| Sequel to 'All That I Can Get'. Tom's slant on the situation. It's not happy - what a surprise! Thank you's to Julad and Derora. My sanity rests in their hands.
|Addict (vt) L addictus: 1. to devote or surrender (oneself) to something habitually or obsessively.|
Have you ever needed something to help you make it through the month, then the week, then the day... Until you realize that the need is no longer something that you have, but something that you've become. A craving that takes up residence in your body; that gnaws at you with sharp little teeth, eating away at your soul, until nothing matters except satisfying the hunger.
I'll tell him tonight. It's over. Finished. I don't even know how we got here. Or when our friendship became this twisted thing; and my love turned into this dark, hungry blackness. When, exactly, did I begin to hate him...?
But, I can walk away. Away from him, away from this need, away from this weakness. I can.
He's lying there, sleeping, and I still feel the pull. It tugs at me constantly; on the bridge, Sandrine's, when I'm with her. Everywhere. Does he even know what he does to me? How he makes me feel? Why doesn't he understand that I would worship at his feet; that I would give him my heart, my soul, my very *being*, if only he asked? If he'd just said the words...
But he doesn't, and I continue to abase him with my body and despise him for allowing that and no more. Almost as much as I despise myself for doing it.
But no more. This is it. It stops tonight.
I can live without the feel of his mouth open beneath mine, and his shy, darting tongue tasting me. I can forget the softness of his throat, the scent of his skin, the hot, burning heat of him on my lips. I won't yearn for the feel of those hard nipples brushing my chest, his legs curling about mine in pleasure.
I won't hunger for those gasping little cries that he makes when he's writhing underneath me, begging me with his arching back, urging me on with those moist, little whimpers. And I'll never miss his smooth ass pushing against my thighs, or the feel of his body around me, pulling me in, devouring me, destroying me. I no longer have an appetite for hearing my name on his lips, as he falls.
I'll not ache to hear the thundering beat of his heart beneath my chest. I won't require the steady rhythm of his breathing as he drifts off to sleep, to comfort me. I won't want. I can't. I. Don't. I...
...need to crawl beneath his skin and burn.
He turns, sleepily, and looks up at me. Silent in my gaze.
Please. Don't smile. Not at me.
His skin is so warm beneath my hand...
Tomorrow. I'll tell him tomorrow. And then I'll walk away.
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