witchcraft. (and bagels.)

Devon

[okay, you're Rafael's thoroughly idiotic townhouse.]

Rafael

Girl came over last night after work. Still smelled a little like coffee and pastries and cafe fare when she showed up. Wolf threw a pizza in the oven and popped open some beers; they squeezed into his favorite recliner and put on some old flick and ate burning-hot pizza, drank cold beers.

Too sated and tired to fuck the night before, so they go to bed chaste...ish. Brush their teeth and shower and climb in together, where he wraps his arms around her, drops off like a rock.

Wake up morning after and turns out they do want to fuck. Swim their way to each other under all those covers -- thicker now because it's autumn, and there's a nip in the air. He pulls her sleep set off piece by piece, all of it so soft and warm, girl softest and warmest of all. His breath probably isn't great but doesn't mean he can't suck her nipples, lick her tits. Finds his way down to her cunt, and this is the first time in a while, maybe only just the second time ever. Goes down on her for a while, licking and nuzzling, lazy, half-sleepy still.

She pulls him up or he climbs back up. Hair's all tousled and his cheeks are flushed; it's hot under the covers. Last time they half-joked about maybe trying something else, maybe not always fucking like this, but they fuck like this again: wolf covering her, his arms wrapped around her, her legs locked around his waist. It's a deep, slow fuck at first, and then it's energetic, borderline hard; between his shoulder, the covers, the thick walls and the heavy doors, though, she can moan and whimper all she wants. He's quiet this morning. Grunts sometimes; pants. Groans when he comes, burying the sound against her shoulder in turn.

--

So now it's morning proper. Wolf rolls aside after a while, naps a couple minutes. Maybe five, maybe ten. Opens his eyes again. There's sunlight creeping in the edge of his curtains. He sits up.

He gets out of bed, tall, well-made, dense musculature and heavy bones. Goes over to the windows and opens the curtains, lets the sun in. Cracks the window open too, lets the fresh cool breeze in. Stands there for a while, looking out at the small backyard; the tree under which he fucked her that one time. Memory traces a hint of a smile across his mouth. He turns from the window, comes back to bed.

Doesn't bother getting under the covers this time. Climbs up atop them all; flops down on his back. Reaches over and takes her hand and slides his fingers between hers. Holds their linked hands up where he can see them, contrasted against the inoffensive off-white of the ceiling.

Devon

Devon showered while the pizza baked. She came down with wet, curly hair tied up in a bun. Already wearing her pajamas. Snuggled with him, watched Netflix. He probably doesn't know, doesn't read Buzzfeed, doesn't have a Twitter. He has probably not heard the memo that 'Netflix and Chill' is now a widely accepted euphemism for hooking up, a meme so obvious, widely blasted, and unimaginative that only the blandest of minds find anything interesting about it. But,

eating pizza and drinking beer with him, she thinks about it, and smirks to herself. She does intend to fool around that night, but it turns out that it was a long day. And pizza and beer and a cold room and a warm bedpartner lend themselves, quickly, to her unconsciousness. His arm is heavy and she wants him to move it a little, off her ribs. Scrunches and pushes it down, and he grunts and does so, and they are asleep.

In the morning her ass is against his groin. That's just how she fell asleep. But he's waking up and she's shifting and he's feeling it. He holds her in his arm and feels her wriggling, breathing, alive and warm and with him, and it's good. She's drowsy, her whole body heated from the bed, the sleep, the boy. Feels his cock starting to press against her ass, and rubs against him a little bit mindlessly at first. Not as mindless, when her breathing starts to measure itself more shortly. When he pushes his hand up her shirt, starts kissing her shoulder, her neck. When he moves his hand down instead, inside her shorts, finds her wet for him. Feels her arching.

They peel each other out of their clothes, what little they're wearing. She kisses him anyway; he puts his mouth on her breast while they work themselves out of two pairs of shorts. Makes this growly sound when he goes down on her, like it just occurred to him, as undeniable and as potent an urge as that suckling on her tits is. Devon melts against him, pushing away covers, panting, whimpering. Tells him, in these breathy little gasps, what she wants him to do. How fast. How slow. Yes. Right there. Squirms, after a while, and she doesn't pull him up, she's enjoying this, but he stops and her moan has a bit of a whine to it, if not strictly a protest.

Can't say no to him.

Can.

Doesn't really want to.

She smirks and she's pink, she's sweating, he's coming down over her and she's welcoming him. Isn't thinking about last night, joking around, how he better not bore her. At least this time he's right: she doesn't get bored, not when he gets her off like he does. When he makes her come, biting her lip, her fingernails digging into his biceps when it first hits her, then her fingers splaying open, barely able to grip anything at all. Other than telling him how to please her when he's lapping at her pussy, Devon's quiet this morning, too.

