mylovelivv

[mylovelivv]

ೀ⋆｡˚a boy who’s jacked and kind!! j.m.

⋆˙⟡paring: joel miller x f!reader (no outbreak au)

⋆˙⟡warnings: age gap, dbf, smut, slight angst

⋆˙⟡wc: 1.6k

you’re not supposed to stare at your dad’s best friend.

it’s something your mother told you a few summers ago, the first time you’d come home from college and spent the entire barbecue following joel miller with eyes like he was a storm you were bracing for.

“you’re not slick, sweetheart,” she’d murmured, handing you a glass for lemonade and a warning look. “keep that up and your father’s gonna notice.”

you did your best, after that. you really did.

but joel—he made it hard.

he wasn’t even trying. that was the worst part. he’d shown up in worn jeans and that soft gray t-shirt that clung to his broad chest, smelling like sawdust and aftershave and texas sun, and do something completely mundane like take a swig of his beer or tilt his head back to laugh, and you’d be ruined. every time.

now, three years later, it’s worse.

because you’re older. because you live in the city now. because your summer internship ended early and you’re staying at your parents’ place in austin while you figure out what’s next. because joel’s divorced and still comes by like always, still mows your dad’s lawn like they’re in a suburban marriage.

and because the look he gives you lately feels different. he doesn’t look away as fast.

he watches.

────୨ৎ────

you’re sitting on the back porch when he arrives, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of cotton sleep shorts and your dad’s old sweatshirt, legs tucked up beside you on the bench swing.

the wind’s heavy with late june heat, buzzing with cicadas and too-sweet honeysuckle, and joel’s voice cuts right through it.

“well, look who’s back in town.”

you glance over your shoulder.

he’s standing there in a black t-shirt and jeans, heavy work boots, a rag tucked into his back pocket like he just came from a job. his hair’s a little grayer than you remember, curls at the nape of his neck. his face is sun-warmed, dusted with sweat and stubble.

“hey, miller,” you say, trying to sound breezy. “dad’s not home.”

he nods. “i figured. he said three.”

he climbs the porch steps like it’s nothing, heavy frame moving with ease, and gestures to your swing. “you mind?”

you shake your head, and he sits beside you, boots planted on the wooden planks, knees wide. his arm brushes yours.

it’s fine.

it’s fine.

except it’s not.

because it’s joel, and because the second he sits beside you, something deep in your chest goes hot and still, like a matchhead caught between your ribs.

“you home for good?” he asks after a beat, voice low, almost gravelly. he nods at your bare legs. “or just visitin’?”

you sip your iced coffee and shrug. “trying to figure it out.”

he grunts. “your folks happy to see you?”

your eyes flick toward him. “they are.”

“and you?”

you meet his gaze. his eyes are warm, soft brown and curious, but there’s something behind it. like he’s watching too closely. like he’s always watching too closely.

you shrug again. “we’ll see.”

joel hums, like he hears more than you say, and leans back into the swing, elbow slung over the back of it—behind you.

your breath catches.

he smells like cedar and sweat and something darker, like motor oil and warm metal, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body, sinking into your side. you want to lean into him.

you want to ruin everything.

────୨ৎ────

the next time you see him is the fourth of july.

your dad throws his usual cookout—beer, burgers, too many neighbors and not enough chairs. you show up in a red bikini under an open white linen shirt and cutoff shorts, half hoping joel won’t come, half hoping he will.

he does.

he shows up halfway through the afternoon, six-pack in hand, salt-and-pepper curls wet from the heat. he nods at your dad, gives your mom a kiss on the cheek, and then—

then he finds you.

your back is to him, lounging on a beach chair with a popsicle between your lips when he calls your name.

your turn.

he stares.

then he blinks. clears his throat.

“didn’t recognize you,” he mutters.

you raise a brow. “why? because i’m not fifteen anymore?”

joel’s mouth ticks. not quite a smile. “somethin’ like that.”

your dad calls him over then, but not before you see it.

the flicker of something in his eyes—something sharp and low and hungry.

you press the popsicle between your lips again, slow this time, just to test it.

joel watches.

then he turns away.

but he doesn’t stop watching for the rest of the night.

