-

Rick has always harbored an unexplainable affinity for you. So clean and pure, protected by the white picket fences of Alexandria your whole life. Untainted by the horrors of what goes on beyond the barrier. Completely oblivious.

He should hate you just out of spite. But, no. Actually, quite the opposite.

It’s something about the way you carry yourself. How your bright eyes and naive optimism seem to infect everyone around you.

And your batting lashes and plump lips and easy smiles and casual touches… oh, don’t even get him started. You’re a fucking fantasy come to life.

Key word: fantasy. He knows he can’t have you. Shouldn’t even think about you like this. You’re his son’s best friend, for Christ’s sake. Young and trusting and dependent on him for protection. Not whatever the hell this is. What would you want with a broken old man like him anyway?

He snaps out of it as Carl comes barreling in, carrying your unconscious body, “Dad!”

Rick is up and taking you into his arms in no time. Had he not been in such a state of shock, Carl surely would’ve found suspicion in his father’s possessive outburst. The way he holds you like you’re his bride, one hand hooked under your thighs while the other cradles your head gently.

“What the hell happened?” He demands, deep drawl doing nothing to hide the panic in his voice.

Carl follows Rick up the stairs and into the master bedroom, rambling on about how he just wanted to help you, to teach you how to defend yourself. That when push came to shove, you couldn’t handle it. The sinister shell of what the world once was, littered in blood and guts, devasted you.

Things got messy. You got hurt.

His calloused fingers ghost over the cuts and bruises, so out of place on your soft skin.

He should’ve been there.

The thought of you exposed, vulnerable, and without him sends a shiver down Rick’s already rigid spine. He sends Carl off with a stern slap on the wrist and settles next to you, letting out a deep sigh as he holds his head in his hands.

This is going to be a long night.

-

He stays by your side for hours. Long after Carl leaves, he stays. Watching you. Waiting for you.

He’d be lying if he said the sight of you laid up in his bed doesn’t do something to him. He mentally slaps himself, trying and failing to urge his grossly inappropriate thoughts away. It’s torture.

Finally, you start to stir, or rather, startle awake. You shoot up, chest heaving up and down as you gasp for breath. “Easy, girl,” he coos, hand on the small of your back rubbing in circular motions.

“Mr. Grimes?” You blink up at him.

“Mm,” he grunts, tension spreading through his body at the title. Jesus, what is wrong with him? He distracts himself by tending to your wounds, cleaning and wrapping them with care.

His words, on the other hand, are less gentle.

“The hell were y’thinkin’, huh?”

“Told ya y’re not ready. Can’t ever fuckin’ listen.”

“Stupid girl.”

He lectures and lectures and lectures, tone so harsh that it brings you to the brink of tears.

“'m sorry, sir,” you squeak, eyes big and glossy as you gnaw at your bottom lip anxiously. “Are you mad at me?"

Your ability to render him weak with a single look and such simple words proves to be nothing short of a talent. He swears under his breath and sets everything aside, “no, honey,” he coos, resolve crumbling completely as he pulls you into his lap. “I ain’t mad at ya. C’mere.”

"Just don't want anything happenin' to you," his voice comes out softer, more intimate than he intends, thumb on your lip not helping his case much either. He's too far gone and he knows it.

"Say you understand."

"I understand, sir," you mumble obediently and part your lips wider.

"That’s a good girl," his head cocks perversely, the one his in pants twitching equally uncontrollably as he nudges his digit in one inch at a time until it disappears into your mouth. “Suck,” he whispers.

You do as told, tongue pressing to the pad of his finger and cheeks hollowing around it. Almost like second nature. He nearly loses it when your heavy lashes flutter shut and you let out a little moan, sending vibrations straight through his nerves.

“Mhm, just like that,” he groans and pumps his thumb deeper, fucking your mouth while you take it more than willingly. This is so messed up.

Without thinking, he pulls the finger out and replaces it with his lips.

"Mr. Grimes..." you whimper, peering up at him like a deer in headlights, "what're you doing?"

“Shh, ‘s okay,” he purrs, stubble rough against your delicate skin. “I’m helping you, baby girl.”

Liar.

He’s not helping anyone, himself included. But in this moment, with you breathless and squirming in his lap, he can’t bring himself to care.

He grips your hips, big hands nearly splaying around your entire waist, holding you still as he pushes his knee between your thighs.

