December 18, 2002.12.18.02. - one week [rune][barrens/north jersey]
(james)
he was just seething
and that's what fueled his walk
that's what covered the miles
that's what's brought him out of the Gaia-for-fucking-saken Pine Barrens and back towards what may, on a good, day, resmbling something of the Gaia-for-fucking-saken city, that hazy of nuclear reactor lights that dome over the tower-spiked landscape, that scent of smog and exhaust and hate and fear, the sheer white noise hammering against senses from the relentless drive of this rat race that the mortals have chained themselves toaw yea
home, baby.
fuckin' hometank boots stalk towards it
mile after seething, inwardly ranting mile
his Rage still blooms around him like his own, personal, city glow
fists clenched inside trench pockets
head held forward and lowhe hasn't gotten a ride because he hasn't particularly been thumbing for one
pretty certain anyone stopping would take one look at him and keep on driving
(full. fuckin. moon.)
(rune)
(full. fuckin. moon.)He hasn't gotten a ride because he hasn't been looking for one. The two or three cars that slowed on seeing a lone figure stalking relentlessly forward on the godforsakin highway sped away once he came fully into focus (danger. danger. danger.). Mortal senses scream with it. One trucker even mutters beneath his breath - "full moon crazies out tonight" - as he speeds on, coating James in a cloud of choking diesel exhaust.
The white noise drowns out the sounds of individual cars, melds them into something almost organic, something almost whole - the white noise, the constant thrum of the city, like the beating of a thousand livid hearts, all out of time, all racing toward some explosive destiny. Thousands of cars have passed him, and he has passed thousands of cars. There's another one ahead - pulling over, break lights cutting through the strange orange blooming gloom of the city's night. Probably a flat tire, or a radiator. Certainly it wasn't stopping for him.
Certainly it wasn't stopping for him. It probably doesn't even enter his mind that it might be, suffused in the high roiling boil of his seething rage. Another truck, passing, spews another dirty cloud of grime-laden smog to coat him and further obscure his view. It's only when he's alongside - passing (don't even look. Head down, don't even look. Boots crunching on the gravel shoulder, dreads swinging like so many pendulums in time to the long, ground-devouring strides) - that a familiar voice cuts through the haze.
"Need a ride, soldier?"
(james)
break lights flashed
some car pulling over for some unexplained reason
you're right, he doesn't pay it any mind
he barely pays any mind to the cloud of exhaust that coats him
just ducking his head a little, turning it towards rain trench beyond the shoulder
dark eyes safely sheilded by half closed lids
stepping a bit to the side so not to scare yet another poor civilian
(he had the fight with drag out, he doesn't need to have Jael's reaction revisited)
just. truck. on. by. Gnawer.it's two paces beyond the voice that he stops
head lifting slowly
shoulders shifting beneath the dreads
a sly glance to the front fender by his thigh
well... this is her car, isn't itgravel grinds beneath the pivoting turn
two steps back to the rolled down passenger window
dropping to a crouch to cross arms on the doorframe and rest his chin upon them"Why yes, ma'am, indeed I do."
trying... trying to get his grin for her (that little silly grin) to peek through the Rage
but it's a losing battle(rune)
It is her car. Metallic purple finish gleaming beneath a layer of roaddust, scattered with the bodies of at least a dozen kamikaze insects - were it not winter, were it not so damn cold - there would be more. Headlights shining on into darkness, high beams defining a narrowing arc of light ahead of them, unbreached and unseen, reflected back by the roadsigns and milemarkers, irridescent beneath the incandescent glow."Then get in, won't you?"
It's night. The road ahead is dark, but she's wearing sunglasses nonetheless: another shield behind which she can hide. Either she's completely foolish, or she's been driving since before sunset, or she doesn't want to catch even a glimpse of her own gaze reflected back at her in the rearview mirror. One. of. those. days.
"One of those days?"
He tries his little grin for her, and she attempts a teasing tone. It works for neither of them. Above, the moon is full and pregnant, riding high in the smog-filled sky, skimming behind a bank of feathery cirrus clouds that refract the nuclear-blast glow of the concrete sprawl beneath. The moon is clear, and its light casts a hazy corona that lights the thin wisps of white clouds, a circular almost-rainbow, but darker and dirtier, far more baleful, for the cooling colors of the spectrum have been lost, and the white glow ends in concentric circles of browns and yellows and reds.
"Or maybe I should say - " she leans across the gearshift, one pale arm outflung like a desert snake, gleaming pale beneath the diamonddust glow of the full fucking moon. There's something different about her tonight: not an inch of leather visible on her figure, just a little black dress clinging to the long lean curve of her form, leaving arms and legs bare to his view. With a negligent flicker of her wrist, she sends something tumbling from the passenger seat to the floor. The passenger door snicks open just a touch, slides open, and she draws partly back across the divide. " - one of those nights?"
