birthday.

Lukas

That grin of hers is infectious - makes the same expression break across his face. Their overnight bags are in the trunk, their secret gifts are in the bags along with a change of clothes, she's driving and she's all white and gold like sunlight in winter, and he loves her so much he wants to laugh with sheer joy. So he does, leaning across the center divide to kiss her, settling back when she puts the car in gear.

"Where are we going?" he asks. He has no idea, and it doesn't matter. Didn't they go sailing overnight one year? A little sailboat, the lake quiet all through the night. Or maybe they're going clubbing, or maybe they're going to a hotel, or maybe they're just running away. He thinks that would be fine, too, very exciting, even if they have to come back eventually.

Their neighborhood is quiet and still. It's still early, but most people are indoors, enjoying Christmas with their families. Lights glow in windows. Lights sparkle from eaves and overhangs. Some of their neighbors have reindeer and Santas in their yard; one very tasteful neighbor has put santa hats on his pink flamingos. They pass all these, take the boulevard to the freeway, take the freeway into the unmistakable towers and lights of the city.

Danicka

Were Danicka privy to Lukas's thoughts -- and there are times when it seems like she actually is -- she would remind him that the sailing was for her birthday, not his. She'd call him silly with the same affection and pleasure she has in her voice when she calls Kandovany 'kitty', or when she gathers that cat up into her arms after a round of chase-the-red-dot-from-the-laser-pointer and nuzzles and scritches her, calling her stupid, stupid kitty.

Lukas's memory is not linear, though. Lukas's memory, when it comes to emotion, is a cloud. Time and date, exact locations are not important and his brain discards them soon after the fact. It's the pleasure he remembers, or the grief, or the bone-deep, elemental comfort. He remembers holding Danicka in the cabin of a sailboat, his back to the porthole windows instead of the door because some confused instinct told him the water was more dangerous than anyone or anything that might cross that threshold. When it happened, why it happened -- he forgets. But he remembers how he felt with her that night, and that it was a celebration of something.

"I told you," she says mildly, "we have reservations." And that is all she tells him about that, her arch tone of voice masking amusement and that secretiveness she will never lose, no matter how honest she becomes with him or with anyone else.

He probably won't instantly recognize the music playing on her stereo, because his character (still) isn't high level enough to have ever been anywhere in Northrend. He may have heard it from the other room, but Danicka usually wears headphones because she absolutely uses Vent to talk to her guildies during raids. It's pretty, though, resonant through her speakers, and it plays most of the way to Chicago. Danicka drives fast now, is more confident behind the wheel than she was when she got her Very First Car that was Destroyed Utterly on an empty, dark highway one night when she nearly died, when

Evan brought her back and the name Vla -- was on her lips, and

Lukas began to figure out who it was, exactly, that had beaten Danicka half to death all her life.

Looking at her right now, no one would ever guess that she plays World of Warcraft that much, and no one would guess that anyone has ever laid a hand on her. Her skin is perfect. Looking at her X-rays, no physician would ever find trace hints of the number of fractures she's suffered. Even now, she carries a firearm and a collection of talens with her at all times, well within reach. She doesn't even think of it. The leech spirits that Lukas offends every time she activates one of his bandages know, but it's been some time since she's gotten into a fight like that. A very long time.

She thinks about telling him sometimes that she is more careful to avoid danger, but it bothers her that she's more careful. At the same time, she knows what losing their father did to Sarka's children. What losing all those babies did to Sabina. What losing her mother did to her. What it would do to Lukas. What it would do to her children if their father, who is dark and terrifying even at his gentlest, were to come to them and tell them that their mother died. So Danicka is more careful. Danicka is less selfish. Danicka goes nowhere without protection and healing, and it bothers her to live like that, but

everyone makes sacrifices.

As they're driving, she reaches over and holds his hand for awhile. She doesn't really say why; she just holds it, warm and close, because the car is automatic and has cruise control and there's a lot of highway between them and downtown.

Which is lit up as bright as midday with lights. Very little is open -- most shops closed early tonight if they were open at all, most restaurants are open only for dinner or closed completely. There's plenty open, though. Clubs and hotels and hipper restaurants, tons of Chinese and Japanese food, the Jewish delis, the Czech cafeterias. Bars. The bars are quite busy already. Danicka passes by them all.

"This is our third Christmas together," she mentions quietly. "Sometimes I can't quite get my head around that. We met in January. By that December, we had a home togther." She smiles, a little quirkily. "You know, I could tell the night you met me that you wanted me," which is almost teasing.

That lopsided smile of hers fades as she drive, dying a natural death rather than wasting away from unhappiness. "I don't think I knew then that I wanted you. I was wary of you, because you were a Shadow Lord and an Ahroun. But I could tell you wanted me. And it made my heart beat faster."

There's a pause. "I think it was anticipation." Danicka glances over at him. "You didn't realize that night, either -- right away, I mean -- that you wanted me, did you?"

Lukas

Earlier, when Lukas asked where they were going and Danicka didn't really answer, he laughed. Laughed and left it alone, smiling, reaching to find her hand again and squeeze it.

She's right: his memory is nonlinear, based deeper in instinct and emotion than time and circumstance. So when she reminds him of the day they met, the truth is he only remembers sketches: smartbar, reaching across Kate's sister, how green Danicka's eyes were.

And how he felt. Oh, he remembers that.

"I... no, I didn't realize I wanted you. I think I wanted very much to write you off as some cunning, cutthroat shadow lord bitch who would use every asset she had to make a lapdog of me. I think I wanted to believe would turn my life upside down if I let you, and stay away."

A pause.

"But," he adds, softer, "when we were parting, I caught myself thinking that I wouldn't mind if I ran into you again someplace. Maybe we could have a cup of coffee. Maybe you would tell me a little more about yourself. You ... fascinated me, I think.

"But a few days later, when Sam came asking if he could date you, as if that word would hide what he really wanted from you, and as if my agreement were already a foregone conclusion. And I was surprised by how disappointed and upset and unwilling I was. I suppose that's when I realized I wanted you for myself."

