#of reach gloriously wasted potential

[ziracona]

Tumblr user TabrisFam you were right…I should have taken the wisdom of another Tabris and run back to DA2 immediately…

[the-sparrow-sings]

TIMELINE FOR MY SPARROW’S HEADCANON

I want to write a LONG fic series about her life going into the Hero of Brightwall’s life; but I do not have the time/energy to commit to that right now, so here’s a vague timeline since I REALLY want to talk about it anyway lol

Pre-Game

• Her parents were infamous Pirates, Rayven(her father, Hero blood), and Catarina

• Reaver knew them as friends before the girls were born; even held Rose once as a baby(somewhat uncomfortably)

• They were forced by foul weather to dock near Bowerstone some time after Sparrow was born; Rayven was captured and hanged, Catarina escaped momentarily with the girls

• Catarina hands baby Sparrow(around 1 year old) to Rose and tells her to RUN, and SURVIVE; she is then captured; but no one is looking for the children so little Rose escapes with Baby Sparrow

Post-Childhood, Pre-Main Game

• Teresa has a hard and fast rule that Sparrow is not to leave the valley, and specifically not to go to Bowerstone. She is concerned that Sparrow will have her parents’ natural desire for adventure and sign onto a crew for a life of piracy

• Upon reaching Adulthood, Sparrow is frustrated by Teresa assuming she still makes the rules for her; and she sneaks off to visit Bowerstone for the first time since her childhood

• She spends the day/night having a gloriously rowdy time with a man she only knows as Captain/The Captain(Spoiler Alert, it’s Reaver) and she fully intends to join his crew

• He has no idea who she is, though he is immediately reminded of his old friends; and unknowingly recounts tails of her parents adventures to her. He is more than a little astonished that someone drew out the urge to discuss something other than himself

• They spend the night together above Bowerstone’s bar; waking up at the crack of dawn to Teresa standing in front of the bed

• She all but drags Sparrow home with her, leaving Reaver both disappointed and a bit relieved; he was not sure he liked that she stirred up something in him

During The Game

• Sparrow is a Rowdy Girl with a love of fine women, dangerous men, and banditry. She loves the rough&tumble bandit lifestyle, but is good hearted enough that she tends to change towns for the better; this is why she loves Bloodstone, it’s a hard town that never changes

• Feels pressured to marry Alex, and feigns happiness for his sake; trying her best to be busy with quests to avoid being near him

• The Spire all but wipes out her formally sweet nature; seeing her adopt a much darker world view; this is where she transitions to pure evil, and becomes much more direct with her wishes and underhanded with her plots

• At first, she flat out refuses to see Alex after The Spire; she doesn’t see the point of it, and figures if he had any good sense he’d have moved on, since she was never in love with him in the first place

• When Alex eventually catches up with her, she attempts to let him down very concisely, but his entitled behavior toward “his wife” ends with a knife in his gut, and a disgusted sneer on Sparrow’s face

• She recognizes Reaver right away, though she has changed too much for him to recognize her. Her heart aches for the innocent young woman she was when she last saw him

• He puts the pieces together of who she is when he first fights by her side; reminded of fighting alongside her Hero father

• The pair share a moment in that cave, seeming to begin something before the collapsing rocks urge them to keep running

End Game/Post Game, Pre Fable 3

• Reaver steals her kill from her, and she is devastated; her sad state only compounded when Hammer reacts harshly to her desire to bring back her own loved ones

• At the end of things, she finds herself alone again, Rose off who-knows-where, her dog her only companion

• Having grown up in exceeding poverty, she spends her time and her gold buying up property left and right, putting former greedy landlords to death

• On a whim she purchases Reaver’s home, keeping it clear of squatters for him

• She finds his first journal entry, and promptly seals them all away in a locked box, not wishing to invade his privacy

• By the time Reaver returns, Sparrow is Queen; and he is more than thrilled when he sees her summons, an elegantly tied scroll left on his bed; concise in her own handwriting, “Captain, I expect a visit when you return, I’m sure you don’t need my address; Sparrow”

• Now, Reaver is both intrigued and mildly frightened

• He enjoys the prospect of having a shag with the queen (and, though he won’t admit it, he has missed more than her body); but he knows she was...a bit cross with him for leaving so suddenly after that business with Lucien was sorted out

• He is concerned that she may kill him/have him put to death, but ultimately decides that the potential rewards far outweigh the risks (with a healthy dose of understanding that it could prove unwise to ignore a direct summons from the Queen)

• On first glance, Queen Sparrow is hardly the girl he remembers from the tavern, or even the shoot-first-talk-later hero who sauntered into Bloodstone a year ago

• Her rise to power coupled with her emotional isolation have left her bitter; a fair yet harsh ruler. She was loved by many for her low rent prices and the protection she offered; but she kept the nobility on a very short leash, and had little patience for those who would waste her time

• That said, she did seem to be focused on keeping up appearances; at least, Reaver could scarcely believe all the exquisite finery and pompous ceremony was her doing

• Had he not been so gifted with perception, Reaver would have failed to pick up on the tiny cracks in her collected facade upon their public meeting

• She declared him her newest advisor, citing his heroic blood, worldly knowledge, and instrumental role in Lucien’s downfall as credentials enough

• When she received him in her private chambers however, the public mask of Royalty slipped away as she all but pounced him

• After a while, Reaver playfully tosses around the idea of them having a true public relationship; and Sparrow turns him down flat; refusing to make a toy of her heart

• Reaver does not quite understand why he feels disappointed; after all, he’s got a position of High Power in Albion now, and he gets to warm the Hero Queen’s bed with very few strings attached...he should be thrilled

• Eventually, Sparrow faces pressure (both domestic and foreign) to marry

• Reaver offers his “services”, talking of what a good king he would make, but Sparrow refuses on the grounds that his former life of piracy did not amuse every foreign power, and making him king could potentially amount to a declaration of war

• She marries some nobody from the aristocracy; the relationship, as well as the king’s power, being little more than an elaborate puppet show

• Reaver absolutely loathes the king; “Sparrow only has room for one pompous, arrogant, bastard in her life; and it sure as hell isn’t this spindly Lordling”

• The marriage certainly complicates Sparrow and Reaver’s cladenstine appointments; and his unexpected negative feelings almost push him to leave Sparrow’s Court

• Until she comes to his quarters one night, looking frantic and desperate; like she had been pacing around and pulling at her hair

• The king has demanded children, and old Albion Royal Law/Tradition demands she comply; Sparrow however, absolutely refuses to birth that man’s weak and “noble” offspring

• She asks Reaver to give her a child in secret; she assures him that he will have absolutely no fatherly obligations; but if she must bare children(which she knew from her vision of the future was inevitable) she wanted them to be strong with the blood of heroes

• Eventually, Reaver accepts, and Sparrow is sure that the child inside her is his

• Reaver does his best to avoid spending time with her, he has spent centuries avoiding these connections for a reason, after all

• But he can’t shake the hate in his heart each time he sees the king look so prideful of his impending heir

• The Baby is born with a thick tuff of black hair, and thankfully, is Sparrow’s spitting image as he grows

• Reaver does his best to avoid Logan, truly stepping in for the first time when the boy comes up missing

• Sparrow puts together the ransom at once, not willing to risk her child’s life with her usual bravado

• At the same time, Reaver uses his underworld connections to easily sniff out the kidnappers; going in secret to collect the boy before Sparrow even has a chance to leave the castle

• Reaver holds his son for the first time as he ends the lives of the scum who took him with a vengeance

• From that point on, Reaver is focused on watching over the boy; if from a distance

• He becomes prone to undermining the king when he is trying to teach some bullshit Strict Lesson to young Logan; cutting the king down with remarks of how Reaver has SEEN tactics like his in action...and they never bode well

• Reaver does not truly admit to himself his fatherly feelings however, until Sparrow accidentally becomes pregnant

• A little girl with beautiful brunette curls, who stares back at him with his own eyes; when he holds her for the first time, she squeezes his finger tight, and he knows he would move the earth for this child

• Princess Ophelia is a happy girl, running around the castle with very few unpleasantries like “rules” or “structure”, thanks to her intimidating “Uncle” Reaver pushing around the king and anyone else who would dare stifle her

• The King however, does not take kindly to Reaver’s increased intrusion on “his” family; becoming obsessively strict with the children each chance he gets

• Reaver doubles down on his mischief, often making a point to whisk the children away to festivals and other fun outings

• He is overcome with pride when little Ophelia proves to be a crack shot at the carnival’s various shooting games

• Once, a tiny Ophelia ran to him crying because she wished Reaver was her father instead of the king

• Sparrow has to intervene more than once when Reaver decides he wants to outright murder the king

• The king tries to put his foot down with Sparrow; demanding that Reaver be removed from Court and sent away

• Sparrow laughs at him, before recounting the tail of her first husband; and reminds him of the very strict limits to his own power

The Death of Sparrow

• Some time after Logan reaches his teenage years, the Queen is mysteriously assailed by a sudden and dire illness

• In my personal timeline-The Sickness is actually a curse laid on her by Teresa for refusing to follow her directive any longer; but this isn’t revealed until my Post-Fable 3 Plotline

• Reaver sits by Sparrow’s bed as she lay dying- truly and wholly distraught for the first time in centuries

• She grips his hand suddenly, with all the feeble strength she can muster, and the look in her eye tells him that the time he has dreaded is upon them

• She begs-orders him to watch over their children

• He pulls her into his arms. “Sparrow, I need you to know, I love-”

• “No,” she hisses, faint as a breath. “You don’t.”

• He is devastated by her final words. For the first time in perhaps centuries, he has decided to open his heart and admit those words...and she didn’t believe him...and now it’s too late to prove it

• He spends much of his time in the days following her death obscenely intoxicated-more than usual, trying to wipe away the regret he feels for not making her feel loved while she was alive

• Reaver comes to her balcony often, to look out over Albion in the cool night air-and consider hopefully-perhaps foolishly- that the wind ghosting his hair against his cheek is more than just an act of nature

• One night, he arrives to find the king standing in his usual spot; and perhaps it is his own melancholy that moves him-but he actually believes the king has come to mourn

• Until he speaks to him of course. The king is only in the room to decide how he wishes to redecorate it for when he takes a new wife to be queen

• Reaver is enraged by how casually the king speaks; how quickly he thinks to replace Sparrow. His mind fills with the image of some power hungry political climber marrying this idiot for the crown

• Reaver was no stranger to political intrigue. How often did new royals arrange for the tragic deaths of their stepchildren, so that their own children might have a better chance of inheriting the crown? Reaver could not take that chance

• One bullet, ringing off into the night, was all it took to send the King’s corpse crumpling unceremoniously to the ground

• Eventually, Reaver is captured, and Walter(as chief among Sparrow’s advisors) personally orders(and intends to carry out) his execution; however he is stopped by the arrival of the young-now king-Logan

• Ignoring everyone, Logan crouches down to where the guards have forced Reaver to kneel, and simply tells Reaver that he knows, before ordering everyone to leave them in private

• As it turns out, Logan had taken the task of sorting through his late-mother’s things when he stumbled upon Reaver’s journals-and an entry that makes note of his feelings for her

• Following that discovery, Logan had done diligent research and digging; and had come to the conclusion that he and his sister were almost definitely the result of Reaver’s long term affair with their mother

• He demands Reaver tell him everything, and surprisingly, Reaver does. He comes clean about it all-everything from the Court of Shadows to Sparrow’s dying wish

• This is why Logan trusts Reaver to remain his advisor

• The secret of their parontage is kept from Ophelia however. After all, it was a secret for a reason, and she was so young at the time that she could hardly be counted on to protect such a secret; she doesn’t learn Reaver is her father until breaking into his home in search of information

• No longer in danger of execution, Reaver feels he has no choice but to down a bottle or two of fine wine, and write to his former companions of Sparrow’s death

• He keeps it very short. He wasn’t their friend-he wasn’t even on good terms with them

• “She’s Gone; R.” Is all the letters say, and they think him callous and uncaring for it; but they cannot see the waste bin of crumpled papers where his writing had been shaky in his grief or the tears stained the pages

OKAY THAT’S WHERE I AM GOING TO STOP BECAUSE BEYOND THAT WE START REACHING INTO FABLE 3 TERRIROTY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR READING THIS

[tragedybunny]

Blade of Noxus- A League of Legends Fanfic (Katarina/Swain)

Du Couteau Manor

It was another one of those insipid nobility affairs, this one hosted by the General and his wife. Unfortunately he attended many of them as there was never quite as good an opportunity to look into the eyes of those plotting against you without a knife buried in your side.

“Welcome Grand General.” Du Couteau’s false congeniality was palpable. He motioned to someone in distance. “Of course you remember my dear daughter Katarina.”

