And here it is for all you sexy people. The smut, the horizontal Tango, the naked shenanigans.
Be kind. I'm no good at smut.
Thanks again to everyone for all their support and please review if you get a chance.
Soundtrack
I love you but I don't know what to say - Ryan Adams
Take me to church - Hozier
Because the night - Bruce Springsteen
Break your heart - Gaslight Anthem
Oh and I don't own anything, but if I did the MSF wouldn't have been so stupid.
He's looking anywhere but her. Anywhere but her flesh and she finds that endearing. Endearing and little frightening.
He's biting his lip too, scraping his teeth over the meat of it, sucking it loosely into his mouth and popping it out again. And she wants to tell him it's ok but she also doesn't because she's the one standing here covered by nothing but a thin pair of pale pink panties and a dangling cross, and she's the one with the pebbled nipples and the prickled skin flushed red with desire. The one weak at the knees with a lump in her throat and a pounding in her chest.
She's the one being brave, being desperate, being vulnerable.
But when she steps closer, closer so that her lips are inches from his neck and she can see his pulse jumping under his skin and smell the fear in his blood, his hands close around her waist and his thumbs, big and rough, drag circles over her hips while his fingers press hard and heavy against her back.
And when she looks up, there's worry in his eyes and she thinks that maybe, just maybe they're mirroring hers. And when she sees the raw lust, the want, the need, the begging, she knows they are.
It's been long.
It's been so very long.
An image of Zach comes to her. Zach mouthing at her knee, Zach laughing at the strawberry shaped birthmark on the back of her neck, Zach and the way he told her she was beautiful.
Zach, Zach, Zach.
And she feels bad, bad because she shouldn't be thinking of him while she's here with another man, bad because this is nothing like those times with Zach. Bad because while she's waited months for this, she's waited her whole life for Daryl.
She knows now there could never be anyone else.
It ain't even a question.
And she wonders how he'll be. If he'll be soft and gentle like he was the first night or forceful and demanding like he was the cold morning she wrapped her legs around him in the hall and he shoved himself against her, his hand rough at her breast.
She kisses him first. She has to, because she can't stand the stretched silence, can't ignore the tight bubble in her chest that threatens to choke her. She's gentle. Light. It would even be chaste if she weren't standing here loose limbed, flesh bared, heat gathering between her legs.
They've kissed before, fiercer and harder than this, but even so he sucks in his breath and his hands tighten hard enough to bruise.
And she can smell him, leather, the hint of cigarette smoke - even though it's been months since he lit up - and something else, something decidedly male, something decidedly him. And she loves it because it makes her feel safe. And she loves it because it also makes her feel vulnerable.
And she loves the blue of his eyes, the scruff of his chin, his heartbeat against her breast.
And she loves the way he's looking into her eyes. Like she's the only thing in the world, the only thing worth looking at. The way he's always looked at her.
Was there even time before the prison fell? She can't remember, she doesn't think there was.
And she kisses him again, still chaste, still gentle and this time his lips soften on hers and the rub of his thumbs quickens. And she wonders what he's thinking when she eventually pulls away to catch her breath. If he's also remembering that night he nearly took her up against the wall or maybe the first night on the couch when she was disappointed he didn't. Or maybe he's thinking of last night and all the nights before that when they caress and touch each other silently and pretend that it's all erased in the morning light.
And then he draws her closer, the slight increase of pressure on her hips enough to make her gasp and he puts his mouth on hers, still gentle, still quick as if he's testing her, checking to see that this is what she means, what she wants. And a laugh bubbles inside her because she's standing here almost naked but he's still unsure, after everything. After all those nights, after all those whispered secrets, after the funeral home, after "oh".
And his kisses are soft and his mouth is warm.
And she knows he's scared out of his mind.
And she is too.
When she steps backwards half onto the pillows, half on the floor, he lets go immediately and looks down. Not at her face, not her breasts, not her skin. But at his boots, the pillows, the puppy sleeping in the corner. A naughty child caught peeping.
Bad boy, bad dog.
And she takes a breath and says his name and his eyes snap from the floor to her face so fast, that she thinks he's trying to miss out all the bits inbetween.
"Daryl," she whispers. "Daryl, look at me."
He opens his mouth, closes it again, mimics the gesture in his hands.
"Look at me."
(Don't you think that's beautiful?)
She needs this. She can't explain why, but she does. She needs him to see, to know, to decide.
He says her name and his voice is strained, choked, "You don't have to…"
But she does. She really, really does.
She takes his hand, noticing how hard he's concentrating to keep his eyes on her face, that his gaze has still not dropped to her chest, her flesh.
"I know," she tells him, voice dropped to a low whisper. "I want to."
She kisses his hand ... was that too forward? And then places it - warm, rough, calloused - on her breast. That was definitely too forward. She's not sure where this confidence is coming from, why it's chosen now to be this reckless, but it's like a roar in her head, an ache between her legs, a yearning that she knows she's powerless against.
And she knows he feels it too, can still remember the way her blood sang when he wrapped her legs around him in the hall and she felt hard need between them.
"It's ok," she says and her voice is calm as his fingers spasm against her. It almost seems involuntary until she feels his thumb swipe across her skin, over her hard nipple. "Look at me."
