as if breathing (all elite wrestling | julia/skye)

[fiachairecht]

as if breathing. all elite wrestling, julia/skye. post-street fight bathtime, ft hair washing and breathplay. 820w, rated m. for the femslashfete challenge 'braid'.

Skye's blood dries crunchy and copper in her hair, matting two formerly neat braids into one unrecognisable tangle that gleams ombre in the cool white light. Cross-legged behind her in the bathtub, Julia runs her fingers through the half-inch of loose strands that she's managed to free and watches the flakes drift down to scatter over her bare calves.

She hadn't expected Skye to be so pliant, but with every pass of Julia's fingers through the mess of her hair Skye sinks further into her body, limbs loose against the porcelain. It's such a change from the lethal weapon she'd been in the ring that Julia has to laugh.

"Skye Blue, undone by my fingers in her hair," she murmurs. "Can't let that get out, or everyone's going to be trying to undo your braids."

Skye laughs, too, leaning back enough that she can stretch one leg out and nudge open the hot water tap. They're matte black, more modern than Julia would usually go for, but Skye's been obsessed with them since the House's first attempt at decorating for her, so: hey, their bathroom has contemporary fucking fixtures now, and if the House knows what's good for it it won't let that particular bit of gossip get back to Malakai.

"You wouldn't tell," Skye says, her voice and the cascade of water bringing Julia's attention back to the woman in her lap. "You wouldn't do that to yourself."

The confidence in her voice is bold enough that she looks down to where Skye's tipped her head back to gaze up at her, more open than Julia's used to seeing her. There's a dried streak of someone's blood on her cheek but her eyes, rimmed in blue and silver, are almost entirely clear, only the faintest shimmer of mist at the inside corners. The willingness to be possessed is all her, enough her that it doesn't matter, and it loosens something in Julia's chest.

"Course not, baby." Julia disentangles her fingers from the remnants of Skye's braids and runs her palms down Skye's arms, letting her fingertips linger over the curves of Skye's biceps. "This is all mine."

It's as good as she'd always thought it would be. Better, even though the hot water prickles uncomfortably over the hundreds of tiny thumbtack punctures in her legs as she shifts to settle Skye more firmly between her thighs. Skye just grins in response, wide and pleased with her tongue poking out between her teeth, and Julia abandons the idea of fixing her hair for the sheer pleasure of tweaking already-hard nipples and hearing Skye gasp.

Julia lets her hands wander as the tub fills around them, enjoying the rare luxury of time to touch without any specific goal in mind. In return, Skye gives her a fascinating collection of sounds — the hungry moan as Julia skims her nails over the sensitive skin of her throat, the hiss of pleasure-pain as Julia presses down on a newly-forming bruise. The soft noise of discontent when Julia scoops up a handful of water and dribbles it over her scalp.

Julia clicks her tongue in disappointment. "We started this because your hair needs fixing," she says. Fits her hand over Skye's chest and pushes hard enough that she sinks entirely below the surface before she can respond.

Underwater, Skye's eyes slip shut, hair starting to fan out as the liquefying blood loosens its grip on the strands. Julia watches it float, shimmering in the light, buffeted by the tiny currents of Skye's escaping breath. With the hand not holding Skye's chest down, she twirls her fingers through the still-braided ends, relishing the dull throb that runs up her arm as the strands tighten around her knuckles.

Skye's not struggling. For long moments she's — content, and the thought heats Julia in ways that have nothing to do with the water temperature. Bubbles make their way to the surface, and under Skye's skin and Julia's hand, Skye's lungs contracting in ways that should be imperceptible. She presses down once, twice — and then Skye's body spasms, bending at the waist sharply enough to bring her face above water.

Julia pulls sharply at her hair in wordless displeasure, but it fades as Skye grabs her other hand and drags it down between her thighs where she's slick enough that even the water hasn't been able to wash it away yet, unspoken question clear as she attempts to trap Julia's hand between her legs.

It's gratifying, in a way, but they both know she can have Skye like that whenever she wants.

"Later," Julia says, not watching her nails as she extricates her hand. Skye tips her head back again, eyes wide and pupils blown. The blood and the mist are both gone, everything remaining all blue, all hunger.

But, "Again," Julia says, not unkindly, and pushes her back down.

Skye sinks without complaint, head and heart in Julia's hands.

@girlfleeshouse@mastodon.social: the house, like the girl, contracts, as if breathing