A/N: I listened to Lauren Aquilina’s cover
of Sex by the 1975 and it broke my heart and I avoided about a million other
things to write this but oh well, I’m in the weirdest mood right now and this
worked for me so w/e also I love Jean Grey with all my heart and soul @madithewriter pls suffer with me
You’re both more than a little tipsy the
first time Jean kisses you, but that doesn’t make it any less electric. Her lips
are soft and sweet and unfamiliar on yours and it feels like something in you is
igniting as her hand rests lightly against your neck, and maybe it’s mostly the
vodka, but her closeness is dizzying
and nothing else in the world matters to you right now. All you can do is softly
cradle her face in your hands and kiss her back, and you know you shouldn’t;
she has a boyfriend, she’s your best friend, you shouldn’t. But you are. She’s holding you and you’re kissing her
and oh god do you want her.
You don’t talk about it the next morning.
The second time she kisses you, it’s late
on a Tuesday night and you’re supposed to be studying for a history exam but
she abruptly stands up from your desk chair and grabs the notes from your
hands, dropping them carelessly beside the bed and deliberately crawling up
beside you where you’re sprawled across the covers, her hand sliding up your
shoulder and tugging you up by the back of your neck. She kisses you and everything
else falls away as her mouth moves insistently against yours, her long red hair
hanging down around you and as you tentatively reach for the buttons of her
shirt, you’re pretty sure you’ve never seen anything more beautiful than her
small, inviting smile and wide eyes as she tugs gently at the hem of your
skirt, as if asking permission.
You wake up the next morning and the bed
beside you is still warm, but she’s on her feet, pulling her shirt over her
head, her books already in a tidy pile on the corner of your desk. She leans
down and kisses you quickly before grabbing her things and leaving your room
and you both pretend nothing happened.
When you see her with Scott later you have
to look away, throat inexplicably tight.
You kiss her the next time it happens. She’s
lying back on her bed and she’s tired and angry over something she won’t tell
you about, so instead of trying to talk to her, you tentatively lean over and
brush your lips cautiously against hers. She reaches up to hook an arm around
your neck, hauling your body down against hers as she kisses you back, hard and
demanding, and all you’re aware of is the way she feels under you as you wedge
one of your knees between hers. Your hands are a little shaky as you gently
pull her shirt off, but hers are steady and nimble as she tugs yours up over
your head and undoes the clasp of your bra before sliding a hand up the slope
of your back to the nape of your neck and tugging your lips back down to hers.
Her body is warm and pliant beneath yours and somewhere in the back of your
mind you know this is wrong. She isn’t yours, no matter how much you try and
pretend she is, and doing this isn’t going to make Scott disappear. But you’re
selfish, and if this is the only way you get to be with her then you’ll take
what you can get, so you push the insidious voice of reason away and you try to
focus only on the soft sighs she’s emitting as she writhes beneath you.
You try to leave later that night, but she
sleepily wraps herself around you and so you lie awake listening to her slow,
even breathing and trying not to think about how head over heels you are for
her and how badly this is going to end for you.
You have lunch with her and Scott the next
day, and pretend not to care that she’s wearing your shirt while she kisses
After a while, you stop trying to pretend
that you don’t go to each other for sex. You stop pretending to yourself that
you don’t use it just for the temporary closeness it gives you and you stop
pretending to yourself that you don’t know that what the two of you are doing
is wrong. It’s not fair to Scott, but you’ve never claimed to be a good person
and you’ve never had any self-control when it comes to Jean, and if the whole
arrangement weren’t so fucked up, you might almost call it love. You watch her
grab her shirt from off your floor and pull it over her head, leaning down to
press a kiss to your collarbone before leaving, and when you’re alone you
wonder if you’re ever going to be able to find a way out of this at all, let
alone one that doesn’t leave you in pieces.
This isn’t love. She has a boyfriend. This
what if gender expression was only defined by what kind of care products you used. like no one gives a shit about your dress or beard but pulling out a flower scented bottle of hand sanitizer cued everyone as to your gender.
“oh i’m sorry, I misread the label on the bottle, I thought your lotion was morning glory not morning gory, pardon my mistake, sir.”
“Max! What are you doing with cotton candy scented shampoo in the shower!?? What is wrong with you? I’m throwing this out and buying you glacier shampoo this instant.”
“Well I started using “for men” products only about a year ago when I got curious about my brother’s tilled soil scented soap. after that i tried going back to my usual effervescent butterfly soap… but it just wasn’t the same anymore. I still keep a bottle of apple scented lotion in my purse, though, just in case i go to my parent’s place.”
“What do you mean you don’t have a preferred scent???” “idk i jus buy unscented stuff. i’m pretty sure the scented stuff gives me a rash anyways.”
and public bathrooms are divided only by the soap scents. they both have equal stalls and urinals, but one bathroom has fresh lawn scented soap and the other has fresh linen soap.
“Bro what are you doing using honey lavender hand sanitizer, I thought you were a mahogany dude??” “Well… you see… I just like it a lot better is all….” “aight, my girl, i understand, i get you. you know, my sister is trying to downsize on her marshmellow sprinkle shampoo set since there was a deal, you want me to get you a bottle?”