So much for a peaceful day together. Whatever wolf might've had in mind -- reading together or taking a ride on a snowmobile or whatever -- doesn't come to pass. Angry parting in the dining room. Girl's footsteps one way and wolf's the other. Not too long after she hears his departure. Or, depending on where she's ensconced herself, might not even hear that. Big house. Long halls.
Wolf goes out through the carport. Slams through the door and then a rumbling as the garage door opens. Loud roaring like a motorcycle, except no one's insane enough to ride a motorcycle through the snowstrewn landscape outside. Snowmobile, then. Carving across white powder, into the treeline. Gone.
--
Girl's left to her own devices again. No one scolds her for exploring, prying. One of those rooms is an office. Modern, well-equipped. Big imposing desk and lots of files, telecommunications suite, multifunction printer/fax. Looks like important business could be done there, probably was done there once. Lots of dust on everything, though.
Fridge is hers to avail herself of. Game room, pool-and-pool, everything. Eventually she's bound to find the chimes to summon the servants. Not bells on a rope, no, but low-key little buttons on the walls, like light switches. They take her places if she asks. Brings her things, if she wants. Leaves her alone if she doesn't.
--
Dusk falls early. It's almost winter. Light clings to the peaks a little longer, but down below everything's bathed in blue shadows by four. Lake outside stirs to a rising twilight wind. Then night comes.
--
Wolf comes back around seven. HID headlights sweeping the snow. Garage door opening, snowmobile sliding in those last few feet. Wolf thumps around taking off his helmet, his jacket. Comes in and goes straight upstairs, taking one of the side stairs, going into his room.
Door shuts. Light in the crack. Moving shadows as he moves about.
witchShe is left alone.
To some extent that is her own doing. To another extent, it is her own choice. A decision she makes, for the rest of that late morning, early afternoon, into sunset. So early, here.
--
Hears the snowmobile, wherever she is.
Doesn't go greet him. Hasn't run to him and leapt into his arms since the second time he rejected her when she did that.
A few minutes go by.
And someone pounds on his door. With a fist.
BAM BAM BAM BAM.
wolfmanHeavy footsteps; then the door flies open. Wolf glaring through the frame at her, smelling of mountain and night and wind.
"Are you out of your mind?
witchPossibly: mad.
Certainly: drunk. At least tipsy.
She frowns at him. Wasn't when she banged on the door, but scowls back at him for glaring at her.
"It's how I can tell you that -- what I feel. For you. Talking about dancing. And things.
"It's not to make you feel bad. But you tell me to drop it. Like you don't want to know. Or you're bored by it."
Goes quiet a moment. Long moment. Is looking up at him, because she has to.
"So is that it? When I think of something lovely about you, do you.. not want to know?"
wolfmanGirl must've been holding onto that all day. Those words. Those thoughts. Wolf stares at her, baffled, thrown. Takes him a minute to even process, figure out where she's coming from.
Got one hand on the door. Other on the frame. Drops the latter after a moment, steps back. Aside. Lets her in, if she wants to come in.
"Sometimes there's just too much talking," he mutters. "Easier without words, usually."
witch"For you, maybe," she snaps at him. "You're not the only one here."
Doesn't choose to go in. Yet.
Scowling still. Deeper now. "So answer. Not just a fuck to you. But keep my mouth shut about anything else. Is that it, or not?"
Roses in her cheeks. Red, red roses.
wolfmanWolf stares at her. Just stares. Eyebrows come down, teeth clench. Definition in his jawline stands out. After some time he heaves a breath, a flare of nostrils, a blast of an exhale.
"You know the answer to that. Why the hell are you asking? Trying to make a point? 'Course I don't want you to just keep your mouth shut. Not all the time."
Lick of his lips. Quick, tense. He makes a brusque gesture, motions her in.
"Just don't like always talking about shit. Trying to talk things out or something. Sometimes just gotta let things go. Give it time. Let 'em even out on their own without trying to talk them into place, you know? All the times I felt closest to you, neither of us was saying a word."
witch"Might ask if I knew," she says slowly, admits slowly, and does not come in to his room. "But I don't."
