February 06, 2003.02.06.03. - fleshtones [rune][jesey city]
(rune)
He woke not to the sound of the shower (though it was in the back of his mind, it permeated the last levels of dreaming sleep, the rush of close water, the groan of pipes in the walls, the faint threading certainty of steam seeping beneath the door to the bathroom) but to her weight settled easily, casually - never entirely casually - across above him. The waterbed dipped and sighed beneath her knees, settled on either side of his waist, and then once more as she leaned forward, balancing on an outflung hand, two bearing points become three.She was fully dressed. He had only the twisted remnants of sheets for (bare) modesty, and at first it seemed it would be one of those nights were waking becomes play, and play becomes - eventually, a long eventually - sleep, without anything more productive getting done. "Wake up, sleepyhead." Her mouth brushed - a faint, hot little caress - from the corner of his lips along his cheek, until it settled next to his ear. "...waaaaaake, up." She lingered there, in suspended animation, her body curved like a lowercase e, until he peeled his eyes open and settled his gaze on her. "I want - "
The sudden, sure presence of her weight. The tickle of still-warm, wet strands of her hair across his cheek, the foreshortened plane of her face, sharpened features, lush red mouth curved into an incomprehensibly wicked little smile, the sharp sensation of her teeth catching the lobe of his ear.
" - to fucking. go. shopping."
By then, it probably wasn't what he had in mind. She was off him in a jiffy, though, the bed roiling beneath her shifting weight, enough movement to make him seasick. Twenty minutes later - showered, dressed - they were consuming the only dish the Glass Walker will deign to (read: can) make with any skill. Appropriately enough: breakfast. Potatoes pan-fried with peppers, onions and sausage, topped with shredded cheese, all washed down with (breakfast of champions) Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. An hour later, they were pulling into the parking garage beneath Neiman Marcus in the central city mall in downtown Jersey City. The sun was just setting - long slanting light spilling through the marching ranks of skyscrappers, professionals wandering out of their offices in search of a drink, or three, or a negligée for the evening's fun. The Glass Walker climbed from the car and beeped the car alarm on, lighting a cigarette to consume on the brief walk through the chill concrete garage, still smiling that wicked little smile.
Hell, sometimes shopping (when the moon is still a sliver of light in the sky, when the dark surety of rage that comes with Luna's full light has not yet carved itself on their warrior's souls) was almost as good as sex.
(james)
the bed dipped and swayed some pleasent sea rolling beneath his dreams
the sound of waves whispering up against the sandy shore
the heat of a body pressing close (showered, clean, moist) like the sun's rays warming
even before he wakes fully hands being to reach and crawl up her thighs
(wake up, sleepyhead)
sliiiiiding over smooth.... leather?
hm, apparently this was not a crawl back into bed morning? er... afternoon
(waaaaaaake up)
a smile forms beneath the faint, hot little caressing pressure of her lips
whatever distance he had put between himself and sleep somewhat visited again
a rather content waking sigh as eyes fall closed, head instinctively tilting against her breath
fingers splaying over length of thigh muscle to grasp her hips
well, he'll just make it a crawl back into bed mor...afternoon
(i want)
oh. yes. I want, too.
let me do something about these pants
(to fucking. go. shopping)arooo?
dark brow lifts
she's pulling from his clutches, he's sitting up to playfully grab after her
the bed rocking and rolling hard enough to all but toss him out
all that's probably still holding him there other than gravity is the modestly (barely) covering sheet"Shopping, huh?" laughed "Guess today's war is at the mall."
