So I wrote this for Bethyl Smut Week on Tumblr. As always I don't own anything. Obviously.

Please be aware, this is smutty.

Just one touch and I'm on fire
One touch and I'm crying
Because you're so beautiful
Just one smile and I'm wild
One smile and I'm ready to die
~ Beautiful, HIM

He moves into her room. Officially. Brings all his shit, which isn't much but he brings it anyway because apparently that's just how things like this are done. You find someone you care about and if they care about you, you put your stuff together and you lie down somewhere in their general vicinity at night and somehow this means something. And it sounds fucking insane when you put it in those terms but he doesn't care. It's good. This is good. This thing they have is good.

And yeah, they sleep together. No big deal. They share the bed. They lie close and listen to each other breathe in the darkness. He takes her hand and smells the soap on her skin and the shampoo in her hair. And really when it comes right down to it, when he's trying to convince himself that he hasn't actually fallen completely head over heels for her, that she hasn't climbed into his chest, scraped out his heart with her fingernails and run off into the night with it, he tells himself that's all they do - occupy the same mattress at the same time when they're at their most vulnerable. He tells himself it's a little thing. Trivial even. He knows none of it's true.

They also kiss; long, lingering kisses that tingle in his chest and then turn to fire in his belly. They touch, deft strokes along her arms, her hips, over her belly; her fingers tiptoeing down his arm, fluttering a little at his wrist and then sliding along his side until goosebumps erupt on his flesh and he has to clench his jaw and ball his hands into fists not to take her right there. Not to push her down into the mattress and cover her body with his, one hand between her legs, the other groping at her breast.

In some ways it's easy. In others it's very, very hard.

He's not even sure why they do this. Why they torture themselves. Some days he thinks it's all a big game of chicken, other days - most days - it feels just right. This waiting; this slow, burning thing between them that he knows is building up to something wonderful. Maybe neither of them want to be the one to say the words, to push the other over that edge. He guesses that in itself is a bit silly. They've pushed each other before. Done it so many times, it just seems like that should be something they do. Losing his shit at country clubs and moonshine cabins and then losing it all over again at funeral homes and cold crossroads with the autumn leaves falling around him. Losing. Losing Losing. And then finding it all again in that moment he laid his lips on hers on that sleeper couch in a room that smelled of his blood and antiseptic. Finding it again when he found her.

He remembers. He remembers everything.

And it hurts. It hurts beautifully.

He tells himself that they have time. They'll take it slow. The should take it slow. There's no rush. This world didn't give her back to just snatch her away again. Even this vicious dread-filled existence is not that cruel. He's not sure anything is.

So he sleeps with her, draws her into his arms at night and even though he knows he runs hot, that he's like a furnace in their bed, she's a little fire against him, burning hard and bright and he lets her sear him, scar him, watches himself blister under her touch and he never complains.

Sometimes it's so good to burn.

The others have been good about it. Mostly.

(Well except for fucking Abraham and his fucking walrus moustache that somehow still can't hide the smirk he always has under it when he sees them together.)

He'd expected shit from Maggie. Expected to see that hard gleam in her eyes, the way her lip curls when she's mad. He was ready for her. Or so he thought. Because he see-sawed between thinking up ways to tell her to back the fuck off and accepting that he was in all likelihood going to fall to his knees and vomit out his feelings for Beth at her feet and beg her to be okay with it, promise her that all he wants to do is exist somewhere in Beth's periphery, somewhere in her life and he'd never hurt her and and and… . And apparently that wasn't necessary. Maggie has ways of surprising people. He figures it runs in the family.

So instead of tears and screaming and shouting, she'd smiled - a big, genuine smile - and pulled her sister close, held her, and then said that it was about fucking time and Jesus fucking Christ didn't they know it was the end of the goddamn world and that they needed to get their asses into gear and stop wasting sunlight? And then she shot him a look over Beth's shoulder, a look that was all curled lip and hard gleam, just like he'd imagined, a look that seconds later evaporated like it was never there, before she pulled him into the embrace and told him that her daddy would have been proud.

