#dixham.

Daryl snorts quietly, giving his hip a reproachful squeeze as he buries his face into his neck. Lips trail languid kisses along his skin, satisfied when he feels Peter's body loosen up in his hold. He's always wound so tight and anxious, like a thrumming livewire... it does him good to feel him relax every now and again.

"Mhm, I know. Y'work hard." Calloused fingers fiddle with the hem of his partner's gown, blunt nails scraping gently along the plush flesh of his thighs. "Need'a relax..."

A hand slides up his leg, purposefully over his pelvic bone and up the toned plane of his belly. Peter sucks in a breath, doe eyes fluttering closed as he drinks in the feeling of being touched. The work wasn't even woeful, but anything feels like a waste of time compared to revelling in the rugged heat of Daryl's hold.

"Relax...?" he breathes, his previous inhale let out as a telling gasp as his lover's hand splays wide over his chest. His index finger brushes back and forth over his nipple, sending tiny shocks of pleasure down the length of his spine. When he arches back this time there's purpose in it, hips pressing firmly into Daryl's as he seeks friction. "How'm I s'pposed to do that when you're... doing these things to me...?"

"I can stop."

"Don't you dare—"

Daryl scoffs against his neck, sucking a hickey into his skin. One he can wear to the next work day.

"Ain't even wearin' underwear," he accuses lightheartedly, long index finger drawn with oh so much purpose down one of the delicate creases of Peter's pelvis. Predictably, he squirms and bucks, a pathetic noise tumbling out of his mouth as he delights in it. He's always been sensitive there; it's one of Daryl's favourite places to touch, to kiss. "Don't tell me y'weren't hopin' for somethin'..."

A guilty little giggle falls past Peter's lips, a slight kink forming in his brow as if silently admonishing himself. Like part of him feels he should play a tad harder to get. How can he, though? How can he pretend he doesn't want this man more than anything in the world when it's true?

"That's not true," he mutters, only slightly annoyed with himself for being so easy. "It's just— comfier not to."

"Uh-huh."

"It is!" He laughs quietly, though it tapers into a soft croon of approval as Daryl wraps his fingers around him and strokes. "Fuck..."

"Know what I think?"

"Mm...?"

"I think y'did it on purpose." The pace of his hand is slow, barely there, sure to drive his partner insane. "I think y'wanted me to hike this shit up 'n' have my way with you."

Peter huffs, though there's less of a rebuttal in it than he'd like. "I think you're just a pervert."

"Yeah?" His voice is hot with mounting desire, panting softly against Peter's ear as he grinds his hips into his. The point in which they meet explodes like fireworks, adrenaline coursing through his body like a current. No matter how many times they do this, it doesn't get old. He can never get his fill of Peter Graham. "...maybe."

The witch huffs through his nose triumphantly, though the way Daryl grunts kills the success immediately. There are no winners here; or they're both winning in equal measure.

"Fuck, Daryl... take your pants off already," Peter says urgently, barely holding back a moan of disapproval as his lover pulls away to do exactly as he said. The pants hugging his waist loosely are wrestled down, shimmied off of his legs and kicked off the end of the bed. "Oh—"

"What?"

Peter turns to look at him over his shoulder, eyes hooded and molten with desire. In spite of this, he looks like the cat who got the cream.

"Look at that," he taunts, his own index finger drawn over the bare v that leads to Daryl's arousal. "You're not wearing underwear either. Talk about asking for it."

In a moment of dumbfound, Daryl pauses altogether. He's utterly bewitched by the smug look Peter is giving him; chest fuelling with warmth as he realises for what must be the millionth time just how deeply in love with this idiot he is. He snorts, pulling him close once more.