Make This Hard For Me (Exclusively Sharyl Add-On To Make This Easy For Me)
The last thing Shane had expected was for Daryl to be standing on his fucking porch at three in the morning smoking a cigarette, looking pretty bent over the railing and shrouded in soft moonlight that made the snow caught in his hair glimmer. The very sight made Shaneâs chest ache with longing and bitterness for the hunter. Heâd only come out in the first place to explore the rumble of a motorcycle in his front yard, having fully expected it to be Abraham coming to check on him again. The man glance back a him, looking him slowly up and down before straightening and releasing the smoke that had collected in his lungs and snuffing out the remainder of the cigarette into the ashtray at his side. The ashtray was his anyway, Shane just hadnât gotten enough will in him yet to throw the thing out. He hadnât had it in him to throw much of any of Darylâs things out. They were all still in place from the night the archer had left. A constant reminder of his place once long ago in Shaneâs life.
Shane felt his throat go dry and nervously shifted from foot to foot, not knowing whether to slam the door in his ex-boyfriends face or invite him in. He supposed the latter would be more professional, would earn him an explanation and maybe a shot at finally getting some closure, but with Daryl giving him that assessing, narrow-eyed look, he wasnât so sure it would exactly benefit his health.
âGonna let me in, Walsh? Or, ya just plan on starinâ at me like Iâm the ghostâa Christmas past?â, Daryl muttered lowly, moving steadily closer to him. Shane felt himself struggle for breath for a moment before he tore his eyes away and nodded, stepping back to open the door a bit wider, suddenly feeling distinctly self conscious of his bottle of brandy on the end table where heâd been sitting watching whatever decided to come on the T.V.
Daryl glanced at it, but instead of looking disappointed, looked more guilty, lightly lifting it up to gaze at itâs almost empty contents before setting it down with care against the flimsy wood. Shane wanted to say something, justify himself, but he stayed quiet, unable to speak around the dryness of his throat and the knot in his chest. He just silently watched Daryl mosey about the living room, observing things like he was reevaluating something heâd forgotten. The thought made the knot in Shaneâs chest coil tighter and his stomach swim with nausea. When Daryl finally paused in his exploration and moved towards him, Shane was so high strung he moved back against the door by the time he was close enough to touch.
âEasy, nowâŠEasy..â, the hunter breathed, low and soothing, like he was trying to approach a spooked horse. He held his hands out in a none threatening gesture before moving to grasp the back of Shaneâs neck, keeping every movement slow and predictable as he guided the taller down so their foreheads could touch. The action made Shane whined softly in the back of his throat and slump forward into the motion, hands coming up finally to grasp Darylâs biceps, drawing him closer.
As pissed and broken up as he was about the situation, heâd been desperately craving this. Not just the comfort, but Daryl altogether. His warm touch and his smell and the sensation of his strong, lithe frame under his palms and those firm, work calloused hands that knew exactly what to do, sure and confident as they stroked down Shaneâs chest to grasp his waist. They stood like that for a long time, silent and pressed close, foreheads set together in a familiar act of comfort they both needed. It was only when Daryl dipping his head down and to the side that Shane spoke, weak and quiet and pleading.
âDarylâŠPleaseâŠJustâŠâ, he didnât have time to finish, because just as he began speaking Daryl shot forward, spurred by the pleading tone and quick as a cobra going in for the kill. A stinging bite that spread venom like blood, infected the prey slowly until it fell against its power. Were rendered weak and helpless under itâs coils and teeth. A bite so sweet it had Shane whimpering weakly against the archerâs mouth, melting into the touch without hesitance, overcome by the taste of bittersweet venom and cigarettes. One that burned his lungs and left him helpless to the man before him.
They kissed furiously, both desperate and hurt and angry to some degree. Kissed like they wanted to break one another, Daryl fueled by crippling guilt and Shane by grief and both overcome by desperation. Desperation for things to go back to the way they were. Back when they would lounge on the couch together and watch stupid soap operas and laugh a commercials and make out during movies because theyâd get bored with the predictable plot. Back when theyâd curl up in bed together and point out shapes on the ceiling or sometimes just lay there and listen to each otherâs breathing, be comforted by their presence. Back when theyâd get up at the ass crack of dawn and shower together before making breakfast and going about their day.
Shane wasnât sure who started moving first, but they began shuffling back, Daryl relying on Shane to guide him as he stepped back in an uncharacteristically clumsy fashion, too distracted by their fighting tongues to pay attention to their surroundings. They managed to break apart long enough for Daryl to drop back onto the couch and Shane to get situated above him before they were kissing hungrily again, pawing at one anotherâs clothes enough to at least get a little skin on skin contact. Shane mouth detached from Darylâs to mouth down his jaw, lapping lightly at the soft scruff there before biting down roughly on the manâs neck, hard enough to have him yelping and sharply pulling at his hair.
âThe fuck Shane.â, he growled lowly, only to gasp when Shane suckled the already bruising skin.
âShut the fuck up, Dixon.â, Shane snapped back, but the harsh words packed little heat as Shane soothed the mark in a way that can only be described as loving. âJustâŠShut up.â
That request was weaker, less bark altogether, like he was trying to convince himself he was the one in charge of the situation. They both knew he wasnât, though. That, even despite the fact Daryl would do anything he wanted at the moment, Daryl was in charge. He was the one to initiate. The one to come over in the first place. All of the cards were in Darylâs hand at the moment, but they both allowed Shane to believe he was steering for his own sake. Between them, Daryl had always lead. And, they both knew full and well Shane would bend over backwards to meet his will, but neither said a word. Allowed the game of cat and mouse to continue, Tom and Jerry style. As they always had.
