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She’s fucked, in a way she’s not been fucked in a long time.
In a way that makes her throat feel a little numb, and she drags her fingers along the corner of her mouth to check there are no traces of whiskey there. She’s good. Her glass is empty. Not so good.
She leans sideways, reaching out to get the bartender’s attention, wrist clipping a glass of wine that definitely wasn’t there before and sending it rocking. She fumbles, rights it, winces at the small puddle of red that pools at the base of the glass, watches as it saturates the flimsy bar coaster.
“My bad,” she mumbles, and Miss Stick-Up-Her-Ass just tuts and swivels round on the barstool. Her date - ugly as sin, receding hairline and wire-frame glasses - shoots her a dirty look, and she flips him off. Men don’t deserve her dirty looks. Also, her forehead feels kind of numb.
She lifts the glass up to take another sip and knocks it into her front left tooth at the same time she remembers it’s empty. It gets worse, it seems. She rocks forward on the stool, feet precarious on the metal footrest, worn soles of her shoes sliding slightly. If she were more sober, she might care. But she’s not, and her tooth hurts, and her glass is still fucking empty.
“Hey-” she clears her throat. “Hey, can I get another?” She calls out, drumming her fingers on the bar. It’s sticky. She vaguely remembers that she may, at some point, have spilt a little of her drink a couple of glasses back.
“I think you’ve had enough,” a woman she hadn’t noticed says, back to her, dishtowel slung over her shoulder.
She’s wearing grey jeans and a white wifebeater, black bra straps showing over pointed shoulder blades, and Carol can see a tattoo at the nape of her neck, partially obscured by strands of brunette hair that have escaped from her claw clip. Her hair looks knotted, and she wonders whether it was the wind, or if she was wearing a jumper and took it off earlier.
She turns around, and from Carol’s place slung over the bar, it looks like her legs go on forever. Sharp hipbones peek out of the jeans that are far lower than she originally thought, and she thinks she can see another tattoo wrapping around her right side, slightly tanned skin on display where the hem of her top doesn’t quite meet her pants.
Her mouth is dry. All the more reason to get another drink.
“I am respectfully disagreeing,” she says, tongue getting caught in her teeth with all the effort it takes not to slur her words, and nudges her glass forward. “Whiskey?” She tries to sound authoritative. The other woman raises an eyebrow and turns away.
She sighs, loud and obnoxious, before sitting back on the stool and spinning a beer mat around in between her middle finger and thumb.
Her head jerks back up at the bottle of water that’s slammed down in front of her, cap already off.
“Drink this, and I’ll consider serving you again,” says Legs, and there’s something in her accent.
“What are you, my mother?” She scoffs, already lifting the bottle up to take a sip.
“Why, do you want me to be? We just met. It’s a little early for a mommy kink,” she quips, and water sprays out of Carol’s mouth.
The bartender just looks at her, bemused, before flinging a wad of blue paper roll at her.
In between evacuating the water from her lungs and clearing said water off the bar in front of her, she disappears. Carol does not pout about this, because she is grown. Someone else behind the bar asks if she needs anything and she sneers, because one of her favourite pastimes has always been cutting off her own nose.
She sits and sips, the water tasting sweet after the acid of the whiskey. She wonders if alcohol is bad for her teeth, if one day she’ll bite the cork out of a bottle and spit out twenty-eight pearly whites. She never got her wisdom teeth, which is either ironic or sad. She runs the tip of her still-too-big tongue over the very corners of her mouth, thinks maybe it means nothing, actually.
Legs appears again, and she necks the rest of the water and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Hey, hey! Look, all finished.” She upends the bottle and a couple of drips slip out onto the table. She swipes it with the blue roll.
“Aren’t you a good girl?” The bartender coos, sarcastic and unimpressed.
Her feet slip off the footrest slightly and her elbows clunk down onto the sticky wood.
“I- Jesus, you’re kind of a dick?”
The bartender laughs at that, throaty. “I’m not the one falling off stools in a bar like a child.”
