recife.

witch

All she has to do is ask for what she wants. This has been her way for a long time. Anytime she's on the road. Anytime she's with mortals who believe in what she can do. She knows he doesn't care about his money; she doesn't, either. May as well use it. May as well enjoy it while they're here. While he's sane and she's with him. While they're alive. So she doesn't shy from telling him: fly. hotel. massages. beach.

No more than she shies away from suggesting, albeit in the sidelong fashion she has, that he go down on her. Kiss her there. Lick her pussy. Fuck her with his mouth.

He touches her face and she smirks a little, eyes half-closing in response to both the thought of closeness and the real closeness she feels now. The water sloshes and drips around them as she gets on her toes for that second kiss. Is held by him, and holds onto him.

"Head back," she confirms, nodding a little.

--

But they don't head back right away. They stand where they are, arms around each other, for just a while longer. They are standing in the Amazon River. The waxing moon shines down on both of them. They kiss instead. They kiss until it becomes evident that they should head back, and then they do.

As before, they walk, or they drive. They hold hands this time, if they walk.

Back at the Hotel do Forte they shower. They stay together: he can see her bruises, how dim the discoloration is now. Still tender, though. They scrub sweat and river water off their bodies, wash the long drive of the day out of their hair. Wash away, perhaps, the fighting and anxiety they've carried with them. It's not until they're safely under the covers, clean and soft-skinned, that one of them reaches for the other. Or they roll together, not meaning to, and find themselves kissing again. Touching again. Coming together, wet and slow, with her hands on his back, his mouth at her shoulder.

--

Morning comes and they have to make arrangements. Get a flight out. Figure out what to do with the car they've driven all this way. But they do find a flight, late in the afternoon, almost evening. In the meantime they sort out something with the car, whether selling it or storing it. They send their laundry out, comes back to them clean and fresh and folded with the sort of bill attached that looks exorbitant to both of them but isn't, really, in the face of his wealth. They eat something between breakfast and lunch, refusing to call it brunch. They eat street food for a meal between lunch and dinner before their flight, sitting out along the path that overlooks the river, side by side on a bench in the shade. She plays footsie with him, her bare foot stroking his ankle.

This is the first leg of the trip they've flown. They take her suitcase and her backpack, his duffle bag. Hardly look like they belong in the up-front seats with more leg room but that's where they are. It's sweltering at first, but then cools off rapidly. She curls up against him,under a thin blanket from a plastic bag. Doesn't fall asleep; as much as she's flown in her life she still likes it, isn't jaded to it. Leans on him but peers out the window. Holds his hand. Doesn't mention anything about it. Neither does he, more than likely.

--

It's a long flight. They're given a meal on the plane, even. Devon gets tiny bottles and mixes herself a cocktail to go with hers. She fiddles with her phone. Eventually gets out some paper from her backpack and starts writing what looks to be a letter.

In Portuguese. So that tells him who it's for, anyway. Halfway through the letter she gets bored and decides to start teaching him the language.

Desculpe, eu não falo português.

Onde é o banheiro?

Quanto custa?

She teaches him some choice swear words, too.

--

When she is too bored to do anything else, Devon finally takes a nap. And when they land, it is dark in Recife. Dark and late. It's a large city though, one of the largest in Brazil, and it's easy for them to find a taxicab to the hotel that Rafael booked when they woke that morning. Devon is buzzed from travel, wired, and when they check in to their room she actually jumps on the bed in her torn-up jeans and the t-shirt that winks at onlookers. Won't stop prattling in the local language, perhaps because she is pretty excited to get to use it outside of conversations with her mum. At least she tells him what she's saying when he asks.

Jumps off the bed and right onto him, eventually, hanging off of him by arms and legs like a koala.

"Let's go out," she says, breathless, cheeks pink. "Let's run around. Get you drunk."

wolfman

They sell the car. Or rather: wolf drives it to some used-car lot and girl translates for him. He gets an offer. It's ridiculously low. Shouldn't matter to him -- he's rich enough now that it doesn't matter -- but he's angry; it's the principle of the thing. Wolf snarls about it; girl doesn't even have to translate. They get a fairer offer. Less than the car is worth, but then: they're doing this pretty last-minute.

Take a taxi back to their hotel. Get their stuff, check out. Girl has to make the flight arrangements. Or else his people do. Wolf has no idea how, and it can't take long for girl to realize he's never flown before. Has no idea about airport security or what is or isn't allowed or what's wrong with a middle seat or what's so special about being up front in those big, first-class seats. Sits there frowning, learning, absorbing it all in silence. Doesn't want to admit he knows nothing, but it's so obvious he doesn't need to.

He ends up with the window seat. Girl gets the aisle, but leans against him. Wolf is quietly tense as they taxi, his inner ears unused to the strange vertigo of the plane's movements. Holds her hand when they take off, his grip tight as the engines roar them into the sky.

Dinner on the plane. Drinks on the plane. Girl so used to flying she's not nervous at all; lounges in that big leatherish seat playing on her phone. Writing a letter. Wolf relaxes too, after a while. Hand on hers loosens. He figures out how to recline his seat and how to put the footrest up; figures out how to swing out the entertainment system. Watches some movie full of explosions. Falls asleep halfway through it.

--

Dark when they land. Still hot. Still humid. Not quite so smotheringly so as the heart of the amazon, but close enough: they're still within a few degrees of the equator, after all.

Check into a swanky hotel this time. Penthouse suite, view of the ocean. Wolf's never spent so much on a room before; is a little amazed at the number. A porter carries their things up and wolf doesn't even know what to do with himself. Stands there brooding and quiet, not understanding a word the girl and the porter say to each other. Barely remembers to tip.

Then girl's bouncing on the bed. Wolf is unpacking a bit, then stuffing their bags in a closet. They've got a whole apartment up here. A terrace with french doors, loungers under the stars; a dining table, a kitchenette, a sprawling couch in front of a huge tv, an enormous bed, an enormous garden tub with jets. Wolf stalks around investigating everything until suddenly

girl lands on his back, wrapped around him, telling him they should go out. Get him drunk.

"Not getting in another drinking contest with you," he admonishes. "Know how that goes. Pick the place and I'll go with you, though."

witch

Devon translates rapidly. She widens her eyes; her conversation with the salesman indicates that the man with her sometimes gets angry. Rafael can't tell. She uses his rage to their advantage. It's a shitty little thing to do, opportunistic and a bit cruel, but dude: the guy's first offer was insulting.

At the hotel, she's a bit surprised when she tells him they should get the flight sorted out and he looks like he's drawing a blank. Watches, overhearing, as he calls one of his people in the States and they work it out, the servant cradling the phone while setting things up online. For her part, Devon just packs. She sees Rafael tossing things in and quietly helps him re-pack a bit. What can be taken with them. Doesn't question him. Just shows him.

On the flight she is surprised when he holds her hand like that. Tight. She looks at him, and then swings his arm around her shoulders, tucking herself close. Their stomachs flip-flop when the plane finally lifts from the ground and she hears him take a little breath that he may not be aware of. Her hand squeezes his. Come back.

But she stays close, and she makes him a drink too if he wants it, or he gets a beer. They fly. He gets used to flying. Sort of.

--

At the hotel room -- more of a suite, more of an apartment -- she is thrilled that they got here fast, are going to stay a few days. Stop traveling for a while. She bounces and she has already made a bit of a mess, taking things at random out of her bag while looking for something else, tossing things about. Doesn't quite look like they've been here a week but give her time.

He's sniffing around and she jumps on him and grins close to his ear, breathless and pink and warm.

"Not a contest," she assures him. Kisses his cheek from behind. "You're cute when you're drunk," she informs him, having seen this exactly once. Kisses him again but keeps her face close there, inhaling his scent right from his cheekbone. "Cute when you're nervous about flying. Cute when you're trying to make me happy."

Turns her face closer, nose pressed against his temple, lips against his skin. Is smiling, eyes closed. "Sexy when you're cute."

wolfman

"Wasn't nervous," wolf says automatically. Just as automatic, his hands wrapping under her thighs, piggybacking her. He's nuzzled. He's kissed, or smooched, or at the least: her lips press to his temple. Thinnest part of the skull. Seat of memory just beneath. Wolf tilts his head a little, eyes closing.

"Just a little nervous," he amends. Admits. "Never flew before. Least not that I remember."

Hand covers her entwining arms. Gives her a little squeeze. "Lemme take a shower and change my shirt. Then we'll go out."

witch

Rafael is lying but she is ignoring him. Kissing him. Telling him all the things about him that are cute, and how that is sexy. He keeps a hold on her and she grins and grins and grins against his ear. Opens her mouth and bites gently on his earlobe.

Shower. Shirt. She wiggles against him and then hops down, ass bouncing onto the bed. He heads off, and she doesn't ask to join him, or join him by surprise.

--

When he's out, she's standing in front of the mirror, fixing her eye makeup. The heavy, smoky-dark lids. The thick mascara. The wings at the corners of her eyes. Overdone by half. Looks fantastic on her. Wearing that blue-grey dress he saw her in once, at the Green Russell. Second, maybe third time he ever saw her. Wearing fishnets with it again, and those sparkling boyshort panties underneath. Hasn't put on shoes yet but they're already out, sitting on the ground akimbo: black combat boots with black laces. The black laces have silver threads of glitter through them.

Her hair isn't straightened, hasn't been for this whole trip. She does have a headband in, though, the one with the metal studs that look like little pyramids, somewhere between a crown and a spiked collar on top of her head.

Looks over at him. She's putting on lipgloss, shiny and pale with a gold tint to the natural pink of her lips. Starts stacking bracelets on her wrist. Didn't pack enough random jewelry to wear sixteen thousand necklaces though. Only has four: a chain, a strand of pearls that are probably fake, another chain in a different metal, a necklace made of big loops woven with a sheer ribbon.

Smirks at him, head tipped to the side.

wolfman

Short shower. Water goes on. Shower goes on. Wolf in the spray for five, ten minutes. Comes out in a towel, steam rising off his skin. Watches her from across the room as she touches up her eyes.

Watches her while he gropes a shirt (grey) and a pair of jeans (blue) out of his duffle. Long pants for the first time in days, and probably only because girl looks so fucking good. Watches her while he steps into the jeans. Watches her while he tugs shirt on his arms, flips it over his head. Rolls the hem down to his hips, coming across the room in bare feet, wrapping his arm around her waist from behind and leaning in to kiss her neck. Fake pearls roll under his lips. Wolf has half a mind to buy her a string of real ones. Six feet long, so she can wind it around her neck, her waist, her arms, whatever the hell she wants. Wear nothing but pearls, maybe, rolling on her sweaty skin while they fuck.

Girl's smirking at him then. Sends a flash of heat down his spine. Wolf kisses her again, angle of her jaw this time.

"Like that dress," he says. Hand at her waist pulls at the fabric; pleats the hem up an inch. Wolf's staring at that extra inch of thigh. "Fucking hot," he comments,

kisses her again, a little savagely this time, an edge of teeth behind the lips. Lets her go, then, reluctantly, hand sliding around her waist to find her hand.

"Where we going?"

witch

She's standing, eyeing him, watching him go from naked and towel-wearing to dressed as she leans against the vanity, finishing her lip gloss. Adding her jewelry. Is still standing there when he comes over to her, suddenly amorous, wrapping her up so close it leans her backward.

He thinks about pearls. She can't read his thoughts; just smirks at him, with those glossed and gleaming lips. He tugs at the fabric and she breathes in, smirk faltering a little. Looks down at her, thigh in between wide diamonds of fishnet hose. And then he ruins her lip gloss. Can taste it, something honeyed, pressing against her.

Devon lifts her hips, holding herself against his body. Her bracelets jangle and rattle on her wrist as she lifts her hand to touch his face.

But he stops kissing her. She's looking at him, a smear of something glistening on her lip. And on his, frankly. She huffs a breath. "Place called NOX," she says, lifting up her phone from the counter and waggling it. "Sounds like what I want."

wolfman

Wolf's still close to her. Holding her hand now, but their legs cross one another; their bodies are pressed together. Wolf licks his lips. Tastes her gloss. Eyes flick sideways at her waggling phone. Screen is dark anyway.

Not sure quite what she means, anyway. If she wants to get high, or if she thinks that place sounds right for her. Wolf just threads his fingers through hers. Steps back, pulls her up from where she leaned on that vanity, doing her eyes. Stacking her bracelets. Fuck knows why that turned him on so much, anyway.

"Come on. We'll get a cab."

witch

Devon grins. And grabs his hand. And off they go.

Well. She has to shove her feet into boots and stick her phone and a couple other items into her shoulder-bag and then they're off. And out to a taxicab to go to this nightclub, one of the most modern in the city. All darkness and lines and pulsing bass, flashing lights. Her kind of place.

Sort of.

Not really his.

wolfman

Less than twenty-four hours ago they stood in the waters of the most untamed river in the world. Now they're walking out of a fancy hotel suite, taking the elevator down, hailing a cab, driving off to one of the most modern clubs in the city. Contrast so extreme it jars the wolf. He's quiet on the trip over, a hulking beast clothed like a man. Sitting in the back seat making the driver nervous.

