There was a sound.
A rather loud, incessant sound, and on top of the rain that her senses managed to focus on as she woke, Ezri thought maybe it was thunder.
No, too rhythmic for thunder. The low rumble in the background, right after the flash of light in the dark room; that was thunder.
It hit her that it was someone pounding on the door after she had thrown herself out of bed.
“What the fuck,” she mumbled, grabbing her glasses, halfway down the stairs, flipping on lights, looking out the long front window and seeing nothing clearly in the dark and rain even when she finally got the glasses on.
She opened the door, creaking with humidity, the scent of rain pouring in.
“Hi,” Clara whispered.
“Clara,” Ezri breathed, the word the same as the breath she’d been holding. “It’s… late?” She wasn’t sure; she knew she’d gone to bed around ten and been solidly asleep when the knocking began. It was dark; the storm brewing as she drifted off was now worse. “Are you—are you okay?”
It was a dumb question, because something had to be wrong for Clara to be here on her doorstep—unannounced, alone—in the middle of the night, water dripping off the ends of her bangs, clinging to the ends of her hair. She was flushed and looked like she’d been crying; besides the rain, Ezri smelled alcohol on her. And, eyes adjusting, her car was in the driveway behind her.
“I—it’s… no one’s dead or in the hospital or anything,” she said, looking at the ground, kicking at a puddle. Black socks, no shoes.
“Okay,” said Ezri. That was good. Her heart rate slowed a little.
“May I—come in?”
“Of course. … Of course.” She opened the door farther and then closed it behind her. “Do you—are you—do you want—something dry?”
“Please.” She was getting water all over the floor. The actual thunder continued outside.
“Did you drive here?”
“Yeah,” she mumbled, not looking at her, and dropped the keys in Ezri’s outstretched hand.
"Aren't you alcohol intolerant?"
"A little."
Ezri had nothing to say to that. She left and came back with pajamas and a towel. Didn’t protest but didn’t look at her when she changed into them right there, instead went to the kitchen.
Clara came in a few minutes later, a little dryer but with splotches on the borrowed clothes, noticeable on the gray tee shirt, perhaps noticeable because it wasn’t black and she was wearing it. “I left stuff in the shower to dry. Tried to throw the towel at the puddle in the front room a bit.” She sat at the island, set her phone on the counter. Ezri slid her water. “Uh, thanks.” She took a sip, stared down at the water, tilted it to and fro in the glass.
“So…” said Ezri.
“So,” said Clara. Her phone lit up with a call. She cleared her throat, looking up. “I fought with Jen.”
“Are you going to answer that?”
“No,” she said softly, back to staring at the water.
The toaster dinged and Ezri placed the pieces in front of her. Dry toast, black coffee if Ezri felt like giving her a different substance right now, which she didn’t.
Clara started to tear one of the pieces apart without eating it.
“What happened?”
“It was stupid,” she said. “It was really fucking dumb. I dunno. We fought. About—" she cut herself off. "I teased her. She didn’t like it. I pushed. She pushed. It kept going. Y’know. We just… fought.”
“And then you… came here?”
“I stormed off. Ran out. I dunno, I’m a fucking idiot tonight, okay?”
“No,” said Ezri; “not okay. You ran away in the middle of a fight and could’ve gotten yourself killed driving drunk and crying in a storm in the middle of the night. Driving a stick shift, no less. And now you won’t answer your phone.” She gestured to the light up of a new call that was going to be missed. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to that poor woman?”
“I know,” Clara said softly.
Ezri’s phone lit up on the counter next, same contact.
“She’s tracking my phone,” Clara said as she realized it.
“I’m answering.”
“No!” Clara grabbed her wrist before she could stop herself. “Please. I just need… give me a minute.”
“Clara—”
“Please. I know. I know I fucked up. I just can’t… hear it right now.”
Ezri closed her eyes and sighed, resting her head in her hands, elbows on the island. “Eat the damn toast, Clara.”
Clara did, placing torn up pieces in her mouth and managing to chew and swallow a few of them without being sick.
“This is what you’re going to do,” said Ezri, looking up as Clara’s phone lit up again. “You’re going to eat the rest of that—” she gestured to the toast “—and drink the water, and you’re going to sleep in the guest room, and I'm going to take you back to Jen first thing in the morning, and you’re going to accept any and all consequences for your frankly idiotic actions.”
Clara glared at the toast but nodded.
