Okay Lets Try This Real Quick

JUST SO Y'ALL KNOW:

The MC has church hurt and church trauma; both characters acknowledge it, and I am not encouraging forcing yourself to abide by religious actions you don't believe in. That said, this story starts in the middle of wherever because that's how my mind works. Let me know what you think, it's my first piece <3

"You okay?"

"I'm good, yeah. I'm okay." A cold, trembling fist blooms behind your rib cage, and you shift precariously, trying to dislodge it.

Anxiety? Why do you feel anxious? You ball your fists and feel your cold fingers warm against your palms.

"Just shaky... can you stop rubbing my arms?"

"I've kind of got an agenda here, just sit still." Their voice had deepened, sending warm, soothing vibrations to clash against the discomfort in your chest.

Their hands slide to the tops of your shoulders and you feel them brush your collarbone on each side. They might be able to feel you shaking now, you don't know. You decide to sit still while they cup the side of your head with one hand and slide the other to the center of your back. You think about the love handles they're probably counting with their fingers while you lean your cheek into their touch, and indeed a moment later you feel them grasping one of the biggest ones that sits right below your bra strap. They use it to pull you in closer.

"You have handles," they say, their warm breath now fanning across your lips. "They're useful."

They place their tinted lips on your brow bone and you hear the sticky gloss smack as they move down slightly to kiss both your cheeks. You are trying to hide your heavier breathing, but it sounds stuttered to your ears. What the hell do you do with your hands? They are kneading your back with both hands now, pressing you closer to their chest. You smell the heady sweat there, and a bit of the cologne you bought them at the shop. They're actually wearing it? It calms you, somewhat, and for the first time you take a deep breath. Your breasts rise and touch against their chest as you breathe in, and they bring one of their hands around to cup one under your shirt.

"Why are you wearing this armor?" they chuckle, trying - you assume - to pinch the tip of your breast through the thick pad of your stiff bra. They shove the cup down and your heavy breast spills out; they groan, deep, but the air across the exposed flesh outright punches you out of your trance. The cold in your gut returns. This is all new, and you don't think they would want you if they knew your... terms and conditions.

You pull back from their latest endeavour: a light, wet tongue tip teasing the hollow of your throat, and pour yourself back into your bra, glancing up to see their eyes even more hooded than usual. You had felt your stomach beginning to flutter with each pull, and it pulses once more to see their response to your body.

"Did I do something wrong?" they ask, hands drifting down to lightly encircle your wrists. You think now it's because they like to feel your pulse throb. It probably feels like a hummingbird's heartbeat right now, and you feel blood race to your face. Undetectable because of your brown skin, but you're in a little too deep to be hiding your attraction anyway.

"I'm not interested in any type of relationship, not even physical," you say with practiced assertiveness, meeting their curious eyes and drawing your hands away from theirs. Your fingers are cold again.

"I see," they intone, returning to running their hands from your wrists to your shoulders. "I can't say I won't try to convince you otherwise. Can I have a hug, then?"

You try not to grin so wide, but your lips stretch all the way to your eyeteeth. They know how to put you at ease, even after the slow exploration they just did of your body. "Sure."

But you didn't expect them to pull you to your feet and press themselves against you. The first thing you notice is the alluring musk swirling around you, sanding down your nerves. Your body relaxes into theirs, and they slide their arms around you, folding your soft parts into their hard ones. Their firm thigh slides between the both of yours, and your breath stutters significantly this time. You lay your cheek against their shoulder, and feel them grind their leg against you while the warmth of their breath sweeps across your neck. You might've felt their tongue run across your neck once more, but then the hug is over and they briskly set you back from them before strolling out of the room, cheerily waving goodbye.

You feel breathless and a little lost, and you wish you had rubbed yourself back against them when you had the chance.

Next week when you see them in their usual spot in the library, a filmy thread of desire laces itself into your veins. Still, you walk over, and now the present conversation floats lazily around in your head while the brief dark moment you shared swims furious laps behind your eyes. You're terrified they'll notice the electricity sparking up and down your nervous system, but it must be your sheer determination to hold a light conversation that tips them off instead.

