#*through gritted teeth* shut up about pulp fiction

[honeyed-hedonist]

Parings: Jason Todd x afab!Reader Word Count: 4.4k Warnings: SMUT—MINORS DNI. mentions of blood, gore, and violence, oral (f & m receiving), lots of teasing, degradation (jason todd is a big meanie), a lil bit of a size kink if you squint (hims a big, big boy), an obscene amount of dirty talk, fingering, unprotected sex, jason has multiple orgasms (he’s got stamina, baybee), creampie, cum swapping, and, as always, declarations of love (barf). A/N: I wrote this for my sweet baby angel @heli0s-writes in a little fic swap we’re having because we like to scream at each other about all the fictional men we want to rail us into a pulp. I love you! I hope this makes your brain melt. Tehe ���� (Reposting from my former blog)

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Jason Todd is a menace. The absolute bane of your existence. 

Who does he think he is banging on your door at 3:45 in the morning? As if your neighbors needed another reason to gossip about you. Nevermind all the probing questions that were poorly masked as casual conversation when you were using the on-site laundry room or grabbing your mail. If you had to hear “So, you and Red Hood, huh?” one more time, you were going to rip your hair out. 

But Jason has always been brazen—not much has changed since the day you found him bleeding out in an alley between your apartment building and the pet shelter next door. He had a gunshot wound, lacerations over damn near every square inch of him, his mask all but shattered and exposing most of his face to you as you did your best to haul his massive frame up from the ground to drag him inside and patch him up. He had grinned at you the entire time, flirted with you while you fished the bullet out, asked you to dinner as you wiped the grit and grime off of his neck and chest. He hasn’t left you alone since.

You love him, of course. How can you not? He’s 6’4” of muscled steel, all wrapped up in a handsome, roguish bow with a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind. Any woman alive would be hard-pressed to resist his charms and you’re no exception, but it’s difficult to remember those warm, fuzzy feelings when he’s pounding on your door hard enough to wake the dead.

With bleary eyes, you unlatch the locks and yank it open, hissing at him as you fist your hand into the lapel of his jacket and tug him inside, ignoring the wide-eyed look on your neighbor’s face from across the hall. Your annoyance is overshadowing the rest of your senses, so you don’t see the tent in his pants, don’t notice his lust-blown pupils when he shucks his helmet off and throws it aside. Instead, you whirl on him, an accusatory finger pointed squarely at his chest in preparation to scold him.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? Why couldn’t you just come in through the window? I keep it unlocked for this exact reason, Jason! You stubborn fucking ass—mmph!” His mouth is on you instantly—demanding and desperate as he crashes his lips into yours, uninterested in hearing your lecture. His gloved hands lift you off the floor in one fluid motion that has you instinctively wrapping your legs around his hips. You feel it then, the heavy, hard length of him trapped between your bodies and you gasp, an action that he capitalizes on by shoving his tongue past your teeth and into the back of your throat.

The tang of coppery blood fills your mouth and has you retreating, pushing back on his chest to look at him, but he’s right there chasing your mouth, walking blindly towards your kitchen table to set you down. “Jay—honey, wait. Are you—fuck!” His teeth are sharp against your throat, silencing your protest with the harsh sting of pain, grunting as he grinds his hips between your spread thighs. 

“Shut up,” He growls, voice low and dangerous, sending your synapses into overdrive, drowning out what little restraint you have left. “Need to be inside you. Need to hear those sweet sounds, baby, just—let me.”  Jason’s fingers are shaking when he moves to peel your shirt off, and you know it’s the adrenaline, that he’s high from the violence of his nightly patrol, teetering on the edge of losing control. These nights, you think, are the ones he needs you the most—seeking salvation with your body, tunneling his way to absolution with powerful thrusts of his hips, because if you can love all the fucked up parts of him, can love him even after all of his mistakes, then maybe, in his mind, he’s worth something afterall. 

So you nod, your own hands making quick work of the kevlar and leather he’s covered in, helping him shed layer after layer of it off until he’s bare chested and heaving with labored breaths. It’s then that you notice the gashes that cut diagonally across his collarbone, the skin ripped in a way that makes you shudder. Claws? A serrated knife? You can only imagine the kind of monsters he grappled with tonight. His chest is smeared with congealed, drying blood, a trail of it leading down his stomach, seeping into his briefs and tactical pants, staining the tuft of coarse, dark hair that leads to his pubic bone an ugly shade of rust.  

His eyes have turned shark-like—a depthless obsidian that makes him look possessed, the usual crystalline blue almost completely eclipsed by his blown out pupils. You should be terrified by the sight, the danger lurking within that endless dark, but your demons have always called to his, so all it does is stoke the flames now licking their way down your spine to pool between your legs. His gaze shifts the second your hands fall to your panties, exhaling a shaky breath as you try to wiggle out of them, to grant him access to the part of you that only he gets to explore.   

Jason snarls then, swatting your hands away to rip the flimsy strip of cotton clean off, tossing it over his shoulder where it floats delicately to the floor in shredded ribbons of fabric. And then he’s on his knees, dropping to your floor with a loud thud that has the knick knacks hanging on your walls tinkling with vibration from the force of his herculean frame hitting the laminate. He scoots closer, boots scuffing your floor, the heat of his stare now focused on your puffy slit. Every exhale is a rumbling growl, hot breath fanning out against your pussy as he inches closer and you bite your lip, ready to muffle the sound you know he’s going to tear from your throat the second he puts his mouth on you.

Warm, calloused hands skate up the insides of your thighs, throwing them open even wider to accommodate the width of his shoulders when he leans in. Jason’s nose settles against your slit and he inhales, breathing in the musky scent of your arousal. It leaves you frozen in place, barely breathing when you watch his eyes roll back with pleasure. It sends your pulse straight to your clit and you whimper, the sound acting as a catalyst for him to dive in tongue-first and lick a wet stripe through your folds. He moans at the taste of you, a deep, salacious vibration of sound that rattles your bones. It has you hooking your hands around the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip, mouth slack when Jason’s deft tongue and plush lips begin to work you over.

He’s precise and purposeful when he eats you out—applying just the right amount of pressure, finding the perfect moments to snag that bundle of nerves with his teeth, gumming at your velvety cunt with his mouth, his tongue attuned to your every need. It takes him no time at all until you’re whining, begging like a god damn harlot, your fingers wound harshly into the roots of his hair, pulling him in, fucking yourself on his face. His girl. Perfect and needy, just the way he likes you.

But, again, Jason Todd is a fucking menace, glancing up at you with that wild look in his eyes, clocking the way your eyebrows are knitted together, the way you’ve got him pressed so deeply between your legs that he can barely breathe—he knows you’re close, can feel your thighs trembling against his ears. He waits, feasts on you until your eyes roll back into your skull, until he knows you’re about to rocket into a release—and then he stops, withdraws his mouth—a mouth that’s glistening with evidence of your pleasure, and offers you a sadistic smile.

“You thought I was gonna let you cum, princess?” He goads, swatting at your pussy hard enough that it sends you reeling, your body jerking with a yelp. “Nah…Tonight you cum on my cock and nowhere else.” Jason rocks back on his heels and stands, towering over you, crowding your space as he takes your jaw in his hand, his grip hard and unforgiving. “Do you understand me?” 

There’s a war happening in your mind, because you know he needs this control, know he’s standing on a very dangerous ledge and you have to tread carefully, but fuck if you don’t want to cop an attitude, push him right off that cliff just to see what he’ll do. Seconds tick by like minutes, his eyes bouncing between yours, expectancy evident on his handsome face while you contemplate how much you value the use of your legs and whether you’ll need them tomorrow. 

“I don’t take orders from you, Todd,” You spit, jerking your chin free from his hold. Curiosity has clearly gotten the better of you, and the fire your response sets ablaze in Jason’s eyes has your stomach flipping. His mouth curls into a wicked little smirk, and then you feel that same hand of his wrap around your throat and squeeze; hard. 

He bends forward, bringing his lips to the shell of your ear, tongue tracing the edge of the cartilage. “So that’s how it’s gonna be, hmm?” Your breath hitches at the gravel in his tone, and now you know without a doubt that you won’t be doing any walking tomorrow, let alone moving. Thank god you have some PTO saved up. 

Jason’s spine straightens when he yanks you off the table, the movement so fast you don’t have enough time to process what’s happening until your ass hits the floor and you wince. “Well, would ya lookit that.” He mocks, palm slapping against your cheek before he’s hooking two fingers into your mouth to suppress your tongue. “Since you’re down there already—might as well make yourself useful, yeah?” 

Fuck. Sometimes you forget the cruelty he’s capable of, the way he can talk so mean, degrade and embarrass you for the sake of your shared pleasure. It’s exactly what you asked for, and he always delivers. With blush stained cheeks, your face pinched in a glare, you reach for his pants, popping the button open, tugging the zipper down, and shucking the blood-stained bottoms and cotton briefs to his knees. What you’re met with has your jaw working, saliva pooling behind your teeth because goddamn is he hung. 

Jason is fucking massive everywhere, so it goes without saying that his dick would carry some weight, but it still astonishes you every single time you see it. Bobbing invitingly in your face, angry red at the tip and oozing precum, veins prominent and pulsing along the shaft just begging for attention, his cock sits proudly above an even heftier set of balls, and you clench remembering just how good they feel smacking your sensitive clit when he pounds you out from behind.

His fingers are still playing against your tongue, sliding over the wet muscle until he breaches the back of your throat and you choke. There’s drool seeping past his knuckles, dribbling onto your chest, and he hums his approval, eyes glittering with the promise of what’s to come. One last pass of his calloused digits before he’s angling his tip and pushing his length into the wet heat of your mouth with a grunt. “This is a much better use for that mouth of yours, don’t you agree, princess?” Jason coos at you, pressing forward until your eyes screw shut, tears trickling down your cheeks when his cock seats itself deep in your esophagus. “That’s a good girl—open up that throat for me. Yeah, just like that—fuck.��

Soggy, spit covered fingers curl against the crown of your head as Jason begins to thrust, fucking your mouth. Your eyes are blurry, crossing each time he bottoms out, breathing harshly through your nose with every withdrawal, your palms digging into the meat of his thighs to keep you steady, to keep you rooted enough to take his assault. Over and over again he drives his hips forward, the slippery sound of the suction of your lips is so fucking obscene it makes you moan. That filthy, wet squelch ringing out as more saliva trickles from the corners of your mouth, bubbling up in sloppy arcs that web between your chin and his cock, matting into his pubic hair, commingling with the remnants of his blood. 

