poh. tay. toe.

Rafael

Morning's still young when they ride out on the road, wolf and his girl. Two of them in jeans and jackets, helmets on their heads. Open-faced helmet can end in windburn, but for the most part she's sheltered behind the bulk of her boyfriend. After this long a ride she's gotten pretty good at riding. Leans with him in the turns. Posts, like she's horseback riding, when they go over bumps. Leans against him when she gets tired; maybe even dares to doze a little, trusting him to keep her from falling off the damn bike.

Hard to sleep with such scenery, though. They wind down out of the mountains and split off the I-70; turn northwest into the valley that runs up the middle of Utah. Smaller country highways for a while, miles of desert flanked by impossibly high mountains. Some parts, the ground is still streaked with snow and ice. He lets her hide her hands in his pockets.

Rejoin a major freeway at Provo. I-15 right through Salt Lake City and Ogden; then splitting off onto the I-84 toward Boise, toward Portland. Stop for a quick lunch near the Idaho border, there in the desert with that impossible stretch of pure white salt flats in the distance. Maybe on the way back they'll pass by.

Then they're in Idaho. Wolf's never been here before. Wolf's never been most these places before. Sparsely populated state full of national forests; Yellowstone and all its wolves just over the border. They go the other way, though, and by now it's getting near evening and the sun's before them, their shadows long behind them.

Dark by the time they cross the Oregonian border. Oregon's a bit of an oddity; west coast state with a bit of a split personality. East half of the state is rural, conservative, independent-minded, poor; plains and scrublands and deserts, more montana and idaho than pacific coast. West half's lush and green, temperate rainforests through and through; shares a soul with the California coast north of Marin; Washington state south of Tacoma.

They don't make it all the way to the coast tonight. It's just too far. Nearly one in the morning and they're most of the way there. Passed the drylands and the farms; pulled alongside the river, invisible in the dark. They stop at the Dalles. Tiny town on the banks of the Columbia, though it seems big now after a day and change of western wilderness. There's an inn on 2nd Street called, unimaginatively, the Dalles Inn. They pull into that lot. Climb off the bike stiff, exhausted. Wolf holds his hand out to take her bag. It doesn't weigh much, but he wants to carry it for her. Carries his helmet in the other hand, walking bowlegged toward the lobby.

"Hear that?" he says: the river, rushing in the dark. "We'll follow that in the morning. It goes all the way to the sea. Maybe we'll stop and see Mt. Hood, though."

Devon

Devon has something made of shea butter and St. John's wort and calendula that she rubs into her face when they take breaks. She puts sunblock on top of that. She doesn't get windburn. She doesn't get sunburnt, either. She wears her sunglasses and her helmet and holds onto hand-holds at either side of her seat when she wants to lean back instead of holding onto him. He still blocks most of the wind, the bugs, the rest, in his all-over helmet that makes him look like some sort of assassin from Kill Bill. Only bigger, because most of them were Japanese. And meaner, because most of them used weapons and he just uses his fists until he really gets mad.

And yes: she dozes. Because she trusts him. They could wreck, and she'd wake up surrounded by white fur. He's never saved her like that, but once. He's never wrapped his body in some other form around hers to keep her protected. She's never even really seen him but the once, when she was dazed and wounded and throwing up, and then again once when she was concerned and he paid her back by startling her and being a dick about it. But she knows: the bike could skid out from under them, and at worst she might get some bruises. She does trust him. And the road is straight and long and boring and she's gotten used to the bike, so she dozes against his broad, leather-clad back.

Her cheek sticks to the leather when she wakes, pulling away, and she groans. Hard to hear it. She asks to stop for a while, stretch, pee, get a snack. Looks in the direction of the salt flats while she snacks, says she wants to go sometime. She hears they're degrading. Humanity keeps killing everything beautiful, she doesn't say. Sometimes she thinks everyone should just stop having babies for a generation, she doesn't say. Not her, though, because she does sort of want to be a mom and have a baby, she definitely doesn't say.

Devon's never been this far west. Denver is as far west as she's ever gone, actually. She tells him this when the sun starts setting and the roads are emptying out, headlights turning on. She gets excited to be as far as Oregon, even though her body is aching and her hips actually hurt from being spread so much. She suggests that they go all the way to the coast, and he says it's too far but she's saying they should, they should, but then it's one in the morning and she's getting not just tired or hungry or achey but crabby again, and so

they find a place to stop. And her legs are shaking when they get off, like she was running. She doesn't get why he's holding out his hand, and the bag is crossbody so she doesn't take it off, but she takes his hand in her own hand and walks close to him, wincing as she walks.

