Homestuck (fics)

You Can't Complain (rosemary)

She orders black coffee and you order herbal tea. You both sip at your white cups, and you notice her nails painted the same colors as the rest of her attire, wrapped around the steaming mug. You complement her on it, and the smile she sends you back makes your skin spark. It's unusual and you kind of like it.

The conversation comes easily. She talks about writing, you learn she's studying to become a writer. You talk about fashion design, and you ramble a little bit and get carried away. When you apologize, she tells you you look wonderful when you talk about things you love. You stare at her and can't help the grin that splits across your features. In return her smile gets wider, and you try not to think about how content you would be to sit here and watch her for the rest of your life.

She hugs you goodbye.

That night you lay still underneath your sheets, and you think about her smile, her lips, her fingers and how warm she felt pressed against you, even for a split second. You smile at the ceiling again, and in a moment of adrenaline, text her goodnight. You fall asleep clutching your phone, as she answers just the same.

You meet regularly after that, and she's on your mind an embarrassingly large amount of time. You space out in class thinking about her lopsided smirks and prick yourself on needles more than a few times after thinking highly inappropriate things about her fingers. It's gotten out of control, and when she calls you up to ask about, maybe, possibly talking about you making her a dress for her sister's wedding, you accept right away and invite her over so you can take her measurements and discuss the project more.

At first, you awkwardly ask her if she would rather do the measuring parts herself, but she firmly believes that you should do it. She wants it to be just right, she says.

You blush behind your fingers as she strips down to her underwear in your kitchen, and turn your back to recollect yourself. After a pinch to the thigh and a reminder to be professional, you spin back around. She stares at you expectantly, eyes still fluttering about your face in the same way as always, like she's always reading every minute change of expression. You figure she is.

You wonder what she sees.

Her skin is pale, but she has strange freckles on her shoulders and knees. Her skin is warm, and you try as best you can to keep your hands at a reasonable distance, which is hard for several reasons you'd rather not divulge. Every once in a while, your knuckles will brush against her, and her skin is soft. You try not to notice, but blush furiously under her seemingly inescapable gaze. You thank your dark skin for disguising what has become a habit around Rose.

You scrawl the numbers out on your forearm and step back when you're finished. Her underwear is black and lacy and stark against her tint, and your breath catches in your throat because, God, she's beautiful. Her hair is tied back into a low short ponytail and she stands straight, despite her small stature, she fills the room with a ethereal glow and she smells of lavender. And she's looking at you.

You turn back around, tell her you'll make them both some tea, your heart spluttering in your ribcage. You think she winks at you, but can't tell because your mind is in no state to think of anything. The kettles boils quickly and by the time you walk back out, she sits clothed with her hands clasped on top of the table.

You offer her a cup and she wraps her hands around it again. She tells you about her sister Roxy with a faint smile that lingers more in her eyes, and her wonderful fiancé Jane. The wedding is outdoors, in two months. She wants something nice, she says, but she trusts you. That makes you smile.

You talk until the sun sits just above the skyline, and she bids her goodbye with a hug again, as always, but this time her hand lingers on your shoulder as she pulls away. Even through the fabric, her touch burns, and her gaze burns even more. There's something alight behind the wondrous color, and she whispers a quiet thank you. It means more than she says.