my rafa. that's me.

Devon

Middle of the morning, Rafael's arm slumps against the sheets as Devon slowly moves away from him. Slowly sits up. She's shaking a little, but not terribly. She untangles her bra straps from her arms and pulls that bra out from under her shirt finally, dropping it on the floor. It was her intention to do this, drink some water, and then fall back asleep, but once it is off, everything else makes her skin crawl. So she peels out of her top, her back to her boyfriend. She lifts her hips and scoots her skirt down, and then rests for a moment.

Twisting the cap off, Devon drinks some water. Chugs it at first but then remembers to go slowly, drink slowly, but still she takes down half the bottle before she stops. Covers her face with her hands and breathes outward, then slowly gets up.

Walks not to the bathroom but out of his bedroom, in her little boyshort-panties with their lace trim. And nothing else but that false gemstone stuck to her belly. She goes carefully down the spiral staircase -- honestly, at one point she sits down and just scoots the rest of the way. And in the kitchen, she finds a banana in a bowl of fruit and sits down on the nice, cold kitchen floor to eat it, her back against the fridge.

Drinks her water and eats her banana, mostly-naked and a complete mess on the floor. It's bright outside, and not all the shades are pulled, which is why she's on the floor: the kitchen island provides a cover that gives her a bit of darkness.

When the banana is mostly done, she puts it in the garbage. She finishes her bottle of water and gets another. And she heads, slowly, back up the stairs.

Devon checks the bed to see if Rafael is still asleep, but it's just a glance. She doesn't want to wake him, so she gets out some clean pajamas from her little drawer in his room and carries them with her down the hall to the other bathroom to shower. Perhaps he hears it turn on. Perhaps he sleeps heavily through all of this. But she showers, sitting in the tub and drinking water occasionally while warm water pours down over her. Lukewarm water.

She goes to the bathroom twice: once before her shower, and once after it.

Her makeup is washed off her face. The smoke and dust is washed out of her hair. She has had a bottle and a half of water. She puts on little cotton shorts, a little tank top, and combs her hair after squeezing and scuffing as much moisture out as she can. Hard to do: her hair is so very... much.

But the lights go out and she pads back down the hall. Flips the pillow she was using over. Crawls back into bed beside Rafael, knowing that soon enough she will feel positively wretched, knowing also that she has a tiny vial in her purse downstairs that will help. Because she's a witch. Because plants listen to her, and love her, and help her when they can.

She faces him this time. Nestles close, sliding her arm over his waist beneath the covers, tucking her feet close to his, tucking herself under his chin, against his chest. She is asleep again in moments.

--

When she wakes the next time, whenever that is, spikes of pain are lancing through her skull, her stomach is wobbling like a balloon filled with something more volatile than water, and every vein in her body feels tightened up with aches. She's cloudy. She is convinced she has the flu.

Which, except for the actual presence of the virus, she essentially does.

Rafael

Morning rolls to noon. Noon rolls to afternoon.

That's when girl wakes the second time. Wolf wakes too -- he's gotten his eight hours and then some. Stirs when she does. Moves in the bed beside her, heavy and very warm; rolls lazily onto his back and stretches. Limbs extend in every direction. Quiver with tension. Release.

He opens his eyes. Pushes up on his elbows. Hot, bright light pouring through the windows by then, though the ventilation system keeps his room comfortable. He needs to take a piss. He needs to eat.

Sits up to do these things, throwing the covers back. Feet thump heavily to the ground, walk away. Toilet flushes. Water runs, splashes.

Bed dips when he comes back, sits on her side. He steals her water again, drinks.

Devon

Girl is whimpering. She looks miserable, curled up in a ball, hiding from the sunlight. He stretches, refreshed and warm. She feels like she's going to be sick with every vibration of the mattress beneath them.

And Rafael leaves her, thumping and perky. Comes back and sits down and she groans. Doesn't see him stealing her water because she's created a cave of pillows to hide her face in from the sun.

Rafael

He does feel bad for her, of course. Look at her. She's miserable. Just that he can't help his amusement either -- or the ruthlessly pragmatic part of him that sees the direct causality link: she drank too much, she feels like shit.

Still. He drinks her water, he caps it, he sets it down. He puts his hand on her shoulder, her back, rubs a little. Wordless and soothing.

"Just how much did you have?"

Devon

His back rubbing both works up her stomach (bad) and warms her (good). Devon remains very still, but that doesn't mean she doesn't like it. Her hair is a giant bird's nest of dark coils and wonky twists. She doesn't reach, or ask, for her water.

The question he asks makes her smirk a little -- which is perhaps surprising, given how she feels. "Lots."

One eye opens. She looks at him. "Could you... get my bag for me? Downstairs?"

Rafael

"Could just put a bandage on you," he says. "Talen. Probably make you feel better."

Devon

Sniffs. Wants to shake her head but wiggles her finger instead, tapping the mattress. Means nothing to him but, to Devon, it is a head-shake. "Don't waste it. Have... stuff in my bag. Family recipe."

Which could mean a lot of things, coming from someone else. Coming from Devon, it means witchcraft.

Rafael

Inexplicable swell of affection makes him dip his head, nuzzle her shoulder. "Witch," he whispers. Surely not the first man -- or wolf -- to call her, her ancestors, her reincarnations through the ages by that name. Perhaps one of the few to say it quite like that. Affectionately. Lovingly.

His weight leaves the bed. He goes down the stairs. He comes up the stairs. Her bag thumps down on the bed.

Devon

Funny, but no one's ever called her that with affection before. No one who wasn't also a witch in their own right. Funny, but she doesn't always entirely consider herself a witch. She's just Devon, and she does stuff. But he calls her Witch with that swell of tenderness in his eyes and voice and mannerism is as obvious and honest as the fact that he is tall, and green-eyed, and dark-haired, and it makes her heart ache a little with, well:

affection. Tenderness. Love.

So of course she huffs a little laugh at him, and he says not another word before he gets up, and goes downstairs, and picks up the slouchy bag she has, and brings it back up, and sets it beside her. Devon, who by now has managed to sit up and finger-comb her hair -- slightly: it is still a rat's nest, slept in while wet -- and has had a sip of water, looks at the bag gratefully. Forgets to look at Rafael gratefully. She tugs it closer, over the sheets that cover her legs, and digs through it till she finds a half-full amber glass bottle with a lightning seal. She looks at it, frowning, then shakes it, then undoes the seal and chugs it.

Whatever it is, it does not smell nice, like her flowery muscle-soreness-fixer or the spray she puts on cuts and scrapes that closes them so rapidly it's not to be believed. No, this smells like vegetation that is just about to spoil. This smells and looks somewhat oily, but there are flecks in it that aren't quite ground fine. It smells like it should choke her, and choke her it does: Devon coughs, gagging slightly on the flavor, but she makes herself drink it until the little glass bottle is empty, a good four ounces of the stuff.

Immediately, she chugs water. Orange juice would be better but there you go. She coughs again, drinks more, then makes a face, sticking out her tongue a little. "Ugh," she says, but -- perhaps this is merely psychological -- she already sounds better.

Devon shuts the green glass bottle. She puts it back in her bag. She leans back on the pillows in his bed, looking up at him again.

This time, with gratitude. With relief. And reaches out to him, to hold his hand. "Thanks," she says, simply enough. Wiggles her fingers into his palm, so that his hand wraps around hers. Clarity is already returning to her eyes. Her skin is already less puffy. Slight changes, but perhaps he's more attuned than most: looking always for her unfindable scent, his other senses hold onto her other markers that much more greedily. The shape of her face, the exact color of her eyes, the subtle changes in her voice.

"Meant to go home last night," she tells him. "Must've given them your address."

Rafael

Remarkable really to watch her come back to herself. And wolf does watch: while she drinks, while she coughs, while she sinks back into the pillows and ... simply ... stops being hung over.

Wolf takes another sip of water. He's stolen her bottle again. Holds it out to her, even as she's taking his other hand. He gives her fingers a squeeze. Firms his grasp.

"You were pretty confused to see me," he says, amused. "Were all, what are you doing here?"

Devon

It's gradual, but shockingly fast. Every moment that passes, she looks better. Sounds better. Obviously feels better. Still drinks water, still rests, but this must be how she bounces back. This must be how she drinks ahrouns under the table.

At least: part of how.

--

A wry twist of a smile touches the corner of her mouth. He mimics her and she purses her lips against a grin. "You carry me up here?"

Obviously.

Rafael

"Nah," wolf deadpans. "I let you crawl up on your belly. Like a sick snake."

Devon

Perhaps it says something that, instead of laughing, Devon just stares at him for a second. Perhaps it says that she would believe that he might. Perhaps it says that she's still coming back from the throes of that particularly nasty hangover.

"Did you really?" she asks him.

Rafael

Wolf's brow knits a little. "Course not," he says. "Carried you. Not a total dick."

Devon

"You're not," she murmurs, reaching out and touching his hand again. Smiles at him, her eyes

so fucking beautiful.

"Took care of me, yeah? Woke up here, water on the nightstand, all tucked in. Left my clothes on."

She clearly does not remember her pretzel, or she might figure out that he ate it.

Devon tickles him between his thumb and forefinger, smirking. "You're so fucking hot."

Rafael

Girl makes him sound like some sort of white knight. Wolf snorts. "Tried to get you to take 'em off and shower. You said you wanted to sleep."

Glances at her hand, his own. Meets her eyes again with a smirk.

"Told me that when you were drunk too. Well. Close enough. Told me you were sleepy and horny."

Devon

Those eyes of hers, liquid while drunk, cloudy and yet piercing while hungover, are crystalline again. They sparkle.

"Remember you walking around in a fucking towel," she tells him. Of all the things to actually remember. "Distracting," she adds.

Rafael

Wolf's smirk widens. It's sly. It's a touch shy, too. Paradox. He decides to move: decides to swing his legs up on the bed. Nudges her inward. Stretches out beside her.

"So how come you drank so much last night?"

Devon

After that foul drink, it's easier for Devon to move around. Him jostling the bed doesn't make her want to throw up. Him coming up next to her just makes her want to touch him, not curl up in a ball. She reaches over and runs her hand over him as he's coming nearer: touches his chest, his arm. Caresses him.

Pets him, sort of. Strokes him -- not even necessarily with lust, but lovingly. Warmly.

She decides to push the covers down and away, since it's warm, laying beside him in her pajamas. Shrugs at his question. "Just partying. Some rave-thing in the middle of nowhere."

Rafael

Girl's hands touching him. Fair enough: there's a lot of bare skin to touch. Put on shorts at some point, lost the towel. Otherwise he's bare, warm, rather languid, a beast in his den.

He puts his hand over hers. Mulls this a bit. "Maybe next time I'll go with you," he says. Just a touch hesitant.

Devon

Her eyebrows flick. With interest, sure, but also something else: a touch of wariness. Her freckles look a little bit golden in the sunlight.

Distracting.

"Would you want to?"

Rafael

"Maybe."

Honest about that. Not a certain yes. Not yet, anyway. He thinks about it a bit more. Head turns on the pillows; looks at her from a little ways away.

"Might, if it's in the middle of nowhere. So I'm not cooped up with a bunch of drunks all night."

Devon

Wry twist of her mouth. "Usually out in the open. Might get rained on. No one cares. Just drinking, some drugs. Sometimes sex and shit."

She scoots a little closer. "Mostly dancing, though."

Rafael

Wolf's arm comes around her, heavy and sure. Girl's scooting closer anyway. He takes it as a sort of invitation.

"Better not be any sex involving you," he grumbles.

Devon

Her eyebrows go up, but she doesn't move out from his now-encircling arm. Lips together. Stares at him, doesn't say

seriously?

Rafael

Wolf glances at her sidelong. Then head-on. Leans in, bumps his brow to hers.

"Know there wasn't," he amends.

Devon

Devon rests there, brow to brow with him. She is looking at his chin, his lips, more than anything else. Hard to see her eyes, though it's easy enough to hear that she's not saying anything to that.

"You still wanna go if there's another one?" she asks, after a silence, which makes it even more awkward. "You won't dance."

Rafael

Wolf draws back a little; enough to see her clearly. Frowning now. Their interactions are like this: strewn with little hiccups, speedbumps. Moments where he says the wrong thing or she does. Imperfect, sometimes teetering on the edge of disaster.

"You want me to go?"

Devon

Lifts her eyes.

"If you actually want to, yeah?" she says. This is her, trying to be honest. "Don't like feeling like I've dragged you."

Rafael

Bed jostles as wolf turns on his side facing her. Eyebrows together now; serious. He puts his hand on her face. Sometimes feels like he has to touch her like that, be in contact somehow. Otherwise he can't reach her at all.

"Yeah. Wanna. Least just once. See what it's like. Long as you're not sad if I wander off into the woods or something."

Devon

Her brow furrows. "'Course I'll be sad," she murmurs, with those big, round vowels she sometimes has, when she's talking quickly or sleepily or half-dreaming. "Want you with me when you're with me."

Rafael

Wolf makes this low sound. Wraps his hand behind her head the way he does. Presses his lips to her brow.

"Can come with me," he says. "Promise I won't leave without at least giving it a go."

