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Grace

Yuki’s got it, and she knows it. The lithe body, the curves, the ‘come get me’ smirk. It’s the kind of thing she knows he can’t resist. She’ll saunter past his defences, slink behind his guard. Have him in the palm of her hand where he belongs.

Her favourite trick is making him think he’s the one who wants it, even when she’s craving his touch. She’ll brush against him, use her tail to direct his attention exactly where she wants it to go.

She grins when he takes the bait again. Grace is about knowing just when to stop.

Forest

Needles crunching underfoot; the scent of pine in the air. Snow suspended on the branches, waiting to fall. Silence, thick as smoke. The world is sleeping: the trees keep watch.

Even the smallest of them tower above her; the dark wood is older than she can know. There is an awe to the winter forest, a sense of sacred land.

It humbles her, and she does well to be humble. Santa is not a king, or a leader. To be Santa is to serve.

She lifts her hood, and keeps on walking. When she serves, it is with a smile.

Leap

Maybe it’s his wolfish instincts, but there’s something soothing about fresh water. He could watch the river for hours. Perhaps he should learn to fish.

She’s more excitable, skipping stones across the surface, always anxious for the next adventure. She still has that puppyish side to her. He’s learning to adore it.

He takes his eyes off her for a moment, and she is gone, throwing herself into the water without a care. She surfaces wet and happy. He learns that day that she is a very confident swimmer.

And that underneath that tank top, she doesn’t wear a bra.

Goodbye

There’s one word she never heard him say.

He was a talkative guy. Maybe too talkative. Too confident. He’d spill his guts like he hadn’t a care in the world, like he couldn’t be touched. It was different, being with a man who was so open.

He was charming, and it worked. He spoke to her and the lies piled up faster than she could pull them apart; she lost herself in them.

Even now, he speaks to her as he presses something hard and cold against her sternum.

But she doesn’t hear it over the crack of the gun.

Cosmic

The stars look down on him.

Alone. Salt columns on either side, held up by the sea. The spaces between are black, like empty space or rotten bone. Sometimes they move. He pretends not to notice. It’s only polite.

He keeps his hand on his shotgun. There are only two shells. One for himself, as is tradition. The other one is also for himself. Just in case.

The place wraps in on itself. The centre is the edge, the edge the centre. He doesn’t understand what he’s looking for.

But he knows that the stars are looking down. On him.

Jacked

It’s the first time she’s caught him in the showers.

It wasn’t a close game. He doesn’t have the physique for volleyball; he’s too heavy, too muscular. QP is lithe by contrast. She’s also very naked.

“Wow. I, uh. Didn’t really realise it, but… you’re in super great shape,” she tells him.

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t realise when we were in bed?”

She bites her lip. “I was busy at the time.”

Her hand slides across his chest. The other dips between his thighs.

It seems like he’s about to get a workout of an entirely different kind.