
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11702937.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Scream_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Emma_Duval/Brooke_Maddox
  Character:
      Emma_Duval, Brooke_Maddox
  Additional Tags:
      Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, kind_of, there's_some_plot_b/c_it's_me
      and_i_love_FEELINGS, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, First_Time,
      Lesbian_Sex, Vaginal_Fingering, Oral_Sex, Oral_Fixation, Femslash,
      Community:_femslash100
  Series:
      Part 1 of recovering_hearts
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-04 Words: 10214
****** a little bit of your attention ******
by ajarofgoodthings
Summary
     "Were you and Audrey ever, like, a thing?"
     Emma's eyebrows hit her hairline, mouth falling open a little in
     surprise, and Brooke, well - it's not really the first time she's
     thought about this, either. She's always thought Emma was gorgeous,
     and then after Audrey's video had come out - and Brooke had watched
     it again, and then again, and then again - she'd developed kind of a
     hyper-fixation on Emma's mouth, because she's always got the best
     curves to her smiles, even her frowns - and her lips look really
     soft, and -
     "I think, maybe, she had a crush on me for a while, or something like
     that. But she never did anything about it,"
     "What would have done if she had?" Brooke asks, and her eyes are
     drawn to the movement of Emma's fingers curling in the covers over
     her lap, clenching in the flower-print of the duvet.
     "I don't know," Emma breathes when Brooke meets her eyes again, and
     there's a shallowness, like she doesn't have enough air behind it.
     "What would you do if I did?"
      
     (Or; Brooke goes to Emma's after Jake's instead of going home alone)
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Brooke had thought about going home. 
She's seventeen - she can be by herself for a few days, or weeks, or however
long it was going to take for her mom to get out, or her dad, or whatever -
she's practically an adult. She can handle it.
Except, there's a killer on the loose. There's a killer on the loose, and some
of her friends are dead, and her other friends have been blackmailing her
father and - and nothing really makes sense anymore. And Emma had offered,
anyway; so Brooke does what she'd said she would - holds her to it, and it's
nice, hanging out with Emma and her mom. It's charged, obviously - awkward and
a little tense and weird, but it's good, too. Comfortable. They eat pizza on
the couch and watch a Disney movie and a half and then Emma's mom dictates it's
a school night, girls and Brooke kind of appreciates it, the parental
boundaries. It's one thing, to live in a house surrounded by security cameras -
it's another to actually have someone there, and caring, and offering to make
sleepy-time tea.
They're sharing a room for the night. Emma's mom had offered the guest room in
the basement and Brooke had plastered on the best smile she could and nodded,
because they were doing her a favour, letting her stay here - but Emma had
grabbed Brooke's hand where French-tipped nails were tapping anxiety out along
her thigh and squeezed it and shook her head. We can share my bed; the
basement's kind of creepy, mom.
So they're in Emma's room, and Brooke's laughing at the pile of teddy bears on
Emma's chair, picking up the top one and turning with it, eyebrow raised.
"I can't believe you've still got all of these. Facing the bed. How did Will
get it up with an audience?" She teases, and Emma blushes and rolls her eyes
and laughs, snatching the bear out of Brooke's hands and smacking her in the
shoulder with it. The laughter dies as she sets the bear back, and Brooke
realizes the weight of what she's said as the corners of Emma's mouth turn
down. "Damnit, I was kidding, I'm sorry -"
"It's fine," Emma's shaking her head, but she's crossing her arms over her
chest and setting her jaw and fuck, damnit. Brooke's not stupid. Brooke's
actually, really, really smart - whatever the popular girl image she portrays
might say. She pays attention. She knows her friends. She cares - and she knows
what it looks like when Emma is shutting someone out.
She's been doing it a lot, lately.
"Seriously, Em. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," Brooke says, brings her
hands up to curl fingers over either of Emma's arms. "It's - are you okay? We
haven't really talked about it. I mean, you don't have to, but - " it's as good
a time as ever; the accidental, blundering segway might be the only one she
gets, and Brooke gets it, kind of. The intrusion. The violation. It's
humiliating. "I know it was just Jake, for me, but I do know it sucks. Not to
the same scale, obviously, but -" she breaks off again, running her hands over
Emma's arms uselessly, because she's doing this badly, and Emma's not looking
at her.
"It's okay, Brooke," Emma insists, and when her eyes flick up they're hard and
distant even though she's smiling, but it's gargoyle, and Brooke just feels
guilt. "Really, it's fine. It happened, it's over. There's nothing I can do
about it."
Emma pulls away, the warmth of her stepping out of Brooke's grip, and Brooke
bites back on her sigh, bending to open the zip of her bag and find her
pyjamas.
They get changed in relative silence, broken only by the quiet instrumental
shuffle Emma has playing on her Spotify - the same sleep playlist she's been
using for the last two years; Brooke's opened it plenty of times herself, and
hums along to the songs she recognizes just for something to do. She's
panicking, because Emma's doing this incredibly nice thing for her, and she's
just making it weird. 
Brooke's in control, usually. Of herself, of the people around her - she gets a
handle on situations; she manages them, she runs them. But she's had less and
less control, lately; she's been a chess piece instead of a player in the game.
It's - wrong, backwards, and it's freaking her out.
She doesn't get out of control. She's not a victim. And Emma keeps shooting her
glances - never long enough for Brooke to really see, but she's pretty sure
it's with irritation, so when she comes back from her turn in the bathroom she
stops in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself and not looking at Emma,
who's sitting on the end of the bed with her phone in her hands.
"I can sleep downstairs," she offers, and winces at how pathetic she sounds to
herself, and can see Emma drop her phone to the side in her periphery. Brooke
feels like her heart's in her throat, trying to pound itself free of her body,
and her eyes are blurring and her head feels spinny and light and then Emma's
hands are on her shoulders, fingers digging in, grounding. 
"Brooke." Brooke doesn't look up - she stares at Emma's feet, snug in the faux-
fur lined black moccasins Brooke had bought her for Christmas last year,
against the bright red of Brooke's pedicure. "Brooke, it's okay. Oh, you're
totally keyed up - it's fine, I'm not mad," Emma's hand comes up, catches
Brooke's chin and forces her head up - and Brooke watches through the blur as
Emma's eyes widen, as she inhales, her forehead creases in realization while
Brooke's breathing picks up. "You're having a panic attack," she realizes
aloud, and then Brooke's being directed towards the bed, one foot forced in
front of the other until she's sitting and Emma's sitting on the ground in
front of her. 
Her head's spinning, black blurring at the edges of her vision and she knew she
was crying, but it takes her a minute to realize the weird keening sound is
coming from her - and immediately after that realization comes the one that it
hurts, that it feels like her chest is seizing, her lungs are being crushed.