Glenn speaks to him after. Asks him if he gets it now, if he understands.

He says he does. He really does. He says the words he knows Glenn is waiting to hear.

"I care about her more than I care about me."

It's enough.

He guesses it's only as weird as they make it.

And yeah, that's not to say he doesn't make it pretty fucking weird on his own. He still infers things. Things that likely aren't there. He listens to the words people choose when they talk to him. He wonders if there's a deeper hidden meaning, if they're trying to say something without saying it. Wonders if they talk about him and Beth with the others, if it's a point of concern and it makes him feel disconnected from the group. But then they don't actually treat him any differently and he's getting better at believing it doesn't matter, that they have bigger fish to fry than getting all worked up about where he lays his head to rest at night. And if anything he thinks someone like say Carol would be a straight shooter about this if there was anything to say. But so far nothing. Nothing other than a coy smile and her sparkling eyes, a brief touch on the shoulder.

"She's good for you," Carol said. "She's good for all of us but she's really good for you."

Carol has her demons - lots of them - but it's nice to see her smile.

As for the rest? Well Rick fell into addressing him and Beth as a unit very quickly, before even the night in the surgery where his arm was bleeding and stinging and he kissed Beth for the first time. Before the night at the fence and the mangoes, before even Abe - Abe and his stupid ass moustache - called him Romeo. Rick's always known. And he's always known that Rick's always known.

So he pushes it to the back of his mind. He gets to fall asleep next to Beth Greene pretty much every night. He'd take a million surly stares and even more loaded comments to carry on doing that. And he doesn't have to.

Somewhere he hears Merle telling him he has a pretty good deal here.

He shuts that shit down.

Merle has no place here, nobody does, not while she lies close, her ass rolling against him and his hands trace the muscles of her arms, the curves of her hip, that lean expanse of her thigh.

She wants more. So does he.

But with Beth it's different. He only gets to give her this once. And while he knows on some level he's being ridiculous and that what they're doing is ridiculous and when it comes right down to it, the idea that this one time - this one first time - is some kind of sacred thing that you have one chance to get right is really fucking ridiculous, it still worries him. A wonderful, delicious anxiety, but an anxiety nonetheless. It's fucked up, seriously fucked up. And he thinks thinking like that is more than likely going to make things harder than they need to be.

Still though.

Still.

It's not like there's anybody he can ask. Not like he can walk up to Rick and start firing off questions, not like he should. And he thinks somehow that would upset Beth. They don't lie to each other. They don't. Ever. They've made that promise. And that - speaking to Rick or anyone else - well, it might not be dishonest, but the thought gives him the same feeling as if it were and he guesses that's enough reason not to do it.

And yet somehow it's still wonderful, this room they share, this little sanctuary she's made for them in this world of blood and bones, in this place where the living once ate the dead and then they righted that so that the dead once again eat the living. Everything where it should be.

Everything but everything.

Except him. Except her.

So they burn. But sometimes burning isn't enough.

xxx

It happens one night like any other night. Nothing different, nothing unusual. He caught the late shift, walking the fence with Eugene of all people. Four hours of hell. Four hours of Eugene reminiscing about his favourite computer games and bemoaning the fact that the world ended before the new Transformers movie came out. Four hours that leave Daryl more convinced than ever that DC is nothing but a sham, a wild goose chase with a not so wild goose and they're all sitting ducks. So he's grateful when it's over, when he sees Sasha and Bob coming towards them, grinning like idiots and holding hands. He nods to them, even Stookey who he's decided deserves a second chance and isn't too bad as long as he stays away from the juice.

And then he's gone. Dog tired and looking forward to sinking into bed and Beth's arms and staying that way until the sun wakes him up. She'll be asleep, curled around a book, a candle flickering on the nightstand, making the room smell of wax and flame.

