Another warm winter's day in Denver, though trending down toward freezing as the sun sets. Plenty of people out and about, strolling the pedestrian mall after a nice sunday dinner. Girl's got a makeshift booth in the corner of Skyline Park, which maybe isn't a booth at all; maybe is nothing more than a yoga mat or a beach towel or something, and a deck of cards.
Bunch of people gathered around. Not-insignificant line queued up. Girl's reading cards by the light of a streetlamp, and by cell phone flashlights that kind strangers are holding up. She's been here a while, maybe didn't plan on staying til dark, but so many people want a read. Some people want to take pictures of her. Selfies, cellphone snaps. Want pictures because she's gotta be the real deal, seems so exotic with those haunting eyes and that hint of an accent. Those long fingers turning over the pictograms of their fate. Want pictures because she's something else altogether. Must be. This might be their one brush with a hidden world they've always suspected lay beneath their everyday, their normalcy, their mundanity.
Customer sitting in front of her is young, like herself. Wants to know what the stars have in store for her. Wants to know if her boyfriend will propose, if her manager will give her that raise, if her father will forgive her for picking her mom in the divorce seven years ago. Has her hands cupped around a small coffee, the liquid steaming as she watches girl's hands shuffle the cards.
Wolf is standing beside girl. Always seems rather sudden when he just shows up like that, but truth is she probably felt him long ago. A pressure growing at the back of the mind. A presence increasing until it became real. He has a cup of coffee too. Two. He hands one to her.
"Saw you," he explains.
witchMakeshift booth is a stone slab that serves as a bench sometimes. She has smoked a cigarette at times, sitting there alone. She is not looking to make money. She does not have out a sign, a jar. This is not how she works. Lately she doesn't have to work much at all. Doesn't have to hustle, doesn't have to seek it out. She has her number up in a couple of shops. She knows a few people. Sometimes people are sent her way.
The way it started this afternoon was someone bumming a cigarette off of her. Young woman, walking alone, looking like she'd had a bad day. Came over and struck something up with Devon. Devon said something that led to a question. Devon gave an answer that led to a request. And they laid out the woman's scarf, something she bought for $7 at H&M, across the stone. Devon had her shuffle the cards. Told her to focus on what she wanted to know. Had her cut the deck with her non-dominant hand, three piles.
Simple spread. Three cards. How she came to this. What is dominating it right now. What to do next. The woman was intrigued. Snapped out of it after a while and asked what she owed. And Devon took a few bucks, the remainder of that H&M gift card.
--
Someone was watching them. And came over. Paid up front, more than a few bucks, and asked for more in kind. A deeper spread, more expansive, covering the entirety of his jacket where it was laid over the stone. Devon was no longer smoking. She pocketed the cash and she gathered her cards and the man went away. A couple more people were nearby, the sun starting to set, and Devon agreed to read for both of them.
But then after those two, a few more started coming over. And it was getting dark. And Devon's eyes were getting a tad hollow. She snapped at the first person who fucking took out their phone and aimed it at her. Swore at them, what the fuck do you think you're doing. Mid-read she collected her deck and hauled herself off the bench, looking like she was about to punch that person. Told them to delete it, and they wouldn't, and
a moment later they slipped, dropping their phone, which somehow bounced multiple times before skidding across the asphalt and right underneath the tire of the mall shuttle going down 16th. Someone laughs, asks dude, did you THROW IT but dude isn't laughing. And Devon is leaving, her mouth a flat line, nearly running into Rafael.
She looks pale. Looks up at him. Faint dark circles under her eyes.
Takes the cup of coffee, wraps her hands around its warmth, and tucks herself against his chest where no one will chase her or ask things of her, and exhales a shuddering long breath, but does not burst into tears.
wolfmanWhat the hell?
That's what's on his mind. Wolf doesn't say it though. Wolf doesn't say anything he doesn't need to. Like an animal, he's mute more often than not. Girl nearly runs into him but doesn't. Girl takes the coffee, and then girl takes his shelter, his warmth, his presence.
Wolf wraps free arm around her. Baffled, angry -- though not at her; looking around to see whose fault it is. Who can he throw through a wall.
witchPeople disperse. Girl hides. After some measure of time she lifts her head, hair falling in her face, looks up at him. "Thanks," she says. And draws back a little, lifting her coffee to her lips.
wolfmanNo obvious aggressor to beat up so wolf settles into consoling girl instead. Rubs his hand over her back, says nothing and doesn't move away. Waits til she lifts her head. Lifts her coffee. Sips.
Wolf's eyebrows are still knit. Low, "What happened? Someone bother you?"
witch"Asshole took a picture of me reading," she says, shaking her head, sipping more. Turns to him again, resting her brow on his chest while he rubs her back. Hard to drink coffee like that, but she sips slowly, sighs. Feels better.
wolfman"Some jackasses don't get privacy." Wolf's disgusted. "Want me to go find him, break his phone?"
witch"He dropped it under a bus," she says, sighing it. Rubs her face on Rafael. "I'm so tired."
wolfman"From reading cards?" Surprised now. Hadn't expected that. "Didn't know it wore you out." Thinks a moment; pangs. "Wear you out to make your potions too?"
witchTired. Worn out. Says peevishly: "Yes, from reading cards. Four or five times in a row. You think that sort of thing doesn't take energy?"
wolfman"Just never thought about it." Touch of defensiveness. "Just like I never thought about how much work it might take to make those potions you slathered me in, that first time. Was feeling bad, is all."
witch"Well, don't," she says, just as snappish as before. "Easier to do when it's spread out like that. S'why I work on it a little almost every day, and not... mass-produce."
wolfmanSound in wolf's throat. In his chest. Something like a little chuckle.
"Come on. Get you dinner. Unwind. Asshole just dropped his phone, huh?"
witchShe tucks in close. Even as they are turning, as he's wrapping his arm around her shoulders, as she's leaning on his side. As though she could soak up his warmth, his vitality, through mere touch. She sips her coffee a bit more. "Dinner sounds good," is all she says to that.
There is a wall in the words.
wolfmanWolf hears the wall. Feels it, smells it. Scratches against its base with that half-joke of a question, but it doesn't yield.
Wolf turns away from it. Arm around her shoulders, girl leaning into his side. There's a number of places to eat on this street and wolf heads for the nearest one.
"Could grab to-go and go home too if you want."
witchShe's just tired. Can only handle one question, one line of thought, at a time. To eat or not to eat. Go home or don't go home. The fact that he's calling it 'home', like it's his, and like it's hers, even though they only occasionally sleep in the same bed since coming back to Colorado.
Devon shrugs. "Let's stay out," she says. "At least for a while."
wolfman"All right."
