Reply to @melisanextdoor 🔥🥀 what do you think the story behind this painting is? #art #painting
Hey this has nothing to do with anything else but im just publishing some random stuff i wrote. let me know if this is something youd like to see more of this is the tiktok that inspired me
https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTRmFSeor/
and i know yall are like "avo, how did you get this from a painting of a guy" idk. i wrote it last year. were gonna accept some things and move on
"your prompt is 'tension'"
It was hard to be anything but tense. constant criticism, the need to be on the cutting edge of art in all you do, but make it look easy, because artists make art the way that humans make breath. it is in their essential nature. it is not in mine.
I draw my furrowed brow, and i draw my clenched teeth. the face on the canvas stares back at me, hungry, waiting to devour me should i mess up her materializing form. there is rage and contempt in her eyes. she fits right in with the eyes of everyone else in the room. but hee hunger is met by my pride, and my eyes stare back and my brow settles in the same grimacing form. i may not be perfect, and it may not be easy, but neither is she. even though thats my fault anyway. It is in painting that i am reminded of just how short i fall. an imperfect portait of an imperfect artist. i fail to make her stick, just as the patchworked façade of my being tears at the seams, oil seperaring from pigment, woman sperating from god.
time is called, and my hands still over her face, there is no more time left to perfect. she is immortilized how she is. she is lucky in a way, there is no more work to be done in maintaining her countenance, she will simply be until her canvas is destroyed and she returns to paint and fiber. i, however, must continue, and paint my face in every second. i am tortured, but not in pain. i am starving, but not hungry. intensity without substance, a force with no magnitude. paint the face. paint the face.
i turn the easel, and all the works of those around me face the center. i look and see entwined hands, longing gazes, contasted colors. i see their tension and for one spectacular moment, it all falls short. i have captured tension, they have fallen short. they capture irritation, lust, perhaps the horrific clah in colors could be passed a revoltion. but i have created and captured tension, and i am satisfied for a small proud moment.
But from the corner, i see the same shades of hazel and grey, washing out the canvas in swirling tempest. Ruefully, i saw my painting draw itself up from its flows, bursting out of the patina to rip my eyes from my skull. And I saw how I tore back at her, two deformed, bloodied faces and the deep resentment that raged between them. How revolting, how nauseating to be captured in such a moment of pure self-loathing, and yet that feeling lived more intensely now within. Disgraceful, my own fury and grotesque motions have been frozen, and all could see the way the veneer of composure chipped away when eyes turned away. I looked back to what i had created, so lacking in substance now. The disgust i felt sat unnoticed in my own art, yet captured so quickly by a stranger. And there they stood, with my victorious grin and cocked brow plastered firmly onto another face.
There is tension, then resentment, then where i sat: pure, primal, loathing.
Warnings: broken arm, hurt comfort, irl fall damage
Xyx was no stranger to pain, or even to broken bones. He knows exactly how that pain ripples through the body, solidifying into a ball in your stomach. But he was not prepared for the way pain felt when it was held in your eyes. You had fallen from a rock wall you two had been climbing, coming down on your wrist badly. When you were in pain, it felt like static, crumbling in his dry mouth. Your tears raged at his heart, he moved to hold you, cradling you as you cradled your arm. He very carefully led you to the passenger's seat of your car, navigating cautiously to the ER. His eyes turned to you nervously throughout the drive, furrowing his brows at how weak you looked, eyelids drooping, sitting quietly. He was irritable with the staff in the emergency room, short from the long wait. He sat with tented hands, tapping his foot in the chair next to your bed. Soon, you were taken to get x-rayed, and much to XYX’s dismay, he could not come with you. He ran his hand through his hair, puffing his cheeks with regret at his actions. If only he had been more careful with you, if only he had checked to see if the grip was large enough. He was filled with deep shame. He stood when you reentered the room, resting his hand on the shoulder of your good arm, kissing the crown of your head softly, vowing to keep you safe next time. Your doctor soon came with your scans, confirming a hairline fracture near your wrist. Nurses were sent to fit you for a cast. You joked that you would get a green one, to match his eyes. He winced, the association of your pain with any part of him wounding him slightly. In the end, you chose to get your favorite color, since it would be your companion for the next 6 weeks. Once home, XYX would hear nothing of you doing work until you had healed. He loyally tended to you, bringing you food, and even building a plastic sleeve to fit around it during showers. He would happily assist you in washing your hair until the cast came off, but didn’t seem to be able to resist the somewhat lewd comments he made. He is still himself after all. He’s very happy to see the cast come off, though the saw makes him nervous. All that healing, to get cut? He knows from his own casts that the saw won’t cut through, but what if this time, it did? Sweet worrywart, y’all go home happy and healed, with a fun story to tell later. Just don't crack your wrists after, makes him upset.
