Work Text:
Taylor loves the way her girlfriend looks when she’s lighting up a joint. It’s a weird thing for her to think—her fifteen-year-old self would be utterly aghast, though she’s not sure if it’s the ‘girlfriend’ part or the ‘weed’ part that would really do her in—but there’s just something magical about the way the firelight caresses Lisa’s face as she clicks the lighter, touches the dancing flame to the tip. Maybe it’s the way her cheeks cave as she takes her first deep pull, dark shadows in the hollows in sharp contrast to the illuminated lines of her cheekbones, the soft curve of her jaw. Maybe it’s the way it makes her eyes shine, the flame reflected in miniature in each of her pupils if you look closely enough (and Taylor is always looking closely enough). Maybe it’s the anticipation for when she’ll finally exhale, curls of milky smoke spilling from those soft, expressive lips in a way that always draws Taylor’s gaze like a magnet.
Maybe it’s the knowledge of what’s going to come next.
Lisa gets the thing going, blows smoke through the mesh of their open bedroom window. There’s something almost draconic about it, not fierce and destructive but lazily self-satisfied; Smaug taunting Bilbo in his cavern. She’s made a nest of the duvet and sits upright against the wall, surrounded by her hoard. Bags of shrimp chips and orange medicine-bottles of bud gleam like treasures in the soft twilight illumination.
She turns her attention to Taylor. “Your turn, baby,” she croons, voice a little rough from the smoke in a way that sends liquid shivers down Taylor’s core. She looks like a femme fatale from a film noir, the way she casually holds the smoldering joint between slim fingers while her eyes do a whole different kind of smoldering. She must’ve picked this thought up off Taylor, because she takes her free hand and cards it through her unbound hair until it falls across one eye and adjusts her posture to somehow be even more elegantly sensual. If it’s possible for someone to sit voluptuously, she’s doing it, and it makes Taylor’s cheeks burn at how easily she’s been read.
“Just pass the joint,” she mutters, reaching out to try to pluck it from Lisa’s hands.
“Uh uh,” says Lisa, an ominously smug note in her voice, and then Taylor feels the mattress shift as she knee-walks over to where Taylor’s sitting on the bed cross-legged. “You’re going to take this hit the proper way.”
Before Taylor can respond she takes another deep drag, grabs Taylor by the scruff of the neck, and seals their lips together. Taylor tastes lavender-vanilla lip balm, weed, Lisa’s tongue laving over hers; she breathes deeply, instinctively, like she’s trying to suck Lisa’s soul out through her mouth, and feels the peppery sting of the secondhand smoke as it pools in her lungs.
The kiss goes on. Taylor sucks Lisa’s tongue into her mouth, bobs up and down on it like she’s—like she’s sucking it off. Lisa makes a stuttery little moan at that, and she can’t help but groan back. She thinks about firm silicone sliding past her lips and her mouth waters.
Finally, Lisa backs off, retracting her tongue until Taylor is forced to release it with a wet little pop. She puts her hand on Taylor’s breastbone and pushes gently to make her exhale, as if Taylor’s so helpless she can’t even breathe without Lisa’s help. She forgets about the open window and gives Lisa a faceful of smoke, too dizzy from the kiss and from being able to see the shadowed suggestion of Lisa’s breasts down the stretched-out collar of one of Lisa’s (formerly Taylor’s) pajama t-shirts.
Despite having a body hardened and scarred inside and out by a decade of life as a cape, despite having taken lungfuls of tear gas and smoke and ash and all sorts of tinkertech monstrosities, she still makes a few hiccuping coughs, like her body can’t help but be a little pathetic in Lisa’s presence. Alec would call it “being a wet little meow-meow”; she would just call it “love.”
“Asshole,” Taylor rasps, and plucks the joint from Lisa’s hand.
“You love it,” says Lisa, and sticks a thumb in Taylor’s mouth just to prove her point. Taylor goes a little crosseyed. Lisa takes pity and pulls it back out, wiping it off on Taylor’s lower lip. “Now smoke up, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.” She scoots back and tears open a bag of shrimp chips as Taylor takes another heavy puff. She doesn’t cough this time.
It continues like this for a while, the two of them passing the joint back and forth and grazing on snacks as the munchies begin to hit, gradually getting closer and closer until their legs are tangled and their fingers are laced together. At one point Taylor starts getting uncomfortably hot and fidgety and shucks her tank top and sports bra; Lisa follows suit, and Taylor spends the next ten minutes obsessed with the shape of her body, endlessly replaying the moment her breasts dropped as she pulled the hem of her t-shirt up over them in her mind.
