Fic (Shingeki no Kyojin)- Four-Point Play
Title: Four-Point Play
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Ymir/Christa
Word count: 4441
Warnings: College AU
Summary: The first time Ymir sees her, they're at a party, and Ymir isn't the most sober she's ever been in her life.
Notes: I wrote this mess entirely in one sitting while drunk. The fact that it is even remotely coherent today is thanks entirely to
furiosity's betaing prowess omg ty girl ♥ This is totally set at my undergrad university, bonus points if you catch the not-so-subtle hints as to where that is!
The first time Ymir sees her, they're at a party, and Ymir isn't the most sober she's ever been in her life. She's actually just about two drinks short of shitfaced, which might explain why she allows herself to lean against the wall a few feet to the left of the blonde girl who looks too straight to be queer and too pretty to be single, but hey, Ymir can dream. The girl cuts her eyes sideways so Ymir quickly pulls out her phone and pretends to be busy texting someone, which is hilarious considering that she only has two friends and they're both probably passed out somewhere in this house.
"Um," the girl says after a moment. Ymir is too drunk to act cool, so of course she almost drops her phone in her urgency to stuff it in a pocket and focus all her attention on those blue eyes. "You play basketball, don't you?"
Ymir blinks back her surprise and tries not to slur when she speaks. "Yeah," she says, not slurred exactly, but weirdly gruff. "You, uh—like basketball?" Which is the stupidest thing to say ever.
The girl doesn't look like she thinks it's stupid, though. Her eyes widen and she smiles, and Ymir digs her nails into her palms.
"You're really good," the girl says, staring up at Ymir like she's Michael Jordan, and fuck, Ymir doesn't give a shit if this girl does have a boyfriend. She moves a step closer, so there are only a few inches between them.
She's even shorter than Ymir had previously realized, and the kind of pretty that radiates without the impression of even putting that much effort into it. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail and her hands are clutched around a red plastic cup that's more than half full of what smells like a rum and Coke. Up until a minute ago, she looked lost, like she would rather be anywhere other than a sketchy undergrad house party on a Friday night, but all of a sudden she's lit up, and it twists something sharp in Ymir's gut.
"Thanks," Ymir says, doing her best to sound like a normal human being and not a creepy asshole who picks up drunk straight girls at parties. She's probably the drunker one right now, at least. "Uh—what's your name?"
"Christa." Christa smiles bright, like she's flattered to have been asked, and offers Ymir her hand. Ymir shakes it. She's about to give her own name when Christa's smile falls away and she says, "Do you know the address of this place?"
Ymir lets go of Christa's hand and frowns. "You need to get somewhere?"
"Just home . . . my friend brought me here but she left without me. . . ." Christa trails off and glances around, brow furrowed.
What the hell, Ymir thinks. She hates house parties anyway. "I'll walk you home," she says, and the way Christa's eyes shine again is so sickening Ymir has to look down before she does something stupid like blush.
Christa's dorms turn out to be only about half a mile away. Ymir gets them there easily, careful to guide Christa away, one hand at the small of her back, from any stumbling-down drunks or puddles of vomit they pass. There's a home game this weekend, so that's not infrequently.
"Thank you so much, Ymir," Christa says when they finally reach the front of her building, turning to face Ymir in a way that's nice, since she gets to see those blue eyes again, but also not because she has to let her hand drop.
"It was on my way anyway," Ymir lies. Her apartment is about a mile in the opposite direction. She scratches the back of her head, unsure of what to say next, and then jolts with a delayed realization. "How'd you know my name?"
"Oh—basketball," Christa says, looking down at their feet suddenly. Ymir stuffs her hands in her pockets and has no idea what to say.
Eventually, she decides on, "Well—uh—I'll wait to make sure you get in." Christa beams like Ymir just said she was going to buy her a kitten or something and then she's walking away, pressing an I.D. card to a reader that opens the door and turning to wave at Ymir before disappearing through it.
Ymir waves back, still holding up her hand long after Christa has gone, and when she finally uproots her legs from where they've attached themselves to the pavement she stumbles away in a rush, suddenly lightheaded.
"You are such a fucking moron," she mutters to herself as she goes, very knowingly allowing a shoulder to collide with every drunken bro who thinks he has a right to take up the entire sidewalk that she passes. Most of them yell at her; she wishes one would pick a fight, but none do. She ends up at home a little later, too exhausted even to make it to her bedroom before she collapses and passes out on the couch.
The second time Ymir sees her, she's mopping sweat off her face after killing Iowa State in overtime and taking a moment to rehydrate amidst all the cheering. Her teammates already made her do one of those stupid victory cheers she hates and she's finally managed to slip away to the bench and her water bottle, and that's when she spots Christa, about fifteen rows up, jumping up and down and waving and drawing Ymir's attention like a homing beacon.
Ymir blinks, stunned to be making eye contact with the girl she's only had guilty wet dreams about since walking her home weeks ago, and eventually waves back. Christa looks almost as happy to have gotten Ymir's attention as Ymir is starting to feel at seeing her face again, and in a moment of recklessness she spreads the fingers of one palm and holds it out to Christa in what she hopes is a clear gesture—wait, just wait right there—then lets herself be carried by the momentum of her teammates out of the gym toward the locker rooms. She strips, showers, and changes into clean clothes faster than she's ever done in her life, and finally she's shouldering her gym bag and barging out the door with only a quick shouted apology at her protesting coach—"Sorry, family emergency!"—to mark her exit.