“You serve many kids in this bar?” She retorts, and the second laugh is ever better than the first one, her head thrown back to expose the column of her throat.
“You’re nearly funny,” she says, and then she winks, and walks off again.
“Wait, my-” she holds her glass out, but she’s already a couple of meters away, stupid eight-foot-tall legs carrying her off like she’s some kind of hot clown on stilts. She busies herself with unpicking the label off the water bottle, then regrets it when the crinkling of the plastic starts to annoy her.
She’s bored. She struggles to remember what she was doing for fun the entire evening, likes to think it wasn’t just drinking.
She tries not to look around for Legs. In the middle of not looking she happens to see her, bent over to tug a crate of glasses from somewhere under the bar. She can see her underwear, two skimpy strings pulled tight over her hips where the denim has slipped down, cutting ever so slightly into the flesh of her hips.
Carol needs a drink.
Legs stands up and turns around, wiping her hands on her jeans and catching her red-handed. Red-eyeballed. She doesn’t look away. The brunette looks unimpressed for the third time that night, and Carol wants to make her sneer again. She pretends like she doesn’t know why.
“You’re not very subtle,” Legs says.
“Okay,” is all she can think to reply. “You owe me a drink.”
The other woman blinks at her incredulously. “You’re already pretty drunk.”
“You said if I drank the water I could have another whiskey,” Carol bargains, and wonders if she’s pouting. She brings her hand up to her mouth to squish at her lip. Legs rolls her eyes, and Carol crosses her legs.
“It’s like negotiating with a toddler who is also a terrorist,” she sighs, like the most put-upon bartender in the world, and the blonde wonders if it’s weird she likes the way she says terrorist so much. The Ts kind of bleed into Ds a little bit, and she wonders if she remembers enough of her linguistics course from college to say something intelligent. She decides against it, thinks maybe being funny will work better in her favour.
“You have got to stop saying you give alcohol to children. Especially if they have bombs.”
Legs’ nostrils flare. Carol Sturka, you’ve done it again.
“I said I’d consider giving you another drink. Anyway, we’re nearly closed.”
She looks around, and realises in the past however long, the bar has nearly cleared out, tables vacant. It’s only Legs and another guy now, and she’s wiping down the bar.
“So you can have one with me?” She decides she needs to practice sounding authoritative at home.
Legs stares at her for a couple of seconds, and she shifts in her seat. Her shoes squeak against the footrest and she unhooks them, but she’s too short to reach the ground. She puts them back on again, and squirms.
“Manny?” Legs yells, suddenly, without breaking eye contact. He makes some kind of a noise in response. Carol thinks maybe her ears are full of water somehow, because with the other woman’s eyes on her, she’s kind of struggling to hear. “I’ll lock up.”
He comes around the corner, and he’s younger than Carol assumed he would be, though she doesn’t quite know why she thinks that. He eyes her up, and she gives an awkward little wave, lifting her arm up and splaying her fingers out.
“You’ll be alright?” He asks, and jerks his head at Carol.
Legs laughs, husky, and Carol really, really needs a drink.
“Her? Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
Carol is sober enough to feel offended, and actually, just the right amount of drunk enough to pout at the woman, who rolls her eyes again. She thinks she must be getting a headache, what with all the eye-gymnastics.
“Okay. Night, Z.” He bustles off, and Carol’s ears prick up.
“Z? You some kind of secret agent?”
Z mock laughs at her, pulling down a whiskey glass from a shelf and uncorking a bottle, before filling up both their glasses.
“So, what’s it stand for?” She tries again, and the other woman just leans back against the opposite counter and looks at her. “Zara? Zoey?”
A scowl means she’s wrong, and she takes a sip of her drink. It’s cheaper stuff than she had been drinking all night, and it burns on the way down.
At her wince, Z raises both her eyebrows, this time. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer I kick you out?”
