January 16, 2003.01.16.03. - quiet [rune][north jersey]
(james)
the condo's dark
after Tristan passed out on the couch during a game of CounterStrike
the Gnawer moved out onto the balcony
still feeling a little guilty for laying the kid out
he didn't want to keep playing the game
even if he's sure it wouldn't disturb the kin anwyayso he's out on the balcony
boots crossed on the ballustrade
long legs stretching between the chair and sculpted cement
slouched down in the patio chair
aaaaallll the way until the base of his skull rests against the top of the backrest
dreads are in some lazy disarray
spread out across his shoulders and chest
couple probably hanging over the back of the chair
dark eyes half closed
absently blowing coils of smoke into the night air(rune)
The condo's dark when she comes home, another stranger passed out on her couch. It's not an unusual occurence, not in the least. Rune tosses her keys on the counter and shakes some few snowflakes out of her hair, then bends to study him.Still breathing. Always a good sign.
From living room to kitchen - not yet bothering to shed her coat, gloves and scarf - where she stops to grab a beer (should make it a fucking hot toddy. Of course, she's not sure how to make one of those.), from kitchen to balcony, cigarettes in hand, following the familiar pull of pack and -
pack and -
pack and -
him.The glass doors hiss quietly on their track - open, closed - and the Glass Walker sliiiides on out, flipping her fur collar up against the sudden blast of wind. Sharp and clear, the scents in a winter night, carrying farther than they would on humid air. Sharp and clean, her particular scents, soon cut through by the sudden ashen assault of another cigarette (lit with another hiss, different and cadence and quality than the long, low protest of the opening doors).
She's behind him, in the narrow space between the patio chair and the brick wall, body fitted to an easy, slouching curve. She's behind him, and there's no one else around, and so her free hand finds his hair, crawls through the spilling dreadlocks. Then her shadow falls across him - her shadows, myriad and diffuse from all the many faint sources of ambient light - as she bends to brush chill lips across his temple. "Fucking cold out here." she murmurs against his skin, breath spilling warm across his flesh. "Good night?"
(james)
he didn't have to watch the parking lot to know she was home
beyond the purr of the Beemer's engine shutting down
beyond the harsh snap of heels battering the sidewalk in bold stride
beyond the sound of the door opening, keys clattering, fridge relinquishing its contents
he can feel her coming home, out onto the balconypack
and a slow smile creeps across his lips
(lower still split and swollen from the hit)
ankles rotate in his boots
weight shifting backwards in the chair
lifting the two front legs off the ground
and leaning back into herjaw rising as he presses back into the crawling touch
cheek curving from the smile that begins from soft kiss
and one arm lifts, reaching back to snake around her waist"That's Tristan, inside, my Kin."
barely a murmur laced with smoke
long and low and husked
he's been sitting out here for awhile now
all tucked warmly in layers and the trench"Had some fun at the studio."
which would explain the split lip and the bruised Kin
(rune)
"That explains it then." The response, quiet in the quiet dark. Impossibly so. It's snowing, and the world is hushed and white. The complex is dark except for the everpresent haze of security lights, and the roadsounds are dampened by the slow-falling flakes. "This." His jaw rises, her hand snakes down across from brow to cheek, cheek to jaw, jaw to split and bloodied mouth, tracing the curve of mouth, tentative only around the wound. "And him."He pushes the chair back and into her. She straightens, then, shoulders pressed against the wall bracing for leverage, and pulls him back even farther, until the chair is almost fully reclined, balanced against her strong thighs and he's looking straight up at her. She looks right back down at him, inky hair spilling across her cheek, fuck-me-red mouth curved into a rare and familiar half-smile.
Some semblance of perfect balance achieved, she lifts her cigarette to her mouth. Inhales. Blows smoke way up into the nuclear orange sky and favors him with a sly, sliding look. "I knew I didn't give you that one." Her left hand has not left his face, fingers splayed beneath his jaw, thumb an exploratory pressure against his mouth. "I could give you another to match it, though."
