Decker Rohl

Decker

Her hand on his chest: he looks down. Her fingers are so close to his skin; that shirt is so thin she can almost see the tone of his flesh between the ribbings. Another girl moaning into his mouth might have caressed him like this.

Except he can't remember the last time a girl moaned into his mouth or caressed him. His encounters came in two flavors. Paid is one. Anonymous and reckless, drunk or high more often than not, is the other. The former is a business transaction and they said and did whatever they thought he'd want to hear,

or whatever they thought would keep them from getting injured, hurt, dead,

and in the end usually he bent them over somewhere where he didn't have to look at them and they didn't feel obligated to say a thing. It was easier that way. The latter -- well; the latter doesn't involve much romance either. It's often rough, as though once they've committed to taking a wolf into their beds they want the whole hog, the real deal, they want all the danger their own uncertain daring has pushed them to. It's always as unfiltered and unpolished as he is. Sometimes they ride him. Sometimes they wrap all their limbs around him and let him plow them. They bite him, dig their nails in, scream and growl like his animal nature infects them. One girl kept slapping him, over and over, on the shoulders and across the face, hard enough to sting. Did it until he grabbed her hands and pinned her down, and then she arched and came, shrieked like nothing human. Five minutes later she was getting dressed and walking out of the motel room -- the one she'd put down money for, not him -- and she didn't even want to look at him. She looked regretful; maybe ashamed. Of herself or of him, he didn't know which. He could tell she wanted to get back to her life and forget it ever happened. That's how those encounters usually ended.

So: Danicka touches his chest. And that's new to him. And he's still looked at her, frowning like he's puzzled, when she tells him she doesn't like to kiss. His brow clears a little and his chin rises, something like a nod. He looks like he gets that. She doesn't have to explain that. It says something about the sort of women, the sort of fucking he's used to, that he doesn't immediately find that comment sad and painful and maybe a little pitiful in its own way. He sniffs harshly as she steps back, and then he follows her.

Mute, the two of them, all the way to the truck. Or at least he is, and if she talks to him, he glances at her; says nothing. He has to unlock the door for her. No power locks in the 60s. He opens it for her too. Not chivalry. Necessity. It takes muscle to get that door open because it's stuck in place by years of rust and a long-ago bump that warped the frame around the door. There's a shriek of metal as he wrenches it out, and then closes it on her.

Moments later the truck cab fills with a sort of lightless heat as Decker climbs in. The seat is a bench. The transmission is stick. He settles himself with the mindless ease of long familiarity, crams the key into the ignition, holds it down while the engine coughs and coughs and finally catches. He doesn't bother with the seatbelt, but those stormcloud eyes turn Danicka's way and he waits silently to see where she wants to go.

It doesn't matter why this guy seems to understand -- or at least accept -- that she doesn't like kissing very much. Danicka doesn't care if he understands her. She doesn't want to be understood. She knows how wolves hunt, how any predator works. You must know your quarry. She doesn't want to be hunted. She doesn't want to be prey.

Even though she knows she is. Always will be.

So she walks, and her dress is tight and close to her skin, but it doesn't cling to her. The gold up top turns to black as it goes downward, and the black cuts a contrast along her thighs, and th skirt is short, and the heels are like knives, like spikes, like stingers. She isn't dressed like the bitches, the white trash, she refuses to be associated with. Moving north later on he'll see more of this sharpness, the sleekness of her haircut, the cut of her walk. The ferocity underneath all the more obvious softness that underlies places like New York, the wildness in the city in places like Chicago.

Later. Now is now. And she's trailing her hand off of him and walking to his truck. He opens it for her but doesn't help her up, his hand laid out for her hand. She climbs in without care, that already short skirt hiking up, but she doesn't tug it down when she sits. She hasn't said a word to him until they're in the car, unbuckled, and he's looking at her for direction.

Her eyes are nearly black in this lack of light, this shadow. The truck vibrates, rumbles, underneath them, like a mountain and its god grown angry. Danicka looks at him for a long moment, then nods her head in the direction to go. That's how she gives him directions. This way, that way, one or two words at a time. For a little while it feels like they're wandering, and then she's leading him down an embankment, they're even further from the city. Most everything out here is industrial now, empty and barren for miles around except for a few small wild things and a few shambling humans who are sleeping, or trying to sleep, through the terror of the night.

Danicka is leading him to a bridge that goes over the river, but it's so far from the city it's rarely used, and cars go over it only infrequently. They can drive down the embankment a bit, which is what she instructs; there are deep, dry grooves in the ground from wheels of trucks larger than his, heavier. They rattle the wheels of the Ford. No one lives under this bridge, because most of it is underwater and because there are snakes. But it's quieter here than where they were. It's the closest thing to silence short of going across the river to places like her mansion, and they are further from the light. Down here, the grass is tall and the waters are muddy and their is a strange feeling of being... sheltered. Hidden.

What little moonlight, streetlight, starlight, light pollution comes into the car gives Danicka's flesh a faint glow that is somewhere between gold and silver. Colors fade to nothing but darkness, nothing but grey, with the merest shadows of light moving across them.

She is looking out the window, just a bit, and when the engine cuts off and the warmth begins to dissipate into the air, she looks at him.

"Why'd you offer me the twenty?" she asks, very quiet.

"Not fer sex," he says instantly, his eyes hardening. It's not anger. Just imperative she understands this. "I weren't payin' you fer that."

A moment. He seems so restless. He looks out over the river. A lot of similarities between New Orleans and Mobile. Both southern cities built on a coast, cut by a river, rippled with swampland. New Orleans is so much more, though. More watery. More worldly. More.

He looks back at her. " 'Cause you threw tha bottle," he says. Couple more words added to her count. "Wouldna noticed him if he ain't come at me. Wouldna come at me if you ain't dropped tha bottle. So. Wouldna had the money if it weren't fer you." A shrug, a glacier-slow rise and fall of his shoulder. "Deserved a cut."

[riddled with swampland! the hell.]

"I know," she says, and it isn't gasping, panicked, backed up against the door -- she just slips it in, calmly, almost as though to reassure him that no, she didn't guess that. She doesn't really think she looks like a whore. She thinks he's too young to buy time with a whore, but she doesn't know him, and she doesn't realize that for some -- for some Ahrouns, for some wolves in general -- there's rarely any other option.

He explains his reasoning behind the offer. She doesn't seem defensive about her part in it, doesn't insist that she didn't even see any of them down there, he shouldn't have this or that. She follows those simple steps. He works it back to her: he wouldn't have the money if she hadn't lightly and thoughtlessly kicked that bottle down. It's so hard, so brutal, and so simple. It's a bizarre kind of honor.

"I'd ask why you took me with you when you left," she says, just as quiet, as the vinyl stretches noisily under her. She's moving as those words leave her mouth, her smallish purse on the floorboards, her heels slipped off. She moves slowly enough that he can stop her, if he likes, or meet her, if he wants. She's on her knees on the seat beside him, closer than before, the middle rather than the passenger side. Her hand is against the back window, her shoulders and neck dropped in the cab. "But I know."

Kneeling, her knees touch the outside of his leg. She brushes a hand over the front of her bodice. "These clasps are just like a bra," she whispers, not seductively, but there's certainly something inviting about it. "Hook and eye. There are six."

His wrist is still draped over the wheel when she starts to move. He doesn't stop her. He looks at her though, instantly. That's a common thread amongst just about every Ahroun she'll ever meet, and most Garou besides. The predator's eye is drawn to motion. That's hard science.

Of which he knows nothing. His education is abysmal. She has more knowledge in her pinky finger than he has in his whole brain. He's not stupid, though for a long time he'll assume he is. But he is, absolutely and incontrovertibly, ignorant. It's good that she teaches him how to undo her dress. He'd have no idea otherwise.

Quick study, though. She tells him. His eyes flicker down, back to her face. He commits that to memory. She is quite close to him. He could grasp her around the waist and lift her so easily. Despite what she saw tonight, he works for most of the sparse money in his pocket. He washes dishes, he digs ditches, he chops and stacks firewood, he moves furniture. He loads cranes and forklifts and wheelbarrows and trucks. He works with his body, lifts things all the time. She'd be a feather to him. She could be over him, straddling him, and he could have her dress open in seconds. He lifts his hand from the wheel and

something almost reverent and hesitant about the way he sets his fingertips against the flat of her abdomen. By touch he finds one of those six clasps; fingers it. Up close his eyelashes are startlingly long. He could be pretty, he could almost be beautiful, if he didn't burn the way he does, like the heart of a star, the eye of a storm. His eyes rise to find hers again.

