He Likes That I Hate It

"You like it," I go on, "You like that I hate you. You like that I hate doing this, that I hate myself for doing it. You get off on this interaction, this friction, just as much as I do. You're not trying to fuck me in spite of this, you're trying to fuck me because of it."

Growling and dangerous, Blake is like a cornered animal. His hand on my breast tenses and for a moment I think he's going to squeeze hard enough to cause actual pain, lasting pain. Turning his fingers and digging his nails in to maybe even draw blood.

I know that I'm in danger here and that it isn't the fun kind. Pursuing this is going to have some ramifications for me, it's going to give me an end that I'm not going to like.

No pleasure from pushing here.

There are triggers that are public and ones that are private. The public ones are meant to be touched, meant to be fingered and played with. They cause pain of a different sort, not necessarily milder but still different. They don't touch on our internal monologues or our private traumas. Almost playful, they are meant to send visceral responses but not leave any lasting damage.

But what I'm pursuing here is something deep and innate within him. Worse even than the buttons that Rachel pushed, these ones will make him hate with a vengeance and put me on a list that I've been on before, but maybe even worse.

I'm getting to his vulnerabilities. I'm getting to the core of him. I'm about to say something that cannot be taken back and something that will forever label me in his eyes as a villain, instead of just a victim.

Blake is a man of strength, above all else. Raised and taught that strength is the ultimate goal, that it's the one thing that you should always pursue, he will do his level best to achieve a unified front to the world. To everyone.

Blake cannot be weak. He cannot let himself be weak. He cannot let anyone see him as that, because he was trained that if he does it will lead to disaster.

I saw a future once, in this body and in the first moments I spent alone with him. He touched me and I flashed forward to a future that I did not ask for. White picket fence, dinner on the table when he got home. Pretty little dresses with tucked in waists and tight fitting bodices. Perfect little housewife and her provider man in a world where that life doesn't exist anymore. No one has that dynamic, or if they do they... struggle.

In that future Blake wasn't a multi-millionaire. He wasn't a CEO. I didn't know the details but he was firmly middle management at best and even only spending a few moments in that life I remember the way that it was for him. I remember the cracks hidden around the corners.

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