uneasy around theurges.

[Lukas] This much is indisputable: so long as Danicka is with Lukas, she'll never go hungry. Not because he's a wolf and he'll hunt for her if all else fails, and certainly not because left to herself she couldn't satisfy her own vital needs, but simply because: he gets so much food. If she'd gone to that corner-nook restaurant in Little Poland alone, she might've left with a serving of hunter stew, perhaps a pierogi or three as an appetizer. Maybe a potato pancake.

Right now, the male standing beside her in her elevator is holding so much food they gave him a box lid to carry it out in. Hunter stew's joined with stuffed beef rolls (because cabbage rolls are for rabbits, he declared) and gulasz; there's a pierogi platter and mushroom soup and a whole bag of potato pancakes besides. And polish crepes for dessert, which he mused about putting vanilla ice cream on as they rode home in her car.

He watches the numbers move toward twenty-three. And, feeling her watching him, or perhaps simply feeling like it -- he turns to her and smiles.


After she gets the door open, he nods toward the living room with its curving glass wall. "Let's grab some napkins and go have a picnic on the floor," he suggests. Which is what they do, Danicka carrying over napkins and drinks, Lukas unpacking their food. He sits crosslegged on the floor beside her, a little angled toward her so he can see her better. When she sits, he leans into her for a moment, nuzzling the side of her face in wordless affection.

After, he starts eating. He starts with the mushroom soup, but soon moves on to the main course. It turns out there's a reason he got so many potato pancakes: he spoons stew on top of it and eats it like that, the napkin spread in his lap to catch any errant crumb or drops of broth. He's so busy stuffing his face that it's a few minutes before he speaks again.

"Can I ask you something?" he says, when he does. "When we were at the bookstore and you went to get cocoa ... was everything okay?"

[Danicka] Let's face it: even at his most human grasping of Danicka's stomach size, Lukas always has and likely always will overestimate how much his mate can eat. When he considers how much she might want, how much might actually make her full but not sick, he roughly doubles the amount and considers himself frighteningly, nervewrackingly conservative. Worries over her, borders on fussing, wondering why she doesn't eat more, what's wrong, is mate sad? Is mate sick? What can he do?

To be fair, Danicka's at least passingly aware of the fact that when she's nervous or upset, when she's most stressed, she has trouble eating. Not that she struggles to keep food down; she simply has no appetite, or is so expertly suppressing it psychologically that she doesn't notice she's ravenous until the stress passes and she wants to eat everything she can. She knows how she and her brother were raised, she knows the two are related, though she's only taken one psych course; she doesn't know every last detail of why and how and what to do and what it means. It doesn't really matter. She eats enough to be healthy, and the truth is; she's far less stressed these days than she ever was before.

With school, with living alone, with a mate and now a husband and sept liaising and the business at the caern, she is less stressed than she was when she was 18 years old. The significance of that is not lost on her: the reality that she lived in a near-constant state of emotional crisis for most of her life dawned on her some time ago, and she hasn't spoken much about it because it is still sinking in.

Sometimes she looks at Lukas and is just thankful, but sometimes she keeps that to herself, too. He worries all the time, and there's no need to worry him. Instead she embraces him, or kisses him, or curls against his side while he sleeps.


She is vastly amused by him right now. Every time she thought they were done ordering he'd add something else to the list and she'd blink at him, smile at the cook, and shrug. She thinks vanilla ice cream on the crepes sounds fantastic, so they stop quickly on the way home to grab a half-gallon from Walgreens.

In the elevator on the way up, she smiles at him. He turns to her, silently but obviously very proud of himself and the amount of food he has procured. Danicka never even tries to pay; it isn't about traditional gender roles or control. She has more money. She also knows that the part of Lukas that had to give up the mountains and fields and forests to live in a human skin has few other outlets for the provision and caretaking he is so driven toward. So he pays, and she accepts, and she always eats a little more than necessary to satisfy her when he's around, because he's so gleeful about feeding her.