Quiet: "Why is you lettin' me do this?"

In another form her scent would tell him a hundred things about her that even his closest attention can't bring this body, the one he was born in. For now the dress he touches is soft, and she's warm enough to suffuse it with a heat that is softer, drowsier, than his ravenous fire. He can also feel her breathing change as soon as he touches her, this inhale deeper, that exhale faster. Her heart is a fluttering, tantalizing thing, not supposed to land anywhere for long.

And she can smell him, too. In this enclosed space, saturated with heat and summer and bodies and breath, she can smell him. She knows he's close enough to lift her, or roll her under him onto the seats, and she can see his arms, saw what he did to that young man's face. He could tear that dress to tatters and be inside of her and take her in his teeth --

but she doesn't know where that image comes from, or why it's so simultaneously terrifying and appealing. Maybe even comforting, in a deeply aching way.

So she shows him the clasps. No zippers, no laces, no buttons. The skirt is stretchy; she'll tug it up. She is barefoot, and she is moving herself to his touch, leaning forward til his hand is not on the clasp itself but against her breast, brushing it through fabric. "I'm not letting you do anything," she tells him. She doesn't bother to emphasize that central word, that echo of his own question. He'll understand, because her body is telling him.

Her lashes fall, heavy, and she moves again, moves her breast on his hand, feeling the contact shivering through her chest. Eyes closed now, she licks her lips. "Please."

Not his fingertips humming against her abdomen anymore. His palm on her breast. She's the one that moves into his touch first, but the second time she rubs against him he responds. His fingers wrap around her, cup her. She thought he looked too young to be buying time with prostitutes. Can't possibly mistake the experience in his touch, though, so maybe she thinks he's had a girlfriend before, girlfriends, maybe he even has a mate, except that seems somehow contrary to his bizarre, brutal code of honor. But then maybe she doesn't think that far.

And anyway, experience isn't the same thing as finesse. He touches her like he's touched a girl before. Which he has. He weighs her in his palm. He rubs the palm of his hand over her. He squeezes her, it's startlingly gentle, as though somewhere along the way he did in fact learn that a woman's body can be tender and fragile. His eyes are still open. He looks at her hungrily in the darkness. They're under a bridge, by a sluggish river, everything is dark and slow and oddly sheltered, strangely safe. Something about him responds instinctively to that; or maybe it's that promise of safeharbor that her particular strain of breeding breathes of. Not like any Shadow Lord he's ever seen, he said earlier. It's still true.

But she's not his. Won't ever be. He recognizes that as easily and absolutely as he recognizes the answer to his question a moment. So: she's not letting him do anything; she's not, certainly not, letting him take her away from what is hers by birthright. He knows that too. It doesn't disappoint him. He never thought she would. It is ... tantalizing, though. The intoxication of the forbidden maybe. A hearth and home he intrudes on but can never claim. Her tongue slips out to wet her lips and he almost kisses her again, but

she doesn't like that, and really

neither does he. He thinks.

He doesn't kiss her. His hand drops from her breast and joins the other. He starts undoing the clasps of her dress, from the top down. One. Two. He counts them in his head without meaning to. There's more skin now, and for once in his misbegotten life he restrains himself, he waits - three, four - until he can see her bra, until he can see she's not wearing a bra at all, until he can see the soft shadow between her breasts, and where her abdomen slopes in under the last of her ribs. Five. He shifts under her, slides back in the seat with a flex of his thighs. Grasps her by the waist and swings her over him. Six: one last clasp, and then

taking the halves of her bodice in his hands. Peeling it down. Baring her. He takes her upper arms; his hands seem to swallow her biceps. Her back hits the steering wheel but the truck is too old and its horn too tired to even give a bleat. He presses her there, heavyhanded even when he's trying not to be, or at least not trying to be, and he puts his mouth on her breast. Kisses her skin. Sucks her nipple against his tongue. Kisses her there, too, as hard and devouringly as he'd tried to kiss her mouth.

For a moment there, he's touching her breast and looking at her in the dark and her eyes are still closed. Her mouth is open, her lips wet now, and she's leaning into that touch, giving a quiet pant that is, itself, like a shadow. She isn't letting him do this. She's saying please. She isn't bearing up against it, enduring it, and she isn't even simply enjoying it. She's seeking it, moving closer to it, to

him.

With the truck's engine quiet now they can hear the river, not so much lapping as swirling, mumbling past the shoreline, pushing against the tangled wet roots of thick grasses. And he can hear her breathing quicken by the moment, hear the restraint of a gasp when he puts his hands on her body and moves her. She half expected it. It isn't that kind of gasp, shocked or startled, but her eyes do open again on him. He has her attention again.

She sinks down on his lap, hands on his arms. Her bodice is five clasps open, an impossibly deep V of flesh bared between her breasts. Her skirt is rumpled around her hips now, her legs open over his body, his jeans rough on her inner thighs. That dress is slinking, slippery, in his hands when he peels it off of her shoulders, pushes it down her arms. She draws them up, momentarily hunched in a way that would look self-protective if she didn't have those bright pink spots high on her cheeks, if she weren't breathing so heavily. Her breasts move with it, for only a moment, before he pushes her back, bends over her, starts suckling at her breast, sucking her nipple, licking it, rubbing his tongue over it like there's some second taste of her hidden beneath the first.

Danicka's eyes roll back. She thinks of asking him if he wants her dress completely off, or about asking him to take off his shirt, but she doesn't care. Right now, she doesn't care. She gasps, and the windows are already steaming, they are

wasting no time at all now,

when she presses the pads of her fingertips on his scalp, rubs them backward, is vaguely disappointed that his hair isn't long or thick enough to grab hold off or even run through. Just bristles. She massages though, while he devours her. "I want to suck on you," she breathes. "But not til you come. I still want you to fuck me."

There's no time to waste. That's what he'd say.

His life is an angry, hard, jagged thing. It's full of pain: pain he endures, and pain he dishes out, and the latter always outweighs the former. It's full of war and strife and squeezed in there were stretches of great and dragging boredom into which the moon, and his rage, waned and waxed. Some nights he can't even sleep, he can't sit still, he needs to fight or fuck or something and he always picks fighting because he thinks, he knows, he'll end up killing whoever he takes to bed. Some nights he stones himself out of his mind. He uses cheap weed and manual labor to pass the time, filling up the gaping holes between one fight and the next, and hardly any of them were For The Cause. He's a Cliath now, newly minted as of a month and a half ago, but he has no pack and he has no Sept. He hated how in that Sept he made his bones in and his father made his second and third names in everyone still looked at him and called him Njal's boy. So now he's in New Orleans and last week he was in Biloxi and next week he doesn't know where he'll be, but it'll hardly matter because

as much as he drags time out, he knows there's really no time to waste. He's a ticking time bomb and his life has a counter on it. It hit zero when he Changed, and now every day is another step into the red.

So his mouth is on her. His hands are all over her, grappling her dress all the way off her arms, her wrists, down. His palms rub up and down her back, his forearms sliding between her spine and the steering wheel, bringing her that much closer into his waiting mouth. He eats her alive, one nipple to the other, his mouth leaving a red trail of sucking kisses between. She finds no hair to grab ahold of, but she has his attention anyway when she says what she does.

Decker's eyes flash open. They are glassy with want. He stares at her a moment. Then he lifts his mouth, he's panting silently, she can see his teeth and it wouldn't be out of place at all if they dripped blood, if she looked down and found he'd eaten a hole through her with the sheer force of his lust. Her words hit him somewhere deep inside. He doesn't get a lot of blowjobs. Maybe he's never had one. He wants one, of course he does, but --

he shakes his head.

"No." His voice is rough. His hands are rough, he lifts her again, gravity spins, he slams her down on the seat. Twists with her, rises over her. Claws his scrap of a wifebeater shirt up from the back, up and off, leaves it on the floor. His knuckles are bruised from earlier, big and bony and discolored as he wrests his canvas belt open. "Don't wanna wait."

That's only part of the truth. The rest of it is in his eyes; a sort of murky, reflexive uneasiness. While he undoes his fly he reaches between her legs, his calloused fingers grasping her thigh, following it up, searching. Exhales in a rush when he finds her, grasping the scrap of panty that covers her cunt in his fist, yanking it off her and down her legs like he's taking the lid off a cookpot. With his other hand he gets his pants open, finally, rises up on his knees to push the denims down. No butter-soft two hundred dollar jeans, his. Stiff and coarse and heavy, built to last through years of abuse. His wallet chain jingles. He shoves his boxers down too, and then he has his cock in his hand, and even that is a brutish thing, ridged and defined, broad head, thick shaft. He starts jerking it almost immediately, ruthlessly, nostrils flaring. Her panties get tossed on the floor along with his shirt. Without taking his eyes from her he feels around, fumbles around in the pockets of his half-discarded jeans for his wallet, a condom. His mama didn't teach him no manners, but somewhere along the way some woman he fucked did.