But she's not. She's still reading, some hardback tome of a novel resting on her knees, a skinny little tank top - pale blue - clinging to her.

She's engrossed and barely spares him a glance as he walks through the door.

"Still awake?" It's rhetorical but she nods.

"Book's good," she says.

"That's a first," he says shutting the door and moving to the edge of the bed to undo his boots.

"It is," she says, slipping a torn piece of paper between the pages and setting it down turning towards him and god, that little top is so fucking see-through it seems altogether pointless. "No more sexy vampires from outer space in fur bikinis."

He snorts.

"I'm serious," she says. "This is good. It's not like it's high literature or anything. I'm not reading Proust. It's like a fairytale made real. Retold, you know? For adults. With the bad parts left in."

"And you like that?" he asks having disentangled himself from his boots and reaching for his socks. "The bad parts?"

"Yeah," she says pulling her knees up. "You gotta have the bad parts Daryl. You gotta. How else would you know where the good parts are?"

How else would you know where the good parts are?

(God, sometimes he loves her so much it feels like it crushes his bones into tiny shards and then grinds them to dust before it puts him back together again.)

He nods and reaches behind him to pull his shirt over his head and dump it on the floor, stretching to work the kinks out of his back and neck and rolling a shoulder until he hears a crack. It's not that he feels old, he doesn't, it's just sometimes his bones betray him, much like the flecks of grey in his beard.

His hands go to his waist and while he'll never be able to define exactly what it is that changes, something in the air changes, becomes oppressive, awkward even; the sound as he unsnaps his belt, louder than it has a right to be, the gentle slap of the leather as it lands on the floor with the rest of his clothes almost echoing. He's painfully aware of how quiet she's gone behind him, that he can't even hear her breathing and that she's watching him, her eyes like twin lasers boring into him, through him.

It's not the scars. He knows this. They've done the scar thing. He's shown her, they've spoken about it. They've cried about it too and that's over now. It's done. He doesn't flinch away when she touches his back, when she traces her fingers along the lines, the raised ugly ridges left behind by something even uglier. He's safe with her. He knows this. He always has.

But this isn't about scars. This is something else. Something he doesn't truly understand and is not sure he ever will. This is admiration or as close to it as he can imagine someone feeling for him. This is about her liking what she is seeing. It's about her holding her breath and seeing him as something more than he thinks he is, more than he imagines himself to be.

It's happened before. Obviously it has. He knows she enjoys it at when she touches him at night and her fingers glide gently over his skin, trace the lines of his muscle, his hips and belly before he has to push her away or face going out of his mind. She enjoys him. She enjoys what she finds under her hands, what she feels and what she sees. He knows it on an intellectual and somewhat abstract level because that's just how things are. But he doesn't truly get it. Can't fathom that she sees him the same way he sees her. As something beautiful. As something treasured. As something she'd like to uncover and learn.

And now she's looking at him like that. Her gaze heavy, travelling down to his waist, hips, his ass and back up again so that the hair on the back of his neck stands up and his face burns.

"Take a picture," he says, voice husky, thick, injected with none of the wry wit he was going for. "It'll last longer."

"Don't want a picture," and her voice sounds fine, confident, playful even. "Picture won't do the real thing justice."

And again it slams into him. This realisation that he's not only being loved, he's being lusted after.

Wanted.

He turns to look at her over his shoulder, hair falling into his eyes. Even so he can see that her lips are wet and shining, slightly parted, notices the way her breath hitches and how her hard little nipples poke through the absurdly inadequate material of her vest.

"Stop."

But she's not stopping. Not even slightly. Not even a little bit.

She is rising to her knees though and that little blue top, now falling off one shoulder, ends high above her waist, exposing an expanse of pale flesh, flat belly, jutting hips above the lace trim of her matching panties. Panties which are just as woefully inadequate in hiding anything.

