The Runaways RPF
Dakota, on the bathroom rug. Legs, splayed. She’s smiling. I’m not sure I know how this sort of thing works, she says, lips tugging at corners, fingers unweaving what some underpaid worker or robot did months or maybe years ago.
A few more leaps before you get there, you think, eyeing her, lighting another cigarette, sighing deep when the nicotine smoke hits your throat with a burn that covers everything. Dakota tugs a bra strap, lifts a breast, adjusting, and then settles back into place. And people tell me I’m creepy on set, she mutters, to herself, though it doesn’t stop you from hearing.
Your skin is starting to itch, under its layer of denim and leather and sweaty cotton. Another draw and you flick the thing away, reaching instead for her, and of course she gasps, so you leap. No holding back with your hands in her hair.
Her mouth on yours does it; fills in the blank you’ve been looking for. Everything sinks into place like her hands on your hips, sliding against your skin, working the buttons, the zipper. You moan into her mouth as her fingers move against your naked core, and then when your fingers touch her, they aren’t yours anymore.
It all comes off, leaving you, leaving her bare and whimpering. She cups your face with quivering hands and searches your eyes. Alright, she says.
Alright, you say, and reach behind her for your cigarettes.