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lysapadinTitle: Cashmere and Leather
Characters/Pairings: Ymir and Christa
Summary: Ymir and Christa—a study in contrasts.
Notes: Adult for smut; generic modern-day professional adults AU. Also everyone is a lesbian. Written mostly because I had a mental image of Ymir that I couldn't quite exorcise any other way. 3760 words.
~~~~~~~~~~
Cashmere and Leather
It's Friday night, and all Ymir really wants is a beer, a platter of greasy nachos, and the chance to blow off a little steam—in precisely that order, thanks—so naturally there's a stranger sitting in her seat when she walks into the bar. Not just any stranger, either—she couldn't be more out of place in this shabby, neon-lit bar if she tried. For one, she's a tiny little thing, so petite that Ymir sort of wonders how she managed to climb up onto that tall stool all by herself. For another, she's wearing an honest-to-God twinset, in pastel pink no less, and pearls. Pearls, for crying out loud, in the trashiest lesbian dive bar that Ymir has ever had the privilege of gracing with her presence. She's the only person in the room wearing a skirt—prim grey—and even heels, and her hair is twisted up in a chignon at the nape of her neck, golden pale as the wine in the glass in front of her.
Hell, Ymir hadn't even realized that Annie stocked wine, but apparently she does. Who knew?
Ymir is fascinated in spite of herself and doesn't think she's the only one. There are women all around the room who are watching the stranger, covertly and not, though a few of them transfer their attention to her, probably waiting to see what she's gonna do—Miss Twinset is in Ymir's customary seat, after all.
The hell with it. Ymir wants her beer and her nachos. She'll deal with Miss Twinset after she gets them. She does take the stool next to Miss Twinset's, who doesn't seem to have noticed that she's the center of attention. Ymir has to say, that's pretty impressive. She makes eye contact with Annie, who pulls a mug of beer for her on the strength of that alone and slides it down the bar to her before disappearing into the kitchen. Ymir knocks half of it back in one go and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, which is when she realizes that she's under observation.
Miss Twinset has turned her face a little and is watching her; Christ, of course her eyes are china-doll blue and long-lashed. Her nails are painted the same shell pink as her lips. Ymir looks back, bold, until Miss Twinset looks away and raises her wineglass to her lips. Ymir snorts and takes another pull of beer. "Could you be any more out of place?" she says after licking the foam from her lips.
Miss Twinset looks her way again, full on this time. Ymir is expecting blushing, maybe some stammering, and gets neither. Miss Twinset gives her a level look, calm enough. "How do you mean?"
Ymir awards her points for that, even as she waves a hand, gesturing at the smoke hanging in the air and the roomful of women, a veritable symphony in the key of butch. "You do realize this is a dyke bar, don't you?" No one's plugged any money into the jukebox lately, so her question is overheard by a few of the other regulars; she gets a few whistles and catcalls for it. "If you're looking for a place to drink without getting hit on, you're looking for the other kind of gay bar."
Miss Twinset raises an eyebrow—just the one! Ymir is jealous—and merely says, "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."
Ymir blinks and laughs. "You will, huh?" She drains the rest of her beer. What the hell? "I think I like you. Name's Ymir."
Miss Twinset inclines her head. "You can call me Christa."
Yeah, even the name fits. Ymir runs her eyes over Christa again and shakes her head while their audience loses interest. Too bad for them, Ymir's not going to raise any hell until after she gets her nachos.
Right on cue, Annie reappears, this time carrying a plate laden with corn chips covered in orange cheese-food product, D-grade taco meat, refried beans, and jalapeños, which is exactly what Ymir's been looking forward to all goddamn day. She grins when Annie drops the plate in front of her and refills her beer. "Baby, you know what I like."
"Call me that again and I'll break your jaw," Annie replies, frosty, and pointedly turns her back on Ymir.
Ymir doesn't care; she's too busy shoveling nachos into her mouth and filling up the empty spot in her stomach. Christa watches like she doesn't know whether to be amused or appalled, which entertains Ymir enough that she shoves the plate towards her, offering. Christa looks at her, maybe wondering whether she's serious or just crazy, so Ymir washes down a mouthful of nachos with some beer and says, "Go ahead, knock yourself out."
Honestly, she doesn't expect Christa to do it. Trashy bar food doesn't go with pearls and what Ymir suspects in her heart is probably cashmere. But Christa only hesitates for a moment before helping herself, extracting a chip from the gooey mess and conveying it to her mouth daintily. She even smiles. "I haven't had nachos like these in ages," she sighs, reaching for another chip.
Ymir is absolutely willing to believe that one, given the way Christa willingly helps her devour the rest of her nachos. She even licks the grease and salt off her fingers, following Ymir's lead. Ymir would be lying if she said that the sight of Christa's pink tongue didn't give her certain ideas.
