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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    [mature]  A Holiday Bash - mature oops
    #11
    The Opening Act

    "Careful," he said quietly in warning, a growl in his throat that sent electric shivers down her spine. She could feel his lips curve up with a smile, and she leaned back an inch to watch him warily because a smile was never a good thing, was it?

    His hand dropped from her wrist and curved around to her lower back, then suddenly she was pressed against him with a soft gasp. It easily melded into a quiet groan that she desperately tried to bite back. She could feel every muscle, every hard plane of his chest beneath her hands as she'd raised them to keep distance between them. It failed and now he was warm and firm, and the damn smell of him was far more intoxicating than any of those drinks had been.

    "Let me remind you."

    He snapped his fingers and commanded reality to bend for him, taking them outside in the cold where it wasn't actually cold. The gently falling snow seemed to be their only audience, her back pressed to the wall and his heavy jacket shielding her skin from the brick. She sucked in a shallow sigh as his hand brushed up her side, her lips parting and chin tilting up in her own challenge. A dare she shouldn't be giving him, but how long had it been? She was starving. She wanted this, no matter how little it was. No matter how meaningless.

    It wasn't like he was capable of anything more. She didn't think so, at least. Not that he would want it anyway. Not from her.

    His thumb drew over her jawline, and she could feel his vibrant green eyes on her as his fingers disappeared into her hair. Then his mouth was on hers, claiming, taking her in a firm kiss that stole a soft noise from her throat. She barely began kissing back when he was gone, briefly, with a nip on her bottom lip. But he was there again and kissing deeper, demanding the moan that betrayed her.

    She was left to gasp a breath when his hand drifted to her back again, pulling her into his chest as his lips whispered across her cheek.

    "Come alive for me, Wallace."

    She already was. Her heart raced a damn marathon for him and her hands had clutched into his damp shirt, clinging so he couldn't let her fall back into the nothingness she lived in, the endless numbness. She wasn't done. He couldn't be done, not yet. She hadn't meant to be so easy for him, but damn it, he always seemed to make her so wild and reckless when he was near. Always meaning only the one other time she'd ever seen him.

    Her heart pounded so hard and her chin tilted more, up and away in an offering of her throat. She wanted to feel his dark stubble against her skin, feel his lips and his teeth take what they want of her. It was wild enough that he even wanted any of her. She took no notice of his blood on her hands as she lowered them, gripping the sides of his shirt above his hips as she tried to get better control over everything he was doing to her. 

    It wouldn't hurt, though, just to touch him a little. It wouldn't push her over the edge, and so she did. Her right hand loosened the grasp on his shirt, twisted it up until she could splay over his warm skin, her breath shallow as she breathed his name again.

    "Woolf.."
    Reply
    #12

    bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
    if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

    She was a tsunami trapped in those meek brown eyes and he only had to brush against the edges of her before she explodes into a dazzling array of color. He wonders if she recognizes the beauty of her, the power of her, the kaleidoscope of emotions constantly simmering beneath the surface—a vibrant, vivid emotion he has only ever felt around her. She groans in her throat and his hold on her tightens, surprised by the way it pulls at his lower belly, at the hunger she ignites in a heart that usually feels so hollow.

    When she lifts her chin, exposing her throat, he doesn’t hesitate. His stubbled mouth trails from her painted lips, to her jawline, teeth grabbing the sensitive part of her earlobe before trailing down her neck. His mouth is greedy as he bends his head, tasting the sweet flesh and the scent that is all her.

    The doors open and patrons from inside pour out but he pays no attention to their drunken banter. He is lost in the world that is her. Her hand finds its way under his shirt and he growls in response, his own grip finding her waist and hosting her up, pressing her back against the wall and letting her legs wrap around his waist. One calloused palm runs up her exposed thigh before it traces its way back up the side of her body, finally coming to a rest as it cradles her face, the kiss deepening until he nearly drowns in it.

    It was like an electric shock to the heart.