[EMPAFEE]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 6, 6, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 5 ) Re-rolls: 1

Empafee:

'Don't wanna wait' is the truth; he doesn't. But it runs deeper than that. He's uncomfortable with the potential connotations of oral sex. The way he wants to fuck her seems simpler and more straightforward; they are, at least in theory, equally involved and on equal footing. Oral is different. Superficially, it makes her subordinate to him, and that makes him uncomfortable. On a deeper level, it also puts him into a paradoxically vulnerable position, effectively putting him into her hands. That really makes him uncomfortable.

Gaia only knows what he'd think of it if he knew where she came from. It's unlikely the Fenrir know or care about the great dead legends of other tribes, but it might mean something that her mother was strong, that her mother led her pack, that her mother could have put Decker on the ground, that it took so damn much to finally kill her. It might not mean anything at all to Decker himself though. And it might not mean anything at all that they both come from horrors, from abuse, from your own sheer worthlessness being drilled into you night and day even if no one said it,

though sometimes they did.

Gaia only knows what he'd think if he knew her. Danicka doesn't think about who he is. She knows he's a wolf. She doesn't know what kind. She would know the word 'modi' if he said it, she's never heard of his father, she's never been to Alabama or Mississippi and until a month or so ago she'd never been to Louisiana, either. She's never been west of the big great river, never seen those fourteen-thousand foot peaks that break up through the country, never touched a warm sea. In the grand scheme of things she has no experience at all, not really.

She knows this though. A man's hungry mouth and needful hands, all of it right up against the edge of violence. She knows lust and that insatiable chasm it tries to fill, he tries to fill, pulling her closer and closer and turning her fair, sun-hidden skin red with his rough animal tongue, his scraping white teeth. She wants to fuck him with her mouth first. She doesn't want him to come though, she doesn't want him thinking that she's freaked out now, skittish, maybe if she sucks him off he'll let her go at that, she wants him to know that she still wants to fuck him after, he'd better not be one of those quick-shot useless boys.

And he's staring at her, mouth still on her, and she stares back. Her palm to his scalp, her eyes meeting his for longer than a half-second like all the times before. She squirms against his lap, because for that moment he's still and that's a moment too long. And he shakes his head. Says no. She lets out a noise, it's not really a gasp or a yelp but close, or both, as he throws her down to the bench. She's stunned for a second, watching him pull his shirt up, seeing the dried blood -- not his, she thinks -- on his knuckles, the way he almost growls that he doesn't want to wait.

She looks up at him. And her skirt is hitched high, her dress mostly hanging around her waist and little else, and she is propping herself up on her elbows as he is yanking his belt open, undressing himself, essentially about to jam a hand between her legs.

Danicka grabs it, but that's not where the strength is. Like a puppy batting at a wolf. "Don't," she says, tense and hard and unwavering. She's holding that arm, pulling herself up to sitting, and she isn't slow about this, caressing, warm, but as she's looking at him and telling him,

"I didn't ask what you wanted,"

her other hand goes between his legs, past the ragged metal teeth of his fly, touching him,

far gentler than he was going to touch her. She shudders. A thin scrap of cotton between them still but she shudders as though he's come inside of her, pushed into her, and then makes a noise. It's not a grunt, nor is it a moan. If it had a word to it, a coherence, it would be o, but it isn't even that much.

Her mouth, after all, is on his chest. Just her lips, and the sound hitting his skin.

A hard pulse in his hand when she grabs him. His heart pounding, pounding all down the corridors of his arteries to throb there under her slender fingers. He grabs her right back. There's a moment when animal outrage flashes in his eyes. She didn't ask what he wanted. He bares his teeth at her.

She touches him.

His hips flex of their own accord. His balance shifts, his back to the steaming window of his truck, his head falling back to thump against the glass. He doesn't make a single sound, but his nostrils flare with every breath. His restlessness runs deeper than his consciousness. It's at the very core of him, a fire lit under his ass by his own rage. His body seems to have its own mind, and it moves with or without his consent. He thrusts against her hand, into her hand, and when she kisses his chest he lifts his head.

Looks at her, her razored golden hair bright even in the gloom. A different shade than his. Warmer. Richer. He puts his fingers in her hair and all at once he's not resisting but urging her on, pressing her down his body as he shifts under her, gets his knees out from under himself, stretches one leg along the length of the bench seat, bends the other to the floorboard.

Her arm goes limp. The one he grabs, at least. Just... instantly. Her shoulder even drops, her hand loosening. There's not a flinch. That wasn't something she learned between eighteen and twenty-something. That was something she learned before she was eight. It isn't even learned. It's instinct. He's strong, stronger than her, stronger than metal, and she just... submits to it.

Except that submission, that emptiness, doesn't make its way all through her. Her other hand is on him, though not on his skin yet. She touches him, finds him, makes that soft little sound, and she isn't even well and truly jerking him off or anything close to it yet but he's thrusting into her hand, falling backward, and his body seems to be telling him to shut up, just fucking shut up, just... shut the fuck up you fucking fuck.

Or something like that.

Danicka follows him when he moves back, and there's barely any coolness to the glass at his back. She follows him, her mouth seeking and unerringly finding his nipple, like she memorized the sight of him and the map of his chest before her eyes fell closed. She sucks, all but crawling over him now, the two of them turning over from the way they were oriented before, and her hand is so sure yet so curious, exploring him through the cotton without trepidation or shame or hesitation or... anything like that.

His hand is on her hair, pressing her down, and that's when she laughs.

The sound of it is a little like fucking her already. It sounds like dark looks, it sounds like slick feels. It's as low as the root of his cock, the depths of her cunt, and it ends in a pant as she drops out from under his hands, faster than he's urging her, and with shocking dexterity at this point, lifts his boxers from him, away from him, and there's no moment of tickling or nuzzling or breathing heavy or complimenting his Very Large Cock, Sir, she just

licks him. Along the underside, following a vein, her tongue flat and wet and marking an unbroken path to his head, which she then

envelopes, suckling there, just there, as her tongue draws a circle around him.

Does he notice that sudden limpness in her arm? He must. He's seen it often enough himself, when he was a kid. Did it himself, maybe, when he was even younger; before strength and rage and brutality began to take root in his soul. Back when he wasn't a wolf, or a cub, or even a dream of a cub. Back when he was young. Weak. Prey-animal.

They have some similarities in their history. Don't seem to -- don't seem like they could. Look at her. Listen to him. They don't come from the same town, state, country, world. But they do share something. Awful childhoods, lonely teen years. Abuse a shadow in their pasts. But they're different, too, and in ways deeper than background or history. He's a wolf. He had an escape. He grew out of being prey.

She didn't grow out of it. She slid out of it another way. Sideways. There's something a little deviant about her. He gets the crazy idea that she likes this. She likes being where she shouldn't be. Doing what she shouldn't. Why else would she be here. Edge of a river. Dark of the night. Fooling around in the cab of an ancient truck with a penniless brute of a stranger who wants to put her on her back and plow her. Putting his back against a wall instead,

going down on him.

His back arches hard when her tongue hits him. He lets go her arm and he reaches blindly, slaps his palm down on the dash of the car, grabs for purchase that isn't there. He doesn't want to groan aloud, he doesn't want to seem so weak, so easily undone. His hand finds her hair again, combs through it, spreads over her back before the path her tongue takes makes him forget that he even has a hand, that he even has a body, that he's anything more than a raw bundle of nerves that she's plying, playing, playing like an instrument. When she sucks on him she can feel him pulse in her mouth. She releases and his cock jumps an inch, falls back against the flat of her tongue. She's no novice. His is hardly the first cock she's sucked or fucked, and she's seen larger, she's seen longer, but there's weight there, there's substance and girth; girls don't usually suck him off. They think he might try to fuck their mouths. Force their heads down. He might brutalize them, he might like to see them gag, he might be awful. Something like that. He thinks most the girls who have fucked him have feared him on some level. He supposes this one does too, but at least she isn't letting it show. That's different.

