that fucking girl with the fucking eyes.

Rafael

Afternoon of the next day and he drives her to work. No Franklin; just wolf and witch on the back of his bike. Weather's still nice enough, iceless enough, that he can ride around on two wheels and not worry about wrecking. She has her own helmet now. He bought one for her, let her spray paint it or stick decals on it as she likes. For all he knows it's hot pink, sparkly.

He drops her at the curb, pulling his helmet off as he sits back. God but they're almost a cliche: hot girl with her dramatic makeup and her hip-goth style and her hot boyfriend brooding on the back of a motorcycle. He wraps an arm around her waist while he kisses her goodbye.

Then he puts his helmet back on. Rumbles off around the corner. Someone tosses her an apron as she goes through the doors. Jeff's swamped, can you help?

--

Hours go by and then it's closing time. Last of the customers leave. They have to flush out the espresso machine, clean out the coffee filters. Start the dishwasher and wipe down the tables, mop the floors. Sort of sucks to close, but girl's boyfriend is almost nocturnal and this way she spends some time with him sometimes. He said he'd come pick her up so she saves him a muffin, one of those cranberry-orange ones that he likes. Told her once, one of his few grunted opinions on the fare at this place.

Eleven o'clock comes and goes and no one shows up, though. Eleven thirty and they're just about done cleaning up, everyone's saying goodnight and picking up their stuff. Jeff's still grateful for the help earlier, pauses on his way out and asks if she needs a ride.

Midnight comes, midnight goes. Then, fifty minutes late, wolf pulls up on his bike. Asshole. He pulls his helmet off and tucks it under his arm, comes up to the cafe door with that rolling feral stride. It's locked. He tugs on it, then frowns, raps with his gloved hand.

There's a scratch on his cheek. Makes him look rakish, dangerous. He's been fighting. Of course he has.

Devon

She's had her own helmet for a while. Black. Stuff all over it. Maybe they're sigils of protection. Maybe they're just her drawing aimlessly with that white paint pen she had. Comes off her head when they get to Hooked and it's surprisingly warm still for November, with snow threatened later in the week. She's wearing some ripped-up black tights and some heavy black boots and a short-sleeved black dress, a lazy belt hanging around her hips. Eyeliner. All that shit.

They kiss when she gets off the bike, her arms around his neck and him still straddling the thing, his arm on her waist rucking up her clothes a bit, scandalously. Devon kisses him lingeringly, fully, lushly, before licking her lips and letting him go. She heads inside.

Someone throws an apron at her and she throws it right back, automatically. Jeff needs help. Devon quirks a brow and takes her time. Clocks in, puts her stuff away, and when she's damn well ready and her shift has actually started, she does help Jeff a bit. She is not the kind, generous, gentle creature some would like her to be, or imagine her to be. They want to throw aprons at her as soon as she walks in the door, they'll need to pay her a few bucks more an hour.

--

The only way to save something specific and special for her boyfriend, who likes the cranberry-orange things, is to actually buy it and set it aside. That's what Devon does, though. Everyone likes the cranberry-orange ones. So she wraps hers up in a napkin and puts it gingerly in her backpack and saves it there while she works. Cleans up after people who couldn't be fucked to take their empty cups to the counter. Makes coffee. Fiddles with the fancy-schmancy iPad POS system when it lags, and mentally curses the thing when it keeps lagging because her fiddling is totally pointless, this is why she hates computers.

They close. It sucks to close but it doesn't suck to close if you like the people you work with, and Devon tolerates-slash-likes them about as much as she tolerates-slash-likes anyone. They know her as quiet and a bit standoffish, fit and mysterious, with the occasional dry comment that is unexpectedly funny or a little uncomfortably insightful, which only makes them go quiet and makes Devon stop talking again. It's not a bad place to work, especially on Colfax.

They finish closing and he hasn't shown up. She noticed that before they locked the doors: usually he's back by then, always seems to want to hang out nearby and watch her work or eat a muffin or just... be near. He never really makes her wait on him. So naturally, around eleven thirty when they're all heading outside, Devon is not pissed off. She's anxious. She's worried. She's fighting off worst case scenarios and settling on the one that makes most sense: he's hunting or something. This is What He Does.

Jeff is grateful that Devon helped at all even if she was stubborn about it, and offers a ride. Devon does not turn it down.

--

Fifty minutes late and Hooked is closed, locked, dark. There is no one there. Devon is not hanging out waiting for him outside. Devon is not waiting in the darkness inside alone. Devon is not there.

Rafael

Cafe's dark and locked. All the tugging on the door won't change that. Could break in but really, that's overreactive even for him.

So wolf gives up, lets go. Turns and walks back to where bike's parked on curb, frowning. He pulls his cellphone out and for a while he's standing there, big tough guy in his motorcycle boots head-down over a tiny little bit of technology. He texts:

Go home already?

Devon

Gets a text back almost immediately.

Yeah.

Then another one, clarifying:

Your place. You all right?

Rafael

Y was hunting

And a couple seconds later:

Home soon

--

Which he is. Rumble of his motorcycle pulling up, then the rattle of the garage door opening. Wolf pulls in, kills the engine, gets off and stomps inside. Leaves his helmet on the bike. Pulls his gloves off as he heads in through the garage door, passing the laundry room, the hamper.

Devon

Devon does not smell like a coffee shop like she did when she left work. She smells like the stuff she washes with when she's here, which is her own stuff, because his stuff is made for boys. It's soft, and herbal, and her hair is damp but no longer soaking wet. It hangs down her back in those loose curls, those long waves. She's in his kitchen, standing at the stove over a large pot, stirring it idly with a long wooden spoon. Steam rises, smells like... onions and celery and smoked sausage and rosemary and thyme and bay leaves. It's harder to smell the white navy beans also filling the pot, but everything else is in there, peppery and savory.

There is a bag of bright green baby spinach sitting off to the side, waiting to be added. Perhaps he eyes it suspiciously, because it is green.

