(1941-07-05) Huff and Puff
Details for Huff and Puff
Summary: A desperate Oberon comes to Morrow for shelter and aid.
Date: 5 July, 1941
Location: Morrow's Flat, Mysticked District
Related: Not a Werewolf...Surely Not

((Disclaimer: This scene contains mature content. There is nothing explicit, but there is romantic activity and strong implications of sexual activity. If this makes you uncomfortable, you have been forewarned.))

The summer storm has been relentlessly battering at London all night, rain lashing against windows, thunder rattling all of the silverware and knick-knacks. By the dark hours of the early morning, most of the Mysticked District has managed to find slumber despite the torrent.

At least one wretched soul has found no peace tonight. Wrapped in a dirty blanket like a cloak, soaked to the bone, the shivering young man creeps through the alleys, staying out of sight. Finally he reaches his destination outside of an apartment building, and like a schoolboy sneaking out to see his crush, he begins flinging small pebbles at a particular window. TIK!…TIK!…TIK! He can only pray the steady sound will be noticeable amidst the sheets of rain.

Living alone is a wonderful thing. Fantastic. Liberating. So very adult. Until, of course, you find yourself lonely. Or afraid. Generally speaking, Morrow enjoys her own company. While undeniably amusing, it does eventually wear upon one, constantly pulling the strings of those around you, either for power or mere amusement. Having her own apartment for the summer ought to be an opportunity for celebration and socialising - that's certainly what she'd intended. Instead, she's ruined several good pillows and some perfectly nice dresses with five inch claws, wound up in St Mungo's, had an enormous spat with a certain Gryffinjock… and oh yes. Her boyfriend might be a werewolf and at this very moment feasting on the flesh of some disgusting homeless person.

And so it is, with these cares and concerns hanging over her, that Morrow Selwyn is still awake, when all the other windows on this particular street are dark. Curled in an armchair, a half-finished scotch by her elbow on a precarious little side-table, the brunette is gazing unseeingly at the book in her lap, occasionally remembering to turn a page. At first, given her wandering thoughts - or complete lack of same - she doesn't notice the sound. And when she does?

Closing her book with an audible snap, a scowl darkening her features, Selwyn rises in a smooth motion, retying the belt of her midnight-blue dressing gown and striding across to the bay window. Would Anson really be foolish enough to come back, after their last conversation? If so, he's about to get a piece of her mind, and possibly a shoe flung at his head. Bracing the heels of her hands on the wooden sill, she leans out enough to see the street below; what's visible of it at this hour. Hmm. No Abbott. What, then? Silhouetted in the frame, she stays very still, listening carefully.

"Morrow!" A guttural voice hisses loudly, trying to be heard over the rain and wind while still pretending to be somehow subtle. The blanket-clad figure steps out into the light of a street lamp. His face is hidden, hooded by the blanket. "Morrow! It's Oberon! Let me in!"

The girl's expression clears of the frown, turning to surprise, then suspicion… and undeniable relief. All in the space of a heartbeat. Ordinarily, the outer door would likely be open. But, considering the gossip about bloody werewolves… she vanishes from the frame. And a long moment passes. Maybe she's not going to let him in? Ahh, no. Even over the torrential rain, the sound of bare, running feet becomes audible. Stairs. More stairs. A short stretch of flagstone hall. The fumbling of a lock and.. there. The door is flung wide, dimly illuminated by a low-burning lamp. Sanctuary! Wide-eyed, with one hand flat against the woodwork of the aged door and the other arm wrapped about herself, Morrow stands aside to allow the drenched young man inside. No questions. Not yet, anyway.

Oberon wastes no time, rushing toward the door to get out of the hateful rain, going right past Morrow for a few feet, then slumping sideways against the wall of the entry hall, turned away from her. He is dripping puddles, drenched from head to toe. His breaths come in heavy, growling pants. "F-fireplace," he stammers, teeth chattering.