Place is called the Palm. Chain steakhouse, though maybe a cut above most. Plating and presentation's making stabs at modern innovation, but by and large it's a classic sort of place: white tablecloths, dark wood furniture. Big, meaty steaks.
They're on the young side here, particularly on a Sunday night. Stand out a bit, especially with girl wearing what she does, wolf wearing what he does. They get seated in a booth toward the back. Sliding in across the girl, wolf realizes they haven't been out to dinner together since Brazil.
witchShe's not dressed for the Palm. She's in some dress, thin enough for warmer weather but it's black. Black and just a cut above the knee, buttons down the front, short capped sleeves. Small clusters of flowers here and there in sepia tones with shadows of red. Combat boots. Oversized, caramel-colored coat with a heavy collar and faux fur at the cuffs. Hair is loose but for half a braid across her crown, down the side.
That's where he takes her, instead of a fast food place or something. She looks at him, thoughtful, but doesn't say anything. They sit down and she shrugs out of her coat, still holding her to-go cup of coffee. They are the only people here with to-go cups of coffee.
She doesn't say anything. Looks at him, across the table, in silence.
wolfmanMenus are simple. Seems like the new trend amongst high-end restaurants: do a few things, do them well. Wolf's perusing his when he feels girl's eyes on him. Sets menu down. Looks up. Meets her eyes.
Beat.
"What?"
witchBrow furrows a little. " Nothing."
wolfman[I KEEP DOING THIS]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (4, 9, 10) ( success x 2 )
witch[It's just an awkward silence. She's not even intending to 'stare' at him. She's missing a lot of WP.]
wolfmanWolf watches her another moment. Studies her. Then goes back to his menu.
Ends up getting the 18oz new york strip. Potatoes au gratin on the side. Splits a shrimp cocktail with the girl, if she wants to. Splits a bottle of wine too, if she wants to.
Waiter comes, takes their orders. They relinquish their menus. Settle in to wait. After a while he holds his hand out under the table. "Come here," he says, and he means her foot, her feet. If she sets her ankles into his palms, he balances her heels in his lap. Starts tugging her boots off under the table, never mind where they were or who might be watching.
No one's watching them, anyway.
witchNo shrimp. Yes to the wine. Lamb chops, goat cheese whipped potatoes, brussels sprouts. She slumps a bit backward after telling him this, and he orders for them both. She looks exhausted and sad. She is at least one of those. He says to come here and she is confused, thinks he means for her to get up, come over, but that isn't it.
Eventually he coaxes her booted feet up onto his jeans. She's frowning at him, at a loss, wondering what on earth is going on. He starts unlacing her boots and her eyebrows go up. She sounds sleepy, sounds wry: "What are you doing?"
wolfmanWolf's got his head down, eyebrows down. Concentrating on the task at hand. Girl quirks at him from across the table and he raises both; quirks back.
"What's it look like?" Almost sounds cross, but maybe she knows him better now. Knows sometimes the grumble is reflexive. "Rubbing your feet. Heard it's relaxing. And you look beat."
witchThere's a huff of air from her. An almost-laugh. She wriggles her feet away, one bootlace half undone. "That's really gross to do in a restaurant," she informs him. Sets her feet down.
Is smirking at him as their wine arrives, as glasses are set out, the wine explained and uncorked and poured for them. Devon is watching him through all this, doesn't look at the waiter. Says:
"Maybe later. Hot bath. Full-body massage."
wolfmanGirl's feet escape his grasp. Wolf lets her go, smirking back, picking up his napkin and wiping his hands off. They watch each other while the waiter brings their wine. Probably thinks they're the worst, so rude. They don't even thank him when he finishes and departs.
"Now that's asking for a lot," wolf says. "Bet you want me to shave too."
witchThey brought coffee in. Though she's only had about half of hers, and now she switches to wine.
He mentions shaving.
Devon, lifting her wine glass, watches him over the rim. Says nothing. Takes a slow sip.
wolfmanWolf just stares back. Relaxed in his side of the booth. Slouched down. Smirking that slow, faint smirk.
witchIf that's bait, Devon doesn't bite. She drinks her wine and she leans back, relaxing in her seat. Which is how they stay for some time, both of them quiet, both of them sipping wine or idling, waiting for their meal. Perhaps he got the shrimp cocktail anyway, eats it alone. Perhaps he pours himself a new glass.
If he's comfortable with the silence, she doesn't intend to break it.
wolfmanWolf seems comfortable enough. Doesn't break the silence, anyway. Didn't get the shrimp. Sips the wine. After a while he pulls her feet up into his lap again. Doesn't try to take her shoes off this time. Just rests his hands on her ankles, comforted somehow by this physical connection.
Their food comes. Steak for him, lamb for her. Wolf lets go her ankles and they both sit up. Unwrap their silverware. Carve their meat. Eat in that dense, warm silence, broken only by the soft sounds of their forks and knives on their plates.
witchDevon struggles a little, though it's playful. She makes him grab her feet to haul them back up. She eventually just sits like that, and truth be told her feet aren't sore from walking around -- she was mostly sitting -- but it's nice. The contact. The closeness. The fact that he always seeks it. She'll know, she thinks, that he's been possessed by a monster or evil spirit, if he ever hesitates to wrap his arm around her.
Must be the wine drugging her thoughts. She lets herself drift. Closes her eyes, head tipped back. Comes alive again when the food arrives, sitting up, dropping her feet down, looking over the lamb chops. Breathes in deep and tucks in. Now they are quiet because they are eating, slicing bites of meat off the bone and lifting forkfuls of potatoes to their mouths. She tries to share her roasted brussels sprouts.
They are most of the way through that bottle of wine when they do the regular discussion of whether or not to get dessert. They don't. She comes over to his side of the booth while they wait for the check, curling up against his side. Doesn't tell him thanks for taking care of me. Doesn't tell him a damn thing. Closes her eyes, though, her hand moving idly on his chest over his shirt.
"I should read for you sometime," she murmurs. "If you ever need advice."
wolfmanLikes watching her. Even when she isn't watching him. Even when she's laid her head back, closed her eyes. Looks so relaxed like that, he thinks. Fearless, careless, like she trusts him to keep watch. Keep her safe.
Their food comes. They eat. Wolf looks at those tiny cabbage-like things with suspicion; spears one with his fork. Eats it without comment. Doesn't spit it out, but doesn't go in for another.
Finishes his meat, every scrap. Eats most of his potatoes. Drinks half a bottle of wine or more. They decline dessert, but then girl gets up. Wolf's eyes follow her, alert suddenly. She's not going anywhere. She's coming closer. He scoots over, makes room. She nestles against his side.
His arm falls so naturally around her shoulders now. She traces his body through his shirt.