The woman he's dating, fucking, and nearly always sleeping over with is standing there in a pair of his boxers, blue with white pinstripes. She is wearing one of her own t-shirts, black with a white screenprint of a naked, longhaired woman riding an unsheared ram. Or goat, rearing up and running off. Her socks are red and white striped and slouching down her calves. For once she's not wearing bracelets, rings, whatever; her eye makeup is all gone. Her hair smells like white tea and jasmine and some other fragrant oil she puts on it to keep it from frizzing out after she washes.

She looks over at him when he comes in. Sees the scratch, says nothing. He certainly does look rakish and wicked. Rough. Hot.

"Glad you're all right," she says, by way of greeting.

Rafael

Girl's wearing his underwear. Her t-shirt. Graphic is one of the witchiest things he's ever seen, which he supposes is appropriate. She's cooking, which makes him come over immediately -- as if he wouldn't have otherwise, seeing her.

Claps his gloves onto the breakfast bar. Peels out of his jacket, which means he doesn't have arms to put around her; which means he just bumps his brow against her temple, rough and affectionate, his beard-bristle scratching her neck when he kisses her there.

"Sorry was late." He tosses the jacket over the breakfast bar. It lands more or less on one of the stools. "You making jambalaya or something?"

Devon

Handsless, Rafael nuzzles her, nudges her, and she takes her free arm to slide around his waist, under his jacket. He kisses her neck and she smirks, stirring.

"Got a ride with Jeff," is all she says to his apology. He sheds his jacket and she glances over, instinctive almost, glancing over his body. Shakes her head as she turns back to the soup, lifting a handful of spinach and dumping it on top. Then another handful. Three whole handfuls of green stuff. Is she trying to kill him?

"Just a soup. Sausage and navy beans. They got more bread, so..." one shoulder shrugs. Soup seemed like a good thing to make. She says 'they' -- she barely knows his staff, or who is responsible for the grocery shopping. One of them. One of the They.

Rafael

"You trying to kill me?" he protests with that third handful of green stuff. Hands free now, he still doesn't put his arms around her. Stands close to her though. Closer than strictly necessary, his heat radiating against her back as she stirs the spinach in. "Not Popeye.

"This a recipe? Or just something you made up?"

Devon

"You're not the only one eating it," she retorts, stirring the soup as the spinach wilts into the mixture. It smells good still. Not like a plant. Still smells like sausage, mostly. "Don't have to eat it, either." Nods over at the counter. The breadbox. Chewy, crusty bread in there. And a muffin wrapped in a napkin, smells like cranberries and oranges. "You can have a muffin."

He stands against her. Asks about the soup. "Recipe. Fit what we had."

We.

Rafael

Muffin. That gets his attention. He leaves, he goes to the breadbox, he rummages and finds the wrapped muffin. Takes it out -- along with a loaf of chewy, crusty, expensive artisan bread, whatever the fuck that means -- and comes back. Sets the bread down beside her as though he expected her to use it for her soup, or something.

"Thanks," he says, and unwraps the muffin, starts eating it. Breaks off a piece of the top and gives it to her.

"Listen," a little later, "thing I hunted tonight -- think I saw him at one of those Halloween parties. Could be wrong, but." Shrugs. "Be careful."

Devon

She snorts a little, however delicate that sounds from her tiny nose. Stupid muffin. She's making him a full meal in a pot, a veritable cauldron, but he goes for the damn muffin. Brings the bread to her like he found it! Look! Look what he found in the place where she told him it was.

Devon doesn't want the bite of muffin right now, but she keeps stirring. Turns the flame on the oven down a bit further and then steps back, leaning her hip against the counter.

Her brow wrinkles. "What do you mean?"

Rafael

So that bite of muffin pops into his mouth instead. And he leans back against the kitchen island while she leans against the counter; they face each other, more or less.

"Know what a fomor is?"

Devon

Her brow wrinkles a bit more in doubt and bewilderment. "The fomorians? Water monsters from after the flood?"

Rafael

"What?" Now they're both bewildered. "No. Fomor. Like... wyrm-zombies."

Devon

Devon just stares at him. "Wyrm or..." one finger lifts up, wriggles, "worm?"

Rafael

"Wyrm." He draws the y out, makes it a diphthong. "Dragon. Wyrm." Look who's all caught up on pre-modern English.

"Okay. Listen. Crash course. Stop me if you know something already. There's Wyrm, Weaver, and Wyld. Right? The Maker, the Keeper, the Destroyer. Wyrm went nuts, maybe because Weaver made it nuts. Anyway, now it's out of control, the essence of corruption.

"There's a spirit world out there. Umbra. It's where wolves go when we disappear into thin air. Lots of kinds of spirits. Animal spirits and elemental spirits and spirits of places and things and ideas. Not all spirits are aligned to one of the three, but some are. The ones aligned to Wyrm, we call them banes.

"Wolves -- werewolves -- we're half-spirit. We're born that way. But other things can ... invite spirits into them. Sometimes willingly, and then they're mediums or channels or whatever. Sometimes they get possessed. A lot of spirits can possess, but when a bane possesses someone, that's called a fomor. It's a thing, usually a human, who's been possessed by a bane. Usually they get sick powers out of it. Like mutants.

"Follow me so far?"

Devon

She scowls at him a little at the drawing-out of the y sound, slow like she's stupid. Her eyebrows do perk a bit when he proves that he knows. You know. Stuff.

Devon turns the flame off halfway through his explanation. He goes into the Triat and she waves her hand at him before he even gets to Wyld. "Right, right," she says, moving the pot to a cold burner with both hands. He moves on.

Spirit world, Umbra. She gives him a Look, but doesn't interrupt this time. Because he gets where he's going rather quickly: some spirits are aligned with one of the pieces of the Triat. Which she can't remember if anyone ever told her. It sounds right. It sounds like something she knows, but didn't know. Was never told.

But knew.

