no more broken doll. no more ghost.

witch

Ends up walking away after all. Down the short hallway to the spare bedroom, slipping inside, closing it after herself. Behind her, unseen, he gathers up panties, bra, corset, dress, sniffing at them, trying to find her within them. Nothing. Scents from the party earlier, scents of his own body wrapped around her, heavy atop her. She's not in sight, he can't smell her remnant, and it can be hard to believe she was ever there at all if his body could not remember how she felt. How unimaginably warm she was. Surely he couldn't have dreamt that.

The water down the hall turns on. She's in there, pausing at the door when she closes it and exhaling. Touching herself, strangely enough, feeling where he was in her as though to reassure herself that it happened. She closes her eyes and goes to the bathroom. Ends up finding some baby wipes, makeup wipes, scrubbing off her brow and neck and arms and legs. She doesn't look at herself in the mirror because she knows what she looks like after some sudden fuck or because she doesn't want to know what she looks like after that.

The shower is warm and melting. Soothes the red marks on her back and hips. Relaxes the muscles still tense just from being near him. Some time after, down the hall, another shower starts.

--

After, she combs her hair. It starts kinking up, as it always does, finding its waves and curls. It air dries a bit and she lets it do so before she ever braids it, letting the heavy dark rope hang over her shoulder. Her eyes are clear, her face clean, her body normal. Her freckles show. She finds herself moving quickly, quicker than she would have thought.

Brushes her teeth, flosses, rinses. Smooths a cream over her skin that she makes herself; it smells like lavender, faint and botanical.

When she gets to the door of her room again, she exhales, holding the handle. Turns it and finds a pile of neatly folded clothes in front of her. She covers her mouth to stifle amusement. Pauses long enough to pick up the stack and place it inside, then leaves that second bedroom. Walks toward the other one. His.

She wants this. And she is afraid of wanting this. And she is afraid, full stop.

--

Devon is wearing a little sleep set. Dove-gray shorts and tank top, both edged with pale pink lace. She's not wearing anything else. The cotton is soft, soft, so soft, hanging lightly on her bare body underneath. The door is ajar, waiting for her, an unspoken signal that the invitation is still open.

She slips in, and closes the door behind her with a faint click.

There's a rustling beneath the moonlight and beneath the shadows. She crosses the room, guided by what is silver-lined, and because the night grows chillier and chillier with every passing hour, she goes quickly. Doesn't wait, hesitating at the edge of his mattress for permission implied by the open door. Devon lifts the edges of the covers and slips slyph-like into his bed, right over to him, sliding an arm over his torso and tucking herself close to his side. She gives a small shiver as she tugs blankets back up around herself, covering her shoulders. No more broken doll. No more ghost that he can only remember but not sense. She's there. Right there. He's warm and she'll take advantage. It's late and she'll sleep.

And it doesn't have to mean anything.

It is what it is.

wolfman

Wants her again when he sees her. Bare face, freckles, the grotesque costume gone, the dark makeup wiped away. Shorts and a tank top, dove-gray edged in pink lace. So fucking feminine, so fucking simple. Not like she's trying to seduce him. Like she's a familiar thing, like this is a known quantity, like this isn't the first time.

It is, though. So new, so raw, so unexpected, so inevitable. Wolf looks at girl, wanting her, and truth is if she'd hesitated an instant he would've thrown back the covers and pulled her into his side of the bed.

She doesn't hesitate. She comes to the bed, and he reads from her quickness that she's cold, and perhaps in some odd way unrelated to survival, afraid. He throws back the covers after all, but it's on the other side. She slips in. Wolf's bed is like a fucking cloud, immense and fine, the sheets sheer luxury. Heat of his body has made the space between the covers so warm. She slides right over to him and he lifts his arm to let her against his side. Her skin's cool enough to make his nipples harden, raise faint goosebumps on his skin. Or maybe it's just her.

Girl shivers. Wolf pulls the comforter over her shoulders; wraps his arm around her over the covers. His skin is bare. Warms her even through her sleepwear.

