[when she yelps, his grin is lazy, teeth biting into his lower lip. he'd like to drag her back before she even tries to scroll through her phone, tempted by the warmth of her, the skin on skin, how languidly she teases before pulling herself away. his eyes flit to her hands, the remaining dewdrops on her skin from her hair, the muscles of her legs flexing with every shift.
there are gaps in his memory, great big blocks of nothing cascading and pulling wool over his eyes. if roza has seen him during times he doesn't remember, he can't tell. she never treats him any different.]
Maybe I can think of something similar.
[he doesn't do dancing like roza unless you call going to a club and pushing through sweaty bodies for one shady deal 'dancing'. she dances how people on molly dance, like the music takes over them completely and the beat flows through their limbs to their soul. she has to keep moving, or else the world will stop. so he obeys, partially, adjusting to her needs, nudging one arm under her head to wrap around her, hand resting on her shoulder while the other glides up her thigh, her hip, her waist, fingertips tapping to the beat of jimi's guitar on her skin.]
What am I going to do with you?
[breathed out around a low chuckle, the gliding of his hand becomes a grip pressing into her soft curves, pulling her closer, as close as he can get her without being inside of her. his leg pushes between hers, thigh pressing against her wet underwear, and they taper on the edge of him ready to tumble on top of her and vice versa like this. his heart is thumping in his chest, and he can't remember the last time he had sex that wasn't just getting laid. roza isn't that, he's too attached for it to be so simple.]
[ She never has to audition with Elias. If she's strange, well. He already knew that. And he wants to keep touching her anyway, somehow, a thing that her supernatural insight into him cannot explain, but is glad of; each brushing contact brings a shimmer of gooseflesh to bare arms, rippling almost down to the place where her tattoo sits. ]
See, this is a kind of dancing. You're already getting warm.
[ It's in that complication that Roza really comes to life, water for the garden that is her excitement. She moves directly against his thigh so that he can see her eyes change, pupil swallowing the vestiges of near-black. Her breathing stutters, mouth opening by a millimeter.
Haven't they always been good at this?
When boys came and went, when her body was a cage she let anybody into in hopes they'd be the one to finally cut her out of it forever, when married women from Outside were calling well-deserved epithets down the phone line, when she came to terms with being nobody's dream girl, he made her feel a little bit good again. A lot good. She wants Elias to feel that way, too. To forget his own forgetting, living exclusively in the moment of sensory feedback loop, a long parade of nerves lighting their way. In the moments she wants to give him, there is no passenger. There is no past, no SLC, no police, no sirens, no courtrooms. Only her mouth and the color of his eyes and his hands, leaving marks whether the ordinary eye sees them or not: he may bruise her, he may not. But his fingerprints are there. Proof of existence, his mind, his independent will. Each element of realness half-responsibility, half-freedom. Half-curse, half-blessing.
Her willfulness is alive, too. Her hand hooks in the longer part of his hair, first gentle, and then enough to elicit a sweet sting, palm stretched wide, all fingers full (she learned this by having her own hair pulled by partners, pleasurably; you try for big amounts, not pieces). ]
Tell me some ideas, [ offered half-muffled, as in between sentences, her lips are patterning bitey little kisses across his throat, heading down to collarbones — she'll have to let go of his hair to go lower stil, ] I thought of a few things to do with you, out there in the Gates. The sky there, Elias. The sky with no artificial lights. Just you and the grizzly bear and the stars.
I think, [ here she does let go, ] it's the only place I've ever felt real. Except maybe right now.
[ Less talking transpires now, but she thinks he'll know what she means. She bites over his heart so that she can taste it beating on her psychic tongue, two pulses in time. ]
[there's little resistance when her fingers dig through his hair, and a glimpse of a more pliant elias shows. lashes fluttering against his cheeks yet refusing to close, entranced by the blacks of roza's eyes with defiant intensity, and those eyes are deeper than any waters he'd ever set foot in. a gruff noise leaves his throat, hips grinding sluggishly for friction. no urgency or greed in how he touches her, though he does touch her, squeezing flesh and sliding his hand up and under her bra to palm over her breast.]
