Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Alexander Vaughn] Jesus, it's hot.
Which isn't something Alexander is unused to, coming from Florida and all, but still. Jesus, it's hot. And muggy. And he'd showered after his afternoon workout at Tribull, but by the time he comes in the backdoor pulling his motorcycle helmet off his head he's sweating again.
As reckless as he is with ... well, pretty much everyone, you'd think he had a deathwish. You'd think he was the type to ride a bike in shorts and a t-shirt, but he's not. He's geared out, heavy jeans and motorcycle boots and a padded jacket, the works. Which means he's fucking cooking. He stomps up the stairs like a man twice his size, tearing at the velcroed collar of his jacket, ripping the zipper down. Alexander stops by room 4 long enough to pitch his helmet at his bed, strip out of his jacket and hang it on the coathangar. Then he shuts the door again and tromps down the hall, around the corner, to knock on the door of room 10.
[Alexander Vaughn] Oh yeah, and his gym bag. That gets tossed into Room 4 too.
[Marrick Fisher] The wind was coming in from the west at around two miles-per-hour; in marrick's book that was a light breeze.
Eighty-eight degrees and mostly cloudy.
It was the kind of heat that stuck to your skin and just, generally, made you feel like you're being hugged by someone who didn't know when to let go. In short, the weather was gross. And Marrick Fisher, for what it was worth, felt like she was chewing on the air. This was nothing like Oklahoma. This wasn't like coming off a three year drought.
Freakin' city. Freakin' scab. Freakin' sixty percent humidity.
Marrick opened the door, and found herself looking at a sweaty guy who was a bout two inches taller than her.
Inhale.
She almost sneezed.
"Sup?"
Attire was comfortable- cut off shorts and a men's button up shirt that was too big for her. Marrick wasn't wearing shoes. But, that wasn't important.
[Alexander Vaughn] There's really no preparing for rage. While the door is closed Alexander can convince himself the girl instead is just a girl, just a goddamn late-teen/early-20 girl who stood about six inches over five, twenty pounds over a hundred. Lean, lanky, nothing to be afraid of.
Then the door opens and a red flood of rage washes over him. He twists his neck to the side because he has a slightly pulled muscle from where his sparring partner slammed him into the mat, and because some part of his instinctive self seems to think if he just moved the right way, he could escape the sheer force of the girl's presence.
Because she isn't really a girl. She's a Garou.
He leans his shoulder against the doorjamb anyway, folding his arms across his chest. His jeans are belted low; the denim is dark blue, too heavy for this weather, unless, of course, you were going to ride a two-wheeled rocket of death around the city in the middle of friday evening rush hour roadragey traffic. His shirt is a deep, vivid blood-red, bears the Tribull logo in black, is cut off at the shoulders to bare his tanned arms. There's nothing about this -- his stance, his deliberate casualness, his muscles, his down the nose glance -- that isn't a form of showing off. Marrick saw him preen after kicking Aidan's face in. Alexander lives to pad his ego.
"What Tribe are ya?" He cocks a thumb over his shoulder, then returns his hand to fold into the crook of the other. "Jenny-O didn't know; she just said you were a Full Moon." Alex looks past her into her room, shamelessly and rather insolently taking inventory; then back to her.
[Marrick Fisher] She doesn't own anything.
The only things of note in her room are a couple three-by-five photos stuck up with duct tape. No special comforter. No unique bedding. Not even a damned coffee mug. The room held two people, and aparently her room mate was no better than she was. He wasn't that much taller than her, so it wasn't really easy to stare over the top of the Fury's head; her shoulder, however was fair game. Coupled with the fact that he was leaning against the door frame? Alex got a good look.
"Why's it matter to you?" she asked. He asked her tribe, and she shot right back.
She was a force of nature, almost literally. Blue-eyed gaze a little too intense, her grin just a little too feral, and her movements all seemed to suggest that she wasn't moving without purpose, but rather, that she was biding her time for something. He was standing and looking down at her-
but all she saw was that his neck was slightly exposed. She motioned with her head for him to come in.
"C'mon in," and with that, the Fury invited him in.
[Alexander Vaughn] "Just curious," he replies, shifting off the doorjamb to follow her in. He doesn't unfold his arms, instead hooking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot. The tongue of the lock clicks into the groove, but unless she's set it to autolock, he doesn't lock it.
"I figured you for a Fang first, the way you came running in to Gabbie's defense. Good thing Aidan showed up again, by the way, or I would've booted you in the face." He says this like he didn't have a choice about it. He says this like she's the one who should be glad he didn't boot her in the face. "But then if you're a Fang," he takes another glance around the room, "the tribe's standards have really fallen, huh?
"Then I figured you were probably some sort of Get of Fenris." His right hand unfolds from across his chest, gestures to his own hair. "Blonde." And then it replaces. He folds his arms easily; if it's a defensive posture, it's purely subconscious. "Blue. But," he cocks his head to the side, "then again you don't really seem like a Get Ahroun, somehow.
"So, what are you, really?" And he grins at her. "I'll tell you if you tell me."
[Marrick Fisher] Teh second Fang Marrick had ever met, she had sat on top of and punched until she stopped moving. The mention of him thinking she was a Fang, of all things, made her almost sneer. It would have been adorable- what with her freckles and youthful appearance, were it not for the fact that she was just so damned intense. The room was hot. The room was hot and it wasn't all the weather's fault.
Her Rage was oppressive, and today she lacked the strength of will necessary to mitigate it.
She stood with her hands on her hips, weight firmly placed, and she seemed ready. She always seemed ready, but that was neither here nor there. What is she, really?
"Black Fury," she said. Stated with a sort of quiet pride, the same way she said she was from Winds' Meeting, but the latter would mean nothing to him. The former might mean nothing to him, either, but she didn't seem to really care. "Now own up, kiddo, what are ya? Quid pro quo."
A quiet satisfaction pinged at the back of her mind because she got to use something she had rather recently learned.
[Alexander Vaughn] Marrick calls him kiddo. She looks at least six, seven years his junior, maybe more. It's hard to tell with the garou. Some of them are ageless. Some of them grow up fast. Still; part of Alexander wants to smirk. Actually, he does smirk. And then he tilts his head up and back, scratches at the bristle under his jaw. Lowers his hand and his chin.
"Black Fury," he repeats, ruminatively. "Now I know why you came rushing back in.
"My brother's a Glass Walker. So I guess that's what I am too." He hasn't come far into the room. He rocks back against the door, sliding down an inch until they're nearly eye to eye, and he tucks his thumbs into his jean pockets.
A beat. He studies her. The cloudiness outside is turning into a thunderstorm. A gust of hot wind against the window: the pane rattles in its cheap frame.
"Wanna know why I came here?" He doesn't give her a chance to answer. "I came to see if you wanted to fuck around."
...what?
"Though I guess you being Fury, I should phrase it is: do you want to fuck me?"
[Marrick Fisher] Well, now, that was unexpected.
He seemed to have rendered the full moon speachless, and for her part, she just sort of stared at the Glass Walker for a moment as though he... well, as though he had asked if she wanted to fuck him. The Fury blinked
Marrick's got a tan- it seems to be one of the overtly Mediterranean things about her. It was hard to tell what kind of upper body strength she had because of the shirt, but if her legs were any indication she wasn't a pushover.
"Well, ain't you forward," she said. Marrick didn't even know his name... As though this stopped her before; she had made up her mind that she wanted to fuck Aidan the minute she saw him. What with that pale skin, those green eyes, the toned body and exquisite scent. He didn't like Liz Phair. He didn't open the door for her. That was good enough for her.
Well ain't you forward, she said. But she didn't say it like it was a bad thing.
"Better question is, do you wanna fuck me. What led you to this epiphany that ya might have wanted in my overly-hormonal pants?"
[Alexander Vaughn] Ain't you forward, she says, and the corners of Alexander's mouth quirk in a quick, cocky grin. She didn't say it like a bad thing. He wouldn't have taken it as one, regardless.
They stand a few feet apart. Neither of them have made a single move toward, or away. He looks relaxed -- that, at least, doesn't seem to be pretense. It might be posturing, but then, Alex is always posturing.
"If I didn't want to fuck you, do you think I'd be here?" he fires right back. She wants reasons -- he scoffs, straightens up, moves aside so she can see herself in the dressing mirror nailed to the inside of the door. "I know you Furies aren't much for makeup and lingerie and mooning at your own reflections, but have you looked at yourself recently?" He turns to look over his shoulder at her. She can see his eyes flicker down her body in reflection; then he blows out a breath. "Whoo."
And he turns back.
"Besides. I kinda liked you staring me down last night. After I kicked prettyboy's teeth in. Again." Alexander's a little closer now. She can see the faint sheen of sweat on his body -- neck, collar. "I kinda liked showing off for you. Not that that was the original intention."
[Marrick Fisher] In the short amount of time that she knew him, she knew that Alex was always posturing, even if she didn't know his name. She wasn't sure why; it was the movement of a man who said he had to prove something. Or, conversely, of a man who was incredibly in love with himself. One could call him cock,y but to quote a certain white trash rock star, it ain't braggin' if you back it up.
He asks if she's looked at herself recently, and the Fury snorted. She had, yes, and she saw lean muscle and a body that was built to endure. She saw scars and a distinct lack of tanlines. But beyond that, she saw someone distinctly female. Who celebrated that in movement, who had little shame.
He started talking about his original intention not bieng to show off for her, per se, but there was alwasy someone to show off for. So, she stepped forward, she was a little closer, and suddenly encroaching upon his space. Not quite in his space, but on the edges, a bit close for comfort. And, for her part, she looked at him.
Blue eyes trailed from his neck, moving upward to almost watch his pulse. Would it race, or would it stay steady. Her eyes went to his lips, and she wondered briefly, until, eventually, she made eye contact. And wondered if he would break it.
She didn't say anything for awhile, and eventually she did say something.
