Yaaaasha

It's selfish, because they <em>wouldn't</em> - Beau only likes women, and Molly only likes people who are at least slightly agreeable - but in the privacy of her own head, Yasha reasons, she is allowed a little selfishness.

She only touches herself over her leggings, at first. Just enough friction to spark the flint in her belly, encourage her thoughts into vivid image. Molly would do this for her, where he here, and has done before; she remembers vividly the feeling of smooth claws on her clit, being talked through a rushed, quiet orgasm when she's meant to be on watch duty. She wants him other ways, though, wants him <em>slow</em>, to memorise all the parts of her that she didn't know about until his fingers found them.

She imagines herself naked on his lap, how the warmth of his skin under her thighs might make her ache. He could whisper to her, there; kiss heart-shaped marks into her neck. Her hips cant with the memory of that exact sensation, with the want of <em>more</em> deep in her middle, and when she brings her fingers away from herself, they're damp through the fabric.

Beau, though. Yasha doesn't know how Beau would have her. Surely her bravado can only extend so far - enough to part Yasha's thighs with her firm grip? Enough to get her mouth on her, fuck Yasha with her tongue until she writhes? Or would she roll over as soon as they touched, machismo shed along with their clothes? Yasha aches to know. With fingers wet from her own mouth, she slips her hand under the waistband of her leggings and draws down to her entrance, runs through pool of slick waiting for her there.

Beau would be eager, she decides. Whether dominant or shy, she'd <em>want</em> Yasha, sincere and needy in that way she tries not to be. She'd rush it just as badly as Molly tends to tease. In tandem with the thought, Yasha pushes three fingers inside herself, gasps with the shock and the burn of it. Molly likes when she's vocal, he's told her, and Beau… she'd like the view, sat between Yasha's thighs to watch and touch at leisure.

Being <em>looked at</em> was never a good thing until Beau. She's not subtle with how she undresses Yasha with her eyes almost every day, but Yasha finds that she <em>likes</em> it, when it's her. She likes Molly's attention too, crude as he is about it; Yasha's not sure anyone's told him that not everybody enjoys a friendly-flirty slap on the ass, but she also doesn't necessarily want him to <em>stop</em>. She can only imagine how handsy he'd be in the presence of Beau as well, claim ownership of as much of Yasha's body as he could get away with.

She'd take them both, if they'd want it; that thought comes to her so quickly that it makes her shake from deep in her core, wetness pooling off her palm when she crooks her fingers inside herself. She'd take them both and it would feel like how Eternity feels, like weightless flight and syrupy, golden divinity. Molly's fingers rubbing up against the push of Beau's length, or on her knees with Beau in her mouth and Molly holding her hips tight with the promise of sharp claws. Yasha fucks down onto her hand in tight little circles, chest heaving with the effort, and she comes with three fingers filling herself to her limit, yells an ugly combination of their names into the lonely forest that echoes, and echoes.

After a long moment of stillness, Yasha sucks her damp fingers clean, far too worn out to bother washing them in the stream by her camp. She shakes when she shimmies her leggings back on, from latent adrenaline and then from cold. It's been only a week since she was called to leave the party once again, but she <em>misses</em> them when she goes lately, and when she thinks of how much better she sleeps with Molly's warmth beside her, and with the heat of Beau's watchful gaze over the firelight, she feels just as called to return.