snowing outside.

wolfman

All right.

No more talk then. Just her body and his. Her body lifted onto his. Just like the first time. Her hand in his hair -- he can't remember if that was part of the first time too. Wolf stops thinking about the first time.

He carries her out of her room. Hallway's long for this part of town, but not too long in the grand scheme. Takes just a handful of steps to cross. A handful of seconds when they're visible from below. Then his hand leaves her, pushes the doorhandle. Door swings inward. Door swings closed. Bedroom is dark again, and this time he doesn't tip her toward the lightswitch. This time he tips her onto the bed, that absurdly soft mattress catching her. Catching him with her, because he tumbled with her, atop her, weighing her into the comforters.

Takes a moment. Takes a few seconds to run his hands over her face. Into her hair. His fingers weave behind her head; lift her. His mouth is there to meet hers.

witch

There's that laugh again. Softer, though, and darker: she rests her brow to his as he simply lifts her up and carries her, held firm against his body, down the hall. She's smiling at him. He takes her into his bedroom again, and her fingertips rest on his cheeks, her breath curling over his skin. He takes her to bed, and she's smiling, even grinning, as they tumble forward.

Well: she tumbles backward. She looks up at him, smiling, when he leans down to kiss her. Strange to see her so pliant, feel her so welcoming, at such ease. She slides her arms around his neck and closes her eyes, sighing. Devon doesn't care if James or Franklin or Lieke or any of them hear, or see, or know. She never has.

Told him one of the first times they met: she doesn't care what anyone thinks of her.

wolfman

Maybe wolf's different. Maybe wolf does care what people think of him. Or maybe it's more primitive than that. Maybe it's fear. Fear of the world he doesn't know, his mother's, the one so suddenly handed to him on a silver platter. With a scorpion under the lid. Fear of taking it in hand. Fear of losing it all again.

Wolf's not afraid when he's here with her though. Here in his room. In his den. Which is his, even if it's so new to him, populated with people he doesn't trust. His, because he lives here, spreads his scent here, guards here.

Girl is smiling when he tumbles her down. Girl is sliding her arms around his neck. Girl is sighing when he kisses her, that mouth of hers so soft. Tastes like her. Can't smell her, but he can taste her, and she's sweet to him.

Wolf's hands are rough but gentle tonight. Tries to be a little more patient. His fingers grasp and tug. Pulls that nightgown up, thighs to waist to ribcage to shoulders. Her face disappears briefly, comes out the other side. He tosses the nightgown aside. Under it she wears what she wears. He puts his hands on her breasts. Wraps them around the back, her shoulderblades to his palms. Lifts her and now he's pushing down her panties, her stockings if she isn't wearing panties. Seems important that she's naked. As bare as bare can be. He can't have her scent, but he can have this: her nudity, her skin, the way she looks on his bed carved into his memory.

witch

Maybe last time he listened. Heard the way she said his name -- that odd little nickname, the sounds softened by her lips -- when she told him to wait. Maybe he heard her, or understood that his patience means something. Whatever it is, he's more patient. He's kissing her again, and she's tipping her head back, opening her mouth, giving a soft sound back to him. His hands are rucking up that thin little nightgown, finding nothing underneath, finding skin underneath. His hands are feeling her shiver.

Devon laughs, soft like that, as he starts pushing down her socks. Stockings. "Toes get cold," she whispers, and laughs again, naked but for those thick, warm knits, wrapping her long legs around him. It's snowing outside again; the moon shines through the flakes, leaves an ever-shifting pattern on the floor where the light from the window is outlined in a rectangle.

She's kissing him again. She breathes him in, barely bothering to exhale, her hands spreading over his back, pulling at his shirt.

wolfman

Pause. Brief flicker of a smile over his mouth. Wasn't there last time either. Patience wasn't, softness wasn't. Humor wasn't.

Wolf lifts his arms. One at a time because otherwise all his weight would be on her. She tugs, he ducks his head. Shirt comes off, muscles rolling in his shoulders as his arms wrap around her again. He pulls her stockings off anyway. Her toes bare. Then covered: he whips the comforter up over them, cocoons them both. Call it a compromise.

His hands find hers. Calloused palms, hangnails, scrapes here and there where he wasn't careful. He's never careful. Except now: now he's careful. Gathers her hands up and draws them to his body, but only if she doesn't resist. Spreads her fingers over his stomach, down the thin line of hair to where his jeans are buttoned.

witch

No room for humor, before. He frightened her a little, if we're honest: she was caught, too. And she frightened herself, the second time. It's what got her kissing him to begin with, curled up in his bed.

Somehow there's room now. Maybe because they talked and avoided each other and acknowledge their awkwardness: that they're not so smooth. That they're not so slick, so untouchable. So she smiles and he smiles and he doesn't say a word but he helps her get his shirt off. Devon notices that he wants her stockings off anyway. Her toes curl as he peels them off, then drags both their bodies under the covers.

