Disturbing or Disturbed?
Blink
Rating: Erm uh a little mature but only a bit, I think
Pairing: Original
A/N: I'm not sure where my head is right now, I've just found this momentary honesty, that has the potential to be dangerous. So yeah sorry in advance.
It’s that sweet spot, where you drop your hand to, on the small of her back. Where the warmth from her body bleeds though her shirt into your palm. Your skin tingles with that heat. And suddenly it’s all you can do to handle all the images flashing through your mind. It’s you and her wrapped completely in each other, bodies so entwined you don’t know where you start and she ends. It’s the arch of that very same part of her back as you push her over an edge you’ve managed to keep her on for hours on end. It’s that rush of breath she manages to cause the first moment her fingers slip inside you. You were only going for coffee, you just got caught up in a moment. You held the door open for her, your hand dropping down to the small of her back to usher her through the doorway. Such a simple innocuous moment but you’re gone, wet and aching, wondering how she manages to do this to you
Of course none of it is real. You blink and it all disappears. Now you’re just some schmuck sitting in a coffee house. She was just some girl who caught your eye, standing ten feet in front of you, filling her coffee cup with sugar. She reached across the counter, her shirt rising to expose the small of her back. Then you were gone, lost in some fantasy where she wasn’t some random stranger. Where you no longer felt guilty for seeing those things in your head, for feeling that familiar ache. You don’t even know her. You’ll probably never see her again. But for just one moment you felt it from ten feet away, your palm tingling with the heat you know you’d feel if your hand just happened to drop down to the skin of her back.
Or maybe it was sense memory, maybe your palm itches with the memory of someone else’s heat. Maybe it’s not the curve of her back, the flash of bronzed skin just above the waistband of her jeans. Maybe it’s the curly blond hair, the way it’s just barely long enough to skim her shoulders. The way it sparks a memory so intense you’re nineteen again, sitting in the passenger seat watching her hands wrapped around the wheel while you both sing at the top of your lungs to whatever song happens to be in heavy rotation on KROQ at that moment. It’s not a specific memory, for as strong as it is, it just an amalgam of days you spent in that seat, leaning against the door, window rolled down, her across from you unintentionally making you fall a little harder.
Except these memories are just as false as the first flashes, you don’t know her heat any more then you know the heat of the girl from the coffee house. She could never really look you in the face, at least not after. And before, well before it was all so innocent you would have never even thought to try. You hadn’t even been able to name it to yourself let alone to her. And after, her withdrawal had meant that all it’d ever be was relegated to your imagination. All that was left was the glimpse of the white whale, the eternal one that got away.
They say, those that say things, that it’s never smart to fall the straight ones. And that’s so easy on paper, it computes in your head so well. Unfortunately the rest of you doesn’t follow along quite as well. But a constant state of regret is no way to live ones life, the scorched earth style of love is never fun. As much fun as you think burning everything to the ground would be, in the back of your throat all you can taste is ashes.
But even today thirteen years later, some girl with blond hair and warm brown skin it enough to push you back into those moments. You don’t see her a lot in the people around you, because lets be honest in the end you hated her a lot. You’ve always maintained that she knew in the back of her mind what was going on but that she was too afraid of the part of herself that may have returned your feelings, that she just turned it all off.
She covered her ears, closed her eyes and withdrew her hand so that she could plead ignorance. So she didn’t have to hold herself accountable for your ire. Why should you be mad that she asked you stand next to her while she married that perfectly nice guy? And the kicker was, he really was perfectly nice, you’d always liked him. He was easy to get along with; you had a lot in common. That should have been your first clue, instead now it’s just another punch in the gut.
But hey you walked away, you cut her off and disappeared. It’s what you always do. It’s why you found it so easy not to speak to your father for two years. But you find yourself introspective more often than not these days, and you can’t help but wondering. Who is she now, where is she now? Are they happy? Fuck!
It just tastes like failure to wonder. And you’re fairly certain that she’d just as soon spit in your face if she saw you today. She did wrong, a lot, in your relationship. But you’re the one who cut and run. You’re the one who made assumptions, and let your hurt and selfishness make you run with out a word. Maybe that’s really where the regret is. Maybe the attraction, the want is just a cover for the need to set a little of it right.
Maybe your just crazy and you should stop perving off of girls in coffee houses and just get on with your life. You’ll always know nostalgia, it will always blindside you in the worst of possible places. But it’s dead and gone now, at least five years past. Just let the moment be. Just let the girl be some waking wet dream moment that afflicts everyone, even you.
