The last time Devon remembers Rafael picking her up from the airport was after Thanksgiving. She'd known him maybe a month. She crawled on top of his lap before she flew off to Boston on his dime and kissed him and warned him what she'd do to his balls if he fucked any other girls. They weren't 'official'. They weren't 'in love'. They didn't say things and it took a lot for her to even say she didn't want him screwing around. She didn't want him to make it into a thing. It was nice when all he did was grunt and tell her not to have sex with anyone else, too. That was about as official as they got about it.
That was nearly two years ago, she's thinking, as the plane is sitting at the gate and she's sitting on the plane waiting for what seems like forever to be allowed to get up and leave. She has checked baggage because she went shopping with her mum a few times and bought new clothes and books and things. She has turned her phone back on so she can text her mum and tell her that she's landed safely and Rafael should be waiting for her. Mum is the one who gets the first text, of course.
Mum was hurt and shaken when Devon got to London. She had questions that Devon struggled to answer. They had a fight. Things were still a little tender even a few weeks later when Rafael visited, but they got better. While he was there, Devon sat on his bed and cried on his shoulder about having to lie so much to her mother, and how it sucks and she hates it and she feels like a bad person. He stayed for a while. He left again. And she stayed there.
For nearly two months.
Relationships take time. Trust takes time. Healing takes time.
So her mum gets the first text.
--
The second goes to Rafael, but Devon still hasn't stood up. She hates the shuffling and shoving of trying to get off of planes quickly, even though she's dying to get off this damn plane and go home. So she sits, sullenly, flicking to Rafael's picture and tapping out to him:
landed. followed by a sleepy-looking, exasperated emoji. waiting to get off. want to meet at baggage claim?
His phone chimes once for that. It chimes again for this:
miss you so much. and a black heart. actually: three black hearts in a row.
Devon Paredes[EDIT: NOT TWO MONTHS. SHE WAS GONE BELTANE-LUGHNASADH. SHE STAYED WITH RAFA FOR A COUPLE OF WEEKS BEFORE GOING TO LONDON (mid-August). THIS SCENE IS HAPPENING IN LIKE. MID-SEPTEMBER.]
Rafael van der ValkWanted to go with her to London. Wanted to shadow her around, keep her in sight always, sleep by her every night. Didn't. Wanted to not be that boyfriend, not hold so tight, not be so paranoid of losing her that he doesn't even let her breathe.
Wanted, also, to not be in the way, awkward and uncertain, when she sees her mother again. Knows that's going to be tough. Knows she'll need her time, her space, and so will her mother. Knows he'll only add to the chaos if he were there.
So she flies off alone, a week or two after she's back. He sees her off at the airport, parking the car and walking her luggage in with her. Hugged her at the gate, kissed her until he wanted to pull her behind one of the indoor plants; let her go.
--
Visited London a week and a half later. Flew over and landed jetlagged and unshaven, went from first class to the tube. Got lost. Found his way. Showed up at her mom's place with a big backpack and a small suitcase. Atmosphere was still a little ginger, so he tried to stay out of the way and be a good boyfriend. Brought her mom a little gift. Some chocolates, maybe a book.
Saw some sights. Spent time with Devon. Maybe she showed him some places she hung out as a kid. They went out to dinner a few times.
Then he left. And she stayed.
--
Couple weeks go by, then a couple more. Then she's heading home, texting him from the airport before her flight takes off. Texting him again when she lands ten hours later, when he's waiting in the terminal to pick her up. She leaves black hearts. He finds himself smirking at them, amused.
i'm already at baggage see you soon, he texts back. And then puts his phone away and folds his arms, standing just outside the cordoned area where passengers are waiting for their bags. No one waits near him. Not for their bags, not for their loved ones.
Devon ParedesNot easy to leave. She just got back. Two weeks or so with Rafael wasn't enough. Not enough time spent curled up in his arms, eating pizza and watching old movies and feeling sometimes like her mind was traveling elsewhere without her. Not enough time to get settled again, not really. Not enough time fucking, though there was plenty of that. She needed to see her mum, though. And it was Rafael's idea to stay behind. She said he could come if he wanted, and there were tears in her eyes because she'd been talking about seeing her mother again. He was the one who figured she needed time alone with her dam, without him hovering. Staring. Being awkward.
He was right, and she figured that only after she got to London and sobbed on her mother's shoulder, clinging to the woman who was not at all a Lady of the Wood, thank god. So she texted him later, before she went to sleep, telling him she was sorry she was weird about it before leaving. Thanked him. Told him she loved him.
Missed him.
He didn't get texts while she was with the Ladies. He gets a lot of them while she's in England. Photos of her with her mum. Photos just of her. Small videos where she says funny little things to him. She says she's going to put Snapchat on his phone when he visits.
Later on when he found his way to them in an unfamiliar city in an unfamiliar country, he was shuffled into Devon's little closet of a bedroom in her mum's apartment and slept there on a narrow bed with her. It's a much different space than the one in Boston; but this is the little apartment her mum got when she moved back; not a place Devon grew up. It's a functional guest bedroom, really. But the bed is small, and he has good reason to hold her close every night that he's there.
There's this: unlike the bed in Boston, it doesn't squeak.
--
Devon did in fact download Snapchat for him while he was there. Explained to him how it works. And after he left, she sent him the sort of photos for which Snapchat was -- if we're being honest -- truly created. They vanish after a number of hours, but there they are.
One is just her dancing around that little bedroom in her underwear to some alt-pop song he doesn't know.
--
Now she's back. And he gets texts and sends replies without punctuation, which makes her smirk, too.
--
Eventually -- it takes forever, it takes too long -- there she is. She's on the escalator down to the baggage claim, her carryon beside her on the step. She's in tight black jeans with holes hither and yon, severely old and nearly dead purple Chucks that have faded so much they're nearly grey, and what looks like a white t-shirt she stole from him and proceed to chop up enough that her arms are bare and her bra strap shoes through the slashes she made in the back. Her hair is loose and she didn't bother with makeup or jewelry. When she sees him she starts moving, even thought he escalator is taking her there anyway. She elbows past someone in front of her, dragging her roll-along, and then drops it with a clatter and thud on the ground when she gets to him,
jump-climbs up onto him,
and wraps her arms around him,
legs around him,
buries her face against his neck.
Rafael van der ValkHey! someone-crashed-into protests, and
Where's the fire? some dad-joker, thinking he's being so funny, and
Awwwwwwwww, someone who's seen too many romcoms, maybe.
Wolf ignores all of them. Ignores the luggage going clattering, ignores the suitcases going slowly round and round on the belt, ignores even the sign that sternly warns the public to stay out of the baggage claim area. Vaults the low railing between himself and his girl, grabs her up as she's jumping, wraps his arms around her as she's flinging hers around him. He squeezes her hard. She buries her face. He growls a little, low, because of how he feels and because he doesn't have proper words for it. He can feel her back through those slashes on her shirt and he'll never know why she deliberately destroys her clothes before putting them on but he sure as hell isn't going to complain when they give him glimpses of her bra, her sides, her skin.
Probably wanted to complain once, a long time ago, when they weren't together but she was living under his roof and looking at her was a little like torture. But complaining would have meant admitting it. So he didn't.
Long time before they finally let each other go a little bit. He hasn't set her down yet though. Just puts a hand on her face and kisses her, then kisses her again.
Her bags go by on the conveyor belt. He doesn't notice.
Devon ParedesHe never fucking admitted it. That he wanted her. That he was attracted to her. That he thought about fucking her and that when she walked around in those short things and those tight things and those slashed-up things he liked to look at her skin and wanted to touch it, wanted to rub his face against her and try to get the scent that wasn't there.
Honestly, after he finally did fuck her, it made a lot more sense why he was so goddamn pissy about even the slightest mention of how he'd first met her. How he'd propositioned her. How much he'd offered her, if she'd get in his car and fuck him for it. His defensiveness about it finally made perfect sense.
None of it matters now, though. They're all ~*~iN LOvE~*~ and shit. They don't fuck other people. Hell: as far as Devon is aware, neither of them even really look at other people. She knows she has no interest in anyone else. She'd be fine being on her own, but she wouldn't be fine not being with him. She likes him so much. She loves him. Misses him when they're apart.
Is kissing him, as soon as she lifts her head up from his neck, his hand going to her face, pushing back that thick hair of hers. There's heat in that kiss, there almost always seems to be heat even if they're not on their way to bed. There's an aching tenderness, too. That's not intentional, either. It's just there. Because it is.
Devon doesn't see her bags. She is kissing her boyfriend.
Rafael van der ValkEventually they have to stop kissing. It's a fact of life: birds gotta fly, fish gotta swim, they gotta stop kissing, if only because her carryon is still toppled over with its handle pulled out, obstructing traffic. Wolf holds her a little longer, brow tipped to hers, eyes closed.
Then opening. He gives her a small, crooked little smile. It's a little tired, like waiting for her and not having her around has worn him out. Maybe it has. He's attached to her, fiercely so. He lets her down, though, and by then the baggage claim area's cleared out a bit. A good portion of the bags are already gone. Her bags are coming around for a second loop, or maybe a third, and meanwhile a fresh plane-ful of passengers is coming down the escalators and heading for a different baggage carousel.
His arm around her shoulders, he heads over to right her carry-on.
"Flight okay?" Now that they're done kissing he's all back to being Rafael, brooding badass, grumpy and cards close to his chest in public. Except he keeps his arm around her.
Devon ParedesFor a while then, though: not kissing. Not burying. Just brows touching, holding each other. He's keeping her aloft in his arms, his hands under her ass, her legs around his waist. It's comfortable enough. She sighs; peanuts on her breath. Her eyes are closed and her eyelids and lashes are undone, clean, simple.
He opens his eyes and hers are still closed for a moment. He smiles, and it's like she senses that, because that's when those brilliant blue eyes open to see him. She smiles too, crooked also, wondering: "What?" like she isn't feeling the same. Like being away from him wasn't exhausting, after a while. Like when he left London she didn't get a touch of insomnia because he wasn't there holding her in bed anymore. Like she wants to kiss him again,
which she does. Softly this time. Her eyes even close again, for a moment. A soft, slow blink. Her legs unwind, and her arms, and he sets her down. They pick up her carryon, and then haul her other stuff off the carousel: just one suitcase, but it's sort of big. They're talking while they do:
She wrinkles her nose, shakes her head. "It was a million hours." Reaches up, runs her fingers through her hair. Like she's cool. Like she isn't leaning against his side and like her other arm isn't around him. "Wanna go home."
Rafael van der ValkWhat?
"Nothing."
And that soft, slow kiss. The one that has her eyes closing, and his as well. God, he's missed her eyes. Never can quite keep their full scope and depth and color in his mind when she's out of his sight, just like he never can quite catch her scent.
