Peter Sellers (cubiclefever) wrote in since_childhood,
Peter Sellers

Deep Inside of You

Title: Deep Inside of You [Standalone]
Author: cubiclefever a.ka. Whitley!
Pairing: Frank/Ray (Yes! I finally did it!)
Rating: R
POV: Ray
Summary: Two hours when the friction we’re creating will be a memory, when this feeling of you deep inside of me (right here, right now) will mock me as I hate myself for wanting it again (and again.)
Disclaimer: Okay, so I finally gave in, and um... well, I own Gerard. So you fangirl bitches best back off my man. He has my name tattooed on his ass, I swear it. Now all the other boys want my name tattooed on their ass, but since Gerard got it, I won't let any of them near it. So not only are the boys of MCR mad at me because they can't have my name on their ass, they're also mad because they can't have a jab at Gerard's. So yeah, they practically disowned me. In other words, this is all a product of my overactive imagination and sadly, fake.
Author Note: Well, I tried it. Sort of. I wrote sex. In all honesty, I really like the way it came out, but I guess we'll see what you all think. To miserablefaith for being awesome, pookiechick for you know, being alive and xrainbowcloud for being hilarious and to prettyboyeyes for inspiring this piece even though she didn't know she did it. And all this should probably be under a cut but... oh well. Oh, and of course, to every single one of you who will enjoy this.

Deep Inside of You

Your skin is thick with sweat, wet and clammy, sliding over my body. You whisper at me, you talk at me in raspy sighs- words that will be forgotten in two hours. Two hours when the friction we’re creating will be a memory, when this feeling of you deep inside of me (right here, right now) will mock me as I hate myself for wanting it again (and again.) For wanting you again and is that fair, Frank? You always talk to me about fair (or more, how we aren’t fair. To her.)

Is it fair that right now you don’t even notice how out of this setting I am, you’re so distracted with your falsifications? (because I know I just felt an “I love you” whispered against my earlobe.)

You wrap my hair around your fingertips and I know by the way your right hand twists your fingers into mine, squeezing tighter as you push harder, move faster against (into) me that if you had fingernails you’d be digging them into my ribcage (if only you knew how much it aches for you.) Instead, you slide that hand down my neck, my chest, my stomach, settling yourself around me, moving your hand in rhythm with the rest of your body, sputtering “Oh God, I’m so close” (because you know, you’re so considerate.)

And this scene is just so… cliché (not that it’s the first time) with the headboard of your (her) queen sized bed scraping against the wall, leaving little wood stains against the cold, white paint and I wonder what she thinks of the marks. My toes curl up around the dark purple sheets as my fists twist the material (and in a way, I really can’t help it).

Your teeth sink into the back of my neck and a whimper flees my throat. It’s really not fair how much I will hate myself for this later, Frank. How I will stare at the bruises you’ve left on my neck, the attempts at scratches you’ve scuffed on my back, the way I will run my fingers over the evidence and close my eyes, savoring the moment and trying so hard to remember exactly how you feel inside me, or to remember your hands and the things they do to me, the things they’re doing to me right now, so good. I’ll shiver at the thought of how my fingers clenched your sheets, but I’ll love the reason why I did it.

It’s not fair the way my breath catches in my throat or how much I hate the word moan but with the way you’re working your fingers it’s so hard not to do it. “frank” I gasp the word out, in a way that could only be lowercase and pretend you’re thinking my name too.

Ray. Ray, ray, Ray, Ray. You could say “pathetic” and it’d have the same effect. But you don’t, and you haven’t (and you won’t.) You whisper words like “love” but I suppose the one-syllable noun my name consists of is too complicated for you, except I guess love is more of an action (though, I’m not sure you’d know.)

And then I’m saying your name over and over, “frank.” “Frank,” if only just to add to the cliché and you’re moving against me, spending words like hundred dollar bills but I don’t even listen anymore (your orgasms always made your mouth drunk.)

Then it’s over and you’ve collapsed on me only for a moment before retreating to the bathroom to dispose of the evidence, and it’s unfair the precautions we have to take. I stay in bed longer than I should because now I’m remembering the third time and the flavored condoms I brought. You got so pissed off, and that’s when I first understood the nonentity we consisted of. “You know that’s not fair, Ray. She’ll smell the cherry on my dick.” The only time you ever spoke my name was when you were explaining how wrong I was (about everything), which only makes me wonder more why you can’t say it during sex because I don’t see how anything about us could be right. Right then I wanted to ask you how fucking me was fair in the first place, but by now I either know better than to ask or I’m afraid of the answer.

You lie down as I get up and what’s really not fair, Frank, is how good your skin feels grazing against mine as we separate ourselves once again. I use the bathroom after you, and by the time I step back into the room, I’m buckling my belt; your eyes are closed and your breathing is steady and I can’t help but to just look at you. To look at the way the sun is seeping through her burgundy curtains, casting a reddish shadow on your skin and I can’t help but whisper “I love you,” oh-so-softly.

There are only so many inches of skin on my body and I wish there was some way to see all the places your fingertips have scarred it. A tear stings my eye (always my cue to get the hell out) and you sigh softly. I turn to leave and out of the corner of my vision I can’t help but see your fingertips reach out toward me, just slightly, which is so not-fucking-fair.

Maybe you’re just dreaming, maybe you’re thinking of her. Maybe it wasn’t really fair of me to whisper that I loved you just now. But you know, it’s not exactly fair that I always have to call you, that you don’t know the meaning of I’m sorry and I wonder if you know that I never felt alone (until I met you.)

Maybe, just maybe, you’re only pretending to be asleep, maybe your fingertips are secretly trying to stop the inevitable (because honestly, this scene is just so beautiful.) And, it’s just not fair that the only thing that will ever come from “us” is dirty sheets, used condoms and broken hearts.
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