────୨ৎ────

you find him in the kitchen when the sun’s gone down, flipping burgers for the stragglers. the porch is full of noise and music, but it’s quieter here, soft yellow light falling over his shoulders as he leans over the stove.

“you always cook like this?” you ask, sipping from your beer.

he glances at you, amused. “when your dad’s drunk, yeah.”

you lean against the counter, close enough to touch. “you ever cook for a girl?”

he looks at you then. fully.

joel’s face is unreadable. “you know i was married.”

you shrug. “that was a long time ago.”

he’s silent for a beat. then, “why’re you askin’?”

you blink. “just curious.”

joel hums again. “curiousity’s a dangerous thing, sweetheart.”

you don’t move. “so is boredom.”

there’s a long, heavy pause. then he turns off the stove.

“i’m not gonna do this,” he says softly. “you’re—you’re your daddy’s girl.”

you swallow hard. “that’s not all i am.”

joel steps toward you. one step. two. he stops inches away, his big hands curling into fists at his sides.

“you think i don’t see you?” he murmurs. “the way you walk around this house? the way you look at me?”

your breath shudders.

“joel—“

“you want me to ruin you?”

yes.

you nod before you can stop yourself, lips parted, heart thudding.

he’s so close you can feel the heat of him, the way he’s practically vibrating with restraint.

but then—

“don’t tempt me, baby,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “not unless you’re sure.”

then he steps back, and the moment is gone.

────୨ৎ────

you can’t sleep that night.

you lie in your childhood bed and think about his voice. his hands. the look in his eyes when he said ruin you.

you ache with it.

────୨ৎ────

you end up at his house three days later.

you don’t tell your parents.

you just say you’re going out, then show up at joel’s place in a sundress and lip gloss, heart thudding in your chest like you’re about to commit a crime.

you knock once.

he answers the door in sweatpants and a faded austin fc shirt, hair mussed, eyes widening when he sees you.

“jesus,” he breathes. “you tryin’ to kill me?”

you shrug. “maybe.”

he doesn’t move.

you step past him.

“joel,” you say, turning to face him, dress swaying, “i’m not a kid anymore.”

he’s breathing hard. his jaw’s tight. “you think i don’t know that?”

“i want you.”

“don’t say that.”

“i mean it.”

joel groans—deep, tortured—and suddenly his mouth was on yours.

the kiss is hot and hungry and wrong, but it makes your knees buckle anyway. his hands come up to cup your face, then slide down your back, tugging you closer until your body’s flush to his.

you moan.

he pulls back, breathing heavy. “you sure, baby?”

you nod. “please.”

that’s all it takes.

────୨ৎ────

joel fucks you like he’s wanted to for years.

it starts on the couch—your dress bunched up around your hips, hands dragging your panties down your thighs. he kneels between your legs and spreads you open with thick fingers, groaning at sight of you.

“fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mutters. “knew you’d be sweet.”

and then his mouth is on you—hungry, hot tongue working slow and deep as his beard scratches your thighs, holding you open while he devours you like it’s his last meal.

you come fast. too fast.

he doesn’t stop.

he holds you down and licks you through it, groaning against your fluttering cunt, until you’re whimpering, squirming, begging.

“joel—fuck—too much—“

“no, baby,” he murmurs. “not yet.”

he doesn’t even get undressed all the way—just pushes his sweats low and lifts you onto his lap, sinking into you in one slow, thick thrust.

you cry out.

he curses low and rough. “tight little thing. goddamn.”

and then he starts to move, hands gripping your hips, rocking you down onto him with slow, brutal rhythm.

“joel,” you pant, nails digging into his shoulders, “feels so—fuck—so good—“

“i know, baby,” he grunts. “been thinkin’ ‘bout this. every time i saw you—fuck—knew you’d be perfect.”

you come again when he tells you that. he feels that.

