Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/658677.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      The_Carrie_Diaries
  Relationship:
      Carrie_Bradshaw/Larissa_Loughton
  Character:
      Carrie_Bradshaw, Larissa_Loughton
  Additional Tags:
      florent:_queen_of_the_meat_market, fetishizing_the_1980s, First_Time,
      Consent_Issues, Intoxication
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-28 Words: 1592
****** Let me go on ******
by gloss
Summary
     Larissa and Manhattan are everything Carrie wants. To be, and to
     have.
Her friends claim Carrie talks about Larissa all the time.
"Do not," she said. They were at lunch; it was too cold to be outside, but too
nice to stay inside. Carrie tossed back her hair and curled her hands inside
her cuffs. "What? She's cool. That's all."
Mouse and Mags exchanged a Look.
"You talk about her more than Sebastian," Mouse said, then repeated his name
with all the certainty of a geometry proof ending in QED.
"You totally do," Maggie said. She jabbed a carrot stick at Carrie's tray.
"Like. Way more."
"Maybe. But..." Carrie didn't know what to say. She wasn't cold any longer.
"It's different."
*
It is different. Sebastian's her not-quite-boyfriend, of course she talks about
him. But Larissa is Larissa. Names, Carrie suddenly understands with a blaze of
insight, names mean things. "Larissa" isn't just this woman's name, it brings
along with it so much more -- the scent of men's lime cologne, the swell of her
breasts just barely visible in her plunging neckline, glamour, irreverence,
freedom. Free from cares, from responsibilities, from anything remotely
mundane.
"What's that, poppet?" Larissa is dragging her down a cobbled street, a part of
Manhattan she never knew existed.
"Names!" Carrie shouts. "They mean so much!"
Larissa's laugh is like nothing else in the world, long and bubbly and genuine.
She lets go of Carrie's hand, leaves the palm cold and empty.
A rack of butcher's meat, taller than Carrie, pushes between them, trailing a
man in a stained white coverall, then rattles off the curb. The slabs are red
as bricks, swirled with fat.
"Watch it!" another man calls. He's spraying down a building entrance; their
heels click and splash through frothy, swirling blood and water.
Larissa grabs her hand again and tugs her close. Carrie isn't used to this much
touching, all this closeness. It's heady. It's addictive. She feels as bright
and clean and sharp as a piece of Larissa's jewelry, as cold and strong as the
gin they drank at Odeon.
"I'm nearly done in," Larissa confides, resting her cheek atop Carrie's skull,
squeezing her tight.
Sometimes Larissa goes this quiet, intimate, and Carrie holds her breath to
treasure the moment as long as possible.
"Where are we?" Carrie asks when another long rack of meat rattles down the
sidewalk.
"Silly bird!" Larissa kisses her forehead, then tugs her onward. "Let's eat,
I'm famished."
She finds herself in a narrow little diner that looks almost exactly like the
restaurant they used to have lunch in on the way back from visiting Nana in the
home. Except this place is wedged into the meatpacking district; it has rock
music -- Talking Heads, girlfriend is better and what's better than this? -
- blaring, it's stuffed with yet another crowd of beautiful downtown freaks
(all of whom, of course, know Larissa and greet her like their longlost best
friend).
There's a line out front, snaking inside, but they don't have to wait. Larissa
never has to wait. Carrie hurries after her, all the way through the narrow
room to the back, to the restroom. Her purse bangs the shoulder of a guy with a
mohawk; she nearly trips over a little old lady with magenta hair who suddenly
stands up.
Larissa calls out an order as she passes the kitchen, then pushes into the
restroom, Carrie in tow the whole time.
"There," Larissa says, leaning against the door, pulling Carrie into her arms.
Her breath is warm, humid, as she tips their foreheads together and her
breathing gradually slows.
It's not like with Sebastian. This is being with a friend, a beautiful friend
who pets your hair and whispers into your ear, her accent getting thicker as
the night progresses and the drinks tab adds up, a friend who chafes her hands
up and down your upper arms, smiling at you so mysteriously you have to ask
what's going on.
"Nothing," she replies, tilting her head, tracing Carrie's jaw and chin with
her index finger. Her turquoise nail polish is perfect; the nail itself sharp,
lightly scraping down Carrie's throat.
Carrie's pulse booms through her body suddenly. She's about as substantial as a
dress hanging empty on the rack. Larissa is the real thing here, warm and
solid, laughing low in her throat, holding Carrie at arm's length and looking
her up and down and up again, pink tip of her tongue flickering in the corner
of her mouth.
