soft light » joshler

tender.

dedicated to cinnamonduns because you inspire me in every way.

he held me like I was the most perfect thing in the world, even though I wasn't. but I was enough for him, and that was enough for me. anyone could take anything from me except him.

*kind of tw only for this one paragraph. mentions previous suicidal thoughts and mentions of abuse.*

i loved the way he always put my needs before his. spoiled me, kissed me, comforted me when the shadows in my head made me shake and sob until my mouth was dry, and scream, because nobody understood that just because a person isn't sixty years old they haven't seen as much. because god knows I fucking have, and I know what pain is, and most adults will never know what's it's like to want to be dead. know what it's like to lie crying in the backyard of someone whose name you've forgotten, and feel so alone, nothing in the world left but their dirty fucking fingerprints left on my body.

*end of tw.*

he wasn't like them.

i could stare at him, and tell you every single detail of his face that I love, and spend hours on his beautiful eyes and the way the crinkle when he gives me that blinding smile. on his lips and how soft they were against mine. he hated when I complimented him, though. that's my line, he would joke, when I called him beautiful. then he would press a kiss to my cheek, because he always asked for permission before kissing my lips. and he would run his softly calloused hands against my cheeks until I could feel them flush, and run them down my chest, too-thin but he loved every inch of it. and ghost them on my thighs, gathering my skirt in his fingers and telling me how much he loved my thighs and how beautiful they were, and I almost believed him, the way he spoke about them.

I'd woken up crying. and I curled up against his body and was quiet, trying not to wake him up, but of course he knew I was upset somewhere in his subconscious and he woke up too. I liked his morning voice, as he said "tyler?" in his gravelly, misty tone. I turned and buried my head into his chest, and he wrapped his strong arms around my back and held me, and he smiled into my hair because he knew that him smiling made me happy. he had a way of whispering things into my ear that probably meant nothing, but they filtered into my mood and lifted it, so the black sadness could only brush the bottom of it, so swelled with warmth and happiness I was.

it was a pure love, that we shared; formed from not only lust and sexuality, but also truly of a bond deeper than friendship. when he climbed into the warm beating water of a shower with me one day he noticed my blush and attempt to hide myself, and he told me, "tyler, baby. your body is so beautiful. you being naked is no different; either way I see your beauty and your personality, and I don't need to see you as some fucking sex toy because your body isn't, you know." and he kissed my cheek and washed my hair, fingers twisting in my locks, slowly. and he was right. a body--it's living, it's breathing, it's gorgeous. nudity is not sexuality.

he would run his hands along my fingers, caressing them, and ask me if I wanted to go shopping. and I remember the day I said yes, and he took me to the boy's section of hot topic like he always did, but that day he noticed more than usual my unhappiness with the choices. he knew me so well, better than the tiny lines I liked tracing on his hands, and he wordlessly pulled me into the pretty feminine wonder of the women's section of urban outfitters. and i guess the light in my frosted cherry cheeks made him feel so good that he bought me dozens of things, things I'd never been able to own because a boy in a skirt and makeup was unnatural. disgusting. sickening. honey and milk foundation, colored lipsticks, fluttering crop tops and skirts and little white dresses, and finally pairs of beautiful lacy panties, all went home with me that day. even after a thousand "t-thank you, joshie" declarations i still don't know how to repay him.

pretty. that's how I felt around him. he was a warm silver lining in a world so unforgiving, tenderness within cold, he was a campfire and a shooting star and a warm blanket, he was the color red and the color pale pink. he was how I lived, and I was how he lived, and two lives so intertwined, we survived that way. it's worth staying alive, if it's only for him.

hey, I always love hearing from you guys, so if you have any ideas for drop them right here! it always helps.

stay alive, tomorrow is brighter. ❤️ -mei