i wanna get drunk and watch harry potter with you in big comfy pajamas, nestled against your body. i want to discuss with you the fact movie ron is nothing like book ron while we plan a trip to harry potter world that we’ll never go on.
i want to make cookies with you at two in the morning while we listen to ted talks or beyonce or a podcast we’re both really into. dancing with you in our socks, trying to perfect our down-hallway slide.
it’s okay that love is sometimes work. people often write about the big moments, about the proposals or the first kiss. but i want the moments in between, too. the quiet of early mornings while we’re both still waking up. quietly bringing me tea just because you know i’d like it without asking. being able to make you art endlessly.
my first butch girlfriend loved to grind on top of me, her pelvic bone eagerly bruising the soft cushion of my mons while the teaches of peaches grinded along with her, dirty and raw on my rattly old boombox. fuck the pain away, and we did, over and over in that dingy flat above the pizzeria, on the bed I tried to make inviting by threading fairy lights over the headboard.
on tangled sheets we lay like that while late afternoon sun slipped in through the slats, she grinding and groaning against me while I held her close and measured the tension in her body beneath my palms. she was delicious and strong, her nakedness kissing mine as she worked her way to orgasm against my thigh. I would grip her ass tight in my hands, tasting the sweat from her neck, willing my body to offer hers the pleasure she sought.
at twenty-two I thought I was experienced in the ways that women loved other women, but I didn’t know what I didn’t know. when she told me that was how she got off best, I marveled – it was alien to me, whose own physiology seemed designed to make orgasm as elusive as possible. but in the earnestness of my passion, I embraced it. I didn’t understand how it made her feel, but I knew that I wanted to be a part of it, of her feeling that way. when that final push came and she stiffened before suddenly seeming to spill out all over me in a trembling wave, I’d embrace her tight and nuzzle into her cropped hair while her groans were muffled in mine, treasuring the thump of her heart echoing through my breast.
years and lovers later, I was startled by the memory of this lovemaking described in the writings of another fem, one whose work I had discovered on the intricate and often fraught journey of discovering myself. Joan Nestle wrote tenderly of a young lover she’d known, who had moved on her as my first sweet butch had, “the old butch way” she called it.
it hit me like a punch those words, to see the act I knew by then was called tribadism – a technical, awkward word I hated – named so intimately, so assuredly, as a way of the women I love. I tumbled back to that bedroom with its stained and fraying carpet, the sagging ceiling above, two young lovers on the bed eagerly pushing and thrusting at each other as I lived the memories of another fem’s passion. our experiences so uniquely different and yet entwined through culture and desire.
I comprehended then, perhaps for the first time, that even before I had known the word fem or that I was, before I knew anything of the deeply rich history of my people, I had found my way to it. drawn through the darkness of cultural erasure as though beckoned by fate, we did what felt natural together, a butch and a fem in a new century, loving in the ways of old.
I had thought this gift of a woman coming on top of me had fled this world, read the words of this fem who had already lived lifetimes before mine began, but Margaret, who wears feathers and dreams of goddesses, carries the old ways of women loving deep within her.
so had that lover of my hopeful youth, directed by the nature of her desire as much as I had been when she first caught my eye in the hot shade of a tent at summer Pride; a hopelessly handsome young butch with shy eyes and a smile that made me trip over my feet and blush.
years after Joan Nestle shared those breathless memories, of an older fem with a young butch learning anew how organic our passion, I thrust up to meet the push of my butch’s need, learning it for the first time. separated by decades and much more, these moments we lived were wholly our own, and yet they are shared, countless times and in countless ways, between butches and fems who love and make love all over the world. the old butch way lives on, heedless of instruction, beyond the boundaries defined in theory; compelled by instinct and desire.
when my first sweet butch showed me how she liked to fuck, I had no idea that another fem at another time had thought that way was done and had been grateful to realise that it wasn’t. now, I am grateful to realise that it never will be. this is how we know ourselves, the truths of our lives resonating in recognition. our heritage shared through memory written and experience lived in dark rooms and on damp sheets, carried always deep within us.
References: “Margaret”, A Restricted Country Joan Nestle, 1987
A knock pulls Bucky away from the mirror and to the door. He takes his time unlocking it and pulling it open, unsure of who’s waiting on the other side.
“Are you ready?” Steve fiddles with his tie, not bothering to look up and properly greet his best friend. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
Bucky’s heart stalls for a brief second, long enough to remind him that it’s still there. It still works. It still feels. After everything that has happened with Hydra, he wasn’t sure that would be the case.
Please fire me. A customer asked for hot chocolate that isn’t hot. We explained that it would pretty much be chocolate milk, but he persistently disagreed. “I don’t want chocolate milk, I just want hot chocolate without it being hot!”
I’m just imagining a quiet Christmas day at the Holmes residence, Mummy in the kitchen, stirring the punch, and Papa Holmes sitting at the table reading the paper, making a comment every now and then about something or the other.
Suddenly, there’s a burst of laughter, deep and resonant, from the sitting room, and Mummy nearly drops the spoon because she hasn’t heard her son laugh that way in years, not since he was just a boy. She looks at Mr. Holmes, and he’s looking right back at her, just as perplexed.
“Was that–?” he begins, but Mummy cuts him off with a hasty “Shhhhh!” and tip toes over to the door to investigate. She cracks it open just enough to see through to the next room, and she goes utterly still at the sight before her.
