Random.
Title: Rough Edges
Author: Donnie
Pairing: Davey/Narrator
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not real. Never ever fucking happened. I think.
Who's going to the Tiger Army show in Lancaster the 22nd?
Davey came back to me with his hair soaking and his lip wrenched between his teeth.
It’d been three months since I’d even seen him. He’d left me with the notion that I’d never catch word of him again. I guess somewhere deep, I knew that I would, but when time stands still you don’t have much comprehension of the future.
I had spent five hours crying in my bed. Sometimes the tears would slip quietly by, letting my facial expression remain calm, and sometimes tears would launch themselves from my eyes and throat. My chest would arch into my mattress while my pillow became stained with the liquid liner I hadn’t bothered to remove. Eventually, I had fallen asleep.
The next few weeks were spent in quiet remorse. I had to force myself to get dressed, to get out of the house. The littlest things would set me off. I lost my DVD remote three weeks in to the breakup, sat down on the floor, and whimpered loudly until I ended up dry heaving over the toilet.
We’d been fighting for days, if not weeks. He told me he was leaving me for someone else. A woman, for that matter.
I thought about Davey and his new lover all the time. I couldn't help but be a little bitter, but mostly it was only in somber moods. I thought about what they were doing. I dreamed of what they were doing. I thought. Always. Of what. They were doing.
They'd go out to see new movies, and when the perturbing parts came, she'd bury her head in his long, soft hair and grab on to his muscular arms. She'd shake until he chuckled and assured her it was okay to look, just like he always used to do for me. “Shh, baby, It’s ok.”
When she was sad, he would comfort her endlessly. He’d wrap her in his arms and hold her. “I’ll make you feel better, I’ll make it all go away…”
And when neither of them could sleep, both of them would lie motionless, close to one another. He would whisper and sing to her, Cure songs they both knew by heart. She would hum along, not singing, not wanting to disturb the aching comfort his sole voice provided. She would rest her head in his collarbone; she would wrap an arm around his torso and fall asleep. He wouldn’t stop singing until he knew she could no longer hear him, just like he always used to do for me.
In the back of my mind, I knew he’d avoid songs that referred to a ‘she’. He’d still be used to singing to me, a male. A male he loved; a male he would change around the songs for. She wouldn’t understand if suddenly he sang to her, “I know who you remind me of, a boy I think I used to know…”
The sex. Oh, the sex…They would have the greatest sex anyone had to offer. She’d question herself as to whether it was possible to feel that good. She’d feel complete and total submission, lying under the god who dominated me all those nights ago. He’d thrust above her with strength and clarity. She would scratch her nails down his back, her pale, flawless, flexible legs extending around him. When all was said and done, he’d purr sweet nothings in her ears and make her feel complete, just like he always used to do for me.
I knew he was confused. I knew he needed another man by his side to feel love for, to be loved. He needed a tender cock in front of him and a tight, strong ass to thrust in to in order to enjoy sex fully. He didn’t want a soft, cute girl. He knew his love for me. He had to. He had to.
And so it came to be that I wasn’t surprised when he showed up on my doorstep, our doorstep, on February the fourteenth. I wasn’t surprised when he lunged at my lips, gripping my biceps and delving deep into my mouth with his smooth tongue. His taste didn’t overwhelm me, only soothe my longing.
I felt the strong steps force me backward, up the stairs and through the door to our bedroom. Words were preposterous. Both of us felt the same thing and neither of us could find a way to express it. Being raised men, conveying emotions was only awkward and problematical. Sex was what we knew.
The removal of our clothing wasn’t a hazy blur, as they say in all of those romance novels. No, it was fast, but I could remember every bit of it with startling clarity. The clear vision of his shirt flying up from his neck. The neck that connected to that stupid head of his, the head that was made up as perfectly as the rest of him. He was dressed up to take his girl out for Valentine’s. His button-down tore at the seems.
His breathing was forced, harsh and ragged, echoing in distinct huffs. He swallowed one last time, before forcefully shoving into my body. My brain sent a spasm straight down my spinal cord; I arched on the bed.
Slick and even was just the way I remembered our slow, loving sex. Rough and irregular was just how I got it. He was upset, but I certainly wouldn’t let that ruin our first moments together in weeks.
Back and forth, the bed rocked into the wall and back again. My eyes didn’t roll back into my head, no, they flew. I held tightly to whatever it was I could reach, and if he noticed my hands yanking at his long hair, he didn’t show it.
“Unh, unh, UAGH!” he screamed, slamming his head into the heated skin of my collarbone. The orgasm, our absolute fucking explosions. The screams hurtled through the night.
Even after he tried to collapse to the side, I couldn’t be fucked to move my left leg. So instead, we both toppled to the side. My legs were still loosely held around him, cushioned by the huge mattress we’d bought together.
He was still panting from his mouth. Familiar warm smell. After months, his tattoos were more vibrant, his hair less frazzled, his eyes deeper and completely beautiful.
His arm lifted my leg from around him, and he scooted back.
As soon as I realized what he was attempting, feeling surged through me. Jealousy, rage, hopelessness. The muscles of my neck tensed up.
He was standing above me now, possibly looking for his discarded shirt. My hand flung out to his arm, grabbing tight and demanding his attention.
“Why don’t you love me?” I demanded, looking up for an honest answer. All of those wasted nights, proclamations, overexagerated attempts at cheering me up. All of the worship for every single word from his mouth, gone! And he promised, He said, he said…
“I love you more than I could say.”
Rather than calm my nerves, this only flared them.
“If that’s true, than don’t you fucking dare leave this room.”
He leaned over slowly, looking at me, unsure and puzzled. I maintained my angry glare. Finally, he placed one arm on the other side of my body, and lowered himself back to the bed.