Club's a futuristic square on the street corner. No windows. Just blank concrete covered in steel plates, except for the bar of translucent, lit glass at the top. Line snakes across a crowded drop-off area, onto the sidewalk. Bass rumbles out from window, the details of the music lost; nothing left but primitive, rolling, thunderous rhythm.

Wolf climbs out of the cab. Holds girl's hand. She steps out after him in those boots, those fucking boots, those fucking fishnets, that fucking skirt. Wolf's eyes flash, aggressive, at anyone who looks her way. Which is ironic, because at the same time: he loves that she looks so good. Stupidly proud of it, because she looks so good and she's here with him. Chose him, didn't she. Brought him to this place, even if it's not really his kind of place. Him, and no one else

--

Bass opens up into driving, pounding, thudding music as they enter that concrete bunker of sound. Inside's covered in rippling, glowing waves: colors change with the music, cast a ghostly ambient light on everyone. Just enough so everyone looks good, looks hot, looks so fucking gorgeous. Athletic young bartenders behind the bar doing acrobatics with bottles and glasses. Couches piled full of semi-inebriated clubbers. New Year around the corner. Pre-Carnivale already going strong. Every city has its hedonists; here's where they find Recife's.

witch

Maybe she's a celebrity and maybe he's her bodyguard. She has no entourage though. She has no retinue. No cameras follow her. She is grinning as they go inside. They do eventually go inside. She bums a smoke from someone while they stand in line. He may not like that.

Inside it's so loud, and it's dark but for the slashes of colored light that cut through, too fast to follow. She keeps hold of Rafael's hand as they weave inward, head for the bar, get her something in a tall glass with too much ice and bright pink something. Whatever he wants.

She sips her drink through a straw, out of the way of the bar, one arm looped around his neck, her body stretched out against his. She toys with his hair. Mouths something at him. Is yelling it, just about, but hard to hear.

Dance,

she wants to know.

wolfman

No, wolf doesn't really like it when she bums a smoke off someone else. Particularly if it's a male someone else. At least wolf isn't a total dick about it this time. Doesn't get all passive-aggressive, doesn't snarl at the other. Doesn't swat the cigarette out of her hand either.

Frowns a little. Tries to look like he doesn't care. But maybe she notices, or maybe she doesn't, and at any rate: girl's with him. Girl keeps hold of his hand, even while she smokes with the other, and after a while he bums a drag.

Then they're at the door anyway. Show their IDs and pay their covers. Go into the roaring darkness, those futuristic lights. Girl takes him to the bar and he buys her a drink. Gets himself something else, boring, a shot of vodka or something. Girl's keeping so close to him, her long lean body and her arm around his neck. Wolf has an arm around her waist too, casual and loose; maybe a little territorial. Drinks his drink while she says something he doesn't hear, so he raises an eyebrow at her.

She mouths it again.

Dance.

--

No, wolf doesn't want to dance. Wolf can't dance. Wolf remembers the gala, though, remembers how disappointed she was. Truth is wolf wants to make her happy. So wolf grumbles about it and frowns about it, but wolf picks himself up off that barstool. Empties his shot -- maybe for courage -- and follows her out onto the floor.

Fucking terrible dancer. Looks stiff and stupid, but then people don't really look at him when she's there. Dancing. They look at her. He looks at her. Begs off after one dance but doesn't go stalking outside. Gets himself another drink, a double, leans against a wall while she dances in front of him.

Watches her, faint little smile quirking his mouth. Gets drunk.

--

Later on music's slower, heavier. Wolf's drunker, looser. Girl's leaning against him, moving to the rhythm, and wolf lets himself be persuaded away from the wall.

Wolf dances with her: hand on her hip, brow almost touching hers. Touching hers, sometimes. Kissing her, sometimes. Wolf's mouth tastes like his drinks: the vodka, and then something milky-white, and then something mocha-brown, and then something livid orange. Girl's the one ordering drinks for him after that first one, clearly. Wolf is quite drunk by now, quite loose, and has a sense of rhythm after all.

Still not a great dancer. But better.

--

Closing club kicks them out onto the street. So fucking hot outside. They stand on the curb; wolf's more unsteady than girl is. Arm heavy around her shoulders. Leaning on her a bit, truth be told. Hail a cab and pile in, wolf laughing under his breath. Girl leans against him and it takes both of them to tell the cabbie where to go because neither of them remember the name of the hotel and only she speaks Portuguese but he's the one describing the building, the street.

Wolf pulls her leg over his knee on the way back. Legs stacked and crisscrossing. His head back against the rest, watching the street go by. His hand covering her knee, though; strands of her fishnets tangible under his fingers.

Starts kissing her halfway to the hotel. Still tastes like alcohol. Still tastes like lust. Her hand is in his hair by the time they arrive. His hand is rucking up the edge of that short, short skirt. Hotel doorman opens the door and they pull apart. Wolf pays the bill. Follows her in, and most men get silly or belligerent or stupid when they're drunk, but he's not a man. He's a wolf. Gets more feral when he's drunk. Prowls the lobby, has eyes only for her. Gets on the elevator and stands close to her, breathing in deep, measured pulls. Watches the numbers move. Doesn't want to paw at her in the lift. Security cameras in here and he doesn't want anyone else seeing.

Down the hall. In the door. Lights turned themselves off when they removed the keycard. Wolf forgets to put the keycard back in. Pulls off his shirt the minute they're in the door, anyway. Kicks his shoes off and starts to shed his jeans.

wolfman

[kai be look at aim! :D]

witch

Devon hasn't the faintest what his problem is while she's smoking. It's some girl about her height, about her age, someone else who speaks Portuguese. They chatter a bit. He looms, darkly. And they share a few smokes. And she grins at him. Is noticing how close he stays, and figures it's the strange place, the unfamiliar territory. The crowd. Haven't been around crowds this whole trip. They're both a touch introverted, but he more than she: Devon is craving the people, the contact, the sight of other faces, new voices. She is grinning at him though, while they drink, asking him to dance.

Isn't thinking about the gala. About him disappointing her. Then leaving her. Or about anything. She's on her feet between his legs at the bar, and then he's downing the shot and she's finishing that drink -- not much actual liquid in with all that ice -- and gleefully going out into the dark with him.

Tell the truth, even Devon isn't really looking at him, gauging him. The music is fast, and she's so relaxed. She puts her back against him and winds his arms around her so he can feel her move and frankly if he just wants to stand there it's fine, it's all right. Tries to pull him back when he begs off, her brows furrowed. Not wary, not upset, but wants him with her. Keeps an eye on him,

actually is a little wary, honestly.

--

Comes back after a song or two. Chugs water. Does a shot of vodka with him, and kisses him, tasting of liquor and trying to get him to come back with her. They're a few steps from the bar before he realizes, mid-kiss, that she's tricking him. He goes back and she just grins, goes to dance again.

More.

--

Later still: taking a break. Leaning against him, arms around her waist from behind, swaying. She made suggestions; he followed them. So many things he's never tried. He's getting quite smashed. He's so relaxed now, and she's shockingly alert -- or perhaps not, considering that the last time they drank together she literally drank him under the table. He forgets to think about anyone watching him. Forgets to think at all. The lights help. The base. Her body, up against his. The way she kisses him.

Outside he has his arm around her but he's so heavy. She's laughing, swaying on her booted feet, long legs not wobbling though. Climb into a cab. Rafael has his head back, drowsy, eyes closed because the cab is spinning, describes their hotel. Devon grins and talks to the driver who does not take them to the hotel but Rafael doesn't notice. He's kissing her, touching her legs. She spreads her fingers through his hair. He touches her hip through her panties, velvety black, studded with those little rhinestones.

Driver takes them to the beach. Devon pulls back, cheeks flushed, grinning at him. "Venha comigo, gato," she murmurs, calling him that name again. Tugs on his shirt, tumbles out of the cab with him again. Truth be told, they're not that far from their hotel. Within stumbling distance. She keeps her boots on at first, then leans over and unties them enough to yank her feet out, carrying them by the laces. Murmurs to him that he should take his shirt off, and perhaps he drunkenly obeys. It's so hot, after all, and it's so late now, it's the next day. Hard to believe that twelve hours or so ago they were sitting on a bench overlooking not the Atlantic, but the Amazon. Eating street tacos.

Now they're walking on a beach in the middle of the night in Brazil. In her fishnets and little dress. In his jeans. She has her hand under his shirt anyway, resting on his lower back, heading a bit closer to the water before she decides to just plop down in the sand, pulling him with her. Putting her hands on his face in a way that would be awkward if they were sober but currently is just pawing, fond, aimless. Kisses him there, one leg over his lap as it was in the cab.

Waves roll in and slide out, with their shushing, endless chant.

wolfman

Wolf's eyes open when the cab stops. Narrow and green and glassy from drink. Looks at the sea. Looks at the beach.

"This isn't the hotel," wolf points out, as if girl's didn't have two gorgeous eyes to look through. Meanwhile cabbie's waiting for money. Wolf arches his hips and pulls out his wallet and fumbles out some money. Girl counts out the proper amount under the ceiling light. Pays, smiling the way she does, brilliant eyes and secret-garden smile.

Wolf's looking at her when she looks at him. Has this look in his eyes. Girl takes his hand and he heaves himself up from the seat, climbs out of the back seat. Waves sussurating in the distance. Smell of the ocean, unmistakable.

Cab drives off or disappears into thin air or whatever it does. Wolf and girl go down to the sea. He stands still for her, lets her lean on his shoulder, while she tugs her boots off. Kicks his shoes off too a moment after, tying them together by the laces and slinging them around his neck. She wants his shirt off. He obliges, tugging it lazily and messily off. Hair rumpled afterward. Weeks since his last professional trim at this point. Shoes bounce against his ribs. Shirt flutters from his hand.

Goes down in the sand with her. Sprawls on his back, stars wheeling overhead. Girl is kissing him and he puts his hands on her waist, shifts her atop, rucks her skirt up. Rhinestones on her panties. He marvels at such a thing, such a decadent, wasteful thing. Slides his hands under her panties, rubbing her ass.

While they kiss. While they make out. While he sobers, gradually, little by little.

--

Tide's coming in, wave by wave. Highest waves are brushing their toes. Girl's head rests on his shoulder; arm over his middle. Wolf's watching the stars. Draws a knee up as the water wets the cuff of his jeans.

"Should go back," he whispers.

So they do. So they get up. Discover his shirt, dropped and forgotten, has been caught by the breeze; blown off somewhere unseen. Discover their shoes are wet. Wolf holds girl's hand as they walk up the beach -- fingers intertwined, grip loose. Their hotel isn't so far away, and there's no need for another cab. They walk. Show up in the lobby smelling like the sea wind, wolf still barefoot, barechested as well now. Resort town so no one really cares, and besides: money speaks for itself. Wolf's learning that.

Up the elevator.

Down the hall.

Into their room.

Lights stay off. Wolf sheds the rest of his clothes. Methodically, silently. Girl watches or girl participates or girl reciprocates; either way, wolf picks her up when he's done. Lifts her with his hands at her sides, a smooth upward motion. And he says he can't dance. Girl's hands on his face when they kiss. They always kiss. Don't ever get sick of it.

Windows open, curtains billowing ghostlike in the breeze. Bed too fine and heavy to creak this time. Wolf lands on his back, girl atop him. Wolf pushes those glittery panties down and she kicks them off. Wolf's hands running up her legs, up her long arms. Cradling her face as he leans up to kiss her

while she reaches down to stroke him

while he pants a breath

while she guides him inside.

Slow easy fuck. Gentle as the tide. Girl riding him in lazy pulses; his hands smoothing up her sides, cradling her breasts, tracing her shoulderblades and her spine. Girl's hands on his shoulders when she starts to go a little harder. Wolf lacing his hands behind his head, watching her, enjoying her, letting her have her way. Until she tells him she wants his hands on her, anyway. Until he puts his hands on her. Turns her under him. Fucks her into the mattress, emphatic, powerful, unrefined.

Girl's legs so tight around him. Girl's arms wrapped around his neck, hands gripping his shoulders, his back. Wolf bites her when he comes, grinding, frankly bouncing her against the mattress, growling.

--

Takes him a while to roll aside. Too hot for covers, too lazy to move. Night breeze leaches heat from his skin. Sweat from his body. Wolf still has a hand on her thigh, wrapped around the inside where her skin's so soft. Closes his eyes, saying nothing; asleep in moments if she doesn't stop him.

witch

While he's drunk he must murmur something to her. Nothing that makes sense. He's laid out on a beach and she's on top of him, kissing him, reminding him every so often with a hushed laugh and a gentle push of his hands that they're still on the beach. Like she's shy, suddenly. Or something. She's kissing him so gently, lazily, as time goes by. Water sloshes up against his feet and he makes some noise; she tugs her legs up suddenly, sitting up beside him, alert as a little gopher popping out of the earth.

He says they should go back. She laughs under her breath, kisses him again. Shakes sand out of her dress when they get up. Murmurs that same thing to him in Portuguese that she said when they got out of the cab: come with me, cat. Her boots, dropped a few inches from his head, are dry. She doesn't bother putting them on until they're at the edge of the sand, and she's brushed her feet off as much as she can. He goes barefoot. She doesn't bother lacing her boots up. They walk into the lobby and her hair is mess; she lost her headband somewhere in the club, or it's sitting on the floor of the cab. She's close to him, arm over his middle, as they go up the elevator.

