Disclaimer: I do not own the copyright for Waking the dead or its characters – all rights belong to the BBC
Content: Boyd and Grace
Rating k
Hey everyone. This is a little bit different for me as it is written from Grace's pov. I woke up with this idea in my head and well just kinda went with it. It's maybe only drabble, but I guess it's all good practise! Anyway I hope you enjoy this. Thanks as always for taking time to read it – I appreciate your time and would love to hear your feedback. xx
Matador
I don't' know who I am anymore, so much so I barely recognise myself. I mean, I see my reflection gaze back at me as I look into the circular mirror which hangs in my bathroom and is presently bathed in harsh artificial light soften only by the bright moonlight streaming in through the lightly patterned glass of the window behind me. Physically my features look the same. A little more wrinkled maybe, but yes undoubtedly me on the outside anyway. Internally, emotionally, spiritually I'm unrecognisable.
I can't remember when things began to change; I guess it kinda crept up on me …. He crept up on me, like some sort of stealth fighter jet assaulting my emotions from every angle before I had an opportunity to raise my defences or fight back. I keep telling myself how ridiculous it is, I am a woman of a certain age after all, who should definitely know better, and certainly have more control of her emotions and desires, yet for all the lecturing and berating of my inner self I am rendered completely powerless. Every morning I stand exactly in this same spot, looking into the same mirror that is before me now, telling myself that it can't go on. I have to take back control and stop behaving like some silly little school girl who has a crush on her teacher. Yet every evening I find myself here again frustrated that I inevitably failed in my futile attempt at controlling my emotions. I am an intelligent, and I'd like to think, strong woman. Well I need to be strong don't I, after all I have spent the last five years locking horns with this dominant alpha male …. bull, I supposed is the best way to describe him. A big, strong, powerful, beautiful, raging, passionate, domineering bull, who looks at you with such an intensity and ferocity that it brings fear to those who don't know how to tame it. Sometimes cruelly I smile as I watch them cower from him. Yet to me, well this bull has innately awoken long-buried desires.
I have been the ultimate matador for as long as I can remember. He rages, I calm. He shouts, I don't back down, holding his gaze, matching his passion with all the skill and expertise of a champion bull fighter. Though outwardly I may complain and reject the idea out of hand, never admitting how much pleasure it gives me knowing that I am the only one who processes the ability to soothe the beast and I revel in this knowledge. The fact that my colleagues are aware of and defer to my bull taming skill only adds to my deep satisfaction. His eyes burn as he observes me approach, his mouth furies as frustration and anger well within his soul, finding their outlet in a burst of heated words. He paces, wild and unbridled, gesturing violently forewarning me of his strength and power, waiting for the moment of opportune when he will make his rampant charge, daring me to stand in his way. My heart rate increases as I watch this display of force, and for a moment I am caught up in his passion and distracted by the heat blistering through his eyes, an all-consuming fervent fire of desire and lust held tentatively by the constraints of appropriateness. My own passion rises until I match his, my eyes never drop otherwise the advantage is lost. And so the dance begins, a hot sticky sultry pasodoble, the taming of the bull.
My step matches his like for like as we observe carefully the others form. The sinews of his body protruding through his shirt as his muscles flex and contract with the motion of his body and once again I have to fight my own emotions to bring my thoughts into alignment. All of my focus is required if I am to still this thundering storm. We twist and turn, entwining our perspectives around one another until finally pausing in mutual admiration, eyes locked, listening only to the sound of our breath as it fills the silence of the room, before rising once more in another burst of fury. He moves, I move, he shouts, I shout, he dances, I dance. The smell of testosterone saturates the room as he silently cautions me of the strength and power he possess and the damage he is capable of doing should he be unleashed. I know that look, and am in no doubt of the inward struggle he is having to control himself. I know that he is strong enough and contains the potential to do me serious harm, so I'm cautious as I push him to his limit knowing that one wrong move and he could pierce me so deep the wound would be fatal …. to both of us.
He doesn't want to hurt me, I can see that in his eyes, but he is doing what is innate to him. This bull is full of raw, unrestrained passion whatever his task. All or nothing, it's the only way he knows and as his eyes bore into my soul I wonder if he realises, realises that for me he has become the focus of all of my longings and desires. I used to be able to go to battle with him and walk away relatively unscathed whatever the outcome, yet lately even a victory is hollow as I go home to an empty house and sleep in a cold bed longing for the intensity and heat of the argument. It is in the midst of the fight that I feel our emotions are real and we are verging on the line that we can never cross. The fine thinly veiled line that we both have silently drawn between us. The closeness even in war leads me to wonder if he ever curses that line as much as I, and wishes that the passion and heat of the fight gave way to the underlying undeniable passion of lust and want. His body so close, so contained, so controlled is almost my undoing, but I focus in on my task. Once again matching him until he yields, surrendering and retreating leaving me the glorious victor. But this too is a hollow victory and as I stand looking at my reflection I am hardly recognisable.
My heart no longer belongs to me, somehow along the way I have lost it, lost it to him and no matter how much I try I am helpless in trying to recapture it. My thoughts are never far away from him, so even now he is the ultimate victor. The bull has succeeded in seizing supreme control of this matador and no matter how hard I try I can't take it away from him. I tell myself that tomorrow will be different, and it is, until I see that smile, the smile that tells me he knows that I'm his and when the bull begins to rage again, I will be right there, take my place in the ring and bring calm to him once more.