Danicka

They can talk now about things like Sam and Martin and the pain they caused each other without falling apart -- but it isn't pleasant, all the same. She was so angry at him, for so long, about Sam. About not helping her in the cafe when Sam drew her into his eyes and into his lap the way he did. She was angry because Sam hit her and he did nothing. She was angry because she told Sam no, stop, go away, and he didn't listen, and she asked Lukas for help, and he lashed out at her. She was so angry at him, and the truth is, the woman beside him in the car would not have stayed as long as the woman she used to be did. The woman she is now would not have kept going back to him.

It wasn't weakness, then, though she certainly is stronger now. It was a resignation to the fate that awaited her. It was a heavy attraction to danger that was not tempered by investment in anyone else's life. It was lust so powerful it made her stop caring. It was the way he was with her that first night, and every other night since, and no amount of coldness on his part was enough then to turn her away.

The woman she is now would not have stayed. But then, the man he is now would not have acted the way he did. They have both changed. Utterly, but not completely -- in just a few short years.

Danicka accepts the mention of Sam with just an exhale. It's amazing what leading a life where rape is not a foregone conclusion has done for her: the thought of Sam bothers her more in a way, but also less. Less in that her exhale turns into a soft little smile, almost aching. "You kept finding me in cafes when I was trying to drink coffee," she says. "Your whole pack did," she adds with a small laugh. "But you..."

Her head tips. "Every time I saw you outside a window, about to come inside and sit across from me like you owned the place -- well to tell the truth it annoyed me, and I would brace myself, but I also felt... I don't know." A small shrug, a shake of her head. "A spreading warmth. A weight -- not dragging me down but grounding me where I was. A part of me kept wondering, each time I saw you, if this would be the time when you finally dropped the pretense and took me somewhere."

Danicka's tongue slips across her lips to moisten them. She's still holding his hand. And he recognizes the area now, if he's been paying attention, but: she's slowing to a stop in front of the valet

at the W Lakeshore.

Lukas

"Your fault for drinking coffee so publicly," Lukas teases gently. Then, serious, "I think it wasn't really for Sam's sake or my pack's sake that I never did. Drop the pretense, I mean. I think it was because I was angry - angry at you for choosing Sam when our first meeting was so ... profound, at least to me. I was angry that you didn't wait for me. And I was angrier still at myself for not being brave enough to ... make a move while I had the chance."

A huff of a laugh. Lukas looks at Danicka - an easy, unstrained turn of his head, a slow warm smile despite the subject. "I was such an idiot. I should have asked you to dinner the first time we met. Or coffee."

A little later, she's pulling up to the parking lot of the W. And Lukas looks out the window, recognizes where they are; smiles. This is neither the first place they made love nor the place they love each other most. But it has deep significance; neither of them can deny that.

The valet opens Danicka's door for her. Lukas gets the bags out of the back, comes around to take his mate's hand. As the valet gets into the car, Lukas nuzzles her for a moment, warm and rough, kissing her temple at the end.

"Is there where you decided to stay with me?" he says quietly as they walk in.

Danicka

The look she gives him in response to his teasing is sidelong, her lips pursed in an almost-smile, her eyebrows casting a mockery of a warning. If anything, it says oh, you. He is silly. He never would have been silly three years ago, even less than that. He scared the living hell out of her because she laughed when he did something she thought was cute. But then, he would have: he thought she wanted to turn him into a pet. He hated it when she called him, summoned him, and yet he couldn't stay away. He feared that she would collar and leash him like that, because he knew that she could. That he might let her.

At the rest, though, her smile is faintly sad. "Sam asked me out the day before -- literally, the day before -- I met you at that nightclub." She may have told him this before, but to tell the truth, she doesn't remember. "I think he 'asked your permission' to do so after that," she adds, her voice a little hard around the edges, because that is exactly what Sam did, that is exactly the sort of thing that he became notorious for doing.

Danicka's eyes are forward as she's driving, then. "Even if I had met you first, I... may have gone out with him anyway. But I wasn't choosing him. I wasn't even interested him." She shrugs, less defensive-sounding than the words alone would feel. Her head gives a small shake. "And I knew you wanted me when you saw me, I just... thought that if you were going to act on it, you would have then. Or right away. So I figured even if you -- lusted after me or whatever," a small laugh at the word choice, "you weren't interested in pursuing it."

Her hand squeezes his. "You're not an idiot." Her eyes move to his, hold for a moment. "Neither of us really trusted what we wanted, I think."

The W Lakeshore. It's where they went for their honeymoon. It's where they went the second time -- and so many other times -- that they made love. It's where she told him she loved him for the first time, not I think or I'm falling but miliju te, as deep and as ritualistic as her lips could make the words. It's where he left her, because they were tearing each other apart. It's where so many things happened. But not, as it turns out, the thing he's thinking of just then.

Danicka has to let go of her hand to exit the car, to hand her keys to the valet, who slides into the seat after her. Lukas gets the bags, holding both of them easily, and Danicka shivers inside of her coat, which she'd removed in the car and shrugged back into before getting out. He holds her hand again, kisses her, and she leans into it, her eyes closing a moment.

"No, baby," she says softly, her heels muffled on the entryway carpet laid down for all the snow and salt on the sidewalks and roads, then clipping on the marble tiles. The place where she decided to stay with him was another hotel, and a night she has trouble thinking about, because so much of that night was painful, even if that first moment -- when she saw him and the decision was made, the desire translated into a decision and then into words, into action -- was so full of exhiliration and fear and fierce joy that it hurt to feel it, hurt so much she couldn't even make him a promise that it wouldn't end, could only say not yet. not yet.

"But it is where I realized I didn't want this to end," Danicka adds, her hand giving his a squeeze, and she's thinking of an even earlier night, when the moon was gibbous but not yet full, when he came to her and she laid on her back for him for the first time, took him in her arms and legs and cried out his name as he loved her. He may even remember that exact moment. Remember the look in her eyes when she took her eyes away from the moon and looked into his, and he saw clear as day

that she didn't want to lose him.

