[Lee Whelan] It's Friday night, and it's very late. Too late for single women to be wandering the streets alone, but Lee Whelan thinks that, maybe, she'll be able to get to her apartment before anyone comes up to her. It's her own stupid fault for being out this late. She spent too much time in her studio editing photos and playing God of War II. For some reason she likes playing incredibly violent video games these days.
This is what she's thinking of as she cuts through parking lots and courtyards, sometimes jogging, sometimes just walking fast. She wants to save a bit of her strength in case she needs a sudden burst of speed to carry her to some form of safety. Though where safety could be found this late at night, she has no idea. The silent monoliths around her are all locked down for the weekend, and the night time revelers are only just starting to come out to play.
She come across few people as she goes. Most of the city's action is happening on the Mile. Lee has just a few blocks to go before she's home safe.
[Alexander Vaughn] It's very late on a Friday night and the good girls are home already, and the bad girls are getting high and getting laid, and then here comes Liadan, hurrying home, maybe with her purses firmly under her arm and maybe a canister of mace in their pockets. Alexander supposes this makes her something of an in-betweener.
She puts on a burst of speed now and then, as if in a hurry to be someplace safe, and now she's crossing the rear parking lot of the little roadside motel that Alex is shacked up in right now while he looks for more permanent housing. He's sitting outside in the cool Chicago spring on a ... lawn chair, of all things, sitting outside the open door of his first-story room like the pavement is a veranda and the parking lot a manicured lawn. There's an open bottle of beer next to him, and beside it are five or six empty bottles, and next to that is another lawn chair, though his friend appears to have departed. Or is possibly currently passed out inside.
It leaves him to watch Liadan hurry across the parking lot. If her shoes have heels on them, their staccato rings flatly off the motel's bland walls. Were Alexander his brother he would know at once what the rather tallish woman coming down the street is. There would be absolutely no doubt. She's kin, purebred, of the Fianna. And then they could... sit and talk about Wyrm and kids and the goddamn Apocalypse, maybe, or whatever the hell it is Garou talk about with their kin when they're not trying to kill them. Or fuck them.
However, Alex is not his brother. Alexander is, as they say, merely human. And so to him Liadan is merely a sort of curiosity, a lone woman out later than she should be, but not so fucked up or so bold as to not even realize it. He doesn't attempt to disguise that he's watching the woman clip by, and as she nears he says, "You're breaking the law."
He points at the signs nailed into the stuccoed walls: PROPERTY OF RODEWAY INN -- NO TRESPASSING!
"Better go back and go around," he adds. "Unless you just have to shave 3 minutes off your walking time. Which makes me wonder why the hell you didn't just call a cab."
[Lee Whelan] Lee's Chuck Taylors make almost no sound as she jets across pavement, except a tiny scuff here and there when she doesn't quite lift her foot up off the ground. Of course she stands out from the usual Friday night crowd. This time of night most women are walking the streets in packs of five or six, hoping for safety in numbers. These women were strappy stillettos that will break their ankles if they step wrong, and they wear clothes that leave little to the imagination.
Lee is fully clothed, but her clothes also leave little to the imagination. She's wearing a long-sleeved black shirt. Over that is a purple shirt with the visage of a warrior woman, bloodied swords in both hands, and the words 'I fight like a girl.' Her long red hair has been left loose to flow past her shoulders. Her glasses have black cats-eye frames.
The woman who stands in the parking lot is clearly a geek. This should make her more of an abnormality to any onlookers. Geeks are shut-ins, geeks don't socialize well. Geek girls especially aren't cutting through parking lots and back alleys late at night in the city. Such is the stereotype.
But stereotypes are hardly ever indicative of the truth.
She stops dead in her tracks, frozen in place like a deer caught in the headlights when the stranger calls out to her. She's been noticed. Maybe the man thinks she's hoping he'll forget about her and let her move on. She can't fail to notice the beer bottles strewn around his chair. She must assume that he's drunk.
But Lee doesn't stay frozen for long. She doesn't know the man for what he is, kin to the wolves, just like her and yet not. All she knows is that this stranger is a potential threat to her person, so she reacts in the only way that seems logical to her.
She shifts her stance so that she's facing him now, her feet planted shoulder-width apart.
And she laughs, a short whuff of a sound, not quite a 'tch.'
"Are you going to call the cops on me, then?"
[Alexander Vaughn] "Should I?" he counters. His grin is sudden and lopsided and all teeth. "Are you a thief?"
There's a brittle, aggressive cockiness to Alexander -- something of a lean, feral animal in rutting season. It's in every line of his body, the way he sits with his feet wide apart; the scuffed jeans rolled haphazardly up to one knee for no reason Lee can reasonably discern. He isn't tall. Even sitting, Lee can see he won't tower when he stands. But he's muscular, ripped: the bared calf is hard with muscle, and the short sleeves and close fit of his t-shirt shows off his torso and his arms to best advantage.
And he is showing off. There's no subtlety to this. Everything about him has an air of showing off. Liadan can read people. She makes a living reading people and capturing them on film. She knows his type at a glance: swaggering, prickly, always out to prove something, and usually at someone else's expense.
