Sirius Isn’t Usually My Cup Of Tea - I’m A Snape Girl Through And Though - But This Was Really Hot

The End Will Justify It All - Chapter 2

Chapter 1 here

Warnings - there are some adult themes here and some language. 18+ only.

Nothing too crazy in this one, though. Its a bit long, and hopefully it's not a complete snooze, but I think the next couple in this series will pick up the pace. Feedback is welcome!

“No,” was all Daryl said, barely more than a breath, as she climbed into the back of the empty van and sat across from him.  It was dark in the back of the van, but she could feel Daryl’s eyes boring into her. She could feel the anger pulsing off him. She didn’t know if he had heard what she’d said to get Negan to take her, if he understood why she was here, or if he was simply angry that Negan had taken yet another one of his people. She didn’t try to find out. She didn’t speak at all for the duration of the ride. It was too risky to try to let him in on the plan, with Savior ears just a few feet away in the front seat of the van, and anything else she would have wanted to say to him would have given their relationship away. She did risk one well timed touch of his hand, as the guys exited the van and walked around to the back. She squeezed tightly for a fraction of a second, as if she could transfer everything she was doing, or her promise to save him through her grip. A couple of guys ushered her inside before she could see where they hauled him.

“You’ll be in this room,” her less-than-friendly tour guide said, after leading her up 4 flights of stairs and into a large room that looked like it was once a break room. The far wall was lined with cabinets, a countertop midway up the wall, and an industrial looking sink embedded into its center. There were several saggy couches and chairs arranged comfortably in the center of the room, and a small refrigerator tucked into a corner near the cabinets. Each side wall held two doors, one of which her grumpy guide was holding open expectantly.

“Who is she?” a small, black-haired woman appeared in one of the doorways across the room. A taller redhead approached from behind the dark-haired woman, both examining the newcomer with scrutinizing eyes.

“New girl. She’s bunking in here, Negan expects you all to be accommodating,” Grumpy replied before nodding and heading for the hall. A moment after he exited the room, the unopened door beside her opened and two more women came out into the shared common room – a blonde and a tall brunette. Now that she could see all four women, she could see that across the gambit of physical differences – height, body type, hair color and length – they all had one very apparent thing in common. Every one of them was undeniably and objectively gorgeous.  It didn’t take a whole lot of thought to guess who had collected them here.

“I’m y/n,” she awkwardly waved to the four pair of eyes that had not moved from her face since they entered. “I guess you all live here too?”

They blinked at her. No one spoke for what felt like five minutes, and she was just about to turn and acquaint herself with her new room when one of them – the small, raven-haired beauty – finally spoke. “Why are you here?”

Something about the way she asked the question, not gently but not threateningly, told her the question was not a challenge. She wondered what that meant for why each of them was here.

“I was with an outside group,” she answered, “when Negan and his guys found them and… had a discussion. I joined up and came here, and this is where they brought me. I didn’t really expect gender separated dorm-type housing, if I’m being honest. Is the whole compound housed like this?”

“No,” the one-woman welcome committee replied curtly. She’s fun.

“Has anyone talked to you about your role here with the Saviors?” the tall brunette asked, gently.

“No, they brought me straight up here and pointed me into this room. You’re the first people I’ve talked to since we drove away from my old group.”

The women exchanged looks she didn’t understand, like her answer explained everything. They all seemed to relax a little and moved to different seats around the room.

“I’m Sherry,” the brunette offered with a shy smile. “This is Amber,” she pointed to the leggy blonde stretching on the couch nearest Sherry’s chair. “Frankie,” she pointed to the redhead settling into a comfy armchair and picking up a worn paperback book on the table next to it. “And Tanya,” Sherry said as she pointed to the dark-haired one who had welcomed her so warmly, perched on the arm of the sofa next to Frankie. “We’re Negan’s wives.”

Oh. Oh.

Sherry kindly gave a short tour of the common room and their bedrooms. She explained that they had opted to share two to a room - Frankie and Tanya in one and Sherry and Amber in another – because none of them liked being alone at night. She showed her the bathroom through the door beside Frankie and Tanya’s room, and then into what would be her own room. The room was large enough to hold a queen-sized bed, a small makeup table, and a wardrobe. Though the space was clearly corporate before, it was almost homey with a large, plush rug and huge frosted windows letting the afternoon sun in to fill the room in diffused, warm light. Opening the wardrobe, she found a small collection of short, black dresses, stacks of black leggings and tops, and a pair of black high heels.

“If anything doesn’t fit, just take it to one of the guys out in the hall and tell them what size you need. They’ll get it for you,” Sherry explained. “Since you’re new, he will likely want to see you tonight. You’ll want to make sure you’re in one of the dresses.” Sherry gave her an apologetic look. “You’ll also want to bathe right before. It’s one of his requirements.”

---

She was brought to Negan’s room at dinner time. She’d taken Sherry’s advice and bathed. It took two baths to get all the grime of the night before off her. She still felt dirty, but her skin had been a light pink and was a little sore from scrubbing – as if she could scrub away the memory of what she’d seen, what they’d all lost – by the time she got out of the second bath.

She’d chosen the most modest dress in the wardrobe – a short spandex dress with a boatneck neckline, no sleeves, and leather pockets on both hips. She looked good and considered taking this with her when she and Daryl got out. He’d like her in this.

Evidently Negan did, too. He did not hide his predatory smile as he took in every inch of her in the tight dress and the high heels.

“Well, now, if I’d known out in those woods you could look like this,” he drawled, “I would have grabbed you up with the other guy to begin with.”

