Chapter Text
The bar sucked.
Rumi was having a bad fucking time. First, she’d forgotten her ID in her dorm. So she’d arrived at the bar late. The line was long. It was cold outside. People in line were too loud and her “friends” – Jinu, Abby, and Baby – had gone in ahead of her. Jinu had texted her that they were talking to cute girls and that she should hurry up, and she’d been stuck in line for over twenty more minutes before she could get inside.
She was going to kill Jinu, mostly because Abby and Baby didn’t know. Not that she’d thought they’d care – or even see the messages on his phone – but the mere thought had her blood pressure spiking. She wasn’t – she wasn’t ready for other people to know. She was still learning what it meant for her, to be comfortable in her own skin.
She trusted Jinu. She didn’t trust Abby or Baby. Not yet, anyway.
So that had been hanging over her head. To say nothing of killing Jinu for not fucking waiting for her before talking to cute women. He knew she wanted to put herself out there. He knew she was nervous to do so, but also eager.
She finally got in the bar, only to realize that the boys had apparently paired up with the hot women they’d been talking to, and left Rumi to fend for herself. One drink at the bar had turned into two, and she never got to finish the second one. She’d downed half of it: a simple pint of cider. She wasn’t a big fan of beer, and unlike some people in that bar, she had a Friday class. She couldn’t go wild with her alcohol, even if she had wanted to.
She’d turned and promptly walked into a man who, while very apologetic and polite, was basically a brick wall. Her drink, and her jacket and white t-shirt underneath, hadn’t stood a fucking chance. He’d drunkenly tried to help her and had gotten dangerously close to unintentionally groping her, and she’d shoved him off. She’d run to the bathroom, washed what she could.
It wasn’t like it was her favorite shirt, but it was still, now, very see-through in a way she had not intended for the evening. She’d dressed casual. The shirt was an old, but sturdy, cotton. And it had paint stains on it, for fuck’s sake.
Her bra was violet underneath it, and now the whole bar would know. And much as she wanted to just close her jacket and call it even, the heat of the bodies in the bar already had her sweating.
And then, to top it all off: she couldn’t find her fucking “friends”. She’d lapped the whole place twice, squeezing through sweaty, dancing bodies, cutting through conversations with a cold “Excuse me”, getting progressively angrier at the thought that they had fucking left her.
She texted Jinu, who told her he was still there, but she didn’t fucking see him. He was probably making out with the girl he found, and a stab of jealousy had rocketed through her, which annoyed her further. Jinu was allowed to hook up with whoever he wanted, but it was just so much easier for him.
She hated him for it, a little. She hated all of them, probably sloppily kissing, open-mouthed, all tongue and no finesse.
Ugh. Men.
She finally decided that she had enough. She was alone, with a wet shirt covered in alcohol, without her friends, without any prospects for the night, and just over all: a terrible fucking mood.
She decided to get some air, to wait out Jinu’s make-out sesh. To just get the fuck out of the bar, for a bit.
She decided to go out the back. It was, technically, a small alley: tucked between the bar and the buildings surrounding it. Nothing was back there but a dumpster, trash from the dumpster on the ground, and sometimes, couples looking for more privacy.
Occasionally, people went out there to smoke, too. It wasn’t the designated smoking area, technically, but no one seemed to care.
There was only one singular person out there, when Rumi finally stumbled out. She let the door slam behind her, the cold night air hitting her wet shirt and making her shiver.
She pulled her jacket tight, crossing her arms over herself and leaning against the brick wall of the small area.
The girl out there with her only raised one eyebrow in greeting, vape held loosely in her hand.
She was...fuck. She was gorgeous, honestly. Long pink hair falling loose down her shoulders. Black, spiked choker on her neck. Tight, dark jeans accentuating every curve. A simple, faded black shirt with some kind of band logo on it: relaxed. Effortlessly cool. She had a jean jacket on, as well, and Rumi glanced at the patches she could see.
Various band logos, “Yes Today, Satan”, “Protect Trans Kids” and “Designated Attack Dog”, among other patches Rumi couldn’t quite read.
Good god, she was hot. Tall. Regal, almost. She held herself like she knew it, too: slouched against the wall, one leg bent, foot – in chunky white sneakers – against the brick.
Rumi felt her cheeks heating.
God.