"That what it's for?" Sounds musing, that. "Asking advice?"
witch"Can be," she murmurs, tracing out his right pectoral through his clothes. Finds his nipple; brushes one fingertip slowly down it, then slides her hand around him, wraps her arm around his middle. "Can be for lots of things."
wolfmanWolf's breathing changes subtly, way she touches him. Nipple hardens beneath her fingertip. Beneath his shirt. He's about to reach up and move her hand when she does it herself. Wraps her arm around him and he's solid, thick and warm against her.
They lounge a while. He reaches out and pours out the last of the wine into his glass. Takes a sip. Offers it to her.
"You ever ask your cards about me?"
witchA waiter drops off the leatherette folder with their check inside. Devon ignores it. Even though she made quite a bit of money tonight. Devon takes the wineglass, sips from it.
"You ever jerk off thinking about me?" she wants to know. "Other than the time you did right beside me."
wolfman"Jesus, Devon." Wolf's taken off-guard, reaching for the check. Breathes a laugh. "Maybe. Yeah. Guess so. Don't ask me when or how many times. It's not like that.
"Anyway I asked you first."
witchShe smirks. "It's not like what?" she wants to know, ignoring his asked you first.
wolfman"Things you ask," wolf mutters, takes his wineglass back, drinks and sets it down. "Not like I sit down and pull my dick out thinking okay, gonna stroke one out thinking of Devon now, yeah. Sometimes I do it. Sometimes I think of you. You didn't answer me."
witchStill smirking a bit, though faded. She leans over, resting her head on his shoulder so he can pay, clear the check, what have you. "Point was that it's a personal question," she murmurs. "Didn't expect you to answer."
She's quiet a moment. "Liked it when you were with me." Shakes her head a little. "Don't know. Just found it hot."
Devon closes her eyes, resting her head on him. "Answer's yes." A touch wry: "Don't ask me when or how many times."
wolfman"Oh." Beat. "Wouldn't have answered if I'd known it was optional."
Her head comes to rest on his shoulder. He drags the check over by the tips of his fingers, flips it open, adds a tip, scrawls a messy signature. Adds his credit card, which is of course black and metal and impressive. Didn't even know they made credit cards like that until six months ago.
Quiet a while. Then, "Allowed to ask what the cards said about me?"
witchThat makes her smirk, wryly.
He pays. She keeps her eyes closed. He asks her --
Devon turns her head a little, looking up at him.
Says quietly: "You can ask."
There is only slight emphasis on the last word.
She leans over, kissing his cheek. "Let's go. We should take a bath."
They never have.
wolfmanIf someone were keeping score -- who knows what about who, and when -- wolf would be losing handily. It'd be a goddamn rout. Fortunately wolf's not keeping score, and neither is girl.
Wolf closes his eyes for that kiss. Smiles into it, even if it's a quiet and closed little smile. Eyes open when she pulls away. Wolf's got a feral look to his features, even in repose; slanting, dark, proud. Slides her a sidelong look.
"You hinting I stink?"
Gets up out of the booth. Picks up his half-finished, cooled coffee with one hand. Takes her hand with the other. Their waiter bids them goodbye on the way out, if only because he has to.
Night outside is crisp, cooling. Wolf tips his head back to drain the last of his coffee. Drops the cup in a wastebasket. Throws one hand in his pocket, wraps other arm around the girl.
"Gotta get a new car," wolf mutters. "Let's take a cab."
witchShe always wins. Drinking contests. Flirting contests.
He asks if she's hinting. She lifts her brows and gives him a little nod. "Terribly."
Kisses him again, more softly, less deeply, more quickly.
Draws back. She leaves her half-done coffee behind her, and walks out with him, shrugging back into her warm coat. Her legs are bare but when he puts an arm around her and says they should get a new car, she gives him a little half-smile, looking up at him under a streetlight.
"Can't we just walk? It's not far. Seems a waste of a nice night."
wolfman"About twenty, thirty minutes." Wolf leans down to investigate her shoes. "Can your clompers take it?"
She says they can.
And so they do.
--
Wolf doesn't know the meaning of leisurely stroll. At least he doesn't charge down the sidewalk, dragging girl along in his wake. Still walks, though. Steady and constant, moving forward. Turns his collar up against the wind when the night gets colder. When they cross the river, and the wind rises up.
Has his arm around her again then. Stands on the windward side, shielding her with his body.
Fingertips are chilled when he gets back to the townhouse. Solid core of warmth from walking, though. Goes up the front way, to the front door. Unlocks it and pushes it open, holding it for girl to walk in ahead of him. Follows her. Shuts the door.
Inside feels so warm. Wolf starts peeling out of his jacket immediately. Maid's been by and everything's clean. Cook's been by and there's dinner ready to be warmed; no one had counted on steaks at a restaurant tonight. Wolf goes into the kitchen, opens up the fridge, puts the plates and the pans in.
"Go warm up the bath," he says. "Be up in a bit."
witch"They're boots," she tells him, disdainfully. Which they are. Good for walking. So they walk. From downtown to the highlands. Through a park. Across a bridge. It's brisk out, and dark; they aren't alone by any means but they're two of only a few people who are walking around now. She leans against him, and they don't talk. He walks forcefully ahead and she drags her feet more slowly. If he wants to keep his arm around her he has to slow. If he wants to see the thing she gestures at -- the moon's reflection on water, the dog chasing a stick down below the bridge -- he has to slow down and look. Has to slow down to keep himself around her when the wind kicks up. Don't think she doesn't take advantage of the instinct. So they walk. It's quiet. It's peaceful.
It's lovely. Even if her nose is a tad pink at the tip when they get back to his house. Let themselves in. She shivers her coat off her shoulders and drops it somewhere so the heated air can seep into her. Looks at him, bare arms and short dress and stands there with her bag hanging off her shoulder while he goes to the fridge.
Smirks, for some reason. And heads upstairs.
--
His bathroom, then. Has the big bath tub, large enough for his bulk. When he comes upstairs her door down the hall is half-open. When he turns the other way he finds his door closed. Inside his room there's not her bag or her coat but there's her dress in a pile by the bathroom door, and her shoes and the thick green socks she had on. Undergarments. None of them smell like her.
There's a hair-tie on the counter of the sink from the braid she's taken out, finger-combed out. Hasn't been like that since traveling, sharing hotel bathrooms, all her stuff strewn about. But it's there. And the tub is filling up and she's naked, sitting on the edge of the tub, hip balanced and hand braced, legs down the side. Looks like a fucking sculpture, the way one of her feet tucks behind a calf. The paleness of her skin. The freckles on her shoulders, faint as they are.
Pouring something into the bath from a brown glass bottle. Smells like almonds and faintly of honey. The vaguest hint of citrus, an underpinning of... maybe cedar. She's pouring it from height, lightly stirring it into the water with a broad, sweeping motion of her hand.