Her arms are crossed over her chest. Tight. Almost holding herself.
"You keep making it sound like I want a declaration. This isn't... a movie. Boy hates talking, girl wants to talk." Says it with disgust, and -- frankly -- with open frustration with him. Pigeonholed. Pinned back. Unfairly cast in some role she isn't asking for, hasn't asked for. Doesn't fit. She's not that girl. This isn't that problem.
"You could hurt me," she ends up saying, without really meaning to. Or wanting to. Or being prepared for it. And tears fill her eyes and she doesn't mean for that either, doesn't want that. Looks away, exhales, forces composure and still doesn't look at him again. "You can feel close to someone, but they don't have to feel it back. And you can let things go and give things time and just hope it works out, hope that feeling's enough and hope you're not just tricking yourself."
Her nostrils flare. She turns back, more in control now, throat moving as she swallows.
"You like it when we don't talk. You feel close." She shakes her head; gives a shrug. "How'm I supposed to know how you feel, then? I'm not that kind of psychic."
Devon rocks back a little, puts the toe of one sneaker on the floor, looking down at it past her tightly crossed arms. Looks up again, after a moment of thought.
"Then sometimes when you do talk -- like breakfast, and now -- makes me think what I feel the other times... is just me." She takes a breath, straightening up a little. "Wasn't trying to make you feel bad, Rafael. Or talk anything out. Wanted you to know that I wanted you there. Wanted to slow-dance with you in that... fucking romantic situation. Wanted to feel close to you, neither of us saying a word."
One should rises, high and tight. "But you left, and you didn't dance, and so all I had was words. Which you didn't want to hear. Makes me think... you don't want me to feel it, either. Maybe that you feel bad because I feel it and you don't, and hearing about it makes you feel guilty. Or just that it doesn't matter to you."
Another deep, deep breath, her chest expanding. Slow exhale. "I don't like to talk a lot either. But some things I need to. Because you could hurt me. If I let you."
wolfmanTurns out they end up talking a lot, but maybe not very well. Girl tries to explain what she means. Girl tries so hard. Wolf can tell she's trying; wolf can sense her hurt and her bewilderment and her inability to just -- get -- through to him, can smell it like salt on the air. Something where there's usually nothing. A scent to her emotion, if not her body.
Wolf has trouble holding her eyes. Looks away, dropping his hand from the door. Folding his arms across his chest, unconscious mimicry. For all his strength and size and heat he seems quite helpless at the moment. Has nothing to say. Has no real way of making sense of what she tells him; all those words going in circles. Not her fault. Not his either. They're just both so ill-equipped for this sort of thing.
She finishes where she began. He could hurt her. Second time she says it he looks at her. Realizes, maybe for the first time, that she never meant physically. Not this time, anyway. Wolf's frowning now, achingly. His shoulders draw up, a little shrug.
"When we were upstairs... in the gallery, you and me, having sex. You think you're the only one that felt it?"
Not a challenge, those words. Not trying to pick a fight. Genuine question, like he can't imagine that she wasn't sure of how he felt. If it ran both ways. Wolf raises a hand, brushes knuckles over his nose. Refolds across his chest.
"It's not just you." Wolf grasps for a while. Finds something she said earlier: "I do fancy you. I feel something for you. When you're fucking me. When you're sleeping in my bed. Can't you feel that without me saying it, spelling it all out?"
witchNot trying to fight her, but it still stings that he asks. Her brows furrow. It does make her feel defensive. Can't you.
"That's not what I'm saying," she tells him. "Saying I tried to tell you something else that would make me feel something like that, even with dozens of people around, and you wanted nothing to do with it. Didn't even want to talk about it. Can't you think of how that might make me... doubt?"
Devon's shoulders round down. She's worn out by this. Yes: has been holding on to a lot of it today.
"You don't understand," she says, heavy and low, with an undercurrent of resignation. Shakes her head, turning around, an invisible stone on her chest. "I'll leave you alone."
wolfman"Devon." He follows her, reaches out, catches her wrist, slides down to her hand. "No. Wait. Don't go."
witchNo flinching, limp-wristing, startling. She doesn't really expect him to come after her but isn't surprised.
