[Kora] This is what happens. This is what happens: she kisses him and he picks her up and she lifts her right arm just awkwardly and hooks it around his shoulders and her mouth slides from his mouth to his jaw, the bridge of her nose against his cheekbone, her eyes closed, blindly following the line of his jaw. The television drones softly behind them, flickering. There's a car chase; there's an explosion. Someone dies, someone falls in love. They neither see nor care. Her teeth snag on the lobe of his ear, her thighs tighten around his waist. "I think I need a shower," she says somewhere in the middle of all this. It is the only coherent thing she says; and it's true. He can taste the salt of sweat on her skin; smell the hint of ash in her hair.
When she undresses, there is gauze wrapped around her shoulder. Not because her wounds need dressing, but to keep them from bleeding through her clothes should they - half-healed - open. To keep her from bleeding on his floors. Enough to inhibit - just - the motion of her right arm, the skin quickened, pink, scabbed over, half-way healed already. She ignores them unless he asks; even then, she only says - I'm fine.[i] and [i]I'm just fine - and finds her way back to his body, back into his skin.
--
Later, later, after - they are in his bedroom, in his bed. Her skin is flushed and her body is deliciously languid, as if something liquid has infected all of her muscles, made of her body not a weapon-in-waiting, but a pale coil of silk ribbon in repose. This is how she feels: awake, alive, warm, lazy in bed beside him, the pale crown of her head resting on his shoulder, her left shoulder tucked against his body, half on her side, the long pale, fingers of her right hand tracing aimless little patterns on his chest. She's smiling; that much he can feel, the bunching of her cheek against his chest, his shoulders. Her body glows, and her long blond hair - fine and straight, dried at the ends but still damp in the center from the shower - is tangled around them. She watches her fingers move, the shadows cast by her fingers, the contrast between her pale skin and his darker, more solid flesh.
"I like the way," she says, low and quiet, her voice thrumming through his skin, raw - just - from the sort of disusue/overuse the night's exertions have engendered. " - your body fits together." She is tracing the lines cut by his muscles, sometimes, beneath his skin. Following this long ridge, that band of tendon; finding that point of attachment. Her voice is: musing, quiet, full of that sort of wonder - this is a body, bones and skin and blood. There's a heart under bone, there are lungs.
[Trent Brumby] When he had seen her injury he had wanted to stop and fuss, but she had been insistent on keeping him busy doing other things, which he was only too happy to continue. He was careful with her shoulder, even if she was not, even if she would heal it in a quarter, or less, of the time his own body could. His attentions to her were more tender, less of that rough romping in the bedroom, unless she really took charge, then he was happy to oblige.
His arm is loosely wrapped around her, fitting her in against his body comfortably. The blanket has been pulled up enough to cover him and her from the waist down, and the heating is keeping the room warm, apart from their shared body heat. Laughing quietly at her comment, he lifted his head enough to glance down his body, tightening muscles in his stomach with the effort. Then lays back down with a quiet chuckle again. "I like the way yours fits better." There's a little lewdness in there, the way it was phrased, the way his mouth curled into a rare grin, while his hand enjoys the curve of her hip and the way the dip forms between her ribs at the waist, and how her skin is super soft.
[Kora] Her laughs. She lifts her head up, her long hair pulling against his skin, and rest her chin against his chest. She catches the edge of his rare grin at the end of his comment - the intimation that lives between that grin and the way he touches her, sliding his broad fingers over her flesh, tracing the soft, sure curve of her hip - and her own mouth twists upward at the corners, not a grin - that - but a smile, gentle at the edges of the expression, without being soft, not precisely.
"Sometimes," she continues, her voice low, just rich, not bedroom-rich, her dark eyes gleaming in the dim light, in the rich shadows. She's quiet too, and smile falls back into that fine, neutral curve, the expression generous but not giving, intent and alive. She takes a breath, finds his eyes if he is watching her, down over the planes of his face and body, lazy, satiated. " - sometimes," her hand tightens over his skin. She doesn't mean sometimes. She softens it with sometimes. " - there's a part of me that looks at you, just looks at you, at your body or your mouth. At your eyes, just looks at you and says mine. Says, territory."
The lazy hand stills, just below his pectoral muscle. Her fingertips grip his skin when she says mine, when she says territory, but her thumb brushes a soothing line against his flesh. "If - if it were reversed," quiet, quieter, this intimate space between them; if she has his gaze, she holds it. She does not break away. She is clear and sure in this, the conviction just as bone-deep as the feral sense of him as hers. There's something provisional about how she tells him, though, a question buried in the confession, " - and if I were kin, I don't think I'd like it if someone saw me, and thought that. Thought of me like that."
