He had been gone a week. A week without his grunts, the "whoosh" of his crossbow, his fresh game roasting, his complaints about the food or me talking too much. I missed him. I missed Glenn. Hell I even missed Abraham. I missed the group. We were here, alive–most of us at least. But we were not that group anymore and we never would be. The group died the night of Negan. From then on, there was "Before Negan", and "After Negan" the same way there was "Before Outbreak" and "After Outbreak".
After Negan, I left Hiltop once or twice a day to get away, distract myself. I couldn't stand to sit still. I couldn't stand wondering was he dead or alive. I couldn't stand wondering what they were doing to him. I couldn't stand wondering "where is Glenn?", "where is Abraham?" God help me I knew where their bodies were. But where were their souls? Did they learn there is an afterlife? Do they know we are sorry? Do we know that we miss them? Do they know there is only "After Negan?" Most of all, I could not stand to ponder for a second what Daryl was thinking. He could take any physical blow. Anything. In my mind he was invincible–starvation, dehydration, gunshots, arrows, walkers, physical exhaustion, sleep deprivation.
He could and would take every bit of torture, pain and cruelty Negan and his Goons lashed out. Absolutely nothing could kill that man aside from his own thoughts. His mind would be his demise. His thoughts could eat him from the inside out given long enough. The questions that turned my stomach the most: where is Daryl's mind? What is the thought that was dictating whether he would live or die?
After Negan, I went on solo hunts, walks, runs, anything to keep my mind busy. This time? Hunting. I am terrible at it, so terrible. But that made it all the more distracting. The more I struggled at a task, the more I had to think about it, the less I could think about everything else.
I had been with the group from the beginning at the quarry, before Rick. I was on a stupid solo backpacking trip when the outbreak happened. I was alone. I kept thinking "they're overreacting, this is stupid", even after my parents begged me to come home. Parents were never right, right? I stumbled upon them and just kind of hung around.
I kept to myself for the most part–thats who I was. Self-sufficient, smart, quick, independent, respectful. I kept my head down, I pitched in, and was friendly with the group. I gradually started making connections, but didn't let myself attach to anyone. I watched. You know how fun it is to people watch and catch drama at the mall? A park? Yeah imagine it in a fucking zombie apocalypse. It would make great television. Jot that down.
6:30 p.m. you finished your day as an investment banker, and a quick happy hour. 3 piece suit, the whole nine, and board the train. The a/c isn't working. And it is prime time to commute. Packed cars, all of them.
6:50 p.m. a mother of 3 squeezes in next to you. She just finished her teaching job and picked her kiddos up from soccer
7:00 p.m. a grad student with headphones in, watching her lecture boards
7:10p.m. There is a delay in a tunnel. It is HOT, stuffy.
7:20 p.m. next stop picks up dozens of commuters. Shoulder to shoulder, holding your bags close, hardly a room for you to hold on to the bar, you are all bumping into one another as the train shifts, you're stinky and sweaty.
7:30 p.m. Your stop at last.
No one complains, no one bats an eye, no one is moaning and groaning. You are all tired from your days–your wildly different days in a city that is so large, a world that is so large. But you, are going home to your wife for a nice dinner. The mother? Divorced. Going home to drink a whole bottle of wine and cry herself to sleep after she feeds the kids. The grad student? Lives with mom and dad and nothing special going on. None of that matters inside the train. The ONLY thing that matters is the task of getting off and on the train. The only thing that matters is you are ALL sweaty, tired, and this is your means to an end. You are all in the same hell. Except its not really hell–it's just part of your day, until you step off the train.
There was something that bonded us about being on the road together, after the Farm that first winter. We were all brothers in arms. We fought every single day to survive, but it was our life. And no one understood that life, our life, except us. You public transportation commuters will understand this:
That's how that winter was. Who we were before, after, even during didnt matter. The only thing that mattered was what we were doing that specific day, what our hell consisted of for the day. But that wasn't really hell, it was just the way things were at that time. It was our world and our perspective, and the only people that understood that specific world, was us. Each other. And that did something to us all I think. That's when we became an "us", an entity.
