her family, her mother.

witch

That's how it is the second time. Staying up all night, they both said. Fucking. Fooling around. He pulls her onto him and she smiles for it: blossoms over her face, smooth and open, even as her thighs are spreading over his lap: smooth. Open. Leans over him like that, her hands soft on his chest, her mouth soft on his lips. Don't doubt that she likes this. Or him.

Kisses him, hands running up his sides and over his arms. Kisses him with his hands cupping and squeezing and stroking her breasts, thumbing over her nipples. Kisses him until she's wet, until her breath is coming quicker, until she's reaching down to touch him, take hold of him, guide him into her.

Perhaps it's a surprise that this is no teasing, slow, grinding thing. At first perhaps: the slow rolling of her hips, the way she watches him, and his eyes, and the bursts of light behind them. Even remember this, from before, and wants to see his face where before she only heard his breath catch: Devon lifts his hand and licks his fingers again, sucks them into her mouth, her eyes locked on his.

Shows him where to put that wet finger after. Winds her hips in heavy, aching circles.

But that doesn't last. The laziness of it, the languor. Doesn't take long for something to kick up in her, and then she's not so much riding him as bouncing on him, gasping, crying out little wordless encouragements that occasionally -- only occasionally -- form words.

Like fuck me.

--

God, but she's lazy after all that. Comes against him with her breasts to his chest, her mouth turned, lips open against his arm. Holds onto him like an anchor, like a rock, while her body quivers, trembles, comes down. Works herself on him only a little, grinding here and there, but only a few seconds; she gives up. Gives in. Relaxes on top of him.

A lie to say she's completely worn out. She does doze, though. Falls into a little snooze on his chest, her sighs making little murmurs of satiation that ripple and curl across his skin. After some time of this she gets a crick in her neck, grunts softly, pushes up, looks sleepily at him.

Kisses him. It's not lustful. It usually is. It's not, though. It's just a kiss, soft and sort of sweet, before she climbs off of him and curls up beside him and just... decides to go to sleep.

Not before she takes his arm, though. Is using one as a pillow. Quite decisively pulls the other one around her like a blanket. It's up to Rafa if he covers them or not. Devon's asleep again already, heavy and motionless.

--

So much for staying up all night, perhaps.

Except: she isn't exhausted. She just wants to sleep with him. Doesn't say it, doesn't make any sense of it, just wants to sleep with him, naked and entwined and thoughtless the way she is only thoughtless after being rather soundly and completely fucked. Twice.

And so it is that she wakes, not even that many hours later, and turns her head to look at him. Slips from him and goes to the bathroom. Pees. Washes up a bit: cleans makeup off her face, strips those socks off finally.

But then her feet are cold. And she's coming with dancing little steps back to him in the dark, hopping into bed, wiggling down into the warm covers with him. Facing him now. Belly to belly, breasts to his chest. Kissing his chest. Urging him awake, if he's not already. Laughing softly when he begins to react, respond:

kiss her back. Touch her, too.

Maybe it's sort of rough, then. Her rolling onto his back, her thighs opening again for him. Soon as he's awake. As soon as he's hard again, wanting again, ready for her: he finds her ready for him, too. His cock is poised at her opening and she's whispering against him:

"Slow, Rafa," like a reminder, or a plea, but

she's kissing him so hard, groaning into his mouth when he pushes into her. Rocking with him on the bed, wrapping her legs high and tight around him.

The headboard goes back to knocking against the wall, but it's late now, and someone wakes, and they pound on the wall, which makes the -- currently moaning, currently quite distracted -- girl he's fucking break off her kiss and laugh, muffling it a little.

She shushes him, winding her arms around his neck, drawing him back down to her mouth. Her legs tighten around him, pull him closer. Her cunt squeezes him. "Shh," she's murmuring, like she's saying something else entirely. "Waking everyone up, fucking me like that,"

yes. Yes. Saying something else entirely. Something not shushing, not slowing. Something more in keeping with the way her body is holding him, drawing him in, refusing to let him go.

--

Eventually they do sleep. For real this time. She's gathered up in his arms and sighing against his chest and drowsy from the darkness and the sex and his warmth. She's not thinking about Boston, except

after what seems like only a few hours, she is. Her phone is going off, playing some song

hey you
where's your blood
where are your bones
how come you're invisible

and she's twisting to grab it, turn it off. Still dark outside, but she doesn't curl up against him again because then she won't be ready, she might miss her flight, and even Devon knows how hard she'd cry if that happened.