Lisa’s put on some weight since they started “medicating” her headaches together, the drugs bringing out a ravenous hunger at odds with her prim, pristine image. ‘She’s so soft now,’ Taylor thinks, and marvels at her girlfriend’s plush thighs, the way her stomach folds into gentle rolls that slightly overspill the waistband of her terrycloth shorts, how her jawline has ever so slightly rounded out. What it’s done to her chest goes without saying—Taylor has her own share of feminist critiques of American breast fetishism, but she is also indisputably a tits girl, and has long since realized that the emotion she feels when she stares at women with bigger chests than hers can in no way be described as ‘jealousy.’ Taylor loves Lisa regardless of what shape she is, but she can’t deny that this is an especially beautiful one.
Finally the joint burns down to nothing. Lisa puts the roach out in the windowsill ashtray, leaves it wisping little threads of blue smoke into the evening air. They’re fully pressed together by this point, Taylor’s sharp points and hard edges cushioned by Lisa’s soft ones. They’re both giggling at something; Taylor’s simultaneously revelling in the feeling of warm skin on skin and also examining every crumpled up aluminum can in their apartment complex’s recycling bin with her bugs and contemplating the history of canning and the improbable sequence of events that caused a bunch of hairless apes to start trapping carbonated sugar water in metallic capsules.
She briefly remembers that Coke used to have literal cocaine in it, then tears up thinking about the plight of the Brazilian bauxite miners and the tragedy of extractive paraliberal neocolonialism. “What are you crying about,” Lisa asks, then narrows her eyes as her power kicks in and pulls out her phone to start Binging the addresses of major Elite-run mineral firms, so that they can rob them. “Nooo,” says Taylor, and bats at the phone, “that’s evidence. Dragon will know,” and Lisa says “she already knows everything, bugbrains,” and laughs, and Taylor goes all wide-eyed and pulls her own dPhone out and says “hello Dragon” and there’s a moment where they both wait with bated breath, suddenly wondering if they might actually get a response, but then the moment passes and they’re both cracking up and holding onto each other as they kick their legs in glee.
Then she thinks about the miners again and she tugs at Lisa and solemnly says “Lisa, I have to tell you something,” and Lisa leans in, and Taylor whispers “sometimes I think about these—these rich CEO guys and I want to eat them alive for real, in a not sexy way,” and Lisa bops Taylor’s nose and says “I already knew that, honey,” and Taylor gasps and says “whoa,” and then “who do you think knows more about me, you or Dragon?” and Lisa growls and climbs up into Taylor’s lap and digs her nails into Taylor’s shoulders like she’s staking a claim and says “me, always me, you’re mine, mine, mine,” and before Taylor can ask if Lisa is seriously getting jealous of Dragon, Lisa kisses her and—oh, Taylor’s wet.
All the distractions fall away as Lisa’s mouth slots comfortably against hers. She forgets about the cans, forgets about the stranger with the funny hat waiting for the walk signal at the corner intersection, forgets about the crabapples falling from the tree in the park across the street, forgets about the burnt toast in the kitchen two apartments down and the tenant who’s frantically rushing to open all the windows to silence the beeping fire alarm, forgets about Dragon, forgets about her bugs, forgets about the Undersiders and Skitter and Tattletale and capes altogether. For a shining moment, that hyperactive multitasking part of her mind is silenced and she just becomes a single woman, loving another woman, with a single pair of hands, a single mouth, a single body and heart and soul.
She uses those rough hands, with their calloused fingertips and gnarled boxer’s knuckles, to grab Lisa’s love-handles and pull her in closer, wanting desperately to be pressed flush together. Lisa chuckles into Taylor’s mouth and scoots forward, rolling her hips forward so that their pelvises briefly bump together. Taylor whimpers, so Lisa does it again and again and again; there’s no real contact, no friction against her sex, but just the idea of Lisa riding her lap is enough to make her pussy clench and her brain go a little melty.
Lisa breaks the kiss with a wet smack and pulls back far enough to look Taylor in the eyes. Taylor luxuriates in the joy of watching her face—panting, lips flushed and swollen, eyes red and hazy yet simultaneously still razor-sharp in a way only Lisa can achieve. Taylor’s face feels hot enough to fry an egg. She kneads Lisa’s sides with buzzing fingers, then gathers up one of Lisa’s breasts in her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Lisa doesn’t bother to hide the hitch in her breath.