Devon

It's still too early in the game, as far as her hangover cure is concerned, for Devon to try and understand that low noise he makes. Not as hard to understand him touching her, kissing her. She knows he means well, saying she can go with him, off in the woods, if he doesn't want to stay. Knows he means well by wanting to try. Knows she's asked him to try, even.

Lots of things roll aimlessly in her skull: to tell him that these aren't forests. There aren't bonfires. Desert-like land, as far from roads as they can go. Not a lot of places to hide. Empty expanses, mountains in the distance, moon and stars overhead. Speakers and music and alcohol, drugs, porta-loos. Little else to do but let go. Dance. Worship, in some way, what's above

and what is below.

For her, at least. And she gets lost in that solitude in the crowd. Everyone is her friend and no one matters to her at all. She's no one. She's connected to everything. And she's so high, and so low, and it's everything.

Devon's not sure he can get there. Or would want to. Or would understand. Which spirals into other thoughts, other worries. She doesn't want to be hung up on whether he dances or not, but he won't answer her, won't speak to it. She doesn't want to be hung up on whether or not he wants to go, when he says he at least wants to 'try'. She doesn't want another schism. They keep leaving them behind, open wounds that never quite get cleaned out.

Which chills her. Because she really does love him.

She moves her hand, touching her fingertip to his lower lip. Traces it, adoring the shape of his mouth. The sound of his voice. His stupid, stupid voice. His stupid mouth.

"Not really in the woods, babe," she murmurs. This is what she decides to say. "More like... desert. Nowhere to go hide."

Rafael

"Oh."

Not what he imagined, then. Not some secluded druidic gathering deep in the mountains. Not anything like his other house, the huge one with the dozens of rooms, obscene luxuries; not like the forests and peaks and lakes and glades near that house either.

Desert. Alcohol and drugs and sex and noise, noise, people. Wolf frowns; he's not sure anymore. She's touching his mouth but he's distracted, a little frustrated suddenly; doesn't kiss her fingertips.

"Nevermind. Forget it, then."

Devon

Her brow wrinkles deeply. Her hand moves down, and away, and curls in on itself. Her nails are painted pale blue and glittering black. Somewhat chipped. They were like that last night, too.

"All right," she says quietly, and withdraws. Rolls over; she's on 'his' side of the bed now. The whole bed is his side. She didn't even sleep in here every night when she lived with him. Even when they were well and truly fucking, even when they told each other you'd better not with anyone else. Even when they got back from that trip of theirs. But still: on a day when she wakes up in here, there's a His side and a Hers side. She's on the His side. And she is rolling that way, and sitting up, and standing up to head to the bathroom.

Rafael

Wolf rolls on his back as girl turns away. Bed doesn't move nearly so much when she gets up, but he still knows she's gone. Feels it, hears it, senses her departure.

She goes to the bathroom. He closes his eyes for a while, shading his face with his palm. Maybe she washes her face; maybe she brushes her teeth. He sits up when she comes back out of the bathroom. A hundred things occur to him to say; none of them quite form into words. Sentences. Silent, he watches her.

Devon

In the bathroom, Devon uses it. She washes up. Splashes water on her face. Brushes her teeth. She combs her hair until it is less nest-like and more hair-like. She sits down on the cold floor and tucks her legs up, wrapping her arms around them. She stares at the cabinet doors and aches, privately and alone, because --

well. She's not putting it into words. If she did, she'd start crying.

A couple of minutes of that, no more. She gets up and comes back out, and Rafael is still on the bed, but now he's sitting up. She thinks of maybe running over there and getting on top of him. Kissing him and holding his face in her hands, urging his hands up her tank top, down her shorts, gasping into his mouth. She thinks of fixing the awkward, sad feeling between them by fucking it out.

That didn't really work last time, though. And standing in the doorway last time 'distracted' him. She looked good like that and he wanted to fuck her, and she wanted to fuck him too, and they fucked, and that was it. They could put it away, and aside, and this is why when sad and strange things are between them all she wants to do is fuck him.

Also: because he's so fucking hot. Because she wants to fuck him anyway, pretty much all the time.

So Devon doesn't stand in the bathroom doorway. She walks to the edge of the bed and tips her head, looking at him. Looks down, frowning, looking at the bedspread.

"Don't like jokes about cheating on you. I'm not like that. Don't want anyone but you." Pauses there, lips closed, leaving it where it is. Fingernails drag over the bedding a little, in mindless little swirls. "Makes me think of that thing you said --" and her voice lowers a touch, not to mimic his but to mark an echo of him, his sarcasm: "-- 'and you wonder why I don't think you're here to stay'."

Might not be exact. And she doesn't say forever. Heart dropped through a hole in her stomach when he said forever. Her head gives a small shake, just once. "Shitty thing to say. Thought you were breaking up with me." He can see her lashes fluttering; she's blinking, somewhat rapidly. But not looking at him, so he probably can't see why. Obvious enough. Her voice is so heavy, and yet so quiet.

"Can't figure out what you like about me, other than fucking me. Or having me live with you. Don't like anything I like, don't want to do anything I do. Always seems to be a weird fight, when I just want to... share stuff with you." Something so gross and silly and pathetic about that word. 'Share'. She winces, uncomfortable with it. Shakes it off. "Dancing or my friends or magic. Wish you were interested. But don't want you to force it and fake it, either."

Devon sighs. "Then we don't fight, because we don't want to fight. We fuck or we just... stop." Her brow's wrinkling deepens that much more, harder now. "Feels like you love me and want me and all that, like you say you do, but... feels like you don't really like me that much."

Shrugs her narrow shoulders. Blinks a few more times before she looks up, looks over at him. Doesn't really expect him to be able to answer. Which may be why she precludes it: "Anyway. Not even another of those parties coming up that I know of yet, so it's all hypothetical, isn't it?" She licks her lips, folding them in for a moment, pressed together. "Just how I'm feeling lately."

Rafael

Wouldn't have surprised him too much if she'd just left. Put on her clothes and went downstairs to watch TV and drink tea or something. Or maybe left altogether: walked out the door, caught a cab or a bus back to her place. Her friend's place. Whatever.

She doesn't leave though. She comes over to him, and he moves forward to the edge of the bed in response -- feet touching down, legs out from under the covers. She thinks of putting her hands on him. Fucking. He thinks about that too. He does put his hands on her: doesn't quite pull her down for another go, but his palms are warm on the outsides of her thighs. Fingertips grip her lightly.

She talks. And midway through it wolf tips his head forward, thumps his brow against the center of her chest. Exhales a warm sigh and wraps his arms haphazardly around her thighs; around her lower back. If she keeps talking, he listens -- though she could be forgiven for thinking he's not listening anymore. His face is buried against her tits, after all.

Leans back when she's done, though. Looks at her frankly, brow troubled.

"'Course I like you," he mutters. "Like everything about you. Including the witchcraft stuff. Just don't like crazy parties with a lot of strangers. Or dancing. Or getting drunk and high." Shrugs, something tense and trapped about that: like twisting in unseen bonds. "Don't mean I don't like you."

Devon

Almost decides fuck it when he comes to the edge of the bed and puts his hands on her bare thighs. The lace at the edges of her shorts brushes his knuckles. She wants him, the way she seems to always want him, even when she's sad or not really in the mood or angry at him. Always wants him so much. But she's already talking, and after a little while the distraction of his warm palms on her legs and the tender grip he has on her fades just enough that she can focus on the words. Mostly.

Neither of them are that great at words. At talking. At expression whatever it is they feel. They have so little reason to even try.

When he tips his head onto her, Devon's hand comes up as if by instinct. She doesn't stroke his hair but she holds his head there, while he wraps his arms around her hips. Lowers her voice a little. He can hear her echo inside her chest. Her hand falls away from him when she's done. When he, slowly, pulls away and looks up at her.

Devon watches him as he talks. She stares, really. Sees how twisty he is, how unsettled. Doesn't know why. "What do you like?" she asks,

realizing, for the first time, that she's never really asked this. Or figured it out. Or even wondered. On the list of things she can think of that he likes, fucking her seems to top it. Having her near him. Maybe watching old movies with her, and even then she sort of figures that's just because of the 'with her' part. Is she a narcissist? She feels bad for never asking.

And, perhaps because she feels bad and only knows a few things that he likes, she crawls onto his lap. Straddles his thighs and sinks down on him, very close now, trusting his arms and solidity to keep them from tipping off the bed.

Rafael

"What?" he says -- reflexive and perplexed. Girl's crawling onto his lap then and that makes it that much harder to process what she just said to him. Wants him to tell her what he likes about her. Question makes his brow furrow; not because it's hard but because it's impossible to him. Absurd.

"Just like you." His arms have come around her. Well; to be more precise: his hands are on her waist, her ass. A moment later he tries a little harder, "Like everything about you," which is just repetition. He knows that.

Tries yet again: "Can't say what I like about you. Like asking me what I like about breathing."

Devon

His confusion makes her tender and amused, her smile lazy. He's always saying what like that, she thinks, and she sort of wants to snuggle her body to his and kiss his neck, but she doesn't, because she does want to know, and she does care.

His answer, though, makes her wary. Worried. He's touching her, and she thinks maybe getting on his lap was a bad idea. It's not until he insists that he can't say what he likes about her that she realizes he totally misunderstood her question. Devon huffs a breath, not quite a laugh. She leans to him, brow to brow.

"I meant," she explains, "other than me. You don't like partying and all that. So what do you like?" She rubs her brow on his, nuzzling. "Realized I don't know. Realized I never ask."

Rafael

"Oh." Some of the furrows leave his brow. Wolf huffs a laugh. Then the furrows come back. He realizes it's no easier a question to answer.

"Don't know. Like being alone. Like hunting." Flicks a glance at her at that, troubled and wary himself. "Like ... the way it feels. Going up against something. Measuring myself. That moment I know it, and it knows it too. Whatever I'm hunting. That moment we both realize I'm the stronger one. I'm going to win. I love that.

"Not a sociopath." Edge of defensiveness, even if she hasn't said a thing. "Just my nature."

Small pause. And if she hasn't said anything, hasn't broken in yet --

"Like being up in the mountains. The other house. Like it a lot. Like riding my bike up there and I like being there. All that space and quiet. All that wild land right there. Like keeping that land safe. Same as with that church on Colfax. Like keeping it safe." Shrugs, then. Reaching now, casting about: "Like taking naps in that lazyboy downstairs. And I'm starting to read through my dam's library. The less boring books anyway. Even like watching your old movies now."

He thinks a little more. "Like visiting you where you work. Getting a muffin every time."

Devon

Devon just listens. She sits on his lap and strokes his hair while he talks and... listens. He likes being alone. He likes -- well, she doesn't know how to summarize the parts about hunting. But he keeps flicking his eyes, finding himself defensive, and sees nothing on her face to suggest wariness. Worry. Recoiling. Devon just goes on listening to him talk. The only worry she has isn't that he's a sociopath, but that one day he's going to go up against Something and measure himself and there will be a moment when he knows it, and It knows it, too. That he's not the stronger one. That he's not going to win.

She curls closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder, tightening her thighs around his hips. Stops stroking his hair then and just cuddles against him. He tells her it's just his nature, and she doesn't argue.

A huff of laughter when he says he likes napping in his recliner. She likes that, too, oddly enough. Such a small thing. She hears him say read through my damn library because she doesn't think like that: dam and sire.

"Or a cookie," she says, because sometimes there are no muffins and he gets a scone or a cookie instead. Her voice is muffled against him. She holds him, warmed by him, nuzzling his clavicle. "All right," she says, to all of it. She thought about it, and it seems like the only appropriate thing to say. Except for this, added on:

"I get that."

Rafael

"Or a cookie," he agrees. His hands give her ass a squeeze. It's not lustful. It's -- tender, somehow. Loving. "Like the muffins more though."

And she tucks herself close. And he, with a sigh that sounds just a little like surrender, lies back on the bed with her. Wraps his arms around her, his right hand sinking into the tumbling mass of her hair -- at the shoulderblades, then at the back of her head. He kisses her neck through that tanglework.

"Like this too. Don't like being with people much. But I like being with you."

Devon

The room, bright with midday sunlight, tips. Rafael lies backward and Devon rests lazily on top of him, closing her eyes almost drowsily as he touches her hair, her scalp. Her feet rub gently against his legs. She's quiet for a while, just laying there with him, soaking up what light comes through the curtains, what warmth there is in his body.

"I'm alone," she says quietly, eventually. "In those crowds. At parties. It's sort of why I like it. Like... not being there at all. Or no one knows I am. Being in this shadow-place between things. Between people. I see all of them, and they can't really see me. Even when they look right at me."

Her head is on his chest, her eyes facing the wall. She closes them though. She breathes in deeply, and out slowly. Saying it seems to give her some peace.

"I like being around people," she says. "But that's not the same as being with them."

Rafael

Never would have thought that if she hadn't said it. She says it, though, and wolf can't imagine it any other way. He thinks of that ancestral echo of her spirit: always alone, even when she was surrounded by those of her tribe and blood. Of course that's how it is. Of course. Nothing else would make sense.

Aches for her, too. Wraps his arms around her tighter. Doesn't know that he does it the same moment she closes her eyes, but he feels her breathing. In, then out.

