tax day pecan pie.

[Sinclair] It's Tax Day. Not that it matters; Alex did his back in January like smart people. Tricky business when your income comes from a dozen different places. Sinclair, on the other hand, didn't do taxes. She, contrary to popular belief, does have income. It isn't very much, but Alex would have to be blind not to know that she does, in fact, have money of her own that isn't just wired to her by her parents or something. Her work is mostly done online, and there's no face to face interaction. The jobs are rare, but lucrative; she makes the cash stretch, and she doesn't pay taxes.

She hasn't paid taxes since she Changed and was fostered not far from where they live now. It isn't some believe that she's doing goddamn enough, she's putting her life and the lives of those she loves on the line to save the planet. It's nothing more than a great big fuck-you to the whole mess of the most human, most corporate of Walkers. Frankly, even if Leon back in Chicago hadn't been a skeeze -- her exact words, when she was telling Alex over pizza one night about some conversation her pack was having in her head -- she would have disliked him a little bit based solely on his camp.

Her prejudices are few, but they are strong.


So it's a Friday, and neither of them are scrambling to submit forms electronically or get anything to the post office. Alex's schedule is pretty much the same as ever, so he wakes up at six a.m. and there's Sinclair next to him, like she has been for weeks now. Weeks to make up for months, and it feels like it's always been like this. He wakes up early, and she's deep asleep, there next to him even if he went to bed and she hadn't come home yet, if all he had was a text saying

cleanup. or

meeting. or

something like that.

Sometimes middle of the night he feels her come in, sometimes he romps her into bed around ten and she's giggling under the sheets and he's trying to shush her because they have cubs or kin or somesuch staying in the bunkbeds and while he's shushing her he's doing other things and then she's turning her head into the pillow and moaning the way she does, a little plaintive and overcome like she doesn't know quite what to do with herself. Sometimes they just brush their teeth and wash up and crawl into bed together and suddenly he's got his arms around her and the world gets very quiet and warm and Sinclair drops like a stone into sleep, breathing steadily against his chest.

But mornings are usually the same. The sun comes up and a little while later so does Alex, diesntangling himself from the limp weight that is Sinclair, who only occasionally stirs or makes noise when he pulls himself away from her. Her long hair is usually askew, sometimes over her face. She sleeps on her left side, turned invariably towards him on that semi-narrow bed, and most of the time she's wearing a pair of panties if she's wearing anything at all.

This morning it's the same. Nothing at all, and he knows that because last night they only slept as their sweat was cooling, as he was gasping as he withdrew from her, and she was still panting softly. It doesn't smell like sex anymore because the windows are cracked and the room is cool from evening, warming up with sunlight quicker than one might expect.

He does whatever he always does in the morning. Sinclair really has no clue; she just knows that when she wakes up she'll be able to smell him in the sheets, know that he's on a run, and she'll stretch out and wrap her arms around his pillow and pull it close, hug it, breathe him in,

doze off again. Wake up to the sound of him showering. Join him after that, arms wrapping around his middle from behind after the curtain rattles on its bar. Her stomach usually growls as soon as he mentions maybe having some real breakfast. He usually laughs.


But this morning, when he comes back from his run, he still has no idea why they haven't had any guests for the last day and nobody's contacted him about staying here for the rest of the weekend. He hasn't had a chance to check the database of safehouses yet, but it doesn't really matter. Sometimes there's people here, sometimes there's not. Big whoop. Not exactly a loss to have the place to themselves.

Front door opens and closes and the smell of nutty sugar and whatever else fills his nostrils. The windows are open, letting out the heat from the oven and letting in the breeze. Sinclair is, it seems, awake and alive already. Jumping out of the kitchen wearing one of his big H t-shirts, a hem-bouncing flash of panties whose color he doesn't get a chance to discern, and oven mitts that look like frogs. She is holding a very, very hot pecan pie. It's steaming.

"HAP-py birthday!" she announces.

Tripoli erupts from his playpen of cans and silverware, arms wiggling upward. "Eee-EEE!" he echoes.

[Alex] Once a very long time ago Alex might have mentioned pecan pie was his favorite. Sinclair's not the sort of wolf-girl you'd really expect to remember this sort of thing -- tattooed, pierced, enough metal bits and bars in her to set airport scanners off -- but then again, she's also not the sort of wolf-girl you'd expect to have such a strong sense of caregiving. Of protectiveness.

She is, though. Most nights now they fall asleep facing each other, their arms wrapped around each other as though to stay close, keep the other safe. Sometimes he's sprawled on the floor in front of the TV playing the Xbox and she's on the couch behind him, and she drapes her legs over his shoulders and scritches his short hair while he sways this way and that to avoid imaginary bullets, curses at the screen. Sometimes he comes home on a Saturday night black-eyed because he 'decided to save the win til next time,' as he puts it, and there's a sort of comingled fierce pride and tenderness in her eyes as she passes him one of his many gelpacks from the freeze.

