let me in.

Danicka

On Friday night, Lukas asked Danicka to call him on Tuesday, call him as soon as she knew the outcome of the multi-faceted challenge she's been working on for a month now. He asked her to come over if she could, even if he only had 8 hours between shifts. She wouldn't even take his coat as she got on the subway; she slipped out of it and gave it back to him. And how could he insist, when they both knew she might not be able to give it back and the look in her eyes was aching so at the thought of having it to hold onto? So he walked home that night wearing one coat, carrying the other, and she got on the subway, and he has not heard from her or seen her since.

He gets off at midnight on Tuesday and there's no waiting text message on his phone, no voicemail. He gets home shortly thereafter and still nothing. Even when he goes to bed, whenever that happens, his phone is empty.

Of course, until two twenty-nine in the morning, when whatever notification sound he has for incoming calls begins going off.

Lukas

Lukas gave Danicka his number before they parted ways. His home, his cell, his pager, and his work. The reverse was not, and could not be true: it would be too cruel, if she was forbidden to see him again, for him to call. She wouldn't even be allowed to pick up.

So: she has his number. He waits for her call. Tuesday comes and Tuesday goes, and there's no phone call, no text, no page; not even a crow on his terrace. Lukas works until midnight, so there's that: he's kept busy. He's with Trauma, and some kid comes in at 6:50pm after getting stabbed on the subway over a few dollars. Collapsed lung. Severed internal thoracic artery, nicked pulmonic vein. Lukas is exhausted when he gets out at half past midnight, and the kid is critical but stable, not his jurisdiction or his responsibility anymore, so

he goes home, he checks his messages, he tries to ignore that pang of twisting sorrow. She never said she'd call on Tuesday. She could be delayed. Besides, they hardly knew each other. It's not like a few kisses after a few too many drinks means anything at all.

He's in bed by one. He's tired, so tired, and sleep plunges down and

all too soon his phone is ringing. Just a discreet, insistent beeping, dragging him back out of sleep. He's bleary. He reaches for the phone. He taps Answer and he puts it to his ear, collapsing back onto his bed. "Kvasnicka here."

Danicka

She never promised to call on Tuesday. She did hear him when he asked her to -- if she could. She heard him when he asked her to come by -- if she could. That he wanted to hear from her, wanted to know, wanted to see her --

if they could.

But no crow comes, and no call or message, not the whole time he's on his shift and not while he's elbow-deep in viscera and not when he's brushing his teeth, not when his head hits the pillow and his mind just turns off, unable to keep itself going no matter how much he whirrs internally.

Across town, but in truth on the other side of the universe, a Philodox gives a short, terse nod to Okleksandr Dobrev, also known as Black Cross, who then turns to look at the Adren Theurge in front of him again. She reports no harm done to those she would take into her charge. Her packmates are there, confirming the expansion of their territory and willingness to keep it up, though of course,

those few blocks in the Bronx and those few blocks over by the Hudson will be Danicka's responsibility forever. Should her packmates die, should they leave her, should she end up alone and bereft, she must be able to hold them on top of her own territory, on top of her pack's protectorate, on top of those many blocks in Ridgewood where she keeps her own blood-kin. She is stretched across New York City, and the fact that she is attempting to bring five to seven more kin across from Prague is certainly discussed under the waxing crescent moon. She bristles at the hint of doubt that Oleksandr adds to his voice. She bares her teeth at him.

Within an hour, Lukas is deeply asleep. Mid-cycle. His brain and body try to recover from all he demands of them.

Across the city, and still across a veil that is so impenetrable to humans that it may as well be on another planet, Danicka's chest nearly crumples. Her heart tightens, aching, and she's not quite sure she can bear this feeling. She walks away from the challenge circle, from Oleksandr, from the neutral Philodox, and Josef and Stella and Mire all fall into step with her, walk close to her, as they leave.

After Danicka composes her brief letters to Jaroslav and Marjeta, and of course Anezka, Mire offers to deliver them for her. She would normally never ask the Galliard, who is her and Josef's equal in rank, to play courier, but tonight: she accepts. She is grateful.

Stella doesn't want to leave. She says they should drink. Mire, the other American, scoffs at her barely-concealed eagerness for liquor, but Danicka gives her assent. Josef insists Stella give him proper Czech toasts or he won't pour for her. Stella says that if he wants her to learn Czech, he has to listen to Rza. Josef, quite blandly in fact, lays down a few rhymes as he rolls a shot glass between his fingers. Stella scowls.

Na zdravi! she says, and Josef grins. They drink.

Mire asks Danicka if she's all right. Her hands aren't shaking, but that is a concerted effort. She nods. Of course she's all right. Mire asks her if she wants to go, and Danicka huffs one of those laughs that doesn't include any amusement. Of course I want to go. Mire, oddly enough, understands that need better than Josef or Stella, even if Josef has known Danicka three times as long. He could not live without his packmates around him. He is always with one of them, never really alone, though they downplay that, though they never really talk about it. He doesn't understand why Danicka would want to leave them right now. Or ever, really.

But she does want to, and she does leave. She leaves them with her vodka and in her apartment, and when she leaves she doesn't even bother with the door. She goes through the looking-glass, slips into the body of a sleek wolf whose fur is glossy black and still thick from winter, and she runs.