She does turn the song off. And puts her phone down. But she's sitting up, absolutely forcing herself to do so. She's starving. She's bleary-eyed. She's so warm in bed and they're both so naked and though she sits up she folds over his side, resting her cheek on his arm.

Looks down his body. Down his back. Appreciates his ass where the blanket has fallen away a bit and shows her the smooth slope of his spine down to those surprisingly muscular, well-shaped buttocks.

Sleepily reaches down and runs her palm in a light, rather tender caress along one.

"Butt," Devon murmurs, fondly and contentedly, and gives it a squeeze. She stops then, covering him up with the sheet, draped over his side, closing her eyes. Lays like that for a minute, maybe. Less.

"Have to go in a couple hours," she says softly, without opening them. "Need to shower. Need to eat." Yawns, big and wide and full. "Put clothes on, I guess."

wolfman

Wolf and girl in her room all night. They fuck

and fuck

and fuck

and fuck

and in between they lie together in that ever more tousled bed. He doesn't say much. His hands trace her body. Rough palms. Inelegant fingers. Touches her like he's learning about her, putting the pieces together in his mind. Sometimes he touches her breasts. Sometimes he touches her cunt, explores her where she's wet and filthy, doesn't seem to mind.

Mostly he just touches her back. Her arms. Her hair, her face. All those parts of her he gets to see every day but doesn't seem to get to touch too often. Seems like girl's always around these days, but so rarely actually there. Always a slender shadow at the edge of his vision. Wild thing in the clearing. Sylph in the woods. Rare that wolf has her like this, all to himself.

--

Every time she smells a little more like him. Every time her hair is a little wilder, a little thicker, a little darker to his eyes. Every time it starts a little slower, goes a little longer; he's lazier, and then simply more weary, wearing himself thin because he just can't seem to get enough of her.

Never tells her that. Never really tells her much of anything. But there's that time she pulls his arms around her like a blanket and arousal flares in him with no better reason than that it can. There's that time she slips from the bed to wash, to pee, comes back and finds him sitting up in bed, something about the brace of his arms and the curve of his back feral, animal, a second away from dropping to all fours and sniffing the floor for her scent.

Something about the way wolf looks at her as she comes skipping hopping bouncing across the room. She dives into bed and he seizes her right up, rolls her roughly under him like prey caught, scent found. She doesn't have to kiss or touch him to get him to respond. He has his mouth on her tits, he's eating at her. She has to remind him,

slow, Rafa,

whimpers that little plea out and then he's sinking into her. They wake the neighbors. She laughs at the neighbors, or maybe at him. Winds him up in her long arms, long legs, tangles him up in his own lust. Holds him so deep inside when he comes, silent and burning, hands clutching the sheets so hard he pulls a corner loose.

--

Sooner or later they have to sleep. Limit to how much the body can bear. Fucked themselves raw and sensitive and the last time was so slow. Even he didn't have it in him to flip her over and pound her. Even he didn't have it in him to be so rough, so savage, so brutal.

Was almost gentle, then.

Was lazy, and gasping, and aching.

Girl falls asleep wrapped up in his big arms. Skinny thing sighing against his chest. Burrowed against his heartbeat. Soft skin. Soft thighs. Soft.

--

Alarm blaring some song he doesn't know. Girl twisting in his arms and slipping away. Wolf rolls halfawake after her, ends up with face buried in the rumpled sheets. Somehow topsheet's half caught under him. Somehow comforters have half slid off the bed.

Girl's sitting up. Still dark outside. Girl's leaning over him, thin body against his arm. Feels like her thigh's about the size of his bicep sometimes, and yet there's such warmth in her. Just have to hunt for it sometimes. Her feet can be blocks of ice. She's rubbing his ass, calling it a butt, and wolf makes some disgruntled noise; what the fuck, girl. Girl stops and tells him she's leaving. Getting up, showering, eating, getting dressed.

Wolf opens his eyes. Sees the clock. Early-ass-o-clock is what it says. Wolf rolls slowly, lazily, titanically onto his back under her; so gradual a shift as to be a seismic event. Wolf says nothing, just starts gathering her up in his arms and arranging her. Face goes here, tucked in the curve of his neck and shoulder. Breasts go here, pressed against his chest. Arms go here, slipped under his arms and hands tucked under his shoulderblades. Belly goes here, pressed against his. Legs go here, and here, spread to either side of his thighs.

Cunt goes here. Hot against his hardening cock. Wolf's barely awake but his intentions can't be clearer. Couple of hours she said. It's enough time he thinks. Enough time to shower and eat and dress even if they threw an early morning fuck in.

witch

Disgruntled noise; she drowses, argues, protests: "Like your butt."