She realizes he's never left a thing on her: not a scrap of lace, not a slip of silk. She notices, but says nothing.

They are under the covers, and they are warming quickly; his body heat is something to behold. Hot coils spread from his skin everywhere he touches, every time he breathes. Devon feels her fingers touched. Hers splay, spread, open, let his fingers in between: she looks up at him as he pulls her hand. As he tells her, somehow, that he wants her to keep going. Keep undressing him.

Devon leans up and kisses him. She keeps one arm wrapped around his shoulders, the press of her lips turning to an opening, a welcoming, as she thumbs that button from its hole. Draws his zipper down. Slides her warm, warm hand into his jeans, over his underwear, panting a slow breath into his mouth.

wolfman

That is what he wants. Wants her to keep undressing him. Could ask for it, except he can't. Times like this it's like words abandon him. Easier without anyway.

So: he pulls her hand to his jeans. And she undoes them. Just one hand. He notices. Maybe he's impressed. Maybe it makes him a little jealous -- aimlessly, illogically. A moment later it doesn't matter anyway. Girl slips her hand into his pants. Finds him beneath his underwear, a heavy hard curve of flesh and pulse. She pants and he gasps. A breath exchanged.

Wolf takes over then. Reaches down and pushes, shoves, wrenches his denims down. Kicks them off, suddenly out of patience. Manages to get one sock off. Other one stays half-on, hanging off his toes. He kicks the jeans loose and they slip out from under the covers, frump to the floor.

Wrist crosses hers. He pushes his underwear down too. Just boxers, plain and unremarkable, bought from walmart or similar. He gets them as far as his knees and gives up. Hand comes back to her. Hand runs up her thigh, grasps at her hip. He needs a moment. Needs a moment. Presses his brow to hers. Tips his chin up and kisses her mouth. It's the first ungentle thing he's done, but perhaps she forgives him: he can't help himself now.

witch

Just one hand, but slowly, and not to tease him, either. She is doing this blindly, feeling out the rim of the round metal button, feeling out the edge of the fly. She laughs softly when she gets them open, and drags the zipper down. Laugh falls apart, into soft tatters, when she touches him. When she kisses him again, her hand following the curve of his erection, she makes a sound in his mouth. That's all he makes her do. He's pushing his own clothes off and away and down, kicking them to the foot of the bed, some trapped in sheets and some falling out of the bed entirely.

Devon wonders idly if he thinks he can keep anything from the people who clean up after him. Devon wonders idly why he's never asked about condoms. About birth control.

She flicks her tongue over his lower lip. She bites him there, gently, and moves her palm torturously to his waist when he starts pushing at his boxers. Both her hands then, stroking up his sides, over his torso. This is the slowest they've gone. She sort of likes it. She can feel him. She realizes she's never even touched him like this.

Her thumb rubs across his nipple, stroking it to a small, hard bead under her fingertip. He's kissing her then, roughly, and she's letting him, welcoming it, because that roughness has never,

not really,

turned her off.

wolfman

No question that he's alive when they're like this. No question that he's vital, feral, his heart beating red-hot rage through his veins. Every inch of his skin hot. Every breath expanding ribs, shifting muscle. A tight shiver runs up his spine, approximating the path of her hands. Girl touches his chest. Finds the seat of his pulse beneath, hammering against her palm. Finds him gasping again into her mouth. Panting.

Wolf's hands on her hips push her a sudden three inches up the bed. He follows her. He's atop her again, pulling her thighs up around him. Pushing his hand down her lower abdomen, and then between her legs. Still so inexpert. Still fumbling, searching, rubbing blunt fingers against her cunt. She taught him once. It was days ago, weeks ago -- how long has it been? Wolf finds her clit mostly by chance. By chance and by recognition; by the way she reacts. His hand stops. Circles back. He touches her where she's sensitive,

elicits reaction,

laughs softly. It isn't unkind. It's wondering, if anything. Smile's a palpable thing, a curve of his lips against hers. Then he's kissing her again, hard as before, inhaling, slipping to the side. Following her mouth to her chin to her jaw; burrowing against her neck, her upper chest. He kisses her there, too. Scrapes his teeth over her skin. Finds her breast, finds her nipple, pulls it into his mouth. Has he done this before? Did he remember to last time? He doesn't think so. He sucks: pulls her back into an arch, slides his hand there to bring her up against him. Tighter and closer. Nearer.

And then turning her. It's sudden, and it's rough. His hands around her waist, around her side. Puts her on her stomach. Pushes his hands over her back, over her shoulders. Bends to her like an animal. She can hear him growl. He rubs his face against her back. Rubs his face against her shoulder. Bites her there, indelicately, reaching to grasp her hips, lift her ass. His body hot over hers. His cock hard against the curve of her bottom; then against her cunt as he reaches down, grasps himself, positions. Maybe girl expects him to shove into her now. Maybe he wants to.