"You thinking about my tongue?"

Shit. "Wow, not exactly... but would you feel better if I lied to you?" Fuck. Shit, they know.

"I figured since I put the moves on you, you'd be feeling restless..." Their eyebrow creeps up as they rumble, purposely rumble, those words. Your heart thumps in response to the vibrations they send to your chest.

"I wish I could say I was head over heels, just to salvage some of that ego for you, but I don't wanna lead on the most eligible team member of the public library staff," you leer. This is your element, the shallow flirtation. This is safe.

Until they lean forward and growl, "How can I be eligible if I only want all of you?"

And it's like a light flickers on behind their eyes, and all you can see is the stark silhouette of not just lust, but a whole encyclopedia collection of emotions. Your first thought is to recoil from them, but you grab your prey instinct by the throat and bitchslap it back down. You're maintaining eye contact, even if you think you feel yourself beginning to fall into their gaze.

You smile, hopefully not shakily, and brush your twists back from your forehead while their eyes throw little, piercing daggers into yours.

"Shoot, I guess I should let Tifah and Queenie know you're off the market, then."

There. The shine in their eyes dulls a tad, and you regain the ability to take a full breath. Even though for some, probably irrelevant reason, you regret it.

You finish talking, and have made plans to go grocery shopping with them this weekend. Thinking of the lack of privacy at Wegmans, for some miniscule reason, dampens your mood somewhat.

You know the irrelevant, miniscule reason. You started something together, and now there is the wide-open offer of intimacy waiting for you in their eyes. But you're a gatekeeper against that sort of thing, so you shouldn't be worried, probably. It's not like you'd ever lose control. You're a G.

. . .

"I've been challenging myself to meet people's eyes," you explain, slapping a yellow-bellied watermelon to ensure the flesh inside is just ripe enough before you place it eagerly in your cart. You're sharing a basket, and their meat items take up half of the space. You eye the frozen turkey legs, thinking of good times past before your eczema started ruling out multiple food groups.

"I don't understand why you would need to?"

And you don't understand how they could devote this much attention to you in such a packed space. You're pushing the cart, and they're walking sometimes beside you, sometimes behind you, ducking through the weekend crowd. And yet they haven't missed a beat in the conversation. This is why you and Tifah shop during the week.

"You didn't know me before this year," you giggle. "Talking to people exhausts me sometimes, and I pretty much found that keeping my gaze down didn't hold any consequences, socially. I don't know if people eventually thought I just had a communicative disorder... it was messed up to just let them think that, the more that I thought about it, so I wanted to change how I behave around people. Take up more space, I guess."

You are at the dairy section now and watch them load what would be a month's worth of cheese to anyone else into the cart. You try not to stare too long.

"I like that reason," they muse, "although I couldn't imagine not looking into your eyes."

You ignore the warm words, and quip, "'Eyes are the window to the soul,' is that how you keep getting me to tell you all my secrets?"

They stop trying to balance a few more wedges of brie into the cart, unsuccessfully so, considering how their items are spilling over into your half. They look up at you, raking their gaze across your, your... existence, it feels like. Geez.

"Not all your secrets," they smile.

They take hold of the side of the cart, like a kid in trouble at Wal-mart, and saunter with you towards the register, possibly wanting you to mull over what they meant. You steal glances at their narrow hips and mull.

. . .

You don't visit the library for a few weeks, because you can't handle how they hijack your emotions so easily. But being home is wearing you out. Queenie took up learning how to cook at the beginning of February and has had to come to you half the time with a spoon or pan in hand, not knowing what went wrong in some loaf, or casserole, or scone she decided to scribble down the recipe for. A good amount of the time, she's accidentally used baking powder instead of baking soda. You're happy she's learning, but between her, the upstairs neighbors' kids thundering across the room half the day, and the deadlines you have to meet, you're starting to have trouble sleeping at night.

So you eventually find yourself walking up that uneven brick path and shuffling through those heavy double doors to breathe that stale, cold air again. You hole yourself up in a corner, in a deep armchair by the wide, wall-length window in the back of the library, earphones blasting Lofi hip-hop and back turned to the world, to get some work done.

