up late in boston.

Devon

The house is dark. Hearths are cooling off now. Television silent. A clock ticks in the hallway. If he listens, carefully, he can smell the children. Something about them tells him they're sleeping deeply on the second floor. Same as Brian and Sheila, who went to bed later but essentially passed out. Walking up the stairs, he can -- if he focuses -- hear Hope and Stevie on the third floor, quietly talking in bed. Knows Devon is up there too, in her bedroom that he briefly peeked at earlier during the Grand Tour.

Rafael

He wasn't wearing a coat. Has nothing to take off except his shoes, which he does step out of. Carries then in his hand as he makes his way up the stairs -- not stomping, but not quite tiptoeing either.

Doesn't just barge into her room. Pauses before it and then knocks, tapping with the backs of his knuckles. "Me," he says, as though she couldn't guess.

Devon

There's no silly KEEP OUT sign on Devon's door. There's no plaque with her name on it, either. He knocks, and from inside he hears: "Um. Okay?" like he's being absurd. Which he's not. She knows he's not. "Come in, dummy."

Rafael

The handle turns; the door opens. Wolf lets himself in. Immediately the room feels a little smaller. He stands at the door, awkward and out of place for a second.

Then something in him relaxes. His shoulders come down. Back straightens. He closes the door and then he sets his shoes down; comes into her room.

"I like your cousin," he says. "Your whole family, actually. They're good people."

Devon

Devon's bedroom is more her bedroom than her place at Naomi's, or the room she occupied with Rafael for a while. It's also cleaner, because she hasn't even been here twelve hours. He saw it earlier, just for a moment, when they looked around, but how he can see it. Her bedroom is to the front of the house, with one of those bay windows. It's not large -- none of the rooms here are very large. Three of the walls are a soft blue, robin's-egg; the wall with the windows is more of a pale grey. All the frames and trim is winter-white. Curtains over the windows are sheer gray, but darker than the walls. The curtains are open. The windows themselves are closed. She has a fireplace, because of course she does. It's unlit, and there's no wood or anything in the grate.

In one corner between the windows and the fireplace, there's a series of shelves that seem to float out from the wall. There's a television on one shelf, stereo on another. Stacks of CDs and DVDs, most of them from the early oughts or mid-nineties. Other side of the room, facing the windows, there's a long black desk with a plain blue chair. There's some knickknacks there, things not easy to pack in a suitcase or things she didn't want to take with her. Similar knickknacks are scattered across the mantel of the fireplace. There's a black and pink lava lamp on her desk, but it's off. Here and there throughout the room are lights strung around the ceiling or down the walls: bluelights, white lights. Some blacklight bulbs, which are off. A wardrobe in the corner, with mirrors on the inner doors. One door is open; she's hung up a thing or two from their suitcases.

Floor is wood, but there's a rug. Big, thick, shaggy white rug that crosses the room under the bed but doesn't quite reach the desk. There's a chair in the alcove made by the windows; there's a blanket there, but hard to see since Devon has already draped it with discarded clothes and the like. Her bed is, perhaps surprisingly, a queen. It's low, though not as low as her futon at Naomi's. The headboard looks like it's just a series of boards, but it's probably IKEA of some kind. Bedding is flannel grey sheets with a thick white duvet cover with some hard to see design, given that the only lights in the room right now are the twinkling ones. The door he enters opens next to the head of that bed, beside one of the nightstands.

Some posters on the walls. Some art. Things she liked and cut out and stuck up there years ago.

Devon is draped naked over the top of the duvet, lying on her stomach, jaw propped on her hand.

Kicks her legs a little, lazily.

"No shit," she says, smirking.

Rafael

There's something quintessentially her about her room. There's a loveliness to the architecture of the house: good bones, as the hipsters say. But she's made it her own. The knickknacks. The stuff. The eclectic things she has all over the place, messy and a little funky and cozy. Posters and CDs and DVDs give a sense of who she was before she was the mooch that lived in his house; the girl with the eyes. He looks at them, but mostly

he looks at her. She's naked, after all. He's a bit scandalized; jesus, what if her aunt walked in.

