Worries Could Come [Erich, NSFW]

Erich Reinhardt
Erich's been scarce for a while.  Hasn't been around Drew's place much, or Browntown at all.  Work on the almost-completed Mustang has proceeded at a snail's pace or not at all.  Who knows what he did for Thanksgiving -- flying or otherwise going home seemed like an unlikely prospect.  Maybe he scrounged a meal somewhere.  Maybe he went to a strip club.  Maybe he was wolf-formed and hunting or tracking or doing something that made him forget all about the holiday.

He comes to Drew's late that night, though.  Around eleven, nearly midnight; long after food coma's put most people in Browntown down for the night.  No explanation, though at least he brings some food.  Not holiday fare; a tube of sausage, a carton of eggs.  If there's a light on, he knocks.  If he doesn't, he pops right into the guest room he usually occupies.  None of his belongings live there, but he's been there often enough now that something of his presence or his essence has begun to suffuse the walls.

Early morning, Drew takes her dad to the airport.  Maybe he asks about the now-closed door of That One Bedroom In The Back.  Maybe he doesn't.  In either case, when Drew gets back, that door's open, and there's noise in the house.

Erich's in the kitchen, barefoot and in pajama bottoms.  His hair is short, but it still manages to stick up at weird angles after a good sleep.  He's multitasking: he has a toothbrush in his mouth, and he's beating eggs in a mixing bowl.  With a fork.  There's sausage frying in a pan.  This is the sort of way lovers see each other after a good night.  They've somehow simultaneously never reached and skipped past that stage.
"Mornin'," he says, toothbrush-muffled.  "Want eggs 'n sausage?"

Drew RoscoeErich was off doing his own thing this past week, for the most part.  Drew wasn't worried about his absence-- he was a self-proclaimed Lone Wolf after all, he had family in Nebraska (though he did say he didn't get invited back for Thanksgiving...), and he could do a fine job of taking care of himself.  Besides, Drew's been a little bit preoccupied.

Wednesday in the middle of the day Drew drove off, and when she came back later that afternoon she had a mountain of a man with her-- one she called Dad.  He was in his fifties, with brown hair that was going gray in no gentle way and blue eyes that Drew didn't inherit.  He was massive, probably a few inches above six feet tall, but his weight could only be guessed.  He was big in a way that suggested that in his prime he was nothing but rocky muscle and strength, but hasn't had to exercise that strength in a long time and thus has gone soft in figure with a big belly to take its place.  He was boisterous, loud, cheerful, and thoroughly Garou.

Thanksgiving Day was spent in the house, where the smell of food filled the place and hung on the ceiling and walls.  They ate heartily, drank happily, and spent the evening catching up and talking about things both fun, exciting and new, and old, sad and serious.

The next morning they got up early and Drew drove her father to the airport.  She was pulling back into the driveway around 9:00am.  When she came through the door, she was a little surprised to find Erich in the kitchen, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, muffled while he asked if she wanted eggs and sausage.  Drew blinked and unwrapped the winter clothes she was wearing (scarf, gloves, hat, coat) from her body and hung them up appropriately on the hooks hanging from the wall beside the door.

"Uhh, yeah, thank you.  Good morning.  Happy late Thanksgiving."  Boots thumped the entry space before she stepped out of them, tucked them aside by a mat specifically set up to house shoes, and she walked through the dining room to meet him in the kitchen, rubbing chilled fingers together to warm them.  "Did'ja keep yourself well yesterday?"

Erich Reinhardt"Well enough," he says, setting the bowl of beaten egg down to spit into the kitchen sink.  He finishes brushing his teeth the way someone might brush a stubborn stain on a bathtub: with tight, energetic jabs of his whole forearm.  Foam flecks the sink.  He spits again, leans down to sip from the faucet, gargles.  Spits one more time.

Straightening, Erich rinses out his toothbrush and drops it in his pocket, butt-first.  Wipes his mouth across the back of his wrist.  "Ahh, minty fresh," he declares himself.  Picks up the skillet of sausage, dumps the patties out on a plate, preserves most of the oil.

Pours the eggs right into the oil.  Healthy food, that.  Just the thing to follow up a huge Thanksgiving meal, in case one or two coronary arteries remained unclogged.  "Was that your dad I heard leaving this morning?" he wants to know.  The eggs are sizzling in the pan; he grabs a spatula and pushes the edges in, tilting the pan to get uncooked egg on the heat.

Drew RoscoeDrew wasn't dressed in morning clothes-- she'd put on jeans and a pink sweater before heading out before the sun came up this morning.  So it was in this, jeans and a sweater, that she came to peer curiously at the kitchen stove and what Erich was doing on it.  She didn't intrude upon his space just yet, let him multi-task between brushing his teeth and not burning the sausage patties instead.

She breathed deep the smell of breakfast, hummed her approval, and found a space of counter to lean against-- in front of the dishwasher at the end of the 'U' shape her kitchen counter made, just on the other side of the sink.  Her rump found the front of the dishwasher, her back the edge of the counter, and she jammed her hands into her pants pockets so they had someplace to be while she indulged his curiosities about who he heard leaving this morning.

"Yeah, that was my dad.  He lives out in Peoria, Illinois by himself.  I'm his only kid and my mom's been gone for a while, so I figured I'd bring him out here so we could spend Thanksgiving together and I could show him the new place I'd found."

Erich ReinhardtStrange: for such an adamant loner and drifter, Erich's first instinct is to feel bad for Drew's dad, living alone half a country away from his only child.  His back is to Drew, so she can't see the quick stitch between his eyebrows.  He shakes the eggs a little in the pan, letting them set slowly into scrambled eggs.

"Should move him out here.  At least someplace closer.  Midwestern winters suck."  He half-turns; she gets a look at his profile as he nods toward her cupboards, "Grab a couple plates, will you?"

And when she does, he puts a couple sausage patties on each, then gives the eggs another stir.  "Woulda come out to say hello," he says, "but I was half asleep when you guys left.  Plus, thought it might be a little awkward explaining who I was."

He grabs the hot pan up from the stove, then, clicks the burner off.  Erich cooks the way he does anything: quickly, in broad strokes, attacking the task with more physicality than necessary.  He dumps the eggs on the plates, clatters the pan into the sink, hands Drew her share and nods the both of them toward the table.
"Is he Garou?  Kinda felt like it."

Drew RoscoeShe chuckled at his suggestion to move her father out into the area and shook her head.  He'd requested that she grab some plates, so that's what she did while she answered him.  "He's used to the winters, he's just fine where he is.  Been in that house since I was tiny, he's not leaving it anytime soon."

She didn't have to stretch very far to reach the plates from where they were stacked in a cupboard, but she did have to reach a least a little.  That was the nature of being petite.  Two plates were grabbed, though, and the cupboard was closed.  Plates were set on the counter next to the stove, and she collected forks next.  When he'd put patties and eggs on both plates, Drew accepted the one he handed to her, flashed a quick smile of gratitude, and moved to set her plate on the table.