Still, it's been at least ten minutes since the end of the game, and surely Christa isn't still going to be there. Ymir reminds herself of this as she tears down the hall outside the locker rooms, up the flight of stairs to the main floor, then around and up again, into the stadium, taking steps two-by-two until the moment that Christa could conceivably see her again, at which point she slows to a gentle jog. When she finally risks looking up, her stomach leaps to her throat because Christa is still there, still waving and beaming, and there's no question that it's Ymir she's fixated on.
"Hey," Ymir says, jogging up to Christa's row, unable to hide the fact that she's wildly out of breath. Christa has two people with her, it looks like, and one of them is a boy, which Ymir notes with a sour taste in her mouth.
"You were amazing!" Christa chirps, jumping forward suddenly to pull Ymir into a hug. Ymir melts into it, forgetting for a moment about the boy, forgetting that she's probably worked up enough of a sweat running up here that she stinks again, to let herself breathe in the smell of Christa's shampoo.
"Thanks," Ymir says when they finally have to pull away, although not by her choice. "Thanks for coming."
"These are my friends, Sasha and Connie," Christa says, gesturing to the girl and boy in turn, and relief pools in Ymir's stomach to hear the boy described as merely "friend."
"Nice to meet you," Ymir grunts, although she doesn't waste a lot of time really looking at either of them. "Uh—we're having an after-party at Studio 13, if, uh—you're 21, right?"
Christa looks crestfallen. "20," she admits. The look on her face is so devastated that Ymir has to bite her lip to hold back a laugh.
"Honestly, it's fine. They won't care if you're with me," Ymir says, and almost immediately regrets. They don't usually card after the team wins a game, but it's not like she's actually such hot shit that she has an arrangement with the bar or something. Still, Christa is smiling again, and now all Ymir can do is pray nobody calls her bluff.
And that's how she ends up inviting an underage near-stranger and her total-stranger friends to a bar that thankfully doesn't notice their entrance to dance to music she hates, only to stand awkwardly against a wall next to the hottest girl she's ever met in her life without even being able to look at her directly.
"Do you want me to get you something?" Ymir asks, still not quite looking at Christa, who's hovering close to her elbow. Her friends have long since abandoned them to dance with some of Ymir’s teammates, and Ymir is glad, although it hasn't really done anything to improve her conversation skills.
"Oh—it's okay, you don't have to," Christa says, hesitant even though she obviously wants something, which gets Ymir flustered for some reason.
"Just tell me what you like," Ymir huffs. She ends up buying them each a rum and Coke, and then they stand in the same places against the wall still not talking or making eye contact but at least with the benefit of drinks to distract them now. Christa thanks her about a thousand times and Ymir can't even look at her when she says "You're welcome" because she's a fucking loser.
"Ymir," Christa says after a few minutes of sipping on her drink. Ymir risks a glance sideways and doing that proves to be a bad idea, because Christa's eyes suck her right in. "Do you wanna dance?"
"I hate dancing," Ymir says, so within five minutes they're both on the dance floor, Ymir stiff and awkward and trying to balance both their drinks without spilling while Christa presses up close to her side.
"You need to finish this so I can use my hands again," Ymir says.
"Okay," Christa says, taking the glass from Ymir's left hand, and Ymir is about to argue—it's the wrong drink—but decides it doesn't matter when Christa finishes it in one impressive swallow and then sets it behind her on the nearest flat surface, the top of a large dusty speaker. "Now yours," Christa says, getting so close that Ymir's thigh ends up between her legs.
Ymir is determined not to go into cardiac arrest or pass out or do anything else even a little bit uncool to ruin the moment, so she tosses back the rest of her drink as well and, naturally, starts to choke. Christa's fingers slip in between Ymir's, cool and smooth, to take her glass, and with her other hand she rubs circles into Ymir's back.
"Are you okay?"
Ymir just closes her eyes tight and nods. Maybe if she doesn't open them again she won't have to acknowledge that any of this ever happened. Maybe everyone will just disappear and she'll wake up alone on her couch like usual, annoyed and sexually frustrated but at least not acting like a total fucking tool in front of this goddess who for some unfathomable reason wants to dance with her.
Then that goddess presses her mouth to Ymir's collarbone, and Ymir's eyes snap open while the rest of her body goes absolutely still.
Christa takes advantage of Ymir's momentary paralysis to wrap arms around her neck and slide even closer, nuzzling again at Ymir's collarbone, then her throat. Ymir's skin is on fire and the pounding in her head is starting to actually hurt, but she lets her hands drop to Christa's waist, because they're starting to get heavy and she can't figure out where else to put them.
"You looked really good playing tonight," Christa says, turning her face up toward Ymir's, and Ymir's heart stutters, maybe stops.
"Fuck," she mutters, and then she surrenders, darting down to catch Christa's mouth with her own. Christa swells into the kiss, pulls Ymir in, and Ymir stumbles forward until she's accidentally backing Christa into a wall. Christa doesn't seem to mind, though, judging by the way she makes a happy little Mmph noise and wraps one leg around the back of one of Ymir's, forcing their hips closer, basically making Ymir grind against her.
Ymir opens her mouth to gasp and Christa opens hers at the same moment, sucking at Ymir's lip first, then her tongue, right down to her breath, until Ymir is dizzy and suffocating but she doesn't care. Her hands find their way to Christa's ass and squeeze—because at this point, why the hell not—and Christa moans and lets herself get hitched up until she's high against the wall, riding Ymir's leg.
