trying.

Rafael

Next day; mid-morning. Girl's phone buzzes a couple times in a row.

Hey.

You there?

Lunch?

Devon

Next day, mid-morning, girl doesn't answer right away. Not even when he buzzes her three times, his messages blooping onto the screen one after the other. Well: not really. She'd need to have the phone screen on and her messaging app opened to see that. His messages slide through networks, formed and then garbled and then re-formed, the words knit by invisible spiders into a creation that does not yet exist for Devon, because she has not witnessed it.

Later on she does. It's nearly lunch time when she looks at the notification bar and flicks through various things: Instagram likes, a newsletter email from Isis, a message from her mom which she replies to immediately, a group text that Naomi sent which now has a few dozen replies that Devon wants to print out just so she can set on fire because fucking group texts, jfc.

Three texts from Rafael. She sets the phone down on the mattress beside herself and then curls up in her duvet a bit longer, staring at the half-open window and the bright, bright light coming in through it.

It's basically noon now.

His phone buzzes, finally.

Not ready yet.

She puts it back down beside her on the mattress, the screen off, the phone silenced. She can see the notification light blink, at least. If it does.

Rafael

It's basically noon. So maybe he's already eating. Or has forgotten. Or --

the notification light blinks.

1 hr?

And a little later:

Or not ready to see me again?

Devon

2nd one.

Just because it's terse -- or comes off that way -- and just because it's sent promptly,

does not mean it's easy to say.

Rafael

There's a long delay after that.

Text me when you want to hang out.

Devon

Seems like the end of the conversation. Or must be: Devon doesn't respond to that one.

And it's weird, too. They went a week or something without hanging out much or seeing each other before she showed up at his place last night -- she was working or sleeping and he was hunting or fighting or had gone to the mountains and maybe she couldn't get off work or maybe he really wanted to be alone. Alone-alone. And she came over and in a surprisingly gentle way, dragged him upstairs to fuck.

Things got bad after that, and here they are, and she doesn't want to see him for a while. Or talk to him, apparently. That has to hurt him. All he ever seems to want is to have her close by. To be near her, and often preferably touching, even if she's mad at him or upset or... whatever. And she's the only one, as far as she knows because it's basically what he's told her, that he kind of always wants to be around. He likes being alone, he said. Otherwise.

Devon lies there curled up in her duvet, thinking about how he might be hurt, and how that hurt is because she's keeping away from him. On purpose. Thinks about how they fought, and he yelled at her to get out like he was straight out of Beauty & the Beast, and then walked out after her to try and get her to come back in, come be with him. And then came over to her place and was taking off his shirt and shoes like everything would be okay again if he could just wrap her up and fall asleep with her. She knows he's not without pride, or stubbornness. She knows he's trying. It's not that she can't see that.

Sinking under the blanket, Devon covers her head up, closing her eyes in the warm dark cocoon she creates.

--

Rest of the day passes by. And then it's night again and then it's very late indeed and she's going to bed again but the same feeling overtakes her: that anything could happen. That he could be gone, like that, snap of the fingers, blink of an eye. But this time she doesn't send him a text to tell him that she loves him, because it broke her heart a little to read that Too. that came back.

Devon sends him an emoji:

[NOTE: IF POSSIBLE, TOTALLY PUT A BLACK HEART EMOJI IMAGE IN THE BLOG, IT WILL BE AWESOME.]

Rafael

A fucking black heart.

Wolf doesn't know what to make of it. Wolf is annoyed and amused and baffled. He stares at the emoji on the tiny screen of his battered phone. Should really get a new phone. Should really call her.

So he does. Call her, that is. Phone begins to buzz in her hand seconds after she sends the text.

Devon

Well, her phone doesn't buzz in her hand. She hates phones on vibrate, how they're annoying and buzzy and loud and what is the point of having it on vibrate if it's going to be that noisy and so on. It's silent. But it lights up, their recently-taken picture appearing and the notification light pinging blue.

Devon slides the pad of her finger across the screen and hits the speaker button. Because she is drying her fingernails.

"Hey."

Rafael

"Hell's a black heart mean? You're still mad at me but you love me anyway?"

Devon

There's a silence.

And then a huff: one of those short, low-breathed laughs he's seen her give. Dry, sometimes sarcastic, not necessarily mean.

"Well... yeah. More or less." A pause, but not a long one. Quieter: "Didn't want to really say it and get 'too' again."

Rafael

Wolf sort of grunts. "Know what I mean when I say 'too'. Don't you?"

Devon

Devon doesn't say anything for a second. Different kind of huff, then.

"That your point? If I love you, get better at mind-reading?"

Rafael

Wolf's home. He's been home all day. Ate, slept, watched TV. Grade A couch potato, he is.

In front of the TV now. Muted. Recliner kicked back. He grimaces, moves in his seat; leather creaks. "Didn't have a point," he says, defensive. "Just didn't think you'd get mad 'cause I didn't write out all the words."

Devon

"Not mad about that," she mutters. Something rustles. "All that does is hurt."

The rustling stops. Something taps, glass against wood.

"Makes me mad when I tell you something hurts and you get... defensive."

Rafael

"Didn't tell me it hurt," he says, stubborn. "Told me I wanted you to read my mind." Beat. Relenting: "Didn't know it hurt."

Devon

She's quiet for a while. Looks at the desk instead of her phone.

He pissed her off again: getting defensive. Stubborn. But she hasn't been angry at him, not really, since last night. Twenty hours ago, give or take. "Tried telling you."

A breath inward, an almost inaudible sigh. He hears her at a distance, the phone on speaker and not right by her cheek. "Don't remember everything I said. Know I keep trying to tell you, though. You don't ever --"

Hears her sniff, clear enough.

"You don't talk to me. Resist it. Makes it so hard to feel close to you."

Rafael

Wolf's silent for a while; tense, frustrated.

Then:

"You don't stay near me much. Resist that. Makes it hard for me too." Shrugs, as if she could see it. Which she can't. "We just don't connect the same way. Or something. You want me to put everything in words for you. I want you to stay close to me."

Devon

This is all she was thinking of, earlier this afternoon. How he wants her near. In his home, in his arms, in his bed, with him, near him. How some of the most emotive words he's ever spoken to her have been about this exact thing: I just want you near.

Devon doesn't say anything for a while. This conversation has been punctuated with silences, but they both know that once upon a time those silences would have been one or both of them walking away, frustrated and tense but not together.

She stays with him, on the phone at least, while he's silent and tense and frustrated.

He says what he says, and it's true, and she doesn't pretend it isn't.

"Not everything," she says softly. "But I don't think I always... get what you want me to get, out of being close. Physically. Not just sex. I know you don't get what I get out of talking."

Silence. Briefly.

"I don't like talking to anyone. 'Cept my mum. And you. And my mum and you... I want to talk to a lot."

Another silence. Briefer.

"Hurts so much, Rafa, when you don't want to talk to me."

This time he can hear the emotion. The welling of it, the rising, the wetness of it. The hurt, like it's something that sticks to your ribs and presses on your heart. Can hear her sniff, too, loud and deep and this time probably crying, or at least trying to fight it off, her voice quiet and a little desperate for the work of it;

"That how you feel, when I keep away?"

