HELLO?????????????????????

Thwwackkkkkk!

template by: cal-kestis

FAIRY!ART HEADCANONS

pairing: fairy!art x cottagecore princess!fem!reader

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @imperishablereverie, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

⟡ art is the kind of fairy that looks like he was born from a wish—soft-spoken and starlit, with wings that shimmer like frost on spider silk. they catch the light in rippling colors, translucent as soap bubbles, delicate but fast. when he flutters around you, they make the faintest hum, like the air itself sighs in his presence. you swear they glow stronger when he’s near you—especially when he’s flustered. which is often.

⟡ he’s angelic in the way dew is angelic. not perfect. not polished. but fragile and wild and full of wonder. he wears a tunic of moss velvet and sun-dyed silk, stitched with golden beetle-thread. his hair is a halo of honey curls that never fall the same way twice, always a little windswept, like he’s just tumbled out of a flower bed. his cheeks are berry-pink and his nose is dusted with freckles, as if he’s been kissed by clover pollen. he smells like crushed violets and rain.

⟡ “you left out honey again,” he mumbles once, not looking at you. he’s hiding in your herb shelf, crouched behind the rosemary, eyes wide and guilty. “so i… thought you wouldn’t mind if i took a bit.” you don’t mind. not even a little. but you pretend to be stern anyway. just to see the way his wings droop. just to make him pout.

⟡ he calls you “the big one” when he doesn’t think you can hear. like you’re a marvel. a myth. a towering creature of warm hands and soft breath and gentle curiosity. sometimes he calls you “my lady,” half-teasing, twirling a blade of grass like a rapier. but when you stroke his wings—carefully, reverently—he gets quiet. “you shouldn’t touch them,” he whispers once, his voice a tremble. “they’re… they’re very delicate.” and then, softer: “but… you can. if you want.”

⟡ he brings you tiny, ridiculous things: a thimble of moonlight. a moth’s eye, opalescent and still. a string of pearls no bigger than dewdrops, fastened together with spiderweb thread. once, a shard of mirror, cracked and glinting, so you can “see yourself how he sees you.” you don’t dare ask what that means. but your throat tightens anyway.

⟡ he’s shy with affection. not because he’s afraid of you—but because he’s so clearly not. you’re something bigger. older, maybe. like the forest itself whispered you into being. when you brush his curls back or cup him in your hand, his breath catches. when you hum while you work and he lays in the crook of your neck, his whole body stills—like he’s listening to the bones beneath your skin sing. “you smell like warm sugar,” he says one morning, all tangled in your scarf. “and… safety.”

⟡ sometimes you find him asleep on your windowsill, wings curled in like petals closing for the night. sometimes curled in the hollow of your palm, arms tucked under his cheek, breath rising and falling like a cat’s. he mumbles in his sleep. always your name. or maybe just your scent. or maybe the little nickname he made up for you that no one else knows: “my thornless rose.”

⟡ he gets jealous. adorably, irrationally jealous. of squirrels. of bees. of the wind when it tangles in your hair. “i was going to do that,” he grumbles once, watching a butterfly land on your wrist. “stupid flutter-bitch.” he doesn’t mean it. but you still laugh so hard you drop your basket of blackberries.

⟡ he is terrified of cats. once, you came home to find him clinging upside-down to the rafters, shouting: “death beast! orange! hungry!” it took two spoonfuls of honey and three kisses to coax him down. he refuses to speak to the cat now. but he’ll sit on your shoulder and glower at it with his arms crossed like a miniature warlock.

⟡ your favorite thing is how easily he laughs. not giggles. not chuckles. laughs. big, bright bursts of sound like sunlight spilled in a field. like he’s never been taught to keep joy quiet. he’ll dance in your teacups and leap across your rolling pin, leaving smudges of berry juice behind, just to make you smile. “do you like it when i do that?” he asks, flushed and breathless. you say yes. so he does it again. and again.

⟡ “you don’t want a crown?” he asks once, tiny legs dangling from the rim of your mixing bowl. you’re elbow-deep in flour. you shake your head. “good,” he says. quieter. “you don’t need one. you already feel like a kingdom.”