“Feels good, don’t it?”

“Uh huh,” you nod dumbly, hips bucking against his toned thigh like they have a mind of their own. “Feels real good, sir,” you whimper out. “More...”

Fuck, he wanted to give you more, everything. But he knows he has to take his time with you, break you in a little first. “Take what you need.”

“What?” Bless your poor, innocent heart.

He chuckles and flashes a wolf-like smile, hunger evident. “Make yourself feel good. Show me you’re a big girl, sweetheart,” he coaxes, voice much too soft and silky for the words coming out.

“Yes, sir,” you nod with a new wave of determination, repositioning so your clit rubs against the thin fabric of your panties perfectly.

You grind down on his thigh, adorably hesitant until you realize how good it feels. “Oh,” you sigh shakily, plump lips parting and jaw going slack. The pleasure in the friction is undeniable and you chase after it shamelessly, dragging your cunt back and forth on his leg like a bitch in heat.

-

You already know the drill when he calls, whiny voice rasping with exhaustion as he all but begs you to come over.

Climbing through the usual window, you find him sprawled out in bed, half asleep. His shirt was long gone and his pants hung low, drawing your attention to the prominent v line peeking out.

You discard your own bottoms into his heap of clothes on the floor and carefully crawl on top of him, waving the joint under his nose. “Mmm,” he grunts, lashes fluttering open and up at you.

“Are you an angel?”

This makes you push his face into the pillow playfully. He rebounds, hastily grabbing at your clothes, trying to pull you closer.

“Hey, come here,” he pleads.

He lays his head in your lap, burying himself in your plush thighs and deeply inhaling your scent. You thread your fingers into his hair, nails gently scraping against his scalp just the way he likes.

“Missed you,” he breathes out.

“Yeah?” you coo, “Missed you too, baby.”

He bites into your skin, teeth digging in hard enough to leave marks. He whimpers as he feels you lean away to grab the lighter from his bedside table, grieving the barely lost contact.

“I’m right here,” you reassure, offering that soft smile that always made him feel better.

He looks up at you in pure admiration, pupils blown and practically heart shaped, as you light the joint and bring it to your perfectly pink lips.

Your gaze meets his as you look down and tap at his cheek—a silent ‘open.’ His lips part obediently, desperate for your approval. You blow the smoke into his mouth, all of which he takes gratefully.

Everything moves in slow motion for him. He can feel your lips brushing his… how easy it would be to kiss you. He lets out a shaky sigh as he exhales.

More puffing. More passing.

Jonathan finally felt at ease. And it isn’t just the weed. Half the high is being with you.

Your arms wrapped around him as you listen to him ramble about all of his problems, humming and nodding along. He tends to get more jittery, even shy, having your full attention like this.

And you’re just so pretty. Way too pretty to be hanging around him, taking care of him the way you do. He couldn’t unwrap himself from your finger even if he tried.

“Jonathan?” your soft voice pierces the silence, pulling him from his thoughts.

The puppy eyes snap up to you behind his low hanging lids as he gnaws at his lip anxiously, “Yeah?”

“There you are,” you purr, cupping his cheek, “thought I lost you.”

He immediately leans into your touch, turning his head and pressing a kiss to your hand. “Sorry,” he mumbles against your skin, “was just thinking.”

“About what?”

Despite his silence, the strained expression on his face says more than enough. The look of longing in his eyes that flicker between yours and your lips. The heavy rising and falling of his bare chest. A complete betrayal.

It finally clicks.

You lean in, lips hovering his as your breaths mix together in the suddenly heavy air. He’s eager to try closing space, but you pull back teasingly.

“Please…”

You give him a peck, quickly pulling away and leaving him chasing you again. It’s like a dog after a treat.

“Need you,” he whispers, big sad eyes on the brink of frustrated tears.

That’s all it takes for you to decide he deserves it. Your kiss feels better than he could have, and constantly, dreamt of.

His response is slightly delayed, due to both the drug and his utter disbelief that this is really happening. He moans into your mouth, turning into a melting mess before you.

Every sense is heightened.

The taste of each other’s tongues, the sound of lips smacking, the sweet scent of your shampoo contrasted by that homey smell of his sheets.

You feel dizzy, head still spinning as you break the kiss to catch your breath. He tries to do the same but you’re making it almost impossible with your batting lashes and swollen lips.

