words.

witch

Huffs a breath, when he calls her that. But she's delirious right then, drowsy, pink and sweaty and lost. Dreamy, later, while he's kissing her and touching her, fondling her, all these little affections even as he slides off to the side, watches her. Somewhere in there a condom comes off, gets trashed. She squirms a bit and then curls closer to him, tucking herself between his chest and his arm, draping her arm over his middle.

"Mm," she says, which perhaps means 'no' or 'what?' or both or possibly even 'shh, I'm sleeping'. But she's not sleeping. She's still breathing heavily, panting across his chest while she comes down. "Crazy little bitch?"

wolfman

He grunts -- it's a laugh of sorts. His hand lifts, falls heavily back on her shoulder. Affectionate sort of pat.

"Worse," he confesses. A bit of a pause, genuinely cautious. "Don't be mad, all right?"

witch

Her eyes drift open, more open than the dreamy look they had a moment ago. She lifts her chin so she can see him, his face, his eyes. "Don't really like 'bitch'," she tells him, instead of answering. Quietly. "Could be hot, sometimes, when we're fucking. Like 'slut'. Don't like 'crazy little bitch' though."

Having said this, she strokes his chest a bit. Scritches with her fingernail-tips over his skin. "If I get mad, I'll stay. And work it out. All right?"

wolfman

Flicker of a line between wolf's eyebrows. He raises his head. Reaches to her, touches her cheek, her lower lip.

"Don't call you a bitch in my head. Don't know why I said that."

Lays his head back down, sighs an exhale. Thinks another beat or two.

" 'Skinny thing'," he admits. "That's what I call you in my head. Not like it's a bad thing. Or like I really think you're skin-and-bones. Just something that popped up once and stuck."

witch

"I know," she murmurs. "I know you don't. Just meant... some stuff is hot. During sex. And other times it would piss me off. Just something about crazy-plus-bitch." She shrugs a little, and tucks herself closer. "I'm not mad."

Her feet wriggle under his calf for warmth as he sighs, stay there when he admits what he calls her. And she laughs. It's almost a bark: a sudden exhale of amusement. "I'm not that skinny," she argues, poking him with a finger.

wolfman

Wolf flinch-twitches, tickled. Laughs too; touch of relief. "I know. Got great tits." Pause. "That usually pops into my head right after. 'Skinny thing. Great tits'." Another. "Should shut up now, shouldn't I."

witch

No bark of laughter this time. Just a sort of incredulous look on her face. skinny thing. great tits. She doesn't say anything for a few moments. He wonders if he should shut up now. And she doesn't really answer. There's an uncomfortably long pause in there.

"Is a little weird," she says, not sure how to put better words around it. "Don't love it. But I'm not mad."

wolfman

He moves under her. Rolls until they're side by side, facing each other. Lower legs cross. His shin covers her feet.

"You're not just body parts to me. Know that, right?"

witch

"Course I know that," she mutters, her voice fond even if the words seem almost glib, dismissive. "Just because I like fucking you doesn't mean you're nothing but biceps and a cock to me."

wolfman

Wolf smirks. "Yeah. Got pecs and abs and a nice ass too."

witch

"Butt."

Says this fondly, sliding her hand around his side, his lower back, giving his aforementioned body part a squeeze. Replaces her hand on his back then, looking up at him, chest to chest and legs tangled.

"Was a little disappointed, when you didn't want to talk to me like you did before."

Since they're confessing things, after all.

wolfman

That smirk widens a little; gets a little lazy. Fades, though, with her next sentence. He leans in a little. Brow to hers, close, warm. Even his sigh doesn't seem exasperated. Just -- aching, maybe. Regretful, possibly.

"Maybe next time," he says, low. "But no promises."

witch

"Not asking you to, if you don't like it," she clarifies. "Just don't really ... get it." Breathes in, and looks up at him, arms around his middle giving him a squeeze. "You seemed so into it, out in the garden."

Yard. She means the back yard.

"And... not like you have to call me names or pretend you're using me." She shrugs, shakes her head a little as she looks directly ahead of her, which means she's looking at his chest. Leans over, on an errant whim, and kisses his chest. "Like it when you say stuff. Feels... more connected."

wolfman

Almost by reflex, he cups her head as she kisses his chest. Her lips feel warm; her breath moist. His heart wants to skip a beat or two.

He's looking at her when she draws back again. Her unbelievable eyes; his darker, more troubled. He's a little tense now; feels cornered. Or maybe pushed.

"Okay," is all he comes up with in the end.

witch

Dark, troubled eyes. Tension in his bones. And just... okay.

Devon sighs. Told him she wouldn't leave, when he was worried that skinny thing, great tits would make her mad. Wants to leave now, though. Doesn't. She just withdraws, and slowly rolls over, her back against him. Lays there a few seconds, before exhaling -- this time not a sigh. Just a release of breath.

"Gonna pee," she announces, before leaving bed, nakedly crossing the room. Is reaching up to her hair as she does so, unwinding the hair elastic at the end of her little braid, unraveling it as she goes. Shuts the door behind her.

--

Not in their long, obviously. Just to piss. Wash up. Splash some water on her face. Comes back out again, turning off the light behind her. It's still very dark here, the moon new and the room lightless. Crosses back to him, crawling onto the foot of the bed back towards him. Flops beside him.

wolfman

His arm settles around her when she turns her back to him. Puts her back against him. He relaxes a little; she can feel it, tension leaving those bones. But then she leaves, and he watches her go. Raises his head to follow her with his eyes.

When she returns he's on his back again. Under the covers. She crawls up the bed and he turns the comforter down for her. She gets in. Flops down. He wraps his arm around her, pulls her against his solid side.

"Not good with words," he says after a while. "Feel connected to you even without them."

witch

Devon doesn't actually get under the covers with him. Just settles next to him, feeling warm enough without them for the moment. Except for her toes, which she scoots under a fold of down. He pulls her close, and she's watching him until he speaks. Frowns a little at what he says.

"Can't tell if you want to talk about it or not," she tells him, her frustration bleeding into the words. Shows in her bones. "Before you... stonewalled me. Now you're making me feel shitty for telling you how I feel."

wolfman

Wolf's jaw tenses. He doesn't pull away, though. They've made some progress. Couple moments go by; then:

"Remember how when I used to tell you all the time I wished you'd move back in? I was telling you how I felt, but you still felt pressured? It's like that."

witch

"That was a dozen times over weeks," she retorts. "Not one conversation. And I wasn't pressuring you, I was trying to get you to talk to me."

wolfman

"Talk dirty to you," he corrects. "Call you names. I don't want to. Told you that. Can we drop it?"

witch

Frown turns to a scowl. "No. A minute ago. Told you I don't get it. Told you why I was confused. Told you why it matters to me. And you shut down, made the same excuse you always make, and then told me that you feel connected anyway, which just... "

She's past verbalizing why that set her off. She talks more when she's angry, if she doesn't just storm off. Maybe it's the Irish blood. Maybe it's the half of her that is wolf, growling and barking. Maybe it's just Devon.

"All right," she snaps, sitting up and getting up from the bed, "we can drop it. You don't have to talk to me at all for a while." But this, she's saying while she picks up her stuff.

wolfman

"Fuck," and he's sitting up too, rumpling the covers down from his torso, "can you stay? Just stay. All this goddamn talking makes my head hurt."

witch

This, unfortunately, only seems to hit her where she's already angry with him, stoking the fire. "I know!" she snaps, but it's not a snap. It's yelling. And it's the first time she's really yelled at him, her voice raised, a harshness to that second word. And once it's started --

"And I don't want to stay and not talk! So no, I'm not fucking staying and keeping my mouth shut for you!"

wolfman

Wolf's taken aback -- blinks visibly with that first, sharp shout. It only lasts a second. Then he bellows back at her: "Then get the fuck out!"

witch

"TRYING."

It's a roar, her upper half leaning forward, eyes flashing, clothing and bag half in her arms. Not even putting them on.

Just takes them, storming out quickly, slamming his door behind her. She's nearly to the stairs before she even tries to put her clothes on

and drops her bag, and half her clothes, because she's shaking so hard.

--

Devon dresses quickly. Panties are somewhere under his covers. Shorts on, then. Bra, sweater, couldn't find her socks. They're in his room somewhere, too. Waits til she's downstairs before shoving her feet into her boots, stomping out the front door and walking several yards in the dark. It's gotten cold.

Gets cold at night, these days. But not frigid. Not cold enough to call an Uber for a seven-minute walk.

wolfman

No one -- nothing -- comes after her after she slams the door. While she storms down the stairs. After she puts her clothes on. When she whisks out the front door.

No; it's not until she's on the sidewalk that the door flies open again behind her. "Hey!" It's more a bark than a shout. He comes after her; she can hear his footsteps, feel his presence. He catches up, runs if he has to. "Devon. Come on. Stop."

witch

When the door flies open, and he barks at her,

she shrieks. Jumps, letting out that cry without being conscious of it. If her shoulderbag weren't crossing her body she might drop it. As it is, she jerks back a few steps before she catches herself. Stands there on the sidewalk as he catches up to her, her hand tight around her bag's strap. Watches him, but the wariness of her body language doesn't show in her eyes. She's just

unhappy.

And angry.

Looks down at him: scars visible. Standing on the sidewalk in boxers. But she doesn't look around to see who might be peeking out at them. Late enough that almost everyone in this neighborhood is fast asleep. Drags her eyes back up his body to his face. Can't think of how many times they've been here.

Doesn't say anything. He had a reason for chasing her out here. She waits for him to tell her what it is.

wolfman

So he stands there. Bare feet. Feels bad for making her shriek. Feels bad for making her run away. Feels resentful, too, that she ran away. Again.

At length he makes a small, stupid gesture with his hands. Turn of his palms up and out; little more than a twitch. Then he holds one out to her.

"Come on," again. "Come back inside."

witch

Devon looks at his hand. Looks at his face.

"And then what?"

wolfman

Flare of impatience: "And then we can go to bed. Where it's warm. Come on."

witch

Both her hands drop to her sides, bent at the elbows, her hands tight in a gesture of frustration.

At the same moment, a nearby sprinkler pops up and starts spraying water over the lawn.

None of the others do.

It's probably a coincidence.

--

"I'm pissed, Rafa," and for some reason tonight the trill of the R is audible, rolling off her tongue. "I don't want to go to bed with you, and shut up, just to make you happy right now. I'm sorry. But I'm just going to lie there being pissed off at you, and I don't want to!"

wolfman

That sprinkler goes off. Wolf slants it a glance. Doesn't pay it much mind. It's just water. She's just magic. They're neither of them human; not fully. His logic is not ironclad. Leaves more room for the impossible, the insane.

"So. What. You're going walk home? It's freezing."

witch

Devon rolls her eyes heavenward. "It's seven minutes and... sixty degrees."