She didn't sit immediately, though, and instead returned to the kitchen from the shared-space dining area and grabbed a pair of cups down.  "He is," she advised.  "Used to be a Rotagar.  Uhh...  Adren, yeah."  She had to pause to remember the name of the rank that she'd been taught a while ago.  She didn't pay too much mind to ranks, as far as she was concerned that didn't affect her nearly as much as it did Garou.  But it was still good to know, for situations like this where one Garou was asking about another.  "Not anymore, though.  Which is another reason why I shouldn't move him out here.  Milk or juice?"

Erich ReinhardtErich quirks a brow - "He lost his Wolf?"

Maybe it's a rude question to ask.  In some circles -- in macho, warminded circles like the Fenrir -- it's a little akin to publically discussing another man's erectile dysfunction.  Erich doesn't seem to be angling for some sort of humiliation tactic on Drew's old man, though.  She knows him well enough to know he wouldn't.

Just curiosity, then.  Rare that anyone lives old enough to lose their Wolf these days, after all -- and Drew's dad hadn't sounded all that old.

And, as she brought drinks over, he quirks a smile.  "Is 'both' an acceptable answer?"

Drew Roscoe"It is.  And no."

Another glass was pulled down, then.  Two glasses of milk and one glass of orange juice were collectively poured, and this was done, again, while she spoke.  "He can still change.  I've seen it once before, and only that once.  He... left.  Voluntarily.  Basically quit his job being a Garou, left the Nation, his Sept, all of it.  Became a carpenter and took me away with him.  Wanted to keep me away from all of the dangers of the Real World, you know?  Didn't want me to die horribly like so many of us do."

She carried all three glasses over at once, two of them balanced with fingertips and cup edges at the heel of her hand, the other just held normally with her free hand.  An orange juice and milk were set before Erich, and Drew sat herself in the chair she'd set her plate in front of while taking a sip of her milk.

"My mom went in a pretty violent way.  It tore him up pretty good."

Erich Reinhardt"Oh."
That's it for a while.  Any other Garou might be offended.  All up in arms.  These are the End Days, they might huff, and he's just taken himself out of the war?  Coward!  Deserter!

Erich doesn't get into that.  He'd be some sort of hypocrite if he did, but he doesn't.  Doesn't even seem to cross his mind.  He just mulls the information over a while, taking a gulp of milk first, then picking up his fork to dig in.  Somewhere between his fourth or fifth bite of sausage and eggs he adds, wry:

"Well, now I know why you've got a soft spot for loners like me."

Drew RoscoeThe 'oh' made way for breakfast quiet-- where people just put food to mouth for a while and get their fill before they're satiated enough to start talking again.  Drew happily chopped her sausage patty up with the edge of her fork and mixed it in with her scrambled eggs before eating it like some mish-mash casserole (all it was missing was ketchup or hot sauce to be a real mess).  Erich's comment, wry as it was, was met with a grin that curled one side of her mouth more dominantly than her other.

"You think I have a daddy complex, do you?"

An eyebrow lifted, but the smirk said clearly that she wasn't offended, was only playing with him.  She took a drink of her milk, licked her upper lip to make sure she didn't have a milk mustache left behind, and continued:  "That was a pretty mild reaction.  Most people get all kinds of pissed off about what my dad did.  Joe and him had a bit of a stand off once that I got to break up.  Joe was pretty sure it was his duty to kill him-- my dad, that is.  ....As you can see, he didn't."

Another bite of her egg-and-sausage pile on the plate, and she leaned back in her chair some to peer across the table at the Shadow Lord.  "...I wasn't trying to hide you, y'know.  But at the same time, it was a little easier and made things feel less... juvenille that you just let us have our dinner together and catch up.  I appreciate that."

Erich Reinhardt"Ew, gross."

Which might just be the most juvenile thing she's ever heard come out of an Ahroun's mouth.  It's humor, though, not genuine disgust.  She goes on.  He chews, eats, chews some more, watching her.  Gets up, then, tugging his pajama bottoms up an inch as he went back to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels.  Tears one off for Drew, then sits down with another for himself.

"Eh," he says, "I'm not exactly Mr. Participation here.  Not like I can fault him for not wanting to be Garou anymore when he A) outranked me, B) probably accomplished more than I have, and C) went through more shit than I did.  Besides, he's still got the Wolf.  That says to me that when push comes to shove, he'll do his part.  He might even think he won't, but he will.

"I know you weren't trying to hide me," he goes on.  "I wasn't even around on Thanksgiving, 'cept at the very end.  Not that I trying to hide away either.  Just figured you probably had some sort of family thing.
"Came by at the end just in case you didn't, though.  Didn't want you to end up spending Thanksgiving all alone."

Drew RoscoeBrown eyes followed when Erich rose from the table to fetch paper towels for each, and followed him back when he returned to the table and offered her one of the two that he'd grabbed.  She flashed a smile of thanks, folded the towel into fourths, and tucked one edge under her plate.  While he spoke, she ate.  Their conversation worked in a rhythm like this.  When she was busy talking, he would eat while listening.  Now: vice versa.

When she'd eaten about two thirds of what was on her plate she slowed her pace down and ate more for taste than hunger anymore.  She was more concerned with finishing her milk than her eggs now.

Didn't want you to end up spending Thanksgiving all alone.

That sentiment was met with a brief lift of eyebrows, and a soft smile to follow.  Her hair, which had been down and tucked back behind her ears, was gathered up in one fist at the nape of her neck.  Her other hand snapped a hairband from where it was hiding about her wrist, under the cuff of her sweater, and she looped her hair through it a few times to tie a ponytail.  As she did this, straightened up, arms up and elbows out, she spoke.

"That's sweet.  Thank you.  ...I'm sorry you wound up spending it alone, but I'm glad you felt welcome enough to come here and find a bed to sleep in.  ...Didn't figure you'd put too many eggs in the Thanksgiving basket, though.  Most of you guys not only don't celebrate regular holidays like that, but outright despise them.  More than a few that I knew back in Chicago thought that holidays were underneath all of us-- a silly human tradition to be ignored because we're 'better than that' or something.

"Myself?  I just like having an excuse to wear sweaters and eat a lot of food with people I care about."

Erich Reinhardt"Yeah, it was," he agrees, when she calls his gesture sweet.  "Don't tell anyone."

She's more or less done eating.  He's still going strong, systemically marching his way across the plate.  And while Drew's not talking with her mouth full, the same doesn't really go for Erich.  Like now:

"Your Chicago crowd," he opines with a smirk, "sounded like they didn't know how to have fun at all.  Garou holidays are based on human traditions too.  Just pagan shit instead of Christian shit or pilgrim shit.  Unless of course they just didn't celebrate any holidays.  Which just makes my point even more valid.

