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Christa cuddles in her sleep.

This is something Ymir has long since resigned herself to; the first night of sharing a bunk she’d woken up overheated and inexplicably wet and Christa was twined around her like a fucking kudzu vine, her little leg squished firmly between Ymir’s and her face nestled solidly between Ymir’s tits.

Maybe not so inexplicable, on second thought.

And when Ymir poked her face until she woke up, hissing ‘get the fuck off, fuckin’ shit’, Christa rose like a demon from the darkness, glaring at Ymir with the irritation she only gets when she’s fresh from waking. Christa had replied with a simple no, in a voice that was sugar-sweet poison, before planting her face right back onto her flesh-pillows. She was asleep again in minutes, leaving Ymir feeling vaguely threatened and mostly turned right the fuck on.

So. Christa cuddles, and Ymir bends to her will because it’s Christa and Ymir finds herself doing many things she would not otherwise be doing, if it were anyone else.

But this nightly habit doesn’t exactly help when Ymir wants to rub one off. Well – it does, in one way, and in another makes it fucking impossible. Ymir sighs, glancing down at her chest. She’d memorized how Christa looks asleep not long after they met, but there’s something about it that makes Ymir want to keep looking, the same draw to that sight that she used to feel toward ending her hunger.

Christa always protects her face as she dreams, one hand spread wide across her cheek, draping over her eyes with a thumb tangled in the hair above her ear. Ymir used to have these fucked up, paranoid thoughts about Christa smothering herself in her sleep, irrational fear keeping her up for hours just to…watch. Make sure. Sometimes move the hand farther away from her nose and mouth.

Breath hitching, Christa sighs in her sleep, body moving in a slow wriggle as she adjusts her weight over Ymir. And Christa’s hip is directly in line with Ymir’s crotch, okay, and Ymir hasn’t gotten off in fucking ages, and it feels creepy as fuck but when Christa’s hip moves just a little Ymir’s breath catches. She thrusts up on pure instinct, not enough pressure or friction or contact to do anything but drive her absolutely goddamn crazy, and then she clenches her fists and locks her muscles up, because there’s creepy like feeling hot ‘cause Christa’s plastered all over her and then there’s creepy like getting off with some bump-and-grind on Christa’s sleeping body, and one is way more invasive than the other.

“Shit,” Ymir hisses under her breath. Tonight seems to be one of Christa’s restless ones, when her dreams or nightmares or what the fuck ever keeps her mumbling, sighing, throwing her weight around. This does not help Ymir’s predicament any, especially not when Christa slides down a bit – and her mouth catches over Ymir’s nipple through her shirt, what the actual fuck is her life – straddling Ymir’s left leg and squeezing it once with her thighs.

Christa sighs again. Ymir can feel the gust of hot air passing directly over her tit.

She is not, on the whole, pleased.

And then Ymir tries to do something she has never done before, very carefully gripping Christa’s arms and making to slide out from under the girl. Ymir can go jerk it in the bathroom; at this point the freezing-as-fuck tiles are no longer as much of a deterrent as they were before. But as she moves, Christa – Christa fucking moans in her sleep, her thighs squeezing Ymir’s leg again and her hips rolling down.



Ymir sucks in a breath through her teeth, mind going blank as she processes the fact that Christa is currently humping her leg while asleep. While having a wet dream, motherfucker. Her cunt clenches around nothing at that thought, at the feel of Christa hot and alive against her.

At how Christa is pressed tight on her thigh.

Christa’s becoming more active, now, her hips stuttering down in a noticeable thrust and her pretty pink lips parting in this hitched breath-moan that reverberates through Ymir’s bones. God, she wants to make Christa make that noise.

She wants to make Christa make many noises.

Ymir is tempted to just…lie there, maybe bend her leg to give Christa more pressure but just let her do her thing, because Ymir wants to see it, wants to make Christa feel good like that but Ymir knows that she isn’t allowed, somehow. Knows from how skittish Christa gets around her in the showers, knows from how Christa always straightens up when she realizes she’s been leaning on Ymir for too long, knows from how Christa’s eyes catch on and follow Reiner’s ass every so often. And, fuck, it’s fucking tempting, to stay still, to watch Christa let Ymir give her something she’s wanted to give for a fucklong time, but.

Jesus, she isn’t a monster anymore. She’s broken more than her body to become something more than a monster.

“Hey,” Ymir whispers, already hearing a voice in her mind berate her absolute goddamn idiocy because this may be her first and last chance to see Christa come and she’s passing over the opportunity for something as immaterial as morals. “Yo, Christa.” Christa makes a noise in her throat that sounds exactly like how Ymir thinks arousal does. “Christa. Christa.”

The exact moment Christa wakes up is translated across her entire body, a curl of toes against Ymir’s calves and the slightest stiffening of her spine and a purse of her lips and a twitch of her eyebrows. She sighs, still dipped halfway in dream, her hips making another unconscious motion before she freezes. Becomes aware of the situation.

Gritting her teeth, Ymir prepares for the backlash.

