#faye ✰ introduction

[moonandris]

✨Faye's Writeblr Reintroduction✨

Hello to all my fellow writing nerds, new and old! Thank you for checking out my updated writeblr reintroduction post. I've had this blog for nearly five years and am long overdue for a post explaining who I am, what I create, and why I write. I'm hoping to interact with more writers on here so we can all make the writeblr community a more welcoming place by supporting each other's creative journeys. If you're an active writing blog, I'd really appreciate it if you could like or reblog this so I can follow you and we can screech into the void together and gush about all our favorite WIPS and characters! ♡

A Little About Me

My name is Faye, a sassy bisexual woman living out her best writer life. I’m a lover, a dreamer, and of course, a creative writer enthusiast. I love storytelling in all of its mediums, so you can usually find me reading, writing, worldbuilding, character building, or doing an unnecessary amount of research for my works (ADHD tunnel vision).

Why Do I Write?

I write for many reasons, the biggest one being for myself. I love weaving stories with nothing but words because it's fun, challenging, and personally meaningful. There's nothing quite like the feeling of sitting at my desk and giggling away like a madwoman as I type out some intense scene. That feeling is only second to the absolute joy I get when people tell me they've connected with my stories. <3

How Do I Get Inspired?

I'm inspired by many different kinds of storytelling types: music, art, mythology, literature, video games, you name it. My writing comes from an intimate place and is motivated by my dreams, passions, and overall life experiences. I want my stories to mean something, and in turn, I want to share that 'something' with others in hope of continuing the positive cycle of human to human inspiration that started my journey in the first place. 🥺 Ultimately, for me, writing is about fulfillment, personal expression, and human connectivity.

Faye's Favorite Genre(s)

It's difficult to exactly pin down what my favorite genre is (because I genuinely love so many of them) but if I had to narrow it down to two genres, it would definitely be fantasy and romance. I love fantasy and its many subgenres (high fantasy, modern fantasy, science fantasy), as well as romance and its various subgenres (dark romance, paranormal romance, fantasy romance). As a bisexual writer, every story I write has LGBT+ characters, relationships and themes. Whether I'm writing gay or hetero romances, I love playing with the complicated dynamics resulting from human relationships.

My Absolute Favorite Tropes, Themes, and Content

exploring human relationships: platonic, familial, and romantic

enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers, friends to lovers, strangers to lovers, lovers to enemies, friends to enemies, enemies to friends

sensuality, intimacy, slow burn, dark romance, spicy content

soulmates, souls bonds, magical ties, and mental links usually tied to the villain (I love dramatic enemies to lovers, so sue me)

angsty, whumpy, dark fiction exploring morally gray characters and the true duality of man & human nature (dark vs. light)

hurt/comfort stories that rip out your heart, chew it up like old jerky, then spit it back into the gaping wound in your chest cavity (always with HEAPS & HEAPS of satisfying comfort after) ♡♡♡

identity, self-discovery, personal journeys, and character growth

experiencing, overcoming, and healing from messed up trauma

defying fate and choosing your own path despite destiny's enigmatic design for the course of your life

Finally, I need my characters to find genuine happiness at the end of the story. Very, very few stories I write have sad, unsatisfying endings (because I am a TOTAL sap and need them to find peace)

Thank you so much for reading, and if any of the above sounds appealing to you, I'd really appreciate so much if you reblog or give me a follow so we can chat. Happy writing! 💕💕💕

[bohemian-rhapsody-in-blue]

Beboptober 2024 Day 1: Eyes + Introduction

Thanks to @bebopcrew for the prompt list! Am I seriously doing Beboptober on top of all the other stuff I have to do during October this year, fellowship applications (although those are mostly done and filed away for now, at least) and grad school applications and thesis work and all the normal senior-year-of-college stuff? You bet your ass I am!!! Maybe I can just call it a writing exercise, a warm-up for my thesis...and if my insomnia's going to keep me up until horrific hours anyway, I may as well do something productive with it! And even if I don't get to all 31 days, at least we can say I tried...

If anyone's interested, you can see my prompts from Beboptober 2022 here (on Tumblr) and here (on AO3). I can't wait to see what everyone comes up with this year!

His eyes were gray. It was hard to tell at a distance, small and hidden as they were under a thick brow and bushy eyebrows, and in different lighting they could be mistaken for a mousy brown or a light blue. Not that he was given to romantic descriptions of things like eye colors, or anything. He wasn’t much of a poet—not in that way, at least.

The right one had a scar running vertically through it and a metallic piece reinforcing the skin underneath. No one had ever asked about that piece, and he’d never told. It didn’t do to dwell on the past if it didn’t help you in the present. And he could still see out of both eyes just fine. In any case, he supposed the enhancements around his eye weren’t as distinctive as the metal arm, nor as clear a reminder of the betrayal in his past. Losing his arm was dramatic, something he’d never let himself forget. Getting your eye a little damaged, a little scarred? Just an occupational hazard. All part of the job.

~~~~~

Her eyes were green, sparkling like gemstones. Emeralds. She had a pair of emerald earrings—probably fakes, but they looked the part—that brought out her eyes; she’d worn them that day at the opera, when she was trying to find out about Mao Yenrai. They made her feel fancy and beautiful, the way every woman deserved to feel at least once—like a delicacy, a luxury few could afford.

She was proud of having mastered the art of seduction, especially with just her face: a well-timed eyebrow raise, or narrowing of the eyes, could make men fall all over themselves to bend to her will. It was a delicate act. Like so many parts of her life. They said the eyes were the windows to the soul, but maybe hers were more like computer screens, projecting whatever she wanted them to project—so it didn’t matter if there wasn’t anything behind them at all. Or anything that wasn’t locked away deep where she couldn’t find it, where she searched, reached out for it in desperation, and came back with her hand grasping nothing but air. She was a luxury that wasn’t accessible to many. Not even herself.

~~~~~

Her eyes were gold, as unique as she was. Gold and gigantic, practically taking up half her face, gazing out at the world with wonder, with curiosity, with an unflinching, unsettling intensity—unless, of course, they got distracted and flitted elsewhere. Because the whole world fascinated her, and she wanted to explore every nook and cranny of it, divulge its every secret.

