halloween rager.

witch

Devon was not upset that there were no places in town left to rent on the Saturday before Halloween; she wanted the party on Halloween, properly Halloween, or not at all. So it is on a Monday night, and most of the guests are either those who do not hold down normal jobs or those who are willing to say fuck it. And quite frankly, many of the guests did not decide to say fuck it until they saw what their friends were posting online.

It is a good party. Devon and Rafael did very little planning of their own. He talked to His People. And it turned out that Devon, when not drunk off her face, actually has some clear opinions about the party. Maybe Rafael does, too, in the end, but maybe he doesn't. And that's all right.

His People procure, in lightning speed and with little to no visible complaint, a venue, a DJ, catering, bartenders, and a setup and breakdown staff. There is a 'candy bar' along one wall that rivals a visit to Wonka's own factory, and the party has a 'signature drink' that appears to be a smoking green potion in a martini glass. Someone prints up little quarter-page flyers about the party, and after some back and forth with Rafael's servants, it is finally agreed that while their specifically invited guests will be checked in off a list, the public at large should be subject to a (reasonable) cover charge, if only to keep out troublemakers and drunks.

The mezzanine of the venue is off-limits to all but a select few. Those select few are of the blood, whether in full or by kinship. And since Avery's party ended up including most of her family and staff, and since a number of other members of the sept came as well, it is hardly a sparse gathering upstairs, though it is one of the more diverse sub-groups of attendees.

It is past ten now, and the party has been going for a few hours, and does not seem anywhere near ready to slow down. Devon is dressed up in a black minidress with a skeleton screen-printed onto it, black stockings with visible garters, and white go-go boots. The skeleton on her dress glows in the dark, and her jewelry is all bone-themed, but -- perhaps as a favor to her boyfriend -- she did not paint her face to look like a skeleton with too-bright eyes and a permanent rictus grin. She has worn herself out dancing at least twice and for once she's pacing herself with the booze, but she appears to be having a lovely time. Her friends (all two of them) came, and many acquaintances from Hooked or the witchy stores she frequents. Devon does not consider these people friends; they are just people she knows. But she's glad they came. She's glad that Rafael's pack came and brought so many people, even if she doesn't spend much time up in the mezzanine herself.

But right now, that is where she is. She's not in the thick of conversation and drinking and snacking among wolves and their kin, but around the corner, looking down at this rager she and her boyfriend apparently have thrown. And look: she's even got a bottle of water.

werewolf

So at least they know if they ever got hitched there'd be no shortage of guests at the wedding. There are a fuckton of people up in the mezzanine -- Avery's large party of charming elites and Avery's husband's even larger party of drunken cowboys, half of whom have committed the ridiculous faux pas of coming as cowboys. And then there are the wolves from the Sept, and their kin, most of whom probably came more because they liked Avery than because they liked (or even knew) their host.

Even more people downstairs, though. Word gets out when you have the money to put the word out, and the money to put on a good party. The food is good, the bar is open, the beats are sick, the costumes are impressive -- if only because there's a costume party later where the winner goes home with a grand. People glance up at the mezzanine sometimes, wondering what's up there, who's up there, what sort of amazing vip shit was going down up there.

Girl can see them looking up. They can barely see her though -- edge of the mezzanine is deliberately kept dark, lit only by the multicolored flashes and lights from the dance floor below, which is large enough that you can move, small enough that the dancing never thins out.

The shadows around her get a little warmer, feel a little thicker. Maybe she's been around wolves enough now to recognize it a bowshock of rage, moments before her boyfriend leans up against the railing beside her. He has one of those smoking green concoctions in hand.

He's even dressed up. Someone convinced him -- ha, ha -- to be a werewolf. So he's a werewolf. Which means: he's wearing jeans torn off at the knees and he hasn't shaved for a few days. And his hair is a mess. Secretly, he likes his costume. He thinks it's very funny.

"Threw a pretty good party," he congratulates... her? Himself? His People? Leans over and taps his glass against hers. "Happy Halloween."

witch

The VIP shit going down is... relatively chill. The whiskey is older and there is a card game going on at a corner table with bottle-caps used as poker chips. The laughter is more genuine and it's quiet enough to have a conversation, but here and there people dance, too. They can see down. People can't see up. The most scandalous thing to happen so far is that Rafael stumbled into a couple making out rather heatedly in a dark hallway, only to discover that it was his alpha and her mate.