At two twenty-nine, Lukas's phone beeps. Several times. Groggy, disturbed, he reaches for it and as he taps Answer he can see that the number is a string of digits, unrecognized, before he puts it to his ear.

"Lukáš," she says, and her voice is a little husky. There's enough time for him to recognize that voice, to place her face, then:

"Will you let me in?"

Lukas

Of course he thought it was the hospital again. He's not on call tonight but that hasn't deterred anyone if they really need him. But it's not the hospital; it's the wolf with the woman's face, with the green eyes, whose voice wakes him even when just about nothing else would.

He rubs his face once. Scrubs, actually. Then he sits up again, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Danicka?" He doesn't have to ask; he knows it's her. "Yeah. Just a second. Where are you? Are you downstairs?"

His feet thud onto the floor. It's a little cold, but he doesn't bother looking for his slippers. Across the room, silent, Kandovany lifts her head and looks at him with eyes that see far better than his ever will in this light. She watches her foodgiver step into a pair of boxer shorts - not boxerbrief but actual boxer shorts, loose and old and comfortable - and then let himself out of the bedroom.

A single dim light burns in the kitchen - a nightlight of sorts. The clock on the microwave reads 2:31am.

Danicka

There's a beat of a pause; she's ashamed to admit she's crossed even this boundary: "I'm at your door."

Lukas

"Oh." There's a bit of laughter under his voice - which is better, one supposes, than horror or shock. "Okay." Now she can hear him dimly through the door: the lower cadences of his voice, the higher registered filtered out. "One second."

The line goes dead. Beneath her feet is a plain doormat - swoopy grey patterns on a black background. The knocker on the door is metal, generic, but the locks slide back with a solid, satisfying sound. Then the door opens and he's looking at her, rumpled and sleepy, smiling.

"So... you won the challenge?"

Danicka

She could have just come in. Not just to his building but to his apartment, not just his apartment but his room, his bed. She could have woken him up with her hand on his face, her weight on the bed, but

she's not a Cliath, and she's never been so foolhardy or so oblivious. Nor, in truth, so selfish. It means something that she could not stop herself from 'letting herself in' to his building. It means something, too, that she made herself stop before crossing over through his door. That she called, and that her voice on the other end of the line was genuine: would he let her in? Would he?

Outside, she hangs up her phone and slips it into her pocket again, where the weight of it utterly vanishes, where no hint of it presses against the lines of her jacket. She can hear him on the other side of the door and her heart pounds. She can't see the doormat or the knocker or hear the locks, because the rushing of that heartbeat and the blood it pumps through her body is drowning out everything else.

Then the door opens and he's looking at her, rumpled and sleepy and smiling, and she's

slender and fair and put-together, wearing the same thing she was wearing the first time he saw her in that cafe, but her cheeks are a bit pink and her hair is a little tousled from the wind and her shoulders are damp from rain -- it's raining outside, he notices.

...you won the challenge?

She doesn't answer him. She comes inside, comes against him, puts her hands on his face and although it's cool out, although it's raining, her hands are already warm again, her body is warm, and she's kissing him like she's going to stop breathing if she doesn't. Oh, some part of her is aching still, has seen that she woke him up, knows that he has to be up in just a few hours to go right back to the hospital, knows that what he needs most right now is rest, and she wants to tell him to go back to bed, she'll stay -- god, she'll stay if he lets her, just let her stay close -- but he should sleep, he should rest, he --

is so warm it kills her.

Lukas

Never doubt this: this isn't a onesided thing. He smiles at her and he's rumpled and sleepy and if she wanted to just curl up against his back and sleep beside him he would be totally okay with that, but

when she puts his hands on his face and steps into him and shoves the door shut behind her and wraps his arms around her waist and scoops her right off the floor. Her back hits the wall. He's kissing her with a startling ferocity, sudden and unfettered. He's so warm. His body is hot and solid against hers, right against hers, and he's so warm but she's something else entirely. She smells like rain, she tastes like that other-world she ran through, trailing spirit-energy like lightning. Kissing her is like kissing a thunderstorm, electrifying, and touching her -

he touches her; perhaps this is too bold of him, but he does. He puts his hands on her abdomen, slides them up, cups her breasts through that jacket shell of hers, the one that

once again

covers nothing but bare skin.

Danicka

Perhaps strangely, she was never afraid. Afraid, for a moment, that Oleksandr might turn out to be less honorable than his deeds suggest, that he might deny her. But she was never afraid that Lukas would turn her away. She was never scared that it was just a few too many drinks last time, that he was just experimenting, that when he kissed her it was because he was horny and too busy to get any very frequently -- she has been watching him -- and she was never scared that if she kissed him, he would push her away.

He is warm and sleepy and rumpled, waking up in the middle of the night to let her into his den, smiling at her, happy to see her, happy to think that she's won her challenge, and as soon as she puts her hands on him, he pulls her closer. He slams the door behind her with one firm push of his hand. And does not just kiss her back but lifts her against his body --

and don't think his physical strength has no bearing on her attraction to him

-- and puts her to the wall to hold her there, right there, where he can feel her.