"It's 'bout to storm outside," yeah, duh. "You got any problems with gettin' wet?"
[Alexander Vaughn] Of course Alexander's pulse flickers higher. He thinks she might kiss him. He thinks she might shove him against the door and tear down his pants and mount him right there.
(He thinks she might tear his throat out.)
But she doesn't do that. Any of that. She wants to know if he minds the rain and he huffs a short laugh.
"I come from the hurricane state," he replies. He doesn't ask her why they're going outside; he doesn't ask what's wrong with her bed, this room, whatever. A second, just a second, that she may or may not even pick up on as a flicker of indecision; a choice made. Then he reaches out and, if she doesn't jerk away, takes her hand.
He's only two inches taller, but gender difference makes his hand significantly broader. His fingers are strong. He nods toward the window, and sudden as that, grins -- his teeth are white in his tanned face. They're both tanned. Maybe they both come from southern climes. Well; he does. She knows from the University of Florida shirt he had on last night, and the reference he just made to hurricanes.
"C'mon." He pulls her to the window if she lets him; shoves the pane open and climbs out onto the fire escape. Staircases are for wimps.
She's right. It's about to storm. The gathered humidity, the oppression of the heat and the weather: it's darkened the sky to black and purple, like a bruise a few hours after a fight. It looks like war out there. She feels like war. The first raindrops are beginning to fall; thunder in the distance, over the lakes.
[Marrick Fisher] There was a fine line between fear and desire.
He pulls her to the window, if she lets him. And she does, thouh there something in her movement that said, very distinctly, I'm letting you move me, because there was very little protest in it. Or, possibly, they were both after the same ends. Or, possibly, that they were both thinking the same thing- staircases were for wimps.
And there was a sort of restlessness and tension that came with the change in the weather. Something that screamed of home in the oncoming storm. She dared for it to come. She dared for it to blow past, leave that humidity in the air and begged for straightline winds and golfball sized hale. With the humidity up so high, with the pressure in the air almost suffocating, all one could do was look for some kind of release.
The first raindrops were beginning to fall. She wouldn't miss this.
Marrick makes her way down the fire escape, regardless of whatever direction he was going in. Too close to the city to get anywhere. All she could settle for was the rain and the practically non-existent moon. Marrick doesn't say a damned word to him, she just makes her way furhter down the alleyway.
For privacy's sake, of course.
[Alexander Vaughn] "Hey -- " when she starts to head down. Maybe he was changing his mind. Maybe he was wimping out. And if Marrick thinks any of these things, then maybe she's a fucking retard.
" -- roof," he says. And jerks his head up the fire escape. Not because it's cleaner, but because: "Wetter."
[Marrick Fisher] Not because it's cleaner but, rather, because it's wetter up there.
And she just grinned and changed directions.
"Fuckin' brilliant," she said. Up the fire escape with her.
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (blur of the milky eye!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 6, 8, 9 (Failure at target 8)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (WAIT! forgottotem!)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 8)
[Alexander Vaughn] The grin seems to spark something off in him, like a spark jumping from conductor to conductor. He holds his hand out to her again. His grip is firm; he doesn't coddle her hand just because she's a girl. She sure as hell wouldn't coddle his. He hands her up the fire escape ladder, up toward the roof, gives her just enough of a head start that she won't kick him in the face when he follows.
The fire escape vibrates with his added weight as he starts climbing behind her.
The Brotherhood is three stories. They pass the darkened windows of what used to be Andrea's apartments. Alexander never knew Andrea at all; as far as he knows, it was always Jenny and Reuben. The rooftop isn't designed for human traffic. It's large and mostly flat, chimneys and vents protruding here and there, a slight slant to the surface to allow rainwater to drain down the sides of the building. There's an attic, with a narrow, half-width door back into the Brotherhood. Alexander goes to that first, grabbing up a discarded crate, a box, something, to wedge it under the doorknob and hold the door shut.
They don't ask each other what the fuck the other was thinking. They don't ask if this is normal behavior for the other. This isn't normal behavior by human standards; but then, neither of them are purely human. He's a little closer to human than she is. He might have more justification other than: because I want to.
Other than: instinct.
Or maybe not.
The door securely wedged, he turns back to her. Alexander looks around at the surrounding buildings; their windows. The sun's setting behind the clouds and soon enough the rooftop will be full of shadows. Still, he holds his hand out to Marrick yet again, a third time, swinging her around to walk in front of him.
They go around behind the small attic, where the back of the Brotherhood faces its small, dingy parking lot. Fewer windows here. More privacy. He's intuited that she wants that, or maybe he just doesn't want to be interrupted. He follows her closer this time than he has before. Rage is scentless, but he feels like he can smell hers anyway: like lightning.
There are wooden and plastic crates stacked back here. Alexander has no fucking idea why. He moves some aside, kicks a few others away, exposes a clear stretch of the brick wall. The ground's full of pebbles and detritus and dirt and debris; nobody wants to fuck there. Besides, she might want to be on top, and damned if Alex was going to get pebbles jammed into his back. The east is at his back now; not the city but the lake, the lake with its dark dark clouds. The quality of light is fading. His shirt, previously a vivid blood-red, is losing its saturation. He reaches behind his shoulders and pulls it off. His tan is uniform. His musculature is, as might be expected, tight, compact, cut and defined.
"This is just a bit of fun, right?" There's a sort of hungriness beneath the cockiness now. He undoes his belt. "You're not gonna try to claim me or anything, are you?"
[Edwin Morr] ((Blur of the Milky Eye))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 4, 9, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8)
[Edwin Morr] ((Dex + Stealth, diff = 6, sneaky specialization (rerolls 10's)
Hail Kahseeno))
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 5, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (Stealth+dexterity, HIDING Hiding hiding. Also! Am Scentless!)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 4, 8 (Failure at target 6)
[Alexander Vaughn] (share, you fucking fail.)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (NO wait i forgot the freaking fox dice again!!UNless damon says NO.)
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Alexander Vaughn] (okay share. in the future, if you forget a die? ADD IT. don't reroll the whole damn thing.)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (You want me to only add and reroll then? sorry, this is what i have seen other of hte long time players do in recent scenes, thought it was the way things were done now.)
to Alexander Vaughn
[Alexander Vaughn] NO, IT'S FINE *LOL* STOP GLOMMING UP MY FUCKING TRANSCRIPT!!!! *BEATS*
to Javier Jesus Aveita
[Edwin Morr] Edwin, for his part, had been on the roof having a chat with his Beta, when noise begins to emanate from one end of the roof. His grin becomes lopsided just before Edwin slips behind one of the chimneys away from the noise and within the cast shadow from the brick structure. Standing stock still, quiet as the grave, and without any scent to give him away, he had done nigh all he could to avoid detection.
Then, as if to up the ante, his form becomes blurry and indistinct, making the denim clad figure with the navy baseball cap that much harder to distinguish from the general black of night.
The moon was dying...
It was his time.
[Alexander Vaughn] (perception roll -- no alert (yet) b/c it's passive)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 8 (Failure at target 6)
[Marrick Fisher] (per+alert: hum dee dum, passive perception)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Edwin Morr] ((Diff = 7 to notice Edwin))
[Javier Jesus Aveita] Up on the roof, the rain falls. Merciful rain, cleansing rain. Rain blessed by Thunder, the Grandfather himself giving lifegiving water to Chicago, or at least, this portion of it. It falls on teh roofs, where nothing lives to catch it save dents and valleys and spouts. It falls into the lake, onto Maelstrom. Onto the caern, where littel plants drink of what trickles between the cracks in the pavement, cracks where Gaia is winning against the hard cement weaver shell.
Oil slowly washes off the streets, dust out of the air, pollution cleansed briefly from teh air with the pure water; magic started it, prayer brought it, but nature does the rest.
The rooftop is a lovely place for a tryst. A lovely place with Chicago to see, the sky to bless them with the silky wet touch of Grandfather Thunder, and anyone who can see up there.. to enjoy the show.
[Alexander Vaughn] (btw -- just for continuity -- this scene started around sunset, and is probably, in IC time, twilight right now.)
[Alexander Vaughn] (fyi folks, i'm at work still so i'm super slow.)
[Marrick Fisher] She took his hand and pulled herself up; it wasn't him being a gentlemen, it was something out of necessity. She took it because it was offered; her grip was something firm. She was solid. She was every bit as strong as he was and she knew it.
When Marrick went up the fire escape, she sounded like she was twice her size.
And, surprisingly, she doesn't even kick him in the face. Intentionally or unintentionally.
Marrick Fisher was on the list of people who had no idea that Andrea Locke ever existed, they pass by her apartment and Marrick assumes that it's just another empty room. Something that could have been rented out or another source of revenue. It could, conversely, have just been another storage space. Marrick didn't know. Marrick didn't care.
There were boxes, crates, things that could have been considered refuse, and Marrick didn't really care.
She didn't care about the act of foreplay, because this was something more instinctive. They were going to fuck. Period. End of statement. No claim, no romance, no calling in the morning. None of that. Marrick didn't-
"Hey, you got a name?"
Okay, maybe she did want to know his name, but she didn't want to give up hers just yet. The Fury was pulling off a steadily dampening shirt, the men's dress shirt discarded quickly to her left; she didn't care where it landed. It was probably going to get dirty. Sure enough, she had a body to die for, to kill for, even. All tan and lean and... she had a scar on her left side, something particularly nasty and surprisingly recent. It looked like, once upon a time, something had tried to crack the Ahroun open like a damned crap. Like flesh and muscle and bones were nothing. She would endure.
She always did.
Marrick doesn't give a damn what he's thinking. Because, the minute they're both on solid ground, while he's dealing with his belt buckle she tries to sack the poor guy, as though the two of them standing up in the middle of a budding thunderstorm wasn't exactly pleasing her. Like, instead, the Fury wasn't about to wait for him to take his sweet time getting undressed.