She emerged from the crowd, as lovely as she was known to be deadly. “You honor our house with your presence.” Of course he’d known for hours that something about this evening was more than it seemed, but it began to take form out of the mists of the visions. Katarina Du Couteau was far from her father’s favor, disgraced and considered amongst the lowest of his assassins, and consequently very nearly disowned from the family. And yet here she was presented to him as though she held a place of pride. The black dress with a design woven through out in thread of gold and a neckline that offered a more than ample view, had clearly been hastily fit to her, her long red hair styled to cover her left eye and the scar it bore, it was obvious he was being presented with a tempting bit of bait. This evening might actually turn out to be worth his time after all.

She handed him a glass of wine from a passing servant, stepping in close to him as her father left them. “We were wondering if you’d be able to join us, given all the work to be done for Noxus.” Again she edged even closer to him, making vague small talk, posturing in such a way to put herself on display for him.

She was terribly obvious at this game she was trying to play, seduction had always been more her sister’s game. But his host had gone through all this trouble, it would be rude to not play along for a bit. Besides he’d be lying to himself if he couldn’t admit he wasn’t looking forward to seeing what she’d let him to do to her. “Shall we find a more quiet place to chat, my dear?” He offered her his arm, giving her exactly what she was after. Still, for a moment she hesitated, whatever Marcus’s plan, she was more wary about it than he was.

As they walk she threaded her fingers through his, keeping herself close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body. It wasn’t long before a few stone corridors of the old manor had them completely isolated. Time to spring the trap. “I suppose there’s a reason you’ve let me get you so utterly far from anyone.” There, just for a moment, something in her eyes, a fear she’d been found out. A lesser man wouldn’t have seen it.

She recovered quickly. “Well if I’m being honest…” Suddenly she was kissing him, parting her lips, inviting him in, before breaking away. “For long time I've…admired you from a distance. I almost couldn’t resist this opportunity.” If anything he had to admire her tenacity. He wrapped his arms around her waist, keeping her firmly in his control, exploring her neck line with his tongue and teeth until her rapid breathing and soft moans were too much to resist. When she kissed him again it was like fire, he wondered if she was still entirely acting. “No one will interrupt us” she whispered “let’s not deny what we both want.”

Suddenly her hands were opening his pants, almost teasingly she grasped him, softly, slowly. She was growing a bit impatient. He lifted her off the ground, her back pinned against a wall. Skirt pushed up her thighs, she wrapped herself around him. He thrust inside her with something close to violence, and felt the bliss of her wet warmth. Was it him or the danger she was in that had her so aroused? “Katarina.” He growled her name as he moved inside her, listening to the chorus of soft noises escaping her.

That’s when he heard what he’d been waiting for, the sound of the dagger concealed in her sleeve being drawn. A pity, killing her would be such a waste, and he had been rather enjoying himself. Faster than she could react, his left hand, wrapped around her throat, the demonic light blazing. Her eyes widened with fear, no longer able to keep up her mask while confronted with the full force of his power. “Drop it, now.” The dagger clattered to the floor. He squeezed a bit tighter, watching her struggle to breathe. “And the other one.” She had the nerve make a small indignant noise before drawing that one and dropping it as well. “Good girl.”

He released her throat and pulled away, leaving her to scramble to get her feet under her, and come up in a defensive stance, prepared to be defiant to the last. An idea was forming in his mind, no he wouldn’t kill her, she had far too much potential and her dedication to what she’d been tasked with was so completely Noxian. She could be of great use. “Relax, I’ve decided you’re not going to die tonight after all.”

“How generous of you, Grand General.” Her words dripped venom. Finally, no more playing the coquette.

It was too much to resist, he smirked at her. “I can always rescind that decision. As you said, no one is going to interrupt us. But tell me, why did you agree to take part in this incredibly obvious and idiotic farce of a plot? I would’ve thought you were a little more sensible.”

She dropped her combat stance and opted to cross her arms, glowering at him. “If you wish to kill me, go ahead, but I’m not going to participate in whatever game you think you’re going to play. You won, you knew everything that would happen and we’re fools for thinking we could outwit you.”

The real Katarina was infuriating and infinitely more alluring. He moved in closer to her and fought an urge to push her back against the wall and finish what they had started. She didn’t flinch, instead meeting his gaze with her luminous blue eyes, he could see her fury, but something else remained there as well.

“Let me hazard a guess then, misguided family loyalty? Still trying to earn back your father’s affection?”

She actually moved to strike him, he caught her wrist, careful to not to inflict too much pain. “As if you would know anything about loyalty to one’s House.” She strained to pull free from his grasp.

He spun her quickly around, wrenching her arm behind her back, just enough to keep control of her, he heard her sharp intake of breath. “You do try my patience, my dear. But I have a business proposition for you. You will never earn back your place, you are clearly considered disposable, and these outdated notions of House before all are toxic rot to Noxus itself. I have been merciful because you could be much more than you are now.” She stopped struggling, he had her attention now at least. “Serve me, serve Noxus itself, become a knife in the dark for our enemies, the Blade of the Empire.”

He released her, she didn’t turn to face him, her hand reaching up to absentmindedly rub the shoulder he’d twisted. He’d blindsided her with the truth, piercing her armor, and leaving her vulnerable. Just a bit more and he was sure he would have her. He moved right behind her, a hand resting on her shoulder. “It’s time you stopped being held back, Katarina, realize your potential. Stop letting your father hold you back.”

“No.” Her answer was quiet, sorrowful in a way. Curiously he found that distasteful.

“I don’t accept that. Think on it a day. I’ll await your answer then.” He began walking away and heard her turn to watch him go. He knew then that Marcus had gambled and lost more than he could even realize.

He made sure to appear occupied when she finally arrived, the desk in his bed chamber filled with papers he was not even bothering to read. He never doubted she would come, what he offered her and whatever it was that passed between them in that hallway had awoken something in her. He was pleasantly surprised however by her boldness as his window opened and she stepped down inside. Tonight she was every bit the assassin, all sharp edges and armor. She was spectacular.

He looked up from his feigned concentration. “It appears you’ve made a decision.”

“Hmm, you sound so smug, what if I was here to try to kill you again.” Of course she was going to put up a front of being difficult.

“I would expect you would have been less obvious if you were.” He rose and bore down on her, intentionally predatory. She stood resolute. The air between them grew thick. “Well…”

He watched intently as she chose her words carefully. “After all things considered, you were right. It’s time to serve the greater good of Noxus.”

He cupped her face in his running his thumb along the scar that was now worn proudly instead of hidden, feeling a raw need to posses her. She sucked in a long breath at his touch, there was that desire he’d glimpsed the night before. “And what of your family?”

Her expression darkened. “I’m done being their pawn.”

“Turned on you as soon as I left.” She jerked away from his hand, he realized he’d pushed a bit too far.

“I’m here. What does it matter, unless you need to gloat again.” Her sudden coldness wouldn’t do at all. It shouldn’t make any difference, he had the assassin, he didn’t need the woman. And yet…

He put his hands on her hips. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to offend.” Perhaps this was a mistake, giving into this urge she was causing in him. It was too late though as he felt her soften, and he leaned in to kiss her, her arms wrapping around his neck.

“You’re forgiven I suppose. But I see you won’t be satisfied until you have more than my loyalty. Not that I’m objecting.” It was her turn to sound a bit smug. He almost retorted but she moved away and boldly began undoing the clasp to her weapons belt. It dropped to floor, followed by her armor.

“Keep going I want to see all of you.” He practically growled, the need he felt now burning. In seconds she was gloriously bare before him. He circled around her, drinking her in, curves to battle scars to that perfectly tempting patch of red hair between her legs. He ran his finger up a particularly long scar near her spine, she’d have to tell him about it sometime. She shivered a bit. “You are truly stunning, every inch of you.” He whispered as he caught her in his arms.

She leaned into him as his lips traced her bare shoulder his hand travelling down between her legs. He teased his way inside her, feeling her rub against him deliciously as she moaned. She was already so wet, like she’d been waiting for this for hours. He knew she was so close already. He pressed inside her more intently, his fingers wringing pleasure from her. “That’s it, come for me.” He ran his thumb along her clit and she obliged him, one more moan escaping her.

He scooped her up in his arms, settling her in his bed, and quickly stripping away his clothes. Beyond the door he could hear someone being shown into the adjacent audience chamber, this night was going perfectly to plan.

It was her turn to make a study of him, her eyes hazy with desire. “Gods, I want you so bad, Jericho.”

His name on her lips was too much, he drove himself inside her, her legs wrapped around his hips, her nails digging into is back. He thrust inside her wildly, relishing that feeling of her, tight and warm. She cried out, her hips rocked up to meet his rough use of her, she begged him to not stop. He lowered his head, capturing a nipple with his teeth, just hard enough to cause her to arch her back in ecstasy. He felt her tighten around him, calling his name again, he lost control, burying himself deep inside her one last time as he was spent.

There was heavy temptation to forget the rest of his plans and remain in bed, seeing how many of those appealing little mewling noises he could cause her to make. But he had one last test to be certain of her. He kissed her one last time. “Get dressed, I have one more thing I need from you tonight.”

She ran a hand through her hair, seeming to collect herself. “It really can’t wait?” She was put out a bit, but she did as he asked.

He dressed and headed for the door. “Join me when you’re ready.”

He exited to find exactly what he was expecting, Marcus Du Couteau waiting, incredibly irritated. “What are you about Swain having me summoned in the middle of the night to wait here and listen to you fuck.”

“Marcus, you have finally run out my patience with that little stunt of yours last night.”

He was taken aback. “I… I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“So you didn’t task your daughter with putting a knife in my back?” Anger erupted in his voice, he was done the entire existence of this idiot. . The door behind him opened, he could feel her presence behind him.

Marcus was white. “Katarina?”

“Ah yes, there you are.” He waved her over to him, her face now unreadable, the assassin taking over. “General Marcus Du Couteau has committed treason, attempting to assassinate me while I was guest under his own roof. For that he should die.” He stepped back and gestured to the shaken man. “Katarina, be a dear and kill your father for me.” The moment of truth, at last.

She smiled and drew one of her daggers. “As you command, Grand General.”

To his credit Marcus, readied himself to fight. “Have you gone mad girl, I am your father.”

“You are a traitor to the Empire.” She rushed forward, tossing the dagger toward him, forcing sidestep. That instant of distraction was all she needed to come up behind him, another dagger to his throat, opening it wide, his eyes frozen in shock. He fell to the ground, a red fountain spurting from his ruined neck. She reached down and wiped her dagger on his shirt.

He observed the portrait of carnage before him. “Pity, I rather liked that rug.”

She stepped around the ruined mess of her father’s corpse toward him. “Are satisfied with my loyalty now?” She crossed her arms, clearly challenging him.

“Don’t be cross, you enjoyed that as much as I did.”

“Don’t assume to know my mind. And from now on no more games.” It wasn’t a question, it was clearly a demand. The audacity, it thrilled him. “What are you planning to do with him?”

“He needs to disappear. He’s not alone in his plotting and I want any other members of his little conspiracy on edge, they’ll expose themselves soon enough. And of course I’ll require your silence, none of this happened. I’ll send word when I require your services again.”

“As you say. I’ll see myself out.” She turned and walked away from him. He was certain it wouldn’t be long before he found someone else that needed swift knife in the dark.

[scurvgirl]

The Tale of the Forsaken Swan Float

It was a bad idea. A gloriously bad idea. And they had to do it.

The kids found it at the convenient store only a few blocks from the hotel. They had stopped for ice and they saw it - great and white and gleaming with all the floating potential in the world. It was perfect, absolutely dazzling in its ostentatious beauty and potential. 

“Please,” they begged their parents, “please!!!”

The parents didn’t stand a chance. It was vacation! They’re at the beach! They got the thing, strapped it to the top of the SUV, and head to the beach. The first sign that they made a mistake is how heavy the float was. It’s big, rubbery - makes sense that it’s heavy, but that just means it will stay down in the water. At least, that was the hope. 

Dad got the float in the water and the kids try to clamber up on the thing. It went well for the first few minutes before the youngest of them slid off into the surf. Soon enough, they’re all in the water and the wind has taken hold of the swan float. It rocked back and forth, the wind beneath its wings trying to make it quite literally take off. The kids are stubborn, they are not losing this marvelous bird float. 

But alas, the kids were tiny specks compared to the dual might of the wind and ocean. The wind yanked the slick float from the girl’s hands and flung it several feet across the surf. It landed with a slap and began its seaward journey. By the time the kids alerted the parents, it’s too late. Dad grabbed his buddy and they dived in, kicking their legs as fast they can go in attempt to rescue the runaway float. 

They reached the float by no small miracle, caught on the up-swell of a wave. Their hands take hold of the neck only to realize the damn thing’s too heavy for them to tow back to shore. With great reluctance and despair, they let the swan go. 

