Ok this was my contribution to the recent Bethyl Smut Week held on tumblr. I'm not entirely happy with it, but hey. It's NSFW, but that's kind of implied because it was for smut week. The clue's in the name and all. Be kind. Y'all know how weird I get about this.
Also I don't own anything.
I want to take you in my mouth
Take you deep inside
Take you for a trip
Take you for a ride
Slave to Lust - The Mission UK.
Maggie thinks they fuck like bunnies … which is pretty rich coming from Maggie.
It's also not entirely incorrect. Maybe it's not quite bunnies, maybe it's more like cats. He's not uncomfortable comparing what they do to animals. It's okay. On some level it makes sense.
And well, they do fuck a lot. Have ever since she came back to him. Ever since she fucking rolled up to those Alexandria gates, scars on her face and a hole in her head. Sure it took time. Sure, it didn't start immediately. Sure he had his issues and she had hers and sure they did a lot of stuff he never did with anyone before they eventually found themselves alone and naked and tangled up in each other. And sure they've done a lot of stuff since then. And like before it didn't all have to do with fucking. Some did of course. There was the day of the mirrors, the day he held her open and splayed and made her watch as he pumped his fingers in and out of her, made her see how absolutely fucking gorgeous she is and how he'd never ever think anything else of her. And that in itself felt like something of a turning point, but it wasn't really.
No their turning points have always been about words, small words, but words nonetheless. Words like you did, words like you know, words like oh. And lately by three more little words, words that fell out of him almost involuntarily one night as he lay wrapped around her, a knee between her thighs and his lips to her neck.
I want you, I want you, I want you.
I love you.
And when he heard himself say it, he froze, waited for that punch to the gut, a fist in his face and it never came. Her breathing didn't change and neither did his and all she did was snuggle closer, press kisses into his hair and trail her fingers down his back, over those scars he stopped caring about when he started caring about her. There just wasn't room in his heart for both and it didn't take a lot to make him choose which one he'd rather give his attention to.
And it wasn't long until she was arching up against him and pressing herself hot and wet to his knee. And it didn't take much before he was rolling them over and sliding her up his chest, trapping her knees beneath his shoulders, hands firm on her hips and losing himself in her taste again.
Maggie says they fuck like bunnies.
There may be some truth to that.
But fucking is the last thing on his mind now, or at least it should be. Because they're out, because they left Alexandria and the security it offers late that afternoon with Abe and Aaron and Michonne to scout a nearby seedy mall for supplies. Some kid fell off his bike and managed to cut his arm right open, down to the bone. He screamed so loud before someone found him there was actually a mini herd at the gates for a while. But they patched him up - Sasha and Bob are always great for that kind of thing - and sent him home to his mother with some painkillers and a few bandages. Not enough though because they were already running low and when Sasha pointed out that they'd need to start cutting up rags unless they found a first-aid kit soon, Aaron suggested a run. Said there was a place he knew that they could look.
And yeah, Daryl guesses it is indeed "a place", although it probably isn't deserving of such a lofty titles. It looks and smells like the fucking Mall of the Apocalypse, filthy and bloodied, low light and stuffy air and the stench of death. And somehow - God knows how - there are walkers shut into pretty much one in every three shops they pass, pressing themselves against the glass, hurling themselves at the doors, groans and hisses cutting through the muggy air. He doesn't know how it happened, can't even begin to understand but he knows he doesn't like it. Not one little bit.
So they move quietly from one shop to another, grey light settling and casting everything into strangely muted tones, undefined and smoky.
And despite his unease, this pit of dread that is his belly, he can't take his fucking eyes off her.
She stands a few paces ahead of him, knife in her hand, another at her hip. Despite the temperature she's dressed all in black which is something she almost never does. But she is today. Soft black jeans, and a cotton knit loose vest, hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. No braid today and he misses it. Misses the feel of the bumps and knobs under his fingers, the way he can tug on it to pull her closer, twirl it round his fingers and hold it while he slides his mouth against hers.
It's summer, ridiculously hot. Beth told him how she burned blisters into her feet the other day when she flitted barefoot across the road to Rick's house to visit with Judith. And it's still like that. Hazy and oppressive, heat setting into their bones and their skin. He can feel the sweat dripping beneath his shirt, plastering it to him, can feel his hair damp against the back of his neck. The rest aren't faring much better. Michonne has tied a bandana around her head to stop the sweat pouring into her eyes and Abe and Aaron both looked like they've been dunked in a swimming pool and left to drip dry. And the thought of a swimming pool makes him pine a little. Just a little.
Or it would. If he could think about anything but her.
Her and the heat.
So maybe fucking isn't the last thing on his mind now. But it really should be.
She turns to look at him, and his eyes are drawn to the curve of her ass, the sway of her hips. He hears a sharp intake of breath behind him, air whispering through clenched teeth and he knows Abe has noticed too.
He rolls his eyes. Abe can fuck right off.
Abe and his barely contained ogling, his innuendo. The way he seems to think his life is a fucking Coca-Cola commercial, complete with pretty girls beaded in sweat waltzing past a string of thirsty men who are having a hard time deciding whether they want the the girls or the beverage more. Like it's even a choice. Like it's even a question.
No, life isn't a Coca-Cola commercial.
Except maybe today. Maybe today it is.
She is indeed beaded with sweat and he is very thirsty. And the moisture stands out like a sheen against her skin, perfect and porcelain but flushed. Her hair is clipped back but tendrils have escaped from her ponytail and stand frizzy around her head, capturing the sunlight and the dust. His gaze.
She looks like some kind of gothic angel, dark and light and deadly sweet. She looks like she could take on all the walkers in the world and come back for seconds. She looks like she could take him, take him and win.
