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elasticella's fresh femslash salad bar event - specifically for the prompt/salad "11:11, oomori seiko (himegoto)" on my table.date posted: 2024-02-25
summary: Tara and Raven both have wishes.
word count: 1,132 words
content warnings: mentions of past canon rape. this is suggestive but nothing explicit, just awkward sexual situations with baggage
notes: written for elasticella's fresh femslash salad bar event - specifically for the prompt/salad "11:11, oomori seiko (himegoto)" on my table.
They have to look ridiculous right now: laying side by side, staring away from each other at the walls, or whatever weird shit Raven has in her room, like the weird trinkets and jewels she has gathered on her nightstand, nothing normal besides a clock that tells her it's 11 o'clock. They aren't doing anything. They haven't done anything yet. It's stupid. This is stupid, she thinks.
"So are we going to fuck or what?" Tara says, impulsively, and glances over her shoulder, sees Raven toying anxiously with the edge of her bedding. Her hair looks only slightly dishelved, and not at all by the sex Tara was hoping they'd have - unkempt just from shifting against the bed, under the covers, as Tara felt her do, without sparing a glance. Tara's laying atop the covers, almost feeling like she's trapping Raven underneath.
That's what she does, though, right? She traps people into these situations. It's just in her nature. She seduces, the only thing she has, and it always ends with her on her back on a bed, or the rock-hard, stony floor, or anywhere he wanted, because ultimately, she asked for it, didn’t she?
She turns her head back, away from Raven and her too-nice hair and no-word responses, and her eyes meet the clock. 11:11.
“Heh,” she chuckles, mostly to herself.
But:
“What?” Tara hears Raven rasp out. “What are you laughing about?” she hears.
Tara blinks twice.
“It’s 11:11. Make a wish,” Tara says, sarcastic.
“What does that mean?” Raven asks, curious. Is she serious, Tara thinks?
She says as much. Regrettably, she turns over in bed, facing Raven’s back and her half-tangled hair and stony, bony facade. Someone has gotta get the girl to eat more. Fuck if it’ll be me, Tara thinks. Like she has to stoop so low as to help the witch girl who ruined their plans that day. Fucking is one thing; helping is another.
Too personal.
She feels Raven shifting in bed, shrugging up her shoulders to gain traction, then sees her flip over like Tara did, facing her. Staring at her. It’s awkward.
Tara breaks the brief silence. “You make a wish at 11:11. It’s like, a tradition, or something,” Tara says noncommittally.
Raven blinks at her. Tara tries not to become aware of her own blinking. It’s awkward.
She wishes they just got to the fucking straight away, played out the movie fantasy of being so horny you’re stumbling over each other to get to the bedroom, slipping out of clothes and tossing them on the floor in a horny haze, until you’re on your back and the other takes what they want from you.
But no. Raven and Tara, after all the Titans had gone to their rooms, had walked delicately to Raven’s door, and Raven’s hand briefly touched hers as she moved to open the door, and Tara thinks it’d be almost romantic, if they didn’t still hate each other a little bit. They’re getting somewhere. Donna would be proud of their progress, that they can be in a bed together, thinking about having sex, even, without erupting into a one-sided, angry war on Tara’s side.
Because Raven was always so put together. Something always threatened to bubble up, which excited Tara the most; finally, some real action from the mysterious witch girl. But no. Meditation and suspicion is what she got, until that fateful day, until she betrayed the Titans and they still welcomed her back into their arms after everything fell apart with Slade.
In her eyes, Raven’s eyes, all Tara sees is genuine curiosity, bright-eyed fascination, and it just about disgusts her.
“Here’s my wish,” Tara says, abruptly, looking into Raven’s starry eyes. “I wish we would get over ourselves and fuck already.”
Raven seems to flinch at the word “fuck,” and Tara, unfortunately, shamefully, finds it a little cute. It’s irritating. She never listens to herself. Why is she even here? Why does she even bother?
Tara sighs. Raven looks away.
“You know,” Tara starts, impulsively, “you’d have finally understood everything about me, if we just stuck to the plan,” she says. Raven narrows her eyes at her.
“What do you mean, ‘plan’?” Raven says, suspicious. Tara abruptly sits up, rage filling her like a thermometer spiking.
“As in fucking, not whatever traitor shit you still have in your head,” she says, angry. “God, you Titans talk a big game about trusting everyone, about trusting me, when you still treat me with kid gloves.”
“We have a right to be suspicious. We still want to trust you,” Raven says, her expression stony. It enrages Tara, how calm she can keep herself, when Tara knows full well what is curdling under the surface, just about ready to burst out.
It’s inevitable. She’s seen it firsthand, when that rage comes out.
She’s felt it, from him. And she deserved every second of it.
“I have a wish,” Raven says. Tara scoffs.
“We’re well past 11:11,” she starts, shifting her leg off the bed, ready to leave, “and it’s not like the wishes even matter, it’s just a pathetic tradition for idiots and–“
“I wish you would love me,” Raven says, and Tara feels like all the breath is sucked out of her.
She stops in her place, head and legs turned away from Raven, but she, pathetically, glances at Raven to the side, sees her pleading, vulnerable, pathetic eyes, and Tara wants to crush her for that, but more than anything, she wants to crush herself, for slipping into this situation, for getting into this at all.
They stare at each other, for a moment, awkwardly, stupidly, until Tara, shakily, gets off the bed, and walks to the door in the dark.
Her hand brushes the door knob when she hears Raven say “I’m sorry,” and she’s halfway out the door, the dim hallway lights still bright enough to make her squint, when she hears Raven again.
“I meant it,” Raven says, reluctant and quiet.
Tara turns around and just barely doesn’t close the door, just barely doesn’t look Raven in the eye as she does so, just barely doesn’t even spare so much as a glance at Raven as she shuts the door.
She stares at the door and grits her teeth in rage and something indescribable bubbling up in her. Dread, she hopes, over the side of her that thinks something more pathetic and yearning. She wants to shove that side of her to the floor and choke the life out of it.
As she stands still in front of Raven’s door, frozen in place, Tara wonders if she’ll feel all of Raven’s rage, when the day finally comes.
She hopes she does; she’s no victim, and especially not someone loved.