Dad and his friend stayed in that spot, floating, as they watch the swan float crest over another wave, topple over, right itself, and continue on out to the sea. Onlookers shook their heads in disappointment - such a waste, a tragedy, the terrible case of littering.

Finally, Dad and his friend returned to the family. They packed up and headed out for lunch. 

Not two hours later did I spy a giant pink float. A flamingo this time, four boys climbing on it as it danced in the surf, waiting to join its gleaming white friend.

[yoongihime]

Shape of You (M)

Model!OC x Photographer!Yoongi Length: 4.8K ..things got out of hand… Type: Three words drabble, birth from pure sin and thirst  Recommended OST: (x) and (x)  (a/n): “no really, this was me being a brat and thinking ‘hey how can I make this totally fluffy prompt into angst?’ and then it turned into sin. Must be the lack of sleep talking.” ….this was supposed to be a drabble…

Summary: Yoongi is not too keen on the fact that you, his muse, disappeared without a word two years ago. The two of you meet again at a casting, with Yoongi as the the photographer under the name SUGA. He’s livid, of course, but he can’t help the fact that he still remembers every curve and contours on your body.

Prompt By Anonnie: Sparkles, Petals, and Laughter (im sorry) Warnings: sex. sins. Yoongi being very naughty. 

001. Sparkles

Pins and needles prickle at your skin from the intensity of his scrutiny, the thin hairs on your arm standing on end, delicate flesh underneath forming ridges that continue to spread throughout your entire body from your head all the way down to your toes. Tremors blossom in the form of the most minuscule shivers that gradually build up intensity until your entire frame is aquiver, soft waves that only accentuates how your body is gloriously bare for his twisted pleasure. You hate how he can still elicit this kind of response from your body—two years truly changes nothing.

Your mind is buzzing with wild thoughts, the confines of your skull barely holding in your mental fretting. Despite the current state of turbulence in your head, your body revels in the attention that he’s shamelessly bestowing, his gaze drifting, languidly studying his masterpiece. His cold eyes that are staring you down from two feet away glints with amusement, the dark orbs saturated in lust and rage. It ignites your defiance, fueling your veins with adrenaline, compelling you to stand your ground against his desire to watch you crumble. 

 Min Yoongi was not always the picturesque depiction of frigid hostility like he is now. In fact, you dare say he was quite warm, towards you at least. He was sweet summer days and gummy smiles, the faint sound of the camera shutter and the sparkles of the ocean reflected in his eyes, until one day you silently departed from his grasp— without a single note of consolation. Bittersweet, that’s what it felt like. You still remember the day you decided to leave, you knew it was better for the both his career and yours, a raising-star photographer and an aspiring model, what a pair the two of you were. But you had to leave, Yoongi had too much potential to be wasted on the premise that you were his only muse, so you brought a oneway ticket to nowhere; picking up some fame along the way.

Strange, how you find yourself back at square one with Yoongi in front of you and your ability to conjure words proving fruitless. Oh, how you wish you could go back in time, just twenty four hours backwards, so you could tell your manager Seokjin what a horrible, stupid idea it would be to audition to model for the most coveted photographer in New York City: SUGA. Little did you know that you would walk right smack into your beautiful nightmare.

He was silent through the majority of your audition, your portfolio gripped in his hands, his figure slouched into the sleek leather of the back sofa. Meanwhile, you were blissfully oblivious to the fact that SUGA is in fact the very person you’ve been avoiding for the past two years, chirping happily to any questions they prompted you with until his coworker patted the lazy photographer none too gently,

“Yoongi, you’re not going to say anything? Man, what happened to the savage that made two newbies cry in the dressing room yesterday?”

Familiarity rang in your ears then and you had a split second decision of dashing completely out the room, but not before-

“I’m going to have to ask everyone, except (y/n) to leave the studio.”

And that’s how you find yourself in this current predicament, with Yoongi staring you down like a panther stalking it’s prey and you, the careless gazelle that ran right into the hands of death.

Thick silence settles in the room and you take this opportunity to study the man in front of you just as he’s recording every detail of you.

His hair is black now, you note, the ebony locks curling slightly on his forehead, deliberately messy, making his milky skin all the more ethereal in the dim lighting of the small room. His hair used to be a radiant blonde, but you suppose he doesn’t need such a thing as eccentric strands to attract attention now. Everything from his eyes to his rosy lips drown you in nostalgia, they remain strikingly similar to fragments of your fading memories. Those nebulas, ever so expressive are concealed by the gold rimmed specs balancing precariously on the tall bridge of his nose. Black ink paints it way up from underneath his thin white t-shirt, the vines’ movements deliberate like brushstrokes and you realize that they depict cherry blossoms crawling up the right side of his neck. You allot a few seconds to let your mind wander towards what other tattoos may be adorning his body under the thin material, only to have your lascivious fantasies disrupted when Yoongi floats towards you, stopping a hair away, leaving just enough space to have you yearning to close such insignificant distance.

“So, what kind of excuse did you come up for me today, doll face?”  he growls into the shell of your ear, causing you to whimper, the noise automatic in response to his sharp demand. He smirks at that, as if the visceral response from your body wasn’t enough of an indication of your desperation for his understanding.

“Go on, it must be good. You had two whole years to make it up after all.”

“Y-oongi,” you sigh out his name when he begins his maddening play, the coolness of his fingertips somehow drawing trails of fire across your skin. Yoongi fully smiles at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue, it has been awhile since he’s heard the soft, sweet sound after all.

“Did you miss me, doll?” he whispers, his fingers coming up to swipe at your lips, the pad of his thumb pressing down on the soft flesh. He studies your doe eyes, filled with so much conflict and apprehension, but most of all regret. It almost pains him to see you like this when both of you know the reason for your departure was anything but selfish.

Yoongi knows that he’s already forgiven you the moment you walked into the room, radiant, none the less, with a new persona so strong that he was shaken from your progress. Fear, it was eating at him that maybe you’ve moved on with your career, leaving him behind in the dust, however just as quickly as it came, the nagging emotion dissipated once he flipped to the beginning of your portfolio and there it was. There, right on the first page was one of his favorite photographs he took of you. He had taken it once upon a time, back when he received his own camera as a hand me down from his uncle; back when he didn’t know left from right and aperture from exposure. There you were, smiling at him with your monochrome profile, the light in your eyes not in the least dull even through the 2D surface. Yoongi knew it then as he knows it now. He knows that you, with all your fiery passion is his muse and he’s just as excited as a kid on Christmas day to have you in his grasp again.

Yet, the past two years have been a cruel winter, barren of you and he wants, no, he needs you to know that.

“I know I did.” he confesses, words heavy with hurt, but his secret only serves to rile you up, your heart singing in elation at the newfound discovery.

“I’m sorry.” you murmur, the motions causing his thumb to brush against the plushness of your lips and you wait with bated breath for his reaction only to find another chill running down your spine at the fractional darkening of his eyes and the sinister smile that is spread across his face.

“I know you are, darling.” he chuckles when your brows knit together, words finally bubbling up in your throat but he interrupts you before-

“I will need you to show me.” he grins, the innocent action giving no hints towards the workings of his mischievous mind. Cool silver presses insistently into your hips when he tightens his grip on your waist, pulling you in so that your flushed skin brushes against the silken material of his blazer. Your reaction is immediate, wanting him closer, but just as you’re about to reach for him, Yoongi leans away and next thing you know, his back is to you and his distant shout registering-

“See you on set tomorrow, doll face .”

The kiss he pressed on your cheek tingles, a searing imprint of his lips on your reddening skin.

002. Petals

There’s something sensual in the way the silk is brushing your form, a cool rush that slithers against your exposed limbs, the scraps of lace barely serving their function on the curves of your body. The burning light shining on you is warm, nearly uncomfortably so, adding to your flushed state that was no doubt induced by the inquisitive lens a few inches from you and the photographer behind them.

It’s even more intimate than you can imagine, the connection between a photographer and his muse. Thick silence occasionally broken with the frail shutter, a resounding beep that signified the arrival of the photo on the MacBook, your shaky sighs and Yoongi’s hum of amusement are the only sounds that register to you as the rest of the studio fades out of focus. You feel starkly bare, not from the flimsy lace, but rather from the intensity of Yoongi’s gaze, augmented by the magnifying lens that are covering his expression from your viewing pleasure. Yet, the way his breaths come out in uneven pants, accompanied by his surprised gasps when you shift into a rather bold pose are just enough of a response to have you desperate to rile him up even more. Payback is a bitch, you muse and it’s with this notion in your mind that you defiantly stare into the lens, an attempt to drown him in the rapture that he placed you in just twenty-four hours prior to this session.

“Our genius photographer is rather quiet today.” you hum as you catch your bottom lip between your teeth, brow arching and eyes twinkling: a perfect picture of invitation. Yoongi seems to pause at that, his lips twitching in a badly concealed show of his emotions, using the oscillating sounds of the shutter to answer for him.

Click.

“Our little doll is rather uncooperative today.” he replies, fingers stilling on the shutter and you fluidly shift to the next pose you’ve mentally lined up prior to the session.

Click.  

You gasp in the form of mock shock,

“Why, I think I’m doing a great job, if I do say so myself.”

“We’ll see about that.” is his noncommittal response and you idly wonder what else this session will entail.

Click.

As it turns out, your imagination does not get too far into the possibilities of the session when trouble walks into the studio in the form of a golden boy by the name of Kim Taehyung. He’s a brilliant sight, with his tussled blonde locks and a boxy smile to match and you can’t help but feel enamored when he easily makes you comfortable with his booming laughter. He’s a ball of sunshine, to the point where you wonder if they scouted the wrong man for the job, that is, until he’s in front of a camera.  

All hell breaks loose once he’s on set.

Taehyung is incredibly straightforward in his movements, so confident and assured as he presses petal-like kisses against the hallows of your neck, honeyed irises flashing with intentions so lewd you can physically feel Yoongi bristle behind the sanctuary of his camera.

“Closer.” Yoongi commands in his lazy drawl, as if he does not care about the already dwindling space between you and Taehyung. Pausing, you turn to search Yoongi’s cloudy expression for any hint of sarcasm, but your hesitance is cut short when two arms circle around your form to pull you closer. You nearly giggle at the way Yoongi displays regret of his own instructions with a frown when Taehyung pulls you onto his lap, the pair of you entangled in the most intimate of ways with measly layers of cloth covering your bodies.

Taehyung is a wonderful actor. Everything from his gaze, the slight graze of his teeth against your skin, to his whispered praises in your ear, they all melt you by the degree until you barely have to try to play the role of his lover. However, if Taehyung is the sun then Yoongi would be the ever constant moon, cold in his professionalism and detached to the point you feel a sharp sting at his chilling mannerisms.

The last click of the shoot resonates within you as you visibly relax in Taehyung’s grasp and watch as the friendly sunshine boy resurfaces in the form of round cheeks and eye crescents.

“Good job today (y/n)!” Taehyung giggles out, his nose brushing against yours as a form of affection. You’ve never seen someone change from five-year-old toddler to ranging sex god in a matter of seconds, but as expected of the modeling industry, they like to keep you on your toes.

“Good Job to you as well, Tae. I think you made it too easy for me.” you sigh into the plush comforter, fully stretching your spine out like a kitten after a nap. With your eyes closed, you’re relishing the warmth in your muscles when a slight shadow casts over your form and your eyes flutter open to find an impassive Yoongi, a tempest brewing behind his raven orbs.

“Go change (y/n), I can take you home.” he murmurs, eye drifting to Taehyung’s arm that you’re currently laying on.

“I can have Jin come pick me up. You don’t have to inconvenience yourself, Yoongi.”

He wordlessly hands you your phone, the screen flashing 1:38a.m. and a few messages from Jin.

Princess Peach [12:30a.m.]: “(y/n)! I’m so sorry love, but you’ll have to find a way home on your own. Big Emergency!”

You roll your eyes at “Big Emergency” because more often than not that just means he’s going to get dicked down by his boyfriend Namjoon. Yes, Big Emergency indeed Seokjin, you groan internally, not entirely pleased with the situation as you study the message on top.

Princess Peach [12:35a.m.]: “Have Yoongi take you home. At least I can trust the guy, but if he does I won’t expect you to be home in the morning. Be safe kids! ;)”

You face reddens at the realization that Yoongi most likely saw the text and his hushed chuckle is confirmation of the fact.

Momentarily clearing of your throat and one little huff of exertion later, you’re swinging your legs from the edge of the bed and straightening next to Yoongi, your breath stuttering when his cool palm slides around your waist to rest on your hip.

“G-good bye Tae, I’ll see you around.” you hate the stutter in your voice, absolutely abhor the airy quality that can only be elicited by the man drawing nonsensical patterns into your hipbone with his thumb.