⟡ when you’re sad, he doesn’t ask questions. he just lays himself across your heart and sings in that strange, lilting tongue you don’t recognize but somehow understand. the language of rain and roots and wings. it feels like someone brushing your soul with the back of their hand. afterward, you sleep better. always.

⟡ sometimes he forgets how small he is. puffs his chest out. tries to protect you from bees and beetles and the odd nosy owl. “i’ll hex it,” he says darkly, waving a twig like a sword. “don’t you dare, artemis,” you whisper. he pouts. “that’s not my name.” you arch a brow. he blushes. “but i like when you say it.”

⟡ he leaves you love notes. or what he thinks are love notes. scribbled on birch bark, inked with berry juice, full of half-spelled flowers and symbols only fae understand. once you deciphered one. it said: your laugh makes the trees hold their breath. you folded it into your locket. he pretends not to notice. but he glows the first time he sees you wear it.

⟡ he loves when you hum. loves when you knead bread. loves when your hands are smudged with jam and he can kiss the tips of your fingers like a knight returning from war. “i could live in your pocket forever,” he says once, curled into a spool of thread. “i’d never ask for a crown. just crumbs and kisses.”

⟡ he wants to protect you. in the only way a fairy can. with enchantments. with bloom. with joy so old it tastes like the first spring. he weaves soft spells into your aprons. presses tiny sigils into the mud near your doorstep. he never says what they’re for. but the wolves stay away. and your dreams stay warm.

⟡ “you’re not what i expected,” he whispers, once. you’re half-asleep. fire crackling. his tiny form tucked under your chin. “i thought princesses were cold. porcelain. like glass you couldn’t touch. but you… you’re soft.” his wings flutter. his voice hitches. “you made space for me. in your hands. in your heart.”

⟡ art smells like all the sweetest things in the world—crushed sugar petals, sun-warmed clover, the faint fizz of lemonade in late spring. when he curls into the pocket of your apron, you swear the scent clings to the fabric for hours. it’s like having a piece of a dream stitched to your hip.

⟡ he doesn’t just flutter—he twirls, spins, zips in little loops like a dandelion seed caught in a spell. when he’s happy, his wings sparkle like frost caught on silk thread. when he’s really happy, they chime. softly. like bells far away in a fog. once, you heard it and forgot what sadness felt like for a whole minute.

⟡ when he gets excited, he can’t help but glow a little—literally. a faint golden shimmer pulses under his skin, especially at the tips of his ears and in the whorls of his tiny knuckles. “stop looking,” he squeaks when you notice. “i’m not blushing. i’m—charged. from pollen. obviously.”

⟡ he’s hopeless with doors. they’re too big. too stubborn. so he knocks—gently, rapidly, with both fists—until you come open them. once you asked why he doesn’t just slip under. “rude,” he said with an offended flick of his wing. “besides. you always answer.”

⟡ he nests. shamelessly. your wool basket? claimed. the curve of your favorite teacup? claimed. the bonnet you left on the windowsill? conquered. he drags little scraps of felt and flower fluff into tiny dens, curls up with a satisfied sigh, and guards them like a baby dragon guarding glitter. “this is where i do my dreaming,” he explains solemnly. “it needs to be soft.”

⟡ he sings to your garden when he thinks you aren’t listening. high, silvery notes that make the tomato vines shiver and the snapdragons bloom sideways. you caught him once, mid-aria, standing on a mushroom with his arms flung wide like a tiny opera star. he hasn’t recovered from the embarrassment.

⟡ “you shouldn’t keep me,” he says once, looking up from the curled curve of your palm. “fairies are wild. feral. mischievous.” and then, quieter: “but… i think i like being yours.”

⟡ he once got stuck in your bread dough. just stuck, like a honeybee in jam. you had to carefully peel him out and rinse him with warm water, and he just sat on your drying rack afterward, wrapped in a linen napkin like a soggy prince, pouting and mumbling about “ambush kneading.” you laughed until you cried. he tried to stay grumpy. he failed.