    He can feel his pulse racing, skin heating, and it’s completely alien—wholly different—and he is nearly drunk on it. More intoxicated than the whiskey has ever made him. “Wallace,” her name is soft on his tongue as he whispers into her, the edges of it dark and tangled and lost, as lost as him. “Wallace,” he repeats it again, pulling her head down to his, her dark hair curtaining around his vision.

    She tastes like cinnamon and liquor and his stomach muscles clench.

    He breaks the kiss for a moment, still holding her against the wall, his arms trembling with the effort it takes to keep himself in check. He bends his head, pressing her forehead into the crook of her neck, against her chest. He breathes her in deep, breathing ragged. “I lose control around you,” his voice is low, teeth gritted, his left hand holding her right leg in place. He opens his mouth again but instead he leans up, tilting his head back, something wicked in his emerald eyes. “So next move is on you.”

    His left hand remains on her thigh, his right on her waist.

    “The ball is in your court, Wallace.”

    woolf

    I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste

    Reply
    #13
    The Opening Act

    He took her offered throat, but not before burning kisses across her jaw to her ear, biting then drifting over her neck in a hunger that had her clutching his side tighter, gasping softly. Jarring shocks were sparking across her skin everywhere he touched, every place his lips claimed. His growl as she felt his bare skin beneath his shirt kicked her pulse even higher, ignited further as he lifted her to his hips and pressed her against the wall.

    Her legs automatically curled around his waist, the ridiculous skirt flashing smooth skin, ruffled helplessly as his hand brushed up her thigh and traveled over her side. She shifted, restless and aching, spilling a soft whimper as he returned to kiss her deeply. She kissed back, ravenous and rhythmic as she tasted his lips, breathed in the electric gravity that seemed to have her bound to him like an addict.

    He said her name, whispered it. Then again, pulling her in to kiss him deeper. She complied with a soft moan, completely consumed by the wildfire he spread in her veins, the way he dashed away any chance of rational thought. Until he parted from the kiss and left her gasping quietly.

    His head pressed to her erratic pulse in her neck, her collarbone. "I lose control around you," he said, his voice low and husky, and honestly it only made her want this more.

    "So next move is on you. The ball is in your court, Wallace."

    She whimpered softly, her legs tightening around his hips and her head falling back against the wall with a harsh breath. Her hair snagged on the brick and she didn't feel it at all, feeling too much elsewhere. She knew this was meaningless to him. This wasn't for her but just a body he felt like enjoying for the time being.

    She wasn't going to pass it up though. How long had it been since she'd been touched this way, held this way? And only the twice in her life. It was only selfishness for him, and it could be selfishness for her too. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, knowing this was bad, probably so bad. But she hadn't felt in so damn long and here he was setting her ablaze like no other has tried.

    The haze in her eyes cleared some, her hands lifting to hold his face and kiss him deeply again, squeezing his hips and clutching him to her with her legs. She nipped a breathless trail to his jaw, along the hard line of it and whispered, "Take me away, Woolf."

    She deserved to feel again, just this once at least, didn't she?
    Her hips rocked deliberately, eyes flashing up to his and settling a kiss in the corner of his firm mouth.

    "Take me away."
    Reply
    #14
    Kharon had tipped him off that it was gonna be an extra special concert, of course. Mind you, he’d had no idea just how special, but he’d been smart enough to bring more than one bouquet. Purple and white and flashy for Kharon, ‘cause his rockstar kid deserved flowers too obviously. And then. Amber was the obvious bet, and he wasn’t wrong there. Their rendition of Baby It’s Cold Outside was sassy and flirty and adorable, and he was damn glad he’d brought a gorgeous orange flower that matched her fiery red hair. And he fuckin’ loved the way they looked at each other when they sang, too.

    Kali sure as hell wasn’t up to singing in public, not without some serious coaxing and not for such a big audience. But his just in case white rose for her was easy to sneak into Kharon’s when she didn’t come out on stage with him for so much as a shaky little Jingle Bells. Aww, he was pretty willing to bed Kharon was at least a little bit bummed about that, but there was no wayyy you could see it in his face, not on a night like tonight. Baby was in his element, and the whole world could see it.

