A Twilight Morning [Thadd]

[Chloé Flannigan]

The darkness isn’t all engulfing. It never is. There’s shadows playing through the thin wall which her eyelids provide, but they don’t open.

The silence isn’t all engulfing, either. There windows, too, are thin and they allow the noises from the city outside to pierce the veil of silence which Chloe had thought was all engulfing the morning before. There are the sounds of revelry and early drunkenness; of cars whose exhausts were far too loud; of a glass breaking somewhere; of sirens, far off in the distance, getting further away. It’s all muffled, however. There is a silence in here, and it acts as a blanket.

No, perhaps a cocoon would be more fitting.

The first thing she can smell is stale blood. But it doesn’t offend her senses like it should. It’s somewhat familiar, like she’d known if before; like she’d been inhaling it all night and it had added to the comforting atmosphere.

It was odd, to think the scent of stale blood could be comforting. But it’s only comforting because she knows it’s his blood. Nothing sinister had come from it having been spilt. How did she know this? Because she could also smell the source from which the blood had come. It was hard not to. His arm was still tucked neatly beneath her head, which subconsciously tucked closer to the bare skin, if only to catch a stronger whiff of that sensationally warm and comforting scent.

And not only can she smell him, she can hear him. It’s not because she literally has the hearing of a fox that she can hear the beat of his heart; it’s because her ear is pressed against that skin, too—as the blood is pumped through his veins, she can hear it. It’s as comforting as the pounding of distant waves at the beach or of a rumbling air conditioning that one grew up listening to. And it’s not just the sound of his heart that’s comforting; it’s the sound of his breathing, too.

She can feel the warmth of his breath tickling the back of her neck. As she slowly drifted into wakefulness, she became completely aware of her situation.

Thaddeus E. Roosevelt.

She couldn’t see him just yet, but she knew he was there. Waking up beside him wasn’t disorienting, like she assumed it might be. Instead, it was like visiting home. That was the only thing she could compare it to, and the comparison was so slight that it may as well not have been there. She’d moved out of home when she was seventeen years old, and though she’d never really been homesick, whenever she returned to that house and to her parents who lived there, it was like being welcomed back into a world of safety and familiarity.

It didn’t make any sense that Thaddeus E. Roosevelt provided her with a notion of safety and familiarity; she’d only met him the night before. But it was, as already mentioned, only a vague notion in the very back of her mind which she wouldn’t dwell on until much later. But it was what staved off any disorientation of discomfort.

It seemed, during the day, both of them had shifted. Chloe had slept the sleep of the dead and she didn’t remember having been woken at all. It was slightly embarrassing that it was twilight outside and she’d only just woken up. And she was still in the same clothes she’d dressed in oh, nearly twenty-four hours ago. But, as far as she could remember, she’d fallen asleep curled up and facing Thaddeus. Now, she was facing the other side of the room; her head was still resting on Thaddeus’ arm; she could feel the warmth of his body down the length of her back; his other arm was draped over her torso and she had his hand clutched in her own.

It was a terribly intimate position which the two of them had unconsciously got themselves into.

Reluctantly, she released Thaddeus’ hand and smoothly ducked out from beneath his arm, rolling (perhaps a little awkwardly) off the bed. She peeked over the side of it to catch a glimpse of Thadd—for one, she wanted to make sure she hadn’t woken him up, and secondly, she just wanted to look at him. He was still as glorious as she remembered him to be.

With a less than quiet sigh she slipped her hand into her bag to retrieve her wallet, and then tiptoed quietly from the room. As soon as she closed the door behind her she yawned; it was a wide and unattractive.

She felt a chill radiating from her feet upward. She glanced down, only to realise she was still only wearing socks. She giggled quietly, shrugged her shoulders and sauntered down the hall and toward the bar.

Ten minutes later she returned to the room, slipping back through the door as quietly as she’d left; in both hands she carried a tray laden with two mugs and a pot of coffee, a pitcher of milk on the side and a bowl of sugar in the middle.

She’d wanted to surprise Thaddeus in a quirky way—she’d wanted bacon, eggs, sausages and toast. But she’d been laughed and told that she was about eight hours late for breakfast. So she had to settle with coffee.

It had better be good coffee.

[Thaddeus]

He had been well asleep, and the night had been particularly uneventful. Perhaps part of the reason was the fact that he had something to hold to; Chloé. She was there, and subconsciously, she had become something of a pillar of stability; an embodiment of warmth. She had briefly become Marian during his night of need, but this was not to say that Thaddeus expected something of her; oh, not at all!

When you learn to live a certain way, and when that said thing becomes what you may consider the norm, it's hard to brush yourself out of that. In fact, Thaddeus had grown accustomed to having the warmth of a woman pressed to his side, and that could easily be attributed to the fact of why he had no horrid dreams. In the end, it's something that soothes Thaddeus although he doesn't exactly know that yet! But then...something happens.

When Chloé manages to depart from his embrace without alerting him, Thaddeus ends up mumbling incoherently under his breath before he's suddenly rolling over and into that place where Chloé had been laying all night. Her scent's clinging to the sheets, and the bed's warm with her body despite how cold her flesh had felt the night before. He's burrowing tight and nestling close against his bed; he's eagerly pressing there and enveloping himself within her warmth.


It's strange to be alone.


"Why?"

"There are more important things than your own."


A sharp intake of breath, and the stinging of tears threatening to overflow your eyes. Lungs tightening and every inch of your form crawling. There's a difference between seeing those hurt and seeing your own damaged; beaten and bloody. It's strange and different to come home expecting to hear the sounds of your daughter squealing in her bedroom and wrestling free of her mother's grip to run down the hall; pitter-patter her feet will go. Instead...


...you're greeted by silence.


"We need you more than they ever did. You said it yourself: don't forget your roots."

He should have seen it from a mile away, but he had been blinded by nothing more than adoration and love for another. He had been infatuated. Even then, his emotions for another were riding high, and with pistol in hand, he lifted such and pointed; he pulled the trigger.


"You've forgotten the weight of a loaded gun, Thaddeus."


His eyes shoot open and he's gasping as pain flares through his chest. He's gritting his teeth and lifting a hand to grip at his chest. Blood's already beginning to bubble around his stitches and muddy the gauze binding his chest. It was uncomfortable, and it felt as if someone were placing all their weight upon his chest. He felt crushed. It's only then that he's quickly rolling over onto his back and soon off of the bed entirely before stumbling for the bathroom. He hadn't even looked for Chloé, and truth be told, he had practically forgotten her within that moment until that door came open and he heard someone walk in.

His face's wet, and his shirt's tugged open; one of his buttons skittering away. He has his chest bare and his fingers trail over that pink-splotched gauze over his chest. His breathing comes to a calm, and eventually to a stop before his chin tucks toward his chest and head shakes to and fro with a quick dismissal of everything he had thought of; dreamt of.

"I'm here," he calls out suddenly to whoever it may be. Archibald? Maria the maid? Or...Chloé?

His face tips and he looks out of the bathroom. He hadn't exactly shut the door before attempting to do up his buttons; one of them's missing though. He grunts with displeasure before gnawing on his lower lip and leaning into the bathroom's door jamb before looking outward and at Chloé with her tray laden with coffee, or so he thought that's what it was judging by the steam. He damn well needed it too!

"How long was I asleep for?" He questions suddenly with a grunt. That splash of water from the sink, and rubbing it into his face, had done wonders for waking himself up, but how much of the day had he missed? Well, he's about to find out whilst catching his breath.