Says the girl who grew up in Boston and London.

It is actually fifty, give or take.

Gestures at him. "And I'm not in my underwear."

Her hand drops again. Her brow is still wrinkled, but she's softened a bit. "Look, it's late, and this was great, and then it... got all fucked. I'm not breaking up with you. I'm just pissed off." Frown deepens a little. "Even if you did want to talk to me now, I don't think we should. Let's just... try again next time."

wolfman

Wolf's just standing there frowning as girl tells him it's late. This was great. "Know that," he interjects, when she reassures him: this isn't the end. There's a hint of defensiveness here. Truth is, some part of him wondered.

It's late. This was great. But...

It's not you. It's me.

Now they're both frowning, each deepening by the moment. He raises a hand, itches his forehead just above an eyebrow. Drops the hand. Compresses his lips a moment, frustrated.

"Fine. Next time." Beat. "Come here and hug me goodnight at least."

witch

There's a sigh. She wants to, and she doesn't. She wants to say goodbye with hugs and kisses. She doesn't want to go near him, or be around him tonight, or pretend that she's not hurt and scared and frustrated.

Walks forward, and isn't really looking at him. But puts her arms around him and hugs him.

It is brief, and at least for her, it is very awkward. At least it's sincere: the hug is firm, and the squeeze is warm. It just doesn't last very long. It just doesn't really make her feel better.

wolfman

Doesn't make him feel any better either. Just feels -- not empty, but brief. Short. Incomplete. Unfinished.

She steps back. So does he. He looks at her another moment, dark eyebrows, brooding eyes. Then wolf shrugs by way of goodnight; turns and heads back into his house.

witch

This time Devon stays where she is. Watches him walk away, folding her arms over her middle. When the door closes, she turns around, heading off in the direction of her friend's loft.

At least he gets a text, maybe eight minutes later:

home safe.

It's followed, just a matter of seconds, by:

I love you.

Rafael

The response isn't immediate. By girl's standards it's probably downright slow. Minutes. Eleven, to be exact.

Then:

Too.

Devon

Asshole.

Asshole, asshole, asshole.

Fucking asshole prick. Asshole.

After eleven minutes, the word 'asshole' ceases to sound like a word. Ceases, even in her internal monologue, to make sense. Because thirty, forty, sixty seconds go by and there's nothing on her phone, no reply. So she puts it down and starts getting ready for bed. She brushes her teeth and she strips out of her clothes. Naomi's already asleep somewhere. She's already in bed, playing some game on her phone, when the message notification shows up in the upper corner.

Her mouth is set, but there's a part of her willing to be comforted. The same part of her that didn't want to end the night without at least telling him that she was safe, and she loves him, because she never knows if tonight's going to be the night he dies. That's true of everyone, she thinks, but more true of people like him, who aren't people at all. Even if it's just a text message, even if it followed an awkward hug, at least he'd know, he'd see and remember: I love you.

So her mouth sets, and a part of her softens, and she swipes down with her thumb and sees

three

fucking

letters.

"Fucking prick," Devon snaps, louder than necessary but not loud enough to wake her roommate. She does not throw her phone across the room. She just throws it to the edge of the bed, the far foot corner, and turns her back on it like she did to him earlier. She's curled up tightly, her body tense with refusal, with the anger that rears up hard and spiky to protect that part of her that dared to soften for a minute.

"Asshole," she mutters, sniffing, rubbing the heel of her hand across the corner of her eye, swiping the teensiest bit of moisture across her temple. It actually doesn't take her that long to fall asleep. It just feels like a long time.

Rafael

An hour later her phone goes off. Not texts. A call.

Devon

Phone calls in the middle of the night seldom bode well.

Devon rouses with struggle to her phone going off at the foot of the bed, lit up atop the covers. Currently her ringtone is something from the middle of a song called Bridges and that's what she interrupts when she scrambles blindly for the phone, looking at who's calling.

It's the photo she took of Rafa and herself not so long ago, outside of Proof when he found her coloring. Her in sunglasses, beaming. Him frowning, looking grumpy.

Her heart clenches.

She sounds like she just woke up, groggy and hoarse. And the first thing she says --

"Babe? Are you okay?"

Rafael

"Yeah?" Sound surprised. Which is to say: sounds grumpy. Because he's a wolf. And grumpy. "Just -- whatever. I'm downstairs."

Devon

"In the recliner?" she asks, confused, rubbing her face.

Forgive her.

He woke her up.

Rafael

"No." Sounds grumpy again. Somewhere in the background, whoosh of a car going past. "Downstairs. Like under your building. Can you buzz me up?"

Devon

Oh.

Devon doesn't say it, but she feels it, that sound of understanding. He hears her sniff. He hears rustling. The call ends abruptly, without announcement. But about five, ten seconds later, the door beside him clicks, unlocked.

--

When he gets up to Naomi's place, an knocks, it takes a little while for Devon to come. She's shuffling over to the entry, unlocking and opening the door, standing there in soft grey shorts, soft grey camisole, both edged in pink lace. Her sleeping uniform, more or less. She has on thick socks, slouched around her ankles. Her hair is tousled but pulled back from her face in a somewhat poofy ponytail.

She lets him in. Closes the door behind him and locks it again.

"You woke me up," she mutters, shuffling away from the door, down the hall. "Just keep it down, okay? Naomi's asleep."

Rafael

Wolf doesn't know what it means when the call just ends. Maybe she's mad. Maybe she hung up on him. He's about to recall when the door clicks. His eyes refocus, quick, intent. He pulls the handle.

--

She's not waiting for him when he gets up to the floor, the apartment, the door. He knocks. He knocks again. It opens eventually, and girl's standing there in her soft little sleep-set looking ... soft and sleepy. He likes it; looks away. She meanders back down the hall while he's stomping out of his shoes, shrugging out of his coat. Because he didn't walk here in his shorts.

He catches up to her halfway down the hall. Shadows her, big heavy-shouldered thing, wolfish even if his blood is royal. What is royalty amongst beasts, anyway? One's more savage than the next. He follows her into her room, where he drops his jacket over the chair; starts pulling his shirt off like he expects to get in her bed.

"Sorta missed you."

Devon

Is waiting for him, when he gets to the door. Waiting on the couch, curled up on her side. But only after she checked the mirror. Pulled back her hair. Splashed water on her face. Swished hot water through her mouth and spat. But then she lies down, and then he knocks, and knocks again, and she tells him he woke her up and to keep it down because he's gonna wake up her roommate.

None of which he really responds to. Just stomps out of his shoes and takes off his coat. Follows her down to her bedroom door, where she's opening it up and he's draping his stuff around like he expects to stay. Devon turns as his jacket thumps over the chair at the desk covered in bottles and vials, drams of oil, bags of dried herbs, small candles in every color, a lighter, a mess. A total mess. She never uses a computer or notebook at that desk.

And then he starts pulling off his shirt and she's aroused, and she's angry at him for arousing her, starts scowling at him.

Crosses her arms over her chest. It's cool in here; she covers up her nipples where they were poking through the thin cotton. "And?"

Rafael

Wolf shoots her a glance. Even in darkness there's a glint to his eyes.

"And I walked over here," he fires right back.

Devon

Her scowl deepens. She's still speaking in somewhat hushed tones, though. "Right. Grand gesture."

Rafael

"You let me up." He tosses the shirt aside, thumps down on her futon to start peeling off his socks. "Shouldn't have let me up if you were too pissed to sleep in the same bed."

Devon

"Let you up because I'm not an asshole," she says, almost snarling it. Stands there, arms crossed still, her eyes somehow spiking in color, more and more vivid. "Walking seven minutes to wake me up doesn't change anything." A beat, half a beat, then: "Stop undressing."

Rafael

He's bent down then, pulling the second sock off his foot. Halts. Looks up, forehead wrinkling up; then down as he sits up and scowls.

"Fine." One sock off, shirt off, jacket off. Pants on, other sock mostly on. "Want me to go home?"

Devon

"No," she says, quick enough that it's obvious she didn't think before saying it. Didn't have to.

There's a pause before she says or does anything else, though. A protracted one, just staring at him, her arms unfolding.

Rafael

So they stare at each other for a while. It's awkward. Then it's not awkward anymore; just tense. Invisible lines of force between them, warping with the gravity of mutual attraction. Doesn't negate the fact that she's angry. That's he's -- annoyed, maybe. Not quite angry. She unfolds her arms. He makes a gesture with his hands, then lets them slap lightly down on his thighs.

"I love you," he says finally. It's out of the blue. "But I don't want to talk shit out right now. And I don't get why we're fighting over words."

Devon

Another moment of silence, this would have gone differently. A moment of madness replaced by stillness. He gestures, he says he loves her. Says other things.

"You never want to talk shit out," she tells him, not to attack but because... it's simply the truth. Says it halfway through what he's saying, and exhales as he finishes, tells her he doesn't get it.

Devon shakes her head. "Because they matter to me, Rafael. I don't like talking to most people. But you, I want to talk to. And you make me feel like shit for it. What do you think is going to happen, that I'm going to wake up one day and it won't matter to me anymore?"

Rafael

His temper flares: "I don't even know what the hell we're supposed to be talking out right now."

Devon

"So you're shit at talking and listening," she snaps, feigning incredulity. "But you're real good at demanding what you want of me, the way you want it, and fuck what I care about. Tell me, did it even occur to you to apologize for waking me up so you could get a cuddle?"

Rafael

"What?" His incredulity is not feigned. "Didn't demand anything. What? You're the one that got mad because -- because I wouldn't call you names while I fucked you. And don't make it out like I'm here out of selfishness. I came here because I was sorry. Jesus, Devon."

Devon

Normally Devon's voice is relatively moderate. Not too low, not very high. An average mid-pitch. It raises about two octaves, even though she's still trying to keep her voice down, making her both hushed and shrill: "That's not why I'm angry, you fucking prick!"

She picks up his discarded sock and throws it at him. Which is super effective. It's more of a whap with it, off his bicep.

"If you're sorry, you have to say it. I can't read your stupid mind!"

Rafael

Whap. A sock hits him. He stares at it. Then at her: incredulous again. "What. You'd rather have words than actions? Means more to you if I make some stupid sounds with my mouth than if I do something?"

Devon

"It's not either-or, asshole," she growls.

Rafael

"Just don't see why words are so fucking important to you. Stop calling me names."

Devon

Devon stops calling him names. She looks exhausted, turning her head up to the ceiling. "Because you think I know what you're feeling and thinking because of what you do, and I don't. Because it makes me feel closer to you. Because they just are." She sniffs. And then looks back at him, and her eyes are wet.

"Rafa, last time we had this fight, we broke up. But not because you're bad at talking. Because it hurts, a lot, that you'd rather lose me than fucking talk to me."

Rafael

Some of the hardness goes out of him. Some of the edges blunt. He sighs: big heavy breath in and out.

