not just a fuck.

wolfman

Wolf's going to have to come up with a good excuse for that one. Losing to a skinny thing whose toes get cold easily. Losing after three shots, fuck, sorority girls could do better.

Wolf's stretched out on the floor now, though. Cheeks flushed, hair tousled, unconscious. Looks younger like that. Maybe not much older than the girl. Beard bristle scratches at her palm when she pats his cheek; his skin's warm to the touch. He murmurs something indistinct and starts to roll over but then his name,

her name for him,

pierces the haze. Green eyes open; unfocused. Then focusing. He looks at her bleary and puzzled. "What?"

witch

She kisses him. Can't help it; she can focus her eyes and her coordination is stellar but her impulse control is shot. She kisses him. Makes a soft sound against his mouth.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't seem too surprised. He is surprised -- she'd know it if she pulled back, looked in his eyes -- but she doesn't. Girl kisses him. Wolf kisses her back, accepting it at first, then lifting his head from the floor.

He's got a nice rug here by the TV. Thick and plush, cushioning the hardwood floors that run the entire footprint of the first floor. Thick enough to cushion girl's shoulderblades when he rises up and turns her and rolls her under. Even if it weren't, his hand's there. Caught between her midback and the floor. Fumbling carelessly, impatiently for buttons, zippers, clasps, catches,

whatever it is that might take away her clothes. Reveal her body.

witch

God, she likes kissing him. Goes on kissing him for a while, drunk as she is -- as they both are. Maybe they were looking for an excuse. Maybe it should matter that they need an excuse. He's reaching for her, mindless, pushing up that sweater full of runs and holes til she helps him and tosses it away. She's the one who really takes it off, tosses it aside.

Her skin feels so hot, right now. She can't help that, either. Puts her palms on his face to hold him there, moaning into his mouth when he rolls her over onto the rug.

She laughs, breathily, pulling his fumbling hand to the buttons that run down the entire length of her dress, right up front.

"Cheap date," she gasps, happily.

wolfman

"What?"

Like that's the only word left to him, stupid and monosyllabic, breathed rather than spoken. Girl guides his hand. Wolf finds the buttons. Wolf's overtaken by a sudden hunger, wants to rip, wants to tear, wants to strip that dress off in shreds. Some latent respect for her -- could she have guessed he had it? -- keeps him from doing that. She has so few things to call her own. He knows what that's like.

Wolf undoes the buttons instead. Roughly and impatiently, pulling them from their holes. Wolf unwraps her like a gift, right there on the rug, right there by the coffee table, right there in the living room. Not thinking about spying servants not. Not thinking about what they might say, and to whom, and why, and what, and.

Not thinking much at all. Her bare shoulders so pale. Her nipples, pink or brown? Funny that he's never looked to see. He looks now, because the lights are on, and because he's pawed her bra out of the way. Put his mouth to her, fierce and unrestrained, sucks too hard. Maybe she can forgive him. He doesn't mean to.

witch

Laughs again; that's what he said when she told him to lay himself out on that expansive, soft bed of his so she could ride him. What, what, she murmurs, eager, leaning up to him, kissing him again as he's pulling her clothes off, yanking buttons from eyes, or at least: trying to be careful about it. Trying not to tear and shred one of the few things she owns. All of her worldly possessions fit in a backpack and duffel; he's seen just about every item of clothing she owns by now, just sitting around the house.

She tries helping him. She's smart: whip-smart, shockingly smart. She has noticed that every time they've had sex -- all three -- he's wanted her utterly, completely naked. He's stripped her down to nothing. She doesn't know why. She pulls at some of her own buttons and pushes at her leggings anyway, though. Because she's noticed.

Pink. Well. Soft, beige-pink areolae, little pink nipples. He looks and he sees, because she's not in the dark again. She moans, arching, as he yanks her bra down and looks at her and sucks at her, nearly bites down.

There's a shiver in that moan, a cry like pain, and she smacks his bicep. "Ow," she tells him, even though she's squirming under him, panting.

wolfman

Well there's this at least. Ow has an effect on him. Always has. Makes him stop, makes him rear back, makes him cease and desist whatever it is that's making her say that single, all-powerful syllable. Wolf pushes up on his hands. Longsleeve tee still on. Jeans still on. Cheeks even more flushed now. Swallows, licks his lips.

Doesn't ask what this time. Figures it out himself. Not that dumb a brute after all. Dips his head to her and meets her mouth hard. Growls into the kiss. Wolf's always growling when he fucks her, like he's an animal. Like she brings it out in him.

Hands on her tits instead. Nipples wet against his palms. Inexpertly he paws at her, fondles her, plays with her breasts like maybe that's what they're made for. After a while he thinks to pull his own shirt off. Tears it overhead, nuzzling against the side of her face, the side of her neck all the while. When it flings aside they're skin to skin. He wraps his arms around her so tight, and the feel of her body crushed to his makes him growl again.

witch

"Ow doesn't mean stop," she breathes at him, looking up at him when he's pausing, reared up, mouth wet and body still damnably clothed. She curls her fingers in his shirt fabric, tugging him downward. "Just means not so hard,"

which comes with her thigh between his legs, softer than his own legs, rubbing against him. Comes with her kissing him, gasping as he growls. Her dress is half-unbuttoned, half-off. Her leggings are still on. Her bra is pushed down to bare one breast but that's it. She lifts her hips, grinding against his leg in turn. His hands on her make her shiver.

So he's pulling his shirt off and she's dazed, drunk, shuddering.

"Wait... wait, stop," she says, changing her mind, panting, closing her eyes.

wolfman

"What?"

Different intonation this time. Amazed, exasperated. Takes a second for the message to go from brain to arms. Then he lets her go, pushes up over her again, thuds his palm against the rug once and then rolls aside.

Wolf's on his back. Wolf's pushing a hand over his brow, through his hair. Staring at the ceiling, willing his blood to slow.

witch

Really she doesn't blame him for getting away from her right now, rolling over, flopping onto his back. No ill will. She lays there a moment, trying to catch her breath.

Says, absurdly but quite heartfelt:

"We're really drunk."

wolfman

Soft sound as wolf turns his head. Looks at the girl. His eyes flicker: her eyebrows, the tip of her nose, her mouth. Back up.

