[ Anybody who doesn't want to fuck all the time was an outright mystery to her. She rolls over in her cot, for something physical to press herself against, the small of her back dipped, ass up just that little bit. It's a comfortable easy position to keep, just enough room in the lift of her hips the carry on with herself, but it's almost a secondary endeavor. She has Sam to fill up and keep warm, and goddamn aren't other people's problems always easier to manage than your own. When she was on the other side of it, she'd hated herself just as much. Been aware of herself as a wailing mess and had merely chosen to cement that fact licking her way up his mind when he tried to entrap her in it -- like catching a nasty wasp before it could inevitably land somewhere else and sting.
And now here she is, daydreaming about him like he was even her type. She'll swear up and down he isn't, that all his feel good, goody-two-shoes bullshit was just so fucking far off her base.
She exhales a huff of a breath into pillow, tenses the muscles in her thighs and stomach. She wouldn't be too opposed to having his shoulder to bit into about now though. There's something satisfactory about that give of skin, the little prickle of pain that gets so quickly overwhelmed by pleasure endorphins. Like a speedball, a little up, a little down, and real good in the middle. A prickly little ball of pins in his central space, but one that'll kiss what she pricks. A little up, a little down. She mutters a short groan. ]
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[ Anybody who doesn't want to fuck all the time was an outright mystery to her. She rolls over in her cot, for something physical to press herself against, the small of her back dipped, ass up just that little bit. It's a comfortable easy position to keep, just enough room in the lift of her hips the carry on with herself, but it's almost a secondary endeavor. She has Sam to fill up and keep warm, and goddamn aren't other people's problems always easier to manage than your own. When she was on the other side of it, she'd hated herself just as much. Been aware of herself as a wailing mess and had merely chosen to cement that fact licking her way up his mind when he tried to entrap her in it -- like catching a nasty wasp before it could inevitably land somewhere else and sting.
And now here she is, daydreaming about him like he was even her type. She'll swear up and down he isn't, that all his feel good, goody-two-shoes bullshit was just so fucking far off her base.
She exhales a huff of a breath into pillow, tenses the muscles in her thighs and stomach. She wouldn't be too opposed to having his shoulder to bit into about now though. There's something satisfactory about that give of skin, the little prickle of pain that gets so quickly overwhelmed by pleasure endorphins. Like a speedball, a little up, a little down, and real good in the middle. A prickly little ball of pins in his central space, but one that'll kiss what she pricks. A little up, a little down. She mutters a short groan. ]