a/n: Inspired by the Glasgow RPG
It's easy to ignore the tang of blood in my mouth after Nick punches me.
"You slept with my boyfriend," he spits.
"You slept with mine," I growl.
It goes on like that. We trade insults for a while and I let Nick punch me, let him think he's getting the upper hand. Let him think he's a big man for defending whoever's honour he thinks he's defending, when Paul and Bob aren't even here, when he's only being selfish. He's always selfish. It's the one thing we have in common.
It's easy to confuse him. Simple slut that he is. I force out tears and tell him I never meant to hurt him or anyone else. I tell him I loved him all along. I know I'm his weakness. He's so easily deceived, so easily brought down by the sight of a single tear slipping down a bruised cheek. When he stops and stares at his hands, I know I've gotten my chance.
It's easy to take him down. Nick's not much of a fighter. He tends to avoid confrontation and I know he wishes he had this time, the moment my fist connects with his jaw. I grab his soft hair in my unforgiving grip and smash his forehead against the wall. There's no blood; just a bruise and a dizzied Nick, who falls into my arms like a toppled monument. A monument to naivete and disgrace.
It's easy to treat him like shit. But I don't. I'm careful as I lay him down on the floor, careful as I disrobe him and whisper for him to hush when he whimpers beneath me. He could escape if he wanted to. But he doesn't want to. He wants this as much as I do, I can tell. Still, I don't want to hear his sad little sounds, so I put a hand over his mouth. And I can swear I see his legs spread the smallest bit as I crouch between them, stroking myself.
It's easy to use him. Even easier to kiss him goodbye before punching him one last time; to watch his eyes flutter closed at last, and to let him know just who has the upper hand between us.
It's easy. He's easy.
I've always loved that about him.
It's easy to ignore the tang of blood in my mouth after Nick punches me.
"You slept with my boyfriend," he spits.
"You slept with mine," I growl.
It goes on like that. We trade insults for a while and I let Nick punch me, let him think he's getting the upper hand. Let him think he's a big man for defending whoever's honour he thinks he's defending, when Paul and Bob aren't even here, when he's only being selfish. He's always selfish. It's the one thing we have in common.
It's easy to confuse him. Simple slut that he is. I force out tears and tell him I never meant to hurt him or anyone else. I tell him I loved him all along. I know I'm his weakness. He's so easily deceived, so easily brought down by the sight of a single tear slipping down a bruised cheek. When he stops and stares at his hands, I know I've gotten my chance.
It's easy to take him down. Nick's not much of a fighter. He tends to avoid confrontation and I know he wishes he had this time, the moment my fist connects with his jaw. I grab his soft hair in my unforgiving grip and smash his forehead against the wall. There's no blood; just a bruise and a dizzied Nick, who falls into my arms like a toppled monument. A monument to naivete and disgrace.
It's easy to treat him like shit. But I don't. I'm careful as I lay him down on the floor, careful as I disrobe him and whisper for him to hush when he whimpers beneath me. He could escape if he wanted to. But he doesn't want to. He wants this as much as I do, I can tell. Still, I don't want to hear his sad little sounds, so I put a hand over his mouth. And I can swear I see his legs spread the smallest bit as I crouch between them, stroking myself.
It's easy to use him. Even easier to kiss him goodbye before punching him one last time; to watch his eyes flutter closed at last, and to let him know just who has the upper hand between us.
It's easy. He's easy.
I've always loved that about him.