He picks his beer up, slugs it back. Then he gets up. She guesses he's drunk; she might not be wrong. There's a distinct looseness to his joints. He comes to the edge of the covered walkway, and then throws a leg over the low rail, another. When he's on the other side he sits down, the beer bottle planted between his thighs. It's hard to say if this sort of phallic posturing is deliberate or unconscious; either is a fair bet.
"So where you going?" he continues as though they were acquaintances at a train station; as though it were perfectly normal to strike up conversations with strange, uneasy women in the middle of the night. "Home?"
[Lee Whelan] When he swings his legs over the wall, every muscle in Lee's body tenses. Without moving her head, she looks the stranger up and down, trying to gauge her chances in this situation. Out of all the possible scenarios that leap to mind, the majority of them tell her this man could definitely hurt her if he got his hands on her. If he wanted to hurt her. She was grabbed by something far bigger, far stronger than she not all that long ago. This time, however, there is no Lonna with a gun handy to distract him, allowing Lee to land an impossibly fatal kick.
The man doesn't come closer, instead choosing to sit on the wall. He's posturing, she can tell. She's seen his type before. But posturing doesn't necessarily mean an absence of threat. Her body eases, but she doesn't relax, not completely.
One would think this would keep her tongue in check. One might even think that a good girl would waste no time in running off, in calling for help, in accepting her place in the world as the weaker sex.
Instead she answers arrogance with haughty arrogance.
"And what makes you think anyone in this hotel has anything worth stealing?" She takes a step closer, into the light pooling around the hotel parking lot. He can see her more clearly now, can see the red hair tucked casually behind an ear, can see that a woman her size should probably think twice before picking fights with guys his size. Her head is tilted down, and there's a challenge in her stance.
To his question about her destination, she merely shrugs. She forces her neck to relax enough to let her take her eyes of the man on the wall, takes a moment to look around her surroundings. "What's it matter to you?"
[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander barks a laugh, harsh. "There's absolutely nothing of worth in this motel. 'Cept me. But if you want a piece of me, babydoll," he's equal parts sly and caustic and flippant, "don't be such a frigid little bitch."
It's hard to call it. He might posturing because it's habit, or he might be mocking the challenge in her stance. Either way, her retort makes him half-laugh again. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. Something about the way his palm slaps back down on his thigh afterward says it again: drunk.
"It's called a conversational opener." He knocks back the beer again, drains it down to the dregs. "Don't be afraid. I don't bite. -- Want some?"
He means his beer. Which is gone now. Warninglessly, he whips his bottle at her -- wait, no, no, not at her. Over her head. If she turns to follow it, she can see he's throwing at a dumpster at the far side of the parking lot. He's got a good arm, good aim. The bottle sails in the dumpster and explodes like a bomb against the side.
"Not that bottle," he adds needlessly. "I'll get you another, if you want one."
[Lee Whelan] [Don't flinch! WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Lee Whelan] She watches his arm cock back, watches him launch the bottle seemingly at her. She doesn't move when it sails over her head to land crashing in the dumpster. Instead her mouth quirks in a grin. Her chin still down, she looks at him over the rim of her glasses. "How do you know I don't bite?" She comes forward another few steps, staying just out of Alexander's reach.
"And you're not currently in the motel, are you?"
Maybe her recent brush with death has made her cocky. Maybe she has more faith in her ability to survive than she probably should. Maybe she thinks something supernatural lurks around the corner, and will pop out and rescue her before she gets hurt. And maybe she thinks none of these things.
Maybe Líadan Whelan just likes to play with fire.
She closes the distance between them, and then some. When she reaches the wall she spins so that she's facing away, and pushes herself up onto it easily. Then she's picking up her legs and swinging them around, so that she and Alexander are sitting side by side, facing in opposite directions.
"I guess if drinking a beer with you's the price I pay to keep the cops off my back, what choice do I have?" She's close enough that, were she wearing perfume, it would suffocate him. Luckily for him, Lee doesn't wear perfume.
[Alexander Vaughn] Lee doesn't flinch. She doesn't dodge. She doesn't even fucking blink. She comes closer instead; she parries, she ripostes, and he barks another laugh when she threatens to bite.
"Even better," he says.
The truth, which Alex would never ever admit, is that he's surprised. She looked like such a bookish little thing. Well; not a little thing. When she's right in front of him he has to look up at her from where he sits. She's willowy and tall, geek chic, except that hair is flame-red even in the cheap parking lot lights, and now she's close enough that he'd drown in her perfume except she's not wearing any.
There's just her, whatever she smells like. Soap and shampoo; possibly the light sweat of walking briskly, trying to get home before ... what? Before the things that go bump in the night got to her? And now look at her.
Alexander's not a thing that goes bump in the night. He flexes his muscles, he postures, he's cocky and he's an asshole and he just called her a frigid bitch, but she's met a lot worse things than him and she kicked them to death. She's not afraid of him. He can see that at a glance, which throws him for a second, and then he adjusts his goddamn worldview: not such a bookish little thing, after all.
Liadan, at this range, can see Alexander's eyes flicker between her eyes, down to her mouth, back.
