hell_in_highheels | [oom] Coming Home

It takes him a moment, but he grins at the joke.

"Wet. The snow's melting." He thinks a moment. "The rabbits'll be reproducing soon."

Ooo, a contraction. English must be finding it's way back to his default language.

"Spring," she muses quietly. "What does spring smell like, I wonder."

Her steps grow a little quicker as she takes his hand and leads him through the bar. Bar takes pity on them and the room is in the same place it was when she left this morning.

"New. And green. Fresh. Sharp. Tender. Damp," Richard lists carefully, trying to find words in English that even come close to the ones that canine has. It's slow going but it's also a good mental exercise for him.

He fishes the keys to their room out on their way to the door. With familiarity bred from over two years, he fits them to the lock and bumps the door open.

And stares. After a moment, he slips from her side and prowls a bit cautiously into the room. He's looking everywhere, sniffing madly, and Damocles is doing much the same. The place smells like River and leather and wood and wool and River and a bit of Deitmar.

But he's finding very little of his own scent.

"It's...big," he says, crossing to the new larger window.
Must. Not. Mark. Territory.

The bedding is his, and his clothes are neatly hung in the wardrobe or folded in the dresser. His figurine is on his bedside table, along with the clock and lamp. His papers are in one of the two desks, and his entertainment center is ensconced in one of the book shelves in the office space.

Damocles's rug is at the foot of their bed, but his toys are in a basket on the hearth. His food and water dish are in the small dining room.

Her heart is in her throat. She stands and waits, watching him intently as he prowls.

Richard heads left, first, Damocles at his heels and they find the office area with its many bookshelves. There's little hints of him, here, and he untenses a bit. Then he circles back to the right side of the room, disappearing through the door to the bedroom.

Okay. Okay, this room smells like him. Some primal portion of his brain is greatly reassured to know that the place is still his. His. He takes the door to the bathroom and through that back to the main room. The caution's gone when River sees him again. He prowls past her once more to the small kitchen and opens the fridge.

It's going to be tempting having all that food so close.

Finally he heads back to River, pulling her into the room and shutting the door. He pulls her back so he can rest a head on her shoulder, pushing her hair to one side while they look at the room together. He lets out a noisy breath.

"Okay."

Relief concern worry relief, all woven together in her scent.

She leans back against him, interlacing her fingers with his. She nuzzles against him, revelling in the strength of his body against hers.

"Love you."

He grins at her, nuzzling reassuringly and holding her tightly. "Love you."

Damocles is still exploring, going through his basket and making sure every single toy is there.

Richard lets out another sigh, an obviously contented one this time. "Breakfast?" He queries. "Or sex?"

"Shower," she murmurs, turning in his arms. "Come with me, wolf."

Without letting go of his hand, she leaves her shawl hanging over a kitchen chair, and toes her boots off by the front door, waiting for him to do the same with his.

She draws him through into the bathroom, tugging her sweater and blouse off over her head in one move. Her hands make quick work of his own shirts, tossing them in the hamper. She meets his gaze with a playful smirk and says aloud, to no one in particular, "Shower, hot, both."

He can hear one shower head come on, followed quickly by another. She slips out of her skirts as the steam rises.

"Go on. There's room for both of us."

He missed the voice automation in his earlier exploration of the bathroom. He'd ask now, but he's rather distracted at the moment.

Mates are good at that.

Richard's out of the rest of his clothes in one fell swoop and has them kicked in the general direction of the hamper. He's silent while he complies with her request, slipping in among the streams of water but dodging any that might hit his head.

He wants to watch her get in.

River is comfortable in her own skin, welcoming the heat of the water with a shiver of pleasure. Her eyes are bright, fixed on his face as she reaches for him.

Her hands smooth over his chest, sliding over his skin to rinse away the remains of the moon and his other self. The patches of dried blood are disturbing, but only in the context of the bathroom. She holds an image of him, standing at the edge of the forest in twilight, and it soothes the incongruity in her mind.

She can't help herself. She leans in to lick at the water beading on his sternum.

