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“Damn, baby,” grunted Pyrrha after a while, and sat up, rubbing a hand over her head. “That was so good I gotta break out the big guns.”
Wake glanced up. Pyrrha’s voice had echoed off the ceiling of the barracks where she and Wake had just fucked, deep in an abandoned Cohort bunker on a derelict moon. None of the bunks in the barracks had looked trustworthy—they’d all rusted out decades ago, and slats and springs protruded from the bedframes like fangs—but at the back, Pyrrha found a rotting mattress propped against the wall. When she pulled it over, it fell flat in a great whumph of dust. Oh, well, what the hell, Wake thought as she stripped. They’d both of them made do with worse.
Now Pyrrha, bare-assed and kneeling at the foot of the mattress, was digging through the pockets of her crumpled trousers. Wake reclined against the barracks wall and watched her, taking advantage of Pyrrha’s momentary inattention to grind her fist into a pressure point in her aching lower back. It helped a bit with the pain. Bomb was showing at last, and Wake seethed daily over this new, highly visible liability, not to mention all the bullshit that went along with it.
Worse was Pyrrha. When the jumpsuit had come off, and Pyrrha saw the hard, modest swell of Wake’s belly, her expression had changed at once. Wake had never seen that alarming suffusion of hunger and tenderness on that lean face before, and she didn’t fucking care for it.
Pyrrha’s voice was soft. “What’s this?”
“It’s none of your goddamned business is what it is,” Wake snapped, and struck her reaching hand away.
Chagrined, Pyrrha opened her mouth, obviously wanting to push back; but in the face of Wake’s glower and snarl she evidently thought better of it. After that they said nothing more about it. Thank fuck the nausea had petered off, at least.
“Aces,” said Pyrrha suddenly.
She turned back to Wake with her firestarter and a grin, and—a fat, fragrant cigar. It was somewhat the worse for wear, slightly ragged and flaking round the edges from riding in Pyrrha’s pocket, but the tobacco was rich and dark, and the leaves were tightly rolled into a dense ruffle. It was obviously a luxury product. Wake’s eyebrows raised.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Some poor bastard Gideon did for.” Pyrrha gave a comic wince of apology. “He had a case of them in his shuttle when Gideon caught up to him. Contraband, maybe. Ah, well—he won’t miss ‘em where he’s gone.” She brought the foot of the cigar up to her nose and sniffed blissfully. “Lucky Gideon didn’t throw this one out when he came to.”
“And you’re going to smoke them instead of selling them? I could feed a cell for a week with how much I could get for that one alone.”
Pyrrha batted her lashes. “Got a knife?”
Wake scoffed in annoyance—of course she had a fucking knife—and jerked her chin at her jumpsuit, abandoned beside Pyrrha’s trousers at the foot of the mattress. Pyrrha swept her a mocking bow and bent to hunt for it.
Somehow, Wake had gotten sloppy with her opsec lately. She would never have leaked such sensitive supply-chain intel to a zombie a year ago. Must be the bomb fucking with her hormones. Turning her brain to mush. The firestarter flared up and Pyrrha puffed at the cigar, rotating it between her fingers to light the leaf evenly.
Suddenly, Wake realised her mouth was watering.
“Ohhhhh, god. God, that’s fucking good. Augh.” Pyrrha leaned back against the barracks wall beside Wake, massaging the half-healed gunshot wound in her pec that Wake had given her upon their meeting. A jet of aromatic smoke streamed from her pursed lips. “Fuckkkkk.”
Wake hadn’t had a cigarette in over three months; she hadn’t been able to stomach it. She’d been so sick with Bomb, that little asshole. But now her hands almost trembled with her desire. She watched Pyrrha’s broad lips close around the cut end of the cigar again, sip at it like a snifter of liquor; retain the smoke, and exhale it in a brumous blue cloud.
“Give it to me.” She had spoken without realising it.
Pyrrha’s glance flicked down to her belly, then back up to her face. “Uh, isn’t it bad for the ba—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Pyrrha’s mouth twisted in an amused moue. But she only handed it over, saying lightly, “Age before beauty.”
The tobacco-leaf wrapper was smooth and damp as Wake brought it to her lips. She took a draw on the cigar, inhaling slowly, and rolled the dry smoke round in her mouth. It was unbelievably flavourful, perfumed and astringent as the stench of hot leather, a flake of dark chocolate, leaves burning in a low bonfire through the night. If she had ever tasted something like this before in her life, she didn’t remember it. A moment later, the nicotine hit her like a sledgehammer.