I made it out of the prison, but I made it alone. I got separated from the larger group, and even the smaller groups of us. Our home was gone, I was gone, and I was alone. My parents words and warnings were echos in my mind. I was so sorry I didn't listen to them. And I was so fucking mad and annoyed, at myself. I got what I wanted didn't I? To fucking camp and backpack. Alone. And here I was. I was alone for about three weeks before Daryl found me. "Recruited me".
I..didn't know how I felt about Alexandria. I was happy to have a shower, trust me. We had so much more freedom. We had walls, we didn't have to hide, or worry, or be scared at night. We had freedom, and room to move. Didn't we? Then what did it feel so small, claustrophobic? Our world felt so much smaller. I felt so much more alone behind those safe gates, with a community of people that welcomed us, than I did with our small group that winter. I had been in fight or flight for so long that safety felt–foreign, boring. I did not know what to do with it.
Back from my (unsuccessful) hunt, at Hiltop, my distraction from my mind, trying to forget and ignore where Daryl's mind is, wherever HE is. My body felt worn. Achy and tired from lack of sleep, not eating, not drinking. I suddenly felt guilty for not taking care of myself. But the truth was, my grief was so encompassing I didn't even have the energy to care about myself. I was probably losing weight, and my brain function definitely was struggling. I just didn't care. I needed to make it stop, all of it. I didn't know how to move forward, and I really didn't want to.
The gate was open. Why was the gate open? I reached for my gun, and managed to sneak in and shut it behind me. Somehow no one was paying attention. Everyone seemed to be focused and huddled in one small area. Chattering, definitely not distressed so I knew we weren't under attack. I holstered my gun back. I otherwise came back empty handed. I maybe heard a deer? But couldn't really tell. I am so bad at it.
Remembering Daryl, Before Negan
"That's mah Deer". That was the first time I remember hearing Daryl speak. At that time, I really had not formed any bonds. I was kind of a background character. I washed the men's clothes if they needed it. I slept alone, I ate alone. I couldn't tell you any of their names.
Hot head. Thin and lean. A crossbow? Always by himself. Brother had a bike. Tattoos. Did not help anyone he did not have to. Hunted alone. Shared his kills. Provided. Witty. Smartass. Rude. Broken.
Large. His body was thin and lean. He so much smaller back then, young. But HE was large. He took up space, his presence was known. Large.
Daryl's Home, After Negan
All of the blood drained from my face. Every emotion, feeling, thought that I had been ignored rushed at me all at once and I didn't know what to do. I froze. No one had seen me.
My legs–i dont even know what my legs were–jello, or pins and needles, tree trunks stuck in the mud. My mind couldn't tell me what the hell my body was feeling. My ears felt hot, I had tunnel vision. Those days of neglecting my body were catching up to me. That's all this is. I am hungry and tired and thirsty. I froze. I couldn't move.
My heart hurt. Guilt. Shame. Joy. Relief. All of it rushing in and out at once. All within a matter of seconds. Everchanging, evolving.
Daryl had aged since the quarry. He had probably gained 20 pounds–which sounds crazy considering we were fighting for survival. But Daryl was a hunter–a damn good one. We were hardly ever hungry. And the physicality of survival didnt hurt when it came to building muscle mass.
Daryl had to have at least 10 or so pounds on Rick. Why did he look so small right now? His forehead pressed into Rick's shoulder. Head hung, shoulders slumped. Small. He was so small.
Tears, hot, and steady poured from my face. I couldn't let him see me like this. I ran.
Something changed in Daryl at the farm–after Merle, after Sophia. Hell, during Sophia. I don't think anyone understood what Sophia represented to Daryl. No one could understand why he gave two shits about this little girl that he never interacted with–not once. Daryl didn't give a shit about anyone. He was brash and rude. Hell, I didn't even understand. But not one person took the time to ask him WHY. Not even Carol, her mother.
