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You’re going to kill me, Harry thinks. On a deeper, more empathetic level, she’s fairly certain Kim is currently thinking the same thing.
However, Kim’s internal monologue is probably more of a thought process rather than a singular thought; a series of deadpanned statements, starting with We are going to get caught and ending with This is how we get fired. Somewhere thrown in the mix is their shared belief that the other is going to kill her, and it’s the only time Kim will allow herself to indulge in some semblance of drama. Drama is wholeheartedly Harry’s thing — the mostly unabashed state of her personality, the loudness of her vomit green blazer and dehydrated-piss-yellow flares (currently pulled down and bunched up around her ankles; resting on her snakeskin skin heels, also vomit-green), her hair and makeup. Admittedly, since Martinaise she’s toned down on those last two, no longer viewing them as a means of masking her faults like she had for so many years beforehand. Still, her eyeshadow is rather bright and blue, and the bigness of her hair is from the semi-maintained curls rather than a frizzy, knotted mess.
She should’ve tied it back before they started, come to think of it. It keeps falling over her collarbone when she tries to look down at Kim, whose own hair is the complete opposite of hers: dark, contained, and dead straight. When they’d first met, it had been cropped much shorter, but has since grown out. It ends just past her jawline, which to Kim may as well be half way down her back. She’ll probably get it cut soon, or perhaps just do it herself, so Harry is trying to get the most out of it for the limited time they’ve got left.
Case in point: her hand is currently tangled in Kim’s hair, grip tightening as Kim buries her face deeper between her thighs. The angle isn’t ideal — there’s only so much Harry can lean back in a desk chair whose recline has been robbed by age — but they make it work. There are worse places to be doing this than inside their office with the blinds drawn and the door locked. An added precaution had come from Kim’s insistence to do this once everyone else had gone home, because really Harry, I value your appreciation for voyeurism, but not as much as I value our careers. One of these days, though, Harry will break her and they’ll do this in the middle of the day. Drawn blinds will be optional.
But for now, they’re here with just each other, the room dim without the ceiling light on; only the white glow of the desk lamp keeps them from being in total darkness. Harry would make another comment about that being a bit much when the whole of C-wing is gone save for them, but any words she could make are cut off by a groan, low in her throat. Kim’s tongue pushes further into her cunt, face half-obscured by pubic hair. She’d taken her glasses off beforehand, jokingly saying it would perhaps be just the slightest bit unhygienic to keep them on. It gives Harry a slightly better view of that part of her face that is seldom naked like this; the skin there is wrinkled with age, and now, determination. Her eyes are closed. She doesn’t know how beautiful she looks like this.
Harry refrains from waxing poetic about it, though. Certainly, she’s aware that Kim would appreciate hearing it when she doesn’t have her mouth on a cunt.
Said mouth is doing wonders right now, by the way. Her tongue pushes in and out, maintaining a good rhythm without slipping into the pitfalls of boredom. And look, Harry isn’t sure if there are like, pussy-eating world championships or anything, but if there were, she would tell the judges not to bother with the rest of the contestants, because her darling Kim would absolutely destroy them all. It wouldn’t even be a competition.
(A fleeting compulsion to verbalise this — not the bit about hypothetical pussy-eating world championships, but to call Kim her darling — passes through her fucked-up brain. Kim might appreciate that at least — it would be poetic without falling into the realm of, well, waxing about it — but the moment isn’t right. More than that, it's a pet-name that has yet to be tested out. For all she knows, Kim may not be receptive to it. For all she knows, Harry could be doing too much again.)
A pressure against her clit seizes Harry out of this thought-spiral, to here, now, in this shitty office in this shitty chair, with the most loving creature in the world giving her a sort of tenderness she’s still trying to convince herself she’s worthy of. Instinctively, Harry’s thighs tense up around Kim’s head, that pressure building, heat centralising. Kim makes a noise which seemingly tears its way out of her, all involuntary and high-pitched. She stops, suddenly; her mouth comes off, and the lack of feeling there makes Harry push her hips up slightly, whining for it all to come back. “Keep going, please.”
