At the end of the day, strap-ons were fundamentally confusing.
Waverly clawed her hands into the bedsheets below her, and wondered why so many of her revelations came so late into a project.
Penises, now. Penises were something she could definitely understand. Penises were not very complicated. Sometimes they made her arch and gasp. Sometimes all they did was churn with sound and fury, achieving very little beyond their own satisfaction. The differences between those two Waverly-based states didn’t seem to matter much to the penises themselves.
She hadn’t mourned their loss, when she first kissed Nicole. And as recently as this morning, Waverly hadn’t expected to meet any more penises in her lifetime. Which was maybe a proof of that old trope about never saying never, because illusions of pennilessness had been waylaid by the hot pink item Nicole had presented unto her.
Waverly had squeezed the bulbous head, which made Nicole snort then wink, which made Waverly nod her head.
Above her, Nicole pressed her forehead in the curve of Waverly’s shoulder. Head drooping down from her press up position, with her hair sheeting over her face. One bent knee pushed under Waverly’s own leg, one foot divoting the sheet deep into the mattress. Seeking leverage with the skill and familiarly that matched most natural penis owners.
And Waverly should know. She’d met a few of them. But not too many, she amended quickly. Not a slutty many. Certainly not as many as Wynonna certainly had. Certainly.
Waverly tipped her chin back, and bit her lip. Strap-ons were confusing, because how did this end?
Nicole’s mouth found her pulse point, nipping and sucking.
Real penises never really inspired these kinds of questions. Real penises had a very definitive endgame, and eventually they all gave quarter.
The same could not be said for the new plaything Nicole had pressed into her flesh, eyes dark and sparking. It didn’t have any nerves or veins. The pressure of the flat base probably felt good, but it wasn’t something that would bring Nicole any gasping rapture.
Waverly hooked a leg over Nicole’s hip, pulling them flush. Trying to shift the thrusting towards undulation. Nicole followed her lead, but the drag still burned, and her hips still felt wedged from their sockets. She breathed, trying to relax into what was happening. But she still couldn’t understand what to give Nicole. She couldn’t understand what to give herself.
Nicole pressed back up, and Waverly couldn’t stop the noise that that came out of her throat. The space above her went still, the darkness in Nicole’s eyes draining not like spring melt, but like a flash boil into horror. Exactly like the scientists said happened to your blood on Mercury. Or was it Venus? One of those less hospitable places.
Nicole gaped. Then she twisted away. Waverly curled on her side, and fervently wish for time to just end.
Time didn’t end. Waverly sat on the couch, chin on her knees.
Nicole had coaxed her out of the fetal curl. Putting her in the shower, and handing her borrowed sleeping clothes that were ridiculously, massively too lengthy. Now she sprawled broodingly in a chair that was not at all near the couch.
Her backup plan was to just die, before whatever conversation needed to happen actually happened.
“I hurt you.”
Waverly looked steadily at the ground, because yes, but also that’s just the way it works, sometimes. Couldn’t this just not happen? Why couldn’t she just die, instead?
“Not on purpose.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have stopped.”
Because there were names for girls that did that sort of thing to boys, and Waverly didn’t want to be called those names. Not because the names themselves hurt all that bad. She knew she was neither a slut nor a whore, or even a bitch. It was the fact that they got to judge, and she had to simply accept their judgement.
Because it was far easier to just let whatever was happening, happen. Especially when endgame was an assured, and usually timely cessation.
Because asking someone to stop and not being heeded was…there were names for that, too.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, and willed away the high nasal sting of tears. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Waverly,” Nicole asked quiet, “can I touch you?”
The tears won. Burning hotly when she nodded. Nicole moved quietly over to the couch, wrapping an arm over her bowed back.
“I forget sometimes, that you’re only twenty-one.”
“That’s not at all offensive,” Waverly mumbled into the dark and humid cavity between stomach and legs.
“It’s not,” Nicole agreed mildly. “I see what you do, baby. You’re the center.”
“The center of what?”