I watched him. I watched him change. I watched his..determination. He was out every single day when everyone else had given up. He was never too tired or too defeated. He didn't care if anyone helped him. He was rude, still so rude, but he never gave up on that little girl.
I saw his face. I saw his face when he watched her walk out of the barn. I saw his face when he saw Carol in that moment. It was all written all over his face. But I never knew why, and nobody asked him. Not even me. Not even later.
I didn't realize until the very second I saw him standing here. So small, his head cradled in the crook of Rick's shoulder, cradled in Rick's hand. Small.
Daryl's Home, After Negan
He wasn't just saving Sophia. He was saving himself. He was healing the part of him that was never taken care of, never looked for.
He wasn't just trying to save Sophia. He was trying to save Carol from that pain. He couldn't save his own mother. He had to try to help Carol.
He wasn't trying to just SAVE Sophia at all. He was trying to prove to himself that faith existed. Faith and hope and determination. That the world had any kind of meaning. That there was a reason. Sophia was young, a child. She represented the world's future. That it had to go on. The world HAD to get better, this HAD to end. He was in his 30's. The world didn't NEED to move forward for his sake. It needed to move forward for Sophia's sake, children's. Saving Sophia meant the world HAD to move forward–because it had something, someone, relying on it.
He was giving himself a reason to keep going. He was giving others a reason to think he was valuable.
Sophia was purpose, hope, belief, humanity, sacrifice, the future.
I remember the look on his face, when he saw Carol grieving Sophia. Carol's pain broke something in Daryl. I couldn't let him see me right now. Not like this. He doesn't need or deserve to see me in upset.
I was hyperventilating. A panic attack. When I made it to the edge of the barn. It was close enough to the main house, but far enough to not hear my sobs–I hoped.
The whole time he had been gone, the entire week I tried to push all of my thoughts about him from my mind. I couldn't take it. But I couldn't stop it. They came so fast and wild, reckless. How selfish was I? Wanting reprieve from WONDERING what he was experiencing, when he was the one actually experiencing it.
I should have given into it. We should have given into it. We should have loved. We should have fucked. I should have let him look the night he walked in on me in the shower. I should have let him touch me after the innocent flirtatious comments we shared. I should have told him I loved him. I should have told him I see him. I never said any of it. I never DID any of it.
He walked around the corner. Still SO small.
I wasn't expecting him. I jumped a little, trying to still my breath, wiping my eyes.
"You look like shit", I said. Trying not to show my worry and keep the mood light. But the truth was, he looked roughed up, but not like shit. Not at all. He was so handsome–even standing here in front of me looking like he did.
"I was wondering where you were", he said. Quiet. Too quiet. His voice raspy, he wouldn't look at me. Void of..anything. My worry creeped back in, "where is his mind? Please god take whatever it is away". But there is no God. No God would allow this. Any of it. No God would break him like this. No God would break someone as good as Daryl.
I couldn't take my eyes off of him, and he couldn't meet my eyes. We stood about a full step away from one another. My back against the steel barn, patched with scrap plywood.
Daryl was always dirty, but I had never seen him like this. I had never seen ANYONE like this. He must have just got here. I didn't want to ask. He was filthy. He was covered in dirt, all over his body, like he was sleeping in filth. Dried blood by his ear. What looked like scabs and scratches all down the length of his arm. His eye sockets were sunken. The rims of his eyes were red–red like he had cried endlessly. Bags under his eye, he had a healing black eye. His lips were so chapped. He looked..defeated. Broken. Half dead. It looked like a cut above his eyelid that had been healing a couple of days. His hair was disgusting. And he smelled. Musty and dirty, the oil from his hair, metallic scent of old blood. But he was home. None of that mattered.
We changed at the prison. Not (me) and (daryl), but (me ). Because I don't think I changed that much. I think Daryl did a little, after Sophia. But I think more than that,I learned to see him. I looked at him. I understood him. We didn't talk much then, but we spent a lot of time together. We took walks, and he taught me to hunt and track a little. I taught him to thread a needle, and use mud on his skin for face masks. Every once in a while he would tell me something personal, or share. But it was few and far between. I didn't press.
