Chapter Text
Chapter Seven - This Isn't The Place
The movie is still playing, but the sound has faded into a dull hum, replaced by the loud, frantic thumping of my own heart. Webby is soft, all curves and warmth, and the way she’s looking at me makes me feel like I’m the only person left in the world. I don’t want to wait. I can't.
My hand slides down from her waist, grazing the soft fabric of her pajama pants before slipping beneath the waistband. She lets out a sharp, hitching breath—half-gasp, half-sigh—as my fingers find the cotton of her panties and push past them.
Webby whimpers, a jagged little sound that vibrates through my chest. She doesn’t pull away; instead, she arches instinctively, pressing herself closer into my palm. The heat radiating from her is staggering, a concentrated glow that makes my own skin feel electric. My fingers find her, slick and pulsing, and the moment I make contact, she lets out a soft, airy moan that makes my stomach do a slow, heavy roll.
I rub at her clit for a few moments before moving deeper, my fingers sliding through the heat of her, finding that tight, wet friction that makes her head fall back against the couch cushions. Webby’s breath comes in short, desperate hitches, her legs shifting instinctively to give me better access. She’s trembling—not from cold or fear, but from a kind of electric anticipation that I can feel radiating off her in waves. Every time my thumb circles that sensitive peak, she lets out a high, thin sound, a little bird-like chirp of pure pleasure that sends a jolt of heat straight to my own core.
"W-Webby?" I lean over and whisper into her ear, my own words stuttering from the sheer intensity of the moment and outright fear of what I am about to ask her.
"Yeah?"
I take a deep breath, one of my fingers slipping into her hot little pussy, feeling the way she clamps around me. "Can I... can I, you know, eat you out?"
Webby doesn't even hesitate. She lets out a sound that is halfway between a moan and a sob, her fingers digging into my shoulders. "Please. Please, Lena, yes."
I remove my finger from her and wiggle my way down her body, peeling off her pants and panties as I go and spreading her thighs, making her feel the cool air of the room for only a second before the heat of my breath replaces it.
"Just," I pause just an inch over her, "Let me know if it feels good, okay? I have, uh, never done this before."
Webby’s response is a strangled, breathless little noise, her hips tilting upward as if she’s trying to bridge the final inch of distance between us. "Just... do whatever you want," she whimpers, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
So, this is happening.
Eating pussy for the first time.
No use waiting.
I just hope lesbian porn hasn't lied to me these past few months.
I sink down, the scent of her hitting me—something warm and sweet, like honey and salt—and I press my lips to the soft, damp heat of her. Webby lets out a sound that isn't even a word anymore, just a long, shaky exhale that vibrates through the couch. I start slow, tasting her, my tongue tracing the seam of her folds with a tentative flick. She’s so wet it’s almost dizzying, a slick, velvet heat that clings to my lips.
I am instantly addicted.
I slide my tongue upward, licking the length of her, and Webby’s hips jerk upward, her heels digging into the cushions. I find her clit—that tiny, swollen pearl of nerves—and swirl my tongue around it, focusing all my attention on that one pulsing point. She lets out a loud, uncontrolled moan, her fingers tightening in my hair, pulling me closer, urging me to not stop. I increase the pressure, using a combination of long, sweeping licks and sharp, fluttering pulses, drinking her in.
Her juices run down the underside of my beak as I start to fucking devour her, and the taste is an intoxicating mix of salt and something deeply, primally sweet. I stop thinking and start feeling, letting the rhythm of her reactions guide me. Every time I flick my tongue over that swollen little nub, Webby’s entire body spasms, her thighs shaking against my cheeks. I can hear her breathing turning into these frantic, jagged little hitches, and it only makes me hungrier. I slide two fingers deep inside her—feeling the way her walls pulse and clamp around me in a desperate, rhythmic grip—while my tongue continues to lash at her clit with a steady, relentless pressure.
"Oh, God," Webby cries, "Faster, Lena, don't stop, please."
I pick up the pace, my tongue becoming a relentless, rhythmic blur against her, my fingers stirring inside her. Every time she lets out that high, broken sound, I press harder, swirling my tongue around her clit and then sucking it into my mouth, pulling her into a vacuum of heat and friction. The sound of it is wet and visceral, the only thing filling the room besides the distant, ignored dialogue of the movie and the frantic drumming of Webby’s heartbeat against my cheek and her cries of pleasure.
