Note: For Day Two of Bethyl Week on Tumblr: Red

He Knows

Warm and soft and smooth and warm and careful and wrong. Everything 'bout the situation he's found himself in is so, so completely wrong and he fuckin' knows it. But, when the rough calloused edges of his fingertips glide further south, he ain't got half the mind to think about it, right now. He ain't got half the mind to even allow himself to wonder what Hershel's thinkin' on him, up there in that heaven he believed so whole heartily in, or what Maggie'd think of him, wherever she is- if her own heart's still beating painfully against her chest, like Greene wants to think that she is. Daryl wants to think she'd be happy for her lil' sister; that she'd get the same sort-of look in her eyes that seems to be so inherent in Beth's face and that she'd just...understand. He wants to think that the friendship he's formed with Maggie over these last years- the family he's formed with her, would be enough for her to not look at him like some ol' creeper putting his hands in places he shouldn't. Leerin' and staring and touching in ways he never thought he would or ever considered.

He wants to think it's okay, because he wants to be here, even if he has a hard time forming the thought into actual words that she'll be able to understand. He wants to be here, with Beth's fingers playing carefully at the back of his neck and the feel of her breasts pressing against his chest, while she moans at the bite of her lips.

But, he ain't so sure that it's true, though. He ain't so sure if the rest of 'em, if they ever fuckin' see 'em again, would get it or if they'd throw up their hands and snarl 'round to tell 'im how he needs to stop chasing after jail bait- find someone older or no one, at all. Daryl frowns warily against Beth's lips, as he thinks about it.

That's the bad parts of him talkin', though, Daryl knows. That's his drunkin' Pa, in the violent and tortured back spaces of his mind, clumbering up from hell, if there is a thing, to poke at the all the bad buttons that the fuckin' bastard knows'll sting and burn the most, like red wood ash raising up towards the skies. That's Merle's voice clapping him heavily on the back, right over all the subdued pain that he wouldn't never admit he knew was there, and leering over his shoulder to compliment him 'bout the piece of ass he's managed to claim- the piece of tail he'd managed to convince [even though it'd been the complete opposite; her pushing him to touch her] to haphazardly hike her shirt up above her tits and shove the worn cotton of her underwear to the side, so that he could slide into her heat that first time outside on in the dark black of that night on that cabin porch, coming down into a lazy emotional buzz from all the moonshine they'd downed.

Beth grasps the back of his hair a lil' tighter and gives a rough tug, to raise his mouth away from hers, and lets one hand slide down to press against the raised lashes on his back. It pulls his attention back to the matter at hand, and he lowers his eyes to look down to where she's laying underneath his weight and scan over her face. She's lookin' at him with a familiar gleam that he's itchingly becoming used to bein' direction his way; the one that tells him to stop worrying 'bout it- stop thinkin' that he's doing something wrong, disgracing his friend's memory, and just place his hands where she wants 'em to be, already.

She pulls herself up, after him, and shuffles under his chin. He can hear the sigh in her throat- can feel it dance across the span of his neck.

"Daryl," she leans in closer to him and whispers lightly against his skin in a stark contrast the to grasp she's got on his scalp. He swallows heavily when she brushes her lips along the veins in his neck and darts her tongue out to glide along the line, "Daryl."

"'mm, 'm sorry," his voice feels thick, even'ta himself, hanging out in the dark space between them; slicing through the pulsing fog that brought them into the bedroom, to begin with.

It feels outta place in this soft room.

In this quiet house.

In the middle of nowhere.

Last time he checked, there ain't no walkers outside these temporary walls and there ain't any suckerin' dogs leading them to their inevitable doom. There's just a small kitchen down the hall, a wide screen television with a bunch'a movies he'd like'ta be able to watch, this one bed in the upstairs bedroom, with some of the fanciest sheets he's ever touched, and Beth. Pure, kind Beth Greene, with her long blonde hair sticking against the slick sweat that hugs temptingly along the line of her bare shoulders, that tastes so sweet (just as he expected) against his tongue. Beth and her skin, glowing porcelain white in the low shine of the moonlight, that's pushing through the spaces of the blinds against the window, and casting small black lines hovering against their beings.

"You here?" she hums quietly, as if afraid to break the silence, the vibration making his body shiver, twitch with want, and tighten his hold of her waist; too tight, probably, but she never complains- she clasps her one hand over his and presses him more fully into her.

Sometimes when they're hiking through the woods, without any clear destination but "family family they're alive someone has to be", Daryl thinks back to the first few years of his life, before all this shit and that shit, too, when his Ma held out and off the drugs for as long as she could manage. He could vaguely recall her reading to him in the middle of the night when he'd gone to bed with extra bruises, to try and get him to go to sleep. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs was a favorite for her, if not him, so he'd happily listened to the croak of her cigarette ridden voice, as the lids of his eyes drooped closed. Skin white as snow, lips red as blood. "'mm, you with me, Mr. Dixon?"

