Sin Eaters Ch. 02 – Juniper

Literotic asexstories – Sin Eaters Ch. 02 – Juniper by batteries,batteries
(A/N: Co-written with Gentle Breeze! fair warning, this chapter’s got quite a bit of angst)

I had a system for starting my days.

After pushing my luck with a series of no-call-no-shows a year ago, I’d pieced together a way to keep from hiding in bed all morning and dodging responsibilities.

Step one was waking up in the first place. Easy solution there: I placed my obnoxious, jangling alarm clock across the room from my narrow twin bed, right on my windowsill behind the crooked blinds. It forced me to get out of bed, open the blinds, and let the morning light in just to turn off the racket. On this particular morning, a few rays of sun peeked out between spotty clouds and made me have to squint. Good. Sunlight helped my mood.

Dressing myself came next. It had been without a doubt the hardest part of the system to figure out; I’d spent too many days agonizing in front of my dresser, pulling clothes out, trying them on, losing my nerve, shoving them back in, and feeling like I’d failed. I’d prevented that by reorganizing my wardrobe in terms of boldness–from tight dresses and low-cut blouses in the top drawer to loose sweaters and baggy jeans in the bottom. When I chose an outfit, I’d open each drawer, starting from the top and making my way down as needed. Once a drawer was closed, I wasn’t allowed to go back to it. That way, I always started off with the option of dressing nicely in case I was having a good day but didn’t have to struggle with guilt and indecision on bad days once I started closing drawers. The system also kept me from falling into the habit of going straight for whatever was safest.

That was the theory, at least. In practice, I’d fallen into the habit of opening and immediately closing the top three drawers, then going straight for whatever was safest.

Today was no exception. After sparing the top three drawers a single glance each, I knelt down and dug around in the lowest drawer to find the XL work uniform I kept for particularly rough moments–say, the morning after watching my ex sleep with her new girlfriend. I slipped on the oversized red shirt, practically drowning in all of the extra fabric. The front had ‘The Meeting Grounds’ typed out in a small, minimalist font. The back read ‘Pour On Over to The Meeting Grounds!’ with a picture of a cup of coffee.

The pun didn’t really work.

Baggy black jeans, sneakers, and a dark red beanie completed the outfit. The look gave me nothing to be proud of, but nothing to obsess over either. Its function was its formlessness.

With clothing settled, I took a half dozen clumsy steps over dirty laundry and empty Monster cans to the other side of my studio apartment. There, beside my cluttered desk and a few boxes of books and CDs I’d never bothered to unpack, sat a full-body mirror covered with a bed sheet.

The mirror had an almost hypnotic quality. I’d catch an image of myself out of the corner of my eye and end up standing in front of it far longer than intended, relentlessly seeking out details already burned into my brain–which was why I kept it covered when it wasn’t explicitly useful. Applying makeup was one of the few cases where it was. A short tug pulled the bed sheet free, revealing the same girl as yesterday and the same girl that’d be there tomorrow. Thin, but less thin as of late. Tall and wide and lanky as ever. All straight lines from face to hips.

I transferred a small stack of paperback romance novels from my desk chair to the floor, then sat down and reached for my makeup case. The most important parts of my morning ritual were inside of it: Sponges, foundation, concealer, color corrector, blush, eyeliner, and mascara. Each was applied and reapplied over the course of anywhere from ten to forty-five minutes–one of the few cases where I allowed some variance in my morning routine. It was too important not to. However many flaws I spotted, that was how many corrections I had to make.

As I started the process of inspecting, brushing, rubbing, and blending, my mind was free to wander to the night before.

What a mess. I’d felt wildly out of control from the moment I’d walked in the door. No, even further back than that–I’d felt out of control walking up the stairs. Entering the apartment building. Getting off the bus at her stop. Riding the bus. Getting on the bus. Exiting my apartment. Stressing over what to wear until the moment I left, having never actually settled on anything besides a hoodie and sweatpants. Working a double shift knowing what was coming later that night. Accepting Helen’s offer in the first place.

Learning Helen had started dating Quinn.

I squeezed my eyes and fists shut as a sudden wave of sorrow hit me, screwing my stomach into a knot and forming a lump in my throat. My eyeliner pencil slipped out of my grip and clattered against the desk. Before the surge of emotion could gain too much of a foothold, I reflexively started taking deep breaths and focusing on the feeling of my nails digging into my palms. Four sharp points of pain only slightly dulled by the tension numbing my hands. Each a different size and shape, each pressing with a different amount of force. I noticed they pushed in a touch harder while I exhaled, and eased off as I inhaled.