Devon is drinking her water to offset the many, many glasses of green potion she's had tonight, not to mention some of the finest whiskey that the fianna contingent felt appropriate for the season. She feels something warm and dark nearby and sighs before she even feels him. She shifts slightly in that direction so that when he leans over, his arm brushes hers. She is away from the gathering of rage and even the gathering of her own kind, not getting too friendly, but perhaps he knew that would be her way.

But when he shows up, she smiles at him. She didn't expect him to dress up. She thinks it's hilarious that he dressed up.

"We did," she agrees, but when he goes to toast, she says haphazardly: "Wait wait wait," and turns around to a nearby table where her drink -- her real drink, not her water-bottle-drink -- is sitting. She picks it up and completes the toast with a clink. "Blessed be," she says, with at least a little bit of irony, before she drinks.

And then she slips her arm around his waist. "Should give your people a... a bonus, or something. For pulling this off. This is fucking awesome." She drinks again.

werewolf

"Yeah," he agrees. "Kinda like this party. No speeches. No pressure."

His arm falls over her shoulders. His skin is warm as ever. His breath smells a little like alcohol; he's possibly not been pacing himself. There's evidence of that right now: he downs the rest of his drink.

"Just you, me, and the awesome party we threw."

witch

That actually makes her ache a little. His experience of parties. Speeches and pressure and bowties. "Oh, babe," she says, nudging his leg with her knee, leaning into him with her body. "Those aren't parties. Those are... whatever else." She follows his lead: he drinks, she drinks. He finishes his, she downs hers.

She smirks. "And our few hundred friends we apparently have," she adds wryly.

werewolf

"Even normal parties," he says -- not to argue or even to insist, but just to draw the distinction. "Even those. Don't know anyone but it's not my house so I feel like I have to ... I don't know. Do something. Put on a mask.

"Doesn't matter." He kisses her temple. "I like this. And our few hundred friends."

witch

Devon listens; she didn't understand, that's clear. So she tries to. And maybe he won't notice it, or realize it, but she does. Understand, that is. She stands up on her toes to give him a small kiss on his scratchy, unshaven cheek. "Not with me," she says, not like a reassurance, and not like a suggestion, and not like a question. A confirmation, she hopes, that she gets what he's saying.

"You could do worse stuff with your money," she says, nodding, looking down at the people again. It's nice being alone in these crowds. It's nicer being alone with him. She's never been at parties like this where someone she attached to for a dance or a conversation or a drink didn't then want to drag her in to the mass, introduce her, make her social.

Rafael just finds her. Stands with her. They're still apart from everything else here. That's what she likes. His arm over her, his sweat giving off his smell, her hip against his body. Both of them watching people.

And then suddenly she laughs. He doesn't have to ask, though, even if she is going backwards a bit: "The one fucking day a year you should be wearing a mask." She finds this hilarious.

werewolf

"Not with you," he repeats, softly.

Confirms.

Then, a quick smirk. "If I put on my mask," he says, "whole party'll run away screaming."

witch

Something about that, out of nowhere, makes Devon breathe in suddenly, but not out of fear. Not out of wariness. She turns her body to him, back against the railing, looping her arms up around his neck. Gives her hair a shake off her shoulders, off her face, looking up at him.

werewolf

Wolf doesn't really understand this shift, this change in her. He goes with it -- steps into her as she tosses her hair back. Put his hands on her body, at the waist.

"What?" he wants to know; a different tone than those breathless whats he mutters. A question, this one.

witch

There's not a ready answer. She doesn't know, herself. Just a rush of heat under her skin, a breathless tremor. She wanted to get closer. Felt natural to step closer to him, display herself a little before him, touch him. All these physical invitations. Which he is taken, has taken, by getting closer to her, touching her through her stretchy, tight little dress.

Which glows in the dark. Back and front. Has a little red heart in the ribcage, right over where her real heart should be.

Devon shakes her head once or twice, slow. "Don't know." Doesn't. Is thinking now, though, even while she's staring at him. "Just never talk about it to me. Or show it to me. Guess it... felt... intimate, when you mentioned it." Her shoulders lift as she struggles, shrugs her way through not having words. "Exciting."

werewolf

It, she calls it, as though that part of him were something altogether separate; a physical thing he could pull out and show her. Which in a way it is. In another way, it's not at all like that, not an appendage or an accessory but something as deep and embedded as bone, as nerve, as blood.

He doesn't pull it out. It grows, boils, wells up out of him, right through his skin.

