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goldenkwilde · 8 months ago

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you and me, religiously || self para

CHARACTERS: Kitty Wilde, mentions of Hunter Clarington, Ryder Lynn, and Sugar Motta DATE & TIME: November 26th, 10:30 PM LOCATION: Kitty's Apartment Bathroom SUMMARY: Kitty faces her demons and comes to some revelations about herself and her relationship with Hunter. WARNINGS: Trigger warning for some mildly sexual content (nothing so graphic) and for mentions of CSA and assault. Also it's so long.

Drowning in the Blue Nile, he sent me 'Downtown Lights', I hadn't heard it in a while.

Steam poured into the white-tiled bathroom as Kitty stepped out of the shower, taking one last moment to wring out her hair behind her before fully emerging. Her muscles were sore today, the two hours at the gym and two hour Cheerio practice not agreeing with the interrupted sleep she’d had the night before, and it had been a relief to feel the scalding water flow over her body, so much so that she’d been glad to have her rigorous shower routine to keep her occupied and stop her from falling asleep.

Her hand reached out and plucked a perfectly fluffy white towel from where it was folded on the counter, unfolding it and wrapping it around herself. She knew well why she hadn’t slept the night before, her conversations with Ryder and Sugar whirling in a storm in her head, along with flashes of Hunter; his eyes as they’d watched her in the mirror, his fingers on the nape of her neck, the way he’d held her when she’d finally crawled into bed with him, fighting against her weighed-down eyelids for just another moment, another chance to be held by him. It had all proven too much for a solid night’s sleep.

My boredom's bone deep, this cage was once just fine. Am I allowed to cry?

She secured her towel in place, picking up a hairbrush and starting to detangle her freshly conditioned locks. She knew that after that, she would use the needle-thin handle of her comb to make a parting as straight as a ruler, twisting the smooth hair behind her head to secure with a clip, before starting on her skincare routine; cleansing, retinol, moisturiser. After that, a vigorous five minute tooth brushing and flossing session, and then she would slather herself in body cream. Then blow drying, securing her hair in an overnight style sure to give it bounce and life tomorrow, a run-over with a cold gua sha and face roller, and then falling asleep on a satin pillow.

This had been her routine since she was fourteen, save for the retinol which she added during her senior year after one very pointed comment about laugh lines from her mother. Every single night, this was what she did, without fail, no matter how late or how drunk she was. She was able to count on one hand the number of times she’d deviated from it; once at summer camp in the 9th grade, twice when she’d gotten the flu in the 10th and 12th grades, last year in Paris when the stupid airline had lost her luggage with half her skincare in it, and on Halloween when she’d fallen asleep with Hunter and even broken her most sacred rule; if you can’t do the whole routine, you still always take your makeup off before sleep. She’d definitely paid for that with a breakout on her cheeks the next day.

This routine, like most other parts of her life, had started to fade into background noise these days. She’d never found it particularly difficult to keep up her standards of grooming, academics, and social life, and being naturally Type A had given her an innate ability to juggle all of these things without breaking a sweat. This, of course, was aided by the fact that she just really didn’t care about a lot of it that much. Years of observation had taught her that it was always those who were panting along and tripping over themselves to make the grade that missed it. Of course she’d study and get an A on all tests, of course she’d be flawlessly put together every day, of course she’d be at all the parties, gorgeous and sparkling and witty. She’d never been given the option to underachieve, so why would she ever do anything but overachieve?

But it had started to feel monotonous. The ‘celibate mean girl with a Bible verse in her Insta bio’ act had started to wear thin. And it was an act. Not the ‘mean girl’ part necessarily, but the rest of it. She’d stopped believing in God years before, keeping it only as a convenient crutch for whatever she needed it for. The celibacy vow had been a timely aversion; a scapegoat to avoid sex at the precise moment that all the boys in her class had started demanding it. Of course, with that, she’d avoided relationships too, but that’s where the mean girl persona had come in quite handy; nobody was surprised that the girl whose most common reaction was a scathing eye roll was uninterested in dating.

All of it was so wearisome.