Danicka, who managed not to moan when he kissed her the last time she saw him, groans. Her arms slip around his shoulders, her hands in his hair. She wraps her legs around him easily, her heels dropping off her feet behind his back with two clattering thumps. Some part of her doesn't want it like this. She wants to talk to him, explain things to him, tell him all about it, just... share it with him even if half of it he doesn't comprehend. She wants to tell him to come home with her, come into her den, she wants him there so badly and she wants her packmates to meet him, she wants them to circle around and sniff at him, talk to him, get their scents on him and get his scent on them. She wants him to stay there forever. She wants to make sure he gets back to bed, and goes to sleep, and isn't a wreck tomorrow. She wants the first time she's with him to last for hours, she wants him not to be tired, she wants him not to have to get up from the bed in the morning and leave her.

All of that, though, dies such an easy death, barely even gasping, to feel his body between her legs, against her chest, to feel his hands coming up to cover her breasts through the silky, slightly cool-damp, fabric of her suit. Danicka's moan, at this, is softer than before. She isn't brutal, no, not so animalistic that she doesn't know any pleasure that isn't savage; her teeth never bite into his tongue or his lips. She doesn't rake her nails over him. It isn't beyond her to do so, just... not now.

Now, all she can do is kiss him, her breathing quickening to panting so quickly when all the way over here she barely broke a sweat. She breaks from his mouth only a moment:

"Take me to your bed,"

and is kissing him again, shuddering against him.

Lukas

Those words send a shudder through him that she can feel. And for a moment she might expect him not to move again, might expect him to loose a growl of his own because no, no, here is just fine, he's been waiting so long -

but no. He does make a sound, a groan that's nearly a growl. But then he lifts her away from the wall. He wants to throw her over his shoulder like a barbarian. He wants to carry her all the way to his bedroom, drop her on the bed, but

he kisses her again, standing in his entryway, nothing but shadows and one or two thin layers of fabric between their bodies - the edges of his form limned by that light from the kitchen, his borders defined by her touch. "Okay," he whispers, and he lets her down, he takes her hands. It's his bedroom, his bed, but he lets her lead him, catching up at the doorway to press against her. When he kisses her again his eyes close. He has to put a hand on the doorframe for balance. Then he's closing that door, too, and this time he's leading her: he takes her to the edge of the bed and he sits.

She finds herself wrapped in his arms again. Lifted against him, her knees sliding onto the rumpled comforters of his bed. There's still a warm impression where his body lay. He pulls her over his lap, kissing her neck now, kissing her shoulder as his fingers find that one button, that one maddening button,

and undoes it.

"Oh, god," he breathes - there's relief in this, and a hint of laughter, "you have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

Danicka

Perhaps it means something, something significant and important and dear, that she wants him to take her to his bed. That she doesn't simply tell him to take her pants off, push down his boxers, be in her right here against the wall. That she doesn't slide down and take him by the hand, walk him to his own bedroom. That she wants to be in his bed. Not the wall, the entryway, the rather large and -- currently -- inviting sectional couch, the floor. Maybe it means something that Lukas, hearing those words, shakes in response like they rock him to his core.

Maybe the higher, more philosophical parts of their minds are simply turned off right now, and the only significance is pure, surging instinct.

When Lukas lifts her off the wall, Danicka all but melts to his body, leaning against his chest. She kisses him again now, softer than before, her eyes closed and her mouth warm, molten, lingering. It takes a moment for them to separate, and another moment for him to murmur okay like he does, and still another for him to let her down. Her feet, now bare, press gently to the floor, toes to heel, her hand finding his and his hand finding hers in the half-light. She looks up at him, waiting for him, but when he doesn't move, she gives a soft breath of laughter and starts to walk. She does, in the end, walk him to his own bedroom. There's only the one door, just ten feet or so from where they're standing. She certainly doesn't get lost.

It's darker over by his doorway, a little further from the light. Danicka breathes in as Lukas presses to her again. Her arms wrap around him again, his hand going to the doorframe, and her hands traveling down from his hair to his chest, feeling the skin that, til he opened the door like this, she'd only imagined. Danicka finds it difficult to move. Lukas has to move his feet, press against her more firmly, til her feet move backwards and they cross into his bedroom. His hand reaches in the dark, swings his bedroom door shut, cutting off the kitchen light, cutting off almost all light.

In another form, she'd be able to see him very clearly right now. In this form, at this moment, she doesn't need to. She can hear his breathing, taste his mouth, feel him, smell him. The city outside gives them some light through the glass between them and the terrace. Now that they're here, Lukas takes her hands and guides her to his bed. The world nearly drops out from under her, she feels lightheaded, from sheer want.

Lukas doesn't have to urge her much to come onto his lap like that, kneel over him. The silk-wool blend of her slacks rustles against the comforter he sleeps under. She could faint at the mere thought of that: his bed, him sleeping here, him taking her here, letting her in here, being with her here, letting her stay. She's moving more slowly now than she did when she first stepped in the front door and saw him. She has him now. He wants her. He's taken her to his bed, and he's going to love her here, so

she is soothed.

He can even sense it, feel it in her limbs and her spine as he touches her. She's still all but quivering with lust, with longing, but the shocking electricity she first brought into his apartment has settled to rumbles of thunder on the horizon, a steady rainfall, the sky lighting up with flashes of cloud-to-cloud lightning that does not descend to scorch the earth. And what she senses, this close to him, is so complex she couldn't possibly explain it to him. There are clear skies in his eyes, warmth in his hands, but his heartbeat is a storm crackling among mountainpeaks. His eyes tell her stories of long generations. She feels him like a shadow over the verdant lowlands of her own bloodlines, watchful and guarding, strong and hard.

