The way that Devon had spoken her name amidst the heat, as testing and enrapt as it was demanding of her attention, was a tempering douse of cold water over the fervor, and Ashlynn sobered her attempts at shedding his jacket from him in that moment. Dark eyes countered the steel of his, inquisitive, meaningful, once-searching hands sliding their grip down to gently grasp his upper arms, then stilled in wake of mindful listening. ‘<i>Home</i>’. That he’d said that, that he’d made such an offer originally creased her brow, dangled a laugh on the edge of her lips. The home that truly meant something was hours away, far into the mountains, nestled carefully in their misted bosom, but his exploratory hand forestalled the sound of her amusement. The gentle grace of his him was arresting, spreading its reminding, molten bliss as it went. Eager curiosity kept her motionless, too, expression paradoxically both wary and trusting of either him or his proposition. Of what he intended to do.<br/><br/>There was little in way to prepare her for it. As a wolf, magic was anathema by nature. In the country, the glory-built home of her Rochdale pack, it took little to avoid its avid questing, its tempestuous onslaught, as wolves could ill be born with its seeds in them, and they did not mingle with those who bore it. Its encounter had become only inevitable when she’d moved to the city, felt its call on the fringes of the aura of those who seeped into the crowd. Its existence had paled in the education of many things preternatural, and its tidal gravity was quiet in the back of her mind. Only her meeting with Devon, just hours ago, had stood to truly evaluate her sensitivity of its presence. Perhaps it was also him, and the animal attraction in relegation to their chemistry, but she couldn’t deny the strange allure of the mysticism that dwelled within and the way her skin had reacted to its prowling touch. There was something altogether different in what he had done next, however. Something more intimate than the brush of his power.<br/><br/>The aethereal language was a deluge of him that infected Ash, tides of intent and connotation against her shores, a surprisingly gentle pervasion of the mind. She a mold and he the igneous liquid pouring in, filling all the way down to her fingertips, seizing her only in its suddenness. Hairs on her flesh stood at their ends in physical response, atop the bumps that stole across neck and arms and legs. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his jacket, just slightly, as she read the exquisite assailment of emotions like a splayed book, its words each a foreign delicacy. Its artistry cascaded from her perceived beauty, through him, creation of amazement and intricate formation, and wove down to her aptitude, her skill, incalculable awe bred with intense appreciation - the coarse feelings any adept of any craft desperately aspired to.<br/><br/>The toffee glades between freckles had already been gilded with flush, the rich crimson becoming on her skin, before he’d delved into what he wanted in this perfect language. Until his honest desires were exposed, as brash and as raw and as skinned as they could be for her scrutiny, her understanding. The luscious vibrancies of passion that stole her, resonated decadently beneath her skin, breathed softly at the back of her neck. A passion that shed its initial entrancement over time, strengthened with experience and familiarity, that bloomed power in its deserving momentum. A wholly profound weaving of two souls, unrelenting in its determination, through the pain and joy of its constant changing or otherwise. A visceral tapestry woven, immortal, amaranthine, where its power could not wane, even if left unfinished.<i>A mate. </i><br/><br/>Inside, Ash knew that yearning deeply, the tenacity of its cry in her heart. An unprecedented need for such connection, built into the very core of every wolf, driven like moon lust. A love that she’d grown up with, had been witness to its power, its formidability, its potency against time and demon. A desire that she’d danced around, neglected like a nervous child in the few relationships she’d cultivated through her years, replacing true connection with shallow hungers.<i>Could</i>Devon Chase be her mate? The question itself was overwhelming, sudden, nevermind the implications that such a scenario could inspire. Nevermind its terminal structure. By the time he’d receded, it was still on her mind, and she tried to shake off its unwarranted fragments. Unsure if it was even within her power to offer him a future beyond the now. The thoughts lapsed into silence with her as she only listened, gaze having temporarily darted towards his chest in passive thinking.<br/><br/>“My mountain?” Ashlynn broke that silence, one brow quirked and eyes back on him, engaging if leery. “You can take us to…?” The surprised doubt was put on pause in light of the language he’d just showed her, the flawless connection of thought and emotion, though teleportation was still such a farflung reality. Glancing back towards the wine’s box, she knew she didn’t have to see the label to know its secret, its place.