Then he gets up. Maybe he's all talk. But no; he's just turning to face her. Now the wall lights are on him, and she can see him better: the sort of dark hair that would bleach with enough sun, and tanned, as though he hails from some southern clime. There are tattoos on his arm, names, girls' names. The topmost says Forever under it, but forever must be a short ass time in Alexander's world, because right under it there's a whole litany of names in list form.
"Come inside," he says. Maybe he wants another name on his bicep. Then he gives her a crocodile smile. "All my beers are in the minifridge."
He's not even trying very hard to disguise his ulterior motives. She's not a bookish little thing.
[Lee Whelan] He's impressed, as well he should be. Lee is never exactly what she seems. And sometimes she is. Never, in her book, is apparently as long as forever is in Alexander's. It's true that mere moments before she had been hurrying along, hoping to get home before trouble found her on trouble's terms. But trouble found her anyway, and she welcomes it. She tells herself she's in no more danger than the nights she's spent in strangers' rooms. She reminds herself she woke up alone, naked, in a hotel room not all that long ago, with no memory of how she got there or what transpired the night before.
She rises just after he does, following him to his room. A bookish little thing, indeed.
She notices the litany reaching down his arm, but doesn't comment at first. Instead she reaches out a hand, brushes her fingertips lightly across his skin. "Nice. I see you have experience luring thieves into motel rooms."
[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander's skin is cool from the night, but warm just beneath that. There's a heat in him that radiates from his center, the marrow of his bones. Perhaps it's his Garou blood, what little of it he has.
Not that Liadan knows this. Not that they know anything about each other. Jesus, they don't even know each other's names, though she does know the names of ... whatever the hell all those girls were to him. Her comment could be construed as an oblique question: are those women you've lured into motel rooms? But then, that's probably not what it is. They don't know each other's names and neither of them ask.
He doesn't answer, anyway. He grins instead, suddenly, not a crocodile smile but a grin, and by god it's charismatic. He's got a hefty dose of charisma in him, potent on the rare occasions he wants to use it; which is to say, when he wants to get his way, or he's already getting his way.
Alexander catches her hand as it falls from his skin. He brings her hand to his mouth and sucks her first two fingers into his mouth. It's a brief contact, but enough to bring a spark into his eyes, which never leave hers.
Then he lets go and swings his legs over the railing. He leaves all the empty bottles and both the lawn chairs outside. The motel door is open, casts a lopsided square of light out. It smells exactly the way she might expect a cheap roadside motel to smell inside: like disinfectant and bulkrate industrial cleaning solutions, like old furniture, cheap beds. The lights are on but the curtains are drawn. He shuts the door and throws the lock, but then goes to the window and slips his hand between the curtains to open the windows.
"Beers are in the fridge, if you actually wanted one." He starts to slide the window, pauses. "You're not a real loud screamer, are you?"
[Lee Whelan] When he takes her fingers into his mouth, her eyes lock on his. Color rises to her fair cheeks as her breath catches in her throat. An involuntary action. Then he releases her, leads her inside, busies himself about the room as if nothing happened. She's locked in, but he doesn't grab her and throw her to the bed. It occurs to her that she should fear this man, but she doesn't. She sees that they are about the same height, and she doesn't care.
Instead she goes to the mini-fridge and pulls out a bottle. "Might've known it'd be cheap shit," she says. But she pops the top anyway, and she drinks it down like it's a mother's milk. And perhaps, in a way, it is.
He might not be able to tell that they are both of them related to wolves. They both belong to tribes that ordinary humans know nothing about. But Kinfolk don't recognize each other on the street, can't tell the difference between Kin and mortals. Though with that hair and that fair skin, maybe the Irish blood that runs in her veins is obvious. Or at the very least the way she pounds that beer like it's nothing, like it doesn't even phase her.
Her grin is sly. "There's my end of the bargain."
It takes less than a minute for her to empty the bottle and toss it into the waste bin nearby. Then she unslings her bag, let's it fall to the floor. She's come this far, and she believes she knows exactly what she's getting herself into. It won't be the first time she's lain with a nameless stranger.
She takes a moment to look around the room, at the large bed with the stiff mattress and the colorful comforter. There's a television opposite it, so that an occupant may lay in bed and watch tv until they can't stay awake any longer. Lee intends to do something else until she falls asleep.
[Lee Whelan] You're not a real loud screamer, are you?
"Why? Do you need me to be?"
[Alexander Vaughn] Lee's retort makes him laugh again, short and rough. Alexander doesn't know how much of her bravado is genuine, how much is fake, how much is booze. He's not sure if she's had a drink or three before walking through his parking lot. He doesn't really care: not if she's drunk, not if she's faking her confidence, not if she fakes every orgasm tonight. Whatever. They're not lovers, and any strangers that would so easily depart down this particular path aren't looking for anything but self-gratification in the end.
"No." He shoves the window all the way open. Let in some fresh air. "Just thinking of the neighbors. It's fucking 3am."
The night outside is cool, and the room is a little stuffy. The wind billows the curtains. He leans against the wall-unit air conditioning, his hands tucked easily under his arms, and he watches her drink her beer down. His lips twisting as she calls it cheap; he doesn't seem insulted. She finishes it, says she's completed her end of the bargain, tosses it into the wastebin. It clangs. There's almost no trash in there: maybe a wadded up piece of notepaper, maybe a can of soda.
