sacred.

Rafael

"Yeah?" Wolf looks a little surprised. Then pleased. "Good. Glad for you."

His arms are pulled around his girlfriend. He allows it. Likes it. They all there a while, watching the third and newest fire. Dinner is heavy in their bellies. Darkness surrounds them, warded off by the light they have kindled.

Feels good. Feels right. Feels sleepy and warm and safe, now, and it surprises him not at all that the children begin to yawn. That Brian and Sheila depart, and then Stevie and Hope and Eleanor and Thomas, and then Will. There are goodbyes, spoken in words and physical gestures. There's an undercurrent of trust and affection. Love, perhaps.

--

The door closes and it's just the two of them standing before their fire. All day he's wanted to fuck her. A moment ago he wanted to fuck her, but now, right now, he just holds her a little longer. Nuzzles into her hair. Inhales the scent of her toiletries, her dinner; that nothingness that is her.

Devon

Devon strokes his hands where they lay across her middle. She watches the flames with him, head tucked against his bicep, resting there comfortably. Downstairs they hear voices, running water. Hear the crackling fire just a foot or two away from their bodies.

"They all like you," she says eventually, softly. "You did good."

Rafael

"Like them too," he replies. They both speak softly. His voice reaches into the lower registers; is felt as much as heard. "You got a nice family. I wanted to..."

Trails off for a moment there, self-conscious. Nuzzles her gently.

"Wanted them to like me," he finishes.

Devon

[perception + empathy: is that really what you wanted?

spec: hidden desires]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 5, 5, 6, 8, 8, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 6 ) Re-rolls: 2

Rafael

[He wanted them to like him! Because he wants to be a part of her family. Because he wants to be her maet zomg.]

Devon

She smiles. "I know."

She knows when he likes them. Offering food to the kids. Trying to leave meat for others. Spending time with Will. Wanting to do right by their family rituals.

I wanted to...

He pauses. Devon is quiet. She's learning to be more patient with him. Give him room. She never knew, never realized, how much he had in common with some of her other cousins. Like Will. She starts trying to apply older habits, family habits, to someone she loves but -- comparatively -- barely knows.

Like waiting. And staying quiet.

She tips her head to the side as he nuzzles her under her ear, her eyes closing. He wanted them to like him. But that's not what he was going to say, before he thought about what he would say and decided against saying it aloud. Devon, drowzing happily and gently close to him, hears the hesitation for what it is. Maybe he doesn't even know what he wanted. Doesn't know the words for it. But she senses it, the same way she feels things sometimes when people are sitting before her and she's telling them about their lives using bits of ink and paper. Her eyes open, watching the fire.

His heart beating behind her tells her things. His arms around her make murmurs that translate through her skin, her bones, before they ever reach her mind. And Devon doesn't tense up, or pull away. She doesn't feel uncomfortable. She sighs softly, and closes her eyes again, and smiles to herself for no reason she can name, or would name, even if she knew how.

"It's hot," she mutters, after a bit. "I'm gonna take my sweater off. But no jumping my bones, all right?"

Rafael

A huff of a laugh. He unwinds his arms, steps back. Back of his thighs bump the bed and so he sits down, crooked smile on his face, reaching up to pull that thin soft sweater off.

"What the hell would give you the idea I wanted to jump your bones? Only tried like four times today."

Devon

Avery is still concerned about their meat intake and lack of experience. She twists her champagne glass in her hands. "I know someone who has property, and a lot of it. Safe for us. Sometimes there are elk roaming across. It would be a bit of a drive, but I think a bit better for the herds to leave the white-tails closer to the city alone. I'll speak to him about it."

As long as they don't kill any of his cattle, it should be fine.

"Now... I have to mingle a bit. Shelby, stick around. Relax, have some apps. We're having a presentation in a bit that you may like. I have some hostessing duties I'm ungraciously ignoring."

She reaches over, rests her hand on Rafael's arm. "You, too. We're going to drive out to Roxborough after the presentation and the auction and all that. You should come with us. We'll make a night of it. Get midnight milkshakes."

And with a few more pretty goodbyes, she excuses herself, heading over to talk to Governor Hickenlooper and his wife Helen. "John, you came!" she says, delightedly, as she leaves the other Garou for a while.

Devon

[whoops dlp]

Rafael

[Rafa, on the other hand, is concerned about his tribal elder's sudden appearance in his girlfriend's bedroom.]

Devon

[SHHHHH]

Devon

"Only two," she says, coyly, stepping away from him. She pulls her own sweater off, black and holey and oversized, facing the fire, not really aware that he's sitting down yet, not really aware that he's pulling off his clothes. Not that she doesn't know, understand: he really, really wants to fuck her.

But she does turn, since he doesn't wrap his arms around her again as soon as she's just in her tank top. Her eyebrows lift a little, seeing him there shirtless. She doesn't come closer, standing in front of the fire with her hip cocked a little, hands on her hips.

"Didn't try in my graveyard bower," she reminds him. "Didn't follow me into the bathroom in the middle of dinner to try and fuck me then, either. I was very proud."

Rafael

They smile at each other across a gap of a couple feet. Maybe a yard. Her holey sweater comes off; she sees his eyes drift downward, meander her body. He pulls them back up.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Was pretty proud of myself too."

Couple beats. Then he holds his hand out to her. If she takes it, he pulls her closer. Wraps his arm around her waist. Tugs her down on his lap, sliding up on the edge of the bed.

"You guys always do that fire thing? Every year?"

Devon

Devon reaches behind herself, to the small of her back. She draws down the zipper of her skirt. He's looking at her. His eyes, dragged back upward to her face, may drop again: her hips, her upper thighs. Dark charcoal fabric drops, skims down her legs, drops around her ankles.

And does she pick up her discarded clothing? Of course she doesn't. She stands there in starry panties, tank top, bra, those tall socks to keep her poor cold feet warm. The fire crackles behind her crackles and pops. He's holding out his hand. He wants her close.

Always wants her close.

Devon doesn't take his hand. She steps nearer but doesn't reach for him. Comes to stand in front of his shins. He's asking her about that fire thing. Every year? She reaches down, takes off that dark red -- merlot, malbec -- tank top, peeling it up and off, dropping it aside. The fire snaps and flares now.

She doesn't fall into his arms, or onto the bed. Stands before him, as she is, all that dark thick hair and that pale sometimes freckled skin.

"More or less," she answers, honestly. Leans forward and places a soft, gentle kiss against his left temple. Her hair brushes his mouth, his nose. Smells like nothing but the graveyard, the evergreen, the woodsmoke, the things she accumulates throughout the day that tells him where she's been but not what she is.

"You should come next year, too," she whispers, staying close to him like that, her lips to his skin. She sounds hopeful. Like there is even a thin,

slight,

faint chance,

that he might not want to. Doesn't crave to be there next year, gathering wood for the fires, feeding the small ones, lighting the fires for the darkest part of the year.

Rafael

It's like he can't even help himself. She strips down, comes near. His hands reach for her. He touches her thoughtlessly, adoringly, his hands stroking up her thighs, her sides, folding around her to pull her near.

She pulls her tank top off. He leans into her even as she leans down to him. She kisses his temple; he kisses her breastbone.

"Of course I'll come next year," he murmurs. "I'll come long as you'll have me."

Devon

He was, a moment ago, taking off his own clothes. But he gets so distracted. Got so distracted the first time he had her naked before he thought to undress himself.

The corner of Devon's mouth curls as he reaches for her, stroking her thighs. She permits it; doesn't dance out of the way as she sometimes decides to do, just to be contrary. Her thighs are soft. Pale. It's winter and he isn't sun-bronzed but even so, he's darker than she is. She likes that slight difference and doesn't know why; she has never studied more than the most basic biology demanded of her in high school, and she's forgotten most of that, and she got a C minus anyway. Doesn't connect these dots that this variation in color is, in part, a signature of sex, and that she likes that he is male, and that it turns her on that his body is so very different from her body. Devon just smiles at his hand on her thigh, the shades contrasted, and think's it's beautiful, and thinks that it makes her like him more.

She lifts her eyes and looks at him again, letting him pull her nearer. He hides his face against her chest, kisses her above her breasts, breathes against her. She strokes his hair on the back of his neck, her eyes drifting closed, drowsily. Dreamily.

Then she opens her eyes. Steps back, gently, her hands trailing over his shoulders and his arms. She takes his hand in her own and pulls him forward with her, murmuring: "Stand up. Want to take your clothes off."

Rafael

They fold together. She touches him softly, lovingly, and hears him sigh against her skin. When she steps back he follows her for an inch, two; then straightens as she does. His hand is big and heavy in hers, a paw almost. She tugs him and he has inertia, gravity. Follows her with a heaviness of muscle and bone, a suppleness too.

She can feel the moment his own strength engages and that motion suddenly becomes effortless. He rises up, bigger, taller, wider, larger in every scale than her. Reaches reflexively for his jeans but then he stops. She wants to do it. He lets his hands fall to his side, his mouth quirking a little as he watches her. Her hands tracing his proportions. Her eyes following him the way his follow her.

Devon

Eager. Distracted, too. He reaches for his jeans; her hands are on his abdomen, fingertips light there. Eyes are heavier. She flicks her eyes up at him, as he's relaxing again, letting her do it. Devon watches him -- not his chest, not his arms, not his lovely big body, but his face. His eyes. The movement of his lips as he breathes. She watches him as she unfolds button from hole, grips the tab of his zipper between her thumb and the side of her forefinger. She breathes in as she draws it down, slowly, feeling how each thump of her heart is heavy and aching in her chest.

"Touch my tits," she whispers, and it seems more like granting permission, taking off a leash, than a simple request. She knows he wants to. Wants him to know she wants it, too. "Kiss me," she adds, exhaling the breath she just took, eagerly. She wants his clothes off but she's reaching inside of his jeans instead, touching his cock through his boxers, rubbing her palm against him.

Rafael

She watches his face.

He watches her hands. That is the sole focus of existence right now: her hands, working button from hole. Sliding zipper down. He breathes measuredly: out and in, hardly able to contain himself. He wants to shiver. He wants to pick her up and haul her off to bed, off to a goddamn cave, off to that hollow under the tree-boughs where he could put her under him and fuck her.

His eyes flash up to hers when she says what she does. Gives permission. His arm comes immediately around her, and she can feel the flexion, how he would pick her up in another instant.

Devon

Devon starts to pick up on it, watching him. How he won't take his eyes off her hands. How his eyes are sort of glazed, fixated, focused as a predator being ravaged inside by hunger. She tells him to touch her, like it might alleviate some of the tension, let him know she wants him, too. She always wants him. She's wanted him all day, just as he has.

But wanted something else a little more than that, something harder to define and almost impossible for the likes of the two of them to put into words: to see him with her family. To share Rafael with them. To share them with Rafael, too; he has none of his own. Not really. Nothing like this. She wanted him to feel the magic here, the raising of fires, the way they stave off the dark and the cold. Devon could not tell him precisely what she wanted more than fucking him if she tried. Only that it has mattered. It is important.

Her hand is warm and soft through the thin cotton of his boxers. Her fingers are deft and not expert, but not clumsy. She touches him, slowly, watching his eyes, finding her breath in time with his. Tells him to touch her. Kiss her. She is not expecting a snap or a lunge, but lunge he does -- a bit. Arm around her, to lift her, maybe even skip anything else and just plant her on his cock, but Devon's breath hitches. She flickers with hesitation, with that unnameable something that sometimes feels like resistance or rejection but isn't meant to be either. Her balance rocks slightly backward, though she doesn't stop touching him.

She has her hand on his side, his chest. It moves to his hand. It draws his hand to her breast, molds his palm over the cup of her bra. Shows him: how she wants him to squeeze, just so. How she likes him to lift, slightly. Touch her.

"Kiss me," she says again, an even softer whisper.

Rafael

He goes at her so fast, so sudden. She -- doesn't quite step back, but a hint of withdrawal is there. A shift in balance, which halts him. Makes him look at her uncertainly, head cocked, hands paused.

She touches him. Touches his chest, touches his hand. Draws his hand to her breast and shows him: like this. Like this. He watches this, too, his eyes on his hand, his hand on her breast. He squeezes gently. He lifts; feels her softness, that heft. A breath drawn. A shiver down his back, suppressed.