“Goodbye, Darling” Taehyung purrs, tongue poking out to wet his lips and you’re all too aware of his intentions to test Yoongi’s patience when the elder tightens his hold on your waist and with a low grumble, ushers you out of the room.

003. Laughter

Frigid AC and his hand on your thigh, that’s all you register as the faint hum of his sleek engine roars with each press of his foot against the accelerator, tearing in the stillness of the early morning. Lights begin to blur as they pass at high velocity, swirling together into steaks of color that you fixate your gaze on in order to avoid staring at Yoongi’s sharp profile. Yet you know that you’ll cave eventually, you always do.

“Do you know the way to my apartment?” you’re the first to break the silence, glancing over at his hand on the wheel, the shapes decorating his arms and the blossoms caressing the side of his neck.

“No, but I know the way to mine, is that okay?” he answers, the hand on your thigh squeezing the tender flesh, his eyes now fixated on your own.

“Y-yes.” you cough out, the syllable being the only response your jumbled mind can muster, words sitting awkwardly in your mouth from the distraction on your thigh. Nervous laughter bubbling on your lips.  

“That’s what I like to hear, kitten.” he gloats, clearly pleased with himself.

Min Yoongi, you brat.

The night seems to progress in the same silence, you watch patiently as he punches in his passcode and remain impassive as he leads you into the space. He lives on the top floor studio, the windows littered with lights gleaming from below and the buzzing of the city muted at this height. His space is just like him, sleek, minimal with not much sentiments in pictures decorating the wall except for his more abstract landscape pieces. Standing there at the ledge, you decide to take the leap when you murmur,

“Are you angry?”

Your question implies to more than the events of occurring today, but you truly need to know if he’s still upset over your abrupt absence.

Yoongi sighs, his slouched form straightening to stand a mere millimeters from you, the heady scent of his minty cologne making you crave to feel him under your fingertips.

“Yes and no.” he whispers, as if the silence is a creature not to be disrupted. He trails his right hand down to interlock your fingers, bringing your joined hands to his lips to press a kiss onto each of your knuckle, every brush of his lips causing your heart to drum faster and faster against your chest.

“I am angry,” he says before he reaches the last knuckle, “but I shouldn’t be.”

A kiss.

“I am sorry.” you squeeze his hand that is still interlocked with yours, “I missed you.” you confess, the memories rushing to your skull, causing a stray tear to slip from the corner of your eye.

“I missed you so damn much, but I had to be better than I was Yoongi. You of all people know that.” quiet tears roll down your cheeks. Memories of cold nights and sore feet, ridiculous diets and measurement tapes still weigh heavily on your mind, those were some of the most grueling years of you life, until Seokjin pulled you out of your hellhole of a company and back to your passion for the profession.

“Shh, babydoll. I know.” He soothes your hiccups with a kiss on the crown of your head, finally pulling you into his arms. You don’t let yourself indulge in his embrace for long because you reach with both hands to cup his face, pulling him down until your lips crash hungrily against his. He tastes like his mint gum and whiskey, a dark, addictive combo that has your tongue swiping against the seams of his lips for more. Feeling more than hearing his groan of surprise, you slip your hands around his neck, fingers intertwining with the stray locks there and tugging, earning you yet another groan.

“Babygirl, what are you doing?” he chuckles and halfheartedly nips at your earlobe in warning. As if of their own accord, your hands drift to the buttons in the front of his crips white dress shirt, deconstructing the seam one button at a time. You’re too focused on painting nebulas to accompany the cherry blossoms on his neck to pay attention to his question, but a much harsher bite on the curve on your shoulder snaps your attention back to his questioning stare.

“Making up for lost time.” you state in matter-of-a-fact fashion, returning the gesture with a soft nip to his earlobe, his array of silver earrings cool against your tongue.

“We have the rest of tomorrow, and the next day, and the next…” Yoongi utters, trying to convince himself more than you that the pair of you have all the time in the world.

“If you don’t want me anymore I can find someone else to occupy my time.” you sigh against the corner of his lips, enthralled by the way his mouth twitches in annoyance and his hands immediately tighten their hold on your waist, one of them so daring as to trail down and grip the curve of your ass.

“Say that again (y/n) and I promise you that you will regret being such an impatient princess.”

Pushing away from him entirely, you’re walking backwards towards the bedroom with Yoongi following close after as you smoothly recite,

“I said, Min Yoongi, if you don’t want me anymore I can find someone else to occupy my time.” the sentence barely leave your lips when he scoops you up in his arms, hands settled under your thighs and your legs locked behind his back. Slamming you into the closed door, you fell a dull ache at the rough action but the growing ache of your arousal is a more pressing manner in your lust clouded mind.  

“Strip.” he says as he releases his hold on you, choosing to sit himself down on the edge of his bed, legs parted to palm his erection over his tight jeans. Working methodically, you first pull off the black long sleeve to reveal the white babydoll that the staff gifted to you from today’s shoot. The lace clinging to your breasts, showcases your budding nipples and billows off into soft ruffles which is accentuated by the pure white panties that are coming into view as you shimmy out of your jeans. Yoongi swore under his breath, here you are a picture of purity, yet so pliant under his commands. Maybe he was a sinner with the sole goal of corruption.

“Come here,” he motions and you immediate kneel in between his legs, soft lashes blinking up at him in question, “Beautiful.” he moans when you grab his belt, but is quick to slap your greedy hands away.

“Do you want to have a taste?” he questions, his head tilting along with the prompt and you’re left to wonder how much self control this man possess in his body. Mutely nodding, you’re met with a low tsk and his finger against your chin forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Your words, beautiful.”

“Yes I would love to have a taste of you, sir.”  

“My what?”

A smirk.

Curse you Min Yoongi.

“Your cock, sir.”

A smile.

He unbuckles his belt at a torturous pace, each distinctive clink of the metal grating your nerves until Yoongi himself loses patience at his game and pushes his jeans and boxers down with a flourish and your mouth waters at the sight before you: Yoongi, his dark gaze pinning you to the spot with his milky skin on display, the black ink on the smooth surface only spurring you to explore the expanse of skin offered to you. His erection stands proudly against his stomach, red and leaking with drops of pearly white precum,

“Can I please touch you?” you whimper, holding your breath for his next move.

As a response, he cards his hand through your hair, gripping a fistful in his hands as he pulls you closer,

“No hands, baby.”

Nodding in understanding, you begin by giving him tiny licks before enclosing your lips around the head and pushing yourself down on his shaft, making sure to run your tongue along the prominent vein at the underside. Truly, the bitter taste and your watery eyes hold no particular value, but the way Yoongi is panting above you, his hands tightening in your hair, tugging just enough to have him whining from your ministrations is the reason your core is aching, the white of your panties turning translucent from your arousal. He pulls away with a pop when you start playing dirty by humming around his length, his breaths coming in harsh pants as he struggles to compose himself from the vibrations.

He offers no instruction but instead pulls you towards the mattress, pulling your body down on the mass of white and his body hovering above yours. Yoongi nearly loses all composure form  seeing you like this; flushed and sweaty for him, embellished with delicate white lace, you’re the most sinful angel he has ever seen.

“God, how are you so beautiful to me?” he growls as he kisses his way down the length of your body, leaving goosebumps in his wake. Calloused hands lift up your thigh as his kisses continue in rapid successions until he’s right at the edge of your panties, humming in approval at the soaking wetness he finds.

“You ruined your gift from today, doll.” he observes, lazily snapping the band of your panties against your hipbone, causing you to jolt in his hold.

“I suppose I’ll just have to buy you new ones.” he kisses his promise into the juncture between your thighs and your folds, his other hand sliding the ruined lace off and fulling drinking in the slight of you dripping for him.

“Yoongi, please.” you keen, the prolonged wait causing your nerve endings to spark with sensitivity. So when he flattens his tongue against your folds, the slick muscle eating you out in earnest, you wail and grasp onto his strands, nails digging into his scalp, his low groan of approval buzzing through your entire body.

“More, please please. Yoongi don’t stop.” you nearly bawl when he listens to your request and slips two fingers inside, choosing to purse his lips over your clit and suck hard. You’re a mess at this point, one hand gripping his hair the other clutching the comforter as Yoongi relentlessly continues with his sinful tongue and fingers, causing you to see stars within seconds. You lay boneless on his bed, the obscene squelch of his fingers leaving you causes you to shiver as the man himself lifts his hand to his mouth, deliberately licking off all traces of your pleasure.

“Yoongi, I need you.” you mewl when he kisses his way back up your body, trails of fire licking at your sweat covered skin.

“Such a greedy kitten.” Yoongi sighs, his weight abruptly disappearing from above you and you open your eyes in time to see him slip off his pesky dress shirt.

“Go on, princess. Take what you need. I want to see you work for it.”

Who are you to deny such a tempting invitation?

So you crawl over towards him, quickly straddling his lap and rubbing yourself on his length, the friction so delicious you forget your original goal as you moan softly, losing yourself in the skin on skin contact.

“Kitten, don’t tease.” he growls, his blunt nails digging into your hips.Your eyes snap open to observe how fucked out his looks, hair mussed and pupils completely dilated, breaths puffing from his rosy, bitten lips and you realize you cannot wait anymore either. With shaky hands you align yourself to his length and slowly lower yourself until you’re sitting on his thighs, his cock filling you up to the hilt.

“God, how are you so tight.” Yoongi groans, busying his mind by scattering marks on your collarbone. His hands scramble to pull the last bit of lace off your body, fingers skimming across the valleys of your breasts before taking one into his mouth. He stills completely when you begin to move, you hips drawing tantalizing circles against his, pulling him closer to his release.

“I’m close, Yoongi.” you cry when he thrusts up to meet your hips, the burning in your thighs and the thudding of the headboard evidence of your passionate session. Yoongi gives a short grunt as reply when he trusts even harder up into you, brushing against your bundle of nerves. Your breaking point is surpassed when he growls, “Come for me, kittten.” into the shell of your ear, his raspy voice always the object of your end.

Waves of bliss wash over your body, electric flashes of sensory overload that makes you clench tightly around him, coaxing him towards his own release. Yoongi comes with a shout of your name and warmth painting your walls, shallow thrusts working both you and him from your high.

In the afterglow, you find yourself tracing the patterns of his tattoos, marks of growth from when you two parted ways.

“I love you, you know?” you admit, staring into his glossy eyes, liquid pleasure still flowing in his veins.

He’s a masterpiece.  

“I’ve never stopped loving you.” he answers and the sincerity in his eyes cannot be mistaken for a split second decision made by lust.

You’re his masterpiece.

Perhaps it’s the feeling of adrenaline rushing through your veins, or maybe the sheer joy in the moment but both of you burst out in laughter. A sweet kiss and many lingering touches forge your reunion and you’ve never been so content for a warm body next to yours.

.

.

.

.

Princess Peach [8:00a.m.]: I hope your Big Emergency was resolved (y/n) ;)

Me: [9:30a.m.]: You’re so dead once I get back.

[gldngrl7]

Karamel Fic: Damage Control (4/5)

Author’s Notes:

So do you think ya’ll are primed for some Karamel smut?  You’re welcome.   ;)

The chapter is smut from start to finish.  There be no plot here.

Remember we’re moving deeper into Dom/sub territory.  If that squicks out pick the story up again at chapter 5 -- you likely won’t miss much plot.

You’re welcome.

Title: Damage Control

Author: gldngr7

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 5

Feedback: Encouragement and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Flames are destroyed with my freeze

Thanks for comments/likes and for being awesome people in general: @pwettypwita, @anaveragegirl15, @baskingintheinsanity, @iminyourhandskara

  Chapter 4/5

                  I’d give up the ghosts

                      Locked up inside me

                             If I ever once had cared

                And time won’t ever fade

                    ��    Silken threads that break

                                Thrown to the wolves

                   I’m always frozen

          --Four Star Mary – “Thrown to the Wolves”

  It is pushing four o’clock and she’s heard nothing from Mon-El, and of course, she has no way to contact him if he’s outside of the DEO.  Getting him a cell phone, no matter how rudimentary, goes to the top of her priority list.   Kara needs to talk to him, about this Valor business, but most of all she needs to see him, to make sure he’s all right.

After lunch, the rush of calls transferred to her office phone dwindles down to a trickle, and she’s left with notes that need compiling.  Rex Berger’s call to confess seeing man downtown siphoning electricity from a rooftop transformer in the wee hours of the morning, hadn’t been the last one of the day.  There had been two more to follow; each on a different nights and each with a similar story to tell.  This has been going on for some time, perhaps since before they got together, and she needs Mon-El to tell her everything, for the sake of his continued support by the DEO and for their relationship.