Easily. And that's if he put up a fight.
Which he wouldn't.
And despite the heat, cloying and heavy, he shivers, scalp prickling in that deliciously tight way as a frisson of excitement slams into him, saturates his pores and skin and runs right down to his cock, where it flares wildly and refuses to budge.
And this is bad, this is very bad. Because they have a mission. They have a job to do. A job he'd prefer to have over sooner rather than later. And thinking about her ass and her hips and her mouth is doing nothing to move them along. Not even close. In fact, all it's doing is distracting him. And they can't afford that now. Not when they can hear the dead groaning behind the splintering shop doors, see them through the shattering glass of the windows. Dead eyes, yellowed teeth, rotting flesh.
Abe says it gives a whole new meaning to window shopping.
Har-de-fucking-har.
Abe can fuck right off.
"You all right?" Aaron asks drawing up beside him snapping his attention back to the here and now.
"Yeah," he rumbles, "just the heat and the…"
He stops, doesn't want to look at Beth, doesn't want to give it away but he can't help it and his eyes flicker to her, the full curve of her ass and the tight line of her waist and then back to Aaron.
"... the air," he finishes lamely.
He doesn't think he fools anyone but Aaron is nice enough not to say anything. Well not anything direct at least. But he smiles in that knowing way that he always does when Beth comes up in conversation. The way he did even when they all thought she was dead and gone and they'd never see her again.
And oh God, he can't think of that. Not now. Not today. Because she's here and that's all that matters. Not the hospital, not the bullet, not that fucking trigger happy cop. She's here, she's breathing. The fact that she lets him fuck her, that sometimes she begs him for it and sometimes she doesn't even get as far as begging because she's climbing him like fucking tree is all secondary. She's alive. That's what counts. That's all that's ever counted.
He guesses that's the reason Aaron is smiling. Because he gets it. Gets what it's like to love someone in this world gone to shit. Gets how important and terrifying and wonderful it is to still be able to have this despite everything. And the truth is that being with Beth like this is frightening. It's probably the most horrifying thing to ever happen to him. Especially as he already knows what it feels like when it's over, when he's lost her. Knows that bone-breaking, soul sucking emptiness, that lead weight in the pit of his stomach. He has the scars to prove it.
And yet somehow, here he is. Powerless. Early on in all this he realised that denial didn't work. Never has. Not being with her wasn't protecting anything, wasn't saving anything. All it was doing was hurting him and her and he'd vowed never to hurt her again. And even if he is fated to lose her again he knows that losing her without ever having her is not going to be any less painful and if he felt like he wanted to die before, he'd feel like he wanted to die again. And well, she's right. She always is. They may as well do something. They may as well make something of whatever time they have left.
So they have. And he tries so hard. And so does she. And it works. And yes it counts less than her being here and being alive. But it still counts.
Still, there's a part of him that is never entirely comfortable going on runs with her. A part of him that wants to wrap her up in cottonwool and lock her in the house until he's back, never let her see a walker ever again. And he gets that is some kind of bizarre sexist instinct, that she'd never stand for it and he wouldn't want her to. And that it's backwards thinking because if she can die…
Oh god...
...if she can die and come back then he's pretty damn sure that she's not destined to die by walker bite. He's pretty sure she'll outlive them all. And that is terrifying in itself.
But still, still. That desire to protect her from any- and everything is there and it's seated itself deep in his bones and his blood and he doesn't think he'll ever fully get away from it. Doesn't think he wants to.
"Didn't expect so many walkers in here," Aaron says as they pass more shops, more straining glass and splintering wood. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea, maybe we needed more people for this."
Daryl nods. The walkers bother him because it's obvious they've been kept here. There's no reason for them to be shut behind closed doors unless someone put them there and he can't think of a good aboveboard reason any rational human being would do that. And even so, even if it was just some kind of bizarre coincidence or act of God, he's not sure exactly what they are going to do if the pharmacy is also overrun. They're a lethal team, but they're small and they won't get far. Won't get far at all.
"Thought you and Eric scouted it out before," he asks, but Aaron shakes his head.
"Not this one. There's another one we go to a couple miles east of here but there's slim pickings now. Thought we'd try here instead."
Daryl nods, eyes flicking to a Gap where what was once a young girl is hurling herself against the glass.
"We're going to need to sweep this place before we really use it, bring out the others - Rick, Glenn, Sasha. Clean this place out so that we can actually get to the shit we need."
Aaron bites his lip. "Yeah. Let's just see if we can get the medication for now. We'll bring a proper team back here next week."
He looks to Beth. "You can tell her I picked the group. Leave her at home if you like if you don't want to bring her out again."
And despite himself Daryl smirks at that, snorts even.
Like he could lie to Beth about that and she wouldn't see right through him. Like it's even the remotest possibility.
"You want to get my ass kicked into next week?" He asks and Aaron grins, shakes his head, chuckles softly.
And maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe the day, despite the temperature and the fact that his cock is ruling his thoughts, has a silver lining. Maybe they can get in and get out and these dead motherfuckers can just stay on their side of the glass and the wood. There doesn't need to be an incident, there doesn't need to be drama. And it sounds like a good plan, except the last time his plans sounded this good they lost Zach in a hail of stone and glass, a flurry of teeth and blood and screams and groans.
And despite it all he found something else.
And he doesn't know how that should make him feel.
But it doesn't matter. Not in any real tangible sense anyway, and he nods to Aaron leaving him standing at the barricaded entrance to a supermarket and takes a few steps forward to catch up with Beth, curl his hand around her shoulder and smell the sage of her hair.
"Hey," she whispers.