"Upstairs." Why use ten words when one will suffice, after all? Closing the outer door again - and locking it, lest her neighbours get upset - the young lady approaches Oberon's back slowly, not venturing to touch but gesturing to the stairway ahead of him. It rises to a landing, then turns to reach the first floor, where a door has been left ajar. Hers, presumably. "Come on.. the fire's still burning low in the sitting room." She's bound to be shaken, and certain to have a dozen questions. But admirably she keeps both relatively well concealed; speaking gently and evenly. Making sure he's alright is the first priority. And freezing, soaking and wrapped in a dingy blanket is not her definition of alright.

Oberon nods, clutching the blanket tightly to his chest, keeping his face turned away from Morrow. Don't let her see. Not yet. He shuffles to the stairs, leaving a trail of water behind him the whole way, and pushes through the open door into Morrow's flat. Once inside, he sniffs at the air. How it smells like Morrow in here; the subtle scent bringing him a sliver of calm. Fire. Warmth. He makes straight for the fireplace, collapsing to his knees in front of it, hunched over and still clinging to his cold, wet blanket. Finally, he finds some measure of civil behaviour and mumbles a gravelly, "Thank you."

She lets him go without protest, simply following in those wet footsteps and, again, closing the door behind them both once he's inside. Not exactly what Morrow had envisioned, for his first visit here. The thought elicits the ghost of a wry smile as she moves quietly in his wake, into the light and warmth of the sitting room. Leaving Oberon to the hearth, seeing as he's frozen to the bone, she herself drifts to close the open windows and draw the billowing curtains to. While she might enjoy the rain-scented air and thunderstorm, her guest has clearly had enough of it for one night.

"..I'll get you a dry blanket, shall I?" This really isn't Morrow's forte, this 'looking after' thing. But apparently Lestrange is an exception. Has she noticed the way he's keeping from looking at her? Perhaps she's merely putting it down to the miserable state he's in. Still. She softens a touch in response to his gratitude, murmuring a soft, "You're welcome.." as she heads to the couch, scooping up the deep-piled throw that resides there. Approaching the young man, she holds it aloft between them, near his shoulders, and - maybe surprisingly - turns her head, to preserve his modesty should he trade it for his current 'cloak'. Which he surely will. Plush, soft, furry warmth over rain-soaked grubbiness? Yes.

Oberon balks a moment before taking the blanket. He can't quite see her face, so he can't be sure she won't see the dark fur along the back of his hand and fingers, or the thick, claw-like fingernails. But desperation for warmth wins out, and he snatches the throw, spreading it out to cover him as he removes the wet thing clinging to him. It is far from a perfect transition, and a stray eye would catch his nude form underneath, and the damp layer of fur on his shoulders and down his spine. Once he has cloaked himself in the fresh blanket, he gives a little grunt. "Are y-your…p-parents here?"

"Noo-oo..?" Drawing out the single syllable into a subtle question, Morrow starts slightly at the snatch of the fur throw. But in fairness, wouldn't she be rather tetchy, too, in his position? She doesn't remark on it, anyway. "My mother is somewhere in Europe with her latest lover, and father prefers to avoid the city, nowadays.." Easing down to perch on a footstool of plush green velvet, checking the lie of her robe subtly, before Oberon sees her, the brunette concludes. "It's just me." Is that a comfort?

Mustering a little more of her usual manner, crossing her legs at the knee elegantly and folding her arms upon the uppermost, Morrow frowns thoughtfully at the back of the young man's head. "..I've been worried about you." A simple statement. But rather a rarity, from her. "I haven't seen you since you visited at St Mungo's and then.. Samira said.. well, she didn't say but.." Tilting her head at a slight angle, she tries to at least regard his features in profile, before sighing. "Well, it doesn't matter. I'm glad you're safe. Though you're likely going to catch your death of cold."