Looks over her shoulder when she senses him coming near. Those luminous eyes.
That fucking witch.
wolfmanWolf goes to her room first. Stupid of him really; but then he can't smell her. Not even faintly. Never thinks about it and never even realizes it but his sense of smell is so very acute. Sharper than a man's. Sharper than most wolves'. Sharp enough that in the face of her lack, he feels blind.
Sees the open door. Peers inside. Finds the room dark and empty.
Comes back the other way, his footsteps quiet as they ever are; palpable as they ever are. Thrums in the floorboards. Doorknobs turns and he comes in. Shuts the door behind him.
Sound of water. Scent of plant life. Wolf comes around a corner and he can see her there in the bathroom. Stands arrested a moment, just looking at her.
Girl meets his eyes.
Wolf has such a look on his face then. Complex and aching. Deep and poignant.
Comes forward, flicking lights off as he passes the switches. Leaves only one: a soft light right above the tub, diffuse and warm. Left his jacket somewhere else so now it's just his shirt pulled up and off, his socks peeled off while he stands on one foot, then the other. Pushes his jeans down, thick leather belt and its buckle weighing it to the floor. Pushes his boxers down with them.
Wolf changes the alchemy of that bath when he steps past her, and in. Adds his own subtle chemistry to the mix. Changes the scent, changes the composition. He sinks in first, gingerly because it's hot, but not scalding. When he's settled he reaches out to her, hand dripping.
witchRoom of hers is dark but not empty. Filled with her stuff. She has more of it now, since coming back from Boston with all those suitcases. More clothes, more bottles, more shoes, more everything. She leaves shit on the floor. She seldom sets her sheets out for washing. The maid mostly leaves it alone; it's what Devon wants. Dark and filled with essences of her, but no scent.
He has to find her by other senses. Perhaps the subtle tug of her breeding. Something there. Something pure, this way. Something fey. Not a scent. Just a feeling.
--
Devon didn't turn on the lights in his room. He turns off the lights in his bath, other than the one. She smirks a little, wry, and then shakes the last drops out of the bottle before setting it aside. Half-turns, watching him as he strips. Watching him as he passes her, with all his stink, his smell, his realness, his wholeness that she lacks.
He is not some uncanny thing. He is physical. He is real.
He steps in, and she reaches over to turn off the rising water, filled with skin-softening oils. He lowers himself. She watches his dick, unabashedly. Watches it when it first touches the water, head tilted, expression soft and curious and fond. Lifts her eyes to his face as he descends into the water. Offers his hand.
Devon takes it. Stands. Steps into the tub, foot between his knees, body turning. She holds onto his hand as she lowers herself down, carefully, sinking into the water and letting it flow between them before she settles back into his arms, against his chest.
Still holding his hand. Wraps his arm around her shoulders from behind. Breathes in deeply, laying her feet inside of his feet. Toes and toes. And a chrome spigot, dripping. And then toes and toes.
wolfmanGirl's perfect as alabaster when she stands up. Slips into the water. Wolf watches her, eyes moving all over her, wet hands coming up to welcome her thigh, her hip, her side, her breast.
She settles against him. And he wraps his arms around her. Faucet's stopped now; last few drops dripping. Plenty of room in this tub for two but they stay close. He nuzzles against her hair, back of her ear.
"Witch," he murmurs, tender,
which is what he thought when he saw her sitting at the edge. Which is what he thought when she turned to look at him, fingertips wet, eyes lucid. Which is what he thought maybe even the first time he met her: witch, bewitching, witchcraft.
"Can't imagine being without you now."
witchThe way he touches her. Makes her breath catch. She settles in quite close, biting her lip for the length of a heartbeat. Wants him, both quite suddenly and quite terribly. Close her eyes, exhaling, as he nuzzles into her. Calls her that, which makes her huff a little. Amusement, that: she understands.
The next thing he says, she doesn't. Sends a hard shiver up her spine, suddenly and involuntarily. She is still, then, and turns her head a bit. Edges of her dark hair skim the water. Looks up at him. Asks him something impossible, like she always seems to. Asks it softly:
"Why?"
wolfmanCan just see the edge of her profile. Can just see the blue of her eyes. Clear corneas curving above the crystalline irises. Girl's frozen, making him think of doe in the woods, woodland thing hearing the hunter's footfall.
Wolf is still warm. Still moving. Nuzzles her gently and slowly, kissing the curve of her shoulder. Arch of her cheekbone. Kissing the corner of her mouth as it moves, asking him that impossible question.
Pauses then. Tips his brow to her temple. Exhales.
"Why does rain fall? Why do stars shine? Don't know why, Devon. Just how it is."
witchDevon laughs. He's nuzzling her, kissing her all over. And she laughs.
"A poet now, are we?" she teases him. Holds him, as she does, that arm she has wrapped around herself like a cloak. "Rain and stars," she murmurs back at him.
Is quiet, after. Just moments. The water stops dripping and she closes her eyes, while he kisses her face, her shoulder, rests his brow against her like that. She lets her toes slip back under the water, into the softness and warmth. Baths herself in this scent she concocted because she thought he might like it, might not mind it all over both of them. She tries to think: can she imagine being without him, now?
She can. And it makes her feel --
Devon's brow has that little furrow in it. She opens her eyes, escaping. Looks at him again. Twisting toward him, to kiss him. One of her hands lifts up from the water, warm and wet, her palm wrapping around the back of his neck. Strangely soft kiss, for the passion that's in it. Kisses him, and kisses him well, and then opens her eyes, drawing back. Sinks back into the water, sinks back against him. Likes to feel his heart beating through his chest, through her back.
"Want me to stay with you tonight?" she asks, softly, after the water begins to settle again.
wolfmanWater laps against sides of tub. Laps against sides of wolf, too. Girl turns warm and wet and slippery in his arms. Palm smooths around his neck, draws him home into that kiss.
Such a strange, tender, poignant kiss, that. Slow and awakening, his mouth recognizing hers. Tasting hers. Moving against hers, gentle and familiar.
Girl sinks back into the water when it's finished. He's a solidity beneath the surface; the warm edge of a continent. Girl reminds him of eldritch, wild things. Witches, selkies, wild and fair things that cannot be held or owned.
Might come to him, though. Of her own will and way. At her own time, in her own place.
Wolf laughs a little. "Of course," he says. "Not something you have to ask."
witchMight come to him tonight, or another night. Might run off with him into the sunlight for a couple of brilliantly shining weeks in the warmth. Might disappear when it's dark and he cannot hear her and cannot smell her. Might smirk, curling in his arms a bit, stretching out her legs in the tub.
