Ann/Lucy, Prometheus. A bit from “the words you picked so carefully keep coming out all wrong“-verse. 123 words.
They’re sitting on the curb by the snow cone stand, Ann’s legs stretched into the street. Lucy takes a bite out of hers — lemon cream — and wonders how exactly this happened. A few weeks ago, Ann was just a girl at the pool (a cute, shy, practically perfect girl) and now…
Ann takes a cautious lick of her ice — hers is cherry, staining her lips and tongue. “How do you just bite in like that? Don’t you get brain freeze?”
Lucy grins. “Half the fun.” She swallows, cherishing the burn, and lifts a finger to Ann’s mouth. “You know this shit is making you all pink, right?”
Ann blushes, a self-fulfilling prophesy. “You want a taste?”
Lucy smiles, leans in.