They check in at the desk. Room 2584. Danicka has a small, flickering smile on her face as she takes the key cards in their little paper holder. When she hands his to him, even though it's unlikely they'll ever be separated tonight, she tells him quietly, "This is exactly where I realized it."

The very same room.

Lukas

"I remember," Lukas replies: tone soft, hand warm. "The night with the almost-full moon. And the way you looked at me." Quieter then, a little husky: "And the way you lay back for me."

They check in at the desk, where the receptionist gives them an aw look because they're so very obviously a couple, and it's Christmas, and hotel suites here on Christmas are so expensive that it must be a Special Occasion. Which is true, though the receptionist doesn't quite - and can't quite - grasp the full significance of the place, the room, the exact location.

The moon is not gibbous tonight. It is not in the sky at all, a new moon, as dark tonight as it was bright on the night Lukas was born. In its place over the lake: stars, stars and clouds, and the lights of the city reflecting back toward the ground. This is the very spot, Danicka tells him; the very spot, the very room, and Lukas - stepped a few feet in - turns. He reaches past his mate to shut the door. It is very quiet then, silent except for the hum of ventilation. He draws his mate against himself, lays his brow to hers for a moment.

Then, softly and unhurriedly, he finds her mouth with his. Kisses her, their overnight bags still slung over his shoulder, his hand at her hip.

Danicka

She just smiles at him, ever so softly. Achingly, almost. For him, the moment he realized he didn't want this to end was the moment he decided to try and hold her if he could, stay with her if life would let him, the moment he knew that he would fall to pieces when -- he did not think it was 'if', back then -- she left him, unable to put himself back together again. There was no question for him after that, only an ache, or anger, or fear, each one amplified by that realization, and the surrender it engendered in him.

For Danicka, who almost always indulged her wants and desires but was never ruled by them, they were entirely different moments, and both of them were shockingly sudden. That night in Room 2584 is marked by it, but there are so many other memories to associate there: they'd met at the Shedd, and argued, and she'd walked away from him partly because he wouldn't stop interrupting her and he was angry that she couldn't remember seeing him the night before, drunk and strolling on the sidewalk, calling him her boyfriend. They'd curled up on the couch and eaten box after box of Chinese food from Yen's. He'd followed her into the bedroom from the living room of the suite, going to his knees before her. And in the moment when he was outside, getting a condom from his discarded wallet, she looked at the moon.

It was still written across her face, stricken as though she'd been slapped, when he came back in and saw her. Saw that she didn't want it to be over, not yet, please not yet, that she wanted him, that the single cycle of the moon she'd been willing to promise him -- if only so he wouldn't expect more from her than she could give -- was coming to an end, and

she still wasn't sure she could bear to go on after that. She just knew, in that moment, that she wasn't sure she could bear not to. So later on, whispering, she asked him if he'd ever read the Little Prince. If he knew what it meant to tame something, and be tamed. If he knew what it cost to be happy.

Later on, running away from Martin and Katherine and all their violent dramas, she thought for sure this would be the end. She didn't want to be with a werewolf. Werewolves chase you around the living room. Werewolves tie you down to get their way. Werewolves do inhuman, monstrous things, rip away every shred of dignity or independence you have, judge you, hurt you, punish you, and all the while they say it's for your own good, you deserved this, you should have known better. Katherine was doing it. Her mother, her brother. Sam. She'd even seen Lukas behave like that. That was all they were: bastards. Monsters.

She'd fuck him again. Several times, as though to get her fill of him, shipwreck herself on him, wear him out til both their souls were threadbare and snapping in the wind,

then ask him to leave. Walk away and never come back. Leave her alone, because she'd never submit to being his unless he forced her. The rest could not matter. The rest was all a flimsy lie compared to what she knew from the rest of her entire life, even the rest of that godforsaken week. The rest was, in the end, simply not worth it.

Danicka had opened the door, and he'd kissed her, and she'd gasped out:

Lukáš, I don't want this to end yet.

They tore each other apart that night. Truth be told, there is almost no happy memory for her associated with that night. She'd nearly died in the park two days before. She was hiding away from her own home because it was overrun with a near-dying drug addict and a psychotic Philodox. Lukas hurt her when he fucked her, the only time in her memory he's ever well and truly just fucked her, unwilling or unable to stop himself, all control gone, his body violent against and inside of hers. He sat across the room from her later, angry at her, demanding she tell him what was going on between her and Katherine, kept snapping at her when all she wanted was for him to stop, to come to her, hold her, and they argued, oh, they tore each other to pieces, ragged-edged and raw.

And they also asked each other what they wanted, if they could have anything that moment. He made her a promise that if she told him to stop asking because he was flaying her alive, he would relent, because a moment before he'd just asked the same of her. They joked later, lying in bed entwined, about videotaping themselves to instruct others on the Art of Fucking Well. They told each other: I know this is going nowhere good. That we will fall apart. But it's worth it. It's worth everything.

The memory of this night, though, the night they spent here, matters so much more to her, in a way. The feeling more than the decision. The memory of all these things she did to surrender to him, to herself, to this that night. Like laying back for him. Like whispering to him that she was cold, and letting him wrap his arms around her to warm her, which she never would do before. Like telling him why she couldn't bear the sight of crinos-formed Garou, because of her mother's frenzy when she was three years old.

And he told her why he'd never looked for a mate before. Where his savings came from. Why he cultivated an air of having more money than he really did. The story of his family's ousting from Czechoslovakia, and how they came back into favor... because of him. They laid in the bed and talked about so many things. They sat in the bath and talked. They made love.

That was the night she called it that, sitting in his car in the Shedd's parking lot, and his eyes snapped to her

but he didn't correct her.