Author: Donnie
Pairing: Davey/Narrator
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not real. Never ever fucking happened. I think.
Who's going to the Tiger Army show in Lancaster the 22nd?
Davey came back to me with his hair soaking and his lip wrenched between his teeth.
It’d been three months since I’d even seen him. He’d left me with the notion that I’d never catch word of him again. I guess somewhere deep, I knew that I would, but when time stands still you don’t have much comprehension of the future.
I had spent five hours crying in my bed. Sometimes the tears would slip quietly by, letting my facial expression remain calm, and sometimes tears would launch themselves from my eyes and throat. My chest would arch into my mattress while my pillow became stained with the liquid liner I hadn’t bothered to remove. Eventually, I had fallen asleep.
The next few weeks were spent in quiet remorse. I had to force myself to get dressed, to get out of the house. The littlest things would set me off. I lost my DVD remote three weeks in to the breakup, sat down on the floor, and whimpered loudly until I ended up dry heaving over the toilet.
We’d been fighting for days, if not weeks. He told me he was leaving me for someone else. A woman, for that matter.
I thought about Davey and his new lover all the time. I couldn't help but be a little bitter, but mostly it was only in somber moods. I thought about what they were doing. I dreamed of what they were doing. I thought. Always. Of what. They were doing.
They'd go out to see new movies, and when the perturbing parts came, she'd bury her head in his long, soft hair and grab on to his muscular arms. She'd shake until he chuckled and assured her it was okay to look, just like he always used to do for me. “Shh, baby, It’s ok.”
When she was sad, he would comfort her endlessly. He’d wrap her in his arms and hold her. “I’ll make you feel better, I’ll make it all go away…”
And when neither of them could sleep, both of them would lie motionless, close to one another. He would whisper and sing to her, Cure songs they both knew by heart. She would hum along, not singing, not wanting to disturb the aching comfort his sole voice provided. She would rest her head in his collarbone; she would wrap an arm around his torso and fall asleep. He wouldn’t stop singing until he knew she could no longer hear him, just like he always used to do for me.
In the back of my mind, I knew he’d avoid songs that referred to a ‘she’. He’d still be used to singing to me, a male. A male he loved; a male he would change around the songs for. She wouldn’t understand if suddenly he sang to her, “I know who you remind me of, a boy I think I used to know…”
The sex. Oh, the sex…They would have the greatest sex anyone had to offer. She’d question herself as to whether it was possible to feel that good. She’d feel complete and total submission, lying under the god who dominated me all those nights ago. He’d thrust above her with strength and clarity. She would scratch her nails down his back, her pale, flawless, flexible legs extending around him. When all was said and done, he’d purr sweet nothings in her ears and make her feel complete, just like he always used to do for me.
I knew he was confused. I knew he needed another man by his side to feel love for, to be loved. He needed a tender cock in front of him and a tight, strong ass to thrust in to in order to enjoy sex fully. He didn’t want a soft, cute girl. He knew his love for me. He had to. He had to.
And so it came to be that I wasn’t surprised when he showed up on my doorstep, our doorstep, on February the fourteenth. I wasn’t surprised when he lunged at my lips, gripping my biceps and delving deep into my mouth with his smooth tongue. His taste didn’t overwhelm me, only soothe my longing.
I felt the strong steps force me backward, up the stairs and through the door to our bedroom. Words were preposterous. Both of us felt the same thing and neither of us could find a way to express it. Being raised men, conveying emotions was only awkward and problematical. Sex was what we knew.
The removal of our clothing wasn’t a hazy blur, as they say in all of those romance novels. No, it was fast, but I could remember every bit of it with startling clarity. The clear vision of his shirt flying up from his neck. The neck that connected to that stupid head of his, the head that was made up as perfectly as the rest of him. He was dressed up to take his girl out for Valentine’s. His button-down tore at the seems.
His breathing was forced, harsh and ragged, echoing in distinct huffs. He swallowed one last time, before forcefully shoving into my body. My brain sent a spasm straight down my spinal cord; I arched on the bed.
Slick and even was just the way I remembered our slow, loving sex. Rough and irregular was just how I got it. He was upset, but I certainly wouldn’t let that ruin our first moments together in weeks.
Back and forth, the bed rocked into the wall and back again. My eyes didn’t roll back into my head, no, they flew. I held tightly to whatever it was I could reach, and if he noticed my hands yanking at his long hair, he didn’t show it.
“Unh, unh, UAGH!” he screamed, slamming his head into the heated skin of my collarbone. The orgasm, our absolute fucking explosions. The screams hurtled through the night.
Even after he tried to collapse to the side, I couldn’t be fucked to move my left leg. So instead, we both toppled to the side. My legs were still loosely held around him, cushioned by the huge mattress we’d bought together.
He was still panting from his mouth. Familiar warm smell. After months, his tattoos were more vibrant, his hair less frazzled, his eyes deeper and completely beautiful.
His arm lifted my leg from around him, and he scooted back.
As soon as I realized what he was attempting, feeling surged through me. Jealousy, rage, hopelessness. The muscles of my neck tensed up.
He was standing above me now, possibly looking for his discarded shirt. My hand flung out to his arm, grabbing tight and demanding his attention.
“Why don’t you love me?” I demanded, looking up for an honest answer. All of those wasted nights, proclamations, overexagerated attempts at cheering me up. All of the worship for every single word from his mouth, gone! And he promised, He said, he said…
“I love you more than I could say.”
Rather than calm my nerves, this only flared them.
“If that’s true, than don’t you fucking dare leave this room.”
He leaned over slowly, looking at me, unsure and puzzled. I maintained my angry glare. Finally, he placed one arm on the other side of my body, and lowered himself back to the bed.