nope, no crawling back into bed for the Gnawer
twenty minutes later they're at the breakfast bar
sixty minutes later they're parking the Beemer
little motor purring itself into echoes within the concrete garage
the yellow arming flash bouncing off the walls and countless other carsone arm extends to steal her cigarette
strippa pink cancer stick twirled between fingers with drummer's grace
gold filter dents between teeth, sly glance above the teasing smile
hands freed to pull the rubber band "borrowed" from her out of the pocket of black Levi's
yeh.... Levi's
figuring his normal faire would stand out
(the way she was beaming and bouncing this was no mere outlet mall trip)
he fit himself into the nice and new jeans, and the dark charcoal sweater
completing the ensemble with tying dreads into a loose ponytail
and only then does he hand the smoke backwell hot damn, he can clean up
(rune)
He can clean up. Of course, she already knew that - in a manner of speaking - after countless hours spent with him beneath the scalding jets of the fancy-schmancy shower, with its multiple showerheads and sauna feature. (Okay: few of those hours were spent in actual, actively cleaning mode, but the principle remains.) She already knew that, but that doesn't stop the slow crawl of her appreciative glance - beginning at the crown of his head, where thick dreads create long rough furrows, pulled back as they are into the make-shift, down over his features (lingering on his warm dark eyes) and then lower: the charcoal sweater draped across muscled shoulders, half-revealing, half-concealing the strong physique beneath. Flat abdomen, slim hips, muscled thighs - yeah, baby. She'll get as many envious, sharp, catty little glances as he will (what's he got that I don't have? what's she got that I don't have?) and the approval lingers in her eyes, in the shape of her lascivious little smile.You look good. She doesn't say it. She doesn't even think it, but it's there all the same, plain enough for him to read even in the shifting glare of harsh incadescent light from the bare bulbs lighting the way up the steps into the posh downtown mall.
Booted feet clatter on the concrete steps leading to the faux-marble foyer, with its wealth of green plants bioengineered to withstand the constant assault of exhaust fumes from the parking garage and gleaming glass double-doors. The Glass Walker isn't just walking, she's prowling. If she were a lion, this would be her serengetti.
"Spring's been out for a while - " she comments, offhandedly tossing the remnants of her strippa pink cigarette into the convenient recepticle before the doors. " - but summer..." It's hard to imagine what she's going to buy. It's hard to imagine why she's so damn excited, anyway. She wears close to the same damn uniform every night: leather pants supple as a dream, and some sort of turtleneck, blouse or sweater atop that. "I'm so tired of fucking boots. I want some new shoes. Strappy little... sandal things. And, hell - " the flash of amused glance, as she swings open the doors and strides into the overstuffed overpriced overhyped department store. " - maybe you can help me pick out a new bikini."
(james)
it's a sideways glance that catches her look
the little three word long phrase that lingers (burns) in it
his smile may have been worthy of a Ragabash, earlier
but now it waxes a little shy
it's not as sharp around the edges
there's a change in the way skin wrinkles around warm eyes
chin tucking down a little towards collarbones
dark dark gaze lifting to glance back, then slash awaysure, he looks at her that way all the time
when she's all excited about going shopping for frivolous, expensive things which she doesn't need much less could fit into her closet but that she wants it and there's that warm glow of anticipatory satisfaction
when she's dressed to the nines in leather and cashmere, crisp and clean and unforgettably stylishly lethal
when she's first crawling out of bed in the morning (afternoon, evening) with the pattern of twisted sheets pressed into her skin, make-up smeared by passion and hair tangled by sweat, stretching out sore muscles through swaying walk into the bathroom and he steals that little quarter-conscious glance before passing back out again
when she's been gone for four days without word, dressed in some cheap t-shirt and boxers, not a shred of make-up or style or normalcy
she always looks good to him
just because she's her
.... but to have that returned....just grab the door James
hold it open like a good boy
even if she's independant enough to open it herself"Strappy little.... sandle things....." hands settle firmly on her shoulders, playfully turning her left instead of right as she had originally directed, not like he knows which department that heads them to ".... can wait."
that grin is back
so strange to see on a Hood in a ridiculously posh and overpriced store
fifty dollars can clothe him for a year, all seasons included, if not longer
and he knows that won't even buy half of a single thing she's interested in
most would think he would be uncomfortable here, out of place
he is - there's no doubt of that - out of place, at least
he's never even been in a place with price tags this high
most would think he'd disapprove, of the way she carelessly spends money
but.... he doesn't
others need, and a Hood provides
and this, she needs
whether it's the clothing, the shoes, the Stuff, or just his company - it results in her happiness
she needs it, and so he willingly provides
for as much as he knows she spoils herself
he is well aware of her generosity where it counts(rune)
"Oh?" her smile is arched, matched by the singular rise of a sharp dark brow, cast half across her shoulder at him as she moves at his direction. Shoulder sliding beneath his hand, turning and moving but never breaking that point of contact - warm and strong and sure - because, hell, right now even that playful little gesture, sedate and chaste as it is, makes her grin like a fucking a loon. "Strappy sandals can wait, but - " the flicker of an amused glance, ahead of them, hands spreading, arms lifting in a grandiouse gesture. "...but you just turned us toward the make-up section."Past several overstuffed racks of lower-priced (meaning, in a place like this, $50-$100) spring fashions, about to head toward the clearance rack even though they're not even through with the worst of winter yet), around the faux-market-pushcart brimming with Godiva chocolates, into the vast, lab-coated land dotted with little pseudo-scientific plantations of make-up counters. Estee Lauder. Clinique. Elizabeth Taylor. Whatever. Each an island of gleaming glass and metal and infinite colors, staffed by men and women whose skin has not breathed through anything less than three layers of "product" in six years (minimum. It's part of the job requirement.)