She does something with her tongue, and he stops thinking. He doesn't let himself close his eyes. Watches her, his chest and his ribs and his abdomen heaving with every breath, the musculature there defined, then subtle, then defined again -- repeating with every cycle. He doesn't let himself make a sound, either, but he can't stop the panting. His breathing is harsh, a rasp in the air. His other hand is gripping the back of the seat hard enough to indent the vinyl, almost break it. Sometimes he catches his lower lip between his teeth. Sometimes his eyes roll back, but then he always forces them open again. Watches. He wants to watch.

Danicka is frightened of him but... not really.

She knows he doesn't want to hurt her. And she's used to knowing it's going to happen and there's really not a whole lot one can do about it. Sometimes there's nothing at all you can do about it. You think you're doing everything right and then the moon comes out from behind the clouds and someone has a broken clavicle and there's blood on the floor and screaming, screaming. Sometimes there's nothing you can do. Everything breaks. Everyone dies.

And knowing that, believing it like faith in a god, Danicka does what she likes in the spaces in between life and death. What she likes -- what she wants -- is this. And it is more than fear, right now.

It's enough to push him back like that -- don't -- and enough to boldly, brashly, dangerously tell him what she does -- I didn't ask what you wanted -- and it is enough to look for that cock she felt pressing up against her through his jeans when she was on his lap, that cock she decided she wanted in her mouth, wanted to see and taste before sitting on it, working it inside of herself. It was more than fear. It was enough.

Still, it surprises her that he doesn't yank on her hair and force her down harder, thrust into her mouth, gag her. It doesn't surprise her that he isn't spitting on her or calling her names or hitting her, because... he doesn't want to hurt her. They both know he might. It's just that he doesn't want to, and he does want her to do this. It surprises her that he combs his fingers through her short-shorn hair the way he does, hitting the dash instead, stroking his hand down her back til he forgets himself.

And she does that thing with her tongue but then she just slides her mouth down, sucks on him without any more teasing, any more slowness. No, not her first. Not new, except that he's new. She isn't worried about him thinking he's undone her; she moans around his cock and lets her mouth grow wetter around him.

On the outside, this looks trite. Looks like trash. Old truck parked under a bridge or close enough, down in the deep south. Blonde girl in a half-undone dress bent over a bruised-knuckled asshole from Alabama, her head bobbing in his lap, faster now, mind-meltingly practiced, skillfull, good. So fucking good. Maybe he's never had this before. Maybe he has nothing to compare it to. Doesn't fucking matter. How it looks from the outside doesn't fucking matter. The windows are steamed and no one is looking anyway.

Danicka is licking him as she sucks, and there's something ravenous about her mouth now, coming up briefly for air, her hand on him now too, stroking him, her mouth returning, that moan vibrating down that silk-thin skin that covers him. It's as though she's forgotten what she said. Her hand creeps up his side, touches his chest, thumb circling his nipple. She thinks it's okay if he comes. She thinks: this one will want to fuck her anyway after. He'll want her more. She can't wait to fuck him now. But she can't stop this, either.

Those bruised knuckles of his are white now. That fist is clenched, and the other hand grips the dash hard enough to bend the first joint back. He wants to watch her but he can't. His eyes shut, his head hits the window. He thinks she's a liar, she lied, she said she didn't want him to come but now she's sucking on him like this. What little control he has is slipping through his fingers like sand. It seems to matter. It seems to matter that he doesn't come like this. That she doesn't undo him like this. It seems to matter but he can't remember why, and

his breathing is edging toward a growl, his hand falls to her hair after all. A moment where his fingers clench, press. Then it passes. He holds her hair. Grip firm. He's not pushing her down, though. He's not forcing her mouth down on him, he's not forcing her at all. He doesn't want to be like that. He doesn't want to hurt her,

and that matters,

and he remembers why.

Can barely remember his own name, though. And she doesn't stop, she's sucking him so good now, she's working into this rhythm that blows stars apart in his mind. His mouth is open, he's panting for breath. His hand rides the motion of her head. His foot is braced on the floor, stomped against the far door, leaving a bootprint there -- he uses that leverage the best he can, lifting his hips against the slide of her mouth, thrusting in counterpoint. When her hand passes up his side he shivers hard. His nipple is hard too. She thinks it's okay if he comes. He thinks he's going to come, doesn't want to, and for the first time since he started urging her down on him his hand tries to direct her. He tries to pull her off his cock. He reaches down, he takes his cock in hand, pulls it away and lays it flat against his stomach. It leaves a streak of wetness, cool against his hot skin. He can't decide whether to stroke himself off or let her go on or stop her.

Eyes still closed though. The expression on his face is strange. Doesn't belong there. He looks rapt, overcome. Where's the thunderous scowl, where's the sneering lip? He swallows, tries to catch enough breath to say like he's reminding her:

"Not til I come."

No name to add there. He realizes he doesn't even know her name. She doesn't know his either. His eyes open; he looks at her. That's the only thing he'll be able to take away from this tryst. The sight of her. The way she looks.

Something different about her.

Different from whores, certainly, different from girls hungry for a little wild adventure, absolutely. It isn't just that she's kin. It can't even just be that she's purebred kin, beautiul and forbidden and intoxicating for being so. There is something deeply, catastrophically different about her. There's no shame in her. Even when she flickers with fear like a flame about to go out, she doesn't hesitate with him.

She pressed her breast into his hand, whispered please for him to touch her. She arched backward when he leaned over her, licking those soft, small, supple breasts of hers, and she didn't moan then but she panted, stretched out, aching for it. She has massaged his scalp, grabbed his arm, kissed his chest, stroked his cock. Found what she wants and taken it, demanded it, not because she isn't afraid and not because she's trying to be a bitch but because

she wants. And she does not apologize once for it. Not to him. Not to herself. Not to anyone.

More than that: not once have her eyes flick around at the windows, making sure no one is about to walk by. Not once has she tried to cover a part of herself, once bared. The bridge above them rattles occasionally with the passage of a truck; headlights swoop across the landscape. Not once has Danicka flinched. Her world seems as narrowed as his, shrunken to the size of a truck's cab, the windows slick and wet with condensation except where his leaning has wiped it away. It's hot enough this summer, and she's hot enough to be so close to him, that her skin already tastes a little like sweat, sheens with it when he looks at her.

And he does look at her. Watches her like the predator he is, tracking her movements as long as he can even when she's blowing his mind. Her tongue is agile, as deft as her quick, soft hands. She seems so hungry for this, moaning when he throbs, bowing over him like...

well. Like a wolf over a meal.

Danicka, though he doesn't have any such name for her, is going faster when his eyes give surrender and close. She is stroking him off, raising him up to some dizzying height, higher and higher, and he knows she's just going to drop him, let him fall, break every bone in his body, and it will feel good. It will feel incredible. Danicka can hear him all but growling and she groans around him in answer. The sound turns her on, she realizes, and she wants to hear it louder, hear him roar.

He's holding her hair. Gripping it like a beast. That turns her on, too, and it shouldn't, oh she should be scared, but instead she's wet, she's so wet that she's just urged on by that hand. He fucks up into her mouth a little, thrusts, flexes, and that motion of his body is like a surging wave. She rolls with it, shudders, bears him back down with hand and mouth, gasps for a moment as she slides off, goes back down, feeling his hand on her head bobbing with her own movement. He's going to come and she's not even thinking right now about what to do with his cum, she's not thinking at all, not until he starts to pull her up, pulls his cock from her mouth, holds it against his abdomen.

Danicka comes up, eyes glazed, mouth open, and moves forward to him, heedless and shameless and wanton, chasing as though he's playing keep-away, teasing her. He doesn't seem the type but for a moment she's not thinking about what he would or wouldn't do. All she can sense is that what she wants is moving away, being taken, and she doesn't even have the presence of mind to protest. She just follows.

That's just a moment, though. She's lower than he is, and looks up at him, but his eyes are closed. He looks caught up in worship, hearing the voice of heaven, a choir of revelation and despair. She can see him and he can't see her. Danicka likes that. He reminds her of what she said. There is a blank spot at the end of the words, where her name might be. She doesn't supply it. But then his eyes open, and he looks down at her, and she's still looking up at him. Her eyes are like forests... or the kind of dark, deep water in the middle of a wetlands and jungles that can drown you, pull you down, close murky and remorseless above your head. Her hands are on his hips, holding herself up. Then pressing, pushing back from him.