There's very little residue of him around the room, period. He has a backpack slouched in the corner -- a bit one, not the type that students might wear to school but a tough, durable one, big enough to pack a ton of shit. Some clothes are hanging in the closet, the door of which is ajar. And there's a motorcycle helmet on top of the desk. And a motorcycle jacket. Both are black trimmed in silver, sleek. Also a laptop.
While she's looking around his room or not, he's looking right at her, a fixed, direct sort of stare, patient and anticipatory.
"Have another," he flicks a glance at the minifridge, "if you're not drunk enough to fuck yet."
[Lee Whelan] She finishes her evaluation of the room. Whether she thinks it meets some sort of standard or not doesn't show on her face. She's no stranger to traveling light.
Her mouth curves at his offer. Her heart is already beating a rapid staccato against her ribs, not from fear, nor nerves. Her skin is not as fair as Aidan's, the depth of her blushes don't show as plain across her cheeks.
“Oh,” she takes off her glasses, sets them on top of the television, “that won't be necessary.” She grabs the hems of both shirts and pulls them over her head, tossing them together across a chair. Clad only in a black lace bra (bookish? Not entirely.), jeans, and whatever lay beneath that, she approaches the man standing by the window. Stops right in front of him.
“Well?”
[Alexander Vaughn] Well:
Alexander, who had been leaning against the A/C unit, straightens. They're almost of a height; she's taller, actually, though the difference is negligible. A woman as tall as Liadan is a rare thing. It's novel, a little exotic, that Alexander doesn't have to lean down. He just leans forward.
He just straightens up and, in the same motion, leans forward. He hasn't even unfolded his arms yet. His eyes are open when he kisses her, hard, right on the mouth. At this distance Alexander's eyes are hazel, threads of color dappling together. He's watching her; he half expects her to turn away, to insist on no kissing on the mouth, something like that.
[Lee Whelan] Except she doesn't pull away. She leans into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and shoulders, running a hand up the back of his neck. She kisses him back, and her hips draw forward so her torso is pressed against his. There's no thought now of how she should be afraid, no question of who this man is, or what will happen after they finish with each other.
All that matters is now. All that exists is the moment.
[Alexander Vaughn] Liadan. He doesn't know this is her name, and in truth he'd never guess it. He might call her a Jocelyn; maybe a Fiona; possibly an Ava, but not Liadan. In his mind it might be one of those names for her right now. More likely it's no name at all. At least there's this: she'll never end up tattooed on his bicep, another notch on the proverbial belt.
Anyway. Liadan: does not push him away. Does not twist her face away. She presses herself against him, into the kiss, and Alexander unfolds his arms. His hands fall to his side but the kiss is all there is for now: the kiss, and the demanding press of their bodies together. He's as muscular as he looked -- the sort of body that must requires hours at the gym every day, and the sort of body that, unless one was of a particular, shifting breed, only a certain amount of vanity and obsessive training cultivates.
Alexander circles her, kissing her. They circle like snakes, and there's something biting and savage about this. He turns her so her back is to the wall, the backs of her calves against the air conditioning unit under the window, and then he puts his hands on her hips, lifts her onto the windowsill. The kiss breaks. He strips his shirt off, drops it; attacks the fastenings of her jeans.
"Have you got a condom?" Oh look, he's a gentleman. Or maybe he's just afraid of catching the clap from her.
[Lee Whelan] Well this is new. Lee has never been fucked on top of an air conditioning unit before. When Alexander—she would guess him a Dale or maybe a Chuck—breaks the kiss, his fingers fighting with the button of her jeans, she buries her face against his neck, kissing her way from his shoulder up to his jaw.
“Bag,” she breathes, “inside pocket.” She kisses his throat, feels his pulse beating against her lips.
[Lee Whelan] If he looks inside her bag, he will not find a single condom, but in fact a small pack. Little Miss Thief apparently likes to be prepared.
[Alexander Vaughn] Bag. Inside pocket. "Okay." And he gets the button and zipper undone, grabs her jeans by the bottom of the legs, whips them off her. Then he goes for her bag, and it's a tossup whether he would've handed it to her or simply rooted around in it if she hadn't told him where to look. Since she had, though, Alexander just unzips it, finds the inside pocket, finds a small pack of condoms.
He glances at her over his shoulder, and this time his laugh is short but breathier, a huff instead of a bark. He drops the bag and comes back with the box, hands it to her to open while he kicks his shoes and socks off, strips down his pants. He turns out to be a boxers type of guy, for the 0.5 seconds she sees them on him. Then Alexander loses those too.
[Lee Whelan] Lee continues to sit pressed against the a/c unit when he searches for the small pack of condoms. A brow quirks when he finds it and laughs. She's lounging against the wall when he undresses, her legs crossed at the ankles, the heels of her hands supporting her weight.
And now he's naked, and she's still in her black under garments. Without her glasses, she can't make out the details of his body from this distance, but she can tell that he's lean, muscular. He can see that she's slim but curvaceous.
