#her this entire season was so. shes so fine

[aquamarixx]

breaking the internet

chapter eight when some clout chaser claims to be the mystery girl in the photo, Hiori shuts down the rumors and teases about the girl who truly has his heart blue lock longfic series pairing hiori yo x reader contains fluff, post blue lock timeskip, afab!reader masterlist

The speculations about Hiori’s mystery girl are definitely one of the highlights of his career.

Ironically, he finds it funny how people react to it. He’s already been scolded by both the team manager and the marketing manager, each lecturing him about how careless he’s been. It’s not like there’s anything inherently wrong with dating, especially as an athlete. Though it seems like he was scolded for not giving them a heads up and keeping it a secret. 

His parents, on the other hand, are pretty much predictable. His dad stays quiet about these sorts of things, but his mom? She makes it a huge deal. Despite their issues, she still showers him with love and attention in her own overbearing, only-child-parent way. She’s adamant that he’s been hiding the girl from her because he’s embarrassed or something.

Not to mention, his friends and teammates. His Bastard Munchen teammates—not exactly the epitome of calm, cool and connectedness as how they would look.

The moment he arrived into a field for training, Isagi sprints at him at high speed, like golden retriever finally seeing its best friend. Igaguri and Raichi moan about how unfair it is for Hiori to get a girlfriend before them. The older members, Geisner, Bachs and even Ndiaye praised him as if he scored a goal.

Even Noa himself gives him an approving nod, “at least we know you’re normal-er than the rest of these football heads.”

Again, a wild reaction from everyone.

Sure, he’s not the only eligible bachelor in the field, nay, in his team who have been elusive or secretive about their relationships. But sports gossip writers love to eat up news like this. Like vultures circling around a carcass, the media (even fans) are waiting to pounce on him any moment. 

“Who’s the girl you were caught kissing at the JFA party?”

“Do you finally have a girlfriend?”

“Is your girlfriend a celebrity?”

It’s the same old question every single time. And for Hiori, it gets tiring. He should be answering questions about the game, the team’s performance and plans ahead this season. People are too hung up on who’s his “flavor of the month”, as if he’s Oliver freaking Aiku.

But he knows how to play the game. It’s just like playing a visual novel. His answers already predetermined, all of them would either deflect or shut down the whole topic all together. 

“I have no idea what yer talkin’ about.”

“Are ya sure that’s me? Doesn’t look like me?”

“Looks edited though, don’tcha think?”

Like he promised you, he won’t disclose anything to the media or anyone else. Not that he’s the type to kiss and tell. But he won’t confirm or deny it either. He finds it fun to watch people squirm, teetering on the edge of curiosity and frustration. 

Plus, he values his privacy. That’s how it’s always been, and it’s how it always will be. 

Still, beneath his calm demeanor, Hiori worries he might fumble this. He likes you—really likes you. Enough to avoid making mistakes that might scare you off.

Fine, he likes you a lot. More than he thinks you even realize. 

In the months before you started dating, he found himself looking forward to every conversation with you, whether it was online or during work. He’d take whatever crumbs he could get, so to speak.

That’s why he got so frustrated when you started showing up way less for interviews. He understood it was just part of your job, something entirely out of his control. But when you got reassigned to other teams, it did threaten him. 

You were a natural at what you did—fun, easygoing, and effortlessly charming. No wonder he felt at ease with you from the get go. So it was just a matter of time till others saw you the way he did. 

Athletes like them are human after all. 

When Nagi—and, surprisingly, Reo—tried to squeeze into the picture, that did it for him. He hated how it felt, the simmering jealousy that crept in every time he saw them be all chummy with you. No amount of goals scored against Manshine City could ease the sinking feeling of losing you to one of them. Or, worse, both of them.

Hiori never thought of himself as the jealous type. But now he knows better. He despises the feeling. The tightness in his chest, the restless nights replaying imagined scenarios. Yet, there’s also a quiet satisfaction now. You chose him. 

Not publicly known, not splashed across headlines. But still, you’re his. If he gets jealous, he knows he’s not overreacting.

“I know who she is!” Isagi sing-songs, jogging over to the bench.

Hiori offers him a water bottle, cocking an eyebrow. “Whatcha mean?”

Isagi displays a shit eating grin, practically glowing with mischief. “I know who the girl is. Ness knows, too.”

Ness, approaching from behind, offers a polite smile—a polite smile that makes Hiori’s stomach drop.

“Nah, ya don’t,” Hiori says, chuckling nervously.

“We do,” Isagi insists.

“Ya don’t,” Hiori repeats.

“Well, we do,” Ness interjects smoothly. “Reo told us about how you cockblocked him and Nagi at the party.”

Hiori freezes, sweat beading on his forehead. “What?”

“You guys weren’t exactly subtle when you bailed,” Isagi adds, his shit-eating grin growing wider. “Miss Journalist seems to be really into y—what the hell, Hiori!”

A towel smacks Isagi square in the face. “Shaddap!” Hiori hisses, putting a finger to his lips.

Ness snickers, and Isagi pulls the towel off, laughing. “Alright, fine, ya got me. But can ya two keep it down? We just started dating,” Hiori mutters, massaging his temples.

“Relax, I’m not gonna spill,” Ness says with a wave of his hand but he gives a small smile, amused by Hiori’s reactions.

“Gotcha,” Isagi says, mock-saluting. “But, man, I didn’t know you had that kind of ‘HioRizz.’”

Hiori groans, glaring at Isagi. “I swear to God, if ya don’t shut up, I’ll leave ya out of every pass next game.”

Ness bursts out laughing. “Don’t worry, Isagi. I’ll pass to you.”

“Hiori has more rizz than Yukimiya! I should take notes!” Isagi jokes, only for Hiori to smack him on the arm before chasing him down the field.

Despite the chaos, Hiori can’t help but feel a warm sense of pride. These guys might be loud and annoying, but they’re also the ones he trusts most. And in a way, it feels nice to share this secret with them—a small piece of his happiness.

Because you’re his. And he’s yours. And to Hiori, that means everything.

“So… you’re telling me this is you?” Your roommate, Miko, thrusts her phone in your direction, her finger pointing dramatically at the paparazzi photo of you and Hiori plastered on her screen.

It’s only been a week since the photo started making rounds online, but you’ve been caught staring at it one too many times by Miko, your eagle-eyed, ever-curious roommate. Today, you finally caved. The whirlwind of emotions bubbling inside was too much to handle alone.

And now, you just had to tell her because things are driving you crazy at this point. 

“Yup.” The two of you are sitting side by side on the couch. She grills you with her own paparazzi-like questions while you sink in further the couch, the unfinished article on the laptop you’ve been drafting long forgotten at this point.

Miko squints at you, her head tilting as she studies the image like a detective analyzing evidence. Her brow furrows, and then, as if struck by a sudden epiphany, she gasps.

She springs up from her seat, pointing at your face accusingly. “Aha! Is this the guy you—" she gestures vaguely but suggestively with her hand, “—you know, slept with after that work party?”

“Yes, it’s him. No, we didn’t ‘sleep’ together.” You can’t help but laugh as you swat her finger away. “We shared the same bed, yes. But nothing happened.”

Miko raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Sure, sure. A pretty girl like you, and he didn’t try anything? In this economy?” She blows a dramatic raspberry and plops back against the couch, clearly unimpressed.

Your cheeks burn, recounting the night you spent with Hiori. It was intimate—sweet and wholesome in a way that still made your chest flutter when you thought about it. The kisses, his touches. It only makes you yearn for it more.

The morning after was even better. You spending a whole Saturday with him was like magic. 

She idly giggles to herself as she scrolls more on her phone, probably to stalk Hiori. The girl is chronically online so her stalking (research skills as she calls it) skills are on par with yours. She could be a damn good journalist if she wants to. 

“You’re such a perv, Miko,” you say, swatting her with a throw pillow.

“Says the girl who drools on this guy's sweaty photos,” she shoots back, laughing as she scrolls furiously on her phone. “Wait a minute—oh, damn. This guy’s a big deal. National team and Bastard München? He’s a whole package!”

You glance over her shoulder, smiling despite yourself. At 26, Hiori’s resume is nothing short of legendary. Back when you were just another journalist in the crowd, you’d been blown away by his talent. It was his brilliance on the field that inspired you to write that first viral article—the one that caught his eye.

Even now, it feels surreal. How did you go from admiring him from afar to… this?

“And you’re okay with not going public?” Miko asks, her tone softer this time. Her eyes flick briefly to you, filled with concern. She’s seen you through your fair share of bad relationships—flings that went nowhere and heartbreaks that left their marks.

“Yeah,” you answer, though there’s a hesitation in your voice. “Honestly, I’m kind of relieved. I don’t even want to imagine how people would react if they knew I was just… me. An ordinary nobody.”

Miko slams her phone down dramatically. “First of all, you’re not a nobody. You’re the girl who single-handedly brought Bastard München back into the spotlight. You’re the one who made everyone see their worth when they were tanking. You’re that bitch.”

You can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm, leaning into the side hug she gives you.

“But seriously,” you admit, letting out a long sigh, “it feels unreal. Like… we’re from completely different worlds. If this got out, I don’t think I’d be ready for the fallout. People would rip me apart.”

Miko frowns but says nothing, letting you pass her your phone. Together, you scroll through the endless speculation about Hiori’s mystery girl. Post after post describes someone glamorous and unattainable—completely unlike you.

“That’s ridiculous,” Miko says, her voice dripping with disdain. But before you can reply, she suddenly gasps so loudly that you nearly drop your phone.

“What now?” you ask, startled.

She shoves her phone into your hands, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and fury. On the screen is a video of a rising sports influencer, her perfectly curated appearance making her look every bit the part of someone destined for the spotlight.

The interviewer’s voice is casual, almost playful. “So, you attended the recent JFA party?”

The influencer smiles coyly, a soft, practiced laugh escaping her lips. “Oh, of course. I was there.”

You can feel the tension building as the interviewer leans in slightly, their tone dropping to something conspiratorial. “And… given your connections to Bastard München and your shared sponsor, you must know Hiori Yo?”

The influencer’s eyes sparkle, and she lets out a delighted giggle. “Well, who doesn’t know Hiori? He’s incredible—on and off the field.”

Pfft. As if she knows anything about Hiori and his brilliance.

“So… are you the girl Hiori Yo was caught kissing that night?” Your stomach twists as the interviewer delivers the bombshell, their voice taking on an almost teasing quality.

The influencer doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering as if to draw attention to the gesture. Then she twirls a lock of hair, her eyes flitting away from the camera for just a moment before returning with a mischievous glint.

“Well… isn’t that for everyone to wonder?” she says, her lips curving into a playful smirk. The answer is deliberately vague, but the mischievous glint in her eyes speaks volumes, leaving just enough room for everyone’s imagination to run wild.

Miko explodes. “The audacity!” she practically shouts, throwing her hands in the air. “What is wrong with her? She’s milking this for clout! And the interviewer—ugh!”

You can’t even respond. Your gaze is glued to the screen, your chest tightening with every second of the video. The influencer’s words replay in your head, her casual demeanor and sly smile feeding into the storm of doubts you’ve tried so hard to suppress.

Miko’s rant continues unabated. “She didn’t even deny it! She knows exactly what she’s doing. God, people like her make me so mad.” She paces the room, her gestures wild and exaggerated, but you barely register her words.

Your stomach churns as you scroll through the comments beneath the video.

she’s stunning—definitely Hiori’s type. this makes so much sense they’d look so good together

Each comment feels like a jab, their assumptions cutting deeper than you thought possible. The image of you and Hiori, so ordinary and imperfect in comparison, flashes in your mind.

You glance down at yourself: wearing your favorite but worn-out pajamas, the fabric soft from too many washes. Your hair is in a messy bun, a few strands rebelliously sticking out. You’re comfortable, sure, but the reflection from the phone staring back feels painfully ordinary.

The woman in the video, with her flawless hair and perfectly styled outfit, radiates a charisma that seems effortless. She looks like someone who commands attention the moment she steps into a room, someone whose beauty turns heads without trying. 

Normally, you wouldn’t care about looking “normal.” Most days, you’re content in your own skin, finding beauty in your own way. But this? This moment makes you feel like just another face in the crowd. No striking features, no captivating allure. Just plain, unremarkable. And right now, “normal” feels less like a badge of self-acceptance and more like a curse.

Miko stops mid-rant when she notices the look on your face. “Hey, don’t let this get to you,” she says, her voice softening. She sits back down beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “People love drama, and she’s giving it to them.”

“But what if people believe her?” you ask quietly, the vulnerability in your voice startling even yourself. “What if they think she’s better for him?”

She shakes her head firmly. “You can’t let strangers decide what’s best for him or for you. Hiori chose you, not some influencer fishing for likes. That says more than any of this nonsense ever could.”

You nod slowly, though the unease lingers. Deep down, you know she’s right. But as you hand her phone back, the thought persists: How long before the world finds out—and what happens when they do?

You spend the next weekend with Hiori at his apartment. Again. 

This routine has become a comforting tradition. Every Friday after work, you and Hiori grab dinner, sharing stories about your day. By the time the last train rolls in, you’re on your way to his apartment, lugging a slightly larger backpack than usual. Inside are the essentials: a change of clothes, skincare, and personal items, neatly packed alongside your work things.

It’s mundane yet romantic, this little ritual you’ve built together. Friday nights are reserved for catching up, sharing laughter, and exchanging updates about work and personal lives.

During one of these chats, he casually mentioned that Isagi and Ness know about the two of you now. You shared that Miko, your closest friend and roommate, knows too. But you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him about the video. Not yet.

That Friday night, you binge-watch movies. This time, some of his favorites, including SPEC. It’s endearing to see him so animated as he talks about what he loves, his passion stretching beyond football.

Curled up on the couch together, a blanket draped over you, everything feels natural. His arm rests over your shoulders, pulling you close as you melt into his side. Occasionally, he leans in to kiss you—your knuckles, your cheek, the top of your head—absentmindedly, his eyes never leaving the screen. The faint scent of his body wash lingers in the air, grounding you in this moment, so intimate yet exhilarating.

By the time the third movie ends, you’re both ready to tuck in for the night. As you drift off in his arms, the comfort and warmth feel whole, complete.

You always wake up earlier than him. It’s a small, heartwarming detail you love about these mornings. He even got you your own coffee mug. A matching set of Nier Automata ones for both of you. With coffee in hand, you lounge in the living room, flipping through a book while the quiet hum of his apartment surrounds you.

Later, you make brunch together, settling into the kind of domesticity that makes your heart flutter. Saturdays with Hiori are always this way—unhurried and easy. You both slip into a rhythm that feels like second nature, each finding comfort in the other's presence.

When he’s gaming on his PC, you’re nearby doing some light work on your laptop, occasionally glancing up to watch his focus. When he switches to his PS5, you curl up beside him on the couch, yapping about the book or manga you’re reading as your fingers absentmindedly play with his hair. He listens quietly, humming in acknowledgment now and then, his contentment reflected in the small smile that lingers on his face.

It’s the kind of quiet companionship that makes everything feel right—as if the two of you were meant to exist in this peaceful harmony.

But this time, something disrupts the vibe.

Standing by the sink, phone in hand, your brow furrows as the video plays again. It’s the same one. The influencer, the coy smile, the teasing comments. You try to push it aside, but the weight of it lingers.

“Hey, you okay?” Hiori’s voice startles you. He’s slipped behind you, his hands resting gently on your waist as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“God, Hiori, you scared me!” You fumble with your phone, but instead of turning it off, the volume spikes, making you jump. Flustered, you quickly lower it.

“What was that?” he asks, noticing the unease in your expression.

You hesitate but eventually lead him to the couch, where you show him the video. As he watches, you fidget, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap.

“I just… it’s been bothering me,” you admit finally, your voice trembling. “Even though we’ve been dating for a few weeks now, I can’t shake this feeling that our worlds are too different. It’s pathetic that I let it bother me.”

Before he can respond, you continue, a weak laugh escaping you. “I know we’ve talked about this, but… it just gets to me sometimes.”

Hiori pauses, then gently pulls you into his arms. “Hey, s’fine. I understand. Don’t worry about them, ‘kay?” His voice is soft but steady, grounding you.

You feel his sincerity, but the nagging fear remains. “I don’t want to scare you with these feelings,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper.

“And I wantcha ya to know ya won’t scare me. Ever.” He tilts your chin up, meeting your eyes. “Is there anything I can do to help ease yer mind?”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Just this… spending time with you like this, it’s enough for me.” But then, gathering your courage, you add, “Actually… I was wondering if I could take you out. On a proper date. Something special. Just the two of us.”

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but his smile grows almost immediately. “You’re asking me out, huh?” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss on the lips. “Of course. I can’t wait to see what you’ve got planned.”

And for the first time in days, the weight in your chest feels a little lighter.

When midweek rolls in, you know you'll be too preoccupied since it always comes with an avalanche of tasks, and today is no different.

You're neck-deep in work, juggling content planning for upcoming videos and articles while checking in with interns you’re supervising. They're compiling research on volleyball, basketball, and surprisingly, esports, which they’ve informed you is “the next big thing.”

You slump back in your chair, fingers aching from typing, and let out a long exhale. Cracking your knuckles, you reach for your coffee, savoring the warmth as it spreads through you. It’s moments like this when caffeine feels less like a drink and more like a lifeline for your overworked soul.

Your phone buzzes on the desk, lighting up with a notification. It’s a message from Hiori.

Oooh, a Hiori pick-me-up, you think, already feeling a smile creep onto your face. Just what you need to get through this impending burnout.

The message is short:

hiori: watch fer a surprise

Attached is a link. Intrigued, you click it, and a video opens.

It’s a recent press interview featuring Hiori. He looks effortlessly charming in a black hoodie, his hair perfectly tousled in that way that reminds you of lazy weekends spent curled up on his couch. You remember him mentioning this event last weekend, but seeing him on screen still catches you off guard.

The interviewer’s question catches your attention: “So, Hiori, there’s been a lot of buzz about you and a certain sports influencer lately. Any truth to those rumors?”

Your chest tightens slightly at the mention.

Hiori tilts his head, his expression as calm and composed as ever. “Sorry, who?” he replies, his tone laced with subtle mischief. “Oh, you mean the one who has the same sponsor with our team?”

Ness, seated beside him, nudges him gently, a silent reminder to tread carefully.

The interviewer presses on. “Yes. Rumors are that she's the mystery girl you're dating. Is she?”

Hiori chuckles lightly, dismissing the question with his usual nonchalance. “Nope, not at all. We’ve never even talked to each other.”

And then, just when you think he’s moved on, he adds, “Besides, I like my girl who’s a little nerdy, enjoys the same things I do outside of football, and, oh yeah—she talks a lot.”

Your breath catches.

The comments section beneath the video is already buzzing. Fans are losing it over his indirect confirmation of the photo rumors.

did he just confirm he's taken? he’s confirming without really confirming it! whoever the mystery girl is, she’s lucky af. i will crawl in a hole and cry

But you’re not focused on them.

Hiori’s words replay in your mind, each one feeling like it was chosen just for you. He didn’t name names, but the teasing specificity left no doubt in your heart. This was his way of sharing a piece of his life with the world—without giving too much away.

Your shoulders relax as the video ends, warmth spreading through you.

Another message pops up on your screen.

hiori: would you mind writing an article about how yer favorite football player, Hiori Yo, is no longer single? hiori: also, I can’t wait to see where yer taking me fer our date. 😉

You can’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head at his playful tone.

Oh, this man.

The stress of the day doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. With Hiori’s teasing yet heartfelt reminder of how much you mean to him, you feel ready to take on whatever comes next.

amari's notes: i just finished writing this last night, sorry it took so long! i got sick for some reason and still recovering from it. made the bf read this and pointed out that journalist is not my self-insert, the roommate is my self-insert. she is so me lol. also, happy new year to all my hiori loving people! anw, I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a reply or drop an ask. i'll greatly appreciate it! Hope you all enjoy this chapter! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ (if you wanna join the taglist, just comment or send me a message!)

taglist: @inu1gf @pookalicious-hq @dontmindtheevie @wannabepoeticischiya

[whereispearlescentmoon]

I think about this a lot and I also think it’s why portraying Cleo as some kind of badass calculating threat is kind of disingenuous. Not to say she isn’t badass, she is, but often they’re kind of all bark and no bite. Cleo is ruled almost entirely by emotion, and is a big softy despite their sarcastic nature. Their alliances are built on love and trust, the idea of having someone to spend a season with rather than actually doing well strategically. There’s barely even a concept of “Someone here should win” just “We need to keep each other safe”.

You already went over the kind of breakdown Cleo had in their last Third Life episode. But I think having someone betray their trust in the very first season really sets up why Cleo is the way they are about alliances and betrayal. It’s completely unacceptable to them, there’s no coming back from it. Because Cleo loves their allies, they aren’t strategic tools, so she could never betray one.