And he's looking at that little red heart on her skeleton dress, smiling a little because -- let's face it -- it's a cute touch. A skeleton with a heart. Not a tin man then. Something more like a corpse bride maybe. He puts a hand over that heart, which is perhaps inappropriate because he's also putting a hand on her breast. But then it's dark in here, and no one's looking at them.

"Guess I just don't really think to talk about it," he says. "You have seen me like that though."

witch

He can feel her heart beating under his hand. Real heart, not the cartoon heart that is the only spot of color on her outfit tonight. It thumps against the heel of his palm in time to the music, in time to his heartbeat, in time to her quickening pulse. She breathes in when he touches her like that, right here, and it lifts her breast into his hand a little more fully.

"Maybe twice," she murmurs. It's not a protest, but... it also is, in a way. It's not about talking about it, either, but she doesn't argue that. "It's a part of you. Who you are."

But not with me, she doesn't say. It hangs in the air between them somehow, though. It shows in her eyes, which have a shadow of something forlorn in them.

"Don't want you shedding all over the bed or anything," she mutters. "Just... I want all of you. Because I'm special to you."

Which she'd never say so boldly if she weren't drunk.

werewolf

His brow furrows. Then clears.

"Not withholding anything on purpose," he tells her. "Just never needed to shift with you. Except that once in the alley. And that other time you were mad at me and I wanted to stay close. But sleeping in front of your door like this would make me some sort of ... homeless person.

"Other times I just stay in the shape I was born in. Just familiar. Not hiding anything." It's a repetition, albeit imperfect. There's another pause.

"Can try to take different shapes more often. If you want."

witch

Not on purpose. She wants to bristle and tell him that's not what she meant, and it isn't, but

it's the truth behind what she meant. That she is left out. That he keeps it from her. That she's shut out from part of who he is. An intrinsic part. A defining part.

Devon steps closer to him, which dislodges his hand from her boob, but no matter: she wants to be held. She turns her head and rests it against his chest, to listen to his heart. Not a cartoon. Thumps under her ear, and she wonders when she'll stop feeling the urge to bolt when he understands her, or sees something in her that she didn't say out loud. It is very hard to trust in love, when it seems like it's made out of clouds and sunlight and destroys its own etheral nature with its shining warmth.

Breathes in deep and smells him.

"I was thinking about the time in Brazil," is the first thing she says, which is probably weird of her, but that's where her mind goes. "Because we were traveling, and I hadn't seen you... shift, or go out and hunt on your own, and I worried. So then of course you were a prick about it," she adds, a little archly, but it was a long time ago and she's not upset anymore. It's a bruise long since healed.

"Almost forgot the other time," Devon murmurs, in addition, her voice softening. "I liked that you did that. Even though I was mad."

Her arms are around him, and she strokes his back. She hesitates to say she wants him to do that. Hesitates to ask something of him that might not be natural. Hesitates because it sounds like he isn't keeping her at arm's length, but it still feels like a distance, and she doesn't like that feeling. Her hands move up and down his back, and without thinking about it she is swaying slightly to the music with him. Or against him, if he's rock solid. Won't move. Her boyfriend the tree.

"Do sort of want that," she eventually admits. "Just... I just want to be with you. All of you." A repetition, perhaps, but these are the only words she has.

werewolf

There's something intimate about this. Her hands on his bare back. Her ear to his chest. His arms folding around her too, covering up the glow-in-the-dark skeleton.

"Weren't mad the morning after," he points out quietly, as though this mattered. "Were pretty happy. Hugged me. I was in the middle of a dream about ... chasing rabbits or something." He laughs a little.

"I'll do that more. Be a wolf. Or one of the in-betweens maybe. I ... think differently when I'm like that, though. That's not a warning. Just letting you know."

witch

She huffs a laugh against his big chest when he talks about chasing rabbits or whatever. Dreaming of it, at least. But he goes on: he'll do it more. Be a wolf, or in-between.

Her hands move gently on his back, around to his sides, which are softer somehow, more vulnerable. Closer to his ribs, his heart. Covers him there, with her small, longfingered hands.

"I thought you might," she murmurs. "That might be part of why I want it. To... get to know you." More of him. All of you, she almost repeats, but stops herself.

Devon lifts her head, looking up at him.

He can almost hear her whisper kiss me in his mind, but that isn't a power she's ever shown herself to have. Maybe he just sees it in her eyes.

werewolf

Finds him looking down at her when she looks up. Wolf does a funny thing then. Puts his hand on her head, atop it, like a blessing.