"Hey."
She smiles at him, pushes a wet strand of hair out of her face and all he wants to do is kiss her, press his lips against hers and feel her body, hot and wiry against his. Her shoulders are glistening with sweat, shining beads running down her flesh and despite the dark colour of her top he can see a wet patch in the small of her back. And he thinks of that Coca-Cola advert again, imagines how the muscles in her neck would work as she tips her head back... Except he doesn't have to imagine, because he knows.
He fucking knows.
And that sends another shower of sparks down his chest, to his belly, his gut, his cock.
"You okay?" She asks.
And no. No he's not fucking okay. Because it's hot and it's close and she's here looking like some kind of sweat soaked angel and all he can think of is curling his arms around her and backing her into one of those splintering doors, hitching her legs over his hips and...
"Daryl?"
"Yeah, I'm alright," he tells her.
She nods. "Going to need to bring a team to clear this place out."
And he grins. This girl, this fucking girl. She's the one who should be running the show. They should all just let her direct their lives.
He knows. Knows all too well.
And that prickle is there again, that frisson that starts in his scalp and flies south, slams into his cock hard and relentless. God he can't wait to get home. He's not sure they'll even get through the door and not for the first time he wishes they had their own place. Sure they have privacy, sure it's not like Aaron or Eric or Glenn and Maggie intrude or even make it a thing. But God, to be able to have her. Really have her wherever they want. To not have to worry about being too loud, too passionate.
He slides his hand down her arm, just tight enough so that his nails dig into her, rubs a small circle into her wrist, and her breath hitches in the back of her throat.
She knows. He knows she knows.
And when she leans into his touch and her lips part ever so slightly he's pretty sure he's not the only one feeling this way. In his head she's already out of her top, shimmying her jeans down her thighs and he's on his knees. On his knees where he should be, his mouth pressed to that hot, wet flesh between her legs, lips closing around the nub of her clit while his fingers dig into the flesh of her ass. And she's moving, saying his name, sometimes a whisper, other times a guttural moan. And he's so fucking hard, and so fucking ready that he can already feel his chest tightening and his knees locking...
And then suddenly they are alone but they're running for their lives and it takes a while to remember what happened in between.
He thinks later that it was the smell. That he must have smelled it before he heard it, but that's not entirely true. The groans were there since they walked in through the doors, deep and muffled. The sounds of rotting bodies thrown wetly against straining wood. But nevertheless he registered a new, more pungent stench of decay before he heard the doors splintering, the glass shattering.
And that smell - oh god that smell - you never get used to. Never. And you never should, because if you do ... if you do it means you're too far gone. It means you're one of them in mind and spirit if not yet body. Rot and decay and putrefied organs, congealed blood and rank flesh. He worried once that they'd stop smelling the death. That their senses would be dulled and they'd lose that slight edge against the scourge of the dead. But they haven't and he gets it now.
Either way, all thoughts of Beth and her skin and her taste were forgotten and they turned to see the doors of the supermarket lying in splinters on the ground, a cloud of dust rising and the long slow shuffles of the dead as they all but streamed through the entrance and into the corridor, cutting them off from the rest. Cutting them off from the exit and the fire doors, trapping them in this long abandoned corner of a mall at the end of the world.
He remembers Abe shouting at them to run and hide and Michonne saying something about coming back with the others and flares and guns and all sorts of other things he couldn't hear. He remembers catching a glimpse of Aaron backing away, arms outstretched and yelling at the dead, drawing them away.
But mostly he remembers thinking he's about to lose her again and he's not going to let that happen. Not again. They need to run, to hide. Hide somewhere. Anywhere. Just be safe, lay low. They'll be back. They'll be back soon.
So he slashed a walker across the face and took Beth's hand.
And they ran. Sooner or later they always run.
There are no exits in this part of the mall, no service entrances, no trash disposal and even though they're in a rush of flailing limbs and boots and knives, he wonders who the fuck designed such a goddamned stupid place. No doors, no windows, everything opening into one common area. He guesses they didn't have the apocalypse in mind when they did. He guesses they didn't think the dead would rise.
He's not feeling charitable enough not to hold that against them.
The passage opens out to a line of clothes shops on the left, all shuttered, all dank and closed, and a series of newsagents and jewellery shops on the right, all similarly inaccessible and he wants to scream.
Damn this goddamned architect, damn him to hell.
But then he hears Beth calling him and turns to see her slipping through a set of splintered double doors of a sizeable shop. He glances at the sign.
Bookends.
Great name, he thinks to himself. Great fucking name. Did the architect come up with that too?
But he's jumping in behind her, feeling his way as much as seeing it through the dust and the darkness, slats of afternoon light falling through the rotting ceiling, making the dust motes sparkle and shine.
The store's a mess. Like all stores are these days. Their boots crunch on shattered glass and splintered wood and she's already stabbing at two walkers emerging from the haze. She gets one through the forehead, the other through the chin. She goes for a third coming in from the left, but Daryl grabs her arm, pulls her away and drags her further into the dark interior of the shop, desperately searching for another door. A break room, a storage closet, anything to put a barrier between them and the undead herd at their back. But there's nothing, nothing they can see. Just overturned bookcases, old paperbacks scattered on the floor.
And he's thinking fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
They have to get out of here, they have to.
He's not losing her like this, not giving her up to rotten teeth and hungry mouths. He won't. He'll throw himself out as bait to be torn limb from limb before that happens.
He thinks this like she'll let him. Like he thinks it's his choice.
"Daryl…" she says and he can hear the sound of shuffling feet in the passage, knows there's no way to barricade this place, nowhere for them to go. Christ, how can they not have a storage room? A fire escape? What kind of shitty architect put this shithole together? And how the fuck did it pass health and safety laws anyway? He's seen fucking meth labs that were less of a fire hazard.