“I didn’t even say anything!” She tries to defend herself and feels her throat twist from the rough alcohol. She holds in a cough. Z looks at her. She knows her face is going red so gives in and coughs anyway, sharp and painful. “Must be coming down with something.”
“It’s not Zara or Zoey. Those are shit guesses.” She takes a sip of her own whiskey, swallows it without batting an eye. Carol realises how big her eyes are, then, the low light making them twinkle, and she weighs up the pros and cons of comparing her to Bambi. “It’s Zosia.”
“Zosia,” she tries, her stupid American mouth twisting the vowels all wrong. Her face twists into a frown, and Legs- Zosia, smiles, ever so slightly, like she might just be endearing.
“Your turn.”
“My turn to what?” She’s busy thinking about the colour of whiskey and Zosia’s eyes. Wonders what paint she’d have to mix with that light amber to get it just right. It reminds her of the antique bureau in her grandparents’ house, the way the wood would get warm in the late afternoon.
It’s a little harder to romanticise eyes when they’re staring at her like that, though.
“Are you drunk, or just stupid? What’s your name?”
She doesn’t bother answering the first question. “Carol.”
“Carol,” Zosia tests the name out, and her glass nearly slips from her hand. She doesn’t need to look up to know one, or both, of her eyebrows are raised. “Why are you drinking alone in a bar, Carol?”
The way she says her name a second time, lower and a little raspier, means she knows exactly what the first time did to her. Carol contemplates lying, then shrugs.
“Wife left.”
“Oh.” She seems, at least, to have surprised the other woman, who, up until now, she was convinced was only capable of mild disdain.
“Your turn.” The other woman looks confused. “How come you’re drinking in a bar with me?”
Zosia scoffs. “I’m drinking, and you happen to be here. Trespassing,” she says, but she doesn’t mean it. Carol grins, and tries to hide it behind her glass.
She hums, winces as she swallows the last of her whiskey. It’s made her a little lightheaded again, in that funny way you only really get when you sober up a little before drinking more. Drunk sober, or sober drunk. An odd mix of everything being sharp and dull. She looks up, sees the points of Zosia’s canines against her lower lip, thinks she’d make a good vampire.
“Where are you from?” She wants to hear her talk in her native language. She thinks it’s something European, maybe.
“That’s racist,” Zosia says, frowning, and she splutters.
“No, I didn’t-” she’s cut off by the other woman laughing again, and she just sits and stares, wishing she could find it in herself to be annoyed. “You really suck,” she mumbles, making grabby hands for the whiskey, and the other woman continues to laugh even as she pours them both another.
“I’m from Poland. Born in Gdansk. You?”
“I’m from Albuquerque. Born, like, four hours away,” she snorts into her glass, and dares to look up. Zosia is smiling too, and it burns like the whiskey. “What’s Poland like?”
Zosia’s face softens in a way it hasn’t all night. “Cold. Green.”
“So you’re at home here in New Mexico, then?” She teases, and is rewarded with a smile. Her front teeth are pretty, she thinks. They suit her.
They drink in silence.
“You like being told what to do?” Zosia suddenly asks, and Carol startles so hard the stool rocks backwards. She stammers, protesting, and Zosia rolls her eyes. Carol could turn that into a drinking game, if she ever remembers how to count, or think. “I’m going for a smoke. Come on,” she beckons, and Carol’s stupid, traitorous feet scramble off the stool and follow her, pathetically, to a side door.
It’s heavy and metal and clangs when it opens, and Zosia drags a crate over to prop it open, before sitting down on it and pulling a couple of cigarettes out of the packet she snagged from behind the bar, holding one out.
Carol takes it wordlessly, and wonders what the fuck is happening. The other woman reaches out and lights her cigarette, and she forgets how to operate for a moment as long, slim fingers cup around her mouth to shield the flame from the breeze. She coughs, trying to breathe in and out and swallow all at the same time, and Zosia snorts, taking deep drags of her own.