Her eyes were gold, but they didn’t always look it—not when they were covered with her great green goggles. They reflected the text on the screen of her beloved computer as she net-dived, hacking her way through the world. Even before she’d gotten off the little shack she’d cobbled together on Earth, those goggles, that computer, were how she flew through the universe and learned all its tantalizing bits of information, all she needed to know. Maybe they weren’t quite rose-colored glasses. But they were as close to it as this crew was ever going to get.

~~~~~

His eyes were two different colors. Technically, both were brown. But the right one was slightly lighter than his left, having been replaced with a cybernetic one after he’d long ago lost the real one in an accident. People said he was an incredible marksman owing to his keen eyesight—that he could see where people were going almost before they even arrived, then move as fluidly and rapidly as water so his bullet met them there. And it was true that he rarely missed a shot; it was one of the reasons he was such a feared bounty hunter. Was it attributable to his sight, though? He didn’t know. He tried not to dwell on things like that, to just take action.

His girl, once, had said that people got a strange feeling if they kept looking straight into his eyes. He hadn’t known she’d said that until later, after everything, after he’d made an unsettled half-peace with having lost her forever. He’d heard her say it secondhand, from a man he’d met briefly on Callisto—someone who, quite unexpectedly, knew people from his past—and then lost, too. People just didn’t seem to stay in his life long. Or he didn’t stay in theirs.

Maybe that’s why he lived in the past so much. His left eye saw the past, and his right eye, the present. That was what he was really seeing, all this time. Only patches of reality. No wonder looking into his eyes apparently felt strange, disorienting—people who said that should imagine what it was like to actually live it. And no matter how much he tried not to dwell on the past, it was always there following him, always in his eyes.

[rosesnink]

- yun faye -

the often forgotten friend of the friendgroup, while noah, jane and tallulah were the real trio, stacy andy and lucas were the populars and lily and ava were the weird kids, faye never truly fit in there.

she fell for lucas thomas, but he was in love with tallulah, and for almost all of her life, he never seemed to see her... until they both find each other in uni, and all their paths will lead to one another in the way to rome @storyofmychoices @choicesbookclub

edit: forgot her pronouns, here it is, edited with her pronouns!!

[notforthemarket]

Hello Anyone Who Sees This...

I'm Faye, and I've decided to start a blog and start posting because I have been such a lurker.

I have decided to take that leap and start posting in this fun crazy cozy corner of the internet and join the community and meet new friends.

This blog is a mix of everything I love:

✨ MM stories – Original fiction, flash fiction, and slow-burn fantasy romance.

✨ Fanfiction – Mostly Jujutsu Kaisen (male character ships) and Harry Potter (Drarry owns my soul).

✨ Writing struggles & creative chaos – Because being a writer is both a dream and a nightmare.

✨ Random yap sessions – Unfiltered thoughts on books, media, life, and whatever’s bothering me that day.

I'm here to make friends soooo interact with my post if you wanna be mutuals❤️

[justanotherteamskullmember]

Ok ya'll know who ever one else is or you should at least but time for me to introduce the main star of the blog ✨Faye✨

Just gonna info dump here:

Faye was born at Hau'oli City on Melemele Island, but currently lives in Po town, Ula'ula Island.

16 years old.

Last name is Cruz. 👈 that's my last name😉

Member of Team skull though she doesn't look the part.

not exactly a grunt, same rank as Plumeria or maybe just a bit lower.

She calls Plumeria big sis like all the other grunts do but will also call Guzma big bro because she knows it annoys the hell out of him and she thinks it's hilarious.

Her name Faye means mischievous so you can already guess her personality.

Also part of Team Rainbow Rocket but once again just at least a bit higher than a grunt but not a Boss/Leader.

Sylveon is her main Pokemon.

Rules: please be respectful to everyone, no being mean I just don't like it. remember i'm a minor so no Nsfw asks or anything please, it's ok if you flirt just not with the younger characters and please have at least a little filter and don't go too far or crazy with it. I do take art requests and stuff but no weird or inappropriate stuff and please don't rush me it takes me a while to do the task, Adhd here so I rarely ever focus on one thing for long. Three strikes and you get blocked, but I hate blocking people and I trust all of you not to break any of the rules. Thanks for reading and I hope you have an amazing day💖

Main blog @loki104-uwu, you can message and contact me there too

[mellianomar]

personal blog intro 🩰🫧

( link to my studyblr )

about me !!

- my name is chloe :p

- mbti : INFP-T

- zodiac : libra sun, pisces moon, gemini rising !!

- new-ish to tumblr :0

interests 🩰🫧

- music : genres ; kpop ,, 90’s nu metal ,, alt. rock ,, bedroom pop !! ⬇️

kpop grps i stan ; skz ,, txt ,, atz ,, 2pm ,, enha ,, aespa ,, nct ,, nwjns ,, twice ,, lssrfm , piwon ,, itzy ..

western artists ; deftones ,, paramore ,, the nbhd ,, fiona apple ,, faye webster ,, alex g ,, the smashing pumpkins ,, arctic monkeys ,, bôa ,, the smiths ,, sade ..

(ask if there’s any other artists / grps i may listen to!! this is just a summary ;-;).

- reading : romances ,, slice of life ,, tragedies ,, coming of life ,, fantasy (pls give me book recs ,, i’m stuck with my old coho books .. smh).

- art : i don’t draw much anymore, but i love digital and traditional painting ! maybe i’ll show my work on here sometime ?

i’ll create a carrd sometime when i get my macbook, just so this isn’t a big block of text and more interesting to look at :<

looking for mutuals !! no one over 17 pls :pp

[castlefell]

༄  ˚  ➜  (  madelyn  cline  ,  female  ,  twenty  four  ,  she / her  )  terret's  cove  is  welcoming  to  all,  and  you  might  see  faye  richards  around  town.  while  they're  a  original  character  in  the  vampire  diaries,  they've  been  making  their  home  in  maine  for  eight  months  now.  and,  be  careful,  because  it  appears  as  though  they  do  not  believe  they  have  been  in  terret's  cove,  maine  their  whole  lives.

name : faye richards

age : twenty - four

gender : cis woman

pronouns : she / her

sexuality : bisexual , biromantic .

shipping status : closed with trent farrow .

[reveledchaos]

ღ   *   ➜   (   madelyn  cline   ,   female  ,   twenty  four   ,   she  /  her   )  it  seems  like  faye  richards  might  be  making  a  new  home  in   mystic,  connecticut.   an  original  character  from  the  vampire  diaries  was  seen  walking  down  main  street.  while  they  arrived  eight  months  ago  ,  they  do  not  believe  they  have  been  here  their  whole  lives.

name : faye richards

age : twenty - four

gender : cis woman

pronouns : she / her

sexuality : bisexual , biromantic .

shipping status : closed with trent farrow .

[lavendaers]

was that renee rapp? oh no no, that was just faye evans, an original character from percy jackson. they are twenty-two years old, use she/they, and are aware that they are not actually from washington DC. too bad they can’t stray from this city for long.

how long has your character been here: about a year

what is your character's job: college student/personal trainer

where has your character been pulled from in their fandom: pulling her from the end of heroes of olympus.

has any magic affected your character: no way that she’s aware of

and any other information you might find useful for us and the other members to know: some things about faye. she's the daughter of ares. her mother knew what it meant and thought she could make sure that her daughter didn't end up like any other child of ares. she would make her take ballet classes, dress her in lots of pink and just try to make her as girly as possible. when that didn't work, she sent her to camp half-blood. faye was only about thirteen at the time and while at first she was only there for the summers, after her mother remarried and began having kids with her new husband, they didn't want her around. so they decided that she should stay at the camp full time. it was a rough adjustment. she was fifteen. she was unclaimed until then. once her mother gave her up, her father claimed her and she was grateful for that. to feel as if she still had family. she's very loyal to her father and siblings because of this. she's never got the chance to meet her half-sister though and she thinks about it constantly. she sided with percy/olympus in the fight of new york and had been an advocate to try to get the children of ares there so when silena led them while pretending to be clarisse, she eagerly followed her into the battle. she was also there during the battle between camp half-blood and camp jupiter. she ended up here about a year ago and while she had to adjust to everything, she's doing her best. she's taking some college classes while also working as a personal trainer.

[hechadeoro]

# INTRODUCING HECHADEORO !

introduction master list

ME! - alexandra - fifteen - gemini - intj-t - shifter 🧖🏽‍♀️

QUOTE! — "in this sport, you bite or you get bitten." 🗯

VARIANTS! - lady bird, beth march, and jake pelatra 🥥

MY MEN! - aaron taylor johnson, enzo vogrincic, joao felix, fernando alonso, lorenzo zurzolo, franco colapinto, pato o' ward, max verstappen, carlos sainz jr, lance stroll and drew starkey 💌

MY POOKIES! - hamda alqubaisi, tina hausmann, aurelia nobels, franco colapinto, josep (pepe) maria marti, and oliver james (ollie) bearman 🏎️

ABOUT ME! — i love jazz, faye webster, fiona apple, cherries, gold jewelry, matcha, reading, making new pinterest boards, editing, formula one, and i love cats. lance stroll, max verstappen, and logan sargeant defender for life 🕯️

OTHER SOCIALS! — tiktok: hechadeoro, pinterest: hechadeoro, instagram: cherrifools 🐇

[livvylovesss]

a dream with a baseball player

synopsis- when y/n, an upcoming sports reporter, transfers to USK (university of southern kildare) her guide on campus invites her to his baseball game. y/n finds out her campus guide is the famous college baseball player, rafe cameron.

💌💋🍾🐚⚾️🌇🏆📓🌅

TAGLIST

moodboards

characters instagrams

introduction

inning one

inning two

inning three

inning four

inning five

inning six

inning seven

inning eight

inning nine

overtime

playlist

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

▶︎ a dream with a baseball player - faye webster

▶︎ swim - chase atlantic

▶︎ i wanna be yours - arctic monkeys

▶︎ super rich kids - frank ocean

▶︎ tumblr girls - g - eazy

▶︎ electric love - børn

▶︎ not allowed - tv girl

more coming soon <3

[cintasvel]

Why I think Andor S2 ultimately fails Vel as a character

What it says on the tin. Let's go.

Wait!! Quick disclaimer: I have nothing against Faye Marsay as an actress. She did a phenomenal job as Vel, and any and all criticisms are very much directed at the writing, and not Faye's characterization of what little she got. Give that woman an Emmy. In fact, give her two.

Ok, now let's go.

Two key aspects of Vel are established very quickly in the first season of Andor. The first: she's stepping into the role of a leader, determined and takes no shit. The second? She's in love with Cinta. it is only with Cinta that we see the real Vel, her fear, her love, come to light. In Aldhani, she's fierce and doesn't let how scared she actually is show until she's alone with Cinta. It is Cinta's presence that calms Vel to give the go-ahead. It is Cinta whom Vel mirrors, out of love and admiration for everything she represents.

