ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙖𝙢𝙖 𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙚.

[taketobeds]

whatever's       wrong       with       me,       i       will       take       to       bed.       i       give       in       so       easy       nature       chews       on       me.       little       death       like       lead,       poisonous       and       heavy.       it       has       always       been       this       way.       i       am       punished       by       love.

*ೃ༄     independent     and     canon-divergent     interpretation     of     WILLOUGHBY     TUCKER     from     the     lore     of     Ethel     Cain.     loved     by     MORGUE     (27,     she/he/they).     inspiration     taken     from     various     horror     media     and     living     in     the     south.     a     study     in     nature     versus     nurture,     trauma     bonds,      and     running     from     what     could     save     you. 

blogroll : @77343 / @godcalleds / @runningfars / @siicksin

Here is a tl;dr version of my boy Willoughby. Also I don't really wanna hear anyone's take on my physical depiction of him.. this is my barbie dreamhouse and i do what i #want.

Willoughby Tucker was born in Shady Grove, Alabama, into a household dominated by the shadow of the Vietnam War. His father, a veteran grappling with severe PTSD and alcoholism, created a domestic environment defined by unpredictable violence. This upbringing instilled in Willoughby a profound fear of his own genetic legacy and a belief that he was inherently broken. To cope with the physical and emotional toll of his home life, he developed an early dependency on prescription pills and local narcotics, a habit he kept hidden from the prying eyes of his Southern Baptist community.

Relationship with Ethel Cain

Willoughby reconnected with Ethel Cain during their senior year of high school. Their bond was immediate and intense, fueled by a shared understanding of parental abuse. However, the relationship was built on a fundamental misalignment of perception. While Ethel viewed Willoughby as a stoic, masculine protector, he was privately struggling to maintain that facade. His drug use intensified during this period as he used substances to numb his anxiety and suppress the "mean" streak he feared he had inherited from his father.

The pressure of performing the role of the perfect Southern boyfriend while battling addiction eventually became unsustainable. Following a traumatic tornado that struck Shady Grove, a seasoned Willoughby realized that his codependency with Ethel was only anchoring them both to their shared trauma.

The Nebraska Years

In a desperate attempt to outrun his past, Willoughby vanished from Alabama and relocated to a remote part of Nebraska. He sought out the flat, desolate landscape to escape the "suffocating" trees and storms of the South. He found work as a mechanic, spending his days in a solitary garage, finding a temporary sense of control in the logic of engines and cold steel.

However, isolation did not bring the peace he anticipated. Free from the social constraints of Shady Grove and the watchful eyes of Ethel, Willoughby’s mental health declined. His life in the Midwest was characterized by extreme seclusion, rarely interacting with anyone outside of his work. He lived in a state of functional localism, struggling through a cycle of heavy alcoholism and a persistent addiction to stimulants and painkillers.

[opossum-handz]

[honeydewtual]

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐀 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝑻𝑬𝑳𝑬𝑷𝑯𝑶𝑵𝑬 .    (  a  collection  of  texting prompts.  feel free to change phrasing.  potentially mature content within.  )

[ TXT ] : why are you still awake?

[ TXT ] : hey, where did you go?

[ TXT ] : it's getting bad again.

[ TXT ] : guess i'll just sit in bed. alone. by myself.

[ TXT ] : you can't ignore me forever.

[ TXT ] : i can't stop thinking about you.

[ TXT ] : just saw i called you last night. how'd that go?

[ TXT ] : i really need someone right now.

[ TXT ] : we need to make plans asap.

[ TXT ] : have you seen the news?

[ TXT ] : you were blackout drunk.

[ TXT ] : testing to see if you blocked my number...

[ TXT ] : do you know anything about doing stitches?

[ TXT ] : just please let me know you're okay.

[ TXT ] : did you forget we had plans?

[ TXT ] : i know you see my messages, your read receipts are on.

[ TXT ] : meet me at [ location ], it's important.

[ TXT ] : do you need comfort, to vent, or a solution?

[ TXT ] : is there anything i should bring?

[ TXT ] : call me. please, it's important.

[ TXT ] : i can't sleep.

[ TXT ] : have you eaten today?

[ TXT ] : you are always going to be my priority.

[ TXT ] : i haven't seen you around in awhile.