He kisses her almost before she asks. It is a quick motion that brings his mouth close to hers, but just before contact he pauses. Slows. As softly as he touches her, he kisses her: a slow-opening thing as his free arm winds around her, pulls her closer.

Devon

He arrests, and her breath catches, and so when he kisses her, Devon's lips are open. Devon's lips are wet. He's pulling her so close it's hard to keep touching him, stroking him as she is; Devon does so. Her hand slips softly from his body, and her arms wrap around him, her palms pressed to his lower back. Rising up, smoothing over him, touching his skin, reveling in the muscle underneath.

Rafael suppressed his shiver; Devon doesn't bother. She trembles a little, kissing him, holding him, their bodies together and their mouths sighing, tasting together. For a while. Only a little while, before she folds her arms behind her, unclasping her bra. It loosens under his palm instantly, but she doesn't draw it off.

Rafael

Her mouth is open. His tongue slips in, touches hers. She touches him softly, exploringly. Her bra loosens and it's a subtle magic of its own. His hand moves, tugs, draws it down. Returns to her skin, her softness; toys with her nipple.

"You're so beautiful," he mutters, which is how their day began; it's possible he doesn't even mean the way she looks. He might mean the way she feels. The way she tastes. Everything about her, because...

Well. Because he is who he is, and she is who she is, and all that he is adores all that she is. It is a simple equation.

Devon

A little tug, and the cup slips; the straps slide down her shoulders and land at her elbows. Devon unbends her arms a little more, lets it fall completely. He's still touching her, and when his fingertips find her nipple, tease it like he does, Rafael can feel her breath catch and shudder in the middle of their kiss. She exhales a rush of a sigh, pressing into that touch, encouraging.

beautiful, he mutters, but they don't stop kissing. He doesn't stop touching her. She reaches for his jeans and pushes them down his hips with a shove. Pulls her head back to take a breath, looking at him again for the first time since he lowered his mouth to hers. She's got this lazy look in her eyes, this lopsided little grin.

"Remember how loud the bed is?" she whispers, and there's a part of her that's asking,

remember fucking me last night?

She does. She's thinking about it now. Remembering. Tasting it.

Rafael

He makes this little sound, this small grunt, when she pushes his pants down: past his hipbones, past his ass. Now it's just the friction and the stiffness of the denim holding the jeans up, and it's an incomplete job at best. Little by little, slow as molasses, his pants are falling down. He lets them go. He's a little preoccupied, see: busy kissing her. Busy touching her, her breasts filling his palms.

She pulls back and he looks at her with those wild-animal eyes, watchful and perceptive but - lacking a certain experiential understanding, perhaps, of how these things work. How relationships work, how sex works when you're not just tearing things off and pulling things down and rolling things over and shoving things in. She grins lazily. He touches his brow to hers, kisses her in this heavy, languid way.

Remember how, she says, and his mouth quirks too. He wraps his arms around her, slides his hands down, squeezes her ass and presses her belly against his erection. "Thought I did a pretty good job keeping the headboard quiet," he comments. "Could always fuck on the floor."

Devon

Devon bites her lower lip against a grin as he slides his hands off her breasts, down her sides, around her hips, palms her ass. She allows him to pull her closer; his cock rubs against her through the soft cotton of his boxers. She turns her head, kissing him again, softly, her spine elongating, arching slightly.

"Bed creaks," she murmurs, reminding him of the other noises their fucking made. "Floor's cold."

She lowers her head to his chest, kissing the skin there. Opening her mouth, taking his nipple inside, tasting it with her tongue in soft little strokes. Her hands start to tug, lightly, on the edges of his boxers, the waistband, gently working it downwards as well.

"You're so hard," she whispers, touching him with her hand to make sure the elastic doesn't snag on his poor cock. Touching him even after his boxers start to fall, stroking him against her belly. She's looking down at him, how dark it is against her paleness, licking her lips, still only barely murmuring the words. "So fucking hard."

Rafael

Touch of her tongue sends him inhaling; clenches down the musculature of his abdomen. She can feel the tension there as her fingertips pass down his body; find his boxers. Tug. She's careful with him, but he frankly wouldn't care if she yanked his underwear down, bounced his dick against his stomach.

Doesn't mind, though, that she touches him so gently. Doesn't mind at all when she starts stroking him. Now he's the one grinning, foolish and proud, as she praises that particular part of his anatomy. So fucking hard.

He kisses her again. Kisses her cheek, kisses his way to her mouth. Kisses her mouth until she raises her head, and then kisses her still more, in earnest, burying a sound there as his hands pull her close again. He likes the feel of her body against his, the contrast, the softness.

"Should climb on," he suggests. "No creaking. Plenty warm."

Devon

A few other times, Devon has noticed the way that Rafael reacts to her touch -- her fingertips, her lips, her tongue -- on his nipples. But this time she does something with that awareness. He breathes in, tenses, and so while she strokes him off and pushes down his boxers, she also tips her head and kisses his other nipple. Licks that one, too. Harder, the second time she licks it. Seals her lips and sucks on him, gently and yet firmly, enough to draw more blood to that sensitive area, make him feel it. Stops almost abruptly, flicks her tongue over it. Looks up at him again, because now he's all but rubbing his dick on her skin, and she doesn't mind. Doesn't mind at all.

She tells him he's so hard like she likes it. She looks at him like she likes it. She touches him like she really. Fucking. Likes it.

And Rafael's there, kissing her, pulling her closer, pressing all that softness to him. Tells her to just climb onto him. Devon's breath catches; it's a near-silent gasp. "You sure?" she wants to know, and not without reason: think of how much, how totally she has to trust him with her body. Her safety. Her pleasure, too. All of her. She finds his hands with her own, pushes his hands to the waistband of those star-spangled panties. Doesn't tell him what to do, this time.

Rafael

Second time she tongues his nipple makes him bite his lip. Makes him furrow his brow. His hand dives into her hair, rough but not brutal. He kisses her atop her head as she kisses his chest, sucks, makes him gasp when she flicks her tongue.

She looks up at him. He takes it as invitation. Kisses her. And they're pulling together and her breath is catching and she doesn't know if he's sure -- she's not sure if she's sure, perhaps -- and he nips at her mouth, licks at her lips.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Don't worry. Take good care of you."

And he pushes her panties down. They never match her bra. He loves that, absurdly. It's always a little surprise what he finds.

Devon

Somehow that makes her shudder. The words he uses. take care of you. She gives a little quiver and helps him with her panties: a small wriggle of her hips, tugging them past her tall socks, stepping out of them as they fall. Her mouth is lifted to his again, and unless he gets there on his own rather quickly, her hands raise to his face, pulling him down to kiss her again. Deeply. This time she groans a little. She hasn't decided yet. Or she hasn't decided to tell him yes yet.

Devon takes his hand, freed again now that she's unclothed, draws his fingers between her legs. To her upper thigh. He can get where she needs him from there.

Rafael

The little sounds they make are masked, mostly, by the fire in their hearth: its subtle roar, its pops and crackles. His hand is drawn between her legs. His palm is so warm; warms her thigh where he touches her, grips her. He's gentler when he tracks upward. Touches her cunt the way she taught him, softly, teasingly, the sides first. Slips his fingertips over and between the lips, strokes her in this slow steady rhythm while he kisses her, presses against her, stays so close to her.

Wraps his arm around her, too, when he starts touching her. Holds her firm against his body, kissing her.

Devon

Occasionally the flames find a bit of resin, a streak of it through the fatwood and the kindling that Thomas so dutifully laid out in each hearth. Then the fire pops and snaps and flares and the resin sizzles and the heat ignites more of the evergreen and orange and clove and mugwort and all manner of things that Devon herself cast into it. It is a good, strong fire, brought about by wisdom and time, earth and water, the art of the hand and the magic of spirit.

Not that either one of them is aware of the fire, except for the way its light flickers across their bodies, or the heat it brings to the room that keeps Devon's nakedness from making her shiver. Otherwise it, and all its gifts -- including the muffling of sound -- is ignored, and it doesn't mind. Fire, though endlessly fascinating and terrifying and necessary for sentient creatures, does not do what it does for adulation. It only satisfies its hunger and its simple joy in being. It does not care that the witch and wolf in the room pay it no mind. It burns on, crackles on, ravenous and happy.

Devon, however, lets out this sigh when he touches her pussy, not quite a groan or a moan or a cry but something lighter, and yet wrenching in its ache. She collapses slightly in her posture, leaning into him, holding onto his arms, his sides, whatever. Her eyes fall closed. She likes the way he squeezes her thigh but strokes her cunt so tenderly, so slowly. She rests her cheek against his chest, opening herself to him. He finds her wet, not growing wet or starting to be so but quite wet indeed, and this should hopefully be no surprise: she was wet when he pushed her panties down. It made her wet when he touched her breasts. It made her wet when he muttered take good care of you the way he did. Made her wet when he reminded her of the way he held the headboard against the wall last night as he fucked her, never slowing or flagging, just panting and sweating as he thrust into her. Devon was wet when she first touched his cock, looked at it, saw him without his shirt on, started taking her own clothes off. She was turned on when the rest of the family left the room and left her alone, finally, with her boyfriend. Was turned on when he had her up on the sink, body between her legs, mouth on hers. Turned on when she climbed over him this very morning, his hands pushing up her skirt.

Now they are naked and his hard cock is rubbing against her soft skin and he's starting to finger her pussy, and she thinks she's going to start moaning aloud.

Rafael kisses her, though. Doesn't do it to shush her, but it does allow her to moan into his mouth. She lifts one of her legs, planting her foot on the edge of her bed, opening more for his hand, begging him to take more. Touch her more. Please her more.

Rafael

He moves closer to her when she rests a foot on the beds like that. The inside of her thigh slides over the outside of his. His hand wraps under; supports. It is a subtle thing, and a gradual thing, and a meaningful thing: a shifting of her weight from the bed to him. He knows she doesn't like it when he just picks her up without warning. He knows she wasn't ready when he suggested it moments ago.

So he asks, now, though not with words. It is a question: if she'll let him. If she'll trust him. If this is okay. It is, also, a persuasion. That's why he keeps touching her. That's why he keeps kissing her, slow and molten, his mouth grazing and straying over hers, his lips nipping at her mouth, her cheek, her chin.

Devon

They're already so close. His cock, to put it bluntly, sticks up straight between them, pressed between their bodies. Devon luxuriates in it, rubbing herself against him -- and against his hand working her pussy. She wriggles a little, feeling his hand on her ass, gasping softly.

But Devon doesn't really answer him, not in words, just as he doesn't ask with them. She touches him, stroking her hands over him, adoring him. Her touch has grown more than a little mindless now, craving skin under her palms and not thinking much beyond that. She's far enough gone to not notice she is being persuaded. She is not so far gone that she doesn't feel, and enjoy feeling, seduced.

She breathes in, trembling, and lets her hands find his shoulders. Puts her weight there, and on the edge of the bed, knowing that hand on her ass is going to lift her up, knowing that hand stroking her pussy is going to join the other, holding her against him. Devon climbs up his body like this, wrapping her legs around him, but little more than that: she is not quite sure how this is going to work. Only sure that she wants him.

Rafael

Might expect him to pick her up instantly. Wouldn't be unreasonable; it's his track record. He doesn't, though. There's a pause, a moment between consent and action. A moment where his hand leaves her thigh, her ass. Slides up her back and over her shoulder, touches her hand where it rests on him. An acknowledgement, that. A small, gentle display of understanding and gratitude.

Then he does pick her up. Lifts her onehanded, nearly, all his strength coming to bear. She may as well be weightless. She might well float off into the sky, but he holds her against him. His heat and solidity grounds her, gives her mass again. They are eye to eye. He kisses her softly, lazily, stroking her cunt with the pads of his fingers.

"Gonna fuck you like this," he tells her, or promises her, or maybe it too is a question, "okay?"

Devon

So she is expecting him to hold her up with both hands. And at first, he uses one. She's not weightless; she's not ninety pounds soaking wet, either. She's thin but she's not fragile, at least not when you're comparing her to anyone but Rafael. She's light, though, at least to him. It wouldn't be difficult at all for a regular mortal bodybuilder to bench press her. All the same: the way he lifts her, still touching her, is a little shocking to Devon. She looks at him for a moment with that shock, her eyes sparking with interest, her body leaning against his.