It's compelling, then, as we move past the Aldhani arc, that we learn more about Vel and her reasons for doing all this. Vel's rebellion isn't just about the Empire. She's Mon Mothma's cousin, and through Mon, Leida, Perrin, and the show's depiction of Chandrilan society, we learn that Vel is considered an outsider. She's not married, has no interest in it, and is largely seen as a bit of a spinster. Perrin makes a comment that all the good ones are gone now at her age (Vel's age is never established, but I assume she's in her early 30s personally), which makes her unmarried self stick out like a sore thumb. Cinta later confirms this by saying Vel is 'a rich girl running away from her family'. Not only is she fighting for revolution, but also actively trying to keep far away from the heteronormative society that she's come from because it is stifling her! Not being able to be your true, authentic self is oppression. It's what makes Vel choosing the rebellion, choosing to fight instead of staying neutral and relying solely on her family's wealth, so interesting. And yes, being a gay woman is a vital part of her character. No, I don't care if Tony Gilroy says otherwise. I won't touch too much on that, but i recommend @chipthekeeper's great post about Vel + being a gay woman and its significance to her character.

Now, by the time Andor s2 kicks around, Vel isn't in too much of a different mindset from where we left off in s1. She's chosen the rebellion, and now has experience under her belt. Her introduction in s2 reminds us of two things: she's got her own personal rebellion to deal with (aka being a gay woman in the heteronormative society of Chandrila) and her and Cinta's relationship is on the rocks because Cinta puts duty above her. We see the effect of this on Vel, who is understandably heartbroken that she and Cinta are on two different wavelengths and has to deal with her niece being sold to fund the Rebellion she is part of, while also being there for her cousin, Mon Mothma. This takes a turn when Vel later sees Cinta taking away Tay Kolma, and the two share a look. Now, two things are essential to Vel here, but I'll focus on the most obvious: Vel's crash-out. After seeing Cinta, Vel looks out of the window (every Velcinta fan knows how important windows are for these two) and sighs. Everyone, except Mon, is joyful in comparison as they sip wine and toast this heteronormative union. Vel yearns to have her own happiness with Cinta. However, as we learned earlier, she isn't the only one yearning for this. Cinta looks back at Vel after she walks off. This is important to establish because it's vital to demonstrate that the two are mirrors of one another and that Cinta also wants to be with Vel. It also keeps on theme for the two: they rarely look at one another at the same time, which is heartbreaking in of itself. The lead-up to the events of their next episode together is obvious: the two want to be together, but Luthen, Kleya, and the mission are keeping them apart. Again, this isn't different from S1.

The two reunite on Ghorman and declare that ultimately, they are on this mission together because of each other. They no longer want to be part of Luthen's games, they both know that they don't matter to him in the long run, that they are only valuable to him when they are apart. But to them? The only thing that matters is one another. Now, as rushed as this arc was (I could have done with like, at least 3 more episodes with Cinta alone, just saying) it did give us a clear vision of their 'hope' for the season: the two of them together, fighting for their future and the Rebellion. This is Vel's (and Cinta's) ultimate goal; this is what she aims for.

Right. You all know what happens next. Cinta is killed via a stray bullet to paint the picture of another 'how senseless, how tragic' death, and also hammer home that the Ghormans are out of their depth. This is, despite already being established, like, a whole two episodes ago, but whatever; that's not the point. This is a particularly cruel death, because Vel gives a monologue that, while beautiful, seems to put the blame on not just Samm, but herself. She wanted Cinta on the mission. Cinta was only here because of her. Tony Gilroy wanted to give Vel baggage, and by god, this was the only way he saw how. Worse still, Gilroy has the gall to say he treated them the same as any other couple, but do either Cassian or Bix get killed or face any negative repercussions from killing Gorst? For daring to work together and be in love? Of course not. Only Vel, who dared to want and love Cinta, gets punished by the narrative.

Now we reach the heart of why Cinta's death, unfortunately, marks the beginning of the failure to tie up Vel's character in a way that, befitting the other endings of the characters in Andor S2, feels hopeful and, as such, feels like a failure to Vel as a whole.

After Cinta's death, Vel gets four scenes at most, and none of them are utilized in service to her character's development. The closest thing that actually does serve her in some way is her conversation with Bix, where Vel tells Bix that she's been grounded because she was becoming too reckless. Yet another moment of 'cool, I'd have liked to have seen this instead of it being inferred to.' Regardless, it establishes that Vel is going above and beyond in missions to the point it's borderline suicidal. But again!!! This is only momentary. Her following few scenes are to highlight Melshi (yes, the gun scene is very nice, and I can see the argument to it being a callback to Aldhani and the officer's reminder that if you're carrying a gun without regulation makes you a fucking idiot, but come on, it's to introduce Melshi), encourage Cassian to reunite with Bix, and remind Kleya that she's not alone, that she's got friends everywhere.

On the surface, all of these aforementioned scenes are good. I won't say I didn't enjoy Cassian and Vel toasting the people they lost; that was a great moment -- and I will never ever get over Faye Marsay's outstanding acting, from the throat tremble at hearing Cinta's name to the clear disdain in her eyes at the mention of Luthen. But it leads me back to what I said before: these scenes are in service to Kleya, Cassian, and Bix. To me, Vel felt like a megaphone to give off advice, and it hurt me because Vel shouldn't be a tool to be used. She's one of the main characters.

That said, I'm not too surprised Vel becomes underutilized after Cinta's death. Because Cinta's death is ultimately what leads to my main problem with Vel after s2e6. The problem with getting rid of Cinta for Vel's development is that, ultimately, it rends Vel's in two. The reason for this is that Vel and Cinta weren't just a couple. They were narratively built for each other. As I've previously established, Cinta is the ideal that Vel strives to live up to. Cinta is the hardened rebel, a survivor of genocide, someone whose entire society and culture have been stomped on and left behind by the Empire. She has nothing to her name but anger and her desire for revenge. She's in the Rebellion because there is no other choice for her. Vel, on the other hand, is a wealthy socialite with a family, something Cinta doesn't have. Vel joins the Rebellion because she cannot stand the injustice that the Empire brings. Vel chooses the Rebellion when many others in her position do not. While there are some CLEAR differences between Vel and Cinta, under the Rebellion? They are equals who challenged and bettered each other. Cinta was what Vel needed to see. But as it turns out, Vel was the reminder for Cinta that the fight means nothing if you've not got something to fight for.

Ironically, in making Cinta a tool to give Vel 'extra luggage', Andor S2 makes Vel less of a character and more of a weary operator pushing buttons to get 1) the plot going or 2) stick the knife in deeper to give more depth to Cassian and Bix's relationship, solely because by association she knows what it's like to be part of a 'right person, wrong time' relationship. Because yeah, let's have the lone queer in the Rebellion act like a suffering mediator of a heterosexual relationship. Masterful gambit, Mr Gilroy. It's not like we could have used that time for Vel to do literally anything else. It wouldn't have made Cinta's death any better, but I'd have at least liked to see Vel's grief play a significant part in her so-called arc. Instead, Vel becomes a passive character, and while I can see the argument that Cinta's death is the catalyst that forces Vel to mature and become a hardened warrior, stepping into Cinta's shadow and effectively becoming Cinta to keep her alive (yet another example of mirroring, btw) I ultimately find it contradictory to what Andor builds up about Vel.* Yes, Vel is fighting the Empire because she believes in what The Rebellion stands for, but it's also for a better tomorrow with Cinta. That's like, established in S1. So for Vel to be effectively punished for that feels like the weirdest condemnation ever. Oh Vel, you dared to love someone? Here's your reward: the tragedy of all tragedies. While other characters' arcs continue, Cinta's death puts a full stop to Vel's story. And I do mean Vel's story; I do not mean Kleya's, Mon's, or Cassian's. Vel's story. This essay is not about the future for Vel after the Andor S2 credits rolled; it is about what I'm being directly shown by the text. I am not interested in fanon interpretation of what happens with Vel afterwards.

*That's not even mentioning that I don't find it compelling for a white character to step into the shoes of the only queer WOC.

Anyway. This leads me to my conclusion on why Andor S2 fundamentally failed Vel. While Cassian walks off to his death, we get to see what the other main characters are doing by the end of S2. Kleya loses Luthen, but gets a sense of peace and fulfillment in knowing their hard work paid off with Yavin. Bix loses Cassian, but gets a baby to highlight the hope of fighting for the children of tomorrow (and you know I have opinions about that too). Wilmon gets domestic comfort with Dreena. Mon can be herself FULLY as the leader of the Rebellion, hopeful of a future where the empire is gone.

So, what's Vel's hopeful ending? Her commitment to the rebellion? The rebellion that she was already committed to even back in S1? That's Vel's ending? That's Vel's hope? Not the relationship she dreamed of with Cinta? I love Mon and Vel's relationship, and Vel reaching out to Kleya to show friendship is hopeful within itself, I acknowledge that. But again, particularly the latter, these moments are not about Vel. None of them represents Vel's own personal rebellion. Surely people realize how weirdly slanted that is towards your only alive queer character? Every other ending has a hopeful sheen to it except for Vel's. And I'm what, supposed to be happy that she's alive? Now don't get me wrong. I am! But Vel's arc being what, a lesson to always put the Rebellion first, to never want anything but the fight? That's the lesson you wish to teach those who care about Vel to take from her arc? It makes zero sense.

So, yes, Vel's arc of fighting for a better tomorrow with Cinta is crushed for no real reason, because Vel doesn't get the room to even grieve for Cinta afterward. Doesn't get the chance to even figure out who she is without Cinta before S2 ends. She ends up traumatized with grief and the future title of being the Last Survivor of Aldhani. And it just falls flat. It doesn't feel hopeful. It feels insulting. Oh, you've made the remaining queer character in your cast stuck with the most miserable ending out there?

This has never happened before. Ever!

[cuntestdoll]

! 001 ! INTRODUCTION 🪽,

names i go by ﹒ faye, barbie, doll

age ﹒ eighteen

race ﹒african american

likes ﹒pink, perfumes, reading, daydreaming, anime, older men AND women

kinks ﹒bd/sm, degradation, praise, sompnophilia, breeding, choking, bondage, impact play, edging, cockwarming

dislikes / dni ﹒people who can’t hold conversations or try and “dumb me down”, married or taken men, i don’t send my face nor nudes, minors, racist, and idiots are STILL gonna interact so idrc lmao

just here to entertain myself <3

[heartmaddie]

parfum d'étoiles | k.akaashi

introductions; hysteric glamouristas

⋆｡°✩ yn ln

she's face of the #ihatemybf movement , she's been dating suna since the first semester of her first year after the mess which was her high school love life (she thinks he's attractive and stuff but is off put by his personality - he's wannabe opium - but he's good enough for now) . yn's roommate/best friend is shimizu, and they got along as soon as they met each other, eventually leading to meet oikawa, kageyama and sakusa while they were thrifting in harajuku. yn liked sakusa's clothes and they became best friends as well. she likes artists such as fiona apple , mazzy star and faye webster but also takes a lot of inspiration from sunarin , which is why she loves playboi carti as well...

