Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8270272.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Daria_(Cartoon)
  Relationship:
      Daria_Morgendorffer/Trent_Lane, Jane_Lane/Tom_Sloane, Daria/Trent
  Character:
      Daria_Morgendorffer, Trent_Lane, Jane_Lane
  Additional Tags:
      Loss_of_Virginity, First_Time, Fluff, Porn_With_Plot, character-driven
      smut, seriously_no_angst_i_promise, Complete
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-12 Completed: 2016-10-29 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 7815
****** A Disturbance Beside Him ******
by ghuune
Summary
     It's summer. The Lanes are going hungry. To make matters worse, now
     they have a guest: Daria, fleeing the usual plot device at her
     house... and she's driving Trent batshit. (Daria's characterization
     based on S1-3).
     (After browsing the tag, fair warning: this whole thing's smut. Top
     to bottom character-driven smut).
     (Also I'm not nuts about the second chap. That's the way it goes
     sometimes).
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
I.
Sure seemed like Daria was around a lot.
Trent was poking the rubbery mountain of overcooked instant oatmal in his bowl
(he either hadn't used enough water or he'd pressed the wrong buttons on the
microwave: it was that kind of hangover) when she wandered in.
“Oatmeal for lunch?” she asked.
“Is it lunch time?” He squinted at the digital readout on the microwave. A few
crucial bars had long since burnt out, and the remaining ones... weren't
helpful.
“About three-thirty in the afternoon. So, late lunch.” But she didn't sound
judgmental. It was that whole monotone thing. Soothing.
“Show ran all night,” he said by way of explanation. Less of a show and more of
a party, but whatever.
He stuck some oatmeal in his mouth. Chemically flavored peaches and cream:
bummer. He'd hoped for maple and brown sugar.
Daria opened the fridge. Nothing in there but a scuffed pair of Mary Janes
sitting on the top shelf.
“At least it's not empty,” she remarked.
“That's why Janie put them in there.” He chewed. “Look, don't take this the
wrong way, but... weren't you here last night?”
“Yes.” She pulled out a chair and sat across from him.
“And the night before that.”
“Your powers of observation are astonishing.”
“So... what happened?” As he contemplated whether chewing another bite was
worth the effort, Daria reached over and pinched off a lump, squishing it
experimentally between her fingertips.
“Quinn has a steady boyfriend,” she said, studying the lump intently.
“Doesn't she have, like, five?”
“A preferable situation by far, as the competition ensured no one male achieved
his goal,” Daria said tartly. “Much like the experience an individual
spermatozoa must have as it travels towards the egg.”
Good image. Too bad he didn't have his notebook on him.
“Mom and Dad are on some marital retreat—you think she'd take the hint—but
instead she has him over *all the time.* *All over the house.*”
Daria blushed and broke eye contact.
It took Trent a moment to work through what she'd just implied. “Yeah,” he said
at last. “Awkward.”
Daria plucked another chunk of his oatmeal. When he got up, he nudged the bowl
a little closer to her with his elbow, as if by accident. Hers if she wanted
it. He knelt in front of the fridge and started loading the motley assortment
of beers he'd brought back from the show, party, whatever, into it.
“Chips on the counter, if you want,” he said, peering around the open door to
point with his chin. “Gotta love leftovers.”
“That's all you have to say?”
He sat back on his heels to look at her. “Does it need a big speech? It's just
sex, Daria.”
She went right on blushing. “You don't think she's too young?”
Trent shrugged. “I think she's too immature,” he said. “There's a difference.”
He stood up and shut the fridge door, even though the cool air had felt good.
He leaned against it.
“You worried about her?” he asked, folding his arms. “Is the guy a prick?”
Daria sighed. “He's a normal teenage boy, whatever that means, so, no. I'm more
worried about him than I am about her.”
“Then it happened too fast. She doesn't know his middle name.”
“That's your criterion?”
He shrugged as he scribbled what he'd said down on the phone notepad. It might
make a good lyric. Lots of things rhymed with “name.”
“I have no idea whether she knows his middle name.” Daria glared. “Even if she
does, what makes it okay for her to force me to choose between marinating in
their hormones or fleeing my homeland?”
He wrote that down too and then set down the pen. “I'm sorry, Daria,” he said,
because he couldn't join her in her outrage. “This might be a job for Janie...”
“So you think it's absolutely fine, totally all right, that my sixteen-year-old
sister is interning for Hugh Hefner this summer?”
“Yeah, I do,” Trent said. “Look, Daria, if she's acting on an honest feeling, I
got no complaints. And even if she weren't, it's none of my business. She
doesn't have a lot of time left before she sells herself into trophy-wife
slavery, so she might as well enjoy it. From where I'm standing, you're the
only one with a problem.”
“Yes,” she glared, “*I'm* the one with the problem.” Still glaring, she stood
up from the table and left him in the kitchen, alone.
III.
“Hey, Jane.”
Trent glanced around before he stepped fully into the garage, but it looked
like Jane was alone, lounging on a lawn chair amidst all the boxes and piles of
random crap.