Because, unless he was going to stop her, she was trying to take him to the ground by any means necessary. Marrick was just as strong as he was. She felt like war, and her eyes were more black than blue at that moment. He asks for clarification, that this is just for fun, right? That she's not going to try and claim him or anything.
That request for information is abandoned for the time being.
[Alexander Vaughn] Has he got a name? "Yeah." His eyes flick up to hers; they're hazel in the right light, but this is not the right light, and they're merely dark up here, nearly black, narrowed against the wind and the rain starting to ping down on his head. He grins at her, edgily. "Do you?"
And--
Marrick has a body to die for.
Marrick has a body to kill for.
Marrick has a body to kill with.
Alexander actually can't remember the last time he fucked a Garou. Has he ever fucked a Garou? He must have; the Rage is somehow familiar. It calls to him, the way his pure breeding would have called to Marrick if he'd had any. He doesn't. He's a Glass Walker; he's a mutt; he's a child of mutts and a brother of a mutt, and not a mutt himself.
Her shirt lands over a cracked crate. The sleeve trails on the ground. There'll be a puddle there soon. He would've taken her against the wall -- or was it the other way around? -- because it's a little cleaner, maybe marginally more comfortable, but Marrick has other plans, and while he's undoing his belt she tackles him like a goddamn linebacker, and he has time to take one step back before she's upon him and he lands on his back with a grunted oof.
"What the fuck," he complains, but it's a laughing sort of complaint. His palms run up her thighs, which are strong and smooth; those muscles weren't for show. He finds the edge of her cutoffs and his fingers slip beneath for a moment, then skate over. He starts wresting at the fastenings of her jeans instead.
The question's not forgotten, though. The button on her denims pops open. His fingers search for the tab of the zipper. He's a little out of breath already, not exertion but excitement: "Well, are you gonna answer me?"
[Edwin Morr] About that point, a loud and approving whistle, of the sort used by construction workers when pretty woman walks past the job site, is heard from the shadow of a nearby chimney...
"Woooo! Take it off!"
[Alexander Vaughn] (...inits!)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (+8)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4
[Edwin Morr] ((Init +7
Hail Kahseeno!))
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1
[Marrick Fisher] (+6!)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7
[Alexander Vaughn] (+7)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4 (Failure at target 6)
[Alexander Vaughn] (marrick-javier-alex-ed! declare in reverse. i'ma be kinda slow, sorry guys!)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] "Summer in Chicago, even the rooftops are hot!" Ths man's voice has a lazy jungle of a Latin American accent, and he's stepped out from behind the chimney, dressed in black from jeans to loosely unbuttoned shirt; all of him is drenched, making him smell of rain, not wolf.
Even his grin drips rainwater.
[Edwin Morr] ((Punch Alex))
[Alexander Vaughn] (sorry, i got called off!
1a. body tackle edwin
b. punch)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (1. IF attacked-- split action: punch/ punch (Yell: annoying ragabash stuff) rage 1: punch; rage 2: punch. If no attack then Talk: ragabash shit)
[Marrick Fisher] As that she is an embarrassed eighteen year old girl...
1:Punch Javier (poor guy)
r1: punch him again (you saw me topless)
r2: knee him in the gut (why are you looking at me topless)
r3: punch AGAIN! (WHO HANGS OUT ON ROOFTOPS?!)
[Marrick Fisher] (Punch!)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 4, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Marrick Fisher] (damage)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 6, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] Soak!
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] "Holy shit the Fury's Furious HAHAHAHAHHAHA! GET A ROOM!"
SMACK!! "Ow."
(Punch standard action split 1!)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] Whopping Huge Damage!:
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Marrick Fisher] (Soak!)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 5, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] Standard split 2 attack!
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 6, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] Whopping little second damage!
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 3, 5, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Marrick Fisher] Sooooaaaak iiiiiit!
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 6, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Alexander Vaughn] (body tackle -- i got these rules from kenna cuz my book's at home, so correct me if i'm wrong.
dex+brawl (-2 split action) vs diff 7.
dex+ath vs diff 6 to stay on feet for attacker; vs diff 6+succ for defender.
this is the initial tackle roll!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 7)
[Alexander Vaughn] (dex+ath vs diff 6 for alex, diff 8 for ed! this roll is reflexive for both of 'em.
alex's stay-on-feet roll)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 7, 7, 7, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
[Edwin Morr] ((Dex + Athletics, Diff = 6 + 2(sux) = 8 [wp]
Hailed))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 8) [WP]
[Alexander Vaughn] (1b. punch -- no diff mod since ed's on his feet. -3 split.)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 4, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Alexander Vaughn] (str)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 5, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Edwin Morr] ((Soak))
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 3, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Edwin Morr] ((Punch
Dex + Brawl, Diff = 6; rerolls 10's (Hand-eye coordination speciality)
Hail Kahseeno))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 5, 5, 7, 7, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
[Alexander Vaughn] (onward to ed and rage actions! i gotta afk for a bit.)
[Edwin Morr] ((Damage
Str + Successes
Hail Kahseeno))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Alexander Vaughn] (flyby soak!)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Marrick Fisher] (rage 1: RWAR!)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 5, 6, 6, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Marrick Fisher] (damage)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 7, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (damage soak HAIL KAHSEEENOO I LUUUV YOU)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 2, 5 (Botch x 1 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] "THAT THE BEST YOU CAN-- OW."
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (ACK! Owie! blow 1 wp to resist stun! as per advice!)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (rage ropund ONE MWAHAHA *sacrifices V*)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 4, 8, 9 (Failure at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (damn. he already has one!)
[Marrick Fisher] Rage 2: Knee to the wherever-the-fuck-it-lands
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 7) [WP]
[Marrick Fisher] Damage:
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 1, 4, 4, 10 (Failure at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] round 1 rage 2!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 4, 7 (Failure at target 6)
[Marrick Fisher] Rage 3: Because fighting topless is so much fun...
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 6, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Marrick Fisher] Damage!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 8, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (OH SHit i didnt remove stuff from my rolls for low health levels! sorry! here is soak)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 5, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Alexander Vaughn] Loud jeering out of nowhere.
Alexander's reaction is both instantaneous and violent. Neither should be a surprise. He doesn't even get up -- he just launches himself straight at Edwin, the first to step from the shadows. He doesn't care who it is, really, or what. Man and Garou meet in a heavy thud. The ground's slick from rain, but they both keep their footing. Alex's fist lashes out, straight and fast, practiced; followed by Edwin's. Their blows glance off one another's chins, doing little.
"Fuckin' pervert." His shirt is lost somewhere, his belt is undone. He grabs the end of it and whips it off his jeans, wrapping it around and around his fist until it forms a sort of makeshift brass knuckle. He brushes the ball of his free thumb across the tip of his nose, sniffs, bares his teeth in a edgy grin. Beckons Edwin forward. "Come on, fucker."
(inits +7!)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] "Topless BITCH-SMACKING! AHHH HAHAHAH!" Yes, he's getting his ass kicked and-- its hilarious. "THIS IS SOOO WRONG! Who's perverted on the ROOFtop??"
She's beating shit out of him and he's gonna die laughing.
*init +8)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (i said init +8!
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2
[Marrick Fisher] Init! +6
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7
[Edwin Morr] "Don't bitch't me 'cause you can't git a room. Next time give th'exhibitionism uh miss."
Edwin grins that lopsided grin, even while something in the back of his mind registers the situation.
((Init + 7
HAIL))
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Alexander Vaughn] (ed-alex-marrick-javier! reverse declare!)
[Edwin Morr] ((Pack is going on Edwin's init))
[Alexander Vaughn] (ed/javier-alex-marrick, then!)
[Marrick Fisher] 1a: Punch (poor ragabash)
1b: block (poor fury)
r1: Punch Javier again if he's not incapped (pooooor Javier)
[Alexander Vaughn] (slight mod to the previous post -- since ed's not giving him enough time to wrap the belt around his fist, he'll use it as a chain-type weapon.
1a. smack with belt
b. again!)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (Blast: Blur and spend 1 rage to getthefuck in the stairwell! *LOL*)
[Alexander Vaughn] (no blur in combat, share *LOL*)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (its basedon what will come with edwin's post through alpha orders. but thats ok! no blur works too! thanks for clarifying!)
[Edwin Morr] ((Declare: 2 Rage Spent
Base Action) Shroud
1st Rage) Run for it
2nd Rage) Hold the door shut while Blast runs
))
[Edwin Morr] ((clarification: Hold the door closed so Marrick/Alex can't get in while blast runs))
[Alexander Vaughn] (shroud the gift is gnosis based -- no rage actions!)
[Edwin Morr] ((Gah! You are right. *ponder* Okay... Just shroud then.))
[Marrick Fisher] (Changing action:
1: Juuuuust punching Javier)
[Edwin Morr] ((Shroud; 1 Gnosis spent.
Gnosis, diff = 3
HAIL))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 6, 9 (Failure at target 3)
[Alexander Vaughn] (dex/melee vs diff 5, -2 dice: splitting!)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 5, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 5 at target 5) Re-rolls: 1
[Alexander Vaughn] (damage +4)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 5, 6, 6, 6, 6, 8, 8 (Success x 6 at target 6)
[Edwin Morr] ((Soak...
"You hit like a girl. Hard."))
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 3, 5 (Failure at target 6)
[Alexander Vaughn] (other one, -3 dice!)
"Yeah," Alex pants, jerking his head in Marrick's direction, "like that one."
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 4, 6, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5) Re-rolls: 2
[Alexander Vaughn] (damage +3)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 5, 5, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Edwin Morr] ((Soak))
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 3, 3 (Failure at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] As one, two things happen.
One, it does NOT get very dark. That is like.. a negative happening, so it counts.
The other is that Javier peels out to head towards the door, laughing the way; he might just get the hell smacked out of him in the process.
He might.
He surely will. But still.
Ther;s something hes puling out of his pocket as he runs.