You’re sure your face is stained pink from it by now, and you couldn’t care less, not when Jason’s face is twisted so beautifully above you—jaw slack and cheeks red, sweat marring his brow, hair curling at his temples and the nape of his neck. He looks so goddamn pretty when he loses himself in you like this that it makes the ache in your throat worth it, makes tomorrow’s hoarseness a welcome battlescar if only for the vision of him lost in the throes of violent passion above you right now. “Shit—m’gonna cum, princess. S’too good, I can’t—”

You slip your hand beneath your chin, between your bodies, cupping his balls, teasing them, rolling them in your palm, and he roars, bottoming out to cum down your throat. His cock pulses against your tongue and you wiggle it against his length appreciatively, humming while you swallow down spurt after spurt of milky semen until he’s pulling out with a hiss. Jason’s big hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up while he huffs. “Best little cocksucker, baby, but I’m nowhere near finished with you yet.”

Before you can blink. Jason hauls you up and deposits you right back onto the kitchen table, throwing your legs open. Letting out a low whistle, he drags the pad of his thumb up through your folds, swiping over your throbbing clit with a chuckle. “Such a pretty little pussy, hm? So eager, so fuckin’ desperate, clenching around nothing at all. You just wanna be full, don’t you?” He goads, slotting his hips between your thighs, letting the heavy weight of his dick slap against your sensitive pearl until you’re mewling, fingernails biting into his forearms.

“Jay—please,” You whine, your voice scratchy and rough, and he shakes his head, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth while his eyes make a slow trek up to meet yours. 

“After your little performance? Not a chance, sweetheart. I’ll fuck you when I’m good and ready, but for now? For now you’re gonna put on a show for me. Let me see how you stuff that needy cunt when I’m not here.” He smirks viciously down at you, wrapping his fist around his length, pumping slow and languid while your face heats with embarrassment. 

The weight of his stare presses down on you, hot and heavy, as you guide a trembling hand between your legs, fingers dipping through your slick, peeling your lower lips apart with a breathy sigh. Despite his bravado, you know how bad he wants to be buried in your heat, cock shoved so deep that the tip batters against your cervix. It’s that thought alone that spurs you on, two fingers pushing into that wet, hungry hole with a moan. You hook them upwards, seeking, pressing against that tender little spot that makes your back arch, fucking yourself while he watches, his muscles coiled in waiting like a predator about to strike. It’s maddening—no matter how fast or how hard your fingers work into your pussy, it’s not enough, it’s never enough and he knows it.

“Feels good, huh, princess?” Jason huffs, pumping his dick while he watches you, taunting you with his words. “But you want more—can see it on that pretty face. Those little fingers just don’t cut it, do they? Course not, you need more. Need this fat cock, don’t you?” The whine that pours out of your throat is meek and pathetic, because he’s right and you can’t hide from him—not when you’re splayed out so beautifully like this. 

How many nights have you spent lying on your sheets chasing an unsatisfying release at your own hands. It’s never as good as it is with him, because Jason knows you. Knows all the ways to make you keen and writhe and burst. “Go on,” He says, “let me hear you say it. Beg me real nice and I might give you what you want.”

God damn him, you think, because he never makes it easy, not on nights like this when the battle is still fresh in his mind, when the adrenaline is still plowing through his veins. And god damn you if it doesn’t light you right up, heating the already charged air between you both. Your head falls back with a thud against the table and he tuts at you, pulling your gaze back where he wants it—on him. There’s a lump in your throat despite your fingers still working your cunt, the shame of having to beg both igniting your desire and stoking the fire of your petulance. Gritting your teeth, you spit the words he wants to hear at him with indignant venom. “Please, Jason. Want—need your cock. Fuck me, baby, just—” He chuckles darkly, free hand moving to grip your chin, his thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw.

 “Oh, I think you can do better than that.” Jason sucks a breath in through his teeth, his handsome face scrunched up with pleasure, and you catch sight of his other thumb swabbing over the tip of his cock, still rock hard and leaking between his clenched fist. “Try again.” 

“Fuck!” You spit, fingers soaked as they dive in and out of your pussy with delicious friction. Swallowing what remains of your stubborn pride, you gaze at Jason from beneath your lashes, your eyebrows furrowing, features turning soft and pleading. “Please, baby,” Your voice lifts an octave higher—whiney, simpering—and it works. Jason groans, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Fuck me, baby. Please fuck me. Need you, need that cock—please? M’so empty without it. Wanna cum all over you, Jason. Please!”

“That’s my girl,” He croons, tilting his head to capture your mouth in a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything else, distracting you enough that you cling to him, fingers carding through his hair while the head of his cock prods through your slit until it catches on your opening and he drives his hips forward, stretching you apart in one powerful, rough thrust.

It forces a scream from your throat that he swallows, bottoming out until his pelvis rests flat against the pocket of fat above your pussy. “Fuck—give me your fingers, baby. Put ‘em in my mouth.” Jason commands, and you know exactly what he wants, bringing your damp middle fingers up to his face, letting him suck the remnants of your efforts from your skin. You watch, hypnotized, as his eyes roll back and he starts to move, his teeth sinking into the digits while he fucks you. 

There’s nothing quite like having a cunt full of Jason Todd. The sting that comes from the sheer size of his dick, the way it stretches you to your very limits, those gummy walls forced open wide to accept every angry stab of his length. He bullies his cock into you, pounds hard enough that your kitchen table slides across the floor with each stroke. But he follows right along with it, hammering into you while his tongue slides between your fingers, sucking on them like a damn pacifier. It’s sinful, filthy, and raw—makes you absolutely feral, crying out for him over and over again, free hand dragging harsh lines down his muscled back so hard you’re certain you’ve broken the skin. 

“Mhmm,” he hums, letting your fingers fall from his mouth. “I know, baby. I fucking know—swear to god you were made for me. Take my cock so fucking well—shit!” He growls, righting his posture and reaching for your ankles. Jason locks both of them in one hand, closing your thighs together, making you even tighter, the fat lips of your pussy peeking out between your legs. The sight has Jason grunting like a wild animal. “That’s my pussy, huh?” He asks and you nod, completely lost to the mind-numbing pleasure he’s supplying. “Know it is. Always gonna be mine, baby. Gonna ruin this little cunt for anyone else. Gonna wreck it.” 

The world shrinks until it’s just you and Jason, no concern for your neighbors who can undoubtedly hear the way your kitchen table knocks against the wall every time he pounds his dick into your pussy, not a single care other than him and the way he loves you—the brutal way he fucks you. Resting both of your legs against the side of his chest that isn’t cut open, he hugs them close, looks down at you, and god, you’ve never seen him quite like this. It’s mesmerizing. 

And then he’s spreading your legs, pushing your shins up and into your chest, folding you in half. The new angle sends his cock even deeper, and you let out another rapturous cry, each stroke pummeling your cervix. He shushes you, fingers mashing your cheeks together in a tight grip. “Eyes on me, princess. Wanna see you fall apart.” 

So you watch, helpless and at his mercy, when his free hand wedges between your legs, fingers seeking out the place where you’re stretched around his dick, stroking it lovingly before moving his attention to your stiff, aching bud. Jason tilts his head, dropping his chin to his chest, letting a drizzle of spit cascade down between you. It hits its mark, splashing against the hood of your clit and rolling down until he catches it with his thumb, sluicing it up and over your pearl. 

“Don’t you dare hold back.” He commands, and all you can do is nod, tits practically tucked under your chin, body jolting from his incessant, endless assault. And then his fingers start to move and you wail. The friction is a welcome respite from the brutal way he’s handling you. Jason plays your clit like he knows what you’re feeling, flicking and tugging, applying enough pressure that the heat beginning to bloom in your belly burns hotter, a blazing inferno that’s about to consume you. “That’s it, let it out. Come on, angel, give it to me. Soak my fucking thighs.”

There’s always this brief moment before you cum—the universe stilling for the tiniest of seconds right before you unravel. You lock eyes with Jason in that instant, lip pinched between your teeth to try and muffle the noise you’re making. He nods at you, encourages you to let it go, tells you that he’s got you with just the look in his eyes, and it’s the truth. When time catches up to you in the next blink of your eyes, you fucking explode. Your back arches, knees slamming into your chest while you scream and quake beneath him. Jason wrangles you through your convulsions, pins your limbs to the table, coos and hushes you, lavishes you with praise while your cunt gushes around the intrusion of his cock. And what a fucking mess you’ve made. 

His teeth grit when he feels your cum wet his stomach and thighs, dribbling down his balls, and that’s the final nail in the coffin for Jason. With a roar of your name, he pumps into you a final time before he, too, loses himself. Jason cums hard—so hard that he damn near goes blind and deaf, vision whiting out, ears ringing as he empties himself into your swollen, fucked out pussy. It’s endless, the thick ropes of spend that now paint your insides. So much that you can’t contain it, a few errant, creamy strands dripping out of the place your bodies are joined. 

When he blinks his eyes open again, he catches as much as he can on his fingers, licks it into his mouth, and yanks you into his arms to kiss you. You’re barely conscious, but you kiss him back anyways, and Jason can’t stop the smile that curls his lips as he feeds you his cum from the tip of his tongue. Brushing your sweat matted hair off your forehead, his smile widens, peppering your reddened face with kisses. “You still with me, baby? Or have I fucked you stupid again?”

A halfhearted swat to the side of his head is your answer, and he laughs, the sound warm and infectious. There’s something so sweet about his laugh, it’s always made your chest swell, deep and gruff and perfect—just like him. You both stay locked together, his arms around you in a tight embrace, until your mind finally floats back into your body enough for you to remember how to be a person again. “Hey—as incredible as that was, and don’t you dare get an ego about it—you’re still very fucking injured, Jason.” 

Another laugh, his lips smacking against yours in a final peck that has you grinning right back at him. “Yeah, alright, I hear you, boss.” Jason teases, right before easing his softening cock from inside you. There are wounds that need tending, but he’s not quite ready to let go of this moment, feeling whole with your body wrapped up in his arms. He presses his forehead to yours once more, warm breath fanning out against your heated skin. “I love you, baby.” He whispers it, soft and sweet, your heart melting at the declaration. 

