Title: Beating Around the Bush
Pairing: Michaela Pratt/Laurel Castillo
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Just having a little fun.
Summary: Michaela calls her Lauren when they're fighting. (Which wouldn't be too bad if they didn't argue nearly every day.)
It happens way too quickly.
One minute Laurel is packing up her bag after the Keating 5 had been angrily dismissed by Annalise, and the next moment Michaela has her cornered on the railing of Annalise's front porch.
Laurel is wholly unprepared for whatever's coming next and steels herself in case Michaela tries to take another stab at ripping her head off.
But then Michaela just smiles and pretends to pick dust off Laurel's shoulder and says, "Laurel, I just found your purpose in life."
Laurel hugs her books close to her chest, brow furrowed at Michaela's audacity as usual. "You mean, other than existing? Because I'm my own person?"
"Don't be such a stick in the mud." Michaela clasps her hands together. "So. I propose you be my wingman."
Laurel's jaw drops. "I'm sorry, what?"
She's met with a shrug, though Michaela's wide eyes and fidgeting hands belie her attempt at nonchalance. "My wingman—or woman. Whichever, you prefer to be called. Just—go out with me sometimes. My gaydar is so off, and now apparently my creep-dar, since I managed to bag Levi, and I—" She inhales a deep breath, attempting to gather her frayed edges. "I just…don't really trust myself, or hell—anyone—right now."
The buddy system.
It's a concept Laurel had learned in school. To always travel in pairs. She had grown up using the buddy system quite a lot, especially in new and unfamiliar situations. Hell, it was the buddy system that caused her to now be an accessory to murder if everyone's shared secret ever comes to light.
She knows the buddy system well.
But Michaela doesn't seem the type to need a buddy. She seems independent, no, repulsed by even the concept of a buddy or a pal or a friend on a general basis.
But she's asking.
No, demanding. That's more Michaela's style. She demands that which she most needs.
It's why Laurel knows this is important to her.
And Laurel isn't the vindictive type. So when she smiles in acquiescence and Michaela wraps her in a quick hug, she hopes for the best.
The first time doesn't go so well. Which isn't completely Laurel's fault because by the time Michaela's ready to go on the prowl, they're completely shitfaced.
Laurel bends over in peals of laughter, Michaela laughing against her back. "What the hell was that?" Michaela asks. She stands and tugs Laurel up with her.
"I don't know, the robot?" They stare at each other in silence again then burst out laughing.
"Never do that again," Michaela instructs. She sobers for a moment as she stares at Laurel. "Thanks for coming tonight. It's been…I don't know—fun." She hesitates awkwardly then pulls Laurel into a stiff, almost painful hug.
That's when Michaela sees him, over Laurel's shoulder.
She gasps and whispers, "Laurel, I just spotted the hottest guy."
Laurel's eyes bounce around her skull as she tries to scope him out. "Where?"
Michaela hugs Laurel tighter and says, "Switch positions with me."
Laurel has to bite her lip to stifle a childish giggle. She nods. They shuffle feet until their positions change and Laurel sees him. Her eyes are hard. "He's…okay."
Michaela's eyes narrow. "What? He's incredibly good-looking."
"Check," Laurel concedes. Her arms tire from their embrace and she lowers them from Michaela's waist to rest on her hips.
"His suit clearly suggests he has expensive taste."
Michaela bites her lip and tightens her arms around Laurel's neck. "He isn't gay?"
Laurel stares at the man and unravels Michaela's arms from around her neck. "Only one way to find out, right?"
Michaela's eyes brighten. "Yes! You go over and introduce yourself. Gather some intel."
Laurel quickly shakes her head. "No, that's not what I had in mind."
"You agreed to be my wingwoman, Laurel, and part of fulfilling your duties is to gather intel on a potential suitor."
Michaela spins Laurel around and gives her a slap on the ass. "Go!"
Laurel yelps a little and prays her blush is gone by the time she reaches Michaela's new love interest.
She taps him on the shoulder and extends her hand with a friendly hello before chatting him up about Michaela. This is what Laurel understands to be a wingwoman.
So when he asks, "Why's she single?" and Laurel jokes, "Because she can't stop sleeping with gay guys," she doesn't understand why Michaela's suddenly so mortified.
"I'm sorry," Laurel promises for the hundredth time. "It was just a lame joke. Please don't be mad."
Michaela nearly breaks her neck from how hard she cuts her eyes at Laurel. She flinches when Laurel takes her hands. "How can I make it up to you?"
