This was the kind of thing that stuck, that resurfaced at inopportune moments during the day, and once, okay maybe twice, when he couldn’t sleep, oh God he fucking hates himself for this, he downloaded a “Black Coffee” that sounded kind of the same–because of course Scratch’s version didn’t actually exist–and, under a warm shower, thought about that Saga, pretended it was her hand around him, making him–
“Whoa, back up, back up, back up,” Casey’s face is flame-red when Saga snaps back to reality. She’s suddenly warm, too, the base of her spine tingling and her lower belly flip-flopping.
A giggle bubbles out of Saga’s chest.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill myself,” Casey groaned, folding his arms on the table and putting his head down.
The giggle turns almost into a cackle.
“It was one time,” he insists.
“Actually it was twice,” Saga teases.
Casey’s response is another muffled groan.
“It’s fine! It’s fine. It’s still fine, I promise.”
He looks up at her, face faded to a light pink.
“And honestly, I’m kind of insulted that you got Scratch’s version of me. If you’re going to fuck me and then jerk off thinking about it, I’d rather it be the real me.”
The words land not as the joke she intended but as a suggestion.
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