It goes both ways. Sometimes she's not home til late and he gets a text saying meeting and he asks where, and when she comes out he's snoozing in his little Hyundai that looks, from a distance, and in poor lighting, like an actually nice car. Sometimes she comes home from cleanup, which is also battle, and he tries not to worry or show his worry but if there are cubs or kin at Casa del Vaughn on those fateful nights, they're in for a good dose of Alex-Assism.

They care about each other. They don't really say it much or often; that's not their style. They show it, though. He taught her to make ramen a la Alex. She's teaching him how to kick more ass in Soul Calibur IV. They're tender with each other when others aren't looking; they're playful and tough, and

they remember things about each other. Like Sinclair liking the cupcakes from Vons with the pink-and-white frosting. And Alex liking pecan pie.


HAP-py birthday! greets him as he comes in through the door. Sinclair has plenty of warning to know he's coming -- you can hear him tromping down the hall a mile away. He looks momentarily astounded, and then bursts into surprised laughter as Tripoli echoes the sentiment, or perhaps just eees surPRISE!, from his playpen. There's a can-tab hanging off one tiny finger. Last week there was a pair of thirteen year old cubs here with their barely-drinking-age mentor. They wanted to adopt Tripoli; pleaded with puppy eyes to take him with them as they were hustled out the door. It's not hard to see why.

Alex waves at the little gaffling. Then he drops his gymbag on the ground and shuts the door. "Wow," and he grabs the pie, but only to set it aside and scoop the girl up instead, "mmm," a smooch, "did you seriously get out of bed just to bake? How many alarms did you have to set?"

[Sinclair] "Nooo, oh my god, Alex!" Sinclair all but squeals, yanking the pie out of his reach. The pie which is steaming. The pie she is holding with oven mitts. She sets it down on the trivet it was occupying just ten seconds ago on the counter, whips back around, and all but jumps into Alex's arms. Her hands are still covered by silicone frog-mitts, but she flops them off behind his back as she hugs him, smiling into his shoulder.

Breathing him in.

Sinclair smells like her shampoo, which is this vanilla-scented stuff that costs 99 cents a bottle on sale and 1.79 full price. She smells like his laundry detergent. She smells, too, like freshly baked pecan pie. Which she remembered from last year, when she showed up at his place with ice cream and apple pie that she baked herself, flying into a panic in the Brotherhood kitchen before running upstairs and asking Jenny please help, I can't find the nutmeg, which was probably the last thing Jenny ever expected to hear a Garou say after the words please help, particularly this Garou.

Tripoli eees quietly, happily, settling back into his playpen as he watches them. Sometimes he seems as content as an infant watching its parents together, a sort of instinctive, fierce pleasure in that feeling of security, that sense of shared love. They are mine, and they are each other's, and that is happy. That may, however, be assigning too much humanity to what is, ultimately, the essence of something cold and refined and manufactured. But then again: Tripoli is more than that, as all spirits are. He grows, as the most interacted-with spirits do. He changes. And Sinclair is his most favoritest thing ever,

and he can tell when she's happy. And he can tell, too, what makes her happiest. Who her favorite is.

Sinclair kisses him, quick and light on the mouth, grinning as she's smooched back. Her cheeks are flushed with nothing more than her own joy. She laughs, saying brightly: "Only four! I was excited." And squeezes him, tight. "IalsohadtwocupsofcoffeeandImeanthebigcupssoitwaslikemaybealmostafullpot."

[Alex] Alex, who is in some ways as fiercely a Glass Walker as any Garou, would disagree that metal is cold and manufactured, emotionless. True; mankind has worked metal, used metal, worshiped metal, relied on metal for longer than it can remember. But metal is older than man, older than stone, older than even water and air and wood. Almost as old as fire, as light and dark. Almost as old as time. The vast majority of the known elements are metallic in nature. They're born in the hearts of stars. Fallen to earth, buried for eons, unearthed as clods of vaguely colorful rock. In the sort of pressure and heat that would consume lesser things, they are purified, made lustrous and beautiful.

He likes the little metal gaffling. Because it's cute, sure, but also because -- in some unspoken and usually unconsidered way -- he understands, implicitly, that it's a tiny, tiny fragment of something larger than his frail mortal mind can comprehend. And this little fragment of Something Amazing loves Sinclair, thinks she's the bestest thing ever-ever, loves that she's happy, loves that she's happy with Alex.

That's something special, Alex thinks. That's something very, very special, and it makes him happy because it seems to confirm what he already knows:

the his girl is very, very special.