"I see you," he whispers. "And you see me. And for the first time I can remember, that doesn't make me feel exposed.

Devon

"Like being with you," is her echo, when he says he sees her. Quiets, the words fading underneath the ones that follow in his voice. This is what they mean, she realizes, when they say they like being with each other. I see you. And you see me.

Devon nestles closer to him when he says this does not make him feel exposed. She understands that, too, and doesn't say so, but perhaps he can intuit it. Perhaps not. She places her hands on his sides, on his expanding ribs that move with each breath he takes.

"My Rafa," she whispers, with the same hushed secrecy with which she sometimes says I love you.

Rafael

Wolf closes his eyes, feeling her hands on him. Likes that. Just like he likes when she kisses his chest. Touches his hair. All the little physical things she does that makes him feel seen. Felt. Known.

He breathes against her palms. She names him. His eyes open for a moment; close again.

"That's me," he murmurs; that same hush, that same secrecy.

a very drunken mistress from the peasantry.

Devon

Evening that he found her in the cafe reading cards, they went back to her place. Had heated, loving sex that somehow seemed to leave her strange and sad. She curled against his side and hid in the hollow between his arm and his rib-bones while they dozed together. Rain fell, of the type that has permeated the late spring of the city: heavy, cold, flooding, hinting at hail. A storm and a full moon lingered outside while they napped, their bodies tangled and her bedsheets tangled and, perhaps, their half-dreamed thoughts tangled.

Brief showers. The rain was petering out by then and falling softer, having ushered in the sunset and moved on now that it was dark outside. Naomi never came home, because, as Devon ended up explaining it, she was out of town. They ate leftovers from the fridge: pizza, Thai food, a half-eaten slice of apple pie from some deli. Devon quiet, Devon staying close to him physically but seeming not quite as close in any other way.

Fell asleep in her room on the futon where they'd been watching some movie on the television in there. She didn't want to fuck again, but maybe he didn't even think of it.

He only sleeps for a while. Lives mostly nocturnal. Woke later, despite being well fed, despite being well fucked, despite being curled in bed next to her, sleeping and heavy and warm. Something foul lingered in his nostrils, called at his senses. Some whisper of his spirit. Some itch turning gradually into something like a migraine. Rage pricking at the insides of his eyeballs, piercing his vision with flecks of red. A sudden urge to tear everything around him to fucking pieces, furniture and walls and all. A sudden urge to fill the room, and the city, and the night, and the world with growls. Roaring, howling.

Left her then. Had to.

Tore some things to fucking pieces.

--

It is satisfying, to come inside of the girl he loves. To wrap her up in his arms after and hold her, eat with her, sleep beside her.

It is satisfying, in some ways even more so, to hear and feel and even smell the separation of flesh as one piece of a thing is torn from the rest of it. The blinking out of an existence, the silence after a last rasping breath. The tightness in his shoulders, in his arms, across his chest, as bones splinter and snap in his claws.

--

Moon wanes after that. Girl lives her life. He lives his. She doesn't live in his den with him. He sees her perhaps, visits the place where she works or sees her in his hunting grounds, buying oils, buying candles, buying what-have-you.

Comes back to his house, one of those early mornings when he's been out all night and his shirt is stuck to him with... something best left uninvestigated. Been a long night. Things had to be disposed of: buried, burnt. No massive lake handy to dump bodies into, after all. Comes home and the sky is pink and orange and still tinted with violet. The sun is still drowsy, slow to crest, but the light is glory itself.

House is dim. And girl he loves is curled up in his chair, the recliner reclined fully. She's hugging a liter bottle of water, only about half full. Cap is off, so luckily she hasn't rolled over and sloshed it everywhere. Dark, heavy eye makeup, smeared as it sometimes is. A hint of shine and sparkle on her lips where there used to be lip gloss. Hair tousled but was once straightened, is so very thick and so very dark. Freckles somehow seem more striking and more real in this dim half-light of his house than they do normally.

She's dressed in this blue shirt with the sleeves gone and the back chopped up into strings, looks like a spiderweb. Can see her bare back underneath it, can see that she managed to reach back up there and unsnap her own bra but she apparently never took it all the way off. Strap falls down her upper arm. It's tied up or cut off or something, exposes her belly. Tiny gemstone dangles from her navel, though he knows it's not pierced. Wait: just stuck on there. Okay. Has some short black skirt on, fluttery and soft.

Apparently managed to take off her shoes and socks before she crashed out: they are mismatched and they are very long and they are horizontally striped. The socks are. The shoes are just high-top Converse, kicked aside by the door just like the socks were peeled down and dropped on the floor by the recliner. Her mouth is open. Her head is resting on her wrist. She smells like alcohol and sugar and the sweat of dozens of people and smells like the dirt and smells like night air.

Also on the coffee table there is a half-eaten giant soft pretzel and a little plastic cup of spicy mustard. Because of course there is.

Rafael

Left to himself he keeps the strangest hours. Lives like an animal does: sleeps when he wants to and wakes when he does. Active in the crepescular hours, dawn and dusk. Hunts in the night. Hunts in the early morn.

Comes back when the sun is cresting over the land, bone-tired and worn and crackling, charged with violence. The rush of dismemberment and death.

Anyone else in his house and he would know immediately. He'd smell them. Girl, he has to rely on other things: sounds, sights. Doesn't even notice at first. Comes in through the garage and doesn't see the shoes by the door. Girl's sleeping and he doesn't hear her breathe. He goes to the kitchen, pulls open the fridge, gets out a bottle of milk. Bottle. Glass. His dam kept certain standards of living, and his servants, given no other direction, have upheld them.

Drinking milk from the bottle, then. Leaning against the counter, which abuts the breakfast bar. Is staring vaguely over the living room when suddenly he realizes

girl's there.

Heart pounds with sudden startlement. Then something more like excitement. Wolf sets the bottle down and comes into the living room. Girl's such a fucking Fianna sometimes: just look at her. Freckles and smeared, smoky eyes. Hair dark as night, infused with the questionable fragrance of beer and probably-cheap whiskey and god knows what else. Smoke. Dirt. Wolf picks up the half-eaten giant pretzel, rips off a chunk indiscriminately. Dips it, eats it as he lowers himself to the recliner. Sits on the edge, feet braced wide, elbows on his knees. Unbalances it with his weight, tips her up a bit.

Maybe she wakes. Maybe she doesn't. If she doesn't he eats her damn pretzel. If she does ... he looks at her and eats her damn pretzel.

Devon

Devon smells like all the things around her, but never like herself. Her self is something else entirely, elusive and ephemeral, sensed only in the briefest ways when her magic works. He has to know it for what it is now: it's not the summoning of spirits, nor their gifts. It's not even low magic, the sort that real wizards would sneer at. It has its own DNA, seemingly inherent to Devon herself, living in her blood and soul more than her mind. And sometimes, when it works, when he feels it working, he can almost catch something that might be her true scent.

Almost. Never quite.

So most of the time, she reflects: after he's loved her or slept beside her, she smells like him. When she's been out partying, she smells like clubs and throngs and music and liquor and smoke. When she washes, she reflects the water. When she works, she reflects the earth. As though the entire world cannot stand her scentlessness, the entire world tries to attach itself to her, stick to her, re-absorb her. Make her stay.

It is easy enough for her to wash it all off.

--

Devon has no scent of herself, but Rafael does. Smells like the hunt and the disposal of the hunt. Has stuff on him, on his clothes or hands or body or even in his hair perhaps. No matter: he thumps in and chugs milk from a glass bottle. Heart jumps when he looks into his living room and sees her draped loosely over his recliner like she is. He starts to eat her pretzel, which is no longer warm but still soft and chewy. He sits on the edge of the recliner and tips her up, and the water in her open liter bottle sloshes a bit but doesn't -- quite -- make it out the opening.

Her breathing deepens for a moment: a longer inhale, a sighed exhale. But she sleeps the sleep of children and -- rightly so -- drunks. It is heavy and still where she is, and she stays there, content with some random motion around her, random sounds, all of them meaningless to her. Wherever she is.

Rafael

Is there anything so perfect a post-binge snack as a giant pretzel? Wolf can't think of much. Perfect for post-alcohol binge. Perfect for post-violence binge too. He eats it undisturbed, as girl doesn't wake: tears it and dips it and chews it. When it's all gone he reaches over and -- shameless creature -- lifts the liter bottle out of her hand and takes a good swig.

Pours some out on his hands. Washes blood off like that, messily, splattering on his hardwood floors.

Then he gets up. Recliner tips back again. Rocks. He sets the bottle aside. Dries his palms on the seat of his pants; reaches down and slides his arms under girl. Unceremoniously, unromantically, and yet with the greatest care he lifts her; curves her into his arms and against his body. So much skin in contact with skin: her bare thighs under the little skirt, above those ridiculous socks. Her bare back beneath the crisscrossings of that deliberately slashed shirt. The things she wears.

Morning light catches them on the stairs. Scans down his face and hers, down their torsos, follows her dangling arm to the tips of her fingers and drips off. Upstairs they're out of the reach of the sun again. He takes her into his room.

Devon

Lifting the bottle doesn't get much reaction. Her arm curls a different way to fill the space beside her chest and she goes on sleeping, her breath steady and deep, each exhale a relief. He washes his hands on top of the floor, disgusting thing that he is.

The recliner rocks again, slightly, as he gets up. Devon is stirring, but not waking. She's limp, like even peripheral awareness of what's going on around her only exhausts her more. Which isn't the case: she's just drunk. Very very drunk. Which, as he knows from personal experience, takes a profoundly large volume of alcohol.

It's his arms coming down under and around her that finally wakes her. She drowses her eyes open, little slits of white and hints of black and gleaming, brilliant blue that only seems to sparkle more in her intoxication. She peers at him as he lifts her, and a lazy smile curls across her lips.

"What'er you doing here?" she murmurs, trying to lift her hand to touch his face but giving up, hand falling again against his chest. Her other arm is hanging limply down, but has forgotten about it. Her eyes close again, and she breathes sleepily. "Did I text you?"

Rafael

Wolf wasn't really expecting conversation. Figured she was passed out. Looks down at her when her hand flops against his breastbone. Smirks.

"Where do you think you are? I live here."

Devon

Devon looks confused, yet also disgruntled. "Not my place?"

By which she means: We're not at my place?, which is not even her place but her friend Naomi's place. Devon does not have a place of her own, nor has she ever. Family, friends, hostels, and the kindness of strangers. But for right now, Naomi's place is her place. And that is where she thinks she is.

And she is both confused, and disgruntled, as she tries to wrap her head around the fact that she is not. And that Rafael is here. Her finger twitches against his chest. She closes her eyes, exhaling through her nose and telling him, as heavily and as regretfully as if she were informing him of terrible test results:

"'M... sodrunk." 'Sodrunk' is one word, with emphasis placed firmly on the penultimate syllable. In fact, for a moment, it almost sounds as though she's about to announce that she is soda.

That hand on his chest curls inward, knuckles to his skin. She stays curled up in his arms, keeping her eyes closed. Is quiet a bit while he carries her, her head swimming.

"You smell so gross," she sighs, muttering it.

Rafael

"Nope. No shit. Don't smell so hot yourself."

He answers her in tandem, one monosyllabic sentence per topic. They're at the top of the stairs now. They're at his bedroom door. They're in his bedroom, which is dark, curtains drawn and blinds closed.

"Gonna wash," he adds. "Putting you to bed. Don't puke."

Devon

Devon tries to scowl at him. It is... weak. Especially since her eyes are closed and the lower half of her face tries to pout instead of scowling. He's walking steadily now, no up-the-stairs motion that makes her dizzy. They enter a dark room, safe from the prying attentions of the dawning sun.

He tells her he's going to wash and he's putting her to bed. Tells her not to puke and the entirety of her face joins the pouting. She wrinkles her brow and makes a low noise, a little whine of protest. "Be nice," she says, because don't be mean seems suddenly very difficult to make her mouth form. Words are hard. "M'drunk," she reminds him, as reasoning for why he has to be nice to her.

Her eyes flicker open and she tries to look around, but it's dark and looking around is uncomfortable. "My water --"

Rafael

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" says wolf, merciful and compassionate creature that he is.

She touches down on the bed. Ass first, then heels, legs; last shoulders and head, sinking into those decadent pillows. His rough hand smooths her hair into some semblance of order. He straightens.

"Be back," he says. His footsteps recede; thud down the stairs. Girl's probably too far away to hear the fridge open.

Cool wet side of a plastic bottle touches her forearm. Wolf's handing her a fresh bottle. "Don't puke," he cautions again. "Gonna go shower now."

Devon

Devon is a rag doll when he sets her down. He's being such a dick that her face contorts in that scowl-pout again. He's laying her down gently though, and her limbs ease effortlessly onto the bed. Her eyes finally reopen. She's looking up at him when he touches her hair, and there is something

knowing

in those gleaming, liquid eyes. Drunk as she is, they don't swim terribly; she just looks at him, straight and at least somewhat clear, and there is something in them that does not name itself right away. She wants to catch his hand against her face and hold it there, hold him there, and sleep again, but her wrists are like... super heavy right now. She wonders if he knows that, and understands that it is really not her fault that her wrists are momentarily made of lead, and if they were not, that she would touch him softly and tell him she loves him, tell him that she really, really adores him, and he would believe it, and...stuff.

