Grin and Sin [boyxboy] (Oneshot)

A/N

Took me a bit to reedit this one. Lots of whatthfuckery, pop culture references, and very, very cheesy romance. Rated PG- 13 (but R against my will) for slight sexual themes, wet dreams, cage dancers, and because my characters curse as much as I do.

Word count: 15, 835

Grin and Sin

 Sometimes I would walk down the street that housed pulsating lights and booming music just so that I could feel a tad bit more alive. I would breathe in the smoke, cigarette and marijuana alike, just to pretend I was the one taking the drags. I would comb my hair and get dressed up just so I could pretend that I was actually going to step into one of the mysterious clubs that called my name. Hell, I even brought money and an unused fake ID with me; deluding myself into thinking I could ever actually use it. How pathetic have I become?

All the scandalously dressed men would stare at me as I tried to sway my hips confidently, and sometimes they would laugh, sometimes they would cat-call me, yelling ‘honey’ and ‘baby.’ I liked the attention though, even when I knew they could see through my charade.

I was nothin’ but a sad eighteen-year-old-religious-goody-two-shoes-virgin. Nothing but a closet-reject with a strict father.

My appearance didn’t help my case, either. I had deep chocolate brown hair that had just the slightest wave to it, going perfectly with my baby face and big blue eyes. Jesus, I can’t even count how many times I’ve been called adorable in my lifetime. Girls would coo at me and parents would gush—it made my insides turn with disgust.

I wish, for once, someone would look at me as if I were a threat, as if they were scared to cross me.

Of course, it’s hard to look threatening when you’re five foot, six inches tall. All anybody wants to do is hug you and care for you, whisper how cute you are and cuddle you till the cows came home. Well I’m tired of being taken care of; I want somebody who will tell me the fucking truth for once.

I want…I want to be abused and used and thrown around. Call me a fucking whore and bang me against the wall. Scream at me and call me names, I’ll yell back and we’ll get crazy together. We’ll break dishes and beat each other up, screaming bloody murder about how much we wish the other was dead. We’ll tear up pictures and grow hysterical, choking on tears and trying hard to keep our lungs going.

For those moments, I’ll hate you, and you’ll hate me, and that—that’s where we’ll find our common ground. For five fucking seconds the world will stop and everything will make sense. I’ll look at you and you’ll look at me and all of a sudden we’ll break into a million pieces. Tears will be flowing with intensity and at that moment: we’ll need everything from one another.

Then everything will turn fully and mere seconds later you’ll be screwing me into the carpet. I’ll be moaning your name and you’ll be doing the same with mine and everything will just…fall into place.

Because that’s what nonstop romances were—dramatic and painful, but also utter bliss, something I may never achieve if my father keeps setting me up with good wholesome Christian girls that didn’t catch my interest at the least.

They all came, hair done nicely, makeup done precisely, and smiles that showed how dense they were. They would all light up at first glance, obviously trying to resist the urge to run up and hug me like insane idiots.