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It is a beautiful night for a soirée— the early April air is chilly, but it is a pleasant contrast to the climbing temperature in the ballroom; the kind of heat that only a mass of people crowded into a singular space can produce.
The skies are clear of rain clouds for the first time since the turn of the season. Even from inside the ballroom, Willow could see how brilliantly the moon and stars shone.
Whilst dancing inside, there was a singular thought that kept her mind occupied: that she wished she were outside instead, feeling the gentle breeze against her face and staring up at the night sky.
Instead, she'd spent the duration of the evening trapped by societal expectations, sharing a dance with one pompous man after another. The worst of the bunch was undoubtedly Lord Hammet— a man who, despite having tried on numerous occasions to court Willow, would certainly have no insight into who she is as a woman.
He is singularly the most insufferable man she's ever had the displeasure of entertaining. He has never made any effort to know her beyond the superficial, has no desire to hear about her interests or what she enjoys. He is surely without charm, and his pedigree does little in the way of impressing Willow.
It truly does not matter to Willow what family he hails from, what accomplishments he has to his name, or what titles and wealth he has inherited. Because not once, in all of the dances they have shared since the turn of the season, has he talked about anything other than himself.
Lord Hammet loves to speak on his wit and intelligence. He loves to speak of generational wealth, and the vast acres of his estate, and of his fealty to the royal family (of which he will claim he is quite close with!)
Willow has never understood why any of that would be enough to convince her to marry a man who is ten and five years her senior.
She is aware that she should at least consider him as a potential husband. She has been reminded time and again that her value as a woman lies solely in how prestigious of a man she can marry. Her responsibility then is to give him an heir, preferably a son, and after that?
Nothing. There is no life for her beyond fulfilling her filial and wifely duties. That is all there ever is, and will be, to her life.
The idea is utterly miserable.
Lord Hammet is a wealthy man above her station. The fact that he has such interest in Willow should fill her with glee.
Willow's family has always been far from the wealthiest, their status low even among others of the gentry. Her father became a squire by pure luck— a winning bet in poker, in which his opponent put the deeds to his land on the line.
Willow was too young to remember what it was like to live as the daughter of a laborer. Even in her earliest memories, she already has a tutor drilling lessons into her head.
"You have years worth of etiquette to memorize, dear. Languages to master, books to read, skills to learn," she'd said. From the age of seven, to six and ten, all of Willow's time was devoted to "catching up" with other ladies of the peerage around her age.
Now at two and twenty, Willow thinks she fits in rather decently; it is exhausting work, however, to pretend that she does not find all of her interactions with her potential suitors terribly contrived.
Laughing at a lord's terrible jokes that aren't even the slightest bit funny is draining, as is speaking to them softly and delicately when all she really wants to do is scoff and roll her eyes.
She feels she is truly going to snap someday soon. All the men ever do is talk about how great they are! But heaven forbid Willow speaks too positively about herself— then she'd be woefully boastful, or arrogant, or desperate.
It is infuriating, really. You have to show you're intelligent, but not so intelligent as to have ideas and opinions. Be well-read and talented, but not so much that you out perform a man. Show off your assets, but not so much that you are deemed a trollop.
Willow is tired of it. Why must she show men the utmost respect for their station when they do not lift a finger to offer her the same courtesy? Why is it her responsibility to cater to them, but not theirs to equally cater to her?
She doesn't want to be demure and obedient, she doesn't want to flutter her lashes at a man and smile innocently at him while she does a curtsy. She loathes the idea of being a naive porcelain doll, with no role other than for her future husband to play with as he pleases.
She hates that the "most important" thing she ever learned how to do was put herself on auction. Like she's a piece of meat, high society and men her butchers, her father ready to sell her off to the highest bidder eager to consume— and she is expected to accept this fate with all the grace and dignity she can muster.
Willow has had enough of it. That is what led her to shove her way past Lord Hammet the very moment her waltz with him came to an end, with little regard for propriety.
If she has any luck, he will think that she is simply exhausted, or had an urgent need to relieve herself. Or, perhaps, he'll think of Willow as abhorrently rude. She found herself caring very little about whatever conclusion it is he comes to.
She hastily vacated the dance floor, leaving the ton to their gawking and whispering as her suitor stood alone and perplexed on the dance floor. She made her way swiftly past refreshment tables and idle guests, exiting to the estate's courtyard through the ballroom's curved archways.
Now outside, Willow is certain it will not be long before her mother or Johanna come searching for her. Neither of them are much fans of society's rules and expectations either, but they are much better at swallowing their temper than Willow herself is.
Too ornery for her own good, she's been told on more than one occasion. Her tutor used to smack her hand with her fan every time Willow rolled her eyes just to snap her out of the instinctual habit.
Willow sighs as she follows the cobblestone path to the center of the courtyard. Lady Wheeler always outdoes herself; just as expected, she has the area extravagantly decorated.
There are floral displays of white roses, paired with hydrangeas and delphiniums in the same baby blue shade as the ballroom's walls. Standing candelabras line the walkways, colored in gold, with dainty, dangling crystals meant to match the interior chandeliers.
The hedges have been trimmed and shaped, with flowers carefully placed atop the sculpted edge, enhancing the natural beauty of the landscape. Ample space has been cleared for dancing, and there's even a small stage added near the gazebo for the musicians to play.
To Willow's relief, most of tonight's guests seem content to keep the party indoors— at least for now.
There are, naturally, a few other stragglers standing about the courtyard, but none of them pay her any mind. At most, they offer a polite wave or a curt nod of acknowledgement as she passes them by. Willow is grateful to not be the only one in attendance in need of a break from the monotony of "pleasant company."
She lets out another sigh as she sits on one of the stone benches overlooking the fountain in the courtyard's center. After a breath, she lifts her wrist to examine the dance card tied to it.
While her mother will excuse her, and politely explain once more about how important it is to take the marriage mart seriously, her father will be the one truly furious with her if she doesn't continue to entertain suitors and fill out the last remaining slots on her card.
She wishes she could just sneak away for the remainder of the night, tuck herself in a small closet somewhere until the festivities of the night draw to a natural close.
It has been a few years now since Willow has made her debut in society, and she still has no solid prospects— a fact that her father is adamant about fixing, hence the introduction to Lord Hammet this season.
As much as she wants to hide away, she knows she will never hear the end of it from her father— because he will find out, and demand that she uphold her societal obligations to their family with enough ire in his eyes to give Willow full body chills.
Unless she wants to make more trouble for herself, the most Willow can afford is this short respite. So, until she returns to the ballroom and throws herself back to the wolves, she'll soak in this peace for all it is worth.
The soirée is still audible from where she sits, but it becomes background to the pleasant sound of the fountain's running water. The crickets chirp, clear and resonate, as the soft breeze chills the sweat beading on her temple.
Willow even allows herself to close her eyes and slouch her posture, releasing as much of the tension held in her back and shoulders as her stay will allow her to.
Idle party conversation begins to grow in volume, but it is not enough to break her from the small moment of serenity she's allowing herself to have. She opens her eyes out of curiosity more than feeling disturbed.
She turns her head to the right, attention drawn to the center of the chatter, where she then hears a voice she knows painfully well.
And there she is— Michelle Wheeler. Viscount Wheeler's only daughter; a girl who, at one point in time, used to be Willow's very best, most treasured friend.