Slides his palm around to cup the back of her head a moment later. "Girl with the eyes," he mutters, almost to himself, as he leans down to kiss her.

witch

She almost laughs, but doesn't quite get there. Her lips open into a smile, slowly, as she tips her head to meet him. Kisses him back, sighing a little. Never did have a nickname for him other than that prick, or her name for him, which started the first night he was with her.

This night, two years ago. When she was a broken doll and he was just... himself, but lonelier and angrier and warier. Her hands stay where they are on his body, protective, as she makes out with him for a little while on the mezzanine. She doesn't even mind that he hasn't danced with her tonight. She hasn't asked.

Eventually they pause to breathe again. She smiles up at him. "I like our anniversary," she whispers to him.

werewolf

They share that smile like a secret. If it is one, it's one dawning on him right now, slowly.

"Yeah," he says. "Kinda is, isn't it?"

witch

This earns him a gentle thwap of her palm on the side of his belly. "Oh my god," she says bluntly. "You started fucking me two years ago tonight, you asshole. And you were already half in love with me before then, so don't act like you don't know."

werewolf

Rare grin flashes over wolf's face. Teeth glint in the dark; eyes too. "Know exactly when I started fucking you," he replies. "Down to the hour. Never going to forget that."

witch

That actually gets her. She sees his teeth, and his eyes, and that grin. He tells her what he remembers. And she takes a breath.

He can see the flash of her throat when she breathes. When she swallows.

Sighs: "You wanna?"

werewolf

That grin subsides. It's half gone by the time he starts telling her exactly what he knows. Totally vanished by the time she breathes. Swallows.

He kisses her before he answers. It's an answer in and of itself. Sometimes they're like this. Drawn together like magnets snapping to one another.

"Yeah," he mutters when there's a little space between them again. He takes her hand. "Let's get out of here."

witch

First time she asked him that, he... maybe wanted to, but didn't. In daylight, when people might walk in, when he wasn't sure of her at all. She doesn't mean to replay it with that whisper, but they don't replay it at all: he kisses her and she leans into him, and they're far from the only couple making out tonight in near-public. He's far from the only man to feel up his girlfriend.

Or mate.

Devon presses her hips closer to him. She wants to feel him get hard against her. Wants to feel him through their clothes. She exhales, looking up at him, whispers:

"No. Let's find somewhere here. Want you to fuck me up against a wall somewhere in the dark." Her eyes are livid, somehow, brighter than usual, like they're giving off their own light.

werewolf

"What?"

That is one of those whats. His eyes flick around; instinctively watching for peeping toms, eavesdroppers, maybe. Or maybe just looking for a place. Somewhere here. His attention comes back to her.

"Where?"

witch

She just grins at him. "You're the hunter. Aren't you geared to find secret hiding places?"

Devon stands on her toes, biting his lower lip gently. "Gonna go to the bathroom. Come get me when you know where you want to fuck me," she tells him, and slips away, taking her water bottle with her.

wolfman

Come find me, she says, and then

just

walks away. Leaves him there with a half-hard dick and a spinning head. Could blame some of that on alcohol. Blames most of that on her.

--

Party's just hitting its stride. Late enough now that everyone's drunk. Bathrooms are downstairs and staircase is full of people making out, people shouting staccato conversations. Dance floor's full of bodies now. Bar's seeing a steady stream of business.

Bathrooms are too. They're fancy; all futuristic lighting and black walls, black tile floors. Toilets are black too. Mirrors are ringed in lights, tiny and white; traces her face out of darkness when she looks into it. She can see those lights reflected in her eyes.

Wolf's waiting for her when she steps out. He has a fresh drink in hand, which he takes a sip of and then passes to her. Takes her hand and they squeeze past the sexy scarecrow and the fireman talking themselves into hooking up; past the Daenerys Targaryen (one of about two dozen) chatting up the Katniss Everdeen; past the group of friends dressed up as Minions. He takes her around the side of the bar, all the way over to the short hallway that, by day, would lead to the kitchen.

Kitchen's closed, though, and door's locked. Food was brought in by caterers. No one comes this way. It's dark. They're alone. When she leans again the wall, she can feel the heavy thrum of bass.

witch

In the bathroom, Devon checks herself in those bright-ringed mirrors. She sees two girls making out in the corner, eyes closed, mouths eager, hands shaking. She can barely fathom their costumes, or remember them: she just hears soft panting, and their wet lips, and shaking fingers as their hands intertwine. Her attention shifts back to the mirror, to her own eyes, to her smudged eye makeup, her lips that have lost most of their artificial coloring. She breathes in deeply and wipes the rest of her lipstick off her mouth with a wet paper towel, and when she's finished in there, she comes out.