Where he doesn't want to be mauling her: cameras, privacy. Where he holds her, and she leans against him, and she hears music in her head.

He might be surprised to know that it's the Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy. He might not be surprised at all.

He might not know it.

--

They don't turn on the lights. The song changes to earlier in the ballet. Coffee, it's called. The Arabian Dance, more regularly. The door clicks shut behind them, and his arm slips from hers as he undresses. She is behind him, dripping bracelets and necklaces. Stepping out of boots as she follows him. Doesn't undress because he's been tugging up her dress all night: she peels off the fishnets, though, her only concession. But by then he's turning to her, hands up under that shocking hemline, onto her waist, lifting her up onto him. Bare legs fold around him, slender arms. It's cool inside their room, the air dried from all its conditioning. She can taste all their other kisses on his mouth when he breathes into her.

Gravity, then. He falls back and she onto him: he pushes at the fabric and she helps him then, lifting the layers up and off, tossing the dress aside. Unhooks her bra in the dark and loses that, too, leaning over him to kiss him again. His hands go into her knickers. Her legs stretch out as he pushes them down, down, off. He's hard against her, pressed to her belly, rubbing slightly against her. She starts to gasp. And slides down his body. Never done this before. Isn't even kissing his neck, his chest, isn't slow about it, isn't disguising anything. She touches his cock, and she slides her tongue along the underside of it, engulfs him with a moan. Tastes him like that, gives him this hungry, groaning suck before licking him again, climbing up his body again and guiding him, with just as much certainty, into her.

Folds herself over him as she sinks down, slowly, rocking on him, inch by inch. Kisses him again, unless he jerks away. Truthfully she wouldn't blame him: sometimes she gets the feeling he's new to so much. Sometimes she forgets, but now is one of those time she remembers. And if he is wary to kiss her after her mouth has been on his cock, she isnt hurt.

She does ride him, though, after a while. After she's been close, her breasts on his chest, his arms around her as she takes him a little deeper with each roll of her hips. She slowly lifts herself up, hair draped down one shoulder, hands on his chest. Watches him, eyes adjusting to the dark, fucks him like that's what he's here for. Which isn't always true. Which may be very true, at the moment. His hands on her -- she breathes into those touches, in time with them, sometimes shivering, sometimes holding a breath back until his palm covers her breast and she exhales a hot rush of a sigh, leaning into it. She isn't thinking by the time her hands press on his shoulders, clutch him there. Isn't thinking when she begins to ride him in earnest, faster, whimpering those aching little noises that must remind him, every time, of the first time, the way she made such little outcries with each thrust he made into her, on top of a mass of clothes he'd torn off of her, out at the top of his stairs.

Mostly has sex with her in beds, now. Nearly always but not entirely. So often simply, though: like they don't need acrobatics, or exotic locales, or even words. Just to be like this. Just to kiss, the way they always seem to. Always do.

Her eyes open to see him like that, arms back, watching her, a smile on his face but for the flickers and spasms of pleasure that disrupt his expression. She laughs, softly, but it tatters into a moan: she leans over him again, kisses him, begs him to touch her. touch me, rafa, she's whimpering. come in me, like she doesn't want to get there alone.

Must have sobered up. The way he wraps his hands around her hips and his arm under her and turns them on the bed, starts to fuck her like she's been fucking him all this time but harder. A little rougher. The way she likes it, right now. Needs it, at the moment. The way that gets her off, right at the end, with her nails digging into his skin and her head thrown back. She can't even notice him biting her when it hits her, can't hear him growling. Just squirms and grinds and makes those noises like little whines that open up and rise up and burst open into gasps like laughter, little shrieks of exultation.

Panting when they're done. Dizzy, when they're done. When he's slumped over her, barely able to move. When they're becoming aware of all their sweat. When he's rolling over, catching his breath, motionless. She pushes her palms up her brow, into her hair, pushing it off her face, pushing it back, looking at the ceiling. Somewhere in there, when her breath comes back to her, she becomes aware that he's asleep. Passed out, more like. Laughs to herself and slips away, then. Goes to the bathroom. Decides, because of the flight and the nightclub and the beach and the sex, to take a shower. It's short, but it's wonderful. She comes back to the bed in her little shorts, her little tank top, those soft grey things with the pink lace. Nevermind how filthy he is, how wet her hair is. She wrung it out and scuffed it with a towel and combed it and put some of her oil or whatsit in her hair, brushed her teeth. Never turned on the lights. Did things quiet-like.

Comes to bed, and actually gets under the covers, out of the air conditioning. Scoots close to him all the same, in between clean sheets under a mussed-up bedspread. Tucks herself in under his arm, against his chest, her arm over him. Legs touch his though layers of bedclothes.

Maybe he stirs. Grunts. Hugs her close. Does what men do in post-coital sleepiness. Does what an animal does when bedded down.

Devon keeps herself close to him.

--

Morning comes, light filtering through one set of curtains but not the others. The morning drags on, neither of them willing to wake to it, til someone knocks on the door. Housekeeping.

Devon jerks awake, groggily, and glares at the door. "Vá embora! she calls out, and then buries herself against Rafael again, grumpy and possessive.

sacred river.

wolfman

Like so many other signals, that willingness to have her hand held was too subtle for the wolf to catch. He doesn't see it. He looks at her bruise until her dress falls, obscures it from view. Then he looks at her, frowning.

Girl gets up. Wolf follows. They go back to the car and girl starts undressing and wolf is looking around instinctively, scowling, but there's really no one around. No one staring at her. No one sneaking peeks.

Not even when she pulls her shirt off. Turns so he can slather that strange, fantastic-smelling goo on her shoulder. Wolf's careful about this, using the palms of his big paws, rubbing it in the way he saw her do it.

"What is this?" he asks.

She answers or she doesn't. He doesn't know any of those names anyway.

--

Engine turns over and A/C comes on. Girl curls up, looking out the window. Wolf drives and eventually the drone of the engine, the sway of the car lulls her to sleep. Sun slides across the dazzled sky and toward a horizon obscured by the densest, darkest, oldest forest the wolf has ever seen. They're barely at the edge of it, closer to the sea, but even he can sense the antiquity, the age, the old, wild power in there.

Strange, but girl has more connection to this forest than wolf does. This is not his forest. Not the forest of his people, not the forest of his ancestors. This forest belongs to other shapeshifters, stranger and more secretive, more savage. He doesn't belong here.

Girl does, though. In some strange way he can't understand, but can intuit. Young as she is, flickering and mercurial as she is, there's something in her that is ancient, that has its roots in a world that was still young.

Her magic is old, and so is the magic locked beneath that endless green canopy.

--

Dusk when they reach the first gleaming branch of the Amazon delta. Dusk when their road turns along the floodplains, away from the sluggish mouth of that mighty river.

They pass a fishing village; stop for food. Fresh-caught fish, deep-fried without batter, sprinkled in salt and pepper and a handful of spices the wolf doesn't recognize. They keep going. Wolf with a whole fried fish unwrapped on his lap, breaking off chunks of tender white meat with his fingers as he drives.

Night falls. Road curves on, backward along the flow of the river, toward the heart of the continent.

--

Past midnight when they reach Macapá. Turns out the city sits right on the equator. Line that bisects the world bisects the city. Here there's no such thing as winter or summer, only wet and dry: and this is the wet season. Eighty degrees. Stiflingly humid. A heavy monsoonal rain blurring the city lights, obscuring the river.

Wolf can smell it, though. Smells its history, smells its depth and distance. Smell the secrets dredged up from the heart of the rainforest, carried through this little town on the waist of the world, and onward to that sprawling delta they passed hours before.

They get a hotel, close to the river as they can get. Wolf wants to find someplace nice, someplace fancy, something to make the girl happy. Make up for the fight they had. Ends up finding a glorified beach motel, two stories with an outside hallway. Hotel do Forte, it's called. Give it this much: the fixtures are new, and the furnishings are stylish.

Both tired and hot and sticky from the drive by then. Take showers, brush teeth. Collapse into bed, air conditioner up high. Sleep.

--

Morning, and the sun rises over the largest river in the world. So vast, so mighty, that they can't see the other side. Nothing but the stately, slow passage of a river nearing its mouth. Muddy brown waters rich with the silt of the continent. Barges in the distance, and overhead, enormous thunderstrewn clouds that will, by afternoon, turn to a drenching torrential rain.

Girl wakes first this time. Wolf sleeps on, unaware of the world.

[this! http://www.hoteldoforte.com/fotos.php]

witch

So he doesn't hold her hand, and he does help her with her bruises. She tells him there's green tea leaves and aloe and arnica and a few other things in the goo he's rubbing onto her. And then she very swiflty falls asleep. Ends up shivering a little in the air conditioning, pulling her shirt on over her shoulder like a blanket.

Much later, hours later, she wakes. She didn't even wake on the last two brief stops he made to take a leak or stretch his legs. She wakes up bleary-eyed and drowsy, and the shirt falls away from her shoulder. The dark mark that was there, brownish-pink, is a faint tan. Right on the verge of healed. She checks her hip: it is much the same. Gone are the tones of black and purple. There's a soft spot of greenish-yellow, some hints of pink. Nearly healed. Days of healing, all at once. She rubs her face and drinks water and slips her shirt back on and lets her tousled hair down, combing her fingers through it.

They stop somewhere for fish. The roads are narrow and bumpy. They eat the fried meat and get another for the road, and turn on the lights as night comes down. No regularity of streetlights here. The moon outside, beaming down. Watching them.

"Feels like we're alone in the world," she says softly, aloud, staring out the window.

--

Very dark and very late when they reach the city. See lights ahead. It's a capitol; it's a breath of sudden civilization. There are universities and hotels. It's very wet outside; it rained as they came in, is drizzling to nothing when they get there. It's hot outside, the humidity choking. They've both gotten a bit used to it from their travel, but if they flew here straight from Denver, they'd suffocate at the sudden onslaught of both extra oxygen and overpowering moisture.

They climb out, close to the river. Devon is quiet as they check in to the hotel that he found. He wants to find something nice. Room service, fluffy towels. It's not what they get, but it's hardly some roach-infested road motel. It's actually quite nice, she thinks. And they go up and he's set to shower, brush his teeth, go to sleep. She lingers near the door, even after dropping her backpack. Rests her head against the jamb, watching him.

Til he asks.

Til she says, quietly: "Want to go to the river now," with the faintest emphasis on the last word.

wolfman

Door's still open. Letting in the heat, the humidity, the distant rumble of thunder. Wolf's already tossed his bag in the corner, walked into the bathroom. Has the door tapped shut. Is taking a piss.

Girl says she wants to go to the river. Wants to go now. Toilet flushes and sink runs and then the wolf comes back out. Tanned and sweaty, shorts hanging off his hipbones. Frowns at her.

"Dark outside." Leave it to him to point out the obvious. "You won't see much." Finishes drying his hands on a towel, wipes sweat off his brow, his neck. Tosses it aside, then, and comes across the room to her. "Go with you if you want, though."

witch

Give her this much: she waits til he comes out before she says anything.

The guy who this morning said he didn't want to leave her alone at night because something might come and try to eat her all up tells her she won't see much, like going alone is really a Thing.

Her brow furrows slightly. She thinks of arguing, but says nothing of what's in her mind. Turns to head out. "You don't have to," she tells him, walking down the catwalk outside the room, towards the stairs.

wolfman

"I want to." Door shuts behind her, wolf pocketing the keycard. Follows her across the catwalk and down the stairs.

Quieter, when he reaches the ground, comes up alongside her: "I wanna go with you."

witch

Devon doesn't wait for him, but she naturally slows on the dimly-lit stairs. He tells her he wants to go with her, when they get down. She looks up and over at him. Defenses are up. Walls are up. She doesn't trust him. Regarding what, it's hard to tell. But the distrust itself is almost palpable.

She gives a half-hearted shrug, a little shake of her head. "As you like," she says, very quietly, and starts to walk.

--

Or they drive. Doesn't matter to her. Walking feels good, even if it takes a long time to find a spot where they aren't walled off from the water somehow. Long walk along roads that go right alongside the great river, dark and brown and immense.

Maybe they do drive: either way they end up in Araxa. Find a beach down there. And the moon is high and bright and waxing from half towards full. Eventually they get to a place where Devon slows. A place where they can walk off a sidewalk and onto shale, onto flat and sharp rocks. And into water. And that is what Devon does. She treads over the rocks in those rope sandals of hers into the water, silty and sacred, though not as sacred as the Ganjes.

Terrifying things live in the waters of the Amazon. Obvious beasts like green anacondas and black caiman and electric eels and red-bellied piranhas, but then incredibly terrifying things: the arapaima, so vicious that even its tongue has teeth. The horrifying, tiny candiru. The bull sharks, who swim as far as Peru, adapt automatically to the salinity of the water, and like to hang around densely populated areas. The payara, whose lower tusks are so large they have special holes in their upper jaw to keep from impaling themselves. The new and exciting breed of leech, that tyrannobdella rex. Nightmares, every one.

Devon has been taking malaria pills that Rafael doesn't need. There's a chance that even some of the creatures here wouldn't be scared of a werewolf, even with their rage. There's a greater chance that, simply wading into the water until it touches just over her knees, she won't encounter any of these beasts.

