A/N: Smutty (ish) slight spoiler reference, basically I'm assuming you've seen the Slabtown promos.

Disclaimer: I don't own TWD


There's a loud buzzing in her head as her fingers falter and fumble, trembling a little before digging into the soft fabric of his worn and faded vest. A low voice—one she barely recognizes as her own—echoes in her ears, frantically questioning her actions as she tugs him forward and presses against him, molding herself into him as her lips hungrily move against his in a fast and near frantic rhythm—her feet shuffling awkwardly and body arching willingly.

She feels desperate and brazen.

Shameless.

Insatiable.

Still, through the thick haze of lust and desire that clouds her brain and fogs her focus, she can feel the very real threads of fear and anxiety as they begin to ball deep in her gut before spreading slowly, threatening to take root and consume. There's a part of her that knows that she should give herself a moment, one moment, to think and consider; to weigh her actions, and slow her heart rate. But even more than the growing uncertainty and mounting trepidation she can't help but think and concentrate on one single thought, repeating it softly, tauntingly; a selfish mantra, a repetitive and unholy chant…

More.

More.

More!

She wants more.

Needs it.

Craves it.

Demands it.

Swallowing what's left of his gruff and lingering protests—she's too young, he's not what she wants, she don't know what she's doing, it aint right—she gives herself over to feeling and sensation only; a part of her thrilling a little as she feels strong and calloused hands finally, hesitantly, come up to clumsily grip her hips; moving almost as if to push her away before pulling her towards him roughly on a desperate and broken grunt, further trapping her against muscle, leather, and heat.

So much heat.

Too much heat.

And Lord she knows she's being reckless.

Rash.

Impulsive.

Knows that her actions won't come without consequences.

But after days, weeks, months, forever; they're finally alone—no watchful eyes, whispered questions, or curious and inquiring stares. And the room is dark and her skin is hot and something inside of her is stirring and awakening and finally she feels as if she's about to really start living again.

(She's felt nothing but dead and cold and empty for far too long.)

They've been dancing around this for a while now—memories of parlor songs and pigs feet, of unanswered questions, and never giving up flooding her fast—so even though her heart is pounding and her vision is blurring, despite the way her stomach is in knots, and her hands are trembling, she knows it's okay.

It's right.

So when the world tilts a little and her back hits the mattress with an undignified little thud—his body covering hers as she curves herself into him, needing to feel his weight pressed against hers—she forces herself to relax; chases away the anxiety and doubt with the taste of his lips on hers. Cigarettes and canned peaches lingering on his tongue, stale and sweet, and familiar. Speeding things up in a blur of hastily removed clothes and unvoiced apprehensions—fumbling fingers, heaving breaths, and heated wet kisses—she blocks out the now quieter voices in her head, steadies her nerves, and gives herself over completely, silently appreciating and accepting the fact that she can.

Her choice.

Her decision.

Hers.

(She won't think about the last time a man's hands were on her, won't let her body remember clammy fingers working their way under her shirt, won't picture dark and malicious eyes undressing her without consent.

Won't consider what happened after.)

Absorbing the feel of him above her, pressing into her—branding, burning, consuming—she promises herself that no matter what happens next, whatever comes after; this moment, right here, right now, will forever be embedded deep in her memory, ingrained until her dying day.

(She refuses to think about how soon that may be, rejects the morbid thoughts of how close she's come to losing herself and him already.)

Closing her eyes as he curses low under his breath before moving to settle between her thighs, she grips his shoulders—knuckles going white with the effort—and nods her head once, signaling her answer when he whispers her name in one last devastating and nearly pained question of consent.

And as the world quiets…

As the death and hopelessness, despair and loss, that she's been carrying around with her begins to ease and fade…

She holds him tight, breathes in the scent of him, revels in the feel of him, and finally, finally remembers what it feels like to be alive.