Rafael is less shocked. But he would be; he knows what he can do. The only time she's seen it, she had a fucking open gash across her head and thought she was going to die. She wasn't paying attention to him, or thinking about how the strength he has in other forms might translate just as readily to this one, the one she knows best. She wasn't, by any means, thinking about him holding her on his body like this, fucking her freestanding. Jesus: he hasn't even ever fucked her against a wall.

gonna fuck you like this

-- has roughly the the same effect on Devon that take good care of you had on her. He's so close to her, his fingers and his mouth and his body, he can feel the way she reacts. Feel her arousal spike again, pulse through her. She can't even answer; she pants, giving him a little nod, her thighs trembling.

"God, you're strong," she breathes, because those are the only words she can find right now. "You're really fucking strong." Like perhaps he told her this once, and she didn't believe him, and now it's proven.

Rafael

He likes that. Gets a rush of that same stupid pride, glinting in his eye, gleaming in his teeth. He wants to toss her up, catch her. Let her dangle from a flexed bicep. Whirl her over his head, show off, prove his strength.

Knows better. Doesn't do stupid shit. Just... hefts her up a little higher, high enough that she's looking down at him, that he can nuzzle her under her jaw while he solidifies his grip on her rump. Has his forearms under her thighs, supporting her.

"Put your hands on me," he mutters. And then, in case he wasn't being specific enough: "My cock. Take it in your hands and put it in. Don't worry. Gonna be gentle with you."

Devon

The corner of her mouth pulls. This may be the first time he's ever told her what to do, what he wants, how... she can't help but smile like she does, lopsided and quirked and endearing, endeared. He nuzzles; she leans down over him to nuzzle him back. She's still a little startled by how easy this seems to him; he senses her still shifting her weight to him, no longer tense, no longer trying to hold herself up as well. Relaxes into him. Onto him.

Her hands are on him, though, so she doesn't know what he means at first. He means his cock. She huffs a breath, almost a laugh, and starts to reach for him even before he tells her: don't worry. He's going to be gentle.

God, she adores him.

Devon's palm slides over his cock. Strokes him. Distractedly, for a moment, as she leans over him to kiss his mouth, lose herself in that a bit. She shifts, trusting him but still noticably a little hesitant up here, unable to support her own weight, this girl who hates being lifted and moved without her say-so, this girl who doesn't like at all to be picked up and carried unless she can jump down easily, this girl who doesn't trust most people to hold her because she can't trust them not to drop her. She goes slowly, when she brings herself closer, when she lowers herself against him, when she fits his cock to her.

Gasps, right away, and trembles all over, and it isn't just arousal this time, he can feel it, he can feel that she's well and truly nervous that he's going to drop her, he's going to go too fast, she's going to get hurt. Doesn't say anything. Doesn't say I can't, because she wants so badly to trust him. Because up until she got up here, it didn't occur to her not to trust him.

"Hold me," is what she says, shaken, vulnerable, as vulnerable as she is physically, taking him a little at a time until she can let go of his cock, hold onto his body, his shoulders.

Rafael

Can't blame her for being skittish. He's got a checkered history. Been rough with her before. Been too eager, too uncareful.

Gentle with her now, though. Senses her vulnerability and uncertainty. Senses, too, what a special place he's in. Her bedroom. Her haven as a young, growing thing. The fires lit now. The room warmed, proofed against winter.

She shivers and he nuzzles her. Has her securely in his arms; rubs his face against hers, kisses her. She tells him to hold her and so he does, winding his arms around her, diminishing the space between them to nothing.

Never, not for a second, does he try to pull her down. Plant her on his dick. That part he leaves to her. Wraps her in his arms, warm and close and affectionate. Lets her take him in, little by little, moment by moment.

Devon

Hard for her to do it on her own. Devon bites her lip, holding onto him. He feels her anxiety, feels her searching for him, and kisses her. It makes her look at him again, where before she was starting to look away. She looks at him and holds his eyes then, taking him a little more, but she shakes her head. Whispers: "I want you," she says, because she doesn't know how else, what else, to say to him. She can't find the words I need you. She wouldn't know how to make them come out of her mouth.

Rafael

[twree meezlee empafee dice!]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 9) ( success x 1 )

Devon

[She's uncertain, but she does trust him. She just needs him to take the lead here.]

Rafael

Wolf's eyes search hers. At this distance she can see the color clearly: the threads and flecks of green, the murkier colors -- hazel, amber, gold -- woven between. He watches her so intently. Tries to read from her body what her words don't quite tell him.

Finds some truth there. Must, because then he leans into her. Kisses her the way he does, or the way he's doing tonight: soft and deep and long.

"Okay," he whispers. "All right."

And she feels the shift in his body before he ever moves. Feels the genesis of that motion in his torso, his spine: his arms and his hands shifting, her own body rising. He lifts her a little, a matter of inches. They are joined so intimately that the motion is immediately transduced. She slides up on his cock. He kisses her neck. He lets her back down, lets her sink onto him. Takes her down until he feels the first flicker of uncertainty, resistance, enough.

And he lifts her again. And again, and again. It's so slow. His strength makes every motion smooth, seamless. He's fucking her, but she's the one that moves. She moves, but he's the one that moves her.

Devon

They are being very quiet, especially considering how they went at each other last night. The fire still crackles, unperturbed and unassisted. She whispers to him that she wants him and it sounds like she's asking him for something, which she is: for help. For assurance. To take care of her.

Not just get her off or make it good for her. To really take care of her. Protect her. And one thing she'd never say aloud: guide her.

--

It helps. To surrender a little. She does trust him. She loves him. He's being so gentle with her tonight, so careful, so slow. He's so... with her. And she can't pretend she isn't nervous, or vulnerable, and it's starting to coalesce between them that she always has been. No wonder she's been so resistant at times, or pushed him away, or been angry at him for not being careful enough. Now that he is, and she believes he will continue to be, the secret comes out: Devon's so... tender.

And somehow it helps to let go of this idea that she has to protect herself, defend herself, at all costs. It helps to be able to relax into his arms, to let him move her like he does. "Oh," she says, and it's really less said than moaned. She kisses him, and takes him rather far that second slide, moaning again. Then he does it again. And again. And feels her own strength engage, her own rhythm answering his. She tenses, but this time nowt from anxiety or worry or uncertainty but desire, response, renewal.

"More," she mutters against his lips, panting the word.

Rafael

It's true.

She's tender.

It's also true:

he never really knew it before now. Marvels at himself, his own blindness, what an idiot he can be. But somehow he didn't know, somehow he thought she was something she's not, thought she was wild and wily and sharp and sensual, and truth is she is all those things, but all those things do not add together to mean she is calloused and tough and immune to whatever it is he can throw at her in his hunger. She's not like that at all.

She's not fragile, but she is vulnerable. She's not frail, but there is something delicate about her. She's not fearful, but she is as new to this as he is, and sometimes -- terrifyingly -- it must feel like he has all the power. Has the power to hurt her and frighten her, make her life hell. Has the power to break her heart.

Of course she's wary.

Of course she's vulnerable.

What's amazing is not that she is these things, but that she can trust him at all. That she allows him to lift her like this, hold her like this, make love to her like this. That she holds on to him and trusts him with her body and her pleasure, her tenderness. He remembers her cupping his big hand over her pussy. Tender, yeah? it was the first time he'd ever thought of her -- maybe of any girl -- that way.

Tender. Yeah.

--

And now: more. She murmurs the word. He kisses it off her lips. His hands link under her bum. His stance widens, and he leans back to counterbalance her. He quickens: his arms a makeshift swing, her body a precious weight. He can feel her riding him, bringing her own strength into the equation, but the truth is she could do nothing at all and he'd still take care of her. He would never in a million years drop her, never.

And now he's fucking her quicker, a little harder. And they share the same breath, the same humid darkness between their faces and bodies. He kisses her now and then, grazing little intimacies. Wants to know, mid-stroke: "You okay?"

Devon

He's such a big dumb idiot, and she adores him so much. Not for the idiocy or the blindness. Just... him. For being big. For not knowing everything. For sometimes being wrong. For being willing to learn. For being so delighted when she praises his body or enjoys his cock. For being so happily, innocent proud when he pleases her. For making jokes with her, when he doesn't really joke around with almost anyone. She just adores him, as he is, for all the ways his guard goes down and makes his strength and his rage and his hunger less of an obstacle for her to be close to him. To know him.

Devon kisses him. She slides her hands from his shoulders around his neck and this makes her sink down on his cock, which makes her gasp. She gasps happily though, breath trembling from pleasure this time. Kisses him again, grinding a little into that closeness, and soon after,

he leans back. He feels how wet she is. How open. How she's kissing him, how she relents. Relaxes. How her pussy holds onto him. So he leans back and he thrusts. And he fucks himself into her just how she likes it, but in a way she's never had a chance to like it before. She whimpers, and thinks out of nowhere that this is not the first time sex with Rafael has been something new to her, entirely. She likes it, and would never come right out and say it because it sounds weird to her. Something silly or warped or meaningless or off-kilter like falling in love with the first person you had sex with. So she likes it, and keeps it to herself.

Moans though, leaning against him, starting to fuck him back a little. She pants for air in between those kisses, and he wants to know, as her eyes are closing, her head tipped back, if she's okay.

Devon just nods, gasping. "Yeah. Yeah." Licks her lips, swallows, adds: "Fuck me. Just keep fucking me."

Rafael

This is new to him too. All of it. Talked so confidently about picking her up and fucking her but truth is number of people who might've let him do this could probably be counted on one hand. Less. Maybe none.

And beyond that: having a girlfriend. Going home with that girlfriend. Meeting her extended family. Taking a walk, having a fight, finding her under a tree in the graveyard. Gorging on turkey. Lighting the fires. The entire cycle of love and conflict and life and death; all of it, all of it. New to him, and precious.

She leans into him. He goes a little faster. She's starting to ride him, and he's starting to bounce her, and it could spin so easily out of control but it doesn't. He doesn't. He's aware and alert and careful, careful, watching her between those kisses that are growing progressively looser and more careless, those breaths that are coming faster and harder, edged in moans.

"Love the way you feel," he mutters, and he says it for her. They are trying; they are learning each other's languages. Sometimes he says things he wouldn't have otherwise. Voices them because she wants and needs to hear it. Sometimes she shows him wordlessly. Keeps silent what she might have wanted to express aloud, because sometimes he wants and needs for their love to live in the silence. He stumbles a little: "Love that sweet... that sweet little pussy."

Devon

"Yeah," she says, the tone of it sharper, more needful. She seems to have forgotten her worries from before; he's just fucking her now, and may have always been fucking her like this, and she can fuck him back. All she remembers is that they need to try and keep quiet. Every gasp, every moan. Every word. Even the ones like the ones he says, which thrill her so deeply and send tingles racing up and down her body. Even the words like her little answer, which sounds more an an encouragement. Call and answer. Worship.

"Know you do," she mutters, kissing his neck. "Love fucking me with that hard cock."

Bites him. Lightly, scraping her teeth over his shoulder. Hides a moan there as he grinds his cock into her. Bounces her. She can't talk anymore, even if she had the words for it, which she is rapidly running out off. All she can do is -- to put it blunt -- get fucked. Chase her orgasm by letting him fuck her. It's not fair that he has to be so careful when she is so clearly giving in to abandon.

She squirms. "Fuck me, Rafa," she groans, trying to muffle it on his skin, his neck, his jaw. She's also trying to kiss him. "Fuck me."

And then, perhaps for no reason or no sense or just because this feels familiar and intimate and close and on the verge of orgasm she wants nothing, nothing more than to be close to him:

"Put me on the bed and fuck me. Make me come. Fuck me."

Rafael

Makes this sound when she says that. This low growl. Of course it's a growl; he's a wolf. And it's a savage sound, but it is equal parts needfulness and relief. Loved fucking her, she's right: loved fucking her standing up, carrying every ounce of her weight. Loved fucking her and feeling her relax into it, lean into it, fuck him back. Leverage his strength and hers. Grind down on him, and rock on him, and bounce on him. Loved all that, but

god, he wants to fuck her now. He wants to put her on the bed, under him, fuck her the way he does. Always seems to want it that way, and when she asks for it he doesn't pause. Not for a second. He crosses that small distance in one step, and then the world turns on its ear, and her back thumps down, and the mattress squeaks, and he pushes her up the bed and slides out of her and chases her down and pulls her under him, climbs over her, pushes back into her like he can't wait. Which is accurate. He can't wait.