Her stomach sinks.
Willow knew that Lady Wheeler threw this soirée for Michelle— her birthday was just yesterday, a mere two weeks after Willow's own. Somehow, she was under the naive impression that the guest list would be big enough to allow her to evade Michelle all night.
They were born the same year, had much of the same interests, and the same sort of attitude that their elders found too petulant and unruly. But while Willow was having her inner fire smudged out, Michelle's continued to blaze unchecked.
And it is not that her defiance came without scandal— it certainly did. But she's the viscount's daughter, wealthy and privileged, and her reputation does nothing to hinder her brothers from finding suitable wives.
No matter how untoward Michelle behaves, she has a future. Even as a spinster, she'll be able to live life comfortably. Nathaniel will always ensure Michelle has enough money to sustain herself, as would Hollis, if unfortunate events were to force him into the role of viscount.
Her brothers are her anchors. She will never be destitute, or forced to live a life she loathes, even if her parents may wish marriage and children of her. She is, perhaps, the freest young lady in all of the ton.
Willow doesn't think Michelle will ever realize how lucky she is.
She doesn't allow herself to look in Michelle's direction for long. Really, she only looks for a few seconds— just long enough to recognize her, and Hollis by her side, laughing at something his sister has said.
But it is as if Michelle can just sense when Willow's eyes are on her. Their gazes meet, and Michelle smiles as Willow's frown deepens.
Michelle turns to her younger brother. Willow watches him nod with Michelle's words, and then— God damn it all, she's making her way towards where Willow is sitting.
Willow turns her head away, staring straight ahead at the fountain. She doesn't turn to greet Michelle, even as the clacking of her heels on cobblestone grows closer.
Willow should've begged harder to miss this soirée, made some excuse or other that would tug at her mother's sympathy and her father's patience— she was a fool to think it'd be easy to avoid Michelle inside her own estate.
She wonders if it is too late to run and hide for the remainder of the night. Somehow, suffering under the ire of her father sounds easier than talking to Michelle.
"I was wondering where you had gotten off to," Michelle says as she plops down ungracefully beside Willow on the bench. "I saw you earlier, dancing with Lord.. what is his name again?"
"What are you doing here?" Willow asks, ignoring the question. She is fully intent on engaging with Michelle as little as possible, though the hostility in her tone is no deterrent to the other lady.
"You do know where you are, do you not? I live here."
Willow immediately rolls her eyes. As if she is that stupid.
"Yes, I am well aware. I meant what are you doing here, pestering me, when I am clearly seeking to keep my own company? Do you not have someone else to bother?"
"No one as delightful as you, I assure you, Willow," Michelle replies easily.
Willow scoffs, resisting the urge to shoot her a glare. She scoots herself a couple inches away from Michelle then.
Michelle follows, erasing the distance Willow had attempted to put between them. Willow scowls.
"Must you sit so close to me?"
Michelle has always been good at that— entering Willow's space with ease, closing whatever distance she tries to force between them. They're close enough for the sliver of bare skin between their ruffled sleeves and silk gloves to touch.
The contact, small as it is, feels scalding to Willow.
"Need I remind you that your reputation among the ton is less than favorable?" Willow continues as she shifts away from Michelle again.
Michelle may be able to live her life carefree, but Willow is not afforded that same luxury. Unfortunately, however, Michelle knew who Willow was before her tutor became stricter with her lessons, and her father's temper scared her into submission.
She knows the Willow that lives beneath layers of forced obedience— a version of Willow that she refuses to let lie.
"And you care about the opinion of the ton, do you?" Michelle questions, a challenge in her voice that Willow knows is meant to vex her.
Despite knowing logically that the best course of action would be to ignore Michelle's jab, Willow can never stop herself from meeting the challenge head on.
"I am supposed to find a husband, Michelle. I know you have no regard for men, but I—" Willow pauses, swallowing her words. To say she herself has regard for her suitors would be a lie.
The only men she's ever enjoyed being around were Michelle's brothers. She cares for them greatly, she always has, but she's certainly never looked at them romantically. She's never looked at any man romantically.
But she has a duty to uphold. A future to secure. And no matter how many times she stresses it, Michelle never accepts it. Willow has long since conceded that Michelle will never understand their difference in circumstance.
"The company you keep is a reflection of yourself," Willow ends up saying, parroting her tutor. "And I must keep good company if I want to find a suitable match."
"And that is what you want?" Michelle asks, shifting closer to Willow once more. "To be matched? To have a husband?"
Willow doesn't understand why they constantly need to have this conversation. It doesn't matter what Willow wants! It never does, and never will! That's simply the reality she lives in.
She doesn't have it in her to have this argument again; not tonight. So she rises from the bench with a small huff, turning on her heels to walk away.
Michelle bolts up quickly to follow, acting much too ungracefully for her station by lifting her skirt and stepping over the bench instead of walking around it.
"Is it not enough for you to disturb my peace? Now you must follow me?" Willow chides, voice hushed as she rounds the corner out of the courtyard.
Michelle reaches out and swiftly catches Willow's hand. She stops, turning to her with another glare— one that would send a chill up the spine of anyone else. Michelle simply gazes at her, brows slightly furrowed.
"Just talk to me," Michelle pleads, "that is all I want."
Willow bites her lip. She doesn't want to soften, but the way Michelle gazes at her like a kicked puppy always strips her of her fury.
And it is not like she enjoys the state her friendship with Michelle has been reduced to. She would much prefer for things to be how they were just a few years ago, before the weight of marriage began to drag Willow down like an anchor.
She knows she's being prickly, and that her anger towards Michelle is perhaps unfair. It is just.. Michelle knows this topic is sensitive to Willow, but she pokes at the bruise regardless.
Being friends with Michelle has always been dangerous; and not because of her rebellious spirit, or the reputation it brings her. It is not even because she lives the sort of carefree life Willow wishes she could have.
She's dangerous because nothing Willow has ever felt in the presence of her suitors compares to how Michelle makes her feel. A feeling that, for as long as she can remember, she has been told only men should invoke in her.
Willow has never been able to put words to that feeling. Her father utters the word sapphist in front of female pairs like it is dirty.
Her tutor ensured all her lessons had only ever been male-centered. Men want this, men like this, men expect this, men, men, men.
The possibility of marrying a woman was taken from Willow long before she ever realized it could be a possibility. And so, she forces those feelings down.
In an ideal world, Willow would marry a woman. If she could not do that, she would live as a spinster. If she were truly lucky, Michelle would be the one by her side in either scenario.
Those futures are not ones her father will ever allow her to have.
Perhaps she could be more honest with Michelle, but she sees little point in dragging her down with the truth. Telling Michelle any of what she feels would not change anything; for as long as her father lives, Willow's fate will remain unchanged.
"Okay," Michelle says quietly, "you do not want to talk. How about we share a dance instead?"
Willow gazes at Michelle incredulously. Once again, she is left baffled by her once best friend's ability to disregard circumstance.
"That is ridiculous," Willow answers as she finally begins to tug her hand out of Michelle's grip.
Michelle tightens her hold, her opposite hand rising to Willow's wrist, where her dance card dangles. She lifts it up, examining it in the flickering candlelight.