"Maybe I like asking," she says, quietly obstinate. "You're supposed to tell me you want me."
wolfmanWolf watches her legs extend under the water. Toes peeking through the glassine surface. Wolf feels her body moving against his, the subtle strength beneath her smooth skin.
Makes a little sound, low, disgruntled. Pause. Quieter, "I want you. Want you to stay with me tonight."
witchDevon arches her back slightly. Breasts swell and peek above the water for half a moment, descend again. The surface ripples. She nestles herself against him, smiling. "Want what with me?"
wolfmanNow wolf bites her. Quick and tender and soft, teeth latching into the side of her neck and releasing.
"Don't tease," he chides. Hands move, cover those peekaboo tits of hers. Skinny thing; great rack. He laughs to himself, low in his throat. "You know what."
witchIgnores his edict. He covers her breasts and she aligns her spine along his chest, his stomach. Her ass, narrow little thing that it is, presses gently between his legs. Brushes over him in that oiled, scented water.
"Say it," she whispers.
wolfmanStillness for a moment. A thrumming tension going through the wolf, quite literally palpable.
Wolf's hand on girl's face, then. Tilting her chin up; exposing her neck. Wolf kisses her there, the pale line of her throat, the fragile network of veins and nerves beneath the skin. Kisses her firmly, warmly, pressing his lips against her flesh.
Can feel her pulse like that. Can feel her breathing.
"Want to fuck you," he whispers.
witchTold her once this was a bad idea. Told her another time, later on, that it still was. Took a while longer before she asked, and he explained why: wasn't sure she liked him, or that he liked her. Told her want isn't the same as like. Still she tells him to tell her that he wants her. Still he tells her, and it still matters.
He bit her, hungrily but not savagely. Her tits are in his hands. She likes that: the way she arches to him, moves closer to him, gives him these little encouragements while she's coaxing words out of him. Her breath catches when he tilts her chin up, kissing her throat. Her pulse pounds, vital and lively, against his lips. He can feel all that. There are things he doesn't feel, though, can't hear, reactions in her body to the way he's touching her.
Certainly to hearing his voice, and those words.
She likes that, too.
Devon shifts a little. She takes one of his wet hands in hers and slides it under the water. Down her stomach. Guides him, if he doesn't get there on his own, to stroke his fingers between her legs.
wolfmanEven with the water his hands are so warm. Even with the heat all around, heat of his palm is something else. Strokes rough-slick down her body, following the contour of her stomach; skimming over her navel. Water cushions the touch of his hand, makes it slower, subtler. Wolf's breath is a hot rush over girl's throat, first time he finds her clit -- as though her nerves were entangled with his own.
"Turn around a little," he mutters; kissing her neck, kissing her jaw and her cheek. "Let me see your eyes."
Wants to see her eyes while he touches her. Wants to see that sensation flare and die and flare again in that shocking, startling blue.
witchSort of likes that even though he's so much gentler with her, he's still unrefined. Still rough. Smiles and arches her back, resting against him as he looks for her. Her hair spills over his shoulder and his chest. He can see her in profile, see that blissful smile. See her breath catch again, see her chest lift, see her mouth open with a smiling gasp when he slides his finger over her clit. Her teeth set gently into her lower lip as he starts to stroke her.
Rafael kisses her neck, kisses her face. Murmurs to her like he does, and for once she's not contrary for the sake of it. She starts to turn, twisting in his arms, leaning against him. One of her legs goes over his, opening her thighs wider. Wraps her arm around his shoulders, leaning up to kiss him.
Reaches down and places his hand back on her cunt again if, by chance, he has slipped away.
wolfmanWolf's hand has slipped away. Girl can hardly blame him. She turns in his arms like that. Her body brushes his like that, and he never knew he could be so sensitive. Not just his dick but everywhere, every inch, lightning-flickers of sensation webbing over his skin everywhere she touches.
Her eyes meet his like that. So blue, and the pupils so black, so huge. His hand guides hers over his knee, over his thigh. Her arms wrap around him like she trusts him, like she likes him.
Wolf smiles. That's a rare thing, isn't it? Just that expression: small, slight, almost like he has to hide it. But real. Soft, where he is otherwise so rough, so brutish, so coarse. Girl kisses that smile off his mouth and he lets her, gives it to her; it was hers anyway.
Girl pulls his hand back where it belongs. Wolf laughs against her mouth, just this little low rumble of sound. His fingers part her, stroke her, slip inside her. He grinds the heel of his hand, the base of his thumb against her: a deep, steady, pulsatile pressure, warm and direct, but unfocused.
He's said this to her before. Says it again, unironically, crudely, sincerely:
"Love your cunt."
And this too, watching her eyes, touching her clit:
"Love how you fuck."
witchSmile is a rare thing. The way he's talking is a rare thing. Sometimes she talks to him. Most times, they don't talk at all when they're like this. 'Like this'... what a euphemism. When they're naked together. When they're touching each other. When they can't stop kissing. When they're fucking.
But he mutters all these things to her about what he wants, and about what he likes, and she can't think of anything else but getting more of his body against hers. Getting more of his touch. Every time some new low, rough phrase shudders from his lips into her mind she feels lit up. Stars come to life just underneath her skin. Fires burn through the blood in her veins, searing her from inside. Wraps her arms tighter around him, kisses him more deeply. Harder.
Kissing him like that, when he pushes that first finger into her, slowly. Her hand tightens on his shoulder; her lips all but bite at his mouth. She makes this sound: some heavy consonant, some almost-moan, mostly-whimper. Presses closer to him, her body to his. Told her to turn around so he could see her eyes but those are closed. Her face is near to his. She has her hand on his face now, his deceptively elegant jawline, as though he might try to stop kissing her if she doesn't hold him. As though he might move away from her if she doesn't kiss him. Might vanish.
Won't, though. He's not going anywhere that takes him away from this. Or her. He's promised. And not just because he loves her cunt. Loves how she fucks. Which is funny, though only dimly and only in the very back of her mind. She wasn't aware there was anything special about how she fucks, except perhaps in how much she wants him. Doesn't say that though. Can't say anything.
Makes her gasp a little, though, soft mouth trailing over his cheek, his jaw, his neck. She's working herself on his hand a little; water is choppy from the way she moves, water laps against the sides of the tub. The heat is making her sweat: heat of the bath, her arousal, his body. Lifts her face from his mouth, his neck, balanced against him, half-turned towards him, opening her eyes to meet his. Finally gets to see her like that, but she's watching him as much as he's watching her now. She looks rapt, trancelike, at once transcending the moment and deeply focused within it. Looks at him, and watches him, feeling as though right now her body is made up of pleasure and desire, heat and hunger.
