The holidays wear Devon out. Even though she and the wolf don't do as much as big families or some other couples, it's still more people and bigger crowds than she's used to. There's the party they throw for their anniversary. There's the trip to Boston for Thanksgiving. There's the even bigger party up at the mountain house for Christmas, though this year it's less Tuxes and Sequins and more... well, fun.
For New Year's she asks him if they can just maybe go to dinner, like maybe a nice dinner but just the two of them, and then a couple of days later she asks if maybe they can just get Thai food instead and curl up on the couch watching movies so a reservation is cancelled and Thai food is ordered and after they eat they curl up on the couch with his chest to her back and his arm around her and that is why she doesn't fall off the couch when, shortly before the cheering and ball-dropping on the screen (whether in a movie or in the current Times Square), Devon falls asleep on Rafael's arm.
It's been a couple of weeks, and things are getting back to normal. He already knows that she doesn't care about Valentine's Day and may actively dislike it, because they've never done anything about it and she has never done anything more than buy cheap chocolate when it is fifty percent off and tell him if he wants some he can buy his own.
Which she doesn't mean. She shares her chocolate with him. She loves him, after all.
--
It's still winter. Still cold outside. The light still sears through the horizon at sunset. And it is sunset when she comes to visit him in his bed. He's been almost fully nocturnal for a few nights now, due in part to some things he and his pack have been doing, some battles fought, some patrols run, some creatures killed. He comes in and sometimes they eat a late dinner together or maybe breakfast and then he is falling into bed, sometimes to heal, sometimes simply to sleep before night falls and he gets up again.
Devon slips in this time, though. Cracks his door and pads in softly on socked feet, closing the door gently behind her. She isn't sneaking, isn't trying her best not to wake him, but she isn't trying to be jarring, either. She walks over to his bed and lifts up the covers and climbs in next to him, into the oven of warmth he's created between his sheets. She's wearing her little tank top and shorts, those soft grey things with the pale pink lace here and there, her hair loose and tousled. It's far too early for her to be thinking about bed, except:
his bed, with him.
And blanketing herself in, she settles beside him, wrapping her arm around his waist, tucking herself against his side.
She's sort of waiting for him to wake up, but she doesn't try to wake him.
RafaelSomewhere along the way, wolf stopped waking up the instant girl steps into his room. Somewhere along the way, his primitive brain stopped registering her as other and started reading her as own. And so now she can slip in the door, she can pad across the carpet, she can lift up a corner of the covers and slip in between the sheets, she can slide right up beside him with her arm winding around his waist, and all the does is grunt a little, shift in his sleep.
A little later he rolls on his side, flops his heavy arm over her. Sleeps a little longer.
Then, slowly and by degree, begins to wake. Eyes opening, irises glinting green behind black lashes. Looks at her a moment fuzzily, distantly, and then closes his eyes and swallows and moves closer. Bites her shoulder, gently, in some strange and softly savage greeting.
DevonUsed to be, he would wake when the door cracked. Relax again when he saw her, because she has no scent for him to catch even when his eyes are closed. Used to be he'd stir when she was walking over, then he'd lift up the covers for her himself. Used to be that even when she got into bed, he'd wake at the depression of his mattress and see her climbing in with him. Nowadays she gets all the way to cuddling his bare body and he recognizes her, expects her, because she lives with him again. Her home is here with him. She belongs right where she is, her cheek on his body, the smell of her conditioner and shampoo in his nostrils as he breathes.
That breathing is so heavy and deep and animal, she thinks. It makes a little noise every time he exhales, but not a snore. She gently strokes his lower back as he holds her, pins her with his arm. She closes her eyes and listens to his heartbeat and it almost, almost makes her sleepy. It's nighttime, it wouldn't be too strange even for her to fall asleep now that it's dark outside, even if it isn't even six pm yet. She stays awake, but this helps. This relaxes her, calms her, makes her feel close to him, and loved, and safe.
But she's awake when his eyes start to open. When he finds her not just with his big heavy arm but his eyes. When he moves closer and she smiles softly, nuzzling his cheek. He bites her, and her eyes close again. She exhales softly, sighing in welcome, and contentment, and comfort.
"You sleep good?" she murmurs, holding him, her hands still moving gently over his back.
RafaelLong deep inhale. Sounds almost endless, like his diaphragm is bottomless. Then the exhale, pushing a few strands of her hair back over her shoulder. He kisses her shoulder; rolls on his back.
"Yeah. You going to bed? What time's it?"
DevonShe laughs a bit as his exhale hits her skin like a miniature gust of wind. It doesn't last very long, the laughter. She's quiet tonight. She loosens her hold on him as he rolls away, and smiles as she looks at him.
She loves him, and it hurts her for a moment, wrinkling her brow even as she smiles at his profile. She aches with it.
"Almost six, I think," she says. "Just wanted to be here when you woke up."
Nothing for a moment, just a pause. Her feet move against each other under the covers, wiggling to get comfortable.
"Wanted to talk to you."
RafaelSubtle shift in him, there. Sharpening, focusing.
"Yeah? About what?"
DevonShe moves closer to him. Tucks herself close again, wraps her arm over him.
"It's kind of... hard. Do you want to wake up a bit first?"
RafaelThinks about that for a second. Then nods.
"Yeah. Gonna grab a shower. Get some breakfast. Let's talk downstairs."
Pauses, though, before he vaults out of bed. Pauses to rise up on an elbow, lean over her. Kisses her, morning breath and all, his big hand spreading over her side like he has some primordial claim to her.
Pauses a beat after that too. Brow to hers, quiet; thumb stroking her through that soft sleep-set of hers.
"Okay," he whispers, like they've agreed to something. And then he does get out of bed, thumping across the floor, getting in the shower.
--
Downstairs, a little later: wolf frying up three eggs, some bacon. Toasting toast. Pouring milk. Finishes cooking his simple breakfast -- a serving for her if she wants it -- and sits at the breakfast bar to eat it.
Pretty deceptively easy way to get into it, whatever it is she wants to discuss:
"So. What's up?"
Devon"All right," she murmurs, and sounds like she means it. She doesn't let him vault right away. She hugs him tightly, holds him, soaks in his warmth, and when he turns over to her, she kisses him back. She touches his chest. It's not usual that they part, after touching each other like that. It's not usual that they draw back, gentle, looking at each other, and don't end up stripping the covers down, pushing her shorts down, her top up, fucking in his warm bed.
But this evening they don't. He looks at her and she looks at him and they have agreed to this. She smiles a little at him, and as he showers, she curls up in his bed, holding his pillow, smelling him on it.
--
She's gone when he comes out. She's downstairs. No coffee brewing, but she's heating up water in the kettle to make tea, some magic blend of her own. That, he can almost smell: a sort of ozone sensation as she pours the boiling water over herbs, a prickling at his gnosis. Recognition of something otherworldly, even though it is not quite like his own strangeness. She doesn't ask for breakfast: she just finished dinner a while ago.