Pushing herself from the wall, Lee closes the distance between them. She takes the box, her lips finding his, and then almost immediately sliding down to his chin, to his throat. Her lips leave a trail down his chest and abdomen, her body lowering until she's on her knees in front of him. She drops the box beside her. When she wraps her hand around his erection, she begins at the base and pulls forward and then back before taking him into her mouth.
[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander doesn't know how well she does or doesn't see without her glasses. She took them off; he probably figures she's almost unimpaired without them. Who the hell knows, maybe it was part of her look. Geek chic, nerd couture. He comes back and this time it's her that kisses him first. This time he closes his eyes, but she's moving on, so he opens his eyes.
She kisses a trail down his body. Even if she couldn't make out the details by eye, she can feel it by touch. He's compact and muscular, a sinewy, wasteless sort of strength. When she gets down to his navel he pushes his hands into her hair. It's a breath of a whisper: "Go on, babydoll, suck my cock," and he called her that outside, mockingly, when he thought she was a bookish little thing and she thought he was --
Well; probably the same thing she still thinks he is. A bit of a dickhead, but good enough for a one night stand. The rest doesn't matter.
She takes him in her mouth. His chest rises on a quick inhale. "That's right," he breathes, and she can already tell he's not going to shut up, "suck it."
His balance shifts a little. He doesn't quite stagger, but he does set his feet wider apart for balance. His hands comb through her hair. He pushes it back, holds it in a loose ponytail to keep it out of her face, as much for her sake as for his own. If she looks up, he's watching her, his eyes intent and hot.
[Lee Whelan] So he's a talker. She really should have known, but knowing ahead of time wouldn't have stopped her from climbing the fence, wouldn't have kept her out of this room and off this man.
When this strange turn of events started, Lee was just trying to get home after spending too many hours in the studio. And now she's on her knees in a strange motel, working a stranger's cock with her mouth and hand while her other hand slides up the inside of his thigh to fondle his balls.
Her knees begin to ache, and she backs off, rises to kiss his throat, his jaw. Her breath hot against his ear she whispers, “You're not a real loud screamer, are you?” Her teeth lightly graze his lobe.
[Alexander Vaughn] Talker or not, Alex shuts the fuck up before long. Or he doesn't -- but they're not words anymore; only sounds, muffled groans, gasps. He holds her head between his hands and rocks his hips, gently, then faster, backing off only when she tells him to, or pulls her mouth off his dick, or otherwise expresses discontent.
He's breathing hard when she gets up. His eyes are fast on her. He watches her rise, watches her stand on those long legs. She kisses his throat and he tips his head back. When she reaches his jaw he catches her mouth on his, a brief, tearing kiss. She pulls free and she whispers in his ear.
This time Alexander laughs hard enough to throw his head back. It might be the first real laugh she's heard from him. Well; this and the short huff he gave when he found a whole box of condoms in her bag.
Some bookish little thing she's turned out to be.
His hands move down her back as she comes close. He unclasps her bra with startling deftness; pushes his hands into the waistband of her panties, starts working them down her thighs before returning his palms to her ass. He squeezes her flesh, turns his face to her neck, kisses her there, hard, smacks her ass once with the flat of his hand.
"Get on the bed, babydoll."
[Lee Whelan] When he laughs, she smiles against his throat, nips at his ear again and licks the spot. She's impressed with how easily he removes her underwear. Clearly he's at least as accustomed to removing bras as she is at sucking a guy's dick. Well, maybe.
She turns away from him, grabs a corner of the comforter, and throws it to the floor in a flourish. Lee trusts the cleanliness of the sheets more than she does almost anything else in the room. She bends to pick up the discarded box of condoms, retrieves a square foil wrapper. This she tosses to Alexander as she falls back onto the bed as ordered.
Lee still looks as relaxed as ever. She tosses her head back, shaking her long red hair behind her. Propped up on her elbows, dark eyes meet hazel as she fixes him with a come hither stare.
[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander catches the packet with the same good aim he'd pitched a beer bottle at a faraway dumpster, and the same dextrous ease he'd undone her bra with.
She goes to the bed. The lights are still on: the floor lamp in the corner, the two adjustable-arm lamps bolted to the wall on either side of the flimsy headboard. Liadan lies down, props herself on her elbows, and now they're both naked, and he's lean and tanned, tightly muscled; and she's long and slim, curves in all the right places.
He follows her to the edge of the bed. The same aggressive-edged arrogance, which is not quite the same thing as confidence, that she'd seen in him from the very start is mirrored here -- the way he walks, the way he carries himself. Alexander is still a little buzzed off however many drinks he had. The looseness in his joints is still there. He tears the packet open and drops the wrapper on the floor, sheaths himself, then moves up onto the bed one knee at a time. His hands wrap around the underside of her thighs and he pushes her up the bed a little, then raises her knees, opens her legs.
Alex's eyes don't leave Liadan's as he rubs his fingers between her legs, over her cunt.
"Fucking hot," he murmurs, and then smiles suddenly, sharply. "You don't need me to tell you that, do you? Yeah... fuck. Don't fucking repeat this, baby, but this is one of the better nights I've had in Chicago so far. 'Course I've only been here two days, so I don't know if that means a lot..."