[ TXT ] : i had a dream about you last night.

[ TXT ] : the names are gonna get mean if you don't text me back.

[ TXT ] : at the risk of sounding cliche, what are you wearing?

[ TXT ] : just say the word and i'll drop everything.

[ TXT ] : do you seriously not remember?

[ TXT ] : come to the front door.

[ TXT ] : have you been drinking?

[ TXT ] : how do you feel after last night?

[ TXT ] : are you up? please be up.

[ TXT ] : you looked beautiful today.

[ TXT ] : i have so much to tell you.

[ TXT ] : no one's heard from you. are you okay?

[ TXT ] : who is this?

[ TXT ] : are you taking care of yourself?

[ TXT ] : thought i'd reach out and see how you're doing.

[ TXT ] : i miss the taste of your lips.

[ TXT ] : that kiss was really nice.

[ TXT ] : stop acting so high and mighty.

[ TXT ] : i left my [ item ] at your place.

[ TXT ] : are we still fighting?

[ TXT ] : i need help and i can't go to the hospital.

[ TXT ] : are you thinking about me too?

[ TXT ] : call me, i wanna hear your voice.

[ TXT ] : i don't want to talk to you.

[ TXT ] : what do you have to lose?

[ TXT ] : you don't have to ask, i'm already on my way.

[ TXT ] : i want to take a nap on you.

[ TXT ] : even if you called 6 months later at 3am, i'd answer.

[ TXT ] : what's my name in your phone?

[ TXT ] : how's trying to forget about me going?

[ TXT ] : i have nobody else to ask.

[ TXT ] : what do you mean you're at the hospital??

[ TXT ] : sorry, i think you have the wrong number.

[ TXT ] : good morning! you up yet?

[ TXT ] : do i sense sarcasm in your tone?

[ TXT ] : you start your day at 2pm?

[ TXT ] : you need MY help?

[ TXT ] : stop texting me.

[ TXT ] : i'll leave that up to your imagination.

[ TXT ] : are you asking me to sneak out?

[ TXT ] : when will i see you again?

[ TXT ] : if you come over, i'll order us a pizza.

[ TXT ] : are we ever going to talk about it?

[ TXT ] : can you come get me out of here?

[ TXT ] : you mean like ... a BODY - body?

[ TXT ] : it's just been one thing after another lately.

[ TXT ] : forgiving and forgetting is harder than it sounds.

[ TXT ] : i want your legs wrapped around my head.

[ TXT ] : call me when you wake up.

[ TXT ] : what are you doing that's more important than me?

[ TXT ] : i'm out of town right now.

[julzybulzy]

Rotten Luck

[honeydewtual]

most lethal face card

[taketobeds]

My  muse  shows  up  at  your  muse’s  doorstep  in  the  rain,  eyes  filled  with  something  unspoken. (let em be AFRAID tg)

The sky above the valley had curdled into a bruised, sickly shade of violet, heavy with the suffocating weight of an impending deluge before the first crack of thunder finally tore through the silence. Inside the double-wide, Willoughby stood perfectly still, fingers white-knuckled as they gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. His breath held in a practiced, shallow rhythm designed to keep the rising tide of panic at bay. Every jagged flash of lightning that strobed against the windowpanes sent a sharp, involuntary jolt through his spine. Yet he still maintained his mask of composure, refusing to let the trembling of his hands dictate his movements. Outside, the atmosphere had thickened into something suffocating and strange, an eerie, electric charge that made the hair on his arms stand on end and turned the familiar shadows of his home into looming, unfamiliar shapes.

The wind had begun to howl in earnest, a mournful, high-pitched whistle that found every crack in the window frames and sent a frantic melody echoing from the porch. The windchimes, usually a source of gentle comfort, were being whipped into a violent frenzy. The hollow metal tubes clashing against one another are more like a warning than a song. It was a cacophony of chaos that grated against Willoughby's already frayed nerves, heightening the unsettling energy that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards under his feet.