Rafael

There's a lot in that that rings true in him. Makes sense on a bone-deep, instinctive level. She doesn't like talking to anyone. Except her mom. And him. It hurts, when he doesn't want to talk.

And: mum. It still stirs something in him, tender and fond.

Wolf stirs, restive, uncomfortable. She hears him breathe over the phone, something like a sigh.

"Not always that bad," he says. "Miss you when you're not around. Miss having you down the hall. Most days I get over it.

"Right now it sucks."

Devon

Rings true for her, too, how he responds. It's not always that bad. Sometimes she gets over it. Sometimes she's with him and it's obvious he doesn't know what to say or that it hasn't occurred to him to say anything, he wraps his arms around her or rests his head atop of hers or something and she doesn't feel disconnected. Sometimes she gets what she needs from it, and gets what he's trying to give to her.

Still misses it, sometimes. Misses him, in his silence, even when he's right there.

Right now it sucks.

Neither of them talk for a while. There's a little bit of sound when Devon turns off speaker and moves the phone to her ear. Hears her breathing more, then.

When she speaks, it's quiet. Sounds more like her, though, now that it's off speaker. More like her real voice. Not so far away: "If I try to be near more, and try to stay with you even when part of me wants to get away, will you... try to talk to me more? And try to talk to me even when part of you doesn't want to?"

Rafael

She can't see it, but he stirs again. Shifts his weight in that big, comfy recliner: a little more alert, a little less rumpled-crumpled-slumped.

"Yeah," he says quietly. Just that.

Devon

Silence again. He says yeah -- no long reassurances or explanations, which she didn't expect. Still a promise, or something she takes as one.

He just wants her to spend more time with him. She just wants him to talk to her. They aren't asking that much of each other. Not really.

Eventually:

"...do you want me to come over, babe?"

Rafael

This time it's different, immediate: "Yeah. 'Course."

Devon

"All right," she says, in that soft, round way she has.

"I'll be there soon."

Rafael

Wolf's not too good about social niceties: hearing that, he takes the phone off his ear and hits the End Call button. Goes back to watching TV. Staring at a lighted box, really: goes in one eye and out the other. Nothing retained.

Dozing when her key ratchets into the lock. Wakes with a small start, like a startled animal. When she walks in she can see him sitting up in his recliner, rubbing a hand over his face, looking over at her.

Devon

Nothing to say. She wasn't really waiting for him to say anything. They end the call and he watches television and she, with her now-dry fingernail polish, gets dressed again. Sort of. She doesn't take off her pajamas, she just puts on shearling-lined boots over them. Slips into a jacket, her black leather one. Too cold to go without; not yet cold enough for more. Throws a few things in her backpack, and puts on a dab of lip gloss, and heads out the door, down the elevator, out onto the street, up the very short distance to Rafael's townhouse. Strange how much the neighborhoods change between one and the other, though. A different world, a couple of blocks over.

Keys jangle outside. She flicks the lock undone, smooth as butter -- new construction, the brushed metal somehow soft-seeming in its worldly innocence. She steps inside, turning to lock it behind her, and hears him over in the living room.

Stands there in dove-grey pajama pants that he must know by now have a pink lace hem, in the matching camisole, in her black leather jacket, her hair in two thick braids, her lips pale and seeming moistened in the dark, her backpack sliding off her shoulder and down her arm to the floor. Wiggles her feet out of her boots. Comes over, wearing black nail varnish with pink glitter in it. It's fresh and glossy and gleaming.

Shrugs out of her jacket halfway, dropping it on the floor.

Climbs onto him, in her pajamas and braids and none else, ending up curled in the hollow between his body and the arm of the recliner, nudging herself into his arms, laying her head on his chest, wrapping her own slender arms around him.

Rafael

She always looks so good to him. Not just hot or gorgeous or devastatingly, heartbreakingly beautiful, though she is all those things. But good: the way home, and a banked fire in winter, and birdsong in spring, and cool water when you're thirsty, and a hearty meal when you're hungry are good. Good the way air is good, and life, and all the things necessary to a man. Or a wolf.

He watches her come in, lock the door. Step out of those boots and drop her bag. She's a juxtaposition of dressed up and dressed down: glittering nail polish all new and gleaming; lips looking like someone just licked them. But then the pajamas. But then lack of makeup, the freckles across the bridge of her nose.

She climbs into the recliner with him. It is warm there: warm from his body heat stored up in the leather. His arm opens for her and she fits herself right where she belongs, her arms crossing the firm, breathing expanse of his chest. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, rests his jaw over the top of her head. Closes his eyes for a moment.

"I love you," he says softly. His inexpert words. His clumsy tongue. "A lot."

Devon

None of what he thinks of her has made it past his lips, really -- he's called her hot. Ill-advisedly told her about his skinny thing, great tits internal monologue. Hasn't told her how she makes him feel. How seeing her makes him feel. Cool water when he's thirsty, a meal when he's hungry, a warm hearth, a song,

a home.

He does not say it, and so she does not know. His embraces don't press this understanding into her skin. When he bites her, she can't read the marks and comprehend.

--

Devon comes near, and then very near indeed, close enough to feel his heat and listen to his heart beating. She tucks herself close, tender and wordless. And then Rafael tells her how he feels. The words feel clumsy and inexpert to him, but they aren't heard that way. They aren't judged and found wanting by the woman who receives them.

He loves her. A lot. And she feels warm from the inside, not the same as the warmth from his leather chair, his arm, his solid chest. Like something opening, and inside there was only firelight, reaching out in ghosts of heat and brightness to fill her limbs and glow inside of her mind. He says

he loves her, a lot,

and she feels loved.

--

Devon answers in kind. In a way.

She lifts herself up, carefully but not too carefully, knowing that when she presses her hands on his chest that he can take her weight, the pressure. She leans over to him, her head tilted, and her lips are parted slightly when she presses them against his mouth.

Devon

None of what he thinks of her has made it past his lips, really -- he's called her hot. Ill-advisedly told her about his skinny thing, great tits internal monologue. Hasn't told her how she makes him feel. How seeing her makes him feel. Cool water when he's thirsty, a meal when he's hungry, a warm hearth, a song,

a home.

He does not say it, and so she does not know. His embraces don't press this understanding into her skin. When he bites her, she can't read the marks and comprehend.

--

Devon comes near, and then very near indeed, close enough to feel his heat and listen to his heart beating. She tucks herself close, tender and wordless. And then Rafael tells her how he feels. The words feel clumsy and inexpert to him, but they aren't heard that way. They aren't judged and found wanting by the woman who receives them.

He loves her. A lot. And she feels warm from the inside, not the same as the warmth from his leather chair, his arm, his solid chest. Like something opening, and inside there was only firelight, reaching out in ghosts of heat and brightness to fill her limbs and glow inside of her mind. He says

he loves her, a lot,

and she feels loved.

--

Devon answers in kind. In a way.

She lifts herself up, carefully but not too carefully, knowing that when she presses her hands on his chest that he can take her weight, the pressure. She leans over to him, her head tilted, and her lips are parted slightly when she presses them against his mouth.