And she can't remember the last time in her life when she didn't want to see him happy.


"I was just going to suggest that," she says, to the picnic idea. She has more furniture than she used to; when she tried to start the coalition she bought two leather chairs that equaled about three thousand dollars total, then after the meeting decided to add an oval glass coffee table, but they don't eat there. They eat on the floor between the stereo system and the back of one of those chairs, where the view looks northeast. She grabs her cloth napkins, indeed, but also brings over a couple of teatowels to set the rest of the food on and a pillow to sit on.

Kandovany wanders around. Tries to sniff at their food but is waved away; Danicka adamantly refuses to let her eat People Food. She gets cream on Christmas and that's about it. The declawed cat gives a stretch and walks away, tail flicking in a huff, crawling into the sideboard cabinet that Danicka got a friend at school to carve some holes in. It looks quite chic over against the wall, all dark wood and no one would ever imagine it hides Kando's bed, like the undersink cabinet in the second bathroom hides her litter box. Half the time it's hard to tell a cat even lives there; the maid Danicka has come by every so often is quite good with pet hair.


In any case: the city lights cast their faces in color and shadow, reminding Danicka of a night where they lay together almost in this spot -- actually, a bit over there -- and she saw the same patterns on Lukas's face. She thinks maybe it was around this time of year, a little earlier. She smiles as he leans into her, nuzzling her, and reaches up a hand to touch his jawline and his cheek briefly, extending her neck to that warmth and affection for a moment.

She drinks some red wine she still has from about a week ago -- they had steak and went through a bottle and a half before they stumbled to bed -- and eats at her regular measured, easy pace, eating a fraction of what Lukas does in the same amount of time so every meal they have together isn't mismatched. Her heels were left by the door, her cardigan's sleeves pushed up. Every so often she notices his eyes go to her legs where they're crossed and folded to one side from where she sits on her little pillow. Every so often she notices his eyes trace the hem of her skirt, the shadow between her knees.

Danicka lifts her eyebrows, nodding when he requests permission to ask her something. A very, very long time ago, he'd just jump in; he learned very quickly how well demanding answers from her worked. Even if now she'd answer him as honestly as she could whether he gained permission or not, it still warms her to see how much he's changed. How much they've changed with each other.

She looks a little lost for a moment, then: "Oh --" shakes her head, not to answer no but rather to dismiss the thought that something might have been seriously wrong. "The same old story: I'm uneasy around Theurges," she tells him, dipping her fork into a container to get another pierogi, which Lukas knows by now she prefers vastly to beef dumplings. She sounds a bit ashamed of it, perhaps embarrassed -- though not greatly so. "Not that Maddox reminds me whatsoever of my brother. I just tensed a little when he talked about awakening his guitar."

The pierogi twirls a bit as she puts it on her plate, still stuck on her fork. Her eyes are on what she's doing. "Which I suppose is silly; the spirits you awakened at the house don't bother me. But I know you, and we talked about that beforehand and... I don't know Maddox."

She's quiet a moment, thoughtful. Looks up and over at him, her eyes turned near-black by the lighting. "All Garou can do things to me that I have no way of defending against. I know that. I've always known it and made kind of a peace with it. But Theurges can do so much that isn't even visible, that even other Garou can't always track or make sense of it. And the only Garou who has systematically, intentionally, constantly watched me and terrorized me was a Theurge." Danicka gives him a little shake of her head. "It's just a kneejerk reaction. I excused myself because... well, I wanted cocoa. And because I thought it would be better to take a moment to get over it instead of making a mountain out of a molehill or letting Maddox see that I was uncomfortable. He might have thought it was something he said. It wasn't."

[Lukas] There are few things Danicka doesn't notice. So she notices how her mate looks at her when they eat. How his eyes follow the hem of her skirt, the line of her leg. She notices how he doesn't look away, abashed at being caught. He's not embarrassed. He's not afraid of his desire for her; not afraid of letting her see it; not afraid of what she might do to him if she saw it.

