A/N: based off prompt-"I'd love for you to write bethyl smut but can you make their first time really awkward and then their second time rough and needy and then finally the third time loving and beautiful?"
I will be breaking this prompt up into three separate one-shots, this first part is much more angsty than awkward (sorry) just keep in mind that there are two more parts to go...
Disclaimer: I don't own twd
The first time they're together she seeks him out.
She goes to him.
She surrenders.
She gives in.
But mostly, mostly she just takes…
She stands outside his bedroom door barely moving, hell she's barely breathing; her body tense and near trembling, eyes squinted and focused as her hand rests on the doorknob and she pauses for a moment, trying to gather her bearings and collect her thoughts.
She's not entirely sure how she got there, why she's standing in front of his door…what exactly she's looking for. All she knows is one minute she'd been laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling—contemplating life and love, death and grief, trying to force herself to feel something, anything; the pinch of her nails as she dug them into the palm of her hand, wishing to break skin, just barely registering—and the next she'd been slipping out of the room she shares with Tara, trying not to disturb the other woman as she had crept past her sleeping form and out the door.
Unthinkingly she had moved—footsteps soft and light like he had taught her—towards the bedroom at the end of the hall.
Towards him.
(Always, always, him.)
She could lie to herself.
Pretend that she doesn't understand why it's him she can't seem to shake from her system, why it's him she's seeking out in the middle of the night.
(Why it was him who had taken up permanent residence in her torn up brain; his voice quietly echoing in her ear, gentle instructions, as she had traveled the long and dangerous road that had lead her to Alexandria's walls.)
But she doesn't feel like playing games with her already muddled mind right now. She's had a headache for the last few days—they come and go at random—and avoiding unwanted thoughts only seems to add to the pain even more—her free hand lifting to brush at the circular scar she knows mars her forehead.
The truth is she's a stupid, stupid, girl.
The truth is it's been him for some time now.
(Everything she had thought she'd ever wanted going up in flames and burning away in a blaze of moonshine and whispered revelations.)
The truth is she feels lost.
For weeks now she's been surrounded by the people she'd fought tooth and nail to get back to; and yet she still can't shake the weighted feeling of loneliness.
Of crushing desperation.
Hopelessness.
She knows it's silly, maybe even a little selfish. She survived. She made it. She found her family. But knowing how she should feel fixes nothing and it definitely doesn't stop the curling dark threads of misery and depression from taking root inside of her, spreading out and threatening to consume.
And she wants to stop it, the suffocating and numbing dread filled infection that creeps through her veins, flushing out what little remains of the girl she once was.
She wants to feel something else, anything else.
And he's not like the rest of them. He doesn't treat her like glass, isn't waiting for her to break, doesn't look at her like she's some dead girl come back from the grave just to haunt them all.
(Doesn't chastise her, doesn't tell her she should be grateful, doesn't try to understand what it's like to wake up in the one place you had been so desperate to leave with a hole in your brain and a handful of hazy memories and faded images of your family leaving you, walking away as you bled out, unable to move, on the faded leather seats of the nearest car they could stash you in.)
In fact, he barely speaks to her, he barely looks at her at all; eyes more often than not cast down and turned away from her.
But when he does look, when his eyes do catch hers, locking and holding, she feels something.
Something other than the weighted desolation and guilt-tipped despair.
A spark.
A flutter.
A stirring.
A memory.
What changed your mind?
Oh.
And it's that constant flicker of something—that promise of warmth and comfort and familiarity—that she's unwilling to just let go, that she refuses to let pass her by. Not when everything else in her life feels so cold and numb and lifeless. So it's with that thought in her head that she turns the knob and pushes the door.
He's sitting on the edge of his bed, filtered moonlight streaming in through the windows and casting him in an eerie glow, eyes on her, almost as if he had been expecting her, waiting, contemplating. And she finds it unnerving, the way his gaze doesn't waver from hers, the way his face remains impassively blank as she steps into the room and closes the door behind her, the soft click echoing in her still pounding head.
He doesn't say a word.
Doesn't bark at her and tell her to get lost.
Doesn't urge her to come closer with the curve of his finger.
Doesn't question her.
Doesn't welcome her.
Doesn't say a goddamned thing.
(She's not sure if she's relieved or disappointed.)
Darting a tongue over her dry and cracked lips, she swallows over the sudden narrowness in her throat, wishes she had thought to stop in the kitchen to grab a quick swig from the bottle of whiskey she knows Glenn has hidden in the back of the pantry, considers turning around and backing out now before quickly pushing the thought aside.
