Disregard

Of all things that ever occurred, this has to be the worst. Nothing destroys any kind of confidence faster than confusion and indecisiveness; and I know this, so why am I in this situation? I think it's due to a lack of trajectory, because my moral compass went out of service a long time ago, and I'm the one that kicked it in. So finely tuned over the years, too. What a waste.

The murky darkness on the other side of these windows really don't help. Really. The void-like feeling outside is the same I feel in my own mind and my own heart. No sense of direction. Doesn't help that I can't see where I'm going. Though, I have a nagging suspicion that I'm walking in circles. Looking at the warm mass of body beside me... yes, I think that would be right. But, I'm always in a hurry to walk in circles when it comes to her. Hell, I sprint.

But, it's early morning. Around 3ish, I think. I have the whole day to mentally kick myself and make false promises about how this can so never happen again. How I do enjoy deceiving myself.

I sign and give in, turning to my currently sleeping bedmate. Because what are we if not bedmates? Oh, I know. Nothing.

How I hate her.

She's lying on her back, her chest rising and falling in a slow tempo, and occasionally, her fingers would twitch and she'd shift and go back to sleep. I really hate her. My hand slowly slips out from under the covers, and I find a starting point. Her belly button. And slowly, I work my way out, brushing my fingers around the surrounding skin. So smooth and flat.

Damn you for being so physically enticing.

I flatten my hand, brushing it up to her chest, and cupping her breast in my hand. Déjà vu, I think. My hand progressed upwards, and caressed her neck, sliding up and cupping her cheek, tracing her mouth with my thumbs lightly.

Damn you for being so beautiful.

I used my fingers to push your dark, wavy hair away from your face. A faint whimper escapes your lips, and letters combined with letters stack and warp and form into a word. “Micheal”.

I got two words for you “Micheal”. Fuck you.

My moral compass, long broken, shows signs of life and begins to twitch. I might as well drop a filing cabinet on it because I don't give a fuck. This is my time with her, mine and no one else's. Because for a few hours of a few days, I get to spend time with someone who makes me throw away whatever feelings of rightness I have. Someone who grabs a part of me that I've never realized before and uses it to make me feel alive and good! So fuck you moral compass, and fuck you “Micheal”.

She shifts, and her eyes open. Captivating blue eyes that make the ocean look about as cheap as a painting made with old crayons. She looks up at me and smiles, her fingers wrap loosely around my hand and squeeze lightly. My heart speeds up, and I offer a smile in return. I wonder if she realizes how bad she plays me. How that gentle squeeze of a hand combined with a warm loving smile isn't something I can easily forget the next day. How, when the morning comes, I'll still feel her lips on mine, and I'll still feel that pressure on my hand.

Damn you for making me fall in love with you.

She rolls on her side and pushes herself against me, releasing my hand and moving to my breast. Sometimes, I want to just push her on the bed and fuck her until basic functions can't be carried out due to an overload of her nervous system. Because if she's too busy trying to regain basic control, she won't have the great idea of touching me. I know I won't feel her strokes tomorrow, I know I probably won't feel it the next day, or the day after that until she feels like knocking on my door. And the days I don't feel it, I'll be a mess. Sometimes, I don't want her touching me, because sometimes, I won't be strong enough to last a couple of days.

I jerk her hand away and pin her to the bed. She looks surprised, and I get that sometimes she doesn't understand where my gentleness goes and what takes over me in moments like these, but I don't care. I kiss her fiercely, not softly, tenderly, or lovingly. Especially not lovingly. I have so much “love” that has nowhere to go, so it piles up and it wants to explode, and in some form I try to relieve it by being aggressive, or by just getting rid of the sexual frustration. It'll be a cold day in hell when that works.

She moans and buries her hand in my back. I grind my hips against her, feeling a slight sense of conceit when she responds so eagerly. I know she needs me. Maybe because “Micheal” can't do the job. It's nice to be regarded as a tool. I straddled her hips, but her hand darted out quicker than I could stop it, and she pressed her slim fingers between my legs, rubbing me. I looked at her face and noticed a smug little smile.

Damn you for thinking this is just a game.

I couldn't help a moan as a bolt of sensation raced through me, so I let her continue. I put my hands on both sides of her head and leaned down; my kiss was far gentler then I wanted it to be, and my aggression was backing away far sooner than I wanted it to. I let my hips move with the rhythm of her hand, I let her fingers enter me, and I let her mouth muffle my moans and whimpers. I let her control me. I gripped the sheets tightly, and squeezed my eyes shut as I came. My arms trembled, and she noticed. Her free arm shooting out, pulling my weight on top of her.

I tried to recover, and she giggled beneath me. Her fingers slid out and I lifted my head as she popped them in her mouth, giving me a sly little wink. I play along, raising an eyebrow and giving her a grin. She's turned me on again, and I haven't even caught my breath yet. I kiss her mouth, along her jawline and down to the slope of her neck. Soft sucking bites leave small marks, but never enough to still be there a few hours later. I make my way down, giving her breasts a few moments of attention before continuing. She's panting and begging, wanting release, but I want to torture her a bit more. Reaching her hips, I spread her legs apart, sliding my tongue along her sex, going purposely slow.

Her hips rise up against me, and she's pleading with me. It's pathetic how good it makes me feel.

She squeezes her knees together against my head lightly, begging me to hurry. I suddenly feel merciful, so I comply. I move my tongue against her clit and slide my fingers inside of her, adopting a flow that matched the movement of her hips. Her moaning made me grin with satisfaction. She draped one leg over my shoulder, and I laid my hand against her thigh as she stiffened, her final moan sounding more like a forced sign.

Her legs eventually loosened, and she relaxed. I crawled up and saw a lazy, satisfied smile on her face. I smiled right along with her, kissing her with all the heart I could muster, happy when she made a small sound of delight. Her hand came up and cupped my cheek. I felt something cold. I took her wrist in my hands and saw a glimmer of gold.

Her engagement ring.

Everything suddenly came back into perspective, and the cynical persona that is my train of thought once again returned. I kissed her palm and set her hand aside, laying down next to her, letting her cuddle up next to me and watched her fade off to sleep.

Damn my brother for finding you first.


~End

Wha, angst? Could this be considered angst?

See any errors or have any suggestions, feel free to point them out.

Thanks. ^CH^