And then she has her hands on his shoulders and her lips against his neck, pressing little kisses, soft and chaste and yet not chaste at all, into his skin.

There's a moment when that anxiety flares. But it's only a moment and it's gone, because he wants this. Not only because he doesn't want to deny her but because he wants her too. Has for longest time. Has before he even knew he did. And if he fucks it up, so what? He's safe, they can try again tomorrow, the next day, a week, a month from now. Whenever they goddamn want.

And she's a line of fire down his spine, the cotton of her clothing so thin, he can feel the rub of her nipples and the heat of her cunt on his back, against his scars. And he wants her. He wants this. He wants everything.

Everything but everything.

He breathes her name. Beth. His voice is more strangled than before, which is interesting because he didn't actually think it was possible.

Beth. Beth please.

He's not sure what he's asking for. What he's begging for.

Be gentle with me Beth. Be rough. Be hard. Be soft. Be anything you want.

He doesn't know. He hasn't got a clue because the blood is pounding in his ears and behind his eyes and then rushing south to his cock and that's okay because she knows, because she's looking out for him, for them. Like she always has, like she always does.

Be careful Beth. With us. With this.

And she is. She is careful, but she's also not. She's running her wicked little hands down his chest, over his nipples, stopping to squeeze before tracing the bumps of his ribs, and settling on the sharp bones of his hips, where her fingers flutter nervously against his abdomen. And now her mouth is open and wet and burning him, her tongue running along the corded muscles of his neck, down across his shoulder and back again and he groans, loud and long, grateful that these rooms are solid and soundproof.

God Beth. My girl.

He wants to turn, he wants to take her in his arms, put his hands on her, touch her through that silly little top, hands on her breasts, her hips, running up her thighs until he can feel the heat of centre, so close, so very close, before he loses his nerve and pulls away. He wants to do all this and more because he wants to burn. Burn her like she's burning him.

But she doesn't let him.

"This is for you," she whispers in his ear. "This is only for you. And for me. This is because I want to. I want to touch you and make you feel good, I want you to know just how much I want you."

He moans again. It's too much. Her hands and her words. So he lets her do whatever she wants. Because who the fuck can say no to Beth Greene? Who would want to?

And then she's kissing his hair, his temple, his cheek, her lips catching the corner of his mouth as it pulls into a crooked smile and then lower to the scruff of his beard, along the line of his jaw and all the while her deft fingers are rubbing slow hesitant circles into his belly, spiralling lower and lower until she loses her nerve and works her way back up his chest, back to his nipples and his breastbone and the hard lines of his collarbones.

He gives in. He can't help it. Doesn't want to. He lets out a sigh and leans back against her, against her heat and her steel, against the softness that's strong enough to catch him when he falls. And he's going to fall, he knows he is. And it's going to be a wonderful journey.

Her hands drift down again, unhurried, taking the time to press against the starburst scar where an arrow went through him, against the long ridge of rough skin that curls over his hip and across part of his belly where that one time his asshole father decided to forgo the stick and the switch and use a goddamned piece of rubber hose that had been lying in the sun all the day. So drunk, so high … and his aim was always so fucking good that the hose snapped down hard against Daryl's side and wound itself around him, taking his skin with it, leaving a trail of blood and later a gnarled gristled line of scar tissue and ugliness.

And yet.

And yet, from the way she's touching him, touching it, he would swear she doesn't find it ugly. The act yes. Unspeakably so. Unimaginably hideous. But not the scar itself. Not him. Him and his marks. Him and his ink. That's not ugly to her.

You gotta have the bad parts Daryl. You gotta.

And he'd wager that she wouldn't even consider his scars to be the bad parts either way.

Her hands dip low again, down his sides scattering goosebumps over his entire body as they come to rest on his hips and then travel to waistband of his jeans.

