November 14, 2002
.11.14.02. - anything but easy [rune]

[north jersey, rune's condo]

(rune)
Somewhere between four a.m., when she finally let him sleep (he was injured. she went easy on him) and eight a.m., Rune crawled out of bed, shuffled her sleep-starved body into the luxurious custom shower, and stumbled down the stairs to perch blearily on the couch. For three hours, she struggled to remain awake - brewing a pot of coffee, getting up whenever her heavy eyes fell closed to pace around the room and re-energize for another five or ten minutes of hurry up and wait, retreating to the back deck or the front porch and smoking like a fiend, heading back inside to blink at the 15 pages of "Windows" and "Window Services" and "Window Repair" and "Windows - Replacement" in the yellow pages, frowning faintly at the trick of it all. Back home, someone would have taken care of it for her.

Delivery: between 8 a.m. and 11 a.m. - that's what the receipt said, in a fine computerized script and like most of her tribe, she had an unrelenting faith in things computerized.

11 a.m. came and went without any sign of the promised delivery van, and Rune promptly fell asleep on the couch. At 3 p.m., she was awakened by the half-startled Excuse me ma'am of the delivery driver, peering in the shattered front window. He was even more startled by the sudden-almost violence of her response. (It is not a good thing, to startle a sleeping Garou. Two long, sure steps and she was half-way across the room when she realized that the man was no threat.) Half-an-hour later, the equipment - (new camera, new scanner, new laptops, brand new 21" flat panel monitor among other things) - was hooked up and humming, and the still sleepy Glasswalker sat down to play.

Twenty minutes later, she was asleep again. On the laptop screen: the bloody red screen of first-person shooter death. On the desktop monitor, a webcam shot of someone's desk chair with a sign taped to the back Elise: you fell asleep. Back later., an almost incomprehensible scrawl of blue ink on white paper.

Her legs were curled beneath her, pale against the smooth pile of the carpet, pale against the dark gleam of the boxers she tugged on early in the morning, anticipating a quick delivery. The spaghetti straps of her little camisole have fallen from her shoulders, and rest in a slack parabola against the cut and curve of bicep, and the hem of the garment has ridden up (the strange angle of her pose, no doubt) to reveal the curve of her low back and the smooth flare of her hips. Her head rests at an awkward angle, cheek against the edge of the low table that holds the computer equipment at the right height for someone sitting cross-legged on the floor, forearm pillowing her brow, dark hair spilling over the keyboard that had been so rudely shoved aside.

(james)
even though she went easy on him the night stretched long, luxurious
like some slow storm roiling over the horizon
heavy clouds lazy crawl and tumble over the mountains of flesh and bed
near silent thunder crackling lightning from the blistering heat of skin touching skin

it didn't surprise him to find her already awake and gone
steaming water soothing away remnant aches and pains
he learned quickly - smelling like his soap from the bar stashed among her things
the path down the stairs slightest hobble
healed completey now? yes
still tender? you betcha
dark eyes wandering towards the glow in the growing darkness

bare shoulder finds its place against the wall
head tilting, dreads spilling over the dark scars on his back
simply watching
gaze tracing the curves of flesh and muscle highlighted by eerie monitor glow
the way the camisole pulls and stretches
the way the boxers pool and flare
the way slow breaths create a gentle rhythm throughout her frame
he can't help the little grin that begins curving his lips
seeing her asleep admist her new toys

there's the sound of frayed BDU cuffs on the plush carpet
finally crossing the distance between
settling to sit crosslegged at the side of the low table
letting his scent filter into her subconscious
(he knows better than to startle a sleeping Garou)
and then
only then
does a hand reach out
gently tracing over the semi-tangle inky silk of hair
and when her weight shifts towards the touch, towards him, like a part of him way down deep knows it will
he moves a little closer
strong arm sliding round her shoulders to move her so. slowly. so. carefully.
drawing her half into his lap
cradling arms a far cry more forgiving and comfortable than the table
but he still makes no sound to wake her

(rune)
He makes no sound to wake her, and his scent has filtered (.safe.pack.more.) into her sleeping mind, and so for some time she does not wake. She sleeps on, cradled in the curve of his arms. Her dreaming head lolls against his chest, turning and burrowing close and closer into the familiar tunnel of his scent.

In this sleep - good and strong and deep - all her hard, sure edges vanish. The curve of her mouth is gentle, and the so-knowing-arc of her brow, smooth. Long legs curl beneath her as she shifts still closer and one hand settles soft to curve around his flank. Every breath is slow and sweet, the gentle rhythm some sighing sea, without a shore in sight against which it must break itself in a futile, devouring battle.

At last, she begins to stir - shifting closer in the restless of half-sleep, lifting her head blindly to find the gift of his skin, murmuring some incomprehensible nonsense in the strange language of dreams. She wakes in his arms, and the faint sleeping smile lingers on her lips as the murmuring half-voiced words become little more than a low hum of appreciation, lingers, even, as her mouth finds his skin.

