Chapter Text
Trent's door was weak on the latch, so she pulled it behind her until she heard and felt it snick into place. Otherwise, she'd obsess over it swinging open at the wrong moment, and she was already all topped up on panic.
*Here is Trent's room. I, Daria Morgendorffer, have entered it with the intention of being naked and penetrated within. Oh my God.*
Her heart banged inside her chest so hard it hurt her throat.
Trent turned on his weaksauce 30-watt table lamp and glanced at her. His eyebrows lowered. Something displeased him. She had time for five paranoid fantasies before he started lighting the wicks of the bank of candles atop his dresser.
He wanted to see her... better? What.
He set down the lighter with a too-loud snap. Someone needed to talk to God's sound technicians; the levels were all screwed up. The candle-light glowed on the line of his cheekbone, sent the shadows of his lashes spiking slantwise.
“Change your mind?” His voice was even huskier than usual. He looked away, his throat working as he swallowed, one hand rising in a pointless gesture he aborted halfway through. Vulnerable.
All she could do was gape at him. Though a guy's hard-on didn't immediately bestow a girl with Sex Goddess status—unless tile laminate flooring and history texts also qualified for the title—his hesitation meant this was about more than his dick. He really wanted this.
She picked the safest path to him through the crap strewn all over the floor. Thank God she'd grabbed her damn glasses; otherwise she might have killed herself in this room, though that possibility wasn't off the table just yet. Tonight could still result in suicide.
He bent and kissed her, and hey, presto, her shyness was gone, though her heart still banged painfully in her chest. The deep hollow of his collarbone beneath the sharp line of his Adam's Apple was like a little lair for her demons to curl in. When she skimmed across his stomach to the gapped waistband of his worn-out cords, he swayed and kissed her again.
That really wasn't fair, the kissing. The white noise it caused in her brain erased any attempt at thought, any anticipation of regret.
When she tugged on the hem of his t-shirt, he took the hint and whipped it off, expression uneasy as he watched her reaction to him.
And just what the hell did *he* have to worry about? He was beautiful, all bone and sinew. The flat muscles of his waist tightened like clenched fists beneath her palms. She was shaken by her awareness of him: the space his body took up, his ragged breathing, the way his pulse jarred his body. Like her, but separate from her. She wasn't the only one he'd ever kissed. He had scars she'd never know the reasons for. She'd never, ever understand him, but they could share this: their bodies, a messy room, an unreliable lock.
She kissed him, tasted him, all smoke and candy. It was a slow kiss—a *detailed* kiss, as though he were tutoring her for the final exam on kissing. If only he could apply that amount of focus to anything else in life. If only there was a non-exploitative way to get paid for kissing. He'd be set.
The air was sweltering, but it felt cool on her sweaty skin as he pulled her big t-shirt off.
She took an unsteady step back as her heart slammed an irregular tattoo. Once he got a good look at her, any second now, he'd hand over her shirt and turn away. She anxiously flexed her toes inside her socks, plucking at the harsh nap of the dirty carpet.
“Looks good, Daria.” His voice was thick, like he needed to clear his throat. She glanced up at him. He half-smiled at her, his eyes heavy-lidded, gazing steadily into hers.
He reached up and took her glasses off, carefully folded the arms and set them down on the dresser where the candlewax wouldn't drip. “That's to level the playing field,” he said.
“How does that level anythi—” Because from where she stood, he could see her just fine and she couldn't see jack-shit, so how was that level? He interrupted her with a swift, biting kiss. Definitely a “shut up” kiss.
“Wanna lie down?” he asked.
“Assuming a lot, aren't you?” She could slap herself. Sarcasm was always her go-to, but it couldn't be more inappropriate—and wrong—than now. Panic, like the curved and crested wave in that Japanese print Jane had hanging in her room. She headed it off by grabbing him, kissing him, pulling him onto his bed. Hope that answered his question.