There's this to be said for him, good or bad: he's not shy. He takes his cock by the base while he talks to her, and maybe she wants to tell him to just shut the fuck up, shut his stupid face and just get to it already, but he's slapping himself against her, sliding against her, pressing inside testingly, a scarce inch or two before withdrawing. Alexander's eyes are on the joining of their bodies now, and he's sucking his breaths through his teeth, hissingly.
[Lee Whelan] He pushes her up the bed, and she drops off her elbows. She wants to tell him to shut the hell up, but her breath comes in short quick gasps. She claws at the sheets, twisting the fabric in her hands when calloused fingers slide between her legs, teasing her. She closes her eyes and, back arches, and she bucks against his hand, almost but not quite against her will.
And he teases her with his cock, slides inside just enough to make her heart race faster. He's telling her she's made his night, as if she didn't already fucking know. Because obviously strange women went up to strange drunken men in their motel rooms all the time. Happens all the damn time in Chicago. It's on the signs as people drive into the city. 'Welcome to Chicago, We Fuck A Lot.'
Her face contorts, and she groans. “Jesus, just shut up and fuck me already, you ass.”
[Alexander Vaughn] What he doesn't tell her is that yesterday -- his first full day in Chicago, having arrived on the goddamn redeye the night before -- he had himself some hotdogs in Grant Park, met a goddamn werewolf some some sort, and nearly got the life choked out of him.
He doesn't tell her this because he doesn't know, they don't know that the other is the same as themselves, that they're both kin, related to furred and fangs monsters, the exact sort of creature that Liadan would do well to fear, should hurry on home ahead of, before they get ahold of her. He doesn't tell her this, also, because it's fucking embarrassing, and Alexander's ego is as brittle as it is overinflated.
Alexander also doesn't tell her this because, honestly, they're about to fuck. Who the fuck cares?
He doesn't. She tells him to shut up and fuck her already; she calls him an ass. That's fair. He is an ass. Plus he called her a frigid bitch, earlier, before she turned into a flaming hot bitch. Her face twists with what he's doing to her and he plants his hand by her head, leans down to kiss her, hard, and midway through the kiss, pushes himself into her in a single slide.
"...oh, you're so fucking good." It's muffled against her mouth, and no, he hasn't shut up yet. That mouth on him is what got him beat the fuck up yesterday, too, though for entirely different reasons. Something about calling some get of fenris Olaf, over and over. Not recommended. Perhaps this isn't recommended either, but at least she won't kill his ass: "You like that, babydoll? Huh? How do you want it? Tell me how you want it."
[Lee Whelan] Oh God he's finally inside and it feels so damn good she doesn't care that he just keeps talking and talking. She ignores it and just wraps those long legs around his waist, pulls him against her and driving him deeper. The last time Lee ground her hips against someone else's, that someone else shoved her away, loudly proclaimed that she was not gay, and then not-so-kindly told her to get the hell out of sight.
She has a pretty good feeling that's not going to happen tonight. This morning. Whatever.
Alexander asks her how she wants it. She manages to loosen her grip on the bedding, instead buries those fingers in his hair, dragging his face down to hers. She wants to forget that last time. As she brings her lips to crush against his sher rocks her hips against him. “Harder.” Her voice is a breathless whisper against his mouth.
[Alexander Vaughn] Lee isn't a palmreader, nor a prophet, but one would have to agree: she's probably right. Alex is in no mood to push her away, loudly proclaim that he is not gay, and tell her to get the fuck out.
The get the fuck out might still happen. The night's young. Maybe after this bout, or the next, or the next, or however-the-fuck-many condoms she has in her little box (what sort of bookish geek is she?), he might get tired of it and rev up the assholeish required to kick her out -- but not yet. Fuck, for all he knows she'll probably be the first to leave. She still hasn't asked his name. He still hasn't asked hers. And yet look at them, kissing each other like they mattered; faking it, faking the emotional connection, anyway, but not the physical.
No; that's all real. And harder is real, too, and whatever else, at least he has the courtesy to respond to that. He pushes himself up over her, the muscles of his arms and chest tight, the ring of names rippling over his bicep when he flexes up. He ducks to kiss her one more time, a quick brush of the mouth, half-laughing, half-groaning, and then he bends his head to watch; looks down the lengths of their bodies, so almost-perfectly matched for height, to watch himself stroke into her.
Faster. Harder. Just like she asked.
"...so fucking hot." He bucks his hips against hers warninglessly, out of rhythm, sharply; settles back into the swing of things, fast and smooth. "Oh ... shit, that pussy's hot."
[Lee Whelan] For all his talk, he's good at what he does. She said harder and he was only too happy to oblige. She gives up on getting him to stop talking, concentrates on arching her back, tilting her hips up to change the angle of his penetration. When he finds his rhythm, she matches it, keeps pace with him perfectly as they rock violently together. She lets him ride her for a few more quick, sharp thrusts, and then pushes him to the side. Maybe he thinks she's done, or tired of his nonstop chatter.
No, that's simply not the case at all.
Lee rolls with him, rolls him onto his back so that she's straddling him. Her hips roll into his, just as fast and hard as when he had been on top of her. When she leans forward to kiss that mouth, her hair forms a red curtain around their faces. It smells of shampoo and sweat and sun.
