drums-on-skulls: .11.16.02.

November 16, 2002

.11.16.02. - not yet [rune]

(ruine)
The Beemer's headlights slash through the rain, which seems to move in odd freeze frames through the brights, like some old black and white flickerflaring through a nickelodeon. Rune pulls into her customary place, cuts the lights and then ignition before dashing through the raindrops (not. quite.) onto the shelter of the porch.

She fumbles with her keys for a minute, then lets herself into the condo and wanders into the living room. Tossing her keys on the breakfast bar, she circles to the fridge (first things first) and grabs a beer, before returning and flinging herself onto the couch. The blankets are still there, though somewhat neatened up, and she pulls one over her lap as she bends to inspect the trench.

Dark brows rise in concert as she examines the coat, then threaten to shoot up into her hairline as she plucks the card from the table and glances over the message. The faint sigh she breathes out is drowned by the pop and hiss of the opening beer bottle.

"...fuck." Well, that about summed it up.

(james)
"Little more eloquent than I was."

sighed, softly
the Gnawer moving down the stairs
roughing up his dreads with a towel
been wet enough for one day
gray cargos scuffing the floor
he didn't even bother with a shirt

stopping with a hip leaning against the back of the couch
looking from her
to the trench
then back to her
...... yea.... her

unable to help the silly little grin
offering the towel

(rune)
Rune grabs the towel from his hand, an (almost) echo of the silly grin finding its way to her mouth (where it slipslides sideways into a selfconscious smirk) and then her eyes (where it does not). Most of the towel is balled in her capable hands, but she manages to flick him (gently) with the wet of end, somewhere midchest before shaking it out and rubbing it over her dark, wet hair.

"Only a little?" Inevitably, her eyes track back to the trenchcoat on the table. When she continues, her voice is thickened with the tendrils of impotent frustration (the full moon is coming, baby. the full fucking moon.). "Least we can't add bad taste to the list of his crimes."

Of course, it didn't matter. Being a leech? Is enough.

(james)
he knows it
he feels it too
that edgy ripple that begins niggling just between his shoulder blades
it's coming, allright

without the towel
and perhaps inciting another flick
the Gnawer sliiiiiides over the back of the couch
settling comfortably on the warm leather

"Decker had to ask me twice what it was..."

absently waving at the wall that separates the condos
too bad the totem phone didn't have voice mail
from the way he looks at it
the jacket unsettles him
and it's not because of who it's from

"Haven't even put it on yet."

half mumbled
he's almost..... wary of it
easily forgetting it as weight shifts towards her
attention redirecting and focusing

he'd ask how her day was
but the question already dances in brown eyes

(rune)
"S'probably for the best. Wouldn't want 'em to think we're... beholden to 'em. Still," she continues, another trailing glance towards the garment that so unnerves him and almost... wistful. The only thing that bothers her about the trenchcoat is the person who sent it; likely, she couldn't begin to understand James' feelings about it even if he explained them to her. "It's a really nice one. Shame a freakin' leech gave it to you."

He incites another flick, and (distracted from her darker ruminations. so easily distracted in his presence) she flicks, harder this time - just enough to sting - catching him lower on his bare flank, exposed by the swing of his muscled arm.

The mute question in his eyes she reads easily enough - strange, that, she doesn't even need to think about it - and she offers a faint shrug in reply, accompanied by a (yes that would be a shit-eatin') grin. "...got the window stuff figured out. One of the Fang's relatives came by and wrote me a check for it. Won't be good 'til Friday, though, so we'll be camping out at least another week and a half."

(james)
muscle flinches beneath the flick
but it only brings a smile
sly - across the entirety of his features
hand twisting to flatten over leather
swinging arm sliding down to sneak between her hips and the pillows
the other cast across her thighs

it's a chance, yes

but right now he doesn't care (sub. mit.)
body folding until shoulders snug against her
dreads sprawling across lap
cheek flattening against taught thigh
dark eyes watching the mysterious package

he won't speak of how it makes him feel
rather murmuring

"Guess you'll want me to make it warm for you again...."

(rune)
Even now, there's a part of her that just wants to kick the damn thing off the table and stuff it under the couch, so she need not think about the gift or its convoluted implications. Even now, when she is suddenly (deliciously) distracted by his arm snaking behind her hips and the frission of electricity sparks across her skin at the simple touch.

"You always make me warm, James." He can feel the heat in her body, the way his touch makes her pulse leap, even if only in the sudden taut awareness of his presence arching through the muscles framing her lumbar spine. She leans lower, body folding into a slender crescent as the longest strands of her spill across his trapping arm and tangle with his spilling dreads. "You always make me warm."

She is not yet so distracted, though, that she cannot manage another flick. Less stinging, more teasing than the last, it catches him on the curve of his broad shoulder as she seeks out and captures his eyes.

"And I suppose you'll want me to kiss that and make it all better..."

(james)
the warmth
the growing aggression
the tiny little scents that suddenly leak from her flesh
he can smell it beyond the rain's drench
he can smell it beyond the leather and the smoke
how easy it is for him to focus completely. on. her.

how it draws a smile further upon his lips
the wistful now wanton
the withdrawn now wild
muscle flexing beneath the tiniest hint of pink from the towel's corner
twisting on the couch, to his back
how easy it is for him to find the dark pools of. her. eyes.

there's a sound - soft, inviting
hands reaching to tangle fingers in spilling strands
his belly exposed, hands tighten
drawing her closer to him even though his own head lifts
murmuring against her lips

"Not yet."

how easy it is for his mouth to find. hers

(rune)
How easily his mouth finds hers (lips parting as she swallows hot breath that gave wings to his murmured words. and then. more.) and how easily - how assuredly - she responds to him, one hand falling twist amongst the tangle of dreadlocks as the other finds his skin.

The wandering hand finds and traces the already fading little welt raised by the flick of the wet towel, then curves down over his shoulder. It's a slow, familiar path she travels, even as she drowns in (and devours) him: over the muscled curve of his shoulder, down across the hard, sure lines of his chest as it tapers to his abdomen, lower and lower until the fine, sharp nails slide teasingly over the frayed wasteband of his BDUs. Somewhere in the middle - some breath, caught necessarily in a half-instant - he can feel her mouth curving against his, a long, slow smile.

"Not yet," she echoes, and her voice thrums low in her throat, "then when?"

Posted by james at November 16, 2002 12:00 AM

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