But she sits with him, hands cupped around her teacup, and he asks her what's up.
Still wants to laugh at this, despite it. She doesn't.
"Remember when I thought I was pregnant, and we went to the doctor, and she said to come back if I still didn't have my period?"
Pauses there. Even broaching this subject is likely enough to let him know what she meant when she said hard. This is hard. But she waits for him to nod, to acknowledge, to freak out -- to do whatever it is he might need to do just then.
Even if it's just to nod.
RafaelAcknowledgement is understated, in the end.
He pauses. He puts his fork down. And meets her eyes. And nods.
DevonShe doesn't want him to stop eating. She almost winces, but doesn't. She can't blame him. She does say:
"I'm... okay." That isn't the right word. Even saying it seems to make her realize how not-okay she is. What she means is, though it's harder now to talk by a measure: "I'm not sick, or hurt, or dying, I don't have cancer, any of that. I'm safe."
She gets that out there first. Heaven knows how he'd feel if she went on, chronologically, and he started asking himself, wondering.
Devon swallows. "But... I never had one again. Not really. Just... spotting and like. But it was the holidays and we kept traveling and she told me to give it a few months, so I did, and...I went back again, just before New Year's, and she did more tests, and then I went in a week ago and she did more tests, and... day before yesterday I saw her again to talk it over."
There is no need now to stop and give him time to absorb, or time to ask questions, or whatever it is. She breathes in and exhales and she has had nearly two days to live with this so she isn't dissolving, right now, at the breakfast bar.
She's even figured out how she wants to say it, because she doesn't know what he does and doesn't understand about female reproduction, and she doesn't want to talk to him like he's an idiot and she doesn't want to assume he knows everything he might need to know to understand, so:
she takes a breath. Another one.
"I... don't have a lot of eggs left," she says. "For how young I am. It could be I started off with fewer than normal, or I lost more than normal, but... there just aren't that many. By a lot. And the ones I do have are..." Devon frowns, trying to remember how the doctor put it, because she's not a doctor, and: "...immature? They're not deformed or anything, they're just... not quite developed the way they should, to do what they're supposed to."
RafaelIt's meant to be reassurance: she's not sick, or hurt, or dying. She doesn't have cancer. She's safe.
He's not reassured. He knows it's just run-up to what she does have. What is wrong. He's not even thinking about food now; has turned to face her on his stool, his big shoulders hunched a little, his brow beetled.
And then she starts talking. And he winces, visibly, the moment she says never. His heart is dropping. His gut is cratering. He waits for her to finish and then he waits for her to go on; he waits for her to tell him --
"Is there anything ... we can do?"
DevonThey have talked about this -- about babies, about babies maybe who have Devon as a mother and possibly Rafael as a father -- all of twice. Devon remembers both conversations with crystal clarity. Once was on a beach, and she said she liked the name Maeve. It was shortly before she was taken to another century, and then another plane of existence. The last time was months ago, when she was late, and they went to a drugstore, and the test was negative and he was mostly relieved and she, too, was mostly relieved.
Mostly.
She knows his brow just does that thing it does when he's thinking, or when he's concerned, or grumpy. It's his default expression sometimes. She doesn't fret over it, but she doesn't look at him. She's looking at his hands, and her own, now. And as she goes on, telling him about the multiple doctor's visits that he just hasn't gotten a bill for yet, or maybe she had them address them to her, or she's been sneaking her mail, or his people are just taking care of it without bringing it up because surely he knows what is going on, or --
He asks a question. She looks over at him.
He said 'we'.
Devon didn't realize how uncertain she was that he would say it like that, see it like that, like we, until he did.
"Um... sort of?" She winces a bit. "It's not impossible. There's medicines and therapies and like, that can help the eggs I do have, but there's different risks for different things, and some of them are a bit scary. Pretty much anything would mean... well. It'd have to be in vitro fertilization." She takes a breath but the exhale is deeper than the breath was. "The chances of getting pregnant through just having sex are really... really... really low. Next to impossible."
She closes her eyes. That's when her eyes feel hot. That's when he sees her face flush a bit as blood rushes towards it. She doesn't open her eyes yet, because when she does she will start to cry.
"And she said," Devon goes on, choking a bit on it, starting to reconnect with the initial swell of emotion that just a moment ago she'd been so proud of herself for not drowning in, "that if I want to have children, then I would have to get started in the next five years. At most. She said she would recommend three years or sooner."
Her eyes are still closed, but it doesn't help much, because tears are starting to leak out past her lashes.
RafaelHe said 'we', and she looks at him. His eyes meet hers, steady; earnest. Not the sort of adjective one might ordinary ascribe to him, brooding full-moon that he is. But he is earnest. He does mean it: we, and perhaps more than she understands.
Look in his eyes changes with what she says next. Not impossible, she says, and it's there clear as day: relief, hope. Imagine that. Few months ago they were huddled over that little indicator and neither of them was really admitting it but both of them were hoping it would be negative --
(mostly)
-- and when it was he was relieved; let's admit it. How that fits with this new relief is something he hasn't even tried to unpack yet. Probably won't for some time, if ever. It is what it is, relief quick and genuine. The two of them breathe together, his inhale longer than hers, her exhale deeper than his.
A moment later, another piece of information. A timeline, concrete and set. Five years. Three. Sooner. She's crying, and he's wrapping his arms around her, ferocious, dragging her off her barstool and into his lap. Wraps his arms around her tight, his hand cradling her head.
"Okay," is what he says. "Sooner, then. Now, if you want."
DevonDevon isn't going to try and answer him yet. She hasn't gotten to thinking about it yet. She has had enough time to wake up, see the papers and pamphlets again, and accept that it was not a bad dream. She has had enough time to sit at home and wonder how to talk to Rafael about this, because not talking to him about it wasn't an option. Maybe a year ago it would have been. Not now. But that's as far as she got. Knowing she needed to talk to him. Deciding she needed to talk to him soon. Deciding what she needed to say to him. Everything else had to be stopped, couldn't even be contemplated, until she heard what he had to say back. What he did. Saw what he thought.
What he had to say was 'we'. What he does is pull her into his arms as soon as tears start trickling out of her eyes. What he thinks is sooner. Now. If that's what she wants.
Devon cannot answer him. She just lets herself cry now, now that he has heard the thing she's been living with for a couple of days, a few weeks, by herself. Now that it's out there and she can't procrastinate it away anymore by not talking about it. Now all she does -- and, perhaps, all she really has to do -- is let herself cry.
