deercountry | o4 . january catchall

[She crossed her arms, a bit put out by Willow's defense, but not really able to argue with it. Willow had a point. If you were dealing with vampires, it was better to have a slayer around than none at all.

But why did it have to be Faith?]

Why didn't you? I keep feeling like you're walking on eggshells around me.

[Which was leading into a bigger issue.]

[ Stanford is pinned beneath him, there is hot blood in his mouth, and then they are kissing.

He has missed this. It is a sweet crescendo of realization, a sweet ache on the backdrop of blackberries. He has missed this very much, and he ought to be angrier than this— ought to hold some scrap of dignity, of distance— but that was never truly on the table. Stanford kisses him and Ozpin kisses back like he's been waiting all these months. Maybe he has.

This is the point of no return: this is what he already knows he will regret, and could never stop himself taking.

Ozpin kisses him deep and slow. He smooths his fingers at the nape of Ford's neck, tangles their legs together. He is not used to these teeth, and would apologize for the way he catches Stanford's lip more sharply than intended, were he under any illusion that Stanford minded.

There is no pretending for either of them. He breaks the kiss to lick up the welling blood at Ford's throat, fangs pressed hard to the line of muscle when he shifts. For this he abandons thought entirely, and his hand slides from Ford's hair only so that he can tease the top button of his vest with his fingertips. ]

[Willow sighs. Not telling Tara Faith was here had been completely unintentional, but she can understand why an explanation is still owed.]

I saw her on the beach ages ago. It might've even been before you came. People come and go from this place all the time - lots of people show up when Sleepers come to shore, take a look around, and end up going back out to sea to... I dunno? Live their best squid lives or something? I didn't see her after that, so I figured that's what happened to her.

[She smiles a little.]

I guess I kind of got caught up in the excitement of you showing up and forgot all about Faith. 'Cause, come on, who would you be happier to see? Her or me?

[The smile spreads to something a little lighter, and more teasing.]

Hopefully it's me.

[Willow turns serious again, and sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. She might be able to still make a small joke, but she is still well beyond stressed by today's everything.]

Anyway. I didn't see her again until today. I didn't even think she was still here. I promise I didn't intentionally keep anything from you. It'd be kind of dumb for me to say 'hey, I'm gonna hide Faith from Tara, but also invite her over to the house where we all live and just hope she doesn't notice.'

[ It is a tidy explanation, and so he accepts it without further pressing. The greater point of this conversation, after all, was to decrease his presence as a threat in her eyes.

The smile he gives her is small and pitying, and still faintly faraway with thought. ]

Formidable indeed. I will bear her story in mind.

[ He rallies to a smoother smile, a tip of the head that is both acknowledgment and the beginnings of a polite dismissal. She has given him all he wanted and more; he'll not hold her here in discomfort any longer. ]

And should you want any more stories, Shannon, do know you're always welcome to come and read with me in here.

[Sleep doesn't come easy most of the time these days, and more and more, Willow finds herself relying more on dreamwalking for rest. The nights she does sleep, she still leaves her body, and even after all this time, sometimes it's still a foreign, disconnected feeling to be in a body that is not her own. Especially when she can see and smell and hear hers asleep in the bed.

It makes her restless, and then she frets about disturbing Tara, so laying quietly on the floor in their room turns into roaming the halls of the house, or going out to wander around the town.

Tonight, she spots the light under Ozpin's door that suggests she is not the only one who's still awake, and tonight she thinks company might be preferable to being alone. She's quiet as she paws at the frame - she'd rather not wake him if he's just managed to fall asleep with the light still on.]

I know you're excited, but that doesn't change that it seems like you're trying to shield me from things sometimes. Even if it slipped your mind that Faith was here, there's a bunch of other stuff that it seems like...well, you're afraid to say?

[She realizes she's making a thing of all this. Being that sort of girl. It's frustrating. She put her face in her hand, letting out a loud sigh.]