"Don't know what you want me to say. Don't know what I'm supposed to talk to you about. Don't even know why the hell you're so mad."

Devon

"What you're feeling right now is exactly how I felt a couple of hours ago," Devon tells him. "Confused. Just wanting you to help me understand something that I didn't. I wasn't even angry then, just... trying to understand you. And you don't like talking, so you wouldn't. I'm mad because it hurts when you shut me out like that. I'm mad because you act like something important to me is stupid and pointless."

She flops down. Sort of: she folds, sitting down closer to the wall, the non-headboard, the pillows. A couple of feet away from him, but on the bed, no longer standing in the middle of her dark room.

Rafael

Wolf watches her sit. That's a common thread: he watches her. More than most people do. More than most men do, even, and not for the same reasons. There's a certain animal quality to his attention; like he's watching to read her body, the language inherent in that. And: like he's watching because he likes her. Is interested in her. Attunes to her.

Couple seconds go by.

"So... what didn't you understand?"

Devon

A tight little shrug, defensive now. She isn't looking at him. Looks at the window. Would look for the moon, but it isn't there right now.

"Why you don't want to talk dirty to me at all. Why it got you off so hard in the garden but then you don't want to. Why you fuck me harder when I talk dirty to you but don't want to do it back even though it turns me on. Why it's such a big deal to you that you can't... pretend, or play. When we're fucking."

Shakes her head. "I even said, I don't know how many times, that calling me names isn't... all there is to it. That you don't have to do that, or pretend you're using me. But you don't seem to get it. Even now you think it's all about calling me names, or that that's what I'm mad about."

Looks over at him again, finally, ready for him to lash out, shut down, hear the same thing he's been hearing all night. "I don't want you to do stuff with sex that you're not comfortable with, babe. Of course I don't. I wasn't ever mad about that. I just don't understand. Because you seem to like talking dirty, and hearing me talk dirty, and get off on it, just as much as I do. And then you call me a 'crazy little bitch' after, when we're not even..."

Devon sighs, looking down at her knees. "I just didn't understand, because you were giving me really mixed signals, and I wanted you to talk to me about it so I would. I wasn't trying to win or fight you or make you do anything. Just. Wanted to know you better. Understand you. And you shut me the fuck out, and made me feel like what matters to me is stupid, and acted like your love is purer than mine or something because it doesn't need all these words, then stomped over here and woke me up and acted like you were entitled to get in my bed and all of that is why I got so mad. But I was never mad that you didn't want to call me a slut while you're fucking me."

A rush of arousal, saying it aloud. Slut. Fucking her. Thinking of it, when it's late and it's dark and earlier tonight he was fucking her and he's sitting there shirtless and hot and smelling like himself and sweat and sex and night air. Her cheeks go pink for a moment, and she exhales, frustrated with herself. With her body, traitorous and hormonal and eager. "I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do, just because it turns me on," she mutters quietly. "Me wanting to understand isn't the same as looking for ways to convince you."

Rafael

Last thing she says seems to click somewhere in him. Makes his eyebrows tug together. Makes him look away a moment, thinking.

Then he exhales. Sits up. Moves. Scoots backwards on the futon until he's next to her, leaning against the wall. He looks at her hands; her knees, the feet she's probably tucked somewhere to keep warm.

Reaches over. Wraps his hand over hers. Just quiet for a moment.

"I don't get it either," he says. "Does turn me on when you talk while we're fucking. Did turn me on, that one time out in the backyard. But then after, I felt gross about it. Not fucking you; I liked that. The things I said. Just don't like calling you a slut. Or my slut. Or whatever."

Quiet a little longer. Adds:

"Hits too close. Lots of Fangs do have sluts. Mistresses. Whatever. I just don't like it."

Devon

So she lets him move up the bed and lean against the wall. Nice thing about the lack of headboard is that when he's fucked her in here, nothing has banged against the wall. Devon blinks, willing the thought away. Memory.

And she lets him hold her hand, where it rests on the bedding between them. Rumpled, askew bedding. Not still warm from her sleep earlier. Not still scented from her. They could have just come from the laundry, the way they smell.

Then she listens.

--

"That's not us," she says quietly, when he's finished. "I know I'm not a side-dish. Know you don't see me that way. I get it, though. Now."

Her thumb rubs over his thumb. She's looking at their hands. "So... you don't like telling me... that you're going to fuck me. And make me come. Telling me that I love it. That I'm hot, and wet, and that I'm yours, and you're going to fuck my hot little pussy and watch me come on your cock."

Devon's teeth rest in her lower lip for a moment. She turns her head a bit, to look at him instead.

"Does all of that make you feel gross?"

Rafael

He kisses her when she turns her head. Maybe she didn't see that coming. Maybe she did. He does it regardless, quick and light as a bite. A nip.

"Stop it," he whispers. Wolf settles back, doesn't look at her for a minute. Too distracting. Thinks. He's being serious: "Doesn't make me feel gross. But isn't really me either. Talking so much. Either have to think about everything I say, or else maybe I say whatever and then feel sick about it later.

"Just don't want to talk a lot while we're fucking, Devon. Look, if you really want, maybe I'll try to talk a little. But not all the time, and not a lot. And you said you wouldn't try to convince me to do something I don't wanna."

Devon

Didn't see it coming. But is excited by it, eager for it. She's leaning into him when he kisses her, not wanting it to be quick and light and nipping. Wants him to pull her against him and roll her under and fuck her brains out. Snapped at him to stop undressing partly because she wanted to climb over him and feel his naked body underneath hers. Lost in all of this is what had her coming over to his place late at night to begin with, flirty and playful and warm. Could have happily spent all night screwing him, if they hadn't fought.

She leans into it and he's drawing back, whispering at her to stop. It stings; she can't help that right now. She feels toyed with, but that thought is fleeting. Looks away, pulling her hand back a bit. She doesn't feel toyed with. She feels ashamed. Her knees are already pulled up, were to begin with; she tucks her arms against them, her hands folded between her knees.

Looks at them, while he talks.

"I know I said that," she says, tightly. Nothing else, for a moment. Then rubs her face. Sniffs against her palms, and then pushes them over her scalp, blinking. "Don't hate me for being disappointed, all right? And... don't hate me for this either, but I think I just want to be alone tonight."

Rafael

Wolf doesn't see that coming either. Not after the way she leaned into the kiss. Not after the way they were almost ... almost okay. His eyebrows flick together. He stares at her a moment. Then draws a breath, lets it go.

"Okay." He pulls that half-off sock back up. Finds the other one where it fell earlier; pulls it on. Standing, sorting out his shirt so he can pull it over his head, he turns back. "Come by after work tomorrow. Maybe?"

Devon

The spaces between their words are longer now. The words they're saying are quieter. They take deeper breaths, and it isn't a struggle to keep their voices down.

They aren't yelling, or fighting now. But this is harder.

Rafael says okay. He pulls his socks on, and she refuses to watch him put his shirt on because the way his muscles move in his back when he dresses himself turns her on. Everything about him turns her on. She lifts her head when he turns to her. Says tomorrow. Stays where she is on her futon, looking up at him.

"Yeah," she murmurs, soft. "Maybe."

Rafael

He gets his shirt on. He pulls his jacket off the chair where he tossed it not so long ago, thinking he was going to stay here tonight. Slings it over his shoulder and he's ready to go.

Pauses at the door. Looks down at her, where she's looking up at him. He holds his hand out after a moment. Squeezes hers if she takes it.

"Wish I could've stayed," he says.

Devon

Jacket, then. Ready to go. He didn't get very far.

Holds out his hand, and the truth is that she understands that this -- coming over here, trying to get into bed with her, sitting beside her, kissing her, holding his hand out to her -- is all his way of trying to make things okay again. Reaching out to her. Getting close to her. She does understand that. It's just not like that for her. She's not like him, and to welcome and return all this touch, all this closeness, when things aren't okay... it feels like a pretense. It feels like a demand.

Devon gives him her hand, and she has no idea if he can tell or not that her heart isn't in it. That this, like the hug, feels wrong and uncomfortable and awkward to her. He squeezes her hand and then he lets her go, and he tells her he wishes he could've stayed, and she feels like shit for it, but she's tired and she doesn't want to start up a fight again. So she doesn't tell him how it makes her feel. She just nods.

"I know," she sighs.

Rafael

He can tell. Clumsy as he is with words, rough and unrefined as he is in every way possible, there's something keen and intuitive about him. He can tell; it hurts.

He squeezes her hand anyway. She says what she does. He nods, brief, brusque. "Night, Devon."

Her bedroom door opens; closes. A little later, her front door too.

you're not a building. you're you.

witch

Comes in his front door and it's late and she didn't call or text. Six, seven minutes of walking. It's late and she's in these cheap flat ankle boots from H&M or something, and slouched socks, and little shorts the color of eggplants. Her sweater is big and baggy and the neckhole was cut up so the wide-knit crochet of it frays along that neckhole. It won't last forever like that. Frayed edges across her collarbone and down one shoulder and sloping beneath one of her shoulderblades. The sweater is white and her bra underneath is indigo blue. Or dark blue-grey. Whatever you want to call it. Her hair is loose but for a single braid across her scalp, keeping it out of her face, sweeping down into the mess of waves past her ear. All those tiny singular earrings, like she only ever changes them for special occasions or something.

Has some necklaces on. One's a crescent and one's a stone in wire and one's something else and one of them is a strand of amethyst chips, raw and unpolished and small. Has some rings on, and they're mostly cheap, like most of what she wears: bought at thrift stores and consignment shops, except for a few dresses and sets of jewelry put on Rafael's credit card that cost more per piece than most everything else she has. She'll probably sell some of those things, tell the truth.

Closes the door behind her, shoulderbag hanging down, and locks it again behind her, keys jangling as they go back into her bag.

"Helloo?" she calls, the dipthong like a birdcall.

wolfman

House is mostly dark when she approaches. Two squat stone posts framing the pathway up from the sidewalk has lamps atop, and those are on. House number's lit up too. Windows are dim, though, only a couple betraying some light somewhere in the house. And when she gets inside, things are still and quiet and shadowy.

Not empty though. Not silent. There's no wolf in sight but he's only a little out of the ways; comes out when she calls. He was in the kitchen. He's eating, plate balanced on one palm, hands-on with the other. Gnaws at tender meat off the bone. Lamb shank, maybe.

He looks hungry, metabolism high. He looks like he's been a scrape or two recently, bandaged, scratched up. His eyes flicker over her, glittering in the dimness. Sometimes he wonders how long it takes her to put all those rings, earrings, bracelets and necklaces on. Then he remembers, he's seen her dress. Occasionally. For lovers of several months, they actually haven't spent all that many mornings together.

