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Bookmarked by cephalopodsupport
05 Jul 2026
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Summary
The gloves are exactly the right size when she’s eight, and a little small at ten. Age eleven, the first chill breeze slinks through the garden with dead leaves in its mouth like a grey street cat, unbidden, proudly feral. Rumi can’t get her gloves on. The narrow bite of the opening tight around her knuckles.
It’s a silly thing to cry about but it feels—it feels—oh she doesn’t know.
Bad. A little bit. Maybe.
Bookmarked by cephalopodsupport
04 Jul 2026
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They set out for one night: music, movement, escape from their duties. But a single shared dance becomes a spiral of longing, and their laughter echoes everywhere they’ve held back. A night draped in closeness and comfort slips quietly into something else—something unspoken yet burning beneath every glance. Rumi finds herself suspended between fear and desire, torn between the comfort of silence and the electricity of being seen by Mira and Zoey. As touch turns to trembles, as glances bloom into need, they hover in the fragile twilight between friendship and something deeper, where a single touch might shatter everything or set it free.
What starts as a simple escape quickly turns into something more. Touches linger, glances hold, and maybe, just maybe, things get a little more than friendly.
(They're gay your honour. Good for them.)
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Bookmarked by cephalopodsupport
18 Jan 2026