Some idle, ironic rush of a thought offers looks like you'll die anyway as she
clutches at the front of her shirt, digging her knuckles against her chest like
it might relieve the pressure, and then Emma's fingers are pulling at her wrist
and tugging her hands down.
"Hey, you're okay. You're here with me. You're breathing. We're gonna count,
okay? I want you to count with me - down from ten. Ready? Ten, nine -" Brooke
doesn't manage to get any sounds out until 'five', but it's not really a sound,
and Emma's pushing up on her knees, her hand cupping Brooke's face to force her
head up. "Brooke, look at me. You're okay. You're safe," she gives, assuring
and slow and wrong, because Brooke's ribcage is trying to rip itself through
her skin - her heart is trying to get the hell out, away from her; which
it should do, which Emma should do, which everyone should do, because she's an
idiot, and she should never have trusted Will, or Jake, or her father, or
anyone, and -
"Brooke." Emma breaks in, hands hard over Brooke's shoulders. "Look at me,
here," her finger comes to tilt Brooke's chin up again - a task, with how
Brooke's trying to fold in on herself, and she can't breathe, her lungs are not
working. "We're going to count. We. Are going to count - Ten," her tongue snaps
against her teeth with the consonant; sharp, and hard, and Brooke focuses on
the reconnect for the n, bringing her hands from where she's wrapped her arms
around herself to curl her fingers over Emma's wrists.
"Nine - " and they get there. It's not until the bottom of round three that
Brooke's breathing gets back to some semblance of normal, and her heart still
feels too-big, but it's sitting where it's supposed to, and exhaustion waves
over her.
"I'm sorry," Brooke manages, and Emma's shaking her head, pushing up on her
knees and pulling Brooke in for a hug, her head falling to the junction of
Emma's shoulder.
"Don't be. At all. It's okay," Emma tells her, and Brooke actually believes
her, this time - with the flat of the girl's hand dragging the length of
Brooke's spine and her other hand twining fingers through her hair, present and
comforting and warm. "You've been through a lot. In general, but especially
today. It's okay - and I'm really not mad, Brooke," she releases her, dropping
back down to sit on her ankles, her hands falling to rest against Brooke's
thighs. "When's the last time you had one of those?" 
Just before her father's last photo op, after finding a tiny bag of white in
her mother's purse on a search for lipstick. Brooke remembers it clearly,
clutching the little bag, caught between the need to flush itand fear, trying
to make herself put it back and ending up stuck, sobbing and hyperventilating
and staring at her mother's purse until the knock of her father's assistant on
the door had snapped her out of it enough to get back under control. 
"A while ago," Brooke shrugs, shakes her head, feels embarrassment start hot in
the base of her spine and spread sharp and scalding through her shoulders.
Emma's lips press together, the ridiculously unfair cranberry pink her mouth
has always naturally had, and her eyebrows knit. "I'm good," Brooke assures
her, hears the shake of her own breath as she inhales. Emma definitelydoesn't
believe her - but she's just tired, now; tired in her bones, exhaustion like a
weight on her back. "Can we just sleep?" She asks, and Emma looks at her for a
second, like she wants to argue, before her mouth cuts into a soft sort of
smile and she nods.
"Of course," she agrees, pressing up from the floor, and Brooke stands, intent
on going backto the bathroom to wash her face again.
She feels better, when she gets back. She's still tired, and embarrassed, but
she's less heavy - it feels like there's less pressure from the inside-out,
pushing into the confines of her ribcage. She hadn't even realized it was there
until it wasn't anymore, and she's grateful when Emma tugs back the covers to
make room for her, crawling in next to her.
"Are you okay if I keep the light on to read for a while?" Emma asks, genuine
and half-smiling and holding up her over-worn copy of Twilight, which Brooke
knows she'd never admit to reading in public, ever, but is also her comfort-
book. She'd reread the series in like, a day and a half when she and Will had
broken up the first time.
The lamplight is soft behind Emma, and Brooke feels warmth flood into her
torso, from her chest to her stomach. She's always been a little envious of the
other girl - she's gorgeous without any makeup on, hair in a ponytail for
sleep. Brooke rarely leaves the house without at least one layer; eyeliner and
mascara if nothing else - but Emma's beautiful even stressed out beyond belief,
and exhausted, and sad.
"Yeah," Brooke agrees, nodding, and Emma smiles at her, and Brooke drops to
burrow, pulling the covers up to her shoulders and fitting herself with her
forehead pressed against the girl and the pillow against the top of her head.
Emma laughs, and fingers drift against Brooke's ear, tucking her hair back. 
"I forgot you were such a cuddle monster," she gives, and Brooke huffs a breath
of indignant laughter, poking Emma in the side. 
"Shutup. I'm small. I don't produce a lot of my own body heat, it's a survival
technique,"
"Uh-huh," Emma hums, and Brooke can hear the disbelieving smile in it, grins
herself. The poke turns into a trace, and it's easy, normal, for Emma's fingers
to be drifting through her hair and Brooke to be aimlessly drawing lines into
the soft-blue of Emma's tshirt, against her ribcage.
It's more comforting than anything she's ever had with Seth.
"You know I love you, right?" Brooke offers eventually, softly, pulling her
fingers back to rest her knuckles a little lower against Emma's side, on bare
skin, where her shirt's rucked up from her hip.
"I love you too, Brooke."
Brooke nods, drifting her knuckles over the freckle on the jut of Emma's
hipbone and thinking.
It's not the first time the thought's ever occurred to her - definitely not;
she'd thought about it when the video of Audrey came out, and even before that,
because, seriously, look at her, Brooke's always known she was definitely not-
straight - and she knew she and Emma were friends. And then they'd stopped
being friends, suddenly and harshly and Emma had became their friend and -
well, Brooke's wondered about it before. She knows Will was Emma's 'first time'
- but she's never asked for the clarification of 'with a boy?' and Emma's never
offered it. 
But - but. Well, she's already embarrassed herself once, tonight, and the
anxiety that had been sitting high and strung in her back is gone, now, soothed
away by the repetition of Emma's fingers in her hair, against her cheek, over
her jaw, drawing idle lines with the occasional, rhythmic turn of her page.
It's just a question. It's a couple questions - but Audrey's their friend, now,
and it couldn't hurt to ask. Or, it probably couldn't hurt anymore.
"I want to ask you something, and it's going to be a weird question," Brooke
starts, shifting to press her hand into the mattress and press herself up, and
Emma smiles at her, brown eyes clouding fond confusion.
"That's ominous,"
"It's not bad, I promise," Brooke says, and Emma arches an eyebrow, but dog-
ears her page and sets her book on the end table. "Were you and Audrey ever,
like, a thing?"
Emma's eyebrows hit her hairline, mouth falling open a little in surprise, and
Brooke, well - it's not really the first time she's thought about this, either.
