Prompt (from MsKathy): Beth breaks her arm and Daryl has to bathe her. And wash her hair.
**I will consider prompts for future chapters, so if you're looking for a particular scene for these two, drop me a review or send me a PM with your idea.**
AN: Let's pretend that a) Beth sprained her wrist instead of her ankle, b) they found an abandoned farmhouse (instead of a trap-y funeral home), and c) Beth wasn't subsequently snatched. This started as a PWP one-shot, and then Beth's intimacy issues got in the way; so now it's going to be a series of vignettes about the two of them overcoming their respective relationship issues in the middle of a ZA of all fucking places. Enjoy!
You need two hands to wash your hair, especially when you have to use a pitcher of water to wet and rinse it. I miss showers—even a camping shower would work right now.
"Damn sprained wrist," I say to myself as I set the fourth pitcher of water I carried up the stairs on the counter surrounding the sink basin. I spot two toothbrushes in a cup on the opposite side of the basin and realize the people who lived here probably left with quite literally the clothes on their backs.
I wet one of the toothbrushes with the water and inspect it. I decide that using a stranger's new-looking toothbrush is the least of my worries in this world and proceed to scrub at my teeth. My free hand is throbbing so I raise it above my head to relieve the pressure of blood rushing to the area. I really hate being helpless, no matter what Daryl thinks about me being some kind of pretty, little princess, who's had things done for me my whole life. I think he forgets the simple facts that I was raised on a farm, and the world ended when I was sixteen. I'm not a debutante; I never was. Still, I'm sick of walker guts in my hair, and we actually found a secure place—a house, even—to rest for the night.
When I'm done with my teeth I strip down to my bra and undies and think about standing in the tub and dousing myself with the pitchers of water I pumped from the well outside. Just as I work the logistics out in my brain, Daryl waltzes into the bathroom with two giant buckets of steaming water.
"Where'd those come from?" I ask, totally unconcerned with my partial nudity. I eye him as he empties one of the containers into the bathtub then reaches for one of my pitchers.
"What, you think I don't know how to boil water without a stove?" He scoffs and pours the cold water in with the hot then mixes it a little with his hands. While he washes his hands with the liquid soap I was planning to use for my sponge bath, he looks me up and down. "Nice panties," he says with a small smirk, and I half-heartedly flip him off. "Get in, princess."
I feel my face twist and my brow arch. Then I scoff back at him before dipping my toe into the water. "You're so condescending." I don't even stifle the moan rumbling in my chest; the water is divine.
Daryl shakes the excess water from his clean hands. "Ain't condescending, it's a term of endearment." He crosses the room and rifles through a drawer. In the flickering light of the candles, he looks darker and dirtier than he does in the daylight.
"Term of endearment?" I climb into the tub and settle into the water, leaning back against the quickly warming porcelain. My eyes close of their own volition. I can't remember the last time I had a bath, let alone a hot one. "Daryl Dixon, I would never have pegged you as the type to use a term of endearment," I mumble a little because I'm so relaxed.
"Yeah, well, we both know what type you pegged me as."
"Stop it." I hate that after all this time together, he still thinks I look down on him.
I can hear him shuffling around the room, clothes rustling, and water sloshing outside my warm bath. Then I feel his presence close to me. "Sit up," he says, his voice low and quiet. I open my eyes to slits—just enough to see that he's vestless and shirtless. I smile a little bit before closing my eyes again and lean forward, hanging my head.
"Good thing ya took those braids out and got the chunks of shit out," he mutters. Then the warm water hits the back of my neck and sluices over my skin and through my hair. I grab the side of the tub with my good hand and exhale long and loud. Daryl chuckles next to me. "Good?"
I hum and nod. "So good." I pause. Then, "thank you."
"Mmhmm," he answers, using the hand not dipping the pitcher into the bucket of warm, mixed water to finger through my strands and massage my scalp. His hand is large and warmed by the water. He's gentle yet firm, as always, with the way he touches and guides me. His fingers comb through, loosening tangles as much as possible. Then I hear a cap flip open and smell peppermint within seconds.
We're both silent as he massages the soap into my scalp and through my hair. The minty suds drip down the sides of my face and neck, over my chest and into the water. Once he's thoroughly worked it through my hair he works his hands down the back of my neck and shoulders. "This okay?" His voice is barely above a whisper.
