Sorta KakaIru randomness...
Oct. 19th, 2009 03:53 amI told myself from the moment I met you that I wouldn't love you. It sounds so random, but I knew even then that you were a risk to me, that everything about you was everything I wanted.
You made it so hard. With each smile and each little quirk and each uptight ridiculous lecture. Every time you said my name so politely and kicked me under the table, out to dinner with friends, sitting next to each other by default as the bachelors, I wanted to kick you back and laugh and say your name in my dirtiest sexiest voice.
I told myself I wouldn't love you, that no amount of inside jokes or walking-too-close moments could make whatever friendship was between us something like love.
And now, looking down at your scarred back, one hand fisted in your dark hair and the other balancing myself against your bed, my cock spent and wilting inside your body, my thighs shaking with the effort of not collapsing over you entirely, I know that I have succeeded.
I don't love you. I don't even want you, now that it's over, have no desire to crawl into your bed again.
It's very good for me that I don't love you, really. Because if I did, it would hurt an awful lot that it wasn't my name you whispered as you came.
It's all right; I don't love you. And I'll keep saying it until we both believe it, or at least until it drowns out that single soft word in my mind.
And tomorrow, when I punch the swordsman and see how much blood I can make him cough up, it won't have anything to do with you at all.
You made it so hard. With each smile and each little quirk and each uptight ridiculous lecture. Every time you said my name so politely and kicked me under the table, out to dinner with friends, sitting next to each other by default as the bachelors, I wanted to kick you back and laugh and say your name in my dirtiest sexiest voice.
I told myself I wouldn't love you, that no amount of inside jokes or walking-too-close moments could make whatever friendship was between us something like love.
And now, looking down at your scarred back, one hand fisted in your dark hair and the other balancing myself against your bed, my cock spent and wilting inside your body, my thighs shaking with the effort of not collapsing over you entirely, I know that I have succeeded.
I don't love you. I don't even want you, now that it's over, have no desire to crawl into your bed again.
It's very good for me that I don't love you, really. Because if I did, it would hurt an awful lot that it wasn't my name you whispered as you came.
It's all right; I don't love you. And I'll keep saying it until we both believe it, or at least until it drowns out that single soft word in my mind.
And tomorrow, when I punch the swordsman and see how much blood I can make him cough up, it won't have anything to do with you at all.