March 11, 2003
.03.11.03. - no contest [rune]

[noje]

(james)
the condo's been quiet for most of the day
pack's been here, pack's been there
both the Beemer and the Toyota are out of their spaces
the trusty steeds which take their Urban knights to the latest battle
be it the mall, the grocery, the spa, or this evening's version of the Wyrm
so it left the Gnawer pretty much to himself
nothing but the comfort of the condo he now calls home
the steady pitterpatter of the rain beating down on the sidewalk outside
soaking the grass in preparation of oncoming Spring
washing the parking lots their oily grime
forcibly melting the remnant snow after several clear days
there's the occasional whir of the central air kicking on
keeping the rooms at a pleasently So-Cal 75 degrees even when it's nearing freezing outside
there's also the sound of the electronic engine speeding down the track
the asymmetric clicking of buttons to keep the car on the road
the bone-chilling screech of tires across asphalt
and the occasional string of swearing as the car. doesn't. cooperate.

he's been here for a few hours now
playing with the newest addition to the pack's toys which he picked up earlier in the afternoon
camoflage woven into a neat crossing of legs on the plush leather couch
wifebeater keeping him comfortable in that unnaturally warm climate
dreads hanging in tangled disarray from the continual running of fingers through them to pull the thick vines out of deep umber gaze

though, within the frame of expression created by those heavy ropes of hair
something of a smug grin has formed
before there's a victory slug from the latest (sixth?) bottle of beer
because our Ahroun?
fierce Bone Gnawer of Gaia's Chosen Warriors?
he has won the Mini Cooper 1.3i - in blue
because he finished the Lightweight K Cup, Beginner's League, on Grand Turismo 3

(rune)
The Toyota is still gone, but the Beemer is back, metallic finish slick with beading droplets of the remnant shower still spitting cold rain over the township. For some reason that the Glass Walker cannot quite fathom, cold rain makes the air feel colder than the frozen stuff that would fall if the temperature were a few degrees cooler. The engine rumbles and idles, and she peers out the windshield hoping that the rain will stop sometime soon, soaking up the heat from the vents for several minutes before at last giving in to a natural impatience and turning the engine off for good. It purrs to a halt, only a few clicks made by the cooling engine, none of that clanky rumble that comes from failing to change the oil, or get tune-ups every X thousand miles. The Beemer is as pampered as its owner.

With a supressed sigh, said owner climbs from the car and dares to race up the steps leading to the condo, even in her high heels. They throw one's center of balance forward, and make such movement more difficult, but these are difficulties she worked out years ago, and moving like this (swift and sure and fucking deadly) is second nature, even in heels. Five minutes after the Beemer turned into the drive, the door to the condo swings open. Enter Rune. She sheds her damp coat much more easily than a snake sheds its skin, and the wet heeled boots follow a moment later, in a series of muted thumps as she peels them from the curve of leatherclad calves and tosses them negligently into the coat closet in the front hall.

Still shaking the rain from her hair, she turns into the living room and tosses several cartons of cigarettes onto the breakfast bar before sidling up behind the couch.

"Boo."

The single syllable is low and muted, murmured into the Gnawer's ear. Behind him, the faint pressure of her hands curled over the back of the couch, depressing the cushions, long nails scraping against leather. Her breath is warm, and some of it, doubtless, curls through the curtain of dreadlocks to tickle his skin. He won't be surprised, for he can feel her approach as well as she can feel his presence, the sixth sense of those united by a totem, of the animals beneath their human skins: pack.

(james)
pack
he felt her pull up
even as the little Mini Cooper was pulling out of the starting line on the practice track
(gotta learn how to handle the new car before racing it, after all)
he felt her racing towards the stairs
just as he was barreling around the first oval track corner
he could hear the door open, and the swish of coat, the thump of boots
even above the sound of the little revving engine
he could hear her footsteps across the plush carpet
then he could feel her

it was more than pack
he could feel her presence warming up behind him
just as surely as the leather felt the bite of sharp nails
the way she, even without touching, could
crawl. beneath. his. flesh.
those little ripples of salutory pleasure

(boo)

so soft and warm
tickling through the curtain of dreads
tickling against the sensitive flesh about his ear
tickling it's way right into his mind
lower lip caught in concentrative nibble pulls into a smile
but he doesn't turn around yet
not until the blue speed demon crosses the finish line

(congratulations, says the theme song, you've won $1000)

that is when he turns
big ol' victory grin spreading from that smile
while the next level loads
one hand pulls from the controller to loop up around her neck
pulling her into a very pleasent 'welcome home' kiss

he won the track
he should get his prize, hm?
and that smile remains through murmured words

"Welcome home." his mood as warm as the condo "Wanna play?"

he pulls back just a little
shining eyes looking into the dark mohagany kohl lined depths
brows lifting in question
very. loaded. question.

(rune)
Her eyes flicker to the screen, watching the progress of the little Mini Cooper around the track through the changeable tangle of his rough dreadlocks. Her body sketches a long, curving line, paraspinals stretched long to accommodated the lean into his ear, knees ever so slightly bent. As the Cooper speeds around the track, her hands crawl down the leather cushions on either side, and end up in a loose circle of almost embrace around his torso, beneath his arms to leave them free for the game. By the time he pulls her into the kiss, she has settled into an easy half-crouch behind the sofa, leather stretched by the flex of the long, lean muscles of her thighs.

Wanna play?