So now Devon is paying attention. Mostly. She is also getting bowls down from the cupboard. Banes, he says. She knows she never knew this. She is ladling soup into two sturdy stoneware bowls, thinking as he is talking. Willingly. She's never been a medium. She's met a medium, once, back in Boston. Another person she's pretty sure was a medium, over in London. He talks about possession and she thinks about black magic. What happens when the nine new pins touch one another inside the wax doll, how the curse rebounds against the caster. Some magic is simple, easy, gentle. The really crazy stuff is easy to fuck up.

Devon tears off some bread and stuffs it into the soup, holding the bowl out to him. "When a bane possesses someone, that person becomes a fomor. Which is a wyrm-zombie, but not dead. You just used that word to show how gross it is," she says.

Rafael

"Yeah." He takes the bowl. Some stupid, primitive, club-carrying, knuckle-dragging part of him likes this. Likes that he came home and she was here. Likes that she made food, hearty and hot. He doesn't want to eat standing up tonight, though he does that often enough. Just seems special, girl cooking for him.

So he nods her toward the dining table, which they use so rarely. Picks up the bread, too, carrying it over there. Wherever she sits, he sits just across a corner from her, close by.

Breaks bread. Dips, tears with teeth, chews.

"Not always dead anyway. Sometimes banes can possess the dead. Guess they're technically not fomori. We call 'em flesh puppets. Because they are."

Devon

Devon has her bowl. She seems content to stand there in the kitchen listening to Rafael talk about fomori while she eats her soup with the crusty, chewy bread. She doesn't know what he's thinking; she can't see it on her face. Her magic is in divination, herbalism, even the sometimes frightening and often suspect telekinesis she has... but she's never heard thoughts. Not that she can remember. Who knows what she would think, or feel, if she could sense his pleasure, and understood where it really came from. So she just starts eating, because she's fucking hungry after a nine-hour shift at Hooked.

Then Rafael indicates the table, and Devon stops leaning against the counter, following him to the table. She plunks down, their chairs close enough at the corner that their knees touch under the table. They eat. He talks.

And she nearly gags when he says 'flesh puppets'. "Jesus. Rafa, that's gross."

Rafael

Wolf snorts a little, faintly amused. "Yeah. Sorry."

Shrugs his shoulders, then. "Anyway. Hunted down a fomor tonight. Pretty sure saw him at one of those parties on Halloween. Maybe he wasn't turned then, but still. Be careful. Know you like to go to random things. Never know what might show up."

Devon

"Oh," she says.

Thinks. Silently, while she eats some soup. Some bread. Chews the sausage, the spinach, the white beans, thoughtful and slow and quiet long enough that maybe they just hunker down over their bowls and eat dinner for a while.

"That's not much different from normal, though," she finally concludes.

Rafael

He thinks about it too. They eat their soup. He tears his bread up, dips it, munches on sausage. Food's good. She's probably not a better cook than his hired professional chef, but he thinks she is.

Thinks it'd be a nice way to spend a lifetime. He could hunt and plant. She could cook and brew.

"Yeah," he agrees after a while. "Guess not."

Devon

She is not a better cook. It's just a really, really simple recipe.

Their knees still touch under the table, rubbing against each other a little. Hers is bare; his is under thick denim. He eats spinach and doesn't die. There's even carrots and celery in there and he seems like he's surviving. No gagging, coughing, or suddenly grabbing his throat and keeling over.

Devon is quiet. Doesn't lift her eyes from her bowl for a while as she eats. Some of that is because she was fucking starving. Some of it is other reasons.

Rafael

Wolf eats with gusto, but -- surprisingly -- he's not a complete slob. There's no soup slopping down the front of his shirt. He doesn't smack his lips when he chews. Actually, apart from the speed and enthusiasm -- and the not-unusual clink of his silverware against the bowl -- his table manners aren't half bad. Soon enough he's finished, and stands up to return to the kitchen.

Comes back with a second helping. Plus that half-eaten muffin, which he thinks she saved for him, but she actually bought for him. It would make him sad if he knew. He wants her to keep her money for herself, buy nice things. He knows it's hard-earned, whereas his wealth simply fell on his lap.

After a while, his second bowl is emptied. He pulls the muffin over and starts eating that, piece by piece, breaking off moist little mouthfuls with his fingers.

Devon

They eat. That's a simple way to sum it up: they eat hungrily, and though it takes her as long to get through one bowl and some bread as it takes for him to tear through two bowls and half a loaf, that is not unusual. He comes back with the muffin, which makes her smirk a little, clueless that it would bum him out to discover she bought him a present. A treat. Because he likes them, because it makes him happy when she saves him something. He told her so.

They told each other how much they want to make each other happy.

She leans back, her bowl mostly empty and her bread gone. Folds her hands over her stomach, watching him take his little bites of muffin... rather than stuff it in his face. She smiles. He doesn't see for a while.

Looks up at her.

She is still smiling.

Rafael

He's caught off-guard by that smile. She's just a girl, a young woman in her early twenties with all the foibles that implies. But sometimes there's such mystery to her; such a sense of age beyond age.

He has the edge of his thumb in his mouth. Was sucking a crumb off. Takes it out. "What?"

Devon

Devon, wordlessly and letting her smile melt away, just shrugs. Flicks a brow. Leans back in her chair, propping her feet up onto his lap. They're so close that it's not really her feet, though. More like her calves.

Rafael

This small invasion of territory is accepted without a bat of his lashes. She's his girl, after all. He wouldn't chase her off.

Doesn't answer 'what'. So wolf sort of shrugs one shoulder, goes back to eating his muffin. Tries to offer her a piece again; doesn't blame her if she doesn't eat it. He's been sucking crumbs off those fingers with which he keeps breaking off little pieces.

When the muffin's done, he grabs a napkin, wipes his hands. Then he leans back. Drops his hand to her ankle. Her legs are bare. It's warm in his house. He still ends up curling his palm over her toes.

"Thanks for the muffin," he says. "And soup."

Devon

Over her socks, over her toes. Warms her there, because her feet get cold. She wears socks to bed half the time because her stupid extremities get chilled. She smiles at him again, less mysterious this time, more warm. Wiggles her toes in his hand: hello, hello.