“Fuck,” she echoed, and Pyrrha rumbled her purring approval.
They passed it back and forth, sipping each puff slowly. It was good enough that they both fell silent. In the low light of the dead sun, the cherry of the cigar glowed faintly, hardly enough to be seen in the dim barracks. The creamy plug of ash grew longer at the foot as the tobacco burned down.
Rousing slightly from her trance, Wake moved to ash the cigar on the floor beside them; but Pyrrha’s hand arrested her wrist. She had an odd look on her face.
“You’re not going to waste that, are you?”
“… What?”
For answer, Pyrrha opened her mouth and stuck her tongue out. Wake stared at her, down at the cigar, then back at her.
“You’re joking.”
Pyrrha just looked at her, grinning around her extended tongue. Wake took a drag and laughed incredulously in a haze of smoke.
“That wasn’t enough for you?” She gestured with the cigar at the wobbly X burned into Pyrrha’s inner thigh, its age indistinguishable now from the web of older scars mottling the umber flesh. “Now you want me to ash this into your fucking mouth? Do you have any dignity left at all?”
“No,” Pyrrha said, smiling at her as though at some private joke; “with you, honey, no.” Then she opened her mouth again. The inside was wet and dark in the half-light.
“Fucking pervert.”
“Unh-hunh,” Pyrrha nodded. A bead of clear saliva was collecting at the tip of her tongue. Wake’s clit pulsed.
She took another draw; savoured it, exhaled it, slow. Then she abruptly moved into action. Taking care not to knock off the ash prematurely, she straddled Pyrrha’s hips, grabbing at her shoulder for balance as she swung her knee over. Pyrrha grunted at the pressure on her wound. The stiffening shaft of Pyrrha’s cock ended up trapped between her belly and Wake’s naked cunt, which had begun to drool in anticipation of the new game. It had to be something, Wake reflected bitterly, something about this fucking zombie. She couldn’t keep doing this. It made her act too fucking stupid.
“Make some spit.”
Pyrrha obediently sucked her teeth and opened back up, her tongue newly glistening with its fresh coating of fluid. For good measure, Wake spat in her mouth too. Pyrrha’s eyelids fluttered; her open lips quivered into a smile. She made a garbled multisyllabic sound, as if trying to say something but unwilling to close her mouth to do it.
“That’s one good thing,” said Wake, and slapped her not too lightly across the face. “Can’t run your fucking mouth like this.”
Pyrrha moaned, throaty. As though against her will, her eyes darted to the cigar held away in Wake’s other hand.
“Okay, okay, don’t climb the fucking walls,” said Wake. She seized Pyrrha’s jaw in an immobile grip. “Hold still.”
Carefully, she brought the long end of the ash to Pyrrha’s mouth, aiming for her own gobbet of saliva on the trembling platform of Pyrrha’s tongue. She tapped the cigar barrel once or twice with her thumb, but it didn’t release. A glance up at Pyrrha: she was unmoving, sweating, pleading with her eyes. Then Wake turned her gaze back down, and broke the ash off against Pyrrha’s upper incisors. It fell into her open mouth with a soft hiss. The cherry, unshielded, glowed with its fresh exposure to the air.
“Hold it.”
Pyrrha made an indistinct gurgle, and swallowed at the back of her throat, making the ash pulse on her tongue. A dark film was seeping slowly from it into the surrounding saliva. The taste and the remnants of smoke from Wake’s last draw on the cigar must be completely dominating her palate by now. But she didn’t make a move, and she didn’t close her mouth.
Wake sat back on her haunches, feeling Pyrrha throb beneath her where cock head met clitoris. She took another long draw. The cigar was burning hot again, still just as flavourful, but the punch of the nicotine harder, more dizzying. On her exhale, she blew the smoke directly into Pyrrha’s face in a slow, cool stream. Pyrrha actually squirmed: fabric shuffled under her feet as her heels kicked at the mouldered mattress. She was panting open-mouthed, the remaining ash a quarter melted in the pool of saliva it rested in. Whines huffed from her trembling nostrils through the acrid cloud of smoke.
“Nnh… nnh… nnh…”
But Wake just watched her; and Pyrrha saw her watching eyes, and moaned, helpless.
After a long moment, Wake brought the cigar to her lips again, taking another draw, and slicked the two middle fingers of her free hand down either side of her clit. Her labia were swollen around Pyrrha’s cock as it nuzzled between them, and she ran her fingers through the slick on one side before rubbing at the round glans of her clit again. Pyrrha was whimpering again, wetter and more choked now, as her salivating mouth began to drip down the back of her throat. Her hips gave pathetic little jerks at the proximity of Wake’s wet fingers so close to her cock. Wake closed her eyes and let her head tip back with the exhaled smoke. She didn’t even feel the urge to come, to rub herself any faster than these languid circles; her clit pulsed like a heart with pleasure, and the pleasure of her power.
