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Paperfold University. Home to the arts, athleticism, and everything imaginable in between. A prestigious one-stop shop for any academic willing to put in the work to chase their dreams. After all, that's what their slogan says: “Colour your dreams, free your ideals!”
It sits in Penacony, the so-dubbed City of Dreams, in the Sol District. As for Penacony itself, it's located at the center of Starris—a continent containing a multitude of countries such as Jarilo, Thalassa, Lushaka, Amphoreus, and more. It is the metropolitan empire where anyone who wants to be someone travels to in hopes of picking up a life for themselves.
Paperfold University takes any age of student from any background and treats them all the same. From Xianzhou? No worries—there are local shops with cuisine and clothing that'll make it feel like home is right next to the dorms! What about Punklorde? Look no further than Tasha’s Gaming Shack! All within the vicinity of the campus, Paperfold University offers a completely walkable route that will have students never wanting to leave.
What else does Paperfold University offer? Major in—
For the fifth time on this rainy Sunday, Stelle switches the channel on the flat-screen hung in the corner of the cafe. If she has to hear another advertisement for the university she attends at a cafe in the route it’s advertising, she might just throw something at the television instead of simply pressing to the next channel.
Cut Cafe, known to the students as CC, is in its usual Sunday-night lull while the rain patters against its window panes in an attempt to escape the moon. She's thankful for the rain—it's never scared off customers before and she knows that, but she hopes it lasts long enough for her to walk home in it. She needs only to last another hour.
Which would go quickly like the rest of her shift if she stopped pacing around and cleaning mugs that are already spotless and adjusting her apron so that her shirt is properly tucked in and ensuring everything is where it's supposed to be two, three, four times.
Every Sunday at 9pm, a girl walks in.
A very, very pretty girl.
She also is there on Wednesdays and Fridays, but that's beside the point. Sometimes she comes in earlier on those days at six or seven and returns at nine or ten for another drink, and Stelle still doesn't know, two months later, how she manages to pay for them, but she awaits the visit every time with bated breath and a barely manageable heart rate. The miles she's logged wearing the floors down for this woman should never see the light of day.
All for a damn matcha mango sago.
As if on cue, the bell chained to the door jingles and in tumbles a blur of blue and pink. She shakes her clear umbrella out at the door and sets it as carefully as she can in the rack, then stomps her bright blue rain boots out on the mat. With a huff, she finally raises her head and lowers the hood of her jacket, looking utterly adorable in her ensemble of color.
The second she meets amber eyes, however, she beams and Stelle can feel her hands start to shake. She strides up to the counter in her skirt and unzipped jacket and asks:
“Miss me?”
Stelle clears her throat in a pathetic attempt to calm herself. It doesn't work.
“Always do,” she says, approaching the counter. “Let me guess. Matcha mango sago?”
“You know me so well,” the girl says, digging in her purse for her phone.
Stelle punches it into the kiosk with a smile and sends it to the card reader, watching dutifully as the girl’s phone lights up with a payment notification. She catches a glimpse of a lock screen with a handful of photos edited together of her and her friends and Stelle averts her eyes almost immediately. No need to peer into her life when all she’ll ever do is come in for tea, right?
“Two minutes,” Stelle says once the machine dings.
“Two? Last time you said five.”
Stelle balks. “Uh…last time you were early.”
The girl blinks.
“Is now a good time to say I always have your drink ready?”
Not wanting to see her reaction, Stelle turns and hears a giggle. Gods help her, a sound like that should be illegal.
“That's really thoughtful. But…what happens if I don't show up?”
Grabbing the prepared matcha, Stelle returns to the counter with a shrug and twirls the straw with her fingers before handing it over. She ignores how the movement was tracked with intent.
“I'll drink it, I guess.”
“Do you like matcha..?”
Stelle grins. “Nope.”
The girl bubbles with laughter again, her chest and shoulders bobbing with the movement. Her hand comes to rest on the top of the drink, one finger absently picking at the plastic cover as she chews on her bottom lip.
“Next time, can you wait until I'm here to make it? I really enjoy talking to the barista and I can't do that if she already has my drink made.”
That's flirting. She's flirting, right? There's no way that's anything but flirting. And Stelle has experience with flirting…as long as fake flirting with teammates and accidentally doing it with her roommate counts. She's flirted loads of times! And been flirted with in return!
But oh, this feels so much different.
Better. Sweeter. Earned.
She nearly forgets to reply.
“I’ll…make sure to let her know,” Stelle chokes out, her heart beating outside of her chest.
The girl smiles and thus blinds the entire store with how bright it is. Or just Stelle. She doesn't really care to check on anyone else’s vision, not when an angel just smiled at her like she was the only one around.
“Thanks! Oh, and I'm March, by the way. Can't believe it's slipped my mind when I've been haunting you forever,” March says.
March. March. Maaaarch.
Yeah, she likes that a whole lot.
“As long as giving me your name doesn't stop the haunting,” Stelle shakily replies. She returns a smile of her own and crosses her arms to stop fidgeting. “Stelle.”
Stelle swears she can see color rise to March’s cheeks, but she skips away before she can observe too closely. Curious.
March waves with her free hand. “The ghost of CutCafe shall haunt again!” She retrieves her umbrella and it's only at that moment that Stelle sees the berets she has clipped in her hair: miniature bunnies to keep the top layer back. They're adorable.
“Be safe,” Stelle weakly says, her words not even making it to the door before it shuts. She collapses against the counter with a sigh that slurries into a groan and replays the scene again and again in her head.
Good news? The pretty girl has a pretty name. Said pretty girl also enjoys talking to her.
Bad news? It's three days before Stelle gets to see her again and Wednesdays are much busier than Sundays, meaning they probably won't be able to have a conversation at all. Too many broke college students cramming in for a coffee with more shots of espresso than actual coffee to keep them awake for their fourth day in a row.
Even worse news? She has another hour of her shift before she can go back to the dormitories and not shut up to Firefly about her silly little…infatuation. It's definitely not a crush. Crushes are for people who have time to date and kids still in primary school that have imaginary friends.
Crushes are not for hopefully-soon professional athletes with perfect grades and a promising career.
Stelle just wants to be friends with March—who wouldn't? She's magnetic. Her outfits, the inflection in her voice, even her order is cute. This attraction is purely platonic, nothing more. Another few months of slogging along three times a week until she eventually disappears and that'll be that. It'll pass.
So…why does it feel like it's only getting stronger?
Stelle’s had crushes before, sure. Fleeting, unimportant feelings for people she can't even name anymore. She even had a small, teeny-tiny crush on her roommate until she confronted Firefly and realized it wasn't romantic and has proceeded to play wing-woman for the last year, to no avail. Firefly is as hopeless as she is.
Which…is a horrible conclusion.
She doesn't have a crush. University relationships never work out, especially as second-years. Focus on school and sports, get scouted, move on. She doesn't need a girlfriend to do any of that, so it's time to squash these feelings with the boot of her Timberlands and move the fuck on.
Which she does. She will. Right after she can figure out how to un-jelly her legs, since she's still standing by the counter like a fool.