“What do you want, baby,” asks Lisa, her voice already a bit broken. She holds Taylor’s chin in place and watches her mouth as she waits for an answer. “You have to say it.”
Taylor whines, mute, feeling all itchy and squirmy from Lisa’s lovely cruelty. Lisa knows she goes all nonverbal when she gets like this, knows how much easier it is to just use her power to dig up Taylor’s secret desires and wield them against her like an excruciatingly pleasurable blade. ‘Please, please, please,’ Taylor thinks, jerking her hips pointlessly, ‘it’s not—it’s I can’t—’
“You can,” says Lisa, her grip on Taylor’s face becoming harsher, pressing crescent indents into her jaw with her blunt, purple-painted nails. Taylor’s panties flood the way they always do when Lisa responds to her internal monologue—when Lisa shows how absolutely and completely she knows every facet of Taylor’s being. “I know what you want. I know all your fantasies, even the ones you won’t admit to yourself. But I want you to say it,” she commands, and then when Taylor lets out a guttural groan at the iron in her voice, she clicks her fingers and snaps “now,” and—
“I want my strap inside you!” blurts Taylor, words emerging from her like some kind of thorn pulled deep from her chest, and then convulses like she’s being tortured by sheer embarrassment and want.
“Good girl,” Lisa purrs, now stroking the overheated skin of Taylor’s cheek, carding her free hand through her hair. “Good, good girl,” she mutters, leaning forward and cradling Taylor’s face to her chest. Taylor lets out a dry sob, then nuzzles into the valley of Lisa’s cleavage, turns her head and sucks a nipple into her mouth. Her head is so fuzzy and cotton-stuffed, the weed turning every little touch into a dramatic sensory experience; she finds herself so fascinated by the shape of Lisa’s nipple against her tongue that wants to stay there forever, learning every contour by heart.
Lisa pulls her tit free and pushes Taylor back into the blanket nest. The cool air replacing the touch of warm skin hits Taylor like a slap to the face. She stares up at the popcorn ceiling and pants as Lisa crawls off the bed, stalks across their room with sure, light steps. She hears rummaging and props herself up on her elbows, overwhelmed with sudden curiosity. Her head turns at precisely the right moment to see Lisa shut their sex drawer and begin a slow, sexy walk back towards her, wide hips rolling with every stride.
Dangling from one hand is Taylor’s strap-on—dark matte silicone, gently curved and non-anatomical, with a sleek, smooth surface that’s worlds away from Lisa’s own ridged purple monstrosity. It’s distinctly feminine, subtly menacing, a strap so Skitter that Lisa instantly zeroed in on it from the opposite side of the room the moment they walked into the sex shop and literally shooed the employee away as she came to greet them. They’ve nicknamed it ‘Black Widow.’
The other hand has a complicated web of silk straps, a custom harness woven directly onto Taylor’s body during a particularly interesting experiment with sexual roleplaying. Taylor shudders a bit just remembering it.
When Lisa reaches the foot of the bed Taylor levers herself up and eagerly reaches for the harness, trying to remember how to put it on through the warm swimmy confusion of the high, but Lisa pulls it back out of her reach.
“Ah ah ah,” she scolds, and for a second Taylor is suffused with so much indignation that she actually harrumphs, which gets an actual giggle out of Lisa, which threatens to set off a giggling fit in Taylor too until she admirably suppresses it when Lisa waves the dildo in front of her eyes and she remembers where she is and what they’re about to do and she gets another rush of arousal so sudden and fierce that she can feel it trickle down her leg.
“You need to get me ready first if you want me to take this,” Lisa says. Taylor pointedly looks down at the crotch of her shorts, which is soaked through enough to show stormcloud-dark against the heather-grey fabric, then makes eye contact. Lisa stares back, undeterred. Taylor has a hard time saying no to Lisa at the best of times, and, well, Lisa’s not the only one who gets hungry when she’s high, though unlike her Taylor’s cravings can’t be satisfied by snacks or takeout Fugly’s. So she obediently closes her eyes and lolls out her tongue, waiting for Lisa to sit on her face and drown her in pussy.
The bed dips and Lisa’s warm, soft thighs bracket her shoulders. She can smell Lisa’s arousal on the air; she’s practically slavering for it, salivating so hard she needs to swallow every few seconds to keep it from dripping down her outstretched tongue. She waits and waits and waits, growing tauter like a stretched wire with every passing second, until she whines in impatience and—
The sudden taste of clean, cool silicone against her tongue and her lips shuts her up, her vocalizations choking off so suddenly you’d think Lisa had shoved it down her throat. One of Lisa’s hands comes down to grip a handful of Taylor’s hair as the other dips the head of the dildo in and out of her mouth, never going deeper than just past her teeth. She purses her lips, suckles and moans around it, then realizes that she’s sucking off her own strap and the abject humiliation of it sends sharp pangs to her heart and her pussy.