Rumi looked away from the cool gaze of the woman, choosing instead to glare at the brick wall across from where Rumi stood.
“Want a pull?” a smooth, low voice asked her, and Rumi looked back.
The woman was holding out the vape.
Rumi felt herself raise an eyebrow, and the woman answered before she could even ask a question.
“Seems like you need one.”
Rumi huffed. “No, thanks. I don’t smoke. Or vape.”
The woman let out a low chuckle. “Smart. It’s bad for you. I’m quitting.”
Rumi laughed at that, the sound more derisive than intended, escaping her before she could stop it.
The woman raised both of her eyebrows in response.
“Sorry, I just. Um. You’re not doing a great job of it, are you?” she asked, tilting her head.
The woman snorted. “Guess not.” she tapped the side of the vape with her fingers before bringing it to her mouth. “Though, I’ve gotten better, if you can believe that. Now I only need a nicotine fix when I drink.”
A beat, and then. “’Course, I drink quite a bit, also. I should stop doing that too, really. It’d make dancing a hell of a lot easier.”
God. Of course she was a fucking dancer, with those long-ass legs.
Rumi felt her cheeks heat even more. “Oh, um. You dance?”
The woman quirked an eyebrow, her cool gaze picking up a hint of curiosity. Of playfulness, even, and good god, Rumi might just die. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anyone so attractive in her entire life.
And this woman almost seemed to know it, too. A languid smile spread across her lips, amusement dancing in her eyes as though she knew something that Rumi didn’t.
“Mhmm. Why? Do I strike you as the type to not have rhythm?”
It was an innocent question, but her tone was filthy. It dripped with innuendo, and Rumi almost choked on her spit.
The woman saw it too, grinning in a way that screamed triumph. Like Rumi had just told her everything she wanted to know, and then some. She looked like the cat that ate the canary: all teeth and bravado.
Rumi shivered. She tightened her jacket around her, as though it was the cold that had affected her so much.
“No, that’s not – I don’t –” Rumi muttered, flustered.
Pink-haired girl’s laugh ringing out in the alley made Rumi’s ears burn.
Rumi shoved her hands in her pockets, stubbornly looking at where the brick wall before her met the pavement on the ground.
“Yes, I’m a dancer. Good one, too. Would be even better if I ever kick this habit, but, well. I don’t hold myself back, if I want something.”
Rumi suppressed a shudder. Fuck.
She didn’t dare look over. She could just see the smug look on the woman’s face, in her mind.
Just who the fuck did this woman think she was?! Just standing there, saying shit like that.
Rumi drew in a breath, willing her heart rate to calm down.
Finally, Rumi hazarded a glance, quickly stealing a look.
The woman’s gaze was positively swimming with mirth, infuriating smirk on her lips as though she was perfectly aware of the effect she was having.
She broke the silence, her tone even. “And what about you, princess? What do you do?”
Rumi bristled at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.”
If Rumi’s brisk tone affected the woman, she didn’t show it, just tilting her head slightly, that smirk still on her face.
“I’m a student.” Rumi grumbled.
“Mmm, me too, babes. Junior. That wasn’t the question. What’s your major?”
Rumi clenched her jaw. That hadn’t been what the woman had asked, but she let it go. “Communications.” she paused, before deciding to add: “Junior, also.”
The woman nodded, once. “So. Good with your words, are you?”
“Good enough.” Rumi muttered.
“Could’ve fooled me.” the woman chuckled, and Rumi felt her cheeks burn. “You’re having a bit of a rough night, aren’t you?” the woman observed, squinting.
Rumi huffed, annoyed. This conversation felt pointless. The pretty girl had made her blush, had teased her, and Rumi knew nothing would come of it because she wouldn’t know the first thing to even do: if the woman would even be open to it or into her at all. If the woman was even gay, though the outfit at least seemed to indicate some kind of queerness...right?
Or maybe she was just a punk, or something, and Rumi was truly hopeless: looking for queerness where there was none, her please-be-gaydar going haywire.
It just added to the tally of ways the night had been going sideways since it’d begun.
“What gave it away.” she muttered sarcastically. Not a question: she knew it was obvious.
Still, the pink-haired woman didn’t answer. Instead, her eyes swept Rumi up and down, and for just a moment, Rumi felt...naked. Like this woman could see all of her secrets with her cool gaze. And like she knew how to pick Rumi apart with them, too.