The sudden, frantic pounding at the door was nearly lost beneath a rhythmic barrage of rain that had begun to lash against the roof like gravel. When Willoughby pulled the door open, the scent of petrichor rushed in. There stood Kyle, drenched to the bone, his damp hair clinging to his forehead in jagged streaks and his clothes heavy with the weight of the storm. Kyle's presence was a jagged silhouette against the chaotic backdrop of the night. His eyes. wide and shimmering with a raw intensity, searched Willoughby's own with a desperation that bypassed the need for words. There was a flickering terror there, a mirror to the very dread Willoughby was currently suffocating within himself. Layered beneath the fear was something deeper — an unspoken, heavy yearning that seemed to pull at the air between them, thickening the already heavy atmosphere. Willoughby doesn't say anything; he just pulls Kyle in without warning. He shuts the door behind them, his hands coming up to take Kyle's face in his hands. "Poor thing," he whispers. "C'mon, let me take care of you."

[taketobeds]

@rusticmutt , continued from here.

The  humidity  of  the  Tennessee  evening  clung  to  Willoughby  like  a  damp  shroud,  heavy  with  the  scent  of  pine  rot  and  the  metallic  tang  of  the  nearby  rusted  gutters.  He  moved  through  the  graveyard  of  Green  Meadows  with  a  slow,  deliberate  stride,  his  boots  crunching  over  the  gravel  and  the  discarded  remnants  of  lives  he  chose  not  to  look  at  too  closely.  The  six-pack  felt  strangely  heavy  in  his  grip,  the  cardboard  dampening  against  his  palm.  It  provided  a  necessary  weight  to  anchor  him  to  the  earth  when  his  own  thoughts  felt  dangerously  light  and  drifting.  He  didn't  have  a  reason  to  be  here.  There  was  no  crisis  to  report,  no  bad  news  to  share,  and  certainly  no  desire  to  explain  why  the  silence  of  his  own  walls  had  started  to  feel  like  a  deafening  roar  he  couldn't  quite  stomach  for  another  hour.

As  he  rounded  the  corner,  the  sight  of  Levi  sitting  on  that  weathered  lumber  patio  settled  something  restless  in  Willoughby's  chest,  a  quiet  alignment  of  gears  that  usually  ground  against  one  another  until  they  were  smooth.  Levi  looked  as  though  he  were  carved  from  the  very  same  woods  he  frequently  escaped  to,  stained  with  the  honest  grime  of  the  garage  and  radiating  a  stillness  that  Willoughby  had  come  to  depend  on  without  ever  having  to  name  it.

Willoughby  didn't  stop  until  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  cement  slab;  the  shadow  he  cast  stretched  long  and  thin  toward  the  battered  plastic  chair  that  sat  empty,  waiting  like  a  silent  invitation.  He  didn't  immediately  answer  the  greeting,  instead  letting  his  gaze  wander  over  the  grease-stained  hands  and  the  sharp  blue  of  Levi's  eyes.  He  finds  a  rare,  uncomplicated  solace  in  the  fact  that  he  didn't  need  to  perform  or  justify  his  sudden  arrival.

“Don't  flatter  yourself,”  Willoughby  finally  replied,  his  voice  carrying  the  low  resonance  of  someone  who  hadn't  spoken  in  hours.  There's  no  bite  in  his  words,  just  the  typical  cadence  of  someone  who  carries  themselves  with  enough  grief  to  wear  down  their  shoulders.  He  stepped  up  onto  the  wood,  the  boards  groaning  slightly  beneath  his  weight,  and  set  the  six-pack  down  on  the  handmade  oak  table  with  a  hollow  thud.  “The  store  was  out  of  the  cheap  shit  you  usually  drink,  and  I  figured  I'd  rather  be  here  than  home.”  The  veneer  slips  a  little  here,  beneath  the  quiet  hum  of  the  world  around  them.  “It's  too  hot  to  drink  alone,  and  you're  the  only  one  who  knows  how  t'keep  his  mouth  shut  when  there  ain't  a  damn  thing  worth  sayin'.” 

He  pulled  a  condensation-slicked  bottle  from  the  cardboard,  the  cap  giving  away  with  a  sharp,  satisfying  hiss  that  cut  through  the  drone  of  the  evening  cicadas.  He  didn't  wait  for  permission  to  sit,  sinking  into  the  plastic  chair  and  leaning  back  until  the  material  protested.  His  eyes  fixed  on  the  darkening  tree  line  as  he  took  a  long  pull  of  his  beer.  The  silence  between  them  wasn't  the  uncomfortable  kind  that  demanded  to  be  filled,  but  rather  a  shared  breath,  a  mutual  understanding  that  the  world  was  heavy,  and  for  right  now,  neither  of  them  had  to  carry  it  by  themselves. 