She curls up in his lap. Sits sideways on him, legs tucked up, head on his chest, starting to cry in earnest like she hasn't yet. Some of it is relief: he's not squirming away, he's not mad at her, he's not mad at the doctor, he's not just mad and misdirecting it anywhere he can. He's not trying to figure out what she did wrong, what happened, what's wrong with her, how she let this happen. And truth be told that she didn't expect any of that, not really, but she didn't know, either. She didn't know how he might respond, at all. And now she knows. And as it turns out:
he said 'we'.
She shouldn't be surprised, and in a way she isn't. Just relieved. Just relieved to see that he is hopeful that there's still a possibility. That he apparently does sort of want children, too, or maybe just with her, though right now it doesn't matter to her which it is. What matters is that...
they are on the same page. And it's a sad, hard, frightening page, but not a despairing one.
so that's at least part of why she cries, too.
RafaelWrenching to hear her cry like that. Wrenching to just hold her, feeling the sobs wrack her narrow frame. Wrenching -- more so -- to think about why: that she bore this burden alone for a while; that she bears this burden at all.
Doesn't even occur to him that she didn't know how he'd respond. If he'd be angry. Shout and growl, storm out, slam doors, kill someone. Who could blame her? Once upon a time she came home drunk, her makeup smudged, and he almost broke a wall.
Now he holds her while she cries, his shirt turning the color of wet concrete here and there. He thinks of five years, three years, sooner, maybe now. He thinks of in vitro, doctors' offices, all these details he can barely comprehend, had only heard of on TV, netflix.
DevonBeen different for a while. Been different since they learned how to occasionally talk to each other. How to come back from a fight. How to stop storming off as the go-to response to everything. Been different since they learned to laugh together and not flinch when they think they're being laughed at. Somewhere along the line they got on the same team.
Of course he would hurt to think of her carrying something alone, or carrying something this heavy, without him there with her. Helping her. Carrying it, too. Because it's different now, between them. They're different.
--
It takes time for Devon to stop crying. Not forever; it isn't grief. Not quite. Something isn't lost, with this. It's just changed. Harder than normal. Harder than seems fair. Harder than is fair. But he holds her and isn't trying to get her to stop, isn't shushing her or trying to reassure her that everything is fine. He lets her cry, and as a result: she doesn't need to cry as much.
It's still a lot. His shirt does get wet. She eventually sniffs, and uses her tank top to wipe her eyes, and uses his napkin from next to his plate to blow her nose. She doesn't apologize for blowing her nose. She hangs on to the napkin after folding it up again, taking a breath. A couple of breaths. Coughing slightly, because she cried pretty hard. Sniffing again, and leaning on his shoulder.
Doesn't say anything for a while.
He doesn't say anything, either.
--
"I don't know," she whispers eventually. "I haven't gotten that far."
As though no time has passed from his promise of sooner, now if she wants. She hasn't lost those words, no matter how many minutes passed between. They're what she's been holding on to.
"Didn't want to have to think about it so soon. I'm not... I don't feel ready. But I'm scared if I wait til I feel ready, then... it won't happen. It'll be too late."
She sniffs deeply. Exhales slow. Thinking 'too late, much less saying it, made her want to cry again. She takes two more deep breaths so she won't.
"I don't want to decide right now," she whispers. "I just needed to tell you."
RafaelLittle saltwater patches on their shirts. His napkin borrowed and kept. He's oddly endeared; the emotion drifts to the surface amidst the rest of it, the pain, the uncertainty.
"Get why you did all this yourself, so far," he says quietly. "Think so, anyway. But ... from here on out, we do this together, okay?"
DevonShe feels tired. For her it isn't morning, it's evening, and she hasn't slept too good the last couple of nights for no reason whatsoever. She leans on his shoulder, his napkin folded and twisted and held in case she needs it again.
Doesn't get mad at her for not taking him with him to the doctor the half a dozen times she had to go. He says he gets it, and she believes him. She thinks he would probably do the same. Thinks he probably understands her thinking: no reason to bring him into it when it might just stress him out, when there was nothing he could do, when it was mostly getting vials of blood and cups of pee taken and then waiting, and waiting, and getting poked and prodded and swabbed without knowing what the hell was going on. No reason to make him carry it with her when it would just upset him.
That thinking wasn't really correct, but he doesn't waste time telling her that. Doesn't blame her for forgetting, or ignoring, for a while, that she can rely on him. That he's in this with her. That he might want to be in it with her.
Just tells her to stop. Not with that word, but with better ones.
Devon nods. She doesn't say anything. "Yeah," she says, both in agreement and in acquiesence.
RafaelIn response, just his hand cupping her head. His brow to her temple, resting together for a moment or two.
Then he leans back; lets a little space open up. His hands drop to her waist, her thigh. He looks at her -- not her face but that leg his hand rests on, the subtle refraction of light over the texture of her skin. It's just a holding pattern for his attention.
"Anything we can do with spirits or -- witchery or something? To help?"
DevonShe stays close. Doesn't climb off his lap or worry about his breakfast getting cold. She knows he might want some space between them right now, maybe, but she doesn't. She tucks herself close, even presses her face against his neck, because she can smell him that way.
"Maybe," she says. "I know one of the ladies at Isis makes amulets. I can find out what herbs and things might help. Because even with IVF, sometimes it just doesn't... take. And I think that's where magic might help most.
"And after," she says, quieter. "To help make sure I... keep it."
Rafael"Don't just mean with having a kid," he says. "Mean you. Staying healthy. Not just today or three years from now or five. Rest of your life."
Devon"Babe, I am," she says, and now she opens up. Moves back a little, looks at him with her brow wrinkled somewhat. "I'm healthy. I just have fucked-up ovaries. Everything else is okay. I don't even get colds. Half the tea I drink is medicinal."
Devon lets go of the napkin and puts her hands on his face. Looks him in his eyes.
"I'm healthy. The only thing that doctor told me to change was to not drink so much and ease up on sodium. I'm all right."
RafaelHer eyelids are puffy. Her nose is pink. Tears were running; possibly snot too.
Her eyes are still the bluest blue he's ever seen. She puts her hands on him and inexplicably, inappropriately, just like the very first time, a frisson of electricity shivers through him.
He covers one hand with his. Grips it, kisses her palm.
"Okay," he says. "Believe you. Just worried."
DevonHer heart aches. She is a bit puffy and pink and there's no way to hide the fact she was crying. Quite a lot. For a while. But that blue never shifts. It never dulls.
She nods. She puts her hand back on him, touches his hair. She doesn't even notice the brief flicker of excitement in him, but she thinks -- inexplicably, inappropriately -- of all those times she thought, according to her cycle, she was ovulating on new moons. All those times she thought it was best to double up on birth control because she wasn't ready to be a mum. It hurts a bit to think of all the time she spent not knowing. And yet at the same time, she marvels at hearing Rafael say things like having a kid and he's talking about him. With her.