Willow should try again to rip her hand away, to lift her other hand and snatch her dance card out of Michelle's grip, but she cannot bring herself to. Her breath is halted, a flush rising to her cheeks as Michelle next takes the attached pencil in hand.
There are three remaining spaces for names on Willow's dance card, and Michelle scribbles her name diagonally, across them all.
"Michelle—" Willow mutters, not entirely sure if her tone is more gasp or scold. What she's done is entirely unheard of, and altogether improper. Her heart thumps erratically, her face aflame as she looks up to Michelle.
"Now you are obligated to share three dances with me," Michelle says in that easy way she has about her, a satisfied smile spreading across her face.
Willow is rendered speechless, utterly astounded by the brazen display. And she wants to, God help her, she wants to dance with Michelle.
"I—" Willow swallows hard, tearing her gaze away from Michelle and back down to her wrist, where her dance card dangles once more. It spins slowly in place, and Willow's heart jumps every time she catches Michelle's handwritten name in the low light of the candles.
"I cannot," she forces out, fist clenching as she drops her hand to her side, "My father. He will— even if he does not see, he will know. Someone will tell him, and I.."
The silence between them as Willow trails off feels suffocating. Her skin is hot, her hands clammy within her gloves, and her every breath feels too short. She hasn't said it, not explicitly, but rejecting Michelle's desire to dance surely says enough in itself.
Michelle may realize Willow is a sapphist, or she may not— but the reality sits between them; that Willow's father, were he to know, and regardless of whether or not it were true, would reject this side of his daughter.
"Perhaps you could stay the night?" Michelle suggests, and Willow's head whirls.
"What?"
"It could be like old times. A sleepover, like when we were just girls," Michelle explains. "And then, when it is just us— when everyone who attended the party has gone home.. we could dance."
Willow's stomach swoops. She cannot say that the idea isn't enticing; in fact, there is probably not a single thing that Willow could say she would rather do. Because as much as Michelle frustrates her, there is equally no one who understands Willow better.
Perhaps that is what makes Michelle so infuriating to speak to. Willow cannot lie to her as convincingly as everyone else.
"We are too old for that, are we not?" Willow whispers, a deflection that does not at all sound convincing.
"Perhaps," Michelle replies, and Willow looks up just in time to see her shoulders shrugging. "But it is my birthday. And perhaps your parents will grant you permission to give the viscount's only daughter what she wishes for such an important day."
The corners of Willow's mouth raise into a small smile. "You continue to be utterly ridiculous," she says, and Michelle smiles with her.
"Shall we test what this spoiled nobleman's daughter can get away with, then?" Michelle asks, and despite herself, Willow breaks into a giggle.
"Yes," Willow concedes, lifting her hand to cover her mouth as she laughs, "Yes. Very well."
"Oh," Michelle says then, "Wait."
Willow's brow furrows, watching with a tilt of the head as Michelle reaches for her lowering hand. Her fingers grasp the ribbon tying her dance card to her wrist, swiftly unraveling the knotted bow.
"Michelle?"
"So your father doesn't find out," she answers, making quick work of slipping her own dance card off to tie around Willow's wrist.
"Oh," Willow breathes, watching as Michelle secures the ribbon. "Thank you."
Willow examines the card once it has been secured. Michelle's ribbon isn't as neat and pretty as the one her mother tied, but she thinks it's passable. Reading over the list of names, however, Willow realizes that all of them are entirely fake.
"Michelle! None of these men are real!" she exclaims as she reads it over, unable to hide how amused she is behind the shock. Truly, she's never known anyone more brazen in her life.
Michelle shrugs, her smile proud. "It is technically my party. I say I can do whatever I wish," she giggles as she steps to Willow's side, looping their arms together. "Now. Let us see if we cannot secure a sleepover."
Willow is certain her mother saw right through their request. She took one look at Willow's wrist, eyes tracing over the names she knows to be fake, and were decidedly not the ones she'd seen printed on her daughter's dance card.
She watched with baited breath as her mother's eyes traveled to Michelle's wrist next. They landed squarely on the dance card that was previously tied to Willow, her eyes flashing with something unfamiliar at the sight of Michelle's name scrawled messily across the last three spaces.
Her mother smiled then, as she looked back up at Willow; something small, and fond, and knowing. "Very well, my dear," she said, looking between them with that gentle kindness that always made their home worth living in, despite Willow's father.
"I will take care of your father," she continued, and Willow was filled with such profound relief that her shoulders almost slumped.
"Thank you very much, Lady Byers," Michelle said with all her practiced politeness, and Willow's mother smiled warmly as she nodded.
"Of course. Who would I be to turn down the request of Lord Viscount Wheeler's daughter?"
"Well said, ma'am," Michelle replied, turning to look at Willow with a smile that screamed 'quest succeeded!'
The pair were inseparable for the remainder of the soirée— a fact that would surely return to her father's ears; not because of her mother, but due to some gossip or another.
They couldn't do much other than stand together; but even that simple act was a silent rebellion against Willow's father. An act she wouldn't have dreamed of performing without Michelle's encouragement (or more accurately, her goading.)
Standing primarily beside the lemonade table, Willow observed the dance floor. She watched as, among the various pairs of men and women, some men danced with other men, while a small number of women danced with other women.
She smiled to herself; because while she was not brave enough to defy her father openly just yet, maybe she could be someday. And as if Michelle had the same thought, she gently nudged Willow's hand with her own.
They didn't turn their heads, their eyes didn't meet, and no words were spoken; the small brush of their knuckles communicated all it needed to.
When the party comes to a close, Willow hugs her mother tight. The exchange is wordless, and perhaps appears too tender to those onlooking, but Willow leans into the feeling instead of cutting it short.
After bidding a goodbye to her mother outside, and seeing the carriage off, Willow returns inside.
In the ballroom, Michelle stands alone in its center, hands behind her back whilst awkwardly adjusting on her feet.
Willow bites her lip to stop from smiling. Michelle was raised to be charismatic and effortless in her wit, but there is something endearing about watching such education fail her as she nervously anticipates Willow's return.
The first clack of Willow's heel on the ballroom floor echoes, and Michelle whips around with an unexpectedly bashful smile. It is not the kind of smile Willow is used to seeing— her cheeks warm as she entertains the idea of seeing it more in the future.
"Uhm.." Willow stands before Michelle now, her hands twisting at her front as uncertainty settles over her.
How do they proceed from here? They are the only two people remaining in the ballroom, the lighting in the room no longer bright, but intimate now that the candles have melted down considerably.
"The musicians offered to stay, but I dismissed them," Michelle cuts the tension, though she herself sounds equally as uncertain. "I hope that is alright."
"We are to dance in silence, then?" Willow asks, her tone playful as she tilts her head.
"Perhaps I could sing, if that would please My Lady instead," Michelle grins, and Willow rolls her eyes despite the flutter in her stomach. "Your hand, if I may?" Michelle continues, bowing politely as she holds out her hand.
Michelle looks up at Willow as she waits for her hand. Willow blushes, her heart racing as she manages to nod, lifting her hand to reach for Michelle's.
Michelle naturally takes the lead in the dance, her other hand resting on Willow's waist after tugging her closer. It is rare that they are this close anymore; Willow is hardly ever afforded the opportunity to fully let herself gaze at Michelle (nor does she ever truly let herself.)
