a/n: IT'S SMUT WEEK, FOLKS. today's prompt is 'goosebumps', but, prompt aside, I had a bit of fun with this. old wives tales and superstitions are my jam. title taken from Kisschasy's Real and Untouched, which is so appropriate, check it out. xx
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They never settle at the funeral home. It's too clean, it's too perfect. It's exactly what they need exactly when they needed it and that never sits well with them.
Either of them, both of them.
"It's bad luck to meet a barking dog early in the morning," Beth tells him absently, over cola and pureed pumpkin.
So they leave.
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They wander aimlessly, searching in no particular direction. Then they find the tracks.
They follow them. For a while.
"If you make a wish and walk on a rail for sixteen ties without falling off, your wish will come true," she wobbles, arms outstretched to balance herself, "I know, I know, it's stupid."
Yeah. It's the stupidest thing he's ever heard.
"It's worth a shot," he shrugs, and watches her closely, making sure she doesn't fall. He tells himself he can't risk her fucking up her ankle again.
He tells himself a lot of things.
The sun is low in the sky with they come across the sign. Hasty scrawl, message sending chills down their spines.
NO SANCTUARY.
"That what you wished for, girl?"
It comes out more biting than he intends.
"Wished for a sign," she breathes, "guess we got one."
They abandon the tracks and turn to the woods.
(Sooner or later, they run.)
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It's hard to keep track of days, but he guesses it's been a week and a half since the 'sign'. A few dozen walkers, but no humans, which is both a relief and disheartening and the worry is so clearly etched on Beth's face.
He thinks about going back to the prison, to the farm. He thinks about tearing apart the state of Georgia until they find someone, anyone, just so that light in her eyes doesn't dim.
She's still Beth, though. Still sings, still has hope.
Still can look at a dilapidated barn and decide it's something worth investigating.
It was. It is. Hastily abandoned by whoever was using it, there's still some food and clothes and even a well and she cleans up while he stands guard. Until she calls out for him.
He expects the worst. Naturally. What he doesn't expect is Beth Greene, in her underwear, pointing towards a rickety lean-to, containing a poorly covered motorcycle.
"Barns are good omens," she breathes, eyes never leaving his.
They feast on lentils and canned pineapples slices and roasted squirrel. The bike, miraculously, still runs, even two years after the end of the world, even with half a tank of fuel.
"I don't want to chase ghosts," Beth tells him quietly, lying side by side on a bed of musty horse blankets and hay, "maybe it's time we try something else."
"Like what?" he murmurs.
Her hand brushes his in the dark.
"Living."
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It all just falls into place, when they decide to leave Georgia. It's a given, really, as the only thing keeping them there is the off chance of finding a needle in a haystack and since she's decided to stop running around in circles, waiting for their luck to run out, she's been brighter. Happier.
A light in the darkness.
Winter on the road isn't easy. Hell, winter in the prison wasn't easy. But they're heading further north and the wind bites at their skin and he worries because she's all skin and bones and there's nothing keeping her warm except the clothes on her back.
(They don't dare start a fire. They don't go looking for funeral homes or train tracks.)
It starts to snow, really snow, the first real snow he's seen in a long time, when they find the wall.
They follow it. Eventually, the wall leads to a gate.
And it opens.
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They give them a house and food and there's heating and running water and he actually has a shower, a hot shower, and he can't remember the last time he did.
Before the turn, he guesses.
The place is called Alexandria. They built the walls as soon as shit got bad and they've been living in ignorant bliss ever since. He's cautious, wary, because places like this don't exist. Not for people like him, anyway.
Layers of dirt and sweat and blood swirl down the drain, a macabre palette of the past three months. They spent so long running and running and never stopping, never daring to stop. It's never felt right and this place, this place with its walls and its houses and its happy, oblivious citizens doesn't check all the boxes, but he needs to do this.
He needs to stop. He needs them to survive the winter.
Needs her to survive.
He keeps his boots, vest, crossbow. Decides to burn the rest. Can hear Beth singing faintly, water still running. His new clothes are too clean, too stiff, but he makes do.
"Daryl, isn't it?"
There's a woman in the living room.
He raises his eyebrows. Says nothing.
"I'm Deanna."
Deanna. He can vaguely remember someone mentioning her when they arrived.
"Daryl, can you believe this place? The water pressure is amazing-"
She freezes the moment she enters the room.
"-oh. Hello."
"Hello, Beth."
He doesn't want to talk to this woman. Not when she's glancing between them, trying to understand the situation. Forming her own conclusions and casting swift judgments.
"I wanted to welcome you to our community," Deanna folds her hands in her lap, tone even and calm "make sure you had everything you needed."
"It's more than enough," Beth smiles, curling up on the sofa, "this place is unbelievable!"
"I'm glad," Deanna nods, "well, if you and your…"
There it is. Because he's too rough and too old and too surly. Too violent. Too unsuitable.
For a girl like her.
"He's mine," Beth answers simply, "and I'm his."
His and hers. Equals. Partners.
And that's that.