[Chloé Flannigan]

The first thing she sees as she walks through that door for the second time, again, is the bed. It’s rumpled, and it’s empty. And what’s that, there, on the blanket on the side of the bed which she’d previously occupied?

She took one fluid step forward, her head cocked to the side in curiosity, her eyes narrowed as they focused on that small splotch of bright…red. Blood. It’s a good thing that Thaddeus isn’t in the room, watching Chloe’s every move and reaction.

Her slender hands tighten upon the tray which they hold aloft, the knuckles glowing white as the tension spreads throughout her torso and seeps into her every limb. A fire of pure predatory lust started to burn within the depths of her forest-green eyes; her head tilted back and she started to take a deep breath, but she stopped before any whiff of the blood could assault her senses.

A shudder rippled down the entirety of her lithe form; the tray shook in her grasp, the mugs rattling conspicuously against their saucers. Suddenly the coffee didn’t appear as appetizing as it had on the trip back up the stairs. No, the need for coffee was eclipsed by something else entirely.

Not only had she not changed clothes in twenty-four hours, she’d not had anything to ‘eat’, either.

But she would control herself. Her mouth had formerly fallen open, but she snapped it shut, clenching her teeth as she fought to control both her breathing and the growth of a sick curiosity which had just formed in the back of her mind; if she was effected by the blood which she consumed—if her emotions changed to assimilate with the emotions of the person whose blood she’d consumed—what would Thaddeus’ blood do?

She was horrified that the thought had even crossed her mind. ’You wouldn’t have to kill him,’ the voice is telling her. She gasped out loud, squeezed her eyes shut (so that she stopped staring at that bright red promise) and shook her head. She took a single step backward and turned her back on the scene.

There was blood on the bed, and it was surely Thaddeus’. Her reaction had been far from pleasant. But it was only her first reaction. Her second reaction was far better. A wave of guilt passed over her, which was quickly followed by sincere worry—why was Thaddeus bleeding?!

I’m here, called a voice from the bathroom. It was Thaddeus. He was alright, then. Her head snapped up to glance at the door of the bathroom. She had only moments to gather her wits, and she hadn’t quite got there when his face appeared around the corner. It helped, to see his face. Those sky-blue eyes were far too bright to snuff. They’d only met the night before, and though he was still a relative stranger, Chloe knew that she cared deeply for his safety. She would control herself.

The bright smile which spreads itself across Chloe’s face isn’t exactly genuine. It’s hiding a storm of emotion which she doesn’t want Thaddeus to witness. The fiery lust still burnt in the depths of her core, trying to claw its way free—she could do nothing to smother it completely. She could only try to hide it. Perhaps she could instead blame it on a full twelve hours sleep.

The tray in her hands began to shake again and she took the final step toward the dresser and deposited it onto the hard surface. She then shoved her hands into her pockets, where she could easily ball them into fists if she needed to.

She glanced toward the window then back and Thaddeus, noting his missing button and catching a glimpse of the stained gauze beneath the shirt. There was no hiding that ‘scratch’ now.

“I’d guess a full twelve hours. The sun’s almost down.” She answered. Oh, God. Why did he have to be bleeding?

Her tongue split between her lips, wetting the lower lip before disappearing again. Her brows furrowed into a concerned frown. Thaddeus was hurt. This was no time to be distracted about how gloriously tasty he smelled.

Chloe steadily crossed the distance between them; she couldn’t help herself. She reached forward to push the shirt away from the gauze; again, she couldn’t help herself. Her gaze flicked upward to meet Thaddeus’;

“You’re bleeding.” Way to state the obvious. “It’s not just a scratch, is it?” She queried, her tone soft and undemanding—it may have trembled, just a little. But she remembered how he hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Remembered that he may not want to answer that question. And there was a more direct way to get her answer.

Her hand dropped to her side again as she glanced anxiously around the room. Where was the roll of gauze? Had it been left behind?

“We need to…” clean you up, get rid of the blood, for Christ’s sake “…take care of you.” She stated. She didn’t find any evidence of any spare gauze. So her gaze returned to Thaddeus’ face, a hint of desperation hidden behind her concerned eyes—if he’d let her help him, he’d have to help her along.

[Thaddeus]

Thaddeus had been watching her for a short while by now, and the way he looked at her was within a fashion that had meant he was looking at something peculiar. It's not to say that she's entirely different than what she previous was, but it's more of the fact that it's her aura; it's the air surrounding here. There's a sudden change that leaves him looking nigh concernedly at his new friend; Chloé. It's only then that his eyes motion from her and to the bed.

He hadn't exactly noticed that there had been a lingering sign of his wound. In fact, Thaddeus hadn't even thought that he had been bleeding enough to leaving a stain upon the sheets. He's left biting the inside of his mouth, and he's unsure of what to say before his freehand lifts to straighten his shirt; do up his buttons and ultimately hide the pink-stained strip of gauze binding his chest. Truth be told though, it's a feeble attempt at best, and the whole point of hiding such was already lost. Why hide something that's already well known?


It's a scratch.


It's what he had told her before, but now he had the sneaking suspicion that she knew that it's much more than that; much more. It's alright though, no? It's not like he's attempting to drag her into his world, and he's sure as Hell isn't attempting to involve her into any dangerous matters. It's why he didn't tell her much about him the night before! It's not long until she's speaking of their time abed though; innocent sleep beside one another.

"...Twelve hours?" That's a bit longer than he could ever remember sleeping. Then again, he couldn't recall resting away without his beeper or cellphone going off the wire. He attempts looking past her and toward the window before wrinkling his nose and lifting one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.

"I suppose that means we got our day's rest, huh?" He asks before offering her a slight smile and biting the inside of his mouth soon after. He's embarrassed, and truth be told, he's not sure what he should say, or not even! It wasn't long though until she's crossing the distance, and Thaddeus felt like a doe caught in headlights by the time she reaches him and begins to push away at the fabric of that flannel shirt. She bares that pink-splotched gauze binding his chest, and all Thaddeus could do is stare at her; watch her face for some semblance of shock as a reaction.

"I'm fine," he tells her suddenly when she states the obvious. He's bleeding, but it had come to a steady stop; finally that is. It didn't mean that it was fully healed though, and Thaddeus couldn't exactly be active while still injured. Either way though, he's giving a quick shake of his head to her question.

"It isn't, but...well, I'm standing, no?" He asks of her with a grunt; in the end, it's a rhetorical question though. He's soon lifting his shoulder in another shrug that'smeant to dismiss such before he's attempting to walk past her. He's attempting to show her that all is well. She shouldn't need to get her hands dirty, no?. He hardly knew her! But then again...it's not like he knew Archibald well either.

It's then she's speaking of taking care of him. He's grunting.

"I'll be okay, I swear. If anything...well, I'll call on Archibald. He did patch me up, you know?" No, she didn't know. He's looking over his shoulder at her and he couldn't help the slight frown crossing his features or even the crease of his brow that expressed a flash of pain that shot through his chest; it's unpleasant. It's only then that his chest tucks toward his chest and his fingers play with the buttons of his shirt; he's looking down upon his gauze-clad chest quietly.

"I suppose I should at least re-dress it, huh?" He questions before wrinkling his nose. It's then, and only then, that Thaddeus suddenly agrees with her, but he refused to leave everything to her. He'd help her, or rather, do most of the work if possible.

"I'm sure that...Archibald left something here," he murmurs and begins to wander away from her and around the bed toward the dresser where she had set the tray. He's tugging open the drawer in which Archibald had taken out Thaddeus' personal items; that bracelet, cufflinks and watch. It's then he finds what he's looking for.

