Monday, December 27, 2010

ugh!

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Katherine Bellamonte received a phone call, it might have gone straight to voicemail. Who really cared where the phone call went first, because Cordelia left a message or wasn't inclined to talk for too long. The moon is waning away to half, and she doesn't particularly notice yet. Or care yet. Some part of her would be upset that it wasn't her sister that she went to first regarding these matters-

No, no that's not true. Not entirely, at least. But we digress. Cordelia is taking off her contacts in the cab, and travels half blind through the way. She waits to leave a message, and-

"Ms. Bellamonte? It's Cordelia, I recognize that it's late and I'm sorry, but I just had a thought and I needed to come talk to you," and that's about all the message that she left.

Soon enough, however, she's on the doorstep. She's taken her heels off, and holds them loosely in one hand. Her mascara has since streaked and her eyes are red. Her foundation is smudged, her lipgloss is non-existant and her hair has been haphazardly taken down. This is the nature of updos, when you take them down they look half-assed. Her shoulders are back, though, and her head is high. Katherine knows this expression, because she has no doubt worn this expression, though in a decidedly less discheveled state.

This is the look of triumph.

Cordelia waits for someone to answer the door, and she can wait all night should she need.

[Katherine Bellamonte] It is well after hours so it's Katherine herself that answers to Cordelia's knock. Lucille has retired for the night, apparently, or headed home to her own apartment -- wherever the lady of Bellamonte Houses' long suffering maid is, it's not with her Mistress, that much is certain.

Katherine looks as she typically always does though perhaps a touch softer than her day to day face would suggest. She wears no makeup, her skin clear, her golden waves brushed smooth and her slender figure encased in a peach blouse and jeans; her feet in slippers. There was a fine necklace of some stone strung around her neck and the fingers of one hand held a set of reading glasses.

They were perhaps her maid's; who knew. Perhaps she'd been tidying when the doorbell sounded.

"Cordelia," she greets with perfunctory coolness, and waves her inside; swinging the heavy door secure behind her and preceding the young Kinswoman into her living room. There was no fire-place in the Silver Fang's home, but it retained the warmth of a space that did have some facet of heating. "Your message sounded urgent, what can I help you with tonight?"

Katherine folded herself back onto one of her black leather sofas.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] She smiles. There is something to be said about looking radiant. She's either put on weight or lost weight or filled out in the right ways. Or maybe it's just hte way that she's holding herself. Or maybe it's something else entirely that doesn't have anything to do with her clothes or what would have been fineries from the evening.

"I recognize that it's late, and I apologize," she says. She wipes her eyes again and sniffs inward. It's a complete cognitive disconnect- she should be crying and upset, but she's not upset. She's far from upset at this moment, "it hit me that there is more that I could be doing for our tribe, and we'd discussed needing a liason between the other tribes' needs and our own, but I wanted to know what our clear cut goals were so I could help with this."

A moment barely passes, "and it's more than that, I think I can do more for our tribe and your pack. I feel like I owe it to you and to Christian to try and help."

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine watches Cordelia through those pale eyes of hers that are so clear that they sometimes appear more gray than the ice-blue they are. Her gaze was forever not without some edge of discomfort, for although she did not possess her pack-sister's degree of predatory grace she did have an impressive amount of Rage, and the added benefit of a nature at once steady and cancered by her tribe's insanity.

At some point; perhaps as the lean Kinswoman reaches the point of I feel like I owe it to you -- the Garou raises a hand to signal she should cease, should allow her to answer. "Please, slow down, Cordelia. I can appreciate your enthusiasm to aid the tribe, I even applaud it," there's an edge of a smile now.

"But why the sudden need to discuss this with me tonight? It could have waited until at least dawn, no?" Her eyebrow rises, voice curious, more than anything; her eyes wander her dress, the state of her hair. "What has brought this on?"

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "Tonight, I was at my wits end," she says. It's the only phrase she could think of. It's a good thing the Spaniard wasn't pacing or fidgeting or looking completely nervous or upset or... okay, maybe her nerves would come down. Maybe she would be upset later, "I went out with Ivan tonight and-I-"

She inhales, deeply, and exhales.

"We had a heated discussion regarding duty and civility towards those of our own tribe. He's a good ragabash, and by the end of our conversation it dawned on me that... this is going to come out untoward... some of the faces of our tribe range from being entitled and privileged to the point of callous, while others come off as traditional to the point of dogmatic, static, and unyielding. And While each force has benefits, ultimately I feel like some of us lose the point of what our position and what being a leader is.

"I've had a full night and a cab ride full of self-reflection, and I determined that I needed to speak with you first because you're my tribal elder here, instead of my sister who isn't affiliated with Maelstrom. And, as that her pack has commandeered my living room, I needed to come here first."

A beat.

"It could have waited until morning, though, and admittedly my timing is adrenaline fueled at the moment"

[Katherine Bellamonte] I went out with Ivan tonight, she begins, and the Half Moon leans back, her long fingers linking together atop her knee. One slipper taps against a heel idly as she goes on and it ceases as she notes that Ivan is a good Ragabash. "Is he?" The Philodox asks with no less sudden abruptness, nor sharpness, than a knife wields as it slices through cheese.

The words are enough to silence anyone; but she allows Cordelia to finish her speech of empowerment before going on. "I would barely know what Ivan Press is, Cordelia and do you know why? Because I do not hear nor see the creature unless its at an occasion I summon him to.

You could express to me that he had taught you the Venetian Waltz and I would have little to add but a very similar remark."

A moment; she could seem so lazily reproachful, Katherine, but at once her compassion seared you with its pressure. "The goals of our tribe, Ms Diego are several-fold, but if you wish to be a liaison for our needs it is going to require more than a single meeting between us and it is very possible that it will be a position not simply held by a single Kinfolk but rather many.

I do not doubt your commitment to the Silver Fang tribe," a beat, her pale eyes pin the girl, "but I would suggest you go home and rest on your new found adulation. We can discuss this more fully when you are well rested." It was less a put down and rather more the gentle push of an elder to a cub to steady their thoughts.

Perhaps the guidance of a Half Moon.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] It really is like dealing with her sister, except tonight she doesn't have the history between them to back it up. It's the feeling of being pinned in a bug collection. On a certain level, she's waiting for a cotton ball full of nail polish remover to finish her off. She smiles anyway, and adrenaline starts to wear down. She slouches for the first time in probably recently history, not because she's defeated but because her back hurts and her dress is uncomfortable and she's reminded, briefly, of why you don't pretend to be someone else-

When you're left with only yourself and your skn, it's hard to work when some part of you doesn't quite fit.

"Speaking of," she says, "there's a girl named Kristiana Coleman that you might need to meet. She's nice, but she's very traditional and she might need help. Or not. She's a grown woman, but she's young."

She takes a second, and ruminates with it. Winds down and finds herself more and more aware of her own thoughts. She and Katherine are similar in age, but the fact of the matter remains that she seems so much younger. It's amazing what a different upbringing will do.

There's silence. Long after silence is appropriate.

"... Katherine?"

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine, it should be noted, is not some terrifying beast.

She is, as noted, not so much older than Cordelia herself; the only thing which separates the two is Katherine's Rage and her upbringing. She had been raised as a child of a relatively new house within a much broader House. The name of Bellamonte had another generation to it now, thanks to Edward. Perhaps the only deed he would truly accomplish that would echo through the ages -- for who knew how many younger Bellamontes his daughter would bear?

Presently, Katherine is the picture of a young woman who is also a monster who was also attempting to council her family without the benefit of anything but her words. She did not wish to frighten Cordelia into submission, or quash her ideals of being some better figment within the tribe than she currently was -- she simply wanted the girl to have a solid grasp of her own ideas, and not the after shock of adrenaline pumping in her veins.

"Kristiana Coleman?" She makes the name an adventure; hinting at a life in France if only through the idea of it in her voice. Then: "Yes, Cordelia?"

[Ilari Martin] Waking up completely sober in an unfamiliar location does not bring with it the same confusion and panic that comes with initiating the same process while somewhere on the spectrum between Wildly Inebriated and Hungover. This building, this bedroom, is not so unfamiliar as it ought to be, but considering the fact that it is not his bedroom in his apartment, it is close enough. This is the first night he has not spent the night in what could be considered his own home since... well, it doesn't bear dwelling on, but suffice to say the only reason he is here at all tonight has to do with the fact that the kids left Chicago early this morning with the intent to visit their grandparents for the rest of the week.

It doesn't matter why he's here, really; Cordelia Sarafin-Diego and Ilari Martin have never met before tonight, and the former isn't aware that the latter was here when she texted Katherine Bellamonte, nor when she arrived.

What emerges from the master bedroom is old enough to be Kate's father. This is not an exaggeration or a hyperbole: the man is in his forties, easily, with the salt-and-pepper hair and worn skin to show for it. He is no taller than the Philodox, yet he is just as well dressed if one is willing to ignore the fact that he appears as though he has just emerged from a miniature comatose state. His feet are clad in black socks, his attire full-on formal save for he is missing his tie, belt, and suit jacket. His hair is a mess, his steps are uncertain, and he's rubbing his eyes as a yawn sneaks out of his throat.

"Kate," he mumbles, "I had the strangest--"

His hand comes down from his eyes in time to see the tall blond stork speaking with Kate. He reconsiders what he was about to say, holds up his finger as if to say Never mind! and walks into the kitchen to fill a glass with water.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] [how bad is this...]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "Christrian's n-" she is almost to the word, and it's a damned good thing she doesn't actually finish that train of thought, or ask someone who might know so, instead, she can hang on to speculation. Guess. Not play the role of a good girlfriend but be whatever the Hell she needs to be at that moment, because it's taken years for her to figure out that they aren't fragments, she's not compartments, she's a package.

She is interrupted, of course, by a man who is old enough to be her father. Who probably drank the same cognac or smoked the same cigars or something to that effect. There's a man in a suit, looking like a mess and she just looks at Martin. Her eyes are wide, she pushes her glasses up, and they both look like they just woke up or were shoved in a confined space and wedged between two squishy, smelly boulders. Her mascara's streaked, and she simply doesn't care.

Can't be bothered by it.

Back on subject. She looks at Martin. She blinks. Her cheeks turn pink inexplicably, and she shakes her head, too, when she looks back at Kate. Apparently, both of them can wait.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Through the glass sliding doors, the faint sound of splashing: someone making good use of that olympic-sized pool.

There are a lot of things that could be said about Katherine. That she's cold. That she's squeamish. That she's haughty, and arrogant, and remote. Some of them, Lukas reflects, might even be true. Probably is true from the right angle, the right point of view.

There's this to be said, though. Katherine's love for her family -- her blood and her spiritual family alike -- is complete. Filthy rich or not, she didn't have to spend her own money on a too-large home so her packmates would always have a place to stay if they needed it. She didn't have to upend that home and remodel everything just because two of them insisted on a bigger pool, we want a bigger pool, pleeeeease, Kate?

Her devotion to her family is absolute. But when push came to shove, Lukas was willing to publically shame her over tribal matters.

The steady, clockwork freestyle stops. Lukas will never be the natural athlete Sinclair is. He doesn't swim like a fish, or even like a damn sea turtle. What he has instead is determination. Will. A monotonous, powerful, regular rhythm that could probably carry him across an ocean if need be, but only if need be. At any rate, it stops, mid-stroke. Lukas bobs up in the middle of the pool, pushing his goggles up, wiping his face clear.

Hey, Kate. This sort of comes out of the blue. I should have said this earlier, but I'm sorry about chewing you out the other night. I was so hellbent on teaching that dickhead

-- clearly, he has no idea 'that dickhead' was currently in the building, and not only that, coming out of Katherine's bedroom --

a lesson that I didn't stop to think how it'd make you feel. We're Alphas of our tribes, and we have a responsibility to uphold -- but you're also my sister. I didn't have to be such an ass.

There's a pause.

Anyway, I'm sorry. He hauls himself out of the water, goes to take a quick wash in the open corner shower.

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Christian," she prompts Cordelia before she stalls as Ilari Martin has just emerged from her bedroom.

To her credit, the Silver Fang does not color; her blushing days (save very few) are long done when it came to moments such as these. There is almost a touch of amusement to the manner she simply re-adjusts herself and raises a hand over her shoulder at the scurrying figure vanishing into her kitchen.

"My apologies, Cordelia. I did not expect him to be awake, that was," a beat, she smiles a little more naturally, for Katherine, "is, Ilari Martin. He is your family, another of ours in the city." She's quiet a beat, then adds; somehow gentler; comprehending.

"I suppose is he to me as Christian is to you."

Then: Lukas is on the totemlink and Katherine's pale eyes fiick to the right a touch, she cocks her head. Thank you, Lukas, for apologizing, , a beat, I must however caution you for tact's sake that Martin is in my kitchen at present and if you are ungracious to him, I will be throw you out on your behind.

Another beat.

With all due respect.

[Katherine Bellamonte] [hello typos! ahem. "I will be forced to" that should read.]

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] "Oh," she says, then calls out to Martin, "does she yell at you in a foreign language and throw things, too?"

[Ilari Martin] Though he isn't visible, the smile--and mild confusion--that stains the kinsman's voice can be picked up from where the two females are standing.

"That isn't even the half of it!" he calls back.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] He -- what?

A minute later the glass door to the pool room rattles noisily open. Lukas doesn't quite storm out, but it's a close call. His footsteps are heavy, his shoulders swaying. He tugs on his swim robe -- a blue almost as dark as black -- as he comes. Ilari gets once glance and a single "Ugh!" before he swings around to look at Katherine.

What are you, together again? There's a pause -- the totem link close enough, permeable enough, that some of Lukas's dislike and disgust leaks through before he clamps down on it.

This is level, his eyes intent on Katherine: Do you love him?

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] This suddenly becomes too much sensory input. She laughs at the reply. She doesn't even know the older man, but it seems that Katherine's house is full of people and they're emerging from strange places. The enxt thing she knows, some tall, soggy man is coming in. The first thing Cordelia notices is that she is no longer the tallest person in the room. The second thing he notices is that he and Katherine are just staring at each other.

The blonde takes this opportunity to turn, slowly, and go investigate the kitchen. Water sounded nice. Also, washing her mascara off.

[Ilari Martin] The kinsman is on his way out of the kitchen when an Ugh! catches his attention. Bleary-eyed and subdued by sleep inertia, he looks over at the source of the noise to find a tall, dripping-wet Czech. It isn't enough to grab his attention, or if it is, he's too groggy to summon the gall necessary to fire off a thoughtless yet nevertheless incendiary comment in passing.

Granted... Martin is forty-one years old; his memory isn't what it used to be, and the odds of him having forgotten Lukas since their paths last crossed over a month ago are strangely high. He stops only briefly, then cuts the Ahroun a half-hearted, silent wave before continuing on his trajectory towards Kate's bedroom.