After: "Just missed you."
And then he sets her down, and she puts her feet on the ground. He picks up her carryon. She ends up taking it because he has to haul her big suitcase off the belt. It's fine. He's strong enough, does it onehanded, the big muscles in his back hard under her encircling arm as he lifts.
A million hours, she says, and he grunts a laugh. "Yeah, got your text this morning and now it's dinnertime. Let's get out of here. You wanna eat anything in particular? I had 'em make stew."
Devon ParedesTruthfully, she slept through most of her flight. Curled up in a giant black hoodie she also stole from him and zonked out for a while.
He had them make stew. Of course he did. She huffs a laugh. "Sort of... want sushi. Or salad. Something light." Literally the opposite of stew.
Rafael van der ValkMakes him laugh. "Let's go pick something up," he says. "Stop by a grocery store or something."
Turns out he drove himself. No fancy chauffeur to get them at the curb. He takes her to the parking structure instead, girl pulling her carryon, wolf pulling the big one. They have to stop to pay for parking; it's all automated, though, which wolf likes because he doesn't want to deal with people.
"Your mom doing okay?"
Devon ParedesDevon just grunts a little to that. It's assent, probably.
They head out, and she digs into her shoulder-bag for that hoodie of his, wrapping it around herself as they go outside. September is already growing chilly at night. This is technically the desert, after all; the sun goes down and all the heat goes with it. She's a little surprised to see that Franklin didn't drive him. She half expected him to put up the partition and make out with her all the way back to his place. Maybe pull her hand to his cock, telling her to stroke it in between kissing her. And he'd have his big, warm hand up her shirt, her bra hanging undone, his palm on her tit, and his cock so fucking hard and hot in her mouth -- wait, no, hand --
Devon shakes her head a little, dazed. She squeezes his side as they walk to the car. Open the trunk. Put her bags in. She climbs into the passenger seat, slouches while he drives out. Looks at Blucifer as they pass, its devilish eyes alight in the darkness. She loves that fucking statue.
Blinks. Nods at Rafael. "Better. I still don't think she fully buys the story. She kept asking questions." A moment's pause. He knows this spot is tender. His shirt was wet when she cried on him, muffling her sobs against his muscles so her mum wouldn't hear and worry: "I kept lying."
Rafael van der ValkShe would love that statue. Wolf thinks it's macabre, thinks why the fuck and writes it off as people being people. They pass it. They leave it behind. His personal car's nice, but not really all that fancy. Some secondhand sport sedan or the like.
He looks over at her. That tender spot again. His brow furrows a little. Doesn't have anything to say to that; what would one say? That it's okay? It's never okay to lie to your mom. He never really had a mom and even he knows that. But it's necessary sometimes. That seems so strange and cold and machiavellian to say, though, so he doesn't say anything. Just reaches over, puts his hand on hers and squeezes.
"Must suck," he says, "having a mom who isn't kin."
Devon Paredes"It does," she says, and it's just... sullen and down and kind of flat.
And then a moment later she winces, and says: "It's not like it's her fault. I just... think she'd understand. If I could tell her. She's not stupid. She's not crazy."
Rafael van der ValkWolf's silent a while. Lane changes, onramps. Acceleration.
Then: "If you trust her, if you really think she'll get it and not think you're just crazy, you should tell her. Easier than lying to her for the rest of your life."
Devon ParedesThis surprises her. It's contrary to what she was told when... well. When she was told what she was, what her father was, what it all meant. Why it mattered. She stares at him openly for a little while, shocked.
"You mean it?"
Like he can grant permission. Or maybe just: hoping he's not lying to her to spare her feelings.
Rafael van der ValkHe knows she's staring. Would stare back but then they'd crash. He settles for a couple glances instead, quick but not furtive.
"Yeah. Not supposed to, so we can't tell anyone. But I don't care. If you trust her, I trust her. Anyway I figure wolves have been secretly telling the humans they loved since the dawn of the species. Otherwise we'd all be inbred as fuck."
Devon ParedesThey're not supposed to be he doesn't give a fuck. And she wants to grab him, hug him, love him until he's limp and exhausted and can't breathe properly. She doesn't, because he's driving, and they would crash, and that would be bad.
She reaches over, though, and holds his hand tight, squeezing it. It's a paltry substitute for how much she wants to hold him.
"I don't want to lie to her anymore."
Devon is silent. Now that it's real, this idea, this possiblity, she is... thoughtful. Takes a breath. "I'll think about it. But..."
Nothing after that. What on earth could she say?
Rafael van der Valk"Yeah," he answers. "No rush."
Few minutes go by in silence. Her hand in his, though. His other hand on the wheel, loose, guiding the car down the highway. Then an offramp. Then a grocery store, some big chain store with a deli section selling passable salads and sushi. Wolf pulls up as close to the store as he can, parks.
"Quick stop," he promises, getting out. "Sushi, salad, maybe a sixpack."
Devon ParedesThey are pretty good at silence. Not uncomfortable. Not awkward. It is when there's a third person, or more. Together, though: no problem. They eat a lot of meals in silence. They don't really talk during movies. They drive without chatter.
So the next words he says are quick stop. And Devon and getting out, too. She puts her hands in her hoodie pockets. It is her hoodie now. It is his size, it is a man's hoodie, it is probably some six-hundred-dollar thing from a catwalk that his servants bought for him when he said he wanted a hoodie and he meant for them to just go to fucking Wal-Mart.
Inside, they tour the deli section. Devon ends up with California rolls where the avocado is the least brown of all the boxes, and she gets a salad with strawberries and blueberries and goat cheese and chicken too, just in case her taste changes while she's eating or on the way home. Rafael stays with her while she's deciding. They go to the liquor section with its low-percentage beers together, even though they logically could have split up to save time. But they stay together, holding hands, Devon carrying her selections in a stack. He grabs some six-pack or tallboys and then as they're walking away she stops him again, she wants to get a pint of White Chocolate Raspberry Haagen Dazs. They take everything to checkout and they're still holding hands and she squeezes his hand while he's swiping his card and they're not talking or chit-chatting with the clerk because
they never do.
Outside it feels wet, for Denver. Maybe it'll rain tonight. Devon walks with him back towards the car and then out of nowhere she takes a big breath and she stops him next to a cart return and she looks up at him and she blurts out before she chickens out:
"Hey," obviously,
"I want to move back in with you. Only I want to like..." her cheeks are so red, so flushed, so bright right now, "still have my own room. At least at first. Is that okay? Can we do that?"
Rafael van der ValkThey've probably gone grocery shopping at least a time or two together. Usually goes like this. Not a lot of talking but they stick together. He goes in knowing what he wants. She picks up a few more things along the way as the whim strikes her. They're efficient, all in all; in and out in ten minutes tops. Sometimes they don't even go to a cashier, just check themselves out.
Tonight it's a cashier. Pimply-faced teenager who tries not to look at them and definitely tries not to look at the girl in her torn up shirt because then the hulking brute next to her might pop his head off his shoulders or something, he doesn't know. Total's mumbled and credit card's passed back and forth, and then the pair leave with their two light bags of groceries.
Wolf hadn't even been thinking of popping anyone's head off, truth be told. He's in a pretty good mood. Why wouldn't he be? Girl's back. Girl's brightened up since he suggested just telling her mom. He puts the groceries in the backseat; they returns the cart together. He's about to head back when she blurts
what she does
and he looks at her in surprise, and then in open delight.
"'Course," he says. Gruff. "We can go pick your stuff up now. If you still have any over at your friend's."
Rafael van der Valk[erp, she's got a hoodie on. my god you mentioned that like 3x i'm just derp.]
Devon ParedesOf course. Now.
Devon smiles. It's small and apprehensive at first, but grows. It's okay. It's even okay if she wants her own room. Truth is she does want a private space, her own place, doesn't want to have to worry about sharing, about asking him what space he cares about and what space he doesn't, where she can move in and where she needs to back off.
Truth is that it's also that she likes slipping into his room in the dark. Or going to bed with him like he's taking her somewhere. She likes feeling like she can go home by leaving and going to her room. Also likes feeling like she can go home by walking down the hall and crawling into his bed, instead.
Her arms reach up and wrap around his neck and she pulls him down, down so she can kiss his mouth, standing on her toes in her crappy old sneakers. Kisses him with surprising strength, with a fierceness, and a thankfulness that transcends him being cool about her moving back in with him.
When it stops, when they stop, she's whispering: "Want you to fuck me."
Maybe she means right now. In the back seat. While her ice cream melts. Maybe she means to take her to Naomi's to get her stuff and pack up and move her in now, right now. Tonight. Maybe she means to take her home, and put her in his bed, and welcome her home.
Rafael van der ValkMight be he'll never get around to telling her, but it's the same for him. He likes it that she lives down the hall from him. He likes that she has her own room. That it's separated only by a small space, but separate all the same. He liked it when she slipped into his room at night, and then into his bed. He liked it when she invited him back to her room like she was inviting him home.
Felt more like her home, that little room, than her Naomi's place ever did. Maybe wasn't like that for her, but he's a wolf. He could smell Naomi in that other apartment. See signs of Naomi everywhere. Always felt like he was intruding. Always felt like she was never really there.
She wraps her arms around his neck. She pulls him down, but he pulls her up; picks her up with his hands on her ass, quite unconcerned about public displays and the like. They kiss in that humid cool air, with rain coming over the mountains. He kisses her wantingly, wantonly, growling into that contact.
What she says darkens his eyes. Makes him kiss her again, this time pressing her back against his car, forceful. This time inhaling into that kiss, nostrils flared like he was trying to catch her scent again. This time squeezing her ass, gripping her waist, touching her through that hoodie that used to be his but now is hers. He has noticed his clothes disappearing, sometimes reappearing slashed-up on her weeks later. He doesn't care. She's his mate. What's his is hers.
"Let's go home," he mutters. "We'll get your stuff tomorrow."
Devon ParedesIt's okay if he never tells her. She hasn't told him. Just says what she wants, how she wants it. And he seems happy -- as happy as he gets, really. He doesn't beam and smile and glow like some people. He nuzzles her heavily and he picks her up and he kisses her hard and he does things like that. He gets close when he's happy. Just like he gets close when he's anxious. He seeks closeness just about all the time, so don' t blame her when she doesn't quite know what he's thinking.
Right now, though, she knows. She gets it. How gruffly but quickly he says it's okay and that she could even move in right now. How he picks her up when he kisses her this time, presses her hard against his car, and maybe he initiates it or she does but there's a bit of grinding going on, his body between her legs, her legs wrapped around his body.
