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[highfemmee-archive]

“Are you nearly done?” she spoke, fingers reaching out to touch your waist. She’s warm, and it feels very sweet  when she presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, worn sweater of hers hanging off your frame. It’s the warmest feeling, her arms wrapping around your waist. Her sweater was given to you when she was in college. A small liberal art school on the coast, her fingers drumming on the counter top.

 You stir the spaghetti, and you smile, nodding.

 “It’s almost done, babe.” she laughs, looking at you with honest to god heart eyes.

 “Look at us,” she laughed, taking a sip of the Welch’s grape juice you’d poured in wine glasses, glasses you’d bought to celebrate your first home together. “We’re fucking saps.” she smiled at you, and you swore to god that you could melt, between the cracks of the hardwood you stood on.

 Home is the perfect word to describe this girl, and this place you’ve moved into. It’s tiny and the AC is awful and her clothes don’t have enough room but she’s here. She’s here and she looks like an angel, hair tossed up in a bun and a silly smile on her lips. 

She’s here and she is so beautiful, the kind of beautiful you could wait your whole life and still never see. She is the kind of blessing that all those nights wondering if this, liking who you do and loving who you love was worth it, she’s the kind of blessing that makes your heart scream yes, of course.

“Stirring spaghetti and playing shitty music from 2009, we’re such rom com princesses.” you quip back. She rolled her eyes and grabbed your hand, and a spike of worry shot up in your tummy because there was a roll in the oven.

But a beautiful woman had just grabbed your hand and you weren’t about to say no because of a fucking roll. Incidentally, she’d pulled you to an empty floor surrounded by boxes, laying down and looking up at the ceiling.

There’s plastic night light stars for kids stuck on the ceiling. It’s not glowing because the lights are on. The spaghetti smells lovely.

You’re lying down, and you turn to your side and press your face into her neck.

“We’re really doing it, huh?” she whispered. Her family hadn’t loved it, the idea of doing it when you did, and your family wasn’t huge on it because she’s… not a guy.

But you get up to put the spaghetti on plates and your favorite movie is playing on an ipad propped up on a box, and life feels good.

The ipad is all her eyes are trained on, and you look at her, you look and look and look and you still don’t get tired of it because she’s lovely, because she’s brilliantly gorgeous and lovely in a way you’ve always been in awe of.

“See something you like?” she says cheekily. 

“Nope,” you smiled, turning to her, and kissing her, slowly and feeling her smile into it, “Something I love.”

[highfemmee-archive]

spider man kisses

AN: wrote again!!! mentions of anxiety and panic attack

Your girlfriend is a marvel of a woman. Strong and passionate and warm and kind in ways you never thought you deserved, in ways you still don’t think you deserve. She has eyes like redemption and a heart that was home and you wanted to be with her always.

Your shared place was a mess and you didn’t mind it that way a bit. She was never one to get mad about things like that, and you were definitely not one to either. But something had happened and you’d felt weak and sick and that swirling sensation where something is wrong kept going, and going, and going and you felt like nothing worked.

Cold, hot, day, night, nothing made sense and it was too much, too much and you couldn’t fix it, fix it, fix it.

You hadn’t even noticed her, lovely as always coming in and seeing you, wrapped up in a ball on the couch.

“Hey,” she said, leaning into you, her chin resting on your shoulder, her arms slipping around your waist. Tears were down your face and still shaking from the impact of the things inside your head were inflicting. It was mostly over by the time she arrived, but it hurt to know that the woman you love and the woman you’d do anything for could see you like this.

Interrupting the swirl of too much, this is bad, too much, this is bad, too much, this is bad, too much, this is bad, she kissed your temple, long and sweet, her eyes scrunched closed and her shaking fingers reaching for your own.

“Breathe, my love.” she said, her voice soft and mellow in your ears, like someone had spun gold into a sound and graced you with it.

“Breathe, I’ve got you, don’t you forget that. You’re safe.” She’s got the softest most crooning voice, the most beautiful thing that you’ve ever heard. It’s like the world could erupt and all you could think about was the way her voice sounded and the way she held you.

Her words were pressed into your scalp,

She held you like you were a gift from heaven and she would die before letting you be hurt. She held you like you mattered.

Your full name fell from her lips and she smiled at you, tearily kissing your temple again, squeezing your hand again, and it was stunning.

She was crying just the smallest bit, and you hadn’t even noticed when she came in, too wrapped up in your own head and the pounding and in the terrifying feeling of all of it on you, all of it weighing down so hard you could shatter. But she hadn’t rushed in concerned and thinking you were dying, or judging you like you’d feared.

Anxiety attacks aren’t pretty. They aren’t fun and they’re not pretty and you didn’t want the woman of your dreams to see you like that, but like a miracle it’s like she didn’t even mind.

“I love you so much,” she laughed, a sad laugh but a laugh nonetheless.

“Did you know that?” she whispered against the skin of your shoulder, lips brushing slightly with each words she carefully chose to escape her lips. She was touching you like you were made of the finest silks, the most beautiful treasure and every time she touched she was blessed. Blessed to hold you.

Loving you was an action, and she never, ever  intended to stop.

“I had a feeling.” you managed to croak, smiling at your girl’s affection and she laughs, the melodic beautiful thing you couldn’t help but swoon for. God, she’s turned you into such a sap, so instinctively hers and wanting to lean into her presence.

“Sh, Sh, you don’t need to speak, just sit here, I’ll make you a cup of tea and I’ll be back.” And  the tiniest bit of alarm came back at the idea of her warmth leaving you, making you grip her arm, even though the timing would be small. It;s ridiculous and you can feel it and god you’re so dumb.