I don't hesitate to nod. "Yes, please." The nod is really wobbly, though; like one of those bobble-head dolls you see in novelty shops. I dip my hand into the water and lightly splash some of it onto my chest, completely drenching my bra, as Daryl thumbs and fingers the knots in my shoulders loose. "Ya know, I should be doin' this for you."
"In a minute, princess," he says, reaching for the pitcher and slowly pouring the water over my head, neck, and back. He takes his time to work as much of the soap out of my hair as he can. It rinses surprisingly well.
I raise my head and wipe the excess water from my eyes before opening them. "Get in," I say, swirling my sprained hand in the water and watching for his reaction. We've been dancing around a certain tension between us for weeks now. I swear that every time we lock eyes, the combination to unlock them gets more and more complicated.
He's sitting on a small stool next to the tub. His eyes are smiling, and that makes me happy. He finally breaks eye contact when he stands and unbuckles his belt, though. I keep swirling my hands through the water as I watch his pants drop to the floor—belt intact in the loops. For some reason, I'm disappointed that he's wearing underwear.
"Found a closet full of clothes," he says conversationally, as he steps into the water behind me. His feet slide under my thighs and his knees brush my sides as he crouches and settles in the water. "Be able to change, if ya want." He follows the length of my dirty bra strap from the top of my shoulder to where it meets the back strap with the tip of his finger. "Looks like the woman who lived here was small like you."
"Happy to hear that," I say, reaching behind my back and unhooking the sodden bra. I carelessly toss it to the floor of the bathroom with a wet slap before leaning back into Daryl, his bare chest warmly enveloping me. We've slept like this, but never skin on skin. I feel like this space, the curve of his body and his arms were made for me; we fit together so well. He curls one arm around my waist and rests the other on the side of the tub where my good hand was gripping a few minutes before.
Up close, his skin looks smooth if sun and work worn. He has random tattoos in random places on his arms and chest, and one large one on his back. Still, I'm always surprised at how healthy and young he looks, when so many others look aged beyond their years. I briefly wonder just how old he really is, but then I realize it doesn't matter one damn bit.
I sigh with satisfaction and rest my injured wrist and hand on the arm holding me close to his body. "Thanks for doin' this," I say. "For comin' out of the woods again. I know you're more comfortable out there, but this is," I pause to find the best words. "Really nice." I settle on 'nice' because there isn't anything to describe how perfect the moment feels—night has fallen and it's quiet, the only sound from out- or inside the house is the wind and crickets, and even with a throbbing wrist I couldn't feel more safe and comfortable than I do with Daryl like this.
And then I feel something else; Daryl shifts his hips and I feel him hard in the small of my back. My nipples tighten immediately and my own hips arch backward on instinct. I close my eyes and my breath catches in my throat, and use both hands and arms to keep him in place, when I feel him tense up.
"Beth." His gasp of my name hangs in the air, and I drop my head back onto his shoulder, as I pull his other arm around me—higher this time—and his forearm brushes my tight, aching nipples.
"Just hold me for a minute?" I ask. "I'll wash your hair next." It takes a good 30 seconds before the tension relaxes from his body and he settles into holding me the way I asked. He's still hard behind me, and it thrills me that I've had that affect on him. I realize that I'm the only woman alive to him at this point, but as long as I've known him, he's never been with anyone. I'll take this as a compliment.
"Don't need to," he mumbles, resting his head against my temple with a sigh. His steady breathing is in my ear. "Can do it myself."
"I know, but I want to," I answer, slowly grinding back against him. I want a lot of things, I think to myself. I'm exhausted and frazzled, disconnected and desperate. I need something to put me back together again, right my body and mind. It feels to me like Daryl wants that as much as I do. In my periphery, I can see his eyes are closed and he's smiling softly. He shakes his head and draws a deep breath.
After a few silent minutes of soaking in the slowly cooling water, he says, "Water's coolin' off. Should wrap this up." His fingers squeeze my waist, and I don't want to get out. But he's right; the water is getting cool, and it's kind of filthy.
