the only feeling lately i want 🔞
my masterlist, to check out my other works, is here
ship: alysa liu x isabeau levito (figure skating)
warnings: smut, straight (?) girl experimentation angst
summary: alysa and isabeau's last night in the olympic village, before they have to end things.
word count: 1300+
Slick. Isabeau felt so sticky and wet on Alysa's fingers that it made the older girl inhale sharply. Slip her fingers in deeper every so slightly. "Shhh," she mutters. "You're OK."
They're pressed together on an Olympic-provided twin-sized bed. Isabeau's, if we're being pedantic. Alysa hasn't slept on her own bed in a week. They were trying to make these last few days count. After the closing ceremony, it'd be back to their opposite coasts. A month or two before they could see each other again.
Alysa can tell by the look on her face that the sensation is overwhelming. Her pretty eyebrows are scrunched tight, like her brain is working overtime to reconcile all this pleasure. This has become her favourite hobby, making Isabeau’s toes curl against the crisp hotel linens, making her sigh against her lips.
The contrast between the chilly air of the Olympic village and the intense, localized heat between her thighs makes Alysa's head swim. But it's not about her own pleasure. Her tongue licks over the cool metal of her piercing to bite back the need.
Every time Alysa’s fingers shift, finding a new rhythm, a soft, uncharacteristic whimper escapes Isabeau’s lips. The kind of sound the public never hears from the poised Ice Princess. Here, away from the cameras, there is no need for grace or elegance. There is only the raw, pulsing reality of being young adults and desperately in love.
"It feels... too much," Isabeau manages to gasp out. Her voice trembles, but not as much as her thighs do as they close around Alysa's hand. Willing her to stay, willing her for more.
The younger girl reaches out blindly, her fingers tangling in the sheets before finding purchase on Alysa’s shoulder, squeezing tight. Isabeau’s breath comes in shallow, jagged hitches, pale skin flushed a deep, feverish pink that spreads from her chest up to her cheeks.
"That's OK, Isababy," Alysa whispers. She's hesitant for a moment, not wanting to pull back from the addictive feeling between Isabeau's legs. But she knows Isabeau's still new to all this. "Do you need me to stop, or to slow down?"
Isabeau lets out a shaky, frustrated little huff, burying her face into the crook of Alysa’s neck to hide how vulnerable she feels. Reminds her that she hates hearing that stupid nickname while they're doing this. She's so cute it makes Alysa's heart ache.
“Don’t stop,” Isabeau whimpers into Alysa’s skin, muffled but desperate. “Please don’t stop.” She shifts her hips experimentally, instinctively, seeking more of that friction.
Alysa normally loves to tease her, but not tonight. The idea of slowing down feels almost sacrilegious right now, like a sudden halt in the middle of a perfect triple axel. Alysa wants to memorise her in this moment. If this is the final crescendo before the closing ceremonies pull them apart, she wants to have this perfect image of Isabeau underneath her. Panting, cheeks flushed, tendrils of hair stuck to her face with sweat. Body quivering and all Alysa's.
They aren't dating. Not really. Their little tryst was out of.... curiosity from the younger girl. And Alysa, who was attracted to her, had liked her for a while, obliged. Even if it hurt to be some straight girl's experiment.
Her hands move from Alysa’s shoulders to grip the older girl’s waist, her nails digging in just enough to ground herself. Alysa's almost glad for the slight pain, because it lets her ignore the real ache. She focuses instead on the way Isabeau is pulsing against her fingers, wonders if Isabeau’s heart is hammering against her ribs the same way.
"Not stopping," Alysa reassures, "but I don't wanna break you. So you're gonna have to be patient for me."
Her fingers slip up, and out, to tease her clit instead. She knows Isabeau will complain about the loss of stimulation, but it's her job to not overstimulate her. She has to be the responsible one. She's not just playing with her body, but her heart. Both of their hearts.
The moment the pressure of Alysa’s fingers shifts from inside her, Isabeau lets out a small, indignant whine. It’s a sound of pure, unbridled protest, her hips jerking upward as if trying to reclaim the fullness she just lost. But then she circles her clit and Isabeau's hiding her face in her neck again.
"It was... it was good there, too. Don't go too far," she murmurs.
It's not what Isabeau meant, really, but it's all that's on Alysa's mind. The thought of leaving, of the inevitable distance between California and New Jersey threatens to break her. When they're apart, when they're reminded that the world isn't just this bubble, will Isabeau even think of her? Will the experiment be over, her real, true feelings chalked up to dumb fun?
Alysa knows it isn't fair. Knows she's painting Isabeau as some villain when she isn't. Even if this didn't, couldn't, mean as much to her as it does to Alysa. But she's always had this fear of being forgotten once she's gone. She doesn't want to be just a curious thought or a temporary distraction because of how gruelling the Olympics are. She wants to be the only thing Isabeau thinks about, even when they're apart.
Her thumb rubs down, and it makes Isabeau shudder, thighs squeezing so hard Alysa wonders if she'll lose circulation. Alysa leans down, capturing Isabeau's lips in a kiss. She tastes so sweet somehow, even with the salty tears that get caught up between their mouths.
Isabeau's eyes flutter open to find the gold medalist’s face mere inches away. Out of sheer dumb luck, Isabeau doesn't seem to clock Alysa's mascara running. Or at least doesn't know it's not from the physical exertion, mind too lost in the sensory overload, too caught up in pleasure to decode Alysa's knotted thoughts.
"Wait," she gasps against Alysa’s lips. The kiss is a lifeline, a way to stifle the needy sounds she’s making, but her body is a traitor, pulsing rhythmically against Alysa’s hand. "Alysa, 'm so close. Please."
And when she asks like that, how could Alysa refuse? She’s a creature of instinct when it comes to Isabeau. A mess driven by the dopamine rush and the intoxicating closeness of the girl she adores most in the world.
She returns to the kiss deep and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that tastes of unsaid things. Registering just how much better Isabeau's gotten at kissing, from the hesitant yet curious presses to the side of her mouth at the start, to this.
Alysa’s thumb remains at her bundle of nerves, beginning a steady, teasing rhythm. Isabeau’s once-protests melt into soft moans. She reaches up, her fingers tangling in the dark strands of Alysa’s hair at the back of her nape, pulling her closer as if she could physically merge their two bodies into one.
Her fingers slide back. No more teasing, slipping inside Isabeau like coming back home. And only when Alysa is back inside does she feel satisfied. Isabeau’s breath hitches, caught in the back of her throat, as the fullness returns to soothe the ache she’d been protesting.
"Alysa... oh God," Isabeau whimpers, her head tossing back against the pillows, pulling back from this kiss so fast that Alysa's smiley scratches her lips. "Just like that."
Her hips move in a frantic, instinctive dance, trying to meet Alysa's hand with everything she has. Hovering on the precipice, the tension in her muscles building toward a crescendo that feels inevitable. Like she’s spinning too fast in a whirlwind, beautiful and terrifying, impossibly exhilarating. Or leaping full force into a jump you haven't prepared to land. Knuckles white as she pulls at Alysa's hair.
This thing between them ends the way it started. Without anyone else knowing.