And then he pulls his shirt off. Follows her example: tosses it over the nearest available surface. Comes over to sit on the bed, where it's dark, and they're surrounded by twinkling lights. After a moment he lies back, perpendicular to her; pillows his head on the dip of her spine. There's something comfortable and animal and familiar about that.

"You always lounge around naked waiting for your boyfriend?" he mutters after a moment, smiling.

Devon

Her aunt and uncle are unconscious. The kids are unconscious. The parents-of-four-almost-five have a few moments to themselves before they sleep; they aren't going to get up and come over here. Devon just smirks at him, that surprised and scandalized look in his eyes.

Her eyes track over him as he takes off his shirt. It lands on her desk chair. He walks over and before he sits, she -- she blinks. Pulls back a little. Her brow furrows.

"What is that smell?"

Rafael

"Disgusting, dead things," he replies blandly. Casts her a smirk. "Said you didn't want me to be all tiptoeing on eggshells around you whenever I come back from a hunt."

But then he sits up again. Goes over to his bag and pulls out a bag of toiletries -- which consists of a toothbrush, a comb, maybe some floss, and a bar of soap. "Gonna shower. See you in five."

Devon

That smirk, the reminder that she didn't want him tiptoeing on eggshells -- it doesn't make the furrow in her brow go away. Devon blinks again, turning away as he goes to get his toiletries. She doesn't say anything; normal, between them, that not everything they say has to be remarked on. He goes down the hall to the bathroom: small shower stall, toilet, sink. A tiny skylight overhead.

Rafael

Only he doesn't leave. Pauses at the door.

"Something wrong?"

Devon

She's sitting up. Her slender back is to him: he can see how her shoulders are actually sort of wide for her body, how her waist dips. He's seen her naked so many times. Has run his hands over that spine in the dark, held her in bright, hot sunlight at the equator of the earth. She looks at him over her shoulder, moonlight from the window on one cheek, the other shadowed. Blue lights twinkle, bouncing off the strands of her hair.

"You think I want to smell something dead when I'm kissing you? Want my bed to smell like that?

Devon shakes her head. Reaches across the way for a shirt: it's her own, the tank top she was wearing earlier. She pulls it on over her head, tugs it down, sweesp her hair out of it. "Just go shower."

Rafael

Wolf's brow furrows too, then. He sighs -- it's a heavy sound, rough at the edges like him.

"Look, wasn't really thinking, okay? Forgot I smelled bad. Was standing outside saying goodnight to your cousin and started thinking about coming in here. Felt so ... nice. Inviting. All your kin safe in their rooms, kitchen still smelling like food, house dark and warm. You in your bed.

"Just wanted to be here. Wasn't thinking about showering first." He thinks a moment. "Shouldn't have made a crack about it though."

Devon

Devon has her shirt on. She hasn't put on anything else. She's hearing him, but not looking at him, because she feels attacked, made fun of, defensive. Doesn't stand up because then he'll be looking at her ass and she doesn't want him looking at her ass right now because he hurt her feelings.

Says he wasn't thinking. She's not of a mind to react kindly to excuses, explanations, any of it. She doesn't say anything in that silent moment, so it rests between them, unbroken.

Then he says he shouldn't have made the crack about it. Which softens her a bit. Feels it in her shoulders. She exhales, mulling over it. Shakes her head and looks at him again. "Thanks," she says quietly, watching him with those fucking eyes. Which blink, slowly. "Wasn't mad that you smelled."

Mad that he made the crack. Threw her words, a year in the past now, in her face. Snarked at her with her own, often-rejected, attempts to accept him for what he is. Mad that he put the distance between them like that. That's the difference. Not that she writes an essay about it. She wouldn't know how to put words around it.

Rafael

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I know."

Another small silence. He wants to go to her, wrap his hand behind her head, kiss her hair. Doesn't. He smells; she doesn't want to kiss that. He picks up a scrap of fabric instead. A throw, maybe, or a discarded sweater. Hard to tell in the dim light. He tosses it over to her.

"Case it gets cold," he explains. It's foolish. He does it anyway. And then he pushes the doorhandle down; lets himself out.