And he does. And his hand stutters at his side and he bites his lip so hard that when she leans in and kisses him again, he tastes like blood. Blood and need and sweat.
And then he opens his mouth to her, to the wet stroke of her tongue as her hands fist in his hair and she tastes him, tastes him like he's tasted her. And he's warm and wet and heady. And his kiss is a little sloppy, a little awkward.
He groans when her hands drop to brush his chest, those hard collarbones she can't seem to stop touching, fingers running gentle trails over his shoulders, down his arms, over his knuckles and then all the way up to his neck again to pull him closer, to kiss him harder, deeper. His hand contracts on her breast again, briefly his tongue is forceful, demanding in her mouth, desperate. And then in the same movement, he goes still, pulling back, breathing raggedly. She stops and looks at him, like she did earlier, earlier when she didn't know the taste of his mouth, the roughness of his hand.
"Ok," he rumbles, more to himself than to her and it sounds like he's giving himself permission. He says it again and seems more confident. She nods, short and sharp, like she knows what just happened. He nods too. Like they have an agreement. His hand leaves her breast, travels to her face, cups her cheek. She thinks he'll kiss her lips but he bring his mouth to her neck instead, breathing in deeply and she can't decide if he's being bold or shy as he plants clumsy, nervous kisses across her pale skin. She didn't expect this. She doesn't know why not.
When Beth was 13 Maggie told her she had a "male-centric" view of sex. She can't remember why. She knows they were sitting in Maggie's bedroom during summer break trying on vampy make-up and high heels - the type their father would never let them wear - and whispering about boys. She didn't understand at the time, she thought Maggie was just trying to be all worldly and educated, showing off her newfound college wisdom by trying to make her little sister feel stupid and naive. But now those words - male centric - come back to her, back to her as Daryl's graceless kisses burn her skin, as his awkward touches make her gasp.
Maggie's explanation was kind of weird, rote in a Seventeen Magazine kind of way: make sure he's good to you; you have needs too; his finish didn't necessitate yours nor the end of the experience. Angry, she told Maggie to be quiet, that she didn't want to know about the dumb stuff she learned at her dumb college and she stormed out - as much as anyone can storm in kitten heels - face covered in black eyeliner and carmine lipstick. God's honest truth, she was mortified at having this conversation with her sister. Mortified that Maggie was obviously telling her she was no longer a virgin, mortified that Maggie even wanted to talk about this beyond the ins and outs of straightforward reproduction. She was so young, so childish, but now a small part of her wishes they'd spoken a little more, wishes they'd spoken more frankly about men and sex and how it's not all about babies for girls and orgasms for boys.
But only a small part. The problem is though she's not sure it would've helped because she's not thinking about this in terms of sex or fucking or making love. Maybe because this seems bigger than a roll in the hay, clandestine kisses behind her Daddy's barn at the farm, a whispered sigh in a drafty prison with a doomed man. It's about relief and release, about putting old lives to bed, about accepting this thing that started burning between them outside a cabin from the past a million years ago. Maybe she's making it into something bigger than it is, but she doesn't think so. Regardless, right now, in her mind the whole idea of needs, pleasure, getting off is secondary, a byproduct of something else. Something bigger.
He strokes her neck lightly with his fingertips.
Apparently he didn't get the memo.
He's like a boy in love and this is what he wants for her. Either that or he's more experienced than she thought, that unconscious deftness of hand and mouth she noticed that first night, surprising her again. But she doesn't think so.
Daryl Dixon ain't no Casanova.
And yet, he's touching her soft and slow, planting staccato kisses on her skin, watching how her milky flesh flushes and pebbles under his rough hands, testing, learning, nervous and slow, but oh so eager to please.
It surprises her. He might not be whipping out the candles and scattering the room with rose petals. There's no cheesy smooth jazz in the background, no champagne. He isn't worshipping her like the hero in some bad romance novel. Maybe that will come later, when they're both sweeter. When they have a moment to catch their breath, to get clean before getting dirty. Maybe that won't come at all and they'll be dead before dawn.
There's another moment of hesitation when she takes his hand and pulls him down onto the pillows. But he follows, kicking his boots off and kneeling in front of her, the firelight catching the shine of his eyes and rippling patterns over her naked flesh. She wonders what he sees, a woman with small breasts and narrow hips, too few curves and skinny legs.
She wonders what kind of women he's had before. If they were prettier, curvier, more experienced and less broken. She wonders if he's hoping for rougher, faster. If he'd prefer her on her knees...
But that's the crazy part of her mind, crazy because this is Daryl. And she knows him, knows how he holds her and touches her even when his hands are hard on her and she's biting at his lips. How he cares for her and yes, she can say it even if he can't, how he loves her.
He reaches out, thumbs her shoulder and his hand is tan and rough against her skin. And she closes her eyes as he pushes her down into the pillows, so that he's looming above her in the semi-darkness.
