mother, laundry room, that first night.

Devon

They drive to the airport, and instead of waiting outside they park, go into the terminal, stand at the spot where travelers finally leave the secure area. This means they can almost see the escalators from the trains below; overhead there are giant paper airplanes hanging from the ceiling, one of the less unsettling pieces of art throughout the airport. Rafael has seen pictures of Devon's mother, not just the ones she sent him of her trip to London last year but more recently, so that he would recognize her.

It helps, when his height allows him to see Katia Paredes first. She is dressed like someone used to a cold climate, wearing a red woolen peacoat and carrying a white leather tote. When he tugs Devon, or taps her, or grunts and nods his head at her mother, Devon immediately wriggles away to the edge of the crowd of people to make sure she's visible, even if she can't cross a certain line. She crosses anyway, at the last minute, when her mother beelines over to her.

They embrace fiercely, Devon a little taller than her mother even without the slight heel of her boots lifting her up. She curves her body over her mother's shoulder and around her, both of them with hair so dark and thick that it blends together, with only a few strands of silver to tell whose is whose. Katia's eyes are dark, and her skin is darker than her daughter's, and she lacks the freckles that Devon inherited from her long-gone father. It becomes striking how few of their features they share; even Devon's ears are a different shape. Even their smiles are different: Katia's simple and warm, Devon's curving and elusive. It's obvious even more than ever now how strongly she takes after the wolves in her heritage.

But then there are little things: the shape of their cheekbones. The dimples they both have. More importantly, though, are the similarities that have nothing to do with faces. They both hold their head a certain way when they talk and listen to each other. They walk with the same sort of lazy, careless sway. And he's never seen her keep so physically close to anyone, other than himself. She and her mother invade one another's space as easily as animals, the cub leaning to the dam's side, the dam occasionally resting paw or muzzle over the cub. Devon barely even seems to register it when her mother reaches up while Devon is mid-sentence, tucking her hair back, smoothing away a loose curl. In fact, Katia herself barely seems to notice she's doing it, it comes so naturally.

So: Katia comes up the escalator. Devon pops out and they embrace, ferocious and tight and for quite some time. Devon is talking almost immediately, and in Portuguese, even before they separate. Her mother is smiling, touching her hair, and maybe by then Rafael has moved closer, or maybe he hasn't.

Rafael

He hasn't.

Of course not. Wouldn't be who he is if he did, if he leaned into that familiarity and warmth so easily. Girl's mom is, after all, a stranger to him. Familial love, familial ties: they're still half-foreign to him too.

So he stands there, a couple paces back. Wears his brown shirt and his dark jeans and his go-to jacket, that motorcycling piece in a shade of graphite grey so dark it might as well be black. He watches them, looking away awkwardly while they hug and kiss, giving them the privacy he thinks they might want. Rather thoughtlessly his eyes sweep the terminal, alert. Looks back a little later and they're still in close physical contact.

So he moves a little closer. A step. Folds his arms across his chest, mouth quirking a little; waits.

Devon

A few paces back, but there. Visible, waiting. Devon babbles to her mother and her mother speaks softly back a few times. And a few seconds later Devon looks over, having thought he'd come over by now, and he's looking around awkwardly. She quirks her head and waves him over, her face saying something akin to

stop being a weirdo.

Rafael

Wolf clearly doesn't know what to do, how to approach. Mother-and-child is such a sacred, close bond. He comes a little closer, almost cautiously. Unzips his jacket down to the level of his diaphragm as he does, reaching into the inner pocket to pull out a little package. Something small and flat, wrapped clumsily in striped silver paper: here matte, there glossy.

Didn't tell girl he was going to do this. Probably didn't know how to broach it, or maybe just wanted to surprise her a little too. "Got you this," he mutters, then glances at girl: maybe to see if she approves.

Devon

A sacred, close bond... that he has no experience with. Never knew his own mother, except through stories. Except through wealth. Her cars. Her mansion in the mountains. Everything she left behind for him, to the exclusion of the son she actually did know. Devon knows this about him. She waves him over and she's looking at him funny but there's warmth in there, still; her eyes gleam happily.

Then he takes something out of his coat. A few people, sensing his nearness, flinch slightly when they see him reach into his jacket. They don't even know why; logically they know better. But it's a little present, and Devon looks thrilled when he starts to hand it to her mother, not even introducing himself or letting Devon introduce him before he is muttering that he got her something.

"Oh?" Katia says, taking it gently from his hands. Her hands are small and deft, her touch is light; another thing she gave to her daughter, if not her eyes or her smile. "You shouldn't have," she says, and he can hear the mingling of accents there: mostly London, but then a little bit Brazilian beneath that. Just a hint.

"Mum, this is Rafael. He's bad at... people," Devon says, and just there her own accent is coming out stronger, just by being around her mother. She shifts a little; lowers her arm to hold Rafael's hand. People move around them, on their way to various parts of the airport. She squeezes his hand. "Rafael, this is my mum."

Katia looks up at him, smiling. Oh, her eyes twinkle, too. It's less obvious, with the brown, but they do. She holds her little gift in one hand, offering him her other. "A pleasure, Rafael." Wiggles the gift between her fingers, amused. "Must I wait for Christmas?"

Rafael

So they're linked: wolf to girl, girl to mother. And through that small gift passing from one to the other too. Wolf frowns instinctively as he's accused (rightfully) of being bad at people, but it doesn't seem to stick.

"What?" That's instinctive too. He clears his throat. "No. It's for now."

And belatedly, and muttered all in one breath: "Nicemeetingyoutoo."

Single piece of tape holds the messy little package together. The corners are lumpy and the edges don't match up, but it's no matter as the giftwrap comes off. Inside is a flat little box, and inside the box is ... a bookmark, perhaps, slender and wafer-thin, made of filigreed gold. Depicts in swirling, stylized strokes a forest, a moon, a young woman standing pensive at the edge of a pond or a lake or an ocean, hair blown forward, thin arms around her waist.

"Don't know if you read much," wolf says.

Devon

Katia smiles, and gently unwraps the little present, seeing at first only a very pretty gold thing, lifting it up to look at the image it depicts. "Oh, that is lovely," she says, and then Rafael mentions reading, so that tells her what it is, and she smiles. "Quite a lot," without telling him it's usually on her little tablet, to and fro on the train. "Thank you, Rafael."

Gently, she tucks the bookmark back into its box, and closes the lid, and tucks it into her tote bag. She tucks the wrapping paper away in there as well, not to save it but simply to not have it cluttering up her hands. Devon is picking up where she left off:

"We should head back," she says, taking her mother's free hand, sticking herself in the middle of the trio. "If you're up to it, you and I need to go shopping for a party dress for tomorrow night."