There were rolls of gauze, and there's even padding and dressing to be used. He sets these on the bed and soon after a bottle of alcohol and swabs, and then what tops them both; a number of thin tubes of morphine used in the military. It's obvious that Archibald had connections, but he prayed he wouldn't need these. He sets those back in drawer and soon finds stitching material and other such things, but the majority of thesewere within a rolled up medical kit that must have been personally made. It's then he's turning and sitting upon the edge of the bed, and he's suddenly undoing his shirt.

With Thaddeus' back to her, he's soon shrugging off his shirt and baring those back muscles rippling beneath his flesh. He's sitting there bare but for his pants and dressing binding his chest tightly. His hands touch upon such and he grunts before speaking, or rather, asking for her assistance.

"Please, will you help me, Chloé?"

[Chloé Flannigan]

Chloe was ready to stamp her foot and snap something at him about men and stubbornness—they didn’t like to admit, sometimes, that they needed taking care of. Her mood had turned somewhat irritable, and for the time being Thaddeus’ charm wasn’t persuading her mood in a kindly way. He’d walked away from her, perhaps in an attempt to show her that he was okay—to be a man about it all. But she wasn’t buying it.

But she didn’t snap at him, either. When he looked back over his shoulder at her, a look of utter pain crossed his features and she couldn’t find the strength to be angry at him.

I suppose I should at least re-dress it, huh? He asked, and though the question is somewhat rhetorical, Chloe’s nodding her agreement. She followed him in a half-hearted way as he attempted to look for the instruments with which he could re-dress himself. He’d not yet accepted her help. She was unsure whether he wanted it or not. He was probably well able to take care of himself, and though every motherly instinct she had wanted Chloe to help him out, she knew it might be to his own detriment if she tried.

In a drawer in the dresser upon which Chloe had placed the coffee, Thaddeus found what he was looking for. He started to pile all the necessary items to re-dress his wounds upon the bed, and Chloe contemplated them approvingly. They’d work well. The alcohol in particular would help to mask the scent of blood, perhaps make it smell less savoury.

She continues to watch as he sits upon the bed, his back facing her, chin tucked toward his chest as he unbuttons the shirt and removes it. There’s a giddy feeling stirring in the depths of her stomach as the bare skin is revealed—it’s the stirring of the little butterflies which had made their home there. It didn’t help matters, much. It was probably a good thing that the gauze mars the otherwise perfect contours of his back.

Her attention is brought swiftly back down to earth as he asks for her help. He didn’t need to ask. She’d already offered it. And though she felt the need to point this out to him, she refrained. She could hardly manage words at this point. Unsteady steps carry her to Thaddeus’ side of the bed and she’s about ready to kneel beside him, to help him unwrap the dirty gauze from around his chest, and try to do so without latching onto him to drain him dry of the blood which had stained it to begin with.

Though she’d been a member of the supernatural circle for quite some time, she’d been a full-fledged vampire for less than half of that time. Control was something she’d not learnt quite yet; she never usually let herself get to a point where control was needed. Thaddeus had distracted her for the entirety of the former night, however, so she’d not had a chance to do anything about it.

She took a deep breath in preparation—it was habit. It was a mistake. Her mouth snapped shut rather suddenly and she swiped the bottle of alcohol from the bed. Here’s to hoping he hadn’t paid much attention to it when he’d retrieved it from the drawer—there was still a sufficient amount of the clear stuff in the bottle, but it was the first excuse she could think of.

“There’s not enough… wait here, I’ll go get us some more.” She muttered, before swiftly exiting the room, giving Thaddeus no chance to look closely at the bottle in her hand. The door clicked closed behind her and she took several deep breaths, trying to cleanse her nose of the heady scent of Thaddeus’ blood.

She headed straight for the stairs and went down them for the second time.

She’d planned to leave, and not come back. It wasn’t a plan she’d thought out properly—all her stuff was still in Thaddeus’ room, she’d have to come back at some point.

So her second plan was to sate the bloodlust which had so suddenly burst forth to ruin her evening. And then she could go back. She could go back with a full bottle of alcohol, and hopefully Thaddeus would be none the wiser. But she’d have to find a victim in a very short amount of time.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs and rounded the corner she ran headfirst into a stranger clad in black. He was the same height as he was, and he smelled like he hadn’t showered for a while. When she glanced up at his face, her heart sunk—why should she have been afraid of him? It was probably that expression of obsessed rage which had settled upon his features. But they soon shifted into a look of shock, surprise, and finally of triumph. The stalker finally had the object of his affection in his arms.

Chloe at first was a little afraid, but a light bulb lit up the inside of her head and almost immediately, a seductive and triumphant smile of her own crossed her lips.

“I know who you are.” She told him, tone low and husky—there was no holding it in anymore. She deposited the bottle of alcohol on the hall table and took the stalker by the hand. It disgusted her to be so close to him now, but it was her only option. She knew she had to get rid of him at some point, right? Now it just seemed he was a means to an end. A better end.

She hastily led him toward a janitor’s closet—it was unlocked, thankfully. She pulled him inside and closed the door behind them. It was pitch black in there and the only sound she could hear was his heavy breathing.

“What are you doing?” He asked, his tone incredulous though elated. Chloe didn’t answer him. Her hand snaked behind his neck and gripped the nape of it—and then she lunged for the jugular. He stiffened immediately beneath her grasp, but he didn’t struggle and nor did he scream. As she swiftly consumed his blood, her own thoughts were accompanied by his. He was not afraid. He was excited. He knew what she was, and he was certain that she was about to bestow upon him the same gift which she wore so well.

He had another thing coming. Of course Chloe felt guilty that she should dash his hopes so easily, that she was about to end his life without any excuse. But it was for Thaddeus’ sake. She just didn’t want Thaddeus to ever find out. She didn’t want him to ever be disgusted by her. She loved him…

She gasped as the stalker’s heart slowed to a deathly rate and she took the last drop of his living blood. She leant against the shelf behind her as his body slumped to the floor of the closet. She shut her eyes tight and shook her head.

A mistake… She knew it was a mistake. She knew she couldn’t love Thaddeus, not yet. She’d only just met him. She’d learned several lessons over the past month. She’d learnt enough to know that her own thoughts and actions would now be affected by the blood she’d just consumed. They’d not be her own. It was a mistake to have taken the blood of a stalker. Perhaps it would have been better to find a young, naïve girl whose emotional set was similar to Chloe’s. But that wouldn’t have gone down well with her conscience.

But now she had a body to take care of and probably a crowded bar outside. But it was night time. There’d be no room service at this time of night, would there? No maids cleaning? No janitors? Those were day time jobs, weren’t they? Could she just leave him here? She would, for the moment. Maybe later, much later, she could come back and take care of it when no one was around. She only hoped there were no video cameras hidden in the hallways.

Opening the door only enough to slip out, Chloe locked it before closing it again. At least that would stop any strays trying to get in. She glanced around the hall, hoping no one had seen her and the stalker go into the closet. She glanced up at the roof and into the corners. She sighed in relief—she couldn’t see any cameras, though that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

She retrieved the bottle of alcohol from the counter and went to the bar, which was relatively empty, defying her earlier worries. Although the tender found her request strange, he filled the bottle of alcohol for her for a small price. She thanked him profusely before making her way back to Thaddeus’ room.