“Meanwhile, you’re going to call Jen back, and confirm where you are, tell her what the plan is, and that you’re safe.”
Clara was silent, still.
“Clara.”
“I can’t,” she pleaded.
“What you can’t do is let her worry. She loves you. You love her. You can’t do this to her.”
“She won’t, after this.”
“God, you’re dense,” said Ezri, pacing.
Text. Just tell me if you’re okay.
Clara, please.
Don’t do this to me.
Ezri’s phone. Is Clara with you?
Is she okay?
Fuck.
Tell her I love her.
Clara refused to look at the messages. “You really think—she’ll take me back?”
Ezri rolled her eyes. “Yes, I think the woman who has tried to reach us a combined ten times in the last three minutes cares enough to not discard you.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“She’s not dismissing you.”
“If she does,” Clara said, looking scared, "would you take me?"
“She won’t. She loves you. And you love her. And you’ll go home tomorrow and everything will seem clearer.”
“Okay,” said Clara. “Could—could you do it?”
Ezri's phone was lighting up again. “Okay,” she said, and picked it up.
“Ezri—thank God—Clara—is she with you? We fought; she ran off; she was drunk; she took our car; the weather’s so awful tonight—is she there?”
“She’s here,” said Ezri; Clara avoided looking at her, biting her lip, able to hear both sides of the conversation. “She’s fine.”
Jen, too, was crying, and Ezri sighed at both of them. “Okay—okay. As long as she’s fine.”
“I’ll take her back first thing in the morning.”
“Okay.” Jen sniffled, breathed. “Don’t let her drive.”
“I have her keys.”
“Good. Thank you. Fuck. Can I—talk to her?”
Ezri looked at Clara, who continued to avoid looking at her, fidgeting with the hem of the shirt, eyes fixated on the motions. “I don’t think she’s ready for that yet.”
Silence. Silence wasn't good, on Jen. Then, a reluctant, “Okay. Well—tell her to call. Send her my love. And raging disappointment.”
“I will.”
“I’ll, um… I’ll let you go, then?” Hesitancy was strange on her.
“Call, or text, if you need anything.”
“Okay.” Quietly, “I’m glad she has you.”
“We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay."
“Good night.”
"Good night."
She hung up, though Ezri’s phone quickly lit up with another text as her and Clara were still silent, one last thanks.
“I need the bathroom,” Clara mumbled, out of the room before Ezri could call her on the lie.
When she managed to stop crying and puking, and came back, she found Ezri sitting on the couch looking like she was about to get a migraine, face in her hands, though it was probably just the stress she’d induced. She paced over to her and would’ve liked to say it was old habit that had her kneeling in front of her, propping her chin on her knee like nothing had changed, but it was a lot more than that.
Ezri looked at her for a moment, sighed, and stroked her hair, thinking, You get one minute.
They’d spent enough hours like this for the silence to be comfortable for a minute.
Clara’s hair was strangely silky under her touch considering it had just finally dried, the way her bangs fluttered through her fingers familiar.
“You should sleep,” Ezri told her. “If you can.”
“Did she say anything else?” Clara asked, which was both a diversion and not.
“Not really.” She wasn’t going to tell her, but looking at Clara on her knees with those scared brown eyes, she added, “I told her to give you extra lashes from me.”
“Gee, thanks.” She didn’t wait for Ezri’s sigh before looking up at her and saying, “Thank you,” softer. She knew Ezri’s discipline was a strange form of love and thus Ezri’s favoritism, back then, had given her the most severe of it.
“Of course.” Also soft, a little dry, perhaps only so soft because of the gentle, massaging press of her fingers against her scalp. Her head was pounding; it felt nice. “And if you ever find yourself doing something this imbecilic again without Jen available to beat the shit out of you, I’ll do it.”
“Good.”
“Come on.” Ezri nudged her off and stood. “You should still go to sleep.”
Clara stood, too, but only to get curled up on the couch, pulling the throw draped over it over herself. She remembered at least one night that had found them both under it.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” Ezri shut the light on her way out.
The morning was very quiet. Ezri took her back in the car she'd arrived in with a plan to get a ride share back, and, with a disappointed look, texted Jen for her when they left. It was entirely too bright outside.
Clara started to panic the closer they got. “Do you really think—it’ll be okay?” she asked again.
“Yes,” said Ezri firmly. She's three months ahead on paying you off.
Clara closed her eyes, leaned back against the headrest, feeling sick. “God, I hope you’re right.”