Wolf closes his eyes. Girl's in disarray right now. Hair tumbling everywhere. Dress undone. Bra pulled off one breast. Nipples are pink. Now he knows that. Wolf thinks her cunt must be pink too. Wolf thinks maybe if he licked her there, pushed his face there, maybe he'll find a scent at last.

Wolf rubs both hands over his face. Groans into his palms, first time she's ever heard him make a noise like that. Then wolf gets up, swiping his shirt off the floor, swaying as he straightens.

witch

"Hey," she murmurs, and this too is a breath of a word. She isn't trying to cover up; she's just reaching out, touching his leg, his ankle. "Just... just c'mere. Grab that pillow off the couch. Blanket."

Looks up at him, smiling drowsily. "C'mon. Stay."

wolfman

"No."

Word comes so hard and harsh. Maybe girl thinks he's doing it again. He's being a jerk again. Then wolf lets out this hushed sound, this laugh.

"Gonna go jack off. Brush my teeth." Grabs that pillow after all, and that blanket. Drops it by her. "Why don'tcha come to my room in like ten minutes and then I'll let you cuddle as much as you want."

witch

The look she gives him.

He says it so harshly, and then he laughs, and that look is still there: stricken. Hurt. He's gonna go jack off and brush his teeth and she can come by his room later to cuddle. If she wants.

Dumps pillow and blanket by her.

There are tears in her eyes by that point.

"No, thanks," she snaps. Comes through teeth that barely separate. Barely can.

wolfman

Wolf's genuinely baffled now. Doesn't understand the hurt. Doesn't understand the anger. Doesn't understand the tears in her eyes.

"Hell did I do wrong now?"

witch

Now she's covering herself. Getting up -- not wavering, not swaying. Just gets up, and leaves her sweater where it fell, and crosses her arms over herself to cover herself.

"Figure it out," she tells him, just as flat, just as much of a whip-crack. She passes by him, going to the stairs. Going up them, quickly.

wolfman

Wolf lets her go by. Doesn't turn as she darts up those stairs. Her feet are lighter than his. She's fleet and quick and retreating, angry; she's at the top of the stairs when suddenly he turns after all. Comes across the living room floor. Runs up those stairs, devouring distance in huge strides of two or three steps at a lunge, big hands grabbing the banister to haul himself along all the faster.

She's halfway across the hall when he's on the second floor. At her door when he's behind her. Starts to reach past her to slam the door shut, trap her there. Starts to, but stops.

Has enough clarity for that. Has enough mercy for that -- or perhaps it's something different. A certain caution. Doesn't want to push past that point she's alluded to: how long before she gives in to it?

Wolf's fingers brush the door as she opens it. "Devon," he says as she's going through, "wait."

If she shuts the door in his face he doesn't stop her.

witch

That makes her yelp. Something about being chased, being chased by something like that; she startles, yelps, jumps when she's halfway down the hall to her room. Wheels on him, face white, expecting --

the worst. That's what it is. She's tension itself, taut as a wire, frozen. Still covering herself. Jerks backward when he comes at her, that fast, right there. It's as unconscious as his rage is. Let's be realistic. She looks at him in a blind, if momentary, panic.

But he stops. And her knees buckle a little, her brain spinning. She doesn't shut the door in her face, having not quite opened it.

However:

she does vomit. Chokes briefly, which is almost a cough, and then... isn't a cough at all. Just her turning, trying to cover her mouth, determined not to throw up on him, since it's bad enough to throw up in front of him. It's not the three shots of vodka. That's not enough to make her lose her stomach. It's the roller-coaster she's been on these last few minutes: the laughter, the arousal, the hurt, the anger, the sudden panic. Her nervous system just gives up.

She has one forearm braced against a blessedly cool wall, her body bent over. For a few seconds her body just does what it needs to do, makes her terribly unappetizing prey for any predator, and as soon as it's over she's shaking, chilled, and also... deeply,

morbidly,

embarrassed.

wolfman

Girl throws up. It's carpet up here. Girl heaves everything in her stomach up, and then she's clinging to that wall shaking in her -- well. Not in her shoes now. Or her stockings. Just shaking.

Wolf hasn't said a thing. Wolf's staring, silent. Girl coughs a few more times and then stills, bent over, leaning heavily against that wall. Wolf's still for a few beats too.

Then he comes forward. Hand warm on her back, rubbing gently. He eases her away from the wall if she lets him. Eases her against him -- if she lets him. Truth is he's drunker than she is. Truth is he sways a little, his balance imperfect, as he scoops her up off the floor.

If she lets him.

witch

She's a Fianna. Fianna don't throw up after three shots. Certainly not Fianna with her ability to hold her liquor.

Except: it wasn't the liquor, was it?

She simultaneously wants to crumble to her knees and cry and she also wants him to vanish like he never was. She wants time to rewind. She wants to hide. She wants to crawl into a bathtub. She wants to clean this mess up. And, sniffling, coughing a few more times, shuddering, while he's trying to gather her up and rub her back, she just ends up crying.

"I'm sorry," she says, because that is what you say when you are drunk, and you have just vomited on a friend's upstairs carpet.

wolfman

Wolf's mouth twists. Almost a wince. He keeps rubbing her back. Keeps trying to urge her away from the wall, against him, into his arms. Away from the wall, at least, and the mess.

"Me too."

Hand cups her head for a moment. Wolf kisses her hair. "Come on. Go wash up in my room. I'll clean it up."

witch

"No," she moans, covering her face with her hands, hiding, because her mouth is filthy, she can smell it, she's horrified. He kisses her hair and she shrinks, but doesn't pull away. "No, you shouldn't --"

Okay, she pulls away. Starts to. She's got towels in the bathroom by her -- no, the second -- bedroom. She'll clean it up. She can totally do this.

wolfman

"Devon," his arm is reluctant. His hand follows her until she's out of reach. "It's okay. I'll do it. Okay?"

witch

Just crying now. Still hiding. "No, that's so gross. Make James do it."

wolfman

Despite himself, despite the situation, wolf laughs. Quiet sound. "Yeah, all right. Good idea." One step after her, trailing in her wake. "Go wash up in my room," he says again. "I'll come find you in a little while."

witch

She doesn't stumble. Doesn't grab the door jamb for support. Does pause; she's closer to her door than his. She doesn't look at him; she's hiding, shrunken. She sniffs again. Doesn't quite... understand why he wants her to go to his room to wash up. She slinks into her own, leaves the door open behind her. Doesn't turn on the light.