It is odd, almost, being able to stare at her so brazenly; to count the freckles mottled over her cheeks and nose, to match the color of Michelle's eyes to the warmth of her favorite roast of coffee, and not concern herself with who is there to question what it is that Willow must feel.
"Your hair is natural today," Willow comments, eyes traveling over tight, compact curls— a contrast to Willow's loose, bouncy ones, made possible only by wrapping her hair in strips of cloth overnight. Michelle smiles, giving a small, meek sort of nod.
"Yes, well— it makes more sense, does it not? I never understood why we must spend ages wetting my hair and brushing it until it is straight only to curl it again. It is senseless!"
"You are right," Willow giggles as she reaches up, tucking a strand that had fallen from her ribbon behind her ear, "It is better like this, anyhow. It is.. more you."
The candlelight hits the rogue on Michelle's cheeks just enough to make it really seem as if she's blushing, like Willow's compliment brought the color to her face. It causes her stomach to do yet another swoop.
Their slow dance comes to a natural close. They stand still for a moment, Willow's eyes darting across Michelle's face as they gaze upon one another, before Michelle breaks the silence.
"I believe I am owed two more dances, My Lady."
Willow huffs, looking away as her face again heats. "We do not have to continue to dance simply because you signed my card."
"Have you considered that perhaps I want to dance with you?" Michelle asks, and Willow almost feels faint. Does Michelle even know what she does to her?
Michelle takes the lead once more, humming the tune of a waltz just long enough for Willow to find the tempo to share with her before she initiates new conversation.
"Lord Hamlet seemed quite displeased that I was stealing the remainder of your time," Michelle says just before she twirls Willow around.
"Hammet," Willow corrects; and she really does try not to smile, but her face betrays her. Her hand falls back to Michelle's shoulder as her twirl ends. "I care for him very little."
"I suspect you care very little for all your suitors," Michelle replies.
Willow nods carefully; she supposes there is little point in denying it. There is no one around to overhear, and Michelle would likely point out the truth of the matter even if Willow tried to claim otherwise.
"I am sorry, by the way," Michelle says then, "I know that is why things have changed between us. Why it is that you spend all your time at parties so withdrawn. I do not like getting a rise out of you, though it must seem that way. I simply.. miss you. The real you. The Willow who was honest, and opinionated, and would tell me everything, even when it would hurt or did not make any sense to me."
"Oh," Willow says softly, because it feels sudden, and she is uncertain of what to offer in response. How long must Michelle have been sitting on her feelings to admit them like this?
"It is hard, you know," Michelle continues, "watching you try to be someone you are not. And perhaps my approach has not been what you needed. Perhaps that is why I make you angry these days more than I make you happy."
Michelle takes in a soft breath before she mutters, "I suspect I haven't made you happy in quite a while."
"No," Willow agrees, "but that is not your fault, not really. And for what it is worth, I am happy right now."
"Are you?" Michelle smiles, eyes brimming with hope.
It reminds Willow of simpler times; memories of childhood that she misses dearly.
"Yes," Willow answers, her smile honest. "I am."
Willow knows what her responsibilities are. She knows that men would not like the Willow that is Michelle's equal in being outspoken and opinionated, a woman ready and eager to challenge.
Her father would tell her that fulfilling her duty to her family matters before anything else. Her tutor would tell her there is no space for real love in the political sphere of marriage. Her one and only job as a woman is to act solely upon what is beneficial to her family, and nothing more, nor less.
"I am sorry, too," Willow admits, hoping the sincerity reads on her face, "I know I have been.. difficult. I do not expect you to understand, but—"
"Why would I not understand?" Michelle interrupts, and Willow blinks, taken slightly aback. "You always do that— imply that our circumstances are so far removed that I must not, or could not, understand why it is you act the way you do. But I do, Willow. I always have, that I is why I keep trying, why I—"
Michelle stops, swallowing thickly as her eyes flicker across Willow's face. Willow finds herself holding her breath, her body still as she waits for Michelle to finish.
"Do you not see how I feel? I have tried, painstakingly, to show you that you are not as alone as you feel you are. To show you that I—"
Michelle pauses again, her eyes welling with an emotion that Willow has never before seen on her.
No, that's not quite right. Willow has seen it, but never allowed herself to linger on it, to dream about what it may mean.
She has seen it fleetingly, in small, quick moments before blinking and turning her head away. Moments where Willow would glance down at her feet instead of letting her eyes stay on Michelle, moments where she'd pretend too hard to be interested in the words of a nearby Lord.
A feeling that shows on Michelle's face whenever their eyes meet, one beyond just friendly affection. One that makes her smile bashfully, the one that Willow has never allowed herself to gaze upon long enough to commit to memory.
But she can see it now, fully. There is nowhere else for Willow to turn. It is just them, alone in the ballroom.
Goosebumps travel across her skin as she finally meets Michelle's gaze head on, and allows herself to feel the weight of it, the truth of it.
It is shy, and vulnerable, and overwhelming— but just this once, when there is no one else around to make her feel shame, Willow wants to look. She wants to see.
It's so overt. Michelle has always worn her heart on her sleeve, her affections obvious to anyone paying attention.
Willow never allowed herself to take it in, always convinced it would cause the tangled knot in her stomach to grow thorns. They'd cut, and bleed, and her heartache would be written for all to see. But despite it all, she's looking now.
A timidness bubbles beneath the surface, one that tempts Willow to turn her face away. She refuses to listen to that urge; if this should be the only time in her life that she gets to experience such whole affection, she wants to let it linger.
She wants to close her eyes and still feel the weight of Michelle on her skin, the sensation of lips on lips. And Willow doesn't know how Michelle feels about her— not yet, not really.
She can guess, based on the context. She can hope. But until Michelle says it, she will not know in the true sense of the word. What Willow does know is how she herself feels. She knows that she has loved Michelle from the very start, even before she knew what love truly was.
Willow mourned her feelings the day of her debut, resolved herself to live a life that would never truly be happy, or her own. She pushed Michelle away at every opportunity, stubborn in her belief that it would be easier that way.
And is it not true? Surely if Michelle's refusal to let go of her had not rivaled Willow's own obstinacy, they would not be here now.
Willow never allowed herself to dream of reciprocation. She never gave credence to the belief that her life could be better, that something she desires could actually be obtainable.
There is now, right in front of her eyes, a feasible chance to have what she's always desired. Is that not enough to act upon? And if not now, then when?
This is certainly it; her one and only opportunity to be open and honest in the way she's always wished to be. And even if it is the most foolish, selfish thing she ever does, she wants to allow herself to feel it, to live it.
So, despite the rapid stuttering in her heart, Willow doesn't shut away her desires. And the truth? She wants to kiss Michelle.
She wants to throw away propriety, to make a vow even with no witness that her love will always be true. Willow wants to press in close, to feel Michelle's skin against her own. She wants Michelle to be her one and only, the single person she ever has beside her.
It has always been Michelle that brings inspiration to her canvas, who gives fire to the ambitions she tries to swallow down. It has always been her that made Willow's heart race and palms clam up. Ever since she was a child, for as long as she can remember, it has always been Michelle.
It won't be long until self doubt creeps back in; uncertainty and responsibility an anchor keeping her to the floor. Willow has never been one to be swayed by spontaneity, too aware of consequence and reputation.