[Trent Brumby] He is watching her. There's rarely a moment where he isn't and if he is, it's to listen to her voice and to watch the ceiling to focus on just the sound. When they are in here, together, away from the world, it is just them wrapped up in one another and his focus stays there.
While she softens it with certain words, with the way her mouth shifts, there's that directness of her gaze that can potentially make it harder. They are serious words ushered from her mouth, a statement that is as much of a question, a want of him to explain himself or how he might feel in the situation. His gaze flicks up now, it settles on the ceiling, and she can feel the way he takes a deeper breath, slow and subtle as it may be, she can fill air fill his lungs and expand his ribs. It's exhaled quicker, but still soft.
He looks back to her, meets those eyes, his own not so much thoughtful, but they're curious, a little guarded too. But when he talks it's calm, a low vibration of his voice through their close proximity. "You have to realize that I've been raised in a Tribe where men are a representation of an enemy, where they give their male Garou to other Tribes, and those kinfolk that they keep are -- we," because he is one of them, "we are breeding stock. There is more to it, and I can tell you that it's not as bad as it sounds, but that's essentially what our use is. If it wasn't? We would be given to other Tribes too."
Trent is going somewhere with this. "Maybe it's because I have been raised knowing where I am in the bigger picture, or I'm just wired differently. But I like belonging somewhere. Without that I'm without much purpose." Then he adds, more solemnly: "I would prefer to belong to a single person, then to be shared amongst many, Kora."
[Kora] He breathes in; he breathes out. It is like the sea. Her hand rises and falls, her body moves in time with his, lazy, drifting on the waves When she turns her head sideways, when she presses her ear to his chest, curls her body just so she fits against him and can uses his chest as a pillow, as a cradle for her head, for the long tangle of her hair, she can heart the beat of his heart, the syncopated rhythm, like the stutter-step of a snare drum.
He's curious; just guarded. She knows his eyes, sees the hint of wariness in the look, listens as he tells her what it means to be male and Fury. She sees the wariness in the look, and turns her head to brush her mouth, warm, over his skin. Then again, just so, precise, half-smiling over his flesh, watching him with her fine dark eyes.
"I'm not sharing you with anyone." The smile remains, lingering - oh, he knows the way her mouth moves; he knows the light in her eyes. He knows her voice, so many of its iterations. This one is belied by the smile, which is intimate and watchful and knowing, which is connected. There is conviction, there, an undercurrent of feral possessiveness. "I'd eviscerate anyone who tried to hurt you."
Both statements - threats threaded with promise, promises threaded with threat - come out in an unthinking rush. She does not stop to put the words together, she does not stop to consider their meaning. There is a moment when the threats hang in the air, then, when her body compacts against his, as if she were readying herself to spring.
It passes. Her mouth twists, sudden, wry.
Quite, laughter insinuating itself into the edges of her voice. " - and I don't even know your last name. Or your favorite breakfast cereal. Or - " pause, expressive, brief. The smile deepens and she turns her head to kiss his skin again, soft, lingering. " - but I know that, the way I know how to breathe."
[Trent Brumby] His muscles tense in his torso seconds before he is laughing, delightedly. "You say the sweetest of things," he tells her, curling his arm tighter around her back to press her in against his body more. It's a one armed hug as he looks back down to her, eyes shining with mirth, open and honest once more. "Are you really interested in what my favourite breakfast cereal is?"
"My surname is Brumby." There's a pause where his mouth quirks up in a bemused smirk. "You may cue with the stallion jokes at any moment, I won't mind." Brumbies being wild, feral horses found in Australia. His good humour is easy to find, especially with her draped over him, declaring him hers with both words and mouth. It makes him watch her, to set his eyes aglow with a deep satisfaction; this knowledge that he is hers. Even if she has not gone to his Tribe, or there hasn't been official arrangements, he knows, looking at this Garou's gaze, she would make true those words if another tried to claim him - or if he were to ever think about looking at another the way he does her.
"Do you want to know more about me? Shall I tell you as we lay here, or would you rather discover it all in your own time?" Sweeping a hand up her back, he began to stroke her hair back, trying to gather the wild tangles to brush them down her back and away from her face.
[Kora] He presses her more tightly against his body, that one-armed hug. She rolls, half-onto him, rolls over, settling one leg over his. "Mmmph," she says, back of the throat - one of those noises she makes, except now it is good-humored agreement. Yes: she wants to know his favorite breakfast cereal. Yes: she wants to know him. She knows the way his heart beats and the way his skin tastes, she knows the way he looks at her, gray eyes quiet and open and sure. "I do.