Rafael is waiting for her, in his torn clothes, unshaven face,

with his broad shoulders, heavy chest, carved torso, big hands, lush mouth, vivid eyes,

and a drink.

Devon licks her lips and walks over to him. She's got something black hanging from one finger at her side, maybe a purse he didn't notice before, but as he hands her the drink she hands him what she's carrying and it's not a purse. It's a bra, and it's also the lace thong she was wearing under that dress of hers not so long ago.

She sips the drink, takes his other hand, and they walk away again without saying a word to each other.

--

The kitchen is locked, but Devon takes the door handle in her hand and something changes. Something clicks, and she pushes the door open, leading him inside. It is almost pitch-dark. There's a safety light on across the room somewhere, but nothing else. Devon follows him deeper in, to some space between cabinets, some secluded corner. He turns her to the wall. She leans back against it, feeling the music, looking up at him. Drink is gone; she finished it somewhere, set it down before they ever got here. She tips her head back, her hand touching his belly, sliding up his chest. Seems for a moment that she's going to reach up, draw him down to her, kiss his mouth, but her hand changes trajectory.

Devon's fingers only graze him at first, traveling downward. But then her palm is full and warm against his cock, feeling him through his clothes. Not for long. She's watching him, watching his eyes flicker, watching that sharp green ring around his blown-out pupils. Strokes him harder, more eagerly, then steps away from the wall, opening his belt, his fly, whatever is in her way. Kisses him, if he leans down to her for it. Doesn't stop until she's got her hand down his pants, in his shorts, wrapped around his cock. Takes effort for her not to moan aloud if he's not kissing her.

If he is, she doesn't try to stifle it with anything but his mouth on hers.

Another moment, only, a heartbeat, and then she's moving to her knees, drawing him out, sighing: "Told you it makes my mouth water,"

before she licks him, wet and lush and

slow.

wolfman

He does kiss her. Kisses her while she's reaching up, thinking she'll draw him down. Kisses her again when she reaches down, touches him, starts to undo his pants. Second kiss is harder than the first, rough. They moan into it, both of them, his ragged when she takes him in hand.

"Fuck," he sighs as she sinks down. She has those torn-up jeans undone -- he isn't wearing a belt, but there's still a button, still a zipper -- and he spreads his feet so his pants don't just sag to the floor and leave him essentially naked in a public space. Even if they're in a dark hallway. He helps her with his shorts, though. Pushes them down and out of the way, gets his cock out, holds it for her like he's feeding it to her until she licks him. Wet. Lush. Slow.

He groans. He puts his forearms against the wall, leans his brow against his arms. He's leaning over her, and of course he would: of course he'd put his body between her and the world. When she puts her mouth on him again he closes his eyes, like he can't even bear to watch. A muscle flashes in his jaw as he swallows. He lowers a hand to cup her head, tenderly, while she blows him.

In a dark hallway. In a public space. At their epic Halloween party.

witch

Hot, firm, moaning kisses. Not too loud. Not too raucous, despite the heavy music filling the venue. But neither one of them is silent; neither one of them can be. Not when they're together like this, when his clothes are sliding off his skin and when her lingerie is hanging from his wrist or clutched in his hand and he knows there's just that dress, that soft, tight dress between him and her body. She can't be silent when he's hard for her; he can't be silent when she's sucking him off like this, her hands sliding up under his shirt, and she's moaning while he feeds her his cock.

Devon starts going faster. She feels his hand on her head like permission, or blessing, or protection; she responds by quickening her pace, sighing happily as his cock jumps in her mouth, as he twitches, as his breathing gets labored. His eyes are closed when she first looks up at him, opening those eyes of hers, watching him. Slowing again, but not gentling; she sucks him a little harder, until it's almost unbearable when her mouth slides off of him.

Maybe his eyes are still closed. Maybe he opens them when she stops. Maybe he sees her reach into her dress, up by her tits, and take out the little packet, and maybe he watches her tear it open. Maybe he watches her unroll the condom onto his cock, something she's never done before. Could there be a more obvious signal that she's about to fuck him?

...Sure. There could be.

