Neither of the creatures living inside the new-construction townhouse in the highlands are Morning People. One of them is just this side of being completely nocturnal, in fact.
So it's with respect to true nature that Devon does not come bounding in to see Rafael right at dawn, even on a day named for a goddess of the dawn. It's been some hours since she woke up, and it's been quite a few more hours since Rafael fell into bed after coming home from this battle or that patrol. Daylight is brilliant outside nonetheless, and spills into his bedroom when Devon pulls open his curtains.
She came into his bedroom quietly enough, but once the light erupts into the space there she is, bouncing into his bed. She climbs on top of him as he stirs, straddling his waist, leaning over to kiss each side of his face as he wakes.
Rafael van der ValkJust past noon and the light outside is sheer brilliance. Mile up from sea level and the atmosphere is simply thinner. Sun blazes like nothing else. Didn't wake up when girl snuck into his room, but sure as hell wakes up when the curtains whisk back and the light pours in.
Grumbling in bed, rolling from a dead sleep on his stomach to a light sleep on his back. Then his bed is bouncing and there's a skinny thing straddling his waist, forearms on his chest, lips smooching his right cheek. His left.
He mutters incoherently. Knows it's her, of course he does, so he doesn't think he's getting attacked and she doesn't end up flying across the room. Wraps his arms around her instead, trying to make her be still.
"Sleeping," he grumbles. It's at once protest and explanation.
Devon ParedesShe laughs. She's wearing a crown of blue and yellow flowers on her dark, tumble-down hair. No crazy eye makeup. No makeup at all, really. Just her fair skin, freckles, slight pink to her lips, bright blue of her eyes.
"That was past," she tells him, leaning over to kiss his forehead. "This is present," and she kisses the tip of his nose with a grin,
"and then there's future," she finishes, not with a kiss to his mouth but slight squirm of her body on top of his body, her body in his arms, a slow quivering motion that gets nowhere near his crotch but indicates, nonetheless, what she has in mind.
"Come on," Devon adds, patting his chest with her palms, the flats of her fingers, like he's a drum. "We're going to have eggs and hot crossed buns for breakfast, and later on there'll be lamb and rosemary potatoes." She leans over him yet again, bites him gently on the jawline. "And I'm going to have dandelion and burdock tea but I won't make you drink that if you don't want any."
Rafael van der ValkEyes are still closed but his hands follow the curve of her spine down, squeeze her rump while she promises him the future.
"Sleeping," he says again, but now he's playing, corners of his mouth turning up. She plays too: plays him like a drum, patting his chest until he opens his eyes. His pupils constrict in the light. His eyes focus. He snorts a laugh.
"Hot cross buns? Like in the nursery rhyme?"
Devon ParedesHis eyes may be closed, but hers are wide open. She can see him smiling. She keeps teasing him til he opens his eyes, looks up at her, in her flowers and wildness and this little sundress that, thankfully, actually suits the warm weather outside. Sort of hazy, but... bright. Sunny. Springlike.
She nods. "Exactly. They're good. And they're warm, so get up, get up!"
Bouncing again. On him, now.
Rafael van der Valk"Never actually had them before," he comments. Which means he's interested, actually. Or at least curious.
Sits up, then. Tips her down toward his lap, if she's still straddling his waist. Hides a yawn behind his fist, then grabs a handful of comforters and throws them back. Moment later he climbs out of bed, wearing boxers so old and oft-washed they may as well be PJs. Or rags.
"Try some dandelion tea too," he decides. "Is it sweet?"
Devon ParedesShe didn't think he had. She smiles though, that he says it. That he says things like this now, that he doesn't hide himself away, wary that she'll use any morsel against him, rake at his dignity as if her words were claws. It's not new, of course; she know she trusts her. But every time it glimmers between them it makes her feel something tender and warm, something happy and safe.
He sits up; she tips. She swings off his lap when he moves to rise, and bounds up after him, barefoot and slyph-like, though one imagines actual nature spirits are actually capable of tanning.
"It is if you put honey and spearmint in it," she says, head tipping. "Which I do. Here."
She is picking something up from his nightstand that she put there before she jumped on him. He may think it's a flower crown, like hers, he might put his foot down and say no, he is not going to be that ridiculous, but it's not a crown. It's longer, and made of the same blue and yellow flowers woven together as her crown, and it's a garland instead. She smiles up at him.
"Love you," she says, taking both of his hands in hers.
Rafael van der ValkWolf looks at the garland in surprise. It's on the tip of his tongue to refuse; he's not going to wear flowers, grr, garrgh. Then he looks at her face, in her eyes. Words die unspoken. He takes it without comment and -- quickly, like he's getting it over with -- slips it over his head, around his neck. Flowers and vines thump softly against his bare chest.
His hands are taken. Reminds him of some sort of pagan wedding, this. Maybe that's why he leans down and kisses her, quick and soft, rather chaste, like there's a whole damn church watching and he doesn't want to pop a stiffie in front of everyone.
"Too," he says. "Gotta brush my teeth though. Wait for me?"
Devon ParedesLook on her face is one of shining. Looking up at him like that, all happy and bright and cheerful. She likes adorning him with flowers that she wove by hand. It makes her happy to see him grumble past his resistance.
Girl's been... okay. Since telling him. Since all the doctor visits and tests. Since that very hard, cold, lonely thing in winter. Quiet, for a while. Days and days of seeming not withdrawn but... looking inward, nonetheless. In her own head, even when sleeping beside him. That passed, and she started to get back to normal, but this is perhaps the first time he's seen her like this in months. Not just happy but cheerful. Energetic.
Shining.
He kisses her and her cheeks color, not from surprise or shyness but pure delight. She laughs after the kiss, wrinkling her nose up at him, eyes crinkled. "Always," she says, not weighing the word down but simply offering it, as if it should be a given. Of course she'll wait for him. "Come quick," she adds, and stands on her toes to kiss his cheek.
Squeezes his hands. Heads off and out of his room, down the stairs, her footsteps light and silent.
--
All the windows downstairs are open, letting the light and the fresh air in. The house has been freshly cleaned, probably while he was still sleeping. The kitchen is warm but the crossbreeze softens that; the oven was on to heat up the buns that Devon ordered from a bakery because she cannot bake.
The dining table is a mess of daisies and daffodils from Devon making her crown, his garland. Some flowers even made it into vases: delicate lily-of-the-valley on the table, lazy-stemmed tulips on the island where they usually eat. Pink camelias and lavender peonies and dainty forget-me-nots. It smells like flowers and bread and fresh air.