Rising up on her knees, Danicka strips the rest of her dress off, up her body and over her head, tossing it down where his wifebeater is. The smells are going to mingle; no matter. No one at the mansion is following her around, sniffing at her, trying to find out of she's a slut. There's just her now, before him, and earlier he was going to yank her panties off, pull them down her legs with one hand, but he sees now how impossible that would have been, what he really would have found if he'd thrust his hand up between her thighs and not been stopped.

Danicka climbs over him, onto him, her hands on his shoulders and then sliding down to his chest. The small thatch of hair between her legs is burnished gold, much darker than her hair, trimmed delicately close. She has her eyes on his, quite literally the longest eye contact she's ever had with a werewolf, and she's using words. Language.

"I haven't had sex in a few months," she whispers to him, even as she's easing herself downward, stroking her pussy along the underside of his cock, rubbing herself on him as though to scent him, mark him, or take his mark onto herself. "Don't make me regret this."

Her head bends toward his, one hand sliding up to the back of his neck, holding him there. She -- liar, liar -- kisses him, deep and full and just as hungry as the way she rides the shaft of his cock, slicking him with her own arousal.

Who is this girl? Who is this girl, that looks like a million bucks, or at least a few hundred thousand. Who is she, who was hanging over a balcony in a rotting old tenement of a house on the wrong side of the tracks, who accidentally-though-he-thinks-it-was-on-purpose kicked a bottle down to smash on the sidewalk below, who followed him out of there, who let him

(she didn't let him do anything, not a bit of this is something she didn't want)

take her away from there, take her under his bridge that she knew already, take her here to fuck her. Who is she? He has no idea. She doesn't tell him; she doesn't even supply him with a name, not even a fake one that he can call out while he's inside her, though perhaps he wouldn't anyway. She doesn't wear a bra; she's not wearing panties either. She strips her dress off and it's just her, golden and perfect, and leaning against the uncomfortable door of his truck Decker just stares, lips parted, pupils blown. Mind blown.

She didn't get him off. He's at once relieved and disappointed. He starts rubbing off when he sees her naked, jerking off to her like she's one of the girls from those skin mags he's tossed behind the seats of this very self-same truck. She could be; she's hot enough. But she's not a fantasy, she's real, her skin is soft and her palms are warm. She sinks down on his lap and he grips himself in his hand, looking for that secret opening in her, but she rubs herself over the shaft of his cock, leaves wetness on him, leaves wetness on his knuckles, a clear slick across the rough bruises.

He doesn't know her name but he knows the last time she had sex now. His cock jumps under her: it turns him on so much. That it's been a few months. That she picked him. The things she says: don't make me regret this. Can't imagine what she means, really. Don't come too fast? Don't fuck her too hard? Don't fuck her not hard enough? She kisses him

and he snarls into her mouth. Liar, he thinks, triumphant; it doesn't taste bitter at all. It tastes a little like victory, though he isn't sure what the prize is. Not her. Might be the other way around, he thinks. Maybe he's her prize for being so bad, so secretive, for getting away with it. He returns that kiss. So hungry. Such a hotblooded, ravenous beast, lapping up everything she gives him, howling for more. Surging up off the door and the corner of the cab where he'd wedged himself, now. His head bangs off the roof. He doesn't care. Her back hits upholstery: the seat, if she lets him. The seatback, if she doesn't. It hardly seems to matter, but he needs to be able to move, he needs to be able to fuck her when the time comes.

Something flickers sharply in her eyes when he starts jerking himself off at the sight of her. She likes that. She doesn't say it, doesn't move her hand to join is. But for a second there she's just watching him stroke it, and her heart is hammering, and her pussy gets wet. So she climbs onto him when she can't stand it anymore, rubs herself on him, watches the lust flare in his eyes when she whispers what she does.

Then they're kissing, and he's snarling, wordless, like a victor. And he's surging up, banging his head and ignoring it, moving her, and she just laughs again -- like before, low and dark and sexual, shoving her hands on his chest.

"Don't you dare," she says, and there's something sultry and amused and demanding there, her cunt grinding down on his cock with the words. She stays on top of him. Sits on his lap if he moves to his knees, rides him if he flops backward, but... no. She's not there for him to fuck, to forget her when he comes, hide from her by turning his face where she can't see him. Her mouth is on him again, drinking him again, her slender upper body pressed against the wall of his.

That laugh of hers touches him like a match to gasoline. Infuriates and inflames him. Don't you dare, she says, it's almost a purr, it's almost a sneer. He shows his teeth. She stays on top of him. He does move - surging up, but then

sliding down the seat a half-foot, dropping back. Ancient springs groan. Now he's flat on the bench seat beneath her, she's straddling him, he's grabbing her with his hands around her sides to keep her close to him. He doesn't need to. Her mouth finds his again and he tears at her, he bites her lip before he licks it, licks all the way down her collarbones. Lust is a clamoring inside him; it's almost violence. He wants to grab her in his hands, slam her onto his cock, he wants to hammer her until she's screaming. Has to tell himself, over and over again: not so hard, not so rough, be careful, she's only human.

Except she's not. He thinks she must be some sort of witch. Heard about such things, magic-weavers and will-workers with power stronger than any Theurge; creatures that stole the spirits and vitalities of heroes; and drained Caerns dry. Wonders if she's one, wonders if he'll rise from this bedding sapped, a pale shadow of himself. Thinks he's being stupid, childish. Doesn't care, anyway. He pants against her skin, his breath hot against her upper chest. He lets his head fall back, watching her now, letting her watch him,

letting her see the attention and focus that narrows his horizons as he slides his hand down her back, holds her by the hip. He has his cock in hand, handles it with a sort of thoughtless familiarity, and he's hot and firm and slick with her wet or his precum, sliding against the cleft of her body, searching in heavy, forceful strokes that bump against her clit, nudge her labia open. The outer; then the inner folds, the heat there multiplied, like a white-hot center at the core of her. Oh, there you are, he thinks, but he doesn't say anything - just gives a low, half-caught pant of a groan, when he finds the opening of her cunt. He pulls her down by the hip, his eyes closing and his brow furrowing at the friction of that initial penetration -- the pressure of her cunt around that sensitive thickening at the base of the head. Her tightness is almost too much to bear. Then he's past, exhaling harshly: he's in her, feeling the squeeze and shiver of her as she adjusts to him. A hot, unexpected tenderness rushes through him. He knows it won't last, so he takes it while he can: raises his head and searches for her mouth, kisses her blindly as he holds her by the hips, guides her down the shaft of his cock.

He never speaks. Hasn't said a word since he repeated her own back to her. Before that, not a word since he grunted that he didn't want to wait. He answers her, when he has to -- but Danicka talks to him. She pushes him back down, purring to him, grinding on him, and he slides down, drops, lays out under her and she is readjusting herself atop him, sliding her hips even as she leans over him, mauling his mouth with her own. Liar, liar. God only knows why she's kissing him. She doesn't know.

Maybe because he never speaks.

She's never felt arms so hot. She's felt strong bodies, firm ones, felt thick and hard cocks pressed against her, pushes inside of her, but she's never felt anyone whose skin was so warm. She thinks they're going to catch fire. She thinks she's going to suffocate on all this heat. She knows it's coming from him. Her hips wind atop him, squirming, as though now, for some godforsaken reason, she's decided ot tease him. It makes it hard to find her, hard to rub against her, hard to --

but he does. And she groans, and fine, if he thinks he's conquered, if he feels triumphant, she doesn't care, she moans aloud when he starts working himself into her. Her mouth can't stay on him but her hands do; Danicka clutches at him ravenously, arching her back, her belly pressed close and warm to his. She's swearing, or it sounds like swearing, in some language he wouldn't recognize, and mingled in there are fucks and oh my fucking gods and yes, which is in her body and in her mouth, an utterly inalienable truth: yes. Danicka slows him with her body, with how tight she is, with all her hungry demanding for what she wants, which is... this.

Halfway into her, he can hear her whimper, and it's the most goddamn erotic sound she's made all night, a sort of needful whining as she rolls those slender hips, takes him deeper, starts swiveling them in a circle as she gets used to him. She never stops moving, never tenses up or recoils, just slides further onto him. He grabs her to kiss her again and she shudders into it, gasps something in that other language, while her skin melts against his heat.

He didn't go searching for a condom this time. She didn't ask for one. It's been a very, very long time since she's felt it just like this, and she starts riding him as soon as she can bear it, her forearms on his chest, her head turning to look back at their lower bodies, her brow furrowed with it, the expression almost pained. "Ach, můj bůh," she moans, her lips pursing around the b, the entire sound rolling together, and just by intonation he can tell what she's saying -- pleading. And turning her head again, lowering her brow to his shoulder, she starts fucking him like he didn't just now thrust into her, riding him as though to tear something out of him, wear him down, use him up.

