[ Ready, with pin digits attached, looks like waiting for him a strip of black-pebbled beach, warmed by a day's sunshine. The light penetrates only the surface — beneath the windless ripples of lake water (dappled all in blues: Prussian, midnight, patches of turquoise where shallow) there is a bracing cold, waiting to put curious hands on swimmers caught unawares. But Roza knows this land, this water, this tender late-afternoon sky. Soon dark will spread broad wings over the horizon and blot out their closest star, leaving room only for the ones that watch from a distance.
Soon it will be nighttime, which is when the land starts to really get interesting. She hopes he gets to see that, too.
But for now there is only this: the long shape of Roza, brown skin contrasting against white underwear (she did not bring a swimsuit), stood like an imitation of an Olympic diver at the peak of one long dock, protruding out over the deepest part of the lake. She is barefoot and grinning, teeth showing. Her body moves back and forth from left to right, ballerina feet prepared for motion. Her blue Jeep is poorly parked between two spaces, tailgate slung open, where a bed of towels sit waiting.
When she sees him, she's going to scream and then jump. Or jump and then scream, depending on how cold that lake really is. ]
[the car's engine rumbles through the silence, breaks peace before he cuts it early– another poor parking job in the lot. there are two different energies here, one of playful wildness and the other a blanketing threat. the people who know his car don't want to the thing he shines his headlights on.
but it's quiet when he steps out and scans for the shape of roza, the one who does want to be in his headlights. it takes him a few moments, seconds used to stutter out a laugh when she screeches, voice ringing in his ears even after she's submerged. his clothes are stripped - haphazard and uncaring down to his briefs – and he runs once he's thrown them aside, heavy footfalls in sand and then barreling onto the dock. he's much less graceful, a burst of unruly energy catapulting overboard, a stumble compared to her ballerina-nimble poise.
he goes deep, carried by the weight of impact, and when he breaches the surface and he can howl like he's never been in the unforgiving cold only water can bring before (he has, he's being dramatic) he looks for her, muscles in his face stuck on a grin from adrenaline.]
[ A time or two she has contemplated what it is about him that unlocks this wildness in her, even by her own standards; she's always performing, playing, cajoling, and it redoubles under the headlights, as though they were really spotlights on her stage. But maybe it's because Elias knows better than almost anybody (and he is the only witness to this time in her life that wasn't a cruelty during it) what it's like when all of that has been drained from her, when Roza was just a listless slip of a thing, waiting to die.
But that was years ago. Look at them now. Do they live well? Maybe not. But they live. With fingers digging into life, leaving bruises in sprays of yellow-purple proof that they existed outside their holding cells and medical documentation. To the contrary: here it's self-administered chemicals and loud music and laughter that rises up toward an empty heaven.
Under that water or above it, her body is a trained thing, muscles compact, fine-tuning a body that wants to give in to its own natural curves. Magic exacerbates her grace, allowing her deft little twists against the mild current, circling him in the water, like a smiling freshwater shark, buoyed by his yell. Her legs kick in circles, black hair slicked and dripping a rainfall against her shoulders and clavicle. Her attention zeroes in on Elias in preparation for a bolting away, back under the water. ]
I think so, too. 'Cause who else could do this — [ just one itsy-bitsy little splash, because she's a menace, but she's curious, too, where he's going with this, ] — and get away with it?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Of you and your ways.
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Never call me Mister Forty Winks again btw
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What about Naptime
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Something cool like uh
what was the sleep-guy's name? Sand something?
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Very catchy but also so light as to be easily made ominous if you wanted to do that
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you gonna call me Mr. Sandman next time I fall asleep?
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Do you think that would give you strange dreams?
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I don't remember my dreams
maybe I'll sleep really really well
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Now we're turning it into a working, your Mr. Sandman working
What would you like to dream about?
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I wanna dream about the ocean
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Do you want to be under it or above it?
A fish or a bird?
