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foli-vora · 1 year

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once again in your arms

joel miller x f!reader

A/N: mwahah, hello boys i’m baaack (10 points to whoever knows what movie that quote's from). took an unexpected break coz life, but i’m ready to get back on track. this was requested by a beautiful anon a while back (sorry for the wait angel), but i hope you enjoy! x

Request: hello! so this is kinda angsty: joel and the reader are married and have a baby (plus sarah, obviously). the day of the outbreak, reader and baby were in town and she couldnt call joel (or viceversa) cause the phone lines were down. they were separated for a few years until they arrives at the quarantine zone he's in, and he recognizes them in the crowd.

Word count: 4.5k-ish

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, birth and having a baby, domestic fluff, angst, pre and post outbreak, some spoilery things if you haven’t seen the show yet, heartbreak, loss of a child, apocalypse things, i sweat at the idea of caring for a baby during the end of the world, soft reunions, fluff, cameos of my fave oc’s made in a different series

It’s a fact you had learnt in the very early days of your relationship... the Miller men knew how to care for a lady. Whether it was Tommy sliding in to open the door for you before you could reach for the handle, or Joel draping you in blankets and taking on the responsibility of keeping your hot water bottle warm to fend off cramps for the evening, not a moment went by when you didn’t feel the constant reassurance of their care.

Especially now, fresh from the hospital and tender from your days of excruciating pain and an extensively long labour, Tommy quickly slaps the pillows into something plusher, hands gentle as they guide you down until you’re reclining into the armchair.

Joel keeps an eye on you from across the room, the brief wash of concern slipping away with the easy smile that grows along his lips when your eyes meet.

He rocks the wrapped bundle in his arms softly, a big hand dwarfing the small head that peaks from the blankets. His fingers brush through the light smattering of hair peeking out from the cotton burrito, his index running along the tiny peak of a nose and you feel your heart swell in your chest.

“Dad,” Sarah whines with an eager smile, shifting restlessly on the couch, “come on, I’ve been waiting all weekend.”

“Oh my god,” Joel drawls sarcastically, “all weekend? Baby girl, how are you survivin’ right now?”

“Shut up,” her grin widens, “give me my baby brother before I explode.”

“Well, we don’t want that mess all in the livin’ room,” Joel quips, stepping over your weekend bags tossed on the floor and closer to the couch, “ain’t treadin’ your brain all into the rug—thing was damn expensive.”

Sarah shrugs, readjusting her body to sit straighter and holding her arms out expectantly, “Least I have a brain.”

Tommy snorts in amusement, grinning at his brother's expense, “That’s true.”

“Are you still here?” Joel side eyes him, barely fighting the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

They bicker, throwing their little snippy sibling comments back and forth before Sarah clears her throat, her eyebrows rising in impatience.

“Alright, alright. Here, watch his head,” Joel instructs gently, a smile playing along his lips, “that’s it, baby, you got him.”

It’s a beautiful picture, Sarah carefully bringing the baby closer and tucking him carefully into her arms, and the sentiment is shared with Tommy as the flash and click of a camera goes off. He removes the polaroid sliding from the slot and sits it on the coffee table to develop before instructing Joel to slide in next to her and smile.

Both Joel and Sarah are oblivious to his instruction, lost in the bubble that has overcome them. You find peace watching them, warmth spreading along your limbs by the sweet tenderness of it all. The love is clear between the three of them cuddled on the couch, and it’s almost too much for your heart to bear.

Sarah beams down at her baby brother, cooing soft words and stroking a gentle finger down Matthew’s cheek. Joel throws an arm to rest on the top of the couch behind Sarah, turning into her and answering her questions quietly.

8 pounds, 3 ounces. Smaller than you. No, he didn’t cry at all—gave me and the docs a damn heart attack. She sure did a great job.

Your Joel was never a man to wear his heart on his sleeve, but the emotion shines from his eyes, bleeds through the lines in his face and it’s enough to bring tears building along your lash line.

“You okay over there?”

His familiar drawl brings your attention to him, and you smile at him, tired and fully at peace. It’s bliss, despite the ache of birth still hanging in your limbs. M

“I’m fine,” you respond quietly, lids heavy with exhaustion, “I’m just so happy.”