At this moment, before she loses her resolve, she wants to be more like Michelle. She doesn't want to think, she wants to act.
Willow takes a breath, closes her eyes; and then she's leaning up, pressing her lips to Michelle's. She leaves herself no time to rationalize her choice, or let the words of her father echo in her mind— she simply allows herself to have the connection she has always wanted.
Michelle is blinking in surprise when Willow pulls away, her name little more than a soft breath on her lips. Willow herself is breathless when she pulls away, even just the barest press of their lips leaving her with the feeling of air having been stolen from her lungs.
Reality begins to dawn on her again— what she's done, how impulsive and foolish it was, how it could ruin her. "Mich—" she starts, but Michelle shakes her head, her hands gripping at Willow's waist as she pulls her close.
"Do not regret it," Michelle whispers. "You cannot," she kisses Willow, her hands unconsciously gripping tighter. "Please. I cannot bear to hear you say that was a mistake."
Willow listens; she does not argue, or lament, or pull away. She presses fully into the kiss, letting herself become lost in the feeling of Michelle.
Is it selfish to want things to stay this way? To become enveloped wholly in Michelle, to be consumed by even the slightest of her touches? Perhaps; but for the first time in her life, Willow holds no care for consequences.
Michelle kisses her with desperate urgency; like her feelings are a bleed that cannot be staunched. There is no concern for who may catch them, nor for tarnished reputations.
"Willow," Michelle breathes when they finally separate, "do you love me?"
Willow sucks in a breath. Her face heats, eyes darting across Michelle's face as her lips part. She wants to say it, but the words lodge themselves in her throat. She swallows, takes a breath, trying her utmost to conjure the words she wants to say.
"Please, tell me," Michelle continues, "I love you, Willow. I need to hear you say that you love me too."
It is an urgent plea, Michelle's eyes vulnerable and hands shaking where they still remain on her waist.
Willow wants to say yes; terribly, she does. But impulsivity can only carry her so far; she is painfully aware of how difficult her life will become if she admits the depth of her love for Michelle.
And Willow knows Michelle better than anyone. She knows that Michelle would do absolutely anything to keep Willow by her side. Whether it be fighting against Willow's father, or abandoning her wealthy family and running away in the middle of the night, she would do it.
She would gladly ruin her own life if it meant Willow could be even the slightest bit happier. But can Willow let Michelle ruin herself like that?
Willow has always been one to follow logic over emotions. Even when her heart has screamed at her not to, she has walked away from every opportunity to have something she wants. Even now, it's what she feels she must do.
But there's a small voice in the back of her mind that wonders: are you not allowed to be selfish?
Michelle is selfish. She knows what she wants and she goes for it, unrelentingly. She is not swayed by perception, not hindered by lost finances or prospective marriages.
She is reckless, perhaps foolish, and absolutely magnetic. Willow is drawn to that energy; it pulls at her, keeps her close even when she tries her damnedest to tug herself away.
This time, Willow is willing to concede; give in to the pull, let herself be tugged into Michelle. This time, she'll stay.
"I love you," Willow confesses. "All my life I have been told it is wrong. I cannot love you, I am not supposed to love you, and I have tried— I have tried not to. But I cannot continue to deny myself. I cannot stand at the side and let my happiness slip away. I cannot stand the thought of being with anyone but you. I love you, Michelle."
Michelle laughs, but it is not humorous. It is one of pure relief, of joy unfiltered, and it pours into her kiss to Willow's lips.
Willow drinks it in as her own affections flow out, years worth of repressed desire bubbling to the surface like a wellspring. And this is her truth; no matter how much time passes, or how their lives may change, the love Willow has for her best friend will always remain.
She lets her restraint entirely dissolve, washed away with the outpouring of love. She follows Michelle, presses into every kiss like her life very well depends on it.
"I do not want this night to end here," Michelle confesses breathlessly against Willow's lips.
Willow nods subtly, breathing her agreement into another kiss. Tomorrow will come, time moving regardless of their wishes, she knows this; but Willow doesn't want to return home tomorrow and carry on as if this never happened.
She doesn't want to pretend that she's not impossibly in love with Michelle. She won't be able to look at her and pretend she doesn't know what it feels like to have Michelle's lips on her own.
"I believe I still owe you one more dance," Willow says coyly, "perhaps we could.. share it in your room?"
"Yes," Michelle agrees rather quickly. Willow giggles, even as her heart races extraordinarily fast.
Willow was still a young girl the last time she was in Michelle's room. She wonders how much has changed, or if it has remained exactly how she remembers it over the years.
Michelle holds out her palm, and Willow takes it, linking their hands. Michelle wastes no time, running towards the ballroom's exit whilst tugging Willow along.
Willow cringes for a moment at the loud clack of heels, but then she is laughing, holding her free hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to quiet herself.
They wind the halls of the Wheeler estate with barely hushed giggles, a nostalgic sort of feeling taking over. Memories of Michelle sneaking Willow into corners of her home forbidden to guests, of fond moments shared in secrecy.
The context is different, but the way they hold each other's hand and smile at one another is the same. The way they speak in whispers and fail to contain their gleeful giggles as Michelle glances over her shoulder at Willow; it is all the same.
"Just a moment," Michelle whispers as they reach the upper west wing of the estate, "I will dismiss the maids waiting for me."
Willow nods as she releases Michelle's hand from her grip, biting her lip as she watches Michelle turn the corner, towards her room. She fiddles with her hands as she waits, but it doesn't take long for her to grow curious.
She tiptoes towards the corner, peeking carefully around. She watches Michelle talk in that lively way she has about her, restless on her feet as her hands move around her, emphasizing whatever point she is making.
"Are you certain you will not need help undressing for bed?" Willow hears the lone, remaining maid ask. A flush rises to her cheeks as she retreats from the corner, bringing a hand to her chest.
She had certainly not thought that far ahead. They cannot very well sleep in their party dresses! It would be disastrously uncomfortable, if not telling of how they spent their night together.
"Willow," Michelle says her name in a hushed exclamation, and Willow jumps, turning her head towards the right. Michelle is there, a smile on her face as she points in the direction of her room. "Come, the coast is clear."
Willow stutters out an acknowledgement before she follows. Michelle ushers her inside first, following behind swiftly and locking the door behind herself.
Willow stands in place for a moment, taking in her surroundings. There are only a few candles lit, the lighting dim and intimate. The room is much the same as she remembers; ornate furniture at all corners, luxuriously spacious, carpet pristine.
She knows it's the maids that keep it looking so clean; when they were children, Michelle would leave her drawers open, her bed unmade, clothes littering the floor. Mess followed wherever she walked, and no amount of scolding would stop it from happening.
A moment of silence follows as Michelle steps past Willow, to her bed. It is not awkward necessarily, but rather hesitant as Willow keeps her attention on Michelle.
It strikes her again, how even in such dim light, Michelle is beautiful. The candles cast shadows on her face that enhance the edge of her jaw and cheekbones, while the subtle bits of illumination reveal her freckles.
Michelle holds Willow's gaze, and her stomach twists. Cautiously, she approaches Michelle's bed and sits next to her. Michelle's stare is attentive; Willow does not turn away, even as her heart threatens to implode from the attention.
Willow wonders what Michelle sees; if she finds every one of Willow's blemishes and lines as beautiful as she finds Michelle's.