Her eyes catch the corner of bedsheet he dislodged last night. Doesn't remember that. Wonders who did it. She strokes her hand idly, lightly over his back, fingertips sliding smoothly along the dip of his spine.

It is very, very early. Dark, yet. Has to be down in Denver, at the airport, by ten. Lines are long. Everyone is flying: into the city, out of the city. Dawn is some measure off. Couple hours is long enough to eat a solid meal and shower and do her hair and her makeup and not have to rush any of it.

He rolls. Pulls her closer. And she goes drowsily, easily, resting her face where he puts it, winding her arms around him, warming her hands under him. Even puts her leg over him. Isn't til Rafael has his hand on her hips, urging her closer to his cock, feels how he's getting hard, that she knows what he wants. What he's after.

Her lips touch the corners of his eyes. The heavy ridge of his brows. His cheekbones. She kisses him soft.

"All right," she murmurs, just before she kisses his mouth. She's not ready yet; she kisses him though, long and slow and wet, until she is. Until she's sliding softly against the head of his cock, gasping softly at the feel of his erection. Doesn't say another word.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't know exactly when she needs to get on a plane. Or to the airport. Wolf can add, though. Two hours to eat, shower and get ready plus three and a half hours on the road equals ten am. Another hour, hour and a half to check in. Puts her flight out at eleven am. Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

Girl's coming back Sunday after Thanksgiving. Hasn't told him when yet. Could be as late as eleven pm, wolf supposes. Eleven am Wednesday to eleven pm Sunday: a hundred and eight hours to kill before he goes get her at the airport. Like he said he would. Like she didn't say he couldn't.

Wolf has no family. Wolf has no friends. Wolf figures maybe he'll actually visit the goddamn Caern.

--

Made some effort at pulling up the covers sometime in the night. Half of them might be on the ground but the other half slide over the girl's back when she slides on top. Keeps her warm. Her and her fragile little cold-fearing toes. Wolf's sort of insistent on fucking, but it's a lazy, languid sort of insistence. Girl kisses his face, all those features that she finds beautiful, all those features that gild a cage for the beast. Girl kisses his mouth too.

Agreeing. All right.

Wolf inhales into that kiss. Body rolls under hers, shifting, hips flexing and then relaxing. She's not ready yet. He knows that now, and they've fucked so many times that his hunger isn't a terrible thing threatening to devour him from the inside out.

Wolf can almost bear going slow.

Wolf bears it for her. Has her ass in his hands, rubs her cunt on his cock. Kisses her, slow and slow and slow and savoring, there in the pre-dawn darkness. Til girl's moaning into his mouth. Til girl's wet and slick and hot, winding her hips against him. Til she's the one to reach down, take him in hand, guide him inside.

Wolf closes his eyes, exhaling, as she slides down on him. Feels good. Not like triumph; not like savagery; not like bloody victory.

Just good.

witch

Technically the flight leaves at 12:10 PM. He doesn't know yet how she travels. He doesn't know what it means to her to go back. What it would do to her to miss it.

She keeps kissing him. Somewhere in his mind he's calculating when she leaves, when she's back, how long that is. A night and a day and a night and most of a day were so long. He missed her. He missed her in that time. Sometimes they barely cross paths in that amount of time and he never pins her to a wall, mutters in her ear that he missed her. Sometimes they go two days and there's just steam from a shower or a dish in the sink and maybe a glance across a room to connect them but they're both still there. He can't smell her when she's in his house. either of his houses.

Knows when she's there or not, though. And apparently: misses her when she's not.

He's insistent: fuck, his hands and body say. Fuck me. If there were words to it. Mostly there's just bodies. She gasps a little when he rolls his hips, strokes himself against her. She did lose count last night, overnight. Thinks maybe they had sex three times. Possibly one more in there. Some of it blurs together, warm and sweaty and with his growls, her moaning. She remembers the people next door bashing on the wall as Rafael fucked her so hard the headboard knocked. She remembers laughing, and the way his mouth seared that laughter away when they kissed.

Knew he wanted her. Knew, because he told her, that he thinks often of fucking her. Had no idea, though. No idea how long his hunger could be sustained. How ferocious it would be, every time.

Her mouth is on his neck, licking, when she starts taking him inside. Feels good. She gasps against his jaw. Starts to ride him like that, their bodies close, her hips going slow. Stays close the whole time, really. Mostly kissing him. Not near the end, when her arms are tired from bracing herself up. Still wants to be close, though. Bites his chest.