"Come here," she says, slipping her legs off his lap. "Pick me up."

Rafael

Edge of his mouth quirks. Could tease her about telling him not to pick her up, move her about. Doesn't. Knows the difference. Knows that's a serious topic; nothing to joke about.

Wolf tosses his napkin down, pushes his chair back. He rises up and comes over -- not so far. Bends down and scoops her up, keeping her close.

Devon

Wouldn't have known, a year ago. Or would have pretended not to care. Or more simply: might not have cared. Now he knows, and he cares, and he doesn't make a joke of something he knows would hurt her.

She grins at him as he complies, though. Holds her arms up and is scooped up, fireman-carry style, arms around his neck now, legs over his arm. "Upstairs," she says.

Rafael

"Oughta charge for this," he says, smirking. "Rafa-Uber. Tips accepted."

Complies, again. Takes her out of the dining area, winds their way up the stairs. Since she moved out, the room she occupied has gone into disuse again. There's a guest bed in there, and the maid keeps the toiletries and towels and sheets fresh. Wolf never has any guests though, antisocial thing that he is. He doesn't take her down that way anyway. Takes her into his bedroom instead, pausing by the door so she can shut it.

Devon

"I made you dinner," she retorts. "This is my pay."

There's no discussion about where he's taking her. Upstairs. His bedroom. That stark, cool place, clean and smooth and usually rather dark. It makes her think of him. It feels like him, even when he's not there.

Devon shuts the door, and points at the bathroom.

Rafael

Wolf huffs a laugh. "Yeah. All right. Fair."

He is pointed toward the bathroom. Carries her there. They're caught in the mirror, reflected: her bare legs over his arm, her bare arm around his neck. Again he pauses. By the light switches this time.

Devon

Devon reaches over and flicks the lights on. They dazzle, reflected against the mirror, against shining porcelain, chrome, white tile. It's been cleaned since the last time he was here, but not since she came over and showered. There's a damp towel hung over the bar. There's her stuff, mostly for her hair, scattered messily on the counter. There's her work clothes, in a pile on the floor.

She kisses him, her hands on his face, slow and soft. It's like the way she kissed him while he was on his motorcycle hours and hours and hours ago. Half a day ago. She murmurs a sound of appreciation into his mouth, and then smiles at him.

"All right," she says. "Put me down."

Rafael

He remembers that kiss. Slow and soft. Thoroughly intimate, though not indecent. They kissed like lovers; they kissed as though they had nothing to hide or fear or prove.

They kiss like that now, and when they're done he sets her down, carefully. Waits to see what she'll do now.

Devon

Devon begins to undress him.

That's what she does now.

Rafael

Well.

At least there's little guesswork about it. He looks at her hands at the hem of his shirt. Lifts his arms and she draws it up. He ducks his head. She pulls it off. She drops it ... wherever.

He reaches for her shirt. That thing with the witchy, witchy graphic. He pulls it off the same way. It almost feels ritualistic.

Devon

Devon's shedding his clothes for him. No jacket, no gloves: she takes off his shirt and admires him as the cotton lifts, smiling at his abdomen, his chest. Smiles more as he drops the t-shirt. She touches him, smoothing her palms over his skin,

pure enjoyment.

Then he reaches for her shirt. And she dances a step back, swats at his hands. Puts up a warning finger, gives him a warning Look.

Rafael

It's like she's decided to use words as little as possible tonight. He reaches for her shirt; he gets swatted. He huffs a faint laugh and drops his hands. Fine. She can keep her witchy shirt on. Maybe she'll go back to touching him. That was nice.

Devon

Rafael, obedient, drops his hands. She smiles at him and steps back towards him,

steps closer,

steps into him. Her head tips to the side, her mouth coming to rest a kiss on his chest, over his heart. Her body is pressed up against his, her arms around his waist. She likes the feel of his back under her hands. She likes the dip of his spine, the firm smoothness of his skin. So she licks him. Not his nipple. Just... him. Quick, flicking, a taste and no more.

Then she steps back, and she undoes his belt. Doesn't thread it out of his jeans; no bother. She undoes the button, and slowly the zipper. It occurs to her that she should slip her hand into his pants and stroke his cock through his boxers; she does so like it when he's hard. She sometimes doesn't even care if they fuck. She just likes it, a lot, when his cock is hard. So.... fucking hard.

She breathes out, resisting the urge though the mere thought of it arouses her, and shucks his jeans down his body. He can step out of those once they fall past his calves; she is gently, carefully drawing his boxers down too. Bites her lower lip, to see him naked, and then sighs a breath out.

Steps back. Looks at him, for a few heartbeats. Smiles, dreamily, to herself.

Then turns around and turns on the shower. Closes the curtain again while the water warms up and then turns on her heel, starts to head out past him, out of the bathroom. He can see the faint flush in her cheeks, even though there's a smirk glinting in her eyes. "You smell weird," she informs him, sauntering out. She is only barely fighting off a grin.

Rafael

Once, near the beginning, she tried to get close to him in the immediate aftermath of a hunt. He rebuffed her. She was stung; thought he didn't want her. He was infuriated; thought she was taking unnecessary risks.

Strange that it doesn't even occur to them now. She licks him, and he doesn't stop her. Far from it. Just -- inhales, slow and smooth. Holds his breath, though he doesn't realize it, when she undoes his pants. When she pulls down his boxers.

Probably no surprise that he's half-masted by then. She sighs that little breath out. Bites her lip. He gets this stupid smirk on his face. Probably congratulating himself on his dick. But then she steps back, and he tilts his head. She smiles. He wants to ask again: what?

He thinks he knows what when she turns on the shower. He starts following her, but: he's wrong. She starts leaving. He turns --

"What?"

Devon

Devon turns her head to look at him past her shoulder. Her eyes glint and glimmer. She is smirking, trying so hard not to grin at him.

"You stink," she repeats, more bluntly though. "You can come to bed when you've showered."