[Ilari Martin] [Yeah just make that post make some semblance of sense, I r tired.]

[Katherine Bellamonte] Yes, she says without rising physically or emotionally to the sensibilities present in her Alpha's voice, projected into her mind. And yes, there's a brief moment when Katherine's attention skirts back to Cordelia and some semblance of apology resides there before her attention returns to Lukas.

What Cordelia must see, or imagine she does is an unvoiced conversation; perhaps even a confrontation. She cannot hear it, but somehow, she senses it is occurring. I never stopped loving him, Lukas, I know you do not like him, I know you believe he is not my worth, but I believe he is, and I wish him in my life. I know Sinclair dislikes him also, we have discussed it. I would be a poor Half Moon to say I was not saddened that you put so little faith in my judgment of others as to assume I have no idea of what I'm doing to take up with him again.

I am not always sane, Lukas. But I know my own heart better than you. Trust that, if nothing else.


[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] It's a strange thing, watching wolves communicate without words. Lukas bursts out of the pool room. He not-quite-storms into the living room. He faces Kate, they stare at each other -- the Ahroun leaning forward slightly, feet apart, body language speaking of aggression and bewilderment, though not violence. In response, perhaps there's something more like weariness in Katherine, and perhaps even a touch of wariness, but only a scarce few seconds pass

(not long after yes, and yes, for that matter)

before Lukas, inexplicably, starts to shake his head and wave a hand in the air as though to deny or brush away whatever inaudible things Kate might be saying.

That's enough for me, he says simply. If you love him, then I'll accept that. A long time ago I told all of you to fuck off because Dani&+269;ka was my business and mine alone. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't allow you the same freedom. Even if I think he's a --

he cuts himself off there. He cuts himself off on several levels, and most especially on that truth that burns him even now. As far as Lukas knows, Katherine still doesn't know about Ilari and Danicka. It's one truth -- perhaps the only -- that Lukas chooses not to divulge. It's the one time he chooses to conceal the truth like a Shadow Lord, and for the most unLordly reason of all:

mercy. Because it's in the past, indelible but over and done with. At best, absolutely nothing good can come of Katherine knowing; at worst, it could lodge under her skin like a splinter, bite at her for years to come.

-- well. It doesn't matter what I think of him. If you love him, you love him.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] It would have been one of the more bizarre things she's watched had she nod had a pack in her living room recently. It was eerily silent in the apartment, aside from the occasional laugh, the asking of her to get something, or the beginnings of a fight breaking out.

There wasn't a fight breaking out, though. They were just standing in the living room, gesturing at each other ever so often.

She turns on the sink, and takes her glasses off. She splashes some water on her face, rubs her cheeks, and concludes that untucking her shirt and using the tails might make for a good wash cloth if she can't find the paper towels. Cordelia is a great and many things, but kitchen-savvy is not one of them. However, she had been here in the past, and with minimal effort she finds a paper towel and makes what's left of her mascara disappear.

The puts her glasses back on, and takes the opportunity to test message her sister.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine had known Lukas a long time, as far as Garou went. A longer time, as far as pack-mates went. They had been through much together, they had grown up as warriors and people together. Her respect for the Shadow Lord was tantamount; she trusted him, she advised him; she understood him. The latter had not come without significant effort on her behalf, and on his; their tribes were not, in historical terms, known for their tolerance of one another.

To follow under a Shadow Lord's totem, had tested the tolerance of many in Katherine's family.

But his approval; his understanding also meant much to her. Katherine had tried hard to overcome her initial dislike of his mate to become if not friends, at least tolerable to her to make occasions when they were forced into association bearable for the Kinswoman. She does not echo any of these thoughts at Lukas, but he can feel her initial defensiveness, and then her gratitude for his understanding -- if not his appreciation for Martin -- of her desire on the matter.

He is not all bad, Lukas. One day, you will see it, as I did with Danicka. Katherine's final word on the matter is a raised eyebrow, and then she rises, pats her Alpha on his wet shoulder, and pads into the kitchen after Cordelia.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas's only reply to that is a sort of disgruntled noise. She pats him on the shoulder and he says aloud -- albeit in an undertone, "Sweaty. Sticky. Gross! Bacteria!"

Then she's past. He listens for the kitchen faucet turning on, trying not to smirk.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] Katherine comes into the kitchen, and Cordelia's got a paper towel in one hand and a cell phone in the other. She looks decidedly less a mess- more like she woke up on the wrong side of bed from a night out than she does a bad night out.

"I couldn't find your waste basket," which translates out to I didn't look for it.

[Katherine Bellamonte] The Philodox's brow wrinkles; she tshes at her pack-mate and does indeed head for the sink to wash off her fingertips but but not before she nudges open the cabinet beneath the sink for Cordelia and exposes the concealed trash can. The Half Moon stands to one side as she disposes of her ball of paper towel and adds; lightly.

"Cordelia, perhaps tonight is not the night for our discussion. However, we shall talk about it, I promise you. If you wish it," here is a curious thing; a moment of true comprehension from Katherine. "I have no truly touched Christian's room since he left; you would be welcome to sleep there."

Her pale eyes suggest what she does not voice.

[Cordelia Sarafin-Diego] She doesn't say anything for a moment, she just throws away her paper towel and makes sure that she has her things. Perhaps it's best that they not have this conversation tonight. She nods, confirmation that, yes, she does want to talk about it. Whatever it is. Be it tribal matters or what was eating her or what she can do and all those flavors in between. Kate gets it, Cordelia smiles. It's that genuine thing again. She really it pretty, funny it's been so hard to notice until now.

"I appreciate it," she says, "goodnight, Katherine."

She starts to head off in the direction that she knows Christian's room is in. She even turns back and, "goodnight."

Lukas got one too. And it's off to bed with her.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

rings.

[Danicka] They really needn't have bothered with the heater, as it turns out. Danicka's fair skin is flushed with pink, her cheeks reddened, as she starts to come down from her second orgasm, which unfurled so soon from the first. She's trembling, her legs coltish around him and her arms mostly just limp now. She lies there with her head back and her eyes closed as Lukas starts kissing her body, making rough little sounds as he presses his lips to her, tastes her sweat, even those slight motions of his head causing tremors through each of them, everywhere they're joined. It makes her breath catch in her throat. It makes her sigh softly when she exhales.

Right now she's not telling him that it makes her inexplicably happy sometimes to feel him come inside of her. Little things, strange things: she likes feeling him soften while he stays joined to her. She likes it when he hardens all over again without ever leaving her. She doesn't want children just yet, would most likely pitch a fit if she were to become pregnant halfway through college, but in some indescribable way it makes her happy to think of the possibility of children happening, all the same, whether they plan for it or not. Right now Danicka isn't telling Lukas a whole host of filthy things that are flitting through her mind, half-formed thoughts that mean little enough but would, if muttered into his ear, just make him start fucking her again.

And she doesn't say those things because she doesn't want to move right now. She doesn't want to interrupt the way he's nuzzling her, holding her without crushing her, staying atop her and warming her by their contact. She doesn't want to stop watching him, her head re-adjusting on the rumpled bedspread and her eyes drowsily opening to see him playing -- with such an intrigued, sleepy, transfixed look in his eyes -- with her tits. She's smiling in that lazy, amused way that develops on his mouth long before he notices, and it grows a little when he gently tugs her bra back down.

The truth is that's more comfortable than having it rucked up, but she's never told him that. She's never done it herself. It's just some little thing he does -- like the rapid but skillful flash of his straightrazor, like the somber look he has when he's reading, like the way his eyebrows flick and his eyes light up when she makes some noise or presses against him in such a way that he thinks it's time to fuck, or time to protect -- that is utterly but wordlessly a part of who he is when he's with her. Who he is to her.

Danicka strokes his hair as he speaks. She half-grins, wry, and chuckles softly. "There were times," she answers, stroking her thumb over his forehead above his eyebrow, "that I thought I might see you but didn't know if we'd end up fucking. I was wearing some crazy underwear some of the times we fought, baby." Danicka laughs again, barely more than breath, and scritches his scalp.

They both fall quiet, though. Lukas holding her, listening to her heart get slower and calmer and return to baseline. She starts to feel their sweat cooling on their skins, and lets her legs slide down his, staying tangled but finding a corner of the sheets to tuck her feet under. Danicka's eyes close. Her hand in his hair becomes rhythmic. Hypnotic. They could fall asleep like this, or wriggle apart and curl together again then sleep like this. Spend Christmas day sleeping and fucking and maybe rousing from bed long enough to eat before fucking and sleeping some more before dragging themselves up to wash and dress and make themselves presentable to go visit Katherine for dinner.

When he starts to speak again, Danicka opens one eye, then another, and with his head on her chest he can't see her blink. Her fingers don't hitch along his scalp, and he hears no intake of shocked breath or displeased, uncomfortable steadying of herself before she speaks. It's hard to tell exactly what she is feeling, but she does sound a bit surprised when she asks, simply:

"Why?"

[Lukas] That slow, rhythmic movement of her fingers in his hair is indeed hypnotic. He doesn't move, even when she asks him why. He breathes in, his chest expanding against her stomach. Then he exhales, nuzzling against her body as he settles again.

"Why I didn't, or why I wanted to?" he asks. She sounds surprised. He almost sounds sleepy.

Both, she says. There's a smile in her voice, which he can hear. It -- or the answer -- makes him laugh a little, turning his head, kissing her skin again. His arms tighten a little around her, holding her. He can hear her heartbeat in her body, a smooth double-rhythm that assures some animal part of him that she's alive. She's here, she's alive, she's warm, she's his.

"I didn't," when he speaks again he's quieter, but more alert, "because I wanted to talk to you first. I didn't know how you felt about it. If you wanted it or not.

"I wanted to because I love you." That's the easy answer, the simple one, the truest one of all. A little more, then, "And... I know we're already mated. We've been mated since before we realized we were mated. My heart knows that. My body knows, and my spirit knows. I know mating means more and runs deeper than any marriage contract.

"But my parents are married. And I like knowing that, even though I can't quite explain why. One day when we have children, maybe they'll like to know that their parents are married, too."

Another short pause. Lukas lifts his head from Danicka's body finally, propping his cheekbone on his knuckles as he looks at her. The grey morning light slants into his eyes, makes them piercing and pale, clear as glass, but the look in those eyes is still lazy. Loving.

"It's not just that," he admits. "I guess ... I just sort of want to marry you. On top of everything else. The Garou Nation knows what you mean to me. I guess I want the rest of the world to know, too.

"But only if you want to," he adds, lowering his head, kissing her stomach gently before raising his head again. "Only if you want to."

[Danicka] After awhile, Danicka lets her hand slow to stillness in his hair. It isn't distraction; she just doesn't want him falling asleep on her in the middle of a conversation. In the middle of this conversation. He holds her tighter, and she wriggles down a little, closer to him. He tells her first why he didn't go buy her an engagement ring, present it to her on Christmas morning curled up naked in bed with her, even laughing as kissing the way they have.

The answer to why he wanted to -- and there's no thought about this time, just an open wanted to -- is simpler, and she smiles softly as she holds him, as he holds her. But there's more to it, or they wouldn't be having this discussion. It does take explanation, why it occured to him that he wanted this. Why on earth it might feel -- it not necessary -- then desirable. To him, or to either of them.

When Lukas starts talking about his parents, and about the potential children he and Danicka might have -- he says when, and she notices that, and her heart considers beating faster but calms -- she begins stroking his hair again. And scritching the back of his neck, gently, so her nails don't scratch him there.

Her hand slides away as he lifts his head, propping cheek to fist, and now he can see her. Those eyes of hers are as inscrutable as ever, but he knows that look now, knows the difference between carefully manufactured blankness and quiet thoughtfulness. And she can tell, looking at him, watching him as he talks, that he's not nervously anticipating her response. He's not inwardly panicking over this, picking apart her features to try and see if she's pleased or unnerved, excited or annoyed.

When he insists -- repeats -- only if she wants to, a wryly amused curl curves the corner of Danicka's mouth. Her hand is still resting lazily against his face, fingertips in his hair and against his temple, her thumb to his cheek. She strokes it once over that bristle of beard he has, her eyes leaving his and falling to the way each tiny dark hair bends and straightens again under the pad of her thumb.

"You just sort of want to marry me?" she echoes, her eyes moving to his, her tone evidently amused. It's rhetorical; she leans up and kisses him, more slowly, more lingeringly, than he might expect. She tastes his mouth with it, til she's satisfied, and then lies back down, her eyes slightly more lazy than a moment ago.

"Your parents were married," she says, or repeats, "but they were from the Old World." Old World, she says, like she remembers it somehow, though she's never even been there. "My parents weren't." There's a pause there. She's looking at his face, tracing him with her eyes instead of her fingers now. "My father was married to his first mate, but that was in the Old World, too. I think it matters more there."

She muses, now: "My brother and I didn't really care, even when we were old enough to realize that our parents weren't legally married. I think by then we thought everyone who was shocked by it or uncomfortable with it were just... stupid," she ends, with a faint laugh. It falters, because she remembers, as he might, the message she and her brother were told from childhood.

You are better than them.

Danicka does not talk about the Silver Fangs she knew, insisting on marriage as well as mateship, always. She doesn't bring up the fact that Vladislav married Emilie anyway, or the fact that she knows that was political. She doesn't mention her father coming to America to be claimed by a young Ahroun, proposing as formality, being rejected, and then living for a couple of decades with a woman who regularly and remorselessly brutalized him. The truth is, Lukas probably considered before bringing this up what Danicka's perspective on marriage has been, but that's why there was no ring in a Christmas box today,

surprise!

The laugh fades, but her smile is still gentle. "I think our children would only care one way or the other if they were taught to, somehow," she admits. "To be proud or ashamed or nervous or comforted, either way." Her eyes find his. "Besides, they don't exist," Danicka points out, ever the pragmatist, ever the scientist, "so speculation on how they may or may not feel really has no bearing on the question. Or the asking."

A beat. "Not that you're asking," she says, teasing. "You just sort of kinda maybe wanna marry me if I want to." By the end of that she's half-grinning, and it's fond. So fond.

She shifts on the bed slightly, relenting on that train of thought. Her hand goes to the fist he's using to prop up his face, and her fingertips rest in between his knuckles. Her eyes have softened. So has her voice. "I don't care," she confesses, shaking her head a little. "I guess never considered it that important. For me it wouldn't make much difference. There's a lot of documents we could exchange that would do the same job, at least in the eyes of the legal system, but marriage is an efficient and automatically recognizable way to accomplish it all in one fell swoop. We could wear rings and some people would hit on us less... others might just hit on us more. My accountant would probably be excited for a new project," she comments, the humor in it very dry but very real.