--

Katia has questions about that, which is how Devon and Rafael end up explaining about his party in the mountains as they walk down to baggage claim. Perhaps Rafael busies himself carrying heavy things, or perhaps the get one of those carts to push along. Either way, they head out to his car, loading up her mother's luggage and chatting about the party, the shopping trip, the trip to the mountains tomorrow. Katia has to assure Devon a few times that she's fine with shopping today, and the last time she outright shushes the girl for being fussy about it. Devon actually blushes a little, grumpy about being called fussy. It passes quickly. Then there's some discussion about seating in the car, and Katia won't sit up front and Devon won't either so they end up sitting in the back, Devon leaning against her mother for most of the drive.

They stop for a bite to eat near the Cherry Creek mall. Logistics are ironed out; Devon and her mother stay there, and Rafael takes the car and the luggage back to his place, later to send a driver -- or come pick them up himself, if he wants. They shop. And when they get back, whether with Rafael or the driver, they are carrying bags from high-end stores of a high-end shopping center. They have clothes and makeup and even, it appears, some jewelry. Katia does look a little hesitant about it all, apologizing, but Devon kept insisting and Devon interjects that mum, it's really all right, he's not mad and then looking at him to chime in and help her put her mum at ease about spending all of his money.

She won't be entirely at ease for a bit, and perhaps she and Devon will talk about it later. Her weariness is also starting to show; eventually Devon makes them some tea, and the three of them sit in the living room to watch some old movie, Devon curled up on the couch with her mom under a blanket. Katia excuses herself about midway through, kissing Devon's hair and thanking Rafael again, taking herself up the little spiral staircase to the prepared guest room that was, once, Devon's room.

Devon, almost as soon as that upper door closes, slips out from under the blanket and steps over to Rafael in his lounger and climbs in with him, scooting him aside and wiggling herself between his leg and the armrest, tucking herself firmly under his arm.

Rafael

The awkwardness does not go away immediately. Truth be told, perhaps it even deepens a little on both sides -- the party, the shopping, the money spent. But girl's mother is such a laughing, warm woman. Maybe she forgives her daughter's boyfriend for being bad at people. Certainly, her daughter was right: he doesn't mind at all that they bought clothes and makeup and jewelry. He's quietly pleased. Said it before: what else is he going to spend his money on?

They return to his townhouse. It's the first time Katia Paredes has seen it, but wolf doesn't think to give her a tour. Just never occurs to him. He directs her easily enough to bathrooms, kitchens, bedrooms, though, and the place isn't that large. She can easily figure it out. They sip tea. They watch a movie, girl with mother, wolf on that recliner of his, silent, genuinely engrossed in the plot. It surprises him when girl's mother gets up to go. He hadn't noticed her preparing to rise.

"Room's up the stairs, then down the hall," he says. "Bathroom inside. Should be all ready for you." A beat; then he adds: "Night."

Up the spiral staircase she goes. Crossing that hall, she can see her daughter from above, slender longlimbed thing curled up under the warm throw blanket. It's a heavy, textured wool blanket, which is perhaps unsurprising. Neither wolf nor his late mother seem the sort to want synthetics in their bedding.

Can see him too: big, heavy-muscled thing sprawled out on that recliner, intent again on his movie.

--

Surprises him less when girl comes over. He's always attuned to her; senses her rising without needing to hear or see. She comes over and he braces his hands on the arms of the chair, scoots over. Lays back as she settles in with him. He slings his arm thoughtless around her, and she tucks herself against his side. Feels so natural now he can't imagine a time before this happened.

"Hey," he murmurs in greeting, eyes still on the TV. "You guys get everything you needed?"

Devon

Devon is the only person who doesn't feel awkward about the gift given at the airport, the shopping trip, being driven around. Then again: Devon is a mooch. And it's easy enough to imagine that this is one more thing she got from the Fianna, or perhaps even that wastrel father of hers she barely knew and doesn't really remember. He sounds like someone who was comfortable using whatever other people offered, without apology or tension over it. But even if Rafael were to think that deeply about it, he knows better than to so much as say the word 'dad' around Devon without keeping an eye on her mood. She's touchy, if one puts it mildly. She's neurotic about it, if one is a little more honest.

That said: her mother is warm and friendly and nondemonstrative out of politeness and because she's so used to Londoners. She doesn't patt Rafael's shoulder on her way up to bed, nor has she hugged him. She doesn't mind Rafael's awkwardness any more than Devon does, though. She feels embarrassed to be so tired, despite having flown across an ocean and shopping for several hours. Upstairs she puts on the lotion left for her by her daughter, unaware of its magic seeping into her through her skin. She feels drowsy. She feels relaxation flooding through her, even though there is something a little strange -- yet deeply familiar -- about the man her child has chosen to be with. She closes her eyes as she rubs her hands together, and is nearly asleep before she realizes she needs to undress.

Downstairs, Devon is cuddly. She is resting her head and hand on his chest, watching the movie with him.

"Mm-hmm," she answers, nodding against him. "Glad," she adds. "She wouldn't want to be underdressed."

Rafael

"Glad too," he says quietly. Doesn't mind that she's cuddly. He's never cuddly, but he likes it when she cuddles, wants to be near. They're quiet a while. Onscreen, Audrey or Bogie or maybe Cary Grant.

"She okay with ... everything? Me. She's not freaked out?"

Devon

Devon is quiet, and then Devon nods. She wasn't hesitating; she was thinking. Not one to tell him all is well when it might not be. Not one to assume how her mother is doing. She slides her hand over his chest, wraps her arm around him a bit more.

"Think she senses something. Would be familiar, though. Married my father, but he wasn't a full moon," she says, almost a whisper. "I put some magic in her room to help her feel calm. Safe."

Rafael

He thinks a moment. Movie doesn't hold his attention now, though his eyes stay on the tv. Just a point of fixation.

"Wonder if she'd worry more about you," he says. "If she thinks you're doing what she did. Falling for a certain type."

Devon

Just shrugs. "Not a worrier," she tells him. Her mum, she means. "She doesn't hate him like I do, either."

Twists her head to look at him. "Nothing about you is like him anyway, except that one thing. Which she doesn't know about, so she can't name it."

Rafael

He kisses her when she turns to look at him. Just this quiet little thing, spontaneous. Later when they part he lays his head down. Perhaps she does too.

"Maybe I'm a worrier," he says; some sort of half-joke. "Maybe don't want you to somehow get caught between your mom and me."

Devon

Devon huffs a little laugh. He's kissing her. Leans in and does it, and she smiles against his lips before kissing him back. She touches his jaw, slips her hand behind his head, keeping him there so they can kiss properly. She thinks it's been hours and hours and hours since the last time. Even so, it's not a long thing. Not proper in its impropriety, as she prefers it. He lays his head down, and she lays hers again on his chest.