Can't be denied that there's are subtle currents of power ebbing and rising between them. What she did to him with her mouth. What he thought when she kissed him. What she wouldn't let him do. What he did instead. How she laughed.

But that's shredding apart at the edges now. He doesn't feel triumphant when he fills her up. He doesn't think he's conquered. He doesn't think at all. No room left for thoughts. Her hands are so hungry on his body. She's so hungry for his body, and he's so hungry for hers, and

in truth his silence isn't another bid for dominance. He doesn't say anything because he can't think of anything to say. Doesn't trust himself to say something to turn her on, say something that wouldn't sound stupid, say something that doesn't sound like it comes from a bad porn, or worse. And now she's spilling words in a language he doesn't even understand, and the only language he knows - despite all the purity in his blood, all the bloodlines going back generations and generations - is English, and even that's barely.

So he doesn't say anything at all. He pants as she moves on him. She looks back and he raises his head and he looks too, they both look at their bodies, where they're joined. Where he's inside her. Where she's riding him, moving her hips to take him deeper, rolling her hips to drive his head back against the seat, drive a breath out from the very bottom of his lungs. God, he manages. She says the same thing. He doesn't know for sure, but he thinks she does.

Then her brow is to his shoulder. His hands are firmer on her hips. She starts fucking him; he clenches his teeth. She feels feverish. She feels like a fever, makes his breath hot, makes the centers of his palms hot, makes him lightheaded, makes him delirious. She rides him like she's using him, like he's not here to fuck her at all but here to get her off, there's a difference, she's savage. His hand slides up her back, grasps at the columns of slender muscle by her spine, falls down, claps over her ass to grip her there.

She's found a reckless rhythm. He meets her in it, quite suddenly, bucking his hips up against her downstroke, meeting her with a slap of their bodies together. Impact makes him growl. He guides her with his hands, holds her with his hands, bounces her on his cock with his hands, fucks her with short sharp throws of his lower body. He was right: that tenderness didn't last. Now it's all burnt up, the same way that transient high of that almost-unshared joint has burnt up long ago; what remains behind is a raw, jagged focus, a ferocity that has him pounding into her. Rocking the truck on its aging springs. Blurring the windows with condensation. Filling the air with the sort of noises, sounds, raw and erotic and unpretty, of this sort of blatant, animal coupling.

A hand comes to her shoulder. He pushes her back, lifts her brow from his skin, and then his palm cups her face. The muscles in his chest bunch under her forearms. He arches up to kiss her, bitingly; holds her eyes even when he falls back.

That's different too, whether from a mortal or a kinswoman: that pushback. That power. That jockeying not to subjugate him but to be allowed to meet him -- she doesn't ask for it. She demands it. And she doesn't even seem to think about it overmuch. This is her right, this is what she's entitled to: he is a male, and if he gives her no pleasure, if he bears her down and bites her and mounts her, he has broken an ancient contract, older than blood, and he will know it no matter how many ways he tells himself that breaking that contract is his right.

He has a cock, hot and firm inside of her now, and she is using it like that's what he's here for. She's wet now, slick from sex and from sweat both, glistening in what half-light there is in the cab. She keeps looking at him, various parts of him, as though she can only take so much at once: the flex of his arm, the curve of his shoulder, the slam of his cock into her, the rippling of his abdomen.

They aren't wasting any time. There's no time to waste. It doesn't matter why they act like this, why they're doing this, why they can't seem to do any differently: what matters right now is that he's holding her hips onto him, fucking back into her, and she can feel the power there, too -- power in his entire body, not just those heavy arms. It's intoxicating to her. She pushes up for a little while, long as she can, arched over him with her hands planted on his chest, her body a bow; she fucks him like that, or for now lets him fuck her like that, moving her on top of himself, staring at her, and even her small tits bounce with the motion. Her sounds, raw and hitching now, go in time with his thrusts. She's not talking now, either.

And wet -- hot, wet slick -- is all over his cock, as though every second she's only more aroused by this. Somehow despite all his heat, all his rage, that's hotter. It stands out against her sweat, against their meeting skins, against everything.

But she can't stay up for long. She descends again, moaning loudly into his chest and if there were anyone watching, listening this truck, they'd hear that and think: she's close. They'd know, like animals know what an arched back means, how to tell one wolf's territory from another's, like animals know when someone else is stronger. There's something ragged and helpless in that moan, and she doesn't shield herself from that helplessness.

It's terrifying. Or exhilirating. Or both.

For awhile they're like that again, moving like a tide together -- no. Not like a tide. Like running. Like hunting. Like harrying down some prey together, chasing it to its den, snarling and roaring it out, grabbing in their teeth. And her cunt is clenching on him, so fucking tight she thinks she's going to die, and she doesn't mean to dig her nails in but they sort of are, and all the same her grip is losing strength, she's panting, aching for it.

Decker pushes her back, his hands on her face, and she looks at him for a moment like she's lost something. He kisses her again then, his back curving with it, the force of the kiss driving her deeper, harder onto him. Before it's over she's done something very strange: she wraps her arms around his neck and holds on, kisses him back, following him back down to the seat, this makeshift bed. Those arms wrap; her hand cradles the back of his head. She keeps kissing him. She's going to come, the way she's somehow slowing and deepening her ride, dragging herself along his cock, moaning right into his mouth,

the way no one ever does,

and then she isn't going to come, she's coming, her arms turning tight suddenly, her hips stopping in mid-thrust, her body pulling at him, dragging him, drowning him, possessive and unrelenting. The kiss falls to tatters like a flag carried through too many battles, leaving only her gasping, panting, picking up that pace again, riding out every cresting wave of her orgasm on top of him. Her head is tipped back, her eyes closed, and he doesn't get what's he's promised because she turns her face away when she comes, wailing her pleasure out as it overtakes her.

It's different.

It's different from all those mortal women who fucked him as a challenge to themselves, or as a way to get back at their daddies, their boyfriends, evolution itself that made them so much weaker than he is. It's different from how they let him fuck them, how most of them didn't get off at all, how if they did it was this vicious, almost resentful thing, how afterwards not a single one of them wanted to stick around.

He doesn't know if Danicka will want to stick around either. But it's still different. He doesn't know why she's doing this -- she never answered him -- but she doesn't seem to be proving anything by it. She seems intoxicated by the very act, the very thing she's doing, the very sensations she feels. He sees her looking at him. That's a strange thing, too. He's so very strong, he's a physical paragon, he knows this, but

god, that rage in him, that engine of destruction that is his heart: it makes so many others afraid. Makes them feel like they need to run away or deny their fear somehow. She's different. She's not afraid of her weakness. Or maybe she is, but she seems as intoxicated by that as anything else, and

when she's starting to fall apart atop him she doesn't try to get away from him, she doesn't try to put distance between, she wraps her arms around him like maybe, just maybe, he'll hold her together.

And

he does.

He does: his arms wrapping around her, those massive biceps against her sides, those rough hands opening over her back. He doesn't even know her name, and in a day or hours or minutes they'll part and he might never see her again. Even so. Right now, in this moment, she's with him. He holds her. She slows down. She rides it out. It's amazing. She's moaning into his mouth and he can't even remember how to kiss her anymore, but he remembers how to move, how to slide into her, how to focus all the strength in his body push into her, pull her down, transmute that sweet hot friction between their bodies into a sort of mad pleasure that lights up the arcing circuits of nerves he's forgotten he has.

When she goes still, he knows she's coming. He can feel those last hidden parts of her pulsing and clenching, feel how she sheaths him and grips him and uses him, marks him, drags her pleasure out of him. He almost believes for a second she's his, but then

she turns away,

she fills the humid space of his truck cab with the most erotic sound he's ever heard in his life, and he remembers she's not his but that's okay, too. She picks up the pace again. His head thumps back against the seat; he strains under her. Gets his feet flat on the bench seat, finds leverage, grabs her hips.

Fucks her. Starts fucking her all over again, furiously now, brow tightening, teeth bared, driven far far beyond schooling his expression in any way shape or form. His head bends. He watches: sees the quivering of her inner thighs, the slick of her wet, the flash of his cock every time he withdraws, the echo of impact through their bodies every time he thrusts. He watches until he can't anymore, until his arms wrap around her and pull her against his body, where they can't see each other anymore, can't see but can still feel. The musculature of his torso pulls and clenches and rolls, an unconscious and very nearly involuntary symphony of motion, all of his strength and all of his will bent to the single, singular task of --

put bluntly

-- fucking her senseless. Fucking himself senseless. At the end his teeth clench so hard the muscles in the corners of his jaw stand out -- then part. A panting exhale bursts out of him, a shout stripped voiceless; he cleaves her to him; his entire body rolls under hers, lifts hers, flexes and strains into hers without ever drawing back. He comes inside her in hot, heavy pulses, and now, finally, on those involuntary bucks of his cock inside her, he's groaning, he's loosing these raw, stark shouts into the faintly echoing space of the truck.

