when you stopped being 87% asshole.

Devon Paredes

Barely enough time for her to find a dress, even with Franklin taking care of driving and parking. She's scouring racks somewhere with a bagel stuffed in her mouth because it counts for lunch somehow. No time for a visit to the salon to get her nails and hair done, and most places near her don't have any openings anyway.

So at home with the dress she cleans and re-does her own nails. She does her own hair along with her own makeup. She wears the same shoes she wore to the gala-thing at the art museum, and barely remembers to brush her teeth before there is a notification on her phone chiming, blinking at her, telling her that her boyfriend is downstairs.

One day one of his servants is going to politely ask something like what sort of flowers would you like to present to Ms. Paredes when you fetch her? and Rafael will possibly be confused to start with. But these servants are not like James, all disappointment and aggravation and judgement. But damned if they're going to stand around working for a boor who has no manners.

Chances are even if he did show up at her doorstep with a bouquet, Devon would be just as confused as Rafael.

She smiles when she gets his text. BRD her response says, which he's left to interpret.

--

A few minutes later the front door of the building opens, and Devon walks out. The evenings are still cool, even though the temperature during the day is reaching the seventies, even warmer at times. All the same, it's not winter. She doesn't wear a wrap or shawl or coat, just carries a flat clutch in soft pink, walking on those tottering heels. Her hair is smoothed and straightened out, her eye makeup light -- for Devon -- but winging slightly at the corners still, dark shadow on her eyelids still. Wind blows her hair; she rather casually runs her fingers through it, sweeping it off her face as she approaches the car.

Gets in, when Rafael or Franklin opens the door for her. Smiles at Rafael when she gets into the back and they're both seated, about to be off. She smells like jasmine and, faintly, of vanilla, a hint of something peppery. Slips her hand between their bodies, running it up his forearm. Laying their hands palm to palm, lacing their fingers. Holding his hand.

Rafael van der Valk

Wolf wanted to ride his motorcycle.

Nights are getting warmer. Roads aren't icy anymore. Bike's been locked up most of the winter and he misses it. But there was something about what the wind would do to his jacket, and what dirt off the road would do to his pants, and what helmets would do to girl's hair.

So it's the car and the driver. One of the cars, anyway; the black extended Cadillac, which is the low-key one because the other chauffeured car is parked at the mansion with a goddamn winged lady on the hood. Driver's the same one, though, discreet and uniformed and gloved. Took girl shopping this afternoon, deferential and non-communicative unless spoken to. Doesn't ask her how she's doing. Doesn't comment that it's nice to see her and the wolf getting along better.

Doesn't open the door for girl right now either, but only because wolf's waiting on the curb for her. He's playing with his phone. He looks up when the door to her building opens, and surely it's the second or third time he's done that already but this time the sight of her straightens him up. She can see his eyes flicking over her, gleaming with interest. She looks so fucking good to him. Well; to everyone, really. But definitely to him.

He opens the door for her. And then he piles in after her instead of walking around to the other side. Door shuts and they're in a quiet, leathery world. Girl takes his hand and he leans across, kisses her.

"You're gorgeous," he says, blunt.

Devon Paredes

This time it's at least a little more subtle than pushing up the partition and telling her he wants to fuck her. Right now. It's romantic. Kissing her, telling her she's gorgeous. It's blunt, but it's honest, and there's no avoiding: it really is romantic.

Devon doesn't blush, but her smile implies it. She tucks hair behind her ear. "Like the way you look, too," she says, the compliment about as awkward as his.

Rafael van der Valk

"You just like that I shaved," wolf retorts with a smirk.

Devon Paredes

"No," she says, looking up and over at him, holding his hand between their thighs still. "Always like how you look."

Rafael van der Valk

That's sincere too. And blunt. And honest. And it doesn't make wolf blush, but it does make him look away briefly -- as though the nakedness of her truth almost makes him shy.

Looks back soon enough, though. His eyes rove her face. Then he leans over again, his shoulder pressing solid and heavy right through his coat, right against her arm. He kisses her again.

Then his arm settles around her. Little by little some things are starting to come natural to him. See the thoughtless way he flicks open the button on his jacket to accommodate the stretch. See how easily he settles back in the luxurious back seat, extending his legs across the ample space.

Devon Paredes

Firing James -- and others. Hiring servants of his own. Distancing himself from his bitter brother. Looking, right now, less scowly about having to go to one of these things. Taking pragmatic advantage of his ability to fly, drive, go wherever he likes, whenever he likes. The unshy ease of letting his girlfriend use his card to prepare herself to be his arm candy. Taking up space in this car.

That's not really what it's all about. The advantages, the luxury. But she sees his embarrassment leeching away, his shame in himself and in his unexpected wealth. Devon thinks this, and leans against him, under his arm, no longer holding his hand but resting her own on his thigh.

Frankling drives. Devon hums idly to herself on the way, touching his leg.

Her stomach growls.

Rafael van der Valk

Wolf hears it. Finds himself caught between amusement and sympathy. Covers her hand with his, thumb and fingers curling under her palm.

"Pretty good food at these things usually," he says. "Sit in the back and you don't even have to stop for the speeches."

--

Not a long drive, but then this close to downtown nothing's a long drive. Turns out the 'thing' is at Shanahan's. Stylish contemporary steakhouse; glass and granite on the outside, hardwood and low leather chairs on the inside giving a touch of older class. Whole restaurant's a private party tonight, the drive discreetly cordoned off, doormen checking against guest lists. Inside the well-heeled mingle at the open bar or find their placecards. The party spills out onto the terrace. There are live musicians. No one's dancing yet.

Car pulls up and Franklin opens the door. Wolf gets out first; has the good grace this time to hold his hand out for girl's. Plenty of little black dresses tonight, a couple red; almost no one in white. Girl turns heads, draws eyes. Couple of cameras flash their way. Guests arriving.

Wolf wraps his hand around hers. He stares straight past the receiving line, walks straight in. No one stops him to check his ID against a guest list. Maybe he's getting used to that, too.

Devon

"Good steaks," she says musingly, echoing his promise in his text. His cajoling. His coaxing, to get her to come with her to one of these dinner things. She leans against him, hand covered, and enjoys the silence on the way to the charity event. Which is weird to think about: what she's wearing. Where she's going. With whom. She knows she got here somewhere. She can't always remember how.