No more broken doll. No more ghost. Just a girl and a wolf. A woman and a man. Doesn't mean anything. Feels like something.

witch

Wants him, too. Realizing that his skin is bare between the sheets. Feeling those sheets, soft as clouds, against her skin. Touching him again, feeling him clean, feeling the heaviness of his arm wrapping around her. She wants him all over again, sighs for it as she settles, feet and hands tucking close to him.

Her hair is still damp. There's so much of it. Loose, drying tendrils curl around her face. She isn't trying to seduce him, means nothing and tries not to mean anything or think of anything. She wants to be here. She wants to be in this bed. She wants him here as well, just like this, and his arm closing around her like she belongs her fills her with a bone-chilling terror.

The covers come over her. She exhales, heady, touching his chest, looking at him. Her body aches.

When she kisses him her hand is on his face. She's lifting her head from the pillow or his arm, kissing him fiercely, needfully, like she can't help herself,

because she can't. If she stops to think, all she finds there is panic.

wolfman

Eyes closed when her hand touches his chest. Heart skips under her palm. Then she moves and he reads the genesis of that motion. Feels it in her body close to his. Eyes open and she's already coming up to him. His mouth meets hers. It's a collision: that silent, melting burn.

They don't talk when they do things like this. Like maybe if they don't name it then it's not real. It has no power. It can't hurt.

Wolf doesn't talk when he puts his hand on her face. Runs his hands rough into her hair, hard enough to tug a couple strands loose. Dampness between his fingers, coolness on his palms. He rolls her under him in a single powerful swivel of his body. Her back to the sheets; the mattress embracing her. Her shirt comes up and it comes off. Gets lost somewhere north of those downstuffed pillows. Her shorts come down and they come off. Gets lost somewhere south of their feet.

Both bare then. That's a first too. The length of his body aligned to hers, his naked arms wrapping around her naked body, drawing her tight against his. So much larger than her, such heavy muscles and bones. Such heat, rapidly drenching through the superficial chill of her skin.

There are scars on him after all. Something clawed his guts out once; now it's just a few thin lines across the abdomen. Something took him by surprise and sank a blade into his back once; now that's just a narrow slit-like mark between his shoulderblades. Someone shot him before, silver bullets maybe, a smattering of subtle little scars across his chest.

Girl's leaving her scars on him too. You can't see them but they're there. Memories written into his flesh.

This time he's kissing her when he enters her. So there's that. But it's still such a ungentle thing, so sudden and brutish. Maybe no one's ever taught him any different. He's hard against her and then he's hard inside her, an invasion, a demand. He lets out a harsh breath, that kiss falling apart. Fucking her right away, hard, rough. Mouth to her shoulder then. Lips, teeth, tongue; doesn't bite. So there's that too. Proof, however faint, that sometimes he listens when she speaks. Cares what she wants.

witch

They don't talk when they do things like this, but

they've only done this once. And it wasn't like this: in the full dark, or in his bed, or with his body bared under her hands. She's seen him half-naked before, more or less: lounge pants, chest uncovered, but he was shredded with wounds and plastered with so much gauze he may as well have been wearing a shirt. She saw his chest earlier, felt it under her hands and against her body out in the hallway. Can't see him clearly now, isn't looking, but she'll feel it all soon enough. She'll see him another time, see all those scars, and surmise: he has no pack. he has no family. no one has been watching out for him.

She will not think that he is stupid, though she may think that he can be reckless. She does not think the two are the same. Look at her.

Look at where she is. Look at whom she is with, and what she is doing with him.

--

Half a heartbeat into that crushing, ferocious kiss he is pulling her under his body, into the warm hollow of the bed created by that body. She shivers not in spite of the warmth but because of it, welcoming it. Her arms loop around his neck even as his arms are pushing into her hair, touching her face. Their arms cross each other, bump together -- no matter. He keeps touching her cheeks, the tendrils around her face. She runs her hands up his neck and into his hair.

That shirt has rucked up to her ribs from the way he moved her. He starts pushing and tugging it upward. So their kiss breaks. She pants softly, lifting her arms, ducking her head out of the shirt as it's shoved away. Her arms move go to back around him but he's already at her shorts, yanking them down. She helps, kicking them aside, moving her legs the same way she did... not that long ago, when he was all but tearing her lingerie off of her at the top of the stairs.