They sat in the driveway for a minute in silence. “Thank you,” she said finally, finding Ezri’s hand with one of hers and squeezing, “for everything.”
“Of course,” Ezri sighed, but squeezed back.
“I love you,” said Clara, with a bit of a question on the end, hopeful, like she needed to hear it from someone and didn’t expect it to be Jen today.
“I love you, too,” said Ezri, very quietly.
Clara kissed her cheek. “Wish me luck? Wrong phrase?”
Ezri offered only a grim smile.
“Okay. I’ll go.” She shut the car door quickly behind her, walked swiftly to the front door, and knocked before she could lose her nerve.
It opened relatively quickly. Right. Jen had probably been tracking her phone again since she'd heard from Ezri. Jen's eyes scanned her, head to toe and back again, as if she wasn't sure she was real. Clara shrank under the examination, heart pounding so loudly—roughly in time with her head—she was sure Jen could hear it. She wanted nothing more than to fling herself into her arms and sob and hide and promise she'd never do anything half as stupid ever again, offer anything—anything—she wanted, if she would just forgive her. But the moment wasn't right. For now, she was sure she was in more trouble than she could fathom.
Jen breathed her name. Then clutched her to her impossibly tightly, buried her face in her neck and made a sound like a sob. Whispered her name again. Then, "Do you have any idea how fucking scared I was?"
Clara, caught off guard, managed only a tiny shake of her head. She'd stiffened when Jen reached for her, but now, returned the embrace, fingers skimming her back in a hesitant, soothing gesture. Remembered, home, safe and sound in Jen's arms again, how to breathe.
Jen took a deep, shaky breath and released her. Took a step back. Opened the door again and led the way in. Clara followed. Jen shut the door.
Alone, she sank to her knees at Jen’s feet, head low. Had barely brushed the ground when Jen snapped, "I didn't say you could kneel."
Oh. She straightened, though she didn't manage to raise her head. Tears threatened again. She remembered the awful fight that had preceded what she later thought of as her real offense.
Jen slapped her, hard. Clara whimpered.
“So,” said Jen. “Where do we start? General insubordination. Running away even with orders to stay put. Almost getting yourself killed on the road. Almost giving Ezri a heart attack. Failure to answer my calls or texts, failure to tell me your plans, even when I ordered you to."
Clara said nothing. There was nothing good to say and she hadn’t been prompted. Failure failure failure echoed in her head, and she finally held her tongue.
Jen hit her again. She whimpered again.
“Do you have any idea how fucking scared I was?” Jen demanded. “I don’t think I ask for a lot. But knowing you’re fucking alive is pretty basic. I've given you privilege after privilege and you throw it all back at me by going so far past the line I made hard to cross to begin with. There are five fucking rules, Clara. And you broke four of them in one go."
“Yes, Mistress,” she whispered.
Quiet. “If I tell you to stay, you stay,” Jen said, softer. “If people can teach their dogs to stay so they can keep them from getting hit by a car, I think you can manage it. You're going to behave, you're going to obey my orders and my rules, and you are sure as hell going to learn to place some value on your own life.”
“Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry.” Daring, for a moment, to look up at her. “It won’t happen again. I’ll—do all of that. Anything you want. If you'll have me.” She lowered her gaze again, waiting, waiting for exactly what she had expected, exactly what would prove Ezri wrong; she knew—some part of her knew—Jen still wanted her, would let her prove herself again, and yet she couldn't bring herself to assume it.
She tensed when Jen touched her, but she didn’t hit her again, cupped her cheek and ordered, “Look at me.”
Clara’s eyes flitted back up to hers, but she couldn’t bear it for long; Jen prodded her chin up. “Look at me,” she said again, gentler, closer, and Clara did. “You’re not going anywhere. I can’t lose you. That’s exactly why I was so angry. Okay?”
“Okay,” she whispered, and the words felt much better between them, Jen’s lips at the bridge of her nose, the beginnings of forgiveness.
Jen released her. "Come with me." She led the way upstairs. She held her hand, though Clara felt like she was being led to her own execution by the executioner. She just wanted to cry. A small sound slipped out. Jen squeezed her hand.
This was going to hurt.
It felt strange, being home and yet not feeling accepted back just yet, even knowing that feeling would come later. Like she was seeing it for the first time, like it was someone else’s. Even the cats seemed to be watching her with new curiosity.