Ugh. Maybe sitting down would help. The store is empty with the exception of one incredibly caffeinated Bronya who has been poring over page after page of textbooks and scrolling through assignments on her laptop for the better part of five hours. If she looked like she was on death’s door when she got there, Stelle doesn't want to see how much heavier the bags beneath her eyes have gotten since then.
Stelle’s eyes scan the shop: cups are in place, no customers, swept clean.
Perfect.
She slouches in her favorite booth—the one in the far corner that no one goes to but still has a view of the door—and fishes her phone out from her pocket, instantly swiping to Instagram.
Her search is short and simple: March.
Pictures of spring flowers and allergy memes pop up and she nearly whacks herself for thinking it would be that easy. It takes a couple minutes of fine tuning her searches and an embarrassing amount of scrolling through who her friends follow, but she eventually finds her.
@march.in.focus
Because of course she has a play on her own name in her handle. Her profile picture is of her holding up a peace sign and sticking her tongue out and Stelle almost doesn't click on it due to an attack on her face by a wave of rushing blood.
Okay. She can do this.
PFU 💪
Jump in with me!
📸 by Lightrise
👗 by Iris
A bunch of links are attached at the bottom as well but Stelle is more distracted by the second to last photo March posted. It's from Friday, two days ago, and is a picture of the matcha that Stelle had made for her.
“Another matcha mango sago in the books. #CutCafe I love you”
As if hearing her heartbeat in her ears wasn't enough, Stelle keeps scrolling. A majority of the photos are genuine photography and they're amazing. Professional level at the very least. But every so often there's a picture that Stelle is too embarrassed to dwell on despite wanting more than a glance. Pictures of March herself in an outfit provided by the Iris company she has in her bio or…just pictures of March existing. Pictures that seem criminal to even be posted considering how devilishly gorgeous she looks in all of them.
Pink lips, long legs, and her hands—Aeons, who knew someone’s hands could be so eye-catching?
At that thought, Stelle groans again. She clicks on every post that has a picture of a drink she's made just to check the caption. All of them are generic but contain some sort of praise for the cafe, which she takes as praise for herself considering they're the only times March comes in. As she flicks past another matcha post, she nearly throws her phone at mach speed through the wall.
Thankfully she catches herself before she does and instead closes the app with lightning speed and slams her phone screen-down onto the table. It creates an ugly crack in the empty store but Bronya doesn't even flinch.
March. Dress. Cleavage.
Stelle already knows that image is going to be burned into her mind for an eternity and a half. Tattooed onto her brain and chiseled into her skull and lasered onto her eyes. A physical copy will fly around like sheafs of paper in a whirlwind, inflicting papercuts on every square inch of the inside of her skull. The fact that she doesn't care if she bleeds for this woman is alarming, but considering nearly all of her blood is in her face already, it wouldn't be a difficult job to finish.
Well, fuck.
Not daring to touch her phone again, she checks the watch on her left wrist and exhales as steady as she can. The back of her head rests against the booth as she closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing. Breathing exercises help with more than just anxiety, it would seem.
Fucking gay panic as well.
As she's coming down (she is still inexplicably high up), the door jingles again and her coworker shakes off his sopping wet jacket and hangs it at the door without a care in the world. They wave at each other halfheartedly and Stelle stays rooted to her spot like a statue.
Another breath. In, count, out. Purge the image.
“If you wanna clock out you can.”
Stelle jumps out of her bones. “Can you—oh my god you're annoying.”
Caelus sports a smug grin. “I live to torment, sister. Go home, you look like shit.”
She doesn't care to argue knowing damn well that he's right. Whatever she looks like can't be pretty if she's been freaking out over a single interaction for the last forty-minutes. Seriously, it was that long?
“Goodnight Stelle,” Bronya says as she nears the door.
Stelle perks up. “Night, Bronya. Don't die.”
Bronya vaguely waves her off with a tired gesture and she leaves without another word. Bronya has like, a thousand majors because of the pressure of her family and it's insane. Stelle will stick to her one, thank you.
The rain is still going when she’s finally outside. It isn't pouring as it was, rather reduced to a comfortable mist instead. It's enough to enjoy without being drenched when she gets back to her dorm.
So, she stuffs her hands in her jacket pockets and treks the muddy trail home.
On working nights, she often wonders about the culture shock some people experience when they journey to Penacony or enroll at Paperfold. An entire city that doesn't sleep and instead is open twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five? that has to be terrifying. Lights never go out, people never sleep, and everyone has their own routine. Blackout curtains are a must have accommodation in every household.
It's never bothered her. She loves how alive and energetic the city feels at all times. For a moment, she wonders if March feels the same.
Stoooooooop. Stop it.
The next ten minutes of climbing the eight floors to her dormitory are filled with a slew of questions pertaining to March. Does she take the elevator? Does she like cardio? Does she like the donuts from that shop? Where is she from? Does she live on campus?
It's a nightmare.
“Any luck?” Firefly immediately asks, skipping any pleasantries. She's at her desk with her legs crossed beneath her in her spinny chair, laptop shamelessly blasting blue light at her.
“About what?” Stelle asks. She backtracks almost within the same second and rubs her face. “Oh my god, yes. Her name is March.”
Firefly quizzically gazes up at her. “March 7th?”
“You know her?”
Firefly shifts in her seat. “Not exactly. She's super popular. And also, how many people are named March?”
Stelle nods her head back and forth at that. She didn't exactly question the name upon hearing it and she's said it so many times in her head by now that it sounds as normal as Jessica. Her roommate’s name is Firefly, for crying out loud.
“Does your March do photography?”
Firefly nods with a pleased hum.
Against her better judgement, Stelle retrieves her phone and opens Instagram again, punching in the handle she found earlier and shows it to her roommate.
“That's her.” Firefly smiles at her, though it isn't malicious. It's something she's always valued about her. “You have a crush on Paperfold’s showgirl.”
“Showgirl?”
“She models for the Iris Family. The photo shoots on her page are from those.”
The dress.
If she ever gets her hands on a member of the Iris Family, she's thanking them. Then probably strangling them.
“Stelle?”
“What?” She spits.
Firefly giggles. “You're blushing.”
“Stop,” Stelle says, walking toward her side of the room. “I'm not blushing.”
“To be fair, she's very pretty. I can see why you like her.”
“I don't like her!” Stelle protests. After a moment, she scrolls back to the dress photo and internally screams.
She clicks it.
Stelle blinks once. Then twice. Then Firefly has to come over and take her phone to see what's going on.
Beneath the picture there is one very unmistakable button: the likes.
A pink like, to be specific.
On a picture from six months ago.
She's doomed.
—
The notification comes shortly after she's skipping away from CutCafe, practically her second home at this point. She feels her phone buzz and checks it, always making sure to be on top of messages, comments, emails, and everything in between. If she lost her phone, she'd lose her life. Seriously.
Instagram takes its sweet time loading once she clicks on the notification, courtesy of the rain, no doubt.
@galactic_baseballer9 likes a photo you posted.
A photo from…April.