It’s a sentiment you return without hesitation, arms moving to cup his face—your whole world now held between the palms of your hands—and tilt his face back to level him with your stare. “I love you,” you answer, conviction heavy in your voice as you brush your nose against his “always.” Jason’s breath hitches in his chest, because nothing on this earth could have ever prepared him for the peace, the utter tranquility that loving you and being loved by you has brought him. Despite the lump in his throat, the tears misting his gaze, he echoes “always,” right back to you, kissing you tenderly until you’re both dizzy, until the world around you fades once again, until all that’s left is you and him. Just the way you like it.

[bazwillendinflames]

Are We On The Same Wavelength? (3/4) (Dylan/Ryan)

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Sequel to Second Chances, my college radio au. Thank you to everyone who commented on and supported that fic, it means so much to me!

“Have you ever liked someone so much you feel like you’re going to explode?”

After accidentally confessing his crush live on air, Dylan got his second chance with his dream guy. But as his relationship with Ryan develops, he feels out of his league. Can he finally find the words to express the extent of his feelings?

Dylan could hear the music of the party before he even got into the house, a catchy but very 2010s pop song. For a moment, Dylan considered that he might be at the wrong place, but Ryan wasn’t the type to prank him like that. He’d written the address in his neat handwriting on the back of his palm after dropping him off Thursday and he’d texted Dylan that morning too.

Once he got closer to the house, he passed a small group of girls outside passing around a cigarette with tightly curled hair and bright plastic jewelry that was more on theme than the playlist. The door had been left ajar and he pushed it open, stepping into the party, already scanning the crowd for Ryan.

At the only party he’d been invited to in high school, he had broken his arm and been chewed out by his Mom in the emergency room when she realized he had been drinking. By comparison the college parties Kaitlyn had dragged him along to had been more successful but he usually found himself acting like an idiot in the overwhelming social situations. At least Ryan was more of the hang out in a quiet corner type of guy.

Dylan was halfway through a text to Ryan, when he collided with someone with an arm full of beer bottles, which fell from his grip and rolled off into the crowd.

“Shit, sorry man,” Dylan said.

The guy he had bumped into had already bent down to pick them back up, the purple windbreaker he was wearing rustling. “It’s fine, no casualties.”

“That’s what I get for walking and texting. Technology, right?” He joked, rescuing a bottle from under a table.

“Just pretend that phones haven't been invented yet.”

“And use a landline to call my date?” He asked. “In this economy?”

Dylan still had the bookmark Ryan had scribbled his number on hidden in his backpack but that wasn’t something he was going to tell a stranger. He hadn’t even told Ryan, who at least had the decency to not tease him about the embarrassing series of events that led to where they were not. (Kaitlyn had no decency, so he got plenty of it from her.)

“Dude?” Dylan realized that the guy had been saying something. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Being recognised seemed like a fun idea when Kaitlyn first mentioned it, but the novelty had worn off quickly. “Yeah, I do the radio-”

“You’re Ryan’s date!” The guy interrupted, snapping his fingers.

Dylan nodded, relieved. “Yeah, lucky me right. Have you seen him?”

“Sure, he’s with Laura in the kitchen. I’m Max.” With his arms full, Max bumped their elbows in greeting, which was a little awkward but still worked.

Dylan followed him as they pushed through an already crowded lounge.

“Who picked this music?” He asked, as another generic pop song came on. If there wasn’t any ABBA at this party, he was going to make a formal complaint.

“No idea. Why, missing your day job?”

“I am a professional playlist maker,” he replied, wishing Kaitlyn was there to appreciate the joke. “It’s just not eighties and-”

Whatever point he was making about the music playing being about thirty years too late was forgotten once Dylan spotted Ryan, standing in a quiet corner like he’d been expecting.

Ryan was talking to a pretty blonde girl in a colorful patchwork shirt who had to be Laura. Her outfit was cool, complete with a vintage baseball cap, a comically oversized scrunchie around her wrist and dark velvet pants, but Ryan looked gorgeous. He was wearing the band shirt they’d picked up with some ripped jeans and his usual beat up Doc Martens. Ryan had cut the red flannel he’d brought into a vest and added some badges and safety pins to complete the look. Dylan was fairly sure having his arms out was cheating somehow, because he managed to trip over his own feet. Ryan spotted him then, looking amused. He put down the empty bottle he had been clutching, making his way over. Max took his space by Laura, adjusting her cap to give her a kiss.

“Hi Dylan,” Ryan said. “You finally made it.”

“Couldn’t leave you without your plus one.”

Maybe it was wishful thinking but Dylan could swear Ryan seemed more relaxed now they were together. “You went with the pink.”

Dylan looked down at his pink and green sweater. He’d stayed up to do a midnight laundry run so it would be ready to wear and had spent the whole train ride debating whether or not it suited him. But the sly way Ryan had looked him up and down made it totally worth it.

“You made a good case. I think the exact words were ‘you’d look totally handsome in pink.’”

Ryan was good at playing it cool, But he could make out the tiniest hint of a smile. “That’s not at all close to what I said. But it's true, so I’ll give you a pass.”

“You look good too. Very punk,” Dylan said.

Now he was closer, he could make out what Ryan had decorated his newly cut vest with: a collection of band badges, a little rainbow, and a Ponyo pin. More importantly, Ryan had smudged black eyeliner around his already pretty brown eyes and he enthralled.

“It was Sarah’s idea to DIY it,” Ryan answered, oblivious to the effect his new look had on him. “She said DIY is pretty punk. If you care about the opinion of a fourteen year old who’s going through her Hot Topic and hair dye phase.”

“So she’s much cooler than you?” Dylan joked.

“She wishes.” Ryan was full on grinning now. “So, you bumped into Max?”

“Yeah, very literally.”

He rolled his eyes. “That sounds like Max. I’m pretty sure he’s the reason why Laura always carries a first aid kit.”

There was a fondness to how Ryan spoke about his friends, the same as with his sister. Behind all the hot broodiness, he was kind of a softie. Ryan looked at Dylan that way too sometimes and he desperately wanted to crack the code to how to achieve it. (There was no way it was as simple as just wearing his glasses.)

“Ryan!” Laura called, waving them over. “Come over and introduce us to your boy.”

“So I’m your boy?” Dylan asked, trying to figure out if that rated higher than date or not. Although it was definitely better than plus one.

Ryan didn’t give him an answer, looking vaguely embarrassed.

They rejoined Max and Laura, who had somehow melted together; his arm around her shoulders, Laura resting her head against his chest, their fingers intertwined.

“Finally,” Laura said. “Ryan was really hoping you’d wear the pink.”

Dylan glanced over but he was avoiding looking back. He turned his attention back to Laura. If there was ever a time for charming blasé Dylan, it was now.

“I didn’t realize he was such a fashion critic. You guys look awesome by the way. Seriously, you could be in one of those eighties horror flicks I can barely sit through.”

“Thanks. This was my Mom’s shirt.” Laura’s posture was at ease but her eyes were alert though, scanning him with an intensity that reminded Dylan a little of Kaitlyn. He was in for one hell of a shovel talk when (if) he and Ryan got any further.

“We’re glad to finally meet Ryan’s secret admirer,” Max added.

He winced. “That will be a funny story one day.” If you asked half his friends, it was a funny story already.

“Do you want to grab a drink?” Ryan asked.

Dylan took the out. “Yeah.”

“I already bought over the beers,” Max was saying as they left.

“Sorry,” Ryan said. “I should have told Laura not to bring up the whole radio incident.”

“Oh Kaitlyn gives me way worse shit for it,” Dylan said. “Which reminds me, those two should never meet.”

“We wouldn't survive it,” Ryan agreed. “The minifridge is in the lounge if you actually want a drink.”

“I’d love one.”

They clinked the bottles together in a cheers.

“Shit,” Ryan said.

“What?”

“The bottle opener is still in the kitchen.”

-

Dylan’s second attempt at bonding with Ryan’s friends had gone better. Ryan had mentioned his cat and Laura had been excited to look at the many photos of Mini that Dylan had on his phone.

He and Max got talking about their favorite films, which had a lot of overlap, minus the whole horror genre. Dylan had been explaining the lore of the Scott Pilgrim comics (“Knives is totally bi, that’s why she’s into Envy’s band!”) when a bunch of film majors had overheard and forced their way into the conversation.

Ryan was back next to Laura in the corner, talking about something he couldn’t make out. He kept looking over at Dylan, at first concerned, then mostly fondly. They kept catching each other's eye across the room and smiling.

Max nudged him, lowering his voice. “Want to head over?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll give you an out. Just send Laura to rescue me.” Max winked at him. “So, I was thinking about watching Pulp Fiction, have you heard of it?”

That was catnip for film bros, so whilst they spoke over each other about the cinematic genius of Quentin Tarantino, Dylan backed away. He didn’t make it far before someone else grabbed his elbow.

“Hey Dylan, I didn’t realize you were coming.”

It was Emma, who had fully committed to the eighties look with her mesh shirt, tripled belted high waisted jeans and a perfectly styled ponytail. Dylan wasn’t surprised she was here, Emma knew everyone and a themed party was exactly her kind of content.

“Ryan invited me.”

That piqued her interest enough to put down her phone. “Hot subway guy is here? ”

“Yeah. Don’t embarrass me.”

“Would I?” Emma asked. “Take a pic with me for my insta? Our outfits are totally color coordinated.”

Dylan leaned in, giving a peace sign as she snapped a photo. “Edit out the warts.”

“I always do.” Emma was back on her phone, her fingers moving quickly as she typed out a caption. “Kaitlyn’s giving me a ride home later by the way.”

“She’s coming?”

“To give me a ride, yeah.” Emma gave her phone a final tap and his phone buzzed with a notification he’d been tagged in her story. “Unless you’ll be with handsome over there instead?”

Dylan could feel his face flush. “No comment.”

Emma grinned. “How telling.”

Whilst she went back on her phone, Dylan finally made it over to Ryan, now standing alone. Laura had decided to rescue Max on her own, the two of them heading out into the yard.

“I finally escaped all the perilous social situations and made it back to you.”

“How brave of you,” Ryan replied. “Was that Emma Mountebank?”

“Do you know Emma?” Dylan asked in return. Emma was Instagram famous, sure, their own local celebrity but Ryan didn’t use social media beyond following a bunch of paranormal investigators.

“You talk about her on the show. Unless you have another influential friend.”

“Kaitlyn talks about her. I’m pretty sure she has a thing for her.” Dylan bit his lip. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

“Your gossip is safe with me,” Ryan said.