He fucking beams. His grin creases his cheeks and he nods softly.

“Me too, honey,” he mutters, turning his attention back to his children and playing with a strand of Sarah’s hair as he gazes down at Matthew, “me too.”

—

Four months later.

Chaos.

Matthew wails against your chest, the deafening sounds of screams, bullets, sirens and explosions setting him off into hysterics. Your arms tighten around him, keeping his face tucked closely into your throat so your scent could hopefully provide him some reassurance.

You crouch beside cars, you run until your legs ache. You take cover in stores, the soles of your shoes crunching over broken glass of the shattered windows. Every phone you try gives nothing but a dull tone. Radios are filled with static and emergency broadcasts play on the view screens you run past in your effort to escape whatever the hell is happening.

Worry stirs along the edges of your mind. Is Joel okay? Sarah? Tommy? You can’t call him, you can only run and hope nothing takes you down in your effort to get back to your car. You pass people crouched over others, blood smearing along their lips as they tear unforgivingly into the flesh of another.

It’s a nightmare, and it’s everywhere you look.

Almost there.

You see the sign of the parking lot and it only makes you run that much faster, even though your legs threaten to give out at any minute. You pass an elderly man crouching beside a woman, blood flowing from the open gash on her throat, and the ache clutching your heart only increases when his pleas reach your ears over the mayhem.

“Gloria,” he mutters in an aged rasp, “up you get, love. You’re alright, come on now—”

You can’t help it.

Somewhere in your mind you can feel Joel screaming at you to keep running, to get yourself to safety and not give a damn about anyone other than Matthew, but the image of this man cradling his wife’s wrinkled, bloodied hand is enough to get you advancing to him before anyone could hurt him.

“Sir—”

He ignores you, too busy with brushing the woman’s blood soaked white hair from her face.

“Sir, we have to move—”

You wrap your fingers around his shoulder and shake firmly. His head gives a shake of denial as he clutches his wife’s hand tighter.

“No… no, she’ll need help—she has a bad ankle.”

Shifting Matthew unsteadily onto your hip, your fingers wrap under his arm and tug him onto his feet. He fights you, bats your hold away with an infuriated expression at your rough handling of him.

“I’m so sorry, but she’s gone—we have to run. I—I have a car, please… just come with me, please!”

“I won’t leave her—”

“Please… they’re coming! I—would she want this for you? To die like this?”

He blinks, his frown softening ever so slightly before screams pierce the air, much closer than you anticipated, and terror claws up your throat until you feel you’ll vomit.

You hold out a hand, relieved when his own rough, calloused hand finally takes it, and then you’re running, albeit slower than before, but you make it to your car with no issues.

You dive into the driver's seat, passing Matthew over to the stranger when he makes an impatient gesture to hold him and then you’re tearing out of the lot, running down the few rabid looking beings that advance on you with bloodied expressions of hunger.

You don’t think you take a proper breath until you’re past a military barricade that had seemingly been destroyed in the attack, flying down the highway and around other panicked drivers with sweat slicking your skin.

Taking a deep breath to slow the brutal pounding of your heart, you look at Matthew, now calmed and looking up at the stranger with an obvious shine of curiosity. The old man is clearly softened by the baby, letting his small hand wrap around his finger and wiggling it playfully in his hold.

“That’s Matthew,” you mutter shakily, meeting the eyes of the elderly man before gazing back out the windscreen. You take another breath before giving your own name, tears biting at your eyes when you utter the name Miller.

Do you still have a husband? A step daughter? A brother in law? The unknown scares you, outright fucking terrifies you.

The man nods in your peripheral vision.

“Harold,” he finally says, voice rough and tired.

—

There are people everywhere, screaming, crying.

People run, shout, wail over family and friends.

Tears have long dried on his face, his head thumping relentlessly with the remnants of his heartbreak. Tommy’s grip is firm on him, tugging him out of the way of people tearing down in their direction, pulling him to where a makeshift table is thrust under a tent as a reception of sorts.