"I want you to tell me that it is Froot Loops, but I think you're going to saw organic swiss mueslix. Or, gods, Wheatabix." Her mouth opens; he can feel the impression, faint, of her dull human teeth against his skin. The resistence, resiliance of muscle beneath her mouth. She twists her neck then, lifting her head just to follow the caress of his hand as he pushes her the fine strands of her tangled hair away from her face.
" - and I won't make any jokes about stallions." Maybe her hand disappears below the covers, briefly. Maybe she finds him; touches him when she says this, smiling-in-a-way that is lazy promise. "Some things should be taken seriously. Words," she is joking, she was lying, it is humor that smolders at the edges of her half-smile, as much as want. " - matter. You were aptly named. I like that."
Then her hand is back; on his stomach, tracing lazy whorls over his chest. "Tell me a story," she says, at last, more quietly. The patterns she draws into his flesh seem absent. " - one story about you."
[Trent Brumby] Watching her mouth against his chest, down the length of this own nose with his head tilted against the pillows, his eyes grew a touch brighter as her teeth bit down. He inhaled along with it, smiling slowly but broadly by the end of it, his laugh withheld. "It's not either." But he doesn't offer up what it was, not yet anyway.
She was reaching under the blankets, making his head drop more firmly back into the softness of cushion behind his head and exhale heavily. His eyes roll back down to watch her as she slides her hand back across his stomach, teasing through the dark, groomed hair there, leaving a clear path from navel to groin.
"Now?" There's a small groan in that, but he doesn't argue and he's already thinking of something. Trent's like that, seems to fall in line with ease. His fingers have resumed playing with her hair, an idle gesture that has his fingertips sometimes brushing along her skin.
"I'm not good at telling stories. But I can tell you something about me, you can make a story out of it if you'd like." The idea of telling a story to a Galliard is a strange concept and he feels self conscious for about ten seconds before he's getting over it. Then he's telling her a little about him, about one specific time with a little apprehension knotting somewhere in his stomach, she can feel that, the way his muscles tense subtly, the way his breathing is a little more conscious. But outwardly he looks content (enough).
"I realized I was a lot different to other men, when I found myself - well no, I didn't just find myself there, I went there after reading something about it, but to cut it short. I found myself at a place, that wasn't quite a bar, and it had some furniture that looked as if it was from a movie set in some recreation of dark age chambers," he's working himself up to it, "and there's all sorts of people there, dressed from conservatively to leathers and chains." He pauses, eyes not on her but up towards the ceiling, the look in them somewhat distant as he transports himself back to that time and place.
"I was watching this man, somewhere in his thirties, kneeling by a woman who was talking to others. He wore a collar around his neck, and he was quietly watching what was going on around him. When the woman demanded a drink, he'd say Yes Miss, and immediately go and fetch it for her. He'd hold it, too, when she wasn't busy drinking it. Sometimes she'd pet him, and at the time that's what I thought it was, just that, until I learned more about them and watched them over a few nights." He looks at her now, directly. "But there was this complete devotion to one another. He served her, whatever wishes, and it made him happy. He belonged to her, but it was more then that. You could see that she appreciated what he did, however minor, she enjoyed that he did these things for her. It was a complete circle, and it was ... I don't know, somewhat of revelation. That there was this man that represented everything that I had felt for all that time, thinking I was the only one that felt that way."
"I'm not explaining it right." Shaking his head, and feeling suddenly very open and vulnerable, he clears his throat a little and moves to sit more into the pillows. "I know it's hard to understand and sometimes you just feel certain ways. But I enjoy a woman having that over me. The power, the control, I like to give that to someone. And it was just an honest representation of it."
[Kora] Kora can feel the apprehension liminal in his body; the subtle way his muscles tense, the change in the set of his mouth as he grows and grows-out-of being self-conscious, storytelling to a a moon-dancer, even one who is - at just this moment - unclothed and curled up soft against the hard planes of his body like a sigil, her hand trailing over his chest and stomach freely, her mouth warm against his chest.
She does not sooth away his apprehension. She does not tsk it away. She does not dishonor it like that. This is how she honors it, his story, this-is-about-me, his confession, which is quiet and sure - she looks up, rests her chin on his chest and watches him, her dark eyes sheened with light, direct and clear and attentive; calm, the look - but not passive. Hers is always an active sort of attention. Once, just one, her dark eyes flicker away from his face, cut down the line of his body bisected by her hand and arm, her fingers still tracing a lazy path, threading between the definition of his hard musculature,lingering on this hollow, that ridge, sliding sometimes to just below his naval, but no lower.