She presses a hand into the middle of his chest for balance. Her head drops back, then to the side, and forward, lips parted as she gasps for breath.
[Alexander Vaughn] "What the fuck--"
Toppled, Alexander hits the mattress on one shoulder. Then she's climb on top and he gets it then. He rolls with her, onto his back, panting out a laugh as she straddles him. He can't stop talking and she's not talking at all, as if there were only so many words between them, and as she balances herself on his chest he pushes her hair back, lets it fall around him again.
"I should've known you for the girl on top type," he says. "I -- oh my god -- "
She manages to shut him the fuck up. He doesn't have breath left for talking. The ratty little room is filling up with their gasps and their exhales, their sharp-drawn breaths. His hands run up and down her body, lean and long as she is; he holds her by the waist and lets her ride, lets her ride, lets her ride.
[Lee Whelan] Silence finally descends upon the room, broken only by sharp gasps and low moans. Lee takes this as a good sign. She straightens, leans back so that her hands are propped to either side of Alexander's hips, an angle that allows her to reach further heights of rough speed.
At last, at long last, after all the bullshitting, all the talking, she feels her muscle tighten. Her whole body quivers with the orgasm that rocks through her tall frame. She leans forward again, resting her hands on his chest once more because otherwise she'll collapse backward and that would just be unfortunate.
[Alexander Vaughn] Alex needn't have worried about the open window. Of the two of them, he's by far the more vocal. She doesn't say a word. She doesn't make a fucking sound when she comes. She just tightens up, clenches down, shudders, shakes like a goddamn leaf. He's the one that groans aloud to see it, closes his eyes and groans as she rides down on him one final time.
Then they're still, and she's leaning forward, and he's stroking her hair back and letting her catch her breath.
For approximately two seconds, anyway.
Then Alexander sits up. Catches her up, lifts her up off his lap and kisses her once, hard. "Oh, come on," he says, a laugh behind the words, rough. "Don't tell me you're finished."
He turns Liadan over, puts her on all fours, rises to his knees behind her. When he enters her again his head falls back; he gives a wordless exclamation of pleasure. He wraps his arm around her hip, then, slips his hand between her legs, grips her shoulder with his free hand --
-- and, stroking her, not giving a fuck if she's hypersensitive, starts fucking her again.
[Lee Whelan] [Ungh WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 3, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Lee Whelan] She was...completely not expecting to go again so soon. The fact that they'd fuck again seemed a foregone conclusion, given the light in Alexander's eyes when he found a whole box of condoms in her bag. She bites her lip hard as she fights back a wordless cry of her own. It's too much, and it's too soon, and she's gasping so hard it feels like she's going to pass out any second, but she doesn't make him stop. She bites back that cry, lets him fuck her again, lets him drive her to the edge once more.
Her hands ball into fists. She wants to tear the sheets to shreds.
[Alexander Vaughn] He's gotta know it's too soon. It's too much. He has to know that, and he has to know that even if he's going to fuck her, he should keep his goddamn hands to himself. He shouldn't put his hand between her legs and fondle her so purposefully, so relentlessly, so mercilessly.
But: let's be honest. Alexander does not give a fuck about what the proper polite thing to do is. And he's an asshole. And some part of him gets off on the fact that she can barely stand it right now, this woman that -- for fuck's sake -- just walked by his motel room on an unextraordinary Friday night and, for reasons he won't question now, and won't understand in the morning, decided to come in here and fuck his brains out.
Alexander doesn't question that. He doesn't overthink any of this. He fingers her and he strokes her and he fucks the shit out of her, slamming her so hard the whole damn bed's rocking, the headboard's banging, the neighbors are getting no sleep.
The one mercy in all this is that he was close, when she came. He's close. He keeps this mad rhythm up for no more than a handful of minutes, and then his hand is clenching on her shoulder, and then on her hip; his hands are both going to her hip and he pulls her back against him hard, ruthlessly hard. His orgasm hits him like a ton of bricks. He throws his head back and shouts so loud that if anyone should've worried about keeping the windows shut, it should've been him.
A few breathless instants after, he more or less collapses atop her. His weight rests heavy against her back. He bears her down to the mattress, wraps one arm under her and sprawls with her, spent. He's panting into her ear, and jesus christ, even now he's talking, as soon as he has enough breath in his lungs to push back out he's talking; he's telling her what a hot fuck she is, and what a hot cunt she has, and whatever filthy shit his mind might percolate up, passing unfiltered out his mouth.
[Lee Whelan] And it's over, it's finally over. It turns out he was a loud screamer. He comes fast and he comes hard and God it's so good it hurts. His weight bears her down into the mattress, but she's too tired, too spent to move out from under him. He's breathing obscenities into her ear with each exhalation. Remarkably, she just laughs. Her voice is hoarse and low and cracks from the strain of holding in her own cries of passion, from breathing too heavily through her mouth.
