for old times' sake.

Evelyn Bryant
Wed 02:21AM CST
She hasn’t been home long.

Barely past an hour.

Such is the life of Evelyn Bryant currently that when she’s not assisting battered Kin, or trying to talk down strange adolescent teenage girls from slitting their own throats, or even just being in the wrong place at the wrong time—she barely has time to take a breath before her normal life. That one that she once upon a time lived and breathed for, the one before she knew about Werewolves and death and how easily life can be snatched away-- reclaims her.

So tonight she donned her former skin, her past persona, and celebrated the conclusion of her ballet with people who knew nothing of death and darkness. Of violence and the sound human bones make when they break. [The sound of a child screaming in pure terror.]

She drank champagne, she smiled, and she laughed. She danced and was flirted with. And all the time, she ignored the nagging voices telling her this was not her world any longer.

So when she got home, she peeled off the red dress. She washed away the traces of that human world, and stared at her flushed reflection in the bathroom mirror for several minutes, trying to figure out when exactly it was she transformed into this creature that didn’t quite fit in either worlds.

She moves about the bedroom now. Shedding the towel, slipping a silken dressing gown about her body, enjoying the sensation of the cool silk against her still shower-flushed skin. The gown is palest blue. And as she ties it loosely at the waist, it barely disguises the swell of her breasts, wet hair darkening the silk in patches to a darker shade.

She continues this unwinding. This undressing. Combing her damp hair, picking up black panties and bra and tossing them into the washing basket.

She does things so mundane and domestic. She finds it soothing.

This is a brief reprieve in the fluctuating storms of her lives.

[It won’t last.]

Vast
Wed 02:34AM CST
A buzz on the intercom.

Down below, in the street, one crimson-red Suzuki Hayabusa parked at the curb - two wheels, moulded body, flash of chrome, and a design worth more than many compact cars.

On the intercom, when she presses the button, Vast's voice -- albeit rusty through the old speaker, full of pops and hisses and static.

"Evelyn. May I come up?"

Evelyn Bryant
Wed 02:49AM CST
A pause. The lower lip is tugged between the fine needlepoints of her teeth a moment before she responds.

A million thoughts surface and shimmer—

[No. No you can’t. Because every time you do I break a little bit more. I hate you so goddamn much. I won’t let my body dictate my decisions. No. No you can’t.]

--She leans forward.

“Sure. I’ll buzz you up.”

Pressing the button, she takes a step back. Rubs at her bare arms. The tiny hairs rising at the sound of his voice. Her heart rate increasing. Muscles tensing. She moves to the mirror in her bedroom. Stares at the reflection staring back at her—

[Who are you?]

--and tries to reign in her wild thoughts.

The fingers curl around the edges of the varnished wood for only a brief second. The knuckles turning white before she releases. Expels pent up breath in a hiss. Shakes her head. Stands and makes her way, barefoot to the hall.

She doesn’t bother with clothing. The gown has slipped open a little. A sliver of golden flesh visible. Nothing but a glimpse. She has nothing to hide from Sevastian. There is nothing here that he has not already seen. Tasted. Touched.

[I cannot be having these thoughts. Stop it.]

She can lay blame on the alcohol. [she always does.]
She can pretend it’s just physical. [she wants to sake her lust.]

But she just can’t seem to say no to him.

Vast
Wed 02:57AM CST
She can hear the intercom click, and then the hiss of dead air before she turns her end off.

Below, the door opens with a buzz. Vast reaches out and turns the handle, and lets himself in. Shortly thereafter, the elevator reaches her floor and, at the very least, she might content herself that he remembers her well enough to know which apartment is hers. A rap on the door announces his presence.

Navy-and-white jacket unzipped, black jersey taut against his hard body, Vast peels his bike gloves off and stuffs them into his pocket while he waits for her to open her door. When she does, he looks at her for a second, and then brushes past her, into her apartment.