It does not only make her more and more certain that this was right, that it was good that she waited, that this was what she was meant to come back to,

it also makes her wonder if she has met him before. In some other life. In some other form.

In this life, this body, she breathes in deeply as he puts his mouth to her neck. Oh, she could never let him do this where other Lords might see, might hear. She can't imagine him gossiping about her, using her vulnerability against her, can't imagine him trying to hurt her like that, and so she doesn't go rigid. She doesn't tense up, pull back, tell him to get his mouth off her throat. She tips her head to the side, exposing more of her neck to him but not her jugular, nuzzling him along his jaw, under his ear, her breath hot, humid on his skin. Almost idly, her hands run over his arms, touch his sides.

She can feel his hand against her torso then, fingering that single, stylish button that holds her jacket on. A smile flickers over her mouth even before he unfastens it, even before he says what he does. The lapels part, but she doesn't shrug the coat off yet. It drapes over her shoulders still, leaving that path of flesh down her front unbroken. Even in the cool light of nighttime, turning her skin to silver and shadows, he can see the faintest, barest hints of where each breast curves out, still --

maddeningly

-- hidden.

She has no idea, he says. She smiles at him, one hand on his face as she pulls back a bit to look at him, her other hand touching his hair, pushing it back. Danicka's eyes are almost drowsy. This is right. This is good. She is -- not happy, not quite the word for it. Fulfilled. Which, in fact, makes her happy.

So she kisses him, slowly, rubbing the pads of her fingertips against the back of his scalp. "A month?" she asks him, in teasing murmur, because a month ago was when he saw her wearing this. A month ago is when she saw him, showed herself to him, decided that night -- after god knows how long she watched him, learned about him and his family -- to go challenge Oleksandr. He has no idea. She didn't challenge for him til that night, til she'd seen just how hard he would work himself, til she'd heard sharp intelligence and curiosity in his questions, til she'd seen both wise wariness paired with defiant courage in his reaction to her. Til she saw desire flashing in his eyes, reminding her of the storms they were both born from.

Right now, she does not want to think of that decision, of that challenge, of the last month and all the things she's done so that she could be here, right now. It doesn't even matter now that she's here. What matters now is that he is welcoming her.

Danicka goes on kissing him, the ache in her growing to the point where it will soon become unbearable not to make love to him. She thinks of telling him we don't have to. She wants him to know that she understands he has to work tomorrow, he has to get up early, he has to go back, she wants him to know she cares about these measly human things, not because she would ever need a surgeon or let one of her kin be so injured they would need a surgeon, but because it is what he's chosen to do with his life. It's a part of who he is. She wants him to know, even if it's a small thing to him, that she gets that. That it matters to her, even if it only matters to her because it's him.

None of those things come out of her mouth. Only a sigh, shrugging her shoulders and slipping her jacket off, letting it slide down her arms and off her back and across his shins to the floor at his feet. She has one arm around his shoulders, the other hand now reaching down, unfastening the hook, then the internal button, then the zipper of her slacks, a ridiculously complicated process for the sake of fashion wanting to hide that damn button. If he were to look down, Lukas might see the front of her panties, all soft cotton trimmed with lace at the top, the color impossible to tell in this light.

Lukas

We don't know each other, Lukas kept saying, and he's both right and wrong. He's right in that they didn't know each other the way humans define the word. He in particular knew nothing about her: what she did, what her days were spent on, who else was in her life. What her interest in his family was, and in him.

He's wrong, though, in an instinctive, visceral sense. Because she does know him. She knew him at a glance: his work ethic, his intelligence, his strength, his interest in her. She knew he was a good man, and not the sort of man who would ever betray her vulnerability for his own advancement. She could sense it as surely as she senses now: this is the one, the only, her mate in this life and so many others.

He senses it too. His primality is not so developed and accessible as hers, and so he doesn't have a way to conceptualize it. He can't look at the way he feels and think to himself, yes. Yes, of course. Even so, the fact is: she called, said please let me in, and he went to the door nearly naked and vulnerable, unafraid. She came in. He knew she was a wolf, but that was all right. That was right.

This is right, too. This darkness, her closeness. The sound of her breathing in the darkness, the shuddering want in her. And: how gentle she is now, how aching and soft, when he knows she can be so fierce. She is kissing him with her hands on his face, her fingers in his hair, and

somewhere in there they share a secret laugh, he says you have no idea and she says a month? and they laugh, they kiss, it's soft.

He undoes the button. She shrugs out of her jacket. The fabric pools briefly in his hands, then slides down to the floor. He puts his hands on her body; he makes a sound a little like wonder as she undoes her pants. He raises her up to stand on her knees, letting her slacks fall, bringing her body to his mouth

so he can put his lips to the breastbone, bury his face against her. His arms wrap around her. His hands open over her back. Such a strange tenderness in this moment, as though he's been waiting longer than a few days, longer than a month; as though he's been waiting a very long time, indeed, to do exactly this.