--

Not gala. There's only a couple of photographers, and they're a little bored by the assignment, but a gig's a gig. They mostly do freelance. The setting is intimate; the guest list includes only those who can be counted upon for the most heartfelt donations, so: those with deep pockets.

Devon isn't thinking about that, analyzing the situation like that. She's helped out of the car, standing up next to him, much shorter. A frown flashes onto her face seconds after the camera's bulb. She goes inside with Rafael, roughly as uncomfortable as he is with being looked at, scrutinized. Doesn't care what they think, she says. Used to not having much notice taken, though. Not being the center of attention.

Inside they don't go straight for their table, because Devon spots someone milling around with a tray of crostini with goat cheese, strawberries, and balsamic drizzles. She pops off immediately to get some, most likely dragging Rafael with her. Only when she has a snack in hand and a bite in the mouth does she peer up at him, questioning what he'd like to do first.

She doesn't think he'll suggest they mingle.

Rafael

Girl did say she was hungry. Proves it the minute they're in the door. Beelines for the food. Wolf follows. Maybe once upon a time his mother would have mingled. Had people coming to chitchat; humans who recognized her, gravitated to her name and her money and her raw, burning charisma. His half-brother would probably mingle. Definitely would.

Wolf grabs a miniskewer of diced filet mignon off one of the circulating plates. Grabs three. Picks up a glass of something-red, too, and then girl's looking to him to see where next and he's got a bite of beef in mouth. Shrugs his shoulders under that fine coat.

"Find our seats I guess," he says. "Or eat appetizers 'til they start dinner."

Devon

Of course this place would serve tiny bites of filet mignon on sticks before actually serving filet mignon on plates. Of course.

Devon eats her bit of toast, mouth full and lips closed. She has white wine -- there was a tray, and some full-mouthed pointing, and then she had a glass of chilled white wine in her hand -- and uses the glass to point to a table near the back, like he said. Swallows her toast, looking up at him. "We should get drunk back there," she whispers.

Sips her wine. "Full-on smashed." Takes one of his filet mignon skewers and tears into the bite-sized bit of beef with her small white teeth. Sinner: white wine and filet mignon. Sinner, harlot, sorceress. "Do y'think they have tequila here?"

Rafael

"Probably. If you ask for it." Wolf watches her eat. Something about it strikes him deep inside; a sensation not quite lust but close. On impulse he moves toward her, slides his arm around her waist, takes her toward their table in the back. Their names aren't on it but they aren't the type to care.

"Might get kicked out," he adds musingly. "Never had that happen yet."

Devon

"Oi," she says, warningly, when his sudden affection makes her wine slosh a bit in her glass. He can hug and love on her all he wants as long as he doesn't spill her liquor, apparently. She doesn't mean it, though. She is snuggling a little into his arm while she chews her steak, amiable about being guided around to the back table. Someone else will end up sitting where their placecards are; better seats anyway.

He mentions getting kicked out. "Fucked in a gallery and didn't get kicked out," she reminds him, not entirely quiet enough. "What did you have in mind?"

Rafael

Some passing rich guy's head turns -- he's not sure quite what he heard from that passing couple, attractive and young and with a distinct air of not-quite-belonging. Wolf and girl walk on; wolf shakes his head.

"Nah. Just meant we might get tossed out if we get roaring drunk in the back."

At the table his arm unwinds from her waist. He plucks two placecards up at random, sets them up on a nearby decorative wall. Takes those now-unmarked seats instead: actually has the presence of mind to pull one out for the girl. Drags his chair over a little closer to hers before he drops down; drapes his arm over back of her seat.

"Anyway that was different, in the gallery. Was dark. Nobody knew."

Devon

It's kind to say they have an air of not-quite-belonging: they stick out like sore thumbs. She's too young. So is Rafael, really. He's too rough, his hands in particular. His manner. The way he chews. The way several people heard her say Oi unironically. Moreover, there's his rage. There's her... weirdness. No other way to put it, really. Even the way she looks at the world around her reflects in her eyes, and it's a bit savage, and it's otherworldly, and it's not at all familiar.

She tuts him, as he unwinds his arm from her waist. She finishes her first glass of wine, as well as her toast-bit and the steak-bite she stole from him. He pulls out her chair and Devon blinks at first; she wasn't quite expecting that. Naturally he doesn't wait for her to sit, then tuck her in. She doesn't mind; that part always weirded her out anyway. But she sits down, all ladylike and everything, and pulls her own chair in. Rafael sits close. She flags down a waiter to get another glass of something.

Turns back to him.

"Dark back here, too," she tells him, though it's not quite true. It's dim. People would definitely know, even if it was just a handy under the tablecloth. Especially if he bucked and growled the way he does, if she gasped and whimpered as she's prone to do.

Rafael

Wolf slides a glance her way, brief.

"Don't tempt."

Devon

Eyebrows up. She looks at him for a moment. Then drags her eyes, slowly, down his body until it is lost to shadow. Flicks them back up, meeting his eyes again.

Wine comes. She takes the glass and takes a drink.

Rafael

Girl looks wolf up and down. Eyes like an elevator, as they say: down to the floor and up again. Wolf meets the regard when it comes back to his, eyes level.

Wine comes. Girl drinks. Wolf is still watching her. Girl puts glass down and wolf catches her hand as it withdraws. Stands up, her hand in his; starts walking off toward the short hallway into the bathrooms.

Devon

For Devon, things just get quiet. She smirks a little to herself as she sips her wine. Well, drinks it: she takes mouthfuls. It's good wine; she doesn't savor it, though. Fucking Fianna.

Her glass sets down and a moment later Rafael is taking that hand. She turns to him to smile, curling her fingers into that shared warmth from his palm, but Rafael is standing up, drawing her with him, looking of a mind to head off in some direction she doesn't know: she's never been here before.

Devon laughs. She tugs his hand back towards her, and failing that, wriggles her hand from his if necessary. Wants him to come back, though, and come near, where she can tuck into his side and nuzzle her brow against his and tell him softly:

"Babe, no," with that rich ribbon of amusement sewn in the hem of her voice. Kisses him, if he's near again. Close enough to. "Not yet."

Because she wants to. She always wants him.

"I'm hungry," Devon reminds him, that smile wide and sly and lopsided.