Now his arms are around her. Thick biceps against her sides, big hands spread over her back. Now he's fucking her good and proper, hammering her to the bed, thudding the bed to the wall. So much for being quiet, but at least they're going to be quick about this. He's not kissing her now. He's biting her, and that too is a familiar, intimate thing. A strange and savage expression of closeness; adoration.

Devon

Okay, so he can tease her later. Ask her who's the boring one now. He can do what he likes. Because right now, she's so far gone that even when he essentially pulls her off his cock, turns her around, drops her on the bed, and pulls her up under him as he climbs over her -- Devon doesn't really mind. She's reaching for him, the bed creaking as they abuse it, sitting up to touch him and then laying back again as she pulls him to her again. Kisses him, hard, as he's taking hold of his cock, fitting it back into her by touch, by memory, by instinct. Devon has to kiss him.

Because she loves him.

Because she's starting to moan really loudly and needs him to shut her up.

Her legs open for him, the soles of her socked feet on his ass, her hands on his back, all but clawing at him. She doesn't tell him again to fuck her, fuck her, but it's there in the way she grabs at him, urges him on, doesn't give a god damn about the headboard or the squeaky mattress right now if he just keeps fucking her with that hard, glorious cock. God, it makes her wet. So fucking wet it's almost slippery, trying to give it to her like this. Feels good. Feels incredible. Her nails dig into the heavy flesh at his mid-back. She squirms under him, grinding, her pussy tightening on his cock. Tightening. And rippling.

And he's biting her, and it feels like the longing for ownership --

no.

He's biting her, and it feels like the longing for mateship she felt earlier, without a name for it. Comes to her now. Makes her eyes fall closed as if in reverence, makes her mouth open soundlessly, breathlessly, caught there on the precipice. Her arm wraps around him, forearm resting against the back of his neck, hand buried in his hair over the back of his head. Her other hand moves to press on his chest, feeling every surge of motion as he grunts, snarls, thrusts over her. Devon doesn't warn him that she's coming, and she doesn't need to. She just touches him, mind and heart, as it flows into her, and through her, and returns to him in a wet, hot, earth-bound and yet transcendant cycle.

Rafael

No more words now. Not much in the way of restraint either. Wolf loves the way she grabs at his body, fingertips, nails. Loves how she wraps her legs around him and how she grips his back; how she grips his cock, if we're blunt about it, and how she rides down on it. He bites her. It is a sort of response to some unspoken call. It is more than that, and this time she intuits it and recognizes it. It is a longing for mateship, which is not ownership at all but something more along the path of belonging. Belonging-to. Union-with.

Her arms wind around him too. She clasps him to her every bit as close as he clasps her. Her hand touches his head, touches his chest. Feels that wild beating beneath the breastbone. Feels the rampant power in his bones, his muscles, the surge of his torso, the strength that weaves together out of every fiber of his body.

No one warns anyone. No one says anything. It's not necessary. He knows, and she knows, and she lets it flood through her, and he buries it in her: not just the orgasm but something deeper than that, the love, the fragile hope, the vulnerability of being in love and knowing one's heart existed now outside one's body. All told he is rather quiet about it, doesn't wake the house with his bellowing. Grunts low in his throat, deep in his chest, when he comes inside her. Wraps his arms around her, tight, tight, and tries, by virtue of holding her close enough, to belong to her.

Devon

All told, the amount of time that bed is creaking and that headboard is thumping is negligible. Minutes; maybe less. They were both so close while still standing; it didn't take long to get back there. Devon is still far, far gone; she is working the rest of her orgasm out on him, under him, while his teeth dig into her skin and his arms hold her close. She's obsessed with his cock inside of her, how every time her cunt ripples with a new wave of pleasure, a new muscle spasm, she can feel him more intensely for a hot, molten second. It's maddening, and it's killing her, and she can't stop.

Until her body stops for her. Relents. Her pussy gives up trying to wring every last bit of enjoyment it can out of Rafael's body. Her heart gives up its race against itself, starting to ease back, overtired. She yawns out of nowhere, big and taut and gasping a little on the end. She exhales an mmm when it lets her go. Her head lolls to the side, all her dark hair thick and wavy and yet curly and sweat-damp along her temples, her hairline, her neck. Her spine relaxes. Her chest still thumps and her lungs still move too quickly, but it's starting to slow down. Everything is starting to slow down.

Devon yawns again, her feet sliding off his ass, her legs lazy to either side of his body. She wants to get up and pee as soon as she thinks she can do so without falling over. That will be relatively soon: Devon, though so tender, so fragile, is made of shockingly sturdy stuff when you get right down to it. She's resilient. That's what it is. Fragile, tender, vulnerable, and able to bounce back faster than even she realizes, most times. She doesn't know her own strength, but only because to her, it's one of her most invisible strengths.

The room is quiet again, except for the pop and crackle of the fire, and Devon's repeated yawns.

Rafael

Little by little they both come down. Relax. Release. Her feet sliding off his -- butt, she would call it -- is the first external stimulus that draws him back to himself. Those deep, maddening pulsations of her cunt don't count. They hardly felt external. Felt like something intrinsic to himself, as though the boundary between them had blurred.

That coolness left in the wake of her socked feet, though. That draws his awareness back into his body. And he loosens his embrace a little. Rolls his lips and his nose and his face, really, over her shoulder. Sets his head down with a sigh, content, while girl's yawning. That little gasp gets him, socks him right in the base of the spine. He flexes into her a little, nevermind that he's softening, nevermind that he just came, and so did she, and neither of them can really take it right now.

Does it anyway. It makes him shudder. Gasp a little too.

They relax. They relent. She yawns again and he rolls very slowly, very lazily off her. He's looking down when he draws out of her. Likes the sight of it, his wet cock sliding out of her wet cunt. Likes it in this base and primitive and filthy way. Same part of his lizard brain that likes rolling in dirt and marking on trees, he supposes.

Likes the sight of her body too, pale, those freckles, those eyes. He lays his heavy arm over her and pulls her close, keeps her warm. That's what he thinks, anyway. That he's keeping her warm. Not the fire but him: her Rafa, her wolf.

Devon

She almost tell shim nuzzle me when he starts to move. It leaps to her lips to tell him to do it, this thing she's never named and never asked him for, because she thinks he might be pulling away and she really doesn't want him to. And there he is, before the words make it past those coy lips of hers, rubbing his face on her shoulder. Lays his head down on her, close to her tits, and out of nowhere -- in her eyes -- he thrusts into her.

Devon almost laughs. She grins, and her breath moves in her chest, not quite a laugh but something like it. She has no idea why, other than that he likes her pussy, loves fucking her. Sweet little pussy. Climb on. Take good care of you. Fuck you like this.

So she makes another noise, thinking of his hot, filthy mouth and the tender, erotic things he says to her, said to her. It's low and sleepy and satisfied. Probably makes him want to fuck her again. But she's so drowsy, so lazy now, so glad his cock is still inside her, softening or otherwise. She just holds him, and holds him, and after a while he does, finally, push up a bit. Onto his elbows, more or less. Rolls off of her, which makes the yawning ease up, which makes her breath come easier. He looks down; watches himself drawing out of her. She's never seen him do that before, if he ever has. But catches him this time, her sleepy eyes looking down at him, where he's looking down at the two of them. Sees his eyes flickering, his lips parted, like it turns him on. Or pleases him, simple as that.

Makes the corner of her mouth pull out. Not really a smirk. Just a smile, but a very, very lazy one. She closes her eyes again, turning her head to the side again to rest, stroking the back of his neck with her fingertips until that, too, is simply too much work for her. Rafael covers her with his arm, which isn't much, but it does actually keep her warmer than she would be without it. She turns a little onto her hip, snuggling against his chest. If this convinces him further that it is not the fire but his nearness that keeps her warm, so be it. It's both. One is at once the most mundane and the most magical thing she has to trust, to offer. The other is... also, the most mundane and the most magical, but he is not something she can give, or something she lives with. He is something given to her.

She'll get up in a bit. Throw on a robe. Want to piss, want to wash up. For all she knows he'll try to follow her to the bathroom, shadow her. Feels like something he might do, right now. She wouldn't even mind; she'd understand it, after all that. She doesn't even know what to call 'all that', though. Doesn't call it anything. Doesn't worry about it. Doesn't worry about whether he'll follow her around naked or which one of them is going to stir the fire a bit so that it burns down gently on its own on the way towards sunrise. She just lays there, held, thinking of all the time they've spent here with her family, all the days between now and Christmas, when her mother comes. Thinking of all she's sensed in him and all she has realized tonight, and how wordless it all is, and how indefinable she wants it to remain, not because she is indifferent to it,

but because it is all sacred.

the lighting of the fires.

Rafael

This time no one asks them if they had a good walk. No kids stare at him wide-eyed wanting to know if he lost their cousin. People are occupied: people are watching football or napping or checking on the roast. Wolf and girl take off their outer layers in the entryway, hanging them up. Girl's shivering, wraps herself around him with her hands between his biceps and his ribs -- arguably the warmest spot on his body.

He's still putting his jacket on a hanger. Putting the hanger in the closet. When he's done, though, he wraps his arms around girl in turn. Scoops her right up, forearm and one big hand under her ass. Bum, she'd call it. Butt. Maybe they ought to go in the kitchen and see if they can help out, but he starts upstairs instead. Even shoeless, his footsteps are heavy and resonant on the wood.

Devon

Sheila, Brian, and Stevie are in the back of the house in the den, watching the end of a football game that it is clear now the Bears are going to win. Stevie is stewing. Sheila is knitting, listening for a dinger in the kitchen. Brian has fallen asleep in his armchair. There's a gentle hush to the house, with just the noise of the oven roasting and the backyard chimes tinkling and the football game turned down low enough that it won't wake up the napping children and pregnant woman upstairs.

Devon cuddles him until she starts to warm. This happens quickly; Rafael sometimes seems made of heat, a constantly burning furnace, a fusion core. But she doesn't get a chance to pull away; Rafael hoists her up, and she almost yelps but quiets. She looks down the hall as they walk through it to the stairs, and Sheila is glancing down at them, mid-purl, and gives a little smirk. Devon doesn't see her. She's slung her arms around Rafael's neck, holding onto him while he carries her.

Whispers: "Where are you taking me?"

Rafael

Their faces are close together, but he's looking straight ahead. Doesn't want to fall, after all. Glances sidelong at her. "Upstairs," he says, like it's obvious. A beat later: "Get warmed up."

At the top of the stairs he takes the turn toward the bathroom. Strange how such little things become routine after so short a time. His towel's still hanging in there after his morning shower. He glances over his shoulder before he closes the door. Makes sure the kids aren't watching. Doesn't want to have to explain.

Latches the door when they're in there. Sets her down -- on the counter. No one would ever call her short, but he overshadows her quite utterly -- in height, in breadth, in sheer mass. With her perched on the edge of the sink they're a little closer. He has his hands on her waist; seems to understand for the first time the implications, the atmosphere, the charge between them right now.

Watches her, when he starts to roll her socks down. Watches to catch her reaction.

Devon

Bathroom is barely more than closet-sized. Counter is no more than a little bit of space around the edge of the sink. Kids are on the second floor; they go all the way up to the third, where they slept last night. Rafael turns the latch. Devon raises her eyebrows when he sets her on the counter, though really they were starting to go up when he took her in the bathroom and locked the door. She is watching him closely.

His hand reaches down to roll her socks. Devon moves her leg back, away from his hand. Says softly: "Babe, what are you doing?"

Rafael

Which makes him stop. Which makes his eyebrows draw together. Now he's awkward, uncertain, which makes him gruff.

Shrugs. "Was gonna run you a bath." Sounds stupid now. Seems stupid. He backs away. "Forget it."

Devon

She tugs at him. Hand on his shoulder, wrapping in that thick, fine fabric that makes up his sweater. "No," she whispers, tugging him back towards her, closer. "Don't... shy away again. Just because I ask."

Rafael

So he stops. Doesn't tug away, though surely he can. Could break the door down if he wanted to. Could probably pull the entire house down around their ears if he wanted to.