Sinclair's words are running together with excitement. Alex kisses her near the end of it, a little less light, a lot less quick. He's smiling as he does it and she can feel it against her mouth. He nuzzles her afterward, smelling like sweat and beach air because, seriously, if you could run on the beach you would too -- swaying her gently back and forth where she holds him.

"Thank you," he says. "I love pecan pie."

He plants another kiss on her mouth, firm but quick this time, and then sets her down. Active again, on again: the two of them are well matched for energy levels. He goes inspect the pie, yummming. "I think," he announces, "I'm just going to take the day off. You should totally come take a shower with me. Then we should, like. Eat pie and ice cream for breakfast. And then just... do nothing. Stuff. But nothing sorts of stuff."

[Sinclair] They kiss. Again and again, Alex going to her mouth like he's drawn there without having to think, without having to want anything out of it other than to kiss her. Sinclair shivers the last time, not out of arousal but simple pleasure, simple closeness. And, frankly, excitement. She remembered this time. She's not showing up just before his bedtime and accusing herself of being the worst girlfriend ever. She's taken their place off the safehouse database for a couple of days. She woke up and drank coffee and made a pie, and this is after oh-so-casually picking up dry goods at random during their trips to the store, trying not to buy it all at once because then he might guess because, well.

She knows him. She knows how smart he is. She knows that this meathead prizefighter is actually the holder of dual degrees in Russian Lit and Astrophysics. From Harvard. She knows that sometimes in the middle of playing some stupid video game he will end up talking for five, ten minutes about some thought in his head, some connection between what he's doing or what she's doing or Tripoli and she will learn as much as she ever did listening to her father talk about the principals of materials engineering, of combustion, of the inner workings of a hundred different machines. She's laid there on the couch, hand on her cheek, stroking his hair while he talks, and told him she likes listening to him.

Frankly, she likes knowing how fucking smart he is. How knowledgeable, too. And she envies the hell out of him. Envies his ability to go and finish and do well in his education, envies those days he spent in classes where someone who knew so much just... gave him information and taught him how to look and where to look and what to do with it. Sinclair's no slouch. Sinclair's as sharp as Alex himself, learns as fast as she moves, and in a way her mind is as deadly as everything else about her. But when he talks about all this shit he knows, she listens.

She knows how to listen. She knows how to learn. And she remembers things. God, she's a Galliard. Of course she remembers his birthday, his favorite pie, that one time he said that the reason he likes to eat in bed is because it's the ultimate indulgence -- not just eating stuff that's not lean protein and greens but eating in the place where he does his most leisurely activity ever. She remembers him having to be convinced that the day he entered existence on this planet is something she wants to celebrate and it hasn't got anything to do with being a Good Girlfriend or not.

Might have been the first time she tried to tell him how happy she was... just that he existed. Just that she'd found him. Finally.


So Sinclair laughs. "I know you do," she tells him, and they kiss again, and she's laughing still. "I know! That's the whole plan, baby. You didn't think we were gonna eat on plates in the living room or like, do work stuff today, did you?" Kisses him yet again, this time full, her hand warm from the mitts, warm from her rage, warm from cooking, spreading over the back of his head. She opens her mouth this time, but the kiss doesn't last too long. She breathes out a laugh, resting her brow on his for a moment when they part. "I totally showered when I got up. But I also threw the sheets in the laundry while the pie was baking, so I was thinking of throwing on some pants again and going downstairs to grab them."

She pecks a kiss on his cheek. "You go get cleaned up. I'll make the bed up and let the pie cool a little more and we can eat til our bellies hurt."

A pause. "I solemnly swear I will not have pants again by the time you get out of the shower. Girl Scout's honor." She even does the salute.

[Alex] Little by little, Alex is starting to learn stuff about Sinclair. Not just oh she's really badass or oh she looks really hot in a bikini but... stuff. Little things that you wouldn't know just by looking at her. Her animal ferocity's right there on the surface. Her beauty's right there on the surface. Her caregiver's streak -- that's a little buried, a little deeper down where she keeps that disarming innocence of hers that becomes so achingly obvious when she sleeps.

And other stuff. Her wits, her mind. Her love of knowledge. Once he came upon her reports on GW.net, and he read a couple; was surprised. Not because they were flowery or poetic, because they weren't -- but because even in those dry, straightforward, unadulterated lines there was the sense of a keen mind. An instinctive grasp of structure and argument, of clear expression.

He has stacks of books in boxes. Sometimes he talks to her about stuff from those books now. He's given her his Hawking pop science books, told her they're some the best-written pop-sci ever. They laughed about Hawking's star trek story.

Sometimes right before bed he watches documentaries with a sort of nerdish fascination that he would've never, ever shown anyone else before her.

Sometimes, half-asleep and drowsing already, he murmurs things like pi is beautiful blue.


