So I tried my first 'M' rated fiction- I'm a bit blushy about this but I don't think it's too bad. There are obviously some mature themes so sensitive readers are encouraged to be cautious. As always I would love to hear some feedback, particularly at knowing how well you think I broke into this new genre. xxx
If I don't swim soon, I'll drown. And the bedraggled corpse look will suit me perfectly well, to match the disappointment in my face. But it would be worth the inevitable leap of faith to hope to believe that you can be different- that perhaps, but because you're everything I never asked for, you could be everything that I need right now.
It takes a strong person to let go of childish romanticism to say right now, for an undefinable amount of time I want your closeness. I need that taste of chaste sweetness from the cherry menthol hard-boiled candy you keep in your top pocket, and even if it reminds you of your broken family it will only ever remind me of you. I started stealing them too y'know, taking one when I'm angry or lonely at it all. I'm not just some child anymore, not some little lost sheep you can brush off and chastise into submission. No, not at all. I won't be like those girls, and you won't be like those guys. And until both of us can stand on our own two feet again, unaided against the crippling truths and hardships of the world, we'll unite together. Please.
I used to think I was a pessimist. Because I wanted to give up and kill myself, I thought the worst of everything and everyone. It was dark and cold and I was trapped by a surmounting pressure to conform and change for others, but no, not just that, my own survival. Only, I don't have it in me to change. Maybe, it is my naivety or youthful rebellion but I don't have the will to kiss it all goodbye with that burning farm to become just another shell of vengeance and fury. Don't make me, never make me. But one day it clicked. Pessimists would have given it up all those months ago, let the walkers get me or cowardly use a bullet to do it instead. I was, in my own way, a total optimist. Not the kind I pretended to be around them, no, not the singing and cheerful mask I still wear. It still fools them, which is like a knife in my gut- but that's a different matter entirely. Right now we're talking about my real optimism. Because no matter how bad things are, or how they've gotten I still have that stupid faith that things will look better. And then things get worse and I still cling onto this ridiculous notion, it grounds me and believe it or not, it's enough.
You're the same kind of optimist as me. I know you are, we both have our masks and pains but both of us strive past it. Was that why you kissed me that night? Or is my pain totally irrelevant to you and my presence on the roof alone with you completely unrelated? You won't answer. God, I know you won't answer. Because Daryl Dixon won't do intimate, or rather not in that sense.
Yet, taking me roughly on a prison concrete floor seems like an allowed act of intimacy. Physical need perhaps makes you lash out sooner, whilst internal pain manifests to rotting you inside out. Just make sure you don't mould away Mr. Dixon. Your secret is safe with me, but I don't fear you worry that. In fact, I'm sure you'd just love for me to tell them all and let them hurt you- you relish the pain because you think you deserve it. But you don't. We don't.
You're not listening, so what's the point? Shall I just tell everyone else then? He isn't like this, not inside. The bitterness and anger are aspects of his personality that show only when he's vulnerable and lonely- just like me. There's this insane desire to cry and laugh at the same time. Because the memories of him are beautiful but the enigma I'm not privy to only frustrates me. I want more, but I fear I already know far too much- more than he thinks I know. But there's the positive light on the ability to act like a naïve little child all the time.
He ran his hands across the faint scars on my arms, the self-inflicted ones. Not because I want to die, but because I need the pain to help me to live. But he never asks, doesn't tell me to stop- just kisses them with wet lips and sighs to himself. I'm allowed to touch his too you know, the ridged edges of his back even though they hold the memories that made him this way. They're the reason I can never love him, because there's no hope he'll ever let me in. Not fully, never more than I am now.
Is it cliché to say I'm a woman now? Because I am, and I need my fix of relief too. More so perhaps that Maggie and Glenn and all those Woodbury characters who all fuck each other. Or, on the other hand, my new sexual awakening will settle down and late night visits to him won't be a necessity for me anymore. And even if my loins weren't on fire, I'd still go. As long as he lets me in these few inches, I'll steal the miles that I can.