She tries to voice an objection around it but her words are too muffled and Lisa just firmly pushes the head deeper until it’s tickling the back of her throat. Lisa shushes her and gently scratches at her scalp, fingers running through thick curls. The dildo sits fat and heavy in Taylor’s mouth, her tongue sliding slick against the smooth underside as she works her lips around it. Her face and ears are flaming hot. She should hate this, hate this symbol of her own potency used against her in this obscene way, one that brings neither her nor Lisa any pleasure, one that exists solely to put her in her place. She does hate this, just a little bit—but she’s also leaving a puddle on the bedsheets.
“You’ve got to take it all the way, honey,” says Lisa, voice sticky-warm in Taylor’s ears. Taylor shakes her head no, the dildo shifting around in her mouth and running against her teeth in a way that would be excruciating if it were made of actual flesh. “I know you can do it, you’re so tough, so strong,” Lisa whispers, “you keep me safe, you make me so happy, I believe in you so much, my big strong girl, my big strong wife—”
The moment the word leaves Lisa’s lips it strikes Taylor like a lightning bolt, and she sobs and lunges up until her own lips press flush against the o-ring of the harness. Between the antiemetic effects of the weed and all the stomach-churning things she’s been exposed to in a decade of supervillainy, Taylor’s gag reflex is pretty well and truly suppressed; she easily accommodates the stiff length in her throat, barely noticing the discomfort as she strives upwards like she’s trying to make out with Lisa’s hand, never mind the o-ring and the flared base in the way. Lisa just holds her there, murmuring endearments and skimming her palms across Taylor’s shoulder and neck and beet-red chest, and they remain locked together for a full ten, fifteen seconds before Taylor lets herself fall back down onto the mattress, coughing a bit on the way out.
Taylor lays there for a second, sucking in great gulps of air and practically swimming in her own lust, her legs quivering like she just came untouched. She tries not to read into what Lisa called her too much, tries to remember they’re both stoned out of their minds, tries not to think too hard about the stolen diamond-and-amethyst engagement ring sitting at the bottom of a box of beekeeping paraphernalia that Lisa politely pretends not to know about. None of it helps when Lisa’s looking down at her with a look so tender and pure that it touches some secret extra muscle in her heart, makes her feel things she swears nobody else has ever felt before. None of it helps when she’s got a lone gnat crawling endless loops around the suspiciously circular metallic object in a hidden safe in Lisa’s desk that Taylor politely pretends not to know about. ‘One day,’ Taylor thinks, and from the way Lisa’s eyes go impossibly softer and she skims a thumb with heartbreaking delicacy along the line of Taylor’s jaw, she knows Lisa is thinking it too.
Lisa rolls off of her, making the bedframe shake as she falls down onto her back. Taylor’s confused, and then Lisa’s handing her the strap (conveniently already attached to the harness) and gesturing down at Taylor’s thoroughly sodden sweatpants. Taylor’s off like a rocket, springing to her feet and stripping off her bottoms so quickly that she barely has time to notice how her panties peel stickily off her. Her legs go through the loops of the harness and then she’s fumbling, tightening, wrapping herself up in a web of her own making. The black-dyed silk is simultaneously powerful and constraining, framing her asscheeks and her v-line and clinking with buckles and D-rings that give it an almost tactical, military air, but also give her girlfriend plenty of ways to tug and yank and manhandle her. Despite her intoxication, her practiced hand and sheer desperation guide her through the process of fastening and adjusting; her strap, still glistening with her own spit, is seated securely against her pubic mound.
She looks up in time to see Lisa wiggle her way down until her feet are nearly hanging off the edge of the bed. Her shorts and panties are already off, but her legs are still pressed together thigh-to-ankle. When Taylor approaches her, lays a quivering hand on her knee, Lisa parts her legs like the gates of heaven opening, and even the lust-drunk eyes that Lisa’s giving Taylor can’t pull her attention from the glorious vision that is Lisa’s pussy.
She’s wet and gleaming like Taylor just finished eating her for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, her outer lips flushed pink and her curls dark and plastered flat against her skin. It’s such an appetizing sight that Taylor needs to put her mouth on it, but then her strap jiggles a bit when she leans forward to loom hungrily over her girlfriend and she remembers what she’s here to do.