She's always thought Emma was gorgeous, and then after Audrey's video had come
out - and Brooke had watched it again, and then again, and then again - she'd
developed kind of a hyper-fixation on Emma's mouth, because she's always got
the best curves to her smiles, even her frowns - and her lips look really soft,
and -
"I think, maybe, she had a crush on me for a while, or something like that. But
she never did anything about it," Emma gives, a half-sure sort of tone to her
voice; almost apprehensive. Brooke wonders if Emma's thought about it before,
and looks up from her mouth to meet her eyes, pressing her tongue between her
lips as she takes a breath.
Brooke's not sure where this is coming from. Twenty minutes ago, she was
sobbing - but Emma had been there, voice low and sweet and counting with her,
counting her through it; knowing exactly how, because she'd done it before.
Because she'd been there before.
She's always been there for Brooke.
"What would have done if she had?" Brooke asks, and her eyes are drawn to the
movement of Emma's fingers curling in the covers over her lap, clenching in the
flower-print of the duvet. 
She follows the line of the other girl's arm, up to the loose short-sleeve of
her shirt, to the vneck of it - Emma's a little bit tanner than Brooke, and
she's got a few freckles there, too, flickered over her breastbone and neck.
"I don't know," Emma breathes when Brooke meets her eyes again, and there's a
shallowness, like she doesn't have enough air behind it.
Brooke's had less control, lately. Over everything; over everyone, over
herself. She's been in limbo - no action, just reaction. But this - she has
control over, and she takes a breath as she flicks her eyes back to Emma's
lips, still half-parted.
"What would you do if I did?" She asks, voice hoarser than Emma's, just as
breathless. 
"Brooke..." Emma starts, corner of her mouth turning in an apprehensive,
confused sort of smile, and Brooke looks back up at her, arches an eyebrow. 
"Mm?" She prompts, but Emma just stares at her, so Brooke brings her hand up
from where it's been resting against the mattress, against Emma's side, to
touch her fingers to Emma's neck. Emma inhales, sharp, and Brooke slides her
hand farther, so her fingers are against the back of the girl's neck and the
line of her thumb is pressed under Emma's jaw.
She leans in, so their noses touch, close enough for her to smell the bright-
clean of Emma's facewash. She hovers there, brushes her thumb against the
corner of Emma's jaw and feels it when she exhales, then breathes in again, the
shallow-stuttering of Brooke's questions replaced by long and slow.
And Brooke - Brooke's been thinking about this for a while, okay? So she has to
do it right, and she keeps her eyes open, watches when Emma's flutter closed. 
Then, Emma's kissing her.
Which isn't - it isn't quite what Brooke was expecting; she thought she was
going to kiss Emma - but Emma's pressing forward; both her hands are on Brooke,
fingertips spanned to her spine and lines of her thumbs up along Brooke's
ribcage and she's pulling Brooke to her, and she's kissing her, and it's
different.
Brooke's kissed girls before. Nina was big on making out with other girls to
get boys' attention and she and Riley had been locked in a closet with a bottle
of peach flavoured schnapps during a freshman game of seven minutes in heaven,
once, but this is different from that, too. Nina had always been putting on a
show - she hadn't really been there with Brooke, her brain had been on the
people watching them, focused more on making it look good than making Brooke
feel good. And with Riley, they'd both been drunk and giggling and silly and
yeah, sure, Brooke had brushed her hand under Riley's skirt just for the sake
of doing it and Riley had jerked and made a noise, just a quiet one, and that
had been satisfying and hot and good - but it still hadn't been like this. 
Because Emma's not drunk. And Emma's not putting on a show, not posturing for
the sake of anyone who might see. Emma's kissing Brooke for the sake of Brooke,
moving her lips in slow repetition, catching Brooke's between breaths, light
but present and there, and Brooke was right - her mouth is ridiculously,
stupidly soft. 
She adjusts, and her tongue presses against Brooke's, and it feels good, and
Brooke responds by dragging her teeth against Emma's lower lip. 
Emma whimpers.
Honest-to-God fucking whines - a pitch of a thing in the back of her throat,
and the slow of the back-and-forth shatters.
Brooke runs her hand up into Emma's hair, pulling, and she whines again, and
Brooke moves forward on the bed as Emma's hands drop from her ribs to her
hips. 
It's both familiar and completely alien - the positioning is the same, but
Emma's hands are smaller than any boys', and where Brooke's tanktop has pulled
up she can feel the soft of the girl's palm in contrast to the callousing she's
used to. She likesit, and Emma's not pulling the way men have before - not
trying to direct her anywhere, just holding, and her thumbs dig good into
Brooke's hipbones when she bites her again.
Brooke moves, tugs Emma's hair again, harder, forcing her head back so she can
press her lips to the column of the girl's throat as she throws a leg over
Emma's hips.
"Oh, god," Emma mutters when Brooke reaches the junction of her shoulder, so
she stops there, presses her lips light and repetitive into the spot and runs
her hands the length of Emma's arms, fingertips light against her skin. Brooke
feels goosebumps rise under her touch as she lifts her head back up. She stops,
when Emma's mouth meets her ear, and the stuttering of the girl's breath
becomes loud and all consuming just before her teeth tug at Brooke's earlobe.
Brooke stops.
Emma stops, too, and her grip on Brooke's hips loosens to a hover. "Are you -
I'm sorry, are you okay?" She asks, airy and panicky and still right against
Brooke's ear, and all Brooke can do is nod because she can't remember how to
breathe.
Emma pulls back, and Brooke can't move, is straddling Emma with her hands
clutching at the girl's shoulders and the quiet, high-pitched catching of the
girl's breathing on Hi-Def fucking replay pounding through her head. 
Brooke doesn't think she's ever been turned on in this entire life, and she
doesn't know how to communicate that she'd frozen because she'd been about to
shamelessly, completely, grind against the other girl. Hard.
"Brooke?" Emma prompts, quiet and small, and Brooke takes a slow breath through
her nose, managing to quirk her mouth into a smile.
"I'm - fine," she gives, straightens out to meet the girl's eyes, even though
she can't force her body to relax yet. "I just - you're just -" she breaks off
again, and Emma looks so worried, and Brooke shakes her head. "You sound really
good, God, and I didn't want to like, move too fast and freak you out," and her
entire body's still locked up, tension sharp through her spine and practically
painful in her hips, and Emma's looking at her, confused, and concerned, and
then she's looking at allof her, at the way Brooke's holding herself up, away
from actually resting against her.
Her hand moves from Brooke's hip; slides lower, thumb drifting into the inner
line of Brooke's thigh. Brooke wants to close her eyes, but Emma's looking at
her - her eyebrows are knit together, just a little bit, and her teeth are in
her lower lip, and she's curious, and Brooke doesn't want to look away.