Rafael

Already up out of his seat. Tall and dark and, yes, handsome: and wolfish. Out of place with those muscles, that body packed into that suit; out of place with the blaze in his eyes. He looks at her. He looks at the corridor to the restrooms. A moment's indecision and then he sits again, left hand undoing his coat button again -- that growing ease.

Still has her hand in his. Hunts for one of those circulating waiters. Beckons him over with a brief, two-fingered raise of the hand. Takes food off the platter for the girl: filet-skewers, thin-sliced roast on tiny crusts of bread, wine sauce-drizzled shellfish, cubes of cheese all piled on her plate.

Other guests are joining their table. Unfortunates relegated to the outskirts of the event, peering curiously at the placecard-less young couple apparently preparing to gorge themselves on appetizers.

Devon

Already up. Moving away. Even looks down the hall, as though with longing, with consideration of how much better that would be than sitting around not having sex, before he sits again. Sits again and finds her close, snuggling in a way he probably never imagined when he first saw her, met her, spoke to her, snapped a cigarette out of her mouth, saved her life, fucked her. Little matter: she does snuggle, happily and warmly, smiling at him. He gets all the meat-and-animal-product appetizers he can find, and she grabs things like little toast-points with cucumber and cream cheese or more of those crostini with the strawberries on them.

They make themselves a miniature meal and Devon tucks into it without reservation and without pausing to share. Rafael can get in there and get his own if he wants, she thinks. She drinks more wine and looks at him, asking audacious questions that people at the table are a bit disgusted by:

"So what are you donating to this?"

Rafael

Soon enough girl discovers wolf grabbed all that food for her. She did say she was hungry, after all: and so all that meat gets put on a plate set more or less in front of her. He does help himself to another skewer, though.

And eating it, is taken off guard by her question. Flicks a glance her way, chewing. Shrugs.

"Don't know." If that doesn't increase their tablemates' disgust, the frank explanation he follows it with will: "People who manage my money decide how much to set aside for stuff like this. Some sort of complicated math to figure out how much is comes in, how much gets put away, how much goes out."

Devon

"Bet it's not that complicated," she says, in between bites. "Bet you could figure it out."

Rafael

Flicker of a smile across that so-often-forbidding mouth. Wolf takes a sip of wine; still can't tell if it's good or bad.

"Since when did you start thinking nothing but the best of me?"

Devon

Devon shrugs. Those slender shoulders, bared by her dress, freckled as the dash across her nose and cheeks. "When you stopped being eighty-seven percent asshole," she replies, and sinks her teeth into an olive on a skewer, dragging it off with those teeth, chomping it up behind closed lips.

Rafael

Hides a smile behind a loose-clenched fist, knuckles resting briefly against his upper lip. When he gets it under control he lowers his hand, picks up the wineglass again.

"Pretty high threshold. What percent am I at now?"

Devon

"Prick quotient went down that one night," she mentions, unabashed, despite the stares of their table-mates, who are fighting not to curl their lips in annoyance and disgust. "Went up a bit today with all this last-minute nonsense," she says, and eats some cheese.

And drinks some wine.

And shrugs again. "Not sure. Pretty complicated math."

Hides a smirk. Not well. Her lips purse beautifully.

Rafael

That one night, she calls it. Wolf doesn't miss a beat; he knows exactly what she means. Memory draws his eyes to her mouth. Memory makes him lick his lower lip.

They both drink wine. She complains obliquely about the short notice, and he doesn't bother to hide his smirk this time. She does. He guffaws, a short surprised blurt of a laugh.

"Think you're so clever," he says, and sets his glass down.

Devon

"I'm very clever," she retorts, flipping her hair over one shoulder.

Rafael

Wolf just leans in and kisses her. No rhyme or reason to it. A brief thing, that kiss, not lingering -- but oddly deep, oddly firm for its brevity. Pauses a moment before drawing back, his mouth warm against hers.

Then he resumes his seat, arm still slung over the back of her chair. "Like you," he says. "Lots."

Devon

Devon's lips are soft. Smell faintly of something -- sweet. Not natural, but no scent on her is her own, natural to her. Taste like she does. Taste like her wine and the steak and the strawberries and the balsamic. She kisses him back, because she loves to kiss him. Because she loves him.

And they aren't vulgar, though this isn't chaste. And for a moment the slight thunderclap of passion between them stills the glares at their table. The tenderness between them eases their tablemates into other conversations, less judgemental.

They draw back, and her eyes open again where they had briefly closed.

"Love me," she whispers. Corrects. Requests.

Rafael

Wolf's eyes flick to their audience, even though that audience -- startled by their tenderness, shamed by their love -- has moved on to other things. Eyes come back to girl, then. Study her face; color of her eyes, the threads of blue within the blue.

His big hand wraps behind her head, protective. He kisses her again, tenderly, there on the mouth. Then on the arch of her cheekbone. "Love you," he amends, very quietly.

Devon

He's going to muss her hair. No idea how long it takes to straighten it. No concept of the time that goes into making her look like she almost-very-nearly could belong to this crowd. Almost-very-nearly, because she's too young. Her eye makeup is too dark. Something about her -- call it her aura -- is too uncanny.

This time when he kisses her she kisses him back more deeply. There's passion there again, intense and uncompromising, unapologetic. She parts her lips briefly to his, flicks her tongue over his mouth. Their audience is looking at them again, put off.

And he is whispering that he loves her, close to her cheekbone, and her soot-dark lashes fall, and though her body is still she feels herself shivering. Must be her soul. Or her heart, growing, rattling the bones that keep it safe but keep it contained.

Taking a breath, Devon opens her eyes again, draws back, gives the two of them a bit of space between them.

Smiles at him.

The lights dim and rise, dim and rise, a signal that everyone who might still be mingling should find their seats and cease their conversation. Thing is, when they begin the presentation about the earthquake in Nepal, including footage of the disaster, statistics of the still-rising account of death, Devon is paying attention. Watches the videos they're showing, her brow deeply wrinkled.

Rafael

Intense and uncompromising, unapologizing. Could say the same for either of them. Their relationship. All of it. His hand is in her hair. His hand musses that careful smooth style; brings back some of those wild-tumble locks. He has both his hands on her face by the end, holding her between his hands as he kisses her. Makes their neighbors think he's going to eat her up. Makes their neighbors think they've forgotten where they are.