He sucks in a breath, hard and sharp as he watches her pale fingers edge close to where he's straining and stiff against his zip. So close. So very close. Another fraction of an inch and she'd be touching him, his cock, rubbing him through the rough denim. And god he wants that. He wants it so much. He might well go out of his head if it happened - he's considered the possibility that he could actually die, and no he doesn't think he's being melodramatic - but that doesn't seem to matter. It seems trivial in light of what he's feeling right now.

And then she wavers, quivers, slows, stops. No more wet kisses for his neck, no more hot breath on his skin. Her hands tremble against his belly, fingers fluttering. She's uncertain. He finds that somehow comforting.

Deep breath. In. Out.

Another.

The shadows from the slowly dying candle dance against the stark walls, making the room seem cavernous, larger than what it is.

In. Out.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Her confidence fails her and there's something so hopelessly endearing in that, so wonderfully real and vulnerable as she begins her slow movement back up his chest that he can't help himself when he grabs her hand in his, squeezing her pale fingers.

"It's okay girl," he says, voice low. "It's okay, I want you to."

She lets out a little gasp, small and quick, and he turns his head so he can see her, the candlelight flickering on her skin, her eyes huge and luminous.

He twists, reaches for her, pushing his free hand into her hair and cupping the back of her head.

"I want you to," he says again and kisses her, nudging her lips apart. It's awkward but he doesn't care as she licks her way into his mouth, her tongue hot and wet and rough against his. And he loses himself in her for a moment, forgets everything except the sweet taste of her, the way she's soft and gentle and perfect next to him.

This is all it needs to be forever. Nothing more. He'd take it and treasure it just as much. Protect it with everything he has.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But when she pulls away she's panting hard and he swears he can smell her. A rich, earthy musk that tells him everything he wants to know about how she feels about him, how much she wants him. And he tries not to get himself too caught up in thinking about how completely and utterly insane it is that this is her and it's all for him, her blown pupils, her hard nipples, and now, her wet cunt.

"Show me," she whispers. "Show me how Daryl."

It's enough. It's more than enough and the rumble in his chest doesn't even sound like it comes from him as he turns fully towards her, framing her face with his hands and drawing her in to put his mouth on hers again. To taste her and explore her and run his hands over her back, under the worn fabric of her top.

Beth. Oh my god Beth.

But she's impatient now. Her mouth urgent, her body pressing up against up hard against his, small breasts rubbing against his chest.

"Please Daryl."

Please Daryl.

It's ridiculous to even imagine he could deny her anything.

So he pushes her down into the pillows and undoes his jeans, drags them off along with his underwear to lie next to his other discarded clothes on the floor and leans into kiss her again, trailing his lips down her jaw, nipping at her throat, the small rise of her breasts before covering her nipple with his mouth and sucking through the pale fabric.

And he doesn't give it a second thought.

Either it's lack of blood to his brain and he concedes wryly later that this may well have been the case, or it's just that he's done worrying. She wants this. He does too. There's really not much more to it.

So he moves with her, head to her chest, mouth working, the smell of her filling him, saturating his senses, climbing into him through his pores and settling there. He hasn't done this before, hasn't used his mouth on her like this. His hands yes, big and rough covering her over and under her clothes, thumbs gently flicking the hard points of her nipples while she sighed into his neck and her fingernails scraped along old scars and made them new again.

But not this, not his tongue, not his teeth, not his spit and his fingers snaking underneath her top to trace that soft smooth skin and hold her down.

He guesses tonight is about new experiences.

She's undulating beneath him now, hesitantly, slow movements barely noticeable if he wasn't pressed to her, buried in her, lost in her.

"This okay?" she asks and it take a moment to register the question, because it seems insane that she would even ask it, that she'd think that anything she could do, any way she could feel would somehow fall into the realm of "Not Okay".

"Daryl," she prompts again, going still and he looks up at her, kisses her.

"Yeah Beth. You can do whatever you want, girl."

She nods. He can see she's still nervous, but it's okay, so is he.

