gala.

wolfman

Wolf ends up starving at 3am, just like he thought. Doesn't complain about it. Sits up groggy, stomach empty. Rubs his face awake. Gets out of bed quiet as he can, which isn't very quiet. Maybe she wakes. Sees him a dark shape at the edge of the mattress, turning his head when he senses her wakefulness.

"Back in a minute," he tells her.

Door opening, shutting. Footsteps down the stairs. Footsteps back up the stairs in a couple minutes. Wolf's made them both sandwiches, just leftover roast on bread. Maybe girl eats and maybe she doesn't. Wolf eats, hungrily, devouring his sandwich and washing it down with water.

Gets back in bed after. Pulls the sheets up and, after a hesitation, turns toward girl. Wraps his arm loose over her waist and closes his eyes.

--

Morning and he's still there. Slept so much his bones feel soft. Gets up, loafs around the house. Day passes, then the day after and the day after that. They live their lives. She makes her goop and he goes hunting. She goes out and he watches TV. Sometimes she comes back and finds him asleep on the couch. Sometimes he wakes, looks over at her. Smiles a little before turning the TV off, going upstairs to his bed.

Week passes. Time for his fancy gala. Some charity or other. Some social function or other. Professionals come in the afternoon; shave and a haircut for the wolf. Crisp white shirt and pressed trousers; sharp tuxedo jacket with a single button. Cufflinks that match his ring. Bowtie cinched around his neck like a collar.

Wolf has a date tonight. Waits for her at the bottom of the stairs, fidgeting with his cufflinks. His jawline is cleanshaven for the first time in weeks. Gives him a sharp, well-cut look. With those white cuffs showing past those dark sleeves, the roughness of his hands aren't even that apparent.

witch

Doesn't wake starving. Wakes disgruntled, woken by dumb inhuman thing sharing her bed. She's sleeping heavily, but not heavily enough to be undisturbed; not used to sharing a bed. Not used to someone else moving, breathing. So she's turning over when he's sitting up, rubbing his face. She's trying to half-glomp him with her meager strength, as though her drowsy will could make him be asleep again. Truth be told: it could. Without burning it off, without his own very physical magic raging against it, she could give him a draught that would taste like clouds and drop him into a dreamy, peaceful sleep. But simply wishing it?

Let us look at the evidence: he wakes, and disentangles himself from her, and gets out of the bed. Murmurs something to her that comes to her in another language, meaningless. She makes a soft grunt, a noise that would be almost a harumph if given more energy, rolls back over, and sleeps again.

Her eye opens, peering with shuttered flame at him as he sits there and eats his sandwich. Reaches a long, thin arm from the bedcovers as he's chewing. She fumbles at him. Perhaps he thinks she wants food and hands her a sandwich. Her hand blindly pushes his hand away. Fingertips touch his mouth.

"Shh," says she, shut-eyed, soft, abused by his chewing noises in the dark of the night.

The whole time he's awake, she's mostly-awake. Not quite awake. Nowhere near alert, and determinedly so. Doesn't really get back to sleep until he gets back into bed, pulls the covers up, drapes his arm over her again. She exhales a long, quiet sigh. She hugs her stupid giraffe closer. Scoots back against him. Becomes still again.

--

One might think things would change. Sun comes up and she gets up, looking fondly at him perhaps. Then teasing at breakfast. Idly kissing on couches. Bed together again, and again. Like clockwork. Like it's normal, now they've gone a whole night.

Sun comes up. She wakes. Stretches, extending from the blankets and flopping around, yawning. Looks at him. Nudges him, palm to pec. Gets up and goes to pee. Leaves him there in bed, not expecting him to be there when she finishes in the bathroom.

Which takes a while, anyway. Hair. Some makeup. Digs through her clothes piles when she comes out, dresses herself. Day passes, and the day after that. Doesn't go to bed with him night after night; they just live as normal. Don't trade words about it.

It is what it is, after all.

A week passes like that. In that week she gets his card or he tells James or Franklin or someone to give one to her. Goes shopping, more than once, all over downtown and Cherry Creek and the malls and what-have-you. No professionals come to the townhouse for her; she goes out for that. Comes back midafternoon from them but he doesn't see her then; he's up getting his hot shave, his hair trimmed. She dresses herself; no signet ring, no family heirloom cufflinks. No tux, either. She doesn't have that much to do on her own to get ready. She knows when they're supposed to leave, though. Checks the clock.

Decides to come out seven minutes after their proposed departure time anyway.

High heels, first. Very high. Slight platform. Dark beige, a glossy sheen. Long legs, bare legs -- plenty of women tonight will be wearing full-length gowns. Black tie, after all. Tea-length. Devon's dress ends at her mid-thigh. Devon's dress is tight, and pale gold, with a middle bodice of graphite silver. The neckline could well be described as 'plunging'. Her arms are bare, but for where she is wrapped in a pale silver pashmina. Her bag is quilted black, leather worked through the gold chain strap. He knows she has more than one hole in her ears, her her lobes are covered by her hair, manipulated into soft waves and large, lazy curls. A stack of gold and black bracelets on her right wrist. For a woman who sometimes looks borderline gothic, her makeup is surprisingly subdued. There's a hint of a sheer gloss on her lips. Dark, sultry eyes.

Walks downstairs with a hint of a smirk, like she knows.

Walks past Rafael towards the door to go to the car. Gives him a brief once-over as she passes, meeting his eyes at the end before moving onward.

Yeah.

She knows.

wolfman

Seven minutes past departure time and James is fucking beside himself. Not that he's fluttering around or wringing his hands. Manservant's standing rather still, actually, but in that stillness is a sort of buzzing manic energy: eyes darting again and again to the stylish modernistic clock hung discreetly in the living room; every so often taking the sort of deeper breath that suggests an emergency escape valve mechanism. Before his head blows off his shoulders.

Franklin is there too. And the wolf. All three men in black jackets, black ties. Wolf's the only one wearing a proper tux; three months ago he didn't even know the difference, but now he does. Something about the cut, the lines, the lapels. You can tell.

Franklin's hands clasped before him, keys in his palm. Wolf's hands clasped behind, feet apart. He's looking in some other direction when finally the upstairs door opens. Six eyes swing in the same direction. James is glaring, is seething, is thinking what a rude bitch, what a slut, the mother would never, the brother would never, what a shameless boor he's employed by now. Franklin swallows his startlement, and the wolf

stares.

Girl comes down that sleek spiral of a staircase. Heels so high he thinks she might trip and break her head, but she doesn't. Doesn't have a sweeping hemline to contend with after all. Has bare shins, bare calves, bare knees, bare to midthigh. If he stood beneath the stairs he'd have a look up her dress; see what she was or wasn't wearing. Wolf doesn't stand beneath the stairs, though. Wolf stands at the door,

staring.

Girl has this smirk when she hits ground floor. Girl has this smirk when she struts past him, giving him that once-over while he stares in uncomplicated shock and awe.

Franklin gets the door. Wolf snaps out of it and follows, tugging impatiently at his collar while James composes his thin face. Outside the car is waiting: the extended Cadillac with its piano-black finish. Franklin gets that door too, one gloved hand held out for girl to take, but at the last moment wolf almost physically shoulders him aside and offers his bare hand instead.

She slips in. He slides in after. Door shuts. They sit in silence for a moment while Franklin circles around to get in the driver's seat.

"You look good."

Wolf says it softly. With sincerity. And something like reverence.

witch

Gorgeous.

He says 'good' but that's closer to the word he's looking for. She might have also accepted breathtaking, possibly mouthwatering, or perhaps incredible, phenomenal, amazing -- the host of words that mean not-to-be-believed. There are a lot of ways to tell her how she looks, none of which she doesn't already know and easily apply to herself.

She looks beautiful.

Ignores James, gives a thin half-smile to Franklin, gives Rafael that brief look down, up again. The door is opened for her and she walks through it, shameless about her hips, her long bare legs, her exposed breastbone. The car is warmed. Devon, looking amused, is reaching to take Franklin's hand but

Rafael just about body-checks him. Her mouth curls and curves like burning paper; she rests her hand on his, bracelets rustling and clinking together, and steps into the Cadillac, seating herself on the warm leather. Nothing like a gentleman, he comes in after her, follows her, instead of circling to the other side to let himself in. So Devon, thinking this is hilarious, scoots across the seat. Leans back, crossing her legs, stretching out, adjusting her shawl around her arms.

Looks at Rafael, who says nothing until he says she looks 'good'.

Gives him this slow, agreeing nod, her lips pursed in a mm-hmm. obviously. sort of smirk. Reaches over to lay her hand on his leg, sliding it across those fine, thick fingers to his inner thigh, giving him a slight squeeze of the solid, large muscles there.

"Could get used to you in a tux," she says breezily, withdrawing again.

wolfman

"Could get used to you in -- "

wolf doesn't even know how to describe. What word to use. Ends up using his eyes: looks at her. Down that daring neckline, down that bare breastbone, down to the interesting and confusing graphite-gray wrap around her waist. Wolf nods at her.

" -- that."

Franklin gets in the front. He asks, courteously, if they're ready to go. Wolf is. Wolf looks over to see if girl is. And then: "Yeah, let's go."

--

Car pulls away. Wolf's townhouse, luxurious and well-appointed and stylish but ultimately still rather lowkey and upper-middle, slides away in the rear window. Wolf sits on his side for a while. He looks out the window. He's so keenly aware of girl nearby in her mind-melting dress that it feels like every nerve is awake. Every capillary pushing blood.

Abruptly he moves, and the air in the car moves with him. His rage is like gravity: pulls everything with it. Compresses, superheats. Wolf thumbs a button and the divider between driver's compartment and passenger's goes up. Might be the first time he's ever felt the need to put it up. And now he's alone with the girl, or as alone as a couple sheets of privacy glass would allow. Wolf looks at her.

"I want to fuck you right now," he confesses. Blunt as a hammer.

witch

Quirk of her mouth. Is leaning on the door's armrest, her purse on the seat between them, looking at him. They leave the townhouse, and she doesn't say anything in return. Looks out the window, watching the town go by as the head to this... party. Gala. Whatever it is. She never even asked. Knew it was going to be fancy, and 'black tie'. Wore a dress like that anyway.

She looks away from the glass when the partition goes up. Hears the faint whirr, notices the change in the light. Turns to look at it, then looks at him. It slides into place; goes silent again. She's waiting.

Not long.