Her tongue touches his lips. Meets his, briefly, a darting contact. Then he's whispering to her and she's shivering in the chambers of her heart. She takes a breath and they draw apart; the lights dim on her smile.

His arm goes over her chair again. He lounges, more relaxed than he's ever been at these things, girl within his wingspan. Main speaker takes the spotlight: a young woman, dark of hair and eye, a fiery presence, a potent speaker. They show videos: aerial footage of the disaster, interviews of rescue workers, harrowed survivors. They show pictures. They show statistics and numbers, the human toll accounted in dollars and cents and lives. What has been lost, what needs to be given.

Wolf stops eating somewhere in the middle of the presentation. Perhaps when he notices girl's stillness, her furrowed brow. She cares. She actually cares, and it's a realization tempered with a sort of amazement; he's so used to fighting and scrabbling for his own survival that there's no time to consider that of others.

Devon

[NOTE TO SELF: go back and correct 'math' to 'maths'. Because British.]

Devon

Both of his hands draws attention. It's so... passionate. It's intense. It's forgetful of where they are, who is around. It's a bit shameful. Luckily, there's a horrifying tragedy with an astronomical death toll to distract everyone from the couple in the back who kept kissing each other.

And it does distract Devon. She's quite still, just frowning, doesn't look overwhelmed by emotion or like she's about to burst into tears. But for her, it's affected. She shows very little to most people. Rafael is different than most, and even that is only in the past few months. He sees more of her, knows how emotional she really is. Easy to forget how aloof she can seem to others.

She isn't eating, either. She's touching his hand idly with her own, an outlet for internal tension. The presenters talk about the various ways to give and the deductions that they'll get for it, but by then people are rustling around, dessert is being served, and it seems decadent and shameful to be eating clover honey cheesecake with blueberry coulis after all that.

Devon doesn't dig in, though. She turns in her seat a bit and looks at Rafael.

Rafael

Some of these "things" he goes to are little more than expensive excuses to indulge. This one seems to mean it. There's a lot of talking. There's a lot of information and there's a lot of news. A lot of it is bad. People eat quietly throughout, and some murmur to one another. People write checks, or the modern-day equivalent thereof: wire transfers, credit card transactions.

Wolf eats, when he's done kissing the girl. Pauses sometimes to listen. Goes back to his steak, his potatoes, when hunger beckons too readily.

Clears his plate. Demolishes everything. When dessert's served he's listening again, girl's hand on his. He's studying his cheesecake when movement beside him raises his head. Wolf meets her eyes: thinks she must be trying to tell him something but he doesn't know what. Brow furrows: "What?"

Devon

Blunt as fuck, and unabashed as her kisses in front of everyone: "Think you should do this bit," she says, and points to one of the tiers on the donation sheet handed out with dessert. It's one of the corporate-style donations: funding a mobile medical team to Kathmandu. There are already such teams over there, funded by the charitable organization's funds gathered from $5 and $100 gifts from all over the place, but this is providing air transport, shelter, and supplies for a full team. It's a lot of money.

A lot of money.

Devon stares at him. Earnest. Rough, blunt as a hammer, a little on edge.

Troubled, underneath that. The rest is armor.

Rafael

Wolf folds his arms over his chest, leans forward. Brow beetles. Such a goddamn beast sometimes, heavy of shoulder and jaw, coarse, gruff. He frowns at the sheet. All the zeroes make him dizzy still. Hard to fathom how much he has now. How much his mother had, and her mother's mother, and on and back.

"Could probably do it," he says, a touch unsure. Unfolds his arms and reaches for his phone. Meets girl's eyes; tries to read that look there. "I'll text and check."

Devon

With that, Devon seems satisfied. She leans against him, tucking herself against his side and under his arm, and picks up her fork to have some cheesecake. She doesn't say a word, because he's texting someone, but that troubled ripple has eased in her eyes, and the furrow in her brow has smoothed, and she seems less tense. Less necessary to be tight, hard, rough, guarded.

Shares a bite with him after he sends the text. Her hair smells like gardenias.

Rafael

Texts quickly now, onehanded. Couple taps and swipes of his thumb and then he sets the cell down to wait for a response. Turns his face to her hair; inhales to catch that scent of spring-blooming flowers.

His phone buzzes. He glances at it. Swipes something back: ok. Picks up a pen and writes onto the donation page. His accountant's name and number under Contact. His own name under Donor. A hesitation, pen's tip bleeding against paper. Then he adds beside his own name:

Devon Paredes

Caps the pen, sets it down. Turns the sheet over and picks up his fork. Eats a couple bites of cheesecake before he asks, "Did you think I wouldn't?"

Devon

Devon doesn't see him put her name down with his for the donor part. She's leaning against him eating her cheesecake and occasionally offering him some. She's had enough wine to want to nuzzle him, but remaining firmly snuggled beside him in public seems to suffice for now. He taps and swipes and acts generally -- without quite meaning to -- like any number of the obscenely wealthy people around him.

She does tip her head and look at him when he caps the pen and finishes. She smiles, satisfied. They eat. A few bites later he asks her what he does and she sighs, but it's not a loaded, charged sigh; she isn't unhappy or anything. She just sighs. Just breathing.

"Not that," she says, thoughtfully. "Just... felt so awful, after all that. And nothing I can do about it. But you can."

She thinks a bit, savoring the coulis on the clover-honey dessert. It's so rich. She has an iron gut and she knows she's not going to finish this.

"Lots of things are like that, really."

Rafael

There's truth in that, aching and cold. Wolf feels it behind his breastbone, like a lump of ice. Wraps his arm around her and hugs to his side; tips his brow to her temple.

"You want something done," he says gruffly, "I'll do it. If I can."

Devon

Her lips purse. She almost laughs. Not cold or mocking laughter, just happy amusement at his earnestness. Maybe appreciation. Hard to tell with her sometimes, even now.

She just rests where she is with him, smiling a little, as he kisses her brow. Truth is, they both know she means more than throwing money at Nepal, or at a food bank, or any number of Good Causes. Saving the whales, the forests, the Amazon. She means the Wyrm. The thing that winds through the earth itself, gnawing at land and souls both. There is so little she can do. There is so much he was made to do.

"Love you," she mutters, under her breath, like it's unthinkable that he should hear her say it at all. Which he knows isn't the case. Her foot touches his under the tablecloth, their legs resting together.