"I like the holidays.  It's like the one time of year people stop acting like completely selfish jerks.  And don't worry your pretty little head none.  I grabbed some diner turkey with one of my tribemates."

He grins, then.  "Heh," he says, "you're just lucky I didn't decide a couple hot kisses entitled me to finding your bed to sleep in.  Or maybe I am, since your old man was in the house.

Drew Roscoe
With her plate of what remained of the eggs and mixed sausage that she didn't feel able to finish cooling rapidly, Drew nudged the dish toward Erich with a raise of an eyebrow to ask if he wanted to finish what was left.  She sure wasn't, anyways.  Her milk was finished as well.  One way or the other, whether he accepted the rest of her food or not, Drew rose from the table and took her dishes back to the sink to be rinsed and tucked away into a largely empty dishwasher.

As she bustled about, like she was ought to do, she laughed at his mention about finding her bed instead and nodded her head.  "Oh come on, now.  I'm a big kid these days.  And this is my house.  Even if you had tried to climb in with me, I don't think it would've affected Dad any at all."

As she straightened up from stacking her dishes in the washer, she cast a grin in the Shadow Lord's direction, the expression playful and a touch sly.  "Can't say I could've had a lot of room to protest if you did."  She hovered in the kitchen for a second, gauging his reaction, before glancing about like she wasn't sure if there were chores that needed done urgently or not.  Upon deciding that there weren't, she leaned one hip against the edge of her counter and wrapped her arms loosely around a midsection that was still lean with athleticism.

"To be frank, I can't really remember the last time I've... y'know, not gone right to bed with someone I wanted to.  But to be fair, I haven't had to worry about tribal affairs before either."

Erich ReinhardtErich's smirking the next time Drew looks at him.  He's smirking, he's tipping his chair back on two legs, he's eyeing her in this slow leisurely way that she would've probably smacked him for if he'd started out doing that the day they met.

"First it's one night stands," he says, "and now it's going straight to bed with someone you want.  Drew, you're talking yourself straight from good little kin to Jezebel of the West.

"And trust me.  Your dad would've tossed me out on my ass.  It doesn't matter how grown and how woman you are.  He's your dad."

Drew Roscoe"Maybe."

The tone of her answer is contemplative, and more than willing to let him be right about what he figures Larry Roscoe would do in response to finding some utterly strange cool-eyed Shadow Lord curled around his daughter in her bed.  It really all depended on that slow-burning Rage the old man had, if he'd had his coffee yet or not that morning (ironically, having not had coffee would've benefited the young pair more-- a groggy Larry Roscoe is virtually sleepwalking until caffeinated), and if he'd had breakfast yet or not.

Erich is smirking half-smug, and scanning her appearance as he pleases-- and it likely does please, at that.  She's petite, yes, but capable.  Bust isn't much beyond average, but her figure is fit and years of gymnastics intermingled with dance played a hand in shaping a good rear and thighs.  Beyond just sexual shape, though, she kept a warm glow about her even in mundane situations like kitchen conversations on Black Friday.  She was healthy, largely happy, and very easy to be around.  It only helped that she was easy on the eyes to boot.

"I'm no jezebel.  And I'm not gonna backtrack to explain what I meant either."  Her mouth was curved to mirror his smirk, but without so much proud self-confidence that comes from surveying something you've won for yourself and more a reflection of standing to meet his teasing without flinching or offense-taking.  Her tongue swept over her lips and she shifted her arms from being loose about her midsection to being more snug just below her chest.

He could tell that she was mulling her words over by the half-cautious, half-thoughtful pause that she held on to.  But, as always, she spoke:  "Is it too early to make a move?"  Whether she was referring to it being early in the morning, or early in whatever relationship they were forging wasn't specified, but rather left to be assumed.

Erich ReinhardtThe smirk widens.  Erich lowers the front legs of his chair back to the floor, but only so he can push back from the table altogether.

"Stop thinking about making a move," he says, "and make one.  How else are you gonna thank me for making that delicious, nutritious breakfast, hm?"

Drew RoscoeIt was more the way that Erich's smirk grew like a cheshire cat's than anything else that had Drew grinning just as broadly.  He told her to act rather than think, and quipped (as he tended to do) at her about thanking him for breakfast.  He moved the chair back from the table, opening his front to her by doing so.  Drew answered by moving away from the counter with a small rock of her own weight.

She approached him in a straight-forward way, true to her own nature.  She didn't rush to meet him, nor did she slow her pace intentionally.  This wasn't intended to be a show, she didn't step deliberately or force a step-sway to her hips.  The closest approximation in comparison would be a prowl, but without any predatory blaze to go along with it.  She'd pause at his knees and reach forward to touch the side of his face, light and gentle, with her left hand.  The right hand splayed across his chest and rubbed.

A quip would fit in here somewhere, something snarky and cute to parry Erich's last remark.  Drew opted not to, though, and instead leaned in to bring her face to his.  Lips didn't go to his, though, but rather passed right by and grazed the edge of his jaw.  Her breath huffed hot and soft at his ear, her nose and cheekbone nuzzled at his neck, and she inhaled deeply the scent of him (Kinfolk are but cousins of Wolves in the scheme of things, after all).

"Here," she murmured into his neck, and ran the hand that was on his chest up to his shoulder and down his arm until she found his hand.  She wrapped her fingers about his and guided his hand to the curve of her waist, right above her hip, and pressed his palm snug to the soft material of her sweater.  "I wanna know you want me too.  Wanna feel you press."  This was confessed evocatively at the side of his throat before teeth scraped lightly and lips pressed a kiss where her words had warmed his skin.

Erich ReinhardtThat smirk fades a little as Drew comes at him.  It's seared right away.  What's left behind is intense and perhaps a little darker: a direct stare, flaring nostrils.

She leans close.  He doesn't sit idle.  There's something terribly feral about this: she breathes him in and he rubs his cheek to hers, his morning stubble rough against her infinitely softer skin.  She puts her hand on his chest and finds a rumble there, a growl that he doesn't let loose.

And then she draws his hand to her waist.  His fingers spread wide; it's immediate and unafraid.  He grasps at her body, the strength of his hand clear and firm through the thickness of her sweater.  She doesn't quite bite him.  He draws back, just enough to see her eye to eye.

"You wanna feel me press, do you?"  There's a thread of amusement there. It coils in his eyes, like a filament at the center of an old-fashioned light bulb. She didn't kiss him -- not on the mouth, anyway -- but he kisses her: a sudden thing, and rather hard.  She invited his hand to her waist; he pushes it under her sweater, under her shirt, the callouses on his palm rough against the skin of her side.

His lips move against hers: "And just how far are we going today, Miss Drew Roscoe?"