Emma's hand turns, her thumb brushing light over Brooke's sleep shorts until it
meets with the rest of her hand, and then the base of her palm is pushing up
and hard and Brooke's eyes do close, snapping shut as she responds, grinds back
down against Emma's palm. 
"Oh," she hears, light and almost - polite, somehow, and Brooke wants to laugh,
but Emma's hand turns again, so she's pressing up with the flat of her fingers
instead, and she's leaning forward, her free hand coming up to brush Brooke's
hair back again and she's never going to be able to do that platonically ever
fucking again. "Does that feel good?" She asks, lips brushing Brooke's ear, and
her voice is low and liquid and so fucking good - and Brooke hadn't expected
anything like that from Emma Duval; she'd expected blushing and shy and
innocence- but what she's getting is three of the girl's fingertips grinding
circles into her clit and fucking dirty talk.
"Yes," she manages, and it's her turn to whimper, the syllable a high-pitch
with barely any air under it because Brooke can barely get any air in, and
Emma's other hand drops back to her hip and pushes her down. Pulls her forward,
in, then back, like she's trying to get Brooke to ride her hand. "Fuck,"
Emma's kissing her again; and it's just like before - slow and repetitive, the
brush of Emma's mouth against Brooke's top lip, then the bottom; the press of
her tongue electric every time, and Brooke can still barely keep up. She's
following - Emma's pressing up against her, pulling her down, at the same pace
of her mouth, and it's completely overwhelming in absolutely the best way
possible.
But it's not enough.
She whines. She doesn't really know how to express herself, just whines -
grinds a little more erratically against Emma's hand, out of sync, and Emma's
mouth is smiling on hers. 
"You okay?" She asks, and it's genuine, mostly, but there's also kind of a
taunt, and fuck it, Brooke likes the smugness. Even if it's not at all what she
was expecting - it's hot. She likes the confidence. She wants Emma to be
confident, even if at the moment Brooke can't get her own brain to fire enough
neurons to achieve any sort of mental capacity besides fuck me. 
"More," Brooke says, eyes still screwed shut. She's still moving her hips, even
though Emma's not holding any sort of rhythm anymore - still pressed against
her, but without the up and down of the pressure, and it feels desperate in a
good way. Brooke knows Emma's looking at her, watching, and she likes it -
always has; likes attention, likes feeling hot, desirable. Suddenly, she
really, really wants Emma to watch her come - but she's not going to get there
from just this, and drags her fingertips up and down the back of Emma's neck,
her other hand holding tight to the girl's shoulder. "I need -" she breaks off,
shakes her head and presses her tongue between her lips. It's a request she's
made before, without embarrassment, but this is different; Emma is different.
Emma isn't some guy just waiting for the go ahead to get to use their dick -
she's, listening, she's watching; she's Emma, she's probably taking notes.
"What do you need?" She prompts, and Brooke's brow knits, screwing her eyes
shut tighter as the request ricochets, unvoiced, around the back of her brain.
"I want you - inside me," she manages, finally, and opens her eyes, and there's
the blush she was looking for earlier.
The burst of pink is bright on the Emma's cheeks, and Brooke can see that
there's colour rising across her chest, too.
Brooke's hips are still moving. It's not really an active thing - she's just,
rocking, because it feels good, and Emma's legs are up, so her thighs are
against Brooke's back and she feels it when the other tenses up, when she
presses her legs together, when her body jerks into Brooke.
"Are you turned on?" Brooke asks - which, yeah, duh, she knows the answer, but
she wants to hear Emma say it.
Brooke can play dirty, too.
"Is that a real question?" Emma shoots back, and her hand is completely locked
against Brooke - she hasn't done anything to make good on Brooke's request, but
she's not really that perturbed about it. She'll get what she wants - but she
wants to play with this, for a minute.
"Emma," Brooke starts, hands against the girl's shoulders as she pushes her
back against the headboard, then leans in. "Do. I. Turn. You. On?" She asks,
quiet, pointed, moving one hand to hold Emma's wrist and move her hand lower,
until the tips of her fingers are pressed against Brooke's cunt through her
shorts.
Just her shorts.
Sleeping without underwear is always the right call, and Emma's eyes blow a
little wider as Brooke leads her fingers in a small circle - because it feels
fucking good, damnit, and Brooke wants it, can't stop thinking about the
pressure and the burn and the good she associates with someone fucking into
her, but obsessed around the image of Emma's fingers. 
"You're really wet," Emma says instead of anything else, and Brooke almost
laughs at her, at the surprise of the words, except it's also hot, and she
drops forwards a little bit as Emma takes over, presses her fingers up harder
against Brooke. She drops her head, temple resting against Emma's cheek. "Yes,
Brooke. You turn me on," she adds, voice back to the edge of control she'd had
before, and a hand comes up to Brooke's throat, thumb pressing against her chin
to tilt her head up. "Keep your eyes open."
The pressure disappears for a moment, and then knuckles are brushing against
the inside of her thigh and Brooke adjusts, lifts herself up enough for Emma to
get her hand between them, into the loose leg of Brooke's shorts. She keeps her
eyes on Emma's, breathing hard as she watches the caramel-brown watching her,
and then it's direct - Emma's fingers are on her, against her, and then - 
It's sharp, high-pitched - it's practically a fucking sob when Emma presses
into her, almost sudden, and Brooke's whole body seizes up for a second and
then she's pushing down against Emma again, and - and they're still looking at
each other.
"Jesus, Brooke," Emma gives, eyes never leaving Brooke's, not until she presses
up to kiss her again, fingers curling inside her like she's done this before.
And Brooke's keening, again - the whine of the sound buried against Emma's
mouth. Emma's hand jerks, up, palm against Brooke's clit again, and Brooke's
hips stutter and she absolutely fucking moans.
Emma's free hand comes up to curve around Brooke's neck, fingers curled in her
hair as she pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together, and Brooke
whimpers again when she feels Emma move her fingers, out, out, and then back
in. "Brooke," she says, quiet and short, and does it again, and Brooke is
whining, and then Emma's stopping, and that just makes her want to whine more.
"You have to be quiet. Can you be quiet for me?" She asks, and Brooke keeps her
eyes closed because she's pretty sure she'll die if she looks at Emma right
now, the warmth of for me? bleeding through her like a knife, overwhelmed by
the absurd gentleness of her voice, the coaxing of the request. 
Brooke nods, and Emma's lips press against her cheek when she stutters her hand
again, up and in and against, and Brooke digs her teeth into her bottom lip and
she still whimpers, but it's muffled, and she feels Emma's lips catch a smile.
"Good." 
Emma's hand moves from the back of her neck to Brooke's hip again, then up,
Brooke's shirt catching around her wrist as she goes higher, and higher, and
brushes her thumb over Brooke's nipple and Brooke's never wearing underwear to
bed again.