The morning started out with such promise when she’d climbed out of bed and gotten dressed, minus one important garment; and just when she thinks the morning’s potential is going to turn out to be a wash, her phone rings.

“Danvers,” she answers, her tone indicating uncertainty as to what to expect on the other end of the line.

“Kara?” came Eve Tessmacher’s voice.  “I thought you should know Mike’s up here looking for you.”

“Mike?” she wonders aloud, trying to place the name for a second before it hits her. “Oh! Mike…right!  I’m hiding out on the 14th floor.  Can you send him down here to 1427?” Involuntarily, her heart kicks into overdrive racing towards an unknown finish line.  

“Sure thing, Kara.”

Kara’s face flushes, the heat traveling down her neck to her chest and below.  Her hands shake a little, so she stands from her chair and wipes them against the front of her skirt, over and over and until she can old them up without seeing the tremors.

Less than ten seconds after Kara hung up with Eve, Mon-El is slipping into the room without knocking and locking the door behind him.

Kara giggles. “I guess you took the stairs.”

She throws herself at him before he has the chance to speak, planting her mouth against his.  Mon-El’s brain calmly tells him to pull away, to remember what he resolved to do upon seeing her, but his body screams otherwise.  He wages an inner war, his mind seeking the tactic that will turn the tide in his favor.

He seems stunned into submission by her aggressive kiss, which she finds exhilarating since it’s usually the other way around.  Taking advantage of his dazed state, she drops to her knees before him, her fingers unerringly locating the closures of his jeans, and wastes no time vanquishing them.  Possibly at super speed.

“Kara, that’s not“—he attempts.  Her hand dives in and wraps around his cock and he is lost, all thoughts of super hero madness and nighttime electricity raids evaporating like rain drops on the sweltering planet Ertrenea.   “Gods,” he hisses.

The warmth of her hand sends the blood rushing to that appendage with a speed he finds unprecedented.  He had been with many lovers over his lifetime, but none had suborned such a spontaneous and primal response as his Kara.  As though she owns him body and soul, commanded by her will and her will alone.  

The pad of her thumb circles over the rounded head of his swiftly hardening cock and she must prevent herself from taking him into her mouth completely quite so soon. She wants to taste him, to feel his silken steel cradled by her tongue, but she also loves to hear him tell her what to do.  Her core throbs at the thought and she spreads her knees farther apart to relish the sensation.

Letting go of him, she slides her hands around his backside and takes hold of the waistband of his jeans, tugging them down until they bunch up around his knees.  There’s something thick and bulky in his back pocket but there’s no time consider looking more deeply.  She places a kiss on the tip of his spear before tilting her back and looking up at him.

“Tell me,” she whispers, her voice thick with arousal, her cheeks growing ever pinker.

“Kara, I don’t think“—he tried once more.

“Tell me.”

She’s impossible, his goddess; so perfectly impossible to resist.  “Take your hair down,” he demands.  “But leave the glasses on.  And take off your shirt and bra.  I want to see you.”  The words are barely past his lips before it’s done, and he thanks the gods for super speed.  She’s so beautifully vulnerable on her knees before him, staring up at him from behind her glasses with half-lidded cornflower blue eyes.  Mon-El gulps hard, his own salivary glands working overtime as her gazes down at her, and the cock bobbing in front of her face.  “Open your mouth.”

As instructed, Kara opens her mouth, rolling her tongue out like a red carpet, her eyes never leaving his.  Her hands roam up his muscular thighs, until her thumbs come close enough to caress tantalizingly near his testicles.  Already, with only the lightest touch and the barely controlled lust he sees deep in her eyes, his cock is as hard as stone.

Her mouth remains open, demanding its due like a baby bird demands a worm.  Mon-El obliges by placing the weeping head on the tip of her tongue.  Kara closes her mouth over the head and then slides down the shaft until she can feel the tip brush against her tonsils.  She withdraws smoothly, hollowing her cheeks as she sucks on the cock to apply pressure, before diving forward again.  

Her salivary glands work on overdrive to create lubrication, and each time she takes him into her mouth, the cavern grows warmer and warmer.  The pressure she applies is enticing and breathtaking, though not nearly as satisfying as being inside of her clutch.  She adds her hand to the mix, wrapping her fingers around the shaft as she withdraws, and pumps it once or twice as she circles her tongue around the head, before sliding her mouth back down upon again.

“That’s my girl,” he sighs, his reason for tracking her down all but forgotten in the depths of his pleasure-addled brain.  “Just like that.”  Mon-El gazes down at her, her eyes closed in bliss, as though she enjoys the giving of pleasure just as much as he enjoys the receiving of it.  He drops a hand to the top of her head and sifts his fingers through it before fisting a handful of her gloriously thick golden locks until she opens her eyes.  “Are you wet?” he asks.

“Mmmm-hmmm,” she hums around him.  The vibration of her affirmative answer ripples through him, sending a shiver up his spine.  He groans, gripping her hair tighter as he guides her head over his cock, her mouth so hot and wet around him.

“Reach under your skirt,” he tells her, “and touch yourself.”  His thighs and ass harden in an effort to not give in to his primal desire to fuck her sweet mouth until his cock hits the back of her throat.

Without hesitation, she brushes her skirt out of the way and slips two fingers into her molten wet folds, rewarding Mon-El with a deep humming groan, which has him hissing in ecstasy as liquid fire fills her bones.  Her fingers delve into the grasping greediness of her core hunting satisfaction before retreating to electric switch of nerves near the apex of her folds.

Her moans travel down his cock, spider tendrils of pleasure spreading outwards as they voyage up his spine to the base of his skull.  His jaw tightens as he bites down on his lower lip, releasing a growl from deep within his chest.  Mon-El grips her hair tighter, holding her head steady as he begins to piston his hips toward her willing mouth.  Now that he’s finally taken control, she drops her other hand to her breast, cupping and squeezing her nipple to full arousal as his cock fills her mouth.

Kara wants to feel him rutting like a beast inside of her.  Fingers toy with her clit, but it’s never enough to satisfy the yawning, gaping greed that lays siege to the core of her, when only he will do. It’s never enough when it’s just her fingers and not his.  But nonetheless, she enjoys his passion for her, even if it means she’ll have to wait to feel the fullness of it.  She wants him to come in her mouth, to taste his essence in the back of her throat, even if it means her own release will be short and hollow.

But Mon-El has other ideas.  Somewhere along the line he decided he didn’t want to come in her mouth, didn’t want to waste the erection, when he could feel the heaven of her clutch fluttering around him and then gripping his cock as though it’s her anchor to this mortal plane.

When he pulls out, a look of disappointment and confusion crosses her features before he’s lifting her to her feet and turning her around, pointing her towards the ancient metal desk.   It doesn’t take much encouragement for her to bend over, elbows on the Formica surface as fingers grasp at the edges of the eyesore in front of her.  Tossing a glance over her shoulder, Kara sees that he’s pulled a condom from somewhere, perhaps his front pocket, and he’s currently freeing it from its foil confines.  She wiggles her hips in anticipation.

“Impatient for me?” he smirks, rolling the condom in place like he’s a pro at it now.

“Maybe a little,” she replies coyly, licking the taste of him from her lips.

Mon-El lifts her skirt and examines her folds; finding the dark pink haven swollen and glistening with desire; hungry for him.  He aligns his cock with her waiting core and presses just the tip inside, enjoying the sound of her aroused gasp and the way her back arches involuntarily.

He asks her the question then, the one she loves to answer.  “Will you have me?  Will you take me inside of you?”

 “Yes, Mon-El,” she replies, biting on her lower lip in anticipation.

He moves in increments, allowing just an inch or so to penetrate her heat, teasing her as he withdraws almost immediately, before dipping in again.  Grasping at her hip, he runs his other hand all over the stunning perfection of her back, tickling her spine until it bows gently beneath his touch.

“Mon-El,” she whines, panting lightly between her lips.

He loves that sound.  The sound of her desperation, of her breathless need.  “Yes, sunshine?” he asks, teasing her repeatedly with just a fraction of his hardened steel.  He decides in this moment to draw her out of her comfort zone a little more, to make her use that word he’s dreamed of hearing pass her lips.

He wants to teach her that true intimacy means more than just teaching a lover the ways of pleasure, or lovemaking or even the highly charged claiming of a mate. Sometime it’s just two bodies taking what they need when they need it.  Sweaty passion that steals beyond the higher functions and barges deeper into the heart of a more primal need.

“Tell me what you want,” he goads, reaching around to grasp her breast.  He cups the soft flesh and rolls it between his fingers before taking the nipple between thumb and forefinger and twisting the sensitive bud.

The pain turns almost instantly into pleasure and she’s flooded with the sensation of her core growing wetter in response.  She gasps at the revelation of it.  His cock teases her, her clutch clamping frantically around its head, in a desperate bid to draw him further inside.  She aches and throbs for him.  “Please,” slips out between her pursed lips, a sigh only heard by their ears.

The sound of a hard slap rings throughout the room, and a powerful stinging sensation spreads across her backside.  It’s unlike anything she’s ever felt before.  Of course, she’s seen people get slapped before, heard that familiar sound of flesh colliding violently with flesh.  Rude men who overstepped their boundaries, and underestimated the courage of the women they’d insulted.  Enraged women coming to blows over something they both felt passionate about, from opposite sides of the issue.  In movies, in television and even on news reports, the sound is something she’s not unaccustomed to hearing.

She is, however, unaccustomed to feeling it.  In the past, any attempt to slap her had always resulted in the assailant walking away with an injured palm, if they were lucky and broken metacarpals if they were really committed.  It is a sensation she finds undeniably intriguing and deliciously human.  An invigorating warmth almost instantly joins the spread of the sting, the two sensations working in concert to sensitize every nerve in her body, particularly the ones below the waist.

Mon-El’s eyebrow perks up and a grin expands slowly across his face.  “Oh,” he chuckles.  “You like that, don’t you?”  When she doesn’t answer immediately, a blush heating her face, he raises his other hand and provides a slap to her opposite cheek. She jerks in response, a tiny mewling cry springing forth as she bites down on her lower lip to prevent a longer, louder noise.  “Don’t you, sunshine?” he presses.

“Mmm-hmmm,” she confesses, pressing her lips tightly together.  Her hands grip the sides of the desk more tightly as she waits, prays, for the next blow to strike.

“I want to hear you say it,” he orders, allowing his cock to dip back into her heat, but only just the tip.  He punctuates his instruction with another slap, harder and firmer than the previous ones. She squeals, a shaky breath escaping through taut lips.

Kara contemplates defying his command, in hopes that he’ll smack her toned, tenderized rump again, but suspects that his reaction to her tiny rebellion would have the opposite effect as the one desired.  Already he’s caressing a warm spot on her cheek with the backs of his fingers, intent on taking away the invigorating sting.  “Say it, sunshine, and I’ll let you have another,” he cajoles this time.

“I like it,” she huffs, wiggling her hips as if to evade the comforting caress of his hand.

 Mon-El seizes her hips in a stronger hold, his fingers digging in to her radiantly ivory skin. His solid steel shaft, so desperate to sheath himself inside of her, slides tantalizingly along the crease of her ass.  “Now, now,” he chastises, “you know that’s not what I meant.  “Oh…oh no,” he exclaims melodramatically.  “The beautiful red skin is starting to fade.”

“I like it,” she confesses, her voice soft and timid, a hint of embarrassment.  “I like it when you spank me, Mon-El.  Please?” she asks, her entire body tensing for the awaited blow.

“You like it when I spank your….” His voice trails off, leaving the sentence open-ended for her to finish.

“I like it when you spank my ass,” she finishes.

“Good girl,” he smiles.  “And good girls should get everything their little heart’s desire.”  With that, he delivers a blow to her cheek, calculated for maximum sting across the outer layers over her dermis.  She will redden, but she will not bruise.  Kara’s entire body sighs with relief, as though waiting for the strike is more painful than receiving it.  Mon-El’s other hand comes down on her opposite cheek and Kara jerks forward on her elbows, her eyes closing, a small smile gracing her lips.

In quick succession, he delivers four more whacks, enjoying the way her toned ivory bottom turns a livid red beneath his hand.  Her skin there is hot to touch, and he knows that she will feel it all the more when he’s pounding into her, his pelvis smacking into the battered globes of her perfect backside.

It is surreal, this awakening within her, as though layers of protective coating have been peeled away and she’s left with an evocative and erotic glimpse at human frailty.  Of course she’s heard about this sort of sexual play—to be honest, she always viewed it as a deviancy left in the wake of a past rife with physical abuse—but never imagined herself as a willing participant. Let alone an eager one. Now, she’s anxious to know more, to feel more.  

Kara comes back to herself long enough to realize Mon-El has ceased spanking her, and the tip of his cock is once again penetrating her hyper-aroused core. “Yes,” she gasps, ready to finally feel him moving, thrusting inside of her.