The usually empty room's door was closed when they got there, and Jen shut it again behind them. It was still mostly empty, but a folding end table held a few things, a nylon sling hung from the ceiling hard point, and a dragon tail whip with a metal barb threaded on the end balanced delicately by its wrist loop on a d-ring on the wall.
This was going to hurt.
"Strip," Jen ordered.
Clara did. It almost—almost—felt nice, the air chilly on her skin for now, but the twice worn fabrics she removed stiff with dried rainwater. Still, she was very aware of Jen's eyes on her, the vulnerability.
When she was done, Jen put her hair up for her. Then said, "Come here," and guided her where she wanted her, her touch warm, placing Clara's hands holding the nylon, over her head. "Now be a good girl and stay put," she said near her ear. "Do you think you can handle stay this time?"
Clara bit her lip. Her mouth was dry. She swallowed, nodded, managed, "Yes, Mistress." She was scared, skeptical of her own abilities, but eager to offer submission any way she could. There would be no fighting; there would be no running; there would be no hiding.
Jen picked up the whip. Clara flinched just to know she was holding it. She ached for that softness and closeness again. She'd do anything to have this over with and be back to that, to normal.
Jen had never punished her before. She'd never had to. While she had the right to it—the right to whatever she wanted; she could whip her an hour a day for all the contract said—she’d never laid out a system, never done it, never truly threatened it. The small things that had come up had been amply handled with clear, firm, verbal chastisement, not anything like the whip in her hand now.
Clara whimpered in anticipation, and was surprised when it was matched by Jen’s shaky inhale behind her. She wanted, in a way, to reassure her, of what she didn’t know, but the whip fell on her skin and the thought scattered from her mind.
She hissed; fuck, this was going to suck. Jen was not holding back from the start. They played hard as it was, and this wasn't play.
Another, another, another. She writhed as the stinging, sharp, burning strokes continued, the way the barb clung to her skin for a split second before being yanked away, but kept any serious struggling in check. On and on.
“I can’t believe you,” said Jen, but her voice lacked the sharpness of the whip, wavering. “If someone had told me that you would do something this stupid, I would’ve laughed at them.”
They both would’ve; nothing seemed very funny right now, though.
“Maybe they did tell me. People said I let you do too much, get away with too much, wasn’t pedantic enough, didn’t ask for enough. Whatever the hell it was.” This anger was far better than that wavering. The whip kept coming. “And I defended you and defended you and defended you. I kept doing it. I let you on the furniture, I let you choose your clothes, I let you set your own schedule—and I just kept thinking, it doesn’t matter—you do what I say, don’t you? If I told you no, you stopped. So how the hell do you think I felt when I realized you hadn’t stopped when I told you no? It all came back. Other people talking about us. Hell, partners who said I wasn’t strict enough. And that was before you ran off. We’ll get there.”
The tears came more easily from the lecture than the pain; she knew people had questioned Jen on certain leniencies and she often responded with exactly that—if I told her to, she would. That’s all I need to know. Or she'd prove it. If the disbelief came at her place next to Jen on the couch, she’d kick her off of it for a minute simply to prove the lack of argument.
“So if you didn’t stop when I told you to, what did I have left? If I can’t say no to you, where does that leave me?”
“Mistress—” she whispered.
“—Fucking nowhere, that’s where.” An especially hard blow landed wrapped around her thigh; she whimpered and the words went quiet.
“And that would’ve been enough. I was thinking, well, there goes nothing. If I can’t say no to you at the end of the day, then what? And when do you really submit to me? When do you make a point of it?"
Oh, fuck, please don’t say that, please—I know, I know—
“Tell me.” There was a bit of that waver.
She gained control of the sobs she’d barely been aware of before enough to get out, “When—when I need you, Mistress.”
“That’s right.” Another particularly bad strike. Her body going rigid from trying not to react, to struggle. “When you need me. When you need to be controlled. When you’re lost. When you feel alone. I—” The anger, already fading, broke. Jen, too, tried to gain control of sobs from behind her.
Please don’t cry. You can say whatever you want, actually, just please don’t cry—
“I never understood it,” Jen whispered; Clara became vaguely aware the whip had stopped coming as her breath abruptly did. “I thought—you’re upset—why do you want to visibly submit now? Of all times? But I got it—late last night. I thought, it’s basically a shorter leash. So it’s closeness. In a way.”