Devon

[DELETE WUN UV DOZE]

Rafael

It's not just acceptance -- it's welcome. His hand covers hers over his chest. He meets her kiss, warm and full, closing his eyes to it.

Wolf's not so obtuse, so inert a lump of brutality and strength, that he doesn't understand what's happening here. They're both reaching out across that divide. He excavated a few words. She came over. Came close. Shows him what he told her, because this is how the other communicates. Her hair's in braids, so he can't run his fingers in. Cups his hand around the back of her head instead, kisses her mouth like it's something to be savored and tasted. Which it is.

Devon

All they do for a while is kiss. Slowly, savoringly, deeply. Devon tastes him, and over time she begins to breathe differently, her heart thumping a little, her kisses less considered, less careful. But they go on. And she turns her wrist, taking his hand, drawing it to her chest. He can feel her easily like this, just the thin cotton camisole between his palm, his fingers, and the heft of her breast, the shape of her nipple -- already hardened.

"Touch me,"

is what she whispers to him, her lips close to his lips, her body moving into his hand, his touch.

"Tell me how I feel to you."

Rafael

One of the few times, maybe, that she draws his hand to her breast and he doesn't immediately start wresting at her clothes.

Just holds her. Feels her in his hand, the same way he feels her with his mouth. Tastes that faint non-flavor of her lip gloss coming off; the softness of her lips beneath it. Softness of her body. Skinny thing, great tits, and maybe that's not something to say aloud

(particularly when he never, ever says the rest of it: that she looks like cool water, warm hearth)

but damned if it doesn't go through his head, errant and unbeckoned, every so often. His eyes are closed when she bids him: touch, tell. Opens on the second, slowly, not lazily but just -- unwillingly. He looks at her, and they're so close that he can't make out details; she's just a blur of dark lashes, fair skin, blue, blue eyes.

"Soft." That's the first thing in his mind. One hopes she's not seeking eloquence. She'll find none here. "Warm." And he's drawing back a little. And he's finally looking for the hem of her camisole; starting to pull it up. Whispering: "Good."

Devon

One of the few times, maybe, that she doesn't have to tell him to go slow. He does it anyway. Feels her, caressing her through her camisole, and just the fact that he's taking his time is so erotic to her that she shivers against him. Her breath curls against his mouth. Her eyes are closed; he sees that when he opens his own. Sees her still kissing him, or trying to, like she could sip the words off his lips, taste them the way she hears them,

warm and sweet.

She isn't looking for poetry. He tells her

soft.

warm.

good.

Devon shivers again, lifting her body away from his, opening her eyes slowly as he's searching for her hem. She reaches down, arms crossed, pulling it up, and over her head. And off. Her breasts bounce slightly, pale in the darkness but -- especially compared to her face -- unfreckled. She leans over him again, sliding her hand up his shirt, over the ridges of his abdominal muscles. Lifts it up, rucking it over his chest, til she can kiss him there, right over his solar plexus. Whispers on his skin:

"Tell me how I make your body feel."

Rafael

There is a certain eloquence in his body; motions. She lifts her arms, pulls off her top. His hands sweep up the curve of her ribcage; catch her breasts against his palms. There's something tender about that, protective. He lets go after a moment, gentler than gravity would have been; runs the flat of his hands down her body and up again, feeling her.

Until she pushes his shirt up, anyway. He watches her then, both their eyes falling to her wrists, the fabric, the slow even rise-and-fall of his breathing. The quick-twitching shudder when she leans down, kisses him.

His hand cups her head again. He exhales a short sound, somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. Casts about for some inadequate words:

"Good."

Cringes almost as soon as he says it. Good. Again. Really? "Hot," he tries again. "Awake."

Devon

Feels it. Feels it when he tenses, cringes inwardly and perhaps outwardly: he's not saying the right thing, he's saying stupid things, he's just repeating himself -- whatever he thinks of what he's saying. That it's inadequate. That it's not good enough. That it doesn't come close to -- whatever it is she wants him to give her.

Devon lifts her head a little, not firmly enough to dislodge his cradling palm. Looks at him, finding his eyes with her own. While he says hot. While he says awake. Lets him see how her breath changes again, how she licks her lips. Leans over him and kisses him again, lower.

Licks him, a line from his navel up towards that first place she kissed him, right between his pectorals. Finds his nipple with her mouth, sealing him against her tongue, stroking it over his body. She's poised over him. Her hands don't reach down.

But she murmurs, right against his skin: "Hard?"

Rafael

He makes that sound again, and: it's not a grunt or a laugh. It's a gasp. His version of one; quieter, bitten-back, laced with a growl. Because of course it is. His eyes close for a second, spine arches, it's all involuntary. Then he gets ahold of himself.

Huff of a laugh, "Yeah. But ... awake." Comes back to that. It's the best word he's found so far, casting about in the dark. "Like every inch of me's alive."

His hands have found their way to her waist. He holds her like that, like maybe letting go would make her disappear. "Was really happy to see you come in," he adds. It's a non sequitur; he knows it. "Like Christmas in September."

Devon

Smiles at him. This lazy, cocky thing -- but it's neither lazy nor cocky. It's loose, and it's perhaps shy. Or something. Whatever it is that she is that makes her so hesitant to share herself, to show herself, to be... close. Stay near.

Devon rises up on him, leaning over his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her body is stretched out over his body, their bellies touching but little else, since they're still both mostly covered. Well: she mostly. He entirely. She kisses his mouth. His hands cup her waist. He tells her he was happy. Christmas.

A different sort of smile. Smaller. More tender. She kisses him again, softer this time.

"I love you," she murmurs. "Never felt anything like it. And it scares me. And I don't know how to do it, or what's going to happen, or how... how I'll be okay, if I lose you. Sometimes I stay away because at least then I know it's... that it's there. That it's not gone wrong. I still have you."

Devon didn't mean to say anything past the first eight words. But it happened. She turns her face to his face, hiding underneath his jaw.

"I love you so much," she whispers against his skin. Again. "And I want you."

Rafael

Wants to tell her she's not gonna lose him. He's not like her dad. Or his mom. Not going away. Except he knows that's not what she means. Not all of it, anyway. There are promises he can't make.

So she hides her face, and he wraps his arms around her. Tightly, clasping her to his body. Strange to feel the resilience in her, like that. There's such a narrowness to her, so slender on her legs that sometimes he thinks of prey-animals, deer. Almost forgets she's half-wolf, and when he squeezes her like this, she doesn't wither and crumble.

"Shouldn't stay away," he murmurs. "Don't think anything's going to happen. But if it did, just going to regret it more if you didn't make the most of what we've got. 'Least I would."

Devon

What he says is truth, and it is also wisdom, and she feels it in her bones because whatever else she is, she's a student of these things. She shares so little of that side of herself with him, has shared it with no one else who doesn't already understand some measure of it and even then only about half a percent of those people aren't hippie-dippie shitheads. But when she looks up at the sky and she sees the future in the movement of stars and these visions come to her without cards, without tea leaves, without ritual, it's because she was looking for truth. She was submissive to wisdom.