"You hungry?" is his hello to her, mouth full. He extends the plate a little. "Just get off work or something?"

witch

That smile comes on over her lips when he steps out, eating meat from the bone. Or just: walking out, being there. It's not a grin, flashing and bright. It's that sly, sidelong smirk of hers, but he knows now to read it as pleasure. She walks over, still in boots and carrying her bag and everything else, and as she does, he asks if she's hungry. Offers her food.

Don't think she doesn't notice the scrapes. But she came back to his place once with a skinned knee and a bruise somewhere and it was just from partying. She's never fussed over him -- the most concerned she ever tried to be was wondering when he'd last shapeshifted because things were weird in South America and then he did and shocked her and she was bitterly hurt and angry at him for not caring and it was a whole thing and well, since then, she hasn't bothered to show much concern for him.

"No," she says, which is one answer for both questions. "Haven't seen you in a while, babe," she says, leaning against the table.

wolfman

Some sort of grunted response, so indistinct as to be unintelligible. He comes over, though. Leans on the table beside her. Funny that he has that thing; never see him eating at it. If he bothers to sit, it's at the breakfast bar. Or on his recliner. And then sometimes he just eats standing like he doesn't know any better.

"When'd you start calling me 'babe' anyway?"

witch

Her ass against the edge. Legs stretched out, hands planted on the surface behind her. She crosses one ankle over the other.

Shrugs.

"A while ago."

Looks him over, eyes tracking downward. Up again. "You mind it?"

wolfman

Positioning of her hands and how close he is means front of her arm brushes his side, his back. He thinks about it, tucking into his food with singular enthusiasm. That shank-of-something disappears, bite by bite.

"No. I like it."

witch

"Good,"

she says, light but definitive.

"You are, you know."

wolfman

"What?" Disarmed; glances at her in the midst of tearing meat off with his teeth. "A babe?"

witch

One of Devon's hands lifts up from the table, forcing her to lean to one side away from him. She reaches over, thumbing a bit of meat off his lower lip. Nods.

"Completely fuckable."

wolfman

He catches her thumb between his teeth -- gently. Still, there's something almost unnerving about how unthinkingly, how familiarly he uses those teeth. Flicker of a grin shows around the corners of his mouth. Then he lets her go, resumes eating.

"Should come around more then. What's in your bag, change of clothes?"

witch

It is unnerving. Sees it flicker in those pristine blue eyes of hers, the awareness of a predator, the alertness that could suddenly translate into motion. Flight. Sees, too, the way that circles around and then braids with arousal -- at least, the first sparks of it, shivering to life. They tremble a little, those sparks, when he tells her to come around more often.

"I'm here, aren't I?" she says, a pressure behind the words.

Shakes her head, though. "My deck. Cash. Phone. Purse stuff."

wolfman

That tone just under the surface of those words -- send a flicker of a frown across his brow. He's facing his plate, not her, so maybe she doesn't see. Unlikely she doesn't see. Couple seconds go by.

"Didn't mean anything by it," he says, conciliatory, rough. "Glad you're here."

witch

Between them, where her planted hand is close to him, she scoots her palm over and then hooks her pinky into the waistband of his jeans. Doesn't say anything else about it.

"What did you get into tonight?"

wolfman

Feeling the gentle tug of her finger through his belt-loop, wolf flicks a glance down out the corner of his eye. Doesn't say anything about that, either. Eats, finishes eating, puts the plate down on the table with an uncareful thud.

"You know that big church on Colfax?" Now he's sucking his fingers clean. "I've been keeping an eye on it. Most times it's quiet. Sometimes there's something to hunt."

witch

She nods, at the first question. Cocks her head. "Why the church?"

wolfman

" 'Cause I like being a gargoyle," he deadpans. Then smirks. "No, 'cause when I first got here I hunted with this other wolf. Found the church dripping with corruption. Killed the wyrmlings and cleansed the place. So guess I feel like I ought to keep it that way now."

witch

Raises an eyebrow. Smirks back. Listens to him with her head still like that, tilted to one side, hair hanging down. "So territorial," she says, half teasing and half... understanding.

wolfman

Wolf snorts, amused. "Supposed to be, aren't I? I'm a werewolf."

witch

"Don't really know what you're supposed to be, babe," she says, with a small shrug. "Don't know much about werewolves."

wolfman

Something about that tugs at him. He lifts his arm, puts it over her shoulders. Pulls her again his side, curling his greasy fingers into his palm so he doesn't wipe them on her ... sweater. Thing. Why would she cut her own clothes up?

"Guess I don't either. Just know me."

witch

Engulfed thus, Devon ends up tugged against his side, under his arm, her feet leaving the floor a bit, her balance shifting on the edge of the table. Her hand moves, arm wrapping over his middle, her hand touching him over his solar plexus. It's a light touch, her fingertips more than anything else, her face against his chest.

"That how you feel about me?" she asks, twisting to look up at him. "Like with the church?" There's a pause, but not a very long one. "What I mean is... you sort of hated me. And then you saved me. Then you... let me stay here. And took care of me. And then you wanted me."

And then they started fucking. And then they kept fucking.

Now they're in love?

Maybe it makes sense to question. Or maybe she just has to. Still afraid not to.

wolfman

"What? No." Wolf's almost affronted; finds the thought ludicrous. "You're not a building."

witch

That... makes her laugh. She gives a chuckle, her shoulders drawing up. It's a quick, throaty thing, ending within a breath. Still lights up her face, though. Still makes her whole body move against his side. Presses her lips together after, watching him.

"A little the same, though, right? You took care of me, and then wanted to keep taking care of me."

wolfman

"No." Wolf's firm on this; shakes his head doggedly. "I saved you and took care of you because you're half-wolf. I want you and love you because you're you. It's not the same."

witch

Half-wolf is not a way she's heard herself described before. She thinks about it, because she thinks of him as half-wolf too. Or really: she's a woman who is half a wolf. He's a wolf who is half a man. Something like that. Maybe. She doesn't know, beyond a few broad strokes and the practical details.

Which come to mind, vividly, as she rests her cheek against his chest again.

He has her convinced. Her fingertips stroke over him through his shirt where her hand rests, and she sighs. Not a sad or exasperated sigh, but a thoughtful, deep inhale and exhale. And then she slides off the edge of the table, her hand catching his on the way. Feet touch the ground. "Let's go upstairs," she tells him. "Have condoms in my bag, too."

wolfman

Girl's fingers catch wolf's. He straightens up, follows her. Leaves his plate where it is, which even after all these months is a rare thing. Usually he'll at least dump it in the kitchen sink.

She tells him something else she has in her bag. It's suggestive, a suggestion, something they could do. He looks at her, climbing the spiral stairs half a step ahead, and his mouth quirks.

"How come sometimes you pull condoms out and most times you don't? Forgot to take the pill or something?"

witch

Her fingers twist around his hand, slide between his fingers. They hold each other. He follows her, lifting off the table and walking after her. She starts toward those stairs, starts circling up the ascent, her free hand sliding along the railing.

Glances back at him. Gives a little blink, turns her head, keeps climbing. "New moon," she says. Shrugs as she stomps up the stairs, each footfall unnecessarily loud for her size. "Always seem to be ovulating on the new moon. Figure it's best to double up."

wolfman

"Oh."

Wolf processes that for a while. In that time they gain the second floor, start down the hall to his room. Nice vantage point up here. See the living room, the entryway, the long clear shot straight through to the back doors. Can't quite see the kitchen; they're standing atop it.

He remembers fucking her here, that first time. Pulling her down on a pile of their discarded clothing, covering her, nearly ravaging her in his desperate and long-pent lust. He remembers her standing up, ready to leave; wonders what would have happened if she had gone to her room, and he to his. Morning after would've been awkward and silent, he imagines. Or maybe he wouldn't have seen her again.

Or maybe he would have. Maybe they would have ended up right here, regardless, as though fated.

"Smart," he decides. "Get complicated fast, otherwise."

witch

So for a few seconds they stand atop the stairs. Devon's holding his hand, and their fingers are twined together loosely, and she's looking up at him where a few moments ago -- a step or so above him -- she didn't have to. Watches him process. For the moment, she's not thinking about the view, or even about the first time they fucked. If she were, it would make heat flash to her cheeks, an ache tighten her belly, warmth building between her legs. She already wants him; remembering how it felt to realize for the first time that he wanted her too would only make her present lust twist more.

Right now, though, he's asking about condoms, and she's answering about ovulation, and he's thinking about it, and it's not like he asked her before they started fucking last fall if she was on the pill. Not like he stopped to grab a condom, or was stopped. He lived with her for a while and they traveled somewhat extensively together and he's seen her punch tiny pills out of their little foil packets and pop them back with water, coffee, nothing at all, whatever she had. Knows that sometimes she has condoms with her, and a few times, she's had him wear them.

Sort of surprises her that he never asked her why she kept condoms, if she was on the pill, if they roughly and awkwardly agreed early on that whatever this was, they didn't want the other fucking other people. Guess maybe he trusts her. Guess maybe he figured it wasn't his business. Guess maybe it didn't matter, as long as they were being close. Seems to be all he wants. Or needs.

Eventually he responds. Decides that doubling up on birth control when she's at her most fertile is smart, which -- duh. But the reason wrinkles her brow a little bit. Not in upset, at least.

"Complicated?"

wolfman

"If you got pregnant." He opens his bedroom door with his free hand. Left the windows cracked in there; room's cooler than the rest of the house, smells like the night. "Last thing world needs is another Fang's bastard. Any kid of ours probably wouldn't even get accepted by Falcon. Blood too thin."

witch

On the tip of her tongue to say I know you mean if I got pregnant, but because she knows, she waits. Curious about what he meant by that. What it would complicate. Why it would be complex. And she's not expecting the answer she gets, as they trail down the short hallway to his bedroom, large and dim and mostly barren, as it always has been. Cold. An errant thought flits through her mind: he'd better not make a fuss about taking off her socks.

There and gone, because what he says about the complexities introduced by reproduction brushes it aside handily.

The wrinkle between her eyebrows deepens, but it's hard to see in the dark room. Devon doesn't say anything for a moment. Nor does she pull her hand out of his. She might have, months ago. Whenever-ago.

"It'd just be a baby," she says, after a while, quietly. "My baby. And yours. It doesn't have to be complicated."

wolfman

Now he's frowning too. Doesn't look convinced. Looks at her hand in his; then her. Her face, narrow, fine features, remarkable eyes.

"Maybe. Or maybe that's what my parents thought too." He shrugs. "Never mind. Not like we're gonna have kids anytime soon."

witch

"You wouldn't leave me, though," she says, and though there's a single thread of tense uncertainty in the current of her words, by and large the flow is one of faith. She says it without even really thinking about it; that breath of old fears doesn't introduce itself until she's half done speaking, and even then it pales compared to the fact that she believes what she's saying. Realizes she believes it only because she's suddenly saying it aloud.