They walk from the desk to the elevator, walk from the elevator to the door of the 84th room on the 25th floor, and Danicka lets them in. The door closes, whisper-soft against the thick carpet, ending with a click into place, automatically locked. She looks across the living room of the suite to the windows, remembering so starkly how they were when they came here. Dressed so differently. Completely distrustful of one another, and of themselves. Dressed in jeans and the like. Lukas wanting to know what was in her bag this time: lace or satin.

He has walked a step or two past her, and turns now, facing her. Drawing her to him. She steps into his embrace, her front to his chest, and lifts her chin before he has even lowered his face to her, closing her eyes. His left hand is sliding from her hip to the small of her back, her left hand on his chest, their rings too subtle to glint in any light.

She is thinking of those two nights, at the Affinia and in this room. She is thinking of the first Christmas they were together, when they both still believed that they could not live together, could not have children unless it meant him leaving her, could not... have this. Any of this. He used to make little videos of himself, because of how much they could not truly be together.

All these thoughts swirl in her, rise in her like a storm, but when her hands come up to his face they're soft, unhurried, warmly sliding back into his hair as the way she's kissing him deepens. She kisses him like this, more fierce by the moment, until

she isn't, and she's drawing her mouth away, her hands still on his head, catching a breath. Danicka's eyes have opened, vivid green even in the dim golden light, holding his in the way they never, never would at first, or for a very long time.

"Jste moje," she whispers, a soft ferocity in her voice and in the words, a strange defiance against... anything else, anything out there. The universe, the war, his pack, his family, any other thing that might dare lay this deep a claim on him or threaten hers. It is the first time, the only time, she has voiced this, just like that. Like a wolf as much as a lover.

Lukas

It's been a long time since Danicka - or Lukas - believed they could not possibly be good for each other. Could not possibly live together, have children together, be together without one or both of them breaking. It's been a long time since they've been afraid of showing each other a little tenderness; a long time since they've been afraid that tenderness would be mistaken for weakness.

Yet this is the first time she's kissed him quite like this, taking his face in her hands, pushing her fingers into his hair, holding him just like that, with her hands and her eyes and her voice, when she lays a claim on him that,

just a few short years ago,

neither of them would have even remotely dreamt of. Since when do kin, he would have asked, scornful. Except he wouldn't have, because the life she lived until then - more painful and cruel than any half-formed attempt at being a shadow lord he could think of - would have taught her that such a thing was impossible, dangerous, deadly.

She dares, now. He dares, too: dares to accept this claim, dares to see it for what it is, and not for some murky challenge to his supposed dominance. It's not that. It was never that, never like that between them, never had to be. What they have here is infinitely rare, particularly amongst their brutal tribe: bilateral, emotional, deep.

Something flares in his eyes when his mate claims him like that, as completely and fearlessly as he claims her. It is recognition, and adoration. He lays his hand on her cheek, their forearms crossing.

"Ano," he murmurs, "jsem."

Danicka

Even after they were mated, that was what they believed: that if he got her pregnant, if the pill didn't work that one time, he'd have to go away. He could see her, but far more rarely. He could not spend time with his child til it was old enough to bear his presence. They would lose what they had: that closeness, that depth. They would become partners, not mates. She would raise his children, and they would know him by name, renown, and shadow; nothing more.

Then the Underworld. And, truth be told, Danicka's summer with the children that are currently playing board games and watching movies in their house over in Stickney. Both of them had to be convinced. The spirits took Lukas aside and showed him how it would need to be done: small steps, brief moments, much pain. No less pain or work than the War required; in fact, far more in many ways. Leaving his mate during childbirth because all her will would be bent toward labor. Leaving her on the nights when she was most tired and his cubs most ill because his rage was too great and their bodies and spirits too weak for him to do what every instinct in him is built for: to help, to heal, to protect. So much pain. But not loss. Not the end of this.

For Danicka, it took a summer spent with the children of her half-sister. Children of an Ahroun. Children who, for several years at least, had their father near them. Not always with them, but near. A part of their lives. They survived. They were strong. Are strong, now. Even Emanek is not really frightened of Lukas or uneasy in his presence. Not right now, at least; the moon is dark. But even he, not acclimated to it, not exposed much to it, can bear it. So there's hope for them, because these children are so happy, so bright, so tenacious.

It hurt, to see that. To know that it wasn't just the way things are but that, in truth, her mother was twisted. Not a monster, like Vladik, but too dark, too uncontrolled, too proud. And she had suffered for it in ways that these children before her had not, did not. So there was the stark, painful, glorious truth of the matter: she could have children with Lukas. And he could control himself, he could be kind, he could be humbled. And she could protect them.

She has to believe all these things. She needs them to be true.

He holds her, so tender, as she holds him with claim, with dominance she never would have, never could have exerted in months and years past. She claims; he submits. And something sparks briefly in her eyes: relief, perhaps, or the agony of a moment of fierce, piercing love, or

simple adoration.

Danicka draws him down, tender now, and kisses him softly. Her hands gentle on his face, smothing across his temples, stroking his hair back just barely, fingertips grazing over the short-short hairs above his ears. She did this so many times, even at the beginning. She did this while lying in his bed after he showered, the first time he had her there.

There's little wonder why he associates it with lovemaking, with invitation, with the warmth and nakedness and closeness of being with her. In another lifetime, he might have told her that he simply didn't know how else to show her how he feels, how to show her how he loves her except to... well, love her. He is a creature of instinct, heat, and these simple but powerful connections between things. If he loves his mate at the right time, and she is warm and she is well-fed and the den is safe, then there will be cubs later on. If he kills something and brings it to her, she will not be hungry, and this will be good. If he stays close to her, so close he nearly trips over her feet, then she will be safe from other predators, and the cubs inside of her will be safe, and his territory will be safe and only he will hunt on it, so there will be enough food for her, for the cubs, for his pack.

If his mate nuzzles him a certain way, if she gives him this touch, it means it is a good time. It means he can be close to her. It means it is time to love her, because it means

she loves him.