Wolf waits, though. Thrumming over her, panting against her shoulder: waits. Surely there's some sign, some signal. He just has to be patient.

witch

She is not there for him, whenever he is ready to take her.

He ought to know that; the way she vanishes. The way she walked away from him after his hunt. The way sometimes she can be welcoming and soft and laughing quietly like this, touching him with something like tenderness. The way she can just as easily be cold, sarcastic, a little mean. He ought to know: for a while there all he had to do was knock on her door. No questions, no words, no explanations. All he would have had to do is accept. She may as well have said, tonight, that he has something to prove to her now.

Or, perhaps more accurately: he has her pride to soothe, now. He ought to know that, having his own bruises in that area.

--

The first thing they do after the door closes behind them is kiss. Smiling, warming, kissing.

The second thing: the way he pushes her nightgown up, soft fabric rustling and rippling over her bare skin until it's off. She's holding him, then, lets go of him for a moment so he can toss the garment away, but then she's there again, running her hands up his chest, slipping arms around his neck again. His hands on her breasts. Kissing again. Wraps his arms around her, holds her close.

The third: they tussle over her stockings, her cold toes. She likes them on; she thinks it's hot, keeping them on. Practical, too. Takes his shirt off as though to distract him; he complies, but pulls the socks off anyway. Covers her.

So she won't get cold.

She kisses him again, and he urges her to touch him. Urges her not just to touch him, hold him, but undress him. And she laughs again, soft, but rubs her fingers slowly between his and... complies, too. Touches him, even though a layer of thin cotton.

They are making quite a tangle under the covers, as he pushes his clothes away. As her legs draw up his sides, wrapping around him slightly. As he holds her hip and rests his brow to hers and kisses her again, rougher than before, harder. As she strokes his cock, and then his chest, his nipple, his body. As she licks his lips, bordering on playful. Bites him. They are a hurricane of arms and legs and knees and elbows and her long hair and his heavy shoulders and their shared body heat.

He's gasping, panting. Grabbing her, pushing her up the bed, pressing against her. Devon shudders as his hand covers her thigh, wraps her around him. She squirms when he touches her, pauses as he fumbles, then gasps when he finds her. Her hands tighten on his shoulders and her eyes close, her mouth opening. He feels her whole body tighten up, arch, feels her cunt quiver a little. That's how he knows. That, and how she reaches for his hand the second he's starting to pass away. How she puts him right back where she wants him, her mouth seeking his, kissing a groan into his mouth when he's rubbing her again.

She doesn't care if he's smiling. If he's laughing. She guides his stupid, blunt hand on her body, and he'd better be paying attention because she's not teaching him anything verbally. She's quite tenacious about keeping his hand right there, too, finding some rhythm of her own, moving him to stroke here, trace there, grind like this. Making noises of her own, even when he pulls his mouth away and goes to her neck, her breasts.

No, she could tell him, if he asked: he hasn't done this before.

He'd know. He would remember the way she moans when he starts sucking on her nipple. He would remember feeling the way she clenches, the tremble that goes through her.

--

Then he turns her over, hands leaving, grabbing her waist, putting her on her belly. His hands are heavy but they feel her back muscles tensing up, coiling, even before she pushes up on them, twisting, turning on her side again. One of her hands flat on his chest, her eyes on him, most of her body resting on her other forearm. It's possible he's heavy against her hand, puts an ache into her wrist.

He startled her; he can see that much. Hell: could feel it when he flipped her over and his hands touched her back, sensed that jerk of unpleasant surprise.

Devon takes a breath, her chest expanding, contracting again as she exhales. That stalling hand softens a little, smooths up over his chest and shoulder, slides behind his neck, up into his hair. She draws him down toward her, turning the rest of the way, laying back down. Kisses him, drawing him in. Her legs open, were open for him. They wrap around him again. Her calves flex against his back, against his flank, as she pulls him toward her.

wolfman

Nothing of what they tell each other now is verbal. They don't say a word. She is speaking to him nonetheless. Tells him with her body when he's doing something right. Even if he's not good at it; even if he's quite bad at it: right. So right.

Tells him with her body, her tension, that flicker of -- what? fear? -- when he's doing something wrong, too. When his rough hands grab her, when his brute strength turns her. His hands on her back fail to soothe her. Just startles her. She turns again under him. He thinks of fish, bright-scaled and sleek under glassy water. But she's not a fish, she's not cold, she's a girl. She's a half-wild thing herself, like a doe in the snow. Her hand on his chest stays him. Slips up over his shoulder when he relents.