Then he admits that maybe -- maybe! -- he is a worrier. He sounds like he gets how dumb this sounds, when it's obvious that he is. But Devon doesn't laugh at him. She wraps her arm around him.

"I'm not, babe," she murmurs. "I don't like most people. Means a lot that I like you so much. She knows."

Rafael

He mutters a laugh. Sounds like him. Don't like anyone. Just likes her.

"Let's go upstairs," he says. "Can finish the movie on my phone if you want."

Devon

She's seen this movie half a dozen times. She kicks him a little, her toes to the side of his leg, when he suggests they go upstairs. Finish the movie, if she wants.

"You wanna fuck?" she asks.

Rafael

"With your mom down the hall? Walls are thin as fuck. Should wait for the mountains."

Should, he said.

Devon

Could tell him that her mom will be out like a light, or that it wouldn't be the first time she's fucked with her mom right down the hall. She leans against his side, fingernails scritching his ribcage lightly through his shirt.

"Laundry room, then," she mutters, and bites his pectoral muscle, gently, through his clothes.

Rafael

Those light little touches steal a shiver down his back; tighten his skin, harden his nipples. Probably gives him at least a halfmast too. He wraps a hand behind her head, kisses her temple.

Then he grabs up the remote and flicks the TV off. She's half atop him and he urges her to sit up so he can get up without toppling her on the ground. "Come on."

Devon

So she's aggressive. So she manipulates. The way he likes it when she touches his side. The little bite. Devon has her body pressed along his side, in that large chair that isn't large enough to permit much space between them. She licks her lips as he shivers, smirks to herself as he kisses her temple. Turns off the tv.

Devon is half atop him, and then she's all the way on top of him, covering his body with her own as if to just start making out with him right there. She does, in fact, start kissing him right there, closing her eyes and sealing her mouth to his with a soft, satisfied little sound. His hands urge her here, there, move her closer. He's going to get them up.

She smirks again, this time more openly, lopsidedly, almost grinning. "Yeah?" as her legs go around him, readily assuming he's just going to lift her up and carry her.

Rafael

Far be it from him to disappoint her. He wraps his arms around her, stands. They share that kiss, and then another: his mouth finding hers, sealing gently. He feels gentle tonight, wants to take care of her.

Carries her toward the stairs, but then he passes them; goes under and behind, into that small room near the garage. Closes the door, turns on the lights, sets her atop the washer.

Reaches back to pull his shirt off. The brown t-shirt, because he totally has clothes that aren't grey.

Devon

As easily as any other time, Devon wraps her arms and legs around him as he lifts her up. The chair jostles a bit beneath them as he rises, but neither of them notice: they're kissing, and her eyes are closed or closing as she sinks into that. She makes a soft noise, unable to read his mind, what he wants, how he feels for her -- but able to appreciate, nonetheless, the way he kisses. He's gotten rather good at kissing her, she thinks. So she goes on kissing him, letting him pause here and there if he wants to actually look where he's going.

She grins at him in the dark when they go into the laundry room. He flicks on the lights; she reaches over and flicks them off again, leaning in to kiss him again, a little more deeply than before. Laundry rooms don't typically have locks; she doesn't reach for one. She enjoys the darkness, velvety and thick, waiting for her eyes to adjust to what little illumination comes in from the crack beneath the door.

Her ass touches cold metal and she breathes in as she settles, keeping her heels from thumping against the front of the machine. She can just barely make out the shape of him, the way he's moving, and hear the rustle of cotton sliding up the skin of his back. She imagines it, knowing how he looks when he takes his shirt off, and bites her lip. She leans forward, reaching for him, laying her hands on his chest, his abdomen, shivering a little at the sensation of his body breathing against her palms.

Had a thought earlier about just dropping a little bit of clothing here and there, bending over the machine or leaning against the wall, having him fuck her from behind, but this is better, right now. This, his body hot under her hand but nearly invisible, is better. She can hear him breathing. She can make out his heartbeat when she puts her hand against his left pec. She whispers, out of nowhere:

"Like you."

Rafael

In the darkness everything turns into shapes and sensation. He has a flickering aware of her movement, but it's little enough to go on until he feels her hand on him. She touches his chest, feels his heartbeat. Feels his hand covering hers a moment later, holding her there while he leans in to kiss her.

"Love you," he replies, soft.

Devon

In the darkness, everything is the warmth she can feel under her hands and the tremor of primordial alertness that his presence brings to her. She knows that for many, it would be fear. But she can smell him, as he takes off his shirt. As he breathes nearby. She knows who it is, and instead of anxiety she only feels anticipation; she grows wet, feels hot, leans toward him when she senses he's coming nearer. Tries to kiss him, finds him kissing her before she gets there, like he can find her mouth no matter how dark it is.

Devon makes a soft sound into that kiss. She puts her arms around his neck, leaning closer, closer, wanting him near. There are bracelets up and down her wrists. There are necklaces, too many of them, heavy on her chest. She's been wearing those lightning-bolt leggings all day and that tight black tank under the long mesh tank that is almost a dress and her lipgloss has worn off but her eyes are still shadowy and dark if only he could see them. Took off her big boots earlier. Her hair hasn't re-curled after being straightened this morning; when he runs his fingers through it, it flows like water.

Her legs wrap around him again, pulling him to the side of the washer. Puling him, more importantly, to be flush against her body, held between her thighs. Kisses him again, fervent -- or at least: focused.

Rafael

If only he could see them.

If only he could see her. Can't fault him that. He's missing a sense when it comes to her: can smell her toiletries and her perfume, if she wears it; could smell her sunscreen on those hot summer days and can smell the cold night on her tonight. Can't smell her though, and never could. No matter how tightly he holds her. No matter how many times his hand pass through that thick dark hair -- silky-slippery tonight -- never, never does the heat of his fingers lift her scent from her body.

And now it's dark. And now he's down to three: taste and sound and touch. His ears feel hyperacute; pick up the way she breathes, the way she sighs. Clink of her bracelets seem sharp and bright. Her necklaces press against his skin, caught between their bodies. He thinks she should take them off. He thinks he'd like to see them sway against her body as they fuck.

Scoops his hand under her rear; lifts her from the washer enough that he can reach under her almost-a-skirt. Starts peeling those leggings down, feeling his way in the dark. Can't see anyway so there's no reason to stop kissing her. Wouldn't see anything anyway, looking down.