Their mouths part a little while after that kiss, and her eyes slowly open. He is hers. She can feel it in her blood, in her marrow, so deep in her that she senses it like a physical change in her body. Her mate. Her male, who will never go farther away from her than she can hear him howling. It makes her feel strangely protective, to know how much he is hers. To see his devotion and know it for what it is. To know, though he's never said it in her hearing, that he will never take another mate, no matter what happens to her. A few years ago it would have terrified her to have that kind of power over another person, to have someone love her that much and not know how dangerous she could be, how cruel, how much damage she could do to him.

She knows know: it isn't power. And she knows, too: she isn't going to ever hurt him.

She's going to protect him.

Danicka kisses him again, very softly. "I lied about the reservations," she murmurs, her lips still close to his mouth. "We could go out anyway. Or just order Chinese."

Lukas

There's something infinitely tender and warm and - yes - protective about the way Danicka's hands move into his hair. He wants to shiver with pleasure. If he were in another form, he's quite sure his tail would be wagging; he might be on his back, lolling.

The thought makes him laugh, soft, just before her mouth touches his again. Laughter unwinds; he kisses her back, it's a shared kiss, it's so soft and so tender that even his arousal, which seems inextricably coupled to a certain way she touches him, a certain way she looks at him, or even a certain way she smells and moves and smiles - even his arousal feels like un-urgent, a slow-unfurling sense of want. He nuzzles against her face as she confesses her little white lie. He laughs again, quietly, because:

"No you didn't. You just didn't want to tell a roomful of kids that we had reservations in a hotel suite where once upon a time I learned the fine art of eating you out."

He kisses her again. He's joking, but his humor is as gentle as anything here. He touches her hair, combs it back, cups his hand over the back of her neck. Lays his brow to hers.

"Let's stay in," he murmurs. "Chinese sounds great."

Danicka

It's there in her, too. That slowly unfolding arousal, more patient than it ever seemed to be in the beginning, more patient than it ever seems to be even now. The first -- the last -- time they stood in this room it was the same. They were not tearing at each other's clothes or gasping for each other's mouths, but they lazed on the couch together, more tender than they'd yet dared. They ate so much food and at the time he didn't know, he didn't understand just how comfortable that meant she was with him that night, how safe, how unafraid. She ate her fill and he ate til he was stuffed. They ate those crispy banana rolls in that light caramel sauce. They sat on the floor together and her hand

began to caress his leg. Touched him, slow and patient, til he tipped his head back and bared his throat to her, because for all they tore each other to pieces, as much as they didn't trust each other, it was worth it. That feeling, that curling desire, was worth everything.

Danicka smiles to herself, closing her eyes while he nuzzles her. Her hands are resting gently on his scalp, holding him as he holds her, accepting all his affection, even as he roughs up her hair without intending to. They are dressed so nicely, him with his new cufflinks and her with her pretty patterned stockings and her slim silhouette of a dress. What he says makes her huff a small laugh. "No," she argues, almost childish about it, "I could have come up with any number of lies for that." She turns her head and nuzzles him back, rubbing her nose thoughtlessly against the line of his jaw. "I wanted to surprise you."

She pulls back suddenly, gives him a mock-reproachful look with a deep frown. "You weren't very surprised."

Lukas

Lukas laughs again - laughs often tonight, has laughed often these days. Just this morning she heard him laughing in the boys' room, where all the kids had gathered because someone had found the board games; not the banned Monopoly but Chutes and Ladders, and then Clue, and when Danicka came in someone was just saying,

Miss Scarlet in the Drawing Room with the Lead Pipe!

which was wrong, but oh well. It's a game. It was fun, and it's fun to have the kids over, and all of Christmas has made him so, so happy, and --

that's why he's laughing now, too. He's happy, and comfortable, and warm, and he answers her mock-reproach with a kiss to her forehead, right where it crinkles into a frown. "I was," he murmurs. "It's just - it felt right. Like this is exactly where we should be tonight."

Then he draws back again, lets her go. They are both dressed so nicely, but it turns out they're not going anywhere after all. That's all right. He likes it when she dresses up. He likes it when she dresses down. He likes discovering what she's wearing, layer by layer, even if by now he's discovered there are so many other options than cotton and silk.

"We're getting banana things again, right?"

Danicka

He was all but bouncing in his seat in the van as they drove out to O'Hare to pick everyone up. All but bouncing on his toes while scanning the crowd for his family, for her family, for the cubs and the sister and dam and the sires, for the other sister and the interloping male who has wiggled himself into the family-pack all the same. Laughing on the way home, grinning every night, his pleasure coming off of him in waves even as he holds her in their bed at night. Tickling his voice even when he says that he's not ready for kids, because they get up so early when he's tired.

She was a little amazed, all the same, when he took her upstairs that first night and wanted to fuck her then, wanted to fuck her not just because she's beautiful and he's horny or because he loves her and wants to be close but because cubs, because they had a house full of children and somehow, some way, it made them both desperate to get in bed and fuck. She never saw that coming, would never have guessed that's where they would find themselves. Even if she felt it, to look at him and see it all reflected back at her, every last drop of that strange and powerful feeling... that was amazing.

Also, the sex was amazing. Was intense and firm and fast, ragged with lust, just as right now, right here

their desire is a steady, gentle tide, lapping at their shores, pleased to simply wait. Danicka smiles as he kisses her brow, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him close again. "Yes," she says. "We can get anything you want. It's your birthday." She smiles up at him, reminding him as though he may have forgotten, then kisses him through his shirt. They wind apart, slowly, and he holds onto her hand as she starts to walk away, so she

just pulls him after her, draws him across the living room of the suite to the modernist desk and the sleek leather folder atop it that has the information for several nearby places that deliver. There is a menu for Yen's in there, but she already has an idea of what she wants. They're getting crab and cream cheese wontons, too. And scallops. He wants beef; they don't have lamb. She wants chicken, she says, standing in front of the mirror and tipping her head to one side, unhooking her earring and setting it down. Her long hair sweeps over her back as she tips her head the other way, removing the other one. They clink softly together. You'd think they went out tonight already. Went to dinner, went dancing, or are getting in from some reception at a conference, or something.