His heart nearly stops when you pull your shirt off and lay back with such grace. Head on his pillow, beautiful body in his bed. He must’ve died and gone to Heaven.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he groans, hands roaming freely and stopping at your panties. He presses a kiss just above the lace hem, leaving a trail all the way up to your neck. His body traps yours between him and the bed. You’re exactly where you want to be.

“Baby…” you whine, squirming under him as he sucks on a sensitive spot. Your responsiveness only motivates him further, eager to draw more of those noises out of you. His mouth attacks your neck, bruising and marking it like territory.

His lips find yours again, kissing you urgently as if he’ll die if he doesn’t. You arch into it, pulling him closer by his belt before taking it off entirely. He kicks his pants down himself, equally awkward and endearing in his excited state.

Both your panties and his boxers are torn off. Nothing keeping you apart now.

He lines his leaking tip up with your entrance, soaking your folds with an embarrassing amount of pre. Your pussy glistens from the mixture of your arousal with his, the sight so blinding he could faint.

When he finally pushes inside, something snaps. Your initial reactions are almost animalistic; you clawing at his back and him gripping your hips to keep you still like a doll—claiming each other.

You squeeze him so tight, he has to will himself not to come right then and there.

“Been wanting you like this for so long,” he admits, hiding his flushed face in your neck as he pumps into you steadily.

“Is it how you imagined?” Your lips graze his ear, licking and nibbling at the lobe, driving him crazy.

“Better—oh, fuck—so much better,” his thrusts faster and sloppier, “you’re unreal. Too good for me.” He babbles on just as erratically, speaking his filthy mind for once. You’ve never seen him like this before… so needy. And that says a lot.

“Just for you, Jonny,” you correct, “only you.”

That stupid nickname. He swears he hates it but the way he twitches inside of you says otherwise. He bites down on your shoulder, muffling the pathetic noise escaped from his throat.

He’s hanging on by a thread here, one word or touch away from filling you up. You can tell how his cock throbs like it hurts, resisting to serve you. Impress you. As if he has to.

“It’s okay, baby,” you coax, tugging him back by his hair so you can see his face, “come for me.”

You don’t have to tell him twice. His face screws up in pleasure as he slams into you, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. He shoots his heaviest load deep inside, your orgasm pulsing around him and milking every last drop.

Your bodies collapse into each other, burning hot and utterly spent. You cradle him closely, petting and shushing him. He hesitantly pulls out with your support, wincing at the brief coldness and hurrying to your side.

It's not long before you’re warm, happy, and drifting off. He stays awake just a little while longer, lazily playing with your hair and tracing your features until you're fast asleep.

“I love you, angel,” he whispers, more sure of it than anything else in his entire life. With his (not so) secret off his chest, he can sleep too.

-

“Jonathan- oh!”

Will’s yelp wakes you both right up, scrambling to cover yourselves. Poor thing should’ve knocked.

“Will!” Jonathan grumbles, sporting that annoyed older brother tone.

“Hi, Will,” you compensate with a coy smile, waving with your free hand.

“Hey,” he smiles back casually, not a hint of surprise in his face. Well, he’s not blind.

He notices how Jonathan looks at you, how he talks about you, how half his photo wall is you.

Really, it was only a matter of time.

And as it turns out, you guys got the timing just right. He’s now ten bucks richer from the ‘when will they stop being gross lovestruck idiots’ bet he took up with El, who thought it would take you guys another whole month. As far as they were concerned, you’re already part of the family.

-

You threw back shot after shot until they started tasting like water. The burn tickled your throat, putting a lazy smile on your usual pouty lips.

This smile only brightens when you see him. Standing more than a foot taller than you, glasses sitting just a little crooked, and more buttons undone to his white dress shirt than you remembered, he makes his way over with that trademark awkwardly eager demeanor.

“Clark!” You throw your arms over his shoulders, leaning against him for support as his hands gently grab at your hips to steady you. They were so big yet somehow so polite, only provoking you.

“Hey,” he beams down at you through a faint blush, “all good?” He cocks his head with concern, one hand hesitantly reaching to brush stray hair from your face, the other still lingering on your hip.

Had you been sober, you would’ve felt the way his fingers twitched against you like they wanted to move, to touch more. Like he’s been wanting to all night, hell, since he first met you.

He didn’t trust himself around you, but he also just couldn’t stay away. He tries to keep both his mind and eyes from wandering. But you make it (him) so hard, he could almost swear you do it on purpose sometimes.