Chapter 2! With no wait time in between, my loves. Enjoy, be merry, you get some cute stuff at the end i was heehee hahaing about while writing :) just the same stuff as before.
February 14th, 1941
I pulled my hands out of his grasp quickly, desperately trying to read the smirk that played upon his lips. His eyes sparkled vibrantly, squinting when he chuckled at me. His expression puzzled me, but mine was less inscrutable than I would’ve hoped.
“Jumpy, are we? You’ll get used to me eventually, doll.” He retook my hand, lacing his fingers with mine, never looking away as he did. His hands were warm, but felt awkward in mine. It almost hurt how far the bones stretched, aching up my arm.
“Why are you touching me?”
“We’re married, I’m meant to be touching you all the time, or at least trying to.” his eyebrows raised slightly as my irritation soared. “At the very least we should pretend to like each other. It’s the job, Nora.”
“Her name- My name is Eleanora.”
“And men are so prone to calling their wives by their full legal names, yes?” He smiled, leaning into my face. My mouth hung open slightly as he turned back to the handlers. I tried deeply to listen to their words, but my attention was brought back to my hand in his, the way he ran his thumb across mine. I gritted my teeth against it, seeking distraction in anything else. I ran my eyes across the side of his face, studying this deeply troubling coworker I had been saddled with. My eyes traced the planes of his skin, a faint scar resting in the corner of his lips, matched with one across his furrowed brow. Those green eyes, now so trained on the men before us. His jaw was set as he focused on the task at hand, nodding softly at times, never wavering in his focus. All the sarcasm from moments before had evaporated, leaving behind an even-tempered man with a task set before him that he was determined to meet.
“Well then, all that’s settled? We can move onto the pictures now.”
—
“For you, most beloved,” he grinned, passing me a pink box, ornately decorated with ribbons. It seemed a crime to create something so lovely and perfect, only to destroy it to fulfill its purpose. I turned the box to each side slowly, inspecting it for a place to unravel it while sparing the art that the box itself was. The incomparable joy, a gift for my very own, to unwrap with joy and care, to reveal what lay inside.
“I promise, the ribbons are not the gift. You don’t need to be so careful with them.”
“Well, they are beautiful, no? It would be a shame to waste them. I could use the ribbons for my hair, and use the paper again someday” I ran my fingers across the soft satin, the tips hitting the box as it was pulled from my lap.
An animal. All that craftsmanship in the wrapping, all the effort and thought put into its appearance, laid to waste in seconds. He had destroyed it all, without a care. He fished a pearl necklace out, dangling it before my face like a piece of meat before a hungry dog. “Here, take it.”
I seethed. I snatched the necklace from his hands, eyes boring into his with indignation and fury as I clasped it on to my neck. I huffed to the camera and those behind it.
“Eleanora, please. A smile, that’s a very expensive necklace you’ve been given.” I gritted my teeth as best I could, lifting a hand to touch the suspended pearls. They were smooth, as the ribbons had been, and shone the way the paper did in light. There was an ache for their beauty, and how little it meant to the man next to me. With the picture taken, my cheeks dropped, and my frown nestled back onto my face. Giancarlo raised an eyebrow at me, incredulously.