Dr. Watson is seated on the sofa before the crackling fire, a book in one hand while he reads aloud, quietly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and a warmth in his eyes she’s never seen before. But that’s not what has her attention; that’s not what’s made her heart stutter in her chest.
Sherlock–her beautiful, reserved boy who for twenty years has not allowed himself to be seen as anything other than hard and unapproachable–is laying sprawled along the length of the sofa, his feet propped up on the worn arm and his head nestled quite comfortably in Dr. Watson’s lap. He’s still smiling, a remnant of his laughter from a moment ago, and his eyes are full of a mischievous twinkle as he looks up into Dr. Watson’s face. Dr. Watson turns a page of the book, and then his free hand returns to where it’s been carding gently through Sherlock’s tangle of curls, his voice soft as he continues to read.
“What is it? What’s going on?”
Mummy starts and turns around to find her husband right behind her, trying to peer into the room as well. At first she isn’t sure why he suddenly looks so blurry until his expression turns to one of concern and he asks, “What’s the matter?”
She shakes her head and takes a deep, steadying breath. “Nothing’s the matter,” she says, and it’s true. “It’s Christmas, and our son is happy.”
Requested by Anonymous,“The boys’ reaction to their s/o who likes to give them kisses/pecks when the boys aren’t paying attention to them/focusing on something else please? Thanks!”
because I’m hella lazy to make a new reaction and this was highly requested to bring back! also, this still makes me soft af..how dare u.
Standing with his hands gripping the airplane tickets as he found out the airlines were at the very other end of the building, stress and a load of tiredness was beginning to overtake him as you tried to get his attention, hold his hand, anything — only for him to bolt down the airport while dragging you along. “Babe,” you called to no avail, frowning in distaste, “Seokjin!”
“What?” He snapped, stopping in his tracks and the minute you tippy toe to plant a small peck onto his plump lips, a fierce blush takes over his cheeks as he smiles and drops his head onto your shoulders.
You laugh softly as you rub his neck, “calm down.”
“Your hands are freezing.” He mumbles, holding the frozen limbs in his warm ones. He wasn’t smiling, more annoyed at having to walk with you to the faraway café instead of taking a taxi or an uber — but what he did take satisfaction in was being able to walk through the greenery that still brimmed with life despite the negative temperature. “Maybe we should head back–”
But you interrupt him as you kiss him unexpectedly, feeling his chapped lips against yours as you quickly pull away. “Nah,” you say with a small smile as he stares at you blankly, “I’m warm now.”
And a big grin slaps onto his features, eyes immediately turning into mini crescents.
He was death glaring Jungkook who was acting a little too friendly with you, throwing in snark comments here and there as the younger only laughed it off as if Hoseok was joking — but he wasn’t. Jungkook would nudge you in a flirty manner, smile at you, eye you and just–
But the soft and damp pressure on his lips makes all thoughts evaporate into thin air, you pulling away and laughing as you finally got his attention.
And the smile encasing his being is bright, pulling you into his chest as you continued to talk to the other man and tried your hardest to pull away from the one who tried to peck you once again.
He was exhausted as you two sat on the bench of the nearly empty park during the day, the sun emitting rays that illuminated onto the grass and pond — and whilst he closed his eyes to zone out your voice and drown into the melody of nature, you nudge him as he groans in displeasure.
It is quiet then, and all he could hear was the singing of the birds, the shivering leaves and the ruffling of your clothes before you kiss the corner of his mouth, his eyes blasting open in astonishment.
“Are you going keep ignoring me?”
A grin spreads onto his lips. “Well,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows, “you do know what unexpected kisses leads to..right?”
He was paying way too much attention onto his phone as you both ate out with the rest of the boys, Jimin only tuning in on a recent video game play-through as he ignored the conversation happening at hand and especially, you.
To say that he was caught off guard when you kissed him in front of the guys was an understatement — scarlet immediately drowned his ears as he giggled at your cute gesture. “Jagiya,” he gasped as if you did something horrible, “you know we only kiss in the bedroom.”
You punched his shoulder in mortification as the guys begin to catcall and eventually, Yoongi spatting in disgust to “keep it in the bedroom.”
It was during the night when the windowsill was open and the breeze blew onto the sheer curtains as Taehyung wrapped you in his arms under the duvet and pulled you into his chest. His eyes were closed, and as his breathing began to soften, your small voice pierces the quiet atmosphere. “Babe?”
He hums in response, refusing to open his eyes and when he felt the bed dip the slightest as you move to get comfortable, the kiss you give him before nestling into his neck has him smiling. “Oh, no you don’t,” he says as he feels the thousands of butterflies attack his gut. Immediately, he pulls away from you just to catch your lips in a passionate kiss, letting the night drown you both into bliss.
Driving for hours in the city with no destination in mind, Jungkook only wanted to spend time with you and away from his hectic singer life and definitely, away from the boys. It was raining, the traffic was too much and as he sits there impatient as the truck was stuck in nearly the same spot for half an hour, you grab his hand and he quickly looks to you as your lips crash perfectly together in an innocent kiss.
Pulling away from him, a toothy and cheeky grin is plastered onto his features as his previous frown melted into the ground. “Again,” he begs, intertwining your fingers together as he squeezes your hand, “kiss me again.”