sixwordstories | (no subject)

[ The moon is full enough and the night is late enough and this stretch of road is far enough from anything resembling proper civilization that Deacon doesn't bother to drive with the headlights on -- just relies on the eyes that his shifter blood gave him, the road practically luminous with moonlight in front of him. Car's gunning it so far that the air whips past razor sharp along the side of his face but despite the speed and the velocity and the wind that comes down off of the trees that dot the hills, he can smell her hair. Far-off but present, the distance between him and her a scarlet ribbon of sweat and spit and blood that winds its way down into the valley in her wake.

Naima, he thinks as he leans his head out the rolled-down window, allowing the car to drift lazily and straddle the dotted yellow line. Where'd you get off to now, luv? ]

[ Shoes, Naima thinks. I should have worn shoes.

Her feet don't hurt, exactly, in the same way nothing really hurts for very long, but it's kind of inconvenient. Choosing to walk however many miles hadn't been her finest hour but sometimes that restlessness caught up with her in a way that couldn't be dampened by driving along highway after highway; an urge to run, or hunt, something not-quite animal but still predatory, and if part of the allure in doing so meant some precious time alone to feel sorry for herself, well. Then she'd take it.

It's a couple paces more before she hears the rumble of the engine and it makes her stop in her tracks, an action born out of the sentiment of: oh, okay, you're here now. She doesn't much feel like talking or sharing space but she figures Deacon will get that, so Naima at least does him the courtesy of waiting for him on the side of that stretch of barren road. ]

[ The moon is full enough and the night is late enough and this stretch of road is far enough from anything resembling proper civilization that Deacon doesn't bother to drive with the headlights on -- just relies on the eyes that his shifter blood gave him, the road practically luminous with moonlight in front of him. Car's gunning it so far that the air whips past razor sharp along the side of his face but despite the speed and the velocity and the wind that comes down off of the trees that dot the hills, he can smell her hair. Far-off but present, the distance between him and her a scarlet ribbon of sweat and spit and blood that winds its way down into the valley in her wake.

Naima, he thinks as he leans his head out the rolled-down window, allowing the car to drift lazily and straddle the dotted yellow line. Where'd you get off to now, luv? ]

[ Shoes, Naima thinks. I should have worn shoes.

Her feet don't hurt, exactly, in the same way nothing really hurts for very long, but it's kind of inconvenient. Choosing to walk however many miles hadn't been her finest hour but sometimes that restlessness caught up with her in a way that couldn't be dampened by driving along highway after highway; an urge to run, or hunt, something not-quite animal but still predatory, and if part of the allure in doing so meant some precious time alone to feel sorry for herself, well. Then she'd take it.

It's a couple paces more before she hears the rumble of the engine and it makes her stop in her tracks, an action born out of the sentiment of: oh, okay, you're here now. She doesn't much feel like talking or sharing space but she figures Deacon will get that, so Naima at least does him the courtesy of waiting for him on the side of that stretch of barren road. ]