But one thing at a time. She pushes the empty plate back and tips her chin over at the pool table. "You play?" Sasha's fed a whole roll of quarters into the jukebox, so she has to lean in close to Christa to make herself heard.
Christa shakes her head. "I don't know how."
That makes it easy. Ymir grins at her. "Wanna learn?"
She doesn't have any idea what Christa is thinking when she looks at her just then, but she nods. Ymir untangles her feet from her stool and stands, gesturing Christa ahead of her and flipping Mikasa off when she smirks knowingly.
The blare of the jukebox means that Ymir has to get close to instruct Christa in the finer points of pool and that casual conversation is more trouble than it's worth. Ymir prefers it that way; it means she can just let her hands do the talking, putting them on top of Christa's to show her how to hold the cue and setting them at the small of her back and on her hip to adjust her posture as she shoots. It's completely unnecessary to press herself up against Christa's back and wrap her arms around her to guide her first few shots, but Christa doesn't complain.
She doesn't complain when Ymir strips off her jacket, either, once the room starts getting too hot for leather. That's the other nice thing about pool—it's a nice way to show off a little, to stretch out over the table and demonstrate how snugly her t-shirt fits across her shoulders and the way her jeans hug her thighs and ass.
Christa's actually not too bad for a beginner, but Ymir is pretty sure that she doesn't keep playing as the bar starts to fill up just because she enjoys the games so much. She gives it a few games after the place starts getting crowded before she slides an arm around Christa's shoulder. She puts her mouth close to her ear and says, "I'm gonna head out. You wanna come with me or what?"
Christa's mouth twitches at that, but she says, "How could I resist an invitation like that?" and picks up her purse while Ymir goes to settle her tab.
Ymir suffers a moment's qualm when they step outside into the cooler air, so she stretches out her hand and slides it around Christa's waist to draw her in close. Christa makes a surprised sound when Ymir sets her fingers under her chin, tipping it up, but she doesn't resist when Ymir stoops to kiss her. She does the exact opposite of resisting, actually, and parts her lips as she slides her palms up Ymir's chest and into her hair.
So that settles that question.
"Your place or mine?" Ymir asks presently, shaping the question right into Christa's mouth.
"It had better be yours," Christa says, prompt.
Ymir doesn't ask why. "All right by me." She kisses Christa again, just for the hell of it, and grins down at her. "You wanna ride with me? Bike seats two. I'll even let you wear my jacket."
She hasn't misjudged it. Christa opens her eyes wide and doesn't hesitate to accept. Ymir grins again and ushers her over to the bike, helping her get on and showing her where to brace her feet. She even helps her into the jacket and the helmet, all chivalrous-like.
It's a chilly ride for her without her jacket, but sometimes a woman just has to make some sacrifices for the higher good. Anyway, she's got the rumble of the bike between her thighs and the softness of Christa pressed against her back to keep her warm, and that's more than enough.
Christa looks even more out of place on Ymir's sagging front porch than she did in the bar, but she doesn't seem to be at all conscious of it or the least bit curious about how the other half lives. She follows Ymir inside with all the grace of a queen, not even seeming to notice how little interest Ymir has in things like interior decorating or housekeeping. "You want something to drink?" Ymir asks once they're inside, taking her jacket bag and slinging it onto the couch. "Could make some coffee, if you want." She probably has coffee left, enough for one pot anyway.
Christa smiles at that, and for the first time she does something that suggests she's not quite as poised as she seems—she smoothes her palms over the line of her skirt. "Maybe in the morning."
"Well, all right, then." Ymir prowls over to her and slides an arm around her, bending to murmur against her ear. "If you're planning to stay the night, we're gonna have to share the bed. My couch is shit for sleeping on."
Christa shivers slightly as Ymir traces the tip of her tongue along the shell of her ear. "That's fine with me."
"Glad to hear it." Ymir pulls her closer and sucks on Christa's earlobe; she shivers again and raises her hands to Ymir's shoulders as she tips her head to the side, exposing the lovely, pale curve of her throat.
She smells sweet, delicately floral as Ymir nuzzles against her throat, planting a line of slow, sucking kisses from the spot beneath her ear to where her shoulder disappears beneath pink cashmere. Ymir isn't much for perfume, but it works for her now, makes her want to nuzzle Christa's skin until she's found all the places dabbed with perfume so she can lick the taste of it from her. In fact, that's not a bad idea at all. Maybe she ought to pursue it. She licks the hollow of Christa's throat for the way it makes her gasp and says, "Bedroom's over this way."