"Don't worry," she whispers to him, knowing this is an absurd request. "I won't... keep it to myself, again, if something's wrong. You don't either, all right?"
Rafael"Yeah," he affirms. Her hands are on his face. His hands are on her body. Their eyes are on each other, locked, and neither of them give a single fuck that his breakfast is getting cold. "I won't. It's you and me."
DevonHis breakfast and her tea are both getting cold. Are nearly room temperature at this point, actually. She moved up on his lap, shifted to straddle him somewhat, when she put her hands on his face to tell him that she's okay, she's safe, she's healthy. She can't have babies without a blend of magical and medical intervention, but she's otherwise: fine. Healthy. Okay.
Always something about his eyes meeting hers that makes her want to kiss him. Probably something to say there about connection, or about feeling seen and safe, known and loved. Probably something to say there about closeness of all kinds.
She does kiss him then, leaning forward and closing her eyes as their mouths touch. Her lips are soft and the kiss is chaste, relatively speaking, but somehow it's a deep, heavy sort of thing. She sinks into it, into him, sighing softly as she does.
RafaelWolf still smells of his morning (evening?) routine: mint of his toothpaste and inoffensive, vague freshness of his soap. Laundry detergent and fabric softener, too, from the fresh t-shirt he's put on; one of a thousand indistinguishable cotton things in varying shades of grey, brown, boring, plain.
He relaxes into that kiss. Wasn't even aware of his tension until it slides out of him, rounding his shoulders toward her, lowering his forearms onto the tops of her thighs; his hands folding softly to cover her lower back. They kiss each other slowly and adoringly, taking their time. Pause, and then he opens another one, different angle, just as lush.
DevonShe feels it: the softening of his body, the calm that comes back to him. She thinks it's because she kissed him, and this warms her, makes her feel oddly grateful. She wonders if the tension was fear for her, or just worry, or sympathetic ache, or some pain of his own he just discovered. All of it. She wonders if he felt like she was made of glass. Wonders about his thoughts, as she often does, but mostly:
she just feels glad to feel his body relaxing, his arms settling, knowing that this is as comforting for him as it is for her.
That first kiss slowly, slowly parts. Devon takes a small breath and Rafael: Rafael turns his head a bit, kisses her again, and the tender, full warmth of it sends a short quiver up her body that she wasn't expecting and doesn't think to suppress.
RafaelShe can't be blamed for wondering. He's so fucking opaque so fucking often, even now, even after their time together and his painfully sincere, pitifully bad attempts to be ... less so.
At least in this, he's never been particularly hard to read. At least in this, his want for her has always been clear. It's clear now, that second kiss deeper than the first and deepening again as she quivers. His hands seem to follow that little shiver up her spine; fingers spreading between her shoulderblades, palm pressing her close, closer.
Next time they come up for air he has a few words for her. One of his attempts, maybe. "Want you," he whispers. And also, "Okay?"
DevonThis second kiss goes on longer, takes them deeper. His arms wrap around her more closely, hands running up her back. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, fold behind him, as her lips fall slightly open and she invites his tongue into her mouth. She lets herself move against him, pressing her stomach to his abdomen, her breasts to his chest. Her breathing has changed; he can hear that, feel it, even as he's kissing her.
See it, too, when her eyes drift open and find his again. Her pupils have opened wider, the blue shifting to indigo as her eyes grow limpid. He tells her that he wants her. He asks her if that's okay, right now, given what she just told him, given how she must be feeling.
Not in so many words, but yes: that is what he says.
Devon nods. Whispers "Yeah," as she's nodding. "Been a while," she also whispers, which is to say:
that she wants him, too. That she was thinking about fucking him first, before she told him, not just to show herself and him that she's not broken, she's not glass, but just because she wants him, and he was so warm in bed and attractive to her, appealing in a way no one else has been, and because yes: it's been a while. Several days at least, their schedules so off. Maybe closer to a couple of weeks. And she misses him.
Not in so many words, but... that is what she is trying to say.
She kisses him again, putting her hand on his cheek again. This time it's not quite as soft; it is no less tender. Her legs fold around his waist, ankles crossing behind his back.
RafaelShe's not the only one who thought about it earlier, when they were in bed and he was waking to her. When he was getting up, too, and paused to lean over, kiss her. They both thought about it. They didn't act on it because he was getting up and she had something to discuss and he, action-oriented and goal-driven, wanted to get clean, get fed, hear whatever it is she wanted to say, because he knew it wouldn't be good.
Well. She's said it. They've survived it. And this new wanting is neither in spite of it nor because of it; neither defiance nor survival instinct.
Just is. Simple as that.
Her legs wrap around him and he gets up off the barstool. Lights are on in the kitchen, over the bar, but rest of the place is all evening shadows. Still dark so early. He carries her into that darkness, which does not feel threatening because this is where they live, this is their den. She couldn't be blamed for thinking he'd take her up the stairs now, back to bed, but that's not where they go.
Takes her to the couches instead. Past the recliner he likes to nap in; past the low, tasteful coffee table someone else bought. Sinks down on the sofa, girl on his lap, pulling soft top of her grey-and-pink sleepset off.
DevonRafael's preference for upstairs-to-bed is familiar enough to Devon that it amuses her whenever he starts heading that direction, even if they're in the mountain house and there are all these hallways to walk and stairs to climb. One could say she surrenders to it a bit, the way she wraps her arms and legs around him in preparation for the way he lifts her up and carries her away to fuck. One could also say that more frequently than most, more frequently than Devon's occasional teasing would suggest, they actually don't go upstairs-to-bed. Floors and walls and showers and backyards and picnic blankets have all served their less-obvious purposes plenty of times.
Now is one of those times. Devon thinks he is going to lift her up, carry her through his house, and take her up the winding stairs, back to his still-unmade bed, setting her down underneath him and covering her there, uncovering her there, making love to her there.
But he turns slightly instead, taking her into the living room. Fewer steps. She is kissing him; she only notices because she doesn't feel the two of them going up stairs at the time she would expect: she has, of course, nearly memorized the sensation of how long it takes Rafael to cross the room, come to the first step.
Devon kisses him a little harder, making a low noise. The couches have deep cushions, for lounging and napping and sprawling. She sees it behind him when he turns, sitting down, leaning back, and when she stops kissing him, climbing over him, helping him with her top. Her hands go to the hem of his shirt then, too, pushing it up over his chest.
RafaelTakes his hands off her body a moment. Raises his arms, almost like surrender of his own; lets her pull his shirt off, tear-damp patches and all. Definition of his arms, chest is visible even in the dimness. He reaches for her immediately afterward, cupping her breasts if she doesn't have a bra on under; taking her bra off if she does.
