she tastes like the real thing
The sound of Bethâs breathing was the sound of stability; of a life which Daryl had never known before the world ended. And it was ironic. Ironic that in a world where the dead outnumbered the living, he felt so fucking alive with her.Â
In an incredibly loud, chaotic world where tomorrow was never guaranteed â Beth was the calm. His demons still stirred inside of him â waging dangerous, tactical wars against his insecurities. His fears. Beth was an armistice, curled up against his chest, as his wild mind came reeling back from a consuming thought.
Daryl was on the cusp of being a broken man. Beth knew that, certainly. Never before had he opened himself up to a person the way he had with her. He had worked so hard to keep himself guarded, to shirk away from showcasing any sort of emotion that might give Beth the leverage that she needed to one day break him.
And thatâs when he realized: you cannot break that which is already maimed.
A lifetime of abuse, followed by years of instability with his big brother Merle (who was, at times, abusive in his own way â probably without realizing. Daryl never held it against him. It was just what Merle did. Who he was.)
As much as Daryl hated Merle for leaving, Daryl took after his own brother. He left every single person that was ever on the verge of feeling something for him.
He left them before they realized that he was not worth it.
But Beth â his sweet, loving, kind girl â naked underneath a white sheet, humming lightly â even in her sleep. Beth didnât care what kind of demons Daryl had locked away inside of him. She would fight with him until they were silenced. And when they resurfaced (which they always, always did), sheâd whisper poems against his mouth until he felt safe again.
And he always did, with Beth.
Someone had once said that broken people love the deepest, and for a while â Daryl thought that was complete and utter bullshit. Heâd thought broken people didnât know how to love. Until one day, it wasnât bullshit. He figured that maybe, if he hadnât gone through an entire life of bullshit â he wouldnât be able to love Beth right, and that just didnât sit right with him. Heâd gladly relive every God-awful moment of his life if it meant that he got Beth in the end.
That night in particular had been foreign territory for the both of them; theyâd been sharing more than just a bed for a while. And it was fun. It was slow, at first, and gradually, they were becoming more and more familiar with the others needs and desires. Theyâd laugh at each other, hot mouths pressed against the other as they fumbled for each other in the dark. It was light. It was beautiful. It was so very them.Â
That night, theyâd made love. And it was fucking terrifying. It was there, in the way they looked at each other in the darkness of her room, desperate, hungry eyes locked onto one another. In the way she nodded gently when he asked if she wanted this â because he always, always had to ask. Daryl was an exposed nerve in the palm of Bethâs hand. She could very well silence any hopes for a future with only eight words: I could never love a monster like you.
She stirred in her sleep before her eyes fluttered open. She smiled the second her tired, blues met his. It took him a moment, but the corners of his lips twitched upward.
âHeyâŚâ she began silently, reaching up to grab the side of his face, the traces of a concerned frown lining her lips. âWhereâd you go? Come back to meâŚâ
Daryl closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in the sensation of her hand sliding down to his bare shoulders.
âMâ right here,â he responded. âRight here.â Â
