#wpw

[thewordypeach]

Fine Line

pairing: Carmen x reader, chef Luca x reader word count: 6.2k warnings: 18+, nsfw!!!, smut!, no use of y/n, unprotected p in v = creampie, fingering, squirting, cuckolding (carmen is a cuck?!?! sort of?!?!), YEARNING (ughhhh), DEVOTION, WORSHIP, slightly vague implied cheating but not really? idk idk idk.... summary: The restaurant has become the world’s most persistent, infuriating cockblock. author's note: okay. i had plans to make this filthier. with way less words. but it just didn't happen that way. like chef luca just fills me with a weird yearning and he just wants to do a good job, y'know? and i love carmy but he loves the restaurant more - so ofc he's a cuck lmaoooo. xoxo the wordy peach <3

You’re tired. Feet dragging as you enter the kitchen of your partner’s restaurant. He’s standing there, in his chef’s white, sleeves rolled up. His hair is a tousled mess; your favourite. His face reveals how tired he is, but his eyes are bright, a slight smile toying on his lips. He’s looking at his phone, typing something to someone. 

“Mhmm, my Bearypie? Can we go?” You murmur, your voice half-yawn, half-prayer. You walk around the prep table, fingers skimming the edge for balance. The kitchen is dim, humming with the afterglow of service. Stainless steel and citrus oil. The scent of roasted bones in the air.

When he looks up, his eyes flash with that usual intensity. Still hungry for something, even now, even after hours. You catch that familiar glimmer and steel yourself. Whatever he’s about to say, it can wait until tomorrow. It has to. 

“Honeypie,” he says, voice low and careful, biting his lip. He’s holding something back. You can tell. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet a little, like he does when there needs to be a menu change. Whatever it is, it’s not sleep. You just want home. You just want bed. You just want to be horizontal, your hand in his, your leg tossed over his thigh, his breath steady beside yours. And tonight, for once, you might actually get that. 

You raise your brow, worn-out and wary, “Mmmm?”

He holds his phone out to you. Screen bright, thumb hovering like he doesn’t quite want to let it go. There’s a conversation happening. Your eyes flick to the contact name. And freeze. 

Luca.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. A name you haven’t heard in years. A face you haven’t seen since - god, what was it? Pre-pandemic? Longer?

But of course you remember him.

Tall. Broad. That strawberry-blonde halo always curling slightly at the nap from heat and sweat. Arms roped with muscle, flour-dusted and knife-calloused. And that voice, soft and rich and devastating. His British accent laced with humility and warmth, with a kind of slow-burning joy that made everything he said sound like a compliment. Even “pass me that bowl” somehow felt like poetry. He and Carmy staged together, back in the day. Back before Carmy was Carmy, before Michelin stars and broken glasses and therapy. 

How could you forget about Luca? How could you forget how his body filled yours? How could you forget how he stuffed you beyond capacity and had Carmen eating for days?

A blush creeps up your neck, adding rosy color to your cheeks. 

His first message is innocent enough. “Hey, mate. Heard you opened something wild. Congrats!”

The rest is Carmy, practically gushing. Full paragraphs about the menu, pickles, pacing, and plating. Luca keeps up, just as nerdy, just as warm. It’s all brunoise and butter ratios and chefs being chefs. 

Then comes a newer one. 

“Would love to catch up with you both.”

And then, a minute later:

 “You still into 🪑🐔 ?”

Three words. Two emojis. A chair. A chicken. No soft landing. Straightforward.

Your gaze shifts to your Carmy, who’s been watching you this whole time. Lips curved, just barely. God, you love the way he studies you, like he’s trying to memorize you again and again. You’re his lighthouse, and he’s the ship, always coasting home to your shore.

“Well?” You slip into him, body fitting against his like second nature. He’s warm, all fatigue and adrenaline, and he smells like mirepoix reduction and late-night sweat. Your fingers push his hair back, tangling gently.

“Are we?” 

You kiss the hollow of his neck. His favourite spot. It gets him every time. A low, slow hum rumbles from his throat, and he tilts his head back, finally letting go of some of the tension he’s carried all night. You kiss the spot again, this time letting your teeth graze it. He inhales sharply, chest rising.

“Are you?” Carmen breathes. His eyes flutter open: blue flame, hot and untamable. Everything he feels lives there, right on the surface. No armor. No mask. Just him.

Your cheeks warm, giving a small nod. “Bear…you know I am.”

Your voice comes out softer than you expect. Timid, even. You’ve always been on the same page, instinctively aligned. But this one kink of his, this quiet possessiveness, took you time. And even now, even in his arms, you feel a pang of guilt admitting how much it turns you on. 

Because the truth is: your mind is trying not to think about Luca.

Carmen glances around, instinctively. The kitchen is quiet. Still. He sent everyone home an hour ago. Just the two of you left, closing up. Mostly, it’s him. Working out tomorrow’s menu, fighting his perfectionism. And you, orbiting him. Walking the space like it’s muscle memory. Double, no, triple checking everything because that’s what you do. Because it’s easier than naming the heat gathering at the base of your spine. 

His hand touched your waist, fingers splaying across your navel, claiming territory. Holding you there. His head tilts, eyes half-lidded, voice dipping into something low and husky. 

“Hmm. What was it you said you liked about him again?” It’s not accusatory. Not quite. More like a dare. A spark thrown into dry kindling.

You huff a breath. Half-laugh, half-warning. And rest your palm flat against his chest. His heart’s already picking up. Carmy leans in, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw, “You said he had, what - a British accent? Big hands? Right?”

You roll your eyes. He hums, pressing a kiss below your ear. “Oh, no, wait. You said he has a massive cock, and it's bigger than mine.” 

You feel the smile against your skin. His fingers are pressing inward and downward. “It’s been a while since you’ve been filled… hmmm, hasn’t it?” 

Carmy is right. It has been a long time. Way too long. 

Between the death in the family and the chaos of opening the restaurant, you and he haven’t had a moment to reconnect in the ways you’re used to: the old rhythms, the extracurriculars.

“Mm,” is all you can manage, distracted. Your thoughts drift to Luca’s unexpected but strangely welcomed reappearance. The timing feels almost fated. Because lately… you’ve been frustrated. Not at Carmy, not really. But at the restaurant. This stupid, beautiful, all-consuming thing he built that’s eaten every spare moment of his attention. 