There's a glimmer of something in her mind, half-seen in her eyes through the darkness, but it is soon saturated by the weight of his body coming down to hers again. Devon sighs. She's pulled closer, and moves closer of her own accord as well, laid out with him under the sheets. She's touching his chest and his face, sliding one leg up his side, seeking his mouth again.

And so: she's kissing him when he first presses against her, making a soft, warm sound in his mouth at the feel of him. She's kissing him when she starts to lift her hips to rub against him, and she's kissing him when quite suddenly he's trying to shove into her, gasping like that, and she isn't kissing him when her hand on his shoulder balls up into a fist or when she's pressing herself back into the mattress -- that resistant, retreating motion he's felt two other times now, even though like this her body has nowhere to go. Her knee jabs into his ribs -- half-unintentional -- as her body twists to the side, refusing that initial thrust, squirming away.

"Wait," she says, quiet but clear, forceful but quick, tremulous, because she is afraid he might grab her shoulder, her hip, pin her down, snarl at her. "Rafa, wait. I'm not ready," and the nickname is not one he's given her but it comes out as easily as though she's been calling him this for years, as though it is the most natural thing she could call him. She has winced. Was it before or after she said his name?

She's still touching him. Running her hand down his side, hidden by the covers. Looking him in the eye from the white expanse of his pillows. Touching his hip. Watching him, so close, as her fingertips stroke along the length of his cock.

"I want to feel you," she's murmuring, like something he's hearing in a dream. Sounds far away, seems far away, with her hand wrapping around him, stroking him. "I want it to feel good." Her head lifts, turning, pressing her mouth lazily, languidly to the underside of his jaw, the softness of his throat. "Like before," she's still whispering, stroking him, licking his neck, as though the wetness of her tongue on his skin will remind him how she felt when he touched her, when he felt her slick against his fingers, when the heat of her made him growl.

wolfman

Girl feels so welcoming this time. First time round he was so driven, so possessed. Picking her up and pulling her down and turning her over and tearing her clothes away. Sometimes seemed a little like she was just borne along on the tide of his lust. Doing her best to stay afloat until of course neither of them were afloat anymore. Both of them were going under, sucked down, spun apart.

Different this time, isn't it. Different because she's the one to kiss him. Different because she wraps her arms around him and different because she slides her leg up his side. Different too because suddenly that welcome goes away. Because this time she doesn't just take it, this time she doesn't just survive it,

this time she balls her fist up and twists and closes up and her knee hits his ribs. He grunts. Quick flash of anger in his eyes could be a dangerous thing but:

Rafa, she says. That isn't his name. Is it? No one's ever called him that before. Wolf's eyes are surprised. He halts. Thick chest moving with quickened breath. Girl tells him she's not ready and he looks like he doesn't understand. But he stops, doesn't he? That means something. That means at least he's not a monster. Not always.

Braced over her, every muscle standing out from arm to arm, across shoulder and chest and back; tense, tension, holding. She touches him and he gasps. Shock blooms in his eyes, his brow contracts sharply. Words she's saying sieve through him but he can't cling to their meaning. He drops his head, rubs his jaw rough against her mouth as she kisses him. Eyes closed now. Lips parting, pressing imperfect kisses to whatever part of her he can reach. Moves against her mindlessly, instinctively; muscles in his abdomen contracting against her knuckles, thrusting into her hand.

witch

Not the way he bit his own hand to stop himself from biting her when she said ow, when she said don't. She knows he's not a monster. She's never thought he is. A prick, at times, sure, but not a monster. Not to her. Not under her bed, not in her closet. Not in her dark forest.

Truth is she was always welcoming, even before he started taking off her clothes. Even before he noticed, even when he thought she was mocking him, trying to get something from him, bruising his pride for the sake of causing a bruise. She would have welcomed this, in her way. And she was welcoming before, but yes: at times, she was just letting him carry her along on his own drive, his own lust, because there was so much of it, and she was willing to drown a little. She doesn't always mind the drowning.