“The family,” Nicole said simply. “You’re the thing that hold everyone together. I mean, being the responsible adult in Wynonna’s life, that alone should get you the Nobel Peace Prize. But you hold everyone else, too. You’re the center,” she repeated.
All that, and the effortless diminutive tamped down some of the misery. She looked at Nicole, twisting to rest her temple on her knees.
“Being the center is a hard thing to do. It takes maturity and self-sacrifice, and you do it so easily that I forget there are parts of yourself that you’re still learning about.”
Waverly said nothing, just shuffled a little further under Nicole’s arm.
“The lady,” Nicole said, adjusting her arm, “is going to ask ‘like what?’”
“What? Nicole!” Waverly didn’t particularly like the way her voice screeched up the registers, but fuck if she knew how to bring it back down. “I’m not some blushing virgin.”
“Yeah, but you’ve mostly been with shitheads.” Nicole grinned, her dimples out for show. Calling back a conversation from early days, sitting inside her ugly Crown Vic prowler.
Waverly couldn’t actually count that moment as her finest. Repaying Nicole’s concern by snapping that they weren’t dating. Forging weeks of anger, and fury, and poss-s-sibly a small, small amount of gay panic into a weapon she’d thrust right under Nicole’s psychological short ribs. Worse, the flare of pain on her face, before she’d reasserted the practiced mask of someone who’d learned to know their place in the world.
She was an asshole. A miserable, stupid, shy asshole. With stupid asshole hangups. She put her forehead back on her knees. People didn’t talk about this. She didn’t know how to talk about this.
“Come here,” Nicole murmured, shifting them both until Waverly was sideways between her legs and leaning on her chest. “I’ll never understand how you sit like that, all curled like a potato bug.”
“It’s because I’m not six feet tall,” Waverly protested.
“Neither of us is six feet tall,” Nicole protested back.
“Close enough,” Waverly insisted.
Nicole hummed a little answer, and it vibrated through Waverly’s own chest. She rocked them idly, and Waverly let all her insecurities frolic merrily.
“I thought you liked what, um, what we’ve done together.” It came out small and pathetic. It was the very best she could do.
“Oh, I do. I like what we do very much.” Nicole’s answer was immediate.
“But you said I was bad. At, um, sex.”
“No I didn’t. I said you were inexperienced.”
“That kind of sounds like the same thing.” Waverly worried at her lip, and Nicole heaved a tiny sigh.
“Okay look, Waverly, you and I, we have enough natural chemistry to have good sex. For the most part good sex is just instinct, and lots of people have the instinct. Especially at the beginning of a relationship. All those lust hormones.”
Nicole bumped her pelvis, her crotch really, into Waverly’s hip and waggled her eyebrows. It made Waverly smile, despite everything. But Nicole sobered again.
“Once the lust wears off, people have two paths. They start having bad sex - rote, routine, boring sex. Or they figure out how to have truly mind blowing, spine curling, blue electric sex. That’s what I want with you. I want amazing sex. Exceptional sex.”
Waverly took refuge by watching her own hands play with the bones in Nicole’s wrist.
“I thought maybe that’s what we were doing today, just earlier. At least starting down that route, but I made a mistake, Waverly. A bad mistake. I didn’t make you talk, first. I knew it made you uncomfortable, and I thought I could spare you a little longer. I thought that part could grow more slowly, once you knew what you liked. Instead I hurt you, in a way I never want to hurt someone, and I had no idea I was doing it.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Waverly told her, remorse making a low tone inside the words.
“Mmm,” Nicole agreed, “but it wasn’t not my fault, either. I took the lead. And when you take the lead you also take the responsibility. I knew you were inexperienced.”
Waverly opened her mouth.
“And before you get all riled,” Nicole overrode her, “it’s not just sex, or even sex with women. It’s the whole damn world. You don’t seem to believe you have the right to demand things for yourself. You don’t even seem to think you can ask for things.”
The righteous indignation of it yanked her away from the cradle of Nicole’s chest. “I’m not a child.”