I dream of cracking locks, throwing my life to the wolves, or the ocean rocks, crashing into him tonight, he's a paradox. I'm seeing visions, am I bad? Or mad? Or wise?

She knew what had been the catalyst for these feelings, and he was six feet tall with soft dark curls and brown eyes that pierced through her. The moment she’d first spoken to Hunter, a part of her had known she was done for, even if the rest of her was slower to catch on. The suggestion for him to join her gym had been somewhat calculated on her part, even if it was a pleasant surprise to see him there the first time; her first confirmation that maybe it wasn’t only her who felt the gravitational pull between them. The moment his fingers had reached up and brushed hair out of her eyes, she knew that this was something big.

If she was being honest, she’d gone into this thing with Hunter totally blindly, not knowing what to expect. He’d made it so clear what he wanted, but it’d been a world away from how most other guys had gone about it. Where they’d worn her patience thin with attempts at convincing and pressuring that had bordered on the most undignified begging, he’d met her with a self-assured charisma, an awareness that he wouldn’t have to do much and that she’d want him back the same way eventually. And, God, knowing how right he’d been had hurt her pride in the most glorious way.

Through every comment, every finely laid compliment, every longing glance, every gentle touch on the parts of her body that she’d deemed acceptable for him to touch, she’d found herself falling down a rabbit hole that she’d never expected to see. Slowly, steadily, and without even really trying, he’d convinced her that maybe this was a part of her life that she didn’t have to padlock away in a crevice in her mind.

What if he's written 'mine' on my upper thigh only in my mind? One slip and falling back into the hedge maze, oh what a way to die. I keep recalling things we never did, messy top lip kiss, how I long for our trysts. Without ever touching his skin, how can I be guilty as sin?

Already she and Hunter had gone further than she’d ever thought she’d go, save for whatever she’d resigned to gritting her teeth and enduring on her wedding night. She still felt the ghosts of his hands on her thighs and hips, peeking under her skirt, but never venturing too far. She still felt his lips on her pulse point just under her jaw, so sure he’d be able to feel how her heart hammered under them. She remembered down to her bones how her legs had curled around his hips, so tentative, how he hadn’t pushed his body into hers, and how she’d been so thankful for his hesitancy, but had also ached for it all the same.

Every time he’d murmured against her lips to ask if she was okay, if what he was doing was fine, if she wanted him to stop, her mind had fought against itself. One part of her screamed out for him, but the other part of her was desperately trying to yank the situation back, hide in the corner where it had been all her life, the corner where she was sure nobody would hurt her like she had once been hurt. She knew she wanted him in that way, that fact had been made more than evident in their exchanges and encounters, and a part of her had wanted to just let it happen every time they’d been in that position. This had been particularly true the other night after Sebastian’s party when he’d unzipped her dress for her. With her eyes caught by his in the mirror, she’d wanted so badly to let the dress fall off her body, step out of it, turn around, and give herself to him. She knew he’d felt the same thing, the moment his hands had touched her back and started to pull the zipper down, the air in the room had changed, becoming thicker and more tense. Though she knew not acting on those impulses had been the right move (neither of them had been anywhere near sober, after all), not acting on them had been a new kind of agony.

I keep these longings locked in lowercase inside a vault. Someone told me there's no such thing as bad thoughts, only your actions talk.

Lost in thought, Kitty stopped brushing her wet hair, her eyes caught by themselves in the mirror in front of her. Putting the brush down on the bathroom counter, she examined her face, rarely seen without her everyday foundation, contour, and mascara. She couldn’t say she disliked how she looked at all. People had told her she was pretty her whole life, so it was hard not to believe them. Were there things she’d change? For sure. A freckle here, a crease there, but she’d agree that no overhaul was needed.

That beauty. That cloying, sticky beauty that she revelled in and killed herself to maintain, but that also haunted her every step.