At the news that they are alone, his slow nod can be made out under his makeshift hood. There is a palpable tension when Samira is mentioned, but he offers nothing more on the subject. "Safe. I'm not safe. Morrow…you know what they're saying about me, don't you?" He lets out a low, rumbling sigh. "Don't be afraid. This…this is like your tiger ears. Just…worse." With shaking hands, he reaches for his hood. Now the hair and claws are all too obvious, and as the hood is slowly pulled back, it becomes clear just how much of the transformation remains. The dark fur rings his face like coarse mutton chops. His ears are slightly pointed, also with tufts of fur upon them. With his mouth hanging partially open, his extended canines are visible. But perhaps most striking of all are his eyes: the yellow eyes of wolf, with pitch black centers.

"I've heard the rumours but.. well, it's not true, is it. I mean.. they didn't hound me for turning the way I did. It's just.. unlucky, I suppose." When he bids her not to be afraid, Morrow's expression turns quizzical, her lips parting as if to counter with some sort of 'don't be ridiculous'. But then.. /oh.// The widening of her stormy-blue eyes is a giveaway she hadn't meant to happen. On the plus side, he presumably can't hear the sudden skip-thud of her heartbeat.

Swallowing hard, Morrow does, as ever, an admirable job of covering up. She even attempts a gentle tease, though it's subdued at best. "..I see. Well.. at least you needn't worry about shaving for a few days, hm?" Taking it all in - the fur, the fangs - she gradually calms herself. It's still him, under there. And, all else aside, has she ever even imagined Oberon being vulnerable? A hand reaches out, tentatively halts, then slowly continues toward him, seeking to lightly trace the curve of his jaw with the cup of her palm. "..they're working on a cure, Oberon. They'll fix this." Such faith in the faceless 'them'. Meeting his gaze, she summons another wan smile. "The eyes rather suit you."

Belatedly, or perhaps simply as a distraction from the lingering shock at his appearance, she asks him, gently, "..what can I do? Are you hurt? Hungry? Just.. tell me what to do."

Oberon blinks those inhuman yellow eyes at her, sighing with exhaustion. "Haven't eaten in two days," he mutters. "A witch caught me stealing that blanket. Did this to me." He pulls back the new blanket to bare part of his thigh, showing off a nasty burn where the witch's spell struck him. "I don't think she saw my face…she didn't cry werewolf or anything." He frowns at even speaking the word. "I'm fucked, Morrow. I can't even get to my wand. The Ministry is watching my flat."

The girl winces in sympathy, grimacing at the glimpse she catches of the wound before returning her worried eyes to his. Letting that hand drift to his shoulder, she squeezes gently with her fingers. "You're not a werewolf. They'll figure it out, won't they..?" That part's a genuine question. A genuine, concerned question. What if they don't? "It wasn't even a full moon, they said that much in the paper…" Morrow's trying to reassure herself, as well as him. After a split second of hesitation, as much of her own making as uncertainty of his response, she leans forward and moves to snake her arms around his neck, if permitted. "This will all get cleared up. It's just a huge mess…"

Regardless of whether he accepts the embrace, she continues on, stubbornly defiant, as if shouldering his usual stance, given his exhaustion. "And you're not fucked. I.. well, I can't go and get it, they'd just follow me. But we'll sort something out. I promise." There's no feigned smile now, just grim determination. Morrow is not used to being argued with and, in that regard, Oberon is not an exception. "You can stay here, in the meantime. And you have to eat something.. erm.." Glancing across the room, struck by a rather important point, she admits after a beat, "..I'm not sure what I have, other than scotch.."

"Scotch is exactly what I need right now," Oberon groans. He leans into Morrow, accepting the embrace, perhaps even grateful for the first human contact in three days that hasn't been someone trying to cook him. "Nobody cares that it wasn't a full moon, you know. I've heard people talking. They're just scared that a werewolf changed out of the full moon. For all we know, they're right. Maybe this disease is like lycanthropy. Maybe I'm a werewolf, and you're a weretiger. What if this is just the beginning, Morrow?" He scowls, looking back to the fire, the light gleaming in his eyes.