(james)
there's a soft laugh
thick, rising up from his chest
the implicit trust as she leans him back
unable to help the grin at the tentative trace
there's a part of him that wants to playfully bite at her fingers
but the majority of him revels in the exploring caress
(how rare this is)that's about when deep umber eyes, the color of rich earth, open fully
looking up at her
looking past the cling of leather
looking past the bulk of heavy coat
looking past the planes and swells it covers
right up to the strong line of delicate jaw
and that red, red, red..... smile"Nope, this one wasn't you at all."
sly, perhaps challenging
how easily he accepts the marks she puts on him
(how much a part of him craves that possession)
navigating a drag off his smoke to not get ashes on her fingers
then a slow exhale past that lingering thumb
allowing the smoke to crawl up her form
mixed in with the moist fog of breath
the part of lips forming into a slow, slow smile"I..... wouldn't mind a matching set."
(rune)
"No?" Arch, playful, the word, perfectly accompanied by the knowing look cast down from beneath lowered lashes. Her chin is held high, and the planes of her face are nothing short of haughty, leavened only by the sly grace of her widening smile. "What if I wanted to see them in triplicate, hmmm?"The lean form ripples with movement, wave-like, beginning somewhere in the hips and tracing a lingering arc through her figure. It's just enough to unsettle the chair, just enough to give him the brief sensation of unbalance, free-fall, before she catches the lip of the patio chair with her hand, cigarette curled so as not to sizzle against his dreadlocks, and settles him back against her.
"We have company, though." The faintest gesture of her head, chin lifting in the direction of the condominium behind them. Her thumb grazes the broken flesh of his mouth, presses. Releases. And her voice comes from someplace low - quiet now, in answering challenge - as she finds his gaze again. "You'd have to be very, very quiet." There's a pause, a beat, three. She lifts her cigarette to her mouth once more, and indulges in a long, poisoned breath, then exhales it to the night. Lower still, her voice. Patently wicked, her curling smile. "You'd have to keep me quiet, too."
(james)
"Then I?"low, so very low
maybe it's not really spoken
maybe it's something they just know"Would have to give you anything you wanted."
it maybe spoken playfully now
but they both just know
he would always give her anything she wanted
anything she cared to ask for
the severity of the stated offer allowed to drift away like the pluming smoke
and the flailing Gnawerarm around her waist cinching down to keep his balance
even if he knows she'd catch him
it's all in their little game
then the arm uncoils from it's perch
fingers trailing up her flank
then wrapping in the turned up collar
bicep contract to slowly. pull. her. down.
knowing how he can take advantage of her supple curves
as she folds over him
his weight shifts foward
wicked smile matched inverted against wicked smile
softly hissing against her lips"Think I can find something to put in your mouth to keep you quiet."
(rune)
The cigarette falls from her hand, hot embers hissing a susserant sigh as they die in the wet accumulation of snow on concrete. The sound is matched and overtaken by the hissing exhale of her breath, which spills hot between their wicked smiles, across his broken mouth. Dark hair spills down, the blunt-cut ends tickling soft against his cheek, counterpoint to the catch and grab of flat enamel - brief, hard - upon his broken lip."I don't know about that. You might be getting overconfident. You know - " His lower lip released, though her mouth lingers, parted, a fraction of a inch above his, curved into a knowing challenge of a grin. " - how you make me scream."
His weight shifts forward, and she pushes him the last few degrees of the lowering angle, until all four legs of the abused chair are settled against the concrete patio. Contact is not broken, though, for her body follows the motion with serpentine, implicit grace: shoulders rising as the chairback rises, as he body rises, the long low slung line of her back lifting into into only a crescent curve. His hand is still folded in the lustrous black fur lining her collar, and now her own hand finds purchase in the rough patchwork trench, dragging him upward as he finds his feet. Some smooth swivel of hip and thigh sends the chair clattering to the side, so that there is nothing between them - nothing but a brief draught of cold air, darkspace, heavy with gravity, magnetic, charged, defined by the length of his strong arm, confined by the length of her own.
Show me.
The words are not spoken. They're not even thought. They exchange is physical, material, spun across the space between them, communicated by the fierce grip of her hand (knuckles whitening from the strain) and the challenge of her lifting jaw.
She is stalking backward. He is stalking forward. They are animals beneath the nuclear orange sky. Somehow she collides with the sliding door. Somehow (the flail of her free hand, behind her) she manages to get it open. And still: she is stalking backward. He is stalking forward, into the quiet, humid dark, silent now, by for the slow, deliberate pacing of their breathing. Silent. They are animals. Such fucking wicked animals.
Now.
Posted by james at January 16, 2003 12:00 AM
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