"I meant to come sooner, but I thought for a few days I might have to leave town." He peels his jacket off and hangs it up on the coatrack, if she had one. Otherwise he simply leaves it by the door. "Tell me something, Evelyn -- you have other suitors? Interested parties?"

He turns to face her, just past the foyer, just into the living room.

Evelyn Bryant
Wed 03:05AM CST
What is it about him that excites her so damn much? As he sweeps past her—and the brief foray of eyes over her thin layer of silk makes her shiver just a little—she tries to put her finger on it. He infuriates her. Challenges her. Makes her rage and quite often cry. But he also frightens her. Just a little. And perhaps she should fear him more. Perhaps the shiver she gave should be one of fear and not desire. Not the stirring of her lust. But the fact that she’s always just a little uneasy around him, that she knows he has the strength to hurt her—perhaps this excites her just a little too much.

She lifts a hand, tugging the edges of her robe closer around her slender frame as she follows him a few steps. A slight frown pulling at the corners of her lips. She looks him over, eyes slipping back to study his face as she responds slowly, as if testing each word before it leaves her lips. Trying to place his mood.

“Well I…yes. I suppose I do.”

She tilts her head to one side. Strands dip in front of her eyes and a hand lets go of the gown to brush it aside.

“Does that bother you?”

Vast
Wed 03:16AM CST
"Why should it?" It's imperious, that tilt of his head. Motorcycle leathers or ripped jeans, muscle shirts or stained tees, he is was and will always be Silver Fang. Even mortals respond to it. Even humans defer, just a little, when his burning purity of blood walks in their midst.

"I'm not faithful to you."

There, he said it -- but it's no confession, and really, she knew from the start. He crosses the room to her, grasping the lapels of her robe and tugging them together a little more, folding one under the other. For a second, his left hand is trapped beneath his right, sandwiched between the layers of her robe, with only a sheath of silk between his skin and hers. Then he withdraws, his fingertips skimming faintly over her body.

"...but yes. It bothers me, a little." He thinks for a moment, his eyes following, musingly, the trail his hand had taken. "Sometimes."

And finally, he too brushes her hair from her eyes, focusedly, tendering the strands behind her ear. "Should I let them have you, then?" he murmurs, musing aloud. "Would you be better off without me? I think you would."

Evelyn Bryant
Wed 03:30AM CST
[“I’m not faithful to you.”]

Yes. The words do make her wince just a little. But it’s barely perceptible. He would have noticed it no doubt. But she doesn’t look enraged at that admittance. She already knew. Somewhere deep inside, where logic and intellect has not been corroded away by her feelings for him. She knew that. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still burn just a little hearing it spoken aloud.

She’s perfectly still as he crosses the floor toward her. She doesn’t even look up as his fingertips briefly brush against the flesh hidden behind those thin layers. But she does shut her eyes. Lashes sweeping shut against those beautiful cheekbones of hers. And she doesn’t open them until again—

Touch.

The bare brush of his fingers as he sweeps her hair from her vision. Now the face lifts. The eyes open and focus on his. There’s a bare hint of a smile quirking the soft lips as she nods very slowly. Her voice a gentle murmur to match his. Albeit, softer. Infinitely feminine.

“Yes. I think I would be too. There is barely a day that goes by that I don’t wish that you’d never come over that day in the café.”

Are her words harsh? Not particularly. But they are truthful. As she speaks them though, a hand slips up his chest, barely brushing against the fabric. Just enough to be felt. The gentle brush of her fingers now as she runs them over his shoulders, before her small hands trace over his cheeks, the backs of her palms stroking his flesh as she watches him all this time with those dark brown eyes.

Her smile still barely enough to be called such. But now it curves a little.

“We don’t belong together. You and I. We’re from two different worlds.”

Vast
Wed 03:37AM CST
Moving with sudden, viper-strike speed, he grasps her hand and pulls it from his cheek -- only to press her palm to his lips, and scorch her lifeline with a kiss. A man like Vast could shorten a life by ten or twenty years. But who wants to live forever, right?