“Hey, I don’t usually smoke,” she tries to defend herself, but her voice peters out at the hollow of Zosia’s cheeks as she takes a drag. At some point she took her hair out of the claw clip, and Carol admires the shine of it, how thick and glossy it looks even tangled, the slightly curled edges brushing her collarbones.
“So why are you wasting my cigarette?”
She looks like a model, sitting on an upturned crate in some dingy alley, all sharp bones and smoke. Actually, she looks like she was meant to be on some emo band album cover, the type of music Carol would have listened to in secret at school, pretending to moon over some stupid guitar player instead of the moody lead singer.
“You gave it to me, I’m just being polite.”
“Were you being polite when you were staring at my ass earlier?” She questions, accusatory, and Carol has the decency to flush.
“In my defence,” she starts, then stops. The nicotine has made her slightly light-headed. “In my defence, you have a fantastic ass.”
This does shock Zosia, and she laughs again, before standing up. She shakes her head as she drops the rest of her cigarette on the floor, before pulling Carol in by the lapels of her shirt.
“You’re so stupid,” is all she says, before bringing their mouths together.
Carol buffers for a second, but it’s long enough that Zosia pulls back, slightly confused.
“What, did you-” is all she has time to say before Carol surges forward, her question lost to her lips, moaning into her mouth within seconds. She scrabbles at Zosia’s back, hands slipping under the thin fabric of her shirt, fingers digging into the muscle and bone there as she whines.
Zosia laughs into her mouth, before clamping down on her lower lip with her teeth and grabbing her by the jaw, biting so hard Carol whimpers before pulling back ever so slightly.
“You’re loud,” she says, and Carol can’t tell if that’s a compliment or a complaint. Zosia licks into her mouth, wet and aggressive and wanting, and she moans again. Fingers tighten against the nape of her neck, nails biting into delicate skin, and she’s fairly certain it’s a compliment.
In seconds, Carol is flat against the wall, head bumping against the rough brick as Zosia fists a hand in her hair and pulls. She’d be embarrassed at the noises coming out of her mouth if she had the capacity to think about anything other than the hot tongue on her neck, the teeth grazing her jawline before nipping hard at the skin there. She wonders if she’s bleeding, if those canines are being put to good use.
“You like this as well?” Zosia mutters into her ear.
All she can manage is a breathy “Huh?”, and Zosia rolls her eyes at the same time as wedging her thigh between her legs.
“You like being hurt,” she clarifies, reaching down to grab roughly at Carol’s ass, pulling her closer so the press of her thigh is more efficient.
“You’re- fuck,” the seam of her own jeans rubs in just the right way, and the brunette uses her free hand to grab her jaw roughly. “You’re pretty forward.”
“Would you like me to stop?”
Carol scoffs, shrugs her overshirt off and throws it somewhere near the crate. “Now who’s being stupid?”
As she brings her arms up to brush her hair out her eyes she sees Zosia’s gaze fix on one of her biceps before swapping to the other one, eyes flashing as she pulls her lip between her teeth again. She flexes slightly, under the guise of moving her hair more, and the other woman’s hands twitch.
“See something you like?” She teases, and Zosia’s eyes snap back up to hers, narrowing.
“God, you’re- Carol!”
In a moment of genius and stupidity, like climbing up a tree to impress a girl, she grabs Zosia’s thighs and hooks them around her hips, spinning them so the taller woman is pinned against the wall.
Zosia doesn’t say anything, just stares at her, and Carol wonders if she’s about to fall out of the tree really, really hard. Instead, though, she breathes out shakily and brings their mouths together even more furiously than before, biting at her lip and licking at her teeth, and if Carol wasn’t so preoccupied impressing, her knees would have gone weak. She moves her hands around to knead at Zosia’s ass and her hips pitch forward into her, trying her best to grind against Carol’s stomach.
She can’t help but moan again, long and dirty into Zosia’s mouth, wishing they were horizontal, or in a bed, or naked. Or even better, all three.
