He felt safe, cradled. The relative stillness inside her, the promise that yes, little sister was ragged, but she was alive. Timepod, closed. How much would she hate him if he told her this was what Miranda gave him, too, afterward. The woman had disliked it, of course, the way he'd settle after satisfaction, finding places on her that he could press his cheek to and revel in. Miranda wanted to be young, even if she'd fallen for his youth two fold, both with the adoration of a mother, and clamor for something else, something wild that he promised when he was too inspired by her games, bruising her up so she had to wear Jonas's shirts even further down her thighs. She taught him about his ignited possessiveness, when she was saying goodbye to father, and the errand boy Wicker was just coming in the door with groceries from Dole's - tell-tale bleached paper bag - kissing her husband sweetly in her morning garb by the threshold, while lifting to show herself undressed under the cotton hem, so only Volk could see from his angle. She was raising him with the same place that his sister had come from, but their union there was becoming a little longer lived and dear.<br/><br/>So really, the sweet prince atop make-shift horses that were really boulders, holding swords that were really long since emptied plastic bottles, was growing up to be exactly like that, her subtle villains with their ready affection, held up above her head, so that Reno could jump and stretch for it. In reality, male love for girls is not formidable if the person is not - it would be a harder sell, to have little women be their best for a boy who'd only get in their way all the time, and barely put in the effort for their happiness when it came in the way of their own comfort. Still, undisclosed faithfuls are the most illustrious currency. Slowly, the Wicker errand boy was gathering as much, which lost Miranda her power, but by bit.<br/><br/>Toward the end, when she had started directing Volk and his healthy flesh - move her, arrive then, soften your tongue and move in careful circles - she was the predecessor to her daughter. He had tastes, of course, and her little romantic mewls were not as assuring to him as she thought, for as long as she thought. The vanity that helped her be whichever brand of beautiful she liked, also saw her at unflattering angles. Volk loved when mother tried to protest, but wasn't allowed to. It was the kind of power no little prince should have. But after eight, he had no responsibilities, done with the good portion of his day. Miranda suffered when he grew the courage to play as he wanted. It was her blood that made Reno a remora on after-waters of the local male populous, but she was it for her brother.<br/><br/>What a bastard she was raising between her thighs, how he kept treating Reno well, while his wolf appetites were costing her a good deal of autonomy, and all her dignity. It was worse, of course, that she thrived under it. Jonas spoiled her with compliments over her glow. The poor, sweet man was talking about another, inspired by her infusion of hot blood. They were being silly about it, and she fucked his brains soft for afterglow up until Volk said she wasn't allowed to anymore.<br/><br/>Her mother's metamorphosis was enough proof that the man on his knees in their sullen palace of memories was exactly the kind of backwater dapper that had lead Reno through the affectionless pine forest of her emotional life, so far. Mother had sharpened his teeth and then he'd  gone to greater hunting grounds, to build his own graveyard of lilies. He was absolutely of the same blood lust as the under-cut, backward cap boys that she'd come to know. If a belle didn't want something, he'd show his teeth and loom over her.<br/><br/>But Reno wasn't Volk's diet.<br/><br/>He thought he could sense it, in there, in the secrecy of the tent he'd built, in the circus of scents that he'd dipped into. The tension in the wall of her stomach. He tried not to know, maybe she was strung taut because she was afraid of something else. He was a threat to her in all manner of scenarios. He tried to loose his thoughts into her again, the childhood this belly was pregnant with, ready to share, but it was a cloud he couldn't ignore, not even when he thought he was being so gentle and perfectly sentimental. How can it be wrong for a grown brother to stick his head under his sister's skirt?<br/><br/>His hair was in a decadent storm when the fabric finally slid off his face after a small retreat. Concern there, when the elation of having feasted on her aromatic oils had melted from him. He stood, growing to the size of her judgement again, but he didn't look like he'd hammer any sentence anytime soon. He cupped her cheek to make her look at him, attention, always, with worry in his now smaller mouth. He scanned her beautiful black miasma and the real complexion underneath for something that wasn't what she displayed, already.<br/><br/>She'd spoken with maiden voice, and it had been appropriately honeyd, but he hadn't like it. It sounded like expert violin music finding its way through the speakers of a belly-up toy car. He was insulted again, but he understood part of this misunderstanding wasn't her fault. "I am going to touch you, Ren." he stated. Now, here, more as I stay. "But it's not going to be like that." He looked as though he might have been laughing if this wasn't so utterly grave. "You shouldn't even be... It's too soon for you, with anyone." Paragon of hypocrisy, in the flesh, dressed in taut skin and only slightly less tight leather. Like he wasn't the saint of his own carnal cause, put together in all the siren songs for the bent or cracking places in women.<br/><br/>He laughed darkly, miserably and took her head to his chest again. "Fuck, Reno. It's not like that. Let me just fix this place up for you." And then I'll leave you alone. As though he'd come to leave, all along. He let go though, decidedly, still a bit hurt by her assumptions that his lips under her navel, so close to her pussy, had meant he wanted to see what a younger Miranda might be like. He meant to go pick up his bag and looked around for it, finally pulling the jacket off. Black t-shirt with a wide neck, as though he wasn't putting forth the image of a whore already. Collarbones and endless neck up to razorblade jaw. Proportioned like he was always in transit between bedsheets. The hair her dress hat built didn't help in professing his innocence.<br/><br/>"How about you go up and sleep. I'll get started." It was a bit of a rejection, of course, but he was being polite about it. The implication was thick, that she'd somehow made their already bizarre atmosphere stranger. He wanted to haunt this house, and she could choose whether to believe he'd been a funeral day apparition, or if he'd still be here in the morning.