And he does relent. Doesn't try to flip her over again. Wraps his arms under her instead, lifting her even as she draws him down. A moment where he carries more of her weight than she does. Like zero gravity under those covers. Then she pulls him onto her, and he sinks down, and the mattress is there to cradle her. Her legs are there to cradle him. Wrap securely around his waist, those hard planes of muscle inserting into his hip. He kisses her as he moves into her, a smooth flex, a low sound deep in his chest.

Girl reacts as she does. Wolf sweeps a hand up and around, cups her breast. Holds it in his hand. Girl's heart beats against his wrist, meets his pulse there, out of sync. Wolf starts moving in her, tidal, a force of nature, powerful and persistent, bearing her along. Doesn't say anything. Just breathes, harsh and swift.

witch

Can't tell what it is that makes her flicker like that. Tense up. Can't tell, but when her eyes meet his it doesn't look like fear. Not really.

She's kissing him again. And pulling him to her. Wraps him up in her arms and her legs, makes a low, soft sound in his mouth when he lifts her up, holding her to his body. Her legs only tighten around him. He presses against her and that low, soft sound hardens, tatters into a moan.

That is how he pushes into her. Not that rough slam, a heavy grunt as he savages her. It's smoother this time. Slower. She shivers, and goes on kissing him, kissing him, and kissing him as he touches her body, starts moving in, sliding out, working deeper, feeling her roll to accept him, stretch, welcome. She kisses him like she can't stop. Touches his face, eventually, hands on his jaw, holding him there so she can kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.

You'd think --

Devon shivers.

"Make me come," she whispers it like an encouragement, her breath coiling against the corner of his mouth, kiss broken for a moment. "Make it good for me, Rafa."

He must be; she whimpers at the edge of those hushed words, quivering underneath him again.

Hushes, whispers, whimpers, quivers.

Kisses him.

Again.

wolfman

Wolf has this reaction, this shiver, this uncontrolled shudder, when she calls him by name. Her name for him, anyway. Funny thing is if anyone else had called him that, if even she'd called him that in any other situation, he wouldn't have liked it. Wouldn't have stood for it, would've told her that's not his name, goddammit, it's Rafael or nothing. Certainly not Rafa. Certainly not something soft-edged like that, intimate like that. Something you could breathe, something you could murmur.

It's what she calls him. It's what he responds to now. Makes him shiver like that. Makes him bring his hand under her head, lift her mouth to his even as she's lifting up herself. They meet. They kiss. Wolf growls into her mouth, hides it under her tongue.

Then wolf pushes up on his palms. Wolf sinks his weight to one hand, the cords standing out in arm and forearm, the scapula pushing up, lifting great bundles of musculature across back and shoulder. Wolf runs his other hand down her body, seeks her out the only way he knows how. The only way she's taught him. The only way he knows to make her feel good. Make her come.

Dark in the room. Uncertain lights reflected from the street. Catches and glimmers in his animal's eyes, which are locked on her. Fierce and driven. He touches her the way he did before, rubbing with the pad of his thumb. Fucks her in time, these heavy strokes, deepseated and powerful. Watches her while he does this for her, intense as a blaze, silent save for the hush of his breathing. The whisper of skin on skin, sheets on sheets; the wet, shameless noise of his body and hers.

witch

Maybe she notices.

The first time she called him that, it was a plea for him to stop, wait; it came to her thoughtlessly, automatically. The second time was earlier: she was crying, and she said it like she wasn't sure it was him. Who else would have been knocking?

But was it the one who bit his own wrist rather than her shoulder, was it the one who noticed without being told that she was still wanting and found her, touched her, brought her off without a word? Was it the one who would come in and kneel down and wrap her up, or was it someone else?

Someone harsher. Harder. Colder.

This is the first time she's used his name like this. Said his name like that, all soft whispers and endearment, while he's inside of her. While he's growling into her kiss, cupping her breast and her heartbeat in the same palm. Said his name in a way that makes him shudder to hear it. Makes him hold her closer, kiss her harder, growl. Her fingers sink into his hair; she moans in answer.

When he rises up she takes a breath; has to, really. She looks at up, her face wearing this beatific expression, her fingers falling from his scalp. But god, he is attentive, and alert. She wants to laugh but she can't; her breath keeps catching. She tells him to make her come, make it good, pleasure her, please her, and a moment later he's touching her like he's on some sort of mission.

Which... he is. In a sense.

Devon tips her head back, arching a little, when he finds her. Her hand is resting against the pillow; wrist twists, clutches fabric. Her eyes have trouble staying open; she keeps getting more wet against him, around him, panting softly. She wants to say oh god or something, anything, but not a single syllable makes it out of her alive. Not til some great shudder goes through her; she shivers with it, toes curling, and right when she's on the verge of really losing it, losing herself to it, she touches his forearm. Bicep. Pulls herself up, still rocking against him, fucking him, and kisses his mouth again.