"Cum for me," I say against her, my fingers now pumping rapidly into her slit, curling upward to hit that sweet spot that I love to touch on myself. "Webby, cum for me."
She's close, so fucking close, and I can feel the tension in her thighs reaching a breaking point. I don't let up. I double down, my tongue flattening against her clit with a heavy, wet pressure before flicking upward in a sharp, rhythmic strobe. The sound of it fills the room—the wet, slapping noise of skin meeting skin, the frantic, sliding friction of my fingers buried deep in her velvet heat. I can feel her internal muscles beginning to spasm around my knuckles, a desperate, crushing grip that tells me she’s right on the edge.
And then it happens.
Webby’s entire body goes rigid, her back arching off the couch in a violent, beautiful curve. She lets out a loud, strangled scream that’s more of a sob, her fingers clutching my hair so hard I think she might actually pull some out. I don't stop; I keep my tongue locked onto her clit, sucking the peak of her into my mouth and swirling with a fierce, hungry intensity. I feel the first wave of her release hit—a hot, pulsing flood of cream that coats my tongue, tasting of salt and raw, concentrated desire. She shudders beneath me, her hips bucking wildly, her breath coming in short, broken gasps as she rides the peak, over and over, until she finally collapses back into the cushions with a heavy, shuddering exhale.
I flick my fingers inside her a couple of more times before drawing them out of her and I crawl back up her body. My face is slick with her, my lips tingling and tasting like the most addictive thing on the planet. Webby is a heap of shaking limbs and flushed skin, her chest heaving as she tries to remember how to breathe. The silence that follows her orgasm is heavy, filled only by the distant, tinny sound of the movie’s credits finally rolling, but the air between us is still thick with the scent of sex.
I kiss her, sharing the taste of her on my tongue, and Webby makes a sound that is barely a whisper, something like a prayer. She’s radiating heat, her skin flushed a deep, beautiful rose from her chest up to her cheeks. As I settle back against her, I can feel the lingering tremors in her thighs, the way her body is still humming from the electricity I just put into her. My heart is hammering against my ribs, not out of nervousness now, but out of a raw, pulsing hunger that hasn't been sated—it’s only been awakened.
"How did I do?" I ask her as I absentmindedly hump her leg.
Yeah, I am horny as shit now.
Webby’s eyes are glazed, her pupils blown wide. She reaches up, her fingers trembling as she brushes a stray strand of hair from my face. "Lena," she breathes, her voice raspy and ruined, "that was... that was, holy fucking shit."
She then notices me grinding against her thigh and smirks, "Aww," Webby giggles, "Is someone turned on?"
"You fucking think?" I laugh.
Then, like a zombie from a horror movie bursting out of its grave, Webby shoots up and gets up off the couch.
"Take off your clothes, I'll be right back!"
Before I can question her, my little duck is running upstairs, pantsless, leaving me squirming on the couch by myself.
Oh.
Okay then.
I strip, and I don’t do it gracefully. I’m shaking, my skin humming with a frantic, needy energy that makes my fingers fumble with my clothing. The panties Webby let me wear are soaked through. Awesome. By the time my clothes are a discarded heap on the floor, I’m arching my back, my own heat pooling between my thighs, demanding the same attention I just gave her. The silence of the room is oppressive, amplified by the sudden, sharp awareness of my own nudity—the cool air hitting my damp pussy, the way my heart is drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I’m a raw nerve, waiting for her to come back and finish what I started.
I rub myself, just a little; I can't help it, my fingers grazing the swollen edge of my clit while I wait. Every second feels like a minute. The air in the room is stagnant, smelling of the leftover Chinese food and the heavy, musky scent of our shared heat, and it's driving me insane. I'm wide open and aching, my own slickness dripping down my thighs, leaving me feeling exposed and desperate in a way that terrifies and thrills me all at once.
Finally, Webby returns, holding... something, behind her back. She approaches the couch where I am sprawled out like some drunken whore, watching me tease myself with a look of absolute, predatory hunger. She doesn't say a word; she just reaches out and pins my wrists to the cushions with one hand, her other arm swinging forward to reveal a... hairbrush?
"Uh, Pink?" I blink at her, "What are you doing?"