There was a veritable skip in her step and she took the stairs two at a time. She was over-excited to be returning to Thaddeus, and the new blood thrilled through her system at an exorbitant rate as she pictured the man in her mind’s eye.

She was about to step back through his door with that obsessed gleam in her eye, that elated and creepy grin on her face. She paused with her hand on the handle, though, taking a few deep breaths. She still had to practice control—instead of having to control the urge to drink his blood, she had to resist the urge to smother him with obsession. It might prove to be just as difficult.

As soon as she deemed herself ready (as ready as she’d ever be) she slipped back into the room. It was too dim, too intimate. Although she’d have loved to keep it that way, it wouldn’t help. So she flicked on the overhead light, the switch of which was just inside the door. It would help her to see what she was doing, anyway. It was the rational thing to do, regardless.

She cleared her throat and returned to Thaddeus, brandishing the full bottle of alcohol. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.” She cooed, gifting him with a glance of pure adoration. She was unconscious of having done it, of course.

And not only was she calmer than she’d been previously—her skin was now warmer, and had a more natural hue. She’d now appear more human than she had in the last twenty-four hours. But to what end would that full body of blood lead her?

[Thaddeus]

It's a strange moment within that space of time. Thaddeus couldn't exactly finger it; in fact, he wasn't sure what to say. Maybe it's for the fact that he's about to do something with a stranger, but then again...Chloé wasn't your average stranger, nor was she a stranger to him at all, but that's hard to say.

It's not like Thaddeus knew Chloé like the back of his hand. They hadn't exchanged phone numbers, birth dates, addresses, knowledge of their favorite literature, artwork or even colors for that matter. It's not like she knew him either, but Chloé's trustworthy and she had done a lot for him, and at this moment he's accepting her with redressing his wound, and once those old bindings were loosened from his form, she'd know a secret of his.

There would be questions, wouldn't there be? It's why he never got his hands dirty. He never wanted to come home with some scar, and after some soothing romp with his lover, he'd be basking within the warmth of her body tucked close and their sweat mingling; she'd find it and she'd question him of such. He'd have to answer her because he couldn't lie to her. She had been different.


He wanted to change for her.


It's then that she's drawing close to him, and for that moment there's a spread of silence as he stares up at her before looking almost...well, bashful.

It's not as if Thaddeus hadn't been half-naked in front of a woman before. He could recall skinny dipping a few times as a teenager, but this was different. Perhaps it's that way she's looking at him? He couldn't exactly figure it out, but he's saying nothing up until she's plucking up that bottle of alcohol. He stares at it quietly.

"I'm pretty sure that's -- " But she's gone. "Enough." He says to the open air with a grunt. How big did she tihnk the hole on his chest was...?! That was a good question.

Thaddeus didn't exactly see his wound, and even though he had seen the dressing upon his person, he had never exactly removed it. Why? Well, the dressing had been clean at the time, and Archibald had left his hotel room after his awakening. There wasn't much he could do about changing his dressing up until this moment, and at that instant...well, it's a necessity! Either way though, it's then, alone, that Thaddeus' curiosity gets the best of him.

It's not like he wasn't ever going to be undoing his dressing eventually, right? He had to! It was important to the task of changing such. It's why his eyes wander downward and along the rise of his chest; his hands lifting to smooth fingertips over that now stained gauze. His eyes briefly flutter to the door of his hotel room before his jaw's clenching and fingers are digging beneath the gauze to begin working it off.

Thaddeus couldn't help but wonder how horrid his wound may be. There's a boyish fascination with such. It's the same fascination any young man has when first getting hurt. Oh, sure, it hurt like a bitch, but the truth was, was that it also gave you a rush of adrenaline and made you feel more unstoppable; if that made any sense. As for this one though? Well...It didn't make Thaddeus feel any better.

He's soon removing the gauze completely by the time there's pressure upon the door and the knob's turning; it's Chloé admitting herself into his room, but Thaddeus' hardly pays her any mind as he's finally lowering the final length of gauze to the bed and his nose's wrinkling to the acrid odor of flesh that had been cleansed the night before. It's not terribly bad though; he'd be able to tell if it had been foul or festering, but instead this wound seemed completely opposite of that.

It's pink, raw and stitched tightly together. It looks as if at one point Archibald may have attempted a cauterization but had quickly decided against it. There are hair singed near the wound and the wound's bare of any, but besides that, it looked as if it were healing; the fleshing knitting together naturally, but shifting around in bed must have tugged it open a tad and resulted in the bleeding he had suffered through this morning. A hand lifts to brush fingertips carefully over it only to come back slick with whatever ointment Archibald had used. His face tips to the sound of Chloé's voice in time to catch that look of...well, adoration, perhaps?


"Let's get this over with, alright?"


He grunts out the words before leaning backward and reclining onto his elbows; his body laying there still and careful as he's watching her. It's then he's speaking again. He's speaking to her in a way that meant he had done this before, or that he knew, or suspected, that she had never dealt with this before hand.


"I'll walk you through it."

[Chloé Flannigan]

He’d not needed any of her help removing the gauze. It was the second thing she noticed, that it lay in a dirty heap beside Thaddeus on the bed. She could hardly appreciate the sight of his bare chest fully before her full attention is drawn by the ragged wound on his chest. There was no bloodlust anymore, thankfully. Instead there was a mild concern, and a violent intrigue. He’d not yet told her how he’d received the wound, had he?

Eyes flick casually toward Thaddeus’ face, glancing between both eyes. He wanted to get it over with. He wanted to cover the wound up, as if he were ashamed of it. It was, perhaps, a reminder of his past which he wanted to forget, and her presence and insistence on helping was keeping him from forgetting. No, she’d not ask him how he got the wound. She assumed there’d be no clear forthcoming answer. So she let it drop.

As the idea dropped from her mind, she nodded curtly. She placed the bottle of alcohol back on the bed along with all the other accoutrements. She’d noted how the light reflected off of the slick substance which covered the wound; the red tinge of it where the blood had stuck. She’d first need to clean that stuff away, surely.

“I’ll get some water first, yes?” She queried, though she didn’t wait for an answer. She was already sidling around the bed and toward the bathroom. She retrieved a towel from the rack and waited for the water to warm from the tap at the sink. She wet the end of the towel and returned to Thaddeus.

She fell to a kneeling position on the bed, her other foot keeping balance on the floor.

She wondered whether she needed to be talked through it.

“It can’t be too hard, right?” She asked, while using the warm, damp towel to clean the area around the wound, being as gentle as possible. Her spare hand rested upon Thaddeus’ collarbone.

“Clean the wound with water, then with alcohol…” she started, glancing toward the bottle of alcohol on the bed beside her. She couldn’t see any bottles or tubes of gel, so she had no idea what the slick substance was that she was currently washing clean. Whatever it was, she had none to put back on the wound, so that step would have to be skipped.

“And once that’s done, we place the padding over the wound and tie the dressing around your chest, to keep in place?” She continued to query, brows raised inquisitively. She’d followed the steps slowly in her mind and they seemed logical. The stitched looked as if they were still holding, and the wound wasn’t festering or showing any untoward signs of infection. Chloe was no doctor, but she could at least assume that much. But if she was wrong, she was willing to be corrected.

She didn’t like being wrong; she didn’t like being corrected. But this wasn’t something she should fumble through with an ill-founded confidence. It wasn’t something she wished to mess up.

And besides, she felt as if she didn’t care whether Thaddeus corrected her, no matter how stubborn she was. Perhaps her calm was ill-founded, too. But what did it matter?

