Work Text:
For the most part, Sally is an under-the-covers-with-the-lights-off kind of girl. A sex-after-10pm kind of girl, and maybe-before-9am-on-weekends, if there’s nothing much on.
Molly isn’t.
-
There’s a short alleyway behind their flat. It curves behind the buildings, serving as a pathway to get to the shared garden, a scrubby little patch of grass with some sad drooping pansies in pots and bike parts strewn in the hedge.
Molly likes coming out here to knit, or to bask in what little sunlight filters to the ground, to scratch Toby as he lies supine and indulgent. Sally sits with her back against the rough-warm brick, ignoring the plump ball of cat as he butts at her leg for attention and watching the deft, rhythmic movement of Molly’s fingers. It makes something warm unravel inside her, the glint of the needles, the clack, clack clacking and Toby’s plaintive wheezing mews.
He gets bored of pawing at her and stalks off into the bushes, and Molly eventually looks up from her knitting, meets Sally’s eyes with a slow, secret smile. Sally stands up awkwardly, stretching, and before she’s had a chance to move from her position next to the wall there’s a soft thump next to her and she’s being pinned by two small cold hands and one small hot mouth.
“Molly,” she breathes, into Molly’s mouth. “Someone might look out.”
She feels liquid already, at the soft touches of tongue to her lip, at the press of Molly against her. Molly ignores her, noses around and under her jaw and grinds up against her with a little stilted gasp. “Don’t care,” she finally says, her hands skittering about. Pulling Sally closer and shoving a thigh between her legs, sliding up her back and around to her breasts and scraping at her nipples through her shirt. Sally jerks, her nails grating against the brickwork at her back, and her mouth falls open as Molly pinches at her and squirms against her and bites at her neck, little delicate bites with her little white teeth.
It’s maddening. She pulls at Molly, forgetting not to moan, and their movements are suddenly full of hot intent, slow thrusting, thigh to thigh, back to brick, mouth to neck and it’s good, it’s so good but it’s not enough.
“Want you,” Molly is panting, rutting against her in frantic little shudders. “Want you, want you, God.”
Sally pulls back long enough to grab Molly’s hand, pull her stumbling to the door and fumble her keys against the lock. Molly is so, so distracting, with her soft fingertips tracing patterns against Sally’s wrist, sliding up and under the edge of her shirt as she tries to force her trembling hands to work.
And then they’re in, and Sally is being pinned to the kitchen table and ravished.
“Off. Off.”
Her coat’s on the floor, her shirt and bra have been shoved unceremoniously up under her arms, and it’s light outside. The curtains aren’t closed. Is the front door shut? She can’t remember. A man holding a briefcase walks past, smoking a cigarette and Molly’s mouth is hot, wet, sucking shamelessly on her breasts and flicking her tongue with hot, zinging little touches against her nipples.
Another shove and her trousers and pants are round her thighs, bum against the edge of the table, and Molly’s fingers are pushing up inside her with shocking, slippery suddenness.
“You’re so wet,” Molly’s murmuring, arm moving hard and fast and without any illusion of delicacy. “God.”
“Oh,” Sally manages, and it’s not often she’s shocked to speechlessness but with Molly’s eyes bright and hard and her mouth curled in a vicious little twist she can’t do much more than let her head fall back, brace herself on the table as Molly fucks her with deep, slick pushes. There’s a desperation to it that sizzles through her, and it’s not soft or sweet or any of these words that are Molly, it’s intense, hot, consuming. She can already feel the low, rhythmic contractions starting around Molly’s fingers, and she grinds down with a whimper, legs trembling as she struggles to hold herself up. Molly pushes her fingers deep, rubs inside her as she quivers and moans and thrashes on the table and comes with a choking sob. She falls limp, heaving in great shuddering breaths.
“I love you,” Molly says, low and fierce, looming over her. Her eyes are dark and liquid, her face is flushed red. She’s biting her lip as if preventing herself from saying anything more, and her fingers are still inside Sally, who spasms weakly and swallows. She’s half tempted to smile, to break the sudden tension, but she finds that she doesn’t want that. Not all all.
“Yeah,” she says instead. It’s a pathetic response, really. But Molly just drags her fingers out slowly, grips onto Sally’s hips so hard it’s almost painful and kisses her open-mouthed and devouring.