Isaac's nerves lose all their feeling outside of their point of contact, and Isaac feels every single finger pressed to the back of his neck like it's a brand on his very soul, like a claim - like the burn of the bite when he'd taken it months ago (months, has it been so long?). He feels nothing, and he feels everything all at once, long-ignored parts of himself coming alive like someone had lit a candle in the darkness of his mind.
She's not soft the way Lydia was, nowhere near her type of buxom and open beguilement; Alayne is not the loud sensuality Erica wears like armor, either, nor is she the gentle swinging between sharpness and gentleness that Allison tiptoes with a dancer's grace. Alayne is all of these without the practiced pretense, at least not the way Isaac knows them to be, where the illusions are left out in the open for boys and men to tear apart and find the traps laid underneath.
Alayne is a wolf, much like the one that stands by her now if not more so, and she's a wolf in ways that Erica could not be, a wolf in ways that Lydia could hope she might become, a wolf in ways Allison could only hunt and try to understand. Isaac had only tasted so little of Alayne's kindness - and it was nothing like the tenuous strength that Derek had offered him a long time ago.
The rise of her curves press against his front, and it spreads heat throughout him through the layers of clothes they wear. Isaac breathes deep and Alayne still smells like snow, like dusted raindrops across one's shoulders; he holds still, that the scent might never leave his lungs, and he cuts his hand with sharp nails that the pain might drive the yellow of his eyes back to blue. He wants to hold her, to keep her, and the fierceness of his attraction could nearly subsume the genuine concern for her well-being that had drawn him to her in the first place.
He is all of sixteen, going on seventeen, and when he places his free hand against the small of her back, Isaac lets his eyes fall close and his head come down, their noses bumping as his forehead comes to rest against hers. ]
I'm your Isaac.
[ If he opens his eyes — if he looks at her like the dream she is, Isaac doesn't know what he might do. ]
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Isaac's nerves lose all their feeling outside of their point of contact, and Isaac feels every single finger pressed to the back of his neck like it's a brand on his very soul, like a claim - like the burn of the bite when he'd taken it months ago (months, has it been so long?). He feels nothing, and he feels everything all at once, long-ignored parts of himself coming alive like someone had lit a candle in the darkness of his mind.
She's not soft the way Lydia was, nowhere near her type of buxom and open beguilement; Alayne is not the loud sensuality Erica wears like armor, either, nor is she the gentle swinging between sharpness and gentleness that Allison tiptoes with a dancer's grace. Alayne is all of these without the practiced pretense, at least not the way Isaac knows them to be, where the illusions are left out in the open for boys and men to tear apart and find the traps laid underneath.
Alayne is a wolf, much like the one that stands by her now if not more so, and she's a wolf in ways that Erica could not be, a wolf in ways that Lydia could hope she might become, a wolf in ways Allison could only hunt and try to understand. Isaac had only tasted so little of Alayne's kindness - and it was nothing like the tenuous strength that Derek had offered him a long time ago.
The rise of her curves press against his front, and it spreads heat throughout him through the layers of clothes they wear. Isaac breathes deep and Alayne still smells like snow, like dusted raindrops across one's shoulders; he holds still, that the scent might never leave his lungs, and he cuts his hand with sharp nails that the pain might drive the yellow of his eyes back to blue. He wants to hold her, to keep her, and the fierceness of his attraction could nearly subsume the genuine concern for her well-being that had drawn him to her in the first place.
He is all of sixteen, going on seventeen, and when he places his free hand against the small of her back, Isaac lets his eyes fall close and his head come down, their noses bumping as his forehead comes to rest against hers. ]
I'm your Isaac.
[ If he opens his eyes — if he looks at her like the dream she is, Isaac doesn't know what he might do. ]