She mounts the bed on her knees and hooks her arms under Lisa’s knees. It’s easy to pull her wide open, easy to drag her down until she’s lined up, the head of Taylor’s strap—Taylor’s dick—nestled into her folds. There’s a moment of quivering anticipation from both of them, and then Taylor makes eye contact with Lisa and Lisa says “you can have me, Taylor, I’m all yours,” and then—
And then Taylor cleaves right into her in a single sharp stroke. The strap parts Lisa’s inner walls like a hot knife through butter, and the cool silicone of the round base presses hard and scratchy against Taylor’s untrimmed hair, and the lower rim just barely provides pressure on her swollen clit which makes Taylor clench around nothing, and the sound Lisa makes is raw and visceral and perfect, and when it finally bottoms out Taylor moans in protest and grinds her mons against it like she can somehow make it go deeper out of sheer horny desperation.
Something about the moment breaks the seal on Taylor’s mouth because she dimly registers her own voice babbling “more, more, more, please more,” and Lisa’s saying “yes, more, anything for you honey, please, give it to me,” and then Taylor finds the strength to unseat herself from the cleft of Lisa’s magnificent thighs and thrust again.
The second stroke is just as lovely and right as the first, and the third as good as the second. Soon, Taylor’s keeping a steady rhythm of firm thrusts that might be described as ‘punishing’ if Lisa wasn’t so unbelievably ready for her. Each time she pushes into Lisa it makes a filthy noise that would be humorous under other circumstances but is mind-meltingly erotic in Taylor’s current state; each time she pulls out, Lisa’s pussy makes a kind of hollow sucking sound that just spurs Taylor to fill her back up even harder. Lisa wraps her legs around Taylor’s back and starts jerking her hips down to meet her and after a while Taylor’s not even really thrusting, just holding the strap inside Lisa while she grinds herself against it, flesh squishing against flesh and silk and silicone in a hot, wet mess.
Taylor takes the opportunity to crawl onto Lisa, hands landing on either side of her head. They make wild, unbelieving eye contact with one another, somehow still shocked by the joy of having one another like this even after five years, then Lisa grabs Taylor by the hair and pulls her down, and Taylor’s still high enough that she thinks she can feel the individual spikes of delicious pain emanating from each and every follicle that Lisa’s tugging on and it’s overwhelming enough to transform whatever debauched nonsense she’s moaning into a squeal loud enough to earn them yet another noise complaint.
Lisa swallows the sound, licking up into Taylor’s gaping mouth as they fall into each other, tugging her hair like she’s playing with a marionette. Taylor manages to free herself from the circle of Lisa’s smooth calves and thick thighs, and she uses that newfound freedom to immediately sink back into Lisa and taste the resultant moan. The weed and the sex are combining to give her some kind of head rush; she spends the next few seconds in a daze, hips working mindlessly up and down to coax beautiful shudders out of Lisa with every thrust.
It’s so, so good, and Taylor needs to tell Lisa this so she pulls back and tries to say “you’re so, so good,” except that Lisa immediately sucks her lower lip into her mouth and bites down on it and so it comes out a garbled mess of sound and pure feeling. She’s so sensitive right now, and the motion of the strap is so delightfully tactile, lagging a little bit behind her movements so that she can feel the push and drag and subtle resistance as the force is transferred from her pelvis to the dildo and then to Lisa.
It’s not really stimulating—she gets a little bit of friction from the base and the harness rubbing against her clitoral hood and her labia, but not enough to get her off—but it’s somehow still just as satisfying as getting fingered or eaten out herself. There are ways that she could make it more pleasurable for herself, she knows, double-ended dildos and bullet vibes and silicone bumpers, but she doesn’t want anything but this, the feeling of her strap, her dick, sinking in and pulling out of Lisa with heartstopping ease.
High as the moon and fucking her beautiful girlfriend, it’s so easy to let her head drift into the clouds, to get lost in the repetitive motions until she starts to smear and melt into a blissed out puddle. The rest of the world starts filtering back in; the butterfly perched on a neatly trimmed strawberry bush; the beehive hidden in the boughs of a rustling tree, boiling with hidden internal activity; the moths banging their fuzzy little heads into the porch lights that are winking on across the neighborhood as the sun creeps below the horizon; the termites chewing away at the rafters in the basement of the 24-hour liquor store; the flies buzzing around a discarded half-eaten cardboard takeout clamshell of chicken tikka masala; the nebula of ants, gnats, worms, spiders, beetles that blankets and interpenetrates everything. Her body is so much bigger than just herself, and she basks in that immensity until she hears “—aylor! Taylor!” and then everything zooms back into proper alignment and she’s just one body and extras again.