“Oh God,” Christa breathes. A beat, panic smearing its sticky fingers across her face. “Oh my God,” she whimpers, and, in her subconscious reaction to overwhelming fear that makes Ymir want to slaughter things that scream, curls up into a ball, hiding her face.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. Her voice is very tiny. She is shaking.

Ymir won’t fuckin’ stand for that.

“It’s fine –”

“It isn’t, I’m so sorry, I’m so so so sorry Ymir I can’t believe –”

“It happens,” Ymir cuts through, hardening her voice into the tone that makes Christa freeze up before becoming docile enough for Ymir to treat her cuts and bruises, the one that cuts through Christa’s occasional panic attacks and reminds her to breath. “You’re fucking fourteen, Christa. It happens. It’s fine. I promise. It’s fine.”

She murmurs this a few more times before Christa uncurls from around herself. The hands stay covering her face, though, and Ymir frowns, gently – she can only ever manage gentleness for Christa – grasping Christa’s palms and beginning to pull them away. There’s some resistance, Christa stiffening her arms with a sharp breath sewn through her teeth, but Ymir just keeps at it with the same soft pressure, till Christa gives. Her eyes dart around in their sockets, looking anywhere but Ymir.

Clearing her throat, Ymir wonders what to do next. She’s fuckin’ bad with shit like this, she knows it, okay, Connie doesn’t have to goddamn screech it at her every time she says the wrong thing, she knows. After a few heavy moments, Ymir curls her hand around Christa’s jaw, tipping her face up until it’s inevitable that their eyes meet.

Christa’s eyes are wide and very, very blue, and Ymir’s mouth dries up. She can’t help herself, runs a finger along Christa’s cheek even though that isn’t what she’s doing this for. “It’s all good, Christa,” Ymir manages, breath knocked out from under her diaphragm with how beautiful the girl in front of her is.

Shivering for a single heartbeat, Christa nods small, her lips parted. “Okay,” she whispers. And there’s something in this moment, Ymir thinks, something stretching unseen in the air, and it’s like a word itching the tip of her tongue – she has a chance to do something here, this balancing act she’s been keeping with Christa just edging on tipping over. If she could just –

Christa pulls in a breath, neatly tucking everything honest back behind that sweet mask she has, smiling and curling herself around Ymir’s side again.

The moment passes. Balance returns.

Disappointment paints the taste of ash over Ymir’s tongue, and she breathes back the bleeding, stitched smile she can feel scratching at her teeth. Mindlessly, one hand of her twines its fingers into Christa’s hair, combing through the rough strands and scratching at her scalp. Christa sighs happily, snuggles closer, and it would be easy to tip her chin down and kiss Christa’s forehead but Ymir just thinks about it instead.

“You’re my best friend,” Christa announces after a few moments, sounding like she’s just come to that conclusion herself. “You were my first friend.”

Ymir shrugs. Christa hasn’t told her a lot about before they met, but she’s said enough. “I know.”

And then – then Christa wraps her arms around Ymir as best she can to hug her. “I’m happy. That you know.”

That ripple is back, that thrum in the air as the balance sways, and it’s as fragile as the first time and Ymir can feel the tips of her fingers start to tingle, feels very present in this moment, in this skin.

Her human flesh has never felt heavier.

She sucks in a breath. She is absolutely terrified.

“Who were you dreaming of?” she says, and her throat is so dry the words rasp inaudible out her mouth.

“Hmm?” Christa questions, her fingers curling around the hem of Ymir’s shirt, tight.

Ymir swallows. “Who were you dreaming of?”

Christa goes very still. “Ymir?”

“I wanna know,” Ymir says, the words rushing from her. “I wanna know who you want, Christa.”

Fuck, and her voice wavers, and she put too much of herself in that phrase, put too much meaning behind the words.

Torturous silence follows what Ymir said, despair beginning to rot under her ribcage. Closing her eyes and opening them again, Ymir breathes. She has weathered worse.

“Forget about it,” she murmurs. “Forget I asked.”

“You,” Christa says all quiet, the word stepping timidly from between her lips. “I was dreaming of you.”

It takes Ymir a few seconds to process the words, her mind freezing up once she has and a strangled wheeze squeezing its way out her lungs.

“You –” she stutters, “Just because I – just because you know I – you don’t have to say anything because of –”

“I’m not,” Christa breathes, and they aren’t even looking at each other, Ymir is having the most important conversation of her life and they aren’t even looking at one another. “I was dreaming of you, I dream of you a lot, not even – like that, you know, sometimes just –”

And this low sound wrenches from Ymir’s throat before she can stop it. “Then why –” a frustrated hiss – “then why the fuck haven’t you – you know what you mean to me, I know you know, you’ve known for fucking ages –”

“Because I’m scared,” Christa whispers, and those words makes something icy and terrible cloud around Ymir’s organs.

I would never hurt you,” Ymir hisses, and even she can hear how dangerous she sounds.

“I know that,” Christa responds, shocked and also exasperated, like Ymir has pointed out the colour of the sky or informed Christa that things fall when you drop them. “But no one has ever loved me, Ymir, and I’m terrified. I don’t know how to love anyone back.”

Carefully, Christa strokes the skin of Ymir’s hip. “I don’t know how to love you back, Ymir.”