He didn't bother getting very dressed. Just has a pair of lounge pants on. No socks. No underwear. She's dressed like she was thinking about bed already, and that's not much to get out of the way either. He pulls her up on her knees and pulls her shorts down, wrapping his arm around her waist, tipping her body against his chest to lift her up, effortlessly, long enough to get her sleep set all the way off.
Bits of soft fabric on the cushions. She's had that set long as he's known her. Probably a lot longer, he thinks. They're soft and thin from all the washes she's put them through. Plenty of girls -- plenty of people, given an essentially unlimited spending card, would have replaced them long ago. She hasn't. He's endeared by that; not because it's his money but because it's her; a characteristic, a quirk, a non-essential but deep-seated little cog.
Now she's naked, and he's lifting up his hips to push his pants off. Couch is leather and there's something strange and primitive and bloodily luxurious about bare skin on the skin of a dead prey-animal. He pulls her closer; doesn't bother with licking her tits or kissing her clit, today; just wants the simple and straightforward closeness of her skin on his, her breasts against his chest, her belly to his abdomen, her cunt hot against his cock. He makes a sound, a low sort of growl. He kisses her again.
DevonDevon is not wearing a bra under her sleepwear. It's not unheard of, but not tonight. She came to his bed as though ready to fall asleep next to him, even if he was about to get up. She came downstairs, breasts swaying or bouncing a little as she walked, making tea, sitting across from him. If she hadn't had something serious to tell him, something heartbreaking and difficult, they probably would have gotten here sooner just by virtue of Rafael's impatience for her.
She moans when his hands cup around her, though. He's got her captivated with that, unable to keep undressing him, though he has enough focus still to work her little shorts off. Devon moves as she's moved, leaning over him, her breasts brushing his face as he pushes her shorts off her hips, down her ass, down her legs. He lifts her up a bit and she gasps, softly, more from arousal than any sort of surprise, as he gets them past her knees and off her legs.
The sleepwear she has is a whole set. The little shorts. The little tank top. A nightgown. A t-shirt. Lounge pants. They all match, though this top and these shorts are what she wears most often. She's had them for years, though she left most of it in Boston when she first came here, before she properly moved in with Rafael (the first time), coming back from a visit home with the rest of her clothes and such. They were a Christmas gift one year, along with some of those over-the-knee socks she favors. Surely she'll have to replace them when the lace starts falling off and fraying, when holes start away from the seams, but... Devon is handy with a needle and thread. She's kept them in good enough repair.
She could replace them, with either a bit of her own money or Rafael's credit card. She just doesn't see the need. They're her favorite pajamas.
Devon stays where she is, leaning over him, holding herself up against his shoulders, looking down his body while he lifts his hips and pushes his pants off. He may not seem to want to bother with licking her tits but the way she's brushing them right against his face, stroking his mouth with her nipple, it's hard not to get the hint. Hell: it's hard to resist the invitation.
But whether he does or not, resists or not, there's no complaint from her when he pulls her closer again. Skin against skin. Her inner thighs, his outer thighs. His hardening cock sliding against her pussy as she moves against him, rubbing herself against his erection with a blatant sort of eagerness.
She moans again when he kisses her, and it's almost a whimper.
RafaelWell fine. If she's going to go rubbing her breasts on his face, is going to go gasping like that and making those soft little moans like that, he's not going to turn her down.
So she doesn't get set down quite so soon. She stays there, her weight carried against his body and on his arm; his mouth on her breasts, flicking his tongue over her nipple, sucking at her tits. He loves it when she arches in his arms. Same way he seems to love carrying her off to fuck. There might be something primitive and brutish about that too. Must be.
Lowers her back down and her unabashed eagerness lights him up. He makes this sound, would be a growl but his mouth is occupied -- first with her tits, then with her mouth. She moans into that kiss and he loves that, too. Hands are on her ass, back of her thighs. He raises her up, repositions. His jaw moves against her palm -- his mouth opening with the feel of her, the feel of fucking into her; groaning only seconds later, when the rest of his body catches up with his firing nerves.
DevonIn a way, it's like that night months ago, after that other difficult conversation, that trip to the drugstore, that negative test: the sex afterward was unapologetic, unhesitating, unfettered. It isn't because of the sadness or worry that flows between them. It isn't in spite of these things, either. They certainly aren't trying to be careful with each other, but just as certainly: they are. They aren't trying to fuck away the pain, but it's still providing comfort. Perhaps it's because they come back to this, not falling and not running to it but simply finding that it is still here. Nearly always: still here, still waiting for them, even when other things are changing.
Devon whines when he sucks on her nipple: some hard pull of his mouth, hungry and a bit wicked. She clutches at his upper arm with her hand, squirming, and he flicks his tongue over her again, teases, almost tickles, and she gasps, too. All these little noises. All this shameless delight.
The way he touches her ass moves her thighs apart: maybe he does it intentionally, maybe this is just Devon intuiting. She opens her legs for him, opens her pussy for him, slides down over him. Her fingertips are on his face and her brow falls forward against his as she gasps, almost panting, to feel his cock pushing into her. "Oh, my god..." she whispers, like it's the first time she's ever felt him before.
Or like she missed it.
Because she did.
RafaelInexplicably, that makes him laugh: a low, panting sort of laughter without a hint of mockery. Just enjoyment. Just ... joy, which seems a strange word to ascribe to him, dour grunting beetle-browed thing that he can be.
Her brow touches his. He raises his hands, puts his hands on her face as hers are on his. Feels like a compact, a covenant. He kisses those words off her lips, kisses her until she tips her chin up. Then he kisses her neck, his lips finding the thrum of her pulse, finding the delicate arch of her collarbone.
The differences in their bodies is intoxicating to him. Never really gets tired of exploring, discovering. His hands warm the outsides of her shoulders, arms, as he follows her limbs down. His fingertips drop off her elbows; he grips her hips. He lifts her. Lowers her. Might have thought he'd want her to set the rhythm this time, putting her on top, but -- two, three strokes in and he rises, rolls, lays her down on that sofa; comes down over her.
DevonIt says something about what's between them now, what has been between them for some time, that Devon doesn't take his laughter as mockery. She feels him laughing and it thrills her a bit, comforts her, too. She loves fucking him, she's said it often enough; it makes her happy when he does things like that, laughing and growling, showing her he loves fucking her too, even if he can't say it aloud as often.
They are touching each other, kissing, and she thinks, out of the blue, that sometimes it's like they may as well be married.
That thought lands like a songbird and then flits off again, lost again, or perhaps Devon is the one who flies from it. She doesn't chase the sudden flight of the thought, but kisses him back and starts to fuck him, slowly moving herself on his cock, then quickening. He's kissing her, touching his lips to her throat, her chest, running his hands over her, while she is in fact setting a rhythm, working herself up. His hands follow her, try to move her, and she laughs at him a bit, taking his hands from her hips and putting them back on her breasts. Puts her hands on his chest and kisses him again, leaning into him, grinding down on him.