If he’s not here, he’s thinking about it. Dreaming about prep lists. Stressing about staff. He’s been stretched thin, turning you down more often than not. Not because he doesn’t want you, but because he simply doesn’t have the space to be with you.

The restaurant has become the world’s most persistent, infuriating cockblock. 

Carmy’s not broken. That’s not the issue. He can perform, and when he’s present, he’s there. But being a chef is who he is, and sometimes it just gets in the way. You get it. You’ve always gotten it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. And Carmy knows that. He knows. He’s never judged you for needing more. Just… hasn’t always known how to give it. This is what led to him opening the door on cuckolding.

“Tonight?” You ask, voice soft, hopeful.

Carmy raises an eyebrow, teasing. “Honey, weren’t you just yawning and complaining about how tired you are?”

But his smile gives him away. Your eagerness is a balm. He looks at you like you’re the last clean thing in the world. With such tenderness, such aching love, it almost breaks your heart. This version of him: quiet, open, yours only comes out when it’s just the two of you. And God, you’ve missed him.

He presses his forehead against yours, “Your cute little pussy just needs to be filled, hey?” 

You nod, face flushing, excitement blooming low in your belly. You love Carmy. You’ve always loved Carmy. 

Since the day your family moved in across the street and saw that wild-eyed, shy little boy peeking out from behind the tree in your front yard. You’d asked if he wanted to play… and he ran. But he came back the next day. And the next.

That was over ten years ago. And still, he’s by your side. Always has been. Always will be. You really can’t imagine life without him. He’s the crackers, you’re the cheese. “The gluey kind,” Richie once joked. “No one even wants it unless the other one’s there.” Richie had said, smirking at Carmy but clearly meaning you. It was stupid. It still makes you laugh.

“Mhm, you go ahead, okay? I just need to-” 

You pout before he can finish, cutting him off with a whine. “Bearrrry…”

You want him to come. You want him to watch. It’s always been better when he’s there. Hotter. Realer. Sharper. 

Carmy leans in and kisses you sweetly. “I’ll be home before you even get there, I promise.”

Then another kiss. Deeper. His tongue sliding into yours, deliberate and slow. You groan into it, your whole body winding tight with want. 

But he pulls back too soon. 

“Go,” He murmurs against your lips, breath warm, “I’ll text Luca you are taking an Uber over,” 

And just like that, your pulse stutters. Your breath catches.

Because now, it’s real. 

-

You step into Luca’s place. 

You smile as he helps you out of your coat, like he’s handling something fragile. His touch lingers just a second too long on your arm. That’s always been Luca. Gentle, thoughtful, precise. 

Luca hasn’t changed. Not really. 

Still tall, still broad, still carrying that quiet warm like it’s stitched into his bones. His accent is exactly the same. Velvety, low, every syllable drawn out just a touch longer than it needs to be. But there’s something different in him now. A stillness. A quiet confidence. 

You remembered how Luca used to look at Carmy like he was lighting. Brilliant, but untouchable. Now? He seems less daunted by the idea of walking alongside him. Like he’s finally figured out he’s made of fire too.

His place is bare, but not empty. A studio apartment that’s clearly just been claimed. Clothes folded with care across the kitchen appliances. No furniture yet, except a single chair pushed into the corner and a bed. Frame and all, neatly made. Clean lines. Solid. Lived-in, but only just. And on the counter, beside a stack of folded chef whites, are two water glasses and one wine glass. A bottle of white you recognize immediately - your white, crisp and floral. Just the way you like it.

Luca remembered. 

He presses a hand to the small of your back, guiding you gently into the place. “Welcome to my humble kingdom,” he jokes softly. “All… seventeen square feet of it.”

You both laugh. It feels easy. Familiar. Maybe too easy.

He gestures vaguely toward the room. “So, yeah. That’s the tour.”

You arch a brow. “Very impressive layout.”

“Right?” he grins, “Open concept. Cutting edge.”

And then, Luca’s tone shifts. He turns toward you, eyes soft but serious. 

“Are the rules still the same?”

You know what he means. 

With Luca, there were always rules. Not out of distance, but respect. Every touch, every pause, every breath between you was deliberate and careful. But they weren’t just your rules. They weren’t just his.

They were Carmy’s too.

Rules drawn in quiet conversations. Shared glances. Agreements unspoken, but deeply understood. Boundaries set not because of fear, but out of love, for each other, and for what this was allowed to be. Because in your worlds, everything has a rule. Timing. Rest. Temperature. Space. Boundaries are how things stay intact. Boundaries are what made this possible at all. 

You meet his eyes. The room feels quieter now. Closer.

And you have to ask yourself, as your pulse steadies and the wine waits on the counter: does the recipe still hold?

You nod.

There are rules.

No kissing on the lips. Cheek kisses are okay. Forehead too. Anything else gets…complicated. No staying over. You go home. Always. Almost immediately. Everything must be prepared beforehand, emotionally and physically, no surprises. No sharp edges. No one walks away with cuts that weren't expected.

The three of you came up with these together, once. Quietly. Respectfully. In the margins of long nights and after-hours wine. A system that worked. That kept things clean.

Luca takes the answer in stride. He nods, like he already knew what you’d say. Like he hoped, but didn’t count on it. Then, he turns toward the counter and pours you a glass of the white. No questions. No assumptions. Just an offering. 

You take it, your fingers brushing his. 

“Thanks,” you say.

“Of course,’’ he murmurs, voice soft, gaze steady. He drinks water from one of the plain glasses. Of course he does. Luca always paces himself.

There’s a pause, but it’s not awkward. Just charged. Measured. Like everything between you. 

You set down the wine, barely touched, and toe out of your shoes. His eyes flick to your feet, then back to your face. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.

You sit at the edge of the bed. He follows. 

Nothing rushed. No sudden movements.

This isn’t about hunger. It’s about reverence. Muscle memory. Knowing exactly how this goes and still choosing to feel it fully, each time. He kneels in front of you, hands on your thighs. His forehead rests against your knee for a beat. Breathing you in. Grounding himself.

Another rule: If it ever stops feeling good, we stop.

It still feels good.

You exhale slowly, your hand finding the back of his neck. His hair is soft. Shorter than you remember. 

“I missed this,” he admits quietly. 

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. 

Because your body is already answering for you.

Your fingers are still resting at the nape of his neck. You feel him exhale against your leg, a warm, steady breath that makes your skin prickle. Luca doesn’t move until you do. 