She asked him if he wanted to see what she looks like when she comes. He answered in a brutal affirmative -- in a manner of speaking -- and she denied him then, denies him now, takes her orgasm and that perfect moment where if she opened her eyes and looked into his he'd know her, he'd see her spread out before him and he could do anything with her, to her, and she takes it away. Not that. Not with him. Maybe it's instinct that tells her some trace of what that would do to him, to let him believe for more than half a second that he could claim her, that she's his -- he's a wolf. And she's not just a female but she's kin, and farther back in the blood, before history and before tribes, there were only

Garou

and Kin.

That was the only division. Each was made for the other. Complementary halves. The ability to protect; the ability to endure. The necessary components for healthy cubs, strong children, born of the tension of these two varied kinds.

So he feels that, and she does too, and it makes this different. All that rage and destruction in him and she's too busy looking at his body, moaning over it, getting off on it, to care how dangerous he might be afterward. She can see, somehow, past the rage, though in some ways that rage hurts and scares her more than anyone else. She can see past it, and so she comes, and clings to him, kisses him at first and then turns away, her body a sweet, tight ache on top of him, all around him.

"Get on top of me," she whispers in his ear, ragged and quick and breathless, right as she's starting to come back down, right as she's starting to remember the boundaries of her own flesh but not quite, not yet. She doesn't think about it. She can hear his breathing and hear his half-caught groans, feel his body shuddering with at least enough restraint to let her have her orgasm before he takes his. She just says it, and maybe she'll regret it later, but right now she doesn't think so. She doesn't regret very much.

The words are barely out of her mouth before she's flipped, her back hitting the worn seats, his body looming over hers. She has enough sense to be terrified for a moment, raw and afraid, and yet somehow when he comes down over her she only welcomes him, moaning, throwing her head back when he begins slamming into her again, beating into her like a hammer, the entire truck shaking from the force of it. Oh, she's still making noises, whimpers and wordless sounds of pleasure one each stroke. Her legs are slick, sweaty, wrapping around him, her arms still around his neck, and he's looking down, watching their bodies, how fucking wet she is from sex and orgasm both, how wet she's made his cock,

until he can't bear it anymore. He's so warm, pressed down to her, and she can't see anything but his shoulder, neck, earlobe, and he can't see past her skin and the seat of his truck, this whole place smelling primarily of him but now of her, of the way he's fucking her, the way she sweats. Her voice birth spirits that will live in the glass and the vinyl forever, memories of what it sounded like when he fucked her into the seat, the way things creaked or the way she screamed -- literally, flat-out screamed -- as she grabbed the handlebar on the inside of the door, gripping it to hold on while he

came in her. Deep, filling, unrestrained, while that gasp leaves him that makes shudders go through her anew, that makes her legs tighten around him to pull him deeper, that makes her ride herself up on him, work another -- though smaller, quieter -- orgasm out onto his cock. He surges with it, carries her along on it, fucks his cum right into her over and over again, groaning low and heavy and loud and animal.

It feels like forever that she's writhing under him, moaning with him. Feels like he'll never, ever stop pounding her like this, clutching at her like he does, and she's never fucked quite like this before, has no idea now if she ever will again or even how much better it can be. Right now, in the wake of two orgasms and with him heavy and breathing and hot atop her, she thinks she may very well pass out from pleasure.

She doesn't. Skinny thing that she is, high as the color in her cheeks is, she doesn't faint. She just lays there, panting, gasping, occasionally managing to lick her lips, and her eyes are closed, her head thrown back and her throat exposed, her cunt still clutching occasionally at his cock as though to remind him not to go anywhere just yet.

After awhile, perhaps even a long while, the delirious words pour out of her, panting and soft with reverent amazement:

"Oh, mother of fuck..." Decker

For a moment there he almost recognized her. Doesn't know her name or her history or anything of the sort, but -- he almost recognized her in his bones, in his genetic memory that stretches back before all those glorious warrior-ancestors that gave him his blond hair and his grey eyes and his muscles and his savagery. Almost recognized her in the oldest way of all: male to female. Garou to kin.

But; no. Something in her held back at the last moment. Something in him recognized that instead. Recognized it; mourned it a little. But not much. She is not his. She is not of his tribe, but beyond that:

she is not his.

Ultimately, this is so early in their lives. They are still so young. He has not yet earned the axe that will stain his left arm black in arcs and whorls, jags and spikes. She has not yet broken Christian's heart. He hasn't found his pack yet, or the woman he will call mate for seven or eight years. He hasn't been tempted time and again to betray that woman. He hasn't splintered that pack. He hasn't lost that woman, finally, nor that pack. He hasn't gone into the north; he hasn't tried to kill his father; he hasn't claimed, bore, and finally set down the burden of leadership. She has not quite yet found a strength in her she didn't really know she had. He has not quite become who he is.

They cannot see the path ahead. But somehow, they have instinct enough to understand this:

not here. not now. not that. not with him.

She tells him to get on top of her. He obeys. It's more than obedience. He's savagely eager, he turns her under. The springs jut through the cheap vinyl, dig into her back, and then his hand covers her back and presses her up into him. He pounds his orgasm into her. He forgets himself, forgets to be careful, try, be gentle, try, and she

screams.

He'll always remember that. The sounds she made. The way she looked beneath him; the rise of her breast and the reach of her arm, her fingers gripping the doorhandle until tendons stood out in her wrist. Years later when this truck finally breaks down completely and he leaves it at a junkyard for a hundred twenty bucks, years later when he's found his pack and his woman and his axe, he'll touch that doorhandle again on his way out for the last time and remember

how she gripped it, how she arched against him, how her body took his so utterly, so completely; how her reserve and even her fear did not, somehow, prevent or taint her ecstasy.

Mother of fuck, she says. And he, heavy and hot and breathing atop her, makes some low huff of sound that may or may not be a laugh. He stirs, then. His shoulder bunches, his triceps harden; he pushes himself up, pulls out of her and gets off her, collapses into a vaguely seated sprawl. Somehow they've traded places. He's on the passenger side of the cab now, leaning against that door. He's naked, sweat a gleam on his temples and at his throat, on the flat of his chest, between the ridges of his abdomen. His cock is wet, softening against his thigh. His eyes are closed and he rests a while, his hand on her knee, her lower leg still crossing his lap.

Eventually his eyes open. They are not clear and pale the way so many Fenrir's are. His are heavy, the color leaden. He looks through the windshield at the river, and then he reaches out with boneless fingers to roll the window down. A little coolness stirs the air. Without lifting his head he turns it, rolls it sideways, looks at her through lazy, hooded eyes.

"Don't suppose ya wanna tell me yer name," he says, quiet.

There was that moment. No words for it, no understanding of it, but they were looking. Is it you? their souls asked, and before the question could even become conscious, it was dismissed: No. I guess not. But for a second, I thought...

The truth is that it's never been like this for Danicka. It's been raw and dirty and filthy, it's been rough, it's been good, but it hasn't been like this. There's no words for that, either. She utters some anyway, breathes a sort of prayer of gratitude and shock into the air, while they pant together. His cock jumps and pulses inside of her. Every time it does, she closes her eyes and wonders if she's going to come again. Just slow waves, though, deep and burning.

She wonders why she feels a little disappointed, a little sad, but it is such a fleeting, small feeling that she forgets it a moment later. That part of her soul goes back to sleep. It has not been flayed alive yet, has not run hiding into a dark cave, refusing to believe, refusing to hope. For now it just sleeps. His sniffs at her, too, and though his proverbial ears droop in mourning, his spirit turns and goes on its way. It has other destinies for this life. Neither of them, truly, can even imagine right now what will become of them in the future.

They just know they won't be together in it.

Decker gets off of her. It's been long enough, though not a terribly long time in the grand scheme of things. Long enough that when he pushes himself up and pulls out of her, her body and heart don't howl in protest, in longing for him to stay. She just feels a low, dirty, hot ache between her legs and her eyes flicker closed then slowly open again. He moves to the passenger seat, sweaty and gleaming, and she looks drowsily at him as he moves. He cracks the window. One of her legs stays draped loosely over his lap, the other bent at the knee, shin aligned to his side.