(rage spent, changing action:
1. TAKE PICTURE OF MERRICK wiht camera phone!
2. Rage action! RUN RUN RUN inside BUILDING!
"WORTH IT!! SOOO WORTH IT! I'm outta here!" yells the ragabash as he whops out a camera phone!
[Edwin Morr] (("RUN YOU GLORIOUS BASTARD!" *lol*))
[Marrick Fisher] Aaaaand on with the beating...
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 2, 2, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 7) [WP]
[Marrick Fisher] damage
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 8, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (SOAK!! PLEASE KAHSEENO ITS FOR BOOOBS!!)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (hey do i get to regen some damage too?)
[Marrick Fisher] (I have no idea!)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (regen maybe?rolling stamina! stop me if i am wrong! Something A POINT WOULD BE NICE! BOOB PICS NEED A POINT!)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 6, 6 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Alexander Vaughn] (you don't regen in homid, share!)
[Marrick Fisher] (rage round!)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] Javier moves to RUN RUN RUN to the door with his camera and the precious evil picture of bouncing booby Fury Furiousness; The problem is that.. she's acutually totally nearly beaten the shit of him already.
"OUTTA THE CHICKENCOOOOP!" The warcry of FOX!
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (Dex+ athletics - a hell of a lot=NO MOVEMENT AT ALL.)
Well. It was worth a try. The Ragabash collapses into a laughing heap of arms and legs, cradling the cell phone to him, protecting it against the beating that is about to come!
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (NO WAIT I HAV EONE!)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (ONE LITTLE LONE RUNNING DIE! dex + athletics 1!!!)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2 (Failure at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (OH GOD!))
[Marrick Fisher] Rage1: Getting on top of Javier an' punching... pooooor Javier
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 5, 6, 6, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Marrick Fisher] damage?
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 9 (Failure at target 6)
[Marrick Fisher] She was standing over him, she pulled her fist back, and then? Then she just seemed to mess Javier's hair up. The Fury sat on top of him, and all she really seemed to do was mess his hair up. She growled, and then? Then, well, some part of this she found vaguely amusing, he was down and she couldn't quite hit him.
And then? Out of her mouth came the most beautiful Spanish.
[Alexander Vaughn] Over by Edwin, Alexander finishes the altercation with two vicious whack!s of the belt's hard buckle. The first puts a sizable buckle-shaped dent in Edwin's cheek. The second manages to strike the temple just right, hard enough to crack bone.
Edwin goes down. Alexander stands over him a second, panting, and then he finishes what he set out to do and wraps the belt around his fist. Heads over to where Marrick sits astride Blast.
"Who the fuck are these losers?" He bends over Blast to have a better look. Alex isn't even that pissed anymore. Beating the shit out of someone will do wonders in terms of anger management. He's just curious. And bemused. And maybe just a little amused. "Is that a camera phone? Asstard."
He straightens up. And unless Marrick stops him, he kicks the guy in the side of the head. Hard.
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (HEY! actiosn still beign taken here!)
(gift Activation: Persuasion! Char + subterfuge, rolling full dice but if the dice pool is affected by his bad health levels then - 5 to dice!
Blast replies in the same language, her homid floor cushion still laughing as he rolls a little to look up at her. "Javier Jesus Aveita, young lady. Cliath No Moon of Grandfather Thunder, beta of the Boogeymen pack! Who may I have the honor of addressing? I'd stand in your presence as is proper, but ahh... i'd hate to move you, as you look so comfortable! And You don't want my camera...
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (ok ok ! *beaten by dqamon*)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 2, 10 (Failure at target 6)
[Marrick Fisher] "Hold it kiddo," she all but demanded. The fury got off of Blast and all but glared down at him. She was moving to Alex, she was going to keep him from kicking the ragabash's head in. And her replies to him were all in a different language. All seemingly elegant, but Javier knew better.
She said something again, and with that took Alex's arm (if he would let her) and headed to the fire escape.
[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander probably would've left his bootprint in the side of Javier's head if the Fury hadn't spoken up. Since she does, he shrugs, shifts his balance back between his feet, and gives Javier a shit-eating grin.
Marrick takes his arm. He pulls free for a second, bends down, snatches up the camera phone. Drops it on the ground and stomps his heel into that.
"See ya later, Javier." He hadn't caught the rest of the spanish, but coming from Miami, he knew enough to pick up a name. Then he follows Marrick down the fire escape.
[Javier Jesus Aveita] He could.. go save Edwin.
OR go save the pictures.
WHAT DO YOU THINK HE DOES?
When the kin is away, Javier's hand come sout to play-- to snatch up the smashed phone and its likely intact memory card! LOVE those modern cell phone cases...
Things liek that can be recovered. Cell phones are wonderfully protective cases!
What happeens after taht is pack business...
[Marrick Fisher] She headed down the fire escape and started to climb back into her window when all was said and done. She looked back at Alex for a moment.
There was silence.
"You never told me your name," she said.
[Edwin Morr] ((Lightning storm's getting bad folks. Night and thnks for the scene))
[Alexander Vaughn] (night man!)
[Alexander Vaughn] (and sheesh, fine, ATTACK ON THE CELL PHONE = all succ, immobile object. str+1+7 damage!)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 4, 5, 5, 7, 8, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Javier Jesus Aveita] (HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!)
[Alexander Vaughn] "You never told me yours," he counters. "So who were those clowns up there?"
[Marrick Fisher] "Jaview Jesus Aveita," she said. "Grandson of Thunder... the other guy smelled like a 'lord too, but hey..."
She shrugged a little, and then started to head on down again. Her window was open, and she climbed through. The Fury waited; she had what appeared to be the beginnings of a bruise on her right shoulder. It would fade within a matter of moments. She was dripping wet, smelling like lightning and tentative success. Winning the battle, but still fighting the war.
"And I asked your first," pulling rank, but her heart just wasn't in it.
She paused.
"And it's Marrick."
[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander lets out a harsh bark of a laugh. "I beat a Lord's face in? Fuck me sideways."
He follows her back into her room. She tells him her name. He looks at her a second. Let's be honest: his eyes flicker down to her tits. And then back up.
"Alex." He realizes he left his shirt upstairs too. He'll get it later. "You gonna put on a shirt?"
[Marrick Fisher] "Depends, am I just gonna take it off again?"
[Alexander Vaughn] "Yeah. But I didn't think you wanted to traipse down the hall topless." He shuts her window behind him. "Unless you changed your mind about fucking around in here."
[Marrick Fisher] She walked over to her dirty clothes pile... she didn't have a hamper, namely because she didn't seem to find a point in it. Marrick dug through before she found a tanktop. It was something white, that under good circumstances would cling to her form and was one of the few things that actually fit. She pulled it down, and as that she was sopping wet it clung to her frame and wasn't quite white, but rather, transluscent in places where her skin touched.
She sighed.
Inside it was.
"Your room. Meet me there," a pause. "Unless you wanna try somewhere else."
[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander watches Marrick walk. He watches her bend over. He watches her stretch her arms up to pull her shirt on, and he watches her roll it down.
God damn, he thinks.
And then, for no reason he could even begin to fathom, he asks: "Hey. You still wanna do this?"
There's no statute against male upper-body nudity. He's still shirtless; he has a couple scars, which can only be expected from someone with such a knack for getting into fights. Someone who cagefights on a regular basis. On the whole, though, his body is smooth and unmarred, lean. His skin slides over his musculature when he shrugs.
"You don't have to fuck me just 'cause I've kicked two guys' asses in front of you in as many days."
Bragging? Nah. Just boasting.
[Marrick Fisher] Marrick snorted, "I'm walkin' to your room, ain't I?"
She didn't so much walk down the hall as she did saunter. When she moved, her hips swayed ever so slightly, but it seemed to be just something that came with her being female. It was as though she didn't so much walk as she did stalk. The Fury had no desire to keep her instincts in check, and while that miniature fight on the roof had relieved some of her own tensions it wasn't the same.
She looked over her shoulder at the Glass Walker; he was athletic. He was strong, she was sure that he could run a mile in a few seconds, and she was trying her damnedest not to think of it. She was trying not to think of how fast he could run or how hard he could hit-
Bullshit. That was exactly what she was thinking about. She looked at him with appreciative blue eyes, and for her desire was something more akin to hunger than anything. And she would not be left unsatisfied.
[Alexander Vaughn] Let us, for a moment, take an objective appraisal of Alexander. Because whether or not Marrick's about to fuck him, that's exactly the sort of appraisal she's taking. There's nothing about her that's blinded by puppy love or even lust; she's pretty damn open-eyed about all this.
She's walking to his room, isn't she?
So. An objective view. Here we have: one male, human(ish), aged 25-27, 5'9", 160lbs of lean meat. Quite possibly the most abrasive, unapologetically assholeish creature in this building. Not the most insane, but certainly the most, or close to the most likely to pick a fight for no better reason than to pick a fight. Arrogant, caustic, cocky as shit, and that altercation on the roof is just going to make him worse. Also, either insecure or very fucking in love with himself, or both, judging from the way he keeps trying to raise himself up at other people's expenses. Also, not likely to call in the morning.
Here we also have: fitness.
Not in the 7 days a week twice a day at Tribull gym, mixed martial arts, mile in five minutes sense of the word. In the evolutionary sense of the word. As in, survival of the fitness. As in, evolutionary viability. Because she's right: he's athletic. Strong. He'll probably sire strong brats, possibly even get lucky and pump out a garou or two. Even if this isn't her intention tonight (and he damn well hopes it's not), even if he doesn't have an ounce of pure breeding to speak of, he has something that's drawn Garou to kin, Furies to men, females to males, since the dawn of time.
Strength, stamina, the ability to win a fucking fight. He did a good job on Aidan's face. He did a good job on Edwin's face. He also had a good job done on his face by Hatchet and Matthias, which Marrick doesn't know about; she also doesn't know that other than wigging out when Lee defended Hatchet -- and that wasn't quite because Hatchet caved his face in -- Alex didn't complain about either. It's like sparring; it's like amateur matchups. You win some, you lose some. He wins more than he loses. You pick yourself up and keep trucking; you keep doing what you've always done.