Devon has tea brewing in two cups on the bar, and is taking a pan out of the oven with the hot cross buns on it. There's are plates with chopped fruit and warm quiche set out. She grins when he comes down, clicking off the oven.
Rafael van der ValkDoesn't take him long to brush his teeth, splash water on his face. Throw on a pair of jeans. As he comes down the stairs he's shoving his way into a shirt, which is of course a shade of gray. When the shirt's on he tugs the garland out of the collar and lets it fall across his chest again. Wouldn't hide it, it made her so happy. And her happiness has seemed a rare thing these past few months, as though her mood and her very existence were tied to the seasons.
Oven clicks off and he doesn't know she doesn't know how to make hot cross buns, so maybe he thinks she did this and is all impressed. Is sniffing at the air, anyway, leaning over her shoulder to peer at the baked goods.
"Huh." He sounds mildly surprised. "They're actually crossed."
Devon ParedesIt's been a strange year. Those months in the past, in some forgotten other-realm. All that time away from Rafael even when she was back. Coming back and thinking herself pregnant. All those tests. Finding out why she wasn't pregnant, why things felt off inside. It's been a strange, difficult, sometimes frightening year.
But it's spring now. And she has put flowers everywhere and made purifying tea and is going to eat blessed food and she knows how magic works. She will not feel better until she believes she can. All of this is a spell. It only works with faith.
Rafa doesn't think of it that way, but still: he adds his faith to hers. She feels it. It means the world to her.
She laughs at his surprise. "Something to do with steam and chemistry. I only know what I see on GBBO. Here," she says, gingerly picking one up, but it's not terribly hot. Just warm. Enough to steam when she breaks it in half, not enough to burn her fingers or his mouth. She offers him one side of the bun.
Rafael van der ValkEven he understands, instinctively, the significance of broken bread. Even he knows in his rough, raw heart that there is no greater trust than the sharing of sustenance except, perhaps, the sharing of a den.
They do both. That must mean something. That must mean she is his mate.
He takes the bun, carefully, not because it's hot but because he feels he should be careful. And when it's in his hands he studies it a bit, turning it this way and that, before experimentally biting into it. It's sweet, and warm. He is pleasantly surprised: "It's good."
Devon ParedesThere are four buns. There are two bedrooms. They don't have to share. It means something indeed that sometimes -- often -- they do anyway. Just like it's always meant something, and she's always known it deep down: even that first night, he wanted her to come to his bed after. He just wanted her to sleep beside him.
And long before he could be nice about it, he would nudge his plate closer to her, as if inviting her to eat from his food, even when she had her own.
She bites into her half of the bun as he does, watching his face. She beams at his reaction. It's a sweet bread, more than a dinner roll. A breakfast that isn't as sugar-laden or heavy as something like a donut. She leans against him as she takes another bite, half-hugs him, then leads him to sit beside her at the breakfast bar for quiche -- which yes, Rafael, has meat in it -- and fruit, and the honey-mint (and dandelion and burdock root) tea.
"This is Ostara," she says, finally explaining. "It's one of the eight sabbats. I usually don't make a big deal out of it, like this, but..." her fork slices into the quiche, which she also did not make because she cannot make pastry of any kind, whether short-crust or puff or rough, even if she knows how to stir some stuff into eggs and throw it in an oven.
"It seemed important this year," Devon finishes, more lightly. "It felt important to me," she adds to that, looking at him again. Smiles gently. "Thank you for rolling with it."
Rafael van der ValkHardly the sort one easily associates with spiritualism, Rafael. Most days he is so entirely a creature of solid, physical, material things: muscle and bone, sinew and blood. Thinks about things like hunting, fighting, territory, fucking. Still, when she tells him it's Ostara, he doesn't blow it off or roll his eyes or stare in blank incomprehension.
Eyes kind of slide away, actually, like he's a little embarrassed. Doesn't really make sense until he looks back at her and offers a gruff little tidbit of his own.
"Maslenitsa," he says. And eats a few more bites, finishing his half-a-bun, before he continues, "That's what Fangs celebrate on spring equinox. The ones with old blood from Russia, who keep the old traditions."
Devon Paredes"What?" after he says the word the first time, because he's eating his bread and she thinks he may have just started to choke? Or stifled a sneeze? But then he explains. And:
she blinks. Her surprise is writ plain as day on her face. There is so little he has from his past -- his family's past. His own, even. He doesn't seem to know very much to begin with, and what he does know, he doesn't enjoy talking about. From what he has shared, she doesn't blame him. And she understands: the last thing on earth she wants to talk about is her garbage father. She gets why Rafael doesn't want to dig around in his life before he changed, or even after he changed, and expose it to the light for the sake of curiosity or... who even knows.
Then she smiles. "Do you know what they are? The traditions?"
Rafael van der Valk"Uh," he picks up his fork and digs into his quiche, "physical stuff, mostly. Wrestling, races, games of strength and endurance. Eating, drinking. A lot of drinking. Dancing. And wearing masks." He frowns, shrugs his shoulders. "I don't get the masks either but it's a big deal.
"You ever met an old school Fang? I mean, really old school. Not just some royal stick-up-his-ass prick, but one of those descended from like seventeen generations of Crescent Moon blood?"
Devon ParedesShe laughs as he describes it. It delights her. It sounds like the sort of thing Fianna do -- at least the Fianna she has met. The ones she's related to. She doesn't get the masks though, and tips her head curiously as he admits he doesn't understand, either. She'll have to look that up later.
As she drinks her tea, eats her breakfast-at-lunchtime, he asks her a question and she laughs again. "Babe, you're... the only one I know. And I thought crescent moons were theurges. But that doesn't have anything to do with blood, does it? I thought it was just your birth moon."
Rafael van der ValkHe laughs with her, under his breath, muted.
"Yeah, crescent moon's an informal way to say Theurge. Auspice -- birth moon -- that's one way to split werewolves up. Tribe's another. Then there's camps, which are like ... like political parties, within Tribes.
"But Silver Fangs divide themselves up further. Because Silver Fangs, I don't know. We do Lodges and Houses too. Lodges are almost like a birth moon you choose. You get born as something that influences who and what you are, but you can choose too. There's a Sun Lodge and a Moon Lodge. One's more physical and direct, the other's more mystical and subtle.
"Houses are bloodlines, though. My mother belonged to House Gleaming Eye, so I guess I do too. There's a bunch others. One is called Crescent Moon, and they're the oldest House, so old they call themselves Clan Crescent Moon. And the ones with the oldest, purest blood there -- they're the ones that tend to celebrate ancient rites like Maslenitsa.