Wants to fuck her.

Right now.

Devon gives him one of those little smirks. Not cruel, not mocking. Just amused, languidly so. Murmurs her answer:

"Too bad."

wolfman

Must mean she trusts him, answering him like that. Must mean she believes he won't fly into a terrible rage. Believes he isn't so self-indulged, so self-righteous, so self-centered as to think she owes it to him or something. Believes he won't smash her head through the window for denying him.

Or maybe it just means she's brave. And maybe a little reckless. Or at least: that she values her self-respect above whatever danger there was.

--

Girl's right, though. Wolf doesn't flip out. Wolf just looks at her while she smirks at him. He exhales a laugh. "Love of god," he mutters. Reaches out and takes her hand. Bends over it, kisses her knuckles, a gesture so courtly as to be a gentle mockery.

Car drives on. Wolf leaves the divider up. Nice to have a little privacy.

witch

Trust or expectations don't enter into it. Perhaps he thinks her brave, or reckless, or trusting. She isn't thinking of it. If she were: she'd call that outlook grotesque. Shouldn't take bravery, or trust, or recklessness to tell him too bad. That wouldn't be rage, that ever-faithful excuse for the monstrous behavior of the Garou.

That would be the Wyrm. Simple as that.

Devon doesn't think he's tainted by the Wyrm. Devon doesn't consider trust, or bravery, or recklessness, when he says he wants to fuck her and she says too bad. And good, too: her skin would crawl.

Wyrm likes such things. Fear. Disgust. The anticipation of the violation, as much as the violation itself. Craves hiding children curled up in balls, women carrying pepper spray, the helplessness of the feeble in body or mind against those who would abuse them. Even when not a finger is laid on the vulnerable --

the taste of sick, constant fear is so, so sweet. Tastes as good as ownership of all those souls.

Because in a way, it is.

--

Devon does fear him sometimes. But not his rage. Fears those moments of self-indulgent pique and fury, fears being trapped or pursued or backed into corners -- things which would be frightening no matter who performed them. Essentially: she fears him when he's being shitty.

Telling her he wants her. Right now. On heated leather seats, Cadillac color of ink, finding out what's under her dress, pulling aside his tux, cum on her thighs, his mouth on her neck. None of that is shitty.

Neither is smirking at him, nearly-smiling, telling him no in that cheeky, effortless way.

He leaves the partition up. She finds her hand taken, kissed, and her lips purse in an effort not to grin. When he stops, she keeps his hand. Their hands sit clasped on the seat between them. She goes back to looking out the window for a while, til she asks:

"What's this for, anyway?" she wants to know.

wolfman

Excellent question. Wolf has no idea. Wolf sits there blank for a moment. Then his hand tightens on hers a little -- it's only reflex. He shifts in his seat, automatically reaches for his back pocket, realizes his phone isn't there. It's in the inner pocket of his jacket. He retrieves it, taps open the calendar, reads.

"We're feeding starving kids in India." Screen goes dark and wolf puts the phone away again. "Good cause." They're all good causes. All excuses too, wolf thinks. Excuses for the rich to flaunt their riches. Strange that he still thinks so resentfully of them; he's one of them now. By the numbers, at least.

"Was going to maybe go up to the other house after." Wolf adds this a little later. Says it like he's venturing somewhere with the words. "Stay for a few days. Maybe a week." Pause. "You can come too. If you want. Warning you it's in the middle of nowhere though."

witch

Her lips press, flatten out. Gives a nod. All right, then. Not too shabby a cause.

Their hands are laced. Fingers between fingers. She decides, while he's talking about 'the other house', to move her bag and scoot over to the middle. Uses that hand she's holding as a handle to lift his arm over her head and wrap it around her. Rearranges her hair so his arm doesn't crush those perfect curls. Tucks it behind an ear -- looks like his credit card got her some nice gold and silver studs, too -- and rests her temple on his shoulder.

Fucking position she's sitting in presses her tits together. Ten inches from his damn face. If that.

"Why?"

wolfman

"Why's it in the middle of nowhere?" Wolf sounds baffled.

Forgive him. Her tits. Are ten inches. From his face.

witch

Doesn't look up at him. Is looking at the back of the driver's head through the partition. Is thoughtful.

"Why're you going at all?"

wolfman

"I... want to."

Wolf says it slowly. Like he's admitting it to himself. Not some obligation of the blood, then. Not this time. Not some age-old contract with the locals and the serfs. Just him. His whims. Something he can do. Something he does.

"Like it up there. Quiet. Clean. Not a lot of people around. Good hunting. The other kind of hunting."

witch

Cool compared to him. She can feel his warmth radiating out of him. Feels it where she tucked herself to his side, beneath his arm. Feels it through his tuxedo pants, against her hand. He touches that hand; she evades a little, slips out of his grasp, which means her hand goes higher up his thigh.

Skiing! Sledding! Snowmobiling which is apparently a verb these days! Sailing because winter yay! Pool and pool! Heated pool. Fancy. Movies and a ballroom and she could throw her own goddamn gala.

Devon laughs at him.

"Don't wanna throw a gala," she tells him, shrugging a bit under his bicep. "I'll think about it."

wolfman

Wolf snorts. Hand comes down on hers, big and warm and rough over slim and cool and delicate. Cool right now, at least, though sometimes when he's inside her, her palms are hot as coals, pressed to his back.

"You could ski. There are skis and boots stored up. All sort of sizes and shapes. Sleds too. Couple snowmobiles. Little sailboat for the lake." Wolfs thinks a moment, gathering momentum. "Pool table too. And a pool. Heated. There's even a little movie theater. And a ballroom. You could throw your own goddamn gala, how's that for something to do."

Wolf realizes maybe he's bragging a little. Showing off a little. Trying to impress the girl. Silly of him, really.

witch

Doesn't take long, to get from a townhouse in the Highlands to the Denver Art Museum. Didn't tell her much about the event -- didn't even know what it was for until this car ride. Not that it mattered. He said 'gala'. She put on this dress. Smooth legs, silky hair, that soft wet gleam on her lips. They are not this crowd: they are too young. He doesn't follow the rules of etiquette; she doesn't follow the rules of garb.

Car pulls to a stop and she draws away from him, rearranging her pashmina around herself, looking out at what's going on. Photographers: cities still have society pages, or 'style' sections. Even Denver. He gets out before her, and the bulk of him and the way he glares makes it strangely easier for her to get out of the Cadillac. No awkward tugging at her hemline. She rises up behind him, then before him, as he turns to take her hand. Shakes hair off her shoulder, holds his hand. Franklin closes the door, gets back in, drives away as they start walking forward.

Rafael squeezes her hand. Devon looks up and over at him as he does, perhaps surprised.

And yet he doesn't look anxious, or the same level of tautly defensive as he did when she first stood up. Looks weird, she thinks. Looks pleased, and perhaps a touch cocky, and she laughs because she understands. That's one of someone's photos: Devon holding his hand, looking up at him, mid-laugh. Crinkles her nose up.

Photographer doesn't know who they are; wants to use that photo, though. Even if it just calls them both 'guests'; nameless invitees arriving at the party.

--

They walk. Not to the line. He just walks, and she tugs on his stupid arm once as subtly as she feels like, which isn't that subtle, because skirt that tight and heels that high mean you walk slower, even as long as her legs are. So she tugs, and makes him slow down with her, he's ruining the whole strutting thing.

Walk in to low ceilings at first, turning past the front counter and the gift shops and art shop up a very slight incline with a continuation of the red carpet, into the atrium with its high white stairs and numeral-lit circles of light in the walls, the cocktail tables and canapes circulating, the people in their evening gowns. The gala spreads upward through various galleries, into a room full of silent auction items, into the auditorium for the silent auction itself, the halls where dinner will be served. Everything is glittering and

"Swank," Devon observes, her pashmina draped over her elbows behind her back now, no longer needed. She's still holding his hand. Not hand on his arm, like plenty of the couples here. Just holding hands, fingers linked, like schoolchildren.

A tray of blood-red signature cocktails in martini glasses comes nearby, hovers; Devon picks one up with her free hand and offers it to him. Hands it over and gets her own if he wants it; keeps it for herself if he doesn't.

witch

[DLP x3 -- SORRY :[[[ ]

witch

That makes her smirk. 'The other kind'. Not fomori and city-monsters. Not spirals or banes. Clean meat. Healthy prey. Even in winter. Wolves can still find meat in winter.

Her hand is resting on his leg. She is swirling her fingertips just above his knee, looking for some piece of lint or stray thread to toy with; there is none. Of course there is none. She does it anyway. He can feel the pressure of her hands through the fabric, even thick as it is. Can feel some of her heat.

"Bet there's nothing to do up there."

wolfman

Wolf snorts. Hand comes down on hers, big and warm and rough over slim and cool and delicate. Cool right now, at least, though sometimes when he's inside her, her palms are hot as coals, pressed to his back.

"You could ski. There are skis and boots stored up. All sort of sizes and shapes. Sleds too. Couple snowmobiles. Little sailboat for the lake." Wolfs thinks a moment, gathering momentum. "Pool table too. And a pool. Heated. There's even a little movie theater. And a ballroom. You could throw your own goddamn gala, how's that for something to do."

Wolf realizes maybe he's bragging a little. Showing off a little. Trying to impress the girl. Silly of him, really.

witch

Cool compared to him. She can feel his warmth radiating out of him. Feels it where she tucked herself to his side, beneath his arm. Feels it through his tuxedo pants, against her hand. He touches that hand; she evades a little, slips out of his grasp, which means her hand goes higher up his thigh.

Skiing! Sledding! Snowmobiling which is apparently a verb these days! Sailing because winter yay! Pool and pool! Heated pool. Fancy. Movies and a ballroom and she could throw her own goddamn gala.

Devon laughs at him.

"Don't wanna throw a gala," she tells him, shrugging a bit under his bicep. "I'll think about it."

wolfman

Wolf's arm is slung loose and casual over girl's shoulders. Girl's pressed up against his side, probably rumpling his coat a bit. Wolf doesn't mind. Nice having her close to him like this. Is what it is, and what it is is nice.

"Yeah. Think about it." And he looks out the window: "We're almost there."

--

Turns out this event to benefit starving kids in India is being held at the Denver Art Museum: that jagged, futuristic work of art that happens to also be a building. Museum's closed to the public already. White semi-permanent tenting out front to funnel partygoers in. Long line of black tuxedos and evening gowns snaking out the front door.

