bethyl drabbles

crumble

It's the quiet promises and assurances that make him so sure of their love.
When she whispers to him, telling him what she longs to say out loud.
No, not yet. Her sister is still wary, approving but wary.
But they get it. They haven't told her everything that happened before.
"I don't want too, though." Beth mumbles, shaking her head as she slips further underneath the sheets, tucking herself closer to him. "It's private. It's personal. It's for us."
He can't argue.

➵

He's only ever shared his scars with her. Peeled his vest off of his back, bites down on his lip as he bows his head, dropping his arms at his sides.
She doesn't look away in disgust, doesn't treat him any different out of pity.
No, she presses a hand to his side, peeks at him from behind, and asks, "Does it still hurt?" And if he ever had any doubts about this woman being a goddamn angel, a blessing in his life, it was set in fucking stone for him now.
"No," he mumbles. The physical pain, at least. The metaphorical stabs and slashes, those bleed more often than he cares to admit.
And she knows.
"I love you."
He turns, faces her with watering eyes and shakes his head, pressing his hands to her waist.
"No, girl, you don't, no one's-"
"Daryl, listen to me." She cuts him off, bringing her thumb to his lips, to underneath his eyes to swipe away the tears. "I do, I love you. You don't know it, you haven't been shown it—no, look at me, Daryl please,"
He can't, not when he's crumbling in her hands. He's so visibly taken aback by her proclamations, and it's not that he doesn't know it to be true, not because he doesn't feel the same for her. He's overwhelmed with a love so strong he never thought he'd ever have.
"Daryl, baby please—"
He falls. Collapses to his knees and his arms are wrapped tight around her legs and he's sobbing.
Her hands find the back of his neck, and she runs her fingers through his hair, whispering proclamations of her love.
"Please," she whispers, dropping herself to the floor, allowing herself to crumble in his arms. "You're not worthless, you're allowed to love and be loved."
His sniffles and wavers are still constant when she stands, takes his hand and guides him to the makeshift pallet bed. He collapses onto the bed, arms wide until he's full of her.
His chest is bare and her fingers linger on his skin. She ignores the goosebumps, continues tracing the same letters.
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou
Until he focuses out of the daze of weakness, until he fixes his gaze onto her pale skin and blonde hair, until he takes her chin in his hands and she turns to meet his eyes, and her lips meet his.
It's soft and hesitant, almost like it was their first time. In the late nights of wandering and roaming and sleeping on the roads, their kisses were full of teeth and tongue and anticipation, built up eagerness of waiting all day. There would be later, and there would be the rest of their lives, though. So for now, she straddles his middle and presses her hands to his cheeks and they kiss long and quiet. She trails her kisses down his jawline, down his neck, and he's groaning and tightening his grip around her waist, until she's pressing herself against him, whispering her promises and when they're spent and gasping for breath, in the darkness and masked behind sleep, he'll find her eyes and hold her wrists and press kisses to her own scars, and in a slow breath he'll tell her he loves her, too.
In the late night, behind walls and underneath a roof, whatever their given circumstances were, this is what they were. Two pressed together, holding each other and mumbling confessions and proclamations and promises.

hey hi um random question, super weird, if someone wrote a Southpaw bethyl au i would probably cry just saying ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)