"Can I kiss you again?" Willow asks instead, eyes full of eager trepidation.
Michelle nods with a small "yes." Her hands seek Willow out, resting themselves again on her waist as Willow tilts her head and leans forward, her own hands falling on Michelle's shoulders.
It is slower than the ones they shared in the ballroom, more sensual. It leaves Willow's stomach full of butterflies, her heart pounding against her ribcage.
She expected kissing to feel good, but nothing prepared her for the reality of how it feels to be in the moment. Michelle's hands are firm where they hold Willow, her lips insistent. There is a growing need in Willow's gut, a gnawing hunger for more of Michelle's touch across her skin.
Willow wants it— to feel Michelle on her bare skin, to feel her close, to move without the restriction of this stupidly embellished dress. She pulls away from their kiss, her face heating as she prepares to speak.
"Help me undress?"
"Pardon?" Michelle practically squeaks, her own cheeks flushing a deep red.
"I mean— unless you think I should remain in this dress for the remainder of the night?" Willow says, doing her utmost not to mutter. Her nerves are alight, her body aflame with timidity, but she wants Michelle to hear her clearly.
"N-No— no, right, of course not," Michelle agrees, swallowing thickly as she watches Willow rise from the bed.
Michelle follows, hands trembling as she reaches first for the dance card still tied to Willow's wrist. The ribbon unravels with a single firm tug, and neither of them pay it any mind as it falls to the floor.
She reaches next to one of Willow's biceps, where the edge of her silken glove lies. Michelle snakes two of her fingers beneath the fabric, then slowly tugs it down, past Willow's elbow, to her palm, and off.
Michelle repeats the action on the other arm, and then Willow does the same for her. Even for an act as small as watching Willow remove her gloves, Michelle's breath is short, almost labored.
Their eyes meet as Willow drops Michelle's glove to the floor with the rest, and they share soft, shy smiles. Willow reaches up, behind her head; she feels for the tie keeping her hair up, and quickly unravels it. Her hair falls, curls bouncing until the strands settle against her shoulders.
Michelle reaches next for the ruffled sleeves of Willow's dress. Her hands tremble, trepidation written in her gaze as equally as excitement. Willow does the same, crosses her arms, placing her hands atop Michelle's.
She helps guide Michelle's hands down her arms, dropping them once they reach her elbows. Gravity does the remainder of the work; her pale yellow dress falls down her body, pooling at her feet.
The next layer to come off is her petticoat, which she carefully steps out of once the drawstrings are undone. Left then in just her stay and chemise, Willow turns around, her back facing Michelle.
Michelle unties the drawstrings as carefully as she can despite her shaking hands. The chemise that remains is simple, white cotton with little frill. It is the last barrier between Willow and full nudity; the reality of it makes her nervous, but excites her almost equally so.
"May I?" Willow asks as she turns around to face Michelle once more, her hands stopping just short of the powder blue sleeves on her shoulders. Michelle gives her approval swiftly, and Willow readies to follow the same motions as done with her own garments.
But whereas Willow let her dress fall to the floor once loosened, Michelle opts for pulling the fabric up and over her head. The dress snags on one of the many pins in her hair meant to keep her up-do in place, and Willow giggles as Michelle makes a noise of frustration.
Michelle eventually wins out, tossing her dress down with a huff as Willow does her utmost to keep her giggling to herself. Michelle reaches behind her back, fingers searching for one of the many drawstrings on her stay.
Willow steps around her, swats her hand away before taking care of the strings herself. Michelle shyly mutters her thanks, opting instead to remove the pins in her hair, as well as the foundational ribbon, letting them scatter across the floor with little care.
Once finished, apprehension settles back over them. They are left in nothing but their chemises, a state of undress that Willow has never been in with anyone but her maids.
And yet, she is not as embarrassed as she anticipated she might be. It is nerve wracking, certainly, to be as exposed as she is— but she feels secure. She is comfortable with Michelle, and all stutters of her heart are welcome, even enjoyable.
The tension as they hold one another's gaze is unmistakable. The juxtaposition between bashfulness and desire leaves Willow temporarily stuck in place, a silent battle being waged between "should I act, or shouldn't I?"
Willow knows very little about intimacy, and her few lessons certainly did not cover intimacy with a woman. She wants to do something, she just doesn't quite know what.
In all her lessons, she was told of expectations. She recalls her fears, her moments of hesitation, her reconciliation with living with a love unrequited.
There is no more time for any such fear. Willow does not know what she wants other than Michelle, what words there are for any act they may share. She decides it does not matter; love and intimacy are a complicated thing, but they can also be simple— she wants Michelle, and that's all there is to it.
So, she follows instinct. She kisses Michelle once more before returning to her bed. Willow lies back as if she owns it, keeping her expression relaxed, assured. She props herself on her elbows, tilts her head as she wordlessly waits for Michelle to join her.
Willow watches it process on Michelle's face, the way her blush crawls to her ears before she acts. She crawls in with Willow, their legs tangling as tilts her head for another kiss.
Willow's torso falls back against the bed as she lifts her arms to hold Michelle's face in her hands. The kiss doesn't break; it continues as Willow drags Michelle down with her.
Michelle's hands travel up and down the sides of Willow's body, her touch always stopping just beneath her breasts. Michelle pulls away from her lips, watching Willow closely are her fingers twitch where they rest against the fabric of her chemise.
She is silently asking for permission, waiting to be told that it is okay to touch her there. Michelle's eyes are searching— not just for consent, but for any hint of hesitation.
There is none to be found. Willow feels naught but certainty, desire, and utmost love. She wants this as badly as Michelle does, undeniably so.
Michelle reaches down to the hem of Willow's chemise, and Willow nods, whispering an approval as she does. Michelle pulls it up slowly, carefully, and Willow lifts her back off the bed, allowing Michelle to take it off her completely.
She watches Michelle swallow as she stares down at her, taking in the unfamiliar sight of her exposed chest. "I confess, I have thought about seeing you this way a million times," Michelle admits as she finally tears her eyes away to look at Willow's face again.
"A million times, have you?" Willow responds, offering her smile that is equal parts shy and mischievous.
"Must you tease me, even now?" Michelle questions, though her tone remains soft, with a hint of amusement. "I almost miss when you hated me just hours ago."
Willow laughs even as her heart stutters. "I have never hated you," she says honestly, "though you vex me greatly."
Michelle is radiant when she laughs, and Willow shares in the joy, kissing her tenderly towards the end of their shared giggles. Their kisses remain slow; there is no need for Willow to rush along, or to urge Michelle forward.
This is special— something that, while Willow hopes they will experience again and again over a lifetime, may only happen once. And they have both wanted this for so long, yearned for it with an intensity that words would fail— so why should they move through it quickly?
It should be savored, with even the smallest of details leaving a lasting impression on her memory. Michelle seems to feel the same, her every touch careful and thorough.
"I love you," she whispers into yet another slow kiss, her hands cupping Willow's breasts, feeling the weight of them in her palms. She squeezes every so often, gently testing different pressures, feeling the way the fat of Willow's breasts molds around her slender fingers.
When the pads of Michelle's thumbs rub over the hardening peaks of her nipples for the first time, Willow lets out a moan, unbidden. She has no time to feel embarrassed by such a noise, because Michelle is quick to repeat the action.