"Rafa," she murmurs, her voice writhing a little with longing. With need.
wolfmanSomething about this is so hypnotic. Rhythm they set. Rush of their breath. Her mouth moving loose and exact over his. Her hand on his jaw, holding him there -- his hand between her legs, fucking her slow and grinding.
Something about this is so addictive. Something about the way she looks; eyes closed, those dark dark lashes swept down to her cheek. Freckles; whoever knew wolf'd be the sort to be so disarmed by such a little thing. Soft mouth, soft lips, hard kisses, and her hands grasping at his shoulder, spreading over his face.
And her eyes, opening to meet his. And her body, tightening, rising, rubbing against his. Soft little gasp she makes. Soft little way she says his voice; soft but tight, wet, and now he's thinking of her cunt instead. Lifts his face to hers, bites a kiss back onto her mouth. Kisses his way down her neck, her collarbones; lifts her half out of the water with his arm tight around her, his hand still touching her that way. Now his mouth on her breasts. Now his mouth on her nipples, suckling one and then the other, licking, lapping, tracing.
Has her cradled between his arm and his thigh now. Has her half-lifted, half-weightless, while he works her over slow and deliberate. Mutters some low wordless sound against her skin, those gorgeous breasts. Rubs his face against her, can't help it, even if he's rough-jawed and scratchy and -- lifting his head again. Kissing her, swallowing his name off her lips.
"Shh," murmuring. "Let me. Just let me make you feel good."
witchThe world is narrowing. The larger the knowledge, the harder it is to hold onto. This is the truth of a trance: to be so intimately and inexorably present in the moment that you feel paradoxically as though you have transcended it.
Devon cannot remember what world she is a part of. The name and composition of her species escapes her. This country, this state, the presence of mountains, the time of year -- it all flies away. She does not recall what she was doing today. She does not know how she came to be here, only that she is here, and she cannot tell what is water and what is sweat on her skin or Rafael's.
That murmur of his name was the last memory she has of that name. She thinks of him as my lover, as though that is not what he has been reduced to but some calling he has fulfilled. She kisses him in that fullness, moaning now into his mouth as he shushes her, coaxes her, assures her. This is what lovers do.
Her lover lifts her body and kisses her breasts; her oils make the water taste better, somehow. Sweet: makes her nipples taste like fucking marzipan. Sounds she's making as he licks her, savors her: it's a song, in some language, some folk dance from some forgotten time. It has that rhythm. It has that familiarity coupled with startling novelty: a new friend dancing an old dance. An old friend dancing an old dance, meeting your eyes in the midst of it in some new way. Old friend, old dance, old music, old glances -- and a new feeling inside you, all the same.
Devon's body is squirming. She is turning toward him, god if that doesn't make it awkward, the twist of his wrist, the press of his hand. But she opens her legs and the water laps higher at the sides of the tub, as though it were as hungry for porcelain as he is for her. Straddles him in the tub, panting out some sound that would be a word, and that word might be no, but she never really says anything. She reaches for him, and she guides him, and she is sinking down on him without thinking. Her other hand is on his jaw, holding him there to kiss him even as she's taking him. Kisses him hard enough, firmly enough to tip his head back towards the tile, but so slowly.
Nothing else is slow. Once she has him she is taking him, inch by inch, without giving him a heartbeat or a breath in between, and when she has him she is riding him, without so much as a moment to simply live in her, feel her. Makes that sound again: soft and tight and wet. Water indulges its dreams of being an ocean by casting miniature tidal waves over the side of the tub, flooding and trickling down to the bathmat. Devon's hands run up his sides, his chest, her touch demanding. Possessive. Claiming. Mine, and mine, and mine, her palms are saying, roaming upward until she wraps herself around him, loosing a soft groan of satisfaction into his mouth.
Feels like being pulled into the water by a siren, drowning, and glad of it.
wolfmanWolf's hand slips aside as girl turns. Pivots in the circle of his arm, awkward-graceful, those long limbs, that buoyancy of water. Wolf's hands grip the side of the tub, fingers splayed on slick porcelain, as girl climbs over him. Straddles him, takes him in hand, slides him into her.
Wolf's head falls back, which is fine because she's kissing him, pushing his head back anyway. Wolf kisses her back hungrily, furiously, silently, as girl's hands rush up his skin. Know him, mark him, claim him: all the muscle and bone, heat and blood, scars and strength.
Girl pulls him into her. Holds him there, wraps her arms around him. Clings to him like seaweed to the drowning sailor, and he's glad to drown in her. Siren; sorceress. Witch. Wolf gives a soft groan into her mouth, echoing hers. Takes his hands off that steadying tub and wraps her up in his crushing arms again, holds her as she starts to ride him.
Choppy waters all around. A miniature ocean. The proverbial tempest, teapot. Wolf's eyes open and watch her, glinting and wolfish and green. Has this subtle little frown on his face, not anger or displeasure but a sort of -- consternation, as though it's hard to believe how he can feel this way. How she can make him feel this way. How she can exist at all. She rises and she falls, her tits bounce, his hands push them up. Hold her tits in his palms while he leans forward, sucks at her nipples. Kisses her over her heart. Lifts his face and kisses her mouth, again, brow furrowing into it, leans back, leans her weight forward onto him. Their bodies slide together. Her cunt grips his cock. His hands grip her ass. Wolf breathes in short, strained rushes, nearly grunts -- nostrils flared, jaw set. They've hardly started fucking
(they've been fucking since she slid into the tub with him)
and he's already on the edge of it, close, crackling with pleasure.
witchSometimes this is all she wants in the world.
She thinks that, and knows even so it can't possibly be true, but right now it is: sometimes all she wants is for him to fuck her. Sometimes all she wants is to fuck him. So she does: decisively, hungrily, she takes him and starts fucking him. They slosh water on the tiled floor of his bathroom. She wants to tell him things that she at once has no right to say and has no bravery to say; she wants to tell him how he makes her feel but there are no words for it.
Devon kisses him instead. She holds his hands to her breast, her heart, and she kisses him as like to steal his breath, but she says nothing of how he makes her feel. Remember: she cannot remember their names. She cannot remember how they came to be here, or like this. All she knows is that right now, this moment, she cannot stop. She fucks him earnestly and honestly; she bows her head and rests it against his cheek and his throat, panting against his jugular.
He told her he just wanted her to let him make her feel good. She wants to tell him that he almost always makes her feel good. She cannot say anything at all; she kisses his throat and whimpers his name, though she can't remember what that name is.
Rides him harder.
wolfmanCould call this a mindless, animal fuck. Could say they're going at each other like wild beasts, thoughtless, careless. Isn't true, though. Matters that it's her, and it's him. Even if they've forgotten one another's names, don't have names to give to each other, he knows who she is. She knows who he is.
Can feel it. Body to body. Pulse to pulse.
