinks says, that he was able to maintain a relationship with his son at all.

Mr. Drinks, in Fairmount Park, said his brothers visited him while he was in prison and have helped him readjust to life on the outside.

Damon and Kareem Drinks’s support continued once their big brother was released. They took him shopping, kept him housed and partnered with him to start a local printing company not far from the city courthouse. Mr. Drinks has not had to struggle to survive, but that doesn’t mean he has not struggled. Five years after he left prison, the terms of his parole still prohibit him from leaving the county of Philadelphia without permission. He got married two years ago, but he has yet to get the approval needed to move out of his brother’s home and in with his wife. And he lives with the constant fear that one act of violence by any of the state’s other child lifers could spell the end of his own tenuous freedom.

This fear is part of what keeps Mr. Drinks connected to the men who were once boys with him on the inside. Just as they did in prison, child lifers have come together to create a buffer against an outside world that often feels hostile and unwelcoming. These bonds are as much a product of their shared experiences as they are a defense against their shared vulnerabilities.

“We’re each other’s co-defendants,” Mr. Drinks said. “We see people want to stray, it’s like, No, come on. We’re going to get to this finish line together.”

Mr. Drinks hugs Michael “Smokey” Wilson, another former child lifer.

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