He doesn’t care about the people already there asking about their family and friends. He shoves them out of the way, hands shaking as they clutch the edge of the weak table.

“I’m lookin’ for a woman… she’d be with a baby boy, not even four months old—”

His voice shakes. He can’t get it to stop. He struggles to get out the detailed descriptions of you both down to the clothes you were wearing, speaking your names through trembling lips. His stomach jolts at the thought of you somewhere, lying helplessly on the floor with your flesh getting torn into while Matthew screams in his car seat.

He’s a damn baby. He wouldn’t know what’s happening, wouldn’t know why his mama’s not there with him—

The woman gives a small expression of sympathy over the thin surgical mask covering her mouth, “I’m sorry, sir. We’ve had no babies that young come through, and nothing like that has come in over the radios.”

He retches.

His body heaves, almost as if it’s rejecting the mere idea that you weren’t somewhere safe waiting for him. He had failed. Failed to keep Sarah safe, failed to keep Matthew safe, you—the vows he had made now meant shit. He hadn’t been there for better or worse. He’d hadn’t done what a father should have and kept his kids free from harm.

Sarah had died, terrified and in agony, in his hold. Her bloodied handprints remain dry and caked on his arms. Matthew had died, not even making it to six months. A baby, still fresh to the world, only just able to hold his own head up. You had died, not knowing where he and Sarah were, if they were even safe.

Tommy hauls him to a close trash can, rubbing a firm hand up and down his back as he chokes on vomit, tears soon streaming down his cheeks when his body eventually has nothing left to give. His heart hammers in his chest, thundering against his ribs and filling his ears until he’s unaware of the noises around him.

“They’re gone,” he whispers hoarsely, clutching at the rim of the trash can in an effort to keep himself up.

“Now we don’t know that—”

“God damn it, Tommy, you saw what it was like out there!”

Tommy sighs, his own eyes filling with tears. “We gotta keep hope, Joel—”

“Hope?” Joel spits at his brother, “What good is hope against that shit out there? She would’ve been alone, you know as well as I Matthew only would’ve slowed her down. They were in the city. We couldn’t even keep safe out here! They’re—they’re gone. My wife… my baby boy, my baby girl—”

The sobs tear from his chest, harsh and painful. He mourns for hours, unseeing of the flurried movement still happening around him, his sorrow mixing with the flood of agony filling the makeshift safe zone with every new unhurt civilian looking for someone familiar.

Tommy doesn’t take his arms away from around his brother until dawn starts to pierce the horizon,

—

Two years later.

He still fills your thoughts daily.

Your life, your old life, would flash behind your eyelids at night when sleep would finally claim you. You’d feel his touch, kiss his lips, touch his face. It all felt so normal. The dreams would be nothing but memories, and somehow, it made them feel more like nightmares.

Mornings making breakfast with Sarah, dancing to the music falling from the radio. Family game nights, watching Tommy and Joel get more and more competitive with each game. Grocery shopping with Joel, simply wandering down the aisles and relishing in his comforting touch warming your lower back.

You could never quite make peace with the possibility that he was dead. It didn’t sit right. The idea that your Joel had been lost to the disaster that had claimed the world just seemed impossible. Your heart rejected the notion, refused to accept that its counterpart wasn’t somewhere out there, living, breathing, surviving,

Sarah and Tommy, too.

They had to be somewhere, holed up safely and keeping well. They had to.

“They’ve established a quarantine zone close by,” you say quietly, mindful of Matthew sleeping on your lap, “it’ll be a lot safer there than out here. I think we should give it a go… find a more secure place to live. I’ve heard they have work available, good flow of food and medicine…”

Harry snorts quietly, shifting under his old, thick jacket, “That doesn’t mean they’re happy giving it out. There’ll be a catch somewhere.”

You eye the long carved frown in his features and lean forward to fix the blanket covering his tired legs, “Don’t you think we should try at least?”

“Maybe they’ll put a bullet in me,” Harry grumbles moodily, “I’m old—I can’t work like they’ll want me to. Although, it’ll beat living through this bloody nightmare any longer.”

“Harold,” you chide softly, heart aching at the thought of losing the grumpy old man after spending so long by his side.

