#tadana

[snoopduck404]

24 Pensive\Задумчивый. Челендж от @lynxvsjackalope Самое сложное в игре это выбор фей для путешествия. Все такие милые, жалко всех утащить нельзя.

[azurebones]

"How many ships are there in WWE?"

[snoopduck404]

День 4: Seize Челендж от @lynxvsjackalope

[sembell]

You want to see Tads hand fondling Scully's neck?

Ewwww!!! Oh god, I would rather die.

[gordanavendome]

titleless lady!gordxlady!tad

"Are you only with me because you think no one else will love you?"

And at first, Tabitha takes it as a challenge, a threat, an insult, a moment of possession.  Because before Gordana, that was the love she received.  With caveats.  Fine lines to read between.  A chain around her neck to drag her back.

So she doesn't answer immediately, feels the hurt wallow around her throat, into the grooves so used to the anxious bubbling of indigestion and heartburn.

"Because," And here, Gordana's eyes fall to her knees.  They're dryer than her debutante lifestyle would lead an outsider to suspect, and Tabitha resists the urge to brush her fingers over them, to feel her imperfections, to remind herself of her girlfriend's very humanity.  "Because...because you're wrong." Her eyes don't raise.  Her voice remains steady.  Her index finger trails over the small ring on her middle finger, a trinket purchased with much less flash and circumstance than Gordana deserved, a piece of metal that Tabitha still thought wasn't enough, could never possibly be enough, despite continued tearful assurances that Gordana adored it.

Tabitha shrugs.  Her hands hang heavy and impotent.  Her legs stick together in a practiced show of modesty and grace, even in the bedroom that was, by all accounts, Gordana's, but really had become theirs.  "ours".  They'd transitioned into we and us pronouns and Tabitha waited for the day Gordana wished to separate their nouns back into their independent slots.

"You're not unlovable.  You're not...you're not hard to love.  There are so many people who could...who would love you.  As you are, no modifications, no questions, no demands.  You are precious and desirable and beautiful and so fucking smart and clever and it hurts to see you lower your standards, compromise all that you could have, just because you don't think you can get anything else in this life." Her breath hitches, light reflecting from her lipstick.

"I don't lower my standards."

"Yes.  Yes, you do.  You always have." Her eyes finally raise, and it's almost surprising that they're dry, considering how much her voice wobbles.  "I love you.  I love you so, so much.  And maybe it'll sound laughable, when we're older and more mature, when you've moved on to bigger and better things, and I'm still trying to figure out how best to honor my family name--and god, just your very existence already brings so much more to your name than has ever been there before.  You are so incredible--but right now, I love you completely."

"I lo-"

"No.  Please, you don't have to.  I don't...I'm not telling you so you return the favor.  I just want you to know that you're worth loving.  And you don't need to take the first offer you get, you know?  You don't need to-"

"Oh my god, Gordana.  Seriously?" Tabitha almost doesn't laugh.  She tries so hard to hold it in.  But she snorts all the same, crossing the threshold until they're close enough that the hairs on the back of Tabitha's arms prickle from proximity to a warm body.  She rests her hands on Gordana's shoulders, leaning in and pressing their foreheads together.  "Who gave you the right to be so melodramatic?"

"I'm being serious, though!  You're-"

"You realize you're lovable too, right?  You're so busy trying to reassure me that I think you've forgotten to look to yourself." Their lips touch until she feels Gordana smile against her.  "I love you too, you dink.  Not because you're the only one I can have, but because you're the only one I want.  Honestly, you silly girl, I don't know what's gotten into you." 

[gordanavendome]

I can't do titles.  I also can't do the whole writing thing anymore.  So have a scene of lady!Gord and lady!Tad because that's sort of my thing here, I guess.

The walls flicker with the lights of a thousand scented candles. Lavender and vanilla waft around them as the bed sinks under Tabitha's weight. She laughs, running fingers through her hair, as Gordana steadies her hands against her upper thighs.

"Are you alright?"

And of course she is, and of course she isn't at the same time. Tabitha's used to living in the spaces between black and white, though, and just nods. A hair clip loosens, falling to the mattress. Gordana bats it away the same way she bats her eyelashes. Candlelight twinkles from her fingernail polish. Her face is muted without the usual assortment of pigments, and Tabitha can't help but run her fingertips over her, to feel the skin that's usually buried and miraged.

"We don't have to--"

"Don't be a dink. I want to."

And she doesn't pounce on her, even though for a moment, Tabitha's not girl, not woman, not human, but jungle cat, all coiled muscle and anticipation. She can almost feel her tongue vibrate with purring. For just a moment, she could leap right into Gordana's skin, consume her breath as effortlessly as a lion devours a gazelle.

And then she meets her eyes, and she's the one left powerless again, but it's a comfortable sort of powerless. She lets her hands slide off her shirt, places her own beneath Gordana's skirt. Her skin doesn't vibrate, doesn't chemically heat. She's warm, pliant, comfortable, the sort of body she could fall into after a long day, the sort of body her bruises ache to be nurtured by.

When she kisses her, she tastes antacid and strawberry gum, but her usual lipstick taste has been wiped clean. Her lips take a moment to recognize her as the same girl she'd kissed eight hours earlier, when they'd worn all their clothing and held hands at their lockers. When she exhales, she feels Gordana's chest swell with Tabitha's breath.

As she smiles, Gordana's lips meld to hers, match her movements. It's surreal in the same way waking up in a hotel is surreal, except Tabitha hopes she's not under any obligations to check out by 10 am.