(james)
he looks at her
he actually looks at her
and just about completely forgets about his Rage
just for a moment
(ho. lee. chit.)he actually looks up to her almost teasing eyes above almost teasing tones
then back down again for a breif, blinking, second
(hello? what did you do with Rune?)
he can't help but let his eyes trail down across the clinging black
this is just new for him
he's seen her in thick leather armor
he's seen her in silken tantalizing robe
he's seen her without anything at all to hide her muscular (beautiful) form
but this?
he just drinks it in, in that moment
like a man lost in the desert and she is suddenly the forgiving rain.....dayum.
he's finally able to draw himself back to the crackling present
can never forget your Rage, boy
weight shifting to pull the door open
and slide in, careful of whatever was cast to the floor
slouching on the expensive leather in strung tight defeat"Yeh. Was at Eliza's. Had it out with Decker."
and not matter how much the Modi frustrates him
she can see it - beyond the simmering Rage
he's hurting
that it actually pains him to be angry with a packmate(rune)
His rage is palpable as the corona around the full fucking moon. Her rage is as palpable as that dirtied would-be rainbow too. She can feel him opens the door wider unconcious and perhaps unaware of the full measure of his strength, and she can feel him as he slides into the bucket seat. Beneath the rage, the pain - still raw as the blasted vision of the night sky above them - beneath the pain, the tenterhooks of defeat.As he climbs in, whatever she casts off the seat (her gun) rattles and slides beneath the seat. Her arm shifts further to the side, hand settling familiarly over the gearshift, sliding over the curved leather knob. Lean fingers grip tight, knuckles staining white against already pale skin. it looks like she's about to rip that goddamned thing off. Her hidden eyes graze over his profile, fall to his once-more begrimed trench and sliiiiide on down, before snapping back to his face.
"Fuck."
The word is half-hissed beneath her breath. She should have known this would happen, though at the time she never considered it. Or if she considered it, it was only to be glad he wasn't there. Tendons flex, muscles strain taut in her forearm, fingers curling and uncurling reflexively over the gearshift.
"I'm sorry James. I was there. I let it happen."
There are so many things she wants to do right now. She picks the first one that comes to mind and grabs him by the collar before her hand settles on his shoulder, using him for leverage as she lifts her body in a twisting arc. In the limited space, the manuever is awkward and almost fumbling, despite her feral grace. Curving shoulders bump against the convertible's low roof as she arcs to avoid the gearshift. She manages to settle one knee on the edge of her own seat, but her other leg invades his space.
Her grip on his shoulder tightens as her weight shifts and thumps, finding a center of balance and then her other hand dives into his hair, and then she kisses him, with such blind, driving force that all conscious thought is driven from her mind, she devours him, she inhales him as a drowning man inhales the deadly sea: his last breath before oblivion.
(james)
it's that split second of silence
and within it grows his answer
looking at the white that blooms across her knucklesit's allright
we both know nobody could have stopped him
what happened happened
it's done and over now
the anger has fizzled out
Erik showed up
it's going to be fixed
he'll apologize to Decker for blowing his stacka thousand other little phrases that begin to form in indrawn breath
attention that snaps away from her wrist and looks to her, startled
distracted by her sudden grip, the swing of long legs and body twisting and so suddenly there
whatever he was going to say fades away in the movement of his jaw within the devouring kiss
there was volume there, but it just filters into nothing
swelling again in a low, trembling moan he just can't helpshe put him at a loss
a total, confounded, surprised loss
of all her reactions, this is not the one he expected
not this sudden, blind, driving, violent kiss
and at first he can only take it
then there's the slow realization his hands are still attached
fine black fabric wrinkling beneath their slow smooth across thigh, hip, and flank
climbing to her upper back and shoulders
and as much as he takes, he now returnswhat is it, that happens, when their two spheres of Rage collide
(rune)
Whatever he thought, whatever he was going to say, whatever words he lost beneath her assault: maybe she feels them anyway, breaking across her skin like waves pounding over breakings, streaming into shore. He finds his hands, and his hands find her body, glide over silky stuff like oil over water, skimming the sweet, twisting surface of her body as they plunder each other, each to each.His hands settle on the convex curve of her upper back, where it bleeds into the taut strength of her shoulders, and he can feel the tension in her - of the last days and nights, of the fight and its aftermath, of the unreasoning rage of her packmate and the ridiculous follies of that long fucking night, of the full moon riding high high high in the curve of the sky above. He can feel that tension as it draws tight, and tighter and tighter through her body, to be released in the long devouring kiss.