He’d quickly become a grandfather figure of sorts, to both you and Matthew. The little boy was obsessed with him, and had been since the day you had come together, and though he tried to hide it behind his usual icy facade, Harry was smitten, weak from the boy learning to call him pa.

“He’ll be safer in there,” Harry finally grumbles, gazing at the sleeping toddler. “This is no life for him out here. It’s getting worse and worse. Stability will do him good.”

“And you’ll come with us?”

He sighs sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine—I’ll come. But if they don’t kill me, I’ll be bloody upset with you.”

You snort in amusement, a grin curling your lips. “Fair enough. Now drink your soup.”

“I’m not hungry. You have it.”

He shoves it away, pushing it in your direction, as he usually does. It’s a daily fight—him refusing food in favour of giving you and Matthew more, ensuring you both never went hungry despite his own hunger and rapid weight loss due to the sudden lack of food.

You give him a playful frown and hold the small cup out to him.

“Don’t make me force feed you, old man, drink it.”

—

The walls of the Quarantine Zone are a lot more daunting than you had originally thought they would be. They tower high, and the barely there movement of soldiers along the front and top of it have nerves start to build in the pit of your stomach.

Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Surely they wouldn’t shoot without asking questions? Would they even give you a chance? What happens to you if the zone is full? Would they let you go on your merry little way?

God, you feel sick.

The ice creeping along your skin doubles, and you tighten your grip on the baby carrier strapped to your chest. Matthew hums quietly against your back, his little fingers tracing random patterns along your shirt as he bounces with your each step. Harry walks somewhat steadily beside you, his cheeks reddening with the more distance you cover.

He gives you a reassuring nod when you look to him for guidance, and you continue forward, swallowing the lump building in your throat when you become aware of them yelling about your presence.

Their guns are raised when you eventually make it closer, and it’s automatic to throw your hands up in surrender.

“We’re not infected!” you shout, hoping they’d listen.

A soldier steps forward. “On the ground, now!”

“Shit. Okay! Please, I—we’re not infected—”

“Get. On. The. Ground!”

“I have a kid! I have a—please, we’re not—”

“Get the kid out.”

Panic flares to life in your chest. You fight the tremble in your fingers as they raise to the clip across your chest, winding a supportive hand around to your back to keep Matthew from falling out of the carrier as it loosens from your torso.

After a bit of shifting, Matthew stands on shaky legs, his eyes darting between you and the few soldiers with their weapons raised.

“It’s okay, baby,” you soothe softly, “we gotta do what the man says, okay? Can you do that for mama?”

You continue to lower until your front hits the rubble covered ground, and you motion for Matthew to do the same, heart breaking as he cowers in fear and falls to his knees before copying your posture and hiding his face against the road.

More voices fill your ears, the obvious presence of more soldiers swarming from the gate causing your pulse to skyrocket as Harry lowers on the other side of the small toddler.

“Check ‘em.”

“Everything’s fine,” you murmur, keeping your gaze on Matthew and smiling when he peeks at you from between his fingers, “we’re okay. Keep your eyes on me, baby. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

It stings.

You automatically flinch away from the device someone holds at your neck, freezing when more weapons are raised in your direction. The device gives a small beep and the soldier gives a loud clear, before moving for Matthew.

He cries out at the pain, his chest heaving with his growing sobs. The guns move in his direction and you’re flying towards him before you can even think, yelping when arms pull you away from your baby before you can console him. His screams worsen.

“Please,” you beg, “he’s just a baby—!”

The soldiers remain emotionless.

Another beep, another clear.

The fingers digging into your arms loosen and then you’re free, hurriedly crawling on all fours until Matthew’s in your arms, his tear stricken face pressing into your throat. You soothe him softly, murmuring how well he did and that he’s safe with you while the soldiers move their attention to Harry.

When the device gives a final clear, another soldier steps forward, a small smile stretching his lips.

“Sorry about that,” he says, stepping forward until he’s only a step away, “but we can’t be too careful.”

It’s surreal being around people again.