“Not a big drinker?” she asked finally.
“Friday class.” Rumi supplied.
“Sucks.” the woman nodded, once. Her eyes slid down Rumi’s body as she took a pull from her vape. “There are other ways to unwind, though.”
Rumi swallowed thickly but tried to pointedly ignore the thinly-veiled offer (and the shiver it elicited in her), pulling out her phone and texting Jinu, once more asking him if he was still there. Because, if not, she was ready to call it a fucking night.
She didn’t realize she was bouncing her leg anxiously until the woman pushed off of her perch on the wall, coming up to Rumi and tapping Rumi’s knee with her own.
Rumi blinked, looking down at her knee and then back up to the pink-haired woman.
She was close. Too close.
Rumi sucked in a breath.
The woman looked at Rumi with hooded eyes. “Want help with that, princess?” she husked out, her voice low. Tantalizing.
Offering.
Rumi went rigid, breath caught in her throat at their proximity.
“Don’t call me that.” Rumi managed to grind out, and the woman tilted her head.
“Make me stop.” the woman said. Her voice had dropped an octave, the words barely above a breath. She smelled like strawberries and cedarwood, the latter scent surprisingly crisp and clean beneath the sweet scent of the vape. Her tone was even, but there was a challenge – quiet, but defiant – in her gaze.
Cheeky.
Rumi glared at her. “You’re infuriating.”
That got a smile. It was easy. It spread across her lips like a predatory promise. “I’m enticing.”
Rumi swallowed thickly. The woman’s brown eyes searched Rumi’s face, and oh, yeah, fuck. The stranger’s pretty pink lips parted. They were way too close to each other, to the point that Rumi could make out how intricate her eyeliner was. And it was absolutely killer. Thick. Elegant. Dangerous. Just like the fiery hunger in her eyes, her smirk still teasing.
Rumi inhaled sharply. Fuck. She wasn’t – she wasn’t that drunk, but she was pretty sure she could feel the alcohol, then. It made her dizzy (it was definitely the alcohol, and definitely not the proximity of this gorgeous fucking woman before her), and she looked away from the woman’s eyes to her lips once more.
A big mistake. Rumi licked her own unconsciously.
“You’re cocky.” Rumi managed, trying to put venom into the word. Disinterest, even.
Except, she was anything but disinterested. Nervous? Sure. A little intimidated? Definitely. A little annoyed? Yeah, a lot.
She...may have forgotten why, with the woman so close to her. But she remembered that she was, in fact, annoyed.
“I’m confident.” pink-haired girl shot back without missing a beat, her tone doing absolutely sinful things to Rumi’s insides, stomach flipping.
“Aggressive, more like.” Rumi said flatly, trying desperately to keep her voice steady and not give away just how turned on she could tell she was becoming.
Fuck.
In her defense, what else was she supposed to be, except turned on? A gorgeous woman was dangerously close and saying words that Rumi could tell were meant to rile her up.
And good god, were they working.
Something in the woman’s gaze flickered, before it was replaced with a smirk so sinful that Rumi had to bite back a whimper as pink-haired woman leaned in.
“Oh, babe.” a low chuckle, almost right in Rumi’s ear, her hot breath tickling the shell. “I haven’t even gotten started.”
She pulled back slightly, and pinned Rumi with a positively smoldering look, her eyes darkened with obvious desire, her tongue darting out to lick her lips, and Rumi’s brain short-circuited.
Rumi made a strangled noise – something between a whimper, and a growl of frustration.
She felt her cheeks get even redder, if that was possible.
Fuck. Abort. No, no way, she was not – this was not happening. A hot woman coming onto her before she was even out would just be the epitome of the cherry on top of an already bad night.
Not that it was bad that a hot woman was coming onto her, just – well. Because that wasn’t the plan, that’d never been the plan! She’d wanted to dip her toes into the dating world, not...whatever this woman was offering, with her hot gaze and even hotter demeanor.
Rumi felt her frustration spike.
“Can you get out of my face?” she hissed.
If the woman was offended by her tone, she didn’t show it, her gaze still impossibly even despite the naked display of lust.
She searched Rumi’s expression for a moment, as though looking for an answer to a question Rumi hadn’t asked (hadn’t even thought of), and Rumi felt her face burning even more.