Your work outfits consisted of shirts cut too low, skirts too high, and a bottom lip pulled between your teeth in concentration. God, you looked like the hot tutor in a bad porno. You even acted the part, the way you treated him like your favorite student.

Either he’s a pervert or you’re a tease. Maybe both.

He was pulled from his thoughts as you take his hand, tugging him toward the floor. With no time to process, he follows you like a lost puppy.

The music gets louder, the bass harsher, the colored lights flashier, and the crowd sweatier. Still, he could only focus on you.

Your hands raising above your head, your eyes fluttering shut, your hair bouncing with your body, and your hips swaying to the music. Pure bliss.

All he can do is stand there with overbearing admiration and attraction. He thinks you're the prettiest girl he's ever seen. And seeing you like this... it'll be seared in his memory forever, to say the least. He couldn't even try to imagine anything better.

That is until you turn around, back flush to his chest and ass pressed up against him just right. He lets out a shaky breath into your ear, his hands instinctively sliding around your waist. The intention was to still you, but he doesn't.

He can't. Not when it feels this good.

Instead, he allows himself to revel in the way you fit so perfectly in his hands. Just for a minute, a long one.

"Come on," he finally declares, strained, "let's get you home."

It takes less than a block of you struggling in your heels for Clark to decide to carry you the rest of the way. Faster and more practical, that’s all.

His big arms hold you with ease while you absentmindedly trace his jawline. The feeling of your nails on his skin sends shivers down his spine.

You walked, well, he walked in comfortable silence as you were too busy working him up with simple innocent touches and he, in turn, worked on his breathing.

Finally up the stairs and through his apartment, Clark sets you down on his bed, so gently as if he were afraid you and the moment would shatter.

You’re a delicacy.

He had pictured you in his bed a countless amount of times, dreamed of it even. Which made leaving you alone to lay in it even harder.

He would sleep on the couch, take you home in the morning, then see you at work and continue to wallow in his internal suffering.

“Stay,” you call out, voice so soft and sweet he thinks he imagined it.

“What?”

“Stay with me.”

It’s not a command, but he obeys.

There he lies in his coffin, face paler than ever, trying to make his big body small enough to fit within the imaginary walls.

You immediately close the space between the two of you, resting your head on his chest and tangling your legs with his.

You really are going to be the death of him.

Suddenly, his senses are swamped. He can feel the heat radiating from between your legs, burning him up. His body moves before his mind can stop it, hand slowly inching up your thigh. He doesn't miss the way you open your legs so willingly, only spurring him on more.

Oh my god, you're wet. That's it.

Something inside him breaks. He flips over, trapping you underneath him.

“Please, let me- can I…?” His head frustratedly drops to the crook of your neck. He huffs, as if breathing you in is the only thing grounding him.

“Use your words, Clark,” you coax, fingers threading into his hair and tugging his head back to make him look at you.

He whines.

“Can I touch you?” His fingers are practically trembling at the hem of your panties, desperate to just tear them off.

All it takes is a nod from you and that’s exactly what he does. Way past the point of self control, he throws the ripped fabric to the floor along with your dress and eases two fingers inside.

The stretch makes your mouth fall open in a broken moan. He catches your parted lips in a kiss and lets out a grunt of his own.

It’s messy.

Tongue and teeth and pent up feelings.

He works his way down, leaving a trail from your chest to your lower stomach. Then he stops, looking up at you, eyes wide and pupils blown.

This is your last chance. To stop him, to say you don’t want this, to get up and leave.

Instead, you buck your hips up. A silent plea.

You could almost swear he lets out a quiet ‘thank you’ before attaching himself to your cunt. Always with the farm boy manners.

He laps at your folds like a thirsty dog, fingers still pumping in and out of you. You writhe under him but he’s quick to hold you down, needing to keep you like this.

“Oh, fuck,” you manage out between moans, “feels so good, baby, doing so good for me.”

He can’t help but whimper in response, sending vibrations straight to your core. Looking down at him only makes matters worse. Stray curls framing his face, glasses fogged up, and hips wildly grinding into the bed.

Your head falls to the pillow harshly, face contorted in pleasure as your back arches up.

“Clark," you warn, "I’m gonna-” but he already knows, sucking on your clit while his fingers split you in half.

You cum. Hard.

