Around Every Corner: Lucy/Flare:
A/N: Trying something new. Been into Flare's character lately. And yuri. But she was rather difficult to portray . . . .
Disclaimer: You all know I'm not Hiro Mashima
"Blondie's . . . truly like that?"
Oddly enough, the voice doesn't startle her as much as it used to— it's rather an appreciated source of company now.
Nevertheless, she doesn't raise her head to look at the girl evidently sitting in her window, still staring down at the open notebook on her lap.
Of course. Of course someone will find out. But it doesn't scare her as much, since it's her, just someone who's always here to listen.
Still, she sighs, shifting her blonde bangs from her face with one hand. "Yes, I'm like that . . . ." She alters her weight on the bed, making room for her intruder, who climbs in beside her in an instant, the aroma of something sweet yet spicy wafting into the room. "Just— please don't tell anyone because . . . I can't . . . ."
She trails off tiredly, brown eyes still on the open notebook. She's always so exhausted after writing in it, always so ready to cry, always so ready to laugh; her emotions are just such a mess.
"You're ashamed?"
She is aware of the way she's being leaned into, aware of the sunset red tresses brushing different parts of her body, her cheeks, her arms, her thighs . . . . It's unnerving that it's rather soothing.
"Yes," she answers again, head never raising, and it's nearly too quiet so she repeats it louder, "Yes," fingers clawing the blankets. "I . . . how can I not be? It's nothing . . . I'm particularly happy with, or proud of . . . and there's no reason to be, anyway. I'm not—"
Her voice cracks, just as it does whenever she confesses her preferences to an imaginary someone before her mirror, and she wonders what she is thinking, revealing this to someone real when she can hardly say it to herself . . . .
"Would you know how this feels?" To be pining after someone who would— could never look your way?
"Perhaps." The tilting of her head doesn't unsettle her as it used to, she observes from her peripheral vision. She's quite fond of it now. A quirk that goes with her character. "I'm like that as well."
And Lucy finally glances up, despite that it's something she has always suspected, thinking back to the Daimatou Enbu all these months ago, how she has been stripped by her, fondled by her, apologized to by her. The soft look in her eyes then . . . . It's always the soft look in her eyes now.
The time back then too— she says she's been kidding about the stalking, however she always knows where to find her, always at her bedroom window and outside of her guild (Just ask, please, if you wanna join . . . .)
(I don't want a guild, I want Blondie.)
She's ignored it, really, despite her foot-leaping heart . . . .
But she's looking at her now, looking at the girl beside her with crimson hair braided around her body, looking at the girl with equally red eyes whose leaning against her shoulder, peering into the open notebook with an expression between disappointment and curiosity.
"Then you should tell her, at least, Blondie. How you feel. I don't think she's one to criticize."
She turns her gaze back to the book on her lap, filled with her words, filled with her heart. "Even so, I can't do that . . . she's in love with someone else. It wouldn't matter."
Her voice is unlike her own, her eyes shut, and now . . . and now she's the one doing the leaning in the sudden quietness. It just . . . it isn't fair . . . .
"You know . . ." she finally starts the conversation, "A reason I joined Fairy Tail was for friends who'd accept me without judgement, however . . . ." She can feel the eyes on her, expectant and intent and she appreciates it, "I think I want more." Her words are whispered and she exhales heavily. "I want love."
The hair . . . it's alive, moving, stroking her face, wiping away those tears she hasn't noticed falling.
"I want love," she repeats with a shattered-glass-voice, "and I've wanted it for a long time, but this is so stupid!" She slams the book closed, clenching fists in her sheets. "So hard! So unfair! I can't find anyone right for me. Will I ever . . . ?"
She lets the question hang in the air, trying to resist from shedding anymore tears as she continues to bow her head.
Love, even though she's different. A crooked line. It shouldn't be like this, so hard to come across when she's always that figured love has been there right in front of her in form of a voluptuous beauty in armor. She's always believed that maybe . . . maybe they'll have a chance. Selfishly even, too, sometimes wishing that he's never gotten his memories restored, that she could be hers forever.
When she looks up, she's in the other girl's lap, not quite sure if she's eased herself there for comfort, or if she has been pulled there voluntarily.
"Blondie shouldn't worry about that anymore." Fingers are in her hair, trailing through gently, and now there's a peculiar sensation in her stomach.
She ignores that too, like she always has when she's near this girl, ignoring the fact that Erza never makes her feel like this, because it shouldn't even matter since she wants her.
"Why not?"
"Because . . ." A small, shy smile, crimson eyes lowered. "Maybe she's unaware of how close she is to someone who loves her . . . ."
Lucy doesn't respond, instead running her tongue along her bottom lip, aware of how the girl's chest presses against her back, aware of the sudden hotness, the sensitivity in her body.
It's been this way for quite awhile now— little things involving this secretly sweet sunset-redhead making her heart flutter, making her blush and experience something . . . surprisingly pleasant.
She sighs, shaking her head wearily, "Please, don't tease me, Flare. I'm really not in the—"
"Lucy," and her words die instantly once her name— her name leaves her mouth, and . . . and it startles her at how right it sounds, "how does this feel to you?"
The blonde blinks, instantaneously bemused by the question, by the emotion, and she turns slightly in the other girl's lap, one eyebrow arched. What does she mean? How does what feel? This peculiar girl is always one to confuse her— especially her words. Nothing can ever be straight-forward with her, but Lucy supposes she likes—
Her body whirls around suddenly, and she's practically nose to nose with her, wondering just how this has happened, until she recognizes the curls of hair resting on her hips . . . .
"This right here . . . ." Flare murmurs, still with this small, tentative grin, pulling Lucy against her body, and . . . and skin on skin does feel lovely, fulfilling.
Natural.
She's never been this close to another girl before, despite her longing to . . . .
She can feel the rising heat in her face, the erratic beating of her heart, whilst she keeps her head down, lest she thinks of doing something disloyal to Erza (who wouldn't care, anyway.)
Warm hands caress her cheeks. Hands, and she realizes that the gloves forever adorning Flare's hands are missing. Has she removed them just for this purpose? To touch her?
"W-What are you—?"
She's cut off by the application of soft lips to hers. A . . . kiss, her mind thinks languidly, seeing that as soon as their mouths meet, something . . . sparks. Awakens. Clicks into place. Something causes her to cling to Flare's shoulders and kiss her back. Her cheeks. Her nose. Her eyelids.
She figures she knows what this something is called. This something that's been growing slowly within her chest, only to be simulated by this. She hates how she's missed this. Hates how she's ignored this— the obvious love she's been harboring for the girl who's always there, the girl with the uniquely red hair.
When they pull away, Flare lowers her eyes and steeples her fingers, gazing off at whatever else." . . . Well?"
Lucy can only stare, wondering how she could've been so blind, until she recalls the previous question. "Like . . ." She swallows, breath uneven, voice desirous, "Like I've been chasing after the wrong redhead."
A/N: I dunno. Whaddaya guys think? Cuz if I had to pair Lucy with a girl, It'd be Juvia for obvious reasons.