Disclaimer: We do not own and are not affiliated with AMC or The Walking Dead or the characters contained therein.
AN: The phrase "coping ugly" comes from George Bonanno, professor of clinical psychology at Columbia University, who coined it to describe the different responses to grief, especially forms which may seem counter intuitive, for example: laughter, celebration, and bawdiness.
He could see the widow out of the corner of his eye, making her way up the rickety porch stairs, her cowgirl boots thunking against the wooden slats. Her shoulders were hunched over, the grief like an ever present shawl weighing her down.
She was a beautiful woman, curly sun bleached tendrils brushing against her cheeks, having escaped her hair tie. His eyes were drawn to her legs, firm and tone from the rigors of farm labor, tanned from hours spent in the sun, and made their way up to her hips, the flare of her skirt emphasizing her curves.
She wore her years well and he could feel the effects of his studying her rushing to his groin, desire heating up his skin in the cool night air.
He jumped to his feet as she approached the screen door and grasped the handle to hold the door open for her.
"Thank ya, Daryl," her soft whisper floating in the air, caressing his ear and shuddering through his body.
"Ma'am." He nodded his head and turned to go when he was stopped by feather-light touch to his wrist.
"Could you help me with somethin', Daryl? I need some boxes moved from my room."
He contemplated her hand on his wrist for a second before looking up and catching her eyes studying him, measuring him as if she could figure him out.
"Yes'm," he drawled out in low, rough voice.
He followed her up the stairs and couldn't help but be drawn to the sway of her backside, mesmerized by the way she moved, graceful, but strong. He entered the room she had been sleeping in and saw boxes littering the floor.
"It's what's left of Otis' things. I just...I just can't look at 'em anymore," she turned away with a half sob and a half moan and he bent over to heft the boxes up and out of the room.
His departure gave her the few minutes she needed to regain her composure. She hated feeling weak, feeling the grief; if she were honest with herself, she'd rather feel anything but that aching, cavernous hole in her heart that Otis' death had left. It wasn't even that theirs was an all consuming love; they had grown apart over the years, but they had been partners. He had been there for her and kept her from being alone. At the end of the world, he was the only other family she had, and now that was gone and she wanted to scream with the tumult of emotions washing over her.
Lost in her thoughts, staring out the window, she didn't hear Daryl come back until he cleared his throat.
"That all ya needed?"
She turned and looked at him, catching a flicker of something unfamiliar to her in his eyes.
"Daryl, if there was somethin' I needed right now, and you could help me with it, would you?"
She looked up at him from under her eyelashes and he could see the gleaming teardrops spilling forth from her eyes before she could wipe them away.
"I'd do what I can. What's it you need?"
She approached him slowly, and reached her hand out tentatively to rest on his chest.
"I need a distraction. I need to feel somethin', anything, but what I feel right now. I feel empty. Jus' want a few minutes where I feel somethin' other than this nothin'ness."
His breath caught at the touch to his chest, the warmth of her worn and callused but delicate hand seeping through his shirt.
"Why me? Ain't there no one else that can help ya? I ain't great at this kinda thing."
"I don't need great, or even good, I just need somethin'," Patricia murmured, "please?"
"Ya sure that's what ya want?" His eyebrow quirked in question to her, making sure he wasn't overstepping his bounds.
Instead of answering she simply stepped into his body, wrapping her arms around his neck and crashing her lips to his in desperation.
He kicked the door shut and backed her towards the bed, never breaking contact with her lips, sliding and smoothing over them with his own chapped and cracked lips, as they sought to forget themselves for a moment in time.
When they reached the bed, he lowered her down across the mattress and sank to her side, lips meeting her neck this time, licking the salty expanse of flesh at her throat. Patricia gripped the sides of his head, fingers buried in the sweaty, tangled locks of hair behind his ears, moaning as she guided his head down, pressing her breasts up into his body. His hand trailed down her stomach to the hem of her shirt, where he tugged it out of her skirt and pushed it up, moving his head down further to kiss up her stomach as he went, casting light feathery kisses against her flushed skin.
He reached her bra, but instead of fooling with trying to take it off, he simply pushed the cups below her breasts, exposing her to him. He followed his fingers with his lips, taking her hardened peaks into his mouth, suckling and nipping gently with his teeth.
Patricia moaned, grasping Daryl's hand and pushed it down towards her skirt, trying without words to signify that she needed more. He took the fairly obvious hint, popped the button at her waist with one hand and slid the zipper down, giving him room to maneuver his hand between her thighs. He sought out the one spot he had heard so much about from his brother, in the crudest terms Merle could come up with, and began to circle it with his finger.
The sounds he heard coming from Patricia made him think he was on the right track, and soon he began to feel wetness surrounding his fingers. He moved his lips back up to her mouth again and kissed her soundly in an attempt to quiet the noise before she caught other people's attention. They needed to hurry so they weren't missed by the others. He didn't want to be answering questions from nosy people down in the camp. He'd just as soon take another spill off Nervous Nellie.
He leaned up and whispered in her ear.
"Ya close?"
"Yes, just...," Patricia trailed off as she reached down to nudge his hand a little further south.
Daryl slipped two fingers inside of her and felt himself get hard at the feel of her slick walls squeezing against his digits. He began to pump in and out and Patricia threw the back of her hand over her mouth, biting the thin skin to keep from crying out, yet still she urged him to continue.
Daryl continued to thrust his fingers and managed to move his thumb back to her clit, somewhat awkwardly alternating between the two movements. It seemed to do the trick though because he felt the woman tense and and clench against him, muffling her groans as he felt her fluttering around him.
He removed his hand and grabbed for the rag in his back pocket, wiping himself clean. He sat up and looked over the woman, her cheeks red like she'd been in the sun too long, sweat glistening over the exposed parts of her body, damp tendrils of hair sticking to the nape of her neck and curling against her temples. He adjusted himself, already knowing he was going to have to go take care of the problem as soon as possible.
"That good 'nough for ya?" His cheeks flushed and he hated the question that had escaped him before he could stop it. He didn't need her to boost his ego. All the same, his ears turned red as the air in the room stilled and thickened with heavy silence as he waited for her answer.
He was going to forget it and just leave, but as he rose from the bed, she put her hand out to touch his elbow.
"That was perfect."
He nodded his head toward her and made his way to the door, stopping before opening it, his back still to her, he cleared his throat.
"This stays between us, okay?"
"Of course. I wouldn't tell a soul."
"Alright. I'll see ya 'round."
At that, Daryl opened the door and escaped, pulling it shut behind him to give her some privacy to fix her clothing.
He needed to go find his tent.
Thank you so much for reading!
-Aphrodite