bucktooth the swift-legged.

Erich

Today, it is too hot to build.

Or at least: it is currently too hot to build. Maybe later. Maybe when the sun is low and the mountains shade them: maybe then they can build. Maybe they can build a fire, string up some camping lanterns: maybe they can work into the night, with the buzz of summer insects around them.

With the advent of summer they've moved farther away from Evergreen again, deeper into the mountains. They live now on the banks of a stony little creek, a forest across the water and a mountain at their back. It makes for a bit more transit time for Melantha, but then she has a car now. In exchange they have the benefit of fresh air, open skies, wild lands that make them feel wilder as well.

Erich's down at the water's edge. Melantha can see him from the porch: filling ten-gallon jugs of water that he'll haul back to the tinyhouse to boil clean and then use to replenish their drinking water supply. The sun gleams off the gold in his hair, the sweat on his back. If Melantha thinks Erich seems to be shirtless more often than not recently, well, she'd be right. Some of that is the heat. Some of that is the good things that seem to happen when he wanders around shirtless. When he's finished refilling the jugs he washes his face and his hands, splashes water over his head.

Comes back with water droplets still glittering on his shoulder; beads rolling down his chest. One jug in each hand, two more slung on a makeshift harness over his shoulders. Trudging under the weight, really: leaning forward to counterbalance, veins standing out on his biceps, the backs of his hands.

"Did you know," he pants as he passes the porch, "forty gallons of water weighs more than three hundred pounds? Not that I'm bragging or anything."

Melantha

They have come a long way. The frame, the layout, bits of built-in things here and there. They work quickly, because it will only get hotter; they talk of working nights, coming soon. Stringing up lanterns, building fires, but the sun sets so late as it is. Melantha works very hard, though. Her cheeks go pink and she doesn't have to be reminded to drink water and take breaks and stretch and eat, but she works through Being Tired. It's not enough to stop her, or slow her.

Once upon a time, she had to be broken. Before anyone was allowed near enough to make a mess out of her, she had to prove something. How far she was willing to go. How much she could endure. How deep her devotion really was.

Most girls did not continue. Most girls who thought of becoming an ensnarer of men did not make it that far. Melantha did.

So in the wilds, she works. She comes home from her job and she works more. She wakes up and if she has a late shift she works until she has to shower. She sets a little alarm so she doesn't oversleep. She works in the mornings when it's still cool enough to tolerate. Her hands and arms are covered in the scratches and bruises one gets while performing any kind of rough labor; at night a couple of times she's gone to sleep with thick hand cream on, socks over her hands like mittens to help it soak in, so she doesn't end up with skin like a troll.

The other night she slept on the platform floor of her tinyhouse with a pillow and blanket and that's it. She wasn't willing to leave it.

--

Melantha is up the shore a bit. She's not helping him haul water because he wouldn't let her. She's flopped on her back on the grass, her arms out like wings, her legs akimbo. She's humming something to herself. Maybe he knows it. It's called 'Fancy'. Well, she's humming the hook part of it, at least. The rest is a rap, after all, and not really made for humming.

He's coming over carrying water, lots of it, and its his shadow falling over her that makes her open one squinted blue eye.

Erich brags about how much he's carrying. She quirks a brow. Then a sly grin cocks the corner of her mouth. "Bro, do you even lift?"

Erich

The other night she slept on the floor of her tinyhouse.

The other night Erich slept there too: crossing the small distance between the tinyhouse he and Charlotte and, for a little longer, Melantha share. Came over on four legs, shaggy and dappled-grey. He stood for a while at the edge of the trailer, waiting to see if he could come up, come in, and when she beckoned him he hopped up in a happy, smooth bound, his claws scrabbling a little for purchase on the new wood floor.

He flopped down next to her, setting his chin on his paws. In that form he didn't even need a blanket, certainly doesn't need a pillow. He had fur to keep himself warm, and with him there he'd keep her warm as well. He slept with his body curved away from Melantha, and then later flat on his side with his paws and claws stuck the other way. Just in case he dreamed about chasing rabbits or something, see.

The morning after, she was already working on her tinyhouse when Erich-wolf woke. He watched her for a while, sprawled absurdly flat on his belly with all four legs splayed, fur-rug-style: eyelid heavy, sometimes closed. Eventually, when hunger overwhelmed him, he roused himself and went back to his tinyhouse to eat and shower and

came back just a little later to help her saw and hammer and screw and measure and cut and bolt and glue.