Never mind.  She’d burn this dress if she got the chance.

“Please, have a seat and join me for dinner,” Negan continued, pulling out a chair for her at the small table in the kitchen area of his studio apartment. She could see a king-sized bed under large windows from where she sat, and had seen the sitting area behind her, with a couch, reclining chair, and coffee table, as she’d come in.

The table was set for two, a small roast on a serving dish in the center, and a large bowl of salad beside it. She realized as she took in the decadent scent that she had not eaten in over 24 hours. Her stomach growled loudly as evidence.

“You must be starving,” Negan said as he took his seat across from her. “Please, help yourself.”

“Do you invite all of your new recruits to a one-on-one dinner?” she asked him with a raised eyebrow and a side smirk.

Ew. Was she flirting with him? She knew she had to play nice but… maybe not that nice. Had he brought that out in her? She pushed the thought away and loaded her plate with the food, though she seemed to have lost her appetite.

“Unfortunately, not all of my new recruits look like you,” he replied with a devious grin. “Nor do they all come from Rick’s group…”

“Is that why I’m here?”

“Partly. We’ll get to that later.” As she forced her first bite of food down, Negan asked, “how are you liking my Sanctuary?”

She smiled sweetly at him as she answered carefully. “Truthfully, I haven’t seen much of it. I was led straight to my room and spent the rest of the afternoon settling in there. I did, however, meet your wives…” she gave him a knowing look as she continued, “I am apparently sharing a living space with them?”

“Ah. We’ll get to that, too. But first, how about an official tour, with the boss himself?” Negan rose from his seat and came around behind her to pull her chair out.

Negan offered her his arm as he guided her all over the factory. She hated to admit it, but he smelled good. Like minty soap, and bourbon. They walked for what felt like an hour, him showing her the living spaces for leaders, soldiers, and workers on each level, the large open warehouse area where he said gatherings and announcements happened. She nodded and asked a few minor questions as he showed her the open floor marketplace and explained the point system his people used as currency. She smiled sweetly at the cooks in the kitchens and oohed over the bikes and vehicles in the garages. Whatever she could do to make it look like she cared about any of this. Anyone they passed kneeled as they approached and didn’t stand again until Negan had well passed them. There was no sign of Daryl during any of the tour, no obvious holding cells for prisoners. Of course not, she thought, I’ve just hiked for an hour in five-inch heels with nothing to show for it…

Once again seated at Negan’s small dining table, a piece of frosted chocolate cake that had materialized in their absence now in front of her, she asked the question she dreaded the answer to. “So, what exactly will my role be here?”

“You haven’t guessed yet? There’s a reason you’re bunking with the rest of my wives.” He answered with a wicked grin. “Of course, if that’s your choice. Women get a choice here; nothing is forced on them. But I would hate for you to start your life here in debt. You see, my wives have everything they need or want. They have access to the whole compound, a queen in a palace. But if someone were to come in, take advantage of those things and refuse my hand… well, that person would need to pay for my generosity.”

Shit. The clothes, the bedroom, the bath she’d taken… this meal she’d forced down… she could only guess how steep the price would be. Her stomach turned again, she swallowed it down and pushed the thoughts away. She got herself here, she had to play the game. Somehow, thrown to the masses, fighting for her space there, and working off a debt to Negan didn’t sound like the easiest way to do what she came here to do.   

She said after a moment, “does a wife ever get the chance to be…more?” She needed a reason to be out and about, a reason to be among the guys and walking the halls. “Like in addition? A working wife, so to speak.”

Negan rubbed his chin, contemplating. “What did you have in mind?”

“I can be useful. I can hunt, I can fight. I’m a decent shot, and I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. In fact, I prefer it. I’ve never been much good at sitting around.”

Negan thought for a moment. “Well now, we just met. I can’t go giving you everything all at once… but I am a reasonable man… I can be persuaded. You prove yourself good enough to be out there with my guys, while keeping up with all…wifely duties,” she had to fight back a shudder at his words, “then I’d say we might have a deal.”

Not ideal, she thought. But surely being both could get her access to places and information she could use. Access to Daryl, if she played it right. This could work. At the very least, it would give her plenty of access to Negan, which is helpful when you’re planning to kill someone.

“So… is there like a ceremony or something?”

---

Her whole body felt heavy as she returned to her room. She was someone's wife now. Not by any legal means, and certainly not from any religious ceremonies. She told herself with each step down the hall, through the common room, and to her bed that it didn't count. It wasn't real. It was all just a means to and end - a means to him. To Daryl.

Her bedside table caught her eye as she collapsed onto the bed. A bottle of water, a piece of paper, and were those pills?

"To help you sleep," the note read, "and not dream."

She knew it was from Sherry, though she didn't know how. What hell had Negan put them all through that their escape was a dreamless, drugged sleep?

She felt it then. Something stirring in her that told her Daryl wouldn't be the only one she would save from this place.

Yours truly,

Seriously. All yours. Truly.

Like or reblog if you would send a love letter to Snape

Love when writers do an insane amount of unnecessary research for their fics. I follow an author that did like 8 months of intense research into 14th century Scotland so they could write smut about it, and guess what. It was some fucking incredible porn AND I learned about old Scottish politics

Y/N: Relationships should be 50/50.

Carol: I’m glad things are good with you two.

Y/N: Mhm. Daryl cooks us dinner while I sit on a stump and look pretty.

Carol, glancing over where Daryl is prepping a rabbit: Really?

Daryl, continuing with his task: Ain’t complainin’. You tried to eat ‘er cookin’?