The last of which is good advice for prizefighting. Perhaps not very good advice for a kinsman trying to survive in a world full of his ...
(and damn, does he hate to think of it this way)
... betters.
It's not a long way down the hall, around the corner. Room 4 is quiet. Gabbie isn't home tonight. Lucky her. This is not Marrick's first time in the room. Nothing's changed. For a moment Alexander considers fucking in Gabbie's bed; then he decides he'd really rather not have her throw his fucking shoes at him again. He shuts the door behind himself and locks it. And then he props a chair in front of it, in case Gabbie gets home early.
He leaves the lights off. He opens the curtains though. The very last vestiges of twilight are still in the sky, turning the storm blue-black. It's started to rain good and hard, a sudden downpour that drops the temperature and washes the mugginess out of the air like sweat off skin. He opens the windows and they're not outside, but they can hear the rain; they can smell the rainwater, the particular and peculiar scent of asphalt and the city in the rain.
When he turns back from the window his eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimness. He tosses his belt down on the desk, flips his jacket and his helmet and his gym bag off the mattress onto the floor. He isn't particularly modest, and he has zero shame in his body. Of course not: he wouldn't spend hours a day every single day working on it only to be ashamed of it. He undoes his pants and pushes them down; his boxers too. They catch on his shoes, so he sits at the edge of the bed to cup his shoes in his palms, pull them off, drop them to the floor. Then he kicks his pants the rest of the way off, slides them aside, and leans back with his palms braced on his mattress.
"You going to insist on being on top again?" His grin is a pale flash. "Is it like a Fury thing or something?"
[Marrick Fisher] So, then came the honest appraisal. He was a male, anywhere between even to nine years older than her. He had no scent to drive her on, nothing that inspired the need to breed and bring little Furies into the world. He sure as fucking well hoped that wasn't what she had in mind, and the stars were aligned correctly because... well... it wasn't. She was young, and suddenly of the selfish mentality of leave none behind to mourn.
And it was the faults and the strengths that kept her attention. He was exactly what she was looking for- something without strings. He was cocky, caustic, in love with himself. He wouldn't call in the morning. He wouldn't come knocking on her door, asking if she wanted to have breakfast or want some memento. He didn't care what kind of music she liked or where she was from.
He was strong enough and could endure enough and cocky enough that she was betting that he wouldn't just yield. That he wouldn't lay there and let her do whatever the Hell she wanted because she was a Full Moon. As soon as her shirt came on, it was off again. There was little need to hide the fact that she had a body. Little need to nightlight scars or what-have-you; what she had was still visible, but not the highlight of her body. Not something that detracted from the athletic female's breasts or her collarbone or her hips-
which were suddenly visible as that she discarded her shorts soon thereafter. Marrick wans't ashamed of her body. She didn't blush like a school girl, she didn't flinch away from the fact that neither one of them had any clothes on. He'd seen her fight, he'd seen her pound away at the Columbian until he could barely move. He had not, however, seen her sit on top of Katherine Bellamonte- his room mate's sister, and knock her out in a hit. He hadn't seen short of having her throat torn out in a challenge, either.
You win some. You lose some. You pick yourself up and keep trucking.
She endured. It's what she was built for. It's what she was born into; that was more red dirt than Fury blood, though.
He asks if she's going to insist on being on top, she grins right back. Her teeth are too white and canines too pronounced. She could not hide that she was a predatory creature.
"Depends, you gonna let me?"
Spoken like a challenge. And in a moment she was more than content to invade his space. Motions and proximity speaking dares that she had no need to voice.
[Alexander Vaughn] "Maybe for a while."
The teeth disappear, but not completely. His grin fades to something a little fainter, quirky, crooked. She invades his space. He sits with his knees wide apart like he had nothing to fear; like Black Furies didn't have reputations as manhating amazons. He doesn't sit up. He keeps his hands where they are, like he didn't just see her beat a man to a pulp with her fists.
As she's starting to move over him, he nods at the nightstand. "Condoms. Unless you're on the pill." Pause. "Or you wanted to breed. But if you end up with a brat in 9 months I'm not raising it."
[Marrick Fisher] "You get me pregnant and I'll kick your ass," she said. Stated.
And with that, it was to the nightstand to find some damn condoms. And, for a moment, she was reminded of not-too long ago and-
Well now, she didn't want to think about that right now. She tossed one at him and looked at the male rather expectantly.
[Alexander Vaughn] Another laugh -- harsh as the one he'd let out when he found out who, or rather what, Edwin was. Quieter though.
His nightstand is full of random crap. There are keys in there. An iPod. A cell phone. A laptop, even, and its travel-sized mouse. A Chicago tourist guide; must be his first time here. And a box of trojans, which might be the only thing Marrick gives a rat's ass about or even notices right now.
Alex catches the packet out of the air. He doesn't put it on yet. He bunches it into his palm, returns his palm to the mattress. His shoulders round, the joint pressing against his skin when he lets his weight sink onto his hands.
"Turn around," he says. She's right: he's not the yielding type. He doesn't think she is either, not by a very, very long shot. All the same, "Lemme look at you."
All the same, he pushes the line.
[Marrick Fisher] In fact, they were the only things she cared about in there. Marrick didn't have an email address anymore, nor did she have a facebook account to check religiously. If she had people to converse with, it would be done via phone call on her near ancient cell phone or via snail mail.
She was right, though, he wasn't the yielding type. And she wasn't he tells her to turn around so he can get a look at her. Marrick simply turned to head back over to the bed. "Oh, fuck you," she says. She had to laugh at that.
She came over again, he didn't quite get a turn. Or a chance to look at her full details. He didn't get to survey tanned legs that came up to sculpted thighs to once-perfect abdomen, to a face with freckles and blue eyes and blonde haired Rage. Because, very suddenly, she was invading his space again. She was leaning down, she was claiming his lips with hers in a kiss that was forceful but not forced. As though she did not know that she was supposed to play gently with kinfolk.
Or, rather, that she simply refused to do so.
All that blonde hair hung in limp sections, framing her face, just barely letting any light in. She let her hand cradle the back of his head. There was very little about her motions that were not fueled by a simple I don't feel like waiting.
She pulled back for a moment. Lemme look at you, he said.
"You first," she replied.
[Alexander Vaughn] There are plenty of people who wouldn't kiss a random one-night-stand (one day stand?) on the mouth. There's plenty of reason not to. A kiss can reveal a lot. A kiss can reveal everything. Emotions can come into play. Attachments form. Masks fall. It's harder to let go.
Either no one ever told Alexander that, or he doesn't care. More likely, he doesn't have a lot to hide. He wears his heart on his sleeve; he doesn't have a whole lot of deep complex layers. He's shallow, and insensitive, and selfish, and self-centered.
But when she leans down to kiss him, he tips his chin up and meets her. Not halfway, not even close, but he meets her. And there's nothing gentle about this kiss. It's all hunger and opening mouths, tongue, teeth.
She pulls back. He laughs at her now, or at what she says. And then he sits up suddenly, leaving the condom on the bed; his hands come around behind her and when he stands he picks her up. His body is hot and compact, very solid, with great potential for violence; it brings to mind something not very large but strong, vicious and quick. A bobcat. A pit bull. This time he initiates the kiss; then turns, drops her back on the bed and, mockingly obedient, turns a full circle with his arms held out as if to say, here I am. His tan stops just below his navel, and just above mid-thigh. Apparently, even hailing from Miami as he does, he isn't the type to go to the beach in a goddamn speedo. Or worse, a male g-string.
When he's facing her again he holds his hand out for the condom. His left hand. He strokes himself with his right, gets it hard while he tears the condom wrapper open with his teeth. He grins at her for a moment around the scrap of foil, while he's rolling the condom on. Then he spits it out onto Gabbie's rug and, unless she's gotten up in the meantime, climbs over her in his narrow twin-sized bed.
[Marrick Fisher] There is a good chance that he lets her kiss in on the mouth because he is a particularly shallow creature. Because there is nothing to hide there, or because he simply doesn't give a shit. Marrick did it because, well, no one ever told her not to. Chicago was a series of places to hide from reality, drown in battles, and the beginning of a series of one night stands that would inevitably end. He wears his heart on his sleeve, he doesn't have a lot of complex layers. She did the same, simply because she was incapable of hiding.
Running on primal instincts made Marrick Fisher seem uncomplicated. Being open was the greatest lie she didn't know she was telling.
He tans well, and whens he looks at him it's hard to tell whether those blue eyes are looking him over because of desire or because she's looking for cracks. It's hard to tell if she's looking at him like a lover or a conquest. Admittedly, it was hard to tell the difference. He's all hard lines and compact muscle and when he kisses her it's all fervor and devouring.
She kissed him like, despite the lack of breeding, he was addictive. Because there was strength there, proven in a moment of embarrassment on a rooftop. The fact that he was a mutt, born of mutts, likely to sire even more mutts wasn't a turn off by any means. From a strictly evolutionary standpoint, he was viable. This was basic. The fun came in knowing that she could be rough with him, in knowing that she didn't have to be afraid of accidentally breaking him in a moment of frustration or passion (or some combination of the two)- he wasn't cringing. He wasn't trembling. He swallowed whatever she was with bravado.
False bravado, possibly, but Marrick didn't care enough to read much into Alexander Vaughn.
So, there she was, on the bed, laying back on her elbows and trying to bite back a growl. She started to sit up; this was taking too damned long. She wanted him, right there, and as she started to get up he was moving back. A lopsided grin crossed her face. She rose to meet him, thighs parted and muscles taut. She took a hold of his shoulders, leaning back and pulling him with her. Or, conversely, staying up should he prove to be unyielding.