Drew RoscoeThere's a rumbling, a force within Erich that Drew had been hunting for.  She's pleased to feel it within his breast, to feel the swell of Rage under his skin making his touch warm-- damn near hot.  He wouldn't let her do everything, wouldn't sit still while she was this near, this breathy and so willing to touch and be touched.
She brought his hand to her waist.  He pushed her sweater and the snug camisole underneath aside so he could feel her skin under his palm, so his fingers could grasp and become familiar with her shape.  He'd leaned his head back just enough to find her face and crush his mouth to hers.  Drew answered with a muffled exclamation of affirmation, and returned the kiss with as much commitment to the act as Erich offered himself.

Their mouths parted just enough for him to speak, though his lips grazed hers as he did.  Her answer was to smile, just a little, and touch her forehead to his.  Her eyes closed, her breathing was heavier (though certainly not because she was winded), and her hand moved to the back of his head, fingers running through his close-cut hair to the lengthier show of blonde at the top of his head.

"Well," she breathed back to him, and her weight shifted again.  She'd been standing at his knees before, but now she brought herself closer still.  She threw one leg across his lap and settled down to sit on the tops of his thighs, hips close to his but not flush, not giving that quite yet.

"Can't we just find out?"

Erich ReinhardtThe truth is this is perhaps a little dangerous.  Playing with fire, as they say.  They have the house to themselves: no fathers, jolly and goodnatured or otherwise; no passing pedestrians.  He's not wearing a whole lot, and while she's dressed to go out, his hand has already found its way beneath several layers of that armor.

He can feel the sleek muscles of her torso shift as she comes down over him.  She keeps a bit of respectable distance between them.  It doesn't count for a whole lot, but it's there, and so is that smile they keep sharing,
which more than anything else divides this from anything he's had before.  Erich's not exactly a player, not exactly a ladies' man, but nor is he a monk. Not his first rodeo, he said once.  But then: this isn't quite a rodeo.  It's not quite a game at all.

His hands rest on her hips; he has to resist the urge to drag her closer, seal that space to nothing.  He hears an echo of what he'd said to her in what she says to him; it makes him laugh into the space between, low.
"Using my own argument against me," he says.  "Very sneaky," and then just like that, before that word quite completes itself, he finds himself kissing her again.  Drawn, like a magnet to a lodestone.

Drew RoscoePlaying with fire is almost precisely what this was.  The attraction that Kinfolk had to a Garou's Rage was not at all unlike a moth's need to be drawn to a warm lightbulb hanging over a back porch.  But this was not Drew's first time with a man who had the Wolf in his heart.  Erich's Rage was ever present, a dangerous thing indeed.  He could easily be pressed to a point where the Wolf and Monster come together to defeat the man, and the word 'no' doesn't mean anything anymore.

That's why you had to be sure what you wanted going into the situation.  That's why you had to know how to gentle your way into a Garou's mind, to catch their attention without provoking them.  It's worked very well for Drew so far in life.  She was mated to a beast with much Rage about him, and she had no scars to show as evidence of being burnt by that fire.

So Erich held onto her waist, fighting the urge to drag her up against him and let his fingertips bite into her firm flesh.  He didn't pull her flush to him, but he did press another kiss to her mouth.  He all but fell toward her, drawn in by something curious and new-- the fact that they smiled together, spoke.  That this was physical (certainly, how could it not be?), but that wasn't all.  It was something to be investigated and explored.

Drew cupped her hand to the back of his neck and leaned into his kiss, his touch.  She pressed her chest to his, breathed in deep when she inhaled.  Her weight tipped toward him, balanced and hanging.  The balls of her stocking feet were on the tile floor still, maintaining this balance, supporting a share of her own weight to do so.

She would pull away after a moment with a small gasp of breath and move her hand from the back of his neck to the side, fingers spread over his collarbone and the top of his shoulder as well.  "Moon's not quite full.  You're present, not the Beast right now.  I trust ya, Erich."

Erich ReinhardtHer touch to the back of his neck sends electricity down his spine.  The hairs on his arms are standing on end, and then --

then she presses herself to him.

This time the growl escapes him; rolls out of his chest like a storm front.  He grasps her under the thighs and he's standing, he's pulling her against him, that distance is gone now.  Her feet are losing touch with the floor.  The dishes are rattling on the table as he sets her down on it.  Her sweater is soft.  His skin is bare.  What layers she wears are the only ones between them, and then even that starts to slip: his hands sliding under the back of her camisole, rumpling sweater up ahead of his wrists.  He opens his palms over her back, covers entire stretches of her skin with his big hands.

That ravenous mouth of his, which is a deadly weapon in any form but this, is at her neck.  She never had time to profess trust in him; not while she was still seated on his lap, anyway.  If she still says it, she'd be saying it now,

now, when it might be a little harder to believe her, with his kisses falling like bites against the tendon of her neck, the juncture of her shoulder.  A hand leaves her back, braces against the tabletop.  There's a shift in his balance. He might be a second away from sweeping the dishes aside, perhaps off the table altogether; a second away from pressing her down on that surface where a minute ago they were having a nice little breakfast.

Drew Roscoe
Her chest pressed to his, the swell of breasts beneath her sweater causing the fuzzy fabric of her shirt to rub against his bare skin.  This evoked a growl, this one flooding up from behind his sternum and vibrating out from his throat.  He grabbed her legs, one hand under each thigh, and lifted her up from the chair along with her.

Her thighs, he will note, were made of firm muscle with only the smallest layer of fat overtop (to keep things feminine).  She squeezed them about his hips for support, and no doubt other reasons, when her feet left the floor and her weight fell soley into his hands for that instant.  She wasn't a heavy girl by any stretch, but years of choreographed dancing with partners had her reflexively distributing her weight to sturdier, more central parts of his body.

This was rendered unnecessary soon enough, though, as her rump was set on the kitchen table a foot or two away from the dishes that Erich had just eaten from.  With his mouth at her neck, a shock of thrill spasmed through her arms and into her heart and belly both.  She knew very well what those teeth were more accustomed to doing, what task they usually performed when this close to someone's throat.  She inhaled a quick, shuddered breath, but tipped her chin and jaw aside to give him room and permission that he didn't necessarily need at this point.

She wrapped strong legs about him, crossing her ankles at the bottom-most edge of his back to secure him in place.  She wasn't certain where her hands should go immediately, so one rested temporarily on his upper arm and the other was set on the table beside her for support and balance.  Erich's weight shifted, his hand braced on the table behind her back.  He was leaning into her, kissing and grazing at her throat and shoulder fervently.  She sighed, and his name was carried on the exhale more breath than voice, faint but there.
Perhaps a second before he was ready to sweep dishes aside and lay her back on the table, Drew moved her hand from his arm to the center of his chest and pressed him back, firm but not sudden.  She leaned back simultaneously, breaking away from the ministrations of his mouth.  Any doubt or worry that might cross his mind is extinguished promptly, though, when she grabs the edges of her sweater with both hands and pulls it up over her head then tosses it into one of the kitchen chairs.