⋆｡°✩ shimizu kiyoko

she's a depop reseller but tries her hardest not to scam people... even though she totally can... she's quite popular around utokyo where she does her textiles and design course, but most of her followers are because she posts really good archival clothing on twitter before depop. her favourite things are parfait and textured fabrics, and she loves altering people's clothes - especially yn who always needs her jeans length changed.. her and sakusa are the only ones in hysteric glamouristas who are kind of normal and she hates suna as well, but thinks that yn shouldn't be leading him on like this. one time kiyoko was in shibuya and was interviewed by tokyo.sims and everyone thirsted over her in the comments.

⋆｡°✩ tooru oikawa

he posts thirst traps on tiktok so he's kind of popular at uni - but gets clowned on a bit.. people think he's attractive until they follow his twitter and realise he's a bit awkward and weird (think hamzah and martin awkward). he's a bit impulsive and annoying but ultimately means well for all of his friends. his favourite drink is cherry cola & he's still stuck in his brat summer even though it's chromakopia autumn.. he does like sunarin but that's simply because he buys him shots whenever they go out as a group - but he doesn't know it's because suna's amused by him. he's quite a central part of the group and it would be hella dry if it wasn't for him - yn and tooru bounce off each other quite well.

⋆｡°✩ kiyoomi sakusa

he's a fashion archive baddie and suna thinks that he's actually god but kiyoomi hates him. he got really popular because he used to post fit checked but then deleted them + made a new account. a lot of his followers r women 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️ he's kiyoko's n1 fan and always buys from her depop. kiyoomi really enjoys thrifting but absolutely hates the smell of the clothes afterwards - he washes them at least 3 times before wearing them. his favourite drink is water with a slice of lemon in it because fizzy drinks upset his stomach and he hates the taste of artificial flavouring. he likes brands such as vivienne westwood, chrome hearts, hysteric glamour but also gets a lot of his clothes personally tailored for him. a big fan of tom ford and gentle monsters.

⋆｡°✩ tobio kageyama

tobio is the only one in the groupchat who dgaf about what he's wearing, he will pull up to the function in a pair of sweatpants and a grey jumper but miwa forced him to buy some nicer clothes which he prefers to wear out now.... he wears tighter shirts because he likes how his arms look in them 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️. he's the youngest in the group but after sakusa he's the most mature - doesn't do dumb shit like kiyoko, yn and oikawa does. sometimes he wears graphic shirts. he really likes going shopping with yn because he doesn't need to talk because she'll do all of it anyways. but him and yn are pretty tight, he's a good listener even if his advice isn't up to par.

please consider liking , reblogging or following if you enjoyed send an ask or reply to the masterlist if you'd like to be on the taglist :p

taglist : @akaashislovee

©heartmaddie all rights reserved. please do not repost my work.

[chipthekeeper]

Faye Marsay - Vel Sartha

Mon Mothma’s cousin, Vel Sartha, straddles the line between scrappy rebel and polished Chandrilan socialite. For actor Faye Marsay, that’s been a delicate balance. “I think in Season 1 we saw, yes, she was a rebel. And, yes, she was very strong and her mind was on the rebellion. But, you saw her softness.” When Vel wasn’t leading the Aldhani heist or tracking targets for Luthen, she was reconnecting with Mon and stealing quiet moments with her girlfriend, Cinta Kaz. “We saw a side of Vel that was, I think, quite vulnerable.”

In keeping with the theme that each character is dealing with their own personal and private rebellion, Vel’s fight is partially to break free from her privileged upbringing. “She’s from a wealthy background, a very traditional — one might say conservative — background. And I think that never worked for her,” Marsay says. “There’s a real disconnect from her upbringing. She didn’t want to be a part of that world. Obviously, she’s gay and I think her rebellion is about finding a place that she’s comfortable in a world that reflects who she is.”

The only family members we’ve seen her interact with are Mon and Leida Mothma. But off screen Marsay is grateful to be a part of the larger Star Wars family. “I feel very lucky to be a part of the family. She’s compelling. On the one hand, you could look at her as just kind of a cold soldier for the rebellion. But there’s real heart there to Vel. and There’s a real conflict inside her about who she is and what she needs and what she wants.”

Varada Sethu - Cinta Kaz

In contrast to Vel, Varada Sethu’s deadly Cinta Kaz is more focused on the task at hand than on her personal desires. “Cinta Kaz is first and foremost a rebel and that’s how she prioritizes herself. She has constructed herself into a soldier against the Empire,” Sethu says. “I think it’s her identity. Her whole life’s purpose is to fight the Empire. And then there’s a little snag that’s come across, which is Vel. I think [Cinta] struggles to acknowledge that it’s OK to have that attachment.”

In Season 2, Sethu reprises the role, but promises Cinta’s black and white thinking will be challenged in new ways. “This season, I think it’s more fighting for a quality of life,” she says.

(just some stuff I had to share from the StarWars.com introduction to Andor season two cast)

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

IT’S YOU, HAPPY ALL THE TIME ─── jonathan breech ✧☾𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I ask Jessica what drowning feels like and she says not everything feels like something else." — ‘Jessica gives me a chill pill’, Angie Sijun Lou.

pairing. jonathan breech x reader

summary. you’ve bared your heart to your bestfriend, jonathan, more times than you can count, whilst knowing practically nothing at all about him. what is friendship if it is not equal… what is love if it is not returned? can your relationship survive such one-sidedness?

warnings. swearing, TW mention & description of suicide/attempts & depression, very introspective/kind of a character study???, alcohol & drug use, pining, ANGST!!!!, crying, fluff, smut with feelings, p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex (f), SMUT UNDER THE CUT! 

word count. 10k (WTF??!?!!??)

a/n. the title is from “she won’t go away” by faye webster:) btw this is… rly angsty (and SO long omg im still in shock) so beware🫡 ALSO IM SO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING IN WHILE!! SCHOOL IS KICKING MY BUTT & THIS FIC WAS AN ABSOLUTE MONSTER TO WRITE LMAO

i. 

There are very few words in your vocabulary you can use to accurately describe Jonathan Breech. 

The boy is an enigma, a matryoshka doll that never ends: he is witty and lighthearted and sarcastic, but you’ll always catch that edge, the air of malaise he carries around himself, the unspoken elephant in the room that screams WHO ARE YOU REALLY?

He had always been more of a figure, a landscape; something to witness, observe-- experience without letting it do the same to you. You don’t know if that’s something you want, either: there’s an imbalance in his hilarity, and he always takes things a step too far. Jonathan lights matches and lets them burn all the way down to his fingertips; he shaves and lets the blade leave stinging little nicks, rivulets of blood running down his neck; he chainsmokes cigarettes in his room and only opens the window when he feels his heart hammering in his chest, desperate for air. 

You meet him — or, first experience him in a similar fashion: he had been in the university library, standing on top of a creaky, old bookshelf, shouting something you couldn’t understand over the music blasting through your headphones. You could certainly see him though, gesturing animatedly, dressed eccentrically in his signature winter trapper hat and a velvet blazer. That thin, effeminate figure of his was making winding, marionette-ish steps along the wood, an action that had everyone readying themselves to catch his inevitable fall. 

Then, seemingly out of nowhere and catching you completely off guard, you caught his eye. He began stepping from one shaky shelf to the next, a complete miracle none of them toppled over, before stopping on one close enough for you to read his lips. 

“Hi,” he mouthed, shifting uneasily on his left foot before regaining a steady balance, “you’re in my class, right?”

You nodded, hesitantly— yes, truthfully, you’d seen him in your Introduction to Literary Studies course a couple of weeks ago, sporting the same outfit as he did now, but you thought nothing of him. He’d been generally well-behaved then, asking slightly odd but in-tune questions that more or less answered all your inquiries, so you didn’t think the guy would have a penchant for, well… book-shelf hopping. 

He grinned, about to say something else, before something — or someone, made him flinch. A professor, probably, considering the unintelligibly muffled, booming voice behind you. However, Jonathan made quick work of the situation, sneakily climbing down and escaping out the door. 

The next time you see him, he’s sidled up beside you in your shared class. “Mind if I sit here?” a familiar voice had asked, to which you murmured a non-committal knock y’self out, before realizing with wide eyes.  His presence had caught you off-guard, as he so often did, and you sensed a pattern blooming. 

Jonathan certainly made for an odd desk-partner; his personality warped the environment around you, and it was suddenly so much easier to tear your eyes away from the lecture and land on Jonathan’s own. It’s something you never thought you’d ever do, because you adore the material being taught. 

At the end of class, he asks you out for a drink: he’s just found the best Irish stout in the entire city, and what better way to make it known than to take anyone and everyone he knows there?

Rejection is written on your face clear as day— you have class tomorrow, an essay that needs to be finished, and honestly, pubs just aren’t really your scene. 

But in the end… you still bite. You can’t help it: he’s disarming and warm and looks like he should smell like a bonfire. Somehow, that just does it for your brain; it’s here you learn of the charm that is Jonathan Breech. 

That night goes everything and nothing like you expected: you expected not to be able to predict his actions, and that’s exactly what happens. When you meet Jonathan at the aforementioned pub, it’s not actually the one he’s meaning to take you to— it’s just the closest public place to the on-campus dorm, which is where he says he’s rooming. 

“‘ve got a neighbor m’pretty sure is trying to sleep with me,” he says absently, ushering you onto the back of his bike, which had been leaning against a NO PARKING sign. “He’s always toget’er wit’ our dorm advisor, so I should l reject him before I get kicked out, if y’get what I mean.”

Now, you honestly should’ve expected this from a guy who jumped from six-foot book shelves, but Jonathan’s biking is all swift turns and jilted stops, mere milliseconds from repeatedly running red lights. You want to ask if he just learned how to ride the thing yesterday, but can’t, not with how utterly reckless and shameless he is about it, his terrible steering making you instinctively wrap your arms around his chest. 

You clutch him tightly, making him hum in approval, and you feel your ears burn flusteredly. You would’ve pulled away, but then he cut from the right lane to the left in one swift move, barely missing several cars, and you practically shrieked instead. “Oh my god!”

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly. You can’t see his face, having shut your eyes in fear, but after hearing the blatant cheekiness in his tone, you can imagine clear as day how gleefully it contorts. You want to slap him somewhere, anywhere, but that’d defeat the point of being mad at his recklessness, so you squeeze him tighter instead, and he chokes on his breath. “Jesus-- m’sorry, really!”

When the two of you make it to the pub — alive and uninjured! — annoyingly all the way across town, your first few steps off his bike are stuttered, dizzy: “We are-- not going by bike next time,” you gasp, leaning against a random brick wall. 