⟡ he gets hiccups when he eats too much jam. tiny, airborne hiccups that make him hover an inch off the ground every time. once he got so flustered, he flew into your cupboard and stayed there until you promised not to tell the bees.

⟡ he’s utterly, completely enamored with your voice. whether you’re talking, humming, sighing—it all makes his wings twitch. sometimes, he’ll pretend to be asleep just so he can lie there and listen to you whisper nonsense to the kettle. “it’s like honey being poured into my ears,” he told you once. then blinked. “that sounded gross. but i meant it nice.”

⟡ he gets tangled in your hair constantly. it’s not on purpose. (except when it is.) he’ll pretend he just happened to land there, but you’ll feel his hands combing through a curl and hear him mutter, “mine,” under his breath like a dragon counting gold.

⟡ when he really misses you—like when you’re out all day gathering herbs or walking into town—he leaves flower petals in your shoes. little folded ones, marked with silvery ink that reads things like come home soon, miss your hands, and i tried talking to the cat. she hates me still.

⟡ you once made him a cloak from the corner of an old silk scarf. he lost his mind. wouldn’t take it off for days. kept swooping dramatically around the kitchen like a leaf in a gust of wind. “do i look noble?” he asked, striking a pose atop your butter dish. you said yes. he hasn’t stopped talking about it since.

⟡ he measures time in pastries. “has it been one tart since you smiled?” “that was three scones ago.” “you promised to kiss me before the next muffin, and this—” dramatic pause “—is a muffin.”

⟡ “i don’t know what love is like for humans,” he says once, brushing pollen from your knuckles. “but if it’s like what i feel when you say my name… then i think i do.”

⟡ he doesn’t like thunderstorms. they make his wings heavy, and the air too sharp. but he’ll never say he’s scared. he just curls under your collar, shivering slightly, and says, “it’s cozy in here.” and you pretend not to notice the way he buries his face in your neck.

⟡ he once tried to impress you by catching a firefly. it ended badly. his hair singed. the firefly escaped. but he held out the glow cupped in his palms like treasure anyway and said, very seriously, “i brought you a star.”

⟡ his favorite place in the world is your shoulder. from there, he can press his face into your neck, listen to your breath, and whisper the tiniest compliments in your ear. “you smell like a story,” he said once. “the kind i’d live in.”

⟡ “if i was your size,” he says once, curled under your chin with his hand pressed over your pulse, “i’d kiss you until the stars begged us to stop.” you choke on your tea. he grins. and adds, “but for now… i’ll just listen to how your heart speeds up when i say things like that.”

⟡ “i think i’m in love,” he blurts one evening, after a honey tart and a lot of staring. you glance at him. he clears his throat. “with… um. teacups. and linen. and… and girls with wild hair and big hands who tuck me into thimbles like i’m something worth keeping.” you don’t say anything. you just scoop him into your palm, and he leans into it like a sunflower.

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asheepinfrance

2 months ago

three celebrities that aren't dead:

michael jackson

talia asheepinfrance

someone else probably

We'll Never Have Sex

cw: past sexual trama, though nothing is described in graphic detail. please, please take care of yourselves.

an: this is what the poll was for, so for those of you that voted art (and feel comfortable to continue reading) i hope you're happy with the result. this is sort of self indulgent therapy writing, but i hope that you enjoy, whether you recognize the feeling in yourself or not. as always, comments and critiques are welcome, encouraged, and greatly appreciated <3

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It happened at sleepaway camp. He’d gone every single year since he had discovered his love of tennis, which was purely accidental. He got roped into playing by a bunch of sweaty 20 somethings at the park and suddenly he’d found his thing. Sure, he was the youngest by far, a gangly mess of a 7 year old, desperately needing braces, and he was getting beat to a pulp, but he loved it. It was the most rewarding defeat he’d ever experienced. When the game had finished, he was dripping sweat, pale skin flushed red, lungs burning from the gasping breaths he took. These men, once strangers, now some form of friend, clapped him on the back. Praised him like he was the prodigy that the world of tennis needed. He saw their grinning, ruddy, damp cheeks and saw men. Saw who he wanted to be. Saw the male role models he’d never had. He grinned right back. He rushed home to tell his grandmother right after, who he could often find watching the news on the living room couch, about what he just knew was the rest of his life. She told his mother, who was on a business call in her home office at the time, and off he went. Private lessons, town rec teams, visits to the nearest country club and, of course, tennis camp. So much tennis camp. That is, until he stopped going.