Y/N: And I’m pretty.

Daryl, nodding: An’ she’s pretty.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 –

𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥, 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 –

affectionate, approving, beaming, bright, brilliant, broad, charming, cheerful, compassionate, dazzling, encouraging, enthusiastic, friendly, gentle, genuine, infectious, innocent, irresistible, placid, playful, pleased, radiant, reassuring, sweet, soft, sunny, tender, warm, welcoming, windsome.

𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 –

cold, condescending, cruel, dazed, devilish, dry, enigmatic, evil, feeble, fixed, forced, furtive, grave, grim, haughty, helpless, ingratiating, insolent, ironic, malicious, meek, melancholy, mocking, mournful, mysterious, oily, reluctant, rueful, sarcastic, sardonic, scornful, shy, slight, smug, sober, strained, strange, stony, thin, timid, tremulous, triumphant, ugly, vague, weak, weird, wicked, wistful, wry.

𝗗𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗯𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 –

amused, crooked, knowing, mischievous, quiet, quick, rusty, sudden, vacant.

𝗗𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗯𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗶𝗽𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗮 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗲 –

chapped, cracked, moist, plump, thin, tight.

The End Will Justify It All - Chapter 4

A Negan Series

Chapter 3 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 1

Warnings - mention of death, mention of torture, other Walking Dead themes.

Part of me wants to apologize that these chapters are going so slowly, but I don't think I will. I do hope you're enjoying them, though! Feedback is always welcome.

She awoke the next morning, the sun higher in the sky than she’d expected, and a dread in her stomach like a rock. She fought to shake the grogginess of the two sleeping pills she’d taken last night – the first time she’d used the gift from Shery, although Sherry left a new supply in her room after every dinner with Negan. As the fog in her mind began dissipating, her memory wasted no time filling the open space with the events of the day before. She’d seen Daryl, worn down and abused, and decided to do exactly what Negan had asked of her. She wouldn’t let him be tortured more than he already had. Not because of her.

So she’d gone to dinner that night, not touching the food, and told him everything she was willing to risk. She drew the layout of Alexandria for him, noting the armory, the make-shift infirmary, and Rick’s house. She’d told him all about Rick. She told him about his love for Glenn and how hard his death would have hit Rick, about his family, the things that made him angry, the things that made him happy, but most importantly, the fears that drove him – the love for his people and the responsibility of protecting them. Negan wanted his next move, and she gave it to him. Keep driving home that he could take any of Rick’s people from him, threaten even one of them, and he’d fold like a lawn chair. She’d told him all about Carl and his recklessness. She’d even gone as far as to suggest that guns were known to be unaccounted for, from time to time.

Negan leaned back in his chair when she finished talking, nodding and staring at her, eyes narrowed as if he could see everything in her mind. “I think you’re holding out on me,” he said after studying her for a long minute. Her stomach dropped, but she gave no physical sign of nervousness. He leaned closer to her.  “Tell me,” he demanded, lifting her chin with his thumb grazing her lip. Her stomach fluttered at the touch. Nerves, she’d told herself, nothing more than fearing him.

He had guessed right. She did have another idea. She knew where it had come from, and she wasn’t proud of it. It had come to her while she soaked in her pre-dinner bath, from a part of her that had hardened and darkened after the world fell. A part of her she’d buried deep enough that she hadn’t felt its presence in months and thought she never would again. She hated it, hated the idea it had given her. She didn’t want to tell Negan. If she told him, if she put it out there, there’d be no pretending this dark part of her didn’t exist. No denying it ever again. She feared what it might unleash within her again.

“Tell me,” he said again, his voice a little softer, purring a little. She felt herself flush at the sound of it.

“Make him hold it,” she said finally. “The bat. Lu- Lucille.  Make him hold it for you the next time you visit him. For as long as you can, make him carry it around for you.”

Negan sat up straight in surprise. “That,” he said, pausing as a wicked grin crept across his face. “That is sexy. as. hell! Somehow, I knew you had that in you. Man!  have never been more turned on than I am right now.” Again she felt that flutter in her stomach, and waited for his next move.  But it never came. He’d simply poured them both a drink, laughing to himself as he did. She drained her glass quickly, and walked as fast as she could to her room when he’d dismissed her, where she took her pills and laid shaking in her bed until she was dragged into a dreamless oblivion.

She made her way down to the kitchens for some coffee and breakfast, noting the lack of guard at the wives’ dorm door. That was a first in the 4 days she’d been here.

As she made her way down, she noticed… well, she noticed that she didn’t notice anyone. It was eerily empty in the halls for this late in the morning. When she reached the ground level, she exited the building and found - where there would typically be no less than 20 saviors hanging around - there were only two guys standing guard. She walked around the building to the area where they all parked their bikes and trucks – empty. Except for one box truck and a few pickups that were now being loaded with what seemed to be the remaining Saviors.

She noticed Simon talking with one guy and heading for a truck.

“Simon!” She called after him. He stopped and turned, waiting for her to catch up to him. She and Simon had only had a few short interactions since she got to the Sanctuary, but she’d developed a small sense of safety with him. She liked him, or thought she could if she spent any time with him. “Where are you headed?” She asked as she approached him.

“We are going to see a guy that’s supposed to be dead.” He answered, chuckling a little.

Greg… Hilltop. She remembered the deal Rick had made – the event that marked the start of this whole mess. 

“Is everybody else already there?” She asked him, gesturing to the empty – well, everything.

He chuckled again. “Nah, Negan took a big crew to visit your old pals a little earlier. I imagine they’ll be gone most of the day.”