Waiting for the prospect of the curb from him is daunting. A definite ending to our childish and sordid affairs, but no less painful than the prospect of losing sweet, innocent and unfucked dead Jimmy. Death or separation are my options, technically its only one option.
The thoughts make me cold, but already I'm starting to feel numbness creeping in. so I come to you so you can force some passion from my existence. With my fingers tangled in the long dark strands of hair and a bittersweet focus point I should be fine. No, I will be fine. I will. The concrete floor is just as loud and freeing as the thoughts in my head- some sort of poetic justice I guess.
Here you are, sitting in your cell- right on the edge of the bed- pretending you weren't waiting for my appearance. You grab my hand and pull me to a quieter and more ideal location, I swear I'll die of it's the roof again. All that cold air and noise from the walkers tends to put a downer even on the pent up relief I need. But your hand is dry and hot in mine, nearly twice the size or at least that's how it feels to me right now. It's a comfort, your hands, holding on tightly with undetectable protection coursing through them. When I pray at night, I pray for your hands.
Soon I thanking them for another reason. The way they feel through my thin vest top, the heat and pressure divine in unspeakable ways. And it's an odd supply cupboard somewhere not the roof, throwing caution to the wind I moan, feeling the way it makes your fingers tremble in an almost non-existent fashion. If you knew how in tune I was with your head you would leave, but I convinced you I'm a child to play with and so you continuously let me edge closer to my goal. Instead you slip the other hand under my top, pulling it up with unhidden aggression and letting it fall behind me. It's my own manoeuvring that untangles the spaghetti straps from my arms and my wiggling only makes you have that look on your face.
I can't face you anymore. It makes me feel so guilty.
I'm the last piece of pie at the bakery. And Daryl's hungry. The assault of his mouth is nearly enough to knock my knees from under me. God the first time, back when it was unexpected and heated, he was already inside me and I did buckle, letting only his hips and rhythm hold me up. Now I've taught myself to expect it, to brace my quivering legs and forget their jelly-like feeling. His hands are toying with the waistband of my shorts, fiddling with the buttons and impatiently grasping my arse before he tugs them down completely.
I already got the buttons undone, far too much skill he said in my ability to do that. But nibble fingers make light work of his protests and of his buttons. Next to his nakedness, I feel ashamed of my own. His firm, tanned strength so ready for this world- his fingers hold my wrists above my head. Two of my hands fit into his one. And they're loose enough for me to get out, but tight enough for me to pretend I can't. Giving him the power lets him out of him victim past and my obsessive, controlling mind. The harder he restrains me, the greater I respond- we learnt that pretty quickly.
Unlike the awkward dance or courtship we original adopted, I spread my legs for him. Letting him in to take what he wants and all too ready to give it to him, he knows this too teasing me sinfully with those damn hands and biting at my neck. I can only whimper. He's getting me ready, his own chivalrous nature and sadistic need for creating pleasure filled pain intertwining so I never know which will be the predominant force.
The noises Daryl makes are unforgettable, somehow enough to make me nearer to that impending edge of finishing. And he's barely even started. But the snap of his hips and hiss of release are, I swear, what I'll hear on my death bed. The pace is fast, and each precise movement just the right place, the right angle. And he knows this. He holds me up, tormenting my breasts again, and I had hear him growl into my neck. Like an animal, and I only moan back in unison.
He bites at my ears and, as I guessed, my fingers are twirling their way roughly to his hair. I can hear my own voice above his more subtle noises of pleasure, but somehow I only manage to enjoy the noises intermingled anyway. My other hand scratched lightly at the already messed up canvas of his back, the slight digging of my nails making him move quicker. And I feel for the only time in the day, totally whole- I know it's not love, that I'm using him to get some non-fucked up emotion so it's easier to pretend that I remember what it's like to feel satisfied in the morning.