Shane knew how Daryl ticked. Had always known. Knew from the start what he was getting in to. Daryl was a free man. A stallion that had yet to be broken in, and heâd known, deep down, that their venture into domesticity would only last for so long. Daryl never functioned well under family standards. He thrived off chaos. The chaos and disruption he was raised under. It was engrained within him. Some strand of his DNA infected with his fatherâs genes. Some hereditary flaw that made him self destructive and uneasy within domestic standards. Shane knew good and damn well Daryl would get tired of playing house. But, their life had become something simple, they werenât kids anymore and there was no thrill. Nothing to do that made you feel bad and dirty and gave you that sweet rush of adrenaline that didnât involve breaking the law.
Except cheating. And, Daryl had gotten his taste of that. And, it appeared he hadnât like the burn it brought to his throat or the guilt that followed getting caught. He hadnât appeared so guilty the moment Shane walked in on Rick fucking him against the wall. Probably got him off in all honesty. The thrill of bring caught. A sweet shot of that adrenaline he was oh-so addicted to. But, the detox was harsher then heâd anticipated apparently. Heâd lasted all of a month maybe, which was a record for him. Normally it was at least three. Heâd fall off the radar and appear again out of nowhere with just a phone call and a simple âsee ya in tenâ or âIâm by Finniganâs come pick me upâ. And, perhaps Shane had thought he was getting used to the stallion that was Daryl Dixon, but every time he found a new way to get a taste of that sweet rush Shane found himself more empty then before, caught in this dizzying mantra of senseless repetition.
Shane sighed weakly and pulled back to look at the man, so akin to a ghost. Something that would haunt him when away and slip through his fingers like silk when here. Those stormy blues peeked up at him, narrowed and vigilant as ever, following the larger manâs movements with the same concentration he used when studying deer tracks. Shane felt his stomach roll again and he dropped his head to Darylâs chest, shifting the male so he could properly hold him, burying his face in his neck and fisting his shirt. Daryl remained still for a moment before he curled his arms around Shane in return, stroking a hand over his back and keeping the other in his hair.
ââŠSssh..Easy, WalshâŠAinât goinâ nowhereâŠâ, he muttered using that same tone, like Shane was some kind of hurt dog that needed to be cooed at. And, it made him angry. Not so much the tone as the lie. They both knew full and well Daryl would leave again. Itâs simply what he did. If Daryl couldnât leave he couldnât come back and if he couldnât come back he couldnât leave and that just wouldnât do. But, they said nothing, let themselves believe for the breath of a moment and bask in each other while they could.
Either way, Shane could take solace in the fact Daryl always came back. Always. Regardless of what happened or the situation at hand he always showed back up at one point or the other. Daryl, in some way, was still his. Would always be. Even if it was only when he wanted to be. He was like a spoiled cat, appearing when he wanted to get a scratch behind the ear, giving you a little snuggle and a purr until he was satisfied and then disappeared again until the next time he wanted something else. It had always been like that. Shane couldnât even imagine a time when it wasnât. Daryl had always been Daryl. Always done exactly what he wanted when he wanted without even a glance at anyone who disapproved. Even Shane.
So, the cop could only assume Daryl was here because he wanted something. But, he didnât ask, didnât question just laid against his archer tiredly, with no will or thought of getting up, because at least for the moment Daryl was trapped beneath him and couldnât just walk out the door like last time. At least he was still he, asking for forgiveness in his own Dixon way. By showing up and going about the situation like nothing was wrong, expecting and knowing that Shane could never deny him anything. Knowing Shane would drop the subject even if it was ripping him apart inside, just because it was Daryl that wanted to not talk about it. And, thatâs what he was doing, accepting. Even though Daryl had destroyed his relationship with his best friend and torn his heart to shreds and left him weak and completely defenseless for the first time in his life.
So, they said nothing, stayed still and quiet as Shane silently mended himself and pressed kisses to the mark heâd made and Daryl stroked his hair and made no move to verbally apologize, making up for the pain heâd caused with only his presence. No words passed between them that night as Shane fucked the Dixon slow and hard against the couch or when they showered together after or curled up together in bed. No words were uttered until they settled within the sheets and Daryl was tucked tightly under Shaneâs chin, trapped in his embrace.
âNeverâŠ..I didnât thinkâŠNever thought youâd be thatâŠThat attached to me..I meanâŠ.Fuck, Shane..I treat you like shitâŠI didnât figure youâdâŠYou had a ring, ShaneâŠNever figured youâd stay this longâŠFigured youâd toss me to the side like everyone else, butâŠFuck, Shane..Iâm-â
âDixonâŠShut up, and go to sleep. Itâs late. Iâm tired. JustâŠShut up.â, Shane muttered, pressing a slow kiss to the maleâs lips before lightly kissing his forehead. The words made his gut twist. Nearly made him nauseous, though they comforted his aching heart and throbbing head. Eased his tense muscles, and made it easy to fall asleep against the archer. And, the next morning when he woke up to the manâs mouth around him, who looked up with sorry stormy blues and popped off only to respond to the confused look with a simple âItâs an âIâm sorryâ before swallowing him down to the hilt, he figured theyâd be alright.
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