SHe’s going to shake you off and tell you that you’re stupid and you need to let go because she wasn’t your babysitter and you shouldn’t be asking her to stay for that little time, god you’re so fucking stupid-

“Okay, my love.” she smiled, “Come with me to the kitchen and you can stick to me like glue, okay baby?” she says, sticking the endearments on as reassurance and you- god you love this woman.

After she’d made the tea, she brought you to the couch again, looking at you tenderly.

And then- then you’re sitting across from her, her wearing mermaid pajamas and her hands in your hair and your head in her lap, blanket over you. She leans down and kisses you in the most Spiderman  way possible and you laugh.

Things don’t change in an instant and they don’t get better in a flash, but god, loving her was perfect, loving her was fucking brilliant and you couldn’t have it be any better.

[highfemmee-archive]

baby- an imagine

a/n: im gay and i want to get married and have a baby and this is a writing piece about it. also try to reblog cos that helps stuff get shared n stuff. im also new so if you wanna follow hmu

“We always, we always, we always have a story,” you heard, your wife’s voice lulling the crying infant to sleep, and almost, almost succeeding. Leaning on the doorframe, your silhouette all that she can see, for light spilled in behind you. Your little girl was crying, and keep their new adoptive mothers up all night and somehow find a way to not have it even irritate them.

You come behind her, kissing her bare shoulder that’s poked out from her tank top, and her smile is genuine. You both haven’t slept in hours, both because of the crying and also because your daughter was a sight, and you were in awe of how gorgeous she was, her little breaths and her little sighs and her button nose- you can’t believe she’s yours.

She’s got tufts of brown hair, puffs over her head and her skin was soft and the warm brown you knew you’d love to see for the rest of your life. She’s lovely. She’s breathtaking. She’s the most beautiful thing you’d ever considered yourself tove. She’s yours.

A lot of people, (assholes) say that she’s not, that you didn’t make her so she’s not, and the thing is- you get it. She’s not made up of your DNA. She’s someone else’s, in that regard. She didn’t grow in your tummy.

But she’s yours, she became yours when you touched her tiny finger and she trusted you completely, relied on you for everything, trusted you to be her shepherd through life. She had big eyes that were brown and soft and sweet and you could swear they looked just like your wife.

You’re young to be adopting- only in your mid 20’s- and you hadn’t been looking for a baby at the moment. Your wife volunteered at a planned parenthood on the weekends, and she’d known a high schooler who’d gotten pregnant and was planning to put the child in the foster system.

And the love of your life, coming home frenzied on a Sunday, saying that she knows it’s crazy but you have a room and you have love and you’re married and you’d talked about kids and-

And you looked her in the eyes, you looked at the woman you would dedicate your life to in a second, that you did dedicate it to her, and she looked at you, eyes blown and you knew that fuck it, you wanted kids, you had a home, you had a wife, and this could be the time.

That leads you to here, where your daughter was finally falling asleep in your wife’s arms, and her voice is still the lovely thing that made you fall in love with her in the first place. She looks lovely, her hair falling over her cheeks and the streetlights pouring in the light on the woman you adore, and her looking at the bundle of joy in her arms like she was the most precious thing in the world.

Three girls in the home, you thought, a smile playing on your lips.

She laughed, kissing you, and you smile into it, and it’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous that you’re kissing your wife with your daughter near.

3 years ago, if someone told you that you’d be sitting here, with a gorgeous, breathtaking woman holding a child you raise together, you’d have thought they were lying. Another one of those  people promising that shit gets better to make you feel better.  

But you’re sitting in here, with a little bundle in her crib, a ring on your finger, and lips tingling and her arms around you, eyes droopy from lack of sleep.

“I love you,” she smiles, lips against your cheek, fingers twining with yours. She says it like she doesn’t expect you to say anything back. She says it like it’s a fundamental truth to her, like the most beautiful and true thing in her life is to love you, and your heart swells because loving her is the thing she loves most in the world. Loving her is the thing you feel honored to do.

She looks stunning, even with her eyes tired and her fingers trembling with nerves of the momentousness of having a baby to raise.

You didn’t say yes to having her because it made sense on paper. You didn’t say yes because you had a home. You didn’t say yes because she wanted to, or because you thought that’s what married people do.

You said yes because when you looked at your wife, you saw what you always do.

You saw the girl you would dedicate your whole life to, the woman you wanted to build the world to make her smile, and you saw the only person you wanted to share the most incredible quest you’ll ever do. You couldn’t think of anyone you’d rather have a family with.

And here you were, the three of you, her humming under her breath to keep her baby asleep, and you were one.

A family.

Your family.

[highfemmee-archive]

charlotte- a poem

She had a name like light, and she saw it everyone, and everything. She had doe eyes and sharp hearing, like she could sense what you were about to say, like she could pull the words out of you before you said them. She had this way of looking at everything around her like it was hers. She looked at the world like it was all props made especially for her observation, like someone made the world as a gift for her appreciating eyes. And when you talk to her, she fills your heart wonder, so much so that you wouldn’t believe. She looks at people like they are full of wonder and light, looks at those she loves like they were carved from stone and her fingers were blessed to touch them.

When she looked at the world, pits of tar and clouds of smoke were but tools for her to build the world of her own.

And it’s hard to imagine that something that she loves isn’t worth loving.

So is it any wonder that when she looks at you, it’s almost religiously wonderful. Is it any wonder that when she looks at you with love, you can love it too?