Zosia bites her lip again, and this time she does draw blood. As she pulls away, she can see the glint of it on her mouth, and Carol’s fingers dig into her flesh as she tries to bite down a pathetic noise. Zosia laughs, low and raspy, and Carol feels the vibrations in her core.
“See? You do like it,” she teases, and Carol responds by sucking a string of purple-red bruises down the column of her throat and sliding her hands up her waist, under her shirt, fingers dancing on her ribcage. The bra she’s wearing is sheer, she can feel from the material, and when her thumbs brush over a pair of metal bars she whines into Zosia’s neck so loud she laughs again.
She scrabbles to get the other woman’s shirt up further, grumbling into soft skin when it gets caught against the brick wall.
“Down,” Zosia orders, tapping her on the shoulder, and Carol lets her thighs go, grieving the loss of their pressure and heat around her waist. Then, Zosia pulls her own shirt over her head, piercings standing out behind the thin fabric of her bra, and she skips straight to acceptance. “Like what you see?” She mocks, and Carol can’t find it in herself to argue.
Instead, she lowers her mouth to her chest, mouthing at her tits through the fabric of her bra, desperate as she pants into flushed skin. Zosia arches her back against the wall, pushing her body out further, and Carol sucks at the swell of her chest so hard Zosia hisses. Her tits are fucking perfect, smaller than Carol’s own, and her nipples are pebbled in the soft breeze of the night. The piercings glint, and she tugs down the cup of the other woman’s bra to take her in her mouth, metal clacking against her teeth before she bites down gently.
She is rewarded with hands fisting in her hair, Zosia holding her against her chest as she swaps sides. The noises she makes, Carol thinks, might be enough to get her off, ranging from quieter, lower moans to breathy little whimpers. She brings up her hand to thumb at the other nipple, skin still sticky with her spit, and looks up to see the other woman already looking down at her. Carol takes her nipple in between her teeth and pulls back slightly, and Zosia curses above her.
“God - fuck - on your knees,” she orders, pushing her back gently when Carol ignores her, mouth still focused on her chest.
“I- what?”
“On your knees, baby,” Zosia says, and Carol can barely hear over the white noise in her ears when she sees Zosia start to unbutton her jeans. She turns, pants rolled down over her hip slightly, and any hope Carol has of standing up for herself instantly disappears at the sight of the tattoo that winds around her waist and, it seems, over the curve of her ass.
She lays out Carol’s flannel on the crate and shucks her jeans and underwear down the rest of the way, leaving them bunched around her ankles before sitting and looking at her expectantly, and the blonde thinks it’s unfair she still somehow looks like a supermodel when wriggling off skintight denim in a fucking alleyway.
Either way, she complies, dropping to kneel in front of Zosia, frowning at the awkward angle she’s forced into, leaning over the bottom of her legs.
“Zosia, I can’t-” she starts, but is cut off by the other woman’s hands fisting painfully in her hair and yanking her forwards.
“Figure it out,” is all she says, before forcing her face in between her thighs and holding her there.
She’s wet, clearly more affected than she’d like to let on, with her haughty looks and rolled eyes, and Carol moans at the first taste of her. She’s bossy, too, just as much with her hands as she is with her words, tugging Carol exactly where she wants her.
“Fuck, just there,” she sighs out into the night air, fingers scratching at Carol’s scalp as she cants her hips into her mouth. “I like you much better like this.”
She can’t bring herself to feel offence at what she’s implying, not when Zosia’s holding her tight enough and grinding on her mouth like it doesn’t matter to her whether she can breathe or not. The ground is hard against her knees, the angle she’s bent forward at difficult, but she forgets to care when she digs into smooth hips with her fingernails and is rewarded with a chesty groan.
“You’re good with your tongue,” she praises, half-whimpered, and drags one of Carol’s hands off her waist to her chest, gasping when she passes a thumb over her nipple. The piercing is cooler despite her flushed skin, and she rolls the sensitive flesh between her fingers and moans when lean legs clamp around her head.