"When I drink lager, all I want to do is cuddle," Larissa says. Carrie thinks
lager is a kind of beer, but she doesn't know for sure. She shuffles her feet,
trying to find her balance, but Larissa walks her backward, three-four-five
steps, until her butt hits the counter. It's wet, festooned with strips and
globs of paper towel.
"When I drink tequila," Larissa continues, coming in closer, so close that
Carrie has to lift herself up onto the counter to make room, "all I want to do
is fuck. Down and dirty, like a fucking dog, hard as I can get it."
Carrie very carefully does not laugh. She smiles, though, she can't help it.
Larissa's hands are on her waist now, moving up her sides, to her arm pits.
Passing the edges of her breasts, then resting there, firming up their touch.
The image of Larissa bent over like a dog, taking it, cheek squashed into a
carpet, her ass in the air and tits swinging, God. Carrie licks her lips and
can't quite breathe.
"But it's odd. When I drink brandy," Larissa says finally, cocking her head and
pulling herself flush against Carrie, lips right at Carrie's earlobe, "all I
want is some sweet, sweet girl. Hmm?"
Carrie shudders in Larissa's hold. She's still that empty dress, slippery
fabric, insubstantial, but she's tangling now, and her lungs hurt and her mouth
is dry. Larissa kisses her softly, sweetly, moving one hand up to cup her
cheek. The other cups Carrie's breast, harder, thumb flicking over her nipple.
"God," Carrie says.
"What about you, sweet Caroline? What do you want?"
"I --"
"Hard and deep?" Larissa asks, thrusting against Carrie, grabbing her ass and
pulling them together to grind. "Or nice and slow?"
Carrie's got this ache between her legs, something she's never felt before, not
this much. It hurts and sparkles all at the same time; she clenches down, like
she has to hold in pee, and the pain blossoms into deeper, needier pleasure.
"Hm?" Larissa asks.
"I don't -- I've never --"
Larissa kisses her then and Carrie kisses back, grateful she doesn't have to
speak any longer. She shimmies forward, opening her legs wider, then locking
them around the back of Larissa's thighs, gripping Larissa as tight as she can.
Larissa's laughing into the kiss, down Carrie's throat, chuckling and biting at
the same time, pushing her hand into Carrie's bra and pinching her nipple until
Carrie squeaks and rocks against the edge of the counter.
"Please," Carrie hears herself say, her voice hollow and faraway. "God, please
--"
Larissa glances up at her, smirking a little. But she's breathing hard, too,
and there's a sheen of sweat across her cheeks, in the hollow above her chin.
"Pretty girl," she murmurs, doing things with her nails and hand to Carrie's
breast that hurt and feel great, "pretty little girl dollie..."
Carrie doesn't know where to put her hands. They land on Larissa's shoulders,
grasp the huge pads there, then slide down her arms, then loop around her neck.
Restless, anxious, rocking faster the more Larissa touches her, she's so lost
she might as well be flying.
Fake it, Larissa told her, weeks ago now, when Carrie was a different person,
smaller and duller and more scared.
So she does. She pushes her fingers into Larissa's soft, dry hair, she clutches
and kisses and pulls one knee up, hooking her heel on the counter. Opens
herself up and pulls Larissa with her, pushing her hips up, then down (the
faucet digging into her hip, that's going to bruise), and Larissa laughs again.
"You're so wet," she says and Carrie thinks she must have peed herself? But
then Larissa's touching her, pushing her panties out of the way, kissing her
again, so it can't be that, it's something else, something better.
She grasps at Larissa's ass, pushes forward and up to ride the fingers sliding
inside her -- it hurts, again, but not badly, like this is something she needs,
she just has to move faster, harder -- and pretty soon she isn't doing much
more than banging her forehead against Larissa's shoulder and sobbing.
"Shh, shshhh," Larissa croons, kissing her temple, her neck, the tip of her
nose, and Carrie can't help but remember how her mom did that to check the
state of fever when she was sick. "You're so tight, it's delicious --"
Something huge and incorporeal -- but bright and substantial nonetheless -
- pushes up through Carrie, exploding and inflating and carrying her away.
It takes her a long time, she doesn't know how long, to calm down. Cold sweat
prickles her skin; one boob is hanging out of her bra and her crotch hurts as
she tugs down her skirt.
Larissa's fixing her lipstick in the mirror. She glances over at Carrie and
squeezes her knee.
"Now," she announces, capping her lipstick and pulling Carrie to her feet, "we
eat."
Carrie opens her mouth and closes it. And again.
"Okay," she says again, because she has never said no to Larissa. She can't
imagine what that would be like.
It's just different, that's all.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!