With furrowed brows and a half-bitten straw, she adjusts the umbrella in the crook of her arm and clicks on the profile.
Private. Figures.
The profile’s icon, however, makes her squeal and do a little tap dance in the middle of the street.
Stelle with crinkled eyes and a lazy smile in the dim light of a restaurant. It looks incredibly candid from the pose and positioning and it brings a smile to March’s lips. She pockets her phone, adjusts her umbrella and matcha so that they're in separate hands again, and continues on her merry way back to her shared apartment.
Living on campus is slightly pricey, so she scored a double with a longtime friend instead: Dan Heng. He cooks and always leaves leftovers without her asking, so she gets to spend all of her money on overpriced matcha instead of groceries. He doesn't seem to mind. Encourages it even, sometimes. And it isn't like she doesn't help—she does dishes! Whenever…he doesn't get to them first.
Okay, to be fair, he's like a housewife on an unrealistic level. He studies, cooks, cleans, and tutors all while maintaining a healthy eight-hour sleep schedule and time to spend at the gym. It's ridiculous how perfect he is.
But that perfection allows March to get matcha away too many times a week, so she lets it slide. Because the matcha is really good, not because she's completely enamored with the barista. Definitely not.
The door echoes as she closes and locks it for the night. The light in the living room is still on, having been waiting for her, but Dan Heng’s room is pitch black as it always is at this time. Some days he's asleep already, others he just wants his peace—she doesn't blame him. Nine to midnight is her homework time and she takes that very seriously.
So, grabbing the container with her name on it from the fridge, she heats it up and treks into her room with sustenance in hand. She softly nudges the door shut behind her with a foot and plops down at her desk.
March’s room is all things March: string lights, a pinboard of photos, posters and too many keychains, a floor-length mirror, colorful rugs, twelve too many pillows and plushies on her giant and fluffy bed, and a neatly organized pile of folders and papers on her L-shaped desk that no doubt are filled with designs and assignments. Even her ceiling is decorated with stick-on stars that glow in the dark.
But it's Sunday…and she did most of her work the last two nights, so it can wait a little longer, right?
As she sticks her fork into the container of steak and rice, she scrolls through her phone with a purpose. She opens Instagram again, clicks on the notification, and hits the follow button on Stelle’s profile.
It's accepted within seconds, much to her delight and surprise. The ‘active now’ light is only a little intimidating as she studies the profile like it's her new homework.
Stelle only has five posts, four of which have friends in them. She doesn't seem like a social butterfly from her page alone, which is honestly fine. March can be that for both of them. The first and latest photo is from two months ago—Stelle and two others in soccer jerseys all standing with their arms over each other's shoulders. March squints at the picture for a second and blushes warmly to herself, smiling at the fact that the universe thinks it's funny that Stelle’s jersey number is seven.
The second picture is from April 26th and she can only guess that's Stelle's birthday from the way the cake is made. It's her and the same two friends (with a man too—he looks like her twin?) all with their faces aglow from the candles on the cake. She thinks it has to be in an apartment, what with cabinets being the only thing she can see in the background.
She doesn't even get to the fourth picture.
The third is of Stelle standing next to the memorial statue in one of the athletic halls and pointing at him with her mouth hanging open like an ‘o’. He has a mighty pose with his fists balled on his hips and his chin angled toward the sun.
Stelle doesn't copy that.
Oh, no.
The next picture on the third post is of Stelle’s bare arms flexing in front of the statue with a beaming smile on her lips, full teeth and all. The sleeves of her visually baggy grey-shirt are bunched up around her shoulders, allowing complete exposure of her deltoids to her wrists.
They're…perfect. And huge. And March has to remind herself to breathe for a second. She knew Stelle had to be jacked after the move she pulled in the cafe earlier—crossing her arms, that is. She had sleeves down to her elbows but the way her forearms popped was downright sinful. But now she knows there's more…a lot, lot more. Of thick, corded muscles everywhere on this woman. Perfect and sculpted and waiting for March’s teeth to sink into them.
A whimper sounds in the stillness of the room, barely heard over the low hum of the air conditioning. March spends the better part of fifteen minutes studying the photo and berating herself for each train of thought that comes along with new observations, but she doesn't click off nor does she put her phone down. She soldiers through for science—and only science—and memorizes every divot and line on Stelle’s arms.
They have to be…twelve…no, thirteen inches. God, is that even allowed? She has the face of an angel, the raspy voice that gets March all hot and bothered, and now she's ripped? What other parts of her body look like this? How thick are her thighs? Does she have the jutting shelf on her calves from running? What about a rock-hard six-pack waiting for some tongue action?
Okay, wow. Wow. March puts her phone down and immediately bee lines for the kitchen again. She hopes she's being quiet for her roommate’s sake, but she can't really tell with all the blood in her ears. She doesn't keep the freezer open for long, just long enough to cool off and grab a blue popsicle. When she holds it to her forehead, she's surprised it doesn't start steaming.
Once the popsicle is eaten and she thinks she's a suitable temperature again, she retreats back to her desk and huffs.
Maybe this whole…wanting to be friends with her barista thing is getting a little out of control. Her friends are pretty! Robin is super gorgeous! She can be friends with attractive women. It's a walk in the park!
That was before she had the harrowing thought dawn on her: Stelle is exactly her type. Tall, strong, picturesque. She's the perfect subject. Whether or not she means for her hands or her camera is yet to be seen.
She can do this. Pretend she never saw what Stelle hides beneath her oversized clothing and apron that’s never tied tight enough and go in there on Wednesday for a friendly chat. Grab her matcha, ask how she's doing, then go home to three more hours of homework. Easy.
So…why do her hands itch with the urge for more?
Maybe it's the thrill of new friends. The prospect of a new personality springing into her life has always been something March craves. She's worked with a thousand and one types of people and been friends with even more. Just in her classes alone, she can name fifty different types of personalities that she's had the opportunity to meet and explore. She loves people and she loves being curious.
Stelle is unlike any of those people she's met.
Their banter always bounces back and forth in sync—March has never had to apologize or clarify what she meant because Stelle returns it with that same toothy grin and a twirl of the straw she gets handed. She's soft-spoken and yet not quiet, meticulous but not rushed when she does her job. Stelle is a mind numbing enigma who is no doubt going to plague March’s inner world to the point she won't be able to focus on anything.
The faster she can become friends, the faster she can get through whatever this is. She’ll dive in on Wednesday and conquer this sickly sweet concoction brewing in her chest.
A notification dings.
Reminder: 10/20, CC!! Event!!!!!!! HALLOWEEN GOODIES!!!!!!!!!
Regrettably, Stelle doesn't work Mondays. This is good though! She gets to be in her favorite cafe without the panic of knowing a little too much about her favorite barista's private life now.
This is fine.
Things are fine.
—
Stelle is rudely awakened half an hour before her alarm the next day by a text asking if she can cover a shift at CutCafe. Her bleary eyes are blinked out of existence in no less than three seconds upon reading it as she types back a decisive ‘sure’.
