drunk girl. pool. mountains.

Rafael

First snow's already fallen up in the mountains. Last flurries of last night's storm whip against the windshield as they drive themselves up to wolf's sprawling estate. No Franklin this time, or at least not in the same car: just wolf and girl in the front seats of his unassuming everyday car, winding up the freeways and the highways and the little private road that takes them to the edge of that frigid alpine lake.

They don't bring a lot of luggage. He doesn't need to, and maybe she's starting to leave her things here too. The staff still opens two rooms for them, the master and a guest bedroom. She still has her space, because he knows she treasures it.

Three day stay is what they've loosely planned. A weekend plus one. Head to the nearby village for dinner the first night; come home after, tipsy, curl up and watch Netflix. Spend the night in his room. Laze all morning, sleep til midday.

Second night he's gone for a few hours. Running free in the woods, wolf-shaped and savage. Comes back long after sunset, some large mammal slung over his shoulders. Kitchen staff's used to this sort of thing. Skin and butcher and trim it, and then it's venison for dinner.

There's a ridiculously grand dining room somewhere in the house, but when it's just them -- as it almost always is -- they use a smaller one, small enough that their legs can touch under it, set an alcove just off the kitchen with a bay window overlooking the lake. Dark outside but stars are so bright they can make out the outlines of the trees, the mountains; the blue-black sky. They're drinking something irish and eating mostly meat off the bone, which tastes good because it's fresh and particularly good because he took it down with his own strength and cunning. And teeth.

"Halloween soon," he says, breaking something of a long silence.

Devon

Winter comes earlier up here; will come soon enough to the city. There, it's still shocking warm during the day, even when clouds pass over the sun. But they drove up here, just the two of them. She didn't drive, though she can. She doesn't have a license to drive but she knows how. She has luggage because she hasn't left anything up here; she's been here only a few times in the past two years.

Maybe there's a reason for that. Maybe she just waits for him to ask her to go with him; maybe she's used to that being a place he goes to run wild, to hunt; maybe she thinks that's not a side of himself he wants to share with her. Maybe she has reason to think that way.

Either way: when he asked if she wanted to go, she wanted to go, so she packed a suitcase and a backpack and though she offered to drive part of the way, he does it by himself anyway.

--

The guest bedroom is ready, and there is firewood in there and the covers are turned down every night for her, but she hasn't slept in there yet. She changes into something to go out with him and it's very short but she wears those thigh-high stockings she likes and a pair of boots and for once the boots have heels and it makes her several inches taller and perks up her ass and all those things that high heels do. She wears a choker that's little more than a black velvet ribbon around her throat. The sleeves of her dress are long and her many necklaces are silver and ribbons and chains and pearls and pendants.

They go out and they drink and eat and when they come home she takes off her boots and her necklaces and falls asleep on his shoulder while they watch a movie. So he takes her upstairs, and he helps her take off her clothes, and she starts to kiss him. She starts to run her hands over his body. She murmurs things to him, ideas.

They are perfectly nice ideas.

--

Next day there's breakfast at noon and Devon decides to go for a walk, and maybe he goes with her but she goes looking along mountain paths in a shearling coat and her fuzzy boots, gathering flowers and gathering herbs that he can't tell from weeds. And the sun starts to set and he starts to seem restless, or maybe this was planned and it's simply time. Devon has no way of telling, if he doesn't tell her. She's seen him in other shapes... twice. That she can think of readily. She doesn't recognize the need to hunt because he doesn't show it to her, doesn't talk much about it.

Sometimes, other than the fact that he makes people tense, he might as well be a human man.

But he goes. He hunts. And Devon stays at the house. She doesn't run into town alone this time to drink. She doesn't go to bed, either.

When he comes back from his hunt, bloodied, it is dark outside but for the stars and moon. The house, however, is lit from within, warm, even if only in spots. And as soon as he comes in he can hear the music booming from lower in the house. A little dark, with a heavy bass, a little synthy. That's where Devon will be. Now if he goes down bloody; perhaps still, after he's clean.

If the latter, well, we can spoil that: yes. She is down there. Down by the pool, or more accurately: in the pool. She's wearing a bikini, and she's listening to loud music from all the speakers in the indoor pool downstairs, and the water is steaming, and it's rather dark in here but for the pool lights, but she's wearing sunglasses anyway, on a luxury floating lounger, drinking something from a martini glass that is bright orange and has an umbrella in it.

There is a tray on the side of the pool with a pitcher of something-bright-orange and extra umbrellas.

There are already a couple of lost umbrellas floating around his pool.

Rafael

It's possible wolf had no idea he had a sound system down here. Might've had to hunt a bit, listen with perked ears, to figure out exactly where the music was coming from.

Does figure it out, though. And does shower quickly before he comes find her, because there's blood and mud and twigs and melted snow on him. Pool room's downstairs, half-subterranean though there's an entire wall of windows that look out onto the lake. Water is gloriously blue, lit up like a jewel, and a perfect eighty degrees. Big open room gives a rock concert reverb to the music. Lights are off. There's drinks.

There are a lot of drinks.

Wolf lets himself in, not bothering to mute the shutting door. Hard to say if she'll even hear it over the music. He comes over, barefoot, investigates the pitcher of something-bright-orange. Sits at the edge of the pool and drops his feet in, pulling his pants up over the knee.

Picks up the pitcher. Drinks from the lip, like a goddamn heathen.