“You’re not still upset about the wrapping are you? You can have all the ribbons and paper you want when we reach our post, I can assure you of that.”
Anger crawled out of my lungs and viced around my arms, contorting my spine to face him, rage pouring from every inch of my body in hot, pulsing waves. “Fuck you and your ribbons and your paper. They were mine. Leave me be, or you’ll find yourself strangled by this damned necklace by morning.” His mouth hung agape, shocked by my response, evidently. I turned on my heel, leaving him where he stood, the necklace in his hand.
The ensuing hours passed in a blur of clothing, changing hair from down to plaited to tied tightly in a bun. Makeup was applied, then swiftly wiped off, in slight variations. I endured a series of Christmases, all marked with a tree, but with new decorations added to the periphery between shots. There was a pause, with us each holding a gift, beaming at each other in painfully tight smiles. I doubted deeply the likelihood of this convincing a sardine that humans were capable of affection, let alone a human with rational thought that these two in particular were madly and deeply in love.
As we set up for another picture, a small box was brought out towards us. Giancarlo opened the top, and a soft furry head rose out of it. A small cat blinked at him, both looking equally surprised to be in this situation.
“A cat? Why?” He asked, looking at each person in the room, even me. As if I could've answered for what sat before him.
“A pet is an indicator of a purposefully committed relationship. Any two idiots can accidentally create a child, but accidentally getting a pet is significantly harder. And now, there are pictures of how Giancarlo surprised you with a cat for your 3rd Christmas together. Act happy, it was a lovely gift and very considerate of your husband.” The American handler looked at us sternly, raising his eyebrows like a child-minder would, instructing a petulant child to use their manners.
“The cat is a liability. I’m sure the American will get attached to it and lose his mind to cat scratch fever. We can’t afford to have distractions like this running around us, we have a job to do.”
“Eleanora, I know you’re new to this and all, but you will soon find out that this is your job. The majority of your time in place will be waiting for someone to give you an order. The little action-oriented affair you have deluded yourself into feeling entitled to is just that: entitled delusion. So you’re gonna smile for the picture and kiss the cat. And you’re gonna feed the cat and grocery shop and gossip with the other wives because you are meant to simply stay alive until we have reason to use you. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.” My husband simply nodded, awkwardly lifting the cat out of the box.
“You know, I’m not one for cats either, but it will be alright. They take care of themselves, mostly.” He whispered. The photographer readied the camera, and a beam of light poured over our frozen faces. He pet the cat, who seemed startled by the goings-on about him. “Just keep your head down for now, we can figure this out later.” I began to say something, but was interrupted as we moved to another set. We stood in what must be a Church, from the drawings I was given during my education. Images of saints circled the room. I felt like a caged animal, no escape from what would happen next.
Stained glass poured colored light onto our heads, both looking every bit the part for two angels, set to be wed. I looked down at my dress, stark white. I supposed the lace was meant to seem romantic, to reflect the purity and innocence of this moment, but nothing could cover how sterile the glow of it felt, how foreign it seemed against a backdrop of wooden pews, upholstered with soft, worn velvet. I looked before the slain savior, affixed to a cross before the pews. How odd to show this moment, one of death, of turmoil, of grief. And yet perhaps, I felt the kinship with that man that the Christians of the West did, how he was martyred for a God much greater than he, of the crushing weight of a moment never to be undone. Of a world, created not by your action, but by your passivity. His face displayed not agony from the wounds on his rib and hands, but rather a resigned, dutiful frown. I had always hated mirrors, in all the ways they chose to manifest. But some laws of the world are unchanging. The price of peace, of prosperity, of paradise brought to earth, was sacrifice.
A veil covered my face, obscuring the moment posed before me. Cut off from my surroundings, and from any happiness displayed in this moment. It was untouchable to me, the bride, the prop. The groom lifted the gauze that separated us, and I shut my eyes tightly for the next moment to be immortalized. If it had to happen, I would not witness it.