Tensing up at joy will not beat suffering to the punch. All it does is drain the blood and warmth and vitality from those moments so that, when the always-inevitable pain of loss comes, you have nothing to nourish yourself with.

What he says is truth.

--

He hears her sniff. Can't see or hear actual tears. Can't feel them dropping onto his skin, because she isn't crying. She just sniffs, and lifts her head again, looking at him in the dim light. There's so many things she could say: that he's right, that she'll try, that this whole thing is predicated on the promises they made to each other to try.

All he sees is those luminous, vivid eyes finding his in the dark.

All he feels is her body wrapped in his arms, her smooth back, her soft breasts.

All he hears now is her saying, whispering:

"I said I want you."

Rafael

This time it is a laugh, soft and low. He sits up; kisses her soft, open-mouthed and open-eyed.

"Heard you," he whispers.

Recliner creaks; the footrest folds back. He stands up, and her camisole slips off somewhere, falls to the floor. Her bag's on the floor. Her jacket's ... somewhere, might as well be on the floor.

They leave it all where it is. He takes her up the stairs, into his bedroom. Still doesn't look lived-in. Still smells of him, his presence, unmistakably his. Maybe that's why he's never bothered with knickknacks, photos on the wall. Doesn't need to. Door shuts. That soft, vast bed must be familiar to her by now. Way it feels under her when he lays her down. Way he feels, too, crawling over her, sliding her up the bed, pausing to pull his shirt off the way he does: up from the back, up over his head and tossed aside.

Devon

Only been a day since last time; feels like weeks. Like months. Devon is hungry against him when he lifts her up, her cotton-clad legs wrapping around his waist as he gets them both up from the recliner. Jacket, backpack, boots are left behind, along with her camisole. She kissess his neck as he carries her, as he goes up those narrow stairs, down the short hall, through the solid door that he shuts behind himself.

"I love you," she whispers, halfway across the downstairs room. And

"I love--" but this one, spoken at his door, hitches, and she never finishes it.

Laying back on his bed, she arches, her thumbs hooked under the waistband of her pajama pants. There's nothing underneath but her skin, herself. He finally takes off his goddamn shirt while she's kicking away her lowerwear. Welcomes him back when he comes over her, her hands running up his sides, smoothing over his broad back as she lifts her chin to kiss him again. Gasps:

"Tell me what you want to do to me."

Rafael

Truth is he's uncomfortable still. Words feel clumsy in his hands, and potentially dangerous: like an ill-balanced sword. Who knows which way it might cut. But he's trying. He tries:

"Want to fuck you."

Which sounds crude, and crass. Knows she doesn't mind, but still: if there was more light in here she'd see his cheeks flushing, ears turning hot.

"Still not good at this." It's half a reminder; half an apology. She kicks her pajamas off. He helps her, grabs a handful of the soft cotton and tugs. Her legs come free. He's reminded not of deer in the forest now but of fish in the sea, something aquatic and quick and sleek and smooth. His palm runs over her calf, up her thigh. Smooth, he thinks. Soft.

"Just want to fuck," he mutters. "And stay close. Sleep together. Breakfast tomorrow." Shrugs, heavy shoulders rolling in the darkness. "You know what I want."

Devon

If she could see his hot ears and his pink cheeks right now she would only feel endeared, and tender, and gentle. Other times she might tease him, love him even more for it. But right now: she doesn't see, or hear, or any of that. Only hears the words in the dark, new moon still outside his bedroom window failing to illuminate anything between them. All they have is touch and word.

He wants to fuck her. Which sounds crude, and crass, but he feels her shudder underneath him to hear it. He apologizes and she kisses his jawline, bites at him. "I don't care," she murmurs, not because she doesn't care at all about how he feels, how he's uncertain, how it all sounds awkward and feels awkward to him. She does care.

She means the rest of it. The apology part. She doesn't care if he's 'good' at it. Practiced. Experienced.

Her hands touch him while he's helping get her pajama pants off, while he's caressing her. She is sliding her left leg up his side while her hands find his abdomen, find his belt, the fastenings there and beneath. He just wants to fuck, and be close, and... everything. And his shoulders move, benthic and strong, and she makes a sound like a whimper, or a moan -- a terribly soft cry for pleasure.

"I know," she murmurs, because she does. Know what he wants, right now. "Just makes me feel so good when you say it. Makes me wet. Makes my heart hurt."

She trusts that he knows what she means: an ache, not a cut. "Please," she whispers. "Don't go away from me. I know it's scary for you. But please stay with me." A reminder there, as vulnerable and as strong at once as she can make it: sometimes his silence feels to her the way it feels when she walks away from him, closes a door in his face, leaves him behind. "Please, Rafa. Stay with me."

Rafael

There's a part of him that doesn't quite understand. Maybe most of him. Has some inkling of what she means; knows she doesn't think he might get up, walk away. Knows it's not that. Knows it has something to do with -- being here. Present. With her. Doesn't want him to forget about her, chase down his own pleasure, rut at her like a beast.

Thinks maybe she means talking to her, too. Communicating. Thinks maybe, maybe, she also means --

not leaving her. Not abandoning her. Willfully, or because he fucking got killed.

He catches her hand. Finds it somewhere, brings it to his face. Kisses her palm, and it's such an instinctive thing to do, but maybe it means something. The mouth and the hands; nothing separates man from beast so much as these things. Speech, tools, opposable thumbs. That abstract, mighty brain.

"I'm right here," he whispers. "Right here. Not going anywhere."

Devon

Devon's breath curls over his neck; he kisses her palm, and she kisses his throat, leaning up from his pillows to be closer to him. He promises her that he's not going away, he's right here, and that breath that touches him is almost a laugh. The same sort of huffing, spare laughter that she's given him tonight. Tender. Fond.

All right: loving.

She runs her hands down his neck, over his chest, laying back to look up at him again. "Don't go silent on me," she murmurs. "I know it's not easy. And I know it's not every time. But... just stay with me tonight. Let me hear you."

Rafael

There's a hesitation, and girl can feel it: a ripple of tension through that neck, that chest. He looks at her as she looks at him, braced over her, arms taut, brow knit. Exhales, and leans down, and rubs his cheek roughly over hers.

"I'll try," he mutters. Finds her hand again. Guides it back to his belt, and the work he'd interrupted a moment ago when he kissed her palm.

Devon

[empafee!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 2, 7, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

Rafael

[there are a lot of emotions there, none of them buried very deep: he wants to please her and make her happy, but there's an edge of frustration there because there's still a part of him that's like: WHY WERDS SO IMPORTUNT TO YOU? he understands that they're important, and he even understands intellectual why they might be, but he just doesn't get it on a basic, instinctive level. there's also an aspect of him that worries that whatever he says will be inadequate, and worse: if he doesn't talk to her, then everything about him will always be inadequate, because words are all she seems to want. so beneath the frustration is maybe a sense of panic.)

Devon

That tension: it hurts, sort of -- the way it hurts him, makes him wary, when she tenses up, when she pulls away. When she gears up to leave him. When it feels, ultimately, like she doesn't stay near to him because she doesn't want to. Doesn't want him, maybe. Not the way he wants her.