“Sure, gorgeous. I can do that.” she said finally, the burning in her irises not lessening at all as she went to step back.
The night air rushed in between them, the cold making Rumi shiver, and without thinking, she reached out. Grabbed the woman by the hem of her jean jacket.
God, she didn’t know what the fuck she was doing. She wasn’t ready, she hadn’t come out here with the intent of kissing anyone, of even flirting, or whatever the fuck all of that had been. She’d just needed some fucking air, she just needed some time to sort her thoughts, let the frustrations dissipate.
Instead, they’d built. Instead, this woman had pushed her buttons. Had pushed buttons that Rumi hadn’t even been aware that she had.
Fuck it. Her friends were getting some, right? Why the fuck shouldn’t she?!
She pulled the woman to her with much more confidence than she felt.
The woman’s lips were soft, her mouth hot, and she pressed into Rumi without hesitation. As though she knew that Rumi was going to crumble. As though she’d known, from the moment that smirk had first appeared, that she’d be pinning Rumi to the wall.
Fuck, she probably had known.
The thought made Rumi whimper into the kiss, the woman’s lips more insistent: the kiss turning bruising as the woman’s hands grabbed Rumi’s hips. She slotted one of her long, lithe thighs between Rumi’s legs, and Rumi had to pull away from the kiss, shocked by the electricity that shot up her spine at the contact.
The woman was on her neck in an instant, nipping and kissing, trailing her tongue along Rumi’s pulse point, and Rumi squirmed, heat flushing down her body.
Fuck, she – they were really doing this. Right in a fucking...dirty-ass alley. Before she was out to anyone. Before she’d even...that, with, well. Anyone.
She should stop it. It wasn’t – this hadn’t been her plan. For the evening, but also like...in general.
She moaned as cold hands slipped under her shirt, pressing against her hip bones and tugging on them, as though encouraging Rumi to move them.
Rumi clenched, shocked by the boldness of the gesture, but not...not against it. Not by a long shot, actually.
The woman slid her hands up Rumi’s ribs, finally detaching herself from Rumi’s neck.
She looked at Rumi, then, eyes even darker, full of want. It made Rumi gasp, to see.
“You good?” she asked. The question was much more laden than that, though. Rumi just knew it.
Rumi sucked in a breath, head spinning. Was she good? Was she really just going to let this, this...perfect stranger, have her like this? In an alley behind a shitty fucking student bar? Was she really going to skip all other fucking steps of accepting who she was, of exploring her wants and desires, just to dive in the deep end and not look back? Sink or swim?
Her heart hammered in her chest. She could say no. Tell the stranger she couldn’t. Rumi didn’t know the woman, but she’d already respected one request. Rumi was sure she’d respect another: respect a no.
But did Rumi – did she want to say no?
Her body was already on fire. The woman’s hands, though they’d stilled, were still on her ribs – fingers dangerously close to slipping under her bra.
One word, and Rumi knew the hands would be gone. She’d be cold again, but for a different reason.
Or...she could burn, bright, in a blaze of glory. She could let herself have this – have this gorgeous woman. She could let herself ignite, immolate, and then...she could move on. Burn her bridges and never see this woman again, probably. Have her first time, a flash in the pan: getting it over with, letting her doubts turn to smoke in the woman’s clearly very capable hands.
And Rumi found...she didn’t mind the thought of that.
Not one fucking bit.
Finally, she nodded. “Yeah. Good.”
The smile she received was almost too sexy to be real. Rumi was fairly certain she would combust, right then and there, as the stranger dipped her head and kissed her again.
Her hands started their path once more, sliding under the wire of Rumi’s bra.
“Wet shirt.” she said, suddenly, into their kiss, and Rumi only hummed. Pink-haired girl pulled away, gaze heated. “And you didn’t even show me. Tsk.”
Any retort Rumi might have had (and that was a strong “might”, her brain had traveled quite a bit farther south and she would hardly say she was thinking clearly anymore) died in her throat, coming out only as a guttural moan as the woman slid her tongue from pulse point to earlobe, nibbling gently around Rumi’s earrings.