Danicka

For a few moments, a few days ago, she was worried that if she came on too strong, he'd reject her. It wasn't that she thought she knew him better than anyone. She just wanted a chance. And she didn't want to do it under the banner of permission granted by another wolf. She just wanted to take care of him and his family, and maybe, maybe, she could spend more time with him then. Get to know him in relaxation. Not worry about telling him no when the answer for both of them was yes, if it ever came to that.

They couldn't even make it through one dinner. And he kissed her, one time, and every careful plan and sketch and scaffold she'd built around this venture came crashing down around her ears. She knew, then, that he was her mate. If he never let her back in, if he never touched her again, if he never loved her, if she had to find him a suitable mate later on, if he never wanted her back,

he was it.

No, she's not human. She's been half an animal since she was a child, a little bit savage and a little bit dominant and a little bit wild. She's been tempered by loss and pain, been strengthened by the burden of the expectations placed on her since she changed -- and before then, too. She has made her own way, cut her own path, earned her name -- and she sees the same in him. Sees an equal match in him, even if he is not Garou, even if he is not a full-blooded Shadow Lord, even if the rest of the Nation would tell him he is no way ever even close to her equal. Mate, her soul claims, and wags its tail in satisfied happiness.

Her mate.

Oh, but she'd never say it aloud. She's still thinking it will scare him off. At that dinner just a few days ago he rejected words that might come close to sounding like Forever and Ever. That isn't what he wants. That isn't what he's ready for. She will keep it to herself, secret and safe,

and bare her teeth at any female who so much as looks at him too long.

He is hers. This is right, and this is good. He's a worthy male, so he can be allowed to roll her under him and love her. She is a worthy female, and so he's let her into his den, will let her stay and fill the place with her scent, her presence, a claim and a warning and a comfort.

They are so quiet that he can hear her breathing as it quickens. He can hear every rustle as he lifts her up, as he holds her by the waist while she sheds her slacks to the floor. When she lowers herself back to his lap, legs spread over him, Danicka sinks down and moans at the feel of him pressing up against her, his erection not even slightly restrained by those loose shorts of his. She tips her head back, her spine curving, as he kisses her. Puts his face to her, holds her. Her hair brushes the backs of his hands. He can feel, then, every heartbeat and every shift of muscle, every prophecy of motion before it happens.

Danicka folds over him, her hair swinging down like a veil around their faces. She lifts his face to hers again, urges his mouth to rise, so she can kiss him again. Her underwear is such a strange thing to find under that chic black suit: cotton striped with pink and blue and yellow and purple, hugging her hips with soft blue lace. Casual. Cute. Perky. Still just pretty enough to indicate that she was hopeful -- or that she wears things like that every day. Who knows. Who even cares, right this minute.

The longing to tell him, right this minute, that she loves him, is startling even to Danicka. For all her savagery, all her deep instinct, she knows that might be a step too far. She does feel it, though. It does show, a little, in the way she kisses him.

Her hips move in a long, slow, firm roll against his lap. She does it again, moving her body as though he's already inside of her even with those two last layers of fabric between them. A soft groan, this time. She does it again. And again. A little faster.

Whispers his name, almost pants it, like a plea.

Lukas

The thing is, when he said he didn't want forever and ever, he still didn't think he knew her. He hadn't recognized her yet: she was still stiff and distant, he was still jarred and uncertain. They hadn't had that one clashing moment they seemed to need, just to get it out of their systems. They hadn't sat down to the same meal, shared good meat, good wine. Shared that growing intoxication, and that growing want. Shared that kiss at the door. That walk in the park.

That goodbye, which might so easily have been final.

If she said she loved him now, he wouldn't be afraid. He might be a little surprised, but the surprise would be pleasant, and it wouldn't last long. It's in her kiss. It's in the way they kiss, and the way she rubs herself against him, and the way he groans into her mouth. Of course she does. Of course he does.

She's lifting his face, then. He tips his head back and their mouths meet - coming together with inevitable magnetism, opening. He's panting as he falls back on the bed, bringing her with him. His eyes aren't quite good enough in the dark to see what color her panties are, but he can see that they're striped and he can feel they're cotton and they're so -- sweet, and cute, that he lets out another quiet laugh even as he pushes his hands under, rubs her ass with his palms.

"Take these off," he whispers. He's already pushing them down, smoothing them past the curve of her hips, down her thighs. "Get them off. Here -- "

and he turns, he flips on the bed and now he's over her, bracing his knees on the bed for a moment to grasp her by the waist. He slides her up the mattress, the already rumpled bedclothes rumpling more. There's still a warm hollow where he lay sleeping, and that's where he sets her: puts her right where he was warmest and safest, because that's where he wants her to be. This, too, is instinct.

He's getting rid of his boxers, then, which are not what he would wear on those rare dates of him, and not what he would wear, even, to work or while shopping. These may as well be pajamas, may as well be things he kicks around the house in, and they go drifting to the floor. Then he's coming down over her again, he's moving between her legs like he belongs there, catches her mouth and kisses her on an inhale, his hand on her face, drifting heavy down to cup her breast. God, he mutters against her mouth, and then:

"Should I get a condom?" His mind panics for a second. Does he even have any?