"It's my favorite thing," She grins as she turns the brush around, showing me the handle. It's yellow plastic, smooth, slightly curved.
And then it finally dawns on me.
"Wait," I cock an eyebrow, wiggling under her. "You're going to...?"
"Yes."
"With a hairbrush?"
"It feels good," She smiles, "I do it all the time."
Well, I can't argue with that. Nor do I want to. She could have shown up with a pineapple, and I would have been begging her to put it in me at this point.
Okay, maybe not that, but you get the idea.
The first touch of the plastic handle against my pussy is a shock of cool smoothness that makes my hips jerk involuntarily. I gasp, my head hitting the cushion as Webby doesn't just slide it in, but presses the rounded tip against my clit first before teasing the edge of my opening. She’s hovering over me, her expression focused and intense, the kind of concentration she usually reserves for a difficult boss level in a video game. I can feel the heat radiating off her, a stark contrast to the slick chill of the brush handle.
Webby doesn’t give me time to overthink the logistics. She slides the handle in—slow, steady, and relentless. The plastic is smooth, a hard, uncompromising contrast to the soft, pulsing heat of my own walls. I let out a sound that isn't even a scream, just a ragged, guttural noise that gets lost in the back of my throat as she bottoms out, filling me with a pressure that feels like a lightning bolt striking my pelvis.
Right.
Now I can see why she likes it.
The rhythm is sudden and uncompromising. Webby doesn’t just slide it in; she starts to drive the handle of the brush in and out of me with a focused, rhythmic intensity. The plastic is slick with my own juices, creating a wet, slapping sound that echoes in the quiet room, a visceral percussion that matches the frantic thumping of my heart. Every thrust hits my walls with a blunt, solid pressure, stretching me open in a way that makes my feet curl and my vision blur. I’m gripping the fabric of the couch so hard my knuckles are white, my hips bucking instinctively, trying to meet her every movement, trying to pull her deeper into me.
Then she leans down and licks my clit at the same time.
Fuck.
The world narrows down to a single, blinding point of contact. It’s a sensory overload—the cold, hard plastic of the brush handle sliding deep into my heat, and the searing, wet warmth of Webby’s tongue lashing at my clit. I’m caught in a pincer movement of pleasure, and I can’t breathe, can’t think, can only feel the way my internal muscles clamp around the plastic, trying to pull it even deeper. Webby is relentless, her movements becoming a blurred rhythm of friction and suction. She’s not just playing around; she’s driving into me with a focused, desperate energy, the wet slap-slap-slap of the handle fucking me echoing in my ears like a heartbeat.
One of my legs is over her shoulder, the other sprawled out uselessly over the edge of the couch as she sucks my clit into her mouth while the brush handle continues to pump. The sensation is staggering—a dizzying duality of hard plastic and soft tongue. Every time the brush bottoms out, it hits a spot deep inside me that sends a jolt of electricity straight to my brain, and Webby seems to know exactly how to play it. She’s not just thrusting; she’s twisting the handle slightly as she pulls back, stretching me, teasing the very edges of my endurance.
I don't know how much longer I can last, holy shit.
The plastic handle is a relentless, unyielding thing, and as Webby picks up the pace, I start to feel like I’m being dismantled from the inside out. The rhythm is no longer just a motion; it’s a demand. Every thrust of the brush handle is a blunt, sliding pressure that fills me completely, sliding through my slick heat with a wet, rhythmic shluck that vibrates through my entire pelvis. I can feel the plastic sliding against my internal walls, stretching me, claiming the space and filling it with a hard, uncompromising friction that makes me scream as Webby continues the pressure on my clit.
And then I orgasm so hard I almost pass out.
I also squirt so violently that the couch cushions are probably ruined, but who gives a fuck about the upholstery when my brain is literally melting. The orgasm hits me like a physical blow, a blinding white explosion that starts in the center of my chest and ripples outward until every single nerve ending is screaming. My hips jerk upward in a frantic, uncontrolled spasm, clamping around the plastic handle with a desperate, crushing grip. I can feel my internal muscles pulsing around the brush, squeezing the smooth plastic in rhythmic waves of release that leave me breathless and shattered.
