Work Text:
The stars are still in the sky when Spamton wakes up, breathing in the scent of her lover. Sweet rose and faint notes of wine. She shifts softly, only to feel Tenna’s arm slung over her waist. Thick curls and gentle lips tickling the back of her neck. It stuns her for a little, even now.
Her palm rests right under Spamton’s ribs, fingers splayed out and catching enough of her body, like she’s still making sure she’s beside her. Legs entangled over ironed cotton, her skin tingling with Tenna’s warmth. Enshrouding the smaller woman in the reminder that she’ll never have to go back to those streets.
Her body is hovering through a dream, Spamton thinks. A glittering daze of touches, kisses, something saccharine and unmistakably Tenna. The pillowy warmth of clean fabric. A full stomach after an evening of cooking dinner alongside the woman she loves. Tenna always makes her eat everything on her plate. Sensations that felt foreign and far away, as if she experienced them in another life from this one.
Spamton remembers, a mere month ago, spreading out her damp, fraying blazer on the sidewalk to rest her body over. Curled up, pretending it was warm where she laid down. Mindlessly tracing each of her ribs with a fingertip as she stared into the unforgiving blackness of dusk. The skin was taut and discoloured where she touched it, bones prominent in a grotesque display of emaciation.
Her body was a squalid thing, reeking of sweat and alcohol. Wasting away evenings to mourn what she was, what she could have been. The world around her lost colour, fell apart, and she allowed it.
Those nights were a blur of loneliness and any cheap opioids she could get her hands on, closing out the motley doors that lead to memories where she was content. When she closed her eyes, Spamton could hear voices that validated her. Seeing her not as an inconsequential saleswoman with no prospects, but as someone capable, bearing charisma so unforgettable that she was an asset. To be cherished, admired by millions of eyes.
She remembered the blissful months she had after she answered that phone call, silently promising herself that she would build a life of beauty. For herself, and the lovely, heavenly woman she would find herself besotted with. Memories where she was smiling; like the world around her, just for the slightest moment, was finally listening to all the prayers she had choked out in the despair of night.
Slowly turning her body to face the woman before her, Spamton’s breath catches in her throat. In the pale, barely-there light of early morning, Tenna looked like a fallen angel, fresh from the ether. Her curls capture the white glow of the rising sun, seeping out through the gaps of the curtains in soft rays. All the while her breathing is gentle, eyes closed in rapture. Spamton finds it hard to believe that she could ever feel that way in her presence.
She is wholly undeserving of this. An inarguable truth that, even after each apology to Tenna has been burnt into the lining of her throat, still remains affixed into the background of her newfound life. The memory haunts her to the core. Telephone clattering to the ground, her erratic footsteps sounding out like gunshots across the room as she ran out on the only woman who could have ever understood her.
Why she’s here beside Spamton, why, when she heard her crepitating voice after years of deafening silence, she came straight to the custody room. She’ll never know. She just remembers the way Tenna rubbed over her hunched shoulders. Held her hair back when she threw up over the basin. Carded her fingers through her matted, splitting scalp.
You don’t have to go back there. You don’t have to live in that filth anymore. I’ll take care of you, Spamton. You’ll have me. Just me.
That memory remains heavy in her heart, claws at her and reminds her that she is a burden to Tenna. A washed-up psychotic, leeching from the very woman that she promised with her life to take care of.
She buries herself in the crevice of Tenna’s neck, trying to drown out the static in her mind.
When Spamton opens her eyes again, Tenna is half-dressed, leaving behind the sheets that still bore her heat. Satin drapes over her shoulders, buttons still undone to reveal the warm brown of her skin. Domestic, comfortable, the way she looked back when they slept together through every weekend morning. Spamton blinks and it stings.
“Spammy… are you awake?” Tenna’s voice has mellowed out, deeper and softer with age. Not like the high, airy television-star cadence she carried with her in her late twenties. Each syllable soaked with something rich, honeyed.
“Hey, s–sweetheart. Where–wh–where are you going?”
Spamton can’t remember at what point she began tripping over her own words, sounding out consonants over and over like a fragmented record. Some messy amalgamation of drugs, stress and trauma has cursed her, indelibly, waning at her speech. But Tenna listens. Waiting gently for Spamton to finish, never rushing her, even if it was hard for her.
“I’m just going out to hand in some paperwork for next week’s set. I won’t be long at all.” She presses her lips to hers. Loving. Forgiving. Spamton still doesn’t understand it, doesn’t believe she ever will.
