Formidable Fixation (Sneak Peek)
Title: Formidable Fixation
Rating: M
Summary: What happens when a fixation turns into something deadlier?
A/N: Don't ask where this came from. I have no idea. I really, really don't. Just think of this other woman as Meryl Streep. You can pretty much put whoever you want in the "I" POV.
I knew that I was in denial simply by the way I didn’t move to act against what my mind was producing. Quite honestly, I couldn’t be bothered. I didn’t want to face the reality of my not-so-appropriate thought track, the possibility that I might actually be a stalker. Was I a stalker? No. I didn’t sit outside of her house every night taking photos. I didn’t follow her to work. I didn’t call her an obscene amount of times; hell, I didn’t even have her phone number. She was a face on a theater screen, or a television screen, or a computer screen, or whatever I happened to be using at the time to follow up on what had been taking place in her life.
I wasn’t a stalker, no. But I was obsessed. I was so obsessed, that if I had actually admitted it to myself at the time, I’d have gotten myself help immediately. At the time, I didn’t believe in obsession, whether it be healthy or unhealthy. I didn’t believe that the amount of time I spent with just her (virtually, of course) was anywhere near normal. And yet I was doing it anyway. I was spending hours just watching her on screen, the way she moved, the way she interacted, the sound of her voice...
No. I wouldn’t start thinking about the sound of her voice. Despite her intense beauty, even for her age, her voice was the key to my deepest destruction. It lit me on fire, burned all the way through my skin, starting at my toes and running all the way up to the roots of my hair, until I finally felt like I was going to literally explode from the sexual tension. I had a recording of her sexiest tone of voice (in my opinion) from an interview online on my iPod, in which I played whenever my desire rushed through me. I brought myself off to it. I fucked myself with the image of her fingers replacing my own, touching myself in ways none of my few lovers had ever understood. Something told me she would understand. And then I would experience the most intense climax I’d ever known, and somehow still be alive when it finished. Just very, very unconscious.
And then I met her. It hadn’t been intentional, considering I had promised myself that in absolutely no shape or form would I attempt to seek her out. She worked in my city (her part time job outside of the screen), but I wouldn’t go near her. It would shatter the illusion. For too long, she had been an untouchable, a Goddess of some sort. Unattainable. It was true; forbidden fruit was always the sweetest, and because I couldn’t have the real thing, I had come up with my own delusion of her. The delusion was perfection. I couldn’t have that jeopardized by the idea of the real thing being less than adequate.
But it was too late; I met her. I ran straight into her on the streets, attempting to catch a cab. Apparently she had been doing the same, and once she flagged one down, she offered to let me ride with her to save me the trouble of getting the attention of another. I knew I shouldn’t. Riding with her meant having to speak to her, and I was already on my way towards a very intense panic attack.
But I did. My promise was broken. She was gorgeous; ivory skin, elegant clothes, cascading blonde hair, and oh my god, her eyes were the most gorgeous shade of brown I had ever seen. Up close, she was indescribable.
I climbed into the cab and slid over to make room for her. She elegantly dropped in next to me, pulling the door shut with a sharp click and leaning back in the seat. Giving the driver her destination, she quirked an eyebrow over at me, and I calmly divulged my own. She was going further than me, so I only had to deal with this discomfort for two miles. Two miles. I could do this.
It helped that little was spoken for the first three minutes. It gave me time to get my head together. Okay. I was sitting in a cab with the woman I had been having sexual fantasies of (without ever having met her) for months. She was staring out of her side of the cab window, almost blankly, and by now, I had taught myself that look; she was thinking. Which could never be good. Not for my fantasy version of this woman, at least.
Reminding myself that she wasn’t my fantasy version, I took a deep breath and averted my eyes, my posture suddenly going rigid. My hands clenched together on the seat, and I could feel my chest constricting dangerously. My eyes narrowed on the seat back in front of me, and I remained completely still. One more mile.
“Are you alright?”
My eyes quickly snapped to the woman next to me, noting the barely-managed look of concern etched into her features. I almost scoffed, but managed to keep my tongue in check. Instead, I just nodded once, and returned my eyes to the driver’s seat back.
