Sasunaru To Me Is What The Perspiration On The Fishermen’s Hand Is To The Dying Trout

sasunaru to me is what the perspiration on the fishermen’s hand is to the dying trout

sweet succulent life sustaining liquid gold u r

idc if ur too unique niche freak to appreciate the yin and yang populating the mainstream ships i rlly couldn’t give a fuck if u pounded one right into my g-spot

they didn’t run so insert homoerotic rivalry can walk here- no

they leisurely strolled down a dirt path barren of greenery, and from their mere presence flowers of shining beauty and grace thence forth sprouted from the infertile earth, and life was once again colorful with impossible life

they yearned so hard that a sexual relationship can only begin to scratch the intimacy these two crave from one another

they hump and fuck like rabid dogs bc there is no other way to be closer and they’ve tried to crack each other open violently too frequently and fruitlessly to blindly let it be their solution again

there is no absolving the space between their freakish hearts- all big and pumping and so full of love and hurt they sometimes don’t know the difference

soulmates twin flames heart parallels-

all the labels and words and terms are never enough bc they aren’t woven tg thread of skin to thread of goddamn skin and they can’t fucking cope with the reality that that isn’t an option

so watch it u porn addled fiends, bc if the anal is anything less than deeply sentimental and overwhelming and wound melding and soul crushing and peace reaching, you’re writing them wrong

they need no less then to eat each other alive, but they settle for rushed blowjobs and cockwarming occasionalities

they need no less then to reach a hand into the others chest and feel their own heart beating alive in their palm, but they settle for sucking hickeys into the pulsing sound beckoning through their throat

they need no less then to kill each other, but would fall into such ironic tragedy in the aftermath of voids and oblivion and piercing numbness that’ll colors their finger tips purple while burning their eyes crimson from cold, eternal oceans of unshed salt, so they settle for loving each other

they don’t blend or dance or toe the line of obsession and hatred and love and humanity and feeling

They Are That Line

and I’ll be damned if the general consensus between the two remains the misconception of cheap and easy Enemies-To-LoversTM

fuck u

treat my yaoi with the reverent touch u would bow to a shrine to and the ears opened eye widened awe you reserve for humanities greatest living legends, and then up the dosage of pure admiration by a hundred and ten fucking percent