Tactile
She doesn't know why she asked in the first place. Allison supposes that it's not polite, isn't really something an understanding girlfriend would do. Still, it's only been a month since her world view has been flipped upside. It's been a month since her Aunt Kate showed her her first werewolf, less time, by a bit, since she watched one murder her aunt by tearing out her throat.
She's learning to reconcile things as best she can, learning to deal with the division in her world. Her family's legacy is a heavy burden and one she can tell her parents don't want her to take up probably ever. She practices her archery every day on her own, has enrolled on the sly in self defense classes at the Y. She's got the natural skill mixed with training and gymnastics, she just needs more. It's not that she'd go out hunting or murdering, really, as her Aunt Kate once did. It's more that she has to be able to defend herself from the weird and wild that keeps pouring into this town. She needs to be more than the damsel crying on Scott's shoulder.
So working through life she can understand, she can almost cope with a day at a time (trite as that is).
Still, every hour she spends practicing to protect herself or to hunt the rogue wolves (and Scott knows as little about that as her dad and mom do) is contrasted with the boy she loves. Scott is what her family hates, is supposed to kill. There's an uneasy truce between her parents and her boyfriend. Nominally, he's agreed not to be near her and they've agreed not to hunt him unless he takes a human life.
Tense.
Division.
Secrets.
It's why she's at his house, even though her parents think she's shopping tonight with Lydia. They've spent the last thirty minutes making out and Scott's getting worked up; she can tell by the way he's started growling. First little bits and now full out. She realizes then with a sharp breath that his claws have erupted with his exacerbation.
He stills under her and she rolls off him, eyes wide and guileless.
He's blushing fiercely, stammering an apology, and she knows he's thinking of the dance, of peering at her shocked and scared through the school bus window. No matter how much she reassures him about her love for him now, that reaction, that natural surge of adrenaline and fear in her, will haunt their relationship.
She takes his hands in hers carefully, avoiding the tips of his elongated nails. They're sharp, yes. They are not, however, full grown claws yet. Not like what Peter Hale used to kill Kate, just something in between.
"May I see?" she asks, her voice quiet and calm. She needs it to be steady to reassure him.
He gulps and she notices him eyeing the door, judging if he can bolt.
"I-"
She leans up and kisses him. "Scott, it's okay. If it makes you uncomfortable...it's not like a sideshow to me. I just wanted you to know I'm alright with it." She brings his right hand to her lips and kisses the palm first, smirking as he whimpers just a little, and then leaving delicate feather presses to each nail. Carefully, of course. "May I touch your..." She blushes a little herself, not knowing if saying the words out loud will spook him more.
"My paw?" he asks and she thinks for a long moment he's going to shift back to normal and grab her coat, that he'll ask her to leave.
Slowly though she does feel it-the spread of fur across his palm, the way the hand itself almost seems to widen and the fingers thicken as it becomes more wolf-like. The claws are last, so very long, and she can imagine the damage he could do with them.
He sits there, looking at his transformed right hand, and she looks with him (his left is still normal and his control is improving so much).
She smiles at him and reaches to touch it, but, instead, he moves it away from her and she thinks, again, he's going to bolt. Instead, he surprises her, tracing the skin across her face delicately with his paw, letting his claws barely touch the skin's surface. It's just enough pressure to raise goosebumps on her flesh and she shivers.
She feels herself do other things in places lower down and blushes again, knowing he'll smell her wetness.
Scott keeps stroking her face, often pausing to let the fur of his palm rest on her. It's surprisingly soft and she lets her cheek push against it. "Allison?"
She nods and kisses him again, maneuvering him onto his back. "Keep doing that."
"What?" he asks, words breathy.
She brushes kisses over his paw. "The light scratches. Keep doing that and I can think of i so /i many things in return."
She starts on her own ministrations and he howls so loud that she's glad Mrs. McCall's on night shift. Oh, and that her dad doesn't know, because she's doing things he'd kill her for.
And she loves them.