"They're usually so formal, so reserved. See themselves as living embodiments of what it is to be Fang, so they're always trying to keep up appearances. And some of them have blood so pure they look ... strange. Very refined, but very feral too. Think strangely, too.
"Anyway." It's a long tangent, and he's surprised at himself, everything he's suddenly divulged. "Point is, Maslenitsa is one of the few times they can cut loose. And some of them really go on benders. Maybe that's why the masks. So supposedly no one knows who did what. And with who."
Devon ParedesDevon waves her hand at him during the basics: birth moons, tribes. She has that! Mostly. Sort of.
She's eating her eggs and fruit like she was up for hours waiting for Rafael to have slept enough so she wouldn't feel bad for waking him. Which is what happened. But also, she knows she listens better when she doesn't interrupt and ramble. She knows she doesn't interrupt when she's eating. So she eats.
He mentions Sun Lodge, physical and direct, and she raises her eyebrows at him as if to make a wild guess that she knows where he belongs, even if he doesn't care about such divisions and labels. Which she sort of thinks he might not.
The listening gets less silly as he goes on, though. As she just gets curious, and interested, and focuses in that way he's seen her focus when she's reading, or when she's taking over his kitchen with gurling pots of acrid herbs or reading her cards on the bedspread.
"That sounds..."
it sounds like a lot of things. Insane. Dangerous. Weird. Creepy. A little scary. Exciting. Interesting.
"...sort of sad," Devon finally finishes, softly. "Not pathetic-sad, I don't mean that. Just... it seems like a lot to always be carrying. Worrying about. And even when you get a chance to breathe, you can't be yourself. Or don't want to be."
She's thoughtful a moment, looking at her eggs, then looks at him. "But it also sounds sort of liberating. Most people, even people who aren't wolves, don't give themselves even one day a year to cut loose. And that's sadder."
Devon Paredes[GURGLING NOT GURLING OMG]
Rafael van der Valk"It is sad," he agrees. "Hate to be one of them."
Quiet, then, as she remarks on the nature of people and wolves. On liberation, or not. He pokes his quiche. He finds some meat and eats it at once.
"Guess you don't have that problem though. Cutting loose."
Devon ParedesFor a half-moment, she thinks he's saying he does hate being one of them: a Silver Fang. Of that tribe. And she's shocked. And she's hurting for him, aching in a way --
before she realizes that he's glad he's not like the others. Relief hurts as much as the ache. She exhales. Leans over, inexplicable since he can't read her mind, and leans on his arm. Nuzzles his shoulder. Loves him.
He says what he says about her and she raises her eyebrows. Thinks to be offended. What exactly does he mean by that, and so on. But it has no energy behind it, and it passes as soon as he brief worry that he doesn't like who he is.
"That's true," she says, thoughtful. "But I think for me, partying -- drinking and dancing and all that -- isn't about cutting loose, because I don't feel like I have to hide that. I just enjoy it for what it is, because it's not a... release."
Devon chews on some sliced strawberries, swallows. "For me, cutting loose is... letting my guard down, I think," she says, her brow wrinkling with consideration, with serious thought. "Like getting back together with you even when it felt really scary, because I missed you, and I loved you so much already. That's the most out-of-control I've ever felt."
Rafael van der ValkDidn't even realize his chopped, abbreviated speech patterns could result in that sort of misunderstanding. Would understand her ache if he knew, though, because he feels something of the same right now. When she says it was scary. When she says she missed him, and loved him. When she says it made her feel out of control.
"Think maybe that's part of being in love," he says quietly. "Not being in control. Not being able to control anything. Just ... letting go, putting yourself out there, hoping the one you love doesn't let you down."
He shrugs again, big shoulders moving against his shirt, against her cheek where she leans on him.
"Was how it felt to me."
Devon Paredes"Well, we both suck at that," she says, toasting him with a bite of quiche on the end of her fork. "Letting go. Putting ourselves out there. Risking someone letting us down. Forgiving them when they do."
She looks at him. She's not teasing him, or them. She's serious.
"I'm really glad we keep doing this thing we're so bad at," she says softly. Sincerely.
Rafael van der ValkHe laughs a little, but not because he doesn't think she's serious.
Because he is serious. And so is she. And he looks at his food, which she made for him (sort of) while he was sleeping. This touches him. He eats some fruit.
Looks at her again. "We're not so bad at it anymore," he says. "We're almost getting good at it."
Devon ParedesShe made nothing this time, but she did order catering on his credit cards and later on when the lamb arrives with the mint jelly and the rosemary potatoes, she'll forge his signature like she did for the other deliveries -- of flowers, of baked goods. Maybe she was taught too late, but Devon never really absorbed the ideals of what a Good Kin should be like. All that support, all that selflessness, all that endlessly forgiving understanding.
But that's why none of what she does do for him has the taint of obligation on it, like a stench.
Instead, there's flowers that he surely knows she got more for her own joy than his, and meat in the quiche that he knows is because she gets him and wants him to be happy. That's all. And it's sweet.
Pure.
--
She smiles at him. Thinks of teasing him, but doesn't. Just looks at him, smiling that warm, sweet smile. "Almost," she echoes,
because in the end, she couldn't resist teasing at least a little.
Devon Paredes
Breakfast after that is a tender, warm thing between them. Everything they're eating is the same, but they share anyway. That's something that they're both good at. Hid it, at first, when neither of them wanted their kindness exposed or abused. But the truth is: when they care, they give. An invite into a party. A moment alone, a night of no talking. A place to live. A smile at the right moment.
A cranberry-orange muffin.
--
Devon blesses her tea before she drinks it, though one imagines this is already more than tea. Just like the stuff she puts on her hair is more than some light carrier oil and some essentials. Just like her family hangover cure is more than green sludge.
Rafael's seen a lot of her magic before. This quieter, less obvious stuff, not just making things float or doors slam or spoons bend. He's been in the kitchen when she's been brewing. He's seen her taste, measure, sniff, seen strange and rapid gestures she does with her deft, pale hands: like this clockwise twirl of her finger over the tea, the drawing of a cone over the mug with her palms. He knows she can read tea leaves as well as cards. His girlfriend is a witch. A real-life witch.
She holds the cup in both hands as she drinks. Her hands aren't cold, but she holds it like something precious. Smiles at him. Mentions, in an offhand way that only seems truly offhand to people who don't know her:
"I laid out a blanket in the garden. Under the tree. It's warm out today."
Then, less offhand, because she doesn't want to be too coy, or worse, seem like she's trying to trick him:
"I'd like it if you'd come lie down with me outside."