Her heart sank. She knew Negan wouldn’t ignore her advice, but she didn’t know he’d implement it this fast.

She watched as the last of Simon’s crew loaded up and he turned to go, too. “Can I come with you?”

Simon stopped again and turned to look at her. He sighed as he said “I would love to take you along; I think you’d be valuable. But Negan hasn’t okayed you to be on a crew yet.” And with that, he finished his trek to his truck and got in. He gave her a sympathetic look and a nod as they drove past her and out the gate.

When the last truck was out of sight, she turned on her heels and sprinted back to the building.

----

This was her chance. With the place all but empty – at least of Saviors – she could get Daryl out. They’d still have to be careful not to be seen by any of the workers or people who lived here, but that shouldn’t be hard.

She knew where they were keeping him – she’d followed Dwight at as careful of a distance as she could manage after seeing Daryl in the hallway yesterday. She’d watched him put him in a dark room, lock the door, and start playing some godawful song that sounded like it was from a 70s sitcom on a boombox outside his door.

She almost slammed into a wall turning the corner into his hall. And there it was – his door. His door was open. Wait. Open? She rushed into it and immediately deflated. In the light from the hall, she could make out a puddle of vomit in a corner. It was completely empty otherwise. Of course Negan had taken Daryl with them. What better way to remind Rick that Negan could hurt his people than by bringing the one he now owned? She thought for a moment, before quickly making her way to a room she had barely registered as an office when she ran past. She grabbed a pen and found a small piece of paper. She scribbled out a note to him. She needed him to know she was still with him, still working on a plan.

Stay strong. I’m coming for you soon. -Sunshine

She folded it as small as she could and pulled the door behind her in the cell just shy of closing. She followed the small stream of light from under the door and placed the note on the edge of it. No one else would notice it, she hoped.

She took one last look around his cell. Fury rose in her as she pictured him sleeping on the cold concrete for the last 3 nights. Her shoulders sagged and she felt suddenly exhausted as she made her way back to her room. How long could she go on like this? How long could she hold onto hope that she really would get Daryl and herself out of here? Back in her room, she crawled into bed and stared at the wall until she let herself slip into a restless sleep.

----

She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, but when she opened her eyes again it was dark outside. She blinked away the blur of a long nap, and almost shouted when she heard a throat clear in the dark.

“You’re awake.” Negan. In her room? Her pulse quickened. He was back, which meant Daryl was back… had someone found her note after all? Was he here to punish her? She slowly moved into a sitting position with her back against the headboard, and looked to where he sat in the armchair in the corner of her room.  She furrowed her brow in a question.

“I wanted to tell you something,” he said in answer, “but I found you asleep. Sherry said you’d been asleep since 2pm. I was worried you might be sick.” She saw what looked like genuine concern in his eyes. He was worried about her? He waited for her to respond.

“I’m fine.” She croaked out, with a dry mouth.

“Good!” He exclaimed suddenly and stood to walk to her bedside. He sat down beside her, grinning that wicked Negan grin. “I have good news for you! I went to see your old friends today, and I have to say, it went so. much. better. than I had hoped. And that is all thanks to you!” He patted her leg on the last word, a little high on her thigh, and a jolt shot through her from the touch.

“I just did what you asked,” she answered humbly.

“Oh, you did more than that,” he chuckled, “and like I told you, I am a generous husband. You start with Simon’s crew bright and early tomorrow morning!”

She was still processing the information; stuck on a question she was too afraid to ask. He must have read it on her face.

“Well, I had hoped for a little more gratitude…” he said pointedly.

He sighed. “What is it? I thought you’d be happy to get what you wanted.”

“No, I am. Really. I just…” she looked into his eyes, let him see her concern. “You saw…everyone? How was Maggie doing? She was the sick one the night everything happened.”

He went still, his face serious. He shook his head slightly, “she didn’t make it.”

She tried to hold back the tears stinging her eyes, but there were too many. She turned her head away from Negan to wipe them.

He watched her, and when she finally turned back to him, she was surprised to see sympathy on his face.

“I liked Maggie,” she explained, closing her eyes to stop more tears. “She accepted me faster than the others, quickly became my friend. We got close.” She didn’t tell him about the baby – that secret wasn’t hers to tell. Especially not with him.

She felt the bed shift, and suddenly Negan was scooting beside her, wedging himself between her and the headboard. He wrapped his arms around her, and she found herself resting her head on his chest, unable to stop her crying now. She hated that he felt… good, with his arms around her, comforting her. Even though she’d slept most of the day, she felt exhausted with the weight of grief. He held her while she cried, rubbing her shoulder with his hand. She cried for Maggie and Maggie’s baby. She cried for Glenn and Abraham – she had not let herself feel that until now. She cried for Daryl and the unimaginable things he was experiencing. She cried in fear that she might not be able to pull this off after-all, that she might have taken on more than she could handle. And she cried for herself, for the change she could feel blooming in her. It scared her - what she might become. So she kept crying, and Negan kept holding her, until she fell asleep against his chest.

She awoke again a few hours later to feel him standing from her bed and making his way to the door.

“Thank you, Negan,” she said softly as she settled into her pillow. Whether she was thanking him for letting her join a crew, for telling her about Maggie, or for offering her comfort in her grief, she wasn’t sure. Maybe a little of each. “I really am grateful.”

“You can show me tomorrow how much,” he answered from the door, and she could hear that wicked grin in it. It didn’t register that she grinned, too.

This had me grinning at my phone like a high schooler texting her crush. I love this!

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.”