He's tender, or at least he tries to be as he moves over her, mouthing at her neck, kissing her small breasts shyly, tentatively, before planting his elbows on either side of her head and kissing her lips. His kisses are deliberate, wary even, but hungry, his need and urgency betrayed by the open mouthed way he embraces her. He kisses her for a long time - at least hours, maybe days, more than likely it's decades - so long, she wonders if this is enough for him, if the taste of her tongue is all he needs, as if it would satisfy him.
Well, it wouldn't satisfy her no matter how much of a gentleman he's trying to be now, no matter how he's trying to shift his weight on her so as not to let her feel the bulge of his cock against her thigh.
She adjusts beneath him, parting her legs so that he has to move to the space between them. So that he has to press down against the heat at the apex of her thighs.
"You sure?" His voice is a rumble next to her ear.
She kisses him, hopes that is answer enough. It is, because he kisses her back, drawing her tongue into his mouth, licking across her teeth and she thinks she'll go out of her mind with how much she wants this, with how hard she's concentrating on not rocking her hips against his, on not reaching between them to grab him where he's hard and hot.
Instead, she keeps her hands firm on his back, nails digging into the scars she knows are already there. She thinks for a moment she'll make new ones. New ones to cover the old. She wonders if her scars will heal his, if he'll let them. He heaves a little on top of her and even though she can't see him all that well in the semi-darkness she knows he has that old spooked look. The one that says "I love you and get the fuck away from me" at the same time.
She's chooses not to see the last part.
His breathing is uneven as his hands tangle in her hair.
"I … I don't wanna hurt you," he whispers, pulling away slightly, and he's only half talking about what they're doing here and now.
And she loves him for it. Loves him for the tenderness he shows her, loves him for the guileless way he touches her, the sweetness and the bitterness of him.
"Then don't," she answers. "Then don't hurt me."
He watches her for a moment, and even though his face is mostly shadows, she starts to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
"Be selfish Daryl," she tells him and his eyes widen.
And suddenly she can't stand any more of his wary kisses. She grabs his hair, it's a little greasy but she doesn't care as she kisses him fiercely, hand snaking between them to loosen his belt where it digs into the tender flesh of her belly. He groans as her hand brushes the hard planes of his stomach, muscles tough, body taut, skin smooth and scarred by the world he lives in now and before.
She whispers a curse against his mouth as his shaking fingers find their way across her hip, along the crease of her thigh, ghosting across the damp fabric of her underwear so lightly she wants to scream.
She swears again as he moves his hand away.
He grins awkwardly, attempts a joke. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"
A vision of her dead mother, rotted, decayed, stinking of maggots and putrefied flesh, grabbing at her arms, yellowed teeth snapping, biting, devouring comes to her. It's agonising and almost immediately followed by the sight of her father on his knees blood spurting from his neck as his corpse collapses into the sandy grass.
She stills and Daryl looks away.
She can't hold on to all the badness all the time.
She lets it go.
He doesn't.
He's already pulling away, already apologetic, but she grabs his shoulders, wrenching him back fiercely, angling her hips until his hand is pressed against her, into her heat and her wetness, into the place that is all her and all pleasure and all desire.
It's his turn to curse and hers to grin.
"No," she tells him. "No."
And somehow he understands what she means even though she doesn't. Not really.
She pushes thoughts of those they've lost from her mind and focuses on him. On them. On what they're doing. On what they're trying to achieve even though she really has no idea. His sweetness has thrown her off. But she doesn't know why. He was always going to be sweet. He was always going to be this way with her.
His movements are light, gentle but his breathing is harsh and ragged in her ear as his fingers slip under the fabric of her panties. He doesn't touch her at first, so she waits, quiet and still. A little mouse biding its time. Except she's not a mouse. Not after today, not after the last few weeks. She'll never be a mouse again. She wants him to touch her, to know her. Dares him to understand how much she wants this, how much she wants him. He hisses and bows his head as he skims the wetness between her legs, as his hand presses down on her. She buries her face in his neck, teeth ghosting against his shoulder.
She hears him breathe her name as his fingers start to move over her, inside her. It's sore, uncomfortable, his probing ungentle, inexperienced, rougher than she thought. She adjusts, half wanting to pull away, and suddenly his touch becomes easier, smoother as she lets go of the fear and gives herself over to him.
"You alright?" he asks.
"Yeah," she breathes as his trembling fingers continue to move.
And then his mouth is on hers again, his tongue pressing against hers. He's still going slow, slower than she would like. But the heat between her thighs is blossoming and she worries she'll come undone right there and then.
His strokes are a little uneven, a little broken but she moves her hips gently in time with him to help him find a rhythm, holding his wrist tightly like she knows what she's doing, like she has the answers.
She doesn't think she fools anyone.
Even so, he learns fast, between his soft kisses and gentle touches. And when he asks if he's doing it right, if she likes it, he's earnest and vulnerable and the sweetest man in the world.
And tells him that yes, yes he is and yes, yes she does, and the blood is already roaring in her ears and her hips are lifting off the pillows and she's clawing at him and rocking against him and she worries that she doesn't want him to see her like this.
Except that she really does.
She thinks he's more surprised than her when she comes, thinks he didn't expect it, but her climax rolls through her like sunshine and moonlight and liquid fire and the next thing she knows he's covering her cries with his mouth.