Maybe he follows her. Her room is a mess: clothing strewn about, a stuffed giraffe flopped at the corner of the bed, bottles arranged all over the dresser and nightstand. It's a wreck. She slinks into the bathroom, turning on the water in the bath before she finishes unbuttoning her dress, slinking out of her leggings and panties, unhooks her bra, leaves everything in a pile.

Before she gets into the bath she stops at the sink, rinsing out her mouth with cupped handfuls of hot water, followed by a mouthful of some purple mouthwash that she swishes aimlessly and spits out.

Crawls into the bathtub, sinking into the rapidly rising water.

wolfman

Wolf does follow her. But not immediately.

Closes her door first. Then leans over the railing and bellows for James. Truth is he wouldn't have, if she hadn't told him to. Would've thought of how James would see the situation. What James would think of the girl. Would've forgotten:

girl doesn't care what other people think of her. Girl would rather James, that supercilious prick, be the one to clean up her sick.

So James comes upstairs. James is disgusted, tries to hide it by smoothing his face. James suggests waiting for the housekeeper, but they both know that's ridiculous. James ends up bringing a bucket, a sponge, gloves, and carpet detergent upstairs. Girl can hear him scrubbing outside when the wolf taps on her door, opens it.

Room's a mess. Wolf's not surprised somehow. Dimensions are a little smaller than his room down the hall, but it has the same airy feel. The spacious ceilings, the big windows that let in plenty of light even as the season slants into window. Her bathroom is a discrete room, doored, with a garden tub and a pull-out showerhead.

Wolf knocks on that door too. This time he waits to go in.

witch

She hears that. Rafael bellowing for his stupid nasty snake-in-the-grass headservant James. Make James clean up the vomit. It makes her feel better; Rafael isn't going to be cleaning up her vomit. She relaxes a little, and eases back into the water, letting herself sink into it. Truthfully, it's dangerous to be taking a hot bath while drunk and a mite unstable. She doesn't think of that; Rafael is right outside, anyway.

He comes in. Circles around, finds her in the bathroom. The door there is open, too. She looks up and over at him from the tub, her shoulders and breasts slightly visible, her hair wet up to the shoulders but no higher, her breath smelling of store-brand Listerine. Her eyes are still a little glassy, and red-rimmed from her bout of sobbing, but she can focus her eyes on him, at least.

Doesn't really matter to her anymore that he dumped her when she said wait, said he was going to go jack off instead, and she could come after if she wanted to cuddle. She's not thinking about it.

She's just thinking of how embarrassed she is. And simultaneously: how grateful to see him.

"I'm sorry I threw up on your floor," she says quietly, her throat sore from. Well. Throwing up.

wolfman

Wolf taps the door anyway. Girl looks at him and talks to him. Wolf supposes that's a form of invitation and comes in, putting the lid down on the toilet. Something lax about his joints, heavy about the way he sits down. Still a flush to his cheeks.

Shakes his head when she apologizes again. Makes this loose gesture with his hand: raises it, palm and fingers open. Drops it back to his thigh. Wolf sits leaning against the water tank on the toilet, feet apart.

"No big deal. Sorry I hurt your feelings again."

witch

Well that's a step up. Last time she invited him into her room he backed out of it. And it really bugged her. This time she looks at him, and apologizes, and he comes in without being directly told to do so.

They are both still drunk. Woozy. And she oddly feels better, for having thrown up most of it. But tired; her limbs jangle when she tries to move.

Devon just stares at him for a bit. She's turned off the water and the dripping is slowing to nothing. She put nothing in there; just her body. Just the water. Just steam. She wants to think of something more eloquent to say, now that he's brought up all the things she wasn't thinking about, but all she has is a sniff, and a wet look in her eyes, and:

"You really did," she mumbles. Or whimpers. One or the other. Both. Rolls over in the bath, turned on her side, the water touching her cheek.

wolfman

Girl's going to drown, wolf thinks. Sits forward, lacing fingers together, resting elbows on knees.

Quiet: "Tell me how. Tell me what I did."

witch

Not going to drown so long as he's sitting there. He told her once he'd never hurt her if he could help it. Admitted he could help it more than he tries to. She thinks that means he wouldn't let her get hurt if he could help it, either. Sort of weird that she believes it, when he's such a prick seventy, eighty percent of the time.

Less, lately. More like sixty. Sometimes even fifty. Sometimes, when he's looking at her like he's on a mission and he's kissing her like he can't stop and he's touching her with something like obsession, she thinks he might be as low as twenty or thirty percent asshole.

She blinks slowly, dreamily, looking at him. Staying warm in that lapping, steaming water. Has to think of the words, but not the feeling.

"Made me feel like... all I was good for was... fucking me."

Devon closes her eyes, sighs. "Which. If that's what it is. Just tell me, you know?"

One eye opens, stares at him. "I mean I won't fuck you anymore if it is, but you should still tell me."

wolfman

Dangerous question. Treacherous ground. Pushes him to make a call, right here right now. Is it just fucking? Is that all she's good for? Put another way: is she a whore to him? Sex in exchange for, what -- a room, hot meals, occasional protection?

Wolf's looking at her when that eye opens. Girl has such remarkable eyes. Big and blue, except a line like that conjures images of innocence. Infantilism. It's not that at all. There's a canniness to her stare. A sharp intelligence that was nearly feral. Wolf feels naked when she looks at him like that; like her eyes look right through his clothes, his skin, his bones.

Finds a truth in him. Wolf lowers his head for a second, big shoulders heaving in a sigh. Why the hell not. She can see the inside of his soul anyway, he thinks; might as well tell the truth.

"You're not just a fuck."

Raises his head. Looks at her. Frowning now, frowning still, frowning with his heavy eyebrows and his deep brow ridge, that beautiful nobleman's nose.

"Don't know what that makes us, but you're not just a fuck. Okay? Now get up and take a shower or something. You're gonna drown."

witch

Finds him looking at her. Is staring at him, she realizes. Wonders how often she does that. Wonders how often he does that, too; she's only caught him a couple of times. But she is staring at him now, dreamily, sleepily, soaking in that hot bath that makes her entire body and mind feel more at ease.