Their conversation lulled for a moment. The song faded into what at first seemed like Mamma Mia but turned out to be a club remix. They both groaned. “That was the closest to an on theme song all night,” Dylan complained, going back to a familiar topic. “They ruined ABBA. This is too far.”

“Most of the songs aren’t even eighties,” Ryan said. “But I’m not allowed near the playlists. Too moody for a party.”

“How dare they limit your artistic expression!”

“Just blindly taking my side?” Ryan asked, nudging him.

“Oh totally.” Dylan nudged him back, although it was more of a lean, their shoulders pressed together. Not quite as easily falling into each other’s spaces like Laura and Max but still nice. “I kinda like moody, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Is that a compliment?” Ryan asked, in a monotone that made it hard to tell if he was in on the joke or not.

“Yeah,” he said. “It was.”

That seemed to reassure him. “Thanks. Maybe.”

Dylan had an idea, spotting the speaker in the corner. “Come on.”

The large speaker had been balanced on a coffee table, already covered in discarded bottles and paper cups.

“What are you doing?” Ryan asked, looking a little alarmed. “Don’t mess with that.”

“Relax. It’s simple.”

Dylan pressed the power button, cutting off the pop song midway. A few people grumbled at the sudden quiet. Dylan already had his phone out, turning the speaking back on but connecting it to his own phone. He had his own curated eighties playlist already open from the train and he pressed play, filling the room with the opening guitar of Lovesong by the Cure.

“Moody enough for you?” He teased. “You take over the music at every party you go to?” Ryan asked. He was bopping his head a little to the music, which was incredibly cute. Dylan had noticed that music was Ryan’s comfort blanket. It was a little weird to see him without his headphones tonight.

“Only in case of emergency.” Dylan held out his phone. “Queue up whatever.” Handing over your phone was basically the twenty-first century of touching someone’s hand without a glove. Handing over your music was basically a proposal.

Ryan seemed surprised. “Really?”

Dylan nodded. “I think you can handle the responsibility.”

Ryan took his phone, scrolling through it. A song byThe Smiths that Dylan vaguely recognised came on. It was a little angsty for a party but he didn’t comment. He liked the little glimpses into Ryan’s music taste he got. “Ryan?”

“That’s your name,” Dylan said.

“No, the playlist.” He looked over at Dylan, seemingly thrown off. Making someone a playlist was like wearing a locket with their face in.

“Oh fuck.” Dylan leaned over and saw Ryan had found, but thankfully not opened, the playlist he had named after him. He had made it on the subway home after their cinema date where they had first kissed. “Um, that’s about a different Ryan?”

“It is?” He asked, completely serious. “No,” Dylan admitted. “Please don’t look at it. I’ll die and you don’t want that on your conscience.”

Ryan handed over the phone. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have snooped.” He held on a moment too long, the warmth of his hand brushing against Dylan’s. He had only had one drink so far but it felt like the room was spinning. “I’d like to listen to it one day.”

“Only if you make a podcast about me?” Dylan said, regretting it straight away once he noticed the hurt flash across Ryan’s face. He wanted to be serious about their relationship but he couldn’t stop the dumb shit that came out once he panicked.

“A podcast about you?” He repeated slowly. “I think a Dylan playlist would be more fair.”

“Yeah. Totally.” Dylan moved his hand away, tucking his phone and its embarrassing secrets into his pocket.

It’s Friday I’m in love! Declared the next song and he winced.

“So,” Ryan said, breaking the silence, “I wanted to talk to you about something. Could we go somewhere quieter?”

[btgalaxy]

Berlin (m)

masterlist

» a/n: there’s literally not a fluff thing even remotely about this fic, and from now on every friday we will be updating with new stuff! - admin lottie

» genre: angst

» word count: 6.9k

warnings (for this and upcoming parts): assault, drugs/alcohol use, violence/gore, profanity. this is purely fictional and not intended to reflect the members’ true personalities. otherwise enjoy!

Part 1:

The smell of cigarette butts danced in the air in wanton puffs of smoke, reaching the blue-pink of your lips grotesquely quick. You drained your glass of brandy with unrelenting haste, delving into a fantasy of old-time Berlin, with your feet on the table and liquor burning like ashes in your throat. You’d arrived but four days prior to your retreat to the sombre tavern in Lichtenberg, the feeling of youthful excitement still fresh on your fingertips, now tracing the outline of a German proverb carved with a knife into the table top: "Nur die Harten kommen in den Garten."

You were naïve. You didn’t believe in the atrocities that could take place over 96 hours and how mercilessly fast the pace of city life is. You came from a small, everyone-knows-everyone kinda village, and never experienced the bitter cold that bit at your skin when not hidden by your cushty fireplace and friendly farmer next-door. The realities of demise and decease and other such perturbation were concealed from you for years and years, under the segregation of country life. You didn’t know how a person could leave you feeling empty and worthless. You didn’t know the haze of marijuana could send you into a spiralling attack of anxiety and terror and pure hysteria. You didn’t know that the blood drained from a corpse to the lowest body part and pooled there till it stained the skin only a few hours after the death, and you didn’t know that the foul, rotting smell could linger on your clothes and your flesh and around the house for days afterwards, no matter how fervently you may wash yourself, skin raw and bleeding. You didn’t know it clung to you like moss on a damp wall. You didn’t know any of this.

It was drugs you were first exposed to, the pungent green smell invading you from the bench of a run down bus stop by Brandenburg Flughafen, foreign to you and so incredibly exciting. You’d never even seen any popular narcotic, bar on the tv shows you watched on your phone down in the local café in a corner booth away from any wandering eyes — your mother hired a technician when you were in your pre-teens to censor any ‘explicit’ or ‘inappropriate’ broadcastings, and the whole town of 267 knew of your credulity and innocence, thus seemed to have a silent agreement not to allow you to experience anything ‘harmful’.  You had to hide to try and experience things; it’s no wonder you left for a scene of sex, partying and amphetamines.

“You smoke?” A voice rasped from beside you, sucking in a breath through his teeth after choking out another huff of the joint.

You barely flickered your eyes to look at him, so far out of your comfort zone you could barely form a coherent sentence. He looked brazen, with luminous mint hair and hooded eyes, drained of life beneath the tendrils of smoke scorching through his nostrils like handmade clouds. Between his fingers was the thing you were most scared of, there, right in front of you. It was finally real, finally happening. There was no friend of your parents to switch the channel or take away the book or suggest you research a different subject, he was there, in front of you, real, happening.

“Sure.” It tumbled from your mouth before you could consider any further, hand effortlessly lunging slowly forwards to pry the smoke from his hands, and you held it between your thumb and your forefinger, as if you’d done it a million times before.

You remembered the first time you discovered drugs exist — Pulp Fiction, you believed it was. Mia Wallace inhaling some white substance up her nose? You couldn’t fathom at the time that someone would react that way to a powder. It intrigued you, beyond belief. Then at school in year 10, that assembly where you were taught of all the gruesome effects drugs can impose on your organs, and all the side effects they could have. You know how when you’re forbidden from something, when you’re constantly instructed not to do something… you know how it makes you oh so more desperate to do that very thing? That feeling was stirring inside of you.

The blunt felt scary in your hands, scarier than you imagined. It was strange the way it rolled down to the crease of your knuckles so easily, the sound of the rolling paper ruffling slightly and resonating through you in a chorus of anticipation. It came even easier to your lips, closing them around the filter and gently sucking in for a few seconds.

You ripped it from your mouth and began coughing violently.

It was like it was burning down your throat, your voice deepening as you tried to cope with the feeling of it coating your oesophagus like hot wax being poured generously into your mouth, gliding down your tongue and plugging your windpipe. It didn’t ease up for at least a minute, gunk rising up into your jaw relentlessly, and you spat it out in desperation to rid yourself of the scorching it brought.

“So you don’t smoke then?” The man smirked, retrieving his joint back from your curled digits and holding it back between his own lips. He took a stainless-steel lighter out of his pocket, engraved with the acronym MYG on it, relighting the end and promptly puffing out again, the smoke tapering into the air to form other strange shapes.

“I wanted to try,” you choked, finally regaining the ability to speak with a still coarse throat.

He tilted his head slightly, “Why you in Berlin?”

His question unnerved you. You didn’t answer. You instead burrowed through your hand luggage for the scarce remains of a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap and letting the meagre sips trickle onto your tongue to offer some brief soothing to your dizzying head.

He laughed, “You run away from home or somethin’? You don’t look like the typical Berliner.”

“I didn’t run. I left,” you exhaled, wetting your lower lip with your tongue, eyes fluttering shut, breath heavy.

He laughed, again, “That’s what they all say.”

Looking back on your first meeting with Min Yoongi, you didn’t ever really like him. It wasn’t that you were scared of him — well, you were a bit scared, but even after everything you felt the same way. You didn’t like the way he spoke, and you didn’t like how he acted like some nonchalant, borderline careless druggie with no real feelings or emotions. He was an effortless liar, and you valued honesty. He could be condescending and cruel and manipulative. He wasn’t someone anyone should trust.

He sat next to you on the bus. You didn’t ask him to, but he did. He didn’t speak to you, just sat there smoking his joint till it burnt out and he rolled another. God, he made it look so easy. Like it didn’t singe the pink flesh in his cheeks, or like he couldn’t feel the way it thrusted down him into his lungs, just waiting there, or how it drove into his brain and made him high as hell. He would’ve certainly excelled in a career of acting, with that beautiful façade he employed. He pretended he felt nothing. Later, you would find that was not the case.

You were travelling to Kreuzberg. Apparently, there were lots of cheap hostels there to put you up during a measly financial situation, popular to other youths that went to Berlin with little to no money. It was the perfect way to blend, to be the typical traveller that was relatable and approachable. You wanted to make new friends, meet new people. You thought Min Yoongi might be your first, at the time, and perhaps he was, perhaps you did consider him your first friend.  You glanced fleetingly over at his side profile, admiring the way he grit his jaw and the curved slope of his nose. He was handsome.

You never had a boyfriend back at home. You had friends that were boys, sure, but they were shy and most were strictly catholic and didn’t want to risk any undue temptations. You especially, because you hemmed your skirt a couple of inches higher than the rest of the girls at your school — a scandal at the time, you were labelled as a slut for at least a week which speaks a lot of the town’s standards. When the headmistress did her rounds at the end of the week, she made all the girls kneel to ensure their skirts reached the floor. Yours didn’t, and the subtle scarring left on your hand from the thin cane certified you were to carry on hemming all your skirts till the teachers gave up. You liked a thrill like that, you liked being able to defy those condemning rules that society set. It felt freeing.