Devon

He comes to her clean and fresh and human, even the scent of animal off of him for now, replaced by human soap, filtered water from indoor plumbing. He comes to her as a man, as he always has, except for the one time when she was about to die.

She hears the door. Feels the vibration, or senses it. She opens her eyes, but who's to know? She's wearing those fucking shades. Indoors. In the near-dark. He's a shadow against shadow when she watches him. She floats, one hand drifting off the lounger, just fingertips in the water.

Whatever is in the pitcher is mostly vodka. It has a citrusy-vanilla taste though, sort of like a creamsicle. Not as sweet as that, though. Again: mostly vodka.

Devon pretends not to see him.

Rafael

It's about three times stronger than he thought it'd be. Looked so innocuous, like something rich divorcees might sip during a botox party. Or maybe this is exactly as strong as what rich divorcees sip during botox parties; he doesn't. Regardless, he exhales hard after the first gulp, grimacing.

"The hell are you wearing sunglasses for?"

Devon

She sounds a little drunk when she says, slightly too slowly but very glibly: "It's very bright today, Rafa." She sips from her martini glass. Some gets on her upper lip. She licks it.

Rafael

"All the lights are off," he points out.

Devon

Devon, who has gone so far as to put her hair up in a bun to keep it from getting wet (despite the fact that she is not technically in the water), just shrugs her pale, freckled shoulders. "Visual hyg... hea... protecting your eyes is important, dummy man." She drinks again.

Rafael

Well. He can't argue with that. Just laughs a little.

"Float on over here."

Devon

"But I can't," she slurs, and yes... some orange vodka-drink gets into the pool. Just a few drops. It vanishes quickly, too small an amount to color the pool for long. "It's so dark I can't even see where you are, silly."

Devon taps the front of her forehead with one finger. "Think, Rafa."

She leaves her fingertip pressed on her forehead, seeming to forget about it, when she finishes what's left in that glass. And at that point it seems no problem at all to set the glass in the handy armrest cupholder of the lounger and begin using her hands to paddle herself,

unerringly,

towards the alcohol.

Rafael

Alcohol's in his hands right now. Has the whole pitcher between those big paws, like a bear with its honeypot or something. He watches her paddle over, smirking.

"Oh, looks like you figured it out."

Devon

"I'm very. smart, dummy man," she says, having to stop the entire lounger -- or rather, her paddling of the lounger -- to imbue the words with their proper forcefulness. She still drifts a bit, and then goes back to paddling until the side of the lounger hits his legs. Water gets on her lap, but she doesn't mind. She pushes her sunglasses up, blinking as though it really is bright, her eyes glassy and vivid. She picks up her glass and holds it out to him. "Pooouur," she intones.

Rafael

"Liked it better when you called me Rafa," he mutters. But pours, obligingly.

"Listen. Wanted to ask you something."

Devon

"I'm sorry," she says, drunken but sincere. "I not call you dummyman anymore." She tries to hold steady as he pours her a fresh glass, but she is floating. Some gets on her hand, and she licks her hand. He says listen. She blinks again, fixes her eyes on him, and stares attentively. And sips her drink.

Rafael

Might think he was about to propose, way he called for her attention. Way he looks at her. Takes a breath.

"You wanna have a Halloween party?"

Devon

In a way, he is proposing... something entirely unlike him, at least. A party. Not that he's never thrown a party before. The Christmas one. The one he's going to keep doing, for tradition and for reasons not suited well to being put in words. The one he's going to make his own. But he's not a partier. He doesn't like crowds. He likes very few people.

Devon stares him with all her attention, her eyes wide and round and unblinking because she is trying to show, in her very smashed state, that she's paying attention and listening. And then she finally blinks again.

She wrinkles her brow. Looks at him all suspiciously. "Do you wanna have a Halloween party?" she asks, like he's the riddlemaster in a magic maze.

Rafael

Wolf shrugs. Shoulders rising and falling under his t-shirt (grey) -- like a tectonic event in miniature. He lifts the pitcher and drinks from the rim again.

"Yeah. Sure. If we throw it. So I can turn the lights off and kick people out when I'm fed up."

He might only be half-joking there.

Devon

"You'd get fed up after ten minutes," Devon says, but she's breaking into this big stupid grin when she says it. She's so fond of him. She tosses back the entirety of her drink, which at this point is probably a very bad idea, but that way she can put it down on the side of the pool, which she clearly could not do while it was full.

She tries to lean over to give him a hug but she's half wet and also forgets how physics works, despite being very. smart.

The lounger tips and she drops into the water between his legs and the floater, which is quickly drifting off to the middle of the pool, borne along by the waves created by Devon's SLOSH.

Rafael

"So I'll start kicking people out after ten," he replies, smirking again. "We'll just invite a lot of people so it takes me four hours to kick everyone out."

SLOSH. Into the water she goes, which makes him bark a laugh. Insert joke about really getting sloshed here. Floater goes floating off but he doesn't care about that. Reaches down and grabs her, hauls her up and out.

Smug bastard: "Knew you'd drown one of these days if not for me."

Devon

Perhaps her shock and dismay when he says ten contributes to her tipping over, but mostly she just wanted to give him a hug. Felt warm, and fond, and excited, and silly, and yes: very drunk. Her desire to hug him overcame her sense of where she is. Which is to say: drunk, and floating precariously atop seven feet of warm, chlorinated water.

Rolling into the pool, however, reminds her quickly that this is exactly where she is. Devon gets a faceful of water, and does what anyone who isn't prepared for it does: gasps. So she swallows and inhales the water, too.