“I couldn’t breathe”, Kim pants, as if needing to prove the point. She looks up, ears red; once she’s able to push past the blurriness, Harry notices that there’s a slight indent on the bridge of her nose. Briefly, she flirts with the idea of pulling her up and kissing her, and that would be the first place she’d mark.
“Sorry”, Harry huffs out, feeling not not sorry, but also so incredibly frustrated. But it isn’t in a traditionally angry sense, no. There’s all this tension built up inside and around her, begging to be released, yet it remains trapped, scratching and howling like an underfed dog. Still, she’s nothing if not considerate. A hand drifts down and lands on Kim’s hair once more, pushing back the bits that have fallen over her forehead. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Didn’t dislike it”, Kim says. “Just caught me off guard.”
Meaning, I didn’t know you enjoyed that sort of thing. The frustration subsides a bit at this realisation, and Harry’s own breathing quickens considering the image of Kim between her thighs again; she’s incapable of blushing, but Harry would make her face turn pink, light before dark, barely noticeable before overwhelmingly so. She croaks, “I’ll give you a heads up next time.”
Kim hums back a non-committal response and lowers her head again. She’s smiling while she does it, so small Harry thinks it could be a trick of the light, or perhaps her imagination. But it’s there and it’s real, just as real as Kim’s warm breaths against her inner thigh, just as real as the kiss she places on a particularly soft spot. Then lips turn to teeth, and Harry hisses as a trail of them starts to make their way down her thigh.
“Fuck.”
“Not quite”, Kim murmurs between kisses. Another bite to the opposite thigh, and Harry definitely does not react to that by throwing her head back, the white of her neck exposed like a patch of snow; no, she’s very composed and normal about this. And, likewise, Kim definitely does not look up to her like that sound alone is enough to get her to believe in something bigger than the two of them, something that manifests in her chest like a weight. It doesn’t last too long. Harry knows Kim. She knows she’s going to push it down and go back to work, because that’s what she does, this is how she stays alive. But desperately, Harry paws at the little exposed parts of Kim’s face, an indirect method of saying stay, stay, stay. Her body shakes when Kim goes back to working her cunt; she’s licking a slow, teasing line over her labia and putting kisses there too. It’s enough to almost send Harry over the edge. Almost.
“I really could just suffocate you right now. Break your neck or something.” She’s vaguely aware that there’s something a bit unsexy about telling the woman between your legs that you could very well just murder her on the spot with said legs, but Harry’s well beyond the point of stringing together socially appropriate sentences. Something primal and ugly has taken the reins, desperate to get what it needs.
“Mmhm.” Kim’s voice is so distant she might as well be on another isola. She doesn’t take that bit totally seriously. She pulls off again and says, “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“No. You’re not going to do anything like that unless I let you.”
That rips the air out of Harry’s lungs. She bites her lip and clenches her eyes shut, thinking, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuck fuck fuckfuck fuck. When she opens them, Kim is staring at her, eyes dark with tenacity, mouth and chin wet but not debauched. She could never allow herself to look like that. “Don’t do that to me now. Use your words. Tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you how it’s going to be.”
“Fuck you”, Harry says without any bite. She glances up at the ceiling — the textured finish of it, a stark and patchy white that predates the both of them and will probably be here long after they’re gone, unless the end of the world swallows them all up first — and tries to search for an answer. “Okay. Can you please let me smother you with my thighs, just a little bit?”
“Well, since you asked so nicely.” Kim repositions herself and lowers her face. Before going back to it, she says with unwavering calmness, “The moment I want you to stop, you stop, alright? Can you do that for me?”