Rafael

"Witch," he calls her,

not spitefully or hatefully or resentfully, no. Smirkingly, knowingly -- admiringly.

She saunters out of there. Skinny thing. Nice ass, too. Butt. He watches her go, and when he thinks she isn't looking, he reaches down and gives himself a tug or two. And then steps into the shower, which is already warm, already steaming.

--

Five, ten minutes later he comes out. Clean, smelling like whatever products his housekeeper stocks his shower with because damned if he knows. He doesn't stop by the sink, doesn't shave or brush his teeth. He comes straight to bed, toweling off as he comes -- under his arms, behind his neck, his lower calves where the hair on his legs traps the water. More or less dry by the time he gets there. Drops his towel. He's standing at her side of the bed, nods her over.

"Scooch."

Devon

That makes her eyebrows lift, dry and knowing. She leaves. Hard to make out her skinny little ass in those shorts of his, but... he knows it's there. Maybe that's all he cares about. She leaves the bathroom door cracked but mostly closed, because she really does want him to shower. Even calls out:

"Don't forget to brush your teeth!" before she leaves.

She does not see him jerk himself off a little. Poor Rafael. If he knew: she might not leave if she saw.

--

When he comes out of the bathroom, drying himself off -- more or less -- he finds her draped on her stomach over the foot of the bed, edge to edge,

naked.

Rafael

So he doesn't tell her to scoot over.

So he doesn't even really finish drying himself.

So he's still damp in places, and there are still droplets of water on his lower legs, when he drops the towel. Comes over to her. Climbs over her on that bed, his hands and knees to either side of her. He leans down; rubs the side of his face against hers, heavy, mute, animal. Well; not quite mute. Growls softly as he nuzzles her ear, her neck.

Devon

The water that drops onto her back -- her ass, her spine -- is cool. She breathes in sharply, arching, turning her face so she can see him past her shoulder.

"You wanna fuck, babe?" she murmurs.

As if the question weren't obvious. As if it weren't already answered.

Rafael

That huffed laugh again. He kisses her when she turns. Rubs himself against her, his cock hard and hot against the cleft of her ass.

"What do you think?"

Devon

He's hard. Maybe still from before he showered. Maybe he stroked himself under the hot water in between runs of soap, shampoo, what-have-you. Maybe seeing her naked body laid out on his bed shot him through with lust so potent that his cock got hard in the three strides it took him to get to her.

It doesn't matter. He's hard, right there, rubbing himself against her, and she likes it.

"I think you have... such a hard cock," she murmurs, lifting her ass a little into the contact.

Rafael

That makes him laugh, not huffed but voiced, low and rough-edged. "Yeah?" His hand slips under her. His palm strokes down her belly; his fingertips rub over her cunt. "You like it?"

Devon

Devon breathes in, deep and sharp, the sound hissing through her teeth. She lifts herself for his hand, opens her thighs a little so that when he finds her, starts stroking her, he has room to move. Room for whatever he might like. However he might want to pleasure her.

She doesn't say anything. She nods a little, though.

Rafael

Might get that stupid little smirk on his face again if it weren't for the fact that she lifts herself like that. Opens her legs like that. Nods like that. He nuzzles her temple, the side of her face. He bites her shoulder -- gently. Rubs heavily against her, shamelessly, while he finds her clit with his fingers. Starts touching her.

Asks her this back, and it's at least in part an honest question:

"You wanna fuck?"

Devon

Sighs, hitched and breath stuttering, as he bites her. As he rubs himself against her, cock and hand. She remembers that hotel up in the mountains near his mansion, the way he fucked her just hours before she had to be back in Denver, on a plane to Boston.

"I want you to go down on me," she gasps, without even thinking. It's just the first thing that comes to mind. Her hand is curling around the comforter, holding it tight in her fist. "Then I want you to fuck me."

Rafael

Never really occurred to him to think about what it might have been like for her, getting on that plane to Boston. After those tumultuous days in the mountains. After staying up most the night before. After fucking just hours before, tenderly and roughly and sweetly and savagely all at once.

Would probably turn him on to consider it. Girl on the plane, probably sleeping all the way there; his smell still lingering on her, her body still echoing with the sex they had.

Would turn him on. Definitely.

--

That's not what comes to mind, though. She tells him what he wants. He reacts with one of those growls, nonverbal, primitive. Rubs his brow against the back of her shoulder, and then kisses her between her shoulderblades. Rears up over her. The mattress jostles. He gets off. He grabs her by the hips and pulls her right to the edge, slip and slide, the comforter coming loose because she's holding on to it. He wants to fuck her, bent over the edge like that. The urge is so strong he almost succumbs.

Goes to his knees instead. Has his dick in hand, stroking himself slow and mindless while he parts her pussy with middle and forefinger; puts his mouth against her cunt. His first lick is light, a soft fluttering, almost shocking in its fineness.

Devon

He forgets that she showered that morning, after a few scant hours of sleep. He's never suggested to her, the girl who showers sometimes twice a day and pees after he fucks her because I like my vagina as she put it once, that the idea of his scent lingering on her body would turn him on. She's never intuited it from how he'll happily stay in bed, stinking of sex, after they've gotten it on.

It hardly matters. She was turned on during that flight, in between naps. She was thinking of him, and how he'd fucked her. They'd only really known each other about a month at that point. The sex was intense, and good, and she was already starting to fall pretty fast for him. And that late-night-early-morning when he'd knelt behind her on the hotel bed and used both of his hands to get her wet, get her ready for him, remains one of the hottest memories she has. She was thinking about him all the way to Boston. She was thinking about him in London. She was wondering if he'd think phone sex was weird, or if he'd be any good at it. Honestly: she was wondering if she would be, too.

--

That was then, though, almost a year ago. Right now they've been together a year. He knows how to get her off. They spent their anniversary in the sacred woods, drinking wine and bathing in the stars. She trusts him.

Even when he jostles off of her and pulls her to the edge of the mattress, she sucks in a breath of a gap but then she just laughs, not knowing how badly he wants to fuck her like this, only knowing that a moment later

he's touching her. He's kissing her pussy, so gently she can't help but cry out in shock and pleasure, trembling against him.