He speeds up, hands now digging almost painfully into my hips to pull me into his thrusts. Face buried near my collar bone, sucking the tender, sensitive flesh so that I join him in his impending finish. He take a step back, removing himself form my body entirely, and that's the last moan I give him. He looks into my eyes, and I'm surprised that there's an absence of seductive smugness or the look of the hunter in him. The softness of a small frown and eyes too deep for one universe are enough to make my own charade drop.
And I don't know what's going on, his lips are on mine still forcing a kiss from my very soul. After that first heated kiss, the one that started this whole string of sex and unbeknownst comfort, he hadn't kissed me. Not on the lips. Everywhere else was game to him, but save the pecks on his cheek and neck, our kisses lingered only for hastily primal need. This was post-coital kissing- yes, still going. His hands held my chin, so gently as if I were made of glass and likely to crack under the very weight of his mouth. This was emotion, this was intimacy.
I started crying, the tenderness perhaps too much for someone like me to take. And I knew in that very moment that we were done. He wasn't going to be fucking me in every crevice of the prison anymore, because he somehow realised it was my new crutch. His heavy arms wrapped around me, pulling me onto his lap on the floor. I was in between his legs, totally naked and used, but happily so. For the encasement of his entire being was more precious to me, and I swear when he let go I was going to fall into a million little shards of Beth Greene. I was irrevocably changed by this man.
He left soft kisses on my shoulders and nuzzled my hair as I sobbed, still with that uncanny gentleness reserved for ass kicker and once kissing my scars. The sticky sweat left our bodies clinging to one another, the ground hard and uncomfortable, and the hour late. But we stayed. Tanned, muscled arms rocking me gently and doing what my own family never could. Tomorrow he would go back to being surly, and unapproachable. Particularly to me. But for those few hours his guard was down, the barrier between us non-existent and I was miles and miles into his safety defences- he knew this, yet allowed me the freedom to his being. And although hours ago that's all I had wanted, now I wanted anything less. If I were cold and naïve again is his eyes then I'd be allowed the moderate roaming and the benefits.
''We have to stop.'' His voice is gruff, if I didn't know any better I would say he was holding back tears himself. The gentle side of Dixon still fazes me, even though I've always know it's there. And I'll never know if it was the broken little-boy voice in which he said it, or the heart stopping words I was forced to hear, but I could never go back to who I once was. The world it seemed had managed to find a way to change me, though I refused and protested my guard was down, hell it was six feet under, and I could barely recognise my old life in my own reflection from that day on.
''I know.'' Detached and as broken as him.
''I'll keep you safe, I promise.'' At the time I think I scoffed, not knowing how he could possibly save me from my own hell. Then there would be a time we would be running miles together, my decapitated father just another piece of my new character a lost sister with no hope or comfort to give. But that's months away from now, in fact totally unpredicted by this man, but once a promise is made there's no way it won't be fulfilled.
I wanted to ask him if he would miss me, if the loss of me or my body was going to be the hardest thing to accustom to. It's easier enough to change a dynamic of a relationship, but much harder to turn your back after all. Perhaps one day I'll declare the thought at him, be honest why I could never let myself be nothing for him and he would in exchange tell me why he couldn't let himself be something for me.
He smells of cherry menthol, the only sweet secret craving he keeps for time alone. The removal of e from his pocket was daunting and the sheltering I had received from the weather stung for the next few days. No doubt about it though, it taught me to find my two feet. Solid on the ground I stand now, and looking back on the path I walked it feels like nothing has changed and no time has passed at all, I'm still that silly child on a farm thinking physical pain might hurt less than the bitter torment inside. But I was so far from her too, fixed in some grotesque living walker some days and occasionally real emotion will pass me by- like a butterfly in a jar. And I smile, and the way it breaks my face and heart in two encourages me for the next day.
Please tell me what you think xxx