She doesn't want to deal with mixed emotions.
Doesn't want to give into second-guessing.
She just wants to feel.
She walks over to him, bare feet shuffling across the hardwood floor, body stiff and straight as she stops in front of him, still not saying a word; her eyes dropping down to study his face—the stubble of beard, the nervous tick in his jaw, his chapped half-parted lips.
He's breathing hard, slightly heavier than normal; the deep almost frantic rise and fall of his chest belying his perfectly controlled features.
She doesn't know if she should be here.
Doesn't know if he wants what she's about to offer him.
Doesn't care.
(Stupid, stupid girl that she is.)
Grabbing the hem of her shirt, she pulls it over her head, letting it fall to the ground behind her and barely allowing herself to look at him as she unzips her jeans—she refuses to sleep in anything that she can't roll out of bed and run in—and wiggles out of them, her faded blue panties following quickly after; the cool air on her naked body bringing a wave of goosebumps to ripple across her recently exposed skin. Her breathing is a little uneven now—matching his labored rhythm—her heart suddenly hammering so loud she can hear the pounding thud echoing in her ears. A little voice in her head tries to calm her down, tries to tell her it's just sex she's offering, nothing to get so worked up over.
(An even quieter voice protests, telling her that this is not how you chase your demons away.)
She knows he's nervous too, hasn't moved a damned inch since she stepped into the room, since she stripped herself naked in front of him— his fingers are digging into the worn blanket on the bed, knuckles white as his gaze drops down to the floor and he refuses to meet her eyes.
He looks a little sick.
Just shy of terrified.
But it's okay.
(It's not, it's really, really not)
She's already made the first move. Probably screwed this whole thing up between them. Might as well keep on going...
Bending slightly, her hands go to the bottom of his thin black t-shirt, fingers brushing against warm skin, her lips trembling a little and letting out a shaky breath as she bunches the fabric up and moves to lift it over his head—a part of her wishing he would snap out of it already and help her along.
That or just kick her out of his room.
He doesn't do either.
Instead he tenses as she tries to draw his shirt up over his body, his hands suddenly moving and gripping hers, stopping them in their actions and holding her still, fingers tightening around hers when she tries to yank them away; his raw strength, the way he squeezes her hands, causing her to cringe a little, even as her heart speeds up in pace, her pulse fluttering, her stomach clenching. Irritated, flustered, confused, (scared) her eyes fly to his, a sound, one lost somewhere between a squeak of surprise and a huff of indignation, escaping her as she meets his gaze, blue locking on blue and holding fast.
For a moment neither of them move.
For a moment everything seems to go still and silent around them.
The world seemingly holding its collective breath — waiting, just waiting.
He challenges her silently and she raises her chin defiantly
An unspoken battle of wills.
She can see the concern in his eyes, the desperation, the confusion, but it's shadowed by poorly concealed desire and want and it's the latter that she chooses to latch onto.
Clenching her teeth, she huffs out another breath, her nostrils flaring slightly with the action as she yanks her hands up and rips them away, grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head. This time he doesn't fight her. This time he lets her; raising his arms a little, and helping her out; his hands slapping hers away as she makes a move for his pants, his fingers working the button and fly as he lifts his hips a little and then pushes them off of his legs and onto the floor.
Now they're even.
Naked, bared before each other.
Exposed.
For a moment she feels something inside of her panic a little; sharp and cold prickling anxiety skirting up her spine as she lets her gaze roam over his body, the taut muscle and warm sun-weathered skin. For a few brief seconds she allows the voices in her head to creep forward, screaming and shouting and questioning her actions—she doesn't want this, he doesn't want this, this isn't her, this isn't them—causing the throbbing pain that's taken root in the front of her brain to snake out, wrapping from her forehead to the back of her skull, worming its way deeper and deeper.
She wishes it would all just stop.
The pain.
The voices.
The uncertainty.
The misery.
Everything.
When she drops onto the bed, crawling on top of him, her body awkwardly straddling his—knees digging into his sides as they slide their way up the mattress, bunching the blanket beneath them—his hands fumble a little, pressing against the small of her back and splaying out for a second before resting on her ass and then sliding down to grip her hips; his hold a little too tight, rough and calloused fingers pinching into her skin. He makes a grunting noise as she shifts her weight and tries to get into a position that's more comfortable— her body wiggling a little to accommodate them both—but they're far too tense and so terribly unsure and with the way her legs are trembling and his fingers are squeezing she's pretty certain that any (false) pretenses of finesse and skill have flown right out the window.