Her hand curls; holds his. She looks at him.
A flash then, a memory: the way he looked, holding her hand, past her shoulder. She was on her way to his room. They didn't get there til much later. She was afraid of him then.
Less so, now. Considerably.
Devon doesn't say anything. Just looks at him, aching.
wolfmanSo there she stops. And there he stops. And all that links them is the grip of their hands: his on hers, hers on his. Girl looks at him over her shoulder, a fey being caught in flight. Wolf looks at her over her shoulder, too. Big hulking thing, all shoulders and chest and crushing hands.
Comes a step closer after a while. Another. Comes up behind her and their arms are relaxing, falling to their sides, forearms touching and then he's behind her. Wraps his arm around her shoulders from behind, draws her against him. Bends his head and bends his neck and bends over her shoulder, animalesque, chest rising against her back as he inhales.
"I do get it," he says, muffled now. His mouth turning to her neck. Nuzzling there, seeking scent, finding none. Exhaling.
"Not that I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to dance with you. Keep telling you that. Just didn't want to look like an idiot in front of everyone. I'm not like you, don't have the courage to not care what everyone thinks."
Wolf kisses her on the side of her neck. Arms sliding around her waist now, looser. Raises his head a little. Rubs his jaw against her hair, her temple.
"Didn't think you'd be so hurt. Would've danced with you or said something or -- something, if I'd known. I like you. I don't like hurting you."
witchDoesn't resist that. Him coming up, wrapping her up. Strange, because it's different. He's never tried to... comfort her, or whatever this is. She's stiff at first, but pliant. Takes her a moment or three to relax into the embrace, the way he holds her, keeps her close.
Instinct, almost, the way she tips her head, while he nuzzles at her, sniffs at her, tries to find her. Says he gets it. And he keeps telling. Devon gives a faint sigh at that; he's close enough to hear it, feel it, know maybe he doesn't entirely get it. But she doesn't sound annoyed. Sigh doesn't sound resigned. Just a sigh.
His lips fall on her. She closes her eyes a moment. His face is so heavy, rubbing on hers the way he does.
"Didn't hurt that you didn't dance," she says quietly, lifting one hand, resting it -- cuff held in her fist, knuckles to his skin -- against his forearm where it crosses her body. "Didn't want you to feel bad like that." Knuckles stroke, following his skin, the flow of the dark hairs on his forearm. She turns her head a little, can barely see him out the corner.
"Made me sad that you left. Made me... wonder," because this is safer than scared, "when you kept pushing me away for talking about it."
Closes her eyes, and tips her temple toward him, settling into that closeness. "Didn't hurt me, Rafa."
It's just that he could.
People might laugh at him, judge him; it's borderline intolerable to consider, to face.
He could hurt her. She can barely even say it.
Devon takes a deep breath, sighing breath. She opens her eyes, leaning on him. Still uncomfortable. All of this is so close. So strange. And they're so terrible at it. She wants to run away from all of it. She wants to go back to not caring much, if at all. She wants not to ache when she looks at him. Wants not to be angry at him and still wanting to be held by him.
Wants to not feel so very weak. Or out of control.
Her chest feels tight. Her throat, too. So she says nothing. Standing there in his arms is what she wants and is also distinctly uncomfortable. She doesn't know what to say. Much less what to do.
So says nothing. Does nothing.
wolfmanWolf didn't quite get it after all. All those words, all that struggle. He still misses the mark, if only by a little. Girl corrects him. Gently enough. Maybe it's all right. Maybe what matters is that he tried.
Maybe what matters is: she didn't go. He didn't watch her walk away again.
--
So they just stand there a while. Girl's stiff and awkward. Girl accepts the embrace anyway, and wolf wraps his arms a little tighter around her. Breathes and nuzzles and closes his eyes. He's exonerated when she says it. Didn't hurt her.
Rafa.