Michonne: So... who's the big spoon and who's the little spoon?

Y/N: We're chopsticks!

Tara: Well... that's cute!

Tara: Does that mean you two snuggle together perfectly?

Daryl: Nah, means if ya take one away, only thing the other s’good fer is stabbin’.

I’m on my like 3rd rewatch of The Last of Us, and I just watched the Kansas City episodes.

During the big fight with all the infected running around, the way Joel anticipates every move of Ellie’s and covers her from the house… it’s the absolute hottest thing he does in the whole show.

It makes me tingle.

Squealing and kicking my feet as I read this!

So precious!

I saw your post about Mikey so I hope this is okay & what you were looking for. Mikey meets a girl that is like sunshine whenever she walks in the room & makes him finally feel worthy/valued so he’ll do anything to make her feel special in return

Sunshine (Mikey Berzatto x Reader)

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of weed and alcohol.

Word Count: 4.2k

I found a good boy and he's on my side You're just my eternal sunshine, sunshine

“John, John- you listenin’ to me?!” Mikey was pacing his office, trampling over receipts and month-old sticky notes while aggressively combing his hands through his tussled black hair. “I’ll have your money. When have I not paid you, goombah? I didn’t see the invoice, you should see this fuckin’ office, not enough time to organize this damn shit show” he responded, kicking a stack of papers in the process. 

Bending down, he began rummaging through the various papers littering the office floor, attempting to compile them into categories. “John! You there?! Fuck.” Mikey frantically pat himself down, a sudden yearn for nicotine overcoming him. Finding his carton of Marlboros, he slipped the end of a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

Letting out a sigh, John grunted, “Yeah, I’m here, Mikey. I’ll give you a couple more d-” before being interrupted by the vibrations of Mikey’s phone. 

“Fuck me, that jagoff is calling” Mikey thought out loud. “Listen, John, I hear you, you’ll have your money, mmkay? On my ma, I swear to ya, I gotta go though there’s another ball-buster on the other line. K? Ciao.” Before John could respond, Mikey stood up to accept the other call.

“Mark, brother, hey, before you start… I know, I know.” He picked up his phone, taking it off speaker to slip it under his ear. “I— Listen, I know. I hear you. I- Hey, you gon’ let me speak, or wha’?!” Speaking with his hands he continued to pace around the room, his booming voice stifled by the cigarette. 

The lunch rush at The Beef was dying down, exposing you to increasingly longer bits of the chaotic conversation occurring in the office. This was Mikey’s typical presentation; disheveled, malnourished, and overexaggerately buzzed off of caffeine, nicotine, and italian-ness. Although he was impossible to reason with in this state, you took it upon yourself to fix him up his favourite; a mortadella sandwich with sundried tomatoes, pesto, and mozzarella.

“You think I don’t know that? Pft, c’mon! Mark, man, you’re killin’ me!” You stood in the doorway, observing Mikey as he stood with one hand on his hip, the other flailing around to exemplify his frustrations. In one of your hands was the plate holding the lunch you made; in the other was a Chicago Bears BIC lighter.

Subtly knocking on the already open office door, Mikey whipped around to face you, his inconvenienced facial expression seamlessly evaporating into his wide-tooth grin. Mouthing ‘meet me outside’ was all it took for him to fake an excuse off of the phone and trail in your footsteps.

Albeit cheesy, you had that captivating effect on him, your hidden-well insecurities and past failed relationships blinding you to the fact that Mikey was infatuated with you. That, in combination with the 15-year age gap between you two. For Mikey, none of those factors changed the fact that you were his daylight, sunshine in human form.

Outside in the back you sat on a milk crate, the pre-Spring Chicagoan air fluttering over your skin. Moments after, Mikey joined you by sitting on an adjacent crate close to you after propping open the door. “Thanks, Bella” he said as he leaned over, his palm squeezing your thigh in an attempt to physically communicate the appreciation he held for your act of service. 

You offered out the plate to him, prompting him to begin devouring. He gruffly moaned after taking his first bite. “Mhhhh, shit, this is like Marry Me chicken but in sandwich form.” You giggled in response with your hands resting in your lap, watching as he attacked it hungrily. Mid-bite, he motioned with his head towards the other sandwich on the plate, “Ain’t gonna eat itself, Italiana.”

“I’m not hungry right now, Mike,” you responded, suddenly losing your appetite as you thought of the most effective way to check in on him without him brushing it off. Mikey had a fortified ‘I’ll deal with it maself’ attitude; his hard-headed, traditional Italian, ‘Godfather’ persona caused him to keep you far away from the messes he had gotten himself into. In his eyes, you are more than capable of dealing with life’s bullshit, but his innate urge to protect you from harm’s way and unnecessary stress made it difficult to involve you.

“What was going on in there?” you motioned towards inside with your head. “Ah, nothin’ doll.” He shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to brush off the topic, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Just some bills that need payin’, I got it covered. Business good today? Any jagoffs give you trouble?” He frantically read your face, urgently hoping you’d buy his not-so-discreet attempt at changing the topic.

“C’mon, Mike. Cut the shit. You’re suffocating in that office.” The only person whose bluntness Mikey could listen to happened to also be the only person he’d accept ‘Mike’ from. He took the cigarette that had been hanging from his lips in his office out of his shirt pocket and proceeded to light it. Taking the first drag of it, he flicked it, holding it out to you.

Pursing his lips to blow out his puff, he responded confidently. “I got it all figured out, sunshine. Plus, I got cousin helpin’ me with the books and shit. Just gotta pay back those muthafuckas who keep callin’ me. They’re all, ‘where’s my money!?’” he playfully rolled his eyes, making hand gestures and displaying a funny face as he imitated the callers. You both knew damn well they had every right to be calling him. 