You slip your hand beneath the collar of his shirt, just enough to tug him closer. He rises from where he kneels, moving with care. His hands ghost up your arms, over your shoulders, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt like a question. 

You lift your arms in response. No words are needed. This is choreography. One you’ve done before, one your bodies remember.

He pulls your shirt off slowly, folding it once and setting it on the chair. Always tidy. Always gentle. 

You undo the buttons on his shirt in return, one by one, your fingers working at a pace that betrays your heartbeat. It’s fast. Anxious. Anticipating something sacred. You pause at the last button, gaze drifting up to meet his. He’s already looking at you.

There’s a pause. Worship. 

Then you slide the shirt from his shoulders, his skin warm beneath your palms. You sit back on the edge of the bed, and he is in between your knees, hands hovering just above your waist, waiting. 

“Okay?” Luca’s question is quiet, and gentle. 

You nod, pulling him in. His fingers find the button of your jeans, and  you catch his wrist, not to stop him, but just to feel it. To anchor yourself. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then your temple. His lips linger there, soft and steady. 

It’s not about rushing. It never has been. It’s about the yes that lives in every breath between you. 

You let go of his wrist. He takes his time. 

Your skirt slides off. Then his jeans. Layer by layer, the space between you dissolves. Bit by bit, until there’s nothing left but skin, breath, and muscle memory. 

You lie back, and Luca follows. And for the first time in a long time, you feel seen. Not as someone left waiting. Not as someone trying to make space. But as someone wanted. 

Right now, here, completely.

Another rule: once the clothes are off, you make the first move.

Not Luca. Never Luca.

It’s about choice. Control. Safety. It always has been. The only way this works is if you’re the one who initiates. If he follows. And tonight, like always, he did.

Luca’s hands were always the first thing you noticed. Not because they were large (though they were), or strong (though they were that too). But because of how he used them. Careful, thoughtful, devoted. He touches like a craftsman. Like everything he holds might bruise if he’s not careful. And maybe that’s the point. He is careful. Always has been. 

It’s not hesitation; it’s respect.

Your hand finds his, your fingers curling around his without a word. The size difference is ridiculous. Yours all but disappear inside his. He could hold both of yours in one palm and still have space left over. You guide him south, his gaze following with. There’s nothing frantic, yet. 

You move his hands like you're in no hurry to get anywhere. Because once his hands land, they don’t take.

They offer.

His hand flexes as you hover above your navel. You can feel the warmth and excitement radiating off of him. You watch his throat as it bobs, a nervous swallow he can’t suppress. He’s inches away now. A bead of sweat slides down his temple, disappearing under his jaw. Impatience clouds his eyes, but he waits. So fucking patiently. 

You let him down, let him go, and immediately, Luca cups your pussy, holding it, cradling it. His finger slides with such precision down your slick slit that it makes you both groan. Your thighs fall apart and you lie back, pressing into his clean sheets. It’s your sign that you're ready, that you give him permission to do what he wants.

He moves closer, on his side, rutting his body against yours. His cock is heavy as it rests against your thigh. Precum glazing your skin. You can feel it practically pulsating, and you want to touch it. But you can’t. Not yet. 

“Always so ready,” His voice pulls you in. Luca still knows how to work your body even after all this time.

The muscles in his arm are strained, he’s holding so much back. And you hate it. You want him just to fucking take it already. You want him just to fuck you already, and that is the cruelest part because that’s why rule number three was made in the first place. You couldn’t take his cock without having one orgasm beforehand, at least. There’s been times when you needed two, or even three -

Just then, your vision’s edges go fuzzy and your chest shudders. His thumb has brushed over your clit. Barely. The ghost of a touch if anything. You’re not expecting what comes next: the insertion of not one, but two of his fingers. A sharp gasp spills forth from your parted lips, his name follows: “Luca,” 

He lifts his head and smiles at you. It’s the kind of smile that starts in one corner of his mouth and creeps out like it’s not entirely sure it has permission to be there; it’s like he’s surprised he can pull that kind of reaction from you. 

“Mmm, s’okay?” It’s not a question. 

Your muscles are tight, and Luca gives you a second to get used to it, before his fingers start going in further. Your hand flies to his wrist, not to stop him, but to anchor yourself to something because you swear you can feel every goddamn ridge and knuckle of his against your walls.

“Oh, this… is going to take some time,” He breathes with an airy laugh. 

You swallow hard, barely able to get out an answer, when Luca presses his thumb against your clit, making actual contact this time.

“Luca -” You say his name again, arching against him. 

“I know,” he replies, “Patience is a virtue.”

Patience is a fucking bitch, you want to say, but you can’t because Luca is working you open now. Relentless, yet gentle. Still taking his time, still savouring your tightness. There’s nothing but gasps and whimpers coming from your throat, and he thinks it's so goddamn delicious to hear you. Because sometimes you forget to use your words, and your little noises just remind him that he’s doing a good job. 

From between your thighs, he sees and hears how wet you’ve become. Fuck, if only, he could bury his tongue into your pussy. If only he could give you a proper tongue lashing. He’d surely have you over the edge by now, but it’s forbidden. Off limits. 

It’s Carmy’s peach only. 

Luca never thinks about breaking many of the rules, except for this one. He sits up, lowers himself on the bed. His one hand pushes your thighs further apart, pinning it against the mattress. You're displayed across his mattress now, your cunt practically glistening in the light. 

A feast, a fucking delectable feast, that has been denied to him. He groans, cock twitching. Just one taste, his head dips before thought can catch up to impulse, but you are quicker. You stop him, a mere inch away. His tongue could almost…

“Luca, no.” That tone. A warning. 

He’s quickly brought back to his senses. Luca gives you a wickedly, wretched apologetic look that almost has you breaking too. How could you deny him? 

Instead, you watch as he slowly withdraws his fingers from your hole, a mess of juices clinging to them, and brings them to his mouth. Luca sucks the sweetness away and the sound he makes, a low groan in his throat, is more vibration than noise. 

The way his lashes flutter, as if you’d fed him something sacred. Something forbidden. As if Luca was Adam taking the apple from the garden. When his eyes met yours again, they were soft at the edges, the blue gone hazy like steam over a simmering pot. 

“Sweet,” he whispers. A shadow clings to his features, “But not sweet enough…”

His fingers are back inside. Three this time. More stretching. Moving vigorously. His free hand settles on your pelvis, pushing down. Your abdomen grows tight, like a breath catching mid-inhale that refuses to leave. Once again, you hold onto him. Not out of need, not entirely out of want. But because you like feeling him work.

