Emberwood I got years of livin' by and how I choose

✹☾❂

 

Her thought waves were ineffective against the man, who did not move to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset. In fact, he barely moved at all, but there was still much flying between these two that couldn’t be seen by the eyes. There were long spaces of silence that went unfilled, words and longing that went unsaid — yet, somehow, they weren’t awkward or needing of fillers. They were simply another moment for her to look upon him, and him to look upon her, as if there’s wasn’t a view of the whole wide world, the only thing either of them had ever wanted, yawning out in front of them. The background fell away. Right now, there was only Kincaid.

Still, the woman was about to go into cardiac arrest if something wasn’t done about this. Her name fell from his lips, adding a guttural sound to the ‘r' that she wasn’t aware it desperately needed, and she held her breath, awaiting what he might say next. There were a million things she hoped she might hear this rogue rambler say to her, under the cover of this auspicious night — but like her, he was having trouble finding his words. Eleuthera rose from her seated position next to him and she inches close to his side, leaning her neck so that her mouth was flush with his ear. His fur tickled her lips like cinnamon bark. "It’s not anything you’ve done," she cooed.

"It’s you."

and if that small bit of the honest truth didn’t get Kincaid to make a move, she was just going to throw herself off this vista right here and now.

When she rose, Kincaid felt his heart fly up with her, the way it did when he startled his prey and lost it to the wind, and akin also to the way it'd sank down into his gut that day he'd walked away from Nine. He had misstepped, and the dream was over, and then suddenly her breath was too-warm in his ear. It flicked back as her nose touched the sensetive fringe of protective fur, batting over her velvet muzzle and then returning just as quickly to press forward in surprise.

Heart kicking out of rhythm, he turned to her with a look of flattered bemusement writ across his ruddy features. But the wide-eyed look soon gentled into one of quiet conspiration, and he let out a breath like a laugh and moved to tuck his muzzle against hers, allowing the moment to sweep him up.

"You're a troublemaker," he told her, sounding somehow both resigned and self-satisfied. Apparently he did still have it in him, even if he wasn't sure quite how he'd managed it, this time. The truth was, Kin had never landed a woman who didn't have some biological motive driving her. And every time, he had been beat out at the end by some larger, stronger (and often, steadier) male.

"C'mere, then," he said, gentle and teasing all at once as he dropped his hindquarters once more and lifted a paw to invite her closer.

✹☾❂

 

At the touch of his muzzle against hers, like a violinist’s bow against a polished instrument, she shuddered. Eleuthera couldn’t help it. Thank you, the woman thought as she exhaled the breath that had been locked inside her and pressed her finebone maw infinitesimally into his. She stayed there, feeling his corporeal presence so close and warm on already a warm summer night, not willing to be the first to pull away. 

She could smell the road on him, and in the half a second between that moment and the next, her imagination went on a thousand different simultaneous journeys. Eleuthera wondered how his brother had died. She wondered what his parents had been like. She thought about the sounds of his voice, and if he was born with his accent or if it was a melange of all the places he had been. The woman mused upon where he would sleep that night, and if he was going to be alone. Eleuthera was far too curious for her own good, and she forced down these millions of scenarios and allowed herself to experience the true peace in that moment. She hadn’t realized this, but she had been longing to touch him since the very moment he introduced himself. 

For once, she did not think about Séamus.

When invited, she collapsed into him like a songbird coming home to roost. 

It still seemed every bit a fantasy when the woman did not turn away, but fell into him free and grateful. The weight of her grew both in and against his chest, and he was done for — he knew it.

What the hell is wrong with me?

There would be time later for questions. Like Eleuthera, he chose to linger in the healing peace of the moment, each heartbeat ticking by seeming to imprint her heavier on his heart. Later on, he would regret it, wonder why he let himself get so twisted up — but right then he reveled in it, pressing his black nose deep into the fur of her shoulder, and preening the fringe that led up the column of her graceful neck and into her velvet jaw.