"Like your mum left," she adds, a if he didn't already get what she meant. "Like my dad. Yeah?"

wolfman

With that, wolf's hand tightens on hers a little. Carefully. He's careful with her, at least when he has the presence of mind to do so. Doesn't even squeeze her fingers in his palm; just his fingers twined with hers. He bows his brow to hers for a moment, that unspoken animalistic affection of his.

"Yeah," he says, quiet.

witch

It takes a bit of a lean, really, for Rafael's brow to reach down to Devon's brow. When they're both standing. When he's looming over her as he does, his back curving, hunching so that he can curl toward her like that. She doesn't mind. Her eyes close with the contact, her fingers moving to stroke against his where he holds her hand a little tighter than he did before.

Doesn't say anything. Stands there with him, not knowing or even having a clue what he's thinking just now, or how he feels. No way of knowing if he can tell how she feels, what she's thinking. The varying degrees and forms of warmth that go through her.

Breathes in, eyes closed, their faces so near to each other. Exhales softly.

wolfman

After a time, he murmurs. "I love you," he says, which is a rare thing: all three words, unprovoked, no substitutions, no abbreviations.

Breath a warm wash. Minute motions of his face moving against hers. He rubs against her gently, brow to brow, jaw to temple. Then draws away a little, enough to shut the door to his bedroom, pull her deeper into the cool darkness.

witch

And she feels it. Not its origin, or its intricacies, or its immediately preceding motivation, but she feels it. Feels what he says as fully and warmly as she feels his breath, his face to hers, his hand. Feels loved, which, from him, still sets her heart racing a little bit. Silly, excitable thing, her heart. he loves me he loves me he loves me like this is what it's been beating for.

He draws away and his free hand reaches out, at the end of that long, powerful arm, and he shuts the door. It closes firmly, the wood fine, the hinges silent, the click satisfying. Something about that mere gesture sets her off. Draws her in. Rafael can hear her take a deeper breath, her chest lifting with it under that sweater which conceals absolutely nothing of what is beneath, whether skin or bra or freckle. Could even see the little white bow between her breasts, stark against the deep blue of the lingerie.

"Will you touch me?" she says, whispering it, a hurriedness underneath the words -- they tumble out of her, really, more desperate than she means them to sound. She doesn't quite know when or how her desire turned from this warm, flowing thing into the keen edge it is becoming, but there it is, pressing up against her, needing. Lusting.

wolfman

Will he?

Why wouldn't he?

Another night and wolf might laugh. Not tonight. Something about the hour, the quietness, the darkness; the wounds still stinging on his skin and the smell of the night still clinging to the girl. Sometimes all the places she's been, all the traceries they leave -- they almost make up for her lack of scent. A tale of her day, her week, her life, but never of her soul.

He pulls that sweater off. Takes the hem in his hands and rolls it up until she raises those long skinny arms. Her hair falls out of the collar as it comes free over her head, dark and thick, looking like it should smell of something sweet and raw and undefinably her. It doesn't smell of anything, but -- we've been through that.

Wolf drops the sweater on the floor. He steps forward until their lower bodies press together, until their lower legs criss and cross. Raises his big rough hands and runs his big rough palms over her hips, up her sides; covers her breasts through her dark lingerie. Warm of his touch seeps right through the garment. He's looking at her body and maybe she's looking at him; maybe he looks at her and catches her looking at him. Kisses her like that, eyelashes lowering but not quite closing, meeting her mouth quick and magnetic, accelerating into contact.

witch

Shoulderbag slides off her arm and down to the floor with a thump beside her boots. She sees him coming for her even in the dark, responding to that question -- that request, that plea -- the way she knew he would, but wanted him to do now. Sweater comes up, and off, and it wasn't much warmth but she shivers all the same when it falls away. When soft hair-ends brush her upper back, her collarbone. A thousand (it seems) necklaces and bracelets tumble between her breasts, softly jangling against one another. Bracelets slide up her arms when she reaches for him, too.

Palm is warm on the outside of his forearm. She's hot to the touch, even though she smells like an empty breeze. Her hand slides up his arm, up his bicep, while his hands are on her hips, pulling her closer,

her sides, making her spine elongate,

her breasts, making her side in the dark.

Devon's face is tilted up towards his; he isn't kissing her yet. He's taking her clothes off and touching her breasts through the satin and the lining. He can feel her breathing, every rise and fall of it. Can't feel her nipples hardening yet, not through the fabric. It's meant to conceal such things, after all. He's looking at her body, pale in what very little light they have from streetlights, starlight,

none from that empty patch where the moon is.

She's not looking at his body. She's looking at him, his face, waiting for him to

kiss her, which he does. And then her hands are touching his face, holding him there, not to ravish or ravage but to drink, drenching her thirst slowly -- erotically unselfconscious.

She steps out of her boots.

wolfman

She steps out of her boots.

Then he lifts her off the ground. Her toes clear that second, last boot; his hands grasp her ass, under her thighs. Pull her free of the ground. They kiss slowly, drenchingly, drunkenly, and when it's over he rubs his face against hers a little, mammalian, wordless.

Carries her over to his bed. The sheets are cool; the windows are open. He sets her down and all her innumerable necklaces clattering and clink. Drip along gravity's pull when he reaches under her to unsnap her bra. Slide out of the way when he pulls that article away, baring her to the waist before he even starts with the rest of it.

He does start with the rest of it though. Unsnaps the snaps, unzips the zippers. Pulls her jeans off, or maybe it's a skirt. Nevermind: it comes off. He drops it on the ground. He starts to go after the socks,

but maybe she protests,

and so he gives that battle up unfought. Mouth quirks. He leans over her, hands indenting the mattress; crawls over her, weigh unsettling the bed. They're kissing again, all shadows and mouths, hands touching delicately, then hungrily.

witch

Her foot has barely left the second boot when Rafael's hands leave her breasts, grab her ass, lift her bodily against his chest. She cocks a grin, mid-kiss, wrapping her legs around him. They're kissing again, her arms looping around him in that lazy way she has, wrists crossed somewhere behind him. Holds him like that sometimes, like she's not scared he's going anywhere.

She said as much tonight.

The bed, then. And she leans back as soon as she feels it, lays out on top of the covers, arching her back for his hand to reach those clips between her shoulderblades. Lays back again, shoulders tucking forward as he drags that piece of lingerie off her arms.

Now he can see. Now he can feel, if he likes, and she wants him to. Stops his hands for a moment, pulls his touch back to her bared breasts, holds him there and leans up, kissing his mouth again, her nipples hard against his palms. The metal she wears, all those chains: they're warm from being so close to her. They drape and slide against her breasts. Stay there, coils of metal beneath her tits, between them, off to one side over her ribs,

when Rafael is released to get her shorts off. Devon's being so helpful for once: arches her hips this time so he can tug them off. Finds white panties underneath. White with cream-colored stripes, technically, but it's all pale softness in this darkness. They don't match her bra at all. He's never seen her in matching lingerie, unless one black thing and another black thing automatically mean they match. Or unless you count her Very Cute Pajamas, which always seem to match.

For once she doesn't fight him on the socks. He pulls them off and she tucks close to him, wraps herself around him as he comes down over her. He is still fully clothed. This might have bothered her once; might still bother her. Doesn't right now. Right now, she doesn't mind being in panties and jewelry in his bed, with him on top of her in whatever he's got on.

Jeans and a t-shirt.

Doesn't matter. She's all softness, heat, arms around him and legs sliding over his sides, her hands on his back curling, the edge of his shirt rucking up his spine.

wolfman

Jeans and a t-shirt. Of course. And the t-shirt coming up, his skin hot beneath, musculature always in motion. He lifts his heavy arms, she tugs, the shirt comes off. Her legs are wrapping around him and her hands are gripping at him, pulling at his skin and flesh, and he's undoing his pants, pushing them down, pushing the boxers down too. A lot of extraneous fabric. All of it sliding off the end of the bed, frumping onto the ground.

Now they're both naked. Well; close enough. She still has all those bracelets, rings, earrings, necklaces. They slip and slide, mobile, noisy, sometimes uncomfortable so he flicks them out of the way, seals his body to hers. Makes this sound when he touches her like that, chest to chest, abdomen to abdomen, arms wrapping around her smooth back. Low, rough. Sounds like relief.

witch

Her skin is so soft, and his -- his shocks her. Not quite baby-smooth, not quite that silky exquisite softness all over, which makes it all the more fascinating and exciting when she does find a place on him as tender, as velvety as her own. And he is so hot, always so hot to the touch, that it thrills her when she feels some part of him that is somehow hotter than the rest, sunlight-hot from within.

He always wants her naked. Tip to toes. She's surprised he's left her panties on this long. She's surprised he hasn't pulled her bracelets off, her necklaces. She can understand why he craves it. She thinks of how it feels when her arms and legs all wrap around him, whether he's on top of her or she's jumped up on him; when she can feel his calves against her calves. When it feels like she can touch him anywhere, everywhere, and discover him, like she's just met him.

Silly: she remembers. They didn't take the time to explore when they met. When they first fucked. Nothing seemed to matter but fucking, and getting there, and having it, and there was no breaking it down or understanding it or need or desire to understand it; there was a resistance to all of that. Now she can't think of living without it. The shiver he gets, sometimes, when her fingertips trace down those thick muscles to either side of his spine. The scar she finds and avoids. The flex of his hip when he's inside of her, watching her the way he does, watching her react to him. Feel him.

Watching him, feeling him reacting

to her reacting to watching him, feeling him.

sex is recursion, she thinks, and corrects:

love is recursion.

--

God, it feels good when he flicks her necklaces out of the way, presses himself against her, the way she feels her tits on his stupid chest and how his arms are so hot that she's sweating in the cool room, sweating already and getting so wet that the strip of cotton between her legs is soaking through. She bites her lower lip for a second, making a smaller noise in the back of her throat, tight and needful and sweet.

Her arms and legs are wrapped around his body. She can feel his calves against her calves. She can touch his back, her hands sliding down over him. She passes her touch over his hips, reaches for his ass, lifts her mouth to his mouth, and this kiss is hungry. Her breath is hot, her mouth open, searching for him in the dark, her remarkable eyes closed. Her touch roams up his sides again, feeling his ribs, muscle-over-ribs, his chest.

Devon pants against his mouth, his kiss, his jawline: "I want you to fuck me. I want you to say filthy things to me while you're fucking me."

The words descend, skimming close to a groan, near the end there, as though the mere thought of it

him fucking her,

his filthy mouth,

his cock

makes her arousal too much to bear.

wolfman

Darkness seems to make him that much more sensitive. Can feel every touch of her hands, arms, body. Can feel the way her breasts shift against his chest when she breathes, or when he does. The tightness of her nipples. The wetness of her cunt.