Uh–
[he's bad at this– keeping his head somewhere else when he'd rather be talking about what's on his mind (her teeth, her voice, her body, the heat in below his stomach and the arousal between them). if the words were falling anywhere but roza's lips, honeyed over his skin and sending hitched pleasure up his spine, he'd be taking them with a grain of salt. they're genuine, and genuine is hard to come by.
he can't focus on a fantasy when he has her in his arms.]
Shit. I don't, [he really has to focus here. he's too distracted, too caught up in their entangled bodies.] god, I think about watching movies with you 'til we fall asleep.
[and the hum of the tv turns into static, and her head is in his lap and there's peace, at least he can pretend there's peace in dozy comfort, but he doesn't think about it for very long, and when he pinches her nipple gently between his thumb and index finger, he's bringing himself back to the moment.]
[ She likes the push-pull between them, two big dogs with a toy between their teeth. The toy's name is power, and sometimes the wiry muscle of him means he's got more; sometimes her audacity gives Roza greater purchase. The balance can shift mid-sentence. It is rarely consistent, and therefore always exciting. The barbell through her nipple in conjunction with his casual groping makes her breath enter her lungs via needy little hiss, Roza's own hips rolling forward before she can think to stop herself. Easy, easy. She doesn't quite know if that easy should be preceded by 'take it' or 'you are so'. But he feels good, and touching him back feels even better; he's easy, too. Easy to want.
When Elias calls time, she's down to his second rib, one hand tracing lazy circles with the edges of her nails against his hipbone. She stops, and leans her cheek against his lower stomach, skin on skin, heat on heat. Those dark eyes regard him from under the soft span of her lashes. ]
Yeah, we can. But I don't know if you mean the part where I put my mouth on you, or the part where I fall asleep with you. [ Two modalities of thought not so easily managed concurrently, she'll admit. This sort of question she's asking is the kind of thing she used to let hurt her own feelings, rankling at the fragile self-esteem Roza built mostly on her sexual availability. But Elias is different, and she doesn't think he'd do her that way, not on purpose; she knows what part of the set-up here might be bothering him. ]
You wanna go in the back of my car and figure it out?
[ The big blue Jeep has four walls, navigable exits, and still allows for a view of the sky, which has begun its slow sweeping dark, brushstrokes of deep indigo painting the horizon. ]
[maybe there isn't a 'stop' button for him, but there is a 'pause', one she allows him to press even when he thinks he's fucked something up in hesitating. not hesitating, really, but there's a lack of compartmentalizing happening, and a smooth transition from thought for her is a rough one for him.
he's reluctant to pull away, mouth slanting into something close to a frown. truthfully, he's relieved for the offer of a change of scenery. as much as roza can engulf him, he's on edge, and it's in the tension of his shoulders, the alert energy behind his eyes. muscles hint at relaxing and he brushes a strand of hair away from her face. thank you.
in mixed frustration – 90% sexual, 10% at himself – elias nods, then realizes that's not a proper answer.]
We can do both. I'll talk dirty or about what I wanna do with you, but not at the same time. Or I don't have to talk. Depends if you want me here, [and he grinds his hips into hers for emphasis, then presses a finger to her forehead.] or here.
[it's about what she wants here, really. he'll be in her head no matter what he does, and whether she'd sooner feel good with him or talk about movies is up to her. looking at roza, he doesn't know if he has to tell her how much he wants her– that part is written over his face and how he extricates himself from her, which is done very badly (the good kind of bad) and involves his hands roaming over her bare skin and the small of her back, teasing the waistline of her panties. again, reluctant to be without her, again, enjoying how he excites her.
he carries her clothes back for her, picks up the ones he'd left carelessly around his car and places them in the jeep.]
Kinda late for the towels, huh?
[they're both mostly dry, but they provide some extra padding, sort of, and his palms flatten over the tailgate to bring himself in to the back of the jeep, a smooth motion, one he's done many times. yes, this is better. the comment is about as haphazard as how he'd tossed his clothes and not meant to be answered, but he is a bit chilled, and if she doesn't crawl on top of him again he'll be reaching for his shirt.]
[ These intermittent brushes of contact do nothing to bring her back down from her physical orientating to him, to dissuade the feeling that a little part of her orbits him, a person with strong enough gravity to ground what inside her wants to float up to the stars showing their distant faces. Therefore she sounds faintly distracted, here: ]
The sun took good care of us.
