The bus doors open, and a tangle of dogs and Iris tumble out. The dogs rush Cain with typical canine joy, but Iris gets there first, springing up and clinging to Cain's neck.
"'Ey you. The little blonde one's Libby. Don't let Abaddon give 'er any trouble or Solace'll chew 'is ears off. You smell good."
She has her face pressed into the hollow of his throat, and Iris has always loved the scent of his skin. Changing to a werewolf hasn't changed that, nor has it improved her sense of smell that much: she has always been able to sort individual neurotransmitters, to follow their track along her own perceptions. What's changed is the context, the visceral immediacy of scents.
She bites him, slowly, almost solemn and very lightly, and pays no attention to her enormous sunhat falling to the sand.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-06-28 06:04 pm (UTC)"'Ey you. The little blonde one's Libby. Don't let Abaddon give 'er any trouble or Solace'll chew 'is ears off. You smell good."
She has her face pressed into the hollow of his throat, and Iris has always loved the scent of his skin. Changing to a werewolf hasn't changed that, nor has it improved her sense of smell that much: she has always been able to sort individual neurotransmitters, to follow their track along her own perceptions. What's changed is the context, the visceral immediacy of scents.
She bites him, slowly, almost solemn and very lightly, and pays no attention to her enormous sunhat falling to the sand.