They stop.

He asks her if she hears the river. She does; she nods at him.

All the way to the sea.

Devon smiles at that. "Got plenty of mountains in Colorado," she reminds him. Says the girl who has never seen Mt. Hood.

Rafael

"Yeah but these are volcanoes," he points out. "They're different."

And so they are, though neither wolf nor girl is old enough to remember when Mt. St. Helens blew its stack a couple hundred miles to the north. Land still bears some scars from that cataclysm. Earth still bears the fertility of that rich volcanic soil.

They head inside the little hotel with its little lobby. Night clerk checks them in; there's plenty of rooms vacant so she puts them on the top floor, facing the river. Hotel's old and a little shabby, but clean. Kept as well as an obviously limited budget has allowed. Town's old, dates right back to the westward expansion, and in the daylight they'd be able to see the signs around town: THE DALLES, HISTORIC SITE, etcetera. They'd be able to see the river, clear and crisp and blue. They'd see Mt. Hood, too, snow-capped all the year round.

None of that's visible right now. Just the lights of this little town. They take the elevator up, which is slow and a little shaky. They find their room and slide the keycard, and it's very quiet, most the guests sound asleep. Room has low ceilings, feels a little cool. Wolf turns the heater on, kicks his boots off, tosses his jacket over a chair. There's a microwave and a minifridge, so he starts heating up the loaded baked potatoes he got at dinner. Brought them all this way for the express purpose of snacking when they arrived.

While girl does whatever it is she does, he peels his socks off, puts them in a hotel-provided laundry bag. "Was thinking," he says, "maybe we'll take a flight back. I can have the bike shipped." No talk of abandoning this vehicle, notably. "That way we'll have more time on the coast. You won't have to ride all the way back."

Devon

"Oh," says she. She did not know that. Volcanoes.

Devon keeps holding his hand. She took off her gloves, holds his real hand, skin to skin, going inside with him. It's dark. It's late. She's wanting a bath again. She yawns as she waits for their keys and then goes up with him to that top floor. Devon starts doing what Devon always does: sheds her clothes as she enters, dropping shit all over the floor -- though she treats the fetish bag carefully, laying it on an armchair. She goes to the window and she starts unbraiding her hair, wearing panties and bra now, looking down at the dark village.

Looks over her shoulder at him and smiles. "Like that," she says. No you don't mind or any of that. No false concern for his spending money. Not that he would expect it from her.

She finger-combs her long hair out, the thick waves tightened and curled by the braids they were in all day, put there while wet. It's poufy. She hip-checks him as she passes by. "Gonna shower and soak. Bring me a potato so I can eat it in the bath?"

Rafael

He smiles back. Every time he does that -- those genuine, unguarded, unsmirking smiles -- almost feels in spite of himself. His tough-guy persona.

"Too," he says.

He is hipchecked as she passes: him standing by the microwave, down to t-shirt and jeans now. The shirt is, in fact, heathered grey. Fits him well; all taut and tight at the waist, hulking at the shoulders.

"Only if you don't complain when you drop it in the water," he cautions. The smirk is back.

--

He does, however, bring her a reheated potato. Catches up to her while she's still in the shower, so he sets the potato on the counter and knocks on the wall. "Join you? Wanna save some time."

Devon

"I am not going to drop a potato in the bathwater," she says, disgusted. "I'm part Irish."

And with that she steps into the bathroom. Turns on the shower, stripping down to nothing now. He hears her in there, washing up, and then he's bringing her a potato which she can't eat because she's still showering. He asks to join. Devon laughs. "But where will you put my potato?"

Rafael

"It's on the counter," he says, "with my potato. It's safe. My potato'll protect it." Clothes rustle. He's taking off his shirt, lowering his jeans.

Devon

Devon scoffs at him and pushes wet hair out of her face. "Fine then," she says, pulling the curtain aside and jerking her head. "Get in, already. Save your time."

Rafael

He grins at her. And then strips down the rest of the way, climbing in with her. Skin smells like road and dust. He grabs the hotel shampoo and starts lathering.

Devon

She, on the other hand, is already clean. Stands aside so he can wash, occasionally kicking the water collecting at the bottom of the tub at his feet, splashing him. Splashing him in a shower. Because that makes sense.