She's not in there long. Left to her own devices, it's likely that her rather strong survival instinct and surprisingly strong mind would have kicked in, and she would have staved off a sudden and unhelpful panic, bobbed upward, and her hands would have found the lounger or the side of the pool. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Something like that.

(Nothing to be said of whether anything else in Devon as strong as her mind would have kicked in. Sometimes it happens when she doesn't mean to. Sometimes she has to focus so hard to make anything happen at all.)

Or she would've panicked, and choked, and drowned.

That is not what happens, because Rafael is there. He grabs her arm before she's even fully submerged, hauling her up and wrapping an arm around her middle. It's as jarring as the sudden tip and splash was, truthfully, but at least there's oxygen, and she knows she's safe.

Devon is coughing when he makes his joke. It isn't the first time he's laughed at her when she's shaken or startled, laughed at her expense, but it's the first time in a long time. She can barely hear him, but can vaguely sense the tone, and humiliation slices up through her, right to her skull. The feeling, so very close to shame and even closer to anger, would be there if she were alone, or if it were someone other than him -- like Franklin, or some maid -- but milder. Less important. But it is him, so it's strong, and it matters,

and it hurts.

If he doesn't set her down beside him of his own accord, she makes it clear that she wants him to let go of her, twisting a bit in his arms to indicate she wants to sit on the poolside. And once set there, she puts her hands on the wet tile and cement beneath her, gets carefully -- if shakily, wobbly -- to her feet, and does something she hasn't done for a long time: she just walks away from him. Her feet pad quietly but the sound echoes, and the soles of her feet leave wet footprints. She grabs one of the huge white towels from a teak shelf as she passes it, wrapping it around her shoulders as she goes.

Bumps into the doorframe on her way, but manages to get through.

Rafael

Didn't see that coming.

Not even when she twisted in his arms, clearly wanting to be let go. Not even when she moved away, went to sit on the poolside. He thinks maybe she just wants level ground. Steady hard surface under her to catch her breath, get her balance. Never occurs to him that she might get up.

And walk out.

And leave.

"Hey." She hears him calling after her as the door shuts. Then the door opening. Then his footsteps, following. "Hey! Wait." He catches up to her. It's not hard. She's drunk, not moving too fast. "Devon. What'd I do now?"

Devon

There wasn't anything particularly angry or sharp about her wiggling, so he can't be blamed for not taking it as her pushing him away. She coughs and sputters a bit before she gets up, but she does get up, and she does walk away, the soles of her feet making a soft wet slap against the flooring.

When her towel-muffled shoulder hits the doorframe it doesn't make much of a sound at all.

When her feet touch the floor in whatever antechamber or hallway or room lies outside the pool, the sound is quieter.

However, Rafa's voice echoes from wall to wall in the pool room. His feet are wet, too. His arms and clothes are wet from pulling her out of the water. He covers ground faster, and gets to her, through the archway: she didn't shut the door, unless it swung closed on its own. She's leaning against the wall there, not too far at all, catching her breath.

This time she doesn't throw up. But then, he isn't really chasing her. Or slamming a door shut that she's trying to get through. He doesn't seem mad, though he might be. She cannot completely tell if he's mad or not. She exhales, and turns, and

slumps against his chest, leaning into him.

"M'sorry," she says. "Walked away again." Her eyes are closed. He is warm and his heart is beating. This is okay, even if he doesn't hold her. She will be sad if he pushes her away, but she will mostly understand.

His words finally register. She feels bad. What did he do now. Like he is always messing up. Or more: like she is always getting mad at him. Feels guilty for that, Devon does. But not enough to totally drive from her head the answer:

"Don't like it when you... make fun of me like that. When something bad happens. And laugh all... mean."

There's a beat of a pause. Perhaps she's going to say something else. Something meaningful. What she says, after a breath, is: "Everything is so swoopy!" she exclaims, and lifts a limp hand, trying to make a wave with it in the air. It... is... awkward. Looks more like a drunken bee buzzing around.

Rafael

Surprises him, too, when she doesn't keep storming off. Doesn't fling some vicious one-liner in his face, keep going. Surprises him when she turns, leans into him, apologizes.

Beat, and then -- hesitantly -- he wraps his arm around her. Arms. Both of them, tightening into a proper hug.

"Was trying to crack a joke," he mutters. Not grumpily. Just reticent, the way he is. "Guess it wasn't funny. I'm sorry, too."

Her hand drifts. Drunken bee. Drunken girl. He laughs under his breath. Catches her hand in his, folds it into his palm.

"Come on. Come back to the pool. Or let's get dried off."

Devon

All wet but still warm. He's humid now. She snuggles herself into his chest when he wraps his arms around her, hugs her close. He says it was a joke, and that it wasn't funny (to her, at least), and he's sorry.

Her hand falls into his palm gratefully. "It's like we're dancing," she murmurs happily, since her hand is still sort of floating out to the side and he's holding it and his arm is around her and, you know. Slow dancing.

Also the whole world is swaying so that means it's music???

Devon smiles. "I want the pool. That's where my magic drink is and the floaty and then you'll get in and float with me and drink and look at my tits in this bikini until we start making out."

Rafael

Wolf has no fucking idea what she means about the dancing. Well, no. Couple seconds and it clicks, but by then she's on to something else. Pool. Bikini. Tits.

"It is a pretty nice bikini," he admits. "Pretty nice tits too."

Devon

She rubs her face on his chest, grinning, back and forth. "I like your body too," she says, happily. Her stab of humiliation and pain seems gone, perhaps drowned. In vodka. And warm Rafa-chest.