He never told his mother why, but she seemed more upset about its absence in his life than he did. Of course, he missed the friends he made, the ones scattered across the United States like dandelion seeds blowing in the wind, he missed the coaches that praised his talent endlessly, he missed the feeling of freedom that being in a ‘home’ without parental supervision brought. But he’d never go back. Not after what happened.

He can’t remember most of it. Or, more accurately, he refuses to remember most of it. But he knows what they looked like, and the sound that their heavy breaths made. He remembers shaking and blaming it on the cold. He remembers feeling some kind of sickly, tingling sensation that made his toes curl and he liked the way it coiled in his stomach. He would have liked it, maybe, had it been different. Had he been older, wiser, aware of his surroundings. Had he not woken up cornered. The feeling, though, was utterly ruined by coming from rough, uncaring, unwanted hands. He hated himself for being a target, he hated himself for feeling what he did. He wasn’t weak, despite looking it. He technically could’ve pushed them off, hit them, screamed until he coughed up blood, but he did none of that. He let it happen. He figured things would end quicker if he didn’t put up a fight. He doesn’t think his body would’ve been able to fight back even if he had tried to make it. He was too busy trembling, feeling rooted to the paper thin mattress of his bunk bed, failing to blink away tears.

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What he once had been so excited for, a boarding school in a warmer climate, freedom from his mother, friends to make that loved tennis the way he did, he now dreaded. His mother noticed that shift he’d gone through, though she blamed it on pubescent hormones and the adolescent need to feel far more adult than one is. The sudden transition from a young boy, social, affectionate, never one to leave the house without wrapping his mother in a hug and pecking Nana on the cheek, to who he is now. Fidgety, withdrawn, the now stronger muscles in his body tensing, body straightening reflexively, as if on the defensive, when he received so much as the slightest brush of a hand. Yet, despite it all, here he is, drop off day at the age of 12, laying across the grass of the front lawn with his hands at his mother’s ankles. Screaming, crying, kicking. Having a temper tantrum in front of all the new classmates he’s meant to impress. After all, these are his future teammates, his future competitors. He will not let himself be preyed upon.

He can feel the stares, judgemental ones, as people wheel their luggage around him. Fathers with heavy, overloaded cardboard boxes, mothers with younger siblings at their hips, and the fellow incoming class of the tennis academy, now aware that Art kept growing up, but never got older. He doesn’t really remember what he started crying, begging, over, nor does he register what he’s pleading for now. He just knows that his throat hurts, his eyes sting, and his fancy, new back-to-school sneakers are caked in dirt from his stamping feet. But, eventually, his mother’s taxi arrives, and his bags are still laying beside him. She finally gets a hug out of him, though a brief one.

He kicks open the door, Room 213, and is met with the sight of a boy his age. The unrestrained look of horror on the brunette’s face makes things clear. He’d seen everything. That, or word has already spread through the student body like the lingering exhaustion in Art’s. Patrick, as he’d come to find out, has already taken up his side of the room, suitcase open-faced on his bed. None of the clothes inside are folded, brand name items crumpled haphazardly into balls and stuffed inside.

Art doesn’t unpack, doesn’t change out of his muddied clothes, doesn’t even bother taking off his shoes, he just lays down. The mattress is thin. Too thin. He can practically feel the metal framing beneath him, slotting between each vertebra. Uncomfortable in a way that only desensitizing yourself to things can fix. He’ll need about a month before he gets a good night’s rest, of that he’s sure. Sometime later, presumably a few hours, based on the sun no longer shining through the window, Patrick carelessly tosses his big to the floor, landing with a loud thump against the old, green carpeting. He lay there, clad in some boxers with a brand name that Art vaguely recognizes, struggling as Art is to find rest.