He thinks she can see right through him.

He has no idea what his eyes are like to her, or the cant of his mouth. Why else would she cry like she does, or storm off like she does, leaving him baffled at what he did, what she read in it?

He is an enigma, too.

--

Something about the sigh, the tone, makes her wish she hadn't said anything. Except he asked. He wanted to know what it was he did. Why her eyes filled with tears, her feelings so obviously hurt

again.

Devon takes a breath, her head lifting slightly, but he looks at her again, says he doesn't know and she opens her mouth like she wants to say something and he ends by saying she's going to drown.

Shakes her head.

"No, I'm not," she mutters, with an aimless twitch of her hand. "You're right there."

A pause, then, her eyes coming to rest on him again. "Wasn't looking for a name," she says softly. "It is what it is." Another pause, longer, while she lays there in the bath watching his face, trying to understand him without cards, without pendulum or crystal or anything to pull knowledge from the ether.

She shifts then, the water rippling. Slips down under the water, but not because she's blacking out, drowning. She just goes under the water, then comes back up, soaked now, taking a breath and wiping her face. Sits up. Water drips off the tip of her nose and her chin, runs down her in rivulets. Drips off her breasts. Her nipples: pink. Devon turns, folding her arms along the rim of the tub, chin resting on her wrists.

"If we were kissing," she says, drowsily, but she really does have a point, she is going somewhere: "and suddenly you stopped. To drunk to get it up, or the room spinning, or just... feeling poorly. And I got up right then and left you. To go get off, throwing a blanket at you. Saying you could come see me when I was done."

Her brow is furrowed, her expression close to a wince, shying from her own attempt at empathy. Her own attempt, really, to stir it in him.

"Would feel shitty, yeah? Might not make you think I lied, that I don't really like you at all. But would still make you feel --"

she struggles there. A half-hundred words could work, there. Used. Trashy. Degraded. Sad. Hurt. Shitty -- though she used that last one already. Devon eventually gives up; she doesn't finish the sentence. She just shrugs those bare shoulders, which he has seen before but may never have noticed bear their own dusting of freckles. She just looks up and over at him, hoping he understands. Understands that:

"Don't need a name for it," she says quietly, just above a whisper. It wasn't that. It was --

"Just... made me feel bad."

--

There's not much of a pause, then. She almost doesn't want him to answer. To say he's sorry, to feel like he has to say he's sorry. Wants an explanation; wants to know what he's thinking and feeling and wanting. Not wanting, at all, to ask for any of it. Doesn't know how. Wouldn't know how to react if he did.

She sniffs once, turning from him even during those last few words. Flicks a lever or pulls a plug; the bath starts to drain, a whirlpool of downward suction. And she is rising, one hand on either side of the tub, pushing herself to standing. Lays a hand on the tiled wall as she steps out onto the bath rug, nevermind the water running down her back from her hair, running down her arms and fingertips, dripping off her breasts, her thighs.

Doesn't reach for a towel, though. Just looks at him.

wolfman

It is what it is.

That's what she said first time they fucked. And afterward he said they didn't have to talk about it. Didn't have to mean anything.

Is what it is.

Girl goes underwater. Wolf sits up, alert and tense. Watches the water, watches for bubbles, is a breath away from reaching in and hauling her out when she surfaces again. Wolf scowls at her, relaxing.

--

Girl starts to talk then.

Wolf looks at her with furrowed brow, heavy eyes. Girl tries to explain it: tries to put it in terms personal enough for him to step into her shoes. Tries to give him the empathy that doesn't come natural to him. Maybe it works because now he's looking at her unhappily, and then his eyes shy away altogether. He presses his palms together, fingers knit tight. Nods a few times, head lowered, shoulders and back a continuous contour.

"I get it. Didn't mean to make you feel that way. But I get why you did."

--

Water drains. Silently at first, then that unnerving sound of suction as that tiny whirlpool reaches from surface to drain. Seas fall; girl is revealed millimeter by millimeter, like some fossil of eden unearthed from time. Wolf saw a painting of Venus once; not the Botticelli everyone thinks of but the one where she lies on the waves, hair atumble, eyes closed, like a sleeper coming up from an erotic dream. Wolf doesn't have much of a culture bone in that brutish body of his, but he flashes to that all the same. Then girl rises up and wolf sits up. Hand twitches like maybe he'll help her out, but she finds the wall.

Girl stands before him then. Looks at him frankly, with those haunting eyes. Wolf stares back, something in his eyes uncomprehending as an animal. Except he is an animal. He does understand. Some things require no words, only instinct.

Wolf stands up and pulls his shirt off in the same motion. Wolf undoes his jeans and lets them drop; boxers with them. Steps out of them; first time she's seen in so naked in the light. Looks every inch as strong as he feels, musculature thick and hard and supple, bones a powerful scaffolding for the flesh, a resilient cage for the viscera. Light dusting of hair on the chest, down the lower abdomen. Heavier on the forearms, the calves. Limbs long, shoulders wide, hips narrow; a heavy cock still hanging mostly soft at the moment, hardening with every beat of his heart.

She's wet from the bath when he pulls her to him. Wolf picks her up and puts her back to the wall; the bathrobe he got her hangs on a hook there, absorbs some of the moisture, absorbs some of the impact. Wolf pulls her legs around him, wolf puts his hand between her thighs. She's wet there too, water and then something other than water. Wolf touches her slowly, watching her eyes, still fumbling and heavyhanded but learning, learning. When he sees her eyes flare he puts his mouth to her throat, holds her very gently in his teeth, his tongue pressed against the flutter of her pulse. Something savage and claiming about that.

witch

Knows he didn't mean to. Knows now -- didn't, always -- he wouldn't. Which is maybe why she can tell him at all. Certainly has something to do with pulling the drain, stepping out of the bath, standing before him.

Like that.

Naked.

Wet.

--

Doesn't have to say it. Tell him I still like you, which she would: softly. Because she does: the fraction of the time he's not being a prick. Doesn't have to tell him it made her feel flushed with warmth when she came up out of the water -- just dunking herself, honestly, Rafael -- to find him a handspan from pulling her up, wary of her drowning. Doesn't need to tell him it's okay now. She's okay now.

All he has to do just then is look at her.