"You were talking about a party!"

She looks up suddenly, remembering. Then squinches her eyes shut and opens one. He is swimming in her vision. Both of him. "Let's go back to the pool and talk about the party."

Rafael

Huffs a laugh. Backs away from her. Still has her hand in his.

Leads her back toward the pool room, then. Halls are dark because no one turned on the lights. Pool room is dark too, except for that deep cerulean glow of the lights through the water. Music's still going, basslines reverberating off the walls.

Wolf lets her hand go in there. Pauses only a moment, considering, before he pulls his shirt off. Drops his pants too. Has boxers on underneath, which apparently substitute for swim trunks now: he jumps into the pool.

Devon

Devon walks with him then, their hands stretched between them because she goes slower than he does. She drops the towel around her shoulders, but only when they're close to the water. She actually sits down on the edge, legs in the water, then looks at him.

Her sunglasses are at the bottom of the pool somewhere, but they're visible, a dark spot against the bottom. There are still floating umbrellas here and there. She watches him undress, and then laughs as he just jumps in, sending a huge splash towards her, making waves, making froth.

When the water settles and he's come to the surface, she slips into the pool feet first from the edge where she sits, pushes off the side, and begins swimming idly over to her floater. It's not much of a swim: her arms are graceful and she gives a little propelling kick, but mostly she just keeps her head up and lets the water carry her over. And then she climbs back on her floater, even though now she's soaking wet.

"Where do you want to have it?" she asks him, as she floats in his general direction.

Rafael

He goes in feet-first, but he's spotted her sunglasses: dives straight to the bottom and snags them.

She slips into the water, then. And he slips the sunglasses gently onto her head, tipped up over her hair like a tiara. She moves past him and he turns, treading water, watching as she climbs back onto the floater.

He swims over. Glides, really, off the power of a single stroke. Folds his arms on the edge of the floater and drifts there.

"Don't know. Was gonna have you do the planning, actually. Don't know much about parties."

Rafael

"Not like you're a servant or something," he hastens to add. "Just. Wanted to let you throw a party. Thought you'd like that."

Devon

She swims over. He puts the sunglasses on her head and she kisses him in the water, making them both dip slightly, but her hands are on his face and she's drinking from his mouth like she's somehow still thirsty.

Swims past him again. Gets on her floater, lays out, somehow regal, all long legs and... well, to be frank: pale, pale skin. A few freckles. Those eyes. Those fucking eyes.

And he follows her. The floater isn't some foam mat or inflated nonsense: it's sturdy and luxurious and she smiles at him when he puts his arms on it, lifting a few fingers to stroke his skin. His forearm. His forehead. Whatever.

She cocks a half-grin. "I actually... suck at planning parties. Or throwing them. I'm good at going to them." She laughs. She puts her wet fingers in his wet hair, smiles at him adoringly. "Maybe we could ask for help. You've got all these people." Actual servants. "And we could tell them what we like and don't like. And then they can do it."

Rafael

"Hnh." Sort of a grunted hmm, that. She touches him and he closes his eyes, simple animal enjoyment. Opens them again. "Yeah. That's a good idea. What do you like?"

Devon

She grins again. "You."

Rafael

He smirks. And pushes up on the edge of that float, his balance somehow precarious and perfect at once. All that, just to steal a quick kiss from her mouth before he slips back into the water. Floats.

"Yeah, well. Besides that."

Devon

Devon doesn't let that be a quick kiss. She has forgotten the conversation again. He is kissing her and she is draping her arms around him, tipping off the float again but gentler this time, more intentional. She leans into him, holds onto him, kisses him heavy and drenching again,

partly because he is nearly naked now,

Devon

and partly because she is very drunk.

Rafael

Wolf makes this satisfied, pleased sound as she slips off the float again. Water laps around them -- little wavelets spreading from their subtle chaos. His arms slide around her, the contact cushioned by water. Nothing between their mouths, though. Nothing to interrupt his enjoyment of her kiss, or hers of his.

Some time passes before they surface for air. Figuratively, that is: though they do sink a little in the water, distracted. He follows her with a soft little kiss, which he smiles into. Draws back far enough to see her eyes.

Those eyes.

"Wasn't an answer," he points out quietly.

Devon

Devon just blinks at him, slowly; dreamily. She is enjoying his arm holding her close like he does, a firm warmth across her lower back. She is luxuriating in his chest against her breasts, pushing against her every time he breathes.

And she is trying to remember what he's talking about. She gives him this loose, lopsided smile, her head tilted a bit to one side. "What did you ask?"

Rafael

"Was asking what kind of party you liked."

It's like that hiccup with the water and the laughing and the aborted storming-off never happened. It's like they're actually learning to be a couple without just fighting and fucking and sometimes fucking in the middle of a fight, before going back to fighting. She looks happy right now. And drunk. He looks happy too. And not-very-drunk.

"Maybe we can just... turn off most the lights and have people show up in costumes. Get a DJ."

Devon

Perhaps he is choosing his words more carefully: he asks her not what else do you like? but what kind of party she likes. He reminds her that they are having a conversation. He is curious about what she wants. He wants to plan this together, more or less. And maybe when she's a little more sober she will have it in her to reflect on that and think and feel whatever it is she thinks and feels about her boyfriend, who dislikes crowds and parties, wanting to throw a party with her. Because she likes parties. She likes crowds, if only to get lost in them.