[ The ensuing chill, the encroaching night, the cover of her Jeep roof, though — it makes Roza more aware of her body's fragility in a way she hadn't felt when out on the dock. It's that as much as her natural inclination to touch him that brings her closer, winding in. Like the tattoo, she's always either serpent or mongoose, and today the Queen Cobra's winning. Roza curls close, though not quite on, so she can press her chest against the length of his arm, her mouth to the set of his jaw. In the shade she's no less lively, however; if anything, her audacity redoubles itself, flowing through the tactile drift of her hands across Elias's collarbone, as though making mapwork of the places she kissed, bit, tasted. ]
Asking me if I want to fuck around is kind of like asking me if I want to pick the music, you know? [ Girl like a feral dog, always a half-step too hungry, girl with a line of something untoward all in her veins and eyes and hair, like the stardust from an alien world where other girls don't behave in the ways she does; promiscuous and psychic, playful where she ought to be serious. You're supposed to play it cooler than she does. ] I want it.
So we're gonna play a game. One hour, you decide. We watch something, you get head, I tell you one of my good tundra stories, I run back into the lake and come back with a fish in my teeth, [ speaking of unserious, ] you tell me what to do. Whatever it is. But after the hour, I get to be in charge. My turn.
You down?
[ The chances of imminent criminality here are not zero, should he agree. ]
[he's not a complainer. he doesn't talk about how cold he is or if he's uncomfortable, because discomfort has an end. he can say he's paranoid, but the paranoia idles at some point, doesn't it? when he fights and his knees are dug into the floor around someone's shoulders and his fist has broken a jaw and they're telling him to stop, he tells them it'll end soon. he wouldn't have made a peep if roza hadn't made the suggestion.
she winds around him again, slots into place smooth and warm and his large hand finds her thigh and drags her leg over his. he loves her legs, loves where they lead even more, likes how when she stands the shapes of her blends seamlessly together.]
Roza, you're talking to a guy. I'm never gonna say no to head, especially when you say it like that.
Yeah, I'm fucking down.
[and does watching her count as watching something? feral dog girl, meet wanton boy, hot and heavy heat returning in how he looks at her, half-lidded and voice low. the walls of the jeep did something, opened him up, carved a piece out and left it outside. he leaves little room for a response, pulling her fully on his lap easily, expert fingers unclasping her bra one-handed while he leans his face in close, bumping her nose with his and nipping her lower lip.]
[ The sound she makes is cousin to a laugh, huffed out through her nose; her smile is closed-mouth, at least for now, and through the window the last few rays of sunlight catch the side of Roza's face and the color of her hair, true-black, raven's wing highlights of purple-black revealed. This reminds her of the better parts of Fairbanks, of Anchorage. Before she embarrassed her father, whose memory she distances herself from immediately; here, that doesn't matter. Here she's (young) adult, independent, and she chooses this man, this car, this promise of pleasure. She puts herself out alone on the wavering limb of her own desire and lets it guide her, more meteor than star. ]
Are you sure?
[ She transitions to a laid-back straddle, one hand skimming light over the beige roof of the ceiling, balancing the shape of Roza's body as she settles against him. The spread of her thighs means that her pelvis comes into contact with his, albeit through thin layers of clothing; there is again that blooming of black pupil, arousal writ large across her expression. Breath interrupted, heartbeat moving hard inside her ribcage.
Roza thinks there is still a little shyness in him, sometimes. He wants to know she's sure, too, and maybe to feel the new moon of her want making shadows from the insulated buildings that compose his grown-up strength. His has architecture. Four walls and a door. Exits. But she's good at that giving, at that limb-walking, and drawing control to her like she does her spirits. She's good for that. She just has to know she's doing it exactly the way that he likes, memorizing every telltale flicker of lash like a thing that lives off lust. ]
What iiif, [ the interruption here has more to do with the sting of his teeth, her torso curving in toward him as it goes bare, bra capsizing somewhere on the furred floor of the Jeep, ] mmn. Hang on.
