notes: + title from "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" by Father John Misty
+ basically a scrap of PWP
jesus christ, girl
His hands—
Jesus.
His thick hands, rough and trembling like the boughs of a tree, grip her thighs through her blue jeans.
"Beth—fuck," Daryl groans and it scalds like hot sin against the tops of her breasts making her breath hitch and toes curl inside her boots.
Mind scattered like a dive bar pinball machine, Beth doesn't know where to place her oh-so-overwhelmed concentration because she's straddling this man made of cords of muscle and goodness, drawing her hips against him without conscious reflection expect—I need. Her hands trail down his back, slipping over leather, dried blood, and embroidered wings, yearning like a mad woman for his skin on hers and she feels filthy. Wanton and rank. Needy.
His mouth is too far from hers all the way down at the v of her half-way unbuttoned flannel, so she grabs him by the muzzle, whiskers setting off sparks against her palm like she's made of fire. She laughs in pure bliss at his being so close and Daryl's sweet answering expression is equal parts lust and hesitance. He cocks his head like a pup and she decides there's only the option of licking into his lips with all the relish and finesse of a horny virgin, and he gives back to her with equal enthusiasm, his groan into her mouth the most unholy thing she's ever swallowed. It's almost as if there isn't enough of Daryl for her to take and take and take. Heart in her throat, he nips at her lips as his hands move up to palm her ass and her body sings louder than any melody she ever did in church.
"I want ya," whispers Beth against his mouth, voice uneven. He grunts, her beast of a man, and his blue eyes settle gazing at hers with a reverent weight. "I need you."
"Shit," he murmurs and a look of almost pain flashes across his face. "Shit, shit, shit. Ya gotta stop saying that shit."
Cheeks flushing red, she realizes how far Daryl's gone, how hard she's pushed him, the feel of his swollen cock pressing against her making her body weep. Something primal takes over the sentimental and her cravings blur into one throbbing pull of her heart and her core. "How bad you want me, Daryl Dixon?"
He drops his head to her shoulder and shakes it.
"You can show me? Show me how bad ya need me."
She thrusts and smiles through the surge of stars and spine-steeling pleasure.
"Daryl. Please."
"Jesus Christ, girl," he growls with something like anger and wonder, and his breath is coming in short, uneven bursts against her neck, blistering her skin with desire, and her blood feels as warm as kerosene set alit. Fingers back to their bruising grip at the meat of her thighs, he keens obscenely like a wounded animal, yanking her throbbing center tightly down and rough against his the inseam of his jeans, his hips jerking spasmodically as he cums rough and most beautiful, the most beautiful thing Beth Greene's ever had the pleasure of experiencing.
A flush of satisfaction and power rolls through Beth's body to pool wetly at her already sopping jean-clad cunt. She runs the tips of fingers through his sweat soaked mess of hair, tickling past his ears, and Daryl shudders, wrecked beneath her delicate touch. Her heart aches. Her heart hums. Oh, her heart—