London was in the habit of trusting people when they told you who they were. They hoped, one day, the universe would extend this courtesy back to them, or at least for the next generation. That one day people could just say This is who I am and not be greeted with disbelieving puffs of breath, with What do you mean?
So they trusted that Dahlia was queer.
But the fact that she had only been with David . . . London knew, as they pressed kisses onto Dahlia’s stomach, as they moved their mouth to her breasts again, that they had still been paranoid about being an experiment. Part of London had been worried that if it came to this, this level of closeness and reality, she’d change her mind. She would be embarrassed, and feel guilty about it, but London would accept it, and then it’d be over.
But every noise Dahlia released, every shiver of her body was an affirmation. London kissed the shiny smooth spaces underneath her breasts, ran their hands down her sides. And as Dahlia’s breathing grew heavier again, as she said, “Oh,” and “Fuck, London,” and traced her hands over their back, they let themself believe it fully. That she hadn’t blinked when London had disrobed in front of her. That she wasn’t just trying to be cute when she listed the parts she liked. That she didn’t see them differently now. That Dahlia had, in fact, always seen them for exactly who they were.
And that she wanted them.
London dragged their lips to her neck, moving aside her thick hair for better access.
“Oh,” she said, her voice sounding deliciously drugged. “I meant to ask.” She cleared her throat, blinking, and struggled to sit up. London pulled back. “I know my hair is like, a thing for you.”
“Well,” London said, almost wanting to laugh at being called out like this, “it is rather inescapable.”
“So do you want it up or down for this?”
London looked at her. Dahlia stared steadily back, and her eyes were bright. Happy. Not uncertain or embarrassed at all.
“Up,” London decided finally. “Better access to your neck.”
Dahlia reached for the elastic on her wrist.
“God.” Heat pooled in London’s stomach as Dahlia’s fingers worked through the dark strands, arms moving over her head. Her forearms weren’t bad, either. “I love watching you do this.”
Dahlia glanced at them as she finished the final few twists of her wrist.
“You love watching me put my hair up?”
“Yes,” London said solemnly. “You normally do it fifteen minutes into a challenge, on set.” They leaned forward to speak into her ear. “It turns me on every time.”
Dahlia exhaled a breath that London thought might have been a laugh, but that ended up sounding like a strangled, high-pitched wheeze instead.
London moved their lips back to her neck, but Dahlia pushed them back again, lightly, her fingers pushing into their shoulders.
“Okay, wait.” Smiling, she licked her lips and took a steadying breath. She wiggled her hips, sat up straighter. “So what would happen if, say, one day I happen to wear a particularly faulty elastic, and after I put it up, this happens?” Dahlia yanked out the elastic suddenly, and her mane cascaded around her shoulders again. “And then,” she said dramatically, enjoying this, “I’ll just have to try again, and—”
Her attempt to sweep up her hair again was interrupted by London pushing her back onto the bed.
“You,” they whispered into her lips, “are a very not-nice person.”
They pinched her nipple and kissed her jaw and her smirk turned into a whimper.
So it turned out Dahlia’s hair stayed down after all.
They kissed her again, fervent and lazy all at once, and London felt now like they had never quite belonged anywhere as much as they belonged right here, with their tongue in Dahlia Woodson’s mouth, their body fully on top of hers. Dahlia’s fingernails ghosted up and down their back, lightly at first and then pressing harder as the kiss deepened. London loved it, the undeniable sharpness of it, the slightest hint of pain.
When Dahlia wrapped a leg around one of their own, London stopped thinking completely. There was no teasing now, no more questions. London wanted to feel all of her. They wanted to make her come undone.
They kissed down her neck to her collarbone. Her skin was heated, tacky. They shifted themself to move further down her body.
“Wait,” Dahlia said. London paused to look up at her. “Come back.” She motioned vaguely but urgently, and the breathlessness in her voice made London comply immediately.