Gasping, says: "Lay down." Kisses his face, his jaw, the side of his neck. "Let me get on top of you."

wolfman

Wolf is on a mission. It's one she gave him. Make it good for her, she said. Make her come. So that's what he's doing: keen as a hound, determined as a bear. Risen up over her, working at her like she's earth to be plowed, puzzle to be solved; hand busy, body busy, brow furrowed. Drop of sweat runs down from his hairline. Hangs off the tip of his nose.

Whips off, falls somewhere, when she speaks. When she pulls up suddenly, he didn't expect that. She was so close. He's sure of it. He might be stupid and he might be ignorant but he's not insensate. He's capable of learning.

She kisses him. He kisses her back like he has no choice, frowning into it, fierce. Her mouth grazes, razes, wracks him down to raw nerves. "What?" He doesn't catch it the first time, or maybe just didn't get it. She has to say it again, and even then his first response is still, "What?"

Then it catches hold. Lights the bulb. He gets it. He rubs his face against hers, nudging her until he finds her mouth again. Kisses her with a hungry noise, a snarl, bites her lip when they pull apart. Not hard. But it's still a bite.

His arms around her then. He twists with her. Still inside her; it's risky business, especially when he's so savage. He is careful with her, though. Her long limbs, her slender bones. Wolf thumps his ass down on the bed, and then his back. Sheets billow a bit then settle. Now she's on top, his arms are loosening, he runs his open palms down her back and up her front. Up the stretch of abdomen; up the shadow of ribs. Lifting her tits, which are kind of marvelous, really; who'd have thought a skinny thing like her would have such a rack. Is that an impolite way to think of her? Should he treat her like a lady? Wolf doesn't know how.

Knows how to treat her like a lover, though. Is learning, anyway. Rises up to her as she did him. Supports himself with one hand on the bed, wraps the other behind her head. Likes holding her like this, his hand in her hair, their faces close. There's still a snarl on his lip, teeth showing. He kisses her in short, tearing skirmishes. Watches her in between, eyes low-lidded but burning, their clarity and color lost in darkness.

witch

They're hot, like this: bodies tangled, under the sheets and covers so her damn little toes don't get cold. He's sweating. He's rubbing her off while he fucks her, and she's moaning like that, she's being worked up and worked over, when she tells him she wants him to lay down.

What. What.

For a moment she thinks he doesn't want to. She's kissing him and he's still going at her, still deep inside of her, flexing his hips mindlessly, wantonly, asking because he can hear but not understand; his mind has not caught up to his senses. Devon's eyes fall closed; holding onto him, lifted up like that, she grinds against him, under him, gasping. He nuzzles her again, kisses her harder. Bites her, and she shudders. Shoulders to thighs, she shivers, giving a soft groan at the sensation.

They don't rush, flip, flop back to bed. He gathers her up the way he does, carries her weight the way he can, and lays out, looking up at her. Devon is leaning over him at first, kissing him, her breasts to his chest and her body half-slid from his cock. She is gasping, touching him while he runs his hands over her. As though guided by them she sits up, straddling him, watching him as he reaches for her. A flicker of a smile at the corner of her mouth, when he finds her breasts, stares at them, cups them. A wry little thing, almost a smirk, but her eyes are glazed with lust, her skin and her nipples reacting to the way he touches her, her lips parted because each breath is a soft, silent pant for air.

Already she's moving on him, winding slowly, rubbing herself against his cock and coaxing him deeper into her. He rises up, and she gasps a little at the way he shifts in her for it; her arms come around him the way they always seem to, warm and languid and strangely possessive, enfolding him despite how slender she is. She kisses him much the same way: she has these delicate features. She kisses him like she's trying to drown him, some fey and fickle thing from a fairy story, when fairies were no mortal's friend.

Suddenly she laughs. She laughs gaspingly, rising up on him, lowering herself again. Puts her hands on his shoulders and her face changes, laughter catching, eyes closing and then opening again, watching him. She does it again, and again. She starts moving faster on him, in these gradual rolls and lifts and descents, building up to some heedless, hungry rhythm. Eventually she's just out and out fucking him, clutching at his arms. Strange the way she uses his body, rubs herself off on him. Strange the way she buries her face against his neck as she does it, moaning these little cries he's heard before, finally managing the oh god, oh god, ohgodohgod that she couldn't get out earlier. Strange the way she holds him while she's fucking him and while she's crying out and tightens her arms and her hands when she comes, one last long moan leaving her. That moan seems a physical thing, driving down through her, grinding her onto his lap by sheer force of that sound, that noise, that thunder rolling inside of her.