Under her sweater she wore a thin, simple white camisole with lace at the straps and lining the edges.  The bra beneath was easily visible, simple, a bit utilitarian, and some shade of pink that probably went by 'salmon' or 'coral' on the tag.  More interesting than that, though, was the lick of black ink that showed under her right arm, crawling up to make visible the etched foliage of a tree top along her ribcage.

Not a lot of time was giving to admire the view, though, because Drew was leaning in to claim another kiss, not wanting momentum to be lost.

ErichThere's a jolt that goes through her when his mouth is at her throat, his teeth so close to the complex networks of arteries and nerves and airways that lie just beneath the surface there.  It makes Erich freeze: just for a second, and barely noticeably, but it's there.

He waits, blood pounding through his veins.  He nuzzles Drew under the jaw, gently as he can, and then -- she wraps her legs around him.  It's all the approbation he needs.  He's on her again, his teeth scraping her neck.  Between her thighs he feels as solid as oak, carved out of muscle and bone, the heat of his flesh searing right through her jeans.  He starts to push her down.

She pushes him back.

His eyes flare, he rears back, he starts to say oh you are shitting me but; no, it's not what he thinks, she's not drawing the boundary right there, right now.  The words die in his throat as she grabs the hem of her sweater.  She tugs, she can get it off herself just fine but he's rather driven to help: has a stake in this, you see.  His hands are rough, a little clumsy, as he yanks and tugs, damn near stretches her nice cashmere sweater out of shape before it gives.

It lands in a kitchen chair.  He has a second to look at her, his pale eyes flashing down her body.  "I don't know why you don't dress like this more often," he says: then she's kissing him again, he's opening his mouth to her and closing his eyes, he's pushing his hands under her camisole.  She feels sturdy, but small: he feels like he can hold her between his two hands.  He tries: he opens his hands over her ribs, slides them up; now the arch of his thumbs and forefinger follow the lowermost edge of her bra, and her camisole is riding up her body, and he's pulling away from her kiss just so he can lower his head to her,

(he's pushing her down on that breakfast table after all; one or both of them shove plates aside impatiently before their leftovers end up on her back)

press his mouth to her bared midriff.  He's a mouthy one there, too.  His teeth scrape her skin.  He bites the middle of her bra, tugs at it, growls at her, grins at her with his eyes flashing up at her -- lets it go, lets it snap back a little against her body.  He finally seems to remember he has hands: he reaches around under her to undo her bra.  Or try.

Drew RoscoeThere's a hot flash of frustration and protest when Drew pushes Erich back, but she ignores it well, even with the Rage that snaps and licks along with it.  He was about to snarl at her, but the words went quiet before they had a chance to form completely behind his teeth.  Upon realizing what was happening, he was quick to help, snagging her sweater between caloused fingers and pulling to help it off that much faster.  Pale blue eyes swept her figure, and the comment her provided was met with laughter that was as flushed as her face and chest.

"Could be that it's about winter time," she explained against his mouth, far from actually concerned if he disliked her choice of clothing or not.  Clothing wasn't important, it was what existed underneath, after all.
He parted lips for her, and Drew met the invitation happily, sweeping her tongue over and past his lips, encouraging his to join the old dance that it knew by nature.  He grabbed her sides again, under the hem of her camisole this time, and pushed it up high while laying her back.  She pushed dishes aside with whatever touched them first (her elbow and forearm, but was careful not to send them flying off the table) and let herself be laid back by the Garou, legs still about his waist rather than dangling off the table's edge.

Where his mouth met her stomach, hot and wet and with the ever-looming threat of sharp demise, her body rose and rolled in subtle ways to encourage and affirm.  Her head was back, hair falling out of the ponytail she'd tied it into earlier.  When he made his way up higher and took the center of her bra in his teeth, she opened her eyes and glanced down at him, then mirrored the grin he wore on his face.

When his hands moved from where they'd been holding the trim sides of her waist to search for the hooks that kept her bra on, she propped herself up on one elbow and ran her fingers through his hair with her free hand.  She brought her face down to the top of his head and pressed her lips to his crown, where he'd feel them move when she asked:  "Should we take this to a room?"

ErichThe fingers searching for the hooks on the back of her bra pause.  The hand turns over; palm to the table.  Erich slows down for just a second, panting, his breath a hot wash between her breasts.

Not much hair for Drew's fingers to run through, really.  Half an inch, an inch at best; a blond so fair it ripples in the light like wheat bowing to wind.  Short enough that the motion of her lips is clearly tangible to him.  Makes him close his eyes a moment, murmuring a low, pleased, animal sound.

"I don't know."  Muffled, that.  "Pretty hard to remember why we're taking this slow as it is.  Not sure I'll remember at all in your bed."

Drew Roscoe"This don't seem slow to me."

He's breathing heavy, not due to physical exertion, but rather for excitement, for building heat and the promise of what was to come.  Drew breathed the same way, but slower and less of a pant.  Her breath washed warm against the top of his head.  They were both fit people, both could probably run long and hard without needing to take a break.  Erich was a Garou, after all, and an Ahroun at that.  It was his very purpose to be fit and strong and good at dominating the opposition.  Drew, while not blessed by Gaia, still managed to march across the arctic and maintain pace with a pair of Fenrir boys.  That was no small task (and she wasn't the one that passed out when they reached their last leg either).

She pressed a kiss to his forehead, then nudged her face down nearer to his and kissed him on the mouth once more.  This kiss wasn't quite as deep as the last, her tongue didn't venture to gain new territory.  But it was still full of energy and promise.  When she broke it, she found and held his eyes.

"No real need to wait.  I just didn't want it to be against an alley wall the first time around."  Her hand moved from the back of his head forward and down, fingers trailing past his chest to brush the hard oak wall of his stomach.  "C'mon."

ErichAgainst her mouth, the corners of his quirk - a grin, quick and loose.  It gentles into something a little softer as she says she didn't want the first time to be in some alley.  Which, truth be told, did cross his mind.

Then she's running a hand down his chest.  His heartbeat is a hammer there in the center of his sternum; his pulse an echo all down the axis of his body.  He watches her hand go: down, down, pressing to his stomach.  He catches her there, his hand firm on hers, his kiss an urgent, eager thing.

"Okay."  It's breathed more than spoken.  He straightens up, scoops her off the table with his hands under her ass, and then -- quite frankly -- rubbing her ass as he stands there, kissing her, forgetting what he was doing until he remembers again.