Webby finally pulls away from my clit and releases her grip on the brush. It falls out of me a few seconds later, landing on the mess I left on the couch, and for a moment, the silence is so heavy it feels physical. I’m just... gone. I’m a heap of trembling feathers and spent nerves, staring at the ceiling while the aftershocks of that orgasm roll through my legs like a receding tide. My breath is coming in these short, ragged hitches, and my skin feels oversensitized, like a single breeze could make me scream all over again.
Webby moves.
I barely register it until I finally look directly at her. She maneuvers her small frame and our legs twist together until she finally settles in with her pussy pressing against mine, our legs twisted like a food court pretzel. The contact is electric—not the hard, blunt pressure of plastic, but a soft, wet friction that makes me moan. We are two magnets finally snapping together, our slick heats fusing into one singular, humming point of contact.
Clearly, we're not done making each other cum yet.
We don't say anything, we just start grinding.
The friction is slow at first, a tentative sliding of wet skin against wet skin that feels more intimate than the brush ever could. We’re locked together, hips fused, our legs tangled in a messy, desperate knot that leaves no room for doubt. Every time I shift my weight, my clit brushes against hers—a soft, sliding spark of electricity that sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to my stomach. It’s not the blunt force of a tool; it’s the velvet pressure of *her*, the slick, humming warmth of another girl’s body matching my own.
"I love you, Webby," I coo as I grip onto her knee for leverage.
Webby lets out this tiny, shattered sound—somewhere between a sob and a laugh—and crushes herself into me with everything she has. "I love you too," she whispers, her voice sounding like it’s been dragged through gravel and honey. "So fucking much, Lena."
Our declaration urges us to move faster, fingers finding clits as we scissor, our bodies slick and humming. I reach down, my hand sliding through the velvet heat between my legs, while Webby does the same, our movements mirrored and frantic. The friction of our wetness meeting is a rhythmic, sliding percussion, a wet slap-slap-slap that echoes in the quiet room. I can feel her pulsing against me, her muscles twitching in anticipation, while my own clit feels like a raw, swollen nerve, begging for the pressure to intensify.
"Don't stop," Webby demands, "I want you to cum with me."
We're so wet that strands of our nectar are bridging the gap between us, creating a sticky, visceral bond that makes every slide of our hips feel like we're melting into a single entity. I lean back and press my pussy against hers, the friction of our skin—slick with sweat and arousal—sounding like a wet, rhythmic prayer. I focus everything on that point of contact, the heavy, throbbing pressure of our clits grinding together in a frantic, sliding strobe. Every time I tilt my pelvis upward, I hear her gasp, her body shuddering with a desperate, humming intensity that matches my panting.
"Cum!" Webby cries out suddenly. "Cum with me, Lena!"
The word acts like a trigger. I stop thinking and just *drive*, my hips bucking with a raw, primal force as I crush my cunt against hers one last time. I can feel her whole body vibrating against mine in a violent, beautiful tremor. The release hits me like a physical explosion, a white-hot wave of pleasure that starts at the base of my spine and radiates outward until every single nerve ending is screaming in a singular, blinding tone. I let out a loud, guttural moan, my eyes rolling back into my head as I ride the peak, feeling Webby’s own orgasm ripple through her body in a series of rhythmic, crushing pulses that leave us both gasping for air and dripping.
Okay, okay... fuck, now we're done.
We collapse into a tangled heap of limbs and slick skin, the silence of the room returning, though now it’s heavy with the scent of our shared exertion. My chest is heaving, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs that slowly begins to settle. For a long minute, neither of us moves. We just lie there, locked together, our wetness cooling against our thighs, feeling the slow, luxurious slide of the afterglow.
Minutes pass, maybe an hour, fuck, I don't know, who can keep track at a time like this? I might as well be that line from the Titanic: It's been 84 years.
But slowly, we untangle our legs and get into a cuddling position on the couch, sweaty, exhausted, and smelling like a locker room in the middle of a heatwave. Webby’s head is resting on my chest, her breathing finally leveling out into a soft, rhythmic hum that vibrates against my ribs. I can feel the sticky residue of our climax drying on my thighs, a tacky sensation that would usually make me squirm with discomfort, but right now it just feels like a trophy.
A very wet, very messy trophy.
The Gusher Bowl is what I will call it, and we're both the MVP.
I lie there with my fingers absentmindedly combing through Webby's hair, watching the soft rise and fall of her breathing while the movie we completely abandoned is now on the menu screen.