Seconds on end, but they're timeless, motionless, while she's caught up in it. She steps outside of time entirely. She doesn't even feel her heart beating, just her body glowing. And then shaking. And slowly coalescing again, trembling her way back into her body. She quivers as she comes down, kissing his neck, his chest, rubbing idly against his cock, finding his mouth, kissing him there, too. Muffling a sound of want in that kiss, her hands moving over him as though all she can do, right now, is try to renew her lust all over again.

wolfman

Fairies: no mortal's friend. She's not his friend either, truth be told. How can she be? They barely talk, and when they do, they fight more often than not. He's hard and cruel; she's cold and vicious. He apologizes, but it's always so little, so late. She forgives, or at least accepts, but she wonders how long before she simply gives in.

Then this happens. Then doors are shut and lights are off and girl's on his lap bouncing herself off on his cock. Girl's holding on to him like she's lost and he's the lifeline. Girl's clutching his biceps so hard she finds the pulse in the deep artery there, and girl's moaning like her pleasure is so intense it edges into pain.

Wolf's just holding on to her, his big arms around her, his big hands covering her back, his hard mouth kissing those moans off her lips. Like dew off a rose petal. Like nectar, like ambrosia. Rough kisses at first. Gentling as she does. Growing soft, growing lazy. Sipping, by the end.

Girl's trembling when it's over. Wolf's holding her and maybe you can almost imagine tenderness in that embrace. Maybe it's not imagination; maybe it's real. He tumbles back after a while, slowly. Slow motion gravity. He sinks onto his immense bed, his hands trace her back. He's still so hard inside her, cock pulsing with his heart. Hands squeezing her ass when he finds it. Urging her, gently, gently. Moving her again, a slow slide.

Wolf's eyes are on hers again. Wordless, intense, a slow burn. Again, his eyes say. Again, his hands say. Faster. More.

witch

Except:

he's not really hard and cruel. She's not really cold and vicious. They make each other breakfast sometimes. Soothe -- and heal -- each other's wounds. Fight, and talk a bit, and he doesn't just go off to his room when he hears her crying. He might say one day that they aren't really friends, and she might ask him what he thinks a friend is.

Changes nothing about what's going on now. Her pleasure, her moaning, her holding onto him. His pulse, his body, his sweat. The way they're kissing in the aftermath, the way she moans softly, murmuringly, touching his face with adoring soft little hands. Sighing and rocking on him a little, slowly, until he leans back, draws her with him. She drowsily nuzzles his neck, smiles, working herself a little on him.

She can tell. She can feel him. Feel the muscles in his torso. Feel him pulsing in her cunt. She runs her palms up his sides as he's touching her ass, cupping it in his palms. Devon makes a sound, a low shiver that is almost laughter. He urges her; she gives him a long, slow grind.

Not faster. Not bouncing again. She pushes herself up a bit, rises up over him, her skin sheened slightly with sweat. She looks down at him, hands on his chest. Makes deep, slow circles with her hips. So fucking slow.

He's looking at her like that.

She licks her lips.

Fucks him.

Slowly.

wolfman

Wolf can't quite hold her eyes on that first long grind. Wolf's eyelids fall shut. Wolf's lips part. If he'd made a sound it would've been an oh, an open vowel, but he doesn't. It's silent, an exhale that closes his eyes.

Girl starts riding. Goes so slow. He thinks she's wicked for doing that. For going so slow like that, for putting her hands on his chest like that, for licking her lips like that. Might be a surprise but wolf doesn't lose his patience in three strokes, doesn't snarl and pull her down and turn her under and hammer her senseless.

Wolf lets her take it however she wants it. Wolf lets her have it slow and easy if that's the way she wants it; slow and deep and grinding if that's the way she likes it. Wolf opens his eyes again after a while, lazy-lidded, hands roaming her body, hands holding her hips. Lets her work him up, and up, and up, until the muscles in his abdomen are taut, until his hands are clutching at her waist, until wolf tips his head back and shuts his eyes. Turns into a singular, tensile arch under her, breath caught, flexed to quivering, hitting an orgasm almost without warning because of some way she moved her body. Some way she licked her lips. Something. He doesn't bother to define what.

Exhales explosively as the height of him sweeps him by. Pulls her down, his hands rough on her arms and rough on her back, cramming her against him as though maybe he could collapse her bones into his. Slams into her, then, just a few times; first time he's really taken much initiative since she told him to lay himself out for her. Hammers her after all on those last, rough strokes, boorish and unrefined, biting her neck on the last one because it's too much otherwise.

Wolf's heart is hammering wildly under the girl. Wolf clasps her to that heartbeat, panting now, his cock a wild thing with a mind of its own, twitching inside her even as he stills.

Wolf kisses the side of her neck after a while. Kisses the side of her jaw, the arch of her cheek. Falls back and studies her: gleaming eyes behind half-closed lids.

witch

What did she call herself?