Devon

Devon's sweater from earlier comes flopping at her. Smacks her gently on the back, pools in piles of fabric around her hip. Her mouth quirks at the corner into a wry little smirk. He's insane. Probably worried about her as soon as he came in, seeing a cold fireplace and her bare ass hanging out on top of the covers. She doesn't think about a year ago, or more, whispering to him that her feet get cold. Doesn't realize he still thinks about this as some sort of keystone: keep Devon warm. Her toes get cold.

She also has no idea why, deep down, Rafael takes this responsibility to care for her and keep her warm so seriously. He has never said or intimated or suggested anything remotely close to the word mate to her. He may not even say it that clearly in his own mind. It may just be the thump in his heart. It may just be the way he longed to come into this house, thinking of her on the top floor, secure with her people, surrounded by spiritual and magical wards, kept warm here where her blood-kin come from.

Devon doesn't know. Devon just tugs on the sweater that landed by her hip, smirking fondly at him before he heads out.

--

The halls are narrow and the floorboards creak a little, but no one complains. He takes a quick shower in that white-tiled bathroom, standing up in the stall that is just big enough for him to turn around in. The water pressure isn't that great on the third floor. It's nothing as luxurious as his house in the mountains, or his condo in the city. To the old Rafael, the one who didn't know his mother or his half-brother or anything coming to him, it might still be considered an upgrade.

The towels are not threadbare, because Sheila and Brian take too much pride in this sort of thing. They are clean and thick and actually rather soft. There's a toothbrush holder that already has Stevie and Hope and Devon's in it, with one spot left for his own when he's done scrubbing his teeth. It's a cramped bathroom, with a couple of people's toiletry kits hanging from a hook here or a bar there, but he isn't there long.

It's chilly in the hallway when he comes out, not noticeable before when he was dry and fresh from the hunt. Turns the knob on Devon's bedroom again. Maybe he still knocks before entering. She's still awake -- of course she is. It wasn't that long of a shower. Her room isn't as chilly as the hallway. She's on the bed still, wearing that black tank top of hers, wearing a pair of black and white striped panties that he never knew she had on today because they were either under her clothes or off.

She is still on top of the covers, but propped against the headboard, her feet underneath the sweater he threw at her. She's reading something on her phone when he comes in. Looks up and over at him, smirks. But it's warm. It's welcoming.

Rafael

True to his word, he doesn't take long in the shower. Longer than the five minutes he'd stated, though: it takes a while to wash off the stink, the hunt. Scrub out his teeth and rinse his mouth.

She hears him well before he opens the door: footsteps, wood creaking. He comes in wearing a towel, his dirty clothes in his hand. She's dressed now. Sort of. She smirks and it is welcome, which seems paradoxical but is not. He returns the smile, says nothing, goes over to his suitcase to stuff his change of clothes in.

When he's done he comes back over to the bed. Flips back the covers and gets under them, losing his towel in the process. It's a bigger bed than he thought she'd have; imagined a tiny twin they'd have to cram into or something. Maybe that's why the cramming on the airplane: practice. But no. She has a queen. They have plenty of room. He leans against a pillow and against the headboard. Towels off a couple lingering drops before stuffing the towel behind his head to soak up moisture from his hair.

"You got dressed again," he says.

Devon

Of course she watches him. Coming in dressed in a towel like that, his skin still gleaming, still wet. She stops reading whatever that is on her phone and rests it against her knees. He's climbing into bed, dropping the damp towel, unwrapping himself. She watches that, too, how he exposes himself as unselfconsciously as an animal. Her eyes track up his body as it vanishes under the covers, over his arms as he folds them back to stuff the towel between his head and the pillow.

Devon sets her phone on the nightstand, her charger already plugged in. She folds herself up on the pillows and headboard, pushing the comforter down with her feet and then wiggling herself under it. Slides onto her side next to him, head propped on arm. "Yeah?" she says, in a light tone, like she's also saying why do you ask?

Even though he wasn't really asking.

Rafael

"Yeah," though she wasn't really asking either. She slides down. He watches her go, angle of his gaze changing. He holds his arm out to her, invitation to tuck herself against his side.

"Should get undressed again," he suggests.