Devon lifts a bite of cheesecake to him. Smiles that smile, which only seems aloof. Distant. Which is, ever, enigmatic.

Rafael

"Too," wolf mutters back, as though that too should be hidden, understated, unheard. His teeth flash: he takes that bite of cheesecake with a casual, subtle violence. Settles back in his seat to hear the last of the speakers. Enjoy the company of the girl.

Skinny thing.

Witch.

dinner thing. good steaks.

Rafael

Unremarkable Sunday afternoon and girl's phone pings with a text. It's from the wolf they've mutually agreed is her boyfriend. Says:

gotta go to a dinner thing tonight wanna come? 8pm

And a little later:

cocktail attire, you got anything to wear?

And finally:

good steaks

Devon

With each subsequent text it's like he's trying to convince her to go with him. Last time they went to some fancy thing together it ended awkwardly, and she was hurt and he was hurt and then they went in the mountains and they were fighting and she went away. And the fancy thing before that was maybe the second time they'd met, and she was dressed inappropriately and he was tamping down his lust for her and she was liking him in that tux and then she snarked and he snarked and he left.

They have a weird track record with Fancy Things. She knows it must be a fancy thing when she gets his first text because he says he has to go. Dinner thing. She knows it before he tells her it's cocktail attire. Tells her there will be good steak, like he can't get her good steak anytime.

Devon texts back:

sure. have that dress from before.

And a moment or two later:

let you fuck me in the car this time

Rafael

want a new dr he starts to tap but then another message comes through. Wolf reads it. He's not alone. He's getting a shave. Keeps his face still, keeps his eyes on the phone. Doesn't betray the flash of heat, straight down his back to his loins.

Moment later he texts an inane:

ok

And follows it up with:

want a new one? these ppl snark if they figure out you only have one outfit

Devon

ok he says. Where she is, Devon smirks a little, her mouth lazy and her smile sidelong. No idea that he's not alone. That he has lather on his face and a razor against his flesh. That he's trying not to show anyone around him how hard she makes him.

But then he asks her another question, and she's torn between telling him she doesn't give a single fuck if these people snark and getting new clothes, preferably clothes she couldn't normally afford on her own.

Eventually she texts back:

don't care. have lots of outfits. just not all of them are fancy.

And then:

do you want to get me a new dress?

Rafael

yeah comes the reply. And then there's a long pause, because he has to lean his head back so they can shave under his chin.

Couple minutes later:

not bc ppl snark just bc i want to

Devon

After his 'yeah' she actually texts back:

not giving me much time to shop, babe

but there's no telling if he understands that she's teasing. That she's smiling as she taps the message out.

Another, while they're still shaving him:

I'll come by, get your card

But they're talking over each other then, more or less. He tells her that he doesn't care about the snarking. So when that comes through, she answers:

know that. :)

Rafael

That little smiley makes him smile. Silly; not like it's real. Not like it's her, smiling at him. Except it is. And he doesn't even realize he's smiling back until his barber -- no, wait, his personal stylist -- draws back and waits, patient and practiced, for his expression to go neutral again.

Which it does. Wolf leans his head back, closes his eyes. Forgets to text back.

--

Done with his trim-and-shave by the time girl appears on his doorstep. Barber's departed with his fee; butler's laid out his suit, pre-knotted his tie, pre-folded his pocket square, picked out his shirt and socks, matched his cufflinks.

Butler lets girl in too. It's not James. It's someone new, younger, close to girl's age. Tall and thin and handsome in a pale, limpid way. Could easily see him in hipster glasses, a bowler hat and a scarf, but here he wears a somber, unintrusive suit. Shows her the way she already knows: up the stairs, a left at the top.

Bedroom door is halfway open. Manservant knocks anyway. Wolf is standing inside, more or less in full view, socks and boxers and an open shirt; struggling with the cufflinks. Looks over his shoulder. Grunts a thank you or a dismissal, either of which would cause the new-james to react the same way: with a bow, and with retreat.

"It's in my wallet," wolf says of his card. "On the nightstand."

Devon

Doesn't take her long; she lives in another place, sure, but she doesn't live very far away. Shows up and his face still smells like the aftershave patted onto it, hair still perfectly in place from his stylist's attentions. Devon is startled by the new-James; been a while since she's run into any of Rafael's servants, especially since he fired a bunch of them and replaced them with his own people.

So she introduces herself. Watches for signals of dismay, disgust, disdain from this one, which determines how tolerant she feels toward him. He takes her upstairs, which is weird, because she knows the way, which she tells him, but he does it anyway.

Devon's in a sundress, even though it's rainy outside. Sundress is black and has little flowers on it, white ones with pale pink accents. Tiny tiny flowers. Boots are old leather, lace-up, topped with rather thick socks slouched down around the uppers. Jacket is familiar: leather, camel colored, fur collar and cuffs. Or is that shearling. No matter.

Butler leaves. Devon doesn't tut her tongue and cross the room to help Rafael with his stupid cufflinks because first of all she isn't his dresser and second of all like she knows what a cufflink even does.

Goes over to the nightstand and thumbs through his wallet til she gets the same gold card she used to get herself a whole new outfit and a trip to the salon for that silly gala thing. Seriously, he's leaving her a matter of hours. On a Sunday. She considers wearing torn jeans and a t-shirt from Hot Topic to this dinner tonight to spite him. Hair in a ponytail.

Pockets his credit card. "What's the dinner for?"

She assumes it's some charity thing. Based on the last time, and the time before that. Based on other stuff he's said.

Rafael

Stuff in the nightstand. Wallet. Phone charging on top. Looks like he got a tablet at some point too; it's in there gathering dust. Oh and look, a very old box of condoms, rumpled and wrinkled. While girl gets his card out, wolf keeps struggling with his cufflinks. Feels like he's chasing his tail. Eventually grips one end in his teeth, wedges the other through the buttonholes on his cuffs with his free hand.

"Fundraiser," he says -- clenched teeth, blurred words, at least until he releases the cufflink, fastens it. "Earthquake or something?"

Starts buttoning his shirt, then. Comes over to her, hands busy, leaning down to kiss her -- eyes open, mouths meeting lightly. Pause. Drops the shirt buttons, wraps one hand behind her head, kisses her again. This time it's deeper. This time his eyes close.

"Have Franklin drive you," he says. "Or take my car."