“I don’t care,” Ymir rasps, and then she’s pushing Christa down on the mattress, rising above her on one elbow. “I don’t care,” she spits in Christa’s face, “No one knows shit about loving anyone, okay, that’s why everyone fucking hurts each other, that doesn’t fucking matter, what –” another frustrated, helpless noise curdles in Ymir’s mouth. She can’t think through the roar in her head, heartbeat violent enough she can feel each of her veins thud in rhythm.

Christa leans up and kisses her.

Ymir makes a noise like she’s wounded, throwing a leg over Christa’s hips to straddle her, back hunched like an animal and a hand splayed on either side of Christa’s head. Ymir forces her way into Christa’s mouth, licking over her teeth and prodding at Christa’s tongue with her own until Christa responds, gasp hot between them as she arcs her neck a bit, offers herself to Ymir so well. Snarling, Ymir bites Christa’s lips, nips at them till they’re swollen and Christa mewls every time she’s kissed.

Then Christa’s tinyass hands are fumbling under Ymir’s shirt, sliding up her back and down again, one wriggling between them to grab Ymir’s tit greedily, clumsily.

“Fuck,” Ymir punches out, “What do you want, tell me what you want.”

Throwing a leg around Ymir’s waist, Christa rocks her hips up desperate, her nail scratching Ymir’s nipple and making her bite out a growl. Ymir grins sharp, thinks I wanna devour her, grabs at the top of Christa’s pants and rucks them down past her knees. Drawing her fingers up Christa’s inner thighs, she can’t help but bite out a laugh at how Christa wriggles out of her shirt, stares up at Ymir expectantly.

Ymir pinches some pubic hair between her fingers and pulls. Christa seizes, looks like someone struck by lighting, and Ymir grins, leans down and kisses her and runs roughened fingers over the soft lips of Christa’s cunt, just – feeling her. Trails up till she catches on the hood, runs a fingertip over the skin again and again and not pulling it back, not touching her clit just yet.

“Ymir,” Christa hisses. Ymir smiles.


“Take your clothes off,” Christa orders, and shit, that gets her hot, the idea of taking Christa’s orders.

“Yeah,” she mutters, draws back to pull her shirt over her shoulder and pushing her pants off, kicking her ankles free. Then she stops, holding herself over Christa. “What now, princess?”

It seems like Christa only had it in her to give one order tonight – she withers shyly when Ymir asks, and Ymir huffs. Leans in and bites at Christa’s lip and kisses her as sweet as she knows how.

“Whatever,” she murmurs, “Lean back and enjoy.”

She grabs Christa’s right leg, curls it around her waist and straddles Christa’s left. She runs a hand up and down Christa’s thigh, scratches through the hair and turns her head to kiss Christa’s knee.

“You alright?” she asks. Christa nods frantically. Ymir slides closer to her, till she can feel the heat of Christa’s cunt against her own. She leans over Christa, sliding her leg over Ymir’s shoulder. Kissing her once, twice, three times chastely, Ymir nuzzles her, runs her nose along Christa’s. “Just say it and we’ll stop, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Christa breathes, and then Ymir rocks her hips forward.

“Fuck,” Ymir bites, because she’s been wet and swollen with blood for a hell of a long time by now, and it’s half-relief and half-torture, the feel of Christa against her. Christa makes this sweet, heady noise, fluttering and clenching, and Ymir grabs her waist with both hands, begins to grind them together in slow, strong circles.

It’s a slow build, the heat threading through Ymir’s blood and getting increasingly hotter, and soon she feels the first deep clench between her hips. Christa is mindless and gorgeous, head rolling from side to side on the mattress, and Ymir bites out a grin, leans down and practically folds Christa in half as she fits a hand between them.

Now she touches Christa’s clit, rubs slow circles and muffles Christa’s surprised yelp with her mouth. Her knuckle, thank fuck, also catches on her own, and Ymir’s thrusts get a little more wild as the clench becomes more of an undulating heat, compressing and expanding at once.

“Ymir,” Christa hitches, “Ymir, Ymir, I – Ymir –”

“Yeah,” Ymir mutters, “Fuck yes, I’m gonna come, come with me, shit, come with me, Christa,” and Christa has started this low keen, her limbs twitching and the muscles in her stomach jumping and fuckin’ shit, Ymir is close, she’s so close –

Christa grasps at Ymir’s back and scratches hard, arching with this stunned look on her face, and Ymir tries to hold off till Christa is done, to see it all the way through, but fire rips through her. Ymir groans, rocking her hips forward forceful as she rides it out.

“Fuck,” she snaps, each word punctuated by a thrust, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She slumps over Christa with a deep sigh, pushing her weight to the side at the last minute so that she doesn’t crush the girl. Her eyes are closed. She is very tired.

“Ymir?” Christa says. Her voice is sleep-heavy, sweet with affection. Ymir grunts. “I’m going to learn for you.”

Ymir’s mind is too sluggish to make sense of the words, but she grunts again, hopes it sounds encouraging. “Tha’sgood,” she rasps, and the world around her is losing focus.

“Yeah,” is the last thing she hears as Christa twines herself around Ymir. “It is.”