[Thaddeus]

Chloé's question was rhetorical, obviously. So, Thaddeus didn't exactly answer her when she questioned him about the use of water. It's necessary to clean his wound and wipe free the unguent that had been used previously to soothe his wound. His eyes roam over her briefly as she comes to her feet to do such a task. It's then he says something more for the fact of bringing a semblance of warmth and humor into the room other than leaving them both lingering in that utter serious note.

"I'll be waiting here," he states and offers her a slight smile. It's not like he wasn't going to be moving anyway! He could hardly do that without the gauze to hold his wound more tightly together, and at the moment he's simply laying there and breathing steadily; grunting every now and then too even. It's not long before she's returning and kneeling there beside him as he's reclining backward and offering his bare chest to her.

"It shouldn't be. Just know not to apply too much pressure, okay? I don't need to open up my stitches and bleed again," he says with a grunt before bitign his lower lip before eyes are fluttering shut as she begins the task of cleaning around his wound. A soft hiss leans him; if it was of pain, Thaddeus doesn't say, but he doesn't seem to look in any immediate discomfort.

"There you go," he murmurs when she mentions the second step; alcohol. His face tips and head lolls back only so he may look up and upon her face as she's working away with ease. His tongue dances over his soft pout briefly.

"You've got it, Chloé," he tells her simply before smiling and biting the inside of his mouth soon after. "I think I'm going to need something to eat after this," he suddenly confesses with a grunt and sigh as she continues along. "What are you in the mood for?" He questions of her as his own mind strays away from the forefront where pain floods for that instant.

He could think of a few things he wanted, and none of them were extravagant. Perhaps it's the fact that living in New York City had spoiled him? You could get fast food anywhere, and it was helpful during late nights where you didn't want to spend time in some high end restaurant. Although that's not to say he didn't enjoy that! Thaddeus idly wonders if he'd eventually take Chloé out to dinner. Did she enjoy that? He's pretty sure that she does, but tonight's not meant for such a thing, nor did he have anything particularly nice to change into.

"Tonight's going to be long, huh?" He asks of her before grunting and shaking his head.

"Sometimes you can just feel it in your blood," he says suddenly. "That's what my mother once said. She'd say you can feel anything in your blood; your gut. Have you ever had that? It's strange..." He says and grunts once more. "Careful," he tells her as a hand lifts to smooth over hers gently and assist her briefly; fingertips smooth over her knuckles. "But..." He suddenly begins and trails briefly.

"My father was different. He said that my mother was just mad," he states and offers a grin. "But I think everyone's a little mad, no?" He questions and shakes his head. "Then, sometimes, being a tad bit mad may be more truthful than anything else you've ever seen before."

[Chloé Flannigan]

He asked her not to apply to much pressure; that he didn’t want to open up his stitches and bleed all over the place. Chloe stopped what she was doing momentarily and gave Thaddeus a look through her batting lashes which could be translated as of course, did you think I was born yesterday? Though with a lot less hostility than the words, if they’d been said out loud, may have implied.

Nevertheless, Chloe continues her grim job in an even gentler fashion. The wound must have been very tender, very sore—Thaddeus’ hiss is obviously one of pain, but if she applied any less pressure she wouldn’t have been cleaning it at all.

Her memories cast back to her childhood—she’d come home after a day of gallivanting around the forest with grass stains all over her clothes and a tear in her jeans, beneath which her knee is grazed and bleeding. Although she’d protest and tell her parents that it was fine, they’d still come at her with a bottle of the horrendous orange antiseptic stuff and demand they clean it. According to them, she had no idea what kind of germs lingered on the log she’d fall on, and it was best to clean the small wound so it wouldn’t get infected. She remembered tensing and hissing, squealing like a girl when that orange stuff was dabbed on her knee with that innocent cotton bud.

She always did enjoy it when her mother blew on it afterward, though.

Her memories are pushed to the back of her mind as Thaddeus questions her as to what she feels like eating. She shrugs her shoulders lightly, careful so the movement doesn’t accidentally nudge a stitch out of place. If she was going to be honest, she could tell him she was already stuffed, that she could ‘eat’ another thing.

“I’m easy. Whatever you feel like, I’m game.” She says with an agreeable smile. It was a trait which Chloe’s friends always found so frustrating. She was never the one to make the decision. She’d always say she was happy with whatever everyone else chose. And it was the truth. Their complaints could never force a different answer from her.

She had to admit, though, she loved Thaddeus’ rambling. She never really felt as if she had anything decent to say in return, but she loved to hear him talk nonetheless.

“If a person isn’t at least a little mad, they’re not interesting.” She comments, her smile twitching mischievously. He’d have to interpret the grin himself.

After she’s satisfied with the cleanliness of the wound, Chloe ditches the towel and tears a bit of padding from the rest. She smothers the wool in alcohol—she assumed this might sting as much as that little bottle of orange antiseptic had stung when she was little. It mightn’t hurt at all. But she’s still steeling herself for Thaddeus’ reaction.

“Ready?” She asks, though again, she doesn’t really wait for an answer. She applied the alcohol-soaked wool to the wound. There’s enough residual liquid so that it drips onto the wound, though not so much as to make a mess and have it dribbling down Thaddeus’ torso.

She’s swift when applying the alcohol, however, trying to at least get that ordeal over with as soon as possible. And, perhaps out of habit or because she’s just been thinking of it, as soon as she discards the alcohol-lined padding she’s blowing on the wound—she at least hoped her breath was as warm and soothing as her mother’s had once been.

[Thaddeus]

Sometimes, and on some days, Thaddeus allowed himself that moment to think of his parents. Oh, not Eulogia and Percival, but his true biological parents, or rather, his mother. Why? Well, truth be told, thought of them suddenly flooded the forefront of his mind after having mentioned them to Chloé.

Thaddeus had never been a dull minded child, and truth be told, it hadn't exactly taken long for him to realize he had no physical traits associated with either his Puerto Rican mother, or even his father, who seemed to be a pleasant mix of things; a mutt of sorts, but the human kind. It didn't bother him. He had a mother and father, and the truth was, was that there were children who had less out there, but then came the nights where Thaddeus had to wonder over one thing: why?

Had he truly be that insignificant that a woman could simply abandon him without a care or even a note? Did she utter any soft words to him before leaving him at the emergency entryway at the hospital? Had anyone ever found her? There certainly had to be some sort of surveillance equipment set up there, and there must have been a police officer assigned to the case, no? These sort of cases, within this day and age, were never far from the eyes of vigilant officers, but what of him?

Thaddeus liked to believe he had a mother that loved him; a true, biological mother. Then there were times where Thaddeus accepted reality and realizes that things aren't as wonderful as folk wish it could be, and yet, he'll wonder of her, and he'll wonder of the possibilities that could have been.

Did she kiss his brow before setting him down?
Did she whisper soft words?
Did she utter a single, soft prayer in his name?
...or did she blame him for the decline of her own life?

Thaddeus finds himself well and alive, and despite his sudden mishap in New York City, and finding himself stranded here within Ravenblack City, Thaddeus could count his blessings. He could likewise count the blessings upon his person since that day at the hospital. He could have died, and instead of that, he had been taken inside and had become a mascot of sorts for both night and day shifts at the hospital. He could smile back on it now, but forever there would be a ever hanging notion that there was someone who loathed him enough to leave him wailing, crying and lost upon a street corner, and Thaddeus had lost the only person who truly loved him only days before this all.

