A/N: based off the tumblr prompt from swallowedsong...

"bethyl + fuck you, and (oh god please) fuck me"

Disclaimer: I don't own TWD, the characters, nothing!

She's angry.

Annoyed with the way he's constantly hovering, as if he doesn't trust her, as if he's just waiting for her to slip and mess up.

He barely looks at her.

Lord knows he can't bring himself to have a civil conversation.

So it's no surprise when he shoots her down—firmly telling her in front of Rick and Maggie there's no way in hell she's going on that next run—that she loses her temper, muttering a soft asshole under her breath before pushing past him and stomping to her room.

It takes him less than a minute to follow her; his gaze, hard and steely, narrowed into tiny slits as she turns to him with fire in her eyes and a storm brewing in her soul.

"You're wrong."

"That so?"

His faintly mocking smirk is infuriating, the way he steps into her room—his presence large and purposely intimidating as he deliberately crowds her—setting her teeth on edge as her spine snaps straighter and her breathing labors heavier.

"You think you can keep me here? Locked away? Like I'm useless, like I'm some sort of baggage? You're wrong."

He merely cocks a brow, nostrils flaring slightly as he stares down at her challengingly, shoulders lifting in a small careless shrug—his silence almost as maddening as his low mumbled words.

"I'm capable of going on that run Daryl. You know I am."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, something unreadable flashing in his eyes before he takes a step closer, a slow deliberate drag of feet. "Don't need to prove nothing."

"Don't you see? It's not your—your job. That's not your decision to make! You don't get to tell me what to do. You don't have the right to tell me yes or no…what I do or don't have to prove. "

"The hell I don't."

And Lord, it's like he's deliberately pushing her.

Testing her.

Daring her.

"God Daryl! Who do you think you are! Huh?" Her hands wave around exasperatedly, her chest heaving heavily, and she can hear a voice, one that sounds suspiciously like Maggie's, ringing in her ears, whisperingdrama queen in a soft and taunting tone. "You think you're my chaperone? My keeper? My…my…" she trails off, words failing her as she struggles to put her frustrations into terms he can grasp and understand; a flush crawling its way up her neck as she intentionally ignores the questions in the back of her mind that begin to creep forward slowly—just who does he think he is anyway, just what are they anyway? The blurred lines, the unspoken words, the heated looks, flashing before her eyes in quick and jarring succession as she levels him with what she hopes is an angry and unforgiving glare. "You don't get to tell me what to do." she repeats softly, deliberately.

He stares at her long and hard, lips curving into a scowl, eyes never wavering from her face, muscle ticking in his jaw, before he sucks in a deep breath; a look of scorn mixed with slight disgust twisting his features into something almost mean and nearly unrecognizable. "Damn Greene, is it that time of the month or somethin?"

She hates him at that moment.

Truly and really hates him.

Hates him for not believing in her.

Hates him for intentionally picking a fight.

Hates him for deliberately riling her up.

Hates him for being such an ignorant ass.

Hates him because he's a stupid, stupid man.

(Hates him because hate is much easier to embrace than the other feelings she's too scared—terrified—to pinpoint. Feelings that won't go away, that have been coursing and churning inside of her since the moment she'd shown up in Alexandria, hungry, tired, dirty and nearly collapsing in a dead heap as he had dropped to his knees in front of her whispering over and over again it's not real, it's not real, it's not real…you're not real.)

And she wants to lash out at his terse words, his insensitive remarks, wants to hurt him like he's hurt her—his indifference, his doubt, his avoidance—her eyes growing big and round as her fists clench tight at her sides and her skin flushes a deep and bright red.

She wants to stomp her feet.

Wants to yell and holler and raise holy hell.

She wants…

Something.

"I can take care of myself."

It's his snort, the strangled noise he makes in the back of his throat, the way he suddenly refuses to meet her stare that has her reaching her breaking point, has fury burning through her veins as rage blinds her vision and the voices in her head begin to scream and shout, cursing him all the way to hell and back as her teeth clench together and her eyes narrow tighter.

Put quite simply…

She sees red.

"You know what…just….just…fuck you Daryl."

The second the words slip past her lips—crass and harsh and childish and mean—she knows it's a mistake, can see the flash of anger light his eyes as they widen almost comically large; can hear the sharp intake of breath, can see the tension that pulls his body even straighter as his fingers flex once, twice, at his sides before curling slowly into two tight white-knuckled fists.

And for a moment she feels fear.

Real and true fear.

Cold and prickling dread creeps its way up her spine as panicked threads take root inside of her, growing and spreading and settling deep in her gut.

For a moment, a few brief seconds, she considers taking it back, considers blowing out a slow breath before calmly asking him to see reason.

