Chapter Text
“Uughghghhhh!”
Clare lets out a long, frustrated groan as she sinks lower in between the couch cushions. She’s drunk, as she usually is after a show. The flickering pixels on the TV glow on her face but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her focus is rapidly approaching her aching clit, the long fingers of her right hand slinking across her bare thigh and towards her target with growing desperation. A small, pathetic moan slips out as the pad of her middle finger makes rough contact with the throbbing between her legs, and Clare throws her head back in pleasure. She must look a sight like this, with her legs spread wide, her tight skirt hiked up as far as it can go, and her heels clacking noisily against the coffee table while she rubs her clit with reckless abandon. Her left hand clutches a bottle tightly, her knuckles white against the glass as her pleasure mounts higher and higher.
“F-fuck!” She pants like a dog in heat. Clare knows if she could see herself right now she would probably die of embarrassment, but right now she doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. All she can think about is how badly she needs to come.
The game show contestants on her TV screen start to clap and cheer, and if Clare was actually paying attention she might find some irony in it. Her eyes are scrunched shut as she slams the liquor bottle onto the side table recklessly, her left hand sliding up and down her body and wishing it was somebody else, anybody else.
A short, stupid girl with black hair flashes through her mind and Clare huffs at the thought, immediately shoving it away.
The applause on her screen fades into focus and it reminds her of the show earlier that night. She bites her lip, remembering how good it felt to be adored by so many fans, and the finger circling her clit starts to move faster. All those strangers’ eyes on her, most not even bothering to hide how badly they want her. She relishes in the memory of that room full of strangers eye-fucking her, scanning up and down her body in those uncomfortably feminine clothes she always wears for a show, knowing that it always gets her attention. She looked so hot tonight, and she knows it.
But the lust of the fans in front of the stage vanishes and suddenly Clare’s mind is filled with all the little glimpses she shared with Ena during the show. Mostly little cues for the next song, or friendly gestures to her fellow band members for the audience’s sake. After all, they can’t know she despises her bandmates. Well, not all of them.
Clare sighs as her mind paints a clear picture of Renee, standing somewhere behind and to the left of Clare during the show, strumming her guitar and shooting her that encouraging smile like she always does. Clare's left hand reaches up to pull her blouse aside enough to grab roughly at her breast, pinching and twisting her hard nipple, groaning at the intoxicating mixture of pain and pleasure.
And yet, Renee’s image fades all too soon and Ena appears again, much to Clare’s dismay. Her eyes still tightly shut, Clare can remember all too clearly those little glances at Ena throughout the set. She desperately wishes she couldn’t. Those dark eyes shining under the stage lights, practically shimmering in such an annoyingly pretty way as she plucks at her bass in time with the band. Clare tries (and fails) to suppress a moan at the mental image of those rough, calloused fingers playing that stupid bass, and she can hardly help herself from moaning that stupid name. Then her mental image changes and suddenly Clare’s soaking pussy replaces Ena’s bass, and Clare can’t help but cry out in desperation as she imagines Ena’s fingers playing with the soft, wet folds around her clit, spreading them open teasingly and sticking the tip of her tongue out of her mouth playfully in that stupid cocky way that Clare hates so much.
And yet, it’s the closest she’s gotten to an orgasm all night.
“Fuck!” She yells again, removing her fingers from her dripping cunt and flopping sideways onto the couch in frustration. It figures, she thinks through a drunken haze, that the only person who can make her feel this good is the girl at the very top of her “I want to punch your lights out” list. She curls into a pitiful little ball on her side, and what remains of her makeup smudges against the couch cushion. She curses and makes a hazy mental note to scrub out the stain tomorrow. Tonight is for wallowing, as most nights usually are.
For a while she had a pretty good routine going: get dressed for the show, warm up her voice, take shots, seethe in the bathroom until she can manifest her sexy, carefree stage persona, sing her heart out in a stuffy bar full of horny fans, go home and get more drunk, touch herself until she comes so hard she passes out, rinse and repeat. Then Ena had to show up and ruin everything. And now, Clare thinks despairingly, she can’t get herself off because that stupid bitch had to be so good at using those stupid fingers and that stupid mouth. Fuck her.
Her eyes drift over to the cell phone on her coffee table. The game show host on the TV nearby exclaims, “Well that’s a new one!”
And Clare gets a really, really bad idea.
The worst idea.
Clare slowly sits up, left hand reaching for the TV remote. The game show fades into black and she returns the remote to its spot on the side table. She blinks slowly. She can almost hear her own voice screaming at her from the back of her mind. “Don’t do this, you fucking idiot! Do you hear me? Don’t you dare!”
Clare lets out a long breath. “Shut up.” She says aloud to herself, mentally caging the sane Clare in her head because, well, god forbid a drunk, horny girl make a bad decision once in a while.
She slowly picks up the phone, the shrill “beep-beep” of each button press echoing throughout the otherwise-quiet living room. Her fingers still as a contact shows up on the tiny screen: Ena (temporary bassist).
Several moments of complete silence pass before Clare takes the plunge. She hastily taps the call button, and then she waits.