[taketobeds]

a church basement set up for a meeting. | from @demuresdoe

The silence that rushed back into the basement once the heavy steel door clicked shut was thick and suffocating, acting as a physical weight upon Willoughby's shoulders. He stood for a long moment in the center of the fluorescent-lit room, his breath hitching slightly in the stagnant air that smelled of burnt coffee and over-applied floor wax. Being within the confines of a church, even one as stripped-back and utilitarian as this subterranean hall, grated against his nerves with a persistent, low-frequency hum of unease. He had remained a ghost throughout the hour, a silent witness to the raw vulnerabilities of others while his own internal walls remained reinforced and impenetrable, yet the effort of maintaining that stoic facade had left him hollowed out. Every stained ceiling tile and every echo-chamber corner seemed to watch him with a judgmental grace he wasn't sure he wanted, making the simple act of existing in the space feel like an intrusion.

Driven by a desperate need to keep his hands moving and his mind anchored, Willoughby began the rhythmic, mechanical task of breaking down the circle of folding chairs. The harsh clatter of metal hitting metal echoed sharply against the linoleum, a violent disruption of the eerie quiet that felt more honest to him than the forced serenity of the setting. He worked with a singular focus, his movements efficient and somewhat hurried, until he realized he wasn't entirely alone in the aftermath of the gathering. Near the back of the room, standing by the long table that had held the refreshments, was a woman with a shock of russet hair pulled back into a practical ponytail. She was a delicate presence in the cavernous room, her vivid green eyes holding a quiet intelligence that seemed to observe the world with a mixture of caution and profound curiosity.

Willoughby felt a strange flicker of hesitation as he approached the table where she stood, his fingers tightening around the edge of a chair he was carrying. There was a softness to her — a shy, tender-hearted quality that radiated from her posture — that made his own jagged edges feel particularly sharp and misplaced. He didn't want to frighten her, nor did he want to linger in the heavy atmosphere of the church for a second longer than necessary. Yet the silence felt too pointed to leave unbroken. He set the chair down with a muffled thud and looked toward her, trying to settle the restless energy in his chest into something resembling a polite, grounding social grace.

He cleared his throat, the sound feeling uncomfortably loud in the vast emptiness as he gestured vaguely toward the half-empty pot of lukewarm coffee and the scattered sugar packets. "You would think they'd put a little more effort in." His voice felt too quiet and too striking all at once. Willoughby's gaze briefly flickers to the wall ahead, littered with various artistic depictions of a man who had long abandoned Willoughby Tucker. He thinks he would pray more if he had been proven, even slightly, that it held any weight. His eyes meet hers once again, a small smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "You don't look like someone who should be here." He doesn't mean it in an unkind way. He's never questioned anyone in this space, but she didn't harness the kind of haunted look that most of these people did. Like he did. He extends a hand, calloused and worn by years of manual labor. "I'm Willoughby."

[redemptioninterlude]

[ protective ] sender stays curled close even after receiver falls asleep / for rue <3

SUBJECT: taking care of you meme NOTIFY: @taketobeds CONCERNING: willoughby tucker

rue's not really sure when she falls into this habit. he talks about leaving the door unlocked, and the first night, she stood there, almost frozen, when the latch actually gave way underneath her palm, and she was left staring at a halfway confused willoughby. well. confused until he has that stupid smile on his face, and it's like, all DOWNHILL from there, at least. sort of. even if it feels kind of nice to be a fucking wreckage with someone that didn't expect you to dull your edges, your bleeding heart, your too much of everything that comes when attached to the kind of soul wound you've never recovered from.

the hours spent wondering if everyone in life was right, if you've wasted something, yourself, your potential. who are you? what do you want of yourself? those questions haunt her, make her wonder... because honestly, she's never known what she wanted to do. there was no AMBITION burning in her soul. but he's stained with the kind of sins she's committed on the other side, he talks of ethal like she was built to lead a nation. she wonders if jules felt the same kinds of pressures and pains the way he did, incapable of living up to the hero that they'd been built up to be.

how lately he'll come too, she locks her own door until, eventually, slowly, she finds enough regularity in this to know when or if he'd come knocking. sometimes they just talk, and smoke outside, their feet kicking back and forth in the pool. sometimes, it's walks out in the woods, their words stilled as they watched every step through the brush, the silent eating up the distance. or other nights, like this, he'd come by and touch the side of her head, as if recognizing SOMETHING there, before coming inside, and locking the door.