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That first night, he keeps watch. Sits on the porch, looks out into the night's sky. Listens for the steady groan of walkers, possibly herds. Instead, it's just quiet, save for a barking dog in the distance.
He decides to go back inside.
"Hey."
She's standing at the foot of the stairs, clad in flannel pyjama pants and fluffy slippers. Her cardigan is slipping from her shoulders.
"Can't sleep?"
"Nah," Daryl shakes his head.
"Me neither," Beth sighs, "never thought a bed could be too comfortable, you know?"
Yeah, he knows. This whole place is too comfortable. But it's late and she needs sleep. They both need sleep.
"Come on," he motions for her to turn around, "bed."
He follows her up the stairs, into the master bedroom. They haven't discussed sleeping arrangements, not when for the past months they've been sleeping side by side each and every night. But now, with an actual bed, it feels different. Feels more intimate.
He's mine and I'm his.
"You gonna run?" she asks, as if she can read his doubts.
"You want me here?" he gestures to the bed.
She nods, shyly.
He takes the side closest to the door, propping his crossbow within arms reach. She was right about the bed. It's the most comfortable thing he's ever slept on. Before and after.
She snuggles under the covers, wriggling around to get comfortable and in the process her feet bump against his.
"Jesus, girl, your feet are like ice!"
"You know they're always cold," he can hear the smile in her voice.
"Come 'ere."
She shifts closer to him, and he wraps an arm around her shoulder. Her cardigan's slipped down again and his hand touches her bare skin, the usual smoothness replaced by thousands of small, raised bumps.
"My mama used to say that goosebumps meant an angel had touched you," she whispers, his fingers tracing patterns on her shoulder, "it's a nice thought, isn't it?"
Nice. Sweet. Beautiful. Seems that anything out of her mouth these days fits that description.
Slowly, carefully, he leans down. presses a kiss to her bare skin. Hesitantly. Carefully.
Then again.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, because this is months in the making. This is what they've been running from, and now that they've stopped, now that they're still, they've run out of excuses.
"Daryl," Beth breathes, and he feels her shiver.
"Tell me to stop."
"Don't stop."
She drags herself up, drags herself closer. In the darkness, her nose brushes his. In the darkness, he feels her lips on his jaw, on his cheek, on his lips. Featherlight and barely there. She swings a leg between his, pushes herself closer. Kisses him again, humming against his lips.
Every sound she makes is a song he never wants to forget.
His tongue darts out, just as his hands grasps her hips. Pulls her further into his embrace, until she's lying on top of him. Grinds her hips into his and pauses.
"Oh."
Her eyes grow wide and she feels it, his growing hardness. He freezes, waits for her to make her next move.
And fuck, if he doesn't almost lose it then and there when her hand slides down between then, unbuckling his jeans, grasping his cock in her hand.
"Girl," he growls and she catches his bottom lip between her teeth, kissing him with a quiet urgency, as she traces her fingers down his length.
"These need to go," she breathes, sliding down his body, dragging his jeans with her. He hears them land across the room with a soft thump, feels her hair tickling his thighs, her breath warm against his balls.
Then her mouth, warm and wet, enclosing around the tip of his cock.
"Fuck," he hisses, his eyes rolling back in his skull, hands grasping her head, encouraging her to take him further, deeper into her mouth. She presses the flat of her tongue around his shaft, licking him from the base to the tip, before slithering back up him, shucking her cardigan, straddling him in just her sweatpants.
"I want this," she whispers, "I want you. So badly, Daryl, you have no idea."
In one swift motion, he flips them, so she's positioned between his legs. She stretches up, flicks her tongue against his lips and he presses her further into the mattress, tongue probing hers, eliciting from her a high pitched whine.
Slips his hand beneath her sweatpants, dips beneath her folds.
"You're soaked, girl," he murmurs, bringing his fingers to his lips, sucking her juices from them, knuckles to tip.
"Please, Daryl," she whimpers, "please."
He slides the pants from her hips, down her legs. Drags his hands up her thighs, over her flat, smooth, stomach, caresses her tiny, pert breasts. Kisses her deeply and thrusts into her in one slow, smooth motion.
It's a perfect fit.
He's mine and I'm his.
Let's stop chasing ghosts and live.
They have a house and they have walls. They have each other. They have redneck brunches and serious piggybacks. They have this moment and everything leading up to it. They have now.
Her thrusts are eager, unpractised, spirited. Little yelps and cries, hands gripping his shoulders for purchase, dragging her nails down his biceps. It's not hard to take the lead, to slow the pace. Turns the intensity up a notch, feeling the sweat pool between them, basking in her little pants and eager whimpers. Slips his fingers between their joined bodies, thumb finding her clit, applying just the right amount of pressure. She gasps, squeezing her eyes shut, as she comes undone around him.
She shudders in his arms, the walls of her pussy squeezing his cock, pulsing around him. He pulls out of her, coming hard on her stomach as she continues to come down from her release.
"You're mine," she whispers, "I don't care what anyone says."
He's mine and I'm his.
He'll be hers for as long as she'll have him.
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