Hi I’m going to utterly suck at kat, holla. forgive any grammar errorssss, no one read this over and I wrote it in one go before bed 8(
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She wakes up like she always does when something feels off. Quick, with a breath in and a hand out, reaching for a weapon- whatever is closest, usually a smaller handgun of some sort. Behind her, there’s a quiet hum, lips pressed against the nape of her neck, fingers grazing over her stomach with affection, but no purpose. She’s gotten used to it, by now-- the way Carter wakes up before her, warm and lazy, running fingers over her stomach, never dipping down past the waistband of her pants, no matter how many times she arches her hips just a little, or tries to edge his hand down. There’s always a reason, always something.
This morning is no different-- similar to what happens every once in a while, where she shifts back against him, makes a soft noise at the fact he’s hard, she can feel it (why won’t you do anything) and Carter responds, a hand tracing down her thigh in a way that’s nowhere near intimate. It ends at her knee, and he sits up, sliding out of bed with a murmur of good morning, and he takes the far shower. On some level, she understands this morning in particular- he’s got rounds first thing in the morning, and she understands the need to hold to such things back, it’s just frustrating, beyond all reason.
The water starts running, and Kat rolls into his spot in the bed, curling herself in covers for a long moment, before she gives up, realizing that only makes it worse. A few moments of shifting and turning do little good besides make her more uncomfortable, terribly tempted to just reach her hand between her thighs and do something about it, but that’ll do just as little good as every time before that. No, she needs a distraction.
By the time Carter is out of the shower and dressed, the bed is neatly made, with no trace of Kat anywhere.
1/3?
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She wakes up like she always does when something feels off. Quick, with a breath in and a hand out, reaching for a weapon- whatever is closest, usually a smaller handgun of some sort. Behind her, there’s a quiet hum, lips pressed against the nape of her neck, fingers grazing over her stomach with affection, but no purpose. She’s gotten used to it, by now-- the way Carter wakes up before her, warm and lazy, running fingers over her stomach, never dipping down past the waistband of her pants, no matter how many times she arches her hips just a little, or tries to edge his hand down. There’s always a reason, always something.
This morning is no different-- similar to what happens every once in a while, where she shifts back against him, makes a soft noise at the fact he’s hard, she can feel it (why won’t you do anything) and Carter responds, a hand tracing down her thigh in a way that’s nowhere near intimate. It ends at her knee, and he sits up, sliding out of bed with a murmur of good morning, and he takes the far shower. On some level, she understands this morning in particular- he’s got rounds first thing in the morning, and she understands the need to hold to such things back, it’s just frustrating, beyond all reason.
The water starts running, and Kat rolls into his spot in the bed, curling herself in covers for a long moment, before she gives up, realizing that only makes it worse. A few moments of shifting and turning do little good besides make her more uncomfortable, terribly tempted to just reach her hand between her thighs and do something about it, but that’ll do just as little good as every time before that.
No, she needs a distraction.
By the time Carter is out of the shower and dressed, the bed is neatly made, with no trace of Kat anywhere.