#damnd feels

[notfeel]

@damnd-feels

Sam Jang has cracked.

Gradual effort in breaking his walls down has finally been rewarded.　You don’t even think you’ve done anything wrong:　you,　the perfectionist,　the best shot,　never a mistake of your doing for as long as you inhabited the facility.　Sam seems keen on playing both judge and jury regardless,　no aggressive mutt at your beck and call for reasons you have yet to discern.　All you ever did was kiss him,　lips forced together in untempered salacity to do away with the tension.　Fuck,　you still have no idea what pushed you to do it.　It just felt right.　No fewer than eight days and three hours have lapsed since you’ve last interacted,　not swayed even by your quaint text message　⸻　you’re instead gifted a pocket dial,　a symphony of rustling fabric,　heavy breathing cascading into moaning.　Silent on the opposite line,　you decide there and then to mirror his indulgence,　seeking out saintly presence to temporarily quell your void.

So whatever.　You hook up with Levi again,　impelling him to be a little rougher,　go a little harder,　cover your body with love.　What you seek above all else is evidence,　tangible proof that you are just as capable of fucking other people as he is.　It’s nothing to you.　Water off a duck’s back.

When the two of you finally reconvene,　you make sure to sport the hickeys with pride.　Black lace ensconcing you　⸻　framing the curve of your tits,　satin ribboning crossed along your waist　⸻　is reward in and of itself;　you cannot explain the compulsion to wear it for him,　you can’t,　you just can’t.　And yet you know you look sexy,　and you know he will think it,　too.　Maybe what you want is for Sam to regret.　You really don’t care what he does in his spare time,　but like god do you want him to care about yours.　

❛❛  You really wouldn’t believe how he looks at me.  ❜❜　It’s why you should feel worse about stringing Levi along.　You don’t.　❛❛  Or how he fucks me.  ❜❜　Lurid gaze designates your darkened eyes exactly upon him,　desperate to watch that repulsive jealousy creep across his countenance,　flicker like a spark between his brows.　Lithe fingers secure around his wrist,　tugging him off to your fabled bedroom.　That’s what he’s here for,　after all.　That’s what he’s good for.

❛❛  Did you miss me?  ❜❜

[notfeel]

fervent. to have sex with my muse after a fight.　⌖　@damnd-feels

Sam Jang is not worth wasting a bullet on.　You’ve rapidly surmised this from the time you’ve spent in his proximity,　stationed by a higher-up to look down upon him.　Always seeming as though he has something to prove　⸻　this amuses you,　truly it does,　and you are either observing him through the mask of your blank-faced mien,　or you are egging him on,　allowing both of you in your coupling to reduce to your very worst.　You are not interested in him the way others are;　you are not desperate for his attention,　and it makes no difference to you whether or not he spares a glance in your direction.　You exist anyways,　an implement to carry orders out.　He is incidental,　that is all.

Until it escalates,　as it tends towards,　an upward trend of heat and tension.　Where your lip has snagged and curled upward,　verging upon a snarl until it is one of you that acts,　closing the distance once the two of you are finally alone,　free of expectation or prying eyes or any fleeting sense of self-restraint.　Sam is angry:　perhaps you are,　too.　You feel something enough to move in on him,　hungry,　hungry like a predator that has not feasted.　You want to feel something,　temporary as it may be.　He’s the perfect target for these wants and whims.　It doesn’t mean anything,　and it is this exactly that you are certain of.

You like that he’s skilled enough to fight you,　or at least the you that gets presented forth.　He would never be a true threat,　but even a weapon like you seeks the thrill of being overpowered from time to time.　What starts as a barrage of limbs,　shifting,　seeking flesh,　gradually escalates into full-blown wrestling atop the sleek gray of your mattress;　you grind yourself against him,　ensuring he can really,　really feel you,　and eventually you will acquiesce to his so-called strength when you are exactly where you want to be,　pinned beneath him.　You have half a mind to wriggle free from your blouse,　baring your flesh to where it is free to be kissed or bruised at his behest,　leave marks worth remembering for the fight you can’t resist.　All he has to do is act.　❛❛  I don’t break easily.  ❜❜