“you called yourself a monster first, princess, don’t be picky,” the blonde grins, meeting her glare with a soft laugh. he’s almost positive not a single person in the world is as dramatic and theatrical as lennon is. a wild girl that somehow nestled herself directly into the proper role as playwright extraordinaire. it’s the silence, though, her refrain that shows him he should be worried. see, merritt is used to the platinum blonde throwing him a joke, telling him a million deprecating things and moving along with pride. but this time? she’s settled in his sights with no words – and it’s almost more terrifying than anything else. however, he keeps himself in check, waving it off as early morning weirdness or perhaps she’s genuinely afraid of the bumps all over her skin. “it’s your one way ticket to stop itching, so shut the fuck up and let me do my thing,” teasing, he opens the bottle, squirting the bright pink into his hands before slowly swiping it onto her legs. the smack to his head releases a chuckle from his belly. there she is, he wants to say. but it’s too much, half of the time he feels like he’s too much with her. too much of everything all of the time. it’s something he rarely feels around anyone else, but he’s sure she knows the feeling well, too. as he continues covering the bites, he looks to her – matching smirk slapped onto his own lips. “who told you that?” a beat. “i think they just know your true colors, lem. sweet as pie,” he winks, looking down to legs that look like lennon was dipped into pepto bismol. “and pink.”
lennon uplifts sharpened eyes, a glare. “i’m not picky. i’m spending time with you, am i not?” she poses, sweet as syrup. she crosses her arms over her chest, clawing a bit more at her arms, truly feeling the discomfort of the bites as it spreads throughout her skin, pesky and fiery – kinda like lennon clare herself. “mm!” she grunts, zipping her lips shut with a pair of fingers at his command. while the writer is more often than not deeply resistant to taking instruction, there’s some leveling about merritt, their aligned wits, their incandescent natures, that allows for her to compromise. sometimes. she might have spoken again, always primed, tongue sharp, if not for the calamine, cool, that drives a sharp gasp from her frame, the easing almost instantaneous. the grip on merritt’s shoulder tightens. “shit,” she mumbles, leaning her head against his chest. she watches him work, considering. "this is a good color on me,” lennon compliments quietly in the place of a vocalized thank you, though gratitude courses her heart. she calms, feeling her self-rationalized fear subside – slightly. she still resents the bumps on her usually so flawless skin. rolling her eyes at merritt’s teasing, she presses her lips into a line. “don’t ever. call me sweet again,” she rejects. allowing her gaze to get lost, temporarily, in the morning sky, lennon feels the gentle sway of the ascended bed, and merritt’s hands on her skin, an ease. “you really like this, huh?” she grimaces, repulsed. “nature or whatever.”