Danicka's hand flexes then, holding his more warmly. "You wouldn't have mentioned this at all if you didn't really want it," she says, her voice quiet now, but not hesitant, not reluctant. "And I don't think wanting it has all that much to do with our imaginary children or your parents or my parents or the rest of the world knowing anything.

"It would make you happy," she says, barely more than breath, as though the words themselves have a sweet ache to them, as though the words make her feel a certain powerful longing for exactly that: Lukas. Happy. "And I'd never deny you something so simple that would make you so happy."

She leans up before he can answer any of that, all of it, and kisses him again. It's firmer than the last one, a warm, solid press of her mouth to his. She pulls back from it, looking into his eyes. Her voice is decisive, as though well that's that, then: "The county clerk's office is obviously closed today, so we should do it tomorrow. Or at least apply for the license then. I have no idea if there's waiting periods or anything like that in Illinois."

[Lukas] There are other couples for whom that little square box would have contained a diamond rings. Other couples for whom the proposal would have come after an expensive dinner at a fancy restaurant, with a few hundred strangers exerting social pressure for a yes. Other couples who would have gone to great lengths to make proposing on Christmas Day a big deal, a moment to cherish, the logical and necessary outcome of all the time they've spent together. There are people, Garou and kin, even, for whom this would be the ultimate goal. The destination, after which all of life -- with the possible exception of children -- becomes simply an afterword.

That's not them. He thought about getting her a ring; he didn't. He didn't even think of dressing up, getting down on one knee ... any of that. Even if that little box had been a little smaller, and a little more cubical, he would've given it to her the exact same way.

In bed. Rumpled in the sheets. Lazily, smilingly. Asking her if she wanted it, or minded.


So he listens to her as she speaks of marriage, parents, old worlds and new. She teases him -- his smile is a little crooked. "I want to marry you," he says, surer this time, and that's the smile she kisses off his lips when she leans up to him.

When she lays back, he combs his fingers gently through her hair, over and over. She speaks of accountants and projects and that's the only time he frowns a little, shaking his head --

"I don't want you to put my name on your accounts. That's one thing I don't want."


She's quieter after that, a little more serious. She speaks of what he wants, and what makes him happy. There's a sort of answering ache in his eyes, and here -- for the first time -- she can sense him looking at her carefully, watching to be sure that -- even if this isn't something she wants like he does -- this is not something she abhors.

There's no worry, even now. There's no inward panic, no intent and intense attempt to mine truth from her eyes. Just -- watching. Looking just long enough to be sure, when he already knows. Danicka wouldn't agree to something if she hated the thought of it. He knows that much.

And his eyes close when she kisses him. He pushes himself up on his elbow to meet her, and it's firm on his end, too. Warm. Solid. When she draws back his eyes open; her tone is all business, and his smile breaks slow and thorough.

"Okay," he says quietly.

There's no discussion of a white wedding. Invitations and guests. Champagne and flowers and priests. They're Shadow Lords, after all. His fingers open under hers, let hers thread between. He turns his head and kisses her knuckles gently; then:

"But do you mind if we do it in New York?" he asks quietly, his smile going a little crooked. "If I don't let my mother at least stand witness in front of the city clerk, I think she'll disown me."

[Danicka] There's a dismissive little shake of her head when he makes a point of saying he doesn't want -- definitely doesn't want -- his name on her accounts. She doesn't seem to care much one way or the other, or that isn't what she meant, or just: they can talk about that later. So they go on.

More importantly, there's no bitter edge to anything she says. No derision for the institution of marriage or those who choose it. In the end, and all practical matters aside, she seems to see it... well, almost like a gift. Something seen over and over, something possessed by others, something that would inexplicably satisfy some desire in him. She sees the way he looks, telling her

I just want to marry you

and decides to get it for him, like a watch or a shirt or any other things she might think would make him smile. There is so little she can give him, really. Trinkets are so inconsequential in the end. He seems happy if she is safe and fed and happy, herself, but there's so few opportunities where she can gain her own joy by seeing him ... happy.

No, she doesn't abhor it. She wants it because he does. She wants it for him.

Danicka shakes her head, though, when he asks about New York. "No. Our den is here," she says, as though this makes perfect, irrefutable sense and didn't even deserve being questioned. "We can fly her out and put her up in a hotel," she says simply, but with an almost businesslike decisiveness. "And our fathers, too, if yours insists and mine can. But I absolutely draw the line there," she goes on, rather adamantly. "We can send your sister a picture and she'll just have to be satisfied. I have seen romantic comedies and I am not having this snowball into a clamor of interloping family members and packmates and random strangers invited just because they're Shadow Lords or because they go to class with me or what about the dentist around the corner and then I'm hitting finals week and planning some ridiculous circus until it's May or something and we're still not married yet."

A beat. Her eyebrows are up, as though in warning. "Are we clear?"

[Lukas] The irony is that he so often feels the same way. That there's so little he can get her, in the end. Trinkets are so inconsequential; there are few material things she can't simply buy for herself if she wants them. He didn't get her a smartpen because he thought she must surely already have one. He had to think long and hard about the magnolia tree because he wasn't sure if it was silly, if it was dumb, if she'd even like it.

And she did. It was a gift, even if he didn't quite understand why until she told him. Just as this is a gift, even if she didn't even know he wanted it until he said it. Even if he didn't really know, until he said it.

Then she's drawing the line, telling him no, not New York, new york is not where the den is. And no more than parents, because she's seen romantic comedies, and if she lets it it'll snowball and then it'll be May and --

he leans up then and kisses her suddenly, without warning. She'll just have to talk through it. Her eyebrows are up when he draws back; he grins.

"Clear," he says, and then dips his head and bites her shoulder gently, mock-growling in his throat. He turns over then: flips on his back, brings her with him, sudden and athletic, a tumble of bedsheets and limbs and her hair falling over his face.

"Anyway," he says, "I just wanted New York because we met there, and we grew up there. But the den is here," agreement, "so we'll get married here."

[Danicka] There is nothing Lukas can get Danicka -- in terms of wrappable, givable items -- that she could not get for herself. Particularly considering the economy, the woman is ridiculously wealthy. She could afford far better than the apartment she lives in. She could drive an even nicer car. Certainly she does buy clothes and lingerie that cost obscene amounts of money, but then he goes into her kitchen and she's eating store-brand of many staple items and using rather reasonably priced hair products and soap and the like. She will likely never want for anything, especially because she manages her money and lives beneath her means.

Should the day come when they have children, and should the day come when one or both of them are gone, those children will not have to work unless -- and this is probable -- their parents drilled into them a certain stern work ethic. They could be lazy. They won't be.

They'll be Shadow Lords.

What gifts Lukas gives Danicka are things she would never even consider getting for herself, or things that she genuinely could not create or buy. An Awakened oak, growing faster and stronger than any spirit-slumbering tree would. The magnolia sapling. A collar for Kandovany with a little orange-shaped bell. A silver bracelet. Though truthfully, the point of gifts is never how much they cost or the person's ability to buy them for themselves. They are ways of saying, simply

I know you. I understand. And I care.

I like you.


Of course, then there's this: the whole matter of getting married, which will cost them approximately fifteen dollars or so for the license since blood tests aren't required in the state of Illinois and since they won't be hiring a priest or renting out a church or event hall or what-have-you. Chances are that the main cost will be flying in parents and getting them hotel rooms, especially without much advance notice. Danicka will want to pay the judge or other public official who performs the brief and rather brusque ceremony, of course. They may go to a dinner. She might buy a new dress, but that's not much different than what she might do after flipping through a magazine and seeing a designer she likes.

That's all later, though. Right now Lukas is so fucking happy that he's snarling and snuggling and rolling Danicka around in the bed, making her laugh. She holds onto his shoulders as he tumbles back into the covers, wriggling a bit as he slips out of her and readjusting her underwear, even as she's kissing him. Her hair falls over his face. He can smell her, smell their sex, smell himself on her, everything. And she tilts her head, nuzzing him just under his jaw, wrinkling her nose as his beard scratches her softer skin.

"We met there," she agrees softly, putting her hand on his cheek, breathing in the scent of him from his neck, "but I knew you here. And loved you here."

so we'll get married here.

So they will.

Danicka lays languidly on him, ready to just rest there a bit before their stomachs start growling. Then she says: "Would you be disappointed if I just wanted a plain band?" And a beat. "Or mind, if I bought you a ring, too?"

[Lukas] Humans might be running for the shower already. Airing out the room. Lukas likes that he can smell himself on his mate. Smell his mate on himself. He likes that her sexy new lingerie is half-ruined with slick, with cum, with sweat. He likes that she's still wearing it; likes the idle thought of turning her on her stomach and seeing that lacy backside he felt with his fingers before fucking her good and firm again before getting out of bed

and getting something to eat

and coming back to bed to do it all over again until five pm rolls around and they have to get ready for Katherine's dinner party.

He's thinking about this, nipping gently at the soft skin of her temple while she nuzzles him under the jaw, when she settles over him and asks him about wedding bands. Lukas lets out a surprised laugh, opening his eyes.

"Baby, why would I mind? I was going to suggest the same thing. Matching plain gold bands. Maybe brushed. I don't like the polished, mirror-finish look much." He thinks a moment. "If you buy my ring, I'm buying you an engagement ring."

Another moment.

"No, I'm lying. I was going to buy you one anyway. So if you have a preference, you better speak up now or forever hold your peace."

[Danicka] She makes a face, half disgruntled, half ...well, actually bothered. "I just want a plain band," she repeats, as though he didn't hear her. As though it would upset her if, having heard her, he's teasing her about it anyway. Danicka props herself up a little on top of him, frowning at Lukas slightly. It isn't anger, at least.

[Lukas] She props herself up. He tips his head down to look at her, his attention a little more focused now. "You don't want an engagement ring? Or you don't want a brushed-gold band?"

[Danicka] Danicka peers at him, less frowning in vague hurt now and more squinting in bewilderment. "An engagement ring is the one with diamonds," she clarifies for him. "And I don't want that, because it's just going to get in the way. I don't care, other than that." She gets closer to him again, laying her head on his chest. "I was going to pick one out for you myself. But if you really want a brushed-gold band, that's what I'll get."

[Lukas] "No, I know that -- "

and he laughs suddenly, because it's a silly thing to be confused over, and because she's closer to him again. His arm settles comfortably around her, holding her to his heartbeat.

"I know what an engagement ring is, baby. I was just going to get you two rings, one wedding, one engagement. But if you don't want the engagement ring, you can just have a wedding ring.

"And no. I want you to pick one out for me. I don't even care if it's really ugly and made of green copper. I want you to pick. But I'd like our rings to match."

[Danicka] She swats his bicep where her hand is already lying, but it's light. It's the sort of swat she gives Kandovany. "Then you weren't listening when I said the first time I just wanted a pla-- ohhh."

Because he was listening. And Danicka smiles, huffing a small laugh at herself. "You thought I meant that for the band, I just wanted a plain one. Not that I don't want the engagement ring at all."

She turns her head, nuzzling his chest once or twice, swiping her face back and forth against him. She presses a kiss to his sternum, and lays down again. "I don't care if they match," she says, thus qualifying this -- however mild -- as their first argument about The Wedding. Or something.

[Lukas] "No -- I wasn't sure if you meant you didn't want an engagement ring, or if you meant a brushed gold wedding ring wasn't a plain gold wedding ring. I know you don't want an engagement ring now. I'm still not quite sure whether or not a brushed gold wedding band would have been okay, but it's a moot point now. I want you to pick one out for me, and then I'll pick one for you that matches."

He's frowning a little now, shifting to tuck his free hand behind his head.

"Anyway," he says, "I don't want to disagree over this anymore, Danička. I want to marry you, but I don't want us to obsess over details. I don't care what the wedding band looks like. I just want you to pick one out for me, and I want one that matches yours."

[Danicka] Danicka, lying down as she is atop him, doesn't see him frowning, but she can hear it in his voice. She frowns, too, her eyes opening, and lifts her head so she can look at him. "I wasn't really arguing," Danicka says softly. "And if it matters to you, then do it the way you want. I don't know how or why that turned the way it did -- I thought you didn't care that I said I didn't want an engagement ring, and that wasn't what happened."

She slides off of him, mostly because lying prone on his chest while trying to see his face makes her neck ache, and she doesn't want to lie back down and try to interpret all of him by voice alone, by heartbeat. She lies beside him, her legs still draped and tangled over his, her hand on his chest, her body propped up on her elbow.

"Lukáš... I honestly don't care," she says, more gently now, her brow furrowed as though the repetition of this phrase is going to hurt him. And truthfully, it might. "I was... I don't know." She sighs, but there's little frustration in it. "I thought it might be ...neat, to pick rings out for each other, even if they didn't match. But if it matters to you that they're the same, then that's what I want, too."

She aches a bit, moving her hand up to his face again, as though she just can't stop touching him there today, contacting him like that. "Baby, I wasn't really picking a fight with you over this. I was just talking. I'm not sure what about all this is important to you, or that you don't care much about. I feel like I've already shot down one thing that might have mattered to you, getting married in New York instead of here, and I don't want you to end up feeling like I'm stomping all over everything you want."

Danicka's voice lowers. "Lukášek, if you want brushed gold wedding bands, then I'm going to feel the same way every time I look at that as I would if it were platinum or pewter." She moves her thumb across the hardness of his cheekbone. "I want that feeling," she admits, like a secret.

[Lukas] Lukas is quiet and still for a while, afterward. Then his hand comes to cover hers over his cheek. He kisses her palm, turns to look at her eyes.

"To tell you the truth, I want you to want to marry me too," he says. Softly. Like a secret. "I know being married or not doesn't mean much to you. Truth be told, it doesn't mean much to me, either. But marrying you means something to me. It means a lot to me, even if I can't really explain why or how. Everything else -- the where, the how, the who, the what -- they matter much, much less. So you shouldn't worry about trampling on details that are important to me.

"But I do want you to want to marry me. Marry me, even if you don't really care about being married or not, period."

He's repeating himself. He frowns, dark eyebrows drawing together over lightning-clear eyes, puzzling over his words as he turns on his side to face her more fully.

"I don't want you to just do everything I want because it's what I want. Because I don't want to feel like you're ... doing me a favor, marrying me. Or just doing it to indulge me.

"So no, I don't mind that you want to be married here and not in New York. I'm glad you said that. I don't mind that you don't want an engagement ring, and I don't mind that you want to pick out a ring for me. I want to pick a ring for you that matches in some way, or complements in some way, because I want to feel like our rings are connected somehow. But what I don't want is for you to pick out a brushed gold wedding band that's identical to a smaller brushed gold wedding band for yourself -- simply because that's what I want, and you want to cater to me. I don't want you to marry me at all, if you're just doing it to cater to my wishes."