After about a minute, the sadness faded to a background ache.

Thinking about the night before was clearly not productive. I’d made a mistake, it had opened up some old hurts, and that was that. Wouldn’t help dwelling on it further. Best to take things one day at a time, and focus on the present. Which meant getting ready to go work the ‘temporary’ barista job I’d taken four years ago.

Okay, so maybe the present wasn’t great to focus on either.

I slipped my phone out of my pocket, ignored the waiting texts, and scrolled through my music to find a good distraction. Stereolab was too mellow; Joni Mitchell a bit too melancholy. I settled on Björk. With headphones in and “It’s Not Up to You” cranked up to high volume, I finished applying my makeup, slipped on my coat, and made it out the door on time. I took a moment to acknowledge the small victory. Positive reinforcement.

Vocal swells carried me down the street to my bus stop, where I leaned against the shelter and softly hummed along with the harmony. Today could still turn out decently. I was only working the morning shift–I could go out and treat myself in the afternoon. Walk around the park, or check if any local bands I liked were playing shows. The thought was comforting.

Helen called just as my bus was pulling up. I let it ring. She’d probably have questions I couldn’t answer or plans I wasn’t ready for–I never quite felt capable of keeping pace with her. While we were dating, I’d learned it was a fundamental difference in how our brains worked. Juggling options, choices, and possibilities was fun and exciting for her but stressful and overwhelming for me.

I got onto the bus, settled into my usual seat, and stared out the window at the city waking up around me: Kids with brightly colored backpacks trudged to school, commuting cars pulled in and out of various parking lots, and flights of pigeons went nowhere in particular. All of it cast long shadows in the orange-yellow light of the rising sun and evoked feelings I didn’t care to place. A woman in business attire stood waiting to cross the street, her orange hair nearly as fiery as Quinn’s. My eyes shut.

I shouldn’t have gone last night.

That was the conclusion I kept coming back to. Sleeping with your ex was one thing, but sleeping with your ex and her new partner? And adding power exchange to boot? When her new partner was Quinn Nevitt of all people? That was asking to get hurt. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Sure, I missed Helen and I was lonely. Sure, the breakup was less mutual than I’d reassured her it was, and any way to soothe that rejection was hard to pass up on. But…well, that was the problem, really. I was intimately familiar with pining and loneliness, enough that they were relatively safe. But in agreeing to last night, I’d exchanged those feelings for jealousy. Jealousy was unstable. It was a spark right next to some very flammable baggage.

The contrast between Quinn and I was impossible to avoid–it had to have been on everyone’s mind the entire night. Where I was aimless, she was hyper-competent with an established career. A morally good established career at that; not some corporate cog but a social worker. Where I could be charitably described as a brick, she was petite and passed effortlessly. Where I could never give Helen what she needed in bed, Quinn clearly could. No wonder Helen had rebounded to her. She could talk all she wanted about ‘meeting each other’s needs’ or ‘finding a way to make things work,’ but she wouldn’t have invited me if she didn’t want to show me how much better off she was now.

It was all so horrifically unfair. For people like Quinn–or honestly, even Helen–transitioning got to be a brief bump in the road before they returned to their normal lives, better than ever. They hadn’t been thrown permanently off-course. They hadn’t had to scale back everything they enjoyed because it was too taxing, too painful to go out into the world. They weren’t constantly reminded of what they couldn’t be by stares, misgenderings, and ambient reflective surfaces. They would never get what it was like. They never could. I resented them for that. I hate–darnit.

I had forgotten to eat breakfast.

I leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the bus window, groaning internally. Of course I was in this state; bad thoughts thrived on an empty stomach. Thoughts I believed but knew deep down weren’t true. According to the system, I was supposed to set out something simple for breakfast on my desk–granola bars, usually–the night before. Then, when I was on my way to do my makeup, I’d have a reminder to eat. But last night, I’d come home too exhausted and frazzled to do anything more than go directly to bed. My feelings for Helen were throwing me off too much, getting dangerously close to the point where I’d have to push her away to remain stable. For now, though, I’d adapt and cope. Maybe I’d grab something to eat from work right before my shift. Depending on when I got there. And how busy it was. And how I felt.