Their eyes meet for a moment. He smiles at her again, but this one is a little more lopsided, darker in the eyes.


On her birthday, he brought her a ridiculous thing, a large wicker picnic basket like something out of a storybook. He was smiling when he gave it to her, an irrepressible grin that showed the absurd dimples in his cheeks that most of the wolves in the Sept would never believe he had. It's a stargazing kit, he explained, for when the summer really comes to Chicago. There was a blanket rolled up inside, soft and light and warm, and two stainless steel thermal mugs. Also, a large planisphere -- he explained that when he was a boy, his father bought him a small one -- and a small telescope that barely fit into the basket.

There was also a little package of treats in there for Kando. It seems that Lukas, not knowing when Kandovany's birthday was, simply celebrates it every chance he gets. Danicka doesn't let her cat become spoiled and lazy and fat. Lukas has trouble resisting feeding her little scraps of beef from his stew every time she comes near.

Later that night, the night of her birthday, they had steak and wine. They started on the couch and slid down to the floor. They leaned on each other and got drunk, then drunker, and then they nearly knocked what was left of the bottle - the second bottle - over when they starting groping and gasping and grasping at each other, rolling onto the floor, her fingers pulling his shirt off, then pulling him over her.

Later on still, he brought her a few more gifts: brought her over again and again and again until, in the end, they were sweaty wrecks on her bed, and the april breeze was sifting through the cracked-open window, and he was wrapping her up in his arms and legs, half-conscious at best, instinctive, to keep her warm.


Perhaps he thinks about that, looking at her skin. Perhaps he thinks about the night the lights played over her body, bounced off the sheen of sweat she worked up as she rode him. She's looking at him then, though, and he swallows his mouthful of stew and potato pancakes, washes it down with a gulp of soda,

(orange, of course)

and then leans over to kiss her briefly and gently. A little after that he asks her for permission to ask her a question; asks his question, hears her answer. He puts his fork down a moment and reaches over, tucks her hair back, puts his hand on her wrist, wrapping gentle and warm.

"Okay," he says quietly. "I just wanted to make sure it wasn't something Maddox and I said or did. Or something I could help with."

He lets her go, then, picks up his fork again. He takes a pierogi. He cuts a chunk of stuffed beef rolls, each the size of a hefty burrito; nothing but more meat and cheese inside. Eastern European cuisine grows out of long winters and mountainous terrain; it's all about heartiness, providing energy for yeomen and peasants -- though, to be fair, it's highly doubtful a peasant would see so much meat in a month, let alone at a single meal.

"I don't know him that well either," he says a little later. "Ironically, I already know the worst of him. Arrogance -- a particularly prickly, solitary brand of it -- and hubris. So far as flaws go, I'd say it could be a lot worse."

[Danicka] To be stared at, noticed, gazed lingeringly at, is something that has always made Danicka's skin crawl. She's felt that gaze since earlier even than most girls, and most girls sense it at ages when if anyone decent knew, if the girls themselves could explain, they would be repulsed. Furious. She's felt those long, unsubtle stares from her own brother. To this day she's not sure whether they were lust or possession. She wonders if, for Vladislav, there's a difference.

No one stares at her when she's out with Lukas. On the subway or crossing the street or sitting in a cafe, no man considers it his god-given right to stare at her as he pleases, as long as he pleases. Danicka knows this would be the case even if Lukas weren't a wall of black terror in the periphery of their ancestral memory. She learned a very long time ago how to ignore it, but she's never unaware of it. The way men look. She wears what she likes regardless. She dresses how she wants to dress, damn them all and their retardedly malicious gazes, damn their unquestioning belief that they are entitled to her, that they are entitled to her legs and her bare arms and the way her ass looks in that skirt, the way her breasts are hinted at through her shirt, because on some level, they already think they possess her.

