Watching Him Sleep
Pairing: Dom/Elijah
Disclaimer: Don’t know these people. No offence intended or money made.
Watching him sleep is one of the greatest pleasures there is. All
that buzzing energy just seems to give out suddenly and he'll
collapse where he is, doesn't matter where, and he'll sleep like
a baby, impossible to wake, and impossible to ignore.
Breaks my fucking heart to see him like this, looking like some
fallen angel, dark hair going in every direction at once, lips
pursed, occasionally moving as if they were sucking something -
another thing that makes him look like a baby. But he's not, and
I don't think he ever was. He's spent his life playing to the
crowd and he learned a long time ago to hide the way he feels. He
just makes everybody feel like they're the only thing that
matters, the only thing that's ever mattered to him, but it's a
lie; nobody ever gets under his skin.
He's a whore. He does what people ask him to do, and he gets paid
for it, so what else could he be? He's the camera's whore and
when the mood takes him, he's my whore. And just like when he's
filming, when it's over and he's fulfilled my need, my fantasy,
he'll turn back into himself, and I can see him watching me,
deciding when he's going to make me pay, and what payment he'll
extract.
I reach out and stroke my hand across the curve of his hip and I
can't stop myself smiling as he grunts a bit and shifts, pushing
himself into my grip. His skin's so smooth, like a baby's. God,
why does everything about him remind me of a baby? Maybe if the
way he treats his body showed on his face then I wouldn't feel so
damn protective of him, so wiling to let him use me and humiliate
me, but it doesn't, and I do. Maybe there's a picture of him in
an attic somewhere that shows what he's really like, but he fools
the world with those big blue eyes and that charming little gap
toothed grin.
I shift my hand so that I'm stroking across his back and he sighs
quietly. I feel the stupid smile on my face and I hate myself for
it, for being so easy to manipulate, falling for it every time. I
can't stop my mind from wandering back to earlier this evening
when we were - doing whatever it is we do. I make love to him,
but I don't know what he calls it inside his own head. He was
lying underneath me, his hands gripping the skin of my back,
kneading and pulling, hurting me, his hips grinding against mine,
so desperate to come that the mask almost slipped. When I looked
down at him, smiling, ready to tease him for being so desperate,
his eyes were half closed, his hair mussy and sweaty and he was
biting his bottom lip.
"Beg me," I whispered, sliding my hand between us so
that I could take hold of him, hard and hot in my hand. "Beg
me to make you come."
He stopped moving. Simple as that, he stopped and the heat
between us suddenly stopped feeling, well *hot*, and started to
feel clammy and uncomfortable. And his face changed, got harder
and older and suddenly I saw what the picture in the attic might
look like.
In the blink of an eye, it changed again, and he gave me his
patented 'I'm so adorable' look.
"Don't make me beg, Dommie," he said, beginning to move
his his hips again. "You make me beg, and I'll make you
scream."
As I watch him sleep, I realise that I still don't know what he
meant by that.
I wish - god, how I wish - that I didn't love him, want him,
*need* him as much as I do. I wish ... I wish that I had never
met him and at the same time I can't imagine ever being without
him. How fucked up is that? I know that he's putting on a show
all the time, even with me, and I know that I'll never get under
his skin and into his soul, not like he has with me, but I can't
give him up. He's like a drug now, if I don't see him, touch him,
jesus, just speak to him at least once a day, I start to get
jumpy, scared, irritable.
But, deep in the night when I watch him sleep, I wish that he
loved me more, or that I loved him less.
The End
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