Like Spilt Tea
Note: this is a sequel to Chalk. It might make a bit more sense if you've read that :)
The teacup trembles for a moment as it tips, your hand shaking beneath the intensity of her gaze, the milky liquid inside pausing at the rim—and then it starts to pour, it spills, a cascade of still-warm tea racing down to stain her patched fabric skin.
She whimpers at the warmth, at the wet, at the rivulets running down her chest and soaking her belly in pale white, phantom geography blossoming from her curves; she squirms as it finds its way between her thighs, into carefully crafted folds and that sensitive place beneath—
But then the tea begins to make its way off her body, down onto the antique tablecloth you found together just a week before, a lucky bit of salvage that's almost the same pattern as her fabric skin, that at first you thought you'd keep handy for when she next needs repairs.
She sees your eyes watching it spill, watching it stain, watching it be ruined, and she goes as still as you've ever seen her. A shivering, cringing stillness, eagerly anticipating and fearing how you'll react—
And that's really too much.
”... red,” you say, “I'm sorry, I just can't, I just can't ...”
She blinks at you, something behind here bright button eyes shifting, coming back into alignment, bringing her back into herself—
It only takes her a moment when once you'd have held her for minutes, have had to pull that horribly dusty box out from the darkness beneath your bed, and even with tears filling your eyes you can't help but smile at that, at how far she's come, and that makes you cry more.
She wraps herself around you, warm and soft and damp from spilt tea, and you curl into her touch, nestling against her.
“Hey,” she says after a time, her soft nailless hand gently patting your head, “do you want to talk about it?”
You don't really, just want to get away, but ... well, you've been trying to get better too. “No, but ... just, I couldn't ... do you really want this? To feel like that again?”
She squeezes you tighter. “Of course I do, love. I suggested it, didn't I? I asked you to.”
“Yeah, but ...”
“You're worried about going too far?”
“Yeah. … playing with your triggers like this is a lot.”
“I know. I'm sorry for asking you to.”
You shake your head violently, faintly damp hair whipping. “No! No, don't apologize. I want to, it just … seeing you like that again, making you be like that …”
“It's a lot, right?” You nod and she grins. “But that's why I want it! It's, just … fuck, feeling like that again, but because I want to? Because I've asked for it?”
She can't help but squirm against you as she thinks about it, her thighs squeezing around you, arms tightening—but just for a moment, just before she goes still again.
“Oh, fuck, I'm sorry. This, uh. Right after you safeworded isn't really the time, is it …”
“I mean, probably? But, uh,” you pause for a second to think and dry your eyes on her neck, “it's, uh. It's nice to be reminded of how you feel about it. It's reassuring?”
“Good,” she says as she kisses your forehead. “… I'm so lucky to have you.”
You can't find the words to reply, just an incoherent noise and a squeeze so tight that you almost worry that her stitching will burst; she giggles.
“I think we're probably done for the night, though?”
You nod. “Could, uh. Could we watch something cute and cuddle?”
“Of course!”
Your last request takes a long time to come, time during which you don't let her up, don't let her move at all. It's hard to think about what you're about to ask, about that box of chalk and magic and memories, but … hard doesn't mean impossible.
“… and, uh. Next time, would you mind if I put the box somewhere nearby? Just, uh. For my own peace of mind? In case it's too much for you.”
She laughs, startled, a bit breathless from how tightly you're holding her. “Of course, if that would help! Goddess, I'm surprised to hear that you'd want it nearby, with how much you've always disliked it.”
“I don't think I disliked it, really? Just … what it symbolized. What she did to you. But … it doesn't really feel like that anymore.”
She waits for a moment, then asks “what does it feel like now, then? To you?”
“… I can't quite say, really. But, like. It's part of you. It's a way to make you feel better. And I don't … I can't hate anything that helps you.”
You feel your ribs creak as she squeezes you close, all those corded muscles inside her plush fabric showing their strength.
“Goddess, I love you so fucking much.”
“I love you too! But, uh. Let me get up?”
“Oh! Of course. I'll clean up here while you decide what to watch?”
“Mhmm!”
By the time she's done cleaning you've built a nest for yourself in your bed, and are lost in Solar Crescendo's latest adventures, all your hurt and worries forgotten beneath a cascade of bright animation and cute voices.