Silently she reassures herself it's fine.
It's okay.
(She ignores the rush of protests that still claim it's not.)
Licking at the palm of her hand, she shoves it between their bodies; rubbing herself a little and using her spit as a poor excuse for lubrication—her hand brushing against his cock as she quickly works herself, the small barely there touch causing his fingers to dig a little deeper into her skin as he hardens against her inner thigh. She can't look at him when she lifts her hips, can't face him when she hovers over him; is afraid of what she's going to see, afraid something in his eyes will jar her, will have her scrambling off of him and backing out, running away and never looking back.
This isn't what she pictured, this isn't what she had wanted.
But she's tired, so tired of feeling empty and cold.
And she needs him.
Needs him to make it all go away.
And she hates herself for being selfish, for not giving him a say in it, for forcing this on him.
But she's a stupid broken girl and she's already come this far.
When she folds her body over him, arches her hips up and and grabs him in her hand—his breath puffing out against her neck, shaky and hot—she still doesn't look at him. Still doesn't say a word. Can't. Won't. Her bottom lip finding its way between her teeth, she bites down hard, wincing a little as the metallic taste of blood floods her mouth, her muscles stiffening when his breathing becomes even more erratic, his entire body snapping tighter as she positions him at her entrance; the tip of him pressing into her as she closes her eyes.
For a moment she allows herself to feel.
Just feel.
He's thick and big, and it's almost too much as she slowly lowers herself down; a soft strangled gasp whispering past her lips as she seats herself onto him and focuses on the burn. She's not wet enough for him, not by a long shot, and it hurts the way he stretches her—the way she has to stop and go and then stop again—but there's a small part of her that revels in the feel, that thrills a little in this completely different kind of pain; and it's the jarring discomfort that she greedily holds onto.
(She had wanted to feel something after all.)
She rocks her hips once, twice, intent on finding some kind of rhythm, unable to help the whimper that bubbles up from her throat as she moves her hands up to his chest and braces herself a little steadier, her fingers raking through the wiry hair there before burrowing even deeper, coming to curl and settle right above the pounding of his heart. She can feel him jump a little beneath her touch; grunting at the scratch of her nails—his own fingers clutching her tighter and repositioning his grip as she moves over him uncertainly. Dimly, she wishes he'd do something, feels stupid and immature and unwanted as she tries to move in a way that seems right, that feels good for the both of them. But it's not until she makes another noise—this one a muffled gasp, a softly spoken oh—that he finally, finally, seems to snap out of whatever daze he's been in, his hips surging upwards and pushing himself fully inside of her.
And God it hurts.
Hurts in a way that threatens to burn and brand and set her ablaze.
And she wants to savor it, wants to commit the fiery ache to memory as she goes still on top of him; her head rolling back as she whispers another oh and his instincts seemingly take over. He begins fucking himself into her, fingers curling into her skin and holding her in place; hesitation melting away into something a little darker...something nearly animalistic.
This, this is what she had wanted.
To forget, ease, soothe, erase.
Pain.
Pleasure.
Heat.
Oblivion.
Throughout the whole thing they both barely make a sound, save for their heavy breathing, the occasional grunt and low choked off moan. She can hear the sound of him working her, the way she grows wetter as he pushes up into her harder; his cock sliding into her body more easily as she sways and bounces on top of him, hands moving from his chest to his shoulders and then back again, unsure where to place them as the ache inside of her gives way to a deep coiled pressure, one that steadily rises with each pinch of his fingers against her skin.
She won't last long; it's been ages since she's allowed herself to feel anything so raw and primal, and by the way he's faltering beneath her, his thrusts more frantic, grunts more broken, she knows he won't either. So she feels no shame in closing her eyes and blocking everything else out; allowing herself to forget about him and her, about where she's been, what's she's done, who she's lost. About how even in this sanctuary, with the walls surrounding and gaurding them, everything, everyone is just so irrevocably screwed. Instead she lets herself concentrate and focus on sensation only, her body giving way to her own instincts as she begins to take over the rhythm; bucking her hips up and lifting herself off of him ever so slightly, before grinding back down onto him once again.
And there it is, the pinch of pleasure, the stab of pain, the hazy and elusive fog of bliss.
Building, building, building.
It lasts only a few seconds longer, all fumbling hands and broken groans, his palms clammy and rough move over her curves, tugging and pulling before settling on her ass again, holding on tight just as she jerks her body forward; the slide of position rubbing her clit against him, her mouth hanging open in a silent moan as she continues to rock herself in a way that has his cock hitting her in just the right place.
