I dunno why, I appear to be on a oneshot spree...:X

Pairing: Jordan/Maia

Universe: All human/AU/OOC

Warning(s): Language/Self harm/ Drug use. Like, a lot of drug use. I'm not promoting it or anything, so if you decided to pop a few pills or shoot up God knows what, don't be putting none of that bullshit on KissingFire. That's your own screw up.

Um this is unbeta'd because it's full of run on sentences-on purpose-and I didn't wanna put my sugar plum fairy through that kinda visual torture.

So all mistakes are my own, my apologies beforehand. (*\/_\/*)

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters...I think they make us put disclaimers to rub salt on that particular wound...

J~M

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You never believed in love.

Growing up with a crackhead father who was always bringing home some prostitute would do that to you.

But then you met her.

And she is everything.

Toffee-colored skin, mocha eyes, a heart-shaped face and dark braided hair to complete the picture of your world.

You loved her so much you forgot to breathe when she was in your arms and staring up at you, but found it impossible to do so when you weren't in her presence.

And when you're kissing her, holding her soft curves to your body, everything is better and warm and happy, you'll love her forever and do whatever it takes to keep her there and safe.

When you aren't enough, and she leaves, there is nothing for you.

You'll sit in the corner of the one bedroom apartment you'd shared with her, staring blankly into the darkness, because you couldn't pay the electricity bill that month.

Cold without her warmth and sunny smile and dimples.

Stony without her soft hands and softer lips. A rock without her warm curves pressing against your body, her honey and cherry scent filling your nostrils and making your mouth water.

You don't have the energy to move from where you're trembling in that corner, body wracking with withdrawal.

Indecisive to what the withdrawal is from; her, or the drugs.

Fuck that, she was a drug.

You don't cry, though.

When she grabs her duffel bag and throws you the necklace you'd gotten for her, her bruised face shining with disgust at you and you want to throw yourself at her feet and plead for her to stay. And you do.

She kicks you off, and tells you that she's found somewhere to stay. Where she can provide herself.

Drugs, Jordan, she tells him. I want drugs. Not you.

And damned if that doesn't break your heart all over again.

She's gone.

You sit there, nothing left except the fading scent of her vanilla and cherry and honey perfume and a peppermint container that holds seven pills and two slender joints.

Wanting to cry, but you don't.

You do the manly thing instead and swallow it back; save that shit for the shower.

A Few Months Earlier

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It's raining outside and you're high.

She's with you though, so instead of grays and blacks and lightning, everything is fucking perfect, because she's perfect and she's smiling at you and giggling, just happy.

Her hand is small and fragile in yours as you two jump and splash through the puddles; her head is thrown back and tongue hanging out, catching rain droplets in her mouth.

You wrap your arms around her waist and swing her around in circles, pressing your forehead against hers and rubbing your nose against her button one.

I love you, you tell her, kissing her over and over on her face, finally landing a long one on her lips.

She laughs gleefully and replies that she loves you too, more than anything, before wriggling out of your arms and skipping around the puddle-covered sidewalk, humming to herself.

So beautiful and perfect that you take a picture, snickering to yourself 'cause everything seems funny to you. The potted plants sitting on the fire-escape - they were certainly screwed if there ever was a fire - stretched out their petals and wave down at you, singing a Fray song. You wave back, stopping to pat the fire extinguisher and wipe away its tears.

She thinks you're silly for doing that, but climbs on you anyway and piggybacks on you for another two hours.

By the time you both reach the rave, you're exhausted and shivering from being cold and wet.

Then a kiss from those round lips sets you ablaze, and you don't feel cold anymore.

You wrap your arms around her shoulders and hold her close, staring up at the still-gray sky as the fireworks went off, loud dubstep music pounding around you.

Her eyes are round and curious, and she wants to try something. A pill.

You're worried, cause she's never shown an interest in drugs before, and you don't want her to get hurt.

But you can't deny your pretty girl anything, so you take the brightly colored pill with a butterfly sticker on it. It looks kinda like candy, but you know better.

She takes the pill from you gingerly, studying it for a moment.

Then she closes her lips around it, and everything changes.

You grab glow sticks, handing her a pink and blue one and telling her to wave them around while you run.

She's laughing and singing, clutching at your hair from where she's perched atop your shoulders, and keeps kissing you and running her hands all over you, curious to the weird sensation of your skin, the feelings enhanced from her buzz.

Then you're running, holding smoke bombs in your hands as she shrieks gleefully and waves her glow sticks in the air.

Everything's bright and flashing different colors, and somehow you find yourself sitting with a circle of people getting glow-in-the-dark paint pasted on your face.

She does yours, whispering in your ear how good she feels, how much she loves you and how fucking pretty you look with glowing paint.

You look like a fucking angel, baby, you murmur back, pushing back her hair as you painted her face. So fucking perfect.

Her arms slide around you, resting her head on your shoulder as her legs intertwine with yours, mumbling incoherently.

If you were to die and go to heaven, you wouldn't even notice the difference.

She's angry.

You can never decide if that is a good or bad thing, because she's so beautiful and alive when she's mad at you.

But now it's bad, because she's mad that the pills and weed you've been getting her isn't enough.

I don't feel good enough, Jordan, she screams at you, flinging the only clock that you own at your head. You duck and it hits the wall and breaks.

I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry, you tell her. I'll make you feel good, I promise you'll feel better.

And now you hate yourself, because she's laying fully-clothed in the empty bathtub with you, and you're about to stick a needle in her arm.

Her eyes are glowing with anticipation though, so you have no choice but to prick the needle through her skin smoothly, pumping the heroin into her veins.

Chocolate eyes roll back and close, the look of utter bliss taking over her face.