Her nails dug in slightly, not enough to really hurt, but enough that she might leave a mark should she tense any further or should anything else arise that said Marrick needed to exercise some personal restraint.
She didn't say a word, and she bit back any less-than-human sounds of desire that may arise.
[Alexander Vaughn] She's in a hurry. Alex isn't surprised; nor is he particularly disappointed. He's not interested in a long session of lovemaking, foreplay and oral sex and manual sex and making out. He's not particularly interested in lovemaking, period. She pulls him over her and he moves with her willingly, though when her nails start to dig in he glances over his shoulder at her hand and huffs a laugh and says, "If you claw my back up you better at least help me put first aid cream on it when we're done."
Though he doesn't ask her to find someone to heal him. Though he doesn't ask her not to fucking hurt him. This is a guy that, for shits and giggles or the sake of fitness (the gym kind, this time) or ... whatever-the-fuck spars at least three nights a week; cagefights on a semiregular basis. Getting clawed in bed by a black fury is not a major fear of his.
His room is full of blue shadows, an evening storm. There's still enough light to see her body, her parting thighs. They align to one another along the long axis of his crappy little college-dorm bed, and he holds himself over her with one hand, and she's not just lying back and turning soft and waiting either; they're both physically invested in this, tensed and taut, flexed, holding their own weight. Pulling their own weight.
"Oh, yeah..." he breathes; Marrick's going to find out soon that Alexander's no better at keeping his big mouth shut in bed than anywhere else. He looks down to take himself in hand, telling her to "Wrap those legs up higher. Wrap 'em a little higher, angel," and when he finds her cunt he pushes in all at once with no preamble, in one hard flex of his hips, his eyes falling closed and a groan twisting its way out of the pit of his stomach. He doesn't care if the walls are thin; if there's a Philodox in the room on one side and a wolf-born on the other.
Alexander's eyes reopen when he's all the way inside her, and he finds her eyes, her face, in the growing gloom. He grins at her suddenly, savagely, and the grin says that he knows very well that wasn't a polite thing to do, so what's she going to do about it? His right hand is still between them, his palm to himself and his knuckles against her, and when he pulls it free he runs it over her body, pushes his palm over her from belly to collarbone, his fingertips scouting over the terrain of her torso before his palm passes it. His hand slides off her shoulder and plants on the bed, a match to the other, and now he's holding himself over her and inside her, grinning at her.
"You all right?" he pants, but he isn't really checking if she's all right because of course she's all right; because as soon as she begins to answer, as soon as she draws breath to answer he bucks his hips against her, hard, does it precisely for the purpose of catching her unawares and offguard, to see what she'll do.
And he laughs, half-breathlessly.
[Marrick Fisher] She wasn't particularly interested in making love. If she was, there would be more effort involved. She would have rented a damned hotel room, would have insisted on something romantic, but realistically? Marrick didn't ive a shit whether or not this was romantic, because it was carnal. And that, in her mind, was much better. It was more related to instinct and drive. This was like running. This was like eating. This was fighting and clawing and battle and whast she was built for. Born for. just another physical exercise but, admittedly, a hell of a lot more fun than the other ones.
She's not worried about hurting him. In turn, he doesn't ask her not to hurt him. He doesn't even ask for her to find someone to heal him should she forget that she's playing with kinfolk. If you claw my back up, you better at least help me put first aid cream on it when we're done.
"You gonna whine about it?"
Let it be said that she didn't just lay back. Her legs wrapped around his waist, every muscle tense and every nerve ending saying yes and now and screaming every bit of impatience that came to mind. She held onto him, not for closeness, but because this was necessary. "Don't call me angel," she growled. Not quite instructions, and not quite displeasure. Neither bad nor good, just something close to primal desire coming from the alto beneath him.
Marrick wasn't much of a talker. Not in person. Not when she needed to come up with words and things today; they weren't elegant. Her words were not eloquent. Here? She didn't have to be. Here, she wasn't much of a talker but what did come out were heated commands and carnal intentions. He moved into her with one solid push. No preamble. What he might not have expected, however, was the fact that the Fury pushed against him. She moaned, lips parting and not bothering to stifle the sound.
It didn't matter to her who heard, and while she was not one to speak too many words, she was vocal.
he asks if she's alright, and her response is open her mouth, to respond. The Fury, blonde and still relatively wet from the rain, inhaled, only to feel him slam into her again. This time? She was caught off guard. Her muscles tensed around him, surprisingly so. Well, possibly not. She was an ahroun, of course she would be in shape, of course every muscle would be toned and taut and cared for. Her thighs tensed around his waist, her fingers tightened and, for her part, she instinctively pulled him closer. It did little good except to leave a trail of scratch marks from his shoulder and downward.
"Fuck!" She tried to gain her composure, only to realize she didn't want to retrieve it.
She locked eyes with him, breathing in again and then her hips rocked against his. There was very little about her that was gentle. "Fuck, do it again."
Not quite a request, but an order.
[Alexander Vaughn] You gonna whine about it?
"Fuck no." And that edgy grin again. "I don't fucking whine."
Which was what the fight was about last night, wasn't it? He called Gabriella and Aidan whiners; Aidan decided to prove himself otherwise. And then Alex
(he'll never get tired of thinking about it)
kicked his pretty, pretty face in. The thought of it is deeply satisfying, possibly more satisfying than beating up a goddamn shadow lord garou, because he hadn't even known it was a Garou while he was doing it, and because Edwin hadn't actually done anything to him, not directly; but Aidan had. Aidan had stuck his pretty pretty nose where it hadn't belonged, twice, and he had kicked his pretty pretty face in for it. Twice.
Alexander thinks about fighting when he's having sex. He might think about sex while he's fighting, too. He might be thinking about evolutionary fucking fitness, beating faces in to prove himself the stronger male. God knows what he's thinking of.
Don't call me angel, she says, and then she moans like that and his laugh is tattered and breathless, and he asks, "What the hell should I call you, then?"
She pulls at him and his hands are planted, elbows locked, and her nails raise welts on his skin instead. "Fuck!" he echoes her, unwittingly. There's little about either of them that's gentle. She's not a soft, sleek thing; she's as strong as he is, sinewy and athletic, there's scar tissue all over her and the look in her eyes is sometimes twice her physical age. She's built for war, born to die, and whatever he's getting out of this, she's by no means a passive participant; by no means a passive recipient.
She's taking what she wants. Reaching out and taking it; taking him, and he shifts over her to put his weight on his knees and give himself to leverage to fuck her when she tells him to
do it again and he does, harder, and then he's bending to catch her mouth with his, pushes his pillow from under her head impatiently to push his hand into her hair and catch her mouth, well and truly fucking her now, making the bedsprings creak and the bedframe shudder, tearing his mouth from hers to exclaim, "Jesus christ, ow!" -- that would be her nails again, but it's not really a complaint, is it, as he rears over her again and grabs her leg to move it over his arm, over his shoulder, leans into her to bear her leg up as he goes on, that goddamn motormouth of his -- "Fucking god, that tight fucking cunt. Fuck me. Come on, fuck me, you can do better than that."
[Marrick Fisher] He knows exactly who and what she is and it doesn't make him flinch. He makes eye contact and pushes into her. He follows orders when she tells him, but not without resistence. Not without giving her a hard time about it. He wasn't just giving her what she wanted; part of the fun was in the hunt. In the struggle, in making it happen.
What the hell should he call her, then? She laughed, panted, and didn't bother to tell him what he should call her.
The bed is letting out its own protest against this. She doesn't seem to care too much, or mind that it's creaking, that it's the kind of bed that she would have found in the dorms of Murdaugh Hall back home, and she didn't really care. She wasn't thinking about that, she wasn't thinking about anything other than satisfaction. He discards the pillow, finding himself with his fingers in her damp, blonde hair. Odd, really, because her hair was probably soft and silky when it was dry. It was probably the only damned thing about her that was soft.
They kissed. She leaned into him, let her tongue explore her mouth and took in whatever lingering tastes that may remain. It was ravenous. All teeth and taste and textures. Her hand went up to the back of his head. She kept the kiss there as long as possible. The bedframe shuddered, he pulled back-
her leg went over his shoulder; the angle changed and she used this as an opportunity to use whatever lower body strength she had to pull down. He keeps going; and Marrick gasps again, like she was coming up for air before going back underwater again.
And he challenges her. He says fuck me, you can do better than that. She ushes down into him. Each impact seeming more drastic, each movement with fervor and purpose. She could go all night if she had to, she could go all night if she wanted to and he had no guarentee whatsoever that she wouldn't want to go all night.
"That a challenge, Alex?" she grinned, she practically purred it at him. As though a challenge, well and good and spoken was damned near erotic.
He thought of fighting while he was fucking. Fucking while he was fighting.
How different were they, exactly?
[Alexander Vaughn] Alex, she calls him; of course she calls him that. It's his goddamn name. It makes a flicker of -- something flash across his eyes, though, an expression, an emotion so quick even he can't put his finger on it. Startlement? Something like that. Then it passes; he grins right back, his back slickening with sweat now, a flush on his cheeks and his neck, his upper chest, beneath his tan.
"Damn straight it's a challenge. Fuck you gonna do about it?" And he shrugs her leg off his shoulder again, wraps his arms under her and scoops her up off the bed, almost loses his balance on the mattress, half-falls against the wall. When he slips out of her Alex lets out a half-voiced, ragged gasp; turns his back to the wall and sits on his heels and pulls her over him, reaching down impatiently to take his cock in hand and pull her down on it.
Hard.
Now he's sitting against the wall and she's astride him; they're something close to face to face and he's looking up at her as she moves on him, his eyes on hers, and he's not grinning anymore; there's a stark sexual tension on his face that's not really an expression at all but merely an intensity. His eyes seem very dark in this light. His hands pull down her sides, grip her ass. She's all strength and sinew, a lean taut creature of sure motions and controlled power. She's indistinct; she's ablaze. Her rage is under his skin and in his blood; he breathes it in on every inhale; it's the intoxication of danger, the thrill of the deadly.