--
Some time goes by. Eventually wolf shifts, loosens his hold. Kisses her on the shoulder as he's letting her go, as though to reassure her. This isn't another rejection. This isn't him, pushing her away.
Cool air between, then. Their bodies separating. Wolf looks down to find her hand still in his. Spreads his fingers to open hers, looks at them interlaced with his. Closes his hand again, wraps his fingers around hers again.
"Helichrysum," he says. Carefully. Pronouncing the word like it's unfamiliar but very dutifully memorized. This is what he talks about, now that the rest of his words have run dry. "That's what the stuff in the vial was. Guess they saw I still had some cuts. Thought it would help."
witchStill doesn't want him to let go, even if he's not rejecting. She feels it, and there's a slight spasm of her arm, an attempt to hold. She hates that, too; feels so unsteady right now. And wants to go back, all the way. Maybe follow him when he left while she was dancing. Maybe not dance. Maybe fight with him. Maybe never meet him.
He tells her what the oil was. She just gives a nod, a little absent. It's a highly magical oil; activated correctly she could do some impressive things with it. Mundane oils don't do much. Even Devon rolls her eyes at run-of-the-mill homeopaths.
Her heart is pounding. She just stands there.
wolfman[WOO HOO I HAZ NO EMPAFEE]
Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (3, 5) ( fail )
witch[willpower]
Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (2, 2, 3, 6, 6, 9) ( success x 1 )
wolfmanGirl hardly responds. Wolf doesn't keep going. Didn't have anything else to say, anyway. Seconds go by. Silence stretches into awkwardness.
Finally wolf speaks again. Low: "What should I do, Devon?"
witchFor a moment there she can't do anything but try and keep her mind from panic. From spiraling. She knows where that goes. Presses her lips hard together, trying to steady her breath. Surely he can feel the tremors of something going on under her skin, unsettled and chaotic.
A couple of the doors in the hall, his included, rattle slightly in their frames for a second. Heater going on or off. An unheard gust of wind. A nothingness.
She's biting her tongue, hoping not to bite through it.
Swallows hard, after a little while, and just shakes her head. A few times, searching for words.
"Just don't judge me right now," she says quietly. "Or read into --"
That's been there since the beginning, hasn't it? It is what it is. Don't have to talk about last night. Don't know what that makes us but you're more than just a fuck. Ascribing as little meaning to this as they can, avoiding doing otherwise. Pretending to be aloof. Pretending to not care. It's so obvious she cares right now that her head's about to explode. Her insides are about to collapse. So don't judge her. For caring. Or whatever this is. Don't think... whatever he might think.
"I just want you to hold me right now." She says it with a harsh exit of breath. Breathes in again, her shoulderblades pressing to his chest. She won't look at him. "Will you just --"
wolfmanUsed to burn women like her in ages past. Lot of innocents died like that. Lot of people who were just trying to help, too. Just trying to make life a little easier for their fellow man. Cure an ailment. Deliver a baby. Save a mother. Ease a passing. Mobs used to bash down the door. Drag out the witch. Lash her to the stake, and --
Did it out of fear, those people. Did it out of bigotry and misunderstanding and misdirected religious fervor, but beneath all that, did it out of fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the extraordinary. Fear of what lay outside the bounds and boundaries of the sane, the normal, the logical.
Potions that healed, potions that cured. That's the least of what they could do, women like her.
--
Doors tremble in their frames.
Wolf's hackles rise, so instinctive that he doesn't have time to wonder why. Logical mind tells him it's just the wind, but -- logic tells him werewolves don't exist, too.
Here he stands.
Here she stands.
--
Don't judge, she says. Don't judge, don't read into it. Don't. There's such desperation in the way she asks for that. That, and one other thing:
hold me right now. And she's backing into him, slim body, slender shoulders. Presses to his chest like maybe she wants to hide there, there in the core of all his strength and heat. Won't look at him, or can't. Wolf's hand covers the crown of her head, strange sort of embrace. Pulls down the back of her hair, and then wraps around her shoulders again from behind. Wolf wraps his arms around her and pulls her tight, tight, crushingly tight against the solidity of his torso. All meat and muscle, all bone and blood. Wolf holds her, teeth grazing her ear, head bowing, teeth sinking into her shoulder through her shirt.
witchThey used to throw homosexuals in with the rest of the kindling -- not worth a full burning. It's where the slur 'faggot' started being applied. Faggots. Kindling.
