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.
DevonSometimes,
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.
RafaelEver 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.
DevonElevator 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.
RafaelOf 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.
DevonOnly 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.
RafaelOnce 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.
DevonTechnically 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.
RafaelThey'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.
DevonDoesn'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.
RafaelMaybe 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.
DevonDevon'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.
RafaelThey'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.
DevonRafael'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.
RafaelMaybe 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.
RafaelThere'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.
DevonIt 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."
RafaelMaybe 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.
DevonThere'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.
RafaelTenderness 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.
DevonThe 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.
RafaelWolf 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.
DevonDevon 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.
RafaelWolf'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.
DevonLike 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.
RafaelSeems 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.
DevonLittle 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.
DevonAnother 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."
RafaelShe'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."
DevonDevon 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.]
RafaelWolf'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."
DevonTo 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.
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