With one last slippery stroke, she set the cigar aside. Incredibly, Pyrrha had still not broken position: the ash was half-melted by now, a grey half-dome resting in a bubbly black puddle on the pink tissue, but she’d never closed her mouth. Her naked body, Gideon’s body, was trembling in quick, tiny spurts. The close smell of her sweat stung the air below the scent of the smoke.
Wake had no use for the concept of mercy. Unwise to extend it to an enemy; cowardly to beg for it oneself. What she was about to do to Pyrrha, then, was not for mercy’s sake. It was for the sake—pure, selfish, triumphant—of her own throbbing cunt.
Shoving Pyrrha hard against the barracks wall, so that she groaned at the pressure on her gunshot wound, Wake rammed her cunt-slick middle and ring fingers into Pyrrha’s open mouth and dragged them down her tongue. The crumbling ash dissolved into a charcoal-black smear, mixed with saliva and her own wetness. She could see beneath the black that the tongue surface had been burned by the hot ash. If she was lucky, she thought a little drunkenly, it might scar. She smeared it all over, feeling the slip and scratch of ash beneath her fingerpads, and the pulsing muscle of Pyrrha’s tongue beneath that. The insides of her cheeks felt like the insides of any fuckable hole. Pyrrha moaned as she met Wake’s gaze, hungry and domineering, and was forced to lower her eyes.
Deep, slow, her fingers fucked the ash into Pyrrha’s mouth. After a few more thrusts, Pyrrha glanced up once more, and at Wake’s aroused exhale, closed her lips around Wake’s knuckles and began to suck. Wake added another finger, twisting, pumping, making Pyrrha gag as she hit the back of her throat. The whole time, Pyrrha’s fists had been clenched at her sides; now she reached up and held Wake’s wrist in both hands, the better to draw Wake’s fingers in deeper.
Another finger. Wake’s forehead fell to Pyrrha’s shoulder as she fucked her face. She bit at the tendon in the neck, lightly; she listened to the sloppy sounds of Pyrrha throating and sucking at her hand. This was her enemy, her enemy. Her life’s foe.
Her heart burned as she bit at Pyrrha’s jaw. This was her enemy. This was a fucking crime.
She pulled her saliva-drenched hand out of Pyrrha’s mouth and painted the gritty grey mess across her face in wide tracks, front of her hand, back of her hand, across each cheek, from brow to chin. Pyrrha looked back at her, eyes burning, through the dark stripes that discoloured her sombre face. In the half-light of the barracks, she looked like a death’s-head marked with ash: the beacons of war, the pyres of grief. Her throat bobbed in a swallow.
“There,” Wake panted. “Now you look like the zombie you fucking are.”
And she seized Pyrrha’s mouth in a kiss. The taste of the ash was like the dead cigar, the bonfire burned down to cinders, the leather cool. The salty grit still lingered on the flat of Pyrrha’s tongue and in the corners of her mouth, everywhere that Wake’s fingers had been. Her kiss grew deeper. She sucked hungrily at Pyrrha’s lower lip, her upper; her tongue, until Pyrrha growled with pain into the pull. She wanted more.
Somewhere in there, as she’d forced her fingers into Pyrrha’s mouth, as she defiled her enemy, Wake had started grinding on Pyrrha’s erection. The filthy shlicking noises increased in tempo as she bore down, as Pyrrha thrust up against her, cock leaking onto her belly while Wake’s wetness drooled down in trickles. With both hands on Pyrrha’s shoulders, Wake slid just a bit further forward—just far enough to get her belly out of the way and shift her hips, to line her entrance up with Pyrrha’s cock.
She inhaled hissing between her teeth as she sank down onto it, with a sweet-sore stretch that made her clit throb as it came to rest against Pyrrha’s pelvis. Pyrrha pulled her forward at once, palming her ass, digging her fingertips into the cramped muscle surrounding her sacrum, and Wake hissed again at the relief of pain in her lower back. She had to pretend that she didn’t see Pyrrha’s softening smile.
As Wake began to rock, she let go of Pyrrha’s shoulders and leaned with both hands against the barracks wall. Their hips pumped slowly together in their union, dripping, twitching. They could keep going a while longer. She didn’t have to leave just yet.