Rating: I'd doubt it'd even get an R, as shocking as that may be.
Pairing: I think its Sam/Brooke, but if you'd like to think its someone else, feel free.
A/N: I don't own the characters, or anything else of much value aside from an impressive collection of textbooks that look good on the bookshelves but do little but gather dust. I actually have one that lays out the phenomenon of vision for you in detail should you be interested, though I promise that everything I wrote came from memory, so don't blame the authors of the book if I screwed something up. Instead, feel free to blame it on my education, or lack thereof. No infringement is intended, and no profit is made. If you don't believe me, check my bank account. If you'd like to send feedback, I'd love to receive it. Enough of this, though, before the disclaimer gets longer than what I've written. If you'd like to provide feedback, I'd love to receive it. You can reach me at Xfjnky2@yahoo.com
It was all in the eyes. Dark like sin, like a moonless night with no stars to break the blanket of darkness, like the unexplored reaches of the deep sea. Fanciful words for a collection of neurons and flesh and pigment, but when they're eyes like hers, it makes you want to be a poet.
I know how they work, how light passes through them unimpeded all the way to the back, setting off a cascade of neural firing that works its way forward, completely opposite from the way one would intuitively think. All of that, everything they encompass, caught up in images passing without pause through the dormant mechanical workings only to shoot back to the front before firing back once again, images bouncing back and forth, crossing several times, flipping over until whatever those eyes saw comes to rest in the brain matter situated just above the base of her neck.
Its not romantic when you think about it like that, as a chemical and electrical imbalance that moves all the way across her cortex in a shower of polarized ions, though maybe there's some beauty in that. All that work just to send the image of me to her.
It makes me wonder how she has any energy left to tell me how she feels with those eyes. They give away far more than she would ever imagine, each thought writing itself across their expanse as clearly as if she had taken a pen and jotted it all down for me. Longing, desire, satisfaction, jealousy, uncertainty. She feels so many things, but refuses to tell anyone. As much as we may bicker on occasion, silence is her true friend. She hides behind the schism it causes, thinking that she's safe there, that no one can touch her. It doesn't work, but I'm loathe to tell her, to take away the little bit of peace that she thinks she's found.
Enough about her defenses though. Today I'm thinking about her beautiful eyes. I think my favorite expression would have to be when they say nothing at all, where they're nothing but blank pools, shielding a mind absent of thought. They're like that when I touch her, when my fingers move over her, move inside her. As much as I love to watch her, with her full breasts shuddering as she struggles to bring in air and her hips rolling up to meet me, sweat glistening off her pale skin and the muscles in her neck working futilely, unable to stop the litany of moans and gasps and entreaties that flow past her lips… as much as all of this pleases me in that primal way that understands that my possession of her causes this, its her eyes that draw me in the most.
Moments like that are probably the only time when she doesn't tell me anything with her eyes. Then they're nothing more than a obsidian pit, sucking me into her, staring sightlessly out as she's drawn into her pleasure, wrapped up in a cocoon of sensations. I think it might be one of the things that I love most about her, how she gets lost in my touch, how she gives herself over to me and what I'm doing completely, letting the rest of the world fall away until its just my fingers, my lips, my tongue, my body.
That's the only time I can capture that look. When she's driving me insane, her touch setting my body on fire, her eyes are predatory or self-satisfied or loving. The feelings they evoke in those moments are completely different. As paradoxical as it may sound, they make me feel so free while simultaneously branding me as hers, and I revel in that, her secret possession of my soul.
Sometimes those eyes look at me and I can see the hurt. I don't mean to hurt her but can't seem to help it, always playing my role. The dichotomy tears at me… eyes free of any concerns versus the call of such pain. If I could lock us away from the rest of the world, I would. Then she'd never have cause to have such feelings fill her eyes.
Betrayal. I think that might be the hardest to take. Little things, little gestures, little falsehoods that separate us. Telling myself that its only for our own good, that if others knew how I really felt then things would come crashing down around us, I throw myself into the façade I have constructed. Flirting, laughing, living in a world of petty spitefulness and shallow concerns, all because I tell myself that its what has to be done. A darker part whispers to me that I'm just afraid, but I don't listen to it, because if I brand myself as a coward then I cheapen what we have. Its all well and good if I'm protecting us, but if I'm only protecting me then I devalue her, make our life together meaningless.
I like it best when I see love. She can't hide it sometimes. I'll catch those dark eyes melting as they look at me and its all I can do to make my way over to her, to let her know that I know and that I feel the same. Sometimes I sneak and do this when I know others might catch us, as invigorated by the revelation of my feelings as by the chance that the charade might come to an end, that someone else might be able to bring to light what I can't.
No matter what else I see in those eyes, as long as I know that I can take everything from them, that I can strip them of all but the blindness of us, then nothing else is important. Or, at least, that's what I'm going to believe.