Author's Note: I don't know. I got nothing. This is wayward, bland, useless, disjointed, hollow crap. Femslash and whatnot.

"...I want to ask her what those markings on her hands mean. I think they're called henna, but I'm not really an expert. Maybe I'll ask Viktor. He's been to India. She has sisters too. I wonder if they're as hot as she is—"

Debrah effectively silences Marcese with a finger to her lips. "Stop. You've been talking about Pyria all night."

"Her name's Priya," Marcese rolls over onto her back and frowns up at Debrah. "What are you jealous for? You don't care about me."

"No, but I still didn't come all the way here to listen to you go on and on about some other girl." Coral-touched cobalt flashes with irritation under the forest of mascara enhanced lashes.

"Then what did you come here for?" She sits up and brings her knees to her chest, a sigh dropping from her lips. A part of her wishes she could make Debrah jealous. Being in love with someone who cares more about their new laced jeans than you is a painful thing at times.

"I was around." A shrug. "And I missed you, I guess." Debrah reaches out and ruffles her hand through Marcese's short, choppy tresses.

"You missed me," Marcese repeats flatly. Because if she didn't know better it'd be things like this to pump her full of false hope and dreams bound to bust.

"Aren't you happy to see me?" Debrah draws her hand back and crosses her arms over her chest, shiny fuchsia lips pooched out in a pout.

"You know I am." Marcese leans into her space and buries her face in the crook of Debrah's neck. She inhales the scent of her skin and tastes raspberry body splash, feels the rhythm of her pulse under her eyelid.

Debrah hums, pleased, and loosely wraps her arms around her and leans closer. Her lips skim the shell of her ear and the voice of butterfly wings and poison apples whispers thickly, "I came here for something else too."

Marcese shudders, heat chasing away all the lingering feelings of hurt. Because even though she isn't needed, even though she isn't something precious, she is wanted and she is something fun, which means she is something, at least.

Something to Debrah is better than a nothing to be forgotten.

She opens her mouth against Debrah's neck and suckles as her fingers make swift work of the zipper.

Debrah quivers and rises on her knees slightly, digging her nails into Marcese's back.

"Make me bleed," Marcese breathes as she wetly mouths down to her collarbone and works her fingers inside. "Make me bleed, you owe me that much."

"Fair enough. G-God, Marce!"

ღ

Debrah's promises are sometimes jokes, sometimes distorted to mean something else entirely, and rarely kept in earnest.

Tonight they are kept and Marcese leaks blood pleasantly from the scratches on her back to the bite marks on the insides of her thighs.

Debrah sprawls against her lazily, chestnut mane tossed back over her shoulder in sweaty tangles. Her lipstick is smeared around her grinning lips and she playfully tweaks at Marcese's hemp-shaped bellybutton ring.

Marcese watches her, head tipped to the side, subdued as the last of the adrenaline works its way out of her veins.

"Are you still thinking about that girl?" Debrah asks.

"If I say yes are you going to yank my ring out?"

Debrah snorts. "You know I only use violence when I think it fits."

"Nope." Marcese gently collects the sheets in her fists. Her cuts sting sweetly. "I'm thinking about you. And trying not to think about how you're going to leave me in the morning."

"I'm not going to leave you in the morning." Debrah gives her ring a last little tug and then abandons it entirely, raising herself on her elbows and propping her chin in her hands.

"You're not?" Marcese gazes at her doubtfully.

"No. I'm leaving you in a few hours. I'm catching up with Steven and the band at midnight."

"Of course you are." Marcese smiles as her heart is again shredded by Debrah's scissors. "Are you cheating on your drummer with me? Am I the other girl this time?"

"Nah. After it got so sticky last time I don't date my band members anymore."

"That's probably smart."

"It'd probably be smart of you to stop opening the door when I come over." Debrah smirks wryly.

"I guess I'm not smart." Marcese leans over and presses a kiss to her shoulder.

"You're something," Debrah says, idle interest coloring her tone. "Not smart, but something."

"I know. And that's why you're gonna come back the next time you're bored, right?"

"Yep." Debrah sits up and captures her lips in a kiss.