Cleo abandoned a really solid alliance in Last Life without even stopping to see whose side Lizzie would take after the BigB thing because she felt so hurt. And then went back and burned the whole place down. The whole “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you” “Aw you could have trusted me” exchange. And like, yeah you can trust Cleo. Cleo doesn’t betray people, Cleo is loyal and caring. But she also goes completely scorched earth when they feel like someone has thrown their loyalty and love in their face.

Cleo, for all their talk of chosen soulmates and cheating, did end up softening to Martyn and working with him in Double Life. The whole don’t die sword thing as an example, and her calling for him when she died. The hostility towards Pearl in DL was often in defense of Scott, again love and caring over the strategic value of having an additional alliance. And of course there’s the convo with Pearl at the very end of DL that shows that even if they were hostile towards each other all season, Cleo does actually care for Pearl.

Cleo: Are you alright Pearl, you’re sounding… unhinged?

Pearl: I’m doing great.

Cleo: Are you sure you’re doing great? I don’t feel like you’re doing great.

Said with like, actual sincerity on Cleo’s end.

Limited Life is also a big example. Cleo willingly acted “motherly” towards Bdubs and Scar. She burnt down the bad boys mansion in an act of pure impulsive emotion after a minor slight. They got really mad when Scar died, like silent rage going into killing mode mad, and seemed happy to be reunited in death even if it meant not winning.

In their last Secret Life episode there’s a little convo at the beginning with Etho that’s great and shows again that Cleo’s mindset towards alliances isn’t about strategy or winning, but about trust and love.

Etho: Now I’m gonna uphold my alliance still even regardless [of the task]

Cleo: *clealry taken aback* I didn’t actually think that was an issue. That was- I thought that was just taken for granted.

Etho: I know I thought, it’s just good to say these things just incase there’s any doubt.

Cleo: I’m not killing you. If it’s just you and me left then you can kill me, it’s fine.

And then we get Cleo’s heartbreaking commiseration with Pearl at the end of Wild Life after Scott died. Cleo has never had to be alive without Scott in the Life Series. What is there to do without him? But Pearl is hurting and lost too, so Cleo figures that someone has to make a decision and that decision is that at least they can still try to kill Joel.

you know was thinking about life series cleo and. for all they're frequently portrayed as the Reasonable One on their team. and indeed position themselves as the Reasonable One on their team! we must remember she died like, second, in third life. after losing two lives in a single episode. because on that last life she got bloodlust and decided to go try to stab ren when he still had like, several allies around him,

[clone-anon-after-dark]

The Time It Takes

(A Crosshair x Reader fic in 3 parts)

Written for @lightwise

Word Count: 2,513

Warnings: Some discussion of sex, but nothing explicit

A/N: Reader’s appearance is not described. This fic contains some soft and hesitant Crosshair and early relationship stuff. Also Tech Lives and is on Pabu and he is in this fic so deal.

Part 1

Only a few days into a new rotation and you were already wondering what the year had in store. A hectic holiday season followed by some difficult conversations with someone who would never be yours. You’d known this for a while, but sometimes discussions still needed to be had. While he lived on the other side of Pabu, you didn’t see him as often as you’d think given the size of the island. That seemed to be both a blessing and a curse for while you longed for that connection, it would never be as fulfilling as you needed. You stood by the dock as you watched his shuttle leave for another trip; thoughts only disturbed by a single “hmph” behind you. Internally rolling your eyes, you knew exactly where that came from.

You turned to find Crosshair sitting next to Batcher on a bench along the dock. She was ready for a nap after no doubt spending the morning chasing fish while he went for his morning swim. He often swam further away from the busy side of the island and along a quieter part of the beach. You weren’t sure what brought him over here on his walk home.

“Problem?” you asked him.

He raised an eyebrow at hearing the single-word question he so often posed to others.

“No,” he replied. “You?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” you answered.

You were immediately distracted from your melancholy and somehow drawn into him. The man who often stood away from everyone and observed everything always managed to pull you in. You weren’t sure what it was about him that made you a little bit giddy. For his part, Crosshair pretended to be aloof, but it was increasingly hard for him to avoid you. It wasn’t that he couldn’t find a path through the community that would exclude you entirely. It was more that without planning and without thinking, he wanted to see you. His feet simply took him there.

You stood next to him while Batcher lightly snored. Crosshair petted her back until finally deciding to break the silence.

“Do you….” He uncharacteristically scratched the back of his head. His brothers did that when they were unsure, but like Tech, Crosshair rarely behaved this way. He always seemed so sure of himself.

“Do I what?”

“We should get lunch,” he said.  Internally, he was screaming at himself. He wasn’t a romantic, but this was probably not how it was done.

“I’d like that,” you replied. “In fact, I’m hungry now.”

Crosshair got up and Batcher followed. You meandered up to a small restaurant that always served the same things, but it didn’t matter because the food was always good and because she was on her best behavior, even Batcher was welcome. It took a little time to get into a groove of talking and eating, but Crosshair made a good effort. He wasn’t usually one to beat around the bush, so he came out and asked.

“What’s with you and that man? He’s married, isn’t he? Are you a trio with room for a fourth?”

You nearly spat out your food. His attempt at humor and honesty left you speechless for a moment, but you tried answering as embarrassed heat set on his cheeks.

“No, umm, well, yes, he’s married, but we’re not polyamorous and,” you sighed, “He was something I wanted or thought I did, but I’m not the person he can commit to. He’s with someone else. We’re still friends, but I guess I wonder what-if since he’s the closest thing I’ve had to a life partner.”

Crosshair wasn’t sure what to say. He had never been in a position to think about a partner. Tech’s survival and later reappearance on Pabu meant that he and Phee were together, but the concept of something like marriage was never introduced to the clones. They were made for a war that was over. They hadn’t even been taught about the basics of sex and anatomy until as a cadet, Tech managed to dig up information on the first data pad he’d made. The thought of being with someone felt like a cruel joke and yet in your presence and now that the Empire was behind him, he felt like maybe it wasn’t a joke after all.

“What about you?” you asked. “I thought you had a thing for one of the fishers.”

“Just because I lifted crates for her once doesn’t meant anything. I was being nice, if you can believe it.”

“Ah.”

Crosshair ate another bite from his noodle bowl and then ventured another question.

“What does partnership mean to you?”

You looked at him with surprise and answered after some contemplation. It was having an equal. Someone to help and be helped by. Sharing struggles. Lifting each other up. Fixing the house. Doing chores. Staying in bed late whenever work could wait. Listening to the rain together. You wanted stability. You wanted to not be alone. You wanted to be loved and to love and you weren’t going to settle for someone who couldn’t do their part.

“And getting laid now and again wouldn’t hurt either,” you added.

He grinned at that.

“And what about you?” you asked, returning to seriousness.

“I only recently started thinking about it,” he answered. “It sounds like something I never thought I’d have.”  He took a sip of his drink and then added, “But I would like to try.”

Part 2

Crosshair loved to steal kisses. The single peck you left on his cheek after your second date gave him all kinds of flutters. Maybe it was the sniper in him, but he loved pulling you away into the shadows even just to kiss the crown of your head. He was used to being out of sight. It’s where he felt safest and so it stood to reason that he felt safest having you all to himself and tucked away in a corner, on a balcony, or - at one point - up a tree. It wasn’t surprising that he was good with his mouth. His oral fixation was not limited to the toothpicks he routinely rolled between his lips.

For his part, Crosshair loved having someone he could make smile and laugh. He was still his dry, snarky self, but he smiled much more often, sometimes picking you up when he’d visit after a day’s work, just so he could hold you as close as possible. He could feel your heartbeat. He could feel you breathing. He could feel your happiness and it fueled his own.

Then one morning some weeks later you just happened to be ready to walk to the beach.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I thought I would come swim with you.”

“I swim alone,” he answered, guard coming back up.

“No, you don’t. Batcher is always with you,” you retorted; feeling brave and a nervousness at the fear you had overstepped.

“She’s different,” he countered.

“Can I join you anyway?” you asked, now more unsure.

“Just today.”

You walked together in silence, but the curtain that had almost drawn between you started to lift. He was cautious and you were trying to figure this out. Once on the beach, he put a towel down and – with his back to you - took off his cybernetic hand. He swallowed harder than he wanted to and it was clear that was the source of his insecurity in this moment. Tech had made him that cybernetic, but losing his hand and now gaining a different one had changed him. He still had to take it off whenever possible before getting in the water to avoid salt affecting its functionality. Taking it off and putting it on was a reminder and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be seen like this by you.

Crosshair took a breath, walked to the edge of the water, and looked back at you just as waves splashed his ankles. You looked at him, then his stump, and then back up at him and smiled. You realized you loved him. Walking into the water next to each other, you both started swimming until you reached a spot that was familiar to him. He closed his eyes, face to the sun, and took some deep breaths while treading water. You laid back and started floating, waves moving you in a comforting lull. He kept close, still treading softly while meditating on his own thoughts; somehow able to reflect and find calm despite Batcher doggie paddling close by and trying to snag a fish. Every so often he reached out to you to keep you from drifting too far. You sat up in the water, fingers tracing down his right arm before coming to the end of his stump and kissing it. He pressed a kiss to your lips like his life depended on it.

After about an hour, you both had enough and made your way back to shore. You dried off and he put his hand back on, this time not hiding. Taking a step toward him, your fingers interlaced with his - both biological and cybernetic.  He leaned down to kiss you, briefly pulling you into his chest before Batcher charged up the beach trying to bark with a large fish half hanging out of her teeth.

He walked you home hand-in-hand.

Things progressed to the point that he was spending the night. It was a lot quieter than staying with his siblings. Although they were nice, Wrecker was always there to elbow him and make it awkward. Crosshair would rather come to your house and snuggle on the couch.

He never pushed for more than you were ready for since he preferred to take his time anyway. He was nervous to be intimate with you and was scared shitless to tell you that, but somehow your gentle spirit made it okay for him to say something when the time came. You brought up sex and he avoided eye contact for several moments until you caressed his cheek.

“It’s okay,” you said, kissing his temple. “There’s no hurry. We can take the time it takes.”

“I don’t want to ruin this,” he whispered. “I can’t mess this up.”

“Then we talk,” you replied. “Communicate. We can do whatever we both want.”

You wanted him left in no doubt as to how you felt. He was vulnerable and you knew it. Crosshair liked being competent. He liked control and knowing what he was doing. With this, he was so far away from experienced that he couldn’t even pretend.

“Tell me what you like,” you implored.

“I don’t know what all I like.” He managed to look into your curious eyes and relaxed a bit. “In war, there’s no time. I would simply get the job done as fast as possible and get back to work.”

“Well that’s no good here,” you answered. “We can take our time.”

“Maybe you show me something you like and we can start there,” he suggested.

As much as it was a challenge for him to let go of control, he trusted you and that night he discovered a lot more about himself.

Crosshair was game for helping you in more constructive ways too. While he’d never fixed a sink, Tech gave him some pointers and he spent the better part a day on yours. He got down and dirty and made sure the job was done right while you tried catching up on work for the job you were actually paid for. It wasn’t a fun day, but it was more help than you’d had in a long time. Maybe ever. The citizens of Pabu helped each other, but it was hard to ask for help after being hyper-independent for so long. Crosshair started taking note about things around the house that could use some attention before they got worse.  The more time you worked together, the more you found your strengths complimented each other and you fell into a familiar routine.

Part 3

It was another sunny day on Pabu and you were grateful for a day off work without anything looming in the distance. You enjoyed lunch with Crosshair at what was now your usual spot while Batcher sat at his feet and gobbled up the occasional snack offered by him. You sat next to each other and shared a smile as you finished your meal. Just out of the corner of your eye, your ex appeared.

“Hey,” he said, walking up to you and trying to analyze the situation. “You weren’t there when I landed.”

Crosshair’s arm instinctively wrapped around you as a sudden jolt shook your chest. The man in front of you represented the past. The man next to you was your future.

“I assumed you were fine,” you answered. “You said it was going well when we talked last.”

“I’m just used to seeing you right when I get in,” your ex said with a hint of disappointment.

“You’re seeing me now,” came your reply. “You know Crosshair?”

“I’m familiar,” your ex replied with a nod in your boyfriend’s direction. “Maybe we can get dinner. All of us, if you prefer. Catch up.”

You nodded and he left.

Crosshair pulled you closer and left a firm kiss on your temple.

“I don’t like him,” he growled while leaving money to cover the tab.

“Why?” You sipped the rest of your drink.  “He’s actually nice. He was just surprised to not see me.”

“I don’t like the thought of you waiting around for him and being heart broken. I don’t like you not getting what you need.”

You looked up at him and only found sincerity and concern on his face. Maybe some frustration, although you knew it wasn’t directed toward you.

“I’m not broken-hearted anymore,” you reassured. “I just want you.”

Crosshair stood up and pulled you up with him. You walked home and waited until you were alone to bring up the subject again. Crosshair was interested, but as he preferred not to be pushed for information, he also didn’t push you.

He lay back on the sofa and you curled up against him. The skies darkened outside as he traced circles on your back. The story of your past relationship came out of your mouth in a stream of consciousness. Crosshair listened and held you a little closer as you got more emotional. You described your hopes and wishes, the ways your life was different, how things fell apart, what happened since. You went quiet and a peaceful chorus of soft rain fell on the window above you. It was a relief to let go of the past.

After some time, Crosshair broke the silence.

“I want to give you what you need.”

“You do.” You looked up at him and kissed the back of his hand. “I love you and I want to give you what you need. And what you want.”

“I love you too,” he replied. He pulled you into a fiery kiss and mumbled something about being more comfortable in bed with you.

[pricegouge]

I saw you were asking for horror prompts 😈 so here’s my scary perverted one:

Vampire!Nik who’s turned when his milaya is still a baby. Comes back 20+ years later to haunt and turn her so they can spend eternity together despite the fact that she doesn’t even remember him❤️🥀

-🗡️

okay, yeah. i had fun with this one, thank you!

cw: incest. age gap, but only kinda cause vampires. horror elements. vague vampire lore, including thralls. dubcon kissing/heavy petting. blood. unedited as usual, sorry. abrupt ending cause i ran out of steam. ~5k

he can't be bothered to watch over you for many years. life (death, rather) is just all so very exciting. he spread his wings. proverbial, maybe, though he's heard tell of something more ancient. more literal.

he doesn't forget you. how could he? you haunt his waking hours for what seems an eon, days and nights blurring until he has to rest for long years, wakes to a different time entirely and worries about how much he's missed.

much, as it turns out.

you're a proper woman when next he sees you, headstrong and borderline unrecognizable. he follows you for days, weeks. learns all your patterns, the quiet parts of yourself you seem to keep hidden behind locked doors he can only pass because he installed them, the bones of the house shaped by his own hands - an estate that's fallen to ruin, once-lavish halls picked apart by collectors, barren and drab with the dwindled staff. he tells himself it's a morbid type of curiosity but he knows better the second he lingers too long, sees you for the woman you've become when you undress before him, gazing upon yourself in a mirror that won't betray his presence, even if he wants it to. wants to see confusion cloud your face as recognition wars with your fear. you must have seen photos of him, your governess keeping you educated on the man who'd given you a name and a fortune and left in the night. he doesn't look quite look like himself anymore, but he more closely resembles you than he does his re-creator. and surely that in itself should sway you?

for you must be as lonely as him.

night fall is the worst for you, those lingering hours after the staff have retired where sleep eludes you, entices you to pick up hobbies which have not given you joy for many years. you'd been moved to the master suite some time back, the overlarge bed as tempting as a siren. you'd grown slovenly, your governess always said so. lax in your studies and far too melancholy to find a suitor.

but what could it matter, really? the estate had been searching tirelessly for a match since your first season, the only bachelors who'd made offers old and penniless. you still had a pretty enough dowry, but no one wanted to be saddled with the get of some wayward lord. not when there'd been no proper abdication. not when the specter of your father loomed over every inch of the estate, his fist still clutching at every gem. sometimes you imagined the sheets even still smelled like him, a faint trace that would linger some mornings and burn up with the sun when you finally let the maid in to draw the curtains.

but it was just a silly fantasy, some trace of comfort born from loneliness. in truth, the only possible clue you could have of your father's scent rests in the humidor tucked in the corner by the secretary - fine cigars turned stale, full-bodied notes now arid. hollow as the house itself.

you're sat with one, dry, peeling paper tickling your philtrum as you try to discern what flavors still linger. licorice, certainly; heavy and cloying. something earthier under it, a fine balance. leather, maybe. it's a distraction, a mindless way to pass the hours before you could feasibly fall into bed without your prying governess saying anything, shut your thoughts off for a time. you'd already written in your diary, another dull entry. brief with the monotony of your life. honestly, cataloging the notes you can pick out of these ancient, abandoned cigars would make for a more interesting read. this one still smells the strongest, though the paper has turned brittle with handling. sometimes you watch the gentlemen of the ton, carefully memorizing the precise way they snip the ends off, roll the cigar over the open flame of their lighters. you often imagine doing the same, like to picture yourself smoking the aged rolls expertly.

really, you know you'll end up in a coughing spell loud enough to wake the whole house, but the truth is you've never tried. it's a curiosity that's grown on you, the slow creep of moss over rotting trunks. you swap the cigar for something less flavorful, something that won't be missed, and rifle through the secretary until you find the little cigar kit you'd kept safely tucked away. maybe, like the rest of society, part of you expects it's owner to return someday, reclaim what's his.

the cigar falls apart a little, once clipped. flaky shreds of tobacco and other strong herb shake out at first, but you moisten the edges of it delicately, lick your fingers as daintily as possible and fuss about the paper until becomes slightly more malleable. lighting it is less of a chore than expected, the oils long dried. shake catching like tinder. you yelp and wave it out, stamp the little ashes that rain onto the carpet with a slippered toe. feel silly after. sillier still when you take your first drag and think for a moment you've managed to imbalance all your humors - immediate expectorant clogging your nose, inflaming the column of your neck. rough wool, still matted and nettled from the field fills your lungs and you cough, ragged and silent.

small blessing, no prying governess to heed your call.

light-headed, you wobble to the window, breathe deep of the frigid breeze you let in. winter steals in around you, rattles the pane on it's way past and sends the curtains fluttering. it makes your chest ache in a new way, but is a balm to your overheated skin, soothes your throat as you gasp for each breath. clutched in your fingers, the cigar glows brightly in the strong wind, crackling away happily. as your sinuses clear, you note the lingering heaviness of licorice, a black tar that seems to seep down your throat, gags you. you give it up for a bad job and smother it on the pane before tossing it onto the roof below. with any luck, a curious crow will snatch it away before spring melt off can dump it into the pasture, catch the attention of the gardeners. you've no clue how well-acquainted your governess is with the brands your father used to smoke and you've no plan to find out, resolving to leave the window open all night if you have to in order to clear the stench of your foolish endeavor.

the candles have guttered but it's no matter, the moon bright enough that you can disrobe and navigate to bed even without them. it's not a difficult endeavor anyway, the bed such a ridiculously oversized piece it dominated most of the room and called into question the size of the man who'd commissioned it. you drown in it most nights, restless, twisting yourself up in sheets that stretched on forever, wound around you until you'd wake gasping, clawing at your own belly as if to loosen the stays of a corset that wasn't there. the physician who'd come to see to you was unsympathetic to your claims that the bed was simply too large - had suggested sleeping in your corset instead, claiming it would soothe your nerves and prevent you trying to bind yourself in your sleep.

it did not work, but your maid, alice, was loyal to the governess. tied your stays in the back, much too tight for you to undo once she'd left you alone. even now the boning digs at you, chest still heaving from your foolish endeavor. you settle on your back, try to keep your shoulders set back to encourage deep breathing and watch the shadows play about the room, curtains billowing with each icy gust. there's still too much smoke in the room, lingering up near your ceiling where it swirls about, never quite low enough to escape when the curtains ebb in a back draft. you hope you won't be stuck with the window open all night. already, fine dustings of snow slip past, tip toe up your bed to catch your covers and set your legs shivering.

the blankets twist about you again when you turn to your side, but for once you don't mind, your own body weight keeping them tucked firmly in place so the wind can't steal your heat away again. your breath evens as you finally begin to relax, body forming to the mattress just as much as it forms to you. sleep finds you slowly, lulls you into it with deep sighs, your breath matching that of the house itself. you time idly, watching the curtains in the cloudy mirror of your vanity - the only concession to your residence in the whole room. a gift from some minor lady who'd once hoped to sway your favor toward her son - only to have him elope a month later with a merchant's daughter -, the piece stands out singularly in the dark, masculine room. gilded framework and ivory inlay, it catches the moonlight beautifully, pearlescent in the chill. you let yourself be entranced by the vision it makes, orpheus overtaking you, settling over you like a calming, physical weight which shifts, presses a knee between your own -

it feels like the chill has taken your blood when your eyes tear open, body frozen in place as you watch your reflection stir, pushed slightly further onto your belly while the blankets move seemingly of their own accord. you tell yourself it's the wind tugging at them again, but the way the flatten against the mattress makes no sense - and it's the not the wind that whispers your name in your ear.

still trapped in the bedding, you thrash uselessly before you're able to escape its clutches, only realizing you're screaming when the breath is knocked out of you as you thud to the floor. help comes to lift you to your feet before you are able to do it yourself, alice's hands surprisingly firm when they dig under your arms and lift. you can't even manage to thank her, breaths stuttering out high and thin as you stare at your bed in wide-eyed shock: two distinct impressions of bodies, one curled around the other, yet completely empty. smoke curls above it, oddly thinner than that what still lingers around your ceiling. it breaks up on the next gust of wind, shatters around you with a cloyingly sweet scent.