“Trent! Come on out and sweat to the oldies with me.” The boombox beside her
was pulsing Alanis. He winced. She reached over and turned the screech to a
whine.
“Radio...” he grumbled.
“Don't start, Trent. You busted the tape deck.”
“Monique did.”
“Okay, *fine.* *Monique* busted the tape deck. But she wouldn't've done it if
you hadn't pissed her off, so it's still your fault. Now hand over that beer.”
He gave it to her before he opened the second-best lawn chair and sat down,
balancing on only half of his skinny ass so he wouldn't fall victim to the hole
in the webbing. He twisted the top off his beer and then opened Jane's when it
became obvious she wasn't managing it.
“It always amazes me how we hardly ever have food, and yet we miraculously
always have beer.”
“It's how I get paid.” Trent shrugged. Night now, still hot as hell. The beer
bottle slicked with condensation in his hand.
A hard-shelled bug kamikazed the bank of lights and crashed to the concrete,
legs twitching. Trent bent over and flipped it back on its belly.
“It's alive!” Jane aped Dr. Frankenstein and then laughed. “Just stunned, you
big softie. Hey, strap some rocket launchers on that baby and it could take out
Tokyo.”
He straightened back up. “Did Daria go back home?”
“Huh? No. She's around somewhere... reading, watching TV up in the room.... why
do you ask?”
“Has she moved in?”
“Is it a problem?” Jane eyed him, sipped her beer.
The bug scrawled a semi-circle in the drift of dust on the floor. “Might be
tough. We got the one working shower and all.”
“Eh, she'll be gone as soon as the furniture in her head rearranges itself.
We'll manage. Remember when Nick crashed here for a month?”
A better group came on the radio. Trent didn't know who they were, but anything
beat Alanis. He toed the insect into a more life-saving trajectory, off the
concrete and into the thickets of their totally ignored lawn.
As the bug disappeared, he said, “This thing with Quinn and her guy's got her
really spun.”
“God, don't remind me. The last thing we need is for it to breed.” Jane tried
to punctuate this statement by chugging her beer and clapped a hand over her
mouth when she failed. Jane wasn't a real big drinker. She coughed and
spluttered.
Trent grabbed her bottle before she spilled the rest. “She tried to talk to me
about it and she seemed upset at how intensely I don't care.” He sipped the
beer and glowered out at the impenetrable blackness, his night vision destroyed
by the garage's fluorescent lighting.
“So you don't find it weird? At all? I mean, imagine if it were me and Tom,
engaged in energetic horizontal calisthenics all over the house. How would you
feel?”
“Careful, Janie. There's this whole big-brother instinct you're running into
right now. It's primal. Plus,” he winced, “it's not an image I want in my
head.”
“And therein lies half of Daria's problem. The other half is sheer, bloody-
minded competitiveness.” Jane's eyebrow quirked.
She must've gotten a buzz from her attempt to shotgun that beer. He said, “I'm
not following.”
Her grin grew wicked. “Once again, Quinn goes first, and it's pissing her off.
Thus, meltdown and hiding out at her friendly local insane asylum, where she
can rage and scream—silently--to her heart's content.”
“Oh.” Trent finished his beer. “All right. I guess I understand it better now.
Thanks.”
“You're welcome. Any time you need Daria explained, you just call on me. I'll
be here.”
IV.
Every time the shower ran, the pipes rumbled in the wall just behind Trent's
bed and woke him up.
He stumbled into the bathroom to whizz. “Jane,” he grumbled as he leaned over
the bowl, forearm pressed against the wall, “isn't there a rule or something
about showers before noon?”
“Ummm... not that I'm aware of.”
“What's with your voice?” he muttered. “Open a window in here. Jesus. I can
barely fucking see.”
“*Wow.* You and Jane really *aren't* big on mornings.”
He blinked a few times in surprise. Daria, not Jane, in the shower. Right. He
opened the window to vent the steam, because the mildew situation was already
out of hand. A man had to draw the line somewhere, and he drew his at creepy
black molds.
He ran his toothbrush under the faucet and smeared paste on the bristles. “Just
don't use all the hot water.”
“Um. Okay.”
The shower turned off. He kept brushing. His wisdom teeth were taking another
stab at breaking through his gums and they were really sore. Shoulda had'm
removed. Too late now.
Maybe he'd floss. Someone told him once to only floss the ones you wanted to
keep. He checked the cabinet. No floss. A future of dentures... bummer.
In his head, music coiled like smoke and then vanished. Oh well. If it was
worth anything, it'd come back to him.
Daria rattled the shower curtain. “You might want to replace this,” she
muttered. “I mean, this is some real quality slime.”
He spit out the foam. “That's why I opened the window, Daria.”
“There's this spray stuff. We use it at my house. Really lets you take your
aggression out on soap scum. I'll get a bottle.” Rattle, went the shower
curtain.
“Sure. Whatever.” He swished a mouthful of water around in his mouth.
“Um, Trent? Any chance of you getting out of here before I, too, develop a thin
layer of slime?”
He meant to spit out the rinse, but he gulped it instead as “slime” flashed to
“slick” flashed to “Daria's skin, right this instant.” Stupid brain... Couldn't
blame that train of thought on the big head, though.