Different this time. She comes to him and she comes close to him. She kisses him when he's on the verge of sleep and touches him. She invites. She urges. It doesn't take much. He's on her, rash and unstoppable, furious with wanting, and that's when her eyes glimmer for a moment, wanting to tell him to slow down, but she doesn't. It's not until she realizes he means to fuck her before her body has even had time to warm to him, ready for him, that she rears back.

She doesn't mean to knee him in the ribs, but it happens. And she's unapologetic about it.

Certainly unapologetic about this, too: the way she touches him, strokes him, slows when his eyes burn like that, mindless. She huffs a soft laugh as he lowers his head to nuzzle at her, kiss her. It isn't mockery. Bizarrely it's a sort of fondness, almost. Though more: simple pleasure. Enjoyment. Her other hand moves thickly into his hair, fingertips rubbing at his scalp.

Soon enough her hand guides him to her pussy. She doesn't let him in. Oh, but she rubs him against herself. She bites her lower lip as she does so, head tilted back in the pillows. The way she touches herself with his cock is so slow. It's so maddeningly soft. She makes a noise, too breathy to be a whimper, too far in the back of her throat to be given voice. Her other hand strokes down his body, caresses his chest, his side, his hip. She finds his hand. She brings it to her body, moves it in much the same way.

Her head turns and she kisses him on the mouth. It's too much like the way they were kissing after they came, before. It's slow, too. It's maddening, too.

wolfman

Girl can tell by the way the wolf reacts that it hasn't been like this for him for a very long time. Maybe not ever. Slowed down, held back, kept from the sort of mindless, brutal coupling that he knows, he's lost. Lost in his skin. Lost in the moment. Lost in what she's doing.

Mouth opens soundlessly when she starts stroking herself with his cock. Stops kissing her then. Just breathes. Breathes so hard and deep his shoulders move with it, his ribs strain with it. Girl pulls his hand to her like maybe he'd know what to do then, and maybe he does, but even that's a rough inexact thing. He paws at her. Grinds the heel of his hand where he thinks she might be sensitive. Slides the coarse pads of his fingers over her cunt and then she's kissing him.

Wolf's kissing her back. Slow and maddening and he tries to keep pace but he's no good at this. Pushes his fingers into her and his cock jumps against the hard expanse of his abdomen. Kiss is lost. He goes for her throat. Passes his teeth over skin so fragile and bare. Wishes almost that she had scars. Tattoos. Jewelry. Something to hide her vulnerability. Frightening how soft she is, how thin the skin and bones. Wolf covers her breast with his free hand, doesn't even really lift her or cup her. Just lays his hand there, heavy, feeling her breath and her heartbeat as he explores her with his fingers.

Gets hot under the covers. Those comforters are thick. Down just like the pillows. Those sheets have a four-digit thread count and those sheets breathe so well but it's not enough to keep up with what they're doing under them. Wolf starts to sweat. Starts to feel constrained. Rears up suddenly and whips the covers back, impatient. Heating's down low for the night and cool air's a shock so he comes back down. Covers the girl and wraps his hand behind her head. Pulls his fingers out of her. They're still wet when he touches her mouth. Strokes her lips open. Leaves her taste there, which he kisses away a second later, hungrily, tearing at her mouth now.

witch

She doesn't think it's ever been like this for him. She doesn't think anyone has ever slowed him down and held him back. She doesn't think anyone has touched him like this just to soothe him, just to pleasure him, just to see what it does to his expression, and not simply to jack him off. She wonders, a little, if anyone has ever explained to him that you can't just fuck a girl before she's wet. Not if you care that she enjoys it. She wonders, from the way he's behaved, and the way he told her that it's just easier to pay for his fucks. She wonders.

Isn't wondering right now, though. Not really. She's just kissing him, drawing him closer to stroke her, feel her. Doesn't let go of him at first. She suspects he'll be too rough, and she gasps softly, then presses her thumb to the heel of his hand, gently, gently. Shivers when his fingers stroke over her. Kisses him like she does, guiding his hand, moaning softly into his mouth when he slips his fingers inside. It's like every part of him is drawn to being inside of her somehow, feeling how warm she is. Warmest point in the whole imaginable universe: sure.