    Holy fuck, but Lacey. He’d had his fingers crossed, coaxed his florist into hooking him up with this sexy little arrangement of deep red orchids and soooft white calla lilies juuuust in case, but he hadn’t held his breath. God, he should’ve. It would’ve been worth every second of the oxygen deprivation.

    For once in his life, he didn’t try to stand out from the crowd, dressed casually in a touchably soft grey cashmere sweater and pants a darker grey. This was his boy’s night, and clearly Lacey’s too, and he didn’t wanna horn in on anyone’s spotlight, not tonight. So he watched his baby sing her magnificent heart out with a smile on his face, and when she was finished he didn’t even chase her down, just gave her a little space and watched their gorgeous boy finish out his set. Sent flowers backstage for Kharon and Amber, and glanced around looking for Lacey. Probably enough time had passed for her to get a little distance from the raw, naked vulnerability of performing and he could find her without pushing too many buttons.

    No sign of her though, and she’d be damn hard to miss in that sexy little number Kharon must have coaxed her into. He frowned a little and headed outside, flowers in hand, wondering if maybe she’d slipped outside for some air. Hell, maybe that’d be better, see her out where they could talk, he could get a word in above the crowd and all. No big deal.

    He headed outside, in no particular hurry just yet, since it was about even odds she’d already took off and headed home. It was probably a good thing he wasn’t much of a betting man though, or he’d have lost big tonight. Home was not exactly where she’d headed. He rounded the corner and a couple caught his eye, pressed up against the building in a passionate embrace. He halfway started to smirk, a little tip of his hat to the two of them for getting a little action, when his brain caught the rest of the way up with his eyes and figured out just who he was seeing.

    Lacey.
    That was his Lacey.
    Wrapped around someone else.

    “Take me away, Woolf,” she begged softly in that sexy, fuck me whisper of hers, and his hand clenched around the stems of the flowers he’d been pretty sure it was stupid to buy her, stems suddenly encased in iron. Hell, for a second he was solid iron as everything in him froze, as a fucking cacophany of new emotions he couldn’t name clamored in his head and his chest, as his vision bled red and his fists begggged him to beat the shit out of the pretty face she was kissing.

    What the fuck?
    What the actual fuck was happening to him?

    He should be grinning and high fiving her, smirking and offering to double-team her with whatever sexy piece of ass she’d wrangled with her gorgeous body and the fire in her eyes and that goddamn song he would’ve sworn was about him. He should be stoked for her, getting some action, having some fun, spreading a little holiday cheer. Instead he wanted to pound fucking Woolf’s face into a pulp with iron fists. Tear him off his goddamn Lacey, beat him halfway to death, and grab her and kiss the everliving fuck out of her until it was his name falling from her perfect lips.

    What the shit?

    He almost charged forward, too. Almost gave in and did it, acting on impulse and thinking with his dick like he always had, especially when it came to her. But it wasn’t that simple, was it? This wasn’t some asshole making a move on her, and Lace rolling her eyes and telling him to fuck off and die.

    She wanted it. Wanted him. Wanted some other fucking guy.
    And he had no idea what the fuck to do about it.

    Had no right to do a damn thing about it, really. He’d managed to fuck things up brilliantly with her for years, ruined every chance he’d ever walked right up and taken, and who the fuck was he to tell her she couldn’t do something that made her feel good?

    FUCK.
    He forced his hand open, unclenching his fist with a loud crack as the long-forgotten bouquet broke free of the solid iron still making up the rest of him and clattered to the ground, landing upright, blooms still somehow intact, bobbing merrily and mocking him. And for another long moment he just stared at them, breathing in the lust and the want and the need that he hadn’t put in her eyes and drowning in the way something inside his iron chest was cracking, hissing, screaming protest.

    Screaming pain that drowned out the jealous anger and flashed in silver eyes that narrowed against hurt he didn’t understand. His brow furrowed and his jaw clenched and he swallowed hard at the sudden lump in his throat. What the fuck was wrong with him? Was he having some kind of fucking stroke, or? Heart attack? Was apoplexy a thing outside of shitty Victorian romance novels?