And his hand, still seated between her legs, is too much, and she grabs his wrist and shoves it away.
She lies there trembling for a moment before he touches her cheek and it takes a second for her to remember to relax, to become languid and loose limbed, to quiet the heat in her blood and be aware of anything other than the wetness of his fingers on her face, the smell of her on his hands.
She guesses she isn't hard to please.
And when he kisses her again he's still slow but no longer wary, no longer shy.
He rises to his knees to look at her, across the expanse of her, taking her in, eyes roaming over the meagre curves she has, breath hitching as his thumbs chase her harder edges and then her softer ones. And his hand travels from her thigh and loops through the waistband of her panties. He looks to her for permission and for a moment she's lost in his eyes before she nods and he slips the pink cotton off, laying a kiss on the inside of her knee so that his beard tickles and mouth soothes.
He mumbles something against her skin and she thinks he's telling her she's beautiful.
And then he looks at her, really looks at her, her pale nipples, her skinny hips, the soft, soaked hair between her legs.
And even through the fog of her recent climax, she suddenly feels insanely aware that she's now completely naked and he's completely not.
"Daryl," she says, looking at him pointedly.
"Yeah," he says, and even though it's his answer, he manages to make it sound like he's giving himself permission again. "Yeah."
He reaches for his buttons as she sits up to undo his pants. But he flinches slightly as her hand brushes against him. And then kisses her as if he's trying to hide his discomfort, hands travelling gently up her thighs, her hips, her ribs. His breath hitches as he thumbs the curve of her breasts, big hands tightening on her sides and she realises he's trying to distract her. She realises that he'll do this all for her and expect nothing in return.
That's not going to happen.
Calmer now, easier, focused she grins against his mouth.
"You gonna let me see or not?" she asks lightly. "Or are you the only one allowed to have a look?"
He leans his forehead on her shoulder and chuckles softly and it's the small break in the tension that they need. This is a better joke.
"Missed your sass, girl," he says. He's said this before, said it often. She wonders if it's code for something else. Something bigger.
(You know)
She tells him she missed him too. It is code for something else. Something bigger.
And he looks like he's holding back a sob when he runs his fingers through her hair and she can swear his eyes are glassy.
And suddenly he's pliant under her hands and he kisses her again, long and deep and his tongue is hot and wet and it feels like he wants to taste all of her, crawl inside her and never see the light of day again. And even though she started this with a dropped shirt and a plea in her eyes, he's the one begging.
She pushes him back so that he's on his ass, straddling his legs and before he can think, before she can think, before she can allow her shyness to get the better of her and she withers under his heavy gaze - because he's not acting shy any more, not even a little bit, his eyes are on her, on her breasts, on her hips, on the wet juncture of her thighs - she reaches to unbutton his shirt and when his hands close over hers, stopping her, she tells him to trust her, that it'll be ok. And he says he does, and he looks so earnest it breaks her heart.
She kisses his cheek and then his brow and he nods and rubs his thumb over the scar on her wrist.
And she wants to cry and laugh but she does neither as she pushes the shirt off his shoulders.
The scars on his back are worse than she remembers, hardened ugly lines of dead skin criss-crossing broad smooth flesh and she feels a sob form in the back of her throat that someone would to this to him. To the man that he is now and the frightened child he was then.
And he tells her it doesn't matter and she whispers that it does. And the firelight flickers over his skin and make his scars look like liquid memories of silver and gold. And she wants him to understand he's special. Special and beautiful and important. Special to her. Every part of him, from the broad expanse of his shoulders and the carved tightness of his belly to the wreck that is his back and flecks of grey in his beard.
Briefly she thinks they'll need to talk about this … sometime, any time, another time. Not now.
There's a scar on his chest too, it's short and ugly, puckered, discoloured flesh above his right nipple and she bites her lip and pushes thoughts of how it got there out of her mind.
She chances a look at him but his face is unreadable and she's acutely aware that she's never been more vulnerable.
And neither has he.
The long healed laceration is rough and she runs her fingers across it gently and then because she's decided to throw caution to the wind she leans into him to plant a tentative chain of kisses on the same path. He stiffens for a second beneath her, hands fluttering on her hips, like he doesn't know how to touch her, like he's gone wary again. The moment draws out for too long and she thinks she's overstepped the mark, pushed him too far. And then he moves his hand from her hip, fisting it into her hair, holding her to him, breath comes out in heavy puffs as he kisses the top of her head, cradling her against him. And she decides that one day, by God's grace, she's going to kiss every inch of every single scar on his entire body and then some day, when she's done that enough he'll remember this, this time, this tenderness, this desire instead of the hate, pain and rage that marks him.
When he takes her hand, she looks up thinking he intends to move her, to lie her down beneath him again but he doesn't, just intertwines their fingers like they did so many millennia ago in a cold field of even colder graves. And then his eyes lock on hers. It's that look, that combination of fear and hard determination, a look that defies her to drop her gaze, to pull her eyes away from his. It would be easy and it wouldn't mean anything. She could press her lips to his neck, his cheek, his mouth even and things wouldn't go any differently, but she won't. She won't because she gets it and it's huge for him.