"Get on top of me," she mutters, and he does. Rolls her over, wrapped in one of his arms, his free hand pushing her thigh up, higher. Her hands are on his face, then. She moans a little tighter, a little harder. Wants it like this. Wants him like this.

The sun is rising.

And he's getting close; she knows by now. Sweat on his skin, hair askew. She feels it, too. Her head is tipping back, hair spread over the pillows. She's so fucking tired, she thinks. She can barely stand to come again, fuck again, but here they are.

She doesn't want to go. And that's not a lie, even though she wants very much to go, and wants to see her family, and eat turkey and mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce and all that. She would bawl her eyes out to miss her flight. Miss the cooking and miss the shopping the next day and decorating the tree on Friday night the way they always do. But another part of her, which is here and now and with him, doesn't want to leave.

Doesn't say it. Kisses him instead, moaning into his mouth, wrapping her legs around him til her ankles cross at his back. He comes in her like that, and she comes some beat after, some moment when it's all coalesced in her. Truthfully, it's not as explosive or all-encompassing as some others. No matter; that isn't the point. She fucks him to fuck him. Fucks him to be close to him. Fucks him like this, again, because she's leaving, and because it seems to matter so terribly to him. Fucks him because it felt good, waking up naked and horny next to him. Felt good, his sleepy hands pulling her closer.

--

Sun still isn't all the way up. She's sort of awake and exhausted at the same time. Her legs are open to either side of him, toes tucked under the tops of his thighs. Her eyes are closed. He's still buried inside of her. He's even still sort of hard. And she's holding him. Stroking his hair where he lays on her chest, lazily affectionate.

wolfman

World feels a bit surreal. Barely slept two hours all night. Both of them awake but exhausted, and the passing hours seem to have lost their rigidity. Feels like the hotel room was one night, the bar another. Feels like the two three days before that all run together into one.

Can barely remember all the details of all those fucks now. Only that they were in bed for all of it, nothing too inventive, nothing too acrobatic, but all of it,

almost all of it so intense. At least til the end. At least til they'd worn each other down, and out. This last fuck: slow, even when he turned her under. Slow, even when he was thrusting into her, rhythmic and rolling. Slow, even when she was clutching him to her, and he was coming inside her, and she was sparking off a moment later into her own long, slow, rippling orgasm.

--

Girl'll be sleeping on the flight out. Wolf'll probably stumble home and sleep til evening.

Girl's still holding him with her whole body. Wolf's collapsed on her, could probably fall asleep again. Girl's hands stroke his hair. When did she start doing that? Didn't do it the first time they fucked, he doesn't think. Now it's starting to feel natural.

Girl's toes hiding under his thighs. So little give to his body. So little softness. His thighs are bundles of muscle, machinery as complex as any. Arms a beautiful overlap of strength upon strength. Sides, back, chest, and yes: buttocks. All of it great and curving and thick and powerful, built tough. Built like the beast he is. Wolf turns his head, rubs his face against her chest, lays his other ear against her breastbone.

Hidden heart in there thumping. Deep below, subterranean, locked in a bone cage. Sheathed in leanness, and soft skin. Breasts rising over that heart, soft, sweet mouthfuls. Handfuls. Wolf brings a hand up to cup one. Paws at it, really.

"You'll text me when you're flying back?"

Only the slightest up-turn makes it a question.

witch

Almost never strokes his hair. May never have done it before. Definitely not the first time. Not in the aftermath, at least. Not like this: lazy, long strokes, like petting an animal who has nestled against her for warmth and comfort. Not thoughtless, not familiar. Not like this.

Doesn't want to get up. Shower. Drink hotel coffee. Go out into the cold, even into some warmed-up car with Franklin. She'll sleep three hours on the way into Denver and into the airport. She'll sleep on the plane for a good three or four hours. She'll make it up. She'll be less exhausted when she gets to see her 'godparents'; relatives of her fathers, so close or so distant it hardly matters what the blood relation really is, if it's there at all beyond the bonds of tribe.

He's fondling her again. She shifts under him, her nipple gently and slowly hardening to his touch. Can't be helped.

"Sure," she says, like he didn't need to ask. She looks down at the top of his head. At his hand, very large, cupping her in his his palm. Huffs a soft laugh that he feels all down through her breastbone, her belly, vibrating noticeably despite how quiet the sound is.

"Are you coming to the airport?" she wants to know, even softer.

wolfman

Wolf is quiet a while. Wonders if she means today. Sunday. Both.

"You want me to?"

witch

"Sort of," she murmurs, the words round and fuzzy in her mouth, against her lips. Her fingertips still move through his hair.

"Even if we're just sleeping the whole way."

wolfman

He hedges.