Devon wants to set their rhythm tonight, it seems. At least for now. She runs her hands over his shoulders, down his arms, reveling in the heavy curve of muscles into her palms. She is fucking him slowly, almost agonizingly so, but perhaps it only seems that way because he wants so much to fuck her back, to fuck her harder, to fuck her. But she uses him for a while, only it isn't using him exactly. Enjoying him, certainly, kissing his neck and rolling her hips in a circle as though to make sure she feels every inch of his cock.
Which she does want. And does get. And enjoys so much that soon she's leaning against his chest, all but laying her head on his shoulder, gasping, a little at a loss, though her body still knows just what to do. Right now, she couldn't stop fucking him if she wanted to. Can't stop herself from fucking him a bit harder, either, faster, starting to ride him in earnest now, til she's starting to bounce on his lap, crying out with these helpless little whines -- tight vowel sounds that start to dissolve not away from words but towards them,
"Fuck me -- fuck me, oh, Rafa, fuck me -- !"
RafaelHard to say if marriage has ever crossed wolf's mind. Children certainly have -- more than once, and most recently just now -- so maybe he has thought about it. Tends to go hand in hand for most people. Kids. Marriage. Picket fence, maybe.
Not on his mind right now, though. Not a whole lot is on his mind other than the way she's fucking him, riding him, enjoying him. And the way he's enjoying her right back: that slender agile body, those little sounds and expressions, the way sometimes it's like she just doesn't know what to do with herself when he fucks her so good.
Would be a liar if he said it wasn't good for his ego, fucking her. Watching her respond. Hearing her cry out, call his name. Would be a liar if he said it didn't turn him right on. And he's watching her now, his eyes on her face, his eyebrows knit together not out of anger but just out of -- what? The experience. The moment itself, its intensity. Hasn't said much tonight but when she starts to tell him to fuck her, fuck her, fuck her, he reaches up, pulls her down, kisses her so fucking ferociously because:
god, he does love kissing her while she comes. He does love kissing her.
DevonThey think differently about some things. He's a wolf. He had little family, and then no family. The lives of humans he saw were... not much better than his own, in most cases. He thinks in terms of taking her to his den, holding her in his teeth, keeping her warm in winter, fucking the daylights out of her because little else brings quite the same pleasure, the same satisfaction, the same bone-deep sense of contentment.
And she was just a girl, for the first half of her life so far. Her parent's ill-fated marriage notwithstanding -- that could, after all, be blamed pretty much entirely on the absent father she already despised -- she did see good, decent relationships. She was a flower girl in a couple of weddings growing up, though she didn't like it much other than the dress and the actual flowers. Her godparents have one of the better marriages in modern times, and plenty of her coming-and-going cousins all seemed to have pretty solid relationships, too. It wasn't until she started moving things with her brain that her godparents realized they couldn't let her live a normal human life with her mum, unaware of what she was.
They weren't wolves, either. And that's why, years later, when Rafael tried to explain to her that he thinks of her as his mate, they weren't speaking the same language. It's why when she thinks about the usually unspoken, only haltingly addressed commitment they share, she thinks of it in human terms. In human thinking. Even if that human thought is a brief one, a still-somewhat-scary one, somehow. Even if all her thoughts, human and otherwise, are rapidly dissolving.
"Fuck me," she pleads with him, his hands stroking over her, his cock grinding up into her, his mouth sealing to hers, cutting off the edge of a syllable. She gasps when he lets her go, whimpering: "Get on top of me. Fuck me. Make me come."
RafaelSense of revelation there. Flare in his eyes: oh. that's what she meant.
Surges up under her. There's such power in him, so rarely displayed it's still shocking. That level of brute force. That level of raw strength. She rises, she turns, she is borne under, and somewhere in the midst of it they slip apart, but then he's back with her. Heavy atop her, even if he does hold his own weight; pushing into her, growling the way he does as he does.
He's found her hand somehow. Grips it in his, her thin fingers between his; their arms folded over her head, stray locks of her hair slipping between their palms. His free hand on her body, still. Under her body. Under her ass, gripping her there, as though to keep her right there while he fucks her. There's something ferocious about it all, and primitive, and dominant; like every time they fuck is that claim renewed: his mate. His mate.
DevonDevon is still half-there. She's in her body and out of her mind, so close she can feel it, she can almost taste it. The strength in him only turns her on more. She cries out when his cock leaves her, she reaches for him, but he's with her, he's there, he's pushing into her again, fucking her again, falling back into that rhythm,
but it's his now. She clutches his hand when he finds her, her arms lifted, her back arched. She lets herself go then, into his hands, into the thrust of his body, into her own pleasure. She tips her head back, whimpering as he holds her ass in his hand, holding her in place to get fucked.
Truth be told, her orgasm isn't instantaneous then. It takes a little while to get back into that moment, after the turn. Just a little while, and then after that he can almost see her resisting it, trying to hold off, just because she doesn't want to stop fucking yet. Her lip is quivering. She's sweating. It's next to impossible to stop herself from coming.
Now she's not begging him for anything. She's not able to even gasp his name. She's just riding it now, trying to survive it, moaning for it until it hits her, until he grinds into her just so and she can't, anymore.
Now it is impossible to stop herself. She groans deeply, helplessly, becoming very still all of a sudden, her back arched in a bow, her breasts lifted up, her thighs quivering with tension as her cunt pulls at him, convulses around his cock, and she is... simply there, simply along for the ride, captive to something far older and more primitive than her own consciousness.
As it always does, it -- this primordial energy, this pleasure that seems to exist for its own sake -- drops her without a second thought when it has finished with her body, and she almost collapses. She relaxes, relenting, but then she's moving again, whimpering a little as she fucks his cock a little more, like she wants to get back there again.
RafaelRight then, right at the peak of it, right when she's arched so taut, quivering so finely -- that's when he bites her. Firm grip of his teeth on her shoulder, pinning her in his jaws even as he pins her with the weight of his body, the thrust of his cock.
Like closing a circuit. Like gripping a live wire. Catches him up in whatever's running through her, and for a moment they're both there, caught in the eye of it; thrumming and still, tensile, quivering.
When it lets her go,
he lets her go. He kisses the spot he bit, and for a while it's like she's just left her body, left this earth. Doesn't last long. She's moving again. And he's still kissing her shoulder, nuzzling her skin, licking the indentations of his teeth like an animal. She's moving again and that's what galvanizes him, sets his eyes flickering back to hers. Perhaps they're still closed. Perhaps she's still half-lost, even if she's moving like she wants to be found.