[Danicka] Danicka reaches past his cheek, putting his palm against her wrist, and her fingers touch his hair. "Is that how you feel?" she asks. "That I'm doing this as a favor to you?"

She isn't waiting for him to answer, though. She leans over, kissing his mouth softly. Slow, but draws back before it deepens, resting her brow to his. "I want to look at my hand sometimes and know I'm married to you. I want to look at your hand and know you're married to me. I don't know if that's the same thing as what you mean, or what you want, or what you want me to want. But I know I want that feeling."

[Lukas] "I'm -- " he begins, but she doesn't wait for it. She leans over. She kisses his mouth and he relaxes into it, primitive and thoughtless as any animal. When she continues, he listens, quieter now.

"I was beginning to feel like you were doing it as a favor to me," he says, after. "But I don't feel that way anymore."

His own hand comes up, covers her cheek. Strokes the arch of her cheekbone, smoother than his own, the cut of it not so sharp. Still somehow similar. Reminding him without words of their shared roots, their shared people.

"I want to marry you." It's the third, or fourth, or sixth time he's said it. No longer qualified, no longer sort of maybe, but plainly put. "I want to look at my hand and know I'm married to you. Just like I can see you, or smell you, or feel you and know I'm mated to you.

"Let's go get a license tomorrow. And start flying parents in. And pick out rings. And make an appointment with the judge. And all that."

[Danicka] All Danicka does now is nod, and she's still nodding when she leans over and kisses him again. She doesn't agree that yes, tomorrow they should get on that, get these things done as soon as possible.

Tonight they'll probably not mention that they're getting married while they have dinner with his pack at Katherine's house. Danicka wouldn't want to, doesn't want flowery congratulations or questions about 'the wedding' or, honestly, to tell anyone about this strange little proposal of theirs. She doesn't want to share it. This isn't about that. It's not about that for either of them. The show. The pomp. Even the witnesses. Even if they can't say exactly what it is about.

And tomorrow they'll learn that their marriage license will be valid for sixty days, but that the waiting period is one day. There will be some interesting phone calls with family members, primarily conducted Czech, quite possibly conducted at the same time. Mr. Musil will have no sudden need to sit Lukas down and give him a talking-to, or be disgruntled that his permission was not asked. He may worry about her brother's reaction, about displeasing him by going, and Lukas -- perhaps on the phone with his own parents at the time -- will hear her snap

Vládík can hang.

Reservations will have to be made at nearby hotels. A conversation about whether or not to invite their parents to their house. Danicka, perhaps surprisingly, saying yes. Saying she wants to show her father the oak. Saying, without prompting or mention of Marjeta at all, that she wants to show Lukas's mother the study beside their bedroom and tell her how when they have children she'll move the study downstairs to the currently unused den and turn the little room into a nursery. That she wants all of them to see the home Lukas found, and bought, and prepared for her.

Tomorrow, though, a trip to the county clerk's office. Tomorrow, Danicka showing Lukas pictures of black tungsten rings that she found online, and looking at brushed gold bands in jewelry stores because she doesn't like the mirrored finish much, either. Finding some interesting things called tension rings that hold a small diamond and dismissing them because of a gut reaction, an instinctive rejection of a symbol that is literally held together by tension and pressure.

Now, Danicka kisses him, her hand in his hair moving, her arms wrapping around him, her body folding around him again, pushing against him until he moves onto his back. Now, Lukas's hands on her ass, pulling her firmly and entirely onto him, and Danicka gasping away from his mouth, muttering against his lips

Chci tě.

Which, from the first time she told him, hasn't changed in meaning.

christmas day.

[Lukas] They stay a few days. They buy things. They buy a bed for Kandovany, and a food and water dish. They buy a litter box, and though Danicka might suggest they simply move everything over when they go get Kando, Lukas insists on having two. One for the apartment, one for the den. Because he wants her to feel at home in both places, he says. They don't buy a cat carrier, and even if Danicka has one, Lukas holds her on the car ride instead. Something about not wanting to cage her.

They buy a Christmas tree, too. A tiny little one, a few inches high at best -- a bonsai tree, actually, which Lukas strings tiny LEDs on. It sits in their study, next to the fountain.

And -- gifts. Last year they had a quarter-decade to make up for. This year, it's just 12 months, and so they don't need an enormous tree; they don't need to pile it full of gifts, string it full of cards. Lukas buys only a few things, and he wraps them and keeps them under his side of the bed and refuses to give any hints whatsoever, noting only that one of the packages cannot be tipped over. And that he'll know if she tries to peek.

Christmas Eve is an early night. They make love the way they do when they feel tender, and close: tenderly, staying close. They sleep the way they do, his body wrapped around hers from behind, keeping her secure and warm. Christmas Day comes and the world outside is frost and ice and snow. Their furnace is roaring somewhere in the basement. Kando knows better than to scratch on the bedroom door, though one of the presents is for her.

Lukas doesn't even bother to get out of bed. He rolls to the side, reaches under the bed, and fishes out the packages. He hands them to his mate, and then he lies back, doubling his pillow over and stuffing it under his head so he has a better vantage point.

One package is largeish, irregularly shaped. One is flat, perhaps no more than a card. And the last is a tiny box, square.

"Merry Christmas," he murmurs, and yawns.

[Danicka] The morning after the eclipse comes, and with it, Lukas's wolf.

She inhales quite deeply when she wakes beside him, her eyes toward the window, his body warm on the bed behind her. The soft, sparse dusting of hair across his chest tickles her bare shoulderblades as he breathes, steady and slow. He has a certain soft growl in his throat when he exhales, a canine rumble from deep inside of him. She is still for a moment, then tugs the covers up around her shoulder, curls a bit into the curve created by his body and his arm, and goes back to sleep.

Little has changed. Just the moon, turning again.


The stores are busy.

Kandovany is used to sleeping in a little cabinet with a cushion inside, a secret dark place just for her. She turns up her nose at the bed they buy, the bed Lukas picks out, when they take it home and set it in a quiet corner of the den. He is crestfallen. There's no forcing her, Danicka says, and lays Kando's little toy inside the bed as the orange tabby flicks up her tail and saunters away.

Of course it doesn't matter as much that the dishes aren't the same, as long as there's water in one and the soft wet food Danicka buys in the other. Kandovany is quite indiscriminate, in that case.

They have to take her down to the laundry room where they put her litter box, but she's no silly kitten and she knows what this is for. The first time she goes down on her own she doesn't come back up for some time. When she does, she is quite pleased with the mouse she's carrying. It's quite likely Lukas has to work to conceal his pride in the stupid feline, all insult from the bed snobbery forgotten.

Danicka is more concerned with the fact that there are mice in their house. Lukas just laughs, as they try to get Kandovany to give up her prize: "Not for long!"


Last year, they had the tall tree, decorated by Danicka's hand well in advance of Lukas seeing it, or even knowing it would be there waiting for them. They had candles in the windows and there was more snow on the ground than this year. The little bonsai tree makes her laugh, and she calls Lukas a 'geek' for the LED lights he puts on it. He scoffs. She's one to talk. She smiles, and smiling, kisses him.

Little has changed. Just the turning of the moon. Just the changing of the season. Just the light coming back to earth.


She complains on Christmas Eve that this is weird, not opening gifts. She tells him he's weird, and she's looking under the bed and he's grabbing her ankle and all but pulling her across the carpet, no no no no no and Danicka's poking him in the stomach with her toe. None if it is all that serious. Last year one way, this year another.

He has her on the floor, amidst the bean bags he bought on a whim when he first got the house, kissing her all the while, her hair spread out like a halo over the carpet. Starts playful, changes along with their breathing. Once upon a time, a year or more ago, she laid on her own bed in her own apartment and told him to withdraw, to take off his condom, let her feel him. Terrifying. He wanted to warn her how addictive it would be, and how dangerous, how he couldn't lose her like that,

but that was a long time before he saw what he saw in the Underworld. Heard what he was told. Gave up the most stringent way of living the warrior's ideal of solitude, of sacrifice. Made himself believe: Yes, it will be hard. Yes, it will be dangerous. Yes, it's worth it.

They make love, kissing again and again, Danicka's eyes drowsy with pleasure and tenderness. Nothing between them, like there hasn't been for a long time now. They stay lucky. She stays with him. He knows now it would be all right, if she got pregnant. They'd make it all right. They'd make it.


Christmas morning comes, and with it, Lukas yawning and stretching -- but only after he's rolled over and gotten the presents and put them on the covers. Danicka's barely conscious as gifts pile onto the comforter over her body, pushing herself up on her side and looking blearily at him, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as any five year old this morning. She lays back down as he says Merry Christmas, muttering:

"You are so weird, baby."

Danicka yawns, hugging her pillow, as though she fully intends to just go back to sleep for another ten, fifteen minutes. At the door, Kando mrows, plaintive. She doesn't scratch, but the door bumps a little in its frame as she walks back and forth in front of it, leaning, rubbing her side onto the wood. Mrooow.

[Lukas] Lukas is not entirely opposed to the idea of ten more minutes. Or sixty. Or more. Danicka hugs her pillow and Lukas, done stretching now, flops down atop her.

Or rather -- he pretends to. He carries most his weight on his elbows, though, which are planted on either side of his mate's slighter body; his chest presses gently, warmly against her back, and he buries his face with a sort of shameless animal fondness in the nape of her neck. That low sound in his chest again, something a little like a growl, happy and quiet, as he wraps his forearms under Danicka and gathers her even closer to himself.

But then there's that plaintive little mrow, and the light thumping of the door in its frame, and Kando -- that little scamp, which did indeed entirely fell Lukas's crest when she turned her nose up at his offering, and did indeed please him immensely when she brought home a dead mouse -- is asking to be let in. Lukas lifts his head. He makes a sound of his own: mmf? and then he lowers his mouth to Danicka's shoulder. Gnaws on her gently, thoughtfully.

"I think Kando wants in," he whispers, stating the obvious. Under the covers, he shifts, sliding his leg over hers, covering her now. Nestling his groin rather shamelessly against her bottom, not even out of any particular need or drive to fuck but simply for the nearness. The intimacy. He bows his head, then, rubbing the bridge of his nose against her shoulder instead, kissing the smooth soft skin of her back.

And still talking about the cat -- "Should I go let her in?"

[Danicka] Moving around on the bed jostles the gifts, even the one he told her couldn't stand to be tipped over. At least Lukas is careful about it. If Danicka got him gifts, anything for Christmas or his birthday, she hasn't told him where they are hidden. He hasn't seen them. She's a secretive sort, his mate.

He presses down on either side of her, moves against her back, and all but burrows his face into her skin. Danicka makes a protesting groan as he pulls her over, snuggles her to his chest. She clings to her pillow, kicking her feet gently under the covers. It's no use. He holds her and she goes limp, exhaling a puff of mock-disgruntled air.

The cat meows, and rattles the door. The wolf grunts, and affectionately gnaws and gums at his female, as though the feel of her skin in his mouth somehow helps him process this strange insistence of the feline outside.

Lukas presses closer to Danicka as though he has no intention of getting out of bed and opening the door for the snobby mouser. She readjusts to his body, rubs herself lightly against him as she settles once more, her face mashed to her pillow and relaxing. Her mate nuzzles her neck, kisses her back, and she's warm. So warm.

"Sure," Danicka says eventually, musingly. "It's Christmas." Let's be nice.

[Lukas] They don't turn their heat up so high at night. Lukas doesn't like the constant rush of hot air; it dries his nasal passages out. Besides, their comforters are so very warm, and so are they.

That does, however, leave the air of the room considerably cooler than when they went to bed. And Lukas is careful of that; careful not to let the cold air in under the covers even as he shifts over his mate, careful not to let her catch whatever imaginary chill he has, since the very beginning, worried about.

Are you cold? is arguably the first sign of tenderness or caring he's ever shown her. Now, nearly two years later, he's still never quite convinced when the answer is no.

So he's careful when he shifts his weight over her again. When he gnaws at her shoulder and nuzzles at her neck, mmms as she rubs against him lightly, idly -- when he slips his hand under the covers and runs his knuckles down the dip of her spine, keeps the comforters snug. Keeps his female warm.

"I love your body," he whispers. "I love how soft your skin is. I love these sweet little tits."

-- and he's found them, slid his hand under her again, squeezes one gently before cupping the other, heel of his hand to her heartbeat. When he rubs himself against her again, there's more intent in it,

but it's Christmas, and he bites gently at her shoulder one more time before slipping out from under the covers. It's cold, and his body reacts, hairs standing on end as he trots, all but bounds to the door and opens it. More likely than not Kando, after all her insistence, now pretends indifference -- takes her sweet time looking down the hall at some half-imagined object of interest, yawns, stretches, and finally saunters past Lukas's bare shins.

He has the good sense to turn up the thermostat before he flees back to bed. Dives back under the covers, hauls them up to his neck -- and then, rather belatedly, reaches to right the tipped gift.

"Open them," he urges. "Open, open, open."

[Danicka] Growing up where she did, with what money her family had, Danicka learned about sweaters and blankets instead of cranking up the thermostat. She doesn't let Kandovany onto People Beds, but these days the nights she doesn't have a large man-shaped furnace curled up beside her are fewer than the nights when she does. He knows this, at least: he doesn't need fur to keep her warm, fangs to keep her safe.

There is also this: Danicka is a very warm person. Good genes, good circulation, good metabolism, whatever you want to chalk it up to. Maybe it's because she's Kin. Maybe it's because her family's bloodline hails from the warmer valleys and vineyards of Central Bohemia. She has better muscle tone now, and she's not liable to sudden shivers or icy feet pressed to her mate's calves under the blankets.

Still: he, in his rather overwhelming tendency to pick a believe and stick to it, gnaw on it, hold to it until holding onto it proves more perilous than the risk of letting go, isn't entirely convinced when she tells him these days that no, she's not cold. That even that first night together, maybe -- just maybe -- the way she tucked her feet under his was for closeness and not body heat.


The way he mmms behind her and moves behind her makes Danicka turn her head slightly to look at him. He's touching her now, stroking her skin. He whispers things not that different from what he half-grunted, half-gasped in her ear as he moved over her, inside of her, last night on the floor. Her chin brushes her shoulder as he finds and fondles her breasts, as his cock stirs gently. Danicka's lips curve a bit. There's that look he knows, that look on her face that is question and invitation, amusement and sweetness, a gentle lure that just as easily lets him go as it does draw him right back again.

So he is released, though with the somehow, subconscious knowledge that if he had just pressed against her she would have rolled over for him, arched her back and opened for him, that instead of going to the door and opening for the cat he could be finding his way into his female's body, hearing her groan

like she does

when it's him.

