by Briar

Faith was grateful that there was a stereo in the Lounge area. She was grateful that a lounge area existed for people out of the dorm-like, yet more violent, block. She had moved into Soft Cell. Soft cell meant two to a cell, instead of four per two bunks. Soft Cell meant harder work with punishment, yet a more comfortable mattress. Less sharing, more quality. Time for reflection on your sins.

Faith was grateful that Angel seemed too busy nowadays to drop off shit for her. She liked the twitchy woman who seemed like a nut sack dropped one too many. In Soft Cell you couldn't recieve packages and the glass between the Caller/Visitor and the Receiver/Signifier was thicker.

Wesley accompanied Fred and Faith giggled at their manly names for two such pretty women.

Sometimes Gunn came along and Faith likes him best. He seemed a little rough under the collar, and Faith likes that. Cordy never visits.

No sauce. No cranberries. No meat, red or white.

No dice.

Not enough nut crackers for that bitch.

Faith wants to carve up some lean breast and have a cool, tall glass of milk because the tryptophan would make her sleepy. She needs to calm her fine, hot self; she's burning up all roasted wicked. That's just too damn bad.


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