I think back to the first morning I saw her.
The new girl.
The weird duck who walked into the cafeteria like she'd somehow missed the memo that high school was supposed to be terrifying. She talked to everyone. Smiled at everyone. Invited herself into conversations with the kind of fearless enthusiasm that should've gotten her laughed out of the room. Instead, somehow, she bulldozed straight through every wall I'd spent years building around myself.
At first I honestly thought she was crazy.
Maybe she still is.
A little.
Normal people don't accidentally blurt out that they're bisexual because they forget the word. They don't invite someone they've known for a day to a sleepover. They don't grab your hand just because they feel like holding it. They don't look at a girl who's spent half her life convinced she isn't enough and somehow decide she's worth loving anyway.
Webby does.
Because Webby never seems to stop and ask herself whether she should.
She just loves.
Completely.
Fearlessly.
With her whole heart.
I spent so much of my life waiting for the catch.
Waiting for somebody to decide I was too much work.
Too angry.
Too weird.
Too poor.
Too broken.
I kept waiting for the moment she'd wake up, really look at me, and realize she'd made a mistake.
Instead...
She kept choosing me.
Every morning.
Every text message.
Every hug.
Every time she slipped her hand into mine without even thinking about it.
Today she stood beside me while I told her how ashamed I felt about money.
Today she got punched because she was trying to stop a fight.
Today she still found enough energy afterward to argue with me about whether Chinese food beats tacos.
Today she looked at me with one eye swollen nearly shut...
...and somehow still managed to make me feel like the luckiest girl in Duckburg.
I glance down at her.
She's already half asleep again, her cheek pressed against my chest, one hand lazily resting over my heartbeat as if she's making sure it's still there. Every now and then her fingers twitch in her sleep, and I can't stop smiling.
She's such a dork.
An absolutely magnificent, spectacular dork.
She eats cereal out of mixing bowls.
She plans tomorrow's dinner before today's leftovers have even cooled.
She blurts out whatever pops into her head before her brain has a chance to install the filters.
I chuckle quietly to myself.
"Hopeless," I murmur.
She makes a sleepy little noise that might be a question.
I kiss the top of her head.
"The cutest hopeless."
My eyes drift toward the dark windows of the rec room. Beyond the glass, the grounds of McDuck Manor sit quiet beneath the night sky, the world outside reduced to little more than silhouettes and moonlight.
Tomorrow won't magically be easier.
Monday is still coming.
Duckburg High is still going to hear about the fight.
Acme High definitely will.
Buster isn't suddenly going to become a decent person overnight.
People will stare.
People will talk.
Some people will probably have opinions about two girls holding hands in the hallway.
Life doesn't stop throwing punches just because you found someone worth holding onto.
I know that now.
But I also know something I didn't know a few weeks ago.
I won't be facing any of it alone.
That changes everything.
The future suddenly doesn't feel like something I have to survive.
It feels like something I actually get to look forward to.
Movie nights where we argue over what to watch.
Late-night takeout and too much soda.
Studying together while Webby accidentally distracts me every five minutes.
Meeting her halfway across crowded hallways just because we can't wait until lunch to see each other.
Growing up.
Graduating.
Whatever comes after that.
I don't know exactly what our lives are going to look like.
Honestly?
I don't think either of us is organized enough to have a five-year plan.
But I can see little pieces of it.
I can see apartments that are too small and furniture that doesn't match because we bought it secondhand.
I can see bookshelves overflowing with manga.
A refrigerator covered in magnets and terrible drawings.
I can see lazy Sunday mornings where neither of us wants to get out of bed.
Making love.
Still laughing.
Still reaching for each other's hands without thinking.
I don't know where we'll end up.
I just know I want her there.
For so long, I thought love was something people like me watched happen to other people.
Something reserved for girls who had everything figured out.
Girls who weren't carrying around as much baggage as I was.
Turns out...
Love doesn't really care about any of that.
Sometimes it just walks into your life wearing a pink bow, smiling like the sun, and asking if you'd like to come over for a sleepover.
I tighten my arms around Webby just a little.
She smiles in her sleep.
"I love you," she mumbles, barely awake enough to know she's speaking.
My heart melts all over again.
"I love you too, Pink."
And for the first time in a very long time...
When I think about tomorrow...
I smile.
The End.