Danicka

It's so close now that it's burning. She moves on him, and he groans, and the sound of it makes her start to press against him, push him back, as though this might hint to him some further sign that yes, she wants this. That yes, she wants this now. Wants him. Her breasts touch his chest. He is softly laughing, touching her in a way that makes her --

well.

Danicka squirms, but she isn't trying to get away. He rubs his hands over her ass and she makes this sound, a low squeal or a stifled whine, a noise made of pleasure. That quickness to her breath becomes an all-out panting as he starts pushing them off, as she starts all but climbing over him, seconds from shoving him onto his back. That's when he rolls, turning her under him, lifting her with that one broad hand on the middle of her back, moving her upward into that warm depression where his body was so recently sleeping. Her hair spreads over his pillow as he sets her down. She's looking up at him, and she's not frozen with lust, she's getting her panties the rest of the way off while he fights with his boxers, pushes them down and away and

truth be told, this eliminates all chance of her having a moment where all she can do is look up at him, staring, waiting for him, overwhelmed by the fact that this is happening. All Danicka can comprehend right now is the scent of him that lives in his bedclothes, the warmth left by his body beneath her and the warmth of him coming down over her. All she can focus on is that they're naked together now, that there's not a single part of his body that isn't open to her, bared.

"I want to put my mouth all over you," she breathes, and it's a little nonsensical and perhaps even a little trite, like romance novel talk, but it's the only thing she can think of, and it comes out of her mouth without her even considering trying to stop it. He comes down to her, kisses her again and feels her moan enter his mouth, her hands run down his sides to his hips, up his back to his shoulders, over his arms. She lifts her legs, her inner thighs stroking over him as they fold, as her hips tilt upward toward him, as he feels how wet she is for the first time, how she slides it over him, how she angles her body to take him.

Their hands run everywhere. He discovers her hardened nipples with his fingertips, releases something like a prayer into the darkness, feels Danicka's hand reach downward, wrapping around his cock, stroking him in her palm,

and he learns from the very first pass of her hand that this isn't new to her, either, this isn't unfamiliar, even if it's never been him before, even if the feel of his cock in her hand makes her let out a moan that is louder, more helpless, than any she's given before. Lukas is trying to think of condoms. Should he get one. Does he have any. Danicka is jerking him off, rubbing him against her cunt, making him slippery. Danicka is moving her mouth to his neck, kissing him there, licking his skin.

"No," she says, a rush of breath that is also firm and insistent, because she is swiftly, swiftly losing her grasp on language. Anything more complicated, more explanatory, more reassuring, is beyond her.

Lukas

Actually, what ends up coming out of Lukas's mouth is more like half a sentence: Should I get a -- and then just this sound, this low, ragged sound as her hand finds his cock. Her touch is so sure, so confident, and that alone turns him on, makes him jump in her hands, makes him kiss her ferociously, pressing her back into his pillow. He can feel how wet she is. It drives him out of his mind. He never finishes his question, but she seems to understand anyway: tells him no with the same sureness she uses to touch him.

It's all the encouragement he needs. He shifts his weight over her, wraps his palms under her shoulderblades. There's a moment where he can see her in the darkness, and he thinks he can see the color of her eyes, that verdant green like secrets, like spring. Her hands guide him to her opening, but they both sense it when he's there: the same recognition burning through their eyes. She lifts her head and he comes down to meet her. They kiss like that, scorchingly, silently, and then that silence spins apart as he pushes into her,

moans into her mouth,

turns his hand to the mattress to grasp a fistful of his sheets. He wants to pause a moment, treasure the moment, but it's so good, she feels so good that he can't, he can't bear to stop. There'll be time for that later, he thinks. Time for her to look at him, time for him to touch every inch of her, time for her to put her mouth all over him, time for him to love her with a patience and a slowness he can't quite seem to conjure up right now.

Closeness, though: he can manage that. Can't think not to have that. He stays close to her, his arms wrapped around her, his face close to hers, his body moving in the grip of her legs. He wonders - briefly, achingly vulnerable - if she knows he doesn't make a habit of doing this. He doesn't open his door in his boxers. He doesn't sleep with random women three or four times after meeting them. He doesn't do this, except with her, because she's different, she's unique, in all the world she is singular to him.

Danicka

She's not so much an animal, nor so lost in the spirit world, that she doesn't... well, fuck occasionally. And the sorts of men she would allow to sleep with her, the sorts of women she might pick up, are the sort who think of these things when they go to bed with someone strange. He doesn't have to finish that sentence for her to know where it's going. But she doesn't want a condom. There's no disease that could live in her body and pass to him, no disease he could have that could take root in her.

There is the other concern. But she doesn't have the words or the patience to talk to him about that now. It is a bigger question than either of them want to face right now, because ultimately, it circles back around to one of the main reasons she started looking for that family she remembered from her childhood, finding those kinfolk whose son and daughter were her only, only friends. The truth is that Lukas doesn't have to worry about finding out later on that she's pregnant -- Danicka places high standards on any male that might sniff at her, does not go to bed with just anyone, and even then not a one of them would be worthy of siring a child on her.

Lukas would be. Lukas is. But not yet. She only just found him.