Daryl doesn't speak, which is normal for him, he supposes. He just nods against her, slowly, in response and loosens his hold to flip himself onto his back. He leans his self more comfortably against the mattress, before draggin' her up and over him, so she can swing a leg over to the other side. He groans in mock discomfort at her weight landing on him, as she makes to straddle his hips and then he groans in frustration as she brushes herself against him, wet and warm and soft and smooth and warm and wrong.

She smirks at him as she leans down to press a simple kiss to the corner of his mouth, before pulling back to reach down between them and wrap a hand around him. His breath hitches in his throat and he does his best to keep watching her; to not clench his eyes at the silk of her hand. Her hair falls down, curtaining them both, and he can see her so much clearer this close. Her eyes are dilated, the black overtaking the normally clear blues, and her body is tinged with the anticipatory red flush that always ends up covering the span of her skin. He loves the flush in a way he's not sure how to describe; this completely obvious representation that he's not alone in this- that she's just as worked up, as he is.

Just as desperate to feel the rushing comfort rolling through their bodies and the clenching of their toes, as they trip over that line.

She's so fuckin' perfect, that Daryl ain't got a clue what he's doing in the middle of nowhere, this house, in this bed, with a very naked Beth Greene running her hand along the length of him and smiling so fondly, like she's happy that they're the only ones there. Every little thing about her's too good for him, from the flush covering her glowing skin, to the look in her eyes, to the small birthmark over the flat of her chest, that he always makes sure to run an open palm over, and he don't deserve none of it. Don't deserve none of her attention, this attention, 'specially the bright and happy smile she gives him, as she finally lines herself up above him and sinks down.

He don't deserve the way her mouth drops open and the way her name slips from his lips in an almost inaudible sigh. The dark tan of his fingers dig into the creamy flesh of her thighs- deep, tight craters, as he pulls her down to him and holds her close, while she moves on top of him and he raises to meet her. He don't deserve the way her nails scratch just right into his skin, making new and fading red lines right next'ta his old tarnished ones, flourished in bad memories, like she thinks he needs a reminder that this is different, or somethin'.

He don't.

He knows.

Beth's slick skin slides against his and Daryl feels his heart beat faster, as she clenches around him. It's not just this- sex. He ain't had none since the world fell and if he were Merle or...anyone else, that'd be the important thing- the way she's rockin' up and down and grindin' against him. It ain't, though. It's her. It's this ethereal being of happiness and good and hope, that's somehow pushed and shoved her way underneath his skin; broken through this barrier he's been cinder-blocking since his Pa first flipped his buckle open, slinked his belt through the denim loops, and whipped it against his skin. And she didn't do nothing he didn't want, neither. 'Some reason he feels like he was waiting for it- for someone to do just what she'd done and push him the right way. Nah, it ain't 'bout gettin' laid. It's 'bout the way she can be sweet as cotton candy, one second, and call him out on his shit, the next. It's 'bout the way he can sit in her silence and not feel smothered or pressured to prove himself and...

Damn it, he knows.

Daryl had been fuckin' petrified that first night, as she pawed at his shirt and popped a few of the buttons open, so that she could get a hand against his chest. She'd whispered into his skin and sighed and mewled and gently groaned and told him that she wanted it. That she wanted it and them and it didn't matter none if it was just that one time, because she felt something there. Between the pair of 'em.

Beth's breathing picks up and he knows that she's close.

He don't wanna remember those thoughts that fluttered through his mind, while she grabbed his hand and pulled it down against her, that night on the porch of the cabin they burned to the ground.

He's past that, now. Now, save them thoughts 'bout their family's ghosted opinions on the matter, he knows he wants'ta be here. Can't never seem to get the words out 'bout what this means to 'im. Can't never seem to pull the burning red flames outta the deep underbelly of his soul, to tell her how he feels. Can't seem to open his mouth to explain what the feel of her sliding over him, does to his mind.

It's like falling off a ledge, as Greene tightens up, her body falling down against his- whimpering into his ear, which is all that it takes for him- thrusting into her a few more times, and falling off the ledge, himself.

He can't never seem to choke out the way his heart pounds behind his breast bone, whenever she glides her hand down the exposed flesh of his arm when he comes home from a huntin' trip, safe and sound and without no harm, as if it's the most important thing in the world, to her. Don't know what to say at night, in a ratty house, abandoned barn, shack, or the simple cold dirt of the earth's floor, whenever she slinks up'ta him and clutches a delicate hand in the fabric over his heart.

Can't explain how it makes him feel.

That don't matter none, either, though, Daryl thinks as he wraps an arm 'round her body and places a chaste kiss to her temple; prompting her to hum in content.

'Cause she knows, too.


A/N: This is late. I'm sorry.