Car pulls up at the curb. Red carpet and velvet rope. Even some photographers there; a would-be paparazzi line. No one's likely to recognize the wolf. No one's going to recognize the girl at all. Flashbulbs still go off when Franklin opens the door. Wolf's the first one to climb out because, rude thing that he is, he didn't know to go around and enter from the other side after handing the girl in.

Scowls at photographers, who turn their attention elsewhere anyway. Snaps his lapels and then turns to help the girl out, hand held forth for hers. If she takes it his grip is firm. Wolf's body language is odd; shoulders hunched but squared, a sort of instinctive defensiveness in this crowd masquerading as aggression. And at the same time, when girl comes alongside him, wolf holds his head a little higher. She's so fucking gorgeous, so fucking different, so out of this world, that he feels foolishly proud as well. His hand squeezes hers. They bypass the line, because he can afford to bypass the line now. People at the door recognize him. Might not like him and might not approve of him, but they know him.

witch

Doesn't take long, to get from a townhouse in the Highlands to the Denver Art Museum. Didn't tell her much about the event -- didn't even know what it was for until this car ride. Not that it mattered. He said 'gala'. She put on this dress. Smooth legs, silky hair, that soft wet gleam on her lips. They are not this crowd: they are too young. He doesn't follow the rules of etiquette; she doesn't follow the rules of garb.

Car pulls to a stop and she draws away from him, rearranging her pashmina around herself, looking out at what's going on. Photographers: cities still have society pages, or 'style' sections. Even Denver. He gets out before her, and the bulk of him and the way he glares makes it strangely easier for her to get out of the Cadillac. No awkward tugging at her hemline. She rises up behind him, then before him, as he turns to take her hand. Shakes hair off her shoulder, holds his hand. Franklin closes the door, gets back in, drives away as they start walking forward.

Rafael squeezes her hand. Devon looks up and over at him as he does, perhaps surprised.

And yet he doesn't look anxious, or the same level of tautly defensive as he did when she first stood up. Looks weird, she thinks. Looks pleased, and perhaps a touch cocky, and she laughs because she understands. That's one of someone's photos: Devon holding his hand, looking up at him, mid-laugh. Crinkles her nose up.

Photographer doesn't know who they are; wants to use that photo, though. Even if it just calls them both 'guests'; nameless invitees arriving at the party.

--

They walk. Not to the line. He just walks, and she tugs on his stupid arm once as subtly as she feels like, which isn't that subtle, because skirt that tight and heels that high mean you walk slower, even as long as her legs are. So she tugs, and makes him slow down with her, he's ruining the whole strutting thing.

Walk in to low ceilings at first, turning past the front counter and the gift shops and art shop up a very slight incline with a continuation of the red carpet, into the atrium with its high white stairs and numeral-lit circles of light in the walls, the cocktail tables and canapes circulating, the people in their evening gowns. The gala spreads upward through various galleries, into a room full of silent auction items, into the auditorium for the silent auction itself, the halls where dinner will be served. Everything is glittering and

"Swank," Devon observes, her pashmina draped over her elbows behind her back now, no longer needed. She's still holding his hand. Not hand on his arm, like plenty of the couples here. Just holding hands, fingers linked, like schoolchildren.

A tray of blood-red signature cocktails in martini glasses comes nearby, hovers; Devon picks one up with her free hand and offers it to him. Hands it over and gets her own if he wants it; keeps it for herself if he doesn't.

wolfman

Girl turn heads as they bypass the line. Color of her dress. Cut of her dress. Length of her legs. Bareness of her skin. She's not on the wolf's arm, but they are holding hands. Like little kids. Like high school sweethearts.

Wolf turns heads too, but it's more the menace in his presence. Can't pinpoint it but it's there. Something about the way he walks. Something about the look in his eyes. Photographer catches a picture of girl laughing; wolf glaring right into the lens. Catches another photo a second later when wolf's looking at the girl instead, features softening, mouth tugging into a faint smirk in spite of himself.

Second one's the one the photographer wants to use. Guests arrive.

--

Wolf looks suspiciously at the cocktail. Stops just short of leaning over and sniffing it. Takes it from the girl and tastes a sip. Discovers it's good. Not poisoned. Doesn't knock the second glass out of the girl's hand.

"There's food upstairs." Wolf's not explaining because he thinks she's some sort of country bumpkin. Wolf's explaining because first time he came to one of these things he had no idea what was going on. Felt like a fool most the night, singled out, stared at, whispered about. Wants to spare her the same. Doesn't occur to him that probably she knows more than he does. "You can buy stuff at the auction if you want. Usually someone makes a speech at some point. Then there's dancing. Private tours of the galleries too."

Couple approaching them. Looks like they're in their forties until they're right up close. Then they look to be in their sixties. A very well-preserved, well-groomed, well-botoxed sixty-something. Woman's breasts are high and firm. Man's hair is gorgeously silver, swept back from a lineless brow.

"Friends of my mother's," wolf introduces them. Friends seems a loose term. Man shakes wolf's hand, wants him to say hi to a couple names wolf can't place to faces. Woman peers curiously at girl, like maybe she was some exotic species from some trendy urban jungle. She wants to know who his friend is. She calls him Raff.

Wolf has that tense look about him again. Backed in a corner, hackles up, ready to lunge.

witch

That, and she's beautiful. Let's not forget beautiful. Let's not forget the strangeness of her, the traces of an icon that no one can place, the sense of purity that everyone can feel but not everyone can understand. She has it; he has it, too. Want to call her Bridget, for some reason. Wary of forgetting 'sir' when they talk to him, for some reason. Wary of him, full stop, for every reason: look at the span of his shoulders, size of his hands, way his feet land, way he moves. Something about the center of his gravity reads as killer. Way he keeps her close and way he looks at people who look at her.

Cocktails. Tells her where the food is -- which she was wondering, since last she had were snacks and another drink at some beauty bar downtown while they curled her hair and did her makeup and waxed her legs, painted her nails. Her eyes perk at the mention of food. Doesn't occur to him that she might know more, which is good. She doesn't. Just doesn't bother her to be stared at, singled out, whispered about. Doesn't mind looking like a country bumpkin. Doesn't mind being the odd one out.

Seems to seek it. Engineers it. Look at her dress. No one is wearing that low a neckline, that high a hem. Her heels alone make more than a few glances say trash. Someone too far away for them to hear is shaking their head behind Rafael's back, muttering what does he think this is, 'Pretty Woman'? and his gaucheness and his ignorance stick in their craw, washed down by cocktails.

Rafael doesn't hear it. Devon doesn't hear it. Difference is that Devon wouldn't care other than the obviousness of the 'joke' making it flat, dry. Like a cracker, she'd say, and move on to something else.

She may not know how to behave at these things, or quite how to dress, or how to express herself, but she doesn't lack confidence. She doesn't lack a certain emotional shield, when it comes to meaningless strangers whose expectations she revels in defying.

"What can we buy?" she wants to know. She's about to start dragging him up to get food, and look at the silent auction stuff, and is going to ask when the dancing starts but they're being beelined. She pauses. Watches those old plastic people walk up. Doesn't find them disturbing -- to each their own -- and in fact is vaguely warmed to find that they knew Rafael's mother. Is being stared at. Sips her drink and the woman asks Rafael -- wait, Raff -- to stop being a rude mannerless twit and actually introduce his 'friend'. His date.

RAFF doesn't say anything. Is tense and holding her hand and she wiggles her fingers a little like hey

too tight.

"Tiffy," she says, in a voice too young for self-awareness. Or shame. Slightly nasal. Elongates the wrong syllables as she talks: "It wuzzz gonna be TIFFuhneee, but my maaam thaht that sownded too, liiike, trennndee? So she kahlled me TIFFee, cuz, liiike, that's more spunkee?"

She grins, and takes a huge drink of her red cocktail, giggling.

"Theeese? Are liiike, reeeuhllee like, gud."

wolfman

Most ridiculous sounds start coming out of the girl. Wolf gives her a single disbelieving glance, then spends the rest of the time holding her hand and staring grimly at the plastic people and pressing his lips together, his eyebrows down. That or start laughing.

Plastic people are wearing identical, frozen grins. They clearly have no idea how to react. They think she must be the worst sort of trash. They think -- dimly, faintly, just an inkling -- that maybe they're being made fun of somehow. They don't see what the joke is but they can sense it the way apes sense danger.

Woman pats girl's hand as they slip away. So nice to meet you, dear. Insincerity so deep it almost ran real. Plastic people leave fast as they can without being horrendously impolite. Wolf sips his cocktail, watching them go. His eyes gleam.

Sees people whispering across the room

Doesn't care so much. Girl's with him, holding a razoredged mirror to their hypocrisy and manufactured exclusivity. Girl's with him and maybe neither of them come from money or the best pedigree but they knew things, understood things, have seen things the rest of these people wouldn't dream of. That's worth something.

Wolf puts his lips by girl's ear.

"Tiffy? Where did you even get that from?"

witch

Cards on the table, she doesn't even mean to make fun of them. She's being ridiculous for the sake of it; these people with their wealth and privilege and finery only dimly annoy her with their entitlement and wastefulness. Their judgement of her does not cause her discomfort. Rafael's rather evident discomfort bothers her, but doesn't make her angry. She just feels bad for him. Doesn't mean it isn't rude of her. Doesn't mean that her absurdity doesn't rub these people the wrong way and send them onward to whisper, to dislike Rafael even more.

Maybe she affects that voice, that persona, to make him laugh. Make him relax. Doesn't matter what they think.

'Tiffy' just grins at the couple, happy, as they walk away. She finishes the final sip in her martini glass and looks around -- ends up setting the empty glass on top of a table that has a large, wide glass vase in it for people to drop business cards or calling cards for a special prize later in the evening.

It doesn't go there. But it doesn't go in her hand, either, she decides. Turns back to Rafael, steps closer to him. Toe of her shoe touches the outside of his. Came this close the first time. When he was so convinced it was a bad idea. When he pretended, if only for a moment, not to know where that outstretched hand of hers was going to lead him.

She smiles. She's not made of razors or glass, reflective or not. Freckles and bright eyes. Such dark hair. Made of wind and earth. Healer. Party girl. Damsel in pretty serious distress. Anonymous hot fuck. Stuffed giraffe. The occasional cigarette. Tears in her eyes. Winner of drinking contests. Hates James. Doesn't mind Franklin. Can't sleep in his bed, apparently. Slept like a stone with him in her own; maybe that was the vodka?