She stops, abruptly enough that he has to all but run into her (and that was the point, really), hand stealing to settle atop his atop her shoulder, pulling it down to curve around her waist and just - well - enjoy the warmth of his strong presence.
"Were you hoping to find a lipstick that looks a little better on your - " tossed across her shoulder, the flash of wicked suggestion, the bare curve of a smile that flashes only the hint of white teeth behind lush red mouth. Hmm-hmm. She clears her throat and smiles, wide and blatantly innocent of any possible suggestion that he might ever take from those words. " - collar?"
Even though they're blocking the aisle (maybe because they're blocking the aisle) and other shoppers must turn and retrace their steps to circle the Godiva stand, she lingers there another moment or three. Safe. They're fucking safe, here. It's not like they're going to find Decker or Erik consulting the starched, stretched woman (another face-lift and you'll be able to see her brain through her nostrils) at the Clinique counter over the proper skin care regimen.
"I don't think that's necessary. I like the way the one I have now looks - ah - there." The faint nod of her head, forward and to the right. "...but I think the beach fashions are through there. Shall we dare them?"
(james)
make-up
right
well, of course
that, uhm.... er....
at least she's grandly gesturing at the sea of island counters
rather than looking at his expression
she stops right smack in the middle of the aisle
and run into her does
arms sliding, one around her waist, the other trapping her shoulders
chin resting comfortably against sleek, inky hair"Well, of course." leaning a little to the side to catch her wickedly suggestive (no, wait, wide and innocent) look, his one of pure innocense "You said summer fashions are coming up.... don't I need to accessorize?"
they're safe here, indeed
which is why he takes that moment she provides to simply indulge
chest filling with breath against her back
let out in slow, thoughtful murmur"Maybe we can find something that matches your bikini.... then we can find a fitting room and compare shades, hm?"
oh no, he did not forget about wanting to drag her back into bed, did he
slyly looking at her through their close quarters as a brow lifts
then the arm around her shoulders drops
the one around her waist snugging her up to his side
beach fashions.... thattaway(rune)
"Everyone needs to accessorize." The words are pronounced with the haughtiness of a retail queen. Like that one, spraying perfume on anyone not quick enough to dodge, who has forgotten her latest victim and chosen instead to watch them with an odd combination of imperiousness and wistfulness, and only a hint of apprehension. He holds her snug by his side, as their positions shift and they fall in tandem step, and she snakes her own arm around his waist as well, hand settled comfortably on the the slim line of hip, thumb hooked into the belt loop of his black Levi's. "...and I think that includes you."Their path takes them right by the perfume-purveyor. As she holds up her little bottle to spritz them with the latest scent from the latest famous person to decide the masses need to have a chance at wearing her (or his) personal sort of favorite cologne, the Glass Walker hipchecks her lover (an easy, swaying curve of her body that barely breaks her stride) to the side and ducks, enough that the worst of the smelly, humid cloud of perfume falls harmlessly beside them. They have to navigate past another market-y display of overpriced Valentine candies, and suddenly - (though winter howls at the door, though another storm is expected tonight) - it's summer.
Rack upon rack of bathing suits - bikinis, tankinis, swimdresses for the matron-minded, one pieces for the subtle, with bust-enhancing lines and hip-hiding ruffles and more pseudo-science (our powernet! [tm] is made of space-age fibers developed to knit together the space station! now it can be yours. flattening panels keep your tummy tucked! no one will know its there!) and outrageous claims - spread out before them, the sudden heat of sunlamps shining down on their dark heads, beach balls suspended in the air and barely dressed mannequins striking langorous little poses, chin up, arms out, fingers archly splayed.
Rune navigates through the close-packed racks until they come to a particular display - even more expensive, incomprehensible designer names - that suits her taste and budget (unlimited, when it comes to pampering herself) and shoots a watchful glance around before rising on her tip-toes.