Her panties come off finally. He remembers them when he tries to fuck her, frankly, and hits that barrier. Tugs them off then, impatiently, pulling the side down to her thigh; pushing it the rest of the way with his foot. She's murmuring to him and he growls in response, this noise that almost sounds like anger but is not. He catches her face in his hand, kisses her good and proper because she keeps wandering away. Jaw, throat, earlobe, wherever. He wants her mouth.

"Don't really like saying those things," he mutters; confession. It's a little discordant, this -- discussion he's opening, and the fact that he's pulling her thighs up around his ribs, taking his cock in hand to push it into her. "Don't want to pretend like I'm using you."

Kissing her, too. Again, catching at her mouth, sucking at her lip as they part.

"Just wanna fuck you."

witch

Feels him, pressing against her, wanting inside of her, all heat and demand. She gasps, about to tell him he forgot, but he's already pulling at the fabric, tugging them down over her lean hips. Her slim thighs; skinny thing. Kisses him, murmuring at him, arms around him, and he's crawling all over her, pushing underwear down and off her ankles and losing the scrap somewhere in his bedding. Devon gasps when he puts his hand on her face like that, catches her. It inflames her. The way he does it, one hand on her jaw, her cheek. The way he growls into that kiss, pressed against her entire now, warm and whole and everything to her.

What he says surprises her, almost to the point of startlement. Even when he explains, which is such a tender thing. He feels that shimmer of confusion go through her, not quite the same as the tension when she's afraid, when he's worried her or hurt her or something else, not even related to him, has gone cruel and ruinous through her mind, through her pleasure. It's just a tremble, a readjustment:

"Oh," she breathes, wrapping her legs around him, feeling his sides between her inner thighs, feeling him breathe, feeling every prophecy of motion. Her hands are on his chest, his shoulders, adoring: "I thought it got you off. Got me off." Kisses him again, her momentarily opened eyes closing once more.

Mutters it against his mouth, whispers it like a secret: "Don't have to pretend you're using me to say filthy things, love."

Which is not 'babe'. Or 'Rafa'. And both of those are already private endearments. But it's all right: something about the dark makes it okay to say this, call him that. The dark, when they can barely see each other, and have only touch, shadow, taste, the sound of one another's breath. It's okay to be so tender.

Her mouth on his again. Her hands in his hair, and the sting of his mouth, maybe his teeth, on her lower lip. "It's all right," because they can fucking talk about it after they're finished fucking, fuck. "Get a condom."

wolfman

"Did get me off," wolf mutters. "Just -- "

but it's okay. That's what she says: it's okay. Don't have to pretend. And he wants to tell her it's not pretense, except she's right: it was a sort of pretense. That she didn't matter. That she was just a slut, a fucktoy, something to be used. That was the pretense he used, anyway, to call her such awful things, to treat her that way. And he didn't like it much. Primal, primitive, straightforward thing: maybe he just isn't capable of fantasy and pretense.

Anyway: she kisses him. She reminds him. Get a condom. He huffs a laugh, and then she hears him fumbling for one, bats at the nightstand and snags her bag and tips it over, tampons and lipstick and bus passes spilling everywhere. Pulls a little foil packet out and rears up on his knees, tears it open impatiently and rolls it on with both hands, can't go fast enough.

Can't get back to her quick enough. Descends into her arms, the wrap of her legs. He kisses her as he finds her cunt, slides into her, fucks her in these lengthening slides, mmphing into her mouth.

witch

Oh, she knows. The way he growled slut that second time, as though overcome. The way it churned up from the depths of him, stirred and given over to her. The way he fucked her as he was saying those things, and how afterwards they were both overcome, lost in just how good it had been. It wasn't all because of what was said. Some of it was --

But, he's right, when he cuts himself off:

it's okay. It doesn't matter right now.

--

Her bag is all the way on the floor. And his nightstand is no help: some time ago she found a box of expired condoms in there -- it was the night of the benefit for Nepal -- and tossed them out. But her stupid bag is on the floor. And they're so tangled together and perhaps he snarls in frustration, searching for the goddamn thing, which is some cloth-and-canvas shapeless thing and just grabs it, yanking it over to her. Devon knows where they are.

Devon gets one out and opens it, sitting up on the bed, their legs tangled, breath coming heavy. Perhaps,

perhaps,

he touches her while she's opening it.

She kisses him and puts it on for him. Both hands. Can't go fast enough for him, which means she goes slowly, devilishly so, kissing his mouth and unrolling that bit of latex over him, the moan she gives vibrating like a purr because this is the first time she's touched his cock with her hands in far, far too long.

But after that, she's falling backward and he's got his arms around her again, she's got her legs around him again, and he's finding her, and he's entering her, and every stroke takes him further inside of her until her teeth are biting down on his lower lip, her groan is louder, hotter than before. This sweet spot, when it isn't too far, too deep, too hard. When it's not too timid, too soft, too precious. Her teeth leave his mouth, but her lips stay close.

"Fuck me," she says again, though he is, of course he is, he's never shy about fucking her. "Fuck me with that delicious cock."

wolfman

Scandalizes him a bit, what she calls his dick. Turns him on too. Maybe because he's a literal creature. Maybe because he immediately thinks it: her mouth, his cock, her dark hair slipping between his fingers while she sucked him off.

He fucks her with a sudden intensity. Growls as he does it, bends to her, curling almost double to lick, suck, nip at her breasts. Lets those delightful mouthfuls go, skinny thing, great tits, comes back up to her mouth. Kisses her as he wraps his arms around her, all around her, under her shoulderblades; his palm over her head. He does this sometimes. Covers her up like he just

wants to protect her. Keep her safe. Keep her.

witch

She says the filthiest things. And he reacts, responds, curling over her to devour her: lick her breasts, take them in his mouth and suck. And she groans, her head tipping back as he fucks her like that, harder now, each stroke firm and long and eager. She's moaning it now: fuck me. oh, fuck me, rafa as helpless as though she's being ridden by her pleasure as much as by Rafael himself, fuck me with it, it's so good until he's sealing her mouth with his own, kissing her, wrapping around her the way he does.

All but lifts her from the bed, like that, arching her back, cradling her head. She lets him, and moves with him, her pristine eyes closed, her body elastic with warmth, pliant under his, around his, with his. She tells him, when they stop kissing for a moment to breathe, to groan:

"I love you so fucking much,"

like it hurts her.

--

She's close then. She's getting so close. She mutters a few more things, filthy things, here and there -- about his cock, about how he makes her feel. so hard, so good, so hot. She tells him that he's going to make her come, because he is. She's arching so taut then, holding tight to him with her hands because her limbs are otherwise going so tense, so overcome. Her teeth are in her lip. She's crying out, the same note over and over and over but faster, each exclamation faster, closer, wordless now with eagerness.

She's being a noisy little fuck this time, wet and hot around him, quivering when her orgasm takes her under. Devon is collapsing from it, shaking apart. He can feel her thighs trembling to either side of him when she sinks into her own enjoyment like that, drowning in it. Can't say anything then. Just whines, squirming under him, rubbing herself against him to eke out every last ounce, every breath, every drop of pleasure he can give her.

Which is so much.

When it starts to let her down she's gasping -- panting, really -- and the words come back. More or less. Mostly breathy, helpless so goods and oh my fucking gods. And she's still moving even then, grinding her pussy against him, stopping only when she's too exhausted to move anymore (sooner than you'd think, little skinny thing) or he begs her to stop, holds her still --

though if the latter, it just makes her shudder, makes her cunt clench on him.

--

"So good," she breathes, some time later, her cheek on his pillow, her hair spread everywhere, her cheeks and breasts and throat pink from exertion, from sex, from everything. Her lips are red in a way they rarely are. It's not hard to believe, looking at her like this, that she's... well, fertile. That she's made for this, just as he is. That this is why their bodies do what they do, that this is why they fight and feed and seek shelter and build fire. It's not hard to think of it all, but then

there is also her scent, and how it lacks, and with a sheen of sweat on her skin and that livid color to her lips, you wouldn't think she'd be scentless, either.

wolfman

There's something so relentlessly erotic about her. Always, but especially when she's like this. Noisy little fuck, whimpering, wriggling, coming quite undone. Undoes him. Makes him come.

He has this way of wrapping her up; enveloping her as completely as he can. He has this way of surrounding her, covering her, filling her -- like maybe he just wants to suffuse her in every way. Merge. No dirty talk this time; not much, really, but the harsh sweep of his breath, a sharp silence, a sudden, forceful growl. He pounds her into the mattress a few times. She squirms. He lets her ride him,

until he can't anymore. Then he makes her stop. Holds her still. Makes her clench. Makes him moan, dropping his brow to her shoulder.

Crazy little bitch, he calls her.

So much for not talking filth.

--

Kisses her collarbone, though. So maybe that makes up for it a little. She says it's so good, and he makes this low noise; agreement. He can't even lift his head yet, but when he does the sight of her will unravel him all over again. He thinks she's so fucking beautiful. He thinks she's so fucking hot. He's probably not the only one to think this, but -- he is the only one to see her like this these days.

Wolf slumps to one side after a while, bares her to the cool air. He opens his eyes; watches her nipples harden. Covers her tit with his hand and rolls that delicious little thing between his thumb, forefinger. He thinks it again. So fucking beautiful, so fucking hot.

"Know what I call you sometimes in my head?" he murmurs, hazy.

dollar theater.

Rafael

There's a little dollar theater in town. Well; there are several. But this is the one wolf knows about. This is the one he's found.

Afternoon; southeast suburbs of Denver. Close to Cherry Creek. Place is called Elvis Cinemas, and it sits somewhat improbably in one of those big mixed-goods malls you can find in every 'burb of America. 24 Hour Fitness. Mattress Firm. Whole Foods. Hard to even see the entrance from the outside, and inside it's predictably dowdy, sort of dim, neon lights, small concession stand, 1990s casino-floor carpeting.

Wolf isn't inside. He's outside, walking out, drinking a melted Icee. Squinting in the bright daylight. He didn't drive here; he took the bus. Still does that sometimes.

Devon

Same parking lot, there's Proof 'Nite' Club. It's about as douchey as you'd expect, but those people come out at night. Yes, even weekdays. Looks like nothing special at all on the outside. It's next to a Fresh Fish Co. But outside Proof, there's a patio, an angled corner jutting out from the building. There are some tables, but more importantly, there's some shade.

Devon is sitting out there. She's by herself. She's at a picnic table under what little shade she can find, and she doesn't see Rafael at first when he comes out of the movie theater. She is hunched over something, drawing or writing or something. Her hair was cut a while ago, but not short, just trimmed. It's in two braids, off her neck. Black tank top, a dark green silk vest far too large for her -- stolen from his closet, perhaps. Black plastic bracelets, concert bands, so on. Short denim shorts, the pockets visible against her thighs. Black boots, black socks. Her steadfast backpack, its pink stars.