The parking lot is mostly empty right now, but not entirely. It's dark, but not pitch black. She groans a little, not knowing what he's thinking, how he thinks of her, that he's not at all bothered when she steals his stuff. He says they'll get her stuff tomorrow. She nods, okay with that; she has no job yet to worry about getting to in the morning. She just has him right now, and
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
Rafael van der ValkStrange how that seems precious now. Having each other. Or rather - more precious than before. Always was, with him a wolf, her a witch -- and a drifter, an inconstant, a thing that might flit in and out of a life just like that. But now: now that she's been gone a season with so little warning, and then another month on top of it, her presence seems more a gift than ever. He can hardly keep his hands off her. Take his eyes off her.
Does, though, if only because they need to get home. So they get back in the car, groceries in the backseat, luggage in the trunk. He drives the rest of the way home. Not far now.
House is dark when he gets back there. Wolf hasn't gotten any more social over the past four months. Pulls into the garage and shuts the door, gets the cargo out. She carries the groceries. He carries her bags, bypasses the kitchen altogether and goes straight upstairs to put them in
her room.
Devon ParedesStrange for Devon. Felt like forever and no time at all. There's three months she just... doesn't remember. Sometimes in dreams, or in moments when her mind wanders, it seems like something is coming back, and then she feels the time: she feels three months. She feels the yawning gap between here and there. It's disorienting at best. And then she forgets again, forgets all of it, and then it's like she was only gone a few days, and saw Rafael during that time, and then she came back and he picked her up from the airport and loved her, deeply, and missed her and a part of her couldn't connect with how intense that longing was,
because she had only just seen him, moments before, standing in the woods with the women she led into the wild.
She was thinking of moving in long before this. Just before and then during the trip to Oregon. Thought about it more when she got back here. Thought about it in London, especially when he came to visit, sleeping beside her, breathing behind her as she waited to fall asleep too. She talked to her mum about it, too, inevitably. Mum was supportive. Hell: Devon even called Sheila to ask her opinion, since she knows what Rafael is. Sheila was pretty blunt about it: she didn't even know why Devon wasn't living with him now.
But in the end, it's just because she wants to. She misses him. And Naomi's place never really felt like home, either.
Being with Rafa feels like home. It does.
--
They get back and she carries the bag of groceries and the six pack that goes with it. She has her shoulderbag. Rafael has her suitcase and her roll-along and hefts both with him, tromping inside and upstairs without a glance back, which amuses her terribly. She shrugs out of his hoodie and drops it on the kitchen table. She wiggles her feet out of her sneakers and kicks them over to the hall leading to the garage. She puts away the ice cream and opens two beers and decides she wants sushi, so the salad goes into the fridge for another time. After a moment, she decides to put the sushi away, too.
Upstairs she can dimly hear Rafael putting her suitcases down, then coming back out, and she walks over, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs with a beer. She's brought no food with her. His jacket is off her body. Her shoes are off. She takes a drink, watching him.
Rafael van der ValkWouldn't have been surprised if he'd turned around from putting her stuff in her room and she was there. Almost sort of expects it. Feels a tingle of anticipation, turning around, but it's just an empty doorway.
And her room. Virtually unchanged she since left it. Toiletries have probably been replaced and replenished. Maybe bed's got a new throw on it or something. None of the changes were his. He doesn't care about stuff like that, nor know, nor understand. All he cares about, knows about, understands, is that this is her room again. He's helping her move in.
Closes the door when he leaves. Her room after all, and now he won't enter without her permission. She's not in the hall either so he starts down the stairs, footsteps heavy. It's not that he's incapable of stealth. He must be capable; snuck up on those soldiers in the woods, didn't he? Just not trying right now. He sees her as he's coming around the curve on those nifty spiral stairs; puts a small hitch in his step, which smooths. He comes down the rest of the way.
Looks at the beer like he doesn't know what to do with it. He takes it after a beat, just to be polite. Even takes a drink. But then he takes her hand, pulls her up on the stairs. Ushers her ahead of him. Starts back up.
Devon ParedesIf he were in lupus, he would be bowing his head and pressing it against her legs, shoving her ahead of him. He isn't. He's a man, and he's tall and broad-shouldered and well-muscled, with a jawline like it's carved out of marble and these bright green eyes hooded by heavy, dark brows. Thick, silky black hair. It's a shock every time he shifts and his fur is so white it's almost translucent.
Not that she sees him shifted that often. She sort of likes it. But she hasn't told him that, not directly. He doesn't like to talk, period; she doesn't like to talk and be obvious about things. That's why she turned so red telling him she wanted to move in with him. Live with him. As if some part of her were still worried he'd read something into it she didn't mean. Make a big deal out of it.
But what on earth could he read into it that he doesn't already know, that isn't already between them? That she loves him?
No.
Just the things they haven't said:
that being with each other feels like coming home.
That he thinks of her as his mate.
That if she has kids she likes the idea of them being his.
--
Rafael does not care about the beer. He pulls her onto the stairs and she laughs a little, especially as he moves her ahead of him, ushers her up. She decides to be contrary. She turns around, facing him on a step above, and refuses to move on her own. She drinks her beer again.
Rafael
Of course she's contrary. Of course she doesn't allow herself to be meekly herded up the stairs. Of course she turns around, looks at him with those wild witch's eyes of hers.
And he looks right back at her. A step down, but nearly eye to eye nonetheless. She drinks, and he smirks a little, and then he drinks too.
Bends. Sets his bottle on the stairs. He'll get it ... later. Maybe when the beer's run flat, but he's no Fianna. Doesn't see that as a terrible waste. Straightening, then, he reaches for her. Grip on her body's gentle but firm, quick. He pulls her into him, and now her hoodie's off, and now it's that torn-up shirt again, thin from too many washes.
His fingers splay, spread. He looks down. Watches his hands on her body; his palms pressing over her sides, following the curvature of ribs. He touches her adoringly, and it is a sort of worship; a sort of claim, too, as though he had some right to touch her like this. One hand circles her waist; becomes an arm around her, strong enough to lift her to her tiptoes, take her weight off her feet. Other one moves up, explores, curves over her breast and the heartbeat beneath it.
This is when he kisses her again. Closes his eyes into it, touching her; the two of them tasting like inexpensive local beer, and themselves.
DevonWhen he puts his beer down, she wants to scritch him. Back of his neck, right where his hair starts. She thinks maybe he would think she's treating him like a dog. So she doesn't. She drinks her beer instead. Doesn't put it down; holds it in one hand off to the side as he takes her, pulls her close, sees the pattern and color of her bra through the thin white shirt. Knows there's lace on the cups. Knows it's dark and maybe purple.
Is touching her.
Devon breathes in, and her ribcage expands against his palms. She bites her lower lip as he touches her, looks at her. His hands are hot when he circles one around, she can feel his skin touch her skin through the slashed-up back of the shirt and even though his hands are warm enough through the cotton, this new sensation sears through her. Electrifies her.
So then he lifts her, and she breathes in again, quicker, sharper, leaning into him for balance. Her skinny arms fold around his shoulders, beer bottle held behind him, as he's reaching up to touch her breast, feeling her through her clothes.
Her face is tilted down towards his; she is ready for him to kiss her again. She's waiting for him to kiss her again, and gives the softest little moan when he does. Her grip tightens on the bottle of beer in her hand. Her other hand presses against his back between his shoulders, not so much to pull him closer to her as to pull herself closer to him. Kisses him harder then, hotly, opening her mouth a little more, panting a little.
"Take off my pants," she whispers, her lips moving against his lips. Kisses him again. Gently bites his lower lip, hungry. "Touch me."
RafaelCan feel the cool glass bottle brushing his back. Leaves little trails of condensation. Can feel her arms, the narrow taut strength in her body bent toward the sole purpose of getting closer, closer. They're both panting a little, breathing harder than they strictly need to. It's not oxygen they want; something more like one another. He returns that kiss, hungry and ferocious, searching like maybe he'll find secrets in her mouth. They're still just halfway up the stairs so he carries her up a few more, her heels grazing each step above.
At the top of the stairs hardwood turns to carpeting, thick and plush. That's where he sets her down; stands a step below, close, while he tears at her pants. Gets them open and then gets them off, whisking them down, gripping at her thigh, her calf, kissing the crest of her hip. Her panties follow a second later, and he never notices the color or details, whether or not there's lace. He rarely notices these things, except obliquely on the edges of his consciousness -- a blip of pretty or huh, that's new that soon passes under the flood. There's so much else to pay attention to; how her skin feels, the contours where hip meets thigh meets lower abdomen, the lovely articulation of the knee, the ankle. He straightens up again, scoops her up again, leaves her pants on the stairs, his beer lower down.
Door to his bedroom stands open. He shuts it behind them. Always liked to do this: carry her off somewhere dark and private, slam all the doors. In the center of his bedroom he sets her down again, pulls his shirt off, undoes his belt. Makes it that far before he needs to kiss her again, and so he does: meets her with his mouth, his hands busy, getting the button open and the zipper down. Pushes everything off wholesale; underwear too. His jeans get caught on his shoes, and that's when he remembers to take them off. And his socks.
Now he's naked. Seems more savage when he's bare, or maybe that's not true. He's always a little savage; a barbaric creature pretending to be a king of wolves. Most days not even pretending. She still has her shirt on, which used to be his shirt, and for once he doesn't just pull everything off as soon as he can. That piece he leaves on. Maybe he likes that she wears his things. He likes picking her up; she can be sure of that. He does it again, lifts her easily, and now there's so much skin, his and hers. He carries her bedward, kissing her, her mouth mostly but sometimes her chin, jawline, neck. Flutter of pulse there makes him linger, press his tongue against that point like he might taste it.
Bed under her. Where did her beer go? Maybe she still has it. Maybe she manages not to spill it as he weighs her down; not so much pushing as simply -- covering her, carrying her horizontal with the momentum and mass of his own body. With his hands free he can touch her again, and does; runs his hands under that shirt and under her bra, dislodging it, rubbing his palms over her tits. Makes one of those low, growling noises he makes, like the feel of her satisfies something deep in him. Then he's touching her waist. Then he's holding her hips, sliding down, knees on the ground, pulling her to the edge of the bed. There's something carnivorous about the way he goes down on her, which is something he does rather rarely; probably not out of some chauvinistic urge to maintain the upper hand; probably just not something he bothers with or thinks about too often. Somehow it occurs to him tonight. Has something to do with hunger, and predation. A primordial need to use his mouth. Has his arms around her thighs, hands gripping her legs apart. Has his mouth on her cunt, and he's growling again, nosing at her, licking, biting with his lips because he knows better, at least, than to use his teeth.
DevonAt first she thinks he didn't hear her, or is ignoring her, which is still her resentful little kneejerk reaction even though he... doesn't really do that. Ignore her. Treat her like she doesn't matter. Quite the opposite. But some wounds go deeper than consciousness, and that is one.