The tension in his back. The slow, controlled movement of muscle and breath. The way Luca listens and responds, always so carefully, like he’s plating something delicate. It tells you that he’s here. Not back at the restaurant. Not dreaming up sauce pairings or obsessing over reductions. But here. 

Present. 

With you. 

And working. 

Luca is putting in the hours, not just with his hands, but with his attention. And you feel it in every shift of his body. He’s showing up. Not just for the moment, but for you.

There's a tension unfurling low and warm, stretching to the edge of too much, but not quite. Your muscles once drawn tight loosen. Just enough to feel it. You've been waiting. For this moment, this touch, this closeness.

And now that it’s here, it’s… quieter than you expected. Not bad. Just smaller. Less than the ache made it seem. It eases something in you, but doesn’t erase it. Takes the edge off, but doesn’t fill the space. It’s not everything you wanted, but it’s enough. For now. 

Luca doesn’t say anything right away. He sits there for a moment, steady, still, letting the air settle. His arm still drapes across you, hand resting on your pelvis, fingers twitching like they want to keep moving.

You feel it. Not in what he says, but in what he doesn’t. He’s good at hiding it. The quiet dissatisfaction. The stretch of days that feel the same. The lack of spark in a kitchen that isn’t his. He’ll never say it aloud. Not yet. But you know him. You know what it feels like when you're being fed by his work. 

Luca bites his lip, that small, tight movement betrays him. He’s watching you breathe, chest rising and falling. His gaze softens, eyes tracing the slight tremor in your ribs. Almost imperceptible shift that tells him everything he needs to know.

The itch he didn’t scratch. The need you didn’t voice. It’s there, beneath the surface, quiet but aching. He can see it now, in the way you hold yourself. In the spaces between your breaths, in the way you let the silence fill the room. He knows exactly what it means. 

Luca sees the quiet neglect. The kind that doesn’t get spoken about. The hunger you’ve learned to sit with. The one you’ve never complained about, never asked for more of. You’d never admit it. He knows that. But he sees it. And it makes something tighten in his chest. 

The thought of you going hungry, of not being fed, of your needs being overlooked, when he’s the one who should be taking care of it? It gnaws at him. It’s nothing he can just ignore. His jaw tightens, then he exhales, a slow, controlled breath. His fingers twitch again, itching to fix it, to make it right, but all he can now is watch you. Trying to let the moment breathe, knowing the longer he stays, the more he’ll want to do something about it. 

He wants to show you how good it can be. How you deserve the kind of warmth and light that makes your whole body tingle. Fireworks exploding from your chest and behind your eyes. He wants to make you feel those sparks, to see them burst, bright and wild, just for. Because you’re worth it. Because you deserve the fireworks.

Luca didn’t know when, or if, he’d get another shot at this. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. But you are waiting, breath held, and that is enough. So he’s back at it, working his fingers harder and better than the first time. You’re gasping, begging, but not for him to stop. He knows you need this too because he knows how uncherished your pussy is; Luca knows how Carmy gets when he’s locked in.

Luca just doesn’t understand how Carmy can overlook your needs. The quiet ways Carmy lets you go hungry when it comes to what matters most. To Luca, it feels selfish. Because you deserve so much more. You deserve to be worshipped. To be cherished. To have every day feel like a celebration of you.

If you were only Luca’s, he knows you’d have it. He wouldn’t let a single moment pass without showing you just how much you mean. How deeply you’re seen. How fiercely you’re wanted. It’s not just desire. It's reverence. And that is what Carmy is missing. 

Luca swallows the bitterness, tucks it away, and lets his hands do the talking. There’s an aggression to his movements now. A possession almost. He’s curling his fingers with a purpose, pressing deeper, marking territory in a way that’s as much about need as it is about claiming. He’s not just touching you. He’s reminding you. Reminding himself. You belong here. With him.

A slow smirk curves at the corner of Luca’s lip, the flicker of satisfaction quiet but unmistakable. He knows, he fucking knows, how to get you there. How to make those sparks fly when it counts. That’s why he has to do this. Why he has to be the one. Because Carmy can’t. Not really. Luca remembers the look on Carmy’s face the first time Luca managed to get the job done right. Right and proper. The surprise. The grudging respect. The unspoken acknowledgement that sometimes, despite the love and years, he just couldn’t. It wasn’t a failure; it was a truth.

Because you deserve fireworks. Because Luca can give them to you. Your body is squirming beneath his touch. Your chest and throat are tight, breathes coming out short: “Please, please, please, mmm’fuck, please, Luca, o’fuckfuck.”

It pulls tight low in your belly. Urgent. Aching, like holding something in too long. Sharp with anticipation. Almost unbearable. Your body is begging for relief. Not from the pain, but from the pressure. That rising and demanding pressure. You don’t know how to form proper words anymore; you’ve been reduced to a blabbering and incoherent mess.

Then, it happens. The levy breaks. It comes in a tiny swell before the entire current spills from your wrecked and trembling cunt. You're holding his wrist so tight that there’s going to be a bruise there tomorrow, but Luca doesn’t mind. He already knows he’s going to jack off to the image and lingering scent of you tomorrow.

Luca removes his hand that had you pinned and runs it through his hair, pushing it back and away from his face. You can’t help but watch him again, in awe with the slightest adoration peaking through. You’re both thinking the same thing, too bad you can’t say it out loud.

But Luca knows. He fucking knows. If only he met you first. You’d be all his, and he’d be all yours. You wouldn’t need to ask or search, because he’d take care of you. Take care of everything. He’d keep you so well fed, so utterly satisfied, that you’d never want for seconds from somebody else.

“Fuck,” Luca grunts, more to himself than to you. A self-deprecating laugh follows. He’s gazing down at you and you’re just stunned. Heavy eyelids, parted lips, drunk on the moment. Every blink comes slow, syrupy, as if you’re afraid to break the spell. 

“Was that okay?” He murmurs, fingers tracing idle patterns over your skin. He’s memorizing the topography of you. Luca’s blue eyes hold too much. Worship. Tenderness. A devotion that makes your pulse stutter. 

God, Luca is so maddening. 