---

your governess is cross to say the least.

the next day is spent in the kitchens, working away your transgressions into a particularly hard dough batch. she is unsympathetic to the terror that had overtaken you just before they'd rushed in to help. says she's certain they'd only heard your fresh coughing, although you try to point out that the cigar was already gone by then.

"don't be clever," she warns, an adage you've heard many times over the years. What man wants a clever wife?

she has the humidor emptied, says it should have been done long ago. you say nothing because probably, she's right.

alice isn't your friend, but sometimes she can be friendly. unlike your governess, she at least seems to have noticed your distress from the night before, simply nods in agreement when you ask her to warm your bed after she's done helping you dress that evening. perhaps she still sees it, the fear. she hums at you like she thinks you need at, at least, and maybe you do because it works quickly, your body exhausted after so much hard work and such little sleep.

---

despite your exhaustion, you do not sleep soundly. the midnight hour finds you fretful, though you're careful to remain still so as not to wake alice. you breathe in sync with her in an attempt to soothe yourself until you realize it's not her that moves but the house itself, curtains billowing in a breeze that shouldn't exist, windows locked tight for the night. strangely, the realization does not frighten you - not even when you turn to find alice staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes glossed over and vacant. skin leeched pale in the moonlight. you roll over to her, curious, and her eyes track over you uncomprehendingly, focus on a point at the far side of the room.

there's no decision to sit up, you simply do - chest rising first as if an anchor knot is rooted in your sternum, woven between the hollows of your ribs. the world tilts for a moment, and then rights itself, as if alighting with you on this new level. you observe the room much as it had been the night before, cold light filtering through whorls of smoke, though there's more of it now - thin trails of oily residue curling all around the room. it seems to ebb about the edges. even with the window locked tight, the room still seems to contract and compress, pressure increasing rhythmically before expanding again, fresh smoke rushing to fill it. you track the trail back to its source, a pin point ember which builds and gutters with swell, bobbing along on a tide. it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust but you make out the hand that holds it first, long fingers painted warm in the low light. it's the only bit of skin you can make out, the body attached to it settled so far back into the shadow it appears only as one itself - darker, deeper. barely distinguishable.

by its immense stature, you reason it is a man sat at your secretary. like alice's composure, there is a part of you that knows this realization should frighten you, but you're much too tired and curious to care, crawling to the foot of the bed so you can get a better look, continuing on over the edge and onto the floor when you still can't make out his features. your palms scratch against the worn wood, bearing too much weight in your awkward crawl, and room stills when you feel blood on the heel of your hand, the heat of it almost shocking in the cold air.

you only make it another stretch closer before the man recovers, the ember of his cigar flaring and popping as he takes a long drag, leans forward in his seat until you can make out a broad, stubbled jaw, two perfect white streaks glowing in the moonlight revealed when he finally drops his hand. his lips are wine-dark when they part, reveal a neat row of pearly teeth. he's impolite, blows his smoke directly at you. cloyingly sweet licorice and heady tobacco. you do not cough this time, though it's a near-miss. it seems to please him, lips tugging into a cruel smile as the smoke grows denser, begins to pour from his mouth in a thick, black cloud. it stains his chin, his teeth a black tar-like oil that smells too pungent. rotted.

you startle when alice screams, overcorrecting when you turn to her because she's there beside you, not behind, both of you still lying in bed.

"alice?" you start, trying to wake her, but your hand slips across her chest, slick with something dark and hot, and you freeze, unable to do anything as she continues to sieze and shriek beside you.

the governess comes, and then a doctor. in the confusion, you're shuttled off to the chair across the room. you're already settled into it by the time you realize it's where the man had sat, and you briefly take inventory of it, as if perhaps you could feel the traces of his body heat lingering. but the only thing of note is the trace whisps of dark sweets, easily explained away by your own mishap the night before.

they clean alice's wound and find a neat ring of teeth marks, your own good name saved by virtue of the doctor recognizing that they'd had time to heal - must have happened some other night, that alice must have been picking at them in her sleep. your governess's obvious distaste stills your tongue, unwilling to face her wrath if she believes you sympathetic to some street hussy. so you say nothing, even as alice shrieks about a man, about being accosted. even as they call her hysteric and pack her off. instead you sit silently, picking off the blood the that had dried to your hand when you'd gone to wake her. never mentioning the scrape you find beneath it and the congealed line of your own blood; the cut from when you'd flopped out of bed to crawl to his feet. because you can still smell it, the stomach-turning sweetness, and the heavy scent it had given way to, and you know what it was now, staining his handsome chin just as much as alice's breast.

and it's not fear, or even pity that settles low in your belly, simmers hotter than that ember which had sparked to life, woken you to his call.

you follow them when they walk her out, a small team of men needed to keep her restrained. she fights to be heard, but a part of you worries she fights to stay as well, the claws she sinks into the door frame intended to keep herself put for him. you feel ugly and selfish when you traipse back to your room, but you do anyway, stopping only long enough to smell the beautiful bouquet of dark winter roses you pass on the sideboard. they're lovely and sweet, though you can't help noticing no one has bothered to cut the thorns off. careless. you wonder who got them.

---

it's not the only life taking root in the house.

despite the grueling winter, you notice sunshine in the halls, dust motes dancing in the pale light. sconces you've not seen lit in years keep the shadows of night at bay. spices find their way into your meals, a small luxury you've been missing greatly. you can see your governess watching the staff suspiciously, but don't dare ask if she has her theories.

---

there are cigars in the humidor. or maybe they aren't cigars, much thinner than the ones you're used to seeing. you've no idea how they got there, but neither do you know who to ask. who you can trust to believe you, even just long enough to look, see the proof for themselves.

but then, you're not sure you want anyone else to know.

they smell like his. dark and heavy, sickeningly sweet. it makes your stomach turn but you fish out the lighter anyway, throwing the windows open decisively. fresh air pours in around you, chases cobwebs from the corners. the sconses gutter before flaring back to life, leaving the room brighter than it's been in months, cleaner than it' felt in ages.

you hardly notice, too busy fighting the cough that builds in your throat as you take your first drag. you don't manage it, smoke sputtering sputtering from your mouth in fits and starts as you heave your way through a coughing fit, stomach turning with an unexpected wave of nausea. face turned to the cool relief of the window, you've got your cheek leaned up against the side of the pane when the smoke begins to waft away. it takes you a moment to make sense of the image revealed, inverted and near as it is. fear grips you before you even manage it, some fine-tuned instinct recognizing the viper at your feet and turning to run before you're even sure what you've seen.

but this is no viper, and the reaction warranted when faced with the immense silhouette of a man hanging inverted in your window, mere inches from your face, is to go still as a deer in the hunters' sights, evidently, and play the docile little pray.

he turns properly toward you, the shaggy hair dangling around his face catching in the wind. your cigar flares with it, wan light revealing pale skin and dark eyes which seem to glint in amusement when you stumble away, the whole of the picture revealed to you just as long fingers wrap over the top of the casement and pry it open, hinges groaning as they overextend to let his broad shoulders pass. he pours through the sill like butter from the pan, pools on your ceiling with a strong grip on your curtain rod. except, when he drops from it, he sinks from the rafters like a feather, none of the might his huge frame suggested anywhere to be found.

still reeling, your hip catches the edge of your wardrobe and you slip past it, put your back to the wall as quiet cries spill from your lips, pleas incomprehensible.

he greets you by name in a thick russian accent, and somehow, impossibly, you know, but you ask anyway, voice trembling. "who are you?"

a step closer, movements so fluid you can barely discern them. when did the candles go out? "your cleverer than that."

strange compulsion, you can't stop yourself before reciting, "men don't want clever wives."

"is that what you think i want? a wife?" amusement curls around the words, turns his accent lilting.

"i don't know what you want," you whisper, and he grunts - edging closer to irritation.

"and is that what you think i am, then? a man?"

"no…" the truth shocks you, has you casting about for an anchor. you only find confirmation when you catch sight of your vanity, the man in your room leaving no reflection. your cleverer than that. "you were here that night, weren't you? on the bed with me?"

"well, what's a man to do when he returns home to find a pretty young lady in his bed?"

"you're my father." it's not a question. you're not even certain you mean it as a chastisement. it is simple fact, roiling in your stomach like the nausea that lingers.

a fact he ignores, slipping closer and trailing cold digits over the inside of your wrist before taking the slim cigar from between your fingers. you weren't even aware you'd still had it. it glows back to life when he takes a deep drag, smoke spilling from his mouth when he speaks again, "do you like this one better than that other? they're very popular in paris."

you latch onto the wrong part of the question. "is that where you've been?"

"there," he shrugs. "everywhere."

more nausea, sinuses prickling with the added smoke. "anywhere but here?"

he doesn't seem to like this question, either, a stillness overtaking him. "i was… called away."

but if he can be angry, so can you. "for twenty four years?" you snap, voice ragged and sharp as it had been after your first inhale.

his stillness snaps, exasperation turning him away from you. he paces to the window and finally you can see more of his features - the high peaks of his hairline, the heavy brow and the broad nose. he's an older man, you know, and yet - he doesn't really look it, fine lines of his forehead no worse than a man ten, twenty years his younger. his voice is gruff when he speaks again. quiet. "a man can't help being needed -."

"you were needed hear!" you shriek, a reservoir of emotion you didn't know you'd kept dammed breaking free.

when he turns on his heel the candles flare again, and you gasp, shocked to find him suddenly before you, the wool of his overcoat scratchy even through your shift. he waits for you to settle, for your chest to stop heaving against his and your pulse to stop hammering so loud in your ears that you can't hear what he says when his lips move, tongue darting out to wet them. "am i no longer needed, then?" he finally asks, and you wilt against him.

"of course you are," you sob, trying not to notice his own breaths never come.

---

there's no precedent telling you what to call him. his name is improper, but 'father' leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. you plead of him 'my lord!' when his kisses linger too long and he groans, pleased.

you're not sure if you like him when he's pleased.

he frightens you, takes too much. he's a man of appetite as you should have known by the marks he'd left on alice, but you'd foolishly thought yourself untouchable, too gently borne to suffer such indignities. of course, the station of your birth matters little to your own father - if it indeed ever would have mattered to anyone at all.

but it's hard to refuse him when he's your father, and so huge, besides. his broad frame corrals you easily back toward the bed. he doesn't let you sink onto it until his kisses have trailed to the hinge of your jaw, cold nose nuzzling behind your ear. when he does breathe, his chest eclipses your own, tries to turn you concave, carve a space within you. his exhale stinks like his cigar, pressed into the corner of your lip.

it's improper. leaves you teetering between disgust and a guilty sort of pleasure, which only serves to repulse you further. your stomach turns, guilt eating its way up your throat. acrid with smoke.

the hand splayed over the column of your throat tightens minutely, long fingers threatening to pluck the tendons which flex when you gag. he misunderstands. "not supposed to inhale, you know?"

your head spins, the only relief from your mounting sickness found in the the cold relief of his hands against your cheek. "i didn't… i don't..?"

"shh. that's alright. papa will teach you. take this, it will help you feel better."

and your mouth when he does. wide, mimicking. eager for some tincture to help soothe your nerves. a strong dose to put you under, perhaps. he grins when you show him your teeth and a finger finds his own, long claw catching minutely on his lip when he drags the pad of his first two fingers over his canine. you're shocked when it comes away bloody - more so when he coos, eases them into your own mouth to stroke against your tongue. for a moment you're too shocked to respond, but then the heavy taste of blood coats your mouth and you thrash about under him, swatting and biting.

it only seems to encourage him, voice too thick with hunger and approval to be as soothing as he intends it when he tries to gentle you beneath him.

he gives up trying when his blood overflows your mouth, spilling over your cheeks as you continue trying to shake him off. he mutters something about a waste and then his other hand is pinching your nose, cutting off your air supply fully. you gurgle, trying to clear your mouth and he snarls, shoves his fingers deeper.

you're forced to swallow your mouthful when your vision begins to tunnel. he sighs in relief when you do, breath nearly as heavy as yours when you gasp and wheeze. he has the decency to drag his fingers down your chin as you struggle, staining all down your throat as he traces the path of the load you've swallowed.

"not so hard, was it?" he mutters, still painting your skin. you glare at him when you can finally manage it and he just chuckles, forces his fingers behind your bottom teeth again. even still the taste revolts you, tongue crowding to the back of you mouth to try and escape the cold copper, the thick licorice. if he notices, he is undeterred. makes you take even more when he pries your jaw open and spits in your mouth.

the vulgarity makes you heave, but his weight fights even that. keeps you in place when he shoves his fingers back until the webbing nestles against the corner of your mouth and his fingernails scrape against your throat. he feels when it constricts around him reflexively and his free hand smooths the hair back from your sweaty forehead, cold breath against your temple as he tells you to relax, voice fragmenting - somehow both soft, ethereal, and a very real rumble in your ear.

it's that quiet one that gets you, webs its way through your nerves until you're limp with it, energy sapped along with your will to disobey. his fingers pull back minutely, give you enough space to swallow the blood that's gathered at the back of your throat. when they push back in, he bids you suckle them in that same distorted voice and you do. easily, gratefully, and this time, the blood pools in your belly like an antidote. it soothes your nausea, leaves you hungry for more. he doesn't hesitate to provide it, fingers pumping in and out of your mouth as you begin to suckle at them, entreating him to stay nestled in the heat of your mouth each time he starts to pull away.

you're unsure how long he feeds you. long enough you that you feel sated and sleepy when he withdraws entirely. a strand of saliva follows him, snaps back to fall down your chest when he licks his own fingers after, thick tongue wiping clean what mess remains. his skin comes back whole and healed, a prospect that should surely frighten you, but there is no fear when you grow bold, pull him closer by a strong grip on the long strands of hair at his nape. his tongue is slick when it slides against yours, chasing the taste of himself. he follows it down your chin, panting against the column of your neck as his hands work up your chest, the pressure of them on your waist having been having gone unnoticed through your corset. his nails scrape your skin when he catches the hem of your dressing gown and finally, some base instinct flares back to life, tries to stay his hands with your own, fingers scrabbling against his. he just hushes you again, voice echoing softly between your ears. this time, when your fingers wrap around his wrists, it is simply an anchor for you, body feeling as though you may simply drift away under his care.

when his mouth finds your breast, you arch into him, bucking hard enough that he groans, lays his body flat over you to keep you in place as he feasts. even his weight is decadent, a relief from the way you feel untethered. he pinches your nipple between too-sharp teeth, soaks the fabric of your shift in saliva just to soothe you after. his mouth offers no heat, no balm for the frigid breaths he ghosts over the wet material. you beg for it anyway, fingers threading through his hair to keep him close. an instinct that will do you no good here, the man at your breast inhuman and cold.

it's a fact you can't escape from, not with his cold blood in your belly and his will in your head. not with his lupine teeth spreading wide over your heart, or the ecstatic relief when he finally bites down. your breath steams in the air as you pant beneath him, chest heaving into his mouth even as you try pulling him impossibly closer, and here, finally, is the heat - the bloom of blood that soaks your shift and warms your skin, even as you grow colder with the loss of it. he's insatiable, a man of appetite as you knew, and yet you give yourself freely, even as your breath grows stilted and shallow and your fingers twitch in his hair. he only surfaces when your vision grows cloudy, looms above you in a grisly mask of death turned two-tone with the moonlight and your fading vision. jaw stained dark, it appears an endless maw from which he speaks, demands to know if you'll join him in eternity.

and what girl could ever live without her papa?

dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/adornedwithlight

[entitled-fangirl]

My strong girl.

Bjorn Ironside x reader

Summary: After learning of his uncle's betrayal in Paris and the defeat between the towers, Bjorn comes back to their settlement- which was attacked while the men were away.

A/n: SPOILERS FROM SEASON 4!!!!

Masterlist

...................................................

She couldn’t hear anything over the sound of Bjorn screaming her name.

The settlement had been attacked while Ragnar led the second raid on Paris. 

Helga was on the brink of death, and Y/n had managed to get Ubbe and Hvitserk into the trees for safety, Yidu following behind.

Y/n stepped from the trees, a guilty and teary look in her eyes. The boys followed, running past her to their father and Ragnar embraced them with a relieved sigh.

She saw Bjorn’s entire body relax once his eyes found hers. He met her halfway, his mouth pulling up in a smile. His arms engulfed her.

“Thank the gods you are alive,” he breathed against her hair. He gave her a firm squeeze and pulled away to cup her cheeks. “Are you hurt?” His thumb rubbed a firm line across her cheekbone, trying to rub the blood off and his head dipped a bit lower in earnest. “Are you hurt?” He repeated.

“‘M fine,” she finally told him. 

“Are you?” He questioned hurriedly. He was always a worrier.

“I am,” she persisted. “What about you? You are back so soon, and all wet.”

His face hardened. “My uncle betrayed us. He’s becoming one of them. We were outwitted on our ships.” He pulled her against him by her hips. “Did you fight today?” He asked softly.

“There was no fight,” she pouted. “They slaughtered us. The children-“

“-You protected my brothers. For that, I am forever grateful.”

“I only led them away from the men.”

He took her by the jaw and spoke in a low tone. “And that was brave. Would you have died for them?”

She only stared but they both knew she would.

He ran a hand over her cheek delicately, the feeling tickling her. “I was worried.”

"I survived. Others were not so lucky."

His lips pulled taught. "It is the same for me." 

The two stood amidst the remaining smoke wafting into the air. Amidst the chaos. 

"I will kill him," Bjorn spoke, though it was not very much directed to her.

She pushed up onto her tiptoes to kiss his jaw. "Who, sweet Bjorn?"

The man had killed a bear with his bare hands. Killed a berserker. But still, he remained her 'sweet Bjorn.' And those who dared to mock it were met with the glare of said 'sweet Bjorn' who could kill without much thought.

"My uncle," he reminded her, his eyes focused on the water. With a small nip from her on his neck, he finally tilted his head down and met her lips with his.

"Oh," her small voice reconciled. "Was there no remorse?"

His brows twitched up. "I do not care if he begs, I will deliver him to death. I vow-"

"-Do not vow," she mumbled against his lips. "Do not vow things when you are upset."

He knew she was right. He was just annoyed by it in this moment. He huffed and grabbed her by the back of her neck, pulling her in for a bruising kiss.

She kissed back fervently before a small squeak came from her when she remembered something. She pulled away, only to have Bjorn follow and capture her lips again. She tried again, and Bjorn followed once again. Finally, she giggled and had to arch her back away from him to create enough distance. His hand on her neck pulled her back to him. "Bjorn," she pleaded with a laugh. 

His teeth pulled at her bottom lip before he finally rested his forehead against hers with a hinted smile of his own. "Kiss me."

"It is important. Plea-"

He kissed her again, a full fledged smile now evident as he manhandled her against him.

It became a game, running from Bjorn's persistent kisses.

Her hand snaked up to her neck and around the twine holding the ring. "B-" she tried again. "Bjorn, the ring."

That finally got his attention. He leaned away with a fallen face. His eyes slowly moved down her face to her chest where his fingers brushed the skin before holding the ring up between them. The ring. The one from the Berserker.

"What of the ring?" He asked.

"I spoke to Torvi of it." Her eyes took in each of his micro expressions. "She recognized it."

His pupils dilated at that. But he silently waited for her to speak.

"It was King Horik's. Passed down to Erlendur."

She felt Bjorn's entire body tense. He leaned in and spoke lowly Into her ear. "You are sure of this?"

"Torvi recognized it well. Here." She took it off, holding the twine out to him.

He watched the ring wave in the air, mocking him, before nodding and taking it from her. His free hand brushed her chin, "Thank you. For keeping it safe."

"When will I know of its meaning?"

He sighed and kissed her temple. "When the conflict has resolved itself."

Revenge would be had but he was much like his father. The long game was always worth the payout.