<i>Her </i>place. She laughed, shook her head, not to deny, but to dispel disbelief. “This is crazy. Are all mages this intense?” She teased with a conspiring and lighthearted expression, clearly joking, but possibly still waiting for him to pull the rug out from under her feet. He was going to do something, and she was sure she was going to love it as much as she hated it. “Alright…<i>me</i>involved with magic,” she chuckled, entertained beyond his understanding, carefully dropping ‘me,<i>a wolf</i>’ from her words.<br/><br/>Ash closed her eyes, the line of her brow wrinkling as she concentrated. She could better feel the touch of him there, the knock, the unobtrusive presence waiting on the delicate periphery. It was natural for her to dislike its existence at the start, hackles raising like an electric spark rippled their expanse, muscles tight beneath, a coiled spring for all it was worth. The door was barely cracked, safely harboring her secrets behind its gate - her pack, her sacred moon - but a morsel alone of her voice she allowed to slide through. A piece only ever given to him in such instance, shared with few loved ones. Keen as her visage, as her smell, her voice spilled in aromatic images, vivid, acute, rapid.<br/><br/>The skin of youth was donned, prickled from chill, warmed with the laughter of a tribe of children. Feral little ones that squealed joy, her included, breath a frosted fog from her lips, air cold in her throat. The scent of pine was strong, comforting, permeating in face of autumn. Glancing down as her hastily tied boots splashed into the writhing creek’s depths, over slick rocks. The frigid water swallowed that memory whole, the reflection of the sky morphing into the true one with its dark, glacial clouds, bumbling into adolescence. Garbled music buzzed in the back of her mind, laden along the path that her gaze slid down to, winding along the trees, the wind carrying the morning with it.<i>Not much farther,</i>she knew, inherent in the way she’d taken this journey a thousand and one times. Had found it. Had showed the others it was there.<br/><br/>“Slow down, Ash!” A masculine voice called, one that brought her happiness as much as it did exasperation, that offered familiarity. One that quietly inspired limitless sadness in the present.<br/><br/>“No, no! You have to see it!” Her own words distorted as she spoke them, blotting into the imagery as she turned, a figure making their ascent blurring into the background until the painted hues formed the mountains and a visage of adulthood took its place. Heavy breathing, too spent in body to notice the burdens of the mind, checking her quick heart rate. Could smell the light salt of her sweat laced with the fresh mountain air, the crispness of its serenity. Of earth and pine and comforting dawn that coiled as a soothing blanket. The clearing of Mt. Lerwick reached as it gazed upon Mt. Tunstead. Against an old tree who groaned at the wind, she leaned, staring out at the silver surface of Aria’s waters, warping the aureate of the sun as it began to peek over the mountains. Her home was far reflected in its surface, calm in the morning, mottled only with the disturbances of waterfowl as they made their dives, the eagles circling above imitating their hunger.<br/><br/>There was something else in her place. Something that she did not show, could not dare to, but she felt it there - in memory and present. A heavy, daunting presence. A copse of trees at her back, and something beyond it, but before she could vomit her words, before it could be seen, the door shut.<br/><br/>In turn, Ash’s eyes opened, a thin line of chocolate trapped between her lashes until she locked with his steel. “Something… like that?” She asked, uncertain both if it had been enough or entirely too much. The visitation of such memories, bittersweet, loving and somber in their entirety, left a soft tremble to her fingers, which she realized had been gripping Devon’s arms rather strongly during the experience. She didn’t know why she wanted wine on her mountain with a near stranger, who’d shared intentions she was unsure she could ever fulfill beyond the temporary. It had been too long since it had been shared with anyone. She just did know she wanted to share it with<i>him</i>.<br/><br/>“Devon,” she spoke his name in the same manner that he had done her, though now she slid her hands up his shoulders, along either side of his neck. “Before you do… whatever it is you’re about to do, you should know. I don’t know if I can give you forever.<i>I don’t even know if I can give you next week.</i>All I know is that I can give you now. I can give you tonight,” she promised, leaning close enough for her breath to graze his lips. “If that’s enough for you… don’t forget glasses for the wine.”