Well, except for the whimpering, gasping, the whining little moans she lets out.

--

Devon goes to pee.

Comes back and flops beside him, atop the covers, and passes out again. He's asleep; she drapes her arm over him. Moves closer when the sweat evaporates off her flesh, when she cools off again. Snuggles against his side. Is content to sleep for much longer, but he gets up later, rolling away, stretching perhaps. Goes to open a window, and this time of year the daylight is searing hot but the breeze is temperate. Autumn feels like a more viscerally divided season than Spring in this climate, its mood disorder that much more pronounced and rapid.

Devon has flopped half the covers over herself. She is a taco more than a burrito. He puts his hand inside the flap of covers to find her hand, holds her, plays with her hand.

"Stop it, I'm sleeping," she informs him,

pretending to be grumpy.

Rafael

So wolf stops. Laughs a little, mostly to himself, amused and endeared. He takes her hand firmly in his; lays both his and hers against his chest.

Then he's quiet for a while. Long enough that she might think he was actually going to let her sleep. Long enough that she might actually fall asleep. But then his eyes open again.

"Might go get us bagels for breakfast," he muses. "You can keep sleeping."

Devon

"Bagels are stupid," says Devon.

Her hand is in his, against his warm, warm chest. She is in a comforter-taco still, mostly just her hair sticking out, one foot, her arm. She drifts off again, but then he talks about bagels. And they're stupid, she says. Snuggles closer to him, works herself under his arm, wraps her naked body around him.

"You're stupid. Big, dumb, stupid boy," she says, each word a gleeful fondness, a happy warmth, a new wriggle of her cuddling body.

She glomps him.

"Breakfast is stupid," she finishes, which he knows is also not true, because he's seen what she'll do to sausage and eggs and skillet potatoes in the morning after drinking.

Rafael

He scoffs -- "See what you're saying when you're awake in three hours and starving."

Doesn't self-extricate, though. Stays where he is, wraps his arm around her when she works herself under it. She glomps him. He smirks at the ceiling, thinking of all the times he's put his arm around her only to have her push it aside, move it, make it not-suffocating.

"Guess I'll stay," he decides. "Walk down together later. Get bagels." He yawns: "They're not stupid."

Devon

"There's no meat on bagels," she argues. She is not suffocating. She is a third his size. Or something like that.

Devon yawns, muffling it in his shoulder. "Ergo."

Rafael

"'s why I was gonna get some ham too. And cheese. And fry up an egg." Turns his head; nips her ear very gently. "Don't doubt my breakfast skills."

Devon

"Ham is so salty," she complains. She bites his pectoral muscle. She holds it gently between her teeth, sighing, comforted. He nips her ear. Doesn't even answer after that. Just dozes for a while, holding his flesh in her mouth, soothed.

After a while, though, Devon opens her eyes. Finds his. Pulls back, swallowing, yawns to the side again, looks back at him. "What're we doing today?"

Rafael

"Bacon then," but she's biting him, soothed by that savage little point of contact. Goes quiet for a while. Wolf secretly thinks she probably drooled on him. He doesn't complain. They swap fluids all the time.

"Told you. Gonna go get bagels. After that, don't know. Haven't had much practice planning days with my girlfriend."

Devon

"You've known me more than a year," she says, her head on his pillow. Her eyes so, so blue. "Been fucking me almost as long."

She smiles, then.

"You almost never say girlfriend."

Rafael

Girl seems to wake up then. Wolf's eyes were closed, actually. Was ready to go back to sleep. He's an animal; doesn't mind that at all. No danger, no imminent hunger, body full of pleasant postcoital aches. Of course it's time to sleep.

Except she speaks. And his eyes open. He turns to look at her; is almost unnerved when she says it. More than a year. Really? Hadn't been aware of time passing.

"Felt like a million years before we fucked," he mutters. And a shrug, "Guess it just sounds so normal. 'Girlfriend'. Is what you are though, isn't it?"

Devon

Sees it; that flicker in his eyes. Takes it wrong, and it stings her.

But it doesn't mesh with his words, how he says it felt like a million years. She huffs. She winds herself around him, slides half on top of him. "Is," she confirms, and leans over him, kisses him.

It's soft. Like her body is soft.

Like the whisper, a minute later, her eyes still closed, her lips still close enough to touch his:

"Wanna go again?"

Rafael

Wolf laughs, soft.

"Thought you wanted to sleep," he says, but his hands are running down her back; he's guiding her legs open to either side of his hips.