Bjorn pulled her in for a long hug, relaxing once her body rested against his. The rest could wait. For now, he had this. And he wouldn't take this for granted.

"My strong girl," he spoke in her hair. "My strong, strong girl."

.................................................

[lambilegs]

does it happen in a season? (part four: SUMMER - ii)

in her senior year of university, lee is ready for nothing more but yet another monotonous cycle of meeting her new roommate, adjusting, then living in separate spheres for the rest of the year. the last thing she's prepared for is: curiosity.

last chapter: (SUMMER i) | next chapter: (SUMMER iii)

soundtrack: seasons - wave to earth; lover - taylor swift; 20201203 - mac demarco; I know you know - CHSKA; video games - lana del rey

(contains: 19K words (tumblr did not let me upload the entire 40K part two of summer, so expect a third part soon), college!au lee harker, set in the nineties, discussions of trauma, depictions of anxiety and hoarding, internalized homophobia, homophobia, intoxicated sex (specifically, having sex when high) without prior discussion, joke made about reader taking advantage of lee when they're high, graphic sexual content w/ reader's body referred to with the following terms: "pussy," "cunt," "tits," "breasts," "clit," reader receiving fingering, reader being called a "good girl," kinks include: spitting, dirty talk, spanking, slight humiliation)

important note about sexual content: the start of sexual content will be marked by ✩ (bolded green-coloured star) and the end of it will be marked by ✩ (bolded red-coloured star). minors, and anyone who doesn't desire to read nsfw content, please use these markers in order to skip nsfw content.

----

SUMMER. SOMETIME IN THE 1990s.

lee’s holding a plate of food in each hand when you come scurrying into the kitchen, fresh and acutely awake after your morning shower. the news is softly playing on the radio, filling the apartment. as you dash past her, she leans her head in your direction and you give her a small peck before rushing to the couch and flopping onto it. 

you curl your feet underneath you as you scramble for the remote with a giddy smile biting at your face.

she sets the food down on the coffee table. “you know, grabbing the remote first doesn’t make it your turn.” 

“I know,” you respond haughtily. “what makes it my turn is that the last movie was a tape you picked out.”

“yes, but then, you had us watch an episode of a show that you like two days later.”

you roll your eyes. how did she even manage to remember the exact date that was? “yes, but that’s a show. it’s only half an hour long!”

“yeah, but doesn’t it make sense to determine who chose what we watched last based on the actual act of choosing – not runtime?”

you bristle at her pristine logic. “fine, I chose last. but, it doesn’t count – it was a half hour show!”

lee’s lips creep up. you can tell she’s enjoying the little argument, and you’d be inclined to tease her for it if it weren’t a deeply hypocritical thing to do. “but, again, our turns are based on choice. not runtime.”

your bottom lip juts out, staring longingly at the tapes on your coffee table. “c’mon, please.”

she sighs at you, lips pressing in together. after a moment, she gets up, picking up the tape of Age of Innocence.

you clap your hands excitedly, cheeks aching with how hard you beam. “you are my favourite girlfriend, you know that?”

“mm, yeah.” she pops the tape in, eyebrows drawn in slightly. “I remember last night.”

your shoulders twist at the shiver that creeps up your body, mind flashing with the mental images of lee between your legs, and the taste of her on your tongue, the latter of which has already faded, leaving you with a craving for more.

when you say nothing, lee turns to you wordlessly, the corner of her lip just barely tucked upwards. “what’s wrong?”

“I never said anything was wrong,” you shoot back, sinking further into the couch, praying you look casual. 

apparently not, for lee’s grin widens as she stands up, grabbing the remote and pointing it to the television to switch it on. “well, you know, you just got a bit quiet.”

“says the queen of the monosyllabic response.”

she seats herself on the couch, the bottom edge of her boxer shorts rising up her thighs. the sight makes you want to both lay your head on her thigh or get in her lap and continue off from last night. 

your thoughts snap when she turns to you. “I’m using more than one syllable now.”

“ah, a changed woman indeed.”

“so, what was the matter? when you weren’t talking.”

you roll your eyes, which is, frankly, partially an excuse to avoid eye contact. she really wants to know, doesn’t she? it feels silly, to be this shy after how wantonly you behaved the night before. but, the sobering light of morning does wonders for your self-consciousness. “I don’t know. I just got… shy thinking of last night.”

“yeah?” her fingers skim over where your hand rests, tracing over the veins on the back of it. her voice is lightened with something – teasing and what seems to be a bit of hope.

“yeah.” you glance down at your hands. “are you trying to seduce me?”

she slides hers away with a smile. “no.” 

you can’t help the wide grin that splits over your face as the film starts. as you watch Countess Olenska approaching Newland with her soft smirk and red dress, weaving her way through the crowd, you feel like you can sink into this couch, toast half eaten on your place, for years. 

there’s something newly intimate about watching a romance film with lee. sure, it felt intimate when you guys first did it back in winter. but to do it now, as an actual couple, feels personal. those are two people in love on the screen, and you and lee are also two people in love, and finally, both of you know it. 

you flinch at the thought. in love? okay, yeah, you need to get a reign in on your feelings. you don’t even know for sure if you’re there yet, and even if you are, a singular day into dating feels a bit too soon to be making any love confessions. but, even so, it isn’t really that soon, is it? it’s been ten months in the making. friendship surely can’t be that much of a preventative measure in arousing and moving forward the process of falling in love.

you’re yanked from your thoughts when lee reaches over to grab for your plate, stacking it on hers then walking over to the sink silently.

“oh, lee,” you start, hitting the pause button, “you don’t have to–”

“it’s okay,” she quietly replies, eyes lowered as she slips on the yellow gloves and gets to work. “just keep it on pause.”

“oh?” you drawl, standing to your feet and sauntering to her. “does that mean it’s fair to imply you actually like Age of Innocence?”

she shrugs. “I haven’t seen enough of it to determine that. but, um, I want to watch it for you.”

you stop behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist and leaning your face against her shoulder, which is bare from her tank top. you can hear the hesitation in her voice from saying something so affectionate, and you squeeze gently. “you’re sweet.”

she hums, continuing her task. you can feel her stomach’s muscles tightening and tensing, before a long breath is drawn from her that sends her body softening. you kiss her shoulder, and laugh when a cup goes clattering against the side of the sink.

“shut up,” she mutters, her previous confidence swept back into her usual reservations. it’s sweet how she can switch like this. it makes you wonder if her confidence is rooted in your own timid bashfulness – if it gives her a boost, knowing her effect on you. after all, you’ve certainly experienced that vice versa.

when she’s finished, you, very reluctantly, let go of her and circle the counter, sitting at the other side of it, as she so often does when studying. you don’t know why she does – the stool isn’t particularly comfortable, and the surface of the counter is cool to the touch (and therefore, probably freezing during winter). plus, her desk is but a few paces away. 

when you inquire as such, her eyes curiously raise to yours as she grabs a knife and an orange from the pantry. carefully placing the fruit on the freshly washed cutting board, she says, “I read that it helps with focus to change the locations where you study during a session.”

“really? it doesn’t distract you at all?” it makes sense in light of lee’s habits – she’s never been one to consistently study at her desk, moving from there to the counter to the library. 

she cuts the orange into neat slices. “no. sometimes, it helps because I don’t get too comfortable in one spot.”

“that makes sense.” it’s also very studious of her, as well as dilligent. you can’t help but admire her. 

after moving the slices to a plate, she slides them over to the center of the counter. you smile at the silent gesture, feeling something in you swell at how quietly she cares. it’s almost like she doesn’t want to be noticed or recognized for the things she does for other people. like she’s content to offer these pieces of kindness so long as the receiver of them gets to reap their benefits. there’s nothing in it, at least intentionally, for her. 

✩

your eyes, fondly resting on her, trail down. her thumbs pinch into the ends of the slice, bending it down so that the pieces of it spread and widen into small triangles. you don’t know why, but the soft strength she uses in the gesture makes you shift in your seat. especially with how the veins protrude along the back of her hands, like winding rivers just begging to be drunk. she lifts the fruit to her mouth and her soft lips hug and tighten around a piece, slowly sucking and drawing it in. a wet, squelching noise rasps out, tiny squeaks produced from the moisture of the slice as she presses her lips in harder, fluidly moving them in and out, like some sort of a dance. the juice of it leaks from the corner of her lips, and you can see the pads of her finger shine with the stickiness of it. you breathe heavily, mouth feeling impossibly dry when faced with the idea of taking those fingers in your mouth and sucking them clean of the sour liquid. 

you practically gasp when, after her mouth takes some twists and turns, jaw tightening and tongue rolling against the inside of her cheek, she suddenly spits a seed into her palm. as she turns her hand into the plate, dropping it, you feel your thighs tighten on instinct. the gesture is so dirty, so primal, done on pure instinct by her. it causes your mind to flood with the sticky, sweet memories of how she spat down on your folds the night before, not a moment of hesitation holding her back, riding off the pure desire to get you even wetter and ready for her mouth. did she like how shiny you looked with her saliva? did she like watching you drip with both arousal and something belonging to her? did she want to mark you up? each possibility carries a heated appeal to it.

she was so passionate and tender last night, but those moments of dominance are also seared into your brain. when she’d tease you, take her time with you, taunt you and seem to take pleasure in your shock and helplessness to her words. you don’t know if that’s all the roughness she has to offer, or if there’s more she’s holding back on, but you want to. especially when this little unintentional display of hers has the mental image of her spitting replaying without cease in your mind. you need to do something regarding sex right now. jumping her bones, talking about it, you don’t care – just anything that’ll sate some of this desire and curiosity in you.

“lee?”

she looks up, her sharp gaze making you feel reborn, revived to the very bone. “mm?” 

“I can’t remember if you answered clearly, since I passed out and all, but do you remember me asking about, um, you know, kink?”

she freezes, eyes pierced on the surface of the counter. “yes.” 

you can immediately sense the discomfort aroused by the question and slowly reach your hand over to hers. “it’s okay, alright? I just thought we could talk about it, see if we’re on board for certain things.”

“okay.” her voice is tentative.

you click your tongue in your mouth, an awkward pause hanging between you two. “okay, um…”

“I’ll go first,” she quietly offers. when you blink back in surprise, she mutters, “you always take these steps first. I want to do that for you too.”

you swallow hard, nearly driven to emotions by the words. “I… okay.”

“I, um…” she braces her palms on the counter, head ducked down. “I enjoy, um… I don’t know, power play, I guess.”

“mm,” you hum, abdomen stirring at the confession. “I thought as much.”

her eyes dart up to you. “wha– how?”

you shrug, propping your chin on your fist. “well, you just had moments of it last night.”

she sighs, nostrils flaring. “sorry. I didn’t mean to do it without asking. it just happened.”

“it’s okay. I liked it,” you mumble, mouth breaking into a smile from the nerves sparked in your body.

“you did?”

you nod. now it’s your turn to avoid her gaze, yours pinpointed on the plate of fruit. “I like power play too.”

“that’s, um– okay.”

after another quiet moment lapses, you force yourself to ask, “what else do you like?”

her fingertips skitter along the surface of the counter, jaw clenched and lips pinched in concentration and deep thought. “well, I sometimes enjoy, um, talking explicitly. as well as touch that’s a bit, well, harder.”

despite your own shyness, you break into a fit of giggles at her vague alluding. “so, dirty talk and spanking, basically?”

the corner of her mouth twitches, blinking rapidly as she keeps her gaze downcast. “pretty much.”

you press your thighs together. fuck. images flash through your mind of lee bending you over her lap, those large hands delivering swift smacks to your ass. you can picture the way your skin would burn under her sharp touches, pussy leaking and aching until she finally plugs you with two fingers. or maybe even her strap.

the last of those thoughts jolt you out of your perverted daydreams, and you realize you ought to confess the sighting of her toy. you wouldn’t want to undergo the ruse and lie of pretending you know nothing about it, especially when, or if, she reveals it to you. “I also have a small thing to admit.”

her eyes slowly rise to you, eyebrows slightly furrowed. god, you want to kiss the crease in her forehead. “what is it?”

“I’ve, well…” you suddenly laugh, anxiety flipping in your stomach like a pancake. what if she gets mad? what if she doesn’t believe you and she thinks you were snooping? it seems too late to backtrack convincingly, though, so you push yourself on. “I’ve seen your toy. and harness.”

her head visibly flinches, reeling back in surprise, eyes wide and lips parted. “how?” 

“I wasn’t snooping!” you nearly cry out, hands raised in defense. “I accidentally opened your drawer because I was rushing to get your clothes. you know, on that day where it was raining and we both got wet – um, yeah, wet.” you nearly choke on your words, and internally curse. “it was an accident, I promise, I–”

“I know,” she cuts in softly. “don’t worry. I know it was an accident.” despite the pink dust on her cheek, she watches you earnestly, gaze intense.

your words melt into a shaky sigh. “I…”

she leans over the counter, and you make a muffled noise of surprise when her lips land on yours. the kiss is tender and smooth, as though your lips are a fragile work of glass, moments away from shattering. when she parts from you, she whispers, “I know, okay? I know you.”

you gulp at the words. maybe you will shatter any moment now, for the weight of being known with such certainty bears down on you heavily. “thank you.”

her forehead leans on yours. “you don’t have to thank me.”

she leans back to her side of the counter, and your skin immediately crawls with the sheer want for her to be back on you, close again. “so…” 

“did it make you uncomfortable?” 

you immediately understand the meaning of her question. she means to ask if you judge her, or think her immoral, for possessing such a toy. if you think she’s less of a feminist, less of a lesbian. “no, I don’t.” for the sake of both honesty and extra assurance, you add, “I’d like to try it.”

a small noise bursts from the back of her throat, and you force your mouth to remain stiff. “are you sure?”

“yeah. only if you want to, you know – I get it might be for, you know…” you pause, face burning. “personal use.”

“it is, sometimes,” she mutters, voice so low you could’ve easily lost it if not for the silence of the room. “but, I, um…” her fingers roll into a tight fist on the counter. “have used it on others. and have had it used on myself.”

you chew on your lip, a spark of irritation flickering in you. “hm. I see.”

she eyes you warily. “what are you thinking?”

you sigh, knowing if you don’t tell her, she probably won’t be able to piece together your quiet, petty signals on her own. “I’m jealous, okay?”

her lips press together, faintly raising at the corners, those lovely laugh lines deepening in her cheeks. “last night and now this. have you always been this possessive?”

you bristle, rolling your eyes at the dig. “no.” 

“no?” she reaches over, fingertips skimming along your jaw. “so, our relationship just brings it out in you?”

you scoff at the slightly cocky undertone of her voice. “no.” 

she rubs a piece of hair between her thumb and index finger. when you look up, you nearly whimper at the sight of her dark eyes resting on you intently. “also, to answer your question from before, I do want to use it with you.” hesitation makes her voice slightly waver, but for the most part, she manages to speak the blunt sentiment steadily. the surety of it makes you nearly squirm. she really does want you, doesn’t she?

you clear your throat, still trying to maintain your composure. it’s easier said than done, considering your mind is racing with thoughts of lee burying her strap in you, pumping in the thick length of it inside and spreading your hole loose and open. you nearly whine without realizing it. “okay. good.”

she slowly stalks over to your side of the counter. “why exactly is it good?” 

“lee, I swear to God, I– ah.” your words crumble into a moan when she leans down, pressing hot, open-mouth kisses down your neck. 

“mm, don’t be blasphemous,” she mumbles, her words deep with a gentle, playful scolding.

with the amount of words she has you spewing for the rest of the morning, blasphemy is the last thing on your mind. all you can do is lose yourself to her mouth and touch, letting yourself spin in a whirlwind of pleasure until you’re tired and worn.

✩

–

lee walks out of the exam room and feels like she’s floating – the heavy weight of it being her final exam is lifted from her shoulders, and she feels far from reality at knowing she is officially, truly done with her semester. her last semester. she swallows hard, an onslaught of anxiety thrusted at her as she processes that piece of information. she sucks in deep, even breaths. it’ll be okay. she has time to digest all of this, and let herself truly process it, before job-searching.

a job. soon, she’ll no longer be working in the library, with its repetitive structure so ingrained in her head that she can do it half-asleep. she’ll have to get an actual job. one in law enforcement, one that encapsulates all she’s been working towards. it’s an exciting thought, one that sends a surge of energy through her. but, it’s also one that makes her crack a bit, too. just a bit. this life, this routine, the dream she’s devoted four years of her life to – it’s all slipping between her fingertips and all she can do is continue stepping away from it and watch it fade away. she remembers your words. an abyss.

she barely knows what she’ll even do in these next few weeks. and something about that feels unsettling, like she’s hanging off a thread that’s about to snap. she likes having her plans set and in motion, written on her calendar and followed through without falter. but, right now, her vague plans only consist of: fix up her resume, look for work, continue working at the library until she finds something sufficient, and go to the pride march with you. 

she’s aware of how out of place the last of those is, having only agreed to it because you had asked her so tenderly to go, eyes wide and imploring. both of you had never gone to a pride march before, your university’s city holding only its second one this year. it definitely isn’t her thing, and she only felt just-barely-comfortable with the idea because you promised to stay on the edge of the crowd with her. but, the truth is, as soon as the question had left your mouth, her answer was yes. she’d probably go anywhere, so long as you were there.

but, after the march, how the rest of her weeks will look is a blur, nothing marked by the timelines that usually stabilize her. and that’s something she doesn’t like.

it’s not like this reaction is surprising. she knows herself well enough to have anticipated the anxiety that’d be triggered from having her routine and structure taken from her. 

what she didn’t expect, however, is the sadness. a deep ache weighs down on her stomach. she’s relieved, but as she walks down the halls, she just wants to transport back to some time months before. when things were secure, and had a sameness to it that was reliable and comfortable. now, she’s faced with what feels like thousands of new paths to go down on. she only has one she’s interested in, but it feels like even that branches off in so many different directions regarding how she’ll approach getting her first real job. not to mention what to do about her home – it’s only a matter of time until you and her are faced with the choice of extending the lease or leaving. how will you two handle it?

so much for that bout of relief. she sighs, tugging the door to her class’s building open, freezing two steps down when she catches sight of you. 

you’re beaming, eyes crinkled, fingers wrapped around a small bouquet of flowers. her eyes scan your face down to the yellow petals, feeling her breath hitch. are they for her? it feels presumptuous to ask, despite the burning, embarrassing want for the gift to be hers. 

she finishes walking down the steps, slowly approaching you, eyes flicking to the flowers. “what’s going on?”

your arm jolts out, thrusting the flowers at her. on instinct, she catches it, her pinky brushing against your finger. she doesn’t speak on the twitch she feels in your hand, but silently takes pleasure in it. 

“they’re for you.”

her lips part in surprise. she can’t remember the last time someone got her flowers. in fact, she doesn’t think she’s ever gotten flowers before. a tender sort of gratitude spills into her, dripping and dripping until she’s filled to the brim with a shy pleasure. is this what it feels like to get spoiled?

she grips onto the flowers tightly, feeling irrationally attached to and protective over them.  “what for?”

“a congratulations gift for being done.” with a soft smile, you rise on your toes, kissing her cheek. 

lee’s eyes dart around your surroundings. she’s not used to such unbridled public affection. just like the day of the fire hydrant, she doesn’t know what to think, what to do. she wants to return these touches, but she’s not accustomed to it, and when she’s on the edge of doing so, she can’t help but feel fear and self-consciousness spring upon her. both for herself and the people surrounding you two.

you don’t seem to notice her alarm, pulling back and hooking your arm through hers. “come on.”

she tries to shake off her thoughts. just for a few hours, she wants to forget and toss away all the fears and anxieties, and just enjoy the afternoon with you. she smells the flowers, trying to point all her senses to the sweet scent. the last thing she wants is to have another attack in front of you, or ruin your gift. 

she tenses as you two weave through the crowd filling the street in front of campus. today is the last day of exams, and as per usual, that comes with blaring music, live entertainment and stalls of homemade gifts and trinkets. her eyes drift over them as you tug her through. she’d like to get you something. maybe she should return tomorrow.

someone slams into her with a hard thump. well, only if she has it in her to.

as you two walk past a stall that is identified from an upright chalkboard with twisting letters reading out, “Psychic,” you pull gently on her arm, nodding to it. she glances at it, then raises an eyebrow to you, unsure of what your meaning is. 

“do you believe in them?” you ask.

she hesitates, carefully pondering over her answer. she’s not someone who would depend on a psychic so much so that she’d visit them consistently – she can’t see herself doing that with any spiritual practice. and she wouldn’t place enough faith in what a psychic says to the point of re-adjusting her life because of their words. but, there’s a little part of her brain, maybe a remnant of her upbringing, that’s always tickling with the possibility of something existing beyond the scope of real life. something supernatural, spiritual, or otherworldly. it lingers at the back of her head, and comes out of the shadows when she’s faced with something and left with no evidence to explain it away. then, it itches at her – the curiosity of something more, something even she can’t grasp. it’s probably another reason why she wouldn’t go to a psychic. she’s too afraid of the possibility of it all being true. so, she must believe in it at least a little.

