[original fic] forget about the better man
title: forget about the better man
author: cathiexx
ratings/warning: r. violence. sex. rock ‘n roll.
word count: 948
author’s notes: first attempt at original fic. for challenge .002 at unabridgedsalon. scary. ♥
forget about the better man
When Amanda was nine, Robert pulled her pigtails and said, “You’re an icky, ugly girl!”
When she was fourteen, Steven kissed her once behind the tree in the playground and said, “I don’t want you to be my girlfriend, though.”
When she was seventeen, Tristan took her into his bedroom and said, “This is just for tonight.”
When she was nineteen, John stopped calling after a few weeks and said, “I don’t feel it anymore.”
When she turned twenty three, Ryan held her hand and said, “I won’t ever hurt you.”
And she believed him.
-
It’s love, she knows. It has to be love.
This is how she knows:
a) sometimes when he looks at her (with eyes of silver --not just grey, you understand -- but silver) she forgets to breathe.
b) she knows the beat of his heart like the lyrics to her favourite song. she mouths them in her sleep.
c) he lets her eat the icing on his piece of cake, because he knows it’s her favourite.
d) when he hits her, she doesn’t cry.
-
He holds her so tightly it burns, his fingernails digging into her arms. She thinks she can feel the bruises rising to the surface of her skin, and he hasn’t even let go of her yet.
He shakes her, hard, and her neck snaps back and the sound fills the air. (it mingles with his words as he curses her name).
“You just don’t fucking get it, do you Amanda?” and he throws her to the floor, her knees buckling underneath her weight and her head connecting with the wall.
She curls into herself as Ryan kicks at her, his heel in her ribs, against her back, stomping at her side. And she wonders, briefly, if she learnt how to move to avoid being kicked in the face or if it’s a talent she was born with.
-
She sits, half naked, at the lip of the bathtub, a cool washcloth pressed to her side.
It stings, but there’s a routine to this now. She bares her teeth and pushes through the pain and it’ll be ugly and red and sore for a while but then --
The door creaks as he enters. His eyes are dull as he runs his gaze over her, inspecting every inch of flesh. He moves closer and places his hand over the washcloth, his fingers slipping next to hers.
His voice breaks. “I’m sorry babe. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean --”, he pulls the washcloth away and flinches, the red of her skin burning his eyes. “Oh god, Amanda.”
And he starts to cry. He drops to his knees beside her and his body moves so that he bends towards her, like he’s praying. His sobs echo through him and his shoulders shake. His hand grabs onto hers and he kisses it, his lips moving frantically over her fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.”
“Shhhh,” she soothes, cradling his head in her lap. She smoothes his dark hair away from his eyes, and eases her fingers down the back of his neck. Her ribs are aching as she breathes.
“It’s okay.”
-
Eventually he stops crying and she moves into the bedroom to get changed (there’s blood on her other clothes, you see?).
She’s standing in front of the closet when she hears his footsteps behind her.
“I’ll make dinner soon,” she tells him, but she doesn’t turn around. “I just want to get changed.”
He steps closer to her and she can feel his breath at the back of her neck. His hand brushes her hair over her shoulder and his fingers work at the clasp of her bra. He eases the straps down her arm, lets the flimsy material fall to the floor. His hands move from her back to her chest, his palms cupping her breasts and his thumb ghosting over a nipple.
His lips press to the side of her neck and his teeth scratch at the skin.
She leans back into him and feels his erection along the curve of her ass. Her lashes dust her cheek and she can’t help but mutter an ‘oh’ when his hands move to her hips and he pulls her even closer to him.
He walks with her and presses her against the closet door. Her hands come up to brace her weight and the feel of the cold timber against her bare breasts makes her shiver.
He slips a hand between her legs, rubbing at her through the lace of her underwear. She whimpers “Ryan” when he pulls the material to the side and slips two fingers inside her cunt, bent at just the right angle and fuck, he knows how to make her come.
The sound of his zipper is harsh and startles her, but then his cock is pushing against her and he grunts and oh god, he’s there and there’s nothing else that matters more than this.
But then he clutches her hips as he pushes in deeper and his hand brushes her side and the pain shoots right through her.
He comes. She doesn’t.
-
She thinks about leaving, some days.
She thinks about throwing clothes into a suitcase and running. She thinks about New Zealand and Mexico and Africa and everywhere she’s never been.
But then she thinks about her life without him. Without the scent of him in her bed. Without the feel of his legs tangled with hers as she wakes in the morning.
And the thought makes her more miserable than she already is.
So she stays.