Her eyes close again, tiredly. Doesn't really hear him when he says he'll be back. She just feels that soft bed enveloping her, the sheets clean and cool and perfect.

Devon does notice when he comes back. Her arm jerks slightly, barely, when he lays the bottle against it. Brow wrinkles in an upset frown for a moment, then eases. She has to try a couple of times to get the bottle, and breathes in, and is about to tell him with all her vino veritas gravitas: thank you but he's telling her not to puke again and she just scowls at him, taking the bottle.

"I...

"am a Fianna," she informs him, as firmly as any drunken girl has ever informed some bro of anything. "I don't puke when I'm drunk."

There was that one time. He could bring it up. He could tell her she did.

But they both remember that, and they both know it wasn't the liquor that turned her stomach.

Devon, instead of drinking the water, curls it up in her arms and hugs it for now. She will drink it when she, you know, has arms. That work. Again. For now it is quite nice to hold the cold wet bottle and drowse on Rafael's bed. She doesn't even mind that her bra is still on.

Rafael

Girl's eyes open. They're arresting; incomparable. The color, yes, but also: the gleam, the clarity, the limpid, surreal knowledge glimpsed in those

very drunken

depths. Like a primordial fish in the early oceans. Like secrets. Wolf leans down and maybe he does hear her after all because his hand and all its callouses smooth over her forearm, interlace with her fingers. He kisses her softly.

--

Later on she tells him she never pukes while drunk. He smirks. She hugs the bottle and he snorts, amused. Recedes from the immediate sphere of her consciousness, comprehension. Goes take a goddamn shower.

Bathroom and bedroom are open to one another. Steam and the scent of his soap drifting through. When he comes back he's damp, towel-clad, rubbing his face dry on a smaller hand towel. Drops that on the nightstand as he comes to stand beside her.

"You okay?"

Devon

When he kisses her,

Devon sighs. She's been waiting for him to kiss her. Didn't know she was waiting for him to kiss her until he kissed her, soft and sweet and even sort of chaste on the lips, making her feel all manner of tender things. He touches her hand, and she can't hold his hand, but she wants to.

--

When he goes to shower, she's curled up on the bed, hugging her water bottle, dozing. The sound of the water falling in his bathroom soothes her; the humidity added to the air-conditioned climate eases her muscles. She drifts off, but doesn't fall hard into a heavy sleep again. So when he comes back, wrapped in a towel and wrapped in steam, she's at least dimly aware of him.

He has no idea what he looks like. Well, he does: the way that people know what they look like from glancing in a mirror. But it isn't just him. It's the surroundings: this house, in this area of town, set up in the highlands with the heart of the city of Denver sprawled at his feet. The darkness of the room and the way he gleams within it. The utter luxury of his bedroom, his clothes, the plush softness of his towels, the curling steam from his bathroom. Walking casually in this place, wearing only a towel and idly drying his face with another, his body scarred by wounds that nearly killed him but which he treats as inconsequential now -- he is every inch the Silver Fang.

Even has a mistress from the peasantry lying in his bed.

--

Devon's eyes are bright slits as she watches him approach, thinking of him like this. Looking at him and lusting after him. God, she wants to touch his cock. Almost makes her laugh how suddenly and how total the desire is, how perfectly she can picture it -- both the object and the act. Thinks of how warm he is, and how good he feels.

She sighs again. All her breath is sighing tonight, each one different in tenor and sound but each one just... so terribly... important.

Is she okay?

Devon smiles a little, small and tender. She nods against his pillow, which is getting bits of her eye makeup on its high-thread-count case. "Sleepy," she tells him quietly. "Horny," she adds, in the same tone.

"Love you," she also says, in a slightly different tone, her eyes falling closed again.

Rafael

Mistress from the peasantry.

That's not how he thinks of her. That's not -- he hopes -- how she thinks of herself. But god, anyone else looking in, anyone else seeing them with the clear cold knowledge of history would think --

He sits on the edge of the bed, bare back to her, torso torqued. Massive and finely chiseled; grecoroman statuary may come to mind. His mouth quirks, not quite so sardonic as a smirk.

"Drunk," he amends, to her sleepy-horny. The smile slips a little; his eyes dark with tenderness. He puts his hand on her head, palm to the curve of her skull, fingers in her thick hair. "Too," he whispers.

"Gonna just sleep?" a little later. "Or you wanna wash and get out of those clothes first?"

Devon

He amends her sleepy-horny, but she has her own. And he hears that, shadows her, touches her the way he did when he laid her into his bed. She smiles at the contact, driftingly, dreamily. Oh, he believes her. He toos her. Devon floats on that for a few moments, his hand and his nearness and all of it, and to see her breathing one might think she's asleep, but when he speaks, she doesn't have to wake up to hear him, answer him.

She just nods. Which, for a moment there, is terribly unhelpful: is she going to sleep or wash? Yes.

"Was just..." she murmurs, head turned, lips now on the mound of his palm, "sleep." Breathes in deeply, smells his soap. Smells him. What a luxury. What a gift. And from the look of things, she seems content as she is: smeared makeup, falling asleep in her clothes in a location she did not consciously intend to end up at.

But you know, she's with him. And that does make her smile.

Rafael

Wolf grunts this sort of laugh. "Okay," he says; sort of a giving-in tone. Fine, then.

Comforter under her tugs until it slips free. Now she's on the sheets. Now the comforter is covering her. Now wolf's getting in the other side of the bed, stretching out, closing his eyes as well.

After a moment he rolls over. She smells like exactly the sort of night she had, but he doesn't seem to mind. Weighs her down with his arm over her waist; nuzzles against the back of her neck, and sleeps as well.

the cards.

Devon

Rafael has only once seen Devon reading cards. Saw her from a distance as she was reading for people in Skyline Park. Several people, in fact, and she was worn out and drained afterward, so much so that it was easy for her to skid out, spiral, collapse.

Late afternoon, just before sunset but well after the dinner hour, he comes upon her again. She's in some 'paleo cafe' in a tangle of buildings and galleries in the arts district. She's outside in the little courtyard where most of the tables are. There's a black cloth over one of those metal, grate-like tables against the wall near a shelf that is, in fact, a Little Free Library. It's been a warm day -- hot, even -- but it's cooling down now, the air soft with sunset and a smattering of rain earlier.

Devon sits in one chair, upon which she has placed a cushion because they are also metal and not very comfortable for extended periods of time. She's wearing a pair of black ankle boots. She is wearing a pair of black bicycle shorts edged in black lace, but they're barely visible beneath the white knit tunic she wears over it, which has a sort of scalloped diamond pattern and just enough looseness to the weave to show the black bra underneath.

Lots of rings on her fingers, but no bangles on her wrists. All her earrings are studs. Her hair is in loose waves. She's wearing a seemingly delicate chain around her neck from which hangs a surprisingly large amethyst point wrapped in wire.

Maybe he's here looking for her, or looking for something to hang on a wall in his bedroom because last time she was in his bed she remarked on how his room is basically like a prison cell only even prisoners put up pictures and stuff, don't they? Or maybe he's hunting, even before dark. Or maybe he's here because he's decided that agriculture ruined humanity forever (but food processors did not) and that pizza dough should be made of cauliflower or something.

It's his life.

She has someone across from her, a white woman of A Certain Age, who is daubing at her eye discreetly with one finger, sniffing and nodding. But Devon is just holding what remains of the deck now, all the woman's cards laid out, and it seems like they're almost done.

Rafael

The things she wears.

Wolf's not much one for fashion. Before all this happened with his life he was pretty much aware of three classes of garments: t-shirts, jeans, jackets for when it's cold. On the female side of things, he knew about skirts, dresses, and t-shirts-and-jeans. Sometimes the things girl puts on her body he wouldn't have even considered wearable attire if he didn't see her pull it off. And so well. Holy sweaters and skirts that basically show her ass if she bends over and the biggest, clompiest boots he's ever seen on a girl and now: bicycle shorts edged in lace.

He didn't even think bicycle shorts were the sort of thing people wore in regular life. Just thought they were the domain of fitness nuts. That tunic probably didn't use to register as wearable to him either, but now he looks at it and thinks, yeah, that's totally something she'd wear. Hole-y. Black bra peeking through.

Wolf's standing a good ways away, just looking. Likes the way she looks. Likes the way she carries those crazy clothes of hers. She's reading cards and her hair is tumbling and unbound and he thinks she looks a little like a modern-day gypsy. He knows the real word for what she is is witch.

He has a beat-up backpack over his shoulder. Beat-up backpack has a rolled-up sheaf of paper in it, and maybe it's a poster for his wall. Since she thinks it looks like a prison cell, and all. He waits there in the wings, doing his best to be unintrusive, while her customer sheds a couple discreet tears and then pays her. They get up. Maybe the woman wants to hug girl. Maybe girl lets her.

Then she's moving off, hoisting purse over shoulder. Wolf is moving in, dropping bag off shoulder. Lets it skid to a stop by the patio table; pulls out the chair and drops down.

Just looks at her for a couple seconds. All big and physical and wolfish. Faint little curl to the corner of his mouth. Then he nods at the deck.

"If you pulled a card right now, what do you think'd come up for me?"

Devon

Devon, it seems, collects payment in a mason jar. There's bills in there, not many coins. No personal checks. A couple of gift cards, oddly. Mostly cash, though, though it's hardly stuffed to the brim. She's been thinking about getting a square reader for her phone; people hardly ever carry cash these days. More convenient to pay with a swipe. Some people these days just do this thing where they click a dollar sign in Gmail, money goes right to her.

Ain't technology grand.

Rafael is watching as the woman and Devon finish. Devon smiles at her a little and gathers up her cards. The woman wants to hug her and Devon decides she's okay with this and gives her a back pat. The woman glances back over her shoulder as Rafael heads towards the reader; she frowns, wondering if that nice girl is about to get harassed. Something about that nice girl tells her that she knows how to handle entitled douchebros, though. The woman goes on her way.

Devon, sitting down again after that brief hug, tips her head at her new customer. She's shuffling her cards, those thick things with their black and white diamond pattern on the back.

He nods at her deck, asks a question. Devon flicks her eyes at her mason jar, gives it a nod, looks back at him. There's a little folded-paper sign on the edge of her table, even, for passerby: a dollar a minute.

Rafael

Wolf follows her eyes. Sees that mason jar. Smirks, and huffs, and tilts to the side to get his wallet out. Apparently he still carries cash. He puts two twenties in.

"You charge sixty bucks an hour? You know how much I used to make washing dishes and mowing lawns?"

Devon

To this, she just smiles. That Devon smile, that one that says you don't know me. you never will. That luring, enigmatic curl of one corner of her lips. That leading question that is her mouth.

He puts in enough for forty minutes of her time. That's a long reading, but she doesn't tell him this. She doesn't tell him how many years she's been reading tarot, or how good she is at it. He's felt what she can do with concoctions made of herbs and oils and a kitchen stove. He's seen her quite literally move shit with her mind.

Devon shuffles the cards in her slender hands. The cards are almost too large for those hands, it looks like, but she handles them well, with great familiarity. The edges of the cards are a little scuffed. She cares well for them, but uses them often.

Also doesn't ask him if he has a question in mind. Sometimes she does. It isn't always necessary. Sometimes people don't want to say, either because they can't or are afraid to or embarrassed of it. Sometimes they're testing her. She can usually sniff those ones out: she likes the look in their eyes when she nails them to the table, the look that tells her that every hair on their arms is standing on end. Likes to unsettle them, make them doubt. Contrarian that she is, these are the ones she truly expends her will on. The others... well. She knows how to tell people what they want to hear, give them the show they came for.

She shuffles, and then lays the deck on the table in between them. "Cut," she says, and does not tell him how, or with which hand, or how many stacks, or anything. He cuts however he does. She tells him: "Make them one pile again." And he does, however he does, and she takes the cards back. Holds them in her hands for a moment, silent, withdrawn, and then unfolds a card from the top, glancing at it before she lays it down on the black cloth.

On the card is a background of horizontal lines, over and over and over and over, sketched close together. At the top of the card is a rough Roman numeral: III. The image is of three black sticks, bound by whtie string, ribbon, rope, what-have-you into a triangle that points downward. In that triangle is every color of the rainbow, watercolored in: deep red, livid pink to white, fiery orange, soft green, bright blue.

Devon says nothing. She leaves the card there for a moment, thoughtful, then draws another and lays it close by. This one is of a giant tortoise with a lamp on its back. The tortoise is drawn into its massive shell, beady bright eyes staring outward. The only color on the card is in the livid flame of that lamp. At the top of the card it says IX. At the bottom: the hermit.

She draws a third card. This one also displays a myriad of horizontal lines, starting with red and purple at the top and then descending towards deep blues and greens. In a U-shape around the card are nine stemless cups. As though completing a circle, there is a white crescent moon above them. The top of this card says IX. Upon laying this card down, Devon's lips twitch in an almost-smile.

There is a fourth card, and she has still not explained anything to him. This one says VII at the top. These lines are vertical, then horizontal. And in a diagonal line across the card are seven pentacles.