My hand automatically reached up and pushed the signal to stop as the bus approached Maple and 62nd, an intersection where sleepy residential met hipster commercial. Head down and hands in pockets to ward off the chilly breeze, I exited the bus and power walked the block and a half to The Meeting Grounds. A wave of warm, richly scented air hit me as soon as I opened the door.

“Hey, June!” my coworker, Andy, called out. we’d gone to high school together, but he was enough of a burnout that he didn’t remember that. Or much else. Still, he was always chill and sold good weed cheap.

I gave him a little wave, slipping past the growing line of customers and behind the counter. Checking my phone one last time before work, I saw even more texts from Helen–oh God, she’d made a group chat with Quinn and me. I paused my music and shoved my phone deep into my locker.

As long as I wasn’t working the register, I was able to get into a decent rhythm at work most days. The hiss of steam blended with ambient chatter and the clinking of mugs, forming a soundtrack to my simple and repetitive tasks. Especially during the morning rush, I didn’t have time to be inside my own head. There was just me, a list of orders, and the means to complete them correctly. Andy and I even had an understanding that he’d yell out the names I wrote on finished drinks, eliminating another source of anxiety.

An hour or two into my shift, I was fully in the zone. Muscle memory guided my hands, one reaching down to grab an espresso cup and saucer while the other held a small jug of milk steady just beneath the steamer. Pressing myself against the counter to let Andy pass behind me, I poured the now-foamy milk into–

“Juniper!”

I started, very nearly spilling hot cappuccino all over myself. A double take revealed that to my right, standing on the other side of the counter with her arms crossed, was Helen.

“Oh,” I murmured. “Hi.”

She looked me up and down over a pair of small, round sunglasses tinted deep red. Her long gray coat flared out at the collar and tails, each of its custom buttons marked with a different Celtic symbol I absolutely did not understand. Dark curls jiggled as she tilted her head to the side. I wanted her to jump the counter, wrap her arms around me, and reassure me that everything would be fine. I also wanted her to be anywhere else but here.

Helen frowned. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not.” I turned and passed Andy the briefly endangered cappuccino. “Order for Wendy.”

“Order for Wendy!” He shouted, taking the drink from me.

“You said you’d check in with me this morning, June. But you ignored my calls and texts. And you’re wearing a bad-day shirt.” Helen’s voice was low and tight. “You’re spiraling.”

A few embers of frustration smoldered inside my chest. I cooled them down with a deep breath. “One second.”

Two minutes later, I was officially on break and seated at a corner table across from Helen. Her hands were folded tightly in front of her. One of her eyebrows was raised as she waited for me to begin.

“…I’m not spiraling.” I slouched a little lower in my chair, sitting on my hands out of habit. “I’m at work. I got here on time.”

“Have you eaten yet today?”

My jaw clenched. “…Please don’t tell me how I’m feeling.”

Helen’s expression softened slightly. “Right. Okay. Sorry. I just…I’m worried about you. Want to make sure you’re okay.” She reached a slender hand across the table toward me, her metal bracelets clicking against the wooden surface.

I briefly hesitated, then reached out with one of my considerably bulkier hands and gave hers a squeeze. “Thanks. I’ll be fine. I meant to reach out, I just…” My voice trailed off. “There was a lot on my mind.”

Helen nodded. “Can I ask how you’re feeling about it all?”

“I…” Had no idea how to answer, actually. Because buried underneath the jealousy and insecurity was a simple fact I couldn’t avoid.

Last night was the first time I’d ever been truly present during intimacy.

No floating out of my body and watching events play out from above. No retreating deep into a corner of entirely unrelated thoughts. No numb horror at the way I moved or took up space.

I’d been laser-focused on exactly what was happening. Watching the sex had been arousing, yes, but the derision had been intoxicating. Helen’s characteristic gentleness turning condescending and cruel made my pussy clench and my whole body burn. Quinn’s harsh orders and firm dismissals of my feelings had left no room for doubts or anxieties.

I hadn’t realized that was even possible. Helen and I had attempted dozens of different workarounds, turning the lights off, blindfolding me, keeping me, her, or both of us clothed, going slower, going faster, getting me high…none of it had worked. Even her attempts at dominance had fallen flat. Eventually, she’d rightfully given up and moved on.

