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gallawitchxx · 2 years

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bee youre doing remarkably with your nano writing - i am in awe of you. i see your lil wordcount updates on the dash and i go "!!" or "thats my friend!" or "what how what the fuck (adoring)(supportive)". simply you are wildly impressive, and if you ever wanna share a scootch of what you're writing about - i think i saw somewhere you saying it was original fiction? - i would eat that shit up because im very curious. or if not, that's dope too. the mystery shall continue. ANYWAYS good job i love you keep up the good work okay byebye

RAY BABY 😭🖤

i won't even lie to you, this made me tear the fuck up! this is so lovely & so supportive & so-- it's just-- aslkghalgkh. thank you. just thank you. this really meant a lot. especially because YES, I AM WRITING ORIGINAL FICTION! it's been so strange!

it's been incredibly bizarre to go from writing the boy dolls & feeling good & comfy with it, to writing another world of my own making & feeling totally out to sea & uncomfy with it. it's also been so fucking strange to sit on so many words without sharing. SO, because you asked so nicely... but i'm gonna put them under a cut for purely insecure reasons LOL. what can ya doooo?

i love you thank you please know that anything i write today will be in your honor & with the strength you've given me to continue xx

✨ new york queers with little to no context under the cut ✨

Which is how on Friday night, after switching shifts with Sam for the dear price of three weekend closing shifts, Mol ends up sitting across a hotel bar table from China.

She’s staying at The Standard, an upscale hotel on the High Line in Chelsea, right next to the Whitney Art Museum, which is where China’s “work thing” is taking place. What was said so casually before is actually a big fucking deal. She’s on a panel of people talking about the importance of diversity in art, with an emphasis on queer Black creators. As Mol listens to her share the bullet points of her research and preparations, she can’t help but think that China’s exactly where she’s meant to be.

She’s also absolutely not Anon.

“When I was asked to do the panel, I was dating this photographer. Oh my god, Mol, you would’ve loved her stuff. She was so raw. Worked only in black and white, so she played with shadows. She could make anyone’s body look like it belonged in a museum, I swear.” She swirls her martini—Beefeater gin, dirty, extra olives—between her fingers, her long, braids swirling on the tabletop. Mol can almost still feel them falling onto her back, tickling her sides as China moved behind her, inside of her.

“Anyway, I was gonna try and get her introduced to a couple of folks, use this opportunity to get her in front of some people who hold real keys around here. But we broke up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mol says sincerely, her fingers dancing lightly on the sides of her own glass. McCallan 15, neat.

China sweeps a hand in front of her, playing it off. “Ah, that’s okay. Some people just can’t get with the poly thing. I seem to remember you having an issue with it yourself.”

Mol flushes, and she hopes the lights are low enough to conceal it. “It wasn’t my favorite thing, no,” she admits. “But if it works for you, great. I respect it.”

“All you can do,” China says. She takes a drink, her dark eyes never leaving Mol’s. Were her lashes always this long and this inviting? “So what do you do with yourself these days? You seeing anybody?”

“Not at the moment,” Mol says, thinking about how she almost asked China that very question in her first message. “But I guess there’s this one person…”

“There always is.”

“It’s complicated.”

“It always is.”

Mol loves this rhythm, this back and forth, her grin almost vulpine when she says, “I do okay though.” All cocky and confident, like she can get sometimes.

“I’m sure you do,” China replies.

Mol feels a bit lightheaded. It’s only her second drink, so it must have something to do with whatever is fizzling between them. Rekindling.

Shit, she wasn’t expecting this.

“You still writing?”

The question feels like a bucket of ice water being poured over her head. Probably necessary, but startling nonetheless.

“I am,” she says, trying to mask the obvious hesitation in her voice.

“About what?” China asks. She mimics Mol’s cadence, making Mol laugh. Reigniting the spark.

“Funny that you should ask, actually, because I, uh—“ Is she actually going to tell her the truth? Admit that she’s lured her here under somewhat false pretenses? She supposes the answer is yes, as the words tumble out, “I mostly write about my love life.”

China perks up at that, leaning back in her chair. “Essays?”

“Kind of,” Mol says. But after thinking about it, says, “Yeah. It’s all short-form.”

“Interesting.” China leans back in, puts her elbows on the table, her hands clasping underneath her chin. “Have you ever written about me?”

“Yes.”

“Would I like what you had to say?”

“Probably.”

“Can I read it?”

“Sure.”

It’s likely a sickness that she should see a doctor about, but Mol’s so turned on she could combust right there at the table. The table that China is resting on, taking up space like she owns the place. And she could. God, the way she’s looking at Mol right now? Anyone would be hard pressed to deny her anything. The perfect bedroom eyes. So in a way it’s no surprise what comes next:

“You want to come up to my room, Mol? I got a Corner King that’s pretty big for just one person.”

#eek!#ray baby i love you #thank you for this it's appreciated more than you know #ok ok must go write more words now #also don't get too attached to china #she's a wet dream but she's here for a good time not a long time #mol you can get used to hahah #might delete later slash if you ever find this story on a bookshelf one day & think--hey wait a minute--no you didn't ok? ok.#no reblogs but if you want to reply & leave some love i wouldn't say boo #bee writes a book 🐝📘

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