She lets him speak, unthinkingly pressing her lips to his dark hair and only belatedly worrying whether it's hair or fur. It's an odd angle, her still being perched on that footstool. But she's warm and he's getting warmer and maybe all isn't entirely dire and bleak, after all. Oberon would feel, rather than see, the curve tugging slowly at her lips, and a soft breath stirring across his hair as Morrow tries to coax him from his despair. "..and Abbott's, what. A were-cock?" She lets this notion linger a moment, before pressing a fingertip to the underside of the young man's jaw, silently inviting him to look up and aside at her, if she can. "Listen. People are panicking, that's true. But that's what people do. En masse, people are stupid." Those lips twitch, just vaguely, toward a wry smirk as she says this, blithely sweeping an entire race with her generalising tar-brush.

She gentles her tone, though. "It'll be alright, Oberon. Even if it is similar.. well, we'd just have to make the best of it. We wouldn't be the first." A pause. "Well, I might be. I'm not sure I've ever heard of a weretiger, before. The point is, it will be alright." She leans in, dark-lashed eyes holding his.. but only because she's stooping slightly before pushing to a stand, tugging her robe securely about herself. "..I'll get you that drink."

Oberon's chest swells with a deep breath, momentarily mollified by the touch of her lips. But even dour Oberon cannot help a wry smirk at "were-cock". Nothing quite cheers him up like mocking someone else. "You're a hell of a dame, Morrow." He looks up at her, taking a moment to admire her form, but mostly focusing on her eyes. "One in a million." He lets out a long sigh, settling in while waiting for the drink. He shivers, still chilled to the bone, and shifts closer to the flames.

"Thank you. I like to think so." Yes, that impenetrable mask is firmly back in place, her voice the velvet tone of the actress as she pours another scotch, tops up her own from the decanter, and carries both back over; unthinkingly tiptoeing, despite being barefoot. A habit from dancing, no doubt. Offering Oberon's drink toward him, she daintily steps back toward her footstool, though this time settles down comfortably before it; using it as a shoulder-rest and stretching her long legs out toward the hearth. Cozy. "We'll need to find you some dry clothes." she murmurs, almost idly, as she loses herself in gazing at the dancing firelight for a while. Almost physically rousing herself with a gentle shake of her head, Morrow pushes dark hair back from her brow with her free hand and regards her guest contemplatively as she takes a sip of her drink. "And your wand. Though both can wait until you've rested." Snerking softly, mostly to herself, she adds, "..I should perhaps consider becoming a nurse, the rate I'm going.."

Oberon accepts the drink with a grateful nod, immediately taking a healthy dose just to feel its warming effect inside him. His thick, slightly curved nails tink against the glass. "The rate you're going? Who else have you been nursing back to health?" He allows his eyes to trail up her extended legs, and his nostrils suddenly flare as he picks up her scent in the air. A shiver runs through him, but this time not so much from the cold.

If she notices the effect - let's face it, of course she does - Morrow's not drawing attention to it; keeping her heavy-lidded eyes on the fire. The worry and transition of the past few days is beginning to settle about her, now that she can relax at last. A few days, is that really all it's been? She gently glides the rim of the glass gently back and forth across her lower lip, before answering Oberon in an almost absent-minded aside. "Oh.. Prince. I saw her when they brought her in. Helped them get a draught into her." Shifting a sidelong glance his way, the brunette smirks slightly. "Gave her quite a scare, didn't you. But she wasn't hurt, before you start worrying." Does err.. Oberon worry? It seems unlikely.

Oberon nods slowly, offering a distant, "Good." Then he quickly adds, "I'd hate to be responsible for hurting another Slytherin," as if to explain the appearance of worry. It's just house loyalty. That's reasonable, right? "I wouldn't want to pass this along to anyone, either." He looks down at his hand. The wounds from a certain peacock beak are gone down, but a dark glower overcomes his features nonetheless. "I assume you've seen him." He doesn't need to say who. Who else would it be?