Devon

Smirks when she sees the condoms. Flicks the box quickly, checks the expiration date on the side. Tosses them idly in the trash beside his bed if they really are very, very old. Gets his credit card. Runs her thumb over his full name on the thing. Her Rafa.

Glances over at him and he is using his teeth to get his cufflink on. She presses her lips together so not to laugh.

"Nepal?" she says. "That's good."

Actually sounds like she means it. Which she does. He's coming over to her, buttoning his shirt, and lust runs down through her core, pooling in her cunt, warming her. First time he kisses her she closes her eyes, wanting more. He pauses. Drops his buttons and takes her in his hand, kisses her like he means it this time. Her lips open and she kisses him back, wet and sweet, sighing softly a little bit.

Franklin. Or his car. "Franklin," she says, though she can drive just fine. Looks at him, smiling a little drowsily from the kiss.

"Could fuck now," she suggests, like she's thinking about whether or not to have dinner before or after a movie. "Then go get a dress."

Rafael

Box of very, very old condoms goes thunking into the trash. Wolf watches them go with idle interest, and then they kiss. His card in her hand: something understatedly high-end, forgotten by the time she sighs into his kiss.

Wolf's eyes skate toward the clock. They have time. Sort of. Not really. Wolf barely just got his cufflinks on and now he'll have to take them off again. There's any number of reasons not to, and then he just picks girl up by the waist. Sets her on the bed.

"Okay," he says.

Devon

She still has to buy a dress. Get her hair done. Do her makeup. He's really given her no time at all. At this rate she's just going to wear the gold and silver thing again, snarky people be damned.

But he looks at the clock, and ignores it. Picks her up, coat and boots and all, and sets her on his bed. Devon should laugh. Devon should be amused by his ready agreement.

Devon doesn't, though. His hands are on her body and it arouses her like kissing him aroused her. She shrugs out of her coat, letting her bag slide off her shoulder to the floor, starting in on the buttons of his shirt as she leans up to kiss him again.

Rafael

Wolf doesn't really care if she wears the gold and silver thing again. Wolf thought she looked fucking fantastic in the gold and silver thing. Wolf thinks she looks fucking fantastic in holey sweaters hanging off her shoulders, boots up to her knees. Wolf think she looks fucking fantastic no matter what she wears, and most particularly when she wears nothing at all, which must be why he's pushing her coat all the way away even as she's shrugging it off. She starts in on his buttons, which he hadn't even finished buttoning completely in the first place. He unzips her dress. Or unties it. Or pushes it off her shoulders.

Meets her kiss midway. Puts his hands on her back, following the fall of fabric. Helps it down. Pushes it down. Scoops her up again, hands under her ass, hands under her thighs; hugs her to his body as he tugs, pulls, yanks the sundress all the way off to fall on the floor.

Sets her down again. His shirt's undone by then. He wrestles with the cufflinks. Girl can see him getting more impatient by the second.

Devon

The sundress has buttons. A dozen or twenty tiny, girly, delicate buttons from the neckline down to the hem. She's kissing his mouth, his neck, making quick work of his half-undone shirt, when he realizes this. That her dress has buttons and her boots have laces. Maybe he pulls and tugs and maybe he tears but Devon doesn't stop him. She likes this dress but she can mend a damn button. She wants him now, though.

Coat gone. They get her buttons undone at least enough to get her wiggling out of the dress, kicking it off with her booted feet. Little bra and little panties underneath, not matching at all because one is white and one has blue stripes and she looks a little absurd with her thick, slouchy socks and old-school leather lace-ups. Not likely he notices, or cares.

Devon goes into his arms, wrapping her arms around him and -- when her dress is on the floor -- her legs, too. Kisses him harder, while he's leaning over her, fighting with his cufflinks. This time she helps him: gets his right wrist while he's working on his left. Her breath is coming faster now. His credit card is somewhere on the floor. Devon actually takes the time to yank her laces, loosen them with a hooked finger, and wiggle them off, kicking them aside.

By then his cufflinks are done, dropped heavily to the floor, and his perfectly pressed shirt is flying to the ground as well, and they work on her underthings together. Her arms bend back to unfasten her bra. His thumbs push under elastic to pull her panties down.

And they're naked, more or less. Devon's laying back on his bed, pulling him after her, trying to gasp and trying to kiss him, all while she's pushing at his boxer-briefs, struggling to get them off.

Rafael

Buttons are going to be the end of him. Buttons on his shirt. Buttons on her dress. Buttons -- or clasps, at least -- that fit his cufflinks together. At least she helps him this time. At least they work together, get this off and then that, and then that, and

then they're naked more or less. Her boots, his boxers. He's climbing onto the bed and she's sliding backward, pulling him with her, and he's meeting her kiss hungrily enough to push her down.

Door's still ajar. Wolf remembers it suddenly. Pulls back, half-turning -- "Door."

Devon

Door, he says. Pulls back his naked body from her naked body, remembering it. Remembering, perhaps, how she wanted him to get up and shut the door to their little cabin when they roadtripped, with his 'wet dick and a semi'.

Devon barely hears him. She smooths her palms up his back, gasping for his mouth. Her hands run into his hair, luxuriating in the feel of it between her fingers. Kisses him again, lush and hungry, moaning softly under him. Her thighs are open to either side of his hips. If he hasn't pushed them off completely yet, she's still working his boxers off. At least enough to get her hand around him, stroking him.

Rafael

"D--" he tries again, but then she's pulled him back to her. Down into her kiss. Down into the spread of her thighs. Skinny thing but god she's so soft, skin and flesh, cunt and mouth. He kisses her and then he loses that, too: she wraps her hand around him and he groans into her mouth. Grabs a handful of covers.

"Yeah," he breathes. Raises up a little, looks down, watches her stroke him -- brow furrowed, lips parted. Doesn't have much else to say about it. Just that barely-coherent sound of pleasure. Then he's kissing her again. Hard, hungry. Touches her aimlessly and haphazardly, finds his way somehow, slides his hand down between her legs. Strokes her as she strokes him; thrusting against her hand, then, matching one rhythm to the other without thought.

"Come on," a little later. "Come here."