And then he sees it. In the far wall, a narrow nook, hidden behind a huge overturned bookcase, broken medieval sconce hanging from an exposed wire. It's shallow too, he's not even sure they'll both fit in there, but she will. She will and that's what counts. And he can pull the bookcase in front of it, stand there and guard it, go down like a fucking knight in shining armour.
He also thinks this like he has a choice. Like she'd allow it.
Either way he pulls at her again and they jump over books and magazines, broken reading lamps and fallen chairs, a coffee table that's in shreds.
If they have any chance of surviving they need to be hidden before the walkers make it into the room. He's still not sure how much those poor fucks see, how much they smell and hear. He's not sure how they find their prey, but regardless, it's probably best not to give them any more advantages than they already have.
He shoves her ahead of him, pushing her hard between the bookcase and the wall, the general direction of the hollow. He hears her make a sound, a low oooof as she connects with the bricks and he hopes he hasn't bruised her, but he'll take bruises over wounds, over bites, over losing her. Because God, oh God, he can't lose her. Not again. Not ever.
It's not really a thought he lets himself entertain. There's no real point anyway. And when he does, when he sticks his toe into that murky swamp and allows himself to imagine that she's not there, that she never came back to him, that she's lost to him again, he goes cold. Cold and greasy and his stomach roils and his scalp itches. He can't stay there for long. So he doesn't.
He can't, he just can't lose her again. He can't lose this.
Apparently neither can she.
She turns, hands snaking out and grabbing his, pulling him hard towards her. And he remembers how strong she is. How she's sinewy and muscled and tough as fucking nails. How he loves the feel of her under his hands, his mouth, how he can spend hours tracing the line of her flesh with his tongue.
And it's back. That same feeling that slammed into him and wouldn't leave earlier on. That same desire that's so fucking inappropriate in these circumstances, those thoughts he shouldn't be thinking, those feelings he shouldn't be feeling.
His hips collide with hers and, even though he's already grappling with the edge of the bookcase, drawing it against the wall to hide them, his cock twitches against her and he almost groans. Almost.
Maggie says they fuck like bunnies. This could be why.
It's dim and hot and there's pretty much no space in here, this tiny niche never meant to for anything other than that medieval themed sconce and it's a tight fit, their backs pressed to opposite walls, fronts to each other and he can literally feel every inch of her against him.
Which under normal circumstances would hardly be a problem.
Normal circumstances.
Whatever the fuck those are.
More shuffling feet. Groans and snarls, glass breaking. He wonders how many followed them in. Enough he's sure, but maybe not all, maybe this isn't so bad. The real test if course is whether they were seen, whether they'll have walkers throwing themselves at the bookcase. And if one does it, they all do. There's a reason they call it a herd.
So they wait, listening, quiet little mice. But when nothing happens after a good ten minutes he starts to relax. He doesn't think they were spotted. But still...
Still...
They can hear them, so close, moaning, rasping, decayed windpipes and broken lungs. Meat bags that somehow get up and walk. It's not worth not risking a look. Not yet anyway. He's not sure how long it will take for the rest to swing back round. Not sure how long they'll be stuck. They might need reinforcements, they might need to wait for nightfall and let off flares which is fucking suicide in itself. They might have to do a lot of things.
One thing he's sure of though is they'll come back for them, they won't die here, no matter how bad it looks.
Another thing he's sure of is that Beth can feel his cock against her hip, rigid, hard as a fucking diamond.
She shifts, tries to move to the side but there's nowhere to go, the space barely big enough for the two of them, the crossbow pressed awkwardly against his leg.
"Daryl," she says, her voice low, not quite a whisper. "Your knife is..."
And she trails off and her eyes fix on his, a little confused, but only a little, mainly incredulous and he'd laugh if they were alone, which they kind of are.
"Now?" She says. "Now? Really?"
And he knows the exasperation in her voice is more than a little faked.
He shrugs.
He won't apologise. He's beyond being embarrassed when it comes to her. All that evaporated on a night of moonshine and demons from a hundred years ago. He guesses it is what it is.
And there's a smirk on her face now, the mask of fake annoyance gone and replaced by something that closely resembles smugness. She gets like this sometimes, a tiny bit drunk on her power over him. Maybe a smidgen too confident in her ability to bring him to his knees. And yes, they've both said it before - there's a lot you can do on your knees.
Except here that is, except here in this cramped space where there's no room for knees, where knees - like everything else - just get in the way.
"Walkers turn you on?" She says, voice still low but rougher, huskier. "Or is it this lovely place?"
And he knows she's teasing and he's about to hit back with something terse but he can't think of anything particularly clever to say and the truth is he doesn't want to. She does turn him on. Always and all the time. She knows, he knows and they both know it's mutual. So he tells her that, not in those words but close enough.
She smiles then, a small giggle, whether from the state he's in or the ridiculousness of the situation he doesn't know, but it's sweet - all sweetness and innocence, not even a shadow of anything else as, mouth curving in the dusty half light, she rests her head against his chest, the skin of her cheek clammy on his breast bone.
This happens sometimes. She becomes raw, pliable even, leaning into him like he can hold her up, keep her standing, like he's some kind of pillar of strength. Which just isn't true. It isn't. She's the strong one. Always has been and drawing strength from him is just a fantasy, an illusion - something she tells herself is possible but he knows it's not. Not from him. Not for her.