She wondered, suddenly, if Ezri had told her about a particular moment last night, if she should do it herself—not, of course, right now.
“Isn’t it?” Jen asked, far too soft, far too shaky.
“Yes, Mistress,” she admitted.
“Which… makes sense. It’s not—just asking for stricter control, but for everything that comes with it. Intimacy. Which was a lot easier to wrap my head around wanting when you’re hurting. It felt—less wrong, like that, that you weren’t asking for dominance then, but… closeness.” The whip was moving again, but caressing her, the light scratch against her already burning skin. “I got it—why you’d start asking me to decide things when you could barely think about them, why you’d come and kneel next to me on your worst days, why you’d toss and turn all night and call me Mistress in the morning. But…” Shaky breath. “It went wrong.”
Last night, after a long day—kneeling in front of her, and Jen’s look like, What the fuck are you doing?
She hadn’t liked that look. “What?” she’d grumbled, resting her forehead on Jen’s lap. “Not Dom enough to deal with me on the floor for a minute?”
It had sounded a lot less sharp in her head.
Silence. Longer than there ever was in this house, especially when it was Jen’s turn to say something. Clara looked up at her. Too far. The look on her face said everything; it was something Clara had appreciated early on, learning where those lines were—Jen’s expression rarely hid anything, let alone her words. Way too far.
“What did you just say to me?”
Fuck. Shit. No—“You looked at me like I was crazy,” she said. “Just—never mind.” She probably should’ve apologized, moved, but the look hurt, the implication that this action, the feeling behind it, maybe, was so unusual, and she'd wanted the words to hurt, too. Just not this much.
Thinking about it now, she realized she’d stabbed right into the sensitivity of preexisting judgment, the people who thought Jen was too lenient, not controlling enough, not dominating enough in the typical ways—and too much in all the wrong ones—just as Jen’s momentary bewilderment had cut straight through the feelings of not being quiet and submissive and proper and useful enough. There was a reason she hadn't brought the topic of the argument to Ezri.
And, another meaning behind the look, one Jen had tried to explain, but she hadn't fully grasped until today's, "I didn't say you could kneel." It was a privilege, and one she hadn't necessarily earned at that moment, but continued to demand anyway.
“It went wrong,” Jen repeated now. “I understand that. That when you wanted reassurance and control, I acted like it was a stupid thing to ask for. I get it.” Pause, breathing, getting herself together. “You were still instantly so far over the line I didn’t even know what to do.” As if remembering something she could do about it, she began with the whip again.
So it would be like that. The closest comparison—one of their scenes that waxed and waned over the course of hours, ebbed and flowed, long and cyclic. And yet, play was a faulty comparison.
The tears came again easily. Jen circled her, and the pain came everywhere. She clenched the nylon white knuckled, fingers numb, writhed and twisted, but stayed largely in place, unable to look at her even when she was in front of her. She watched the dots of blood form instead, tears blurring everything.
“You'll communicate your needs like an adult,” Jen told her, over the sounds of the lashes. "You'll ask for privileges you want and not poke for a reaction like you’re a brat. Because you’re not. Whatever people say, you’re a good girl for me. I know that. You know that. And we’re going to be done trying to prove what we already know.”
Quiet, just the whip on her skin, her crying, processing; her body seemed done trying to struggle, nearly limp as the pain built and built, leaning heavily on her grip on the nylon. Quiet, for a long while.
“Then it all got out of hand, last night. I was hurt and you were hurt and we both lost control. I lost control of you. You lost control of you. I couldn’t believe it. I have never seen you like that before. You weren’t listening and everything seemed to make it worse. I told you to stop talking and you just fucking wouldn’t.”
There was the anger, the frustration; the lashes fell faster, and that was better, that was easier, than the tears and regret.
“And then you stormed off. I should’ve stopped you, and I meant to, but I think I just went into shock. You were gone before I managed to follow you. I didn’t know what the hell had happened. I thought you’d lost your mind. I had no idea what your intentions were when you left, if you planned to come back, if you were self destructive, I knew you weren’t safe driving like that and I really thought about calling the police, but I couldn’t think. I was scared senseless. Do you understand that? Do you have any fucking idea?”
“Yes, Mistress,” she whimpered between sobs. Fuck. She hadn’t really known what she was doing, either. But she’d known, thought, she didn’t have any radical intentions. Jen didn’t even have that.