But then Quinn Nevitt had waltzed in and achieved what I’d never been able to in my whole life with just a few stern looks and harsh words. It was the exact opposite of poetic–the world wasn’t supposed to work like that. I was supposed to triumph over my lifelong baggage on my own, not have some flawless, beautiful woman bypass it entirely. It was Goliath beating David with a single punch. It was Rocky getting knocked out in the first round. I hated how unfair it was, and for some awful reason, that made it even hotter to me.

“June?” Helen asked softly, her fingers drifting up to stroke my forearm.

“Yeah,” I whispered, closing my eyes and shifting back so my hair fell in front of my face. “I’m feeling…I need more time.”

“Of course.” She leaned forward, brushed a lock of hair out of my face, and kissed me on the cheek. My heart melted, a blush forming in the wake of her lips.

“I missed you.” Even when her methods were…bold, Helen’s intentions were good. She saw me. She cared.

“I missed you too.”

“How are you feeling about everything?”

Helen’s chuckle was a touch raspy. As she pondered the question, she started idly playing with one of the crystals in her necklace. ‘New Age nonsense,’ she insisted about her collection, while simultaneously investing lots of time, energy, and money into it. “Good, overall. Have a few fires to put out, but I don’t regret doing it. Sorry if this is still too raw, but…last night was really fucking sexy, June.”

I nodded, then blushed as I realized I’d signaled my agreement.

“You looked so beautiful like that,” Helen mused to herself.

A burst of heat and discomfort made my body tense. I glanced over toward Andy, who wasn’t particularly busy. “Thanks. Hey, I gotta get back to work. Talk soon?”

Helen blinked. “Oh! Sure. Text me when you get off work?”

I rose from the table. “I will. I promise.” A bit of guilt pinged in my stomach. “For real this time.”

“Good.” Helen stood as well, wrapping an arm around my broad waist and pulling me in close. “See you soon.”

“Yup.” I returned the quick hug, then started heading to the counter.

“Oh, and June?” Helen called out from behind me. I paused, turning back toward her. “Tell me if Quinn reaches out to you, okay?”

“…Wouldn’t she tell you herself?”

Helen just shrugged. “Probably. Just let me know anyway?”

I rolled my eyes playfully. “Yeah. Sure.” God, she was so Type-A. Exasperating as it was at times, it was also kind of adorable.

“Thanks,” she replied sheepishly. “Later.”

We went our separate ways. But just before Helen exited the shop, I took one more peek at her. I couldn’t help myself. The way she strode with her chin held high and her coattails flapping behind her was a sight to behold.

Helen’s visit energized me for the rest of my shift, though the nature of that energy bounced back and forth between excitement and anxiety. I spent most of the next few hours arguing in my head over whether or not Helen was still into me, whether or not that mattered, and whether or not I should even be thinking about her in the first place. More than once I reminisced about one of Quinn’s steely-eyed gazes or Helen smiling at me while getting head and felt the stirrings of arousal within me–stirrings followed by a flood of guilt I had to quickly cut off with a breathing exercise. That engine of erotic shame kept my mind spinning all morning, providing a good reason to interrupt my thought patterns and an even better reason to return to them.

I shot Helen a brief text once I made it back to my apartment, receiving a heart in reply that made my own ache. The persistent low-boil of emotion meant that by the time I made it back to my apartment, I lacked the energy to do much more than what my system demanded: Two chores–one an immediate need, the other proactive–doing something nice for myself, and eating. A quick, efficient shower took care of the immediate chore. The proactive one I knocked out with a bit of work on my application to a community college. Smoking a bowl and restocking makeup online was nice enough to myself to count. I had a few granola bars and some peanut butter for good measure.

So by the time the sun set, I was high, riding a blood sugar boost, and categorically done for the day. Settling into bed, I threw on a random episode of Twin Peaks and half-watched, half-stared into space.

And then my phone rang.

Not recognizing the number, I declined the call.

It rang again.

I sighed, paused the episode, and picked up. “Hello?”

“June?”

“…Uh-huh.”

“I’m so fucking sorry.” A bolt of anxiety pierced my heart. The voice was far less composed than usual, to the point of wavering and nearly cracking, but there was no mistaking it for anyone else but Quinn. Same feminine tone, same intensity behind each word. “What happened yesterday? I’m not like that. I’m just not.”

I blinked. “Okay?”

