teeth.

Avery Chase

He only just tonight found out how old his lover is. Ten years. And she detailed, quite eloquently, exactly how that breaks down. How old he was when she was, for example, letting a boy put his hands on those spectacular breasts of hers. How old he will be when she is the age he is now. It's just mathematics. All that really matters, though,

is that he's figured out rather quickly how to tongue-fuck her to gasping, riotous orgasm, and the pitch her moans take when she's this close to coming. He's learned a thing or two about her, even only knowing her a couple of hours. Like how she dances and how she dresses when she's not hunting or fighting and what a fine hunter she is and how pleased with herself she gets and how she knows the steps of etiquette well enough to refuse just enough when he is insisting she take a bottle of wine and that to refuse entirely would have just been an insult and how it's okay that she didn't take wine because ...

well, at that point etiquette fails. There's nothing in Emily Post about fucking your host into a panting stupor til he gives up trying to send you home with a bottle.

Avery is whimpering. He's so very hard against her now, and she's so slick that it's almost slippery where she slides on him. She bounces softly, very gently, because she doesn't want to hurt him but

oh,

she wants to feel the head of his cock silky and smooth against her clit and the inner lips of her pussy. She bites her lower lip, the movement of her body atop him making her breasts bounce as well, making her a lovely sight as well as a lovely feeling against him. And all the while he's touching her, nuzzling her, holding his tongue out so her nipple will stroke against its moist roughness.

A heavy sigh leaves her when he closes his lips around her tit like that. She squirms, eyes closed and whimpering. "Put your hands on me," she tells him,

and it's hard to tell if she's ordering or pleading just then,

"Touch me while I come on you,"

which tells him precisely what she intends to do. How good he can make her feel.

Calden White

She pleads, or she orders, or she simply states her intent -- and Calden gives her this grin, lazy and long. He slides his hand out from behind his head, one first, fingers delving into her hair, curving behind her head to pull her down. He kisses her as she's rubbing herself off on him, kisses her while their breathing shreds into gasps and pants, kisses her with that slow smile still on his face.

And he puts his hands on her body. Both of them: not holding her hips, not guiding her motion. None of that. Touching her, instead -- cradling her breasts, squeezing them gently, rubbing his palms on those lovely nipples of hers. Letting them down again to rest on his chest as his hands move on, smoothing down her back, riding the roll of her hips, squeezing her ass; his fingers curling into his palm, his knuckles grazing up her sides.

"I love how you feel," he murmurs. She's closer -- she's whimpering, she's so wet -- but his eyes are dark, too. His tone is dark, wanting; his breathing is heavy. "If you're not careful, Miss Chase, you won't be the only one coming."

Avery Chase

That kiss is a collision. It's waves hitting shores. It's the first breaking of a storm. Avery moans into his moan, the sound of it gasping and pale with need. Her back is bowed from its own arch, instinct drawing her body into a position reserved for mating, reserved for primal coupling, even though he isn't mounting her from behind like an animal would. Even though he isn't inside of her at all. She sees his smile, that low lazy slow smile, and it only turns her on more. Her fingers clutch at the pillow he's lying on, her cunt grinding against him.

He does exactly as she asked, exactly as she wanted. So when Calden cups her breasts like that, holding them as they bounce in his palms, Avery goes on kissing him, leaning into his touch, going down on her elbows to either side of him to deepen those kisses. Her spine elongates under his hands as they travel downward: stroking her, holding her, moving with her, caressing her in a way that makes her buck and gasp slightly.

Not for the first time, he tells her something he loves about her, or about all these things they're doing with each other. He loves how she feels, this time. She's not sure if he means her skin under his palms or her pussy working on his cock like that or both or some combination of those plus her mouth open on his, her moans helpless-sounding, her limbs loose and her hair falling in waves around him. He warns her. Oh, he warns her about something beautiful, and even though all she says in response is a panting, light,

"Calden..."

there is something in that word that speaks not of plea but of wanting, of arousal at the mere thought. She can't pretend anymore -- if she ever was -- that she doesn't want him to feel good. That she doesn't want to see it. Hear it. Feel him when he comes. Avery is riding him well and truly now, working herself toward orgasm with all those firm, lovely grinds. She rests her breasts on him, lifting her head from her haphazard kisses to his mouth and his jaw and his neck to look at him. To see him, and that dark lust in his eyes.

"Do you want me to --"

He's seen this before. Seen her trying to talk, and how the sentences hitch on their way out, how she stumbles and staggers and loses her words.

"Do you w-- do you want to -- oh, fuck, Calden," and those last syllables are surrender, acceptance, as she bends over him and takes his shoulder in her teeth, moaning louder and harder into his skin as she rides herself, quick and luxurious, into a vibrant orgasm.

