#nontraditional

Not "better"; that isn't true. Not "different" either, because that's true and it isn't and either way it says nothing at all. But you hold your own face in your hands and tremble with the terrifying weight of everything locked behind it – some of which you put there, and some of which you didn't. And when the ghost town fades with the last of the last of the moonlight, trembling as you are, you walk out with it hitched to your belt buckle.

To wear that face is to be more than alive – so very more than alive that everything else can't help but dry up in your wake, ash tracing like feathers over rock-hard skin yet tingling with sensitivity. The world's grip on you slackens, evacuates to make room for your golden flame. Pleasure-pain cracks in stripes down the mask where all your heat leaks out, and every inch of you sings with exultant rapture in your own physicality but it's your mind which pulses satisfaction.

(The thing in the mask needed a host. And you – you have no reflection. The beast in the mask crawls into the hole left by your shadow, stretches filigree roots down, and purrs.)

You see it in the water. In the mirror. In your face, when you think to catch your cheek in your own eye – is it still a claim if the one doing the claiming is yourself? (It's not yourself. It's what you could be, ascension and damnation in one small package, and you've already let it in, already have no choice but to become, but how many times will you put it on with your own hands? If you still feel it thrumming underneath you at your core, is it really yourself, after all?)

(You've gotten off like that before – fucking your own face in the dark of night, feeling the mask's rumble of satisfaction catch and yank at the gossamer strings it left round every center you could lay claim to. Feeling your own invasion penetrate your face; the mark emblazoned there burned hot as your blood, then, and you're still not sure how much is the connection and how much was intentionally, calculatedly shared.)

(You own the mask. The mask owns you. This is the same statement.)

---

In the depths of your dreams, sometimes, you see a hulking figure, staring off into the distance of a lake which ripples under every footfall. (Sometimes, there is an island. Always, there's the threat of storm.) When the wall of wind parts at your approach and lets you pass, you ask the figure, why you?

It isn't your face it wears when it answers, but it isn't not your face, either. You wear the same marks, now, anyway – some part of you will always be each other.

You are a monument, the beast, the mask, the god says. (Kneeling, now, it bends to trace your jaw, touch crackling ecstatic and blooming like fireworks under your helpless moans.) You will grow, essence milked and molded in its hands – and in return, your desire.

I will be the whispers in your mind, the mask promises, lifting you miles by the chin to claim your lips, mouth, throat, body in a twin-pulse press of soul that bears only thin resemblance to a kiss.

You wake with the taste of your own tongue in your mouth, garnished with ozone, and spit blood into the sink when you gargle. You're not surprised to see your own empty-eyed face in the mirror, but your heart thumps hard enough to serve a body twice your size. And, like a ghost: your own hands on your shoulder, a kiss to your hair. Good, breathes the god you brought home with you. You're mine.

Early Childhood - Sandpaper Letters

Tea after Coffee, 2021

I am back after a while, sorry about the delay

Life has been busy but I'll be back into posting soon! (I really hope)

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

tried a new style today and I love how it looks, I'm planning on doing less traditional in the future ^^

I was tagged by @kingonafiftymetreroad and actually, this is a snippet for a fic I’m working on for the @notjustsmutficfest it’s been forever since I’ve posted a bit of writing here, so here it is:

“You don’t ever have to be embarrassed.” He says it gently, but his words hit hard. “Whatever’s on your mind, I can almost guarantee that I’ve thought about it too. I meant it when I said I want everything with you.”

“You mean like, everything?” Harry swallows, trying to keep his composure as the conversation veers towards something they haven’t talked about yet. 

“Yeah, I do mean everything.” Louis pulls back so that they’re now face to face. 

“Like, actual sex?” He feels a bit ridiculous asking, but if he doesn’t, he’ll leave room for second guessing.

“Yeah.” Louis says it with no hesitation, but Harry can tell that they both feel the heaviness of the moment. 

“How would that go for us?” Harry asks, feeling half turned on, half nervous. 

“However you want it to go.” Louis looks so fucking open, like he’s a book that he wants Harry to read. “I’m good both ways.”

“You’re okay with being on the, well.” Harry stutters nervously.

“Bottom?” Louis adds in. “Yeah, I am. In fact, that’s the only way that I’ve actually done it before.”

“Really?” Harry doesn’t mean to sound so surprised, but Louis just chuckles.

“Yeah.” Louis shrugs like it’s not important, but Harry feels the need to grasp his hand anyway.  “My past partners were staunchly top. They were adamantly against being fucked, kind of grossly against it.”

“I’m not against it - being fucked.” Harry blurts it out before he can have any second thoughts. “Or the other way too. I think I’d be open to anything.”

“You,” Louis smiles, this private, small smile that Harry’s never seen before. “You’re incredible.”

~