TITLE: "Sublime" (1/1)
AUTHOR: mcee (mcee@fangy.net)
SITE: http://fangy.net/contraddiction
RATING: R for language and sexuality.
SUMMARY: The rightful fantasies of a head cheerleader.

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Fucking dyke.

Delilah slams doors--her car, her house, her bedroom--with escalating force. It's been coming to her more and more easily, this fury, this impulse to shake things to see when and how they would break, a habit that had backfired today when that little Stokely freak had spat a comeback Delilah hadn't known how to counter. Worst of all, the bitch had *smiled*, that crooked little sneer of hers that made her eyes crinkle up to slits, that gave her the look of someone who could possible rise to Delilah's level.

Fucking DYKE.

Manicured nails claw at imported silk, testing the fallibility of the couture seams, until she's left standing by her bed in her unmentionables, panting angrily inspite of herself. She hates her, hates her, hates her, with the heat of a thousand hot suns, and most of all hates that this little reject can get under her skin like this. Delilah Profitt shouldn't care if the bitch finds a clever repartee once in a while; she would just cock an eyebrow and smirk, before walking away. Delilah likes to give pretty much everyone the cold shoulder, but there are a select few she doesn't like to have her back to. Stokely (little goth Stokely Mitchell, always drooling at Stan, always killing Delilah with what they can see of her eyes) should not be one of those people.

The CK lingerie (simple/elegant, as required) flutters down her legs to pool at her feet. She kicks them away. She never leaves her clothes on the floor, but this afternoon she may be forgetting her own rules. Her nipples itch, the skin on her stomach and thighs grow goosebumps. Must be cold in here. She knows the soft linen of her bed would feel wonderful against her bare limbs, but she's too restless, too restless to lay still, and besides it's not even four in the afternoon, and that may have even her mother worried. And so she pours herself a bath, locking the door to keep the steam and everything else in.

Her skin prickles when she sinks into the scalding water, and she watches it objectively as it goes red against the off-white enamel. She finds a way to prop her head against the wall that's not so uncomfortable, and closes her eyes. The way air rushes out of her lungs makes it feel like she'd been holding it in.

Gingerly, she makes herself flip through the mental book cataloging her fantasies. The expected ones. Gabe banging her in the showers, with the rest of the team, Stan included, beating off as they watch them; straddling Zeke in the GTO, in the school parking (she's an exhibitionist, it comes with the character); doing Casey in his little bed, on the cliché sheets patterned with comic book characters. If she's feeling a little selfless, she likes to imagine Zeke pounding the little geek into his mattress instead, holding him down, hurting him a little, maybe.

Good clean fun. The rightful fantasies of a head cheerleader.

She feels like she doesn't have good enough a grasp on herself right now, so she goes with the fag hag scenario, and focuses on Zeke's lean hips meeting Casey's skinny white ass, on Zeke's grunts, on the red marks his hands leave on Casey's wrists, on his hips, on Casey's whimpers, high like a girl's--

Delilah comes, her thighs trapping her hand between her legs, but the shiver doesn't quite make it all the way up her spine, and she's left with this tingling in her belly and not much else to show for it. Zeke and Casey fade away, and she occupies the next few idle minutes wondering if Zeke really gets to bone little Casey Connor on the side, when he's not busy becoming a juvenile delinquent or a rocket scientist, whichever it is.

She entertains the thought as long as her mind will let her, then drifts back to Stokely fucking Mitchell--acerbic, ugly, in her face--and it feels like her brain hadn't left the topic at all.

Goddamn fucking dyke.




END