Yes.

"Oh," she's murmuring, while he's fucking... fucking fingering her, mouth roaming over her neck. He can feel her then. Feel her growing so much hotter, feel the very core of her, feel how she responds, how she grows wet, how her cunt tightens around his fingers. He starts exploring. She starts squirming. Her skin, its color lost to the shadows, is nonetheless growing pink from arousal. "Oh," she says again, and

"Oh."

A sharp gust of wind startles her: she opens her eyes, mouth open, looks for him. She shivers, almost sitting up, seeking his warmth. Her arms wrap around his neck as he cradles her head; she seeks his mouth but he gives her his fingers instead. There's a beat, perhaps of hesitation or simply understanding, and then her eyes meet his again. She opens her mouth, strange in her obedience. Her lips are soft when he strokes her taste across them. Her body is, when she lays back down, pulls him over her, gasping as he kisses her.

Her knees are against his waist, holding him at the sides. Her feet touch the backs of his thighs. Her pussy strokes against his cock again, this time so wet. So

welcoming.

wolfman

Wasn't even really looking for her to suck his fingers, truth told. Something like that requires forethought. Clarity that he doesn't have right now. Finesse and an understanding of his own sexuality. What does it for him. What doesn't.

Doesn't have any of that. Put his hand on her mouth because he wanted to touch her lips, that's all. That's as far as his clarity and understanding goes: knows what he wants, but only when he wants it. Recognizes his own desire. Recognizes that he wants her. Wanted to touch her mouth. Wanted to feel her lips so unimaginably soft, opening so he could kiss her. Touch of her tongue to the pads of his fingers lights him up. Every nerve. Every hair.

Wolf kisses her so hard then. Kisses her like she's flesh and he's starving, with that wet hand of his sweeping under her thigh to push her leg up. Higher. Open. She doesn't push him away this time. She doesn't knee him, doesn't twist away. This time she's so fucking wet. Even he can tell the difference.

Still hasn't learned graduality. Still takes her in a single stroke. Feel of her makes him growl. Makes his teeth bare, makes him bite at her mouth a little. Wolf's hand slips off her leg then. Heavy arms wrapping around her, and maybe she's starting to think this is just what he knows. Maybe she thinks he always fucks like this, wrapping a girl up and covering her and surrounding her, enveloping her in every way possible but

it's not. It's just her. Mouths come apart. Eyes open. Wolf watches her, eyes glinting in the dark. Hungry for the sight of her. Hungry for the feel of her, his body rocking into hers; hammering into hers. Mattress absorbs all their kineticism without a sound, so it's just the sussurance of shifting sheets. Just the harshness of his breathing. The wet sound of their mouths meeting when they do.

witch

This time is different. And she doesn't care if he's slow. Maybe another time. This time she just gasps, but she's ready for it, ready for him, when he pushes into her. All she does is make that sound, that sharp intake of breath. All she does is wrap her long legs around him, winding around him, holding him. God only knows what he thinks of her, what he surmises from how she is with him. God only knows if he can think right now, at all.

She wanted to suck her taste from his fingers. Wanted to look at him while her lips closed around his skin, wanted him to think of her mouth on his cock, wanted him to feel her tongue lapping softly at her own wetness. Wanted him to see her enjoying it, enjoying this between them, enjoying him.

Her hands clutch at his back when he starts thrusting inside of her, holding her. This, her body remembers. Wasn't an hour ago. She moans into his mouth, nails scoring him slightly. She can't stop kissing him.

One of her hands rides down to his flank, where each flex and roll of deep, heavy muscle sends him hard into her, firm, eager. She slides her fingernails up across his flesh, like she's spurring him on again, urging him faster. She doesn't want to stop kissing him when he pulls back, her lips following him for a second. He looks at her while he fucks her. She looks back up at him.