It goes through her in waves. The tide goes out. Her body is working on him, and every new stroke of his cock against that ultra-sensitive clit of hers makes her gasp, makes her bounce slightly away from him while clinging to him harder with her arms. She moans, lower and deep in her throat, as she works her hips in a circle. It's as though every little part of her, every centimeter of her pussy, needs attention from his cock and is only soothed by rubbing and grinding against him. It takes time, but her panting and her gasping start to steady. She has let go of his skin from her teeth, though in truth she never bit down very hard on him. She just held him there, like she held him in her hands, wailing into his flesh as her orgasm took her.

In the end, too, she's collapsed. She's gone limp from pleasure atop him, purring low and lazy as she finally -- fucking finally -- stops working her pussy on him. Her breathing is still heavy, still warm, when she mutters:

"You should just... fuck me. Turn me over on my stomach and shove your cock in me and just... nail me."

She sighs. It's such a pretty, polite sound. Dreamy.

Calden White

Calden wasn't kidding. He wasn't making idle threats or giving false warnings. She moves on him like that -- pressed to him along nearly her entire length, from her ankles hugging the sides of his knees to her thighs open over his lap, to her breasts and belly against his torso, to those hands of hers clutching his skin

-- the way she always seems to when she's close, when she's gasping, when her words are tumbling into chaos like that --

to her cunt, her cunt, that incredible pussy of hers sliding so wet and willing over his cock. She moves on him like that and his eyes fall shut for a moment, fall shut until he feels her watching him, and then he opens them, and they're dark and lost and wanting. He's a panting, straining mess beneath her, the planes of his upper chest sheening, a trickle of sweat running down the side of his face. His hands are starting to clutch at her harder. He grasps at her sides when she grinds her clit against the shaft of his cock like that, when she rides down on him like that, lets the broad head stroke across her inner lips, just like that. His head thumps back, he groans,

and that

is when she sets her teeth in him

and he responds like a bomb detonating.

It's a shock as much to him as anyone -- how the clench of her teeth zings right down his spine, right through those most primitive nerve-paths, those axons and synapses utterly out of his conscious control. He's coming almost before he knows it; coming, certainly, before he realizes

just how much

he likes getting bitten. By her.

It hits him in a tidal wave of pleasure, completely overwhelming, snapping his head back, snapping his hips up; he's grabbing her back and wrapping his arms around her and thrusting against her in sudden, furious slides, groaning, snarling, one hand leaving her body at the end to grab the edge of the mattress over his head, hang on for dear life.

His orgasm, compared to hers, is a short, explosive thing. Obliterating, all-consuming, and then dying out into sensory overload. It's over and he's left on the shores, washed up and overcome and shellshocked, stunned by the ferocity and uncontrollability of his own response, while she's still riding out the last waves of hers.

This time it's nearly unbearable, and he moans beneath her, his cock twitching, his hips jerking and bucking, every muscle in his body clenching and shuddering with those maddening slides of her pussy. He nearly rips a hole into the mattress. When she's finally still, he finally lets go. He runs that hand -- aching from its grip -- down her back to join its brother. Both of them cupping that lovely ass of hers, rubbing gently while he gradually gets his breath back.

"Oh, fuck," he whispers. Pants. "Oh, my fucking god, what was that."

And this is when Avery, Miss Avery Insert Seventeen WASPy Names Here Please Chase,

dreamily, politely, graciously requests to get fucked senseless. And Calden is groaning before she's even finished, wanting to protest that he can't, she almost killed him with that last one, he needs a moment, he can't,

except that groan turns into a low snarl of wanting and he's flipping her off of him, rolling her roughly onto her stomach, coming down over her. God, they're a mess. There's cum on his stomach, cum on hers too probably, cum on the bed, cum on her back as he rubs against her. Cum on his cock and her wetness everywhere, everywhere, sliding everywhere as he rubs that half-hard cock of his against her well-fucked cunt and

groans against her back, this torn noise, he can't take it, he can't take it but he's getting hard for her again. He rubs his face against the nape of her neck. He reaches under her, his fingers brush past all sorts of sexual filth, the detritus of ecstasy, he searches out her clit with unerring mercilessness and the very touch of her,

so wet,

makes him want to die all over again. Make his cock pulse against her ass. He thrusts between her thighs, he rubs himself against the cleft of her pussy until he's hard as rock, ready for her, and then -- rubbing her clit, scraping his own teeth against her shoulder --

he shoves that heavy cock of his inside her. Groans past her ear. Bottoms out inside her in one smooth slide, grasps a handful of comforters beside her head, waits, waits, gives her a moment to breathe and adjust and take him. It's not the first time he's asked her this after entering her this fast, this hard:

" -- okay?"

