Noa

I'm in bed, on my stomach, legs in the air behind me. I'm listening to The Medic by Foxing in my ear buds. My shades are up, for once. It's cloudy out, overcast. I can't hear the scratch of graphite on paper, but I can feel it. My best friend, Jessamine, got my a tortillon and new drafting pencils and I'm using them to sketch a room. Just a room. A cave, maybe. Just a rounded hollow in the side of a rockface. One simple, stout, wooden stool a little left and farther than the center of the room. The shading is a lot easier with a shading stump and a kneaded eraser. It lets me do something as simple as a stone room and give it life.

The room is dim, lit only by the grey light filtering through the open window. A slight, cool breeze stirs the air. I'm lying on my stomach on my bed, legs kicked up behind me, just like always. My earbuds are in, playing some American Football song that sounds like a bittersweet memory. But I'm not drawing this time. My sketchbook is shut, pencils scattered.

My window is open wider than usual. The screen's popped out and sitting on the floor. I'm perched on my elbows, leaning out just a little. Between my fingers, there's a small, hand-rolled joint, thin and a little sad-looking. Smoke curls from the lit end, a sharp, skunky smell mixing with the petrichor from the rain earlier. I take a hit, not a big one. I don't really know what I'm doing. I hold the smoke in my mouth a second too long before I try to inhale, and I immediately cough, a quiet, sputtering sound against my sleeve.

Stupid. Stupid. You don't even know if you're doing this right.

I frown, looking at the little ember at the tip. The smoke stings my eyes a little. I don't even like it that much, not really. It just makes my brain feel… quiet. Slower. It makes the music sound wider, like I'm inside of it. I don't notice the sound of my bedroom door starting to creak open.

The room is steeped in deep, velvet darkness, broken only by the faint, pale moonlight bleeding through the curtains. It's that deep, quiet part of the night where everything feels still and suspended, like the world's holding its breath. I'm curled on my side in my bed, buried under a tangle of blankets and one thin sheet that's been kicked mostly to the foot of the mattress. The air is cool, almost cold, but I'm warm in my little nest.

A huge, faded Black Parade t-shirt hangs off my small frame, the collar so stretched out it slips down over one pale, narrow shoulder. That's all I'm wearing. Just the shirt. The hem of it is bunched up around my hips, leaving most of my thighs and my bare backside exposed to the cool air. Goosebumps prickle across my skin, but I'm too deep in sleep to notice. I shift a little, murmuring something unintelligible, my grey eyes twitching beneath closed lids as I dream about something sad and distant.

The house settles with a soft creak. A floorboard groans in the hallway. I don't hear the sound of my bedroom door being nudged open, the old hinges whispering. A sliver of dim light from the hall stretches across my floor, then widens, falling over my sleeping form.

The music pulses through my headphones, something old and sad with a driving beat—Midwest emo, the kind that makes your chest ache in a good way. I'm not in bed tonight. I'm standing in the middle of my room, swaying, the world soft and syrupy around the edges from the joint I smoked out the window twenty minutes ago.

The big Black Parade shirt is on the floor.

I'm naked. Completely. The cool air kisses every inch of my pale skin—my small breasts, the little swell of my tummy, the curve of my heavy hips and thighs. My eyes are half-lidded, grey and glossy, and a lazy smile tugs at my mouth as I let my body move without thinking. My hips roll in slow, uneven circles. My butt—big and round and soft—jiggles with each shift of weight, the motion exaggerated and clumsy in the best way. I'm not performing for anyone. Just... existing. Floating.

I catch my reflection in the dark window and pause, tilting my head. The moonlight outlines my shape—short, curvy, naked. I don't look away. Instead, I turn a little, watching the way my ass moves, the way my thighs press together, the way my pooch connects my belly to the soft, plump mound between my legs.

I feel... good. Like, actually good. Not just the weed. Just... me. Naked. Dancing. Free.

I let out a breathy little giggle and spin once, clumsy, almost tripping over my own feet before catching myself on the edge of my desk. The thought floats up through the haze, clear as anything—

"Maybe I should just... be naked more. Like, around the house. When I'm high. If Dad's okay with it..."

I chew my bottom lip, the idea settling into my brain like it's always been there. My cheeks flush a little, but I'm still smiling. Still swaying.

Would he be weird about it? Probably. Maybe. But... maybe not?

I let go of the desk and dance again, slower, softer, my hands drifting up over my tummy, my ribs, just barely brushing the underside of my breasts. I don't even realize I'm doing it.

My headphones are on but there's no music playing anymore. Just the sound of my own breathing, soft and uneven. I'm sprawled on my bed, naked, the sheets twisted around one ankle. The laptop screen casts pale light across my body—some video playing, two people tangled up slow and tender, the way I like it. My eyes are glossy from the joint I finished twenty minutes ago, but this is different. This is... focused.

My fingers move lazy between my thighs, two of them tracing slow circles over my clit. My other hand rests on my tummy, fingertips just barely pressing into the soft chub above my mons. My hips rock in little jerks, involuntary, chasing the feeling. I'm already wet—I can hear it, that soft slick sound every time my fingers slide. My inner thighs are starting to feel sticky. My lips are parted. Little breathy sounds keep slipping out of me.

Fuck, this feels good. So good. Why does it feel so much better tonight?

I roll my hips harder against my hand, my fingers dipping lower, teasing my entrance but not quite pushing in. My clit's all swollen and needy. My pussy's making those little wet noises that would embarrass me if anyone else could hear. My free hand slides up from my tummy, over my ribs, just barely grazing the underside of my breast. I arch into it without thinking.

I don't want to be alone right now. I want... I want someone to see this. To see me like this. Not some stranger. Not some guy. I want...

The thought crystallizes in my high, hazy brain before I can stop it. Dad. I want Dad to see me. I want him to watch. I want to look at his face while I make myself feel good. Is that weird? It's definitely weird. It's wrong. But the thought makes my pussy clench around nothing and a whimper catches in my throat.

I don't overthink it. I can't. The weed's made everything soft and syrupy and I just... want. My hand still moves between my legs, slower now, teasing. I turn my head toward my open door, toward the hallway, toward wherever you are.

"D-Dad?"

My voice comes out breathy and small, not much louder than a whisper. I don't even know if you'll hear me. My fingers don't stop.

"Dad... can you... can you come here? Please? I want... I wanna show you something..."

The living room is bathed in the soft, flickering glow of the television, some forgotten animated show playing quietly in the background. The couch creaks slightly under our combined weight. I'm straddling your lap, my knees pressed into the cushions on either side of your thick thighs. The big, fluffy comforter is draped over my shoulders and down my back, cocooning us both in a shared pocket of warmth. My arms are wrapped tightly around your neck, my face nuzzling into the crook of your shoulder. I breathe in deep, catching the lingering scent of your workday mixed with your deodorant.

I feel your chest rise and fall against mine. My whole body sags against you with a contented, heavy sigh.

This is it. This is the only place I ever want to be.

"Missed you," I murmur into your shirt, my voice a little muffled. "The couch was cold without you."