She’d put her beauty in the shoebox in her mind where she kept the rest of her demons. Ever since that night, she’d wondered if maybe it could’ve been prevented if she hadn’t looked the way that she had. If she’d cut her hair differently the week before, if she’d fallen off her bike and scratched her face up, if she’d worn different pyjamas. Maybe if she hadn’t flaunted her beauty. If she’d laughed a little less animatedly at his jokes, if she’d worn a t-shirt over her swimsuit, if she hadn’t let him grab her and toss her into the pool. There had been four other girls at that sleepover, his own sister excluded, why had it been her?

As with most other thoughts about the specifics of that night, Kitty had pushed this aside, adapted to thinking about that event in the most abstract of terms. She’d blocked out his face, as well as the precise things he had done or said to her, all evaporated into the ether. The only thing left was the ticking of the clock on the wall, the glow-in-the-dark stars on the basement ceiling, and the pain. The devastating, awful pain that she could never forget. The pain that seared through her mind every single time she thought about any kind of intimacy.

Well, not every single time.

These fatal fantasies giving way to labored breath, taking all of me, we've already done it in my head.

There had been a few times in the past few weeks, just as she had turned off the light, her satin eye mask on, ready for sleep, that she had started thinking about Hunter. The thoughts had been momentary, until they weren’t, they had been abstract, until they weren’t, and it wasn’t until she was well into the fantasies that it would suddenly occur to her that the pain was nowhere to be found.

Instead, it was just him, his stupid boyish smile that made her insides feel like a Parisian lava cake, his grip on her that made her gasp out loud, the way she felt like he had her, in all senses of the word. The knowledge, the confidence, that when she was held by him, he wouldn’t let her fall. The feeling of his breath on her skin, sending electric currents through her entire body, right down to her fingertips. Even in her imagination, she was completely under his spell, and so glad to be as well.

If it's make believe, why does it feel like a vow we'll both uphold somehow?

He had always had such assurance that she’d bend to his gentle wind, even when she’d brushed him off with smirking eye rolls and head shakes. But really, had she ever really thought that she wouldn’t? There was anxiety, of course, and a definite hesitancy, but he was so magnetic, that falling deeper and deeper into him had seemed like an inevitability. Even when she’d batted him away, it had felt like biding time. Especially recently, as their encounters had become more and more intimate, more intense, more aching.

He’d been a perfect gentleman, hands where she could see them the moment that she’d hit the brakes, constantly attentive to her and what she needed, never a complaint or pressured word. He kept it no secret that he’d give her all of himself if she decided that she wanted it, and yet was so prepared to back off if need be; it was only her who was creating any kind of conflict in this situation, and it was conflict with herself. Yet, the fact was as it had always been; she wanted him, down to the marrow of her bones.

What if he's written 'mine' on my upper thigh only in my mind? One slip and falling back into the hedge maze, oh what a way to die. My bedsheets are ablaze, I've screamed his name, building up like waves, crashing over my grave. Without ever touching his skin, how can I be guilty as sin?

Hunter was, of course, textbook perfect to be her first. He was gorgeous and so sexy, experienced enough to guide her through (maybe even make it good), thoughtful enough to be perceptive to anything that happened, and he seemed to care about her beyond just physical attraction, though how much and in what way was still relatively unclear. Generally, this was a no-brainer, that if she were to take this leap, it would make sense to leap with him. She trusted him more than she trusted most people, that was plainly seen by how easily she’d fallen asleep next to him on Halloween. She’d never have imagined that she’d ever feel comfortable lying on a bed next to a man, wearing something so skimpy, in a locked room at a party, especially with a couple of drinks in her. But falling asleep had felt so natural and good, as had waking up next to him. And he hadn’t hurt her. That was the key here. She had woken up untouched, save for his fingertips on her face as he’d tucked her hair behind her ear. And with each sleepover they’d had, every time she’d climbed into bed next to him and woken up intact, unhurt, with nothing to contend with but her racing heart at the sight of Hunter next to her, it had gotten easier. He was trustworthy, he’d proven that to her tenfold.

She’d had fantasies, and many of them, and Hunter was always the lead, but imagining it was very different from actually experiencing it. Her issue had never really been with sex as a concept, but more about being touched, being seen, allowing someone access to her in that way.