"Ymir . . ." Christa hisses, tilting her head to regard Ymir with suddenly dark eyes, and Ymir is instantly, acutely aware of how wet she is, how desperately she wants to drag this girl into the nearest bathroom stall and fuck her until neither of them can stand anymore.
"Do you wanna—" Ymir starts, breathless, just before one of Ymir's teammates jostles into them from the side and Christa's feet land on the floor again with a solid smack.
"Woah," Zoe laughs, regarding Ymir with a wolf grin. "Is this your family emergency?"
Ymir scowls, which only makes Zoe's grin widen. "Watch yourselves, cuties. Don't forget student athletes have a reputation to uphold."
It's not meant as anything more than a friendly warning, but even so, it brings Ymir reluctantly back down to Earth. Zoe slips away and Ymir takes a step back, bringing a hand to her forehead.
"Shit," she says, only daring to look up when Christa stays silent. Christa's still breathing a little fast to be natural and her cheeks are red and blotchy, her hair a mess. Ymir reaches forward to tuck a loose strand behind Christa's ear before she can help herself.
"I'll walk you home if you want," Ymir says, pulling her hand back self-consciously and adjusting her ponytail.
Christa frowns. "I live in the dorms," she says.
"I know," Ymir says. "So?"
"So . . . wouldn't it be better to go to your place?" She levels serious eyes on Ymir and Ymir feels like looking away, only she's too stunned to even blink.
"You—wanna come home with me?"
Christa flushes a little more but doesn't back down, lifting an eyebrow. "I thought that was obvious."
"I just—" Ymir trails off, unsure of what to say. Just thought you were a straight girl getting her kicks on a Saturday night? Just thought you wouldn't want anything to do with a mute giant who can't dance? She eventually goes with, "Aren't you drunk?"
To her surprise, Christa laughs. "I had one drink, Ymir. Are you drunk?"
She's starting to feel like it, with how buzzed Christa is getting her, but suddenly it's a promising kind of buzz. Ymir shakes her head, and then Christa takes her hand and pulls her away from the wall, across the dance floor to the exit, only stopping briefly to let her friends know she's leaving. They give both Christa and Ymir slightly offended looks but Ymir doesn't give a fuck, not when Christa is still holding her hand even after they're outside, not when they arrive in front of Ymir's apartment—if Christa notices her dorms aren't even remotely on the way, she thankfully doesn't say—and Ymir is actually shaking with the effort of getting her key in the door.
"Sorry, it's kind of a mess," Ymir says, turning on the light and kicking off her shoes. Christa doesn't say anything, so Ymir turns around and then Christa is on her, attacking her with so much force Ymir's back hits the wall, kissing her hard and hungry and nothing at all like a straight girl.
Ymir's hands fall to Christa's waist and fist in her jacket, pulling Christa as close as she can, tilting her head to get the angle of the kiss just right. Christa wraps her arms around Ymir's neck again and sucks Ymir's tongue into her mouth, and Ymir can't help the surprised little grunt that escapes her.
"Ymir," Christa says into her mouth, darting back just for a moment to bite at her lip and gaze up at her through her eyelashes, like a fucking porn star or something.
"Where the hell did you come from?" Ymir chokes out, stunned that this hasn't yet turned out to be another wet dream she's just woken up from, and Christa gives a breathy little laugh that fills Ymir with adrenaline. She half-picks up Christa, half-guides her to the living room, kissing and clutching all the way, where they collapse to the couch, Ymir on her back and Christa on top, both struggling to free themselves from their jackets. Christa throws hers on the floor before starting on the buttons of Ymir's shirt, which makes Ymir's tongue go dry pretty much instantly. It's almost alarming the way Christa is looking at Ymir with an expression that exactly mirrors how Ymir feels inside, disbelieving and worshipful and horny as hell.
They make short work of their shirts and then Christa is in nothing but jeans and a black bra, one strap falling down her shoulder. Ymir wants to lean back and appreciate the sight but Christa swoops in for another kiss, slow and greedy and hot enough that Ymir's hands spasm against the skin of Christa's waist.
"Ymir," Christa hisses, and the way this girl says her name is rapidly turning into the biggest turn-on Ymir has ever encountered. Ymir's hands drop to Christa's jeans and fumble with the button, clumsy in her enthusiasm, only steadying once Christa's fly is open and Ymir can see her underwear—black, too. She runs a thumb down over Christa's hipbone and then under the black waistband.
A shudder runs through Christa's body and she rocks her hips just slightly forward, encouraging. Ymir doesn't need the encouragement. She tugs down the slipping strap of Christa's bra and mouths at her chest, tongue dragging across her exposed nipple, and in the same movement slips one hand into Christa's underwear. Christa's wet, so wet it makes Ymir suck in a sharp breath, which Christa echoes when Ymir brushes two fingers over her clit, only teasing there for a moment before sliding lower, pushing in.
Christa arches her back and lets out a sound somewhere between a moan and a gasp that might be even hotter than the way she says Ymir's name. Ymir uses her free hand to clutch at Christa's shoulder, kissing her chest as she curls her fingers and strokes, reveling in the hot wetness pressing against her palm. Christa writhes and rubs against her and keeps making that noise, louder than Ymir was expecting, and Ymir finally risks a look up at her. She almost immediately regrets it; she's greeted by the sight of Christa's hair, tangled and sticking to her face with sweat, some of it catching across her lips or in her mouth, and it's too much. Ymir closes her eyes and starts to really fuck her, fast and persistent, which Christa responds to by getting even louder.