Regardless, he maneuvers his arms so they're sort of around her, pressed against the wall, hand sliding into her hair, cupping the back of her head. He likes to hold her, likes to be held. Didn't realise just how much he craved it until that day that she changed the world and everything in it outside the cabin. That day that made everything on the whole world look different, the day there was something worth seeing, and after that it was like the floodgates opened and being in her arms, beside her, was the only place in the world he really fitted. And it was like discovering an entirely new universe that had been right under his nose all along, a place he could go to that didn't hurt him, that soothed him and, more often than not, made dreams come true. And sometimes he craves that more than he even craves being inside her, more than he needs her naked flesh under his hands, the wetness of her mouth and her cunt enveloping him. He looks for it. Seeks it out. At night he'll press himself to her back, align his body with hers and pull her close, bury his face in her hair. And even though it's unbearably hot, even though they stick to each other, clammy and uncomfortable, he only lets go when she pulls away, when she breathes deeply and extricates herself from his arms. She tells him he's like a furnace, his skin burning too hot and too long against her, but the truth is she's the fire under his hands, in his head, scorching him and cleansing him and remaking him.
He doesn't even think she knows what she does, doesn't think he's ever told her in a way that truly conveys the gravity of the situation. This is her, this is just who she is. She's Beth.
And it's always been Beth.
So he holds her, breathes her in and she's sweet and heady in this world of rot and ruin. And he finds he's oddly grateful for this moment, that they've found a place and he can just be with her in the heat and the quiet. And he loves her, he loves her so much he'd stay like this forever if that's what she wants. Wait forever in this musty hollow for the others to come and rescue them. And if they don't? Well there aren't many better ways to go than pressed up against her, holding her and never letting go. He can do it. He can be that strength she thinks she needs. They can wait it out in each other's arms. It's enough. More than enough.
His girl, his dear, sweet, wonderful girl.
And then she goes and turns the fucking world upside down. He should have known. He should have expected it.
She shifts and her hips rock against his. It's slight, barely a movement at all. Could just be her trying to get comfortable, trying to ferret out some unused space. Could just be his imagination.
It's neither.
Because she does it again. Forceful this time. Direct. Hips rolling slow and sure, a flash of warmth on his cock, a sharp intake of breath and then she's still. Still and quiet, breathing heavier, sweat beading on her brow.
And then he feels her lips on his chest, tongue tracing the hard lines of his collarbones, hips heaving upwards in another thrust that leaves no room for doubt. And his cock responds in kind, surging against her, hard and sure and that deep, slow ache settles in his belly again.
Beth, he whispers but she shakes her head, mouth working over his skin, pulling goosebumps out of his flesh, making his scalp tighten and his hands stutter against her.
There's a part of him that thinks he should resist her. Part of him that worries about making too much noise or the others bursting in here armed to the teeth on a rescue mission that he'd now consider ill-timed.
He doesn't care about that part. Doesn't care at all.
Because her fingers are already working at his belt, hands wedged between them so tightly, fumbling for buckles and loops that she can't reach in the cramped space.
He says her name again but it gets lost in the dust, he tries once more but her tongue is in his mouth and she swallows the word, pulls it into her and takes it from him.
She can have it.
She can take everything. Everything he has and he won't stop her.
His belt is undone but it stays in place, held there by her hips and her hands as she fumbles for the button and zipper of his jeans. He leans back, rolling his hips up intending to give her a better angle to work but hits his head hard against the bricks and for a moment he sees stars. He curses and she chuckles, low and breathy and leans in to kiss his cheek and run a hand through his hair.
But when her other hand slides between his legs, nimble fingers cupping him where he's hot and hard, he forgets about the pain and the stars, the walkers and the world, forgets everything except the smell and taste of her and she swallows his groan easily as she swallowed his words earlier.
Christ Beth, he whispers into her skin. Christ.
He feels her smile, the way her lips curve around his tongue, as she draws him hard and fast into her mouth. And somehow , even as sweat pours off both of them and their elbows knock against the stone walls he feels cool and calm as if she's somehow quenching his thirst and igniting his hunger at the same time. And he surges forward, pressing her hard into the wall, hands on her hips, rising to rub at the smooth wet skin of her belly, her ribs.
He wonders if this is how that Coca-Cola advert ends. Shoving that pretty girl against the wall and licking sweat from her neck? It seems unlikely. Not in the world of Abraham, the world of Merle. But maybe in his world, maybe in the one they've created for each other.
She tastes sweet and fresh too, salt and sugar and that hint of something earthier and purer beneath it all. That's the part of her that he wants to lap at for days, drown in, that ichor that fills her veins, one nexus of power at her wrist covered by a thin silvery scar, the other between her legs. This won't be enough, he knows it won't. It's too fast and too shrill. There's too little space and too many clothes and he wants her naked. Naked and free underneath him, wants to press kisses down her body, take her nipples into his mouth and then taste her, swirl his tongue, hungry around her clit until she shakes and shudders and claws at him.
This isn't enough, but it has to be for now.
She's forcing herself back against him, body solid - angry almost - against his. If there was space, if they could move they'd look like some kind of fleshy pendulum as they rock against each other. But there is no space. No room to launch themselves at each other and all he can do is curse quietly against her neck.
Beth. Fuck. Beth.
And he feels her giggle, low and quiet. Throaty.
And then her fingers are in his underwear, curling around the length of him, squeezing tightly because there's almost no room for stroking, not with how tightly they're packed into this place. And the air is heavy with dust and rank with the smell of rot, but he finds it hard to worry about these things as she twists her wrist around him, as her mouth finds the juncture of his neck and she bites softly, teeth ghosting against flesh, drawing him into her mouth and keeping him there. It takes all his self control not to groan, not to go half mad with the feel of her all pressed up against him, closer even than they sometimes are when they make love.