The day goes by without a hitch—practice is cancelled due to the ongoing rain and flooded fields and the boys were owed the inside field after the girls had it last time. From eight to three, she's in classes barely paying attention. Until five, she relaxes and digs into a chunk of homework, then it's off to the real work.
CutCafe, when she arrives, is decorated with fall festivities. There's a table set up for the anime they're collaborating with and an arching banner with its name in bubbly, bright letters. She only recognizes it because of Firefly, much to her chagrin, but she's more than pleased with the pumpkins and oranges and browns that seemingly were vomited all over the shop since the previous night. Caelus’ doing, no doubt—he loves decorating.
There’s also a handful of students already in there, whether they're tucked into their own booths or there for the event or not. It's lively for a Monday evening.
“Ahhhh, we haven't worked together in so long! Isn't this exciting?” Naomi, another coworker that works the same hours as Stelle, is sporting a wide smile as she approaches. The latter is immediately smushed in a hug.
“Exciting is one word,” Stelle grunts upon being barely able to return the tight embrace.
Naomi is, all things considered, a beast of a woman. She's nearly a foot taller than Stelle and has great, gangly limbs that she doesn't exactly know what to do with at any given time. Brown curls frame her face and there isn't a warmer set of brown eyes on the planet than hers. She's the embodiment of what one would consider the feeling they get after the first sip of a cup of tea.
“I love Street Heroes. The fact that we get to host this is so cool.”
Stelle shuffles to the side and nods along, knowing she's in for a haul.
“Do you watch anime? I feel like it isn't for everyone. But Street Heroes is kinda like, anime adjacent almost. The animation is super different.”
She fluffs her hair after she puts her apron on, making sure it's how it's supposed to be (wildly untamed, mind you, with no intention of ever being brushed). As Naomi keeps talking, the door jingles.
If Stelle freaks out and tightens her apron a little too tight, that's between…well, her and a March who is staring directly at her right now.
“Stelle!” March happily waves. She skips over with a small simper and leans forward just enough to look up at Stelle through her lashes. The latter gulps. “Thought ya didn't work Mondays.”
“She doesn't, but Wati called out and we needed someone,” Naomi excitedly replies.
Today, March is donning a pair of brown overalls and a white, ruffled undershirt. The overalls aren't exactly overalls, but Stelle doesn't know fashion terms—they stop at mid-thigh and only go up to just beneath her boobs. The straps go over her exposed shoulders though, so overalls is close enough. Her nearly sheer socks go up to her knees and her…heels? Have too many buckles to keep track of, but they're cute. She's cute.
Stelle definitely has no clue what they're talking about.
“I know, right? When Tayiki finally confessed to Maru, I swear I cried for an hour,” March says, giggling along with Naomi.
“You didn't answer earlier, Stelle. Do you watch anime?”
Stelle swallows hard as her gaze darts between her coworker and March. Naomi expectantly looks at her, waiting for an answer, while March is raking her eyes up and down. It's subtle, but she feels the heat rising to inexplicably high levels and she almost keels over with how pathetic her response sounds.
“No,” she wheezes. Maybe she should retie her apron. But what if March stops looking at her? Idea scrapped.
“Well, if you ever want to, you should totally watch Street Heroes.” Without missing a beat, Naomi waves at the jingling door. “Welcome to CutCafe!”
With that, Stelle is left alone with March.
“Um.” She nervously says, not having anything to fidget with driving her nerves up the wall. She hooks her thumbs in the side strings of her apron instead, flexing her shoulders back. March immediately looks up.
“Not a fan of the show, I take it?” March asks. Whether her cheeks are naturally red or it's the lighting, only the Aeons know.
“My roommate likes it. It's half the reason I took the shift.”
“And the other half?”
Stelle shrugs, feeling more comfortable by the second. It's her favorite customer—this shouldn't be as intimidating as she's making it. Her favorite, adorable and very talented customer who she sees very normally. Not in a dress on an Instagram post.
“Practice was cancelled. Had nothing else to do.”
“Soccer, right?”
Grey hair bobs as Stelle nods. “And softball.”
“Ahh, your Instagram makes sense now,” March ephiphanizes. “Soccer in the fall, softball in the spring?”
“Yeah.” Stelle fears she may have to sit down soon if they talk any longer—her face is seconds from overheating. “You…looked through my page?”
“Well, I didn't follow you for no reason, silly. I wanna get to know you! Social media does wonders for that if you weren't such a ghost.”
Stelle releases a nervous heh-heh. March shakes her head with a smile.
“Since you're working tonight…would you want to help me?”
Tilting her head, Stelle asks: “With what?”
March holds up her camera like it's the most obvious thing in the world. How Stelle missed that she was even carrying it is beyond her.
Come to think of it, there were posts on her page that looked awfully similar to the interior of CutCafe. She ignored them in favor of the…other ones. The ones that she has yet to rid herself of and is thus creating difficulties in this conversation.
“You do the events here?”
“I see that this is a one-sided stalking,” March says with a mischievous grin. Even with heels on, she's still sort of looking up at Stelle.
“No, I—I looked at your posts, I swear. I was, um…” Stelle gulps again. Sooner than later she won't even have saliva to keep down. “I mostly looked at the matcha posts.”
March’s expression softens into something less devilish and more leaning toward genuine. Stelle can only pray to whatever god can hear her that she never noticed the like she left by accident. The like that she didn't even know she left during her first browse in the cafe booth.
“Seeing if I mentioned ya? Don’t worry, it's all good things. You make a mean matcha.”
“Do you tell that to every barista that makes your matcha?”
March furrows her brows. “Kinda hard to do that when I get something different on the days you don't work.”
Oh. Oh, okay.
Clearing her throat, Stelle unhooks her thumbs from her apron and instead crosses her arms in hopes of having a defense against March’s onslaught of shamelessly flirtatious remarks. Or perhaps she's only taking them as such because it's how she wants them to be meant. Either way, Stelle can't prove Firefly nor her denial right—this isn't a crush.
“I'm the only one?”
March nods. The bow in her hair swivels. “The others can't make it right.”
“You do realize you're boosting my ego, right?” Stelle asks with a smug grin.
“Maybe that's the goal,” March says, sticking her tongue out. “Gotta get you to like me somehow.”
If only she knew.
“Don't…try too hard. I already really like you,” Stelle admits. She doesn't register that the words came out of her mouth until March is beaming at her.
“Mm. Noted.” March fidgets with her camera for a moment, her smile turning languid but refusing to dissipate. It's in her eyes, too—crinkled at the edges and glimmering with that spark. Stelle is careful not to get lost in it again.
“What do you need me to do?” Stelle finds herself asking.
March perks up and takes a breath.
For the next three hours, Stelle is holding props, lighting accessories, backgrounds, positioning couples and groups, and handing out an assortment of provided goodies to people interested in the pop-up event. More than a few times, she catches herself watching March snap a photo or bend in an uncomfortable way to achieve the perfect angle. At least she knows she's flexible.