Again, and again, Michelle draws out soft gasps and shuddering breaths. A shiver runs down the length of her body, moans bitten back by teeth until Michelle kisses her once more.
"Michelle—" Willow whines against her lips. Michelle offers her own strangled noise, her head bowing towards Willow's ear.
"Again," Michelle says as she begins to trail kisses beneath Willow's ear, and down the expanse of her neck, "Please, call my name again."
Willow obliges easily, each small whine turning into a soft moan of Michelle's name. Michelle's hands, meanwhile, travel lower, rubbing over the plush territory of Willow's thighs. Her fingers repeatedly come dangerously close to Willow's center before being drawn away.
Michelle chuckles when Willow huffs, a small pout forming on her lips. Is such teasing payback, perhaps?
"What is the matter?" Michelle asks with an amused lilt in her voice, "I did not think you were so impatient."
Truly, this is the fault of Willow— how could she forget that at the end of the day, beneath all the shyness and desire that lied at the forefront, Michelle is ever a playful person at heart.
"Do not be cruel, Michelle," Willow grumbles, her pout growing larger. It's not like she's trying to rush anything along! But Michelle knows what she is doing, and is vexing Willow on purpose.
How is she supposed to stay composed when Michelle keeps making her needy for touch, constantly bringing her fingers so close to where Willow wants them, only to not actually grant her reprieve?
And it is unfair, truly, how dazzling Michelle looks when she smiles. Willow's stomach twists at the sight. She would have half a mind to threaten to leave if Michelle didn't so effortlessly make butterflies dance in her stomach.
"I apologize, my love. I simply find your pouting very.. cute."
"Michelle, please," Willow whines. She ought to feel ashamed over her desperate display, but all she knows is want.
"Tell me what it is you want, Willow. I will do anything you ask. You realize that, do you not?" Michelle speaks softly, honestly, and Willow swallows thickly as she listens. "I am utterly enamored with you. I cannot resist you, and every moment that I try is another spent in agony. So tell me— anything you want, it is yours. Anything."
"I-I—" Willow starts, but quickly finds herself stumbling over her words. The way Michelle is looking at her, waiting with baited breath for her answer, eyes eager and so willing to give Willow her all— it sends a shiver down her spine.
Willow swallows, willing her racing heart to calm so she may speak properly. "I want.. to feel you. And for you to feel me. Anywhere, everywhere. Every inch."
Michelle's breath catches in her throat, and Willow watches the way her body shudders in response to her words. "Truly?" she asks, as if the notion is unbelievable.
Once more, Willow releases how much Michelle compensates for vulnerability with playfulness. She will joke and tease, but the moment something real is presented to her, the way she feels becomes undeniable.
She loves fiercely, but hurts just so. Even when she is brave, she is weak. Her blithe approach is a guard against that which may break her heart. Willow intends to do no such thing, not anymore. Any pain she may have caused Michelle by being obstinate is well and truly over.
Willow has always known what she wants— the problem lied in allowing herself to have it. Now that all she has ever desired is in reach, she will not squander it. She will make her feelings known, so that Michelle may trust wholeheartedly that Willow's affections are true.
"Michelle," she whispers as she places her hands on Michelle's face, urging her eyes to remain locked on Willow's own, "I love you, deeply and truly. There is no one else in this world I would rather have beside me."
Willow can feel the heat of Michelle's blush beneath her fingers, the warmth radiating from her fingertips and across her palms. And Michelle smiles— one that is shy, but at the same time full of unfiltered joy.
She leans down to kiss Willow once more, and even unspoken, the depth of her love and appreciation is felt. Her fingers resume their original motion, tracing up and down Willow's thighs, close to her center, but not touching quite yet.
Willow can feel the nervous tension within Michelle. She is not trying to tease, not anymore; rather, touching Willow in her most private of places is uncharted territory.
Willow, too, feels nervous. It is frightening, she must admit, being so exposed and vulnerable in front of another. Still, she meant it when she said there is no one else in this world she would rather have.
She trusts Michelle wholeheartedly. No one else could make Willow feel this safe and secure while exposed, nor this tenderly loved.
She takes a breath, palms sweating as she gently grips the sheets beneath her, and she spreads her legs. Michelle, who had seemingly been making a conscious effort not to look too overtly, has her breath hitch at the sight.
"You are so beautiful," Michelle breathes softly. The confession leaves Willow's skin buzzing, innate shyness becoming more and more overridden by anticipation.
However, despite her excitement for what is to follow, there is something Willow must do first. "Wait," she says before Michelle can continue to act.
Michelle tilts her head curiously; Willow reaches up a hand, gently grasping at the chemise still covering Michelle's body. "May I?"
Michelle stills, a flash of hesitation crossing over her eyes. Willow frowns, eyes remaining soft as she reaches to tenderly stoke Michelle's arm instead.
"You do not have to undress further if you do not wish to. I do not mean to force it upon you," Willow says.
"No, I— I do want to, but.." Michelle hesitates, casting a judging look down at herself before slowly looking back to Willow. "My body.. it is not.."
"What?" Willow questions, unable to help the disbelieving tone in her voice, "Beautiful? Even without having seen it fully, I can assure you that it is."
Michelle does not mean to scoff, not one to make light of Willow's words. It comes out unbidden, and just moments after the sound passes her lips, she appears apologetic.
"I do not wish to imply you a liar," she says earnestly, "but I truly do not believe so. I have been courted a few times, as you know, but those were all for status, financial gain. I do not think anyone looked at me and saw.. beauty."
"Then they were all fools," Willow declares, voice unflinchingly stern, "each and every one of them."
Michelle laughs softly as she shakes her head. Uncertainty may remain, but she appears lighter, more at ease— that is enough for Willow, for now.
"I concede, this once," Michelle says, fingers clutching now at the hem of her chemise.
"You will concede many more times in the future if I have any say," Willow replies, a small smile on her face as she helps Michelle pull the fabric from her body.
"Is that a challenge?" Michelle asks, nerves over nudity tamped down by her innate competitive nature.
"Perhaps. Shall we issue it formally?" Willow suggests playfully, and they share in giggles for a small moment before Michelle is tugged into a kiss. "Truly," Willow starts, lips barely parted from Michelle's as she speaks, "I must thank you for trusting me. You are beautiful."
Michelle blushes, and she does her utmost to hide it, turning her face away and letting her curls fall over her flushed cheeks. "Yes, well.. if you say so."
Willow will say so many times over if that is what it takes to make Michelle believe her. For now, she wants to keep kissing; and so she does, kiss and let herself be kissed over and over as their hands roam one another's bodies.
Michelle's chest is not as full as Willow's own, but that does not make it any less enjoyable to fondle. She quite enjoys how Michelle's breasts fit petitely in her palms. She enjoys the way Michelle breaths against her mouth as she caresses the sensitive skin, thumbs rubbing over hardened nipples.
Their kisses lose rhythm, mouths open as they pant and softly moan, tongues meeting and redrawing only briefly before coming back together. Willow's legs press together, thighs rubbing and body squirming.
She does not have words to put to what she needs, but she knows she needs something. Her body yearns for it, her voice becoming whinier as one of Michelle's hands travels lower.
Michelle's fingers twitch against Willow's skin, drawing alluringly close to her dripping center. And this time, she finally touches. Willow's body jolts, tingles cascading over her skin from even the lightest pressure of Michelle's fingertips.