“God.” She stopped with the whip. “I—fuck.” She hit her again, hard, but once, and her breathing came labored, shaky, hiccups. “You scared the hell out of me, Clara.” Hit her again. Flinch. “Do you not get that? I keep feeling like there’s something here you have to not get.”
“I get it now,” she said.
“Okay,” said Jen, calmer. "Okay.”
The whip fell again, over and over; it hurt, everywhere it could reach. She could see the blood on her front; she could feel the blood and sweat on her back. The writhing spells were about as useless as the tears. She refused to plead as much as she refused to physically resist. She flexed her fingers, numb.
You deserve it you deserve it you deserve it—
The whip stopped coming abruptly. “You scared the hell out of Ezri, too.”
She whimpered. In a different way, but yes, she had.
"And I don’t think she was thrilled that you defied not only me, but her training and effort to get you where you are. Not to mention almost fucking killing yourself. Forget just me. Do you know what that would've done to her? And then you showed up like she was supposed to fix the problems you caused. So.” Pause, the whip caressing her, a threat more than it hurt. “You get a dozen from her. You can count them. Just the number will do. You can thank her later.” Pause again.
“Yes, Mistress,” she said, unsure if Jen was waiting for it or not.
The whip came again. “One. Two.” Yelp. “Three. Four.” Sobs, panting, “Five.” Twelve had never seemed like so many of anything. More. “E-eleven. Twelve.” Relief; at least the strokes wouldn’t come like this anymore, though she refused to let herself think they might be over all together, shaking, limp, and crying. God, crying was exhausting; God, her head hurt. Not to mention everything else.
"You can stop counting." The whip fell over and over; she wasn’t numb to the rhythm of lashes; Jen made sure she felt every last one. There would be none of the floaty feeling that protected her in most scenes. “And all that would’ve been enough, too. God, it would’ve. Insulting me and running off and nearly killing yourself. And then you didn’t answer your phone. Like I said. Five fucking rules. Of which you managed to break four in one go. Disrespect and disobedience. There's rule number one. Nearly killing yourself. Rule number two. Not answering my calls. Rule number three. Not telling me any of your plans around leaving the house. Rule number four. Were those too complicated for you?"
"No, Mistress."
The response, agonizing minutes of silence.
It stopped. “Clara…” Jen said her name softly, much more softly than it deserved, voice shaking. “You’re not going to do this again. You can’t do this to me. I can’t lose you. Promise me.”
“I promise,” she whispered.
"You can put your hands down."
Almost subconsciously, they dropped to her sides instantly. Sensation rapidly returned, tingling and painful, twitchy. Standing was hard. Tears still about blinded her. Jen reached for something on the end table. “This’ll sting,” she said, quiet but unapologetic, running what had to be an antiseptic wipe over the wounds.
It did sting, but compared to the last… however long it had been, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Her skin was so raw, it was hard to tell sensations apart. Relief started to set in.
Jen discarded the wipe. "C'mere." Helping her lower herself to the floor slowly, which also would've been a hard, subconscious, instant drop without her. On her knees, she started to cry all over again, not sure where the tears were still coming from.
Jen pet her hair. Made shushing noises. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay. It's okay now. Shh. I forgive you." Her own tears fell on Clara's hair. She reached for a nearby water bottle and box of tissues on the end table and offered both; they both took some of each. Clara's mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the inside of it. She shivered, the air back to feeling cold on her burning skin. Jen took a nightgown from the table and placed it over Clara's head; she managed to figure out getting her own arms in it. Quiet, for a few minutes. Relief. The feeling of being home, safe and sound, right where she belonged.
Jen crouched in front of her and pressed a few kisses against her head. “Let’s never do this again,” she mumbled into her hair.
“Okay.”
“I mean it. Unless you manage to do something equally…” She trailed off. “I won’t do this for less.”
“Okay.”
“And for more, I’ll probably just murder you.”
Clara smiled, kind of. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Jen sat next to her, pulled her against her, held her tightly, rocked them both a little. Clara leant her head on her shoulder. Jen kissed her, long and slow and deep and it felt right. It held the same love as every strike with the whip.
“And like I said,” said Jen, tilting her head back up, “we’re done trying to prove what we already know. You’re mine, and you’re going to be a good girl. If people can’t see that, it’s not my job to get them glasses.”
“Okay.”
Jen squeezed her. "I love you so fucking much."
"I love you, too." Clara snuggled into her.
Jen held her tightly.
And they stayed just like that for a very long time.