So she goes out. And the edge of her skirt barely touches the water and only when it ripples. She would rather be naked. She would rather be able to swim here as she does in the ocean. But the Amazon is not the sea. The Amazon is as hot and dangerous as the equator itself. She rests her palms on the water and looks up, and then down, and imagines all the carnivorous things she's read about, the creatures from another time, when everything that lived was as savage and brutal as the Garou.

Traces her fingertips over the water, unafraid. Or at least: living with her fear. Sitting with it, and offering it a cup of tea, if it insists on staying.

--

"Mum really loved my father," she says, out of nowhere. "Married him, even. I used to be Devon Sharpe."

She lifts up a doubly cupped handful of the water, tips it, lets it run down her wrists, her forearms, her elbows.

"Left when I was real little. Just... went off. They weren't fighting. I don't remember. Mum says they weren't. That he just went off one night."

Devon looks over her shoulder at him, lowering her wetted arms again. "She doesn't know," she tells him, if she hasn't before. "What he was. What that makes me. So many times I think of telling her, if maybe it would be a comfort. But it's not like he left and was killed and couldn't come back. He didn't die for years and years after that."

Shrugs, tightly. "Just got bored. The husband, father thing. And she spent years putting herself back together after that. Years trying to figure out what it was, what she'd done, why. Long time before she started to believe it wasn't her fault."

Doesn't say it. Doesn't say it but maybe it's obvious:

how many years did it take Devon to stop thinking it was her fault?

Did she?

Or was she always as harsh in her wisdom as she seems now: even as a child, knowing better than to think her daddy left because he didn't love her?

"Right bastard, he was," Devon says, with anger shivering underneath the dismissive words. Deep, clawing anger. "But see... I don't want that. You know? To be left like that."

She sniffs; breathing is harder for her, in this humid heat. She's not used to it. London, Boston, Denver. None of them places where this is familiar. "Don't like to get attached."

wolfman

Even by day they wouldn't be able to see the far bank of the river. Not in this heat. Not in this haze. Was hot and humid by the Gulf, but this is a different world altogether; a forest so vast it exists in symbiosis with its climate. Macapá -- largest city for miles and miles and miles around -- seems an isolated island of civilization in this place. Surrounded, enveloped, devoured by jungle, the way the very first human settlements were.

Old land, this. Old waters. Old laws.

--

Girl wades out into the river. After a moment, wolf takes his shoes off and follows. Feels the rich mud between his toes. The thickness of the water, which would be silty brown by day: the fertility of a continent pouring out to sea. Seeding the floodplains. Enriching the soil.

Ancient river. Sacred river. Almost as sacred as the Ganges.

Wolf says nothing. Follows girl out there and stands beside her. A little behind. Barges on the river blinking their lights in the distance. Night is so deep and black, so silent. Last of the afternoon's rain has finally tapered off, but the clouds linger. Swelter overhead, waiting for the heat of day. Here and there, a glimpse of stars, innumerable. Girl rests her palms on the water like maybe she can divine something from it. Wolf wants to take her hand but he doesn't.

Doesn't dare. Funny thing, when he's a werewolf and she's just a girl. Just a skinny thing

with ageless power. Depthless knowledge in her bones.

--

After a while she speaks into the darkness.

Tells him about her mother. And her father. And that history. That aching, bitter story. Wolf who sired her. Wolf who left her, without rhyme or reason. Didn't die for years and years afterward, though perhaps she's wished it more than once.

Wolf who didn't love her and her mother. Or worse: wolf who loved them, but didn't know how to stay.

Wolf like him. She doesn't have to say it. Doesn't have to draw the parallel. He hears it; understands her. Just a little more.

Water stirs around his thighs. He takes a few steps forward into the river. Current pulls gently at him. His hand trails water when he lifts it from the water. Takes her hand now. Subtle grittiness to their palms passing over one another: the silt in the water, suspended.

"Don't blame you," is what he says. Quiet as the current, the wind.

witch

He's gone deeper than she has. The water touches her above her knees; he goes in to the thigh. Reaches back to take her hand. And he can see her, and he can see in her eyes that what he says doesn't make the walls come down. She is re-bricking them, piece by piece, and slips her hand from his, drawing back to herself.

wolfman

Feels that. Her slim fingers slipping from his. Turns -- so dark he makes her out only as a shape, an outline.

"Devon." Says her name so rarely, and always, only, when he wants to call her back. Back from some abyss. Back from some brink. Back from unreachability, unknowability.

"What do you want me to say?" Edge of vulnerability there. Beseeching. "Want me to promise I'll never abandon you? Never leave you like that? I'm a Silver Fang Ahroun. It's death or insanity for me in the end. Don't got much of a choice."

witch

Asks her what she wants. Well, no: asks her what she wants him to say, which makes her frown at him, and pull back a bit more. Rejecting, a bit, but more: retreating. Throws promises he could make in her face. And scares the shit out of her. And makes tears come to her eyes, as they so often do when he says or does things that scare her. Which he so often does. Almost always, nowadays, without meaning to.

She just gives a little shake of her head. "Don't want you to say anything," she says quietly, and there's another sniff. Might not be able to see her eyes, their shining, or see if she's sniffing because the air is wet and thick or because of the tears.

wolfman

Wolf wades after her. Fords the river in great powerful strides, but inelegant. Moves like he fights the river, because he does: water is not his element. Earth, perhaps. Fire, for certain. But nothing so mutable, so mysterious, so drowning as water.

Comes after her, though. Comes close to her even as she retreats. Tries to catch her hand again in the slippery darkness. "Devon," he says, again. "Devon, wait. Wait."

And if she lets him:

if she lets him, then he catches hold of her again. Her hand, his hand, her arm, his arm -- wrapping around her, tugging her in. Pulling her to his body, nearly bare in the darkness, and here it doesn't feel like a capitulation to the heat. Doesn't feel like a rebellion against the mores of society. Feels right. He's an animal; of course he doesn't wear clothes if he doesn't have to. And his skin is taut and hot, and his arms are tight and hard. He holds her tightly, with a certain desperation.

"Never willingly," he whispers, harsh. "I'd never abandon you willingly."

witch

Can't smell her. Might not be able to smell her anyway, even if she had a real scent of her own. This place is so rich with its own strength: the various animals, the water, the air, the pollution, the people, the food -- everything competes for his olfactory attention. But she's a silhouette here, a voice without presence, and a small voice at that. He walks through the water to the shadow of her, and she's only drawn back a bit but hasn't run, so he comes to her. Places wet hands on her arms, pulling her into the water that on her now is deep enough to wet the edge of her skirt.

Feels her breathe in when he pulls her close. She curses herself a little then, not just for her blatant vulnerability but for the fact that being close to him like this turns her on. Even when she's exposing a wound, even when she's scrambling to hide it again: he wraps his arms around her and she just sighs softly, held like that.

She doesn't know what to say to that. The rough promise, so like others: never hurt her if he could help it. Never willingly abandon her. But even if she doesn't know what to say, a word comes anyway.

"Why?"

wolfman

Too dark to see his face so she can't see the way he frowns. Maybe can imagine it though. Seen it often enough: heavy eyebrows coming together, brow wrinkling, mouth setting. Silence for a while, stormy. Wolf struggles with that question. Answer's at once so simple and so amorphous. Eludes him, and then he grates it out:

"Because."

Seems so inadequate now that it's out. Hanging there, tattered, flag without an emblem. Something to stand for. Something to give it form, purpose. Wolf tries again:

"Because I don't want to. Because I like you. Because it feels right when you're with me. So I'm not going to give that up."

witch

Strange that she likes that answer more than a dozen others he could have given her just now. No falseness to it. Just as much wariness as she still has thrumming inside of her bones.

Achingly, Devon smiles against his chest. She's listening to his heart beat. It's going a little faster than usual. She has her hands on his sides, lightly, her ear to his body. Likes it here. She doesn't say anything. Some of the tension leaves her spine though, leaves her shoulders. She strokes him where her fingertips happen to land. Amazon flows around their legs.

Devon's hands smooth around his lower back til her fingertips touch along his spine.

"Me, too," she murmurs, finally.

witch

Strange that she likes that answer more than a dozen others he could have given her just now. No falseness to it. Just as much wariness as she still has thrumming inside of her bones.

Achingly, Devon smiles against his chest. She's listening to his heart beat. It's going a little faster than usual. She has her hands on his sides, lightly, her ear to his body. Likes it here. She doesn't say anything. Some of the tension leaves her spine though, leaves her shoulders. She strokes him where her fingertips happen to land. Amazon flows around their legs.

Devon's hands smooth around his lower back til her fingertips touch along his spine.

"Me, too," she murmurs, finally.

wolfman

Wolf can't see that smile either. Can imagine it. Full of secrets, even when it aches. Can feel it, maybe -- the stir of her lips against his chest. Girl listens to his heartbeat. Wolf listens to the night around them. Water slipping almost soundlessly past. Lapping on the distant banks.

Girl's hands raise trails of sensation on his body. Close his eyes and he can almost imagine them, scintillating in beyond-visible wavelengths. Her shoulders relax and so do his arms. For a while he's just holding her, half a world away from home.

First real home he's had for years and years, and even then it took a while to feel like it was really his. Not sure when it started feeling like home. Certainly not when the keys were put in his hand. Maybe the first time he dragged home a kill. Maybe when girl started living down the hall. Maybe the first time she came down the hall, wearing that soft little sleep-set, and crawled into his bed.

"Don't leave either," wolf says in the darkness. Gruff; leaves out the pronouns. Has to keep some armor, right? "Stay. Okay?"

witch

Quiet for a moment.

Then:

"Just said 'me too'."

Duh, Rafael.

wolfman

Low whuff of a laugh. Gives her a squeeze. Kisses her hair. Draws away a little, then; though not completely. Has her against his side now, arm a reassuring weight across her shoulders.

"Maybe I just wanted to hear you say you won't. Ever think of that, smartass?"

witch

He draws away and she follows. He moves and she stays close, looking up at him. Chest to chest. Still. Maybe he just wants to hear it.

Calls her a smartass. Amusement flickers behind something else in her eyes. That something else is transparent, though, visible. Nameless but known, all the same. He must feel it for her, too. Or he wouldn't promise not to leave.

"If I want to leave, I will," she says quietly, though the words are harsh. Shakes her head a little, slow. "Don't want to, though. I like you." Breathes in, exhales with a faint tremble to it. "Don't want to give this up."

wolfman

Somehow the harshness, the bluntness, the honesty: it helps. Wolf's reassured by it, because then he knows she's telling the truth. Isn't just saying it to make him feel better. Isn't just parroting what he said back to him.

Says: I like you. Don't want to give this up.

Says: Me too.

Says it because it's the truth. Shows him it's the truth. Stays close to him, even when he starts drawing away. So he doesn't. Wolf settles those brutish arms around her again; hands holding her by the waist. They stand together in the slow-moving shallows, chest to chest, legs brushing under the water.

Wolf doesn't miss his cue this time. Girl's breath is a shiver, and he leans down. Kisses her, softer and slower than most their kisses.

witch

Other declarations would feel like lies. Smoother words, phrases that come easier: neither of them would be able to trust it. This, though: these awkward, stilted, wary, withholding promises... these they can settle into. These they can trust, because they're imperfect.

Devon relaxes against him. She lifts her arms up when he leans down to her. She can tell he's going to kiss her, and a faint smile flickers over her mouth. Reaches up, and around him, and kisses him back. Slowly. Shows him what she felt a moment ago, when he first pulled her close. Lifts herself a little into his embrace.

When they stop kissing -- they have to, eventually -- she sighs a little, opening her eyes to look at him. "Let's fly to Recife," she murmurs. "Don't want to drive anymore." Still-wet fingers trace the nape of his neck, the ends of his hair. "Massages. The beach." Flick of her eyebrow. "A hot shave."

wolfman

Hot shave. Oh, he gets it. Smirking now, bringing a hand up to trace that flicking eyebrow. Trace the seam of her lips. That little curl at the edges, full of mystery.

"All right. We'll fly."

Kisses her again. A lighter one this time, mouth touching hers where his thumb was a moment ago. When it ends, he lifts his head. Jaw to her temple. Arms around her.

"Ready to head back? Or you wanna stay out here?"

wounded pride, hurt feelings, bruised hip.

witch

Rafael's wisdom holds over til morning. He does not point at her, say HA!, call her out for that soft little pronoun, that moment of tender possession. Perhaps it isn't even in his mind to lay claim to the words, hold them up, make her look at them. He does not answer them in kind with his own my, mine. He just thinks it. Is easy and quiet with her in the shower. Gentle. Leaves her some time alone, too, which sometimes might feel like a rejection but now feels like a relief. They've had precious little time to themselves since leaving Denver, and given that neither of them is the most sociable, it can wear them thin. Wears her thin, at least.

Morning comes, and swells bright and warm into late morning. She rolls over in bed and wraps her arm around his middle and dozes some more. They wake and stretch and order room service, though it's relatively simple fare. She sits up in bed while he's wandering around doing something or other; she's got the sheets wrapped around her and her hair is askew and she's scrolling through some stuff on her phone.

