Terror F/F Week
(Open, Unmoderated)
Random works
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Summary
Edie knows her friends think she’s a prude. She’d known before the engagement party, since before Sol had asked if they took turns wearing the strap for their weekly night of missionary or if it was the same every week. Edie had blushed and Tam had given Sol her little mysterious smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes that even Sol took as a sign to shut the fuck up, but it’s stuck with Edie just the same.
It’s funny, almost, the way her friends have made this assumption about her based on — what, really? That she’s quiet? A little shy? That Tam is neat and organised and, in Tam’s own words, a bit of a clean freak?
But oh, she thinks, if only they could see her now.
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Cornelia was always asking for something, yet never asking for kindness; she had no need of that. Thomasin could almost appreciate her strange honesty.
Series
- Part 3 of cornelia
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“It doesn’t change anything between us, Joanie.” Georgina says in that carefree way that only she can, as if it really is just that easy. “We still love you. Oh, not like that Joanie, there’s no need to look so panicked! You don’t need to read The Price of Salt quite yet, darling. Sisterly love. We are friends, are we not?”
And, for some reason Ned can’t identify, it’s that which makes her heart flutter in her chest. Not the taste of Georgina’s cherry-red chapstick which still clings to her lips. Not the brush of Georgina’s stubbly calves against her own. Not the phantom brush of Georgina’s clever musician’s fingers drifting higher up her thighs, just moments ago.
Somewhere, between the delegated chores, shared meals, delegated movie nights, she’s become accustomed to this. To having these two, in whatever capacity. To depending on them.
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“Like you could write better love poetry.”
“I could. I have,” Cornelia retorts, “I’ll remind you I've the best grades in Miss. Bridgens’ class.”
“She only takes pity on you because you’re clearly a dyke. Besides, you’re failing everything else,” Charlotte Des Voeux snipes back. “Bet whatever you’ve got planned for Valentine’s Day isn’t any better. Gonna fingerbang Sybil Gibson under the bleachers again?”
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Summary
Her eyes had a hot, half-buried something in them, her mouth a hesitating softness. No—not a softness. Ajar slightly, as though offended. As though something crass had been said. Really, it must have been that—this was the only thing Macca could figure—the idea that Jane had a body at all may have been what aggrieved her so. Well. We can’t all exist as insensate motes adrift in God’s purifying gaze and whatnot.
Macca drew herself up to full height, aware of how she towered over the girl now.
“Do undress,” she said. “I can turn around if you’d like.”
Or:
College doctor Miss Macca endeavors to help Jane Irving unwind.