“Headache.”
My clipped tone seemed to shock her, for out of the corner of my eye, I noted her blinking twice and glancing back out of her window. She paused before reaching into her expensive looking black purse and withdrawing once more, her smooth, slim fingers clutching something between them.
“It’s not Advil, but its all I have. It’s pretty useful.”
She was extending her hand, offering whatever she was holding to me. I threw a sideways glance at it, realizing it was a small, unmarked pouch. Holy shit. Was this woman giving me her drugs?
“It’s Motrin,” she said, noting the cautious look on my face. “Its alright, I got it from a gas station. Go on.”
Swallowing unnoticeably, I held out my hand beneath hers. She dropped the pouch onto my palm, and I quickly closed my fingers over it before I started shaking. I was surprised I was not already doing so. Withdrawing my hand again, I held the pouch in my lap, nails digging unnecessarily hard into my palm.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Have you eaten? They make you nauseous on an empty stomach.”
“No, I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied, before repeating, “Thank you.”
She nodded slowly, studying me. She was brave, this one. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m sure,” I said slowly, glancing over at her and allowing a brief half smile to cross my full lips. “Rather...shocked...but alright.”
“Shocked?” the woman inquired, arching a fine brow in my direction and shifting towards me. Damnit. I knew engaging in conversation with this woman was a bad idea. This was ruining my entire life. So instead of speaking words, I just nodded. She seemed to take that as a hint, for she said nothing else.
The cab pulled up at my destination, my work place, and I handed the driver three twenties. “For hers too,” I said. “If its any more than that, come back here and I’ll give it to you.” I pushed open the cab door.
Shocked, the woman grasped my wrist and pulled me back, her eyes wide. “Why did you do that?” she demanded. “That wasn’t necessary. I can pay my own cab fare.”
“Undoubtedly,” I replied, then shrugged. “Repayment for the Motrin.”
“I don’t want sixty dollars for Motrin.”
“Well, add in the fact you let me ride with you, and we’re even. Have a good night.”
Freeing my wrist, I got out and shut the door on the confused woman, praying to whatever power existed that I hadn’t just fucked my whole life up.
Rating: M
Summary: What happens when a fixation turns into something deadlier?
A/N: Don't ask where this came from. I have no idea. I really, really don't. Just think of this other woman as Meryl Streep. You can pretty much put whoever you want in the "I" POV.
I knew that I was in denial simply by the way I didn’t move to act against what my mind was producing. Quite honestly, I couldn’t be bothered. I didn’t want to face the reality of my not-so-appropriate thought track, the possibility that I might actually be a stalker. Was I a stalker? No. I didn’t sit outside of her house every night taking photos. I didn’t follow her to work. I didn’t call her an obscene amount of times; hell, I didn’t even have her phone number. She was a face on a theater screen, or a television screen, or a computer screen, or whatever I happened to be using at the time to follow up on what had been taking place in her life.
I wasn’t a stalker, no. But I was obsessed. I was so obsessed, that if I had actually admitted it to myself at the time, I’d have gotten myself help immediately. At the time, I didn’t believe in obsession, whether it be healthy or unhealthy. I didn’t believe that the amount of time I spent with just her (virtually, of course) was anywhere near normal. And yet I was doing it anyway. I was spending hours just watching her on screen, the way she moved, the way she interacted, the sound of her voice...
No. I wouldn’t start thinking about the sound of her voice. Despite her intense beauty, even for her age, her voice was the key to my deepest destruction. It lit me on fire, burned all the way through my skin, starting at my toes and running all the way up to the roots of my hair, until I finally felt like I was going to literally explode from the sexual tension. I had a recording of her sexiest tone of voice (in my opinion) from an interview online on my iPod, in which I played whenever my desire rushed through me. I brought myself off to it. I fucked myself with the image of her fingers replacing my own, touching myself in ways none of my few lovers had ever understood. Something told me she would understand. And then I would experience the most intense climax I’d ever known, and somehow still be alive when it finished. Just very, very unconscious.