Avery Chase

Had Calden held off, closing his eyes and thinking of anything, anything else in the world in order to keep from coming all over his lover, Avery would have asked him to fuck her. Just like that. As a purr, letting him know that it would be perfectly all right with her if he chose to flip her over and nail her to the mattress since he was in such dire need. As an act of grace and gratitude and cordiality, welcoming him to join her, even if he had to wait her turn.

As it is, Calden doesn't. He can't. She takes his shoulder between her teeth, and his world collapses like a dream when the sleeper awakens. He's already so far gone that he can barely hold on, so he holds onto her, and she can't hold on to anything at all anymore. Avery loses her mind on top of him, and seems almost unaware of his orgasm, which is nigh unto unthinkable, since his orgasm wreaks the sort of havoc on him that is usually reserved for acts of nature. Or frenzied Garou. How could she not notice his consciousness rending itself apart? How could anyone not notice the world ending?

Avery only seems oblivious. No, not that: above it all. Transcendant. She floats over the physical reality even when the physical reality is the very thing that lifts her to ascension. It isn't until several moments after they have both collapsed that she is rubbing her face on his chest, purring, softly laughing at the feeling of his cum shared between their bellies. It isn't until she realizes that he lost control, or surrended it, that she speaks.

And when she speaks,

she says it anyway. Politely, dreamily, as though she's only saying wouldn't it be nice if or wouldn't it be fun if we. She squirms a little on his cock and laughs, breathy and pleasured, when he grabs at her ass, groans in protest and want, both. The truth is that when she remembers that she isn't immortal, her body will ache and her bed will be a mess. The truth is, it doesn't matter now. She's a god. And he is a god. And creation is nothing more than the love of the gods. Life itself is nothing but the energy created when immortals collide.

Calden snarls and takes her off of his body, turns her on her belly. He gropes her, makes her jerk and pull away gasping, laughing, moaning softly all at once. His hand pins her hip down, and her back arches and her hips lift. That cock of his, filthy as it has ever been, rubs all over her, and Avery bucks against him, arching up on her elbows. Her legs are spread for him. They have, well and truly and yet again, forgotten what they are.

They are not longer Garou and Kin. They aren't human. They're just animals.

And he mounts her like one. Avery jerks forward, weight moving onto her hands. She gasps, sharp and loud, and almost immediately, almost too soon, thrusts back against him. He says okay or he forgets or something, but

she's fucking him, his teeth against her skin, his cock in her cunt. Avery is on fire. Burnt by silver and by lust. She nearly glows, red-hot and gold at the edges, writhing her hips in hard circles against him. She can't stand it. She thinks she might die. She does it again.

Calden White

He starts to say okay. He tries to, and he wants to, but then she slams herself back on him and the last syllable tears off and it's just an oh!, an exclamation point of a noise as his hand -- the one that's doing its best to drive her to distraction again -- quite forgetting what it's doing.

She does it again. He well and truly bites her this time, locks his teeth in her shoulder. He's forgotten what he is, and what she is, or maybe it never really mattered much at all. He groans against that point of contact, his tongue pressing against the smooth skin caught between his teeth, and when he can let go enough to soothe that bite with a kiss

he ends up just moaning against her shoulder instead, because she's riding him, she's fucking herself on him, she's fucking him right back before he's even quite gathered his mind back together.

And then he does. He remembers what he's doing here, what he's for, and he shifts over her -- his arms bracket hers, his knees push hers just a little farther apart. On the next stroke she find him meeting her halfway. That impact feels like a tiny little detonation all its own. He says the name of god, he says her name afterward; perhaps in her mind, right now, there is no difference. Perhaps she's right to think that way. Perhaps in his mind here's little difference either; perhaps right this moment, if she were to suddenly remove her presence from him,

he'd simply fall the fuck apart.

But she doesn't leave. She stays right there, fucking him back in these tight, needful grinds of her hips. He stays right there too, his chest against her back, fucking her in these hard, needful thrusts; hard, deep, and then faster, fast, his body impacting hers, slapping against hers, his cock flashing into that quivering pussy of hers. She feels his mouth on her back: biting at her shoulder, kissing down the shoulderblade, nibbling at the belt of muscle beside her spine, and down. She feels his arm encircle her, hold her, she feels his hand finding its way back to her clit, and he's moaning past her ear to feel her like that, feel her wet against his fingertips, her lips parted to take him, his cock slamming into her, her clit pulsing against his hand where he grinds the heel of his palm against her.