When he sits up higher against the pillow, she turns over completely, no longer on her side, she lies on her stomach, her lean frame still pressed against his, her breasts against his chest, her left hand braced on his lower abdominals, where the broad frame of his chest tapers toward his hard, flat waist.
She is silent; she is watchful. There's no approbation in her dark eyes, just that calm, direct intensity he knows so well.
Then, after a lapse of warmth silence, marked by breathing, the way her breasts move against his skin, the way her hand moves over his stomach.
"Some of that," she begins, the twist of her mouth nearly apologetic. " - is alien to me. I submit to my Alpha because he's stronger than me. You submit to me because I am stronger than you. Because I'm Garou."
She pauses, thoughtful, considered - turns her head to brush her mouth, to scrape her teeth across his areola - her breathing slow and sure. "I won't ever be that woman, Trent. Not ever. I love your strength, I don't want you to submit to someone weaker than you," there is a wolf in her eyes, when she speaks of dominance, and submission. It is wholly animal. " - no matter the reasons.
"I love your strength. Your body. I love that you can pick me up; I love that you use your fists, that you can fight, that you will fight, that you don't give in to your fears. But," the corner of her mouth curls upward. The right one. He knows the look. "I am stronger than you. And I love that you show me your throat when I want it. That you're strong enough to submit to me."
[Trent Brumby] He shifts just slightly to be comfortable under her when she lays across his body, envelopes it with her warmth and softness. Both of his hands are on her now, one on each side, coaxing her hair to lay in a straight line down her back, leaving pale sides of flesh for his hands to caress. He listens to her, eyes down to her face, not far from his. He even watches the way her mouth and teeth touches his nipples, the darker skin to that around it.
"Then how are you not that woman, Kora?" He asks of her, his voice quiet but serious. "I submit to you, even if I am strong enough to deny it." There's a smile here, even in his eyes, cutting her off before it can rile her wolf: "Oh, I know you could beat me, slay me if you wanted. But submission is always a choice. Sometimes it is a choice because it is wise to do so, other times, it's because it's practical. And then, there is me, that submits because I want to."
"I don't see how you are any different to a human woman who has a man submit to her, because he wants to. She doesn't have the power to make him to, but --" there's a pause and he smiles again, this time a little sheepish. "-- never mind. It doesn't matter." His hands press more firmly into her, sliding his blunt nails up her back just enough to scratch, and soothing them downward with his palms. "It matters only that I've told you something about me." A large part about him, about the way his mind works.
[Kora] She shimmies her way up his body. Like this: shimmering, the way light moves across water. There is just a hint of hesitation, of apprehension, when she uses her right arm so the movement is like that of a sidewinder, led by her stronger left side, until she is an inverse curve, against his torso, her mouth under his chin, warm against his neck. "Shh." she says, quiet. And, " - listen. I know. I just know: where I am in the pack. Where I am. It's as much instinct for me as it is a choice. Who is higher and who is lower. Who is strong and who is weak. When the challenge is meaningful, when the fight is necessary. When I'm fooling myself.
"But, shhh," - her mouth ghosts down his throat, barely making contact with his skin until she finds the hollow of his throat, finds his pulse beneath her mouth, tongues his skin. Somewhere in all this, she has brought her knees up alongside his muscled thighs, his hips, his waist. Somewhere in all this, the blanket has slipped from her body as she rises to straddle his torso. " - it does matter. If you want to say it to me, say it to me. I like that you want to submit to me. I - wouldn't want someone who didn't want me.
Then she curves her neck, flashes him an upslanting look, past his chin and cheek, up the line of his nose until she catches his gave. "I'm glad you told me. Though," the kiss becomes a nip, faint, at his throat. I still don't have an answer to my first question."
Something in the way she moves her body against his, now, says that she doesn't care.
[Trent Brumby] As she makes her way up his body, he leans back into the pillows more, his head almost against the wall behind the bed. Hands trail down her back to caress the curve of her backside and hips with just his fingertips, enjoying the soft sensation on his own hands, and the warmth she radiates. They drift from there when her knees press near his hips, sliding down along the outside of her thighs, towards her knees and back again. He likes the way it rounds from thighs to backside and hips, it feels just right in his hands, fits the palms. He should tell her, he thinks, distractedly. And how he likes the way she looks at him, as she had once told him, or how her mouth feels. But he doesn't talk much, his thoughts are quiet, hidden behind his reserved outside.