On your thighs. His fingers. His face.

And he’s not done, licking up the mess you made. He doesn’t waste a drop. “Tastes like heaven,” he mumbles mostly to himself and you just watch in awe.

“Come here,” you coo, voice dripping like honey, “now, let me take care of you.”

He practically teleports to his rightful spot next to you, buzzing with anticipation. His jaw goes slack as you crawl into his lap, undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one. You slide it off his broad shoulders to find his chest heaving dramatically like he’d just run a marathon.

Your eyes drift back to his face which is tilted up, already looking at you. He doesn’t dare move a muscle, not until you say so. Poor thing can’t even see clearly through those clouded lenses, so you wipe them clear for him.

“Take them off,” he pleads, “wanna see you.”

You get rid of them and it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. He cups your face in his hands, as if in disbelief that you’re real and really here.

He whispers your name like a prayer and your lips are back on his like that. Moaning into each others mouths and dry humping like horny teenagers.

Your hand slides down his flexing abs, dipping just under the waistbands to both his pants and boxers. He takes the hint, lifting you up with one arm and tugging the last of his clothes down with the other.

His cock comes springing up and he is fucking big. Far bigger than the biggest you’ve ever had. Like not sure if it would even fit big.

You quite literally stop and stare.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, voice ironically small and faint. Did he do something wrong? Did he misread the moment? Did he mess it all up?

“Nothing’s wrong,” you’re quick to reassure him, “you’re perfect.” He turns red.

You run your thumb over his sensitive, leaking tip, collecting the pre and bringing it to your tongue.

“Oh, gosh.”

He’s never been this turned on in his life.

In need of friction, he tries fucking up into your thighs. It’s so sad, you almost feel sorry for him. He sees the look on your face and it only gets him hotter. You would definitely be making a mental note of that.

You put him out of his misery, lining it up with your entrance and sinking down. He chokes out something between and cry and growl. Like he’s the one being torn into.

You claw at his chest, gasping in pain and pleasure. You have to stop when you reach the base, adjusting to his ungodly size.

And that’s when he sees it. He shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, opening them again to the same sight. He isn’t hallucinating.

Following his eyeline, you find a distinctly huge print in your stomach. “Oh my god, Clark.”

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” His gaze flickers between your face and the bulge as he caresses it with so much care you’d think it’s a baby. His expression is so innocent, you just smile and shake your head.

“I’m gonna move now, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jesus.

The room fills with sounds of skin slapping and wet squelching with each bounce. Accompanied by filth from the two of you, of course.

“Been wanting this, wanting you.”

“I know, baby. All yours now.”

“Shittt,” he curses, maybe for the first time ever, as far as you were concerned, “say it again.”

You lean into his ear, lips grazing it as you whisper, “I’m yours, Clark.”

He bites down on your shoulder as an attempt to muffle the pathetic noise that escapes his throat. With that and the way he’s twitching inside of you, you can tell he’s getting there.

“You’re close?”

“Uh huh…” he pants out, “inside? Can I do it inside? Please?”

You couldn’t say no to him. And it’s not like you wanted to anyway.

“Go ahead baby, fill me up.”

He comes like it hurts, chanting your name as he releases into you. It’s hot and there’s a lot of it.

You’re right behind him, coming for the second time tonight. Your walls clench around him, squeezing and milking him absolutely dry. Collapsing into each other, he uses the remainder of strength to hold you tight just in case someone tries to steal you.

You’re barely awake as he carries you to the bathroom, going through all the motions of cleaning you up. Slipping you into his favorite old t shirt and tucking you in. You plant one last lax kiss on his cheek before rolling over and knocking out. He smiles himself to sleep.

-

You slept better than you ever had, lashes fluttering open to soft rays casting into the room.

Clark's room.

"Hey," his voice is just as gentle and comforting as the sun.

"Hey," you feel giddy and almost a little shy. Not used to this overwhelming sense of belonging.

"How're you feeling? Last night…” you can already hear the self doubt in his tone, the preconceived rejection he’s prepared himself for, “you were drunk…”

“Clark,” you cut him off, taking his hands in yours, “I knew exactly what I was doing. And I’d do it again.” And again and again and again.

His face lightens immediately.

“You mean it?”

You prove it with a kiss. And it’s different this time. It’s not urgent or sex driven. But loving. Taking your time since you’ve got a lot more now.