Her other hand picks up pace - the back and forth pressure against her clit,
then inside her, overwhelming and all-consuming except for the part of her
brain that's feeling Emma's lips press against the junction of her shoulder,
light, repetitive, then up, to Brooke's jaw, to her ear. And her breathing is
all rushed again; and then Emma whines - like, like it's just a reaction to
Brooke, just to fuckingBrooke, because Brooke can't reciprocate a damned thing
like this, and the hand under her shirt is oddly clumsy in comparison to the
hand between Brooke's legs, the brush of her fingers against Brooke's skin
seemingly without aim until she's catching her nipple and pinchingand there's
nails and all Brooke wants to do is tell Emma how good she is, how good she
feels, how fucking hot this is, but she's still got her teeth dug into her lip
and for me? bouncing around in the back of her brain and all she can do is
whimper, and she thinks she sounds almost pathetic, but Emma's grip against her
ribcage tightens.
"You're so fucking hot," Emma breathes, hoarse, and Brooke doesn't think she's
ever heard Emma swear before and if she had any self awareness she'd be afraid
her nails were going to break the skin at the back of Emma's neck, leave half-
moon crescents as proof to how completely fucking destroyed Emma has her. She
feels Emma lean back, away from her, thumb running little circles into her
ribcage and fingers fucking pumping and palm pressing against her over and over
and over again and Brooke manages to get her eyes open, because she wants to
see, and Emma's looking at her with absolute, rapt attention - eyes drifting
from between Brooke's legs, the thrusting of her own hand, and then up, over
Brooke's torso, bare, to her other hand, and Brooke watches Emma watch as she
pulls her shirt up a little higher, over her breast - total exposure, and she
her tongue presses between her lips and Brooke's not even moving her hips in
any sort of real rhythm, anymore, it's just jerking and desperate, because she
just needs a little more - "God, Brooke," Emma says, eyes on hers, and that's
it.
Brooke barely manages to get her hand clamped over her mouth before she's
practically fucking crying, sounds sharp and high in her chest and the back of
her throat. She falls forwards, forehead against Emma's shoulder, as she fucks
down against her hand - a complete loss of control, again, her other hand
clutching at Emma's neck and -
"Fuck, fuck fuck," she's being quiet, she is - syllables stuttering out in
whispers against the hollow of Emma's throat while her body jerks, hard,
because Emma doesn't stop, keeps thrusting her fingers, palm pressed hard and
constant against Brooke's clit and Brooke absolutely wants to sob, forced into
a second orgasm before she's barely managed the first.
She drops her hand, grabbing at Emma's wrist and tugging to stop her from going
for lucky number three because Brooke's body just, just fucking can't - and
Emma stops moving, but she doesn't pull away, keeps her hand locked and tense
and still against Brooke, who's still shuddering. Her other hand is running up
and down Brooke's spine again - just like before, like she has to be comforted;
which, really, maybe she does, and Emma's lips are light when she tilts her
head to kiss Brooke's cheek, barely more than a brush, still and quiet while
she waits for Brooke's body to calm down. 
Except it can't, not entirely, because Emma's still inside her, and still
pressed against her, and every time Brooke tries to relax her body just jerks. 
"You okay?" Emma asks, and it's definitely taunting, just a little bit, but
it's also genuine, and Brooke takes a breath, nods, even though she's not
entirely sure she is okay. "Can you -" she breaks off, and Brooke lifts her
head up, because it Emma's voice was quiet again, unsure, questioning, and
Emma's lips are pressed hard together when Brooke meets her eyes, whole body
still built in tension because Emma still hasn't moved her hand. "Can you come
again?" She asks, and it's so genuine and almost shyand Brooke thinks she might
pass out. 
"Greedy," Brooke accuses, because she's blushing, and Emma grins at her, eyes
lighting up in a way that shouldn't be cute with their current position - but
is totally, totally adorable.
"Is that a yes?" She asks, and Brooke's initial thought is no - but the
stillness of Emma against her isn't overwhelming, now, just good, and she tries
to let herself relax a little bit more, pressing against Emma's hand and then
grinding, just barely, and she nods. "Okay," Emma's fucking beaming at her, and
Brooke almost rolls her eyes just to deflect her embarrassment, but it's so
incredibly endearing, so instead she just adjusts to rest both her hands
against Emma's shoulders, for leverage.
She closes her eyes, this time, and then rocks against Emma's fingers - and
this is slower. Emma matches her pace, rhythmic and repetitive in the flex of
her hand, catching the rock of Brooke's hips. She leans forwards when Brooke's
breathing picks up, and Brooke moves her hands from Emma's shoulders into her
hair, the ponytail that's barely in place anymore, fingernails dragging against
her scalp while Emma presses her lips over Brooke's collarbone, her throat.
It's small, when she comes; her breath hitches and her hips jerk into Emma and
her fingers are tangled in the girl's hair - and she whimpers, just a little
bit; quiet but there, and Emma's hand is flat along her back, holding her up. 
Brooke winces a little bit when Emma pulls away, the sudden loss half-painful
for a heartbeat until she relaxes and Emma sits back and Brooke's just trying
to catch her breath, completely minding her own damn business, when Emma brings
her fingers up to her mouth. 
It's - it should be vulgar, but it's Emma, who needs to know and understand
everything about everything and Brooke hates it when guys say shit about how
good her pussy tastes, or whatever other kind of adjectives they manage to come
up with, because there's dirty talk and then there's talk that makes her feel
dirty, but she watches Emma press the tips of her fingers into her mouth, can
see the pink of her tongue run against them, and can't breathe.
"Jesus," she exhales, and Emma looks back up at her, almost guilty, like she's
been caught doing something she shouldn't be, and Brooke just tilts her head.
"Well?" 
"You taste good," Emma remarks, definitive, like it's a fact, and god. "Did you
know that?"
Brooke arches an eyebrow at her. "I - guess not," she hesitates, and Emma
manages to look shy in her next movement, bringing her hand up to touch her
fingertips against Brooke's bottom lip, and Brooke - well, Brooke parts her
lips, lets Emma dip her fingers into her mouth, never looking away, and it -
it's hot, it's so hot. Brooke closes her lips around Emma's fingers, drags her
tongue along them, and Emma whimpers again.
"See?" She offers as she pulls her hand away, and Brooke doesn't even care, at
all, that it's still wet when it falls back to its place at Brooke's hip. She
just leans in to Emma and kisses her, hard.
She kisses her like she means it - because she does, because Brooke wants Emma,
she wants more noises, wants to know if Emma blushes higher when she's being
fucked, if she'll still talk dirty when Brooke's tongue is on her clit, and -
and Brooke gets predatory, absolutely. She takes men apart; she sex-wrecks
them, she's good at it. It's a game, and making them groan and pant her name
when they come feels like winning. But she doesn't want to win, here - she
wants to make Emma say her name, but she wants it in a softer way, a protective
way; she wants to make Emma feel good. 
