Categories > TV > Fastlane
Fucking stupid kid: pretty young thing with attitude, a taste for danger. Big plans and a ready mouth and fuck it all if Billie hasn't seen a hundred like her before. Except--she hasn't, not like this because her hands are in Nat's hair, pulling her harder, pulling her closer and--oh, oh, Jesus Christ, yes.
It isn't as if Billie hasn't had gently sloping shoulders hooked beneath her thighs before, a carefully painted mouth smeared nude against her passion-sweat-slick skin. She's too focused on ends to sweat the means and she's sucked it up and spread 'em for the greater good, for the sweeter rush of victory: a steady gun-hand and the solid chink of steel sliding into place.
This--this isn't (just) fucking to stay in the game; she's not rolling her hips hard towards Nat's mouth to keep another fickle whore with big ambitions in line. Because she has: pushed her face against wiry curls, cupped soft skin through stiff lace, done everything in her power to stay connected, stay interesting, stay alive and win the only fucking game worth playing. And she's good, the best; the biggest, baddest player with silk panties and a white hat locked good and deep in her closet.
Nat--Natalie--oh, oh, fuck baby, don't stop--looks at her like she's _everything_. Clings to her thighs, whispers against her belly and doesn't twist her fingers like she's testing out a new toy, considering the only flavour she hasn't yet sucked dry. And that--that's exhilarating in a way Billie's never imagined before: playing the saviour, working the happily-ever-after ending (we'll buy a house, get you a job and you'll see, you'll _see_ how great it'll be) and almost believing it herself.
Because Billie's been playing this game, saving the world from the bottom up too long, too fierce, too deep to ever give it up. And maybe Billie always goes for what she wants, almost always gets what she goes for--gasps, wide open mouth, trembling belly and thighs and stiff knuckles--but she's not sure that Nat's worth more than the next big thing: a bust bigger than the last, a storeroom full of the remnants of crumbling empires, another step towards the top.
Goes soft and loose and her hands slid free as Nat lifts her face and slick smile.
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