(and that’s love, anyway. right?)
author: cathiexx
ratings/warning: r. violence. sex. rock ‘n roll.
word count: 948
author’s notes: first attempt at original fic. for challenge .002 at unabridgedsalon. scary. ♥
forget about the better man
When Amanda was nine, Robert pulled her pigtails and said, “You’re an icky, ugly girl!”
When she was fourteen, Steven kissed her once behind the tree in the playground and said, “I don’t want you to be my girlfriend, though.”
When she was seventeen, Tristan took her into his bedroom and said, “This is just for tonight.”
When she was nineteen, John stopped calling after a few weeks and said, “I don’t feel it anymore.”
When she turned twenty three, Ryan held her hand and said, “I won’t ever hurt you.”
And she believed him.
-
It’s love, she knows. It has to be love.
This is how she knows:
a) sometimes when he looks at her (with eyes of silver --not just grey, you understand -- but silver) she forgets to breathe.
b) she knows the beat of his heart like the lyrics to her favourite song. she mouths them in her sleep.
c) he lets her eat the icing on his piece of cake, because he knows it’s her favourite.
d) when he hits her, she doesn’t cry.
-
He holds her so tightly it burns, his fingernails digging into her arms. She thinks she can feel the bruises rising to the surface of her skin, and he hasn’t even let go of her yet.
He shakes her, hard, and her neck snaps back and the sound fills the air. (it mingles with his words as he curses her name).
“You just don’t fucking get it, do you Amanda?” and he throws her to the floor, her knees buckling underneath her weight and her head connecting with the wall.
She curls into herself as Ryan kicks at her, his heel in her ribs, against her back, stomping at her side. And she wonders, briefly, if she learnt how to move to avoid being kicked in the face or if it’s a talent she was born with.
-
She sits, half naked, at the lip of the bathtub, a cool washcloth pressed to her side.
It stings, but there’s a routine to this now. She bares her teeth and pushes through the pain and it’ll be ugly and red and sore for a while but then --
The door creaks as he enters. His eyes are dull as he runs his gaze over her, inspecting every inch of flesh. He moves closer and places his hand over the washcloth, his fingers slipping next to hers.
His voice breaks. “I’m sorry babe. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean --”, he pulls the washcloth away and flinches, the red of her skin burning his eyes. “Oh god, Amanda.”
And he starts to cry. He drops to his knees beside her and his body moves so that he bends towards her, like he’s praying. His sobs echo through him and his shoulders shake. His hand grabs onto hers and he kisses it, his lips moving frantically over her fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.”
“Shhhh,” she soothes, cradling his head in her lap. She smoothes his dark hair away from his eyes, and eases her fingers down the back of his neck. Her ribs are aching as she breathes.
“It’s okay.”
-
Eventually he stops crying and she moves into the bedroom to get changed (there’s blood on her other clothes, you see?).
She’s standing in front of the closet when she hears his footsteps behind her.
“I’ll make dinner soon,” she tells him, but she doesn’t turn around. “I just want to get changed.”
He steps closer to her and she can feel his breath at the back of her neck. His hand brushes her hair over her shoulder and his fingers work at the clasp of her bra. He eases the straps down her arm, lets the flimsy material fall to the floor. His hands move from her back to her chest, his palms cupping her breasts and his thumb ghosting over a nipple.
His lips press to the side of her neck and his teeth scratch at the skin.
She leans back into him and feels his erection along the curve of her ass. Her lashes dust her cheek and she can’t help but mutter an ‘oh’ when his hands move to her hips and he pulls her even closer to him.
He walks with her and presses her against the closet door. Her hands come up to brace her weight and the feel of the cold timber against her bare breasts makes her shiver.
He slips a hand between her legs, rubbing at her through the lace of her underwear. She whimpers “Ryan” when he pulls the material to the side and slips two fingers inside her cunt, bent at just the right angle and fuck, he knows how to make her come.
The sound of his zipper is harsh and startles her, but then his cock is pushing against her and he grunts and oh god, he’s there and there’s nothing else that matters more than this.
But then he clutches her hips as he pushes in deeper and his hand brushes her side and the pain shoots right through her.
He comes. She doesn’t.
-
She thinks about leaving, some days.
She thinks about throwing clothes into a suitcase and running. She thinks about New Zealand and Mexico and Africa and everywhere she’s never been.
But then she thinks about her life without him. Without the scent of him in her bed. Without the feel of his legs tangled with hers as she wakes in the morning.
And the thought makes her more miserable than she already is.
So she stays.
(and that’s love, anyway. right?)