Devon

Devon didn't think of it, when she turned off the light. That with her, Rafael is always at a slight sensory disadvantage. She knows, instinctively, though they've never talked about it: he can smell her hair, her soap, her oils, but that isn't what he wants. That isn't what he misses, when he buries his face in her hair and inhales so deeply. That's not what he's looking for. She forgot, coming in the room, thinking only that she wanted the darkness, the secrecy of it, the focus on touch and taste. And truth be told, she still doesn't think of it: she listens to his breathing and it lights her up inside, hearing it quicken in response to their kissing. In response, in fact, to her.

She moans, and it's soft but it hits the quiet darkness like a thunderclap. She doesn't take off anything yet. She hasn't reached for her jewelry or lifted her hips to hike up that tunic-shirt-thing she's wearing. She hasn't said a word about his clothes, either. Devon is enjoying kissing him, feeling his bare chest, being alone with him.

But she grins, laughing breathily and quietly when he hefts her up, lifting her against him. She tightens her legs around him and her arms around him and wriggles semi-helpfully as he pushes her leggings off her ass, feels her panties beneath. Maybe he knows them by touch: semi-sheer things, black with cream-colored lace here and there. She usually doesn't wear cute, fancy underthings. Sometimes, occasionally, she does. And perhaps he peels those down, too. She bites his lower lip, kissing him again as he works leggings and panties down her hips. He'll have to set her down again to get them the rest of the way off; she'll have to unwind her legs from his waist. She is in no hurry.

When her bare ass touches the washer again, she gasps from the cold. And starts taking off her necklaces, all in one twisted tangled mess of chain and ribbon and cord, putting them on top of the dryer before she reaches for him again, her hands searching for his face, his lean jaw, drawing him to her again.

Rafael

Gasp makes him pick her up again, hefting her quick and easy into his arms. Her leggings are gone already, somewhere on the dark floor. Same with her panties. He fumbles around with his foot, finds his shirt, kicks it up into his free hand and spreads it over the top of the washer.

Sets her down again. Her necklaces go clattering, half-muffled by the shirt. He goes back to her then, wrapped in her arms and legs, rubbing his palms along her sides. Fingers spread, skim her skin through the armholes of those tank tops she wears. Then he pulls back a little. Disentangles her -- if she lets him -- and works those leggings off, those panties.

Devon

She laughs, gaspingly again, as he performs this little dance with her: hugs her to his body again, lifting her up, kicking up his shirt blindly with his toe, laying it out under her bare ass -- all without setting her down, letting her go, all without giving up on kissing her. She presses closer to him, his shirt still slightly warm from his body, and moans a little into another kiss. "You're so cute," she murmurs, which may damn well be the first time anyone's ever said such a thing to him. It's certainly the first time Devon's said such a thing to him. Cute.

Her clothes are off, or coming off. They peel and kick them away, drop them. She takes off her necklaces and chains, drops at least a few of her bracelets but not all of them, mostly just the noisy ones. She runs her hands over his chest, writhing slightly on top of his shirt, rubbing herself against nothing nearly as satisfying as she wants it to be. Devon licks her lips, close enough to moisten his as well, before drawing back. Her skinny arms cross in front of her and she pulls off her shirt and her undershirt in one go, dropping the bundle of black fabric behind her. There's still a couple of necklaces that never made it into the tangle; there's still a few little bracelets that didn't come off her wrists. He has no idea what color her bra is; it feels smooth under his hands when she puts his palms there, insistent.

When she puts his hands on her tits, through her bra, kissing him again to hide a groan in his mouth. When she reaches for his waistband, pulling open the button of his jeans, carefully but not slowly pulling down his zipper. When she reaches into his jeans, rubbing his cock through his boxers.

"Fuck," she mutters, curving her hand around his erection, stroking him almost immediately, eagerly. "Oh, fuck."

Rafael

"No I'm not," girl's grumpy boyfriend grumps. "Just being nice to you."

She drops a few bracelets too. Still has some of her unending loops of cheapish jewelry on; maybe because she's forgotten what's on, what's off, can't tell one chain from the next in the dark. Something cool and hard and faceted brushes the backs of his hands when she pulls his hands to her breasts. Well; to her bra. Which he immediately starts to try to undo, flicking the straps off her shoulders, reaching into the cups to lifts her tits out.

"Take it out," he mutters, meaning his cock, though that may or may not be clear. Might be talking about her breasts. Probably not though; he has his hands on those well enough, playing with her, nudging her bra down to her waist almost before he finally reaches around to snap it off. "Stroke it."

Devon

Something cute, her cute boyfriend says cutely. So she kisses him again, sliding her free hand around his side to his mid-back, holding him closer while she touches him. Devon is panting softly. She thinks of telling him that she's going to get his shirt wet, that he's turning her on more than she can handle, but somehow it feels vulgar in the dark. Besides: she thinks he knows. Thinks he can surely feel how tremulous her breathing is, feel through her skin how coiled and tense her body is becoming, how much she's already longing for release.

Devon takes her hands off of him for just a moment to slip her arms free of the straps of her bra; her hands immediately find him again. When Rafael tells her to take his cock out she shivers, kissing him harder, leaning into his caressing, lifting, hot, firm hands. The undergarment comes free and falls over her lap, and he'll have to move it because she's not paying attention to that anymore. She's taking it out. She's stroking it. She's pushing his jeans and his boxers out of her way just enough to get at him, wrapping her hand around that hot piece of flesh with a heady, dizzying groan. And then she's jerking him off, thoughtlessly, like she's not even fully aware of what her hands are doing.

"Babe," she says, her mouth slipping from his just for a moment to gasp this. She sounds so plaintive, so needful; she sounds like not fucking him is starting to hurt her.

Rafael

They share that groan. He kisses her and the sound mingles, dissipates. He loses that kiss when she starts stroking him: his eyes close and his mouth opens, he breathes raggedly.

Opens his eyes again when she says his name. Or what has become his name now: babe, one of the many things she calls him. She and no one else. He can just make out her shape in the darkness: takes her face between his hands and kisses her. Takes her hips and pulls her to the very edge of the washer, lifts and parts her knees wider to accommodate the nearness, him.

"Put it in," he whispers, "so I can fuck you."

Devon

So he was right about the walls: they aren't that thick. She only knows because of waking up to someone downstairs: a servant, or Rafael watching t.v., back when she lived here. And she hates trying to be quiet, or at very least isn't any good at keeping quiet when she's enjoying herself. And they're groaning, and she's gasping, panting happily with every touch. She's into it, this pleasure she's giving him, her free hand resting on the back of his neck. He falls away from kissing her and she pulls back just enough to watch him, close up, their brows almost touching him. She wants to talk fucking dirty to him but she doesn't, she can't think of anything, she just wants to keep stroking it, make his eyes roll back like that, make his body jerk a little as he tries to keep a grip on himself.