“yeah,” he growls. “that’s it. cum on my cock, sweetheart. let me feel you.”

and when you do, he falls apart—hips jerking, cock spilling deep inside you as he groans your name like a prayer.

────୨ৎ────

after, you’re curled up in his bed, bare legs tangled with his, head on his chest.

he’s quiet for a long time.

then: “i shouldn’t have—“

you press a kiss to his neck. “don’t say that.”

he sighs. “you don’t get it, baby. i can’t give you what you deserve.”

you look up at him. “you gave me exactly what i wanted.”

his eyes soften. “yeah?”

you nod. “stay with me.”

joel cups your face again—soft, reverent. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

you smile. “worth it.”

and he kisses you again.

slower, this time.

like he means it.

[mylovelivv]

ೀ⋆｡˚have you ever tried this one? remmick!!

⋆˙⟡paring: remmick x reader!!

⋆˙⟡warnings: smut, religious guilt (is that a warning?), hints of gun violence, oral (f receiving), fingering, semi-public sex (ig?)

⋆˙⟡wc: 5.5k

you shouldn’t be out here.

not past sundown, not alone, and sure as hell not barefoot in your mama’s sunday dress, the one with little white buttons and the faded yellow trim that hits just above your knees like sin. it’s clinging to your back with sweat, pressed tight where the heat sticks like honey.

the delta air’s thick and slow, humming with cicadas and the echo of sermons long since shouted across baptist pulpits.

it’s 1932 and you’ve been raised right.

you know how to curtsey, how to keep your mouth shut when men are talkin’, and how to say yessir and thank you kindly and lord willing with just the right kind of sweet that keeps you untouched and pitied.

but lately?

lately your thoughts been real unchristian.

and the reason’s sittin’ out behind the old barn with a matchstick in his teeth and sin in his blood, leanin’ against a busted wooden fence like it ain’t gonna collapse beneath him. remmick’s the kind of man you mama warned you about, leather belt, filthy hands, eyes like he’s already seen the devil and liked what he saw.

he’s not from here.

showed up three months ago with dust on his boots sayin’ he was lookin’ for work.

what he found was you.

────୨ৎ────

you see him every day now.

by the creek. behind the general store. under the eaves of the church, eyes on you like he’s trying to carve his name into the softest part of your throat.

“you ever learn how to swim, preacher’s girl?” he asked the first time, voice all slow drawl and teeth. “or just know how to drown?”

you didn’t answer.

you just looked at him with your big, doe eyes and your bare ankles in the river and wondered what his hands would feel like around your throat.

you ain’t told nobody that part.

────୨ৎ────

tonight, you sneak out while the screen door’s still creakin’ shut behind you. your mama’s passed out with a fan on her face and a bible on her chest, and the moon is high enough to make the world silver.

he’s already there, sittin’ in the hayloft like the devil waitin’ in eden, boots kicked off and shirt unbuttoned, lazy and gold in the low light.

“you come runnin’ all the way here for me, sweet girl?” he drawls, biting the matchstick in half and tossing it over his shoulder. “or just wanted to feel somethin’ other than that pretty little guilt eatin’ you alive?

you feel your cheeks flush, but you don’t stop walking.

he watches you come closer, eyes dragging over your hips and thighs like he owns the land your shadow touches. there’s hay in his hair. dust on his lips.

and when you stop in front of him, he doesn’t move.

just sits there, lookin’ up at you with that crooked grin.

“you wearin’ nothin’ under that dress?” he asks, low and dangerous.

your breath catches. “it’s too hot for—“

“i didn’t as why.” his voice dips into a whisper. “i asked if.”

you swallow hard.

“no.”

his smile splits wide. “jesus, girl.”

────୨ৎ────

he stands up slow, hands sliding around your waist like he’s got all the time in the world. you smell sweat and tobacco and hay. his mouth. his mouth’s on your ear before you can breathe.

“y’know how many times i’ve thought about ruinin’ you in this barn?” he whispers, lips brushing your skin. “back against that beam. legs around my waist. screamin’ my name with god watchin’ from the rafters.”

your knees damn near give out.