“Next time, eh?” He grins, and this time you really do slap him— just on the arm, bless your self-control and niceties not to beat this oddly comfortable-to-be-around near-stranger to death. 

The pub, with its forgettable name and dingy stools, has a minimal, lackluster crowd. A kitschy neon sign flickers and dies as you walk in, making you raise a brow, but Jonathan merely drags you by the arm to a cozy corner table, then disappearing deeper within the venue before returning moments later with two pints of black beer in tow.

“Go on, then,” he gestures, setting the tall glass on the table, sitting down in the chair in front of you and taking a hearty sip of his own drink.

You let out a little hesitant sigh at his words, before relenting and taking in a long gulp of the liquid. “…Huh,” you remark, impressed. Jonathan smiled knowingly behind his glass, letting out a smug little ah, you see? 

“Worth the long ride?” he inquired innocently, as if that was the only thing wrong with the night.

“Worth the ride, but not worth almost dying for,” you rolled your eyes goodheartedly, knocking back the rest of the bitter drink and making him whistle. 

The rest of the night goes like this: Jonathan orders two more rounds of the quality Irish stout before the two’ve you are stumbling out of the pub, exploring all the nightlife there is to offer, like the crowd surrounding an out-door live comedy group performing down the street that has you and Jonathan giggling for hours after, or the underground speakeasy you accidentally find yourselves shoved into, a nasally guitarist singing on a smoky stage, several more drinks finding themselves in your system despite how nauseous you already feel.

“You-- d’you fancy him?” Jonathan slurs behind you, steadying himself by pressing his hands to your waist.

“F-fancy who?” you blink blearily, leaning into his warm touch.

“Who else m’I talkin’ about, girl? The singer!”

You shake your head no numbly, practically collapsing into his arms now, your head lulling on his chest. You’re so close you can smell the distinct scent of his skin, that unique musk everyone has, and it’s strangely familiar, like those smells that evoke old, nostalgic memories. It’s like how sunscreen summons the smell of the sun after a childhood beach day, or how vanilla extract takes you back to the smell of your mother’s baked goods on a specific winter evening.

“Reckoned you wouldn’t,” he assumes, hands coming away from your waist to wrap his arms around your shoulders, swaying to the music slightly in the crowded club, “looks like a -- right bleedin’ dope… wit’ that mop of hair.”

You giggle, alcohol riddled beyond belief, unable to formulate a response with the conflicting blurry thoughts in your head: it’s telling you Jonathan Breech isn’t the crowd you want, that you need to go home and work, that you let loose too easily— but it also tells you that you can see yourself becoming friends with him very, very quickly. 

It’s there, in that club, Jonathan Breech moves into your life and fills a gaping hole you didn’t know existed, like a hole in your stockings you only notice when you get home. You have friends, certainly, more than you can count on both hands, but they never get as close as Jonathan does. After that night, an unknown force pulls the two of you together, making you run into him everywhere, and a tight friendship blooms like a lilypad in a raging storm; beauty within the chaos. In the multitude of close friendships you’ve harbored, he is the first to see so many sides of you. The last thing that did was your mother; it had only ever been your mother. 

He is an endearing, amazing friend, both the intent listener and the charismatic speaker all at once; he knows his friends like the back of his hand, can recount their life like he can count the number of moles on his face-- but you, and everyone else, know absolutely nothing about him. 

At least, close to nothing-- you know he likes ice cream and hanging out and going to the pub; you know he likes biking and doing drugs and women; you know he hates the sea and his brother and his father, but you don’t know him. All you’ve ever seen him do is smile or laugh or shout in mock anger; there is a carefully glued mask on his face he takes meticulous caution in preserving-- he is terrified to let go, despite the blasé persona he lets on.

Or maybe the mysterious matter of your bestfriend is tripping you up for no reason; maybe you’re psychoanalyzing something that doesn’t need to be psychoanalyzed, reading between lines that don’t exist. But if you were asked to answer honestly, there’s just something about Jonathan you don’t get. There is a split seam in the tapestry of his life, missing pieces in the story he pretends to tell with utmost accuracy. There are things that he never talks about, that he recoils when asked like you’ve poked a tender wound. 

“So, what were you doing before… all this?” You ask him once, laying on his messy bed in his dorm-room and scanning the water-damage constellations dotted along his popcorn ceiling. By all this you mean going to university, being the resident party boy, aimlessly pursuing a degree you’re 99% sure he picked blindfolded (culinary science) and standing here, with you, snorting a line of something on his creaky wooden desk. 

Jonathan freezes, still hunched over. “What d’you-- what d’you mean?” he says, tone breezy but, uncharacteristically tense… jilted and preoccupied. You could’ve brushed it off as him being seriously focussed on his drugs, but the way he shifts, how his shoulders curl in like he wants to disappear, tells you otherwise. 

“I mean, before going to school here… y’know, what were you like as a dumb teenager?”

You two’re twenty, barely not-teenagers, but it still makes a world of a difference: you’re living away from home, doing what you want, experiencing (a juvenile, naive version of) freedom and adulthood.

“I dunno… kind of a tool, that's f’sure,” he chuckled, rubbing his nose roughly. He’s being funny on purpose, a jester’s distraction: he doesn’t want you to realize his answers’ not really one at all. 

You shifted on his bed, now leaning against his headboard. His answer strikes you as odd and uncharacteristic despite his attempts to evade suspicion: usually, Jonathan pounces at the chance to yap on and on. “What, the great Jonathan Breech doesn’t have any wild stories to tell? No bones broken, girls dumped, houses trashed?” 

He snorted at that, like some inside joke you weren’t privy to was brought up in your words, and he descended back down on a carefully partitioned line of white. “I broke my baby finger once,” he relented vaguely when he finished, dusting off the table and licking the remains off his hand. “I cried and I cried and I cried.”

“Did it hurt that much?” you grinned, mind trailing off to imagine a baby-faced Jonathan Breech, a juvenile highschool boy, doing something silly to break that finger. Maybe he accidentally flung off his bike, broke it because of a dare, or maybe it happened just by slipping and falling. 

“It - uh… didn’t hurt enough,” Jonathan smiled, tight-lipped and paltry. All at once the air in the room had changed, like someone attached a vacuum to the window and sucked everything out. 

Your grin fell, and you watched him carefully: perhaps, had you not been as close to him as you were, he’d have let something show. A twitch in the smile, a break in the facade. But you were, and his face stayed the same, and your thoughts ran circles around themselves. This was… something else, something belonging to the part of his life he didn’t talk about. 

The atmosphere had grown tense, taut, a rubber band twisted ‘round and round, threatening to burst, so you leave the matter of his injury alone; of his life alone. You go back to staring at his ceiling, he goes back to his drugs; Jonathan collapses within himself, and you don’t notice how badly he suffocates… how suffering in silence is also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found.

ii.

Sometimes, despite his self-imposed distance, Jonathan lets someone look inside his head. 

You are both the sometimes and the someone; you don’t know why it’s always you, but you chalk it up to the fact that beneath his unpredictable demeanor, the murky and unreadable feelings he holds for others, is this uncharacteristic constant: he holds a softness for you. It’s what lets you know there’s something haunted lurking beneath his happy-go-lucky surface. 

You don’t know where this softness comes from, either. But you know you see it, in lingering touches, tender duchenne smiles unlike the devilish tilt his lips usually hold, how he clasps his hand around yours after a night at the pub and walks you home because he knows you get paranoid. You see it in how he comes over to your apartment when you don’t answer anyone's calls during exam season, how he remembers what your mother’s name is and what your childhood pet was and what your favorite flowers are. How his lips brush past your cheek when he pulls away from hugs, his hands shuddering around your shoulders, like he’s afraid he’ll crush you.

You only wish you could do the same. You want to sit by his side and mend his heart, lend an ear to his most mundane fears, you want to take his hand into your own and kiss it softly, return all that he has done for you, take the same as you have given to him: what is friendship if it is not equal, what is love if it is not returned? It is something broken, unable; split halves of one heart, an imbalance in the scale, Bonnie without her Clyde, a fish out of water. 

Jonathan pours his heart into your own, filling holes you know you don’t have, and you think he may be overcompensating for something else, seeing things in you that really belong to him. It is maddening, and you just want to beg and plead he lets you in. 

But you settle for the gentle pokes, the prodding, and try to decipher the vague answers he gives you. Most days, you can’t really make sense of it. 

“Sorry,” you apologize, about to leave the outing you planned with Jonathan — studying, or, trying to study, at an intimate coffeebar the two of you frequented — “my dad’s gotten drunk with his lads and my mum needs help dragging him home.”

 “Hey, hey, don’t worry. I get it: my dad used to do that all the time,” he waves your words off casually, but you don’t miss how jilted he says used to and the pain in his tone at all the time.

“Oh, surely she was fit to go to the madhouse?” you laughed once, responding to Jonathan’s complaints about an eccentric classmate in his agricultural studies. He laughs back, he always does, but this one is hollow, forced; barely stopping a grimace from coloring his tone. 

You notice these things like it’s a shadow following someone in the sun. He is lying, hiding; about something you don’t know but it is happening. It is happening, and you are so very curious: you pick up on the littlest tendrils of him, fed wholly on any information you can squeeze out. He is a mystery you want to delve within completely; answer that question of WHO ARE YOU REALLY? and leave no room for error. 

You’d give yourself to him the very same if he merely asked; you’d whisper childhood fears and tell the origin stories of faded scars on your knees and why you check under your bed before sleeping. You’d detail your entire life from sunset birth to starry night end if he even made a passing comment about knowing; you would trust your love, your heart, your entire life in his beautiful, shaky hands. This is the relationship you have built around yourselves, and it is beginning to feel terribly one-sided. 

Alas, your curiosity overwhelms him, and you take it too far, just once. Only once. 

“Where’d this come from?” you murmur, brushing your fingers over a scar above his eyebrow. It’s something you see only now, his hair mussed and wild from the various blankets and pillows on your dinky couch. 

He’s crashing at your apartment tonight, an invited event, because you often miss him like you miss home; the boy is sneaky— he slinks away like a street cat and only comes back for food. It’s only fair he lets you wrangle him back like this, making him stay by your side at least once a week.  

Your words make him freeze, like he often does; it reminds you of hikers, who freeze when they see mountain lions— he thinks if he stops and stares and pretends to disappear you’ll look the other way, drop the question, forget him completely.

