fictional lady feels

Confession time (otherwise known as I am feeling overly emotional about this gif at 3 in the morning).

Many years ago, I fell in love with my best friend.

This made it difficult for me to be around her.  When we’d hang out and watch TV or study together on her tiny twin bed, I felt like every word I said and every move I made would give my feelings away. She, being the perceptive fool that she was, knew.  She knew.  No matter how hard I tried not to, I wore my emotions on my sleeves, my pant legs … pretty much on every article of clothing I had on, and she read me like the worn out pages of her favorite paperback.

One night, my feelings were coiled so tightly inside of me that I just couldn’t take it anymore.  There was panic.  There was some mildly contained flailing. There was a blubbered reason for why I had to leave.

What’s going on with you?

I got up and jammed my feet into my sneakers.

Why won’t you just tell me what’s been bothering you for the last couple of days?

I dismissed it.  Whatever.  Don’t worry about it.

There was a pause, then:

I already know, you know.

That got my attention.  Her tone was gentle, but it had a hint of playful smugness, a feeling of confident certainty that I knew she was going to totally, and completely, use against me.  

And I think you’d feel better if you just told me.

I looked at her helplessly.  

No?  Do you want me to tell you why you’ve been acting so strange?  Cause I’ll do it.  I know how you feel about me.  I’ll say it if you don’t.  I know that you’re in lo-

I lunged across the bed and clamped my hand on her mouth.  The thought of her releasing my truth into the world made me feel so small, so naked.  I was terrified.

I pleaded with her not to say it, that it was okay that she knew but just, please, don’t say it.  Saying it would give it life, would turn it into this blazing sun that could illuminate everything but could also burn anything in its path.

Please.  Don’t.

You know how when you dream, you transition in and out of places, but you don’t know exactly how it happens?  Like, I don’t remember removing my hand from her mouth, or how I ended up back on the bed, or where the handcuffs came from, but the next thing I remember is we were lying on that tiny twin bed, side by side, face to face, my left hand cuffed to her right.

You’re not leaving until you say it.  She jangled the handcuffs for emphasis.

I didn’t know what her endgame was.  Did she want me to say it out loud and get it out of my system so that we could move past it?  Or did she want me to spit it out so we could move forward and collide somewhere in the middle?  

I hadn’t quite recovered from the first time my stomach bottomed out when she told me that she knew, so I was completely unprepared for it to happen again as I felt her hand gather mine, and pull it close.

I felt so exposed then, so raw.  That simple touch caused my emotions to bubble up inside of me.  On the verge of tears, I told her that I was in love with her. I told her I was so sorry, that things were going to be weird now, and that’s not what I wanted.  Her grasp anchored me in that moment, through fear, then guilt, and finally relief as the weight of my burden lessened with every confession that fell from my lips.  She listened as I babbled on and on, afraid to stop talking because then it would be her turn to speak and oh god, will I be able to handle what she has to say?

A gentle squeeze from her hand caused me to concede.  

Do you know what’s the most intimate thing two people can do?

Her eyes drifted to our joined hands.

Touch.

I felt the brush of her thumb, back and forth, burning a path into back of my hand.

The sex and everything else … You need that first point of contact.  And the hands … when you touch with your hands, what it really means is that you’ve made a choice.

She offered me a small smile.  At this point I’m not entirely sure what’s going on, so I just look at her, wide eyed and frozen.

These feelings aren’t exactly one sided you know.

We stared at each other then.  Exposed.  Raw.  Seconds, minutes ticked by.  I felt the last layers doubt finally peel away.  Barely above a whisper, I asked if I could kiss her.  Even as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I was already moving forward, free hand grazing her cheek as my lips met hers.

Up until that moment, I had kissed a grand total of two people.  Steve, my first boyfriend, who had clumsy lips and bad breath, and Brian, who in his fervor managed to snake his tongue into my nose during the one, single, solitary time I decided to fool around with him.  They couldn’t hold a candle to her.

Kissing her for the first time was electrifying.  It was every fucking kissing cliche drenched in gas and set on fire with grenades and molotov cocktails thrown in for good measure.  It felt like that good kind of burn, that slow searing sensation that radiates from your chest, to your stomach, and to your toes, then back again.  I finally knew what it felt like to be kissed.

There were bumps in the road afterwards.  Jealously. Fear.  Struggles with identity.  But somehow, we always managed to find our way back to each other.

They say that the perfect relationship consists of two imperfect people who are unwilling to give up on one another.  That helps me get through the tough spots, those patches of time where we take each other for granted, and fight about the stupid things couples fight about.  It’s her touch, though, that will inevitably bring me back.  The brush of her hand.  Her arms wrapped around my waist and the soft kiss on my temple.  Fifteen years and two kids later, everything with her still begins and ends with a touch.

look no offense but please consider yamasuga

I’m pure at heart. It repels the dirt.

An Izzy because I really miss her. She’s always going to have such a special place in my heart. I haven’t watched the TV show yet, but I think Emeraude Toubia is so gorgeous. I hope she’s bringing my girl to life with fierceness :)

I may write a longer review at some point (although I think agentaletha is already working on that), but I just wanted to say that I recently read the first book of Dragonoak by Sam Farren, and I really enjoyed it!  In addition to having dragons and knights and magic, it features an explicitly grey-A main character.  (Well, as explicit as you can get in a society that doesn’t seem to have a concept of sexual orientation.  It was explicit enough that I figured it out from the text, and the author recently confirmed it on their tumblr.)  If you are like me and you like fantasy and dragons but also like ladies crushing on ladies and casual inclusion of non-binary genders and people of color in your fantasy settings, maybe you should check it out?

I understand that you think I acted too emotionally. And putting aside the fact that men always say that about women they work with, I’ll get straight to the point. I am emotional. I do bring it into my work. It’s what motivates me. It helps me to get into the headspace of our victims… See what they’ve seen. Even if I don’t want to, even if it horrifies me. And I think it makes me a better agent. If you have a problem with that, sorry. You can fire me. But I hope you don’t.
—  Olivia Dunham (Fringe, 1x06 “The Cure”)

Guess what wasn’t cool tho?

Continuing to strip Catelyn Stark of her autonomy by altering her important decisions so men are the influence behind them. So that her importance is effectively diminished.

Please stop it, HBO writers.