Let's be honest, though crude: he just fucked the hell out of her, fucked her full of his cum, and she doesn't know how long it's been for him but he knows it's been at least a couple of months for her and she came, came like wildfire, unstoppable. He's made a mess out of her and she's there, lazing in his truck that will smell like fucking even after he drives away with all the windows down, smell so intensely like her that even when human beings could not possibly pick it up, he won't be able to sit in that damn seat without her body and her voice flashing into his mind, reminding his primordial brain, his own body, of what they just did.

And what they are doing now: Danicka laying there, sweat evaporating on her skin, cum in her cunt, hair askew, her legs lazy and heedless across his body like she has a right to be there.

She doesn't slide away, curling against the door, wondering if he'll hand her her dress if she asks nicely, shaking, hoping she has kleenex and cab fare in her purse. She doesn't ask him softly if he would mind driving her someplace, maybe, please? She doesn't hurry into that dress and her shoes and just... get out, start walking, maybe if she doesn't swing her hips even a little he'll let her go, won't follow her home, won't find her again.

Nah. She just relaxes like she owns the place, like she owns the driver's side, like she still owns his body a little bit -- still, as though she ever did. She gets comfortable, pleasantly worn out from the exertion, and props an arm behind her head, looking at him.

Because whatever else: she does like that.

Just as lazily, he turns his head back to look at her after awhile. She sees an afterimage of lust in those eyes still, sees it like she feels it in herself, and realizes that she could go again. Not right this second but tonight, certainly, she could fuck him again. Gladly. Maybe get him to turn her over and really fucking give it to her. Maybe get on the hood of the truck, out under the night air. It surprises her. She blinks.

He says what he says. She lolls her head against her arm, breathing in deeply, exhaling slowly. "Do you wanna tell me yours?"

Give him this much: he doesn't even pretend that telling her his name, getting hers in return, is a foregone conclusion. He thinks about this. She can see him thinking: eyes flickering. She can see how his thoughts veer off on a hot lurid tangent, too. He looks at her mouth. He looks at her breasts, the dip of her navel. Her cunt. What he can see of it, shadowed under the bridge.

Which rattles, overhead. Fewer trucks now at this hour. He used to have a dream of driving eighteen-wheeler trucks. It seemed a little like freedom, he supposes, to a poor kid growing up in an Alabama trailer park. Now he has a rusty blue Ford and his training behind him, whatever remains of his whole life ahead of him. Maybe that's something like freedom too.

He decides he's done with New Orleans, just like that. That's it. Tonight's it. He can't top this, so he's moving on. He decides he's going north this time. North and east. See the Atlantic. See New York. He doesn't tell her this; she's not a part of that future. He's not a part of hers.

His thumb strokes her calf, though. His chest rises on an inhale. There's a thin scar across his torso, crossing from one side to the other, roughly along the line of his diaphragm. It's the only scar he'll ever bear.

"Decker," he says. And a faint smirk curls his mouth, because he knows she'll see the aptness and the humor in this: "Silence."

But he doesn't ask for her name again. She'll give it or she won't. He never even asked in the first place. Maybe some part of him doesn't want to hear it. Almost, but not quite. That's what his soul said, the marrow of his bones. There's a faint ache in the air, lingering beneath the smell of sex and sweat, the lust still on his mind. Maybe some part of him fears attaching a name to this memory, to the image of her hand on that doorhandle already seared so deep into his brain.

His free hand rises. A lazy gesture. Swipes sweat off his stomach. He looks at her again. This is quiet too:

"Wanna go again?"

If she knew she'd never see him again, knew it for a fact, Danicka might not care. Might only feel relieved -- he won't be sticking around to ruin her life, ruin her reputation among the Garou, destroy any freedom or chance at freedom she has. And if she knew that right now, right this moment he is deciding he's done here, there's nothing else in New Orleans that is going to rise above this, it's hard to say if she would feel pride or a sense of loss, as though not quite could at least be close enough for awhile. Long enough to comfort them both a little.

That is not their fate. He is going to leave. She is going to break a young man's heart and turn her own to ashes in the process, because she is not really meant to ruin lives or hurt people. She is too warm for that at her core. Her heart is a hearthfire, and eventually she will have to go back to the home she doesn't know she's already found. She is meant to discover that she is, in fact, welcome there. Needed there.

But right now, this guy is looking at her, and he's stroking her leg. It feels good; her calf muscle flexes once as though to talk to him and then relaxes. She exhales again, slowly, at the sound of his name. She doesn't offer hers. She does understand 'Silence'. He's not commenting on their quiet. He's telling her his name, and she understands that. It's so simple. It suits him, too. And then,

at least for a few seconds,

they're just staring at each other. No one is moving around awkwardly, talking about rides home, getting out of here. They're just staring at each other, his jeans still around his ankles unless he kicked them -- and his boots -- off while they were fucking. Fucking. She keeps thinking of that word, thinking of him, and thinking of the fact that they're both still naked and alone. He wipes some of the sweat from his torso. Asks if she wants to go again.

The sigh then is one of relief. She nods: "Yeah." And half sitting up, she reaches for him. Lacking a shirt to pull him by, she lays her palm on the back of his neck, drawing him back down with her, over her, kissing him with the lazy, heated slowness and depths of someone who has already crossed that first, frantic threshold. She doesn't ask if he wants to go to a motel. Doesn't talk about getting out of the car and onto the hood. All those thoughts are in her head. But right now, ultimately, this is all she wants, and all she needs: for him to come back to her, cover her, touch her again, be inside of her again. Now. Right now.

Almost. Not quite. Close enough.

At least for tonight. Because the truth is, even if he stayed, this isn't going anywhere. That's not their fate. That's not their life. A scorching fling. A one night stand. But morning would come and she'd have her job, her life on that insane Louisiana plantation, that wedge of the past come back to life. He'd have dishes in the back of some greasy-spoon diner. She'd have a teenager who saw ghosts. He'd have anonymous fights in backalleys, because sometimes,

most times,

a fight was as good a release as sex. Better than.

Not this time, though. This time is something else entirely. She can't even fathom how it could be better than this, right now. She hasn't even seen how much better it can be. He -- well; he might never find better than this. Better than her hands pulling him down. Better than her thighs opening for him, her head falling back when he finds her there, moves into her again. Her legs fold around him, and his arms slip under her. It's so tender, he thinks. He didn't know it could be like this.

She doesn't seem afraid of his mouth on her neck, so he kisses her there, kisses her while he fucks her in these long, deep, slow strokes. That first frantic threshold is crossed. He can't remember the last time he had a second go-around. And it's never been like this: this lazy slowness, like august in the gulf. The seat creaks. Her sighs color the air. A truck rolls overhead and neither of them look up, but he pushes up on his arms then; she passes her hands up his sides, spreads her fingers over his chest, rides the motion of his body beneath her touch. He closes his eyes, and

when it gets a little harder, he comes back down over her. His hands grip the seat, dig into cheap vinyl, imitation leather. She presses a hand to the door. He fucks her so firmly now and she rides up on him and he's not trying so hard not to say anything this time; he forgets to worry about sounding trite or stupid or ridiculous. God, he breathes sometimes, and fuck, yes, and

later on, muffling sounds in her mouth when she kisses him. Not quite, his soul says. Not quite, no, but oh, so close.

Earlier she'd thought -- he'd thought -- about fucking in some raw, primal, dirty way. On all fours. Bent over the hood. Kneeling on the floor of the cab, hands gripping the back of the seat. They wanted it like that; the images scorched their minds. But the moment comes, the opportunity arises, and they don't. They begin like this. They finish like this: their bodies aligned, pressed together, their limbs wrapped around each other.

He shudders this time when he comes, kissing her shoulder, weighing her down when she arches, pounding her to the seat, burying his sounds against her skin. He doesn't try to look in her eyes; doesn't try to see what she'd promised him earlier on the street. He understands.

So does she.

There's a stillness after. A period of time where neither of them move. He could run a mile and barely break a sweat, but she leaves him drenched; he can't catch his breath. His heart pounds so hard it's hard to tell where his pulse ends and hers begins. It is a little harder to draw away this time,

but he does, eventually. He pushes himself up on his elbows; looks down at her. What dim light there is traces the angles of his face. Catches the tips of his short, short hair. He looks at her like he's trying to commit her to memory, and then he leans down to kiss her again.

This time, if she turns away, he wouldn't be surprised.