"I want you," he assures her. The rest, that can wait. His throat has been bared to her with his chin tilted up, stretching tendons in the neck, but now he lowers it about the same time a hand leaves her to cup behind her hair. His fingers thread through it and he pulls her in, leaning down to kiss her fully. The sort that makes his heart pound and blood rush, demanding more.
When she undresses, there is gauze wrapped around her shoulder. Not because her wounds need dressing, but to keep them from bleeding through her clothes should they - half-healed - open. To keep her from bleeding on his floors. Enough to inhibit - just - the motion of her right arm, the skin quickened, pink, scabbed over, half-way healed already. She ignores them unless he asks; even then, she only says - I'm fine.[i] and [i]I'm just fine - and finds her way back to his body, back into his skin.
--
Later, later, after - they are in his bedroom, in his bed. Her skin is flushed and her body is deliciously languid, as if something liquid has infected all of her muscles, made of her body not a weapon-in-waiting, but a pale coil of silk ribbon in repose. This is how she feels: awake, alive, warm, lazy in bed beside him, the pale crown of her head resting on his shoulder, her left shoulder tucked against his body, half on her side, the long pale, fingers of her right hand tracing aimless little patterns on his chest. She's smiling; that much he can feel, the bunching of her cheek against his chest, his shoulders. Her body glows, and her long blond hair - fine and straight, dried at the ends but still damp in the center from the shower - is tangled around them. She watches her fingers move, the shadows cast by her fingers, the contrast between her pale skin and his darker, more solid flesh.
"I like the way," she says, low and quiet, her voice thrumming through his skin, raw - just - from the sort of disusue/overuse the night's exertions have engendered. " - your body fits together." She is tracing the lines cut by his muscles, sometimes, beneath his skin. Following this long ridge, that band of tendon; finding that point of attachment. Her voice is: musing, quiet, full of that sort of wonder - this is a body, bones and skin and blood. There's a heart under bone, there are lungs.
[Trent Brumby] When he had seen her injury he had wanted to stop and fuss, but she had been insistent on keeping him busy doing other things, which he was only too happy to continue. He was careful with her shoulder, even if she was not, even if she would heal it in a quarter, or less, of the time his own body could. His attentions to her were more tender, less of that rough romping in the bedroom, unless she really took charge, then he was happy to oblige.
His arm is loosely wrapped around her, fitting her in against his body comfortably. The blanket has been pulled up enough to cover him and her from the waist down, and the heating is keeping the room warm, apart from their shared body heat. Laughing quietly at her comment, he lifted his head enough to glance down his body, tightening muscles in his stomach with the effort. Then lays back down with a quiet chuckle again. "I like the way yours fits better." There's a little lewdness in there, the way it was phrased, the way his mouth curled into a rare grin, while his hand enjoys the curve of her hip and the way the dip forms between her ribs at the waist, and how her skin is super soft.
[Kora] Her laughs. She lifts her head up, her long hair pulling against his skin, and rest her chin against his chest. She catches the edge of his rare grin at the end of his comment - the intimation that lives between that grin and the way he touches her, sliding his broad fingers over her flesh, tracing the soft, sure curve of her hip - and her own mouth twists upward at the corners, not a grin - that - but a smile, gentle at the edges of the expression, without being soft, not precisely.
"Sometimes," she continues, her voice low, just rich, not bedroom-rich, her dark eyes gleaming in the dim light, in the rich shadows. She's quiet too, and smile falls back into that fine, neutral curve, the expression generous but not giving, intent and alive. She takes a breath, finds his eyes if he is watching her, down over the planes of his face and body, lazy, satiated. " - sometimes," her hand tightens over his skin. She doesn't mean sometimes. She softens it with sometimes. " - there's a part of me that looks at you, just looks at you, at your body or your mouth. At your eyes, just looks at you and says mine. Says, territory."
The lazy hand stills, just below his pectoral muscle. Her fingertips grip his skin when she says mine, when she says territory, but her thumb brushes a soothing line against his flesh. "If - if it were reversed," quiet, quieter, this intimate space between them; if she has his gaze, she holds it. She does not break away. She is clear and sure in this, the conviction just as bone-deep as the feral sense of him as hers. There's something provisional about how she tells him, though, a question buried in the confession, " - and if I were kin, I don't think I'd like it if someone saw me, and thought that. Thought of me like that."
[Trent Brumby] He is watching her. There's rarely a moment where he isn't and if he is, it's to listen to her voice and to watch the ceiling to focus on just the sound. When they are in here, together, away from the world, it is just them wrapped up in one another and his focus stays there.