It's hard not to weep knowing you're alone, but then...when he looks at her -- Chloé -- he feels a sudden rush of acknowledgement that the world's not all too horrid. Perhaps things will turn well and good after all? One could hope. He hadn't realized he hadn't been paying attention though but that's his fault, and soon he's suffering for such when pain blooms throughout his chest.

"Aw, shit," he groans and bites the inside of his mouth. His chin tucks toward his chest before he's second thinking that and lolling his head away. His chest, the wound particularly, reacts to the burn of such as a hand suddenly lifts and smooths upon her face only to tangle within her hair; tugging softly with eyes fluttering shut and mouth falling ajar with a rush of breath. It's then he feels her breath soft upon his slick, stinging flesh -- offended even -- but her breath's soothing.

His eyes are half-lidded and his tongue dances over his lower lip briefly as he watches her. His hand, once within her hair, begins to finally draw free of her hair only so that his palm may cup her cheek freely. His thumb smooths gently over her lower lip as he draws her face closer; her form toward his own half-bare one.

"Chloé," he breathes out her name with a subtle need that meant nigh everything. He's biting his lower lip, and for that moment, he looks boyish; young even. He's shaking his head slowly and looking to her shyly. His thumb teases over the path of her soft breath. It's so warm to the touch. He can't help the smile upon his lips, nor could he help the press of his thumb upon her pout as his face tips closer to her as best he could from how he's inclined upon one elbow and leaning toward her. It's then that his brow touches upon her own.


Those blue eyes of his fall shut as fingertips dance upon her cheek.



Sometimes things simply don't need to be said.



...then there are times where an action can mean a thousand and one words.


He wasn't sure where the reaction came from, nor was he sure if it was the right one. Truth be told though, it's completely done out of impulse. Perhaps it's because he's an emotional wreck? He has no home, no family, and as far as he knew, no immediate future. He had the clothes upon his back though, and a mark to remind him of his loss, and then he had her. Then again, who could blame them for all that build up the night before?

They had shared drinks, laughs, warm touches and affectiones, and they had even looked at the stars together; the clouds upon the bumpy ceiling of his hotel room. They slept close and pressed together like lovers and friends, and for the first time since their meeting, Thaddeus was dusting his lips softly against her pout as shyly as a boy with infatuation would, and yet with all the careful curiosity of a lover afraid of being tumbled out his dream; shaken to a start only to realize it naughty be some vision.

...and then -- as sudden as that soft kiss had been -- his brow's touching to hers once more and his eyes are fluttering shut.


"Will you blow on it again?"



He asks whilst blue eyes open wide to meet her own.

[Chloé Flannigan]

Most would have agreed that Chloe was a shy girl—when in public she kept hidden inside of her roomy shell, keeping her thoughts to herself most of the time. She delighted in observing and not becoming an active participant. In most cases, anyway.

There were only some situations in which Chloe wished she had more confidence, and she grieved that she lacked the resources. But who’d have thought that if she were placed in a room in one such situation that she’d be overcome with the confidence she’d so long craved? Turns out, it had always lived inside of her. It only needed the chance, or the urgings, to break free.

Observe, if you will.

Her breath was caught savagely in her throat as his rough fingers played against the skin of her cheek; it was as if those fingertips had the power to draw the tinge of pink to those cheeks. It felt like it had been so long. It was only the night before that those fingers had caressed her skin, but that had been in a public place and all to uphold a ruse of friendliness for a now-dead man. Ever since they’d retired to this room to be alone together, there’d been none of it. They’d slept together in the same bed in positions of intimacy—it had all been so natural, but none of it had been instigated on purpose by either of htem.

Chloe hadn’t realised that her every nerve ached for more. That is, she hadn’t realised until now—until those warm fingertips sent a raging fire burning to her very core.

She didn’t resist the slight pressure he applied to bring their faces closer together. She risks drawing one more halting breath before her own emerald hues flutter shut. She’d be a fool if she didn’t know what was coming and it took all her strength not to demand it.

Nobody could deny that even though Chloe was shy, she was still impatient.

But she waited, waited for him to make the first move. She didn’t have to wait long before she felt the soft brush of his lips against her own; she reveled in their warmth, and in everything they promised. In one swift movement Chloe’s hand was gripping the back of Thaddeus’ neck, her other still resting upon his collarbone. The touch of his lips sends a thrill from her mouth and directly down to her heart, which began to pound a staccato beat through her veins.

Well, if that wasn’t worth waiting for…Chloe didn’t know what was.

But it ended too soon. Why did he pull away? Was it wrong of her to expect more, or to want more?

Her eyes are still shut as he utters his request and she can’t help grinning like a schoolgirl. She couldn’t deny his request even though she didn’t know that she was up to the task. She gathered her strength, and her breath, which was released from its cage in her throat. Her hair fell in a veil as she finally opened her eyes to focus on Thaddeus’ bare chest, on the ragged wound which would no doubt scar it. The tips of her own slender fingers traced a line from his collarbone and slowly caressed the offended flesh—she acquiesced the request and released the fiery breath from her chest, blowing on the wound like she formerly had.

And then she couldn’t do it anymore. From some place inside of her which she didn’t know existed there came a flurry of confidence and of unwarranted need. Perhaps it was the blood she had consumed which strengthened her resolve—or maybe it was just all her.

Whatever the case, the hand which gripped the back of Thaddeus’ neck gripped it just that tiny bit tighter; as she pulled Thaddeus toward her she shuffled closer to him, pressing her free hand against his chest (and being very careful to avoid his wound in the process); she drew another ragged breath before pressing their mouths together in a way which discarded the gentleness which Thaddeus had beforehand instigated. Her mouth was slightly ajar so that it could encompass Thaddeus’ cupid-bow lips, to part them with a sensuality Chloe didn’t know she could ever wield.

Tonight was a night for revelations, it would seem, and Chloe was more than willing to indulge.

[Thaddeus]

Thaddeus felt young with Chloé, and because of that, he's suddenly recalling his teenage years.

He was shy of seventeen years of age, and he had been laying within his bed with his...well, his first girl friend; his high school sweetheart of sorts. It had been all inquisitive touching at first. It's that very first touch, and it's all so intimate before suddenly instinct's taking over and all one knows of the situation is how heady one feels and the feeling of delightfully kissed lips; his lips. Thaddeus couldn't help but feel that way with Chloé because of a number of reasons, and all of them felt right even if they may be wrong. Thaddeus' mind falters and settles upon one thought then and there.


Was he taking advantage of her kindness?


Thaddeus had told himself that he wouldn't take advantage of Chloé, nor did he have any intentions of doing so. Like Archibald, Thaddeus intended on paying both Chloé and Archibald back with time for their kindness. Either, one: through money, or two: other means. It's simply because Thaddeus wasn't one to take advantage of others, but that didn't mean he'd say no to someone's offer. It's why he's here now with Chloé atop of his form and heat rushing throughout his body and leaving him heady.

He'd be lying if he wasn't attracted by Chloé or the feeling of her soft, warm body lining up against his own; measuring tight against his side as she takes ahold of his neck and sets her pout to his own. It's why he couldn't resist touching her during the act. It's also part of the reason his body writhed, squirmed and leaned toward her like some wayward sailor beckoned by a siren, but his squirms are no where near as curious as his hands.

His hands seemed to have a mind of their own, but truth be told, any man understood that -- within the heat of pleasure -- there was little thought between one's actions. It's why his hand's clasping tight upon the rise and swell of her hip; fingertips digging within the fabric and anchoring tight to her flesh to massage. His hand teases and coaxs before smoothing downward, back and high over the rise of her buttocks before drawing her more firmly against himself whilst his other hand pinnions her in place by settling on the small of her back. He seems to show little care for his own being before pain blooms briefly and dares to darken the edges of his vision, but even that's brushed aside without care so he may savor the soft feel of her mouth.

