Whiskey and Tears [Bam/Ryan]
=Title= Whiskey and Tears
=Author= SP
=Rating= R for content
=Note= Two short drabbles (200 words) from each POV
Whiskey and Tears
:: Ryan ::
I never questioned your drinking habits. You never questioned mine.
I suppose because we were as bad as each other it didn’t really matter.
But I know what I can’t handle, and I know what I shouldn’t drink. But you, you don’t seem to care. And that’s why I’m lying here, feeling dirty and used and just a little bit more than pathetic.
Why I let you do this I don’t know, why you do it I don’t know. But when you drink whiskey you get violent and everyone knows it. When you drink whiskey I end up crying.
I feel you shift in the bed, moving over and lying against my back, my back that’s scratched and cut from your teeth and nails. I hiss in mild pain, because the throbbing in my back isn’t as bad as the constant ache in my ass.
I wonder if I’ll ever know what it’s like to sleep with you, if I’ll ever experience us having sex. Because so far, all you’ve done is fuck me.
I watch you from over my shoulder; I’ll leave in a few more minutes, because I’ve never been able to stand waking up with you afterwards.
// Bam \\
Sometimes I wake up with gaps in my memory, usually after we’ve all been out drinking. More often than not, when I tempt fate and drink whiskey.
But sometimes, when I can’t remember what I’ve done, I see things in my sleep. Beautiful grey/blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears, pain and lust reflected in the pools. I can hear the moans of pain and gasps of pleasure, a familiar husky voice calling my name.
There was one time I was sure it wasn’t a dream, that I was lying there in bed with you, sleeping against your safe body and sharing our body heat. My chest to your back after a night of love making.
But it’s not, is it? I’m not dreaming, and we’re not making love, because those beautiful eyes tell the story during the day. When you look at me, I can see it. When I hurt you, use you, shame you.
That’s when I swear I’ll never drink whiskey again, but something in me wants to see that look in your eyes, when you’re so close to bliss but the pain bites back on that edge.
That’s why there’s a bottle of whiskey under my bed.
// :: \\
End.
Feedback would be liked. ^_^
=Author= SP
=Rating= R for content
=Note= Two short drabbles (200 words) from each POV
Whiskey and Tears
:: Ryan ::
I never questioned your drinking habits. You never questioned mine.
I suppose because we were as bad as each other it didn’t really matter.
But I know what I can’t handle, and I know what I shouldn’t drink. But you, you don’t seem to care. And that’s why I’m lying here, feeling dirty and used and just a little bit more than pathetic.
Why I let you do this I don’t know, why you do it I don’t know. But when you drink whiskey you get violent and everyone knows it. When you drink whiskey I end up crying.
I feel you shift in the bed, moving over and lying against my back, my back that’s scratched and cut from your teeth and nails. I hiss in mild pain, because the throbbing in my back isn’t as bad as the constant ache in my ass.
I wonder if I’ll ever know what it’s like to sleep with you, if I’ll ever experience us having sex. Because so far, all you’ve done is fuck me.
I watch you from over my shoulder; I’ll leave in a few more minutes, because I’ve never been able to stand waking up with you afterwards.
// Bam \\
Sometimes I wake up with gaps in my memory, usually after we’ve all been out drinking. More often than not, when I tempt fate and drink whiskey.
But sometimes, when I can’t remember what I’ve done, I see things in my sleep. Beautiful grey/blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears, pain and lust reflected in the pools. I can hear the moans of pain and gasps of pleasure, a familiar husky voice calling my name.
There was one time I was sure it wasn’t a dream, that I was lying there in bed with you, sleeping against your safe body and sharing our body heat. My chest to your back after a night of love making.
But it’s not, is it? I’m not dreaming, and we’re not making love, because those beautiful eyes tell the story during the day. When you look at me, I can see it. When I hurt you, use you, shame you.
That’s when I swear I’ll never drink whiskey again, but something in me wants to see that look in your eyes, when you’re so close to bliss but the pain bites back on that edge.
That’s why there’s a bottle of whiskey under my bed.
// :: \\
End.
Feedback would be liked. ^_^