Words had gotten them into this mess, but he could not help but speak still more: "Little darlin'," he crooned into her ear, knowing he might never again get to whisper endearments to her in the dark. The spell would have to break at some point, and she would figure out what every other woman in his life had — whatever it was that kept them looking elsewhere after getting a taste of him.

The male fell to his side, carrying Eleuthera with him if she was not quick enough to pick herself up. Here he wrapped both forelegs around her, drawing her close to his chest and burying his face in her sweet-smelling fur — cedar and rose and warmth and life. Soon, he would have to let her go and deal with the emotional fallout — but for now, for now, he would let his soul be soothed.

✹☾❂

 

His strong, nomadic body easily supported her as Eleuthera surrendered her weight into his. Without much else left to long for, the lilac woman let her eyes slip closed and still herself against him, feeling the breath in his lungs press rhythmically into her side. She felt the dust on his coat intermingle with hers. Eleuthera didn’t know if it was possible, she felt the warmth of his soul reach out to hers and melt away the parts that were tense, stuck, unfulfilled.

She easily trusted that he was feeling similarly.

As Kincaid preened the velveteen décolletage of a very receptive Eleuthera, she knew this wasn’t fair to Kincaid, or to herself. She was not a woman that could support the affections of a worldly man like the one who embraced and kissed her now. Eleuthera was just a little, meaningless thing; a fucked-up soul attempting to undo all the wrong she had done in the world. The corners of her eyes peeled open, and as she watched what she could of Kincaid fully entranced in his act, Eleuthera wondered how she was going to inevitably ruin him, too.

No. No, no, no, no. There had been far too much sadness in the past year to let her subconscious run off with yet another happy memory. Kincaid was here, fulfilling the deep wishes she had yet to voice, and for that, Eleuthera began to think of him as something like an angel, sent from her mothers in heaven so that she might have another chance to smile — even if it was only for a night. 

They rolled toward the earth, a heap and tangle of light grey and ruddy red, and Eleuthera let herself be pulled along for the ride. She was pulled in close and tucked into his chest and, without the pressure of gravity, she lifted her chin and pressed the crown of her head into the muscle of his shoulder; exposing the delicate pulse point of her throat to him and silently bidding him to place his affections there, too. She moved against him, to be closer to him if at all possible, and to pull every sweet taste of honey from this moment that she could. She was far too aware that this mustn’t continue. At least they had the endless now.

“Oh Kincaid,” Eleuthera murmured into him, moving her head to where ever his was so that she might press her cheek into his. Her tail stirred lively in the dirt, seeking out his and mindlessly intertwining. “How funny is it that we’ve met each other…” It had been a while since any real words had been spoken, but this was something she kept remarking upon: how easily she might have been sleeping beneath some tree, entirely alone, instead of wrapped up in this road-weary rambler.

“If one thing had been out of place, we might have passed like birds in the night."

Caught up in his own muted anguish, Kincaid failed to sense similar emotions in Eleuthera. Even feeling this strange and boundless kinship, and the conviction that their hearts were the same, or at least that they bent and broke to fit perfectly with each other — even all that didn't clue him and start him wondering what demons she might be wrestling with. Rather, he wondered if she might be taking him for a ride.1

Regardless, he was glad to give himself over for the night. Even if this was a trick, Eleuthera had miscalculated; whether it hurt him or not, this night was a precious gift, and the young woman a saint or angel for giving it to him for just a little conversation — or, if she was to be believed, just for being his own fool self.

"You see?" he said, his voice teasing, "Sometimes it pays t'sit and wait for your supper."

The last word was said with a playful growl shaking the timbre of his voice as he ducked his heat to nibble on his "supper's" throat.

They passed an age like this; at times, Kincaid's heart beat wildly out of rhythm, and at others it beat as in time with a sleeping giant's, slow and heavy and strong. It was inevitable that sleep should eventually claim him, even as he fought valiantly to cling to consciousness. When it did, he was still tangled with Eleuthera, his limbs heavy around her.

1 | a figure of speech definitely meaning he thinks she might be tricking him, and not a sexual innuendo