Sometimes, in a darker mood, she dares them to push it farther. Dares them, so she can show who she really belongs to.

Once upon a time, she told Lukas all those words -- bitch, whore, slut -- mean almost nothing. She was wrong. She knows now what they really mean, coming from the mouths of those who say them, male or female. How dare you, they ask. How dare you belong to yourself.


When she is with Lukas, it's different. There's nothing but want in his eyes. It isn't even strictly appreciation. Yes, she's beautiful. She knows it. She has her issues, but low self-confidence isn't one of them. Danicka rests quite easily in the understanding that she is quite pretty, and her body is appealing, and the lust or lack thereof of others has no impact on that understanding. Lukas's desire for her doesn't make her feel any more or less beautiful, though she'd be lying if she said she didn't sometimes like how reactive he is to her, the sight of her, the smell of her, the way she feels when he finally touches her. She'd be lying if she said she didn't sometimes enjoy, to the point of wanting to laugh, the way he groans when his hand covers her breast, when he puts his fingers between her legs and finds her wet.

When she gets dressed and she knows she's going to see him, she dresses about as well as she always does. Sometimes she wears cutoffs and a sweatshirt, or yoga pants and a t-shirt from thinkgeek. He stares at her anyway. He tugs her clothes off and he makes love to her regardless of all of it. He sometimes wraps himself around her, holds her close, and that's all. That's all he wants. It all means something to her.

She doesn't mind when he traces her legs or her hem with his eyes. She drinks her wine and half-smiles a little at him when their eyes meet. That's all. It could be encouragement, tolerance, affection, understanding, promise, and it would be hard to tell from that smile. Even now, Danicka is engimatic. She doesn't even intend to me, most of the time. It's second nature, and an outgrowth of inner complexities even she only barely understands.


The basket, a week or so ago, made her laugh. She knelt on the floor and went through it piece by piece, curious about each thing inside until Lukas was all but bounding out of his skin wanting her to get something else out, look at all of it, open it open it openitopenit. A blanket, mugs... a planisphere that made her give him the oddest look until he explained, bursting out that it was a stargazing kit, that his father got him one of those when he was young, and then the telescope came out and Danicka kept looking at him through it, grinning back at him.

Kandovany found the treats herself, climbing into the basket carefully while Danicka and Lukas were setting their glasses of wine down on the coffee table so they wouldn't spill all over the couch. One soft kiss had turned into another, and another. They were making out and his hand was reaching under her blouse, mouth to throat, before they realized they should put their glasses down. Proving her cleverness, the cat managed to get the packet of liver treats open with her teeth and after a mighty struggle managed to get two or three out to scarf them down.

It was cool that night, and the breeze wicked sweat off their bodies while they came down together. She fell asleep before the covers came over them. She fell asleep before Lukas even wrapped himself around her to hold her.

Kandovany fell asleep in the wicker basket.


A soft smile touches her as Lukas leans over and kisses her then, touching her hair. She looks down at his hand over her wrist and shifts her arm underneath his palm, slipping it so their fingers interlace. "No," she assures him gently, "it's fine."

He moves to let her go but she keeps hold of his hand, and uses her free one for her fork, making him do the same. "So what about the best?" she asks, concerning Maddox.

[Lukas] So he shifts his fork into his left hand. And he's a little bit clumsier like this, though never quite clumsy. His thumb moves idly over the side of her hand, and then she asks about the best.

His smile is a little wry. "I don't really know yet," he admits. "From what I've seen, he's smart and resourceful. He says he wants to be a part of something bigger -- a pack, a family -- so that's a start. And he tries his best to help. Even when he was an almighty douchebag, even when his worst characteristics were cranked up to eleven, he was still ... doing what he could to help."

So that's how he starts talking about his journey with his pack, which is what he wanted to tell her about when he called her together. He tells her how they were recruiting Margaret and Maddox, and how he wanted to do something a little more personal than a simple seek-and-destroy hunt. Something that dug deeper, showed them for who they were; bonded them more solidly.