“You can hate me if you want–fuck knows I deserve it after all the awful shit I did–but please, please don’t think of me that way. You can’t. That…that wasn’t me.” A choked sob forced her to pause. “I help people. I build them up, not tear them down. You know that, right? You know I’d never do anything like that to Helen? Not that it was right to do to you! That’s not what I meant. Fuck. Sorry. I’m fucking this up. I know it’s not right to…well, it can be okay, but the things I was feeling and the way I did it I…fuck. I just meant…you know I’m not like that almost ever, right? With Helen, or my clients, I’m able to…yeah. You know?”

While sober, I probably could have thrown together a more coherent response. But I wasn’t, and my brain was struggling to keep pace.

“…Okay.”

Quinn sucked in a breath. “We don’t ever have to talk again if you don’t want to. With how I fucking ruined everything, I’d get it. Seriously. If you’d still want to hang out with Helen, I could just make sure to not be around.”

She sounded like she’d been rehearsing some version of these words for hours, working herself into a panicked frenzy. There was no real point engaging with them, not while she was in this state. “You don’t have to do that. Quinn, is Helen with you?”

She sniffled. “No. She’s busy tonight presenting at some big digital conference. I can leave you alone, though, if you want. I’ll be fine. Do you want me to go?”

“Do you have any close friends you could hang out with for a bit, just until you calm down?”

Silence.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Do you have some good coping skills that work for you?”

“…I don’t know. There are some I give clients, but I shouldn’t have to…” She went silent.

Christ, Quinn was a social worker. A transgender social worker. How on earth did she not know how to deal with stuff like this? Did she seriously need the help of the dropout food service worker? And was the dropout food service worker seriously about to help her?

I was. Maybe that made me generous, maybe it made me dumb. I mostly just felt bad for her, annoyingly enough.

“Okay. Take a deep breath.”

She did.

“Tell me something you can see.”

“My lamp.”

I settled onto my back, twirling a lock of hair around my finger. “Describe it.”

“You don’t have to do this. I’m sor–”

“Just tell me about the stupid lamp.”

Her tone took on a subtle edge. “It’s black. Plastic and metal. Shiny. Points in a specific direction, with a flexible neck. Like the Pixar lamp.”

“Good. Now something you can feel. Touch, I mean.”

“Couch cushion. It’s…fabric-y. Softer moving your fingers one way, rougher moving them another. More textured.” As she offered descriptions, her voice grew steadier.

“Ok. Taste or smell?”

A brief pause. I pictured her running her tongue over her lips and teeth, then made myself stop picturing that because it made my nipples harden and I definitely didn’t need hard nipples at the moment.

“Paprika. Sorry–smoky and peppery. And my downstairs neighbor uses this air freshener that’s sort of, fake vanilla, so…that too. For smell.” Having come down from her freakout, Quinn sounded smaller and more fragile.

“And hear?”

“Your voice,” she replied automatically. “It’s really pretty. Airy and light.”

I winced. “Stop.”

“What? It is.”

She was lying. Trying to appease me with a compliment or weirdly timed flirt. Only, she’d responded too quickly and genuinely for–

“No.” I raked the nails of my free hand across my scalp. “Pick something else.”

There was a tense pause. I could practically hear Quinn straining not to challenge me.

“Okay,” she finally acquiesced. “My space heater’s making a low, rumbling, kind of electronic sound.

“Good. Better?” I asked tersely.

“Yes. Thank you. Sorry for–”

“Then I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” I hung up and tossed my phone across the bed.

This woman was going to drive me insane. She blundered onto my insecurities like a cartoon character stepping on rakes but didn’t even have the courtesy to be the perfect, easily hateable version of herself I’d imagined all day long. I burrowed under my comforter, pulling it up to just over my nose. My toes peeked out at the other end because I was just that massive.

Nope. Bad train of thought. Keep it together, Juniper. Distract yourself. Think about Quinn complimenting–no, don’t think about that. Or Helen. Think of something mind-numbingly dull like times tables or how many European cities I could remember off the top of my head.

I reached underneath my bed for a notebook and pen, then flipped through pages and pages of equally banal lists before arriving at an empty page and beginning to write. Paris. Brussels. Berlin. London. Amsterdam…I ended up with a few dozen by the time I stopped wanting to be awake for the day.

Before going to sleep, I grabbed a banana from my corner kitchenette and placed it on my desk for next morning’s breakfast. Because the system worked.

Because I wasn’t spiraling.