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[he is talking about strippers]
under. I wanna be a fish
you can decide what I'll be
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[ She does not know he is talking about strippers, but her point would stand. ]
OK I will reveal your true form to you shortly
I will put you at the top of the food chain. Except for orcas.
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[guy who knows nothing about orcas or wildlife except for what roza tells him:]
do I not scream orca to you?
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If I grow wings I will use them to encircle you. And you may touch my antennae.
But they're not fish!!
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Jesus there's an 'ae' after that? okay
Ugh mammals fine any sea creature but you're good at picking those too
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After you catch me in the water, speaking of touching
There you can decide.
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what will you be? Is there a butterfly of the water too?
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But I'm an orca too :-)
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okay
then I'll definitely catch you
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But as for catching me, I'll believe it when I see it
Or feel it. As the case is.
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you're challenging the wrong person
→ text/action.
OK OK we'll see. I'm ready.
[ Ready, with pin digits attached, looks like waiting for him a strip of black-pebbled beach, warmed by a day's sunshine. The light penetrates only the surface — beneath the windless ripples of lake water (dappled all in blues: Prussian, midnight, patches of turquoise where shallow) there is a bracing cold, waiting to put curious hands on swimmers caught unawares. But Roza knows this land, this water, this tender late-afternoon sky. Soon dark will spread broad wings over the horizon and blot out their closest star, leaving room only for the ones that watch from a distance.
Soon it will be nighttime, which is when the land starts to really get interesting. She hopes he gets to see that, too.
But for now there is only this: the long shape of Roza, brown skin contrasting against white underwear (she did not bring a swimsuit), stood like an imitation of an Olympic diver at the peak of one long dock, protruding out over the deepest part of the lake. She is barefoot and grinning, teeth showing. Her body moves back and forth from left to right, ballerina feet prepared for motion. Her blue Jeep is poorly parked between two spaces, tailgate slung open, where a bed of towels sit waiting.
When she sees him, she's going to scream and then jump. Or jump and then scream, depending on how cold that lake really is. ]
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but it's quiet when he steps out and scans for the shape of roza, the one who does want to be in his headlights. it takes him a few moments, seconds used to stutter out a laugh when she screeches, voice ringing in his ears even after she's submerged. his clothes are stripped - haphazard and uncaring down to his briefs – and he runs once he's thrown them aside, heavy footfalls in sand and then barreling onto the dock. he's much less graceful, a burst of unruly energy catapulting overboard, a stumble compared to her ballerina-nimble poise.
he goes deep, carried by the weight of impact, and when he breaches the surface and he can howl like he's never been in the unforgiving cold only water can bring before (he has, he's being dramatic) he looks for her, muscles in his face stuck on a grin from adrenaline.]
You're lucky, you know that?
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[ A time or two she has contemplated what it is about him that unlocks this wildness in her, even by her own standards; she's always performing, playing, cajoling, and it redoubles under the headlights, as though they were really spotlights on her stage. But maybe it's because Elias knows better than almost anybody (and he is the only witness to this time in her life that wasn't a cruelty during it) what it's like when all of that has been drained from her, when Roza was just a listless slip of a thing, waiting to die.
But that was years ago. Look at them now. Do they live well? Maybe not. But they live. With fingers digging into life, leaving bruises in sprays of yellow-purple proof that they existed outside their holding cells and medical documentation. To the contrary: here it's self-administered chemicals and loud music and laughter that rises up toward an empty heaven.
Under that water or above it, her body is a trained thing, muscles compact, fine-tuning a body that wants to give in to its own natural curves. Magic exacerbates her grace, allowing her deft little twists against the mild current, circling him in the water, like a smiling freshwater shark, buoyed by his yell. Her legs kick in circles, black hair slicked and dripping a rainfall against her shoulders and clavicle. Her attention zeroes in on Elias in preparation for a bolting away, back under the water. ]
I think so, too. 'Cause who else could do this — [ just one itsy-bitsy little splash, because she's a menace, but she's curious, too, where he's going with this, ] — and get away with it?
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