"You pick - " the flash of a familiar grin, razor sharp against his ear. It seemed only fitting. He was the only intended audience for a bikini, anyway. With that pale, pale skin, she couldn't be - could never have been - a sunworshipper, and after the beaches of Southern California, she was unlikely to ever settle for the Jersey shore. " - something that you'd like. We can find that fitting room and I'll model."
(james)
being a denizen of Salvation Army or Uncle Sam's
maybe Wal*Mart or Target on a particularly splurging day
he does not have the wherewithall to see through the parfum missionary's guerilla tactics
not like he'd be able to scent it, already the store is near overwhelming
even for his city-bred and abused senses
so perhaps the hipcheck is a blessingeven arm in arm
she maintains her consumerist prowl
the predatory queen escorted by... whatever he is, here
he maintains that easy stroll
and even though they're two such different gaits
still their steps fall in syncopated tandem
his eyes wander
not at the mannequins
not at the other female shoppers
he's actually looking at the merchandise
not out of interest, mere curiosity
many of these expensive expensive expensive things he's only heard aboutand that's why summer surprises him
bikinis and tankinis and alla.... that.... stuff
one pieces and two pieces he could gather from logic
but the rest of it is a sheer mystery
he had spent the entirety of his life until now up in New York state
and not in the places that had private pools or even lakes
you really didn't want to swim in the rivers that ran through the slums
even with an immune system like his
swimming for him consisted of a wrench and fire hydrant
and even then it was iffy or short lived
bodies bathing on beaches were only postcards and calendarsit takes a moment for her whisper to filter in ear exposed by pony-tailed dreads
and he actually tilts his head to look at her
(arooo?)
appearing, for yet another moment, rather lost
(me? pick what? huh?)
brows slowly lift, dark gaze sliiiiiiding back over to the rack
designers names he definitely can't comprehend, much less probably pronouncea very thoughtful "Mm....hm." charging into a Wyrm tunnel is no problem, but a swimsuit rack is something from a whole other reality, a deep breath taken to accept this royal challenge "Ooookay."
swimsuits, they're just... swimsuits
incredibly small, tiny, little, defenseless swimsuits
(good Gaia do these even cover anything?)
but.... what the hell, huh?
he finds something black - slick and savage, like the Ahroun they all know
he finds something white - crocheted and soft, because he knows he'll be the only one to see it
he finds something red - with wicked, wicked lines, just so they don't have to go lipstick shopping
he finds something silver - gleaming metallic, out of sheer irony
he finds something.... strippa... pink - just because of that playfully dark grin on his lips and in his eyes
the last held out to her as his chin tilts up
seems the playfully dark expression has filtered into his humor"So since you're modeling, I guess this'll end up my Valentine's gift?"
like he could. ever. forget his Christmas. Gift.
(rune)
...and she, stands back, arms crossed, body slung in a long, lean slouch, dark eyes just fastened on him as he stands there stunned for one long moment, and then watching him as the light slowly dawns ( - so, these aren't for swimming, are they? - ) and then watching him - amused, darkly amused, wicked light growing in her eyes as he fiddles with straps and cups and plastic hangers and figures out what goes where, what they'll cover, what will be revealed, how quickly, really, he'll be able to get her out of them, how long (not long. never long) they'll last - watching him as he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders and, at last, dives right on in, pawing through the racks and makes his selections.She glances at the size on the first one - wicked and sleek and savage and black, for her, because she is all these things - and both dark brows lift in amused surprise. "Mmm. You got my size right." Should she have expected anything less? By know, he knows her body - the sleek weight, the curving length of it - better than she knows her own. Even if the numbers mean little to him, the shape and breadth of flimsy garment is enough. Bikinis accumulate in her arms, hangers rattling as another, and then another, is added to the pile.
When he makes his last selection, she laughs out loud, some low purr of sound that seems lodged in the back of her throat, rooted somewhere low in her body, near the easy, hipslung center of balance, and smirks knowingly right back at him.
"...and no, it's not your Valentine's present. It's your February 6, 2003 present. I'm going to - " she's circling by him, lean body brushing against his (to avoid bumping into one of the crowding racks, of course, and not to invite further... humor. Not at all.) "surprise you for Valentine's day."
She's already made the reservations.