His eyes never leave hers as he raises her wrist to his lips and plants one, just one gentle, scruffy kiss on the faded white line that she tries so hard to hide.
(I never cut my wrists just to get attention)
She doesn't need to ask, it's the most intimate thing he's ever done. She knows because even though she can hear his heart hammering in his chest, and his eyes have a wild, unnerved look as if he's suddenly petrified that he has done something wrong, he won't look away.
This is how he shows himself, this is how he loves.
She touches his face, thumb running over his jaw, brushing the wetness of his lips, the prickles of his beard. She whispers his name and he pulls her into him, arms tight around her, hands splayed on her back. He says something in her ear, something she can't make out over the blood thrumming through her veins and the gruff rumble of his voice, but before she can ask him, his tongue is in her mouth, lips pressing hard on hers. It will be her only regret, never hearing his words. He'll wave it away tomorrow, whatever tomorrow may bring. Maybe he'll spook and wave her away too, but no, not now, not tonight. Tonight he's just Daryl and tonight they're just the only two people left on earth.
Still kissing her, he moves, almost lifting her completely to lie her down on the pillows. There's no hesitation as he removes the last of his clothing, jeans, socks, underwear discarded as if it is nothing, as if it's not armour any more. She chances a look between his legs where he's hard and heavy, where he's ready and the sight of him makes her tremble.
And then he's crouching over her, big hands rough on her thighs.
"You sure?" he asks.
She bites her lip and nods.
"I'm sure. You sure?"
He looks a little incredulous for a second, but he meets her eyes and the expression leaves. She's not sure why, but he suddenly looks grateful, like she's done something for him no one has ever done before. And it has nothing to do with fucking.
"Yeah, I'm sure," he tells her, his voice low and earnest, a little strained, a little sad and then he snorts. "Course, I'm sure girl. Christ."
She knows it's bravado, Daryl trying to get Daryl back. But she's touched something inside him, unlocked another layer, discovered the sweetness within. Whatever happens, this will be something that stays with them forever.
He places a gentle hand on her hip, thumbing the jutting edge of the bone. His skin is coarse and calloused reminding her that somewhere she's still soft, still smooth, still feminine instead of hardened and dirty.
He swears, his mouth is filthier than hers. His mouth. That he kisses her with. His hand grips her thigh pressing it outwards. Wide. Open. And looking down at her he frowns, chewing his lip. For a moment, she thinks he's going to press his lips to the too hot flesh between her legs.
For a moment, she knows he considers it before he gets in his own way.
But then his fingers tighten on her leg and it's sore enough to bruise. He kisses her hip, licks it a little, mouth ghosting close to her dampness, before making his way to her lips - tongue rough on her belly, her nipples - and positioning himself between her thighs.
She shivers.
He looks at her, he doesn't need to say anything. She's long since learnt to read his eyes, to understand the set of his jaw, the slant of his brow.
She nods, once. Another short, sharp, no nonsense nod that she hopes conveys all the anticipation she's feeling and a great deal more confidence. She's Beth. Daughter, sister, friend, carer, fighter, killer, warrior. Now just Beth. Just Beth with her sweet voice and blue eyes, just Beth with her good heart and her spine of steel. Just Beth. Or maybe just a lover.
She reaches between them to line him up and he gasps as she wraps her hand around him, as she rubs the hardness of him, as her fingers find him thick and throbbing. And she wants to touch him and taste him and wishes they had more time..
If only they had more time.
And then he covers her hand with his, pushes at her thigh. Her eyes widen as he eases into her. He's careful, he's attentive. Maybe even a little too careful. Maybe even a little too attentive. It makes her feel shy. It also makes her feel special. And she can't decide which one is more powerful. Even though this started out as a way to … she doesn't know what any more, his uncertainty, his humility, his respect, the way he hesitates gives her the spark of hope that he won't freak out when they're done, that this means something to him. That she hadn't misunderstood his look and unintelligible rumble back in the funeral home, even if she'd been too surprised to respond. She hopes that if, no, when they make love again, they can do it without all this madness running through her head, that she'll be free to lose herself in him without fear. He'll be free to relax, to trust her and himself as they move through this together.
One day, when they have more time. More time than all the time in the world.
She breathes deeply, looking away, a cautious hand against his chest stilling him, as she takes a moment to adjust to him, to grow accustomed to his body inside hers.
It's been so long.
"You ok?" his voice is a hoarse whisper.
She nods, even though it stings, and he wraps a hand around the back of her knee, tugging her leg slightly higher, slightly wider, filling her completely.
He groans as he rests his weight on his elbows either side of her head, arching against her, caressing her cheek with his thumb. She breathes slow and deep, shifting her hips slightly before relaxing and giving herself up to him fully. She concentrates on the feel of him inside her, the way he stretches and warms her, an ache that makes her wrap her legs around him, hands gripping the hard muscle in his arms as his skin moves across hers.
She likes his blue eyes, focused, clear, but somehow calm, somehow content. She watches his lips lingering above hers, the slight lopsided smile.
