7:12 PM: Pixies

"Gods."

There's well more than a week packed into that one word, when I sigh out the stresses of the past several days. The heavy exhalation mixes with the familiar sound of the door closing behind me, when I sink back into the depths of the bean-bag chair that passes for a bed, therapist's couch, and occasional napping nook in one. The motions are easy, at this point, my fingers sliding nimbly through the laces of my boots, a grin cast over at the box in the corner, ears cocked for the familiar whirr of wings.

Ever since they'd made this legal, after the Shift, and I'd found my way into the Blue Quarter one rainy, lonely night, you'd been here, tucked between a run-down Whole Foods (as run-down as they get, at least), and what I've always suspected to be a pixie-dust house. You'd not run away screaming, and you actually listened to my rambling, when I cradled you on my chest and asked if it was extra, just to sleep, and when you'd asked me what it took to join the force, and... hell, I'd be lying if I didn't admit we didn't have some fun together. I can hear you stirring in there, a sleepy little groan that makes my heart flutter.

Among other things.

8:32 PM: Pounding

"Fuck!

You gasp, and I can feel the fire in my veins, your hips in my hand, fingers almost touching, the feel of my cock stuffed into you like some obscene facet of a fucking fantastic kaleidoscope, the world coming in shattered flashes: the slathered drip of lube on my hand, inside you, the feel of your breasts bouncing in tiny, heavy smacks against my fingers, the robin's-egg blue of your hair stuck to your face in strands of sweat. Your wings, too, iridescent against the grind and slap of flesh on flesh, each beat of my heart stretching you further around my girth.

"Fuck," I echo, gritting my teeth, sweat dripping down my back and my hips instinctively rising up to meet the curve of your ass. I've learned to let go of that little voice that whispers hold back, and be gentle, with you, and there's a certain trust to it.

Even if my brain's long since shut off, the need to rut and slam and thrust swirling up and choking off all my other thoughts. Fuck the case, and fuck that note on my bedroom door back home, and fuck, fuck, fuck, all I need to do is fuck. You, with your - your -

I can feel it, coming on hard, and I can't help but growl, when you feel it too.

9:07 PM: Payment

"Yeah."

Shifting slowly beneath and swinging an arm lazily around to encircle you, I grin sleepily, the warm, thick trickle from between your legs making me almost stir again, though your eyes beaming up at me are enough to melt my heart a little and tug my thoughts toward gentler things. I know that soon, I'll have to sit up, and stare out at the night, again, away from the warmth of the little shack you call home, but for now...

Well, there are worse places to be, even if, with your fingers idly winding through the faint, brown curls of hair on my chest, you're already talking about payment.

"Yeah, I'll get it out in a moment," I groan teasingly, ruffling your hair with a fingertip. "Don't say I never go for a fair deal, but I'm pretty sure you enjoyed that, too..."

I can already see your playful scowl in my mind's eye, and I laugh even as I turn away, reaching into my bag for your payment. Keys... wallet... badge... There it is.

With a wink, I crack the book open, settling it on my thighs and turning it around for you to see, whenever you decide to slip off and curl up on my chest. Last week, we almost worked through the second-to-last chapter, and with the exam next month...

"Ready?" I ask with a smile, as the moonlight begins to spill in.

Kinks: Size differences, modern fantasy, adorable things that segue smoothly into the very best sort of roughness. And if you're a fan of butt stuff? Hey, so am I!

Limits: Violence, things that belong in the toilet, and elves. Particularly Dutch elves.

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