No more words were exchanged, though. The woman’s deft hands worked Rumi’s body like she already knew it, Rumi’s panting and moaning seeming to whisper to the woman exactly where Rumi wanted her touch: where Rumi needed her touch, where Rumi enjoyed her touch the most. Sometimes she was hard, digging her fingers into Rumi’s skin and making her hiss with pleasure, and other times, her touch was feather-light. Sometimes, her hands were in Rumi’s hair, and if not there, then all over her body. Running over skin that hadn’t ever been explored before, except by Rumi’s own hands.
But god, it was hot, to feel it. She scraped her nails up Rumi’s thighs and Rumi jerked her hips, whimpering into the bruising kiss. Begging, practically. She felt...not pathetic. But needy, in a way she never really had before.
She must have breathed it into the pink-haired woman’s consciousness, because her hand finally slid down the front of Rumi’s pants, dipping into her underwear. Rumi spread her legs as best she could, tangling her hands in the woman’s hair, pulling her impossibly closer as she felt the pressure of pink-haired girl’s thigh being replaced with the palm of her hand on Rumi’s clit.
Rumi gasped into the woman’s mouth, the sound becoming a strangled, broken moan as two fingers slid inside of her.
Rumi didn’t even know what she was doing, but the woman held her hips firmly with the hand that wasn’t occupied inside of Rumi, guiding her to meet with the thrusts of her fingers.
At some point, the woman slid a third finger in, Rumi’s breathing ragged. The angle was as excruciating as it was teasing, the stretch deliciously achy, and she felt dizzy from the sensations. The woman was all over her, pressing her into the wall: setting their rhythm, her hips undulating with Rumi’s, as though using them to aid her hand.
And good god, did she have rhythm. Rumi felt her orgasm building, fast approaching under deft, experienced hands.
It was a small one – not earth-shattering, but big enough to hit like a cold wave, escaping her in a strangled cry that she couldn’t hold back as she spasmed around the long fingers curling inside of her.
The pink-haired woman kissed her through it, slowing her thrusts to gently coax Rumi down until she stilled her hips: stilling Rumi’s in the process.
Rumi panted, hard. Fuck.
That...that had really just happened. She’d just gotten fucked, in a dingy back alley behind a fucking student bar.
The woman withdrew her fingers from inside of Rumi, making her whimper, the emptiness simultaneously feeling like a loss and an aching relief. Not that she wanted the stranger to pull out, but once she was out, it made Rumi aware of how full she had been. And just how good it had felt.
Okay, yeah. She got it, now. Why people liked casual hook ups.
Felt good. Felt nice.
Rumi let her head loll back, closing her eyes and breathing hard.
The woman pulled her hand completely out of Rumi’s pants.
Rumi righted herself a bit, looking at the woman through hooded eyes.
She smiled lazily at Rumi, hunger still shining in her gaze. But she kept her composure, pushing away from Rumi after lingering for a moment more.
Rumi straightened still further, feeling her face burning again.
“You seemed like you needed that.” the pink-haired girl finally said.
Rumi let out a shaky breath. It could have almost been mistaken for a shaky laugh.
“Um, I. Yeah. I guess so.” she finally answered.
It was – well. It was very unlike her, to just let go like that. To just throw caution to the wind. But, it’d been...nice, honestly. And it had helped. Her mind was blissfully blank, except for drinking in the absolutely gorgeous woman before her.
She winked. “Well. Happy to be of service.”
With one more wicked smirk, she slid passed Rumi. Rumi watched her as she walked, noticing the large patch that covered almost the entirety of the back of her jacket. It looked hand-drawn, nearly entirely in black and white: a figure, standing in a power pose and wearing a gas mask, dual-wielding two flamethrowers. The flames at the end of the barrels were the only thing in color: yellow and orange. In scratch-style letters across the bottom, the patch read: “¡’Fit Check For My Napalm Era!”
Cute. Fitting. Rumi almost chuckled, but held it in.
Finally, the pink-haired woman got to the door of the bar and pulled it open. Before slipping through it, she looked back at Rumi.
Rumi, who was rooted to the spot, basking in the afterglow of a solid orgasm, enjoying the cool air for the first time that night as it kissed her sex-heated skin.
“See you around, Rumi Kang.”
The door was closed before Rumi could fully react, her mouth falling open in shock.
That – she – she’d known who Rumi was?! The whole time?!
Rumi blinked, before shutting her eyes and letting out a groan as she let herself slide down the wall a bit.
Fuck.