You know I love you, right?  
She wants to kiss her, and touch her, and drag her nails over her skin and dig
her teeth against her hips so she jerks, just a little bit, and wants to kiss
the inside of her legs and run fingertips over her nipples, over the line of
her collarbone, wants to work her up until she's shaking and then she wants to
make her come, hard, because she wants Emma to feel good. 
"How do you taste?" Brooke asks against Emma's mouth, and she feels as much as
hears the breath the other girl takes, short and sharp.
She remembers, suddenly, the video. She remembers the quiet sounds Emma had
made, buried into Will's neck - she remembers the way Emma's hand had tightened
around his bicep and how she'd arched, from the base of her spine. And Brooke
feels guilty - she shouldn't have watched it, but she hadn't been able to stop,
had been caught up in everything Emma - and she desperately wants to reverse,
go back and make herself turn it off but she can't - and Emma deserves better.
She deserves to know, at least, that Brooke's seen it. Even if there's a good
chance that telling her is going to get Brooke kicked out of her bed, maybe her
house, maybe her life.
"I watched the video," she says in a tumble, pulling back and breaking the
moment. For a heartbeat, Emma's eyes are wide and confused, and then it clicks,
and Brooke's falling over herself to explain. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry - I
absolutely shouldn't have, total invasion of privacy, totally not okay, I just
- you're so hot, and it was so hot - but I wish that I hadn't, I wish I'd just
like, gone for the real thing, and -"
"Brooke," Emma's hands fall to Brooke's arms, thumbs pressing into the joints
of her shoulders, cutting her off. "Stop, I'm not mad," and Brooke looks at her
again, instead of over her shoulder at the not-that-interesting embroidery on
Emma's headboard she'd been talking at. "This -" Emma breaks off, tilts her
head, runs her hands down Brooke's arms to catch her wrists. "This has been a
thing for a while, hasn't it?" She asks, and Brooke, uselessly, shrugs.
"Brooke,"
"Since Audrey's video, I guess," she supplies, and Emma looks surprised,
squeezes Brooke's wrists and then runs her hands down farther, to fit their
fingers together. She looks down, at their hands, like she's considering, and
Brooke's trying not to hold her breath but she feels like if she makes too much
noise then the weird lack-of-anger is going to turn into the much more
appropriate definite-anger. 
"Did you - get off to it? Mine?" Emma asks, tone airy, like the question isn't
actually directed at anyone in particular, and Brooke squeezes her hands.
"Yeah," she gives, winces. "Yes - I'm sorry, that's so pervy," she goes on, and
then Emma's looking back up at her, sudden and shaking her head.
"No, hey - I mean, okay, yeah, it's kind of gross to think about random guys at
school jerking off to it, but - Brooke, I don't think it's pervy. You're -
you're my friend, and I know you weren't like, leering at me, or objectifying
me, or anything, you were just..." she trails off, and now Brooke is definitely
holding her breath. "You were curious," Emma gives, and then she's grinning at
her, so Brooke's grinning back. "And that's... kind of really hot, actually,"
she goes on, so Brooke's grinning more, and Emma moves their hands up, to press
Brooke's to her torso, and the heat of her body through her shirt against
Brooke's palms is good, but Brooke starts tugging at her shirt, pulling it up,
because she wants skin.
"Yeah?" She prompts, leaning in a little more, relieved that Emma's not angry
at her - surprised, floored, shocked that she's not, but unwilling to not take
her good fortune and fucking run with it.
"Yeah," Emma confirms, lifts her arms to let Brooke pull her shirt up, and
she's not wearing a bra, and Brooke's already pushed like, every fucking
boundary, so she just stops and looks at her.
She's seen Emma naked before, in glimpses, while getting changed in the same
room, but this is different, and Brooke's lowkey (highkey) obsession centres in
on the fact that Emma's nipples are the exact same pink of her mouth, and, well
- there's not much for her to do about that besides use her mouth.
So she does, leans in to run her tongue against Emma and then bite down -
light, but present, her hand mimicking with her nails on the other side, and
Emma arches, pressing up into Brooke's mouth with her hand at the back of her
head, fingers tangled in her hair, keeping her there. 
So Brooke bites her a little harder. And she jerks, and whimpers, just a little
bit, and then her fingers are drifting to catch Brooke's chin and tilt her head
up.
Emma's pupils are fucking blown, and her gaze is completely unfocused, and
Brooke doesn't think she's ever had such a confusing mix of affection caught up
in desperately wanting to ruin someone. 
"What were you thinking about? When you watched it. Me. When -" she breaks off
a little bit, air shuddering through her throat, "When you were touching
yourself."
And good fucking god. Emma Duval, asking Brooke for her fantasies. Who the hell
would she be not to comply?
"You, grabbing me. Your hands in my hair - your arms around my back. Your legs
around my hips," Brooke ducks in, tilting her head to press light, definitive
kisses the length of Emma's throat. "Your legs over my shoulders," she presses
back up, pressing her lips to the corner of Emma's jaw and then hovering at her
ear, payback. "You saying my name,"
"Brooke," Emma breathes, and Brooke grins.
"Take off your pants." 
She knows it's not entirely fair - Emma's naked and Brooke's still,
technically, fully dressed, but Emma fucked her through three orgasms and her
shorts are like, ruined - so it's even, somehow. Even enough, anyway, because
Brooke's got a goal, and it doesn't involve stopping long enough to take off
her own clothes, preoccupied as she is with pressing her lips everywhere she
can reach over Emma's chest while she gets the last of her layers off.
"Thank you," Brooke offers once they're gone, which should mean something,
because Brooke never says thank you, and then she's pulling away and back to
give Emma enough space for her next request, "Lay down."
And, Brooke is probably skipping a step. She hasn't even actually touched Emma
yet, not with her fingers, which are definitelymore tactile, a better way to
figure out what she's doing - but, Brooke's never been one to back down from a
challenge. And thisis what she's been obsessing about the most.
So, fuck it.
She curls her fingers at the side of Emma's neck, knuckles dragging over the
junction of her shoulder while Brooke presses her lips along the line of the
girl's jaw, digs her teeth against the corner of it. She presses down, holds
Emma flat against the mattress to get her point across - that Brooke is in
control, now, and then spreads her fingers out and back up to curl them around
the back of the girl's neck, tangle them in her hair as she leans in to kiss
her again.
And it's dirty.
She uses her tongue - definitely, definitely less purposefully than Emma had,
less rhythmic, pressing hers against Emma's and then digging her teeth into the
girl's lip, hard, sucking, so either of Emma's hands come up to cup Brooke's
face and she's whimpering, whining into Brooke's mouth.