Such a smile on her face. A little goofy and very warm and pleased that she almost made him laugh. Made him have to hold laughter in, which is its own pleasure.

Her eyes flutter closed as he leans in, over, puts lips and breath by her ear. Can't see her but she looks beatific like that. Squeezes her shoulders together in amusement. Draws back to look at him and shrugs. "Nowhere. Just that good."

wolfman

Wolf leans in. Kisses the girl. First time he's ever kissed her in full sight of others, and for once it isn't rough or starved. It's soft. Light. His mouth greeting hers, and never mind who sees. What they whisper.

Kiss ends and wolf's hand firms on hers. "Let's get food." Corner of his mouth threatens to smirk. "Tiffy."

witch

Still smiling when he kisses her. Soft curves on her lips, making it difficult to kiss him back. Tries anyway. Bites his lip, quick and light, right at the end.

Nose wrinkles when he calls her Tiffy. She squeezes his hand back.

Goes with him on those absurd heels, grabbing another cocktail off a passing waitress's tray before they head up the angular stairs to the food. Which she gets into without much decorum or grace, purse over her shoulder and juggling cocktail and plate and items to put on said plate. She's having a good time. He can see that: she's into the food and fanciness and the dark and wants to look at the silent auction items and finally gets around to asking him when there will be dancing and will it be good dancing or like, old-people dancing.

wolfman

Girl's having a good time. Wolf realizes that, and realizing that, realizes he'd wanted her to have a good time. Her obvious enjoyment makes him feel better. Less alone.

Servers in chef's whites stand behind tables heaped with food. Lamb with mint sauce. Prime rib roast. Stuffed halibut. Traditional roast turkey. Smaller bite-sized nosh too: prosciutto-wrapped scallops here, thin-sliced steak on asparagus there. Cubes of a dozen or more varieties of cheese. Wines red and white. Fruit salad. Every imaginable variety of petits-fours at the desser table.

Wolf fills his plate. Piles it shamelessly high. Doesn't sit at the tables to smalltalk. Finds them a quiet corner with a view of the city. Girl wants to see the auction. Girl wants to know when the dancing starts.

"Probably after some stuffy guy gets up and gives a speech," is his best approximation. "Later on the dancing might get better. I don't know. I don't dance."

Picks up a tiny game hen drumstick, dressed with rosemary and berry. Tears into it hungrily.

witch

So much cheese. She wants halibut and turkey and lamb -- LAMB, she mouths at him, as it is put on her plate by the carver -- and also veggies and fruit skewers and she gets a separate plate for chips and tosses back the rest of her cocktail so she can accept a glass of white wine and sticks several pieces of 'tiny cake' on the plate with her chips, where they will get daubed at the edge with salt. She carries those plates like a waitress, walking into one angled corner that looks out over a frigid patio and, from that patio, the city and the sky.

Devon eats. Talks in between bites. Interrupts him to feed him cheese because you can't see the peppers at all but taste how spicy this is. Two cocktails in less than fifteen minutes are hitting her. She's giddy. She looks so good, too. Look at how good she looks. Rafael totally couldn't wait to fuck her, even if she made him.

Then:

I don't dance.

When he finishes that tiny game hen drumstick and looks up again she is leveling the flattest, darkest stare at him.

"You'll dance with me, though," she says, only fractionally a question.

wolfman

Wolf flushes incrementally. Busies himself with rewrapping a scallop with its prosciutto so he can eat it.

"What I meant was," bite, "I can't dance."

witch

Devon flaps a hand, then grabs a melon ball off a skewer with her teeth, sliding it off the stick and shoving it to the side of her mouth to chew as she says:

"Mean you can't dance well."

wolfman

Wolf frowns at her. Decides tactical retreat's the best course of action.

"Let's go look at the auction."

witch

Devon, two cocktails in, doesn't argue. She eats the rest of the fruit on the skewer in one bite and hops after him, her mouth bulging for a while as she makes her way through a whole strawberry, another melon ball, and a slice of banana at once.

Reaches for his hand again, though, once she tosses the skewer away.

wolfman

Wolf's bringing his food. He's still got plenty on his plate. Cut of lamb, cut of beef, cut of turkey, cut of ham. The works. Skipped the fish for now though.

Girl takes his hand again. Wolf looks over at her, half-surprised. Then his hand tightens around hers a bit. They go look at the silent auction: vast room with various collectibles quite literally placed on pedestals. Here's a gorgeous timepiece. There's a string of pearls. Here's a handmirror that supposedly belonged to some 19th century queen. Tickets to the opera, tickets to the ski resorts. Centerpiece is a 1960s Jaguar, british green of course.

Quieter in here. Conversation hushed. Guests browsing in small groups, ones and twos and threes. No one else is eating, but wolf doesn't allow that to dissuade him. Shadows the girl closely as she browses, working his way around his plate. There goes the lamb. There goes the beef.

witch

They stroll the quiet room, where conversation has minimized to discussions of the pieces, no one wanting to give away what they're most interested in.

When they look at the handmirror, Devon tickles Rafael's palm. She is holding his hand and carrying a plate so her wine was left... somewhere. And every time she wants to eat something she has to just lift her plate up and nomf it with her mouth, which makes them even more noticably... out of place. Not that she minds. She ignores them.

Interested in everything, attached to nothing, she ends up discarding her plate after she's eaten her fill, leaving it on some pedestal next to a basket with three bottles of wine and plane tickets to the Napa Valley tucked into the nesting floof providing filler and support for the booze. She licks her fingers, which she thinks is better than wiping her hand on her dress or -- more likely -- Rafael's tux.

Tickles his palm again, looking at him and standing slightly on her toes -- more than she already is in those absurd shoes -- to whisper in his hear.

"Let's break into a gallery."

She must mean: the ones they aren't giving tours of tonight. The ones with locked doors, even during this event.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't bid on anything. Wolf would bid on something if girl indicated she wanted it, but girl never speaks up. Girl tickles his palm at one point. Wolf wonders if that's meant to be a signal. If it is, it's one too subtle for him to pick up.

Girl finishes eating, leaves her wine and plate somewhere they don't belong. Wolf carries his, at least til he sees a discreet trashcan -- all angles and smooth metal -- and leaves it atop that. Girl leans up and wolf lowers his head to hear. Girl's breath tickles his ear. Girl's body is so close to his for a moment, their hands twined, their arms pressing together.

Rears back at her suggestion. Frowns. "What? Why? We'll get arrested."

witch

Big dumb ahroun can't tell that she wants the mirror. Or he looks at her, and she grins at her reflection in the mirror, and she thinks he gets it.

He doesn't get it.

As he lowers himself to her, she loops her arms around his neck. They may as well be alone here; aren't, but she acts like it. He's too wealthy for anyone to bother. Too scary for anyone to bother. Best they can do is whisper.

She whispers. And grins when he rears back.

Draws him back down. Whispers in his ear this time, very close.

"Wanna fuck you. Right now."

wolfman

Wolf goes a little still. Tautly so, like predator scenting prey. Wolf's arms didn't go around her, but wolf did bend to hear her. Still bending now, heart moving in his chest. Occurs to him to say too bad but really that'd just be petty and vindictive. And he's not petty. Or vindictive.

Is horny, though. Suddenly and world-consumingly. Wolf turns his head within the loop of girl's arms. Kisses her on her neck, low down where her collarbones scoop. Jaw's smooth-shaven; won't start hinting at scratchiness for another couple hours.

Straightens up, then. Unloops her arms, takes her hand. Starts walking, purposefully, and fast -- until she tugs him to slow down. Can't walk that fast in that skirt, those heels. He glances over his shoulder. He slows for her. They leave the auction behind. They make a turn in the hall, head away from the crowd. Find a set of service stairs somewhere and take that up, up, up to the top level. Modernists and cubists. Surrealists, abstractists, paint-splatter-ists.

Girl's hand still in his. Now he's tugging her along again, looking past Exhibit Closed signs and velvet ropes.

witch

Would make her laugh. Too bad. Might make her want him more. In a warped little way she almost hopes he says no, or too bad, or smirks a later. In a deeper, warmer way she's so glad he doesn't. So glad, because the little put-offs and denials stacked up hurtfully just a couple of weeks ago; she stopped throwing herself at him. Opening herself to him.

Also she wants to fuck him. Right now. So she's glad he doesn't tell her no.

Except at first he's not telling her anything. Just standing there, bent to her, inhaling her the way he always does, even though it's fruitless. No scent for him to hold onto. Just the change in her breathing, the straightening of her spine as he kisses her in a spot that makes her heart jump.

He is so unsubtle. Stands right up, grabs her hand, off he goes. Devon starts to bounce after him til he realizes he's going to make her break her ankle doing that. People are looking at them: nouveau-riche gutter trash and his dolled-up whore, don't know how to behave...

she can't help but laugh a little as they're leaving the auction space. He goes for stairs. She gives him a Look, glances over her shoulder, then steps out of those stiletto heels, hooks her fingers in them, and up they go. They pass by a sweeping corner where everything -- walls, floors, ceiling -- is a bright, rich red. There are tables and chairs and tablecloths and vases with flowers and dishware and a fur hanging over a chair and everything is red. Except for the foxes. Dancing here and there, leaping, sitting at tables, sniffing under them. They are the color of concrete, but for a few who are as red as everything else. Devon actually pauses to look at that, then he's nipping at her heels or tugging her hand or something, pulling her to him, with him. They keep climbing.

She's barely even winded when they get to the top level. Barefoot, she lets go of his hand and runs ahead of him, flicking him a glance over her shoulder, grinning. Finds a door to a gallery of modern art -- coils of rope light hanging from the ceiling, sculptures made of knitted mylar loops, abstract prints, some pop art paintings. One enormous, mural-sized loop rug that is diagonally symmetrical.

Devon pulls the handle and slips inside, and runs into the dark, the gallery lit only by service lights.

wolfman

Foxes in concrete and red. Ropes of light. A rug reflected on itself at an interesting angle.

Sights and impressions passing the wolf by. He barely notices them. Girl stops to look and he catches up to her, wraps an arm around her waist from behind, kisses her toothily on the back of the shoulder. She runs ahead. She's shed her heels. He jogs after her, footsteps light but his mass vibrating into the floor. Top level now. Girl runs ahead. Wolf peels lips back, sniffs the air hard like maybe he'll find her.