So does she.

Wolf thinks a beat, two. Turns his face to her skin. Girl can feel him inhaling, in and in and in. Releasing that breath to fan between her breasts, over her abdomen.

"Yeah. I'll go with you. Go to the Caern after maybe."

witch

Means yes. Wants him to come with her. Wants to sleep with him. Wants to lay her head on his lap again and pass out for a few hours. Wants his arm over her. Hasn't thought past that. Hasn't thought about waking up, about saying goodbye at the airport, hasn't thought about how awkward that might be or how weird it might feel or how that ache of not-wanting-to-leave might come over her. All she's thinking about is wanting to stay with him, warm with him, sleepy and drowsy with him.

Likes his arm as a blanket.

Devon breathes. Doesn't say anything. Does stir, though, shifting a bit, scritching his scalp instead of stroking his hair. Time to get up, her body says. Time to pull out of her and let her up so she can take a shower. Time to follow the sun's example and get out of bed.

wolfman

Wolf lapses into silence too. Silence for a while for the both of them. Then wolf takes a deep breath, rallies, pulls away and pushes up, rolls out of bed.

"Gonna shower," he says, which is hardly necessary. Naked, walking, could only possibly be heading to the bathroom.

witch

She watches him, propped on her arms, her back a low curve, as he pushes himself up. Pulls away from her, pulls out of her. She watches him, her cunt clenching on nothing, on absence, on void. She watches him roll out of bed, thinks of him for a moment as simply the man who fucked her all night, fucked her as soon as he could move this morning --

and wants him more for it. Truthfully:

likes him more for it.

A passing though. She lowers herself back down as he says he's gonna go shower. Sinks into the pillows, closes her eyes, breathes in and out deeply. Smells him. And sex. And his sweat. Nothing of her own, nothing but a whiff of something botanical behind her ears, rather overpowered by what we shall breezily call Rafael's man-stink.

"All right," she murmurs. "Wake me again when you're out."

wolfman

Wolf grunts something in the affirmative. Heads into the bathroom; door swings shut behind him but not all the way. Water turns on. Shower curtain rattles on the bar. Steam and the scent of soap and shampoo wind through the small confines of the hotel room. Girl drifts off.

--

Shower shuts off with a clank. Curtain rustles open; heavy footfalls on the bath mat. Then the door swinging wide. Then the wolf's sudden presence in the room, heavy, rageful. Comes to the bed. Pauses a moment there, bare feet and bare shins under white towel. Leans down. Puts hand on girl's shoulder. Gives her a gentle shake.

"Your turn," he says. "I'll get us some breakfast sent up. Eggs over medium?"

He remembers.

witch

She rolls over. Still filthy. Still naked. Still feeling the memory of him inside her. Falls asleep like that, with water falling in the little bathroom nearby. That's how he finds her, when he comes out, wrapped in his towel: curled up on her side, hugging a pillow. Her hair is a dark, messy cloud and her face is strangely, even surprisingly serious in sleep. Even light sleep.

Eyes are bright as ever, though, slowly opening. Look at him as he puts his hand on her shoulder. Doesn't need to shake her.

over medium?

She smiles. Lazy, replete: also hungry, at the mention of breakfast. Nods against the pillow, onetwothreefour times. "And tea and toast and eggs and fruit please and thank you," she says, rasping, stretching, pushing herself up slowly. She shivers a bit as she slips from bed, stands naked next to him. Rumpled and chaotic, she gives the edge of his towel a firm tug, like she wants it off but is too lazy at the moment to put real effort into it. Slips past him then, and walks into the bathroom. Closes the door behind her.

Takes longer. Breakfast may have even come by the time the water is off, but the hotel is busy, and they're not the only ones here.

--

Breakfast is definitely there by the time Devon has finished drying her hair and straight-ironing it, and putting on eyeliner (blue) and mascara (black) and shadow (a blend, though mostly silvery-gray). She's in a robe though, and eats breakfast wearing that. Near the end of the meal is when she gets up, munching on toast and picking up clothes. Shedding the robe. Hopping into a new pair of panties, which aren't anything spangled or exciting but just black cotton. Pulling on a pair of bright-blue skinny jeans. Bright blue as in cerulean. Bright blue as in not even really denim. Zips them up, bare tits bouncing a little, as she chews a strawberry from the breakfast tray. She finds yesterday's black bra and puts it back on.

Gets on his lap like that: blue pants and bare toes and black bra. Straddles his lap, towel or clothes or otherwise, and loops her arms around his neck and seems to have a surprising deal of energy despite hardly sleeping. Look at her eyes though: that energy won't last. She'll pass out as soon as the car starts moving.