"Should take it to bed," I say, sitting forward, away from his warmth and his arms, and turning to look over my shoulder, so I can see his face. He gnaws at the inside of his bottom lip and nods, looking down into the murky water. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, which is extremely rare with Daryl. This vulnerable side of him is something I never saw before we were alone together outside the prison.
I scoop some of the warmer water from the bucket and stand. Daryl looks up and watches as I pour half the pitcher of water down my torso and legs, rinsing the dirty water away. He chews on his thumbnail when I set the pitcher aside and remove my underwear. I toss them to the floor with my discarded bra, then quickly suds up my torso and legs, before rinsing and climbing out of the tub.
Daryl appears deep in thought, tapping his bottom lip with his finger and staring me down. He tracks my every move with his gaze, as I wrap one towel around my body and one in my hair. Once I grab the ACE bandage we found earlier to compress my wrist, I pause and turn to face him full on. "Wanna help?" I gesture with the roll of stretchy fabric.
He stops chewing his thumbnail and nods. "Be right there," he says, dropping his head back and stretching his legs out. Without another word I turn and head to the bedroom. It's right around the corner, and I don't close the door, so I can hear Daryl cleaning up.
Moonlight streams through the bedroom windows; I can see perfectly fine to grab a change of clothes and socks and shove them in my bag. I set my bag next to the bed with my boots and find a bottle of lavender scented body lotion and a hairbrush on the dresser. I unwind the towel from my hair and drape it over the back of a chair then set to work brushing out the few snarls left after Daryl's handiwork.
It isn't long before he enters the room, a clean, white towel tied around his waist. His hair is wet and he's barefoot; it's another one of those moments when I see this bare, trusting side of him that floors me. He's carrying his vest in one hand and the candle in the other. "Damn, it's bright in here, huh?" he says before blowing the candle out and setting it aside then tossing his vest to a pile of new-to-him clothes and his boots. He must've gathered things for himself earlier when he found the closet.
I sit on the edge of the bed and begin to smooth lotion over my arms and legs. There's a comfortable domesticity to the moment, and I start to hum. Then I feel Daryl's eyes on me and he's drawing near.
"Where's that bandage?" he asks. I point to the dresser where I swapped it out for the lotion, and he snatches it from its place. "Need to get that thing wrapped up—looks like Hell."
I nod and leave the lotion alone. I idly wonder how he's going to play this. He's not avoiding me, obviously, because he's reaching for my hand. He is kind of acting like his massive erection wasn't just pressed into my back, though. "Thanks," I say, as he pulls the dressing table chair closer to the bed and takes a seat facing me.
He bobs his head and begins to inspect my injury—pokes and prods the swollen area and gently twists and moves it. I wince and hiss a few times, but it doesn't take him long to get my wrist tightly and expertly wrapped. "You take that ibuprofen?" he asks, flicking his eyes up to meet mine, and I nod. Then his gaze moves down to my mouth and over my throat and chest. Goosebumps cover my bare skin, and I don't even care that he can see them.
He licks his lips and rests his hands on my knees. "Sleepin' in a wet towel?" he asks, fingering the edge of the towel where it lays slightly agape in my lap. I can't stop my legs from spreading, and I hope he takes the hint.
Daryl tilts his head and smiles, then slips a finger under the edge of the towel, between the soft cotton and my skin. He drags his eyes up to meet mine again, and I'm suddenly hyper aware that I'm panting and gripping the bedspread with my good hand. I realize that I haven't answered his question yet, though. I let go of the bedspread and unfasten the towel's knot just above my breasts. It falls open at my sides and he licks his lips again and groans.
It's a cool night and he's still just barely touching me; he's teasing me with his fingertips. To complement the goosebumps, my nipples are peddle hard. I reach down and grab his hand, bring it to my lips and kiss his palm before holding it flat to my collarbone. I catch his eye one more time. "I want this," I say, twisting and scooting back on the bed, bringing him with me. "C'mon."
He nods and climbs on the bed with me, hovering over me. Once I'm lying with my head on a pillow I let go of his hand and let myself relax underneath him. He's braced on one arm and drags his other hand down between my breasts. "How 'bout you?" I tease. "You sleepin' in a wet towel?" He smiles and shakes his head, then kneels between my open thighs and pulls his towel from his hips. He's visibly hard, and I buck my hips on instinct.