You don't need to answer that. I'm being bratty. The whole "Faith thing" has me rattled. I'm sorry.

[Willow steps over to Tara and gently lays a hand on her arm. She's careful to avoid bare skin, but it's hard not to want to comfort her.]

Tara, I was in Deerington for, like, eight months, then here for another three, or thereabouts, before you came. And most of the time, it made Sunnydale look... Boring. Trust me, I still have all kinds of stories I can tell about the stuff that happened there, but the main reason why I haven't yet is because it's kind of a lot to talk about all in one sitting. I'm not trying to keep things from you, I promise.

[Well... There are a few stories she's deliberately avoiding sharing because she worries how Tara will react, or because she's still processing herself, but it will come in time.]

[Sayo fantasizes about leaving mysterious bloody handprints on his door when she notices the pitying quality in that smile. Almost imperceptibly, her grip on her tea tightens, but her smile is as Shannon as ever.]

Of course, Ozpin-san. Ah- But I have work to do helping Oscar-san in the garden, so I'm afraid I must be off...

[She is actively preventing herself from committing mental murder as she scooches out of her chair.]

[ He is awake. He so often is, even now: the sunlight doesn't needle at him with the same intensity it did in the worst days, but the glare off the snow is still enough to make his head ache. It drives him indoors to sleep, or to linger calmly in the dark, and once darkness swallows the town he finds himself restless and alive.

The hunger isn't a pressing issue. Not to the degree it has been; he is learning his limits, if only by trial and error and irritable self-deprivation. But the restlessness is building again.

When he hears the paw at his door, he rises with relief to let her in. Company may do him good. ]

Good evening, Willow.

[ Ozpin opens the door for her and speaks softly, warmly. He ought to look faintly rumpled, dressed in his green silk pajamas with his hair down loose to his shoulders, but he still has the air of a man far from sleep. He steps back to wave her in, where a light is on and a book set down at his bedside. ]

I'm just up reading, if you'd like to join me.

[Oh, good. He's still awake. It's hardly a surprise with his condition that he's become far more nocturnal, but at least from what Willow has seen, he seems to be managing it well enough. Or at least well enough that she hasn't noticed any sign of the rest of the house being on edge around him any more.

She still finds it a struggle to communicate properly in this form, but it's getting easier to at least get the general point across, and she has learned some people, like Oscar and Vyng, can understand her through their own magic, which has helped immensely as well.

She accepts the invite with a warm look and a slow wag of her tail as she steps into the room, and looks to the book, then back to him again as if to ask what he's reading.]

[ Ozpin is correct - the sharp scrape of teeth against his lip does nothing more than send a shiver rushing over Ford. He scratches his fingernails against Ozpin's scalp in return, tightening his grip until he's tugging steadily at the fine strands of silvery hair.

Ozpin pulling back would normally be when Ford gets a chance to breathe, a moment to gather his thoughts and recenter himself. Instead Ozpin returns his focus to Ford's neck, and thus Ford's thoughts stay stubbornly scattered to the four winds. A soft, eager, and embarrassingly needy sound escapes him - or at least, it would be embarrassing if Ford had a single iota of brainpower to spare for such a thing. Right now the only thing he can spare any brainpower for is plans to get as much out of this situation as he can.

Ford is loathe to remove his hand from Ozpin's hair, so instead he finally removes his other hand from Ozpin's wrist. Getting shirt buttons undone with one hand will be tricky at best so Ford bypasses them entirely. He goes right for Oz's belt instead, working his fingers between the strap and the buckle until he can pull the slack loose. Even with the music still filling the club outside their little room, Ford swears he can hear leather whispering against metal. ]

[ Ford tangles a broad hand in his hair— longer than it used to be, loose and messy to his collarbone— and he feels every flex of those fingers to the roots. Ozpin exhales a sound against Ford's throat, the heat of his breath lost in the heat of the blood. Against the smooth red of that vest, he thumbs open one button of too many.