And that's when she starts saying his name, or what may as well be his name. They have to get up early tomorrow; they have to drive out to his mountain home and servants will want to ask him about certain details of the party and they'll want to steam his tux again and someone will have a rose for his lapel. They need to get upstairs and cuddle in his bed and sleep together and she is so longing for that closeness, that comfort, that even as aroused as she is, she can think of it clearly. She can imagine being held in his arm and listening to his heartbeat while they fall asleep. She can imagine waking up next to him and feeling like she belongs there, even when her body is crying out for her to get on him and fuck his brains out.

He tells her to put it in, which is not the most romantic way of talking about being inside of her, but she's not terribly concerned with that right now. She opens her legs for him, gasping softly while he pulls her to the edge of the washer. Her hips tilt; she leans back a little, guiding him closer to her. She has never fucked like this: on a table or a counter or whathaveyou. She's guessing, really, about the logistics. She bites her lip, and kisses him again, her hesitance showing simply enough in the fact that she doesn't just... put it in.

Rafael

No, it's not the most romantic way to put it. But then he's not terribly good at romance. Pretty good at fucking her these days. Not too bad at making her happy.

Not too bad at reading her mood, either. Understands she pauses not because she doesn't want to but because -- well. She's uncertain. Something endearing about that. Girl's so worldly in some things: boozing, for one. Girl's got such confidence sometimes. Unusual to find something she hesitates on. Makes him want to protect her, help her.

So he does. Scoops her up off that washer; holds her in his arms. His hand covers hers; together they guide him to her. He lowers her; surface under her again, that t-shirt giving some semblance of comfort and warmth. He holds her steady, moves into her. Kisses her as he feels her opening, stretching, giving way. Bites gently at her lip. Reaches past her to anchor his hand on the rack over the washer, on which weighs several jugs of detergent and softener and the like.

Devon

She can drink him under the table. She tells people what the stars and cards want them to do with their lives and they listen to her like she's not some skinny girl in overdone eye makeup but a sage, a witch, an authority. She doesn't give a fuck what those rich people who come to his parties or invite him to theirs think of her if she wears the same thing more than once.

But she hasn't had as many boyfriends as people assume. She hasn't done every sex act under the sun and then some. She spent most of high school by herself -- most of middle school by herself -- most of her life by herself, one way or another. She is a tender mama's girl at heart. She gets hurt easily and she can't stand to see other people hurt and so she tries not to be around people at all because people are always hurting. She cares, a lot, too much, what Rafael thinks of her. She never forgets what he is, deep down,

and sometimes right up against the surface.

Devon breathes in, with something like relief and gratitude, when he scoops her up into his big, strong, warm arms. She doesn't mind thinking of them like that but she doesn't say it aloud: doesn't praise his big, warm, strong body even though she likes it a lot. She rests her body against his, and kisses him deeply, and gasps when his cock touches her pussy. He finds her wet, as of yet untouched except by his t-shirt, and feels her grow only more and more ready now that her body has gotten some sort of assurance that yes: he's right there, and he's going to fuck her, finally. Feels like it's been days. Feels like months. She wraps both of her hands around him then, fingers buried in his hair, moan buried in his mouth as she kisses him. She rocks slightly, wanting more of him, barely even noticing as he sets her down again, leans into her.

Oh, she notices when he presses into her. She gasps, leaning back, reaching behind herself to plant one hand on the top of the washer. Opens her legs a little wider, pushing against him, which is how she urges him. Her free hand slips off his neck, down his body, to the small of his back, the curve of his ass, the hardness of his hip. Devon bites her lip, pulling him deeper. Looks down between them, even though she can barely see anything. Sees just enough to make her shudder, make her moan again. She still doesn't want the light on. Even if she does want to watch him fucking her.

Rafael

Wants to watch her fuck him too. Doesn't want the lights on either. Seems like it'd shatter something, make it banal and mundane. Lights in here are just stark fluorescents, and room's so bland: washer, dryer, detergent on the racks, dryer sheets in a messily opened box. Can smell clean clothes and fresh-laundered sheets still. Can smell --

well. Not her. He can't. She can smell him though, and sometimes he smells freshly showered and sometimes he stinks of sweat but always, always, he smells like something wild and not-quite-human. He smells like lust and vigor right now, sounds like it too when she pulls him into her. Grunts, tries to keep his voice down because he's not sure laundry room's really that much more private than the bedroom. Damn modern buildings, damn thin walls.

He starts fucking her. Leans into her, braced on that rack; she's got a hand behind herself, supporting herself. He's got a hand behind her back, supporting her, or perhaps just giving himself a counterpoint. His pants are still most of the way on, but movement nudges them down inch by inch, sagging around his calves. He can just make out her body, her tits. He puts his hand on one, cups it to feel it bounce. Such a dirty, naughty, arousing little sensation; makes him rub her nipple, tug gently. Leans forward again and their mouths meet, and it's a hotter kiss, tangling and electric.

Devon

About a second before he lowers his hand to play with her breast, Devon is about to tell him to. Stop holding the stupid shelf and touch her. She's leaning back like that just for leverage, just to fuck him a little harder, keep him a little deeper. She looks up at him as he's touching her, feeling her tit slap his palm gently, over and over; they aren't going too fast, yet. They aren't really giong on it yet. They're just fucking, getting used to it, getting used to each other,

not that it takes them that long anymore. She's sweating, her eyes flicking between the shadow of his cock sliding into her pussy, the shape of his face barely visible in the dark, his hand holding her breast. She licks her lips, dry from panting, because she's trying to keep it down, too.

Which is harder, when he really starts to give it to her. When he leans more heavily into her, starts fucking her a little harder because how can you not when she's so wet like that, when her legs are high and tight around his waist, when she's arching her back like a goddamn animal? Or when he pinches her, tugs at her, and she makes this whining, undulating, slightly-too-loud noise at the back of her throat, tipping her head back and biting her lip to try and stifle it even as she's grinding her pussy on him? He can feel her teeth when he kisses her; she gasps for him, whispering before he pulls back:

"Faster. I want you to fuck me harder."

Rafael

Between kisses he releases a sound, quiet, stifled, somewhere between grunt and groan. And he does: setting one hand on the washer, still cupping her tit with the other. Their mouths part and he looks down, and their eyes are adjusting to what little light there is here; he can see the intimation of their coupling, their bodies, their motion.

Can certainly feel it. Fucking mindblowing, every time. She's so wet and she's getting his shirt wet and that thought turns him on; it's filthy. He steps into her, front of his thighs against the washer, feet wide. Fucks her faster, powerfully enough that the laundry equipment is starting to shift a little. Hand on her breast slides up, cups the side of her neck and then her cheek, and then behind her head so he can kiss her, endlessly, mouth open to hers, breathing harsh.

"You're so hot," he whispers. "Feel so good."