The last card she draws is pitch dark. Two stark white silhouettes of trees stand against a black night sky. A golden moon overlooks everything. This one is XVIII. This one is just: the moon.

Devon's eyes lift from the five cards to his eyes. She's smirking a little, but it's gentle. "The cards think you're a stranger to me," she says. "Telling me things I already know. You have a very... direct energy." Her smirk widens a moment, then withdraws. She puts one fingernail, painted a pastel grey, on the first card. "This tells me that you are looking into your future. You want to know what you can do... maybe what you should do.

"This next one tells me that you're a loner. You've almost always been alone, and in many ways you're alone even when you're surrounded by others," she goes on, following the line of cards. "This one, that you are wealthy. You have all the finer things someone could want. To anyone outside looking in, it seems that all your wishes have come true." Her eyes flick up to his. "But the moon can be a symbol of illusion. Nothing's ever perfect.

As she takes a breath, her attention moves back to the 7 card in front of her, the one with all the pentacles on it. "You are planting seeds for your future, or wanting to, but you don't know what those should be. You're not sure which ones will bear fruit, or even if any of them will. All you can do is plant, and tend, and hope for the best. But it frustrates you, because of that direct energy. You want to see the result. You can be impatient, because uncertainty makes you unsettled. You prefer not to think about the future at all, if you can avoid it, because it makes you uneasy."

Her brow has furrowed a little. This is deeper than before; she's seeing things. "And it's all because of what you are," she says, looking at the moon card on the table between them. "That directness. That here-and-now. Thinking of the future is a human thing. Money and seed-planting are all daylight thoughts. And you aren't part of that world." She looks up at him again. "You're an animal."

Devon takes another card from the deck, laying it down on top of, just to the side of, the moon. A goat, its hoofs aflame, its coat uncut, horns tall, a pentacle on its brow, what looks like a smirk on its mouth. It is surrounded by darkness. XV: the devil.

Her eyes have a limpid quality to them, liquid and blue. "You're a beast," she says, her voice soft, dreamlike almost.

Rafael

Wolf leans forward as girl starts drawing cards. Hunkers over the table, forearm folded along the edge, thumb and forefinger spread over his jaw, shadowing his mouth. His brow wrinkles, a furrowed frown that sometimes seems to be his default expression. He looks at the cards as they turn over, his eyes flickering over the details, perceptive but ignorant. They mean nothing to him. They're just cards, just symbols, just pieces of stiff paper.

The last one, which turns out to be the second-to-last one, he thinks he recognizes. Understands. Knows, at least, because: of course he knows the moon. Of course. That's the only card he touches, turning it around to have a better look.

Then she draws one more. And he frowns at it. That smirking goat.

"Cards think I'm the devil?" He doesn't particularly like the prospect. "Real flattering."

Devon

She doesn't stop him from taking the Moon to look at her better. Just watches him.

He sees the final card and frowns. Devon smirks.

"Cards aren't here to flatter you," she says. Then shrugs gently. "The devil is one of the more misunderstood cards of the tarot. He symbolizes many things: he can be an unclean, lustful, voracious and indiscriminate animal. He can be the scapegoat upon which we project the aspects of ourselves we believe are inferior or 'sinful' so we can send them into the wilderness, separate ourselves from what we think is bad or wrong.

"The devil does have great power. To lure people in. To tap into darker paths of magic. The longer you stay with him, the more like him you become, but it is always a choice. No matter how hard you try to convince yourself that you aren't in control of what you are doing, the devil reminds you that you are. These darker aspects of yourself are not separate from you, but a piece of you that you have been denying. Hell, he can also just symbolize indulgence in our animal sides or darker natures. He's the card of letting go and reveling in it."

She stops lecturing on the symbolism of tarot and just shrugs. "Often in a reading, the devil is a warning about obsessive behavior, dependencies, or... unhealthy relationships," she adds, quieter, because she wants to be truthful but also doesn't want him to think --

"I really do think these cards, these six, are just telling me what you are. Responding to that direct energy you have, that forcefulness. And trying to warn me, with the moon and the devil so close together, about what you are.

"Dangerous," she murmurs, "and a beast. And not a creature of daylight."

Rafael

Wolf shifts a little in his seat. Twists his head on his shoulders, like he's working out a pulled muscle. Leans back after a while, eyes flicking between the devil and the moon.

Then lifting to hers.

"Warning you off? Or telling you to stay?"

Devon

Devon's smile returns, but it's softer. Fond. Tender. And that's a rare thing.

"I've already read my cards plenty about you," she murmurs. "And yes, the moon and the devil have come up plenty of times there, too. But those are my cards."

She moves the other four cards back into his field of vision, right alongside the moon and the devil.

"These are for you. All of them. They go together, and it's a mistake to make it just about one or two. You worry about the future, and that's one of the reasons you stick to yourself. The more people get involved, the more uncertain the future becomes. The more uncertain your present becomes."

Her head shakes slightly, slowly. "These are just a picture of you, here and now. You're an animal, lustful and dangerous, pulled by the moon. And you're a loner who wants to envision and create his own bright future, but is simultaneously deeply wary of that future."

She smiles at him. "Do you want me to ask them for advice for you? You paid for nearly an hour, after all."

Rafael

Doesn't escape his notice that she never really answers. Or maybe she did answer, but he didn't ask the right question: are you going to stay?

Wouldn't ask that question. Sounds so stupid, so weak. Wolf gives a shake of his head, literally and physically throwing it off. Looks at the cards another beat.

Then he mops them up with his big hand. Maybe that's rude -- touching someone else's cards. He wouldn't know any better. He gathers them together and returns them to the deck, and now the table between them is blank.

"Paid 'cause I wanted to talk to you," he says, and then grimaces at how that sounds. Like he thinks she's a whore again. His fingers drum restlessly. He levels his eyes on her again. "What do your cards say about me? To you."

Devon

Didn't ask the right question. And she doesn't answer it for him to be kind, sensing it there unasked but not spoken. She watches him, shaking his head in discomfort. Frowns when he mops the cards up, and reaches over to quite simply take them out of his hands, giving him this faint look of affront. When he removes his hands, she finishes clearing them up, though her frown remains on her brow.

Paid because he -- Devon gives him a look at that, a stare. Her mouth actually opens. He grimaces, but she's still looking at him like she can't believe he just said that.

"None of your business," she says, even more sharply than she means to.

Rafael

Takes him aback, how angry she is. Wolf actually recoils a bit. Eyes widen -- then narrow again; he scowls.

Reacts the way he always does. Gets up out of the seat, walks away.

Devon

"Hey," she says to his retreating back, just as sharp. All she says.

But she's never done that before.

Rafael

Which might be why he stops.

Which might be why he turns - edge of his profile over the powerful curve of his back. Pause a second. Then the rest of the turn, forceful swivel of his body. He comes back in two long strides, pulls the chair out and sits again. Drops heavily down and stares heavily at her.

"Wasn't trying to piss you off," he says.

Devon

He stops, and Devon perks a little. She is looking at him, not scowling or even frowning at him, when he glances back at her over his shoulder. Her head tips. She doesn't hold out her hand. Wants to, but doesn't, because he got up to storm away and because he has his back to her even when she called to him. Wants to, but can't.

When he comes back, she wants to, but he looks dark now, stormy, enraged, something. She was leaning forward; she leans back a little. Is going to ask him what's wrong, babe? but he doesn't need to be asked. He stares at her, says what he does.

Her brow wrinkles. "You didn't," she tells him, as though bewildered. Then her frown deepens a bit. She adds: "A bit. Not really. It's not like I blew up at you or anything."

Rafael

"You didn't?" Feels dumb, having to ask. Uncomfortable now, twisting his head on his shoulders again, like trying to escape some invisible collar. "Sounded pissed.

"Guess I just wanted to know what you think of ... 'us'. If you're staying, or what."

Devon

This is how Devon finds out that she sounded angrier than she was. He doesn't pause long, so she doesn't have to try and stammer an explanation. Come up with one. She just keeps watching him, how fidgety he is, how uncomfortable he is, as though his own skin constrains him.

Which it does.

When he tells her what he wanted, Devon blinks. Stares at him, her brow wrinkled but not scowling, not tumultuous with passion. She just looks... taken aback, in a way. Startled. Subdued, as many things are, because in her catlike way she prefers it not be noticed when she's surprised.

For a bit, she says nothing, which must be terrible. When she does speak, it's a tad quieter, and she's leaning forward a bit, her forearms on the table, across the black cloth.

"Have you got any reason to think I'm not, other than a couple of tarot cards?" she wants to know. Could sound condescending, that gentleness, but there's a touch of sincerity to it. An invitation. She really does want to know.

Rafael

Wolf brings a hand up; rubs palm over the scratchy bristles on his jaw. Shrugs. Folds his arms across his thick chest.

"Not really. Just you're so hard to get a hold on. Don't know much if you don't tell me. Just hard to feel like you're gonna stay."

Devon

Maybe she's just still in her tarot reader mode. She takes this in and just mulls on it a bit, thoughtful. She kicks her booted toe against his booted toe under the table, ever so gently.

"Didn't even kiss me hello."

Rafael

In spite of himself, that draws a quirk of the mouth. Huff of a laugh.

"Sat down and you were like, dollar a minute please."

Devon

"You sat in the chair," she explains, shrugging one shoulder.

A moment of levity. A little shadow over her features, her eyes.

"Don't pay to talk to me," she tells him, lower. "You know that wasn't right, what you said. Yeah?"

Rafael

That half-smile fades. Wolf's uncomfortable again, shifting in his seat.

"Yeah," after a while. Quiet. "Know that." Gesture of his hand, meaningless. Shrug of his shoulder. "Know that's not what we're about. You don't love me for my money. I don't pay you to love me."

Devon

"I know that," she says. "Told you that at that first gala thing."

After she'd fucked him in the gallery, on a stone floor. After she'd ridden herself to orgasm on his lap, gasping that she'd go with him into the mountains like he'd asked. After he'd come inside of her, hands trying to grip an unyielding cement floor. When she told him to go buy her that hand-mirror, which once upon a very long time ago had belonged to a minor queen.

"Sometimes feels like you forget," Devon adds, a touch quieter. "Not because you stuck your foot in your mouth," which is, it seems, all she's chalking this up to. "Because you're not sure I'm... for real, I guess."

Rafael

"I know you're for real," wolf replies. Two of them talking quietly now. Neither of them looking at cards. No one passing by thinks she's reading his fate. "Just don't know if you're forever."

Devon

Devon's a fair girl, though with the onset of sunny weather -- finally -- she has more color. Those freckles stand out all the more. But for a moment when he says that, it looks like she loses some of the blush in her cheeks, red in her lips. Not a lot. She just stares at him. And blinks. And her brow gets one little wrinkle in it. Just one.

"You want me to be?"

Rafael

His brow gets a lot more than one wrinkle. He frowns at her; almost scowls.

"Yeah?" Says it like it's obvious. "You didn't think I did?"

Devon

She adds a couple of wrinkles to her own brow, then, as if in competition. Isn't scowling, though.

"You're so hard to get a hold on," she says quietly, echoing.

Rafael

Doesn't escape him that she's echoing him. Doesn't escape him either, the poignancy of that. Still, he can hardly believe it. "You really thought I wouldn't want you around forever?" Beat, staring. "Like, what, maybe I just wanted to fuck you for a while and then move on? Why?"

Devon

She blinks again, leaning back a little. "Babe. stop putting words in my mouth. Christ."

Devon takes a breath. "Don't want to talk about forever, Rafa," she says, her eyes on the black cloth over the table, like she's not wanting to look him in the eyes right now. "Doesn't mean anything but that. Just don't want to."

Eyes flick upward, meet his, that piercing blue. "All right?"

Rafael

Doesn't settle him in the least. Just makes him lean back in his seat, equal parts certainty and defeat.

"And you wonder how come I don't think you're here to stay." Wolf gives a shrug, dismissive. "Yeah, sure. We won't talk about it."

Devon

Frowning, now. Her eyes have gone a darker shade. Hands are flat on the black.

"What do you want from me?" she asks him, sounding somewhat appalled. And angry. And something else, less hard on the surface. "Why are you doing this?"

Rafael

[I FINALLY ROLLD EMPAFEE.

he's getting a genrul reed, but specifiklee: wat is sumfing else?]

snail @ 3:56PM
Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (2, 8, 8) ( success x 2 )

Devon

[she's confused/caught off guard by this exchange, and that 'and you wonder how come I don't think you're here to stay' comment hurt her feelings. there's also a tremor of fear underneath it all. not fear of rafael, though.]

Rafael

"Nothing," wolf replies, frustrated; seeing the strange trap they're caught in just as clear as her. Just as unable to explain it. "I'm not doing anything. I'm just -- I don't know."

He exhales. Sits back in his chair, angry, defeated. Hands drop to his thighs and he stares at her.

"Don't know how I got stuck in this rut," he says. "Didn't come here to fight with you."

Devon

Another woman might sigh, and rush to console. Still another might just watch him, trying to get a read on what is going on, since he can't put it into words.