Michaela looks around the bar for anything she could possibly want then tells Laurel, "Pay for my drinks, Lauren."
Michaela calls her Lauren when they're fighting. (Which wouldn't be too bad if they didn't argue nearly every day.)
Laurel rolls over to a text message the next morning that dictates: I know how you can make it up to me, Lauren.
Laurel stares blearily at the bright screen of her phone. Lauren.
Her head plops back onto her pillow.
Bane of her existence, thorn in her side—Laurel sighs. She had assumed all was forgiven last night when she had allowed Michaela to run up her tab with shot after shot until the wee hours of the morning. Laurel hadn't batted an eye at the charge, and silently handed the bartender her card at closing. Michaela, who was barely standing, had simply blinked at her and said, "Wait, are-are you loaded?"
Laurel had snatched the receipt and led Michaela outside to where their cab had been waiting. "My parents are," she had muttered under her breath.
Michaela had nodded then insisted she pay for the taxi because it was only fair, even though Laurel had been a bad wingwoman for the night.
She considered everything to be copacetic between them when she had stumbled into bed at four this morning, only to wake up at noon and discover that to not be the case. That not only does Michaela expect Laurel to do something else to make it up to her, but Michaela's also regressed to calling her Lauren again.
She bites the corner of her lip, contemplating a reply.
…What is it?
The rest of the weekend passes without a word from Michaela. Laurel's beginning to wonder if she's lost Michaela as a—friend? Accomplice?—all together.
She walks into Annalise's living room to find Michaela and Connor sitting on the couch with their heads together while Asher sits across from them. Her jaw drops. "What the hell, Michaela?"
Michaela glances up at her, seemingly nonplussed. "I don't know what you're talking about, Lauren."
"Girl fight," Asher sing-songs, leering at the pair.
"Again?" Connor asks. "Should've had that orgy."
"What's going on?" Wes asks as he appears from the direction of the kitchen.
"No, there isn't going to be another fight. Nothing is going on." Laurel adds belatedly, "And no, we shouldn't have."
Michaela continues to look everywhere but at Laurel with an obvious scowl to her face.
And Laurel's never really been able to handle people being angry with her so when she says, "Michaela, can we please just talk about this outside?" she's really hoping Michaela takes her up on the offer.
The floorboards beneath them creak as they step out onto Annalise's porch. Laurel finds it fitting in a way because this is the place where something between them other than the conspiracy to hide murder was formed.
"Speak," Michaela demands.
"I'm sorry. What I said was not that guy's business to know. It was really stupid of me. I didn't really understand it then because I was drunk. But I understand it now, and I hope you can forgive me."
Michaela folds her arms across her chest and mutters, "I told you that in confidence."
"I know," Laurel laments. "And I'm so sorry. You put a lot of trust in me to be your wingwoman and I didn't deliver. I'm sorry, Michaela. All I can say is it won't happen again."
Michaela's jaw clenches. She gives Laurel a once over then says, "Damn right, it won't happen again," and then storms back inside.
Laurel wasn't sure what Michaela had meant, and thought it best to give her space.
But that was five days ago. And aside from occasionally giving her the stink eye when they're all piled up in Annalise's living room, Michaela has largely ignored her.
Connor hip bumps her after they're all dismissed for the day. "What'd you do to princess this time?"
Laurel gets a little steamed at the implication that whenever she and Michaela are on the outs it's her fault; but she relents, because this time it is her fault.
"I kind of told some guy some stuff about her I shouldn't have," she admits. "She's still a little mad at me."
Connor pats Laurel on the shoulder then says, "You know, whenever Oliver is mad at me, or vice versa, getting a small peace offering goes a long way."
Laurel shrugs off his hand and shoots him a glare. "Why does it sound like you're giving me relationship advice?"
Connor looks perplexed then laughs a little and says, "Sorry, guess I've overstepped."
Laurel's mouth forms a hard line. "We're not together," she stresses. A couple of quips to poke fun at Michaela's prissiness does not a couple make. It doesn't even make them friends.
Which is why Laurel can't understand why she cares whether or not Michaela is upset with her.
When Michaela contacts her again three days later, Laurel is in the shower. Her phone, abandoned on the floor, vibrates with text message after text message until Laurel is left with an onslaught of whiny entitled messages when she emerges from the tub.
Lauren are you ignoring me?
Her frown deepens.
She sighs then types her reply. What, Michaela?
She knocks on the door and it opens not a moment later to Michaela in a bathrobe and a pair of navy stilettos. Laurel's eyes bulge, mind churning with unanswered questions. "Umm, what's—"
Michaela sighs and tells Laurel to stop talking before inviting her inside.