Thaddeus will say this now, or rather, he'd think it to himself whilst being preoccupied by the feel of Chloé's sensual touch. No woman -- and Thaddeus would repeat this thought -- no one should taste as good as Chloé's soft mouth did there and then. In fact, that's why his own lips part and tongue teases outward; that pink muscle lapping at her pout softly before his head's lolling and canting only to press his mouth over her moist lips.

There's a lot that actions could say as opposed to words, and truth be told, Thaddeus had a lot to say that he couldn't put to words; much less pen to paper even. Then again, even if Thaddeus could gather the words he wished to say, why would he speak?

It seemed illogical then and there with Chloé's body mingling with his own and his elbows slipping out from beneath him. He's laying there comfortably upon the bed, or rather, as comfortably as a man with an undressed wound could be. He wasn't exactly what you'd call the epitome of comfortable at that instant, but he could also name a number of situations, or even places, where things have been worse. It's then he's speaking though, or at least trying to.

"Chloé," he whispers her name between presses of their pouts; his lips delightfully kissed and pink. His cheeks seem to be a slight bit flushed from the heat and arousal that's stirring within his blood. What kind of man didn't find it pleasing to know he's attractive and wanted? Thaddeus certainly was one of these men, and he wasn't ashamed to let such know as his hips lift, turn and his body tips toward her own with a soft, and soon stifled, groan against her lips.


"We. Should. Really. Fin. Ish. This."


He utters, but each word's cut short by the fervent kissing. Oh, things couldn't have gotten any better at the moment, and Thaddeus seems to be utterly sure of such; oh, and despite his words, he makes no motion to remove Chloé from his side or even still their shared affection that had seemed more pent up than anything -- built over that short time knowing one another until the point of utter explosion. It's then though, and only then, that Thaddeus stills and lifts a hand to cup upon Chloé's cheek and still their dance of lip, tongue and thensome only to bump their brows together and pant; smile.


"Chloé," he whispers with a heady look to his eyes.

[Chloé Flannigan]

Oh God Yes.

It was all she could think as Thaddeus responded to her unexpected advances. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t allowed herself to think of the consequences before she acted that the relief spread through her so strongly now. If she’d given herself the chance to think of the consequences, of the possible rejection, she would never have gone ahead with it. Chloe always expected rejection, even if it was unwarranted.

But she wasn’t rejected—no, not at all. She wouldn’t have been rejected because he’d been the one to instigate this whole thing. Why on earth should he start something with her only to reject her if she furthered it? It was idiotic to think so.

There’d been a small part of her which was tense and holding back in fear of the formerly mentioned rejection. It was a small part of her which had always existed and which probably always would. It was a small part of herself which Chloe was unaware of. But she was thoroughly aware of how the relief seemed to release the pressure, so that wherever Thaddeus’ skilled hands guided her body, it willingly went.

The warmth radiated from their two separate bodies only to mingle; the heat began to rise, as it was wont to do in such a situation—they were like hungry teenagers who’d been denied such pleasures, and who indulged now only with the fear of being suddenly discovered. It was an uncontrollable lust which consumed their actions and overwhelmed any objections which may have been gotten to rationally.

She’s so close to Thaddeus, drawn closer to him by his own strong grasp that she might almost have been on top of him. Her confidence had bounds, however. A psychology student might have found it interesting – Chloe’s shy, she has no confidence in her own image, why in the world would she want to be in a position where her image is all that would be seen?

They tumble into a horizontal position and the tips of Chloe’s hair brush against Thaddeus’ collarbone. She didn’t remember a time when she enjoyed this so much; what did it mean that she was so comfortable when she’d never been so comfortable in this kind of situation before? She’d not think of it. She’d not think of what Thaddeus could mean to her after such a short amount of time when he probably wasn’t thinking the same thing.

In the moments between kisses Chloe sighs, and even, every now and again, she utters a groan of impatience.

And Chloe responds in turn to her name as it’s uttered by his husky, deep tones. She always took pleasure in hearing her name uttered by those she has a particular attraction to. But she doesn’t want to speak or respond with his name. She rarely speaks ordinarily, and this situation made her act no differently. Instead of responding with words, she responds with actions. So although Thaddeus had now twisted his body so that it was angled over her, Chloe didn’t relax her posture, and instead angled her head upward so that she may receive his kisses…

The first thought which fluttered through the confines of her mind as he uttered the words, so haltingly, We Should Finish This, is a startling thought. It sends a thrill of expectation through her every vein and nerve, from the top of her head to the tip of her toes—every inch of skin which longed to be touched by those warm hands of his. But it was also startling because it was so soon…

Quick on the heels of the first thought, however, is the realisation; he didn’t mean that. No, he meant that they should stop what they’re doing. They should finish dressing his wound. They should exit the room and go find something to eat, even though Chloe wasn’t hungry, at least not for food. They should return to Chloe’s apartment where Thaddeus could take his pick of the jeep or the motorbike. They should go back to Chloe’s apartment…

His hand cups her cheek as he finally pulls away; she’s amazed that he found the resolve to actually finish this. Her head falls against the softness of the mattress and she takes a deep breath. She had to stop herself from panting.

There’s a frown creasing her brow, much like one might find on a small child’s brow who’s just been denied a cookie before dinner. They can’t understand why. Why not?

But Chloe was an adult. She could think of the reasons why. But none of the them were urgent, were they? But she had to be rational. The best things were savoured when one took their time with them, right? So she slowly nodded.

“You’re right.” She says; it was hard to find the voice to say it, but she managed. Her hand is resting upon Thaddeus’ abdomen and she glances down, again, at the offended flesh around the wounds. It was probably best he didn’t participate in any more physical activity until those wound were covered and tightly wound.

“We have things to accomplish. As you said, this is going to be a long night.” She mutters, a soft smile gracing her reddened lips; she tilted her head to the side a little in order to look upon Thaddeus and see him with more clarity.

And although she thought she agreed, she made no motion to move. Her heart and her brain were sending completely different signals. Or, perhaps it wasn’t her heart at all, but some completely unrelated organ which remained unidentified.

As per usual, she’d go wherever she was guided.

[Thaddeus]

It's not that Thaddeus wanted to stop; in fact, it's anything but that.

Thaddeus was fully well enjoying this moment rather thoroughly. He didn't doubt that, within his own mind, that he could have gone on longer with this more than anything else. Why? Well, there's a number of reasons, and most of them point toward the fact that it's a physical comfort than anything else. Who could blame him though? Although, to be fair, she knew very little of why it would have been considered such.

He's alone within a world he didn't know; Hell, he thought Ravenblack was something thought up -- something his mind had settled over his being, or even that he might be dead. Would that be a possibility? Maybe he's actually lying in a ditch now and his mouth's gaping for air. It could be that their kiss was nothing more than Thaddeus attempting to suck in air for his lungs, and maybe he's bleeding out now; that's why his bandages are undone. It could be that's why there's a blooming pain within his chest as his heart races when he presses his mouth against hers once more despite his earlier words and even her own.

There's much to get done, but would they actually get anything done at all?

There's a major possibility that their night would begin and end here with one another within their arms; holding to eachother like lovers. In fact, what's stopping them? There's nothing at all.