So is he.

But he's not going to worry about that.

He moves off her, lies down on his side facing her, fingers tracing the edge of the wet patch on her top where his mouth was seconds ago. A little shiver runs through her, prickling her skin and she arches into him. His little flame, his little fire.

Beth.

He kisses her again, soft, slow, hand moving off her breast and running down her arm to entwine her fingers with his.

"It's okay," he says more to himself than to her. "It's okay."

"I know," she breathes. "I know."

Of course she does.

He pulls her hand to his belly, lets her rest it there, gentle rubs, more spirals, dropping lower and lower. Still uncertain, but eager now, her knuckles grazing against his cock, which stands up hard and straight between them.

She gasps. He doesn't really think it's surprise. She knows how hard he gets for her, when he presses up to her at night. When she rolls her hips and he worries he'll come right there against her ass. And that there'll be nowhere to hide and she'll know and they can't pretend it didn't happen.

But it hasn't happened. Not yet. None of this has happened.

Maybe it's just so good to burn.

But not now, not for much longer.

She cups him in her palm, lightly, softly. If it weren't for the heat of her hand he might not know she was there.

He breathes, resists the urge to buck against her. Resists also the urge to pull away and take her right there.

"My girl," he whispers as her fingers curl around him, as they squeeze, as they rub, as they make him lose his fucking mind.

She's hesitant and inexperienced. He knows these things already, knows she's a virgin and that not much went on with Jimmy and Zach, but he doesn't care. Doesn't care at all, because this is for her. This is her doing what she wants and somehow somewhere he believes that it's because what she wants is to make him to feel good

So he covers her hand with his and shows her how to stroke, slow and deep at first - long, drawn out movements that he feels slamming into him and shooting through his veins, rushing through his blood until his tongue is heavy and thick in his mouth and he can't form the words he needs to tell her what she's doing to him, to let her know.

It's fine though. He thinks she understands his groans and grunts well enough. Thinks he's getting the message across just fine as she works her hand over him, naughty little fingers tugging at him, wet palm moving in a slow circle over and under him.

His little fire. His flame. His girl.

He lets go of her hand to touch her face, run his thumb along her cheekbone and scatter kisses in her hair. She'll be okay on her own, she doesn't need him to show her anything anymore. He tries to kiss her mouth but she moves into him, resting her forehead against his chest, eyes downcast, eagerly watching what she's doing, fascinated seemingly by the way he's now rolling his hips against her fist, the strangled noises coming out of the back of his throat. Fascinated that she can do this to him, that she can create this.

Although he suspects she knew it already. He thinks she knows a lot of things.

And it builds, strong and sure, until he feels like he's drowning and choking and his cock is throbbing and aching in her hands.

He finds words. Somehow. He's not sure how.

But they're words and he grabs onto them, holds them and tries his best to spit them out in some order that makes sense.

"God Beth, you're gonna make me…"

And if anything that makes her stroke harder, her movements becoming more deliberate, purposeful, pushing her head further into his chest so that he has to hide his face in her hair and grip her shoulder tight enough to bruise.

He tells himself it's going to be okay. No one has actually ever lost their mind because of this. No one he's heard of at least. But then again maybe he'll be the first. At this point he thinks it's pretty likely.

Maybe you can burn too much. Maybe.

And then there's her voice, sweet and gentle, that lilt he knows like his own name. "Wanna make you feel good Daryl. Wanna make you feel so good,"

And that's it. Not her hand, but her words which pushes him over the edge, sends him flying into that exquisite oblivion that she just this second created for him. And instead of falling through space and time, like he knows he should, like he knows this goes, he shatters under her, heaving her name and sobbing into her hair as his pieces go flying, as they fall, as they settle and as her arms around him and her lips against his chest pull them all back together. And he's choking and sobbing and crashing into her and she holds him until his shuddering stops. Until his breath cools. Until his heart breaks.