Devon

Devon does not tuck herself against his side. She smirks a little at his arm, traces her eyes up the inside line of his bicep to his shoulder, his chest, his neck, his jawline, his mouth. His lips. His eyes.

"Why's that?"

Rafael

"Like you naked," he says, which must be obvious by now. "You gonna come here?" His arm is still out.

Devon

Her brow quirks. "Undress me yourself, if you like it so much."

He wants to know if she's going to come here. Devon just smirks.

Rafael

There's a flare in his eyes: interest, arousal. But he smirks back at her: "You're going to have to come here, then."

Devon

"Don't have to do shit," Devon informs him, giving a little shrug.

And then rolling over and getting comfortable, her back to him.

Rafael

Hears him huff behind her. And a second later, the lights click off. Most of them. Maybe still a string of twinkly lights on somewhere.

Sheets rustle. Mattress dips. He moves closer to her, wrapping his arm around her, drawing her against his body. Kisses her shoulder, and the nape of her neck.

Smooths his hand down her stomach. Reaches into her panties.

Devon

Twinkly lights and street lights, fuzzy through the windows. The moon herself coming in. He can still see her. Everything is muted to silver and gray, black and bright. She smiles to herself as the lights click off, and the room goes to dark. She feels right, being here; this bed is familiar, and this room is familiar, and even though Rafael being here is different, he feels right, too.

Rafael moves her an inch or two with his arm, wrapping around her stomach and pulling her to him. He can feel her torso expand with her breath, feels her arch slightly to fit more closely to him. Devon says nothing as he kisses her skin. Her eyes close a moment before his hand lowers under the covers, fingertips edging under the elastic of her panties.

She licks her lips, exhaling. Presses her ass against him, gently.

Rafael

He doesn't speak. He does wait for a response, though. That arch of her spine. That press of her ass. He kisses her again, softly, lips grazing over her skin as he nudges her panties down a little. And then a little more. Past her hip-bones, and then down her thighs; down somewhere to her knees or past, where he loses track of her lingerie in her bedding.

He slides his other arm around her. Her top rides up a little; his hand spreads over her waist, half over skin, half over her shirt. That first hand of his has made its way back up her thigh; touches her. Finds her clit and touches her there, delicately, pads of his fingers sliding to and fro.

Devon

Rafael's arms are long, but so are Devon's legs; he gets her underwear to about her knees before she wiggles them the rest of the way and kicks them off the edge of the bed. Laughs a little, softly, while her boyfriend is touching her, pushing his other arm underneath her. She moves to accomodate him, then re-settles. Close again. Like before.

Licks her lips. Again. Bites the lower one as he starts stroking her.

"The sides," she whispers, squirming a little. "Tease me before you touch it."

Rafael

Somehow he finds that so erotic. That she wants to be teased. That she knows what she wants. That she tells him. It makes him bite her, a deep pressure of his teeth in her shoulder. It makes him kiss her, his mouth against the side of her neck.

He complies. Withdraws. Spreads his fingers, index and middle; strokes along the sides and down to her cunt. Wets his fingers there, drawing a breath to feel it; comes back up. Doesn't touch her clit. Teases her.

Devon

Makes her whimper -- the bite, the kiss, the way he touches her. Squirms again, turning her head to muffle a soft sound in her pillow, while he's feeling the beginning of wetness between her legs. The way he breathes in like that makes her catch her breath, too. She opens her legs a little, and then, as though saying fuck it in her head, Devon rolls onto her back beside him.

Looks over at him. The darkness doesn't dim the color of her eyes, opening again finally to see him. She watches him as she spreads her legs, making more room for him to touch her.

"Kiss me," she breathes, her hips moving lightly, lightly, in time with the stroking of his fingers.

Rafael

Doesn't take his hand off her when he moves. So she turns in the circle of his arms, their bodies brushing together. He watches her as she turns on her back; watches her eyes open, watches her while she opens her legs for him.

He kisses her almost before she asks. There's something almost aggressive about it, hungry and sharp. He kisses her while he touches her. Stops touching her only to pull her top up. Puts his mouth on her tits, laps and sucks at her while he plays with her, strokes her, gets her off on his hand.

Maybe. He's not terribly adept. Tries hard, though.