"Oh." Christa sounds dazed. "Oh, yes. Of course." There are tendrils of golden hair beginning to fall down around her face; on impulse, Ymir reaches up and finds the comb holding her chignon up and pulls it loose. Christa blinks at her as her hair tumbles down around her shoulders; she shakes her head a bit to settle it. She looks softer this way, less businesslike—Ymir likes it. She stoops to kiss Christa again, sliding her tongue past Christa's lips as hunger throbs low in her belly.
Christa closes her eyes and sways against her, reaching up to sink her fingers into the wind-tangled mess of Ymir's hair as she kisses back. When Ymir slides a hand over her back, the softness of the cashmere catches and snags on the rough patches on her palms, which probably means she'd better see about getting Christa out of her twinset as quickly as possible.
They make their way to the bedroom in fits and starts, one and two steps at a time, pausing often to kiss or so Ymir can taste Christa's throat again. By the time they get through the door, Christa has rosy marks decorating her throat and there's a sharp ache pulsing between Ymir's thighs.
It's Christa who takes the step back and kicks her heels off as she reaches up to undo the clasp of her pearls and remove her earrings. She sets them down on Ymir's battered dresser while Ymir stoops to unlace her boots. When she looks up, Christa has taken her twinset off and is hugging her arms to herself, almost shyly. Ymir stares unabashedly, because the silky little camisole Christa's wearing clings to the shape of her body, showing the perfect swell of her breasts and the tight peaks of them. "Damn," she says, full of appreciation, and steps out of her boots to go to Christa. "Look at you."
Christa's skin is cool under fingers when she runs them up her arms. She doesn't say anything, but she bites down on her lower lip when Ymir draws a finger down one spaghetti strap and over the slope of her breast. Ymir traces her fingertip over the peak of her breast, drawing circles around it through the silky camisole until Christa makes a soft sound and uncrosses her arms. "That's better," Ymir tells her. She drops her hands to Christa's waist and pulls the camisole up, baring the creamy swell of her breasts, and tosses it aside when Christa raises her arms and helps her pull it off.
She says Ymir's name, quiet and breathless, while Ymir looks at her, and utters a soft cry when Ymir cups her breasts, stroking the curve of them and stooping to close her mouth on one rosy nipple. Ymir likes that sound and the way Christa catches her shoulders as she flicks her tongue over her skin, stroking circles around her nipple before she buries her face between her breasts, inhaling the damp scent of her skin, mingled perfume and sweat. Christa's skin is sleek beneath Ymir's hands, much softer than hers, but she doesn't seem to mind the calluses at all. She arches against Ymir's mouth and clings to her shoulders as the flush rises on her throat and she begins to make quiet, wanting sounds.
Ymir slides her fingers down the line of Christa's vertebrae and unfastens the button of her skirt; when she tugs the zipper down, Christa executes a little shimmy of her hips and her skirt slides to the floor. "Good grief, just how many layers are you wearing?" Ymir asks when she realizes that there was a slip under the skirt.
Christa purses her lip, giving her a pointed look. "Fewer than you are right now."
"What, you think I'm overdressed?" Ymir grins at her. "All you had to do was say." She reaches a hand back and grips the collar of her t-shirt to yank it off. She tosses it in the general direction of her laundry pile and stretches, letting Christa get a good look at her bare chest, and then skins out of her jeans. She hooks her fingers in the waistband of her shorts and says, "Now who's overdressed?"
Christa promptly removes her slip and everything beneath it and sets her hands on her bare hips. "You are."
"There's way more to you than meets the eye, isn't there?" Ymir says, admiring the delicate curve of Christa's hips as she advances on her.
"Maybe there is," Christa says as Ymir curves her hands over her hips and begins walking her backwards, towards the bed. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason." When they reach the bed, Ymir slides her hands up to Christa's shoulders and presses her down. "Just thought it was interesting, that's all." She folds herself to her knees and nudges her way between Christa's legs. "So, are you the quiet type, or do you like to get loud?"
Christ looks down at her, her smile faintly puzzled, before she spreads her knees wider, offering. "Why don't you find out?"
Ymir is absolutely on board with that plan; it's all the invitation she needs to catch Christa's hips and drag her to the edge of the mattress, spreading her open so she can bury her face in the wet tangle of curls the color of old gold. Christa gasps as Ymir nuzzles against her, breathing in the hot scent of her, and sinks her fingers into Ymir's hair as she licks her open. She gasps again when Ymir tongues her clit, tightening her fingers in Ymir's hair. Ymir does it again, feeling the surge of Christa's response to that.