While she softens it with certain words, with the way her mouth shifts, there's that directness of her gaze that can potentially make it harder. They are serious words ushered from her mouth, a statement that is as much of a question, a want of him to explain himself or how he might feel in the situation. His gaze flicks up now, it settles on the ceiling, and she can feel the way he takes a deeper breath, slow and subtle as it may be, she can fill air fill his lungs and expand his ribs. It's exhaled quicker, but still soft.
He looks back to her, meets those eyes, his own not so much thoughtful, but they're curious, a little guarded too. But when he talks it's calm, a low vibration of his voice through their close proximity. "You have to realize that I've been raised in a Tribe where men are a representation of an enemy, where they give their male Garou to other Tribes, and those kinfolk that they keep are -- we," because he is one of them, "we are breeding stock. There is more to it, and I can tell you that it's not as bad as it sounds, but that's essentially what our use is. If it wasn't? We would be given to other Tribes too."
Trent is going somewhere with this. "Maybe it's because I have been raised knowing where I am in the bigger picture, or I'm just wired differently. But I like belonging somewhere. Without that I'm without much purpose." Then he adds, more solemnly: "I would prefer to belong to a single person, then to be shared amongst many, Kora."
[Kora] He breathes in; he breathes out. It is like the sea. Her hand rises and falls, her body moves in time with his, lazy, drifting on the waves When she turns her head sideways, when she presses her ear to his chest, curls her body just so she fits against him and can uses his chest as a pillow, as a cradle for her head, for the long tangle of her hair, she can heart the beat of his heart, the syncopated rhythm, like the stutter-step of a snare drum.
He's curious; just guarded. She knows his eyes, sees the hint of wariness in the look, listens as he tells her what it means to be male and Fury. She sees the wariness in the look, and turns her head to brush her mouth, warm, over his skin. Then again, just so, precise, half-smiling over his flesh, watching him with her fine dark eyes.
"I'm not sharing you with anyone." The smile remains, lingering - oh, he knows the way her mouth moves; he knows the light in her eyes. He knows her voice, so many of its iterations. This one is belied by the smile, which is intimate and watchful and knowing, which is connected. There is conviction, there, an undercurrent of feral possessiveness. "I'd eviscerate anyone who tried to hurt you."
Both statements - threats threaded with promise, promises threaded with threat - come out in an unthinking rush. She does not stop to put the words together, she does not stop to consider their meaning. There is a moment when the threats hang in the air, then, when her body compacts against his, as if she were readying herself to spring.
It passes. Her mouth twists, sudden, wry.
Quite, laughter insinuating itself into the edges of her voice. " - and I don't even know your last name. Or your favorite breakfast cereal. Or - " pause, expressive, brief. The smile deepens and she turns her head to kiss his skin again, soft, lingering. " - but I know that, the way I know how to breathe."
[Trent Brumby] His muscles tense in his torso seconds before he is laughing, delightedly. "You say the sweetest of things," he tells her, curling his arm tighter around her back to press her in against his body more. It's a one armed hug as he looks back down to her, eyes shining with mirth, open and honest once more. "Are you really interested in what my favourite breakfast cereal is?"
"My surname is Brumby." There's a pause where his mouth quirks up in a bemused smirk. "You may cue with the stallion jokes at any moment, I won't mind." Brumbies being wild, feral horses found in Australia. His good humour is easy to find, especially with her draped over him, declaring him hers with both words and mouth. It makes him watch her, to set his eyes aglow with a deep satisfaction; this knowledge that he is hers. Even if she has not gone to his Tribe, or there hasn't been official arrangements, he knows, looking at this Garou's gaze, she would make true those words if another tried to claim him - or if he were to ever think about looking at another the way he does her.
"Do you want to know more about me? Shall I tell you as we lay here, or would you rather discover it all in your own time?" Sweeping a hand up her back, he began to stroke her hair back, trying to gather the wild tangles to brush them down her back and away from her face.
[Kora] He presses her more tightly against his body, that one-armed hug. She rolls, half-onto him, rolls over, settling one leg over his. "Mmmph," she says, back of the throat - one of those noises she makes, except now it is good-humored agreement. Yes: she wants to know his favorite breakfast cereal. Yes: she wants to know him. She knows the way his heart beats and the way his skin tastes, she knows the way he looks at her, gray eyes quiet and open and sure. "I do.