Rafael

He's scrubbing his face, eyes closed, when he feels it for the third time -- certainly not an accident. "What are you doing?"

Devon

"Splashing you." Duh.

Rafael

He rinses his face clean. Swipes water off, quirks at her. "Why?"

Devon

Devon just grins at him. Shrugs those slender, freckled shoulders.

Rafael

Wolf huffs a laugh. Spits some water out of his mouth, catches her behind the waist with a swipe of his arm, kisses her quick and hot under the shower.

"Quit it," he says. "Gonna finish washing up so we can eat our potatoes."

Devon

Devon laughs. He grabs her, sweeps her off her feet and if it weren't him and even if it were him but she were in the wrong mood, she'd tense up. As it is, she just leans into it. Leans into his body and kisses him back, her hand briefly resting on his chest. He tells her to quit. She blinks a few times, spray getting on her face a bit.

"You're the one playing grab-ass," she tells him, her voice lower.

Rafael

"I know," he says, reading the look on her face; tone of her voice. "Was just kidding." Kisses her again, lightly, as he sets her down.

Devon

Kisses her again,

and she kisses back again, softly.

Maybe he's misreading her eyes, her tone. Maybe he reads it just fine. Who knows? She stands in the tub while he's still somewhat lathery and wet, her body aligned with his.

Opens her eyes as she draws back.

"Should do it from behind tonight," she whispers. Smirks, sidelong. "Hips hurt. Don't want to spread my legs much."

Rafael

There's a spark in his eyes. There's tenderness too. "Wasn't even gonna try," he murmurs. "Figured you'd be sore from riding."

Devon

That makes Devon kiss him again. Stands on her toes, leaning against him, holding onto his arm for balance and leverage. It's a hotter kiss, firmer. She opens her mouth this time, tasting him, inviting him. She is sore from riding. It's just something about the way he says he wasn't even gonna try. Couldn't explain to him why it turns her on if she tried.

Rafael

It's an invitation. He takes it. Steps into her, leaning down as she leans up; kisses her open mouth, tip of her tongue. His hands wander, grip, grab her ass in fact.

He breaks from it. A breath out.

"Bath and potatoes," he mutters. "Then bed." Where sex happens. Obviously.

Devon

He grabs her ass for real this time. She makes a soft, low noise against his kiss, her hand opening over his chest, smoothing over his body. He has a nice body. He exhales, and then starts to set out their agenda, and Devon smirks at him, her mouth curving slyly at the corner. She draws him back to kiss him again, and her hand slides down his chest, over his abdomen, reaching for his cock.

Rafael

He lets out this sound, this low groan. His hands squeeze. Then slide up to her waist. He starts to turn her around.

Devon

Her hand wraps around it, slides around him, of course it does. She strokes him slowly, just getting him hard, and when he starts to turn her around she pauses, huffs a breath. Looks up at him, slowing her caress. "Babe... you gotta get me ready, too," she murmurs, like a reminder that one of them, at least, isn't instantly primed to fuck 24/7. She grins at him, slashingly, and tips her face up, stands on her toes to kiss him again.

Rafael

Now now. In his defense, it's not instantaneous. It is quick, though. Couple tugs of that slender soft hand of hers and he's hard in her palm, ready to go. She stops him. He laughs, a huff like hers.

And he's kissed. Takes the edge off her rebuke. He touches her while she kisses him, cups her tits in his hands. Slides his palms down and slips his hand between her legs. Finds her there, hot, tender; strokes her attentively and imperfectly while they share that lingering series of kisses.

Devon

That, she likes. His hands on her breasts, warm and heavy and wet. Even makes a noise to show him she likes it, like he doesn't know. Maybe he doesn't; maybe he isn't sure what, exactly, gets her. Does she like her ass being squeezed or rubbed? Does she want him to pinch and stroke her nipples or run his tongue slowly along the underside of her breasts? He knows how she likes her pussy licked, kissed, and stroked because she at least gave him instructions there. But mostly they don't talk a lot about what they like and don't like. Maybe they're embarrassed. Maybe neither of them have ever had someone ask; they don't know how to talk about it. In the movies and everything, everyone just sort of magically knows how to give expert-level fucks to perfect strangers they just picked up in a bar.