Rafael

She hears him laughing -- not meanly, not viciously. It's warm. Adoring, really. And then he puts his mouth back on her, nuzzling and kissing, licking, lapping.

It goes on for a while. He uses his mouth, mostly. He uses his hand, too, his fingers. Fucks her gently while he tongues her; holds her down, sometimes, with a sort of gentle firm pressure. When she arches, electric. When she squirms away, reflexive. He has that big hand on her back, and he keeps her right there while he

quite frankly

feasts on her. Eats her out thoroughly and hungrily and devotedly, murmuring pleasure at the taste of her. Strange that she has no smell, and yet a discernible flavor. Strange that she smells like she hardly even exists, and yet: here she is, alive and warm and quivering, shuddering, pinned to the present by her own sensory overload.

--

When she comes, he keeps lapping at her. Flicks her clit and sucks at her lips, licks at her pussy.

When she's finished, he rests his brow against the curve of her ass for a moment. Then kisses her there. Then straightens up, grasps her at the waist, slides her back up the bed. Mattress under her thighs. Mattress under her knees. He nudges her legs open a little, and then he climbs over her. Nips and bites at her shoulders, her neck.

Low: "Gonna fuck you now, okay?"

Devon

Devon isn't expecting this. Not for it to go on so long. Not for him to make her come. She holds tight to the comforter beneath her, whimpering and squirming, while her boyfriend opens her thighs a little wider, licks her a little more firmly, a lot more eagerly. She likes it that he holds her down when she wriggles but she's panting for air and can't tell him she likes it. She likes that he uses his fingers but she's moaning, biting the duvet, and can't tell him how it feels. They don't talk to each other at all. He just... yes. Feasts on her, while she succumbs to it. To herself.

Comes bucking a little, arching for air, gasping in the cool darkness of his room. Her skin feels like it's burning, like flames are licking her up and down as hungrily as Rafael himself. It goes on for a while, just like the last time he did this, and there's sweat on her hairline and on the small of her back and everywhere, really, trying to shed the heat that's built up inside of her.

She's shaking a bit as she comes down, the last pulses of her orgasm wringing every last drop of pleasure her body is capable of feeling. She whimpers sharply, once, and he hears the difference, stops rubbing his tongue against her clit before she breaks down in tears from overstimulation. Holds her, though, which helps. Kisses her ass, and she can laugh a little at the sensation but she can't even make any obvious quips about it.

"Nnnno no no no," she pants, when he starts to shift her up the bed. Holds on, right where she is, bent over the edge. "Like this," she says, before he ever gets around to making sure it's okay to fuck her now. Devon licks her lips, takes a few steadying breaths. "Like this, babe."

Rafael

Like this.

So wolf stops trying to slide her up the bed. Stops trying to climb up over her. She wants it like this, right here, and truth is it gives him a moment's pause. Was a time early on when he tried to turn her on all fours; she didn't want to. Might've been the first time. Probably fucked like that since, but it's still that first refusal that looms large. He thinks of it. He looks at her, head turned to the side, catching her breath.

He rubs his hands over her back. He fits himself to her, slowly, and leans over her. His chest to her back. His abdomen to her loins. He kisses her again: her shoulder and her neck, her face if he can reach it.

"Okay?" he murmurs; and if she nods, if she gives some sign, he pushes into her. Rolls his brow against her skin as he does, groaning.

Devon

Devon would not even remember. She remembers that night at the hotel in the mountains. He fucked her from behind then. They don't talk much about what they like and don't like, what their fantasies are. She feels a little shot down regarding her own fantasies, her own sexual quirks, and hasn't brought them up again since they fought about it. She remembers that rejection, that absolute refusal, keenly. And she has no idea that he has a similar experience.

She is waiting for him to fuck her. Bites her lip when he touches the tip of his cock to her pussy.

Okay?

Devon just nods, her body aching to have him. She whimpers when he flexes, slowly pushing himself inside. She opens her thighs wider, lets him in deeper, groaning as he stretches her out. All of her attention is focused there for now, his cock, her cunt, the welcome heat of it. She clutches at the sheets. She whimpers again.

Rafael

Her hand, clutching at the sheets, suddenly finds itself covered by his. His palm to her knuckles. His fingers sliding between hers. He holds her hand as she grips the sheets; slides deep. He kisses her everywhere he can reach. Her slender bicep; the girdle of her shoulders. Back of her neck, center of her spine. Kisses her and kisses her, and eventually -- still holding her hand -- pushes up.

He's at an angle; leans over her. Feet are braced wide apart. Looks down at her, girl's narrow back against his expensive sheets, comforter, bedspread. Color scheme in here is dark and masculine, charcoal greys with some blue, some brown. Her skin seems so fair against it, pale, luminous. It turns him on. He starts fucking her, slow at first, then in earnest. Quick, hip-centered motion, biting his lower lip, panting through his teeth.

Devon

She likes it. Pushes back against him when he stands flat-footed, leaning over her, fucking her at the edge of his bed. His dark, masculine bed. She's still so wet from her orgasm. Wet for his cock. She likes it; he knows she likes it, even though he didn't make her say it aloud. Sometimes she says it just to turn him on: love your fucking cock inside me.

Loves fucking him.

Loves him.

--

God knows if either of them have ever been loved like this. Someone who gets it, and is let in, when no one else is. Someone who they fight with but make up with later. Someone they care for, so much, that it's scary and it hurts and it's weird and they don't know what to do. Someone they would hate to lose.

Devon hasn't been. She really doesn't know about Rafael.

She doesn't know plenty of things about Rafael. Most of them, though, she'd say are things that don't matter. Not in the long run.

--

Near the end, Devon is bucking against him, crying out on each heavy thrust of his hips. She's telling him fuck me and she's taking him as much as she can. She's close again herself. She's begging him to come in her.

Maybe not in so many words.