Harry nods fervently like the good, diligent girl she is. Then she’s hissing again, spasms coursing through her body as Kim starts to alternate between licking and sucking. Somewhere along the way, she’s pushed herself so far in that Harry can feel her nose. It goes on like that for a little bit, and just as Harry is about to stroke her hair again, she feels something else curl inside her. Kim’s finger — fingers, she realises, so wet that more than one can fit in — move in and out while she tonguefucks her clit. It’s all too much to handle, and Harry nearly cries out until Kim grips her outer thigh with her free hand, nails digging into the fat. Harry somehow gets the message, despite her mind being fucked beyond all recognition, brain damage included. She has to be quiet. There’s literally no one around, but she has to keep it all to herself, all because Kim commands her too. So she throws her arm up and buries her mouth into the crook of it, hoping it’ll suffice.
While trying not to die right on the spot — she can only imagine how embarrassing that would be, to survive extreme alcohol poisoning, overdoses, suicide attempts, and gunshot wounds, only to finally succumb to Kim Kitsuragi and her magic mouth (and, she wouldn’t be alive for the aftermath obviously, but she’d assume it would also be embarrassing, if not traumatic, for Kim to deal with her dead body and then have to explain it to everyone else, and this is when a little thought wriggles its way through, begging Harry, hey, please stop thinking about dying and being a corpse while getting eaten out, it’s actually super fucking weird and abnormal) — her thighs tense up again. Kim keeps going, but soon her pace slows down. Then she’s gasping, and it almost sounds like a moan; as if this turns her on as much as it does Harry. Her eyelids flutter, eyes rolling to the back of her head, and despite it all, Harry can see so clearly that her face has skipped the pink stage entirely and turned red. Her body stiffens, the final movement coming from her hand as she weakly slaps against the side of Harry’s leg. Immediately Kim is released, panting heavily, her hips shuddering as she rides out her orgasm.
Ah. Okay. So that definitely does something to Harry. Better store that mental image away for a rainy day. Better yet, let the realisation turn into the basis of a mind-project. A witty title fails her, so she settles on the temporary Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s Thing for Choking . She reaches out blindly. “Are you alright—”
Despite her wincing and haggard breathing, Kim finds her footing and quickly gets up, and before Harry can say anything else, Kim’s straddling her lap and grinding against her hips. And then they’re kissing, all hungry and mean, pushing further back in the decrepit chair that struggles beneath their combined weight. It’s a little gross, to be honest, having Kim’s tongue in her mouth when just a moment ago it was deep inside her cunt, but more than that, it’s really fucking hot. Without warning, Harry’s burning hips buck up one final time, her mouth open with a gasp, a shockwave hurtling through her body before she seizes up and then goes slack completely, deflating in the chair.
Kim, to her credit, is gentle after this. She places a kiss on Harry’s exposed chest — no more exposed than it normally is really, as the white dress shirt is always either unclasped, missing a few buttons, or some combination of the two, to the point where the amount of cleavage Harry puts on display is borderline inappropriate — and deftly undoes another button so that her breasts are fully out. They’re hard, half from, well, everything, and half from the sudden exposure to the cold room. Kim takes one in her mouth and sucks it slowly, then the other, then kisses her sternum. After going through the motions, she rests her head on Harry’s shoulder, face turned into the side of her neck. This close, Harry can sense more than her body heat; she can feel her heart beat quickly in her chest, rabbit-like, running and running until it can go no further.
A semi-formed darling floats out of Harry’s mouth. She doesn’t realise she’s said it until Kim shifts in her lap and is looking at her, face different. No longer severe or determined. Looser. Kinder. More willing to let things in.
“What did you just call me?” But neither of them are stupid. They know Kim knows what she’s said. Sheepishly, Harry turns away, only to have her face redirected by the gentle pull of Kim’s fingers curved beneath her soft chin. “Say it again. Please.”
Harry hesitates, feeling silly, but ultimately melts under Kim’s gaze. “Darling. Um, I don’t know, it just kind of happened. Sorry.”
Kim looks a little longer. The corner of her lip twitches upwards. She closes her eyes and kisses the side of Harry’s mouth, sighing with content. Says nothing, but she doesn’t have to. The fingers carding through Harry’s hair and the serene expression on her face are telling enough.