    He stood frozen, screaming at his feet to pick a damn direction and move. Charge and start a fuckin’ fight that’d end in two big, stupid men covered in blood and bruises and Lacey either storming off or fucking one of them, gods only knew. Leave, let Lacey make her own choices and fuck who she wanted, as was her damn right. Do FUCKING ANYTHING and not just STAND THERE LIKE AN IDIOT having some kind of fucking aneurysm. His hands shook with the force of whateverthefuck feeling it was that was killing him from the inside, and his mind shouted endlessly at his body to fucking obey him and do two conflicting things at once.

    Kharon, he begged softly beneath the screaming, reaching out from the iron prison his body had become. Baby, I think I need your help.

    ((lol sorryyyyyy he insisted on interrupting by doing absofuckinglutely nothing like a crazy person :| ))
    Bite my shiny metal ass.
    Reply
    #15

    bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
    if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

    Woolf has never been an emotional or sensitive man.

    He has spent his life as an observer, a scientist—someone who indulges himself in only the ways that he thinks can expand his own understanding of the world around him. It has led to a life outside of others. He has a child, but it was purely for curiosity sake; he had felt no hunger, no need during it. It was only when he was with her that he felt something else slip beneath the surface, her own wild emotions cutting him to his quick, peeling back his layers of indifference to leave him vulnerable and aching.

    Her thoughts are a constant ripple in his own mind, and for the most part, he is too lost in the moment to dive into them. Too lost in the feel of her against him, the heat that kindles to life between them, to try and discern the doubts and the fear in her—but when he pauses, when he rests his head against her, trying to gain some semblance of control, they come screaming to life, and he frowns. He tips his head back, watching her untangle her own emotions, untangle her own desires, doubt spreading through her.

    When she dips her head back down to him, trailing her teeth and lips along his jawline, he smiles, the emotion as wolfish as his name—but he isn't ready to leave. Not yet. His right hand comes up, cradling her jaw, his thumb brushing across her soft cheek. “Okay,” he breathes, voice thick, “but first, you need to admit to me that you know what I actually want—from you, from this.”

    He reaches for her palm, pulling it to his forehead, letting it rest there. His emerald eyes look to her and then, blood starting to bead along the wound, he opens his mind to her the way her mind has always been open to him. He lets it rush out, letting her pick through the desire, the want, the newness of it all. He lets her feel the heady emotions he’s felt since their first encounter, the lust that flicks like flames up the side of his mind and the simultaneous, trickier emotion that rides like an undercurrent beneath it all.

    His eyes go a little dark, somber as he pulls her hand away, pressing a rough kiss into the palm before releasing it. He clears his throat, fire still simmering in his belly, when the rest of the world comes screaming back into stark reality. The bubble he has placed around them pops, snow beginning to drift in closer, as the metal flowers strike ground. Something shifts in Woolf, and he slides Wallace down, her body still pressed close to his, but his eyes going flat, his handsome features taking on a keen edge.

    He knows about Kerberos.

    Known about him since the first day he had met Wallace when she had thrown open her mind and nearly drowned him in the memories of her first encounter with the man. He remembers the moment as if he had experienced it himself. Her fear. Her pain. Her shame when her hair was sheared off. His lips peel back over his teeth, one arm pulling Wallace behind him. Not because she can’t handle herself, but because he can’t, and the last thing he wants is to let her get in between him and the man of iron—

    Not now, not here.

    “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarls, the wicked scar curving over his shoulder splitting open as he greedily opens the floodgates of his own power. Flames begin to lick down his arms, completely harmless to the woman behind him, although she may feel the hints of warmth. He knows that Wallace has somehow found it in her heart to forgive Kerberos—or, at least, forgive him enough to continue to let him in her life, but he doesn’t forgive as sweetly. It’s clear in the hard edge of his mouth.

    “I’ve always been curious to know the temperature that iron melts,” he spits the words with venom, barely holding himself back, the fireball in his left palm pulsing as it begins to fade from orange to white.