She can see it, too, when she looks up at Christa, who is breathing through parted lips, quick and light, her eyes half-closed. She gasps when Ymir sucks on her clit, shuddering, and hooks her leg around Ymir's shoulder like she wants to drag her closer. Ymir keeps going, circling her tongue over Christa's clit, around it, letting the way Christa digs her heel into her shoulder guide her to what she likes, until Christa gasps again as a series of shudders seizes her. She tightens her fingers in Ymir's hair to the point of pain as she comes, nearly silent for it as she shakes, her eyes squeezed shut and her hair curling damply at her temples.
It seems like a waste to stop so soon, especially when Christa isn't pushing her away. Ymir presses her fingers into Christa while her body's still throbbing, sinking them into the slickness of her and working them against the muscles that are still fluttering. This time Christa does cry out, hoarse. She strains against Ymir, grinding against her mouth as Ymir fucks her, pushing her back over the edge and keeping her there until Christa whimpers and pushes her away. She slumps backward, trembling, and doesn't open her eyes when Ymir crawls up onto the bed with her. She's glowing and flushed, wearing a dreamy smile.
Ymir contemplates a job well done and slides her hand into her shorts as she watches Christa come down, stroking herself lightly, not ready to come just yet and simply enjoying the lazy coil of pleasure. When Christa opens her eyes at last, she says, "So, the quiet type, huh? But I bet someone could make you scream, if she worked at it."
Christa turns her head to look her way. "I suppose you have someone in mind for that." Her voice is warm, velvet with her satisfaction.
"Maybe I do," Ymir says.
"Mm." Christa pushes herself up, languid. "I can't say I'm surprised." She slips across the mattress, leaning in to kiss Ymir, taking her time with it and licking the taste of herself from Ymir's lips.
Ymir leans back against her pillows and slides her fingers into Christa's hair, humming to her, until she feels the edge of Christa's nails as she strokes them over the curve of her ribs. The sharpness of them is delicate; Ymir growls as heat throbs through her. Christa trails her nails up, drawing them over the curve of Ymir's breast, and pinches her nipple. Her touch is light but sure; the sensation bolts through Ymir. "Shit," she breathes, pressing her palm tight against her body. "Fuck, Christa…"
Christa pulls back to look at her, searching, before she smiles faintly. "I thought so," she says, right before she bends her head to bite Ymir's throat as she rolls Ymir's nipple between her fingers.
Ymir groans, grinding her palm against her clit. "You are a hell of a lot more dangerous than you look," she says, leaning her head back as Christa bites up and down her throat.
Christa hesitates, almost uncertain. "Should I stop?"
"Fuck, no," Ymir tells her. "I didn't say that was a bad thing, did I?" It's precisely the opposite, in fact, part and parcel of whatever it is that motivated Christa to wander into her bar in the first place and why she invited the woman home with her.
"…I suppose you didn't," Christa murmurs after a moment.
She carries on, biting down until Ymir can feel the sting of being marked. It runs through her like quicksilver; she groans, and groans again when she feels Christa's mouth sliding hot and wet down her throat and over her chest to the exquisitely sensitive skin of her breasts. The next bite is almost too much; Ymir shouts when Christa closes her teeth on her nipple, drawing taut as Christa laps at the sensitized skin. "Fuck," she says, hoarse, working her hand between her thighs and stroking herself firmly. "Fuck, Christa… fuck...!" She shouts again as Christa drags her nails up the inside of her thigh, the slow sharp lines sending fire twisting through her, searing her right down to her bones.
She rocks her palm against her clit as orgasm shakes her, dragging it out until her muscles burn and she can't stand any more, and then lets herself sag into the afterglow. As she does, Christa lifts her mouth from Ymir's breast. The next thing Ymir knows is the soft stroke of Christa's hands running over her skin, as if Christa wants to gentle her down. Ymir cracks her eyes open, but she can't make anything of Christa's thoughtful expression or the way she is tracing her palms over Ymir's body, over her breasts and belly and thighs. After a bit, she realizes that Ymir is watching and glances up, smiling faintly.
Ymir finds herself smiling back and reaches for her, ready for another kiss. Christa comes to her readily, fitting the soft curves of her body against Ymir's more spare frame. Ymir wraps her arms around her; presently, she asks a question, shaping the words against Christa's lips. "So, do you wanna rent the U-Haul for our next date, or should I do it?"
Christa dissolves into giggles at that, shaking against Ymir's chest. "I have a policy of no U-Hauls before the three-month anniversary."
"All right," Ymir says, amiable. "I'll mark my calendar."
"You do that," Christa says, laughing, before kissing her again.
(They don't rent the U-Haul until their four-month anniversary, as it turns out, but that's only because Ymir's lease isn't up till then.)
end
As always, comments are lovely!
(And the U-Haul thing is a really old joke about lesbians—what does a lesbian second date involve? A U-Haul and a bunch of boxes.)