He's not quite familiar with the path to her bedroom.  Never been there, after all.  Knows the path to the guest rooms -- all of them, because curious creature that he is, he's crashed in all three -- and to the guest bathroom.  Knows the path to the kitchen, the basement.  The shed.  Not this way though, the master bedroom, the one place in this whole house she keeps to herself, and he, by some errant spark of courtesy or manners or chivalry, has yet to intrude.

Drew RoscoeA hand caught hers less than an inch shy of where she intended to stop it anyways, pressed it close to his stomach.  He kissed her again, and breathed agreement before straightening up and lifting her off the table.
This time around he didn't hold her by her legs, but rather by cupping her hands about either ass cheek through the sturdy denim of her jeans (real jeans, mind you, not some polyester blend intended more to stretch than protect properly).  He savored that moment, this apparent by how his fingers felt and his palms pressed.  He lost track of the task at hand for a moment and they stood there, Drew with her legs about his hips, attempting to help evenly disperse her weigh to make holding and carrying her less of a task.  She hummed her approval against his mouth while they kissed, nipping his lower lip lightly and letting her eyes fall closed as well.

Then they're walking, and Drew's tucked her head to let him see where he's going, is kissing and grazing his shoulder and neck again.  Into the one part of the house that Erich hasn't explored before-- he's poked around all the guest rooms, discovered her cement basement lit only by a bald bulb over the stairs and a flickering halogen light in the center of the big dark room.  This is his first time going into Drew's bedroom, though.

The door on the right side of the house opens up to a large master bedroom, established with hardwood floors that matched the rest of the house and walls painted a deep taupe with white trim.  There was a king sized bed with the headboard against the windows.  There was enough room in there for Drew to successfully arrange a lounge chair in one corner with a bookshelf and table nearby, and a desk somehow maneuvered against an empty space of wall as well (computer set up with two monitors, evidence that she either played computer games seriously or worked from home).

Drew lifted her face enough to nip at an ear lobe, encouraging without words that he find the light green comforter of the bed (too big for one person, really) sooner than later.

ErichShe's put a bit of thought into the decor in here.  Made it comfortable, at least.  A touch stylish too.  But all Erich really picks up from his quick distracted glance around is that a) there's a bookshelf, and b) there's a bed.  A big one.

It's a bright day outside.  Blinds are shut though.  Sunlight slants across the floor in thin, even slices.  Sunlight traces across his arm and her thigh, his leg, then the floor as he passes through it.  He barely sees that either.  If his eyes are open they're on her.  If they're closed, he's kissing her, his mouth straying blindly from her lips to her neck to her clavicle, and back again.

His knees hit the bed.  He's found it.  Gravity upends itself: she finds herself dropped, tumbled down, hitting the mattress on her back.  Kingsized bed.  There's a spark of amusement in Erich's eyes as he moves over her, kneels on the bed, catches her legs against his chest, reaches to undo the button of her jeans.  "My, what a big bed you have," he comments, sly, turning his head to nip at her legs through her jeans.

Which come open a moment later.  He sits back on his heels and pulls on the denims.  "Lift up, baby," he whispers, and if she does: he tugs her pants up and up and off, wholesale, dropping them with a whump on the floor.

Drew RoscoeThe bed was an upgrade that she treated herself with when she moved into this house.  Something she gave herself as a reward for opting for the smaller one-story house from an uninteresting decade in the mid-1900s rather than selecting the nigh-historic Victorian that was for sale at the back edge of the Browntown township.

Erich dropped her with a 'whump!' onto the mattress and knelt below her, catching her legs to hold them to his chest.  While he quipped about the size of her bed, Drew was busy pulling the camisole up over her head and tossing it haphazardly onto the floor.  This revealed a startlingly large tattoo that ran down her right side, a black-ink representation of a tree that ran from her top rib to just above her hip.  That large of a tattoo was surprising to find on anyone, but especially so on the small woman with the sweet face and infectious personality.

He nipped at her legs through her jeans and unsnapped them at the waist, encouraged her to 'lift up', as he put it.  She complied without question or pause, smiling in a way that was pleased more with something on an emotional level than a physical one in this moment.  She liked that he called her 'baby', it showed.  Her hips lifted, abdominal muscles tightening to do so without heels on the mattress, and she wiggled them enough to help disengage her pants from her hips.

With jeans yanked off and dropped to the floor, that left Drew in a pair of simple bikini underpants to match the bra, with her arms above her head pulling the elastic band out of her hair and putting it about her wrist out of habit.  She tossled her long brown hair about some to lose the ponytail shape the band had given it, then moved her hand to drag fingertips slowly over her own flat belly, obviously with the intent of creating a centerfold-esque image for the Shadow Lord to eat up.

She bore no scars, no marks or blemishes to indicate the vast array of injuries she's suffered, of monsters she's killed, and adventures she's been on.  That much couldn't be said for many, and was looked down upon by some of her Tribe.  She just happened to be lucky enough to have loved ones that ensured she was healed whenever she was wounded.

Words of encouragement, of luring might fit best in this moment, with her poised on the bed before him, stretched out with hair pooled about her head and fingers tracing the lines of her stomach.  Drew, for now, left the imagery to do its job and Erich to set the pace.

Erich Reinhardt
That smile courses between them - passes straight from her face to his.  He grins back at her; it's a bright, warm, tender thing, there for just a second before she's whipping her camisole off

and he's kissing her ankle, muttering oh my fuckin' hell at the sight of her all-but naked now.  She lets her hair down.  He's sure he's seen her hair down before, but it still makes him stare, it still makes his heart thud in his chest, it still makes the pupils in his glacier-blue eyes widen.

He'll ask her about the tattoo later.  Just like he'll look around her bedroom later.  Just like he'll worry about the consequences later, if he bothers to worry about them at all before they bit him in the ass.  He'll think about all that later.  Right now --

right now, he's running his hands up her body, coursing his palms from her hips to her stomach to her breasts, lingering there to draw the straps down her shoulders with the tips of his fingers; pull the cups down.  So much for taking her bra off.  This seems just as good, a stopgap measure before his hunger got out of hand.  His shoulders part her legs as he leans down to her.  It seems such a natural thing now for her thighs to graze their way down his ribs, fold around his waist.  He goes straight for her breasts; doesn't stop, doesn't pass go, covers one with his rough hand while he takes the other into his mouth.

The mattress creaks.  He shifts -- now her legs are wrapped over the lean span of his hips instead.  She's no blushing virgin, and she has to know he's aroused.  Still.  This is the first unflinching evidence of it; the hard heavy curve of his cock pressed against her, two flimsy layers of cotton between.  So little material that she can feel his heat, his pulse.  So little space that he can feel her wetness.

There's this to be said about Erich: he isn't shy about this.  Any of this.  He bucks his hips against hers, grinds against her hard, pins her against the mattress, groans against her breast.  His voice is muffled and rough.  He's reaching down with his free hand, his weight settling onto her as he shifts.  She can feel him pulling her panties aside; can hear the snap of elastic as he pushes his pajama bottoms down.  If ever there was a point of no return, this would be it.