“I guess I do – a little bit. I usually rationalize it, but I think part of me does.”

“I see. so, if you’re all for rationalizing, I’m guessing you’re not religious?”

she ducks her head down, eyes following her feet. the question, simple as it is, shouldn’t cause tension to roll down her spine. but, it does. all of it flashes through her. the years of devout worship and strict regime, the pressure she put on herself to appear perfect, be perfect. the way her mom added to it, bit by bit, like a recipe of destruction, letting her paranoia manifest in constant questioning and warning. the way those teachings, both within her household and small town, had casted her into years of deep shame and hiding.

“not anymore.”

“but, you were once?”

she nods. “yeah.” from your inquiring gaze, she can tell you want more. if she wholly didn’t want to give it, she wouldn’t. but, part of her does. she wants to share this pain with you, have you maybe help her carry some of it. she had already managed for so long on her own. not about everything, but at least this. “well, my mom was pretty religious, so she raised me as such. but, the older I got, the more I started feeling stifled by it. that was the first thing that drove me away.” she glances at you, feeling almost guilty to admit her stray from faith. “when I realized I was a lesbian, and started seeing how the people in the church and town treated gay people, I only felt more isolated. then, I did research. and in addition to feeling less inclined for organized religion, I started questioning its foundations.”

she hates that she still feels a sense of shame washing over her at the admission. her eyes tentatively raise to you. a part of her mind, a part she knows is irrational, wonders if you’re judging her. 

but, then you squeeze her hand. and in a voice so soft she nearly loses it in the crowd’s mumblings, you say, “that must’ve been hard, yeah? I’m proud of you for not brushing your doubt or discomfort away. for letting yourself question things so that you can eventually feel comfortable.”

she clears her throat. she never thought it was an experience to take pride in. “why are you proud?”

you squeeze her arm. “because it might’ve been easier to just set aside your doubts and discomfort. and, you know, pretend to be religious for the sake of peace. but, instead, you chose to question things, and research them, and take your discomfort seriously enough to not force yourself to believe in it.”

lee supposes she understands that. it probably would’ve been easier to have just let her doubts remain in the sidelines, and avoid them in her thoughts. instead, she had lingered on it, confronted it, and sought other resources. 

there is one thing wrong with your words, though. she does pretend. 

“when, um, my mom asks me if I’m saying my prayers, I lie. I tell her I do.”

“why?” 

she sighs. “we’re already… less close than when I was a child. revealing how far gone I am from religion might make things worse.” she doesn’t want that. the thought terrifies her. because distant and strained as she is from her mom, she doesn’t want to become even more removed from her life. she doesn’t want to widen the bridge between them. or disappoint her.

“I understand that. it makes sense, she’s your mom. and you guys still have some closeness there. you don’t want to just, you know, lose that.”

you’re right. she doesn’t. 

“I noticed you have a bible in your room. what is it there for? if you’re not religious.”

she starts in surprise. once again, just as you’ve been doing so since autumn, you’ve caught her off guard with your observations. she finds herself slightly impressed. “it’s one I had at my house back in oregon. it would’ve looked odd to have not brought it when I moved out.” she pauses, mouth twisting at what she’s about to say. it feels stupid, and it’s something she’d usually keep hidden. but, no secrets. that’s what she had asked for from you. “and sometimes, I read it. I don’t know why. there’s just, I don’t know, a familiarity to it.”

“because of your mom?”

she tightly nods. “and my childhood.” it’s nonsensical, really. she spent so long wanting out of that life and hoping to escape it. now, she has, and still, there exists an invisible string connecting her to it. sometimes, it tightens and pains, and she lets herself give way to nostalgia. even if she knows her longing doesn’t account for even half of the discomfort of actually being back there.

“I understand.”

you always do. and lee feels an indescribable amount of gratitude. but, telling you this much has already taken a toll, and she’s not ready for more. and so, she glances back to where the psychic’s stall was, asking, “and you? do you believe in them?”

“it’s hard to say. in my psych class, we were taught about tacts used in that kind of stuff that can make a reading feel more believable. but, at the same time, I’ve heard people recall times where their reading included some really specific stuff that actually happened.”

she’s heard both kinds of accounts, as well. it only adds to her confusion about the whole thing, which seems similar to your own stance. her eyes scan you. you had seemed so curious about the stall.

“do you want to go back to it?”

“no, no, I’m too hungry. you?” 

she shrugs. “no, I’m not really interested.”

“awe, c’mon, she might’ve had something interesting to say.” you lean close, pressing your chest into her arm, and she sucks in a tiny breath at the contact. “maybe that your roommate is an amazing girlfriend who you should spend the rest of your life with.”

“I don’t need a psychic to know that.” the words escape her mouth before she can even process them. she blinks hard. jesus, if she needed a reason to keep her mouth shut for the rest of the day, this is it. she angles her head away from you, looking down, for her fear outweighs her curiosity.

“wow, you like me,” you drawl out, words thick with the tease.

she sighs, rolling her eyes. she does, desperately so, but she doesn’t need to satisfy you even more than you already are.

“where are we going?” she asks as you two turn the corner, out of the crowd and along a sidewalk. without saying anything, she slips her arm from your grasp before placing it on your back, guiding you to the inner side of the pavement.

you falter in your words, and she bites back a grin at the sight of your eyes skittering between the two of you, your body shifting slightly under her palm. she’s not accustomed to having this effect on someone after years of singlehood – and if she had possessed it during those years, she hadn’t noticed. regardless, she knows you well enough to know what some of your little physical reactions mean. and to know she’s making you shy or thrown off course, even momentarily, makes her more smug than she’d ever admit.

you clear your throat. “um… well, I uh–”

she tilts her head at you, feeling amusement rise in her. “yes?” 

“I got us a reservation at this restaurant.” before she can respond, you smile and say, “don’t worry, I checked and it’s not a crowded one.”

her shoulders loosen at your words, gratitude rolling through her. how nice it is to have someone know her so well, so well that prompting is unnecessary before doing something like that.

“thanks,” she mutters. she doesn’t want the gesture gone unnoticed – both for the sake of wanting you to know she appreciates these things, but also because part of her is so unaccustomed to receiving them that she wants to do anything she can to make it last. she knows you wouldn’t stop giving this, she knows it, but a part of her itches in fear that if she doesn’t proceed correctly, you’ll stop helping her in these quiet ways.

“of course, babe.”

she jerks a bit at the term. the automatic reaction sends a wave of embarrassment through her. she feels like an awkward child, bashful and disjointed from your smooth, effortless words of endearment. you notice the little movement too, eyes scanning her body.

you don’t mention it until you two are in the outdoor seating area of the restaurant. you were right – it’s not overcrowded, and is small and quaint, flowers lining along the gate separating the tables from the street. as her eyes rove along curiously, exploring the architecture of the building, you speak.

“are you okay with them? the nicknames?”

she uses the bouquet as an excuse to not look at you, carefully setting them on her lap. the truth is, she’s more than okay with them. to be called something that only belongs to the two of you carries an intimacy she more than welcomes. the only thing that acts as a barrier is how foreign it is, how unaccustomed she is to someone other than her mom using those soft words with her. as well as how she isn’t used to seeing herself as, let alone being, the receiver of affection. it’s not something she let herself think of much through the course of her life, nor something she ever felt would be easy for a person to give her. but, you do it as naturally as breathing. it’s frightening at times.

“I am. I’m just not used to it. and I,” she adds lowly, bracing herself for the vulnerability of the next words, “I don’t really – I mean, I’m not used to thinking of myself as someone who people can be affectionate with.”

“why?” 

lee’s mouth twists at how gently you ask it. “I don’t know. I’m not used to receiving it.”

“but, amaya and maria…”

“I mean, yeah, I’ve had them these past four years. but, for most of my life…” she shrugs, eyes cast down from the humiliation coiling in her. “I’ve either isolated myself, or had no choice in the matter. it might not make sense, but I feel like I’m still used to it being that way.”

you blink slowly at her, and she tries to not let her gaze linger on you and your bright eyes, your hair, the slope of your nose, or the tiny blackheads scattered around it. your eyebrows are relaxed, lips pursed – you don’t look like you’re judging her. rather, just perceiving her. maybe with thoughtfulness, with sympathy, she isn’t sure.

“remember when you told me, a few weeks back, that we, I don’t know, regress to our child selves with parents?”

her eyebrows scrunch, perplexed at the change of topic. “yeah.” 

“well, I feel like we do that kind of stuff with a lot of our relationships. like, how we were treated in our core, developmental years kind of frames our sense of worth sometimes, and we sort of just… linger in it.”

she nods, slightly feeling like she’s being psychologically assessed. 

“but, that’s okay, you know? it happens, and it makes sense to still carry it with you. and, you know, it also doesn’t make it true. you are loveable, lee.”

she nearly winces at such a tender sentiment, feeling her jaw ache with how hard it tightens. a jerk racks her body when she feels the back of your fingers brush her knuckles.

“anyone who has rejected or isolated you had no idea what they were missing out on. you’re really easy to… um, care for. trust me, it’s one of the easiest things I know.”

part of her wants you to stop. it’s too much, all the praise and compliments. she didn’t mean for the conversation to go this way, to land her in even more of a vulnerable position. it was one thing to confess her insecurities, but being comforted feels like a whole other ordeal. confessing is at least active, and in her control in some kind of way, whereas receiving your words of adoration renders her passive, an open cup to be filled and filled with your praise, at nothing but your will. 

you make it sound like caring for her and showing this affection is so easy. and it probably is to you. a conclusion she arrives at not because she thinks she’s easy to love. but, because you conduct the ordeal of it with such a lack of hestiation. at least, that’s how it appears to her. maybe it’s a lot harder for you than she realizes. maybe it’s just the feelings of care that are easy for you, but the action takes a lot of work. as much work as it takes for her.

with that thought in mind, she forces her eyes to move up to your face. her fingers uncurl from their fist, and she lightly traces your fingers with hers. “um, thanks. for everything.”

your thumb rubs along a nail on her finger, neatly trimmed from when she cut it last night. “of course.” 

“it’s not…” she pauses, rolling the words in her mind before speaking. “easy for me. to do these sort of things.”

“really? you’ve been so touchy, though.”

she clears her throat. “yes. but, I mean, well, verbally. I’m trying, but, it’s hard for me.”

“it’s unfamiliar?” 

“mm,” she hums. “it’s just been a while. and it’s always been hard to… make that transition. from not doing it to getting used to it.”

“I mean, are you forcing yourself to? does it not feel natural?”

she doesn’t exactly know what “natural” means in this context. the feelings come to her without persuasion or calling for it. but, the execution is intentional. “I do want it. I want to say those things. but, then, I’ll start thinking hard about it and I won't do it.”

“hm.” you cross your arms on the table, and her mouth twitches at your pondering. “well, maybe it’ll just take practice. like, the first few times will feel foreign, but you’ll adjust.”

she tries to think of something other than how attractive your problem-solving is. “probably.” 

“did you use them with your other girlfriends?”

she hesitates, hoping she doesn’t make you jealous with her next words. “not with my first. but, with the one from my first year, yeah.” she picks at the napkin on the table. “it was an adjustment then, too.”

you nod slowly, eyes downcast. she shifts in her seat, feeling a twinge of worry at your silence. but, she lets it linger – it’s not uncomfortable, per say. it never really is with you.

“was it about consciously doing it first and just letting it become natural?”

“yeah, pretty much.” 

“okay, then, I guess we’ll just do that, right?”

it’s the sensical choice, she knows, but still she feels a flicker of disappointment for herself. “I know. I just wish it would come easier to me.” her jaw flexes. “I wanna be where you are.”

“you are.” you twine your fingers together, and her wrist goes slack under your touch. “struggling with this doesn’t mean you aren’t. it just takes… practice. then, I’m sure it’ll get easier.”

“yeah. I know.” she sighs softly, eyes lingering on the yellow petals of the flowers.

“‘I know’...?”

her eyebrows draw in together, confusion rumbling through. “what?” 

“isn’t there a word you’re missing?” you drawl out, tone so husky she’d almost mistaken it as flirtatious. actually, maybe you are being flirtatious. “one right at the end? one pretty romantic?”

her mouth twitches. how did she manage to see you as a friend for so long, when you’re this endearing, this cute? “are you fishing for affection right now?”

“okay, well, ‘fishing’ is quite a negative term to use for your girlfriend.” you roll your eyes. “this is me, from the good of my heart, helping you use terms of endearment.”

she scoffs. “thanks for the support.”

“you’re welcome. now, c’mon, I’m waiting.” 

lee sighs, pursing her lips together. the first time she was gonna say it would’ve been cringe-inducing no matter what, so maybe it’s better that you’re anticipating it and can brace yourself. it probably would wound her ego less to say it when you’re expecting it and less likely to be caught off guard and unable to mask a wince at her delivery. though, she supposes it’d be good to know if you are internally cringing. then, she can know how to adjust her tone next time.

she lifts your locked fingers to her face. “okay, um… baby.” she pushes her face against the back of your intertwined hands, your nails gliding along her forehead as she hides away. she’s aware, painfully so, of how pathetic she must look right now, but the word tastes foreign and she’s convinced she’s doing it all wrong, and maintaining eye contact is too much.

but, then she looks up. and your face looks like it’s milliseconds away from shattering with how wide your grin is.

she gulps. “was that, um, okay?”

“‘okay’ feels like too meek a word to cover it.”

she hums deeper into your skin, pressing a quick kiss before she can even take a moment to remember where the two of you are. 

–

“c’mon, just answer it,” you whine, gently kicking a foot to lee’s behind, which, as much as she covers it, is pretty nice and firm.

the movement has her head bumping lightly against the rim of the drying machine. “okay, don’t do that right now.”

you giggle, totally absolved of any guilt. “sorry.” 

she continues peeling the clothes from the hollow machine, dropping them into the basket. your eyes linger on it, something whirring in your chest at the sight of your underwear mixed with hers. how intimate it is, to have the dried fluids and stains on both your clothes mixing and flowing in the same stream of water as the soap cleans it out. 

when she’s done, she looks up at you from where she’s crouched down while you sit perched on the machine opposite to her. “fine. if I had to, I’d rather fight the ogre.”

“but, it has blades for fingers!”

she sighs. “yes. but, the cricket is less noticeable and faster, therefore less easy to detect and anticipate. at least you can maintain some long-range attacks with the ogre.”

“wow, someone did their homework.”

she picks up the basket, standing up, and you try not to think with your pussy. which is hard, considering how as she grips it, the faint outlines of her muscles flex, and the veins on the back of her hand stick out. and all the while, that white tank top deliciously clings to her body from the weather. it’s an impossibly irritating day with all the suffocating heat and sticky sweat. but, with lee’s body, for once, barely hidden in shape, her peachy skin glistening like washed fruit, it’s all worth it. you try to focus as she shoots you a blank, but marginally incredulous, look. “it’s just common sense.”

you hop off the machine. “I see – well, now, you’ll make a great fbi agent.”

“or a very scared one. something tells me these hypotheticals won’t accurately measure up to the reality of the job.”

you chuckle as she braces her back against the door, still managing to get it open for you despite her arms being full. “thanks. and, well, you know, that’s the duality of man. you can be both a scared agent and a really badass one.”

the afternoon is searing with moist heat, the thick humidity fanning your face, and the pavement golden with the afternoon sun. as you watch lee carry the basket, something in you softens. you love the life you two have shared this past year. and with an evident lack of post-graduation plans on your end, it’s tempting to just remain here, and continue working at the grocery store, so that you can take time to ponder over your future. not the most secure plan, you know, but it’s the only one that doesn’t send you tossing and turning into an ocean of panic at the prospect of. 

but, what if lee wants to leave? she knows what she wants to do, the path she wants to tread upon. now that you two have graduated, she may want to try something different, and be situated elsewhere. but, you’re not sure if you’re ready for that. it would be a huge move for someone who is already unsure about the rest of their life.

it’d be different if it were a year or two from now, when lee goes to virginia. hopefully, by then, you’d have more of your goals aligned, as well as a firm idea as to what it is you want in a career. but, to move now, when you’re still floating, barely tied town, tossing and turning over what you want – it feels like too much change. even if you do badly want to remain with her, and practically ache to your fingertips with the sheer intensity of that wish.

that is, if lee even wants you to come with her if she decides to leave. you know how solitary she is, for it shows even in your current living conditions. you sigh at the thought. you don’t mind it, how she enjoys her time alone, but what if it’s a sign that she’d prefer to live by herself once the lease is up? what if she decides to leave? the notion leaves you with a sting to your chest. you know if she decided to leave, it wouldn’t be personal, but rather just a testament to her preferences. but, it causes a wave of anxiety to roll into your stomach. if she decides she’d rather live alone, even if she stays in this city, is it a sign you guys will never live together again? what will happen years from now, if you guys reach an age where it becomes more reasonable to live together? will she only do it under obligation, but never really want it? what if she doesn’t really want it now, and just reconciles with it? 

besides, god, you’d miss her. you’d miss her so much. even if you two end up living apart because you want to stay here and she wants to leave, even if the space was just temporary, you’d be devastated.

“I’m not so sure those co-exist with ease.”

your eyes shoot back to her, trying to anchor yourself back into the conversation. the two of you can talk about all the living stuff later, maybe when the lease is up and you’re forced to. for now, you want to enjoy this while it still lasts.

and so, you reign yourself back in and bump her shoulder. “well, then, you’ll be the exception.”

the corner of her lip curls up. “you’re that confident?”

“I am.” you ensure the words are said earnestly, paired with a direct gaze to her. because it’s true. with lee’s natural tendency for what’s right, as well as her chivalry, gentleness and efforts to help, you’re more than sure of her capability. not to mention how sharp she is – she’s beaten your ass at more card games than you can count. 

eyes downcast, she nods. “thank you.”

“of course.”

back at home, the laundry long forgotten next to the shoe rack, you and lee share a joint, the scent of the weed quickly swarming through the apartment. after a few hits, the world seems to soften, your awareness tinged with a lovely sort of drowsiness. lee seems to be affected by it, too, her smiles a bit easier and the usual stiffness she sits with melted into a relaxed sag against the couch’s cushions. 

her thigh touches yours, and your skin burns from the sensation.

“you know, maybe we should put summer decorations on it,” you muse, tilting your head in the direction of the christmas tree.

lee doesn’t even turn to what you’re gesturing to, yet still manages an, “I don’t know why we still have it up.” you wonder how she does that.

“it’s festive.”

“it’s summer.”

“and?” 

“do I need to explain the connotations of that?”

you roll your eyes, suddenly tingling with the urge to laugh. “no. but, you should explain why we need to follow such arbitrary rules.”

“‘arbitrary’?” joint dangling from between her fingers, she slowly lifts it to her lips, and just like that night in fall, you feel practically needy at the sight. even her side profile is something to behold – cheekbones pronounced and shiny with sweat, eyebrows soft and dark, lashes curling so prettily. her slim shoulders lift gently as she takes the puff, easing as she releases the stream of smoke. 

“mhm. arbitrary.” in the state of your high, you need a moment to rack your brain to come up with an argument, even if the topic is playful. “like, it’s just a tree with decorations. but, culturally, we attach these ideas and meanings to it, and use them to limit ourselves. but, in the most literal sense, it’s just… a tree.”

she shakes her head. “please, save me from the marijuana-induced philosophy.”

“hey, you can learn something from it!”

“such as what qualifies as a tree?” she hands you the joint, and you drown in the feeling of brushing against the dry skin of her fingers. “I think I’m already sufficiently aware.”

“okay, you’re definitely not as high as you should be if you’re using words like ‘sufficiently.” 

a small smile brushes her face. “and why exactly are you trying to get me more high?”

“think of it as a celebratory gesture for finishing uni.”

“does ‘celebratory’ mean lowering my inhibitions and getting me to confess my secrets?”

“wow, and the trust issues rear their head!” you bellow, laughing loudly. 

she snickers before murmuring, “I do trust you.” 

you smile. “I know.” it feels good to know it. “maybe, I don’t know, maybe I’m trying to lure you into complacency.” you draw out the last syllable with a teasing stroke to her cheek, which sends her jerking back in surprise. 

✩

the corner of her eyes crinkle, eyes still hooked onto the opposite wall. “so, you can take advantage of me?” 