Reaches up with both of her smaller hands, taking his face in her palms, pulling him back down to kiss her again. Always again.

wolfman

Thought she was a whore the first time he saw her. Or maybe just wished she was. Called her spoiled, selfish, shit somewhere along the way. Manhandled her just hours ago. Track record like that and you'd think he can't possibly think kind thoughts of her. Maybe he thinks she's a slut. Maybe he thinks he's just one more in a long line. Men she's offered herself to. Men she's taken into her bed. Into her body.

Maybe he doesn't think at all.

Maybe she pulls him down with those slim hands of hers. Onto that slim body of hers. Into that hot cunt of hers,

and he can't think at all.

They're holding each other again. Gripping each other with the palms of their hands, the arch of their fingers. Hers bring him down to her. Their mouths collide and tangle. A kiss like electricity, like wires shorting. His plunge into her hair. Raise her mouth to his for the devouring. Her hand urges him on. His hand grips a handful of bedsheets. Her body holds his. His body pounds hers. All his weight on her almost. All his force, all his strength.

You'd think he didn't care about her at all. Was using her like an object, a toy, a thing. You'd think that but god he keeps kissing her. He keeps looking at her, watching her eyes, wrapping his hand tighter behind her head and pressing his brow to hers. Holding her eyes and even though they don't say a goddamn thing to each other maybe there's some meaning to that.

Maybe it means something that he lets her see it. Brow contracting, face pulling. The ferocious and primitive expressions generated when that connection between brain and body gets hijacked by pleasure. Sweat on his brow. Bite in his kiss. Cords of muscle bunching in his arms and flexing in his spine, and every time he fucks her he slams her to the bed. Stars imploding in his pupils when climax hits, sudden and catastrophic, his hands grabbing at her hair, clutching at her back. Body goes rigid. Eyes falling shut finally, and this time, this time he bites her. Sinks his teeth into her shoulder and growls, long, low, primitive, vicious.

witch

Her hair, still damp, is thoroughly disheveled now. He's left her with tendrils everywhere, her braid almost undone. She doesn't care. She doesn't care that he manhandled her just a few hours ago, not right now. She doesn't care that he thought she was a whore, but she never did. She doesn't care that he was a dick so many times, times he's apologized. She cares that he is here now, and fucking her, and she wants to laugh from it,

and she does. It's not the same as talking. She tips her head back and his mouth has to fall somewhere on her jaw, her throat. She laughs, out of pure enjoyment it seems, reaching out to grasp the pillows, the sheets. She keeps her legs wrapped high and tight around him, ankles crossing. He drives into her, again and again, and she tatters apart, her laugh tatters apart, she gasps instead. Starts crying out, the way she did before, sometimes the sound hitching, catching in the back of her throat. She loses herself. She tilts into his bed, and it tips her into oblivion, and just like before she's falling.

It seems that he might be like this forever, fucking her in the darkness, his only sound the breaths he spares. She might not mind the falling, or the forever. But he kisses her again, dragging her mouth back to his, dragging her body underneath his, dragging her awareness back to his own. She opens her eyes, and watches him as he watches her, and she whispers something nonsensical, inane.

And he obeys it. Nonsensical, inane as it is, when she whispers fuck me like that, looking into his eyes, he does. He fucks her, and he feels her contract and tighten around him and then he is coming, kissing her rough enough to make her lower lip bleed, fucking her in short, hard thrusts, coming in her for the second time, feels like the only, his hands clutching her hair, his teeth grabbing her shoulder. She gasps when he does that, arching, taut and quivering beneath him as his orgasm takes him, as he holds her in his teeth while she feels it.

She feels so dizzy. Arousal blurs her vision and hollows out her hearing; she pants, at a loss for breath, her skin on fire, her nerves lit up. Every time he thrusts, flexes, she shudders.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't know why she laughed. Enough that he doesn't think she's laughing at him. Doesn't surmise at the rest. Wolf doesn't know why but damned if it doesn't light something up inside him. Strikes a match in the darkness, that oblivion he seems to be fucking her into. Startles him with the brilliance of it, the sound, the laugh, her joy. Makes him pause a moment, which is when they look at each other. Which is when she says,

fuck me

and gets kissed so hard for it. Fucked so hard for it.