Devon

That sound means he likes it. Likes that she said it. Likes that she wants him to fuck her harder; likes that he gets to. She sits up a little, too, bouncing against him even as he's thrusting faster now, making the washer rock slightly under her from the commotion. Devon likes that, and likes his wrinkled t-shirt warm under her ass and his bare ass against her calves and the way her necklaces flicker and sway against her chest now.

Devon wraps her arm around his shoulders and leans up to him, kisses his mouth luciously, hungrily, all but climbing onto him. And then, in fact, lifting herself up onto his body, moaning as she sinks harder onto his cock, whimpering a little as he goes deeper into her. She kisses his neck then, his shoulder, opens her mouth and sets her teeth in his flesh there for a moment.

"Don't stop," though he's given no indication of even slowing down. "Just... want you to fuck... fuck me until I can't think."

Rafael

Scoops her up almost in the same instant she climbs up on him. Picks her up off that washing machine, which was starting to make noise anyway; carries her on his body for a handful of strokes, panting on every one.

Then her back against the wall. His body between her legs, his hands gripping her ass. He fucks her with his mouth to her shoulder; nearly to her neck. Fucks her deep and fast now, swift-hammering strokes, eager. Wants to grunt, moan, yell. Bites her shoulder instead, muffles a long groan there, closes his eyes and grinds into her and

a moment later he's fucking her again, that same unflagging tempo. Fucking her senseless is one way to put it.

Devon

Devon's long skinny legs wrap all around his waist, cross behind his back. She groans, and for a few moments he's fucking her in midair, and this time she's not tense or scared or uncertain, she's just wet and hot and holding onto him, fucking him right back.

Then her shoulders hit the wall and she writhes a little, all but purring. She wraps him up tighter in her arms and legs until he can feel her necklaces pressing into his chest. She kisses him again, licks his neck, bites his earlobe as he's lowering his head to her body.

There's a part of her that knows they have crossed some line, even before he puts his teeth in her shoulder. Even before he sets his feet and really starts fucking her now, like he's chasing something. Sweat sticks her hair to the back of her neck and it collects under her tits, makes her body slippery. She knows how far gone they are only moments before she's too far gone herself to know anything. She feels him now, how different he is when they go to this place -- when all he can do is bite her, hold onto her, fuck her. Devon's eyes close; her head tips back. She moans helplessly when he starts pounding her, her ass bouncing in his hands and against the wall itself. Feels weirdly good.

Devon grinds right back against him when he pauses, rolling her hips in circles, panting at the feel of his sweat-slicked skin against her own. "Love fucking you," she mutters, breathes, and that's the last coherent thought she has for a long time.

She cries out, then. It arches before it collapses into a long moan; she can barely do anything but take it now, but that's okay, that's what she wants now, that's how she likes it, he's got her so close she can't think. He's got her so much on the edge that all she can do is open for him more, urge him on, dig her nails into his back and make these noises at him to tell him yes, yes, good, that's it, yes. He's got her so fucking close that at the very end she's just panting for air, nearly hyperventilating, grasping inside her own body for the release she's been longing for since she finally got him alone. Since she came over the first time today. Since she fucking met him.

Devon gasps, and it's ragged, and she clenches, clutches at him, starts leveraging her weight to fuck back against him, use that cock, take what she needs from this so very, very badly. So very, very eagerly. Devon's fucking him through her orgasm, and her nails scratch at his back without her really meaning to, she would never want to hurt him or make him wince and it's amazing she could even bite him tonight but she's just so... horny. And right now, when she's moaning so loud that surely it's audible past the laundry room, she's coming just... so... hard. It's driving her out of her mind, how much she needs it right now. How much even getting it is wrecking her. It almost hurts, it's so good. She thinks she's going to pass out, and she doesn't even care.

It takes several seconds for the crest of it to let her go, and she sounds like she's dizzy, she sounds destroyed, and then she's just whimpering, tears in her eyes that don't mean anything. She tips her head back and tries to remember how to breathe, hoping to fuck that her boyfriend keeps going at least a little longer, because she can't remember how to live in her body when she's not fucking him. Not yet.

Rafael

First time she moans aloud he kisses her.

Second time -- and god, this is a rare thing, ever since those first few times when she told him, taught him, he's be so careful not to hurt, harm, frighten, dominate her -- second time, he puts his hand over her mouth. Shushes her, muttering in her ear, some incoherent string of sounds about not so loud and thin walls.

All the while he's fucking her. All the while she's fucking him. All the while they're riding each other, grasping for purchase on skin, on wall. All the while she's moaning so loudly he thinks you can probably still hear her outside this room, but he doesn't care. All the while his mouth is pressed to her shoulder, her neck, his teeth press into her skin.

She pulls that orgasm out of what's between them, what they do to each other. Out of his body, and hers. It's a magic all its own: drawn out of blood and bone, sweat and muscle. She's out of her head by the end of it. She's very nearly out of her body, clinging to him like that's her shredded connection to earth. Sometime in the midst of it he started making this sound, wanting, laughing: enjoying the sight and sound and feel of her, enjoying her, enjoying her orgasm as it spins out through her.

He's still for just a little bit when she's done. Kisses her, tastes her sweat and her skin. Waits for some -- some sense of release, some relaxation, her limbs going liquid. Then he gathers her up, takes her by the hips, holds her against the wall,

fucks her, hard and fast. It's something else now, driven and focused, a pursuit of his own pleasure. He bites her on the cusp of climax. Growls against her flesh, fiercely; pounds it into her, wraps his arms around her as it crests and starts to let go. His body to hers, the deep flexion in his core tangible, palpable; a last few thrusts; a low sound that verges into the overcome.

Holds on to her afterward. Her toes trail somewhere around the vicinity of his knees, his hamstrings. His hands grip her, his arms support her, but it's the wall that holds them both up. He pants against her skin. Wipes sweat from his brow, somewhat grossly, against her shoulder.

Devon

He doesn't feel her tense up or pull away when he covers her mouth with his hand. Doesn't feel her shudder with sudden unease. He mutters in her ear not so loud and she moans against his palm -- softer than before, as though trying to obey. She does pull her face from behind his hand and kiss him then, kisses him hard when she's fucking him, when she's coming on him, holding him tight in her arms and her legs as she dies a little, resurrects, remakes her own internal universe after it collides with his.

That stretch between her orgasm and Rafael's harrying of his own is interminable: perhaps moreso for him than Devon. It takes a while before she can relax. She's panting, sweating, clinging to him, and he's still throbbing inside of her and every so often it makes her whimper, makes her writhe on him slightly, like it's about to start up again and wring her out. His control is notable. And that's what she thinks, drowsily, as he kisses her and nuzzles her and holds her up against the wall, mere moments after her mind has returned and a half-moment before he senses it, lifts her up a little, presses into her.