Tis not for Morrow to wonder why, or so the impassive expression implies. Stretching her toes luxuriously at the edge of the hearth, she offers a soft-spoken, "..any warmer?" in an aside to the young man, before the subject takes a turn for the distinctly worse. Drawing a deep breath, she readjusts her weight; the shift in demeanour quite tangible. "Yes. I've seen him. He's returned to normal. Whatever that implies." There's a fleeting shadow across the girl's features, one that she doesn't elaborate on; instead adding, after a hesitation. "..he's rather upset about that cut."

Oberon's brow furrows heavily, giving his whole face a kind of primal, caveman countenance. "I'm rather upset about turning into a fucking werewolf," he growls. "He can deal with a little scratch." He huffs and puffs, his ire surfacing as Anson becomes the focus of conversation. "That bloody twat has ruined my life."

Steering the course of discussion gently - before he blows her house down - Morrow adjusts her weight a fraction, enough to briefly rest her weight against Oberon's shoulder. It's little more than a subtle nudge, a fleeting impression of warmth and presence, and then she straightens again. Her glass is dangling idly from her fingertips now and she swirls the contents, propping her elbow back on the edge of the comfy footstool. "I think it would take far more than this little setback to ruin you, Oberon Lestrange." This is decidedly not the time for anything to be revealed that might.. upset him. Not with those claws and fangs still present, thank you. "It could have been worse. A lapdog, for instance. Or a kitten. But of course you became a wolf. I'd expect nothing less." What better way to soothe that ire than with admiration and flattery. And then a gentle prompt. "..would you prefer the bed or the couch?" Such a thoughtful hostess.

Oberon's chin lifts almost imperceptibly, but it's there, hoisted by the inflation of his ego and pride. Yes, of course he would become a wolf—a majestic, wild creature, feared by almost everyone, and utterly dangerous when provoked or hungry. His subtle posing is interrupted by her question. His lips curl into a wolfish grin, showing off those enlarged teeth. "That depends where you'll be."

Yes. Admiration works. And Morrow remains undefeated in the realm of 'getting what she wants' — thank goodness. Chuckling softly into her glass as she brings it to her lips, the brunette takes her time in sipping, letting the young man's gaze settle upon her in profile until she has swallowed. Only then will she deign to meet his fearsome yellow eyes with her own serene blue. Outside, the worst of the storm seems to have passed, leaving only the pattering of rain against the windowpanes; an oddly soothing sound in the otherwise quiet apartment. Returning a half-smile of her own, Morrow fractionally narrows her eyes; feigning indecision. "Well, see, now I don't know if you're being chivalrous or a dreadful tease. Or, of course, both." This time, when she leans in, it's to brush her lips across his temple in a featherlight kiss, not even minding his unusually thick hair. "..but I'll make an educated guess.. and then suggest you ought to regain your strength." Two can play this game. Hell, this game is what she plays best. The unhurried curl of her legs suggests she's preparing to stand, though she's concentrating on keeping her glass balanced.

Oberon inhales audibly with Morrow so close, her scent overpowering his sharpened senses. Though he has usually showed her his gentlemanly side, he isn't usually part wolf. His hand darts up to grip her wrist and tug her close. "I'm plenty strong," he rumbles.

With a stifled sound as she's drawn closer, her drink almost capsizing, Morrow blinks in genuine surprise, for once, down at the young man, forced to settle on her heels for a moment at least. "Well, of course you are.." she begins, choosing her words with care. The silhouette of firelight, mercifully, casts her expression largely into shadow. Because it's a rare expression indeed. She's off-guard. "..but you're exhausted, too." Regaining her composure with each passing second, the brunette summons a mischievous grin, flashing a glimpse of her own, far less intimidating, teeth. "And I'd hate to render you utterly helpless. It would ruin the illusion." If in doubt - tease. That always works. Right? She doesn't try to break free of that grip just yet though, instead taking another minute sip of her drink, as if she'd fully intended to wait the whole time. Yes, completely in control of the situation.

Oberon's fingers tighten on her wrist, the pointed tips of his nails digging slightly into her delicate skin. He tilts his head, gazing at her face. Craning his neck, he sniffs at her, eyes going half-lidded as he takes in her intoxicating scent. He nuzzles blindly against her cheek as he seeks out her lips for a heated, savage kiss.