Characters/Pairings: Ymir and Christa
Summary: Ymir and Christa—a study in contrasts.
Notes: Adult for smut; generic modern-day professional adults AU. Also everyone is a lesbian. Written mostly because I had a mental image of Ymir that I couldn't quite exorcise any other way. 3760 words.
Cashmere and Leather
It's Friday night, and all Ymir really wants is a beer, a platter of greasy nachos, and the chance to blow off a little steam—in precisely that order, thanks—so naturally there's a stranger sitting in her seat when she walks into the bar. Not just any stranger, either—she couldn't be more out of place in this shabby, neon-lit bar if she tried. For one, she's a tiny little thing, so petite that Ymir sort of wonders how she managed to climb up onto that tall stool all by herself. For another, she's wearing an honest-to-God twinset, in pastel pink no less, and pearls. Pearls, for crying out loud, in the trashiest lesbian dive bar that Ymir has ever had the privilege of gracing with her presence. She's the only person in the room wearing a skirt—prim grey—and even heels, and her hair is twisted up in a chignon at the nape of her neck, golden pale as the wine in the glass in front of her.
Hell, Ymir hadn't even realized that Annie stocked wine, but apparently she does. Who knew?
Ymir is fascinated in spite of herself and doesn't think she's the only one. There are women all around the room who are watching the stranger, covertly and not, though a few of them transfer their attention to her, probably waiting to see what she's gonna do—Miss Twinset is in Ymir's customary seat, after all.
The hell with it. Ymir wants her beer and her nachos. She'll deal with Miss Twinset after she gets them. She does take the stool next to Miss Twinset's, who doesn't seem to have noticed that she's the center of attention. Ymir has to say, that's pretty impressive. She makes eye contact with Annie, who pulls a mug of beer for her on the strength of that alone and slides it down the bar to her before disappearing into the kitchen. Ymir knocks half of it back in one go and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, which is when she realizes that she's under observation.
Miss Twinset has turned her face a little and is watching her; Christ, of course her eyes are china-doll blue and long-lashed. Her nails are painted the same shell pink as her lips. Ymir looks back, bold, until Miss Twinset looks away and raises her wineglass to her lips. Ymir snorts and takes another pull of beer. "Could you be any more out of place?" she says after licking the foam from her lips.
Miss Twinset looks her way again, full on this time. Ymir is expecting blushing, maybe some stammering, and gets neither. Miss Twinset gives her a level look, calm enough. "How do you mean?"
Ymir awards her points for that, even as she waves a hand, gesturing at the smoke hanging in the air and the roomful of women, a veritable symphony in the key of butch. "You do realize this is a dyke bar, don't you?" No one's plugged any money into the jukebox lately, so her question is overheard by a few of the other regulars; she gets a few whistles and catcalls for it. "If you're looking for a place to drink without getting hit on, you're looking for the other kind of gay bar."
Miss Twinset raises an eyebrow—just the one! Ymir is jealous—and merely says, "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."
Ymir blinks and laughs. "You will, huh?" She drains the rest of her beer. What the hell? "I think I like you. Name's Ymir."
Miss Twinset inclines her head. "You can call me Christa."
Yeah, even the name fits. Ymir runs her eyes over Christa again and shakes her head while their audience loses interest. Too bad for them, Ymir's not going to raise any hell until after she gets her nachos.
Right on cue, Annie reappears, this time carrying a plate laden with corn chips covered in orange cheese-food product, D-grade taco meat, refried beans, and jalapeños, which is exactly what Ymir's been looking forward to all goddamn day. She grins when Annie drops the plate in front of her and refills her beer. "Baby, you know what I like."
"Call me that again and I'll break your jaw," Annie replies, frosty, and pointedly turns her back on Ymir.
Ymir doesn't care; she's too busy shoveling nachos into her mouth and filling up the empty spot in her stomach. Christa watches like she doesn't know whether to be amused or appalled, which entertains Ymir enough that she shoves the plate towards her, offering. Christa looks at her, maybe wondering whether she's serious or just crazy, so Ymir washes down a mouthful of nachos with some beer and says, "Go ahead, knock yourself out."
Honestly, she doesn't expect Christa to do it. Trashy bar food doesn't go with pearls and what Ymir suspects in her heart is probably cashmere. But Christa only hesitates for a moment before helping herself, extracting a chip from the gooey mess and conveying it to her mouth daintily. She even smiles. "I haven't had nachos like these in ages," she sighs, reaching for another chip.
Ymir is absolutely willing to believe that one, given the way Christa willingly helps her devour the rest of her nachos. She even licks the grease and salt off her fingers, following Ymir's lead. Ymir would be lying if she said that the sight of Christa's pink tongue didn't give her certain ideas.