A horrendously lustful thought, she should add. Stelle can't count the number of times her mind has wandered to that image in the hours past despite knowing it's wrong. Despite knowing that March is more than what she looks like—and she's overly inclined to learn every detail she can, down to the nitty-gritty childhood traumas—she can't dispel the hormone driven thoughts that sludge the cogs in her brain regardless of how stalwart her efforts to burn the sludge away are. She's repeatedly taken torches in attempts to clear the fog, to no avail.
But…March keeps looking back at her. She keeps touching her hands to adjust what she's holding or touching her shoulders to make sure she isn't tense. She leaves a trail of fire everywhere she goes and Stelle can only hope she burns alive to avoid any further embarrassment or worse, falling for her. Fleeting touches and lingering glances have never felt so intimate before in her life and it's quickly ruining her and any prospects she had for the future.
Half an hour in, March got her to take her apron off. Her excuse was that Naomi was taking care of the counter and thus Stelle didn’t need it—which led to fidgeting with her clothing as well. Even now, March swats at Stelle’s hand when she goes to untuck her t-shirt. Her outfit is plain today, not having expected March’s presence. Not that…she dresses up for her. She only makes sure to look put together on those days and this is certainly not one of those days. Stelle is clobbering around in a grey t-shirt a size too big and black tactical joggers she's got tucked into her boots and yet March still manages to fix her enough to be photo worthy.
And if Stelle bristles when March’s hands untuck her shirt and graze her hips, then that moment can be lost to time. If it even thinks of venturing toward her mind whatsoever, the torches are coming back out. The goosebumps will never fade, but by god the memory will.
During the last hour, Stelle is released and helps Naomi out with the influx of event-goers that tuned into March’s stories. With each coffee she brews, she can feel March’s hands all over her. With every tea she steeps, she can hear March’s demanding tone as she directs her on what to do. Demanding, yes, but not harsh. March commands the very air she breathes when her camera is in hand and if Stelle is to be in the same atmosphere, she may as well follow her lead.
“I think I might die,” Naomi says, slouching against the counter. It's awkward given her height but she makes do.
Stelle sighs. “You've been here since noon. I don't blame you.”
“But it was so fun! And I get free Street Heroes merch!”
So does Stelle, all things considered. A tote bag, a shirt, and a keychain. Christmas is coming early for Firefly.
But that isn't even a fraction of the reasons she'd do this all over again if given the chance.
March is sitting in Stelle’s usual booth by herself, completely absorbed by her camera. Scrolling through photos, no doubt. A half finished caramel Frappuccino idles on the table, along with a Halloween donut (chocolate glazed with bat and ghost sprinkles) and a wrinkled tote bag that's missing a handle that they had to set aside.
“And you got a lot of time with Miss Showgirl,” Naomi adds.
Stelle whips her head to the counter. “Is that what everyone calls her? Firefly said the same thing.”
“Well, yeah. She's worked hard to make a name for herself. It's weird that you don't know any of this.”
“We established a long time ago that I rarely know anything,” Stelle breathes.
They share a tired laugh before Naomi yawns.
“Okay, I think I really do need to go before I fall asleep on this weirdly comfortable countertop.” Naomi straightens up with a stretch and points a finger at Stelle. “You need to sweep that girl off her feet and make sure she doesn't break her eyes looking at that camera the rest of the night.”
“I'm not sweeping her off her feet,” Stelle murmurs.
Naomi snorts as she tosses her apron in the dirty bin. “Girls love being picked up, trust me. But maybe like…save it for the fourth date or something.”
“We aren't dating.”
“Yet.”
Stelle’s exhaustion may be creeping into her bones, but it's never enough to be unable to gawk at the antics of her coworkers. Especially Naomi.
“A blind woman could've seen how you two handled each other. Oh my god, make a move.”
Stelle groans half her sentence out. “Go home.”
“Going,” Naomi giggles. She waves as she topples out the door, having to duck to ensure she doesn't hit her head.
Which leaves…March. And a couple of lingering groups, but they don't matter.
She's absent-mindedly chewing on her bottom lip as her thumb clicks the next button photo after photo. A single one of her legs shakes as she does so, her foot tapping against the tile without a sound.
A flurry of butterflies attacks Stelle the moment she catches herself staring from across the cafe like a freak. They swarm her heart in such a way that makes her believe, if only momentarily, that she will be taken high into the sky with how weightless they make her feel.
March is like floating on a cloud, it seems.
“Yo, time for you to hit the bricks,” Caelus says.
Stelle startles. “Can you ever approach me normally?”
“Coming from the girl who usually throws shit at me to get my attention? Where'd that gremlin go?” He asks, already clocked in. He follows his sister’s gaze and makes a sound of acknowledgement. “Ahhh I'm interrupting. Say less.”
Before Stelle can make her own choices, Caelus is punching in her numbers to clock her out and is ripping her apron off her like he's being paid to do so. He gently nudges her toward March and makes a shooing motion.
All things considered, she should be grateful that he's so straight forward.
“Can I join you?” Stelle nervously asks.
March jumps in surprise, having been in her own world for far too long. It swiftly melts into a warm smile.
“I'd love that,” she says.
Instead of sitting across from her, however, March scoots in and pats the seat she vacated. Stelle's just about run out of saliva after how many times she's had to swallow her words tonight.
“What's your schedule?” Stelle asks when she sits down, her neck craning to see the photos.
March grins. “Why? Wanna spend time with me?”
Oh, Stelle blushes all over again. “I was asking to make sure you get enough sleep,” she murmurs. “But if that's okay—”
“If it's okay? Stelle, I've been trying not to come off super strong and scare you off this whole time and you're like, all gentlewomanly about it.”
“I think it's safe to assume that's mutual.” Stelle smiles.
March nods with an affirmant hum. “My workshops are from noon to eight. Then I drop my bag off at home, come here, grab my matcha, and do homework until midnight. I'm usually out by one or two but I really like sleeping in. I'm a nine am kinda gal.”
“God, I wish. I had to take mornings for sports.”
“So…grabbing breakfast together would be a weekend only gig?”
Pleasantly surprised, Stelle sucks on her cheek as she nods once. “Or a late dinner.”
March scrambles to wave her free hand in front of her. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Eating that late feels awful.”
“Your schedule is definitely more packed than mine. I can move things around.”
That's what friends do, right?
Pink-blue eyes crease into little half moons as she smiles brighter than the sun. “What about Saturday?”
“I'm free.”
“Sweet!” March pulls out her phone and opens it to her contacts. She sets it on the table and waits for Stelle to type her number in. “There's a Halloween party if you want to go.”
Stelle slides the phone back over once her number is in it. She promptly ignores the giddiness that overcomes her. “Are you gonna be there?”
“Duh.”
“Hmm…as a guest or PR?”
March opens her phone to her messages and at last begins packing her camera and all its parts. Even as she shuts everything down and takes it apart, she's smiling. She's always smiling.
“As a guest. The only pictures I'll be taking will be with my phone.”
“Text me the details?”
“Way ahead of you.”
Stelle feels her pocket buzz as March taps away at her phone. Without hesitation, she renames the unknown number to ‘March 💖’.
“Can I…walk you home?”
March’s eyes widen in surprise before they settle into something comfortable. Easy, welcoming. She nods.