“Can you wait for me until then? We can bake something together when I come back.”
Tenna’s eyelashes glisten when she smiles, the curvature painstakingly reminiscent of the way she laughed when they were younger. She looks so innocent. The prettiest, most sacred creation that Spamton had ever seen until then.
“Sure th–th–thing, hhhon–honey. I c–can tidy up wh–while you’re out,” She’s promptly interrupted by a slew of coughs, wracking through her body as she covers her mouth. Tenna gasps, leaning forward with a hand over her back.
“Oh, Spammy! There’s no need for that, you should rest, please…” She takes the bottled water and antibiotics from the bedside, twisting the cap open and pouring out two tablets.
“I–I can, I can ho–hold it, thanks,” She gulps the medication down, shame manifesting in a thick heat, crawling up her spine.
A myriad of infections were left untreated back when she slept on stone, spanning from her lungs to her skin. She was in a much worse condition when Tenna first picked her up, weak and bedridden. A month onward, the colour has returned to her face, and she can walk around without having to hold onto the walls. Just being around her seems to have healed her.
“My darling. Will you be okay? I can… I can always…” Spamton waves dismissively, swiping away the water from her lips.
“Annie, I’ll b–be fine, I promise. It’s ju–ju–just a cough.” Ever so doting, the loving woman she is, Tenna still looks back at her with deep concern. Like she would drop everything just to stay beside her. Something she’s done time and time again.
Spamton remembers a vague, distant memory. All the way back when they still ran TV Time together. She caught a fever, her entire body blooming a hot sanguine while her teeth chattered, right before one of the evening programs. Tenna was flailing her hands in worry, sitting right next to Spamton where the young saleswoman sat down for a small break, ‘m fine, Tens, before she subsequently collapsed, helpless in the throes of her illness.
She was ushered, or rather unwillingly carried to Tenna’s penthouse, grumbling as the taller woman untied her shoelaces, shook off her scarlet blazer.
“Jeez, Annie. You don’t have ‘ta coddle me like I’m some little girl!” Even though she intended to yell at her back then, Spamton croaked the words out like a mouse, the phlegm breaking up her voice.
Tenna wiped her neck and forehead down, the cloth doused in rosewater. That floral shit messed with how her cologne smelled, and with the way she caressed her like she was weak– all of it pissed her off to no end. But she was too far gone to protest against it. The cold felt divine against her flaring complexion, and she sighed out involuntarily.
Spamton tried to be hardened, assured, even like this. After all, a big shot of her calibre has work to do! She hated feeling powerless. She didn’t want to be pampered and spoonfed, not when she was already given a pair of crutches for her current success. Yet, her will proved fragile as she craned into her lover’s cooler, gentle touch, Tenna’s fingers cradling the side of her face.
The taller woman gazed down at her, unshed tears coating her lashline. She took off her glasses, and Spamton became lost in that deep brown for just a moment.
“But you’re so sick! Oh, Spammy! I’m so scared, what if it’s the flu?” Tears, sweet and sparkling like morning stars, finally streaked over Tenna’s cheeks, and Spamton was suddenly overcome with the desire to kiss the tracks they left.
“It’s not the damn flu! I’m gonna be fine. We’re gonna re-start filming tomorrow, so, just, just relax, ‘kay?” She huffed out, dizzy with how beautiful her love cried.
Tenna took Spamton’s hands in hers. “No! You need to take care of yourself better, Spammy! I don’t… I don’t want to see you like this.”
She was shouting, then, and even though her fists and teeth were clenched tight, Spamton could see her tremble. The flitter of her lip that silently told Spamton that she was afraid. It’s not that the saleswoman was frail, but it was the searing fear that, at any time, the universe could take her away from Tenna. Just when she finally felt something real and precious between them.
Spamton knew that feeling well and true. No matter how many times she hissed at Tenna, pushed her away after she held her too tight, kissed her too much.
“Fine, okay! I’ll… rest. For the next few days.” Carmine tinged at her cheeks. indistinguishable from the fever or from her own embarrassment. Her hand found its way over Tenna’s palms, still shaking.
“I’m gonna, uh, be well. I know I will, Tens. If you’re here with me.” She felt like a sap in that moment, but Tenna devoured those words whole as she gasped with delight, immediately pressing kisses over her rosy face.