Devon uses his hips for balance when she gets back to her feet, hikes up that already short skirt over her bare ass, and puts her arms around his neck. He'd better lift her, or catch her, since she's about to jump on him anyway.

wolfman

Hands are clenched into fists when she stops. Eyes are closed and mouth is open, breath is coming fast and harsh; groans under nearly every one. He makes a sound when she stops -- some wordless protest -- but then she's --

He laughs. It's barely more than a breath, but he can't help himself. "New moon?" he wants to know. "Or just being careful now?"

Sucks the next breath between his teeth as she rolls the condom on. Then she's getting up and he's helping her, taking her by the waist, taking her by the hips, lifting her up as she steps off the ground.

Wall against her back. Wolf against her body. He steps between her legs and there's something so fucking hot about that, her legs open, her eyes incandescent. He kisses her eyes-open this time, muscles in his lower back coiling as he grinds against her, rubs against her, finds her cunt and presses into her.

Eyes close again then. Growls hard into her mouth, grasping her hips tight. When that kiss comes apart he puts his mouth to her shoulder, muffles a grunt there as he starts fucking her.

witch

He would've let her blow him til he came, she thinks. The thought flickers towards practical concerns, but mostly it just warms her. Pleases her. Pleases her to see him so overcome. Turns her on. He asks about the moon. She grins. Of course he knows the moon is new. She shakes her head. "Got it off a girl in the bathroom. Don't want a mess."

She slides it onto his cock. He starts getting her up, her skirt is up, he can feel her ass in his hands, feel her warm and open when he steps into her, his pants falling further now. She wraps her legs around him, watching him. She's shrugging out of the straps of her dress to bare her breasts to him; she likes his mouth on them. She likes him looking at her the way he does. She pulls him closer when he kisses her, moaning as he rubs against her. Devon shifts her hips, reaching down to help his cock find her, help him slide into her. She cries out with a soft whimper when he pushes into her body, then grinds slowly down onto him, taking him deeper.

Kisses him then, with this helpless sound.

--

He's hot, and he's ready to go, he was barely standing while she fucked him with her mouth a moment ago, but she gasps softly for him to go slow at first. He feels her open around him, relax around him, soften as she gets used to him. Hears her when she sighs just past his ear that she loves his big cock. Hears her cry out again when he thrusts into her in answer to that. Hears her whimper when she starts to fuck him back, riding him slowly and rhythmically at first.

Feels her quicken. Feels the both of them tipping into some abyss just before she groans for him, clutching at his back. Just before he starts really giving it to her, fucking her harder against the wall. They both hear the click of the door opening, but neither of them stop. Or can stop. Both of them likely hear a soft little gasp from the door when someone realizes what's going on in here, and then the click of the door rapidly shutting again. It's a moment, a brief one, but it causes Devon to laugh, gaspingly, as he

quite frankly

fucks her brains out.

--

She's a squirming, laughing, slightly bouncing girl when she comes, crying out without remembering to muffle it, panting Rafa, Rafa -- oh, fuck, Rafa, oh fuck nonsensically, helplessly. God, she's useless for a few moments there, her head tipped back and her breasts bared and her cunt so, so tight on his cock.

wolfman

He's a little scandalized at the thought -- bumming a condom off some girl in the bathroom. He's a little amused too; because of course she would, the little mooch. His mind wanders down that path a bit. Wonders what she said. Wonders how she asked. Wonders if she just straight up told some stranger she was about to fuck her boyfriend, right here and now, and that's why she needed one.

He's a little turned on by the thought. Might as well be honest about it.

--

And a little later: not so fucking scandalized after all, it seems, to fuck her brains out in a dark little corner of their halloween party. Not so fucking scandalized that he doesn't get a wicked little gleam in his eye when she compliments his anatomy. Not so fucking scandalized to keep fucking her even when there's a click, there's a door opening and a quick slice of safety lights that rapidly flashes off again. He pants a question, was that --? and she laughs, and he has his answer but hardly seems to matter. Fuck, he mutters, but doesn't stop, and doesn't even slow.

He has her cantilevered against the wall when she starts to come. Her arms are around his neck and his hands are still holding her by the hips but there's a bit of room between, enough that they can see each other, enough that he can see her tits bounce as he bounces her on his cock, enough that he can see the look on her face while she's laughing, whimpering, coming.

There's no room at all between them when he comes. He has her wrapped up in his arms then, pressed between his chest and the wall. He has his teeth in her shoulder, because he never can seem to help himself for long.