    “Unless you leave right now, you’re going to find out with me.”

    woolf

    I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste



    um, so woolf has a temper. :| i'm sorry.
    Reply
    #16
    kharon

    oh baby, I have not been kind

    He was what you would call a little busy when he first took notice that something was happening. After his flirty delicious number with his sexy Amber, he'd taken a bit of a break. Backstage never meant he was alone, too many people, but he'd still managed to find a little privacy for a few minutes at least, his fingers lost in long blond hair and lips locked in ravenous kisses.

    He pulled his girl tighter against him with a muffled moan, so damn hard and ready to start losing some clothes. God, he loved her hands in his hair, the brilliant passion she fed back to him and lit him up.

    But, fuck.

    He gasped and jerked back, grey eyes wide. Not good, not good. Frantically, he straightened his clothes, ruffled his perfectly tousled hair. “I gotta go,” he passed to her in a hurried kiss. Aw, man, he missed her already. Another kiss then, just as quick as the last, and he bolted to the nearest back exit and took to the sky.

    With a graceful swoop, he landed before his dad, staggering on the landing from all the powerful thoughts and emotions hitting him so hard. He caught himself with a palm on Dad's chest, blinking at the ground and shaking his head, then looking up at Mom and her friend. Mom wouldn't let the guy hurt him or Dad, so he felt no fear apart from a natural instinct to avoid fire. Had she not been there, he would've been far more guns-blazing and threat to anyone that would dare think of hurting his Dad.

    The thoughts there hurt his heart, the way his dad was perceived by things he'd never do. Had done, but wouldn't now. He wasn't the same person anymore after finding them and staying with the family. Kharon's expression was only sad and quiet as he watched them, his hand drifting down to take Dad's and sleek white wings folding neatly against his back. Then he turned to Dad, stepped in front of him to block his view of Mom and Woolf, search his silver eyes with unconditional love in his.

    "Come on, Dad. Let's go talk," he suggested quietly. "Mom will be okay."

    He looked at Mom again, still holding Dad's hand. "I love you, Mom." This was the closest she'd ever been to moving on, to finally finding some happiness or at least a bit of fun. Then to Woolf, because despite all their sass and good looks, Dad had taught him to be polite. "It was nice meeting you." He stepped back and tugged gently on Dad's hand.

    I wish I could scrape away the dirt that's on my mind

    Quotes are speech. Italics are telepathy
    Reply
    #17
    The Opening Act

    As her kisses passed over his jawline, she was almost positive he was going to take her away from here. And then what? She wasn't sure. Would he really do this, all of it? Would she? She hadn't ever had anyone but Kirby. She hadn't even.. been comfortable with trying. Some stupid piece of her had always held stubbornly to the useless hope that he'd change his mind someday, that he'd actually try to love her. A little. But that was impossible. For anyone.

    His hand rose to her face, warm against the flush on her cheeks and coaxing her to meet his green eyes.

    "Okay," he told her, his voice husky and low, "But first, you need to admit to me that you know what I actually want—from you, from this."

    She tensed in instant fear at what that sounded like, her eyes widening. No! He didn't want anything, he couldn't. She was impossible to love, not good enough. Not pretty enough, not interesting enough. Never enough. The father of her kids couldn't even want her. Nobody could really want her in this way they were both pretending he wanted her. And certainly nobody but Reilly wanted to love her. But she had nothing to give. She was nothing.

    He pressed her palm to his forehead, watching as she slammed her eyes shut and turned her face away with a whimper. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

    His emotions were laid bare, displayed and sorted for her because she doesn't know how to use any magic to do it herself. All his lust and desire that matched hers. Which felt crazy. Why was she so attracted to him? How did he manage to stir her into this writhing, needy girl without a damn care for anything but being in his hands?

    There was something more, too. An interest that caught her eye in the confusing swirl of everything else. Just as she was trying to follow it, her hand was removed from him and she was blind to him once again. Now all she had was this mask of his indifference, shaded by something else only briefly as he kissed her palm and released it. Her mind was reeling, trying to process what he'd showed her.