Her hands move when Brooke pulls away, falling to her shoulders as Brooke
starts to press down her body - purposeful, but not lingering. She's on a
mission, after all, and it'd be one thing if she thought Emma needed more
foreplay, if she hadn't felt the girl pressing up against Brooke while she was
fucking her. 
But she had.
So she presses down, dragging her lips over Emma's torso and her nails right
after, tip of her nose tracing around her belly button and into the jut of her
hipbones. She fits herself between Emma's legs, one hand pressing against the
inside of her thigh so they fall open, and she looks up to find Emma looking at
her - pressed up on her elbows, watching.
So Brooke gives her her best Brooke grin - wide and genuine and faux-innocent,
and Emma laughs, drops back down giggling. 
Brooke flats her tongue against her, dragging up, against Emma's clit, and the
laughing turns into a gasp. She readjusts, just a little bit - fitting her arm
under Emma's leg so she can span her hand against the girl's hip, and then
pulls back a little bit to look at what she's doing, moving her hand in on
Emma's thigh to press her thumb over her clit.
Emma tenses up, and Brooke does it again, catching against the top this time to
pull up, just a little bit, forcing exposure so she can get tongue in the right
spot when she presses in again. Emma jerks, and her fingers curl around the
wrist of Brooke's hand at her hip, nails digging into the base of Brooke's
palm.
Brooke keeps her thumb where it is and tilts her head down, tip of her nose
brushing against Emma's clit as she ducks her head in to press her tongue
against her, inside her. She can't get - far, but she can get enough, rocking
forwards with the movement and earning more tension in Emma's thighs.
She stays there, for a little bit - does it again, and again, and again -
purposefully too light, trying to see if she can get Emma to ask for more, over
and over until the girl is full body shaking every time Brooke's tongue runs
against her. She's got a vice grip on Brooke's wrist - there's definitely going
to be marks, and Brooke wants them, wants the tiny, whimpering noises Emma
keeps making, and practically moans when the girl's other hand fits itself into
Brooke's hair, tangling and tugging.
"Harder," she asks - not an order, but desperate, almost begging. "More,
please, please."
Well, Brooke's not going to say no to her.
She shifts, lifts her head to flick her tongue against Emma's clit, more direct
than anything her hand's been doing. She moves her fingers down in exchange,
following up the sharp pressure with the flat of her tongue, hard as she
presses her thumb into the girl, just a little bit. Emma's whole body tenses
up, and Brooke digs her nails into Emma's thigh, where the rest of her hand is
spanned, flicking her tongue again.
She jerks her thumb, up, pulls out and presses in again - it's not deep,
obviously, but Emma's body is clutching at the friction, and Brooke speeds up
with her tongue, up and down and over and over and over again. 
Brooke doesn't remember the last time she was this incredibly focused on
anything - absolutely everything is Emma; the way she tastes, the soft give of
her skin under Brooke's nails, the barely-suppressed twitching of her hip in
Brooke's hand, the death-grip on Brooke's wrist, her fingers in Brooke's hair,
the tiny, sharp noises she's making - and Brooke looks up, watching the way the
other's body arches, curving at her ribcage. 
She's so caught up in it that she almost doesn't notice when it changes - when
the jerking in Emma's hips stutters into longer beats of tension, then release,
when her grip in Brooke's hair changes from holding on to pulling Brooke
against her, and her clit is different against Brooke's mouth, more definitive,
she's - she's fucking hard.
It's probably the sexiest fucking thing Brooke's ever experienced. 
Or, so she thinks, until the whimpering turns into syllables, and it takes
Brooke a second to hear it properly, a mantra, whispered and whined and broken.
"Yes, yes, ye - fuck, yes, Brooke," 
Everything tenses up; everything except the most minute movement of Emma's
hips, she's silent, she's basically holding her breath, Brooke thinks,
determinedly not stopping, continuing in the flick of her tongue over Emma, and
then she's wet. Wetter. It's not a lot - but it's enough for Brooke to notice,
over her hand, against her mouth, her chin, and it's hot, and then Emma's hips
are breaking into movement again and she's making more noises and Brooke wants
more, keeps going, but Emma's hand moves from her hair to pull at her jaw,
fingertips slicking against her skin because Jesus, Emma just cameon her.
"Stop, stop, I can't - Brooke," Emma breaks into an almost laugh, even though
she's scolding, and Brooke honest-to-god grumbles, lets Emma tilt her head away
and moves her hand to span it against the inside of Emma's knee.
"Fine," she mutters, and Emma laughs again, all breathless and from her chest.
"Completely unfair, though," Brooke dictates, and then Emma's pushing up on her
elbows to look down at Brooke, and she's panting, and Brooke meets her eyes and
raises an eyebrow at her as she brings her hand up from Emma's leg to wipe the
back of it across her mouth.
Emma turns red.
"I'm sorry - I don't always... I can't control it, I should have warned you,"
she manages, the words all rushed and rolling into each other because she can't
get the breath support for them. Brooke just shakes her head.
"Don't apologize," she says, presses her lips to Emma's thigh and then her hip
and then moves back up her body, hands pressed to the mattress on either side
of the girl. "That was - way better than anything my imagination could have
come up with. Don't apologize," she insists, and Emma's blushing harder, and
closing her eyes, and pressing her hands over her face, which is ridiculous, so
Brooke pulls at her wrists and kisses her. "Stop that," she mutters against
Emma's mouth, tucking her hand to the curve of the girl's jaw. It's soft, and
light, and Brooke presses chaste kisses over-and-over-and-over until Emma's
laughing again, giggling under her.
"Okay, okay," she gives finally, hands coming up to the back of Brooke's head
to hold her in place as Emma kisses her, properly, slow, and then releases her
and drops back to the bed. 
"So..." Brooke starts, dancing her fingers over Emma's abdomen. "Again?" She
asks, tilts her head, and Emma just laughs more, exasperation poignant in the
fond roll of her eyes. "Hey. You did me three times. You played a hat trick
with my clit," Brooke tells her, so Emma's laughing harder, and Brooke takes
the opportunity for Emma not to respond to press her lips against the girl's
collarbone, then up, to the spot that had had her breathless before, digging
her teeth into the other's skin. Her laughter turns again, to a sigh of a
sound, and her fingers tangle in Brooke's hair at the back of her head. "I want
to finger you," Brooke offers, turning her head so her mouth is against Emma's
ear, and Emma's exhale is a hop-start of a thing, shorting out like the burst
of a lightbulb.
She doesn't say anything; she nods, one hand staying in Brooke's hair while the
other finds Brooke's hand against her stomach and presses it down.
She's still wet, obviously, and with Emma's fingertips against the back of her
hand Brooke presses two fingers into her with next to no resistance, earning a
gasp, and adding a third on the next press, so Emma's grip moves to grab at
Brooke's shoulder, tight.