“Do you live in the dorms?”
“Yeah. Do you not?”
Caelus waves them out with a shit-eating grin. A flash of connection makes itself present on March’s face, almost as if something started making sense, but Stelle closes the door behind them before he has the opportunity to yell something stupid.
“Nope,” March says with the donut in her mouth. She adjusts her camera bag to rest on her hip so she can double fist the coffee and donut. “Oak Hall. It's next to the campus but it isn't on the route.”
“Huh. And you walk all the way to CC? Isn't there a coffee shop over there?”
The eye roll is practically audible. “Do you work there?”
“Don't think so.”
“Point proven,” March smugly says. “Besides, I used to go there. It tastes like cardboard compared to the stuff you guys make.”
Stelle victoriously chuckles. “You're ego boosting again.”
“I'm not!” March laughs. “I'm telling the truth.”
“Uh-huh. How's that donut?”
“Heavenly.”
“And the frappe?”
“Perfectly blended.”
“She's a charmer,” Stelle says to no one. The second March nudges her with her elbow, she thinks she may explode.
“A charmer that never lies.” She crumples the paper the donut came in and stuffs it in a vacant pocket in her bag. “Do you drink coffee?”
“I can't stand it.”
March snorts. “What do you drink?”
Stelle confidently poses. “Juice boxes.”
A moment of silence creeps by, then March is laughing. For a second, Stelle wants to bottle the sound and set it on her shelf. The thought dizzies her.
“I don't know what I was expecting,” March says as she wipes a tear.
“Don't be a hater. Coffee stunts your growth.” Stelle grins. “Probably why you're so short.”
“I'm five-six!”
Stelle makes a show of measuring their heights as her hand goes from her forehead clean over the top of March’s hair, even missing the bow. She grins wider as March’s cheeks flare.
“You’re just impossibly tall.” March hmphs. “You're like a tree.”
“That just means you can climb me,” Stelle thoughtlessly replies. She does most things thoughtlessly, without thought, without a single brain cell present. But the way she talks to March is different. It's still without thinking, yes—but it's natural, as if there was never a choice to say anything else.
March sputters and coughs as she pulls her straw away from her lips, having gone for a sip before Stelle’s comment.
“Is that a promise?” March rasps, her eyes shamelessly squaring up the woman beside her.
For the umpteenth time that night, Stelle gulps. Being…observed so closely sends a chill down her spine. And back up. And straight between her legs.
Girls love being picked up. Dammit, Naomi was right.
“Y-yup. Whenever you need a tree, call me.”
“I'll keep that in mind,” March purrs.
Stelle, for obvious reasons, hadn’t noticed they'd been standing at the entrance to March’s apartment building for at least a minute. She's positive she's nearing spontaneous combustion, so her environment isn't exactly on her list of importance right now.
“Thanks for walking me,” March says.
“Any time.”
“I'll see you Wednesday?”
Stelle nods. Before she can turn to go, March steps toward her and in one fluid motion kisses her cheek. She feels the ends of March’s hair tickle her neck for a split second, the softest lips she's ever felt, and warmth invade her like a tidal wave. And it's all gone before she can savor it.
“Goodnight,” March innocently says. The street light illuminates the blush of her cheeks, however, and Stelle feels vindicated for it.
“Good—night,” Stelle stutters.
March is long gone when Stelle finally has the courage to breathe, let alone move. She can still smell faint hints of her perfume if she tries hard enough—and boy does she try. With unsteady legs, she treks to the dormitories and lightly traces the phantom outline of lips on her cheek with her fingertips. It takes her four tries to unlock the door.
Firefly is in her usual spot, though with headphones on this time. Probably why she didn't help Stelle’s dazed self by unlocking the door.
“I'm in love,” Stelle admits as she leans on the nearest wall.
Noticing her, Firefly slides her headphones to her neck and expectantly looks up at her roommate.
“I'm…” Stelle collapses on the floor and groans into the carpet. “I'm in love with her.”
A mouselike giggle comes from above, no doubt from her roommate who was rooting for her from the start. Even when she's praying on Stelle’s downfall, she's kind about it.
“What happened to 'it's not a crush’?” Firefly’s smile comes out in her voice full force.
“I lied.” Stelle’s words are muffled by the floor but she can't care less. “I admit defeat. I have a crush.”
“That's great news, Stelle. Acceptance is the first step in—”
“Don't you dare therapy me.”
Firefly shakes with mirth. “What happened tonight?”
Taking her time to reply, Stelle drags a long sigh from her lungs and sits up with her back against her bed frame. Firefly is cross-legged in her chair as always.
“She covers the events for CC and roped me into helping her. And then I got her number and she invited me to a party and”—Stelle chokes on her saliva and clears her throat—”she kissed my cheek?”
“Is that a question?”
“Right here.” Stelle angles her face to point at her right cheek with a single finger.
“It sounds like she feels the same as you do.”
“Don't feed the delusion.”
Firefly’s laughing again, though much softer. “She's putting in effort to get to know you. If that doesn't show mutual interest, I don't know what does.”
Regardless of Firefly’s poking and prodding for the next half hour, Stelle is staying a firm believer that March cannot and will not return these…stupid feelings. March can do a whole lot better than her—like, a dozen social classes higher than her better. For as popular as she is, she'd want to be with someone like that, right? With another person who has a spotlight shining on them at all times? Who gets stopped on the sidewalk because they're recognized?
Outside of her athletic circles, Stelle is a ghost. She doesn't talk in classes and she doesn't walk to lectures with a friend hanging off her arm. Her entire life she's kept to herself and maybe one or two people and it has done her well so far, so there's never been any reason to change it. They're polar opposites when it comes to being socialites and that's a fact Stelle is clinging to in her delusions.
March is a gorgeous social butterfly; an extrovert to her very core. Friends for every event and a penchant for making more (how easily she ensnared Stelle is proof). Every fiber of her being is woven with welcoming pink threads. There isn't a single trait she possesses that isn't amiable and warm.
Stelle is…less inviting. She isn't an introvert, but she doesn't seek people out either. It's easier being in her own bubble and focusing on whatever it is she has to focus on. Firefly’s been her friend since high school and it's worked thus far—there's truly no reason to make more friends when she already has one. And it isn't as if people don't know her. Asta says hi to her in the mornings and Phainon keeps hounding her for a rematch because he insists that his boyfriend won't distract him again (it's happened twice. Mydei knows what he's doing. He also knows that Stelle knows what he's doing. They had a laugh about it). She's not popular, but she gets around.
It won't work out between them and that's only reason one.
Reason two…Stelle stares at her ceiling for at least an hour unable to sleep as she thinks about it. Collects everything that's happened with March over the last two months and runs it over and over again like a movie marathon. Their schedules? Stelle already said she can move things around, and it's not like they'll be this way forever. Fashion? If March has an issue with the way she dresses, she's more than willing to listen to advice. Maybe…
Well, fuck.