“You telling me that Richie is on the books is supposed to bring me a sense of comfort?” Asking him that question with pure seriousness and handing him back the cigarette, Mikey stifled a laugh. “Hey, him and the IRS are like this” he crossed his middle finger over his index while winking and making a clicking noise with his tongue.

“Cousin, where the fuck are the receipt rolls, the office looks like an abandoned and pissed-in office depot” Richie’s exclaiming became increasingly louder the closer he got. “Feels like we change the damn paper in that thing ever- oh shit, pardon my interruption to your rendezvous. Were you guys about to fuck? I can leave” Richie pointed with his thumb towards the kitchen as he sported a fake-worried and devious expression, slowly inching backwards.

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. “No one’s fucking anyone, Rich.” Mikey looked to the ground as he faked a chuckle, ignoring the slight pang of hurt in his chest.

“You want a mortadella sandwhich?” You held out the plate to Richie, knowing he couldn’t resist. “Uh, DUH,” Richie grabbed an additional crate to join the two of you, immediately beginning to eat.

“Oh fuck, are you fucking serious right now?! Mikey, if you don’t marry this girl I’ll do it for you. ‘S like a mouf orgathm” Richie had just begun eating yet he already had food on the corners of his mouth. You chuckled, choosing to ignore the marriage comment. “Here, you child. You’re such a slob” you threw him a napkin you had stored in your apron. 

“Hey, the real slob is right over there” he pointed directly at Mikey, not even bothering to wipe his mouth but proceeding to take a another massive bite. “Something’s gotta be done about that cesspool of an office,” Richie shook his head disapprovingly, despite also functioning well in chaotic enrivonments. Mikey took yet another drag, the stress of you and Richie’s indirect demand to get his shit together getting to him. “It’s organized chaos, I know where everything is, s’all that matters.” 

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This was the third night in a row that you had difficulty falling asleep. You had tried everything in your arsenal of melatonin-producing activities, and yet, your brain was spiraling, most of your thoughts pertaining to Mikey.

You weren’t going to kid yourself. You needed something and you knew exactly who to get it from. Picking up your phone, you made the call.

“Rich?? You awake?” You rolled over to your side, holding yourself up by your elbow and propping your head up with the palm of your hand. “Yeah I’m awake, but why the fuck are you awake, missus?” “I need a favour…” 

Richie’s dirty mind figured any call from a woman at this hour was for sex, but he also knew about Mikey’s schoolboy yearn for you and wouldn’t dare make any advancements. The silence on his end was telling. “Not that type of favour, God, Rich! Stop being a man for a second. I need weed.” You huffed out, a whiny tone of desperation heavy in your voice. 

“Now that I can help you with” he chuckled.

“YES thank you, Rich, oh my god” You sprung up out of bad as if there were hot rocks in it. “I will meet you at The Beef, okay?!” And that was where he met you.

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You and Richie sat at the back of The Beef, exactly where you had had lunch earlier that day. “You want to do the honours, stoner?” Richie held out the joint and lighter for you. You faked an annoying look and exaggerately took them from him. “I’m not a stoner, Rich. I just have an undiagnosed sleeping problem.” You put the joint between your lips and lit it, taking an ungodly large pull from it. 

“Woahhhhh cheech and chong, relax” Richie practically yanked the joint from you. You immediately began coughing as you hadn’t smoked in a while. “What or who the fuck are you trying to forget, Italiana?” Richie’s joking tone didn’t conceal his concern as he took a puff himself. You looked at him, tilting your head to the side to signify confusion.

Richie took another pull before returning the joint to you. “If you’re calling me at 12am to smoke because you couldn’t sleep, it tells me your big brain was overthinking.” You took a moderate inhale this time, the buzz beginning to radiate out to your extremities. “What were you thinking about, Richie? Something tells me you were awake for similar reasons.”

“I’m not sayin’ anything ‘til you do” he responded whilst shrugging. 

Making a sour face, you attempted to restore the saliva in your mouth. “I have cotton mouth like a bitch, I’m going to get something to drink. You want anything?” you asked, heading inside before he could interrogate you further. “Get me a brio!” You chuckled to yourself, shouting back “You know you’re not Italian, right?!”

You walked over to the walk-in fridge, grabbing Richie’s Brio and a Fresca for yourself. On the way back out, Mikey’s office door caught your attention, and you suddenly had an idea. “Rich. Oh my god. I know exactly what we can do.” 

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“I… I think we just made things worse.” Looking up at Richie in horror, he mirrored your reaction. “Yeah, we fucked up cousin. We’re in some deep shit.” 

You and Richie were both sat on the office floor, waist deep in the paper equivalent of a small forest. You took a swig from your Fresca, attempting to decipher where to start. “We can do this. For Mikey. He deserves this, and fuck, let’s face it, he was never gonna do it himself!” You attempted to motivate Richie, knowing his child-like attention span and patience were on their last legs. 

Picking up various pieces of paper, you attempted to make sense of them. “Okay… I’ll make one pile for receipts, and I’ll sort them by date, and then-” You felt Richie’s eyes burning a hole into you, causing you to look at him and flail your hands around. “What?!” Impatiently waiting for his response, you began gnawing on the inside of your cheek, nervous that he was onto you. 