--

"Hah!" he says: does he lift. He jostles the jugs -- purposefully splashes a bit of water on Melantha as he stomps past her and up the porch. A little later, four concussive thuds as he sets the jugs down, and then a quieter thump as he hops off the porch and lands in the wildgrass.

Coming back over, Erich dusts his raw hands off. "I was going to go hare-hunting around sunset. Do you wanna come? You don't have to if you don't want to."

Melantha

She doesn't mind the water. It's hot, you see. She grins, but doesn't prop herself up. She yawns instead, waiting for him to come back out. And he does, and she grins at him again, only looking at him if he shadows her again. "Why wouldn't I wanna go?" she asks, and holds her hands up. It's hard to tell if she's asking him to heave her to her feet or inviting him to flop down with her.

Erich

Erich can't tell either. So he does what he wants to: he takes her hands and flops down next to her, drops onto his belly with a quiet oof. Then he folds his arms and rests his chin on his forearms, shrugging a little.

"I dunno. I know we've hunted together before, but I didn't know if it'd make you sad or grossed out or anything."

Melantha

Melantha grins. She tugs him down as soon as he exhibits a bit of downward momentum, and as soon as he's in the grass she rolls to him, putting her hands on his face and kissing him. They both taste a little salty. Must be the sweat. And the potato chips from earlier.

This kiss is sudden and perhaps unexpected, but maybe not: he's been wearing shirts less. He likes what happens when he doesn't wear shirts around Melantha. Stuff like this. Her in her sports bras and boxer shorts giving him deep, warm kisses in the sunlight and the grass. Her touching him, like she can't quite get over his body, which she... can't, really. He is young and fit and not evil and he's nice and doesn't ever, ever hurt her and he tastes so good, he feels so good, he makes her feel so very, very good. Why would she get over that?

She takes a deep breath when she's done, coming up for air, drowsy-looking and happy.

"No. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, wolves gotta hunt. Plenty of my clothes when I was younger were made out of rabbit-skin." She flops on her side, hair over the grass, smiling serenely at him.

Erich

She looks drowsy and happy. He looks: well, a little dazed. A little glassy-eyed and, if we must admit, a little aroused. More than a little aroused. She is talking about birds and bees -- wait, no, she's talking about fish and birds and wolves. Right. She's talking, and he's licking his lips, and somehow his hand has found its way to her waist and it's still there, see, his thumb is tracing lazy little arcs on her skin. Because there's skin there. Because she's wearing sports bras and boxer shorts and sometimes he wonders if she dresses like that the same reason he dresses like this but then no, Melantha wouldn't dress for a guy. Not even for an Erich.

Anyway: he licks his lips. He suddenly realizes she's looking at him, and it's his turn to talk. He blinks. Then he grins lopsidedly.

"Oh yeah?" He turns fully onto his side, propping his head up on his knuckles. "Want me to make you something out of rabbit-skin?"

Melantha

She's done it before. To destroy, to hurt.

She did it once with him, showing up at her door in lingerie, but somewhere in there she got very uncomfortable, very scared, very uncertain of what she was doing and who it was for, and she hasn't put on fancy lingerie since. She sort of prettied herself up when they went on their little 'date'. To KFC.

It's not unthinkable that she might wear sports bras and boxer shorts because she -- but no, Erich's right. That's not why, at least in this case. It's because it's hot, and they are working. Or, in her case for the last ten minutes or so, just lounging in the grass.

"I can make more out of rabbit skin than you can, I bet," she says, tauntingly. She hasn't missed it: the glazed eyes, the licking lips, the way his hand has stayed, the way his eyes have, briefly, strayed.

Melantha kisses him again. Slower this time, without grabbing his face. Just as deeply.

Erich

"Yeah but -- " he argues, because of course he does, and then

she kisses him again. His eyes fall closed. He is facing her this time, facing her with his mouth and his face and his body and his hands, so: he leans into her, he presses against her, he kisses her back in that slow, summer-lazy way, and neither of them are grabbing at the other but he is, in fact, touching her breast now.

Gently. With warmth and familiarity and -- after a spell -- with a little more weight and firmness. Even when their mouths part, his hand stays there. He looks down at his hand on her body, his mouth quirking a little as though to say, what's that doing there?

As if he didn't know.