"There's a whole lotta this, ya know?" he says, running his hands from my knees to my hips and back down again. "So I need to know what it is that ya want."
"You," I answer. "I want you." I reach for him and he let's me pull him down with me. He's careful to not bump my injured hand, but he presses my other hand into the mattress before burying his face in my neck. His lips and teeth wetly pull at my skin, and I gasp at the sensation. And then his hand between my thighs overwhelms me.
"Yeah, ya know what ya want, don't ya?" he chuckles and hums, his voice taking on a quality that I've never heard from him, another level of Daryl that isn't taciturn or bashful; he's bold in this moment. He's making my insides liquefy and flow from where he's touching me. His fingers part my lips, and slip and slide around and just barely inside. I buck my hips again, trying to get him further and faster inside. He complies with one long slide and curl of his middle finger. "Like that? Hmm?"
"Yes." I drop my knees open and he moves in closer. "More." I grab his wrist and hold his hand in place while he slips another finger inside me. "And then," I gasp, pressing the heel of his hand over my clit. I hiss. "Yes. Just like that." I throw my arms open wide and to the sides and let him work.
His free hand is twists the ends of my damp hair in his fingers, and his lips and tongue and teeth are keeping my sensitive nipples peaked. He's making some pretty obscene sounds, too—lip smacking and groaning—while his hand works me up. "Taste like peppermint," he says, swirling his tongue around my nipple. "Wonder what your pussy tastes like." He doesn't wonder long; before I know it he's slid down and wedged his shoulders between my thighs and his tongue is swirling something else.
"Daryl," I pause to catch my breath because I honestly have no idea what else to say. Instead of continuing to babble, I grab a handful of his thick, wet hair and concentrate on his lips and tongue and fingers. When I come, his tongue is flat against my clit, and he's sliding and twisting two fingers inside me.
"Wow," I breathe as he settles beside me, his hand gently cupping me between my legs. "I've never had that done before."
"Two boyfriends and neither of 'em ever ate ya out? Pfft—pansies."
I giggle and my voice is hoarse and tired. I curl into his chest, cradling my sprained wrist between us, and use my good hand to wander and explore the parts of his body I can reach. "How's your skin so soft?" I ask off-hand, and he snorts.
"Girl, what?" he says, like I'm insane and I laugh harder than a giggle this time.
Finally my hand finds what it was searching for and I wrap it around his hardness. He's smooth there, too, and hot. And I feel him pulse a few times in my grip. "Okay?" I ask and kiss his chest. He nods kisses my temple, his hand resting on my hip.
I start to move my hand up and down, squeezing and twisting lightly, then swipe my thumb over the head to gather the moisture building up. I've always been fascinated by the male anatomy, and Daryl does not disappoint; he's large and thick and slightly curved. The curve thing has always been a mystery to me because I've only seen pictures. I wonder what he'll feel like inside me. When I try to imagine that feeling, there's a tightening in my chest, and I can't breathe for a second.
His thumb draws circles on my hip bone, and I lean forward and lick his sharp collarbone. "Will ya come for me, if I keep doin' this?" I ask, stroking him and peppering kisses across his chest.
"Ya kiddin' me?" His breath hitches. "I'ma get your sweet-smellin' skin all dirty again, princess."
I rest my ear over his heart. Looking down at my hand, pumping his hot, smooth hard-on, watching him twitch and pulse under my attention is not only a big boost to my self-esteem, but it's a huge turn on.
"Mmm, that's it," he moans. "That's fuckin' it, right there."
I look up into his face, and he surprises me again with the most open expression I never could have imagined for him. It's beautiful, though. Daryl is beautiful. He looks trusting and happy, and it's me he trusts. He dips his head and melds his lips and tongue with mine, and I can feel something in my chest swell to bursting, as he spills warm and wet over my fist and onto my bare belly.
I'm breathless and speechless, and I let him drag me with him to the edge of the bed. He uses his damp, discarded towel to clean us both up. "My body's like a bowl of Jell-O," I say tiredly. Daryl chuckles and pulls me back to the center of the bed and tucks us both under the covers. Exhausted and sated, I hum when he curls around me and fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Thanks to Rhanon Brodie for being my conscience and my confidence. *twirly hearts*