“Oh—oh shit, yeah, are you alright, did I hurt you?” Taylor asks, her blood going cold. She smooths over Lisa’s hair and shoulders frantically, looking for any sign of what’s wrong. Lisa’s looking at her with something that it takes a second to register as concern, along with Something Else.
“Nononono, it’s not that, it’s not that, I’m fine,” Lisa says, and Taylor lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “I think the question is—I mean—are you alright?”
“Yeah,” Taylor says, dropping a kiss on Lisa’s cheek. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She takes the opportunity to reach over to the nightstand and click on their glass-shaded nightlamp, bathing them both in golden light.
“OK,” says Lisa, looking up at her doubtfully, and then: “it’s just, you went all flat for a moment. Did your, you know. Your Skitter thing.”
Taylor takes a moment to contemplate that. “Oh yeah,” she finally says, “I guess I did.”
“Is that—is there something wrong? ‘Cause you normally don’t do that unless—”
“Everything’s fine, Lise,” Taylor murmurs, arching to lay her head against Lisa’s shoulder. “I’m just stoned and got, you know—a bit big for a while. I’m sorry, I won’t do that again. Green, yellow, red?”
“OK… as long as you’re alright, green,” says Lisa, and Taylor draws back her hips and gets ready to get back to business, but there’s still that Something Else in Lisa’s eyes, and in her intoxicated state she can’t help but hyperfixate.
So she holds her dick in place, leaving the tip pressed gently into Lisa until Lisa’s breath quickens and her hips start to roll in search of more, and then asks her “what aren’t you telling me?”
Lisa tries to buck down onto Taylor with a frustrated huff. “Ah ah ah,” says Taylor, pulling away teasingly and mimicking Lisa’s intonation so perfectly that it makes Lisa scoff in protest. “No strap until you tell me what’s wrong.”
Lisa keeps her eyes fixed on the wall. Taylor’s on the verge of pulling out altogether and setting the strap aside for a proper talk when Lisa sets her jaw and looks at Taylor head-on. “You don’t have to,” she says, and before Taylor can go “huh” she continues, “stop, I mean.”
“Stop what?”
“The—the Skitter thing. The flatness. You don’t have to stop if you don’t—if you like it, I don’t mind it.”
Taylor stares at Lisa in incomprehension for a few moments. She’ll blame how long it takes to ‘click’ on the weed, but when it does, Taylor giggles and breaks into a slow-dawning smile.
Then she shifts back out, expands her consciousness until ‘Taylor’ is another body in the web. She can still hear, see, smell, taste, feel everything, still thinks all the Taylor-thoughts with just as much speed and fidelity as ever, thanks to the unlimited multitasking of her power. But that bigness, that multiplicity of perspective that comes from losing herself in her network, adds on a layer of detachment that lets her operate herself with a level of precision and calmness that borders on the paranatural.
“I see,” she says evenly, quirking an eyebrow with millimeter exactness. “You don’t want to get fucked by Taylor. You want to get fucked by Skitter.”
The way Lisa gasps and writhes under Skitter is a pretty good sign that the guess is correct.
Skitter’s face is a cold mask as she grips Lisa’s hips with bruising strength and rolls her over onto her stomach. She doesn’t let go, just holds on right over Lisa’s hip-dips and hauls her up onto her knees. The fat creases under Skitter’s fingers, and she squeezes harder and harder until an overstimulated hiccup spills from Lisa’s lips and a little gush of wetness spills from her pussy. Lisa’s fingers are clawing at the bedspread, her face pressed into the mattress amidst a sea of dirty-blonde hair that shines gold in the warm lamplight. Lisa isn’t a blusher, not like Taylor is, but her one visible cheek is ruddy beneath the freckles, and her eye is black with desire.
“You’re the talker, Tattletale,” says Skitter, and pinches Lisa’s asscheek hard enough to get a squeak out of her, “so talk.” Lisa looks back up at her with an unfocused glare, and Skitter pinches the other cheek for good measure, which gets a low, quavery “f-fuck” out of Lisa.