"Here, I got you this," Laurel says, lamely. She hands Michaela a bar of chocolate, and they stare at each other for a moment.
Michaela is the first to speak. "So this is for…?"
Laurel instantly begins cursing Connor into infinity. "This is…my favorite candy bar," she says, voice a little too high. "I thought you'd like it, I don't know."
Michaela scrutinizes her for another moment. She looks down at the candy bar then hands it back to Laurel. "Nah. I prefer dark chocolate. But thanks anyway."
Laurel graciously accepts the candy bar while masking her mortification. She looks around the apartment then back to Michaela. "I'm sorry, did you need something, or…?"
"Oh, yes!" Michaela's eyes begin to twinkle and she asks, "Okay, how do I look?" before disrobing.
Laurel isn't sure what she had expected, but she hadn't expected Michaela to be wearing a silver glittery dress underneath her robe. The dress is short and her skin looks smooth. "You—wow, you look great."
Michaela beams at her as if all is forgiven. "Okay, now we have to find you a dress."
She retires to her room and Laurel anxiously follows. "A dress for what?"
"We're going out tonight," Michaela declares. She begins fishing through her closet.
"It's a school night," Laurel hisses because someone has to.
"What are we, fifteen? If you can't party all night then get up the next morning and carry out your responsibilities like an adult then go back to a training bra," Michaela drawls. "Throw this on. Then let me see how it looks."
Michaela walks out of the bedroom before Laurel can even string together a rebuttal.
She swears she'd make a good lawyer.
They're not trashed this time.
Michaela's rocking a slight, giggly buzz while Laurel teeters between sober and tipsy. She doesn't want to screw things up this time by not having her wits about her, so she'd rather teeter than tip over.
She catches Michaela eying her and her cheeks redden. "What is it? Are you making fun of me, Michaela?"
Michaela looks appalled as if that is the furthest thought from her mind. "Cynic much? I was just going to say you look really great in my dress."
Laurel holds her guard for a long moment then thanks Michaela for the compliment. "So who are you thinking about tonight?" she asks, looking around for what she has surmised is Michaela's type—tall, sharp jaw, handsome face. She likes them rich and she likes them stoic.
When Laurel turns to face her again, Michaela's eyes are still on her. With a shrug, Michaela leans back in her seat. "I don't know. No guy's really piqued my interest tonight."
"The night's still young," Laurel encourages. "You'll find someone."
"Hopefully," Michaela mutters. She swirls her straw around in her glass. "So what's your type?"
Laurel startles at the question and shoots Michaela a look. "My type in what?"
"Books," Michaela sasses with a roll of her eyes. "Men, Laurel. What's your type in men?"
Laurel is instantly reminded of Frank who isn't her type at all going by her previous track record, so she isn't really sure. "I think it just matters on what type of person they are." She bobs her head. "There just has to be a spark."
Apparently the same can be said for Michaela, because after spending the night flirting with three guys, she decides to go home alone.
The next time Michaela invites her over, it's for assistance texting this guy from their class. It's the first time Laurel's ever seen Michaela in sweatpants with no make-up.
"His name is Shane—the hot black guy who sits in the back," Michaela greets her when she opens the door. Laurel shrugs out of her jacket and joins Michaela on the couch. She busies herself with familiarizing herself with the furnishing of the living room for the first time as Michaela recites their previous ten minutes of conversation. There's a distinct lack of family photos, but Laurel gets it.
"So what do I say back?"
She's jarred by the question, but Laurel wouldn't be a law student if she didn't know how to listen while not listening. "You don't want him at your place," Laurel surmises after half-hearing Michaela lament over wanting to get to know one of the students in class but unprepared to invite him over just yet.
Michaela nods while anxiously biting at her lower lip, and Laurel allows herself a fleeting glance of curiosity. "Maybe invite him somewhere non-committal?" she then suggests. "Like a campus party or a bar."
"An upscale bar," Michaela corrects.
Laurel nods because sometimes it's just easier to agree with what Michaela says. "…Okay. Sure. Upscale. That way you immediately know whether or not he can afford the place."
Michaela smiles in a way that makes her eyes shine and then proposes they go out in search of one.
The bar is literally called Upscale which kind of makes Laurel roll her eyes as she holds the door for Michaela to enter.
Laurel doesn't bother to take off her jacket until Michaela gasps and declares, "This is it!"
Fifteen minutes later, Laurel's polishing off her first drink.