But one thing at a time. She pushes the empty plate back and tips her chin over at the pool table. "You play?" Sasha's fed a whole roll of quarters into the jukebox, so she has to lean in close to Christa to make herself heard.
Christa shakes her head. "I don't know how."
That makes it easy. Ymir grins at her. "Wanna learn?"
She doesn't have any idea what Christa is thinking when she looks at her just then, but she nods. Ymir untangles her feet from her stool and stands, gesturing Christa ahead of her and flipping Mikasa off when she smirks knowingly.
The blare of the jukebox means that Ymir has to get close to instruct Christa in the finer points of pool and that casual conversation is more trouble than it's worth. Ymir prefers it that way; it means she can just let her hands do the talking, putting them on top of Christa's to show her how to hold the cue and setting them at the small of her back and on her hip to adjust her posture as she shoots. It's completely unnecessary to press herself up against Christa's back and wrap her arms around her to guide her first few shots, but Christa doesn't complain.
She doesn't complain when Ymir strips off her jacket, either, once the room starts getting too hot for leather. That's the other nice thing about pool—it's a nice way to show off a little, to stretch out over the table and demonstrate how snugly her t-shirt fits across her shoulders and the way her jeans hug her thighs and ass.
Christa's actually not too bad for a beginner, but Ymir is pretty sure that she doesn't keep playing as the bar starts to fill up just because she enjoys the games so much. She gives it a few games after the place starts getting crowded before she slides an arm around Christa's shoulder. She puts her mouth close to her ear and says, "I'm gonna head out. You wanna come with me or what?"
Christa's mouth twitches at that, but she says, "How could I resist an invitation like that?" and picks up her purse while Ymir goes to settle her tab.
Ymir suffers a moment's qualm when they step outside into the cooler air, so she stretches out her hand and slides it around Christa's waist to draw her in close. Christa makes a surprised sound when Ymir sets her fingers under her chin, tipping it up, but she doesn't resist when Ymir stoops to kiss her. She does the exact opposite of resisting, actually, and parts her lips as she slides her palms up Ymir's chest and into her hair.
So that settles that question.
"Your place or mine?" Ymir asks presently, shaping the question right into Christa's mouth.
"It had better be yours," Christa says, prompt.
Ymir doesn't ask why. "All right by me." She kisses Christa again, just for the hell of it, and grins down at her. "You wanna ride with me? Bike seats two. I'll even let you wear my jacket."
She hasn't misjudged it. Christa opens her eyes wide and doesn't hesitate to accept. Ymir grins again and ushers her over to the bike, helping her get on and showing her where to brace her feet. She even helps her into the jacket and the helmet, all chivalrous-like.
It's a chilly ride for her without her jacket, but sometimes a woman just has to make some sacrifices for the higher good. Anyway, she's got the rumble of the bike between her thighs and the softness of Christa pressed against her back to keep her warm, and that's more than enough.
Christa looks even more out of place on Ymir's sagging front porch than she did in the bar, but she doesn't seem to be at all conscious of it or the least bit curious about how the other half lives. She follows Ymir inside with all the grace of a queen, not even seeming to notice how little interest Ymir has in things like interior decorating or housekeeping. "You want something to drink?" Ymir asks once they're inside, taking her jacket bag and slinging it onto the couch. "Could make some coffee, if you want." She probably has coffee left, enough for one pot anyway.
Christa smiles at that, and for the first time she does something that suggests she's not quite as poised as she seems—she smoothes her palms over the line of her skirt. "Maybe in the morning."
"Well, all right, then." Ymir prowls over to her and slides an arm around her, bending to murmur against her ear. "If you're planning to stay the night, we're gonna have to share the bed. My couch is shit for sleeping on."
Christa shivers slightly as Ymir traces the tip of her tongue along the shell of her ear. "That's fine with me."
"Glad to hear it." Ymir pulls her closer and sucks on Christa's earlobe; she shivers again and raises her hands to Ymir's shoulders as she tips her head to the side, exposing the lovely, pale curve of her throat.
She smells sweet, delicately floral as Ymir nuzzles against her throat, planting a line of slow, sucking kisses from the spot beneath her ear to where her shoulder disappears beneath pink cashmere. Ymir isn't much for perfume, but it works for her now, makes her want to nuzzle Christa's skin until she's found all the places dabbed with perfume so she can lick the taste of it from her. In fact, that's not a bad idea at all. Maybe she ought to pursue it. She licks the hollow of Christa's throat for the way it makes her gasp and says, "Bedroom's over this way."