“You like him.” Richie slowly grinned from ear to ear as he stated it matter o’factly. “You like like him.” You flung your head back and groaned. “‘Like like?’ C’mon, Rich, what are you, 12? Shut the fuck up and help me.” The blood rushed into your cheeks almost immediately at his accusation, the THC physiologically betraying you and making it impossible to put on a front. “You like him. Oh my god. I fuckin’ knew it,” he giggled. 

“I don’t know whether it’s the weed or the fact that it’s 3am and I’m reaching the point of delirium, but since I’m not a pre-teen, I’ll admit that you’re not wrong. But it’s never going to happen. He’s mentally ill with a fucked up family and so am I- that doesn’t tend to be the ideal romantic combination. Now, lets finish this so we can still go home and get some rest before shift starts.” You looked at Richie with a stern look; he was shocked at your mini rampage, and internally, you were petrified about the fact that you had just spilt your guts to Mikey’s bestfriend.

“And don’t get any ideas, because this conversation does NOT repeat itself, you hear me, Jerimovich!” When you addressed someone in the kitchen by their last name, they knew you meant business. “Uh-huh, yup, yes ma’am.” Richie gulped, considering you just displayed more emotions in the last 5-minutes than you had for the entire length of time he has known you. It didn’t help that he was beyond stoned and couldn’t quite comprehend the nature of what you had told him. 

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“Cousin! What the fuck is this? Why can I see the floor?” Mikey was standing at the doorway of his office in utter disbelief that morning. Richie jogged over peaking his head into the office. “It was Italiana’s doing, she just told me what to do. We were preeeetty fried” he chuckled to himself, recalling last night’s events. “Surprisingly, we didn’t throw anything out. She’s got a real knack for organizing, should’ve let her do this months ago. The IRS and I aren’t going to have anymore beef, see what I did.” 

Richie couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. His nervous rambling was an attempt to not tell Mikey about your confession. Knowing how much Mikey admired you, it was killing him to not be able to tell his own bestfriend that the girl of his dreams reciprocated his feelings. Mikey slowly turned to look at Richie, hands still on his hips. “What the fuck did you smoke, crack? Why are you acting all fucked?”

You had walked into the kitchen at perfect timing before Richie blabbed your secret. Going to hang your purse up, Mikey called you over; he didn’t even need to see you to feel your presence. “Italiana, come ‘ere!” You sped walk over and stood in the entrance, your hands folded in front of you with a nervousness. A part of you was worried that messing with Mikey’s ‘organized chaos’ was going to disorient him, but you wanted to lessen the stress he was experiencing. That was what you did for the people you loved; especially the man you loved. 

“You did this?” He looked directly at you; despite being an expert in Mikey’s nuances, you couldn’t tell whether he was pissed or overjoyed. “Uh, yeah! It’s all pretty self-explanatory but I can go through it with you if you want? I just thought it’d make your life a lil easier. And Richie’s! Of course.” You rubbed your arm with your hand as a means of self-soothing.

“This is great, Bella. Truly. I can’t believe you went through all this trouble, I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen it look like this ever” he motioned towards the filing cabinet and the paper baskets you had labelled appropriately, using his other hand to comb through his hair in shock. “I couldnt of done it without Richie. And Richie’s weed! It was nothing, Mike” you smiled at him and showed yourself out as nonchalantly as possible. 

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You were waiting the last tables of the day - mainly consisting of left behind beer bottles and plastic sandwich baskets - when Mikey came up behind you putting one hand on your waist. “Meet me in the office when you’re done here, yeah?” As he whispered into your ear, you had to keep your knees from buckling. “Yeah, Mike! Okay!” Fucking Richie.

You attempted to stall for the inevitably painful conversation that awaited you, slowly walking towards the kitchen. While washing your hands, your brain began to spiral. Wiping your hands on your apron, you attempted to bravely walk towards the office, standing in the doorway. 

“What’s up?” You halted in your tracks almost immediately as you noticed the charcuterie board Mikey was standing in front of and the bottle of red wine in his hands. “Fuck me. Okay, listen.” You walked closer to him. “Before you say anything, I don’t know what Richie said to you, but as someone who doesn’t know the difference between your and you’re, he has no idea what he’s talking about. You didn’t have to do any of this.” 

Mikey looked at you like a deer in headlights. “What the fuck are you talking about,” he chuckled. There was that dimpled smile. And now you were confused (and distracted) before you realized Richie didn’t say anything.

“I wanted to thank you for organizing the office…” Mikey explained, twisting the bottle of wine open and pouring you a glass. “I know how much you like your charcuterie. If Starbucks ever stops selling those little boards I’ll wonder what you’re gonna eat.” He earned a laugh from you for joking about your mild salami addiction.

You sported the fakest wide tooth grin you could muster. “Hey, I’m Italian. I can’t help it. I think I’m keeping them in business though” you joked in response. He held out the glass for you and winked. “Thanks, Mike” you smiled, hoping he couldn’t pick up on your nervousness. 

“Okay, let me show you what we’ve got here.” He clapped his hands together, excited to introduce you to his concoction of Italian meets and cheeses. Hunched over his desk with both of his hands planted on the surface to support him, he pointed at each meat and cheese as he went through the board’s contents. 

“We’ve got cacciatore, prosciutto, mortadella, then I added parmesan - I know how much you like it - along with romano and gorgonzola. I was thinking we can add it to the menu. We’re no hipster yuppies but throw some olives and overpriced crackers on here and I mean, we’re talkin’ business, baby.” Looking up at you, he attempted to read your face for your thoughts.