And then she's past him, leading him back through the narrow-gauge maze, past the women standing in front of mirrors holding suits up to the winter-clad bodies, gauging with narrowed eyes whether - at this time of year, with their New Year's diet only a month old - they dare actually try on something so revealing. Past the clatch of high school girls with their daddies' respective credit cards, picking out their summer suits so they can tan in them now, past the saleswoman drowning in suits and hangers, standing guard over the fitting rooms. She gives James a brief, narrow-eyed glance, then catches sight of the tags on the suits in Rune's arms. Those are the sort of sales that can make or break one's commission for the month, so she waves them back into the luxurious labyrinth of fitting rooms, some of which are large enough to house an entire Gnawer family, with room for random houseguests, particularly on the weekends.
Rune takes her time, ambling through and glancing back - past him, to the harried saleswoman whose figure is now dwindling in the distance (these places are big), before at last choosing last room in the row, opening the door and stepping through.
It's a good thing these are real rooms, with four walls that go all the way to the floor, and actual solid doors with little locks on the handles, because somehow - some subdermal, subconcious, preconcious level of communication (the flash of her grin, the sway of her hip, the hungry length of his striding gait behind her) it's already obvious what she's thinking about.
Inside, the suits on their hangers fall clattering to one of the plush little chairs. She steps back to allow him entrance, then pushes the door closed. Perhaps for form's sake, she picks up a suit and hangs it from the metal hanger by the door before starting the process of shimmying out of her clothes (because she has to strip, damnit, to try them on. and for no other reason. nothing else is on her mind). Her eyes find his after her top has come off - lifted over her head with crossed arms, leaving behind the faint crackle of static electricity through her fine hair - as her hands fall to her waist to begin unbuttoning leather.
"So..." It is a direct look, sharp and sure and certain. "...which one should I try on first?"
(james)
oh yes, he knows her size intimately
the number on a tag means absolutely nothing
maybe it's from the amount of silky lacey underthings he's taken and thrown to the floor
maybe it's from the way his hands have covered and corrupted her flesh in the middle of the (many) night(s)
maybe..... just maybe..... it's from those times that she's already fallen asleep, and he's either stayed awake, or something caused him to resurface from exhastion's haze, laying quietly in the waterbed's arms and listening to her breath, his fingers splayed across her skin or the silken sheets covering it, barely touching, memorizing and tracing and sculpting so infinitely gently all of her curving and sloping form that he can reach, fascinated by the way she reacts to him, even unconsciously, the little sighs and stretches, or the snuggle closer to his larger, heavier form because of the way the mattress sinks or just that the heater hasn't cycled back on
there's a bit of that shy grin, again
because yes, he knows
just like a thousand other little things that he has stored in memory
other such things that she could tell him to get, vaguely, and he'd still be able to find the right onehis surprise at her, well, offer of surprise carries on into the fitting room maze
he never expected anything from her anyway
and to hear she had something planned?
though it fades, reasonably, as the doors and turns continue
she checks back to look at the saleswoman
he looks back to reaffirm there is a way out
a little bewildered, is he
(these are fitting rooms? and not housing complexes?)then the door is closed and locked behind him
static electricity crackles through her hair
his hand is reaching for it held above her head
pulling it away to toss on the fabulously tapestried and carved chair
while that gets a curious glance, he can't keep his eyes from her for long
(okay, he's beginning to like these fitting room things)
lower lip gets sucked between his teeth
choices choices choices - all these colorful choices
red or black or white or silver or freakin'. strippa. pink.then the smile just spreads
one step is all it takes to cross the space between where he stood and where she begins unbuttoning leather
his fingers warm and firm about her wrists, effectively stopping her little show
slowly, he pulls her hands away
dark eyes cast to watch the movement of their limbs
her arms lifted up and away, exchanged between hands, and the pressures along skeleton cause her to turn
another step foward, his chest against her back moving her until palms are placed, flattened, against the tri-fold mirror
the entire time he never looks to her eyes, still watching the physical connection between them
that's when he begins to memorize (worship) her body again
the rough callouses on palms finding their way in meandering path across wrist, bicep, flank, breasts, belly
firm and gentle pressures molding her back against unforgiving strength
sliding down until his fingers can meet the waistband of her pants, creeping to finish the job she began
moist, heated breath finds its way to the side and back of her neck
climbing to mix with the rich scents lingering in her hair
finally..... finally he looks past the dangling strands
glancing up from where his face is tucked against her
answer writ in the smoldering burn within deep, deep umber(he chooses, oh so wickedly, the pale color of her flesh)
Posted by james at February 06, 2003 12:00 AM
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