"I don't fucking want your booze," Ryouko snarls, slapping the small flask away with a flurry of her hand.
Mordecai reels back slightly, though his grip on the metal remains strong and he effortlessly brings it back to himself. He blinks, looks at it. Looks back up at the woman before him and frowns. He watches as she hunches into herself; the faraway look in her eyes as she gazes out over the never-ending dust and desert is enough to tug at something deep within him.
"It'll help," he murmurs, the grate to his voice making the words slur as quiet as they are. She looks at him like she doesn't understand – maybe she doesn't – but only shakes her head in response.
The quiet envelopes them, then. A steady growl somewhere way off in the distance tells of wandering, roaming skags and a gentle breeze that is anything but when it picks up and the sand starts. It blows up and over them and Mordecai ducks his head down slightly, angled just so that the scratch to the air doesn't sting his cheeks. He'd removed his cowl some time before, regrets it a bit now as he has to squint to look up into the colored sky. He silently wonders what Bloodwing might be up to.
Ryouko speaks, then, in a voice that isn't quite her own. "Pandora fucking sucks. Why are we even here?" She doesn't look to him even as Mordecai shifts forward to lean on the railing and cross his arms.
"Looking for something. Doesn't matter how hard it is to get it."
She snorts. Reaches a hand up to brush back black locks that have come loose from her constant ponytail. He watches with an almost endearing fascination as her eyes flutter shut and her lashes leave the ghosts of shadows over pale cheeks. She is the sort of beautiful he hasn't seen in a really, really long time. Sharp, soft, somehow both all at once. He wonders without question how something so good could find a place this bad. How she could find someone like him.
When she opens her eyes again and looks to him, at him, there is a vulnerability there that aches in its gentility. There is a sort of watery trust, too, and he doesn't believe he fully deserves it. Her voice breaks lightly as she asks, "Why couldn't he love me?"
Mordecai doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't think he ever will, honestly. Roland is the type of man that comes and goes, duty before self. But that isn't what Ryouko needs to hear, and it sure as Hell isn't what he wants to say. Instead he finds himself shrugging noncommittally and unconsciously leaning in until his shoulder brushes along hers in a manner he can't tell to be soothing or not. For her sake, he hopes it is. "You don't need him. Out here, it's better this way. Easier to move. Easier to look. Once the Vault is found, he won't matter. You'll see."
Ryouko sniffles. Wipes her nose on the back of her glove and stands a tad bit taller, straighter. Something like a smile, small and far too hesitant, washes over her features. She looks at him with eyes the color of sand. "Yeah. You're right." He watches as her perfect teeth clamp down on a full bottom lip; the sharp, guilty wonder of what those lips might taste like passes through him. "You still offering that drink?"
Even if he wasn't, he wouldn't be able to say it. He can't find a single cell in his body that might refuse her.
His fingers twitch around the flask. He needs to shoot something, desperately. But instead, he simply holds out the alcohol and gives her the best smirk he thinks himself capable of offering. It is more a grimace than anything, but she knows it is given with the best of intentions. "That's just the start," he grounds out. Something like electricity, but somehow also more alarming, jolts to life along his arm when her fingertips touch his.
"Guess we better get this party going, then," she mutters, and he watches in wonder as a muscle he can't name moves beneath the skin of her throat as she tips back her head and swallows a mouthful of bitterness. It's not good. Then again, it's never good. And in silence he wonders what it would feel like – if that muscle would move the same way beneath his teeth.
When she hands back the flask, he takes it. And as the breeze picks up and ruffles his hair he tips his own head back and lets his lips and tongue and heart trace the path hers had just touched. He tries to picture what it must be like to kiss something so good; then the burning along his throat shuts down that thought, replaced with the need for more. A thought like that one would get him nowhere, not now. What he needed was the distraction that intoxication would – had always – offered.
They both need it, he realizes, as that faraway look steadily creeps back onto her features and she looks back out. She's hurting in a way that he knows too well, and his jaw tightens with the urge to reach out and comfort her. He wishes he knew something other than silent hate. He wishes he could offer more than a few hours of possible regret. The alcohol that hasn't even entered his system yet makes his stomach hurt.