“Ann! You’re gonna catch a col–” She tried to scold her, but was promptly cut off by another peck to her lips. Soft. Sweet. She could taste her gloss, caramelised sugar piercing through her dulled senses. “H–Hey! We’re gonna have ‘ta go on hiatus if you keep kissing me like that!” She couldn’t stop giggling, she didn’t even know you could kiss someone while smiling.
“Oh, but you just make me so, so happy, you charmer!” Tenna laughed and held onto her, and Spamton wrapped her arms around the sun. Basked in the warmth of her joy, unadulterated.
She thinks of those unreachable days with tenderness, fuzzy with layers of passed time. Followed by a deep twinge of longing, for her to go back to those times and adore her love the way she should have. Before it all fell apart, before they lost each other.
Spamton wanted to forget the imperious, aloof front she adopted back then, suppressing any instance of vulnerability. She saw those feelings as weakness, distractions from becoming the big shot she needed to become.
Cruel memories of her fingers, entwined lovingly in Tenna’s, abruptly unlinked when they stepped into the cameras. Every time she kissed her, deep and slow, making sure their figures were benighted, concealed away from the limelight. Each time she brushed aside the topic of becoming public with her. What would the audience feel, knowing that the pair were just a couple of queers?
It’s no wonder Tenna was so adamant when it came to Spamton signing the contract. Those inked letters would seal their bond, tether them together. Remind her that what they have is definite. Authentic.
Spamton is brought back to the present when Tenna rubs her thumb over the back of her hand.
“Call me if you’re not feeling well, okay? I’ll come straight home.” She nods, suddenly aware of the lump in her throat.
Tenna gives Spamton one last kiss, smoothing over her hair, still mussed from sleep. She buttons up her shirt and leaves, handbag looped over her forearm. The same brand of designer she carried with her when they were younger.
She lies there, then. Eyes trailing over where the bedsheets are crumpled from the weight of their shared bodies. Burying her nose over Tenna’s pillow, she breathes in her scent. The fabric is still warm. She wants to swim in it forever, sleep away the day under Tenna’s blankets.
Spamton flings herself out of bed. If she lies there for another minute, she’ll really fall back asleep. So she pulls on a robe of Tenna’s, slightly thinned from years of use, and slowly falls into the sweet pattern of morning.
ʚɞ
At the height of her success, Spamton had enough money to stack towers with. Sometimes, when she still lived in Queen's mansion, she would bring them out of the moneybox in her bedroom and just stare at the banded bills. Clean cut, freshly printed from the bank. It drove her insane.
She never ate at home after that. Her knowledge of cooking, albeit very little, pruned with each gourmand restaurant she took Tenna to. They dolled themselves up every night, blissfully riding the glitz and glamour of affluence. Even though the taller woman hesitated some nights, softly asking if they should eat in, worried that they were being too immoderate, Spamton would coax her into coming along.
Spammy… You know, I can try and make these dishes at home instead. Look at how much they’re charging for this!
C’mon, Annie. You’re not gonna get stuff like this anywhere! Besides, I’m totally beat. And we could use a little fun, y’know?
Spamton feels light-headed at those memories, the sheer amount of money she poured down the drain each night. Indulging in every cuisine she could taste in the city, platters replete with expensive ingredients. It came to a point where she couldn’t even remember what it was like to eat home cooked meals, her diet composed of dishes and desserts crafted by culinarians.
When Spamton lost everything; her house, her repute, he went days without eating. Unless she could successfully beg for day-old scraps, the malnutrition carved at her body. She lost so much weight that when Tenna took her in, she cooked all of her meals. Dishes that were soft and palatable, tailored specifically to her body. Not too heavy, just the right consistency so that she could properly digest it without throwing up.
It surprised Spamton, how much Tenna actually knew about cooking. She knew that her partner ran the cooking program, but she would hardly pay attention to it, since she was usually scheduled to do paperwork while she was filming.
Spamton held her breath when she first began watching Tenna cook for her. She touched the foods so softly, humming a gentle note as she moved around the kitchen.
She hand-fed Spamton when her throat was too sore, changed the sheets each day so they wouldn’t have to sleep in crumbed or stained fabric. Monitored her fever throughout the night, holding her when she writhed in pain.
There was such little colour on her body that when Tenna saw her in the custody room that night, her skin was ashen under all the grime and bruising.
She was dying. She could barely walk without collapsing, or coughing out cerise blood.
Yet Tenna nursed her back to health, wordlessly. The colour returned to her face. She was at a healthier weight.
Now they prepared food together, ate it when the sun started to dip beneath the clouds. A permanent piece of their quotidian life, secured to the centre.