He tells her about the realm they went to. The levels, down and down and down, and the corruption they found. "I think it was always a place meant to show a Garou their flaws, so that they could conquer them," he says, "but when we found it it had twisted into something malevolent."

And he tells her about his packmates' trials. What each of them faced, every step of the way. How it made them think, sometimes, of the quest to bring Spring back to the land; how that was dangerous because that rite was benevolent in the end, and this ... wasn't. How it was always some deepseated fear or flaw, dragged screaming out into the light. How it began easy, and got so very hard.

He's finishing up his hunter's stew when he gets to his door. His gate. He admits, quietly, "I was really afraid it'd be like the rite of reawakening. That it'd be you, or ... our future, something like that. I was afraid, ironically, that it might make me afraid again. Afraid for us, afraid of how it might end up, afraid to live for fear of death.

"It wasn't that at all, though. In the end it was really just... about fear, period. Fear of loss, or not being there, or not doing enough, and the worrying and handwringing and overprotectiveness that came out of it. When I walked in, I faced myself. I called my pack to fight with me. He called ... some huge monster that represented the worst of each of us, maybe, to fight with him. We both charged, and we both passed right through the enemy.

"We couldn't help our pack, so we turned on each other instead. I guess maybe I thought if I just killed him, I could help my pack. And he must have thought the same thing because he was me. And every blow we landed was a wound reflected back on ourselves. We tore each other apart while my pack fought for their lives, and I was so scared for them, but ...

"In the end they were okay. They were more than okay. They did great. And I remember looking at myself and telling myself, being their alpha and their brother doesn't mean being their shield and shelter and sole protection against everything. That's not my job. More importantly, they don't need me to do that.

"And it was strange, because -- in a way, that's what I told Stormstrike during my Adren challenge. I guess sometimes it's easier to give advice than to actually hear it."

A small pause. Then he snags another pierogi, eats it thoughtfully.

"When we were leaving, the spirits of the realm spoke to me again. They said, love the ones you love. Don't fear for them. And I suppose in a way they were telling me this applies to everyone else I love, too. Not just my pack, but my kin, my family -- even you." A faint, rueful huff, "I mean, just look at how much food I bought because some part of me is just constantly trying to protect and take care of you, even when you don't need it."

[Danicka] When he comes to Danicka with tales of his adventures, something he did not do for a very long time, she doesn't sit in rapt attention, wide-eyed and awed by his prowess. She does not cry and wring her hands for fear that he could have gotten hurt, she could have lost him. When he expresses his flaws to her, his vulnerabilities, she does not pat his shoulder, there there, or assure him that no, he's actually quite grand.

The first time he failed a challenge, it was the first time he really struck out seeking something for himself, some title, some honor, some power. And she did not want to know if it was unfair, if he'd at least been bested by someone he had no chance of winning against. She wanted to know if he had done well. If he had met some inner standard of his own. She was neither impressed nor disappointed. She was neither cold nor coddling.

Ever since then, Lukas tells her quite often about what he does, what happens to him. How he succeeds and how he fails. How he is challenged, what he learns. He asks her what she thinks. Sometimes, he just tells her so that she'll know. So that she can be, in some limited way, a part of the side of his life she has no way to directly affect. She could not be with him in that realm, helping him like his packmates could, or like he helped them. He's never come right out and say it, the way he holds back from saying some things because they are just too sickly sweet to taste on his own tongue, but she knows that she's still there. He can ask himself what she would do or say, and much of the time, he's right. He knows her now. She's in him.

And she knows how to listen. He'd be surprised to find that this woman with so many 'friends' speaks very little, except that he's seen her in meetings, lingering and listening for a long time before she has anything of her own to say. With Danicka it seems there's no such thing as an awkwared silence, no feeling that her impatience is growing when he pauses to remember, pauses to reflect before he speaks.