Kandovany does indeed turn up her nose at Lukas when he invites her into the bedroom. She sniffs at his toes and recoils as though he's repulsive. She walks past him eventually though, tail up, flicking it against his shins as though Her Majesty is deigning to acknowledge her serf. She looks towards the bed, curious about the new things atop it, but knows better, and heads for the bean bags. Sniffing, she senses their sex, and -- some snob -- curls up right in the midst of it anyway, yawning. She folds her paws, and closes her eyes, and waits until they aren't looking before she peers over at them.

By then, of course, Lukas is back in the bed, and by then, Danicka has rolled over onto her back, stretched, and snuggled back under the covers. By now, she's looking at the presents with the same sort of curiosity as her marmalade-colored cat, subdued, a portrait of restraint, but deeply fucking interested.

Her hand creeps out, and she snags the big one with her fingertips, dragging it closer and summarily tearing apart the wrapping.

[Lukas] Lukas is not at all surprised that Danicka adopted the cat she did. They have so much in common sometimes, in ways he can't easily vocalize but can so, so very easily intuit. He tries not to smile as she observes the gifts with pretend-disinterest. When she snags the largest, he stops trying -- lets himself smile, slow and broad, scooting closer until he can wrap his arm around her and cuddle her against the side of his chest.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Might get dirt everywhere."

She ends up unwrapping a plant. Another young tree, for that matter, some loose dirt in the wrapping paper from its brief upending. It might take Danicka a moment to recognize it -- the large, dark, waxy leaves, the thin branches bare of its trademark flowers at this age, in this season -- but the little tag affixed to its trunk identifies it.

Magnolia grandiflora, it reads. Southern Magnolia.

"I wanted to get you something that might remind you of New Orleans," he says quietly. His arm is warm around her, his side warm against her -- the deep solid thump of his heart unflagging in the cage of his chest. "But then I didn't think getting you a magnolia bouquet quite cut it. Because they die. And that sucks."

A pause, and then he nuzzles her hair. "We're going to have to wait 'til spring to plant it."

[Danicka] Danicka is a sharp one. She's bright, she's curious, and she's voracious in her studies. She knows it's a plant as soon as he mentions dirt, and she curls up against him as he draws her into his arms, holding the gift more carefully after that. The covers and sheets tangle around their shins as they get closer together.

It doesn't take her a moment to recognize the plant. It doesn't take her a second. She exhales a faint, perhaps surprised, huff of hair as the wrapping paper crumples away from it. She doesn't even lift the tag and finger it, read it. Danicka touches the leaves and there's such an ache in the answering color of her eyes that he might wonder if she's about to cry.

Something to remind her of New Orleans, he says. And not just the flowers, because they die. She barely seems to hear him, looking briefly lost as she gently touches the sapling.

"I'll take care of it," she says, much in the way she said that when he found the den, she would make it warm. She turns slightly towards him and kisses the first part of him she finds, her lips pressing against his shoulder and the slope of his clavicle. Pulling back, Danicka looks up at him. Her eyes are dark with emotion, and with warmth.

"The plantation the Sokolovs sent us to had this neglected garden out where the orchard used to be kept. It was covered in fruit trees, and magnolia trees. And... on nights when something happened --"

there were vampires in Louisiana

she got one's blood on her face when Rick shot its head off as it leaned in to bite her

there were just as many dangers there as here

some of them darker

"-- or when Yelizaveta would start telling me the things she would see --"

the girl who saw ghosts

who might have been mad

and might have been a medium

"-- and after I found out I was pregnant... any time I felt like I was about to break because of where I was and what my life was, I'd go out there after everyone was asleep and just... hide. Until I could calm down."

And now there are, really, tears in her eyes. She smiles, aching, not wanting to cry. She's smiling, too, holding the pot with the little tree in it. "I still can't smell magnolias without it making me feel better. About whatever is bothering me." Danicka leans over again, kissing his cheek. Because he had no way of knowing. Because he never knew, and he thought to himself that this was a silly little gift, just a step up from a bouquet. Because by sheer serendipity, he just touched her more than he ever could have expected to. "Mockrát vám děkuji, moje láska."

[Lukas] Lukas could have never known what magnolias meant to Danicka, but he knows now -- knows the moment she unwraps it and quiets, aches the way she does.

He holds her a little closer then, his big hand warm on her shoulder. Baby, he murmurs, but then she begins to speak, and it's his turn to quiet. His turn to listen, his thumb sweeping her shoulder now and then, as she tells him she'll take care of it. As she tells him about the plantation, the great old magnolias there that sprawled dark and majestic, full of white flowers whose luxurious fragrance filled the summer nights,

with the crickets, and the moon, and the waters, and the vampires in their city, the ghosts restless in their tombs.

A time of light and dark, New Orleans. A time of redemption and danger, that Lukas still knows so very little about. A little more now, though. Truth be told he was a little worried when he gave this to her; wasn't sure it would be enough. Wasn't sure it would even survive, this far north.

He believes her, though. She'll take care of it.

"Jsem rád, že jste to líbí," he says. Then, "I didn't know -- any of that. I just thought their flowers look like summer and the south. But I'm glad."

His hand comes up off her shoulder, strokes gently over her hair, then holds her a little firmer as he drops a kiss on her temple. Her cheek. When he turns back, he reaches out, scritches Kando idly under the chin.

"Open the little one," he says, and smiles. "It's for Kando, but I don't think she'll be able to manage."

[Danicka] The smell of soil, and the promise of seeing finally what was in that very interestingly scented parcel, has gotten the cat in question over to the bed, laying her paws on the side of the mattress while Danicka's eyes fill with grateful, tender tears. Her whiskers twitch and she tries to crane her neck upward to see what is going on up there, and eventually

just decides to risk it, leaping up with uncanny grace to the surface of the bed. The comforter dents under her paws and she goes suddenly still, tail swishing slowly and silently behind her as she crouches, preparing to be swatted off the bed. No swat comes, no tch!, nothing. Gradually, Kandovany raises her head, ears perked, and clambers over the hills of the duvet until she is pressing those sorrowfully clawless forepaws on Lukas's thigh, stretching across his lap towards the plant held between he and Danicka.

She's smiling that soft way she has, and she kisses his cheek again, gingerly laying the plant on the nightstand and then coming back to him. The thermostat getting cranked up is warming the house, yes, but the air is still cold, and she's bareskinned. He scritches the cat, and she glares slightly at Kando, who ignores her because her eyes are closed and she's arching her back and twitching her tail and leaaaning into that idle attention.

Stupid thing has no idea the gift is for her, and does not care.

Danicka picks up the little square box and unties the ribbon, tossing it at Kandovany, who does not go apeshit like a kitten but looks rather affronted at the interruption. Danicka lifts the lid, and Kandovany presses her head against Lukas's hand, making a noise a little more like a growl than a purr.

Inside is an orange collar, with a little bell that is shaped like an orange, and Danicka just laughs. "Oh, you're ridiculous," she says, lifting the collar out of the box by the bell, so it doesn't chime and rattle. "Hold her, okay?" Danicka asks of him, before she unbuckles the collar and leans over a bit. She makes a clicking noise, the very tip of her tongue against her alveolar ridge, and that gets Kandovany's attention, the cat's head lifting.

It takes some sniffing and hesitation before Kandovany deigns to allow Danicka to put the collar around her neck, but she doesn't bite or hiss or bat at the woman's hands. She suffers with dignity, and when the blonde pulls back, there's a stripe of bright orange buried in the marmalade and white of her fur. Every time she moves the bell rings a bit, and to say that she looks balefully at the two of them does not quite encapsulate the expression on the cat's face before she abandons the two furless bastards to their bed, whipping around and trotting away, jangling the whole way, tail held up.

Danicka laughs. "Why a collar? I have some tags for her but I didn't see the point. She never goes outside."

For good reason. The fact that she caught a mouse without use of her claws says something for her ferocity and determination, but even in this neighborhood Danicka doesn't dare let Kandovany out of doors. Not even in the back yard. She worries. And she curls up against Lukas again, smiling, one present still between them.

[Lukas] Lukas sits up to hold Kandovany still, his long fingers and broad palms easily -- but so very gently -- folding around the small feline's narrow ribcage. Kando has the dignity not to struggle, but looks rather displeased, all in all, with her gift.

The little bell jingle-jangles its merry way down the bed, across the room. Lukas lays back, pulling the covers back up, wrapping his mate up again. When she asks him why, he laughs a little.

"I've got to confess," he says, "it's mostly so I can hear her sneaking up to pounce my ankles."

He quiet a moment, then, thinking of Kando and her mutilated paws; the mouse she caught regardless.

"Though," he says -- sounding a little sad now -- "then she won't be able to sneak up on the mice either. So maybe we should only put it on for special occasions. Like fancy shoes or a nice dress."

[Danicka] That Kandovany was declawed by some previous owner has always been a point of sorrow between them. It was a part of why Danicka chose this cat, not a kitten but a sleek, slightly underfed, severely handicapped adolescent. She is firm beyond belief with Kando. That the cat was allowed on the bed for a few minutes this morning just speaks to the fact that it's Christmas, and Lukas touched her heart with that magnolia tree. Lukas is, perhaps strangely to most who think they know him, the one who would probably let Kandovany get away with murder. He's crushed when she pretends not to like the bed he picked out, delighted when she hunts down a mouse.

The funny thing is, Kando can never do much damage to Lukas when she pounces. She doesn't bite, and her paws just bat ineffectually at him when she does leap out from behind corners to attack his ankles. Mostly, she just makes him grab the walls so he doesn't get tripped and go crashing to the floor.

He's so careful when he holds her for the application of the collar. He knows he could break her without thinking, if he's not paying attention to the strength in his hands. He's thoughtful, quiet, when he leans back to hold Danicka and considers how -- for all her attitude, for all her regal self-possession -- Kandovany is at a severe disadvantage from other cats. Considers how, despite that, she catches and kills her prey with perhaps twice as much ferocity as any other predator might need to exert.

Danicka says nothing for a moment. Her hand traces light patterns on his forearm as they cuddle. The air is warmer; she lets the blanket slide, doesn't huddle under it any longer. It rests around her ribcage. Gently, Danicka kisses his chest and nuzzles him, breathes him in, settles again. "I like that she can sneak up on you," she says, faintly amused. Faintly proud: "She's so smart."

And in the back of her mind, she thinks of her father. Briefly.

"Maybe I should put her tags on it, and let her go in the back yard sometimes," she muses aloud. "We can watch her. And hear her."

[Lukas] Lukas is still mostly mired in the comforter. He reaches out under the sheets, his hand finding one thigh, then the other; wrapping around the outside of the far one with a loose, comfortable clasp that speaks silently of affection. And ease. And laziness.

A smile flicks over his mouth. Unseen, his thumb rubs slow circles against Danicka's leg. "Yeah," he muses back. "I like that idea. Let's just leave the collar off unless she's going outside. Then we can put it on so she won't wander off. Or if she does, the neighbors will know where to return her."

Under the covers, Lukas's blunt fingernails scritch gently at his mate's skin for a moment. Then he pauses. When he moves again, it's the pads of his fingers against her leg, and she can easily surmise the path his thoughts took when he says, "I'm glad you got Kando. Not even because she's orange. Just ... I'm glad it was her."

He turns his head, kisses Danicka's arm. Then Lukas reaches out and picks up the last of the gifts -- which feels rather like a thickish envelope in wrapping paper -- and hands it to his mate.

[Danicka] He's touching her. Has been touching her since last night when they made love, when they washed each other, when he helped dry her off and picked her up against his body to take her to bed, when she tangled her long legs with his and fell asleep facing him. She must have turned around without waking, because when morning came her back was to his chest and his arms were looped around her middle. Now his arms are covering her under the blankets, a quiet hum of sexual energy underlining everything between them this morning.

Neither of them would deny it, if it was mentioned. Neither of them mention it, or need to.

She smiles softly at what he says. "I am, too. I didn't even mean to get an orange cat," Danicka tells him, smiling. "Just... saw her and she felt right. And she is."

He kisses her arm, like she's kissed his collarbone and shoulder and chest and anywhere else, like he's kissed her temple and cheek and anywhere else. Then there's a third, last gift coming her way and Danicka grins, taking it from Lukas. Opening it up, and then opening the envelope inside the paper, she discovers a set of memberships to museums and aquariums and galleries. The planetarium. The zoo. She laughs as the little membership cards with her name on them come out, grinning. They all allow in two people per pass. Danicka kisses him on the mouth, quick and light, after she reads the Christmas card enclosed with them all:

Veselé Vánoce. Miluji tě.

Merry Christmas. I love you.

С Рождеством Христовым. Я люблю тебя.


"Thank you, baby," Danicka murmurs, still smiling, tucking all the cards back into the envelope to set it beside the tree. "We should go to the planetarium for New Year's."

To which he might, and rather accurately, reply: You are such a nerd.

Whether he does or not, she grins, snuggling closer, her hand on his chest for a moment. "You want your presents now?"

[Lukas] Lukas writes with a firm, confident hand -- letters large and slanting, half-cursive not out of any real deliberation but because it's faster to write that way. Danicka knows he still writes his parents. Not emails, not phone calls -- though there are a few of those, too -- but letters in the mail, scrawled page after page, folded neatly into envelopes and sent. For all that practice, he barely knows Cyrillic at all. Those characters are blocky and childish at best, the ones that even remotely resemble latin characters written with an obvious and relieved ease; the rest printed painstakingly and unattractively. The Я looks like what he likely thinks of it as: a backwards R, dyslexic and illsuited. The ж looks like he doesn't know what to do with it.

He doesn't mock her for wanting to go to the planetarium instead of some gallery opening, some club, some party, on the eve of the new year. He just laughs, tips his head to bump his temple lightly against her shoulder. "Okay," he says agreeably. And, joking about it now because it's over, "We can ask them when the next lunar eclipse-cum-solstice is."

She snuggles closer. He wraps his arm around her, keeping her there, comfortable, close, and pretends to think for a moment. Very theatrical: eyes giving a quick sweep of the ceiling, then coming back to her.

"Hmmm... yes."

[Danicka] Truth be told, if Lukas could see Danicka's Cyrillic he wouldn't feel so bad. She grew up speaking Russian, not writing it. Notes in her home were in Czech or English, primarily. Her fluency is casual and informal and when she has to write in Russian -- which has happened only enough times to count on one hand -- it is little better than Lukas's note in the Christmas card. She can read it just fine, but writing is another animal altogether. The fact of the matter is, if Lukas studies his dictionary and looks at any online learning supplements, his reading and writing in Russian will actually be quite a bit smoother than hers.