He starts to protest as she says she's going to go down and get sheets, wrapping his arms around her tighter to keep her from getting away -- but then she promises she'll be back. And pantsless. He grins. He swats her bum lightly as she steps away, then kisses her shoulder as he's heading for the shower.

"Okay," he says. "I'll see you in ten."

[Sinclair] Chances are, that pie and the ice cream they both know is in the fridge and Sinclair all but demanding he take the day off -- which she was going to, if he hadn't gotten there first -- and promising to not wear pants is all Alex is going to get today. No secret stash of gifts under the bed, no brightly wrapped presents. Tripoli doesn't understand the whole gift-giving thing, really, not in the human sense. If Sinclair tried to teach him to give gifts then he might just end up trying to do it every day. With everyone. And then he'd freak out and melt down because he'd be so overwhelmed.

Sinclair also, as stated before, doesn't have endless income. She can't go out and buy Alex some new, hot toy. She doesn't think of it. What comes to her mind, when she thinks of what she wants to do for him, is simple. She thinks about food. Food he likes best, and food she can make for him, bring to him, watch him devour until he's full and sated and warm and happy. She thinks about making the place where they sleep clean and safe and soft. She thinks about the pleasure that tightens up his body and sparks in his eyes and makes him gasp at the sight of her, the feel of her when she's naked and her legs are enfolding him, pulling him closer, welcoming him into her. She thinks about how consumed he is then, and all of it is good.

Warm. Sated. Soft. Happy.

She thinks about Alex being satisfied on every level she can have an effect on, thinks about him sleeping and being lazy and that smile he wears when he drifts off sometimes. And that's what she wants. That's the sort of gift she knows how to give best, that doesn't make her feel nervous or edgy to give -- or receive.

So that is what he'll get.


Upstairs the shower slams on, hot water comes out, and downstairs the laundry room door opens and slams again, the basket full of fresh-from-the-dryer. Upstairs he can dimly hear Sinclair when she comes back. Talking to Tripoli. Singing a little to herself while she makes the bed. Dynamite, because it's been stuck in her head for two days now. He hears her swear when she realizes what she's singing,

"GodDAMMIT!"


When he gets out of the shower, the little door is open and steam is escaping into their bedroom. The bed is made, rather neatly in fact. Sinclair is lying on her stomach sideways across the bed, her hair down and loose as before. Tripoli saw her strip out of pants and shirt and skidded out of the bedroom so fast he nearly faceplanted. He knows what that means, girl-wolf-and-male-almost-wolf-be-noisy-while-polishing-each-other, it never fails,

though he can kind of get it. Girl-wolf has so much metal. Male-almost-wolf likes to put his mouth on that one piece of metal, and girl-wolf gets very loud when he does. Not so with the other, just-as-good pieces of metal! It's very strange of them.

Anyway. Tripoli scooted out awhile ago. There's a light blanket, the sort one might use for picnics, hauled out of Sinclair's El Cam the last time they... actually had a picnic. It's laid atop the bedspread to protect it, and there are two forks, and a pie with two huge scoops of ice cream melting on top of it, and a candle stuck in the middle. She's wearing her underwear still, because they're semi-sheer. Hot pink, a slight V in the front and more subtle one in back. He can see the curves of her ass quite clearly through the fabric.

She waggles her eyebrows, flicks a lighter, and lights the candle.

"I am totally a softcore porno right now," she says, laughing.

[Alex] She calls herself a softcore porno. He's ... walking out of the shower in a cloud of steam, wearing a towel and a grin. So Alex's eyebrow cocks up, and then he smirks down at himself.

"Oh yeah. You're the only softcore porno here, baby."

When he drops onto the bed, he almost upsets the pie. Sinclair has to grab it and stabilize it. Tripoli's out in the living room decidedly ignoring the wolf-girl and male-almost-wolf inside; Alex drapes a heavy leg over Sinclair's, an arm over her back, and nuzzles the dip of her spine.

"Anyway," he adds, lifting his head to find and pick up a spoon, "you're not a softcore porno. You're a Sinclair. There's a difference.

"Do I get to make a wish?"

[Sinclair] That makes her laugh. She's seen his porno collection. She's never seen him watch any of it, though. It hasn't really come up in conversation. Not has it come up in screaming matches where she's snapping ripped DVDs and crying. Nor has it come up as a suggestion for what to watch when they want to curl up on the couch and watch a movie. It's entirely possible that Sinclair has never seen any porn, softcore or not, because the truth is she did grow up a bit sheltered.

She went to church on Sundays and rebuilt a car with her daddy and her mommy did paintings for children's books.