Kreuzberg wasn’t what you expected, as you gazed out the tinged window onto the paved roads, onto the buildings painted with colossal street arts; a worthy canvas of such mighty works. You briefly wondered how they managed to paint a few stories high, slathering colour onto the otherwise miserable red bricks, but you supposed that could be a good conversation starter for later. Instead, you tried to digest everything you were seeing; the people sat in cafés smoking, photographers on the street, backpackers, young people, old people, tourists, natives. Some you couldn’t identify if they were actually native Berliners or not, and others you could.

You got off at a stop in the heart of the city, and Yoongi followed. Of course, you didn’t know his name at the time, you only knew that he smoked and knew that you didn’t. You strode over to a nearby map of the tramlines to find a decent hostel.

“They’ll all be booked, y’know?” He commented, sighing as he finally put out his cigarette without pulling out another, “It’s summer in Berlin. It’s packed with people like you.”

You ignored him, unwilling to accept that was the case. You couldn’t book anything prior to your trip; it was all a bit last minute. You’d just decided you couldn’t stay it that damned town any moment longer, so booked a flight, packed a bag and there you were at the heart of Berlin, the city of new starts. Of your new start.

“I know a place you could stay,” he remarked, piquing your interest, “I gotta friend down by the Spree. He’ll put you up if you’re nice to him.”

You grazed your teeth over your lower lip in contemplation, conflicted with feeling like that was cheating, like you weren’t really doing it for yourself. You didn’t want other people to still be controlling you, like at home.

“I don’t even know your name,” you quipped, making eye contact briefly before diverting them away, finding yourself struggling to look him in the eye for longer than a few seconds.

He pulled his lighter from his pocket, pointing to each letter as he spoke, “Min Yoon-Gi.” He sounded out each syllable with an amused glint in his eye, and you thought it was strange the way he became suddenly much seemingly friendlier.

“I’m Y/N,” you responded, glancing around awkwardly. You didn’t like that introduction. You felt uncomfortable.

“He lives by the bridge.”

You really were so naïve. You allowed a man who’d given you a joint at a dodgy bus stop to take you to his friend’s place to stay for a few nights, and you barely questioned it. God, you couldn’t have imagined what kind of a hell hole it really was. But at the same time it was exciting, it was new. It was everything you’d never experienced and craved like a captive desperately labouring for an escape. So you got on a tram to the river with Min Yoongi, and you followed him to a worn down terrace house on a street corner, both thrilled and terrified; you’d never felt more exhilarated.

The bricks were dark crimson, stained with mould and the rotting pieces crumbled away like ashes. It was lifeless and cold, and it felt as though it had been lived in over a thousand years and seen a hundred deaths. There was a bra hanging out one of the windows, and the other was smashed and covered with a strip of cardboard that had a picture of a blender on it. Yoongi ambled down the front path like it wasn’t the most harrowing place you’d ever seen, like it didn’t tell you to go back and find a hostel, or even as far as to travel back home and live your life the way it was. But that’s what made you follow him.

His knuckle rapped against the ivy oak as green paint chippings fell to the doormat that had an image of a cannabis leaf in the centre, with cigarette butts smothered into the bristles as well. He kept knocking, till a man with silvery hair pulled back the door.

“Fuckin’ stop, I was tryna roll, you prick,” he spat in Yoongi’s face as he spoke bitterly, immediately stalking off back down the corridor towards an archway.

Yoongi trudged inside with his shoes on, “I’ll find Jimin.”

You thought Jimin sounded like a nice name. Like someone happy and energetic; you thought you could make another friend.

The interior of the house was nothing less than expected; barren of any decoration or paintings or even some basic household items. It felt so vacant, like the people that lived there never really lived there — perhaps that’s because they were never really living. Everyone in that household was dead from the moment you got there, and maybe that’s why you don’t feel sick at the thought of what you did, rather just that it happened. And it was done and a part of history that couldn’t be changed.

You followed Min Yoongi to the kitchen, piled with dirty dishes and cutlery, empty packaging strewn across the cheap surfaces and abandoned beer bottles on the table. It smelt like weed, and the silver-haired man that opened the door to you sat on one of the counters with a filter amid his teeth, pinching the rolling paper between his thumb and index to bring it into a skilful turn.

“Where’s Jimin?” Yoongi asked, pulling back the off-white refrigerator door to take out a beer as you hovered uncomfortably in the doorway. It’s a horrid feeling, standing in a stranger’s house in a strange city with a strange person you’ve only just met. You felt like you were in a movie.

The man nodded his head in the direction of upstairs, focusing his gaze still on the tobacco in his hands.

“Stay here,” Yoongi ordered, making you grimace as his figure stalked back past you into the corridor.

You looked back at silver-hair, sliding the filter into the tip of the roll. Honestly, he didn’t look like a smoker. But then, what would you know of what smokers looked like? He muttered a curse when he patted his empty pockets, looking back at you.

“Got a lighter?” He inquired, and for a second you were taken aback.

You told him, “No. I don’t smoke.”  He groaned at you, jumping down off the counter and began rummaging through all the drawers. You could see inside they were all filled with junk, spilling out onto the floor as the man whipped each one out and left it open as he went onto the next. Your parents would’ve hated someone like him in their house. They used to lock you in your room without food or water until it was immaculate, and only then were you permitted to eat. You remember you tried to defy them once, refuse to do it, but after six hours in the blazing heat of summer and no water you were beginning to feel dizzy from the dehydration and submitted to their order.

He found a lighter on the table under a newspaper. You didn’t expect anyone in that house to pay attention to the news, let alone buy a paper. He leant against the counter and lit the end of the fag, putting the lighter down with a sigh.

“How’d you know Suga?” Silver-hair asked, head lulling back to breathe up towards the ceiling.

“Suga?”

“Yoongi.”

You remained uneasy beneath the doorframe, “He told me he knew a place I could stay.”

“You wanna stay here?” He laughed all of a sudden, holding the lit cigarette unnervingly close to the wooden counter.

“I’m Y/N,” you announced, pursing your lips.

“V.”

“V?”

“Or Taehyung. Whichever.” It fell quiet between you both again, and you enjoyed the brief escape.

He trudged over to the table to shake the beer bottles, seeking one with a little liquid left inside, “You drink?”

You shrugged. You’d never drank before. The teachers at school told you drinking was a temptation that brought about sinful consequences that would never be suitable for young girls like you. Drinking was limited to a sip of wine during Mass and should not otherwise be pursued. You didn’t really like the taste anyway, but you were curious what drunk felt like, what such sinful intoxication felt like. It at least sounded dramatic.

Silver-haired Taehyung found a fuller bottle, bringing it up to his mouth to take a sip before smacking his lips together and passing it to you. You retrieved it cautiously, sloshing about the stuff inside before having a taste yourself. You discerned a yeasty and bitter flavour, but you continued to drink. It was better than smoking.

“You speak German?”

“Not really, no.”

“But you wanna live in Berlin?”

“You speak English.”

“You think you’re gonna be hangin’ around with me?” He laughed, making your face flush with embarrassment, and perhaps a little of the beer now stirring in your stomach. You took another long gulp.

“You look like a nun.”

You didn’t own any revealing or fancy clothes. Your parents wouldn’t even let you wear jeans for a few years, deeming them improper. It’s one of the things that had seem to stuck with you; your apathetic attitude towards your own attire. You’d just learned not to care, so a baggy, waffle-knit jumper and black trousers was just something you put on to leave the house, really. Something that covered you up and your parents weren’t going to question as you left them.

“How long you gonna be stayin’ here?” He quizzed, taking another long drag.

You shuffled awkwardly, “Only a few days I think. As soon as I can find someplace else, and some work.”

A voice resonated from behind you.

“You can stay here as long as you like, babygirl.”

The first thing you thought was: Park Jimin was short. Shorter than your average thug. But a thug nonetheless.

His hair flamed orange like a fox and his teeth were slightly stained. And the tattoos were everywhere; inscriptions across his bare chest; Aztecan patterns looping around his arms; playing cards littered across his shoulders; a tiny diamond inked just beneath his left eye. He wore black sweatpants that hung low on his hips to reveal a tiny trail of hair and small looped earrings in his lobes. He scared you from the second you met.

Although short, he still had a good few inches on you. And a hell of a lot more muscle. You immediately felt an anxiety begin to consume you.

He sauntered towards you with his crotch forwards as you looked at him, coming to place his hands on your waist. He seemed to look you up and down with an insatiable look, or maybe it was amusement, you couldn’t tell. It was a fierce gaze, that you naturally desired to squirm away from as he pressed himself closer to you, lips curling up into a smirk.

“Babygirl, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” His Cheshire grin reached his eyes, crinkling up at the corners, “You wanna stay here wi’ me, huh?” One hand crawled to your arm, tracing his fingertips up and down the skin making you shiver.

You swallowed, “I don’t have anywhere to stay.” Your voice wobbled uncontrollably, as did your entire being in his predatory arms.

“That’s no problem at all,” he pulled the hand from your arm and up to your chin to bring your face towards his, “No problem at all.” You screwed your eyes shut and held your head as close to your chest as possible as he pressed a kiss to your lips, uncomfortably softly to make you quake. You wanted to scream in his face for him to get away from you.

He pulled back, chuckling, “I think you’ll get along just fine here, babygirl.”

He and Taehyung left promptly after that without so much as a second word to neither you nor Yoongi, only leaving you with his musky scent in the air and phantom touch on your lips. You were glad he was gone.

The floor of your room was carpeted, but you didn’t want to take off your shoes due to the questionable stains that were sprinkled across it. You had a bunk bed, but Yoongi told you nobody would come in to share without warning, and there was a chest of drawers with a Yoda Bong on it, just sitting there, staring at you. You had an en-suite too; the bottom of the bath was stained yellow and the toilet had no seat, blackened with mould around the rim. The sink was clean enough in comparison.

You swallowed, lifting up the duvet of the bottom bunk to peer underneath, eternally grateful that it seemed rather untouched.

“Nobody really used this room,” Yoongi told you, arms folded across his chest, “Nobody wants a bunk bed.”

“I don’t mind,” you countered, plonking your backpack and hand luggage onto the floor beside the bed. “And he’s not going to make me pay?”

“He has parties most nights anyway, so it’ll be noisy. You won’t be able to get much sleep,” he admitted nonchalantly, turning to pick up the bong on the side.