"Mum says Recife," she tells him, without preamble -- she's barely spoken this morning, except to pass along what she wants for breakfast. Drops the phone on the nightstand again. "We should try getting there by New Year's. She said it's pre-carnival right now. Parties, parties, parties."

Crawls over the bed. They can get there, she thinks. She pulls on a t-shirt, which appears to be his, and eats breakfast, legs folded up. She rubs a bit of stubble on her shin mindlessly while she eats buttered toast. She suggests they stay a few days in Recife. Get off the road for a while.

wolfman

Wolf is packing. That's what he's doing. Not much to pack, but still: gathers up their toiletries and throws them in a bag, then throws that bag into another bag. His duffle, and hers. Brings them out and puts them on the bed behind her when he's done.

That's when he notices she's wearing his t-shirt. Which makes him snort a little, amused. Doesn't make him complain. He comes over to inspect breakfast. Stands there by the bed, and by the girl, while he folds up bits of scrambled egg with his toast and eats it like that. Messy, casual.

"Not much one for parties." As if she hadn't figured that out already. "I'll go to one with you, though. Since it's New Year's and all. How far's Recife?"

witch

At this point they don't even seem to care whose what goes in which where. Some of his dirty socks get shoved in a pocket of her bag; her toiletries go into his pack. Neither of them consider the implications of this, or the bizarre intimacy or trust of it, and if they do, they don't talk about it. Perhaps it is merely her infecting him with her own rather slapdash approach to life: her way of deciding if something is clean is looking it over and sniffing it. She doesn't wash her hair for days, sometimes even after being in the sea. He has had to get used to frequently encountering stubble on her legs. Or this morning, picking up a shirt at random and putting it on, regardless of who it belongs to.

She gives him a Look at what he says. A no, really? sort of Look. A raised eyebrow, a dry smirk. But he'll go with her, and she eats some toast to pretend not to care.

Shrugs at him. "Don't know. Where are we?"

wolfman

He'll go with her to a party. To one party. Was rather specific about that. Fucking hermit.

Scoops up some more eggs on some more toast. Eats it. Is wandering around shirtless again the way he does, because it's been eighty-five degrees every single day for days. Is wearing those faded grey board shorts that he keeps clean primarily by dunking them in the ocean and then sometimes scrubbing them out at night. With bar soap. In hotel bathrooms. Probably doesn't complain about the stubble on her legs because he hardly has the right. Hardly Mr. Clean, himself.

"Just north of the border. Here, show me a map."

She pulls out her phone, or he gets his. Leans over the little screen and pinches and swipes and zooms until he finds it: "Here. That's where we are. Now search for Recife." Chews toast. "Oh, okay. It's like two days if we don't stop. We can make it in time for your parties."

witch

She sits at the little table by the window. He walks around. Stops by occasionally to get some more breakfast. She's not helping at all. She's tangled up in a chair watching him. Likes the way he bends to pick up a sock. Likes the curve of his back. She's used to the sight of his scars by now. She barely notices them anymore. He comes over and she thinks of his body pressed up against her body. That warm chest. Those arms.

Smirks at him, leaning back, refusing him her phone. He has to get his own, just because she seems to have a coy moment. He eats toast; she taps Recife in. They both peer at the screen, looking at what the map says. Two days without stopping. She smirks up at him, that your parties comment.

Then thinks of something that makes the smirk go. Curiosity replaces it.

"When was the last time you went hunting?"

wolfman

Wolf picks up his phone, slips it into his pocket. Crappy single-core low-tier Android. Could certainly afford better, but doesn't. It's not even willful resistance of riches. It's just laziness. He hasn't gotten around to it.

Packing's pretty much done now. Before they leave he'll take one more prowl around the room, make sure they didn't leave anything. They've been here for two nights, after all, waiting for their visas. Enough time for little things to disperse and get lost. For now, though, wolf kicks out one of the chairs at the table, drops down with a satisfied sort of grunt.

Sunlight comes in the window. Gleams on his skin. Sparks off that faint, faint hint of reddishness in girl's otherwise dark hair. Wolf picks up a slice of toast and starts heaping egg and meat on it, glancing up at the question.

"City hunting or country?" Euphemistic way of putting it, or maybe that's just how he thinks of it. "A while, either way. Thought about going a couple times, but didn't."

witch

Her eyes follow him to the chair. She sips some coffee -- no decent tea in these hotels, she's said, and she ran out of her own blends a long time ago -- and gives him a little furrow of her brow. Doesn't understand the question at all.

"Why's that?"

wolfman

Furrow of brow. Flattening of mouth. Subtle grimace as he shifts in his seat, like suddenly he's sitting on an uncomfortable lump.

"Didn't want to leave you alone," is what he comes up with. Not meeting her eyes now, until he realizes he's avoiding. Looks right across the table at her and spills the rest of it. "Out on the road. Seems safe enough but don't really know the lay of the land. I go out looking for trouble, leave trouble to find you. Just seemed like a stupid idea."

witch

Her brow stays furrowed, partly out of bewilderment.

"That's dumb," she says, without entirely thinking. Then, with thinking, she confirms: "That is kind of dumb," her brow smoothing. Devon sets down what's left of her toast, an unbuttered crust.

wolfman

Now he's frowning openly at her. "What. Going hunting, or not going hunting?"

witch

"Not hunting."

wolfman

"Fuck off." Up on his feet; riled. Walks over to the bed and yanks the two duffles up, heaves them over his shoulder. "Dumb of me to give a fuck about you, obviously. Taking our shit out to the car."

witch

"Oh, stop it," she snaps at him, frowning again, half exasperated and half... something else. Something closer. Not warm, not soft, but something else. "You know that's not what it's about."

wolfman

[look how manee empafee dices i haz!]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (5, 6, 10) ( success x 2 )

witch

He's looking at her, for that something else, that something more. Knows it isn't the warmth and tenderness and softness she has for him sometimes -- rare times. There's just a tightness in her voice there that hints at a feeling outside of annoyance with his reaction. Hard to describe, hard to pin down, hard to name: a desire for him to stay and at least try talking, try working it out with her. A desire for him to not feel that way. Whatever it is he's feeling that makes him snap at her, storm away from her. Because it's a sad feeling, a hard one. She doesn't want him to feel it.

wolfman

Pause for a moment. Can't quite call it hesitation. He looks at her, though. Sees her. Not just the thick hair and the long legs and everything else on the surface that makes her so fucking appealing to him.

The stuff that runs under the surface. The hard, curving edges of her personality; the vulnerability just beneath. All those fucking things

that make her so appealing to him.

Wolf sighs. At least it sounds like a sigh. "Just gonna run this shit out to the car," he says. "Then I'll be back."

--

Which is what he does. Takes him maybe five minutes. Comes back and lets himself in with his keycard, of which she has one as well. Comes back to the little table by the window. This time there is a hesitation. Then he sits.

Stares at her for a while. Then picks up his thus-far untouched mug of coffee. Takes a swallow. It's lukewarm.

"Not easy for me to give a damn about someone else," he says. "Feels like I'm laying myself open. Makes it worse when I admit it and get called stupid. Makes me think I was right all along and it's easier not to care."

witch

She just scowls in answer; doesn't read under the surface, doesn't see what he means. Is annoyed. She lowers her legs from the seat and finishes her breakfast. When he comes back up she's in the bathroom. She's sitting on the edge of the tub and she's shaving her legs.

So he gets his coffee, maybe. Comes in. Sits on the lid of the toilet, or on the floor. And she shaves and she listens.

"Wasn't calling you stupid for caring," she says, roughly, looking away from him. Has to focus, after all. She's wielding a razor blade. Four of them, actually.

wolfman

Girl's not there when he walks in. For a moment wolf's annoyed; beneath the annoyance, panicked. Just a little. Doesn't know where she's gone. Doesn't know how to find her.

Then he hears her. Remembers: that's right. Girl doesn't have a scent. Doesn't mean she's a ghost.

Shoulder to the doorjamb, coffee in hand. Looks in on her shaving her legs. Quiet a moment and then he comes in. Puts the toilet lid down and takes a seat, folded over elbows on knees.

"What, then?"

witch

Devon exhales, heavily. A big, thought-induced sound. "I go for a walk, I might get hit by a car. You go hunting, some monster might pop into the room and go after me." She shakes her head, with a slight roll of her eyes. "And it'd be fucking stupid not to go for a walk because I might get hit by a car. Not like skydiving, that, yeah?"

Shakes her head, rinsing her razor and tapping it against the side of the tub. "Fucking stupid not to do something normal. And hunting's normal for you." A practiced, quick, smooth slide of the razor up the back of her leg, clearing a path through the soapy foam.

"Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly," Devon says. Rinsing, she looks over at him. "When was the last time you even shifted?"

wolfman

Wolf gives her a look.

Flashes into his lupine shape. Sudden but liquid-smooth; rage lingering in the air like ozone after a lightning-strike. Gives her another look, yellow-eyed, maybe a little smug. Lopes out of the little bathroom.

Girl hears him lapping up the last of breakfast. Then bounding up on the bed and rolling around on the covers. Now he's just being frivolous.

witch

Gives her a look, which she doesn't have time to read. And he shifts, quite suddenly, and she is startled, and jerks back without thinking, and

falls into the tub.

Luckily she has the reflexes to lift the razor in the air so she doesn't slice open her leg. Does hit the tub hard, hip and shoulder, but doesn't crack her skull. Legs are half-foamy and dangling out of the tub. Is wincing, though he may not see it.

wolfman

Oh, he sees it. Lingers long enough to see that she isn't bleeding, hasn't cracked her skull or passed out. Is fine, mostly. Maybe a little bruised.

Wolf laughs at her. Dick. Lolls his tongue out at her, anyway. Goes trotting out to eat the rest of breakfast and roll on the bed. Leaves soft little tufts of undercoat on the sheets. Jumps back down, shaking his fur out.

Comes back to stand in the doorway of the bathroom, poking just his head in to see what girl's up to now.

witch

When he comes back, still in his wolf shape, she is up again. She's finishing her legs deliberately and now she's rinsing them off. And her face is pink, and perhaps it's just embarrassment. She glances over him for a brief moment, then away again, rinsing her razor a final time and rinsing her legs. Gets up and walks past him, his shirt falling around her hips, and uses hotel lotion to smooth onto her patted-dry legs. Doesn't look at him again. Or speak. She does slip into the underwear she laid out before he packed everything up -- steps into panties, pulls off his shirt, puts on her bra while looking in the mirror.

wolfman

Doesn't move out of the doorway. She has to brush past him. Turns, when she's out in the room. Awkward to do that in a confined space on four legs, so wolf shifts as he does it. Slower this time. A wolf in the doorframe. A hulking monster in the bathroom. A man, or close enough, walking out after her.

Not smirking anymore, at least. Has his shorts in his hand. Steps into them, commando again. Hell knows where his underwear has even gone. Bottom of her duffle bag maybe. While she's putting on her underwear he comes over. Picks up his discarded t-shirt and shakes it out, then tosses it over where she can reach it. Sits on the edge of the bed.

"I'll go hunting next time I feel like it," he says. Maybe intends it as some sort of olive branch.

witch

"Fine."

wolfman

"Why the hell are you mad at me?" Exasperated. "Didn't push you. You fell in that tub yourself."

witch

Devon finishes adjusting her bra. She picks up the skirt she chose to wear today, a black thing, sort of swishy but short. Doesn't get her shirt on yet: she's finger-combing her hair, working it up onto the top of her head to keep it off her neck. It's so warm down here.

Turns around after her hair is up, hasn't said a word. Does, eventually, as she picks up the black sleeveless t-shirt she's going to wear, with its random designs in silver and white. As she's pulling it on over her head: "Don't know what the hell you were trying to prove," she says, snipping the words off as though with shears. Adjusts the fall of the shirt around her waist.

wolfman

"Nothing. You asked when the last time I shifted was. And I shifted." Shrugs. Bare shoulders, bare chest. Girl's bare too, but putting clothes on. Adjusting her bra, which makes wolf glance at her tits. And then away.

"So maybe it was petty one-upsmanship. So what. Not like I meant for you to fall."

She gets her hair up. Shirt on. Skirt on. Wolf looks back at her. Reaches over, a whim. Catches the hem of her skirt.

"Devon. Come on. First I'm mad and then you're mad and it's stupid both ways. Let's not fight."

witch

She huffs a little breath, a mean laugh, when he says it was maybe petty one-upmanship. "Right. I'm pissed because of some bruises. Not 'cuz you were being a prick."

He tugs at her skirt, or catches it, and she looks like she's about to haul off and punch him. Jerks away, teeth momentarily on edge. Is walking away, a bit too heavily, picking up her phone and sticking her feet in those sandals she bought at a roadside days and days ago. Looks at him, irritably. "I'm not being stupid," she snaps at him. "I was fucking trying to talk to you."

Devon pulls up her skirt, showing him her hip, the splotchy pink that will grow, in time, to a black and purple bruise. "And you know what? It fucking hurt and you didn't give a shit, Mr. I Have To Stick Around to Protect You. So go fuck yourself." Drops the skirt, her cheeks pink again.

wolfman

"Did give a shit."

Some part of him -- some remote, logical part -- is baffled that they're even fighting about this. Going back and forth like children. Did not! Did so! Did NOT! Did SO!