You remember now why you had to distance yourself from him. Because he does this. Asks like your answer is scripture, touches like your skin is sacred, looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. You want to drag him closer, to finally press your lips to those stubborn, pink pouty ones that he keeps biting. But instead, you force yourself to exhale sharply through your nose. 

“Yeah, s’okay,” you lie.

Because it’s not just okay. It’s everything. Too much, too fast, too real. And that’s what scares you. Luca unravels you, stitch by stitch, and part of you wants to hold on tight, while another part is desperate to pull away before you lose yourself completely.

He smiles, knowingly, thumb brushing your hip. “Just ‘s’okay’?”

Bastard. 

You grab his hand with yours and press it against your ribs, where he can feel your traitorous heartbeat. A silent confession: you’re wrecking me. Keep going. 

Luca runs a hand through his hair again, pulling harder than necessary. He needs to remind himself that you aren’t his, and he has to return you. But not until he’s stuffed you full of his cum and fuck, he’s been saving up for weeks. It’s been nothing but edging to thoughts of you and holding himself back for this exact moment. And now that it’s here, he’s determined to make it count. Because you’re worth every saved cent, every restless night, every risk.

He shifts closer, moving your hips as he settles in between them. Fuck, you’re so fucking wet. The head of his cock sits at your flushed entrance. Your pussy is so swollen and dripping with pleasure. He nudges his member forward sliding just the tip inside and the friction almost wrecks him right then and there. 

You shift on the sheets, eyes closed, but your face betrays you. A flicker. Barely there. A slight tightening around your mouth, your brows. A pained look that passes across your face like a shadow. You don’t make a sound, but Luca sees it, feels it. You’re taking something you can’t quite hold. And for a moment, Luca stills. He hates that he’s part of it, that he’s both the pleasure and the ache. 

He leans in just enough to kiss your shoulder, barely a brush. And you shift, small and instinctive. Trusting. He pushes his cock, inch by inch, inside. A low grunt escapes from his chest. He could spill everything then, but Luca has always been disciplined. Always measured. That’s what makes him good at work, at his craft, at this. He knows how to hold the line. How to keep it together. And right now, it takes every ounce of that control not to unravel. Not to give you everything he has - 

“Mm’so fucking big,” Is all you can manage as you feel it deep in your belly. A fullness that’s impossible to ignore. Exquisite. Not just from the act itself, but from what it means. The weight of being wanted. Of being given to. Of being filled with something more than just touch. 

It lingers, warm and heavy, blooming outward like honey spreading across hot skin. It grounds you, centers you. Makes you feel held. It hums through your bones and settles low, slow, and satisfying. 

“Just a bit more,” His words ghost out, but a little bit more… and … he bottoms out. There’s a lot of breathing. It’s heavy and harsh. Both of your chests are rising and falling in sync. Your unused walls are fluttering around his cock and fuck. Luca holds still. He’s in no hurry to start, but he’s vibrating with tension.

Then, he starts to move. In and out. A slow, agonizing rhythm that has you clawing at the sheets below. It’s delicious, but you need more. You always need more. And Luca is going to give it to you. Because it’s his job, and he takes his job very fucking seriously. The pace picks up. Your body has gotten used to him, to his length, to his girth. It’s easier for him to glide in and out, easier for him to control himself. He wants you to go over the edge before he does. It’s only fair.

The heel of Luca’s palm slides down and rests against your clit, and just like that. Your mind goes hazy before going blank. You’re already cumming. No warning. His cock twitches inside of you, rolling his hips as your body sinks into pleasure. It feels good. Too good.

The way Luca touches you like he already knows what you need before you do, it lights something up inside of you. Something you’ve been pretending that doesn’t exist. And God, you feel guilty. 

Not just for being here. Not just for wanting it. But for enjoying it this much. For melting into it; for melting into Luca. For the way your body reaches for him even when your mind screams you shouldn’t. But the guilt doesn’t dull the sensation. It sharpens it. Makes every brush of his hands feel more dangerous. More electric.

Luca makes you feel seen. Taken care of. Fed.

And for a second, just a second, you let yourself forget everything else. Because in his hands, you don’t have to ask. You don’t have to explain. You just feel. And it’s the best thing you’ve felt in a long, long time. 

He’s watching you in the shifting light. You’re breathing slow, lashes low, that hazy content clinging to your skin. And it notices it again. What he always notices after you’ve cum. The way your body changes color. Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just glows. Faint traces of pink across your chest, your neck, the tops of your thighs. A warmth that blooms just beneath the surface. 

And he wonders, does Carmy even care to see it? Does Carmy know how your skin flushes when you’ve been properly touched? Properly fucked? How your breath catches in your throat before you let go? The way your limbs go heavy and boneless, but your fingertips still twitch like they’re holding onto something visible? 

Because Luca does, and Luca knows. God, he knows. He closes his eyes. He shouldn’t be the one who knows your body this way. But he is.

He buries his cock deep. To your hilt. He doesn’t hold back. He never does. When he gives, he gives everything. Every inch, every breath, every ounce of himself poured into you like it’s his only purpose. He goes deep, not just in the way his body moves with yours, but in how he stays there with you. Present. Steady. Locked in.

His hands anchor you. His voice is low, coaxing, reverent as it grounds you. And when he moves, it’s with a precision that comes from knowing exactly where you need him the most. Not by chance. By devotion.

His teeth graze the side of your neck, murmuring against your skin, “All yours,” Because this is the part that wrecks him the most: not that you’re here, not that you let him in. But that someone else gets to call you theirs… and that Carmy doesn’t even realize what he has.

And even as guilt coils tight in your chest, the pleasure outweighs it. Because no one’s ever given like this. No one’s ever offered you like this. You take it. You take all of it. His rhythm, his depth, the full force of everything he’s too careful to say out loud. 

And god help you, it feels so good you could cry.

[hipstersoulgushers]

yea

[hipstersoulgushers-art]

how did we get here

[nathsketch]

I'm four days late for World Princess Week, but still, I wanted to share some of my favorite ladies (and not all necessarily princesses 😅), as they don't often receive the appreciation they deserve ♥️

Kida, Merida, and Meg, my beloveds! 💎🏹🏺

Special mention to poor Milo 😂

Happy Thursday! 👑

Find me here: Instagram | Website & Portfolio

[gloria-viva-la-gloria]

he's so fucking pretty

[inartchive]

[sserrated]

Had another SVT episode last night. Woke up to a 160bpm hr.