You finish up with four clients before you come up for air, and see them casually sketching on a notepad not ten feet from you on the hard oak bench below the window. They're wearing column legged slacks today, and a baggy turtleneck that almost washes out their skin.

"Hey," you almost whisper, drinking in their presence. You shouldn't be so relieved to see them. The slow-growing, wide smile they give you as they look up makes your relief dissipate like clouds over the Sahara, and you feel heat nagging tight in your belly, remembering the way their lips smacked against your skin.

Whatever. You crack your back straight and watch their eyebrows crinkle in concern. You giggle - it's embarrassing how much you giggle around them - and set your laptop down to sit carefully by them on the window seat. You could just enjoy their company for once.

"You didn't even notice me come in?" they ask, hand never stopping for a moment, drawing vague shapes of the overgrown shrub outside with a stubby pencil that has "A++" and "Great Job!" going up the sides. They erase a branch and retrace it to look more spindly.

"Nah, I guess I was kinda zoning in on work today," you say, eyes following their hands creating depth in the bush.

You rest your elbows on the windowsill and stay quiet for a good while, until they sign their initials in the bottom right corner, rip the sheet out of the book, fold it up, and hold it out to you.

"Lordy, for me?" you drawl jokingly, cocking your head. You take it and don't let them know how special you feel right now. There's warmth in their eyes, and there might be warmth in yours too. They breathe in, and you rise to slip the paper into an open book in your bag.

You hear them stand behind you, and when their clothes rustle to stretch their long body, you don't hear any cracks.

"Why your joints so well-oiled? I don't hear no creaks from you," you demand, and they roll their eyes playfully.

"I stand up more than once in a while, lovely, you should try it. Matter of fact," they say, "you should come hiking with me this week."

You think it's a good idea, and you agree. You won't have too much trouble on a six mile hike - you do exercise a few times a week, just to make sure you stay in some relative form of "functional".

You take a trip to the vending machine for a bag of Takis that Tifah will eat most of, and when you come back to pack up your things, they're shelving a stack of books you hadn't seen earlier. They turn to you as you're packing to leave.

"You got EZ pass, right?"

"Yeah, and you're a good navigator, I hope?" You hate getting lost.

They nod and say they'll see you soon, then put their arms out for a hug. You sling your bag over your shoulder and dive in for a quick one, but they wrap their arms around you and hold you firm by the small of your back.

"Let me hold you for a minute," they complain. You hesitate a little but you draw closer. You missed their hugs. They squeeze tighter for a moment and kiss the top of your head. You don't think anybody has ever done that to you outside of family, let alone know anybody who could. Even though they're not performing any... extra services, you feel your body heating up. And you, you, slightly curl your fingers around the ridges of their shoulder blades and breathe them in a few more times.

When you feel their arms relax, you pull back. You smile wide, "See you Wednesday?"

. . .

It's four in the morning. You are in hell.

You finished your work for the day last night, which might have been a mistake, considering you had to get up three hours later. The sun is only just thinking about rising when you pull up to their apartment gates and see them leaning against one of the posts with a serious-looking hiking pack hanging from one of their shoulders. They look beautiful in the lamplight, but then the streetlights snap off. You try to snap your errant thoughts off just as easily. It doesn't really work.

"You look ready to go," they cheese, sarcasm lacing their eyes.

"Yep, this is my ready to go face," you slur, entirely sure you could curl up in the bags under your eyes and take a quick nap.

"Wanna stop for coffee?"

"Ha, I can't, it makes my heart jump, but if you'd like some we can." It's sad, but it's true. You experience an existential crisis with each cup.

"And here I was thinking I was the only one who made your heart jump," they pout, swinging their pack to the floor between their legs. "How are you gonna stay awake, then?"

"Pure determination," you mutter, putting the car into drive.

You do stop to get them coffee; two 24 ounce cups of it. Columbian roast with light cream. They sip while you drink orange juice through a straw, and ten minutes into the drive they ask to DJ.

"Be my guest, we got a good while to go."

