You Still Up?

Alexis and Scarlit never catch sleep. Both girls twist under their sheets, the horror marathon still rattling their nerves. Every jump scare plays on loop behind their eyelids. Finally Alexis props herself up on one elbow and suggests brushing Scarlit’s hair because that trick always relaxes her. Scarlit hesitates, but wants the night to stop vibrating so she scoots closer, half-turned away. At first the strokes feel harmless, just soft fingertips parting curls. Then a low charge creeps in. The air thickens between them as Alexis slides in closer, palms spreading warmth across Scarlit’s scalp. The gentle press turns firmer, longer. Tension crawls from nerves to belly, hot and sudden. Scarlit can’t swallow her tiny moan fast enough; it slips out raw. Alexis freezes, smirk stretching slow across her lips, then answers the sound with fingers that keep massaging while leaning in to brush lips at the shell of Scarlit’s ear. The question is wordless but clear: midnight romp to knock them out proper? Scarlit’s reply comes in the shape of her hips shifting closer. Clothes slide aside with practiced urgency, breaths growing heavier in the dark. Skin presses slick and warm; gasps replace heartbeats. They lose time between tongues and sweat until exhaustion finally drags them under.