For the longest time, it’s just been you, Matthew and Harry. The people left after the event had turned cruel, desperate for any remaining resources and resulting to violence left, right and centre. It’d been sheer luck that you three had escaped some of the nastier characters you’d come across during your treks. Sure, you’d lost a few supplies every now and then, but you were thankful you all were still here at least.

The man leads you into an office of sorts, with rusted old chairs to sit on while he goes about ‘registering’ you. You’re surprised at the process of it all, confused when he says you’re in luck because after this morning, there are new rooms available. What does that mean? Had something happened to the occupants?

Your stomach turns, but you dare not dwell on it.

Safety for Matthew, that’s all that matters. That’s why you’re here.

It feels like hours before you’re stepping into the sun again, lead out onto a relatively normal looking street with written directions to your new accommodation. The door bangs loudly behind you, fully closing you from the horrors of the outside world, and you try not to focus on the looks of curiosity, borderline hostility, as you start to walk further into the QZ, the height of the wall casting a large shadow over your path.

There’s a main square of sorts, filled with small stations of people selling various items. Your stomach grumbles at the sight of shitty looking food, desperate to eat something other than the random old bits and pieces you’d find through your looting, but you’d have to begin work to even afford a single half burnt bread roll. The two ration cards you had received at your ‘registration’ wouldn’t make a dent in what you’d need to afford any of it.

You pass the sellers, sharing a sullen look with Harry as he too realises he wouldn’t have enough for any of it.

There’s crowds, and you try to keep to yourself as you move, but something catches your eye, as if your sight had been automatically pulled to that direction and you’re oblivious to the people bumping into your frame.

For a moment, you’re sure you’re dreaming.

Did they end up shooting you at the gate? This couldn’t be real, couldn’t be unfolding right before your very eyes. You feel alive. You feel your pulse, your breath. You feel Matthew shift in the carrier, you hear Harry making comments about the people and the surrounding buildings.

You can’t look away.

You’re pulled in his direction, certain with every bone in your body that it’s him. It’s him.

The man turns, and his eyes are meeting yours through the crowds before you can even brace for it, and you see the moment it hits him.

He freezes, his eyes unblinking as if they don’t want to risk losing the hallucination his mind had conjured. He steps forward, and again, and again, slow in his movements, cautious.

“Joel?” You breathe, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear you over the bustle of your surroundings and the distance between you, but he must see your lips mould his name because then he’s running, ducking through the people and heading straight your way.

You start to jog, careful not to disturb the carrier holding Matthew too much, and then he’s there. He’s there and he’s real and he’s saying your name so sweetly, a broken rasp of disbelief and a tremble taking over his hands as they raise to cup your cheeks.

You sob at his touch.

The tears flow from your eyes and you grasp at whatever you can on him, your fingers tightening around the jacket hanging from his frame as you attempt to pour two years of loss into your embrace. He cradles the back of your head, keeps your face pressed tightly against the dirtied skin of his throat as he mutters brokenly about how he thought you were dead and that he’d missed you so damn much.

“Oh baby boy,” he rumbles, noticing the baby carrier and the toddler within it with tears filling his lash line, “look at you.”

You hurriedly unclip the harness and sweep Matthew out of it, bringing him into the middle of your embrace. Joel runs a hand along Matthew’s cheek before sweeping down and kissing him on the forehead, his tears dropping over the toddler’s cheeks in obvious relief and utter joy.

“How—”

You shake your head, nuzzling into the rough hand holding your cheek. “Later. We’ll talk later about everything, I just—god, I’ve missed you so fucking much, Joel.”

His head lowers until his forehead is pressed against yours, and his eyes flutter closed. You feel it in the simple gesture, how much he had missed you, mourned for you. He gives a small nod, followed by a quiet okay, before another presence suddenly makes themselves known.

Your body jolts with the weight hitting your side, and you jump in fright before your eyes come across a slightly skinny looking Australian Shepherd desperate for attention.

His tongue lolls from his mouth as he attempts to lap at your cheek, and you chuckle through your stream of steady flowing tears at the cheerful dog.

“Chip,” Joel grunts in slight annoyance, shoving the fluffy beast away from where he tries to jump and sniff at Matthew’s cheeks, “down—down, boy!”