Strange, then, that her hand on his hand -- his shoulder -- could stop him so. But it can. And he does stop. Looks at her, unsure and frowning and pained by his own awkwardness. Takes a breath or two. Steps closer to her again.

"Don't want to do something wrong," he explains. "Or something to get laughed at."

Devon

He steps closer and she relaxes. She hooks her legs around his legs, though not really around his hips, high on his waist, encouraging a different sort of closeness. She just rests her heels on the backs of his knees, looking up at him. And she... plays a little with the zipper of his sweater.

"Thought you wanted to fuck," she murmurs, looking at his throat exposed and then hidden again. "Didn't want to, right now. Dinner soon."

Devon leans forward, laying her head on his shoulder, his upper chest. Feels adoration in her skin. It keeps rising up like this today; she really loves him. She really really does.

"You know I'll tell you if you do something I don't like," she says, after quite a while. She has to think of how to say it. "And I try never to laugh at you when it might hurt you. Trust me, yeah?"

Rafael

Wolf's eyes shy from hers. "Did." Want to fuck, he means. "Wasn't planning for it. But when I had you up here. Thought about it."

She doesn't want to. Dinner soon. She leans into him anyway; seems so serene, so happy. He wraps his arm around her thoughtlessly. Can see them reflected in the little mirror.

"Yeah," he echoes. "Know that. Just sometimes need to remember to believe it."

Devon

The corner of her mouth curls that way it has: the almost-purse, the almost-smirk. It's intrigued. It's interested. It's also enigmatic. She moves her hands to his sides, touches him lightly through his shirt. He can see her hair cascading over his arms in the mirror behind her. She doesn't see anything wrong with him thinking about fucking her when they got up here. Frankly, she thought about it when they first went on a walk. Didn't know where, exactly, she'd try to take him to fuck him. Just thought about it.

"I know," she says, so soon after he tells her. It's hard to remember. It's harder still to believe. It is a new thing, being loved.

Devon breathes in deep, rising up again, sliding her hands over his chest, around his neck, head tipped back to look at him. "You're very sweet, babe," she murmurs. "Wanting to give me a bath to warm me up. You're a good boyfriend."

Rafael

He huffs, self-conscious, glancing away from her again. "Make me sound like some sort of hallmark card," he mutters, but he doesn't pull away. Lets her touch him, run her hands up his chest, wrap her arms around his neck. "Just saw you shivering, is all."

Devon

Hallmark card.

"No," she says, firmly, reaching up to his face, taking his jaw, and making him look at her again. She's so serious. But if he looks at her, she lowers her hand again. "I'm not. Just saying what I mean. Don't be a prick about it."

Rafael

Hard to imagine her doing this when they just met. When they were both so wary of each other. When he was truly a prick, vicious and threatening; when she was rightfully cautious of him, always on the verge of darting away.

She doesn't even seem to hesitate now. Grabs him, turns him back. Truth is there's a flare in his eyes, instinctive and reactive. But it dies down. He turns his face, kisses her palm. Then her hand falls away.

"Thanks," he whispers. "Trying."

Devon

Kisses her palm. And whispers to her.

What she does next, maybe it's because he's between her legs. Or because of that kiss on her hand. Or because love keeps flowering over and over inside of her, warm and fluid, erupting from her heart, cascading through her limbs. Maybe it's because of that intensity between them, that moment when she grabbed his jaw and his eyes flashed at her, and the edge of danger that is so terribly addictive to humans and the human-born.

Devon kisses him. Puts her arms around him and pulls him right to her and kisses his mouth like she'd eat him alive, given half a chance.

Rafael

Kiss takes him by surprise. He doesn't miss a beat, though. Their mouth collide; then their bodies. He plants a hand against the mirror -- thud -- to brace himself; has an arm behind her back, keeps her from leaning right into the faucet.

It's a ferocious kiss; startling and silent. She can hear him inhaling, a sharp breath through the nostrils. His hand closes on her top. He wants to pull it off. He doesn't. The kiss breaks, and he follows her, catches at her cheek, corner of her mouth. A pause there, a space for her to decide one way or the other.

Devon

That arm around her back pulls her closer, opens her thighs around him, has her pressed to his stomach. She lets out a soft groan into his mouth. She shudders when he touches her top; she's expecting him to cup her breast in his hand, start unfastening his jeans. He doesn't. He stops kissing her or she stops kissing him or they just stop, panting -- or at least she is. He kisses her cheek, her jaw, and her eyelashes flutter. Takes her a moment to regain herself. Exhales, opening her eyes, looking at him.

"Downstairs?" she says, with a little nod. "Dinner soon. We should help."

Rafael

He groans audibly. Presses against her -- jaw to her temple, chest to her breasts. Kisses her roughly and insistently the way he does, his lips burning against her cheek -- couple millimeters from her ear.

"Okay," he mutters. Takes a breath, "Okay."

Steps back. So much for a bath. So much for fucking, for that matter.

Devon

He groans and she laughs, but it's barely more than soft gasping. She tips her head back as he nuzzles her, kisses her, almost sucks on her ear. For a moment she bites her lower lip; lets it go on an exhale. "I know, babe," she murmurs. "But we came all this way to be with my family."

Rafael

"Yeah." Still muttered. He wraps a hand behind her head, the way he had when they walked out of the house. Kisses her, too. Quick; not light. When it's done he takes her by the waist, lifts her off the sink. Sets her down and unlatches the door, opens it, follows her out.

Devon

Lifts her up. Off. Down. They have to be close together, in a bathroom so tiny. She's still pressed against him for a moment, out of necessity.

Sure.

--

Outside the bathroom, Devon reaches down to roll her sock back up. She shakes her hair out, runs her fingers through it. Glances back towards Hope and Stevie's room, where Hope is still dozing. Grins in a slash up at Rafael, then reaches up to zip his sweater. She didn't dishevel his hair, at least. Stands on her toes to kiss him, then traipses ahead to the staircase, and barrels down like she's done it hundreds, thousands of times before.

Like she learned to climb up and down stairs in this very house.

Rafael

He used to slide down banisters. It's a sudden memory, certain and vivid. Not in the cramped apartment he shared with his father, but in one of the group homes. One of the larger ones, run by a couple who was genuinely trying to do their best. Just couldn't handle a kid like him. A wolf like him.

He follows her down. Trots; doesn't barrel. Gets down to the first floor and heads for the kitchen, which smells like turkey and stuffing and yams and potatoes and pie. His mouth waters. He looks about; wants to help. She called him a good boyfriend. He wants to be one.

Devon

Devon's quieter on the second floor, but then again: her footfalls on the stairs aren't that bad to begin with. She's so skinny, so light on her feet, a doe and not a direwolf. But either way she gets down to the bottom floor and skids a little in her socks across the hardwood, then trots through the foyer and into the living room and then the dining room and around back to the kitchen. Glances behind her once to make sure Rafael's following, but then she's in there, seeing Brian checking on the turkey. When the oven opens, mouths water; the scent of turkey and the sound of the skin crackling slightly fill the room. Sheila is mashing potatoes by hand, her sleeves rolled up. Around the corner in the family room, the little den, Stevie is actually setting up the coffee table for Eleanor and Thomas: the kid's table, with a picnic blanket underneath to catch food crumbs, with Frozen in the DVD player ready to go so the adults can drink wine and have a sane meal.

No one, as before, teases, or asks coy questions. Sheila, in fact, sees Rafael and says, "Oh, good, honey, you're here. Come here, help me with this."

And by 'help me' she means 'stand there while i shove this enormous bowl at you across the counter, take the masher, and get to it'. "Now don't go overboard," she warns him, "or they'll get gluey. Devon honey, you start setting the table, I'm going to go wake up Hopie."

Laughs at herself. "Hope!" she corrects. As she's walking out: "I was saying 'Hope' and 'Stevie' and said 'Hopie'."

Devon looks over at him, as she's standing on her toes to get plates out of the cabinet. "You heard her," she echoes, loftily. "Get to it."

Rafael

The potatoes are shoved at him. He takes them, brow wrinkling up: get to it, but not overboard, or gluey. He looks to girl for help. She tells him to get to it.

He mashes. Squashes potatoes apart, flattens them, mixes, mashes. It's not hard after all. There's a decadent amount of cream and butter in there; the potatoes thicken, then grow fluffy. It smells good. He slides a glob off the masher with the side of his thumb and eats it. Tastes good too.

"What time do you guys start dinner?"

Devon

Perhaps Rafael has never mashed potatoes before. This is okay: Sheila knew she was dealing with the fancy Silver Fang man in the cashmere sweater who flew her goddaughter here first class and has sent her to London after knowing her a month and is flying Devon's mother back to the states for the first time in years. She gave him an easy job. The cream and butter are already in the bowl. All he has to do is moosh things. He does it quite well. He tastes his work. No one chides him; Brian is removing the turkey from the oven, covering it with foil while the meat rests a bit.

When Sheila comes back, she gets to work on the gravy, siphoning juices from the turkey pan out with a baster and stirring, stirring away on the stovetop. Devon, in the meantime, is shrugging at Rafael. She's set a plate at every chair and stacked the rest on a counter nearby. She's putting out silverware and water glasses. "Whenever food's ready," she says.

There's noise from the other room, but not a lot. The children are waking up, and hungry, their hair combed and faces freshened up with a warm wet cloth by their mother, who is right behind them. They come wandering immediately into the kitchen underfoot, looking for something to eat now, they're so hungry. Thomas is sticking close to Brian, who won't budge. Eleanor, more wisely or more optimistically, goes over to Rafael and just. Stands there. For a while. Stays about three inches from his left foot regardless of how he moves.

Hope goes to help Devon finish with the table, laying out napkins and wine glasses. Stevie comes in and kisses her cheek; she kisses his back. Sheila hums, whisking away at the gravy. Glances over at Rafael, says: "That's good there, honey. Put that big spoon -- the one with the wooden handle. Yes, that one. Stick that in there and put them on the table, okay dear?"

Devon points to the spot on the table where potatoes go. Can't put it where the turkey goes. "Is anyone else coming?" she asks, calling to Brian.

Brian is getting a large but shallow platter ready for the turkey. "Maybe," he says, unconcerned. "Maybe later."

Rafael

Truth is he has mashed potatoes before. He's peeled them too. Boiled cabbage, baked cheap pizzas, cooked ramen, made sandwiches. He's been poor long enough, lived alone long enough, that he's picked up some basic survival skills.

Just never made proper mashed potatoes that'd be part of a thanksgiving meal. Just never been responsible for cooking something for half a dozen, more. Doesn't want to screw up. Doesn't want to ruin the holiday.

So he's diligent, and he's careful. He stops at once when he's told that's good. He's called honey -- repeatedly -- which he finds at once baffling and amusing and endearing. The little girl's shadowing him around, and after he's exchanged the masher for the spoon, he surreptitiously passes the former to her. In case she wants to lick it clean.

The bowl of potatoes go on the table. Looking at it, fluffy and creamy next to a bowl of rich gravy, makes the wolf feel oddly proud. There: he did that.

He wanders back to the kitchen. Clears his throat, low: "Anything else I can do?"

Devon

Rafael conceals how much it matters to him to ... please people. To please Devon, at least. To please her family, to get along with them, to not screw up. Especially something that matters to her. To them. He wants to be a part of this. He doesn't want to mess it up. And he conceals it rather well, behind his stoic face and his taciturn ways, his little grunts. So only Devon has any glimmering awareness of it, and even she is busy right now. Can't see it in his eyes and tell him that it's fine. He's not going to ruin anything. She could tell him about the time someone thought it would be brilliant to bring something called 'Duchess Potatoes', which were full of egg that didn't quite cook right and so everyone who wasn't grossed out by eating them got ill. Or the time that someone thought to boil red potatoes instead of yukon gold potatoes and they had a waxy, gluey mess.

It's fine. He's not going to ruin anything. He's a good boyfriend.

Eleanor, however, notices him. Watches him like a little green-eyed hawk. Takes the masher and all but hides near the cabinets, sucking potatoes off of it. Thomas, hyper-alert, casually walks over and his sister shares some with him. Devon, across the table from Rafael as he sets the potatoes down, is smirking at him. Happily. Warmly. He heads back to the kitchen.

Brian is transferring the turkey to the platter, and Sheila is wiping her hands on a tea-towel. "Should be a basket around here for the rolls, they'll be done real soon if you could get 'em out. I've got to go get cleaned up," says the woman with her hair up in a sort of bun-topknot thing and flour on her wrist and no lipstick. She's gotta have her lipstick.