“Can't....breathe...” Eventually, she musters enough strength to rise onto her side and roll him off of her. She flops back onto her stomach, turns her head to stare at him. She's smiling, still laughing. “What does it take to shut you up?” she asks, playfully. And then she's kissing him, not because she enjoys it. Truthfully, his mouth tastes like beer and ass. But it stops him from talking, even for a little while. At least until she's ready to rip that condom off his dick and slap a new one on. That won't be happening until her body stops quivering, however.
[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander doesn't just roll off her. He rolls onto his back, fumbles the used condom off, awkward with pleasure. She wants to know how to shut him up. He laughs at the ceiling and then she kisses him, and this is fine.
Afterward he's miraculously quiet. Or it's not a miracle, really. They're resting, catching their breath, and they have nothing to talk about. They don't want to know about each other. Other than his first, mocking inquiry as to her destination, he hasn't really asked her anything personal. She hasn't asked him anything personal, period.
They're strangers. They're engaged in the most intimate act known to mankind, and they're total strangers.
Eventually his breathing slows, his heart steadies. He reaches for the strip of condoms again without a word, shooting her a knife-edge grin.
--
And off they go again. Once over the edge of the bed, her legs over his shoulders; and then again against the wall, and then it's nearing morning and he goes to take a shower, and if she decides to join him, then by god he'll fuck her again there.
Women like Lee don't just drop out of the sky, after all. Except when they do.
After that they wash each other off their skin. Alexander scrubs down with the motel's cheap soap and shampoo that leaves his skin feeling gritty and his hair stiff as straw. He steps out and towels off. It's past 7am; at least it's bright out, and she needn't worry about walking home in the dark.
She starts getting dressed, or brushes out her hair, or whatever she might be doing. He ... puts on some of the motel's cheap coffee. While the coffeemaker burbles and brews, he sprawls in the single armchair and watches her lazily.
"You want me to call you a cab?"
[Lee Whelan] Lee does take a moment to join him in the shower, where he fucks her up against the tiled wall, her feet propped on the edge of the bath. Why not? she'd thought.
And then she rinses him off her skin, washes the sweat from her hair, scrubs all traces of him away from her. She brushes out her hair in the bathroom. When she finally exits, she has a towel wrapped around her body. As if suddenly, she's self-conscious. She's not. She moves through the room with calm assurance, gathering up her underwear, slipping into her jeans, pulling her shirts over her head. There are places to go, things to do. She needs to get a decent amount of sleep, and then it's back to work again. She retrieves her glasses from the television.
She goes to where her bag rests on the floor, pulls out a blackberry. “No,” she says to the offer of a cab. The number for the cab company is already programed into her phone. “Don't worry about it.” There are unopened wrappers of condoms on the bedside table. She picks these up and shoves them into her bag. With the cab called, she puts her socks and shoes on. Except for the wet hair, and the movements slowed by exhaustion, nothing seems to be different about her from the night before. Then she walks over to where he's sitting in the armchair, straddles his knee and runs her fingers through his hair.
“You weren't half-bad, asshole.” The smile on her face belies the potentially insulting comment. She knows he won't be offended.
[Alexander Vaughn] Liadan (...Jocelyn? Fiona? Ava?) goes about dressing, and Alex stays where he is. He doesn't even bother to throw his towel over his junk. He just sits where he is, the towel slung haphazardly around his neck, his hair dripping slowly onto his shoulders, the beadlets of water on his body drying into the motel room.
When she's finished she looks the same: casual, a little geeky, not the sort of woman you'd expect to follow a complete, drunken stranger into his motel room and wreck the bed. She's even got her glasses back on when she comes over to him. He doesn't look much like he did when she first saw him. His hair is wet and tousled; he still sits the same way, knees wide apart, but he's sufficiently exhausted that the edge is dulled; the aggression is muted. He looks lazy, replete.
She slides onto his lap and he knows, instinctively, this isn't an invitation for another go. This is a goodbye.
His hand finds a comfortable perch on her hip. Alexander closes his eyes when she runs her fingers through his hair, making a low, wordless sound of pleasure at the idle caress. Then his eyes open again. He returns the smile; his smile is lazier, but cocky as ever.
"I know, babydoll." His hand finds her ass through her jeans; he squeezes her gently, then relents. His palm molds to her flesh. "You were pretty fucking good, yourself."
There's a space here where he could say more. And Alexander toys, briefly, with the idea of asking if she wanted to do this again; telling her he'll be living here until he finds his own place. The notion departs as quickly as it had surfaced.
"Thanks for the fun," he adds, and lets his head fall back against the armchair.
[Lee Whelan] Lee doesn't ask his name, doesn't give her own. She doesn't tell him that her photography studio is right around the corner, that she can often be found roaming Grant Park taking pictures of sculptures and fountains and tourists. They are Asshole and Babydoll, two complete strangers who rocked each other's worlds last night on a whim. What more do they need to know? It's highly unlikely that they'll ever see each other again.
At least, this is what Lee thinks when she says, “You're welcome,” with that smug smile of hers.
Then she lifts herself from his thigh, and she leaves, not the way she came, but out the room's front door to await her cab. She's just too exhausted to go the five or six blocks home. When the yellow cab deposits her at her apartment on Kingsbury, her swagger is all but gone. Her face is bland, and her walk is determined. She is Líadan Whelan, photographer, and she has things to do today.
come find me
13 years ago