Devon takes a breath when he rises, pulling off his shirt. She's reaching for him already, stepping forward, touching his stomach, his scars, running palms up his chest. He's already at his belt and she's tipping her head to the side, kissing his chest, trying to press closer to him. Feel him, more than see him.

She does like the feel of him.

His hands are rough on her, pulling her closer. Her breath is hot, though, and she goes quite easily, smoothly, up into his arms, wrapping her arms and legs around him when he presses her to the wall. Cooling water gives way to something hotter when he reaches down to warm her to him. Warm she does -- is. She smells now faintly of that mouthwash, and of water, and strangely of fragility, of whatever weakness made her draw away from him downstairs. Strange to feel like he can smell it. Maybe it's some other sense, like her purity. Maybe it's just his hands on her hips, which are narrow. Or on her ribs, which are as fine as the rest of her features. Her cunt, becoming so welcoming as he strokes her.

Devon does tip her head back. She's looking at him, then looking down at his hand, her lips parted. And her arms are around his neck. And her thighs are tense, taut around him. And then she squeezes him, gasps. Tips her head back, and he reaches forward with his mouth, drawn there as to a lodestone, a focal point in the ley lines through her body. She shudders; he bites her throat, holds her in his teeth, and she kisses his temple where she can. Spreads her lips and sets her teeth there, mindlessly, panting quietly against the upper curve of his ear.

wolfman

Lights on. Last of her bathwater running down the drain. Noise of the water all but drowns out sound of their breathing. Except they're so close to each other than they can't help but hear. Can't help but hear the rasp in his breath. The gasp in hers. They both have their mouths open to each other's skin, taste. They both use their teeth.

Wolf doesn't touch her very long. At least now he tries to give her some warning. Some warming. Now he tries to work her up a little before shoving it inside her.

Still grabs her by the hips and holds her against the wall when it comes time, though. Still holds her steady like he thinks maybe otherwise she'll just flit off into thin air. She can see him reflected in the mirror, the big shoulders and broad back, the twist and bunch of muscles in his loins as he pushes up into her. Enters her rough and quick, making that animal noise against her neck. His eyes are closed. Mouth opens, panting.

Her arms wrapped around his neck and their skin tone such a contrast. It's not that he's particularly dark, nor that she's particularly pale. It's just that there's a fairness, a fragility to her skin, just as there's a fragility to her bones, her eyes, her smell. Sun makes her skin freckle. Heat makes her flush. Even on the coldest days there's an undertone of pink in her cheeks.

Wolf likes that about her. Signs of life. Signs of blood going through her capillaries, even if he can't smell the vitality in her.

Wolf's hand grips her hair. Doesn't seem like he ever means to demean her by that. Just an expression of -- what, need maybe. A hungry, hollowed, desperate sort of wanting. Pulls her head back so he can get at her throat. Pulls her head back so he can kiss her, crushingly, while down below their bodies go into havoc. His chest rubbing against hers. Her legs open around his waist. His cock inside her, thrusting with all the considerable force of his back, his flank. Wolf takes her the way he did that first time, slow but forceful, the robe dampening the collision of their bodies, the thumping of the door.

witch

Eventually she should get him on his knees. She thought about it, during their drinking contest:

Changed my mind about what I want if I win.

?

Oral.

She thinks about it now, too, laughing softly as he stops touching her, holds her hips, the sides of his waist pressing her thighs open as he comes closer. She has her hands on his shoulders now, looking at him as he takes hold of his cock. She'd tease him for it: Already? but the truth is, she doesn't want to wait, herself. And doesn't want to backhand his pride, either. She looks at the steamed mirror behind him, looks at his back, his body, and exhales. It's just a single breath, but it is also manifest lust.

Devon's hands smooth over his shoulderblades as he enters her. She gasps, watching both of them, her fingers curling to press nails into his skin: slightly. She gives a soft whimper, though not the slightly shocked, slightly resistant sound he heard her make the first time. This is different, somehow, even though her hand clenches on his back.

She closes her eyes a moment, ducks her head closer to him. Presses her nose against his neck as he starts to move in her, pushing her up, pushing in. She makes these noises, soft and accepting. His hand goes into her hair and then tightens, pulls slightly. Her eyes flash at him for a moment, a flicker of light that looks like warning, but they close again. He kisses her and she kisses him back. Her hands roam down his back and then up again, into his hair, til they

clutch him there, pull his head back. She ducks her head, runs her tongue wet and hungry up his throat, panting against his skin.

wolfman

Wolf snarls to get handled like that. Not an angry sound, though, and not a warning one. Girl licks up his throat, finds his pulse surging, finds his skin salty. Wolf catches her mouth when it's close enough. Wrenches against her hand in his hair if he has to, just to kiss her.

Tangles up with her in that kiss. Starts to forget where the lines are. Where she starts, where he ends. Wolf's got his arms so tight around her; always seems to come back to fucking her like this, surrounding her and holding her and hammering her. Like this is the only way he has of knowing her. Doesn't understand her half the time. Doesn't speak to her enough to get all the thoughts in her head. Doesn't even know her scent, and just recently got her number. Still doesn't know her last name.

Could be forgiven for seeking her out in these moments. For fucking her like he's trying to get inside her. Find a secret there. Bring it back up to the surface. Maybe through her mouth. Maybe that's why he keeps kissing her like that, breath-stealing, hard.

And all the while he's fucking her, his body a singular surge against hers; feet braced, muscles churning. An arm around her mid-back. An arm around her waist, hand on her ass holding her up. Girl's wound all around him and he's moving into her so heavy and steady, a little rough really but sometimes that's all he knowss. Girl's making these sounds now, soft and accepting, every one of them a whip across his back urging him on. Every one of them piercing him through, vanishing through the armor of his callousness like it wasn't there. Lodges inside him. Leaves a mark.

Wolf lifts her away from the door when he feels, hears, senses her getting close. Wolf holds her on his body then, carries her weight unfalteringly. Shifts her, moves her, plants her on his cock. Lifts his head to find her mouth, always seeking her mouth. Drinks her sounds from the source.

witch

Catches her mouth. Kisses her. She groans. Grinds her body harder against his. Wraps herself more tightly around him. Riding him now, between that soft bathrobe and his body. Hasn't crossed her mind to wonder if fucking him now and again is some sort of payment for that bathrobe. This room. The food. Being driven around. Doesn't cross her mind, now.