Devon

It's met. The way he kisses her. She isn't surprised by it. She groans softly into it, lifting herself closer to his hand. Eyes fly open again and she starts to ask him what's wrong -- no actual words make it out alive, though -- when he takes his hand off her so he can push up her shirt.

Devon doesn't need to ask. She bites her lip agains a grin, trying to stay quiet while he gets his mouth on her breasts. She lifts one hand to her mouth to cover it with her palm. And then she reaches down and takes Rafael's hand and tries to move it. Waits for him to relax, to let her manipulate his fingers. Show him. Get him into a rhythm she likes before she legs go of him.

And then she takes her hand off her mouth. Touches his face and draws him up to kiss her again. Kisses him for a while, murmuring ... well, instructions. They sound so fucking encouraging, though, when he touches her in such a way that makes her gasp a little erotic laugh out. Or when he starts circling her clit and she has to hide a moan against his neck. Or when she pants in his ear to put his fingers in her. And this may be more familiar to him; he's fucked her like this when he's licking her. Different, when it's his thumb instead of his tongue working her clit. Feels good,

has to feel good,

being able to kiss her and be kissed by her while he's doing it, though.

Devon laughs again, gasping and playful, as she's turned toward him, riding his hand a little, running her hands over his body. Kissing him again, her shirt still tugged up, all their fooling around going on mostly under the covers. She grinds herself on his palm, pressing her lips together to keep quiet, her hands pausing on his biceps and clutching at him there. She leans into him, chest to chest, panting near his jawline.

He hasn't made her come yet. She's whispering to him, rhythmic and eager: "Fuck me. Fuck me with your cock, babe."

As if he might be unclear on exactly what she means.

Rafael

He knows what she means. She says it anyway. It sears down his spine. He makes this sound, this low bitten-back grunt, because they're down the hall from her family and even though everyone knows they're a couple, he's a boyfriend, that means they probably fuck as most adult couples do -- he doesn't want to make a show of it. It'd be rude, and for whatever reason he doesn't want to be rude to these people. It'd be ... too exposed, too. Too blatant, when he does value his privacy.

So he bites that sound back. And he moves over her, rolling her on her back. Kisses her as he moves between her legs, and while she wraps her thighs around him he pushes her shirt up and off. Fairly grabs her tits, uncareful and stupid, until he remembers. Gentles. Kisses her, touching her breasts; wrapping his arms under her.

"You wanna go on your stomach?" he mutters. See, he does learn. Would've just grabbed her by the waist and tried to turn her, before.

Devon

The house they're in is solid, but it isn't soundproof. Coming up the stairs he could hear one of the other couples in the house talking to each other. Outside, he could hear the television on. If Hope and Stevie are still awake, they might be able to hear a little of what's going on in here anyway. At least there's a bathroom in between the two bedrooms, but still: no need to advertise it. No need to let out the full-throated moans that he and Devon release sometimes when they're fucking at his place. At least the few times they've gotten together at Naomi's loft have been practice to not be total dicks about this.

She is on her back again, arms going around hiim, pulling him down to kiss her. Her shirt is still rucked up over her breasts, at least until he starts rubbing his cock against her. Or: til his cock is in reach, and she starts rubbing herself against it. That's when he pushes it off, grabs at her, remembers to relax, to slow down, to kiss her while he treasts her breasts less like his favorite toys and more like parts of her body, skin that -- when touched -- makes her shiver and moan. When he touches her less for his own pleasure and more for hers. He remembers. Kisses her, and she smiles, squirming her soft body under his, against his.

He can feel her now: how wet she is. Not just on his fingers. All over him. Can see it in her eyes, the pupils dilated, a certain glassiness overtaking her that he recognizes. Started recognizing after the first few times, really. Not always good for her, if he fucks her before that point. Usually really good for her, if she gets that lazy, dreamy look before he's inside of her. Knows how to make her come. Knows her body, and how sensitive the sides of her breasts are. How much she likes it when he rubs her nipple with his thumb, kisses her at the same time.

Is learning, epecially lately, that she sort of likes to be teased before he gives it to her. Likes to make herself wait for it. Like she has tonight.