Looks over for no reason, mid-thought. Sees a familiar shape, not quite a person or a face. Just a shape, a posture. When she peers, and then recognizes, she does what any reasonable person would do.

She gets onto the table, wearing some of her big bug-eyed sunglasses, takes off her vest, and whips it back and forth over her head like a flag signaling to a ship.

Rafael

Saw her before she sees him. It's elemental, primitive, supernatural; eyes pulled there because his soul recognizes her. Her blood, anyway. So he's already looking at her, curious, wondering why she was here and what she was doing and is she coloring? Then she sees him. They're too far apart for him to make out the color of her eyes, and that's a shade too rarefied to remember accurately.

She gets up. On the table. For a second he thinks she's just flashed him and half the parking lot. Then he realizes there's still a tanktop on, and she's waving the vest around, and he's snorting a laugh as he comes down from the curb. Heavy, sure gait. All shoulders and long stride. Heads across the parking lot and it's hot, dry, sun is blistering. Soon enough he's in shade again, shadow of the building, and he reaches up and grabs the rails on the patio, pulls himself up and over.

Puts those hands on her waist when he gets to her. Lifts her off the table and kisses her before he sets her back down.

Devon

He's jogging over, so she drops the vest. Not to put it back on, just to drop it. And stays on the picnic table, a few feet higher than he is. He has to hop the railing and she smirks at him, wryly. She thought about jumpig down but there is a part of her that likes this: looking down at him from above. No wonder she's smirking.

Anyway, he lifts her, hefts her up, pulls her against his body, and she goes. Puts her hands on his shoulders. Wraps her legs around his waist. Kisses him, holding herself on him like that, like she hasn't seen him in days.

Which is true.

Rafael

He lets her stay. Was a time, not so long ago, she jumped on him and he pushed her away. This time he doesn't. Even though it's eighty-five degrees. Even though his skin is hot to the touch, warmed by sun and his own indestructible metabolism.

"What are you doing here?"

Devon

"Shh," she mutters, putting her hands on his face. "Less talking, more kissing."

And kisses him again. No matter that it's hot. She's sweaty. Feels it where he touches her, smells like nothing at all. Scary, in its way, how inhuman that makes her, how unreal it makes this seem. She drinks of his mouth, for a few more seconds at least, before she's had her fill of him. Draws back and smirks that dry little twist of a smile she has.

"Not much. Felt like exploring. Got tired. What about you?"

Rafael

"Movie theater over there." He nods over his shoulder without turning his head. So: just this lazy jerk of his head backward, to the side. "Saw the new Mad Max." He glances at the paper. "You coloring or something?"

Devon

"Good, isn't it?" she says, and kisses him again, this time on his cheek, and his jaw, and then his neck. Keeps hanging off him like a koala. He peers past her and finds that it is indeed a coloring book over there, and some markers. Mandalas. Intricate, elegant designs sprawling across the page.

Devon purrs against his neck. "You smell good," she mutters, which

she doesn't ever say. Because then people realize that they can't smell her at all.

Rafael

She is coloring. Because of course she is. But it's not Dora the Explorer or something; it's some intricate, self-replicative design, meditation on a page.

Girl distracts him. Maybe not on purpose, but she does. He lifts his head, lets her nuzzle and kiss. She likes his scent. His laugh rumbles in his body, doesn't quite get out his mouth.

"Probably stink," he disagrees. "Rode the bus. Walked."

Devon

"Yeah," she says, of his stink. Bus. Walking. "Sweaty," she mutters, and bites his neck a little.

Then, almost suddenly, pulls her head back and gasps a laugh, perhaps at herself. "Missed you," is all she says. Plain and to the point.

Rafael

"Yeah? Should come see me next time instead of exploring the damn city." She still hasn't let go, so he hefts her a little higher, her legs secure around his waist. Holds her one-armed while he gets a chair out. Sits.

Devon

She perks her eyebrows. "Saying you didn't miss me?"

Eyebrows stay up while he jerks a chair from a nearby small round table, sits down in it. Her legs drape to either side of his lap. She grinds slightly on him, both shameless and purposeless and thoughtless.

Rafael

His hands grip her hips, still her. There it is again, that quick flick of his eyes around, looking for trepassers and interlopers. Then he smirks at her.

"Public," he says. "Sure I missed you."

Devon

Still sunglasses, but they've slipped down her nose a bit. Small nose, for one. Oversized sunglasses. Sweat. He stills her and she fights him, wriggles defiantly and forcefully, and he says public and she smirks.

"Well, should come see me instead of going to see Mad Max, then."

Rafael

There's a glint in his eyes. It's appreciation. Her wit. Her turning of the tables. "Smartass," he calls her, but his hands have moved, and now he's just squeezed her ass.

She's sitting on him and then he moves. She gets scooped up again. Hasn't been on the ground once since she climbed up on that table.

"Let's go home. Who's closer, you or me?"

Devon

She shrugs. That's all. Puts her hand on his jaw and holds him still for a moment, kissing him again. Slowly. Luxuriously. Drinks his mouth, his taste -- still a bit like his Icee. She's demanding today. Seems like she'd be happy to stay right here, making out in the shade of a closed night club. Is happy right here, making out in the shade of a closed nightclub. Her other hand is on his chest. He's squeezing her ass. She's leaning into him when he picks her up again.

Their mouths break apart and she cocks one of those sly grins. "They're a six minute walk apart." Leans forward and kisses him again, biting his lip gently. "Doesn't matter."

Rafael

"Six," he muses. Strange, but he's never walked it. Would think he had, short as the distance is, but no: he's ridden it on his motorcycle. Driven it in his car. Been driven, in his other car.

Wolf thinks maybe it's a symptom, as though being rich were some sort of disease. Not a contagious one, though, so he's not afraid to kiss her. Opens his mouth with hers, kisses her soft and thorough. Possessive, but maybe not in a virulent, vicious way.

"You count the minutes?"

Devon

She's walked it. A few times. Six, seven minutes. Depends on how fast she bothers to go. Depends on the weather.

Devon just shrugs to his question. "Just walk. Saw the time in one place and then the other." Smirks. "Why, you want me to?"

Rafael

Wolf cants a smirk. "Only if it gets your ass to my place faster. And more often."

Glances across that hot, sweltering parking lot, then. Grimaces.

"All right. Let's get on a bus."

Devon

Nose wrinkles. "I know. I live so close." Darting toward him she kisses his jaw, quickly. "Sorry," which is fast and muted and NOT A BIG DEAL, RAFA. Or at least: that's what she wants. No big deal. No wonder she never apologizes for anything.

He glances. She follows his eyes and makes a face. "Are you rich or not?" she wants to know. "It'll be an hour before we get downtown."

Rafael

Are you rich or not? It's so audacious a challenge he can't help but laugh.

"Guess we can Uber."

Devon

"You are so bad at being rich," she says, squirming against him a little, kissing his jaw again, his cheek. Takes his face in her hands and kisses his mouth again that way, but is smiling into it, unable to deepen it much because of that smile. "All right. We'll Uber."

Rafael

"What, you wanted a private helicopter?"

-- kissed midway, muffles some of those words against her mouth. Finishes his sentence anyway, and it might be true that he's bad at being rich but he's pretty damn good at holding her up. Ages on end.

"You call 'em, I don't have the app. You can put my card in. Since I'm rich."

Devon

Can fuck her freestanding. She doesn't doubt it. Has he? She thinks she'd remember. But then: she might dream something like that. The thinking of it makes her bite him, lightly, scraping her teeth over his chin in a sudden rush of animal heat going through her.

Answers him, at least: "No. Was thinking of rolling up the partition and fucking you in the car finally."

Rafael

"Oh."

Wolf thinks a moment. Chin tilted up. Lets her nip and nibble at him: that hard line of his stubbled jaw; softer flesh under the ridge of bone.

"Well, should've said so." Hoists her higher, her thighs off his hips now. "Reach into my back pocket and get my phone."

Devon

How was he not thinking of it. The way she wrapped herself around him, rubbed herself against his lap, kissed him, licked his neck. She thinks: oh, you idiot. She thinks: are you serious. He hoists her up and she smirks, drawing back. Doesn't go for his phone.

"Do you really want to?"

Rafael

"Fuck?"

Pause. Thinks.

"In the car?"

Like his brain's moving slow-motion, weighed down by new-kindled lust. Or maybe he just doesn't think too straight when she's like this. Wrapped around him. Riding him. Wait, that's the same thing as new-kindled lust. Wolf wraps his arms low around her waist; leans forward to nuzzle her shoulder, neck. Thoughtful.

"Nah. Wanna go home and fuck in a bed." He kisses her collarbone. Pulls back, smirks. "I'm boring like that."

Devon

Her nose wrinkles. "You are boring."

And her hand is on the back of his neck. Caressing gently, fingernails with their chipped dark polish stroking, scratching. He's boring, and the touch feels like love.

She leans to him again, brow to brow, and closes her eyes. Smiles soft. Just for a moment, stays like that, near to him. Before she draws back, and wiggles her hand into his pocket. Makes him unlock it. Immediately takes a selfie of the two of them, which he is not prepared for. Then downloads Uber to his phone and ties his account to it. And orders them a car. And the whole while she's perched on him, held up as though effortlessly, unless he sits them down somewhere.

"Tim will be here in four minutes," she says, and gives him another smooch, tucking his phone into his pocket again. "What shall we do til then?"

Rafael

Maybe he should put her down. Damn mooch. Won't even stand on her own. Plus it's hot out. Wolf doesn't, though. She does all sorts of things: takes his phone, installs crap to it, inputs his personal information, takes a selfie. He holds her, glowering disgruntled into that selfie. Looking over the edge of the phone to watch her order a car.

Tim is coming, she says. Who's Tim, he wonders, but then he puts it together. She asks a ridiculous question. He leans up, nips a kiss onto her mouth.

" 'Shall'," he mimicks. "So fucking British."

Probably only thinks so because he's never been there in his life.

Devon

He may not discover later that she also texted that selfie to herself so she could make it the face that pops up when he calls her. It's his icon now. Him and his girlfriend of almost-a-year. He kisses her, small nibbles of kisses this time. She grins at his teasing, arms looped around his neck, nuzzling his face. His sweaty, dumb face.

They're so cute that if she were not the one being held up against him right now, she'd make vomiting motions off to the side. But she's kissing him.

"I'm only British in that I was born there, really," she says, with a shrug. "Only five years lived there, and those weren't consecutive."

Rafael

"But you call her your 'mum'," he points out.

Devon

"She is my mum," Devon says, grinning. "When she'd say 'I'm your mum' -- which she did, when I'd talk back -- that's what she was. So that's what she is. Not maaaaaaaahm," to which she affects the most nasal Bostonian version of 'mom' one can imagine.