    She startled violently as solid metal clattered to the pavement, her grip on him tightening and heart racing. Kerberos? Woolf slid her to her feet and edged her behind him, and she moved her grasp to his hip, peering around him in uncertain confusion. Was there danger? It really was Kerberos, though. He looked... sick? When had he gotten here? She hadn't seen him inside. She hadn't realized he was coming.

    A step to the side allowed her to see better beyond Woolf's flaming arms. Oh! He was talking to Kir that way! She squeezed his hip tighter, urging him to look at her, brown eyes bright in concern. "Woolf!" she murmured tightly. Why was he threatening Kirby?? Then more firmly, "Woolf. That's the father of my children."

    Oh.
    He remembered what she went through.
    He had seen it through her that day.
    Perhaps that was why he was threatening Kirby.

    She dropped her hand from him, feeling the shame rise up fresh and pushing her eyes to the ground. He knew what Kerberos had done to her. He knew what she went through. He knew there was no repayment, no punishment, no retribution. Instead, she had continued to pay each day in having him there with them, seeing him with her children, watching them grow to love him more than they cared for her. He had taken everything from her. It would never be enough until her stupid heart finally gave up. But it just wouldn't let go, would it?

    Woolf's jacket suddenly felt so heavy on her shoulders as she hugged herself, so she reached up and pulled it off, held it out to him. "You should leave," she whispered, avoiding his eyes and too numb to be proud of how her voice hadn't cracked. Now she definitely would never see him again. She'd never have anything like this again. She wasn't meant to feel anything but pain.

    A single tear held its ground in the corner of her eye as she turned away.

    She had almost believed she could be wanted.
    But she knew who she really was.
    She was broken and damaged and ruined.

    She was nothing.
    Reply
    #18
    On a normal day, he would have met Woolf’s eyes, a wicked grin on his face as iron clashed with fire, thrown down a snarky 2800 degrees, baby, you think you’re hot enough to melt me? and had a good old knock down, drag out fight. On a normal day, he would have acknowledged the other man at all. This was anything but a normal day.

    And all he saw was Lacey.

    Saw the way she clutched Woolf tighter, gripped his hip, took shelter behind him. Saw the way her face changed after she called Kirby the father of her children. Not her friend, not her anything, just...the father of her children. And shame washed over her face. He watched the pleasure fade from her as she curled in on herself, wrapped her arms around herself, watched her wilt at his presence, at his existence, at god, his role in her life at all.

    Oh.

    Silver eyes widened with dismay as he understood for the first time what lay beneath the barbs she sent his way. Not just prickly little thorns that made it more fun to play. He eyed the white-hot fire speculatively, wondering if it really could melt him. If it would do a damn bit of damage, or if he could just put himself right back together again. Maybe it would be worth finding out. Hell, maybe it’d do some good, let her protector take some retribution out on his shiny metal skin.

    But not in front of his boy. Never in front of his boy.

    Kharon blocked his view, coaxed him away with a gentle voice and a hand in his, and Kirby’s eyes focused on him. Saw the quiet sadness in silver eyes so like his own. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded slowly, the iron of his neck creaking protest at the motion. It took a moment to loosen the iron in his limb enough to follow, but he squeezed Kharon’s hand and breathed his way through, coaxing iron slowly into fluidity again. Don’t think. Just move. Just go with Kharon. Get a drink, have a chat, no big deal.

    Without a word, he nodded again and let Kharon lead him away. Knew better now than to think he could be the one tilting her chin up and--didn’t matter. His fault, the way she’d crumpled and curled in on herself like she didn’t deserve the space she was taking up, like she didn’t deserve what Woolf was offering. His fault. It was long since time he started paying for it. He walked away, hand in Kharon’s, flowers left forgotten on the ground. She deserved better than such a small, useless gesture.

    She deserved better than him.
    Bite my shiny metal ass.
    Reply
    #19

    bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
    if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

    His temper isn't exactly a dormant thing, but he cannot remember the last time it flared like this.