"Come," he commands, in a tone that isn't quite steady and isn't quite shaky. Ryouko looks to him without comment, and he knows without looking back that she is following as he leads them into the building. They travel up a stairway and down to the second door – the only room with a door in this dusty, dingy, rundown shack of a building. Mordecai likes it here because no one else likes it here. He closes the door behind her and she immediately goes for the glassless window, his own feet carrying him over to the far corner; he feels with gloveless hands along the aged wood until it gives and he can pop open a board to loot his private stash. Old bottles with names he can't pronounce that taste like stale piss but completely wash away feelings.
He steps up to her side, rests his back against the wall and slides down until he's sitting with his legs sprawled out before him. A pocket knife he stole from some bandit ages ago comes out of his pocket to unscrew the cork as Ryouko finds a place next to him. She is close enough that he can feel the warmth of her skin without touching. Close enough that he can want something he knows he can't have.
She accepts the bottle he offers, bringing it up and drinking from it heavily. Her nose and brows furrow and she comes away sputtering but only raises a hand to keep him at bay when Mordecai instinctively reaches to help her. Dark eyes meet his, and she smirks in this way that is all naivety and all playful. He wishes he knew what that felt like; it had been longer than he cared to admit since he felt anything, really, aside from a nagging sense of hopelessness.
Pandora was less about a better life and more about forgetting the past.
He's not completely sure how long they sit there, in silence; long enough to get through three fourths of the bottle and lose a considerable amount of daylight. It is only when yellow has turned orange and he feels the beginnings of a headache that he takes back the bottle and sets it aside. Ryouko seems less ready to end their session as she grumbles something unintelligible and attempts to reach around him for the drink.
She stumbles, ends up sprawled in his lap and just sort of lies there, tired or disoriented or maybe both. He prays to a God he hasn't believed in since childhood that she can't feel the excitement this stirs to life in him. His hands are more unsteady than he is prepared to admit as they hesitate over her side, eyes darting down unintentionally to take in the skin that has been exposed by her rising gown. Pale and unblemished, kissed by the last of the sun's light as it slipped through the window.
He has to swallow and divert his sights to keep his hands to himself, simply letting them fall lifelessly to his side. How easy it would be, he thinks, to go further than he deserves. Further than she can handle. Further than their friendship, however fucked it has always been, can recover from.
"Hey, Mordecai?" Her voice is a whisper into the dusty air, her breath hot even through the material of his trousers. The urge to shift or move is sharp, but he ignores it.
"Yes?" And his teeth draw the taste of copper from the inside of his cheek. His body is fighting against him even now; his vocals had made the word sound more a plea than a response.
Ryouko moves on her own, pushes herself up using his thighs and falls back into place beside him. Her head lulls so she is looking at him, or maybe through him – he can't really tell when her eyes are glass. "You were right."
Mordecai can't think straight enough right now to know what she's referring to, though he doesn't question. He simply nods and hums something to keep from speaking. And that's all it takes.
For a moment, he's not completely sure what's happening. But her face is so close that it blurs and there's something shockingly soft pressed against his mouth. Warm, giving, offering. The sharp breath he inhales smells like her, like nature – dirt and sweat and something sweet that is more intoxicating than the alcohol making a home in his veins. He's not sure if it's her or himself that whimpers in this way that is all need and all pathetic.
She is the first to pull away, lips parting as she sucks in a breath; he finds that it is his lungs that burn, however. And it is her hands that shake as they rise to touch the roughness of his jaw, fingers combing through his beard in a manner that would be gentle if she could control how they tugged.
There is so much he wants to say in that moment, and so much more that needs to be said, but instead he finds his voice lost somewhere between never and forever. And her lips taste like forgiveness as they smash back against his. It is all hot and heavy and she is suddenly in his lap and his hands are grasping, clutching at the realness, the softness of her being beneath the hem of her dress. Her own touch falls to his throat, dips lower than his jacket and brushes against the sharpness of his collarbones. He groans, lets his mouth fall down to her jaw, her neck, the pulse point between shoulder and throat. He bites without thought, her life beneath his teeth, listening to this sound that is beautiful in its purity as it slips from her lips.