Devon shivers a little at the question, but she shakes her head. "Wanna watch you," she whispers. "Wanna kiss you."

Rafael

Corners of his mouth turn up at that. He catches a kiss off her lips: "Okay."

Pushes up, then. Kneels, weight back on his heels, and takes her by the waist after all, and it's testament to his strength -- and her flexibility -- that he can lift her hips from the mattress; slide her atop his thighs. He guides himself into her one-handed, concentration intense on his face, lower lip in his teeth. Exhales at the feel of her.

Comes back down to her. Fills her in a smooth, powerful flex of his body, settling her back to the mattress; settling his weight onto her. Kisses her, weight on his hands, weight in his lower body pressed to hers. He holds himself up a little as he starts fucking her, rhythmic and deep. She did say she wanted to watch him.

Devon

Catches a kiss, murmurs okay, and Devon insistently pulls him back down. Kisses him more fully, her mouth lush against his. She's sliding against him under the covers, rubbing his cock against her inner thighs, against her cunt. She's tasting him with her mouth until he pulls back, pushes away from her and kneels on the bed. Devon moves into his arms and a grin slashes over her face as she lifts her. She arches a bit, but the position doesn't feel good, so she holds his shoulder and pulls herself up to sitting -- to straddling him. Puts more of her weight into his hands, really. But holds herself up, and lets him hold her, as he starts to press his cock into her.

Devon bites her lip for a moment, but not long: she lets out a little sound, a tiny moan of pleasure, opening her legs wider. Maybe that's a signal to him; maybe that's when he lowers them both back down to the bed. Unfolds on top of her, the movements slow and controlled because he has the strength for it. Pushes into her, harder, and makes her turn her head and bite back on a groan. His mouth falls on her neck, while she's letting herself pant a little. Turns her head again to look at him, that same expression in her eyes, as he pushes up on his hands.

He can see the flicker in her, when she looks at him. When he does that. Her hands smooth over his biceps as she stares at them, feels the sweat building on his skin. Her pussy clenches around him, her legs sliding up his sides to fold around him, taking him deeper. She looks at his chest; her eyes look down into the shadows between them, the place where he's fucking her, and her breath catches.

"Fuck..." she whispers, longingly, a moment before the bed underneath her starts to creak and thump a little from what they're doing with each other.

Rafael

"Yeah." It's an answer, though she hadn't really asked a question, made a statement. Agreement all the same: fuck. yeah.

Always did love the sounds she makes. And how she bites them back. And the flash of muscle in her neck when she turns her face to the side. He thinks of her biting the pillow, sometimes, when he's fucking her good, the way she likes it. Which took him a while to learn, but by god he's learned. Is learning.

And she runs her hands over him, folds him in her legs. And he fucks her in these long, agile strokes, a roll of motion from shoulder to hip transmitted down the spine. The bed makes noise. He puts a hand against the headboard to silence that, at least; holds it against the wall -- or perhaps just holds on to it -- while he gives it to her.

Devon

Earlier, when Devon decided to roll around naked in bed waiting for her boyfriend, she had it all planned out in her head: how she'd ask him when they fucked last. Or just tell him it had been too long, full stop. See if he'd be patient enough, for once, to let her stroke his cock, kiss it, lick it for a while, suck on it before he came at her. She had thoughts. And sure, it got awkward. She put some clothes back on, grumpily, her original mood shifted askew but not knocked down entirely. But still: even now, she's thinking about how it's been maybe a day or two since she had sex with him. At least. Feels like longer. Feels like just too long.

And he is just so attractive to her. She thinks he's way more attractive than she is. She thinks he's gorgeous. She really likes looking at him.

Especially now.

Especially like this.

Turns her on, the way he holds himself up. How he watches her. How his eyes light up and flash as he looks at her. The coil and ripple of muscles under skin, and the quickly building sheen of sweat. Turns her on, when he starts fucking her hard enough to make her bed react. Makes her exhale a quiet gasp when he grabs the headboard, pins it to the wall. "Fuck," she repeats, aching this time, wrapping her legs up higher around him, urging him on. The thumping mostly stops, but the mattress or the springs or something are still creaking beneath them. Her brow is furrowed, though, contorted with yearning.