When they fuck.
Like bunnies.
Yeah it's rich coming from Maggie. It's also entirely accurate.
He thinks about the things he wants to do. Thinks about how he was feeling less than fifteen minutes before when his entire world was her ass, the sway of her hips. How now the entire world is this tiny space with its dank cool walls and its hard rough bricks. How that's not even true and the whole world is her small body pressed against every inch of his, the unholy brush of her tongue against his neck and his jaw, the threat of her teeth at his throat and the heat rising from between her legs. A heat he finds oddly discernable from the stifling muggy heat of the day. A heat he wants to live in and then drown in.
He can't think of a better way to go.
He gropes for the hem of her top, finds it easily and slides his hand up the clammy skin of her belly to her breast, thumb slipping under the silky fabric of her bra, and she hisses in his ear, hot breath sending a shiver down his spine.
"Take it off," she whispers. "Please."
He should object. This is ridiculous. She is ridiculous and he is ridiculous. And this fucking situation is ridiculous. Even if they weren't divided from the dead by nothing but a well positioned bookcase, they have a bed. They have a decent fucking bed and a room and maybe one day their own place. He can fuck her long and hard, slow and deep there. He can be as gentle or as rough as she wants, take her any way she pleases, lose himself between her legs for as long as he likes.
But here? Here it's squashed and uncomfortable and almost impossible to even get his hands where he wants them. Here is not the place. Yet somehow that makes it better. Somehow that makes him want to see how far he can push this. How far it will go.
He takes it off.
It's strapless and silky and despite the absurd lack of space it finds a way to fall to the ground, a scrap of flower printed satin now mingling with the dust.
And then his hand is on her, sliding to her breast, rough and hard against skin so smooth he sometimes wonders if the apocalypse skipped her entirely. If it looked at her and decided there was no way to ruin her, no way to break her so it wouldn't even try.
That's not entirely true though. It did try. Tried so fucking hard. It very nearly succeeded too. Nearly. So close, yet so far. Ultimately it failed, maybe by a hair's breadth, but it failed. And that's what counts. In the wake of Beth Greene everything comes up second best. No reason the apocalypse should be any different.
Even so he leans in and kisses the curved scar on her forehead and then the one on her cheek, mouth moving along the thin puckered lines as if he can read them and uncover all the secrets she holds.
He knows most of them. He's a fool to think he knows them all.
But she's not about that today. Not about learning and exploring. Today she's all business, hand twisting sharply on his shaft, fingers squeezing tightly to make him groan softly against her neck, just the way she knows he likes it.
She gets like this sometimes too. Desperate and determined. Sometimes it's when she sees that other scar, the one she hides, the one she almost never lets him kiss. Sometimes when she sees that she gets like this and she fucks him like she needs to prove something. Prove it more to herself than to him.
She's alive.
Of course she's alive. The apocalypse tried to kill her once and then scurried back to its hole, defeated and licking its wounds. It wouldn't dare try again.
But all that seems irrelevant now and he squeezes her breast, finding room to twist his fingers enough to pinch her nipple, harder and sharper than he usually does. He'd hoped that would elicit a moan, a sigh at the very least, but she's quiet and focused, hand working him hard and fast and he has to shut his eyes and bite his lip to keep from spilling over her right then and there.
She's whispering, some of it sounding like real words.
Come for me Daryl, come on.
Whining now, plaintive even. She doesn't want him to wait, doesn't want him to hold back. She wants to bring him to his knees.
But ... but...
No.
The word is clear in his head despite the red fog that starts and ends in her fingers. Despite the magic she's pouring out of herself and into his cock.
Not like this. Not just this. Not all him.
He angles himself back at her, pushing her hard against the wall, momentarily slipping out of her white hot grip.
She takes a split second to recover, hissing and baring her teeth at him the way she sometimes does when he blindsides her. It's all he needs, both as a respite from her relentless hands and to get his own to the snap of her jeans. He's fast, sometimes as fast as her although never so nimble and his fingers are already pressing into the wet fabric of her panties. Also satin, also smooth and even though it's dark in here and he can't see, he's sure they'd match the bra lying somewhere at their feet. He finds it amuses him that she picked this matching set for today, that somewhere her earlier thoughts were just the same as his.
And then he's not thinking about her panties anymore because he's wedging his hand inside them, arm pressed tightly between them as he tries to angle his own hips slightly to the right to give himself more room. There's no give in this place and it barely works. But it does, and his fingers skim the wet heat between her thighs, sinking easily into her and making her arch against him.
"Jesus girl," he growls into her hair. "Jesus Christ."
She doesn't blaspheme. He thinks it's something she does - or doesn't do - to honour Hershel's memory. But she likes it went he does, when he leans in and whispers low in her ear.
Jesus fucking Christ Beth you're so fucking wet. You're so fucking hot and wet. God girl, you been like this long?
Words. They're just words. He could be saying anything. But she's already whimpering, knees buckling with nowhere to fall. Both hands now clawing at his arms, nails digging in hard enough to make him hiss. And she's getting wetter. Wetter and hotter. Impossibly hotter.
Somehow he manages to pull her jeans further down her legs so that her belt hangs midthigh. She's sticky from sweat and sticky from herself and the material is stubborn and clings to her. For an insane moment he thinks he might rip it, rip it off and drop it and not give a fuck about being found or caught. But it is an insane moment and he has the wherewithal to keep at least that aspect of their current situation in mind.
That if nothing else.
He guesses it's a win. He's not making the best decisions today.
But that seems the furthest thing from her mind as she rolls her hips, chasing his fingers, rubbing herself against his thumb. And she's dripping into his palm, literally dripping and he wants to taste her, bury his head between her legs and never come out. Lose himself. Drown. He doesn't care.