Drew RoscoeThere was something thrilling about having a man look you over in the same way a person having just crawled through a desert would look at a water fountain.  His icy blue eyes upon her had Drew feeling self-assured and sexy, had gooseflesh crawl at her belly and chest, and had the small of her back arching just enough to exaggerate curves.

She relished in his lips at her ankles and legs, gasped softly when he leaned his weight forward and pressed her thighs open with his flanks to claim space nearer to her body.  He pulled the cups of her bra down and paid mind to her breasts with his hand and mouth both.  She shuddered some and curled one hand to the back of his head.  The other was bent behind her back, worked to unclasp the hooks of her bra, and when they were undone she'd interrupt him just long enough to take the bra off and abandon it on the floor with the rest of her clothes.

The pace here is good for a moment, but not much longer.  More flesh needed to be touched, much baser yearnings had to be addressed, and soon.  Erich moved his knees and shifted his hips to hers, causing the hard shape of his cock to press against her crotch.  He moved against her, far from shy about what he wanted from her.  As observed, she was no blushing virgin and didn't shy away from the persistence or intensity.  Rather, she snugged her hips to his and found rhythm to his bucks and grinds, and gasped quietly near the top of his head (as his face was still at her breast).

It was when she felt his knuckle graze blazing bare skin between her legs as he tugged her panties to the side that she squirmed and hesitated.  "Wait," she muttered to him.  "Wait."

This might be the time where she would reach for her bedstand were she still a college student to grope around for a spare condom.  If she were a high school student it's where she'd blushingly beg that they stop, apologize and express that she wasn't comfortable with going any further.  Here and now, though, she makes him pause only long enough for her to hook a finger at the hip of her underpants and pull them off one foot at a time.

Then, now utterly nude under the Shadow Lord's frame, Drew pushed the waistband of his pajama pants down past his hips, past his rump, and wrapped her small hand around his dick.  She gave it a few small rubs and tipped her hips back towards his, found his face to kiss him deep and hum a muffled "Go on," to encourage him forward.

Erich ReinhardtIt's a good thing one of them still has some manual dexterity left.  She reaches for her bra.  He ignores it utterly.  She's undoing those clasps with remarkably alacrity, but all he notices is the arch of her body up against his mouth, which he's duly appreciative of: muttering in his throat, something like a growl.  His hands wrap under her back.  He lifts her against his mouth, he licks and sucks at her like she's one of those frozen treats he likes so much that it's the one thing other than meat that he'll eat.  She gets the bra off.  She has to physically push him back, and then he just settles for kissing her mouth while she flings the bra down.

It hits the floor.  A moment later one of her pillows joins it.  There's a sultry sort of war going on here.  He pushes her up the bed, moves over her, she stops him again, squirming, hesitating, he drops his brow to her breastbone and tries not to bellow in lust and impatience.  She's doing something with her legs that makes him open his eyes, and then

she tosses that last scrap of underclothing to the floor, too.  He laughs breathlessly, and then he remembers:
"Do I need, y'know -- "

She puts her hand on him.  He gives a quiet exclamation that he muffles against her shoulder, some primitive reflex arc taking over: he thrusts against her hand like he can't help it, grasps at the sheets under her.

" -- a condom," he manages.  "Do I need a condom?"

Drew RoscoeErich's frustration and impatience is well contained, but thrums through his muscles none the less.  It's particularly noticable when she stops his hand at her panties, where he touches his head to her collarbone and his back and chest tense up with the primal roar that he contained.  She'd whipped the last scrap of clothing from her body and tossed it to the floor. He found one of four pillows to push aside and topple to the hardwood floor as well.

Somewhere between grunts and muffled cries and gasped breaths Erich was asking about a condom.  Drew was shaking her head, lips parted, and brushed her free hand down his muscled side and to his hip, where she grabbed and pulled anxiously.  Her thighs rubbed at his hips while hers squirmed beneath him, back arching, begging what small space between them that still existed to close.

"No, no, I'm on birth control.  Come on, please, Erich."

With assurances made and wanton cries called, damn near begged from kiss-swollen lips, there is nothing to hold them back at that point.  She'd relax her legs so he could push them as far open as he needed, brace her weight against the mattress, and support what weight he'd put onto her belly and chest while he let no more nuisances interrupt progress and slid himself inside her.

There's no holding back from there.  Drew would let him lead, let him set the pace and figure out which position worked best.  She was compliant, but far from a dead fish herself.  Hips would roll against his, if his hands stayed still too long she'd grab them and move them-- from her breasts to her hips to her belly depending on how often she was given the chance to direct causeless hands.  Her own would spread over his chest, grasp his shoulders or upper arms for support.  She pressed her mouth to his for a hard kiss here or there, but more typically she had her forehead to his shoulder, or her mouth at his neck and shoulder.
This would keep up until pressure and want built too strongly deep in her abdomen and she would increase her pace, buck her hips harder and hold him more firmly with short fingernails biting dull into his skin.  Faster and harder, more demanding, and she would drag him on top of her and whisper for him to come, words of encouragement at his ear, then--

it all spills over.  Drew tenses, arches, muffles her own cries in his shoulder and closes her eyes and holds him close.  If their timing doesn't match up, if he doesn't come quite when she does, she's determined to catch him up and works hips and hands to get him there.

When they've both crashed over the edge and are left sweating and panting and holding each other close, Drew lays kisses at his brow and face and sighs happily.  It's these moments, even with the mid-morning sunlight cutting arcs across the bedroom through the blinds, where time chugs to an unrecognizable pace and the world seems at peace-- at least, what world existed within that house anyways.

Erich ReinhardtIt's not even what she says in response.  It's how she says it.  Something about the hurried rush of her voice, the way it rides that sweet edge between impatience and imploring, that quite undoes Erich.  "Okay," he breathes, and -

they're neither of them first-timers.  They're not highschoolers, they're not college kids, they're not really kids at all.  But despite the way they smirk and banter, despite the quick parries of their verbal flirtation, every physical encounter between them -- all two of them -- has been underlain with a certain innocence.  Inexperience, even, if only with each other.  They fumbled with her clothes.  His pants didn't even make it all the way off his legs.  He didn't have a condom ready; she wasn't wearing risque lingerie.  Everything up to this point has felt eager, uncertain, hungry.

But then she lets her thighs fall open.  He moves over her, wraps his hand behind her head, kisses her mouth, holds her eyes.  She can see the moment he penetrates her reflected in his eyes: the furrow of his brow and the pull in the muscles of his face, the way his gaze unfocuses.  "Oh," he groans, low and rough, and:

just like that something falls into place.  There's nothing to hold them back, and the fumbling gives way; the rhythm is elemental.  He somehow didn't quite foresee her directness, that boldness even in what looks so very much like surrender.  She guides his hands; he's eager to follow.  He guides the pace, and she has him wrapped up in her limbs, tattooing sounds and breaths against his shoulder; his lean cheek; his mouth.