He slides in so slowly, she wonders if it’s another tease as she takes in his girth inch by inch, stretching to accommodate him.  “Rao!” she cries.  “That feels so good.”

Mon-El reverses his tactic from earlier, this time buried deep within her, he withdraws only a fraction before sliding back in.  While intimate, it promises little in the way of the satisfaction for which she’s looking.  “Is this what you want?” he teases, knowing it’s not what her body begs for.

“More,” she pleads, reaching back to grab the hand clasped to her hip.  Catching him off his guard, Kara slams back against him until her ass hits his pelvis and the resulting sting takes her breath away. Mon-El tightens his grip on her hips so that won’t happened again.

“You want to be in control?” he questions.  “Is that what you want?  Maybe I should sit in the chair and just let you ride me.”  

To some it might sound like a tempting offer, but to Kara it is a very real threat. When it comes to seeking pleasure, Kara finds that control is of no interest to her.  Control is something she has use every day at every moment. Except when she’s with him.  With Mon-El, she can let go—surrender—and know that in his care she is safe and protected.

“No!” she begs.  “No, baby, please?”  Of course, she is completely capable of taking care of herself, of protecting herself (she is Supergirl, after all), but there’s a certain aphrodisiac property to having a choice.  It turns her on to give away her power to him, to trust him not to abuse it.  With him, she feels human, the way his hand stings her skin when he slaps her ass, or the way his strong arms can position her body in any way that pleases him. For an all too brief time, in moments like these, she gets to feel like just like any other girl in the world.

As though her perfect match in every way, Mon-El enjoys seizing the control. Perhaps because so little of his life is at his command.  He lives off the government’s stingy largesse, adhering to a curfew like a child they don’t want caught out after dark, forced to follow a set of rules that at times seem arbitrary and contrary to everything his native culture offered. So, seeing Kara on her knees before him, or begging him to make her feel good, makes Mon-El feel needed and important. And if she’s the only one that needs him, or sees his importance, that’s enough for him.

“Harder,” she answers.  “Faster.” Kara’s voice is shyly tentative, and calculated to be so.  Mon-El likes the insinuation of her innocence, of an innate shyness that only he can breach, and she knows it -- gives it to him for his pleasure.  It’s a game she’s learning to recognize and play, a little more each time they’re together.  “Take me,’” she offers, her voice so sweet and fervent at the same time.

With a flurry of movement, Mon-El whips off the jacket and tee shirt he’s wearing and tosses them over his shoulder.  He wants to feel more of his skin against hers; another slap rings out as his palm meets her pink ass.  “Take you?” he chuckles, rocking gently—too gently—into her body.  Leaning forward he covers her back with his chest and places his lips against her ear.  “I already have you,” he points out.  He cants his hips and snaps back, hard; she groans, bowing her neck backwards.  “I’m buried inside you,” he reminds her.  “How would you suggest I ‘take’ you any more than I already have?”

His physical control is ironclad.  How else can he speak so calmly to her, buried deep, without crumbling into a mass of frenzied and sloppy flesh?  He reaches under her body and cups her breast, tugging and twisting the nipple, adding harsh twist at the end.  A sharp pain streaks through her body, quick like a lightning bolt.  Like the slaps on her hind end, the sharp pain dissipates, leaving behind a spreading warmth and a strongly aroused nipple.  “Uuunnhhh,” she moans.

“Ah,” he grins, nipping at the exposed cartilage of her ear with his teeth. “She likes that too, does she?”

“Yes,” she confesses.

“Who’s my good girl?”  He graces her with another pinch and twist, her body jerking beneath his.  Her clutch squeezes him tightly, and he revels in the intimacy of it.

“I am,” she swears—vows.  “I am.”

“Tell me what you want,” he commands.  “I know what you want, what your body needs.  But I want to hear you say it.  Say the word.  You know the one I’m talking about, sunshine.  I want to hear it from your own lips.”

“Mon-El,’ she complains.  She adorably balks at his request, as though she’s still that little girl who learned to be good for her parents, and not his good girl, long legs spread, bent over the desk, her body writhing beneath his touch.

Mon-El releases her breast and slides his hand up her chest and neck to grab her chin. He turns her face towards his and covers her mouth his lips, tongue plundering without shame.  She hungrily joins in, her tongue jousting with his, loving the rough feel of his hand gripping her jaw.  He pulls away, leaving her bereft.  “Shall I make love to you slowly then, until you fall apart with a sweet sigh?”

He removes his hands from her completely, gripping the edges of the desk just below her hands, before he withdraws all the way and then slips slowly back into her heat.  Mon-El tucks his head into the crook of her neck as he pulls out once more, before sinking back in.  There is nothing about her clutch that isn’t magnificent; her heat, her tightness, and the way her muscles grip at him as he tries to leave and welcome him home when he returns.  He can do this all day, hours on end, withholding both their climaxes until she weeps for the need of it, as he enjoys every second of the sweetest torture the universe ever devised.

“No,” she declares.  “I don’t want that.”

“Well, I know what you don’t want,” he agrees.  If possible, he retreats even more slowly, leaving just the tip inside.  “Now tell me what you do.”

“I want you to…fuck me,” she confesses.  It’s forbidden and so very dirty to acknowledge such things, though she has no idea where the notion comes from.  Perhaps from the earlier years of her upbringing, or maybe it’s just that she’s releasing a part of herself she’s kept locked inside for her entire life. But saying the words is followed by a sigh of relief, as though a chain has fallen away.

“That’s my girl,” he coos, placing a series of hot open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder and shoulder blade.  “Now say it again.  I want you to say it over and over again until you’re not afraid of saying it anymore.”   He stands up straight and grasps tight to her waist with one hand, while he takes his cock into his other.  He guides the head of his cock up and down her glistening seam a few times before settling on her clit, and teasing the bundle of nerves until he hears her hiss sharply.

“I want you to fuck me,” she says, following his order without hesitation this time.   Mon-El rewards her with a hard smack on her ass.  

The redness from her previous spanking has long since faded and she needs priming once more.  “Ooh,” she cries.  “I want you to fuck me.”  Kara proclaims her desire three times more, each time receiving a spanking, allowing that delicious warmth to spread across her backside until her skin is fevered and hypersensitive.  “Please fuck me, Mon-El.”

“Close your legs,” he instructs, with a smack.  Mon-El’s left half a dozen scarlet palm prints on the canvas of her perfect ass.  Kara complies with his instruction, locking her knees as she does while he swiftly unzips her floral skirt and sends it to the ground pooling around her feet, leaving her perfectly naked before him.  She’s going to be so tight wrapped around him, feeling every inch of him pounding into her liquid heat.  Gripping her hips mercilessly, Mon-El plunges into her tight, wet clutch until he’s balls deep.  A loud smack is heard when his pelvis meets her rosy red ass.

“Yes!” she urges, the pitch of her voice rising an octave.  “Yes!”

With her encouragement, Mon-El releases the leash to which he’s been clinging so severely, and proceeds to fuck her with vigor.  Filling her so completely, so seamlessly, he pounds into her ruthlessly, each time his pelvis slapping against the heated skin of her backside. It’s so glorious a lump rises in her throat.  So much of her life has been about faking responses to outside stimuli; acting injured after a fall or after bumping into an inconveniently open desk drawer.  But in this moment she can feel everything; every pump of his shaft, the slap and sting of his skin against hers, and the possessive, bruising grip of his hands on her hips.

Glancing down, Mon-El observes his cock pump in and out of her, now glistening with the evidence of her desire.  She’s so beautifully perfect, he knows he’s done nothing worthy of having her but now that he’s done so, he’s determined to never give her up.  A possessive fire burns hot within his chest; an internal rage at thought of anyone or anything taking her from him.  He will not have it.  She is all that he wants of this place.  She is his home, his choice, his mate, and he’s struck suddenly with the need to hear her say it.  And it’s of the utmost, binding importance that she say it while he’s inside of her, buried so deep she is his abyss.

Mon-El reaches for her long, beguiling locks—so impossible to resist—and grabs a healthy chunk of it at the scalp, pulling until her neck and back bow in his direction.  The grip on her hair provides him new leverage to fuck her harder.  He changes his rhythm, retreating slowly than slamming back in as he pulls back on her hair.  Gods!  He would climb inside of her and stay there if such a thing were possible.

He leans forward, his chest and belly looming over her back, one hand on the desk while the other grips her hair.  He can hear a low hum of satisfaction emitting from her, as if her body is running at peak efficiency, but the sound flows from her parted lips.  He knows if he could see the fullness of her face there would be a contented smile upon it.  She reaches for his hand on the desk and takes it in hers, their fingers interlacing as he continues to move in and out of her, his pace slow, his thrusts rough and fierce.  “God,” she sighs gratefully.

“Who do you belong to, sunshine?” he grunts into her ear, tightening his hold on her hair.

“You, Mon-El,” she responds, her tone confident and tinged with pride.  “I’m yours,” she continues.  “Just as you are mine.”  He is hers, this beautiful brave man, with the courage to face a new world without crumbling beneath the weight of its pressures, or the confusion born of its differences.  “Mine,” she growls possessively, sending a thrill streaking straight to his chest.  He plunges even harder into her heat, claiming her more with each dive into his precious abyss, knowing that someday he will be swallowed whole and he won’t mind in the slightest.  “Mine,” she growls once more.

“Your what?” he demands.  

“Mine. Oh, God!  Don’t stop!”

“Tell me,” he grunts, the feeling of impending release gathering in his lower spine and curving around his buttocks to root in his balls.  “I’m your what?”  He bites down on her shoulder, his teeth unable to draw blood but still capable of leaving his mark upon her, however briefly before it heals.  His sweat drips from his forehead to land on her back, his beads mixing with hers to form larger ones.  “I’m your what?”

“My mate,” she submits easily, proudly.  Neither had spoken that word—that commitment—before now, despite proclaiming a belonging with one another, the word ‘mate’ implies a much deeper and unbreakable bond.

“Yes,” he exults.  She is his—his home, his heart, his everything.  “My mate.”  A part of him, inside, breathes a sigh of relief at the sound of the word.  Nothing would take her from him, nothing except death, and he will do all in his power to prevent that, including sacrifice his own life should it become necessary.  As is his right.

Mon-El releases her hair and her hand, and stands up, leaving her bent over before him. Kara flattens her body atop the cool surface of the desk, changing his angle of entry slightly.  He pounds into her over and over, each push and withdrawal heating a fire inside like creating an ember with the repeated strike of two pieces of flint.  She will go up in smoke, burned all the way down to ash eventually, it’s only a matter of time.

“You like that?” he asks, his tongue snaking out to taste the beads of sweat on his upper lip.  “You like it when I fuck you hard?  When I show you how much I want you?”

“Yes,” she groans, her voice quivering as her entire body shakes around it.  “Yes, I like it when you fuck me like this, Mon-El.” Mon-El rewards her honesty by smacking her ass and then grabbing a fistful of her taut flesh and squeezing it, claiming it as his.  “Yes, baby,” Kara mewls, her voice sinking into the pleasure his cock and his hands provide her.  “Please.”

Her inner muscles grip and flutter around him, so close he can feel the pulse of her racing heart, and it tempts him to end this exquisite torture and take his pleasure. She so close he can sense it in the way her clutch molds around him, in the way blood rushes to the capillaries in the skin of her back, and in the way her breathing changes, alternating from a rapid pant to the silence of holding her breath as she awaits detonation.

She wants to come, her body clawing at it as her climax drifts within reach before ebbing cruelly away.  Her lower abdominals coil like a spring, her thighs quiver uncontrollably and inner muscles clasp at him as though he is her salvation.  But still she won’t come.  Not until he gives her permission.  She doesn’t know why her body is so beholden to him, to his voice, his commands, but it is.  And she knows that with him, when he finally lets her come, it will more powerful and intense than any orgasm born of her own will could ever be.

“Touch your clit,” he instructs.

‘Thank, Rao,’ she thinks, as she rises up on her left elbow and snakes her right hand down between her body and the desk to seek her wet folds.  Before finding her clit though, she scissors her fingers and reaches further back until she can feel his impossibly hard steel plunging into her.  She catches his cock between her fingers, squeezing them together so that he can feel her.  As he pummels her, her fingers become trapped between his pubic bone and the plush velvet of her plundered seam.

Mon-El, taken by surprise by her guileless and curious experiment, hisses at the combined feel of her fingers brushing against his erection as he ruts forcefully into her. Drawing back a hand from her hip, he brings it down hard on her butt cheek.  The globe of flesh ripples in response to the attack, while Kara whimpers, biting down on her bottom lip as her cheeks flush a delightful shade of pink.

“Do you want to find out what happens to bad girls?” he queries.  He stops thrusting, the tip of his cock withdrawing until hover just at her opening, out of reach of her fingers.