They used to declare children witches when those children were raped by adults -- the sin of seduction.
They used to burn witches who were just women and men who didn't go to church, who had a club foot or a strange mole, who didn't remarry, who were too outspoken. They used to burn as witches the ones who were feeble-minded.
Yes, they used to burn the ones who knew this poultice or that mixture or this abortificant or how to make sure woman and mother both survived, how to let someone go, how to cut off a limb. The ones who knew medicine. The ones who helped.
Among all these, occasionally, they used to get a real witch. The ones whose tinctures and brews had truly remarkable, inexplicable properties -- even by today's standards, certainly in the eyes of the middle ages, where it was thought that the scent of flowers could ward off disease. And even more rarely, desperately rare, a witch would be burnt or hanged or drowned who truly had some gift,
some terrible, awesome gift.
--
Wraps around her. Holds her. Covers her head as though to hide her from the heavens, which -- right now -- is exceedingly comforting. Compresses her all around: her arms, her back, her skull. She exhales after a while, richly, heavily. Each deep breath and exhale seems to settle her a little more.
Holds her in his teeth. And she aches a little for that, sad to make him so worried or anxious or whatever. Touched, too. It feels like acceptance.
"Sorry," she whispers after a while. When she's calm again. "Weird night. Weird day."
Her hand lifts up, and reaches back, and touches his hair. So smooth. So silky, which is always unexpected.
"Wanna watch Hellboy?"
wolfmanThere's so much they don't talk about. Don't ask each other about, though maybe they should. Here's another thing. Why she panicked. What that panic was. Where, when, why, how. What.
Girl reaches a hand into wolf's hair. And she's right: his hair is soft. Smooth. Silky. Not at all like the fur she sank her fingers into this morning, which was thick and surprisingly coarse. The guard hairs, at least. Beneath them, second and third layers: those were soft and downy and warm.
Wolf accepted her hug this morning. Wolf accepts her caress now, tilting his head into it unthinkingly.
Huffs a laugh. Shakes his head against her shoulder. "Let's watch some other old movie. You pick. I'll make some popcorn, grab a blanket." Small pause. "We can put the armrests up. You don't have to sit so far away this time."
witch"But I like Hellboy," she argues, but not forcefully. Rubs her head against his, the way they stand. "Philadelphia Story," she decides. "You'll like Dinah." Everyone likes Dinah.
And she smirks, too. "I'm not the one who sat so far away last time," she murmurs, turning a bit, looking at him.
wolfmanWolf snorts a laugh. Unwinds his arms, lets her go -- but not before butting his head against hers. Rough, physical sort of affection.
"Shush. Let me pretend I'm not the only one being a dumbass."
witchSomething so endearing, all of a sudden, about him saying shush. He rides a motorcycle. Big stompy boots. Shadow on his jaw. Fangs and claws. Shush, he says, like a Silver Fang grandmother. She laughs, a little. He bumps their brows, and she accepts.
"You aren't," she admits, but leaves it at that. Takes his hand and squeezes. Starts for the stairs. To go down, and find the movie, and curl up under a blanket in the large, soft, semi-reclining seats of his private movie theater.
witchThis movie has everything: a weird pinching uncle because apparently in 1940 that wasn't quite as red-flag, a cheeky and melodramatic pre-teen, divorce, remarriage, and the most romantic line that has ever been said by a man to a woman in the history of ever.
They watch it in luxurious reclining seats, armrest up, with a blanket over their laps. Devon stays so close to him. She leans to his side, watching the movie with popcorn a glass of chilled white wine, and when the heat of the blanket and his body grows too much, she just sheds that baggy, thick black sweater, coming back to him in a slim-fitting blue tank top.
