February 12, 2003.02.12.03. - aftermath [rune][condo - after conversation with erik]
(rune)
The Glass Walker watches their Alpha leave, silently. Dark eyes track his path through the living room, until he disappears around the corner into the foyer. She remains silent - and, now, still - until the retort of the door echoes back to them - open, shut - and waits as the feeling of pack recedes.They can both feel Erik leaving, down the steps (where they first fell) and across the small strip of frozen grass (because the sidewalk meanders in what is thought by the landscape architect to be a bit of pleasing whimsy, which someone as efficient as the Rotagar would ignore in favor of the most direct route) onto the icy blacktop. And more, and away.
Only then does she lift her most recently aquired bottle and drain it in three long gulps, barely pausing to breath. Traceries of lipstick remain on the mouth of the bottle, which she wipes off absently before tossing it into the recycling bin on her way to the fridge for another pair.
"That went - " Clink. Clank. Both bottles are placed on the breakfast bar, the sound ringing quietly in the still room. " - fuck." She does not (usually?) smoke in the condo, but she slips another smoke from its pack and lights up, long fingers curled in a lazy fashion around the filter. The ghost of a bemused but still faintly irritated little smirk lingers around the corners of her mouth. "I don't fucking know how that went."
(james)
it's when the Rotagar finally leaves that everything really sinks in
yes James, you just grabbed your Alpa
yes James, you survived itmellow as the Gnawer pack had been, years ago
and with so much shit they they got away with for the sake of camraderie and play
that's something Cooper would have laid him out onto the concrete for
and here he is pulling the same thing with a Fenrir
granted, a black-moon with a helluva sense of humor
but a Fenrir nonethelesswhen he reaches for the next bottle proffered
it rattles a bit against the tiles because he's shaking
it's from Rage, it's from fear, it's from adrenaline, it's from a lot of things
he wouldn't dare back down in the Get's face
but he's ready to go crawl beneath the coffee table now
cap twists off with a hiss of escaping carbonation
it's a strange harmony to the heavy sigh escaping him"Well." faint gesture towards the door, brows lifting a little "He left with a smile."
shoulders are bars of steel beneath the long sleeved shirt
it's a tension that winds and coils itself uncomfortably down his spine
quietly creeping up through his neck to pulse right at skull base
the attempt to wash it away with half that new beer at one shot is futile(rune)
Odd, this, that she is the calmer of the two. He is still shaking; she is still as a corpse, but for the minute, necessary movements of breathing and smoking. Her arm drifts, lifting cigarette to her red mouth, then falls back to rest against her hip in arthymic movements - whenever the mood strikes her, whenever she needs another spike of nicotine in her feral blood."Who knows what the fuck kind of smile it was." Slim shoulders rise and fall beneath the sleek fabric of her slinky turtleneck. Perhaps she is not the calmer of the two, after all, for tension is expression in the rigid lines of lean muscle stark and flexed beneath the fabric, invisible until she moves. "Least no heads were separated from shoulders."
Her mouth twists into a hard, flat line. Bitter humor - gallows humor - as rigid and frangible as sheeted glass.
"You gonna be okay?"
(james)
there's a moment of stillness
then the beer rattles down against the tiles
then one arm snatches out to steal her pack
(screw attempting to coordinate finding his)
one Carribbean Blue and Gold stick pilferedthere's a pause, in another moment of silence
brow lifting to finally look at the smoke he's chosen
(this will not do)
a moment of humorous rearranging as this time he looks into the pack
replacing the blue and shaking them around until he finds the strippa pink
.... just becauseher lighter used to set flame to the finely crafted end
a long inhale held, feeling the smoke roil around in his lungs
it's exhaled up and out through sinuses and nostrils
painting his senses with nicoteine and tar to blacken out what else he smells
that tinge of fear and adrenaline and a thousand other things seeping out from his own flesh"I.... dunno." it's thoughtful, slowly constructed "I do still have my head.... even if I'm about to piss myself realizing what I did. It just."
jaw skews in thought
lower lip sliding somewhat left in thought
indenting as flesh is sucked and nibbled between teeth
that silky smooth part just inside
dark gaze drops to study the smoke and beer in his hands"I just lost it hearing him say that."
(rune)
She tracks his movement with a lazy, half-lidded gaze, withdrawn and subdued, watching the flex and coil of muscles in his forearm as he puts down his beer and reaches to steal her cigarettes, watching, still, as he pulls out the Caribbean blue cancer stick, calloused fingers against the gold-papered filter, such a strange contrast. He puts it back, and she lifts a fine, arched brow in mirror to his own, the only expression that graces her features until he settles on strippa pink. Then, the corner of her mouth curls upward in a private little smirk - an odd little expression, almost a smile - and he can read the drift of amusement in her dark eyes.Her unsettled gaze remains on him, watching minute shift of muscles beneath flesh as he lights the cigarette and inhales, the relaxation - a physical change - in the exhale, and the slow movement of his mouth to form the words as he speaks.
"I know."
Quietly spoken. She says no more than that. She says only that, and it speaks such quiet volumes. She knows he lost it. She knows why he lost it. She knows - indeed - how much farther it could have gone. She knows the hollow space beneath the cage of his chest as well as she knows the weight of his body, the shape of his shoulder beneath her hands, the rough texture of his hair beneath her impossible soft (pampered, spoiled rotten) hands that have never known a day of honest work.
"I know, James."
