If there was one thing Erika was sick of hearing, it was that she couldn't tell reality from fiction. Granted, most of the people who said that usually wound up with pentagrams burned into their eyes or something equally painful, but it was still annoying. She knew the difference, and she knew it damn well
( ... )
The difference is when Walker gives her a minute, lets her breathe and come back from the exhaustion that bullet always brings. He cleans it with one of the Evangelion wipes under the bed and puts it back in the box. She tries not to let sleep overtake her just yet and bends her legs, popping one of her hip joints in the process. She's not done yet, not by far
( ... )
The difference is his persistence, even when he moves downward, leaving her a blanket to keep her chest warm this time, and switches hands because his fingers get tired. His fingers keep that rhythm, curling into that one spot over and over and over, and the feeling builds. The first time she'd done this to herself, she'd been startled at how utterly different it was. Completely separate from the burning pleasure the bullet gave her, this was more like water, like waves curling around and around somewhere too deep for her to reach, so she had to just keep stirring the waters, keep at that one spot, and by god had Walker learned how to keep the waves going
( ... )
So, missionary under the sheets
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Thank you so much!
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