Art looks at Patrick’s racket, the only thing placed with care, leaning against the white, painted brick wall. Something expensive. Something new, with bright, beaming orange. Art’s was still tucked away, wrapped up in its plastic encasing, the note from Nana still taped onto it. She wanted him to step into his new, tennis based life with the best racket that their amount of money had to offer. He wants a nice, home cooked meal from Nana. He wants to hear his Mom laugh at whatever mildly funny jab he could manage over dinner. He wants to learn if he could manage a goodnight kiss again. He wants to. He probably can’t.

He rolls onto his side, bars now prodding against his ribs, and faces Patrick’s back. The slow, insistent rise and fall, languid and confident even in unconsciousness, lets Art know he’s asleep. The mattress is thin. Too thin. Paper thin. And Patrick’s unfamiliar, near bare, and has done nothing to prove himself trustworthy. Nothing to show for himself besides a pigsty on the floor, a slighter taller frame, and a fancy racket. He can’t sleep now. Won’t sleep. Patrick could just be another bad memory waiting to happen, and he will not be prey again. He’s worked his body too hard to be stronger, cut out too many snacks, gone on too many runs, for himself to be a victim of something so degrading again. He’s strong. He’s got to be. And he still cries. Cries in desperation to be home again, cries in fear of the child next to him, cries for the desire to be normal. He hopes he’s quiet. No peer of his needs to hear him cry again. He can’t embarrass himself too much today. Can’t be branded a target of teasing and taunts. Patrick hadn’t fallen asleep.

He felt bad for listening, really, because it seemed wrong to just sit there and make background noise of someone crying. But, it was weird. Art was weird, having yet another bout of tears on his first day. Patrick assumed it was homesickness, a feeling he couldn’t quite understand. He was thrilled to be away from home. He wanted to help, somehow, wanted to get Art to dust himself off and stop crying, for the sake of his own sleep schedule and Art’s dignity come morning. He shifts to his side, now facing Art. Art with his eyes wrenched shut and his hands so tightly clenched they’d turned stark white. Art sobbing into his pillow, turning the pillowcase see through. Think of something. Cheer the kid up. Man up so he can man up.

“You cry like a girl, man, it’s keeping me up.”

He opens his eyes upon hearing it, getting the first taste of Patrick’s voice in his life. They sit there, laying on opposite sides of the tiny room, staring at each other without blinking, and Art laughs. He bursts out laughing like the insult was the funniest thing he’d ever had the pleasure of hearing, and it almost freaks Patrick out until he starts laughing, too. He doesn’t want to make a retort, doesn’t want to do anything but feel the absolute relief of the shift in his brain’s inner monologue. Safe. Patrick was safe. Patrick was as hellishly uncomfortable and desperate for the out sleep provides as he was.

“Yeah, whatever. Goodnight, dude.”

Patrick cracks a smile, one that only appears on the right side of his face. Smug, like he’d just proved some kind of dominance, won a challenge, earned a prize. Art wasn’t sure what it was, nor did he care. Patrick wasn’t looking at him like he had before, and that was enough to make him feel just the slightest bit better for tonight.

“Goodnight, crybaby.”

Art decides he likes Patrick’s voice. He’d like to hear it more.

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“Come on, Donaldson, big serve!”

He’s been playing for hours at this point, the once full indoor courts now having dwindled to just the two of them. Fire and Ice, Patrick and Art. He’s stronger now, subsisting off of lean meat and salad. If anyone catches him grabbing onto walls as he walks, leveraging himself to stay on his feet, stomach growling after a long day of working himself to exhaustion, that’s no one’s business but his own. He feels bad about it sometimes, like when Patrick snuck him a brownie from the cafeteria to celebrate his 16th birthday last month. He tossed it when Patrick went to brush his teeth, carefully hiding it between layers of crumpled napkins and old Gatorade bottles. No one needed to know.