But then, in the blink of an eye, the world shifts and she finds herself being pushed backwards—the wall, hard and unforgiving, slamming into her back as he hovers over her, eyes dark and angry, mouth twisted into an ugly sneer—and the rage comes roaring back in a firestorm of unforgiving wrath, even as something else, something warm and tingling, begins to swirl inside of her—anticipation rushing hot and thrilling her senses.

"What'd you say girl?"

There's a part of her that warns not to push him, a tiny voice in her head that whispers quietly, telling her that they all have their limits, certain buttons that no one needs to go pushing. She tells herself to back off, to calm on down and take a deep breath because they're on the verge of something that neither of them will ever be able to come back from.

So of course…

Naturally…

She doesn't listen.

"Fuck. You."

Her voice is a low timber; the note of warning darkening her tone as she lifts her chin to pin him with a defiant glare, ignoring the pounding echo of her heart thrumming in her ears, trying (and failing) to pay no attention to the way his chest is suddenly heaving; the scent of him—dirt, sweat, and pine—invading her nose and stirring something inside of her.

(Something she desperately tries to stomp out. Something she weakly tries to avoid.)

She's survived the hell of Grady, a gunshot to the head, the long road to Alexandria, and everything that came after.

Daryl Dixon doesn't scare her.

Not one bit.

(She's lying.)

(She's lying so damn bad.)

And then, just like that, as her brain is still reeling and her heart is hammering painfully, his mouth is suddenly on hers, clumsy and sloppy, brutal and punishing, as he nips at her lips, scratches her with his beard and swallows her soft little cry of surprise; licking his tongue into her mouth as he nearly devours her whole. It takes her a few good seconds to catch up, her mind going blank and then racing fast and her heart skipping a beat before doing double time, but when she finally does gather her senses—Daryl Dixon is kissing her like his life depends on it, and it's messy and harsh and desperate and everything she's ever imagined—she gives as good as she gets, fisting her fingers into his shirt and pulling him to her with an oath that falls somewhere in the hazy middle of a curse and a promise.

"Fuck you." her voice ringing out breathy and broken, she mumbles the words against his lips, moaning softly as he shifts and turns them, pushing her back towards the bed; his breathing, still strained and heavy, coming out in grunting gasps as he shoves her across the room, eyes wild and unfocused as he follows her stumbled backwards path.

"Fuck you Daryl. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."

She's not even sure what she's doing, why she's speaking; the words spilling from her in an antagonizing and ridiculous chant as he stalks her with a predatory gleam in his eyes; the quiet and reserved and uncomfortable man replaced by the callous and calculating hunter as he pushes her down onto the bed.

Dimly she knows now is the time to panic, now is the time to protest and holler and tell him to stop.

(She doesn't.)

(Can't.)

(Won't.)

The mattress is soft and scratchy beneath her back, her shirt riding up and exposing her skin as he lowers himself over her, eyes still flashing hot and unreadable as she pulls him down to her, fingers digging into his shoulders before scratching and raking across his back—nails dragging and bunching his faded cotton flannel.

She doesn't give herself a chance to think; silences the voices in her head, can tell that he's doing the same—biting and sucking on her skin, looking everywhere, anywhere, but directly into her eyes. Their heavy breathing mingling together in a chorus of pants and choked off moans, they make quick work of losing their clothes. His voice, harsh and ragged, mutters broken things against her neck, her collarbone, her chest; things about how she shouldn't even be here, things about how she drives him crazy, things about how this is wrong, dirty, and terrible, things that shoot straight to her core, leaving her breathless and wet and reaching for him to silently ask for more.

They're both too far gone.

There's no coming back from it.

(And she doesn't want to. God she doesn't want to.)

"Fuck you."

She whispers it in a wrecked tone, her words trembling as he settles between her thighs, his hand pumping himself in a harsh and yanking grip as he positions himself at her entrance before catching her eye; the once blue orbs now almost black with want and desire and heady desperation as he holds himself over her and waits, just waits, until she finds herself trembling, shaking near uncontrollably before she nods her head, tilts her hips and hooks an arm around his neck; pulling herself up to him so she can rest her lips against his ear.

"Fuck me Daryl, oh God please fuck me."

—-

She ends up going on that run.

The feel of him at her side, his eyes somehow managing to scan their surroundings while also keeping careful watch over her as they gather the supplies from the list Rick had passed along to them, bringing both a twist of anticipation and a curl of warmth to nestle deep in her body.

And if she finds herself smiling goofily anytime he finds a reason to touch her, pulling her to his side, pushing her behind him, brushing his fingers along the outside of her arm to gain her attention, she blames it on the thrill of freedom, the excitement of finally being outside the walls again.

(And if afterwards, once they've returned—nearly everything checked off their list, not a scratch on either of them, and a few more notches to add to her kill count—he fucks her over the bathroom counter, one hand tangled in her hair as he pumps himself in and out of her in a fierce and steady rhythm, muttering choked off words about how she's damn well near ruined him, about how she'll be the death of him…well that's just an added bonus.)