“maybe.” it’s a joke, but still, it has you fidgeting. especially when she lifts the edge of her tank top to wipe it along her gleaming face. the flash of her toned stomach, paired with the shadow of her breasts, makes you hiss sharply. 

she gently grips the wrist of the hand near her head. “you don’t need to.” something in her voice shifts, and you nearly tremble when she mutters, “you know I’d give anything to you.”

god, that’s hot. but, you feel a twinge of resistance. “but, you know, I only want you doing what you want to do as well. don’t just do something solely because I want it.”

she plants a kiss to your wrist, and you feel the warmth of her lips combine with the damp sweat lining her upper lip. “I know. I do want these things with you.”

you make a small noise in the back of your throat. “yeah?” 

“yeah.” a thin layer of saliva begins shining on the inside of your forearm as her open mouth kisses turn into long, slippery licks of her tongue. your breathing grows heavy as the tip of it curls at the sweaty inner crease near your elbow. 

“lee, I…”

she pulls back to take another hit, the musky scent of the weed making you feel nearly delirious as it wraps around you both. eagerly, you crawl across the couch and into her lap, thighs on either side of hers. as she takes in another deep breath of it, her head turns to the side as she releases the smoke. you nearly whimper at the sight of it. her smooth pink lips hugging the tip, the way they round into a small O as she blows, how her jaw tenses and flexes through it all. you want to taste the smoke that she’s breathed in, swallow down the air that’s been trapped in her mouth.

you press your nose into her cheek, breathing in her tangy sweat. “kiss me when you do that.”

she hums, one of her hands snaking under your t-shirt, rubbing the hairs on your back. wordlessly, she sucks in another puff from the joint, then finally turns to you, dark eyes entrancing and focused as her hand reaches up to cup your face, thumb stroking a patch of dry skin near your lips. she leans in, kissing you, with a small, wet squelch signifying the meeting. you suck in deep breath, moaning lowly when lee opens her mouth, tongue sliding against your bottom lip as the warm cloud flows from her mouth to yours. god, it tastes so much better from her, to get dizzy from both the weed and her insistent mouth, prodding and pushing against yours.

your hips buck, pressing down against her thigh. her short nails dig into your ass, one hand clutching and groping as the other continues to curl around the joint. your hands run along the firm grooves of her arms, gripping hard at her shoulders as your tongue continues to flick along hers, slippery and uncoordinated. the heady smoke continues to get swapped between your mouths, paired with spit and the salty taste of sweat. you need more.

you part from her with a gasp, pulling your t-shirt off and tossing it to the side of the couch. lee’s eyes immediately dart to your chest and without a moment’s hesitation, she ducks down, taking a perked nipple into her mouth, eyes fluttering shut as she slowly sucks on it, lips pressing around it to draw out a slow build of pressure. you make a pathetically whiny noise, taking a long moment to process why her hand is raising up before spotting the joint in between her fingers. you grab it, smoking as she uses both hands to hold your tits, switching between them as she pops your nipples in and out of her mouth, tongue sliding out to lap at them, the cool feeling of her saliva making your hand tremble as you smoke from the joint. 

a long sigh is drawn from your lips when one hand skims under your loose shorts, travelling to your underwear, which is heavy with arousal. 

“so needy,” she whispers against your lips, her fingertips tantalizingly light as they stroke your folds over the fabric. 

you clench at her words. you two had agreed to try out more of your guys’... unorthodox desires, and a desperate part of you hopes today will be that day. wanting to urge her on, you play into the game. “I’m not,” you breathe against her lips.

“mm, I’m sure of it.” her fingers dip under the fabric and you gulp as they skim along your pussy’s lips, gathering the wetness seeping from your opening and spreading it. “you’re just this wet, because..?”

“the, um, weed has me more… susceptible,” you whisper against her lips, pressing in another long, hard kiss.

she pulls away, rolling up the ends of her tank top and pulling it off. you bite your lip, desire shooting through your abdomen. it’s the first time you’ve seen her like this. her tits are round and perfect, heavier than you had expected. her nipples, a dark pink-brown colour, are stiff, just like they’ve always been under her shirts whenever you snuck a glance in. 

she leans further back into the couch, fingers continuing to massage your pussy as she sits comfortably, staring up at you. you brace your palms along her stomach, fingers sliding along the shape of her ribs. tracing the shape of a part of her, hidden beneath skin and flesh, makes you wanton in the intimacy of it. when you reach the sweaty underside of her breasts, you look up to her for permission.

when she nods, her tight expression melts away moments later into a contortion of pleasure as your fingers begin to stroke her nipple, thumb and index fingers rolling the stiff bud. as you watch their swelling in fascination, her thumb begins to languidly stroke and rub at your clit, using your juices to easily glide over it. the firm press of her finger sends you losing yourself for a second, accidentally toying with her nipples too hard, inciting a small cry from her. you immediately pause from your ministrations, though you can feel your hole squeeze at the noise. 

“are you okay?”

eyes still screwed shut, she nods. “yeah. you can, um, do that again.”

oh? you smile at the revelation, excitement bubbling up in your stomach. carefully, you tweak her nipples again, the sharp touch sending her lovely body arching up again, quietly calling out your name. your breaths grow heavier, body jerking when her fingers begin to move again, rubbing against your entrance, tantalizingly close to the rim of your hole. 

she sits up, wrapping her arms around your waist, mouthing slowly at your neck, her index finger beginning to push through your entrance. you whine at the tight fit of it, hips unconsciously bouncing on their own, your pussy so much more attuned to touch from the high you’re in. she gnaws and licks with an almost animalistic want, sharp teeth sinking into your skin and making you toss your head back, lost in the sensations of her fingers and mouth. 

after sucking in what feels like her fourth hickey into your neck, she pulls back, lips hanging open.

your clit throbs at the sight. “what is it?”

“the joint.”

“oh.” you laugh shyly. even with a finger deep inside you, the tip achingly close to your g-spot, you still feel yourself cower under the weight of her gaze as you lift the joint to her lips, a giddy feeling flapping through your stomach as she draws it into her mouth, inhales deeply, then keeps it dangling from her mouth until you pluck it from her mouth again. when you do, she blows the stream of smoke in your face, the heat of it soaking through the sweat on your face and making you feel even more moist and sticky. when the last of it is almost gone, she kisses you hard, shoving her tongue into your mouth and forcing you to breathe in the smoke. the rough gesture has you whining against her, your hole tightening up on her finger. when she pulls back, you laugh against her lips, “I thought you wanted me to spit in your mouth or something.”

surprisingly enough, she seems unfazed by your comment, nuzzling against your neck. “you can.”

you freeze at the proposition. memories of lee spitting on your pussy wander into your mind. so sloppy, so dirty. you want to do that, too. want to give her something that’s a part of you, that’s been in your body. 

you tug her from your neck, eager and beginning to rock against her finger. the entire motion is broken at the edges, soft and melting into every action before and after, intoxication clouding every one of your senses but adding to your sensitivity all at once. “open up.”

a corner of her lip quirks up, and she follows your demand, silently opening it. you hover your mouth over hers, hesitating before pushing a gush of saliva from your mouth, a long, thick drop of it falling to her bottom lip while the rest slides down your chin. you laugh in embarrassment, especially when a small chuckle leaves lee’s mouth. but, any embers of humiliation are washed away with the cold awareness of arousal when she licks up the white bubbles of your spit, swallowing it down, then follows suit with your chin, the soft texture of her tongue roving around it as she licks up the mess you’ve made. 

“you’re so clumsy,” she murmurs between kisses. “sloppy.”

“shut u–”

she shushes you, cutting you off with a small kiss. “no backtalk.” 

the small show of dominance has you clutching onto her tighter, your tits rubbing against hers, sweat making your bodies hot and sticky as the drops on her chest soak into your skin. it’s so wet, so messy, and the floaty state your body is in has you mindlessly moving against her, grinding on her thigh and whimpering for more. “fuck, I need you.” you lick your lips and swallow, mouth dry and scratchy. 

lee murmurs, “thirsty?” 

“mhm,” you softly whine.

“open.”

your movements faltering slightly, your lower lip hangs down, patiently awaiting her.

the sound of her spit is loud and clear as a wad of it splatters into your mouth. the sudden burst of wetness has you moaning and jerking on her lap, quietly whimpering for more. lee’s longer fingers grip your jaw hard, and she easily does it again, sharp and precise, her warm saliva spilling onto your tongue just right.

her fingers on your jaw loosen. “is this okay? being… rough?”

“yes,” you gasp. “I want more.” lost in your desire for it, you begin babbling. “you can be rougher. you know, like, the talking, the, um, spanking.” you swallow hard, sprinkling kisses on her face to avoid eye contact.

her next words are shaky, muddled with a quiet moan. “come, get up.”

you tighten your arms around her neck in protest. “why?”

in a mere few minutes later, lee has your back pressed against the cold tiles of the shower’s walls, one hand cupping your thigh, encouraging you to keep your foot propped on one of the shelves. with this angle, her fingers are able to pump in and out of you with ease, your pussy making soaked noises from your wetness and the shower’s water, the latter of which coats you and lee in cool droplets, immensely relieving. lee’s mouth is latched onto your neck, kissing and sucking as she plays with your g-spot, pressing it lightly in, while her palm curves just right against your stiff clit.

from your encouragement, and perhaps the tight, moist space of the shower, she’s gotten bolder. against your skin, she murmurs, “such a good girl. getting so loose and open. so easy, mm?”

you cry out at her lewd words. as embarrassed as it makes you to match the dirty nature of them, you can’t resist. you want more of this from her, and something about her pushing you to admit your most lustful desires out loud is irresistible. “fuck, can’t help it, you’re so hard on me.”

she huffs a quiet laugh, and the mocking edge to it has you writhing against her. “you think this is hard?” 

your pussy aches as she begins jamming her fingers into you harder and faster, brutally pressing against that sensitive spot in you, spreading you open to accommodate her. 

“this is hard,” she mutters, voice absent of feeling lest for the heavy breaths coating it. “how you’re gonna come is going to be hard.”

“I– you don’t know that. maybe–” 

a sharp gasp cuts into your words when she smacks your thigh, the noise of it loud and wet from the shower. her fingers immediately skim along the burning spot, which is sizzling with sensitivity. “okay?” 

you nod. fuck, ‘okay’ didn’t even cover it.

she nods back. “now, what were you saying before?”

you’re at a loss of words, and take several long seconds before responding. “I said that, um, you don’t kno–”

she delivers another swift swat to your ass, and your body arches against her, nails digging into her strong back. she hisses at the feeling of it, pulling you plush to her body before grabbing the spot she just hit, kneading it before slapping it again. they’re not harsh smacks, per say, but have enough of an impact to send your butt stinging delightfully. 

she makes you come just like that, one hand stroking and spanking your ass, while the other is buried in you, massaging your g-spot and coaxing whines, whimpers, and eventually, your orgasm out of you. it hits you hard, your slightly dizzy mind whirling into nothing but a focus on the sensations, the tension within your tummy snapping and sending a thick flood of warmth and tingles through you, from your guts to your toes. 

after one more orgasm is pulled out of you with the pressure of the shower head directed to your swollen clit, you’re back in lee’s room, impossibly comforted by the scent of her sheets pressed against your nose as you lie on your side, lee applying a thin layer of aloe vera to your aching skin. 

“you know, I’m not sure I wanna know exactly how you know to do this,” you giggle.

“I’m not sure you do either.” her fingers make massaging circles, slippery from the substance. 

you scoff, curiosity prickling at you. “you do realize that’s only going to make me more curious, right?”

she snickers, and you crane your neck to find her wearing an impish grin. “I know. that’s why I said it.” 

you grunt. “asshole.” 

“minutes ago, you were just singing me praises.”

you can’t help but laugh, feeling an itch of embarrassment dig at your stomach from the memory of how explicit you were earlier. “well, the shower sobered me up.” after a moment, you ask, “your ex from first year?”

“mhm.” 

you roll your eyes, amusement, tinged with slight jealousy, whirling in you. 

she runs a thumb over your warm skin. “was it too much, though?”

“what?” your head whips to her, concern squeezing your chest when you see her eyes fixed on a wrinkle in the bed, brows drawn in. “baby, no! it was perfect. really, it was. it felt, like, so good.”

her lips purse together. “okay.” 

you try to lie on your back, but wince at the feeling of the itchy sheets on your ass, which sends lee’s eyes darting up to you, wide and alert. her palm rests on the small of your back, gently pushing you back to your side. 

you tug on her wrist. “okay, well, sit closer to me so I can see you.”

she obliges, standing from the chair she was plopped on, and sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. eyes downcast, she absent-mindedly strokes you. her torso is still bare, skin warm and flushed under the light streaming from her window. you’ve noticed she’s quite comfortable with how she looks. shy and awkward when it comes to the vulnerability of being seen, that much is clear, but it doesn’t seem like those emotions are fused with any sort of self-consciousness. look at her now – a few weeks of having sex, and she’s completely open and at ease at being half-nude in front of you.

it’s not so easy for you to do the same. your relationship with your body has been non-linear, to say the least, and while you thought some of that would change upon being wanted by the girl who you’ve pined over for months, there are still bouts of self-doubt that plague you every now and then. sometimes, it comes during sex – a flood of anxiety-inducing thoughts about how you smell, taste, look at this angle or that angle. other times, it comes when she touches you, and you wonder if she likes what she feels. sometimes, just a glance from her is enough to trigger it. you know you shouldn’t care so much about her opinion, even if she’s the one you hold in your heart. but, you can’t help it. you want her to like you, you want her to be so attracted to you that it doesn’t fade to a full stop in the future.

the future. it’s still stomach-turning to think of sometimes. while things feel a lot more comfortable than they had weeks ago, there’s still a flicker of anxiety that burns brighter at moments where you least want it to show up. like now.

you try to ignore the thoughts, grasping her hand gently. “it was amazing. did you enjoy it?” 

“I did.” her eyes raise tentatively to you. “a lot.”

“yeah, you got really into it.”

she rolls her eyes, her mouth twitching. “I wouldn’t say… really into it.”

you guffaw, eyes squeezing through your laughter. “the state of my ass would say otherwise.”

“I see. I’m not yet well-versed enough with it to know its language.”

“something tells me you soon will be.”

she snorts, ducking her head away. “maybe.” after a small pause, still not meeting your gaze, she lowers herself to press a kiss to your back. “you did really good, too. thank you for all of this. it was really good.”

satisfaction carries a comforting weight in your stomach and you smile. “of course.”

✩

–

lee had been correct in her assumption. pride, like every other march, really is overwhelming. which she had anticipated, of course, having had requested a few hours alone in the morning just to mentally prepare, which you had been glad to give her, leaving her to stay in her room as you watched television and prepared dinner for later that evening.

it’s overwhelming in a myriad ways, some expected and others as a surprise. for one, it’s suffocating. people crowding in everywhere, hot, sweaty bodies pounding into her even when the two of you remain on the sidelines of the crowd. there’s music blasting on some speakers, her eyes feel like they can barely capture just how many textures and colours exist amongst all the clothes, and some of which she can confidently claim she hasn’t even seen before. bodies are so exposed that they have her immediately averting her eyes, pointed at the ground in embarrassment as seeing such intimate parts revealed. there’s loud chanting wrapped around her, screams and shouts of all octaves, while signs of different organizations are thrusted into the air, creating a layer of coloured blocks running through the top of the crowd. she knows it’s all for a good cause, and she’s glad to offer her own dose of support. but, visually, auditorily, she’s a mess.

so, it’s suffocating, yes. but, she also feels like for the first time, she can breathe. there’s no sense of the discomfort she once possessed at being a girl in her high school who didn’t want to wear a skirt and who didn’t look at boys. there’s no tightness in her chest from sitting in a church. there’s no fear at your touch. she knows that here, the rules she spent her entire life keenly aware of are bent, loosened, and maybe even completely dissipated. there are no boundaries of everyday life, and while rules and standards usually help to offer her a semblance of structure in a world she still doesn’t know how to navigate, and she usually is glad to use them as a guidepost, she doesn’t always agree with them. and here, in this hot, searing afternoon, they’re banished. it makes her feel both lost and like for the first time, every action of hers is ripped from obligation and the awareness of others’ eyes on her. it feels wrong, and off, but more freeing than she’s ever known. 

but, it all shatters. in just a singular moment. the march moves past a church, and she’s so weak that that’s all it takes. just a few church-goers standing on the steps, watching the crowd like prey. just the sight of one woman whose grey hair is like her mom’s.

her mom, whose eyes had widened in shock when she had caught lee lying with her girlfriend in her cramped up bed back in high school. her mom, who had never mentioned it again and acted like it didn’t even happen. her mom, whose feelings on the situation lee didn’t even know, but paired with her mother’s faith, the cross she wore on her chest, the reminders of sinning and praying, lee had felt casted to shame. her mom, whose evasion in the situation, just like with everything else, made lee never bring it up again. she almost preferred the unknowingness of the silence, rather than the confirmation of her mother’s disgust. maybe that’s presumptuous of her to assume, considering her mother’s silence may have just been stemmed from shock, or wanting to give lee privacy. but, lee doesn’t know and she isn’t ready to find out. not when just a flash of grey is enough to make her panic.

like it’s an instinct that’s stuck with her through all of evolution, something to tap into without a second thought, she lets go of your hand. 

when you jolt in surprise next to her, her body immediately floods with a sea of shame. her fingers twitch and ache for you to return, but she knows you won’t. not when she let go first. not when your own mind must be clouded with the confusion over what she just did. what is wrong with her? how did she ruin this so fast?

the frustration and embarrassment begins to wring out the bits and pieces of ease she felt just moments before, the crowd feeling hotter and more stifling than before. irrationally, her eyes burn, jaw clenched together as her mind becomes drowned in a whirlwind of thoughts, all of which are anxiously appointed to her, her mistake and how you must be feeling.

“can we, um…” she mumbles into your ear, voice trembling. “can we please move from the march for a second?”

your eyes widen, and she thinks you look concerned. she swallows hard. she doesn’t deserve your concern right now.

but, you give it nonetheless, nodding to a park and saying, “come on.”

you leave lee for a few minutes to head to the convenience store, your hands clutching water bottles and popsicles when you return.

as lee sucks on hers, red and bloody, she can’t help but thrum her fingers along her pants. she feels like a child, lost and needing to be consoled even though she’s the one who made an error. “thank you.”

“yeah, of course.”

of course. it’s always that. your care for her is an automatic, an unasked for response that’s drained of doubt or hesitation. it makes her feel all the more self-conscious of what just happened. you care for her so easily, and she couldn’t even manage to hold your hand for a full hour.

“I’m sorry. for letting go.”

“lee, babe–”

“I don’t know what happened,” she speaks, voice low. “I just saw the church, the people. and it felt like an instinct to hide.”

“that’s understandable, though,” you insist to her dismay. “you grew up hearing all sorts of stuff from the church.”

“I know, but I don’t want to hide now.” the words unravel on her tongue before she can think twice. the longer the silence passes after she says them, the more she realizes how true they are. she spent so long hiding away, reserving her love, her attraction, to shame-filled shadows and dirty corners. these past few weeks, she hasn’t known for certain if she wants you to touch her in public. but, for the first time, she’s realized that to limit your touches, and reserve them to privacy only, is to succumb to what she was before. it means going back to hiding herself through restricted grazes and the same four walls always encapsulating her and a lover. up until now, she hadn’t thought of it that way. how asking you to only touch her at home is going to drag her right back to the shame-filled secrecy she inhabited throughout most of her life. the secrecy that was so stifling, so overbearing, that she partially went to another city just to escape from. 

it all feels tragically wrong now, to think of hiding you away. to having you two resemble the life she led back in oregon. she doesn’t want you, another person she feels so strongly for, to become the shame she carries. “listen, I… I don’t know if I’d be able to hold your hand in, I don’t know, my hometown.” she sighs, the noise heavy. “but, I’d like to do it here. I’d like to do it more.”

you peel her hair behind her ear. “I know. it scares me too, you know? to touch publicly, be open. but, I try. to make it easier for others, to make it easier for us.”

“some people would say it’d make it harder for us.”

you frown, and she purses her lips together. she wishes she hadn’t said that. “if we know a place would be dangerous for us, we don’t have to. but, if we’re not in danger, I’d rather have the temporary discomfort than long term shame.”

temporary discomfort rather than long term shame. that’s really what it is, isn’t it? 

“I do, too.” she keeps her eyes locked onto the ground, mulling for a few moments before speaking again. she’d prefer to move past this, but she knows you deserve more than that. “I think what happened just now made me realize how much I… don’t miss the shame. and it made me realize how it’d feel to re-enter it. I can’t go back to it. and I don’t want you to ever feel that way either.” she hesitates, then raises her eyes to yours, forcing herself to hold your gaze. “if we’re safe, then I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to go back to how it felt before.”

you lean in, kissing the corner of her mouth. the safety the touch brings, the comfort – this feels like a touch that cleanses her of sin, that plunges her into water and runs through her until her body is whole.

maybe one day, she’ll be brave enough to be like this with you even if it isn’t safe. maybe one day, she’ll have the courage to bring you to her hometown and kiss you at the gas station, on the street leading up to the church. maybe the courage will outweigh the ridicule, the punishment she could face. but, even then, she doesn’t want to see you go through that. she doesn’t want to see you punished. 