His lips were warm, and softer than I would have expected them to feel on mine. He rested there for a moment, his breath softly fanning against my cheek, which he cradled with his hand. The other slowly trailed to mine, making me gasp and pull away.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured against my lips. “You look too stiff. Just, just touch me a bit. Here.” He placed my hand on his chest, scanning my eyes. “Just this once, for the picture.” He wet his lips quickly, and kissed me again, a bit breathlessly, and with more fervor than one would expect in the house of God. I did my best to soften into him, and at some level it did not feel like a burden. Beyond my anger, and beyond his arrogance, there was a small quiet enjoyed in that moment as we pulled away, our eyes locked in trance. He cleared his throat and I turned away, turning the ring on my hand as I snuck furtive glances at him. How cruel to wrap something so deeply atrocious so very nicely. I hoped, for my sake, for the world’s sake, that he would not be so haphazard, so reckless as he had been, with this new gift, something once again, of my very own.
Sorry for the hiatus, lost all motivation. I really love this story idea, honestly, but it needed an overhaul. That being said, avobabes, meet the longform fic. I hope to update semi-regularly, and hopefully care not-too-much about how it performs.
Spy!XYX x Spy!FemOC
Contains: Fake marriage, forced proximity, enemies to lovers, WWII au (leave me alone), and lots of other things updated per chapter
November 11th, 1923
Morality is complicated at best, a complete fallacy at worst. Respect for one’s body, especially its freedom, a laughable concept in the face of death. When faced with starvation on the street or relinquishing your autonomy, well… Freedom can’t fill your stomach. What good are rights to a corpse, especially one of a young girl?
The winter had been more brutal than most, the wars and rebellions destroying what little we had to live off of, and there I stood, clutching even onto the robes of death for a hand of comfort, a modicum of warmth. I felt the way my body didn’t even seem to resist the frost accumulating on my skin, rather surrendering itself with hardly any hesitation. Part of me wished to call out to my father and mother, or perhaps to God himself, and demand an answer for why I must feel that empty pit in my stomach day in and day out, but as I gazed hazily into the streets before me, I saw how I was simply one of many, abandoned indiscriminately. My cries would go unheard, or only heard by ears just as frostbitten as mine.
The sound of boots crunching the snow filled the alleyway. I lifted my eyes to see as they passed, moving calmly to where my mother and father sat in the snow. Their voices were hushed, the look of feral desperation evident on my mother’s eyes, as always. I was not her only hungry child, simply one of what felt like endless mouths to feed. She looked at me with an expression I could not, and cannot place. A soft nod, and then she ducked her head to my father’s chest. The boots drew near to me, and a man bent down to me. From a pocket he produced a pastry, some kind of bread with stark white icing dripping down the sides, reminiscent of the buildings surrounding this desolate place. I looked at him in questioning awe, and motioned for me to take the food from him. My eyes were soft upon his as I took the cake from his hands, quickly devouring the precious gift. He picked me up from where I lay on the embankment, brushing snow from my hair. I watched as the shape of my parents grew smaller and smaller with each stride, my mother calling out my name. Her goodbye was drowned out by the sound of me chewing, continuing to tear into my bun.
“Chew slowly, there is plenty of food for you where we’re going, little one.” His voice was soft, rumbling and soothing me to sleep, and for once I felt no fear as it overcame me.
February 13th, 1941
The year was 1941. I was a young woman. Specifics remain irrelevant. I stared blankly at the cot above me, waiting for the bugle to sound to drag me from the bed. They could keep me in bed until everyone else, but I could wake as early as I pleased. Some of us indulged these little moments, reveling in the solitude. The day would start soon enough though, and I would fade into obscurity as I always had.
A personal identity was never very important to us growing up, In fact, sometimes we would forget that there were many little “I’s” caught up in that monstrous, perfect “we”. Tolerance for individualism had never been lower, all that died with the tzar and his family. The world was made in a new way, one where I nor anyone else seemed to matter very much. That way of living certainly helped in my future… occupation. If one can call it that. In my service to the cause. It’s easiest to divorce yourself from your identity, and what better way to do that than by never creating one. We worked in tandem to accomplish our goals, me and everyone else like me. All made to be the same, faceless, nameless being.