Mikey was passionate. That was his entire nature. And when he presented you with ideas, he seemed to put your approval and opinion on a pedestal. You had helped significantly with business at The Beef, assisting in bringing Mikey’s visions to fruition while also providing your input where necessary; he valued your insight more than you realized. 

Taking a baguette slice, you added cacciatore and parmesan onto it and bit in. “Fuck, Mike.” Your eyes rolled into the back of your head and you let out a near moan. “We gotta add this. It could even be part of a date night special. The charcuterie as an antipasto, a soup or salad, a main, and then dessert” you presented.

Mike glanced up at you with a smirk, content with your proposal. “Have I ever told you that I love your brain, Italiana?” You giggled as you continued to devour the board, attempting to ignore his blatantly obvious attempt at flirting as you couldn’t believe he could possibly be interested in you. 

The rest of the evening was spent brainstorming business ideas, reminiscing on memories shared between you, Mikey, and Richie, and consuming copious amounts of wine. 

“Oh my god, Mike. You remember when Richie tried picking up that blonde girl at the bar with a magic trick, and you- y- oh my god.” You flung your head back as you cackled; you were wine drunk and snortling to the point of incoherence. You were sat across from Mikey who was planted behind his desk, his ankle resting on top of his other knee. His forearms rested on the arms of his chair, and he loosely held a glass of whiskey as he watched you with amusement and a sly grin of admiration. 

“You had to go over there and save him from the embarrassment. Poor thing.” You chuckled. “I’m pretty sure the chick he was tryna bag had started flirting with me,” Mikey said, taking a sip of his whiskey and raising his eyebrows as he attempted to recall the events of that evening. 

You looked intently at him, not breaking eye contact. “Can you blame her?” The wine encouraged a new-found confidence to emerge from within you. There was no way you would’ve been this direct with Mikey while sober. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mikey leaned forward to put his glass on his desk then returned to his laid back position. With a dumbfounded look on your faced, you laughed then displayed a look of annoyance. “Don’t play stupid. Look at yourself, Mike.” You stood up, put the wine glass down, and rested both of your hands on his desk, leaning forward until you were mere inches away from his face.

Looking into his right eye, glancing down at his lips, and looking back up to his left eye, he began to shift in his seat. It was evident that you were both under a hazy and horny alcohol-induced influence, the sexual tension very obviously suffocating the room. “Now take me home before I say or do something I’ll regret.”

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As Mikey walked you back to your apartment, you held onto the side of his frame with all your might. He guided you through the streets of Chicago with ease; he was nowhere near the level of drunk that you had achieved. “You okay, darlin’?” He looked down, a slight smile on his face as he recognized your drunken effort to walk in a straight line. “Yeah, Mike. Thanks for tonight. No one’s ever gone through such an effort to appreciate me.”

You peered up at him with a smile; you wanted to put into perspective how much his actions meant to you, however, Mikey felt an even stronger urge to spoil you moving forward. Quite frankly, he was bewildered that his small gesture that evening exceeded all that you’ve known. 

Arriving to the door of your apartment, you began rummaging through your purse for your keys. Finding them, you held your arm out straight and dangled them in front of Mikey. “You’re gonna need to unlock the door, mister. I do not currently possess the fine motor skills” you joked, earning a laugh from him.

You caught the glimmer in his eyes. Mikey felt like your fierce protector. You both knew you didn’t need protecting- while this was a part of you he admired, his masculinity often fought for dominance; for the chance to show you how well he could look after you and how much you deserved it. 

He opened the door, propping it open for you as you stumbled through, immediately attempting to take off your shoes. You hadn’t thought this out thoroughly as you ended up toppling over, Mikey catching you in the process. “Easy, doll. Here, sit down,” he motioned toward the ottoman in the foyer of your apartment, guiding you as you lowered yourself. 

He crouched down at your feet and placed the heel of your foot on his thigh, proceeding to untie your shoes. Grasping your ankle one at a time, he wiggled your feet out. You looked down at him, admiring his gentle touch, the concentration present in his furrowed brow; you loved to watch him, whatever he was doing, and you’ve known for a long time that you’ve loved him.

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” Holding out both of his hands for you, you stood up, letting him walk you through to your bedroom. You had a case of the over-tired drunken giggles, prompting you to laugh as you slurred your intentions to take off your make-up.

Mikey picked out some pjs for you, then proceeded to pour you a cold glass of water while you got changed. Opening the door to your bedroom, you motioned for him to come inside. “Sleep next to me?” You proposed with a curious tone despite knowing he’d decline as he (annoyingly) insisted on being a respectful gentleman at all times. “S’all good doll, I’ll be good on the couch” he motioned to the living room with his head. “Lemme tuck you in.” 

As you got under the covers, Mikey offered you the glass of water to which you happily obliged. Handing it back to him, he placed it on your bedside table as you snuggled yourself into the sheets. He turned off the lamp, the room engulfing with darkness save for the midnight blue hue that the window cast in. 

Mikey began to walk out of your room when you called out to him. “Hey Mike, c’mere” you turned over, watching him as he slowly approached. Motioning for him to come closer, you whispered into his ear. “I like like you.” 

Knocking out after the words escaped your lips, as if they were made of melatonin, Mikey smiled to himself as he looked down at you. “And I love you, sunshine.”

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EEEEEEEEK my very first Mikey imagine! Which means I am still learning to integrate his personality into my writing- it’s hard when he has extremely minimal screentime. ALSO I am writing this in whatever year Mikey was operating The Beef, so Carmy, Syd, and the others aren’t there, and Richie and Tiff are still together. I am completely open to feedback and would also love to get more requests for Mikey. Let me know what y’all think!!! :)