"I want you to tell me that it is Froot Loops, but I think you're going to saw organic swiss mueslix. Or, gods, Wheatabix." Her mouth opens; he can feel the impression, faint, of her dull human teeth against his skin. The resistence, resiliance of muscle beneath her mouth. She twists her neck then, lifting her head just to follow the caress of his hand as he pushes her the fine strands of her tangled hair away from her face.
" - and I won't make any jokes about stallions." Maybe her hand disappears below the covers, briefly. Maybe she finds him; touches him when she says this, smiling-in-a-way that is lazy promise. "Some things should be taken seriously. Words," she is joking, she was lying, it is humor that smolders at the edges of her half-smile, as much as want. " - matter. You were aptly named. I like that."
Then her hand is back; on his stomach, tracing lazy whorls over his chest. "Tell me a story," she says, at last, more quietly. The patterns she draws into his flesh seem absent. " - one story about you."
[Trent Brumby] Watching her mouth against his chest, down the length of this own nose with his head tilted against the pillows, his eyes grew a touch brighter as her teeth bit down. He inhaled along with it, smiling slowly but broadly by the end of it, his laugh withheld. "It's not either." But he doesn't offer up what it was, not yet anyway.
She was reaching under the blankets, making his head drop more firmly back into the softness of cushion behind his head and exhale heavily. His eyes roll back down to watch her as she slides her hand back across his stomach, teasing through the dark, groomed hair there, leaving a clear path from navel to groin.
"Now?" There's a small groan in that, but he doesn't argue and he's already thinking of something. Trent's like that, seems to fall in line with ease. His fingers have resumed playing with her hair, an idle gesture that has his fingertips sometimes brushing along her skin.
"I'm not good at telling stories. But I can tell you something about me, you can make a story out of it if you'd like." The idea of telling a story to a Galliard is a strange concept and he feels self conscious for about ten seconds before he's getting over it. Then he's telling her a little about him, about one specific time with a little apprehension knotting somewhere in his stomach, she can feel that, the way his muscles tense subtly, the way his breathing is a little more conscious. But outwardly he looks content (enough).
"I realized I was a lot different to other men, when I found myself - well no, I didn't just find myself there, I went there after reading something about it, but to cut it short. I found myself at a place, that wasn't quite a bar, and it had some furniture that looked as if it was from a movie set in some recreation of dark age chambers," he's working himself up to it, "and there's all sorts of people there, dressed from conservatively to leathers and chains." He pauses, eyes not on her but up towards the ceiling, the look in them somewhat distant as he transports himself back to that time and place.
"I was watching this man, somewhere in his thirties, kneeling by a woman who was talking to others. He wore a collar around his neck, and he was quietly watching what was going on around him. When the woman demanded a drink, he'd say Yes Miss, and immediately go and fetch it for her. He'd hold it, too, when she wasn't busy drinking it. Sometimes she'd pet him, and at the time that's what I thought it was, just that, until I learned more about them and watched them over a few nights." He looks at her now, directly. "But there was this complete devotion to one another. He served her, whatever wishes, and it made him happy. He belonged to her, but it was more then that. You could see that she appreciated what he did, however minor, she enjoyed that he did these things for her. It was a complete circle, and it was ... I don't know, somewhat of revelation. That there was this man that represented everything that I had felt for all that time, thinking I was the only one that felt that way."
"I'm not explaining it right." Shaking his head, and feeling suddenly very open and vulnerable, he clears his throat a little and moves to sit more into the pillows. "I know it's hard to understand and sometimes you just feel certain ways. But I enjoy a woman having that over me. The power, the control, I like to give that to someone. And it was just an honest representation of it."
[Kora] Kora can feel the apprehension liminal in his body; the subtle way his muscles tense, the change in the set of his mouth as he grows and grows-out-of being self-conscious, storytelling to a a moon-dancer, even one who is - at just this moment - unclothed and curled up soft against the hard planes of his body like a sigil, her hand trailing over his chest and stomach freely, her mouth warm against his chest.
She does not sooth away his apprehension. She does not tsk it away. She does not dishonor it like that. This is how she honors it, his story, this-is-about-me, his confession, which is quiet and sure - she looks up, rests her chin on his chest and watches him, her dark eyes sheened with light, direct and clear and attentive; calm, the look - but not passive. Hers is always an active sort of attention. Once, just one, her dark eyes flicker away from his face, cut down the line of his body bisected by her hand and arm, her fingers still tracing a lazy path, threading between the definition of his hard musculature,lingering on this hollow, that ridge, sliding sometimes to just below his naval, but no lower.
When he sits up higher against the pillow, she turns over completely, no longer on her side, she lies on her stomach, her lean frame still pressed against his, her breasts against his chest, her left hand braced on his lower abdominals, where the broad frame of his chest tapers toward his hard, flat waist.