“Yeah, uh, sorry. I get a little focused on... dental care.”
“And we can bond over that, as soon as I dry off.”
Clouds of steam rushed out the open window, carrying the scents of soap and
shampoo. Trent's throat was so dry it clacked as he replaced the brush in its
paste-spackled holder.
V.
Okay, let's face it: this cohabitation experiment wasn't going well.
He strummed his guitar and twiddled a tuning knob, which didn't need it, but he
was interested to see how far he could bend the sound. He was, not to put too
fine a point on it, super stoned.
The float of his body high and the distinct metallic quality of his aimless
strumming blunted his thoughts, but the occasional well-aimed, pointy one still
lanced his cloud.
Daria wore chapstick in the winter and her army jacket all year round. The most
he'd ever seen of her skin was her belly when she'd gotten her navel pierced.
She'd done that because he'd asked, and he'd asked because he'd wanted to see
her. The circle-jerk of life.
Her eyes were long and narrow and coffee-dark, her face smooth and serene as a
cameo portrait, but he only knew that because he'd looked at her closely. At a
glance, you kind of ricocheted off those glasses and didn't take in the whole
picture.
She bit both her lips and her nails. The nails, he hardly noticed, but her
lips? They were beautifully shaped, and it seemed like she bit them a lot when
she was around him. Sometimes blood glistened on the swollen lower curve and
gave him the urge to kiss it clean.
Did that mean she'd be a biter? Maybe. Probably. Holy hell.
So he was attracted to her. Big joke, getting hot for Jane's best friend, out
of all the women in the world to focus on. Legal or not, he couldn't navigate
the complexity: if Jane stopped talking to him, if this house stopped welcoming
him, he'd have nowhere to go.
And... fuck, it just wouldn't work. Daria thought he was some cool guy, but he
was really just a rock dweeb who smoked too much and could stand to gain twenty
pounds. As long as the bong stayed loaded, he knew he wasn't going anywhere.
There'd be all the shit he'd already gone through with Monique, screaming
fights about punctuality and money. He'd lose Daria for sure, and then he'd
lose Jane. Couldn't risk it.
He stared blankly at the wall as that conclusion settled in his head. It was
like stuffing an oversized couch through a doorway *at last* after cursing at
it all afternoon, but at least it was in there now.
Couldn't risk it.
VI.
When he woke up again, night had fallen.
Jane's TV babbled through the walls. He went downstairs and checked on the Mary
Janes in the fridge, but they hadn't bred any sandwiches.
He grabbed his pipe and film canister of bud and took these supplies with him
to Jane's room. It was miserable getting the munchies without any munchies on
hand to ease the pain, but it was also miserable sitting around hungry without
anything to blame it on except being alive, so there was a cost-benefit
analysis happening here.
Daria looked up when he walked in. The light from the television turned her
lenses into blue discs.
“Oh. Hey, Daria. Where's Janie?”
“Emergency. Something about orphans, or maybe babysitting, with Tom.” She
turned up the volume.
When Trent shut the door, the snick of the latch catching shot through his
chest. The TV suddenly seemed very loud.
Holy shit, he was actually nervous about being alone with her.
He flopped down on the bed and took a drag off the bowl. “Want any?” he asked.
Daria let her head drop back as she peered at him upside down. “Just one puff,”
she said. “More than that, and I'll start obsessing over all the people who are
after me.”
She climbed up beside him as he packed fresh and settled in. The stuff she was
wearing—an oversized old t-shirt and boxer shorts—looked she'd kited it out of
a boy's laundry basket the morning after.
Whoa. Tsunami of hatred for that thought. *Tsunami of hatred flows through my
brain...* He toyed with the lyric through vein/insane/mundane/propane and then
abandoned it.
She relaxed on her side, calmly facing him, and it dawned on him she'd never
done anything like this before. One time he'd lain on her bed to see what she'd
do, like a dare, and she'd perched like a bird on the edge. She'd always left a
hand's-span of space between them, and it was still closer than he'd ever seen
her get to anyone.
There sure as hell wasn't a hand's-span of space between them now. Her fingers
shook as she accepted the loaded pipe, and whoa. She was nervous, too.
Trent knew she had a crush on him. Janie knew it. Life on Mars probably knew
it. And here she was, easy touching distance, in nothing but a thin t-shirt and
boxers with no bra, and, maybe? Probably? No underwear. Fuck.
Worn old fabric draped over her small waist, rucked over the flare of her hips.
Looked cozy. Looked hot.
He should get the hell off this bed.
She didn't hold her smoke long before she blew out and passed the pipe. He took
another hit and held it out to her again, eyebrows raised questioningly, but
she waved it off and rolled over on her back. Her nipples pushed at the fabric
of her shirt like metal beads, and it wasn't cold in here at all.
Yeah, he should really get the hell off this bed.
Just what the hell was she was doing?
He tried to look at it from her perspective. Daria, laying on a bed with her
crush, but her best friend's bed. Daria, in one layer of worn fabric, when she
normally wore canvas like a suit of armor: but slacker-wear, not lingerie.
