Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This story is meant to fit in during the group's time at the Green Farm in season two. Set some point after Sophia's death, but before Shane's death and their subsequent escape when the farm becomes overrun with walkers. I found this collecting dust in my unfinished/unpublished folder (like two years old amount of dust) and decided it deserved a night on the town.
Warnings: Contains some season two spoilers, references to Daryl's past, allusions to Carol's past: domestic abuse/violence, sexual imagery, adult language, masturbation, mild exhibitionism, mature language and mature content. This is basically smut and it is all tumblr's fault really.
Sonnets during Hurricane Season
Chapter Two
He was coming out of the shower, easing the door open and zipping up his fly when someone emerged from the room on the other side of the hall. It took a second for the figure to take shape in the lingering steam, but when it did – when he realized who it was, he couldn't help but still.
Carol.
There was moisture beading down his temple, sweating through his dirty clothes as steam billowed out from the room behind him. His hand was curled around the door-jamb, fingers pruny and wrinkled, clenching around the white wash as she stared right back.
Where the hell had she come from?!
But the indignance, if it had ever been there in the first place, faded as he took her in. He watched her watch him as her eyes lingered on his slicked backed hair. Pausing for a fraction on the two buttons he'd left open underneath his vest, on the clean skin that was sticking to his dirty clothes before dipping downwards.
He cocked his head. For a woman who'd just suffered a loss, and a hell of a big one at that, she looked remarkably interested.
She'd been waiting. For some reason, he knew that right away. Because she was leaning up against the wall like she owned it, one hip hitched, showcased in a pair of green khakis and a cream colored blouse that did something stupidly attractive to her skin. It highlighted the fading sunburn that lurked around the jut of her collarbone and the freckles that seemed to span just about every fucking where.
She cocked her head right back, as if waiting for him to say something.
His tongue curled in his mouth – voiceless. Because she wasn't waiting for him to jerk a thumb and tell her the bathroom was free. Or for him to apologize for staying in just a titch too long, slicking the walls and fogging the mirrors until you were breathin' more water than air.
No. She was waiting for something else entirely.
He nearly bit off the tip of his tongue when she moved, kicking off from the frame and closing the distance between them with a confidence he immediately envied. He let himself be backed into the bathroom, keeping his mouth shut when she raised a finger to her lips and locked the door behind her.
He fell back on the toilet seat, forced to look up as she leaned in, gently intruding on his space, as if expecting him to tell her to stop at any moment. But he didn't. Instead, he met her head on, chewin' on the inside of his cheek as she stared back, one hand resting on her hip as her scent rose in the close space. And in spite of himself, his prick throbbed. Pressing up, hard and painful against his zipper as he squirmed, wincing as the plastic lid warped and popped under the strain.
He raised a brow.
Momma's got game.
Those were some god damned sphinx eyes if he'd ever seen 'em.
And as if to prove him right, she sunk down on her haunches, level with him now as she reached up and trailed a hand down the bare skin at his nape. They lingering there for at a long moment, all cool tips and sharp rounded points, skimming across the worn, sweat-crusted material until the flat of her palm was resting on his thigh.
His pulse thrummed. Everything suddenly seemed surreal, slow - like molasses circling the rim of a jar – sullen but sweet.
He wasn't stupid. He knew where this was goin'. And while he had no idea why, he couldn't deny that he wanted it. Want her. She'd grown on him since the quarry. She probably even understood him, too. Kindred spirits, 'in shit.
He blinked when she started tugging on his vest, encouraging him to shrug out of it as she dropped the worn leather to the side, dotting the floor with shucked clothes and mingled footprints as he sucked in a breath.
He felt fucking winded.
He let her do the same with his button up, leaving him in nothing but a filthy black tank before she decided to level the playing field. There was nothing rushed about it as she slowly unclasped the first button, parting the gauzy fabric as the curve of a breast, high and snug in a simple white bra, came into view.
Beautiful.