She got lost, and he did too, and that was the most astounding thing. Kissing, touching. His hands skidding up her torso to cup her breasts again, callused fingertips stinging on her nipples. His tongue in her mouth made her gasp. Her fingers on the back of his neck checked for chips or electrodes or... or scales, or something. Because this *was* Trent, right? Lackadaisacal, half-asleep Trent? They were on their sides, facing each other, but his erection nudged her stomach and there was nothing lazy in his kisses.
Well, then. All right. She'd asked for it and she'd got it. This savage ache shot all through her, (through them both), this blindness to tomorrow, if that's what Quinn already knew and owned, if this was “normal” .... she'd go with it.
Sometimes, out with Jane after midnight, wandering the deserted streets of Lawndale, she felt a sense of wildness and freedom. As they strolled past all those closed doors and darkened windows, the people within sleeping, dreaming, and above all, not watching her, she slipped the leash of her own insecurity and became something dark, something powerful. That was when she danced. That was when she screamed.
That same sensation thrilled through her now, in Trent's dimly lit room, as she palmed his erection through the hot damp cloth of his worn old pants and he kicked his head back and groaned her name.
Yes. That was what she'd wanted. Her name in his mouth was as exciting as his tongue in her own.
And beneath her palm: hot, stiff flesh. The first cock she'd ever touched. She read the shaft through the cloth, her fingers rolling over the head, dipping beneath the waistband to pet the wet tip, surprisingly soft and velvety. His moan staggered out of him, rising, falling, with an edge of disbelief for her boldness. Too bad. He didn't really know her, after all, and that was fine; in fact, that was perfect. She wouldn't be able to stand the closeness if he knew her mind as well as he was about to know her body.
She undid the button of his fly, and then his fingers were there, stumbling in their eagerness to pull down his zipper. His teeth scraped her neck as he gasped, shuddering; he muttered a curse and fought to get his pants off.
“You can touch me if you want,” she said in his ear, quoting Garbage, and she was rewarded by his choked chuckle, and then, his hand pressing between her legs. She spread for him.
The world went pink and orange, like dawn breaking. She couldn't think. He'd pulled down her boxers, and his fingers were on her, in her, long and agile and sensitive, but he moved wrong as often as he moved right, so that wasn't it. She shifted her hips, trying to educate him to her rhythm, primitive instinct taking over for her own lack of experience. It was just the fact of him stroking her, learning to play her, that make her choke for air. His total attention focused on her.
He pulled her boxers off. She heard them snap against the wall and thump to the floor. Then he was on top of her, and she lost what little breath remained to her as he lifted her thighs and positioned himself between them. Naked and defenseless, both of them.
“No going back.”
He spoke in her ear and she shivered.
“Better be sure.”
What a thing to say. If she thought hard enough, she could make herself doubt the existence of gravity. Of course she could make herself doubt this. She kissed him hard and arched against him, shifted her pelvis so he could press in if he wanted, silently insisting on her course of action.
He coughed.
“All right,” he said. She felt him stretch, his muscles tight as rubber bands, and then the sound of foil tearing and then an unfamiliar smell, medicinal, hospital, unwelcome. She crinkled her nose, but it was just the condom, bland rubber and water-based lube. He rolled it on, his hands working in the light which only grew dimmer as the candles guttered and died.
Another jolt of panic, this one unexpected, turned her to iron beneath him. No going back. Right. This was *Trent.* Did she mean this? What would happen tomorrow?
But she ached all over, like a fever, and she shook with excitement and the thrill of the unknown, and yeah, fear too; but all this upheaval was inevitable, just something to get past. If not Trent, then whom? And when? Some random guy in three years, because she was bored? No. This night was for herself.
She took a deep breath. “Trent.... yes.”
It was all he needed. He positioned himself. Her thighs gripped his narrow hips; she tilted and arched her back, understanding the silent commands he gave with his touch.
First pleasure, then pain. The books didn't talk about this. The pain was sharp and thin, like a skinned knee: the spoiled whine of a minor injury, commanding attention, but not concern. Her indrawn breath whistled between her teeth, and he froze at the most uncomfortable point, stretching her.
“Move,” she ordered, and rolled her hips in case he missed her point.