Devon just sits there, watching him, still frowning. They stare at each other. He says he doesn't know how he got stuck, and she believes him. But she doesn't say anything for a little while.

Then: her booted foot, once again, bumps into his booted foot under the table. Kicks him like she's saying hi.

"I'm with you, yeah?" she says, the short form of so many things she could say, but doesn't know how to. I'm scared by the idea of forever. Is this still because I moved out. Even when I'm pissed off at you I still love you.

Doesn't know how. Discomfited by the idea of saying any of it. So she kicks him. States an obvious truth.

Rafael

Thump. Her boot hits his again. Wolf's slumped in his seat, big and muscular, slouched and frowning. His eyes flick down at the contact. Up again when she speaks.

He doesn't smile. But he does tilt his foot; bumps her back. "Yeah," he says. Because that much is true. She's with him. For now. Maybe not forever.

Exhales. It's a sigh, really. He draws his foot back, gets up again.

"You done here? Or gonna stick around?"

Devon

At least she can sense that he's... whatever the emotion is. Not sure she has a name for it. Pretty sure he doesn't have one either. Not really entirely okay. Sad?

Devon's brow stays wrinkled, but the frown isn't angry anymore. She doesn't know how to fix it, or make him feel better,

and she really does want to.

"Well," she says, "you're the one paying." Smirks a little, but not meanly. "What say I cut out of work early, go fool around with my boyfriend?"

Rafael

This time corner of his mouth does move a little. He picks up the lid of her mason jar, screws it back on. "Think you oughta," he says, and open his arm to her. Envelopes her against his side when she comes to him, skinny thing, big boots. Wild hair that he dips his nose into, inhales.

"Think you're gorgeous," he adds. Maybe while she's packing up her cards or slinging her bag over her shoulder or something. Has his arm draped over her shoulders by then, his side warm and solid against the outside of her arm. "It's distracting."

Devon

Weird flicker over her eyes, when he screws the lid back on the jar. Discomfited. That feeling keeps coming up. Doesn't say anything though. Draws it back to herself, close to the stack of cards she was holding after reading for him. Gathering things up is easy: Devon pulls the corners of the cloth over the table up, ties them around both the jar of cash and the stack of cards, and when she has a tidy bundle, she digs under her chair and puts said bundle in her backpack.

When she gets up, she tucks herself to his side, where it becomes obvious he wants her, he's welcoming her. His nose drops into her hair and the corner of her mouth curls. He calls her gorgeous and that curl blossoms, her eyelids low. He tells her it's distracting, though, and she scoffs. "Sounds like that's your problem."

Rafael

"Nah," he disagrees, straightening, his arm still draped over her shoulders. "Not a problem at all." Looks forward -- "You catch a ride here or what? I rode."

Devon

"Light rail," she says, sliding her arm around his waist, and turning her head against him, and nuzzling him against his side, sniffing at him. Aggressive cuddling.

Rafael

He tolerates her aggressive cuddling. No; let's be honest: he enjoys it. Grunts at the nuzzling, the squeezing, the sniffing. Gives her a squeeze back. In this way they heal their rift. Easier like this anyway; no words, no misunderstandings.

"Coming back with me then?"

Devon

"Mmm," she 'says'. It's thoughtful. "I think you should come back with me, actually."

Rafael

"Your roommate don't care?"

Devon

For this, Devon headbutts him in the ribs. Gently, to begin with, and not harmfully, because her head isn't that big or heavy anyway. "Always ask that," she says, half-muffled as they stroll from the cafe out into the falling dusk on the art district's main thoroughfare.

"Want you in my bed," she mutters, her hand wrapped around his opposite side squeezing slightly.

Rafael

Wolf gets headbutted. Wolf's arm around girl comes up; wraps his hand over the top of her head a moment, absentminded, cradling.

"All right," he says. "Still riding my motorcycle though. You wanna hop on or meet me there?"

Devon

She wrinkles her nose. "Take three times as long with the train. Have a helmet?"

Rafael

"Use mine," he says. "Just have the one. Get you one if you make a habit of this."

Devon

"Cool," is all she says, offhand, mild. Her hand on his side slides down, slithers up, his shirt rucked up around her wrist and her palm resting against his skin. She looks at him then, around midsection. Rubs it with her hand. Feels him, looks at him through his clothes. Breathes in deep, exhales slow and easy.

Looks up at him again as they stroll. "You upset, because of the cards?" she asks, quiet.

Rafael

There's a disconnect between what she's doing and what she talks about. A gap between her hand sneaking under his shirt, rucking it up to slide against his skin. Warm summery evening and he's not wearing a jacket. Anyone who looks can see girl's got her hand up her boyfriend's shirt. Not half so scandalous as the other way around, but still. Definite P.D.A.

Wolf frowns at the question. Not an angry frown; just -- a frown, thoughtful. Shakes his head.

"Nah. Not the cards. And not really upset. Just every so often we talk about serious shit. Like, us. Seems like one of us always ends up angry or hurt or something."

Devon

Her hand is just on his waist. For now. It's PDA but it's not extreme, so far. She's just idly touching him. Enjoying him. Comforting him, in her way, though he may not even realize it.

"Good," she says, at first, leaning her head against him as they turn a corner, approach his parked bike. "Would blow if I couldn't read for you."

Alone now in some alleyway, she loops around him, standing before him in her baggy top, short shorts, clunky little boots. Wraps both arms around his waist now, looking up at him. "We're just bad at it," she says, shrugging. Settling against him, she comes a little closer. Her brows tug together. "Doesn't mean I don't love you," she says, quieter.

Rafael

Bike's parked just a stone's throw away: goodlooking thing with classic lines, plenty of chrome, enough wear and tear that it's obviously an authentic piece of equipment. Nothing so obnoxious as a Harley, but certainly not a rich kid's toy superbike either.

Wolf stops, though, when girl wraps both arms around him. Kinda has to stop unless he wants to run her over. She leans against him. He lets her, hands coming to rest on the small of her back. Well; no. Passes the small of her back. Ends up palming her ass instead. Through that baggy top. Through those bicycle shorts.

Frowning a little still. Nods a bit too.

"Yeah," he says. "All right."

Devon

If there's more to see in that frown, Devon doesn't want to see it. She curls against him instead, holding him, her cheek to his chest, her heart

thudding strangely.

Rafael

Moment passes. Then wolf stops being a lustful jerk and wraps his arms around girl. Hugs her close, tight against his solid body.

"Too," he murmurs. She can hear it, soundwaves through his chest wall.

Devon

If there's more to see in that frown, Devon doesn't want to see it. She curls against him instead, holding him, her cheek to his chest, her heart

thudding strangely.

Devon

[DLP!]

Devon

There's not a way to exit that moment without being awkward, hurting a little. Somehow they do separate, and he hands her his helmet, which doesn't fit, and wobbles a little and probably isn't much safer than going without one. She wears it with the guard down, obscuring her face entirely. And she rides behind him with her legs to either side of his hips and her arms around his waist and her backpack over both shoulders. Sometime during the ride to her place -- her friend's loft -- Devon ends up with just her fingers hooked in the beltloops of his jeans, leaning back, zooming through the city.

He parks out front. She takes off the helmet, shakes out her hair. The sun has set and it's dark now. Moon's almost full and she feels it. Looks up at him, after she's handed him his helmet and slung her backpack off, holding the strap in one hand.

Devon takes off her shirt. That large tunic-sweater. Holds it in her hand along with the backpack when it's off. Stands there in black shorts and black bra and black boots on the sidewalk. Looks at him one more time. Walks to the door.

werewolf, devil, hermit, moon.

Rafael

It's true that the helmet is ill-fitting, that it probably does more to prevent a citation than it does to protect girl's brain. That said, wolf doesn't exactly ride like a bat out of hell. Obeys most laws, goes just a couple miles over speed limit. Doesn't risk his passenger's life.

Would protect her, anyway, even if something were to happen. Would shield her body with his; her life with his.

They arrive at her building soon enough. She climbs off and he straightens up, skin cooled by the wind. Lowers the kickstand, kills the ignition. Swings off the bike behind her. As he gets up she gives him the helmet back. He hangs it off the handlebar. By the time he turns back

she's pulling her shirt off. He casts a quick glance up the street, instinctive. She astounds him sometimes; her boldness, her apparent disregard for societal mores. In her lingerie and her boots, in shorts that may as well be lingerie, girl stands looking at him. He starts reaching for her. She turns and walks toward the door.

Wolf makes a faint sound behind her; a huff, midway between bemusement and disbelief. Again he follows. She opens her door and he reaches over her to catch it, holds it open for the two of them, lets it shut behind.

Then it's her and it's him. It's the darkness of the entryway. She's standing in front of him and he wraps his hands over her shoulders. Palms burn warm; no fur there to mark him a werewolf, but maybe heat of his body is stigmata enough. He pulls her back before she can slip away again; wraps his arms around her, the weight and bulk of his embrace encompassing most of her torso.

Devon

Sometimes,

and riding on the back of Rafael's motorcycle is one of those sometimes,

Devon wonders if she could stop something like a high-speed collision, or wreck, or skid-out. If, so sudden as to be instantaneous, she could throw all her psychic weight against the doors to the laws of physics and make them buckle. Not enough to throw the earth off its axis, but enough to slow a lethal fall. Enough to keep a motorcycle upright. Enough to shift one vehicle and all the people inside of it out of the way. She wonders if she could. She wonders if it would cripple her. Sometimes even the little things she knows she can do (moving a vial of wormwood oil, bending a spoon) wear her out.

She feels Rafael between her thighs and thinks two things as he drives: that she wants him, and that she can't comprehend being born to that much strength, seemingly inexhaustible, and so easy to reach out and grasp.

--

At her friend's building, big and boxy and brick and now ever so hip, Devon climbs off the bike. It is quite literally climbing for her. She unclasps the helmet, removes it, shakes out, looks at him as he's standing up, hanging the helmet. And she takes off her shirt. Her sweater. It's been a warm day; the now-night air is cool on her arms, her stomach, her breasts. The corner of her mouth curves in a faint little smirk as Rafael scans the street, but at the moment no one is around. She would have done it anyway.

He probably knows that.

Devon doesn't wait for him. She heads inside the lobby, up a small set of stairs, her boots scuffing on the flooring. Hears the sound he makes, smirks to herself. Heavy door is pulled on, tugged, but Rafael's the one who grabs it over her shoulder, pulls it open, holds it, makes sure it closes behind them with a soft thud, a crisp click. Close enough to touch her, though she's still walking, heading for the elevators. His hands on her shoulder make her pause; she turns her head, flicks her eyes up at him standing there in her periphery. He's enveloping her, pulling her close from behind, and she smiles that smile again, sinking into the embrace.

"Upstairs," she murmurs, and slides out of his grasp, stepping into the light of the lobby, thumbing the call button.

Rafael

Ever so briefly he has her in his grasp. Close to his body, flush to his form. Then she's gone again. Slipping away, casting one of those smiles over her shoulder. Bewitching eyes. Bewitching mouth.

"Distracting," he mutters after her, laughter mingling with naked want. Elevator comes and he follows her in, makes the close spaces seem closer still. Doors shut; whole of the car seems to breathe with him. And she can see him breathing: the imposing bulk of his chest rising and falling under his shirt. He stares at the numbers like it might make them go faster.

Doors open. He takes her hand. Lets her let him out. Follows her -- not quite like a puppy dog, no, but like something animal, primitive. Glances at the anonymous doors as he passes, some with doormats, some with decorative wreaths, most with nothing at all. City living. Apartment life.

He knows which door is hers. By memory, but also by -- well; not scent. She has none. But by feel, and sensation. While she unlocks the lock he puts his hand on the wood, as though to imprint his own presence there. Here. Girl. Mine.

Devon

Elevator comes and Devon steps on, and Rafael steps on, and Devon turns to him. Still has her backpack and her sweater in her hand. Steps up to him and uses her free hand to touch him through his shirt: her fingertips slide upward over his abdomen until her palm is flat against him. Her eyes are on his, if he drags them off the numbers to look down at her. That hand of hers opens, fingers spreading over his chest, caressing his shoulder, coming to rest against the back of his neck.

"Should kiss me now, yeah?" she whispers, and just looking at her he can tell her breathing is already quickened. Of course he can: he can see her breasts moving. Right there.

Rafael

Of course he looks at her. Elevator numbers have no intrinsic draw of their own; his fascination with them is purely because they represent how far, how long before he's out of this moving metal box. Walking down the hall, walking through the door, carrying girl to her bed.

So. Of course he looks at her: when she moves. When she comes closer. When she touches him, his chest rising with a breath under her hand. She's near enough that they're nearly touch, except they aren't. Just her hand, his heartbeat. Girl whispers and if this building has a security cam in the elevator, well, no one sees what she says. Anyone can see how he responds.

Straightening up. Lower his head. His chest weighing against her palm; his mouth meeting hers hard, starved. He kisses her with his hands still locked around the elevator railing, as though this alone keeps him from ravaging her with his rough grasp.

Devon

Only her hand? Only at first. Devon doesn't hold herself apart from him, to tease him or to pretend at shyness. By the time her hand touches his neck she's come flush against him again, and those breaths that move her breasts do so right against his shirt.