And because she is also trying to be honest, and open, especially given the conversation they just had about risks, and trust, and love itself:
"Actually, I'd really like it if you'd make love to me."
Rafael van der ValkNot much conversation over breakfast, but that's hardly unusual. Most days -- most moments -- wolf seems to prefer to exist in a certain silence, companionable or otherwise. Companionable, with her.
They share their food, even though it's the same. He wants her to eat off his plate. Consciously or otherwise, he understands the significance of a forkful of eggs, a bite of toast, a muffin -- that costly and soothing balm laid onto his wounds as a form of gratitude, and apology.
Afterward he shares her tea. It is not terrible. He drinks it in a mug, not knowing enough to hold it in both palms; would probably dwarf the mug in his hands anyway if he tried. His eyes go to her at once as she mentions the blanket, the warmth. She doesn't need to go on, but she does. It is a certain form of vulnerability, even as she gets more and more direct. Something in his face softens. His regard, too. It's so naked and tender a moment he has to deflect it a little:
"Called it 'fucking', last time."
Devon ParedesThe corner of her mouth curves upward in an amused little smirk, her bright eyes twinkling a tad before she softens again. "Is fucking," she admits. "Also the other thing, though," she adds softly, as if having said The Other Thing once, she needn't say it aloud again.
"Sort of always has been," Devon goes on, half-smiling at him, her eyes clear. "Maybe even the first time."
She twists a little, setting her mug of tea down beside her plate, then comes back to him, regarding him the way one does an equal,
a partner,
a mate.
"Sometimes it's something else too. Do you remember that time in the woods, when we were in the past?" She waits for him, but it's clear she has more to say about it.
Rafael van der Valk"Mm?" He's mid-sip; wipes his mouth thoughtlessly on his wrist, lowers the mug. Facing her now too; forearms on his thighs, shoulders rounded, relaxed. " 'Course."
Devon ParedesThey're facing each other now, on their barstools. Their knees touch, then casually interlock with the familiarity built up over the time -- years, now -- that they've been living together, sleeping together, getting in each other's way. Being each other's way.
"That was fucking," Devon says, "and making love. And it was this other thing, too." She cocks her head, but it's more like slowly letting her head drape to one side. Her eyes drift away briefly, searching for words, or for memory, or just looking at some spot in the past where they once were, coming together.
"By the time you found me in the woods, I was exhausted. Not just because I hadn't really slept. I kept... doing magic. And even when I don't entirely mean to, it takes something out of me." Her eyes drift back, come to his again. It makes her smile. Looking at him, that is. His vivid, deep green eyes. His almost irritatingly pretty face. It's a loose little smile, flitting hummingbird-like across her lips.
"Then you were with me, and I could feel you, and you made me come, and it gave me back some of what I needed. Some of myself. It made me stronger. Helped me keep going and do what we did. It was just us fucking, but it was also sort of... a ritual."
Her hands and his hands are touching now. Her palms are up, her fingers tangling with his. When did that happen?
Devon smiles at him again. It's less accidental this time. "This is going to sound gross and cheesy, but sometimes being with you is... well. Actual magic. For me, at least."
Rafael van der ValkThere's a certain wholeness to what she says; a completion that he doesn't have the words to add to. So he answers in other ways. In his hands strong on hers, gripping her fingers, her palms. In his hands moving to her body, scooping her up off her seat and pulling her across, onto his lap, close.
Exhales, and it sounds like a sigh, which sounds like contentment. He leans into her for a moment, tip of his nose touching her shoulder; bowing his brow there, too. Makes another sound, low, growl-ish. Kisses her neck and he must be in a good mood, he's so affectionate and rough and warm. He's playful -- as playful as he gets, anyway.
"Just told me my dick is actual magic," he says. The smirk is audible. "Know that, right?"
Devon ParedesDevon grins her lopsided grin when he scoops her up and puts her in his lap. The skirt of her sundress hikes up; she lets her legs drape to either side of his lap, and the garland of flowers she put around his neck earlier gets crushed slightly between their chests. Her arms come loosely around him as he bends his head to her, smelling flowers and sunlight and tea and breakfast-smells on and around her. There's something rumble-tumble about his affection, and it makes her feel intensely fond of him.
And then he says what he says, and she
throws her head back in laughter. Nothing quite like that grin: not lopsided but wide and freckled and Irish and unfettered. She swats him -- that is, she taps his back once -- and leans in, nuzzling him up til they're brow to brow, flower petals from her crown rustling against his hair. "Not your dick, asshole," she says, though she knows he was kidding. "Just you. You and me."
Rafael van der Valk"You and me," he repeats, softly, like he likes the way it sounds. And leans in to kiss her, there in that small space between her mouth and his, her body and his, her crown of flowers and his garland of the same. "You and me."
Those flowers rustle gently. A few are crushed, and some petals fall. It can't be helped, and they don't mourn that minor loss. They're both creatures of wild magic, after all. Know the turn of seasons, the patterns of life and loss.
Devon ParedesIf he doesn't kiss her after that echo of her, that echo of himself, then Devon will take back everything she said about magic, about making love, and maybe even fucking.
But he does kiss her. Leans into her, touching her, finding her lips opening for him. Her laughter subsides into something dark, slow, and sweet. Her arms wrap more closely around him as she deepens that kiss, pressing their bodies together. Firmly, now.
When she stops, it's to take a small breath. To open her eyes and look at him again. She doesn't say anything.
Her lips are red. Wet.
Rafael van der ValkTheir eyes open within a heartbeat of one another. They look at each other -- his eyes tracing between hers, over her face, the delicate nose, that mouth. Which isn't smiling now. Which is lips-parted, moist. A fucking temptation in every way.
He cups her face in his hand. He kisses her again, deeper still, firmer still. And when that one draws to a close he stands up, lifting her with him. Her sundress rumples between his arms, her back. Never seems to have learned to carry a girl properly: never carries her like a bride. Just hoists her up like this, face to face, straddling his body.
Could be worse. Could be all he knew was to toss her over one shoulder or the other. So at least there's this much: she's right-side up and she's secure in his arms, and he takes her outside because that's what she wanted.
Warm outside. Dry, not hot yet. Drift of breeze stirs the branches in the trees. There's a blanket on the grass, about where once upon a time he dropped a towel over her ass not because he thought she was cold but because he wanted to reach under it and get her off.
He kneels on that blanket when he gets there. He lays her down, and then -- that quick flicker of his eyes again, just like the first time, just like he thinks maybe someone's going to be watching.