"Ack!" she says, grabbing the pie to keep it still, to keep it from tipping over and setting the bed on fire when Alex jumps onto the bed behind her, his damp but warm towel against her ass. She breathes out warily, setting it back down while Alex nuzzles her. There's no scar tissue where his nose falls; the scars covering most of her middle and lower back are so small, so faint, that though his fingertips can trace over them when his arms are around her, he does not feel them against his abdomen and chest when he holds her like this.

She nestles into his embrace, eyes falling closed for a moment as he nuzzles her. Her head turns towards his chest, nuzzling him back, more heavily, more...animal.

"It's your birthday," she says by way of answer, affirmative. "But it has to be a secret."

[Alex] "Duh, silly," he says, affectionate, not the least bit vicious. He bites her shoulder softly, and then he reaches over her -- warm and a little damp in the spring sunshine, the spring breeze. Both of them are children of the spring, right on the cusp where, in the southern states where they were born and grew up, spring starts turning toward summer. It fits them.

And sometimes Alex is neat and orderly and of the Weaver to a degree that almost contradicts with his brash, boastful self. He got a roomba. It runs once a week, often with Tripoli on its back, and the floors are spotless. His laundry tends to sit in the hamper at least as long as they sit on the shelves, but there's a definite organization to things. He lives by a clock religiously.

And when he blows the candle out -- the candle nestled between two huge mounds of ice cream, on a freshbaked pecan pie -- he actually picks it up, blows it out delicately, doesn't end up spitting all over the pie, ew.

If Sinclair protests, says that candles need to be blown out on the pie, he parrots her back to herself:

I'm twenty nine years old and I can do what I want!

He doesn't tell her what he wished for. He wouldn't, even if she asked; it's so tender it's a little embarrassing, an aching little wish. It has to do with happiness, and the two of them, and her; especially her.

Afterward, smoke curling up from the tip of that little candle, he sucks the ice cream and pecan-filling off the bottom. Sets it carefully aside, and picks his spoon up again. "Let's nomf," he says. "If you hear me say 'if I eat one more bite I'm going to puke,' make me stop. Because I'm not lying, but I won't stop myself."

[Sinclair] She wouldn't tell him, even if he asked, but her wish last year had to do with him, too. A lot. For months it broke her heart to think about it, but thinking about him at all broke her heart. Not thinking about him was worse, though. The idea of him being gone, not even in her thoughts and heart anymore. That was like its own little death, and there wasn't any raging back from that one.

She thinks of it now and she's filled with a different sort of ache. It had to do with happiness. It had to do with the two of them. She thinks of it while he's blowing out his candle -- she doesn't accuse him of doing it wrong. She cuddles close to him on the picnic blanket atop the bed and smiles as he picks up the spoon.

"I will stop you," she promises, and doesn't reach for the other spoon. She just nudges the cooling pie plate closer to him. "You first. Then you can give me some. I won't let you eat too much. We'll save some for later."

She's smiling. This warm, happy smile. She didn't make a wish on her last birthday. There wasn't any cake, and she didn't care, she didn't want anything in the world but what she had right that moment,

the hot earth under them and stars coming out overhead and Alex holding her, god,

so tightly.


They eat quite a lot of pie. Sinclair does eventually pick up her own spoon and eat with him, stealing bites of ice cream, because apple is her favorite, and she wants him to have more of the pie. Truth be told, she never even lets him get to the point of wanting to puke. She nudges the pie plate away when his bites start to slow, and she laughs when he stretches, reaching past her, almost lying atop her to get one more bite, baby, wait just a second, stop wiggling so much.

For awhile they just lie there, he in his towel and she in her near-translucent panites, on a picnic blanket on a bed, their spoons stuck in the pie plate that's missing about a third of its pie. She's turned to face him now, laying her head on his arm, smiling at him, her hair on her cheek. He pushes it back, touches her face.

"I love you," she whispers, and this is still such a rare thing, they don't even let themselves say it every day. Her hand is resting between them, resting on his chest. There's a moment of nothing but quiet. "You wanna nap for awhile with me, baby?"

[Sinclair] [THEY TOTALLY HAD CAKE BUT SHE DIDN'T CARE ANYWAY.]

[Alex] It turns out Alex doesn't only comment nonstop on his own cooking. He comments on Sinclair's too: best pie EVER and omfg so good and omfg I'm dying of sugar while he's gorging himself on pecan pie and vanilla ice cream.

Toward the end he's talking more than he's eating, asking her where she learned to cake, who taught her pecan pie; asking her how she got all the ingredients so fast and laughing when he discovers she's been quietly sneaking them home on shopping trips. Driving her badass El Camino, or his pretend-not-dorky Hyundai that he seems to actually like quite a bit.

When she nudges the pie aside, he does indeed almost climb over her to get just one more bite, baby, wait just a second, stop wiggling so much. But then he's dropping the spoon on the empty part of the pie tin, and they're lying there, and it's maybe ten, eleven am and the day's starting to warm up.

