Thank you, Jules, for sending this in! Enjoy some soft spice for the dreamy poets.
Smut Prompt 70: Where did this attitude come from?
cw: edging
🔞🍋 Minors Do Not Interact 🔞🍋
***
“Where did this attitude come from?” Milenko had prodded Kipling in that playful, genuinely curious way of his.
Kip sat down on the couch with him and huffed, “It’s our first night officially together since you moved in. We still have a lot to discuss and you are,” she gestured with a click of her tongue, “writing a poem.”
Milenko remained slightly hunched over, scribbling in his notebook. “Yes. I’m trying to relax. You should try it too. With me.”
He propped his leg up, rested his notebook against it, and slung an arm over Kip’s shoulder. He idly twirled her curls around his fingers while he scrutinized his own progress on the paper.
This close to him, breathing beside him, with him, Kip felt the tension and the worry drain from her spine. Soon she was pressing her lips to his neck and easing his erection between her grip. Milenko was still writing.
Or, he was trying to at least.
The poet kept losing his train of thought. He kept half-heartedly nuzzling Kip, grunting very soft encouragements.
“Finish your poem,” Kip said, sensing his growing eagerness.
“You’re making that quite difficult.”
Kip pointedly eyed Mila’s tight black pants, imagining seesawing them down and meeting resistance as they peeled over his hips, then further off his sweet, faintly freckled ass.
“I can make it more so.”
Milenko had no doubt that she could and she would. He said as much.
Kip slowed down. “Join me at the coffee table?”
Thanks to Mila’s collection of large, ornate floor cushions that he brought with him when he moved in, there was no lack of space for them to kneel. And Milenko did so over the coffee table, elbows propped on the wood and his notebook there too.
Yes, he was still writing, still trying to concentrate while Kip sidled up next to him and fed her arm around his slender waist so she could go back to massaging his cock. This time her palm was warm with a lemongrass salve. Milenko registered the warmth of her other hand as she roughly shrugged his pants down enough to press into him from behind. Slow, easy pressure that threatened to have his legs shaking.
Kip leaned in, giving his earlobe an experimental lick, a thoughtful suck.
She whispered, “You’re not taking notes?
Milenko’s freckles blurred under his warm blush. Evenly, almost conversationally, he replied, “I’m just… so absorbed in your lecture.”
Kip hummed in amusement. “Hush, Mila. I can’t be that good.”
“You’re persuasive enough that I can’t ignore your argument. Nor do I want to.”
He turned to meet Kip’s gaze, brown eyes steady, lips relaxed despite the twitching of his cock. Still, they were glistening from when he had licked them every time Kip made him feel particularly good. They were looking very wet at the moment.
Kip broke character and helped herself to those enticing lips. “My argument?”
“Mm.” Mila chased her lips when she tried to pull away, stifling a groan at the way her fingers moved inside him.
“Which is?”
Mila hesitated. “You can make me come sooner than I want to.” And quickly, by invoking her name, his sunset queen, he indicated that he very much wanted to.
Kip almost gave in.
“Mila…”
The gardener allowed herself a wanton sound against his neck before pulling herself together.
“Finish your poem first.”
She slowed down, smiling as she witnessed his internal battle – the intensifying blush as he shut his eyes and formed a fist around his pen. As he wet his lips again in quiet desperation.
Kip removed her hands and sat back on her heels while Milenko fought to bring himself back from the edge.
Only when Milenko returned to his notebook did Kip go back to massaging him through the ache, inspiring him to write faster.
512 words. In which her new acquaintance sends Kipling a poem. Follow up to ‘Aquarius’, by @asras3rdeye, to whom Kipling belongs to. Milenko x Kipling
Through the mist in the prairies they come
their breaths on your neck.
Through the hills in the countryside they come
their claws through your chest.
Tip tapping of feet unheard,
pacing through the wilderness —
all shadows fade and leave their gloom
for the pacing-not-gardener gardener.
Surefooted they do come,
darkness steeping from their juices
but altogether they stop
for you’re the piper of my musings.
Oh, pacing-not-just-a-gardener-gardener
I wonder… has anyone ever told you
that someone poured the sunset into your smile?
Not someone but her, mother earth in her dreaming
gave us the beauty of your smile appealing.
Doubting when you leave, lingering, expectant
you smile upon my way
and they leave in sure repentance.
Tip taping of hearts unfelt,
cradling dreams not dreamed upon their bosoms
pacing-not-gardener gardener, you make poetry from me blossom.
Milenko threw himself on one of the chaise-lounge in the cousins’ favourite parlour, throwing his feet over the edge so he didn’t damage the fabric, even though he kicked his shoes off. Amparo and Anatole —both of them absorbed in their own things— turned to look at him, exchanging looks of confusion.
“Not even a hello?” Anatole said with a lopsided smile.
“Long day, or poetic flare?”
“I think I found a new muse.”