"We've never been together, Evelyn." It's a night for truths. "It's been a series of one night stands, you and I. But it has been enjoyable."

He holds her hand curled in his, looking down at the interlacing of their fingers. "So. What will you do? Who waits for you, when you cut yourself free from me?"

Evelyn Bryant
Wed 03:50AM CST
Her brow furrows just a little as he presses his lips to her palm. She shuts her eyes. Squeezes them shut and lets out a soft little breath. No more hiding from this now Evie. This is real. It’s not a fairytale. You might be dead tomorrow.

[Carpe Diem.]

She looks at him now. Her voice tiny. Uncertain. There are hidden layers to it. Her sorrow. Her desire. Her anger. [Her love.]

“I—don’t know. I don’t think I want to think about that right now. I think I…”

She takes a small step closer, pressing her body against their intertwined hands, molding her soft body against the harder curves of his own. Her eyes attempting to trap his gaze. To hold it for as long as possible even as she leans closer. His name from her lips is a whisper. And a question. And a plea. And she’s just damned either way.

“Sevastian. Kiss me?”

Her cheeks burn. She’s trembling, and her body is on fire for him once again. Just one last taste of the forbidden fruit. One more kiss. What’s the harm in one last kiss?

She doesn’t say please. But it’s clear in her expression. She needs this. She needs to cleanse him from her heart. From her body and mind.

But before she lets him go.

She needs just one more fix.

To break this habit.

Vast
Wed 04:03AM CST
(Kiss me.)

Call him Judas, then -- betraying with a kiss. Call him Lucifer, master of the forbidden fruit. Call him what you will, but at the least, he is not wholly ungenerous. Or perhaps, he is wholly unkind, and selfish.

For old times' sake, isn't that what they say?
(Why not, darling.)

He places her hand upon his shoulder. Then his hands grasp the lapels of her robe, twisting into silk. She's pressed against him, the robe trapped between, but a hard tug still brings the knot slipping loose, the two halves falling apart. His hands are on her skin now, warm despite the ride through the cold night air, his palms rubbing over her breasts, then slipping back beneath the loosening folds of her dressing robe to caress the taut dancer's curve of her waist, to cup her ass. He picks her up against him and kisses her: but not her mouth.

He kisses, burningly, the swell of her breast. Lifts his face to her, his pale eyes hot as a magnesium fire.

"Kiss me," he replies, repeats -- husky and low, "and tell me you want it. Tell me you want me, just once more."

Evelyn Bryant
Wed 04:24AM CST
She lets out a soft gasp as his hands slip over her flesh once again. There is no hiding from this passion. It burns within her. This tempest to her desire. It flows like liquid amber through her veins, pounding with the rhythm of her heart.

And she will let this amber spark and burn.

Because she needs this.
Because she wants this.
Because she doesn’t know what happens when this night is over.

He lifts her against him and presses his lips to her breasts. She arches her spine against that movement, blonde hair falling over her shoulders, licking down her back like golden flame. Her hand tightens upon his shoulder, her other resting somewhere against his side. She lifts a leg, wrapping it around his waist, pressing herself against him just enough to feel the throbbing between her legs intensify. The flutters of tiny muscles contracting, as helpless in their response to the friction between them as she is to the fire consuming her.

[Beloved sensation. Come and wash over me.]

He speaks…

…and she opens her eyes to meet that hot gaze. Her own eyes matching his for heat. He speaks and she drops her head down, sweeping in to claim himwith her kiss now. To level himwith the intensity of this fire that seems to ignite within her at the barest brush of his body against her own.

Feel this.

Her kisses demand it of him.

Taste this.

Her tongue makes forays into his mouth.

She’s taking possession of him tonight.

Her body trembles and she’s so very ready for him. Liquid with want. The spice of her arousal unmistakable as she releases his mouth long enough to breathe out.

“I want you. I always want you. Show me how much you want me.”