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Can a moth love a flame?

Maybe that's the wrong question. Maybe the moth has always loved the light. Maybe it was never stupid for wanting warmth. Maybe it was only tragic because the light did not know how to be anything but burning.

I don't know how to separate the man from the fire.

There are days I remember his hands before I remember what they did. I remember his voice before it lost focus. I remember being foolish enough to believe that love was something you earned by being smart, useful, knowing. I remember wanting him to look at me and see something worth keeping.

And then I remember the heat.

I remember how quickly a room could change. How admiration could dissipate. How every soft thing had a hook in it. How he could make me feel like it was my fault for bleeding after he cut me.

So I go back, but not for him. That's what I tell myself.

I go back because someone else needs help. Because there are people there who did not start the fire, only learned to breathe smoke. Because leaving them feels too much like becoming him. Because some part of me still believes I can pull everyone out if I just hold my breath long enough.

But he's still there. At the center of it. Flickering. Waiting.

Sometimes warm enough to make me forget. And that is the worst part. Not that he was always terrible. Not that loving him is impossible. The worst part is that sometimes it is easy. Sometimes he says the right thing. Sometimes he laughs the way I remember. Sometimes he looks tired instead of dangerous, human instead of monstrous, and I feel something in me unfold before I can stop it. A wing opening near fire.

I hate that I still want a lover. I hate that wanting one makes me vulnerable. Because what am I supposed to do with all this leftover affection? Where does it go when the person it was made for cannot hold it safely?

Maybe a moth can love a flame. Maybe it always will. But love is not the same as flying into it.

Maybe the moth survives by learning distance. By circling from far enough away to keep its wings intact. By understanding that warmth is not proof of safety. By grieving the light it wanted without mistaking grief for an invitation.

Your eternal night

Excerpts from linwriting:

...smiles at the way they grow wide when he lifts the plush bunny to his lips, leaves a kiss on the pink tip of its nose. at the blush that spreads across suba’s face when he presses the plush into suba’s gloved hands. *for you*.

maybe it's the sake, or maybe it's the part of suba's lips, but sho doesn't pull his hand away. lets it trail across suba's cheek. lets it hold suba's breath. holds suba’s gaze when he leans in. when suba leans in the rest of the way sho thinks he has never tasted something this sweet.

drops a kiss onto suba's cheek whenever he has to open the window to his food truck. sometimes it's teasing, sometimes it's casual. most of the times it's remorseful that he has to pull himself away from the soft of suba's laugh and the quiet of suba's company. gets surprised the first time suba kisses him back, ...

CW: Suggestive under the cut

Suffering so badly to make a smol smol animation for Romeo catto.... Dressing up him

Pretty pretty pretty pretty cute kitty i luv him