"Harder," she mutters to him, panting softly. "Faster, babe. Make me come."

Rafael

He's watching her too. Eyes roving all over her, her face and her mouth and her breasts, her eyes, her cunt. Even the subtle straps of muscle in her inner thighs; their flex as she wraps her legs higher, tighter.

He'd laugh in disbelief if she ever told him she thought he was more attractive. He'd show her a goddamn mirror. He'd probably start listing off her assets again, which would probably make her feel uncomfortable, itemized. They'd probably fight, the idiots. The beautiful, beautiful idiots.

But she doesn't tell him that. She just touches him, and watches him, and licks her lips, and gasps like that. He wraps a hand behind her head and pulls her up, kisses her, holds her against his chest while he groans into her hair. When he lets her back down she wants it faster, harder. He goes faster. Harder. The bed creaks and there's a squeaky spring somewhere and he glances over at the door, mutters loud like that's supposed to mean something, doesn't stop.

Devon

"Yeah,"

like it's her turn to agree. loud. yeah.

Devon really doesn't want to wake up or bother Hope and Stevie, especially since Hope is pregnant. She doesn't want her aunt or uncle to hear her fucking her boyfriend right over their heads. She doesn't want the kids, above all, to ask her at breakfast tomorrow if she was jumping on the bed because they're not allowed to do that and is she allowed to do that because that's not fair.

However, right this second, Devon isn't thinking about her cousins or her godparents or any of them. She's thinking about how good it feels when Rafael kisses her while they're fucking. She's remembering how she told him not to bite her until he came and then he kissed her instead, eating at her mouth the first time they had sex, sharing breath, groaning together on the goddamn floor.

That's what she's thinking about, until she's not really thinking at all: she's leaning her head back, trying so hard not to yell, not to whimper and cry out as he ramps his pace up, his body angled to rub that very, very hard cock against her clit on each stroke. She's trying not to moan aloud as he bends all that impressive strength of his to fucking her, chasing down whatever it is between them that they refused from the start to give up once they'd had it.

And it is something. She knows they could call it love, but more and more she's coming to understand what he used to say: now it seems paltry, compared to what she feels. Devon doesn't know what it really is. Devon doesn't have a name for it. She is starting to wonder how he got there so much sooner than she did.

"Fuck," she whimpers, as quietly as she can, clutching at his sides, holding his hips as they roll and grind. "Oh, fuck, Rafa," and now it's almost a whine, that note she hits when she's so close she can't quite stand it. She gasps for air, pants out: "Kiss me --!" with such urgency, such panic,

because she's coming, and she needs him to kiss her, and she needs to make those sounds into his mouth to hide them.

Rafael

He kisses her. Cups both hands behind her neck, cradles her head in his hands as he eats at her mouth, swallows those moans. The headboard thumps the walls. A few times in a row, actually, and then he tumbles headlong into his own orgasm: grinds it into her, hiding his own groans in her mouth in turn.

Wraps his arms around her, by the end. Holds her so tight the way he does, like he can't bear even an iota of distance between them. Eventually his mouth drifts from hers. He bites her shoulder, then, gently. It feels like a statement; a communication. It feels like adoration.

Devon

He's still fucking her when he kisses her. He's let go of the headboard and so the springs are creaking and the headboard is thumping when Devon moans into his mouth, her hands sliding around his lower back, up his spine, nails tracing downward at the aching edge of her pleasure. She's still caught up in it when he comes with her, burying his own grunting and snarling in her mouth, her neck, while she's panting for air and he's slamming his cock into her again, again.

"Oh, fuck," she breathes, as he's on that last hard thrust, grinding into her, moaning on her skin. "Oh, fucking god."

He's sweating and hot and overcome on top of her, clinging to her, sinking his teeth into her skin. "Ow," she laughs, softly, fondly, but she doesn't really mean it. Her skin is tingling. Waves rush up her body, toes to cheeks, flooding her. It feels good. Relaxing.

Devon laughs softly against his hairline. Kisses his temple. "Tomorrow night we use the wall. Or chair. All right?"