Rest of him is just fighting. Hackles up, angered by the way she jerks away from him -- like he's trash, like he's filth, like he'll contaminate her or something. Angered by her showing him the bruise -- like it's his fault when she's the one that fell in. Angered by her obviously ruffled feathers, too -- like she's a cat, and he just caught her doing something inelegant and clumsy.

"Stopped, didn't I? Made sure you weren't seriously hurt. And you weren't." Flicks a glance at that hip. Cords twist in his heart. Wolf tamps it down ruthlessly, insists: "Aren't.

"Done talking anyway. Next time I wanna go for a hunt I will. End of story."

witch

"Yeah," she seethes. "I could tell when you were done talking. That's when I stopped, remember?"

Which, on the surface, is true. He shifted. She stopped talking to him. Conversation over.

And that's it. She has her phone, leaves the key car on the table, and walks out of the motel room to head down to the already-loaded car. That's what they're doing. They're leaving the motel to drive to Recife and party and ring in the New Year and enjoy themselves on beaches for a few days. This is their awesome road trip and LIKE 10 HOURS AGO she was kissing him like her life depended on it and calling him mine and now she's leaving the door open behind her and walking away to go wait for him in the car.

Because not all fights resolve when they happen. Maybe some never resolve and are just forgotten. She takes her wounded pride and her hurt feelings and her bruised hip and also-bruised shoulder and slinks off to curl up, nurse them in the safety of... one seat, protected from him by a few inches of air and little else. Which is weirdly enough. They can turn on the radio, at least.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't follow her. Doesn't charge after her, obnoxious and shouting. Just lets her go.

And girl takes herself out to the car. Wolf picks up the car keys and he's angry, and so he's resentful: thinks to himself that now she isn't telling him he drives too much, let her have a turn, is she? Feels shitty, then, to be so resentful. Takes that one last circuit around the room. Make sure they've left nothing behind.

--

Checks out, dropping their keycards in the slot. Late morning by the time he gets out to the car. So close to the equator here: few degrees north of it, just as Recife is a few degrees south. Blazing overhead sun cooks his shadow into the asphalt. Lifts humidity from the oceans. So hot here; like Denver's another planet. Wolf opens the driver's side door and climbs in, the car sinking on its shocks to his weight.

Girl's curled up, nursing her wounded hip, wounded pride, wounded feelings. Wolf glances at her and decides to leave her be. Buckles in. Backs out. Hits the road again.

wolfman

[CH-CH-CH-CHANGES!]

wolfman

Wolf doesn't follow her. Doesn't charge after her, obnoxious and shouting. Just lets her go.

And girl takes herself out to the car. Wolf picks up the car keys and he's angry, and so he's resentful: thinks to himself that now she isn't telling him he drives too much, let her have a turn, is she? Feels shitty, then, to be so resentful. Takes that one last circuit around the room. Make sure they've left nothing behind.

--

Checks out, dropping their keycards in the slot. Late morning by the time he gets out to the car. So close to the equator here: few degrees north of it, just as Recife is a few degrees south. Blazing overhead sun cooks his shadow into the asphalt. Lifts humidity from the oceans. So hot here; like Denver's another planet. Wolf opens the driver's side door and

finds the girl there. Curled up, nursing her wounded hip, wounded pride, wounded feelings. Wolf looks at her. There's that twist in his heart again. Shows on his face this time. Beat of pause; then he leans down. Wraps his hand behind her head, kisses her temple if she lets him. Rests his brow to her hair for a moment, if she lets him.

Then he hands over the keys. Circles around and climbs in, slamming the door without meaning to. Just heavyhanded, is all. "Tell me when you're tired," he says. "Switch."

witch

Oh, she's nursing it all right. Nursing her pride, her feelings, her hip. And her anger. Nursing it to keep it alive a little longer. Sits in the driver's seat with her arms crossed over her chest. Already sweating. Wondering what the fuck is taking him so goddamn long. Staring ahead, mouth a flat line.

He doesn't see her but she senses him. Glares at him openly when he opens the door and looks at her.

Looks wary, when he reaches down to touch her. Frowns, as he kisses her temple. Doesn't really want him being all tender and affectionate right now, but she doesn't smack him in the head or snap her teeth at him. She just tolerates it, and exhales through her nostrils, and takes the keys. Turns the car on as he's getting in, turns on the air conditioning.

"Yeah," is all she says, though she doesn't put enough verve into it to sound cruel or harsh. Checks behind her, and pulls out of the parking lot.

--

There is at least a little talking. He navigates her to the main road they're to take southward. She clarifies a couple of turns. Eventually one of them turns on the radio, cycles through some stations. Or he has it play the music on her phone, or his. They've exhausted whatever else might have been in the car. Hell: they've probably exhausted whatever was on their phones by now.

Maybe they drive in silence most of the time. She leans her arm on the driver's side door, head propped up, keeping the wheel steady with one hand. Cruise control. Monotonous, endless-seeming driving, until they stop to piss and grab a couple of drinks. She gets back into the driver's seat and they're off again. Midafternoon and they stop to get some food from some outdoor market. There are greasy burgers and sandwiches, Indonesian fried rice, crepes, noodles. They sit outside near the car and eat, still in silence. She's looking at her phone.

Then frowns. Then shows him the map. The route in bright blue going all the way west, looping around the mighty river before heading east again.

"We have to basically go around the Amazon," she says. "Road we're on --" she points to 156 on the zoomed-in map, "basically stops at Macapá. Right on the river."

Looks at him.

wolfman

Crossed the border early in the day. Not much of a line, really: not a lot of people making trips into the goddamn Amazon Rainforest from French Guiana, after all. Tourists into the forest come from Brazil. Tourists into Brazil damn well fly.

Except them. They drive. That coastal road skimming the river's drainage basin: ocean a few miles to one side. That ancient, primordial forest, full of undiscovered species and wet, verdant, savage life, to the other. Sometimes they find outdoor markets, greasy burgers. Sometimes they go miles and miles and miles with hardly another sign of humanity in sight.

--

Road goes around the river. Wolf is gnawing at some herb-rubbed quarter-chicken. Leans over to look at the map, frowning, shading the screen with his hand.

"Let's go to Macapa anyway." Pronunciation's a little off but she can understand, at least. "Gotta be a ferry or something there. Take us across the river, or maybe up the river a bit." He points with a blunt finger. "If we pick up the road again in Altamira, we'll be in Recife a day or so later."

witch

The mosquitos here are enormous. They love Rafael.

A faint flicker on her lips when he says they should go to Macapa anyway. Ferry or something. "Don't think there's ferries," she tells him. "For cars." Gives him a slight shrug. "There's an airport there too."

She puts her phone away, then leans against his arm. "I wanna see the Amazon. Cross it."

wolfman

Something stirs in the wolf when girl comes over. Leans against his arm. First time they've been close since this morning. Since they started fighting, really. Over stupid shit. Stupid, childish shit that he regrets.

Wolf wraps his arm around her. Turns to press his mouth to her hair, the way he does. Exhales a little, a wolfish whuff.

"Fuck it, let's just sell the car at Macapa. We'll get a boat and sail down the Amazon 'til we find a town with an airport. Fly to Recife. Might not make it in time for New Year's though."

witch

He wraps his arm around her and she stirs; too much, really. It was a lean. Doesn't have to be more. She doesn't quite stiffen and she doesn't quite pull away but she's uncomfortable. Also: hot. The air. His arm. Everything is so humid that her clothing sticks.

She exhales, sitting up a bit more, perhaps unwinding.

Perhaps leaning against the outside of his arm again.

"All right," she says. "Don't care if we drift on the river," she murmurs. "Just need to see it." Walk into it. Touch the surface. Feel it. The power of that river. The antiquity.

wolfman

Want to, she said.

Need to, she says.

Wolf hears that. Doesn't understand it, but intuits something there. Necessity. Need. Like hunger.

"Let's go see it then." They're just sitting on some plainhewn bench. There's shade, but it doesn't help the humidity, the heat. Girl pulls away and then girl comes back. Leans against his arm. Nobody out here cares that he goes around half-naked, without underwear. They get it. It's so hot.

"Drive out somewhere wild. Spend a half-day. Swim. Then we'll come back. Sell the car and fly to Recife."

Pause.

"How's your hip? And your shoulder."

witch

She says nothing while he says plans aloud. Thinks of a dog with a ball, gnawing on it, chomping thoughtfully. Never got around to telling him why she cared if he shifted, if he hunted. Still sort of pissed at him for not caring why she cared. Not noticing that she cared, she thinks. Made fun of it. Made fun of her for caring, blew it off, with that shifting, and loping off to eat and roll around the bed.

That's a pretty deep bruise.

He asks her how she is, as she's eating the last bite of her burger, wiping her hands on a thin, coarse paper napkin. She sits up, still chewing, and lifts the edge of her skirt. Fell on her left side, and fell in such a way that it was partly on her ass, right below her tailbone. Yes, Rafa, she is a skinny thing; there's not much fat there to cushion her.

Bruise is vivid as a view of a star system: blacks and purples, hints of green and pink and yellow. It's a big, nasty bruise. She drops the edge of her skirt and frowns a little to herself.

"Shoulder's a little bigger but not as bad." Still frowning. "I'll put some stuff on it back in the car."

Stuff. Stuff she has. Stuff to heal. "It'll be fine." Looks at him. "Can you drive a while?"

wolfman

Ow.

That's what wolf thinks, looking at the bruise. Just that one syllable. Not even really a word. Not even a syllable; an emotion. A feeling, gut-deep.

Ow.

Puts his palm over the bruise. Frowning now, aching. Leans over and kisses her, and it's not a lustful thing, it's not even really desire. Just wants to be close. Wants to apologize, though he hasn't the words for it.

"Yeah, I'll drive," he confirms, drawing back. "Probably make Macapa tonight if we eat dinner on the road." Beat or two. Awkward. "Can just bandage that. Gonna be hell trying to dance with that bruise."

witch

His mouth touches her cheek, presses into it. She hurts a little; doesn't quite flinch at the hand covering her, but it confuses her and hurts her in a way that feels like a bruise but made up of different colors. Brighter ones. Ones that aren't so ugly, somehow. A hurt that isn't ugly, either. She doesn't know what to do with it.

But he leans over, covering her gently like that, kissing her, but not her mouth, because she's turned away and doesn't want to kiss him, doesn't want to be kissed on her mouth. Is kissed on her face and sinks in on herself, feeling that strange panic that she sometimes gets. She just flares her nostrils, breathing in. Her chest opens up with it. It deflates again as she exhales through her nose.

He draws back and she nods, and takes a breath, and just shakes her head, starting to get to her feet. "I have something for it," she repeats, standing up. "It will be all right. You'll see." Looks at him, holding a crumpled-up greasy napkin in one hand and the other one at her side, slightly turned. Blink, and you'll miss the willingness to have her hand held. She doesn't reach for him.

He might not notice.

They go on back to the car. She got some toilet paper and some snacks at the last stop; just in case. This place you can't expect to have gas stations and Holiday Inns every few miles. They have extra gas in the trunk. He goes to the driver's side and she to the passenger side. Digs around in her backpack and finds a bottle of what looks like a very dark lotion -- a grimy green, hints of yellow, more gelatinous than lotion usually looks.

Smells fantastic. Like it'll wake you up in the morning, but it isn't some form of mint. God knows what it is. She hikes up her skirt and rubs it generously on that bruise, rubbing it in until she winces and hisses, but until it vanishes into her skin. Is sort of sticky so she sits awkwardly on her right hip for a bit, ass pointed at him, and turns her back to him, stripping off her shirt while they're still parked. She tugs her bra strap down on her left shoulder and hands him the bottle. Hard to reach all of it. Doesn't need as much as her hip. After he's helped her out, Devon leaves her shirt off. Wears that little skirt and her bare feet now that they're in the car and the purple-and-teal bra she has on. At least until the AC kicks back in.

She curls up on her right side, seat leaning back. Doesn't fall asleep right away, but looks out the window at the sky, the clouds. Forgets where she is, because the sky is so the same as everywhere else. And yet, every other moment, remembers, and can't believe it's the same sky she's seen over Denver, over Boston, over London.

Closes her eyes, eventually. Rests with her back toward him, while he drives.

South. Towards the largest river in the world.

her rafa.

witch

Maybe should bother her, him holding her close with that hand that was fucking her pussy, stroking off his cock. Doesn't bother her. Doesn't make her feel filthy. Sometimes her hands are stained green up above the fine bones of her wrist, botanical crud drying under her fingernails. In her herbalism, at least, Devon is a green witch, a hedge witch. She doesn't mind a little filth.

Doesn't mind him, right now. Holds him like she does, toes tucked under his calf, arm around his chest, brow close to his face, even though her skin is still flushed and sweaty from orgasm, even though he made a mess of himself.

He drops to sleep swift as a stone into water, there with her one moment and gone the next, his body and breathing steady.

He is not there to see how this affects her. How she looks at him, sleeping beside her. She wonders to herself, too, when they started this. When it stopped making her so nervous that she would rather slip away and sleep elsewhere than let him hold her through the night. It isn't just this flight of fancy they took to warmer weather during a suddenly frigid winter. Isn't just the fact that they get hotels with one bed in the room. It isn't just the fact that for most of this little jaunt she's seemed all but starved for him.