So, no, she wasn't thinking about her effect on him. She just had a comfortable
buzz as she killed some time waiting for Jane to come back.
Judge's ruling: she wasn't looking for him to make a move.
So he laced his fingers behind his head to keep them out of trouble and crossed
his feet at the ankles. “Sick, Sad World” rattled ignorably away on the
television.
He was wound as tight as a guitar string. Touch him and he'd twang. Someone's
heartbeat jarred the bed. Someone was breathing too fast. If she wasn't looking
for him to make a move, could she just relax already? Cos this was torture.
She sighed. She reached up—a disturbance beside him—and set her glasses down on
top of the stereo with a click. Then she dropped like a shot; she curled into
him.
So now he had Daria half-on, half-off him. He swallowed. Tits, man. Daria's
tits. It should feel so wrong. Maybe it would have been, like, pod-person weird
if Daria hadn't immediately started exploring the arch of his ribs, her touch
as firm and clinical as a doctor's. She was curious, and all those anatomical
skeletons scattered around her room? That's what bodies were, to her.
Damn it. Another good image, and still, no notebook.
“Daria?” He had to clear his throat to speak. “Are you... cuddling?”
“Am I doing it right?” Her voice was muffled against his chest.
“I don't think there is a right way...”
“But you don't want me to.” She tensed, the prelude to rolling away, and Trent
couldn't get his fingers unlaced fast enough to get an arm around her and hold
her there, against him.
They were silent awhile. Been a long time since he held someone like this, or
was held like this. Weird. He hadn't even known he'd missed it.
This was better, less tense. He pet her shoulder, his string calluses snagging
on the weave of her sleeve, and he played with “weave” and “sleeve” through
“some kind of deve” and “pain to allieve,” until she mumbled, “Trent?”
“Mmm?”
Her cheek blazed hot, pressed against his chest. “Do you think you could kiss
me?”
He jerked in surprise, and she resignedly, rejectedly, sat upright, careful not
to touch him anymore.
His heart drummed. Shit, was he scared.
“Yeah, I want to, Daria,” he said, meeting her eyes; she only let him get away
with it because she didn't have her glasses on. “It's just not a good idea.”
“What's bad about it?” He'd never heard the brattiness that was her birthright
in her voice before, but just now, she'd sounded like a Morgendorffer. And if
he wanted an out, all he had to do was tell her that.
He propped himself up on his elbows. She hadn't jumped off the bed and rushed
away, which was good, cept now he was stuck explaining, and he sucked at
explanations. Where was Jane when you needed her?
He took a hit and used the exhale to center himself. He passed the pipe to her,
but he kept his eyes on the TV as she toked. Daria with a glass dick between
her lips, right now? He just wasn't pure enough, man, so sue him.
He muted the TV. Colored light flowed and burst in the black room, glittering
neon off tangled strands of her hair. The way her skin glowed made him wonder
how it would feel if he touched it.
Perhaps sick of the silence, Daria turned the stero on. Jane was still stuck on
Radiohead's “Kid A.” Ambient electronica throbbed from the speaker he was using
to prop up his head.
“You said you want to,” she said, as she settled back in. Damn. She wasn't
letting this go. Her low contralto almost got lost in the music.
“Yeah, I did, Daria,” he said, edgy. Alarmed by the way she scrunched up and
shut down, he took a deep breath and fixed his tone. “But, like, have you ever
watched those race-car crashes and thought, 'Fuck! *Why* is this a sport?'
Can't help thinking like that'd be us.”
“Mostly I think, *Explosions. Pretty.* But, umm.... Maybe I should explain.”
“Yeah, maybe.” After that failure, someone else explaining would be awesome.
“It's not like I'm not proposing marriage,” she said, “but, um—and this
shouldn't come as a shock, but... I like you.”
Trent felt honored and panicked in about equal measures, because this was
*Daria,* and she didn't give out confessions like candy from a pinata. No
notebook. Damn. Getting back to the point though, if he mishandled this, if he
got flip or weird on her, she'd never tell a guy her truth again.
“I like you too,” he said honestly. “I'm just not the guy. You know it.”
Her energy shifted. She was still embarrassed, but now she was arguing her
case, like she always did. “No, you're right. I don't see you taking me on
double-dates with Jane and Tom. You're not gonna be the one who packs me up to
go to college, and I don't expect to ever see you on campus. But why the hell
does one kiss have to topple all the dominos?”
“Let's go back to the race-car,” he said. “Like, once you get started, there's
this whole acceleration aspect.”
“I'm okay with that.”
She stared fixedly at the television and said, deceptively flat, “Better *now,*
with someone who actually makes me *feel* something, than with some random guy
in three years just because I'm bored.”
He coughed.
“Let me make sure I got this straight. You want to make out with me, and
whatever happens, happens. Which it might, because I want you.” He got stuck on
that, but he managed. His hearbeat felt like he was standing in the sound-cone
of some foundation-rattling bass. “You think you won't feel like this again any
time soon, and, no offense, but you seem to be in kind of a rush. That cover
everything?”
“You—want me?” she squeaked. She must be blushing all over, because she
radiated heat like a space heater.