His hand strokes her face as she tells him she loves him. His mouth smiles, and his eyes do as well. "Too," he says, softly. "I love you, too."

And then a sort of glimmer of mingled tenderness and amusement. "Are you sleepy from being up so early?"

[Sinclair] She has to cup her hand over her mouth several times to stop herself from laughing while he's blathering about her pie. She eats less than he does, partly because she's laughing, and partly because it's not her birthday pie. She didn't bake it to eat it, though she likes it. She baked it to share with him. To give to him. To watch him enjoy. She eats with him because she's hungry, and it's a good pie, and because it makes him that much happier to share what he has.

"My mom," she tells him, like it's obvious. "I was cooking with her when I was old enough to stir pancake batter without splattering it everywhere." A bat. "Maybe before. I even had this little kid-sized apron and I'd stand on a chair next to her at the counter and make stuff with her. My dad, too. He didn't bake, but, like, he was the Spaghetti Guy, and I'd watch him slice up steaks he'd just brought in from the grill or the turkey he'd just taken out of the oven. He and I always did the wishbone on Thanksgiving."

But it was her mother who taught her how to make pie. Which is when Alex finds out she made the crust, which is when she admits that he doesn't want to see his kitchen, he really doesn't, there's flour everywhere.

And a little bit later, sleepily, smiling, she nods, her arms gently wrapped around his waist. "Yeaaah," she admits, and curls closer, nuzzling her way into his chest. "And from a sugar coma. And cuz I'm warm. And you're here."

[Alex] She's burrowing into him. He's hugging her closer, reaching over her to nudge the pie a little farther out of the way. So they don't roll on it. So he's not tempted to have another bite. And another. And another and another and another and before you know it he'll be sick.

"I think," he murmurs, "that's an awesome idea. But." And this is when he seems to acknowledge their mutual near-nudity for the first time, his hand grazing down her side to slip beneath the waistband of her cute little panties, "I'd also be amenable to a little sleepy-sex before we zonk.

"Just, y'know." He nips the tip of her nose gently, kisses the corner of her mouth, "A suggestion."

[Sinclair] A little over a year ago, Sinclair asked him if he thought they could really be friends if she couldn't get near him, couldn't be with him, without wanting to fuck him. Without wanting to lick the sweat off his body, feel him hard against her, inside of her, gasping to her. There were times even after they got together when he'd fuck her three, four times in a row, in a handful of hours, and she'd still want more. She'd have to take a deep breath and steady herself, restrain herself, try to turn herself off when lying in bed with him drove her out of her mind.

It's a little better now. The feeling that she's going to lose him any second if she so much as looks at him wrong is fading. He's a little -- a lot -- more open with her, and it relaxes her. He tells her he loves her, and she could sleep forever, too content to move.

But his voice shifts a little, down to a murmur, and instantly her pulse starts to ratchet up. It's some tone he uses, some cadence of his low voice that signals to her primitive mind that he's horny. That he's seducing her, though it's possible one shouldn't call it that when his hand's barely touched her hip and she's already saying yes. By the time he puts his hand inside of her pants, palm moving to cover and caress her ass, Sinclair is quivering faintly, her eyes flickering closed, her breathing changing.

She doesn't answer, as he tells her he'd like some sleepy-sex. That it's just a suggestion, he teases, nipping and kissing her face. She presses herself against him through his towel, wordlessly eager.

[Alex] Sometimes when she's like this it's so hard for him to remember that she's not just this wild, simple girl in his bed. This pretty, joyful girl in his life. Sometimes it's hard for him to remember

when she's rousing to him so quickly and he's laughing for the simple joy of it, laughing as she grinds against him, eager for it already, eager for him and touching him with her hot hands until his laughter becomes gasping. The bed isn't big; it's a good thing they pushed the pie out of the way so no one gets a back full of sticky pecan filling, but it's also occasionally precarious with the pie so close to the edges. Their mouths lock, and then fall apart, he mutters to get those cute little panties off and she giggles, almost, wriggling out of them, and

god, it's hard to remember that this is the same girl that becomes a wolf, that becomes a savage, vicious beast, that can tear most grown men into two with a single snap of her jaws.

It's important for him to remember that, though. Even when he's slid out of his towel and she's shimmied out of her panties, even after he's stood up on his knees, straddling her to shoot those panties into the laundry basket like a rubber band, laughing, laughing until she catches him around the hips and gets his cock in her mouth, and then his hand is in her hair and his head is falling back and he's groaning

oh my god, baby

for all of thirty seconds before he's flipping over and romping her on top and kissing her mouth while she reaches down and gets him

inside her.