Something else. Which also makes her heart flip over when he promises to be gentle, promises to be good to her. Which also makes her watch over him while he sleeps now.

Her eyes close and she rests her head against him but she does not sleep. Dozes, a little, so that when he does stir again, he finds her eyes opening easily, finding his.

His torso is sticky. Girl is warm, with a faint coolness to the surface of her skin from the evaporating sweat on her shoulders, her back, her neck. They are a bit stuck together, arms wound around each other, her belly against his side.

She sees his eyes open. She sees him glance down, around, over her, wherever his eyes go.

"Hi," she says, softly, slowly.

wolfman

Not out for long. Ten, twenty minutes. Enough to drop into deep sleep; not enough to dream. Wakes with a tiny little startle, the way animals do. Girl can see him looking around, corners of the room, down the length of his body. Figuring out where and when and why.

Looks at her when she greets him. Faint stitch to his brow clears. Wolf's chest fills under her arm. He takes a breath that is, in and of itself, a sort of stretch. Body tightens and releases under her, moment by moment, muscle by muscle. That's a sort of stretch too.

"Hey." Wolf discovers his hand is still wrapped around her forearm. Loosely now. Fallen aside a bit. Sticky too, stuck. Wolf peels away, lifts his head, looks down his body. Dried sweat and dried cum. Makes a little sound of disgust at himself, uch.

Shifts, gets an elbow under himself. Turns toward girl and presses his brow to hers, his face to hers, nuzzles her quick and rough and affectionate. Sits up.

"Let's go shower. Came all over myself. Mess."

witch

That sound makes her grin. His little noise of disgust. That slashing, bright little smile wakes up her face a bit. She hugs him a bit tighter, arm over him like that. As though, in this odd little way, to tell him it's all right. She doesn't care.

She doesn't. It's true.

He shifts, and presses their brows together, which she thinks means he wants to wrap her up close but... well. Gross. Nuzzles her roughly and she lets her arm slide off of him as he sits up. He speaks choppily, and she touches his hand where it pushes into the mattress, and gently tries to tug him back. Closer. Come here. For a moment.

Even if he doesn't, though. She's looking at him, watching him. Murmurs: "It was hot."

Her finger traces a soft circle around the hard bone of his wrist. Wonders idly what that bone is called. Doesn't take her eyes off his.

"All of it."

wolfman

Couldn't possibly overpower him. Her fingers don't even meet around his wrist. Still she seems to arrest him, stop him in his tracks. Wolf's halfway to getting off the bed but he pauses. Turns, and then comes back.

Comes down over her, bracketing her in between his arms. Keeps his chest a couple inches from hers, though. Gross, and all. Mess, and all. Has that look on his face again, not a smile but softer all the same. A sort of warm darkness in his eyes.

"Yeah?" Wolf kisses her mouth. Light, barely more than a brushing of lips. Now there's a quirk on his mouth. Faint smirk. "Yeah well. Like I said. I think you're crazy hot."

Pushes up again. Pauses. Leans down on a whim, catches one of those pretty pink nipples ever, ever so delicately between his teeth. Flicks it with the tip of his tongue. Then finishes getting up, pushing up to his knees, sliding off the bed. Holds his hand out to her.

"Come on. Shower."

witch

Sure they do. She's got long fingers. He's not a tree trunk. She's not a vine.

Granted, when he puts his palms on her sides his fingertips very nearly touch along her spine. But nevermind that.

--

Devon rolls a little onto her back entirely, smiling up at him as he leans over her. Just smiling. It's not even a smirk. Her eyes are open, a little. Not for long. Her lashes don't fall but her eyes do close again, the way they always do, seeing other things, keeping them secret.

Her eyes really do close, lashes falling and all, when he kisses her. Smiles a little into that, too, sinking into it deeper, more full, even if he just brushed his lips past hers. Lets him go, and he leans down over her breasts. Not a kiss. His teeth around her nipple. She breathes in, a little edge to it. Sighs, and the breath shivers at the touch of his tongue. These little reactions: flickers, hints, no more.

He rises, and she pushes up on her elbows as he does. Elbows to the mattress, then palms, and then one hand grasps his, firm and wrapping-round. Tugs a little as she slides off the bed beside him. Looks him over.

"You are a little gross," she informs him, and grins. Walks off to the bathroom.

Hasn't let go of his hand.

wolfman

Wolf gives girl a little tug up. Puts a little more spring into that step she takes out of bed. Hand stays in hers, grasp firm as hers, as she steps past him toward the bathroom. Wolf follows, pausing to flip an edge of the sheets back up on the bed.

There's the mirror again. There's that bag she threw into the corner of the counter. Towels folded neatly on the rack; floor mat folded over the edge of the tub. Wolf lets her hand go. While she steps into the shower he lays the mat on the ground, picks the little bottles of shampoo and conditioner out of the amenities basket. Bar of soap too. And two small handtowels.

Joins her, sliding the curtain closed behind himself. By then she's got the water on, warming. Wolf gathers her up and turns her around, puts his back to the shower, turns it on. First cold blast on his spine makes him curse, but it warms quick enough. He peels the soap open. Hands it to her while he himself picks up the shampoo and uncaps it.

"Your mom tell you where we're going in Brazil yet?"

witch

Spring, hop, and she's up, walking with him to the bathroom. She feels him tug her back, unintentional, while he is flipping sheets back over the mattress. For some reason. Looks back at her and finds her wearing this amused little smile. Tugs on him. Takes him with her to the bathroom with that smile.

He gets out the mat; she leans over and turns on the water, cranks the shower on. She doesn't get in while it's warming up. She reaches over, scritching her fingernails lightly over his lower back, mindlessly. It's not the nicest hotel they've stayed in, or might yet stay in, but it's enough that the water doesn't take too long to heat up.

Rafael all but hefts her up to lift her feet over the edge of the tub, and Devon laughs. She sets her feet down, his back to the water, his arms around her, her back on his chest. And she doesn't move at first. Water starts to run over his shoulders and onto her, and he asks her a question.

Shakes her head. "Forgot to ask. I'll give her a call later." Takes the soap but doesn't want it yet; looks at him opening the shampoo. Furrows her brow.

"I suddenly can't remember if we've showered together or not. We have, right?"

wolfman

Wolf's pretty businesslike in the shower. Sets about wetting his hair. Has his eyes closed, head tilted back directly into the spray. Thin jets of water blasting into thick black. Opens his eyes when girl speaks. For some reason it puts a faint little smile on his face.

"Yeah. Just the once. In Mexico. Shower was about," wolf makes a box with his hands, "this big."

witch

She grins. She stays right where she is, waiting for the shampoo -- and the water, really, which takes more time to wet all of her thick hair.

"Right," she says. Closes her eyes, leaning against him. "I can't remember if we fucked in there or not. We didn't, right?"

This time she's not really being truthful.

wolfman

Wolf takes half a step back, instinctively, when girl starts to lean against him. All gross. She doesn't seem to mind, though. After a moment he puts an arm around her.

Girl innocently asks a question. Wolf smirks.

"We didn't," he confirms. "You asking because you don't remember, or 'cause you wanna now?"

witch

They're in the shower. He's tacky and hasn't washed yet. She doesn't mind, or care. She snuggles to him, stealing some of the water running down his body.

He confirms what she already knows. And she sighs softly, and rubs her ass softly, very very slowly, against him.

"Oh, I just didn't remember," she answers. Lies.

wolfman

"Oh really."

Ridiculous how quick he rouses to her. One of those slow sliding rubs and there's heat in his loins. Two and he's hardening against her. Three and his arms are around her, firm, hotter somehow than the water. One hand makes its way down. Cups her between her legs, pads of his fingers seeking out that clit he so recently got so well acquainted with.

"I like your cunt," he decides to tell her. Has her wrapped up in his arms now. Has his mouth by her ear, muttering indistinctly at best. "Tender."

witch

Ignores that o rly of his. She gets him hard instead; focus on that. Rubs her ass against his cock until he's pulling her close to his body, reaching between her legs. He finds her; she makes one of those quick, small noises at the back of her mouth, breathy and needful.

Keeps rubbing. Encourages him, with those movements of her hips, to stroke her pussy. All over again.

Tells her this blunt, obvious thing. She sighs, not even laughing: "I like your dick." Her feet wiggle apart, opening her thighs a bit. Reaches down, between them, and guides that dick she says she likes between her legs. Holds it right there against her body, grinding on it a little while he teases her clit.

Probably could come up with more words. Tell him what else she likes. Tell him the little thoughts she had when she saw that sheen of precum on his cock, really go into detail about how aroused it made her to watch him stroke himself off, all of that, but she doesn't.

She just leans forward, placing her forearms against the tiled wall, widening her stance.

wolfman

Knows what to do then. Doesn't have to wonder, doesn't have to ask. Girl leans forward and wolf follows. No space at all opens up between them. Just his body thick and hard behind her, over her. Chest to her back, covering her.

And the fronts of his thighs to the backs of hers. His hand still between her legs; his arm still around her. Keeps holding her up even if she's leaning against the wall now. Strokes her with his fingers while he rubs between her thighs; fucks her like that for a while, mindless and instinctive.

Until he's had enough of that. Until he's had enough of not being inside her. Then his teeth grip her shoulder. Growls against her skin the way he does, primitive. His hand loses her for a moment, just long enough to grab his cock by the base and push it into her. Slow and steady, opening her up. Has his hand back where it was, fingers teasing her clit, by the time he's halfway in. Strokes her, gentle and coaxing, while he fills her the rest of the way.

Lets go her shoulder when he's deep inside her. Kisses her neck. Has her tit in his hand, has her body all wrapped up in his; holds more of her weight than she does herself. Bears her against the cool wet tile, presses her cheek there between her hands, when he starts fucking her.

Tight, needful, hard fuck, this one. Bodies slapping together wet and rough. Hand gripping her body is ungentle and wanting. Hand on her clit is -- gentler, yes, but without much in the way of skill or finesse. Just does his best, even if it isn't much. Touches her while he fucks her. Fucks her like he's been waiting for it all night. Which, in a way, he has.

witch

By the time Devon leans over, she's ready for him. Wanting him. Doesn't blame him for just rubbing it on her, though. Doesn't mind that, either. Likes the way he feels. Likes the way he folds over her, covers her, filthy as they both still are. Likes the way he goes on playing with her, but even after a few moments she opens her thighs just a little more, lifts her hips just a little more, as though to tell him

now. rafa. it's okay.

No: that's out loud. Those four words whispered, gasped, louder against the tile than they should be, yet still muffled by the water. His teeth sink into her. He pushes into her and she moans, arching her back. Her body constricts around his in small, wet waves even as his cock is still sliding forward; that's his hand. That's what he's doing to her.

She makes that sound again, the one she made earlier when he first touched her. Her hands curl a little against the tile. Feels so close to him right now, like this. Arms wrapped all around her, teeth in her like that. She can feel his breathing. He can feel her heartbeat, when he touches her breast, holds it in his hand. He presses her forward, til her face starts to touch the wall, and she pushes back.

Sort of hot, that, in its way. The hard grind of their bodies together. She doesn't know if he finds the resistance itself hot, though, and isn't wondering hard about it: it's not meant as a turn-on. It's meant as a signal. Not to be slammed into, or to have to press her face to the wall, maybe not to be quite so tight, or so hard, or so rough.

Wet, though, yes. Needful: absolutely.

But Devon resists, wordlessly, that sort of animal rutting that he seems to want right now. She looks back at him, silent for a moment but lips parted to breathe. Truth be told, she does have to fight a small rise of frustration, or something like it: maybe it shows in her eyes, but it doesn't overtake her.

wolfman

Attuned enough for this much: when she resists, he feels it. Stops. Stops pushing her against the wall, anyway. Stops going at her quite so mindlessly, blindly.

Truth is he is a rutting beast, sometimes. Truth is sometimes she doesn't mind, but more often: she does. Girl's not just some warm wet hole he can stick his dick in. Girl's not just some uncomplaining, spineless thing that'll let him do whatever.

Not his whore either. That's not what this is about. Never has been. On either side.

So: she resists. He pauses. Lets her go a bit, and now there's room enough for her to turn and look at him. Room enough for him to meet her eyes over her shoulder. Wolf's frowning a bit, trying to read her. Trying to get it, and then maybe he does. Rubs his hands over her back. Puts his hands on her waist. Leans over her again, slowly. He's still inside her. He moves deeper, gentler now, wrapping his arms around her again.

Kisses her over her shoulder. Eyes open, lashes sweeping lower at the moment of contact. It's a light, tasting kiss. Almost delicate. His hand finds her, touches her again. Makes her clench inside the way she does. That's a sort of magic too: his body and hers, and the invisible net of nerves under her skin.

"Okay," wolf says, low, when the kiss parts. She hasn't said anything but he's read something from her. Those eyes. That body. He strokes her, touches her. Tips of his fingers so delicate: sliding between the folds of her labia, brushing over that impossibly sensitive focus of her clit. "Okay," again, softer. Moving in her again. Heavy and deep, but slow; felt. Watches her as he fucks her, hand and cock, body, mind.

witch

His face stares at hers, trying to understand. Even with -- to be blunt, crude, vulgar, honest -- his dick is throbbing in her cunt. Her pussy is undulating gently on his cock. Not easy to communicate like that. Not easy, at all, to think clearly. She bites her lip a little, and after a moment, he runs his hands over her. She sighs, relaxing a bit again, smiling as he leans over her, closer to her. Smile widens a bit as he wraps his arms around her body, kisses her face because her head isn't turned so far anymore.