Loves her.

So that tension doesn't feel like it really is passing. It hurts because of the things it tells her -- how deep that resistance goes, how it trends sometimes towards what feels like anger at her, how different he is from her, which hurts the most. Like it's some fundamental difference, a schism between them that goes too deep to cross over. Knifes her.

Worries her.

Rafael rubs his face on hers and tells her he'll try, and it doesn't sound hopeful to her at all right then. Sounds resigned. Sounds like talking to her is much harder, more unpleasant work for him than just being around him more is for her. Devon doesn't resist when he finds her hand, but she doesn't find her own way back to his belt, reach for him on her own. She just starts unfastening it, looking at her own hand between their bodies in the dark.

Rafael

Girl senses it -- that strain, that resistance. Wolf senses it too -- her disappointment, her hurt. The lack of enthusiasm, frankly put, in her undoing of his belt.

After a couple beats his hand covers hers again. Stops what she's doing; holds her knuckles against his abdomen -- skin over taut muscle, and somewhere deep within the beat of his pulse coursing down the great arteries of his body.

"Hey," he says softly. "I am trying. Will try. Want to try. Just ... need you not to push so hard, like it's all that matters. Okay?"

Devon

Belt's undone. So is the button of his jeans, but not the zipper. She's close enough to feel how hard he is through the denim, through whatever he's got on under it. His hand stops hers, and she immediately looks up at him again. Those eyes that seem lit from within, so bright no matter how dark his room is right now.

"I'm not," she whispers. "It isn't all that matters. But tonight it matters a lot. And I didn't want... "

Devon pauses, and takes a breath, blinking a few times.

"I didn't want to be already going, and you just... leave me. Because you gave me the bare minimum of what I want and got what you want."

Rafael

That makes him frown in earnest. Stop in earnest. Puts his hands on her face, cupping that fine jawline; the wild-touched beauty of her bones.

"Didn't talk to you just so you'd let me fuck you," he says. "Did it 'cause you like it. And I like you."

Devon

"Not what I meant."

He's over her, pressed to her, elbows heavy on the bed to either side of her, hands on her face. Her legs are still open, gentle around him, her feet beside his knees, her thighs against his hips. Her breasts on his chest. Sweat between them, even in the cool dark room.

"Don't think that about you. I meant... you make me feel so bad for needing it like I do. But I do need it. Especially right now. And I didn't want you to forget. Or... just not do it, because you didn't know what I needed."

Rafael

I do need it.

It makes him fall apart a little, listening to her. Makes him feel like something inside him just turned to sand, blew away in the wind. He wraps his arms around her: heavy biceps, thick forearms, clasping around her narrow torso. He bows his head to her and kisses her where he finds her: side of her neck, hollow of her shoulder.

"Love you," he mutters,

trying,

"love how you make me feel. Think you're so hot sometimes. All the time. Not even just how you look. It's the shit you say. And do. It's how you smile."

Devon

"I love you too," she whispers, nothing diminished about it by adding a word to the end. You can say I love you into a canyon and it will echo your words back to you, identical, and you'd never know that someone else was calling to you from the void without that little stupid word at the end. Too. Also.

I'm here, too.

I'm real.

I love you back.

Rafael closes around her, wraps her up the way he does. She knows how to translate this. She knows what it means. This, she feels in her chest, tight and aching and sweet and overcome. That echoes in her, too. He's kissing her, and she arches her back slightly, guiding his mouth to her clavicle, her upper chest.

She shivers. Different kind of little laugh, there, in her breath. Not fond or tender or loving though it is (she is) all of these things. It's lighter than that, pleased, instantly and effervescently and one might say effortlessly but one would have to be blind to miss how much they are trying, how hard they are working for each other. How hard he is working to please her. How much he's trying. What effort it is, given because... it's worth it to him? Because it matters?

Because right now it's what she needs.

It's a small laugh as she shivers, and it's happy. She slides her legs along his sides. "Take your pants off, babe," she murmurs, because now they're too far away from her hands.

Rafael

Hardly the epitome of dirty-talk, what he's saying. Hardly even qualifies as romantic, sweet-talk, whatever. Just saying whatever the hell comes to mind, really, and it's stiff and it's awkward -- at least he thinks it is -- but she doesn't seem to mind.

She doesn't seem to mind at all. She seems happy. Laughs, and moves, and he kisses her collarbone; kisses his way down to her breast. She wants him to take his pants off. He rubs his face against her tits.

Disentangles one arm and pushes his pants down, his boxers with the pants; wrestles them both off. His cheek brushes her nipple; he finds it with his mouth, sucks, licks, comes up over her body like a wave onto shore -- kisses her mouth.

"Like your mouth too," he murmurs.

Devon

He rubs his face against her tits and she purrs, shivering all over, arching into it. Even her hips wriggle. He reaches down, keeping her embraced with his other arm, wrests his jeans and his boxers off. Kicks them away. He sucks at her while their feet are tangling, helping each other disrobe him entirely, kick clothing away.

Devon groans. It's silenced a moment later by his mouth, sinking down to hers, tasting her. The tenor of her groan lowers, but does not abate. She runs her hands up his sides. Over his chest. She loves his fucking chest. And his cock. And telling him so right now would be dirty, filthy talk. It isn't what she says.

"I like yours," she whispers, in answer. "I don't ever tell you how much I love your body. How wet you make me when I look at you."

Rafael

Wolf laughs -- low, brief. He's got an ego. Everyone has one. It inflates a little; he gets this crooked little grin, lingering while he kisses her.

"Don't have to tell me. I know."

Devon

"You asshole," she breathes, fondly laughing back at him. "That was supposed to turn you on."

Her hand is sliding between them, reaching down to touch him. Her eyes are on his eyes.

"You know so much -- what am I thinking right now?"

Rafael

"Did," he replies; singular, one word, still more than he usually gives.

Her hand slips down. His eyes flick down, back to hers. It's dark in here; his eyes aren't like hers, aren't luminous, aren't almost preternaturally blue. Sometimes he thinks color of her eyes must be a magic all their own. Like she's lit from within, a fire-sylph. His eyes: darker, dark in his light, too dark for her to see the flaring pupils.

She touches him.

He kisses her -- it's quick, hard, just a little rough at the edges. Presses his brow to hers, exhaling a laugh.

"Thinking... I'm only twenty percent asshole."

Devon

Touches him. Strokes him, her hand loose, and goes slow. Light. Barely there, while she leans up to him again and kisses his jaw, his neck, not his mouth.

"Wrong," she murmurs, right against his skin. Licks him there, sealing it to his flesh.

Rafael

Wolf bites his lip when she starts stroking him. Shifts his weight over her -- elbows and knees, her thighs over the tops of his. His eyes close as she leans up, kisses him. Sound of her voice sends a shiver down his back.

He tries again: "Thinking you like my dick."

Devon

"I do," she sighs, and her hand closes a little. That touch firms. Those strokes elongate, but it only makes her hand go slower. Turns softly, the gentlest twist. "But that's not what I'm thinking about right now."