Ymir is starting to struggle against the restrictions of Christa's underwear and jeans, so she shifts and tries to tug them lower, noting when her hands move that Christa jolts a little and starts to tremble. She takes that as a sign and returns her attention to Christa's clit, rubbing at a similar pace but with half as much pressure, until Christa is writhing and trembling so hard it feels like she's going to fall apart.
"Come on," Ymir whispers, moving to suck at Christa's neck and dragging a hand up the back of her head to tangle in already tangled hair. She keeps her right hand working furiously until Christa's fingernails find her forearms and dig in, hard enough that it'll definitely leave marks, and she gives a choked cry and rocks forward, shuddering against Ymir's hand. Ymir helps her ride it out with only a little pressure, barely anything at first, but it's not long before she can't help herself—she starts rubbing hard and fast again and Christa, hesitant for only a second, is rocking against her in no time.
She shudders and stills much more quickly this time, and Ymir kisses her neck over and over, and then lets Christa call the shots, lifting both hands so she can settle in close to Ymir's chest.
"Where did you come from?" Christa says at length, still breathless and shaky, and Ymir would laugh but suddenly Christa's mouth is on hers again and her hands are everywhere, hot on Ymir's neck and smoothing down her sides, reminding her exactly how turned on she still is.
Christa tugs at Ymir's sports bra until Ymir reluctantly shifts to help her pull it up and off—she's embarrassed at how awkward and unsexy it is, but Christa only seems entranced and starts to mouth a wet trail down Ymir's collarbone, along the path of her freckles. Ymir's head tilts back against the armrest of the couch and she bites down a curse at the feel of Christa's mouth tasting first one of her nipples, slow and deliberate, before moving on to the other, her hands simultaneously working to undo the button of Ymir's jeans.
She gets them undone and tugs them down below Ymir's hips along with her underwear, insistently, until Ymir, flushing all the way down to her chest, lifts her hips and allows Christa to pull both off. Ymir wants to protest—or at least finish stripping Christa before they continue—but then Christa shifts lower on the couch, dragging her mouth across Ymir's stomach and lower, trailing through her pubic hair, and wraps her arms under and around Ymir's thighs, pulling her close. Any protest Ymir had dies unspoken as Christa drags her tongue slow and hot over Ymir's cunt, once, then twice, then starts lapping with more persistence, right up against her clit.
"Fuck," Ymir gasps, unable to stop herself from grinding against Christa's mouth, which luckily Christa doesn't seem to mind at all. In fact, she just makes an approving sound and tightens her hold on Ymir's thighs, and Ymir wants to keep watching but she can't anymore, can't do anything but make humiliating noises and arch her back and bury her face in her hands.
Usually she takes a while to come with another person, but after what feels like no more than a minute Ymir's legs are already trembling and she can feel herself getting closer and closer, hyper-aware of the wet sound of Christa eating her out. Christa doesn't let up for a second, not even when Ymir's hands find her hair again and tangle her fingers into it, tugging in a way that's far from gentle. One of Christa's hands slides up to grasp at Ymir's wrist and at that moment she's finished; she can't fight it anymore. She chokes back a sob and grabs Christa's hand, rolling against her mouth as she shudders and comes, only capable of withstanding the pressure for another millisecond before she has to pull away because it's too much, she's too sensitive. She tugs at Christa's hand and hair, urging her upward for a kiss instead, which Christa agrees to easily, and Ymir tries not to succumb to the dots threatening to black out her vision at the wet slide of Christa's mouth on hers, the taste of her own cunt on Christa's lips, which is almost too much, too.
"So, you're definitely not straight then," Ymir observes when she's found her voice, stroking a hand down one of Christa's arms, still not quite sure this is happening.
Christa snorts and kisses her once more in answer, and then the cool air making the sweat on their skin go cold urges them off the couch and into the bedroom. They easily fall together under the covers, limbs tangling and bodies pressing close in a way that Ymir usually hates because it's so detrimental to sleeping but tonight doesn't bother her, and she's drifting off before she knows it, lulled by one last soft kiss to her chest.
Ymir is terrible at morning-afters so she's terrified when she wakes up, the events of the night before washing over her before her eyes are even open. When she does open them, she finds Christa still in bed next to her but a little farther away, curled on one side with her back to Ymir. She wants to reach out a hand and trace Christa's shoulder blades, but already doubt is gnawing at her insides and she forces herself to stay still, because what if Christa wakes up and thinks Ymir is a creep? What if she was drunk after all and this was all a huge mistake?
When Christa stirs and starts to roll over, Ymir bites the inside of her cheek and wonders if she should pretend to be asleep—is it going to freak her out that Ymir was staring? But then Christa's eyes are on her and she's smiling sleepily.
"Morning," Christa says, sliding a little closer.
Ymir lifts an arm to let her settle under it and swallows. "Morning."
"I think I should probably tell you something."
Ymir freezes, ready for the worst, except that there's nothing really regretful in Christa's tone—if anything, she sounds a little bashful. Ymir clears her throat.
"Oh?"
Christa tilts her head to stare right up into Ymir's eyes, and Ymir gets stuck there again; this is really starting to become a problem.
"I have a poster of you hanging in my bedroom," Christa admits, eyes darting away all of a sudden. She only glances back to ask, "Is that creepy?"
It can't be half as creepy as the grin that's starting to spread across Ymir's mouth against her will, threatening to split her face in half.