Rafael has nothing to say to her. And Rafael does not reach to hold her. He kisses her, and Devon breathes in, her eyes closing as she meets him there. As she presses herself that much closer to him. As she stretches out that kiss, sinking into it until the elevator dings open.

Abruptly stops, lips pink. "Come on," she says, and pulls him out, after her, with her, down the hall. She's got her keys in a smaller pocket of her backpack; she does fumble a little with them in haste but not much. Not many doors up here. Big, open-plan lofts. Naomi only has a couple of neighbors on this floor, this side of the building.

Door gets unlocked, and they go in, and it smells like one of the girls who lives here. Depending on how much he focuses his attention, Rafael might be able to smell traceries of weed over by the windows, the balcony. Smells candles that were burning and aren't now. Smells last night's takeout boxes in the trash in the kitchen. Smells that friend, Naomi, and her hair dye, and smells the incense Devon uses sometimes that he remembers from his own house when she was there, and smells

everything but her.

O course.

They're alone here, and the lights are off, and there's nothing but that almost-full moonlight coming through the big windows to the world outside. And Devon is dropping her stuff on the floor, and peeling out of her shorts, right there in the entryway, stepping out of her boots, climbing onto him in her bra and panties. Climbing him: wrapping her legs and arms around him, giving him all these kisses, on his face and on his mouth, on his neck.

Rafael

Once they're in the door seems like wolf loses the last of his restraint. She's dropping her shit on the ground and he's shutting the door. Could smell all the details of her daily life but he's not paying attention to that. Spends what remains of his free will on locking that front door. Then she's kicking those boots off and part of him wants her to leave them on, she's so fucking hot like that, she's always so fucking hot. She steps to him and he catches her up and it's hard to say whose idea it is, who climbs and who lifts, but she's in his arms and wrapping her legs around his waist and he's grasping at her back. He's kissing her with this low, hungry sound. Her hands are on his face. His hands are squeezing her ass, sliding under her panties because even that tiny distance is too much.

Dark in here. Moonlight flooding through the windows but everything else is off. If her roommate's home she's keeping to herself. That suits him just fine. He thinks of fucking her in front of those big windows, in that big living room. Thinks of it but he prefers privacy, wants her to himself. He's only been here once and it's not enough to keep him from getting a little lost, stumbling a little on his way to her room. He can be forgiven. He's a little busy: hands, mouth, kissing her like that.

There's her door. There's the handle. There's the inward swing, and the room beyond. Probably a mess in there. Girl's not precisely a neat freak. Bottles and jars and vials and herbs and cards and crystals and potions, such a witch. Wolf kicks another door shut and then he's tumbling her down on her futon, or maybe it's a real bed now. He's pulling his shirt up over his head.

Devon

Technically he's been here at least twice. Once was that party, where he was so uncomfortable and she was so frustrated. And the time after that, when she'd left him, and while he was fucking her in that guest bedroom he still thought maybe now she'd come back, they'd made up, she'd move out of here and back in with him. He was sad -- or angry, or just unhappy -- when she didn't want to.

A day when he showed up at her work after an early shift and he'd just stopped hunting and they were both exhausted and they dropped by her place to grab something, but because she wanted to stay with him, curled up in his bed while they both slept off whatever work they do.

A night when they came back here, heated, but Naomi was throwing a party and they made out for a while in her room but it was loud and smelly and distracting and making him... not happy. He snarled when someone, stumbling down the hall, thumped heavily into Devon's door.

He doesn't come here often. He's so solitary, and he isn't like them. Not just that he's the Devil, but also that he's the Hermit. And the Moon. He likes having her in his den, in his bed, and to tell the truth: she likes being there with him. She likes the privacy, the quiet, though sometimes she gets bored, and often she knows she needs to have her own place apart from him. He doesn't come here often. And sometimes that makes her sad.

--

They make it down the hall to one of the bedrooms. Her bedroom. And it's messy. Quite. Someone comes by and cleans, not as often as his large staff, but there's not food molding at the edge of the bed or coffee rings on the surfaces. There are piles of clothes everywhere, though. Windowsills and dresser top and desk are littered with all her... stuff. Witch stuff. And Devon is grinding against his body where he holds her, rubbing herself on him and gasping as she kisses him. Harder. Wetter.

Still a futon that he tumbles down on with her, but a good mattress. He's pulling his shirt off. She's licking the sweat off his chest, her legs still wrapped around him, her hands following the cotton up his body.

Rafael

They've never talked about it. Why he doesn't come here often. If he'd like to come here more. They don't talk much about anything, really. Probably his fault, taciturn creature that he is. Bad with words as he is.

Truth is he'd like to come here more. Truth is he likes it here, likes being in her den. Likes feeling invited, allowed, permitted to see something that is hers. Truth also is sometimes it makes him uncomfortable, tense, to be here. Not because of her, but because of who else is here. Friends. Roommate. So on and so forth.

Because he's a beast. And a loner. And a werewolf. Because he's the Devil, and the Hermit, and the Moon.

None of that is on his mind, though. Might be he's already forgotten those prophetic cards of hers. Might be he's forgotten everything but what her breath feels like on his skin. And her hands. And her tongue, darting catlike over his flesh. He sucks a breath in. His shirt disappears ... somewhere. All those mountains of clothes; won't find it again til the morning. He's wrestling with his jeans, his belt, her legs wrapped around him are sort of in the way. Distracting, certainly, because halfway through his hands are rubbing up and down her thighs instead; he's pulling at her panties instead.

"Get this off," he mutters. "Take it off," but before she can he's onto something else. Taking her tits in his hands, playing with them, lifting, squeezing. Leaning down to her, all hard muscle and lean flesh, pulling the cups down and swiping the straps off her shoulders, peeling the bra down so he can get his mouth on her breasts.

Makes this sound when he has her in his mouth. This low, bestial noise, all growl.

Devon

Doesn't mean anything when he insists that she get this off, take it off. She's not. She's touching him, scraping her teeth over the spot on his chest she just licked. She finds his nipple, pants a breath over it, takes it into her mouth. He wrestles with her, ducking his head, touching her breasts, feeling their weight through the soft cups of her bra.

Then pulling those aside entirely.

She smiles, looking down at his head, his profile, his mouth around her breast. She breathes, moving her fingers into his hair, feeling the strands part and spread for her touch. His scalp is feverishly warm. So is his mouth. So is his body, his bare chest on her now. His arms.

God, she loves his arms.

Devon exhales heavily, squirming under him. "Fuck me," she mutters, almost a whisper, like they aren't really as alone as they are.

Rafael

Maybe he can feel that smile. Taste it from her skin. Maybe he just imagines it. Doesn't matter: she says fuck me and he looks up, brow lining with that upward gaze. Eyes meeting hers. He sees that smile, pushes up, slides up over her body and kisses it from her mouth.

"Will," he promises, and then: sits up, sits back on his heels. Gets a smirk of his own, crooked, "Soon as you take off those goddamn panties."

Which isn't to say he doesn't help her. Because he does. Pulls, tugs, rolls them down her hips, and then all the way down those legs. Undoes his pants, then. Struggles out of them, kicks them down to the end of the futon, off. Comes back to her bared, bold, sweeping her up in one arm and bearing her a half-foot or so up the futon. Comes down over her again, chest to breasts, skin to skin. He kisses her as her legs fold around him. Mutters a single breathless word,

fuck,

as he pushes into her. Kisses her throat, then. Kisses her neck, her jaw, finds that maddening, unforgettable mouth of hers again. Kisses that, too.

Devon

Devon's eyes close again when he kisses her. She has her hands on his face, her kiss hungry, eating at his mouth. She pulls him closer, and lifts her hips, pressing against him through his jeans, her still-on panties.

Inanely, he promises that he will. She laughs, breathily, but it doesn't last. Rolls her eyes when he says it's about her panties not getting off yet. Like she could, lying on her back with her boyfriend between her legs, her ankles crossed behind him. Like it's her job to take off her own lingerie.

When he leans over her again to pull her underwear off, Devon reaches up for him, draws him down, kisses him again. Slower now, and softer, and yet somehow deeper than before. Lifts up her body again as he's peeling things off of her, bites his lip a little when he has to leave her kiss to... get them all the way off. To get his own jeans off. Devon's still in her bra, the cups pulled aside, straps slid down.

They move up. And she wants to kiss him again, like that last one, with her eyes closed. Wants to rub herself against him a little, feel all of him, now that they're both naked.

Well, except for her bra, but that's mostly gone anyway.

Rafael

They've forgotten about the bra. Or maybe he just wants to leave it on. Reminds him of how she took her shirt off. In the street. Which reminds him of the shit she wears, which turns his head and blows his mind; which reminds him of the way she is.

Those smiles. Those eyes. That attitude, that pretense of strength and boldness, that vulnerability; that true, deep strength beneath it all. Wolf thinks of the way she came to him the first time. Not unlike tonight, really. Took her dress off and as good as told him:

fuck me.

She wants to kiss him again. She does kiss him again, her hands on his face pulling him down. He goes into that embrace, moans into her mouth. She wants to rub on him, and maybe she does, and maybe he slips out of her and if he does he growls again; frustration and wanting. Takes her by the hip and makes her slow, stop, be still, holds her steady while he rubs against her, slides the length of his cock over her, reaches down, grasps himself, moves into her again,

slow and steady, stroke by stroke, gentler now with her than he was at the start. Learned that much, at least. Wraps his arms around her, nevermind that it's growing unbearably hot; keeps her close to him, sheltered under him, in the quiet of her room, within the walls of her den.

Devon

Rafael's forgotten about her bra, or Rafael wants to keep it on. Devon hasn't forgotten. Devon wants it off. It's just that she wants to kiss him. She wants so badly to feel close to him, when no matter what they said it never seemed right, and he never seemed close, over at the cafe.

Maybe he doesn't push into her at all before she's touching him, laying their bodies together the way that feels right. He thinks of the way she was the first time, and this is nothing like that at all. Not to Devon. Truthfully,

she doesn't much like to think about that night.

She wants to kiss him. And she wants him close. Holding her even though the AC isn't on and it's hot and summer is swelling up on the city and they're sweating. She hears him growling impatience, wanting, and there are certainly times when Rafael's driving impatience to have sex with her is a turn-on but not always. Sometimes she wants to kiss him for hours, forever. Just feel him, skin to skin. She likes to fuck. He feels good, when he fucks her.

The truth she wasn't saying and isn't saying and doesn't know how to say or if she wants to say is that she just... wants to feel close to him. Wants things to be okay between them. Really okay, not one-word-answers okay. And that's all. And nothing else was working. And sometimes nothing else works at all.

Rafael's hand grips her hip and stops her, and Devon draws back a bit, wondering what's wrong. Why he doesn't want her to, doesn't let her, move. He rubs himself against her. Her lashes flicker and some of that is confusion and some of that is sensation. She breathes. He wants to be inside of her, and she hears herself thinking that this is how he feels close. And she wishes, loathing how sudden and how strong and how out of place the feeling is, that she wishes they could both feel close at the same time.

Not that they never do. She knows that. Thinks of those moments in the darkened gallery. Thinks of his bed, before that earthquake benefit. Doesn't know if he knows that, or feels that way, that the times they fight or the times they can't connect don't add up to things not working, never working, not being worth it. Being alone.

Doesn't say anything, and tries not to give anything away, at which she is rather well-practiced. She doesn't want to fight. She doesn't want him to feel bad. And after all, she did tell him to fuck her. It's hard to say things about wanting to be close, or how much he scared her this evening, and of what. Sometimes those words -- rough, short, clipped things like fuck me -- are the only words she feels are allowed. Not just by him. By her, too.

She knows that.

Rafael is inside of her, and her eyes are closed, and he's holding her tight within his arms, close, because he loves her. (She knows that, too.) Her hands are on his back, firebrand-hot, sweat-slick. He can hear her breathing, and it's good. He can hear her breathing, and knows he feels good to her. Feel her hands holding him, and

Devon hopes,

knows she loves him.

Rafael

Maybe it's a little sad, but truth is he is trying to be gentle. Go slow. Trying not to rush through it, hammer through it, plow through it; hurt her, put her off, make this unpleasant for her. And for what it might be worth: he's succeeded at that much. This isn't unpleasant for her. It's just --

hard to say what it is. What's not quite right there. There is something though, and wolf feels it. Even if girl's trying not to let it ruin things. Even if her hands hold him, and her legs, and her body; even if she breathes with him and lets him in. Loves him.

He slows. He pauses. Doesn't draw away. Doesn't go angry and cold. Just -- pauses, perplexed. Breath comes quicker. Big hands stroke her hair back, cradle the back of her head. He kisses her softly, nuzzles, draws back again.

"You okay?" he whispers.

Devon

"Yeah," she whispers, sweat on her brow, color on her breasts. She's nodding gently, her head moving in the cradle of his palms, just one or two quick little movements. Looks up at him, those bright, round eyes. Breathes through parted lips. There is something there, between them, but she doesn't put it into words. She can't find words.

"I'm all right," she tells him softly, which is not entirely true but is certainly not a lie. She doesn't want him to stop. He can feel that, too. That she isn't mindless with want, that her lust isn't the first thing in her mind, burning away everything else. That she's not at the heights and peaks of arousal, but

she does want this. And she doesn't want him to stop.