Then he reaches under her sundress. He pulls her panties down, rather unashamedly.
Devon ParedesThis time when they kiss she sighs into it, melts bodily into it. That sigh ends on a soft moan of what sounds like appreciation. She knows him, after all this time, and rather well: she can feel the way he's about to move in his body just a second before he rises. When he does, her legs wrap effortlessly but snugly around him. That skirt of hers comes up even higher, and the soft backs of the thighs are the first place she feels the breeze on her skin when he takes her outside.
Devon smiles against his mouth. The kiss falls apart for a moment, just that moment, as she smiles like that. Kisses him again but not long enough to blind him; he's carrying her, after all. Out into the 'garden', as she calls it, because secretly she thinks 'yard' is a terribly ugly word for it and also because she thinks sooner or later she's going to have to start making it a real garden so that he doesn't continue his life bereft of such a lovely thing.
There's a blanket over there, under the tree. It's just a large blanket, something she found in a linen closet, and there's even a folded sheet beside it.
In case they get cold.
Or in case he wants to cover them.
The blanket is soft and the grass and ground underneath are soft, too. His knees don't jar as they would on, say, the floor of a gallery at an art museum where he's just chased his very new, easily estranged, not-quite-girlfriend. The earth receives, accepts, welcomes; it's warm enough that it's hard to remember what frozen earth feels like underfoot. The trees are still renewing their leaves, but from some nearby yard (garden) there is a tree or bush loosing tiny white petals of some kind or another that fly everywhere. After a rainshower they cover the cars in the neighborhood. They come into houses on the soles of people's shoes. They have scattered themselves on the blanket already, from some prior curl of wind through the air.
Devon is smiling at him as he checks around them, and Devon is lying back, her hands tugging on the front of his shirt to pull him with her. The wreath of flowers in her hair tips back and away, yellow and blue petals tangling in her hair. When he leans, the garland she made for him swings out, and she bats at it as
his hands go up her skirt. As his fingertips hook in her panties. As her hips lift, as he pulls them down her long, long legs, as she bends her knees and draws calves and ankles out.
And now she's grinning, pushing her hands up his shirt, not quite to take it off but to feel him, first and foremost,
warm and firm against her palms.
Rafael van der ValkKnees bend up and he's leaning down, impulsive, kissing her where her skirt rides up. Lips land on her kneecap, and it's a quick kiss but it's tender. Panties come off her toes; he tosses it aside, a bright flash on the green grass.
Her palms under his shirt. He sucks a breath in like this is unexpected, though it's not; it's just the touch of her. Breath brings his chest against her palms - his body hot, hard, curving and organic and alive. He kisses her, his flowers drooping onto her body, those tiny white petals stirring on the wind and scattering onto their blanket. Her hair.
There's a sheet there. He could cover them both, but really, who wouldn't know what they were up to. He settles for leaving their clothes on. He settles for his hands slipped into her sundress at the sleeves -- or lack thereof -- feeling for a bra to take off because even if he's not going to strip her naked he wants her as bare as he can get her. He's smiling too when he kisses her. Seems rare that they kiss like this, sharing some secret delight.
Devon ParedesNever used to do things like this: kissing her knee, for one. Wearing flowers. She never used to show so much of herself to him, either: talking about her magic, her feelings, the things she wants. She thinks of this, briefly, as a pair of cotton panties end up a pale pink splash across bright green. She thinks he's right: they're almost good at this. Loving each other. Being together.
She expects him to take off the flowers, but he doesn't. He leans forward into her touch, kisses her mouth as her head tips back on the blanket. Her hands move up his sides to his chest, rucking up that soft cotton t-shirt that is identical to about thirty percent of his other t-shirts. She revels in the touch, while experimenting with the kiss: smooths her palms over his hot skin while she whispers
"Bite me,"
as her lower lip brushes his teeth.
Rafael is looking for a bra, and there is one, but the sundress is snug against her chest. She grins to herself, grins as he kisses her, as he smiles into that kiss. Her arms release him, then cross and fold, and so much for leaving their clothes on: she pulls the sundress up over her half-bared body, tossing it wholesale.
It joins her panties. Now pink, now yellow, against green.
Her bra is sky blue, robin's-egg, forget-me-not. She arches up to wrap her arms around him, kissing him again, wrapping her bare legs around his still terribly-clothed body. Her hair is riddled with flower petals torn free from their stems and heads.
She puts her hands on his face when she kisses him this time. Her breath comes hot against his skin.
Rafael van der ValkStartled when she casts her dress off. Glances after it like maybe he might grab it, cover her up; then that quick whisk of his eyes over the neighboring houses -- their blank windows, visible over the yard walls.
Garden walls. Apparently he has a garden now, though it contains only grass and a couple trees, a scant few square feet of space.
Back to her then. "Neighbors," he mutters, like this would be sufficient to convey his shock and meaning, and maybe it is. Maybe she just doesn't care, because she certainly doesn't put her clothes back on. She kisses him: wraps her legs around him, her knees and shins pale in the sunlight, hair so dark with the petals so white.
"Fuck," he adds, still muttering, maybe because of what she asks. Or maybe because -- fuck it -- he grabs his shirt and he pulls that off, too, the flash of his muscular back joining her bare legs. His hands grasp and wander; he turns her over, if she'll let him, and kiss-bites his way over her shoulder.
Devon ParedesMiddle of a weekday. Most of his neighbors work for a living, their kids aren't on spring break yet so they're in school. No one is looking out at them, getting on the phone to the cops. And Devon is nearly nude and turning pink here and there, but not from embarrassment. Certainly not shyness. She's got that lopsided grin again, the slightly wicked one, seeing him look around, his feral fretfulness. It just makes her run her hands over him more insistently, makes her pull him closer to her so-very-close-to-naked body.
She exhales hotly when he mutters that profanity, and makes a low but gleeful little sound when he pulls off his shirt. His skin is warm as a fever on her inner thighs. When his hands roam down her sides and then hold her more tightly, she has a brief flicker of foreknowledge, and it makes her wet.
When he turns her over, she grasps at the blanket, at the grass underneath it, biting her lip as he kisses her skin, bites at her.
Rafael van der ValkSeems he still has a modicum more modesty than her: he has her on all fours but he covers her; he has his shirt off and she has ... almost everything off, but he leaves his pants on.
Or maybe it's some strain of protectiveness, ferociousness, shapeshifting in its own right. He doesn't want to be totally naked. He, for once, doesn't want her totally naked.