Her breath catches when Jimmy Stewart tells Katharine Hepburn that there are hearthfires and holocausts in her eyes, and she sighs a little. Devon likes a lot of things, but by now he's more than figured out: she really likes old romantic movies. Preferably funny ones. Musicals are optional.
She sits with his arm over her and her legs over his lap and her shoes kicked off and when the popcorn gets boring or is gone she has her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt. Her wine is done. She's smiling softly at the end of the movie.
Fingertips make swirling, stroking little motions on his chest as the movie closes out, music swelling. All that.
Doesn't move, not even to shed the blanket, after the screen goes dark and then returns to the DVD menu. She just sighs, contentedly, picks up the remote, and turns off the screen. The repeating loop of music and so on that accompanies the menu gets shut off. She then turns her head up a little to look at him.
"Mum came from Brazil," she says softly. "Met my dad in England. He moved her to the States after I was born and they married. Left when I was two."
Stupid angle hurts her neck. She turns again, resting her head on his shoulder, speaking to his opposite bicep instead.
"It was his family that helped raise me. Relatives; not really sure how, but that's Fianna for you." Her hand has gone still; just rests there, taking his heartbeat into her palm, like she's stealing his strength. Or sharing it. Tapping into it, creating some sort of circuit between the two of their bodies.
"Taught me the craft. Didn't tell me about being Kinfolk til I was fourteen or fifteen. That's when we heard he died."
That's when they heard.
Her nostrils flare as she inhales deeply. "Moved back to England with mum a bit later. Finished schooling there. Wasn't very nice."
Doesn't delve into why.
"Went back to my dad's family a few years back. Got to know more kin and the like. Worked and all that. Then just... decided it was time to move on."
More to that story. More to lots of pieces of this story. But it's where she comes from. It's a lot more than he had before.
"Changed to my mum's last name when I was a teenager," she says, her fingers curling against his shirt, knuckles to his skin, eyes on her thumb. "Paredes." The way the name curls, the way it lowers, the way it sounds like her voice did when she was speaking to her mother on the phone.
wolfmanOld movies have such a way about them. That stylized acting. Those eastern-seaboard drawls. Everyone looked so glamourous in black and white; the men and the women alike slim and lightfooted, every hair in place. Wolf isn't one to appreciate the classics, but maybe he's coming around. Maybe he just likes trying to share things with the girl. Quietly. Subtly. Without even really talking about it.
This time they don't sit yards apart. This time they sit on the luxurious couches of his private movie theater, which is such a nouveau-riche touch in a Silver Fang's home. But then, one imagines wolf's mother did what she wanted. One imagines few people ever dared or wanted to say no to her: her and her strength, her and her wealth, her and her bloodlines, her and her privilege and birthrights so ancient that she never had to fear to either flaunt or flout them at will.
Wolf doesn't have that luxury. But wolf likes it up here, cloistered away from the world, servants scurrying through the walls like mice. Never has to look them in the eye and see disappointment or mockery there.
--
Girl leaves in the middle. Wolf pauses the movie and goes get some sodas. Girl comes back in a tank-top, blue like her eyes, and wolf's pupils dilate at the sight of her.
Her thin hand over his heart. His heart beating deep in his chest.
--
Movie's over and wolf doesn't have a comment about it. Doesn't analyze, doesn't pass verdict. Stares at the screen even when it goes dark, and then girl starts talking. Tells him a story. Mum from Brazil and dad in England. Dad left, but dad's family stayed. Dad died. They heard.
Wolf pieces together the unspoken. The story between the lines. Again he thinks of his own mother. She was there, she left. She died. He heard -- months later.
Wolf takes girl's hand. His palm's warm. Skin of his torso is warmer. He guides her hand up under his shirt; no particular reason except that he wants to. Holds her hand through his shirt, her palm against his chest, heel of her hand against his heart.
"Van der Valk," he says softly. "My mother's last name. Dad made sure I kept it. I never met her or anyone from her side of the family. Thought she'd forgotten I existed, and then one day her lawyer comes and tells me she's dead and she left me everything.
