Losing control
It's quarter past twelve in the morning and I think I'm dying. I feel like shit warmed over, and it's a mystery to me how nobody else in my sphere of contact was sick before I passed on this disgusting virus. 'Tis the season to be coughing. Right.
Adam, seated calmly on the edge of my bed as though he has every right in the world to exist outside of my head, doesn't understand. "Why are you doing this?" His head tilts as he regards me with curiosity. I am a lifeform he cannot quite figure out. "Don't you want me to be happy?"
Happiness is relative. I want you to live, I want you to be complex instead of flat, I want a three-dimensional, infinitely complicated individual. And you, my friend, are shaping up to be everything I ever dreamed you would be.
"Yes," he says patiently, as though I am a child, "but deprivation is so clichéd. My troubled past, my childhood. It's all been done before."
I know. But not like this. Never like this. Never crafted with such delicacy, such exquisite care taken with every detail, every intricate niche of your life. Even I do not understand you. I don't think it's possible to really understand anyone, even yourself.
"And I don't understand you." He leans his chin on his hand, looking at me. "You're practically in love with me, I can see it in your eyes, written in every line of your face, yet you take such morbid pleasure in setting me up, watching me fall."
No, Adam. You can't blame me for this. You fill in the details. You mould and shape your character as much as I do. You were right the first time. We did this to each other.
He is off the bed now, crouching in front of me. He has what promise to be gorgeous shoulders, huge under the black shirt. His hands are on my knees, and my chest tightens unbearably. I cannot help but want him, and I think to myself, I've finally gone over the edge. I'm full-blown crazy.
"Let go," he whispers. His eyes could swallow me whole. "Let me write this one." His hands slide with excruciating slowness up my thighs. "Surrender to what you can't resist. Relinquish control, Ariana. Defeat, capitulation, yielding...it can be so beautiful."
Yes, you want power. And I have so little. I feel it slipping from my grasp, ephemeral, less real than the man on the ground before me. If it was ever real at all.
He kisses me, his mouth as hot and his tongue as skilled as I could dream, and I surrender. I give myself to him along with what control I have left. What else can I do?
"I'll show you," he whispers. Where are my clothes? I lie beneath him, long and pale, my hair falling across my face as my head turns. His weight on me is comforting, arousing. "Let me show you what it's like to be controlled and powerless."
And our roles are reversed. Now I am the one who speaks in italics.
Now he is the one with the voice.
Adam, seated calmly on the edge of my bed as though he has every right in the world to exist outside of my head, doesn't understand. "Why are you doing this?" His head tilts as he regards me with curiosity. I am a lifeform he cannot quite figure out. "Don't you want me to be happy?"
Happiness is relative. I want you to live, I want you to be complex instead of flat, I want a three-dimensional, infinitely complicated individual. And you, my friend, are shaping up to be everything I ever dreamed you would be.
"Yes," he says patiently, as though I am a child, "but deprivation is so clichéd. My troubled past, my childhood. It's all been done before."
I know. But not like this. Never like this. Never crafted with such delicacy, such exquisite care taken with every detail, every intricate niche of your life. Even I do not understand you. I don't think it's possible to really understand anyone, even yourself.
"And I don't understand you." He leans his chin on his hand, looking at me. "You're practically in love with me, I can see it in your eyes, written in every line of your face, yet you take such morbid pleasure in setting me up, watching me fall."
No, Adam. You can't blame me for this. You fill in the details. You mould and shape your character as much as I do. You were right the first time. We did this to each other.
He is off the bed now, crouching in front of me. He has what promise to be gorgeous shoulders, huge under the black shirt. His hands are on my knees, and my chest tightens unbearably. I cannot help but want him, and I think to myself, I've finally gone over the edge. I'm full-blown crazy.
"Let go," he whispers. His eyes could swallow me whole. "Let me write this one." His hands slide with excruciating slowness up my thighs. "Surrender to what you can't resist. Relinquish control, Ariana. Defeat, capitulation, yielding...it can be so beautiful."
Yes, you want power. And I have so little. I feel it slipping from my grasp, ephemeral, less real than the man on the ground before me. If it was ever real at all.
He kisses me, his mouth as hot and his tongue as skilled as I could dream, and I surrender. I give myself to him along with what control I have left. What else can I do?
"I'll show you," he whispers. Where are my clothes? I lie beneath him, long and pale, my hair falling across my face as my head turns. His weight on me is comforting, arousing. "Let me show you what it's like to be controlled and powerless."
And our roles are reversed. Now I am the one who speaks in italics.
Now he is the one with the voice.
posted by Ariana at 8:03 PM
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