You sat down on the edge of the mattress, the springs inside prominent and digging into your behind. You’d not expected much when you left, but you had hoped for something better than that. There was no cushioning, nor did it resemble in any way the duck feather mattress you slept on at home. It was entirely new.

You pushed your mouth to the side awkwardly as Yoongi lingered, “Do you stay here too?” Your meagre attempt at small talk seemed to be enough of an invitation for him to come and sit next to you on the bed.

“I crash with Tae most of the time,” he said, slumping down beside you and falling onto his elbows as he gazed onto your back.

You could feel the way he stared.

You turned to look at him, “How do you know Jimin?”

“Everyone knows Jimin,” he said, with his shooting eyes still unwavering, but now focused on your chest, “He and I- we have a mutual agreement.”

“Agreement?”

“You a virgin?” Your eyes widened at Yoongi’s curt interrogation, blunt and outright, making you feel embarrassed enough to squirm away, swallowing back the discomfort with crimson cheeks. He laughed, loudly, unbelievably amused with your mortification.

“I’ll take that as a yes then,” his chuckling faded out into a piercing look, and you felt it burn on the side of your face and in your peripheral, “Are you scared?”

“No.” Yes, you were, actually.

“You’re sure?” He leant forwards to sit upright, a smirk pinching the corners of his lips as his hand landed on the outside of your thigh, moving inwards.

You turned to look at him, now somewhat adamant with whatever the hell you thought your intentions were, “I’m not scared.”

He licked his lips, before he leaned in to kiss you. He tasted like the beer you’d just been drinking, and he was quickly laying you onto your back and pressing on top of you into the springs of the bed before you could protest.

There was a brief few seconds where you didn’t realise your eyes were open, watching Yoongi’s head rock back and forth as his tongue delved into your mouth, but then you squeezed them tightly shut, trying to follow with his pace. It was fast and intense, and you could barely keep up when your lips began to dry out.

Moments later and the reality of what could happen suddenly hit you, and you shoved him off of you with all the force you could muster. The back of his head hit the wall with an ominous thud. You wanted new, but you didn’t want whatever this was.

With one hand now holding the back of his head, his eyes immediately snapped up to look at you, blazing with fury, “The fuck?”

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered, breathing heavily, “I couldn’t.”

You could see his nostrils flaring slightly. For a moment you were really scared. Like really scared. Of what he might do.

Thankfully, he shuffled to the end of the bed, readjusting the crotch of his trousers slightly.

“Whatever,” he grunted, “Shit kisser anyway.”

It reminded you of your first kiss with a boy on holiday. You met him on a cruise ship. His name was Tom. You were both 14 and he said you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. You swooned instantly- rather charismatic for a spotty teenage boy. He kissed you on the last day, and he said he would keep in touch. But, of course, he didn’t. Maybe if he had things might’ve been different.

As Yoongi left the room, you heard him grumble, “Fuckin’ virgins.”

“Mornin’, babygirl,” Jimin sang as he strolled into the kitchen, entirely bare except for his skin-tight grey briefs, outlining his crotch. He came over and kissed you uncomfortably slowly on the cheek, then sauntered over to the fridge to take out a beer. It seemed all they did was drink and smoke. But that was what you’d left your home for. You wanted these experiences. Didn’t you?

“Good sleep?” He asked, perching against the counter with his Cheshire grin.

You swallowed a mouthful of Honey Cheerios you were surprised to find in a cupboard beneath the sink, “I slept well.” You didn’t try to continue the conversation, you didn’t want to.

He did anyway.

“You gonna go sightseeing today or some other shit you religious girls like to do? Go to a fuckin’ church or some shit?” He’d seen the crucifix necklace you wore and was a million times more intrigued by you; and by intrigued you mean humoured.

“I wanted to go to the town and eat Bratwurst.” It was the first to-do on your agenda. Your parents were vegetarians, so you only ate meat when alone with your friends or other relatives — quite frankly, not very often at all.

He nodded, “I assume you need a tourguide, babygirl?”

You froze for a moment, before slowly tracing your lower lip, “I don’t- I think I-“

“We already have plans,” Yoongi interrupted you, buttoning up his plaid shirt as he ambled carelessly into the kitchen. Jimin glanced at you, looking thoroughly entertained, before returning to watch Yoongi, taking another gulp of his beer.

“Suga, I gotta job for you later.”

“I left my wallet upstairs,” Yoongi ignored him, jogging off till you heard his footsteps on the stairs.

Jimin sniggered from the side, watching you with his slanted eyes taking another mouthful of cereal. He loved to look at you, watch you. It was like you were his own personal form of entertainment, and he couldn’t get enough. You weren’t like the usual travellers that came through him, usually aggressive or a druggie or an alcoholic or- or just anyone considered some kind of a delinquent. But, God, you were pure. You were naïve. You were untouched. You offered something different to his usual girls, something new.

Suddenly, he was behind you, hovering above your shoulders.

“I saw him go into your room last night, babygirl,” his hands slithered malevolently down your biceps, skin rising into goosebumps at his touch.

He began to whisper in your ear, “Did you like it when he fucked you?”

“He didn’t,” you insisted, frozen in place staring down at your bowl of cereal.

He hummed, amused, “Babygirl, don’t lie to me. I’m not a man you lie to.”

“I swear,” you gulped, the fear beginning to churn in your stomach.

He nudged closer, his hand slinking down further and onto your waist, but as he inched closer you snapped your hand down to stop his arm, even surprising yourself.

There was a second where he just scowled at your hand, attempting to cease his advances, but then he violently ripped his arm back, yanking you up by the chin to bring you close enough you could hear the way his teeth grit in his jaw, dirty breath wafting up your nostrils and you had to repress the gag biting at your throat.

“Babygirl, if I can’t have somethin’, nobody can,” he snarled out, shoving your face to the side and leaning in to clamp his lips over your throat where he sucked the skin red and raw, as you held your lips tightly shut and tried to repress any tears.

Crybaby. They’d called you crybaby. When you were about ten you suddenly lost the ability to hold back your tears. At films, books, being scolded, being praised — even over things that had nothing even remotely to do with you. You’d cry. And you were inconsolable for hours. So all the kids at school started to call you crybaby. Then, when you were about sixteen you suddenly found a new emotion inside you — a stronger one — anger. So whenever you wanted to cry, you’d get angry. Anger didn’t need tears, anger needed a scream into the pillow and a punch to the wall and it was enough. Everything was channelled into this unrelenting fury towards your parents, your school, your friends. Even the word crybaby was enough to set you off. When you wanted to cry, you’d become angry instead. So as Jimin sucked a deep magenta bruise into your flesh you clenched your fists and you squeezed your eyes shut; angry.

He retreated seconds later, still grimacing as he took his thumb starkly across the raging bruise, “Don’t fuck anyone in my house.”

It’s a shame your anger didn’t fuel your confidence. You nodded meekly in response, fists still quietly clenching as he stalked out of the room, leaving you emptily.

“I’m not paying for you,” Yoongi announced, waiting behind you in the street stall line as you held your hair next to your neck, attempting to conceal the large, unwarranted bite.

“I have money,” you countered, nervously tightening your lips as you took another step closer.

You didn’t know why he even offered to go out with you. He was miserable.

“You seriously wanted to come all the way here for a fuckin’ sausage?” He groaned, pulling a cigarette box from his pocket and fumbling to open it before resting one between his teeth.

You cowered slightly, “I wanted to try it.”

“Such a cliché,” he mumbled, fag still between his lips as he patted his jeans in search for something.

“Shit, I didn’t bring my lighter.” He wrenched the small pipe from his lips, “Get your damn sausage, I’ll be in Maysie’s.” You didn’t know what that was, but you still nodded as if you did.  

You didn’t like the Bratwurst. You thought it tasted too… too meaty. And it was a bit spicy too.

Maysie’s was a bar that was open 24 hours and filled with mainly young people sat around circular tables drinking. There wasn’t a bouncer, and IDs weren’t checked. Yoongi was sat with a girl with a pixie cut and a bald man with sad eyebrows.

You approached them wearily.

“Yoongi…,” you murmured, in a futile attempt to pry his attention away from the bong that sat breezily on the table, as if it were the most normal thing.

He coughed a bit as he pulled his lips away from the tube, covering a hand over his chest with his chin lowered slightly as he fought the rising phlegm, “Sit.” You sat on a chair next to the girl, and it felt comfortable to be next to her. At least, more comfortable than you had been since you arrived.

“This is Y/N,” Yoongi remarked uninterestedly, immediately bringing his attention back to the pot on the table.

The girl offered her hand, “TK, and this is Sadly.” She gestured to the bald man with the slanted eyebrows.

Sadly. What an apt name for his features.

You shook back, “Do you live in Berlin?”

“Only as of recently. Sadly’s a native,” she smiled warmly, “You come here to get away from your parents?”

“To get away from my life.” You returned her smile, liking the way she spoke to you.

She shook her head understandingly, “I get it.”

You spent the day with your two new friends and it couldn’t have been more exciting. You went to Checkpoint Charlie and the art gallery then sat and ate pretzels by the Spree. You drank black coffee and they offered you a smoke, which you politely declined. You felt you could with them, they didn’t pressure, and you weren’t scared. Yoongi moped nearly the whole time, and you felt angry that he kept trying to ruin the day and cut short your time with them.

Sadly taught you some German, predominantly the phrases “Kann ich das kaufen?” and “Ich hasse Pferde”. You didn’t really know what the second one meant.

The two of them shared a house together, and they lived in Lichtenberg. They’d only come for the day to visit Checkpoint Charlie and buy some drugs off of Yoongi. It was at this point you understood why his nickname was ‘Suga’. You didn’t think he looked much like a drug dealer — he didn’t have any tattoos.

“I heard Jimin’s having a party later,” TK said, biting off a chunk of her bread.

“He always does,” Yoongi responded, curt and dismissive as you’d only ever seen him be.

“I imagine Y/N’s invited, with that big-ass hickey on her neck,” TK laughed, and your hands automatically split to your neck, covering the bruised side. You’d forgotten.

“At first I thought Suga had done it, but Jimin’s far more likely to have,” she carried on, and you couldn’t look anywhere except for your lap. You noticed that Yoongi stayed quiet, and you couldn’t decipher what it meant. What any of anything meant. If he liked you, if he didn’t, what happened yesterday. You just didn’t know.

The air was so clogged it was suffocating. You dizzily made your way through the people crowded in the kitchen towards the cupboard with the cereal, aka the only food you knew was safe to eat in that house, and tried to shove your way back through the sweaty bodies when Jimin spotted your retreating form.