"Creepy as hell," Ymir says, feeling Christa relax as she pulls her in for a crushing hug and buries her face in her hair. At least she knows she's in good company.
end
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Ymir/Christa
Word count: 4441
Warnings: College AU
Summary: The first time Ymir sees her, they're at a party, and Ymir isn't the most sober she's ever been in her life.
Notes: I wrote this mess entirely in one sitting while drunk. The fact that it is even remotely coherent today is thanks entirely to
furiosity's betaing prowess omg ty girl ♥ This is totally set at my undergrad university, bonus points if you catch the not-so-subtle hints as to where that is!The first time Ymir sees her, they're at a party, and Ymir isn't the most sober she's ever been in her life. She's actually just about two drinks short of shitfaced, which might explain why she allows herself to lean against the wall a few feet to the left of the blonde girl who looks too straight to be queer and too pretty to be single, but hey, Ymir can dream. The girl cuts her eyes sideways so Ymir quickly pulls out her phone and pretends to be busy texting someone, which is hilarious considering that she only has two friends and they're both probably passed out somewhere in this house.
"Um," the girl says after a moment. Ymir is too drunk to act cool, so of course she almost drops her phone in her urgency to stuff it in a pocket and focus all her attention on those blue eyes. "You play basketball, don't you?"
Ymir blinks back her surprise and tries not to slur when she speaks. "Yeah," she says, not slurred exactly, but weirdly gruff. "You, uh—like basketball?" Which is the stupidest thing to say ever.
The girl doesn't look like she thinks it's stupid, though. Her eyes widen and she smiles, and Ymir digs her nails into her palms.
"You're really good," the girl says, staring up at Ymir like she's Michael Jordan, and fuck, Ymir doesn't give a shit if this girl does have a boyfriend. She moves a step closer, so there are only a few inches between them.
She's even shorter than Ymir had previously realized, and the kind of pretty that radiates without the impression of even putting that much effort into it. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail and her hands are clutched around a red plastic cup that's more than half full of what smells like a rum and Coke. Up until a minute ago, she looked lost, like she would rather be anywhere other than a sketchy undergrad house party on a Friday night, but all of a sudden she's lit up, and it twists something sharp in Ymir's gut.
"Thanks," Ymir says, doing her best to sound like a normal human being and not a creepy asshole who picks up drunk straight girls at parties. She's probably the drunker one right now, at least. "Uh—what's your name?"
"Christa." Christa smiles bright, like she's flattered to have been asked, and offers Ymir her hand. Ymir shakes it. She's about to give her own name when Christa's smile falls away and she says, "Do you know the address of this place?"
Ymir lets go of Christa's hand and frowns. "You need to get somewhere?"
"Just home . . . my friend brought me here but she left without me. . . ." Christa trails off and glances around, brow furrowed.
What the hell, Ymir thinks. She hates house parties anyway. "I'll walk you home," she says, and the way Christa's eyes shine again is so sickening Ymir has to look down before she does something stupid like blush.
Christa's dorms turn out to be only about half a mile away. Ymir gets them there easily, careful to guide Christa away, one hand at the small of her back, from any stumbling-down drunks or puddles of vomit they pass. There's a home game this weekend, so that's not infrequently.
"Thank you so much, Ymir," Christa says when they finally reach the front of her building, turning to face Ymir in a way that's nice, since she gets to see those blue eyes again, but also not because she has to let her hand drop.
"It was on my way anyway," Ymir lies. Her apartment is about a mile in the opposite direction. She scratches the back of her head, unsure of what to say next, and then jolts with a delayed realization. "How'd you know my name?"
"Oh—basketball," Christa says, looking down at their feet suddenly. Ymir stuffs her hands in her pockets and has no idea what to say.
Eventually, she decides on, "Well—uh—I'll wait to make sure you get in." Christa beams like Ymir just said she was going to buy her a kitten or something and then she's walking away, pressing an I.D. card to a reader that opens the door and turning to wave at Ymir before disappearing through it.
Ymir waves back, still holding up her hand long after Christa has gone, and when she finally uproots her legs from where they've attached themselves to the pavement she stumbles away in a rush, suddenly lightheaded.
"You are such a fucking moron," she mutters to herself as she goes, very knowingly allowing a shoulder to collide with every drunken bro who thinks he has a right to take up the entire sidewalk that she passes. Most of them yell at her; she wishes one would pick a fight, but none do. She ends up at home a little later, too exhausted even to make it to her bedroom before she collapses and passes out on the couch.
The second time Ymir sees her, she's mopping sweat off her face after killing Iowa State in overtime and taking a moment to rehydrate amidst all the cheering. Her teammates already made her do one of those stupid victory cheers she hates and she's finally managed to slip away to the bench and her water bottle, and that's when she spots Christa, about fifteen rows up, jumping up and down and waving and drawing Ymir's attention like a homing beacon.
Ymir blinks, stunned to be making eye contact with the girl she's only had guilty wet dreams about since walking her home weeks ago, and eventually waves back. Christa looks almost as happy to have gotten Ymir's attention as Ymir is starting to feel at seeing her face again, and in a moment of recklessness she spreads the fingers of one palm and holds it out to Christa in what she hopes is a clear gesture—wait, just wait right there—then lets herself be carried by the momentum of her teammates out of the gym toward the locker rooms. She strips, showers, and changes into clean clothes faster than she's ever done in her life, and finally she's shouldering her gym bag and barging out the door with only a quick shouted apology at her protesting coach—"Sorry, family emergency!"—to mark her exit.