She grins at the joke, but she hugs him, too, holds him for a moment. He was frightened. He was panicked. He didn't know what to do with himself, or what his life was going to be, or even how to cope with the way he felt in the hours before dawn. She remembers that, and she holds onto him for a half-breath, then gentles. "Probably not for awhile," she says, quite rightly. Hundreds of years, if then.

Danicka is happy this morning. Her eyes bright, her hair tousled, her body tangled with his and with the covers of the bed they've been sharing for the last few days. It smells like them now. Smelled like fabric softener the night of the solstice, but now it smells like their bodies, their skin, their sweat, them.

She kisses his cheek, and withdraws, wiggling out of the covers. "Stay here," she tells him, and -- bare from top to bottom -- dances across the room to the bathroom door, disappearing through it and closing it firmly behind her.


She's actually gone for a few minutes. Not terribly long, but longer than it should take to grab something in the other room and come back with it. When she does come back she's wearing her robe, the one like his that they keep here, hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She's all bundled up as though she got cold while gathering the stack of gifts she went to find.

There's a flat box, the sort one might put a shirt in, but not quite as tall. There's a larger, blockier box. Those two are wrapped in obviously Christmassy paper, black with white snowflakes, silver ribbons stuck onto the corners. She also has a second large, flat box that is wrapped in red paper that says Happy Birthday Happy Birthday Happy Birthday in yellow all over it in various fonts and sizes. There's an envelope stuck to that one.

Danicka bounds back into bed, putting the gifts on his lap, tucking her robe close around her. Beaming. "Christmas first," she says, nudging the snowflake-wrapped presents at him.

[Danicka] [NOTE TO SELF: THE CYRILLIC IS 'MERRY CHRISTMAS. I LOVE YOU.' THE TWO CHARACTERS HE HAD TROUBLE WITH ARE THE BACKWARDS R AND THE ASTERISK-LOOKIN' ONE.]
to Lukas

[Lukas] Lukas isn't very patient, waiting for Danicka to come back. He rises up on his elbows when she gets out of bed. There's almost an air of surprise about him, as though he didn't quite comprehend that getting his gifts necessitated getting out of bed. Off she goes, and he has to keep himself from protesting it's cold, she's naked, be warm, mate, be warm.

When she comes back, he's sitting up in bed, back to the headboard. He throws the covers back to receive her -- her presents go unremarked for a second as he more or less hauls her bodily against him and wraps the blankets around the both of them. She's sitting almost in front of him now, his legs bracketing her. He has to reach around her to look at the gifts; she has to twist around a bit to see his face, which is lit with a sort of intent, focused curiosity as his hands hesitate over the gifts.

Christmas first, she insists, and his brilliant eyes flick to hers with a laugh. He leans forward to steals a kiss. Then, spontaneous now, he grabs the flatter, thinner package and unwraps it. A pad of stationery paper rests in his hands, textured and fine, edged in a reserved, elegant black-and-silver border that all but screams from the desk of Lukáš Kvasnička.

Her mate looks pleased, fingering the paper, turning the pad over in his hands -- but then the rest of the gift drops out of the box, and it's a pen, minimalist and modernist. Lukas sets the pad down to pick the pen up, studying it, and there's a sense that he might sniff at it if she weren't watching him. There's no point, no nib, no well for ink, no tube of gel -- nothing but a metal cone attached to a smooth barrel.

After several moments of investigation, he breaks down and asks, "What is it?"

[Danicka] Last night there were no gifts anywhere to be found. She was hiding them. Granted, last night when he first went to sleep Danicka was lying one way with him and when he awoke she was lying another way. She even explains, as she's curling up with him again, tucked first in her robe and then in his arms and then in the blankets: "I put them under the tree in the study last night but you apparently wanted Christmas in bed this morning."

Which is all right. She snuggles between his legs and grins as he kisses her, watches as he tears off the wrapping and opens the letter paper. He likes the paper. Touches it. Then the pen catches his notice, gets turned over and over in his fingers. Her grin only grows as it becomes clear he has no idea what this pen-like thing is. She's gleeful.

"It's called a Beta Pen," she says. "See, the nib is an alloy that leaves a mark on most paper. When you write with it, it sort of looks like a pencil mark, but it won't smudge and you can't really erase it. There's no ink, so it doesn't dry out, and it lasts almost forever. If the nib ever does get worn down you can use sandpaper to sharpen it again." Danicka beams. "I got one for myself in white."

[Lukas] "That is ... awesome."

It's not a word that comes often out of his mouth. Then again, that look of absolute delight isn't a common one on his face, either. He slings his arm around Danicka's neck and kisses her again, a quick firm stamp of his mouth on hers before he pulls back again, grinning.

"Baby, thank you. I love it." And he tucks the pen behind his ear, schoolboy-like. "I actually thought about getting you a Smartpen," he adds, reaching for the next gift. "One of those pens that records what you're hearing in sync with the notes you're writing, and then plays it back later on if you need to hear it? I wasn't sure if you already had one, though."

[Danicka] "I know!" she says, delighted. This is the girl who set up a microscope in her second bedroom. This is the girl who reads every article about the LHC she can find. This is the girl who wants to spend New Year's Eve... at a fucking planetarium, listening to an overblown narrator morosely describe the birth of the cosmos. Granted, she'll sneak in a flask to share with her boyfriend. Granted, when the clock strikes midnight she'll be in some hotel room with him, whimpering and gasping and the city lights through the window catching on the sweat on her flesh in the dark of the room, and though she might not be coming when 2010 turns into 2011 she fully intends to be riding Lukas's cock rather than kissing him and taking a sip of champagne

but she still wants to go to the planetarium, and thinks that this pen is probably the neatest thing in the whole world.

"I don't, actually," she says. "But you should definitely get me one," she agrees, unselfconsciously.

Danicka kisses him, grinning. Seems like every other moment she does this again. Smiles. Laughs. Kisses him. "Open this one," she says, handing him the second box, the slightly heavier one.

[Lukas] "Really?" Lukas sounds genuinely surprised. "I thought for sure -- what with you being in college and ... the electronic stuff you have -- well. You're getting one. Soon. When the stores open again."

The second box is heavier than the first, a little taller, but with a smaller footprint. Lukas knows better than to shake it, but he does open it with a sort of undisguised eagerness, wrapping paper coming asunder under his searching fingers. Revealed, a little Nikon camera -- one of the newer models, compact, designed for the consumer rather than the professional. The box advertises it as HD-capable. Lukas doesn't stop with the wrapping; he opens the box, too, lifting out the camera and turning it over in his hands.

"HD," he says, and laughs. "I'll have to buy you another hard drive to store the videos in. And I'll finally be able to record my dad a birthday greeting that isn't two inches high. Láska, thank you."

[Danicka] "I just never thought of getting one," she answers, shifting around on the bed til she's laying on her side, watching him open gifts. "I like taking notes. I remember things pretty well." Danicka smiles. "I am not opposed to more trinkets, though."

Trinkets. Toys. Gadgets. Like the one he's opening now, a sleek camera in dark blue that promises to take videos much better than the ones on his iPhone. Danicka smiles, and he says he'll buy her a new hard drive.

"I have a couple of extra portable hard disks," she mentions. "As backup for my main computer. One in the safe that has my research into the rods on it, and the backup to that one is in the safe here. But it's not really for videos for me," she says, sitting up, scooting closer to him again and wrapping her arms around one of his biceps, resting her chin on his shoulder as he fiddles with the new camera. "I see you more often now," she says, quieter. "It isn't days or weeks that we're apart.

"I'm glad you want to make videos for your parents," she says, smiling gently. "I thought... this could be for us to use when we're together, too. Have pictures and videos of ...well, going to the museum or the zoo or gardening or when Kando is being silly."

She kisses his cheek, squeezing his arm. "Veselé Vánoce, láska."

[Lukas] It's true: she sees him more often now. He comes home to her more often than not, sometimes calling to see where she is, which home he should come to; more frequently simply looking for her, searching for his mate in one place after another until he finds her. That's more fun for him. It's more enjoyable, more rewarding, and she knows because she's seen his eyes light up with primitive, primal pleasure when he finds her sleeping in her own bed, or reading quietly in the study of the den, or curled up already in his bed at the Brotherhood.

But -- he sees her more now. So the nights apart are fewer, and the videos he makes her are fewer, and not so filled with ache and longing. Sometimes there's only one or two when he hands her the USB key. Sometimes he forgets for a month or two, and then there are more.

The camera isn't for the videos, though. For us, she says. When we're together. And there's a new light in his eyes, a new comprehension as he lifts his head, and

kisses her yet again, whatever part of her he can reach, as though his affection for her, and their affection for each other, no longer needs to be bound by human conventions and traditions. Afterward he sits forward long enough to pop the battery pack into the camera, turn it on, and turn it around.

They're lying in bed. They're naked, obviously so if not explicitly so, and her hair is tousled and his jaw is unshaven. Lukas doesn't care. "Smile," he says, his arm around her, and snaps a picture. Then another, turning his head at the last moment to kiss her on the cheek, suddenly and playfully enough to make her scrunch her face up on that side.

When he turns the camera around, he scrolls back through the pictures. "We look happy," he observes. Then, "Jsem šťastný."

[Danicka] The pictures are, at least, decent. It's just his chest, and her wrapped up in blankets and her bathrobe. She does indeed squinch her face up when he kisses her the second time. She is laughing in the first, because he's just so excited to take the first photos with his new camera she doesn't have a chance to pose in any way. The frame catches a bit of his extended arm in the second photo when he's jostling with her, kissing her face like he does.

A bell rings down the hall. Kandovany is trotting around the upstairs of the house again. They peer together at the screen on the back of the Nikon, and Danicka grins. "You look goofy," she says, when he observes that they look happy.

I'm happy, he says, and she kisses him, smiling. "Me, too." In English, and murmured.


Camera and stationery and pen all set on his nightstand, there's just littered paper and his birthday present left to Lukas. The envelope for the card is taped loosely to the box, and he tugs that off as Danicka tosses the Christmas paper off the bed. It's just a birthday card, nothing really special. It tells him happy birthday. There's a note, though:

Láska,

Vím, že tento rok byl těžký. Vím, že to cítí někdy, že se věci změnily mezi námi, ale oni neměl. Miluju tě víc každý den. Já jsem nikdy líto, že jsem si vybral vás. Jsem na vás hrdý. Jsem hrdý na to, aby se váš lodní důstojník. Všechno nejlepší k narozeninám.

- vaše Danička


And, for some reason, tucked into the card is a $25 gift card to iTunes.

[Lukas] There's still something of that eagerness, that glee, when he opens the card. When Lukas starts to read, though, he quiets. At one point he inhales, quick and smooth. When he reaches the end he rubs his thumb over her signature as though even that carried some indelible trace of her.

Wrapping paper rolls off the side of his leg, rustles gently on the mattress, as he turns to her. This time when he kisses her, it's very slow, very long, very tender: his hands gently stroking her face, her neck, her shoulder. At the end, he lays his brow to hers for a moment, and then wraps his arms around her and holds her.

"Děkujeme vám," he murmurs. She knows he doesn't just mean the gift card.

It's some time, not until they hear Kandovany's new bell ringing its way back into the bedroom, that he lets her go. There's one gift left, and he picks it up, drawing a recentering breath before sliding his thumb under a foldover in the wrapper.

[Danicka] One of these days they'll have to get out of bed. They'll have to get up and feed themselves and each other. Lukas may convince Danicka, who is very strict but worries so very much, that Kandovany will not get too cold if they let her bound around in the snowy backyard for a little while, her collar's bell jingling the whole way. Danicka may convince Lukas that he needs to put down his new camera and eat rather than just taking pictures of the pancakes and sausage and coffee.

For now it seems fine to both of them to remain curled up and warm, opening Christmas gifts, now birthday gifts, while Kandovany trots back into the room. Danicka beckons her as Lukas turns to open the gift that was under the card, pats the cover to get the cat to hop up. She gently removes the collar, setting it down with everything else on her nightstand, and swats Kando gently off the bed, shooing her to streaking silently through the house once more.

By that time, Lukas has gotten to the box underneath, and opened it, and is pushing tissue paper out of the way to reveal the framed print in the box. The frame is simple and black, and under the glass is what looks like a motivational poster. The picture, however, is of Batman glaring out of the frame. The text just says

LAWFUL GOOD.
It doesn't mean Lawful Nice.


When he looks at Danicka, she's grinning. "The second I saw it I thought of you."

But she doesn't let him linger long over that gift, doesn't let him laugh long. She kisses him, and she gets up from the covers and takes the box and bends over him to set it on the ground by the bed, the lid askew, and when she comes back up she slides her legs apart to straddle his lap. As her hands deftly undo the tie of her robe, she mentions: "I know that's hard to follow, since that's probably the best give you have or will ever receive, but there's also this."

And the robe sheds from her shoulders, falling in a terry pile behind her. He should have guessed when she got into a robe, or as soon as she reached for the tie, and truth be told, he probably did guess. It's possible that this is becoming a tradition of hers, in terms of birthday gifts.

The cubs of the brassiere are pleated silver satin, trimmed with black lace. From his vantage point he can see only the simple satin panties that go with it, no more intricate or stirring than a lot of her daily underwear. It's his hands, more than likely, that discover the black lace in back, the soft flutter of the thong tickling his fingertips as he traces them along her body.

Which is about as far as he gets. Danicka puts her hands on his face and kisses him as his arms wrap around her, or as his hands roam over her, but it doesn't last very long. Just long enough to moisten his lips, to steal his breath. She kisses his jaw, then. And his earlobe. Her hair falls over his chest as her mouth goes down his throat, and onto his chest. The first time her tongue touches him, it's circling his right nipple, slow. Her hands are curling around the bedspread as she slinks down his body, tugging the comforter and the sheets off of his lap, pushing them down past her own body, kicking them away. It's warm in their bedroom now, as Danicka slides to lying on her stomach.

And then there's just a woman -- a beautiful woman, his woman -- with a writhing gently between his legs, the lace of her panties interrupting the shift and roll of her otherwise bared hips, her thick blonde hair spread over his thighs, her mouth loosing soft little moans as it closes around his cock.

On his birthday.

[Lukas] All things considered, Lukas is glad Danicka takes the collar off again. He likes its cheerful bright orange-ness, and he thinks the tiny orange-shaped bell, complete with a tinier green stem-and-leaf, is cute as hell. Truth be told, though, he felt a little bad when Kandovany started jangling everywhere she went. And truth be told, something about unnecessarily collaring an animal doesn't quite sit right with him.

So: Danicka uncollars Kando, and Lukas doesn't protest. He smiles, actually, and runs his hand down Kandovany's back. Then Danicka is shooing her back off the furniture, and he's opening his last gift, and --

Lukas starts grinning as soon as Batman's face glowers out of the wrapping paper. When he sees the caption -- though he might miss the D&D reference -- he bursts into laughter. "This is going over my bed," he says, "so anyone walking in looking for Wyrmbreaker-rhya knows I mean business."