“You have a dog?” You ask in curiosity, reaching out to pet the animal. Your smile widens when he eagerly nuzzles into your touch with an excited whine.

“He was wanderin’ the QZ when I came in,” Joel replies, one of his hands leaving your waist to deliver a rough rub to the dogs head, “followed me home one night and hasn’t stopped botherin’ me since. Tommy said he’d be good for me.”

“Tommy’s here? And Sarah?” You perk immediately in excitement, your eyes flying past his shoulder to look for his brother and the other part of your heart that’s been missing for years. “I’m so glad they’re alright, where are they?”

You don’t notice how considerably quiet he’s gone until you look at him. He’s defeated, guarded, his dark eyes drawn to the floor. He can’t look at you. Why can’t he look at you? What’s happened?

“Joel?”

“Sarah… she—she—”

He struggles to finish the sentence, the words stick uncomfortably on his tongue. His features twist in clear anguish and you feel the world around you shatter. Sarah, she… she’s gone? When? How?

Your heart sinks, weak and broken by the unexpected news. Your mind struggles to wrap itself around the notion that you’d never see her again, that the last time you saw her was truly the last.

Regret begins to build in the pit of your stomach. That last day… you should’ve hugged her tighter, kissed her forehead, told her how much she meant to you and how lucky you were to be in her life—

The tears begin again.

“Oh Joel, I-I’m so sorry,”

You both share the heartache, wrapped in each other's arms and breathing in the other. His tight hold doesn’t loosen for a second, and you attempt to put every ounce of energy in your tired body into returning it.

The world stands still, just like it did that cursed day.

How can you be so elated that he’s here, and yet be filled with so much pain at the same time? How long has he been lost, no doubt blaming himself for his baby girl not making it to where he is now? You mourn her, mourn him for being lost, stuck on a path of despair and believing he had lost everything for so long.

What had become of him? What had the pain done to him? Surely it would’ve been pure torture for the man who practically breathed family.

Harry can wait. Introductions can wait. Food, drink, sleep—you care for none of it. Not now. All that matters is that Joel is here, truly here in the flesh, wrapped in your arms and holding the child he hasn’t seen for two years. All that matters is that you had found one another in the violent hellscape the world had become.

Peace, but that tranquillity will forever be tainted by loss, a void hanging in the midst of relief, never to be filled again.

tag list 1: @maievdenoir, @javier-pena, @lv7867, @dihra-vesa, @katronautt, @radiowallet, @januarystears, @missminkylove, @beskarprincessjenny, @mswarriorbabe80, @danidrabbles, @sergeantbannerbarnes, @amneris21, @eri16, @absurdthirst, @hnt-escape, @acourtofsnakes, @ezrasbirdie, @mstgsmy66, @lovesbiggerthanpride, @coaaster, @sherala007, @kelseyxyeslek, @greeneyedblondie44, @wyn-n-tonic, @you-got-me-starry-eyed, @shirks-all-responsibilities, @withasideofmeg, @harriedandharassed, @andruxx, @buckybarneshairpullingkink, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @prostitute-robot-from-the-future, @tanzthompson, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @hope-for-the-best-98, @fangirl-316, @christina-loves, @jediknight122, @hallway5, @xoxabs88xox, @nicolethered, @churchill356, @massivecolorspygiant, @just-here-for-the-moment, @gracie7209, @pinkie289, @lavenderluna10, @goodgriefitsawildworld,

tags that have continuously not worked will be deleted from my taglist soon x

#joel miller x reader #joel miller f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x wife!reader #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader

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sinsandsweetness · 5 months

Text

cw- smutty stuff, free use concept but very much consensual (Rick x reader mostly but all of the boys x reader mentioned too)

note- small blurb that’s totally not proofread, and will probably edit at another time. haven’t written in a few weeks so feeling rusty… feedback is apreciated or just general commentary ofc. have been in a really lovey, gentle, sweet smut mood lately so this is what ur getting sorry. don’t know why I’m so obsessed with reader being a form of escape but… ya. enjoy:)

Been having the filthiest thoughts about being the community free use slut. Everyone using you to relieve some stress. Yes, you read that right; everyone. You’re their perfect little plaything that will never say no. That just gets on her knees and takes it. No matter when or where.