Still, it's been at least ten minutes since the end of the game, and surely Christa isn't still going to be there. Ymir reminds herself of this as she tears down the hall outside the locker rooms, up the flight of stairs to the main floor, then around and up again, into the stadium, taking steps two-by-two until the moment that Christa could conceivably see her again, at which point she slows to a gentle jog. When she finally risks looking up, her stomach leaps to her throat because Christa is still there, still waving and beaming, and there's no question that it's Ymir she's fixated on.
"Hey," Ymir says, jogging up to Christa's row, unable to hide the fact that she's wildly out of breath. Christa has two people with her, it looks like, and one of them is a boy, which Ymir notes with a sour taste in her mouth.
"You were amazing!" Christa chirps, jumping forward suddenly to pull Ymir into a hug. Ymir melts into it, forgetting for a moment about the boy, forgetting that she's probably worked up enough of a sweat running up here that she stinks again, to let herself breathe in the smell of Christa's shampoo.
"Thanks," Ymir says when they finally have to pull away, although not by her choice. "Thanks for coming."
"These are my friends, Sasha and Connie," Christa says, gesturing to the girl and boy in turn, and relief pools in Ymir's stomach to hear the boy described as merely "friend."
"Nice to meet you," Ymir grunts, although she doesn't waste a lot of time really looking at either of them. "Uh—we're having an after-party at Studio 13, if, uh—you're 21, right?"
Christa looks crestfallen. "20," she admits. The look on her face is so devastated that Ymir has to bite her lip to hold back a laugh.
"Honestly, it's fine. They won't care if you're with me," Ymir says, and almost immediately regrets. They don't usually card after the team wins a game, but it's not like she's actually such hot shit that she has an arrangement with the bar or something. Still, Christa is smiling again, and now all Ymir can do is pray nobody calls her bluff.
And that's how she ends up inviting an underage near-stranger and her total-stranger friends to a bar that thankfully doesn't notice their entrance to dance to music she hates, only to stand awkwardly against a wall next to the hottest girl she's ever met in her life without even being able to look at her directly.
"Do you want me to get you something?" Ymir asks, still not quite looking at Christa, who's hovering close to her elbow. Her friends have long since abandoned them to dance with some of Ymir’s teammates, and Ymir is glad, although it hasn't really done anything to improve her conversation skills.
"Oh—it's okay, you don't have to," Christa says, hesitant even though she obviously wants something, which gets Ymir flustered for some reason.
"Just tell me what you like," Ymir huffs. She ends up buying them each a rum and Coke, and then they stand in the same places against the wall still not talking or making eye contact but at least with the benefit of drinks to distract them now. Christa thanks her about a thousand times and Ymir can't even look at her when she says "You're welcome" because she's a fucking loser.
"Ymir," Christa says after a few minutes of sipping on her drink. Ymir risks a glance sideways and doing that proves to be a bad idea, because Christa's eyes suck her right in. "Do you wanna dance?"
"I hate dancing," Ymir says, so within five minutes they're both on the dance floor, Ymir stiff and awkward and trying to balance both their drinks without spilling while Christa presses up close to her side.
"You need to finish this so I can use my hands again," Ymir says.
"Okay," Christa says, taking the glass from Ymir's left hand, and Ymir is about to argue—it's the wrong drink—but decides it doesn't matter when Christa finishes it in one impressive swallow and then sets it behind her on the nearest flat surface, the top of a large dusty speaker. "Now yours," Christa says, getting so close that Ymir's thigh ends up between her legs.
Ymir is determined not to go into cardiac arrest or pass out or do anything else even a little bit uncool to ruin the moment, so she tosses back the rest of her drink as well and, naturally, starts to choke. Christa's fingers slip in between Ymir's, cool and smooth, to take her glass, and with her other hand she rubs circles into Ymir's back.
"Are you okay?"
Ymir just closes her eyes tight and nods. Maybe if she doesn't open them again she won't have to acknowledge that any of this ever happened. Maybe everyone will just disappear and she'll wake up alone on her couch like usual, annoyed and sexually frustrated but at least not acting like a total fucking tool in front of this goddess who for some unfathomable reason wants to dance with her.
Then that goddess presses her mouth to Ymir's collarbone, and Ymir's eyes snap open while the rest of her body goes absolutely still.
Christa takes advantage of Ymir's momentary paralysis to wrap arms around her neck and slide even closer, nuzzling again at Ymir's collarbone, then her throat. Ymir's skin is on fire and the pounding in her head is starting to actually hurt, but she lets her hands drop to Christa's waist, because they're starting to get heavy and she can't figure out where else to put them.
"You looked really good playing tonight," Christa says, turning her face up toward Ymir's, and Ymir's heart stutters, maybe stops.
"Fuck," she mutters, and then she surrenders, darting down to catch Christa's mouth with her own. Christa swells into the kiss, pulls Ymir in, and Ymir stumbles forward until she's accidentally backing Christa into a wall. Christa doesn't seem to mind, though, judging by the way she makes a happy little Mmph noise and wraps one leg around the back of one of Ymir's, forcing their hips closer, basically making Ymir grind against her.
Ymir opens her mouth to gasp and Christa opens hers at the same moment, sucking at Ymir's lip first, then her tongue, right down to her breath, until Ymir is dizzy and suffocating but she doesn't care. Her hands find their way to Christa's ass and squeeze—because at this point, why the hell not—and Christa moans and lets herself get hitched up until she's high against the wall, riding Ymir's leg.