But right now, if he had not chosen his phrasing carefully, she would probably be telling him she likes his chest, and his cock, and she likes it when he fucks her. That is what's on her mind, bobbing along in the water, their legs or arms moving occasionally to keep them afloat, their limbs brushing against one another under the water.

With the lights off. The pool lit from below. With music pounding through the room. Steam rising from the water.

Devon's eyes flicker with recognition. "Ohh," she says, remembering again, and thinks a moment. She's not done thinking when he makes his suggestions, which are good ones, and her eyes light up a bit. "And popcorn? We can have popcorn and candy and lots of booze."

Rafael

"Sure," he says. Pulls a face, "Hate popcorn though."

Because of course he would. He's a goddamn wolf. What use does he have for tiny vegetables that have exploded?

"Doesn't mean we can't have it," he adds, and bumps his brow to hers. "We can have it if you like it."

Devon

Devon looks appalled that he doesn't like popcorn. He's so weird. "So... chips and dip and stuff. Food. Snacky food."

She does not make the connection between his oft-hidden nature and his dislike of popcorn. She assumes he doesn't like stuff stuck in his teeth.

She laughs as he bumps his brow against hers, more receiving the nuzzle than nuzzling back. She does like popcorn. "We'll have lots of stuff," she says, even though drunk off her ass she can still tell they'll need help because they are relatively hopeless. He is terrible at spending his money and she's never had enough to spend as wildly as he really could. Shopping for a new dress and shoes is one thing; throwing a party for however many people is another.

"So... who do we invite?" she wants to know.

Rafael

"Don't know," he says, and it's true. "My packmates, I guess. Your friends. Don't really want something fancy full of snobs. Maybe we can just ... put out flyers or something, I don't know. Maybe at cafes. Maybe at your witch stores."

They do need help. Neither of them have the slightest idea how to throw a party like this.

Devon

She laughs a little. Her friends. His packmates. That'll be about four people. She puts her hands on his face gently and kisses him again, more softly than before, less greedily. She's smiling when she lets go of him, and then resumes her earlier position, with one arm around his shoulders and the other floating, helping keep her from sinking.

"That's a good idea," she agrees, when it comes to flyers in choice places. "Do you just want to do it at your house in the city?"

Rafael

"If you think it'll work," he says. She's been to more parties than he has. By far. "Your house too, you know."

Devon

She's super drunk, or else the color might not rise so fast in her cheeks. It isn't embarrassment but pleasure that causes it; he can see the warmth in those bright, glassy eyes of hers, see the softness in the way she grins. Even her shoulders -- also lightly freckled -- rise a bit with her delight, which remains unspoken, shown only in all these small, immediate physical responses.

"Bit small," she admits, since they are still talking about the party. "Sort of don't want people tromping around there." She doesn't have words for why. "Strangers." Maybe that helps.

Rafael

She looks so happy. Truth is he doesn't quite get why. But he's happy to see it anyway. Drops a kiss on one of those freckled shoulders.

"Yeah. Maybe we'll rent out a place."

Devon

"Better do it quick," she murmurs, as he's kissing her shoulder, and she's leaning into him, resting her head beside his, their necks close like turtledoves. Lovebirds.

Mates.

"Almost Halloween already," she adds, without moving. Just holding him. She's not working very hard to keep them afloat anymore.

Rafael

"First thing tomorrow," he promises, a whisper. Hardly room for anything else, close as she is, the fine arch of her neck leading up to the fine curve of her ear: right there. He kisses her there, under that ear, tenderly.

"I'll have someone do it tomorrow," he adds, half-haltingly, testing the words as he speaks them.

Devon

He kisses her beneath her ear and close to her throat, softly, which he's never done before. And it must be some sort of secret spot, some magic relay point to the rest of her, because despite the warmth of his body and the warmth of the water, it makes her shiver. Quite suddenly, in fact, a quiver that runs through her all the way down to her toes, which give a little kick, sending out deep-seated but quickly dissipating currents.

"Good," she murmurs, in agreement, perhaps in encouragement as well, or acceptance, or what-have-you. "We're not good at this on our own."

Rafael

He's discovered a secret. It's a delightful one. He grins against her neck, pleased with himself. "I don't know," he disagrees. "Think we're pretty good at this," and kisses her again, there on that secret spot, "on our own. Even drunk."

Devon

This time, she sighs. It's a melting thing, and causes her to sink a little against him, hold to his shoulders. It's like trying mystery candies, discovering a new flavor with every taste.

"Mm," Devon breathes, which is her noblest attempt at issuing her agreement with this latest nonsensical thing he's saying. She's sighing and melting and pressing herself to him, asking him quietly: "Does your mouth ever water when you look at me? Mine does. When I look at you."

She licks her lips. He can't see it. He can faintly hear it. "When you take off your shirt." Her hands flex gently on his shoulders. "When you take out your cock and it's hard for me."

Rafael

He almost says it again. What? Manages not to, though he has to swallow, quick and reflexive. His hands glide over her back -- skimming points of contact cushioned by water.

"Sometimes I really want to fuck you," he mutters. "Right now."

Devon

Now it's Rafael ignoring questions. Speaking nonsense. Running his hands over and around her, and they're half-sinking in the pool. He tells her he wants to fuck her. Right now. The last time she remembers him saying it, just like that, was when he took her to that gala at the art museum, so early on. Put up the partition between the two of them and his driver and told her he wanted to fuck her. Right now. And she told him too bad.

This is very different. Music is still thrumming through the large, open room, and the only lights are still the ones from beneath and around them in the water. They are alone. They are already almost naked.