Some slow, lazy smile spreads across her red mouth. Between the painted lips, the flash of white teeth as the lazy smile becomes a wicked, edged little grin. Fine hands curl upward from their clasp around his abdomen to wrest the controller from his grasp. "You won't be needing this, but -

"Think you could handle it?" Her mouth lingers on his flesh, the satin brush of lipstick and warm curl of her breath tickles along the edge of his jaw, soon caught between the dull edge of teeth promised by the ripe little grin. "I still haven't gotten you back for the other night."

(james)
you're right.
I won't be needing this

it's as much wresting as willingly freeing his hands
hers are occupied by the controller
and his are finding their way up her arms
over shoulders until occupying themselves with fingertips tracing scapula
outlining the definition of muscle and tendon beneath porceline skin beneath the silky ivory mock-turtle
wandering around to find the little knobs of vertebrae
his chin lifting with a grin when her teeth find flesh along his jaw
the rugged stretch of bone covered by 11 o'clock shadow
(the only defense for the supersensitive skin covering pulse)

"I think so."

is that a challenge?
oh ho ho sayeth the growling chuckle
fingers curl in their crawl
untucking the hem of shirt from waist of leather
weight of skull shifts
affectionately leaning his head against hers
(the promise of teeth, the satiny smooth lips.....er... lipstick)

"Though I think that'd need something more than kicking my ass in a game I've only played for a few hours. I'm on a roll, though, Tristan wants to get me back for laughing at him, too." at least he's laughing again.... "So you'll have to try extra-special hard."

(rune)
"The hell is this?" she murmurs, her voice falling to its lower register. The sound finds purchase in her throat, and the words are infected with the low vibrato of challenge returned. It's an animal sound, more than human, close to gutteral, and inflected with less amusement than he might expect, because some things are deadly serious. "Some fucking kin wants to get back at you, and I have to try extra-special hard?"

She casts aside the controller (it swings through the air, trailing a loop of twisting cord, and clatters hard upon the coffee table, skittering across the slick surface to fall on the plush carpet beyond) and rises. His hands are twisted around the hem of her mock-turtleneck, and as she rises it comes peeling up to reveal the curve of her hips and the flat plane of her abdomen. Her embrace loosens and falls away as she stands, and at last she swats his hands away from her body, then finishes the task he started, pulling the turtleneck over up and over her head (the crackle of static electricity sizzles in the air, dry from the heat despite the humidifiers scattered throughout the rooms) and several of the fine strands linger up and out, at strange angles, like a tattered black hair.

The Glass Walker doesn't bother to tame them. Likely, she doesn't even notice the disarray, for her hands have found purchase on his body again: his shoulders. Red nails dig through the weave of the cotton wifebeater and press into skin and muscle beneath as she bends to press a series of slow, savage little bites along the hard line of his collar bone, underneath his jaw, taunting but never quite touching his lips. "No fucking contest." Abruptly, her grip changes. She rises again, and crooks one finger underneath the band of fabric over his muscled shoulder, which remains as she turns and sidles away. The fabric pulls and stretches, distends sharply, bites into the flesh of her finger, but she doesn't let go -

- not until it rips and rebounds back to him -

- and only then does she stop, turning to send a brief, singeing glance over the curve of her bare shoulder, full of wanton menace. "So, c'mon if you're coming. I've got fucking plans for you."

(james)
he can't help it
when her voice drops in that register
seething comfortable and low in that deadly seriousness
he's..... not sure whether to cringe or shiver in delicious anticipation
(almost makes you think he chose those words on purpose.... just to spark her temper)

he's turning to watch her pull away
brow lifting as his hands are smacked from her perfect curves
there'd be a mock pout in his expression
some hurt that she'd neglect him that physical nourishment
but something else entirely leaks into his features
watching her deftly finishing the job he started
lips peeling back into a very. dark. smile.
devouring the portrait she presents
smooth curves, perfect swells, scandalous lace, hair electrified by the storms crackling within them

(the moon swells slowly in the sky, and the animal within him answers that call - her call - creeping and rumbling it's meandering journey back to the surface, feeding off the steadily growing Rage that burns and boils in the pit of his belly like some torturously delayed IV drip directly into his adrenal glands)

her nails dig into skin
her teeth leave their impressioned mark
his skin blushing from the insult red as lipstick smears tell-tale stain
and perhaps the flush is from something else
something instigated by the tease of almost touching lips

(she knows the animal she taunts and teases through the bars of his human cage)

"No contest. Never a contest."

whispered, sighed, growled
there's suddenly an inhuman light blossoming in deep umber
looking up from where the thin cotton lays ripped and defeated across his shoulder
front of the strap dangling against his chest through inanimate caress
the back of it tickling in tease across the ashed, brutal scars raking down his spine
(some whip to drive him to brutal Frenzy)
she moves away, and stops, just out of reach
wanton menace met with a rolling wave of invisable aggression
he's twisting on the couch
feet sinking into the overstuffed pillow
hands closing over the top edge, crushing stuffing where her nails only dug

"Wonder if they coincide with my plans.... for you...."

the words are still so soft, edging gutteral towards the end
muscle exposed across pectoral plane flutters and thumps with heightening pulse
(can she hear his heart hammering strong against thickening ribs)
then it stretches and smooths as his body casually swells
Glabro smile the vicious (hungry) animal only kept at bay by expensive furniture
crouched and ready to pounce the moment his prey gives signal
a look, a gesture, even the barest twist of her lips into trademark smirk
dark eyes lock, and his weight shifts, muscle bunching for the explosive spring
lunging over the back of the couch to claim this precious, seditious prize

(Told you I wanted to play)

Posted by james at March 11, 2003 12:00 AM
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