What crosses her mind is the way he snarls when she grabs his hair, licks his throat. And the way he is almost biting her when he kisses her, and the way he surely doesn't resist when she grabs his wrist, puts his hand on her breast, moans again into his mouth. She thinks about little at all beyond these things. The way it sounds every time he thrusts. Stupid fucking James out there cleaning up her vomit, hope he can hear them fucking in here, hope he judges, hope he hates it. Thinks of the way his back muscles feel under her hands, and the way the heat of him is mingling with the heat lingering on her from her bath and keeping her toes from getting cold. She thinks, in between one kiss and the next, that he is so, so nice to look at, he feels so, so good, and that she does not get to do this with him nearly often enough.

For no evident reason she gasps another laugh. She tips her head back and does it again, each laugh tattering apart into an outcry of pleasure in time with those faster, rougher thrusts he's giving her. The look on her face is rapturous. She keeps trembling a little, shivering, her whole body quivering with the happy energy of it.

And it is: happy. Bizarrely.

He lifts her up, pulls her against his considerable chest. She makes this sound, a little helpless but not really, whining as she squirms down on him. Doesn't falter at all; with greater leverage she just starts fucking him, well and truly. Bites her lower lip. Brows pull together. Starts crying out, not a single goddamn moment of it intelligible, though they sound like attempts at words. Comes like that, noisily and eagerly, folding herself around him, mercilessly keeping her mouth from him so she can yell like that.

Likes the sound of it, echoing off the tile and the mirror, flying through the steam.

wolfman

Didn't think girl would get so loud. Not that she was a church mouse before, but. Maybe it's the confines of the bathroom. Acoustics of tile and mirror and closed box design. Maybe she really is crying out so loud, yelling out her orgasm while she fucks, fucks, fucks, fucks him.

Wolf didn't get why she laughed. Maybe he gets it now, though. Because now he's laughing, under his breath and quiet and more panting exhale than sound, but it's still a laugh. He's palming her ass, holding her up like that while she rides herself to orgasm on his dick like maybe that's what he's there for. That's why he showed up in that alley, and that fancy party, and that other alley, and that store, and all the times they met before she finally took his hand and told him,

no it's not.

No it's not. This is not a bad idea. James is outside seething as he cleans up, thinking unkind thoughts about wolf and girl and wolf-and-girl and calling them names, slut-shaming, all the rest. James is pond scum masquerading as something finer, though. Girl's hoping he's resenting them to hell. Wolf's not thinking of him at all.

Wolf's thinking of how girl looks. Wolf's thinking of her teeth catching her lip. Her eyebrows together like she's just so determined to catch her orgasm. Wolf's thinking of the sounds she's making, the hitch when he hits her just right, the entangling of her limbs and the surprising tenacity in those skinny limbs,

skinny thing,

god those tits against his chest. Who'd have thought.

Her back hits the door again. Sometimes they take turns with their orgasms and now it's his. He leverages her shoulderblades against the door, keeps his hands where they are. Laces his fingers together into a cradle, a swing, a saddle; quite frankly starts hammering her, bouncing her on his cock, fucking the living daylights out of her while she's still coming down from her shattering heights. And look: eyebrows together. Like he's just so determined to catch his orgasm. Head down, shoulders bulled, muscles rippling in his abdomen as he goes at her. Wolf's not much one for finesse but he gets points for hard work.

Wolf's looking her in the eye this time. Looking right at her when he comes: brow furrowed hard, eyes glinting, teeth glinting too when he bares them, exhales hard through clenched jaw. Head drops forward and he presses his brow to hers. Panting now, grabbing her by the hips and grinding her on his cock, moving that sweet tight cunt of hers on him to wring every last shred of pleasure out of the moment.

When he's done he gathers her up. Her feet haven't touched the ground since it all began. He wraps his arms around her and picks her up off the wall and -- stands there, feet apart for balance because truth be told the heat, the steam, the alcohol, the sex have left him lightheaded. He gathers her close, wraps her up in his arms, holds her tight against his body. Keeps her there, tight around his cock. Feels so good, he thinks. Can't think of anything better in all the world, just then.

witch

She does like transgression. Contrariness. No for the sake of no. Zigging when she's told to zag. There are reasons for it beyond simple deviance, a quirk of nature. It's a choice. Sometimes it's a hard one. Sometimes it'd be easier to be... easier.

So sure: thinking of that pinch-faced would-be traitor outside cleaning up her sick and spitting nails in his mind about the lauded blood of Falcon sullying himself with some homeless, low-born, sex-hungry Fianna trash gets her off. That's at least part of it. So is the steam in this room. So is rising from that bathtub, watching him look at her the same way he looked at her standing up fully clothed in the coffee shop -- only more openly, more fiercely. So is the way he fucks her, lifting her up and holding her on his body and letting her work herself out on his cock.

The fact that it's him is part of it.

She likes him. This percentage of the time when he's not being a prick. She likes him.

--

Very near the end, when her cries are just gasps and she's whimpering, moaning, rubbing herself against him in long squirms, she finally kisses him again. Seals their mouths together, her moan a low, slow, soft thing. Wants his hand on her breast again, even if that makes it harder for him to keep her up. Holds it there, massages it against her flesh, licks his lower lip, sucks on it. Bites.

He can feel it when her orgasm finally lets her go, starts to unwind from her limbs, uncoil. Truth is, her heart is pounding and it feels like her cunt is pounding and every inch of her is so sensitive she thinks maybe he should just lay down on the bath rug with her and snuggle her until his cock goes soft.

That's fair, right?

Silly.

--

Devon yelps when he slams her against the door; it hurts a little, the way he presses her, angles her, especially how tender she is. Or at least: not really comfortable, when she's not on the brink of orgasm. Doesn't exactly feel good, that hammering. Losing her living daylights, right after all that soaring, gaspinpleasure.

Her eyes fly open a little, find him, her hands on his body. Not pressing him away, not quite stalling him, just -- startled. Sometimes he just startles her. Sometimes his roughness inflames her. Other times she seems surprised by it. How could she be surprised by it?