He bears her down on her elbows again: breasts to the bed, head lifted, hips lifted. Mammalian mating posture. They're nothing but animals, and he's fucking her like one; he's watching her again, her face, her mouth, like nothing else in his world matters. His own face is a flickershow of emotion, of expression, overcome, laid out on the rack of his own pleasure, sometimes he has to close his eyes, sometimes he presses his mouth to her cheek, the corner of hers, wants to kiss her over her shoulder, loses her mouth in a groan.

It seems only seconds -- it can't be more than a few minutes at most -- before he's close again, before he's starting to lose it. His free hand searches for hers, covers hers, grasps hers. This time his orgasm is almost an insidious thing, starting before he quite knows it, rising up from a tightness in his loins to a roar forking down his thighs, clawing up his spine, changing as it climbs to overtake his mind, turning into something

obliterating. His hands clench over her hand, and over her cunt; he holds her pussy in his hand as he quite frankly nails it, pounds her, fucks her senseless. Doesn't even have it in him to shout this time, to roar against her shoulder: just pants, gasps, grunts, snarls as he hammers into her, thrusts into her, pounds his cum into her like the survival of the species, or at least of his sanity, depends on it.

At some point his orgasm lets him go, turns him loose, and he collapses a little against her; he's heavier against her, panting in ragged pulls, but

he doesn't stop. He keeps fucking her, deep and hard and fast, just like that, shuddering now, pressing his mouth to her neck and gasping; keeps on fucking her until she can't take it anymore, until she squirms away, until she tells him to stop, stop, he can stop now.

Avery Chase

Being with Calden is cataclysmic. And in some ways, Avery welcomes the end of the world, even if it is catastrophic. Something about this, whatever this is between them, obliterates all other thought, all other concern. She can feel the cracks run through her from a central point, glowing through her skin from her core. It erupts. She shatters. And exists -- survives -- through that sundering, still conscious at the moment of explosion in a way that she did not know was possible. All at once she feels very physically what is happening to her, what he is doing, what she is doing to him, how and where they are joined, and at the same time she feels nothing but rapture. At the same time, she feels as though she is transcending all of these physical reactions.

It is a shock to come back to her own body afterward. She finds herself shaking from exertion, which in this body doesn't take much. She's more familiar with the feeling of utter, total exhaustion than most werewolves are. She knows -- though this feeling is newer to her -- what it's like to get to this point and yet still not be able to rest, her rage swimming around her thoughts and her heart, making it that much harder to get her heart to stop pounding.

That's how it is now. She has lost track of time and she has lost count of orgasms. She is collapsed into the pillows, her head turned to one side, her mouth open for panting, gasping breathes. Sweat gleams on on her back, darkens her hair, sweetens the dip of her spine. Her hands, to either side of her body, loosen their grip on the fitted sheet, which is no longer fitted to anything and has pulled loose from the corners. Calden is nearly motionless on top of her, beside her. But he's still there. She can still feel him.

Avery is staring ahead, staring at the side of the room, her eyes slowly fluttering, trying to close. She closes them. She sighs.

It comes back in pieces. The last minutes of her grinding on him, panting on top of him, breasts jouncing and cries growing more and more excited until she was coming on him, making him come on her, all over her. Wanting more, even as she was collapsing, squirming and rubbing her pussy onto his cock like she couldn't stop, like she didn't remember how to stop. And the way he groaned, and the way he flipped her over and how his arms were braced to either side of her and how he fucked her just like she told him he should.

After a while she wasn't even able to fuck him back anymore. All she could do was take it, scream for it, let him tip her over that last cliff with him. It's not that she was passive. It's not that she went away somewhere. He did just what she wanted. She gripped the pillow under her and just tried to survive what they were doing to each other, have been doing to each other.

Avery swims into something like sleep for a few moments, sudden as a blackout. Her brain and body collapse in on themselves, grateful for the relief of even a few seconds of nothing but darkness. Her limbs start to relax. Her heart starts to slow. She stops thinking, and she lets go. Calden does whatever he does, when the woman he just had sex with over

and over

and over

slips dreamily and instantly into total unconsciousness.

It doesn't take long for that to work. For her psyche and her form to both take a great deep breath and remember where she is and who she is and what the hell. Her chest expands and she inhales, opening her eyes wide. Jesus.

She's filthy with cum, and to the point where now it feels less sexy and more just... well. One can imagine without using unnecessary and verbose descriptive terms around the substance. She is sore. Sore as fuck, she thinks, and almost laughs but doesn't have the energy.

"Oh god," she mutters, which somehow sounds meaningful to her right now. "Oh, Jesus Christ."