But you don’t. You don’t know what’s affecting him -- not that he wants you to -- so you just stare back into his cornflower blue eyes. You stop and stare and see right through him; you hold the question like a knife to his neck, and commit him to memory. 

“The scar?” Jonathan pales, shuddering despite it having long since been healed over. The aftershocks of an earthquake. 

You simply nod, fingers pulling away. You’re still closer than ever though, the two of you being the only things in your cramped concrete apartment, the chosen movie on your telly still running and long forgotten. 

Your attention remains on him, brandished into something dangerous, like you’ll carve the answer out of him if you have to— but the moment passes. He doesn’t say anything and you accept that as the answer. Gone is your razor-sharp focus, and there is nothing more to the matter. 

But Jonathan doesn’t register this, no, he’s thinking, gears in his head turning and creaking. His tongue grazes against the backs of his teeth, jaw chattering like it was as cold as it was when… as cold as it was back then, and he doesn’t want to tell anyone— but it’s you. You’re not just anyone. 

You’re the one he holds a certain softness for. The one he equally bares his heart to and holds the most secrets from. The one he’s most terrified to know. The only one he wants to know. 

So, he decides to tell a partial truth— something digestible. People adore that which can easily slide down the gullet: news headlines don’t detail the goriness of a murder, they give the “insider” scoop of the scared neighbor. To be able to digest information is what makes the world go round, and he does not think you could digest the full truth-- he does not think he wants you to. 

He feels ill at the thought of anything between you changing— oh, how ruined he’d feel if you began treating him like fucking glass.

This abhorrent social pressure is what makes Jonathan grit this sentence through his teeth: “I got into a car accident,” he gulps dry, “when I was nineteen. Was drunk… went fer a spin. I skidded off a -- um, an empty highway. The tall sorts; high up, y’know. Fell.”

His voice makes you look back up at him, and your eyes are beautiful and tense— it breaks his heart. He knows you’re probably thinking it was in-character, how expected that is of Jonathan Breech, how you’ll easily take this partial truth, how you’ll never know the full one until it comes in a letter under your door and he’s long gone. 

“Tell me,” you ask him, lips falling into a near-frown instead of laughing or grinning wider. It’s hushed, whispered like a secret, “What did it feel like? Falling, I mean.”

Jonathan licks his lips, bores his shaking gaze into your own, and tells you not everything feels like something else. That the word connotes all you need to know. Falling meant he was falling; his arms raised and the air took him and that was it. 

It makes your brows twist and your lips press into a thin line: his nonchalance is worrying, no more his signature characteristic— there is something wrong about this apathy toward injury, toward the potential death. 

“Is that how you broke your finger?” You murmur, and it startles him. How you pieced the two things together, how you weaved a web from what little you knew about him; how futile his attempts to hide could be.

“What?” he responds, hoarse. There is a lurking shadow in his bones telling him he’ll taint you, telling him to be ashamed, telling him how badly you will never be his. It is such a damning reality, that no matter how much he may yearn for you, he is too incomplete to meet your needs; he is too hurt not to hurt you too. 

“The car accident. Is that how you broke your pinkie?” you repeat, and you gripped his hand resting at your side, bringing it up to present the finger to him like he forgot where his pinkie was. 

Jonathan’s gaze darts from you to the finger, and he feels his insides quiver; so badly does he want to spill his entire soul to you. But that internal reminder -- hurt people hurt people hurt people -- makes him settle for nodding, parted lips locking closed. 

Nothing special happens that night, no shocking revelation or bombarded confession; Jonathan nods, keeps his lips sealed, and gets up from the couch, figure dreary and fatigued. He murmurs an incomplete excuse, something half-baked and blatantly unconvincing that he has to leave, and you let him go. You think you’re imagining the shudder in his shoulders, the shake in his voice as he says goodbye, and you let him go. 

It’s there, like that club so long ago, you discover another thing about Jonathan Breech: push too far and he shuts down, closes shop and puts up his guard forever. It’s the mere fact of how attentive you are to his words; you remember how he broke his finger, and he realizes he cannot hide from you any longer. 

You’re reaching a point in your friendship -- your relationship, no matter platonic or romantic for all lines have been crossed; nobody is so raw to one another with love not involved -- where you’ll bare your hearts on your sleeves, share your every thought and dream and fear. But Jonathan won’t be able to reciprocate, and the very thought of rejecting you, betraying you, makes his stomach twist in knots. That crestfallen face of yours would haunt him for all time, your every melancholy feature burning into his memory like the scars left by cigarettes on skin.

So he leaves, hurt people hurt people hurt people echoes in his ears all the way home; he turns into an alleyway shortcut and prays death swoops down and takes him right there. He leaves his consciousness curled lovingly in your arms; his shell walks home and prays you’re none the wiser. But you’ve already reached that point in your relationship; you already know. 

When people die, or friendships do, sometimes they end with just a goodbye, a mild, casual goodbye because you think there’ll be dozens, hundreds more-- but there won’t be. Suddenly, alone in that cramped apartment, the buzzing from the tv filling your ears, your couch still warm from someone long gone, you know.

You know you startled him, that he’s left your apartment and he’ll never come back. Your heart cools, and she whispers that you took it too far, that you crossed a line you were never made aware of, that when you see him in class tomorrow he might not sit next to you, he might not talk to you, that you might lose him forever because he is too stubborn to open up and you are too stubborn to let him go. 

Well, you were too stubborn to let him go. 

It’s three weeks before you speak to Jonathan again. Three long, dragging weeks, moments in time where he avoided your gaze, evaded your presence, slipped past you before you got too close. You certainly try, of course— you seek him out every chance you get, trying to get an I’m sorry, please talk to me out before he runs off, but it’s virtually impossible.

Once, after class, you’d caught him in the middle of a flurry of exiting students by the velvet blazer, your hands curled around the lapel. “Jonathan,” you panted, trying to drag him off to the side to escape the bustling activity around you, “please, we need to talk--“

But then Jonathan had faced you, eyes widened and spooked like he’d seen a ghost, a never-before-seen-by-you fear covering his gracefully cut features, before he tugged off the black blazer and escaped into the crowd. He had seen you, widened his eyes, left. Such a simple action tore your heart in two; it had confirmed your suspicions— you’d gone too far, he was never coming back, and you were all alone. There you stood, fingers wrapped around one of his favorite articles of clothing starkly without its beloved owner, completely alone. 

In three measly weeks, he has put up a biting winter of distance between you two. 

Your feelings are unable to comprehend themselves— they fight and sob and run circles around your mind, they make you doubt, crumble, devour yourself from the inside out; they make you ask yourself what you can do to salvage this, what can you do to fix this? What is there to make of him, of his behavior; what do you do with yourself and this guilt?

If you could imagine time was a construct, you were certain you could convince yourself this stretch of time was nothing… propel yourself into a present where Jonathan does not afflict your mind, take over your every thought— does not ruin you like so. If only you could do that, you could close your eyes and reopen them when you’ve let go. But you were always too stubborn to let him go, weren’t you?

It’s three weeks to the day before you speak to Jonathan again, and it happens through the crack of his dorm door, your arm wedged through it because you know he is not cruel; he will let you in without a doubt.  

“Please,” you plead to Jonathan, “just— I just want to talk. Please?”

He stares at you straight, expression cold and reserved, before he breaks and pulls away; bites his lip, lets you in his room, doesn’t look you in the eye. Looking around, you sense something in his dorm has changed; it had gained a bereft quality, like it was attuned to Jonathan’s state of mind and felt depressed beyond your comprehension. There was a cold air to the place, an utmost frigid demeanor to a room incredibly warm just weeks prior. In your absence, the dorm had been neglected, gutted, abandoned. 

“I’m sorry,” are the first words that tumble out of your mouth. “I- I know you don’t like… talking about -- about your life before here, and I’m sorry. But please, Jonathan, just talk to me. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

He sits down on the edge of his weak bedframe, pulling his knees up and pressing his face into them. “You don’t need to-- don’t… don’t apologize. You don’t need t’make it better, either. All’s grand.” he promises, words muffled and shaky. It’s a weeping kind of tone; you could just as easily imagine him sobbing with that voice. 

Your brows knit. Your emotions are wavering, treading brutally between disbelief, despair and rancor. “Then -- then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you avoid me? Why did you - why did we spend these last three weeks playing cat and mouse, if you weren’t mad at me? Is this your sick idea of a joke?”

“No! I-- jesus christ,” Jonathan looked up from his hands before immediately pressing two fingers between his eyes, “I wasn’t … avoiding you.”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks!” you point out painfully, exasperated. “You know, you’ve been avoiding me for longer than this. You— you push me away any chance you get. You’re afraid. I don’t know of what, but you’re- so fucking secretive, and it’s tearing me apart.”

“I’m not - afraid of anything. I’m just a private person— you know this. Would you, if I ‘pushed you away?!’” 

At his denying deflection, something within you snaps: “Why won’t you - fucking let me in? I’ve — I’ve bared my soul to you; you know me from the inside out. I trust you with my life— why, why can’t you do the same?”

“I didn’t ask you to do that! And I didn’t — I didn’t mean t’get so close to you, okay?!” He bursts, and you flinch. His hands shakily come up to his face once more; he wipes roughly but it’s no use— you’ve already seen his delicate tears threatening to spill, and it burns more holes in your heart than you thought his suffering would.

“What are you talking about?” you pry, now without any cautious reservations about his demeanor.

“I didn’t mean to get so fucking attached, because - ‘cause I…” Jonathan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, “fuck.”

“What?” you repeat, but it’s softer, concerned; how quickly his body language shifted from irritated to terrified has you scrambling to support him. “Talk to me,” you ask, taking nervous steps closer, like you were approaching a wounded animal.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and holds it, like he did cigarette smoke, before exhaling heavily. “Okay- okay. When I was - nineteen, I drove a car… I drove off a cliff and tried t’kill myself. I was-- admitted to a psychiatric hospital for a year, and when I got out I moved here f’school. I- I… promised m’self I wouldn’t let anyone get too close.”

The confession hangs in the air, a lonely little thing; it’s a bleeding piece of his own heart he’s plucked and placed in your palms. He shudders, and you want to nurture it like nothing else. This is a culmination of a year’s worth of evasion coming to a close; you’re seeing him completely, rawly, for the first time.