Is, anyway.

witch

[ADDENDUM]

She tightens her hands on his body. She can take a lot. Look at the vodka they demolished downstairs. Look at how quick she bounced back from that, and from getting scared and sick. Being able to take it doesn't mean you're obligated to. Not really who she is, anyway.

Devon does like him.

And fucking him. And the fact that he likes fucking her back.

He comes like wildfire, though. Moments, searing and ferocious, pressing his face against her. She winces, though. Doubts he even sees it. She's drawing her hips back even as his hands are holding her, grinding her on his body. She exhales roughly, as he lifts her up onto his body, like before only not like before. Holds her so so so tight. She exhales.

"Put me down, Rafael," she says. Tone isn't that harsh. Tone is soft; quiet, but not shrinking. Tone brooks no argument, either.

wolfman

A disconnect there. His experience and hers. His perception and hers. Wolf's still breathing hard; still coming down. Every inch, every nerve abuzz. Wolf wants to hold on to her. Wolf wants to keep her to himself.

Girl says: put me down.

Girl says: Rafael.

Wolf can't remember if he's ever heard that name from her before. That alone is enough to raise his head. He looks at her, frowning, suddenly uncertain. He doesn't argue. They come apart and he inhales through his teeth and then her feet touch the floor. Her toes that get cold easily.

Wolf takes a step back. Heel of his hand finds the bathroom counter and he leans against it. Sweat on his skin. Breath running faster than he can catch. Some strange, errant sense of vulnerability makes him hold his cock in hand, as though to shield himself from sudden coolness or her eyes. Never mind that they've fucked now, and far more than once. Never mind that his body really holds no secrets from her anymore.

Breath's slowing. After a while his lips close; he breathes through his nose, swiftly still. Wolf watches girl, eyes alert and following, saying nothing.

witch

He has. Not the same as the other name, though.

Looks at her and she's looking at him and doesn't look disconnected, distant, angry, hurt. Just looks thoughtful, oddly. Not easy, either, to look thoughtful when her body is still singing. He lifts her, and she has to trust him to do this. Set her down again. She holds onto his arms for a moment, gasping slightly. Her thighs touch. She sways a little, still half-drunk, still freshly fucked. Her hands don't leave his forearms right away.

When she looks at him, she sees him holding onto his cock, which is fuck-filthy, and this strikes her as hilarious but she doesn't laugh, she doesn't even snicker. Doesn't have to hide away an almost-grin. She just closes her eyes and smiles, softly, to herself.

Her eyes open again. They're not cold. She comes over and leans against his chest, head pillowed on one pectoral, exhaling. And if he doesn't put his arms around her he is really really stupid.

wolfman

Wolf never claimed to be smart. But he's not really really stupid. His arm comes around her. One at first. The one that was covering his dick, to be honest. But he needs the other one to keep from collapsing in a drunken, postcoital heap.

Something like relief flits through his heart. Makes him uneasy. Wouldn't be relieved that she came back unless he was afraid she'd leave. Didn't think he was afraid she'd leave, though. She's left before, both times they fucked in his bed. Not like it hurt or anything to wake up to find her gone.

It doesn't hurt. Just like she didn't look hurt. It just made him --

thoughtful. That's the right word.

After a while he braces himself a little better against the counter. And then he puts his other arm around her as well, holding her to his chest. Girl's not tiny; still, when they're both barefoot, top of her head lines up to his chin. Maybe his mouth. The both of them leaning like this, he could almost rest his jaw atop her head like an animal. And after a while he does, gently, closing his eyes.

"You okay?"

Words are a murmur in the air. A buzz in his chest, more bass than treble.

witch

Big arms. When they're not flexed they aren't exactly down-feather soft but they are still surprisingly gentle. She likes that juxtaposition; how he feels when he's not a prick, not a monster, not snarling. Knowing it's there, still. Always there. As much a part of him as the not-rough, not-prick, not-brutal things.

One big arm comes around her and she closes her eyes, a little smile curling her lips. She drowses against him, pleasured by this. She is silent for a while, just standing like that. Tub was done draining some time ago. They never turned on a fan. She just leans there, happy to stay that way.

She'll talk eventually.

He gets to it first. Asks her, after he's folded her up in both arms now, covering her with his jaw, if she's okay.

"Mm," she says, short and affirmative. "You're rough with me. Don't always like it." Her hand is moving on his abdominals, stroking him slightly. She enjoys the sound of his heartbeat, deep and steady, benthic, primordial. She tips her head, looking up at him. Even if it's his jaw. She takes one of his hands, which isn't clean, and draws it down, between her legs, softly cupping his large palm over her cunt, which isn't clean either. She isn't still quivering, but even he can feel the softness, the way the blood has still rushed there, makes her sensitive. Feels it in her breath when she makes him touch her. Not fingering her, stroking her. Just... holding. Cupped over her. His hand over her cunt. Her hand over his hand.

"Tender. Yeah?"

wolfman

Amazing how well she gets him, really. Maybe better than he gets himself. Never would've been able to tell her how to get through to him. Never thought much about it. Yet she manages. She told him, earlier: think of how you'd feel. She shows him, this time:

tender. Yes.

Wolf's big hand between her legs. Even he can feel the difference between them. The size of those paws. The size of those muscles, that cock, that body. And the size of her. The softness, the fragility, the breakability if he isn't careful. Her narrow frame and her tender cunt. Girl sees it in his eyes when he gets it. A sort of remorse, a sort of ache.

Rough fingers stroke her gently. Not to get her up or get her off. Just to touch her, soothe her, show her he feels her. Wolf lowers his brow to hers, neck bent.

"Yeah," he says. Which isn't an empty apology. Isn't even an apology, except it is.

witch

She twitches slightly. Her hand on his hand makes him be still. She smiles, lazily. "Just hold me," she murmurs, amused. Just cover her. Just like this.

Her other hand lifts up to his head, his neck, draws him down to her. She stands on her toes to kiss his mouth. Tastes him, slowly, breathing in. Something about their bodies, sweaty from sex and steam and slick from it, nowhwere near cooling, makes her feel less aroused this time and more just...

tender. yeah.

She opens her eyes when she stops kissing him.

"Know it's early," she murmurs. "But... wanna take a shower and... stay with me?"

There's a pause; she hears herself, then adds: "Mean... go to bed. Here. With me."

wolfman

Doesn't raise his head when she kisses him. Kisses her back, there in the small shadow between their faces. When it stops her eyes are open. Even in shadow the blue is vivid.