I can’t wait to get my heart surgery this is fucking hell

[wordsfromthedying]

“I have questions”

On the edge of slumber, a voice came to me. “I have questions” it boomed. And with its words, it took the room in which I lay transported to lay alone; outside the windows of my room now expanded the vast stars. The endlessness outside. As I got up, hinging at the waist, and pulling my legs up to my reside close to my chest. Sitting at my bed’s end was a large figure, one who had to duck their head slightly to fit in the room, which now felt so small. Their features, hard to make out, either encased in shadow or un-viewable by my eye. Hair seeming to be dreaded with an assortment of charmed additions. Form muscular, certainly larger than the human form would permit. I smiled as the depictions of the ghost of Christmas present came to mind—a comparison the figure in front of me surely wouldn’t care for. 

“Sure,” I responded simply. My dreams often weren't this real; they always felt like I was at a distance from being an active participant, worlds away, but the fear of any reality of the situation didn’t concern me. I was interested. A godly figure had questions. And though it may be some egotistical amalgamation of mine, it was better work than I’d seen my mind capable of before.

The shadowed figure seemed surprised at my willingness. We sat for a moment. I kept my eyes looking up at them, worrying about their neck in that position.

“I’ll be just fine, but thank you for your concern. And you are not the first to make the comparison.” The voice broke through my thoughts.

My eyes became alight. How fun.

“As much as I enjoy, I’d prefer we keep the conversation out here.” Clearing my mind of any thoughts in an attempt to force a thought underived from my own. We stayed blinking, the air somehow beautifully crisp in these walls. 

“Why are you not concerned?” the voice asked, as it weaved through the crisp morning-like air between us. “Concerned about what?” I respond, the words far less elegantly reaching their ear. “Death, my dear, how are you so unconcerned by your eventual fate?” With clarity, I understood, and pondered. The figure in front of me seemed to need a response, as if I were not the only one they asked. As if I were only a stop on this journey of a question. A powerful being, one that a human like me may turn to for questions that burden their souls, asks humans instead. I looked out at the window beside me, and the endless dotted lights and colors in the space around me as I pondered the question. Before concluding, I looked up at the figure above. “Can we?”, I asked while gesturing out the window. A nod was offered. With that, I opened the window beside me, and as my frame made its way out the window, I began to float, leaving the weighted pressure of the room in exchange for the crisp space all around. Once out, the roof of my room floated off as the figure in full form rose, and came to glide beside me, as I was mesmerized by what was around. As we ventured through the great unknown, past beauties unimaginable, I pondered. This didn’t seem to be a routine check-in; the figure beside me wanted answers. Needed them.

“I suppose when I was young, not existing didn’t sound so bad; returning to this seemed a better fate for the atoms of me than me.” Their disappointment in my response was apparent. A disappointment I hoped to break. “But, even now as life has become more precious, I accept my fate,” I spoke as we continued seemingly indiscernibly fast amongst the vast beyond, the bright, certainly eye-singeing stars, and the clouds of color and shape, but no resistance or air to blow our hair behind us. We simply floated as if underwater. The space open to be explored. “I have no claim over death, but even if I did I don’t feel I’d enjoy it much. Death is something so many are certain they want power over, but I expect there is a line. A point at which that endless time turns to a sorrowful fate. I’d prefer to miss over growing board.”

“Apathy sullies all souls, given time” Their voice reverberated within me.

I simply nodded in agreement. “Are you sullied?”, I inquired, turning to look at the very humanoid figure beside me, the one who no longer seemed so grand. They simply looked at me, their eyes distancing, before nodding and looking away. I had many questions for this being, which I began to feel sorrowful for. But I wanted to be cautious, my curiosity not outwaying their potential discomfort. “You may ask” it spoke, continuing to look ahead. Away from my eye. In turn, I nodded looking at them before looking ahead. 

“I have questions”

[hebblog]

Having some big names from WWE/TNA make up most of the matches at a little local show in my city was/is rad as fuck!

[indirectcomedian]

silly time denied

[hipstersoulgushers]

spooky

[muffinsbasket]

[g0ttal0ve101]

Lucky

Note: coming back with another caria post haha 😻 it’s not sad at all haha 😻 tw: suicide, self-harm.

████████████████████

Carl hated himself. While this might seem to be somewhat of an over-exaggeration to outsiders, it isn’t. Carl truly and utterly hated every aspect of his character. He hated the way his face reflected in the mirror, he hated the way his hair was such a bright shade of red, he hated the way his voice sounded when he spoke and laughed, he hated the way his ribs stuck out, he hated the way his bony knees were always covered in scrapes, but most of all — He hated the way he hated himself. No matter how hard he tried to act confident, no matter how much he tried to boost his ego, the drug never lasted.

That’s why whenever he got drunk, he would put a blade to his wrists and pray that he’d have the guts to do it. That’s why he’d cry whenever he woke up and realized how severe his hangover was, but also that he was still breathing in a world where he surely didn’t belong. Oh, Carl hated himself. But he did love one major piece of his life. (Perhaps it was the reason he woke up in the morning?)

Mia Jacobs. Golden hair that brushed against her back, adoring eyes that lingered on his face for a few moments more than expected, a tender voice to keep his self-hatred from controlling him, and a wonderful, wonderful smile. Whenever Carl thought about her, his heart raced. It was almost childish how anxious he grew when she was around. And it was surely childish that he had made her the sun, moon, and stars of her life. Without her, there would be nothing. Carl liked it that way.

So once he got drunk that night and put a blade against his frail skin, he thought about her. It wouldn’t be hard to end it right then and there. Sure, it’d hurt like hell and he might even be too cowardly to finish it off, but his skin was thin enough that he could slice it clean. Why didn’t he then? Why couldn’t he move? Well, it was simple — He couldn’t bear to let her go.

The knife clattered to the floor and for a moment, he grew frightened that it might have been a bit too loud for his older brother’s liking. Nevertheless, he was too drunk to linger on the thought for too long, grabbing his phone and seeing stars spiraling on the screen.

Mia’s number was always on the top of his list. He clicked it without hesitation and curled up on his bed, listening to the sound of the device ringing over and over. It felt like hours before he finally heard a signal being picked up.

“What’s up, baby?” Her voice finally peaked through the fuzziness of the static, bringing a bright smile to his face instantaneously.

“Hiiii.”

“Haha, hi? How drunk are you?”

“I’m gonna kill myself, Mia.”