“you got a filthy mouth,” you murmur, but you’re not pullin’ away.

“i got filth in my blood, darlin’,” he says, nose trailing down your jaw. “don’t mean i wouldn’t get down on my knees for you.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, really look, and there’s that hunger again. that ache. that burnin’, possessive kind of desire that makes your thighs press together and your stomach twist.

“you want me to be gentle?” he asks.

you shake your head.

he smiles like you gave him a gift.

────୨ৎ────

“take it off,” he says, stepping back and nodding at the dress.

your fingers tremble on the buttons.

you start slow, one by one, skin revealed inch by inch while he watches with his bottom lip caught between his teeth, hands clenching at his sides like he might explode.

when the dress slips off your shoulders and puddles at your feet, he lets out a rough sound, something between and groan and a prayer.

“jesus,” he breathes. “look at ya.”

you’re naked. barefoot in the hay. lit by moonlight and every single bad decision you’ve ever made.

and then he’s on you.

mouth on your throat. hands on your hips. pushing you back against the wooden beam like your his.

you gasp as his fingers slide between your legs, already soaked, and he laughs low and dark.

“didn’t even touch you yet,” he murmurs. “and you’re drippin’ for me.”

“remmick—“ you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth on yours, kissing you so deep it makes your toes curl.

────୨ৎ────

you ain’t never been touched like this.

ain’t never had nobody get on their knees for you like worship, with sunburnt shoulders and dirt on his hands, calluses scratchin’ soft against the inside of your thighs.

remmick’s mouth is on you like he’s starvin’—like the only thing he’s ever craved is what’s between your legs. and lord help you, you’re spread open for him on a pile of hay, shakin’ and pantin’ like some backwards jezebel.

“look atcha,” he mutters, voice muffled in your cunt, eyes flickin’ up to meet yours. “shiverin’ like a sinner in the pew.”

“r-remmick—“

“that’s right, baby,” he drawls, low and sinful. “say my name again. wanna hear it fall off that pretty lil’ mouth like gospel.”

you moan, fingers clawin’ at the hay, head tossin’ back as he sucks your clit slow and mean, like he’s tryna undo you.

every swipe of his tongue is rough and reverent, wet sounds fillin’ the humid air, and you can’t even pretend to hold back. not when he curls two thick fingers inside you and says—

“gimme it. c’mon now, angel. be good f’r me.”

and you do. you give it to him, loud and messy, thighs tremblin’ ‘round his head as you cum hard around his tongue.

he groans when you do, like it hurts him, like he’s the one splittin’ open.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” he mutters, pullin’ back to look at you with that filthy mouth glistenin’. “tastes like honeysuckle in july. damn near killed me.”

you’re still gaspin’, chest heavin’, when he leans in and kisses you with it still on his tongue. and you take it, whimperin’ into his mouth, so far gone you could cry.

“need you,” you whisper. “need it bad.”

he grins, all wolf.

“yeah, you do. been needin’ it, haven’t ya? all summer long. walkin’ around in them short lil’ dresses, smellin’ like peaches and temptation.”

he strips the rest of his clothes now, like he knows you’re watchin’—broad shoulders, scars across his ribs, belt hangin’ loose from one hand.

and then he’s crawlin’ over you, hot and solid, his cock heavy against your thigh.

you glance down and swallow hard. “you ain’t gonna fit.”

he laughs, low and dangerous, brushin’ his nose against yours. “i’m gon’ make it fit, sugar.”

────୨ৎ────

the first push is slow.

he’s thick, stretchin’ you wide, one hand under your knee as he presses in inch by inch.

you’re clutchin’ at his arms, gaspin’ into his neck.

“god—“

“uh-uh,” he growls. “ain’t no god here but me.”

you whimper. he’s so deep you feel him in your stomach, your spine archin’ like you’re tryin’ to run from it—but he grabs your hips and holds you down.

“this what you wanted, huh?” he pants, voice all grit and sweat. “somethin’ filthy? somethin’ real?”

you nod fast, nearly delirious.