While he's still on the phone, asking for those crispy banana rolls, Danicka walks back over to him, her heels silent on the plush carpet. She slips her hands underneath the collar of his jacket and shifts it off his shoulders, drawing it slowly down his arms. He has to switch hands on the phone as he's giving them their hotel and room number, as she draws the coat completely off each arm. Danicka folds it and lays it over the back of the chair, then comes around to his front as they're asking for his credit card number. She gets down on her knees -- quite primly, all told, still in her narrow dress, her toes pointed behind her. She lifts his arm from where it rests against the desk and holds it atop his lap while he's reading off his number, carefully unfastening his cufflink and setting it on the desk. Then his other hand, his other sleeve, his other cufflink. They, like her earrings, tap softly together and against the desk, barely heard under his own voice and the voice of the person taking their order.

Danicka is holding one of his hands now, his free one, massaging his fingers, slipping her hand up his now-open sleeve, gently stroking his arm. It's not quite an idle gesture, nor is it lascivious. She just caresses him, her hand opening as it flows up over his wrist and over his extensors, smiling softly to herself. The hairs on his arm against her palm, the warmth of his skin suffusing all the air within his sleeve, which is soft and yet crisp against her knuckles. He has only a few shirts this fine, the sort that require cufflinks, but she is glad he has even those, so that her father's gift could be worn right away.

Her hand slides downward again as he finishes giving his information to the person on the other end of the line, the one saying it should be there in about twenty minutes. Her fingertips pause on the back of his wrist, tracing the bumps of bone, the lines of his veins.

Lukas

There's something so wordlessly intimate about this. Intimate in every sense: not merely sensual, subtly erotic, but also close. Familiar. This is not something a couple who has only met would do for each other. This is not something they would have done, even, the first time they came here together

and ordered chinese together

and fucked each other on that bed, in that bedroom, together.

For them to be able to do this; for him to be on the phone with someone else while she undresses him so slowly, almost ritualistically: he would've never had the trust, or the patience, back then. He would have wondered what she was after, what game she was playing. He might have dropped the phone and grabbed her. He might have done any number of things, but tonight;

tonight, his eyes flicker to her face, crisp and crystal-clear, when she takes her earrings off. He's always loved that unconsciously elegant tilt of her head. The precise motions of her fingers, and the clink of her earrings down. She comes to him and takes his jacket off for him, and he cooperates while he's telling the guy on the other end that they want deep fried bananas, and the guy asks if he means crispy banana rolls, and he says yes but all the while his eyes are on Danicka, are on her careful hands and her smooth cheek, her arms, her eyes. He's flipping out his wallet one-handed while she takes his other hand. He's juggling the phone and reading off his favorite credit card's number as she's taking off his cufflinks. She's touching his hand, tracing his veins and his knuckles as he finishes the call, ends the call, finally sets the phone down.

He smiles at her. The lamplight is warm; the room is quiet. He feels very much like her husband right now. He is always very much her mate.

"Twenty minutes," he tells her. His hand closes gently around hers for a moment; then he draws her up, leans forward, kisses her.

Danicka

She might have. Might have wanted to. Might have done exactly this, all that time ago, but

he would have watched her so carefully, even warily, wondering what she wanted, what she was doing, even if he didn't quite know what he was worried she might do to him. It was never that he feared for his safety with her. But he did fear how she could hurt him, all the same. Deeply. Worse than any wound. It took him a very long time to trust her, and truth be told, he was right not to for a long time. Somewhere deep inside of her, she is still so capricious, so unpredictable. What could he think of a woman who he barely knew and yet could not tear himself away from, doing exactly this? Kneeling before him but not in worship; touching his arm with something between fascination, tenderness, and desire? What could anyone think?

The doors to the bedroom are open wide, the bed neatly made and pristine past them. The walls alternate between crisp white and deep, rich colors, the surfaces flat and smooth and modern all around them. But soft, too; sumptuous. Sensuous.

Yes, three years ago, he would have grabbed her, stopped her, made her look at him. Been incensed and inflamed by the smile she would have given him, knowing and secretive, like somehow she'd won or like she knew it was coming long before even he did. He would have been torn apart to look at her like that, wanting her to know him, furious at her presumption at the same time, unable to stop himself from being with her even if he was wondering what she was about, what game she was trying to play with him. Because there were points when he just didn't care anymore. Couldn't care anymore, not when she was touching him. Not when she was right there, so close, so... perfektni.

On her knees now, she's not even looking at him. She's looking at his hand, his arm, as though it is disconnected from the rest of him. Even as he finishes the call, she just touches him, exploring his skin with her fingertips. And he smiles at her, his hand moving under hers. She finally glances up at him, her head tipped a bit to one side like she's listening, even before he speaks.

He whispers to her, and then leans over very far, because she refuses to be drawn up. Her hand is holding his, resisting the way she never, never did at the start. Playful, almost, though there's something else there -- not quite silly, not quite childlike, not quite a game. She tilts her head back and kisses him, her mouth open, moist, hot as it searches his. Then, taking a breath, she pulls back away from it, her eyes glimmering. Now, all of a sudden, she decides to use him as leverage and pull herself to her feet, rising up to her feet til she's standing next to him, looking down at him in his chair. "That's not long enough," she whispers to him, and lets go of his hand, stepping away, turning away, walking away,

reaching behind her back, folding her arms to reach her zipper and drawing it down, gradually revealing a deep V of flesh as she strolls toward the little closet where the hangers are. Lazy as you please. All the time in the world.

Lukas

Not long enough, she tells him, which is true. But then she turns away, walks away, and his head tips as her arms fold behind her back. He takes a breath. Her zipper whispers down. He follows her, his shoes still on, quiet as her footsteps in the deep carpet.