No scent to be caught. No scent but the scent of her clothing, perfume, hair. It's enough. He pursues, shutting the door behind him so no one knows they're there. Ducking fluidly under the shadow of a rope more intuited than seen. Her shadow crosses a service light and he knows where she is. Cuts across, closes in.

Catches up under the watchful, fractured eye of a cubist painting. Catches her around the waist, the way he had before; spins in a tight half-circle with her, planets caught in each other's gravity. Then he lifts her up. Earth loses its grasp on her bare feet. Wolf holds her up and buries his face in her breasts, against that skin bared by her daring dress. Wolf inhales, silent and ferocious. Drops to his knees with a thud; had to be at least a little painful, that impact, but he can take it.

witch

Sometimes she puts something at the nape of her neck, beneath her hair, or behind her ears, or above her breasts. Not perfume, unless she mixes it herself: miniscule dabs of extracts, essential oils. And not always. Tonight he smelled her when she walked past him. When he thumbed up the partition and told her he wanted her, right then. When he bent to her and kissed her at the base of her throat. When he stood behind her and held her, nearly bit her as he kissed her, and made her shiver. Not lavender tonight. Something warmer, earthier; hard to place. Has a slight spiciness to it.

Finds her shoes. Dropped behind one wall, leading to an outer loop of this particular gallery. It's quiet in here but for the sound of white noise generators, building mechanicals. They can't even hear the party anymore.

Sees a flash of her shadow: between a projector sitting on the floor and the image it displays on the wall of a pristine lake, reeds at the edges, hills in the distance, an endlessly looping video.

Devon can feel him stalking her, and it should make her stomach turn rather than her heart flip, but -- it is what it is. And when he circles around, steps in front of her, and she nearly runs into him, her heart is pounding. She catches a breath there, as his arms come around her, lift her. Her eyes are big, open, staring at him. Her lips are parted. They've lost some of that glossy sheen they had when she got into the limo this evening; two cocktails and half a glass of wine have mussed her lipstick and made her eyes liquid.

She wants to kiss him. He buries his face between her breasts. She thinks: he's wanted to be there all night. The thought doesn't come with a teasing amusement; it comes with a strange ache in her chest. She bends her head over his, kissing the top of his trimmed, slicked hair. They drop: he drops, and she does, and she winces a little at the sound of it. Her fingertips stroke the curve of his ear, his jawline, so he'll look up, see her eyes, read the no, no hurt self there. Absurd.

She does kiss him. Palm on his face, slower than you should for a possibly illegal and certainly ill-mannered quickie in a closed gallery. Softer. But she kisses him, and kisses him, and the more she kisses him the more she wants him, and her purse was dropped somewhere else in the gallery but not before she opened it, took something out. Her other hand drops to his, pries it open, presses the condom into his palm. She doesn't stop kissing him. She does start untying his bow tie.

wolfman

Can he tell?

Can he see it, there in the dark: the flicker of ache when he thoughtlessly hurts himself in his hurry? The ache of wanting too, there in her eyes. The ache of kissing him, and the night-blind, passion-drunk way her hands pass over his face, his head, his hair. Girl's shed her shoes. Girl's shed her purse. They've littered those aspects of themselves, the things that the human world tells them are invaluable, precious, indiscardable,

everywhere. Tossed them into the dark. They don't need them after all. Need only blood in their veins. Need only meat in their stomach, water to cool their tongues. Need only to cleanse the world however they can, tear darkness out of it with all the brutality and viciousness they're capable of. He's capable of.

Need only to come together like this, tangled in the darkness. Mating like beasts. Girl's mouth so hot on his, only getting hotter. Girl's kissing him so hungrily and he's kissing her too. Her fingers undo his bow tie. Wolf strips his jacket off one arm at a time, the other wrapped round her. Just got both arms free when she presses something into his palm. It crinkles. Feels like paper or foil or something; he fingers it a while and then figures it out. Oh. Question darts through his mind; wolf wonders why now, why not before, what if.

Wolf doesn't care in the end. Wolf's jacket sprawls on the floor. Wolf unzips his trousers and wolf reaches his hand in, moves his undergarments, brings out his cock. Wolf tears his mouth from girl's just long enough to rip the little packet open with his teeth. Rolls the condom on, panting into her kiss again. Reaches for her hips and reaches for her dress and rucks it up, up, first time he's ever tried to fuck her without taking everything off first. Eager hands paw for something, underwear, panties, something. Pull her closer, astride his lap where he kneels on the ground. Open hand burns her back. Open hand feels for a bra clasp under her dress. Wolf's mouth on her neck again, on her collarbones again, on her chest again. Nosing aside her dress, looking for flesh.

witch

If anyone comes in they will find her shoes, and her open purse, all lying akimbo and askew on the ground. If anyone comes in they will hear, past the white noise generated by machines in the ceiling, the way he breathes. The way she gasps.

Had a dream one night, he did, chasing something in the dark. In the woods. He was not a man. It was not a woman. Just prey, sweet and plump and fleeting. As soon as he had her under him, though,

everything changed. They changed.

--

Devon presses a condom into his hand, but she doesn't stop kissing him. Feels a flutter of a pause in him but ignores it. She fumbles with the bow tie: not quite that expert at undressing men in fine clothes, perhaps. She has to stop kissing him for a moment to finish, peering at it in the dark, her mouth still open. She gets it undone and his mouth is on her again; Devon shudders, moaning softly into that kiss, tearing his buttons from their holes as he shrugs out of his jacket. Never meant to try and undress him; can't stop herself now. His chest is so hot. She gets just the top half of his shirt and puts her hands inside, soaking up his warmth.

Almost expected him to startle at the condom: demand to know what the fuck, why. Refuse outright to wear it, since he's never cared before and she's never insisted before. He doesn't. He's getting his pants undone, the knees already mussed by the not-pristine floor. Which is cold.

She bites his lower lip, softly. A moment later he's putting the condom packet to his teeth and her eyes flare wide; she fucking grabs it from him, mutters what the fuck is wrong with you and tears it open with her fingers, hands it back, muttering

idiot,

sighing it like an endearment when she finds his mouth again, tastes his tongue again. God, she loves kissing him. Didn't think she would. Never really thought about it til it started becoming a thing. A regular thing. A thing she can't quite think of doing this without.

Gets the condom on. She's tugging up that tight tight skirt of her dress, nevermind there's nothing underneath, didn't realize that there might be seamless no-panty-line thongs out there on the market somewhere. Silly: just don't wear any.

She is lowering her body closer to his, onto his lap where he's kneeling, that can't be comfortable but he's not complaining and she's not thinking. She notices he's not trying to take off all her clothes, insistent. She helps him shrug her out of the bodice so he can get at her breasts. Cold up here; her nipples are hard. Were only half-hidden by the folds of fabric anyway. No wonder most of the other guests think she's a literal prostitute: they think everyone knows about how to wear a dress like that with the right undergarments, unless you're a whore.

Rafael gets his mouth on her breasts. Devon's brow furrows, wrinkles in expectant, wanton ache. She buries her fingers in his hair, musses it, holds him right there. Moves his mouth forcibly to her nipple if he doesn't get there fast enough, lick her fast enough, start sucking on her soon.

The gallery hears her gasping, at the edge of a whimper, when he does.

Rafael feels her cunt tightening against his hand, her body reacting with longing.

--

Here a cubist painting, here a simulacrum of a lakeside in late summer.

Here his jacket off, her feet bare, his shirt half undone.

Here her dress reduced to a waistline and some wrinkles, some tatters.

Here his cock in her hand.

Here the cusp of entering her, and the way she slides herself slowly -- so fucking slowly, slower than he's ever gone -- onto him.

Here the way she tightens up, and holds him,

and moans, a sound that undulates and heightens with every gradual inch that she takes him inside.

wolfman

No bra.

No panties.

Just gorgeous skin under that gorgeous dress. Just her body, bared by degree: here a breast, here a nipple, here a long thigh. Wolf's mouth is everywhere. Wolf's hands cover what his mouth can't. Wolf grabs at her roughly, impatiently, filling his palms with her thighs, her hips, her breast. Sucks on her breast; remembers just at the last second:

not so hard. not so rough. sometimes he's rough with her and she doesn't like it.

Girl's hand on him then. Wolf arrests, eyes closed, mouth parting, struck-silent. Girl raises himself up and wolf's hand on the back of her waist follows her rise. Wolf nuzzles her breasts as she starts to sink down, and then they're out of his reach, he's raising his head, she's moaning and he's catching that moan on his tongue, his mouth, kisses her as she slides down on him.

Inches like miles. Seconds like eons. Wolf's hands pull at her back, grasp at her skin. Something helpless and needful about it. Wolf bites her lips, not hard, but it is a bite, a real one. Wolf growls as she sinks down to his lap, her bare thighs opens over the fine weave of his trousers. Even in the shadows wolf can see the contrast: her skin, his clothing. His bowtie hanging loose. His shirt open enough for her to press her hands to him. Her breasts.

Wolf wraps his arms tight around her. When she starts to move, he presses open mouth to her bare shoulder, imprinting his teeth against her skin.

witch

She's wishing they were back at his place. Or in the limo. Or outside on the grass in the middle of nowhere. Or in front of some roaring fire in some roaring hearth atop some thick rug or animal skin. Wishing they were naked. Wishing she could touch all of him.

Wishing that, when she's kissing him and when he's putting on that condom she pressed into his hand and he is feeling, one way or another, how wet she is as she rubs herself against his body. But then she guides him, slows him, and all she can do is moan. Her body closes tight around him, her torso tilting forward, her hips rolling down. She shows him, really for the first time, just what it feels like to take him slowly like this. Her hands clutch at his back; her fingers wrinkle his shirt, her painted nails digging in. She can barely hold herself back. Does anyway, and every new slide of her body onto his cock makes her quiver and groan

into his mouth. They're kissing again. He's dragged his mouth off her tits, slipped his tongue past her lips. She wants to tell him she loves kissing him, that she never wants him to stop, but to tell him anything she'd have to... stop kissing him. Stop feeling him. Devon feels him bite her and shudders again, all over. He's clutching at her, too. She sinks down further, sinks entirely on him. Tightens her thighs to either side of his body; they don't quite reach the ground. Almost all of her weight is on him, and truth be told it's awkward, she has little leverage, she can only move slowly. Grinds, mostly, rubbing their bodies together.