We were the most expendable that way, all the same. What was it to them if one of us died when there are 10 others exactly the same? Plates that run parallel to our spines sure make it easy to be rid of one of us when she lost her use. 7 plates lie between seven vertebrae, a reminder of what exactly was given up for that full belly.
There it was, the horn. My feet hit the ground along with a few dozen others. We walked to the showers, to the clothing racks, the mirror. So many identical, beautiful little soldiers. We aligned ourselves to greet our officer, preparing for the new day of tasks. I prepared myself for filing, or maybe cleaning if I was particularly unlucky.
“You, step forward.” I felt all the eyes in the room on me at once. Yep, cleaning, forever. What had I done to be singled out? “Follow me. Everyone else may report to the same work station as yesterday.” There were no murmurs from the other girls, though soft glances said the words that would be spoken had censure not been nearly as tight. My cheeks burned as I followed the officer out of the dormitory and down the main corridor. I expected to walk into the headmaster’s office, but we passed it quickly. The kitchen? No. Where were we going?
The hallway ended in a conference room, and with every other door briskly passed, I knew this must be my destination. I entered a room to see the headmaster sitting in the chair that would typically be mine. A man dressed in full regalia sat across the table, scowling at me.
“Close the door, please.”
—
“I am very happy that we can continue to work together. You have done well enough in your training over the past few years. But that was just training, you need to show us that you can be a real asset. So, we are willing to give you an assignment. A real chance to prove your worth to us.” He tossed a file across the desk at me, my picture stapled to the front. There was a number that followed it, something I suppose I could now call a name. I opened the front and looked at the documents provided to me. There were a few of my pictures as a child, perfectly vague, easy to slip into any narrative. I took out the passport that was clipped by its cover to the rest of the documents. Italian. “You speak Italian, yes?” He must have noticed me looking at it.
“Yes, I do.” I opened the passport. Eleanora Romano. I hadn’t had a name in so long, it felt awkward to say it and know it meant me. I read through her background information, reading slowly through a peaceful upbringing in the Italian countryside, living with parents and 2 brothers until she came of age, upon which she married. Married? I looked up at the commander. “I’m married?”
“Yes, Eleanora. You are married to Giancarlo Balotelli, as you have been for 4 years now. Giancarlo is an American asset that you have been partnered with to cooperate on this long-term mission. You two will assist in maintaining each other's covers. He has been in placements twice before, so you may learn a thing or two from him.” He paused, leaning in. “Do not trust the American. We may be friends today, but they are still unwilling to live as we do, even for the betterment of their people. It would behoove you to observe him as well. Let us know what our friends in the west are like, for the day that we may no longer be friends.” I nodded solemnly.
“I understand. Thank you for this opportunity.” The door opened, and a new man entered the room.
“This is your handler. He will be your contact while you’re undercover, providing you with updates to your objectives as well as coordinating your integration with your new world. He will be responsible for your care from now.” The door opened again, and my handler led me out. He was so very generic, hair that was neither brown nor blonde with eyes of indistinguishable color. Even his clothes seemed to blend away. If you passed your eyes across a room with him in it, you wouldn’t see him at all. He was perfect for his job, unseen. I looked down at the picture on my file; would I so perfectly fit the mold I was chosen to become? The dark hair and eyes that had so often been looked down on, now perhaps the very reason I would be allowed to prove my worth. I must make it worth their time.
He led me out the front door. The clouds covered the sky, hugging me in a blanket, like they too protected my identity. I felt snow crunch beneath my boots as I walked towards the gate, inching closer than I had ever been before. The handler motioned to the guards at the watchtower before the front gate opened. It felt like a vacuum had been opened, sucking me out of the only home I had ever really known. All I could do was continue to walk to the gate, breath catching with every move made.
With one last step, I was in the outside world. I looked up at the creaking sound to see the gate closing again, and I turned to watch the buildings I had grown up in vanish from view.