"Oh." Christa sounds dazed. "Oh, yes. Of course." There are tendrils of golden hair beginning to fall down around her face; on impulse, Ymir reaches up and finds the comb holding her chignon up and pulls it loose. Christa blinks at her as her hair tumbles down around her shoulders; she shakes her head a bit to settle it. She looks softer this way, less businesslike—Ymir likes it. She stoops to kiss Christa again, sliding her tongue past Christa's lips as hunger throbs low in her belly.
Christa closes her eyes and sways against her, reaching up to sink her fingers into the wind-tangled mess of Ymir's hair as she kisses back. When Ymir slides a hand over her back, the softness of the cashmere catches and snags on the rough patches on her palms, which probably means she'd better see about getting Christa out of her twinset as quickly as possible.
They make their way to the bedroom in fits and starts, one and two steps at a time, pausing often to kiss or so Ymir can taste Christa's throat again. By the time they get through the door, Christa has rosy marks decorating her throat and there's a sharp ache pulsing between Ymir's thighs.
It's Christa who takes the step back and kicks her heels off as she reaches up to undo the clasp of her pearls and remove her earrings. She sets them down on Ymir's battered dresser while Ymir stoops to unlace her boots. When she looks up, Christa has taken her twinset off and is hugging her arms to herself, almost shyly. Ymir stares unabashedly, because the silky little camisole Christa's wearing clings to the shape of her body, showing the perfect swell of her breasts and the tight peaks of them. "Damn," she says, full of appreciation, and steps out of her boots to go to Christa. "Look at you."
Christa's skin is cool under fingers when she runs them up her arms. She doesn't say anything, but she bites down on her lower lip when Ymir draws a finger down one spaghetti strap and over the slope of her breast. Ymir traces her fingertip over the peak of her breast, drawing circles around it through the silky camisole until Christa makes a soft sound and uncrosses her arms. "That's better," Ymir tells her. She drops her hands to Christa's waist and pulls the camisole up, baring the creamy swell of her breasts, and tosses it aside when Christa raises her arms and helps her pull it off.
She says Ymir's name, quiet and breathless, while Ymir looks at her, and utters a soft cry when Ymir cups her breasts, stroking the curve of them and stooping to close her mouth on one rosy nipple. Ymir likes that sound and the way Christa catches her shoulders as she flicks her tongue over her skin, stroking circles around her nipple before she buries her face between her breasts, inhaling the damp scent of her skin, mingled perfume and sweat. Christa's skin is sleek beneath Ymir's hands, much softer than hers, but she doesn't seem to mind the calluses at all. She arches against Ymir's mouth and clings to her shoulders as the flush rises on her throat and she begins to make quiet, wanting sounds.
Ymir slides her fingers down the line of Christa's vertebrae and unfastens the button of her skirt; when she tugs the zipper down, Christa executes a little shimmy of her hips and her skirt slides to the floor. "Good grief, just how many layers are you wearing?" Ymir asks when she realizes that there was a slip under the skirt.
Christa purses her lip, giving her a pointed look. "Fewer than you are right now."
"What, you think I'm overdressed?" Ymir grins at her. "All you had to do was say." She reaches a hand back and grips the collar of her t-shirt to yank it off. She tosses it in the general direction of her laundry pile and stretches, letting Christa get a good look at her bare chest, and then skins out of her jeans. She hooks her fingers in the waistband of her shorts and says, "Now who's overdressed?"
Christa promptly removes her slip and everything beneath it and sets her hands on her bare hips. "You are."
"There's way more to you than meets the eye, isn't there?" Ymir says, admiring the delicate curve of Christa's hips as she advances on her.
"Maybe there is," Christa says as Ymir curves her hands over her hips and begins walking her backwards, towards the bed. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason." When they reach the bed, Ymir slides her hands up to Christa's shoulders and presses her down. "Just thought it was interesting, that's all." She folds herself to her knees and nudges her way between Christa's legs. "So, are you the quiet type, or do you like to get loud?"
Christ looks down at her, her smile faintly puzzled, before she spreads her knees wider, offering. "Why don't you find out?"
Ymir is absolutely on board with that plan; it's all the invitation she needs to catch Christa's hips and drag her to the edge of the mattress, spreading her open so she can bury her face in the wet tangle of curls the color of old gold. Christa gasps as Ymir nuzzles against her, breathing in the hot scent of her, and sinks her fingers into Ymir's hair as she licks her open. She gasps again when Ymir tongues her clit, tightening her fingers in Ymir's hair. Ymir does it again, feeling the surge of Christa's response to that.