It would be logical now, reciprocal even, for him to slide her dress off her shoulders. But he doesn't. His hand touches her hip; stills her. Then he goes to one knee, reaching up under her dress to find the fastenings of her stockings, and unfasten them. Then he's rolling them down, her pretty knee-highs or thigh-highs with their little decorative flairs; all the way down until he lifts her feet one at a time, draws them off her toes.

And kisses her again, his mouth to the outside of her thigh, lovingly, before he gets back to his feet.

"No," he agrees; not long enough. "But why don't we just see how far we get."

Danicka

She knows he's going to follow. She can only think of a few times when she's walked away from him that he hasn't followed, and those times were after arguments, when he was too angry or too bereft to trust himself to follow her. When she's like this, undressing herself and quiet, and calm, and he knows she's playing with him and he doesn't care, she knows he's going to walk after her. So when he does rise from his chair, smooth and quick as the animal he is, she turns to look at him past her shoulder. She's started to tug the short cap sleeves off of her shoulders, but stops, and does a quick step away from his hands reaching for her, smiling at him.

"Ne," she says, unstilled, twisting her hips away from those searching hands that want to tug up her skirt, touch her thighs, moving just out of reach

again and again.

"I want to open my other present," she demands, slipping her dress off her arms once she's certain he's going to relent, to stop making grabby-hands at her. So far all he can see is her bra, first the strap across her back (black, sheer), then the straps (black, satin), then the cups as her bodice falls. He doesn't know terms like French flecked jacquard. What he sees is mostly black, with red and black metallic shades across gathered fabric, and he sees the ruffled black lace across the inner curves of her breasts. What he knows is how rare the color black is in Danicka's wardrobe, whether in terms of lingerie or anything other than shoes and coats. He's seen her on the winter solstice before, clad all in black, dark dried roses in her pale, pale hair, offering wine, bread and those dead flowers to the fire. She wore all black, jet black, shadow black underneath the gentle dress that she married him in. It's the only time he's ever seen her in truly black lingerie.

Danicka draws her dress down, wiggling it past her hips, daintily stepping out of it as it falls. Her panties are a thong, matching the jacquard above. Her stockings are thigh-highs, but there's no garters, no fasteners, the stockings held on by themselves. She crouches, picking up her dress

to hang it up, of course. As she rises, taking a hanger, she looks over at Lukas. "Well? Go get it for me."

Lukas

To his credit, Lukas only tries twice before giving up the thought of rolling Danicka's stockings down her leg. He's a quick study, and twice is all it takes for him to realize she is not, in fact, going to give in to this; she's simply going to slip out of his grasp again and again rather like that orange feline of hers.

So he sits back, smiling, holding up his hands in resignation. "Okay," he surrenders, and she offers terms: she wants her present. And meanwhile she's shimmying out of her dress, and his eyes are following that fall of fabric to note the lace and the weave that he doesn't have a name for; noting, more significantly, that slim lovely body of hers, the skin that he knows would be so soft to his touch were he to take her in his arms, draw her between his feet, bury his face against her midriff, her breasts.

He doesn't, though. She wouldn't let him. He looks at her for a long moment, taking her in with his eyes, and then those eyes flick up to hers. He smiles, half-crooked, half -- embarrassed, really. Shifts a little.

"Actually," he admits, "it's sort of..."

and trails off. Nevermind. He gets up and goes get the box for her so she can see for herself, and when he comes back with it in his big hands he looks a little red, sinks down in the armchair like he sort of wants to disappear into it. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now her hands are opening to bow, undoing the wrapping, lifting the top off that slim white box.

Her other present, it turns out, is in fact a set of presents. They are for her, but they are not exactly intended for her. There's a lot of soft, supple leather in there, all of it rather upscale in white; several gleaming stretches of chain as well. There's a blindfold which a very helpful little insert advises can also double as a gag. Then there's a set of manacles, which are chained to each other and to --

well. The reason Lukas is slowly flushing beet red, one presumes. And put bluntly: a cockring.

"It was sort of a joke," he says. He feels awkward; it would have been funny in the confines of their bedroom, he thinks; tender, too, because of the way they would've had to stifle their laughter if they'd opened it tonight with the kids down below. But here, in this space where so many sacred and significant things happened: he's unsure, he feels silly, he huffs a laugh out to try to dispel his own tension. "You should have seen the look on the shopgirl's face."

Danicka

No, her hand didn't swat at his to get him to leave her be, but it's as good as. He doesn't sulk to the corner, wounded and pouting, but he gives up. He stops trying to undress her himself and lets her go, lets her walk aside, shimmy out of her dress, stroll around in underthings like that as though it's nothing, as though there's nothing more natural than walking around in heels and thigh-highs and lingerie. As though it should have no effect on him.

Except that he's staring at her, imagining her skin, her taste. Danicka lifts her eyebrow at him when he flicks his eyes back to her face, a faint smile playing at one corner of her mouth, turning it up in a patient smirk. She isn't quite expecting that smile of his, the nervous one, the almost embarrassed one. It softens her immediately, changes the little game, and she looks --

curious, as he trails off. Danicka follows him a step or two, then stops, still holding her dress on its hanger. She glances at it, then shrugs and tosses it aside, to the floor, then walks after Lukas. In some ways, yes, she is very much like that feline companion of hers. When he turns back to her, the box in his hands, he finds her standing right there. He's so red. And she's wondering, because he only buys her lingerie rarely -- she buys so much of it herself, and often buys new sets for his birthday -- but there's no reason why it should embarrass him. He's gotten her manacles before, for gods' sake. She takes the box, smiling now, because she likes presents.