Girl has her hands on his. Holds his hands on her body. Guides his touch: here. Here. Her heart, her breasts, the seat of her pulse. Her mouth on his, pulling kiss after kiss from him; breath after breath. Wolf is panting as she rides him, and it's so fucking intense, it's so fucking real, and raw, and vivid, that the impression of her sears itself into him.
--
There's no warning when it hits. Orgasm comes out of nowhere; lights off his spinal cord like a fuse. Snaps his head back, clenches his hands on her body, tightens his muscles, stopping his breath. Girl's riding him through it, pulling him through catastrophe, cataclysm, an utter falling-apart until
he's breathing again. Alive again. Panting, shuddering, kissing her mouth or biting her mouth or biting her shoulder, something. Letting out those growls, primordial and primitive, wordless but certainly not meaningless.
Loosens his hands. Rubs his palms up and down her back. Folds her close, close. Makes her be still, at last, when he can't take it anymore.
witchEven when she starts fucking him harder, Devon isn't quite going at Rafael like a beast. Not fucking him faster: isn't careless. Every firm slide has that trancelike control, that implacable rhythm of her body. She is drunk on him. Her lips cover her teeth, even if he sinks his into her. She gets him touching her and then she wraps herself around him, and the floor gets wet and the bathmat gets saturated but that's what he has a maid for.
Truth be told, she isn't close when he comes. She's kissing him, fucking him the way she does and the way she does is so good that his head knocks back, his hands clutch at her, and she watches the way his face pulls, the way he looks when he comes, the reverence of it, the agony, the release. She waits for him, rides him through it, until he's gasping, kissing her, pulling her nearer. Devon kisses him right back as he's growling, snarling, coming into her.
She slows a little, eyes opening, as he's coming down. Lets him draw her in and hold her. Doesn't need to be made to do anything. She suddenly very much does not want to be in the bathtub anymore, but she doesn't say anything until she stops feeling his heart all but hammering through his chest against her breasts.
Kisses the side of his jaw, tenderly. He's still catching his breath but not panting anymore. She nuzzles, just a little, and lifts her head. Turns a big, twisting, leaning back, and wordlessly pulls the plug on the drain. Turns back to him, leaning against his chest.
wolfmanTub starts draining. Silently at first; then noisily as that miniature whirlpool forms. Sound of it opens wolf's eyes. Still looks a little dazed.
"Still gotta wash," he murmurs. And girl leans against him. And wolf's hands drift lazily, heavily over her body.
He knows she didn't come. Knows she's said it before: don't worry, don't freak out. Wolf doesn't freak out, but wolf thinks about it, mulling on it, gnawing on it thoughtfully. After a while he nuzzles her behind her ear.
"Been a while," he says. Explanatory. Maybe apologetic.
witchDevon gives him a wry little smirk at his gotta wash. Like that matters. She'll leave the oils on her skin, the scent of almonds and vanilla and Rafael's sweat. She gives him a soft little kiss as he tries touching her, running wet hands over her wet body. Water descends around them, leaves their flesh warm but ready to be cooled by the dry, conditioned air.
What he says isn't a freakout. He doesn't fuss or keen or buckle down: time to get her off. That little focused furrow between his brows, that insistence that this is next, this is what has to happen. Takes all the pleasure out of it, almost, treating her pussy like a box to be checked off on a list.
She nuzzles him, hugging him, and he nuzzles her, saying that bit. Sort of apologetic. Seeing her started getting him hard. Touching her made him hungry. Feeling her like that, taking him the way she did. He could barely stand it. He couldn't stand it for long.
Truth is, she's not sure what to say to that. That he didn't ask for her, maybe. Could explain: they got back from Brazil and she started bleeding and wasn't interested right then. So she says nothing. Her cunt makes a few involuntary attempts at squeezing him, as though her body can't quite understand what's happened, why they stopped. She tries to just drowse. Remains silent.
wolfmanThat silence confuses him. Doesn't quite know what it means, that she pulled the plug and drained the tub; that she's still wrapped around him. That he's still inside her.
After a while he kisses her again. Her shoulder this time. Soft little slope between the neck and the acromion; that gentle bank above the slope of her collarbone. Wolf stirs a little beneath her, urging her -- what? to move? to get up? to look at him, maybe.
Quiet: "You okay?"
witchIf he means to urge her to anything she doesn't know what it is. Rises and moves a bit with his nudging but just resettles when he's done.
She huffs a little sound, a breath. "It's stupid."
wolfmanWolf is baffled.
"What?"
witchDevon is so fond of him. It rips through her, leaves marks that feel irreparable. And this makes her afraid of him and makes her angry with him, that he could stir her to feel something that hurts so much and is more addictive than coffee, cigarettes, anything she's tried. At least with drugs she hasn't quite ever felt like they're a part of her, and that losing them would change her entirely.
And she is so very fond of him that instead of getting irritated by his post-coital confusion, it just makes her nestle closer to him, snuggle further into his warmth. This appalls her a bit.
"Just... wish we'd come together. That's all."
It's stupid, she said.
wolfmanTub's only half-full now. Waterline sinking past his ribs one by one. Passing her waist. Passing his knees. Wolf's quiet a while. Then a shake of his head, slow. Again, quicker.
"Me too."
Wet skin cools faster. Those parts of them exposed to the air feel cold and bare. Wolf puts his hands on girl's back. Covers her with his palms. Keeps her front warm, at least, with the heat of his torso.
"I'm sorry."
witchHe wants to keep her warm. So he does. And she lets him, because she's so achingly fond of him and because when he told her he loved her cunt and loved how she fucks her thoughts spiraled in a dozen directions and all of them inflamed her and all of them startled her and all of them frightened her and all of them filled her with longing.
Devon breathes with him as the water caresses her calves on its way down. The porcelain begins to hit her knees harder. Would seem imperceptible, except she does notice it. The water leaves, and their buoyancy with it. Their weight falls; gravity reclaims them.
"Let's get out," she says, uncomfortable with his apology, not sure what to say to it. "It's cold."
wolfman"Yeah,"
and like her suggestion flips a switch, he moves. Lifts her, drawing a breath between his teeth. Slides her off his cock and propels her to her feet, holding her hand as she climbs out. Gets out after her, dripping, careful not to slip on the wet tile, the sopping bathmat.
Stands there a moment. Touches her, hands on her shoulders, without saying anything. Without having much to say. Nods to the shower, then --
"Let's get cleaned up. Go to bed." Pause. Awkward, "Go again there, if you want."
witchWeird, how all that oiled sweet-smelling warmth turns to a strange clamminess after. Water has drained and she feels a bit... gross. And hesitates and stands and remembers how much smaller she is than him. And exhales.
He puts his hands on her shoulders. She looks up at him.