"So what's your life like?" Michaela asks. She picks up her toothpick with an olive at the end then places it in her mouth. Laurel can't look away but she also can't help but think Michaela should have saved that for whatever guy catches her attention.
There'll be more drinks, Laurel decides.
Her fingers tap against her glass then she takes a sip. "Uh, I went to private school up until college. Then I went to Brown. And now I'm here."
Michaela waves her hand. "That's boring."
Laurel smiles a little and says, "That's all I've got."
"How was private school?"
"You know. You've been."
Michaela looks down and swirls her drink. "I haven't actually," she mutters and takes her last sip. "Hey—" She catches the bartender's eye. "Another, please."
When she looks back, Laurel's expression is foreign. "Hey, I'm—"
"If the next word out of your mouth is going to be 'sorry,' I'll kill you, Laurel," Michaela threatens in that low voice that always means back off.
Laurel thinks twice before saying anything else, and they sit in silence.
Michaela's eyes slip shut, nose crinkling as she berates herself and Laurel stares down at the bar top wondering why she can never seem to communicate effectively with Michaela.
Some time passes and then she glances in the other woman's direction. "I wasn't really popular in school."
Michaela blinks at the revelation then just smiles and says, "I knew it."
Laurel rolls her eyes. "No one really talked to me until they found out who my dad was. Then all the cool kids started to talk to me, but I didn't really want that." She tries to smile. "So I guess I've never really had any real friends."
Michaela looks touched for a moment and reaches out to clasp Laurel's hand. She stares at their point of contact with a sigh and casts Laurel a sideways glance. "I was the popular girl," she admits.
They both laugh and Laurel says, "Of course you were," and then they continue business as usual.
Michaela tells Laurel bits and pieces of her life, but never really gives Laurel enough to form a full picture. Michaela had been a dancer, a cheerleader, on the debate team—Laurel feels like she's just learning stats. She learns nothing of Michaela's family and theorizes it's only fair considering she hadn't really touched on hers.
"If we were the only five left after—I don't know, Wes decides to kill even more people—" Laurel is both amused and horrified by just the beginning of Michaela's hypothetical, "And it's just all of us, who would you sleep with?"
Laurel startles at the question, because the whole scenario begins with murder and ends with sex. Though somehow it seems to encapsulate the Keating five well. "Umm, I don't know," she answers because she doesn't really want to play this game.
And Michaela is usually the more prudent of the pair but something about drinking alone with her and talking about sex is sending off all kinds of warning signs in Laurel's foggy head.
Michaela pouts a little—it's blink and you miss it, and Laurel has a feeling she hasn't blinked in a while. "Come on, I can be like you guys. It just takes me a few of these to catch up," she says, gesturing toward her third drink.
Laurel shakes her head as if she's telling herself it's a bad idea and then says, "Probably you," in as light of a tone as she can muster.
Michaela doesn't look surprised, but she does look intrigued. "Why?"
"I don't know. I'm just…not really attracted to the other guys. Asher's a douche, Wes is kind of a creep, and Connor's cute but he's gay. So really there's just…" She trails off and meets Michaela's wide eyes.
"But I'm not gay," Michaela feels the need to defend, somehow.
Laurel nods. "I know. It was just a hypothetical, right? Anyway who'd you choose?"
Michaela chews on her lower lip for what feels like an eternity then says, "You."
Laurel's eyes go wide. "Why?"
Michaela shrugs then slinks off the barstool. "I'm yours, right?" She turns to walk away. "Come on, let's see if we can find some guys."
They go home empty handed after Laurel pays for their drinks. Michaela rests her head on Laurel's shoulder on the way home, and it's the first time Laurel ever really feels like she's made a genuine connection to someone.
The first inclination Michaela has to kiss Laurel is at Asher's dumb ass party. He throws another one since the rest of the Keating 5 "ditched" his first one—Asher's word. Little does he know that if Michaela could take it all back, she would have stayed at his apartment playing one-on-one beer pong the whole night.
Laurel is wearing a black flare skirt and a crop top. It's the most skin Michaela has seen her flaunt, and it intrigues her. So much so that she holds a hand up to stop the boy in front of her from talking so she can take in Laurel's outfit. "She actually doesn't look bad," she mutters, eyes trailing down Laurel's body.
"Who?" the boy asks. Michaela's pretty sure his name is Sam. Or Sebastian.
"Laurel," she mumbles, more so to herself.
The boy looks to the girl in question, then returns to Michaela. "Hey, isn't she in the Keating five with you? Damn, you guys are so lucky."