There was silence for a moment. Then suddenly, the pleasant tone in her voice dropped into a very solemn one. “…Don’t fuck around like that.”

Too intoxicated to realize how horribly awful this was to do to his girlfriend, Carl could only laugh. “I’m nottt. I have the knife right here and I’m gonna slit my wrists and fucking die, hahah! I’m gonna fucking do it! But, but, buttttt, I wanna tell you that I love you and that you’re the best girlfriend everrr!”

And that was enough to make Mia grab her keys and head for the door. Without bringing much thought to the fact that he heard her car engine start running, Carl continued with ramblings as if nothing was wrong at all.

“Miaaa? Miaaa…”

“What is it, baby?”

“Mffmh…I love you, Mia. More than anything ever, hmgh…existed. You’re a good person, no matter what you say. If you wasn’t, erm, you wouldn’t be dating someone like meee…y’know? And if you wasn’t a good girl, you…ugh…you wouldn’t be so nice to me. I can’t even know what it feels like to date me, y’know, and it scares me when I don’t know that when you…mmh, yeah.” Carl bubbled out without reconsidering even a single word he sang. It was funny to him at first but whenever he received radio silence as an answer, he grew increasingly more sentimental. “Mia. Mia, I…I really do love you, Mia.”

Without another second to waste, Mia’s voice broke through his whimpers. “Carl, please promise me that you’re gonna be okay when I get there.”

Tears rolled down his face. If she was on her way there, she’d surely see how much he cut himself and simply become disappointed. Her eyes would bleed with disapproval and disgust as she helped him clean up, almost as if she hated his very being for acting this way. She’d think he was seeking attention, she’d think he was weak — All of these scenarios piled inside of Carl’s head until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Practically stumbling off the bed, he began searching through his drawers to start the ‘layering process.’ One shirt after another piling and securing the wounds underneath would hide them away from his loving girlfriend. He wouldn’t have to hear her disappointed voice. He wouldn’t have to look weak.

“Carl?”

“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. I’m not mad. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“…Miaaa, I’m so fucking dumb…!” His sobs lingered for a while longer before he curled up in a ball.

“How many times did you cut yourself, Carl?”

That question alone spoke volumes to him. She was already disappointed with him. There was no saving it. Dropping the shirt he was pulling over his head, Carl decided to remain bare-chested until she showed up. There was no point in hiding anyway.

Having a feeling he wouldn’t answer any time soon, Mia sprung into action. “Okay, okay, just listen to me. Are you listening?”

“Yeah…”

“Go to the bathroom and put your arms underwater. I’m gonna be there in a minute, just go make sure you’re in there, okay?”

As he usually did, Carl obeyed her every word. He held his bleeding forearm tightly, stumbling out of his room while holding the phone to his ear clumsily. All he could hear was the sound of a car moving. It was sort of funny when he thought about how fast she must be going for a stupid thing like this. Because that’s what this all was — Stupid. Carl should’ve just got it over with and left Mia alone instead of worrying her so much.

Blood sprayed everywhere whenever he put his arm under the facet. The liquid began having a red hue whenever it hit the bottom of the sink, building up into a gross mess of his own mistakes. The call was still ongoing, however, neither of them spoke. That was until Carl started whining and freaking Mia out again.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m pulling in the driveway now, alright? Is the key still under your front doormat?”

Carl hummed and wiped the tears from his face, trying his hardest not to break down again. “Yes…yes, please d-don’t be mad…”

There was no time for anger. Entering the Mason family household and immediately rushing into the upstairs bathroom, Mia could honestly care less about being caught. Not that she would anyway - She’d snuck in many times before this and got away with it. She noticed the bathroom door was cracked open a bit when approaching it, pushing the wooden structure open to reveal Carl practically on the verge of passing out while trying to keep his wound under the water. Mia instantly hoisted him up by his armpits and steadied his balance.

For some odd reason, Carl was confused as to what was going on. “Miaaa…why’re you…?”

Brushing his hair back from his soaking face, Mia rested her free fingers on the open wound. Her boyfriend hissed in pain. “Shit, that’s deep.” She muttered under her breath, pulling him away from the sink to get the medical kit in the cabinet below.

“Don’t be maaad…! Mia, please…I’m sorry…” Carl hiccuped as he stumbled backward, nearly falling into the tub.

“I’m not mad at all. Just stay still and let me wrap you up.”

And that’s exactly what she did. Taking the cloth bandages and wrapping them around his forearm loosely, she ended up being able to keep the blood from seeping out. Carl simply watched her expressions as she went, his hair glued to his drenched face while trying to maintain a calm demeanor. It hurt whenever she touched it. Carl sort of liked the feeling.

Unable to filter his words due to the amount of alcohol he consumed, Carl leaned back on the toilet with a ring of raspy laughter. “How deep is it, hahaaa…? I really tried to do it this time, hehehe. Everything’s spinning and shaking.”

Mia huffed playfully to ensure he wouldn’t get the impression she was genuinely angered. “You’re drunk outta your mind, dumbass. That’s why you feel lightheaded…hopefully. I don’t think you bled out that much.”

Carl leaned into her embrace — At least he thought he did. In reality, his face plummeted into her chest harshly, and started rambling the same old script. “I love you, baby. I loooooove you. I’m sorry I was…mfgh…calling you.”

With a decrease in intensity, she gave him a sturdy pat on the back. His skinny figure still shook up like a bell. He giggled from the sensation of her rough hands against his smooth skin.

“Mmh…you wanna fuck meee?”

“Uh, no? You’re so wasted right now I don’t even think you can hear what I’m saying.” Mia snapped her fingers in his face, only to prove her point further when he stared back bewildered. “How are you even in the mood?”

Again, his filter was completely discarded from the words spewing from his mouth. “‘Cause I’m sorry…and ‘causeee…it’s all I’m good at.”

“What did you just say?” Mia asked sternly. Her tone sent waves of fear through his body, although he wasn’t sure what it was that scared him. The glint in her eyes made him want to hide away in shame; And yet, they made him feel good at the same time because they were locked on him. “Say it again. C’mon, I couldn’t hear you.”

Carl blushed heavily. Whenever she spoke to him like that he couldn’t help but get flustered. Even though he was drunk out of his damn mind, he knew better than to say it again. Instead, he sheepishly turned away. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yeah, I thought so. You need to stop talking like that before I…” Her voice died when she realized how it sounded. She had to be gentle with him. Especially whenever he was in a state of mind like this. “Just stop it, okay? I wouldn’t let anyone talk to you like that, so why would I wanna hear it coming from your own mouth?”