Devon lifts her head and brushes her lips over his earlobe. She nuzzles him for a moment like that, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, soaking wet or not. She gives him the tiniest, gentlest bite on that same earlobe, then licks him there softly as if to soothe him.

Slowly, she extricates herself from his arms a little, swimming backward just a few inches; still close enough to see the way light glints off her eyes, dances off droplets on her skin. She keeps herself afloat with her legs, one sweeping arm, as her other reaches back, folds, and unclasps the top of her swimsuit. The ends float to either side of her, and she lets the straps fall from her shoulders, lets it float off her arms, lets her top simply drift off in the water. She takes a breath, watching him.

"But does your mouth ever water?" she (still) wants to know.

Rafael

She slips away. He turns in the water to watch her, sending a ripple of waves away. The bikini top comes loose. He strokes after it, snagging it in his fingertips, his eyes never leaving her.

Shakes his head. Not to be an ass, but just because it's true. He follows her across the water.

"Mouth runs dry when I look at you sometimes." Absurdly, he still has that scrap of swimsuit in his hand; taps his fingers on his chest. "Heart skips a beat."

He's staring at her. Like a hungry animal, one might say: it's cliche but it's true. Floats a little closer even as she drifts backwards, away.

"Look so good right now." He's almost growling.

Devon

Just a few inches in front of him, really. A single backwards drift from his body; she doesn't do it to tease him, make him chase her. She does it so she can get her top off. She only stays there so he can get a look at her. So she can look at him again.

It's absurd, the way he taps his chest to indicate his heart when he mentions it. It makes her feel something equally absurd, because it is almost like pain. She's drunk, and her eyes sting with emotion almost immediately. She's closer now, because he moved closer and she wasn't trying to get away.

Devon wraps her arms around his neck again, drawing him close enough that her bare breasts touch his bare chest. It makes her breathe in, deeply and quickly. It makes her shiver again. She doesn't know what else to do, and no fresh words are coming to mind, so she kisses him again. It's a lush, luxurious thing, her body taking in the feel of him as much as her lips, her mouth. There is a part of her that wants to swim away, to be playful, to slip out of her bikini bottoms as well and coax Rafael into skinny dipping with her, but...

...but she cannot bear to move away from him again. She can't stand the thought of not kissing him now, not feeling him against her. She knows why it hurt her heart, a moment ago, when he tapped his chest and it occurred to her how absurd, how tender, how raw he is with her. Oh, she knows.

Her lips part from his for a moment only, so she can breathe. She has to breathe. Breathes: "I love you so much," before she is kissing him again,

nevermind that they might both drown if they don't get out of the pool.

Rafael

So much, she says. Says that a lot these days, as if just loving him doesn't quite encapsulate it. As if she needs to add those words, that superlative.

And maybe she does need to. He understands. Feels it in his chest, in his heart, in his bones. Loves her too. So much.

Makes this sound against her mouth; that lush kiss. Water breaks against her back and he's moving toward shore. Edge of the pool, anyway. Her back bumps against it first. He lifts her up, up onto the edge, grabs the tile and hauls himself out. Water everywhere, sloshing off his body, gleaming wet on his arms, his torso. He picks her up against, just as quick as he can. Lifts her against his body, and into his arms.

"Let's go upstairs," he mutters. "Let's go to bed."

Devon

She does say it a lot these days. She doesn't know what else to do; she loves him so much that it hurts her, it's like a wound, it's something terrifying and it's been terrifying since the first time she felt herself falling. This is so far past falling though; she has fallen, she is in pieces when she looks at him, when he looks at her, when he moves over her, loving her with everything he has.

Devon doesn't have words she's grown up with and words that hit her like instinct, words like mate. She still only barely understands it; means he wouldn't leave her if she got pregnant. Means, she thinks, he won't leave her if something is wrong with her. Hasn't left her because she's a witch, and a weird one at that. Loves her back, and doesn't want her to go away forever, and wants her to stay. She thinks maybe it means something like what she feels: that when he's there it soothes something pacing and wary inside of her. He relaxes and unties a knot of tension she never knew was there until she realized she loved him, realized she wanted him to love her back. But when he's near, knots untie. Pacing slows. This feral, furtive thing she feels settles down, and is at home.

She has the word home, but it doesn't fit in common parlance: you're my home sounds so corny, even if she's drunk. No wonder she blushed when he said his home was her home. No wonder it warmed her through and through.

But mostly, all Devon has is love you. so much.

So that is what she tells him.

A lot.

--

He turns her, moves them both through the water. She laughs, wrapping her legs around him briefly, feeling weightless. It's a delightful feeling. And it's half-gasp, that laugh. She breathes in again, lightheaded, as he lifts her up, places her on the edge of the pool. Water runs down her body in sheets, then rivulets, and her sweet little pink nipples stand on end in the comparative cold. She bites her lip. She reaches back to take her hair down, shakes it out in wet, ropey waves. Wrings it out -- habit, really, a thoughtless gesture -- while her boyfriend hauls himself out of the pool.

She looks at him. She could fuck him right now. On the concrete, the tile, a lounger, the glass walls. The way he looks. The way his body looks, arms tight, body elongated. She could

"-- fuck your goddamn brains out," Devon sighs, out of nowhere, and her tone is one of ache, longing, lust that has her as drunk as any amount of that vodka-drenched cocktail she made herself.

She is lifted up and wraps her legs around his waist, pressing against him, kissing the words off his mouth, almost biting them.

