“You deserve better than this,” Ava whispers, her voice cracking with the strength of 900 years of walls falling around her. “You deserve better than me.”
Yet Fiona smiles at her and takes both of her bruised and bloodied hands in hers, and she swears even now Ava would shield her from the debris of her own self destruction. In an instant, with her last heartbeat.
“You’re wrong,” her voice has never sounded so steady. So resolute. She speaks like she is ordaining the law, the law of her love, her testament to Ava. Ava doesn’t hide the tremble in her hands as Fiona draws her knuckles to her lips, not when she is already so naked and unmade before the grace of this woman.
“We deserve this, Ava,” Fiona presses the words to her left ring finger in a kiss. A promise of a future she hadn’t dared let herself hope for. “We deserve us.”
ok since like, i wanna share more of my writing, but much of it goes no where i present: the writing dump. it is a mixed bag of things! there is one nsfw-ish one below the cut
***
Mason slots in next to him then, grabbing the first shirt on the mountain of clothes on his bed. It’s one of the ones he keeps folded in his dresser, a casual tee. Soft and well worn, yet plain and nearly indistinguishable. He starts to tell him it goes in a designated stack and not on a hangar yet the words catch in his throat when he watches Mason fold it and places it away correctly. It’s sloppily done, a sleeve flopping out over the side. Mason continues, taking a pair of jeans and a hangar. Faustus swallows his words, lets them sink warm and heavy down his throat, and takes the next shirt with a private smile.
—
With her fingernails still wet with fresh polish, Fiona can’t do much. It’d be half an hour wasted if she weren’t careful. Frustrating forced idleness. But— it’s kind if nice, too, if only for how Ava helps her open a can of soda without asking. Just because she knows her temporary limitation. Just because she is happy to help for fifteen minutes while they dry.
—
There is a kind of silent communication that lives between them. It dwells in Mason’s fingers skimming over his wrist, it whispers in Faustus parting Mason’s tangle of hair with his fingers. It nestles in these nothing moments, hundreds of thousands of them, to soothe, to pause, to turn their attention to each other so they can pass along the language of quick smiles and quirked eyebrows. All of them, though, they all say ‘I am here.’
—
Ah, Nate thinks with his mouth skating across the stubble of Lucedio’s jaw, this, this ragged gasp from the detective locked between his thighs, is the sound he wants to savor. It is a timid thing. Shaking as the hands that grip his back and as fleeting as continuous rush of heat that warms his skin. Nate smiles, brushes his lips to the softness of his earlobe, and whispers a low, gentle command:
“Don’t hide the proof of your pleasure from me, my love,” his entire body hitches, waiting on the edge, just for him. “I would like to commit it to memory.”
Nothing. Then, slowly, Lucedio sighs out his name, like this were his shuddering surrender, and it is the sweetest noise. Nate hopes, he prays, it may live in his ears.
