Work Text:
Late summer shadows drape down the walls.
There’s the quiet silhouette of sleepy leaves and the obscure edges of her bookshelf, trapped between shade and golden light spilling through the window. At the centre of it all, the firm outline of her hand.
Lithe fingers, softened at the joints, unspooled hair slipping past her knuckles. Tickles.
This is Genevieve’s favourite part of the day.
She fits here comfortably. Perfectly. And the thought is just the thing she needs to crack her smile wide open. If Ava were looking at her, she’d ask (with subdued hesitance) to share what Genevieve finds so amusing.
Instead, dark blonde eyelashes brush the tops of her pale cheeks; her green irises hidden. Her lips, pink and promising, parted as she relaxes into Genevieve’s touch.
It must be Ava’s favourite part of the day too.
Sinking into the couch, her body sags in relief. At ease, soldier— Genevieve would quip. But traces of the commander persist. In the wide, but sure, spread of her legs. Her boots planted firmly on the carpet, and tensed shoulders in line with the cushions.
Every afternoon, she finds her place (this perfect place) on Ava’s lap. The way she leans back just enough to welcome Genevieve; an arm bracing her at the waist. The way she wiggles her boots into the fibres of the floor; safeguarding the seat she makes for her.
It’s how Genevieve knows this is much more than just love. This camaraderie. This enigmatic gravitational movement of bodies.
This is their favourite part of the day.
The gentle...gentle...gentle tug at the tight knot of Ava’s hair. Genevieve’s practiced fingers. Golden strands coming loose. Bright, aureate afternoon sun filters through the gaps of her fingers, threading through thin tendrils.
She runs her touch from Ava’s scalp, to its ends (staggers at a knot or two); helps regain its shape after a long day wound at the back of her head.
Gentle… gentle… gentle with her nails and—
—Ava sighs.
Her thumb (resting at Genevieve’s hip) twitches, starts an easy rhythm and brushes at the fabric until she can stroke the sliver of skin there.
Genevieve grazes her nose at her temple. Ava is lemongrass (maybe), last night’s shampoo (possibly), and that thing she can’t place but equates to the softest skin she’s ever kissed (surely).
Ava tilts her head, eyes finding hers (drowsy, glazed over, content), and nudges her nose with hers.
The impossibility of their kiss, like the soft pressure of Ava’s arm, encouraging her closer, will never stop surprising Genevieve. She calms the eager rush to touch, to claim, to take. Countless times Ava has soothed her frantic racing heart, her jittery palms, with an “I’m here. I’m here now.”
No need to state the obvious. No need to say: “I’m not going anywhere.”
Instead shows it with the firm press of her lips on Genevieve’s waiting mouth, free hand cupping her face as Genevieve’s undoes her hard work at the back of Ava’s head. Her hold at Genevieve’s waist brings her closer and she tips her head back; gives into the unyielding kiss.
Their shape in the shadow (fading by evening’s greedy ingress) is an indecipherable nothing. But to Genevieve it’s everything.
To Genevieve, it’s the perfect place.