She holds him forever.

xxx

Time passes. He's not sure how much. But he doesn't care. He lies there holding her, while she kisses him, those small chaste kisses that started this whole thing, and all he has to do is breathe. And he can do that. He can control that.

In. Out.

Breathe.

He can do anything he likes.

Eventually she moves away from him, back to her side of the bed, to her pillow, where she watches him, eyes big and blue and wise beyond her years.

He can see streaks of his come on her hand and another stain near the hem of her top. He doesn't want to know what the sheets between them look like.

"Sorry," he says. He doesn't think she'll much care but he says it anyway..

"Don't be sorry."

He reaches out, touches her lips with his thumb, no need to be coy now, no need to feel the eyes of the world on him as he does it. No need to worry about people staring or having opinions. Only she exists here. And him. And he can touch her like this if he wants.

"Jesus girl," he whispers and she smiles.

She's beautiful. She's so fucking beautiful that it hurts to look at her. Her golden hair gleaming in the candlelight, the shadows on her skin, the hard twin points of her nipples through that tiny top.

The translucent and ever expanding patch of wetness on her panties.

He groans, another strangled noise that doesn't sound at all like him.

He's not done.

They're not done. Not yet.

He glances up at her again, meeting her eyes and she nods.

"It's okay," she says. "You can."

So he shifts over to her, kisses her lips, tastes her mouth. She smells of sage and musk. Sunshine. And god, he loves her so fucking much and all he wants to do is make her happy, make her smile, make her feel good.

He reaches for the edge of her top, pulls at it where it's sticky and stained from his orgasm and she slips it over her head, giggling as one of the straps snags in her hair and he has to help her untangle herself. Her panties are next and he barely gives it a second thought as he tugs them down her legs and loses them somewhere in the sheets.

There's so much he wants to do. So many things he wants to do to her and with her and choosing seems cruel. But they have tonight. And tomorrow. And all the nights that follow those. He's not going to sweat it. There's time. There has to be.

He takes her hand in his own, lifts it to his lips and kisses her palm.

"Show me," he asks. And she does.

Circles on her clit, slow at first, slow and loose, fingers almost languid as they follow the line of her lips downward before dipping inside her to scoop out wetness and return to the centre of her pleasure. Slow circles becoming faster, tighter, as her hips lift off the bed and her breath comes out in short, hard gasps. He hears his name in there too, gritty, rasping over the wet sounds her fingers are making.

"Daryl please. Please."

He thinks back to a few weeks ago. Thinks of how far he's come. And all that bullshit, all that worrying, it's just not important. This is important. This here, with them. The kissing and the touching and how suddenly he's nudging her hand aside with his head and somehow finding the courage to press wet kisses into her even wetter flesh.

He's not sure when he decided on this, when he realised this is what he wanted. He's thought about it obviously. Thought about making her come and all the different ways he could do it. Wondered about her secrets, what she likes and how he could give it to her. But he doesn't remember making a decision, doesn't remember deciding that above everything he wants to taste her and drink her and eat her out.

Merle always had a lot to say about it, none of it good - comments about boxed lunches and eating at the Y - but then again Merle always had a lot to say about everything and most of it was bullshit and he really doesn't want to think of Merle right now. Not when she's here and she's naked and all he's ever wanted is right in front of his face.

So he doesn't. And it's easy not to.

Instead he runs his tongue along her inner lips and she shivers and whimpers and bucks her hips against him eventually pushing herself up on her elbows to watch him and maybe it should scare him to look at her now, to lose himself in her blue stare but it doesn't. For a second he feels invincible, so he looks at her, catches her gaze and holds it.

She's chewing her lip like he does, pulling it into her mouth and popping it out.

"Do it Daryl," she whispers. "Please do it."