“Thought we had that clear by now,” he said, a little thickly, distracted by
her warmth.
“Behold the impact of changing one word in a line.”
He exhaled. He needed to center. “Yeah. Well. Uh. It's kind of embarrassing.
For guys, I mean. We try to play it cool. Usually. But don't distract me,
Daria, I had a point.”
“I'm listening.”
“The point is: what's the big rush?”
“Why would you try and talk me out of something you just said you want? Unless
you're lying to me. Playing along to spare my feelings.”
Ouch. The fact that would even *occur* to her hurt him.
He said, “Hey, this is kind of a big deal. I don't want you to have any
regrets.”
“This is typical,” she said. “I must be the only girl on Earth who has to win
an argument to get a guy to kiss her.”
Aw, hell. He hurt her, and for what? He wanted to touch her. All of his
counterarguments were starting to sound really lame.
He sat up and pulled her back against him. She stiffened at first, then sagged
into the pressure. Her hair smelled of Suave shampoo when it tickled his nose;
he turned his head and sneezed.
“Bless you,” she said when he was done. “Hope that doesn't mean you're
allergic.”
He shifted her more onto his chest, handling her weight easily. Her breasts
brushed the top of his forearm every time she inhaled. “Kid A” concluded and,
in the silence left as it looped back to the beginning, he could hear the tiny
pops when the contrast on the tube changed suddenly.
VII.
“Hey, Trent?”
He woke from his doze. Maybe she'd drifted off, too; she was soft and boneless
all down his side, and that was good. The television was playing a music video
countdown; must be late.
She muttered, “Just what is your middle name anyway?”
He grinned down at her, raising an eyebrow. “I don't think I'll tell you,” he
said. “Might teach you some humility.”
“Humility is related to humiliation, and I can promise you I don't need any
more of that,” she said, tensing up. “I can't believe everything I said
tonight. It was the damn smoke. Just forget it, okay?”
If she really meant that, she'd've gotten up. Trent didn't move his arm, draped
across her stomach.
“We can forget it if you want,” he said, “but I'm not sorry we talked. If you
gotta bail, I understand.”
It took three videos, plus commercials, but finally, she relaxed again. He ran
his fingers along her arm and learned something: the way her skin felt made his
breath snag. It was beyond his abilities as a lyricist to describe: soft as
down feathers, but apparently hairless.
For her part, she went absolutely still, except for her heart, its pounding
visibly jarring the fabric of her shirt. He brushed her right nipple with the
pad of his thumb. The thin cloth slipped over the hard little knot, and they
both jolted.
Okay, then. All right. He consciously slowed his breathing and got his ass on-
stage. That's what he called it, anyway. “On-stage” was a state of mind he used
when he played live. He already knew he'd have a good time, so he could focus
totally on the audience: on her reactions to him.
Her first kiss. Better be a good one, or he'd have to punch himself in the
face. Gently he stroked her neck and jaw, urging her to angle her face toward
his. He palmed the back of her head to support it, her thick hair still damp
from her earlier shower.
The first taste of her was all smoky mint. On his second pass, she parted her
lips for him and he got more of her flavor. *Slow, slow,* he chanted silently.
He spent a long time teaching her to kiss, first because she had no clue and
then because it was fun. He parried her first clumsy tongue-thrusts, pulled
back and showed her the slow glides he liked. He tried different things on her,
learned how sharp-biting kisses made her grind and yank his hair, while slow,
teasing thrusts had her sagging against him and moaning.
Great song. He tried to turn the volume up.
He palmed her bare stomach beneath her shirt to trace the lowermost curves of
her tits as they brushed the side of his hand, but he didn't have the balls to
move any higher. She twisted up and straddled him; he found himself with two
handfuls, and he positioned a thigh for her to ride as he stroked the velvet
softness of her nipples underneath her shirt and kept right on kissing her—
Oh, *shit.*
He broke to give them both a chance to regain control. He was rattled by how
hot he found her—stoic Daria, all the time hiding this toy surprise. Guess
she'd finally found something to be greedy for. Him. For some damn reason.
Smug as that made him, didn't change the fact that she didn't know how fast
they were going, and he didn't know how to slow down.
While he was backstage trying to win this, she was sucking stinging open-
mouthed kisses up his neck, scraping along the rough stubble on his jaw, until
she reached his mouth. Her kiss was hesitant at first, but when he responded,
helpless not to, she pressed him into the mattress. He traced her spine and she
trembled.
Arousal almost flashed over into frustration. *He* was trying like hell to be a
good guy, while *she* felt free to nip him, pull his hair, hump against him
until the pressure made him shudder. He wouldn't, he *swore,* touch her til she
asked, but he slid his palms up her damp thighs, teased himself with her.
She rolled away and hid her face in her hands. “Oh God. I'm sorry.”
“What for?”
“Oh my God. I'm a cocktease. It's not fair to you.” It was almost funny in
Daria's monotone, but the volume let him know she was serious.
He moved her hair aside so he could nuzzle her neck. She wasn't just soft; she
smelled incredible. Of course, he was used to girls reeking of smoke, so, you
know, low bar.