Rating: Erm uh a little mature but only a bit, I think
Pairing: Original
A/N: I'm not sure where my head is right now, I've just found this momentary honesty, that has the potential to be dangerous. So yeah sorry in advance.
It’s that sweet spot, where you drop your hand to, on the small of her back. Where the warmth from her body bleeds though her shirt into your palm. Your skin tingles with that heat. And suddenly it’s all you can do to handle all the images flashing through your mind. It’s you and her wrapped completely in each other, bodies so entwined you don’t know where you start and she ends. It’s the arch of that very same part of her back as you push her over an edge you’ve managed to keep her on for hours on end. It’s that rush of breath she manages to cause the first moment her fingers slip inside you. You were only going for coffee, you just got caught up in a moment. You held the door open for her, your hand dropping down to the small of her back to usher her through the doorway. Such a simple innocuous moment but you’re gone, wet and aching, wondering how she manages to do this to you
Of course none of it is real. You blink and it all disappears. Now you’re just some schmuck sitting in a coffee house. She was just some girl who caught your eye, standing ten feet in front of you, filling her coffee cup with sugar. She reached across the counter, her shirt rising to expose the small of her back. Then you were gone, lost in some fantasy where she wasn’t some random stranger. Where you no longer felt guilty for seeing those things in your head, for feeling that familiar ache. You don’t even know her. You’ll probably never see her again. But for just one moment you felt it from ten feet away, your palm tingling with the heat you know you’d feel if your hand just happened to drop down to the skin of her back.
Or maybe it was sense memory, maybe your palm itches with the memory of someone else’s heat. Maybe it’s not the curve of her back, the flash of bronzed skin just above the waistband of her jeans. Maybe it’s the curly blond hair, the way it’s just barely long enough to skim her shoulders. The way it sparks a memory so intense you’re nineteen again, sitting in the passenger seat watching her hands wrapped around the wheel while you both sing at the top of your lungs to whatever song happens to be in heavy rotation on KROQ at that moment. It’s not a specific memory, for as strong as it is, it just an amalgam of days you spent in that seat, leaning against the door, window rolled down, her across from you unintentionally making you fall a little harder.
Except these memories are just as false as the first flashes, you don’t know her heat any more then you know the heat of the girl from the coffee house. She could never really look you in the face, at least not after. And before, well before it was all so innocent you would have never even thought to try. You hadn’t even been able to name it to yourself let alone to her. And after, her withdrawal had meant that all it’d ever be was relegated to your imagination. All that was left was the glimpse of the white whale, the eternal one that got away.
They say, those that say things, that it’s never smart to fall the straight ones. And that’s so easy on paper, it computes in your head so well. Unfortunately the rest of you doesn’t follow along quite as well. But a constant state of regret is no way to live ones life, the scorched earth style of love is never fun. As much fun as you think burning everything to the ground would be, in the back of your throat all you can taste is ashes.
But even today thirteen years later, some girl with blond hair and warm brown skin it enough to push you back into those moments. You don’t see her a lot in the people around you, because lets be honest in the end you hated her a lot. You’ve always maintained that she knew in the back of her mind what was going on but that she was too afraid of the part of herself that may have returned your feelings, that she just turned it all off.
She covered her ears, closed her eyes and withdrew her hand so that she could plead ignorance. So she didn’t have to hold herself accountable for your ire. Why should you be mad that she asked you stand next to her while she married that perfectly nice guy? And the kicker was, he really was perfectly nice, you’d always liked him. He was easy to get along with; you had a lot in common. That should have been your first clue, instead now it’s just another punch in the gut.
But hey you walked away, you cut her off and disappeared. It’s what you always do. It’s why you found it so easy not to speak to your father for two years. But you find yourself introspective more often than not these days, and you can’t help but wondering. Who is she now, where is she now? Are they happy? Fuck!
It just tastes like failure to wonder. And you’re fairly certain that she’d just as soon spit in your face if she saw you today. She did wrong, a lot, in your relationship. But you’re the one who cut and run. You’re the one who made assumptions, and let your hurt and selfishness make you run with out a word. Maybe that’s really where the regret is. Maybe the attraction, the want is just a cover for the need to set a little of it right.
Maybe your just crazy and you should stop perving off of girls in coffee houses and just get on with your life. You’ll always know nostalgia, it will always blindside you in the worst of possible places. But it’s dead and gone now, at least five years past. Just let the moment be. Just let the girl be some waking wet dream moment that afflicts everyone, even you.