Kisses him, though, her lips a little salty-buttery from the toast and her tongue a little bright and fruity from the strawberry. Makes out with him a little, if he lets her. Because she likes him. Right now, this morning at least, it seems like she likes him quite very much.

Gets up again if he lets her, wiggles away if he tries not to let her, because the time, and she needs to pull on a shirt. A tank top -- white this time -- and that big black hole-filled sweater which is different from the big black sweater that just has a wide knit. Doesn't bother with jewelry today, other than the studs already in her earlobes. Tugs on socks that might not be one hundred percent clean and laces up her dingy All-Stars. Starts shoving things in her backpack.

She can pack quickly; everything's pretty much the same level of mess. She doesn't have much, either.

wolfman

End up with a huge breakfast spread. Girl gets her eggs over-medium and her fruit, her toast, her tea. Wolf gets his scrambled eggs and his sausage patties, his bacon, his biscuits'n'gravy, his coffee, his mini cinnamon bun. Both orders came with cereal so there's cereal too, though perhaps neither of them touch it.

Girl dresses while she eats. Wolf eventually puts last night's clothes back on too. Jeans and thermal and sweater and jacket. He leaves the socks off, and the underwear; doesn't like rewearing intimates. Finds a laundry bag in the room and stashes them in there. Is already dressed by the time girl gets it in her head to climb into his lap, wrap those long arms around his neck. Kisses him, straddling his lap, until his arms pull her up and against him. Head tipped back to meet her mouth; her fingers in his hair. His hand stealing their way down into her pants, up under her bra.

Over too soon. Girl gets up and wiggles away, the time, she's got a plane to catch. Wolf sits on the edge of the bed watching, bemused, while she dons a tank top. The holy sweater. She's jamming stuff into her bag. He picks up a scrap of -- something -- and hands it to her. Helpful.

"When's the last time you saw your mom?"

witch

Both orders came with cereal. One tiny cereal bowl with its peel-back lid goes into Devon's backpack. She likes Cheerios more than airline peanuts.

Likes Rafael more than she admits. Has her hands under his jacket and sweater and when he's putting his hands under her clothes she's starting to slip her palms up under his thermal, too.

Except: the time. She has to take a breath and she has to kiss his neck one more time and has to wiggle away. And then shoots him a glare, looks meaner than she means it to, as she readjusts her tit in her bra.

He's a helper: hands her one of her long over-the-knee socks that is worn but doesn't go into a laundry bag. Gets shoved in her pack along with everything else.

Asks her. She thinks: a particular kind of frown, and not a displeased one. Glances at the clock on the nightstand. Which is next to the corner of bedsheet that one of them yanked out of place while they were fucking. Thinks about bracing herself on the headboard while he fucked her with his hand. Hands.

Looks back at Rafael.

"We Skype," she says. He did say 'saw'. Not 'hugged'. Not 'smelled'. Not 'went shopping together'. Not 'ate a meal together'. Not 'slept in the same house'. Not 'tickled'. Just 'saw'.

Looks back at her backpack, and zips it up, content that everything is there. Shrugs a little. Her body is tight. So are the words. "Couple of years."

wolfman

"You wanna go see her?"

Wolf sees the tension; senses the wound. Wolf pretends he doesn't, though, because he thinks maybe this'll make her feel less exposed. Less prodded, less hurt. Question's almost casual, offhand.

"After Thanksgiving, I mean. Can get you a ticket if you want. Boston to ... what, London Heathrow? And then back to Denver."

witch

"Course I want to see her," she's saying, before he even finishes, and it's so sharp, it's bordering on angry. Some of that is surely pure exhaustion. Some of that is obviously, clearly the tension, the wound. She tries to make it sound irritated. Annoyed. Like he's an idiot for even asking.

Hard to mask that even answering like she did, couple of years, nearly brought her to tears.

--

But wait:

there's more.

--

Devon doesn't look at him. She's looking at her zipped-up backpack, which sits in front of her on the edge of the mattress. "Why?"

wolfman

Hard to say if wolf has the insight to know the bite isn't for him. Maybe he does. Does the same thing, himself: masks emotion with callousness, sometimes. Viciousness, other times.

Wolf frowns too. Doesn't get the question. Looks down, zips his jacket up. "Why what? Why would I get you a ticket? Because I can. Not like I do anything better with my money." Pause. He looks at the back of her head, or maybe her profile if he has that much. " 'Cause I thought it'd make you happy."

witch

Can. Nothing better to do.