“Is-so fair, because you feel the same way I do,” he rasped in her ear.
A long, rippling shiver ran all through her, and she gasped musically. Awesome
riff. He grinned and sucked her ear lobe, gave her a little bite, wanting to
hear that again.
She pressed him back again. It was her turn to touch his thighs, finger the
trail of hair below his navel, trace his hipbones—darting, glancing touches,
driving him nuts. She had to be able to feel the heat of his hard-on, straining
against the worn corduroy, but she wouldn't touch it. *Don't you dare beg,* he
warned himself. *Don't pressure her—*
He released her, reluctantly. “We should stop,” he said.
She hovered above him, frowning. “Why?”
“Because this is going too far,” he said. He gently urged her off him and sat
up, rubbing his forehead. “Turns out I can't be the good guy here. Sorry.”
She curled up beside him, hugging her knees, shaking a little. “Am I going too
fast?”
The innocence of her question broke him down laughing. He put a hand on her
shoulder to reassure her while he coughed and then got himself back under
control. When he could, he said, “This was just your first kiss, Daria, so
yeah... a little fast.”
“I know how fast this is for me. I'm me,” she said firmly. “I'm asking if it's
too fast for you.”
He blinked. “You're worried about me?”
She nodded. “Just because I asked for this doesn't obligate you to—”
“Christ, Daria. Stop right there.” He shook his head, laughing again. “None of
this is for poor, outcast you. What's happening here? Isn't pity. I'm losing my
mind because you, Daria, are exciting as hell.”
The TV blasted light in time for him to see her smile.
She said, “Look, Trent... I'm as surprised about this as you are, but... what
you said in the kitchen, about an honest feeling... I didn't understand it,
until tonight. It's like you've turned my brain off. Finally....”
He knew what she meant.
“So I don't want to stop. Unless you don't have a condom. Though the odds
against *you* not having a condom are astronomical.”
Was that her way of asking if he had condoms? Holy shit. Daria's virginity was
actually on the table. Under discussion. The way she talked, giving it to him
was a foregone conclusion. *Him.* Jesus. Never happened to him before. That was
way heavy, but life laid that shit on you sometimes.
He stood up.
“Where are you going?” Frustration made her edgy.
“Condoms,” he husked out. “In my room... and it'll keep Janie from interrupting
us when she gets back. If she ever does.” He frowned.
“Should we be worried yet?”
“We're bad people, Daria. It happens. Now c'mon.”
She took his hand.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Trent's door was weak on the latch, so she pulled it behind her until she heard
and felt it snick into place. Otherwise, she'd obsess over it swinging open at
the wrong moment, and she was already all topped up on panic.
*Here is Trent's room. I, Daria Morgendorffer, have entered it with the
intention of being naked and penetrated within. Oh my God.*
Her heart banged inside her chest so hard it hurt her throat.
Trent turned on his weaksauce 30-watt table lamp and glanced at her. His
eyebrows lowered. Something displeased him. She had time for five paranoid
fantasies before he started lighting the wicks of the bank of candles atop his
dresser.
He wanted to see her... better? What.
He set down the lighter with a too-loud snap. Someone needed to talk to God's
sound technicians; the levels were all screwed up. The candle-light glowed on
the line of his cheekbone, sent the shadows of his lashes spiking slantwise.
“Change your mind?” His voice was even huskier than usual. He looked away, his
throat working as he swallowed, one hand rising in a pointless gesture he
aborted halfway through. Vulnerable.
All she could do was gape at him. Though a guy's hard-on didn't immediately
bestow a girl with Sex Goddess status—unless tile laminate flooring and history
texts also qualified for the title—his hesitation meant this was about more
than his dick. He really wanted this.
She picked the safest path to him through the crap strewn all over the floor.
Thank God she'd grabbed her damn glasses; otherwise she might have killed
herself in this room, though that possibility wasn't off the table just yet.
Tonight could still result in suicide.
He bent and kissed her, and hey, presto, her shyness was gone, though her heart
still banged painfully in her chest. The deep hollow of his collarbone beneath
the sharp line of his Adam's Apple was like a little lair for her demons to
curl in. When she skimmed across his stomach to the gapped waistband of his
worn-out cords, he swayed and kissed her again.
That really wasn't fair, the kissing. The white noise it caused in her brain
erased any attempt at thought, any anticipation of regret.
When she tugged on the hem of his t-shirt, he took the hint and whipped it off,
expression uneasy as he watched her reaction to him.
And just what the hell did *he* have to worry about? He was beautiful, all bone
and sinew. The flat muscles of his waist tightened like clenched fists beneath
her palms. She was shaken by her awareness of him: the space his body took up,
his ragged breathing, the way his pulse jarred his body. Like her, but separate
from her. She wasn't the only one he'd ever kissed. He had scars she'd never
know the reasons for. She'd never, ever understand him, but they could share
this: their bodies, a messy room, an unreliable lock.
She kissed him, tasted him, all smoke and candy. It was a slow kiss—a
*detailed* kiss, as though he were tutoring her for the final exam on kissing.
If only he could apply that amount of focus to anything else in life. If only
there was a non-exploitative way to get paid for kissing. He'd be set.