Because he picks her up. Kisses her hard and lifts her body and takes her up the stairs and she almost reminds him she wants him to take. off. her. pants. Touch her pussy. He seems surprisingly good at that, the way she tends to react to it. Devon kisses him back anyway, groaning again, feeling herself being carried upward.
Top of the stairs is where he stops. She is still holding her damn beer and takes a second to get a swig. Her pants are tight, even if they are torn up; he unfastens them and she stands there, steading herself with a hand on the railing, being thoroughly unhelpful while he wiggles and peels and shoves them off her hips and tugs them down her thighs and has to reach up by her ankles to get them to come down her calves. Devon just drinks her beer, lifts her foot when absolutely necessary, while her boyfriend tries to undress her.
Doesn't escape her notice where they are; just makes her feel fond of him.
Her eyes are twinkling down at him when he pushes up the hem of his big, long t-shirt to kiss her hip, her skin, pulling down her panties too. She bites her lip again. She watches them curl and twist down her thighs before she steps out of them.
Rafael's sudden enough when he rises up and picks her up again that Devon lets out a little yelp: half surprise, half delight. She wraps her now-bare legs around him and gets closer, kissing him as he walks her down the hall to his bedroom. Through the door. They're halfway there and he stops again, all but has to push her legs off of him to get her stand. and that's when she reaches, leans, sets the beer down on some flat surface or other. Straightens again, turning to him, and sees he's taking off his shirt. Devon takes a breath.
Devon helps him. She steps into him, hands up his torso, pushing the fabric off even as it's already on his way. She's looking up at him when he gets his belt undone, clanking against his hip, and she can feel the cool metal on her upper thigh, dangling. She is kissed. She's kissing him back, deepening it, slowing it a little, softening it, while he is getting his jeans off. And everything else.
Laughs when it gets stuck on his feet. Grins, but doesn't help him with his shoes. She just turns around, walking away from him over towards the bed, his shirt hanging off her, stripes of cotton curled in on themselves the only covering over her ass at the moment. He hasn't taken it off. She hasn't either. She hasn't taken off a goddamn thing herself except the hoodie.
Maybe he likes picking her up enough that he does it anyway, crossing the short distance between them to lift her from behind, but if he does, he might miss how she crawls onto the bed herself, all fours and everything for a second, before she turns over, flopping back, waiting for her big grumpy, horny boyfriend to come after her.
Maybe that's when he does, climbing after her, weighing her down, hand under her back, lifting her to move her back with him. This she likes: arches into it, gasps softly. Same with his hand snaking under the shirt, feeling her up under her bra. Her eyes flicker; her brow wrinkles for a moment. She aches. She reaches for him, fingers in his hair, pulls him down, kissing him when he growls, and answering him with a moan. "Take it off," she asks him, then, really just meaning the bra, which has underwire digging into his hand and her ribs, straps digging into her shoulders and her back. "Keep touching me."
That one isn't said so much as breathed.
Maybe he listens. If not, then when he starts heading down her body Devon just sits up and takes her own damn bra off because it's distracting her now, some unnecessary technological human thing that never seems to belong when she's with him. But perhaps not: perhaps his fingers reach back and unclasp it, loosen it, and Devon will help him if it turns out he doesn't want her out of his shirt yet. Slip the straps down her shoulders and off her arms, but leaves it to him to reach up, pull it down her body, toss it aside.
She does so enjoy it when he undresses her.
--
Devon thinks she knows what he's doing when he puts his hands on her bare hips. She starts to open her legs for him, starts to touch his sides, his chest, his arms. Realizes she doesn't know everything when he slides away, down, when his knees thud on the carpeting. Her breath leaves her in a tremor of a sigh then, anticipation tightening up her entire body for a moment, making her wet. She groans quiet and low when he first licks her, nothing so refined as a kiss. Whimpers, though not in anything resembling pain, when his lips bite at that tender, tender flesh. She squirms, even though he's holding her, and reaches down to touch his hair. He knows from the other... very few times... how slow this goes for her. How intense it is, by the same token. How rare it is for her, and almost unbearable in the pleasure it gives her. She groans like that, and she whimpers, but it's a while before he feels her fingers tighten and curl, feels her thighs tremble. A while before she starts making these little noises, moving her hips more, trying to rub herself off on his mouth.
And they're such pretty noises.
RafaelSo. All right. She's not passive. Doesn't just stand there waiting for him to undress, pick her up, put her on the bed like some sort of fuckable decor. She takes an active fucking part in all this, her narrow deft hands touching him, his hot skin, the thick muscles sheathing his bones. He sucks a breath in while she's touching him; he fumbles a little with his belt. Gets it off. She kisses him with her hands on him, maybe, and if they aren't then he finds them, puts them on him. Likes the feel of her palms, which are probably warm but always feel cool to him because he runs so hot. Likes her hands covering random patches of his side, his chest, his abdomen.
She steps back so he can get his shoes off. He looks up and she's bending over the bed, and damn right he doesn't pick her up and help her then. Damn right he watches her, biting his lip, naked lust in his eyes.
She turns over. He gets the hint. He comes over, climbing over her, naked with his dick hard in his hand. Those hands on her after a while, pushing and feeling, getting that bra off when she asks. A hook gets caught in one of the holes in the t-shirt, but she navigates it; they get it off.
She leaves the shirt on. He can see her nipples through it, and it's too much to resist. He sucks her tits first, licks them, pulls the shirt aside and out of shape to get at her skin when that's not enough. She's reaching for him and opening her legs but he keeps going, makes his way down, knees hit the floor, mouth on her cunt.
Girl doesn't just go off like a firecracker. Takes time, takes finesse, and he has no patience for either right now. It's been too long. Truth is it's almost selfishness that has him eating at her. Just wanted a taste of her. Wanted to roll in it like an animal, carry her scent with him.
Except she has none. So he settles for the sounds she makes instead. That, and her taste on his tongue. Her wetness on his mouth. His eyes are on her while her thighs tremble; he laps at her aggressively, openmouthed, panting.
Comes back up soon enough. Touches her cunt while he's moving, rubbing her clit, sliding his fingers into her. Always fascinates him a little, that; those secret, tender, wet places; the hidden muscles that clench and quiver. Kisses her and now he tastes like her, and not so much like beer.
DevonOf course he can see her nipples. A shade darker than the rest of her skin under the cotton. Hard, too, because of arousal, because of the cool room, sticking through the thin fabric. She groans when he sucks on them, pushing the shirt up, aside, arching her back. It's like there's a hot, fiery line from where his mouth sucks her skin down her belly and straight to her cunt; Devon is ready to fuck, then, eager for him to take that hard cock he's been stroking and give it to her.
Which is not what he does. Yet.
He licks at her instead. For a while. Nuzzles at her pussy and rubs his tongue on her, teases her clit with his lips and gets her slick on his face. Truth be told, the thought of that has her aroused as much as the touch; she squirms, biting her lip, which does not stop her noises, only alters them slightly.
Neither of them really want him to keep going til she comes tonight. She is neither surprised nor dismayed when he stops, climbing back over her, reaching down between them to touch her. Sparks flare to life in her eyes as she looks at him, panting. She clutches at his arms when he slips his fingers into her, trying to ride his hand, pleading:
"Rafa..."
RafaelKisses her. Hard, like a bite. Eats his name off her mouth, groaning into that kiss, which is almost vicious. Doesn't wait another minute, then; slides his fingers out. Kiss breaks off -- he looks down, watches himself, guides it, watches his cock sliding into her. Brow furrows and he has his teeth in his lower lip again, has his breath held until he remembers to breathe, exhales in a rush.
Looks at her when he's inside her. Her flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes, her mouth and the way her lips part when she makes those soft sounds that arrow right to the heart of him. He suddenly wants that shirt off after all. He rucks it up, pulls at it, gets it up over her head and off. Her hair spills free of it, dark over her pale shoulders, dark over the bed. He missed her. He missed this, too: the wanton nudity, the unabashed fucking in the privacy of their own home, no need to worry about roommates or mothers or aunts and uncles or, for that matter, fucking magistrates' soldiers tromping around the woods looking for them.
Kisses her again and then pushes up on his hands. Wants to fuck her like this tonight. Wants to watch her while he fucks her, which is what he does: bearing his weight on his knees, his hands, tension across the shoulders and chest. Looks at her face, mostly, but also her body. Tendons in her neck. Those sweet tits, bouncing when he starts fucking her a little harder, starts really giving it to her. Straps of muscle in her spread thighs; that hot little cunt where she takes him so well. Sight of it inflames him, and she can tell, can see it on his face even if he's taciturn as ever. Puts his hand under her back, between the shoulderblades; puts his arm around her and lifts her up even as he bends to kiss, meets her in the middle, kisses her. Can't seem to stop kissing her tonight, and each and every one is a burning, aching, devouring thing.
DevonThe kiss borders on too much, too intense, right then. She shivers a little, a tender thing, a reminder of her relative softness. She looks at him, looking for something, aching, loving. And then even though he's reaching down to guide himself into her she reaches for his other hand. She forces it, almost, until their palms are together, their fingers interlaced. He nearly never talks to her like this, and the truth is that it hurts her sometimes. Truth is it always has, and it's tied to that one painful breakup early on, and it does still matter. She hasn't come to understand and accept perfectly that this is something he just doesn't do, or can't do. Sometimes there is a point when she just wants him to talk to her, to be there with her in a way that doesn't require her to interpret a sound or an action or an expression on his face.
Sometimes it still is something missing, an emptiness she feels not at all with anyone else but which opens up like a void under her when it comes to him. So in the absence of that, Devon finds his hand, and holds his hand, and when he looks down to watch his cock sliding into her, to watch her body as he's fucking her, Devon takes her other hand and touches his face.
Lifts his chin. Lets him see her, and shows him that she wants to see him, too.
Needs to.
RafaelCenters him, somehow. When she takes his hand. When she lifts his chin. Brings him back to her. Reminds him -- makes him remember -- that this isn't just a fuck, isn't just about fucking, isn't just some physical meaningless act of release.
It's not that he's forgotten she's here. Not that, quite. But he was losing himself in the primitive, base physicality of it all. She brings him back. And he looks at her, and is suddenly and achingly and profoundly grateful. That she brought him back. That she came back. That she's here at all, is ever here at all, because he misses her when she's not. In his bones, in the marrow of his soul, he misses her.
So he comes back to her too. Comes down over her and wraps her up in his arms, her naked torso to his, her breasts against his chest and her belly against his. Her thighs around his waist, her arms around his body -- just as his are around hers. There's a tremendous, kinetic strength in him, and sometimes it's too much for her. So he gentles. He slows a little; he fucks her deeply, and thoroughly, and with a strange, tender adoration.