"Good morning." He will feel the words before he hears them, pressed into the hollow of his collarbone where she blundered so blindly upon wakening. The tip of her nose brushes against his cheek as her mouth finds the hollow at the juncture of jaw and neck, as her teeth find the lobe of his ear. "Sleep well?"

(james)
every sleep driven shift
every unconscious curl
every sinking breath
he draws her closer
reveling in this very, very rare moment
memorizing this absent softness she so easily places behind her sure surface
pleasure found it is shared with him, even if she makes no effort to do so

he cannot help the stretch beneath blind wandering touches
always offering more to which she demands
thrilled the murmuring tickle of lips stumbling over skin
the clutch of teeth upon ear

"Mmhmm...."

sighed in appreciation the simple affections
head ducking to return a lupine nuzzle
the deft, breif contacts of skin
more assuring than endless words
but unable to help the softest tease

"Did you enjoy your toys?"

they face mostly away from the desk
monitor's glow silhouetteing the spidering mane of dreads
their shadows cast across what he can see of her face
the backlight curve of bare shoulder
he may ask of her toys
but he wouldn't know enough to even name what they were
it wasn't even in his mind to glance at the screen
totally focused on her

(rune)
"...mmmhmmm." His mumble of pleasure is returned in kind, and her breath spills humid and warm across the curve of his ear. There's something unutterably playful in the slow throat-sound. "iiiiiiiiii did."

She is moving again. She is moving in his arms, and the hand still curved around his flank tightens until the tips of dark red nails are pressing into his flesh, almost fitting the furrow of one of the dark scars on his back. Her weight shifts forward - her torso is pressed against his, each slow sleepy breath causing her body to rise and fall against his in certain (familiar. remembered. necessary) rhythm - until she has uncurled herself, half-risen, and settled in his lap facing him, long legs a loose circle around his waist.

"I should probably turn it off, though, before my uncle comes back" she continues, lifting her head from his shoulder and sending a brief glance over her shoulder at the screen before looking back to capture his gaze with her own. "But I don't really want to move."

(james)
muscle hitches to draw the smile deeper, wider
like the furrows her nails have put into his back
strong arms circling, gathering
hands sliding along the lean muscles running from tailbone to ribs
smoothing her against his chest

familiar
remembered
necessary
.craved.

deep umber flickering to where her gaze leads
all too quickly drawn back to her - forgetting the monitor
confused to what her Uncle has to do with any of it

the loose circle of her legs about his waist
mimicked by the tightening embrace of arms around hers
drawing her snugly closer
soft boxers pressed against rough canvas

"Just.... don't move.... away?"

whatever distance left between them breached
words scalding as they're placed just beneath the curve of her jaw

(rune)
(The monitor that casts them in such an eerie half-light, the empty chair and the darkened room pictured there, the eye of the camera focused just to their right, the low hum of the desktop's fan and the uncle to whom she must have been speaking across the highspeed connection and who had promised to return forgotten, forgotten, all forgotten.)

"Oh.

.fuck."

Not quite a sweet nothing, the two words that fall hard from the parting (red. blood. fucking. red.) lips. Her chin is rising, opening the smooth line of her vulnerable throat to the depredations of his hot mouth, and her thighs tighten reflexively around his hips.

(Bodies in motion.)

Slim fingers curve over muscled shoulders, dragging (digging) deep the sharp, gleaming nails into tanned skin, riding the bunch and pull of muscle, pushing him back and down, and down, and down. That look. Those eyes, burning. That slow, knowing smile, and the sudden burn of her voice, wicked, into his ear.

"I should make you fucking fight for it."

Oh, he knows her.
She always keeps her promises.

(james)
teeth wander 'cross flesh
hard enamel against vulnerable throat
pinpointing the throbbing pulse hidden just beneath
how implicit..... this trust
how indulgent.... this exploration
as if by nipped touch alone he could release the fount that geysers
rumbling from so far below, this savage gut reaction
temperatures rise
bodies fall
down, and down, and down

nothing but fire and brimstone
smoldering glances and granite muscle
lava flow of knowing smiles and challenging words
the very carpet could burn beneath the roll and spread and shift of weight

and dominance

the inky strands of hair spreads shadows cross the plush pile
his hands tracing up her arms to answer the challenge
wrists braced, shackled, gripped before fingers spread to slide palm against palm
twining to lock these two Full-Moons in intimate, loving battle

"You've only just awoken..... this once..... I'll go easy on you."

warm sacrifice murmurered offering against lips darker than the blood that rushes through them
and how she knows him
how she knows from the promise in devouring kiss
she knows
this fight will be anything but easy

Posted by james at November 14, 2002 12:00 AM