When he kisses her it's slow and gentle. Ridiculously so when you consider how hard and deep he's buried inside her, but with Daryl it's always been the little things, the small excesses that makes life about living and not just surviving. He's the guy that brings the doll when he's looking for baby formula, the guy that finds a piece of jasper when he's hunting for life-saving medication, the guy that kisses you sweetly while he fucks you hard and dirty.
She touches his face and he turns his head to brush his lips across her palm.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, bowing his head to her shoulder and it sounds like something he's been wanting to say forever even though he's just said it.
She wants to thank him, but her voice isn't working and all she manages is some unintelligible sound that against all logic he seems to understand.
And then he starts to move against her. His thrusts are thorough, deliberate, a little too hard, a little too sharp but undoubtedly more about her than him and she suddenly understands Maggie's words about male-centric sex. Her experience may not be vast and she doubts his is either, but he's got it into his head to treat her right, as right as he can, and she finds that soothing. Despite their differences, despite his hesitation, he's gone out of his way to make this about her, even though she's the brazen one, the forceful one. And she wants him to know that's important. Important in the grander scheme of things, but also just important. To her. In fact she almost feels guilty that she hasn't done more to alleviate his own inner demons. She doesn't have to wonder if he has any.
She turns her face to kiss his cheek and then his mouth. She wants to say something but she doesn't know what. All the options frighten her. In the end she tells him she wants him, she wants only him. Even in mid thrust she can see his surprise, his relief.
"Beth," he breathes and it's all he needs to say. For now, it's enough and it feels like heaven.
She grips his shoulders tightly and he hisses as her nails dig in but she can't be sure if that's pain or pleasure. All she's sure of is him, his movements, his hands, his lips, his body pressed to hers. She's seldom seen him like this, this tenderness. She's always associated him with fighting, with aggression, not to her, not to his family. But as someone who will get his hands dirty, as someone who's not complete without a crossbow or a gun.
(Is that what you think of me?)
But this? This now? This focus on her. It's new. She wonders if he's always like this when he makes love. Part of her wants to think this is just for her. Part of her wants to believe she's tapped through the awkwardness that is Daryl and found something undiscovered inside.
It's silly.
She doesn't care.
They deserve this, both of them and she's not going to agonise over it. If that makes her selfish, makes her possessive, she doesn't care. She doesn't care at all. Maybe she will tomorrow or the next day but right now with him all she wants to know is the sensation of him inside her. His lips caressing her neck, his hands, tangled in her hair.
And then she feels that tightening from earlier, her body tensing, her knees pressing hard against his hips as her back arches.
She says his name but it doesn't sound anything like she remembers it. She swears she hears a chuckle as she moves his hand from her face and pushes it awkwardly between them until he understands what she wants and his thumb presses down against where she's swollen and wet. And she knows he's inexperienced and she knows they need practice but she also knows her blood is raging and it won't take much to push her over the edge.
"Ok?" he asks.
She nods, gasping and looks back at him bewildered, but for all the world he has a small lopsided smile on his face that's equal parts self-satisfaction and awe. And she smiles back and her heart feels broken and she doesn't know why, but it's like the bubble in her chest was filled with bittersweet sorrow and it's close to bursting.
And she reaches up to touch his cheek to pull him down for a kiss, wedging his hand uncomfortably between them, the hand that plays the ache between her thighs, that soothes and intensifies it.
When he pulls back his eyes tell a story, they always have, They've always shown another side of Daryl. And now despite the smile gracing his lips, despite his fingers drawing spirals of pleasure on her, his eyes are earnest, flickered with concern … tenderness … fear and something else.
And she wonders what he sees on her face. If he sees her desire for him, if he sees how much she loves him.
You should tell him, she hears a voice inside her head. And she knows she should, but she's lost in his movements, in his eyes and she's lost her words and her voice and anything outside of this moment.
You should tell him.
Maybe, maybe when there's more time.
He's biting down hard on his lip and it's a look she familiar with, one she's seen often with Jimmy, less so with Zach. And she knows it'll take very little to push him over the edge, that he's close and concentrating hard not to tip over before her.
It's that juxtaposition, the arrogance and the sweetness, the tough outside and the mushy inside that destroys her, that shatters her heart. The fact that one hand teases between her legs but the other holds hers and squeezes reassuringly. He's all she's ever wanted and nothing like what she thought. It scares her and comforts her. And she wonders if it will always be like this with him, this overload of emotions that keeps knocking her sideways, or if it really is just the day, the week, the last two and a half years. It's so irrational, so crazy that he, Daryl Dixon, is inside of her. This man, this broken, beautiful, wonderful, frightening, ridiculous, magnificent, fucked up man.
And she wants to laugh and she wants to cry and she wants to scream and she wants to sing and she wants, and she wants and she wants...
And then the bubble bursts and she unwinds underneath him, the taut spiral fracturing under his fingers, leaving her to go spinning off into a world where only he can follow, where only the two of them and this perfect moment exist. She cries out his name loudly - this time it sounds like his - and is vaguely aware that he's covering her mouth with his palm even as she shivers and his thrusts grow harder and faster, less rhythmic inside her as she comes, as she feels his lips and teeth clamping down on her neck, the sweat of his exertion dripping onto her chest, down the valley between her breasts, pushing that silver cross into her skin. She wants to hold him everywhere, touch him everywhere, but their limbs, their hands, their kisses are all in the way. And she's still spinning but somehow has the faculties to press her legs down hard around his waist, bend slightly to meet his movements so his thrusts become shorter and swifter.