Kara considers it for a moment, and wonders what delicious things might happen to a bad girl.  Or not happen.  He might not give a bad girl the spankings she desires, the ones that make her feel every inch of the nerve endings beneath her impenetrable skin. He might refuse to ferociously lay claim to her body as if it were the richest treasure in the universe.  He might ignore her needs and leave her wanting, refuse to grant her orgasms.  Being a bad girl sounds like the last thing she could ever want.

“No,” she insists, her voice begging for forgiveness.  Kara withdraws her fingers and dips them into the scorching heat at the top of her seam.  “I want to be your good girl.”

“I know you do,” he replies softly, sliding back into her waiting clutch.  She tightens around him like a vise and it feels so exquisite he must gather his control to keep from taking his pleasure, before he can begin moving.  “I want you to be happy more than anything.  You know that, right?” he asks when he gains control again.

Mon-El resumes his thrusts, fast and hard, Kara’s body absorbing the blows as her every muscle tenses at the surreal pleasure of it.  “I know,” she gasps.  “I know.”

“Touch your clit,” he reminds her.  She had forgotten his earlier request and reached between her legs again to resume the drive to her own completion.  “Are you happy?  Do I make you happy?” he asks.

Kara wonders at his questions, at the insecurity buried within them, and a part of her breaks inside.  Doesn’t he know how much he means to her?  How much she fears losing him?  How just the mere thought of him sends her mind into daydreams of a long future together, side by side?  Her mind drifts to the child that could possibly be growing inside of her at this moment, and for the first time a smile forms on her lips.  

“Come for me, sunshine,” he says.  And finally, as if a magic word had been spoken, she’s splintering apart, her inner walls clamping mercilessly down on him.  It’s like fire speeding through her veins, every muscle in her body tenses, even her toes curl inside of the stylish heels she still wears.  Sensing what’s to come, Mon-El grabs her elbows and yanks her swiftly backwards until her back slams into chest.  He places a cupped hand over her mouth, allowing her to scream out the unbearable pleasure that feels as though it’s ripping her apart and pulling her together at the same time.  His hand vibrates with the strength of it as he barely hangs on to his own release.

When the scream begins to die and her body goes limp, he pulls out of her still rippling clutch and spins her around.  As she falls to the desk on her back, he lifts her legs, placing her ankles over his shoulders, and impales her on his cock again.  Grasping her thighs for leverage, his thrusts are more powerful than ever, the desk scraping its way across the carpeted floor.  Kara clutches the edges of the surface to hold herself steady as he pounds her, his cock finding every nerve ending in her sheath. His steel-gray eyes hold hers in a grip just as strong as the one his hands have on her thighs.

Her ankles, as boneless as the rest of her, bounce so hard above his shoulders that her black high heels threaten to dislodge from her feet.  Her breasts, bouncing with each rutting penetration, give him an extraordinary show he would kill to make sure no one else ever sees. The veins in his arms and shoulders bulge beneath his skin, the tendons in his neck stretch with the effort of fucking her.  He’s her mate, and the thought it makes her insides feel like they’re melting.   She feels it again, the build within that promise to rocket her to the stars, and Kara arches her back in preparation for it, turning her head slightly so that she can maintain eye contact with him. His eyes make her feel things she’s certain no person in the history of the universe has ever felt.

One hand slides off of her thigh and disappears and a moment later the tip of his finger flicks her clit.  “Come,” he says.

“Fuck!” she grinds out through clenched teeth as she detonates once more.  This orgasm is not quite as intense as the previous, and she manages to keep her screams inside, thanks to a tightly closed lips.  He rides her through her release, at the same time extending her pleasure while preparing to take his own.

When her second climax fades, Mon-El pulls out of her still clasping heat and lowers her legs from his shoulder until they dangle, enervated, from the edge of the desk. Needing to mark her once more as his, he whips off the condom covering his cock and stands over her, pumping his erection until his spine and buttocks seize uncontrollably.  With a feral growl from deep within his chest, the one she daydreams of hearing in moments when she’s alone, a stream of milky white fluid jets from his cock and lands on her belly.  Three more times he pumps and growls and spills his seed on the porcelain skin of her stomach.

Kara thinks she should be disgusted by this, but is once again surprised to discover that previous impressions, formed by a virtuous mind, of certain sexual practices have proved to be incorrect. She loves the games they play, feels safe enough with him to take risks and knows that he will accept and relish, without judgement, the discoveries of her sexuality that are yet to unfold. Rao must have known she was made this way, and chose him for her because he could fulfill her ever-evolving needs.

Needing a moment to recover, Mon-El collapses on top of her, his mess sealing their bodies together as he roughly takes her mouth, one hand reaching to fist in her hair. He wastes no time tangling his tongue with hers, his other hand gliding up her sweaty side to cup her breast and flick the nipple with his thumb.  He could so easily have her again, if given but a few moments more to rest.

When his mouth falls away from hers, both their breathing heavy with gratification, she decides to continue the game for a moment more, not quite ready to relinquish it.  “Was I a good girl for you?” she asks, her voice taking on an innocent, naïve tone. Not enough to be cloying, but just enough to have his cock stirring.

Mon-El chuckles.  Gods of Val-or!  Just as he’d told Ral, his Kryptonian goddess is a fast learner who will, if he’s lucky, soon outstrip her tutor.  She’s learning the game and is more than willing to play, her body and her desires surprising him at every turn.  “Of course, sunshine,” he answers, dropping a kiss on the tip of her chin. 

“I’m glad. I don’t want to be anything but your good girl, Mon-El,” her voice almost betraying a pout.  He continues kissing her, light airy kisses, sometimes the tip of his tongue involved.  He makes his way across her jawline before placing a few kisses down her neck.  Sliding his body down a bit, his lips seek her collar bone and then her chest, kissing each of her breasts in turn.  He pays homage to her body, worships her like a deity, his mouth paying the tithe of his stewardship.

“You will always be my everything,” he whispers into her damp skin.  “I will have the heart of any who tries to bring you harm; the head of any that betray you, and the tongue of any that shame you. Including my own, should you wish it.

Reaching her belly, he begins to give her a tongue bath, cleaning the mess he made of her. He takes his time, as though baptizing her with every part of himself he has to offer.  It’s not the first time he’s had the taste of someone’s seed on his tongue, but there’s a powerful aphrodisiac quality to his own salty flavor when mixed with Kara’s.

“I’m yours,” she whispers, reminding him that he’s lost a world but gained a universe. She lifts her head and looks down the valley of her breasts until slate gray eyes meet cornflower blue.  “Yours.”

When he’s through bathing her, he places a long, lingering kiss on her belly just below the navel, and Kara wonders if he knows or somehow suspects that she might be carrying his child.  They hadn’t spoken about it afterward, after the interlude in the DEO gym just a week before where they’d forgotten to use protection.  She had forgotten to remind him.

After a long discussion with her adoptive mother about birth control options as well as the possible looming question mark of Mon-El’s mental health, Kara decided not to remind him that they had forgotten to use a condom.  She didn’t feel that the added pressure placed upon him by such knowledge would possibly help, since what was done is done.  It is a bridge she will cross when only when she must and until then she will keep squarely on the shore.

But the strange thing is…since that night in the gym, he’s never once forgotten to wear a condom.  In fact, he’s taken to the practice more reliably than apparently many men native to this planet have.  So, she can only wonder as he kisses his way from below her belly button to the apex of her folds, if he remembered that night and has drawn some conclusions all on his own.

Even so, she will keep her silence for now, since her reasons for that decision still stand.  

Mon-El retreats from her with a groan and reaches down to pull up his pants, he tucks himself inside, but doesn’t close the zipper.  

Kara rises to her elbows and then sits up.  “Come here,” she says, crooking a finger at him.  When he comes close, she bends down and begins licking his belly clean just as he did for her.  His hands sift through her hair as he tries not to focus on what the feel of her mouth on his does to the resting cock inside his pants.

“Kara, you don’t have to,” he tells her, a sliver of a moan in his voice.  “I can just clean it off with my tee shirt.”

She takes a break from her task long enough to inform him, “I keep paper towels in the bottom drawer of my desk for spill emergencies.  I want to do this for you, just as you did it for me.”

Mon-El protests no more, accepting the intimacy from her as freely given as his own. When she finishes she slides off the edge of the desk, legs still wobbly, and places her still heated flesh against his, Mon-El’s arms wrapping around her to steady her.  Kara places her hands on his shoulders and reaches up for a kiss.  Their lips mesh perfectly, as if they’re two halves of the same celestial body struck apart from one another before the beginning of time.  For long moments they kiss, breaking briefly to breathe each other’s air.  Eventually, as though momentarily sated, she ends the kiss, tucking her head into the curve of his neck as one of his hands holds her hip, the other stroking up and down her spine.

She remembers something he said—asked—earlier and thinks now would be the best time to answer.  “Yes, Mon-El,” she says, her words like a promise.

“Yes…what?”

“Yes,” she says, licking her lips.  “You make me very happy.”  Her hand strokes his collar bone and chest, working its way down his side, paying homage to him as he did her.  If she could, she would wish them both away to a deserted planet on the other side of the galaxy where they could wear no clothing and do nothing all day but make love to each other.

Mon-El bestows a kiss to her forehead and she melts into him just a little bit more. “You have no idea what it means to hear you say that,” he confesses.  He’s so close to telling her everything; opening his heart and revealing to her the fullness of its contents.  He opens his mouth to add more to his confession, but quickly slams it shut as he chickens out.  Instead he pulls her more tightly against his body, and strokes her back.

“I can’t believe I’m standing naked in my office with you, after just having had sex…at work,” she says, suddenly shocked, yet titillated, by everything they just did.

“Don’t be silly, you aren’t naked,” he soothes.  “You’re still wearing your shoes.”

After a beat, she laughs glancing down at her shoes, and his laughter joins hers a second later.  It’s unbridled and joyful and beautiful, and there is nothing she wouldn’t do at his command to cause that sound again.  She presses herself more firmly against her laughing mate and slides her arms around his lower back, placing kisses on his collarbone as her hands explore the muscular expanse of his back.  A feeling of oneness grows within her, as though rooting itself in her chest and spreading outward to her extremities.  ‘Is this what love feels like?’ she wonders.  

As they wander, one of her hands brushes up against something bulky in his back pocket. Wrapping her fingers around it, she tugs until it comes free, bringing it around to his front so that she can examine the object.

“Oh, hey,” he straightens.  “That’s not“—his hands reach to take it from her, but as expected she’s faster than he is by a narrow margin.

“What is this?” she asks.  It’s a book; that much is obvious.  Stepping away from him, she examines its ratty cover and spine more closely, sensing Mon-El slump in defeat as she walks away from him.    “’Quick Guide to Cocktails and Other Libations,’” she reads. “Well…I know you have a fondness for alcohol, but surely you can find something more interesting to read. Something with a plot, maybe?”

There is no way he is going to weasel his way out of this situation.  He is too bad at prevarication and she is too intuitive to believe any story he concocts anyway.

Unless it’s the truth.

  TBC

[bleep-blop-lizard-hop]

Jenny/Vastra Prompts #8

Prompt: I found myself missing Jenny and Vastra adorable little daughters Alaya and Katy so I decided to bring them back in this story. Strax, for once, uses his grenades for something that’s not destructive...and it’s really cute.

I know I’ve been slacking on these lately because real life has a funny persistent way of preventing me from writing. However, I have recently gained a new source of motivation after having the unfortunate luck of reading some really gross and hateful comments about Jenny/Vastra relationship from people who clearly have no idea what they’re saying. From now on I shall be trying to write more as I possibly can to piss off all those idiots who have their heads shoved so far up their tight asses that they can’t see the flawed but legitimate love shared between Jenny and Vastra. Fuck them all to bloody hell!

Oh and happy Femslash February everyone!

It was a particularly chilly January day when Vastra and Jenny stumbled in through the front door, wrapped in their heavy winter garb which were covered with a considerable amount of fresh snow.

“Thank the Goddess, we’re home at last,” exclaimed Vastra as an intense shiver wracked her body, causing some of the snow to fall off. “There must have been at least ten inches of snow outside!”

The cold-blooded Silurian was most relieved to finally be inside the relative warmth and comfort of their house again. All that she could think about as they commuted from Scotland Yard, trudging through the thick frozen snow, was being able to sit in front of the living room fire with a nice, soothing cup of tea and her beloved Jenny sitting on her lap. Now that they’ve reached their destination, Vastra wasted no time on removing her veil and cloak.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much snow in me life,” Remarked Jenny while in the process of taking off her own hat and cloak. Then a thought occurred to her, which made her glance wistfully toward the staircase leading to the upper floor. “Our poor girls, though.....they were so looking forward to playing in the snow. It’s too bad that they both got sick before they had the chance.”