Every button she undid seemed like an out, like even now she was telling him without words that he could up and run and she'd let him off the hook. That she understood. And that either way, she wouldn't hold it against him. An emotion rose, high and cloying in the back of his throat as the blouse slipped from her shoulders, gliding down her hips to pool across the tiles. One sleeve was flung out – ghosting across the side of his vest as he looked down at his feet.
He couldn't remember the last time anyone had cared enough about him to remind him that he had a choice in anything. Not even Merle.
There was a small smile on her face – encouraging and heated as she tipped his chin up. And without really even thinking about it, he braced himself against the lid and lifted up. He missed her lips by a millimetre, gifting her cheek with a barely there flutter of chapped lips and, mortifyingly enough, a hint of tongue.
Still, it was the first kiss he knew he actually wouldn't regret come morning, so he figured that had to count for something.
Her laugh was soft, breathless and pleased. And when she brought their lips together, properly this time, he was only vaguely aware of his undershirt going the way of his vest and button up. He got lost in the feeling of plush lips sliding against his, of teeth that bit ever so gently, sucking and coaxing until his mind and body remembered how this whole kissing thing actually worked. Because before he knew it, he had a lapful of too hot skin and lean limbs that had no business smelling as sweet and wholesome as they did.
And really, he couldn't help but feel like firecrackers on the Fourth of fuckin' July.
It wasn't until she wriggled free, dancing around in the tiny space in order to squirm out of her pants that he fully realized he was naked from the waist up. He was naked. But he didn't feel like it.
Huh. That was new.
He was used to making excuses, excuses for the scars, the bruises, for keepin' his shirt on whenever he could manage it. But with her, he didn't have to, he'd seen her bruises. When Ed had still been alive he'd seen them on the inside of her arm, seen the tender way she'd carried herself. They were on equal ground – matched.
He had to remind himself to breathe when her bra hit the floor.
He went willingly when she tugged him up by the belt loops. Her hands tangled in his belt, tossing it to the floor behind him with a loud jangle of metal on metal. He didn't know what to do with his hands, uncertain of what she wanted as the calloused bumps of his palm flirted with the curve of her hip, index finger sneaking along the seam of her undone khakis before jerking away, guilty.
He couldn't help but ask when she got the last button undone and let his jeans, slack and crusted with dirt, pool around his ankles. He had to know. He had to be sure.
"You sure you want this?" he rasped. "Not that I'm complainin', but you sure this is what you want?" gently as he could manage, voice rough edged with arousal.
His muscles quivered, holding himself back as greed and want rose, pricking across his skin in waves of heat as he thought about how she'd feel against him. Her breasts crushed against his chest. He wanted to feel her, taste her. He wanted to use every pathetic scrap of knowledge he possessed to make her feel him. Only him.
But she just smiled, sure but feisty, like she'd had enough of gentleness, enough of sweetness and grief and just wanted him. And deep down, that was the rub of it, wasn't it? She'd chosen him. Not Rick, not Shane, not any of the others, him.
It was only when he answered it, the shadow of a smile tugging across the bow of his lips that he suddenly realized what this was. This was the climax of all those little moments, the slow progression of events that had started that moment at the quarry camp. When he'd handed her that ax and watched her take something of herself back from the monster she'd called her husband.
This was where they'd been leading up to this whole god damned time. The quarry, the CDC, the highway, hell, even Sophia? Nothin' more than bread crumbs spiraling out, leading all the way back to the bigger picture.
It had been inevitable, he realized. Eyes going heated as his thumbs slipped under the band of her thin cotton panties. The material was already damp, sticking to her skin in a sodden blot of sweet smelling musk – filling the air with her scent as saliva slicked across the flat of his tongue.
And sure, hell yeah it was wrong - flawed. It was too fast, too soon and for god sakes the woman was still grieving. But at the same time, it was also wholesome and good. It was about forgetting, living, healing and a thousand other things he was too distracted to name.
It was solace wrapped up in a temper tantrum, wrapped up in an enigma and Christ - he'd never wanted anything so bad in his entire god damned life.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter after this! Stay tuned. Should be up on Saturday.