[ If he wants biting, it's biting he will receive, her mouth slanting open to kiss Elias with a certain conquering grace, demanding, deliberate. The kind of kiss to steal a man's breath and make it her own, more specifically, sharp incisors catching here and there, unpredictable. Her head tips down in tandem with the roll of her hips, sending sparks and shockwaves flying through those open and receptive nerves. They tell her yes and again and more, so consequently the grinding adopts its own ruthless rhythm, even when she parts from him only by millimeters. A flush has made its way from collarbone to cheeks, mostly unseen but easy to feel. ]
What if we were in a plane crash? Orrrr... those aliens from Independence Day showed up? Or —
[ He's allowed to shut her up. It's his hour. The slow half-dry ride she's doing to wind him up has a double edge: her speech loses some of its radio-host clarity, tongue catching against the back of her teeth. She might unravel before he does. ]
[is he sure, and he shakes his head, dismissive of uncertainty now that she's straddling him, the cool breeze of air contrasting the sweet warmth of her body. she's talking, sort of, but then kissing, and he chases her mouth, tongue prodding past teeth and sliding over hers. she's demanding and he's hungry, her piercing rolling over flesh, teeth catching his lips and making him moan.]
I'm not hanging on– no, screw that.
[his hand latches to her hip, guiding her movements more confidently, pushing each grind down a little longer, a little harder. his cock aches beneath fabric, and she's on him just so that he can feel her folds parting over his covered length and he has to make an executive decision here-]
Oh my god–
[a harsh whisper, unclear whether he's exasperated from her teasing more questions or the steady roll of their hips is driving him crazy and pushing him in the right directions. probably the latter. he shoves two fingers in her mouth to press down on her tongue, her teeth digging into his skin, thumb pressed under her chin to catch her. he'd been caught before, now he's changing the narrative. the energy inside him switches, an 'off' to an 'on', and she said he could tell her what to do– who is he to deny an offer?]
–you need to something in your mouth, don't you? [elias levels with her here, makes her nod up and down, then back and forth. the pads of his fingers press harder.] Yes, no? Roza, [her name is dragged out when he grinds her down, sparking waves of needy pleasure.] I'm sure.
[ Unremitting sensualist that she is, sounds enter her like the air does, swallowed up, heavy on the tongue she uses to touch his. There is a little devil on her shoulder and it says make him so crazy he forgets there was ever anybody but you. The little devil is selfish. It wants to be the only one where it doesn't have the right to ask. The difference between Roza and some people is that she knows the little devil must be used like a kiss or a molten-hot gyration of her hips firm against his, an answering noise approximating a whimper moving through her. ]
No g — mmf — Eliash —
[ A spate of dumb remarks float through her. You didn't answer the question or are you super-super sure. His fingers block them all, saliva slick along his hand. Now there is nothing to muffle the soft powdery sound he drags up from her throat by taking firm hold of control, her expression cresting needy and vulnerable and eager for a blistering second, all play disregarded. Like many things in life, Roza craves being split open, the marrow and meat of her on display for the taking. She knows that other people like this, too, and has spent a lot of time trying to be as good with the axe as she is at being the thing carved neatly in two. ]
Mm, [ by way of pleasant confirmation. She leans forward, hair tickling sections of bare skin, and sucks the salt and water from his fingers, enthusiastic foreshadowing of what's likely to come. Up close she was able to watch the light in his eyes go from sunshine to sharp, and she's smiling around that slow suction.
Heavily garbled: ]
Like thish? Now? [ A beat, more beseeching; she leans her head back, watching his shiny hand in her peripheral. ]Please?
[ Begging for him is something she's always wanted to try. No time like the present, when she can see every flicker of expression; this wouldn't have been half as good from a payphone in the middle of the Gates. She's glad she waited. Glad he wanted. ]
[elias knows what it means to have what may as well be a mute button on his tongue, and roza is so willing to give her voice over to him for the sake of pleasure, of pleasing him. her eager sounds, sweet mewling vibrating around his fingers, have him swallowing thickly, heart in his throat. slow, slow he has to remind himself. slow or he'll flip her around and forget about the head. he nods too, out of approval, of gaining a few seconds to bring him down from being sky high.
he locks on her mouth, the spit trailing from her lips and dribbling down his fingers. elias delays an answer, watching her mouth glide down and away. dreamy, he thinks, she's real dreamy.]