She can hardly move, restrained to a barely there tilt of her jaw, but Zosia is damn near riding her face. Looking up, there’s none of the refinement from a usual first hookup - her eyes are balled shut, mouth dropped open as she pants, fist opening and closing where it’s buried in her hair. She’s being used, unashamedly, and she whines into the other woman’s core.
Zosia stops moving then, thighs locked tight around her ears, a gasp echoing round the alley they’re in as she comes, before her hips start bucking against her face, riding out the waves of her orgasm as she pleases. It’s long, drawn out, and she fucks herself on Carol’s tongue right through it, hips finally coming to a stop save for a few sporadic stutters.
As her legs loosen from where they’re clamped around her head, she realises she can hear Zosia laughing, raspy and relaxed.
“I’m sorry, is something funny?” She pulls back, rocking away to sit on her haunches. She can’t help but notice the way Zosia’s eyes drop to the lower half of her face, soaked with her own slick and no doubt glinting in the overhead street lighting.
The other woman just stands, a little unsteadily, and pulls her jeans back up. As she does, Carol sees a wet patch where she was sitting on her overshirt, wonders if she’s ever going to get the stain out or if she would even want to.
Zosia pulls the pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket, lights one, and smirks down at where Carol is still kneeling.
“You gonna stand up or what?” She doesn’t offer a hand to help her up, just stands there, towering over Carol as she blows her smoke up in the air.
Carol rises before she even processes the command, blushing when Zosia pouts condescendingly at her.
“Aww, you’re like a little puppy,” she coos, and Carol scoffs.
“I’m not- I’m not a puppy, I just-”
“Shut up,” Zosia says, with another eye roll, pulling her in for a kiss by the neck of her tank top. She licks into her mouth, dirty and slow, and sucks on her bottom lip before pulling back and releasing it with a pop. She wipes her chin roughly with her thumb, before pushing it past her lips, forcing her to take it in her mouth.
The brunette takes another drag of her cigarette as she watches Carol lave her tongue over the pad of her thumb, smoke trailing from her lips and up into her nose. She’s mesmerised, can’t do anything other than watch and suck.
“You want?” Zosia jerks her head towards the cigarette in her hand. Carol nods, unsure of what she’s agreeing to, thinks she’d drink a pint of paint thinner right now if she suggested it. The taller woman slips her thumb out of her mouth and Carol nearly trips forward with the loss, her bottom lip glistening with a mixture of her own spit and Zosia’s come.
Zosia brings the cigarette to her own lips and takes a pull before cupping the back of Carol’s neck and pulling her in close, nearly touching, to breathe the smoke into her mouth. She inhales, knees weak and head swimming, and she’s not entirely sure she can blame it on the nicotine anymore. She moans as she exhales, the smoke fainter the second time, and surges forward to kiss her again.
She can feel Zosia smile into the kiss and it’s humiliating, her whimpers frantic as the other woman licks deep into her mouth, biting her lip hard again.
“So desperate,” Zosia murmurs, and all she can do is nod. She is, she’s aching for the other woman to touch her, needs it so badly she’s near shaking.
It happens too fast for her to stop it.
Zosia brings her hand up to cup her cheek, fingertips digging into her jawline, and a chunk of ash falls from her cigarette onto the soft skin of her inner arm. The noise that rips out of her throat is animal, somewhere between a choked moan and a howl, and Zosia pulls back to look at her, eyes wide as the sound registers.
“Oh,” is all she says, knowing and loaded and electric.
“I-” Carol starts, but nothing else comes out.
Zosia just dips back down for a kiss, walks them backwards until Carol is pressed against the wall again. She drags her lips across her face, presses them all the way to her jaw and then up to suck at the spot below her ear until Carol is keening into her hair.
“Did you like that?” Her whisper sends the blonde’s nerves haywire, goosebumps rising over the skin of her arms.
“Zosia, please,” she begs, doesn’t know if she’s willing to admit what for.