But he's not allowed to laugh very long. There's also this, Danicka says, and let's face it: Lukas is sometimes a little dense, or perhaps naive. He honestly attributed the robe to nothing more than the chill in the air. It's not until Danicka pushes the motivational poster aside and climbs into his lap that he even begins to suspect, but -- well. At least he's quickwitted.

There's a half-second of puzzlement. Less. By the time she's undoing the sash, his grin has gone crooked and lazy, and he's leaning back against the headboard, reaching out to touch her hair and her cheek and her body as she reveals it. "Now what," he murmurs, "could you possibly have in mind now -- "

and her mouth is on his, and he abandons his words, puts his arms around her. She hears, and feels, the little inhale he gives when he finds out what the back of her seemingly demure little panties look like. He tucks his fingers under the waistband, runs his hands over her ass. He's about a second away from rolling her on her back and getting on top to make good on those idle little promises they gave each other earlier, waking, grinding together sleepily and lazily under the covers,

but she's pulling back, and sliding down, and he can guess where she's headed. His hand cradles the back of her head. His chin lifts for her, and then his back arches when she finds his nipple with her tongue. "Baby," he breathes, but it's nothing compared to the groan he lets out when she puts her mouth on him. The thud the back of his head makes, connecting with the wall.

"Oh, that's it."

She's moved fast enough, taken enough sufficiently by surprise, that he's still hardening when she starts sucking him in earnest. His hands comb her hair back, hold her hair back so it doesn't fall in her face, but also so he can see her. Can see her mouth, can see her eyes, can watch her watching him tip his head back and exhale quiet groans, curses, rapidly decohering sounds.

[Danicka] Lukas has trouble believing it when Danicka claims that she's not cold. She came back to bed wearing her robe and the assumption was unquestioningly, instantly complete: his mate was cold. So he welcomed her back, got her under the blankets again, and held her close. Now the nightstands are stacked with gifts and the floor littered with wrapping paper, and Danicka's not wearing her robe anymore. It's been discarded, pushed and kicked away along with the blankets.

When his arms fold around her body, his hands pushing under her panties as though drawn there by some relentless force, Danicka knows how close he is to simply laying her back on the bed and pulling at that lingerie until he finds his way, sliding into her. She breathes faster as his hands open over her ass, knowing how close she is to simply letting him. It's his birthday, after all. If he wants to get on top of her and fuck her right now, like this, who is she to dissuade him?

But dissuade him she does, working her way down his body until he's groaning, thumping his head back, touching her hair while her lips slide down his cock. All he says -- all he can say, at first -- is that's it. He hardens in her mouth, her tongue stroking him behind her lips. Danicka isn't looking up at him, at least not at first. She's languid and warm between his thighs, her hands on his cock, on his hip, caressing him as he starts to swear and mutter filth, mutter meaninglessness.

It's obvious that she doesn't intend to suck him to completion despite how she moans, how she does look up at him after awhile, how she takes her hand off his cock to reach between the mattress and her body, between her legs. A hard groan vibrates around his cock as she touches herself, and it goes on. Goes on until his cock is firm as stone, until he's pressing his hips to the mattress to keep himself from thrusting, rocking up into her mouth. Goes on until he's panting, until there's sweat forming on his skin, until when she looks at him he just looks

delirious.

Slowly, sweetly, Danicka lifts her mouth and kisses his head softly, flicks her tongue across him to make him jump, crawls up onto his lap again. She spreads her legs but she doesn't lower herself onto him, doesn't even grind herself on his cock through her panties. She does press her tits to his chest, though, rubs herself against his body as she kisses his neck, muttering in his ear:

"Baby, touch my pussy," she breathes, finding his hand, pulling it towards her. "I get so fucking wet when I suck on your cock." She arches her back, shuddering, her hands holding his arms, her teeth going into his shoulder to stifle a groan.

[Lukas] Jump is exactly what he does when she kisses him when she's done sucking on him. Jump -- his cock jerking, the muscles of his abdomen flexing involuntarily, his entire body giving a single tight shudder as he groans. When she flicks her tongue across him to see him do it again, the reaction is bigger, the groan louder -- threaded through with a laugh.

"Fuck," he sighs then, because she's crawling up over him and his hands -- which have knotted into the bedsheets to keep from grabbing her hair, and to hold on so he doesn't lift his hips and fuck her mouth, doesn't lift his entire body and blow away somewhere -- rise to receive her. He finds her waist easily, holds her by the hips as she straddles him, and when she presses against him he's eager, so eager, lifting his back from the wall to try to kiss her mouth.

Kisses her cheek instead. Her ear, her jaw. She's kissing his neck, and she's muttering in his ear, and he's bowing his head to bite her shoulder as she finds his hand and,

and,

and when she pulls his fingers between her legs he groans aloud again, wordlessly but harshly, almost savagely, when he feels the wetness between her legs. "Oh -- fuck," he says, like that's the only word left to him because this act, by corollary, is all the awareness left to him.

They bite each other, mouths to shoulders. Like animals mating. He strokes her, almost clumsy with arousal, his fingers slipping and sliding between her lips before he finds her opening and thrusts himself, some part of himself, inside her. Two fingers, forefinger and middle, entering her quickly but then staying still, filling her, as he pulls back to nuzzle and nudge her until she gives him her mouth.

He kisses her then, utterly and devouringly, eyes closed, inhaling. That first kiss is long and hard and deep. The one after is hungrier, searching now, his mouth opening to hers. His hand opens over her back. When his fingers withdraw they're wet from her, wet when they go to her clit. He wants to feel her back arch when he rubs her -- he leans his head back, and he looks at her, because he wants to see the look on her face when he touches her.

Languidly at first. His own eyelids heavy, his touch heavy. Then faster, playing with her, fucking her with his hand, the angle a little awkward but the motion so familiar now, so natural to him. He can still remember the first time he made her come like this, and the thought makes him bow his head to her; draw her nipple into his mouth as he wraps his arm tighter behind her waist, draws her solidly against his larger, hotter body, holds her half-lifted against him as he works her toward that first, tight orgasm.

[Danicka] The truth of the matter is, no matter where they are or what they're doing, if Danicka moves a certain way, if she touches him just so, if she gets that look in her eyes, it's like Lukas's attention goes suddenly sharp, a dog hearing a whistle or

a wolf scenting his mate nearby, smelling her heat.

And he's ready for her, always, reaching for her, eager to descend as fast as she will let him into this. At the beginning it wasn't so. He worked so hard to stay human, to pretend civility, to strive for self-control that would not even let him moan aloud for her. He gasped her name though, named her as he moved into her, as he welcomed her onto his body. Now he doesn't feel the need for words, for sense, for petty human trivialities like coherence.

His mate draws his hand between her legs, shows him her arousal even as she murmurs about it to him, and Lukas all but growls in response. He doesn't even try to roll her over now, doesn't throw her on her back and yank her panties aside and fuck her like he easily might have just a few minutes ago. He plays with her, kisses her, as though to capture the truth of what she wrote to him: nothing has changed. He wants to pleasure her, as he did in his bed the first time he had her there, as he did when he first went to his knees to kiss her.

Danicka bucks against his hand, tightening her grasp on his arms as Lukas starts fingering her, starts stroking her. He leaves wet spots on the pleated satin of her bra when he sucks on her nipples, turning the silver fabric to the color of concrete. He watches her as she arches. He watches her as she gasps, fucking his hand, riding the pleasure he gives her. He watches the way she quivers, trembling atop him like she's going to shatter apart at the joints. He watches the muscles in her abdomen work as she gives herself over to it. To him.

As she comes, whimpering more than moaning, her arms wrapping around his neck to hold herself there, right there. She's gasping even as the waves of orgasm go through her, whispering to him that she wants

"-- your cock. Baby, put it inside me. Fuck me,"

the words dissolving into tight little groans, hard little whimpers.

[Lukas] That's it, he's whispering again, that's it, that's good. That's so fucking good, as he's making her come, as he's bringing her off on his hand, giving it to her with his fingers,

as though he were the one being pleasured. As though he were the one shuddering in orgasm, holding on to his lover.

She's gasping for his cock, then, for more the way she always did at the beginning when they couldn't see each other without fucking (or fighting); couldn't fuck without fucking three, four times in a row, until they were too exhausted to go on. He's turning his head swift and fierce as a wild thing, biting her shoulder again, groaning hard against her flesh as her words go right through him. When he leans back he puts his fingers in his mouth. Sucks her taste off of his own skin, snarling his want, taking her by the hips and spanking her gently to make her rise up on her knees, drawing her forward and down until

he can lean back, tip his head back against the wall and find her eyes and meet them all lazy and wanting, desire a banked but ferocious fire in the cool blue of his eyes. He fits himself against her and both of them shudder. He rubs himself against her and she can see every spark of sensation arcing through his eyes, can see it in the way he breathes, the way his words hitch when he murmurs,

"Is that what you want? That's what you want, isn't it. This big, hard cock filling you up,"

a pause, a hissing breath in as he slides himself into her, just the head, just far enough that he can feel her pulse and clench around him for a moment or two before he catches her mouth and kisses her like he's falling into her, muttering --

"Fucking you."

-- against her lips. And, "Come on. Take me inside. Fuck me."

[Danicka] She's never been shy. As demure a face as she could put on, he at least knew it was a lie from the start -- he's practiced at rooting out deception, he's a Shadow Lord, he sees it even when it isn't there, he can spot a liar. He didn't know exactly what it was concealing, and that was what drove him mad. Lukas knows now, better than anyone, why the masks Danicka wore were there: never to harm him. Always to protect herself.

But even when she couldn't tell him the truth, when she hid from him so many secrets of her heart and her past, she was never shy or coy with him when the door closed behind him and he put his hands on her. His mouth. She never tried to conceal her lust for him, never bit back the sounds of pleasure that came when he was fucking her.

Doesn't, now. Doesn't titter or turn away when he rubs his cock on her under the covers on Christmas morning. Doesn't balk at the idea of calling him over just because she's horny and wants to fuck. When she mutters in his ear that she loves sucking his cock, that it makes her so wet, there's no suggestion that it's a ploy, a play, anything but the unabashed truth he finds when he starts to touch her.

There's barely any time between that first orgasm and her moaning that she wants him inside of her. Nevermind the lingerie -- he never has before. Lukas's lust was always as transparent as hers, and Danicka's known for a long time the surge of excitement he gets at simply tugging aside scraps of lace or cotton or satin and fucking her, just like that, her lingerie tattered and askew on her body when they're done with each other. That the sight of her like that, even after he's taken his satisfaction in her, arouses him all over again, makes him eager for her all over again.

Lukas sucks her wetness of his fingers and Danicka darts in suddenly to kiss him, fighting his mouth and his fingers to lick her taste along with him, to taste it on his tongue. Her hands go into his hair, the sort of ferocious behavior she did, in fact, control when she wasn't strong enough to trust him. They grind together as they kiss, her panties yanked aside so he can slide his cock all along her pussy. It makes her gasp. It makes her groan when he snarls at her, makes her shudder to pieces with want when he spanks her.

Her lips are red when their mouths part, her hips squirming against the head of his cock as he gives it to her. "Prosím," she says, in pleading whisper. The words he says to her make her arch as much as the press of him into her, make her buck against him, make her nails dig into his shoulders. "Fuck, Lukáš --"

She kisses him again. Hard. Works herself down onto him another inch, two, with tight circles of her hips, but she doesn't take him inside completely. She has her hands on the headboard on either side of his face when she stops kissing him, rubbing herself on his chest and squeezing his cock inside of her, but she doesn't tell him what she wants. Doesn't tell him how to fuck her. She licks his neck, panting against the moistened flesh, and then slowly, torturously slides herself off of him,

and away from him,

unfolding her arms and legs and everything from him, a gasp of a smile teasing at her lips as she moves backward on the bed, towards its foot.

[Lukas] There's a sort of decadence, a sort of feral abandon in the way they fuck. She's not ashamed to show him she wants him. She's not ashamed to say it, and she's not ashamed to wind her hips on him like that, to work herself down on him inch by inch until he throws his head back and lets out a growling vowel of a sound that he's not ashamed of, either.

His hand go up onto the headboard. His forearms brush her fingers; he grips the wood farther out, his armspan longer than hers. When they kiss it's all lips and tooth and tongue, their bodies pressing together, his hips lifting to push deeper into her

even as she's lifting off of him, so slowly that his head falls back again. He gasps,

"Co to -- "

-- and then she's away from him, and his cock is so hard it flexes back immediately, falls against his stomach and makes him jump at the impact. She recedes from him. He watches her, half-dazed, wanting to know what the fuck, Danička, even as she's moving to the foot of the bed.

Suddenly awareness flares back into his eyes. His mouth quirks, a lopsided little grin that rides the edge between wickedness and playfulness. He sits up, sits forward, rolls up on his knees after her and catches her by the foot. His lips are on the hollow of her foot just beneath the ankle-bone; his teeth on the inside of her shin, grazing.

"Now this is interesting," he murmurs, letting her foot, her calf, slide over his shoulder now as he moves over her. Mounts her. "Am I supposed to fuck you on your back, or on your stomach?"

He's pinned down prey like this before. Rivals. She's neither prey nor enemy, though, but his mate: he doesn't hold her down, doesn't force her to the ground. His hands are flat on the mattress on either side of her. When he lowers himself to her, his tongue flicks light, explorative little arcs over her belly, her ribcage -- the lace and satin that covers her breasts. He could pull her bra down. Push it up. He does neither, preferring to suck at her through the lingerie, closing his eyes because he gets so fucking into it as his hands come to smooth over her shoulders, wrap under her shoulderblades. He's lost for a while, covering her, grinding against her through her panties while he adores her with his mouth -- it's moments before he adds,

"Or maybe I'm supposed to fuck you over the edge of the bed."

And he's tender with her. He's careful when he catches her nipple between his teeth, through her bra; heavier, though, more unabashedly affectionate, when he turns his head and rubs his cheek against her body.

"I really think," he suggests, "that you should make up your mind soon, though. Because I think I might die if I don't get inside your tight little pussy right now."

[Danicka] There's so much less restraint to them now than at the start, which is not necessarily the same thing as comfort and not at all the same thing as control. He keeps thumping his head against the headboard, grabbing hold of the bedding or the bed itself as though to control himself, or just keep himself grounded. Danicka works herself away, still tasting the cum she took from his lips inside of her mouth. It took effort to make herself get off of him, to not let him push his cock up into her and fuck her.

But she plays. And she never used to play quite this boldly, with this much freedom, with this much delight. Danicka yelps a little when Lukas flows after her, grabbing her foot. She laughs as he pulls her back to him, puts her leg over his shoulder, makes her arch her back and stretch herself out under him.