"Jesus, Beth," he groans against her ear as he tries to withdraw from her.
"No," she breathes as his hand softens over her mouth. "Please don't. Please don't."
She's knows it's dumb and stupid and reckless but she can't bring herself to care and neither can he. It'll be ok, somehow it'll be ok.
He jerks awkwardly, so uncomfortably that it hurts, burns, aches as he lets out a soft moan and comes inside of her, body rigid, hands trembling against her flesh. And he's saying her name - Beth, Beth, Beth - and it sounds like a sob and it sounds like praise and he thrusts one, two, three more times viciously, her one hand cupping his head, holding him against her shoulder, the other pressed against the demon tattoos on his back as she waits for him to go slack.
And he's still saying her name when he does.
And he's kissing her neck and her shoulder and his hands are in her hair, on her face, on her breasts.
His breathing is still heavy when he rolls them both onto their sides, arms tight around her, grounding her, stopping her from not only falling off the pillows but from just falling into whatever lies beyond this moment.
She's grateful that he keeps her tethered, keeps her from floating away. She hopes she does the same for him.
She finds she can't look at him as his breathing slows, even though he's still inside her, even as the stain of their orgasms dry on her thighs. She burrows against him, resting her forehead against his chest, trying to make herself small and silent and inconspicuous, listening to the emptiness, the puppy snores, their heavy breathing. He runs a hand through her hair and then settles on her waist. She's grateful that he hasn't said anything. She's not scared but thinking back to how brazen she's been, she feels more than a twinge of embarrassment. So she's still, pressed against him, body shaking as her sweat, his sweat, cools on her skin and the heated metal of the cross lies between them.
She thinks its only a few minutes later but she's not sure - in the new world and especially in this newer one her and Daryl have created, time is more fluid, less defined - when she feels him shift and withdraw from her. It's a relief and a disappointment and she misses him already. She chances a glance at him. He looks a bit spooked, his eyes slightly too wide, his mouth slightly too hard.
"Cold?" he swallows loudly.
She nods.
"Shoulda said something girl," he chides gently.
He sits up slowly and she takes a moment to admire him, his muscle, his skin, the smooth lines of his torso and the sharp cut of his hips. She feels lucky and happy and silly and almost smug when he wipes her down with his shirt.
"Probably need to wash that," he says, tossing it onto the floor.
"You think?" She answers and immediately regrets it for being too soon. But he snorts and reaches around her to pick up the discarded quilt pulling it over them before settling back down and tugging her into his side.
They're quiet, watching the dying firelight, the snow now falling a little heavier outside.
Ain't Georgia weather at all...
She wonders if they will fall asleep now or if he'll want to talk. She doesn't know which she'd prefer.
She breathes him in, the musk of his sweat, the metallic tang of blood. He kisses the top of her head before resting his chin against her.
"Ok?" he asks.
"Mmmm."
"Beth, I…" he starts and she looks up at him and he stops.
So it's talking then.
But he's quiet again and she chews her bottom lip. He looks away from her face, over her shoulder towards the door. There's nothing there.
She shifts closer to him, and he turns so that their bellies are touching, cups the back of her head, pushing her tight against him.
"Daryl," she whispers and part of her hopes he doesn't hear her, doesn't acknowledge it but he looks down at her. "You ok?"
He takes a deep breath and nods and he looks so serious, she wants to laugh. But she doesn't. She'll never laugh at him. Not like this. Not here, not now.
"It's ok," she tells him and he nods.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah I know it is."
He only half believes it, she can tell.
She kisses him on the lips softly and he hesitates before giving himself over to her, one hand caressing her face.
She smiles and he does too.
He runs his index finger down her arm. His touch is light, tickling almost and it gives her goosebumps. He smirks.
"Your dad would kill me," he whispers, not looking at her, eyes following the path of his fingers. "Me here with his little girl. He'd put a bullet right between my eyes."
"He wouldn't," she says.
He glances at her, eyes hooded, and she can tell he doesn't believe her.
"He wouldn't," she insists again as his hand slips to the dip of her waist and over her hip.
She touches his face. "My dad loved you Daryl. You were family to him."
"Makes it worse..." He starts and she puts a finger to his lips.
"Stop," she says, a little angry, a little hurt. "Just don't."
His hand makes it's way back up her side, over her arm to the curve of her shoulder, skin sliding over skin.
"Remember that run I went on with you? The only one I was allowed to go on? To that awful medieval strip mall? The one with the flagstones and the candelabras? Michonne was away, Maggie was sick and Carol was too busy getting everyone from Woodbury settled. And you and Glenn got all weird about looking for tampons. Because you two can put walkers down by the dozen but show you a feminine hygiene product and y'all 'gross, girls have cooties'."
He nods, smile crooked.