Rafael

Must be satisfying, how easily she undoes him. Big gruff wolf that he is: and she gets her slender little hands on him and he goes to pieces. Has his eyes shut. Breathing through parted lips, shuddering when she strokes him just right.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Thinking ... "

-- and trails off. Loses his train of thought. Kisses her, growling into it, with that twist of her palm, the slide back down. When his mouth lets hers go he gives it one more shot:

"Thinking about fucking."

Devon

A smile slashes wide and lazy across her mouth as he loses himself a little. She watches him, jerking him off, watching him shudder. Watching his eyes shut from pleasure, his mouth letting out panted breaths. It's not that it's satisfying to watch someone so big and strong be undone by nothing more than her hand. It is, however, deeply satisfying to feel his pleasure resonating off of him, showing in his face, expressing itself in his body, in his breathing. To see the one she loves in enjoyment, in arousal, in love.

She loves him, and it makes her happy to turn him on. It makes her feel good. It turns her on, too. It's nothing more complicated than that.

Devon kisses him for a while. He growls and she kisses him, strokes his cock, gives it to him just a little bit faster then, just to work him up. He tries one more time. She smirks up at him. "Warmer," she mutters. But doesn't torment him with the game any longer:

"Thinking about how I'd like to lay you out and ride you."

Rafael

"That's just a..."

there's a kiss in there. It's set off by her smirk, the light in her eyes. He starts it or she does; they meet in the middle.

"...that's just a type of fucking. See, knew what you were thinking about."

Wraps his arm around her waist, then. Turns -- uncareful, athletic, rolling heavily onto his back and tumbling her atop him. Now he's looking up at her. Now he's got this lazy, lopsided smile pulling across his mouth.

"Come on, then."

Devon

He's so argumentative while they're fucking and she adores him right now for it, keeps smiling at him like an idiot, keeping her body as close to his as she can. He rolls them over and for the sake of logistics, she stops jerking him off. Her braids swing across her shoulders. She lays atop him, quirks her brows,

and shakes her head.

"Come on, what?"

Rafael

Which makes him groan. Which makes him pick his head up and drop it back on the pillows, thump, little aftershock of displaced air puffing across the pillowcase.

"You know what. Come on and fuck me. All laid out here and un-rode here."

Devon

Devon's hands on his chest. She lifts herself up over him. Wonders if he knows that she's never had any of this before. A real boyfriend, not some stupid boy at school who just wanted to screw her or some vanilla Boston moron who wanted to hold hands and treat her like a normal girl. A real lover, who will get down between her legs and lap at her like a dog until she comes, crying his name and clutching at his shoulders, his hair. She's never had someone she wanted to fuck and talk to and spend time with. He's the closest she's ever come to really... being close.

That's why it's so hard for her, she thinks, straddling him, looking down at him, touching his chest like that. Why she doesn't know quite how to do it half the time, why she bolts when they fight, why she shuts down, why she nearly lost her fucking mind when she realized she was loving him and it didn't seem like he loved her back, he might not love her back, and she didn't know what she was going to do, how she'd survive it. Knew that she could. Didn't know how to get from the agony to the survival, though.

And it's why she's starved for it. To feel close to him, to be seen, to be understood. To know everything about him, to hear his voice say every word in the language, to hear him when he is sleepy-waking and sleepy-dozing and talking in his sleep or fucking her or being fucked by her or talking about a movie or... all of it. To press her life and his life together, all the ephemeral pieces of each, until the colors blur together, until they make something new, until she can understand what it is, and how it feels.

Thick black braids rest on her collarbones. Soft, perky white breasts point their hard, pink nipples forward. Vivid blue eyes watching his. Strangely thoughtful, softened now. Almost serious.

Can feel his heart thudding against her palm.

She moves, rubbing herself against his cock just a little. Softly. Whispers, pantingly: "Tell me you want me to fuck you. Tell me I'm your girl."

Bites her lip. Harder than she means to.

Rafael

He senses it. Say what you will of him: say he's rough and barbaric and coarse and ill-mannered and poorly educated and, quite literally, a bastard. Say he's an animal, because it's true. But this too is true:

he is an animal, and he is astute to the meaning behind silences, expressions, shifts in countenance and body. He senses that they are no longer joking. She is serious now; no less aroused, but -- now she's for real.

Says something. Tells him what she wants. Needs. He looks at her, his heart beating beneath her palm. She moves on him and he closes his eyes; nostrils flare on an inhale. Then he sits up, chest pressing her hand back, closing the distance between them.

His big arms close around her. Wrap low around her back. He nuzzles her, eyes half-lidding, not quite closing.

"You're my girl," he whispers. Kisses her mouth softly, softly. Kisses her shoulder. Bites her there; softly, softly.

Lays back, letting space open between them. Touches her breasts, slow and leisurely, rubbing thumbs over her nipples, raising their weight in his palms.

"Want you to fuck me."

Devon

Loves this. Loves this, his chest against hers, his strong body lifted from the bed to hold her, his cock pressed hard against her cunt but not yet slid into her -- though it would be better if he were inside of her. Loves being atop him, and yet feeling him so close, and yet not straining her back to lean over him. Loves having him so very near. Being able to look him in the eyes, and being so close that she can discern their color, even in the dark.

So of course the sound that greets him when he lifts up, wrapping those beefy arms around her and nuzzling her, is a little whimper. Her hands slide up over his chest and those massive shoulders, circle behind his neck. She cradles one palm there against the slope of his scalp, fingertips in his hair. Her other hand rests between his shoulderblades, her arm draped over his body. Her hips are lifting, unconcerned with anything else, as he murmurs to her the things that you think would mean less because she told him what to say.

But it means everything to her. It isn't that she doesn't know. Once, she didn't know that he loved her. Sometimes it's hard for her to feel it, believe it, remember it. Maybe that hurts but lots of things hurt when you get close to someone. Lots of things are exposed, and could go so very wrong, and there aren't many better options than letting it hurt or shutting your heart away forever. She has chosen the raw exposure, at least for the most part, and it's essentially constant agony alleviated by sudden spikes of ecstasy and mitigated by longer stretches of tenderness, comfort, and trust, which takes so long to mature, and so long to bear fruit that isn't poisonous.

So she whimpers when he comes near, his cock shifting against her slickened cunt. And she trembles when he speaks to her, because she needs it, and because it makes it safer for her to be so raw, so naked, so exposed to him, so vulnerable to the worst sorts of pain. It comforts her in her fear. His words, often even the most awkward of them, are like his hand stroking her hair while she falls asleep.

A feeling which is somehow... everything in the world. The only thing that matters.

Devon lifts her hips. She goes slowly, because of their positioning, because she doesn't want to let go of him and doesn't want him to let go of her, but she finds the head of his dick with the tender, wet opening of her pussy and gently begins to work herself onto him. Hell: she has to concentrate, really, and so she doesn't answer at first. He kisses her and she kisses back, though. He starts to lay back and she shakes her head, insistent and hopeful all at once but wordless about it, holding him more tightly. Stay. Stay near.

"Going to," she whispers, taking him just... one or two inches, now, and she's shaking. It's really the stupidest thing in the world to say, but there you are. She never claimed to be a poet in bed, either.