“I hope you didn’t have anyone you wanted to say goodbye to. The girls your age will soon be assigned on missions of their own, and it will be a while before any of you are recalled. If you survive that is,” he chuckled to himself. I didn’t find it funny. “We will meet the American asset and his handler to complete the profiles and transfer you to your station. You should be in place in less than 72 hours.” We boarded into a military truck, and I watched the compound grow more distant until it entirely disappeared from view.
I was brought into a plain building with sets scattered on the inside. Final pictures to complete our life together would be taken here before we left for our mission. My handler motioned to a bench for me to sit. “The Americans are on their way, you may wait here for them.” I sank into the bench, exhausted from the events of today. We drove for at least 5 hours. I had no idea where we were, but I supposed that was none of my business. After what felt like hours on a chair that certainly flattened my ass a bit, the door opened.
The Americans walked in the room, confident in a way I was not accustomed to. One wore a mask much like my handler did while the other left his face exposed. His hair covered his face, obscuring his green eyes. He walked over to shake my hand. His grip was soft, gentle. He reached for my other hand and slipped a ring onto my finger. “I am USO-47022- XYX. It’s lovely to meet you, Nora.”
How would owl react to you sharing your favorite songs with him? Is he bopping or is there a look of judgment as he realized your mentally ill?
Nightowl has absolutely no room to talk about people's music taste lmao. Hyperpop, tiktok thirst trap audio lookin ass man. However, he probably would get a kick out of seeing you have a taste in music that doesn't really match your look. He likes that he gets to see all the different sides of you.
Also, I feel like he'd pay attention to the common threads in your music, like if a lot of the songs you listen to are about insecurity or self sabotage, he'd notice. I don't think he would say anything about it to you, just notice that certain behaviors are more are less salient in your life based on what you connect to.
But yeah, carpool karaoke with some psychoanalysis is the general vibe :)
hi I just wanted to say that I really enjoy your writing and reading your works always makes me happy :) thank you for sharing your works with us!!
Thank you! i honestly wasn't expecting very much when i started posting, so seeing how many people enjoy the stories i would usually just toss around in my head makes me very happy :)
Warnings: Hurt/comfort, bad date, abandonment, lots of crying, xyx is a solid friend
below the cut for scrolling reasons :)
The rain stuck to your face and smelled like shame. The city streets reeked of oil, cars speeding off to their destinations. You were reminded how little regard anyone in the world held for you, gripped by the loneliness of your situation. Your dress was perfect, or at least had been when you left.
It was a third date. Third dates were supposed to be safe. You were supposed to be decent to each other. The restaurant you went to was lovely, and the food divine. Your date was great to; you secretly hoped he would ask you to be exclusive soon. But there you went again, falling nose first for the first man to be a little kind to you. And that landed you alone at the table in the middle of your meal, your date excusing himself to go to the bathroom and never returning. And now, you walked alone in the polluted, cold, rainy streets to your apartment. All you wanted was to curl up in bed and be alone, but you knew that would not be an option for you.
Your roommate, XYX, would be at home tonight. You could feel the ridicule, the mockery he would make of you. Your cheeks burned at the very thought of it as you put your keys in the door. You did your best to make your way into the body of the apartment, but you still managed to arouse the attention of a certain someone. XYX was watching a movie on the couch when he called out to you.
“How was your date?” he asked, not looking away from the screen.
“It was fine.” Your voice was tense, your face drawn from the effort of holding back your tears. You puffed out your cheeks as you grabbed a water from the fridge and silently prayed that you could retreat to your room to nurse your wounds in peace. You would have no such luck.
