#madreamcanular

Not like she’s not your girlfriend and you don’t live with her or anything, but it’s the principle of the thing. You caught your Bro climbing in the apartment through windows and sneaking past the front door enough times as a kid to know the drill post-bang. Then again, Bro wasn’t the most physically affectionate sort of dude. He was just too cool for that.

  TZ’d never let you get away with your phony-baloney story anyway.

  Because, let’s be real, if you had a purrbox like she does, you’d be making all kinds of embarrassing noises right now. Getting your world rocked tends to do that to you. Terezi is drowsing, everything is pleasantly sore, and you have your arm around her while she drools on your chest. Your thumb is even doing the rubbing thing on her shoulder. In layman’s terms (get it because you just got laid), you got it bad.

  You let out a good, deep, slow breath. Terezi cracks a disturbingly-red eye open.

  “Something wrong?” she asks, brief in her sleepiness. You shake your head. She rolls over on top of you.

  “Yo, TZ, if we’re going for round two I’m gonna need some mad hydration—” you try to say, and Terezi lays her finger on your mouth.

  “As much as I enjoy having carnal relations with you,” she says, and you both take a second to leer at no one, “that’s not what’s actually taking place here.”

  She leans forward and smooches your mouth, then gets up, throwing your boxers at your head and putting on your shirt. You sigh and say fond farewell to being comfy in bed while you slip them on, just in time to catch the fun little hip-wiggle she does whenever she’s getting her panties on (you cannot tell a lie, that is your favorite part of watching Terezi get dressed, because it’s more pronounced when she puts on her jeans and if she didn’t wear them so tight there’d be no need, so tighty-tight skinny jeans it is, ma’am).

  Terezi bounces back onto the bed, crosses her legs, and Grins. This particular specimen gets a capital G because when she Grins, someone is about to be eviscerated in a variety of interesting ways. You are normally waiting in the wings for the mike drop whenever the victim of said Grin is reduced to a gelatinous quiver. Being on the receiving end of it is much less fun.

  “You said something,” she says, and, yep, there’s scalpels in her voice. “I would like to hear you say it again.”

  “I say a lot of things,” you say, and to make a point, you reach for your phone. “See. Three hundred messages sent just today. Look at that. So many people getting the low-down from Dave Strider. What a blessed day for them.”

  “You said a very specific something,” she says back. The Grin is still out to play. You feel vulnerable and delicious. “A few minutes ago.”

  Playing dumb is still your best bet. Maybe if she doesn’t sense movement she’ll go away. “Still not sure what you’re talking about, TZ.”

  The Grin takes on a cruel little twist. You barely have time to think about diving under the covers for shelter before it is too late, and Terezi is on you like a bony tiger on a fine and stupid gazelle. You are shrieking uncle before her tickling fingers even find you. She does not let you off easy. You are red-faced, panting, and begging for mercy (which is also not unlike how you were a little while ago but that is not the point).

  “Do you concede defeat?” she crows, and you, gasping for air into the mattress, nod furiously.

  “Yes, I give, I give,” you say, and the tickling stops. Your enemies must never know this fatal flaw. At the very least you can count on Terezi’s silence, because she thinks it’s a grand joke for her own personal amusement.

  “Say it again.”

  You sigh into the sheets.

  “I give.”

  “Not that,” Terezi says, and her fingers trail down your sides. You shiver, bucking onto your back. She leans over you, her hair making a curtain around your face, and Grins. “You know what you said.”

  Every masculine instinct in you screams never retreat, never surrender.

  “Pretty sure I called you a goddess at some point,” you say. “Also Your Honor.”

  The Grin disappears, replaced with a look that is soft, contemplative. Almost awkwardly, she angles her face, and kisses you, gentle and closed-mouthed. You don’t feel a hint of teeth.

  “Please,” she says, and her voice is achingly sweet. “Please say it again.”

  You cave like an utter dweeb and murmur it against her lips.

  “I thought so,” she smiles, and you shrug.

  “Can’t say it when it isn’t true,” you say. “I’ll get it tattooed on my arm. Big sappy heart with your name right in the center. Show it off at the bars to all my guy friends. That’s my level of commitment here.”

  “I know,” she says, and kisses you again. Then she says it back.