Just like that. [and she says please and he's reminded of every single person who's ever said please like that, and it's next to nobody. nobody says please like she says it. he drags his wet fingers down her throat, over her clavicle, between her breasts.] You wanna play that game with me?
[a held breath is released over her ear when he leans in, hovering his mouth over her skin.]
I'm so hard for you, Roza. Be good for me- [his hips thrust up against her for added measure.] I want you to be good for me.
[ She arches her back like her body is an offering and lets him make a shiny mess of her, clearing saliva from the corners of her mouth with her tongue, stud catching light, like a diamond between her teeth — or as close as a girl like this gets, which means it's probably cubic zirconia. The brushstroke-strong shape of her brows close, minutely, in space, composure slipping further into somewhere she can't imagine; Roza's world feels pleasantly small, concentrated on that startled and sweet sound he elicits from her, on her hyper-awareness of his dick and his need and the ways in which she feels meant to worship both. With a little more clarity, she drags the sentence out from the slick fog of her arousal, eyes glazing volcanic black, ]
I'm not good for most people, you know. But for you, I want to be.
[ Somewhere in that fine silver mist of her own longing sits a blank space full of memories she doesn't have. Proms and exams and late nights out driving or walking. A long list of only imagined experiences she's convinced herself are what make you a real person, as seen on TV, from where she developed her sense of how to be normal, how to reason like other people do. People don't want to know about the five-year gap wherein personhood should have developed appropriately. You fake it until they make it.
She thinks he gets that better than anybody — cobbling your identity together out of survival skills and wishful thinking. Maybe that's why he's so game for what she is and how she is, two stray cats only half-domesticated, making up for lost time.
She likes the person that she is with him. It feels adjacent to who she could have been. Or maybe like a version of herself that's truer, hewn closer to the bone of her. Roza deftly pulls the long slim line of her undressed body down his, angling lower and lower until she can rub her cheek, still awfully feline, against the clothed hardness of his groin, firm and rhythmic. The sloe eyes roll upward to meet his, mouth curved. She's aching between her legs, and bets he can probably tell by how she presses them together; the nature of her swimwear is such that she's visibly wet on the innermost parts of her thighs, a glimmer of his effect on her. (No diamonds, but Roza's got her own earthy, less glamorous sparkle.) ]
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no subject
there are gaps in his memory, great big blocks of nothing cascading and pulling wool over his eyes. if roza has seen him during times he doesn't remember, he can't tell. she never treats him any different.]
Maybe I can think of something similar.
[he doesn't do dancing like roza unless you call going to a club and pushing through sweaty bodies for one shady deal 'dancing'. she dances how people on molly dance, like the music takes over them completely and the beat flows through their limbs to their soul. she has to keep moving, or else the world will stop. so he obeys, partially, adjusting to her needs, nudging one arm under her head to wrap around her, hand resting on her shoulder while the other glides up her thigh, her hip, her waist, fingertips tapping to the beat of jimi's guitar on her skin.]
What am I going to do with you?
[breathed out around a low chuckle, the gliding of his hand becomes a grip pressing into her soft curves, pulling her closer, as close as he can get her without being inside of her. his leg pushes between hers, thigh pressing against her wet underwear, and they taper on the edge of him ready to tumble on top of her and vice versa like this. his heart is thumping in his chest, and he can't remember the last time he had sex that wasn't just getting laid. roza isn't that, he's too attached for it to be so simple.]
no subject
See, this is a kind of dancing. You're already getting warm.
[ It's in that complication that Roza really comes to life, water for the garden that is her excitement. She moves directly against his thigh so that he can see her eyes change, pupil swallowing the vestiges of near-black. Her breathing stutters, mouth opening by a millimeter.
Haven't they always been good at this?