Spamton scrubs at a plate, lost in those fragments of the past. The past few hours, folding the laundry, vacuuming the floors, have been spent by Spamton in a thick trance of past memories and, namely, the thought of Tenna.
The porcelain, reflecting the afternoon sunlight, drips with soapy froth. She runs it under tap water, watching the droplets trickle down the surface. Placing it on the drying rack, she takes another unclean plate and continues the cycle.
It was all so much. To want someone this much, trust them with your vulnerable, ugly body. Watch them mend you wordlessly, piece by piece. To be loved so viscerally. Unconditionally. It scared her.
Spamton felt it when she first met her, with no doubt. It consumed her entire being, made her come to work every single day, just to see her. Yet it was always something clandestine, kept in the shadows from everyone watching. Always looking at each other in the hallways, silently longing for a kiss. They had reputations to keep, after all.
Now, her name forgotten by the industry, it comes at her full force. Intemperate. Boundless. Tenna had seen the smaller woman at her worst; body mauled by hunger, hair falling out in clumps, enamel yellowed and decaying, and never once flinched at her in disgust. Instead, it filled her with a deep-seated want. To cut away all the hurt, the rot, and watch her become herself again.
She could be desired, cared for. Even if she wasn’t attractive or witty. The realisation arrives slowly, settling in her heart.
Her heart hurts with how much she wants her. She might die if she doesn't see her within the next hour, and the realisation makes her sick.
She stands there for a bit, the last plate in hand. Wondering what on earth she has of value on her, offering it up to her as recompense. To give her anything, something in return. But Spamton has nothing but fragments of crushed little dreams, and a body that isn’t getting any younger or prettier.
When the front door clicks, and Tenna sings a sweet tune announcing her arrival, Spamton doesn’t realise that she’s crying. The silent kind, stunning her where she stands.
Spamton’s mind returns to her body when she sees her at the door. Frantically trying to wipe her face with her elbows, it’s too late as Tenna sets the groceries down and holds her. Her hand immediately smoothing down the tremors, looking into Spamton’s eyes.
“My darling. Talk to me. What’s wrong? Are you hurt anywhere? Oh, my love… I told you that I would take care of this…” Tenna briefly turns to the dishes. Tenna's voice wavers when she speaks to Spamton. She’s gentle.
“I’m—I’m o–okay, Annie. P—Peaches and c-c-c-cream, ju–just, um,” Spamton’s words fail her. Tenna waits, patient fingertips combing through her hair.
“Do you want to sit down?” Spamton shakily nods, peeling off her gloves. Tenna sits her down, hand lingering over her body. Reminding her that she is here.
“I’m, actually, I’m not f–feeling ssso we–well. I feel li–li–like I’m a burden to you.” Her eyes are downcast in shame.
“What makes you feel this way, dear?” Tenna, her touch slow and soft over her lover’s jawline, tilts Spamton’s head just a little so their eyes meet.
Her other hand covers the smaller woman’s, over the arteries protruding over her skin, dotted with sun damage like flecks of ink. Eczema has roughened Spamton’s palms, the surface there covered by Tenna’s softer, warmer skin. She savours the feeling, swallows down the impending tears.
“I wwwant to d–do more for– for– you, I want t–to gi–ive you s–s—something in re–return. B–But– but, I’m useless, c–can’t do any–anything, Ann. I–I cccan’t give yy–ou anything. L–Look at me.” She enunciates that single word with clarity. Useless.
“No… you’ve got it all wrong, Spammy…” Her voice breaks a little. “You were so ill when I first took you in. You couldn’t take a few steps without blacking out, or coughing out your lungs. That doesn’t mean you were useless to me.” She plays, very gently, with Spamton’s fingertips while she speaks. Spamton watches her.
“But you’re getting better, so much stronger. I was worried that you’d faint but…today you cleaned all of the dishes for me. And the days before. I didn’t even have to ask you.” There’s genuine happiness in her words, sweetened and high as Tenna smiles. It feels vaguely nostalgic, like she’s seen it a thousand times in the past. And she has. Each time worthy of reverence.
“You’ve been learning to cook too, and you’re getting so much better. The carbonara we made last night… that was all you. I just stood from the sidelines and gave you advice, only helped you the tiniest bit.” Spamton feels her face get warmer. She looks down at her aged, repulsive hands, dwarfed by Tenna’s own.