He was kind, and pure, misunderstood. So much self loathing. I saw and watched the way he cared for others. Quietly. But he didn't let me care about him. He didn't let anyone. I didn't try hard enough. I didn't press. I loved him then. But I didn't realize it until the night of Negan. Lying alone in bed after. Broken. The only thing on my mind, the only thing that mattered, was the guilt I felt in never showing him, never telling him.
Every night he was gone, all week. I stared up at the ceiling thinking of him.
He deserved to know he was loved. He deserved to know he was cared about, seen, understood. I spent every night that he was gone with the sorrow of knowing I never told him, I didn't show him enough. What if he dies never knowing I loved him, never knowing he was loved. I didn't cross that line with him, I didn't press. I didn't ask him to fuck me. I didn't make a move. I never got to feel his fingers pushed inside me, I never got to hear him growl in my ear while I stroked him.. He never got to look up at me and watch my eyes roll back while he made me cum on his tongue. He never got to feel my tongue swirl around the tip of his cock.
I never made him feel good. And holy fuck no one deserved it more than him.
I didn't have the chance to take all of it. His pain, love, fear, guilt, shame, love, kindness, anger. And I should have. I could have taken it all from him. And he deserved it. He deserved to be cared for.
I stared up at the ceiling every night wondering what if I never got to know what it felt like to grip his hair while I grinded myself on his face. What if he died, and I never had the opportunity to beg him to let me cum. I stared up at the ceiling and all I could think of was what if I never got to know what his cock looked like, or what his cum would feel like dripping out of me while I walked down the street greeting everyone good morning.
We never even touched. It's not who we were. We just didn't. We kept our space and boundaries. There was no romance. But now that he's gone? I'm lying on my back in warm, comfortable, safe, bed with sleep boxers on. Humping the air, and clenching my cunt, wondering if Daryl is even alive. I'm reaching under the covers, spreading my legs about to touch my clit wondering if he is alive. I pull my panties to the side and spread my lips and FUCK I am soaked. I have to pull my fingers out of my folds and wipe off on the bedsheet a little so my fingers had at least a LITTLE bit of friction to rub my clit without my fingers slipping off. I close my eyes, throw my head back. And picture Daryl. Where is he? What is he thinking? I imagine him kept somewhere. Hungry and tired and cold. And here I am about to make myself cum in my comfy, safe bed when I don't even know if he is alive. And it feels so fucking good.
I didn't know what to do, or say, or ask. I just stood there staring at him, watching him tremble. He looked so childlike, small, scared. But I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I was so relieved he is okay, so relieved he was there. I couldn't help but grin. He was home. And I realized then, home was wherever Daryl was.
He was safety, love, comfort. We were bonded and connected. Daryl was my best friend. He was my best friend and my fiercest protector.
I grinned.I just couldn't help it. You are so handsome, Daryl.
We never talk about what happened after the prison. We didn't need to. I know he lost Beth, and I know I was alone, but that he was recruiting, found me, and that was it.
I was tired and hungry. I think that was the ONE time we have hugged. I was glad to see another person. I was glad to see another person I knew. And I hit the fucking jackpot that it was Daryl. I think I melted. I ran. I FEEL into his arms, collapsed, cried, sobbed. I was HOME. Home before we even got there. I was home collapsed in Daryl Dixon's arms in the middle of the woods. I melted, he held me. He didn't let go. I cried, we went back to Alexandria and we never talked about it again.
We never touched before. We cared for each other in quiet grace and understanding. So standing by the barn, he flinched when I reached my hand toward his face. He kept his eyes on the ground. I am not sure the flinch was because it was so foreign to us, or because of whatever happened to him. And frankly I didn't want to know. Not now.
I stopped, as soon as he flinched. I didn't pull my hand back. I just kept it where it was–a few inches from his face. "Can I?' I asked, soft. He grunted and nodded once, and still not looking up at me. I pushed his long, filthy hair to the side, out of his eyes. Those pretty blue eyes with so much sadness. He did not deserve this.