This kiss is gentler too. He takes his time, like he's drinking from her. His lips move over hers. His face nuzzles hers. His body moves against hers, rhythmic and powerful, carrying him into her.
DevonShe missed him so much.
She missed him in the past, even though he was there. Missed him when she was gone, even though she doesn't remember it. Missed him most of all these last few weeks, when it was just her and her mum, when he wasn't in her bed anymore.
Truth be told, Devon has no idea how deep Rafael's feelings for her go. How necessary she feels to him. That of course she lives in his den and eats his food and wears his clothes, because she is his mate. That living apart from him, even down the street -- much less in another time or another plane or another continent -- makes him ache. In his bones. In the marrow of his soul.
She knows he loves her, and loves her very much, and misses her when she's gone. She doesn't think his feelings are shallow or fleeting. But she doesn't really know just how passionate they are. How very deep they go. How much, ultimately, she really can trust him with her heart.
--
Devon kisses him. She puts her hands on his face, barely even registering at first that he's taken that shirt off. But she feels it when his body presses against hers. When she feels him. She just holds him then, kissing him, wrapping her legs around him, high and tight and warm. Kisses him as he starts fucking her, slower at first, but still firm, still powerful, even if more focused on how he makes her feel. How he can make her feel.
He nuzzles. She feels her own wetness on his face, just as she tastes it on his mouth, and laughs softly, but only for a moment. She kisses him again, moaning softly into it, her hands roaming then, down his chest, his sides, around his back.
"I love you," she whispers. "And I missed you." He strokes into her, just so, and she shudders apart at it, holding him more tightly, tipping her head back slightly. "Missed fucking you." Pants out a breath. "I love fucking you." Says it like she can't believe just how true it is, how overwhelming it still is.
RafaelStrangely, he laughs too. Laughs when she does, even though it melts into a kiss. A moan from her. A soft, low grunt from him.
Laughs again when she murmurs that litany: loving, missing, fucking. Not when she says she loves him, or that she missed him -- but the rest of it. Missed this, in particular. Loves this, in particular. That makes him laugh.
Makes him kiss her, too; the angle of her jaw when she tips her head back. Her neck, his lips lingering over her throat. But then he's putting his hand on her face. Bringing her back to him the way she brought him back to her. Kissing her mouth, searchingly and tastingly, savoringly.
Somehow this feels like a true homecoming. As though that week or two back in August was just a brief connection, a touchpoint before they sundered apart again. As though that week in London was just a passing thing, uncertain and brief. This feels, he thinks, like she's really coming home. Really back for good.
"Don't leave again, okay?" he mutters. Which is ridiculous, because of course she'll leave again at some point: her mother lives in London, for god's sake. But that's not what he means. Hopes she understands what he means, even if he doesn't have the words to articulate it. "Just stay."
DevonHe brings her back. Draws her back to where he can look at her, kiss her; where she can see him. Devon sighs with it, wrapping her arms around him again, lifting her hips to take him more deeply. She draws him into her with her legs. She fucks him, but gently, because she loves him so much, and she missed him so painfully, and because she needs to connect with him.
He says the first words he's said since... getting home, she thinks. Since tromping upstairs with her bags. She's pretty sure he's been silent since then. It feels like forever to her, after so long apart. And he asks her not to leave.
She knows he doesn't mean London. She doesn't think he means going away to live with witch-spirits in another plane of existence, though.
She doesn't really know what he means.
It doesn't stop her from shaking her head. From kissing him, and pulling him closer, and whispering: "I'll try. I will."
RafaelCould be he doesn't really know what he means either. Could be he just ... needed to say something. Express something. Depth of his love for her, maybe. Depth of his need.
Anyway. It's spoken. And acknowledged. And she makes a sort of promise, which maybe isn't the rousing agreement he would have wanted -- but it's enough. It'll have to be. Wolf slows a little, touching her face still. Touching her cheek and her jaw, her chin, her mouth. He kisses her again, then, tenderly. Loves that face of hers. Loves her narrow, clean beauty; that clarity she possesses when she isn't done up in all that smoky eye makeup.
"Good," he mutters.
And also:
"'Cause I love you," he tells her, rough, fond. Just says it, out of the blue. His lips touch hers again; light, like a seal. Then he moves. Shifts his weight somehow, opens up a little space between them. Enough that he can reach down. Touch her the way she asked him to, when they were still on the stairs. Touches her while he kisses her again, patiently, and then not quite so patiently; that hunger again, always there but banked, simmering up to the surface.
Starts fucking her again. Moves into her with purpose, drive. Fondles her while he fucks her, plays with her clit, has his thumb on that sensitive little bundle of nerve endings. Kiss comes to a close and he's just watching her then, looking at her face, her eyes, her brow and the way she knits it sometimes when he's doing something she loves. Breathing's a little ragged -- quick, deep. He wants to kiss her again. Wants to bite her. Wants to push up on his hands and really pound her. Wants to stay close, too, keep her close and covered and protected and thoroughly, utterly fucked. Somehow all the disparate pieces fit together in his mind, what he wants to do with her, what it means in a basic, instinctual way.
DevonHer hands on his face again. Holding him, touching him in this dear, intimate way. She kisses him and she doesn't kiss him but she still touches his face, his hair, stroking his jaw, the back of his neck, holding tight to his shoulder when he presses himself hard into her, makes her cry out softly.
Kisses her again when he tells her he loves her, like he can't bear to leave the words out in the open, exposed like that. Devon's fingers bury themselves in his thick dark hair. She is kissing him like that, whimpering as that kiss intensifies, as he touches her. Her back arches; her hips lift again. She fucks him back a little, eager for more, asking for more in this wordless yet obvious way.
So there's more: the way he fucks her then, touches her then, watches her face pull and twist, watches her bite her lip anxiously. She can't quite kiss him back after a while; she's just panting, sweating now, her fingernails digging into his arms now where she holds him. It's unconscious; she never wants to hurt him. She never wants him to hurt.
She's saying things like oh god and oh fuck now, rhythmic and repetitive, all lined with this undernote of pleading. God: at one point she even has her wrist to her forehead, like she can't take it. She doesn't even realize she's doing it. Her other hand is still holding onto him, touching him, wherever she can.
"I love you," is what she says, tight and whimpering and shaky, when she's close. When he can feel just how close she is. "I love you," she repeats, harder, and more helpless. If she weren't naked beneath him, cheeks and breasts flushed with color, lips red, sweating, on the verge of orgasm, he might think she were about to cry. Maybe she is. Maybe that doesn't matter. What matters is what she says, instead of his name or god or fuck, just this increasingly tremulous repetition: she loves him, she loves him, she loves him.
RafaelShe loves him. Loves him. Loves him.
He believes her. No way not to. Can't possibly doubt it now; not when they're so close. Not when she says it like that. Not when they've crossed time and space for one another; known each other, it seems across different lifetimes, bodies, worlds.
Wolf doesn't often think about things like that. The ramifications of their odd trips into antiquity. Doesn't often pause to examine the evidence, draw the conclusions. Still doesn't now. Simply absorbs them as fact: yes, they must have known each other before. Yes, they must have always known each other. Yes, they must be inextricably linked, somehow. Made if not for each other and to love each other -- then at least, made so that they cannot help but love one another.
Certainly feels like that. Feels like he can't possibly not feel this way about this.
So she tells him. Over and over. She tells him she loves him, and he licks those words off her lips, kisses them away. And he's still touching her, working her clit while he fucks her, knowing she's about to come, knowing he's going to get her off, knowing it's been weeks and feeling like it's been years. Watching her while she spirals up into that dizzying climax, hungry for it -- wanting it, wanting to see her come. Wanting that sound out of her throat, wanting that uncontrollable trembling in her thighs; wanting her hands clutching at him, her body arching under his.
Wanting it. Watching for it. Giving it to her, because he can: and that, in and of itself, is something like a miracle.
--
Comes with her, turns out. When she goes off, so does he. Seems inevitable at that point. He's so focused on her, so caught up in her -- so twisted up in the moment that when she starts to come, when he knows she's coming, feels it, knows it, he loses himself too. Bows his head, mouth to her neck; doesn't so much groan or grunt or growl as he roars, this time, with the force of that orgasm.
Has his arm around her still, and the force of his embrace is almost crushing. Has his hand on her clit still, but he's not capable of much now -- nothing beyond a basic pressure, even as he pins her down with the momentum of that climactic thrust.
Fucks into her a few more times, coming down. It's hardly even voluntary. Bites her too -- and that, too, is mostly instinct. Fixes his teeth in her shoulder, firm but not hard; grips her while he wrings the last of the pleasure from the moment.
His hand smooths away from her clit, finally. Wraps around her side. Now both his arms are around her, holding her. That slender body; feels deceptively fragile, though he knows she's not. Drank him under the table once, didn't she? Survived a trip to the 17th century and three months god knows where, didn't she?
His lover. His strange, smirking, mooching, boozing, sometimes prickly, sometimes wounded, always vulnerable, always resilient lover. Girlfriend. Mate.
DevonDevon doesn't think about it at all. Past lives, ancestral lives, the travels of their souls. It isn't that these thoughts are foreign to her; it's that she doesn't apply them to Rafael and herself. She knows little about werewolf cosmology, in the end; she doesn't even know names for their forms.
When she thinks of Rafael, she thinks of this current life most of all, and whether he'll leave her, and whether he really understands her, and if her feelings will change, and what will happen if they don't. She thinks about how anxious loving him makes her; how she doesn't want to leave and she doesn't want him to leave her and this makes her most anxious of all. She thinks about things like Naomi calling the cops because she thought Rafael killed Devon. She thinks about lying to her mum, and how her mum always has this bit of worry in her voice when they talk about Rafael and Devon being with Rafael, because she doesn't understand.
Devon thinks about the longing he makes her feel, always. How when he's gone she misses him and when he's there she wants him and how sometimes even when they're like this she still feels like she has to reach for him, find him, bring him back. She wonders if that's really just her fault, her problem, her being a bad girlfriend or her love not being enough or maybe all of this is a mistake.
She thinks about how lonely she is when she sleeps without him, and she never used to be lonely sleeping alone. It's not that someone is better than no one. Devon is perfectly content with no one at all. She has basically one actual friend in the city and then a bunch of people she sort of knows and sometimes talks to. Devon does not need Rafael because there's a void there in her, or because she needs something, anything at all, to fill it. The idea that they must be bound or linked or made for each other doesn't really occur to her because she doesn't think people are made that way. She doesn't believe she was made for anyone. She believes she could help this if she wanted, and that he could, too. She worries that he will want to.
Sometimes, she thinks that being in love is the worst thing that has ever happened to her. She never feared being unloved until she began to need Rafael, in particular, to love her back.