Brooke readjusts so her weight is on her knees and she can get her other hand
between them, pressing two fingers against Emma's clit. She whines in Brooke's
ear, and Brooke knows she should say something about being quiet, but Emma's
turning her head before she can, kissing her so the sounds are trapped against
Brooke's mouth.
Brooke keeps her fingers a constant against Emma's clit; hard pressure, and
thrusts slow inside her - fingertips pressed up inside her, against her, every
time she pulls out, Emma's body mimicking the movements in arches that come
from between her shoulder blades and down, turning her hips out against
Brooke's hands.
Emma stops kissing her, turns her head to hide against Brooke's shoulder, and
Brooke has a moment where the image of Emma doing the exact same thing with
Will is all she can think about, and it's an odd rush of triumph and such a
turn-on Brooke's pretty sure she'd orgasm, spontaneously, if Emma just asked
her nicely to.
"Fuck," Brooke mutters, where her head's fallen to Emma's collarbone, watching
the movement of her hands - and she can't see exactly what she's doing, but she
can see Emma's hips moving to meet her, and closes her eyes for the sake of
focus. 
So, she doesn't see it coming when Emma's hand meets her abdomen, when she
pulls at the elastic of Brooke's shorts and is moving to catch Brooke's clit
between two fingers, the third dragging over it - and Brooke's caught off
guard, isn't ready for the sudden way her body responds, a jerk, and thrusts
her fingers deeper, hard, without warning.
Emma is loud.
It's just for a half-second, until she catches herself - but she fucking cries
out, and Brooke's convinced she's hurt her, starts to pull away, but Emma
catches her wrist and holds her there with her free hand, her other hand still
running maddening little circles against Brooke's clit and it's overwhelming
and Brooke has no idea what's going on. 
"Are you okay?" She manages, absolutelypanicked, and Emma doesn't even open her
eyes, which is not reassuring - just, just nods, teeth dug into her lip like if
she lets go she'll scream, or something. "Emma, seriously, are you okay?" But
she has to be, because she's still moving her fingers against Brooke, and like
- seriously, Brooke's trying to concentrate, and that's making it really hard,
and Emma's just nodding again.
"Do that again," she says, finally, and the words are strained like she can
barely manage them, "Deeper," she adds, and oh.
Brooke lets her forehead drop back to Emma's collarbone, adjusts again, to
spread her legs a little bit more, give the other better access - because,
like, she's focused, she's doing something, she's concentrating, but what
Emma's doing feels really, really good and she doesn't want it to stop - and
brings her hand away from Emma's clit to press against Emma's thigh, push her
leg back - runs her hand down to Emma's knee to direct her, so her leg goes
around Brooke's waist. 
And then Brooke thrusts, and Emma cries out against her, her fingers slipping
against Brooke's clit. 
She picks up the pace, just a little bit - stops pulling out as far, but
curling her fingers when she does, pressing the tips of them up and dragging -
and every time she does Emma's entire body seizes up completely. Which is
distracting, actually, because that includes the fingers against Brooke, which
press up hard and Brooke's never had to focus on not getting off before.
Emma arches when she comes, knees digging into Brooke's ribcage and ankles
locked against the small of her back and forcing her even fucking deeper, her
hand digging hard into Brooke's shoulder, and Brooke can't not anymore, her
weight balanced between her knees and against Emma's collarbone, she grabs at
the girl's hand with her free one and presses her into place, holds her there
and rocksinto it. 
She's loud. She's - she's definitely loud, and then they're both just there,
trying to breathe.
"Oh my god," Brooke manages finally, feels a sympathy pang at the quiet noise
Emma makes when Brooke pulls out of her and readjusts her weight again, elbows
against the mattress on Emma's either side.
"Yeah," is the agreement, and when Brooke looks up Emma's eyes are still closed
and she's getting aftershocks, lips pressing together every time she jerks.
Brooke busies herself with pressing her lips against every place she can reach
- Emma's bicep, her shoulder, her collarbone, her neck, her jaw - and finally
the girl turns her head to kiss her, slow and absolutely fucking filthy.
Like - tongue, all tongue, and she's still jerking a little bit and she whines
when she does, almost like it hurts but not quite, and her hand is light around
Brooke's throat, holding her with her thumb pressed along one side of her jaw
and her fingertips along the other.
Brooke's still feeling it too - not as much, she doesn't think, but it's kind
of like an ache, the bleed of hot along her abdomen. She feels fuzzy at the
edges, and warm, and she grins against Emma's mouth before she pulls back.
"Hey," she gives, and Emma's pupils are still huge, lips wet and pinker than
before, cheeks red, hair a total disaster against the pillow. Brooke's pleased
with herself - it's a satisfyingly ruined look, and the sleepy way Emma smiles
at her makes her feel even warmer. 
"Hey," Emma gives back, voice cracking on the syllable, and Brooke just beams
when Emma laughs at herself.
"So - d'you think I woke up your mom?" She asks, not that it's her goddamn
fault if she did, and Emma laughs again.
"No. She's a really heavy sleeper," she says, and Brooke pulls back, mouth
falling open in faux-offense. 
"What was that be quiet stuff about?" She asks, and Emma gets that guilty smile
again, shrugging one shoulder and looking away from Brooke's eyes to follow her
own fingers where they brush along Brooke's temple.
"I wanted to see if you could be quiet for me," she bites her lip, watches the
trail of her fingers over the shell of Brooke's jaw. "It was... hot," she
gives, like it's an explanation - which, whatever, Brooke supposes that it is.
But still. 
"Emma Duval, secret dom," she teases, and Emma's eyes flick to hers, a little
wide until she realizes Brooke's joking, and then she's smirking, and pressing
up to kiss her again.
"Maybe next time we'll see how loud you can be for me," She offers once she
breaks the kiss, her hand at the back of Brooke's neck, their foreheads
together, and Brooke inhales.
"Next time?"
Emma's sleep shuffle is still playing, some instrumental version of a top
forties song Brooke can't quite put her finger on, and Emma smiles, kisses her
again.
"You're really pretty when you come," she says, quiet, casual, like
it's nothing, like the breath Brooke's trying to take doesn't short out in the
hollow of her throat. "You're really pretty - always, but..." Emma trails off,
runs her hand down Brooke's arm, fingers drifting idle over her skin. "You're
going to be staying here for a while, anyway, so - next time," she summarizes,
and Brooke exhales a shaky sort of laugh, humming and giving a nod.
"Next time," she repeats, agreeing, and Emma smiles again, so Brooke has no
option other than to kiss it from her mouth.
End Notes
     http://greenlig-t.tumblr.com/ welcome to hell
     as always; feedback welcome + appreciated. Xx
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