“thank you,” she murmurs into the fabric of your shirt a half hour later. you smell like her detergent, and she inhales how it mixes with your scent over and over again.

the two of you have slowly become surrounded by more couples and friends, splayed on their backs or hunched over each other. the chatter is still too loud for her liking, but the longer you two remain there, the more it melts into a faded noise. the only things at the forefront of her senses are the cherry taste of the popsicle and the solid weight of your body. 

“what for?” you mutter. you’re on your back, hand stroking the strings of grass near her head. it takes her a moment to absorb your question, a tad distracted by how your eyes search hers. 

“for suggesting we come.” the march has been pretty draining on her, yeah, but it’s unlike anything she’s ever seen before. such an unadulterated sense of freedom, boundless expression. her whole life, she’s felt like an outsider, the feeling only expanded with each unorthodox decision she’s made. the aversion to femininity, the abandonment of religion, the entrance into law enforcement. but, here, it feels like any decision she makes is out of the shackles of expectations.

it makes it easier to lean down, her lips hovering just over yours. her chest is tense, for this kind of affection, kissing and more intimate touches, is something she prefers keeping private. but, who knows if she’ll ever get the chance to kiss you without the fear of others again?

and so, she plants her lips on yours, swallowing down the little huff of air that escapes your lips. one hand fists into the grass, while the other holds herself up, lips coaxing for you to open so that she can slip her tongue in. 

when your sigh gets pushed into her mouth, she swallows it down and leans over you further, shoulders loosening as she loses focus on the rest of the world for once. 

yeah, she doesn’t want to lose this feeling 

“when are you going back home?” you mumble into her neck a few long kisses later.

“our home?”

you laugh against her neck. “no, I mean, your home in oregon.” you push away, eyelashes fluttering up at her. “you call our place ‘home’?”

lee blinks down at you. she supposes she does. it happened so gradually that she completely missed it. but, somewhere amongst the tree that out-stayed its welcome, the movie nights, the blood stain she left on your bedsheets three weeks ago, the one you told her you’d be honoured to sleep next to, what was once just the apartment became home. “yeah.” she clears her throat, uncomfortable with being caught unexpectedly in such an exposing moment. “I do.”

“have you called any of your past places a home?”

“other than my house in oregon, no.” and even that she only continues to consider a home because she grew up there and her mom still remains. those two factors, embedded in her for what she presumes will be forever, form an unbreakable, metallic bond to her old town and rotting house. 

lee sighs, glancing down to you, and she nearly flinches when she sees the moisture in your eyes. “what… are you okay?” her stomach squeezes in anxiety. what did she do wrong? she mentally reviews the last hour. was the church thing affecting you now?

“yeah.” you sniffle, pressing your face into the sweaty skin of her neck. “I’m just happy you see our place in that way.”

lee’s mouth twitches. this is what you’re crying over? she’s not even sure what to say. “okay. are you okay?”

you nod against her, your hair tickling right under her chin. “I just – I… I really like you.”

her arm tightens around your shoulders, the confession making her feel completely thrown off her guard, unbalanced and toppling. it doesn’t make sense, but your outright declaration of your feelings, leaving nothing to the imagination, and your confidence in the words, make her overwhelmed. how can someone like her so much? how can it be so easy?

“thanks,” she responds feebly.

you gently thwack her stomach with a chuckle. “‘thanks’? that’s all I get?”

“I’ve already made my feelings… known. remember, five weeks ago, your bedroom, you had purple socks in your hands.” lee could practically recite the details of the moment like scripture, ingrained into her memory from her repetition of it during the week it occurred. 

“how do you remember my purple socks?”

“I don’t know, I just do.” if it were up to lee, she’d be able to remember anything and everything that happened since last september. sear it into her mind until she can open it up like a book whenever she wants to look back on anything that’s happened. she wishes she was powerful enough to secure all the details. but, she still manages a satisfactory amount. she remembers the top you wore when you two first met, the rough patch of skin that had remained on your skin for weeks during winter, the nervous laughter you gave during your presentation during finals season, the sight of your hand next to hers when you touched the tapes during your first visit to the video shop, the crackle of your voice when you first spoke on the phone before you had even met. somehow, almost as though her body had anticipated what would happen before her conscious mind did, you had been leaving imprints on her since the beginning. small flecks of you, your mannerisms, what you shared – they all remain collected in her mind. not all, unfortunately. but, enough to sate her. “you were fiddling with them.”

“was I really?”

“mhm.” it was cute. it made her feel a bit reassured, for you were evidently just as nervous as her. 

“you’re sweet for noticing it.”

she turns away from you, stroking her fingers over your top. “do you feel better?”

“much.” you peck her cheek. “now, back to before, when are you going back to your mom’s?”

“second week of august.”

“for how long?”

her lips fold in. she’s been trying not to think of it much. “three weeks. maybe a month if she needs me.”

you hum. “I’ll miss you.”

she silently presses a kiss to your head. it makes her feel slightly hollow to think of the weeks she’ll be away from you, your guys’ home, even that little christmas tree that has a plastic little umbrella hanging from it, courtesy of the restaurant you two had eaten at after her exam. unexpected as it is, what you guys have is now a home. it’s comfortable.

“thank you,” she pushes herself to say.

“again? what for?”

her eyes latch onto a drifting cloud, tinged with gold at the edges. “for… making the apartment a home.”

you fiddle with the material of her button-up. “you did that too, you know.”

lee isn’t really certain how. you got the tree, you spoke to her first, you were kind to her when all she really wanted was amicable silence. “not really.”

“yes, really. you wash my dishes, you make me coffee regularly, you’re a lot cleaner than I am so half of the time, the place is only standing because of you. you schedule in our movie nights and never miss them, you surprise me with tapes I mention. you’re just so sweet.” you kiss her neck. “really sweet.” another kiss, and lee’s hissing, face hot from the words and your affection.

“stop,” she whispers. “we’re still in public.”

“says the girl who just made out with me.”

“I had momentum.”

you press another wet kiss to her neck, and lee has to resist letting her hips flinch when you slowly suck on the spot. “so do I.” you let go of her neck with a pop. “but, before I get ahead of myself, thank you. for saying I helped make the apartment a home.”

lee needs a moment to digest and dim the pleasure aroused by your attention. “it’s just the truth.” she takes a moment mulling over what she wants to say next. it feels heavy on her tongue, but she lets the weight of it roll off. “I didn’t really think I’d get to have that. unless I lived alone.”

you face creases, lips tightening. she thinks you look upset. “why?” your tone is soft, soothing, as though you’re consoling a child.

“I don’t know.” she can’t meet your eyes, not like this. “I don’t think I’m easy to understand. not as in I’m special, but I just don’t fit… socially. not in the right way.”

“well, what even is the right way?”

she knows you’re trying to challenge her not to argue, but to prove to her that there’s nothing wrong with her. and while the effort is appreciated, lee knows it’s not viable. she’s spent enough years analyzing other people, taking careful observations of them so she could learn the right and wrong ways to proceed socially, to know that how she functions isn’t what’s natural for most. and it sets her apart, it makes her stick out when socializing is demanded of her. “I don’t know. but, it’s not me. I know it isn’t.” she sucks in a deep breath, forcing herself to keep going. she’d prefer not to, but she wants to try for you. “I keep waiting to finally reach a moment when I feel comfortable in the world, with people. but, it keeps not coming.” just as she had once told you on the subway, she’s lost – in this world, in trying to navigate it. though, at that time, there had been numerous ways she felt lost lingering on her mind when she said that.

“I’m sorry you feel uncomfortable. but, there’s nothing wrong with you, you know? sure, there are certain standards, but just because a standard is popular, it doesn’t mean it’s the right way to be. you’re a good person, and kind. and just because you don’t naturally model certain standards, standards that are arbitrary, anyways, doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you, lee.”

lee’s breath trembles as she digests your words. she knows, logically, all of that is true. she’s repeated similar notions to herself on more than one occasion. but, no matter the logic and objectivity behind it, you both still can’t change the fact that those standards do shape the world. and so long as she exists in this world, there’ll always be part of her that clashes with it. “I know. but, still, those standards mean something to a lot of people.”

“I know.” you lean on her shoulder, eyes light under the sun, carefully exploring her face. it makes lee’s stomach tighten in pressure. “but, just know there’s nothing wrong with you, okay? it’s fucked up if people make you feel anything different just because you don’t follow a certain standard. good people, right people, would never judge you for that. and with time, you’ll find more and more of those people. I’m sure of it. because you’re wonderful.”

she gulps down hard, shoulders shifting. the praise makes her feel like a blinding spotlight is pointed right on her, and it doesn’t feel easy to hear it. and while your words are comforting, she can’t say she minds the amount of people she already has in her life. amaya, maria, you. she’s always been pretty content with leading a solitary life, lest for the occasional moments of wishing for more companionship. so, three people is more than enough. she just wishes she didn’t struggle so much to navigate outside of those three people. not because she wants to interact, but rather because she simply wishes she could feel less uneasy when forced to do so.

“thank you. I just feel that I’ll always be uncomfortable in certain situations.” she pushes herself to look at you. “it’s okay.”

“yeah.” your voice is quiet, and she hopes she hasn’t deflated the hope you had approached the conversation with. “but, I’m here to talk when those moments occur, okay?”

she blinks at the lack of surprise your words ignite in her. her trust in you is that steady within her – your kindness not even surprising her anymore.

when she visits her friends that night, they’re stunned at the revelation of where she’s been.

“I gotta admit it, I never thought I’d see the day,” amaya chuckles, dicing the mushrooms for the pasta she’s making. 

“but, you weren’t pushed to go to it, right?” maria asks wryly, her eyes sliding to lee.

lee pauses in her peeling of the potatoes, her sigh short and tempered. “I wasn’t.”

maria’s face immediately flattens. “that wasn’t meant to be judgy.”

“it sounded like it.”

maria sighs, the creases on her forehead smoothing out. “it’s not, okay? ever since you told me how the whole ‘girlfriend’ situation was handled, I feel better about things. you got an apology and proper, honest communication. that’s good.”

lee uses her task to give herself some time to think. she’s glad to know that maria has warmed up somewhat, but she can’t help but be bitten by doubt over if her approval is truly secured. “but, you still don’t approve?”

“no, I do,” maria says, placing her fingers on lee’s wrist. “I’ve seen you both, and from what you’ve told me, things seem good. I just– I can’t help but still have a bit of a hawk eye sometimes.”

“why, though?” lee doesn’t enjoy being under the microscope of anyone’s scrutiny, especially from her friend and especially regarding her own relationship. even if she’s relieved maria approves, she doesn’t want these tidbits of doubt casted onto her.

“because you’re my friend.” maria’s hand tightens, and lee’s twitches in response. “I’m just protective, and I want to make sure things are okay.”

“things are okay,” lee presses. “and even if they ever get… not okay, trust that I will take care of it.”

maria purses her lips, and lee knows her well enough to know it’s a sign of some internal resistance. but, finally, she nods, eyes boring into hers. “okay, yeah, you’re right. I trust you.”

it’s three words, but lee knows maria wouldn’t say anything she doesn’t mean. and so, with a sigh, she pats maria’s hand and lets go. she wishes maria’s reluctance wasn’t there, and she knows it doesn’t deserve to be there, but all she can do is hope that maria will change soon enough. 

it’s what you deserve.

–

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

seven words, and it’s enough to send you into a panic.

it all started when you and lee had gone to amaya, maria, and amaya’s sister, thuraya’s, apartment earlier that evening. you guys had been doing that a lot lately, since lee had relayed to you that amaya was planning to travel with her boyfriend for the next six months after graduation. you know how heartbroken lee is, even if she doesn’t admit it herself. her eyes keep wandering down whenever you mention amaya, and when leaving their apartment today, lee lingered in amaya’s hug for many long moments, holding onto her tight. 

you were touched by the moment, you really were, but something kept gnawing at your mind, lurking in a corner and ticking you with a bothersome finger.

you, amaya, maria and lee had been seated on the floor in their living room, legs crossed and folded as you guys dipped and shared out of the bowls on the table. the conversation had strayed to lee’s approaching visit to her mom’s, and maria had said, “it’s not gonna be stifling there, right?”

your eyes had immediately darted to lee. you know she doesn’t have a good relationship with her mom, and your stomach turned in worry.

lee’s mouth pinched together. “I mean, it will be. but, I should still go. it’s what’s right.”

“has it gotten worse?” amaya asked, dark eyebrows drawn sympathetically as her hand went to lee’s knee.

“yeah. it does everytime.”

“she doesn’t touch your room, though, right?”

lee nodded.

and all you could do was sit there, feeling utterly drained of knowledge. you had thought lee’s previously mentioned unwellness of her mom was what amaya was speculating about. but, then, what did lee’s room have to do with it? 

“I don’t know how you do it,” maria mumbled, dipping another corn chip into the salsa. “I’d go crazy there.”

“okay, let’s maybe try positive thinking,” amaya said, flashing maria a tight, mocking smile. “at least you get to see your mom, lee. she deals with so much.”

you swallowed hard. you had come to that same conclusion based on what lee has said, weeks ago, but it sounded like maria and amaya knew exactly what lee’s mom dealt with, whereas the details are lost on you. all lee had said was that she was unwell, but you knew none of the nuances or events laced into that.

it only stung more when amaya’s eyes flicked to you, clearly catching sight of your scrunched eyebrows and wide eyes. her glance shifted to lee, who was still staring down at her knees, then turned back to you with an awkward chuckle. “oh, um, sorry.”

lee’s head sharply raised at that, but as soon as you looked at her, she ducked her head to the side. that only made your stomach sink further.

back at home, you sat on lee’s bed, trying to bite back the stinging jealousy at not knowing as much about lee as her friends, fused with burning curiosity and a slight desperation. but, it was no use. your mind was whirling with questions, flashing through the tidbits of information lee has left scattered through the past year, trying to see if you can make anything of them. some pieces were lodged into place – lee doesn’t have a good relationship with her mom, there’s something up with her mom, it seems to have been just the two of them growing up. they’re from oregon. you sigh. it’s not enough, you need to know more. all the information you have seems to be just on the surface, without reason, without explanation. 

and so, you ask, “lee?” 

“hm?” she hums, tugging her shirt off, revealing her plain pink bra. you try not to go silent for too long, eyes unable to resist wandering along her freckled chest, then the dip of her cleavage. something feels so secretive, so mischievous, about seeing your girlfriend undressed and revealing the slopes and crevices of skin she usually keeps hidden. you want to worship her body, show her how much you cherish her trusting you like this.

but, maybe for another time. “um,” you start, trying to shake yourself out of the distracted lull. “I wanted to ask, lee, what’s going on with your mom?”

she freezes, shirt hanging from her wrist as she slowly slides it free. “this is about what amaya said?”

you gulp, suddenly seized with guilt. it makes you feel small, to know these questions have only been aroused by someone else knowing her better than you. you’ve always been curious to learn of her, of course you’ve been, but it’s like that conversation with amaya and maria slapped in your face just how little you know. before then, what with how slowly lee opened up, you were content with the pieces of herself she had gifted you. and you were under the impression that these were all the tidbits she could manage. but, now, knowing other people know more than you do makes you feel like it’s no longer enough, and that there’s more she ought to share. if she was able to confide in other people about more of this situation, why were you still left in the dark? you're curious to know more, and now that you know she very much can share it, you want to be part of that.

“I guess. but, I guess I didn’t realize just how little I know until I had to compare it to someone else. before, I felt like I knew a lot more, and now, it’s like I’m realizing I don’t.”

she sighs through her nostrils, a small puff of air exiting as she folds her shirt. “you do know a lot.”

a flicker of annoyance burns in you. “well, clearly not that much. and I’d like to know more. it’s an important part of you.”

her dresser makes a piercing screech as she drags it open, and you wince. “it’s not that big of a deal.”

“lee, you practically recoil whenever I bring it up! it’s clearly a big thing for you, and I want to know.”

“for my sake, or your own?”

you flinch, a stab of hurt digging through your skin. “what does that mean?”

“you’re asking because my friends know more,” she plainly states, her nude back turned to you as she unhooks her bra.

you splutter, indignant anger running through you, hot and boiling. “that’s not fair, lee. I’ve always cared, I’ve always asked. I’m just asking this now because hearing amaya made me realize I actually know a lot less than I thought I did. sure, there might be some jealousy involved, but like, it’s also about wanting to know more about my girlfriend now that I know she’s capable of sharing it with others.”

“well, I’ve known them longer than you.” her tone is flat, even, and too calm for your liking, especially when compared to the way yours quivered moments before. “you don’t need to be jealous, it’s to be expected that they know more and that I’ve shared more.”

“yeah, well, trust shouldn’t be measured by time, it’s just trust.”

“I do trust you,” she firmly says, placing her folded shirt into an open drawer. “but, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“ever?” the idea makes you feel a wretched sort of nausea. god, what does it mean if she never shares this with you? what does it mean that she’s hesitating at all? did you do something? have you been a bad girlfriend? is this because of your doubts from the night you guys got together? you’re her girlfriend, that should carry at least some weight, some level of unwavering trust. right? when you guys were friends, it was okay, it was normal for these things to take time. but, being romantically involved usually changes that. and the fact that it’s not changing makes you feel jolted, dizzy with fear and spinning thoughts. 

“not never. just not tonight.” her voice is quiet, but it’s steady and clear in her desires. 

“but, why? do you not trust me?”

“I said I did.”

“then, why don’t you want to tell me?”

her fingers curl onto the edge of the dresser, her grip tight. “it’s just… a lot. for me. I’m not ready to explain it all yet.”

you pause, the edges of your irritation softening. to hear her make such a vulnerable confession, and absolve your responsibility in it, makes you feel both relieved and sympathetic for her. you want to touch her, press your mouth to her back, which is still naked. but, the back and forth from moments before, the first one you two have ever seriously had, makes you feel silted and awkward. anxiety pulses through you at the thought of her being mad at you.

“I’m just…”

she grabs a flimsy t-shirt from her drawer, tossing it on, the motion musing her ponytail. “you should trust me, too, to go at my own pace.”

“I do! but, it’s hard to feel comfortable with you keeping this to yourself, and like, downplaying it when that’s clearly not the case. and, you know, bringing up how you’ve known your friends longer. it makes me feel, then, like it’s a me-thing.”

“it’s not.” her fingers rasp on her thigh. “but, I can’t keep assuring you of that. not when you’re pushing me this much.”

“I’m not–”

“I need some time alone.” her head tilts in your direction, sharp jaw clenched, eyes still avoiding you. “please.” 

your eyes begin to sizzle with tears, humiliation gnawing at your stomach. she’s never pushed you away like this, so this is new territory, painfully unfamiliar. she’s asked you for time alone before, yes, and you’ve been happy to give it to her. but, not in a moment fresh with pain. you want to latch onto her, press your face into her shoulder and cry, beg her to stay. because you need her in this raw, wounded moment. because in this moment, the question prodding at your mind despairingly is: is this a sign she’s tired of you?

but, you don’t want to hold on too tight. you don’t want to tire her even more if that’s what’s happening.

“I… okay.”

you weep into your pillow immediately upon entering, the yellow colour of it becoming soaked in your tears. you wish you were better than this, to not be reduced to tears just because she asked for space. it’s not like it’s even a ton of space, considering she’s right down the hall. and you know it’s fair for her to ask for that space, to need it. but, for the first time, you’re restricted from her room, her presence. and maybe it’s because it’s the first time such a thing has happened, but it’s stifling. the reminder of what happened seizes you with a death grip, forcing you down a trail of ugly thoughts about if she wants you a little less now.

it tumbles into flashes and recollections of past experiences. moments where time with past romantic partners, or well, whatevers, winded in mistreatment, distance, pushes away – anything that ended up making you wonder what exactly you had done to deserve this. lee isn’t being cruel, the rational part of you knows that. but, in the extremity of your emotions, you can’t help but get thrown down the rabbit hole, plagued with the thoughts that maybe she’s tired of you and wants time away from you because of that. that maybe you’ll lose her just like everyone else. or she’ll come to see you as a bit less worthy of good treatment now.

beneath it all, is guilt. you flip the argument in your mind over and over again, and with time, you begin to wince at all the times you pressed, even after lee made it clear your insecurities weren't why she was evading telling you. you don't know what she's been through, nor how pressured your pushes might've been making her. maybe you should've been more gentle about it.

you fall asleep early that night, eyes blotchy and swollen, head tense, and body wound up with the need to pee, but too drained to move.

at midnight, a soft knock comes to your door, and you stir lightly. 

lee doesn’t wait before entering your room, her bare feet softly hitting the floor as she slowly moves to your bed. your room is pitch black with the lack of a window, and you can just barely make out her face until she crouches next to you. you meekly watch her, soft blanket curled to your chin. 

