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[ailerons]

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seresin

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[temporicide]

Oh!

[ Roza hovers, held, in that state between grip and gravity, liking the way time seems to transform itself into an indulgent meander; the moment's not long at all, but in it she finds time to look at him with intention, his nearness a clear and true bell rung inside her. She thinks: he's different now, but not too different. It makes her happy to believe this. The blood in her veins moves warmer, faster, all that red making for insulation against the early-morning chill. The raven's-wing black of her hair falls free behind her, having been inadvertently tucked in her coat collar.

Her laugh is immediate and uninhibited, and she thinks they both knew it'd come quick — one of those near-noiseless giggles that plays on the quiet breathiness of her natural voice, more vibration in her sternum and ribs than it is real sound. ]

You would have made me one hell of a pas de deux partner, you know that?

[ Even while upright, she lingers at the edges of his personal space. The Jack between her fingers is now in closer proximity still, tapped light against his chest, by way of gesture. She sets speculative eyes on the unexpected new card, lower lip briefly catching between her teeth, which is one of an abundance of youthful gestures someone once tried to train her right out of and failed. ]

Bet I can get that one off you, too.

[ailerons]

[ His tongue clicks against teeth. A rise, a call, all playful faux-disappointment: ]

Maybe you would've made one hell of a thief.

[ Different, now, but not too different. Hair a little longer, jaw a little sharper — broadened by time, the physical realities of seeing ten minutes of sun a day, too much time to kill between sleep and staring up at cinderblocks. Older, maybe; the sunlit shine of a smile, angled in a new direction. But one that reaches all the way up to his eyes. Always, always, even as he makes a small, contented hum. The backs of his knuckles skim across her temple; he thumbs a stray sweep of hair behind the shell of her ear, the seaglass of his attention looking carefully at the sweep of her throat it reveals.

She looks, he thinks boldly, exactly the same. Bright, clever, raw. Told to be one thing and shown another. Jake grins back and the texture of it sits right along side her gestures, the ones they failed to take away. His is youthful, too. ]

Try it.

[ He mimics her motions, tucking one arm behind his back. Walks backwards away from her, grinning from ear to ear, right into the chase of it all. A buoyant repeat of the classics:

Tag, baby. You're it. ]

[temporicide]

[ Contact brings the hummingbird energy of her to a loose-limbed standstill. Those incremental rays of dawn drifting in catch and curve smooth, inky blue on the angles of their faces, hers trained upwards in appreciative focus. The air is different in this place, and she tastes it in her mouth. Like night-blooming lilac, scent sweet enough it transcends that sense alone. The waning stars are damp with the foggy light pollution, as though shy, as Roza supposes she once was. In the moment, all historical diffidence has completely bled away, leaving behind the bare-faced forgetfulness of the self. Her implanted anxiety withers without its inventor here to tend it. Roza's lapse in motion remains imbued with potential — momentum waylaid only because he's touching her, as though it were waiting for permission to pounce.

It comes, and she responds. Immediately. Her mouth makes an o shape, indignation exhaled in a little huff, always willing to be wound up, ]

Maybe. Maybe? [ The tigerish stalk toward him starts at matching pace. She can feel her heart move differently in her chest, hit by anticipatory adrenaline. ]

Forget the card, it's you I'm after now.

[ More like she has ambitions of multitasking, but Roza's priorities have shifted. One after the other. She's pretty sure he can predict her, but like a good dance, this game has choreography.

No preamble tension in her body or bearing warn him of sudden bolting escalation. Which means her shoes go skidding somewhere into the history of lakeshore escapades, possibly never to be seen again, adieu and rest in peace to that particular pair of Ferragamos. Grass and morning dew tag the places black lace leaves bare, all the way up to her calves. Her coat flags behind her, unbuttoned. Rather than move directly at Jake, Roza endeavors for an angle to capture him from the left. She plants the ball of one foot against the slippery ground and swings sidelong, reliant on strong legs and learnt grace.

She moves with her hands out, quick, just maybe quick enough — ]

[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.