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[ailerons]

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seresin

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[ailerons]

[ —she pounces. Caged. Caught red fucking handed.

He hits the dew with a rumble of a laugh, back hitting the grass. Air leaves his chest in a warm puff of breath, a hazy exhale in the cool morning light. Some clean feeling fissures through his expression as his hands immediately move in response, palms bracketing her sides, fingers wide and thumbs spread. Tightening, a fraction, as the pads of his digits press the thick fabric of her coat further, more insistent, as if all he's doing is warding off the chill. ]

Roza. [ He rolls the syllables inside of his mouth on purpose. Like he knows what they taste like; knows what she tastes like, as he looks up at her. ] What big eyes you have.

[ A beat. Held, extended, by two kinds of people who know how to lift a partner in a game. Jake looks, very quietly, into the planes of her face, and then grins. A little hungry, a little sharp; a hand skates down, dirty the way a joke is dirty, to palm under her coat. Shamelessly smoothing over the skirt at her ass. ]

Don't tell me I'm distracting you.

[ An abrupt but easy turn, so that he's the one bowed over her now, longer hairs falling in front of his eyes, a denim-clad knee between her thighs. Keep them guessing, hold an ace up your sleeve — beginner's tricks. Ones that she already knows, but Jake shows off anyway. Everyone needs to be reminded sometimes, don't they? That it exists this way, sometimes? Easy? Plain? Won, but not bled for? ]

[temporicide]

[ Her own breathing whooshes away with the sort of half-wild joy that colors eyes and mouth, makes her grin hard and real, like it hurts, but in only good ways. Triumph has given her greater exuberance, drawn from lording her (temporary, a knowledge that exists in the hindquarters of her lizard-brain, not her direct consciousness) position of power over him. The scrunch of her nose is to suggest wolfishness. Like she's a howling thing, soothed sweet for just one second by a hand flitting down the silk of her skirt.

She has intentions. Big plans for Jake Seresin, some of them involving more of his hands, her mouth, and some acts of theft in the middle, although those are increasingly less prominent on her ambitions. Only he uno cards her, and smugness segues to a sigh at her own complacence. Foiled, only, well,

This has its benefits, doesn't it, even as she makes a sound crossed between laugh-peal and whine of girlish indignation.

Or maybe this was her real goal all along, to be laid underneath him on some grassy hill, sunrise starting to say its name along the changing horizon, a long indigo beast with a back covered in stars. She feels happy, she thinks, and wonders vaguely if it's fair of her to be so when he's only so freshly freed, when she suspects there are many pieces of a life he has left to assemble. At least this one can slot simply in her place, and does so willingly; fondness shadows her when her smile turns smaller but no less sincere, head canting back so the sharp sides of her jaw tilt forward. She looks at him from under her eyelashes this way. ]

Only a little.

[ Roza's body knows what it wants, as always, before her brain does, which is to let the shape of her spine convex-curve outward, shoulders and ass firmer against ground, clothed breasts and stomach brushing against him. Her thighs part, his knee strong between them. She presses there just enough so that her eyes change with the sensation, which laces through each vertebrae in order to make her shiver. So he can see. ]

You'll have to try harder.

[ How 'bout them apples?, says the lift of her eyebrows, bid for playful imperiousness only somewhat at a loss thanks to her new angle. (There are few positions she can't brat from.) ]

[ailerons]

[ So he can see: the shine in her eyes, the soft ripple down her spine; the coat that she wore, that he left his instructions in, pinpricks of lightening sky in the corners of his vision. Jake's mouth cuts brighter, wider. The denim of his knee, solid thigh blatantly pressing back — maybe an offered anchor as much as it is a coax and call, another invitation to play with higher stakes. Win big. Stay up all night. What's there to lose, in a place like this?

Lightly, his hand wraps around the swell of her calf. His mouth hovers nears hers, but never quite makes contact. Up, then, his calloused palm smoothing from calf to warm bend of her knee, the pad of his thumb catching over textures and curves in the lace. He's leisurely with it — luxuriating, a little, the way men sometimes do with pretty things. ]

You want me to try harder. [ Not mean. The affectation of flatness, ruined in a heartbeat by the wink he flashes at her. But the sharpness inside of him grows more obvious, a fishhook as he places a kiss to her cheek, sweet even as he bears his body down a fraction. The obvious shift of weight; the push and grind between her legs.

Neither of them, really, are so sweet. Wild animals never really are. It's nice to try it on for size anyway, Jake's mouth nudging at her jaw. The scratch of his stubble as he murmurs, warmly, into the shell of her ear: ]

What are you thinking about?

[ This time of morning— too early for an audience, he's sure. Not so early that there's the promise of privacy. He hums lightly, the noise a rumble that echoes in his chest. From the lace of her tights, Jake, whose nucleus is hard-wired to want more even when the going's good, to nurture and build in the face of his flightless ambition, lets his hand roam her side. The dip of her waist, the flare of her ribs. Further, all the way, until his thumb pulls at the plush shape of her bottom lip. ]

Because I'm thinking about making you come all over my hand. [ His brows lift back, too. Head tipping, almost puppyish. ] And seeing how quiet you can be.

[temporicide]

[ Whatever finishing school she shoved herself through as a younger pretty thing has not remediated a natural tendency to need like a stray animal, composure a little undone by affection where given. This proclivity isn't only emotional; some unusual physical sensitivity coats the network of her nerves. Consequently her breathing fast becomes a sound-tangled huff with the change in friction, lids of her eyes lowering. Unsteady, and not especially shy about showing it. The kiss is sweeter for its near-chastity, context excluded; with it, pressure makes her want to rise up against him and get greedy. Her mouth is slightly open, the pink-red valentine of her tongue visible at the back of her bottom teeth, right where they get sharp.

Roza's expression transmits her easy receptiveness during the exploratory course of his hand. Like a flower face opening when its season comes calling, this welcoming comes naturally; she would ask him touch her, she thinks, any way he wants. But she doesn't need to say it out loud; the upward flex of her pelvis is its own language. ]

Wouldn't you know it —

[ Her own arm comes coasting up to drag the edges of her nails gentle across the side of his hand, down to wrist, in twirly little patterns that will fade in seconds, sandcastle-brief, etched in white across skin. More sensation-building than real scratch. (As far as she's concerned, this is the primary reason for a good manicure.) ]

Same page. But you might need to gag me. [ This is itself a dare, be it via the tearable lace of her tights or her equally flimsy underwear or just the warm flat of his hand. ] I like to talk too much, you know.

[ And because some hedonistic suffering is good for the soul, and he's in jeans, which aren't always so forgiving: ]

See if I can't make you ache a little, too.