My eyes closed slowly, soft, when I looked at him, pained. He didn't deserve any of this. His black eye was worse than I thought, and the cut on his brow was much deeper. I sighed softly. Wishing I could take this away, all of it, or ANY of it. He didn't deserve this. "Look at me please". He didn't, at first. I turned my head slightly, bending my neck, trying to catch his eyes. "Hey, Daryl", please". He looked up slowly, hardly moving, he looked ashamed and embarrassed, small. My heart melted and broke all at the same time. I was so worried I would never see those eyes again, but the sadness in them was almost too much to bear. They were soft, hanging on mine, longing, relief.
And then the shift. His head hung again, shoulders slumped, defeat. "Don't do that", I said. "Don't".
His words were mumbled and low, "I'm sorry".
My heart shattered. What on earth was he holding? Blaming himself for? We never touched, were not affectionate, ever. No terms of endearment, anything. I needed to find the words, the touch, gestures, to make him feel better. To take all of this away from him.
"Honey, for what on earth?" He didn't answer. Just shook his head softly "no". He was miles away, trembling.
"It's me Daryl. You're here. I'm here. It's okay. Alright?" The same words Daryl told me the day he found me after the prison. I wanted to give him the same relief and peace he gave me that day.
A nod of acknowledgment, hardly.
"Look at me Daryl", I said. My hand still pushing his hair from his face. He pulled his eyes up, slow, his head still slightly pointed down. "You are good Daryl. You are GOOD". I meant those words with everything in me. He is so good and he didn't deserve any of this and he deserves the opposite. My hand moved slightly, cradling his face, he leaned into it, his eyes heavy, brows furrowed, looking at me in disbelief.
Daryl didn't belong there. He looked so..out of place. He didn't belong there, locked up. I think in some ways, the apocalypse saved him. He was built for it, for survival. He was good at it. He needed to be out there.
Anytime we were in a room, he sat closest to the window or door, away from everyone else. But it was calculated. I think also always had to have an escape route, he was always thinking in case of emergency.
He told me things in Alexandria. Mainly when he was drunk. But I let him blabber, and get angry.
He told me about Beth. He told me they were together on the road a while. And how he opened up to her. He told me that he couldn't protect her, that it was hist fault.
He told me about the scars on his back.
He told me how his mom died.
He told me he never got to finish school.
He told me he never had his own room, or been to a restaurant where you needed a reservation.
For someone with a past as dark as he described, he has come a long way. There is only "before" and "after". And this Daryl, the "after" Daryl, is good. He is nothing but good. And probably always was.
Daryl wanted anything but to be thinking about another woman right now. When I was this close to him. He could feel the heat from her body, see her chest heaving up and down. But those words. Carol had said something similar. Carol had told him he was one of the good ones. Carol's words had saved him. And mine were doing the same now. But there was more. He was hungry for her.
He believed me. Something shifted and he believed me. He let his face fall into my hand more. He leaned into my touch, embracing. He made no moves of his own, but he was receptive to mine. He needed to hear these words, and I needed to say them. "You didn't deserve any of this, do you understand me"?
His response was honest, he meant it, he needed to know, "but what if I did?"
Beth saved him, and broke him all at once. Her purity, innocence, her goodness. She saw HIM with a purity and understanding. He wasn't a piece of shit to her, trailer trash, degenerate. He was just Daryl. She saw him.
"You got out, you did". She saw him. Beth saw him, Beth believed he could be better, Beth believed he WAS better.
"Well maybe you got to keep on reminding me sometimes".
I took half a step closer. My hand still on his face. His eyes focused on mine, they were slightly more open, listening, expecting, attentive. Blue. So beautiful, piercing, knowing. He stood a little straighter. His breath had quickened a little. He was listening. Not just listening, he was HEARING. You didnt deserve any of it Daryl, none of this, any of it. And then more stern, conviction, "ever. You never deserved any of it". I knew, and he knew, I wasn't just talking about this. I wasn't just talking about after Negan, or after the outbreak. I was talking about before, before all of it, before he grew up. His eyes softened, he was listening, he needed to hear more. He would never ask, but I felt it. He shook his head slightly, sad, scared. All I wanted was for him to feel better. To know. Know that he is good. Know that he didn't deserve any of it. That THIS is what he deserves.