He's not sure how it happens. The next few seconds are a blur, but he knows with a rushing sense of clarity that she is beneath him. Her nails dig into his back even through his clothing as he thrusts without restraint, a burning in his gut that is mirrored by the tightness in his pants. She moans aloud, undeterred when his hands fumble with the straps of her gown. He doesn't want to tear it – that thought comes through – because she looks so beautiful with it on. But he knows she would look just as beautiful, maybe more so, without it. And that is what wins out, that need to see. To feel. To know.
When the article falls down she is already struggling with his zipper but he barely registers it. What instead holds his attention is the sinking realization that in place of a bra she is sporting a breast wrap. The material is tight and constricting, would take far longer than he knows they both have to strip her of. She is whispering against his skin, something he can't hear as he forfeits the fight and simply hitches up her dress. It pools at her stomach, he feels the pressure against himself lessen when her hands free him.
A low, throaty groan escapes him as her hand wraps securely around his girth, pumping once, twice. He minutely forgets what breathing even is. But then she says something that he thinks he does understand, something similar to please, and he can't get to her fast enough.
Her shorts slip down her legs, nothing left between his eyes and her. She is perfection, wild, kinky black welcoming him to the paradise between her thighs. He wishes he could savor it. Wishes he could taste it. But her hands are once more on his back and she is tugging him down and he needs her. Needs her like he needs air. She is the only thing keeping him grounded any longer.
Mordecai lines himself up with her; she is wet and scolding and he can't imagine any instance where that would ever be unpleasant. She whimpers and he thrusts and nothing and everything is okay.
He slides in easily, her body accepting him like a missing piece. He fits, he feels it, and it makes him choke on what he can only explain as pleasure. She takes all of him, voice high and breathy as she gasps; he is quiet in comparison, eyes tightly screwed shut to simply take in this feeling. They are one, he knows, as he bottoms out, hips against hips and her nails digging through his clothes and into his skin. Her stomach twitches when he lowers himself to her, he can feel it and finds that it is just as wonderful as everything else in this moment.
He breaths a moment, lets her grow accustomed. It is her that finally whines out her need, and he is too eager to do what she asks. He pulls himself back, almost out, and then plunges again. They cry out in sync; she is burning, her muscles pulling him in deeper, refusing to let him go. He is already teetering on the edge and doesn't know how much more he can take.
"Please," she whines, voice rough and rushed. He can't deny her any more than he can deny himself.
He thrusts harder, hips smacking into her with a sound that is both vulgar and wet and wonderful. She clings to him and he rests his weight on one arm, hovering over her as she sprawls out beneath him, feet hooked around his lower back to keep him close. Not that he needs the incentive. He would rather die than deprive himself of this feeling.
His other hand snakes down her body. He gropes at a clothed breast and makes a low noise at the back of his throat when Ryouko tips back her head to moan her approval. His fingertips dance along the heat of her stomach, trace the jut of her hipbones as they tease him with their gyrating motion. Down, further. He finds damp curls to tug at gently as he thrusts again. Something she went to say chokes and loses itself in her next sharp inhale.
It is when he slips further and finds her hot and ready and pulsing that they both groan and she jerks her hips and they both nearly break. He presses against her, into her, finds purchase along her throat with his mouth and bites. She is reeling beneath him, the cold floor and his burning warmth so contradictory it has her head spinning. He tastes the sweat along her skin and brings his forefinger and thumb together to pinch.
She screams.
He feels it when she loses herself; her back arches and she takes everything he has to offer and her nails dig crescents into the back of his neck as she reaches for something, anything, to keep her grounded. Her eyes slam shut and she looks off, away, mouth open and everything tight and a name that isn't his own slipping free from her tongue.
He doesn't mind. Or maybe he tells himself he doesn't mind because he doesn't know what else he would do when he is this close and she is still here and his and –
But it hits him. Even as he continues on and they ride this out together he realizes something bitter and wrong about what should be a perfect moment for them both. It isn't okay. Because as much as he loves her – dear God, does he love her, he realizes – she will never be his.
He cries as he comes, and she doesn't realize. Because for the rest of the night, she won't meet his eyes.