“You want me to put this out on you?” She waves the cigarette in front of her face, the end of it no longer glowing. Carol can only whine, and she digs her fingers into the brick wall behind her to ground herself, to stop herself from floating out of her body and into the night air that’s getting warmer by the minute.
“Carol?” Her head lolls forward into Zosia’s neck. “You want this?”
She nods, panting. “Please,” is all she can say, voice cracking.
Zosia hums into her ear and kisses down her neck, across the plane of her shoulder, teeth grazing her collarbone, before she slides a cool hand down the burning skin of Carol’s arm to bring it up to her mouth. She presses her lips down the outside of her bicep, and laves her tongue over the sensitive skin of her inner upper arm, a trail of spit connecting it to her mouth when she pulls back. Carol whines, the air cool against the wet patch, and she chuckles.
“Trust me,” she reassures, and Carol nods again, head tilted back against the brick. At the snick of the lighter she whimpers again, and Zosia lights up again with a smile. “This is gonna hurt,” she warns, and the shorter woman nods as fast as she can do despite her body feeling like her skeleton has been replaced with cotton candy.
It’s a light press, directly on the damp flesh, and Carol’s knees go weak as the pain sinks in, groaning loud and long as it takes over her mind. She’s fairly sure she can hear buzzing, and she feels every throb of the wound in her core.
“Good, good, you took it so well, Carol,” Zosia is muttering, and she reaches up with her unmarred arm to pull her in for another kiss, her limbs heavy. She’s uncoordinated, clumsy, and she can feel everything - the brush of Zosia’s hair against the skin of her neck, the press of her thigh on the front of her leg, the way her fingertips are trailing up her arm.
“Again, please, again,” she breaks them apart to whine, and Zosia pauses, unsure for just a moment, and the hesitation would be welcome if she didn’t feel like she would drown without it. “Please, Zosia, I want it, I want it so badly.” She’s babbling at this point, but she can’t bring herself to care.
This time, the taller woman kisses down to her other shoulder, wetting the skin again before taking another drag, exhaling shakily as she first ashes the cigarette before pressing it down on Carol’s upper arm, just a touch harder and longer than the first time.
She sobs, skull banging against the wall as she throws her head back at the feeling, white-hot and burning and so fucking good, so good she can’t control herself anymore.
Carol scrabbles for Zosia’s hand, batting the cigarette out of her fingers as she brings it to her midsection, tries to force it down the front of her jeans at the same time as she fumbles with the button. Zosia’s hands are moving desperately too, now, still murmuring praise into her ear in between kissing the sharp corner of her jaw.
She sobs again when they finally get the button undone and she feels long fingers slide against, her, and Zosia’s breath escapes in a choked moan at just how wet she is, maybe the first time she’s been outwardly shocked without a hint of attitude all night. And she is, she’s fucking soaked, underwear so far past ruined now she’ll have no choice but to throw it away, and she doesn’t have much hope for her jeans either, at this point.
Her fingers ease in with no problem despite the awkward angle, the denim stopping her from properly flexing her wrist, but they both know it doesn’t matter. Not from the way her hips are already bucking, from the way that Zosia could feel her clench around her fingers when she first slipped them in, wanting and greedy and so, so ready for her.
“Zosh,” she whimpers, short nails now clawing at her shoulders, the back of her arm, the nape of her neck. “Please, please,” she chants, and Zosia pulls back to kiss her, long and dirty.
“That’s it, Carol, you did so well,” she whispers into her mouth, and the moan she receives is hoarse and wanton. “You took those burns so well, Carol. Did so good,” she praises as she crooks her fingers, and Carol falls apart instantly.
Teeth buried in Zosia’s neck, she comes, whining as she’s fucked through it, the praise still ringing in her ears. Both arms are thrown over Zosia’s shoulders, and she hangs off the older woman, hips canting as much as she can with the restricted movement. She thinks she tastes blood, can’t stop to think if it’s Zosia’s or if she’s bitten her own tongue, not when she’s still full of her fingers, not when they’re still moving inside of her.