It's important for him to remember who and what she is. Even now. Even while she's riding him like a cowgirl on a bronco, staying close and clinging like a burr and working her hips against the counterthrust of his in short, intense little grinds -- it's important for him to remember who and what she is not because he's afraid of it, needs not to set her off, needs to always keep boundaries in mind

but because it's who she is. And he loves her. And he wants to love her, all of her, every piece that she's showing him little by little, even now.

His hands are on her face near the end, holding her close, kissing her, gasping and laughing into her mouth as she rides him to the sort of groaning, gasping, shuddering orgasm that leaves him thrusting wildly into her,

falling apart into her, wrapping his arms around her,

holding her close, close as he comes back down. The pie hasn't slid all the way off the bed yet. That's a minor little miracle of its own.

[Sinclair] If he wanted to, Alex could pretend. He could tell himself they're different girls, that the female wolf who is Fostern, near-Adren, Galliard, Unbroken isn't... isn't this. She isn't the one with the straw-colored hair and the freckles and that innocent way she has of sleeping in his bed. She isn't the one who looks almost hopeful when he touches her, who is instantly, inevitably aroused by the slightest brush of his interest. She isn't the one who bakes him a pie for his birthday, for god's sake. She isn't the one whose brow furrows a little with ache, with want, with something like relief though she didn't even consider sex yet til he mentioned it.

She really was content to just take a nap with him. Lie there and hold him, kiss his chest, and fall asleep sideways with the pie a couple feet away. Be held. Be so quietly, warmly loved.

Completely, too. Because Alex doesn't pretend, or isn't trying to anymore. He reconciles. He tries, though it's hard, to remember that this horny, gasping girl who squirms when he mutters about getting her panties off, who doesn't quite giggle because she can't think about anything that's light or happy or funny because her entire self is being consumed with the sort of longing that used to -- and maybe still does, sometimes -- unnerve him. She kisses him, and their naked bodies are together for a moment, grinding, her panties crushed in his hand still before he gets up, all cocky-grinned and flicking her underwear across the r--

Truthfully, Sinclair's not paying any fucking attention. As good as the sex is, sometimes Alex is silly and Sinclair is just intense and it's not all the time and they're playful and sweet and happy but sometimes, god. Sometimes it's like this, where she's on him like a wave, shocking him out of a laugh and his hand is in her hair and his head is falling back and he's groaning,

just the way she likes him to.

It doesn't much matter how they roll over. Her hands are on his hips, pushing him back, not to get him out of her mouth but so she can crawl over him, pulling her hair to one side, sucking on him for much, much longer than thirty seconds while he lies on his back, time passing differently for him while his fingers try to count out the seconds in strokes through her hair. Try, fail. He says something, moans a certain way, maybe even begs, and she gasps as she lifts her mouth off of him, climbs over him, kisses him without hesitation or fear and takes him inside of her. She moans into his mouth. She rides him like a fucking pony, hands on the headboard and on his chest, clutching at anything for purchase while he grunts, fucks up into her, makes her grind down on him with those hard little whimpers, those escaping gasps.

Right about now it's easier to remember that she's not human. She's not some simple, soft girl who just wants to bake him a pie and make him happy. It's strangely easier to remember that she's an animal, and she's savage, and at times like this she's not thinking. She's not thinking about how happy he makes her or how sweet their life is or that he makes her laugh or that she feels like she's home. The truth is, when he's got his hands on her tits and he's muttering to her about her body, muttering to her about how she's fucking him, Sinclair is stripped down to id, every last coherent thing raked away from her.

Sometimes they fuck and it's like this, and she's incandescent, wild, brutal somehow even if the way she makes love to him isn't. Deeply, primitively honest with her body, and the way it moves, and the noises she makes.


That's the same girl who lies on top of him afterward, shaking, gasping on his shoulder like she's overcome, her cunt clenching in waves around his cock, her hands holding onto him as though she's afraid she's been blasted apart, she's afraid she'll be swept away by wind if she lets go of him right now, before she coalesces again. She doesn't have words yet. She doesn't know who she is yet. She knows only that she's with him, and it's right. So she's okay. So it's good.

[Sinclair] [paws!]

[Sinclair] [*unfolds* no paws!]

[Alex] He's still there, even if it feels like she's been swept away, blown to bits. Smashed apart, like ships on rocks, atoms in colliders. Coming back together like gravity to find

he's still there. Holding her, gasping and shuddering in his own right, jerking under her now and then when she clenches on him like that.

Oh my girl, he's murmuring, almost like this has taken the place of the usual sex-pletive: oh my god, oh my fucking god. Oh my sweet little girl.


It almost doesn't bear saying that this won't be the only time they fuck today. Make love. He doesn't call it that very often, the same way they don't say love very often -- not because they're afraid of the word or because they're too hard and badass for it, but because it seems to precious to say aloud very often. Like something that should be held in a warm darkness, protected the way she protects him, and what they have; and vice versa.