"That's it." He's still talking, but it's a whisper now, a running commentary, stream of filthy consciousness. "That's it, baby, ride it, ride that cock, fuck me, don't stop -- oh."
[Marrick Fisher] He half falls against the wall; his back was against the wall, and her back was to the door. Her heart was beating heavily, he could feel her pulse on his skin, she focused on his eyes, his face, his half grin and his cheeky remarks.
Fuck you gonna do about it? plays over again in her head. It was her turn to grin at him. It would have been something pretty on a youthful face were she not so feral. Her rage boiled underneath the surface, smelled and tasted like danger and dared him to come closer. She falls down hard on him, he pulls and she moves with him. It suited her purposes- she wasn't fucking him for his sake.
There's tension written across his face, and she leans into him. She claims his lower lip, letting her teeth graze his skin. He grips her ass, but not before his hands trail down her skin like it's something worth feeling. Over flawless tan and distinctive scar tissue. She stayed ontop of him, down all the way and giving him a moment to-
Oh fuck, Marrick wasn't moving on him because she wanted to give him a chance to adjust, or because she needed to become accustomed to him in this new position. She wasn't fucking him because she wanted to hear him ask for it. but her patience was not infinite, and hse moved against him, back and forth, up and down. She inhaled his scent- exertion and fitness in more than the physical sense.
He lets loose a stream of consciousness, dirty and raw on her mind. And she moves, she rides like a rodeo professional. Her hand trails down from his shoulder, to his arms. She grabbed his wrist, and her grasp was surprisingly insistent. The Fury pulled his right arm from her body, pushing his arm with little ceremony to the wall.
The left hand soon followed suit; she was just as strong as he was. She was pushing him. Against the wall, on his shaft, and seemed intent to keep his wrists where they were. To keep him where he was. Marrick wasn't easy with him.
Her lips claimed his again, moved downward, her tongue tasting his jawline, breathing her demands into his ear. "Tell me how bad you wanna get off-" she growls. She purrs. she breathes and whispers into his ear before pulling back and looking him in the eyes. They were more black than blue. All arousal and Rage.
And daring him not to look away.
[Alexander Vaughn] Another flicker in his eyes when she grabs his wrist and forces it to the wall. It's there again, stronger, when his other hand joins the first. She pins him, leans close; her mouth is at his jawline, at his throat almost, and then she's whispering in his ear and he realizes what it is:
not startlement, though it has its roots in that. not fear, though there's a sinuous slither of that too. not even quite excitement, though Alexander, arrogant, cocky, chauvinistic bastard that he is, very rarely gets his wrists pinned to the wall by a lean, lanky, eighteen year old ...
... monster.
And what this is, is pure adrenaline. It's a pure rush and it makes him throw his head back, cracking the back of his skull against the wall hard enough to rattle the plaster. "You fucking bitch," he snarls at her; he doesn't care if this is a very, very stupid thing to snarl at a black fury. "You fucking hot bitch, shut the fuck up" -- oh, he's one to talk -- "and fuck me."
He lunges forward when she pulls back. The kiss is closer to a bite than an act of love. None of this, none of it, has anything in common with an act of love. His teeth scrape her lower lip; he rolls his hips against her, matches her rhythm, doesn't stop, and with his hands pinned all his motion comes from his body, the smooth-sliding, thick musculature that, on his medium frame, gives him a certain reptilian precision of motion.
His wrists twist in her grasp, the tendons and cords straining; he breaks her grasp but doesn't twist free, nothing of the sort. He grabs her hands instead, tightens his fingers through hers, pulls her hands with his own behind his head, and his hair is damp with sweat, and now they're both pinned. Their hands -- that part of them that's arguably the one thing that separates man from beast, those agile, dexterous, tool-using fingers and those cleverly opposable thumbs -- useless to them now. The kiss falls apart. They stare at each other. He wouldn't look away for the world.
"Fuck me," again, harsher, panting into the space between. He does answer her after all. "I wanna come in you. I wanna come in that pussy. Fuck me."
[Marrick Fisher] His head was going to hurt in a couple hours. His wrists might hurt as well, because Marrick's grip had not been gentle in the least bit. His muscles would be sore from what could very well be a damned good work out. He was running on adrenaline, he was well aware that she was dangerous and it did little good. Marrick was more female than young woman and had little desire to reconcile the two parts.
It made her action make sense. Made it perfectly clear that this was not love, nothing like it. This was fucking. This was fun.
[Because that's what he was looking for, right? Harmless fun, no strings nor calls. Just fucking.]
He pushed, nothing from his hands since she had pinned his arms earlier- and she would never admit that she enjoyed how strong he was. She would never admit that she liked how difficult he could be, that he could hold his own and hit as hard as she could, could probably run a five minute mile, toThere were teeth involved when they kissed, leaving her skin tingling and she moaned-
Because, as we established earlier, Marrick wasn't a woman of words, but it was not to say that she wasn't vocal.
Her muscles were tense, squeezing against him. She claimed his lips again. She nipped, she pulled back briefly. He breaks her grasp but doesn't exactly twist free. Rather, he moves her arms, both of their hands soon pinned behind his head. She squeezed his hands, gasping for breath and then coming back to the world. He pants, something harsh. A demand that she fuck him, that he wants to come inside of her.
"You don't get to," she panted right back. She looked into his eyes and was moving with his hips, insisted. "Say please."
She inhaled sharply, moving again, and that lithe, eighteen year old
"Ohh god, come on," she panted. "Come on you sonofabitch, how bad do you wanna get off?"
Apparently, just as badly as she did.
[sunglasses] [AUGH!!]
[Alexander Vaughn] Say please, she says.
"Fuck you," he fires right back.
And then he bares his teeth at her. It's a grin, barely. She rides down on him so hard that he flexes his head back against their caught hands again, lifts his head a moment later and watches her tits bounce, lifts his eyes back to her face a second after that. Marrick's got a body, but let's be honest, plenty of women have lean frames and toned stomachs, nice tits, a nice ass.
Not so very many have eyes like that. Not so very many have a beast behind the eyes, a monster under their skin.
"I want it," he tells that monster. "I want it."
His hands tighten on hers. He tugs her hands sharply downward, flexing his hands down behind his neck, behind his back, and he doesn't let go of her. He drags her closer like that, close enough to bite at, close enough to kiss.
"But I'm not gonna beg."
[Marrick Fisher] She was a full moon. Marrick Fisher had the kind of rage that barred her from most normal jobs, that kept the young and the weak of will at bay. She had the kind of rage that boiled beneath the surface, that was only barely contained. That was dangerous to not only her enemies but her allies alike. She was a creature of control- not because she wanted to be, but because she had to be.
And there she was, in all her primal elegance riding his cock like it was a god damned present. A conquest.
She tells him to say please, and he says fuck you. He doesn't get to bear his teeth for long, because then she's kissing him. Her tongue is in his mouth and it's quick and it sbrief and she just can't get enough of him. She pulls back, and her words carry all the heat that the new moon did not afford her. "You are so fucking hot, Alex," she whispers. She confesses.
It's his turn to confess. He pulls her closer; their hands are occupied. She can see his heart beating in his throat, she can see his eyes, the way that they don't shy away from her. He wants it, he says. He tells her. He does want it, but he isn't going to beg. And now they are close enough that her chest is nearly pressed against his, her nipples just barely fail to make contact with his chest when she leans too close.
"Then just say my name," she tells him. Marrick leans in. She kisses him. from his jaw, downward, to his neck. She kissed whatever tendon ran too close to his jugular vein, nipped slightly but did not break skin. One strong, upward motion from him, and they have her seething and hissing curses and demands into his skin.
"Fuck!"
And she doesn't care who hears.
[Alexander Vaughn] Say my name.
And before he can answer -- possibly with another fuck you! -- she's leaning in; she's kissing him again and while he's pinning her hands as much as she's pinning his, it's still different; it's still different because it's his hands that are up behind his head; it's his underbelly that's bared, it's him that's under her, it's her mouth ravaging its way down his jaw to his throat.
He'd tipped his head back a little when he stood at her door. He looked down his nose at her a little. All she saw was that his throat was a little exposed.
All he thinks now is his throat is exposed, his chest and his abdomen; all he thinks is that she could snap her teeth and tear his throat out and goddammit he shouldn't like it so much. He shouldn't like the feel of riding the razor's edge nearly so much, of balancing on a tightrope over a yawning chasm of disaster, death.
They rock together. Actually, they slam together, over and over, her downward, he upward. They're both cursing at each other, foulmouthed as shit. They're both groaning and snarling; she says Fuck! so loud it must've carried right through the walls and he says god, yes so loud that must've carried too, and they don't care. She was so controlled last night, pulling Aidan out of the room and coming back in because she thought he was going to hurt a defenseless girl, pulling up short when she saw he wasn't, that --
-- that he barely even recognizes this wild thing over him right now.
Except he does. It's:
"Marrick." For all his smartmouthed comments, his insults and his fists that each fly as free as the other, this is almost a sigh. "Oh my god, Marrick. Marrick. Get back up here and fucking kiss m-- mmph."
He kisses her like he might eat her fucking face. When that spins apart his fingers lock around hers; he clenches her hand in his.
"Are you gonna come for me? Huh?" -- a sharp thrust of his hips, out of rhythm, and then back to it. "Are you?"
[Marrick Fisher] (Say my name, bitch! dex+athletics, diff 6 (no weird position here))
[Alexander Vaughn] (resist!)
[Alexander Vaughn] (no u! dex/ath)
[Marrick Fisher] (resist!)
[Marrick Fisher] (Let's try this again!)
[Alexander Vaughn] (resist!)
[Alexander Vaughn] (WHO'S YOUR DADDY.)
[Marrick Fisher] (THAT GUY!)
[Marrick Fisher] dex+athletics: goddamnit!