He groaned a little. Exhaled. I wasn't sure what the sound meant, what he was feeling. But his eyes, hungry. I knew his eyes, I knew what they meant. He believed me. He needed to hear the words. But it was more–primal. I felt my own eyes gloss over, hooded and heavy, lustful. Daryl's jaw clenched, his chest heaving, I could feel the exhale through his nose, warm. I took another half step forward. I knew what I was feeling, and I felt so fucking guilty about it.
He just got home from being kidnapped, tortured, and all I wanted him to do was fuck all of the pain and sorrow and fear into me. He still hadn't touched me, made any moves of his own. That's who Daryl was. He never would.
Fuck feeling guilty. I spent a week thinking about this, thinking about regret, never telling him, showing him, feeling him. And he was back. He was here. My resolve snapped. I pressed the rest of the way off of the barn wall behind me, and into him. The hand that was cradling his slid to the scalp behind his ear, gripping him by the hair, pulling his face toward mine.
Tongue first, it was sloppy and hungry. He groaned into my mouth. His mouth tasted sour and I didn't care and none of it mattered. His hand went to my waist, pushing me back against the wall, hard, with a thud. His tongue swirled around mine in my mouth. I remembered the way I fucked myself while he was gone. Fucked myself while he was trapped wherever. I fucked myself fantasizing, hoping that wherever he was, he was fantasizing about me too. I rubbed my clit praying he was stroking his cock wherever he was, shooting ropes imagining what the inside of my cunt felt like, spraying the wall of whatever disgusting room he was stuck in while moaning my name. I had fantasized that he felt the same regret I did for never fucking his anger and fear into me. I remembered how I fantasized about what his tongue would feel like swirling my clit. The same tongue that was twirling my own now.
The memory made me press my thighs together instinctively, seeking relief, pressure, contact. Daryl must have sensed it. He kicked my legs apart with his feet–quick, transactionally, experienced. His thigh, pressed between my legs "that's it, girl" in his thick southern drawl. The first words he had spoken. My hips bucked instinctively, my eyes fluttered. I pulled from the kiss, pushed his hair aside, nestling into his neck, licking from collar bone to his ear while I humped his thigh like a bitch in heat. "I missed you Daryl", I said, breathless. A grunt, in response. The seam of my leggings felt good, pressed into his thigh, my juices soaking the inside of my pants.
Before I remembered this isn't for me. This is for him. I need him to feel good. HE deserves it. I reach to unbuckle his belt. His hand reached down to stop me. I looked at him confused, curious, both of us panting. "I'm filthy, haven't showered". His voice was so harsh. From days of not drinking water I assume, proper sleep. He didn't wait for a response before moving his hand out of my way. "I don't give a fuck, I need to know what your cock feels like" I continued, using both hands trying to get his belt unbuckled, frantic. Desperate, panting, I repeated "I need to know". He looked down, watching my hands work. His eye contact was minimal. Small. He seemed so small again. He was breathing heavy, panting, and expectant. I could see the bulge in his jeans, straining. His cock, was anything but small.
He grunted his usual "nnghh nnghh", while swatting my hands away to take over himself. It wasn't cruel. It wasn't aggressive. It was primal animalistic need. He took over, unbuckling his own pants. I stopped him for a second, leaned into his face, my breath hot on his "I imagined what you would feel like, while you were away", I whispered, worried how he would react.
A growl, a groan. "Off" he said, gesturing to my pants, while he continued working on his. He worked quicker than I did, his pants low on his waist, his cock freed from his boxers, in his hand. He stroked himself a couple of times, his mouth open slightly, I could see it in his eyes when he hit a good spot. Men are so fucking sexy when they stroke themselves. They know EXACTLY where and how to touch themselves to make it feel good.