And he does, ducking down and running his tongue lightly - so very lightly - over her folds, starting high at the apex of her lips and moving steadily downwards to where she's soaked and sodden and almost flows into his mouth, where she tastes of summer and rose petals. Sweet and salt and a hint of something so undeniably her that it makes him groan deep in his chest.

They can have this. They can both have this. And he can give it to her. And it doesn't matter how. It doesn't matter that his guts are twisted and he's shaking and doesn't know what the fuck he's doing anymore - if he ever did - it doesn't need to be perfect it just needs to feel good.

She's squirming when he presses his tongue to her, hard, steady, one hand on her hip to hold her down, the other edging towards her entrance, her heat.

Another whimper, a strangled Dar-yl, Dar-yl falling out of her mouth and he's not at all surprised to find that he's hard again. His cock stiff and throbbing against the sheets.

And he's not going to do a damn thing about it.

His hand brushes against her. She's hot and wet, sticky even and, as he starts to flick the hard nub of her clit with the tip of his tongue, he slowly presses two fingers into her.

And she feels so fucking good.

She arches up to him, says his name again or some close approximation of it. Words and sounds born out of the earth and the stars, gospel mixed with the most wicked incantation. A spell maybe. More likely a curse.

And then there's him. And all he can say is Beth. Oh my god Beth.

He starts to move again, fingers pumping slowly in and out of her, waiting for her to tell him to stop, waiting to do something wrong, something that hurts or scrapes, something to end all this.

But he doesn't. Somehow he doesn't and he finds her rhythm, moves in time to some inner metronome that only they can hear.

It's not long. It's not long at all. He's tasted nowhere near enough of her, drank far too little, when she comes. She stretches under him, toes curling, back arching, the tendons in her arms and legs standing out like ropes before crying his name and falling back into herself. And then she's grabbing at him, at his hair, at the sheets, her thighs clamping down hard on either side of his head and he fucks her through it with his fingers, hard and deep, rolling her clit between his teeth until it's too much and she pushes his head away and lies there, a whimpering ruin of flesh and bones.

Beth.

The room is hazy, air thick and warm. He can see she's not completely with him yet, still spinning in that oblivion, still shaking, eyes wide, pupils blown and a sheen of saliva on her lips as her skin still prickles and her small breasts heave.

It's okay, she can take all the time she needs.

In time he withdraws his fingers from her, licks the silky strands of her off them and then waits, patiently hands on her thighs for her to come back. It's not long until she does. Her breathing slows, becomes regular, and she looks up at him eyes focusing and a smile, almost shy, tugging at her lips.

No words, they don't need that. He's not going to consider what they've just done, what he's done to her and how it made them feel. He's not going to overthink this. Not now, not in this golden place they've created, not in this room where everything is warm and languid and full of them. It is. It just is. And that's all it needs to be.

She reaches out. He goes to her. Plants his elbows on either side of her head and rests between her thighs where he can feel her heat and her damp against his belly. She touches his face, tangles her hands in his hair where it grows long and wild down his back.

They both ignore how hard he is as he kisses her forehead and her cheeks, her jaw, the soft skin of her neck where he can feel her pulse.

"Think I'm gonna stick around," she whispers. "Hang onto you for a while."

"Yeah?" He nips at her neck.

"Yeah," she says. "Till you're old and grey."

"Already old and grey girl."

"Till you're older and greyer."

"All right," he groans and she grins.

And somehow he doesn't feel old and grey, not now, not like this while he's body is flush with her and she's kissing his chin and his throat and her hands are tracing the scars on his back like they're just as deserving of her attention as the rest of him.

You gotta have the bad parts Daryl. You gotta. How else would you know where the good parts are?

But she's kissing him now, her tongue licking into mouth, tasting herself on him, little moans reverberating in the back of her throat and he gives up on entirely on thought or philosophy and plunges his hands into her hair, gives himself over to it, to her.

He could have her. He could take her right there. Pull her onto his cock and let her set the pace. But not now. They have time. He'll make sure of it.

And it's so good just to burn.