(I'll tell you all about it sometime.) She must come up for air sometime. She must come up for more air than the brief, gasping breaths drawn sidelong in the midst of the hard, desperate kiss. She must come up for air. (I need to tell you all about it sometime.)
And she does, at last. She does.
She breaks the kiss as last, sliding her cool cheek alongside his (the window is still open, the nightbreeze whips through the open window, sending her hair scattering across his cheek and jaw, tumbling into his eyes), and her mouth finds his skin at last. Her breaths are short and sharp, gasping little things that distend her shoulders and back against his strong hands splayed open, and his knuckles graze the roof. She breaks the kiss at last, but does not collapse against him: the close, awkward quarters and her precarious balance, poised between their two seats will see to that.
"I want to tell you what happened." Her voice is low and urgent, raw with the presence of her rage. "I'm going to tell you what happened. But I need - " she breaks off, her teeth scrap hard along his cheek, blind contact with his cheekbone, following the rising line toward his ear. " - but first. First." Another harsh breath. Somewhere in the middle of all this, her dark glasses have fallen from her eyes, tumbled down his torso. She begins shifting her weight back to her side of the car, and the small movement dislodges them further; they fall to the side, clattering between the passenger's seat and the door. Another eighteen-wheeler trundles by, the force of its passage, the vortex of air behind it shaking the small car violently. Her hand twists in his hair, hard, seeking stability. "We need to go somewhere."
"Now."
(james)
he's lost in that kiss
he's lost in that desperation
he's lost, completely, annihiliatedly, LOST in her
(gaia i've missed you)
half scrambling back to the surface after she comes up for air...what? air?
what's this... air?
we need air?
no... wait... come back here...
I thought you were my air....even so blisteringly close, he can focus on her
their eyes should cross, but he's found way to focus on her so minutely there is no need
even if he can only see the barest glimpse of her in the darkness - he can see all
he wants to chase after the kiss
he wants to silence the gasping breaths
all he wants is to fulfill that needhe doesn't want to let go as she moves away
teeth close on lower lip to feel the twist in dreads
see? she didn't want to let go either
he can't help the raise of his chin
the grip that stretches his throat to exposure
even now.... he submits
swallowing hard"That hotel should only be a few miles up."
pointing a hand rather than moving against her grip to nod
what hotel? the one where he discovered room service wasn't only an urban legend
and boots brace against floorboards when the Beemer launches back onto the road(rune)
She didn't want to let go either, but she did, somehow. Somehow she let go of him. Somehow she freed him. Somehow she settled into the driver's seat and fumbled for the gear shift (first. first. first, goddamnit. first. where the fuck is first. fucking. gear?) and launched the Beemer onto the road.(Follow that semi!)
The full-moon-rage, the aggression and want of the kiss they shared (it's been a fucking. week.) is sublimated into the rote rhythm of driving. And so Rune drives: fast. and hard. (traffic laws? what the hell are traffic laws?) hurtling them forward and weaving in and out of the heavy holiday traffic. They're a silver (...well, purple) bullet searing through the night, bright lights blinding fellow drivers and everyone in the opposite lanes, tires literally squealing (like. a. stuck. pig. another trip to the BMW dealership is in her future, though this one will be all her own fault) as she crosses two lanes of traffic and flings them toward the exit.
What hotel? Oh, that hotel. Bet they remember us.
And there it is. Right in front of them. The wide glass doors reflect the brights back at them screamingly, eye-splittingly, but Rune doesn't seem to notice. Somehow she grabs her keys from the ignition and her coat from the narrow back and climbs out of the car. She doesn't bother to wait for him. She doesn't even look back. She doesn't look forward, either, because she paused to get her coat and he could be three steps ahead of her. That could be him opening the glass doors with a whoosh of hot air (it's frigid out here, and her arms and legs and shoulders are bare, and her heels clatter against the pavement and scattered salt crunches beneath the driving force of every step but she doesn't. fucking. notice.). That could well be him, but she keeps her eyes cast firmly to ground, and then the floor as she marches toward the front desk and fumbles for a credit card from her wallet in the front pocket of her coat, now dangling from one finger of her left hand.
She doesn't look at him, not even after the room is bought and paid for, and the key is in her hand. Certainly not as she thrusts a hundred dollar bill toward the front desk clerk with promise of more - "Park my car. Don't fucking hurt it and there'll be another one like this tomorrow." - along with her keys. No, she doesn't look at him. She just looks at her key to get the room number.
She doesn't look at him at all at; if she did, something might happen.