So much had happened the night before that it felt like Thaddeus knew Chloé through and through. That's not to say that he's in love though. It's too early to say that, and Thaddeus didn't know her like that, but it's a feeling. It's a gut feeling that settles over someone that makes one know something. It's something that can't be transcribed to words though. It's far too complicated for that, and Thaddeus didn't even bother attempting to justify his feelings and wants. At least not now.

Yet, despite their words, neither of them motion away to get anything done. Hell, not even Thaddeus -- the man who uttered such a thing first -- made a move. He's still leaning half over her with his legs nigh entwined her own. His chest aches, but still he doesn't make a move. Instead he's lowering his mouth upon hers once more for another kiss; short, sweet and to the point. It's brief though, and soon he's pulling away with a slight smile only to bump their brows together whilst a hand smooths over her hip and soon after her stomach.

"I don't want to bleed all over you," he says suddenly. "You know, because you're getting me a tad bit too excited," he explains with ease before breaking into a low chuckle that's husky. It's then that his hand's lifting from her stomach only to brush gently over her chest before falling away and cupping over her cheek. His thumb smooths over her lower lip, and with his brow still pressed to her own, he gives a slight shake of his head [or at least tries to].

"You make me feel like a boy again. It's peculiar," he says with a smile. His nose wrinkles a slight, and it's then that he reluctantly lifts his body from her own, but it's only a tad. His hands press upon the bed at either side of her form to hold himself upward. It's almost at arm's length but not quite; yet, it's enough so that he's staring down at her nigh wolfishly. There's a semblance of boyish curiosity about the way he looks at her. It's the same way a young boy would look at a pretty young girl before pushing her, but of course it's not meant on purpose. It's what stupid, brash young boys like Thaddeus does to pretty young girls, but not now.

There's something about her though that's different from most women. It's the same thing he had found in Marian. It's what made her attractive, and made him want her. It's what had spurred on his pursuit of her and court her. Thaddeus knew what it was then and there though. It's almost instant and it's nearly enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Chloé -- like Marian before her -- made Thaddeus feel important.

It's hard to explain why Thaddeus felt that way. Chloé hardly knew him, but that didn't keep her from shying away from him; in fact, she had approached him first, and sure, it had been for her own gain, but look at where it led. She's now laying beneath him, or at least somewhat, as Thaddeus looks upon her and lifts a hand to touch her face and her hair. His hand smooths over her eyelids and soon over her nose and mouth before his own touches hers gently.

It must be the flutter of her body beneath his own. It's the feel of his hand dusting her stomach, hip and over her buttocks; over her thigh and leg before brushing back up to cup her neck. Despite that though, there's no doubt that she made him feel important and wanted. She made his heart skip a beat and flutter; she made him feel boyish, young and daring. He knew that she'd entertain him, not physically speaking, but otherwise.

She'd laugh at his jokes whether or not they'd be funny or not, and she'd even look at him with such a gaze that would be full of...adoration? No. They hardly knew one another, and yet...why did she look at him like this now?


"We'll never get anything done."


It's the last thing he remembers saying before pressing his mouth over hers one final time, or so he thought it would be. It seemed that final time turned into another kiss, and then another -- then that other turned into several more. It's then he's pulling away though; breathless and delightfully kissed before shifting his body and perking his brows at her. His shoulders hunch and body lowers over hers before his chest barely brushes over her own. His mouth presses against hers one final time -- a real final time -- before he's sighing outward.


"Help me dress this, okay? I don't want to forget," he says in a rush.

[Chloé Flannigan]

It’s hard to even think anything coherent at all with Thaddeus’ hands making tracks over the length of Chloe’s torso—she’s trying to understand why she’s so infatuated when she’d only met the guy the night before. She’d only met him to try and get away from a human stalker, who was now dead. She could have killed him long before she’d met Thaddeus. If she’d done that, she’d never have met Thaddeus. And the stalker’s death had kept Thaddeus safe; was keeping Thaddeus safe.

Chloe’s a true romantic at heart. All her young life she’d believed in some higher being who dealt out higher purposes like it might a deck of cards. Such things as fate, destiny, love at first sight, soul mates—these were all common words in Chloe’s vocabulary. If something untoward happened she believed it was karma and she was being paid back for something bad she’d done in the past. Her father had always told her that it was their name—it had bad luck attached to it. Whenever Chloe suffered bad luck, she’d blame the fact that her last name was ‘Flannigan’.

Sometimes, when Chloe prayed to no-one in particular in order to ask for trivial things, it was like her prayers were answered. Sometimes things happened that she wanted to happen. She believed she had a guardian angel that helped these things happen.

But she also believed certain things happened for a reason. Nothing was random. Coincidences were not coincidences—they were preordained occurrences. Small things happened to wend a person’s path in a particular direction. The stalker, Chloe’s mindset at the time, all had led her to Thaddeus. How could it have been random?

She only wanted it to be something different, something special. It was why she made up such excuses. She wanted adventure; she wanted to believe she was being looked out for. She wanted to believe her future was secure, and that whatever happened would have happened regardless. It helped her to relax.

But all this was not at the forefront of Chloe’s mind. She’d thought of it all beforehand, and it only clicked together in her head like pieces of a puzzle. She’d not exert her mind too much, not now. She was far too busy enjoying the physical senses; the feel of Thaddeus’ hands grazing the curves of her body, the warmth of his body down the length of her own,; the sight of his blue-blue eyes and the planes of his face in general; the sound of his breathing, of his voice and his husky chuckle; the lingering smell of his blood, which was both sweet and savoury, and the smell of Thaddeus himself—the very same one that would cling to a pillow he’d use every night; the taste of his lips as they brushed against hers. Each sense culminated into a single enjoyment and Chloe could feel a pressure building inside of her.

No, it wouldn’t be good if he bled all over her. That wouldn’t be good at all.

She simply blushes and makes a bid to hide her face as he compliments her—at least, she took them as compliments. Never before had she thought herself capable of ‘exciting’ someone of the opposite sex in such a way; and she was glad she could make him feel like a boy again.

“One should never lose their childish enthusiasm…” She mutters, stealing a quote from one of her favourite films. At least, she knew it went something like that. It wasn’t as if they were leaving space for conversation; they only conversed by touch, by joining their lips together in a lustful prayer.

Chloe’s hands didn’t do as much wandering as Thaddeus’ did. Sure, they explored a good part of his abdomen, of his shoulder, and at one point her nails gently grazed the length of his back. But she was forever wary of the wound upon his chest. She didn’t wish to accidentally disrupt it.

She could only agree with Thaddeus’ statement—they’d never get anything done—by accepting the slow kisses which he showered upon her. She reveled in them, and she found it quite easy to lose herself in them; each brush of his tongue against her lips, her tongue, sent her heart into another song and dance. It was all so very new, so very fun.

The way they’re positioned on the bed is suggestive of so much more, and they could have gone so much further if they had less fabric between them. It was a good thing. Wasn’t it?

Thaddeus pulled away for what seemed the nth time; one of them needed to be strong, to be the responsible one. It may as well be her. Thaddeus didn’t look like he wanted to go anywhere. So she sighed, her brows furrowing into a determined frown before she’s gently pushing him away by the shoulder and sliding out from beneath him. It’s hard to find her feet as she stands away from the bed; it’s hard not to feel like Jelly.

She grins mischievously as she grabs hold of the dressing, unraveling it so a length of the stuff is spread out between them.

“Alright, we’ll dress it right now.” She tells him, rather decisively, as if that flimsy cloth is going to keep them away from each other.