She is growling. Is that a growl?

It's something.

Rafael

Doesn't have a window into her internal monologue, does he. Doesn't know she's watching him get out of the pool, watching the water sluice down his body, watching the way his muscles coil under his skin. Doesn't know she's watching all that and thinking --

-- well. What she said. Aloud. Which makes him glance at her, sidelong, smirking. "That a promise?" he wants to know -- while he's picking her up, while she's wrapping her legs around his waist.

And kissing him. Sudden and ferocious, almost making him step backward and fall into the pool again. He growls back at her, returning that kiss, pushing her back with it. Grabbing her ass through that wet little scrap of a bikini bottom. If there was a wall nearby he'd push her up against it, maybe fuck her right here. But there isn't a wall -- at least not close at hand. So he heads for the door instead.

And up the stairs. As promised.

Devon

She's also watching the way his boxers cling to his body when he gets out of the water. She's watching how tight his ass is when it clenches as he lifts himself up. She's watching his calves, and his thighs, and his broad, heavy back. He quips about it being a promise.

Devon is gasping, softly, before that snarling kiss: "No, I just... I need it." And that word, need, is a groan, and the groan becomes a growl, and she is ready to fuck him against the wall, against the cold glass, freestanding if he wanted.

So he carries her out and down this hall or that, though one room or another, because he thinks only of taking her to his room, to his bed, closing the door behind them. Not sure if that's him wanting to protect her, or him wanting privacy, or what -- but this is what he always does. Devon doesn't care as much, usually. Devon just wants to fuck him.

"Want you inside me," she whispers to him, before he's even started going up the stairs. She's trying to rub herself against him, perhaps for warmth,

perhaps she's warm enough.

"Want you fucking me," she adds, a soft groan again, like it's killing her.

Rafael

She's like a wild, writhing, wet thing tonight. Wet in several senses of the word, and not least of all in the drunk off her ass sense. She won't stop kissing him, won't stop rubbing against him, even as he's trying to get them up the stairs and down the hall and through the door and in the bed.

His bed. In his bedroom. Always seems to default to that; seems to prefer it over all else. She doesn't care so much but he certainly seems to; mutters a laugh while she's telling him what she wants. And needs.

You, she tells him. Fucking me.

And he makes that low sound, somewhere between a growl and a laugh. "Fuck your goddamn brains out. Yeah?"

He finds his bedroom. He makes it through the door. He slams that door behind him and then he leans back against it, leans her against him with his forearms under her thighs, frees his hands. Grabs at her bikini bottoms. Maybe he remembers that one conversation, because when he can't get it off -- she's got her legs wrapped around him, after all -- he tears at it. He rips it. He pushes his shorts off and they're wet so they fall easily, thump on the carpet.

His hands on her again, hoisting her higher. He has his mouth on her tits as he makes his blind way across the room; literally stumbles into the bed; literally tumbles down with her.

"Fuck," he mutters -- maybe because he fell into bed, maybe because it's what he wants to do. "Come here. Fuck."

Devon

She feels wild tonight. Was lazy and replete (and drunk) and flirtatious when he came into the pool room. She missed him while he was gone, and she wished she could go with him, and she was glad when he came back to her. But a little while later, his hands on her, his eyes looking at her the way he does, and she felt her blood racing, her awareness sharpening. She began to feel like something other than human.

Something wild.

Rafael has to wrestle her to be still on the way up the stairs; she's wriggling, she's writhing, she's slippery and eager and does not care if they make it to his den. He is so determined; she aches with fondness again because he's so determined. She pushes her hands into his wet hair. He says he's going to fuck her goddamn brains out and she moans, kissing him again. Her shoulderblades hit the door of his bedroom; his hand spreads over her mid-back to keep her from falling as he grabs the handle, swings it open. His body shuts it; she rides up on him a little when he leans back like that, like she'll fuck him here now, in the dark, just a few feet from his bed.

When he grabs at the wet, stretchy fabric, it doesn't tear right away, but then the muscles in his forearms bunch and tighten, and the seam frays, and she gasps as the sound of the lycra ripping fills her ears. As, simultaneously or a moment after, the sensation of the garment sliding off her hips to the floor. Devon, naked now, climbs higher on him, and they're precarious a moment, there: his hands getting his boxers off, her body -- as mentioned -- wild and writhing and wet. She cannot help it: she bites him, perhaps a little harder than she means to, her teeth in his shoulder and a groan hitting his skin from her throat.

Loses him from her grip when he hefts her up, puts his mouth on her tits. She moans again, gratefully, and with something like relief coming from deep inside of her. Her nipples were cold. He's warming them, lapping at them, and she shakes. Truth be told, not fucking him is start to almost hurt her. She whines for it, and he's moving, suckling.

They fall. She laughs. That whining, needful sound breaks apart into this other sound, delighted and amused. She's reaching for him and he's reaching for her and it's dark but they find each other like lodestones, like opposite poles, like mates. Her thigh touches his waist, her leg wrapping around him, her body pulling him near. She touches his chest and her hands stroke up his neck and she pulls his face closer so she can kiss him again, moaning into his mouth this time. One need fulfilled, her hands slide down again,

neck chest abdomen,

cock. Ass.

She draws him to her, and into her, and cries out when he fills her with a single thrust in response to her insistent invitation.