Nicole’s return stare was something she’d only experienced once before. The day she’d ambushed the self-same woman, and been challenged into demanding a kiss. Affection and attraction and goading all mixed together. Utterly different than anything she’d ever experienced before.
It wasn’t that she’d grown up coddled. Far from. The universal experience of abandoned orphans was fear and pain. But for all her hard luck, she’d been lucky. She’d fallen into a life where most people offered her near-unconditional love. They didn’t demand she be anyone, beyond being simply Waverly.
Nicole was different. Because Nicole did two things at once. Pulled her close with one hand, and pushed her forward with the other. She wanted Waverly to be Waverly, and to be something more, too.
“Trust me Waverly Earp, I don’t see you as a child.”
Dear god, if only she was still wearing that scarf. From that first kiss. Well, first make out session. On Nicole’s boss’ couch. Nicole using the fabric to wind her towards a wanton, carnal plunge she hadn’t known herself capable of. And maybe, just perhaps, the foundation for blue electric sex.
“I don’t, um, I don’t really know if I know…what I like. I mean, I understand the mechanics. Of course I do. But I don’t, I don’t know the- I don’t know the words. I mean, I do know the words. I just…” She closed her mouth with a snap, and took new refuge in the pattern on the rug. “No one’s ever actually asked me, before.” She finally mumbled.
“Injured while resisting arrest. Every shithead one of them,” Nicole murmured, almost under her breath.
“Nothing. Waverly, look at me.” Nicole forced the issue with a hand under her chin, pulling her gaze around.
“I’m not asking for some explicit blow-by-blow, where you describe the feeling of licking yourself off my fingers, or begging me to fuck you from behind until one of us squirts.”
Some miniature version of Chernobyl rose slowly inside each of Waverly’s cheeks.
Nicole stopped to admire it, and kissed a handy patch of blazing flesh. “That’s adorable. The point is that the conversation is the point. We get better at sex by talking about sex in the moments we’re not actually having sex. Not just the mechanics, either. I know it sounds cheesy, but there’s another name for blue electric sex. It’s called making love. Because talking like that - about what we’re open to, and what we’re closed to, and what we’ve done, and what we’re going to do, and all the vulnerability that comes from that sort of talking - it really does make something.”
“Love?” Waverly supplied helpfully, and Nicole flicked her finger gently against the end of her nose.
“Shut up. No. Well, yes. But what I’m trying to say is that it makes a bond. A couple. Whatever. A little tribe of two, saying words no one else will ever get to hear, and knowing things no one else will ever get to know. It’s a secret world that belongs only to us.”
She paused, thoughtful, “Or, I guess, nowadays, a little tribe of three, mebbe four.”
“Hold on, Haught. Give me some time to adjust to the homosexual aspect of this, before you introduce the poly, okay?”
It barked a laugh out of Nicole, and Waverly smiled. She was a person who could make Nicole Haught laugh.
Apparently, she was also a person who could make Nicole want to scoop her up, and lay her back on the couch. Which was dandy, until a leg pressed between her own. Waverly jerked at the soreness, and hissed.
Nicole canted her hips back up, until the pressure was gone. Her kiss was soft and sweet, but when she pulled back her eyes were a compulsion.
“Never again, Waverly. You’re never going to let someone just do things to your body, because it’s easier to just wait out whatever they want with it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Waverly assured her. Assured herself. “I won’t.”
“In the meantime, I’ve got a tongue.”
Waverly blushed. Waverly decided blushing was getting pretty old. Waverly started to nod, and smile, and push Nicole’s shoulders down. Then she stopped, and shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“Very formal,” Nicole teased, but she looked happy. Proud. She didn’t look angry, or disappointed. Waverly decided to swim in deeper waters. She pushed Nicole off, and back, until they were reversed.
“I think what you meant to point out is that I’ve got a tongue, too.”
“You do, doncha,” Nicole, murmured. Later, Waverly smiled, and wiped her mouth. Because she was a person who could make Nicole Haught come perfectly undone.