"Ymir . . ." Christa hisses, tilting her head to regard Ymir with suddenly dark eyes, and Ymir is instantly, acutely aware of how wet she is, how desperately she wants to drag this girl into the nearest bathroom stall and fuck her until neither of them can stand anymore.
"Do you wanna—" Ymir starts, breathless, just before one of Ymir's teammates jostles into them from the side and Christa's feet land on the floor again with a solid smack.
"Woah," Zoe laughs, regarding Ymir with a wolf grin. "Is this your family emergency?"
Ymir scowls, which only makes Zoe's grin widen. "Watch yourselves, cuties. Don't forget student athletes have a reputation to uphold."
It's not meant as anything more than a friendly warning, but even so, it brings Ymir reluctantly back down to Earth. Zoe slips away and Ymir takes a step back, bringing a hand to her forehead.
"Shit," she says, only daring to look up when Christa stays silent. Christa's still breathing a little fast to be natural and her cheeks are red and blotchy, her hair a mess. Ymir reaches forward to tuck a loose strand behind Christa's ear before she can help herself.
"I'll walk you home if you want," Ymir says, pulling her hand back self-consciously and adjusting her ponytail.
Christa frowns. "I live in the dorms," she says.
"I know," Ymir says. "So?"
"So . . . wouldn't it be better to go to your place?" She levels serious eyes on Ymir and Ymir feels like looking away, only she's too stunned to even blink.
"You—wanna come home with me?"
Christa flushes a little more but doesn't back down, lifting an eyebrow. "I thought that was obvious."
"I just—" Ymir trails off, unsure of what to say. Just thought you were a straight girl getting her kicks on a Saturday night? Just thought you wouldn't want anything to do with a mute giant who can't dance? She eventually goes with, "Aren't you drunk?"
To her surprise, Christa laughs. "I had one drink, Ymir. Are you drunk?"
She's starting to feel like it, with how buzzed Christa is getting her, but suddenly it's a promising kind of buzz. Ymir shakes her head, and then Christa takes her hand and pulls her away from the wall, across the dance floor to the exit, only stopping briefly to let her friends know she's leaving. They give both Christa and Ymir slightly offended looks but Ymir doesn't give a fuck, not when Christa is still holding her hand even after they're outside, not when they arrive in front of Ymir's apartment—if Christa notices her dorms aren't even remotely on the way, she thankfully doesn't say—and Ymir is actually shaking with the effort of getting her key in the door.
"Sorry, it's kind of a mess," Ymir says, turning on the light and kicking off her shoes. Christa doesn't say anything, so Ymir turns around and then Christa is on her, attacking her with so much force Ymir's back hits the wall, kissing her hard and hungry and nothing at all like a straight girl.
Ymir's hands fall to Christa's waist and fist in her jacket, pulling Christa as close as she can, tilting her head to get the angle of the kiss just right. Christa wraps her arms around Ymir's neck again and sucks Ymir's tongue into her mouth, and Ymir can't help the surprised little grunt that escapes her.
"Ymir," Christa says into her mouth, darting back just for a moment to bite at her lip and gaze up at her through her eyelashes, like a fucking porn star or something.
"Where the hell did you come from?" Ymir chokes out, stunned that this hasn't yet turned out to be another wet dream she's just woken up from, and Christa gives a breathy little laugh that fills Ymir with adrenaline. She half-picks up Christa, half-guides her to the living room, kissing and clutching all the way, where they collapse to the couch, Ymir on her back and Christa on top, both struggling to free themselves from their jackets. Christa throws hers on the floor before starting on the buttons of Ymir's shirt, which makes Ymir's tongue go dry pretty much instantly. It's almost alarming the way Christa is looking at Ymir with an expression that exactly mirrors how Ymir feels inside, disbelieving and worshipful and horny as hell.
They make short work of their shirts and then Christa is in nothing but jeans and a black bra, one strap falling down her shoulder. Ymir wants to lean back and appreciate the sight but Christa swoops in for another kiss, slow and greedy and hot enough that Ymir's hands spasm against the skin of Christa's waist.
"Ymir," Christa hisses, and the way this girl says her name is rapidly turning into the biggest turn-on Ymir has ever encountered. Ymir's hands drop to Christa's jeans and fumble with the button, clumsy in her enthusiasm, only steadying once Christa's fly is open and Ymir can see her underwear—black, too. She runs a thumb down over Christa's hipbone and then under the black waistband.
A shudder runs through Christa's body and she rocks her hips just slightly forward, encouraging. Ymir doesn't need the encouragement. She tugs down the slipping strap of Christa's bra and mouths at her chest, tongue dragging across her exposed nipple, and in the same movement slips one hand into Christa's underwear. Christa's wet, so wet it makes Ymir suck in a sharp breath, which Christa echoes when Ymir brushes two fingers over her clit, only teasing there for a moment before sliding lower, pushing in.
Christa arches her back and lets out a sound somewhere between a moan and a gasp that might be even hotter than the way she says Ymir's name. Ymir uses her free hand to clutch at Christa's shoulder, kissing her chest as she curls her fingers and strokes, reveling in the hot wetness pressing against her palm. Christa writhes and rubs against her and keeps making that noise, louder than Ymir was expecting, and Ymir finally risks a look up at her. She almost immediately regrets it; she's greeted by the sight of Christa's hair, tangled and sticking to her face with sweat, some of it catching across her lips or in her mouth, and it's too much. Ymir closes her eyes and starts to really fuck her, fast and persistent, which Christa responds to by getting even louder.