She moves to slow down, to stop, and Carol cries out, one of her hands circling her wrist and holding her in place, jolting her slightly in a way that makes the shorter woman whimper.
“No, please, please, Zosia, don’t stop, please,” she pleads, and it’s embarrassing how unabashedly she’s begging, moaning as she bears down on her fingers.
Zosia just slips another digit inside of her, renewing her efforts through the burn of her arm and the chafing of the open zip against the back of her wrist. When Carol hitches her leg around the taller woman’s hip, they both moan at the extra inch it affords them, Carol keening pathetically at the feeling of Zosia even deeper inside her.
She thinks she’s crying, can’t tell if the streaks of damp on her face are from tears or Zosia’s frantic kisses as she curls her fingers harder, entire body keeping her pinned up against the wall. She’s whimpering curses now, so fucking close she feels like she might die if she doesn’t come soon, the ball of desire low in her belly almost too big now, too overwhelming. She doesn’t know if she can contain everything she’s feeling, Zosia’s fingers filling her up and her constant murmurs in her ear.
“Please, fuck, Zosia, please-” and even with the flat of her palm on her clit it’s not enough, she’s on the edge and it’s fucking killing her, nails cutting eight perfect crescents into the smooth skin of Zosia’s shoulders.
The other woman just shushes her, like she knows what she needs, curling her arm up around her body so her fingers graze the top of her shoulder.
“So good, baby, I’ve got you. Come for me, Carol,” she murmurs sweetly in her ear as she presses the tip of her finger into the fresh burn on her shoulder, and Carol goes silent, a split second of disconnect between her mind and body, before she comes again, harder this time, sobbing roughly as the feeling floods over her. Zosia’s finger is hot, still pressing against the wound as she strokes inside of her whilst her body twitches, and she feels like she’s on fire.
She fucks her through it, patient and steady, holding her up as her knees buckle.
As she eases off a little, Zosia places delicate kisses on the column of her throat, up to her cheek, brushing over her lips once, twice. She’s moved her other hand now, and it rests on the back of her neck, thumb stroking the wisps of hair there.
“Are you okay?” Zosia’s voice is raspy, cracking on the last word.
She nods, or thinks she does. She tells herself to, but isn’t quite sure if it happens. Zosia laughs, softly, the puff of air dancing over Carol’s flushed cheeks.
“I’m gonna-”
Carol gasps as she pulls out, head lolling back slightly as she struggles to find her footing again, and she flushes at the state of Zosia’s hand.
“You okay to stand?” Her voice is soft, teasing only colouring the words slightly.
“Um,” she says, voice gravelly. Her hands are shaking when she tries to do up the button of her jeans. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”
Zosia hums, picking up Carol’s overshirt from where it’s still lying on the crate to wipe her hand with. Carol just stands, blinks at her. She feels out of sync, like her mind’s still in the alley but her body is still on the stool inside, four whiskeys in and seeing the world at a slight angle.
The taller woman weighs her up, searches her face for something, and finds it. She stalks back over, presses the balled up fabric into Carol’s hands, before taking her face in her hands and kissing her, deep but sweet, with none of the fighting passion of earlier. She can’t tell what it means, only that it brings her back to herself a little more.
“We have burn cream inside,” she says, once she’s pulled back, lips a little glossy and eyes sparkling in the low light.
“Oh,” is all Carol says, nodding as she stands, struck a little dumb by the wet patches she can feel on the material of her overshirt, and Zosia rolls her eyes. It makes her smile, and the taller woman lunges forward to grab her by the wrist and pull her towards the door.
“It’s a shame I didn’t manage to fuck any brains into you,” she teases, hands on her hips as she pushes her through the heavy metal door, and Carol pouts back over her shoulder at her. “Maybe next time,” she says, only a little condescendingly, patting her cheek as she strides past her to rummage behind the bar for the first aid kit.
“Next time?”
“Shut up, Carol.”