"Still remember every detail. Sky was slate-grey. Summer storm coming. Can still smell the heaviness in the air. Clearest memory of my mother that I have and she's not even in it; isn't that funny."
witchTechnically in the middle, she doesn't leave. She sits up. Pulls the heavy black sweater up and off, tosses it into another seat. Comes back to his side in sky blue, eyes sapphire blue. A little time passes and the movie ends and she's right there, warm beside him.
Surprised, a little, when he moves her hand up under his shirt, against his skin. Doesn't question it.
It's obvious from her story that her mother knows nothing. Not what her dad was or what she is or what the extended family who helped her raise her daughter was. It may be the only real secret she keeps from her mother. She smiles a little, wry, when he says his name. She knows it; has heard it at the party, from his servants, seen it on mail, saw it on his credit card. But it was his mother's name. Not his father's.
Left him everything.
Her brows tug together when he tells about that day. She doesn't interrupt.
Isn't that funny.
"Not really," she says softly.
wolfmanWolf's quiet a moment. Heart hammers slowly against her hand; trying to get out, trying to get in.
"Guess not."
witchThat hand slides out from under his shirt again. She turns on the seat, coming over him, straddling his lap. Tugs the blanket up around them both, up past her shoulders like a cloak. And leans against him. And -- doesn't kiss him. Or slip out of that closer, tighter shirt. She just rests her head on his shoulder, body wrapped around his, nose to his neck. Closes her eyes.
wolfmanWolf grows silently alert as girl moves. Theater lighting in here. Dark when the movie was on, dim now that it's done. Dim is still enough to catch and glitter in his eyes. Wolf isn't sure what she's up to and maybe he raises his chin, maybe his nose brushes hers, maybe his lips part expecting a kiss.
It's not a kiss. She doesn't undress. She straddles him, all long legs and slender body. Skinny thing with her astounding eyes. Skinny thing with her surprising tits. Skinny thing with her strange, unexpected way of getting under his skin, into his bones. Girl wraps around him like maybe she's the one keeping him warm, or whole, or safe. Wolf's big heavy arms loop loose around her lower back.
Wolf likes that she's lean and light. Likes that she feels like nothing to his strength, slender to his size. Sort of caveman of him but it's the truth. Even likes her crazy sense of fashion. The raccoon eyes she paints on her face sometimes and the clothes ripped almost to shreds, the long bare legs, the boots, the side boobs.
Just likes her. Fancies her.
witchIf he hadn't put his arms around her she might have called him a dumbass.
But it's not a kiss. And she isn't undressing, isn't tilting that seat back to kiss him, peel their clothes off, fuck on the movie theater seats with a blanket over them. She just wraps around him, and he wraps his arms around her, and she rests there, quietly, breathing him in.
"What time is it?" she whispers, after a while.
wolfmanWolf smirks.
"Time for you," and he sits up, sits forward, then just gets up wholesale, scooping her along with him, "to get a watch."
Probably been waiting to get her back for that one. Answers for real: "Almost eleven. I'm going to bed. You coming, or you going back to your room?"
witchIt actually makes her laugh. Partly because he's so pleased with himself to make the joke. She is scooped up, goes with it. Keeps the blanket around her, wraps her legs around him.
They haven't been awake that long. Nearly afternoon when she dragged herself out of bed. But it's eleven. He asks her if she's going with him. She's quiet a moment, even though asking him about bed was the whole reason she asked what time it was.
"Wanna come to mine?" she asks quietly.
wolfmanWolf doesn't deflect this one. Doesn't pass it off with a joke. Wolf looks right at the girl, all dark eyebrows and intense eyes, ever-increasingly shadowed jaw.
"Yeah." Pause. Confession: "Like sleeping with you."
witchWhich they've only done once, really.
Two other times, she's left his bed. Couldn't finish the night there. Couldn't sleep. But that night he wrapped himself around her in her bed, while she held that dumb stuffed giraffe, she slept just fine. Slept deeply. Slept well.
"Okay," she murmurs. Leans in, and kisses the edge of his jaw lightly. "Let's go, then."
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