[gordanavendome]

Windsor Knots (fem!Tad/fem!Gord)

They're adults in this, though young adults.  Scenario where Tabitha needs to go back home to see her parents, maybe introducing Gordana (not really introducing, since they know who she is from being her friend, but introducing her as her girlfriend rather than her best friend).  So, um, I'm not entirely sure how to tag this/warn for this, but in this, Tabitha is closeted from her parents about her gender identity, and yeah.  Anyway.  Here it is.

Tabitha's exhaled, body shaking as the air left her lungs only to be replaced.  It felt just as stale, lingering within her body almost painfully.  She forced it out as well, starting to process over.  She couldn't quite catch her breath, much like she couldn't quite bring herself to catch the reflection before her.

For a moment, she mistook the silk for a noose.  Gordana popped her collar, letting the silver fabric hang parallel down her shirt, before she began to knot it.  She'd learned the windsor knot when she'd been a child, but had pulled up a diagram to be certain.

She'd never had an opportunity before to fasten a tie before.

Tabitha looked down, watched the flick of manicured fingers work over her tie.  And though it was loose, she felt as though a great force was squeezing her neck.  Her next breath stuttered, rebounding around her throat like a pinball.  She tilted her head upward, swallowing more than breathing.

"It's only for a few hours," Gordana said.  The next kiss was too hot, and Tabitha almost recoiled away.  She knew she must have repulsed her.  That everything about this scene probably only reinforced how wrong all of this was, how wrong they were, how wrong this damn life was.  She waited for her to compliment the suit, to call her handsome, to say this was an improvement.  She waited for Gordana to fit the expectations everyone else may have, but instead she stopped tying, reaching down and grabbing one of Tabitha's hands. 

This wasn't too hot.  It was the sort of warm that Goldilocks may even call just right, but all it made Tabitha want to do was bury her face in Gordana's neck and cry away the farce that she'd become.  She remained stiff, upright, let her eyes move up just long enough to catch the black suit, the masculine part to her hair, the way her body seemed to have been built to fill this outfit out, the way her muscles seemed proud, almost regal.  How foolish she must have looked, she thought, in her normal dresses.  How often had Gordana lied, when she called her beautiful?

Who the hell had she been kidding?

"You don't have to come," Tabitha said, tearing her eyes away from the mirror.  

Gordana's hands went back to the tie.  "Of course I do."

"You really don't.  My parents...my father..."

"Hey, it's important for them to know their daughter is dating a high society woman, right?" 

"Son." Tabitha mumbled.  It was quiet enough that she hoped Gordana hadn't caught the way her voice broke.

"Daughter," She insisted.

She almost argued, though it was exactly what she wanted, what she needed to hear.  She wanted to beg Gordana to keep her home.  

She wanted to push her hands away, though it was she who'd insisted on the suit, who'd asked for Gordana's help (and Gordana who'd been opposed, yet compliant).  

But she rolled her shoulders back, and straightened her posture, and nodded.  "Right." Her voice came out deeper, as she tried to slip back into the mold she'd had in high school, the last time she'd seen her parents.  When Gordana had only been a friend, not a lover.

When she'd gone by Tad.

"Do you think I look okay?" She finally asked, even though she dreaded the answer.

Gordana was silent, looking her over.  "You always look good," She finally answered.

"That's a cop out."

"I mean, I think women look dashing in suits.  But you're so much cuter in your normal clothing." Gordana hugged her from behind again, nestled against Tabitha's back as though trying to instill her with her own confidence.

It didn't work, but it steadied Tabitha's lung enough to accept the next breath.  And the one after.  Until the noose became a tie once more, and the room stopped confining around them.  She could last a few hours for dinner and drunken insults before escaping home, tossing aside suit jackets and ties and becoming herself piece by piece once more.

[gordanavendome]

I should be working on requests, and I will when I feel a little less like...whatever it is I'm feeling or not feeling right now.  I just wanted to write something for me, I guess.

Normal disclaimers.  Normal apologies.  Tad/Gord but fem blah blah blah.  Additional warning for purple prose and all.  I'm really rusty right now.

Somewhere between tubes of lipstick and sticky notes that have lost their adhesion, clasped in a purse more expensive than a years worth of lunches for their poorer peers, she's taken your affection and tucked it away.  And you have a hard enough time finding her wallet in its depths, so there's certainly no way you'll be able to find it again.

It's a good thing, then, that you have no intention of asking her to return it.

When Gordana kisses you, you don't think of fireworks or explosions.  You think of tsunamis, about the waves which can seem to creep so slowly in the distance, before washing you under.  You try to think of a romantic way to tell her she makes you think of drowning, until you eventually decide she doesn't need words when your hands can pull her under as well.

Her lips never taste the same, sometimes sweet, sometimes savory, sometimes hot, sometimes chilled, often laughing.  You wait for duplicates, but instead analyze subtleties.  Your palette multiplies with every kiss.

She gifts you your name, both casually and formally.  Tabitha.  Tabby.  Tabby cat.  Tabs.  She plucks each syllable like an instrument, playing it in staccato, holding fermatas, changing key.  Remixing, refitting, redesigning everything you ever knew you could be to another person.  Your own tongue feels so much clunkier.  But she smiles when you call to her and glows in the dark when you moan her name and whimpers when your tongue finds a sense of grace on the inside of her thighs.

You worry that it's all too dangerous.  Because children must be weened from their mothers and comfort objects and pacifiers, and so too you expect her to slip into past tense, a blurb, a fond memory.  You wait for the magic to become mundane.  You wait for the waves to still and the winds to die.  You wait for the sea to recede and air to return to your lungs.

This time, you can taste the sea on her lips as she kisses you.  And even though the sand will be an irritation when you try to shower off, you roll off the towel and let her pin you against the beach.  Your fingers disrupt the grain sticking to her thighs, and tide laps at your toes as she turns you into poetry.