Rafael

Early on he didn't really seem to know how to fuck her. Went at her too roughly, too hard. Passion made him almost violent, and more than once she had to stop him, push him back. Once, heartbreakingly, she asked him to be gentle with her. Please just be gentle.

Didn't just mean the sex, though. Meant everything between them. How he treated her. How he talked to her. He still remembers that; tries to treat her gently. And well. Succeeds better sometimes. Not as well, others.

On the spectrum, this is one of their rougher encounters. Almost can't help it. Not when he's fucking her over the side of the bed like this. Isn't even bent over her at the end. He's standing, holding her hips: quite frankly, he's railing her, and she's crying out with every stroke, and he's grunting on every one like some sort of uncivilized beast. Which isn't inaccurate, all told.

Still civilized enough to know she's close. Still has the manners to care about that. Shifts, hearing that note in her voice. Reaches down between her legs and touches her, plays with that slick-wet little clit while he fucks her, fucks her, hammers her from behind. That turns him on too, inexplicably. Thought of making her feel good. Thought of pleasuring her with his hand while he fucks her with his cock. Couldn't explain it if he tried, but there it is.

She wants him to come in her. He wants her to come. It turns into a strange little war of attrition, and he's holding back, and he's waiting, and he's fucking her until

she comes apart, starts shuddering and trembling the way she does, legs limp, hands grasping. He leans down over her then. Wraps his arms around her and just ... surrounds her, buries her under his body, buries his cock inside her. Growls, coming, the way he does. Bites her shoulder, the way he does, and bucks into her afterward. It's more or less involuntary. It's so fucking good that it makes him shudder, too.

Devon

On the spectrum, Devon doesn't think it's rough at all. She thinks of how he licked her, so incredibly soft, so careful, so slow, so... erotic. It was one thing when she didn't know him and he fucked her hard, or growled at her, bit her. It's another thing now.

This, too, they haven't discussed.

Devon likes it. Wanted him to stand up if he wanted to, hold her hips, fuck her like that if he liked. She trusts him now. She knows him, now. And she likes it. God, she likes it. She's telling him in every way she can short of actual words, which are beyond her.

She screams when he touches her. She wasn't expecting that, and her whole body spasms from it, reactive. She almost cries. He might think he's hurting her but she's trying to talk, ends up just saying

oh, oh, oh

very loudly, over and over.

Never gets farther than that.

She ends up coming before he does. She screams again, and it turns into a wail, and then she buries it in the comforters instinctively, arching her back, fucking herself against him as she works her orgasm out on his body. She mutters nnno no no no at him again when he folds over her, holds her, she doesn't want to be contained, she doesn't want to be held together, glomped, buried in his embrace. She wants that floating, flying freedom, that witchcraft of pleasure riding through her veins. She's sweating, and she's writhing, and after a while when he wants to hold her,

she's okay. She is panting, clutching his hand, holding him back as best she can while he joins her, comes into her, biting her as he fills her.

"Good boy," she mutters, breathes, some time later. They're still panting. Hearts still hammering. She doesn't even think of it. She just... says it. "Oh, my good fucking boy."

Rafael

Fine. So he doesn't crush her in his embrace. So he grabs the bed instead -- grabs great handfuls of the covers, the sheets, the goddamn mattress itself. Hammers his orgasm into her like that, growling and snarling, a fucking animal in her bed.

Well. His bed.

A little later, she lets him hold her. He half-collapses over her. They are holding hands, though it is as loose and inelegant a tangling of fingers as one could imagine. He is panting, sides moving like a stallion's after a race. She mutters something. He doesn't hear her the first time, but she says it again.

He makes this sound, somewhere between amused and disgruntled and baffled. Nuzzles her rather ferociously, rubbing his face against the back of her neck. Bites her a little. Relaxes again, flexing into her once, enjoying that point of contact. God, he does love her pussy.

Loves her, too. Period. But right now his mind is base, physical, incapable of such high-order thinking. He likes her pussy. He likes her taste. He likes fucking her so much that it must mean something. His reasoning stops there.

Devon

And that is the noise she hoped for. She sometimes, in her contrary way, likes it when he's disgruntled. Her grumpy man. Her good boy. Adores him.

"Oh," she says, like it hurts, when he flexes again. And it does sort of hurt. She's... overcome, really. Overstimulated. Not quite raw. Definitely worn out.

He stills, though. Is just holding her, the two of them half-hanging off the bed.

And neither of them can think.

And neither of them can move.

And that is okay.

That is as it should be.

Rafael

Eventually

they do have to move. Otherwise he keeps getting heavier and heavier. More and more boneless. Pretty soon he'll just slide off onto the floor, and then where would they be? On the floor, that's where.

So. He moves. Heavily, with great effort, he plants one palm, then the other against the bed. Heaves. Pulls out of her, gingerly, gasping a breath out. And then he grasps her around the waist the way he had earlier -- before she stopped him -- and more or less slides her up on the bed. Follows her, clambering, tumbling over on his side as soon as possible.

Now they're both sprawled on the bed. And he turns slowly, ever so slowly on his back. Looks at the ceiling. Sweat shines on his chest. He reaches over, rubs his hand over her rump.

And then he laughs: a low, quiet sound. "Did you just 'good boy' me for fucking you good and proper?"

Devon

He'd be on the floor. She'd be on the bed.

Meaning: she would win.

Check and mate, Van Der Valk.

--

That does not happen. He does not slide off of her and cheat at the last minute, dragging her down with him. No checkmate. No thwarted queen. He moves out of her cunt and she is simultaneously sad for the loss and relieved, a tangle of physical and emotional sensations that she feels every time and does not question or concern herself with. She smiles.

Rafael rearranges her in his grumpy, insistent way. This time she doesn't stop him. She just grunts a little. He flops near her. She's on her stomach. he's on his back. He touches her ass.

He asks her what he does. A grin spreads over her face, her eyes closed. She nods, grinning like that.

"Yep."

Rafael

Wolf thinks about this for a while, smirking.

"That's kinda hot," he decides.