"When I told my Dad I needed to go he said it was ok as long as you were going. Not Glenn, not Zach, not Bob. You. He trusted you. I even told him I'd stay close to Zach…" she trails off, waiting for the sting of his death to find her, waiting for the wave of embarrassment to wash over as she talks about her dead boyfriend while in the embrace of another man. It doesn't come. It's quiet. Quiet with the rage, quiet with the hysteria, quiet under the beating of Daryl's heart.
"Beth?" he prompts gently and she comes back to the here, the now.
She swallows. It's easier the second time round.
"He said to me 'don't you be worrying about Zach now. If you're insisting you want to go on this fool errand you stick with Daryl. You're going in the car with him and you ain't ever going to be out of his sight, not for a second. I don't care if Daryl comes back complaining that you were under his feet like a lost kitten. You're his shadow, you stick to him like glue.'"
His smile is wan. "You weren't the only one your daddy gave a talking to."
She lifts her eyebrows and he nods, finger tracing her clavicles before drawing a spiral on her shoulder.
"Yeah, he came to me before we left. Told me that he knew I thought the run was to look for supplies, but my job was to keep you safe. Told me 'safety starts here, take the Hyundai, not the death trap.'"
"My dad saw to it I didn't get a ride on your bike?" her voice is indignant.
"Yeah."
She pulls a mock angry face and he answers with a shy smile.
"I'll take you on a bike some day. Take you somewhere nice," he tells her, smoothing her hair.
And he will. She knows he will.
"Do you see though?" she touches the corner of his mouth with her thumb. "My dad? You were like a son to him."
"Yeah, but that was a run. This here," he stops touching her and makes a vague gesture at their intertwined legs. "Me with you. He'd kick my ass. I'd let him. Fuck, I'd help him."
She props herself up on her elbow and looks at him sternly. "You're wrong. My father was a lot of things but he wasn't stupid. He respected you, he loved you and all he wanted in the world for me was to find someone who would treat me right, the way Glenn treats Maggie."
His face darkens a little, a tight frown at the mention of their names and she can't decide if it's because he's given up hope of ever finding them or if it's because he doesn't like the comparison, the connotation. She decides to ignore it and shoulder through.
"He'd have been happy I was here with you. So stop this nonsense. He always said no one was good enough until someone is. That's how he would feel about this. And I'll bet you a bag of bananas that he'd be happy for me. For us."
"Yeah?" He asks and the frown is all but gone.
"Yeah," she says firmly, with finality.
"Where you gonna find a bag of bananas girl?"
She rolls her eyes and chuckling, he cuddles her back to his chest, kissing the top of her head.
"You're hilarious," she grumbles, secretly pleased, and he chuckles again.
"It's true though," she says after a while, kissing his neck gently. "Don't argue with me about my dad, Daryl Dixon. You knew him for what? Two years? I knew him my whole life."
"Yeah," he says and he's serious now. As if he might believe her, as if he's testing the idea out in his head and it's not coming back with "insane" written all over it.
She kisses his jaw and shifts so she can mouth at his neck and shoulders and her hands find their way to his hips and flat stomach. His breath is already rattling against her as he moves to kiss her, the brush of his tongue heralding a new ache between her legs. But as her hands slide down his belly, reaching for him, he pulls away.
"We should get some sleep," he says.
"Should we?" She asks and she can feel his grin more than see it in the dying light.
They don't sleep.
Not until much later, not until it's almost morning.
Instead, he touches her, traces lines over her body, her neck to her shoulder, shoulder to her breast, breast to the dip if her waist, the flare of her hips.
She's quiet as he does, losing herself to the sensation of his graceless hands, no longer even slightly shamed by her gooseflesh or the blatant wetness between her thighs.
He pushes her onto her back, down into the pillows, drags a hand from her knee, up her thigh, thumbs her hip and she says please.
Please Daryl, please.
And he's gentle as his hand slides between her legs, where's she's hot and wet and waiting. And he's tentative as his fingers explore her, trace the folds and dips, skim over the hard nub of her clit and ply the muscles inside her.
Again, it doesn't take much to make her come and she hides her head in his shoulder as she does, while his free hand - the one not pulling searing pleasure from her flesh - rubs her back and he whispers nonsense into her ear.
Later once she's caught her breath, he buries his head between her thighs and he's unskilled and awkward but she shows him what she likes, how she likes it, when to use the flat of his tongue and when not to. And when he sucks her clit into his mouth and laps at her, she feels like her skin is too small and like she's shimmering and shining and turning to liquid as she falls apart under his mouth.
She touches him too, his chest, his nipples, his hard belly and the harder cock below. He groans when she takes him in her hand, covers her fingers with his when she asks him to guide her. But he won't let her take him in her mouth, stops her with kisses and touches and a hand fisted in her hair.
They have time, he tells her, they have so much time.
And she wishes it were true.
So she straddles him, works her hips hard against his, movements slow and deliberate and his hands cover her breasts and his eyes squeeze shut as he comes and she collapses on top of him.
Before she moves, she tells him she loves him. She really does love him and she sees the shock in his eyes as he shifts her off him and curls his body into hers.
It could almost be dawn outside, she doesn't know, but she's tired and so is he and his hand is heavy on her hip, heavy and comforting.
And just before she falls asleep she's dimly aware of Bo getting off his bed and flopping down on the pillows next to her feet.