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.