Just wants her under him, that slender body and that crackling wildness, those freckles, that pale skin that didn't carry over anything of her mother's resilience to the sun. Just wants her fingers grasping at the earth through blanket and grass. The little gasps when he leaves indentations from his teeth on her shoulder, her shoulder again, then her neck.
He gets his jeans open. He's not wearing a belt. Waistband of the denims are somewhere in the mid-ass vicinity and making its way down. He's pretty pale back there too; not like he goes around sunning those parts. He pulls his cock out of his pants, that part of him that they briefly and playfully argued over earlier: magic? not? -- and he's quite unmodest about this; rubs it up against her cunt, slaps it against her clit.
"Gonna get me reported," he grumbles, but it hardly seems to be deterring him at the moment.
Devon ParedesDevon turns her head over her shoulder and smirks at him, eyes flashing. He can see the flicker in her eyes when he rubs himself against her, slaps his flesh against hers. He can see her lips parting as she gasps.
"You could stop if you wanted to," she teases him, arching her back against him, pressing herself more firmly against his cock.
Rafael van der Valk"Guess I don't want to," he admits, a mutter and a laugh rolled into one. And he kisses her -- that gasping mouth, leaning over her shoulder.
Enters her in that same moment, groaning. Now he's gripping at the ground too -- through the blanket, through the grass. Now he's touching her, his palm sliding up over her abdomen, his fingers pushing that half-on bra more of the way off, most of the way off. Has her breast in his hand when he fucks into her that first time, a concerted flexion.
Devon ParedesSurprises her a little, when he slides into her. Not startlement, and it isn't like she's unready. Just surprise: a gasp into his mouth, the tiniest of noises at the back of her throat. She rolls with it, metaphorically and literally, moving her body to accept him, opening her legs a little farther to welcome him.
Her bra is eased off her shoulders by his searching hands and, perhaps, his grasping teeth. It topples down her arms, a loose and colorful set of cuffs around her wrists. Her breasts are sensitive, he knows how sensitive, and she moans when he thrusts, tearing her mouth from his because she can't, because it's too much, because it's good.
Rafael van der ValkBra never matches her panties. Well, almost never. Maybe there was that once. But bra slips down her arms, and now her tits are in his hand, and she's moaning like it's too much, like it's too good, and he knows where she's at because he's making the same sound. Drops his brow to the nape of her neck and he's groaning against her back, the narrow little valley of her spine.
He still thinks he might get arrested, or reported, or at the very least kicked out of the HOA. Just doesn't seem very important right now. Shrinks down to nothing beside the staggering significance of her skin, her cunt, their bodies. His heart, and hers, and how he feels about her in his. His hand -- the one on the ground -- finds hers. It's mostly blind. His eyes are closed. He grasps her fingers, her palm. Grips her tight like she's a lifeline, or maybe he is, while they fuck.
Under the tree. In the grass. On that blanket she laid out for this express purpose, maybe thinking of the ways he might fuck her later while she did it. He's not that creative, and she probably narrowed it down to two, maybe three possibilities. He is ardent, though, and almost frighteningly in love with her.
Devon ParedesOne of these days he might very well get arrested, reported, or kicked out of the HOA. So far they don't even want him to host the meetings. If you asked Devon about it, however, she'd just ask you what an HOA is. All the same, she doesn't want her boyfriend to end up a registered sex offender, hence the sheet she provided in case his modesty overcame his lust.
It never really has, but she thinks it's entirely possible that one day it might.
--
Their hands find each other, interlace, and grasp. She rocks with him on top of the blanket, biting back cries that may, in fact, draw unwanted attention from the neighbors. She aches. She sweats, too, as he fucks her a little faster, as she fucks him back a little harder. It's a warm day, as though nature itself is celebrating the equinox by bursting into color and heat, and Rafael as a lover is comparable to a furnace, a wildfire, a fever.
As she knew he would be, when she spread this blanket out. When she went and got a folded sheet to put beside it. When she braided the stems of flowers together into crowns, garlands. Truth be told, Devon isn't that creative, either. Sometimes she is on top. Sometimes he is. Sometimes he turns her over. Sometimes they go down on each other. Anything beyond that, including times he spanks her ass or her clit with his cock, is shocking enough to make her gasp. Talking dirty occasionally and pulling her hair sometimes is about as exciting as she asks him to be.
She is happy with this. With him. With being with him, with being loved by him.
--
When she's close, he can feel her squirming underneath him, bucking slightly, trying to bounce herself on his cock. She's touching herself, or maybe he is, working her up to orgasm as her teeth dig into her lower lip. Say this for Devon: she does her best to keep quiet when they're outside, even though the very sound of their bodies slapping together strikes her as unbearably erotic. The cries she's biting back get more rhythmic, higher-pitched. He can feel it in her flesh, hear it in her voice, sense it in the way her cunt clenches and quivers around his cock, seconds -- milliseconds -- before she comes, her mouth opening, but no sound coming out,
though she'd be moaning aloud if they were in his bedroom. All the same, he can feel it in her heartbeat, her trembling, all the sounds she isn't making.
Rafael van der ValkHer heartbeat. Her trembling. All the sounds she isn't making.
Turns him right on, that. Something so erotic about the way she holds back this time. What she holds back. Her muffled cries, and that final silence. Her teeth in her lip and her hand in his and the winding, writhing, coiling tension in her body. It's his hand on her clit this time -- he's learned that much by now -- and it just makes this better. Makes him feel like he's fucking her right into that orgasm, makes him feel like it's something he's done. For her.
He kisses her neck, when she comes. He bites at her shoulder, teeth scraping her skin, not quite catching. His fingertips are firm and motionless on her clit; he never stops fucking her, though. He fucks her right through that orgasm, fiercely, the way he fucked her into it. Even after she's collapsed onto her forearms, cheek to the blanket, he's still fucking her -- slower now, an easy, steady rhythm while she comes down.
Wraps his arms around her, after. Tender. Nuzzles her cheek and kisses her temple; feels like he needs to take care of her now, his skinny thing, his witchy, blue-eyed girlfriend. Cock's all wet from her when he pulls out of her, and while he nudges and nuzzles and coaxes her into turning back over he's stroking himself, uncaring of the mess. When she's facing him again he kisses her. It's a slow kiss, and -- all things considered -- pretty fucking patient.
Not endlessly patient, though. Ravenous, physical thing: he wants her still. Wants to come. Wants her to open her legs again, so he parts them with his hands; wants to be inside her again, so he fits himself to her and presses into her, grunting behind closed teeth. There's sweat on his neck, sweat on his back, sweat on the sides of his face. He's almost unbearably hot when he covers her again, grabbing ground under her. Blanket stretches beneath her, pulls tauter. He's kissing her while he fucks her this time, at least for a while; then the kiss comes apart and he's just fucking her.