“tell me, then,” he snaps, hand around your jaw. “tell me what this pussy’s for.”

“for you,” you sob. “only you.”

he starts movin’—slow, deep, punishing strokes that make the barn creak and your back arch off the hay.

“goddamn right,” he mutters, leanin’ in to kiss your neck. “you’re mine now. you hear me? ain’t no preacher, no daddy, no sunday dress gonna save you now.”

you can’t speak.

just moan.

every time he drives into you it’s like lightening, hot and fast and earth-shatterin’. his name spills from your lips like a prayer.

“r-remmick, oh god, i-i can’t—“

“shhh, baby. you can. you’re doin’ so good f’me.”

he reaches down, rubs your clit with rough fingers, and your whole body jerks.

“you gon’ cum again, angel?” he growls. “gon’ make a mess on my cock like the sweet lil’ slut you are?”

your eyes roll back.

and then it hits—a wave so strong it pulls the breath right from your lungs, your cunt clampin’ around him so tight he curses.

“fuck—fuck, ‘m gon’—“

you feel him throb inside you and then spill, hips jerkin’ his mouth on your neck as he cums deep.

“take it,” he pants. “take all of it. good girl.”

you’re both shakin’, clingin’ to each other like it’s life or death, sweat drippin’ down both your temples, hay stickin’ to your skin.

the only sound now is your ragged breathin’ and the far-off call of bullfrogs by the creek.

────୨ৎ────

a minute passes.

maybe five.

he kisses your cheek, soft now. sweet. almost shy.

“you okay, sugar?”

you nod slow, eyes glassy. “you just made me see stars.”

he chuckles and brushes your damp hair from your face. “you look like an angel wrecked by the devil.”

you smile lazy. “ain’t that what i am now?”

“damn right,” he whispers, kissin’ your collarbone.

────୨ৎ────

he’s still inside you when the moanin’ stops.

still buried deep, cock twitchin’ and softenin’ inside the mess he made—and you’re so wet it’s leakin’ down your thighs, warm and slick and obscene.

you shiver, and he catches it.

“too much?” he murmurs, drawl sticky like molasses as he brushes your hair back from your sweaty neck.

you shake your head, lips kiss-bruised and eyes heavy. “feels like heaven.”

he huffs a laugh, real low. “ain’t nobody ever called my dick holy before.”

you giggle, dizzy and raw.

but before you can even blink, he’s slippin’ out of you—slow and careful—and spreadin’ your thighs open with those same filthy hands.

you whimper, sensitive.

“remmick—“

“shhh, sugar,” he coos. “lemme get you cleaned up.”

you think he means a rag. a towel. somethin’ halfway proper.

but then he leans down.

shoulders pressin’ your knees open again, his breath ghostin’ hot across your messy, throbbin’ cunt. he groans when he sees what’s there.

“lord almighty,” he mutters. “look at that.”

he spreads you wider with his thumbs, thumbs that ain’t got no business bein’ so gentle, and you flinch when he licks a stripe through the mess between your legs.

“still so fuckin’ sweet,” he says, almost reverent. “can taste myself in ya.”

you tremble, hands flyin’ to his hair.

he keeps goin’—lappin’ up his own cum like he likes it, like he’d eat it outta you every night if you let him. his tongue traces every inch: your folds, your clit, even your entrance, lickin’ and suckin’ like a man possessed.

you cry out, thighs twitchin’, tryin’ to squirm.

“too much,” you gasp. “i— remmick, please—“

“c’mon, now,” he whispers, voice hot against your core. “you were beggin’ for it ten minutes ago. can’t quit on me now.”

he slides two fingers back inside you and sucks your clit into his mouth and you break—again—your whole body shudderin’ like it’s comin’ apart at the seams.

“thass it, baby,” he pants. “wanna feel you cum when ‘m cleanin’ up my mess. lemme get every drop.”

you cum hard. on his tongue, on his fingers, shakin’ and whinin’ with your hands fisted in his hair and your ruined sunday dress thrown on the floor.

it’s filthy.

it’s divine.