When boys came and went, when her body was a cage she let anybody into in hopes they'd be the one to finally cut her out of it forever, when married women from Outside were calling well-deserved epithets down the phone line, when she came to terms with being nobody's dream girl, he made her feel a little bit good again. A lot good. She wants Elias to feel that way, too. To forget his own forgetting, living exclusively in the moment of sensory feedback loop, a long parade of nerves lighting their way. In the moments she wants to give him, there is no passenger. There is no past, no SLC, no police, no sirens, no courtrooms. Only her mouth and the color of his eyes and his hands, leaving marks whether the ordinary eye sees them or not: he may bruise her, he may not. But his fingerprints are there. Proof of existence, his mind, his independent will. Each element of realness half-responsibility, half-freedom. Half-curse, half-blessing.
Her willfulness is alive, too. Her hand hooks in the longer part of his hair, first gentle, and then enough to elicit a sweet sting, palm stretched wide, all fingers full (she learned this by having her own hair pulled by partners, pleasurably; you try for big amounts, not pieces). ]
Tell me some ideas, [ offered half-muffled, as in between sentences, her lips are patterning bitey little kisses across his throat, heading down to collarbones — she'll have to let go of his hair to go lower stil, ] I thought of a few things to do with you, out there in the Gates. The sky there, Elias. The sky with no artificial lights. Just you and the grizzly bear and the stars.
I think, [ here she does let go, ] it's the only place I've ever felt real. Except maybe right now.
[ Less talking transpires now, but she thinks he'll know what she means. She bites over his heart so that she can taste it beating on her psychic tongue, two pulses in time. ]
no subject
Uh–
[he's bad at this– keeping his head somewhere else when he'd rather be talking about what's on his mind (her teeth, her voice, her body, the heat in below his stomach and the arousal between them). if the words were falling anywhere but roza's lips, honeyed over his skin and sending hitched pleasure up his spine, he'd be taking them with a grain of salt. they're genuine, and genuine is hard to come by.
he can't focus on a fantasy when he has her in his arms.]
Shit. I don't, [he really has to focus here. he's too distracted, too caught up in their entangled bodies.] god, I think about watching movies with you 'til we fall asleep.
[and the hum of the tv turns into static, and her head is in his lap and there's peace, at least he can pretend there's peace in dozy comfort, but he doesn't think about it for very long, and when he pinches her nipple gently between his thumb and index finger, he's bringing himself back to the moment.]
Can we table this?
no subject
When Elias calls time, she's down to his second rib, one hand tracing lazy circles with the edges of her nails against his hipbone. She stops, and leans her cheek against his lower stomach, skin on skin, heat on heat. Those dark eyes regard him from under the soft span of her lashes. ]
Yeah, we can. But I don't know if you mean the part where I put my mouth on you, or the part where I fall asleep with you. [ Two modalities of thought not so easily managed concurrently, she'll admit. This sort of question she's asking is the kind of thing she used to let hurt her own feelings, rankling at the fragile self-esteem Roza built mostly on her sexual availability. But Elias is different, and she doesn't think he'd do her that way, not on purpose; she knows what part of the set-up here might be bothering him. ]
You wanna go in the back of my car and figure it out?
[ The big blue Jeep has four walls, navigable exits, and still allows for a view of the sky, which has begun its slow sweeping dark, brushstrokes of deep indigo painting the horizon. ]
For whichever one.
no subject
he's reluctant to pull away, mouth slanting into something close to a frown. truthfully, he's relieved for the offer of a change of scenery. as much as roza can engulf him, he's on edge, and it's in the tension of his shoulders, the alert energy behind his eyes. muscles hint at relaxing and he brushes a strand of hair away from her face. thank you.
in mixed frustration – 90% sexual, 10% at himself – elias nods, then realizes that's not a proper answer.]
We can do both. I'll talk dirty or about what I wanna do with you, but not at the same time. Or I don't have to talk. Depends if you want me here, [and he grinds his hips into hers for emphasis, then presses a finger to her forehead.] or here.
[it's about what she wants here, really. he'll be in her head no matter what he does, and whether she'd sooner feel good with him or talk about movies is up to her. looking at roza, he doesn't know if he has to tell her how much he wants her– that part is written over his face and how he extricates himself from her, which is done very badly (the good kind of bad) and involves his hands roaming over her bare skin and the small of her back, teasing the waistline of her panties. again, reluctant to be without her, again, enjoying how he excites her.
he carries her clothes back for her, picks up the ones he'd left carelessly around his car and places them in the jeep.]
Kinda late for the towels, huh?