She falls fast and silent.
Blinding pleasure mixed with intoxicating pain grips her body as it crashes over her in one nearly violent and long drawn out wave. Her toes curling and her fingers flexing, she goes still on top of him; the feel of him continuing to thrust up into her, focused solely on chasing his own release before he stops abruptly, a burst of wet warmth spurting into her as he chokes out a string of strangled nearly intelligible curses, drawing a shaky breath from her already parted lips as she continues to clench and unclench around him, milking him for all he's worth.
The silence that follows after is near deafening.
She comes back to herself quickly, her breathing easing to normal as she feels him slowly soften between her thighs, a sticky wet mess dripping out of her body to pool between them. Dimly she thinks she should say something about it, reassure him he doesn't have to worry, that there's no chance in getting her pregnant; she hasn't had anything close to resembling a period since back on the farm. Instead she keeps silent; words and reassurances caught in her throat. Sprawled on top of him she waits for him to move, waits—hopes, wishes—for him to say something, anything. Raise a hand and stroke her cheek, murmur her name in that low and gruff tone of his as he pulls her into him, cradling her to his chest...
He stays quiet.
Does nothing.
Her heart beat eventually slows and evens out, the looseness in her body fading away as anxiety and uncertainty gradually creep back in. And it's as the pain in her head resurfaces, reminding her that it never really left her in the first place—this had only been a distraction, a rash and impulsive diversion from her messed up reality—that she snaps herself out of whatever post orgasmic daze she'd been in. Swallowing over the thickness in her throat, ignoring the rush of voices in her head—stupid girl, stupid, stupid girl—she looks down; tear pricked eyes flitting over his face, taking note of the way his gaze is turned up and away from her, his expression twisted into something pained and far away as his hands, no longer gripping her, lay limply at his sides.
And oh...
Ohhh.
Stupid, stupid girl.
(What was she thinking?)
(What has she done?)
(Daryl, Daryl, Daryl.)
She wants to reach out, stroke his face, pet him, whisper into his ear confessions of everything she's been carrying around for far too long now.
She wants to curl up, close her eyes, and block the world out.
She needs to leave.
Needs to get as far away from him as possible, needs to choke back the apologies and explanations that are sitting on the tip of her tongue—he's such a good man, she's such a mess, he's so strong and resilient and she's so damaged and broken.
(She's sorry, so, so, sorry.)
Scrambling off of him, a heat creeping up her neck and blooming onto her cheeks as he limply slips out of her with an embarrasingly wet flop, she grabs her clothes from the floor, her suddenly shaking fingers dropping her underwear twice before she finally gets a grip on them and heads for the door, uncaring of her flushed and trembling naked state as she stumbles and shuffles away from him.
She doesn't look back.
Even though there's a part of her that screams for her to turn around—crawl back to him and tuck herself into his side, ask him to hold her, to comfort her, to forgive her—she keeps on moving.
(And there's something inside of her, a part that maybe wasn't so broken at the start of all of this, that cracks a little, threatens to burst and shatter.)
(Yet another fractured piece to the jagged puzzle she's become.)
It's not until she's back in her room, clothes hastily slipped back on, laying in her bed, the ache between her legs sharp and throbbing as she replays the event over and over in her head—they never said a word to each other, they never even kissed— that she allows the tears to come, lets them trail their hot and damning paths down her heated cheeks as she concentrates on the dried stiffness coating her thighs, the burn in the back of her throat, and the wave of emotions that threaten to flood, drown, and consume.
For the first time in what feels like forever she allows herself to feel, really feel.
And it's overwhelming.
It's too much.
Regret.
Guilt.
Pain.
Anger.
Sadness.
Loss.
Longing.
Love.
Her mouth pulling into a watery smile, a panicked and hysterical laugh, one that edges just short of a sob, tumbles past her trembling lips, her hands flying up to muffle the sound as she shakes her head from side to side, squeezes her eyes shut tight and reflects on what she's just done, everything she's just ruined; a weighted pressure tightening in her chest as a blur of fogged and faded images bombards and floods her fast—the sound of his heavy breathing, the burn of his touch, the silence after.
It shouldn't have happened.
Not like that.
He deserved better.
They deserved better.
What changed your mind?
Oh.
Oh.
Ohhhhh.
And oh God, she had just wanted to feel.
Something.
Anything.
She's a stupid, stupid girl.
Such a stupid, broken, girl.
as a reminder there are two more one-shots coming that'll eventually complete this prompt. thanks for reading! :) please review!