Devon

C-- is about as far as he gets. Devon is kissing him, touching him, like she's on a mission. As soon as she looked at him, thought of saying that they could just fuck now -- there's been no other thought in her mind. She keeps moaning softly into his mouth, and then louder; the feel of his cock in her hand and the way he's grunting his pleasure about it makes her so wet. So be the time he's touching her, his fingers find her slick. By the time he's thrusting against her hand she's taking him, drawing him closer, drawing him into her even when he's thinking of telling her yes. now. ready. come here.

The way she moans, then, when she fits his cock into her and starts taking him. Taking him is right; she's so greedy. Her body is so demanding, her hands so eager when they move to his hips. Hard to tell if she's urging him on or making sure to slow him down; aroused as she is, still doesn't want him slamming into her like he's plowing a field. But her nails rake slightly on his flesh, blunt little things that they are: she tips her head back, groaning, rocking on top of his covers as she works herself onto his cock.

Rafael

Wolf's figured this much out. Wolf's figured out she doesn't like being rammed, slammed, plowed like a field. At least not right from the get-go. Wolf's figured out girl likes a little subtlety, likes a little softness; likes it, in short, when he treats her like a person. Like someone he loves.

Lets her take the lead. She's already doing it anyway: stroking him, guiding him, fitting him to her. Wolf bites his lip. Girl draws him in, makes that sound as her head falls back and it's almost inevitable that he puts his mouth on her skin. Kisses her throat, bites her softly at the base of her neck.

"So hot," he mutters. Kisses her again where he bit her. Bites her again where he kissed her, gripping this time.

Pushes into her then, the first little impetus he's given to this whole endeavor. A shift in his hips. A slow, firm angling that turns into something else, long and slow, a thrust that doesn't end until he's filled her, and she's taken him.

Devon

There is a good chance, bordering on certainty, that Rafael's new manservant is perfectly aware of what's going on up there. He wasn't in employ the first time, when the master of the house pulled this girl down on top of a pile of her clothes and fucked her senseless right there at the top of the stairs, and it's unlikely he's heard; the caliber of servants that Rafael has do not gossip amongst each other so obviously, or so readily. He hasn't been around on the nights when Devon visits. He doesn't know. But the door is ajar and he's just downstairs and Devon isn't being quiet at all.

She moans, and she groans, and she's making these sweet gaspy noises as Rafael fills her, as he kisses and bites her flesh in happy reunion. Anyone in the house right now knows what's going on in the master suite.

--

It takes her a moment to fully get used to Rafael inside of her. Just a moment, though, before she's fucking him, wrapping her legs tighter around his body and falling into rhythm with him, her hands pressing hard against his back, her fingers holding onto him.

Sometimes she never says a word. Other times it's just moaning, screaming. This time it's his name. His name, and the word oh, both intermittent, patternless. "Rafa," first, and "oh, Rafa, oh -- oh! Oh god, Rafa -- oh."

and so on.

And soon enough she's sweating, even, her fair cheeks flushed and her eyes opening, finding his, watching him as they come together.

Rafael

No one ever really talks about it. Wolf and girl. What they do to each other. What they mean to each other. Even wolf and girl hardly talk about it.

Everyone knows, though. Everyone figures it out, some sooner and others later. Only so many reasons for girl to keep visiting here. Only so many reasons for there to be an extra toothbrush in the bathroom. Maybe some of her things in his closet.

Only so many reasons for bed to be slept in on both sides. Sheets stripped to the floor sometimes. Only so many reasons for Franklin to be driving girl home some mornings-after.

People know. People figure it out. Wolf's new manservant figures it out right now, doing his best to keep busy downstairs. Maybe he goes polish the rims on the car. Maybe he steps outside for a pretend-smoke, which is to say: to check his texts and messages.

--

In the bedroom girl's moaning a vowel and a name and sometimes the name of a deity too. In the bedroom wolf's fucking her and she's fucking him and it accelerates, ramps up. It gets a little rough -- or perhaps the better word is enthusiastic. It gets to where she watches him and he looks at her and he's braced on his arms, up on his hands; he's fucking her with this driven, focused look on his face. She's flushed and her eyes light up every time he hits her just right.

He kisses her and bites her lip, soft, a nip; reaches down with his hand and starts working her off like that, big boorish fingers startlingly careful-delicate. Rubs her off while he fucks her, quiet except for the harsh rush of his breath, the percussive impact of their bodies together. And this, urging as she gets closer, goes higher: come on, under his breath, come on. that's it. come on.

Devon

Not just a pretty face he takes to functions sometimes because she's... what? A Fianna, and not going to be mistaken for a bride-to-be, as a kinswoman of his own tribe might be? Because she's poor and likely easy to please? Because she's diverting when he has to go to things that bore him?

Can't just be another form of hired help, either. Wouldn't sleep in his bed. Wouldn't have a toothbrush here, wouldn't have a change or two of clothes left behind from nights when they'd be scattered on the floor, washed and folded and put away by the maid. Wouldn't come over and watch Netflix and snuggle. The master of the house wouldn't sleep at her place, either.

Easy enough to figure out.

--

It gets a little rough. And enthusiastic. It gets excited and happy and fervent, though it was all of those things to begin with. She loves it when he's up on his arms like that, runs her hands up and down his biceps as though to communicate this. Licks her lip, bites it, wanting to do the same to his skin. Touches his chest, and teases his nipple, all while he's trying to focus, trying to make her come.

Devon laughs, breathy and delighted, but it turns into a melting, molten sound, her hands flattening out on his body and her head tipping back, spine arching, as he reaches down to touch her, fingering her in rhythm with the way they're fucking. She's not the only one with a mission. Clutches at him while he's muttering at her, urging her, panting for her.

"Oh, god," she cries out, squirming under him, grinding against his cock, his hand.

And it's only a matter of seconds after that. Only a matter of seconds after she holds him tighter, after her cunt grips him. All told it's minutes, minutes only, since they started in on each other's clothes, but then she's coming, moaning about it with a sound that seems crossed between pain and relief, elongating and undulating as her legs work to either side of him, her still-socked feet searching for purchase against the bedcovers. Her hips buck a little right at the end of her orgasm, her hand catching his wrist to make him stop, jesus god, even while she's still riding her pleasure out on him.

Still riding it out, kissing him, pulling him down to kiss her, moaning into his mouth something that might be come in me. oh, rafa, god, come inside me.

