[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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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.