“And even if you couldn’t do those things for me, even if you were still bedridden and sick. Our relationship, Spamton… It’s not transactional. I will take care of you because I want to. Not for anything in return.” She whispers it with conviction, her words firm yet gentle. It means everything to her. Want. Not need. Spamton feels like she can't register the words properly.
“You don’t have to feel indebted to me because even now, I owe you so much…”
“N–N–Now w–what co–ould you possibly owe m–me?” The confusion palpable, Spamton feels like she could almost laugh with the absurdity of it. She has given Tenna nothing but love that could never be expressed right. Affection that needed to be hidden away, coated in shame. Felt under blankets, in dark rooms.
“I pressured you so much that day! I wanted you to sign the contract, b-but I knew deep in my heart that something was wrong. I still… I was still going to make you sign it that day.” The older woman’s voice shakes now, the words thin and frail. Spamton squeezes her hand tighter, looks at her.
“That thought has haunted me relentlessly. I couldn't help but think it was my fault that you had to leave that day. Because of my own selfish desires. I know you were putting it off, but it was for a good reason. A reason I refused to understand. I’m sorry.”
Tears form in her waterline. She blinks and they roll down, gracefully. Spamton’s breath hitches and she kisses her. Craning her head upwards to meet her lover’s lips. Chaste and warm, a simple need to console her.
“AAAnnie.” She weaves their hands together. “I–It–It w–was never y–your fault and I'll–I’ll never forg–g–ggive mmyself for m–makingg you–you feel that way. I w–was immature, and scc–scared, and so, s–so wrong for h–hhiding from you. F–For hiding u–us. I’m I’m– The one who should b–bb–be apologising.”
“We’ll make a life.” Tenna cups the curve of her lover’s cheek. “We’ll take care of each other. You’ll see. I’ll help you become healthier. We’ll spend time together. So much of it. My baby. My darling.”
Spamton shifts closer to her, as close as she can get, until the space between them is imperceptible. Laying her head against her chest, she stifles her tears. “I w–want that too. I w–w–want to–to take care of you too.”
Tenna’s hand drifts down to stroke Spamton’s back. Lips finding her forehead to kiss once more. It’s hushed, all they have is the sound of their breathing. Spamton finds herself being lulled by the thumping of Tenna’s heart, a dim, slowed sound, beneath the softness of her chest.
I love you. I want to rebuild everything with you. I want to make up for the love I couldn’t give to you. I’m sorry. I don’t deserve you.
These words are nestled heavily in the smaller woman’s throat. But Spamton has a feeling that Tenna knows, with the way she smiles down at her. It’s never said aloud, but they can feel it in everything.
The sun sets over their bodies. The two women lie there, wallowing softly under the summery light, until it’s time to prepare for the evening.
ʚɞ
The carbonara still tasted rich and light, bearing a tinge of sweetness even after being reheated from last night. They ate while Tenna spoke on and on about the recent program she was writing that week, explaining all her big ideas with joy. Although she’s been retired from the big screen, today marking the third month since, she still writes for her entertainment company.
She smiles, wide and gorgeous, talking excitedly as Spamton laughs along. The fullness of Spamton’s stomach making her feel sleepy, the shorter woman yawns a little.
“Oh, Spammy… Should we start heading to the bath? Goodness, I didn’t realise how late it was getting!” Tenna shyly twirls a curl with her fingertip.
Spamton nods with a smile. “Y–Yeah. I cc–can wash–w–wash our ppplates, honey, while you set– set it u–u–up.”
After she’s finished cleaning the table and their dishware, Spamton heads slowly to their bathroom. Thick, ivory steam curls upward from the porcelain bathtub, large enough to comfortably fit the two. The water glistens with the golden flare of the candlelight. It smells like dark incense, something rich and sweet.
Tenna is in the middle of undressing, pulling away the fabric from her frame, button by button. Neatly folding her clothes, placing them in the laundry basket. Mahogany skin warmed by the flickering, dim light. Her body is full. There are stretch marks, antlered like soft streaks of lightning, across her round hips and on the undersides of her breasts. Her arms and thighs are dimpled and plush, bearing a weight that feels real to Spamton.
Her heart lurches at the sight. She reaches for Tenna without thinking. Holding her close and kissing over her cheeks, her neck. Tracing over her waist.
“Spammy! That tickles, you know! Golly…” Tenna closes the space between them, pressing her lips to hers in that deep, tender way. By the stars, just wanting her.