Stevie has opened up a bottle of red wine and a bottle of rosy pink sparkling cider that is mostly there as a nod to Hope. Sheila is bustling out, and Brian is checking to make sure he's got the carving knife and fork ready to go beside the platter. Hope calls the twins.

"You guys want to watch Frozen?" she asks, and Thomas shoots a glance at Rafael and doesn't say a goddamn word but gives his mother a tight little nod because he thinks Olaf is the funniest thing he's ever seen. Maybe if he doesn't yell at Elanor when she sings Let It Go along with the t.v. they'll let him watch Big Hero Six after. Hope assures them that they'll start the movie after they all get food on their plates, and Devon is dropping into a chair near the altar in the corner. She yanks out the chair beside her, staring at Rafael, waiting for him to bring in the rolls and sit down.

Rafael

Rolls. He finds the basket, or at least: a basket. He finds oven mitts, and he ducks down to look in on the rolls. They look done. He opens the oven, reaches in with tongs, pulls the rolls out one by one and tosses them in the basket. Tosses a cloth over them to keep them warm; brings them to the table.

Girl's pulled a chair out next to her. Is staring at him, and even across the room he can see how blue her eyes are. He gets it. He's supposed to sit next to her. Not out in the garden again, for fuck's sake, what's wrong with him.

So he does. Sits down in that chair, which creaks a little with his weight. Feels a little odd, sitting while people are still bustling about, but he supposes someone has to start the trend.

Devon

Devon sits. And Rafael sits. And Hope sits. And then Stevie, beside her. Brian doesn't sit, but he brings the turkey, and Sheila breezes back into the room, her hair brushed and her face clean and her colorful lipstick on. She goes at the other head of the table, her back to the garden window still covered in pictures drawn by the children and Devon in dry-erase marker. Brian clangs the knife and fork together and Eleanor and Thomas shriek at the noise, climbing up into the chairs to either side of him to watch and tell him what bits they want.

Stevie starts pouring sparkling cider for his wife.

There's no prayer or anything, no moment of silence to the Goddess. Devon just bumps against Rafael and reaches past him to grab a roll. Sheila has an eager tongue between her teeth when she scoops some mashed potatoes in her plate. Stevie is making sure Hope gets a full plate of food even though she keeps telling him she's not that hungry, Eleanor Margaret and Thomas Geoffrey Owens, you keep your hands to yourself Uncle Brian has a knife for god's sake, which makes Stevie raise his eyebrows at his wife, who grumblingly agrees that yes, she would like a roll. Food gets passed around. And people start passing their plates to Brian, who is grinning as he carves off exactly what they ask for, laying slabs of meat on their plates to be doused in gravy. He is enjoying this.

Devon pours Rafael a deep, rich glass of wine. It's nothing like the sort of finery he has in his wine fridge, which his kitchen is absolutely equipped with. But it smells good, and she's smiling at him, and there's so much food on his plate that it's almost spilling over onto the tablecloth. The kids have their plates, too, plastic ones they can't chip or break, with turkey and mashed potatoes and NO GRAVY and Eleanor would like cranberries but Thomas doesn't and they both have to have some green beans before they will be allowed to come back for sweet potatoes. They have to carry their plates carefully, with both hands, while Hope gets up to carry a couple of little plastic cups with sparkling cider into the living room so they can watch Frozen.

Then she comes back, and it's just the adults, and everyone's just... eating. Not even conversing yet. They eat hungrily, and only after the first several seconds of chewing do the comments start: compliments, really.

"This turkey is insane," Devon mutters, dunking a bite of it in the gravy lake she made in her mashed potato mountain.

For example.

Rafael

Wolf piles his plate shamelessly high. Asks for white and dark meat both. And maybe some of the giblets. Remembers to say please, thanks. Adds potatoes and stuffing and cranberry sauce and green beans and sweet potatoes. Food's almost falling off his plate. He has a roll, too, which he's stuck a knife into; slathered with butter.

They eat. It's an unself-conscious silence: everyone stuffing their faces. The food is complimented. The turkey is insane.

Wolf just grunts. His mouth is too full to speak. He puts a chunk of turkey in his roll, dips it in gravy, tears it off with his teeth. Finally there's enough room to say something: "Really good," muttered, when really what he means is he can't remember the last time he ate something so good.

Devon

They are feeding a wolf. They knew they'd be feeding at least one. It is a very large turkey they have there. And there is leftover ham in the fridge, slabs and slabs of it, cold and pink. Not to mention that they did keep the giblets; Brian puts some on Rafael's plate, but not the heart. He looks a bit hesitant there, perhaps even apologetic, but he doesn't. Rafael does get the liver, though. Devon looks disgusted at him, shakes her head. Weirdo.

In the den, manly men are singing about a frozen heart while they chop up enormous blocks of ice. And the kids are eating hungrily, the way they do when they wake up from naps. They do not realize this meal will put them right back into a sleepy mood. In the dining room, the adults eat. And after a while, the back door opens, and Will creeps in. He glances first at the den, eyes sharp on the two children there, and then he steps quietly towards the dining room. His feet are still bare, but he wiped them off, looks like he washed himself up somehow before coming in. He doesn't stink. His hair is combed, and his beard.

Sheila glances over and smiles at him, and pats the seat beside her, which is empty. There's another empty chair next to him, some space on his other side. He can see the garden through the window at Sheila's back. He has the quickest path from that chair to the door. And otherwise, other than glancing or nodding hello, no one comments on his appearance. He fills his plate, stuffs it as high or higher than Rafael's, because he doesn't eat as often. And when Brian rises up to put turkey on the plate for him, he rests the heart of the animal amongst the light and dark meat. This too goes without comment, though Will quietly thanks Brian when he gets his plate back. He doesn't have wine or cider, just water. He eats, though, as ravenously and unselfconsciously as the other wolf, and growls softly as it starts hitting his belly. No one laughs. Sheila smiles though; pats his arm gently, which Will doesn't seem bothered by.

--

The meal is relaxed. The kids come in once or twice for seconds or to see if they ate enough green beans to get yams now. Another bottle of wine is opened up. Brian stops carving when people want more meat and people just start tearing bits off with forks, laughing. At some point (after Queen Elsa runs away and sings her anthem but before ice magic strikes Princess Anna's heart) the front door is knocked on and then opened, and a family of three comes in, all of them kin, all of them probably related somehow, every one dripping with Fianna scents. They have a little girl, smaller than the twins, who is clutching an American Girl doll and wearing a big bow in her hair. She is deeply shy and mostly sits on her mom's lap the whole time, as the adults sit down and grab some food, too. The girl does eventually slip off her mommy's lap, crying: "Olaf!" and bounding with quick stompy little steps into the family room.

Before this happens, Will has tensed, and picked up his plate, and backed out of the dining room, through the kitchen, walking out the back door without another beat. No one fusses about it, but the extended family notices, and is wary enough of wolves to keep their mouths shut. The little girl's mom is over by Hope, and they're talking about babies, pregnancy, doctors, all that. The little girl's dad is mostly talking to Stevie, and Sheila is talking to everyone, and Brian isn't talking at all. He has not had any wine. However: he has brought out some tumblers. He has brought out a bottle of whiskey and passed a few fingers around, and leans back in his chair, contentedly sipping while people go on eating and chatting. It's really just a matter of time now before the pies come out.

Rafael

There's conversation around the table. Babies, pregnancies, the Patriots, the Sox. Recommendations for mechanics. Recommendations for family movies that aren't Frozen. Black Friday, maybe, though more likely people are just planning on picking up some stuff online. Maybe a pressure cooker. Why? Because Black Friday. And cheap.

Brian doesn't talk. Will doesn't talk. Wolf doesn't talk either, but he does listen. His eyes follow the conversation as it bounces hither and to. He looks up as Will slips in, and he's glad to see the other wolf. Girl can tell. Girl knows him well enough. He picks up the bowl of mashed potatoes; passes it over.

Later on more people show up, sit down, eat. Will disappears. Wolf watches the newcomers, wary at first, uncertain of the connections. Family, surely. They smell like kin. They don't smell like threats. He's gone for seconds by then, thirds. Sheila carved one of the drumsticks off for him, and he's picking tendons out of it and dipping it in gravy. There's celery in the stuffing but he eats it anyway. There's potato in the potatoes but he eats that, too. Look at him, branching out: a meal that isn't 95% meat.

Wine is drunk. Wolf gets a little drunk. Eventually even he has to slow down, though he might be the last one to stop eating. Eventually he leans back in his chair, takes and releases this breath that sounds like satisfaction. He lays his wrist over girl's chair. They're all waiting for pie now, and he looks over at the kids. He's never watched Frozen before. Not the whole thing, anyway. Seen bits and pieces. Heard that damn song.

Turns back to the girl after a while. Tilts his head slightly toward the family of three.

"Cousins too?"

Devon

Devon actually eats a lot today. She's not the sort to pick at her food, but she normally eats a fraction of what Rafael does, or even what's set before her. Today: she eats plenty. Turkey breast, gravy, mashed potatoes, rolls, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, the works. She drinks along with him, as is usual by now, glass for glass, though it appears to take her longer to get 'drunk'. Or tipsy. Or even buzzed. This is not surprising.

Now she's leaning back, and leaning against Rafael, their chairs scooched together like the still-new couple they are. She's drinking some whiskey passed to her by her godfather. Other people have given their guts a rest and he's getting another plate of meat, of stuffing, of potatoes. The plate Will took with him outside was his third, which he started on when others were considering seconds. They can see the rib-bones of the bird they're devouring.

Can see the kids through the kitchen, vaguely, the door that goes into the den. They're eating slowly, rapt, sipping their cider and juice. The new little one looks like she's on the edge of her seat, obsessed with the tiny snowman character.

Devon nods, and shrugs. "Sure," she says, with the sleepy laziness brought on by alcohol. Which means: more or less. Maybe they're third or fourth cousins. Maybe they're twice-removed. She really has no idea. Everyone is related to her somehow around here. Everyone just calls each other 'cousin'. She rests her leg close to his. "You want pie?"

Rafael

"Yeah," he says, though he's still eyeing the turkey. Wonders if it'd be rude to just reach across and rip a chunk off with his hands. Probably would be. He'll come back later, make himself a midnight snack. "Apple. Hate pumpkin, actually."

His hand drops to her leg. He rubs his palm thoughtlessly, familiarly over her thigh. Skinny thing, he thinks, fondly. Girl with the eyes.

Devon

"Me too," she says, about pie. He rubs her leg. He's thinking of her with his silly, physical-attribute terms. Truthfully, neither of them think of each other in the kindest or most obviously sweet ways. Sometimes she thinks about his face and inserts the word 'stupid'. Rafa's stupid face. And his face is stupid because looking at it makes her heart thump and flutter and ache. And he's big and dumb and grumpy, too, in her thoughts. Big, dumb, grumpy Rafa. And she adores him, and somehow in her mind these things are related.

Mostly, they don't say these things aloud. And that's probably for the best.

Devon glances sidelong at him, a she's touching her leg. The gap between skirt and stocking. Her skin. She thinks of this morning, his Wanna? as he sat up to kiss her, touch her, get closer. Thinks of him fucking her last night, too, trying to hold the headboard still so at least it would stop banging the wall. Thinks about the bathroom before dinner, how he wanted to strip her naked. How he also wanted to lift her onto his body and have her again. All his groans of dismay at being rebuffed.

How often does she tell him no? Or even wait? Not often. Only now because she came here to see her family. Wouldn't be right to spend all her time having sex with her boyfriend. Would feel wrong, and sad, if she did.

Devon rests her head on his shoulder. "There's ice cream for the apple pie, too," she tells him.

Rafael

His hand pauses, alert.

"Flavor?"

Devon

Devon huffs a laugh, and grins. "Um. Just vanilla."

Rafael

"Damn right vanilla. No other way to eat ice cream and pie." His hand grips, releases. "Let's go help them get the pies."

Devon

Devon breaths an exaggerated sigh of relief. Leans heavily into his side, kissing his jawline. Just under it. Close to his throat. If he's going to palm her thigh and rub his touch over her skin, she's going to kiss him on one of those sweet, hot spots on his body. Because fuck you, Rafa, that's why.