Devon

Devon slowly opens her eyes. Those bright, faceted blues look over at him across the rumpled, bitten, screamed-into duvet. She thinks but you won't call me your little slut, and isn't sure whether or not to say it. She doesn't want to fight. She doesn't want him to get defensive, pull away from her. She feels close to him right now.

At the same time, feeling it and not saying it makes her feel further away.

"What's hot about it?" she wonders. Not questioning that it is. Just why, for him, it's... what it is.

Which is hot.

Rafael

Doesn't really know himself. Moves his shoulders to signal his ignorance.

Then does something else. Something a little unusual: he thinks about it. Tries to parse it out.

"Getting you off," he says. "But not just that. Has something to do with you telling me to take you upstairs in the first place. Shower. Eat you out. Fuck you. You knew what you wanted and I was happy to step up. Felt like... I performed. To your satisfaction. Or something." He shrugs again. "Sounds weird when I say it out loud."

Devon

Devon's eyes stay open. She listens. She smiles. And when he's done talking, she reaches out and lays her hand on his chest.

"Not weird," she says.

Rafael

He looks down at her hand on his chest. The contrast is stark: her fairness, her fineness, her narrow hand and her narrow wrist. His broad chest, the thick muscle, the coarse hair. He finds it erotic, how different they are.

And after a while he covers her hand with his. His palm, her knuckles. Her palm, his heart.

"Thanks," he says.

Devon

She touches him. Caresses, really. Affectionate and soft and warm. It's not erotic, or isn't intended to be. It's just... familiar. Tender. And she scoots a bit closer, as the cool air of the room wicks sweat off of her skin, cools her rapidly.

She's quiet for a while. Scritches him gently, when he loosens his grip a little. Or when he doesn't. Whatever.

"You know... that's how I felt when... when I asked you to call me your little slut. And you did." She struggles with this; he was so adamant. He was so angry at her, feeling pushed to do something he didn't want to. She couldn't even make him understand why she liked it. Felt ashamed for liking it at all.

"Sort of the same feeling. I think."

Rafael

That makes a certain strange sense to him. He turns his head, faces her more fully. She can see him searching her eyes, her face. After a while he releases her hand; runs the backs of his knuckles over her cheek instead. Fine bones. Those large, lucid eyes.

"Okay," he whispers.

Devon

"Like I'm yours," she murmurs,

after he's turned his head, looked her in the eye.

Whispering: "Like I please you. A lot."

But that's all she says of it, now. She tucks herself closer to him, nuzzling against his chest, wrapping herself up in his arms. They're sideways on the bed, because that is how she draped herself earlier and they never... really moved. Their feet don't hang off the side because he has the bed fitting to his station, to his tribe. She tucks her bare feet against his calves.

They are cold.

Rafael

Organically, his arms go around her. It seems so natural now. Of course that's where his arms go. Of course that's how they fit together.

"Okay," he says again, quiet. And also: "I understand."

Devon

Which is more than 'okay'.

Devon smiles a little against his chest.

"Love you, Rafa."

Rafael

Inexplicably, wolf grins at the ceiling.

"You still remember my full name? Or am I just 'Rafa' to you now?"

Devon

"Careful," she mutters, because she is being really loving right now and he's being a dumbass,

"or we'll go back to 'that prick'."

Rafael

He snorts a laugh, "Is that how you thought of me?"

Devon

"First few times I met you," she confirms, smiling. Smirking, against his chest. "Was a while before I even knew your name."

Rafael

He's quiet a while. Then: "Girl with the eyes."

Devon

Her eyebrows hop up. She tips her head back, peering up at him. Laughs. "Really?"

Rafael

"Yeah."

Beat.

"Maybe with a couple more f-bombs."

Devon

She grins. "That fucking girl with the fucking eyes?"

A beat.

"...'Who I want to fuck so fucking badly I can't fucking act like a normal fucking person around her'?"

A bigger grin.

Rafael

Wolf lifts his head up to look at her. There's a half-smirk on his mouth.

"You're enjoying this," he accuses.

Devon

Her eyebrows are way up now, her big round eyes... bigger, and rounder.

"What? Am I right?"

Rafael

He wraps her up in his arms. Rolls her under him, playful-rough.

"Maybe," is all he'll confess to.

Devon

She keeps on smirking up at him. Her eyes twinkle. "Then why were you such a prick?" she teases, and can't help it:

she grins again.

Rafael

Gets a little more serious then. Thinks about it.

"Didn't know any other way," he says after a while. "Didn't think you liked me much either. Didn't think I liked you much."

Devon

"You are beautiful," Devon says softly, looking up at him. "And you are so dumb."

Her hand touches his cheek. Strokes his jawline, her fingertips fascinated by his bone structure. His skin. The connections between the obviously and immediately identifiable pattern of her fingerprints and the less obvious, less immediate but no less unique composition of his face.

She says what she says with adoration. And she kisses him, after. Just his cheek; the edge of his mouth, the curve of his jaw into his chin. She tucks herself between his neck and his shoulder, tired from a long day. Tired from fucking. Tired from the soup in her belly and the shower she had earlier and the softness of the bed and the warmth of his body. They stink. She will probably get up to use the toilet in a few minutes, before she passes out.

But before she does that, and before she passes out, she just stays there, curled up in his arms, telling him that he is beautiful and he is dumb, and

"Doesn't matter. I love you now."

Rafael

He'd bristle if anyone else said it. Might even bristle if she'd said it differently. But she doesn't. She says it with love. She touches him with love. He's a wolf: he reads the tone, the body. He could care less for the words.

So he doesn't bristle. Turns into that touch instead, nuzzling gently against her palm. She kisses the corner of his mouth. It turns up, a little smile.

And then she tucks herself. And he settles down. And she wraps her arm over his middle, and he wraps his arm around her shoulders, and they can both feel sleep at the corners of their consciousness. Stealing closer.

Wolf's chest rises under girl's skinny arm. He inhales long and deep, content.

"Love you too," he whispers. And pulls a fold of the comforter over them both.