--

She's useless afterwards. He's so fond of her, his limp-limbed, gasping, postorgasmic girlfriend. His pants are down around his knees and his shorts are at the top of his thighs and he's bare from his head to his ass. Her tits are bare, too, and pressed against his chest. He thinks lazily that he should cover her. Oh, and cover himself too.

He kisses her where he bit her. He kisses her on that little spot he found a few nights back; the one near her ear. He makes some low, rumbling, grumbling noise -- apparently for no better reason than that he has to pull out of her sooner or later, they have to put their clothes back on.

"So fucking hot," he mutters, "when you strutted out of that bathroom with your lingerie in your hand."

witch

The conversation was simple. "Hey, you got a condom?" like she'd ask someone for a light. Girl was a little older, a little taller, looked sort of giddily delighted that this hottie in the skeleton dress wanted to practice safe sex, so she laughed as she handed it over, "Sure. Go wild."

Didn't even have to pull the my boyfriend and I threw this party with the badass DJ and the epic open bar, mind giving me a rubber? thing.

Maybe less erotic than whatever Rafael imagines when she's starting to unroll it onto his body. Her hands are so fucking gentle though. She's so soft. She kisses him beneath his navel before she stands up.

And fucks him.

--

They are useless. Weak. He's still inside of her, half-hard, and their clothes are hanging off their bodies. She's panting, and she's a little sweaty, despite the room being cool. The AC has been on full blast all night, to compensate for all those bodies downstairs, all those costumes. At the moment, it may as well be to compensate for a werewolf fucking his girlfriend, his skin almost as mind-blowingly hot as her cunt.

He kisses her beneath her ear and she shivers. Shudders, really, almost unable to take it. Her arms and legs tighten around him, hold him more dearly. He makes a noise; she makes a similar one back to him. Rests her head on his shoulder.

Rafael decides to tell her what he thought was hot. She exhales a soft sound, almost a laugh. "Wanted to make it easy on you to get to me."

The opposite of their relationship, really. She hears that thought in her mind, an echo, and holds him a little tighter. Makes her say, inexplicably (but not really): "God, I love you," all in a breath, like it filled her suddenly, has to rush out of her. She lifts her head and kisses him, as if they didn't just fuck. As if it's the first time she's ever had the chance to kiss him like this. She has to take a breath when she stops, her hand on his face, drawing back so she can look at him.

"Lets go get another drink, yeah?"

wolfman

Wolf murmurs something -- too, maybe, though the music and noise around them steals much of the word. That kiss is a fierce thing, almost has him ready to go again, has him reaching for her in that way that says he's a second away from picking her up and planting her on his dick again, but --

another drink. He looks mildly scandalized again, god knows why. "Like this?" he says; meaning immediately post-fuck, one assumes. Thinks about it a beat. "Yeah, sure. Need water though."

witch

Devon squirms on him a little. He's reaching for her; she's not resisting. Her eyes are opening, luminous, and he's so shy sometimes, he's so shocked, he's hilarious. She kisses him again, quick and happy.

"Don't have another condom," she says, almost purring it, smiling through the words. "Might as well."

Bites his lip, quick but soft. "Let me down and hand me back my thong."

wolfman

Exhales a laugh. Sets her down, gentle, like she's far more breakable than she is. Sometimes forgets how tender she can be when he's fucking her, but seems like he tries to make up for it all the other times.

Hands her her thong back too, mutely. Pulls the condom off and seems at a loss; ends up stepping out of his jeans quickly, dropping his shorts altogether, pulling the jeans back on. Wraps the spent rubber up in his underwear. Wipes off with it. Starts looking for a trashcan into which to shove the whole affair.

"Gonna go wash my hands," he says, sanitary creature that he is. "Meet you at the bar?"

witch

So gentle, he is. Her legs unwind and her go-go boots touch the floor, and he's standing there nearly naked, pulling off his condom and she doesn't notice him looking around or she'd point out that they are in a kitchen, there are paper towels right over there. She is, after all, stepping gingerly leg by leg into her thong, pulling it up over her hips and straightening herself out before she tugs down her skirt.

He is undressed completely for a moment there, and she misses it. She might've fucked him again. Still doesn't know how she went all night without fucking him sooner, walking around barechested and rough and warm like he is.

He throws his underwear away in a nearby trash can when he finds it, and she is baffled, but she doesn't question it. She laughs a little. "There's a sink over here," she tells him, and takes his (filthy) hand in her own, walking with him to the giant steel industrial sinks.