[Alexander Vaughn] (resist!)
[Alexander Vaughn] (FINISH HER!)
[Marrick Fisher] Umm, how about no?
[Marrick Fisher] (come ooooon, you can't let him WIN!)
[Alexander Vaughn] (resist!)
[Alexander Vaughn] (GOING FOR MULTIPLES. +1die cuz forgot to reroll blahblah!)
[Marrick Fisher] (Resist!)
[Marrick Fisher] (Remember that one time? Where... yeah, about that...)
[Alexander Vaughn] (ack, resist!)
[Alexander Vaughn] (norly, whos ur daddy?)
[Alexander Vaughn] (soak!)
[Marrick Fisher] (damage!)
[Marrick Fisher] Let's dooo thiiiiis, round something!
[Alexander Vaughn] (back in the saddle!)
[Marrick Fisher] Ack!
[Marrick Fisher] Woooohoooo!
[Alexander Vaughn] (Alex: "Stop fucking around and fuck me.")
[Marrick Fisher] ("motherfucker-")
[Marrick Fisher] (spending a rage this round, this motherfucker's goin' DOWN)
[Marrick Fisher] (aaaand more fucking)
[Alexander Vaughn] (no fair!)
[Alexander Vaughn] (RAR!)
[Alexander Vaughn] (also, second resist)
[Marrick Fisher] (Enduuuuure)
[Alexander Vaughn] Say my name.
And before he can answer -- possibly with another fuck you! -- she's leaning in; she's kissing him again and while he's pinning her hands as much as she's pinning his, it's still different; it's still different because it's his hands that are up behind his head; it's his underbelly that's bared, it's him that's under her, it's her mouth ravaging its way down his jaw to his throat.
He'd tipped his head back a little when he stood at her door. He looked down his nose at her a little. All she saw was that his throat was a little exposed.
All he thinks now is his throat is exposed, his chest and his abdomen; all he thinks is that she could snap her teeth and tear his throat out and goddammit he shouldn't like it so much. He shouldn't like the feel of riding the razor's edge nearly so much, of balancing on a tightrope over a yawning chasm of disaster, death.
They rock together. Actually, they slam together, over and over, her downward, he upward. They're both cursing at each other, foulmouthed as shit. They're both groaning and snarling; she says Fuck! so loud it must've carried right through the walls and he says god, yes so loud that must've carried too, and they don't care. She was so controlled last night, pulling Aidan out of the room and coming back in because she thought he was going to hurt a defenseless girl, pulling up short when she saw he wasn't, that --
-- that he barely even recognizes this wild thing over him right now.
Except he does. It's:
"Marrick." For all his smartmouthed comments, his insults and his fists that each fly as free as the other, this is almost a sigh. "Oh my god, Marrick. Marrick. Get back up here and fucking kiss m-- mmph."
He kisses her like he might eat her fucking face. When that spins apart his fingers lock around hers; he clenches her hand in his.
"Are you gonna come for me? Huh?" -- a sharp thrust of his hips, out of rhythm, and then back to it. "Are you?"
[Marrick Fisher] There would be no living with him after this.
Earlier tonight, Alexander Vaughn beat a ragabash's face in. he improvised a weapon and delivered the kind of damage that would no doubt leave the cliath with a bruise for a couple hours or so. He had admitted to her that he liked showing off- whether that be for her or himself, she wasn't sure. Realistically, Marrick didn't care. She didn't care so long as he was fucking her and she was riding on the edge of ecstasy.
She tells him to say her name- he's probably going to tell her fuck you, but she was too busy leaning in and kissing him to really care.
If there was control in her motions, it was almost indistinguishable from instinct. Reactions were basic; he kisses her like he's going to eat her face. She doesn't seem to care, because in the back of his mind he's probably wondering whether or not she might eat him. Whether or not she might nip too hard or corner him or pin him down again... but he was just as strong as she was right now. Just as fast- if not faster, and for all intents and purposes they were almost on level ground.
When they split, her fingers tensed in his.
They move.
he asks if she's going to come for him. She grins, she growls, she doesn't snap though; maybe the Fury was more controlled than he originally anticipated. "I'm not gonna come for you-"
She gasps, another breath from drowning. A movement out of rhythm, and he goads her on. He taunts her, he pushes and she pushes back and, at first, they seemed to be on level ground. At first, she was holding her own, moving on his cock like it was second nature. This was basic. This was instinctive, this was primal. He pushes into her and she bucks against him, but the rhythm is erratic.
And for her part, she does not know her opponent well enough to anticipate his movements.
He's halfway there when she's falling over the edge, when he's hearing her cries of ecstasy come out, head thrown back briefly like it was her opening howl for the damned moot and almost as sacred. Fuck, she had siad before, oh god she had insisted. Harder, faster, right there- there... there, now. Yes.
Over and over.
And when her muscles were trembling and her body was saying that's enough, she was telling it fuck no. She was saying I'm not done yet, and she was pushing for it. Like it was a damned marathon. Her steps had faltered, and at the moment the fury took a moment to regain her momentum.
She didn't play fair.
And after all was said and done, after both were a mess of pleasurable exhaustion, there were marks. She had held his hands so tightly his fingers might be tingling. Had left strach marks on his shoulders and back, left bitemarks on his shoulder. there would be reminders a few days afterwards.
Marrick didn't particularly care.
"Fuck, Alex," she whispered to him.
And she didn't say much else.
[Alexander Vaughn] The first time Marrick topples over the edge, Alex is just... watching. Just spectating, baby. Just enjoying the goddamn fireworks while his body moves against hers, while he fucks her right through her orgasm like maybe there was a prize for not stopping.
The cry she lets out is something savage and wild as a howl; everyone on the goddamn floor heard it. Who the fuck cares. He holds her hands fast, he holds her fast, he fucks her fast until she's done, and then he slows for a second, ten, is panting himself, laughing under his breath, laughing and saying, "Fuck, girl," in a tone of mild wonder, mild awe, as though he'd never quite seen the likes of her before.
Which is true. He hasn't.
Then he's letting go her hands, and his are tingling, the joints sore from grasping so tight. Her hands go where they want. His hands paw over her body, heavily, unrestrainedly, every inch of her that he can reach, until then latch onto her hips. Then he moves her on him, she moves herself on him, they falter, they find themselves, they find the rhythm again and it's just as hard, just as fast, and
the second time Marrick goes careening out into her orgasm, Alexander's right behind her, and her rage is singeing the air, and his hands are clutching at her back, pulling at her skin, pulling her down on him as he cracks his head against the wall again; groans -- growls -- shouts:
"Fuck ... fuck ... FUCK!"
as though the curse had become, somehow, a valid form of communication. But then Marrick's obviously of that school of thought too. Because then they're exhausted; they're limp and melted, his back is still to the wall but his body has lost its tension, and his chest is still heaving against hers, and his right arm is drape loosely around her waist but his left is just sprawled on the bedcovers; and she says, fuck, Alex.
And he closes his eyes for a moment. It's so dark now that the only light in here comes from the streetlights outside, and the occasional flash of lightning. It's pouring outside, a steady rushing summer rain. Alexander laughs, a sort of worn-out, stripped-bare sound. And he agrees, "Fuck, Marrick."
A second later his eyes open. "You wanna go again?"
[Marrick Fisher] You wanna go again? he asked.
"Hell yeah," she replied.
---
The only smell in the room is rain and them.
Gabbie is going to have a fit.
And who is to say how many times this occured? It went as any challenge did- you win some, you lose some. There were times where Marrick was on top, when she moved with fervor and tension and desire and there were times where he was on over her, pounding away with resolve that he would not be the one who came first.
Sometimes, he was. Sometimes, he was not.
But she didn't stop until she got hers. She didn't stop until both of them did, actually. One could have called her a selfish lover, but realistically she was a practical one. A fuckbuddy who thought long term- there were times that you did have to play nice with the kinfolk, and when they were bringing you earth-shattering orgasm one right after the other you made sure that they got theirs, too.
Oklahoma hospitality, goddamnit.
Eventually, there came a time where neither asked if the other wanted to go again. There came a time where Marrick could not push her body any further than it had already gone. And there came a time where all the Fury wanted to do was find some rest. When the rain stopped being an aphrodesiac and more of a comfort.
After a long while, she was placated. She was pleased.
Marrick climbed off of the Glass Walker and didn't say a word. She stood and went to shut the window.
[Alexander Vaughn] Marrick was placated. She was pleased.
Alexander was exhausted. Stripped down to the wire. He doesn't mind. He had a fucking blast. It's something o'clock now, well past evening, into the night. She gets up and perhaps he'd almost been asleep, but he rouses now, shifts, turns his head to watch her.
The streetlights outside cast her into pale relief. He looks at her, all lean length, scars and strength. She reaches up to close the window and he speaks up, his voice husky from disuse, from groaning and moaning and overuse while he murmured all sorts of filthy shit in her ear.
"Leave it," he says. It's too dark for her to see him smile, but she can hear it. "I like the rain. Besides, my roommate's going to flip her shit if her prissy little room smells like sex."
He pushes himself up on his elbows, a lean, athletic shadow on the narrow bed.
"You're not going to try to claim me, are you?" He asked her this once already. She hadn't answered. Then they got jumped by two ragabashes. It's been a surreal evening.
[Marrick Fisher] "Wouldn't take ya unless y'wanted me, Alex," she said.
He'd asked her this once already. Marrick was picking her clothes up; she wasn't bothering to put them back on. He tells her to keep the window open, because he likes the rain. She glanced at him briefly, the corder of her mouth upturning. And, stripped down to the barest of essentials, she was what she was.
Leave it there. Let those assumptions be made.
She started to head to the door, holding her clothes under one arm and her hand moving to relocate the chair that was keeping his room mate out of the room. She paused, looking back at him. Her eyes were on him for the time being; he got a slight nod.
"G'night."
Unless he stopped her, she walked out the door.