Rather hard, if one is honest about it. Hard, and fast, and with a certain earnestness: honest about his intentions, honest about his wants. He chases down his orgasm while she's still loosejointed from hers. He doesn't waste time. There's no attempt to make this last longer; he isn't refined enough for that. He grasps her hip when he comes, holds her there to take it; bites her the way he does so often, at least when she's not telling him not to.
He doesn't do a great job of keeping quiet. He makes quite a bit of noise.
Devon ParedesShe sort of loves it when he does this: fucks her and touches her and delivers her to her own orgasm, holding off his own as she ends up sweating and shaking and screaming -- or, in this case, trying very hard not to scream. She loves it when he kisses her and nuzzles her and turns her over, even though she's limp and sleepy and still trembling. She loves the way he eases her thighs apart and she loves, in particular, watching him jerk himself off as he looks at her.
Devon sighs, her chest rising, falling as she pants for air. There's a brief coolness on her skin, welcome, as Rafael is easing her onto her back like he does. It feels good. She needs cooling. But all the same, when he comes over her again, wraps himself around her, fits himself to her, kisses her: Devon welcomes him. Wraps her arms around him even though she can barely move her legs. She touches his sides, his chest, sighing into his mouth.
It's a strange limbo between them, these moments between her coming and him fucking her again: she realizes it's a discrete experience, whole unto itself but utterly dependent on what comes just before and just after. Sometimes it lasts only seconds. Sometimes a minute, maybe a few. When she's this tender, overly warm thing, awash in pleasure and fluidity, and he's balancing between ferocious animal and gentle lover, because he is both. Devon knows she is rarely this vulnerable, this open, this wordlessly open to him. She thinks he is rarely as comfortable holding that balance, that his love and his rage are almost never as at peace with one another, working together rather than warring against one another.
Her hands stray into his hair, her eyes open to him as that kiss ends. As they descend again, rise again, as the moment shifts and becomes something else, moves forward,
as it always does,
and must.
--
They are kissing when he fucks her again. She cries out this time, not holding back, because it really is too much, it's everything, and because she can't stand it but it's so good, all the same. He can't kiss her forever; she tips her head back and groans. The blanket is rumpled as fuck beneath them, a mess of wrinkles and tangles of fabric now, the underside grass-stained and the topside covered in sweat and flowers. She mutters to him, nonsense things, unnecessary things,
that's it
fuck me
come in me
fuck your cum in me
fuck
fuck, rafa
give it to me
and some sounds that are trying to be words but never quite make it, like whisps of clouds that almost resemble a shape before all sense of form is blown away.
--
His hand grips her hip. His teeth tighten on her shoulder. She whimpers as he comes, as he roars and grunts and groans on top of her, his jeans quite dislodged now, fallen somewhere on his thighs. It's hot. It's erotic.
And that is why, as he's coming down, Devon -- still panting, still making those soft noises -- reaches down between their bodies, her fingertips unerringly finding her clit, starting to work herself up again even as his cock is still twitching inside of her.
Rafael van der ValkHis turn to be rather splintered. Fallen apart. Drifting islands of thought struggle to coalesce: he tries to figure out what the fuck she's doing. What is she doing? She's reaching down. Then he recognizes it, the rhythm or the subtle movements in her forearm, something.
She's touching herself. The thought is bright as a meteor, lights him up from the inside. He can hardly stand it, so he groans, and he certainly doesn't start fucking her again because -- well, he fucking can't. Thinks he might die if he tried.
Never say he isn't a generous lover, though. Because -- heavily, druggedly -- he paws at her, he has his hand on her breast, he leans down and while she's working herself up, while he's still on that shuddering downslope after the orgasm, he's sucking at her nipple. Can't decide whether to watch her face or watch her fingers, her slick cunt. Tries to split his attention. And all the while he's licking at her tits, pleasuring her while she pleasures herself because...
well. Because he loves her, he supposes.
And because he wants to see her come again. Because he wants to feel it when she tenses, when she arches, when she falls apart and shivers and clenches. Because it's fucking hot. He's honest about that, too.
Devon ParedesOr the look on her face. The one he sees close up sometimes as he's fingering her, touching her, getting her off while he fucks her or just... while he gets her off. The way she looks. The way she whimpers,
which turns into a sharp little outcry when he starts licking her breasts. He can feel that, too: in the shudder that goes through her, in the sudden flush of heat and wetness on his cock, in the quickening of her hand's eager little motions.
She's panting rather helplessly now, moving herself on his cock in a way that must be unbearable to him right now, after all this. It doesn't take long, at least. For her it's almost one long orgasm, stretched out between the first peak and the second. So it's only moments before she's coming again, grabbing his upper arm with her free hand as though she thinks she might float away if she doesn't hold onto him.
She does cry out this time, but... she's burying her face against his neck, nestling herself in the crook there, her mouth open against his skin, curling against him as it hits her.
Rafael van der ValkThere it is. There's that look on her face. There's the way she moves, and her hand grabbing at him as though he were the last point of purchase on this earth. There's her body rocking against his, which drives him out of his mind, which still makes him take her by the hip, still makes him grind her against him like he wanted to intensify the moment, make it better for her, make it just as unbearably good for her as it is for him.
Because it is that. Unbearable. And while she turns her face to his neck he bites her on the shoulder again, gripping her there while she moans. Gripping her while he reaches down to twine his fingers with hers, to touch her as well, to drive her a little ways out of her mind because, well, it only seems fair.
--
Afterward they're lazy as summer itself, sprawled out in the garden. There are grass stains on the underside of that rumpled blanket. There's grass softly prickling against his side, one shoulder, where he's slipped half onto the lawn.
Her dress is a little ways away and he thinks maybe he should cover her up. He thinks he should definitely pull his pants up. What he does instead is to find her hand. Take her hand. Bring it to his mouth, where he sucks the slick off her fingers; kisses her palm as though to seal a secret.
Devon ParedesAfterwards, Devon is... well. For a while, she is barely conscious. She has her eyes closed, her cheek against his body, her hands holding onto him, and he's still inside of her, and she can feel his heart beating into her own heartbeat, like there's nothing between them. Not flesh, not space, not even air. She would never say it aloud, this girl who has said the words 'make love' all of once the entire time she's been with him, but she gets what it means to be one with another person.
This.
