Chappa two. I'm anticipating some steamy, hoochie mama time with Daryl's nice, little, concluding momentum. However, I can't promise anything due to inevitable description, otherwise known as me not shutting up. Again, I own zilt, and I hope you enjoy!
Lucid, punctuated, solid were Daryl's movements as he trapped Beth beneath his steady gaze, his muscular arms. After uncountable, swift magnetic pulls between lips, he lifted himself up and out of the coffin, abiding with his left hand in hers', consequentially adding her body to his own. Daryl stood in a daze, his face never wavering from Beth's as he held the weight of her arms and legs stitched around his torso.
Beth, so pure compared to Daryl's older, experienced intentions, hung on to her partner with anxious anticipation. She lost herself and her reservations on his lips, allowing herself to be swamped with vulnerability and lust and all of the golden, silver, bronze sensualities she had never explored. Around his bare arms, her nerve endings plucked by the hard grip of his hands, she felt secure yet flustered, panicked but prominent, conformed but so, so malleable. She reacted like a copper wire, generally subtle and unimportant, but transformed upon the touch, the surge of a foreign combination of atoms and charges. They were so electric.
He tasted veiled, like an invisible adornment; only Beth would be able to identify the flavor of his half-smoked cigarettes combined with his hollow, warm breath.
"What," she gasped with a whirlwind of air invading her chest, her ribs trying to escape the overwhelming thumps of her heart, "are you going to do to me, Daryl Dixon?" Each singular syllable was surfaced with fear and expectancy. There was no denying her nervousness, as her very existence seemed to rest Daryl's sturdy arms. And she inhabited no certainties about what awaited her that night, but it felt fresh and climatic. It was an ironic resurrection that forced her organs to leap and her steaming skin to return to an ice-cold, fugue state. Everything within her was opposite and fighting, conflicting, battling her reasonable objections and acquitted tendencies. And nonetheless, she found herself enjoying the freedom within the lustful energies.
Daryl returned Beth's feet back to the floor, separating them completely while still leaving a mere centimeter between their heaving bodies.
"First," Daryl smirked, a dangerously familiar, toothless smile, resembling an enigmatic manic. He pursued the tiny bit of air between them and crept a discrete hand under the hem of her yellow shirt. Hovering over the delicate skin of her abdomen, he could feel and react to the restless pulses of her travelling blood. "First, I'm gonna get you out of these." His last word hooked sourly onto the drab droopiness of her worn clothes.
The room was furnished to the brim. A large loveseat, embroidered ivory and superfluously cushioned, occupied the far right corner. The piano sat opposite and justified, an abundance of lightless candles surrounding it. Ajar, laid the coffin, the bedding indented with Beth and Daryl's movements, and in front of that, were tens and tens of congregation pews. In between the coffin and piano was a sliver of white space leading to a doorway, cracked open, directed towards dimmed hallways and other, unexplored rooms.
Their shoes still sat at the foot of the coffin. Daryl's vest still remained along the outskirts of the bedding.
Past their unsteady glances and Beth's doubtful fidgets, Daryl's internal war and spinning thoughts. His big brother, dead, Carol, gone, his family, gone. His real family, gone and never there. His experience with love and emotions and the coming of age was a low ground with little to no atmosphere. Past his shallow breathing. Unravel to the door swung open, their entrance to the kitchen, Beth's back propped against the table, Daryl's brief removal of their hearty dinner. The clack of jam jars and the soft thump of bread hitting the counter aggressively made Beth smile, as she took into account the urgency and intention of Daryl's movements. As he practically tossed the final jar of peanut butter to the cluttered counter, his hands immediately ran back to Beth's lower waist, his grip stronger and more hostile. Beth's head inclined upwards, her eyelids shuttering over her vision; Daryl's caress under the modesty of her shirt was eating at her. The tips of his fingers crawled up the outline of her ribs like a ladder, eventually lifting her arms weightlessly, as a means to guide her shirt off of her body. Responsively, Beth's muscles clenched while she fought to remain still and calm. Daryl was invading her every skin cell, and she was at his mercy, bargaining for his touch. Taking advantage of her vulnerability, Daryl clung onto the naked crease of her waist, planting devilish kisses from the sensitive nape of her stomach, between the clasp of her undergarment, and retreating back down her skin until his lips touched the sharp coolness of her pants button.