[they're both mostly dry, but they provide some extra padding, sort of, and his palms flatten over the tailgate to bring himself in to the back of the jeep, a smooth motion, one he's done many times. yes, this is better. the comment is about as haphazard as how he'd tossed his clothes and not meant to be answered, but he is a bit chilled, and if she doesn't crawl on top of him again he'll be reaching for his shirt.]
no subject
The sun took good care of us.
[ The ensuing chill, the encroaching night, the cover of her Jeep roof, though — it makes Roza more aware of her body's fragility in a way she hadn't felt when out on the dock. It's that as much as her natural inclination to touch him that brings her closer, winding in. Like the tattoo, she's always either serpent or mongoose, and today the Queen Cobra's winning. Roza curls close, though not quite on, so she can press her chest against the length of his arm, her mouth to the set of his jaw. In the shade she's no less lively, however; if anything, her audacity redoubles itself, flowing through the tactile drift of her hands across Elias's collarbone, as though making mapwork of the places she kissed, bit, tasted. ]
Asking me if I want to fuck around is kind of like asking me if I want to pick the music, you know? [ Girl like a feral dog, always a half-step too hungry, girl with a line of something untoward all in her veins and eyes and hair, like the stardust from an alien world where other girls don't behave in the ways she does; promiscuous and psychic, playful where she ought to be serious. You're supposed to play it cooler than she does. ] I want it.
So we're gonna play a game. One hour, you decide. We watch something, you get head, I tell you one of my good tundra stories, I run back into the lake and come back with a fish in my teeth, [ speaking of unserious, ] you tell me what to do. Whatever it is. But after the hour, I get to be in charge. My turn.
You down?
[ The chances of imminent criminality here are not zero, should he agree. ]
no subject
she winds around him again, slots into place smooth and warm and his large hand finds her thigh and drags her leg over his. he loves her legs, loves where they lead even more, likes how when she stands the shapes of her blends seamlessly together.]
Roza, you're talking to a guy. I'm never gonna say no to head, especially when you say it like that.
Yeah, I'm fucking down.
[and does watching her count as watching something? feral dog girl, meet wanton boy, hot and heavy heat returning in how he looks at her, half-lidded and voice low. the walls of the jeep did something, opened him up, carved a piece out and left it outside. he leaves little room for a response, pulling her fully on his lap easily, expert fingers unclasping her bra one-handed while he leans his face in close, bumping her nose with his and nipping her lower lip.]
Better take advantage of me while you can.
no subject
Are you sure?
[ She transitions to a laid-back straddle, one hand skimming light over the beige roof of the ceiling, balancing the shape of Roza's body as she settles against him. The spread of her thighs means that her pelvis comes into contact with his, albeit through thin layers of clothing; there is again that blooming of black pupil, arousal writ large across her expression. Breath interrupted, heartbeat moving hard inside her ribcage.
Roza thinks there is still a little shyness in him, sometimes. He wants to know she's sure, too, and maybe to feel the new moon of her want making shadows from the insulated buildings that compose his grown-up strength. His has architecture. Four walls and a door. Exits. But she's good at that giving, at that limb-walking, and drawing control to her like she does her spirits. She's good for that. She just has to know she's doing it exactly the way that he likes, memorizing every telltale flicker of lash like a thing that lives off lust. ]
What iiif, [ the interruption here has more to do with the sting of his teeth, her torso curving in toward him as it goes bare, bra capsizing somewhere on the furred floor of the Jeep, ] mmn. Hang on.
[ If he wants biting, it's biting he will receive, her mouth slanting open to kiss Elias with a certain conquering grace, demanding, deliberate. The kind of kiss to steal a man's breath and make it her own, more specifically, sharp incisors catching here and there, unpredictable. Her head tips down in tandem with the roll of her hips, sending sparks and shockwaves flying through those open and receptive nerves. They tell her yes and again and more, so consequently the grinding adopts its own ruthless rhythm, even when she parts from him only by millimeters. A flush has made its way from collarbone to cheeks, mostly unseen but easy to feel. ]
What if we were in a plane crash? Orrrr... those aliens from Independence Day showed up? Or —
[ He's allowed to shut her up. It's his hour. The slow half-dry ride she's doing to wind him up has a double edge: her speech loses some of its radio-host clarity, tongue catching against the back of her teeth. She might unravel before he does. ]
— well, you know. Are you?
no subject
I'm not hanging on– no, screw that.