But she makes a noise, at least. Moans softly when he plays with her breasts; she does like it. His other hand moves between her legs and she shifts a little to accomodate him; murmurs nonsensically into his mouth as he starts touching her cunt, warming her to him. Her hands, for now, run over his sides, touch more of him than just his dick. His chest, his arms -- all these parts of him that she really enjoys looking at, feeling against her.

So: he touches her. She murmurs to him at one point to kiss her nipples, to suck on them, and he does, tasting the water running off of her skin. And she does the same to him, moments later, holding his body close to hers, his cock rubbing against her soft belly for a few seconds. It's not until she's panting, and until he can see her cheeks growing pink, that it seems time. That she seems ready. This time when he puts his hands on her hips and turns her around to face the wall, Devon doesn't stop him. She rests her forearms against cool, semi-slick tile, licking her hips as he steps behind her, all his rage a wall of heat at her back. She arches her spine and that's what really sends the message down his viscera, seeing that, feeling her ass press against him, her legs opening just a little so he can fit his cock to her cunt, push slowly inside of her.

Because they're animals, and she is maybe more or less his mate, and she is showing him it's okay to mount her, fuck her, come close to her and come inside of her.

And because they aren't animals at all, and she's tender and sore from riding with him all day and he wasn't even going to try anything tonight because he wouldn't want to hurt her, never wants to hurt her.

He never really liked it when she flinched, like he said.

--

So they fuck like that: animal and not animal. From behind because she's tender, and from behind because it turns her on. She actually asks him to grab her hair a little, gasping it, her cheek resting against the tile. By then it's not quite as slow, though it's lost none of its gentleness, really: it's firm, and he's touching her, holding her up, panting along with her. Their potatoes are cooling outside on the counter and it hardly matters to either of them; they'll taste fine cool. Because right now, Devon is biting her lip, moaning, and it is echoing in the tile, and the water coming from the showerhead is even getting cooler but Rafael isn't stopping what he's doing, fucking her from behind like he seldom does but which she sort of loves -- another thing she hasn't told him.

And then she is coming, and it's the most relaxing thing she's felt in days, even given the orgasm she had just last night. And when he comes after her he finds her melting, molten, quivering around him as his cock jerks, and twitches, and relents finally.

They stay like that for a while, leaning against each other and the wall of the shower. Water pounds on his calves and back and flank. Devon catches her breath, and doesn't shiver even as the water gets cold because he's so hot, and he will keep her warm.

Always does.

Rafael

He is an animal. But he is not a monster. He is not some ravening beast, even if the first few times he seemed so. He's not. He's also a man.

He's also her lover. And in that word is the long and the short of it: love. There are implications, compacts, covenants. He is to care for her. He is to protect her. He is not to abuse her, ever. He is to frighten her as little as possible.

They fuck, and it is -- against all tropes and stereotypes -- a tender thing. Even when it's not so slow. Even when his hand is in her hair, and his mouth is at her neck; even when she's winding back against him, meeting him stroke for stroke; even when he's wrapping her up in his arms, powerful as a constrictor-snake; even when he has to remind himself,

don't bite,

don't squeeze,

not so hard.

Even then it is rooted in love, and adoration.

--

Afterward she's limp and warm and liquid. He straightens slowly, bringing her with him. Lets her lean against his chest as he gently pulls out of her, the water quickly washing them clean. It's getting cool. He wonders if she still wants a bath. Reaches back to crank the handle all the way over to H, see if it'll warm up any.

Devon

It does warm up, and quickly enough. She wriggles a little, slides off of him gently, washes up a bit now that they've gotten a bit sweaty and messy from sex. She looks up at him, turned chest ot chest now, her eyes languid. She looks like she loves him. Looks like she wants to tell him --

"Poh. Tay. Toe," she says.

Rafael

Wolf bursts into shocked laughter.

"What?"

Devon

"I'm hungry," Devon tells him, fondly, leaning against his chest and looking up at him. "I want my potato."

Rafael

Wraps his arms around her. Drops his chin over the top of her head briefly, fondly, warmly.

Then he disentangles. Whisks back the shower curtain and gets out, picking up the two loaded baked potatoes in their little takeout boxes. "Pretty cold again," he cautions. "You still want a bath?"

Devon

"It's all right," she says, of the potatoes getting cold. She shivers a little now that he's gone, goes to stand under the warm water. Nods. "Let's take a bath while we eat and then just... sleep. Right now I think all that's keeping me awake are sore muscles and hunger."