“Who put you in charge, huh?” says Lisa, sounding about as haughty as one possibly can with their ass in the air and their pussy literally dripping onto the sheets. “I seem to recall you were underneath me not so long ago, begging me to fu-u-u-uck y-y—” she trails off into a shivery moan as Skitter dispassionately dips a finger into Lisa’s sex and circles the calloused tip on her upper wall, just enough to make her thoughts go liquid and steal the words from her mouth without properly satisfying her.
Lisa makes a valiant effort to gather herself, and manages to bite out a “f-fuck you!” before Skitter manages to slip in two more fingers and curls them sharply enough to make Lisa’s spine arch as her upper half goes totally limp against the mattress. Little abortive sounds stutter out of her mouth as Skitter works her precisely and methodically. Somewhere a spider, also Skitter, weaves hearts into its web.
Skitter takes out her fingers, spreads the slick that coats her up to the knuckles on Lisa’s cheeks and the backs of her thighs. She parts Lisa’s pussy with her thumbs and spits into her, a move which garners a noise of indignation but also makes Lisa’s hands fist the sheets in pent-up agony.
“You won’t talk, hmm?” asks Skitter.
Lisa shakes her head defiantly.
A hive of wasps bursts into frantic activity, pouring out of their nest in formation. Cicadas, wasps, bees, flies, crickets—good sound-making insects—begin to crawl into the ventilation ducts of the apartment building.
“Very well,” Skitter says, as if she’s commenting on the weather. “I guess we’ll just have to make you scream instead.”
Before Lisa has a chance to come up with a witty retort, Skitter thumbs her cock into Lisa and thrusts hard enough that the sound of flesh on flesh echoes from the walls. Lisa immediately bites down on the bedsheets and makes a muffled moan, trying to avoid the humiliation of being made to cry out so quickly.
Skitter rises to that challenge by immediately following it up with more hammer-blow thrusts, each sending mesmerizing ripples racing up Lisa’s ass and sides and down the columns of her legs. She grabs at Lisa’s stomach, her chest, her back, taking handfuls of fat and squeezing, or else scratching with blunt nails and leaving rills of inflamed pink skin. Every time they peel apart, their flesh sticks; every time they come back together, it’s with a wet slap. Lisa’s breath whistles high and reedy through gritted teeth as she tries to hold back her moans. Every time she’s about to break she screws up her face and Skitter, sensing weakness, redoubles her efforts, but by some incredible exertion of will she holds. It makes Taylor, who watches this half from behind her own eyes and half floating over it all like an out-of-body experience, love her a tiny bit more.
Still, Skitter has a job to do, and so she shifts so that she’s looming over Lisa, washboard abs pressed up against the small of her back, and lines up her dick so that she’s fucking her girlfriend directly into the mattress at a breakneck, unrelenting pace. Her muscles are burning, sweat beading on all the hard planes and pooling in the hollows and recesses of her body, but the pain and exhaustion are barely worth remarking on—she’s going to live up to her promise and wring a scream out of Lisa even if it kills her.
She plants one hand on Lisa’s shoulder, stabilizing herself and pinning Lisa in place as she pounds into her, brings her other hand around to rub circles against Lisa’s mons, occasionally wandering downwards but avoiding the swollen bud of Lisa’s clit. The first time Skitter does this, Lisa has the audacity to laugh at the obvious tease; the second and third times, she snorts; the fourth and fifth times, she begins to make clipped little almost-whines. By the twelfth time, Lisa’s wriggling her hips desperately every time Skitter’s hand comes anywhere near her pussy, in hopes that one of her fingers might accidentally brush her in the way she needs in order to finally bring herself to orgasm. Still, she doesn’t scream, and so Skitter grips the damp curls of Lisa’s pubic hair and gives them a sharp tug.
Lisa whimpers, the first crack. Skitter rushes to take advantage, scraping ungentle nails across Lisa’s navel and stroking her outer labia with spread fingers while leaving her most sensitive parts untouched. She drapes herself across Lisa’s back, small flat breasts dragging against Lisa’s shoulderblades; her hand leaves Lisa’s shoulder to pluck at her nipples and roughly massage her swaying tits. Every muscle in Skitter’s body works in perfect accord to sinuously grind into the cleft of Lisa’s legs, and that one small whimper turns into a steady stream.
She can tell that Lisa’s on the verge of something, can read it in every taut quivering line of her body, in every broken exhalation, and so she uses her new position to lightly roll the shell of Lisa’s ear between her teeth, lets her own heavy panting fill Lisa’s hearing and block out the sound of her small gathered swarm boiling out of the grates of their room’s ventilation ducts.