The Good Witch of the North.

Wicked, though: she would not argue. If he could. If he could speak at all. Secret is, she wouldn't argue right now if he grabbed her, rolled her under him, fucked her hard now, fucked her eager and rough and needful. He doesn't know. Shh.

So she fucks him slow but not lazy, slow but sort of rough, grinding on him, touching him, winding her hips on him. Keeps him --

right there

until he's shuddering, until his hands have lost their way and just paw at her, stroke her, fucking touch her while she works him over, works him up, works him right to that cliff's edge. Tumbles down with him to the rocks, and the surf, and the hungry sirens. Must be why she's wrapped around him, laying over him, licking sweat off his throat and scraping her teeth over his jaw and muttering something filthy in his ear while he's coming. Something about fuck that pussy and fucking come in me but he is, he's already there, he's doing it.

He holds her rough. Hard. She gives these sweet little moans in time with the way he slams into her, little cries that sound helpless when, by god, in this he knows she's not. In this, of anything, she's proven she's not. But the sound is sweet and sensual and inappropriate; so is the way she gasps when he bites her. So is the way she squirms on him as he's starting to come down, not just those narrow hips or that lean body but all of her, rubbing her face on him and getting her hair everywhere and kissing his chest, licking his nipple like a cat with cream.

She chuckles, or perhaps purrs, at the way his cock can't calm the fuck down. She gives him a little bounce, tilts her head up with her chin on his chest, grinning at him. Lopsided. Askew. All of her, askew and a little dark, except those eyes glittering in the darkness of his bedroom. Of his bed.

They look at each other. Lights outside, moon outside, illuminate snowflakes falling, crystallizing in deeply frozen air.

Devon scritches her hand, her limber fingers, along his side. Stills that hand again. Turns her head, lays it down on his chest, listening to his heart. Watching the snow through the window. She doesn't move. Just lays there out atop him, his cock finally relaxing inside of her, the sheets down around her hips, covering those toes that she doesn't want to get cold. Thighs to either side of him, arms around him, hair over him: he is enveloped. He is covered, much as he can be, by a body like hers.

Closes her eyes. Lets herself be lifted and drawn down again by the way his chest moves as he breaths. She thinks of animals. She thinks: he is an animal. She breathes in deep, all that smell and whatnot. She doesn't say a word for a while. Minutes pass; his heart slows. She eventually lifts her head, moving as slowly as if she were underwater. She draws herself up, arms braced to either side of him, hair hanging past her shoulders. Smiles down at him.

One might think it tender.

Or something.

"We can do it the other way next time," she says quietly. The other way?

Her hand moves, her weight shifting on him a bit as she does. She touches his face with that hand, grazing it along his jaw, stroking a thumb over his lower lip. Watches his mouth against her hand, then flicks her gaze back to his eyes. "Wanted to see you."

Oh.

wolfman

Girl covers him like maybe she'll keep him warm. Her. Skinny thing who can't even keep her own toes warm. Wolf would laugh except wolf's heart feels several sizes too big, sore because it's beating against his ribs.

Girl's looking out the window and wolf looks too. Notices for the first time it's snowing. Big flakes, the first real storm of the season. Girl doesn't know where wolf's from; doesn't know if he lived in a place with snow or not. Might be the first time he's ever seen snow in his life. Might be, though probably not. He's a Silver Fang. Does she know that? Surely she's guessed by now. The money. The white fur.

Wolf's arms loosen a little. Not so crushing now, though he still keeps her close. Likes her close. Likes her body on his, her nakedness against his, the two of them warm and entangled in the darkness while outside winter comes on. When she raises up he looks at her, swiftly, almost like he thinks she might leave.

She doesn't leave. Girl smiles at him, her face all shadows and finery. Girl doesn't have a drop of noble blood but damned if she isn't pretty. Damned if she isn't so beautiful his heart trips over itself once. No wonder he stopped for her, had his driver stop for her, first time he saw her.

Wolf's mouth smiles under her thumb. It's sort of crooked. Sort of a smirk. " 'Next time', huh," he echoes; leaves it at that. Lifts his big hands and cups her face and brings it back down to his. Kisses her mouth. Strokes her hair until she lays her head down on his chest again.

"Snowing outside." A little later wolf decides to point out the obvious. Voice is quiet, hushed. Appropriate for the season and the hour. Heart's slowed by now. Breathing's slowed, very steady, a deep hollow rush in his lungs. Almost hard to hear under all that muscle, all that bone. "Snow much, where you were before Denver?"

witch

Perhaps she notices the way he turns his head as she moves. The swiftness of it, the alertness: is she going? She doesn't go. She touches his face. And her own is lovely, yes, and the blood is pure if not noble. Earthy, more than noble. The common beauty of dew-wet, cyclical nature and not the refined loveliness of silver and gold, silk and diamond.