The ball flies straight into the net. It’s the fifth time in a row. And, no, it’s not because his arms are practically dead weight at this point. He doesn’t get to take breaks. Don’t be weak again. He rolls his shoulders back, resets, serves. Center of the net. Resets, center of the net. Again and again and again. Patrick stands on the other side of it, just watching. Unsure of what to do. Weak, weak, weak, weak, weak. He raises his racket as if to serve, and Patrick repositions himself. He smashes it straight into the ground. One hit for his stupid, shitty game, one hit for never living up to being those guys he met all those years ago, one hit for still looking scrawny despite doing so much not to be, and as many hits as are left in his system for the people who forced him to be this way.

“Art, dude, it’s ok-”

“Go away, Patrick.”

And he does. Hesitantly, yes, but he listens all the same. The racket lays broken in his hands. The racket Nana had spent her money on. The racket he only used on days where he missed home particularly badly. The one that’d lasted him all these years, now a broken husk, like a tree split by hurricane winds. He throws it somewhere to his side, hears it clutter, skid, thud against something hard. His vision is blotched with the buildup of tears in his waterline. Childish. He feels small. He feels hands on his skin that aren’t there. He scurries over to where the racket’s corpse had landed, makes a futile effort at putting it back together. It never clicks into place, no matter how many shaky, quiet little ‘please, please, come on’s he says. He spends the rest of the night playing against the wall with a floppy, broken racket and aching arms until the timer-run power turns off.

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No one really believed him when he said he’d never done anything. He carried himself so confidently, had the universe granted blessing of good genetics, a natural talent in tennis. Everyone thought he was joking when he said he’d actually never even had a first kiss. And that wasn’t true, necessarily, but he chose to think of things that way. First kisses are romantic, they set off some kind of firework in your mind, they’re full of awkward giggles and bumping noses. And his wasn’t that. It was a stolen kiss. So, no, he’d never been kissed, and if you asked anyone, he’d certainly never gone further. That never bothered you.

He met you at a party, as he met most people outside of tennis, grinning into the lens of your friend’s polaroid, arms draped across another girl he recognized as Tashi. Tashi he knew, but everyone knew Tashi. Knew of Tashi, anyway. He’d always been too intimidated to speak to her, and she had a bit of reputation for being callous. But with you, she was smiling, and not in the way she did when she earned a win. Not a righteous smile, but a relaxed one. Fond. And if Tashi could love you, then anyone could. So he talked to you, stumblingly awkward for the first time in years. Each sentence was full of repeated syllables and embarrassed laughs, frequently murmured apologies.

“It’s fine, Art. I think it’s sweet that you’re nervous. Means you care.”

He ended the night walking you back to your dorm, all the way across campus from his. He’d make the walk a million times over if it meant extending the conversation. You had a lightness to you he’d never seen. Words flowed from your lips like wine and they sounded like chirping birds and violins. You moved effortlessly, spoke freely, existed artfully. Hand crafting your mannerisms to perfection. Your confidence wasn’t in unnecessary bravado, belief in oneself, assurance of capacity, but in not caring that you weren’t all that special. And that, in itself, paradoxically made you the most special person he’d ever met. Patrick was going to get sick of hearing your name brought up. Tashi would grow tired of hearing Art’s. Your door had a hand-drawn sign with yours and Tashi’s names in shaky bubble letters. Definitely your handiwork.

“I’ll see you around, Art.”

And before he can dodge it, or tell you some kind of excuse, you’ve pressed a kiss to his cheek. Innocent, sweet, almost childlike. He feels ill. He’s stiff, the lax smile on his face having withered away into something like shock. Staring at you, through you, off into the distance at nothing at all. You back up.

“Woah, hey… hey, hey, hey, you alright? Did I read this way wrong?”