She does move, though. Finishes her wine, finishes the dinner Lukas bought, unpacked, all but nudged towards her with his nose. She shifts off her pillow and comes closer to him, leans into him and lets him hold them both up. She doesn't laugh at him when he tells her that at his own gate this time, he had to face a version of himself that could not touch his pack, an enemy he could not touch himself. Danicka has teased him before about what a worrywart he is, but she doesn't laugh.

We tore each other apart makes her tense slightly, but it passes. She doesn't think so glibly about Lukas being wounded, no matter that she knows how fast he can heal.

He calls to mind the Rite of Reawakening, his adren challenge. She leans into him, their arms intertwined now where his curls around her waist, his chest moving against her shoulderblade, her head resting back against his chest, her eyes on the window. He huffs a laugh, referencing the food he bought. Danicka's quiet a moment, then: "And here I thought you just like eating all this so much you can't make up your mind and buy some of everything," she says, only half-teasing.

She's silent a little longer, then, thinking. When she speaks again she's a little more serious, a little softer. "I don't think that part of you is something you'll ever truly conquer completely," she says. "Just like I'll always find it difficult to trust." A pause there. It may be the first time she's just come out and said it, named it, put her own greatest weakness out there. Hearing it, she stops, recognizing its truth before she goes on. "You'll always be afraid for the people you care most about, and try to take more responsibility than is your due on yourself. I don't know why or where that comes from, for you. But I think the best any of us can do is see it. Know it about ourselves. Overcome it, when we can. Admit it when we fail to. And try not to lie to ourselves and call it a strength."

[Lukas] Strange to think that once upon a time Lukas didn't even know if Danicka cared about him at all -- much less what he goes through. The trials and challenges he faces. The things he does for himself, and for others. The things he does to try to better himself in some way.

This much is true: he rarely talks to her about his battles: the day to day skirmishes, the hunts through backalleys and dark places. Sometimes, when something truly dreadful looms on the horizon, he talks to her. He never says it outright -- I want you to know, just in case I don't come back. -- but perhaps it's there in the subtext. Not out of some masochism or sadism, not out of some sappy urge toward creating one perfect night before it all might end, but because he knows how it happened with her mother. She walked out one night and that was it. Weeks later, the Galliard

(that he met once, mindbendingly enough)

that was her mother's packmate came to her and called her to the fence and told her. Seven silver lances. Roaring defiance with her last breath. Glorious, glorious.

-- but that's digressing. The point is: he tells her when it's big. But the little skirmishes, the little battles that could nonetheless prove deadly by some slip of luck or accident of fate -- he doesn't mention those very often. He knows: she tenses when he talks about wounding himself, tearing himself apart. He knows she think glibly about these things. He doesn't want her to ache or worry.

Everything else, though: he tells her about it when he can. To share, to get her opinion, to get her advice -- and, yes. To show her: you're with me. Even when you're not there, you're with me.

And she listens; and she thinks; and there's nothing awkward about that silence. By then they've mostly stopped eating. She rests with her back against the side of his chest, held loosely in the circle of his arm. He eyes the pierogis, balances that against the possibility of ice cream on crepes.

And then, when she speaks, he lays his cheek against the top of her head for a moment. He listens, and he thinks as well. She can feel him laughing quietly, so quietly she can barely hear it. Not out of amusement, or even really joy, but -- something deeper. A sort of warmth and affection as he hugs her closer.

"No one's perfect," he says quietly. "Trite, but true. I'm just happy we try to see our flaws and work to overcome them when we can. And accept each other when we can't."

[Danicka] She cares about him. Not so much about Katherine, about his pack, about the majority of the sept. But she cares about him. To some degree, though often not a great one, she cares about the things he cares about. It's an effort, sometimes, to understand where he's coming from because no matter what he tells her, she will never really be a part of so much in his life. So much that matters. So much that, in a way, defines who he is.