Next time catches his attention. She rubs her thumb over his smirk. Her brow just quirks; she wonders why he echoes, why he questions. Seems to question. She didn't think it was notable. He reaches up and draws her down and she decends, kisses him, but doesn't lay her head down. Shakes her head a bit, dislodging his pawing hands, keeps looking at him.

Snowing. She smirks a little, softly. "Plenty," she says, and leans over, kissing his cheek.

She withdraws. Or draws away; her body leaves his and she breathes in, exhales. She is slipping from the sheets, from his bed, crawling over him, to the edge.

wolfman

Plenty tells him nothing. And maybe wolf did want to know. Maybe wolf was asking the question beneath the question: where's she from? Where'd she come from, fey thing, wild thing, eyes like summer lightning and a look like a doe in flight?

Girl starts to withdraw. Wolf watches her go til she's at bed's edge. Then he rises up on his elbows, shoulder to shoulder a massive expanse.

Quiet: "Leaving?"

witch

She hears him rustling. Big thing like him, can't make a move without making a noise. She glances back at him, outlined by white light from the window. She's naked. She looks so good, naked. Her back is to him. She is idly scratching one rib. He asks if she's leaving.

Devon is silent a second. And quiet, when she says:

"Peeing."

--

Walks away, to his en suite. She's been in there before. The last time. Other time. Closes the door behind her. When she comes out it's a few minutes later, and she's finger-combed her hair and splashed warm water on her face. Turns the light off behind her, comes -- if a bit hurriedly -- back to the bed. Her toes are cold, when she crawls in with him again. She's shivering.

wolfman

Wolf laughs, almost a silent thing. Quick quirk of the mouth. Huff of breath. Doesn't look so brutish like that. Almost looks like someone girl might not mind going to bed with. At least for a while.

On his back again by the time she gets back. Doesn't seem like he plans to wash up anytime soon. Seems like he plans to sleep just like this, freshly fucked and smelling of sweat, smelling of sex, wallowing in his own stink. Sprawled in bed, covers pulled up to his waist. Maybe he's modest. Upper torso a work of art, or at least an argument for gaia's sense of aesthetics: symmetry and strength, dark in the shadows against his white sheets. Wolf's looking out the window when he hears girl coming. Turns to look at her.

Girl hurries in under the covers. Wolf yanks the comforters up and they float down over her shoulders. Wolf puts his arm around her if she wants to snuggle up. Like before, he tucks her in under the covers. Wraps his arm over the covers to secure them.

Settles, then, exhaling. Might be a content sound. Might just be tiredness. "Staying a bit, then?"

witch

Instantly there's whiteness and feathers settling around her, wrapped in something soft-as. She shivers again, just for the relief brought about by the heat radiating from him. She snuggles; he puts his arm around her. She shoves her toes under his calf.

"Sure," she says, with her hand on the piece of his chest that is beneath covers, along with the rest of her. She does not say anything else. She's quite still.

wolfman

"Okay."

That's what they saw to each other. Monosyllabic words. Grunts from the wolf, really. Going? Peeing. Staying? Sure. Okay.

Wolf bends his knee up accommodatingly, though. Girl hides her cold little toes there. Wolf settles his leg back down, hairy shins and all. Covers her in warmth. Exists beside her as living, breathing warmth. Girl's hand steals to his chest. After a little while wolf's hand finds hers, pulls her arm all the way over his body. Now she's hugging him like he's hugging her. He closes his eyes.

"Night, then."

witch

Her hand steals nothing (from him). Finds itself there and can't move. She starts a little when he touches her hand, draws her around him, and holds her breath for a moment. She allows it. And he closes his eyes and says night and she says nothing.

He goes to sleep, and she lays there, toes warmed by his leg, body warmed by his body.

Briefly she gets turned on again. Something about him, and this, and the fact that she can't sleep. She considers waking him: touching him, kissing his chest, his neck, stirring him. She doesn't think he'd fight her on that. She's too tired. She closes her eyes, trying to sleep. Draws her arm back to herself, tucking those arms against her chest, between her body and his side. Exhales long and slow, tries to relax.

Ends up turning over, feet still resting against his body for warmth, her back to his side instead, her head on his arm. She watches the snow falling outside.

Eventually she sleeps.

Eventually, too, she wakes. The sun coming up. It's too early; she's still too tired. She winces, closing her eyes, but something about him there makes her squirm. She finally just gives up. Breathes in and holds it. Eases from his bed, and his side, slipping out from under the covers carefully, so cold air doesn't rush in and wake him.

Picks up her nightgown and slips it on over her head. Doesn't look for her stockings.

Leaves, as quietly and quickly as she can, to walk down the hall to the other bedroom.