Author: scullyseviltwin PM
No sexual climax could be as fulfilling as the moment that you would tell me why, just why.Rated: Fiction M - English - Angst/Angst - Words: 977 - Reviews: 17 - Favs: 4 - Follows: 1 - Published: 12-20-04 - id: 2181604
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Title: Beautiful Letdown
Rating: Strong PG-13
Disclaimer: :::yawn::: Yeah, kay.
A/N: Maybe it was the lovely Boston wind-chill, maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the music, but I wrote this in a frenzy. And I'm posting without rereading it, because it just felt so damn good to write. Thanks Holly! We'll get tanked together at some point! Go and listen to 'Nothing But You' by Kim Ferron and 'It Doesn't Matter' by Allison Krauss and Union Station.
Let's play that game again, I'm always up for it. Some twisted masochistic tendency I have. Can't break the cycle, I just keep coming back for more. And dear god, it feels so good to be hurt by you. My heart clenches, the lump forms in my throat and I want to scream. When you hurt me, I'm so, so, so alive.
Even by fucking you I couldn't feel this much.
It's at times like that when my blood is at it's most glorious, pounding through my ears. My brain working overtime to form twisted obscenities to shout at you. My fingers longing to thrash you, to make you feel what I'm feeling, but I can't.
Because when you tell me it's over, you're numb.
I can stand here and watch you, feel passion. I can stand here and be aroused, but nothing compares to when you tell me that I can never have you. Your eyes are so full of longing then, so wanton, and they shoot daggers of pain up my spine. Every hair on my body feels it, feels how much you'd rather hate me then love me.
Can you see my eyes change color when you yell at me? Can you hear my pulse speed up when you push me away? It's amazing really.
Just imagine what having you pressed against me would do to my heart rate. Catastrophic.
You wanna tie me up? Is that your big, dark secret that you don't want anyone to know about? Demure scientist likes kinky sex? Then do it, tether me to your bed and let me feel the rage. Let me feel the pain, and dare I think, the love that you have bottled up in that fucking vast expanse of mind. Do it, bind me so I can't show you the depth of my emotion, it would suit you. For if I touched your naked skin, you'd surely know just how deeply I burn.
And don't tell me you don't love me, I know you do. But that's inconsequential now. You can love me for eons and still not feel for me; feel me. You could come in me a hundred times and not understand what it meant. You could kiss my lips but you wouldn't be receptive to the plethora of things that it would tell about me.
You're shut down, and I don't think you can restart.
To think, I used to harbor visions of grandeur. Visions of grandeur, sounds stupid even thinking it.
How many men have I been with that truly wanted me. You'd be surprised. Be surprised how many men loved me, who knew how to treat me right. Every single one of them treated me like I was the sun, the moon. But I never felt as good with them as I did with you, as I did when you ignored me, when you treated me like I was the plague. I never felt as wonderful as I did when you made me feel like shit.
I'm sick of begging you silently to take me up against a wall just to feel your heat. I'm sick of simply wanting to tangle my fingers in your hair. If I did, I'd pull until you disintegrated beneath me, ash and admiration, a pile of wasted time. And Grissom, if I cut you, can you honestly tell me that you bleed? If I cut you deep enough would you bleed out? Could I possibly move on if my passion was a corpse?
It really doesn't matter what I want. No, it doesn't matter at all what I need. I crave, but that's not important. Yearning seems inconsequential when I think of how badly it would scorch me to feel your lips on mine. What does that mean? I don't even know what that means.
Want to know what it feels like to be all encompassed? Yes? Then watch me when I sleep, when I can't stop my head from forming scenarios. See how my body twists in pain as my rational mind tells me it will never happen.
If you've made up your mind on this, about this, then why is there hesitation in your eyes? Tell me that, just that and I'll be satisfied. Because when I see that moment of hesitation when you tell me no... You make me think that all of this pain is pleasure.
It kills me every time, and I hate having to be both demolished and rebuilt by your words.
No sexual climax could be as fulfilling as the moment that you would tell me why, just why. Why you've led me on in your own enigmatic way. Why the hell you called me out here, to this barren wasteland, to work alongside you.
The book you gave me sits revered on my bedside table, a poor reminder that you will never be that close to me in slumber. I can hope forever though knowing that it's fruitless. Everything about this is fruitless but I can't let go.
I can't let go.
And no. No, I don't know why.