────୨ৎ────

by the time he pulls back, you’re boneless and breathless, lips parted, sweat coolin’ on your skin.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s just finished supper, grinnin’ up at you like he’s proud of himself.

“reckon you’ll think of me next time you’re sittin’ in church,” he says.

you just moan and cover your face.

“quit that,” he drawls. “lemme see you.”

you peek through your fingers.

and he’s lookin’ at you like you’re his whole damn religion.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t wanna move.

but the roosters crow once, then twice, and that’s enough to panic you into sittin’ bolt upright.

“shit,” you hiss. “i gotta get back. if daddy sees i’m gone—“

“he’ll throw me in the river,” remmick says cheerfully, already standin’ and pullin’ his pants back up. “maybe shoot me first. either way, i’ll die with a smile.”

“don’t joke,” you scold, scramblin’ to fix your dress. it’s wrecked—buttons popped, hem torn, soaked through with sweat and sex.

you look like sin incarnate.

he watches you stumble barefoot outta the hay with a lazy smirk and that devil in his eye.

“c’mere,” he says, holdin’ up his bandana. “you got my cum runnin’ down your leg still.”

you flush.

but you let him crouch in front of you, lift your thigh, and gently wipe it clean like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“you’re such a mess, baby,” he murmurs. “don’t want no one else seein’ you like this.”

“no one else will,” you whisper. “only you.”

his jaw twitches like that does somethin’ to him.

“damn right,” he says. “i’ll be waitin’ out here every night ‘til you’re mine for good.”

you kiss him once more—quick and breathless, before you run through the corn and across the field, barefoot and ruined, heart poundin’ with every step.

sunlight’s just startin’ to creep over the pines when you slip through the back door of the house, hair wild, dress buttoned wrong, lips kiss-swollen and thighs still sticky.

your daddy’s still snorin’ with the bottle in his hand. mama still passed out in the livin’ room.

and all you can taste is remmick.

[mylovelivv]

ೀ⋆｡˚come right on me, i mean camaraderie!! r.g.

⋆˙⟡paring: rick grimes x f!reader

⋆˙⟡warnings: age gap (legal dw), oral (f receiving), swearing ig?

⋆˙⟡wc: 3.1k

you used to call him mr. grimes.

that was back when he was sheriff, back when lori still had that tight little smile, and carl wore sneakers that lit up when he ran.

you were fifteen then. babysat carl for a little money. wore pink nail polish and rhinestone belts and thought about kissing rick grimes way more than you ever admitted to your mama.

it wasn’t anything real. he was married. you were a kid.

but god, you’d look at him sometimes—at the way he’d lean against the kitchen doorway with one hand on his belt, tired from his shift and polite as hell—and think: that right there’s a man.

then the world went to shit.

────୨ৎ────

he almost doesn’t recognize you when you run into their group outside an old feed store.

you’re holding a bloody knife. daryl’s got an arrow pointed at your back.

and rick?

rick looks at you like he’s seen a ghost.

“is that…” he lowers his gun real slow. “well i’ll be damned.”

you don’t mean to cry. you’re not the crying type, not anymore. but your hands are shaking, and his voice is deeper than you remember—rough and low, like gravel, like whiskey, like sin.

“you still look like hell, mr. grimes,” you manage, voice catching.

that earns you a crooked smile. “you ain’t a kid no more, huh?”

he hugs you then. tight. hand in your hair, your face crushed to his chest like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

“missed you,” you whisper. just like that. because you did.

he doesn’t say it back. but they way he holds you says it for him.

────୨ৎ────

it’s strange being around him again.

rick’s not the sheriff anymore. he’s a leader. a fighter. a killer, if it comes to it. his beards grayer than it was. his eyes are sharper, but tired. haunted.

and you?

you’re grown. you wear a knife on your belt and you’re not scared of blood anymore—yours or anyone else’s.

still, sometimes he looks at you like you’re porcelain.

you hate that.

but you also kind of love it.

you tease him when you can. keep things light. while you’re cleaning weapons or passing out rations or sitting beside him at the fire, chewing dried peaches and pretending it’s dessert.

one night, you joke: “world’s ended, but you still act like i’m ten years old and fixin’ to braid somebody’s hair.”

rick snorts. “ain’t ‘bout age. s’bout protectin’ what’s good.”

you don’t say it, but your heart kicks at that.

because it means he still sees something good in you. and that means he still cares.