“Babygirl!” He laughed, happily.

He trotted over to you with his Cheshire grin, “Babygirl, I haven’t seen you since this morning.” He smiled, pushing your hair off your shoulder to admire your bruising.

He leaned into you, “Won’t you join us for a drink?”

His breath smelt like whiskey this time, like an old man. He sneered at you, burying into the crook between your neck and shoulder.

“I’m quite tired,” you responded, subtly turning away from him.

Unexpectedly, he nodded his head, pursing his lips slightly, “Course’ you are. Had long day, huh?” He ran his tongue slyly over his lips, eyes unconcernedly wandering to your chest, peaking out a bit from your vest if you peered over at the right angle. Which, of course, he did.

“It was,” you exhaled, “I’ll go to bed.”

“I might see you later, then.” God, you hoped you wouldn’t. You nodded docilely.

In bed, you couldn’t shut your eyes for longer than ten seconds in fear that drunk Jimin would stalk in and pin you to the mattress when you weren’t looking. He’d already been drinking, and only God knew what he became when he was drunk.

You wriggled and switched positions infinitely, but sleep never came. Instead just the writhing urge to pee, which you attempted to suppress in fear of the bacteria on the loo, but your bladder was about to burst. You knew you’d never fall to sleep needing to go this bad, so you eventually succumbed and got up to your feet from the bunk.

As you approached the en-suite, the sound of soft moaning resonated. Soft moaning and quiet grunts from behind the door. You could only hear it muffled, so you pressed your ear gently to the wood. It was squelching and slapping and other vulgar noises that vibrated through your eardrums like a coffee mill. You let out an uncomfortable breath.

The scream that pierced through the air was all instinctive. The door had opened to reveal Taehyung holding a woman on the sink with her legs high and parted, and himself situated between them, pounding into her turbulently. Of course, they immediately stopped and began frantically covering themselves as you looked on, frozen.

“Fuckin’- fuckin’- Y/N get the fuck out!” Taehyung roared, but your feet remained planted on the ground, as if vines had wrapped around your legs and held you to the floor, immobile. The pair were fervently picking up the strewn articles of clothing as footsteps approached behind you.

“What- what is-“ Jimin’s voice ceased when he pulled the door back further to see into the bathroom, with Tae and the stranger now relatively covered.

His chuckle rang like poison, “Babygirl, you scared me.”

“She fuckin’ scared us!” Taehyung shrieked, eyes wide and nostrils flared. He looked livid.

Jimin simply laughed again, “She’s a baby, V. Don’t yell.” You wanted to be sick. You thought you might be.

As the two of them sprinted past you and out of the room, Jimin smiled, “I think you need that drink, huh? How ‘bout that?” His voice was mocking and you felt like a child, but you still agreed. You were too shaken to do anything else.

He guided you downstairs to the lounge, with battered blue sofas and a coffee table with a lamp and nothing else, except for the people sat on the floor passing round a joint. He made them move aside so you could sit near the door, and you didn’t want to look at the brunette beside you, guzzling down vodka like water.

“Babygirl, you ever smoked?” Yoongi chuckled from the other side of the room at that, looking darkly amused. Jimin squinted his eyes back, making the diamond tattoo on his cheek crinkle.

“How about a brandy first?” There was a plastic cup on the table which he passed to you, with burnt orange liquid sloshing about inside. He smirked a bit as he ushered it to your lips, and you instinctively held his wrist as he tilted it upwards, pouring a generous gulp into your mouth.

Why did everything burn?

You struggled to swallow it, and as soon as you did you were gagging embarrassingly. The small crowd laughed at your straining, face contorting with disgust. Your grandfather loved a glass of brandy at Christmas, and he always considered it a treat, so you’d expected it to be sweet and warm, as he’d described to you as a child. You thought it tasted like perfume you’d sprayed the wrong way.

“Good girl,” Jimin coaxed the cup back to your lips to make you finish the rest of it as you continued to gag and nearly spit it up. It came as a relief to see the liquid was finished when he pulled it away, entertained as if you were a showcase.

“Babygirl, you really are somethin’, eh?” He smirked, “Now, hows about a smoke?”

He taught you the way to do it. He said: inhale for three, hold for three, then exhale. You still weren’t very good at it, but you felt it this time. You felt the lethargy hit you hard enough that your head began lulling side to side, back and forth uncontrollably as the group fell into laughter at your disorientation.

“There we are,” Jimin cooed, before turning to look at Yoongi with a satisfied grin, “Suga, what do you mean she can’t smoke?”

Yoongi grunted, “It’s all an act. She isn’t a virgin anyway.”

You straightened up your head with significant struggle as Jimin responded, “She isn’t?” He looked you up and down with a frown, as if not being a virgin made you worth less.

“She fucked me yesterday.”

“No I didn’t,” you denied, shaking your head slowly, eyes squinted in your drunken haze.

“Don’t lie, Y/N. Jimin doesn’t like it.”

“I don’t lie.”

“You’re a fuckin’ slut, Y/N. Stop playing the virgin.”

You couldn’t find the anger in you to prevent it, the tears. The fucking endless tears that just streamed from your eyes relentlessly and unstoppably. They were all laughing. All the strangers laughing at you as Jimin frowned and you felt scared; so so scared, and you didn’t want to breathe or be seen, you wanted to hide and cry. You wanted to cry and be away from there.

You left, jaggedly and disturbed.

[ellerevelle]

copy paste past journal entry 1

My boyfriend and I broke up about three weeks ago. I’m deleting old journal entries I furiously scribbled down or typed out on the ‘stickies’ app or ‘notes’ app. But theyre interesting enough to me to not want to delete completely. So I’m copying and pasting them here. Its interesting... we only just broke up, but I wrote this entry in October of 2015. And I referred to the things that I still feel and fear from him to this day. I shouldve known. Even way back then. 

Begin entry-- 

how does it make you feel to think we might never see each other again?

you are an asshole. for deciding my love isnt good enough for you, that i am not worth fighting for, for breaking up with my after my birthday after my mom dies.

think about it. think about how you get to know a person.

you meet, where? at work? in a bar? at a show? through a friend at dinner or something?

you chat with them there. they impress you, how? with a cute joke. by going along with the shit you say. by carrying themselves well. by making small talk you enjoy that you want to see them again and continue it into medium talk then maybe big talk if the chemistry takes you there.

they are attractive.

they are attractive, the easy way.

therefore they are easy to spend time with, the easy way. the "lets go swimming!" way or the "lets see a movie" way or the "lets not get too heavy into dark stuff or pain" way.

you sleep together. its nice. or its hot. or its both. or its neither... all more ways to get to know someone.

Now, think about when it starts to not be easy. Are you still attracted to this person? Have you been "tamed"? Why?

You have gotten to know me through a shit ton of easy stuff. And then I showed you some of my glow. We brought magic out of one another. We made the EFFORT to continue to see one another because we loved each other, loved the feeling of being together. And for me, I wanted to know more about your magic.

Of course I saw your struggles, your difficulties. I noticed the things you brought up more, complained about more. I noticed what annoyed me or red flagged me. Times you were cynical and quick to diss. Quick to opt not to relate or try to understand a different point of view. I remember the time you straight up got out of bed and took a walk around the block in the middle of the night because you were upset with me after watching Pulp Fiction.

And I realize I had a one night stand with someone. And that the timeline doesnt sit well with you.

But lets get into that.

I let someone touch me, yes. Its horrible that I didnt know better, yes. But have I seen him since? No. Did I honestly even enjoy being there? No. Do I respect him? No. Have I let anyone even come close to touching my body since? No.

It was not an emotional affair. It was not a plotted out, planned out, steamy hot romance. It was a bullshit night that I walked away from shaking my head about, judging him. judging myself. But honestly not really judging myself that much. I felt angry because it was a useless night and I shouldve shut it down, but I didnt beat myself up over it because it was over, I handled it, didnt enjoy it, didnt feel conflicted. It was like eating something you werent hungry for but you did because you didnt want to be rude and it was gross but you finished it and then felt fat afterwards so you punished yourself by going to the gym for an extra hour to make up for it.

I know that sex is different for you because you even held on to your KISSES as prized possessions.

But just because I dont do that doesnt make mine worth any less. I know myself. And I feel my heart steadily evolving and a kiss can be anything to me. It isnt JUST the utmost most precious kiss. A kiss can be a throw away. A hug can be a throw away. Its MY decision inside my heart and head and soul to decide what these things mean. If I kiss a perfect stranger I can choose to make it sexy, make it cute. I can choose to trick you. I know how to do that. I know what the moves look like.

But choosing to really mean it. I realize I've put myself in a very challenging position, setting myself up like this. Because how the hell would you be able to tell or believe if I mean it or not. When I'm capable of just giving you the illusion.

But thats where time comes in. Thats where getting to know someone comes in. Thats where you come in.

Because you have let me in from the start. Yes, it was easy. I presented myself as myself but breezier, probably. Because I was. I was on the road, away from home, feeling free. So thats how my soul presented itself. That is my favorite feeling, so I reflected it on the outside. Its like ... when you watch a horse running free and youre in awe and you feel so connected and youre attaching yourself to this animal and its soul that its showing you, but a week later you come by the ranch and the horse is in its stall. or its doing exercises with the ranch hands, around and around and around and it looks disenchanted. Is that not the same horse you were so bewitched by? it is. and You are a jerk for not remembering. Just because its not exactly how you remembered it doesnt mean thats not who it still is. and you are missing out if you walk away, saddened, thinking " i cant watch this, I cant see my horse like that. that is not my horse" and you leave, with that as your last impression. not believing that beautiful creature doesnt of COURSE want to be out in the field. that it doesnt OF COURSE want to feel the same beauty you want it to. OF. FUCKING. COURSE it does.

So dont walk away. Because its a sign that you dont believe it'll ever happen again. its giving up. its saying "bah, why bother". its choosing to do something else to suit yourself instead of sticking it out through uncomfortable or sad bits in order to be a part of something extraordinarily special again.

So.

I was easy to love.

And then I wasnt.

I brought on doubts to you. Issues with long distance. Quiet growing doubts about my unemployment. My motivation.

I should have stood up for myself on that sidewalk.

Because of course I have flaws. You dont think I know that? You dont think I dont already rip myself to shreds in my own head about flaws? The guy talking to me who has gone through depression himself, you cant bring yourself down again can you? youre choosing not to relate because maybe i remind you of yourself? Is that it?