"You feel good," she murmurs, even before he's touched her again. Even before he's doing what he does, almost every time, like he can't help it. Like he wants it to be good for her. Like he wants to show her that he'll be gentle. Like all of the above, maybe.

She turns her head a little more; meets his kiss fully now. Lushly. Is still seeking it when he draws back. She opens her eyes, watching him, and tightening up when he touches her clit one more time. She breathes, and nods, and turns her head, hands and arms against the tile,

fucking back against him.

wolfman

Would be easier to fuck her all-out if he were standing upright. Holding her by the hips, slamming into her. Would be easier, and maybe even come to him a little more naturally. That sort of fuck. That sort of careless, reckless, brutish coupling.

Stays close to her, though. It's a conscious decision. A choice. To stay close. To be close. To be a little bit tender, even if it's not in his nature. To not be a brute.

So: she braces her arms on the tile. He kisses her shoulder. She meets him stroke for stroke. He runs his hands over her body, her abdomen, her sides. Cups her breasts in his hands as he fucks her, and let's be honest: it's a hard fuck, it's fast and, yes, it's a little rough. But it's not mindless. It's not brutal. It's not reckless or careless. He cares that it's her. He cares that she enjoys it. He cares enough to try to make it good for her,

be good to her,

be gentle as he can.

Has his hand between her thighs even when he starts really giving it to her. Has his hand on the wall too, then, fingers splayed wide for traction. Tip of his thumb brushes her pinky, and then: then he slides his hand under hers. Her fingers grip his wrist instead. Back of his hand. Her fingers grip between his fingers, and now he's kissing her, biting at the side of her neck, rubbing his face indiscriminately against her skin. Growls in her ear, ferocious and wanting, as he pounds into her and -- holds. Grinds. Fondles her while she winds back against him, rides back onto his cock. Rubs her clit as they slow it down, bring it down, fuck deep and slow standing there in the shower. Fucks her like he wants to get her off,

which he does,

and like he wants to get off with her. Come inside her. Come with that gorgeous lean body of hers pressing back against his; that hot little cunt of hers still pulsing around him as she quakes through the last of her orgasm.

Which he does. Want, that is. He wants these things. That closeness. The raw, unfiltered, base connection of body to body.

witch

They've both already come tonight. He got her off. He got himself off. It's late enough that they could have just tidied up and gone to sleep. That's where they were headed anyway, when they were looking at their passports. She was in those little panties, that loose tank. He was in his shorts. They might have even just gone to bed before fucking, before sex of any kind. Brush teeth, wash up, and sleep. But here's the thing: this isn't something they owe to each other. This isn't something they even always expect of each other. She knows he wasn't expecting to get fucked in the shower when they stepped in. She hopes he knows that she wouldn't have pushed, if he didn't want to, if he was tired, if he just wanted to get clean and curl up with her.

She thinks that if he didn't have such a fucking hot body she might not be climbing onto him so often on this trip. If the weather weren't so warm, leaving him bared so often, right out where she could see him. If it didn't fill her with muted aggravation and bewildering tenderness to wake up beside him in the car and discover that he's kept on driving well past the agreed-upon stop where he was supposed to wake her and let her take over. If he weren't so blunt, and plainspoken, and deceptively normal, strangely familiar, that she finds herself laughing around him when she doesn't mean to.

And she hopes he knows he doesn't always have to be tender and gentle and soft-soft-soft and pleading. She hopes he doesn't get bored with her, fed up with her. She hopes he actually likes her.

These are, strangely as it seems, some of the things she thinks about while she's fucking him. While he lifts her breast in her hand and makes those soft noises of his own, that groan under his breath. While their bodies find this rhythmic, eager meeting place over and over and over. Her hair, still partly dry, swings past her shoulders in time with his thrusts. There's a weirdly cute little slapping sound every time her ass bounces against him. There's a feverish flush to her cheeks as she gets closer, as he's fucking her harder, growling like that, their hands held tight together against the wall.

She's crying out. Bounces off the tile, echoes in his ears and in her own. She's fucking him much faster now, grinding on every few thrusts, til he slows, stroking her off, making her whimper. Can't tell what he's thinking: that he wants her to come. That he wants to come when she does. That he wants to feel her all around him like that, coming, like before only closer, much closer.

--

It feels like it starts at the base of her spine. Doesn't so much climb up to her mind as it flowers outward, over her hips, tightening them up. Rises up like a wave from here, her body going tight but not still. He can see the shuddering in her shoulderblades, the quivering. He can see her when she presses to the tile -- ironic, that -- with her cheek against it like she's seeking the coldness or simply can't feel it. Her closed eyes. Her open mouth. That blissful upturn of her lips, like she's being caught in a laugh for that orgasm, like it surprises and delights her all at once. Her pleasure wraps around her as much as Rafael does, feels like it owns her belly and her breasts and her thighs, curls her toes in the swirling water.

wolfman

Wanted to make her come.

Wanted to come with her.

That's what he thought, anyway. That's what he was going for, holding back for, touching her for. But god, then --

then she comes. Comes like that, like a flower opening, like a detonation so far away there's no sound, only light. Something about the quiver of her shoulderblades fills him with ... what? Something dreadful and terrifying: tenderness, maybe. Protectiveness. Something dangerously close to adoration.

And he's just holding her then. He's just holding her, wrapping his arm around her, clasping her back against his body. Touching her, grinding into her, working that orgasm out of her with his fingers, his hand, his mouth, his cock. His entire body. Every inch offered up on the altar of her pleasure.

Girl comes almost without a sound this time. Is nothing but warm flesh and melting bones and shivers, afterward.

For a long while wolf just keeps her there. Holding her weight, keeping her between his body and the tile. Cock inside her is so hard; stretching her cunt, pulsing with his heartbeat. She can feel that too: his actual heartbeat, a deep thunder against her spine. Can feel his arm around her ribs, his hand still between her legs. Wolf's still touching her, rubbing her clit slower and slower and ever so gently

until she can't take even that anymore. Grasps his wrist, makes him stop.

--

Wolf kisses her then. Kisses her earlobe and behind her ear. Kisses her neck and her shoulder. Kisses her in these little, warm presses, here and there, a long trail of them like he's trying to rouse her from sleep with his affection.

Eventually he straightens a little. Draws out of her. It's a long, slow, careful slide. Even that much stimulation makes him hiss between his teeth. That final firm squeeze of her body around the head of his cock: it makes him shudder, make his whole body buck.

Wolf turns her around. Maybe girl thinks he's going to do something so awful as push her down, make her suck him off. Or maybe not. Maybe girl thinks better of him than that. Knows him better than that, because that's not what he does. At all.

What he does is wrap his arms around her. Gather her up. Lift her up, her wet toes trailing water. Steam all around them and shower beating down on their skin here and there as they pass through that cone of water.

Girl's back to the wall, then. Wolf's body hard against hers, snug to hers. Wolf's looking at her, watching her eyes. Watching to see if she's okay. If she can take it. If she can handle getting fucked

just one more time.

Takes his cock and fits it to her, when she's ready. Slides into her. Look in his eyes is melting, is dissolving, is disintegrating. He kisses her, and this time he kisses her mouth. Holds her with his arms taut against her sides; her ass in his hands. Holds her while he kisses her. Kisses her while he fucks her. Fucks her in these long, deep, grinding strokes, each building on the last -- intense, hypnotically slow, just a handful of thrusts, just a scatter of seconds before he's coming inside her, shuddering his orgasm into her, panting into that kiss with his brow furrowed, with his eyes closed.

--

Keeps holding her for a long time, after. Keeps kissing her for a long time, even if those kisses are inexact, loose, fraying apart at the edges.

witch

Not entirely without a sound. They're high and -- let's just be honest -- girlish. They're little gasps, more than anything. Sound joyful, more than anything. He made her feel good. He made her feel so good. And it goes on, and on, and in return she gives him a thoroughly wet dick. She's squirming after, enjoying his fingertip rubbing her little clit, making this sound in her throat like a chuckle, a laugh that shivers down through her. It's only when she turns to look at him again, eyes lazy and half-lidded, smiling at him, that she realizes

he is still hard as a rock inside of her. She's fumbling at his wrist, laughing softly, almost drunkenly, and he's leaning over her to kiss that laughing mouth. "Mmm," she says, or moans, seeking his mouth after he draws back -- again. Laughing softly, shivering as his kisses walk a path down her body. Devon squirms. She turns a bit, then, as though to brace her arms again so that Rafael can fuck her, fuck her until he comes, but he

slides out.

This is unexpected. She whimpers, on the edge of a moan, turning to look at him with a furrowed brow, an almost worried look, almost -- strangely -- hurt by it. What's wrong, she wants to ask, but doesn't. She's turning around as he moves away from her, and the truth is: his hands move to turn her even as she is starting to think of sliding down, getting on her knees, taking him in her mouth. It's not what she really wants. She wants him to come inside of her. She was a little sad that he didn't come with her just now. And he is picking her up and she realizes.

Wraps her legs and arms around him, watching his eyes, her own gaze alert now. Attentive. She leans forward to him, even before he's stepped forward to place her back against the wall. Kisses him. Her arms are wrapped around him so she can't hold his face but she kisses him deeply then, slowly, and if he enters her then she just gasps into his mouth, but doesn't stop kissing him. Moans softly into his mouth, but doesn't stop kissing him. Locks her ankles at the small of his back and holds onto his shoulders but never, never stops kissing him. Moans an answering pleasure when he comes inside of her,

while she's kissing him.

--

Some time goes by. They're kissing, still. She's holding him and both of them have their eyes closed. Their mouths keep straying, lazy and loose but soft and still tender. And she won't stop. She strokes her hands over his back but doesn't stop those loose, fraying kisses. There's an ache in her, right in the center of her, hiding behind her lowermost ribs. It hurts a lot. Kissing him doesn't soothe it so much as intensify it, but it also keeps her from looking it in the eye. Seeing it for what it is.

Knows they need to get clean. Finally wash the damn cum off his belly, at very least. But she goes on kissing him, softly like that. Slow lifts of her lips, slides of her tongue, sighs.

"Rafa," she murmurs, holding him close. Whispers: "My Rafa."

wolfman

Rafa.

Her Rafa.

Don't think that goes unnoticed. Don't think he's too far gone, mind too blown, to hear it. That one innocuous little pronoun: it registers.

Wolf opens his eyes. Dazed, ravaged, overcome as he is: he opens his eyes. Cadence of his breath changes for a second. Then he sinks back into her kiss. The moment.

--

Takes some time for them to unwind from each other. Wolf lifts girl up and slides out of her. Wolf sets her down, holding her by the waist while he kisses her again. They're always kissing each other. Funny, because the first time they fucked she thought maybe he didn't want to face her. Didn't want to kiss her. Didn't want her in his room, or his bed.

That shower's a slow, lazy, quiet thing. Wolf washes his hair and wolf washes his body. Wolf finally washes the cum off his stomach, the sweat off his back. Washes her wetness from his fingers. And his cock. That too.

She takes a bit longer. All that thick hair. His fingers are all wrinkled from soaking so long, though, so he covers her shoulders with his hands, kisses the side of her neck. Then he gets out. Bathroom is full of steam. Wolf brushes his teeth, dripping onto that bathmat which is really just a glorified towel. Dries himself on one of the hotel towels as he departs the bathroom.

Girl comes out a little later, wisps of steam curling along the carpet ahead of her. Wolf's already in bed by then, leaning against a couple pillows with one arm slung over his head. TV's on, sound is off. Wolf is watching the tail end of that soccer match. Blue team's ahead, 2-1, but white team's fighting to the bitter end.

Looks over when he hears her coming. Sees her. Pupils dilate; something about him sharpens, grows attentive. Wolf snaps the TV off and tosses the covers back for her.

--

They both know what she said. And she's quiet for it, tense, pulling back from the words. Their meaning.

Wolf doesn't say anything about it. Smart enough, at least, to know not to pull the bandage off that raw spot. Everyone says shit in the heat of the moment that they don't mean, or mean all too well. Wolf understands that better than most.

So. Just the covers drawn back for her. And the TV turned off, now that she was coming to bed. The wolf scooting down a little in bed as girl gets in, tossing one of the pillows behind his head over to the armchair.

Lights click off. Dark in the room, air conditioner fanning softly. Wolf reaches out in the blackness and pulls the girl close. Lays his jaw over her head for a moment, exhaling like a whuff. Then he lays back. Lies down. Tucks her close to his body, wraps the light blankets over her. Hot outside but this room is cool. Cool in the room, but he'll keep her warm.

Tomorrow they'll cross the border, he thinks. Can't remember if she grew up in Brazil or Portugal, or if she ever lived in either at all. Knows she lived in Britain at least for a while, or did he imagine that too? Hardly matters. She speaks the language. She has blood-relatives there, no matter how distant. In a way, it's a homecoming for her. And for him, he's seeing the world. Just like she said. With her at his side.

Skinny thing, he thinks, fondly. Devon.

His Devon.

Sleeps.