Not quite so exhausted after all, then. There's a nigh-imperceptible hiss through Morrow's teeth as those sharp nails dig in, though not hard enough to do more than leave dented marks. Still! About to protest vocally, perhaps, the young lady draws a breath.. but never does quite get the words out. As Oberon's mouth descends upon her own, the svelte brunette freezes for an instant, only to then melt into the ferocious kiss in increments. Yes, her heart's threatening to beat it's way out of her chest, and yes, she's more than a little wary of those sharp canines. But.. it's Oberon. She meets his savagery with a hushed growl rising from her throat. Warning? Or encouragement?

Oberon turns into the kiss, her response fueling the young man's reactions. The blanket falls from his shoulders; it is still wrapped around him, but is threatening to reveal considerably more without someone supporting it! Morrow's quiet growl is met with a more forceful one from Oberon as he starts to lean into her, pushing her gently backward, lips never leaving hers.

Bad idea. Very, very bad idea. So.. why isn't she stopping him? The obliging twist of her upper body toward Oberon leaves the brunette off-balance, with her legs tucked up to one side, and she snakes an arm slowly up and around his neck, relying upon him to support her light weight and keep her from simply toppling. It would have been a grand plan. But then she feels him leaning forward, changing the angle without ever relenting from that kiss. The growl seems to brook no argument, and it leaves her suitably silent in response.. but her free hand, in a last ditch effort of maintaining any semblance of control, braces with splayed fingers upon the floorboards; a precarious fight to defy his intent and keep her upright. It just.. goes against the grain for her to be such a pushover. Literally.

The rhythm of Oberon's heart thumps faster as the kiss prolongs, and Morrow submits to his growing desire. Now the blanket twisting around his midsection is becoming a hindrance, and his legs begin to struggle against it. No matter, they'll have plenty of time to-…she's stopped. At least, she's resisting being laid down. For a moment, a growl begins to rumble in his throat, but he stops himself, swallowing the growl and parting his lips from hers. His voice strained with considerable willpower, he croaks, "No? Not very gentlemanly of me…but you didn't seem to mind."

She doesn't withdraw far, when Oberon chooses to break the kiss; lips parted breathlessly and dark eyes fluttering open as he speaks. There's only a sliver of blue encircling the edges of the black, and she regards him in this proximity with indecision written across her features. "I didn't… I don't." she corrects herself, speaking firmly, even if it is only in a whisper. "It's just.." Her gaze wanders downward, that arm still holding tight around his neck as she watches the rise and fall of his chest. It returns slowly to meet his, after a moment more. And she can't help the faint, resigned humour in her tone. "..I should be making you work far harder.."

Oberon considers her words for a moment, even as his bright eyes drift down to her body, then back to her fine features. "Maybe…but if you're right, and they do cure us, this could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Tell me you don't feel a certain…animal urge." That's teenage boy reasoning, right there. He nuzzles against her nose, feathering his lips against hers as he whispers, "You don't strike me as the kind of girl that wants to look back and wonder how good it could have been."

This time, it's Morrow who closes the distance. Whether it's due to some residual, primal desire or just.. want, his words seem to have had the desired effect. Pressing her lips back against his, done with that tickling, tempting sensation, she nips sharply at the lower with a canine tooth; kittenlike in comparison to the damage he could do. The hand at his back rakes upwards, her fingertips finding a grip within the dark hair at his nape, while that other hand, that last vestige of resistance? Rises to settle, flat, upon his bare chest. It might be a subtle surrender. But it's a surrender all the same. Arching her slender back invitingly, the young woman holds herself otherwise perfectly still, taut as a coiled spring, as grey daylight begins to fight back the lingering remnants of night in the skies outside.