He lets go of her hand. He cups her head, kisses her mouth. Doesn't matter if she can hardly kiss him back. He kisses her anyway, and then -- still holding her like that -- he starts fucking her. Again. Quick and focused this time, driven and driving. Loses that kiss but it's all right; pants against her neck as he chases after his own pleasure. His hand is on her ass. His hand is holding her by the hip. His hand is sliding down and he's touching her now, he's searching out her clit, he has his thumb on her while he fucks her and he's trying to get her off again, maybe. Or just trying to drive her insane.
DevonThe first time they had sex, he bit her as he undressed her. She still doesn't know that it was because he was so overcome, so hungry for her, so into her. She had no idea. But told him, perhaps somewhat just to tease him, to wait. Not to bite her again until he was coming.
And then he didn't. He kissed her at that moment instead, and it was the same then: a circuit closing, a joining complete. Surprised her, back then. Shocked her even as she was struggling to hold herself together. Somehow that's when she started thinking that he liked her. Didn't just want her.
This time, he sinks his teeth into her, presses her to the leather couch, grinds into her as she's coming. Devon is squirming, writhing underneath him, gasping for breath as it hits her, curls her under, crashes into her like a wave. She's shaking after, quivering, whimpering under her breath, as her lover lifts his mouth from her body, releases her from his teeth.
She looks up at him and sees his lips red, his face flushed, sweat on his brow, a glint in his eyes. Her eyes close as he leans over her again, kisses the bitten place, and she floats for a few moments, barely tethered to herself. Her licks her; she moves. He nuzzles her; she lifts her thighs up his waist again, strokes herself on his body again.
He kisses her mouth and she touches his face: her hands run up from his sides, over his chest, cup his jaw in her palms. She eats at his mouth, her kisses tender and savage in the aftermath. She can kiss him back, even now; she can cry out in his mouth when he touches her, overwhelms her, starts fucking her again. She falls apart, the kiss falls apart, she tips her head back and moans aloud as he starts working her up again. Faster, this time.
RafaelTruth be told, that first time he had no idea why she was holding her hand out to him. Why she was taking him upstairs to his room. To his bed. To fuck. No fucking idea why she might think this was a good idea, or why the idea was even in her head, or why she was letting him -- what debt she thought she was paying, what bribe she thought she was giving, what.
Didn't understand it at all. Not until he got her clothes off, got her under him, and she was pushing his shirt open and lifting her body to press her skin to his,
made that sound, that fragile, needful sound, like she needed this. Needed him.
That was the first time he thought, for a flicker of a second: maybe. Maybe it wasn't transactional, maybe it wasn't even just a question of male and female, flesh and flesh. Maybe it was him and her. Maybe she liked him.
Fast forward months, years. He would be shocked if he thought about it: how long he's known her, how long he's been with her. Life still seems to pass in days and hours, flash by flash. He still experiences everything in pulses and flickers, sensations coming with the beat of his heart, the stroke of his cock, the little circles his thumb draws, the way her mouth opens to gasp, to breathe, to cry out, to kiss.
They are moaning into each other's mouths. He bites her lip, as gently as he can. That kiss falls apart and she tips her head back, he buries his face against her throat. She's unabashed with the sounds she makes. There's no one here anyway. He grasps her by the hair, low at the roots; he bites her shoulder again, this time for himself, groaning, slamming her against the cushions, coming.
Devon"Oh, god --" she says, sharply, when he grabs her by the hair, holds her the way he does, the way he's discovered she quite likes. It lights her up right now, even now, and she's shaking because she can't quite stand the way he's teasing her clit while he's fucking her. She's arching again.
She loves fucking him. Loves the heaviness of his body, the heat that radiates off of him. She loves his cock, and she loves it when he pulls her hair, and she loves his mouth on her neck and her breasts and her cunt. He knows this. She has said almost all of it in no uncertain terms. But even if she hadn't, he'd see it in her right now, the way she cries out, the way she starts fucking him back again even though she can barely stand it. The flush in her cheeks and across her breasts, the sweat glistening on her skin, the short, helpless little noises she starts making when she gets closer, closer.
Her orgasm, this new one, hits her moments after he goes rigid against her body, snarling. His cock is deep inside of her, twitching with pleasure, and she's coming with him, clutching his arms, rolling her hips to rub herself off on him. Devon holds him to her, his chest heaving against her breasts, crying out as he moves again, flexes, thrusts mindlessly into her. Those cries end in an overcome groan, back of her throat, her body going limp again.
RafaelFor a while after, a shattered sort of calm, broken only by their breathing.
Eventually, movement beyond just the rise and fall of chest. Wolf draws his hand back -- tender, yeah? echoes in his mind, unbidden. His touch is heavy and inexact, traces up over her side, covers a breast before trailing off the side of the sofa altogether, fingertips brushing the floor. A little later he summons the strength to push up on an elbow, take his weight off her.
They're both sweating. Leather feels too hot now and he decides to just ... roll onto the floor, lies flat on the thin patterned rug that cushions the living room set from the hardwood. Lies there, looking up at the vaulted ceiling; at girl still on the couch, maybe. Or maybe sliding down to join him.
Their clothes are scattered around them. He finds the top of her sleep set and toys with it.
"Like how you look in this," he murmurs. "Wore this first time you came to bed with me. Remember?"
DevonShe's a heap of limbs afterward. She can't move her arms or her legs or do much more than pant for air. The leather is hot beneath her and Rafael is hot atop her and she sighs when his hand moves, whimpers a little. He caresses her, if you could call it a caress, and then... flops. Drapes himself over her, depleted.
If her skin were not soaked with sweat now rather than just glistening, if she didn't need to pull in a great lungful of air when he moves, Devon might resist Rafael leaving her the way he does, rolling off of her. She might want him to stay close and snuggle, keep her warm, let her listen to his heartbeat. But:
"Fuck, you're hot," she breathes, and right now it's hard to tell if she means his body and how it appeals to her or his body and how it warms her literally, or... both. Probably both.
She just reclines up there, catching her breath, closing her eyes. One arm drapes down though, her hand searching for his hand. He's playing with her pajamas while her eyes are closed, so she doesn't see at first what he means. Turns her head, opens her eyes, sees him with her sleep set.
A soft smile quirks on her closed lips. "I wear it all the time," she murmurs, which might be taken to mean that no, she doesn't remember, but she does: "I remember... wanting to fuck you again. But I wasn't sure if you wanted to. And I was all right if we didn't."
She's quiet a moment.
"I was nervous," she whispers, more tenderness in that than uncertainty, now. It's been more than two years.
Another pause, this one a little longer. Her touch strokes over his arm like she's laying in a canoe and his skin is the water her fingers are trailing in.
"I'm glad I met you, Rafa. I'm glad we... have this."
Rafael"Nervous," he echoes her. Wryly. Wonderingly. "I was just ... I don't know. I just wanted you to come to bed with me."