[ protective ] sender stays curled close even after receiver falls asleep

maybe she should have more CAUTION embedded in her bones for this, a word of warning, because this was likely something neither of them knew how to handle within it seemed their ever fragile state. rue doesn't even know how to talk about what this feels like, or how nice... her breathing slowing, her eyes heavy, that first time he spends the night, listening to the sound of his breathing. rhythmic, steady, calm. that closeness, the warmth, it reminds her of how long it'd been since she'd been able to do something like this... and not knowing how to name it as something she'd missing. already gone, and asleep, before the thought could take root.

[ledwinged]

[notgaybuckybarnes]

ROB RAUSCH The Traitors 4.09

[ghoulishleigh]

[griefkill]

she can't help but smirk when his grip tightens , when he pulls her so close against his warm body . his breath ghosts over her skin and sends a chill down her spine in the most pleasant way . she's certain she's pushed all the right buttons , and she plans to keep doing it until he absolutely explodes . if she were human , her heart would certainly be racing with anticipation . and although hers is slowed to a low pulse , the rush is something she feels all the same . she can feel his heart , however , and his is certainly beating with something other than excitement .

his fingers coil in her hair and crane her head back , her eyes briefly blinded by the beaming sun through the trees . seconds later , his gaze comes into focus , her doe eyes peering upward at his taller frame through her long lashes . she could so easily spin this in her favor , but she likes that he's the one in control of this . she doesn't plan to take that from him anytime soon . her eyes close briefly when his hand traces along her jaw , leaning into his touch just before he spins her around to face him . their bare chests press against one another , her eyes locked on his , the tension held in the minimal space between them ready to snap at any moment .

his words cause her to swallow , which with how his hands trail along her spine , she knows he can feel . he's started something that won't be stopped now . her own hands circle around his shoulders , pressing herself closer until their foreheads meet . her tongue drags over her lower lip as she looks upward toward him once more , their breath mingling though their lips don't touch . not yet . ❛ i'll admit , i'm almost a little disappointed such a confession hadn't come from you sooner . ❜ she's teasing now , ensuring her teeth catch his lower lip for a moment and then let go . her hand rests at the nape of his neck , her thumb gently running along his skin and hair at the base . ❛ don't worry , i'm not going anywhere . ❜ her lips are now brushing against his while she speaks , yet she still refrains from kissing him . ❛ show me all the things you've been thinking about , willoughby . ❜ she whispers . ❛ claim me . make me yours . ❜

[taketobeds]

Willoughby's restraint didn't just snap; it disintegrated. Everything about her seemed to be a catalyst, a sharp spark in a room full of gasoline. The raw, desperate hunger he had been hoarding like a secret sin poured out og him. He didn't want a gentle union; he wanted to consume her, to lose himself in the cold marble of her skin until the world outside the tree line turned to ash. "You got no idea how long I've been starvin' for this," he growled against her lips, the sound vibrating through both their chests.

His hands abandoned her spine to seize her thighs, lifting her with a sudden, forceful surge of strength. Elena's legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, her cool skin clashing with the sweltering heat radiating from his body. Willoughby backed her up until her shoulders hit the mossy bark of a towering oak at the water's edge. The impact was firm, pinning her between the immovable wood and his own relentless weight.

He didn't wait for another word. He crashed his mouth onto hers, a kiss that was less of an ask and more of a conquest. It was deep, frantic, and tasted of the wild woods and an obsession far too heavy for any one man to carry. His tongue pushed past her lips with a possessive rhythm, demanding everything she had to give.