Devon

To that, Devon doesn't answer. Just a scintillating shiver of her body along his when he touches her; just her thighs opening, and her body rotating, lifting, so she can look down at him.

Turns out they do it different this time, after all.

--

Afterwards, Devon isn't zonked out and ready to fall back asleep. Devon is energized, awakened, fresh from this ridiculous bouncing orgasm of hers on his cock, her cheeks still pink and her hair tousled and her skin hot and sweaty. She collapses at first, wrapped around him, holding him, like she wants to keep him together, cover him, protect him. Keep him where he is, maybe.

She's got abandonment issues. It's no guess why; he knows.

But after that she's... perky. Rolls off of him and goes to the bathroom Just To Pee but next thing he knows the shower is running and it's like fucking him didn't deplete but just charged up her batteries. Hops out of the shower and stands in a towel putting things on her face and in her hair, combing it out to air-dry, putting on eyeliner and mascara, putting on lip gloss, acting for all the world like it's just another normal day,

which it is,

or like they do this all the time,

which they don't.

Rafael

Maybe she's recharged. He's sort of depleted. Was a pretty athletic fuck, even if she was on top. Just meant he ended up thrusting up into her, pounding her from below, meeting her bounce for bounce, grind for grind. Just meant he came with her this time, fast on her heels, pulling her down to bite her shoulder as he flexed up into her over and over.

So: yeah. Depleted. She bounces off to shower. He sprawls there, naked and uncovered, asleep in seconds.

She's putting on her makeup when he wakes. Sits up tousled; squints around. Half-rolls out of bed and comes thumping into the bathroom, filthy from morning sex, wrapping his arm around her waist from behind. Kisses her where her neck meets her shoulder while she puts on her lip gloss.

"Hot," he comments. Doesn't specify what is hot, exactly: her lip gloss or her mouth or that towel that separates her from nudity or, maybe, just the fact that they woke up and fucked like jackrabbits. He steps into the shower, closes the door. Water runs.

Water stops. He steps out three or five minutes later, grabbing a towel and tucking it around his waist. By then she's probably getting dressed. He brushes his teeth, grabs an electric razor and mows his face a bit. Goes into his closet and comes out in jeans, pulling a longsleeve t-shirt over his head.

"You got anything you wanna do today?"

Devon

"EW! Ew, ew," she says, batting at him. "I just showered."

He calls her hot. She says ew. Doesn't ask what he means; she thinks she means her. Just her. Her body, her face, the sex, all of her. He's told her how hot she is, how goddamn hot, looks at her sometimes like it almost bothers him, how hot she is.

She goes on doing her routine while he showers. She snuggles him when he's out, when he's clean, as though to make up for before. Even kisses his bare, wet, clean nipple, flicks her tongue over it before she lets him go. She's half-dressed, blue boyshort panties and gray over-the-knee socks and a black bra. Hot. So fucking goddamn hot, her black hair all curls and waves, her eyes smoke-ringed censers of blue fire, body all young and slender and tits so soft, so heavy in his hands, his mouth, pressed against his body.

Stands like that, filing a nail down, while he's shaving. She's perched on the counter in her underwear, leaning her back against the mirror. Still there, still filing, when he comes back, mostly dressed.

She shrugs.

"Breakfast. And witchcraft."

Rafael

Wolf hisses a breath through his teeth when she greets him like that, coming out of the shower. Her arms and her mouth and her tongue and her body. Ridiculous that she looks even hotter half-dressed like that, lingerie and socks. He squeezes her ass. He has half a mind to put her on the counter and go at it again,

looks at her like he has half a mind to go at her again.

Goes into the closet, though. Starts getting dressed. When he comes out she's put herself on the counter, which makes him smirk -- though she can have no real idea why. She files her nails. He comes over, close, until she could reach out and hook her toes under his belt. His warm palms cover her knees.

He thinks he's going to ask her what kind of witchcraft she's planning. What comes out of his mouth is: "How 'bout I lay you out on this counter first and get you off on my mouth?"

Devon

Fingertips touch the tops of her thighs. His palms cover those thick wool stockings on her knees. She pauses her filing and flicks her eyes up, looking at him.

Says nothing for a moment. And then, without even needing to smirk, goes back to filing her nails. "You had your chance."

Blows on her nails, her breath touching his jaw, and then slides off the counter, hops down, sidling past him and on out to the space in his closet or his dresser where she keeps a few things. Tosses on a... very long tank top? A dress? It's black. Shows off her bra straps, ends several inches above her stockings, not so many inches below her ass. Puts on this totally useless belt around it, which just hangs on her hips. Gets out the bracelets and rings and so on she was wearing yesterday and slides them all on, and maybe if they go out she'll wear combat boots but for now she just wears those socks.