“hey,” she quietly whispers. her eyes aren’t on you.

and that, pathetically, lovingly, breaks you even more in that moment. you sniffle, a tear not hesitating to escape the confines of your eye.

lee’s eyes flicker up and widen at the sight. “hey, hey.” she leans in closer, pressing her chin to the fold of your blanket, her breaths brushing your skin. her eyebrows, so dark you can catch sight of them even without light, are wrinkled in concentration, her shining eyes watching you intently. “baby, I…”

“sorry,” you choke out, pressing your face into the pillow. 

“no, no, don’t.” she leans in, fingers ghosting your forehead, her head shaking. 

but, you can't stop, each hard blink releasing a new stream of tears, small sobs bubbling in your throat. “are you sick of me?”

she draws in a loud, harsh breath, head tilting. after a moment of silence, she mutters, “can I come into your bed?”

after all the nights you two have shared in it, you’ve forgotten that it’s technically just yours to begin with. and god, did you miss her tonight, even if it was just three hours. you shuffle to where the bed is braced against the wall, and lee slides in and arranges her pillow so easily, as though you guys have vowed to sleep in this bed every night.

you gulp when she immediately presses the front of her body to yours, her hand cupping your cheek, forehead nudged against yours. “I won’t ever be sick of you.”

“you don’t kno–”

“I do.” her breaths are shuddering now, shaking at the edges. “I’m sure of it.”

you continue crying, small noises bursting from your mouth as your body shakes. lee leans in, her lips capturing every tear as she murmurs, “I’m here.”

“how do you know you’ll never get sick of me?”

“because I… I just won’t. I know I won’t. I know it’s hard, but trust me. I won’t.”

the word trust reignites a flood of memories of the argument, and you cough on the dryness of your throat, embarrassment crawling through you as you say, “I’m sorry. for pushing before. I do trust you to go at your own pace, and I want you to. I just got scared. that you not wanting to talk about it meant you didn’t trust me. or that we’d never reach a place of you telling me.”

 she smoothes a palm over your hip, remaining in silence for a few moments, clearly absorbing your words. after a few moments, she speaks, voice quiet and hushed. “I do trust you. and we will talk about it soon.”

“soon?” 

“yeah, soon. I didn’t want to talk about it because it’s… hard for me. but, I do want to share it. and you should know.”

“I don’t want it to just be done out of obligation.”

“it won’t. it’s… a lot for me. but, I don’t want you to feel… I don’t know, like something is missing.”

you sigh. while the thought process definitely considers you, and is sweet in nature, you want her to share because of reasons not so focused on you. “but, I want you to tell me because you want to. not because you just don’t want me to feel bad.”

she nods. “I know.” the stroke of her thumb slows to a stop. “but, it’s not only about wanting to help you feel like you understand me. I also… like being understood by you. and I don’t want things unspoken between us. that never works.”

your emotions feel even more heightened at her words. lee wants you to understand her, and she wants to be specifically understood by you. that feels like an honour. “but, you want to tell me even if you don’t want to talk about it?”

“if it was easy for me to talk about, I would.” she sounds so timid, her voice small in the gentle confession. “I avoid it because it’s…”

“painful?” 

her face flinches. “amongst other things.”

tears slowly subsiding, your eyes explore her face. she looks like she’s shrunk from talking about this, shoulders hunched and body curled like a child. it makes your stomach whirl into a knot and tighten in equal parts sympathy and worry as to what she went through.

“just… only do it when you’re ready,” you whisper, the back of your hand lifting to graze her cheek.

she catches your wrist and bows her head down to your fingers. a trembling kiss meets your knuckles, and she says against them, “I’m sorry. if I hurt you before.”

and the tears rush back, the reminder of her hard tone making you want to bury your face against her. 

lee’s bottom lip gets caught beneath her small teeth, and she quietly watches you cry. “I… I shouldn’t have said you only wanted to know because my friends knew. it was a wrongful misjudgement. I thought at the time it was right, but it isn’t.”

“yeah.” the word comes out croaky and dry. you feel like the amount of tears you’ve shed has drained your body of all its replenishing water. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. or thought it. not when you’ve always been so… curious.” after a pause, she quickly adds, “not in a bad way.”

“are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

her acknowledgement of the stinging words helps to relax some of the unease in your stomach. but, there’s still one more thing you need to bring up. “it, um, it hurt me when you told me that you can’t assure me anymore.”

“why did that hurt you?”

you wince. “what do you mean?”

“I tried assuring you, but you didn’t accept it, so I said I wouldn’t anymore. I don’t understand why it’s hurtful.”

the only thing stopping you from feeling completely crestfallen is the fact that it doesn’t sound like she’s criticizing you, but is rather genuinely trying to figure out what you’re feeling.

“it made me feel like, I don’t know, like there’s a limit to the assurance you’d give me. which, like, yeah, I get if there is with extreme amounts. but, in that moment, it was just hard for me to feel like you trust me with the stuff you said. so, it scared me, and I needed you.”

“but, I had already told you I trusted you. I didn’t understand the point of repeating myself.”

“because I was still worried, lee. I mean, you know, that sort of anxiety doesn’t always make sense, it doesn’t always just… go away. sometimes it stays even after reassurance, and in that moment, it was staying. especially because I was still worried over stuff you had said before.” your voice lowers towards the end, praying she doesn’t feel attacked by you saying these things.

when she says nothing, you inadvertently squirm in discomfort, hoping your requirements weren’t too much. 

lee’s arm around you tightens, and she mutters, “you’re right. I’m sorry.”

you stare at her, a touch of surprise rippling through. “really?” 

she nods. “yeah. you felt anxious, and I should’ve been there.”

“I mean, you were.”

“yeah, but completely. without conditions or a limit.” her face is tight in frustration. “I shouldn’t have said I won’t give you assurance. I…” she sighs, gulping hard. “I need to be better.”

“but, you’re already great, lee.” 

she sighs, and without a word, leans in to kiss you. the salty drops of your tears drip and curl around your lips, giving the kiss a sour taste. but, it’s so sweet in the tenderness, so sweet in the way lee pours affection into it.

when she parts from you, breaths heavy, she whispers, “even if you feel that way, still, I’ll do better.”

“so will I,” you say, the promise surprisingly weightless on your tongue. 

for it’s easy, really, to want to do better for her.

----

a/n: so, as I mentioned before, tumblr was being a little bitch and not letting me post the whole of summer's part two, meaning I had to divide the summer chap yet again, making it now three parts (which is why this one ends so abruptly ;-;). so, this post is the second part, and honestly, I might just post the third part super soon bc I've made you guys wait long enough as is KDJSKDJ (in 2-3 days most likely, if you want to be tagged lmk through comments or asks <33)

please please pleaseeee let me know what you think, whether it be through comments or anons, since it does really boost my motivation + confidence ahhh, and truly, I'm always so curious and eager to hear what you guys think when I post something <33 I hope you all enjoyed this chap mwah mwah

[familyagrestefanblog]

Yeah, now that you point it out, as far as the leaks show, Maribug is really out here not even trying to help Sublime up or do anything else to help her. Marinette is once again too paralysed by the realisation that she's capable of something... *checks my notes* not good,

so the local hero goddess just leaves the hurt civilian with the two broken prosthetic legs SHE BROKE on the floor to instead have a meltdown again over in how much emotional agony she is bc now someone might think she isn't the pure hearted underdog martyr in this (and every other) scenario

Which of course the narrative declares the more important matter. That everyone involved understands that Maribug is a pure hearted innocent little underdog who must now be comforted 24/7 and reassured that no one is angry with her or else she would apparently drop dead

They're really have LADYBUG this fucking inconsidered that she just lands in front of a running disabled person and, as far as the leaks show, everyone has to immediately make sure Ladybug isn't feeling bad about it. It's not like Ladybug SHOULD be asked to fucking pay attention to where she's landing bc civilians are not only vulnerable, they are also just living their normal lives in the normal world. THEY shouldn't have to pay attention and look out if Ladybug will show up any second so their existence isn't bothering her, she should watch out for THEM (that sounds infuriatingly familiar, doesnt it?)

Please don't have this be treated as a case of "Ladybug landed here so the entire environment is now the battle field she owns, meaning it's actually fine and JUSTIFIED that she pays no attention to where she's landing. She thought there is an akuma, so she can't be expected to remember that civilian life goes on"

Cause ngl, I'm still not over how near the end of season 5 one of Marinette's plans seriously was to just... use the tiger powered Akuma to NUKE a part of the city.

She absolutely killed innocent people there for the crime of existing because I guess she forgot that the world isn't her empty battle field once there is an akuma, so she didn't feel the need to think of another plan for 5 seconds that doesn't involve nuking a part of the city (but remember, Adrien was VILLAINOUS for breaking that poor chimney lmao)

So count me unsurprised that Sublimation seems to continue Maribug's irresponsible treatment of her environment once she's suited up. I wished I could say that I hope she'll grow from this, but I can't see the show finally challenging Maribug's entitlement of thinking the world around her doesn't count and belongs to her as battle field because anything else would be mean to her authority.

She's gonna be shocked to her core here that her existence is capable of causing something not good, then she'll be reassured to hell and back that it's not her fault, and that's it.

did you see the spoilers for ml season 6 where there’s a new girl with a prosthetic leg and that leg ends up broken and marinette’s involved somehow? honestly i’m gonna give marinette the benefit of the doubt for now and just assume this is either a huge misunderstanding/accident or extremely misleading spoiler just because this is a serious thing, like I was super disappointed with how her character’s written in season 4 and 5 but I just don’t want to believe the writers would come up with something like this when this would easily be one of the worst things she’s ever done (if she’s actually responsible). I saw the spoiler on TikTok and there’s several explanations I’ve seen in the comments:

the new girl (idr her name) is lila/cerise in disguise and she wants to ruin marinette’s reputation (iirc the writers said she’s nice and not a villain but maybe they just don’t want to spoil the plot for obvious reasons)

marinette didn’t have bad intentions/it was an accident/misunderstanding/spoilers are too misleading/not enough information yet

and my least favorite explanation…the new girl was trying to get with adrien (some fans are saying this to say this is all part of her scheme to get adrien to break up with marinette and date her instead but some are saying this to justify marinette if she was actually at fault for this)

I think my main concern is how the writers are going to address this. What if they try to justify it if marinette really was at fault? Or what if it’s all a misunderstanding but then they put the new girl to the side to focus on how sad this is for marinette? Are they going to be able to address this in a way that doesn’t come across as ableist while also not making their protagonist look like a bad person? What do you think?

---

I just saw the leak, but at first I couldn't find it, so I’d already written a response before that, so here's me describing the possible nightmare scenarios before the writers proved me right about their priorities:

Like, hot take, but it doesn’t matter what the new girl is doing, messing with her mobility aid would still be absolutely unforgivable. Even if it’s Lila in disguise, Marinette has already exhibited so much ableism in trying to prove her disabilities aren’t real that I would just say that the writers shouldn’t be allowed to as much as mention any disability ever again. “A person claiming they’re disabled could be lying to get special considerations, so make sure to check any claims of disability, no matter how awful you come across for doing it,” is not a lesson that has any place in a children’s cartoon, even accidentally. And that’s exactly what any scenario with a girl faking a disability / using their disability to get closer to Adrien would entail as well, the idea that we should be suspicious of disabled people trying to “cheat” their way to things that “belong” to us.

But, like, even if it actually is going to be aiming to be an actual lesson in disabilities where it’s all a misunderstanding/mistake, the thing is that, lately, I’ve been looking back at the “lessons” in this show, even in the earlier seasons, and I just don’t have faith in these writers’ ability to deliver any kind of moral to kids in a consistent way, unless they’re going to have a character directly talk to the screen to explain what the moral is.

Let’s use ‘The Mime’ as an example. The scenario in this episode is that Marinette, through her clumsiness, deletes the most important video Alya had filmed so far, and then spends the rest of the episode trying to recreate the video in order to cover up for her mistake. In the end, it turns out there was no problem because Alya had already saved a copy of the video because she expected something like Marinette deleting it to happen, so she was never even mad or disappointed, but Marinette still sets up Alya to get a one-on-one interview with Ladybug. What did Marinette learn in this episode exactly?

The most good faith interpretation of the episode is that the point is that you own up and make up for your mistakes, hence Marinette setting Alya up to get an interview with Ladybug. But this message is muddled up by the fact that, even before the retool, the writers didn’t want Marinette suffering any real consequences for messing up, or to show her messing up in a way that couldn’t be “fixed”, so the video was actually safe and no irreparable damage was done. Alya had foreseen that Marinette would mess up and planned accordingly. This takes the wind out of the sails of the lesson because of course Marinette would do something nice for Alya, who’s such a considerate friend who never gets mad at her and plans around Marinette’s flaws. It’s a pretty different thing to go out of your way to apologise or make things up to someone who is actually mad at you for a good reason, and it requires a lot more courage. The situation in ‘The Mime’ is the easiest version of this situation imaginable for Marinette, but completely unrealistic for anyone facing this kind of situation in real life.

So, with this kind of previous showing back when I still had faith in this show, how would I expect them to deal with Marinette accidentally messing with someone’s mobility aid post-retool? I’d expect a lot of focus on how upsette Marinette is, because that’s the show’s number one priority outside of the love quest, with the show going out of it’s way to make it very clear that Marinette didn’t mean to, she feels really bad about it and she’s scared of how the new girl will react. At the end of the episode she would gather her courage and face the music, and it turns out the new girl was actually getting a new mobility aid that very same day and she wouldn’t have needed the old one any longer anyway. And then Marinette will maybe make some gesture of friendship that the new girl gladly accepts, no hard feelings. Any normal person would still be pissed about their expensive mobility aid being messed with, but the writers of this show never have characters react normally when the normal thing to do is not instantly forgive Marinette. So this scenario would be making things easy for Marinette, but completely unrealistic for the viewing audience.

Simply put, I really, really really hope the sneak preview is purposefully misleading, as they tend to be, and the crew doesn’t try to tackle the topic of physical disabilities with their tendency to favor the perspective of their coddled, able-bodied protagonist.

—

After seeing the leak:

So, like, fucking hell, way to further sully the idea that Marinette ever took her job as Ladybug seriously. Just to make herself look like the victim when she’s caught stalking someone (something she insisted last season she’d stopped doing), she goes so far as faking being Akumatized, transforming into Ladybug and jumping right in the middle of the field, of this girl's path, to scream about an Akuma attack. Like, the reveal that Sublime knew there was actually no Akuma and that Tomoe apparently made the leg less sturdy on purpose doesn’t make it better when Marinette got Sublime slippery and then startled her enough to make her slip. People break perfectly fine legs from slipping, it's why anti-skid devices sell so well in winter. All of this being an accident doesn’t make it okay, and Marinette sure as hell didn’t have anything close to those “good intentions” her stans love to attribute to her.

But, of course, her victim is going to be a perfect flawless angel who wasn't even upset about the stalking, instead defending Marinette to Ladybug, just in case saying: “this girl I know pretended to be Akumatized because she was caught stalking me” might make Marinette look bad to the audience. She also instantly reassures Ladybug, the one who actually caused her to slip, who hasn't done anything more than stare at her slack-jawed, because god forbid anyone ever say anything about Marinette that isn't validation or praise while she's too busy freaking out about herself.

Like, Marinette causes Sublime to break her leg, and we instantly see the victim in this situation go: “I’m okay, I’m not hurt”, while Marinette just stands there having her personal little panic attack. Like, a girl lost her leg, and the writers still try to sell Marinette as the injured party by having the victim insist she's okay while Marinette is having another one of her manipulative, please-feel-sorry-for-me-audience emotional breakdowns. The writers seriously made Marinette’s victim prioritize reassuring her over anything else.

I knew the writers were going to have Marinette be instantly forgiven, but I wasn’t expecting it to be so instant that she didn’t even get to finish processing her fuck-up. Or to go so out of their way to make Marinette seem less at fault because, like, Tomoe messing with the leg on purpose isn't a villain scheme, it was just to make Marinette look better in comparison.

The writers have this ability where, when I write down what I think would be a very likely way for one of their stories to go very badly, they do just that while still managing to make it worse.

[guiiay]

yeah... yeah

[littlebigmouse]

Something about AU Vander telling AU Powder she's "too smart to spend her life in a bar" vs telling AU Ekko (as far as he knows, anyway) that he thinks he'd be "running this place soon" makes the latter almost seem like an insult.

[ssreeder]

Ok so I NEED TO KNOW

Will the gaang eventually meet Hama?

Bcuz i think thst if they do It would be such a cool interaction for sokka (and zuko' too but i think mostly sokka since ✨watertribe✨) and Hama since Hama was Stolen from the S.WT and then locked up for the rest of her life in the FN ship and theu could "bond" over it so Sokka also has a connection w Hama other than only hama n Katara (like in Canon) and then later on when She bloodbends him and theres a whole ass betrayal and he feels betrayed by her bcuz they have such familiar experiences snd when she gets taken out he just fucking breaks donw snd more trauma yayyyyyy

Sorry i love ANGST lol (and ik you do too ;> )

Even t'ho il It probably wont hsppen Its still a nice suggestion i Just pictures in my head lol

OH LIAB HAMA…..

if only you were real you could unleash so much angst onto our favorite prison pals… OH SHIT WOULD THEY ALL THREE BE PRISON PALS?! (Technically Katara went to prison too sooooo…. Is she an honorary pal as well??)

In all seriousness, the idea of Hama being in LIAB and the amount of heartbreak and pain she could unleash would be unparalleled, while also stirring up so many painful sentiments for EVERYONE… ahhhh…. Good thing she won’t be making an appearance or idk if our gaang could handle it! Feel free to write your own spin off though! I’d love to read it!

[livvyofthelake]

the thing about dancing with the stars this season is that genuinely half the season is happening offscreen on tiktok. you have to be logged the FUCK on for this season AND you have to have a working knowledge of the show and how it’s operated in the past and recent past. luckily i already was logged on. and i’ve been watching this show since i was an actual child and only stopped when they fired tom bergeron and just came back because they finally got good celebrities in here. but imagine watching this season with no context no knowledge no anything. just rawdogging dancing with the stars… that has to feel like shit seriously. 😐

[br1ghtestlight]

dying on the cross for cheaty cheaty bang bang my favorite s13 episode and maybe one of my favorite bob's burgers episodes overall even though Nobody else likes it and it was a direct follow up to the highest rated episode of the show. its okay babygirl i got u

[butchnavi]

okay I'll say it. richard bowen is overrated as fuck

[niuxita21]

tfw when you and your bestie being mistaken for a couple is just a regular Tuesday night 

[lightdancer1]

See the further irony is:

That in using 'Mall Goth Sauron' as the take on Dark Willow over 'misogynist has character randomly killed for LULZ' it also allows for greater accountability on the one hand and for Season 7 to thematically focus on repairing all this damage in the midst of facing an enemy of shadows reliant on lies to further itself. The only way to break the Druj is the absolute Truth in a very Zoroastrian sense. Characters don't get to neatly skip past accountability for their actions, and this would spiral over into further later seasons with the essential reality that in an otherwise lower-level setting this one random girl from California is a Dark Phoenix-tier reality warper and the most powerful person on the planet, or the universe.

And the questions of how that power could and should be employed on the one hand and that Willow is essentially a Doctor Strange type who beats up Gods and Eldritch Abominations for her regular line of work where her counterparts deal with the more 'street level' crises would in turn be the logical conclusion of where the show ends. She doesn't do as much physical fighting for the same reason that Stephen Strange never uses magic to go punch the Hulk in the face, her narrative role is ultimately that of Sorceress Supreme of Earth, with literally nobody in an ancient established war anticipating that this one random ginger from California was and is the new Sorceress Supreme and that if they had had such awareness the realities are that this power would and could have taken worse forms.

Unfortunately for the world, the reality too is that it is a shy computer geek who has a not at all subtle dark side and the usual teenage anxieties and insecurities given the equivalent of being able to reliably actually do things other people might dream of but can never do.

But again as long as Dawn Summers being a good thing is a narrative convention that's established memory magic is a poor choice to show the corrupting effects of reality-warping. It's a case of 'yes as established in canon all of this is true for that one season but then they decided to retcon it, so the fans are not obligated to care about it any more than the canon does about this itself.'

[aroaessidhe]

2023 reads // twitter thread

Court of the Undying Seasons

NA high fantasy

demigirl volunteers to be taken by the vampires instead of her friend intending to kill them for revenge, but quickly learns that’ll be impossible unless she becomes one

she has to get through her training to become a vampire or live as a human thrall, and quickly gets swept up in their world - and discovers a string of murders that could have dire consequences for them all