The blood starts to flake at first, then run as the steam and water rehydrates it. Richard doesn't catch more than a whiff of it before the water's washed it away. The werewolf gives a contented little mreh as River laps at the water that's collected at the top of his breastbone.

He runs his hands over her skin possessively, appreciating her smoothness and the sensitivity the water lends his hands.

She melts at the feel of his hands slipping over her skin.

Her eyes close. She runs her hands over his sides, down to the hollows of his hip bones, slowly, reading him like a Braille book. Returning again over his stomach, his ribs. Fingertips tasting, remembering. And over his chest again, lightly, reading his scars.

She pauses at the mark she knows was caused by silver. Eyes still closed, she bends and lays a reverent kiss over it.

He makes no sound as she touches the deadened skin, just goes very still.

He might have been able to heal a bullet to the head if not for the silver through his torso.

He places one hand under her chin, pulling her face up slowly to his and away from the scars. He kisses her, almost solemnly, before need and want turn it more passionate.

He might never have found this place if hadn't been for that blade. He might never have found her. She can find no place for regret in her heart over that simple fact.

Her kiss echoes these things back to him, need and want all tangled up with this hunger she has for him, not just his body, but his heart and his mind.

There are drops of water on her eyelashes, though it's hard to tell where they came from.

He doesn't see. There's water in his own eyes, but it's easily ignored in favour of feeling her out, testing his memory about what he'll find where. His hands ease down to support her glutes, lifting to try and pull her even closer than they already are.

She gasps into his mouth, her arms snaking around his neck, moaning as she kisses him hard. She revels in the feel of his strong hand as he draws her leg up his thigh.

He lets out a small frustrated growl. The water makes it hard for him to hold her and while he loves the feel of her thigh stroking his, he'd much rather be feeling something else right now.

He returns her kiss as he twists them around, pushing her up against the slate slab that makes up the back of the shower. He starts lifting her again, putting her neck and other things within distance of his head.

He demonstrates by nibbling at her jaw line and working his way down.

Her head tips back, her gasp turning into a sigh of pleasure. He's pinning her against the warm stone with his weight, giving her leave to wind her legs around his waist. She can feel the scruff of his beard against the sensitive skin of her throat, the graze of his teeth. Her hands can't get enough of him, roaming over his skin.

The marks he left three days ago have almost healed.

That's okay, he can make new ones.

He nibbles his way down her throat until he hits her collarbone. He follows the ridge out to her shoulder before working his way back along the hollow it forms, kissing and lapping at the water there.

His groin grinds against hers, hardness drawn to softness.

She holds onto his head and neck, nuzzling into his hair.

He has her pinned, transfixed, and she can't move, can't rise to meet him. She only try draw him close, her heels digging into his thighs, her breath hitching in his ear as he teases along the crux of her thighs.

He finds her neck again, biting in earnest, remarking her skin.

His hands find purchase under her, supporting her weight, arms flexing to hold her up. He stops pushing against her quite so much, giving them both a chance to manoeuvre to the proper positions.

She hisses as his teeth sink into her flesh, and she shudders with the intensity of it. She holds tight, her hips guiding him as best she can. He can hear her murmur softly "Yes, yes," as he presses in and up, filling her with heat and hardness.

Her scent carries the same wild ecstasy, bright and strong, woven with that deeper, more powerful emotion, stronger still than he has ever smelled it on her before.

He loves that smell and his hold on her throat loosens a bit as he shakily breathes it in. His eyes close in the ecstasy of it all, taste and touch and smell and sound.

"Love you," he says, voice rough and deep as he pushes up into her again.

His words, the mere sound of his voice drives her higher. She contracts around him, fingernails tiny bright points of pain on his back, her body pulsing hard around him, her heels urging him on.

Through it all, a breathless whisper, thick with bliss, "Love you, my love, my love."

Richard slips back into canine to say, Love my love, mine, my love. It leaves his mouth free to mark her throat, leaving deep red dents in her skin.

He keeps pushing into her, shoving her backside up against the warm slate in his eagerness.

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