#kittyaps

she/her

formerly kittluzbills. formerly formerly wine aunt harry).

20s, full time diva, July baby, sexy, and all other good things.

lover of will smith hockey, macklin ofc, bedsy, billie, angst, a few white boys, my friends, and other stuff. message me i'd love to be friends!

requests are ALWAYS open

--

male fantasy - b.e.

She watches something mindless on the screen. Skin, moans, and fake intimacy, just to feel something, anything. But it only makes her feel more hollow. It’s not even about wanting that, not really. It's about the aching absence of her. Of the way she used to touch her like she meant it. Like she knew her.

They used to be inseparable. Whispered promises at 2 a.m., fingertips tracing secrets across skin, laughter that echoed louder than any fear. It felt infinite then. Like love was something permanent, like forever had already started.

Now, it’s as if none of it happened. As if nothing lasts. The warmth faded slowly, until all that was left was distance. Conversations turned into silences. Touches turned into careful space. And she didn’t even notice the moment it all stopped feeling like home.

She told herself she’d stop calling. She meant it, too. But the silence is unbearable, and nothing fills it. Not the muted glow of her phone screen. Not the empty comfort of distractions. Not even the memory of her laugh, which used to be enough to carry her through the worst days.

They were supposed to be different. Honest. Safe. But even in her arms, she often felt like a stranger. Too much, too quiet, too sad to love properly. Now she wonders if the whole thing was a fantasy. A softer kind, yes, but a fantasy still. One she built around the idea of being wanted. Seen.

And the worst part? She can’t even cry about it anymore.

She just stares at the wall, tells herself she’s okay. Like it’s a fact. Like repetition might make it true.

"I know I should, but I could never hate you."

--

short and sweet :)

requests are always open

my masterlist