It doesn't matter anyway. She's saying no because she wants to feel him. It's no more complicated than that, no more thought-out or coherent. She doesn't want him to get up and go looking for anything, doesn't want to wait for him to rip open and unroll. So she says no, all but growling the word in that breath, and they kiss so forcefully that the pillows ruck up behind her head, so hard that their bodies move upward on the mattress. She's wearing a fine sheen of sweat on her skin already, the heat in her too much to contain even before he finds her.

That's what it feels like. Being found. Being unearthed. Seeing daylight.

Her hands clutch at his back as he clutches at the bedding, and already she's arching her own back, taking him with that first thrust, pushing back against him to encourage another. And another. He stays close to her, pressed between her legs and against her body, and every time his mouth parts from hers to breathe, to gasp, she's moaning his name. It's as if she's struggling to tell him something vital, something he has to know, but in reality,

she's just trying to beg him not to stop. Not pause for a moment, not treasure it, not look down at her or any of that. Oh, she has certain demands. She wants him to touch her in certain ways, wants him to use his deft fingers that are so used to delicate work. She wants him to use his mouth. She wants to shower with him, sleep curled around him, legs tangled. She wants to stay here, with him, forever, and

all of that pales right now to how much she wants him to just keep moving, keep filling her. Even if she'd seen him sleeping with a different woman every time he had a night off during the time she watched him, Danicka wouldn't feel differently right now. Even if he were the sort to make a habit of it, to seduce and destroy, to take just about anyone he wanted into this very bed, it couldn't diminish this. She reaches up, placing her hand against the headboard as he thrusts harder, as he moves more firmly into her, her breath catching every time.

If she knew that right now, even for a moment when his mind flickers with rationality, he is wondering if she knows how rare she is, how unique, she would only hold him tighter, kiss him more deeply, and... well...

she does that anyway. Holds him tighter. Kisses him deeper.

Lukas

She holds him tighter, kisses him deeper, moans his name like that and he responds like a horse to the whip, a bull to the flag,

a wolf to his mate.

Lukas is not a wolf. Not in this life, anyway. But he is half-wild himself, and that same lightning blood that sets the air afire in her presence flows in his veins. Just a little slower, is all. Just a little more deeply buried. He comes alive for her now, though, groaning into her mouth and raising himself on his elbows, his toes kicking his sheets awry as he looks for leverage. Her hand goes to the headboard. His finds it a moment later, his fingers wrap through hers, he grips her hand against the mattress as he fucks her that much more energetically, that much more passionately.

He loves her in the darkness of his bedroom, where his scent permeates everywhere. Her hands grip his back, and his fingers clutch at the sheets, sometimes through the screen of hers. They are neither of them speaking. Their communication comes as gasps, as catches and hitches in breaths that can't quite be caught; as moans tattooed into one another's flesh, hidden in one another's mouths. It is the first time he has been inside her, the very first, but she feels so familiar to him, as though he knows her.

Of course he knows her. She's his mate. Even if she had failed, even if she could have never seen him again, even if she went on and so did he, he would have remembered that one dinner, that one kiss, those few moments when his hand held hers.

His hand holds hers now. It's a singular point of sanity. It's all that he can focus on in the end, when pleasure is ripping him apart, when he's moving into her hard enough to rattle the bed against the headboard against the wall, when he's no longer gasping and groaning but uttering long, rough vowel-sounds against the side of her neck,

losing himself inside her, falling into her, falling apart.

Danicka

Truthfully, she never expected it to be like this. To be so close. To be so...familiar. This doesn't feel like the first time he's been with her, in this bed or another. Their guards are down, and she didn't expect that either. He kissed her neck and she let him. She nuzzled under his ear and he opened his hands over her back, holding her near. She knows that afterward she should ask, she shouldn't just assume, she should give him the courtesy of telling her if she can stay or not -- even if his den is now her den, if his family's house is now her house, if Anezka's apartment is now hers as well --

but the truth is, she knows he won't want her to leave. She knows he'd be startled if she asked, confused. And she knows this too: even if he did want her to leave, she's not sure she would be able to make herself go.

She'd stand outside in the moonlight and watch, finding his window among the dozens, making sure he was still there. Still safe. Still hers.

The bed is moving. The headboard, usually so stable, starts thumping repetitively against his bedroom wall. Everyone who has ever lived in a dormitory or apartment building knows that sound, that rhythm, even if they can't hear the moaning. Lukas's building is better-built, is newer, and it does muffle the sound a bit. His neighbors don't (yet) pound back on the wall or come knocking at his door to tell him to shut up, Jesus Christ, it's three in the goddamn morning.

Danicka is arching under him, her skin glistening with sweat now, dampening her hairline. She clutches his hand when he finds hers, groaning as he lifts up, gives her more, fucks her a little faster, a little harder. She can't even keep her mouth on his when they kiss, can't breathe except for panting, and then

whimpering. That's when he hears a subtle change in her voice, when he feels a surge in her body. A switch flicked, a line crossed. That's when her cunt tightens around him, that's when she starts riding him from beneath, that's when he knows not to stop, can't stop, don't dare stop, she's coming. Danicka starts to quiver, starts to shake, holds onto him like she's desperate, and he

buries himself in her, buries his face to her neck, moans, the world tilting and falling away beneath him,

beneath them,

leaving only them.