She can see it, too, when she looks up at Christa, who is breathing through parted lips, quick and light, her eyes half-closed. She gasps when Ymir sucks on her clit, shuddering, and hooks her leg around Ymir's shoulder like she wants to drag her closer. Ymir keeps going, circling her tongue over Christa's clit, around it, letting the way Christa digs her heel into her shoulder guide her to what she likes, until Christa gasps again as a series of shudders seizes her. She tightens her fingers in Ymir's hair to the point of pain as she comes, nearly silent for it as she shakes, her eyes squeezed shut and her hair curling damply at her temples.
It seems like a waste to stop so soon, especially when Christa isn't pushing her away. Ymir presses her fingers into Christa while her body's still throbbing, sinking them into the slickness of her and working them against the muscles that are still fluttering. This time Christa does cry out, hoarse. She strains against Ymir, grinding against her mouth as Ymir fucks her, pushing her back over the edge and keeping her there until Christa whimpers and pushes her away. She slumps backward, trembling, and doesn't open her eyes when Ymir crawls up onto the bed with her. She's glowing and flushed, wearing a dreamy smile.
Ymir contemplates a job well done and slides her hand into her shorts as she watches Christa come down, stroking herself lightly, not ready to come just yet and simply enjoying the lazy coil of pleasure. When Christa opens her eyes at last, she says, "So, the quiet type, huh? But I bet someone could make you scream, if she worked at it."
Christa turns her head to look her way. "I suppose you have someone in mind for that." Her voice is warm, velvet with her satisfaction.
"Maybe I do," Ymir says.
"Mm." Christa pushes herself up, languid. "I can't say I'm surprised." She slips across the mattress, leaning in to kiss Ymir, taking her time with it and licking the taste of herself from Ymir's lips.
Ymir leans back against her pillows and slides her fingers into Christa's hair, humming to her, until she feels the edge of Christa's nails as she strokes them over the curve of her ribs. The sharpness of them is delicate; Ymir growls as heat throbs through her. Christa trails her nails up, drawing them over the curve of Ymir's breast, and pinches her nipple. Her touch is light but sure; the sensation bolts through Ymir. "Shit," she breathes, pressing her palm tight against her body. "Fuck, Christa…"
Christa pulls back to look at her, searching, before she smiles faintly. "I thought so," she says, right before she bends her head to bite Ymir's throat as she rolls Ymir's nipple between her fingers.
Ymir groans, grinding her palm against her clit. "You are a hell of a lot more dangerous than you look," she says, leaning her head back as Christa bites up and down her throat.
Christa hesitates, almost uncertain. "Should I stop?"
"Fuck, no," Ymir tells her. "I didn't say that was a bad thing, did I?" It's precisely the opposite, in fact, part and parcel of whatever it is that motivated Christa to wander into her bar in the first place and why she invited the woman home with her.
"…I suppose you didn't," Christa murmurs after a moment.
She carries on, biting down until Ymir can feel the sting of being marked. It runs through her like quicksilver; she groans, and groans again when she feels Christa's mouth sliding hot and wet down her throat and over her chest to the exquisitely sensitive skin of her breasts. The next bite is almost too much; Ymir shouts when Christa closes her teeth on her nipple, drawing taut as Christa laps at the sensitized skin. "Fuck," she says, hoarse, working her hand between her thighs and stroking herself firmly. "Fuck, Christa… fuck...!" She shouts again as Christa drags her nails up the inside of her thigh, the slow sharp lines sending fire twisting through her, searing her right down to her bones.
She rocks her palm against her clit as orgasm shakes her, dragging it out until her muscles burn and she can't stand any more, and then lets herself sag into the afterglow. As she does, Christa lifts her mouth from Ymir's breast. The next thing Ymir knows is the soft stroke of Christa's hands running over her skin, as if Christa wants to gentle her down. Ymir cracks her eyes open, but she can't make anything of Christa's thoughtful expression or the way she is tracing her palms over Ymir's body, over her breasts and belly and thighs. After a bit, she realizes that Ymir is watching and glances up, smiling faintly.
Ymir finds herself smiling back and reaches for her, ready for another kiss. Christa comes to her readily, fitting the soft curves of her body against Ymir's more spare frame. Ymir wraps her arms around her; presently, she asks a question, shaping the words against Christa's lips. "So, do you wanna rent the U-Haul for our next date, or should I do it?"
Christa dissolves into giggles at that, shaking against Ymir's chest. "I have a policy of no U-Hauls before the three-month anniversary."
"All right," Ymir says, amiable. "I'll mark my calendar."
"You do that," Christa says, laughing, before kissing her again.
(They don't rent the U-Haul until their four-month anniversary, as it turns out, but that's only because Ymir's lease isn't up till then.)
end
As always, comments are lovely!
(And the U-Haul thing is a really old joke about lesbians—what does a lesbian second date involve? A U-Haul and a bunch of boxes.)