Sometimes she says I love you I love you I love you in her mind at him, willing him to love her back. Sometimes she says it out loud, calling out to him, waiting for an answer.
--
Her whole body is tender from travel and sex. Her stomach, after the wash of adrenaline and endorphins has begun to ebb, spikes at her, reminding her that she's hungry, isn't she? Her clit is throbbing. She can feel the impression of his teeth on her shoulder, even though he's let go of her now, isn't biting anymore. She's so sweaty. Rafael is sweaty. Their skins are stuck together like the sweat is some kind of adhesive.
After the rush, after even a small drowse, after feeling him beginning to soften inside of her, Devon is looking at the ceiling at an angle, her head half-turned. She's quiet and she's physically very relaxed and she is fragile, she is wounded, she is vulnerable. She is resilient but there's a brittleness to it where her heart is concerned, even if physically she's surprisingly tough in that tiny body of hers. She's touching him, idly, wherever her hand happens to fall on him: maybe the middle of his back, his head pillowed on her breast. Maybe his arm, his shoulder. Those big biceps. She isn't thinking about the touch. She's thinking, again, of how long this is going to last and how she doesn't fully understand what he meant when he asked her not to go away again. If he meant moving out or going to another dimension.
Doesn't ask. Is sort of afraid to ask. It rarely goes well, when she shows her cards, asks her questions, worries out loud. It always seems to disappoint him.
Hurt him, too.
Devon never wants to hurt him. Doesn't want him to be hurt.
Devon loves him. He's so dear to her.
Heart-rendingly dear.
--
She turns her head lazily after a while, slowly, kissing his forehead. She stays there, head tipped, brow to his brow.
"Missed you," she murmured, which is nothing, which is almost empty at this point, which is nowhere near all the things she has in the ever-growing portion of her heart given over to him. At least it isn't a lie, even if it leaves out so very much. "M'glad I'm home," she adds, which is the same: nothing, nowhere near, leaves out so much.
Reaches down and wherever his arm is, she draws it over and around herself a bit more, covering her stomach, her side, moving his body heat from an overly-warm spot to a slightly-cooler spot on her skin. Just: rearranges him like that, like he's her blanket. Wraps both her arms around his shoulders in return, almost cradling.
"Need to pee."
This, of all the things they do and don't say, can at least be taken at face value.
"Then I want to eat."
RafaelAfterward, he is touched. He is stroked. He is kissed. He is adored.
Wishes he could return even a fraction of it, but his brain's barely working. Just grunts a little as she rearranges him, pulls his big heavy arm around herself, shifts under him like he's a blanket. Not until she says something that his eyes open.
Takes him a minute to process it, too. Then he blinks. Frowns a little.
"Okay," he says. Rolls aside a little so she can get up. Go pee. And as she gets out of bed, he rolls on his back. Pushes up on his elbows. Sniffs. Looks around.
Looks a little dazed still. Squints at the clock like maybe time's jumped forward, maybe it's 3 in the morning. It's not. It's still evening, a little past the dinner hour, but not if you're young and don't have a job and don't care when you get up.
He sits up. "Still want your sushi?"
DevonShe does love him. Touch him, stroke him, kiss him. Adore him. He is special, you see. He is singular and he is precious to her.
But there's sex and there's rolling away and Devon getting up to go to the bathroom alone. He sniffs and he smells sex, and sweat, but really just himself. Beneath that, the detergent his housekeeper uses on the sheets. Amidst that, perhaps, a trace of something from Devon's hair, some lotion from her skin. Essential oils, but none of her own essence. Easy to forget she's here except that he rolls over and the underwire from her bra sticks into his back and he has to reach back and grab it and fling it somewhere.
Bra doesn't smell like her, either.
--
Toilet flushes, water runs. Devon comes back out, naked, hair tousled, running fingers through its thickness. She comes back to him, to bed, climbs on top of him, straddles his lap, wraps her arms around his neck and his shoulders,
kisses him like they didn't just fuck, like they're just getting started. Again.
"Yeah," she mutters, nodding, her head bumping gently against his as she decides to nuzzle him. "Maybe watch a movie. Maybe fuck again."
Rafael"I'm gonna eat stew," he tells her. Again? Did he tells her that already? Can't remember. His arms go around her waist as she straddles him, two of them naked and rather unafraid of it.
He gets kissed. He kisses her back, as wantingly as he did the very first time. Tonight. Ever. "Could fuck you all night," he mutters.
DevonHis arms are hot against her lower back, on her hips, the topmost curve of her ass. She squirms a little from the heat, but gets closer to him all the same, like that's not the real reason she's squirming.
"Mm-hm," she says, apparently in... agreement? Or at very least, acknowledgement. Before she kisses him again. "Stop," she mutters against his mouth, pausing for a moment, pressing her breasts against him with a slight arch of her back. "Stop it," she murmurs again, sighing as she kisses him.
RafaelWolf inhales. Maybe to fill his chest, feel her tits more. Maybe just because his girlfriend is naked and freshly fucked and squirming on his lap, rubbing on his chest.
"You're the one starting it," he accuses. Just a touch playfully. And then submerges into that kiss, which pulls a low sound from him, which has him sprawling slowly, slowly out on his back, taking her with him.
DevonMaybe to feel her skin on his skin, so much fairer than his skin, so much softer. To feel her breathing back at him, with him, inhaling as he stirs against her, between those delicate, trembling thighs he hasn't felt around him in weeks.
Fuck. Felt them five minutes ago, shaking as she came. Felt her sweat on his hips when she held him, stroking his hair, her fingers a whisper across his skin.
Devon sinks against him, holding him more tightly. She doesn't answer, doesn't argue, she just kisses him harder, but somehow softer
and deeper
and wetter
and they fall backwards, and he tries to prove to her at least a measure of what he said before: could fuck her all night.
--
So again: she rides him this time, at least for a while before she folds over him and he holds her tighter, turns her under him, kisses her fierce when their fucking takes on a sort of desperate, hungry edge near the end. Less talking this time, even I love you seems too refined for their primitive minds. Devon's fingernails dig into his back when she arches; he snarls when he thrusts hard into her, grinds to make her come, send her over the edge, make her cry out and hold onto him like she's falling.
--
After it's the same routine again. She goes to the bathroom. She washes up. She comes out of his bathroom wearing a giant towel wrapped around herself. Stands ten feet away, hand out, hair still a little limp from sweating so much.
"Not again," she says firmly, even if she was the one who climbed on top of him last time. She says it like men in old movies say shit like foul temptress!
"I'm hungry," she reiterates, twice as firm.
RafaelProbably right for her to stand ten feet away. Wolf's still in bed when she comes back. Sits up when he hears her. Hands propped behind him, faint sheen of sweat still on his chest. Faint glimmer of interest still in his eyes as he looks at her,
tousled, sweaty, fucked, flushed.
Huffs a laugh when she wards him off. Foul tempter! Throws the blanket he'd half-pulled over himself off, gets up. Feet thud the floor. Comes toward her and takes her hand but keeps going, comes right up against her and kisses her. Not again: but still. Kisses her. Because it feels good to kiss her. And because he's missed her.
"Come on," he says, after. "You can have your sushi. Gonna have my stew. And then take a shower."
DevonDevon drops the towel she has wrapped around herself.
She can't fucking help it: the way he's lying in bed like that, stretched out like that, his arms folded back like that and the way it makes his biceps look. The way he looks when he's sweaty, the way he looks when he comes. How he flips the covers back, unashamed as ever of his nakedness, crossing the room to her, messy hands touching her.
Hands that cupped her breasts and flexed on her ass, hands that rubbed her clit while he fucked her. She can still sort of taste herself on his mouth after all this time.
So he kisses her, and she lets go of her covering towel that is supposed to ward him off, and ward herself against herself. Her arms go around his neck, her body stretched out to reach him. She kisses him again,
she missed him so.
Looks up at him, messy. Filthy, really. Her eyes shine and her cheeks are still flushed, her lips red.
"Gonna faint if we fuck again before I eat," she mentions, quietly, so he knows it's not flirting. But truth is, she probably wouldn't; she's tougher than even she knows, sometimes. But she hears herself, hears how serious she is, and laughs.
"All right," she adds, blushing this time. That's a whole other color on her cheeks.
RafaelHe'd say something about her starting things when she wants him to stop, if he had the words in him. But he doesn't. Barely has air in his lungs when she drops her towel; reaches for him. Body elongating, and he can feel it: feel it under his hands which are at her waist, sliding up her sides.
They kiss again. Can't seem to stop. He's about a heartbeat from picking her up, and maybe this time he'll fuck her against the wall. Not one of their typical positions, but then neither is girl-on-top, and he seemed to like that just fine right now. Seemed to like that just all right when he was sweating under her, bucking under her, holding her by the waist just like he's doing now and fucking up into her, pounding her through her orgasm when she bent over him and shuddered like that.
Bit her again then. Sort of a faint mark on her shoulder, actually. But it's faint, and by morning it'll be gone, and anyway -- color in her cheeks draws the eye away. She threatens to faint. He exhales; rueful laugh. Hands slide back down before they've quite made it to her tits, though he would've liked to cup them again. Touch them again. Play with them, lift them up, rub his palms and his face and his mouth all over them. God, she has nice tits.
He's getting distracted again. He lets go of her, and he tries not to notice his semi -- as he so charmingly put it once. Picks her towel up off the floor and -- oh look at his discretion -- wraps it around his waist. Then reaches for her hand.
"Food," he says. Articulate creature: now he's down to single syllables. "Come on."
DevonDevon is done. She's tender and tired and hungry. She's been fucked twice already, wore herself out on top of him, and yeah: there's a little would-be bruise from his teeth on her shoulder. And look at her dropping her towel and wrapping around him as soon as he walks over, anyway. Look at her lifting her mouth to kiss him, sighing into it, putting her hands on his body, feeling his hands on hers. She has forgotten everything she just said. His hands are running up her sides. He's going to touch her breasts, weigh them in his hands, lower his head and lick her.
But he doesn't. He stops. A heartbeat away from picking her up, pressing her to the wall, giving it to her again. His cock is hardening and they're so close she can feel it stiffen, grow even more heated. It's still fucking wet from the last round. The round before that. He laughs that dark little laugh and that shoots through her like a shot of whiskey, burns under her skin, makes her clit hot.
He starts to step back, pick up her towel, but Devon just... tips back against the wall. She leans on it like she's going to hold it up, like it's holding her up, exhaling,
looking at him. Hooded eyes, bright anyway.
He looks at her too, he's going to reach for her hand, say 'food' like the goddamn caveman he sometimes is.
She breathes.
Licks her lips.
RafaelShe's done.