Wolf tilts his head a little, hearing her. Corner of his mouth quirks a little.

"Yeah." Accepts the offer first. Accepts it before it goes away. Then, "Know my bed is bigger, right?"

witch

To that, Devon shrugs.

One shoulder.

wolfman

Girl doesn't really even answer. Doesn't have to. After a moment wolf smiles. It's faint but it's there; it's real.

"Yeah," he says again. "I wanna."

--

Thing is, he gets it. Gets it this time without her having to spell it out for him. Gets why it means something: not just her asking him to stay, but asking him to stay in the bed she sleeps in. The room she lives in. Townhouse is his, ostensibly, but this room is hers. At least in his mind. At least in his primitive, animal's mind, it's hers -- even if the only scent she leaves is the scent of her herbs, her brews, her oils.

Wolf turns the shower on. There were toiletries in here, inoffensive neutral scents and the like. Maybe girl's contributed some of her own by now. Wolf uses what was here before, though, and ends up smelling inoffensive and neutral. Washes himself off, goes from sweaty and filthy to clean and warm.

Uses one of the guest towels to dry off. Rinses his mouth, at least, and then comes out of the bathroom trailing steam in the cooler air of the bedroom.

witch

Followed her in here -- helped her in here -- and saw what a mess the bedroom was. Bathroom isn't that much better. Stuff all over the counter. Flecks on the mirror from splashed water. A small pile of clothes that was there even before they undressed. Still-damp washcloth draped over the shower bar. Plenty of store-bought and home-made bath products and cosmetics here and there and in the shower, too; she's already used up most of the toiletries his staff had put in there for 'guests'.

She is not really a 'guest'. She has a key. It's shameful. A black mark on his family's name.

Like his father was, more than like.

They get in the shower together. Well: she follows him, expected or not. She puts conditioner in her hair to ease out the tangles. She washes his cum off of her body, his sweat off of her. Must feel a bit sad: even the traces of his own scent he left on her are going away, leaving nothing but the perfumes and essential oils she chooses in their wake. Nothing that's really her.

But it's purer, too. Even his nose can't trick him into thinking, because she smells like him, that she belongs to him.

They take turns in here, like they do with orgasms. Soaping, rinsing. She yawns a couple of times, makes some comment about wondering if James is done cleaning up her vomit, how at this rate he'll be glad to get fired. Smirks after saying that. Holds his wrists and stands on tiptoes in the running water and kisses his mouth softly, quickly, before rinsing that conditioner out of her long, thick hair. She wrings it out when the water is turned off. They grab towels, none of which are entirely brand new and fresh but they're all pretty much dry, at least. She doesn't bother with the robe. Combs her hair and towel-dries it and already it's kinking and curling. She spritzes some sort of oil thing in her palms, rubs them together, blows on them, and combs that through her hair to ease the frizzing that will come with going to bed with wet hair.

If he's going to bed with her she's going to look pretty when she wakes up, dammit.

Her towel is tucked around her breasts. She brushes her teeth; hands him some mouthwash. He could go down the hall. It wouldn't take a minute. He could get his own toothbrush.

Neither of them thinks of it. Or suggests it. Or does it.

Hanging up her towel, she exits the bathroom naked. She goes and digs through a pile of clothes in a laundry basket which are probably clean and comes up with -- soft, dove-grey, pink-lace-edged pajamas. Capri-length pants and a t-shirt this time, with a v-neck. She must have every iteration of that set. Maybe it was a gift. Pulls those on over her naked body. It's still early, truth be told: the sun was setting when they left the coffee place, and it didn't take thirty minutes to get back to his place, and not that long to drink til he passed out --

sun sets at four thirty. It isn't late. Whatever time it is. But she still feels languid and cozy and that must be why she crawls into that guest-sized bed -- which isn't a massive king but isn't a twin, either -- and under the covers and kicks a pair of socks out from under the sheets and hugs that stuffed giraffe to her chest, flopping onto her left side.

wolfman

Still early. Wolf doesn't care. Dark outside; that means it's time for sleep. Or hunting. He's not hunting tonight, though, and vodka is still buzzing gently through his bloodstream.

Wolf comes out of the bathroom in a towel, which he tugs off and hangs on a hook by the door. Bed's queensized. Thick mattress, plenty luxurious. A step down from the master bed maybe but just a small step. Still absorbs his weight effortlessly when he pulls back the sheets and climbs in. Still doesn't make a single squeak when he shifts across the mattress, closer to the girl.

She's hugging a stuffed giraffe. He's up on an elbow, looking over her shoulder to see what she had in her arms. Huffs a laugh when he sees it. Flops down behind her, rocking the mattress a bit,

(a lot)

settling. Tugs her comforters up so girl's tucked in. Lies there a while, on his back, one hand cocked behind his head. Reaches out and turns out the light.

Turns toward her in the end. Kisses her shoulder through her shirt. Wraps an arm around her, thick and heavy. Pulls her back gently until her spine aligns to his chest. It's a loose embrace. Room enough for her to get away. Room enough for her to put space between, if she wants it.

They're gonna wake up starving at three in the morning, he thinks. Doesn't care. Closes his eyes.

witch

She elbows him when he huffs a laugh at her stuffed giraffe. Those remarkable, vivid eyes are closed but she knows. Yes: she knows. She can feel him thumping around, rustling about, naked as a jaybird while she is being modest and wearing her comfy pajamas.

She yawns.

He tucks the comforters up; she's still hot from the bath and the shower an the vodka and the sex and shrugs it off again, letting cool air brush over her clavicle where the neckline of the shirt she wears to bed dips down. He lays on his back for a while and she twists somewhat, peering over her shoulder at him like dude.

Eventually he figures it out. Rolls to her, kisses her, lays an arm over her. She snuggles back against him. Not too tight, not too close. Wiggles and shifts if he starts to hold her too close; but his embrace is light, loose, soft, easy. She notices, and truth be told, she just... appreciates. She puts her semi-clothed ass against his completely-naked cock, turns a bit towards the ceiling, her chest opened, her head propped, her body easy.

Giraffe is stupidly soft, and ridiculously important to her. She hugs it, and he hugs her, and they sleep, and

this time,

she doesn't leave.