(james)
she doesn't look at him
he, most definitely, looks at her
still amazed by that (amazing!) dress
the car forgotten
the clerk forgotten
and he didn't drag his eyes away from her long enough to get the room numberhe just follows
we've been here before
not just physically
we've been here
I've stalked you, through this lobby
I've hunted you, through these hallways
and I've caught you, in this elevator
and I've pillaged you, beyondwhen the doors whisper shut behind them
he gives her only the time it takes to hit the proper button
that's when he forces her to look at him
he does it with placement of hands on her waist
trailing over and around and up to her shoulders
hands that suddenly push, and keep pushing until she thumps back against the elevator wall
and that's him, suddenly as close to her as she put herself to him in the Beemer
there's a bare inch between them
(it's. been. a. WEEK.)she can still feel it
the trembling sphere of rage that's crackling around him
the dark storm that has suddenly reignited within darker eyes
pupil swollen to nearly claim entire iris - just as the silver orb swells pregnant in the sky
his lips part on inhale
drawing the scents that roil off of her
smelling her, tasting her, outright feeling her without yet touching
and his hands slide down shoulders to arms
and his hands slide down arms to circle her wrists
and his hands splay, fingers twining slowly in a grip that would be harsh to any others
and his hands rise, with hers, drawing them both above their heads
pinning her against the wall
for that single, indrawn, breaththat's when the elevator dings
and the doors slide open
and the keycard stolen from her grasp
already he's pulled away and walking down the hall
(rune)
They've been here before.He has stalked her through this lobby, and he has hunted her through these hallways, and he has caughter her in this elevator (and he has pillaged her, beyond). And then the elevator dings and the doors woosh open, and then it is her turn to stalk him.
She remains there - hands upflung above her head, sliding slowly down alongside, collapsing in a long hissing whisper against the padded wall as if she were making snow angels (and there are no angels here), mind fucking reeling from the veritable assault of his presence, body whip-taut and so fucking still (hold. it. together. and not. much. farther. now.) that she forgets to breathe for three seconds, or ten, or thirty.
The elevator door is starting to slide closed. She physically interposes herself between the closing door and the metal frame beyond, accepting the brunt of the push without noticing how heavy it is. There's a muttered curse as her hands fold over the door and push it back, allowing her to sliiiiiide on through, like a serpent in the garden.
He's three steps ahead. He's five steps ahead. He's half-way down the fucking hallway already, but her legs are long and her strides and longer and she moves faster than any individual creature walking on two legs on this gaia's green (and red and black and paved over and dying) earth has a right to do. She's moving like an animal. Her strides devour the distance. She is a hunter, and it doesn't matter that this is a quiet, plush hallway (it could be a jungle, it could be a dank and dirty street, it could be the fucking moon for all she cares): she. will. have. her prey.
He slides the keycard into the reader, watching as the light slips from red to green (go! ...and don't worry about the two hundred dollars). It's his hand on the knob, twisting to tumble the locks open, but it's her hand - her hands - on his shoulders from behind, pushing the door open (pushing him into the opening door. somehow it all works out.) and following close in his wake.
And then they're inside. The door is suddenly the other way, the darkened room before them. And the door - well, it's closing too slowly for her liking (they need their privacy) - and she's reversing direction, pulling him back with her, straining to shift his forward momentum into backward momentum until she crashes against the door which crashes closed and he crashes back into her.
Somewhere along the way, he lost his trenchcoat. Now, her hands are diving for his skin.
(james)
the hand in his collar shifts direction
the conscious weight and want sends him back to her like a crashing wave
she pulls, and he steps, he pounces, he hurls himself through the air between them
suddenly coming through some curtain and invading her world
if life is a stage - he just set the play into a Holy Warthe plot is scorched earth
(you've asked me to make you burn.... can you handle it again)
the theme is unadulterated revenge
(how dare you be away from me a week)
the mood is heavy, dark and vicious
(how dare you.....)whatever it is that drives her stress
whatever it is that's wrought tension through her as iron
whatever it is that's kept her from him is gone. now.
she's not allowed to think of it
she's not allowed to remember it
she's not allowed to think of anything. but. him.because in the nights he's slept alone
he couldn't think of anything. but. her.his hands in their quest
his lips in their conquest
the sudden rip of fabric beneath her nails
the give and break of his flesh beneathsomewhere in the night a storm grows to cloud the pregnant moon
inside, it's already torrential downpour
whatever it is Luna held within her birthed into a greedy beast
arms wind, hands crawling to find their way between her back and the door
her weight lifted as if it were nothing
(but. she's. everything.)
her legs wrapped around his waistand he's moving away from the door they so brutally closed
(not good enough)
he's taking her back further into the darkness
some savage animal dragging prey further into it's santuary cave
right now there's no pack to judge
right now there's no stories to worry
right now there's no saving grace - only a demon's lusting calltonight, for now, in the darkness
where he's seen things she will never see
he's heard things she will never admit were spoken
he's felt things he thought were dead and buried
tonight
she's
his[pause]
Posted by james at December 18, 2002 12:00 AM