Look at the mirror he got for her. It's in her backpack, too. Put a bid down on that thing that would dissuade anyone else from even considering going for it. Probably for the same reason: because he can. Because it's not like he does anything better with his money. Because he thought it'd make her happy.

Says that last.

Devon does look at him. Suddenly, and fearlessly, as though she was never avoiding his gaze at all. Pride doesn't want her to say yes. Pride -- and distrust -- doesn't want him to buy her things that she really wants, things she really needs, things it would hurt to have taken away from her. It's time to go. Any second now Franklin is going to ring from downstairs, waiting with the warm car to ferry her to Denver International Airport. Her spine is tense. Her shoulders almost ache from it.

Quietly:

"I do want to see her."

From her eyes, her soft voice, the vulnerability there:

badly.

wolfman

Wolf's standing there when she looks at him. Jacket zipped. Hands in pockets, shoulders squared. Eyebrows pulled loosely together: to see her, to see the tension, to see the vulnerability.

Quick shrug and he looks away.

"So go see her. I'll get you a ticket. Okay? And you don't -- don't have to feel like you owe me something. Or whatever."

witch

Looking at him. Sort of wishing she could --

Phone goes off. It's sitting there in her hand, screen lighting up, the name Franklin in bold white, the anonymous faceless avatar instead of a photo of Rafael's driver. She glances down, away from Rafael himself, and swipes the call to answer it. Just says, without even putting it to her ear:

"Be right down."

And immediately ends the call. Looks at him again, and wants to tell him breezily that of course she doesn't -- wouldn't -- feel like she owed him shit. His problem if he wants to throw his money around on girls he's fucking. Not her problem if he -- or anyone -- sees it as some sort of payment for fucking him all night and part of the morning, blowing his mind, leaving him a lazy, sated, filthy wreck. Or whatever. Looks at him and wants to not feel this strange and unsettling feeling of not knowing what it is, or means, because she's known him all of a month and only really known him and spent time with him for a few weeks and not only were they fucking all night and going to galas together and fighting and snuggling while watching old movies but he's buying her expensive gifts and will later find out that she totally put this hotel room and all those drinks on his credit card, too, and now he wants to send her to England to see her mom because he wants to make her happy.

Devon just feels coiled inside, tight as a metal spring. Takes a breath.

"Need to go," she says, for them both. Shoulders her backpack, and heads for the door, leaving her room keys on the dresser per self-checkout rules. Still seems uncomfortable as they walk out of the room together. Still uneasy. Still wound up.

They walk towards the elevator, steps muffled on the hallway carpeting. Unlikely he remembers this hall, or that elevator. He had her in his arms, her legs and arms wrapped around him, mouths furiously on each other as he hardened in his jeans, between her thighs. They step in. And after a press of her finger, the L button lights up. Devon's eyes look up at the descending numbers. Not many floors to go down.

Just after the third floor lights up and darkens again, her hand comes down to her side. Brushes his, knuckles to knuckles, then circles around and rests palm to palm. Her fingers lace through his heavier ones. Her hand closes, gently, and holds. She takes a breath, and by the time she finishes a long, slow exhale,

the doors are opening to the lobby, and they're looking across the floor at the hotel doors, the car outside, the servant waiting for his master and his master's... guest.

witch

[oh poop.]

wolfman

Girl never really agrees to it. Wolf isn't sure what to make of her silence, that furrow-browed stare. Those blue eyes. Could drown in them. Never sure what to make of her, period.

Wolf startles a little when phone goes off. Girl answers and hangs up without even looking at the phone. Wolf's still looking at the girl and she's telling him she needs to go. Go away from him. Get on a plane, fly half a country away.

Wolf's hand makes a little motion. Like he almost reached for her. But then he doesn't. She puts her backpack on her shoulder and he forgets to get the door. Does hold it, at least, while she exits. Offers to hold her bag too, silently, with an upturned palm that she either deposits a shoulderstrap into or doesn't.

They're standing in the elevator when her hand finds his. They don't look at each other.

Doors open to the lobby. Bar off to the side is dark now. Guests in snow gear are tromping out to hit the slopes. Black car outside, driver waiting beside with his hands neatly folded. If Franklin's surprised to see wolf with the girl, he doesn't say a damn thing. Opens the door as wolf and his -- guest approach. Girl gets in first. Wolf follows. Their hands unlace for a while, but then wolf pulls the door shut and looks for girl's hand again. Takes it.

witch

In the back seat of his car, he does not hold her hand. Or take it.

In the back seat of his car, her backpack ends up on the floor.