[his hand latches to her hip, guiding her movements more confidently, pushing each grind down a little longer, a little harder. his cock aches beneath fabric, and she's on him just so that he can feel her folds parting over his covered length and he has to make an executive decision here-]
Oh my god–
[a harsh whisper, unclear whether he's exasperated from her teasing more questions or the steady roll of their hips is driving him crazy and pushing him in the right directions. probably the latter. he shoves two fingers in her mouth to press down on her tongue, her teeth digging into his skin, thumb pressed under her chin to catch her. he'd been caught before, now he's changing the narrative. the energy inside him switches, an 'off' to an 'on', and she said he could tell her what to do– who is he to deny an offer?]
–you need to something in your mouth, don't you? [elias levels with her here, makes her nod up and down, then back and forth. the pads of his fingers press harder.] Yes, no? Roza, [her name is dragged out when he grinds her down, sparking waves of needy pleasure.] I'm sure.
no subject
No g — mmf — Eliash —
[ A spate of dumb remarks float through her. You didn't answer the question or are you super-super sure. His fingers block them all, saliva slick along his hand. Now there is nothing to muffle the soft powdery sound he drags up from her throat by taking firm hold of control, her expression cresting needy and vulnerable and eager for a blistering second, all play disregarded. Like many things in life, Roza craves being split open, the marrow and meat of her on display for the taking. She knows that other people like this, too, and has spent a lot of time trying to be as good with the axe as she is at being the thing carved neatly in two. ]
Mm, [ by way of pleasant confirmation. She leans forward, hair tickling sections of bare skin, and sucks the salt and water from his fingers, enthusiastic foreshadowing of what's likely to come. Up close she was able to watch the light in his eyes go from sunshine to sharp, and she's smiling around that slow suction.
Heavily garbled: ]
Like thish? Now? [ A beat, more beseeching; she leans her head back, watching his shiny hand in her peripheral. ] Please?
[ Begging for him is something she's always wanted to try. No time like the present, when she can see every flicker of expression; this wouldn't have been half as good from a payphone in the middle of the Gates. She's glad she waited. Glad he wanted. ]
no subject
he locks on her mouth, the spit trailing from her lips and dribbling down his fingers. elias delays an answer, watching her mouth glide down and away. dreamy, he thinks, she's real dreamy.]
Just like that. [and she says please and he's reminded of every single person who's ever said please like that, and it's next to nobody. nobody says please like she says it. he drags his wet fingers down her throat, over her clavicle, between her breasts.] You wanna play that game with me?
[a held breath is released over her ear when he leans in, hovering his mouth over her skin.]
I'm so hard for you, Roza. Be good for me- [his hips thrust up against her for added measure.] I want you to be good for me.
no subject
I'm not good for most people, you know. But for you, I want to be.
[ Somewhere in that fine silver mist of her own longing sits a blank space full of memories she doesn't have. Proms and exams and late nights out driving or walking. A long list of only imagined experiences she's convinced herself are what make you a real person, as seen on TV, from where she developed her sense of how to be normal, how to reason like other people do. People don't want to know about the five-year gap wherein personhood should have developed appropriately. You fake it until they make it.
She thinks he gets that better than anybody — cobbling your identity together out of survival skills and wishful thinking. Maybe that's why he's so game for what she is and how she is, two stray cats only half-domesticated, making up for lost time.
She likes the person that she is with him. It feels adjacent to who she could have been. Or maybe like a version of herself that's truer, hewn closer to the bone of her. Roza deftly pulls the long slim line of her undressed body down his, angling lower and lower until she can rub her cheek, still awfully feline, against the clothed hardness of his groin, firm and rhythmic. The sloe eyes roll upward to meet his, mouth curved. She's aching between her legs, and bets he can probably tell by how she presses them together; the nature of her swimwear is such that she's visibly wet on the innermost parts of her thighs, a glimmer of his effect on her. (No diamonds, but Roza's got her own earthy, less glamorous sparkle.) ]
I want to play.