Maycastle
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Summary
every time, it was different.
sometimes rough with urgency, a clash of bodies driven by heat and haste. sometimes slow, drawn-out like the aching notes of a requiem, each touch lingering as if to memorize the other’s skin. sometimes it was only skin against skin, the warmth of hands finding solace on the other’s chest, fingers splayed over racing hearts.
but it was never meaningless—not even when they pretended it was. because somewhere in the soft gasps and trembling fingers, somewhere in the stolen moments between classes or beneath the hush of midnight, something unspoken grew.
not just hunger. but trust.
and the terrifying, undeniable shape of love.
Bookmarked by Maycastle
20 Jul 2025