Those words stung like a bitch. There was nothing he could say that would justify himself or his behavior because she was right. No one else in the world could say anything bad about him without facing the wrath of Mia, so why should he get away with it? He might as well get the shit beat out of him just like she did to the other ones for speaking down on him.

Lowering his head, he looked like a sick puppy out in the rain. “…You’re right. I’m sorry.”

There was silence for a moment. Mia grabbed his hands and turned them over, gazing at the bandages that she tied around his forearms. It only embarrassed him more. He pulled away and tried to stand up on his own, only to topple over into the bathtub with a harsh blow.

“Holy shit! Are you okay?!”

Laughter exploded from his throat. And for a second, she had totally forgotten how much depth his depression had impacted him. He looked like an ordinary boy, drunk, carefree, and having fun during his youth. No one would be able to see just how much he hated himself, just how much he wanted to die, and just how much he hurt himself to ease the pain of existing. In that sense, his laughter brought her bittersweet joy.

“C’mon, babe. Get outta there.” She pulled him out of the tub and into her arms as if he were a sack of potatoes. She didn’t even break a sweat. It was almost embarrassing for him — Almost. He thought it was more hot than embarrassing.

“Mmm…Mia…”

“What?”

Smiling like an idiot, he buried his face into the crook of her neck. With a muffled voice, he began listing off the reasons he loved her so dearly. “You make me laughhh, you make me smileee, you don’t make me…mmffh…saaaad, you have a nice vooooice, aaaand…” Lifting his face inches away from hers, a genuine smile rested on his lips. “You take care of me.”

Blush erupted on her face. She didn’t like to display herself whenever she was flustered, but she knew he would be too drunk to remember any of this anyway. So, plopping him onto his mattress where he belonged on a Friday night, she combed the hair out of her face and sighed softly.

“I take care of you all right.” Mia grabbed his head and shook it around as she always did. She was more gentle knowing how intoxicated he was. “It’s only fair since you take care of me, y’know?”

Carl grabbed her hand when hearing this, examining the scrapes and cuts she received on her knuckles from the constant fights she found herself in. Placing his lips on them, he murmured out what he was thinking. “…‘Cause I love you.”

“Yeah. ‘Cause you love me.” Mia repeated, unable to contain the heat from coursing through her body. She was never the lovey-dovey type — Couples like that pissed her off. But considering how drunk he was and the fact he wouldn’t remember any of it anyway, she continued to console his worries. “And I love you too.”

On the brink of passing out, Carl’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment or two before they glimmered up into hers. “Mfmm…you wanna be my girlfriend?”

“I am your girlfriend, dumbass.”

“Ohh, yeaaah! Wow. I’m so luckyyy…”

Mia scoffed. It wasn’t his fault that he was so blind to the truth. She hadn’t told him what occurs when he’s not around — How many skulls she bashed in, how many screams rang through her ears, how much blood stained her clothes; He had absolutely no clue of that reality. She only showed him what he wanted to see, a girl who would cater to him and love him for the weak soul that he was. That’s all that really matters; What’s on the outside.

Batting her eyelashes and pulling his head onto her thighs, she continued to caress his curls gently. “Yeah? You think so?”

With that, the mood lightened up greatly and allowed Carl to ramble onward. “Maaaan, I’m sooo stoked…you’re my girlfrienddd…! I must have a big dickkk…”

Blunt was the best way to be. Choking on her own laughter, Mia couldn’t help but put a hand up to her mouth and try to contain it. Carl, on the other hand, was so serious he appeared to be petrified. It was way past his bedtime, that’s for sure.

“Last time I checked, you wanted it to be three inches longer.”

“Mhm. Three inches to reach twelve.”

“Carl…you do not have a nine-inch dick.”

“Yeah-huh. Check it.”

“I have many times.”

Carl peered into his boxers as if he were a kid on Christmas morning, trying to measure his length with an eye examination. Telling by the fact his vision was blurry and swaying, he could hardly see the contents. Scratching his head and pondering the question, he bit his lip a little. Mia thought it was adorable whenever he made faces like that.

With a groan, he held his head. Then, in the most solemn and dramatic tone ever laced in his voice, he briefly explained the misconception. “Someone stole it.”

His girlfriend was on the verge of tears by the time he threw a pillow at her to make her stop laughing so profusely. “Okay, okay, that’s my bad. I’ll give it back to you in the morning, okay?”

“You took my dick?!” Carl cried, flopping on the bed as if he fainted on the spot. “Aaah, I’m scaaared! What if I gotta go pee during the night?! What thennn?” Suddenly accepting it without another second of doubt, his voice softened. “Mfmm…it’s okay. You can have it.”

Curling his knees into his chest, Carl finally closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep with his head still planted in her lap and her fingers still in his hair. She sighed softly at the sight. Even though he thought of himself as lucky, she knew all too well it was her who had the four-leaf clover in her hands.

[spearzreloaded]

[crissaddiary]

My anxiety almost hit near panic attack today, and I've no where to go for this. Seems like my mental state has been at an all time low since my diagnosis with heart problems. I can't seem to shake the bad even tho I've had my ablation and was told I should be back to normal, but I don't feel like myself yet. No I go back and forth I fluctuate my personality just to seem okay but instead I come off as bitter and cold. I've hurt people I love because I get too in my head and anxiety turns into panic then I lash out in anger. I'm trying but that's all I can ever do at the moment. Seeking God and hope he can ease my mind. "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." The word, constantly ringing. I know what it says but somehow doesn't register. Am I a lost cause?

[wordsfromthedying]

rest in the comfort that it will watch you.

“I need you to watch after it,” a voice spoke, pouring out from the women’s frame, impacting all around her, but only for her ears.

As she looked at a sapling in her yard, she didn’t respond. The night prior, she was asking for a reason to keep going, so she didn’t question the thin stalk with one small and large leaf. The larger, tilting it down ever slightly. She didn’t question the first voice she heard coming from herself, which wasn’t her own. She squatted in front of it, bringing her legs to her chest. She understood this was her task, and was content. Work was not reason enough to wake, but she hopes this tree could be. Something greater than herself. Or some minute insanity. She didn’t know which she preferred—some greater being needing her help, or her own mind making this odd plant out to be something greater. A reason nonetheless.

. . .