he has this sweater that i absolutely love; it’s a wool, off-white cable-knit cardigan, and i’ve always wanted to wear it.

i laid on his bed in his t-shirt and my shorts- his favorite ones. he was sitting in the chair at his desk, with his legs up on it, and i was on my stomach at the end of the bed. i reached down to get the paper ball he’d made and then thrown at me; it was too much effort to get up so i stayed hanging off. “if you’re trying to make me look at you, you’re doing it right.” he leaned back in the chair; that’s when i noticed the sweater.

for some reason it made me laugh, what he’d said, and i couldn’t stop. i just laughed, a real, genuine laugh, which surprised me. “god, you’re adorable. and this is the greatest view.” i somehow managed to get up form the bed and walk over to him. i asked to wear the sweater, and he said yes. so i took off the t-shirt and put the sweater on, buttoning one of the middle buttons.

you never realize how big guys are until you’re wearing their clothes.

(Source: suonare)

more or less, i want to fight you.

i want to yell and scream. i want you to make me cry. i want to make you so frustrated that you hit something. i want us to be at a loss for words and i want it to be so painfully intense that neither of us knows what to do.

i want you to make me feel, but i only want it to be you.

(Source: suonare)

suonare:

i feel like falling in love or in lust or whatever the hell i have with you is going to make me go back to old ways. i feel like i’m going to be so damn self-conscious about every little thing i do; every decision i make, every single time i move my body or speak or even think i’m going to challenge it over and over again, just because everything is going to be done in your eyes.

and i don’t want to feel that way, but at the same time, i do. 

because i have this terrible little habit of contradicting myself.

because i want nothing more than to please you but at the same time, i want to be a strong, independent person who doesn’t do shit for anyone else.

because i want so desperately for you to know everything about me and toknowme but i hardly know myself- and god only knows i can’t stand to open up.

because i’m terrified of feeling, and because i’m too scared to suck it up; just live a little, let go.

suonare:

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that would be my school’s weight room. and because i’m in a writing mood, have some borderline porn.

technically, the office of the weight room. it would most likely start off as a fight- one of those fights that escalate to the two parties moving closer and closer to each other until one finally snaps and just goes for it. the first kiss would be hands around the face- deep, aggressive but contained. then a look of shock, a ‘did that happen, i’m sorry but i’m not and i have no idea how to react’ look. cue the next kiss- softer. and the next, reverting back to the ways of the first kiss, hands moving to waists and a back being pushed against the wall, an arm reaching out to shut and lock the door. bodies pressing together, lots of short, heavy breaths because, hey, we’re in a fucking school office. fucking in a fucking school office. some hands go up, some go down, and bam! sex. sex in which he’s biting down to be quiet and at the same time, is covering my mouth with his hand to ensure silence. sex against the wall, on top of papers and things on the desk, sex against on the filing cabinet, sex up against the white board.

that’s just the craziest location wise. trust me- for someone like me who can hardly stand the pda that is kissing goodbye, having sex at the school i hate when at any single point in time someone can just walk in is pretty crazy. i think it’s hot.

what happens first is you notice.

well, i don’t know about you, but that’s what happens to me.

i notice that he’s there; sometimes i don’t even have to see him- i can just feel that he’s around me. i do this thing where i don’t inhale, i don’t exhale, i just close my mouth and tighten my throat and trap whatever air i have in me within the surprisingly tiny space that is my lungs. i realize now that it’s my way of being in that moment, of keeping that first exhilarating feeling with me for as long as i can hold that breath; that breath filled with anxiety and happiness and anger and too many emotions to result in anything good or stable. then i become suddenly more conscious. my eyes widen, my lips part, and i keep my gaze anywhere away from him. of course, i’m somehow still able to take in every single aspect that is him. which shirt is he wearing today? his eyes are always straight ahead, his expressive very serious and severe. he hunches and walks on quickly, and for some reason his terrible posture makes him all the more beautiful.

the worst is when we walk so close together, like pass each other in a doorway, and i’m always the one to step aside while he walks practically right through me without a word or even a glance of ‘hello’ or ‘excuse me’ or anything remotely close to communi-fucking-cation. i look at you, dammit, i raise my eyebrows and offer a fucking smile in such a way, so why the hell can’t you?

why is it that the last time i spoke to you, you just kept walking- you responded, but you didn’t look at me and you didn’t even stop, you just kept walking as if talking to me was really indecently painful and who the hell am i to ask you to do something so inconvenient and ignorant.

god, how does he look like that? i can’t even begin to comprehend or explain how beautiful i think he is. sometimes i just want to look at him until i find him disgusting, just to get the idea out of my head. he can ignore me, talk down to me, be disrespectful, sarcastic, and all i can think is, “my goodness, you are so beautiful.”

i put on a solemn face when he’s there. i’m not overly happy, but i’m not too sad, either- either way, i’m feeling something and you don’t know what it is.

please, come and find out. please.

and then he passes, and i keep my back straight and my head up and my nails digging deeper and deeper into my palm, up until i turn the corner and i’m out of sight. i must be out of sight, out of mind, right? he couldn’t possibly still think of me when i’m not there, right? he probably doesn’t think of me at night and play fantasy scenarios of us in his head when he’s alone, right?

and i want him to love me. god only knows i’d have no idea as of what to do with myself if he ever did love me, but i justwantit. sometimes i imagine his eyes, his sad, sad eyes, telling me that he loves me, that he wants to be with me, that he needs me and i need him and that’s enough. sometimes, in these stupid, little, kid’s dreams, he doesn’t even say anything. he just looks at me. really looksat me. maybe it’s because he doesn’t look at me now; maybe that’s all i really want, for him to look at me.

but for now i’ll have to deal with the quick glance and the inevitable, desperate feeling of being hardly acknowledged, but not seen.

AN AU EMILY DICKINSON/WALT WHITMAN FIC LIES UNDER THE CUT~~~~

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the aftermath.

was he dreaming?

he must have been, because out of the corner of his eye he spotted that old, tan trenchcoat.

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