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Lup couldn’t help but love Lucretia.
It almost seemed natural, like it was meant to be, like Fate wrapped their strings together and couldn’t untangle them if she wanted to—
Or, Lup thought, Lucretia just made it easy.
She made it easy because she was gorgeous, because her blush when Lup did something cute was something she’d pay money to see, because her bright white hair defied gravity and her eyes twinkled like galaxies and she pretended she didn’t know it. Or she made it easy because she was kind, because she knew exactly what to say even when Lup was inconsolable, because she’d make up poems for her on the spot and draw doodles of her in her notebooks and thought Lup was her universe and made sure to tell her. Or she made it easy because she was a genius, and how could Lup not fall in love with someone who wielded words like weapons and wrote with two hands and learned abjuration magic like it was second nature and survived a whole cycle alone and could ramble at will about psychology and space and anything in between? How could she not fall in love with Lucretia, who chugged a whole bottle of wine in one breath just to prove she could, who took Lup out on every date they couldn’t afford, who took Lup’s love for Barry in stride, who left Lup wanting more every time they had sex and who kissed like—
Oh, she kissed like a dream.
She kissed like every touch was a revelation, kissed like she could write pages and pages of poetry about it all, kissed like she wanted every detail, kissed like each kiss was her first and yet Lup couldn’t be her first. Lup couldn’t be her first, not when she was so easy to love, not when she had seen the heads turn in the IPRE hallways, not when Lucretia flirted with such experience, not when her love was so flawless, carved to perfection like a diamond in the rough. She really couldn’t be her first, not when she could get Lup to the bedroom in an instant, teasing her with a whisper and a kiss that was as filled with love as it was with purpose, not when Lup clung to her for days on end, and all she did was sigh as she dragged her around the ship, not when she’d leave her bed in the early mornings and Lup would rub the sleep out of her eyes to beg her to stay, “Luce, just one more minute, babe please, come back, I love you.” Not when she made her fantasize about dates on cycles yet to come, not when she deserved more girls to tell stories about, deserved a comfortable life and a best-selling novel and a girl who was completely and utterly devoted to her, a girl who gave her the world and not — well, not half of it.
And yet, Lucretia kissed her like she meant everything to her, held her like she was worth entire planar systems, yet knew how to break her, knew how to leave her helpless; Lup was at Lucretia’s whim like a character in one of her stories, and Lucretia was very much aware of it. And yet, she kissed her with so much reverence that Lup couldn’t help but want to give her more.
So Lup gave her everything.
She gave her the nights they spent awake alone on the deck of the Starblaster, she gave her fireworks and birthday cakes and the kind of food Fantasy Olive Garden would make; she gave her new notebooks — well, Taako transmuted them, but he wouldn’t have if Lup didn’t ask, ok? — and brought home gifts from every cycle, from aged wines and cheeses to fancy fountain pens to bouquets that Lucretia read like books. She gave her her smiles and winks and the clothes she thought would fit her, gave her new lipstick and serenades but only when she was really high, “Come on, Luce, you tooooootally have kaleidoscope eyes, there’s a whole universe in ‘em,” Lup gave her all of her secrets and soft blankets and the last chocolate chip cookie, which, let’s be real, is the best thing she could give a person ever. She gave Lucretia her touch, getting involuntary piggy-back rides and draping herself on top of her when she sat alone on the couch reading, holding her hand and letting their fingers intertwine and massaging her shoulders after a long day, and of course, wrapping herself around her in bed, letting their limbs tangle as they kissed.
And Lup put everything into her kiss, too; she kissed if her entire life had led her to that moment, kissed like she knew what she was doing, but not who she was doing, as if she had to memorize Lucretia with her lips. She kissed with intent, kissed everywhere, kissed her cheeks and left bruises on her neck and traced her way down her body, kissed in ways she knew would make Lucretia grip her tighter and gasp out her name. It was Lup who taught Lucretia to tease but Lup who loved it when she did, who flirted like it was second nature but froze when she did the same, her blush spreading from the tips of her ears down to her cheeks and breaking into a laugh. So she kissed like she had experience, kissed like she was teaching her, even though she knew that wasn’t the case; because when she kissed Lucretia she forgot everyone else existed. She kissed Lucretia with all of her heart and soul not because she was good at it but because it was her everything, and everything was what Lucretia deserved; she kissed her like she worshipped her, kissed her like no one else mattered, kissed her not like it was the first time but like it was the last.
She kissed Lucretia because she knew she was beautiful, kissed Lucretia with gratitude, kissed her with passion and intensity, kissed her in every way she knew she asked for because Lucretia deserved anything she could ever imagine. She tried to make every experience feel like it was once in a lifetime, tried to keep her guessing, tried to make her feel like she was worth entire planar systems; so she flirted and teased and held her close, she kissed her on tiptoes, polished her skills like a blade and shaped them like a spell because for Lucretia, it had to be perfect. She gave it all for Lucretia, though she wouldn’t admit it to just anyone; she’d lose her confidence and her wit when alone with her and be “kinda okay with it, because it’s you.” She kissed her with desperation, like there was no tomorrow, even though they had more time than they asked for; she couldn’t help but give her that energy, give her that passion, give her her lips and her tongue and her hands on her skin.
It was Lucretia, after all. Kissing her, like loving her, felt easy.