Scrap number two because there is no second reason. Even reason number one is flimsy and Stelle knows it. She knows it's her brain trying to convince her to tap out and run away before it can hurt her, but it's March—March who is warm and smells of vanilla and citrus, March who has soft eyes and gentle hands, March who leaves kisses on Stelle’s cheeks.
Stelle is trying to find the bad when there was only ever good to begin with.
She tosses her blanket off and rotates onto her side with a huff.
She has a crush, yes.
And she will get through it.
—
As March excitedly bounces off the walls of the so-dubbed party house, she can't help but mull over how the last few days have gone. Wednesday and Friday with pestering Stelle went exceptionally well—March, the little imp she is, pulled out every stop she could when it came to flirting and flustered the poor woman. She is beyond ready to make a move, especially after discussing it with Robin a million times.
Acceptance came effortlessly and gently for March.
It also came with spontaneous smiles and jolts of energy that she doesn't know what to do with, meaning that she isn't shutting up.
“She's perfect, Robin. Like, goddess in a garden, perfect,” March laments.
Robin’s had a genial smile on her lips through her friend’s ranting. She apparently knows everything about this mystery woman that March is enamored with except her name.
“What do you plan to do?” Robin asks, reaching a hand out to adjust March’s halo. They're in matching angel costumes, but March opted for the corset whereas Robin chose a shirt. For…obvious reasons, she knows.
March tilts her head forward for easier access and pouts.
“I don't know. I freak out the second she's gone but I'm like…all cool in front of her. But what if she doesn't want me?”
With a hum, Robin lifts March’s face with both hands on either side of her jaw and slightly squishes her cheeks.
“Do you think she doesn't want you?”
March shakes her head no.
“There you have it.” She blows a stray hair from March’s face. “From what you've told me, she seems to like you. Trust your instincts, March.”
As she goes to reply, all the words she thought she knew immediately vacate her mind. Her pupils dilate almost instantly and Robin has to stifle a giggle as she moves her hands away and follows her friend’s gaze to the door.
Stelle. Toga. Half-naked.
Robin inhales. “Stelle?”
March’s neck snaps. “You know her?”
“Not…exactly.” Robin blushes, something she so rarely does. “She’s Firefly’s roommate.”
“Oh, that…”
Things are starting to make sense.
And—and! When things work out, they can go on double dates!
Needless to say, March gets way too ahead of herself in one thought process and shakes her head to begin anew.
…Only to realize Stelle is staring directly at her with a lopsided grin on her face.
March’s cheeks heat to higher temperatures with every step Stelle takes toward her in her golden pedila and swaying toga. It's barely decent enough to cover to mid-thigh and isn't high enough to hide the waistband of her—Goodfellow briefs? Aeons, it's a men’s costume. Half her body is exposed as she saunters over with her shoulders leading her cadence. She's all hips and shoulders and so much fucking muscle and March thinks these may be her last moments alive. She is completely on board with being buried in this house, six feet under, if Stelle is the one holding the shovel.
“Hey,” Stelle casually greets.
Don't put your—you put your hands on your hips. Okay.
“H-hi,” March squeaks. “You look…good.”
“Thanks.” She warmly smiles. “My brother got the wrong size, so he let me have it. You look”—she clears her throat and it sounds more like a grunt—”gorgeous.”
Robin mutely snickers at the word choice and March has half a mind to elbow her.
“Thank you.” It's silent between the two of them for at least three seconds, droned out by the sound of pop music and somebody calling for shots. Then, “O-oh! This is Robin.”
“I know.” Stelle rubs the back of her neck. “I've been playing wingman for these two forever.”
Robin shyly giggles behind her hand. “My apologies for making it difficult for you.”
“Not at all.” Stelle grins. “Gives Firefly something to talk about for hours.”
“Mm. That makes me happy to hear. I'm sure March feels the same way.”
“I do,” March happily sighs. “And now we’re even!”
“Speaking of which, I'll take my leave.” Robin nods to Stelle and squeezes March's arm. “Enjoy your night.”
After they both bid their own farewell, silence blankets them once more. March fidgets with her fingers while Stelle leans against the bartop they were at, her arms crossed. By the looks of it she's completely unbothered, so it makes March relax by a hair.
God, this is going to be difficult.
“I like the corset,” Stelle says. “It…” her eyes flick up and then away, “suits you.”
March’s uncertainty melts away like a popsicle in summer heat—she can use this. For all her nonchalance, Stelle is just as big a mess as she is. Perfect.
“Suits me how?” March purrs. She can see when Stelle swallows the lump in her throat and she has to stop herself from smirking.
Stelle shifts. It's an odd adjustment for her now that March, in her heels (that almost make her taller and go up to her knees), is the same height. Curse palida for being flat.
“Can I be inappropriate?”
March beams. “I'd be offended if you weren't.”
Another rough sound and moving shoulders. She looks at March with dark eyes and…hunger, almost. March can only imagine she mirrors that right now.
“Your boobs look really good,” Stelle breathes. Like a machine releasing steam, it's as if that comment was being held back and was clogging the systems.
Mm. Yeah. She's getting kissed tonight.
“Closer inspections are hard to come by,” March says. “But I could make an exception for you.”
Stelle pushes off the bartop with the reddest face March thinks she's ever seen—and she's positive the dim Halloween lights aren't contributing to it at all—and swivels in a circle frantically searching for something.
“I need a drink,” she says. “I need several if you’re gonna flirt with me.”
“Juice boxes?” March innocently smiles, though her heart is raging in its cage.
At least Stelle knows she's flirting with her. Progress.
Stelle rubs her face and manically smiles.
“They have green apple bombs and vampire blood shots,” March offers. “I don't know what's in them.”
“That is A-okay.” Stelle steps away and then turns back on her heel. “Do you want anything?”
March shakes her head. “I think I'll stick to flirting with you sober.”
She swears she hears a whimper.
Okay, recap: Stelle actually came to the party March invited her to. They complimented each other. March is flirting and Stelle knows she's flirting and is even encouraging it. She said her boobs looked good. What's a girl to do?
What's a girl to do especially when Stelle is ninety-nine percent taut muscle and is barely wearing any clothing and looking at her like that? With dark eyes laced with heady want? With need?
Succumb, of course. That's what she oughta do.
“Water, for the princess,” Stelle says as she sets a bottle on the bartop next to March. She has a cup in her hand and…red dribbling from the corner of her mouth.
Like a vampire.
“You have”—March raises a hand to swipe at it and catches herself before she can—”vampire shot?”
Stelle dabs at it with her thumb and manages to spread it more. On purpose, March can only assume, because she makes no further action to get rid of the rest of it. Instead, she opens her mouth just enough to lick at the edge of it.
March follows the movement with rapt attention.
“Vampire shots are—uh, body shots. I opted to not do that, so they feed it to you instead?” Stelle sets her cup down and shrugs. “They missed my mouth.”
“Clearly,” March says. Her heart is louder than the music at this point, her eyes tracking the blood dribbling further until it trails to Stelle’s chin. She isn't even decent enough to feel shame when drool pools in her mouth at the thought of licking it up for her.
“Did I miss any?” Stelle asks.