"Mhm, go away."
Transfixed, Michaela decides to pour herself another tall drink before approaching.
Predictably, Laurel is doing her best wallflower impersonation by the stereo. Michaela sidles up beside her and hands her a drink.
"Are you going to stand here all night?" Michaela asks over the music.
Laurel looks around to the groupings of people talking and shrugs. "I haven't really seen anyone of interest to talk to."
Michaela tries her best to look affronted. "Am I not here?"
Laurel gestures to the now lonely man across the room. "You were cuddled up with that guy."
Michaela's brow furrows. Laurel has her there. "Okay. But I'm here now."
"So you are," Laurel responds conversationally. She takes a gulp of her drink.
Michaela takes a swig of her own drink then says, "You look really pretty tonight, Laurel," like she means it.
Laurel fidgets with the hem of her skirt and mutters a thank you. She looks up to Michaela's former beau again. "So what's his name?"
"Who cares?" Michaela asks because she really doesn't want to talk about him anymore. "Besides, he's a B student."
Laurel chuckles at the other woman's absurdity. "Heaven forbid you date such an average student."
Michaela grins in amusement. "I know, right?"
It's ten minutes after they had moved the conversation the couch when Laurel, already halfway through her second drink, confesses to her fling with Frank.
Michaela holds her glass mid-air, stunned if only for the fact that Laurel is actually spilling the details. If Laurel notices her stupor she neglects to comment.
"Is it good?" Michaela finally asks, feeling compelled to know. This is a side of Laurel she's never seen before. She's giving off this sexual energy that Michaela, having gone through a bit of a dry spell and a lot of a no-orgasm spell, can't ignore.
Laurel shrugs while laughing when Asher falls over the back of the couch. "It's good. He has a nice beard."
"So you're into bush then?" Michaela nearly giggles. "I'm afraid I can't help you out with that."
Laurel turns to face Michaela then, attention fully captured. "You mean you were willing to help me out before?"
Michaela blinks as if she just realizes their banter is nearing dangerous territory. And while she can freely admit she has tested the waters with Laurel before out of sheer curiosity, it's a far cry from sexual banter and innuendos. She glances down at the alcohol swirling in her cup. Liquid courage can only take a girl so far. "You're right, this is stupid. Forget it." She doesn't know just what she's expecting anyway.
Michaela then meanders over to Connor and Oliver with Laurel's eyes burning into her back.
Connor notes Michael's sour expression and hands her a beer. Oliver bounces over like an excited puppy and hangs off Connor's shoulder. "How's it going?" he asks.
She pops the top on her beer and downs half the can before holding her finger up. "I don't know how to do this," she lets slip.
Connor looks puzzled. His eyes flicker from Michaela to Laurel then back again, understanding dawning on him. "Sometimes you've just gotta…keep trucking, tiger," he says, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
Michela sticks her tongue out at him. "That's shitty advice."
Connor's eyes shift to Laurel in warning before he greets her. "Laurel—hey! Didn't expect you to come."
He hands her a beer that Laurel accepts with a small smile, Michaela standing silently beside them. "Why, because I'm the last person you'd expect to see at a party?"
They share a laugh, then Oliver hollers when the song switches over. "Oh, Connor, this is my jam. We have to dance!"
"I guess we're dancing," Connor announces with a laugh as he allows himself to be pulled to the middle of the room.
Laurel settles beside Michaela to watch the rest of the room.
They stare out at their peers for a moment until Laurel whispers, "Come with me upstairs," into Michaela's ear before walking away.
Michaela finishes her drink then follows Laurel.
The bathroom door closes behind her and Laurel shoves her up against it. There's a pregnant pause that Michaela doesn't want to be the one to break, not when Laurel is pressed against her like this.
"Do you want to kiss me?" Laurel rasps, and heat unfurls in the pit of Michaela's stomach.
She tries not to fidget against the door, but she's suddenly feeling a little antsy. "Laurel, I—"
Laurel places her hands on either side of Michaela's head, ensuring her intentions are made clear. Michaela isn't sure where Laurel's sudden burst of confidence is coming from but she has no interest in squashing it.
She isn't sure who makes the first move, but within seconds her fingers are gripping the nape of Laurel's neck. She feels slender arms encircle her waist and arches into Laurel.
Her body goes on autopilot from there. She doesn't stand a chance when Laurel is caressing and squeezing every inch of her body she can get her hands on. Michaela's on fire. She whimpers when a thumb brushes her nipple and crash her lips to Laurel's once more.