Told him so. Several times actually. Told him she's hungry, wants to eat. Told him she'll faint.
And then she sighs like that. Kisses him like that. Touches him like that. Looks at him like that, leans against the wall like that, breathes like that. Licks her lips like that.
And he looks at her. And he's got that towel wrapped around his waist but not tucked, not cinched in place. Looks at her looking at him, looking like that.
Drops the towel. Comes over, crowding her against the wall, putting his hands on her, touching her waist and her ass and scooping her up the way he does. Her back against the wall, which is cool and flat and ever so subtly textured. His mouth on her tits: goes straight for them, sucking, licking, tongue strong and agile.
"One more time," he mutters -- around her nipple, more or less. "Come on."
DevonCome on, he says, like she needs coaxing. Like she wasn't just looking at him with those fuck-me eyes, that fuck-me stare. Like she didn't lean back, spine arched a little, tits pressed out just a little, not even consciously, like she was asking for exactly this.
Devon lets out a sort of mewling little moan when he starts licking her, burying his face in her breasts, swirling his tongue around her nipple. She's lifted, and she's not protesting, she's not pushing back, she's not tensing up. God: after two rounds she's loose-limbed and lazy, but she's wet again, she's sweet and tender and squirming already, like the first two orgasms just primed her for this.
She doesn't even try to kiss him right now. He's licking her breasts, suckling on her nipple, and she's not going to stop him. She's the one being pleasured by this, though of course he doesn't seem to mind giving it to her. Seems to enjoy it enough to forget it's not selfish.
It occurs to Devon's lazy, travel-and-sex-addled mind that most of their sex is like that. She finds it almost hard to believe he doesn't feel used, doesn't feel like she's too demanding. She feels like all she ever does sometimes is tell him to fuck her. Look at her tonight: coming at him again and again, even when she says she's done, they're done, enough. Warding him off like he's some sort of incubus sent to torment her before she climbs up onto his dick again.
She groans, head tipped back, his hands on her ass, holding her up, holding her legs apart as they wrap around him. She's touching his hair again, just to touch him, just to keep his face right there a little longer, and she doesn't argue and she doesn't even laugh she just gasps at one particularly firm suck and whimpers: "Pull my hair when you fuck me."
RafaelBarely even coherent right now. Can't string words together. Can barely process them. Takes him a minute to process what she says, but when he does --
When he does, it gives him pause. Head comes up. There's a glassiness to his eyes, love-drunk. Pupils enormous, the green just a wolfish ring of color. "What?" he pants. Takes him another moment to really digest it, and then his brow furrows a little. "You sure?"
DevonNow she laughs. Breathy, overcome. Horny, since we're being honest. But she laughs, because he always says what like that. Even when she knows damn well he heard her. Knows he just is... processing. Perks at the noise and then has to examine it before it makes sense.
Now she kisses him. She puts her hands on his face and leans to him and kisses him heavily, deeply, giving him this soft, low little groan in the middle of it. Almost sounds disbelieving, that sound, though what she can't believe is how much she likes fucking this guy.
Lets go of his mouth but has her hands on his face. She looks into his eyes, his pupils blown out til all she can see is that sharp, bright circle of green. "Well, don't yank it," she mutters, drowsy with lust. "Just..."
And decides to show him. Her hand slides up the back of his neck, slow. She spreads her fingers through his hair, palm against his scalp. And then just closes her hand into a fist. It's not sharp. It's not sudden. It doesn't make the skin of his scalp sear with a shock of pain or a jerk of force. Just a firm grasp. A shiver of heat, a wake-up call to the skin, no more painful than a bite on her shoulder. Maybe even less so, truthfully. But Rafael will feel this more keenly, and perhaps even know that's the whole point:
the show of dominance. The sense of claim. The expression of need.
It's very much like the way he bites her, in a way. But it takes agile fingers, a flexing hand. It is human, not wolf.
Devon, still holding his hair like this, kisses him again. A little harder. Shows him how she wants him. Her teeth scrape his lip but by then she's already letting go of his hair, wrapping her arms around him, moving against his body, urging him on. Whispering, all the same:
"Don't have to. Just... want you a little rough this time. Yeah?"
And that yeah, as ever, isn't asking for his agreement or his acquiescence. Just his understanding.
RafaelGrunts, when his hair is gripped. Bares his teeth and it doesn't even seem conscious, purposeful. Just reflexive. Anyway, then she kisses him, and that snarl melts; melts into that hard, wanting kiss.
Her arms wrap around him. Skinny arms, skinny thing, but still she manages to hold him so tight.
And truth is understanding is an elusive thing right now. He's not sure he's got it. Not sure how this matches up with her telling him, showing him -- tender, yeah? Feels like he's on uncertain ground again, even though in some ways it's a closing circle. Was rough the first time, wasn't he? Only that was different, because he didn't know any different.
Kiss melts apart and he's looking at her. And then, eyes open this time, leaning into her. Kissing her. Reaching up and, yes, pushing his hand into her hair. Grasping a handful, right at the roots. Pulling her head back and kissing her throat now, nipping at the fine skin. Has his mouth pressed there, lips opening, groaning as he slides into her again.
DevonThe difference is one of degree. The difference is also one of focus: awareness of her or lack of awareness. Attention she asks for, inattention that hurts her. But they can puzzle that out later, or not at all, because they seldom talk about these things when their minds aren't muddled with lust.
Devon's thighs tighten around him as he presses closer to her, looks at her. She's urging him on. She wants him to fuck her now, even if he doesn't want to be rough, even if he doesn't want to pull her hair or snarl dirty little things into her ear. She just wants him. She always wants him.
And there he is, kissing her, and she feels his hand in her hair and her skin lights up. She things she must be shining from the sudden, tingling wakefulness that spreads over her. Her back arches. He flexes his broad hand into a fist, clutching at her hair, and she gasps brightly, letting him pull her head back, loving it that he pulls her head back, kisses her throat. He feels her lower body melt against him, soften for him when he pushes into her.
Feels her fingernails curl against his back, press into him, just as she feels his cock pushing into her, as claiming as his hand, his teeth, his body holding hers to the wall. Devon shivers; it seems helpless. Seems excited. She makes this little noise, not quite a whimper: it's too light, too pleased for that.
RafaelThere is something ... dominant about this. Gentler than teeth, perhaps, but also more overt. Something about him holding her up, suspended; something about his hand in her hair, her throat bared to his mouth.
Something about the way he fucks her too, firm and purposeful, the heavy muscle and bone of his back, his flanks, his thighs coiling and uncoiling to drive him into her. She sounds so pleased. He sounds feral, growling at her response, her hands, her fingernails against his back.
Doesn't let her hair go. Does shift his grip, though, pulling her head down. There's an edge of teeth in his kiss. He eats the sounds out of her mouth. Shifts his grip on her and tucks an arm under her leg, her calf against the outside of his bicep. Tests her flexibility, that. Opens her up, changes the angle. Fucking her harder now, deeper, holding her still by the hair -- pinned, hoisted, driven up against that wall.
DevonThere's definitely something dominant about this. And yet something other than submission from Devon. She doesn't scratch or claw at him, doesn't feign protest. He fucks her like this, wraps his fist around her hair, bites her throat, and she responds with eagerness, with a sort of gasping delight. And there's no reason she wouldn't, really: she quite explicitly asked for it.
All the same, she quivers and squirms happily and helplessly when he starts giving it to her, thrusting into her until her ass bounces slightly against the wall, in his hands. He growls and she moans, like that just makes it better.
Moans again when he kisses her, almost biting her. This she pushes back against, a little: softens the kiss, opens her mouth, kisses him back in a way that betrays how helpless she isn't. She wraps her arms around his neck and leans into him, makes him take on more of her weight.
And he pushes her against the wall. Lifts her leg up, hooking it over his arm. Devon looks at him with a sort of inflamed, aroused surprise. She stares at him until they find this new angle, this new rhythm, and then she bites her lip, leaning her head back, giving this low, dark, tremoring chuckle. She's sweating again.
RafaelGirl looks surprised and he's the one to laugh first -- low, yes. Dark, yes. She's staring at him, those spectacular eyes. He's all strength and motion, that surety of movement that borders on grace but arises from power. More to the point: he's fucking her against the wall, has her in this new position and god, they never try anything new, they just know one way to fuck most days but it's a good way. It's always good.
She leans her head back. He bites her. Base of the neck: that column of muscle, beneath which beats the carotid, the jugular. It's a gentle bite but it must mean something, just like his hand in her hair must mean something, though the exact message isn't quite clear. Some compact of dominance and trust. Must be. Some expression, too, of what he'll do for her. If she asks.
And biting her: fucking her hard now, hammering her, impetus of his thrusts shifting her against the wall. She'd be bouncing if he didn't have such a grip on her. Didn't have her held right there for the fucking, which is how -- he's discovering this -- he rather likes it. Lets go with his teeth long enough to mutter -- "Gonna come in you again."
DevonThis is where they get that metaphor: his body a hammer, his cock a nail, and she's the portrait or the clock or mirror. There's the wall behind her, the wall she's almost becoming a part of.
Devon's not laughing now. She's just crying out, loud and frequent enough that if he shared these walls with neighbors they'd be thumping angrily on them, calling security. There's no mistaking what's being done to the poor girl, she's getting her brains fucked out, she's moaning and whining like... well. Like she can't help it. Which she can't. Not right now.
There's debate about that: the way women sound. What it's for. Why they do it. If it's voluntary or not. If it's all a big scheme, one more piece of evidence that all women are manipulative bitches at heart or if it's hyperventilation or if it's because they're following some sort of pornographic script for their partner's benefit or, or, or.
But Rafael likely does not care about all that.
Devon does not care about all that. Devon just doesn't want him to stop. She doesn't mind being hammered this time. She doesn't mind being held right there, laid out and opened up for Rafael to fuck her blind. This is exactly what she wanted, how she wanted it, and she is currently so lost in loving it that she isn't thinking about anything else.
Her cries start to sound more like whimpers. They're faster now. Eager, straining sounds, pleading. Begging. He is discovering that he rather likes it like this. He is discovering that Devon rather likes it like this, too. When she's in the mood for it. When she wants it. When she knows -- after all the time they've been together -- that he isn't thoughtless with her, heedless, careless, out of control.
She grasps at his back when he mutters to her that he's going to come in her. Her hands slide on the sweat between them; she digs her nails in to hold onto him. She makes this noise, almost a grunt, closing in on a growl, as she grinds her pussy against him. "Fuck!" she cries out then, right as it hits her. Like a thunderclap. She sees stars. She rides him as best she can, unable to make much noise at all for a few seconds, then letting loose one that sounds like it's trying to be a scream, but there's not enough air behind it so it's mostly gasping, grasping. Even when it's clear she can't take much more of this, she's still trying to fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, get more of it. More of this. More of him.