Sooner or later, though, their skin cools enough that he can feel the breeze on his bare ass. It stirs her hair, and the flowers spread out around them, blowing tangled and broken daffodils and daisies around them. Devon gradually opens her eyes, looking at him as he's glancing over at her sundress on the grass. He's not looking right at her for a moment, and she smiles, but then she follows his attention to her hand. Watches him lift it,
kiss it,
lick her fingers.
Devon's lips part in a slow gasp, a nearly silent pant for air.
"I take it back," she whispers, as he cleans her hand with his tongue, animalistic and erotic and tender all at once. "Your dick may actually be magic."
Rafael van der ValkLaughs. Sudden, quick, open thing, that laugh, a rarity from him. And he doesn't kiss her palm after all. Kisses her instead, tail end of that laugh still in his chest.
"Yeah, well," he murmurs, "could say the same about your pussy."
Devon ParedesCan taste herself on his mouth when he kisses her this time. She doesn't mind that. It threatens to turn her on again. That flicker dies quickly, though; she thinks she might pass out if she tried another go-round.
Drowsy, she smiles at him, one corner so curved it's almost a smirk. Thinks love you but for once, doesn't say it. Doesn't think he doesn't know. She lifts her head from the blanket and kisses him softly, wherever she ends up landing: the apple of his cheek, a spot above his eyebrow. His mouth, maybe.
"Well," she says, talking slowly because she's rather drunk on sex at the moment, "I already knew that."
Rafael van der ValkCloses his eyes to that kiss, which is small and tender and fond. Leans into it, animal-like, heavy in his affection.
She lies back and talks like she's drunk. He opens his eyes, smirking, then smiling. Leans down and kisses her again -- this one definitely lands on her mouth -- and, when he draws back, reaches over and grabs that sheet.
Gets modest. Spreads it over them, turning over, covering up their nudity and their nakedness and their recently-postcoital selves. Now he's looking at that perfect blue sky, crystalline behind those dark tree-leaves, branches.
"This something you guys do in Boston too?" he asks after a while, and maybe she thinks he's asking about backyard sex until she sees him holding up the garland, thumb hooked under that somewhat mashed circle of flowers. "Or you just make it up?"
Devon ParedesDevon doesn't mind his modesty. Ever, to be honest. Just the one time, when apparently it made him push her away, but that was so long ago that the hurt doesn't sting anymore. She snuggles close to him as he opens the sheet and covers them up. It's not enough to make them too warm, just enough to cover their nakedness.
She tucks herself against him, pillowing her head on his arm, his shoulder, his chest. So many parts of him make a good pillow.
When he speaks, she absolutely thinks he's talking about backyard sex at first. Then she sees he's holding the flowers. She grins. Shrugs a little.
"A little of both," she admits. Then, musingly, as she looks up at the sky with him: "Ostara -- or Eostre -- is a fertility goddess." Her arm covers his torso under the sheet. She looks over at him. "I just thought... if someday I'm going to be petitioning spirits of fertility and motherhood to help and protect me, maybe I should start celebrating and honoring them now."
Half-seriously, or perhaps to deflect from the inherent vulnerability and ache of that confession, she adds: "Goddesses hate johnny-come-lately worshippers."
Rafael van der ValkToo late, if her intent was to deflect. He's already caught it, that hint of vulnerability and ache, the honesty of that little confession. He wraps his arm around her as she pillows her head one some solid meaty part of his solid meaty self, and he kisses her hair because that's the only part he can easily reach.
A million things he can say right now, but he has the wisdom to understand that she'd tried to deflect, which means maybe she wants to deflect. So all he says is, "Ostara really into flower leis or something?"
Devon ParedesHonestly she doesn't mind that he catches it. She would mind if he thought she was manipulating him, trying to angle for pity, asking for something undeserved. But that isn't what it is, and deep down she knows that, and he knows it, too.
Honestly... it comforts her when he catches it, holds her a little closer, kisses her hair like she's precious to him, communicates something in that kiss that he so seldom has words for.
She laughs. "Flowers are pretty obvious symbols, babe. Like eggs and bunnies."
Rafael van der Valk"Oh." Huffs a laugh too, suddenly aware of his momentary intellectual density. "Fertility goddess. Right."
And quiet then, a little while. Holding each other under that thin sheet, which is just enough to cover them; just light enough that they don't overheat. Breeze wanders by, cools them. Feels good.
After a while: "What can I do to help? With Ostara. Or whoever."
Devon ParedesShe feels a pang, there: she didn't mean to make him feel bad, or stupid, or dense. She hugs him tighter, wants to say something, but on some level she knows she's overreacting. Rafael doesn't think he's stupid. And if she made a big deal of it, that would probably just call attention to it and make it worse.
Devon opts for this: "Well, obvious if you're a witch or a gardener," she says, laughing a little with him. She kisses him, too. She slides her leg up over him, hugging him with more of her body. They are a right mess: clothes gone or askew, hands filthy, mouths filthy, bodies... well.
She doesn't mind, though. That's what all of this is about. It's all part of the same thing. All the same magic.
Props herself up next to him, too, resting on her elbow and looking at him. Her hair is a tangle of dark strands and bits of flowers. Some strands are stuck to her hairline; there's a little white petal from a nearby tree stuck on her forehead.
"You are," she answers him, smiling. "Letting me drag you up to eat eggs and wear flowers and drink tea and fuck in the garden." Her hand rests on his chest. She likes the feeling of his heavy, thudding heartbeat under her palm. "Plus, when it comes to getting on the good side of nature spirits, I think you're covered." She leans over, kisses him on the corner of his mouth tenderly.
Rafael van der ValkAnother one of those little huffs, closing his eyes as he is kissed. "I don't know," he says, mostly joking, "do spend an awful lot of time in cities."
His hand covers hers. He lifts his head as she withdraws, catching her halfway, kissing her again. And when that too closes, he sits up, his body flexing beneath her palm, the sheet falling to his lap.
"Let's go in," he says, and brushes that one petal from her forehead. "Get clean."
Devon ParedesShe's bare breasted in the breeze now, when he sits up and that sheet tumbles down. She smiles at him, an utter mess, and just nods. Leans forward and places at kiss on his lips, like a blessing.
"You going to carry me again?" she asks, by which she means: you should carry me again.
Rafael van der ValkPretends a grumble, but then he gets up on his knees. Pulls his underwear up.
"Yeah. Let me get my pants back on."
Which he does. And then, fly zipped and button buttoned, he reaches over to her, and it turns out he does know how to carry a girl properly after all. Scoops her up in his arms, pausing for her to snag up the blanket and the sheet if she wants to, then carries her into the house.
Into their den. Together.