"Yeah but," he continues, "I bet I can stitch a bunch together. Then you can wear a big fur cloak over your shoulders and look all badass. Make up stories about every pelt in there. 'This here is Bucktooth-the-Swift-Legged, Bane of Evergreen, slain by my hand after a bitter and brave fight!' Shadows Lords and Fenrir are really into that sort of thing, you know."

Melantha

Because of course he does. And he's lucky she kisses him, since there can't possibly be anything compelling coming after that 'but': she was raised in the wilderness, sewing clothes from scraps of leather, living off the land even more than she and Charlotte and Erich do now. What could he offer to do with a rabbit skin, huh?

Unless what would come after the 'but' was simply something like:

I want to do it for you.

The wanting to give, the wanting to help, the desire to care for. Which doesn't always mean Taking Care Of, and even taking care of doesn't always mean... well. Owning. So many things were poisoned for Melantha, so many things were plague-bearers, like men saying they want to take care of you. And one reason it takes such a long time for that poison to work its way out is because outside of this triangle she lives in, the plague is still there. Even if Erich's not a carrier, plenty of people -- plenty of men -- are.

Ten percent of all M&Ms are poison. Go ahead, eat a handful. Not all M&Ms are poison.

--

She kisses him though, and neither of them know if he was going to tell her that he can perform miracles with a rabbit skin given a chance, or if he was going to tell her that he just wants to do stuff for her like carry water and build houses and be nice to her all the time, yay.

Because instead, he touches her, circling his hand up her torso to her breast, which is heavy but tightly bound behind the lycra, which it's meant to be. There's give, but tauntingly, not nearly enough. They're pressed together, willingly and wantonly, kissing for a long time while his hands find purchase on her body, while her hands run covetously over his arms. She never says it, but he has to know she likes his muscles. She's always touching them like that. Sometimes kissing them, when they're in the woods, or the back of her Jeep, playful and athletic and lazy and naked.

It's nice when he starts like that, softly stroking. Getting heavier, firmer after. It's like he's waking up her skin.

"If I wanted to really look badass," she tells him, running her fingernails up his side, ever so lightly, "then I'd kill and skin and stitch the pelts myself. And the stories would be mine." Her mouth quirks; her eyebrows lift. "You should make yourself a cloak, though. Really go out there and make Bucktooh-the-Swift-Legged's death mean something."

Erich

"Aw, no." Erich grins a little; there's an edge of wistfulness to it. "I'd feel bad. Bucktooth-the-Swift-Legged's just a small vulnerable bunny. If I didn't need his meat I wouldn't kill him at all. So if I don't need his skin for anything I shouldn't wear it to brag."

He's absurdly serious about this. Never mind that he knows Melantha doesn't actually expect him to start strutting around in a cape of rabbitfur. The thought made him a little achy, so he talks about it. That is what Erichs do.

"You should let me make you something though. Something useful. If I knew how to make gloves I'd make you rabbitfur-lined gloves for winter. Do you know how to make gloves?"

Melantha

He's wistful; she moves closer to him, as thought he physical proximity can assuage some of that ache. It's a new thing, this comforting-ness. She's not always that gentle. Well: with Charlotte she is. With Erich, less so. It's like the lingerie; questioning who she's really doing it for, trying to figure out how she really feels about it. It's coming easier, it's being questioned less. Like now, as she moves closer to him, kissing his temple and his cheek, smiling.

"You're right about all that," she tells him, and nuzzles him. And then he gets to it:

she should let him -- interesting word choice, that -- make her something. Something useful. She laughs. "I know how to make mittens. And Erich... you're sort of helping me build a house. That's pretty useful."

Erich

"I know, but," he is completely aware of how absurd this sounds, "mittens keep your hands warm."

Melantha

Melantha blinks at him. Stares at him. Furrows her brow. She looks at him curiously. "Do you want me to teach you how to make mittens so you can make me mittens?"

Erich

Erich blurts out a laugh. He leans into her. He kisses her. Kisses her with that smiling, laughing mouth of his; a gentle thing but not a quick one.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I guess I do."

Melantha

That makes her grin. She laughs. She likes it, too. She likes the sound of it, the exchanges building on each other, the differing nature of gifts. See what I have done for you and see how I have mastered what you taught me are not opposed; they can come at the same time.

He kisses her again, gentle and lingering. She sinks into it, might as well, she thinks. They aren't going to be doing much more building today, at least not until it cools off a little. She breathes in after they've parted, her eyes closed, her mouth still close to his.