RafaelExcept she's not a portrait. Or a clock. Or a mirror. Nothing so static. Nothing so tepid. Nothing so fucking cold as that, not by far.
No; she's a girl. She's his girl, his girlfriend, his lover, his mate though he's never said it out loud. She's vividly, searingly alive, burns as bright as a magnesium flare. Her nails are in his back and her cunt is on his cock and she's wound up all around him like silk, like a snake, like the entangling tendrils of some fever dream he'd never want to wake from.
Comes like a meteor burning the sky, crashing into the earth. Second time today that she just sets him off, has him clutching her back and pulling her hair; can't even bite her so he just grunts against her throat, ferocious, forceful, fucking her all through his orgasm and hers.
Even when it's clear he can't take much more of this. Even then she's still trying to fuck him, and he's still fucking her, and god they've made a mess of each other -- a sticky, wet, filthy mess -- and he thinks maybe his heart'll explode and he'll die. Good way to go. Wouldn't mind.
--
Doesn't, though. Survives it. And the sky stops burning and the earth stops quaking and then: it's just him, and her, and her back to the wall and his arms holding her up. His hard breathing. His hard cock; softening. He growls a little, long and low, as he nuzzles her neck. Loosens his grip on her hair. Guides her mouth down to his, kissing her.
DevonExcept she is beautiful. And she reflects. And she keeps time in her body, as mythological as time itself but far, far warmer.
Almost too hot to bear, at the moment. Her cheeks and her lips are red, her breasts are flushed with color that stands stark against her paleness. Her freckles are showing up somehow more vividly. Her hair is stuck to her brow and temples and even her neck. She is panting for air, her hands slack on his back but motionless. She hasn't tried to move. God, she's a little afraid to move right now, what if her limbs all fall apart?
But she tips her head forward instead of back. She turns her head as he's letting go of her, resting it on his big shoulder. He growls, he nuzzles, and she thinks maybe he kisses her but she does not have the presence of mind or the control of her facial muscles to kiss him back. She just tries to breathe, holding onto him, for what seems like a long while.
Her legs do not work, so if he tries to set her down too soon he'll have a heap of Fianna at his feet. She's trembling all over from exertion, but she doesn't seem to mind it. She mutters, after a good amount of time has passed:
"S'good."
And then, to make sure her point is clear:
"S'real good."
RafaelFine not putting her down. Doesn't want to anyway. Wouldn't dream of it. Knows, maybe, that she'll be a heap at his feet. Maybe he should be proud about that. Strut around for days. All the juvenile jokes that could spring to mind, if he still had a mind for them to spring to. If he could string together words much more complicated than --
"Yeah."
And a little later, "Fucking good."
Good amount of time goes by, and then a good amount more. And he shifts a little, lets that leg of hers back down to wrap loose around his waist, or trail down his thigh. Standing with his feet apart for balance, leaning into her. Leaning into the wall.
Nuzzles girl a little. Then draws a breath.
"Eat?"
DevonThat's all she's got, too. Panting for air, waiting for her heart rate to come back to baseline. Good. That's all she's got for a while. He adds his own qualifier and she gasps a little bit of laughter, but can't explain to him why: because he sounds like a caveman thumping his chest in agreement. Yes. Fucking female good. Oog like fuck.
She does hold him, though. Her limbs regain strength before anything else and she holds him a little more, hugs him with arms and legs and cheek to his shoulder. She doesn't mind staying there for a while, except they really are filthy, and sooner or later she starts to squirm. He starts to shift, and unfolds her leg, and Devon starts to gently let her feet down. A motion of her hips lets him know she's moving, and then he knows she's sliding off of his softening dick, and she murmurs in answer: "Wash. Then eat."
Because now it's not just one round but two, but three, and she wants a shower. Even if she has to crawl there. Her legs are trembling still.
RafaelToes touch the floor. Then heels. Then she's standing on her own, more or less, and he's leaning a bit against the wall still. Has his forearm there, brow on his wrist.
Watches her, wry and tired and amused, as she starts to head bathroom-ward. Looks unsteady on her legs. He pushes off the wall and follows her, arm settling heavy over her shoulders. Feels fond. Feels protective. Kisses her sweaty temple as they stagger toward the shower like drunks.
"Thought you said you were gonna faint."
DevonDevon wiggles a little. Sex is messy; she feels messy. And as her sweat cools, as everything cools, it feels less filthy, more messy. She leans against the wall under him, shorter than him, her hands on his waist. He is leaning above her, his brow on his arm, and she smiles softly to look at him.
She's so fond of him. She's so very, very fond of him.
The big lug.
--
Devon moves her hands on his sides, up and down, and then steps aside to go to the bathroom. She slips in alone at first, shakily, or is meaning to do so when he stops her, puts his arm around her, and she sinks gratefully and warmly against him, holding his forearm close. He kisses her temple.
"Guess I lied," she murmurs. Then complains: "Need to pee again, but I'm all dehydrated."
Doesn't care too much about the aura of feminine mystery, does she?
Rafael"Get you some water," he promises.
Rests his chin over her head a moment. Animal sort of gesture, that, and he does it without thinking. Squeezes her against his chest -- sort of sideways, her shoulder fitting just beneath his breastbone -- then lets go.
"Go on. Join you in a sec."
DevonShe huffs a laugh. He'll pass her beer on... a nightstand? The floor? His own on the steps. So much for that plan. She hugs him then, sliding her arms around him and turning to him, burying her face in his naked, sweaty, smelly chest for a moment. She holds him and he rests his head on top of hers and this seems as natural to her as it does to him, for once. She tucks herself there, easily and with comfort.
And then he squeezes to let her go. Tells her to go on. She is acquiescent; she just nods, drowsily happy, and steps into his bathroom alone for a while.
--
Minutes pass. He comes back and the bathroom door is open and she's in the shower but she's not standing up, she's just sitting in the bathtub under the spray, leaning back, eyes closed, warm water pattering all over her.
RafaelPasses his beer, going down. Picks it up lazily, taking a swig as he pads through the living room. Wanders naked through his house, at ease, doesn't give a damn about the big windows and who might see what.
Drops the beer in the trash can when he gets there. Still a third left but it's kind of flat and kind of warm. Fridge is cold, and water bottles inside are delightfully chilly. He grabs a couple, one in each hand, heads back up the stairs. Thumping footsteps would announce his arrival except she's got the water on by then, can't hear it.
Has separate shower and tub, because of course a house like this would. Has one of those rainfall showerheads in the shower stall. Warm water comes pouring down, drenches her. He discovers her on the floor of the shower, eyes closed; stands there smirking amused and bemused. Opens the shower door and steps in, handing her one of the bottles.
"Come on," he says, fond. "Up on your feet. Gotta get clean."
DevonFeels the vibrations through the floor when he comes in, though. Lifts her head and opens those brilliant eyes and looks over at him. Smiles that small, knowing little smile of hers. She's drenched. She doesn't seem to mind sitting on the floor of his shower.
He gets in an water splashes out a little bit, just a spray past his ankles. She scoots over. He hands her a bottle of cold water and she just uncaps it and drinks it, right there on the floor.
"Phht," is all she says to this string of logic, even though she's the one who wanted a shower before eating dinner. Even though she kept starting it with him even when she was saying no,
though she'd argue that he did his share, looking like that, laying out in bed like that, his arms looking like that, his cock getting all hard like that.
They aren't arguing about who started their fucking. They like fucking. Even teasing each other about it doesn't last long. She leans against his shins, drinking her water under the cascade of warm water. She realizes she is unbelievably thirsty. Tripping-thirsty. Or maybe just airplane-travel-followed-by-fucking-three-times thirsty. She finishes her water. She yawns. She looks up at him from his shin, smiling.
A little different sort of smile. A sort of loose, vulnerable, adoring smile.
RafaelShe just... doesn't seem like she's going to get up. Right now. Maybe ever. She drinks, and after a moment he twists his bottle open and drinks, too. The two of them drink, standing in the shower, water cascading down.
When she's done, she yawns. And looks at him. And she looks like she adores him, and she looks like ... he doesn't even know what. Christmas morning, he'd say, if he'd celebrated christmas much but he didn't. She just looks good to him. Beloved, desired, cherished. Good.
He caps his bottle. It's empty too. He tosses it over the top of the shower stall's glass walls; it goes clattering somewhere. Holds his hand out to her then. Pulls her to her feet, even if she immediately leans into him. Puts his arms around her if that happens, and her hair's kind of wet but not sodden all the way through because it's so thick, and they're both kind of half clean but mostly not.
"Wash up," he urges. "Then let's go eat and lay out somewhere. Be lazy."
DevonIt's just that she doesn't have any compelling reason to get up yet. The water is warm and the shower is clean. Rafael is there and his legs are sturdy and where she is, his hand moving against his side can brush the top of her head, or she can imagine it to do so.
Devon closes her eyes after a while, leaning on him while he drinks his water. The showerfall saturates them both, rinsing away sweat, sex, and she and he are quiet for a while. They have had tense silences and loaded silences and painful silences, but for the most part, the quiet between them is like this. They each have their own thoughts: she thinks of how comfortable she is with him, how at home, how safe, which is utterly at odds with how vulnerable she is to him, how terrified she is of how many pieces he could break her heart into, but... still.
At home, all the same. Either way, secure or afraid, she does feel better when she's with him. Like she's where she belongs. She knows because she doesn't question it all the time like she does whenever she's anywhere else. She doesn't even think about it.
His hand reaches for her hand, and Devon stirs from her thoughts. She looks up, and he draws her up, and she doesn't lean against him. She wraps her arms around him and hugs him, cheek to chest, and doesn't answer. Just holds him a moment, closing her eyes, feeling something very deep and very big that fills her so full she thinks she's going to break apart.
But she doesn't. And she is able to melt after a while, relax again, soften again, and just nod warmly against his body.
"Yes," is how she answers.
Eventually.
RafaelSo -- she wraps her arms around him. Skinny arms around his massive torso. Couldn't be more different, he and she; couldn't sense that difference more starkly than they do now, naked and pressed together.
Doesn't say anything after all, then. At least not for a while. Just folds his arms around her, big and heavy and arm. Squeezes a little, just to get her a little closer. Make their contact a little more complete.
And a few beats go by. Then a few moments. Then perhaps a minute or more, the two of them holding each other, girl's heart filling so full that she thinks she'll splinter from it. Doesn't imagine, maybe, that he feels the same way. Swelling to bursting. Love so deep it aches.
--
Eventually: he talks about washing. And food. And being lazy.
Eventually: she answers. Yes. And he smiles. And kisses the top of her head, the droplets in her hair like mist. And says nothing.
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