It starts way at the beginning, with Shane and Daryl and Merle. Them taking turns dragging you to their tents, late at night when everyone else is asleep. Sometimes it’s just one of them, but other times they share. Take you at the same time and fill as many holes as they can. Leave you with the faintest blue and purple marks scattered all over your neck for the rest of the group to squint at in the morning. To gossip and whisper about over breakfast. Your berry stained lips and innocent eyes reminding them all of a pretty little doll they seem to treat you like.

And then you get to the prison, where things are tense, and discover that your… well, intimate service are needed more than ever. Acting as the only acceptable vice for the group to take their frustrations out on, in what you would describe as a relatively healthy way. At least considering the alternative. So while Rick is losing his mind and you’re already sharing a cell, he decides to try what a few of his friends have been doing right from the start. Using your pretty mouth as the escape they claim that works so well.

And he’s pleasantly surprised at the fact you’re more than willing. To let him urge you into the cell way before the sun has set. To let him drag you down to his bunk in the middle of the night where he doesn’t waste any time peeling your sleep shorts off in a mess of tangled sheets and blankets. And the whole time he’s with you, your lips burn hot as they trail down his neck and nip at newly sunburnt skin. You kiss him without thinking and your tongue tastes like toothpaste and bad decisions as it traces over his own and your hands seem to know the exact spots that have him pushing his jeans down to his ankles in almost shameful, record breaking time. But he doesn’t seem to mind because most importantly, having you right beneath him in the dim lit concrete cell, means that his mind, even just momentarily, is finally blank. For a few minutes, as long as you keep bringing your lips back to meet his, he has nothing to worry about. No crying newborn baby, no walkers, no fast spreading diseases or quarantines or mysterious unsolved murders. Nothing. Well, except the volume at which your pretty little moans are crawling their way up your chest and taunting your next door cell mates.

It’s when he finally has your legs wrapped around his waist and you’re so fucking warm and holy shit you’re wet, and your hands won’t leave his shoulders and your nails are scratching and raking down his back in the most pleasurable burn he could ever imagine… that, that is when it comes to him. When he finally fucking get’s it.

He understands exactly why every time it came to going on a run or splitting the group up, Daryl was always first to claim you as his partner. Why Shane was so obsessed with fixing some damn watch he found you so you could meet him out behind the barn or on the edge of the woods wearing nothing but a sundress and a smile, not a minute later then midnight. He even understood why Merle was acting uncharacteristically nicer to you than anyone else as he pouted and paced around his cell, begging for all kinds of attention but only really wanting the one. The one that was proving to be completely and irrationally addictive the more Rick thought about it. The more he focused on your skin under his hands and how sweet your voice sounded when you could no longer form a coherent sentence.

While he catches his breath, arms still wrapped around your waist, he can feel your legs trembling on either side of him as your hands continue to cup his face ever so gently. He doesn’t even open his eyes when you lean in to bite his lip and drag it out slowly before peppering sweet, meaningless kisses all down his jaw, neck and shoulders. It’s then, when your touch is making the back of his neck tingle and his breath hitch in his throat that he can’t help but feel like he’s been missing out. A whole year of this that the other guys have been experiencing? It doesn’t really seem fair. Not now that he’s had a taste. Now that he knows exactly why every man you’ve encountered since the world went to shit, has taken such an extreme and undeniable liking to you. Not now that he feels like he has to make up for lost time, pressing his forehead against yours and rocking himself back into you for the second time that night. You don’t object. You just spread your legs even further and pull at the damp curls at the base of his neck, silently urging him to keep on moving.

You don’t mind being used. Not really. It’s what you’re there for. To distract him from the horrors of the world and remind him that there’s still at least one thing worth living for. Even if it’s just a warm body in a shared bottom bunk. You’re there to ensure that the scowl lines on his face soften and his eyes close in pure, unfocused elation while he forces your hips even deeper into the mattress with involuntary moan that escapes your lips.

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