While he washes, she does too. She swishes warm water around her mouth and spits. She decides to go ahead and put her bra back on, first dropping the top of her dress again, then putting it back on, twisting it around, putting the straps back in place, pulling her dress back up. They sort themselves out in the dark, pragmatic and utterly without shyness. She's never been terribly shy about physicality; hops up to go pee nearly every time he comes inside of her, wipes herself off with tissues or washcloths, threw up in front of him once, doesn't necessarily always excuse herself to go blow her nose. Once, when she was getting up mid-movie and he tried to tug her back to cuddle more, she laughed at him and said I have to shit, you asshole.

It's really just her emotions that she's shy about, wary of sharing or showing. That's where her pride is so easily wounded, her security so quickly threatened. She comes by it honestly, but perhaps even Rafael can see it getting better. He's loved her for two years now. Even though she has no scent. Even though she storms away from him as a default response to disagreement or hurt feelings. Even though she's a witch, and a weird one, and even though she abandoned him for three months and he had no fucking clue where she was or when she was coming back or if. Even though she is a mess and a mooch.

They have clean hands. She holds his with hers, going back to the door with its magically-undone lock. Doesn't check to make sure no one is in the hallway first; she just slips out with him, so they can head back to the bar, and to their party, and to his alpha who says brightly that she's been looking for him everywhere to say goodnight and to thank him for the lovely, lovely party, please don't let Morgan get into too much trouble but her slightly drunken eyes are so twinkling when she says this that even Rafael can pick up on the fact that she knows what a lost cause that is when it comes to Fianna.

Devon slips away somewhere during that exchange, off to the bar. When she comes back, Rafael's fellow Silver Fang is being gently poured into a waiting car by her husband, and Devon is carrying two water bottles. And a bottle of champagne.

wolfman

Party's -- not quite winding down, but changing in character. The bright-and-early, the daybreakers, the morning crowd is departing. The night owls stay behind. The crowds thin, the music changes; deeper, downtempo, cooler. The bar's still seeing good business, tip jars overflowing because the booze is free.

Girl comes back with a whole bottle of champagne. Two bottles of water. Wolf takes one of those and slugs down half the bottle at once. Takes the champagne, then, and her hand as well. They weave through the crowd, one after the other. No one knows who they are. No one suspects, and that's the way they like it.

Finds an alcove. By day this place is a restaurant, and a rather fancy one at that. These are booths. By night the heavy tables are wheeled away and all that remains is the seating, plush and velvet, semi-circular. Earlier every single one was full, but now anyone still here is either dancing or drinking or both.

Wolf sits. And he doesn't have a glass, but he opens the bottle anyway. Untwists the little cage, tosses it aside. Nudges the cork out with his thumb -- bang! -- and catches the spill of foam in his mouth.

Passes it over to his witch. Leans back, sinks down, lays his head against the top of the booth and ... lets out a sigh, satisfied.

witch

These people who stay: they break the dawn in a different way. They meet up at diners in the morning, they see the sunrise from the wrong side. They dance until they can't dance, sometimes they fuck, and those lucky few sometimes fall asleep for a few hours. The others stumble around downtown, or end up on rooftops or on strange trips to midnight theaters or the edges of town. These people cry and laugh at the same time. They are mad and useless and sometimes Devon is one of them.

Right now she is pulling the champagne back from Rafael with a grin, refusing to let him take the heavy, cold bottle. She carries it as they walk down from the mezzanine again, walk through the crowd. He takes them to a soft place to sit, to watch these people who are here because Devon likes parties and Rafael likes Devon and Rafael has so, so much money.

She leans into him. The bottle sits on the table and when he reaches for it, she stops his hand and whispers: wait wait wait and to his quizzical look she says:

"We have to wait til it's really past midnight. We didn't really fuck til after midnight."

He knows this. Down to the hour, he said. Their anniversary is not really Halloween, but it is certainly not the first of November, either. It's this between time, it's in limbo, in the shadow realm between two days, two realities, two lives. Of course it is.

But after midnight -- and perhaps she knows from some internal clock -- the smaller but still crowded, still lively throng of dancers still going at it hear the bang and pop if they are close enough when Rafael unleashes the champagne. Drinks the foam, gives it to

his witch,

who also drinks. They do not have glasses, and do not toast, and do not pour for one another. They share, messily and rudely, as they always have. She sits with him, her head on his shoulder, her hand laced with his hand between their thighs, passing a bottle of champagne back and forth.