Has his eyes closed by the time she reaches down to stroke him, like she's in a canoe, like he's water. Has her pajama top rumpled in his hand, clasped to his chest. He feels her touch and, just like water, feels it rippling out -- dissipating through the whole of him. His eyes open. He raises his hand, fingertips hooking into hers -- a tenuous, tender little point of contact.
"Yeah," he agrees softly. "Too."
Devon"That's why I was nervous," she says, laughing softly, touching him slowly. She wrinkles her nose. "Feelings."
An unsubtle nod, there, to the inability they both had -- still sometimes have -- to be vulnerable. Though to be fair: it was their first night, that time. They'd already fought so much, disliked each other deeply at times, still liked each other.
Now look at them. Now look at what they just talked about. Remember, now: how easily she let herself cry against him. How easy it was for him to hold her, and let her.
They are holding hands now. Softly, fingers only loosely entwined. She rolls a bit onto her side so she can see him better, and so air can move against her back. "How are you?" she asks him, gently, and somehow it's written in her eyes, her tone of voice: she means about earlier. Not the sex.
The other stuff.
RafaelThinks about that for a moment. Then his eyes move to find her.
"Still worried," he admits quietly. "About you." Another moment's pause, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles. "Sad. Overwhelmed. Nervous," with a huff of a laugh. And finally: "Excited.
"Three years. Or sooner."
DevonAt least he doesn't come back and ask her if she's okay. Doesn't turn it around, refuse to examine, much less share. At least he doesn't fuck her brains out and then, a few minutes later, start treating her as breakable.
Loves him, right then, just for answering. Maybe it's a low bar. Maybe it's just her fondness for him, her gratitude that he isn't making this harder, worse, lonelier. Not that she expected it. But Devon never really expects most people to be there for her, either.
And that's what he is.
Being there. Just for her.
--
Her thumb strokes gently over his hand. Doesn't tell him again not to worry, or reassure him that she feels fine, that she knows she's healthy, that she's not in any physical pain. Let him be worried. She's not even sure if he's only worried about her body, her safety, her health. And to be honest, if he's worrying about the rest of her, about her heart, about how okay she might really be with all this...
...well. That's fair.
Sad makes her eyes feel hot. Suddenly, surprisingly, the simplest of words touches her, and she remembers: she's sad, too. The truth is that even with all the magical and medical intervention in the world, even if she does get pregnant, the chances of a smooth pregnancy are simply lower for her. He hears her sniff moisture from her nostrils, and sees her blink rapidly as he's talking, or a moment later, a few syllables later.
Devon doesn't burst into tears again, though. She's listening. She just feels it again, spiking through her heart: sad. Unfair. Frightening.
So that's where she is, her throat tightening all over again, when he says:
excited.
That gets her notice. She's a bit bewildered, though not powerfully. She almost sounds hopeful when she says: "Excited?"
RafaelHis hand tightens a little on hers, hearing that sniff. He doesn't make a big deal of it. Doesn't sit up and ask if she's crying, doesn't hunt for tissues, doesn't make a fuss comforting her.
Just squeezes her hand a little. Acknowledgment. Solidarity.
"Yeah," a little later. "You. Me. A kid." Shrugs a little. "Excited."
DevonGlad of it: the space he gives her. Without fretting or fussing or pawing at her. Just the room to be sad. Not surprising that he does, though; in this area, they're the same. They both understand and appreciate room to breathe one's own air, have one's own thoughts. Even after two years, she has a room of her own. She doesn't even share his bed every night. And that's okay. Just like, right now, her sniffling is okay and needs no additional comment.
She squeezes his hand back, though. He sees her. He's with her. She feels it. She says, in her own way, that she's grateful.
Devon huffs a little breath, not quite a laugh. "Yeah?" she asks, pleased but still perhaps a little disbelieving, or just... relieved, or perhaps:
trying to find her way back. To feeling a little more normal. To feeling less alone. To being okay. Maybe that's part of why she's holding her hand,
like she's still a little lost in the dark.
Rafael"Yeah," he says, again -- the two of them echoing the soft word back and forth as though each throw were a stitch, as though they were closing a wound.
A little later: "You wanna come down here?"
DevonThat is how it feels: closing a wound. She can almost feel the disparate halves coming together, not yet healing but protected.
"Yeah," she whispers back, and with no further preamble: slips from the couch, onto his chest, sinking into his arms. She puts her head on his chest like a pillow, her legs entwined with his, her arms around him.
"Thank you," she also whispers, against his skin.
RafaelJust as naturally, just as easily, his arms encircle her. Secure her to his side, anchored to his body.
"Too," he echoes. And then, as though to make it true and whole and real: "Thank you, too."
DevonDevon breathes in deeply. It's not quite the same as being sniffed at, but she is, in fact, inhaling his scent. His sweat. Their sex. She holds him closer.
"For what?" she asks, more curious than surprised.
RafaelGives him a moment's pause. He thinks about it -- not because he doesn't know the answer, but because he doesn't know the words.
"For... being here. With me. And telling me. And being you." He shrugs a little, a motion that carries her briefly aloft, resettles. "Just glad."
DevonTurns that what he's grateful for is one of those wordless things. She thinks she understands. She is holding him already, but her palm flattens on his side, against his ribs, feeling his heart thudding heavily and deeply inside of his body. Her eyes close. She says nothing for a while, and she doesn't need to: she doesn't have to decide anything tonight. Neither of them do. She doesn't have to know everything she feels. Right now this is enough: loving him, being loved by him. Knowing that they will be okay.
"Let's go eat," she whispers. "Your breakfast got cold."
RafaelHe laughs, sudden, surprisingly loud. And his hand grazes down her back, gives her ass a squeeze.
"Got a pretty good substitute," he says. Gets up, holding his hand out to pull her up with him. "Come on. Not going hunting tonight. Waste some time together."
DevonIt doesn't feel lascivious or hungry, the way he touches her now. It feels fond. It feels tender and familiar, his big hand sliding over her skin, palming her ass and fondling her. She feels loved, and in a way it feels comforting right now. Devon snuggles against him,
and then huffs suddenly, a sound of laughter that would be barking if it had any real noise behind it. She almost chokes on it, then starts laughing earnestly, her body quivering on top of his with it. Good substitute. "The fuck," she laughs.
She slides off him a bit as he shifts, gets to his feet, his hands staying close. She goes ahead and takes his hand, lifts herself up beside him. They stand there naked, filthy, and she smiles up at him softly when he tells her he's not going hunting. Wants to ask if that's all right, if his pack will miss him, or if their hunting isn't planned tonight anyway. Decides not to. He's going to stay, and she wants him to.
Devon nods, and slips her arm around his waist, leaning on his side. Maybe they slip back into their clothes for a while. Maybe they go reheat his breakfast and eat it naked. Maybe they shower first. But she stays close to him, close as he'll let her be, silently asking him not to stop holding her.
Not yet.
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