(james)
even if he doesn't look up, he knows the twinge of amusement is there
that tiny little spark of amusement that glimmers in the depths of dark mahogany
and beneath her knowing hand, that shoulder still trembles
the constant rush and course of energy flooding through muscles
he can't help it, now, even as he chokes it all back and down
and of all the things to get his attention
the way she moves, speaks, touches him
it's a singular word that fnially gets him to look up
how strange, what startles him the most is the name he's heard since birth
for how rarely he is called it from somehis attention snaps to look up at her
(I know, James)
there is understanding in deep umber
because she knows how close he came to losing it completely
to let the rational thinking man be replaced by the hurting hating animal
the animal that only shows now in the canid tilt of head into her hand
his own releases the beer, reaching to draw and crawl about her hipsnot very often, does he demand
few and far between are the times he takes in need
but this is one of them
the grip tightens across iliac crest
slow contract of muscle to gather her closer
begging for just that single step that brings her next to him
then his head curls brow into the hollow of her shouldershe knows... how deeply respect and rank has ingrained itself into the Gnawer
and to break that, no matter how slightly, shakes him(rune)
Leather is soft beneath his hands, a second skin fitted to the generous curve of her hips, and silk is soft above them, the slippery fabric of her untucked turtleneck. The weave of the fabric is fine, and the threads are finer, and they catch against the rough texture of his knuckles as his hands move. There's a sound attached to that catch and release, and the condominium is quiet enough that both can hear it in the gathered stillness, little more than a soft rustle, so faint that it is drowned by even the quiet draw of their breath.So, too, his dreadlocks, spilling in a thick, viney curtain across her shoulder, down her back, over the curve of her breast, catch and shift against the fine-woven fabric whereever the weave is broken by minute imperfection, invisible to even the keen human eye. Here a thread ends, there another begins, in the loop and whorl silk threads woven to form the delicate fabric. The immediate sensation is the cool grace of silk, against his forehead, upon his cheek, but the silk is thin and he can feel her bodyheat radiating right through.
She steps into him, and lifts her arms. Once, they fall back to her sides - helpless - but then they rise again and settle around his hunched shoulders. What space remained between them after he drew her to him evaporates, as her body folds into the shape of his own. Her hand slides from his shoulders until her elbows - the curved muscles of her upper arms - settle there, and her hands crawl into the thick mane of his dreadlocks, plunging through the rough tangle to hold him to her, and hold him close.
This comfort she can offer him: the warmth of her body against his, the lullaby of breath as it fills her lungs, expands the cage of her ribs, as it leaves her body, the underlying bassbeat of heartbeat, this meager, meager music. Otherwise, she is helpless.
Helpless.
(james)
those dark umber eyes close
some flesh shell drawn protective over the earth's rich tones
feeling the silk against his cheek
how smooth it is, this barrier between their skin
through it, the heat radiates from her
pulsing in time with the healthy thump of heart
he can hear the faint sounds of blood pumping through veins
the slow draw of breaths that fill her chest
perhaps, even, the distant sound of his hands across her clothingthe cigarette is abandoned
some half-blind movement to settle it into the ashtray
and that's when he can fully turn towards her
where at first he drew her to his side
now? he's twisting on the stool as her arms drift across his shoulders
drawing impossibly tall and lean form between his legs and close
her fingers crawl into dreads, and his hands encircle her back
rough palms catching on the imperceptible imperfections in silk
dragging the fabric against her warm skin beneath
until his arms crisscross her back to tighten and lock that embraceshe feels helpless
but this is all he asks
these singular passing moments of silence
where through a strange osmosis he leeches the comfort she offers
it's drawn like the heat that radiates from her core
slowly filtering through the ache of unused muscles so ready for battle
what seem like countless nights they have lain together upstairs, in such a silence
so this should not be any different, any more fulfilling
but it is - for in this silence he finds the little he dares need
soaking all that she gives himminutes on the clock have strolled by
one, three.... perhaps five
that's when he finally draws away
the strong embrace loosening to gentle slide of hands down the slope of back
the lift of brow from her shoulder, to finally allow some breath of the condo's air to enter him
instead of what seemed like he was breathing directly through her
but even now, he doesn't look up
even if she is the only one he would ever show such weakness before
- he doesn't look up to those eyes(rune)
Minutes have on strolled by, molasses slow and lazy as a sunning snake. Little things already passing, already gone, endless little things, and no more than that, for all it seems a slow lifetime.She does not move until he lifts his brow from her shoulder, and takes a breath not drawn through her clothing, not suffused in the distinctive scent of her flesh, which he would know, which he could sense, even with the fog of carcinogenic smoke clouding his senses of smell and taste. Even now - fainter - the scent lingers in his mouth, flavoring every breath he takes, much as his scent wreathes through her senses, some animal knowledge, that, buried beneath the layers of civilization, the endless age of men, buried, but far from dead.
It is the same animal instinct that guides her movements now. Her chin falls as his rises, and when his eyes do not find and meet hers, her own close. Flesh against flesh: the brush of her cheek against his in light caress, the slow drift of gentle lips against his flesh. It is a different sort of hunger, this, but no less animal. The craving for warmth, the comfort of skin, the blind little movements of her mouth up the hard line of his cheekbone, over the throb of pulse at his temple. The rising movement is mirrored in the arch of her spine against his gliding hands, inviting the strange grace of his touch to linger on her body. To linger, and not to consume.
Only this is taken - these few quickened moments, this strange knowledge that shifts and glides between them, ephemeral, grasped but never quite known, this liminal comfort, this passing gentleness, and no more. And perhaps - though she would never admit it - perhaps she needs it too.
Posted by james at February 12, 2003 12:00 AM
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