“But- but why? You don’t have to— Jonathan, you don’t need to do that just because you - you… y’know.”

“I’m- I know that,” he starts brashly, defensively. “It’s b’cause I am very, very aware of my - of m’own self destructiveness…” His words taper off into something of grief; the Sisyphean struggle of wanting to live, while that depressive boulder pushes him back, colors him completely. “I just… I didn’t want to - t’hurt anyone in case I -- in case next time I succeeded.”

“Next time?” you repeat, and your voice broke in a way you wish was less vulnerable, less blatantly miserable.

“This is why I didn’t want to—“ Jonathan sighs, deflates, “I’m not telling you this because I want you to - t’fucking save me, okay? I’m telling you this because you wanted to know, and I couldn’t hide from you anymore. Because you asked.”

“You didn’t need t’hide it in the first place!” you exclaimed, coming closer to him. “You’ve never had to hide a fucking ‘ting from me.”

“You wouldn’t have understood!” He said back, volume nearing a shout. “You’ll treat me differently now, you see, you’ll look at me fuckin’ different—“

It made your heart sink-- how sure his words were, how certain he was of your rejection. How little trust did he have in you? 

(You remember he wanted to sink, too-- lose himself in the baby blue sea; let it swallow him whole and never be seen again.)

“You - you really think I’ll treat y’differently because of this? You know my every crevice, my every thought-- I have never once doubted that you’ll accept me.”

“I-I… why should I - expect any of this to stay the same?”

Suddenly, you took his face into your hands. “Because I-- I fucking love you, okay? And it’s not just friendly, or romantic, even if it’s both— I’m… I love you like nothing I’ve ever loved before. I accept and adore your every skill and flaw and antic; you wormed your way into my heart and I want to worm my way into yours.”

“That doesn’t mean—“ Jonathan tried to interject, a noise all utter disbelief. You cut him off, though, continuing your sudden confession; you hadn’t been privy to these own romantic feelings of yours till moments prior, but everything being said just felt right. 

“Jonathan, I don’t care if you drove a car off a cliff or cyanide-poisoned our professor or blew something up, because I love you. You, with all your problems and great, big, beautiful life. All I want is for you to want that life; I want you to want me in it. I feel it in my bones that I’m meant to love you; you are meant to be my home, you are everything I am supposed to know. It won’t fix you or fix anything at all but I just need you to know-- I need you to know the why to my every action. It’s because I love you.”

He looked up at you, wide-eyed, head resting in your gentle hold. “I - don’t know what to say… are you - for real?”

“As real as can be,” you smiled back at him, tracing circles along his smooth skin; you could’ve drank in that attentive stare of his for hours upon hours. “I love you, and nothing and no-one, not even you, can change that.” An aching grip had clenched around your heart at his words, that blatant disbelief: are you for real? God, had you ever been-- had you ever fucking been. 

Jonathan’s mouth opened to speak, but instead, he let out an agonizing sort of cry; an exclamation of utter surprise at the loving acceptance. Then, he hesitantly leaned into your touch, as if he’d never hugged before, wrapping his arms around your waist to snatch you as close to him as possible. He held you tighter and tighter as the seconds went by, like this was all a mocking dream his yearning mind had made up; that if he closed his eyes now he’d wake up desolate, alone, without you for eternity. His worst nightmare. 

“…God, I’m so - fucking stupid,” he grumbled, sounding angry, but you could feel vulnerable, hot tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt. “To assume you, of all people, would act that way… you of all people.” He said that tenderly; you of all people certainly meant miles more things you weren’t explicitly aware of, but you still felt the sentiment. “I’m not -- poetic or anything like that… but I love you, too.”

You chuckled a beautiful, wet laugh. “You don’t hafta’ say anything sweet or special. You’re everything to me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, before wrapping his fingers around your wrist and pulling you onto the mattress with him. He flipped you beneath him, and held himself up by the forearms laying on either side of your head. “Fuck, I love you. I love you.” Jonathan repeated the words several more times, strange and foreign but right at home being said to you. Like his mouth was made to only ever say I love you to you. 

Suddenly, you pressed your lips to his, shutting him up momentarily. You could still feel the vibrations of I love you rumbling in his throat as you kissed him. Your tongues danced along one another, an all consuming waltz; you wanted to know everything about him, down to the taste of his tongue, memorize how sweet his mouth felt on yours. Oh, how you longed for this moment; how could you ever think about love again, and yearn for it, without thinking of Jonathan?

You reckoned that’s what this had been the whole time; your love started as a little flame, something under the guise of friendship, but the two of you had fanned it, nurtured it-- all of a sudden the miniature warmth of platonic love burst into a raging, adoring fire. You’d fed this flame with tenderness, and it responded in kind; you could never again look at Jonathan without a certain intimate reverie. Perhaps that’d been why Jonathan found it so hard to cut off this relationship as he had dozens others: something primal and unconscious within him had begged him not to let you go— some higher being knew his home was only ever in your arms. 

Jonathan deepened the kiss hungrily, pressing his weight onto you and pushing you into the mattress. Your head was spinning from the lack of air, and one of your hands had to sneak beneath his hat and tug at his hair to get him to stop. “Hey,” you panted, looking worriedly into his eyes, “what’s up?”

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, hanging his head lowly for a moment before meeting your gaze once more, batting his long lashes. “Jus’ missed you. Thas’ all.”

“Missed y’too,” you murmured, pulling him back down to kiss you again. Your hands left the crown of his head and trailed down his backside, tracing over the curves and bumps of his frumpy yellow v-neck sweater. 

That touch of yours seemed to spur him on even more, and his kisses began to travel; along your jaw, to your pulse, down the long ravine of your neck, tongue darting out to lick the hollow of your collarbone, making you squeal. He chuckled against your skin, a genuine amusement rather than the mocking one you two so frequently practiced, and it all went downhill from there. His hands skillfully tugged off your tank top, knee between your clenched thighs, more teasing kisses being planted along your now bare -- save for your bra -- chest.

You didn’t mean to come over, profess your love and suddenly jump into a steamy, yearning makeout session (which, you were pretty sure was venturing off into sex…) but you supposed that apologizing— arguing, whatever —meant your relationship went back on track to wherever it was heading… which may have been set to end with an ardor romance anyway. This love of yours would’ve bursted at the seams of friendship; it could not be confined by such mere things as labels. 

“Fuck,” you groaned, arching into his teasing kisses along the peaks of your breasts, his hands ghosting around your clothed chest but never touching. “Please, Jon.”

You could feel his cheeky grin on your skin, “Tell me what you want, love.”

“…Take this off,” you demanded gently, referring to Jonathan’s sweater.

“Your wish is my command.” he snickered, obliging and removing the yellow knit-- as well as his white undershirt and pajama bottoms. He was left in a pair of boxer-shorts and that silly, silly winter-trapper hat, his fingers sneaking up to your supple thighs and tickling the edges of your jean-shorts; a silent plea. 

“Eager,” you mumbled, noticing his over-compliance in completely stripping, smiling and guiding his hands to the waistband of your shorts to tug the tight article off. 

When he did so, you shivered, both at the feeling of being only in your underwear, as well as Jonathan’s sharp, attentive gaze. “You’re so beautiful,” he panted, eyes exploring your every sweet feature. 

He was enamored with your bare body, not in a sexual way despite the blatantly sexual situation, but rather in a worshiping, religiously devoted way. It may’ve been blasphemous to think so, but Jonathan’s sudden chaste kisses along the curve of waist only seemed to prove you right; his mouth on you was gentle, like he’d held you before, except now without any guilt or hesitation. It was a holy way of loving you; something all-consuming, becoming the epicenter of a life, becoming the purpose, motivation, and belief all at once. 

That familiar broiling in your gut occurred as he made his way closer to the pulsing, lace-covered place between your legs; your hands were gripping the sheets tightly in pure anticipation, his hot breath on your sensitive skin. “Don’t be such a tease,” you pouted, legs fumbling for purchase along his body, trying to pull him closer to you.

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he hummed, but his fingers still curled into the band of your baby-blue panties and dragged them down in one desperate go, “but I do wanna taste you….”

Jonathan’s veiny hands pried your quivering thighs apart, murmuring an offhand already stole y’panties, don’t get all shy on me now when you whimpered flusteredly, before he descended on your dripping lips, licking a flat-tongued stripe up to your clit. 

You gasped at the sudden action, but it quickly morphed into a choked moan when he pressed himself further and parted your lips, nose to your pelvic bone; he made quick work of you, artfully curling his long tongue into your hole and slurping your slick. 

“So sweet,” he praised, the vibrations of his voice making your thighs clench around his head. He hummed in amusement at your reaction, lapping you up quicker; he kitten-licked and slobbered, feeding on your sticky cunt, tongue darting in every direction, feeling your walls and prying deeper into your hot hole, which ached for the cock straining against the mattress now. The bottom half of Jonathan’s face was now positively soaked, glistening with his own drool and your needy wetness, all of it mixing dirtily and sliding down the length of his neck. 

“Jon!” you mewled, hands tearing off his trapper hat and flinging it elsewhere before curling your hands into his mousy brown hair and pushing his face deeper into your pussy, desperate to come. You were riding his face now — or, attempting to, more accurately bucking up into him — adoring his unceasing ministrations. He was basically fucking you with his tongue, overstimulating your clit with teasing licks then pulling away, feeling along the ridges of your walls.

“Pick m’hat up later, love,” he tutted, pulling away slightly to see where you’d haphazardly thrown it, and your desperate whine neared a sob. He breathed in sharply, taking in how quickly he’d undone you: in a matter of minutes, your expression had grown wanton, eyes blown out, drooling, hair askew, bra riding up your tits and revealing your sweet, puffy nipples. 

Jonathan quickly forgot about the state of his beloved hat, and went back down on you, mouth devouring in full force once again. You rolled your hips forward, and when he pulled his tongue out of your wet hole to suckle softly on your fleshy nub, your eyes rolled back into your head and your legs shook around his face, toes curling tightly. A choked moan left you alongside the sudden climax, sounding a hundred percent pornographic and all for him. 

You panted, silent and unmoving for a moment, and Jonathan began moving to get up and let you take a breather before continuing, absolutely terrified to push you too far or do anything you didn’t want to do— he was the spontaneous one, and you were the responsible one, but that didn’t mean he ever wanted to force anything upon you. His simultaneous decisions were made mostly in part with your interests in mind; he made the decisions you were too nervous and over-thinking to choose quicker. 