Lukas goes to sit down, and Danicka stands in the center of the little living room, taking off the bow, the wrapping, flipping the lid off and tossing it as aimlessly as she dropped her dress. There's the rustling of tissue paper inside, then her fingers reaching inside to find what he got her that couldn't be opened in front of the family. It has to be sexy. It has to be something pret--

From the armchair, he can see her eyebrows go up. There's a flick of a card as she reads the insert -- she's so thorough. And Lukas is privy to every expression on her face. The exploration, the curiosity, the acceptance of the practicality of the blindfold/gag. Efficient, she deems it, and drops the insert, looking at the rest. Her eyebrows quirked when she found the manacles, because he already replaced the ones he broke -- though they've never used them again, never bound him again, because he's never asked her to --

(this is some kind of unspoken pact between them: he has never asked to tie her down, never suggested it, and she has never suggested binding him, either. they bring it to each other. they do not ask for each other's submission; they give it as a gift. usually it is not wrapped so elegantly.)

but her brows go much higher, and stay there, when she fingers the chain down to the point of termination. Her mouth is parted a little, then her expression gentles, becomes thoughtful. She isn't laughing. She isn't frowning, either. There's no doubt that Danicka knows exactly what this is. And how it's used. Why. How to make sure it's done safely. This woman has scraped a razorblade lightly across a masochist's flesh before because that masochist asked for it, and at least some part of her found pleasure in it, was thrilled by it. Danicka does not pick up the ring and start playing with it, but as her expression changes, Lukas speaks and her eyes go directly to him.

It was sort of a joke, he says, huffing laughter, tense, awkward, because... of where they are. And what they are to each other. And everything. She tips her head to the side, and her eyebrows flick slightly. "Sort of a joke?" she echoes, questioning. Not like she doesn't get it; instantly, she does, and the same image comes to her mind: giggling upstairs, covering their mouths with their hands while they laughed. It makes her smile briefly, but she slowly sets the box down on the coffee table as he mentions the poor shopgirl, who probably wouldn't expect the Alpha Male Type to purchase manacles and a cock ring. She probably thought Lukas was gay and buying it for his boyf -- husband. There was the ring, after all. The one on his finger.

Danicka lifts the presents up from the box as she stands there. The leather and the chains are heavy. The ring dangles; twists. Metal catches the lamplight and glints. Danicka holds it up, looking at it in the air, then steps around the coffee table and walks over to him, carrying it. She quite matter of factly climbs onto him, her knees to either side of his legs, but she doesn't lower herself to his lap. Her lowest ribs are at his eye level. She looks down at him, the manacles and chains resting against his chest through his shirt, draped over her fingers.

"Was she turned on?" Danicka asks, as though this is the most natural possible question.

Lukas

Lukas wants very much to touch his mate as she climbs into his lap. He wants very much to pull her bra down

(and this time he'll remember to slide the straps off her shoulders because she's showed him once and he's a quick study, he is)

and put his mouth on her nipple and drown all his uncertainty and embarrassment in a hot tide of lust. He even starts reaching for her - but he stops, alerted by some tiny shift in her weight or simply some instinct in his bones. In the end his fingertips brush her skin very lightly, gliding down a few inches in that smooth space between her ribs and her hips, then returning to the arm of the chair. His eyes come back to hers, holding even as they flicker in surprise.

"I don't know," he says at first, automatically; then considers. No, that's not true. "I think ... maybe a little. Mostly surprised. I guess I don't look like the type." Another quiet laugh, still a little nervous. "I think she just decided I was gay and buying it for someone else."

It seems like an imperfect end to his side of the conversation. He wants to assure her that they don't have to use it tonight, but she knows that. He wants to ask her if she likes it, if she thinks it's ridiculous, if he should take it back, but that seems cowardly. He doesn't know what else to say. So Lukas swallows, his chest rising and falling, the chains catching the light as they move.

Danicka

Oh, he knows better. He's such a quick study. But that's part of her pleasure, right now. His restraint. Looking at him and knowing that the closer she gets to him the more overpowering his lust gets, the more distracted he is from anything but the scent of her, the feel of her. Looking in his eyes and engaging him in conversation when she knows that all he wants is to roll both their bodies to the floor and fuck her. So she lifts her eyebrows as he reaches for her, sensing his breathing, and she quite patiently waits for him to rein himself in, pull his hands back after stroking them up and down her body

just a little. It's not enough.

Danicka doesn't bless him, absolve him, by telling him whether or not she's turned on, or bewildered, or what. She doesn't tell him he does or does not 'look gay', whether he does or does not look the type who would find pleasure in being bound in manacles, gag, and cock-ring. She's not sure if she'd gag him, truthfully. She likes the way he moans, the way he snarls. After how quiet he was the first time, after how long she waited to hear him moan aloud while thrusting into her, she's not sure she'd stifle him. Then again, she also likes his eyes so much. The way he looks at her. The way he watches her until he seems physically unable to bear it anymore.

He doesn't know what else to say. She isn't giving him clues: whether she likes it or not, whether she thinks it's insane. Something about her demeanor may tell him: no. But anymore than that, she's withholding. She watches him, flicks her eyes to his chest as he breathes, then meets his gaze again.

"So..." she says, and then rephrases her question: "is it really a joke?"

Lukas

[I AM GOING TO BUY MORE EMPAFEE SOON.]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (3, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )

Danicka

[Most surface: she really does want him to be honest with her, and not just tell her what he thinks she wants to hear. And beneath that, it's because she cares about him and wants to protect him, especially because they're talking about him being in a more vulnerable position. Also: she's definitely turned on, but it's hard to tell how related that is to the gift alone and how much is just... THEY WERE ALREADY STARTING FOREPLAY]

Lukas

Lukas considers for a moment. Like so many other answers in their complicated lives, their complex relationship, this one is not binary. At least, not at first. His eyes drift from hers. He finds himself looking at her collarbones, at the lacey edge of her bra. He finds himself looking at the dip of her navel, and then up to her eyes again.

"I wanted to make you laugh," he says softly. "And I wanted to make you happy. I could see us laughing over this, reminding each other we had to be quiet." A small pause. "I wanted to arouse you. And I wanted to ... give you something." Another. "Me," he revises. "I wanted to give you me."

And a breath.

"So no," he whispers. "I suppose it's not really a joke."