Rafael

All offended: "That is not how Americans say mom."

Devon

"That's how Massholes say mom."

Rafael

"Massholes?"

Devon

Eyebrows up. She nods. "Go to Massachusetts sometime and try driving. You'll get it."

Rafael

Wolf snorts a laugh. Hefts her up a little. Turns; leans against the porch railing. "England. Boston. Here. Buncha places in South America. Where else you been, Devon?"

Devon

"Wales and Scotland, a bit," she says. "Paris and Amsterdam with some mates. Lisbon, with mum." Wrinkles her brow a bit. "Never Ireland, for some reason. Almost went to Iceland but the trip got cancelled. Want to go to Japan and Florence, too, but haven't yet."

Rafael

It's a long list to him. All those countries. All over Europe. Wants to go elsewhere too. Japan, Florence. If he weren't so bad at being rich he'd offer to take her. Fly her there.

Instead: "Isn't Devon an Irish name?"

Devon

"My dad named me. Mum kept it."

That's all she says about that.

Rafael

"Huh."

Sort of a grunt, really. Acknowledgment. He files that bit away. Doesn't know her past all that well, though he does think he knows her. At least a little. Knows enough not to pry, anyway; not to ask her about her dad, that disappeared man, that dead wolf.

Shifts a little. His body's stone-carved, wood-hewn. A solid, thick slab of meat and bone. And hot. Too hot to be holding on to her like this, but for some reason neither of them seems inclined to stop. Wolf pulls her a little closer after a while. Not looking at her now. Puts his arms around her, lays his chin over her shoulder, canine.

"Kinda means your mom named you too, doesn't it?" She can feel his jaw moving against the lee of her shoulder. "Could've changed it, but she didn't. Must've liked it."

Devon

That son of a bitch. That asshole. That shithead. Fuck that guy.

Don't ask about him.

--

Can't see his face. He rests his chin on her shoulder and she holds onto him. Tim will be here in a minute, pulling up in some big black SUV or something outside of Proof Nite Club.

So he can't see her face either. He can feel her sigh: the expansion of her chest, the quick deflation. "Yeah. Well. She forgave him."

Rafael

Wolf grunts again. It's a thoughtful grunt, such as it were. "Maybe she was happy she got you out of the deal. Even if it was a raw deal."

Devon

"She just loved him, Rafael," Devon says, muttering it. "And forgave him. Can you drop it?"

Rafael

Wolf's a little stung. Loosens his arms; starts, for the first time in god knows how long, putting her down.

"Ride's probably almost here."

Devon

Devon doesn't fight it. He starts loosening, and so does she. Unwinds and hops down, boots hitting pavement. It's only a few moments later she hears an SUV, walks over to the railing to lean over, waves at someone. Glances at Rafael as she turns, going to pick up her coloring book, her markers, her backpack. Just a glance, though.

Rafael

Wolf doesn't really know what that glance is supposed to mean. He watches her gather her things up, though. When she goes to reach for her bag, he's already got it. Holds it open for her to put her stuff into, then hands it back to her.

They vault over the railing. Or at least he does. Uber was ordered off his phone, though girl was the one to wave. It's a big car, an SUV, and wolf looks at it somewhat distrustfully. Stranger. Who knows what's in there. He pulls the back door open, looks around. Catches himself before he starts sniffing.

Gets in. Holds his hand out for girl's. Pulls her in after. She's the one to give the address; he's buckling in and looking at the window tint, the air vents in the roof.

Devon

Glances, again, when he walks over, helps her get her stuff. Doesn't know what that is supposed to mean. What it's supposed to do. She doesn't thank him. She takes her backpack that he's holding open, and sets it on the table, and fills it with her coloring book and stuff. Zips it. Follows him to the railing, and he goes -- vaults, really. And she climbs up and hops over a moment later, both of them well practiced at hopping fences. Being places they shouldn't.

He's sniffing -- or about to. Devon comes over and for once, he doesn't climb in after her, scrunching her over to one side. He gets in and she goes ahead and takes his hand. Seems petty to ignore it, refuse it on... principle, or whatever. So she grips it, jumps in, and tells him Rafael's address. Rafa, for his part, may as well be mute.

Tim introduces himself and tries to make conversation.

It does not work very well on either of them, and the ride -- something like thirty minutes, nearly -- is a quiet one. Devon takes out her coloring book and markers again, her sunglasses perched atop her head.

Rafael

Doesn't take long for Tim to get the point: no conversation on this ride, thanks. They drive in silence. It's a pretty long way, but at least they're going opposite the traffic, north, into the city.

Girl takes her book out. Wolf looks over. Watches her color for a while.

"What is that?"

Devon

Shrug. "Coloring book."

Rafael

Her answer, while not quite monosyllabic, is about as stripped down as possible. Wolf's eyebrows knit together. He turns away, looks out the window. Whatever. He tried.

--

Ride goes by in silence. Tim reconsiders this whole Uber gig. So many fucking weirdos in this world; at least this one was accompanied by some girl. Looks like he could break her in two. God knows why she's with him.

Then they pull up in front of his house, and Tim thinks he knows why. Tim doesn't know why, but Tim doesn't really care either. Wolf gets out of his car, the air thins, it's not so hard to breathe. Wolf comes around the back of the SUV, opens the door, but maybe by then girl's already opened it herself. Gotten out. There's no payment to make. Wolf looks in at the driver for a moment, awkward. Then he just shuts the door.

Tim rates his passenger. It's a bad rating. Wolf forgets to rate his driver.

Halfway to the door: "Hey." Wolf lengthens his stride, catches up. "Stop being mad at me. Okay?"

Devon

Doesn't try to talk to her anymore. So she colors, pausing when they go over bumps and so on. The ride is long. And she doesn't so much get over being mad as she gets a little lost in the mandalas; that is their purpose, after all. Tim feels on edge the whole time. The couple is weird. That guy is fucking weird. He knows it's not cool to give riders who aren't like, throwing up in your car a bad rating but he doesn't really want to get this rider again. Asks himself what his own fucking problem is, he's gonna get paid, come on. But all the same, he rolls down his front window, trying to get oxygen to flow into a well air-conditioned, classy SUV.

By the end of a half hour he's so fucking rattled that he grips the steering wheel and stares ahead, and he has made every sigh of Rafael's a threat, and he has made every silence of Devon's a signal of abuse, and he doesn't look.

Rafael opens Devon's door and she gets out, stuffing her markers and coloring book away. Rafael doesn't thank the driver, just looks at him awkwardly before shutting the door. Devon manages to thank him, perfunctorily, before he drives away. He already has his phone out to give the ride a bad rating, because J. F. C. Guy is probably a serial killer; he's saving some poor female Uber driver from him in the future. JFC.

--

They start walking to the townhouse, where they were totally going to fuck. And were this twenty minutes ago, Devon might snark something to that effect: why, so I'll fuck you in your bed?

Harsh, scorched-earth tactics. Brutal, and raw, and unfair, and needlessly cruel.

But this is thirty minutes from the moment when she roughly didn't want to be held and he didn't want to hold her. And thirty minutes or so of mandalas and thought and silence and calm.

--

He doesn't have to catch up to her because she's not stomping on ahead of him. She got in the Uber with him. Couldn't be that mad, or she would have told him to fuck off and taken the bus. It's not -11 and snowing outside, this time.

Hasn't put her shades back on. They are in her backpack now. She looks at him and her brow wrinkles.

"Not mad," she says. Frowns a little deeper. "You could say you're sorry, you know. Instead of just telling me not to be mad. You could try talking to me about it."

Maybe a little mad. Mandalas can't do everything.

wolfman

Wolf's almost comically taken aback. He trudges toward the front door in silence for a while. Then:

"You told me not to be mad that other time. It worked."

Now they're at the door. Does she still have a key? Probably. He can't remember. Anyway he reaches out, takes her hand. Turns her to face him. See his eyes looking at her, glimmers of green under heavy brow. See that furrow-browed look of his; her serious, glowering werewolf of a boyfriend.

"Don't be mad," he repeats, softer. "I'm sorry."

witch

No apology, no question, just... he looks so shocked. And her brow wrinkles just a bit more, and they turn in silence and walk up to the door. He says she told him not to be mad once and it worked. "Well, we're not always the same," she reminds him, but there's no venom in it.

Takes out her keys. Naomi's place, his place, her mum's place in another country, her family's place in another state. Twists it in the lock, or is about to, when Rafael reaches over and takes her hand. She doesn't bat him away or bite at him, doesn't jerk back. Looks up at him, his very serious face.

Says nothing at first, after he repeats his imperative-that-isn't. After he apologizes.

Then: squeezes his hand. Shrugs slightly. "Don't need you to... sort out my family shit and put a silver lining on it," she says, but not angrily. "Don't want you to." She withdraws her hand, carefully, and twists her key in the lock, pushing his front door inward. A blast of smooth, cold, conditioned air washes over them. Reaches over to him again, when her hand is free, taking his and drawing him inside with her.

"Sorry I got so mad," she says, quieter now that they're indoors.

wolfman

Wolf's hand is big and encompassing, firm flesh over a scaffold of strong bones. It wraps around hers. Sometimes he still doesn't get it. How did they get here? There was a night he stopped for a hooker. What he thought was a hooker. Wolf wonders if she thinks that's who he is, or was, before he met her: some sleazy douchebag who rolled around the city at night looking for some reasonably young, reasonably pretty, reasonably undiseased woman he could pay for. That's not who he is, and he suddenly wants to tell her that, tell her how rare that was, how rare she is, how unexpected, how precious.

Doesn't, though. Doesn't seem like the time or the place. His hand squeezes her gently.

"It's all right. I get mad too sometimes. Anyway, you're here."

witch

"That's the understatement of the century," she quips dryly, regarding how he 'sometimes gets mad'. Not that she means at her. But really: he's a werewolf.

"Yeah," she says, stepping closer, still holding his hand. Still speaks quietly. "Don't want to fuck right now, though. That all right?"

wolfman

Wolf lets go her hand; slings his arm around her shoulders instead. Pulls her against his side. Big motions, rough strength. Sometimes it's like he forgets who, what, how fragile. Presses his lips to her temple.

"Wasn't expecting it anyway. Let's just go watch one of your old movies."

witch

One of her old movies. Weird how that's a habit. She wonders if he knows that she watches new stuff, too. And kid movies too. And all kinds of things. But those old silver-screen ones: she does like those. Which is

how

some time later, they end up on his chair, curled up together under a thin blanket, watching The Wizard of Oz. Devon's taken her hair out of her two braids, lest she look a bit too much like pre-Emerald-City Dorothy. It falls in soft, fluffy waves on her shoulders and gets on his face. She's taken off her bra and tossed it aside to the ground, her boots off, her socks off, her hand in a bowl of popcorn they're sharing. They don't share their beers.

But sometimes she finishes his.