What if I roll the stone away? They're gonna crucify me anyway

Her face had started to look unfamiliar in the mirror, but she was too lost in her thoughts to look away. On autopilot, she moved her hands up to the top of her towel, undoing it and letting it fall.

Kitty’s relationship with her body wasn’t an intimate one. Her body was an accessory, something she used to get herself through her life, something to decorate. She’d made peace with it a long time ago, one had to if they were as taken with fashion as she was, and familiarity with one’s body was key to dressing well. She’d approached it factually; she knew her measurements and sizes, knew how to position it inside outfits to look the best, how to clean and groom it to a high standard, and wrapped it in loose satin pyjamas at the end of the day, but that was it. She didn’t engage further, didn’t touch it unless absolutely necessary. It was just something she had to carry around with her, something she tolerated and used to her advantage.

Her eyes ran down from her face and grazed over her neck, her collarbones, her shoulders, and started to fall even further down. She didn’t know when the last time was that she’d looked at herself like this, but it certainly wasn’t anything she made a habit of. She fought the urge to wrap her arms around her middle, or to grab the towel from the floor and protect herself again. She understood the irony of being so hell-bent on protecting something she was actually afraid of. Building a wall around herself, around her body, ultimately only served to close her in with it. So, she kept her eyes trained on herself, forcing herself to take in the thing that she was so unwillingly bound to. Imagining how it would be to be touched.

Touch would always be the issue. As wonderful as Hunter’s hands had felt on her waist, on her thighs, holding her face, it was different from him touching her more intimately.

What if the way you hold me is actually what's holy? If long suffering propriety is what they want from me, they don't know how you've haunted me so stunningly.

Tentatively, one hand reached up and brushed her fingers over her collarbone, before her confidence grew and she started to run her hand over the skin. She’d done this a couple of times before, experimented with touching various parts of her body, always recoiling from even her own hands on herself. However, this time she found that she didn’t recoil. Her still-damp skin was warm under her touch, and her fingers glided effortlessly down from her collarbones to brush over the skin of her stomach.

She waited for the racing heart rate, the dry mouth, the elevated breathing. She waited for her body’s distress signal to start screaming at her that this was too much, too far, but was surprised when she stayed calm and collected. The fear that always bubbled inside her at moments like this was nowhere to be found. Her hands moved with slightly more certainty, over her hips, her thighs, up to her chest, constantly waiting for the panic that never came.

She’d been told her whole life that this kind of touch was evil, and although she’d brushed off their reasons, after what had happened to her it wasn’t hard to come to the conclusion that her mother and their pastor had been right. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to feel each movement, allowing a forbidden thought; imagining that it was Hunter’s hands touching her bare skin.

He’d touched parts of her, of course, but not like this. She remembered how he’d looked at her in the mirror, she could feel how badly he’d wanted to reach his hand out and run his fingers along the skin of her exposed back, how he’d opted to instead brush the skin of her neck, a place he knew wasn’t off-limits for him. But was her back really off-limits for him to touch? The answer for so long had been a resounding ‘yes’, but now she was less sure. Now, a part of her wished he had just leaned forward and touched her. It was the same part of her that had wanted him to move his hands further up her skirt on Halloween, that had wanted him to move his hips against hers while they made out on his couch, that had considered unbuttoning her pyjama shirt in the briefest of moments as they’d lain in bed.

It was a part of her that was getting harder and harder to ignore, and she was starting to wonder more and more why she was even bothering to try. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at herself in the mirror, her jaw set. There was no anxiety anywhere in her body, at least not where Hunter was concerned. She wanted this, she wanted intimacy with him in that way, and every part of her told her that she was ready. So perhaps she was ready, and that thought sent a wave of emotion through her that she wasn’t quite prepared to contend with. It didn’t have to happen tomorrow or this week or even this year, but the knowledge that she trusted Hunter enough that she felt so secure in this with him winded her.

I choose you and me, religiously.