It goes on for a long time. For her it does. She's still moving when his brain begins to put itself back together, though her movements are slow pulses, are intermittent squeezes that nearly kill him. She is shaking, panting, her eyes closed as though the world -- even in this room -- is too loud, too bright, too much for her to bear. She shivers as though she's cold, her head turned to the side, her hair fanned out beside her, holding him with as much strength as she has left, which,

right now,

is not very much.

Lukas

It was jarring for Lukas to look at Danicka at first and know something so golden, so slender, was far stronger than he was or will ever be. It would be just as jarring now, if he had consciousness left to think about it, to see how vulnerable she is, how there's no strength left in her arms, how she shivers in his arms, undone.

There are kinsmen who would be perversely gratified by such a thing. Lukas hasn't met them, but Danicka has - the ones that boast over beers about 'nailing' their mates, the ones that brag about how they made 'their women' scream, how they kept the neighbors up, how they 'slipped it to her' so good she was 'docile' for hours afterwards. The ones that call their mates 'bitches', snickering at their own cleverness because, snerk, she's a wolf, so it's not an insult, get it?

As if by demeaning their mates, they could somehow regain the power they felt taken from them when they were born into this life. As if by being vile and despicable would somehow shield them from feeling vulnerable and threatened and weak.

Lukas hasn't met these kinsmen yet. But he's met the mortal version, and he will sooner or later. He wouldn't understand them; wouldn't understand how they could betray such a trust, wouldn't understand how they could reduce

something like this

into a power struggle, a war. This is not war. And he is not smug; he is not triumphant. He feels as shattered as she looks. He wraps his arms around her, rubs his cheek along hers, sets his brow to the pillow beneath, and tries to breathe.

"Stay," he whispers. "Just ... stay. Okay?"

Danicka

She has met them. Not many. They act submissive in front of the wolves -- that is perhaps the worst part, worse even than the ones who insist on rash defiance -- but they are all swagger to each other, seeking some kind of solace because the world taught them they were men, and the world was theirs, and women were theirs, and they had certain rights and privileges, goddammit, all because They Were Men, and Men Are Strong. Oh, Danicka has met them.

One would think she'd lift them by their throats to the wall, because she can. Sic spirits to hound and harry them in their nightmares. Show them just how fragile they are, how weak, how much stronger and more powerful she is. Show them what it means to try defying that. But Danicka does not. She's lost her temper a few times, or close to it. But the truth is: they know how fragile and weak they are. They think: I am not strong. I am not stronger than her. So what am I? What use am I?

and they find nothing. Dank, sopping holes in their own cores, as gnawing and worm-ridden as graves. They reject any other use, any other purpose, they might have in life if it breaks the mold of what they think it means to be a man.

She does not pity them. Their gaping internal death gives her satisfaction.

She pities the ones who over-submit, who grovel, who debase themselves. They are the Omegas of kin, she thinks. She does not like Omegas. There is no Omega wolf in her pack, though there are three Adrens and one fresh little Cliath. Stella is not Omega by virtue of youth or inexperience. Danicka could not bear a true Omega, a wolf who scrapes their belly to the ground simply because that is their spirit. That is not useful to her, that is not what it means to be Garou to her. She does not understand a wolf who is not an Omega in spirit who yet takes on the role, fakes it, gritting their teeth and resenting their packmates all the while. She cannot bear it in a brother or sister; she cannot bear it in mates or nanas or den fathers or doctors or lawyers or politicians or any of the other kin the tribe finds useful.

Lukas is not an Omega. She knew that in childhood, sensed it. He was the youngest, but he was not fragile or debased, would not stand for being humiliated. Then: nor did he need to lord anything over anyone. He bragged, he showed off his knowledge, but really -- only a little, and less than most children.

She knew it when she first began watching him, learned of his life over the last fifteen years, saw what he did for a living and how he comported himself. Not an Omega. Not even a Gamma or a Beta. That was intriguing. That was appealing. He did not lord his strength over others, barking them down simply because he needed to prove himself to himself. He did not whine or grovel. She spoke to him and he was wary, but not afraid. He was curious, but not rude. He did not treat her as ...well. Less than human.

He does not expect her to be docile right now. She suspects he does not need her to be.

Danicka feels him nuzzling her and her eyes drift open, drowsy and flickering. She seems a little lost, as though waking up from a deep sleep. She breathes in and smells him, smells their comingled sweat, and her eyes slowly close again. He is very warm on top of her. So she decides -- on a level so deep and basic it is hardly a 'decision' at all -- to go to sleep. Just like this, no longer worried about when he has to get up in the morning or whether she should ask or not if it's okay for her to stay, not thinking about her pack or her territory or if she should charge her phone.

It's almost laughable, how quickly she goes relaxed, beginning to lose herself to sleep. The depth of her comfort is that great, that elemental. Everything is all right. She is sleepy. She is warm. Her mate is as close as he can be. It is time to sleep.

Stay, he whispers, and she stirs but not much. More words, then, three more, and she makes a low noise, a quiet mmm of assent that is just firm enough to also be a shh, quiet. sleeping now.

A few moments later, Danicka rolls onto her left side, mindless, jostling him on top of her, nudging and wiggling under him til he lets her move. She reaches for his arm and wraps it around her like she's pulling a blanket to cover her, holds his hand where it falls naturally between her breasts. Her body moves steadily with each breath, falling quickly

and deeply

asleep.