He bites her. She tips her head back, gasping, glad of the shadows and the slanted, angular light that comes from high windows and service lamps. Likes the way he looks in the half dark.

"I'll go with you," she pants, before she can take it back. Works herself a little higher, all so she can sink down again. Bites her lip, riding him. A whimper bursts from her as his cock hits her just so, as she squirms down against him. "I'll go with you."

wolfman

Wolf doesn't even get it first time she says it. She'll go with him. Wolf's wondering what, where. Wolf wants to ask but his mind's full of white hot nothing, and every time girl moves on him, rises up just to sink down, wolf thinks his world might implode on itself.

Never had it so slow before. Not with her. Maybe not with anyone. Never had to wait, had to draw it out, had to delay the inevitable. Whole new world opens up, like a galaxy at the heart of a flower. Girl's so hot and tight around him: her cunt, yes, but her arms too, her thighs, the whole of her body shuddering around his. Wolf's heart is flooded with blood, with lust, and with something treacherously like tenderness. Skinny frail thing, he thinks of her, abstractly, not unkindly -- though perhaps if he said it aloud she'd argue otherwise. His hands push up her back, arms curved under hers. Hands take her head between his palms, kisses her drenchingly, devouringly.

Gallery fills with the sound of their coupling. Tatter gasps, mouths meeting and parting and meeting again. Not enough motion for the more pornographic noises; enough, though, to draw whimpers out of the girl. Harsh bursts of exhales out of the wolf. Second time the girl says it he gets it: she'll go with him. To his territory. Up in the mountains. Where he invited her. Where he wants her to be with him, alone, hidden away from the world, on enough acreage and in enough space that he doesn't feel so regarded, observed, watched, microscoped.

"Devon," says the wolf. No good reason. Just says it, her face between his hands. Kisses her mouth again. Bitingly, again. Leans back, then, braces a hand on the floor. Arm wrapped around her waist, urging her on; enough room now for him to look down. Watch her riding. Watch that body of hers moving, accepting, taking him in.

witch

Should be a quickie. If there's a time and place for a fast, hard, furtive fuck... well, this still isn't the time or place for any fucking at all. But you'd think, if they just have to get it on right here, right now, they would so as quickly as they could.

Instead, he chases her around a dim gallery full of strange shapes because she tries to elude him. Instead, she lowers her body onto his cock so damn slowly, keeps going slow even after those first gradual strokes. Instead, they're doing this. Daring to remove as much of their clothing as they can so they can feel each other's skin. Kissing like this, refusing to acknowledge what Like This really feels like.

Devon is sweating lightly; it's cool in here, but he's so hot. He's burning up and flooding her breasts and her pussy and her thighs and her arms and her mouth with that same fire; she starts moving faster on him, gasping for it, taking desperate breaths in between kisses.

He says her name. No reason. Never has said it before, though, not when they've been fucking. He's looking at her then, for a moment, before he's kissing her again. She has almost no time to react. Doesn't mean that her chest doesn't unfurl something bright and blooming inside of her, sudden and breathtaking.

They shouldn't be doing this. And even Devon, who does not care, knows enough to be careful how much sound she makes. Even in this tucked-away corner of this tucked-away gallery. She whimpers softly, wanting for more. Wanting faster. Wanting harder. Just... wanting. Those whimpers start to have a lower tone, a heavier sound in the back of her throat.

Thought about it. Will go with him. No idea what that place does or doesn't mean to him. Only knows that he invited her, and wants to go. Wants her to go, too.

Only knows that tonight he's been bragging a little, showing off a little, at odd times and in odd little ways that catch her notice.

Only knows that her enjoyment seemed to ease his aggravation at being here at all.

Only knows that every time he's fucked her, he's touched her, he's tried to please her, he's done it with and without being asked, he's bent his head and furrowed his brow and sought out her orgasm and the sounds she makes like it's imperative to him.

Knows a lot of things, really. Doesn't mean she knows how they add up, or if they do. Isn't doing such emotional math right now; she's fucking him, hiding groans in his mouth, clutching at the edges of his opened tuxedo shirt like she's afraid they're going to be pulled apart. Like she's afraid she's going to simply rise away from him on each lift of her hips, and if she does then his body won't be there, he won't be there, and she'll never come, she needs it now, and the way she kisses him is so hard, it's bruisingly ferocious.

Hungry.

Needful.

Even when he leans back, braces that hand. She leans over him, can't be good for him, can't feel good to have her full weight on him like that, but she can't stop. She presses against him, rides him with more urgency, til eventually she tears her mouth from his and curls around him, pressing her face to his shoulder. She clings there, her lips open, his skin catching the moans that his mouth was a moment ago. Her torso is tightening up, her sides quivering, her hips winding, circling that pussy on him as though she can't bear not to work every last part of her orgasm out against him.

She tries so hard to be reasonably quiet this time. She's biting her lip near the end, face to his chest, trying to conceal her noises with his flesh. Her hair covers his chest, part of his shoulder, hides most of her face.

When it lets her go she drops. Not literally; she just collapses a little against him, arms limp, body trembling, still unconsciously squeezing him inside of her.

wolfman

Wolf's body under hers: solidity, mass, heat, hardness. Girl leans her weight onto him and he hardly seems to mind. Can't say he hardly notices, because he does notice: notices her warmth, her softness, the way her hands clutch at his opened shirt. Puts wrinkles in that starched white fabric. Pulls a button from its hole, and another from its threads. Wolf's arm stays around her, his big hand on her ass, his hand coming up her back and hiking that gorgeous, inappropriate-for-the-occasion dress up. Wrist rumpling fabric. Palm hot at the center of her back.

Girl's moaning now. Girl's hiding the sounds in his shoulder: a block of hard muscle sheathing that artery that runs from heart to hand. That's the vessel people try to put the ring on, see. It runs too deep to feel the pulse, but it's enough to warm his skin. Enough to carry the vibration of her voice

straight to the center of him.

Wolf turns his head, kisses her face. Mouth lands somewhere by her ear, her cheek. Feels so strange and new to have a girl leaning on him like this, fucking him like this, clinging to him like this: like her pleasure, her sanity, perhaps her very existence in this moment depends on his body. His weight. His gravity. His presence beneath her, inside her, around her. Feels strange and new and twisting; equal parts primality, savagery, triumph, tenderness. Wolf's hand comes back down, grabs her ass, rides her motion, and meanwhile she's tightening, shaking, snapping. Girl goes off like fireworks, implosions. Wolf bites the side of her neck, bites her hard enough to imprint his teeth.

--

Girl goes soft when it's over. Collapses against him. Wolf touches her back, strokes up and down her spine. Soothes her while she trembles. Who knew he could be so gentle. Wolf nuzzles her, kisses her; shifts slow and gradual onto the floor, onto his back, onto her back. Girl's liquid heat under him when he rises up over her, braced on his hands, his undone bowtie falling off his neck.

Silently in the near-dark wolf starts moving again. Strokes into her deep and smooth and heavy, exhaling on every thrust. Can see his eyes glinting in the dimness, until of course he comes down over her, one hand wrapping behind her head to bring her brow to his. Bring her mouth to his.

Wolf finds his own orgasm like that: swift and harsh in the darkness, kissing her mouth like it's his own lifeline to the moment. Wolf tries to be gentler this time. Tries not to be so rough with her, but it's a partial success at best. Toward the end he's still pounding her so hard; driving into her roughly enough to shift her a few inches on that cold floor. Toward the end he's panting into her mouth, grabbing at her hair, his free hand a fist, knuckles against the ground.

--

Comes down over her when it's over. Panting, shuddering through his own aftershocks. Too hot and too heavy, but it's still moments before he rolls even a little to the side. They should put themselves together. They should get out of here before they're discovered, kicked out.

Wolf doesn't move. Wolf nuzzles the side of her face, kisses the edge of her mouth. Says nothing; closes his eyes.

witch

Doesn't mean to pull his button out. Doesn't notice if she wrinkles him. She just moans, riding it out on him, while he holds her there. Like she'll fall off.

Peripherally, she feels him kissing her as she comes, but her orgasm has her. Owns her now, only shares her with him a little. It's not until she starts coming down that she can even feel his teeth. She wonders when he bit her. She pants for air, and doesn't squirm from that primitive sort of embrace. Claiming. Not yet.

He doesn't flip her over and pound her. Strokes her back, the touch interrupted by several inches of rumpled fabric across her mid-back. Feels him move and turns her face to look at him, watch him, as he lowers them down, rolls them over. The floor isn't perfectly clean. The floor is very, very hard. The floor is cold, rapidly losing even the heat from where he's been kneeling. Devon catches a breath, but he's careful the way he puts her down. Holds her, still.

Licks her lips, slowly, as he rises up again.

The first stroke makes her eyes close, her head tip back a little. She takes him then, panting again, softer now. Welcoming, though, with her legs and her arms and her body. Eyes are closed when he kisses her; stay closed as she kisses him back. Doesn't complain or whimper or pull away when he starts hitting her harder, faster; she can feel him trying and she doesn't, really, mind. He waited long enough that her entire body wasn't on hypersensitive, flickering fire. This is okay. This, she can handle.

Enjoy, even.

She does grab his wrist at one point, the hand in her hair, pushing it away a little. No, no, that little hand says, but holds onto him even after he's stopped grabbing her hair.

Even after he's stopped thrusting into her. Even after he's come, and done, and covering her, and they are both a wreck, and a mess, and sweating, and panting.

Devon breathes in deeply when he moves a little. She exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. Her head tips a bit in response to the way he nuzzles her, kisses at her; eyes half-close, open again. She smiles a little, sardonic and mild at once, before it fades.

Her head turns, til they are nose-tip to nose-tip, brow to brow. She smiles at him again, drowsy and happy.

Not more than a minute or two pass before she shivers. It's from the cold. Her toes curl, her legs drawing up, her body turning, tucking towards his. The chill of the air and the floor and the rest of it make her bite him, gently, at his jaw.

"Come on," says she. "Get me that mirror."

Something about that, out loud, makes her arrest. She's drawing back, her brow furrowed. "That's not why I have sex with you," she says quickly, quietly, with surprising intensity to the words. "The room, this dress, the... I don't... It isn't --" Devon shakes her head a little. "It's not why."

wolfman

Wolf's eyes open again. Too dim for color, but enough light for depth, texture, the crystalline refraction of his irises. Wolf looks at girl as girl hurries to explain. Night he met her, she would've had to. Night they first fucked, she would've had to.