While his mouth ravaged her own, one of his hands slid between their pressed bodies. He found the tie of her bikini bottoms and yanked with the same ruthless intent he'd shown the top. The fabric fell away into the moss, leaving nothing between his palm and the soft, aching curve of her. His touch was heavy, his fingers molding to her as if trying to memorize every contour through pressure alone. He broke the kiss just enough to trail his lips down to the hollow of her throat, his teeth nipping at the skin he so desperately wanted to mark. "I'm gonna ruin you for anyone else," he rasped, his hand sliding lower, finding the slick heat that betrayed her own desire. "I'm gonna put my name on every inch of you until you can't hear nothin' but my voice."

His fingers found her center, and the touch was firm and punishingly precise. He watched her face, his gaze dark and predatory, wanting to see every flicker of pleasure, every gasp he forced from her lungs. He moved against her with a primal urgency, his hips grinding into hers as he focused entirely on the friction of his hand and the way her body arched into him. He wasn't showering her just what he had thought about; he was taking residence in her, proving that in this desolate stretch of the woods, she belonged to him — body, soul, and every wretched breath in between.

[gloomglimmer]

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂  𝐑𝐏  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒  .  .  .  (  pt  1.  the  art  of  touch  )   Set  the  stage  for  longing  glances,  lingering  touches,  and  the  quiet  tension  of  unspoken  words.   ✧  ˚₊  Themes:  soft,  slow  burn  &  a  touch  of  angst 

✧     ›    SOFT   &   FLUFFY   .

My  muse  tucks  a  loose  strand  of  hair  behind  your  muse’s  ear,  their  fingers  lingering  for  a  second  longer  than  necessary.

My  muse  falls  asleep  on  your  muse’s  shoulder  during  a  long  ride.

My  muse  surprises  your  muse  with  breakfast  in  bed,  complete  with  a  handwritten  note.

My  muse  pulls  your  muse  under  their  umbrella  during  a  sudden  downpour.

My  muse  gently  wipes  away  a  tear  from  your  muse’s  cheek,  their  touch  tender  and  careful.

My  muse  laces  their  fingers  with  your  muse’s  absentmindedly,  only  realizing  it  after  a  few  seconds.

 ✧     ›    TENSION   &   SLOW  BURN   .

My  muse  fixes  your  muse’s  tie/dress/jacket,  their  hands  brushing  against  their  skin  for  just  a  moment.

My  muse  leans  in  as  if  to  whisper  something,  their  lips  dangerously  close  to  your  muse’s  ear.

My  muse  catches  your  muse’s  wrist  before  they  can  leave,  their  grip  tightening  just  slightly.

My  muse  watches  your  muse  from  across  the  room,  their  gaze  lingering  even  when  caught.

My  muse  challenges  your  muse  to  a  bet,  knowing  exactly  what  they’ll  ask  for  if  they  win.

My  muse  absentmindedly  plays  with  your  muse’s  fingers  while  they  talk,  not  even  realizing  they’re  doing  it.

✧     ›    ANGST   &   EMOTIONAL   .

My  muse  pulls  your  muse  into  a  tight  hug,  as  if  afraid  to  let  go.

My  muse  wipes  away  the  blood  from  your  muse’s  face,  their  hands  trembling.

My  muse  shows  up  at  your  muse’s  doorstep  in  the  rain,  eyes  filled  with  something  unspoken.

My  muse  gently  cups  your  muse’s  face,  whispering,  “Why  do  you  always  have  to  make  things  so  difficult?”

My  muse  kisses  your  muse  like  it’s  the  last  time  they’ll  ever  get  the  chance.

My  muse  lets  your  muse  go,  even  though  it’s  the  last  thing  they  want  to  do.

 ✧     ›    TEASING   .

My  muse  corners  your  muse  against  a  wall,  a  smirk  playing  on  their  lips.

My  muse  whispers  something  in  your  muse’s  ear  that  makes  them  blush.

My  muse  pulls  your  muse  onto  their  lap  with  zero  warning.

My  muse  playfully  steals  a  bite  of  your  muse’s  food,  then  grins  as  they  lock  eyes.

My  muse  deliberately  leans  in  closer  just  to  see  your  muse’s  reaction.

My  muse  drags  their  fingers  slowly  down  your  muse’s  arm,  pretending  it  was  unintentional.

[taketobeds]

brain machine is telling me to rot on @77343 and @runningfars this evening so i will be locked in there <3

[honeydewtual]