my green

023 : nuance

ac: blustock_

songs: i know the end- phoebe
bridgers, dream, ivory- dream,
ivory, fade into you- mazzy star,
georgia- phoebe bridgers.

before

"why are you staring?"

he hadn't noticed.

he hadn't felt the curve on his mouth, the warmth in his ribs, the static in his hands. he just watched with the intent to memorize every hair, line, breath. and eren rubs at his palms, feels the dryness, blinks towards the prints in the center of them, and fathoms the many things he had done with those very hands.

he had used them to dress himself in a facade, bandages, dressings that he then needed to change out for sterile ones. he had been a weapon to himself, a danger, a threat. his hands had held blood, watched it stain his palms and create rivers of deep reds in the grooves of his fingertips. he had done awful things.

but he had held you as well. close, skin separated by layers of fabric that have been worn out long before you two had met. eren had felt at your knuckles, fingerprints, wrist, back, wondering how every particle reacts wonderfully to him. his hands had conquered you, shouting that you are his and that he is yours, a possession as sweet as honey.

a possession that pooled you, that resulted in you saying his name sinfully. he had held you differently, suffocatingly. he had grounded you while you crashed, embraced you and breathed in your gasps. eren had you around his fingers—and it's true, he thinks, he had done many things with his hands, but the purest thing that they have done, was have you in the center of them.

"sorry," he shakes his thought. "you're cute when you concentrate, you've got this little wrinkle in between your eyebrows and—"

"no i don't," you drop your pen atop the open notebook, fingertips feeling at the skin in the midst of your eyebrows.

eren nods, "you do." he swallows the courage, his discovery of the first time he had noticed the crease, but speaks anyway, "i first noticed it in connie's closet."

"what?" you lower your hand, sat on your legs, leaning and feeling the mattress cave beneath your weight.

"when you, um," he's sat across from you, the neck of his shirt sticks to his skin and if it weren't for your open window, he'd suffocate. "came."

and you gasp, reach at him on all fours to then shove him away and feel a heat blanket your cheeks, "stop it."

"you asked," he quietly laughs, stands. "and i answered," he finds himself prone to the little trinkets that scatter your room, the small details, every hint of you, and wonders if he's full of them as well; if he's made up of pieces of you.

"and i'm doing my homework," you sternly point at his back. "it's zeke's poem assignment, have you done yours yet?"

he shakes his head, the muscles on his back kiss the thin fabric of his white shirt, "no, i'm not doing it either."

"why?" you grab at your materials and set them aside on the nightstand beside you.

"'cause it's stupid," he shrugs. his finger pokes at a small bobble head figurine, smiles when its head shakes under his ministrations.

you hum, watching how his fingers tremble and hover over each artifact, "i don't think it's stupid."

he lifts his gaze, softening when he sees you through the mirror of your wooden dresser, "will you write it for me?"