Author's Note: More plotless, pointless random crap. Rating is for pervy things. Disjointed writing. My punctuation is subpar on average, but in some places here it's intentionally atrocious. Title is from System of a Down.
Her voice was lovely.
Alexy had found it plain, "nothing special." Melody had found it worthy to listen to only because they were friends. Amber had found it unpalatable, "like a dying goat." Lysander had found it lacking and said nothing else on the subject.
Marcese knew they were wrong, all of them. Debrah's voice was lovely. Her singing was as captivating as any siren's, every lyric flowing past her lips as naturally as streams carried around every curve, every dip, every rock or low-hanging tree branch. Every moan she uttered in bed was an elegant noise to behold, no matter how breathless or ragged and Marcese would do everything in her power to push another from Debrah's throat until every last one was exhausted from her and she flopped down slack and heaving on the bed.
Even after, the simple sounds of her breathing were beautiful. Marcese would hang onto them, closing her eyes to blot everything else out until the pants eased into even inhales and exhales.
No, not lovely. Debrah's voice was more than lovely. Amazing, perhaps. Magnificent. If all three of those words would intertwine and produce an onomatopoeia, that would be Debrah's voice.
She was born to be a singer. No one with a voice as marvelously indescribable as that was meant to be anything but. She dreams of fame. She dreams of her singing carrying her to the top and being raved over by the world. Marcese smiles tenderly at that dream, smiles tenderly and whispers encouragement in a voice never meant for such a thing against Debrah's naked neck, as her fingers curl around and toy with sweaty chestnut tresses.
Dreams always die before the dreamers. Because dreamers dream before they taste reality. Then they get a full, whooping dose of it and the dreams crumble away, forsaken for more reasonable goals. The child realizes the sheer improbability of becoming an astronaut, so the adult becomes an accountant.
But Debrah is certain she'll make her dream the reality. She'll do whatever she has to do to make it come true, even if that means using her (ex)boyfriend as a pawn, as disposable fodder. Even if it means lying through the skin of her teeth and destroying the reputations of good-intentioned bystanders. Even if that means Marcese herself will be dropped and forgotten like a Cheerio that didn't make it to the bowl the moment it's time for Debrah to tour again.
And Debrah won't feel a shred of regret about any of it, because other people are unimportant in the face of achieving her dream. Their feelings are collateral damage and only hold enough significance to bat an eyelash at and move on.
Marcese can't hold it any of it against her, really. Not her intimidation tactics. Not her manipulative wiles. Not her disregard for others.
Because she does it all to nurture the pale flame of a dream. She does it all to make something of herself.
Marcese's morality doesn't have any input whatsoever, so perhaps she's more than a bit ashamed. But that's wherein lies her only issue with Debrah's selfishness. She's envious of her, because she knows she can never be as selfish as that. She's conceited in tiny, needle like ways (as most are). She's not the hardcore, confident, narcissist Debrah is. She can't chase after her dreams with an iron fist and a total lack of heed. She's too weak.
So she snuggles up closer, breasts pushing into Debrah's back as she holds onto the sleeping singer for as long as she has her. Under her sleepy breath, she murmurs wishes of good luck into the shell of Debrah's ear. That it all pays off for her, even though that's probably the last thing she deserves. And maybe, just maybe, if she clings on tight enough, some of Debrah's ruthless drive will rub off on her.