"All right," she mutters, amenable for once instead of naturally and constantly and defiantly contrary. She scoots her chair back, and gets up, circling behind Sheila to go into the kitchen. Sheila is a giggly drunk, saying dirty things every so often to Hope and the other cousin. Pies are on the counter, cooled by now. There's a stack of dessert plates and fresh forks and two pie servers as well, but Devon goes to the drawer where the ice cream scoop is first, gets that out. Gets the vanilla Breyer's out of the freezer and sets it on the counter to soften just a tad.

"All right, who's having what?" she calls, and orders start coming in, loud and clear. Devon starts cutting up pie, mentally counting how many slices of pumpkin and how many slices of apple and how many apple-with-ice-cream and of course just a little bowl with just ice cream in it for Genevieve the two year old with the dolly, because she doesn't like pie, or sauce of any kind, or any meat that looks even slightly red or pink, or a thousand other things.

Devon gives a nod at the ice cream scoop, the hard block of vanilla. What are Ahroun boyfriends good for, if they don't mash potatoes and scoop frozen ice cream. But then she adds, in almost hesitant suggestion: "Maybe you could see what Will wants?"

Rafael

He picks up the ice cream scoop. It seems quaint to him. Surely he has one, or his servants do - but he just uses a spoon. And brute force.

There are a lot of bent spoons in the wolf's kitchen.

He's about to get started when girl asks him, hesitantly, to go ask Will. He looks at her. Doesn't understand the hesitation. "Yeah," he says. "Course." And, passing her, curves his hand over her shoulder. Kisses her there, by the curl of his fingers, to reassure her of... what? He's not sure. Just wants to reassure her.

Bumps the door open with his foot, ice cream scoop in hand. Walks out, looking for that house-shy wolf.

"Pie?" when he finds him. "Pumpkin and apple. Got ice cream too."

Devon

The ice cream scoop they have is old. One solid piece, all metal, used so often it's polished. Heavy. They don't use bent spoons here. The Breyer's carton in the freezer was not bought solely for Thanksgiving. These are ice cream people.

Ice cream and whiskey, to be precise.

Devon smiles a little to herself at Rafael's ready agreement. Yes. Of course. She smiles more, warmed but refusing to take her eyes off the pie work she's doing, as he touches her shoulder, kisses her. The hesitance, it seems, was in asking for something that would make her happy in this small, sweet, vulnerable way.

She cuts pie slices onto little dessert plates. She looks through the window over the sink at the back garden, her wolf walking out there. Will is in lupus again, dozing underneath the thick, unruly vines hanging from one of the high fences. He opens one eye when Rafael comes out the back door, then lifts his head, sniffing the air. Rises up, stretching, as Rafael offers him pie. The wolf licks its chops and gives a small bark. Then walks, padding lightly, over the back stoop. And sits, thumping his tail slightly.

The answer to 'apple' or 'pumpkin' and 'do you want ice cream' appears to simply be yespleaseandthankyou.

Rafael

Wouldn't embarrass Will -- or himself -- by trying to pat his fellow wolf on the head. They do walk back together, though. At the back stoop they part ways, though he leaves the door ajar: a small thread of connection to the kin inside via scent, sound, glimpses of sight.

"He wants both," he says, taking up his position next to the girl. "And ice cream."

A pie slice is passed his way. It's ample. He loads a hefty scoop of vanilla ice cream on top; then the next. They work well together, in tandem, assembly-line style. Soon enough all the orders are filled, and wolf starts picking up the plates, balancing them on his forearms more readily than girl might expect. Might not have been much good at peeling potatoes, but he's had practice at this. They're even stacked in order: once he gets out to the dining room, he dishes pies out one by one. Doesn't have to stop or check to make sure he's got it right.

Is showing off a little, in his own way. Wants them to see, too: he's not useless. He's not some fat pampered princeling, never worked a day in his life. He's good. He's worthy of their kinswoman; their god-daughter and cousin.

Devon

Will does lean forward, sniffing at the door, but only after Rafael's gone back inside. He cranes his neck and sniffs, sniffs, inhales, licking his chops like he could eat another turkey. Probably could. But he waits. He is not a well-trained animal; he is a wild creature that loves family, hates confinement. It is difficult.

Devon smiles at him. Passes pie, and squeezes another slice on there, and two scoops of ice cream just in case. That's taken out to Will first, who ducks his head and eats things that would injure or sicken an actual canine; laps at ice cream with his large, heavy tongue and wags his tail thoughtlessly as he does so. The door is left cracked open, a thin thread of connection between inside and out.

And inside, Rafael is... waiting tables. Loading his arms with plates and dropping them off around the table, memory-sharp and effortless. Devon is watching. Devon is wondering. Devon is also thinking about his arms. She's the one to take the pie and ice cream to the three kidlets in the family room, just because Genevieve is so small and so clearly afraid of... well, everyone, but mostly Rafael and Will. But when she comes back, she finds her apple pie and ice cream set in front of her chair, which is right next to Rafael's, and she slides in and leans against him. Wraps her arms around his waist and nuzzles his shoulder and sniffs at him, discreetly. Hugs him tightly, before she ever goes for her dessert.

--

Everyone is very full. No one, not a single person, is interested in washing dishes or putting away leftovers. It's dark outside, pitch black now, and the house is warm. Stevie, passing through the kitchen, sees the back door open and puts his palm on it to close it, then notices that Will is still sitting out there, lolled on his side, sniffing them occasionally through the crack. Stevie leaves the door as it is and walks onward, scooping up his daughter Eleanor and holding her in his lap on the couch, watching the very tail end of the movie he has seen so. many. times. Hope eventually gets told to stop tidying and she goes to cuddle with her family on the couch, too.

Genevieve has fallen asleep underneath the coffee table, head pillowed on her doll, legs tucked up under the fancy pink dress she wanted to wear to fancy family Thanksgiving. With little ceremony and some hugging goodbyes and a handshake for Rafael, the other cousins gather themselves up and collect their dozing toddler and promise to get together again soon with Hope and Stevie. Sheila doesn't want them to wake the 'baby' up just to put on a coat, so she tells them to take the afghan on the back of the couch to wrap around her before they go out. She tells them it'll make sure they come back to visit soon. And they head out into the dark, out to their car, carrying a few boxes of leftovers that Sheila demanded they take.

A little later, in the dining room, it's just Brian and Sheila and Devon and Rafael now. The table is still packed with food. Devon is too full but she keeps taking little bites of mashed potatoes or bits of turkey: she has no qualms about ripping flesh off the turkey's carcass right from the platter. For the most part, though, she's leaning against Rafa's side, tucked under his heavy arm. Sheila went to get her knitting and is leaning back in her chair by the window, needles sliding and softly clacking, made of ancient and well-polished hardwood and not metal. Brian is still nursing his whiskey, listening to his home grow quieter, listening to the end of a kid's movie in the other room, listening to the wind through the door that links them to the other wolf, the blood-kin wolf, listening to the ticking of the fancy old clock in the the foyer on the other side of the house, listening to Sheila's needles, long before he breathes in deep and proclaims:

"'Bout time we started some fires."

Devon, drowsing against Rafael, stirs, opening one eye. "All of 'em?"

Brian nods slowly, methodically. "Sounds about right."

Rafael

Because girl takes pie to the kidlets, wolf digs in first. Is already eating, shoulders looming over the table and elbows rather indelicately planted, when she sits down. Finds he's left her pie and ice cream. Wraps her arms around his solid middle, which makes him grunt. She squeezes him. He drops his spoon and lifts his arm over her shoulders, gives her a small squeeze back.

They eat their dessert. And then the family of three with that tiny girl leave. Wolf looks at the toddler, fascinated by her smallness, tiny fingers and tiny eyelashes. They head into the dark with leftovers. Wolf, coming back in, picks at the carcass again: makes himself that sandwich he'd thought of earlier, shredded meat in a dinner roll.

There's little conversation. They sit together around the table, eating or drinking or knitting. When the fires are suggested the wolf looks up. Wipes his fingers on a napkin, dusts his palms. Gets up.

"I'll get the one in Devon's room," he offers.

Devon

Devon grabs his sleeve, smiling up at him drowsily, tugging him back. "No, we do it together," she says, grinning up at him. God, she's been drinking. She's looking at him so adoringly. Right out here in the open.

Rafael

He pretends to grumble, half-sitting, wrapping an arm around her, scooping her up out of her chair.

Right out here. In the open.

"Well, come along then." And he starts for the stairs. "Night, Sheila. Night, Brian."

Devon

Now that is a bit too far. Devon resists, and he knows. They talked about this before. That isn't the reason she's resistant, not the loss of autonomy, but she might want to look at him with love in front of her family but still not want to get picked up. So she resists. And not forcefully; she expects him now to know when to let go.

"No, all of us," she clarifies, shoving his arm. "The family."

Rafael

He stops trying to pick her up. He looks chagrined. There's red in his cheeks; he won't meet her eyes, or those of her family. "Oh."

Devon

Devon touches him under the table. Squeezes his leg. Smiles at him again. "We light all the fireplaces," she says, while Sheila is winding up her yarn, while Brian is finishing his whiskey. "One on each floor. It's sort of... a darkest-part-of-the-year thing."

Rafael

"Oh," he says again; a different oh this time. Understanding. "Like a ritual. Yeah?"

Devon

Devon just nods. That's why they do it together. As a family. "Sort of," she says, because it's also not... ritual. Not so strict. She squeezes his leg again.

Brian is the first to rise, though, after Rafael's aborted attempts. He shoves his chair back and stands slowly, nodding at Rafael. "Wood," is all he says, like a directive, and heads for the back door. Pauses by the den, grunts at Stevie, who looks up. "Wood," he repeats, and Stevie blinks, then nods and breathes in deep, gently shifting his child off his lap and towards his wife, who just smiles at him and takes her. He rises as well, following Brian out the back.

Will is drowsing at the foot of the porch stairs in lupus. His head lifts when the others come out, nose sniffing the air, and then he rolls onto his feet and begins padding towards the shed at the back of the fence, back of the garden.

Rafael

Doesn't escape his notice that it's just the males going to gather the wood. He likes that. Can't quite say why, but he does. Likes the tradition implicit in it. Old ways, old rules. Likes that -- in a way that has nothing to do with status or worth -- there are things in this house that are the responsibility of the men. Their broad shoulders, their strong backs.

Out at the woodshed they help each other, loading split firewood into each other's arms. Wood knocks hollowly on wood, well-cured and dry. Full laden, the wolf starts back, stomping up the back porch and backing through the kitchen door.

Devon

Behind him, as he follows Brian and joins Stevie and then Will outside in the dark, Sheila is putting away her knitting and Devon is going over to the little corner altar, the drawers that live under the tabletop. In the den, Hope is quietly rousing Eleanor and Thomas, who know it's not quite bedtime but are sleepy and lulled all the same. They blink over and over and she tells them they're going to build some fires, do they want to come? And they vaguely remember something like this. They want to come. Thomas glances around and then, after a Look at his sister, shuffles out of the room and then out the back door. He jogs across the grass to catch up with Brian and Rafael and Stevie and Will, sticking close to his father.

He is not a man. But he knows he belongs out here, all the same. Even if his feet are bare and it's cold outside. It's okay. He's tough.

There is wood piled high under the long eaves of the shed. No firewood trees in this neighborhood, but they get it from a family friend. It's well seasoned, dry as it can be living so close to the river. Everyone takes full armloads, except for Will, who follows them, sniffing at the wood, wagging his tail here and there. Thomas gets his arms stacked with sticks and kindling, to refill the baskets by each hearth. Their breath steams as they head indoors again. Devon is in the living room already, bent over, filling Eleanor's palms with an assortment of herbs. Rafael can't tell what most of them are on sight, but he of course recognizes the pinecones, the acorns, dried orange peel. Hope is gathering some up, too. Devon has her own. Sheila carries a basket, though, filled with the stuff. The scent is rich: sandalwood and holly, evergreen needles, cinnamon, cloves, dried sunflowers. And plenty others.

Devon looks up; they all do. Eleanor is beaming at Thomas; Hope wants to take some of the wood but Stevie won't let her because you're not supposed to lift anything even though that's really a rule for later in her pregnancy and he's just being a worrywart.

