the music does not afford them more discussion, but skin to skin and heart to heart, they do not need words. that is always the problem, anya agrees. a problem worth exploiting, worth turning into an advantage. 

as a savant, it has not taken long for her to catalogue the cadence of elisa's body language. so her movements are effortless. she becomes part of the music elisa claims so enraptures her, wrapping around the woman. lifting her with scattered, featherlight touches when it matters. possessive, hard-dimpled as needed. 

her cheeks flush as her stilettos strike the floor. as they twist and turn upon each other, corinth drawing breath and sweat from their bodies, anya tells elisa that she only has one idea of what to do with her. 

and when it is over and the song peters out and the crowd sings their praises before they begin again, anya finds her hand at the small of elisa's back, lips leaving a brushed touch of red on elisa's cheek. 

"i see no weakness," she murmurs. 

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

this has nothing to do with devotion or loyalty. FERNANDO SILPH is her obsession. he is her rapture always, though their coupling is not enough to satiate her desire for flesh. the sweat of her lovers is cleaned before he lay with her, but they linger like perfume on her body, scattered over her clothes. 

they have a mutual understanding; monogamy is for shallow fools, out of touch with their most primal, primitive instincts. 

so she chuckles when her mating dance ensnares the woman in her arms. lifeless eyes analyze her want, measure it against her compliant hips, the stuttering of her pulse. still, she gives her every opportunity to say no as she digs her fingers to her back and draws her through the crowd, past the plush velvet curtains that lead to the back room. 

cozy couches ring cramped around a few tables; orrenian rugs lay underfoot and more thick curtains swathe the walls.

a woman, only several feet away, presses her lips to a stranger's neck. but anya doesn't stop or draw elisa to the couches. no, she takes her jacket from the coat rack out back and slides it around the leather around the woman's shoulders. 

the back door yawns open and she arches a delicate brow and nods towards the sleek black bike a few paces away.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

lights spill over the road, incandescent in the aftermath of a rain she hadn't known had come. lilycove is quieter, but some of its late night scene is still active, and so every once in a while their golden road is cut through with elongated shadows. umbrellas blur as she leans into the speed, weaving around the few cars that mosey down the street.

they're a short distance away from the bar. she thinks, idly, that she's technically not sober enough to be driving. but as soon as the thought is had, the engine is going from a roar to a dull purr. her hands go to the ones wrapped around her waist as she leans back up and to the side. 

"don't i?" she says, unsure if elisa will even realize she's answering her now, and waits for her to get off before she swings her own leg over.

"come, ma fleur," she says and then walks up the short steps to her flat. after a moment, she adds with a smile, "or don't."

but of course she will. of course she does. when the door closes behind elisa, anya has already turned around. her movements are slow. fingers creep over her shoulders, under the lip of the leather to slowly draw it off elisa's frame.

and for her, for her and no one else, anya says, "tell me what you desire."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

life pools into her ice blue eyes now, what little dregs of humanity she has returning at the beck and call of satiating her desires. manicured nails draw elisa's zipper down in a slow curve; her other hand draws a line down her spine, coaxing more of that bundled up, tangled desire in her. 

and the rest of it is willful compliance. the start is slow and languid, pressing and touching those vulnerable places only intimates allow - the side of her ribs, the small of her back, the inner stretch of her thigh. but when she sinks against her, lips parted, she fulfills her wishes over and over again with tongue and hand. 

minutes creep into hours and only when she herself is shaking from exertion, curls warm against her neck with sweat and makeup smeared, does she withdraw. they're in her bedroom now and pale moonlight slices elisa's bare form into silver little ribbons. 

she wipes her mouth with her thumb and then flicks out her tongue while holding elisa's gaze. 

after a moment she slips off the bed and draws on a sheer nightgown. "it's late," she says, voice husky, and then clears her throat. "you're welcome to stay. i'm stepping out for a smoke."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

anya gathers her thin layers around her, lazily snagging her pack of smokes on the way out. she spares one curious glance over her shoulder and finds the blonde with her covers drawn, lids closed. as she crosses the short distance from her bedroom to the back patio, a liepard's ears flick. 

she cracks one emerald eye open and then slowly gets to her haunches, stretching heavily onto the floor. sleep-laden paws trod after the woman; she leaves the door open a few extra moments behind her to allow the cat to join her. 

a flicker of flame and then the rush of nicotine, burrowing into her brain. she holds it and then exhales through her nose, eyes slitting. 

out of the corner of her eye, the shadows move. envy hisses in low warning and anya pauses, then flicks ash nonchalantly. the kecleon scuttles off into the night.

and when she's done, and when she tires, she returns to bed, wondering at the unseen scars that trouble the woman beside her. it's why, in the morning, she's careful to wake before her. 

when elisabeth awakes, that same purrloin will be watching her at the end of the bed, paw pressed lightly on a folded piece of paper.

Let this be your sanctuary.
- M

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