Every time he comes it's like a detonation somewhere inside him. Every time -- both times. Sometimes it's hard to remember this is a one night thing so far. A two-time deal. Sometimes it's hard to remember his name, but then she reminded him. Rafael. Rafa. No one's ever called him that before.

His mind melts. His body burns. When it's over he's nothing but raw nerves and shuddering breath. Teeth loosening from her flesh. Girl looks like she's still somewhere else. Keyed up, on edge. She shudders when he moves. He kisses her open mouth. Takes that gasp and swallows it. Licks her lips and licks her tongue and all the while he's still inside her, these slow deep thrusts.

After a while he drags a heavy hand down her body. After a while he presses his thumb where he pressed the heel of his hand before. Searches her out inexpertly and clumsily. This thing he does for her now: it's as rough as anything else he's ever done. But he does it, and it's for her. Watching her face all the while, saying nothing at all.

witch

"Oh."

That sound: heavy, deep, unexpected. It comes when he flexes into her again, slowly now, his cock still hard. When he kisses her mouth like he's drinking from a pool, lapping at her lips and her tongue like water. She was expecting him to collapse against her, against the pillows, delving back into the darkness he was so close to when she entered his bed. That he moves like this, holding himself inside of her, kissing her -- she moans that word, that single solitary vowel, tipping her head back, her half-undone and half-torn braid behind her.

For no reason, she reaches up, tugs the hair tie off the end, lets it all free. Turns her turned-away face back to him, opens her closed eyes to look at him. Watches him as he starts to stroke his hand down her body, passing her breast, lean ribs, her long waist. She touches his face with her fingertips, kissing him slowly.

He finds her cunt, his cock still buried deep into her warmth, where he can feel the way she pulses around him when he starts to rub against her. Her eyes don't want to stay open; she shivers, trying to anyway. Reaches down, finds his hand, adjusts him carefully, gently: softer, there. Here, her clit. Even though she's the one to make him touch her there, just there, she still lets out a soft cry to feel it. She can't help it; now more than ever she's sensitive, she's pink, she's so terribly wanting. Her brows tug together and she lets go his hand when he's found it, when he's found that right pressure, that rhythm, that focus that makes her buck slightly, trying to ride his cock all over again.

Which she does. Rides him, and rides his hand, and makes these sounds -- almost whining at times, other times sharp and bright and piercing. She's not far off. She wasn't. But this time when she comes he's not lost in his own; he sees her quivering, arching, feels her feet stroking the sheets, toes curling. Her entire long body tightens up, her thighs closing around him as it goes through her: hits her in her center, takes hold of her deep inside, uses her, pleasures her so intensely that she thinks she might die if it doesn't end, oh, end, soon.

But she does not die. And it doesn't end soon. It goes on, and tumbles into itself, an orgasm that rides her like a beast with a lazy afternoon at its disposal. She is half relieved and half bereft when it lets her go. She makes a sound as such: she sounds almost as though she's about to sob. But she's pulling at him instead, dragging his mouth to her own, kissing him, tasting his mouth. It's a lush, full thing, daring adoration. Her skin is sweating, flushed, hairs on end. She's shivering, trembling, trying to catch her breath, trying to reclaim control over herself.

wolfman

Almost can't take it. Almost too much when she moves like that. When she rides him like that. He's so close to his own orgasm that he's still hard, still raw, still with his nerve endings stripped bare. Wolf gasps. Wolf pants a hard breath out. Girl reaches down to adjust his hand and he lets her, he relaxes his fingers until she teaches her: there.

Girl moans. Could kill him with the sounds she makes. Never thought he'd hear her, or anyone, sound quite like that. So undone, so vulnerable, so overcome. He kisses that moan off her mouth too, like he's collecting these sounds, these gasps, these trembling breaths. Saving them away in his memory, one after another.

Still kissing her when she tightens up. Still kissing her when she starts to shake apart. Still kissing her, nuzzling her, rolling his face so rough and animal against hers when her toes curl, when her pussy clenches, when he shudders all over with her because he's still inside her and there's nothing, nothing, nothing else that even comes close to this.

--

Girl doesn't die of it.

Wolf doesn't either.