The air was sweltering, but it felt cool on her sweaty skin as he pulled her
big t-shirt off.
She took an unsteady step back as her heart slammed an irregular tattoo. Once
he got a good look at her, any second now, he'd hand over her shirt and turn
away. She anxiously flexed her toes inside her socks, plucking at the harsh nap
of the dirty carpet.
“Looks good, Daria.” His voice was thick, like he needed to clear his throat.
She glanced up at him. He half-smiled at her, his eyes heavy-lidded, gazing
steadily into hers.
He reached up and took her glasses off, carefully folded the arms and set them
down on the dresser where the candlewax wouldn't drip. “That's to level the
playing field,” he said.
“How does that level anythi—” Because from where she stood, he could see her
just fine and she couldn't see jack-shit, so how was that level? He interrupted
her with a swift, biting kiss. Definitely a “shut up” kiss.
“Wanna lie down?” he asked.
“Assuming a lot, aren't you?” She could slap herself. Sarcasm was always her
go-to, but it couldn't be more inappropriate—and wrong—than now. Panic, like
the curved and crested wave in that Japanese print Jane had hanging in her
room. She headed it off by grabbing him, kissing him, pulling him onto his bed.
Hope that answered his question.
She got lost, and he did too, and that was the most astounding thing. Kissing,
touching. His hands skidding up her torso to cup her breasts again, callused
fingertips stinging on her nipples. His tongue in her mouth made her gasp. Her
fingers on the back of his neck checked for chips or electrodes or... or
scales, or something. Because this *was* Trent, right? Lackadaisacal, half-
asleep Trent? They were on their sides, facing each other, but his erection
nudged her stomach and there was nothing lazy in his kisses.
Well, then. All right. She'd asked for it and she'd got it. This savage ache
shot all through her, (through them both), this blindness to tomorrow, if
that's what Quinn already knew and owned, if this was “normal” .... she'd go
with it.
Sometimes, out with Jane after midnight, wandering the deserted streets of
Lawndale, she felt a sense of wildness and freedom. As they strolled past all
those closed doors and darkened windows, the people within sleeping, dreaming,
and above all, not watching her, she slipped the leash of her own insecurity
and became something dark, something powerful. That was when she danced. That
was when she screamed.
That same sensation thrilled through her now, in Trent's dimly lit room, as she
palmed his erection through the hot damp cloth of his worn old pants and he
kicked his head back and groaned her name.
Yes. That was what she'd wanted. Her name in his mouth was as exciting as his
tongue in her own.
And beneath her palm: hot, stiff flesh. The first cock she'd ever touched. She
read the shaft through the cloth, her fingers rolling over the head, dipping
beneath the waistband to pet the wet tip, surprisingly soft and velvety. His
moan staggered out of him, rising, falling, with an edge of disbelief for her
boldness. Too bad. He didn't really know her, after all, and that was fine; in
fact, that was perfect. She wouldn't be able to stand the closeness if he knew
her mind as well as he was about to know her body.
She undid the button of his fly, and then his fingers were there, stumbling in
their eagerness to pull down his zipper. His teeth scraped her neck as he
gasped, shuddering; he muttered a curse and fought to get his pants off.
“You can touch me if you want,” she said in his ear, quoting Garbage, and she
was rewarded by his choked chuckle, and then, his hand pressing between her
legs. She spread for him.
The world went pink and orange, like dawn breaking. She couldn't think. He'd
pulled down her boxers, and his fingers were on her, in her, long and agile and
sensitive, but he moved wrong as often as he moved right, so that wasn't it.
She shifted her hips, trying to educate him to her rhythm, primitive instinct
taking over for her own lack of experience. It was just the fact of him
stroking her, learning to play her, that make her choke for air. His total
attention focused on her.
He pulled her boxers off. She heard them snap against the wall and thump to the
floor. Then he was on top of her, and she lost what little breath remained to
her as he lifted her thighs and positioned himself between them. Naked and
defenseless, both of them.
“No going back.”
He spoke in her ear and she shivered.
“Better be sure.”
What a thing to say. If she thought hard enough, she could make herself doubt
the existence of gravity. Of course she could make herself doubt this. She
kissed him hard and arched against him, shifted her pelvis so he could press in
if he wanted, silently insisting on her course of action.
He coughed.
“All right,” he said. She felt him stretch, his muscles tight as rubber bands,
and then the sound of foil tearing and then an unfamiliar smell, medicinal,
hospital, unwelcome. She crinkled her nose, but it was just the condom, bland
rubber and water-based lube. He rolled it on, his hands working in the light
which only grew dimmer as the candles guttered and died.
Another jolt of panic, this one unexpected, turned her to iron beneath him. No
going back. Right. This was *Trent.* Did she mean this? What would happen
tomorrow?
But she ached all over, like a fever, and she shook with excitement and the
thrill of the unknown, and yeah, fear too; but all this upheaval was
inevitable, just something to get past. If not Trent, then whom? And when? Some
random guy in three years, because she was bored? No. This night was for
herself.
She took a deep breath. “Trent.... yes.”
