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.