"Stop thinking," she whispers. "Just stop."
So he does. He pulls himself back to the here and now, to the feel of her hot and tight around his fingers, the wetness of her and her breathless sighs in his ear. She's everything, she's everywhere. And even though the conditions aren't ideal he wants to make this good for her, for them.
And he loves her more than life.
Still working her, he moves in, presses his lips to her neck, her jaw and finally her mouth. And she's sweet and eager, kisses loose, sloppy even as her eyes glaze over and her hands slip to his wrist, moving him, guiding him, making his thrusts harder and longer. Faster. And he's good with that, happy to be a means to an end in this case, happy to let her take what she wants.
She says his name, managing to stay quiet, speaking in hushed urgent tones and goosebumps rise on his skin and he wishes he could let her scream when she comes, wishes he could hear her give in fully and completely to what she feels. But she can't. She can't now and, for the most part, she can't at home either. And they really need that new place, they really need a place that she can scream and shout and he can have her in every room in the house.
And the thought alone is enough to make him go out of his head and he heaves closer to her, fingers hard and teasing, thumb circling her clit in tight circles as she clenches tightly around him.
She whimpers, breath hitching and he can feel the air stuttering in and out of her as he rolls her nipple between his fingers.
And then the words are back again, pouring out of him. Blasphemy and curses and praises and somewhere in there is her name too. Her name. And it's all these things.
Jesus Christ girl you fucking come for me. You come so I can fuck you hard and good.
And she does, body going taught, straight and then trying to arch towards him, her head falling back banging against the wall with a low thunk and she's saying his name, a string of loud words and he leaves her breast to clamp his hand over her mouth, muffling the sound as she spasms and convulses in a space too small to allow either.
And oh God, she's beautiful. Beautiful and wild and completely and utterly spellbinding in a way that no creature of flesh and blood should be. Her golden hair, blown pupils so dark he can't even see that cornflower hue, the shimmer of tears unshed and the way she's half fighting against his palm, the strained noise she's making in the back of her throat. It's too much and it shoots through him and makes him want to sob.
He doesn't deserve this. He never has. And yet, somehow he has it and if that's not proof of a world turned on its head, he's not sure what is.
When he withdraws his hand from between her legs, she whimpers again, knees sagging slightly as he watches her come down and start reconnecting with the world, the world no more real than the one she just visited.
And he thinks that's positively fucking poetic as he releases her and licks his fingers, sugary, salty and more than a little heady.
She watches him, still a little detached, still a little high. But when he moves to his thumb she makes a small keening noise in the back of her throat that sounds more animal than human and he stops. He can see her glistening on his hand, the way her eyes follow the passage to his tongue and who'd have thought she'd be the one begging, the bad dog watching you eat, watching every mouthful from plate to mouth.
A surge of power, of daring. That realisation again that she'll follow him anywhere, to the end of the earth if that's what he asks. And suddenly that's not so scary.
I want you. I want you. I want you.
I love you.
Oh God Beth, I love you.
He moves his hand to her face, rubbing his thumb along her lips so they glisten before pushing it into her mouth and letting her suck her juices off him.
Beth.
It's barely a whisper, almost no sound but he knows she hears the awe in it, knows that when he says her name it's like a prayer and a confession and a curse all at once.
She smiles, let's him move to hold her face in his hands and then kisses him soft and slow and long and rests her head in the dent of his shoulder, the place she tells him was made just for her.
And for a while he thinks that'll be it. She'll pull herself together and they'll wait this out in the dark and hope Aaron makes it back before they start getting too hungry.
He's wrong. He forgets how she turns the world upside down.
It's only a minute, maybe two, not longer and she's pushing against him again, rubbing rather than rolling herself against his crotch and he can feel her wetness seeping through his underwear, making the fabric stick to him.
My girl, he says but she kisses it away, already tugging at her jeans so they slide further down her legs and he wonders how the fuck she's going to find everything to get dressed again or if she'll walk out here bare assed and give Abe that eyeful he's been craving. Sometimes when she's like this he thinks she'd do it too. She can be brazen when she needs to be.
Like now.
Abe can fuck right off.
He feels her one boot come off and her leg bounces against his as she extricates herself from her jeans and panties. And God he wishes he could see her, wishes he could see the wet glistening on her thighs, the way her belly trembles sometimes and that simple curve of her hip he's come to love so much.
She's half free of her clothes now, and he tries to help with the other leg, hand ghosting down her thigh, grappling behind her knee wishing there was the time and space to run trails over her skin with his fingertips like he does that sometimes when they're naked and alone. Sits next to her spent form on the bed and touches her with light, deft touches. Touches all of her, not just her breasts and her clit although those get the majority of his attention. But the backs of her thighs, the soft skin of her wrists, the ridges of her shoulder blades and sometimes she squirms to get away and sometimes her entire body erupts with gooseflesh and he knows that it'll take almost nothing to send her over the edge.
"Leave it," she whispers as he reaches down to help her. "Leave it and just... just please do it now. Like right now."
He forgets the rest. There's not enough room to keep all his thoughts in his head.
Somehow his hands find her hips, thumbs chasing over bone too prominent to disguise and he's lifting her awkwardly using the wall for leverage as he tries to manoeuver her up and into a place where he can see what he's doing. But there's no need because her skilled nimble fingers are already curling around him and he's muffling a groan against her neck as she lines him up, legs hitched over his hips and knees pressing into the wall at his back.
And she all but consumes him as she pushes herself forward, sliding down onto him with a wet sound that makes him lose his mind.
God Beth, fuck girl, why are you... Why?... God. Fuck...