He grunted, grimacing. This didn't seem to be hitting him quite right, either, but she had nothing to spare for him as she waited, poised and tense, for the cellophane inside her to tear.
He gathered her again and collected himself—she felt him tighten—and then drove in.
The pain spiked—serious now, and stabbing. He muttered apologies she didn't listen to, but just as she was about to cry out, give up, abandon this experiment, the pain disappeared—blew away like cobwebs, replaced by the aching awareness of him inside her, connected, hard and pulsing.
It was like a lot of things. The writer in her scribbled mad similes she didn't bother to remember. Mostly, satisfaction. Deep down she sighed, contented in a way that didn't bear looking at too closely, by having him inside her, both of them holding still, breathing together as they adjusted. His weight on her, his narrow body in her arms, his knobbly, hairy legs tangled with hers.
He struggled with himself. Long ripples shuddered down his spine. She pet him, tried to smooth whatever it was away; it was so weird, feeling him care enough to be troubled, especially since she didn't know what the hell his problem was.
His ragged voice snagged her like a fish-hook. “Sorry, Daria.”
“Shut up,” she said, but he shook his head and then kissed her again, the curved thorns of his spiky hair prickling rough on her palm. He started to move, breathing against her mouth, holding her hips against him so his full length stroked inside her. There was a beat there, primitive and drumming like a heartbeat. She realized she could match it, so she did, and his breath broke into a groan.
As they moved together, the last bit of stinging faded. His back flexed as he worked, sweat making his skin slippery. Daria felt split in two. Half of her observed this really was every bit as silly as she'd ever imagined it'd be. The other half was awash in every pastel emotion that had ever made her sneer: his casual strength as he adjusted the angle of her hips; his fragility as he trembled, waiting for her to adapt to the increased depth of his angle. All of it silent except for their broken breathing and half-voiced sighs.
So many romance novel cliches were being illustrated tonight, in the hot length of him inside her and the spiralling intensity of it all. A coil of wire wound tighter and tighter at the base of her spine, twanging through the network of nerves in her pelvis and thighs. Every bit of her attention *there,* and she'd be embarrassed if she weren't so certain Trent were in the exact same senseless state.
She gulped for air between his kisses, which were growing increasingly disorganized and rough. He broke from her to press his forehead to her shoulder, gasping. It was so hot in this summer night. Their combined scent was animal and heavy and she was amazed to find she liked it—she, who couldn't stand the sight of bare feet, who winced when the gloves came out in science class, who couldn't even handle stuffing a turkey for Thanksgiving. She sucked a glowing kiss into his neck and shuddered like an electric shock when he groaned.
“I—can't—” he muttered.
“It's okay,” she said, not knowing what he meant, not caring. He shifted once again, and, like magic, it all became effortless, like flying in a dream—she rippled against him, liquid and frictionless, feeling nothing but her own spiral of need soaring upwards. Something she wanted. Something she wanted. She was about to have it. She, who so rarely allowed herself to want anything, drove for it, dove into it, permitted herself. This night was for her. A middle finger to her parents, who wanted her to date a quarterback. A spit in the eye to her sister, who maybe experienced something like this with her vanilla Wall Street boyfriend, but probably not. Because this? She couldn't imagine anyone else feeling anything like this. The romance novels didn't go near it.
He drove into her, irregular, his motions crabbed and moth-eaten, his teeth on her shoulder as he bit down. She bowed up against him, the crown of her head hard against his pillow, silently screaming to the ceiling. The dying candlelight playing there turned into a giant glowing mushroom cloud.
II.
The Mary Janes still slumped on the top shelf of the fridge.
Daria stared at them a long time, the cold air making her sore nipples peak and sting. Behind her Trent did something involving clattering sounds and running water.
“Whoa, Trent! Were you wearing a seatbelt?”
Jane's voice snapped her back to reality, and she slammed the fridge and put her back to it, feeling guilty without knowing why.
Jane stood in the doorway to the kitchen, grinning. She was looking at Trent, who carried on making coffee without acknowledging his little sister. For the first time, Daria noticed his neck, almost black with hickies.
Oops.