Her brow wrinkles and she gives him the weirdest look. Doesn't even know what to say. She licks her lips, turns to head for the shower cubicle in his bathroom. Says, somewhat muttered: "Don't make a thing of it."
wolfmanWolf frowns -- stung by that. Which in turn makes him angry: to be so sensitive. To be so weak as to be so sensitive. Girl steps into the shower and wolf lingers outside, unwilling to follow, to crowd, to be rejected.
Picks the sopping bath mat up instead. Wrings it out over the tub and then slings it over the side with a wet, heavy smack. Sits on the edge of the tub, then, waiting his turn in the shower.
witchShe hesitates outside the shower: turns on the water, waits to feel it warm. Steps in, leaving the door open, but he doesn't come after.
Notices that. He isn't keeping half an inch from her. Which he has, at times. Especially after fucking her. Especially when he's feeling... whatever it is he feels for her, sometimes.
She doesn't think he feels whatever-that-is for her all the time.
Devon doesn't want to glance at him. So she looks down, and after a second she just reaches out and closes -- slams -- the shower door.
Fuck that guy anyway.
--
Devon washes quickly. Holds her thick hair back so only bits of it get damp. Gives her face a rinse. Washes between her legs. Didn't feel bad before but feels bad now. Feels dirty now and she's annoyed by that. She's confused by that. She doesn't take more than three, four minutes at most in there. Cranks off the water and gets out, grabs a towel, is wrapping it around herself as she walks out of the bathroom entirely.
wolfmanDoor SLAMS.
Heavy door, too. Shower is a glass box, spacious and standalone, but that doesn't mean it's flimsy. It's quality. Sturdy. There are frosted patterns on the glass, giving some modicum of modesty to the shower's inhabitant.
Water blasts on. That's quality too. Dual showerheads, one a detachable handheld, the other a drenching overhead rainshower. Great pressure. Hot water. Girl only spends a few minutes in there but it's more than enough to be clean and warmed through.
Door opens. Wolf stands up, walks toward her, but she doesn't even look at him. Or maybe she does: a single blazing flash of her eyes. She walks out of the bathroom. He stares after her, eyebrows coming together, down.
He slams the shower door too.
--
In there for a little longer than she is. Washes his head and washes his body, washes his hands and feet. Stands under that rainfall, eyes closed, letting the water wash every speck of dirt from his skin.
Water cranks off ten minutes later. Wolf gets out, leaving wet footprints on the floor. Whips a towel around his waist and comes out of the bathroom himself, looking for girl.
witchDoesn't look at him. Too manipulative, she thinks. To vulnerable, really.
No scent of almonds and vanilla behind her. No scent at all. Not on his body. Not lingering. Maybe a bit in the bathtub, fully drained: the fibers of the bathmat, maybe. She's gone. She's always gone, moments after. She barely even existed. Maybe she left. Maybe she was never here: the second room is a study, the second room is a storage closet, the second room is empty. He imagined the last few months, the fever dream of Brazil, the sound of her voice, the color of her eyes. Her existence is wrapped in the pain of her leaving him, the pain of discovering she never was.
Shake it off. There is a towel missing. The room smells like an oil she creates. There was a long dark hair in his shower, for fuck's sake. He knows she's real.
--
Devon leaves his bathroom while he's showering and door-slamming. She doesn't want to go to his bed, he's so fucking -- whatever he is. She walks down the hall and goes to the other room and like every time she wants to leave. Throw her shit in a duffel back and get out before he comes looking for her. She doesn't think of it as punishment. She just wants to run away. She doesn't know what else to do.
So he comes out of the shower and by then she's sitting on the edge of her bed, curled up. Wrapped in a towel, heels resting where the mattress tucks into the bedframe. Leans her chest against her knees. Closes her eyes. Feels so tired. She's felt so tired since all those people in Skyline Park coming at her, wanting her to tell them things they would know already if they could just look at themselves more honestly.
wolfmanWolf's angry when he comes out of his room. That's how he reacts to things that scare him and hurt him: he gets angry. Can't blame him for that; it's literally hardwired. It's how Gaia made him. He's a Full-Moon. He has to be made that way, or else he'd never have survived even a minute of the life he was made for.
Doesn't mean he's nothing but anger, though. Doesn't mean he's nothing but rage and brutality and hardness. If that were the case -- well; then he'd never have gotten tangled up in the girl at all. Never would've taken her in, never would've even talked to her.
So he comes out of his room. Footsteps heavy on the hallway floor, thudding across. Stops when he sees her. Frowning, staring. Sighing then, a sudden rush of an exhale.
Comes over. Stands over her a second. Then sits beside her, thumping down, bare feet and bare chest and bare knuckles on those crushing hands. Sits next to girl a moment, saying nothing, doing nothing.
Then he raises his arm, puts it around her. Pulls her against his side. Still doesn't say anything. Doesn't even look at her. Too vulnerable, really.
witchWhen in doubt, rage.
And there is so much doubt in life.
No wonder Ahrouns don't live very long.
--
Her door is closed. Almost entirely. Open a thin crack. He pushes it open; has to, in order to see her. She looks up, her hair tousled and mostly dry still. Is frowning at him, uncomfortable and angry at him for her discomfort. She's so tired. She was so turned on. She felt so close. She doesn't usually feel upset when --
but she did, and she does, and she doesn't want to feel like a checkbox and she doesn't want the first time they have sex in weeks to be like this but it is and her lower eyelids are reddened but she isn't crying. She looks away from him as he comes over and she tightens up on herself as he sits down beside her.
Harder -- tenses harder, tighter -- when he wraps her up.
"Stop it," she mutters, tugging away. Leaning away.
wolfmanSo he doesn't put his arm around her.
He starts to. She pulls away. He pulls back. Wolf's silence is tense, terrible. Then all of a sudden his palm slams against the floor -- he pushes himself to his feet.
Only takes a few steps to get to her door. Only takes a couple motions to pull it open, pull it closed. Wolf walks out without a glance back.
witchIf her anger were greater she might chase him down. Snap at him that he's such a baby, what the fuck is his problem anyway, and so on. But her anger isn't greater than her discomfort. Her will is sapped. She had enough to get home, to warm up, to decide that she wanted to feel him. Be close to him. Have sex with him.
Devon doesn't have much left. She doesn't flinch because she's too tightened up anyway. She doesn't follow him with her eyes or look up when he leaves. She presses her lips bruisingly hard together and swallows, forcefully. Gets up, robotic, and unwraps her towel and drops it. Finds her pajamas ands puts them on: the shorts, the little tank top.
She gives her teeth a cursory brushing. And crawls into bed, burrowing under the covers to curl up and wait for sleep.
Comes sooner than she expected.