They do the best they can.

A wry smile touches her face when he says something admittedly, well, trite. There's nothing to add to it, however. There's nothing to add to what she said just before it. Danicka is silent instead, leaning into him, looking through those vast windows she has never once tried to curtain.

[Lukas] So they're quiet a while. Danicka looks through her windows. Lukas muses a while longer, wrestling with himself, and then reaches for another pierogi. It's relatively dark in here -- there's perhaps a light or two on in the entryway, the kitchen -- and the lights of the Magnificent Mile, mere blocks away, glow through the windows. After munching down that last pierogi, Lukas pushes his plate aside and leans back, his hand stroking gently and idly against Danicka's side.

"I like this," he says after a while. "Our little nighttime picnics in your living room. I like feeling warm and full and a little drowsy and ... ensconced here with you. Kando wandering around somewhere. It makes me feel the way I do when we're curled up in bed at the den."

There's a small pause. "Safe," he adds.

There's some irony, perhaps, to what he says. A creature like him, six feet and some-odd inches of muscle and might: one wouldn't think he'd be concerned at all about safety. Yet it's never really about physical safety, physical preservation-of-life, the same way it's never really about that when she protects him. Or even when he protects her, most the time.

It's something else. Deeper, primitive: the same animal part of him that likes holding her as they sleep; likes to place himself between her and the door. Likes covering her and mounting her and fucking his cum into her, likes the instinctive belief that yes, now, cubs will come in the spring. To some degree, that part of him informs the protective streak in him, too, which occasionally -- frequently -- veers into overprotectiveness. She's right: it's doubtful he'll ever be entirely cured of it. If he were, he wouldn't be himself. The best he can do is see the line. See when he's over it.

Try.

He stirs after a moment. "Crepes and ice cream?" he reminds her.

[Danicka] For awhile they sit quietly, Danicka's hand idly stroking his knee, moving meaninglessly on his leg. She seems done eating, doing little but feeling Lukas's warmth behind and around her. Soon enough, he's done as well, his hand beginning to stroke her side the way she strokes his knee. There's nothing lascivious about it, not outright and not right now. There's nothing soothing about it, either, neither of them needing or seeking reassurance of anything. They just touch, thoughtless and without need of invitation, when once a very long time ago, they rarely touched at all. And when they did, it was because they could not stop themselves any longer.

The truth is, the amount of time their relationship has gone on has far eclipsed the few that once felt like months to each of them, the mere handful of days between seeing each other and falling into each other. There was a point when Danicka could not stop thinking about how Lukas's chest would feel against her back as he pressed her into the bed, what his breath would sound like, if he'd groan or gasp when he came. She'd spend idle, daydreaming moments wondering whether his fingers would be skilled or fumbling between her legs, if he'd fuck her hand when she wrapped it around his cock, if

he'd hold her afterward. She'd wonder, then, if that's really what she wanted.

There's not much to wonder about anymore. Danicka's been making love to Lukas a long time now, and she has less and less to be curious about, to question. She's found a very different excitement in knowing exactly what to do to him. How even what she's doing now to his leg, altered slightly, could make him breathe in sharply and fight not to hold his breath. How to drive him out of his mind so far that he almost loses himself completely. What he likes, and how to give it to him.

She doesn't change the way she touches his leg. Lukas murmurs that he likes this. And Danicka doesn't say much because she already knows, but she isn't going to tell him to shh, isn't going to tell him not to speak. There was a time, and she still remembers, when he never told her anything like this. He'd never tell her when he felt warm and safe, or when he wanted to hold her. He'd never tell her that he enjoyed her, wanted her, liked to be here with her. She didn't even know how attached he was to this place until she thought of moving and his crest fell.

So she nuzzles him, silent still, her hair and her skin rubbing against the underside of his jaw a wordless agreement.

"Hmm," she murmurs, when he reminds her about dessert. "After sex," she concludes, warm and drowsy and full.