The Pacifist [COMPLETED]

Soft Bits

Rachel

It had happened so fast, the cracking of their innermost selves. Rachel had showed him her soft bits, and although she still didn't quite know Mr. Maxwell's story, she knew she had just seen the rawest part of him. They laid face to face in his bed that was already too small for him let alone the two of them, with his arms wrapped around her. Rachel searched his face for any sign of his constant inner turmoil, but only saw peace. She wondered if his dreams were kind to him, or if whatever it was that haunted him followed him there.

Rachel closed her eyes, remembering how he had received her offering of flesh. In those moments, when he hit her fiercely with his belt, Rachel had uncovered an insurmountable strength within. The first time her skin had tasted his leather, she had broken, but this time, she had risen up to his brute force and endured it. She had felt alive and powerful, her entire body singing with the pain that could not break her... not like the pain of her loss. Maybe, just maybe, it meant she could make it out of the cold waters where her sister laid. Joseph shifted and his hand found her thigh. The contact lit a flame in her core. She was still alight with need. Rachel bit her lip and wondered how he's take being woken up, but she couldn't bring herself to disturb his peace. So she suffered, yet again, and ignored the throbbing in her restless clit.

Her bladder, however, had a different plan and Rachel reluctantly tried to extract herself from Mr. Maxwell's embrace. She had just propped herself up when the movement startled him awake. His hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat. His eyes were wide and wild, shoving away the sleep and switching to high alert.

"It's me, it's just me," gasped Rachel, clawing at his hand. It took him a moment to calibrate and he quickly became contrite.

"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

Rachel couldn't stifle her cough before answering, "No."

Mr. Maxwell sat up and raked a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

She hated his guilt. It wasn't his fault. Even as a civilian, she recognized the training that had become reflex so that he had a chance to make it home from whatever war torn countries he had been to. "It's my fault. I startled you."

"I don't usually sleep with someone," he explained. Rachel could here the silent thought from him, that it was too dangerous to allow someone into his bed while he slept.

"I'm fine, really," she reassured him again.

He nodded but she could see that he wasn't convinced. "I do need to pee, though," she tried to joke. Rachel shimmied out of bed and went to the bathroom. She inspected her neck once behind the closed door and cursed at her skin that bruised so easily. There was no doubt the developing finger marks would hurt Mr. Maxwell. She turned to inspect the intentional ones he had left. Her back looked like an abstract watercolor painting with splotches of faint purple, blue, and pinks that were on the verge of red. Red welts that promised to turn purple covered the backs of her legs and bum, drowning out the matching marks on her back. She looked like she had been malled, but it was beautiful and she wanted to recreate it on a canvas that wouldn't fade.

Once she was done in the bathroom, she returned to the bedroom and found Mr. Maxwell sitting on the edge of his bed with his head hanging low. Rachel smiled as she approached him, hoping it would ease his worry. He looked up at her.

"How are you not afraid of me?" He flexed his fingers, as if to demonstrate their strength and readiness to inflict damage.

Rachel shrugged. "I don't know. I guess... I can feel you, like who you really are. I know you think your bad and dangerous, but I don't feel it."

He nodded, deep in his thoughts. "Coming from you, that means a lot."

Rachel didn't understand what he meant by that, but took it as a compliment none the less. She looked at the alarm clock on his nightstand. It was three in the morning. She didn't want to, but she felt that maybe it would be better if she left.

"Um, it's probably too late anyways, but I should get home before my parents have a fit. You know, with my... history, they worry a little too much."

He nodded. "I'll order you a taxi."

"Oh, it's fine, I got it." Rachel turned to find her clothes, only to remember that she had none. She turned back to him.

"You can wear something of mine," he said before she could say anything. He offered her a hoodie and sweatpants that looked comical on her. She had to roll up the sleeves and legs. The sight actually made Mr. Maxwell crack a genuine smile and Rachel blushed.

"Will I see you again?" Rachel had a suspicion that the more intimate they became, the more likely it would be for him to suddenly disappear.

He grunted, returning to his less verbal ways.

Rachel sighed. "Good. I'll wait for you text, Mr. Maxwell."