--

They do as they promised. She can't wait for it, can't be still, and she's fucking him perhaps even before he's gotten used to the sensation of being inside of her again. Devon is rarely passive, but tonight she's particularly hungry, riding him from beneath, biting her lip as though there is some need to keep herself from crying out loudly every time his cock slides in her. She holds onto him where she can: his arms, or his shoulders, sometimes his hips. It's fervent, enthusiastic lovemaking, until, somewhere in the middle,

not inexplicably and not suddenly, they slow to an almost aching, pulsing pace. He grinds into her, and he watches her under him, her head tipped back, her hands on his chest, her mouth open to breathe. Devon is whimpering, rolling her hips slowly to meet those heavy, deep movements of his body inside of her body. They can only stand this for so long. It cannot last. But it is there, and she lost in the midst of it, starting to shake near the end.

Something tells him he cannot leave her like that, like this, that it would be cruel. That when she trembles now, like that, it isn't because she cannot take any more.

And then: fervent. Enthusiastic. Harder. The pool water still on their body has been well replaced with sweat when Devon holds tight to him, gasping I'm coming -- oh, I'm coming, I'm coming and then

she is, she is. Oh, she is. Her whole body goes still for a moment. Her toes curl, primordial and helpless. She is falling. She is dying. She can see and touch and sense god, she is god. And what is soundless for a brief shimmering moment dissolves into a dozen smaller pleas for it not to stop, oh god, oh fuck, oh my god. Her cheeks are flushed and at one point she puts her own hand on her brow, fingertips in her hair, as though to hold herself together.

Rafael

Can't remember the last time they loved quite like this.

Not the part where they're in the bedroom, in the bed, male on top. Not even the part where they're biting at each other and grasping at each other and pulling one another closer, closer, as though they can't bear even the slightest sliver of distance. Not that, but rather --

that slowing. That intense, mindbreaking slowness; the way they move against each other, deep and felt and heavy, but so achingly slow.

The way she starts to come. The way he watches her. And then he's the one biting her, he's the one kissing her throat and nipping at her flesh until one blends into the other; he has his hands in her hair and yes, he closes his hand; yes, he pulls her hair, firm and uncruel, not to control but simply to ... to feel. To anchor. She's electricity standing still. She's stellar fragments falling to earth. He's groaning against her throat, finding his own release mere instants after hers. They're both barely moving, but he's so deep inside, so tight against her, his arms are holding her so very close.

--

He likes the way she puts her hand to her face sometimes. He likes how fucking overcome she gets, like she just can't take it, like she might faint. Threatened to do that once, even. Probably because they fucked too many times in a row. That happens. Could anyone blame them?

They're in love. And they're so fucking into each other. They can't even look at each other without wanting it. Sometimes he's going about his day and remembers that time they were mid-argument, and then they realized:

you look good.

That's not on his mind right now. But watching her come, falling off that precipice right after her, he thinks it again. It's the only thought in his mind, all-encompassing and inane at once:

you look so fucking good.

--

He's the one holding her together, then. Or maybe she is. Or maybe it's the pure gravity between their bodies collecting all their pieces. His breath comes harsh. His cock is still pulsing. He combs his fingers through her hair and out of it, pushes her hair back from her face so he can kiss her. Still tastes that fruity, vodka-drenched concoction of hers. Still tastes her, even if he can't ever smell her.

Devon

It is safe to fuck him like this. To let him see her, and to see what he does to her, and how close she is to the edge of utter dissolution. She feels safe. She's drunk and she's so in love with him and he's so good to her. He buries his hand in her hair and holds tight and she cries out in a way that should send a shiver up his spine, but not a chill. He's holding onto her like that, and covering her, and giving her everything he has, and she feels safe.

And also overwhelmed, overcome. Mindless, thoughtless, helpless. She falls the fuck apart when she comes, and he's... well, he's wonderful, with his cock throbbing and sometimes jumping in her pussy, his chest expanding and contracting in big, heavy pulls. He's so alive and she comes back to that, that and the way he's moving her wet hair around. Her eyes open drowsily and try to find his. They close again as he kisses her.

She remembers the first time they fucked. Telling him not to bite her til he was coming. And then he came, and he kissed her instead. She remembers this, and she kisses him back softly, slowly, tasting his mouth and trying to feel his lips like she might memorize them.

There's not really words for what just happened, or what they are to one another. Not good ones. Not good enough. So she comes back to this, endlessly, always:

"Love you," Devon whispers, nuzzling his face gently, her eyes closed, her skin feeling his skin, looking at him with touch alone.

"So much."

Rafael

He opens his eyes when she speaks. Her as closed, though, and she nuzzles him. He loses focus. Lids fall again.

"Too," he whispers. And pulls her closer, rolling on his back, rolling her against the side of his chest. His shoulder.

"Love you too," he adds, because he remembers: sometimes she has to hear the words. "So much."

Devon

It's like a seal. She tells him something so raw, so vulnerable -- something that feels raw, feels vulnerable, even if he can't always see how tender her heart is when she gives it to him so fully. And he has to say it back. He closes the loop. He seals it in, protects it, covers her heart with the words like he covers her body with his, covers her with his warmth when she's cold, covers her with his arms when she's hurt or scared. She opens something when she tells him how she feels; he tells her how he feels in answer and it closes them both up together, hidden away,

private,

safe.

Together.

Devon curls against him, wrapped in his arms and with her arm over his, closing her eyes. She will fall asleep like this. She'll shift away off of his cock at some point, and maybe clean up, and then just curl up, hug him like a pillow, and sleep off some of the vodka. But for now she just rests against his chest, catching her breath, listening to his heart beating: love you. love you.