Lifts her head a little, touching his face with her hand, kissing him softly on the cheek. "Take my bra all the way off," she murmurs against his skin, moving her hips where they're joined, rolling them, taking him deeper.

Rafael

There's two of them here. Two of them in bed. Two of them intertwined. Two of them having sex. There's action. There's reaction. Nothing occurs in a vacuum.

She rolls her hips. His eyes fall shut. She takes him deeper and he exhales through parting lips. Her hand touches his cheek; he turns into it blindly. Kisses her palm as she kisses his cheek.

Kisses her mouth as she whispers guidance to him. Sometimes he needs that. He's not a virgin; not even particularly inexperienced. Inexperienced at this, though. Being with someone important. Someone he cares about. Someone worth his time, and his consideration, and his thought.

His eyes open again. Here in the darkness one can hardly see the color; one can hardly miss the glint, the shine, the animal intensity. His eyes meet hers and maybe this is magic too, but her eyes seem as blue as ever. Maybe he just imagines it. Maybe he just knows her well enough to see it even when it's not there. Thinks of her when she's not there, to be sure. Thinks of her when he wakes in an empty bed. Thinks of her when he walks down the hall, smells the remnant traces of those herbs and tinctures she kept in her room.

He wraps an arm under her. Lifts her. Undoes her bra and unloops it from her arms. Her skin is luminous in the darkness. He runs his palm over it, reverent, as the last of her lingerie falls away. His hand finds its way to her breast. Cups it. He finds her way back to her mouth. Kisses her.

Devon

It means something, small and beating in her heart, when she kisses his face and he kisses her palm. Feels like they're kissing, lip to lip, breath to breath. She loves him, and it aches a little, and she doesn't mind. She really does love him. Her legs wrap tighter around him, keeping him close.

They tangle on her rumpled, undone bed. He holds her up while he unclasps her bra, draws the straps down her arms. She helps; he moves it aside, some other corner of the comforter. His hands come back to her, trace over her, and she wraps her arms around him all over again, closing her eyes when he leans over her to kiss her, his hand on her breast.

"Keep going," she whispers, when they part to breathe, her lips still so close to his he can feel them move. "Don't want you to stop."

Rafael

Maybe it means something too that he was waiting for that. Maybe it aches a little that he had to wait; that he couldn't read her thoughtlessly and intuitively. Maybe it warms her, too, to know that he waits. Waits to hear yes. Waits to hear keep going.

What little space between diminishes. He kisses her again. He moves into her again, an instinct so hardcoded in his bones that he doesn't need to think about it. The motion. The rhythm. His hand still cradles her head; his arm her body. Something about that feels protective. Loving, even if that word so rarely leaves his lips.

Devon

There's so many maybes. So many things to guess at, hope for. She's saying so little. He's saying nothing at all.

But it is loving. Everything else aside, that's what this is. He's in her bed, where she wanted him to be. And they're both naked, and he's inside of her, and she's enveloping him, and they're holding each other. It's started to rain outside again, steady and constant, but not thunderous. The room is cooling off but neither of them feel it.

Sometimes Devon is so noisy during sex. All this moaning and groaning and gasping and swearing, whimpering, crying out. And then sometimes it's like this, and she's barely making a sound. Sometimes they're just kissing, over and over while they move together. Her hands follow his torso, touch his chest. She touches every part of him she can reach: arms, waist, hips, it hardly matters so long as it's him. Starts kissing him again, deep and moist, moaning softly into his mouth.

Rafael

Tenderness almost crushes him. Those soft little moans she hides in his mouth. The way she touches him, those slender fingers, those soft hands. His response is paradoxical. He wraps his arms around her tighter. Presses her close to his body; holds her almost too tight.

Fucks her harder. Not roughly, but: firmer. Heavier, deeper strokes bearing her down into that futon. That surprisingly comfortable, half-makeshift bed of hers. Girl's such a mooch, he thinks. It's fond, not at all angry or hateful. Perhaps that isn't even the word for it. Maybe it's just her: her uniqueness, her magnetism. Makes everyone around her want to share their lives with her. Somehow. Even passingly.

His teeth graze her lip. Nip at her chin. He buries his face against her shoulder then, and her neck. Curved over her like this, he's a mountain of strength, a solid, dense wall of motion. Could be so easy to be swallowed, devoured, made insignificant, but -- not tonight. Tonight, at least, he's with her. Attuned, careful. And yet at the same time: entranced, lost in her. So focused on this moment, this act, that all the rest,

the room, the comfortable mess, the controlled wreck she seems to create everywhere she goes, the roommate, the shared-ness of this den, the street and the city and the world outside it --

it all fades. There's only this.

Devon

The rest is biology. And physics. Matter and energy, action and reaction. He fucks her harder. Or firmer. Heavier. His breathing quickens and his teeth brush over her flesh, never sinking into it -- not tonight. When he buries his face against her neck she holds him more tightly, closing her eyes, while he loses himself in her. Moves faster. Grips the sheets and the bed underneath them when his breathing becomes panting, when a soft fuck slips out of his mouth, bouncing off her skin. When some tripwire inside of him is triggered and he falls, headlong, gravity upending itself just before impact and rolling him safely but not gently into an entirely different sensation.

There is this strange blankness then. Lasts only a half-second: a sort of blackout, a flicker of death in the sense that one's identity is momentarily missing. One's sense of self, the boundaries of the body and the mind. Then it's like waking, so soon that it doesn't feel like sleep. It's easy to forget that flicker, that moment between orgasm and recovery when everything you know is suspended. When everything he knows is suspended.

Devon is holding him. She still has her legs and arms wrapped around him. Their chests are slick with sweat, pressed together. Devon seems so calm. Warm, and soft, and watching him with those luminous eyes.

Rafael

Wolf could lose himself in those eyes. Maybe already has lost himself. Maybe that's why he's here now. In her bed. In her arms. Maybe that's why he stopped that rainy night in the alley...

Every culture's got stories. Warnings, cheap thrills. Witches and their wiles. Witches and their ways. Stray too close and you never get away. Terrible way to think, really; hateful, distrustful, all too often misogynistic. It's not how wolf thinks. He's a lot of things, few of them pleasant, but he's not a bigot. At least there's that.

Likes that she's a witch though. Let's admit to that. Likes that she's not quite mundane. Likes that her eyes are full of primordial magic; likes that her smile is such an unanswered riddle. Likes that she's just a girl, too, underneath or behind or within all that ancient promise; that wild, fecund power.

Likes her.

He closes his eyes. Kisses her. Still catching his breath; still shuddering through the last of that commotion that tore his consciousness loose from its moorings, cast it out somewhere where he had to hunt it back down. When he finishes kissing her -- though one could argue he never quite finishes kissing her, not when he always goes back for more -- he lies down. Rolls a little to the side. Exhales, almost a whuff, heavy and animal.

Devon

Devon smiles a little, rolling over with him, or at least: rolling on her side next to him. She props her head up on her hand. She rests her other hand on top of his chest, watching him without saying a word.

Rafael

Wolf's eyes close for a while. Dark, thick lashes. Dark, thick hair. Maybe that's a pleasant side effect of lycanthropy: great hair. Maybe it's just his genetics. Royal blood. Noblewoman's bastard.

He opens his eyes again. She's looking at him; got that little smile on her mouth. He reaches up with a lazy hand, touches the corner of her mouth with his thumb. Like he's imprinting there. Sealing her smile onto his fingerprint, each as unique as the other.

Of all the things to say, of all the things he could ask now, all he comes up with is the most mundane:

"Did you get off?" -- murmured, fuzzy.

Devon

Like this, Rafael's animal grace is clumsy and rough, heavy in his affection and slapdashingly imprecise. It makes her smile more, the way he presses his thumb on her. She spreads her lips and bites his thumb, very gently, holding it between her teeth for a second as she looks at him. Lets him go. He says the most inane little thing, staring at her with something like adoration in his eyes, murmuring it like a sweet nothing.

Something in Devon's eyes flickers when he asks. She shrugs one shoulder, awkward. Gives a small, silent shake of her head. And lays down next to him, pillowing her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arm over his middle.

Rafael

Seems to cast a shadow on her, that. Maybe she's afraid he'll make a big deal of it. Or maybe she wishes he'd noticed instead of having to ask. Wolf doesn't know. She comes close to him, though, and he figures that can't be a bad thing. Wraps his arm around her as she does around him. He's still sort of sweaty. She doesn't seem to mind.

"Eat you out later," he mutters, and yawns. It's an offhanded little promise. He probably means it. Doesn't make a big deal of it, though.

Devon

Little worries: what she might be thinking, what shadow that is in her expression that he can't interpret. The reassurance, when she comes close and holds him. When she's close enough that he can hold her, too. She seems warm and calm and close, and content, and so -- he says what he says.

Can't see her face, but he can hear her sigh. And she doesn't want to just sigh and leave it there, but she falters when it comes to actually putting whatever she's feeling into words.

"You don't --

"I don't want you to do that," she says quietly. "Just want to be close to you. That's all I want."

Rafael

"Maybe I wanna eat your pussy," he mutters, stubborn. Shifts his head on her blankets. Or maybe her pillow. Depends where they ended up. Settles with another whuff of an exhale.

"All right. We'll just be close then." More inanities coming out of his mouth. Wolf should quit while he's ahead. His arm moves a little, hugs her closer. "Like it when you smile," he adds, non sequitur.

Devon

Another exhale. Just a small one. Still a sigh. She doesn't answer that. Any of it, really. He hugs her closer and she holds him tighter, too, half-burrowing her face against his side. She gets that tight, clenched feeling in her chest again, the same one she had sitting at the table at the cafe. And every time she thinks about it, touches it with a thought, it hurts again.

"We can if you want," she whispers, after a few seconds, sounding a bit like she can't breathe. "Just don't like it being... tit for tat."

Rafael

She's serious, he realizes. Opens his eyes -- he's closed them again. Might have been drifting off, truth be told.

Moves, though. Turns on his side, faces her. Slings his arm heavy over her waist. So she knows he's there. So she knows he's close, he's not pulling away, he's not -- far.

"Was joking. Sort of. Don't think of it like that. Tit for tat." His hand comes up. He runs his thumb along her cheekbone. "Doesn't bother me that you didn't get off. Don't mean like I don't care if you do or not. 'Course I want you to feel good. Just not something to keep me up at night. Not something I feel like I need to make up or whatever."

Devon

Devon stays right where she is, rather adamantly hiding her face against his pectoral muscle. Which is this large, slab-like thing that does quite an effective job, actually. He says lots of words, which he doesn't do often, and some of them aren't the right words at all -- she doesn't mind at all if it bothers him when she doesn't get off. Maybe she thinks it should both him and he should want to make it up or whatever, just as much as she doesn't want to feel like he feels bad and just wants to erase a debt. And some of them are the right words. That he wants her to feel good.

Really, she wants to run away from all this. Get away from him, go somewhere alone, hide in a bathtub perhaps where she can curl up and press her hand against her chest until her heart stops seizing up in fear and sadness. Hide somewhere until she can get some perspective again. Put her armor back on. Make sure the bonds are tight before she goes back to him.

And if she gets up now and leaves him in bed, then there was no point to any of it. It'll all be ruined. If she doesn't make him feel like everything is okay, if they fight again, there was no point to any of it. All ruined.

She breathes in, deep and sinking all the steadily-cooling air into her lungs. She holds it for a moment, a beat, then exhales. Lifts her head and looks at him, lifts her body to get their faces closer together and touches her brow to his, rolling their foreheads together gently.

"Don't worry about it," she murmurs, closing her eyes, staying there close to him. "We don't need to talk about it. All right?"

Rafael

[EMPAFEEEEEE. WAT GOING ON WHY EBBYTING SO WEERD.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (6, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

Devon

[Devon's primary emotion right now, on the surface, is just wanting him to feel good, and close, and loved/loving. Unfortunately, a lot of what's beneath that is more complicated. It's related to the tarot reading and the weirdness at the cafe. She really does seem to want him to stop talking, where earlier that's all she seemed to want. But deep down, she feels very scared -- vulnerable and raw-nerved. And none of it has anything whatsoever to do with whether or not she had an orgasm, other than that somehow talking about it seems to be making her feel even more uncomfortable.]

Rafael

Wolf's not particularly good at seeing deep into girl's soul. Nothing of the sort. Tonight he does better than most nights, but even that barely scratches the surface.

It's enough to tell him to just shut up. It's not enough to tell him why. He goes with it, though, if only because it's so much easier just to keep his mouth shut. Say nothing. Wrap his arm around her, pull her tight against his chest.

"All right," he whispers. "No more words."

Devon

To that, perhaps unsurprisingly at this point, Devon says nothing. She holds him, and retreats. She doesn't feel close to him the way she wanted. She still feels afraid and uncertain. She hopes he feels close to her. She hopes he doesn't feel afraid or uncertain. She curls back against him, where she was before, closing her eyes as she tucks herself between his arm and his side.

At least,

when it's quiet,

she can hide.

Silently, Devon tucks her feet beneath his calf. Outside her window it's still raining.