“What, your little boyfriend didn’t wow you this time? Were the flowers too wilted for you this time?” Your chest tightened painfully at his jabs. Why couldn’t he just leave you alone? Part of it was your fault, you figured. You had gushed to him incessantly about how wonderful your new flame was, how perfect he was for you. XYX had always cautioned you not to fall too hard for this stranger, but here you were. Shame bubbled up in you and pushed tears to the corners of your eyes. Your bag slipped from your hands and hit the floor with a thud, and you followed suit. Your knees did nothing to hold up your weight as you sunk to the kitchen floor, resting your back on the island behind you. You attempted to muffle the sound of a sob wracking through your body, but it was no use: a pathetic little whimper escaped your mouth. The sound finally broke his attention, and he quickly turned off the t.v. before running to your side. He cupped your face in his hands and looked at you with such fierce concern in his eyes.
“Doll, what happened?” he licked his lips before inching a bit closer to you, sucking in a shaky breath. “just, come here.” He pulled you into his lap, cradling your head into his chest. He rocked back and forth a bit, and you could feel him alternate between putting his head back and looking down at you with worry. He didn’t say anything else, just held you as you cried into his chest, occasionally brushing strands of hair that had stuck to your face out of the way. He felt your wet clothes stick to his skin as well, and rage bubbled up in him. Did that dick make you walk all the way back? He opens his moth to speak when you meet his eyes, stealing the breath from his lungs with your tear-filled expression.
“He snuck out and left me with the check. I didn’t bring enough to pay for a taxi, so I had to walk home. I’m sorry, I’m soaking your shirt aren’t I?” Your voice cracks as your cries seize you again. You hang your head in shame, avoiding looking at his soft green eyes. “Why am I never enough for them? Why can’t I ever be enough for someone?”
“Hey hey hey. That’s- that’s not what this is. That’s not what happened, and you know it.” He brings your face up with a soft hand on your chin. He grimaces at the way your lip trembles, “God, it should be a crime to make you cry like this. No real man worthy of even loving you from afar would ever treat you like this. Look at you! He left you in the rain! This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with what a slimeball he was.”
“Every time? You mean to tell me that every time this happens it’s on them? How can every man I meet loath me so intensely without it having something to with me?” His heart snaps in two at your words. Could you- could you not tell? Could you not see how desperately he pined for you, day in and day out? How his heart sank when you told him about a new crush, and how he felt a small sense of relief in seeing you come home empty handed?
“Not every man.” He held your eyes, searching for something, an answer to his questions. He could almost see the realization take you, and felt himself freeze with anticipation, wondering if you would push him away, letting him witness the quietest, cruelest rejection he could face. But there you stayed, in his lap, hand twisted in the collar of his shirt. He wouldn’t break the eye contact if you didn’t, and there you two stayed for a sacred moment. He flicked his eyes down to your lips, leaning in softly. He felt you suck in a shaky breath, and it pulled him back to reality. He cleared his throat as he leaned back.
“I don’t understand. What you just said- you looked like- you seemed like you were-“
“About to say something that cannot be unsaid?” He caressed your cheek with his thumb. “I was, and I will. You’re hurt right now, doll. It wouldn’t be fair of me to say what I want to right now. When I tell you, I’m going to mean it with every ounce of my being, every piece of my soul. And I want you to mean your answer. Right now is about you, and being there for you, whatever that looks like. So we’re gonna sit on this floor until you feel better.” You batted your eyelashes at him a bit, heart skipping when he smiled at you. You leaned your head to his chest and listened to the roar of his heartbeat, which raced in a way that made you giddy. “I’ll get my moment, don’t you worry.” He whispered, resting his chin or your head as you settled deeper into that floor, illuminated only by the streetlights and the glow of a secret left unsaid.
Hiiii do you plan to do both alphabets with Toast? Of course it's okay if u don't want <3
Anyways, i love your writing. Have a nice day/night (◕ᴗ◕✿)
maybe? haha. i feel the least connected to toaster out of all the love interests and i just want to be proud of what i post as well as honor the characters that robobarbie and the other writers created. I promise to let you know if that changes :).
Thank you for being so sweet, im so happy you like thw writing. Also, all yall that repost my stuff, im obsessed with the cute little tags you add. There are a couple wip coming out in the next week or so, including the first chapters of 2 longer works :)
annaxmalina
2087
tangentwithtanner
gummygunk
areudirty