They've got an eclectic taste, and you listen to slow indie songs for a while until one of your favorites comes on. It makes you sit up and start humming, glancing to make sure they don't mind. Queenie would tell you to shut up and let Moses Sumney sing.

They're asleep, leaned back in the passenger seat with a hand resting on their lap and the other across their chest. They must've gotten through one of their giant coffees already, how could they even be tired? You drive the next 35 minutes in relative peace, singing a little more daringly to songs you know and ad libbing vocals to ones you don't. You remember the exit to turn off on and then see the signs for the trails; it looks like your sense of direction decided to work today.

You speak their name in a whisper, but realize how silly that is and repeat it at a louder volume. Their eyes shoot open, a little glazed, and they mumble something in a deliciously sleepy voice about you not waking them sooner.

"I figured anybody who can fall asleep with that much caffeine in their system deserves to catch a few winks," you reason. They stretch next to you, and the worn, soft-looking jeans they're wearing strains against their wiry thighs. You can imagine sitting on one of those thighs and riding against it, fingers wrapped in their jet black curls and moaning into their ear. Their hands planted on your hips, teasing the hollows with their thumbs. The scene is gratuitous, and so vivid that you borderline scramble out of the car; your attraction to them is persistent and annoying.

It's quiet and gorgeous on the trail, and for a good while your eyes bathe in the green and gray. It's a little cold, so you both have jackets, but with the sun comes the heat. The trail is a loop, and you walk side by side, sometimes talking and sometimes not. You point out things you see; a few wild turkeys, a gigantic moose standing in the stream that runs next to the path, and a few white, silent herons. You haven't been outdoors like this in years, and you forgot how good it felt to be swallowed up by trees with leaves underfoot. Halfway through the loop, they stop off in a clearing with so much long grass that it gives under your feet like a mattress pad. They have you sit with them on a blanket they spread down, and together the two of you eat everything but the trail mix in your bag; chips, apples, muffins, more orange juice. You lay on your stomach in the sun for a bit.

You wake with dried slob in the corner of your mouth and your twists braided into pigtails. They are laying on their back next to you, singing a different Moses Sumney song that you hadn't heard in the car. Their voice growls in some places and rises to a sweet, high note in others. This time there's no heat, just contentment. You try to sit and listen, but they hear rustling from the blanket when you're wiping the spit off your face.

"Hi." Your voice sounds like a croak, and they stare down at you, amused. "Was this payback?"

"Almost certainly, lovely. You were snoring and everything."

"You braided my hair."

"You can do mine now if you want." They smile at you, black eyes sparkling with laughter, and you fail to not return it.

You plant your face into the blanket and groan, then use your head as leverage to kneel. There's nothing to pack up, and all the wrappers are in your bag, so you just stretch and wait for them to shove the blanket into theirs. You restrain yourself from asking them if you can fold it.

The rest of the hike is just as beautiful, until fifteen minutes from the trailhead, clouds crowd out the sun overhead and start pissing cold jets of water over the land. There's no tree cover for the last half mile, and it's fiercely downhill so you can't even run for fear of slipping in the mud. You both can't help but laugh; everything is soaked.

"We had an EZ pass, snacks, no trouble getting here... everything but the weather forecast," you sigh, cranking the heat up in the now gloomy, cold parking lot. "Also probably why we didn't see another soul out there."

"We also had naps, those were great. Did you know you talk in your sleep?"

You look over at them while you wring your twists out in your jacket. "Yeah... whole conversations, right?"

Their smile replaces the missing sun. "Moans, this time," they croon, and you feel your forehead wrinkle because it's very possible, given the content of your dreams lately.

"Oh? I was probably dreaming about the heavens opening up and dropping the Pacific itself down on us." You refuse to play into the sexually charged banter this time, and instead decide to focus on chattering the cold away.

"Are you shivering?" they ask, intertwining their fingers into your freezing ones. "Let's switch seats, lemme drive."

"I just gotta wait for the heat to do its job, then I'll be fine," you explain, pulling your hand from theirs to take off your wet. long-sleeved shirt, a slightly less soaked cami underneath.