Devon moans again, just before that first solid thrust, but it tatters into a gasp as that thrust ends up being just a hammering, a literal pounding against the wall. She cries out, and he's not covering her mouth now or kissing her, he's biting her shoulder and snarling as he comes, his hands hard where they grip her ass, slipping slightly on sweat. It's messy. And it's filthy. And he grinds into her a little on that last thrust or two, which she loves, and shivers and groans in response to.

Of course afterwards, they're useless. He's lucky to be standing up, holding her still. She's lucky she can feel her body. She lays her head on his shoulder, hugging him. He wipes his brow on her shoulder, which does no good since her shoulder is sweaty, too. He's leaning so heavily into her that it gets a little crushing, so Devon wriggles, trying to get him to readjust. She breathes in deeply. She exhales shortly. It's not quite panting but it's close; it's a few steps away. It starts slowing, only gradually.

A while later:

"Wanna lie down."

A moment after that:

"Let's take a bath."

Rafael

Wolf mutters, half-logical at best:

"Gonna drown."

Devon

Devon just yawns. "Nowewon't."

She nuzzles him, both arms wrapped around his shoulders, her head tucked against him. "Sleepy. But gross."

Rafael

He straightens. Lifts her off the wall, hefts her higher. Leans down precariously and picks up ... nothing. Swipes at his pants but mostly misses. Ends up kicking them off instead.

So he's bare-ass naked when he steps out of the laundry room. Glances cautiously up toward the second-floor hallway, finds it quiet and empty. Shuts off the lights before he starts up the stairs. He was never this careful to be quiet when she was living in that guest room, but then again: he's got a pretty damn good reason to be quiet now.

Takes her up, takes her into his room. Shuts the door behind them and -- still carrying her -- pads into the bathroom. To not drown.

Devon

"Stoppit," Devon mumbles, when he moves around, trying to pick up clothes. To be graphic: his cock moves weird in her. She wriggles, pulls away. Eventually climbs off, even if that takes a mumbled put me down. She doesn't pick up her clothes, or her jewelry, or anything. She walks out with him, bare-ass naked as well but for a few bracelets, a few remaining necklaces dangling down her breasts and belly.

She stifles a laugh and goes with him, holding his hand, climbing the stairs with him up to his room. Her mother is already asleep; neither of them know that. She slips into his bedroom with him and they shut the door, traipse across the carpet to his bathroom, his luxurious en suite.

Two seconds ago she was so sleepy she could barely move. Now she's traipsing. She's bouncy and alert but relaxed and her cheeks are pink and her eyes a little glassy-happy from fucking. She starts removing those last necklaces, bracelets, but not the studs from her ears.

Watches him, through the mirror. His still-sweaty body. His wet dick.

Rafael

He doesn't know where she got the energy from. He's weary to his bones. Wants to lie down and sleep. The drowning concern was legitimate, damn it.

Still he runs a bath. And yawns, leaning over to test the water. And straightens, catching her eyeing him through the mirror. Hair tousled. Cheeks pink. Upper chest pink. Nipples pink. Cunt pink, though he can't see it right now.

He's eyeing her right back. Smirks a little, lowering himself on the side of the tub. "Come here," he says softly.

Devon

It'll fade. This perkiness, these waves of glowing hormones, this burst of bouncy, girlish energy. It'll fade quickly, but the truth is that by the look in her eyes when she glances at him, she could go another round. After that. After that fuck, that orgasm, even a long day behind her. He knew early on that Devon was only physically fragile in seeming, that she can outdrink him and stay up forever and sometimes goes two or three rounds with him before she wants a nap. But it doesn't mean she can't get worn out, or that the prospect of curling up in bed with him doesn't make her feel warm, comforted, and sleepy.

He runs a bath. She has cleaned herself up a little already, shameless in front of him, unembarrassed about the messy details of sex. They've been together a year, basically. She's lost plenty of shyness, and never had that much to begin with. She catches him looking back at her and she smirks a little to herself, eyes twinkling.

"No," she says, contrary right off the bat. "You come here." There's a little pause. She smirks more; looks at him past her shoulder, instead of in the mirror. "Can you even stand up?"

Rafael

"Nope," he deadpans. "Barely made it up the stairs."

Devon

Devon turns around then, facing him, leaning against the edge of the counter, which indents her ass, her hip. She doesn't move. Crosses her arms over her chest, but just under her tits.

Rafael

There's something shamelessly erotic about this. Their nudity. Their postcoitality. Their familiarity, even; their boldness, lack of shyness.

He stares at her as she faces him. His eyes trail down her body.

Then he gets up, sudden and silent, crosses to her. Puts his hands on her hips and pulls her into him. Lowers his mouth to hers.

Devon

Sort of thought he'd play coy. Dig in his heels and stubbornly sit right on the edge of the tub until she came to him. Argue that no, really, he can't walk. She fucked him too hard. He's a mess. Barely made it to the bathroom.

So when he gets up and crosses, Devon smiles, and then her smile falters -- not with dismay. Anticipation. It's the way he moves across a room. The way he moves, full stop. The way he brings so much warmth with him, a diffuse aura of heat that touches her skin well before he puts his hands on her body.

Her arms uncross just before he touches her. Her breasts lift as she breathes in, her eyes suddenly caught, wide, pupils dilating. Her hands come to rest on his abdomen as he leans into her, and then smooth around his sides, up over his ribs, his chest, as he kisses her.

Devon makes a sound. It's buried under the water thundering into the tub behind him, but he feels it vibrating on his tongue, against his lips: she's whimpering. It's so fucking soft. It's so warm.

Rafael

Wolf smiles into that kiss. Smiles to feel her body; smiles to feel that little sound she makes. It's a simple, appreciative thing. He touches her the same way, with simplicity, with appreciation, skimming his hands up and down her sides, feeling out her contour and shape.

"Could fuck you again," he murmurs. "However you like."

Seductive and silver-tongued and subtle, that. Sure knows how to talk to the ladies.

Devon

Maybe it's not silver-tongued. Maybe it's not subtle. Maybe it's not sly. But it is seductive, hearing him murmur that in her ear while his hands trace over her body. It makes Devon shiver. She takes a breath on the edge of kissing him, and nods. Just nods. Wraps her arms around him, hands moving up his back, lifting her mouth to kiss him again.

Rafael

Kiss is a slow lingering thing. Touch is a slow lingering thing. They're slow and they're lingering this time, hands exploring skin, mouths stealing breaths, gasps. He picks her up but she wants to go down, tugs him down. He has a hand on the ground to soften the descent. Has his other hand on her still, palm to the center of her back. Lowers her, moves over her, bathmat's still dry, cushions her.