Laurel moans at the confident stroke of Michaela's tongue and grabs her hips to tug her closer. Bare legs brush and Michaela feels tingles fan out along her body.
She pulls away, panting and regarding Laurel with unabashed lust. "This isn't your first time with a girl. You have this weird swagger about you that says to me you know how to show a woman a good time," Michaela declares factually, and thus, Laurel feels no need to respond.
"Wow," is all she can say to the revelation. They stare at each other, as if seeing each other for the first time. Michaela begins to fidget under the scrutiny of Laurel's stare and the weight of her own arousal. "I'm going to—I'm going to go."
Laurel nods, not trusting herself to speak.
Michaela turns, brushing against Laurel, and then she's gone.
She leaves the party early without so much as a goodbye to anyone. Michaela spends the night crying while eating ice cream, but she can't help but text Laurel thank you for tonight because there's a weird part of her that feels relief.
Laurel sends back My pleasure, and Michaela's smile is instantaneous.
The turnaround rate in which Michaela's lips are attached to Laurel's again is simply embarrassing.
What's more alarming is there's no alcohol involvement this time. Just a simple askance by Michaela of all people if Laurel could just kiss her one more time because the first time had to have been a hoax. It was the alignment of the moon or some other bullshit that caused her to actually enjoy making out with Laurel.
Turns out she just actually enjoys making out with Laurel.
They've been fooling around long enough for Laurel to work a hand underneath Michaela's top. Her fingers brush taut muscles under smooth skin and Michaela moans. Laurel's tongue works wonders inside her mouth. She does tricks with it that makes Michaela clench her thighs in anticipation of—what, exactly?
She pulls away, gauging her own desire to run.
Laurel's lips are red and it takes all of Michaela's will power not to bite them. She steps away to put distance between them and runs a shaky hand through her hair. "Laurel, what the hell is this?" Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears. It's a honey smooth timbre that makes Laurel's skin tingle.
Michaela is met with a head shake as Laurel breathlessly declares, "I don't know. But I don't want it to stop."
It's the most emotion Michaela's ever seen her show aside from sheer terror.
Laurel has her half naked and pinned to the bedsheets below in record time that Michaela will never admit to because this is not third date behavior. Hell, they haven't been on any for that matter.
Yet Laurel's gotten her to spread her legs, and moan her name, and beg, "Fuck me, Laurel," because that's just how strung out Michaela is.
Her back arches when an aching nipple is enveloped by the warmth of Laurel's mouth. Brown hair tickles her bare torso, and Michaela screws her eyes shut against the onslaught of sensation igniting her skin. Goosebumps erupt over her body and she grips the bedsheets. Sex has never felt like this before. With Aiden, it was almost clinical. They lied in bed, in mostly missionary, and they had sex. There was no finesse, no tricks, no spontaneity.
Laurel twists her nipple, and Michaela cries out sharply. "Harder." Laurel obliges and the pleasurable pain shoots straight to her groin. She rubs her legs together like she's trying to start a fire, or perhaps put one out.
She's finally rewarded, after Laurel finishes mouthing her throat, and writhes as soft lips caress every inch of skin within reach until Laurel is between Michaela's legs.
Michaela tenses at their proximity. Intimacy has never been her strength. She glances down to Laurel's wild flowing hair, plump lips, and Michaela can feel herself growing wetter at the sight. But then Laurel just looks at her with the most open expression and simply says, "Relax, Michaela. I've got you."
I've got you.
No one's ever had Michaela. She's always had to watch her own back, rely on herself, push herself even when she's had no reserves left.
Laurel's given her a tall order, but the ache between her thighs makes the decision much easier. She parts her legs in clear invitation.
Laurel quickly learns that Michaela is a bit of a power bottom. Something totally predictable, but she's much more vocal than Laurel had expected. She comes with a sharp cry with Laurel's mouth on her and the promise of two fingers wiggling at her entrance.
And Michaela isn't sure how to go down on a girl, but she's sure she's never wanted to taste anything or anyone as much as she wants to taste Laurel. The flat of her tongue runs through the length of Laurel's slit and she moans when nimble fingers begin to comb through her hair.
She doesn't think about the consequences of slipping her fingers into Laurel, only how good her walls feel clenching around her. She doesn't think of her sexuality, only memorizes the way Laurel's back arches through her orgasm, the acute stab of arousal that pulses through her at the sight.
Most importantly, Michaela doesn't think about whether this will happen again, only relishes in the surprisingly tender way Laurel holds her after.