Rafael

Sight of her getting off sets him off. Takes him only a matter of seconds after that. Pulled down to her but he resists: wraps his arm around her and scoops her up instead, pulls her right off the bed, lifts her up on his body, perpendicular, vertical, standing. Fucks her like that, lifting and falling, planting her on his cock in two, three strokes before he seizes her in his teeth, growls against that point of contact, comes in her fast and hard and consuming.

Hard shudder at the end of that. Tipping forward then. Collapsing her back on the bed, following her, sprawling half on the edge and half off with a groan. Just... stays there for a while. Maybe she kisses him. He just hunts for his breath. Searches for it. Doesn't quite manage to catch it, at least not for a while.

Devon

A whimper, when he resists; a plaintive little noise of wanting. Why isn't he closer? Why --

she's lifted up, dizzyingly fast, and she feels like she can't quite stand what he's doing to her, how hard he is, how hypersensitive she is. She screams, but it isn't pain; it's something else entirely. Her arms wrap around him, hold him close while he's fucking her, biting down on her, snarling as he comes. So close.

Her cunt is throbbing now. She quivers a little, trembling as he collapses, carries her down to the bed with him, sprawls out. Her body clutches at his, deep clenches that feel like adoration. And Devon herself just pants, unable to kiss him anymore, at least for a couple of minutes. Catches her breath, gaining on it inch by inch by inch until she holds it, embraces it, sinks into thick fluffy covers with it.

"That was a good idea," she mutters, exhaling, several minutes later.

Rafael

She's so fucking hot. That's all wolf can think when he lifts her up, fucks her like that. She's so fucking hot: way she looks, way she wraps herself around him, way she screams, way she trembles. She's so fucking hot and he's so fucking in love with her; emotion's so powerful it becomes a need, a physical sensation.

Wolf bears her down. Wolf sprawls there and girl's body is still holding on to his like that, inside and out. Feels like adoration. Feels like nothing but itself. They're both chasing elusive breaths, elusive calm; he's not quite found it yet when she says

that was a good idea

and makes him laugh, sudden and ragged. Wolf bites her gently as a kiss. Sort of ... drags them both up the bed a little more, until only his feet are dangling off the edge.

"Yeah." He has nothing but agreement to add to that. Rolls heavily aside after a while, and now they're side by side, ceiling above, bed below.

"Maybe I'll go with you," after a while. "Get a dress, put it on in the store. Go to the thing. Like your hair like that."

Devon

Devon rolls over a little. She's limp, languid, replete; she also caught her breath before he did, also opens her eyes and can see him clearly finally. Smirks a little at his laugh. He drags them up the bed and she snuggles closer, tucks herself under his arm, and nestles to his sweaty chest.

"You'll be bored," she warns him, lightly. Lifts her head up a moment later, raising a superior brow. "Not for you to like," she adds archly, regarding her hair. "For me to like."

Leans over, kissing him gently, quickly. "Shower," she says, an announcement rather than an imperative. She's going to shower. And then shop, apparently, and get her hair done, and maybe now he won't get to fuck her in the car on the way to the dinner because as it is they might already be arriving late.

Devon scoots towards the edge of the bed.

Rafael

Wolf catches her by the hand. Reels her back, sprawling her half on his chest. Cups her face -- this touch almost delicate, when everything is has been a little rough-and-tumble today. Kisses her again.

Then he lies back, tucking a hand under his head. Smile's a little lazy, a little crooked. "See you when you get back."

Devon

"Nooo," she says, when he grabs her, reels her back in. She hasn't gone far, so she doesn't tumble terribly. He touches her face and she wrinkles up her nose and he kisses her and she sighs, softly, closing her eyes as she sinks into it.

"Love you," Devon whispers against his mouth, her eyes still closed, when they part. Opens them a moment later, gives him the same sort of smile back,

and goes to take a rapid shower.

--

Which is rapid. She comes out smelling like soap and tying her thick, now wet hair up into a big messy bun-thing. She gets clean undies from a drawer and starts dancing into her clothes again, quick as she can, buttoning up buttons and lacing up shoes and so on.

"Call Franklin for me, yeah?" she asks him, mid-lacing. "Only have a few hours now. Thanks to someone who didn't think to invite me earlier."

A stare.

He can probably guess who someone is.

Rafael

Wolf's barely moved by the time she comes back out. He's still sprawled in bed. Just tossed the edge of the sheets over his dick. Otherwise still naked, still sweaty, still looking ever so satisfied with -- well. Everything.

"Forgot I had to go to this." Rather unrepentant, too. Paws his phone out of the nightstand and dials his driver. "We'll show up fashionably late. These things never start on time anyway."

Then he's talking to his driver. Same short sentences. Shorter, really. Tells Franklin to come pick girl up. Take her shopping. He has no idea where, but Franklin knows quite well.

Devon

"Well, I don't like rushing about," Devon says, and there's a note of sincerity there. Genuine unease. She finishes lacing her boots, and twists around, planting one hand on the sheets and looking at him past her shoulder.

He tells Franklin to show up. She smirks wryly.

Grabs the sheet covering him and drags it quickly off of him.

"You wearing black?" she wants to know.

Rafael

Wolf doesn't scramble to cover up again. Just glances down, watches the sheet whisked away. Smirks at her when his eyes return to hers.

A little more serious then. Nods over at his outfit, laid out already. Pretty standard, unadventurous. Dark suit, white shirt, cufflinks, tie. "Yeah," he says, then raises up on his elbows, squints at the suit; the color. "I think so."

Devon

Devon grins. "Navy," she tells him, glancing over where he indicates. She crawls over him then, coat on and everything, and gives him a kiss. Stays close for a moment, smiling down at him with those bright, bright eyes.

"Come pick me up later, yeah?" she says. Wants to know. Requests. Touches his face like she doesn't want to leave him, tracing a finger on his freshly shaven jaw.

Gets ideas about that.

Gives him another kiss, softer than before. Heads out, audibly going downstairs to jump in the car with Franklin. And her boyfriend's credit card.

Rafael

There's a softness in her touch. It's mirrored in his eyes; her kiss. He closes his eyes for that. His mouth opens gently; the kiss is receptive.

Then they draw apart. Wolf sits up as girl starts out. "Yeah," he says, even though Franklin could just wait for her; even though it'd be easier than way. He wants to pick her up though. She wants him to pick her up. He can tell.

Girls walks out. Wolf listens to her go; smiles to himself at the sound of her boots.