“I c—couldn’t hhh–help–help it! My sweet b–baby is just too g–gorgeous– always–always!” She grins when Tenna waves her hands, bashfully denying it.
Spamton thinks of her own body. Short. Pale. Skin pockmarked with acne scars, various beauty marks, the skin shiny and white with healed cuts. She was always flat, even back then, wearing some kind of padded singlet under her dress shirts to accentuate her bust. Tenna loved her regardless, of course. Never once made her feel undesired, kissing her all over, mapping out each fibre of her being with her fingers.
When Spamton lived on a diet of scraps and rainwater, the hunger chiseled away at the fat on her body, her breasts. Her stomach was hollowed out, spinal cord protruding like a cadaver. She would run a palm over her chest back then and feel nothing but her own ribs, undulating beneath her skin. She felt like she was decomposing in her body.
There’s more weight there, now. To some degree. It’s not like Tenna hasn’t seen her aging body before, but Spamton always feels some level of shame about her post-industry appearance. She’s not the sensual, captivating woman she was before, and certainly doesn’t look the part either.
Yet, one look at Tenna tells her that she is still wanted, vehemently. She’s in the tub already, her glasses tucked beside the basin, peering up at Spamton with a smile. Her eyes are shining with love and awe.
“A–Ann…” She stammers, her face undoubtedly flushed. The smaller woman begins to undress, stepping into the water once she’s done. The water stings her at first, the heat making her dizzy– but her muscles begin to melt into the warmth.
“You’re so cute. My lovely girl is so pretty…” Tenna whispers, and Spamton feels, just for a moment, that she really is what Tenna thinks she is.
She twists in her arms enough so that her back is facing Tenna, the older woman’s hands foamed with soap. She begins to scrub at herself, and then at her lover’s scalp, her arms, chest, thighs, taking palmfuls of the other woman’s body. She’s so gentle, a touch so careful, that Spamton feels like she could cry. Under Tenna’s touch, she feels somewhat beautiful herself.
Once she’s done, she tips back Spamton’s head and douses her hair with water. She giggles when Spamton kisses her cheek.
“A–Annie, I wan–t to wwwash you too.” Tenna looks elated at this, clasping her hands together.
“Oh! Of course, Spammy! But… are you sure? Would it… I mean, in this heat and steam… it might be difficult…”
“I–I ca–can do it, for–for sure, h–h–honey.” She’s already lathering her hands with shampoo, the rich mauve cloying to her hands and bubbling.
Tenna sinks her body into the tub a little more, laying her head gently over Spamton’s chest. The shorter woman begins threading her hands through her lover’s hair, and the feeling is nothing short of addictive. Tenna’s coiled hair is soft, dark strands sticking to Spamton’s palms like an oil spill. It’s like combing her fingers through a light cloud, buoyant and sweet, and she smells so warm and elegant. The air is bright, sugary, orange blossoms and lavender. Tenna was right to worry– Spamton might faint at the feeling.
She rinses her lover’s scalp, watching as deep, honeyed locks are freed apart with the weight of the water, droplets trailing down her neck. They lie there for a while until it’s time to sleep, bodies submersed in the fragrant heat, the silence between them comfortable.
ʚɞ
The rising moon, streaming in through the silk curtains, glows over Tenna’s body, adorned in a camisole that smells just like her. Spamton is curled against her, running her hands over the rest of her lover’s body, not in a sexual way. Just to capture her. She’s so warm, so alive. Something glorious and gentle settles in her heart.
Tenna presses her lips to her forehead, the touch lingering there for a moment. She murmurs over her skin quietly. “I love you. I’m in love with you, Spamton. Do you understand?”
She nods, trembling at the intimacy of it. It’s strange in the way that she would never have thought she could feel this way again. Hovering back over her mouth, Spamton kisses her, slow and reverent. Touches that are lazy, their lips pressed against each other like they don’t need to go anywhere. No business meetings to attend, no paperwork to submit. Just unhurried, sweet, raw loving. They’ve kissed like this multiple times before but, for the first time, Spamton finally understands it. Feels it deeply.
When she pulls away, the two are dazed. Tingling with mirth, warmed by their love. Tenna’s palm settles in the soft juncture between Spamton’s ribs and hip, pulling her close. Spamton nuzzles the ridge of her nose in Tenna’s neck, an entire world there keeping her protected. Mending her, patiently, giving her strength.
Neither of them remember drifting to sleep. Yet when morning comes, they are still beside each other. Skin veiled in soft fabric, surrounded by heaven.