She is silent; she is watchful. There's no approbation in her dark eyes, just that calm, direct intensity he knows so well.
Then, after a lapse of warmth silence, marked by breathing, the way her breasts move against his skin, the way her hand moves over his stomach.
"Some of that," she begins, the twist of her mouth nearly apologetic. " - is alien to me. I submit to my Alpha because he's stronger than me. You submit to me because I am stronger than you. Because I'm Garou."
She pauses, thoughtful, considered - turns her head to brush her mouth, to scrape her teeth across his areola - her breathing slow and sure. "I won't ever be that woman, Trent. Not ever. I love your strength, I don't want you to submit to someone weaker than you," there is a wolf in her eyes, when she speaks of dominance, and submission. It is wholly animal. " - no matter the reasons.
"I love your strength. Your body. I love that you can pick me up; I love that you use your fists, that you can fight, that you will fight, that you don't give in to your fears. But," the corner of her mouth curls upward. The right one. He knows the look. "I am stronger than you. And I love that you show me your throat when I want it. That you're strong enough to submit to me."
[Trent Brumby] He shifts just slightly to be comfortable under her when she lays across his body, envelopes it with her warmth and softness. Both of his hands are on her now, one on each side, coaxing her hair to lay in a straight line down her back, leaving pale sides of flesh for his hands to caress. He listens to her, eyes down to her face, not far from his. He even watches the way her mouth and teeth touches his nipples, the darker skin to that around it.
"Then how are you not that woman, Kora?" He asks of her, his voice quiet but serious. "I submit to you, even if I am strong enough to deny it." There's a smile here, even in his eyes, cutting her off before it can rile her wolf: "Oh, I know you could beat me, slay me if you wanted. But submission is always a choice. Sometimes it is a choice because it is wise to do so, other times, it's because it's practical. And then, there is me, that submits because I want to."
"I don't see how you are any different to a human woman who has a man submit to her, because he wants to. She doesn't have the power to make him to, but --" there's a pause and he smiles again, this time a little sheepish. "-- never mind. It doesn't matter." His hands press more firmly into her, sliding his blunt nails up her back just enough to scratch, and soothing them downward with his palms. "It matters only that I've told you something about me." A large part about him, about the way his mind works.
[Kora] She shimmies her way up his body. Like this: shimmering, the way light moves across water. There is just a hint of hesitation, of apprehension, when she uses her right arm so the movement is like that of a sidewinder, led by her stronger left side, until she is an inverse curve, against his torso, her mouth under his chin, warm against his neck. "Shh." she says, quiet. And, " - listen. I know. I just know: where I am in the pack. Where I am. It's as much instinct for me as it is a choice. Who is higher and who is lower. Who is strong and who is weak. When the challenge is meaningful, when the fight is necessary. When I'm fooling myself.
"But, shhh," - her mouth ghosts down his throat, barely making contact with his skin until she finds the hollow of his throat, finds his pulse beneath her mouth, tongues his skin. Somewhere in all this, she has brought her knees up alongside his muscled thighs, his hips, his waist. Somewhere in all this, the blanket has slipped from her body as she rises to straddle his torso. " - it does matter. If you want to say it to me, say it to me. I like that you want to submit to me. I - wouldn't want someone who didn't want me.
Then she curves her neck, flashes him an upslanting look, past his chin and cheek, up the line of his nose until she catches his gave. "I'm glad you told me. Though," the kiss becomes a nip, faint, at his throat. I still don't have an answer to my first question."
Something in the way she moves her body against his, now, says that she doesn't care.
[Trent Brumby] As she makes her way up his body, he leans back into the pillows more, his head almost against the wall behind the bed. Hands trail down her back to caress the curve of her backside and hips with just his fingertips, enjoying the soft sensation on his own hands, and the warmth she radiates. They drift from there when her knees press near his hips, sliding down along the outside of her thighs, towards her knees and back again. He likes the way it rounds from thighs to backside and hips, it feels just right in his hands, fits the palms. He should tell her, he thinks, distractedly. And how he likes the way she looks at him, as she had once told him, or how her mouth feels. But he doesn't talk much, his thoughts are quiet, hidden behind his reserved outside.
"I want you," he assures her. The rest, that can wait. His throat has been bared to her with his chin tilted up, stretching tendons in the neck, but now he lowers it about the same time a hand leaves her to cup behind her hair. His fingers thread through it and he pulls her in, leaning down to kiss her fully. The sort that makes his heart pound and blood rush, demanding more.
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