| Title: The Stars That Guide Me By: OmegaWolf Series: CSI Warnings: Masturbation, naughty language, self torture, bondage memories, thought piece, OOC. OC...or is it? POV. Pairings: Grissom+Natasha, GrissomxGissom I hate this. I really hate this, I want you to know that. ... Fuck. Well, that's what I want to do, after all. I was never much one for swearing. Figured it was just part of the language, that there was always a better way to say things. I think Brass and Nick didn't believe I knew words like that. Overtime my ass. Not today. Work was chore. For the first time in my life, I couldn't focus, couldn't think. And that's dangerous in being a CSI. Usually about 98% of conscious thought was devoted to a case that I was working on, the other 2% making sure that my world didn't go up in flames around me. Now it was down to 70% at best. I'm thinking about you. I'm thinking...about the lack of sex and how it feels. My keys make a clanging sound on the counter, probably falling off. I didn't care. You were coming home. "It's only a 14 day lacrosse camp," you had said. "14 days isn't that long." Hmph. It's day 14. If I didn't see you, I was going to go crazy. Or drive and find you. ... Damnit. Still 2 hours left until your bus pulls in. Ten minutes to say goodbye. Another ten to drive to your apartment. About thirty seconds for me to hear the front door of your apartment open and another 20 seconds for me to strip you, feel skin on skin contact. I'm accidentally in love. Consciously in lust. You're apartment had become my home. It helped to be near your things, to see Otis the tarantula, to see the half drawn charcoal of my naked body in the part of the living room, to lie in your bed and smell you, your scent. It helped me to deal. Like now. Your tank tops smell the best. The ones from your hamper, that you peel off after practice or working out, discarding casually on your way to the shower. Their scent was wild, strong, ordinary but not. They remind me of you. Of sex. Sheets. Your bedroom. Your bed. My passion. Your absence. Fourteen days alone can let you find out a lot of things. Like how many times can you masturbate in a day. Eight...then it started to hurt. And even then, I kept at it until I passed out. Masochistic? Yeah, so? My life is one big masochistic arc. What the fuck do you expect? I purposely work with dead bodies every day, long hours that stretch into days. Even basic needs like food becomes a secondary thought. Sex? Wasn't even a thought. Well, how the mighty has fallen... Your shirt is fisted in my hand, holding it to my nose, breathing slowly. I knew I was hard, my penis pushing against the zipper of my pants insistently. But I delayed the inevitable; simply lying there, clothing getting tighter... Told you I had a masochistic streak. My shirt was pried open by my fingers, trembling in the effort to be slow, hot Las Vegas air kissing the skin. Not the hot air of your mouth, the almost searing pain of your lips...my hand trailed lower, fingertips light, button and zipper freeing me, underwear free. Sweat sprung on my brow, plastering my hair to my forehead, digging my fingers in the skin of my thighs, little half moons of my nails appearing. Kinky. Sometimes you were, the so called definition of kinky. The thrill of dominance, of submission, of the coppery taste of blood. I can still feel the strips of leather work their way around my wrist and arms, my ankles and calves. I can see your body, bound by me, arching, needing, begging... We had an addiction to pain. The pain caused by pushing our bodies to the limit, by self neglect. By loving. Self destructive. Animalistic... Next |