Daryl's next movements were uncanny and singular. He was so engaged and intentional, unfamiliar to himself, as he felt a survival need to be on Beth, be with Beth, be part of Beth. He unlatched her pants button and slid her jeans down her chilled legs, decorated with goose bumps. Still level with her hips, he glided his lips across the trim of her underwear, down the terrain of her mid-thigh, drawing his mouth inwards to her inner thighs. Beth shook with uncontrollability, her knees weakening just as Daryl's grip tightened around her calves to support her. As she regained stability, Daryl took the left side of her underwear, a bundle of lace border and grey cotton, and pinched it down to her ankles. She took two feeble lifts of right foot, then left foot to assist Daryl in undressing her. Undressing her. While they could be dying, he was exposing the most discrete patches of her skin, and it was freeing, it was surreal. As Daryl went en route to face her, he left a lingering hand around her backside, soft and unpredictable as it gradually crept frontwards. His other hand juggled the clips of her bra until it eventually became a limp and ineffective support for her body. In awe, Beth abidingly snuggled her shoulders to her chin, removing her arms from the straps. By the time her naked body overflowed with fresh air and the way he looked at her, confused with content, his roaming hands had found her weak point. Two fingers searching for the excitable part of her soul; Beth gasped with vehemence. She was suffocating, as this strange, wonderful man voyaged through her vulnerability, overwhelming her every sense, blinding her vision as she begged for blissful mercy at the sake of his hands. They were far from serenity; they were quietly powerful, and Beth's inner strength matured by the second. Gasping in and out and in and out, her breathing pattern resembled hyperventilating, containing the yelps and shrieks and moans she greatly desired to scream out. Daryl stretched her out, clearly pleasing her; agreeably, he maintained his other hand steady over her mouth, absorbing her shrieks. He would mutter tiny comments, shallow but trying, and Beth would nod swiftly in response, handing her faith over to him.
"Yeah," he tested in a whisper, "I know, I know." Farther. Her lungs were airless, strangled and elongated, pleading for a release, a fragment of a noise. Her knees were weak, bent, falling. Her arms scratched at his back over his shirt, grabbing handfuls of his clothing to remain standing. "I got you… won't fall… I have you," Daryl suddenly relieved his fingers from the virginal confines of her pudenda. Beth crumbled over his grasp, and he pulled her back up with ease. She unfolded under his hungry gaze, her arms still wrapped around his neck, skeptically enamored.
"Daryl," she pronounced his name like a sentiment, "I, I…" Her mouth remained open in a gaping oval, her eyes restless upon seeing him with sense. The luxuries of sexual tension spilled over her, and she stroked the perimeter of his face- long, silky hair, light and airy stubble, a rough and emotionally damaged expression- with fondness. There still lay an air bubble of his adventurous admiration inside of her- it was refreshing, like a cool breeze, an expansion of her muscles. In response to her impatient caress, Daryl thoughtlessly placed his working fingers in her steady gawk. A bemused squeak rose up from her throat, but he continued to embrace her to stillness, and she congenially relaxed her eyelids.
He transferred her hands from amiably touching his face to beneath the gentility of his shirt. Leaning in next to her ear, he whispered, "Undress me." It was commanding but likeably fiery, and Beth hesitantly slipped off his rag of a shirt. Indulging in the appearance of his excitable smile, she ripped into his belt, yanking the metal spike from the coordinating lock, undoing the logoed button of his jeans. Plunging into her responsibility, she unraveled his body like a present, taking a visual picture of each magical surprise. When he stood in front of her with only his boxers, so close that his bulge pressed against the bareness of her inner thighs, Beth dived into his underwear with haste, eager to have him inside her. He was building her up, he was her architect, drawing her plans and marking her coordinates and constructing her with the madness of his own two hands.
Daryl snatched her hands out from under him with hostility, pressing his lips to hers once again. As they engaged in a kiss of unnamable passion and inexplicable reminiscing, Daryl intertwined their fingers. An unbreakable bond between their fingers, Daryl aggressively pressured her hands down onto the kitchen table. In return, her body twisted around so that her stomach felt the solid chill of the wood. She could hear him as he undressed from the final article containing himself.
Fast.
Daryl said her name; Beth mumbled his with a crumble of sexual desire. And then there was no talking.
Their hands did no waiver, they did not part, as Beth bent over to a flawless, geometrical angle, Daryl slipping into her and pulsing with a crescendoing tempo. His lips splendored in the stressed muscles of her shoulder blades and her fidgeting back. He found his tongue searching for the identifying taste of her human skin. It was impossible not to hear the sound of Beth swallowing her screams with difficulty, coughing and gasping and exhaling over the collapsing of her lungs, often forgetting to breathe. As Daryl's seemingly familiar connection with Beth grew in speed and need and passion and inevitability of death, her breathing faltered like the up-down sounds of a harmonica. Both of their bodies suddenly halted as Daryl muttered dangerously under his breath, flooding Beth's compulsive muscles and organs, satisfying and exhausting all of the bones in her body. Daryl draped himself over her body, and they both settled upon the kitchen table like dominoes, their hands opening and enveloping each other's, eventually returning to the loving grasp with which they began.
It was serene, once again, and the air still tasted like an old friend. But now, it hugged them with sweat and intention and incomparable pleasure and exploration. Their night was a fundamental expedition, and it never stopped ameliorating as their heart rates decreased to resting. Their bodies overlapped one another like thin layers of paint- each layer bolder and more evoking.
It was serene, once again, and flowers bloomed on Beth's heart. Daryl's brain was galloping. He held on to Beth with his breaths. Beth inhaled his oxygen and vowed that she would until the very end. It was serene and peaceful and beautiful and exotically enigmatic. It was an encounter that defined adrenaline; it was a story that belonged in memoirs and tests as to what happiness meant in times like this. Authentic, forgotten.
As the night evanesced, they squeezed back into the bedding of the coffin, lolling in scraps of each other's clothing, cradled in warm arms and inviting kisses.
"We'll make it," Daryl said. He didn't know if he meant it, but it was okay. Their lungs were rejuvenated, their lives were redefined, and the night was serene.
It was okay.