On her back, or her stomach, he wonders, musing aloud while he crawls over her body. Danicka, more catlike, would purr, but she just grins at him, then gasps as he starts licking her, the smile dissolving. Her eyes close, head tipping back, as he licks her through her lingerie. It doesn't matter how expensive it is. It doesn't matter if he just tears it off her with his teeth, crushes it in his hands as he rips it away from her flesh, but he doesn't do that anyway.

Through the tidy little pleats, he can feel her nipple harden and tighten up when he sucks on it, bites at it with his lips. She's writhing where he rubs his cock on her through that thin layer of satin, that tracery of lace.

Once upon a time he thought he was going to lose his fucking mind if he didn't come inside of her or break something with his bare hands. Frenzy, if he couldn't have her. Fall. The fuck. Apart. Now he's verging on growls again, his cock so close to being inside that tight little pussy but held back, which is not the same thing as restraint.

"My mind," Danicka repeats, breathing the words back to him. Her hands are in his hair, running over his back and arms. She reaches between them and touches herself, her hand idly brushing against his cock as she does so. "You can do anything you want to me, baby," she murmurs, lifting her hips from the bed a bit to stroke herself against his cock, his abdomen, again. "I just want you to fuck me. Fill me up with that big, hard cock." She shudders, biting her lips momentarily before gasping, moistening them with her tongue. "Give it to me, nice and hard. Make me scream for it."

[Lukas] "Your mind," he agrees, smiling. She's close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, the flecks and threads in the irises that are so pale they're nearly gray; nearly silver. She's close enough to see his eyes shadow when she reaches down to touch herself; close enough to see them close, see his smile dissolve into a shivering inhale when her fingers brush him.

And she's close enough to see how they open again, lazily, halfway only, when he leans down to kiss those lips she's just licked. He sucks those words off her tongue: do anything you want and give it to me and scream for it and fill me up. There's a low sound in his throat, something like a growl, and it's echoed in the singular, rough roll of his hips to grind himself against her

once again

before he reaches down and pulls her panties aside. When he enters her, it's gentler than that intimation of a fuck. It's slow, his hips rocking in slow swings, winding to work himself inside little by little, inch by inch, while he holds her lingerie to the side, bares her cunt to him, moves into her while he lowers his mouth to her shoulder and seizes her in his teeth.

She can hear him groaning as he sinks into her. Grunting in short bursts, shuddering, kissing the very spot he's bitten when he's finally in her. It feels like it's been a while; but then, it almost always does. He misses her when he's not with her. His body misses hers too, remembers hers, though these are things he tells her rarely or not at all.

He finds her mouth again. Warm and luxuriously slow, this kiss, unbroken even when he starts to move inside her. When it breaks he breathes a laugh out -- not humor, really, nor even a response to any particular event or occurrence.

Just -- happy. That hand between their bodies, between her legs makes it way up her body now. Slowly, lingering here and there, heavy on her skin: all the way up to her chest. All those tidy little pleats, all that ridiculously expensive fabric and silk and whatever the hell else that bra is made of -- he rumples it aside when he slips his hand under, cups her breast in his bare hand, kisses her mouth as he's feeling her heart beat against his wrist.

"I love," he tells her again, playing, "these sweet little tits."

[Danicka] The change is so sudden, so inexplicable, that Lukas can see the flicker of surprise in Danicka's eyes. Her hand is out of the way when he grinds against her again, making her gasp. Her fingers leave traces of wetness on his shoulder and arm when she holds him there. She's expecting him to shove his cock into her, one solid stroke. She's expecting him to snarl, flip her over, and take her the way he might have if they'd never gotten around to opening their gifts. She's expecting him to get up, drag her to the edge of the bed, and fuck her with her legs against his chest. She's expecting almost anything but the way he loves her now, and though she gives a little gasp when he pulls her panties out of the way, it's not surprised. The shift of color in her eyes when he starts to enter her, though -- that is.

Her legs open wider for him as Lukas starts to press his cock past her lips. They wrap slowly around him as he works himself inch by inch into her, folding him closer. Her hands on his arms, holding him as though to keep herself anchored when he started pounding her, slide over his shoulders. He can smell her, wet from orgasm and fresh arousal, feel her still quivery and shaken -- they didn't even take a break, she's barely catching her breath even now -- and he can taste her sweat when he bites her. When he kisses her, pressed as far as he can into her cunt.

It's only been since last night. Maybe nine hours, ten at the outside. They slept deep and long, but they still woke up early as the sun streaked into their room. It hasn't been half a day since he had her last but his body missed hers. Her body slumbered, wakes now, remembers him. And Danicka --

Danicka herself arches to accept him, rolls her hips to gently fuck him while he's remaining still inside of her, getting used to the feel of her, a moment of sanity or patience or sheer, simple happiness. Her eyes aren't surprised anymore but tender, as though she's thinking about the way they made love last night, too. That started out playful, biting, teasing, and melted into something that ended with Lukas wrapping her in his arms, kissing the sweat as it trickled down her temple, whispering something she barely even remembers but that it was soft, and that it was loving. Sometimes he startles her with how he wants her -- and he thinks she's the unpredictable one.

But then, since the night of the solstice, he's held her so close at night. And they've made love so gently.

She kisses him as he caresses her breasts, kisses him slow and deep and molten. It breaks as she smiles, their bodies rocking on the mattress, her eyes opening again after closing slowly during their kiss. She grins, something lazy and happy. "I love you," she whispers, with equal sincerity, with equal delight.

[Lukas] It's hard to have predicted the way he loves her now. The way she was teasing him, sucking on him, letting him get her off, letting him get inside her before sliding off again -- the way she moved away from him, playing, and the way he spoke to her before he started to fuck her -- all that implied something else entirely. Rough and animal, growling, pounding.

When they do finally join, it's entirely different. Her limbs fold around him. He moves into her. It's slow, and it's gentle, and it's warm and deep and --

he remembers how she told him, once, that she didn't let him fuck her like this when it first began because she didn't think he would let her protect him. Hold him. She didn't think him capable of that, just as he didn't believe her capable of any real loyalty or love.

He understands that better now. It was never the implication of domination: male on top, anything like that. When he loves her like this, he understands that she's holding him. She has him, protects him, cradles him, rocks with him, arching softly the way she does, still trembling from what he did to her a moment ago.

She kisses him. He lets himself fall into it, and when it's over she grins. She can see the same smile in his eyes long before it surfaces. He leans down to kiss her again, softly, as though to taste the words from her mouth.

"I know," he says, because he does. And a moment later, because he does: "I love you."


A little more, then, after a while. A little harder, a little deeper, the kisses they share tearing out into something a little wilder. For a long time his face is against hers, rubbing, nuzzling; he's panting against her ear and over her jaw, he's sucking gently at her neck as he fucks her. She keeps him close, and his weight is on one elbow, and his free hand is moving over her, pushing bold and unfaltering over her breasts, her stomach, moving down to caress her clit as he fills her.

It's the feel of that, the wetness between her legs and his cock sliding into her, that drives him to another level. He's groaning then, biting at her shoulder, muttering something half-incoherent about how fucking wet she is, how hot. He rises up, straightens his elbows, puts his weight on his palms on either side of her.

"Put your hands on my sides," he says: so specific, because he likes to feel her palms there, warm against his ribs and the broad sweeps of muscle that sheath them. He's over her, atop her and covering her, bowing his head to look down their bodies at where he's inside her. It's a little harder, a little rougher, the motion centered low, all the force centered in the short, deliberate, quickening swing of his hips into her until he's fucking her heavily enough to make her breasts bounce, make her breath hitch.

Lukas raises his head then. He finds her eyes, he meets them; lets her see what she's doing to him, and what he's feeling, the electric flashes of pleasure every time he moves into her. His brow is furrowed now, lips parted, panting -- edges of his teeth showing on every quick inhale. Yeah, he says, and baby, and fuck me, or maybe it's feel me -- hard to tell, scraps and rags of words before he's coming down to meet her mouth, kisses her as hard as he's fucking her now, pounding her, mauling her face.

His free hand comes under her lower back. He lifts her against him, arching her back, changing the angle of her hips. The shift makes him moan aloud. The kiss doesn't break; he buries the sound in her mouth, harsh and sudden, close to the edge.

[Danicka] There's no time they've ever made love, no time they've ever fucked, that she wasn't aware of him in a way that likely few -- if any -- women ever have been. It isn't just that she's known all along that he's not a man but a werewolf, a species simultaneously caught between and far beyond the viscerally mortal and the utterly supernatural. No matter how civilized he's acted -- or, conversely, how aloof he's pretended to be -- she's always understood what this is really like for him.

What it's really like for her.

Danicka didn't know the first time that he held himself back from her so strictly because he was so close to simply falling into her, wrapping around her and never letting go. But when he was there with her, holding her on top of him, she could feel the intensity of his want every time his hands moved up her body, every time he flexed up into her. She could feel how he wanted her every time he kissed her, and he kissed her over and over like he couldn't breathe otherwise.

In some ways it's always been like this, always is like this. Truth be told, sometimes the sex is better than other times. Sometimes she thinks if he stops fucking her she'll die, if he makes her come she'll break into pieces, if he teases or tortures her any more she's going to scream. Sometimes she rides him, reveling in how his head rocks back, how he grabs onto their sheets or her headboard so he doesn't end up hurting her. Sometimes she likes to see the way stars explode and die in his eyes when he comes in her, lost in it, completely overwhelmed.

And sometimes it's just... sweet. Comforting. Close. Good in a way she never saw coming at the start, when everything seemed life or death, do or die. Good in a way she never thought sex was going to be, for her. She's fallen asleep on her back, her legs akimbo to either side of him, and he's slept half on her, half on the bed, his head resting on her lower body. She's fallen asleep facedown, his leg covering hers, his arm over her back, their panting turning to quiet breathing and then their exhaustion turning to sleep. She's fallen asleep without sharing more than a soft kiss with him, laying her head on his chest and waking up to drag herself away to go to school, kissing him over his heartbeat.

But even then, it's always like this to some degree: the two of them stripped down to nothing more or less than they are, making love in a way that only adds to her belief that there can be no true separation of spirit and body, humanity and wolf. They're nothing but the parts of them that will survive in the homelands, but they get there with bodies that will soon enough turn to dust. It isn't magic, and it isn't orgasm, it's the thing that makes them greet each other:

mate.

beautiful boy.

my female.


Her hands are on him when he lifts himself up over her, running down his chest and his abdomen -- the feel of him, the sight of him stretched out over her, makes Danicka breathe in sharply. She reaches down and touches his cock as he's driving himself into, fucking her now, and she puts her hands on his ribs, traces his chest and then holds him, when he tells her to. Anything he wants. Anything he wants to do to her. Happy fucking birthday, but it doesn't seem to be about that anymore.

She's tilting her head back when he grabs her hips and fucks her a little harder. She's making those noises, moaning for him until her hands flex at his sides, clutch at him. Those noises are shattering apart into gasps, taking her back up again before she even descended completely. Lukas is close: the feel of her so wet, the way she whines baby you're so hard, the sight of her stretched out under him with her bra rucked up and her breasts bouncing and her panties pulled aside and her pussy just taking it, the way she rolls her hips up to fuck him right back, squeeze him inside, the way she half-groans, half-whimpers when he pushes his mouth onto hers and grinds his cock into her.

It's his orgasm that sets hers off, just as -- truth be told -- she wouldn't have come again at all, this soon, if he weren't touching her like this. If he didn't start fucking her fast and hard the way he does. If he didn't make those noises like he does, mutter in her ear and gasp at the way she moves. And as long as we're telling the truth: she'd never buy, much less wear, the lingerie that she does if she didn't enjoy it. If it didn't get her off to feel his hands sliding under the waistband of a lace thong, if it didn't make her wet to see his eyes flash with arousal because of the way her nipples feel under a thin layer of satin.

When Lukas comes, his body going rigid, almost tremulous between her legs and above her, Danicka is still holding him. She's still keeping him close to her, wrapped in her legs, her hands over his body. She groans as he spends himself in her until the arch of her back tilts her head back, tears her mouth from his, puts his lips on her neck, his hot breath coming in blasts over her chest. It's hard to describe the sound she makes when she comes, overcome and grasping for a scream but gasping just short of one, clutching at moans the way her body clutches his cock. She's still panting, still caught up in it, when she puts her hands on his face to kiss him again, moaning into his mouth.

[Lukas] That's a shared and overcome noise they give each other -- Lukas on the hypersensitive far side of the orgasm as Danicka is coming down from the heights of her own. Her hands are on his face, and his cheeks are scratchy with a day or two's beard growth; his jaw moving as he opens his mouth to her, his chest moving with every quick, deep breath. When her body clenches on his involuntarily, he shudders all over -- one hand flying out to grasp a handful of sheets, bear down.

When she lets his mouth go he bends to her neck again. Her upper chest. The juncture of her collarbones. He kisses her over and over, mindlessly, any part of her that he can reach. His back is wet beneath her hands, his body so hot that were it an hour earlier, before they'd turned the heater up, he might literally steam in the cold air.

Outside, christmas morning is all grey and white. Peaceful. Their neighbors have children and church and presents and christmas hams, christmas dinners. They have this: piles of wrapping paper, gifts that veer wildly between random and touching, a card written in czech, and their bed rumpled with their lovemaking.

And his body on hers, held in her arms and wrapped in her legs -- heavier with every breath as he comes down, relaxes, sinks into her.

Eventually he turns his head, puts his ear to her breastbone, opens his eyes. The lace of her bra catches and scratches against his beard-bristle. He nuzzles against her body, kisses her skin. He wraps his arms under her and holds on to her like that, shifting to ease his weight off of her a little, settle it more sustainably,

because he really doesn't want to move right now.


He does, though, after a time. Lifts his hand and sets it down again on her breast -- heavy as a lion's paw. His thumb grazes her nipple. Plays with it, teasing it to hardness before he covers her with his palm to soften it again. His attention is fixed there, curious as an animal's, fascinated by her body and its reactions. After a while a little smile curls the corners of his lips, and he pulls her bra gently back into her place before turning his head to kiss her over her heart; look up into her face.

"When we first met," again, he may as well say, "I always liked seeing what you were wearing under your clothes this time."

He kisses her body again, over the lace this time, eyes still on hers; still smiling.

"I still like it," he adds. "Even if it's just plain white undies."


Another little quiet. After a while he puts his head back down on her, listening to her slowing heartbeat. Covering her breast with his hand as though to warm her.


"I thought about getting you a ring for Christmas," he admits, much later. "As in an engagement ring."
 
Copyright Lukáš Wyrmbreaker 2010.
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