────୨ৎ────

you volunteer for the supply run because you’re out of tampons and you refuse to bleed all over the goddamn woods again.

rick doesn’t want you coming.

“you don’t need to go out there for that,” he says. “we’ll find ‘em on the next run.”

“i don’t have a next run,” you argue. “i got a now run, unless you wanna see me strangle someone in my sleep from cramps.”

he sighs. “you’ll stay close. i mean it.”

you rolls your eyes but nod. “yes, sir.”

his jaw clenches so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t snap in two.

you smirk. he mutters something under his breath and starts walking.

────୨ৎ────

the drugstore’s half-collapsed, overgrown with ivy, shelves mostly picked clean. you find a box of tampons under a tipped-over endcap and hold them up like treasure.

rick shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

then you hear it—one shuffle too many.

you turn.

the walkers closer than you thought. too close.

you go for your knife, but you’re off balance, back hitting the shelf hard, and for a second you’re sure this is it.

then a gunshot.

blood sprays.

rick’s there. panting. eyes wild.

“jesus christ,” he breathes.

he drops his gun, grabs you by the arms.

“you okay?” his voice is rough. too loud.

“yeah,” you whisper. “just scared me.”

he looks like he might fall apart. his hands stay on your shoulders. his eyes scan you, frantic, like he needs to see all of you, make sure you’re whole.

“goddammit, girl,” he mutters. “you don’t—you don’t get to die like that.”

you open your mouth, but no sound comes out.

then he kisses you.

────୨ৎ────

it’s not soft.

it’s desperate. messy. his beard scrapes your face and his hands are tight on your waist and you back hits the wall like it’s not even there.

you kiss him back because you’ve been waiting years. because you’re twenty-two and you might die tomorrow and his mouth tastes like blood and sweat and something holy.

“you kiss everyone you save?” you whisper when you pull back.

his chest rises and falls.

“no,” he says. “just you.”

────୨ৎ────

that night, you end up in an empty house on the edge of town.

it’s falling apart. but the floor holds, and there’s a door that locks.

rick sits you down on the couch, kneels between your knees like it’s the only place he has to be.

you run your fingers through his hair. “you sure about this?”

he doesn’t answer with words.

just presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh and groans like it hurts to be that close.

────୨ৎ────

rick grimes eats you out like he’s been starving for years (he kinda has).

he spreads you open like you’re gonna break, kisses the skin above your knee before moving higher. his tongue is slow at first. careful. then he moves deeper. wetter. ruined.

“fuck,” you breathe as his tongue moves up to flick at your clit. “oh my god—“

his fingers dig deep enough to leave bruises on your hips. he doesn’t stop.

“rick!” you squeal out in a moan.

he pauses when you moan out his name. you think he might come just from that.

your fingers thread through his curls, letting your thighs fall open on his broad shoulders.

he worships you like it’s a sin.

and maybe it is.

but you’d do it again.

twice.

────୨ৎ────

after, he holds you in his lap on the ruined, now wet, couch.

you’re quiet. just listening to the wind outside, the creak of boards under his boots as he shifts.

“i feel like hell,” he mutters into your hair.

you kiss his chest, where his badge used to sit. “that’s okay.”

“you were a kid.”

“so were you. once.”

he huffs. “you shouldn’t want me.”

you smile. “too late.”

────୨ৎ────

when you get back to camp, nobody says a word.

but daryl raises his brows, and carl stares at you like he knows something.

you just smile, shoulder brushing rick’s.

he doesn’t smile back.

but that night, he crawls into your tent when the fire’s gone out and kisses you like he’s still trying to stop time.

[mylovelivv]

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liv!! 7teen cabin 10 infp