Rafael

So he doesn't lay back after all. So he stays right there; shifting only to set one hand on the mattress. She can lean on him. He wants her to lean on him: wraps his arm around her to get her closer. He can support their combined weight.

She lifts up. He knows what she's doing. He could help her, but tonight he doesn't: lets her guide him, lets her work herself onto him. Watches her as she says

something almost as silly and inept as one of his what?s. Makes him grin, quick and brief. Makes him feel so tender toward her that he can't help but kiss her again, light and soft and slow, licking her lower lip as she trembles.

"That's it," he whispers. "That's it, take it slow."

Devon

Devon's eyes have closed, upon taking him. Starting to. She didn't mean to close her eyes but they fell of their own accord, and her head is tipped slightly to the side, and she can feel him kiss her, feel him move, feel his steadiness as she slides herself further onto him. Works her hips in these slow, gentle rolls. Hears him murmur what he does, and it's so erotic to her that she almost can't stand it.

Her heart slams in her chest as his cock starts stretching her, opening her. Her mouth opens a little wider; she pants out a breath. "I love you," she says, as tight as her body is, as needful. She rocks slightly onto him, her trust in his ability to hold them, balance them -- unquestioned. She takes him deeper. "Oh, fuck -- oh, Rafa, I love you."

Rafael

"Too," he whispers,

automatic. His arm around her firm. His hand gripping her rear; guiding without urging, pushing, pulling -- moving with her. She sinks down on his lap; takes him deeper. He kisses her shoulder; takes her in his teeth, gentle.

Corrects himself: "Love you too."

Devon

She has him, soon enough. Has taken as much of him as her slender body will allow. And is kissing him while he is saying love y--, her hands on his jaw, her mouth on his mouth, warm and wet as the rest of her, and -- she wouldn't even argue with him about it -- all his.

He's all hers, but she doesn't really know it yet.

--

At first, she just holds him there. Kisses him, lingering and sweet, while he's buried in her pussy. She rocks on him, slowly, but there's only so much of that he can take; his hands are on her, tightening, wanting to urge, wanting not to push, he promised her in his own way that he wouldn't go at her like a beast tonight. But she feels hands tightening and she feels his cock. Throbbing. Inside her. She pants, gasping for him, and as she starts to move on his body

they actually don't talk much for a while. Because she can't stop kissing him. Says his name, whimpers it, her hand resting for all that time on the back of his neck, or sliding down his body, or into his hair. She kisses him so much, tasting his mouth while she fucks him.

Eventually, he does lay back. Eventually, she lets him. Rides him in earnest then, though not too fast at first. Must be driving him mad by now, it's been so long since he first got his hand on her body downstairs. Been so long since his cock woke to her, since she set his skin on fire. Since he made her wet. Since he made her heart start pounding. By the time she starts well and trully fucking him, eager to the point of aggressive, her tits and her braids all bouncing, her breath coming in short jolts, there's sweat on her chest, on her cheeks, running down her back. She fucking loves fucking him like this.

Is saying filthy things by then, again, though some of them hardly make sense because she can't get the words out completely. Sound like

"Oh,

"fuck,--! yes,"

Leaning over him, groaning, kissing him as her hips grind hard and slow against his body, his hands on her tits or her ass or something, anything. A breath later she's back to riding him, her back arched, her cunt quivering.

"I'm your girl,"

panting,

"I'm your sweet, hot fucking girl --"

Rafael

Truth is:

he fucking loves it when she talks like that. Makes him uncomfortable to talk like that himself; unnerves him a little because it taps into that side of himself that is dark and vicious and bloodthirsty and wrathful. Not the same thing, of course, but it comes close. Neighboring neurons. Sibling urges.

But then she says it. Then she says things like that in that voice of hers; those vowels that sometimes slip toward england or portugal or brazil or boston. Says it with her voice hitching and a whimper under the consonants and, god, it turns him on. Hits him like a switch to a stallion's back. Lights him up.

Your girl, she calls herself, and he flat-out growls at her. Grabs her behind her head as she comes down to kiss him. Meets that kiss. Eats at her mouth. She rides -- starts to. Sweet, she calls herself, hot, fucking --

he grabs her again, wraps his arms around her, sits up and bites her, topples her onto her back and rolls her under his body. She has enough time to grab the headboard. Or the pillow. Or the bed. Or just him. He snarls against her shoulder, and then he fucks her, rampantly, his hands grasping at her back, his body solid and hot and kinetic against hers.

It's hard; it's fast. Borderline rough. Doesn't last too long. Handful of thrusts, ferocious, the last one nailing her to the bed. He bellows when he comes tonight; just flat-out roars. Has her in his arms still afterwards; holds her so tight. Grinds into her afterwards, groaning, caught in some lunacy where he can't seem to take it, and can't seem to stop.

--

Does stop, eventually. Rubs his face against her shoulder, lifts himself heavily on one elbow; back curves as he bends to her. Finds her breast and takes her nipple in his mouth, sucking at her slow and deep. Can't bear to fuck anymore just now, but can't bear to stop -- having her in some way or form.

Devon

One day they might need to talk about that darkness. The viciousness, the bloodthirst, the wrath. They've alluded to it. They both know it's there -- and he's terrified her before. He knows this. He made her throw up, once, and all he had to do was run up the stairs after her when she was drunk and he was pissed. His rage is a powerful thing, a heavy wall. She has very little to compare it to, only so much comfort with it. He has his own issues around it, his own fears, his own need to control it, and it's not like he had much training on that.

So he hasn't told her that it is the thing that he's really concerned with, when he fucks her, when he calls her slut, when he talks about how her pussy is so fucking hot, so wet, and how she's all his. Putting it into words gives it power that growling at her, biting her, pinning her down and fucking her roughly don't -- somehow. Maybe. He hasn't talked to her about it. He doesn't have words for it yet.

Devon doesn't have many words left at all. She's riding him, bouncing on him a little, sweat dripping down her body, telling him she's his girl, calling herself hot, sweet, and his cock is throbbing for it. All of it. All of her. He grabs her, wheels her under, starts fucking her into the mattress, and Devon is crying out, not grabbing at anything but air, and she was so close before this that something

about him,

sets her off. Lights the match to the gasoline that runs up her spine and explodes in her brain. He'll miss it, in his own orgasm, roaring into her skin, into the pillows, but it's there; she's caught, arched, frozen in time for a few moments while pleasure floods through her. She hasn't come like this in a while. She does now. She closes her eyes and tips her head back and cries out so loudly that if the windows were open they'd get noise complaints. She doesn't even mind that the asshole fucking her turned her over again when she was going to ride him to orgasm. She knows he can be selfish. She knows he's a prick. Right now, she's still getting off on it. On him. On this.

And near the end of that orgasm she's clutching at him, him, holding her hands tight on his back, his body, holding him close to her. Grinds with him, even though it makes her whimper. Even though it makes her shake. Even though at some point she's gasping stop --! babe, stop. oh god, I need you to stop.

--

So they're wrecked, after. He nuzzles her. She is... just collapsed. Sweaty and panting and pink all over, whimpering and curling away when he tries to suckle on her tit again, actually batting at air until her palm touches his head, then pushing his face gently away. Nope.