These are not really words. He recognises that on some level. They're just not. They're from that other world, the one they visit together. They mean something there. Here they're just sounds. Sounds like the buzzing in his head as he forces his hand between the wall and her ass to give himself some leverage, as he leans into her and tries to find whatever rhythm this stone place will allow.
And it doesn't allow much. Her thighs can barely wrap around him and he gets tangled in her jeans as they dangle off one leg. He tries moving her higher and thrusting upwards in short hard strokes, but he worries that she'll hit her head as he moves. He thinks he growls. Lust, frustration, rage, he's not quite sure, but she understands. She could always read him.
"Here," she whispers softly. "Here."
And she presses against him so that he's off balance, unwinding her unclad leg from his hips and positioning her foot flat against the wall behind her.
"Let me," she says.
It's easy after that. She holds his shoulders, fingers twining in his too long hair and then she kisses him, soft and slow, tongue licking along his, over his teeth, exploring gently and almost languidly and he loses himself in that. Find he doesn't care about anything else other than keeping her close and the hot press of her mouth on his.
And then she clenches around him, tight and silky like a spider's web and he sees sparks and spirals, lights dancing across his vision as she does it again, slow and deliberate and he's not sure if she's teasing or testing but he doesn't care either way because he's actually dragging her closer now, trying to climb inside like he wanted to earlier. Suddenly the lack of space is barely even a problem as her she grips him and she grinds herself - obscenely - against him.
He thought earlier he'd have the upper hand when he turned the tables on her, making her come hard and fast when she was the one with her hand between his legs first. But she's tossed that out now, the same way she's tossed out so many things he used to cling to. Tossed away his past, tossed away his demons. Tossed away everything. Thing is though, even when he loses he wins.
And then she's whispering.
Come on Daryl, come for me. Show me you want me, show me you want it.
It's a litany in his head, her voice, soft and subtle and filthy and somehow louder than the blood thrumming in his ears. And then she clamps down hard around his cock, squeezing him tight enough to make him gasp into her mouth, whisper obscenities into her flesh as he rocks back and it feels like the whole of him breaks inside her.
Crashes.
Shatters.
Disintegrates.
Heat.
Oblivion.
The little death.
And then she's breaking too. Fast and unexpectedly, her voice like thunder in his head and she arches upwards again and rolls forward in a silent wave, trembling and fluttering and grasping at him.
And he just holds her, holds her and forces himself to breathe. To draw air into his lungs and push it out again. To focus on the curve of her shoulder, the way her hair is in his mouth and how boneless she feels against him and how that grabs at his heart and makes him ache with how much he loves her.
This is only one of the myriad ways she's broken him, broken him to rebuild him and he sobs into her hair.
Eventually, he's not sure how long it is because it seems darker but it was dark in here anyway, he lowers her to the floor, hands still tight in her hips to hold her steady. She looks a little dazed and he kisses her forehead, runs his thumb across her lips and then, on impulse trails his fingertips over her face, like he's mapping her, trying to carve the shape of her into his mind.
I love you, he says. And she nods.
I know.
It's always about the words.
And that's when they hear the bangs from outside, loud and harsh. And then a series of smaller one, shots being fired.
"We gotta go," he tells her, zipping up his pants and he feels her scrabbling at her clothes.
More bangs, louder closer. Dead sounds, rasps, rotten feet shuffling. Hungry hissing.
Another explosion, flares no doubt. They need to go. The sounds and the sparks are a double-edged sword drawing walkers away from them but also drawing the attention of anyone and anything in the area.
He pushes at the bookcase, moving into its shadow to give her room to pull up her panties and her jeans.
More gunshots. Groans, muffled and low and then voices. He picks out Rick and Aaron immediately and then Michonne and Sasha soon after. Seems like they did go back for the rest. Makes sense though, that's just like Aaron, getting them their own rescue party.
"Come on Beth," he says, staring out into the gloom. He can make out the edges of things, dark shadows obscuring the corners, hiding walkers and salvation alike in the gloom. He can hear footfalls, three pairs by his count, two men and a woman.
She's buckling her belt and he holds out his hand to her, finds it in the dark and squeezes.
He tugs at her but she resists and he can hear her scrabbling around on the floor.
Christ girl, come on.
"My bra," she says.
"Leave it," he tells her pulling at her again.
"I'm not leaving it," she says and he sighs.
"We need to get out of here Beth."
And then he feels her snatch something up and suddenly she's pressed against his side, knife in her hand glinting in the last scrap of light. And even though he knows they have to go and he's been the one rushing her along, he takes a second to kiss her temple and smooth her hair before moving out into the room. There's always time. There's always time and space for them.
And well, he can hold off seeing Abe and his smirk when she walks out holding her bra in her hand.
Abe can fuck right off.
That night lying in the dark in her room, he strips her naked and trails his fingers over every inch of her, the dip of her waist the curve of her ass, the long lean smoothness of her thighs. Earlier they heard the sounds of the bed creaking from the next room, Maggie's breathless sighs and Glenn's moans, but now it's quiet, so quiet he can hear the slide of his skin over hers, the way her breath hitches and her lips part for him.
It's cooler too. That gentle pleasant coolness that comes after the stifling burn of the day, and the windows are open, the moonlight making her skin glow. She's languid and boneless, muscles loose as she watches him through half-open eyes.
And he wants her more than he's ever wanted anything in his life. So he rolls her onto her back, watches as the shadows flicker over her curves, turn her skin luminous and making her hair shine like gold and, for the third time that night, he buries his head between her legs.
Maggie says they fuck like bunnies.
It's true.
But it's still pretty rich coming from Maggie.