And she ends up curled to his side, pushing his arm up over her head and around her shoulders, wrapping her own around his torso. Drapes her legs over his lap. Burrows her face into his shirt, inhaling him, exhaling heavily.

A normal person might say 'thank you' to indicate that yes, they would like that, and that they are appreciative.

Devon doesn't say anything.

wolfman

Wolf's a little surprised, even a little stiff, when girl comes close to him. Takes him a moment to relax. Takes him a moment to settle his arm around her shoulders, pull her secure against his side.

Wolf settles a little, too. Shifts and gets comfortable against the seat, the side of the car. Pushes the button to raise the divider. Watches the village, the mountains, the road go by for a bit.

Closes his eyes, then. Sleeps.

--

Awakens to daylight and the vehicle slowing. They're pulling off the freeway, passing the demonic stallion that guards Denver International. Wolf discovers in his sleep he's slumped down in the seat; they're both partially recumbent. Wolf pushes a hand against the seat, straightens up. Yawns. Rubs his face.

Franklin raps knuckles against the partition. Wolf fumbles for the button, lowers it. Franklin wants to know which airline.

witch

It hurts. Her chest. Whatever is inside her chest. Sometimes feels like a beating heart. Sometimes feels like a bird, flapping against bars. Sometimes feels like a prowling lion and sometimes feels like a cloud and sometimes it feels small and fragile and aching and she cannot tell if it is shrinking or growing, only that it writhes.

Pushes her face against his body, where it is warm even though he is not soft, and doesn't say anything. She sleeps before he does.

--

Somewhere along the way, she twists. Unfolds herself. Lays her body out, puts her head on his lap. Sleeps that way, too. As she did on the way up.

--

Wakes because she feels him moving; she hid her face under a fold of his sweater to hide from the light. Road noise has only soothed her. But waking, now, it's because he moves around on the seat. She sniffs, and turns her head, and hears Franklin.

"What?" she mumbles, bewildered.

It's repeated. She rubs her eyes, realizing where they are, slowly sitting up. Yawns back to Franklin where to drop her off. Realizes that means she's getting dropped off. Realizes she needs to use the bathroom so bad. Looks at Rafael.

Her mouth doesn't taste so good right now from sleeping for a few hours, but she turns to him, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head on his shoulder, brow to neck. Is quiet for a bit, tender, while Franklin joins the long lines of cars heading for Departures.

Then, her voice soft:

"If you fuck anyone else while I'm in Boston and England, I will punch you in your balls."

wolfman

Wolf's arm was over her while she slept. Laid over her shoulders, that sort of deep pressure that soothes some primitive part of us all. He lifts it now as she climbs up. Wraps it loosely, heavily back around her as she comes close again. One more time. Before she goes.

Wolf doesn't make a big deal out of it. Her going, or him holding her. Doesn't put a name on it, doesn't label anything. Laughs, though, low and huffing, when she lays down the law.

"Don't fuck anyone else either," he says. "Now gimme a kiss before you fly off, huh?"

witch

Boston and England.

She hopes he means it. That he'll get her a ticket from Logan to Heathrow. That she can go see her mum. Doesn't matter if one of the legs of her trip -- Logan to DIA -- is already paid for and will go unused. Doesn't matter that it won't be Thanksgiving or Christmas when she sees her mum. Doesn't matter if she comes back and he's a dick about it, tries to hold it over her head, anything like that. She just hopes he means it, and that one way or another he'll make sure she gets to England.

But not to stay.

She's going to come back. And punch him in his balls if he has sex with anyone else, even if their fucking isn't anything, if it just Is What It Is, if it has no name or label or any of that. She just doesn't leave it up to guesswork. Just like when she told him that it was fine if it was just fucking,

she just wouldn't be fucking him anymore if that was the case.

"Not my boss," she mutters at him, but she doesn't mean the first part. Means him telling her to kiss him. Smirks at him, something lambent in her eyes. Franklin is pulling up along the curb. And she leans in, brow to brow, and gives him this soft, lingering kiss on his mouth.

Slowly draws back as Franklin gets out, comes around, opens the door. Looks at Rafael for a few moments longer. Darts in, quick, and kisses him again, hotter but faster, and nips her teeth over his lower lip before scooting out of the back of the limo to go inside, backpack slung over her shoulder again.

--

Doesn't hear from her again until the plane's about to take off. Turn off your devices, et cetera. He gets a text, though truth be told he probably doesn't get it until he wakes up from whatever coma he slips into after she's gone. Sends it out, knowing he's probably asleep, knowing she won't have to face a response until the plane's in Boston anyway.

thanks x