Wolf's trembling a little when it's over, but he's trying to hide it. Never wants to seem weak, and sometimes he confuses vulnerability for weakness. Girl pulls him back to her mouth and he goes with only a little resistance. Gives in easily enough. Their mouths meet again and his hand leaves her clit finally. Spreads fingers over her side, feels the rise and fall of her breathing. Spreads fingers through her hair too, unraveled now. Dark and thick, everywhere. He'd hunt her scent there too but he knows he won't find it.

Kisses slowing now. Gentling. Eventually wolf takes a breath. It sounds like a sigh. Palm on her hip steadies her as he withdraws, finally. For a moment he lingers there, atop her still, bodies pressed together. Then he rolls to his back, flexes up to yank the covers haphazardly up. Covers them to the waist or so. Too warm for anything else.

Gathers her back to his side without trying to explain it. Wraps his arm around that long, lovely body. He's got nothing to say, no words, no way to put thoughts into words.

witch

At the end, she lets out this sigh. This heavy, whole-body sigh. She feels him, of course she feels him: where he's in her, touching her, where he's rubbing his face against her and rolling in -- well. Not her scent. Just her presence, her heat, the sounds she makes. She drowses a bit, coming down, waiting for her breathing to even out, steady, become not a poem or a song but a story. A beginning, a middle, an end, each with a clear narrative, each with a coherent structure.

They don't die at the end. Coming like that doesn't kill them. The sounds she makes don't slaughter him in his own bed. They just come down. She comes down. He watches her, and kisses her when she pulls him close, and touches her hair. She smiles at that, her lips against his own curling, curving.

Somehow she can't stop kissing him. Does it for a long while, slow and lazy and sweet. He takes a breath and holds onto her as he leaves her, and she trembles, but it's sort of a delighted little shiver. She opens her eyes, watching him as he rolls over to one side. He pulls covers to his waist; she ducks under them to the shoulder, then vanishes, slithering under the covers til she feels lace. Comes back up and she's wiggling in bed, holding those shorts of hers. She flops a bit from that, looking at him.

He pulls her to his side. She smiles, that lazy quirking smile to one side. He wraps himelf around her, and she permits it, pressed all against him with those long legs and long arms and freckles and dark hair. Then she leans over, kissing him under his eye, and wriggles away.

She's a lithe and tousle-haired silhouette then, slipping off to his bathroom, carrying her lace-edged shorts hooked on a finger.

--

Water runs in the toilet, water runs in the sink. When she comes back she's wearing those shorts, and shivering, jumping back into bed with him to warm herself. Seeking out her tank top and tugging it back on, unapologetically and unhesitatingly tucking herself alongside him.

She exhales when her head finds his chest. She closes her eyes and sighs.

If he doesn't stop her, if he says nothing, if he isn't already unconscious himself, she is soon asleep.

wolfman

Takes the wolf by surprise when she ducks under the covers like that. He frowns, raising his head. Wonders what the fuck. She resurfaces: found her boyshorts. He snorts a quiet laugh and flops down again. Tugs her to his side and looks at the ceiling because she's smiling that lazy quirking smile and he doesn't know what to make of it. Confuses him, arouses him.

Not one minute later she kisses him. Wiggles away. He's half-asleep again by then, jarred awake again. Raises his head a second time and squints after her. Hears water running and lets himself fall into his pillows. Eyelids weigh a thousand pounds, so he closes them.

--

Girl finds him unconscious when she comes back to bed. Something of a replay: she slips in with him again. He wakes with a small start. Disoriented, it takes him a second to remember, but then he does. Stays awake for a little while, feeling her tuck herself against him. Feeling her wrap her arm over his middle. Lay her head on his chest.

Something in him tightens again. Aches again. Hurts a little to breathe so he takes a deep one, lets it out. It gets better. Shadows in the room, shadows on the ceiling. Wolf watches them for a while, his heartbeat a slow steady drum. Then, as before, he pulls the covers up. Tucks them around the girl's shoulders. Wraps his arm strong and heavy over them, and closes his eyes.

She's asleep by then. In another minute or two, so is he.

wolfman

[HER SLEEPSHORTS. DEY COMFEE.]