Tucks in on herself, curling a bit, her head turned to the side on his pillow, his cock still buried inside of her.

Rafael

God, but he likes it when she's like this. Fallen all to pieces. Thoroughly undone. Shaking and sweaty and flushed, breathless, skin salty to his tongue. He licks her nipple and she pushes him away, just flat out palms his face, which makes him murmur a laugh as he fairly collapses onto the pillow.

He's still inside her. A semi and a wet dick, as he poetically puts it. Their faces are close to each other, unless of course she's turned the other way to get some fresh air. He's half atop her. Most of the way atop her. Big and heavy and hot and quite thoroughly relaxed, slumped over her like a goddamn hibernating bear. She wouldn't let him suck her tits so he puts his hand over the one that's not covered by his body. Wants to play with it, fiddle with her nipple, but he supposes she'd slap his hand away for that.

Flexes his hips into hers, slow, lazy. Does it just to do it. Just to feel the spark of unbearable pleasure zing through him. Can't deal with it. Stops.

"Love your pussy," he whispers: still using his words. Still trying. "Know you wanted to be on top but I love fucking you just like that."

Devon

Oh she's turned the other way to get some fresh air. Pants for it, filling her lungs with cooler air, trying to get rid of some of the heat she's built up. They're tangled. He's -- for lack of a better term -- glompy. He covers her tit with his hand instead of his tongue, and this time she allows it. Permits it. Doesn't tell him no, bad Rafa.

She would, if he fucking fiddled with her right now.

"Oh, god," she groans, when he flexes. It's a plea; stop. Please stop. Oh, god. But he is. He's stopping. He stops.

Takes a little while for her to answer. She keeps thinking that after one more breath she'll be able to, but it takes a few. She turns her head to look at him again, braids all fuzzy and askew. Blinks a little. Slowly.

And snuggles closer to him, tucking herself against his chest despite the heat between them. Air will evaporate the sweat on her skin soon enough. She'll cool off, soon enough. "Tell me why," she murmurs softly.

Rafael

Alertness seems to pass between them, like a relay baton in slow motion. He finds it in him to utter a few words. She's just trying to catch her breath.

She finds it in her to answer him. He's got his eyes closed; might be halfway dropped into unconsciousness.

Open his eyes, though. Looks at her from that near, dark distance. She tucks closer and he shifts just a little, gets off her just a little. They're more side by side now. He folds his arm around her, heavy and secure.

"Makes me feel like you're all mine," he murmurs. Closes his eyes again. "And makes me feel like you're hidden away and protected."

Devon

Second piece of it matters, because she almost tells him that she is all his. Isn't that what she said, last year almost, telling him that no one took off her dress, she took it off, no one else was fucking her? He pulled her to him and started undressing her immediately. Devon has always known that No One Else Fucking Her, Being All His has always mattered to Rafael.

She smiles at him, hearing the first bit. Almost speaks, but he tells her about keeping her hidden and protected.

"All right," she murmurs. "But sometimes you should still let me finish on top of you. Or however we're doing it. Don't want it to get boring." And with that not-an-argument, she snuggles to him, lifting her hips to slide off of his cock at the same time that she's nuzzling his chest.

Rafael

Wolf's eyes flick open at that, gleam.

"Not gonna get boring," he says: equal parts arrogance and mock-offense.

She slides off. His eyes shut again; he exhales softly. She nuzzles his chest and he folds her closer still. Rolls on his back, lazily, stretching his jaw in an enormous yawn.

"Liked calling you my girl," he adds; an afterthought.

Devon

"Maybe not for you," she teases him, ruthlessly. It's okay, though; she is sliding her arm over his waist. She is so close, her feet resting against his legs, her body close to his body, her body connected to his body even though he's not inside of her anymore. They're wet and sticky and gross and messy now and it's... all okay, really.

Tells her something else he liked.

"You can call me that." Permission. "Even though I'm not a girl." Even though she is. Just like he's a boy. In a lot of ways, they're still children. Still so young.

But he's a wolf. And she is a witch. And neither of them is a boy, a girl, a child.

"I am your girl," Devon whispers, her eyes closed now, her brow to his heartbeat.

Rafael

He laughs -- low rumble somewhere behind his sternum. "Not gonna get boring for you either," he not-argues, "long as I get you off like that."

But they're not really fighting about it. He's not really insisting on fucking her the exact same way every single time. Wolf trusts her to know that; know where his joke starts and where it ends.

She gives him permission. Then she identifies herself: his. His girl. He kisses her hair; can't reach her mouth, because that's down in the vicinity of his heart. "You are," he affirms. "Just like I'm all yours. Know that, right?"

Devon

Instead of arguing again, she just pokes him in his side with one finger, still freshly painted. Black. Pink glitter. So fucking.... scene kid. Which she isn't. He kisses her hair. Maybe strokes her shoulder, her arm. Maybe not. Maybe just glomps her, like he does.

Devon wraps her arm around him a little more. She's silent. Her poking hand flattens, smooths over him. She just touches him. Touches his abdomen, feeling the muscles beneath his skin against her palm. She strokes his side, revels in the strength of his lower back.

"You're my Rafa," she whispers.

Rafael

Poked, he grunts. Doesn't really flinch or squirm or get tickled or anything. Occasionally there's something quite inexorable and inertial about him: the immovable object, when so often he's the unstoppable force. She stops poking after a while anyway. Touches him lovingly, exploringly, the flat of her palm stroking over the complex interweaving of his anatomy. Muscles and bones; tendons, ligaments, veins, skin, warmth.

He acknowledges her: makes this low sound, not even a laugh this time. Just -- a sound. Would be a chuff, if he were in another form. But he's not. He's in the shape of a man, and she is in the shape of a woman, and really they are both magical creatures; things that exist on the fringe of the everyday. He's a wolf. And she's a witch. And their souls go back a thousand years or more.

His forearm is heavy over the dip of her waist. He closes his eyes; doesn't care that they're filthy. It's nighttime. Girl's close. He fucked her, and she loves him, told him she's his so it must be true. It must be good. Time to rest. Time to be quiet, and still, and close.

Devon

She was heading for bed when she texted him, and then he called. She was finishing up her manicure. She'd braided her hair and had her pajamas on, her teeth brushed. Didn't expect to talk, and argue, and then resolve, and come over, and still work through it, and she was tired before all of it. Certainly tired before walking over here and climbing into his lap and going upstairs for a rather boisterous round of sex.

Devon is touching him, loving and slow. He makes a noise, and she is comforted. She is tucked close under his arm, and he is content. He is going to sleep.

So she wriggles a little, and kisses his chest. Whispers that she'll be right back, and slips from his arm and the bed itself to the bathroom. Undoes her braids and combs out her hair. Uses the toilet and washes up. Gets a sip of water. Turns off the light and comes back, slipping into bed with him again, under the sheets this time. Finds herself in the warm hollow she left moments before. Finds herself under his arm and against his side once more. Rests her head on his chest, hair spreading out over his arm, and falls,

inevitably,

into sleep.