Stitch 40.5: Ice Cream

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(Start.) Lor doesn't pause as Niki breathes, "You're chocolate ice cream."

She pauses afterwards. Softly breathing back, confused; "What?"

Niki nods, firmer. "I think that's how I think of you."

Eyebrow raised, Lor asks, "What does that even mean?"

"It means you're delicious, but bad for me, and cold, but soft." Then she leans back in like that's that, back to before. The gentle breeze of breath on the bridge of her nose is, in essence, the first of many kisses. "Oh, and you melt easy."

But now the moment's ruined and Lor pauses to insist, "You're an idiot," with a wrinkle in her nose and one hand up. To confirm it she looks Niki in the eye, firm. Don't say stupid things. Ruins the moment. She keeps up eye contact, at first to prove a point, then unable to do otherwise. Then she drops her head to the pillow, frustrated, damnit, she'll never learn. But then Niki flashes a simple smile and things degenerate back into a bacchanalia of butterflies, bursting from Lor's chest and fleeing from her lips. Her stomach, free of fluttering, refills: relit. Damnit.

She's not ice cream. Niki's not ice cream. They're both billions of skin cells, a beating heart, and a brain. But she gives in, anyway; she leans back. (Start all over.)

Thin, calloused fingers, stronger and longer than her own – short strands of short hair naturally died deep ebony – pale, sunless skin – long legs she gets lost in, that get tangled in her own, her own smaller, shorter, pinker, thicker, legs all come together in the space between their lips, which close and combine their two bodies, connects them, in a rush of warmth and colour.

Lor arches her back and opens her mouth and releases the tiniest of gasps, splayed fingers sliding over fabric. The material of the sheets that covers the mattress is irreparably wrinkled, ruined. The window's open, the sky's blue. The little lines of shifting shadows dance all out of their bodies like sunshine out of the stars, and Lor makes it worse when her legs shift. The right one bends at the knee, sliding up, bending more. The left turns in and her head rolls back – they're all five senses, mostly feelings.

Lor's hair is a messy, haphazard mess of sunshine yellow strands and strawberry blond curls, some stuck to her face, slick with sweat, three simple strands caught in her lips. But most are a mess on the pillow, framing her darkening cheeks.

Hands on her stomach, first, is odd. Hands sliding up her body is a background effect – she's captured by lips on her own, all tongue and teeth and each other, no, one – warm and wet. Slowly her fingers slide from the sheets and up fabricated arms, to shaggy hair and thin eyes, and thin lips.

She cuts off and pulls back: revenge. "You're vanilla – just nice." (End.)

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Corresponding art piece (remove the spaces): yeaka . deviantart . com / art / Ice-Cream-75242407

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