He zones back in, you can practically see the invisible strings pulling his lips into a smile. Forced. Yours drops. You reach out to comfort the way you best know how, hands moving to rest on his cheeks, but they hover just above them. He’s in the lead here. You won’t move until he does. You aren’t going to do anything until he gives you the ok. And you’d been so soft in every other way, how was he supposed to be disinterested if the sweetness of your soul ran through your skin. Did you run hot, the way he did, a small fire beneath flesh? Or cold, so that he could sink himself into you and feel relief, a mutual exchange? Balancing one another out. Fire and ice. He grabbed your wrists and lowers your hands. He closes his eyes, breathes in deep. Soft. Your trail your thumbs back and forth over him. Not poking, prodding, taking, just learning him. Memorizing his feel beneath your fingers. He doesn’t hesitate when you try and kiss him this time. He lets himself touch back. There’s still lingering nausea fiddling about in his gut, a sense of fear, prepping to have to fight for himself. You pull away, smile, and slink into your room.

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Months pass, and he relearns what his body feels like against another person’s. He relearns good morning hugs, and goodnight kisses, brushing shoulders as you walk past him. And it stings like a hand to hot flame, a lesson to learn, something to pull away from. Actions have consequences. But it’s peaceful, all the same. It’s you. It’s indulging in the soft, candlelit glow of who you are. He’d cradle your essence in his palms if he could. If a soul had a manifest form, yours would feel no lack of adoration. Devoted to his worship of you, you, you. He wanted to live in the spaces between your words and drink in your laughs like water. Water is nice, consistent, neutral, but you were ever changing. Never stagnant, never boring. You had a palpable taste, one that clings to his tongue when you’re no longer supplying him with it. He’d take you any day.

Kissing was no longer something he needed as much easing into, at least not most days, which is why he wakes you up with one. You’re still warm from the blankets and fresh sunlight streaming in through glass, like honey. You laugh like wedding bells and wrap yourself in him, and it doesn’t frighten him any longer, to be desired. In fact, he quite likes the feeling most days. And you’re effortlessly beautiful, even with sleep tossed hair and heavy, thick voice, and he aches for you. He’s ached for you for months, reluctantly pulling away from your tongue to watch it form words, feel gentle hands in curling hair. So, for once, he lets things continue. He sees your chest, stomach, thighs, neck, and you can see his. Beautiful, beautiful you splayed out beneath him like a waiting goddess, him eager to please. And he can’t.

He waits, waits, waits somewhere, watches your expression change, and it just won’t happen. Look down, look up, see something akin to disappointment, and break. Maybe it’s not what he’s made for. Or, if it was, that purpose was taken years back.

“I’m gonna go take a shower.”

He walks stiffly, meekly, bare and afraid. You lift yourself on your elbows to watch him go. You hear water running. The walls are too thin to hide the sounds he wishes weren’t coming from him. It’s draining, yes, body tingling with the displeasure of unresolved tension, lingering anticipation. But that’s not what matters.

You find him rubbing his skin raw beneath too hot water, pink and uncomfortably thick layers of steam thickening the air till it settles heavy in your lungs. You step in behind him, and he feels you first, sees you second. He hangs his head in defeat.

“It’s not you, I promise. Seriously, it’s not you.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

Maybe you can’t give him what he needs. He can’t give himself that either. But you can give him what he wants. And isn’t that more? To give someone what they need is to keep them living, to give them what they want is to soothe the pain, make things easier, allow them to thrive. Hold him while he struggles to hold himself. He hopes the water streaming down his face hides which droplets on his cheeks are coming from him. He buries his face in your neck, choking on nothing but his own deep seated self loathing.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be. I love you, ok? I love you.”

It’s enough. It’s got to be. Maybe he’ll never fully move past things. Maybe he’s still a kid. Maybe, despite both of your wishes, you’ll never have sex. But here he’s safe, and loved beyond the physical. You turn the temperature down, he sighs, knees buckling, staying upright purely because he’s got you to lean on. He feels cleaner with you, like he’d never been tainted, or like maybe it never ruined him at all. He hasn’t told you, still. He doesn’t have to. You know. You may never make love, but you have it in abundance, and he lets that carry him to sleep that night, wrapped up in your being.

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