any of these for sierra and julia pls: "say my name." "do you trust me?" or "whatever you just did... do it again."
(Or whoever sparks joy!!!)
PD, thank you so much!! I ended up going with the second prompt, it was just too good of an opportunity to pass up! This ended up being... a lot longer than I planned, lol.
(18+.)
You’ve been in worse situations before. Far, far worse. You know this, and also know it doesn’t make any sense for your brain to be sounding the alarm, but sometimes being aware of the facts doesn’t magically make everything better. In fact, it usually doesn’t.
Julia senses your panic, because of course she does, towering over you like she is. Your eyes are fixed on the open zipper of her hoodie, which you currently have grasped in both scarred fists like she’s some kind of life preserver. And isn’t she, in a way?
You’ve spent so much of your short, free life feeling lost. Stranded at sea. Nothing makes sense; you’re drifting in an ocean of people, with their thoughts and their feelings, the pure chaos of humanity. She’s one of the few things who’s made any of it bearable. When she’s with you, everything is… quiet. It’s all just quiet, and there isn’t any pain.
So why does her presence fill you with terror now? You want this: the whiskey on her breath, the dilated pupils of her eyes, the way your back is pressed against the wall of the shitty motel you’re both stuck spending the night in, because your mission dragged the two of you out to the middle of nowhere. Her mouth had been on your throat only a second before, sucking a bruise that made you whine shamefully, but the second her hand started to trail down your abdomen, you went still as stone.
The only working light in the room is the old lamp on the nightstand, so most of her is cast in shadow. But you can still pick out the details of her face, and watch as her expression shifts from want, to confusion, to something… else.
“Hey.” Her voice is soft. “Hey, Sia, it’s okay. It’s just me. It’s just us.”
“I… I know that.” You gulp down air like you’re starving for it, and try to will your heart to quit its rabbit racing. When the look on her face remains unchanged, you search frantically for the mask you usually hide beneath. Where is your venom? The knives that help you keep everyone else at a safe distance? “It’s fine. Don’t look at me like that, idiot.”
Her eyes crinkle with the hint of a smile. It’s better than nothing. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
“I know,” you repeat. Your face is warm, and it isn’t just because of the alcohol you had at the bar across the street. “I—I do. Want it, I mean. I just—”
Panicked at the thought of your hand drifting lower. Froze because the idea of you touching me is more terrifying than anything I’ve ever faced before.
But you can’t tell her that. You won’t tell her that. If you do, she’ll pull away completely, and then you’ll never have a chance like this again. And you want it. You want her.
The two of you have spent enough hours sparring in at the gym for you to already be familiar with the sensation of her skin against yours. You’ve memorized the sounds of her grunts each time you land a hit, and her cries of hurt when she’s wounded on the battlefield. You want to feel her shiver from pleasure instead of pain. You want to hear her cry out when you tease her, and coax her to the very edge of euphoria.
Of course, you should have known she’d want to do the same for you. Why does that scare you so fucking badly?
She’s waiting for you to finish your thought with a sort of patience that should be out of place in a setting like this. You feel bad keeping her wanting; she deserves better.
You want to be the one who gives that to her.
“…I want it.” All you seem to know how to do tonight is repeat yourself, like a broken record. You blame the drinks. “I want you. I just don’t… want you. To touch me.”
It sounds stupid when you say it out loud, but you don’t know how to phrase it any other way. You want to know her physically—carnally, primally, in a way that you’ve never known anyone else before. You just aren’t sure that you can let yourself return the favor. How selfish of you.
(Isn’t that what you’ve always been? Selfish? All you do is take and take and take. Why don’t you know how to give anything back?)
You’ve let your gaze fall to the carpet without realizing, but the warm palm of a hand caresses your cheek. You’re too drunk to pull away like you usually would, pliant and slow from the vodka shots, so you let her guide your face back up to look at her again.
The pad of her thumb sweeps over your cheek. “Hey, Sides, it’s alright. If that’s what you want, then that’s just fine with me. I won’t do a single thing you don’t ask me for.”
It shouldn’t feel like a weight has been lifted off your chest, but it does. You sag under the relief of it, and press your forehead against her chest, as if it’s too heavy to hold up.
She doesn’t hate you. You didn’t even have to explain it all, not like you thought you would, and all she said is okay.
Fingers comb through your hair. It’s starting to get too long; you need Anathema to help you cut it again. You love how it feels when Julia plays with it, though, and it always makes you hesitate before you chop it off and start all over. Especially right now, with the drinks in your system, and the shock of her acceptance.
“Do you want to keep going?” you hear her ask.
Yes. You want it so badly that you ache.
When she feels your head nodding against her chest, she chuckles. “Alright. I’ll keep my hands to myself—starting right now. I solemnly swear I will not put a finger on you until you’re done fucking me stupid.”
And isn’t that a thought. It stirs the longing harbored deep in the pit of your stomach; you want to see her mindless and lost in sensation. And the fact that she wants you to be the one who gets her there is almost enough to make you drip through your boxers, if you aren’t there already.
“Okay,” you say. “I can do that—I can try, anyway.”
“Do you trust me?”
You do, in so many ways. More than you ever imagined you would, but also not as much as you want. For tonight, though, it’s enough. For tonight, it’s plenty.
“Yes.”