"You know," she whispers to him, "there's other stuff you can give me." Her hand has moved up his side again, smoothing over his ribcage, sliding over his chest. She doesn't seem to be paying any attention to what her hands are doing, though. "Remember in Cold Crescent that night?"

Oh, Melantha. You mean the first time you had sex together after months of separation, months of struggle, months of truncated makeout sessions and arguments and tears? You mean that time when you were finally able to surmount the barriers of fear and uncertainty and relaxed into what was happening, and how you both felt for each other? You mean that night?

He probably doesn't remember.

She licks her lips. "I'd really like it if you licked me like that again," she whispers against his mouth, before kissing him there.

Erich

Truth is, the skin Melantha's hand moves over is rather sweaty. It is, however, also smooth and taut and layered over what one must admit is a rather impressive physique. No wonder he keeps showing it off. No wonder she keeps touching him when he does. No wonder he shivers a little -- the fine involuntary muscles under his skin quivering ever so slightly beneath her fingertips. It's a curious, animal response.

For a moment it's quite clear Erich has no idea what Melantha is talking about. There have been any number of nights in Cold Crescent. There have been nights of loafing around on the dormitory floor watching TV, waiting for their laundry to dry. There have been nights hanging out on 43, looking out over the city and playing games on their phones. There have been nights they snuck down to the office floors, swiped snacks and drinks from Eva Illeshazy's law firm. And there have been nights,

one in particular,

when they really sort of behaved like they weren't in a public place.

Turns out that's the night she's referring to. And amusingly, Erich flushes red at the thought of it even as interest gleams in his eyes. He meets her midway. Meets her kiss, licks her lips a moment after she does - his tongue tracing the path of hers.

Then he sits up. Look: his hand has been on her breast the whole time. He's neither ashamed nor remorseful. He slides it down to her waist; off. He holds his hand out to her instead, getting up, pulling her after him.

"Let's go for a hike," he says, smiling. Oh, that's what they're calling it these days.

Melantha

They're both sweaty. Hell: the sports bra he keeps fondling her through is a bit damp from sweat that hasn't completely dried yet, no matter how long she lounges on the grass. When they take off their clothes they'll only be more sweaty, they'll only have red marks from elastic, they will not care at all, any more than they care now. She likes the way he tastes when he's sweating, when she's biting a moan into his shoulder to quiet herself. She likes the way he shudders, the way sometimes he growls a little, when she does that.

She likes -- though she's not okay saying it just yet, isn't quite okay telling him this yet -- how he fucks her a little harder when she does that. She certainly hasn't told him to stop. Usually she ends up coming. So it's a safe bet he'll keep doing it -- it being sex, it being the way they are together -- just like that.

Gentle, soft, grazing touches to start. Growing firmer. Harder.

It takes him a moment, especially with all this touching and kissing going on, to remember which night. To remember getting his mouth on her, and how she stifled noises then, and how she rubbed her pussy on his face, and how, exactly, that felt. How it made him feel, making her feel like that. All of it.

He turns red. And kisses her again, licks her lightly. Melantha shivers, catching his tongue, kissing him a little more roughly this time. He's pushing himself up, getting up, pulling her with him, and she's going, too, barefoot and half-dressed. She doesn't ask him to grab a blanket and some pillows and maybe some rose petals and champagne or anything. She kisses him, arms looped around his neck. Takes a breath, smiles up at him, looking like she wants to say something,

but all she really wants to say is yes.

Erich

Let's admit it: when she steps into him and kisses him like that, Erich is all too glad to put off the whole go-into-the-woods thing. He's all too glad to meet her right there, solidly, his body flush to hers, his arms going around her and then his hands, his hands, his hands smoothing down her back to slide under those boxer shorts she's wearing

-- wait, are those his?

and palm her ass. It's sort of an indecent thing to be doing out in the wide-open broad daylight; but then, they're both dressed sort of indecently and behaving indecently and anyway there's no one around to harangue them about their indecency. He likes it when she wraps her arms around his neck like that.

That's sort of a non sequitur, a thought springing unbidden into his mind. She is smiling up at him. He kisses the tip of her nose, playful, and then he gives her bum a squeeze and unhands-her-this-instant.

Only to give her his hand in the next, though. His fingers slip between hers. He takes her down that gentle slope to the stream, across the stream into the woods.