She looks so beautiful and content that you feel reassured that you haven't done anything wrong, you are simply making the girl you love feel good.

Babe, she breathes, her lips barely moving. You gotta try this.

So you shoot the drug in your system, and lay next to her, feeling yourself getting sucked into the new overwhelming feeling of...shit you don't even know, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but her and her perfection and the drugs that are being absorbed inside of your body.

You hum something, you don't know what, and she smiles at you.

You don't even know what to do anymore.

The beautiful angel you've cherished for so long was fading to a shadow.

She's laying on your bed next to you, white powder on her nose and upper lip, pupils blown.

I feel like I'm going to explode, she tells you, shaking and her teeth chattering. My insides are on fire.

And you can't stop her from scratching at her face, but you try.

Tackling her to the floor, you straddle her torso and pin her arms above her head. What the hell is wrong with you? You're screaming in her face, your grip tightening around her wrists. You can't do that.

You don't know why you're so angry, because you never get angry at your pretty girl.

But there's a swelling rage inside of you, and you're hurting her.

She slaps you, nails raking down your cheek and flies to the bathroom, locking the door.

You're up in a flash, banging on the door and shouting that if she didn't fucking let you in, you were going to kick down the fucking door.

Sobs are coming from inside, and you drop to your knees, leaning your head against the wood and whispering in soft pleads to let you in, you were sorry and you loved her forever and would never hurt her.

She doesn't open the door.

You're staring in silent horror at the red marks on her forearms, entangling with the angry scars from the needle jabs.

You did this? You demand in a low voice.

Disbelieving. Your pretty girl was always so happy. She would never hurt herself.

I don't know. Her voice is dead, a far-cry from its usual bubbly chirp. I was feeling too much. I couldn't handle all of it.

And you accept her answer.

It hurts; swallowing down the sharp reply that you want to bite at her, but she doesn't deserve anymore pain.

You bring her wrist up to your mouth and kiss each self-inflicted scar, whispering that you're sorry, so sorry that you couldn't stop any of it from happening.

She smiles sadly at you, kissing the corner of your mouth and telling you it's not your fault.

But you know that she still blames you.

You have a job at the sandwich shop. You've always made enough money to keep your apartment, enough to buy yourself some weed and pills whenever the mood hit you.

Suddenly it's not enough money; she was always hesitant to buy any expensive jewelry or fancy food, but now she wants to buy expensive, hard drugs. Cocaine and meth is more than the money you make, and you try to reason with her.

We could lose the apartment, you tell her. We have to eat, beautiful. You can't be spendin' all your money on that shit.

But when withdrawal hits her, you do what you can to make the pain stop.

Get her the heroin and pills to keep her occupied while you try to make deals with the guy behind Walmart.

His offer makes you wish you had a gun to shoot him with.

She finds out about the offer while you're sliding the needle into her arm, and she said that it's fair, she'll do it.

So you stand there and watch the next day as she blows him in an alley for four grams of cocaine.

That isn't your pretty, perfect girl anymore.

You stare at the girl who wears the face of your girlfriend with no love in your heart as she stands up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

Disgust curls in your stomach as she walks - she never skipped anymore - holding the brown paper bag close to her chest.

Got it, she states proudly, her eyes glinting with a dangerous desperation, desperate for another fix.

But you smile back, because no matter how angry you are, no matter how broken down and destroyed she look, you would always love her.

Good job. I love you.

This time, she doesn't say it back.

You argue with her later that day.

Call her a whore. Repulsive. Crazy.

She screams back that she hates you, that you don't understand and that you don't love her.

After she says that, you don't know what possesses you to do so, but suddenly your fist is flying and hits her jaw with such force she falls to the floor.

Then your heart shatters and you fall to floor beside her, moaning how sorry you were and lift her up on your lap.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. So sorry. Love you, love you, don't leave me.

She feels so small and delicate in your arms, no longer the soft, curvy girl she once was. She was bony and thin, her mocha-colored eyes you love so much are tired and black.

Silent as she sits in your lap.

You hit me.

You want to cry, but you refuse to let the tears fall

I know. I'm sorry, baby.

She sniffles. You hurt me, she whispers, touching at her face. A bruise was beginning to bloom, and you hate yourself so fucking much you just want to stab yourself over and over for hurting her.

Never again, you promise.

But she doesn't believe you, you can tell by the way she looks at you.

And you don't know what to believe, because nothing makes sense anymore.

You can't afford anything that she wants. Needs.

At night you cover your ears with your pillow as she locks herself in the bathroom and won't come out or let him in, and you can hear her screaming and moaning, cutting herself to distract herself from the painful tremors wracking her small body.

You wish you didn't have hearing.

It's all your fault she's in pain.

You know it. She knows it. She told him, too.

So when she leaves in the morning to fuck some sleazebag who could get her the drugs, you let her go.

Every fucking time.

And now she's leaving.

For good, she tells you, expression blank, her eyes cold and her voice flat.

You do what you can to try to convince her to stay.

Because she'll always be so beautiful and perfect and sweet and good and fucking everything to you, and without her, you'll be nothing.

She doesn't care.

Gone.

You find the energy to crawl into the bathroom, and curl into a fetal position in the tub.

She's gone.

She's never coming back.

You finally start to cry, and turn on the cold water.

So fucking cold.

It starts to flow over the sides of the marble, but you don't care.

You stick your head under the water, eyes squeezed close.

Numbing yourself.

She's never coming back, and you're never taking your head out of that water.

M~J

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*sigh*

I love junkie romances, I have no idea why:P

Song rec: "We Found Love" by Rihanna. Lol the video inspired this fic, kinda obvious I guess; this story has been in my laptop for ages.

Review.