And then I met her. It hadn’t been intentional, considering I had promised myself that in absolutely no shape or form would I attempt to seek her out. She worked in my city (her part time job outside of the screen), but I wouldn’t go near her. It would shatter the illusion. For too long, she had been an untouchable, a Goddess of some sort. Unattainable. It was true; forbidden fruit was always the sweetest, and because I couldn’t have the real thing, I had come up with my own delusion of her. The delusion was perfection. I couldn’t have that jeopardized by the idea of the real thing being less than adequate.
But it was too late; I met her. I ran straight into her on the streets, attempting to catch a cab. Apparently she had been doing the same, and once she flagged one down, she offered to let me ride with her to save me the trouble of getting the attention of another. I knew I shouldn’t. Riding with her meant having to speak to her, and I was already on my way towards a very intense panic attack.
But I did. My promise was broken. She was gorgeous; ivory skin, elegant clothes, cascading blonde hair, and oh my god, her eyes were the most gorgeous shade of brown I had ever seen. Up close, she was indescribable.
I climbed into the cab and slid over to make room for her. She elegantly dropped in next to me, pulling the door shut with a sharp click and leaning back in the seat. Giving the driver her destination, she quirked an eyebrow over at me, and I calmly divulged my own. She was going further than me, so I only had to deal with this discomfort for two miles. Two miles. I could do this.
It helped that little was spoken for the first three minutes. It gave me time to get my head together. Okay. I was sitting in a cab with the woman I had been having sexual fantasies of (without ever having met her) for months. She was staring out of her side of the cab window, almost blankly, and by now, I had taught myself that look; she was thinking. Which could never be good. Not for my fantasy version of this woman, at least.
Reminding myself that she wasn’t my fantasy version, I took a deep breath and averted my eyes, my posture suddenly going rigid. My hands clenched together on the seat, and I could feel my chest constricting dangerously. My eyes narrowed on the seat back in front of me, and I remained completely still. One more mile.
“Are you alright?”
My eyes quickly snapped to the woman next to me, noting the barely-managed look of concern etched into her features. I almost scoffed, but managed to keep my tongue in check. Instead, I just nodded once, and returned my eyes to the driver’s seat back.
“Headache.”
My clipped tone seemed to shock her, for out of the corner of my eye, I noted her blinking twice and glancing back out of her window. She paused before reaching into her expensive looking black purse and withdrawing once more, her smooth, slim fingers clutching something between them.
“It’s not Advil, but its all I have. It’s pretty useful.”
She was extending her hand, offering whatever she was holding to me. I threw a sideways glance at it, realizing it was a small, unmarked pouch. Holy shit. Was this woman giving me her drugs?
“It’s Motrin,” she said, noting the cautious look on my face. “Its alright, I got it from a gas station. Go on.”
Swallowing unnoticeably, I held out my hand beneath hers. She dropped the pouch onto my palm, and I quickly closed my fingers over it before I started shaking. I was surprised I was not already doing so. Withdrawing my hand again, I held the pouch in my lap, nails digging unnecessarily hard into my palm.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Have you eaten? They make you nauseous on an empty stomach.”
“No, I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied, before repeating, “Thank you.”
She nodded slowly, studying me. She was brave, this one. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m sure,” I said slowly, glancing over at her and allowing a brief half smile to cross my full lips. “Rather...shocked...but alright.”
“Shocked?” the woman inquired, arching a fine brow in my direction and shifting towards me. Damnit. I knew engaging in conversation with this woman was a bad idea. This was ruining my entire life. So instead of speaking words, I just nodded. She seemed to take that as a hint, for she said nothing else.
The cab pulled up at my destination, my work place, and I handed the driver three twenties. “For hers too,” I said. “If its any more than that, come back here and I’ll give it to you.” I pushed open the cab door.
Shocked, the woman grasped my wrist and pulled me back, her eyes wide. “Why did you do that?” she demanded. “That wasn’t necessary. I can pay my own cab fare.”
“Undoubtedly,” I replied, then shrugged. “Repayment for the Motrin.”
“I don’t want sixty dollars for Motrin.”
“Well, add in the fact you let me ride with you, and we’re even. Have a good night.”
Freeing my wrist, I got out and shut the door on the confused woman, praying to whatever power existed that I hadn’t just fucked my whole life up.