Archive of Our Own ^beta

Slouched against the wall, her red cup hovered at her red lips as from over the brim she stared across the room at Lily, who stared back for only a second before barging through the crowd of drunk, dancing bodies, leaving through the back exit. Mary’s grip tightened around her cup, on the path to crushing it, and she kicked off the wall, downing the drink in less than seconds out of sheer, burning frustration. It made her wince, and she could blame it on the alcohol rather than the fact that Lily was running away from her.

Or making Mary chase her, which wasn’t the case, because it was she who was deciding to chase her, and Lily didn’t even want that. All she wanted was to run. Keep running, away from the fact that she wanted to kiss a girl. Which wasn’t too weird, because lips were lips — boys had them, girls had them, anyone could have them, so why was there a difference?

Although Mary didn’t really like boys’ lips. And that didn’t make sense, but then again, it did, because when lips like Lily’s existed, why would she want to kiss anyone else?

Placing her empty cup on a table, she followed Lily’s path through the sweaty throng, pushed open the exit and felt the reprieve of cold air hitting her face. Allowed herself to close her eyes and breathe it in for a second, before turning to scan across the back wall. Right at the edge, Lily leaned the same way Mary had, one foot against it, slouching, holding a crumbling joint. The air smelled of skunks, but all Mary could smell were flowers.

Maybe she was imagining it. The smell of roses, the sweet lips of their opening bud, plush petals pouting as they turned outwards, pushing out their tongue, licking into the place where it was red and hot and wet. Shadowed, deep crimson, hollowing out a womb in her heart where she could hold the tender flesh, caress, press her thumb into it and slide it open, pull back the lip and sink into ambrosia, it was flowers and pollen, honeyed and glazed. The nectar guides streaked across petals, darker lines etched onto papery flesh, those veins of blood red maroon, flowing into the centre, pooling into its ovary, blooming fruit, ripe and fresh.

Mary wanted to eat her.

Devour her, consume her, take her and swallow her. Like a pill, a tablet, it would be her prescribed medication, doctor’s orders, ‘must eat out another girl.’

You wish, Mary told herself.

She walked over to Lily, leaned against the wall beside her. They both stared blankly into the dark nothingness beyond, trying to convince themselves, over the riot in their brains, that they weren’t wrong. They couldn’t be. Being nineteen-year-old women who craved women had to be okay.