He watched me take mine off. My leggings were around my ankles, I had one of my legs out, the other still had my leggings handing from my ankle. He didn't give me time finish taking them off, to get comfortable before he was hooking his hands under my thighs. He looked at me, before lifting me up. No words, that's not who Daryl was. His eyes were expectant, hungry, asking. This man wasn't going to fuck me, wasn't going to touch me, make any advances until I said so, until I consented. Even if I was the one that made the advances. That fact alone made me want him even more than I already had. I knew what he was asking, with his eyes, without words.
I clenched my teeth, desperate, wanton. "Stop asking. Fuck me". After a groan from deep in his throat, approving, he had lifted me up, pinning me against the plywood of the barn door. He hooked my legs around his waist, positioning himself at my hole. My breath hot on his neck, his ear. I needed him. I needed it FOR him. I needed to take all of it away. But god I also needed him.
"I fucked myself while you were gone, made myself cum thinking about you, thinking about how good you would stretch me out". Daryl didn't respond with words, but he didn't need to. I felt his jaw clench, a sharp inhale of breath. He started to press himself into me. I threw my head back, against the barn. It felt so fucking good. He felt so fucking good. He wasn't slow, he wasn't gentle, he did not ease himself in. And I didn't want him to. He pushed himself inside in one thrust, with a groan, and mumbled "fuck". It hurt, god it hurt. "Ow!" I gasped. I hadn't had a cock in me in over 2 years. But I didn't care. He needed this. I needed it. He didn't wait for me to adjust, he didn't slow down or try to make it comfortable for me.
He took over. He wasn't there anymore. He escaped somewhere else. Slow, hard thrusts at first, brutal, aggressive. I winced at every thrust, every time he was fully inside me, pounding, bottoming out. I coaxed him, whispering into his ear, "give it all to me, take it out on me". Again, no words, no response, but they weren't needed. His fingers dug into my thighs at the words.
His pace increased, his breathing heavier. His head resting on my shoulder for leverage, readjusting my legs, I could feel the sweat from his forehead on my shoulder through my thin t shirt. He was needy, feral. As he pumped faster, the top of my ass, my lower back, scraped against the plywood of the door. I whimpered, winced in pain. It was uncomfortable, but I refused to stop him, I didn't want to. My whimpers, winces, gasps of pain, seemed to turn him on more. He groaned, throwing his own head back, clenching his teeth. He stilled, stopped moving inside me. His face–hungry, primal, his hair sweaty and stuck to his face. He looked at me–the same as before, no spoken words, but I knew. Daryl was silently asking me for permission, asking if I wanted him to stop. That's who Daryl is. And that's why he deserves this, to feel good, to take what he needs. He deserves to use my hole to unload in. Because of who he is. I looked at him, my own eyes hungry, nowhere close to my own orgasm. But i didn't need it. That's not what this was about for me. I needed HIM to feel good. He deserved it.
"Dont't you dare fucking stop" I said through gritted teeth. He continued, resuming his pace, quicker than before, scraping my back, bruising my thighs, splintering my ass. He bit down on my shoulder, pumping, my cunt clenching around him, I could feel him start to pulse inside me, his body tensed up, a groan, a small whimper. "Take it all out on me Daryl". He lifted my left thigh up, pumping deeper in my cunt, stretching my leg higher than it should, than was comfortable, making me yelp. And I just fucking took it. I kept my legs open for him, taking his cock inside me. "You deserve it", I coaxed, repeated. " I can take it, give it all to me". A final few thrusts, deep, intentional. And I felt him spray inside of me–rope after rope, he groaned, moaned, pump after pump, pulse after pulse. His body stilled, panting, catching his breath, head resting on my shoulder, dripped in sweat.
His cock softened inside of me, slipping out. His cum leaking slowly, and down my thighs. He looked at me, face flushed. His eyes were soft, sad. No words needed. I knew what was on his mind, what he was thinking. "Don't be" I whispered, barely audible, smiling gently.
All I could think was how grateful I am, he didn't die. He's home.
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