Ymir is starting to struggle against the restrictions of Christa's underwear and jeans, so she shifts and tries to tug them lower, noting when her hands move that Christa jolts a little and starts to tremble. She takes that as a sign and returns her attention to Christa's clit, rubbing at a similar pace but with half as much pressure, until Christa is writhing and trembling so hard it feels like she's going to fall apart.
"Come on," Ymir whispers, moving to suck at Christa's neck and dragging a hand up the back of her head to tangle in already tangled hair. She keeps her right hand working furiously until Christa's fingernails find her forearms and dig in, hard enough that it'll definitely leave marks, and she gives a choked cry and rocks forward, shuddering against Ymir's hand. Ymir helps her ride it out with only a little pressure, barely anything at first, but it's not long before she can't help herself—she starts rubbing hard and fast again and Christa, hesitant for only a second, is rocking against her in no time.
She shudders and stills much more quickly this time, and Ymir kisses her neck over and over, and then lets Christa call the shots, lifting both hands so she can settle in close to Ymir's chest.
"Where did you come from?" Christa says at length, still breathless and shaky, and Ymir would laugh but suddenly Christa's mouth is on hers again and her hands are everywhere, hot on Ymir's neck and smoothing down her sides, reminding her exactly how turned on she still is.
Christa tugs at Ymir's sports bra until Ymir reluctantly shifts to help her pull it up and off—she's embarrassed at how awkward and unsexy it is, but Christa only seems entranced and starts to mouth a wet trail down Ymir's collarbone, along the path of her freckles. Ymir's head tilts back against the armrest of the couch and she bites down a curse at the feel of Christa's mouth tasting first one of her nipples, slow and deliberate, before moving on to the other, her hands simultaneously working to undo the button of Ymir's jeans.
She gets them undone and tugs them down below Ymir's hips along with her underwear, insistently, until Ymir, flushing all the way down to her chest, lifts her hips and allows Christa to pull both off. Ymir wants to protest—or at least finish stripping Christa before they continue—but then Christa shifts lower on the couch, dragging her mouth across Ymir's stomach and lower, trailing through her pubic hair, and wraps her arms under and around Ymir's thighs, pulling her close. Any protest Ymir had dies unspoken as Christa drags her tongue slow and hot over Ymir's cunt, once, then twice, then starts lapping with more persistence, right up against her clit.
"Fuck," Ymir gasps, unable to stop herself from grinding against Christa's mouth, which luckily Christa doesn't seem to mind at all. In fact, she just makes an approving sound and tightens her hold on Ymir's thighs, and Ymir wants to keep watching but she can't anymore, can't do anything but make humiliating noises and arch her back and bury her face in her hands.
Usually she takes a while to come with another person, but after what feels like no more than a minute Ymir's legs are already trembling and she can feel herself getting closer and closer, hyper-aware of the wet sound of Christa eating her out. Christa doesn't let up for a second, not even when Ymir's hands find her hair again and tangle her fingers into it, tugging in a way that's far from gentle. One of Christa's hands slides up to grasp at Ymir's wrist and at that moment she's finished; she can't fight it anymore. She chokes back a sob and grabs Christa's hand, rolling against her mouth as she shudders and comes, only capable of withstanding the pressure for another millisecond before she has to pull away because it's too much, she's too sensitive. She tugs at Christa's hand and hair, urging her upward for a kiss instead, which Christa agrees to easily, and Ymir tries not to succumb to the dots threatening to black out her vision at the wet slide of Christa's mouth on hers, the taste of her own cunt on Christa's lips, which is almost too much, too.
"So, you're definitely not straight then," Ymir observes when she's found her voice, stroking a hand down one of Christa's arms, still not quite sure this is happening.
Christa snorts and kisses her once more in answer, and then the cool air making the sweat on their skin go cold urges them off the couch and into the bedroom. They easily fall together under the covers, limbs tangling and bodies pressing close in a way that Ymir usually hates because it's so detrimental to sleeping but tonight doesn't bother her, and she's drifting off before she knows it, lulled by one last soft kiss to her chest.
Ymir is terrible at morning-afters so she's terrified when she wakes up, the events of the night before washing over her before her eyes are even open. When she does open them, she finds Christa still in bed next to her but a little farther away, curled on one side with her back to Ymir. She wants to reach out a hand and trace Christa's shoulder blades, but already doubt is gnawing at her insides and she forces herself to stay still, because what if Christa wakes up and thinks Ymir is a creep? What if she was drunk after all and this was all a huge mistake?
When Christa stirs and starts to roll over, Ymir bites the inside of her cheek and wonders if she should pretend to be asleep—is it going to freak her out that Ymir was staring? But then Christa's eyes are on her and she's smiling sleepily.
"Morning," Christa says, sliding a little closer.
Ymir lifts an arm to let her settle under it and swallows. "Morning."
"I think I should probably tell you something."
Ymir freezes, ready for the worst, except that there's nothing really regretful in Christa's tone—if anything, she sounds a little bashful. Ymir clears her throat.
"Oh?"
Christa tilts her head to stare right up into Ymir's eyes, and Ymir gets stuck there again; this is really starting to become a problem.
"I have a poster of you hanging in my bedroom," Christa admits, eyes darting away all of a sudden. She only glances back to ask, "Is that creepy?"
It can't be half as creepy as the grin that's starting to spread across Ymir's mouth against her will, threatening to split her face in half.
"Creepy as hell," Ymir says, feeling Christa relax as she pulls her in for a crushing hug and buries her face in her hair. At least she knows she's in good company.
end