Outside, when it was just the 'menfolk', they were silent. Even Thomas. Inside, when it was just the women of the clan, they were silent. Even Eleanor. Something ritualistic in that. But it goes away when they come back together. Hope and Stevie's little argument about whether she can lift things. Sheila, immediately directing people on where to stack wood, telling Thomas to run up and split the kindling between all three hearths, that's a good boy. Eleanor, go with him and make sure the flues are open. Good girl.

"Come on," Devon says to Rafael. She, Hope, and Stevie all seem to know what to do now. They're heading up the stairs, while Brian starts laying and stacking logs in the fireplace in the living room. Hope and Stevie stop at the second floor, go towards Brian and Sheila's bedroom. Devon keeps on heading upward, leading Rafael with her.

"You all come back down when it's ready," Sheila calls. And at least three voices, including Devon's, call back:

WE KNOW.

Rafael

He didn't know. So he doesn't call back. Listens, though, and stores it away: when they're done, they go back down. All right.

Just him and girl now. Heading up to the third floor where her room is. Truth is he barely noticed the hearth earlier. Was more concerned with the girl in the bed. Sees it now, though, and is unsurprised: it is a Fianna home. Of course there are hearths on every floor, in every bedroom.

Girl lays down the kindling. Wolf watches, his arms full of wood. There's no argument over who carries what. It is understood and accepted: he has strength to spare. When she is ready she takes wood from him, one split-log at a time, stacking and latticing, leaving room for the fire to breathe. When she's done he sets down the extra wood by the fireplace, out of the way where no one will trip, where no sparks will fly.

"Got a match?"

Devon

At least most of the rooms. The craft room doesn't have a fireplace. The guest room doesn't have a fireplace. But oh well. House this size: three is plenty.

Thomas is still in there, stacking kindling. Eleanor is trying to help, having already opened the flue, but when Devon and Rafael enter her room, they scatter. "That's good," Devon tells them. "Scoot. Go back downstairs." They laugh and go, Eleanor clutching her handfuls of herbs, dropping an acorn somewhere. Footsteps resound down the stairs.

Devon heaves a breath and all but flops to her knees (though not really) in front of the firepace. She goes about fixing the kindling-stacking that Thomas did. And then she beckons at him to get down with her. He hesitates, so she says: "Like this," and takes the first log, then another, showing him how to put them together. "Fire needs earth, but air, too. Has to breathe. You can't pack them too close."

So he puts in a couple of logs, and then they put the rest in the basket with the kindling. He asks if she has a match and she shakes her head, smiling. Rises up, reaching down for his hand. "That's why we have to go back down. You'll see. You'll love it. Come on,"

and she seems so eager, running out of her room, down the hall, galloping down the stairs with him until they hit the ground floor. Everyone is already back down there, gathered around the first and largest hearth. Devon comes over with Rafael, and without further ado, Brian lights a long fireplace match and leans over with a grunt, touching the flame to the kindling here and there, blowing gently. He doesn't fuss with it much; he was the one to stack this fire, and it's getting going quickly, expertly. They stand together, watching it go, and that may be when it's noticable that Will isn't there.

Rafael

They work together. He is not terribly proficient -- hasn't had a lot of experience building fires. There's a simple logic to it, though. Fire needs earth and air. Has to breathe. He looks at her as she says this. Thinks of her, inexplicably. Needs earth. Needs air. Needs to breathe.

He takes her hand as he rises. Pulls her into him and wraps his arms around her and hugs her, quick and close and tight. Says little of it. They part; she runs down the stairs and he follows two steps at a time. The family has gathered. Hairs on wolf's forearms stand on end. The air feels charged; magical. He looks about. Leans down to the girl:

"Will's not here?"

Devon

Before they go downstairs:

he pulls her close. One of her hands is wrapped around herbs and so on; she smiles, and leans into the hug anyway. Wraps her free arm around him. Nuzzles his chest. But then they go; they have Aunt Sheila to obey.

And downstairs:

Will's not here?

Devon looks up at him, glancing between the fire and his eyes. She gives a tiny one-shouldered shrug. "He's... here. But..."

The fire in the fireplace whooses upward suddenly, a rush of flames wrapping around the logs, heating the entire hearth, lighting up the room for a moment. Eleanor and Thomas both shriek in surprise, having forgotten last year clearly. But they're laughing, and the fire only stays that intense for a moment before settling in to a comfortable blaze. Devon is laughing, too. Leans over to Rafael, as Sheila is stepping toward the fire.

"He's on the other side. When we have a Theurge nearby, they'll talk to the fire spirits for us. Nudge them along." But she quiets, watches Sheila, who takes some of the matter in her basket and tosses it into the fire. The scents of orange and clove and cinnamon and pine and many others begin to fill the room, burning away on the blessed fire. But it's Brian who reaches down, picking up a thick stick of kindling and lighting it in the blaze, then handing it over to Stevie. Who gets rather animated about it:

"Onward!" he booms, in a rich, low voice, starting to march towards the stairway. Eleanor and Thomas are the first to fall in after him, marching away with their mother behind them. Brian and Sheila follow Devon and Rafael upward, and Devon holds his hand all the way, tight and warm and adoring. Her face is glowing.

--

Stevie is no idiot with his makeshift torch. He protects it with a cupped hand. He does not walk slowly, but he moves steadily to the second floor, turning a corner to go towards Brian and Sheila's room. Tonight there are little to no territorial lines in this house. They are a family. They are a clan. And they go inside, over to the brick-lined hearth, and here: Stevie lights the fire. Gives his kindling-torch to the flames. Steps back, making sure his children do, too. They're excited now, expectant.

WHOOSH!

Devon actually shrieks a little this time in laughter, too, as the flames lick the very chimney.

Rafael

WHOOSH.

Wolf startles. It's sheer instinct, an animal's fear of fire. Devon -- laughing -- gets pushed behind him. Kids shriek. He'd have thrown himself in front of them, too, but by then conscious thought has asserted itself. He knows: it is Will's doing. Nudging the fire spirits along.

--

Second time the fire goes up, the wolf simply jerks a little. Blinks at the sudden heat, light. Doesn't jump. Doesn't shove anyone anywhere. Girl's laughing again, and he glances at her, smile toying with the corner of his mouth.

A beat of pause. Then he steps forward. No one asks him; no one has to. He reaches into the hearth and pulls out a stout, flaming stick. Straightens, looking to the girl to see if he did it right. If this is right.

And if it is:

"Onward." Feels a little silly saying it, but says it anyway. And leads the way up the stairs.

Devon

Rafael nudging himself in front of Devon just makes her laugh all the harder. She has her head leaned back, and Sheila is laughing too, and none of them are really laughing at Rafael, just... the fire. The playfulness of it. The kids' delight infecting them, the joy humans have in firefirefireYAY. It's so dark outside. They're making it so bright and warm inside. That is what they do.

She kisses his wrist, briefly, when she tugs him back, though. Waitwaitwait. Just a moment, though she doesn't say it. Because Hope comes over, with Eleanor beside her, and they both start throwing things in the fire as Sheila did. Acorns and evergreen, mugwort, orange peels, holly berries that pop inside the fireplace seconds after entering it. Myrrh, sandalwood. Eleanor is gleeful about it, and Thomas looks a little jealous, having already forgotten that he had his part in the ritual outside, he's one of them, he walked barefoot on the grass with a wolf. It's all right; over time, he'll understand. He'll take it more seriously. He'll be less envious of his twin sister.

But then, Devon lets Rafael go. Watches him get a stick. He pulls straight from the fire, unafraid of being burnt. He looks at her and she's grinning. And he says Onward, though he doesn't have to, and she knows he just wants to do it right, he doesn't want to mess anything up for her family. She just knows. Can see it in his eyes, clear, reflected by the fire. But he says Onward, and she goes with him, the kids and the grown-ups all tromping along behind her, up to the third floor, down the hall, into her bedroom. It's the smallest room that has a fireplace, so they pack in around it, between the foot of her bed and the edge of the hearth.

Of course her room is a mess. Neither of them made the bed or picked up clothes. At least there's no underwear laying out; Devon did make sure of that earlier, kicking some of his boxers under the bed and stuffing her panties under a pillow.

Rafael

Fire dancing at the end of that makeshift torch lights the room. Casts shifting shadows over heaps of unruly clothes, an unmade bed. Dances in girl's eyes. Catches in wolf's, too, gleaming brilliant as he leans down to the hearth.

This time he is prepared for it. When fire leaps up, eager and devouring, sucking air in with such ferocity they all feel their ears pop gently, he doesn't flinch at all. He tosses his kindling in and then steps back, knowing what comes next.

The spices. The scents. The handfuls of sweet, fragrant things, to remind one of spring even as the season turns toward the darkest day.

Devon

Rafael lights the fire in Devon's hearth.

That is what literally happens. It is also an apt metaphor.

--

Which is probably why she's laughing even before the fire whooshes upward. It's more subdued, though, and no one is startled by the flames dancing up this time. And it's Devon's turn. She carries her little handful of herbs forward. Tosses them in, one at a time, and everyone's getting sort of quiet now. Scents fill the room again, as before. Devon steps back, close to Rafael again, watching the flames.

A little time goes by; moments only. There's a sensation near the window, rippling and cold, and a few moments later, Will steps over, standing next to Rafael.

The fire crackles.

Rafael

Feels symbolic. He lights the fire. She blesses it.

Feels important.

There's something old about the ritual. Antiquated; medieval. There's something about it that reminds him of other rituals: the bedding of the groom and bride. Truth is he wants everyone to leave them now. Walk out, walk away, close the door. Leave the two of them alone, where they can undress each other, go to bed. Rut upon the sheets the way man and beast alike do, and have, since the dawn of life. Fuck for warmth. Fuck for survival, not just of the individual but of the species.

The veil between the worlds tears. Wolf reaches over as Will appears, stands by him. He clasps the other on the shoulder, brief and firm. Nods at the fire.

"You wanna take a fire out with you? Have a light out where you are?"

Devon

Will accepts the gesture, calm and steady. He smells like the spirit world. He smells like pure fire. His fingertips are burned slightly, throbbing painfully. It will heal. He'll return to lupus soon, go outside, curl up in the grasses and watch his paws soothe again. But for now, he stands with his family, and with another wolf who is participating in family rituals, and huffs a little laugh. Shakes his head. "It's all right." Fires for the hearths; light for the mortals, who fear the dark and cannot withstand the cold. The moonlight for him; the earth. The wind. The stars -- long lost cousins to the very flames that burn in this house. Besides:

"I won't be... here, tonight." He looks a little shy about saying it, but the sheepishness only barely shows. He won't be sleeping in the house tonight. Or out back. He has... somewhere else to be. Someone else to be with.

Devon steps over in front of Rafael, to put his warmth at her back and the fire's warmth at her face. She wraps his arms around her. She thinks she feels a slight hardness pressing against her, but it could be her imagination. She looks over at Will, smiling at him. He just gives her a little nod. She snuggles against Rafael again, satisfied.

Then Eleanor yawns, loud, squeaking at the end. She is unashamed. Thomas catches it though. He yawns too. And it spreads. It's barely even bedtime for them, but they feel it in their bones: full bellies, dark night, warm fires. Family gathered, even the wolves. Instinct takes over: instinct from ages so long ago that even the children of humans have forgotten them. These are the children of wolf-people, and they know to sleep when they can, because they may need to rise up in the dark to hunt, or to run, or to tend a fire. They may wake with the sun.

But no one breaks the circle. Not until Brian does. He grunts, squeezing his arm around his mate, and kisses her temple, the top of her head. Doesn't say a goddamn word. He just turns with her, heading for the door. Claps Rafael on the arm as he passes. Sheila does, too, but more of a patting motion. "Goodnight, honey," is all she says to him.

Stevie and Hope are heading out, too, shepherding their children ahead. "Is it bedtime?" asks Eleanor, looking upward, but she can't say the word without yawning.

"We'll brush teeth first," Hope says. Of course she does. She leans over, giving Devon a kiss on the cheek. Says goodnight. Stevie gives a little upward nod to the wolves by way of farewell, taking his kids down a floor to get them ready for bed with his mate.

Will is only too happy to get out. He leans over, bumping his shoulder against Rafael's, squeezing Devon's hand for a second, and then he goes to the window, to his reflection in the darkened panes, and a moment later, he's gone.

Just the fire. Just the closed door. Just Devon and Rafael.