"May I?" Willow asks breathlessly as her own hand travels down Michelle's body, mimicking. Michelle nods into another messy kiss, coordination lost in the mess of wet lips and tongue.
Willow has never touched such an intimate place before— not even her own. She was curious, certainly, but always too afraid of what she might discover about how it feels, and about her attraction.
She wonders if Michelle has touched herself before; if she knows what she is doing, of if instinct is what guides her hand. That's what she thinks upon as her own hand feels the dripping heat of Michelle.
If it was her own body, how would she touch it? What might feel good?
Michelle's fingers have been rubbing carefully between Willow's folds, spreading the slick that has accumulated there. It feels quite nice, really, so she does the same to Michelle. She seems to appreciate it, voicing a soft hum of approval against Willow's mouth.
Michelle's hand then travels lower, and Willow's breathing halts as the tips of her fingers press against an opening. She doesn't know what to expect, but her body is tingling with desire, anticipation.
Slowly, carefully, Michelle pushes a slender finger inside of Willow's heat. The sensation is unfamiliar, but not unpleasant— it makes her gasp, and soon whimper as Michelle slides it out of her body before pushing it back in.
She looks up at Michelle, taking in the mystified gaze she holds as she stares down at Willow. Is it good, she wonders, to watch the motion of her fingers? How they disappear into Willow's body and reemerge slicker than before?
Willow imagines it must be. She wants to share it; she isn't entirely certain she can find Michelle's own opening so easily, but she will not back down from trying.
Michelle plants her other hand flat on the mattress, besides Willow's head, as she spreads her legs further apart. One of her knees dig into Willow's thigh, but she pays it no mind; she looks to Michelle for guidance.
"Yes," Michelle utters, and Willow listens, her touch just as slow and careful as Michelle's own. The sensation is unlike anything she's felt; the inside of Michelle is warm, and wet, and it pulses around her finger.
They explore languidly, the motion of their fingers unhurried as they familiarize themselves with one another. They kiss, and they moan, and eventually, they add another finger.
Willow gasps when, after some further exploration, Michelle's fingers find a spot that makes every nerve in her body erupt in pleasure. She needs to find the same spot in Michelle— her fingers are shorter, but surely with enough effort she can succeed, can she not?
She tries, unrelentingly— changing angles and depth, until finally she is rewarded. It is not as full of a touch as she would hope for, the tips of her smaller fingers just barely brushing over a soft bundle of nerves, but it makes Michelle's entire body tense regardless.
Michelle picks up her pace now; not too fast, but steady enough that the pace of Willow's own hand falters as her head tilts back, biting her lip to contain the loud moan threatening to leave her.
Michelle compensates for the loss of motion by rolling her hips down on Willow's fingers. When Willow lifts her head back up to watch, her stomach clenches tightly. Michelle is gorgeous— the way her chest rises and falls as she pants, the rosy flush on her cheeks, the way sweat beads down her brow.
Willow has never seen anything more stunning. Does she compare? She, too, is breathless, cheeks aflame, hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. She's certain her hair must have lost some of its curl by now, hair frizzed from rubbing against the sheet.
Michelle withdraws her fingers from Willow's body, and she almost whines in protest— instead, the whine that comes from her is entirely pleasured as Michelle rubs a different part of Willow.
It's a sensitive spot, nestled between her folds. If there was any doubt before, it becomes increasingly clear that Willow is the more vocal one of the two. She does try her utmost to keep her volume down, truly— she bites her lip, clamps her free hand over her mouth, buries her head into her arm; anything she can think of.
It doesn't muffle her as well as she'd like, but it's enough (she hopes.) Willow wants to give Michelle the same pleasure, but she is loath to withdraw her fingers from Michelle's body when she seems so lost in grinding down on them.
Instead, she tries to find the same spot with her thumb. It is taxing, her hand uncomfortably cramping from the stretch and effort it takes, but she does thankfully fulfill her goal.
Their bodies are building to something— Willow can feel it in the tension her muscles hold, the way her stomach clenches and heart stutters. Her gasps are sharp, her breathing harsh, and Michelle is much the same.
She does not moan as audibly as Willow, but the signs of pleasure are there; the furrow in her brow, the tension in her jaw, the bite of her lip. She reaches for Michelle, pulling her down, closer— because whatever lies at the peak of this feeling, she wants to feel it with Michelle's lips on hers.
Willow's body goes rigid, her breath catching in her throat, a moment suspended in time; and then the height of such pleasure crashes over her, her whines pouring into Michelle's mouth as her body trembles.
Michelle, too, loses herself in the feeling. Willow feels her tighten around her fingers, more slick wetting her fingers as Michelle moans. When the high recedes, Willow slips her fingers out carefully, and Michelle lies beside her, pulling her in close.
Breathlessly, they lie wrapped in one another's embrace, sharing soft kisses, whispering admissions of love. The candles, which were already quite dim, have melted down considerably, leaving the room almost entirely in darkness.
Moonlight provides most of the illumination in the room. Willow knows one of them should get up, go about the room and ensure the candles die out safely, but her body is so lax and heavy in Michelle's hold.
Legs tangled, Willow's head rests against Michelle's shoulder, while Michelle's hand rubs languidly up and down Willow's spine. Her heartbeat gradually begins to slow, her eyes closing as her breathing softens. She can feel Michelle pull a blanket over the nude bodies as she kisses Willow's temple.
Despite it all, Willow cannot find true rest. Her mind is racing, a tremble returning to her voice as she calls Michelle's name.
"Yes? What is it, my love?"
There is a moment of silence that follows as Willow considers how best to say what is on her mind. Michelle has lifted her head, her eyes patient and soft as she waits for Willow to speak.
"Do you.. really think we can be together? Perhaps even marry?" Willow finally asks after another long moment.
It's the only thing Willow wants, what she hopes for more than any words can express. And Michelle tries not to show it, but Willow can see how her expression grows pained at the question.
"Yes," she answers firmly; Willow does not know whether the answer stems from confidence, or blind hope, but she lets it soothe her nonetheless. "I am going to marry you," Michelle continues, voice gentle but resolute, "no matter what I must do. There is no happiness for me without you."
"Michelle.."
"I mean it, truly. In all moments, your worst and your best, I will be there. I will hold your hand and give you my love until the end of my days. Whether it is tomorrow, or months from now, or even years, I will be your wife, and you, mine. We shall be together every morning, and every night. I will tell you I love you so many times you will grow sick of it."
Willow laughs softly, lifting a hand to wipe a tear from her eye. Michelle smiles too, tucking a stray hair behind Willow's ears and gently kissing her.
"No matter what your father says, or mine, our union is true," Michelle says as she continues to hold Willow tight. "Love is allowed, and who it is shared between is no longer strictly bound. No matter who may protest, we are free to be ourselves."
"Yes," Willow breathes, and for the first time, she believes she can have the love she has always desired. "You are right."
The future is not so uncertain with Michelle by her side. When they are ready, they will profess their love for one another hand in hand. They will boldly announce their intention to marry, and whether they receive support from their fathers or not, that is not the only family they have.
They have the quiet support of Willow's mother. They have Johanna, and Michelle's brothers. And above all, even when some in the ton may sneer and judge and hold on to prejudice, they will always have each other.