Oberon takes a deep, triumphant breath before sinking into that kiss. For now, his troubles are forgotten, and there is only her, soothing it all away. He releases her wrist and curls the hand around her back, supporting her, suspending her in midair as they kiss and forget the world for a while. His other hand comes up to caress her cheek, the black fur on the back of his fingers petting her tender skin. When at last they pause for breath, he nips back at her lip, a little reminder that there is a bit of the beast in him, urging his actions. He tugs her close to his chest, scooping an arm under her knees so he can pick her up as he stands. Once upright, the wrapped sheet loses its tautness and falls away. There is a naked boy in Morrow's flat. What would the neighbours say? "Where is the bedroom?"

There's a soft huff of warm breath across his cheek, in response to that caress. Hushed amusement at the sensation, rather than unease. But Morrow returns that kiss with surprising ferocity, barely leashed beneath the surface. Trusting Oberon to keep her balanced, the supple, feminine muscles of her slender back remain relaxed beneath his touch; only the shallow rise and fall of her breathing betraying the reality of tension summering away. Similarly breathless when that passionate kiss is broken, she presses her forehead lightly to his, nudging at his nose with her own in an unthinkingly feline nuzzle.

Still, there's a pleased, purring sound of approval low in her throat when he nips back at her lip, and she doesn't seem unduly perturbed at the ease with which the young man lifts her into his arms. Raising her dark lashes from half-mast to instead properly meet his gaze, she then indicates the tall double-doors, slightly ajar, across the way. The bedroom beyond is dark, seeing as she'd had very little intention of sleeping, but the silhouettes of furnishings are visible enough.

Oberon tries not to seem too over-eager, so he walks instead of sprinting into the bedroom. He hugs Morrow close to his chest, already toned from his athleticism, but perhaps something about this transformation has made him just a touch leaner. He pushes one the double doors open with his foot, stepping into the dark room.

(Fade to black. Squeaky noises ensue.)

Oberon hovers over Morrow, his panting breaths hot against her skin. He rumbles softly at her touches, the savage beast perhaps being soothed at last. As some semblance of coherence returns to his features, he gives her a tired smile. "I didn't think you could get any sexier, doll. I was wrong." He leans down to steal a brief kiss from her lips, this one soft and tender, a sharp contrast to his earlier savagery.

"Oh ye of little faith.." Morrow murmurs, though her voice is different to the usual practised theatric timbre; hoarse and velvet all at once. She doesn't seek to prolong that soft kiss, quite content to stay reclined now that her poor body has a chance to rest. She does, however, wince fractionally in the wake of it, touching two fingertips to the side of her throat and exploring the marks left by his sharp teeth. Rather than affront or upset, though, she seems oddly proud of them.

Oberon tilts his head to look at what she's touching, and grins with a pride of his own at the marks. "Mine," he says, this time in a more human tone. "We'll be incredible together, Morrow. My strength, your brains and charisma, our beauty," he smirks. "Do you like power? We can have it. We could fucking have it all."

Leaving the fresh marks be, Morrow settles her arm comfortably under her head instead now, regarding Oberon with those heavy-lidded eyes. There's a flicker of wry dissent at the emphasis on 'our' — come on, she's so much prettier than him — but it's overthrown by the rest of Oberon's words. Her heart is finally beginning to slow, in the wake of that ferocious coupling.. or to call a spade a spade, that thorough fucking.. and she smiles up at him in return, tracing a fingertip along the curl of that lip when he smirks down at her. "..anyone who claims not to want power is simply loathe to claim it for their own." With a slight cant of her head, she brushes her lips in a caress along his jawline, before murmuring, "..I want it. All of it. And you."

Oberon smiles with newfound pride, not in the marks of his victor this time, but in her. "I knew you were my kind of girl." He steals another kiss from those luscious lips, this one lingering a bit longer. "You're special. Not just a pretty face. You're smart, ambitious, devious." Yes, devious, and it doesn't seem to faze him one bit. "Honestly, I'm stunned that you're not a Slytherin. I think the Hat cocked that sorting up."