It's never quite sweet and soft.  Not even at the start.  There's a raw energy in him; even when he goes slow, it's a heavy, deep, solid fuck.  His back grows slippery with sweat.  Her fingernails bite at him.  He bites at her: bites her shoulder and her neck, kisses her hard enough that it may as well be a bite.  Toward the end he tries to rise up on his hands to give himself the leverage, but she pulls him down, and he tumbles over her, wraps her up in his arms, gives her what she cries out for:

fucks her, quite plainly put, in her soft bed with the four pillows and the nice sheets.  Her climax is an electric thing.  It crackles right through him; pulls him after her.  He doesn't even try to muffle it when he comes: he bellows past her ear, half-deafens her, pounds it into her, collapses.


Then there's a brief peace.  She's kissing him, soft and loose.  He's reminded absurdly, sweetly of some long-ago memory he didn't even know he still had: a summer litter of kittens, the tiniest of them batting at his fingers with paws so soft he could barely feel it.  He must have been young then, he thinks.  He must not have Changed yet.  He must not have relinquished his heritage then,

and all claim he could have possibly had to a kin like Drew.

His eyes open.  His heartbeat seems a rational thing again; not a wild thunder in his chest, a wild beast beating its way out from behind his sternum.  The angle of the light has changed a little.  Sunlight slats through the blinds and warms his lower leg.  His pajama bottoms are still rumpled around one ankle.

He shifts off her, heavy and lazy, rolling to the side.  Their legs are tangled, and he leaves them that way.  He looks at her for a moment, his face close to hers; he says nothing.

Drew RoscoeEnergy hums within the room, seeping into the walls and back into the bodies it had come from in the first place.  They rested together, tangled up in one another for a minute or so before Erich rolled off from on top of her and rested at her side instead, dissuading all but his legs from her.  She moved a little uncomfortably when he slid out of her, but once that was done she was content to rest her thighs and knees together and turn to face him as well.

This was different from other first times she's had with the couple of lovers in her history.  Typically it was at the end of the day, on one occasion it was after a battle where she'd lent her bullets to a Modi's claws.  Here, though, laying with Erich, they had the rest of the day ahead of them.  She didn't feel rushed to do one thing or another, like sleep or rush to a class or work or anything like that.

With their legs mixed together still, Drew with one foot hooked behind his ankle and her other knee snugged up to his, the Kinfolk's brown eyes (uncharacteristic of her heritage) met with the Wolf's blue (VERY characteristic of THEIR heritage).  They shared silence like that, close together, and Drew tipped her forehead to touch his, careless of the fact that they were both sweat-slicked and would benefit from a shower.

Silences inevitably break, though.  Drew broke theirs by making a soft humming sound of contentment in her throat and reaching around to find a pillow that she could drag under his head first, then one for herself as well while she spoke.  "Holy hell, Erich...  You should bring me to bed more often."

Erich ReinhardtThat makes him laugh - a quick grin widening his mouth, a huff of breath out.  He lifts his head and she slides a pillow under it.  He settles back down again, the musculature of his shoulder shifting as he lifts his hand, strokes her cheek, rubs his palm lazily and familiarly down the side of her neck, over her shoulder.

"I'm sure we can work out some sorta arrangement," he says, a little husky, "Miss Roscoe."

They should shower.  He should think about finishing up that paint job.  She probably has something to do today.  Even on a holiday, she hardly seemed the sort to lie idle.  A moment later he lets those thoughts - so practical, so pragmatic, stop being such a shadow lord - slide out of his head again.  The bed shifts as he moves closer.

"You don't have to go anywhere just yet, do you?"

Drew RoscoeThe laugh and grin were answered with a pleased looking smile from the Kinfolk.  She seemed to glow in the way that women tend to right after sex-- with sweat glistening just so, with lips red and full without the help of cosmetics, hair tossled and, perhaps more importantly to a Garou, the smell of their lover all over them, scent mingling in with her own.

He touched her face and neck and said they could work something out in the future, where they could lay together more frequently in the days, weeks, months? to come.  She turned her head into his hand, nuzzling her cheek to his palm and inhaling deeply.

You don't have to go anywhere just yet, do you?

The question was met with a shake of her head.  "No.  The bank's closed today, they don't need anything from me.  I could get some extra work on a project out of the way, but I'm not feeling particularly motivated to worry about anything that's not immediately right here just yet."

She ran her fingers along his forearm, tracing veins and lines in his muscles absently.  Eyes implored when she asked:  "What about you?"

Erich ReinhardtHer fingers make a map of his arm.  The smile he gives is that one she's seen so often: lopsided, crooked; underlain with something more than humor.  Warmth, perhaps.  Wryness.  A bit of wistfulness.

"I'm staying," he says.

The space between them closes.  He kisses her forehead, and then he kisses her mouth: a gentler thing than any of the ten thousand or so that have preceded it.  When it fades, he stays near enough that her face is a blur to him.  And so he looks at her body instead, the healthy iridescence of sunlight on skin, the intricate tattoo on her side.

His fingertips trace that absently.  When he speaks, though, it's not to ask her about the marking after all.
It's a whisper: "We'll have to tell someone about this sooner or later.  You know that, don't you?"

Drew RoscoeShe traced at the natural contours and lines of his arm.  He instead chose, after a kiss and pulling her flush with him ontop of that pretty light green comforter of hers, to trace fingertips along the inked-in lines of the sprawling tree tattoo on her right ribcage.  She wrapped her arm under his and snuggled up close to him, tucked her head to his chest and murmured "Good," when he stated that he was going to stick around.

When he spoke next his voice was soft and low, little more than a whisper.  The words were heavier, though, like stones dropped into a bucket.  They pulled her down from that happy heights of post-coitus haze and had her pause, think for a moment, then nuzzle her head closer to his chest.

"I know.  I wouldn't plan to keep anything secret.  I'm comfortable sharing whenever you are-- I just want to give us enough time to both be certain we want it-- this, US-- longer than just a couple of weeks, you know?
"But I'll tell.  I'll find the Jarl and help him remember my name long enough to tell him what we're doing.  To be honest, so no half-moons come after you full of righteousness and raised hackles."

They could figure out when they wanted to tell the world about their joining together later.  For now, though, there were other things to address-- like a shower in the master bathroom attached to Drew's bedroom, like Erich exploring her bedroom and poking around at her collection of books on her shelf, or like Drew explaining that the tattoo came from a time in her life when she was very concerned about symbolism and family trees and decided to drop way too much money on a tattoo that she didn't really regret but didn't hold a lot of significance to any longer either.

They had the whole rest of the day.
Worries could come tomorrow.