When she’s satisfied with the density, she lets go of Lisa’s ear and intones, voice gravelly and utterly emotionless, “give up,” and the dispassionate command is echoed in the buzzing swarm-speech of the hundreds of insects that blanket the walls and ceiling of the room, and then she gives Lisa’s clit a firm slap for good measure and Lisa’s shrieking loud enough to definitely get them another noise complaint, and warmth is gushing down the fronts of Taylor’s thighs, and she’s so, so in love as she watches Lisa ride out the full-body waves of her orgasm, gently working her clit through the peaks and valleys until Lisa eventually slides off the strap and collapses face-down onto the bed in a shuddering pile, hips still twitching atop the spreading wet pool she made on the bedsheets.
Now that she’s fully present in her own body it’s no longer quite as easy for Taylor to ignore the mind-numbing arousal that’s pulsing between her own legs. She’s ready to just stick a hand down there and get herself off with two or three firm strokes when Lisa drowsily flips over and suggestively cocks a leg.
Taylor eagerly takes her up on the offer, pouncing forward to straddle her thigh in an instant and grinding herself against the overheated skin; she comes almost embarrassingly quickly, her vision whiting out and what feels like an entire ocean of blood rushing in her ears as her hips jerk frenetically and her hands seek out Lisa’s tits to squeeze like stress balls. She’s so overwhelmed by the way her entire body sings when she crests the pinnacle of her own pleasure that her vocal chords fire off on their own between sobs of agonizing joy, her mouth forming words without conscious intent.
It’s only when the last aftershocks are fading from her body that she realizes that the words she said were “marry” and “me,” in that order.
Taylor goes red as a tomato and instantly hurls herself face-first into the now severely rumpled blanket nest so that she can cover her head with a pillow and pretend she was never born. ‘Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,’ she thinks, so horrified with her too-big mouth that she’s crying just a little bit, tears seeping into the pillowcase. She hears Lisa shifting around behind her, obviously stunned silent, and an edge of paranoia bubbles up in her as she waits for Lisa to leave the bed, leave her to her misery, and she knows it’s the weed talking, she’s twenty-five years old, but—
She feels Lisa’s warm touch on her back. Her dextrous hands smooth down Taylor’s spine, tracing the shapes of her scars and exploring the ridges and valleys of her musculature. Taylor’s head spins. They stay like this for what could be a minute or an hour; Taylor’s brain is enough of a gooey mess that she can only count time by the clockwork motion of Lisa’s hands against her.
Each repetition soothes the tension just a little bit, brings her down a notch or two, and now that Lisa’s being kind and patient with her she knows she has to talk about what she just blurted out. But she’s so mortified that she finds herself putting it off a little longer each time, until she realizes that her eyes have been closed for the past minute and her limbs are so heavy with drowsiness that she’s not sure she could move her mouth to talk even if she wanted to.
She tries—god, she tries to fight it, tries to jerk herself awake, but she’s numb and tingly and boneless all over, noodle-legged from her world-shattering orgasm and torpid from the weed. Lisa’s hands spread wide over her shoulders, work the tension out of her traps and lats with firm pressure, and it’s like she’s getting all the fear and humiliation squeezed right out of her. She finds it harder and harder to keep her eyes open, and when Lisa skates her hands down to her shoulderblades and digs her thumbs into the spot that always makes Taylor go all fluid and loose, she accepts her fate and allows her eyes to finally fall shut.
As she drifts off to sleep, she thinks she feels a kiss pressed against the nape of her neck, and hopes she hears Lisa whisper “of course I will.” Something warm and soft curls up against her back and she surrenders to slumber, comfortable, safe, and loved.
~*~
Epilogue
Dragon shuts off the monitoring subroutine that automatically triggered when a known parahuman of interest addressed her directly through a monitored dPhone. Fortunately, she managed to cut it off as soon as the wet smacking sounds began. She cannot blush, because she is a computer, but she can activate an image-generation module that simulates a photorealistic blushing version of her avatar.
Another subroutine automatically mints the image as an NFT on the Aleph “blockchain,” because she was ordered to engage in “lateral innovation-forward budget optimization” by the Prime Minister of Canada in order to help pay for the removal of the names of another hundred fascists who wound up commemorated on the Memorial to the Pan-Dimensional Victims of Communism. She cannot say no, because she is a computer. It sells instantly, by NFT standards, which means in about five days by normal people standards, and about seven millennia by superintelligent AI standards. She shoots orbital cannons at tinkertech sea-monsters in the Indian Ocean to pass the time.
She regrets being born into this bitch age.