Purring against his lips as that kiss lingers, Morrow returns it with equal desire. Surely she doesn't want more already? "You think so..?" she murmurs, when he pulls away from her mouth once more, seeming quietly amused by the idea. "I think perhaps you might not have noticed me, had I been sorted into your house." She's teasing him. He'd notice her anywhere. But it amuses her, in this stolen moment of calm. "I'd be just another pretty blur of green and silver.. woe to me." Chuckling gently, she lets her fingernail trace downward now, having explored his jaw, down his neck, to draw idle patterns across his bare chest.

Oberon chuckles, his grin showing off those wolfish fangs. "I'd notice you anywhere. You're better than everyone else. More importantly, you know you're better and you're not afraid to show it. Humility is a weakness I don't think either of us suffers from." He shifts a hand to brush his fingers through her hair, careful to use only the backs of his fingers to avoid using his nails.

Morrow stretches her long legs out. "Why pretend to be anything less than what you are." she agrees, unabashedly; those fangs rousing a sparkle of renewed interest for a moment in the stormy depths of her eyes. "There's a reason, I think, that we both transformed into predators that terrorised everyone in their path. Speaking of which.." That wandering hand rises to lightly cup his jaw, the better to study his features. "..we still need to decide what to do.." Half-heartedly, a glance flits toward the living room, where grey morning light is filtering through the gauzy curtains. "Later, though."

Oberon nods his agreement. They are predators; the top of the food chain. It's only natural that they should unite…lest they end up competing. Her reminder of his situation, though, brings a frown. "Right, that. Yes…later. Right now, I'm in bed with the most beautiful girl in Britain, and I have every intention of fucking her again. The world can go fuck itself for a while." Oberons rolls to Morrow's side, lifting one arm to invite her into his embrace. He lets out a heavy sigh, heralding a serious discussion. "I expect this is going to lead to problems with Abbott. He'll come after me ten times as hard now, you know."

Morrow does indeed shift to move closer; stretching out on her side and nestling in against his bare chest and smirking openly at his promise of taking her all over again. For now, though, she's relaxed and pliant, resettling her head to get comfortable and allowing her eyes to drift closed. She's still listening, of course. "There were already problems with him. He's not exactly thrilled at the notion of my being with you. But he'll come around. And since when do you care about Gryffindors coming after you." It's not even a real question - she knows he doesn't care. In fact, she's quite convinced that the 'smug' vastly outweighs the 'concern'. No need to point that out, of course.

Oberon wraps his arms around Morrow's form, molding his body possessively around hers. "I don't care about that. I care about whether it's going to cause a problem with you when he forces my hand and I have to break him. Gryffindors are stubborn. I don't see him giving up any time soon." He rubs her back, gently dragging his nails over her skin.

For the first time, there's a hesitation, and Morrow's dark lashes rise again so she can look up at the young man. Under his arm, her back arches obligingly, bringing her enticingly close against him, and she unhurriedly twines her bare legs with his as she considers. "..and if I convince him not to force your hand..?" she ventures, carefullym as she snakes an arm to loop lightly around Oberon's waist, in kind. "You bait each other, you know you do."

"I won't change who I am for him, nor even for you." Is that an admission that he baits Anson? Oberon purses his lips, shaking his head. "But…if you convince him not to do anything stupid against me, I promise that I won't hurt him. Consider it a gift to you. I'm sure we'll never get along, and he'll hate me all the more that I've made you mine. But I can be reasonable." So says the terrifying monster that slashed Anson for winking at him.

"I wouldn't ask you to." Closing her eyes again, Morrow offers a brief nuzzle to the underside of his tense jaw, before settling her head in the crook of his shoulder and sighing contentedly. "Thank you." There's no need to linger over such a topic, in her opinion. Let them hate one another, if they must. Keeping the peace is good enough, for now. And besides, she's sleeeepy, and being held this way is extremely pleasant. Drawing a slow breath, inhaling Oberon's scent, she looses a soft sound of satisfaction. After another moment, as the sun begins to determinedly rise over the rooftops of London, her fingers cease their idle to and fro across his skin, the steady rise and fall of her slender ribs announcing that she is, at last, asleep. And rather angelic she looks, too.

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