Probably doesn't have to now. Wolf raises a warm hand to her face, rubs his thumb over her mouth.

"I know." He does. "You have sex with me because you want to."

They're careful about the wording. Have sex with. Fuck. Don't even say sleep with because that doesn't always happen. Wolf's hand slides from her face, then. He rolls on his back, messy, shirt open and untucked, pants open and rumpled. Condom on his dick. Wolf remembers that. Reaches down and snaps it off. Has the decency, at least, not to leave it in the middle of the art gallery.

Ends up wrapping it up in his bowtie. Disgusting as hell; going to throw it away for sure. Never liked bowties anyway, and fuck it if he looks dissolute walking around a black tie event without a tie. Tucks it in his pocket for now, though, and then starts putting himself together.

"Come on." Sitting up, wolf slants a smile her way. "Let's go buy that dumb mirror."

witch

The way he spells it out. Methodically, clearly, as though to make sure she knows what he knows. Devon strangely feels embarrassed for a fraction of a moment, to hear it simply said that way, even though it's close to exactly what she told him on Halloween.

Want to.

Think you want to, too.

The flutter of shyness, if that's what it is, passes. She kisses him, softly, on that thumb he passes over her lips. Would be a lie to say she wants to stay here forever, or at least a little longer. Cold. Hard. Floor. Body sort of sore. Wants to warm up and straighten up and go back to the party-thing. For a second, though, she does stay there. Keeps their faces close, and doesn't say anything else.

Her eyes close for a little while, but then open again. She watches his face, though she does unabashedly look also at his dick and his hand and his cum in the condom as he pulls it off. Sits up, too, and scooches her dress down back in place, and draws the sides of the bodice back up. Reaches in and rearranges her breasts in the dress, shakes her hair out. She gets up, and stands, shivering a bit with her toes on the cold floor. Traipses off, while he's sorting out how to transport the used rubber in the practical sense.

Comes back with her purse and her shoes. Isn't in the shoes yet. Is opening the purse to get out a tissue for him but -- "Oh," she says, seeing him put his bowtie wrapped up in his pocket. Presses her lips together in thought, considering it, then shrugs. That works.

Takes out a mirror instead, and her lip gloss. Fusses a bit with her hair to get it more decent looking, smooths it out. Reapplies lip gloss, then hands him the mirror if he'd like it. She turns, asks him to check her back, brush off any dirt or dust from the floor. Does the same for him, in fact, sweeping her palm gently over his shoulders, his elbows. A tug of a thread puts the button she wrenched a little bit more in place, allowing it to at least peek through its correlating hole, though it will need to be re-sewn.

Devon smiles at him, when they're both standing, and she's slipping her feet back into those insane heels that raise her up several inches again, closer to him. It's sort of a smirk. "Thought you looked good in that tie," she says, draping the pashmina she also dropped somewhere in the gallery back around her shoulders and arms. "Look more yourself without it, though."

wolfman

Something weirdly intimate about dressing together. Brushing lint off each other's backs. Wolf even helps her with her fastenings if she needs it -- though she doesn't. So maybe he doesn't.

Is looking around for a trash can when girl comes back to him. Wolf gets a smile. Sort of a smirk. Girl's good at that: smirks easily, frequently, and sometimes it incenses him and sometimes it makes him want to grab her and kiss her til she's moaning. Sometimes he can barely tell his anger from his lust. They both burn so strong. Wolf thinks that's probably a bit unhealthy but then again, he wouldn't give up that intensity for anything.

"So you're saying I usually don't look good." Wolf smirks back. "Breaking my heart here." And he holds out his hand. Maybe he figures she'll topple off those heels if she didn't have something to hang on to.

witch

Undress together plenty. Well: a few times. He's seen her scooting into pajamas before crawling into bed, or back into bed. Not the same, though. Watching her touch up her makeup. Watching her adjust her hair, her dress. Her helping him with that button she tore, and doesn't apologize for. Different.

She just shrugs one shoulder at him. A little smirk, a flick of one eyebrow. Puts her hand into his, and sneaks back out of the gallery with him, and his re-done tux, and his undone tie. Which goes, with the condom, into a trash can they pass in a hallway. At the top of the stairs Devon pauses, and sighs, and removes her shoes again, and down they go. She's in them once more for the last leg, the two of them slipping back towards the sound of people from the service stairs they took before.

Silent auction still going: lists of bids on the items now. Devon walks with him back to the mirror, smiling for some reason. Not because of the mirror, perhaps. Not because of his hand in her hand, perhaps. Not because of the few glances turning their way, wondering at their absence, their return, the slightly disheveled look he's sporting now long before that sort of look could be acceptable at this sort of party.

Maybe all of those reasons. Maybe just the mirror, which reflects her to herself, and which feels... right, somehow, when she touches it. She surprises herself with how much she wants it.

She sees someone passing around wine again. Perks, grabs a glass.

wolfman

Bright light of day, or at least of museum's gorgeous floodlighting system, reveals the wolf to be a bit more of a wreck than when he snuck off. Hair's rumpled from the way her hands went through. Coat's rumpled by the way he lay on it. Tie's gone, shirt's starched collars are all akimbo.

Hand's holding girl's hand. Wolf pauses when she takes her shoes off. Pauses when she puts them on. Then they're back with the others, garnering curious glances, gathering murmurs. They ignore it. Wolf ignores it just as well as girl does; his shoulders don't even tighten up.

Room with the silent auction again. Quiet conversation; people still deciding how much to bid. They're standing in front of the mirror and girl's tracing the filigree with her fingertips. Wolf lets go her hand to go brood over the bid sheet. Leans over it with both hands braced, shoulders squared. No one comes near the goddamn mirror. No one even comes close until he figures it out; puts down a number big enough to dissuade all comers.

Girl's got a wineglass by then. Wolf comes back to her, nostrils flaring to catch that new scent: fermented grape, hint of blackberry, cherry and oak. Wolves would make remarkable sommeliers.

"Gotta check on it again near the end, make sure no one swipes it," he says, "but we should be good. Why the mirror?"

witch

A few of her curls are crushed; her skin has an evident glow still. She smiles far more easily than before. But she is also getting drunk; she is not the only one. Offers her glass to Rafael after she's had a sip; is smiling at him, offering, here, here. Share.

Giggles. Not a laugh. Just beneath a snicker. In here she has to be quiet; she keeps sticking close to him, what would be embarrassingly close to most people here, what would normally be frighteningly close for her. When he lets go of her hand she leans on the outside of his arm, head tipped to his bicep. Touches the mirror thoughtfully while he pins the bid sheet down, dominates it. She isn't looking at him, or the bid sheet, or anyone else. Isn't going to notice how decisively he intends to win it for her, how ferociously he bids.

She is sharing her wine with him. Leaning on him. Looking up at him as he speaks.

"All right," she murmurs, in that round-mouthed, low, very-nearly-accented way she does. That languid, easygoing way she does. He asks her about the mirror and she gives this little shrug, drawing in her shoulders. "Feels right. And its story."

Which isn't much to go on. Isn't just but it's so pretty or it was owned by a queen. But there's more on that information sheet beside it: the queen who died childless, the mirror given to a cousin whose fortunes fell, the count who bought it from said queen's-cousin, the fire that could have destroyed it but didn't, the wooden crate it languished in for years, the museum that bought it and chose not to display it, the auction where the robber baron bought it for his heiress daughter, the daughter who passed it on for a generation, and another, and the next generation who did the research to discover where it came from, and the son of that generation who donated it to this benefit because he and his partner ostensibly just wanted to do some good in the world and secretly are hoping that such a donation helps secure their status in this echelon of society. All the place it has been, and because it is a looking glass, all the places it has seen. All the hands that have held it, all the wills that have altered what the glass reveals to the person observing it.

She looks at it again, shrugs, and removes her hand, drawing back. "Just like it."

wolfman

Not much to go on. Wolf watches her intently, though, even when she looks aside to watch the mirror. His eyes on her profile, moving from her downcast eyes to the tip of her nose, the tip of her nose to her mouth. Back.

Girl draws back her hand. Shrugs those slender shoulders. Looks at him again. And wolf takes her wineglass; shares her wine. Wonders if there's some meaning in that, sacred and secret. She's a witch, after all.

"Okay. I'll get it for you." Puts it like a promise, like a quest. Like maybe he's going to go on some quest, fetch the golden fleece, slay the Nemean lion, rescue Andromeda from the rock. "Still not gonna dance, though."

witch

What he says has the cadence of a vow, and perhaps the weight of one. He takes her wineglass, considering the scent, wondering at the meaning. Sips it, and she watches him. Takes the glass back when he's done. Drinks after him, slips her hand down to interlace with his.

"You'll dance with me," she says again, but not like the first time. Before, it was almost a question, a probing for a yes. Now she says it like a certainty. An inevitability.

With another glance at the mirror, she walks away with him, looking at the other auction items. "I think we missed the speech," she says, as they're slipping out of the auction room.

wolfman

"Speeches are fucking boring anyway."

Wolf's worked up an appetite, having illicit sex off in a closed gallery. Stops off for more food. Carvers and servers load his plate with proteins, carbs, even as the live orchestra kicks it up a notch. Couples start taking to the floor. Wolf stands by the wall, eating. Gnawing on meat, chewing potatoes, washing down wine.

In the end they're both right, to a degree. Music's playing and lights turn down lower. Girl manages to get the wolf on the dance floor. Wolf just stands there though, arms folded, shoulders bunched and rounded, tense and uncomfortable while passing couples glance over in mild curiosity. Girl has mercy eventually or wolf finds an excuse; leaves the dance floor, leaves the room, checks on the auction. Comes back with another glass of wine. Stands along the walls again, watching the masses in evening dress.

witch

Shrugs a little. "Wasn't complaining."

--

Smirks a little, too, when they head back towards the food. Meander that way. Drift. She gets more, too. Eats some of those tiny drumsticks with rosemary. Another tiny cake.

When the musicians start to play, Devon is leaning against him, standing slightly in front of him, her back to his chest. She's drowsy from alcohol and wine and cocktails; isn't trying to shake it off. Watches with glassy eyes as a few people, as though they invented it, slip out onto the floor and begin to dance. Nothing too fancy. Nothing too shocking.