The smell of Stanford's body is different now, drowned in blackberries and wine, but the warm skin under his lips is just the same.

Stanford releases his wrist only to hook steady fingers into his belt, and heat jolts in Ozpin. He kisses away blood from Ford's throat and draws back, up into that pull on his hair. He shifts to give Stanford a bit more room to work. It means abandoning his effort on Stanford's vest, which aches at him: he wants to bare collarbone and chest. He could bite again, and again, and relish the break of skin and burst of blackberries each time.

But he won't stop this. There is a terrible moment in which they could look at each other, and that tense distance looms just beyond their warmth. But Ozpin licks Stanford's blood from his lips, and from his fangs, and the moment does not break: he reaches down to help get his belt off, instead. ]

[ He knows that Oscar can understand her; he further knows that he cannot. He thinks about that, sometimes. They do not even bleed the same color anymore.

Relief is too small a word.

He settles back onto the edge of the bed and splays a hand on the duvet beside him in invitation. The chairs and desk are by the windows, cold and dark now; they can remain in his little pool of warmth and light. She has slept on his bed once before. ]

I've borrowed a volume on Pthumerian mythology from the archives. [ He does not read fantasy novels, anymore, for all that he's gathered several shelves of them. He picks them up and puts them down again; they gather little creases in their early pages, and dust. ] I'm happy to continue aloud, if you have any interest.

[There's enough layers to keep from the risk of infecting Willow. The touch isn't unwelcomed. She placed her gloved hand over Willow's. It was probably the first real intimacy they shared since coming back.]

I know, I know. I'm just being bratty. I'm sorry. Don't pay attention to me.

I know you'll tell me all about it when you're ready.

[Willow smiles warmly as Tara lays her hand over hers. Things have changed irrevocably for both of them, but the small intimate gesture is a comforting reminder that they will get through it together.]

It's okay. I'd probably feel the same way if I was in your shoes.

[Willow accepts the invitation and hops on the bed to lay down beside him. It feels familiar, but this time there's no compulsion from the dream to cuddle in close to someone she barely knows, and no urging from Puck to be protective in light of the injuries sustained in a completely different, far away world.

This is just being able to quietly enjoy each other's company.

She raises her head when he offers to read out loud and nods. It's impossible for her to read like this - paws are inconvenient for a lot of things, including turning pages of a favored book without tearing them.

Curled up with an interesting book and a good friend feels like a far better way to spend the evening than roaming the streets of Trench.]

Well, we'll see how things go with Faith.

At least for now, I can do the spell. I might need help remembering everything. It's been awhile since we needed it.

I remember how to do it. I can walk you through it if you need me to.

[ She curls up, and he settles in beside her atop the covers, near enough that they are not quite touching; the bed is too big for just him. (But he has slept in large and empty beds for a long time now. He tells himself it's a familiar luxury.)

Ozpin reclines against the pillows, thumbs a few pages back to find the beginning of the chapter, and begins. ]

This story begins with a mischievous god and an ambitious huntress...

[ It's about Dorothea, and the winter's feud between blood types under her sway. He is an experienced storyteller, glad for an audience, and the rise and fall of his voice comes low and steady in the darkness. The pages rustle when he turns them. The fluffy slope of Willow's back and shoulders rises and falls as she breathes. It is peaceful.

The chapter ends, and he pauses there, his fingers slid between the pages of the book. ]

With such historic enmity between Vilebloods and Darkbloods, you can see how I thought myself caught up in something... cyclical.

[ His tone is still that warm, thoughtful cadence of a man reflecting on a story, but something in his expression has gone faraway. ]

And I do suppose that could be an element of my dilemma. Even if, now, we know there are darker issues at the root.

[Willow lays beside him with her head resting on her paws, ears flicked forward as she listens to the story with interest. She's already familiar with it from her own research in December when everyone seemed so at odds with each other, and she found even her own patience was lacking. Still, it's a far different experience removed from the strife that had much of the town going as far as trying to trap each other much like the huntress from the tale, and in spite of the subject, it's easy to relax and focus on Ozpin's voice in the quiet of the room.