But -- this won't be the time they love each other today. They're young and strong and lustful and so into each other and once upon a time her hunger was almost frightening to him; even now, sometimes she's so eager, so quick to tumble headlong into it, that he laughs and tells her to slow down, baby, shh, slow down, shhhh,

feel me.

Not this last time. This last time was fast and hard and primitive and honest. And now they're collapsed in the aftermath, coming slowly back together; he's already thinking idly of the next time, of rolling her under and doing it again, thinking unexpectedly of Rio de Janeiro, the white curtains and the white sands and the blue blue ocean.

He rolls, but not to put her under him. Rolls so they're face to face, side by side. Touches her cheek the way he did earlier, before -- all this. Smiles softly, lazily, sleepy now.

"You're my girl," he whispers. It's obvious, but he likes to say it. "You're my girl, and I'm your guy."

[Alex] [now we paws! *folds*]

[Sinclair] For a Garou who never thought she'd have friends among kinfolk, much less a love, and for a kinsman who never wanted to be that kind of kin, they've done pretty well for themselves. For each other. Here she is, as close to savage as she gets without shifting, and he's not balking, not running. He's holding her, whispering in her ear as though to comfort and reassure her, help her come back. And here he is, anchor and home to a monster, not because it's his duty or even because she genuinely does need it, but because it being their place and their bed and home being a place where Sinclair belongs with him makes him inexplicably, impossibly happy. Fulfilled.


They like to talk about fooling around, as though that's all it is -- and sometimes that is all it is. They go home and romp with each other, tussle and tease each other in bed like they're seeing who falls apart first. Truth be told, as competitive as she is, that's one game Sinclair doesn't mind losing, and can't help but lose. Alex would have to be far blinder and stupider than he is to not have realized by now how fucking quickly she'll respond to him, how easily. And in a weird way, it makes it less of the sort of competition sex used to be, the vicious game. He never really has to win, with her. He just has to be there with her, however he feels like being.

Talking about literature, or stars, or the Nation, or the fight, or her pack, or video games, or what to try putting in the ramen next. Being a cocky, grinning bastard. Being randomly, suddenly tender. Being horny, finding her under the sheets and murmuring roll over baby and getting that thrill that comes with the sound of her gasping in the dark and turning onto her belly for him. Being the firm disciplinarian with the houseguests they sometimes have. Whatever he is. Whenever. Whether she likes it or not, that's all he ever has to be. There is no winning. No losing, either.

Sometimes there's fooling around, and sometimes they're just calling it fooling around. Rarely, exceedingly rarely, they call it making love, though far more often, that's exactly what it is. A lot of the time they just flat-out fuck each other, wild and hungry and athletic and eager. Not usually several times in a day, lazy and prolonged as it will be today, napping and eating here and there, randomly deciding they should shower and go out to the pool for a swim, then fuck the pool, let's go down to the beach, then laying out in the sun til she rolls over on the towel and puts her lips by his ear

and tells him a story about her own birthday, the first one she spent with him, and how much it turned her on when he told her what he thought about whenever he jerked off, when he was missing her, when he wanted her sucking his cock or riding him or bent over the bed, and how the last thing he told her about was sometimes just stroking himelf thinking about the way she looked down in Rio wearing that tiny fucking bikini, laid out and tanning by the endless swimming pool at the Copacabana

and how now she's lying there on the beach in San Diego wearing some other tiny fucking bikini and she can't stop thinking about him stroking himself hard, getting on top of her, untying the side strings of that little bathing suit, tugging the cups of the top down, fucking her right there on the towel.

That won't be the last time they love each other today, either, when he gets her home after that so they don't get arrested, Jesus, Sinclair, what the fuck.


She drowses on his shoulder right now, worn out from waking up early, baking, riding him like that, working up a sweat that's still tangible on her skin. Alex is still as deep inside of her as she can let him be, as though the physical reality could mirror the more epheremal truth. His cock moves a little when he rolls them gently to the side, and Sinclair gives a little gasp, almost soundless, her eyes opening as her head sinks into the pillow.

"Yeah," she whispers back when he tells her the obvious truth, and it would sound so flat, so dumb, except for the weight of affirmation and agreement in that soft voice of hers. "I'm yours," she adds, even quieter, sliding her arms around his middle and drawing closer to him, her leg hooked high around his hip.

She doesn't say the rest. She doesn't, because it's not 'legal', really, she's not challenged for him or claimed him, she has no right, and she's afraid he might freak out, he --

but then Sinclair softly exhales, no hint of tension having ever entered her body. She has her head resting to his chest, listening to his heart rate slow back down. "You're mine."