She doesn't look up at Rafael. Doesn't wait for him to ask her to dance. Doesn't drag him out there. She just watches, feeling him breathe behind her. Songs drift into each other. She thinks it won't be until the silent auction is finished that the old folks will go home or the musicians will trade out for recorded music, faster, with darker rooms and stronger drinks. Wonders if anyone will ever do anything fun, or if you have to go clubbing after for that.

Eventually she does step away from him. Someone is playing a Spanish guitar, slow. There's the slightest, shivering susurration of percussion behind him. The violinist stands nearby, eyes closed. Devon steps away, and turns, and looks at him.

"Do you wanna?" she asks quietly.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't have his arm around her or anything while she's leaning against him. Just has a hand on her hip, a subtle pressure, a palpable warmth. Glass in his other hand. Sipping wine as they watch the first few couples slip into the dance.

Don't talk much, then. Both of them watching others, both of them alone with their thoughts. Wolf settles into a odd contentment. Standing out of the spotlight, unobserved, anonymous: one of the few times he's been at one of these functions and not hated it.

Wolf stirs when girl does. Comes alert. Front of his body feels suddenly cool when she steps away. Wolf looks at her, sharp eyes and keen regard, considering her silently as she turns back. Does he wanna. He shifts his balance, slow and coiling-uncoiling. Straightens up a little.

"Yeah." Admission surprises even him. "Do wanna dance with you. But maybe not here with everyone watching. I'm no good at it."

witch

Yeah.

Not bad idea. Not we'll get arrested. Just a plain, uncomplicated affirmative. She smiles a little -- very little. Her lips almost curl. They barely part. He says he does, clarifying and solidifying that initial yes. Just not here, with everyone watching. He's no good.

Devon stands on her toes, leaning into him. One of her legs cocks, just slightly. She kisses his cheek. "Wanna dance," she murmurs. "Here. With everyone watching. This music. This... everything." Draws back a little, lowering. "You don't have to," she also tells him. Hand trails, slightly, down his jacket-sleeve. "Would rather it be with you, though," comes a whisper.

wolfman

Anyone looking over can see these two are kinda into each other. Even those who look over and see gutter trash crawled up into their exalted ranks, see his whore dressed exactly the way they'd expect. Girl's leaning into the wolf, leaning up to kiss his cheek. Wolf's tipping his head to make it easier for her. Bending to her.

Shoulders tighten, though, when she answers him. Brow furrows. Wolf's eyes flick around the room, wary and keen. Come back to her. He drops his brow to hers for a second, a nudging sort of bump.

"You dance. Go ahead. I'll just watch. Dance with you when we're alone."

witch

Her eyes seem so dark. The room is dark. Her makeup is shadowed, if not heavy. The way she looks up at him.

The way she looks at him.

Accepts his brow to hers for a moment. He can feel her breath, alcohol-tainted. He can smell her perfume. Dimly, vaguely, he can smell his own sweat here and there on her. Smell the sex still on her skin, but so faint now because no part of it is her own. She draws back, watching him. That soft silver shawl on her elbows, that sheen in her eyes; she walks away from him, turns away.

Walks across to someone, some male someone. Standing alone or momentarily alone. He's young -- older than her, though. Dark hair but lighter than hers, lighter than Rafael's. Tall. Not as broad as Rafael -- no one here is, though. Not in the shoulders. No one has his heaviness of muscle, of raw power.

She goes to him, and his name is Dean but neither Rafael nor Devon know that. Or will know. Or ever care. Rafael can see her walk over to him, touch his arm. He's still in a tux, his bowtie still tied. Rafael can see the alertness in his eyes at the unexpected invitation: the faint glassiness of enough drink to loosen, not enough to knock down. Enough to keep his eyes on Devon and not flicking over to Rafael, or anyone else, to see what they think of him walking onto the dancefloor with the supposed prostitute that van der Valk brought.

Dean doesn't think she's a prostitute. Just young, and fierce, and doesn't know better, or doesn't have anyone telling her no. He goes with her to the dancefloor. Puts hands on her waist, low, close to her hips. Devon puts her hands on him, too: shoulders. Isn't clinging, draping. Dances with him. Slowly.

wolfman

Wolf didn't think she'd do it.

Knew she'd do it. Still didn't think she would. There's a disconnect there, a line between reality and fantasy. Who she is and who he hopes she'll be. Girl goes off, finds herself some random young bachelor. Someone who'll dance with her. Someone who's not so socially inept, such a fish out of water, that he'll take her out on the dance floor. Show her a good time.

Wolf stays by the wall. Shadowed, out of the way. Fucking brooding now, wine forgotten in his hand. Eyes locked on the attractive couple across the dance floor. Boy's light of hair and he moves well. Wears that tux well. Boy's got his hands on the girl's waist, lower than wolf would like, but then wolf wouldn't want boy's hands on her body at all. Wolf wonders if boy's nose is sharp enough to catch that girl has no scent. Wears the smell of sex and perfume instead.

Music's a slow, evocative thing. Wolf watches til suddenly he's had enough. Downs his wine in a gulp and leaves the glass on a passing waiter's tray. Walks out of the room. Goes down the stairs at a jog, head down, not looking up even when he bulls through a crowd of youngish, drunkish partiers. Ends up outside and knows he's outside only by the sudden slap of cold air.

Security guard nearby sneaking a smoke. Wolf bums one and leans against the outside of the building, dragging.

witch

Air goes out of the room. Or comes back in.

She notices it. Looks up as he leaves, sudden, not trying to sneak out. Not capable of sneaking, she thinks. Sees him over this man Dean's shoulder, as she sways. Her brows almost tug, but then smooth, and she dances. Doesn't lay her head down on his shoulder or his chest. They're close, and he's warm, but she doesn't dance with him that way.

Way she would, if he were someone else.

--

Song ends, and something else starts, and Dean's inviting her to a drink, or another dance, and she would. Would, if.

Leaves before she was going to. Or at least: exits the dancefloor. Goes to the wall where Rafael was, and gets one last drink from a table and not a passing tray.

Waits for him to come back.

Finds a chair and sits down, her handbag dangling, her pashmina around her shoulders. Knees together, feet apart, elbow on knee, chin on hand. Other hand holds a glass. Mostly-empty cocktail. Watches people dance. Another song or two.

Didn't just go to the bathroom, then. Or get called over by some friend of his storied family. Her skin crawls with discomfort. Finishes the cocktail; recorded music now. A transition; the right people have left. The crowd has thinned out a bit. They're still partying, because they can. Because they're here and they look good. Because... drunk.

--

Devon goes back to the dancefloor. Alone this time. Heavy bass. A light turns her blue, and another turns her red. She moves alone, and this is just as well. Moves more than she did when she had a partner.

wolfman

Time passes. Wolf stays gone. Party changes. Older crowd goes home. Trust fund babies stay behind. Let down their hair.

More neckties undone now. More collars open. Some douchebags have them popped. More than a few men have shed their jackets entirely. And then there's the girl, out on the dance floor, throwing herself into the beat the way she didn't with her other partner. Dean. Whatever his name was.

Wasn't much a beat then too. Not like the one now: thundering through the floor. Thundering through the air, rolling through the chest. Rattling paint on canvas, canvas in frames. Dimly heard all through the modern wing, all the way to the door and beyond.

--

Girl's blue and then girl's red. Girl's green, girl's purple, girl's hair turns into wild chaos. Girl's still in her dress this time, at least. One hopes. Girl's dancing, girl's dancing, girl's turning around and

there's the wolf. Maybe she felt him. Felt the way the crowd around her drew back. Took a collective breath. Wolf's standing there, not dancing. Tuxedo unbuttoned, collar long since unbuttoned. Looking at her with eyebrows down and tugged together. Has something in his hand.

Mirror. He holds it up. Catches the light, throws it back.

"We won," he says. Doesn't look like he's champion of anything. Looks around, a quick animal dart of his eyes. Back to her. "You wanna go?"

witch

Blue is bright right now. Glassiness makes them brighter. She's alert, though, moving, aware of him when he comes up. Turns because she's aware of him, and there's a flicker of two different, warring things in her eyes when she sees him.

Mirror. She's not looking at his hand though. He says we won; she has no idea. Brow furrows. Can't hear him well.

Can tell he's asking to leave.

Her eyebrows furrow; all she does is nod.

--

Different from throwing her over his shoulder and hauling her away. Different from chasing her down a sidewalk, telling her to get inside, stop, go back. Different from picking her up in his limo with its heated seats, warm air. Much different from taking her home from an alleyway and just... her being there, ever since.

They leave the dance floor together. Her curls have fallen for the most part. He carries a lady's hand mirror that is two centuries old. She wraps her shawl around herself, carries her bag. When they go outside and the air is cold she somehow has a bottle of water in her hand, is drinking from it.

Waits for Franklin, ends up leaning against him, drunk and tired and sad and not wanting to be that last one at all. It's terrible, and terrifying.

Rests her head on his arm, holding her pashmina around her body.

wolfman

Not supposed to just pick up your item and go. Supposed to leave it there. Pay by wire. Have it boxed and sent out to you, or perhaps hand-delivered to your door. Something civilized like that. VIP service.

Wolf didn't care. Wolf won the auction and wolf wasn't carrying enough cash on him, so wolf leaves his name and that's enough. They know who he is. Who his mother was. They have no earthly idea who his father might have been and they resent him for it, but: he won the item and they hand it to him because when they talk about sending it out to him in a box, or hand-delivered, the look in his eyes makes them fear for their lives.

So wolf carries mirror to girl. And wolf asks girl if she wants to go, but really what he's asking is if they can go. Now.

--

Stand outside the museum, cold sky overhead. Party's still raging in there. Party's really hitting its stride now that it's late and the wrong people have gone home and the right people are still there and everyone's drunk. Valets standing on the curb blowing on their hands. Inebriated guests flagging down taxis or waiting for their cars. Deep thrum of bass in the air.

Girl leans against the wolf, holding her wrap. Wolf puts his arm around her after a while, because it's cold. Mood seems to have changed between them. Wolf can't say how or why but he feels it keenly as a wound.

--

Jet black Cadillac pulls up. Franklin jumps out to open the door for them, but by then wolf's already got it open. Just like before, he lets girl get in first. Climbs in after her, bumping her to the far side of the rear seat.

Franklin shuts the door, gets in. They pull away from the museum all lit up in the dark. Wolf turns the mirror over in his hand, fidgeting. Then he hands it to her.