She lifts her head to watch him as he finishes the tale and explains where his thoughts at the time were coming from, and she reaches out to set a paw on his arm, her gaze warm. It's fine. They've got it figured out now, at least for the most part. She's still on the hunt for other methods to help him cope with his new condition - techniques to keep corruption at bay, or reduce it when it threatens to spike, and alternatives to help satisfy his craving for blood. It's a far more complex subject when there's the chance of it striking each individual Vileblood differently, and she still suspects a lot of it will have to come down to trial and error.

The connection between Vilebloods and Darkbloods as in the story strikes as interesting, though, and she suspects he likely is on the mark when it comes to his situation. It might be another track worth exploring in her research.]

[ She rests a paw on his arm, and it is so charming a translation from her human expressions of solidarity— a quiet hand, that gentle little smile— that it draws him back up from the depths of reflection. It breaks his smile warmer. He sets a hand upon her paw, and looks down at his book, so that he need not look at her directly.

She has asked him to be more open. To share his own stories more freely. They all have, of course, but she has asked it with the dire intensity of a warning.

He says, slow and careful: ]

Still, I confess I ought to have paid closer attention to the curse's origins. November was a difficult month for us all. The Sleeper Farm took countless lives, and marked countless more... I suspect all who passed through there bear some degree of scar.

But I suppose it left more lasting damage upon some than others.

[November had indeed been a difficult month for all of them it seems, between the Sleeper Farm and the attacks from the zealots in the streets. Willow and Tara had both had their own encounters there as well, but neither talk much about it, and Willow hasn't connected it with this latest bout of restlessness, or difficulty sleeping. The ability to get a decent night's sleep in Trench seems to come and go anyway.

She watches Ozpin as he speaks, and her gaze is warm and understanding. He's not wrong about them all being scarred by the horrors of the Sleeper Farm, and of course she recognizes it's entirely expected that it could have lasting effects on them all.]

[ Ozpin looks to the wolf at his side, then drops his attention to his hands. He is without his gloves, which is a rarity since arriving in Trench. In the light of his bedside lamp, it is difficult to make out the faint mottled scarring across his hands, pocked with tentacle sucker-marks. It is easier to make out the newer, more distinct scars he had not arrived with. In each palm, and the back of each hand, is a messy knot of scarring— as though something stabbed straight through.

He strokes a thumb almost absently across one of these palm-marks, and exhales a breath. ]

We'd had such a gentle arrival, you see. The lull before a storm. That first true act of violence came as more surprise than it ought to.

[Willow follows his gaze to his scarred hands, as she considers his words. She hadn't really thought of their arrival as gentle, between learning she turns into a wolf when she sleeps now, her lost magic, and her exposure to the horrible river that she still suspects was Never Mind's doing, but she supposes much of that had more to do with her rather than Trench itself, and it was still certainly a far cry from the level of sheer, unadulterated violence November wrought.

All of the Sleepers who had experienced Deerington seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief when October passed with an unexpected quiet. Even she did without experiencing first hand the horrors of the previous year. It's understandable that they were all lulled into a false sense of security that life in Trench would be kinder to them. It's hard not to worry already about a resurgence next year.

There's little she can do to relieve the trauma of November, or of dream that came before, but at least she can continue to show that she will support him as much as she can, and as much as he'll allow. She looks up at him for a moment and shifts so she can lay her head across his hand.]

[ She lays the weight of her head upon his hand, and Ozpin blinks down at her. Something startled, then something warm, dawns across his face. He looks away, back to the safety of his book, but there is a little smile in the corner of his mouth now.

He exhales a breath as though releasing some tension, and nods. ]

But that's enough of dwelling, I suppose. Better to be here, together, and glad of that opportunity.

Let's turn to the next chapter.

o4 . january catchall

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Late January

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wrap?

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nsfw ramps up from here

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End tag?

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