I could just as easily have been embarrassed by you. I just as easily couldve been a gigantic cunt to you. About how youre throwing your time into a job you never talk about growing in. About how you dont have enough time to really make your band the way you want. And subsequently you spend all your day sweating at work and then all your night going to rehearsal and writing songs and then beating the shit out of yourself when neither of these things are fulfilling. your band is only just getting paid. you dont have time to make an internet impact. you dont let people get to know you on stage. what the hell am i sinking my teeth into if i cant even figure out what genre you are. try a different city. try a different crowd. try a different job.

and yet, Have I called you out on any of this? Have I chosen to make any of this about me? any sort of issue to bring up to make you fucking question yourself?

No. Because I have chosen to not consider these things flaws. these things are differences between you and I.

And I could fucking spin it easy as fuck into deep, profound character flaws in you.

But nope. I. LOVE. YOU. and I am making the CHOICE goddamnit to see them as DIFFERENCES and see the bright side of the coin. And make them character TRAITS that make you STRONG and BEAUTIFUL and UNIQUE.

Because I can. It is a strength in me, a choice to stay. A choice to not look for issues to pick apart.

Because you've shown me your glow, your magic. And I choose to see THAT. I choose to believe that those glorious quatlities in you come from struggle, confusion, depression, and they are the current in your river that pulses from the depths. and even if other shit is going on in the more shallow layers, the current is still there. Even if we've both forgotten or gotten bogged down by trivial things, or topical issues, or recent tragedies. Theyre challenges, these distractions. But I choose to know that the current is still the same in you. Its the guiding force.

I absolutely have huge character traits that confuse the hell out of me, and as time goes by its like a glacier ever so slowly carving out the valley that is me. Every so often a wonderful something will come and test you. Your love put an entirely different weight in my mind. You gave me the opportunity to reassess my social definition. I hadnt been able to really tell anyone "I'm seeing someone, sorry". I havent been able to let saying No guide me to more authentic Yes's.

I havent had a job for three years like you. I havent committed to a band like you.

but how dare you asshole stand on a sidewalk with me, saying "whats the last time youve made anything? whents the last time youve created something?"

"what have you done lately"

"what do you even do"

I should have hit you then. I really should have. Because, to me, it wouldve been justified because you threw the first punch. Right in my fucking face, with spit on your knuckles.

Our lives are extremely different and it reflects WAY MORE ON YOU than it does on me that you called me out like that. Fuck you.

It shows me youre afraid of me. It shows me that you think you're better than me, that you'll survive better than me because you think you work harder.

But the difference is I choose what to work on. It is a luxury. I do envy you so often that you have the grit to just work. juuuust work. I havent struggled and it is a missing part in me in that capacity. But. That does NOT mean I havent put myself out on a limb. That does NOT mean I havent tried new things. That does NOT mean I havent had to be creative, to go with less, to be uncomfortable, to be scared.

I am emotionally rich. I am emotionally creative. I am intellectually remarkable. I am adventurous. I have ingenuity. I am sensual. I experience my world, and further more, I go out to find it.

Do not judge me for not settling down in one city like you did. I have been in one place for ten years, made my mark, and am now traveling to see what makes its mark on ME.

I have been alone in countries where I do not know anyone, do not speak the language, and do not know the land. And I know you know this. And I know you probably dont like me for it because you havent or think that you cant.

But I think that you can. Its a choice. Maybe thats also why you dont see this relationship working. Because our idea of possibility is so vastly different.

I can do anything. I am free to do anything. I have chosen to not sink heavy into a job because I placed freedom at a higher priority.

But that does not mean that cant shift and change.

And you met me at a time when that was beginning to change. I lost touch with loving Philly. I was in the throes of realizing the friendships I thought I was making werent fruitful or beneficial. I was remaining unemployed because my family was struggling and I wanted to be able to go home if I had to. Which is something I'm still struggling with because what with Mom and everything, I shouldve gone home a fuck of a lot sooner.

I am struggling with losing my Mother. What I pray to be the most difficult thing I'll ever have to do. You have met me at the most absurd time in my life. Hopefully.

But, at least at the beginning, you chose to love me anyway. You chose to see my potential, see what I love about MYSELF. I was so excited you were seeing me as me, not as some random female body wandering around Philadelphia.

You listened to the words that were coming out of my mouth so I wanted to make them great ones. I wanted you to know ME. And you did, through spectacular magical ups, and then earth shatteringly painful lows.

THAT IS NOT SOMETHING THAT COMES QUICKLY. I defy you to go fall in love with someone and see down the line that she's gonna come with her own set of flaws that will especially show themselves in times of trouble, anguish, and tragedy. And then you'll get to choose again, whether theyre worth sticking it out through. Whether theyre worth getting over. Whether her shine is something you believe in enough to sit the storm through with. To get hit with some lightning bolts because you know the sun's on the other side. Because you know she WANTS to shine for you. She wants to warm your heart. She wants to, even after her own world falls apart, to still help you heal yours.

That is what I am. That is how I feel. Because I am beautiful and I am fucked up and I am worth it.

And you are beautiful and you are fucked up and you are worth it.

But you have to know that bailing doesnt really make me feel super great.

It instills the defense mantra "Why should I fight for him if he doesnt fight for me?"

Which I'm sure you'd combat with "that is toxic and immature"

but we're all cavemen, (name omitted).

Its a basic choice. If anything, you'll go through phases of thinking everything has to be more elegant and complicated and elevated. But then you'll get old again and realize nope. nah.

Just love. Juuuuust love. Just shut up. Shut the fuck up and relax and feel it.

So the scary part about that though is what if you shut up and relax and then realize you dont love me... That you did and you wont forget but right now you simply dont and its over. Over enough to never return.

That parts the sucky part. But I'd rather know than not.

Because all of this cold shoulder stuff, or acting like you barely know me, not allowing any warm inflection in your voice when we speak, that versus the sigh, THAT sigh when you look at me and there are no words. you look in my eyes and your breath cant come out as just a normal exhale, it has to sigh its way out. and then you hold me so tightly against your body. Or when you let your guard down as my friend and we giggle and laugh and theres magic there that comes with holding someones hand without thinking about it. as effortless as blinking. you reach out and touch because its what youre meant to do. The up and down, hot and cold, barely talk then sweep me off my feet with expressions of wanting to grow old together. I cant handle the contrast. Because I want the latter, and when I get the former it feels like you hate me. Like youre teasing me. Like torture.  I wish I knew what you wanted. Then again you've already said you want space and time for yourself and that you cant love me with all this negativity. WELP BUSTER how about the fact that i'm still loving you despite the fact that youre doing this to me. that youre (in my opinion) irrationally angry at me for allowing flirtateous text messages to occur even though youre a zillion miles away and i have just lost the number one love in my life, My Mom. Youve got no interest in letting me fix that mistake. and then you bring up my one night stand that happened before all that. and i try to explain its insignificance. and that I CHOOSE TO SHARE MYSELF WITH YOU. MY WHOLE SELF. and the only way to continue to grow is to keep going forward and trying but it sounds like you dont want me to try. I know youre angry but I want you to have my fucking magic. No other idiot deserves it. Just one idiot. You.  

But yet you throw me under the bus ( about depression, about flirting, about not having a job)  instead of considering that my heart is broken and I'm still standing. Instead of considering softness and forgiveness and genuinely helping, you're scared and protecting yourself.

And you say YOU cant give me YOUR heart because of too much negativity?!?    I COULD JUST AS EASILY SAY THE SAME GOD DAMN THING ABOUT YOU.

I shouldve stood up for myself on that fucking sidewalk. I should've slapped you across your goddamn face. You know why I chose to let you be right, though? Because I was afraid if I was mean or harsh or fought back you wouldnt like it and you'd doubt yourself or itd hurt you. And instead of considering hurting you more or trying to make you the one in the wrong, I took it. I took it. I took your fucking emotional shame fest, let you smush me into the dirt. Because if you felt hurt by something I retorted with, what if you left? What if you really really left?  But at least I figured if I was 100% in the wrong then I could fight back and work my way back up. I didnt want you to think I was mad at you because often it seems like if you think I'm mad at you, you walk away or leave or get quiet because you think its what I want.   Even in bed, you'd ask me if i was okay and I said no so you rubbed my back and then soon after went to be closer to me or something and I shrugged or made some implication you took to mean "no" , so you rolled to the furthest reaches of the bed away from me. As if that was doing me a favor. When in fact its the complete opposite.

Which, again you'll retort by saying that i'm immature and its toxic la la la. All I want is you to reach out to me. To touch me. To speak to me. To say something. To show you care. That you think this is worth it. I

ts not something I'll need 100% forever. But I just went through the toughest shit ever losing my goddamn Mother so yea. Forgive me for needing some extra.

Forgive me for needing some extra attention and reassurance and if it doesnt come through from you I texted a friend and it came through from them. And I'm sorry. I know you think you dont have enough to go around right now. For work, for music, for yourself, for your social life, then for me. I'm another "project" as you so sweetly fucking put it that night. In the coldest voice ever. Beautiful golden brown eyes turned black with arms crossed.

It really is a challenge choosing to stay with someone who handles this situation the way you are. That discussion after sushi was unwarrantedly harsh and cold. I committed a human sin but I showed up to try and fix it. I dont think you give a fuck about trying to fix my opinion of you now. You are a cynical prick. Acting indifferent and blowing me off.  

texting me basic shit about your weekend plans, and i try to be enthusiastic but i feel like whenever i'm out or doing something and tell you about it, i always include "it'd be better if you were here" because thats how I feel. and I wonder if you ever feel that.

Your indifference gives me nothing to read from, nothing to glean warmth from. If I cant tell that you care, I'll assume that you dont. And I'll teach myself to not need it. I'll move forward.

How does it make you feel to think you'll never see me again?

Of course I'm still magic on my own.

Of course I know you'll be fine

I've just never had anything like this

and I'm not even close to interested in letting it go without a fight.

And it makes me sick thinking you are.

"you think your love for me is unhealthy" and i want to know why

i know youre looking into yourself and want time for yourself after jessica

but you didnt have to pursue me. if you didnt want it, if you wanted to focus on yourself you didnt have to pursue me. but you did.

Dont do anything youre going to regret. I am dissapointed at what I've learned about you from this. But it doesnt beat what I already knew, what I already loved. And I'm willing and interested in working it through. Because I’m beautiful, and I’m fucked up, and we’re worth it.