'please don't ever hurt me,' you whimper into the softer side of his neck. he knows exactly where to put his hands on someone who hurts everywhere. 'the only way I could ever bruise you is by kissing you too hard,' he says back.
you collect his moans like cut out passages from the bible, he's the reason people get in fights about god. he might not be a real thing but there's no ******* way the universe created your boy by itself.
you want to scream that you love him from every rooftop in every city that is warless, every Spanish town that doesn't have a cross on the front gate.
yes, you do believe the story about Jesus being draped from a cross like your great grandmother's laundry, but like the buckets being passed around at church, not all of it was holy.
he is splayed out on his back in front of you, his shirt on the floor and his arms out to the sides. as you push down on his hips he bites his lip until it bleeds the colour he knows is your favourite. 'the only way I could ever hurt you is by holding your hand too tightly,' you promise him, leaning into him like a corner.