It was all he needed. He positioned himself. Her thighs gripped his narrow
hips; she tilted and arched her back, understanding the silent commands he gave
with his touch.
First pleasure, then pain. The books didn't talk about this. The pain was sharp
and thin, like a skinned knee: the spoiled whine of a minor injury, commanding
attention, but not concern. Her indrawn breath whistled between her teeth, and
he froze at the most uncomfortable point, stretching her.
“Move,” she ordered, and rolled her hips in case he missed her point.
He grunted, grimacing. This didn't seem to be hitting him quite right, either,
but she had nothing to spare for him as she waited, poised and tense, for the
cellophane inside her to tear.
He gathered her again and collected himself—she felt him tighten—and then drove
in.
The pain spiked—serious now, and stabbing. He muttered apologies she didn't
listen to, but just as she was about to cry out, give up, abandon this
experiment, the pain disappeared—blew away like cobwebs, replaced by the aching
awareness of him inside her, connected, hard and pulsing.
It was like a lot of things. The writer in her scribbled mad similes she didn't
bother to remember. Mostly, satisfaction. Deep down she sighed, contented in a
way that didn't bear looking at too closely, by having him inside her, both of
them holding still, breathing together as they adjusted. His weight on her, his
narrow body in her arms, his knobbly, hairy legs tangled with hers.
He struggled with himself. Long ripples shuddered down his spine. She pet him,
tried to smooth whatever it was away; it was so weird, feeling him care enough
to be troubled, especially since she didn't know what the hell his problem was.
His ragged voice snagged her like a fish-hook. “Sorry, Daria.”
“Shut up,” she said, but he shook his head and then kissed her again, the
curved thorns of his spiky hair prickling rough on her palm. He started to
move, breathing against her mouth, holding her hips against him so his full
length stroked inside her. There was a beat there, primitive and drumming like
a heartbeat. She realized she could match it, so she did, and his breath broke
into a groan.
As they moved together, the last bit of stinging faded. His back flexed as he
worked, sweat making his skin slippery. Daria felt split in two. Half of her
observed this really was every bit as silly as she'd ever imagined it'd be. The
other half was awash in every pastel emotion that had ever made her sneer: his
casual strength as he adjusted the angle of her hips; his fragility as he
trembled, waiting for her to adapt to the increased depth of his angle. All of
it silent except for their broken breathing and half-voiced sighs.
So many romance novel cliches were being illustrated tonight, in the hot length
of him inside her and the spiralling intensity of it all. A coil of wire wound
tighter and tighter at the base of her spine, twanging through the network of
nerves in her pelvis and thighs. Every bit of her attention *there,* and she'd
be embarrassed if she weren't so certain Trent were in the exact same senseless
state.
She gulped for air between his kisses, which were growing increasingly
disorganized and rough. He broke from her to press his forehead to her
shoulder, gasping. It was so hot in this summer night. Their combined scent was
animal and heavy and she was amazed to find she liked it—she, who couldn't
stand the sight of bare feet, who winced when the gloves came out in science
class, who couldn't even handle stuffing a turkey for Thanksgiving. She sucked
a glowing kiss into his neck and shuddered like an electric shock when he
groaned.
“I—can't—” he muttered.
“It's okay,” she said, not knowing what he meant, not caring. He shifted once
again, and, like magic, it all became effortless, like flying in a dream—she
rippled against him, liquid and frictionless, feeling nothing but her own
spiral of need soaring upwards. Something she wanted. Something she wanted. She
was about to have it. She, who so rarely allowed herself to want anything,
drove for it, dove into it, permitted herself. This night was for her. A middle
finger to her parents, who wanted her to date a quarterback. A spit in the eye
to her sister, who maybe experienced something like this with her vanilla Wall
Street boyfriend, but probably not. Because this? She couldn't imagine anyone
else feeling anything like this. The romance novels didn't go near it.
He drove into her, irregular, his motions crabbed and moth-eaten, his teeth on
her shoulder as he bit down. She bowed up against him, the crown of her head
hard against his pillow, silently screaming to the ceiling. The dying
candlelight playing there turned into a giant glowing mushroom cloud.
II.
The Mary Janes still slumped on the top shelf of the fridge.
Daria stared at them a long time, the cold air making her sore nipples peak and
sting. Behind her Trent did something involving clattering sounds and running
water.
“Whoa, Trent! Were you wearing a seatbelt?”
Jane's voice snapped her back to reality, and she slammed the fridge and put
her back to it, feeling guilty without knowing why.
Jane stood in the doorway to the kitchen, grinning. She was looking at Trent,
who carried on making coffee without acknowledging his little sister. For the
first time, Daria noticed his neck, almost black with hickies.
Oops.
Chapter End Notes
     I should have just kept this in Trent's POV, but I couldn't face
     writing penetrative sex from the male gaze. Also, I did a binge-watch
     of My So-Called Life and had Angela Chase all up in my head. I dunno.
     Sorry, basically. That's that, folks.
End Notes
     The result of a week's worth of bingeing 90's nostalgia (Kurt,
     Daria). Uploaded incomplete so I can read it at work, so, eh, there's
     a second chapter coming at some point.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!