( jake seresin's rare moments of stillness between the lurch and the landing. ani sees a thief's opening, seizes it. ghosts her fingertips over his face like he's something pawned, something returned to her. some jewel with notable provenance she's studying closely after years of ownership spent out of her hands, reacquanting herself with its real value. a thumb blurs at the tight laughlines around his eyes. an index finger tips down the slope of his nose. a brush of her knuckles glides across the sharp wing of his jawline. lower, still, where it matters most: the roaring engine in his chest. steady through chases, interrogations, prison bars — beating reckless for her alone. like it might fly out of his chest and into her palm, if she asks.
that's what she saw in him first, loved in him first. he's never held it as ransom, never demanded an impossible price. never made it feel stolen, something too sparkly and inaccessible for her to afford. he just shares it, as if it were botticelli or klimt — denied to girls like ani, dropped into her lap without having to be the highest bidder for his affection. robin hood with a fucking wealth of love to spare.
that easy, in a world that's never been. like it was nothing. like it's everything. her stupid man. her beautiful, fucking stupid man, not a single inch of him reformed in life or in love.
she smiles. without sharpness, without a diamond-bite edge. it's just the backstage, exclusive pass no one else gets access to: anora mikheeva's softness when she's more petals than thorns, rosy-eyed and sweet on him. not simple, or easy, or free. just earned. for him alone, she lets him catch her red-handed, eyes as bright and shiny as the slick between her thighs. squeaks a laugh into his cheek, a choked knot in her throat, when he gives into his urge for motion. when he grinds forward, carefree and slippery in the mess he's made, her hips meet him with jolt like a shock to the heart, an unforgotten vow: she'll always give as good as she gets. always matched him, always will. )
Durak moy. ( my fool, exhaled into his mouth, said the way other women would say my soulmate, my sunlight, the reason a dull world turns gold. ) Still mine, right? Forever.
( rhetorical; the answer is in the nudge of ani's body, a warning of the hairpin turn, expecting an allowance: him to roll with her, let her in the pilot's seat of his lap. ani's safe place in the illusion of control on top of him, bracing impact while charting through the fear of her hard-won vulnerability. the words don't hide in her russian — they become more honest, lacquered in ani's native language. )
"But who to love? To trust and treasure? Who won’t betray us in the end?" ( pushkin, sly. then english, hot and shaking into his ear: ) It was always gonna be you.
no subject
that's what she saw in him first, loved in him first. he's never held it as ransom, never demanded an impossible price. never made it feel stolen, something too sparkly and inaccessible for her to afford. he just shares it, as if it were botticelli or klimt — denied to girls like ani, dropped into her lap without having to be the highest bidder for his affection. robin hood with a fucking wealth of love to spare.
that easy, in a world that's never been. like it was nothing. like it's everything. her stupid man. her beautiful, fucking stupid man, not a single inch of him reformed in life or in love.
she smiles. without sharpness, without a diamond-bite edge. it's just the backstage, exclusive pass no one else gets access to: anora mikheeva's softness when she's more petals than thorns, rosy-eyed and sweet on him. not simple, or easy, or free. just earned. for him alone, she lets him catch her red-handed, eyes as bright and shiny as the slick between her thighs. squeaks a laugh into his cheek, a choked knot in her throat, when he gives into his urge for motion. when he grinds forward, carefree and slippery in the mess he's made, her hips meet him with jolt like a shock to the heart, an unforgotten vow: she'll always give as good as she gets. always matched him, always will. )
Durak moy. ( my fool, exhaled into his mouth, said the way other women would say my soulmate, my sunlight, the reason a dull world turns gold. ) Still mine, right? Forever.
( rhetorical; the answer is in the nudge of ani's body, a warning of the hairpin turn, expecting an allowance: him to roll with her, let her in the pilot's seat of his lap. ani's safe place in the illusion of control on top of him, bracing impact while charting through the fear of her hard-won vulnerability. the words don't hide in her russian — they become more honest, lacquered in ani's native language. )
"But who to love? To trust and treasure? Who won’t betray us in the end?" ( pushkin, sly. then english, hot and shaking into his ear: ) It was always gonna be you.