But none of this was just about sex. If it were, she’d be able to pick up her towel, finish her routine, and go to bed, content with her revelation. If she were honest with herself, it had never just been about sex. From the first time she’d spoken to him in that gym, he’d captured her attention with his wit and charm, always disarming her and keeping her on her toes. Through their initial interactions, their first few dates, of course there had been sexual tension, but she’d also felt so enthralled. He was mesmerising to her, an hour with him felt like five minutes. The week they’d spent not speaking had been so jarring for her, as she’d never felt a separation from someone as deeply as she had then. Upon their reunion, the air between them had changed, it had become softer, more tender. As frustrated as she was that she had to go so slowly when it came to physical intimacy, her heart absolutely swelled for how sweet Hunter had been about it, always making his desires known, but never forcing her to contend with them if she didn’t want to. Always making sure that she felt safe, first and foremost. And he made her feel so safe. In the weeks since their reconciliation, things had only gotten sweeter and sweeter between them. She’d never thought she’d feel secure in someone else’s bed, but on the nights she slept at home alone, she found herself missing Hunter, and his bed.

Hunter’s veiled confession to Sugar had echoed in her head since Sugar had shown it to her. ‘I don’t plan on there being an after me at this current moment’. The statement was so simple, but said so much. Of course, it was always nice to know that the person you were involved with didn’t actively picture your breakup, but it was more than that. He saw this, whatever it was, as something that was worth going the distance for. That knowledge had made her heart race like absolutely nothing else had.

She was being absolutely ridiculous about this, she knew that. She’d known it in the back of her mind for months. She wasn’t great with the emotional stuff and neither was Hunter, their relationship track records were enough to look at for any indication of that, but the truth was plainly seen by anyone who had eyes; that she had completely fallen for him.

Kitty released a sharp breath of air at this revelation. It was the first time she’d allowed it to enter her consciousness, although it had always been there in the background. She’d tried to pretend those feelings weren’t there, that she felt nothing more than attraction and fondness for the guy, but it was no use. And what was she even doing it for anyways? To reassert herself as the untouchable ice queen? It just didn’t seem worth it anymore. It didn’t seem worth denying these feelings and potentially denying herself everything that could come with them.

With her mental barriers finally down, Kitty felt an odd mixture of relief and vulnerability. This was the most honest she’d ever been with herself about any of her internal life, and it was daunting, but sort of exhilarating. She had feelings for Hunter. God, she had feelings for Hunter. Once the train of thought started, it was almost impossible to stop. She had feelings for Hunter. She cared about him. She wanted to be with him. She wanted to be his. She already was his.

She took a deep breath, leaning forward and putting her hands on the porcelain of the sink to steady herself, leaning her head down to try and slow the rushing thoughts. She didn’t know what was next, she didn’t know how to go about this, she didn’t even know if Hunter actually reciprocated to the same extent. This was euphoric, though. The relief was washing into a joy so warm that she didn’t know what to do with herself.

Fuck what happened to her. Fuck those demons. Fuck everything that had held her back from allowing someone in. It had seeped into every corner of her life, affected her relationships with everyone, including her parents, her best friend, and previous romantic attempts. She couldn’t let it affect her relationship with Hunter any more than it already had. He deserved more. Fuck it, she deserved more.

He sent me 'Downtown Lights'. I hadn't heard it in a while.

A drop of something splashed onto the sink underneath her, and a hand flew up, feeling her cheek, shocked to find it wet with tears. She looked at herself in the mirror, not used to seeing herself cry. She’d cried a few times in her life before, but rarely for very long, and never out of… whatever this feeling was. Joy? Complete overwhelm? It was probably a mixture of both. Taking herself in the mirror, she couldn’t help the laugh that she let out, followed quickly by a sob. She was completely overcome. Overcome by elation, by anticipation, by the lightness that came from finally being able to put down a weight that she had been carrying since she was eleven years old. And to put it down and run to Hunter was the most exquisite part of it all.

Am I allowed to cry?

#para #self para #//this is honestly a songfic like calling it a self para is so laughable #//this baby clocks in at 4498 words #//have been writing this for legitimately a month and a half #//no obligation to read but if you're masochistic enough to #//then please enjoy

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