March blinks twice before she jumps and replies. “There.” She points at Stelle’s chin. “Do you want me to—?”
As the question hangs in the air, Stelle wraps her fingers around March’s wrist and holds her hand there. A breath from her mouth, she need only swipe her thumb to collect the blood.
But she doesn't. Because this woman is going to drive her fucking mad.
Stelle’s lips part enough to be considered indecent and March can only hope she's the same. She lost most feeling in her body the second Stelle chivalrously came back with a water and a downright lascivious trail of blood dripping from the corner of her mouth.
“March…” Stelle breathes. She thinks she does, at least. It's difficult to tell with the music blaring possibly the most cliche and fitting song it could.
You said you like my lips—well, do you wanna try them?
The blood drips further and threatens to splatter to the floor if they wait any longer, a single droplet hanging precariously from the corner of Stelle’s chin.
You like the way they sit, so baby come and ride them—
March’s free hand buries itself in Stelle’s hair as she pulls her forward and licks the blood from her chin to her lips, swirling the taste on her tongue. She stays level with Stelle, analyzing her reaction (panic—and a level of amusement), and craves the taste of more.
She’ll taste like the cheap grenadine and Chambord and March will happily lap up all of it.
Stelle drops the wrist she was holding in favor of March's waist and kisses her in one fluid motion. She tastes like cherry flavored chapstick and feels like heaven.
This is everything she's been waiting for.
March tugs with the hand she has in Stelle’s hair, earning a whimper, and paws at her stomach like a woman possessed, desperately grabbing and clawing any muscle she can find. She is pleasantly surprised when Stelle flexes her abs and pulls March flush against her, which successfully traps her hand between them. She can't complain. Chiseled abs against her palm and plush lips roughly devouring her shouldn't feel so…good.
Stelle momentarily recoils to look at her—ragged breathing, blown pupils, twitching hands. March can barely focus when she hungrily dives back in and suckles on her bottom lip, dragging it enough to make a popping noise, then chases her lips with another kiss. She can feel Stelle breathlessly chuckle when March softly moans into her mouth—which earns her another tug at her hair in protest.
March feels the edge of a stool lightly hit her back as Stelle steps toward her, forcing her to match. She pathetically whimpers the second strong, warm hands lift from her thighs until she's sat in the stool, Stelle obediently between her legs and her hands now resting on March’s thighs instead.
It's indecent and she knows it—the fact that she has shorts beneath her costume is a miracle—but she doesn't care. Not when Stelle is licking into her mouth and clashing teeth against teeth like she isn't meant to be anywhere else, as if she was simply born to kiss March and be hers.
And especially when, like an actual vampire, Stelle sinks her canines into March’s neck. The latter gasps and digs painted, trimmed nails into Stelle’s toned back, biting her lip to stifle a more desperate noise. She feels a trail of wet kisses and bites that will doubtlessly bloom with purple and black marks before she has time to leave the party and cover them up and all she can do is release whimper after whimper as she turns to putty in this woman’s hands. Every mark sends a spark directly between her legs and it's only a matter of time before her self control slips and she throws Stelle in a fucking…supply closet or something to have her way with her.
Stelle kisses the junction of her jaw and back to her lips, savoring the flavor of cherries and the succulent smack! each time she pulls away. March’s hands are wrapped around her biceps now, her legs nearly the same, though Stelle supposes she needs to save some dignity and is opting to forgo that.
“Stelle,” March pants against her lips.
Retreating enough to make hazy eye contact, Stelle hums.
“We should…probably stop.”
With a lazy smile, Stelle stands up straight, though March immediately follows her to keep contact. Their hands stay rooted to each other, squeezing enough to drive each other insane, yet not enough to commit in the middle of a public room. (For good reason).
“Do you want to?” Stelle asks. She's a lot better at regulating her breathing because she does cardio for fun—but her breath is still strangled for completely different reasons.
“No,” March quickly rasps. She tightens her grip on Stelle’s biceps, no doubt leaving a white imprint, and flexes her thighs enough to bring Stelle in just a little closer. “But it would be pretty bad if I fucked you at a party.”
Oh. My. God.
Stelle’s jaw drops and stutters its way back up in hopes of finding a response—to no avail. March giggles at her reaction, apparently back to her normal self, and Stelle is reeling.
She's never heard March curse before, let alone say anything that could be considered remotely dirty. She's proper and cute and any time she flirted, it was respectful and leaning toward banter rather than outright trying to get a rise out of Stelle.
This? This is new. And exhilarating. And entirely arousing.
“You're right,” Stelle manages to say. Her voice has dropped by at least an octave as she tries desperately to gather herself from off the floor. “I…also really wanna take you on a date.”
“Mm. I'd like that.”
“So…” Stelle awkwardly clears her throat. “Date first?”
March smiles and nods, moving her hands up to Stelle’s neck in the process. She links her arms over Stelle’s shoulders and pulls her back in.
“So long as I get to ruin you afterward,” March murmurs.
Aeons, just kill her at this point.
“You can do whatever you want to me,” Stelle mumbles against her lips.
March titters and moves away before they can kiss, much to Stelle’s dismay.
“Does that include asking why you liked a picture from April?”
Stelle grimaces. “Oh my god, I've been praying you didn't see that.”
“A red dress. Is that the kinda girl you like?”
“No,” Stelle sputters. She's too embarrassed to realize March is messing with her and enjoying it. “I liked—oooughh.” She leans forward and rests her forehead on March’s shoulder instead, reveling in the way her hair is played with.
March doesn't reply. She's having much too grand a time trying not to laugh.
“...I liked your boobs,” comes her muffled response.
“I'm starting to understand that,” March mirthfully chirps.
Stelle’s hands trail up to March’s hips and bunch the fabric up as a way to ground herself so she can face the woman in front of her. Glimmering pink-blue eyes meet amber and Stelle is fucked all over again.
“Can you blame me?”
March shakes her head with a smile. “I'm the same way with these.” She ghosts her fingertips over Stelle’s bicep and relishes the goosebumps she leaves behind. “And definitely this.” Her knuckles graze Stelle’s abdomen and she can hear when her heart rate picks back up.
“Got it,” Stelle shakily breathes.
With one last minuscule laugh, March makes a movement for Stelle to back away and hops off the stool. She adjusts her halo and wings (though Stelle was very good about not touching them) and smooths her skirt before reaching for Stelle’s hand. Rough, calloused, warm. She's never letting go.
“Should I ask?” Stelle grins.
“I'm hungry,” March says, leading them toward the door. “Hope you don't mind cashing in on that date.”
“Not at all.”
They end up at a food joint giving out discounts for people ordering in costumes, chatting up a storm late into the night as they talk about anything and everything under the sun. At midnight, they end up back at March's apartment, alternating between kissing each other senseless and Scream VI, then venture into the kitchen for snacks at two only to find out that the boy her brother has been seeing since last year is March’s roommate. That was a conversation of all time.
When the sun begins to rise, neither stir from their spot on March’s bed. Entanglement with another human being has never felt so necessary before—physically and emotionally.
All this because of a matcha mango sago.
…Maybe tea can be good.