"I'm hungry," she informs him.

Rafael

Wolf

is

speechless.

Just sort of stands there gawping as she slithers down off the counter and steps around him. Is still processing when she comes out of his closet -- that large, deep, well-stocked closet with all its fine things, and then he dresses himself off the shelf by the door where he keeps all his shitty old clothes. She's wearing a ... top? dress? a thing. It's hot, too. He doesn't think she can bend over in that. He thinks of bending her over in that, pulling her panties down, licking her until she cries out.

He had his chance. Apparently. He's recovered enough to huff a laugh at the memory. She puts her bracelets on, which is something to behold: so that's how she does it. All in a stack, not one by one. Rings do go on one by one, though.

"Oh, now you're hungry."

Devon

Peers at him past her shoulder. Shrugs.

"You kept fucking me. I need calories."

Looks at him like duh.

"It's science."

Breezes past him again, on her way out of his bedroom, that lazy way she has of walking that yet has such quickness, such forward purpose, such stalking intensity.

Rafael

Except he catches her. By the hand, tugging her back, and then he's wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing her hard enough to bend her back.

Lets her go, after. Licks his lips and looks at her tits in that shirt and ... pulls his eyes back to hers.

"C'mon." Holds his hand out for hers. "Walk down to Bruegger's. You don't want bagels, they got other stuff. Soup and muffins."

Devon

He catches her, and he pulls her and kisses her but she won't be bent back. Bites a kiss back to him, ferocious, her hand between his legs, stroking him, her lips opening, panting. Works him up and he has to know she's being a bitch right now, she's going to back off right when he gets into it, surely he can tell she's in that sort of mood.

She is. She does. Bites his lip and then slithers away, out of his reach, smirking a little to herself. And hurrying now, traipsing lightly down the stairs. That short skirt of hers just flutters.

"Do you call it cream cheese or schmear?" she wants to know, calling out to him as she darts on ahead, ahead, so far ahead.

Rafael

"Cream cheese," wolf replies, rather doggedly maintaining the conversation even though she's being such a little tease. He doesn't flutter down the stairs. He pauses at the top to adjust himself, frankly, and then he thumps down after her. "Not a New Yorker."

Devon

"Good. Schmear sounds like a bodily fluid. A half-congealed one."

She stretches at the bottom of the stairs. Arms over her head. Hem lifting. Then runs on over to get her boots.

Rafael

She stretches --

"Stop it." Says it sort of exasperatedly, but not really. Not angry. Just -- tormented, shall we say? He catches up to her, or almost does: she darts off to put those stompers on. "If we're not gonna fuck, you can't prance around like that."

Devon

Tosses her hair back over her shoulder. She's standing by the door on one leg, bent over, other leg lifted to pull her boot on. "I can do whatever I fucking want."

But she looks at him. Her eyes are bright, twinkling. She looks so... fond of him. "Love you."

Goes about putting her second boot on. And whenever: he comes to her or she twirls around to him, but she loops her arms around his neck and smiles at him.

"Give us a kiss," she murmurs. "And I'll be good. Stop teasing you."

Rafael

Wolf just scoops her right up, soon as she slings her arms around his neck. Now her toes don't touch the ground. Now she's riding his body again, or at least pressed to it.

"Love you too," he grumbles. Kisses her.

Devon

Grins. Slow, spreading smile across her face, broad and bright and, for the most part, unseen by the man who causes it. She grins, and he's lifted her up a bit, glomps her up close, and she can feel his cock semi-stiff through his jeans, all that teasing. That groping, the kissing, the 'prancing'.

Devon is a witch. Her power is in her contrariness. Some would say her power came from her solitude, but that's not really where it comes from. Her power is in deviance, in what sometimes seems like cruelty, tempered by her secret:

she actually can't stand to see anyone in pain. Hurts her like a wound, sharp and invisible. Why else would she try to help him feel less pain when she knew, even from the start, how fast he'd heal? And it's the same thing that keeps her from teasing him any longer, seeing the edge where it wouldn't be fun or cute or endearing or alluring anymore, but just... humiliating. And stepping back from it.

She knows she can fly. Could, if she wanted. Knows he can't, though. So she doesn't shove him off cliffs.

--

Devon breathes in as he kisses her, sighing a soft happy sound in response. She softens to him, where for a little while there she was effortless but also effervescent, ephemeral, impossible. She is warm and soft and His Girl again, and smiles when she's done kissing him.

"All right," she says. "Bagels."

Eyebrows hop up.

"Then witchcraft."