She wraps her arms around his neck the way she does. Long skinny arms, all that. He turns his head and kisses her bicep. Nips, kisses, scrapes his teeth over the angle of her jaw as he pushes into her again. They're still messy from the first bout. She's still hot and slick, grips him so tight it makes him groan.

They're a little quieter about it, at least. Fucking on the floor, decadent and careless. He likes her tits bouncing against his chest; always has. He likes her pulling at the rug beneath her, her teeth in her lower lip when she comes.

--

Water's pouring down the overflow drains. Sound finally clicks on him when he rolls over, slides out of her, pulls her on top and against his chest. Should probably turn that off, he thinks. Slips his fingers imperfectly through her thick, tangling hair; kisses her temple.

"Now I really can't stand up," he murmurs.

Devon

This time, Rafael doesn't bang her against the wall, and they don't fuck standing up in midair for even a few strokes. He lifts her into his arms and she moans, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him more deeply, pressing her body to his, but she stretches her legs and keeps her toes on the ground and so he relents. They withdraw a moment, eyes meet. She whispers something in Portuguese without, entirely, seeming to realize it. It's soft and lazy-sounding and ardent and her hands trail down his chest as she says it. As she bends her knees, and draws him with her, and they go to the floor instead.

She's so old-fashioned. She likes it so much like this; lying on her back, holding him on top of her. No idea why it feels so right to her. Just does. And she likes riding him and she likes it against walls and she likes turning around but good lord, there's something about this. His hand on her mid-back lowers her carefully. She smiles, waveringly, then gently, her hand moving to the back of his neck, pulling him to kiss her again.

So they fuck again, and they try to keep quiet again, and he checks on her when he starts thrusting harder, is she okay, the floor is so hard, something -- Devon just wraps her legs around him higher, tighter. Devon just reaches down to his as, gently scraping her nails over his flesh. Devon, without saying anything, tells him to fuck her faster.

--

Water is chugging out of the drains. Devon is resplendent and motionless beneath Rafael, except for her breathing. She isn't even stroking his back or his hips or patting his ass and fondly commenting that yes, that is a butt, and it is nice, and good, and yay. She just drowses, head turned to one side, hair everywhere, sweat unable to cool her very well because the room is filled with steam. Rafael moves, perhaps grunting, lifting himself up and sliding out of her. She closes her eyes and expects him to get up and turn the tub off but he just touches her hair, kisses her, tries to get her on top of him but she grunts back at him, her body a dead weight.

He can't stand up. "Your own fault," she mutters. "So braggy. Had to see if you really could fuck again."

Rafael

He makes a sound, some loose approximation of laughter. A bit of drowsy silence thereafter.

"Could, though," he whispers.

Devon

"Mm-hmm," Devon murmurs, agreeing. She rolls over slowly, laboriously, draping her arm over his middle. They should get up and turn off the water. They should get in the bath. They should shower. They should do anything but what it appears Devon is doing right now, which is falling asleep on a bathmat. She seems determined, though: even wriggles her way under his arm, using his bicep as a pillow.

Rafael

He grins when she agrees. An actual grin, big, wide. Her eyes are probably closed, which is good. He looks so stupidly proud.

"Bath," he reminds her.

Devon

This time the noise she makes is sort of whiny. A protest. She does have her eyes closed, unable to see how proud he is of himself, his strength, his eager cock, his ability to fuck her and fuck her and fuck her until she's lying senseless, ready to fall asleep on a bathroom floor. But she can feel his pleasure radiate off of him, and she opens one eye, catching the end of his smile.

She shakes her head a little, closing her eyes again, amused and fond and, if she's honest, sort of wanting him to give it to her again. But it's late. She really is tired. It's been a long day. She knows tomorrow she can sleep in the car on the way to the mountains, probably will even if it means that her mother and boyfriend end up talking to each other without her as a buffer. Or more likely, since her mom is somewhat shy and her boyfriend is very shy: she can sleep while her mother reads on her Kindle and her boyfriend stares out the window or something.

Devon yawns, big and wide. "All right," she finally relents, but doesn't move.

Rafael

So he moves. After a long time, he rallies, and he moves, and he sits up with a groan that implies herculean effort. Sits there for a while, elbows over knees, yawning.

Then he gets to his feet. Thumps over to the bathtub and cranks off the faucet at last. In the sudden quiet, nothing but the sound of water down the overflow pipes. Wolf's footsteps coming back, moments before he reaches down to scoop her up.

Stepping into the bath is a cautious affair. They have to go slowly or risk a flood. Eventually they get in. Eventually they soak, drowsing, but not for very long. Eventually they shower, eventually they soap and rinse and shampoo and rinse.

Eventually they step out. Dry themselves on towels, brush teeth. Lights go out but the bedroom curtains are open; wolf closes them and now it's dark. He can hear her climbing into bed.

She can hear him climbing into bed. "Remember that first night?" he murmurs, but the discussion goes nowhere; he's just remembering. Puts his arms around her. It goes somewhere after all, "Was glad when you slept here."

No more conversation after that. It's late, and they're tired. Sleep comes.

Devon

He moves, and she drowses. He rises and he has to help her sit up, stand up. He helps her into the bath and they have to let some of the water out before they sit, curled up together, soaking their muscles in the heat. They shower after, Devon using a wide-toothed comb made of polished wood to go through her hair. She leaves it here. It lives in his shower. She has another one at her other place. They wash, and get out, and she squeezes water out of her hair and skims it off her body and then shuffles to the bed naked, because she doesn't want to bother finding pajamas. She gets in after him, her hair braided so it doesn't soak the whole bed, and sticks close to him because that wet hair is making her a little chilly.

He'll keep her warm. They never say it aloud, really, but they both know that's part of the deal. She's never asked for it; she's always taken his warmth as freely and unapologetically as she's taken anything else of his. He's never come out and promised it to her; he just does it.

Rafael asks her something. Mentions something, more like. She wonders how he knew she was thinking of it. She looks at him in the dark, her eyes somehow still bright, still sparkling even with so little light. She nods, because she does remember. She doesn't tell him she was thinking of it just now, too. He says he was happy, as he embraces her, pulls her smooth and clean body against his own. She tucks her face against his chest, even though her hair is surely cold and wet against his bare skin. He was glad. And she can imagine it, though she never would have really guessed it at the time. She likes hearing that. He was happy. She made him happy.

Seems so easy to make him happy, she thinks, as she closes her eyes, waiting for sleep. All she has to do is stay with him. Be near him. Sleep beside him. Love him back.

Devon puts her hand on his side under the covers, as though to protect the vital organs behind his belly. She makes some low, tender noise of recognition.

And comfort.

And goodnight.