Rafael

She finds her words a good thirty seconds before he does. So his first response is a nonverbal grunt. A little later kisses her shoulder. And a little after that

he rolls onto his side, then flops onto his back. Some space opens up between them. They're both sweaty again. Should shower again but that'd be rather obvious.

"Maybe should get a motel," he mutters. "Get it out of our systems before we come back here to sleep."

Devon

Comes thirty or forty seconds before he does. Has an orgasm that lasts several seconds longer than his. Then is able to talk sooner, just like sometimes she's able to hop up from fucking him and bounce around like he just recharged her batteries instead of exhausting her. So he grunts and she grins, her eyes closed, her hairline sweaty. She strokes the back of his neck fondly, and a while after that, he rolls off. She doesn't move to go shower, but she'll go pee later. Throw on a robe or something and then come back and snuggle with him in bed.

She snuggles him now, while she can, while he's just recently slipped out of her. She touches his chest. He suggests a motel. She covers her mouth with her hand, turns her head to hide laughter in his chest. "No," she says, when she can, laying her head against his heartbeat. "Want to be here." There's a pause. "Might fuck you in a motel and want to fuck again a soon as we got back."

Rafael

"Yeah?" Something about that interests him. He opens his eyes, looks at her. " 'Cause this is one of your dens?"

Devon

Her brow wrinkles. She twists a bit to look up at him, not quite confused or bewildered. Just curious. "What do you mean?"

Rafael

"You used to live here." He nods at the lights, the posters. "Place feels like you still do. And I always like fucking you in my den. Always like fucking you, but ... like it most when you're home with me."

Devon

He keeps saying 'den', and he doesn't mean a den like... the family room where the television is, versus the front living room where you sit with guests. Devon's lips curl in a lazy half smile. She strokes his hair idly with her fingertips, right at the nape of his neck, fond and tender and intimate. And sweaty.

"Oh," she mutters. "That's what you mean." That same quirking little half-smile.

"Don't know," she finally answers, considering the original question. "Like having you here. In my old room." She tips her head close to his, tucking herself close to his body. "Glad you came with me this year."

Rafael

"Me too," he says, quiet. "Was pretty boring last year. And it's ... nice. Meeting your family. They're good people. Makes me glad for you."

He wraps his arm around her as she tucks herself close. The way she touches him feels good. Relaxed and familiar and loving. Usually doesn't like being touched if he's all sticky and sweaty but somehow with her he doesn't mind. She's the reason he's filthy again, after all.

"Like being here in your old room too," he adds a little later. "Thanks for showing me."

Devon

Devon is quiet for a moment, thinking of Rafael last year. She barely knew him back then. Just didn't want him fucking other girls when they didn't entirely know what this was, between them. She knows him a bit better now. No mom or dad. Not really any friends. Of course he spent Thanksgiving and Christmas alone.

Her hand strokes him softly, even more gently than before, to think of it. He may not see the connection. Just feels her touch, soft and steady and tender. He's thinking of her family, anyway: they're good. And she smirks. "Yeah," she murmurs. They are good. Imperfect, messy, sometimes argumentative. Hope could be a goddamn CEO if she weren't popping out babies every few years, and that bugs Devon more than she lets on. Brian lets anyone in and then gets surprised when they aren't as nice as he is. Sheila drinks too much sometimes and it can get embarrassing. She knows them. But she also knows they're good. They are good people.

They loved her when her mom had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, in a third country that didn't welcome her. When she was a baby and her father had abandoned them. They taught her about the craft, about who she is. They told her the things she needed to know so that when she met Rafael, when she knew what he was, she wasn't just panicked. They pay for her phone and they pay for her tickets to get back here and it's all solely because they love her. They keep her bed here, her desk, her television, her room just as it was.

Reminds her that she is loved, even though she's so... weird. Weirder than even the witches of her family's heritage.

Doesn't have anything to add. She wraps her arm around him. In a while she'll need to get up and go to the bathroom. Come back, shedding her bathrobe, snuggling against him again, both of them sticky and sweaty and gross. They'll have to shower in the morning instead. This is all right; it's her preference anyway. She closes her eyes.

"Rafa," she sighs, her eyes closed, her arms around him, her cheek against his heartbeat.

Sounds like,

I love you.