However, you took a long breath, then trailed your hand over the painfully noticeable bulge within his soft boxers. “Wan’… make you feel good,” you murmured, flattening your hand against his erection. 

Jonathan inhaled sharply, pitifully affected by the minor touch but holding back with an incredible amount of self restraint. “I can wait,” he offered sweetly, one of his hands coming up to your flattened hand’s forearm to rub the skin. 

You shook your head foggily, cupping him through the fabric, slowly adding friction by sliding your hand up and down. 

“S-shit,” he bit his lip, “you want this now, baby?”

You nodded vehemently with a whimper, and to make more of a point, you reached behind and unclasped your bra, tossing it elsewhere on his dirty dorm floor, before beginning to slip off his underwear. 

The hand on your arm stopped you, though, in favor of doing it himself and pressing his weight further onto you, your chests flush with one another. You were only able to take in thin breaths, making your head spin, but it also amplified the  arousal blooming in your cunt when Jonathan slotted himself at your soaking entrance, collecting his saliva and your slick on his tip. 

Before he pushed in, however, his head dipped into the hollow of your neck, plush lips brushing past the shell of your ear. “Is this okay?” he murmured, pressing a wet kiss to your temple. 

“Please,” you whined, hands pushing flat on his back to bring him closer to you.

With that, Jonathan slowly buried his length within your cunt, making your breath hitch. “I love you,” he groaned, entering you inch by inch, relishing how your warmth swallowed him whole. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

Your hole was stuffed beyond belief, but Jonathan was gentle with you, caressing your waist with the rough pads of his fingers and massaging you, trying to ease his entrance into something painless. Obviously, with that length and thickness it couldn’t be painless at all, but his attempts helped your mind drift off elsewhere and take some of the attention off the stinging stretch. 

After a long moment of ragged breathing, Jonathan cooing words of praise into your neck as he kissed you without moving, you dug your fingers into the skin of his back: “More,” you choked out, the fullness in your cunt now feeling delicious rather than cringeworthy. 

He smirked against your skin, “Looks like you’re t’eager one now.”

“Oh, get on with it,” you rasped and he let out a low chuckle, sliding out of your hole before thrusting back in. That first movement already made your hips jerk up into him, back arching. It was like all the warmth in your body had collected in your cunt, leaving you freezing from the tips of your toes to the top of your head, but still with a needy, burning fire in your insides. 

Jonathan’s pace was affectionate and rhythmic: you could feel the tenderness in his each and every gentle roll of the hips. It made you feel like the sun, how attentive he was, but he was also so fucking slow. If anything, that had your walls clenching onto him harder than if he hammered into you— that slow build-up of friction was dizzying. You squirmed, cunt clenching and contracting around his smooth thrusts— you wanted to take him within you completely, cause more friction for you were going stir-crazy with this lazy speed. 

“F-fuck! Faster, please,” you cried out, unable to take his sensual movements any longer. Your legs were twitching with his patient movements, and you could’ve sworn you saw a cheeky grin on his lips. The bastard— even in sex was he teasing you, wanting to torture you until you gave in to the pleasure and begged him to ruin you.  

Sure, this was your first time together, and was going extremely pleasantly and sweetly, but you were actually pretty fond of the idea of letting him pound into you like there was no tomorrow… 

At the lewd thought, your walls pulsed around his cock, making him buck up unintentionally, hitting that sweet spot within you. He grunted at the feeling of your tightened cunt, while you cried out his name, pleasure running like a current through your body. Your face was on fire, reminiscent of a raging fever, and your insides were coiling— god, how did his cock just feel so perfect within you?

“Oh,” he grinned in a pant, “found y’spot, didn’t I?”

Jonathan didn’t give you a chance to speak before he pulled out so far his tip was the only thing in your hole, before slamming back in and making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Props to him-- he hit your g-spot with utmost accuracy, and you let out a long, stuttered mewl, scratching at his freckled back, legs twitching. Your wail was almost catatonic, loud and cock-drunk, dripping unabashed, filthy pleasure. 

“Makin’ such sweet noises f’me,” he praised huskily, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, “fuck, ‘ve gotta hear that again.”

He must’ve noticed your neediness earlier, when he was slow and languid, for the new speed he set was double- no, triple that: his hips were snapping against yours, balls smacking filthily against your lips, left hand pinning your hips down and letting him sink into you faster. Shocks of pleasure tore through you at the sudden increase in speed- he’d inured you so well to the torturously slow pace from earlier that this new frenzied one felt like getting hit by a bullet train. You were overstimulated and needing more of him all at once, practically vibrating with need under his touch. 

“I’ve- hnngh- wanted this…” you gasped between moans, “f-for so long…”

“Wanted m’cock?” Jonathan questioned in a hiss, feeling with his every inch how your walls absolutely soaked him. His tone was, obviously, sarcastic, but it still made you feel incredibly lewd. 

You shook your head numbly, “Wanted you… I love you, Jon!”

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he purred, fucking you faster and making you writhe beneath him, “love you s’much.”

Jonathan targeted the spongy, swollen spot deep within your cunt, suddenly filled with a renewed vigor and motivation to make you come as quickly as possible, and he pounded into that one, specific spot, watching how you twitched and squirmed, heavy moans exiting you. He was relentless, hands reaching to hook under your knees and spread you wider. 

At the new angle, his cock penetrated you even deeper, fuller, which you thought wasn’t possible with how goddamn full you already felt, but when his thick cockhead brushed up against your cervix you thought you were going to burst. Then, one of his hands came up to your tits to knead the flesh, and you squeaked when he tweaked your soft nipples. He was pawing at your sweet tits, fondling you in a needy, boyish way, like yours were the first pair of boobs he’d ever felt. 

“M’close!” you gasped, mind going fuzzy with pure ecstacy. Your skin prickled with goosebumps, cold  sweat running down your spine, a terribly stark in contrast feeling to the warmth buzzing under your skin. 

“C-can’t last much longer either,” he choked, still pumping in and out of your sticky hole and savoring the feeling of your tight warmness on his long length. He looked absolutely exquisite above you, and you lost yourself in the ethereal picture. Maybe you were in love, or maybe he really was just an empyrean beauty; you took in the sight of his focussed iceberg blue eyes, the cute flush spreading along his pale cheeks and bare chest, how he bit his pink lips to muffle his needy grunts and moans. 

Then, you mewled and convulsed around him, your walls spasming and contracting as you came undone, reaching the precipice of your pleasure. That made him fall off the edge— you had tensed all over- all over, and Jonathan couldn’t help how his hips stuttered, knees buckled, cock twitched; he only gave one last, powerful thrust into you before spilling himself inside of you. He painted your soft walls white, and you felt that familiar heat spreading within you; you welcomed it completely, and wanted such warmth to be there forever. 

You milked him for every last drop, cunt like a vice grip, and Jonathan gave you another wet kiss, this time on your lips, and your hands wrapped around his neck, allowing you to kiss him back. Your brows knitted at the sour taste of yourself on his lips, but it just made everything feel so real— Jonathan and you had “made love”. It was a phrase you always wrinkled your nose at, feeling uncomfortable and juvenile at the intimacy it entailed, but now you understood it completely. 

“I love you,” you repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, unable to say anything else that conveyed what you felt for him. 

Honestly, you weren’t sure anything could accurately do so— you felt infinitely about him, your love touching all edges of your mind, heart and soul, filling you completely. You supposed you felt about Jonathan how the sun felt about the moon— without one, there could not be the other. 

“I love you-- too,” he responded, pausing in the middle at the aftershocks of your orgasm, which had caused you to tighten around his softening, sensitive cock for a second. 

You peered deep into his baby-blue eyes, watching the utter love that coloured them; it was like submerging yourself in a great blue ocean, except you didn’t want to come out, because you knew you wouldn’t drown in those eyes. No, you knew Jonathan would always be there to pull you out. 

Speaking of pulling out… Jonathan slipped himself out of you softly, careful not to agitate that first stretch any more than necessary, before collapsing back into your arms. The two of you tangled yourselves in a messy flurry of limbs on his cushy mattress, sweaty and breathy, something that should’ve been terribly uncomfortable but just wasn’t— you swore you could fall asleep anywhere, no matter your own state or the circumstance, as long as you were with him. 

Blearily, both your eyes began to droop, until you gave into the familiar presence of deep, dark sleep. It was a dreamless sleep for you, but you had an ever present comfort at his weight on yours, something you could feel even in unconsciousness. 

Hours later, in a brisk, shuddering early-morning that you felt all over due to Jonathan’s unruly habit of opening his window at the peak of the day’s hottest weather and forgetting to close it before cold nightfall fell, you awoke to Jonathan watching you carefully, so close you could feel his warm exhales of breath on your cheek. 

There was no goodmorning or anything like that, just pure, uninhibited being, reveling in the space you two occupied together. Like you two were the only things left in the world. 

When Jonathan noticed you woke up, he shifted, presumably to extract himself from your grip. You stopped him, though, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and bringing him closer to you.

“What did it feel like?” you asked instead, for the last time. You brushed your fingers over his scar, and, knowing exactly what you were asking, this time Jonathan doesn’t flinch away. This time, he leans into your touch: it doesn’t burn, not anymore, and he wants your tenderness to swallow him whole. 

You didn’t mean what it actually felt like, of course. You meant, what were you thinking? What have you done, and what will you do to yourself? You meant, I love you.

“It felt like,” falling; not everything feels like something else; I raised my arms and the air took me and that was it-- “it felt like… giving in. Letting my desperation find its purpose. It felt like I’d reached a point of peace… gained clarity after a long stretching, wounded moment came to an end. It felt like becoming something only meant to be talked about in past tense.”

You don’t say anything to that; you know he doesn’t want you to. There’s no need for you to hush or plead or make better, you just need to listen, and love him. He knows you accept him for everything he is, all his flaws and his strengths; he knows your love is all accepting- it veers on saintly. 

At your silence, he melts into your arms and you can finally relax; there is an admission in the action, a release, an acknowledgement -- is suffering in silence not also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found? -- you have found him, at last, and you will never, ever let go.

You take it too far, just once. Only once. And you let him go just once, only once; never again.