    He can feel it white hot underneath his skin, as volatile as the flames running down his arms. It clouds his mind, makes his tongue thick and puts a film over his eyes. His muscles are taut beneath his skin, green eyes molten as he watches Kerberos, just wishing that the guy would give him an excuse—any excuse—to fling off the final threads of restraint so that he could lose himself in the bloody, bare-knuckled fight.

    Instead, Wallace’s son arrives. Woolf doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything except flex his fingers, feeling the fire twist around his hands, small burns charring his skin where he is too reckless to protect himself. He doesn't feel them. Doesn’t feel the blood smeared across his chest under his throat. His face remains hard, unreadable, mouth pressed into a thin line, but he doesn’t say anything else. He barely nods, jerking his chin when Kharon acknowledges him, a muscle jumping in his jaw at the suppressed rage.

    The only thing that snaps his mind out of it, the only thing that does anything at all to put a dent in his rage, is Wallace’s voice. His stomach twists at the reminder that the son of a bitch sired her family but he cools at her insist voice, surprised she had that much say in his reaction. The fire snuffs out, leaving thin tendrils of smoke to wind around his neck and up through his hair, and he takes a deep breath, wide chest expanding as he fights for some level of control, some semblance of ability to contain himself.

    He doesn’t take his eyes off Kerberos, mouth remaining closed and instead letting his voice sear into the other’s brain, blocked from his son’s natural abilities. You ever touch anyone like you touched her—especially her—ever again and you will have me to answer to, you understand? His brow furrows together, a flare of fury still in the set of his mouth. I don’t give two shits that you think you’re a changed man. If I catch wind of you laying a finger on someone, that finger is coming straight off.

    And then, at the whisper of Wallace, he releases his hold on Kerberos, letting him leave.

    When they are alone, he angles his head toward her, ignoring the jacket she holds out to him.

    “No,” his voice is hard, entirely different from what it had been but minutes before and he turns on his heel so that he can face her. His face is stripped raw, unfamiliar feelings of protectiveness leaving him vulnerable and furious for it. “I’m not leaving, Wallace.” He takes a step forward, grabbing her chin with his charred thumb, the flesh still warm, and tilts it upward, the move surprisingly gentle despite the adrenaline that still courses through him. “And you aren’t either. You don’t get to disappear on me.”

    His eyes search hers, releasing her chin so that he can push back her hair, thumb gliding over her forehead and then down to her cheek. “I see you, Wallace,” he responds to her thoughts as easily as if they had been spoken aloud. “I have always seen you—from the very first moment.” He doesn’t dip his head down, doesn’t take the liberty although he still wants to, the hunger having never quite been sated.

    “And I’ve wanted you since then. Every piece of you.”

    woolf

    I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste

    Reply
    #20
    kharon

    oh baby, I have not been kind

    Dad! he called to him, his voice tight with stress. He couldn't bear where Dad's thoughts had gone, the way he'd watched Woolf's fire with too much interest before it was snuffed out. Dad, please.. Just come with me. He threw a worried glance at Mom too. They both seemed to wilt together and it made his heart ache.

    Mom was always miserable, but he'd never had to worry about Dad like this.

    He tugged on his hand more, more insistent, needing him away from here. His wings flexed anxiously, fluttering with dismay. Was Dad only just now realizing why Mom acted the way she did? He hadn't known? Dad nodded at him, followed him away without a backwards glance at Mom and her friend. Good. That was good. Walking was good.

    Come on, Dad. Let's get you a drink. Let's go somewhere to talk. Talk it out to me. Please.

    He wanted to understand better, to be welcomed deeper into Dad's thoughts and feelings. He wanted to help, if he could. Mom was loud with her thoughts, not boxed up and buried deep like Dad no matter how she tried to. She just didn't have the power to, her thoughts broadcasted to anyone with abilities like his.

    I love you. Let me help.

    I wish I could scrape away the dirt that's on my mind

    Quotes are speech. Italics are telepathy
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