Vastra followed her wife’s line of sight and replied staunchly,“Yes, it is rather unfortunate, but their health is our main priority right now. We shall make it up to them at another time.”

A doting smile formed upon Vastra’s face and she leaned over to steal a quick, sweet kiss from Jenny’s lips, thus helping to calm her mind about their daughters.

“I just hope Strax didn’t try to regale them with one of his war stories while we were gone,” sighed Jenny when she began to climb the stairs with Vastra to go check on Alaya and Katy. 

Like everything else he did, Strax would always put 110% of energy into his storytelling, which proved to be an issue as he would often get too carried away by his enthusiasm; The last time Strax told a story to the girls he tried to perform a military demonstration with his laser gun and nearly blast the head off this one poor bloke walking past their house, though his hat wasn’t as lucky.

Halfway up the stairs, however, a strange sound reached their ears that made Jenny and Vastra stop immediately in their tracks.

The two of them then perked their ears to listen more carefully. 

Eventually, Jenny turned to Vastra with an expression of concern and said,“I think that came from the sitting room....”

A sense of anticipation arose in Jenny and Vastra as they proceeded to go in search for the source of the mysterious noises. As they got closer to the sitting room, they were able to recognize the excited childlike squealing of their daughters and Strax’s harsher authoritative voice booming like a cannon.

“Aha! Prepare to meet your doom and destruction, puny reptiles,” yelled the Sontaran, brandishing what looked like some kind of bomb.

The mere sight of the potentially dangerous weapon in the hands of the notoriously trigger-happy Sontaran was enough to make alarms go off inside Vastra and Jenny’s heads within seconds.

“Strax, no! Don’t drop that bomb!”

Panic kicked into Vastra and Jenny’s systems as soon as those words left their mouths, prompting the both of them to lunge at Strax together. They managed to tackle Strax hard onto the ground, but the sheer force of their assault caused him to let go of the bomb and it flew a short distance before exploding in midair to release a massive storm of....snow?

“What the....,” Jenny’s eyes grew wide with disbelief and she nudged Vastra, asking, “Vastra, are you seeing this?”

“It’s....snowing!” Observed Vastra, her head tilted sideways to indicate confusion. “But how is that even possible?”

Instead of the catastrophic outbreak that they had expected, what actually came out from the bomb was a white, cool, feathery substance that fell down delicately in droves all around the room. Vastra and Jenny could only watch on silently in awe, words having failed them in that moment. No matter how hard they tried, their minds just couldn’t seem to make any sense of the impossibly fantastic scene in front of them.

Although, the same wasn’t the case for their young daughters, Alaya and Katy, who gladly welcomed the snowing phenomenon with great enthusiasm.

“Mama! Mummy!”Katy called, her face raised upward and her arms spread out, as she spun around in circles among the falling snow. “Look, it’s snowing in our house! Strax made it snow for us!”

Alaya soon chimed in, saying,”Since you said we couldn’t go outside because we’re sick, he brought the snow inside to us!” She then flopped back down onto the snow gradually gathering on the floor and giggled,”Oh, isn’t it just so wonderful!”

Once they’ve recovered from their initial shock, Jenny and Vastra decided that their daughters were the least of their worries, as they were more interested in getting to the bottom of this snowy situation.

That said, they then turned their focus upon the Sontaran responsible for all of this, who was still trapped underneath the collective weight of their bodies.

“Strax, you mind telling us what is the meaning of all this?”Demanded Jenny in a clearly firm tone that left absolutely no room for funny business.

Strax was only able to respond with a muffled groan, compelling Jenny and Vastra to quickly get off before helping him to stand up on his feet again. 

“Madame, boy, I understand that you are mad at me for launching a grenade inside your residence, but I can assure you that it was not without good reason,”explained Strax calmly, even as Jenny and Vastra continued to burn holes through his head with their heated glares. “I only did this because I noticed a lack of morale among the young cadets, your offspring.” He made a suggestive gesture toward Alaya and Katy who were currently preoccupied with the snow. “It is from my  experiences that I know an army low in morale will never be able to achieve victory. Fortunately, using some of my own personal Sontaran ingenuity and various gathered resources, I was finally able to create a snow device to help restore their energies. From what I can see so far, it seems to be working most gloriously,” Strax proclaimed triumphantly, a broad indulgent smile forming across his face.

After listening to Strax’s statement, Jenny and Vastra then turned around to witness for themselves as Katy and Alaya played in the snow without a single care in the world. By that time, the snow had already accumulated to the point where not an inch of the wooden floor was left to be seen;There was nothing that the snow didn’t touch in that room. Jenny and Vastra simply couldn’t bring themselves to stay vexed at Strax now that they saw how their daughters’ faces practically beamed with utmost happiness and joy.

“Yes...so it is. Please accept our sincerest apologies for, err, tackling you, Strax,” spoke Vastra, whose expression had softened dramatically, with sincere remorse toward her Sontaran friend. “Though in our defense, it really did appear as if you were holding a bomb. Now that we know what your true intentions were, we can appreciate what you did for our Katy and Alaya. Thanks to you, they won’t have to miss out on the winter snow activities that they value so dearly.”

“Yeah, come here you lumpy, bumpy Sontaran potato,”said a smiling Jenny as she pulled Strax in to give him a vigorous, well-meaning head rub.

However, Strax just wasn’t too fond of that and told her,“I respectfully request that you refrain from noogying me, Mister Flint.”

“Mama! Mummy! What are you waiting for, all the fun is over here!”

Alaya ran over to grab both of them by the hand and began leading them to the big open space in the middle of the living room.

“I know, let us build a snowman together,”suggested Katy upon finishing her snow angel.

“Oh, that sounds very nice, darlings,”said Jenny in agreement, most pleased at being able to spend this quality time with her beloved daughters. “We’d love to make a snowman with you!”

“Then later we can make a snow lizard for Mama,” declared Alaya, which earned a hearty laugh from everyone else.

While Vastra and Jenny got settled in alongside their daughters, Strax remained standing on the sidelines since he personally had no such particular interest for this mushy wet stuff they call ‘snow’.

“Well then, it would seem that my mission here has been completed with great success! If you need me, I’ll be polishing my laser blaster and arranging my brain melting acid cluster grenades,”announced Strax before preparing to take his leave.

He was nearly out the door when something cold and hard struck against the back of his bald head.

Suddenly enraged, Strax instantly spun around and loudly demanded, “Arrghh.....which one of you fleshy primitive reptiles is responsible for this!”

The sound of girlish laughter that arose only served to further stoke his already agitated temper.

“What’s the matter, Strax, can’t handle a bit of snow?”Sang Alaya in a teasing manner while wearing a sly grin.

With a rather identical grin, Katy chorused after her sister, “Jack Frost nipping at your buttocks?”

Vastra and Jenny saw exactly what they were trying to do, and couldn’t help but snicker in amusement as the two girls continued to egg Strax on.

“You dare incite the mighty wrath of the Glorious Sontaran Empire?” Bellowed the pissed off Sontaran,who apparently can’t handle the harmless taunting of some little girls. “Mark my words, it will be the last thing you ever do, for I shall anni....!”

Four snowballs aimed at his face cut Strax’s speech short, but he was up again soon enough and advanced upon them with a furious vengeance. The girls and their mothers all scrambled away to find cover, rushing to make more snowballs in order to keep the hulking Sontaran beast at bay. This was no longer a fun innocent roll in the snow, but outright winter warfare in their very own living room.

[trespiratesque]

LAX->CDG

Heck yeah we got a direct flight. At over 10 hours long, this Air Tahiti Nui run was the longest flight I’ve ever taken. Even though Beck and I booked it in maybe October, I waited until the night before we left to look up reviews. They were predictably bad, given that I found them on the Internet, but ultimately I had nothing to worry about. Staff were nice, the food was decent, the seats were even pretty okay. I watched Arrival and The Martian, neither of which quite met my expectations but definitely helped the time pass. At the end of the flight, an attendant came to us, confirmed that we were Americans, and then handed us a satisfaction survey to fill out - I’m still not sure why we got singled out. Most of the other passengers were French, from what I could hear.

Landing at CDG on Tuesday morning was smooth, customs was basically non-existent, and we sailed right through to where our bags had presented themselves, perfectly timed, on the conveyor belt. Until that moment, I had stubbornly avoided thinking about the logistics of transporting all the luggage at once with just the two of us. It wasn’t THAT much, but...it was heavy. And bulky. And a pretty long walk through a crowded airport. We got everything to a bench in the train hub, and Beck sat with the luggage while I waited in the line for tickets and uncrunched my spine.

With some guidance from a staff member, we took the train to Gare d’Austerlitz, the station nearest to our temporary Parisian home. As the train crossed the Seine on a brick-and-iron bridge, I could see the towers and steeple of Notre Dame peeking at me over rooftops. By the time we staggered under load to the doorstep of the apartment building, I felt very tired, but also optimistic - enough so that when we couldn’t reach our hosts to give us access to the apartment, I was able to constrain my complaints to the topic of my feet being dead forever. Beck valiantly rallied, and headed off in search of our hosts in their lab. I think he had been there all of twice, three years ago. And while he typically has a trustworthy sense of direction, his first effort on this day took him into the elementary school around the corner. Whoops.

Eventually he found the right educational institution, and some very kind graduate student (or possibly gardener) lent Beck their phone. The ever-pleasant Anne-Claire, one of our hosts, put her hyena dissection on pause to let us into the building and get us set up with keys. She did invite us to check out the hyena, and believe me when I say we were interested, but our bodies needed a bit of a break and then some fuel. It was probably about noon by the time we gathered the strength to go back out into the world? I actually have no sense of time from this first day's events. We remembered an excellent boulangerie around the corner, picked up some gloriously simple baguette sandwiches (jambon fromage for me, legumes for Beck) and ate them in the nearby Jardin des Plantes.

Paris welcomed us with a pear-crisp spring day, plenty of sun but just enough breeze to make it chilly in the shade. Tulips and poppies exploded red and yellow in bright stripes alongside us as we walked the garden, and the bees were much too busy and contented to want to swarm anyone. There were schoolchildren on field trips visiting the greenhouses or the skeletons, and there were elderly folk photographing some trees sinking under huge masses of their own pink petals. My sense of well-being and optimism grew despite my body's complaints, and when we finished our sandwiches we held hands.

Next up: phones, which was Beck's domain as I am an idiot about phone plans even in the US. He'd picked out a plan with a company called Orange that offers service in most/all of Europe, so we went to the nearest Orange store in a mall at Place d'Italie a couple Metro stops away. The woman there was kind to us when she let us down. Sadly, we were insufficiently informed about the different types of cell phone stores - we had chosen a boutique store, and it seems one does not buy SIM cards in a boutique. Fortunately I was able to discern the other locations she suggested we try from her rapid French. (I speak basic French well enough to say some easy sentences, but I am not even close to understanding Parisians at speed.) We gave up on phones for the day and walked around the (very nice) mall for a little while, gathering our wits and refocusing on our next task: apartment viewing.

I had booked an appointment to see a potential place for 5pm on the day we arrived, thinking that it would be good to keep us awake and goal-oriented. I never want to be a burden when it comes to housing. I've expressed to Beck that we will not be sleeping on our hosts' sofa bed for any longer than a week, and even less by preference. We'll get an Airbnb if we must to bridge any gaps. Apartment hunting has been rather hit-or-miss, a couple that looked promising have turned out to be scams. But we do have another appointment this Saturday with what I hope will be a good fit. The Tuesday viewing was...just okay. It would work, though the kitchen was really lacking, and eating out here is really expensive. But I wanted to see at least one more place before we made a decision, so we'll see how this turns out.

On our way back home, (oh also we forgot to get the front door code from our hosts so we were kind of waiting to hear back from them) Beck started to apologize for not having known about the phone nonsense, and I discovered a phrase that I'm going to keep in my pocket on this trip: no moment in Paris is wasted. We didn't achieve our stated goal, but we did find a department store where we can get essentials. We did see a bicyclist and a taxi driver in a good-natured argument ("tu m'insultes!" cried the driver). We got better at the Metro system. We spent time together. I am constantly making errors that cause me to backtrack or otherwise use my time in a non-optimized way, and I often feel bad or stupid about those errors. Not while I'm here. There is too much to learn about to ever be disappointed by a wrong turn. Hopefully by the time I leave I can have that outlook internalized so I can treat the rest of my life with the same spirit.

We returned to the apartment and chatted with Anthony and Anne-Claire while they had dinner, then presented them with gifts of chocolate, beef jerky, and collapsible fishing poles (for catching lizards with, obviously). And then we passed the hell out.

(sorry for lack of pics, i was not great about doing that the first couple days)