Amparo and Anatole exchanged pointed looks, as Milenko handed him his notebook for them to read the poem. They read in silence, giving him their approval when they were done. Amparo began doing a dramatic reenactment of the poem, musing about what ‘they’ could be, making both of her cousins laugh. She walked on chairs, barefoot, and danced and acted what the poem evoked to her, goofing around.
“Where did you write this?” Amparo asked, giving Milenko his notebook, dropping herself on the chais Milenko had sprawled himself.
“In the Palace’s gardens. Her name was Kipling.”
Anatole gasped. “No way! You mean Kip? Ozy’s Kip?”
“Whomst?”
“Oz’mandias? Ozy? the guy I play chess with?”
“Oh, you mean the guy who beats you at it,” Amparo teased.
“We beat each other.”
Milenko snorted. “That doesn’t sound like playing chess.”
Anatole threw a cushion at him, but after a moment of silence, he spoke again. “Do you want to send it to her?”
“Yes, I think I would.” Milenko’s smile was wide like a crescent moon.
They sent Antu, as he knew the city better out of the three familiars, strapped with a little, custom made leather bag for when he ran an errand for Anatole. Inside there was an envelope, with Milenko’s slanted handwriting, addressed to Kipling.
To the Sunset Queen, it read, I hope you accept a copy of the poem you caught me writing today. I would send you the original, but if I did I would lose my notebook.
Yours truly,
One Whose Name Was Writ On Water.
As they watched Antu go out of the window and into the roofs of the city, Milenko hummed, thoughtful, squinting into the horizon. When Antu was no longer visible he spoke: “Do you think I Should’ve sprayed it with perfume?”
~ In which a humble gardener gets closer to a wandering poet...
Kipling x Milenko
This 🍵 was infused with “Two Weeks” by FKA twigs
More Kiplenko and poetry spice that no one asked for! Milenko belongs to the wonderful @sunrisenfool
Poem credit: “Sex, Night” by Alejandra Pizarnik
cw: lemony content ahead 🍋
~ 890 words
After The Countess finds Kipling and Milenko making out in the fountain, she offers them the key to one of the guest chambers. “To locate some dry garments of course,” she clarifies, but not without a not-so-subtle wink.
The closet that Kipling was raiding with Milenko was large enough to hold a bed with room to spare, yet she and the poet gravitated to each other as if the space were too small. They had been interrupted so unexpectedly, that neither had worked up the nerve to address whatever this was between them.
Kip decided to focus on the task at hand. Her clothes were wet, she was cold, and she had a feeling by the way Milenko’s teeth were chattering in the background that so was he.
“Mila?” Kip touched his damp back. “Do you need help?”
“Would you?”
Kip helped him out of his shirt, her eyes picking up his tattoos. There were only a couple, islands onto themselves over an otherwise featureless torso. His muscle definition was subtle, but Kip appreciated what she saw.
Then she pulled a shirt from the rack to dry him off with, sure that Nadia wouldn’t mind.
“Thank you,” Milenko said. He was quiet enough that his voice didn’t rise over the sounds of his necklace clinking under the shirt Kip patted him down with.
Kip found his expression open enough, so she eased onto her toes and gave him a kiss.
“You’re welcome.”
Milenko chased her lips, pressing her hand firmly to his chest. The shirt fell to the floor. They stumbled against the clothing rack.
“Do you need some help too?” Milenko offered in between heated breaths.
The sides of Kipling’s neck bloomed with warmth.
“If you don’t mind.”
Milenko started on her top. “I don’t mind. At all.”
The gardener held her breath as her wet clothes were pulled over her head. With a silent grin, she watched the poet’s eyes wander below her neck.
“Those are…” his chestnut brown eyes lingered on her piercings, “very pretty.”
Kip noticed that Milenko’s hands were hesitant to touch her. So she took a step forward until his thumbs were brushing over the stones in understanding.
“What made you want to get these?” Milenko held her gaze as he asked.
Kip arched her back, pushing more into his teasing fingers. “I was,” her eyelashes gave an involuntary flutter, “running out of places to keep my growing rock collection.”
Mila laughed in earnest and Kip used the burst of sound to let out a moan.
“You’re still in wet clothes,” Milenko noted.
Kip looped a finger through one of his gold chains and tugged. “Then get me out of them.”
Milenko moved faster. Kip’s shorts were not coming off quietly, so he had to get on his knees. Once they were off and Milenko was carelessly leaving kisses down her thigh, he mumbled, “Is this something you want, Kipling?”
Of course it was. Still, she wanted to know something.
“If I say yes, will you write me more poetry?”
Milenko stopped and looked up at her. “Yes. But if you said no, I would write for you anyway. If you said yes now and no when we got closer, I’d still write for you. You’re my muse, my sunset.”
Kip couldn’t stay standing with him talking to her like that. She got on her knees too.
“Yes, Mila. I want this. With you. I want you.”
Milenko captured Kip’s face between his hands. “I want you too, sunset.” He kissed her openly, making good use of the fullness in his lips. Milenko was a column of warmth and Kipling was still wet and cold from the fountain. She wanted him to put those lean muscles to work.
“Then show me.”
Mila did his best to liberate himself from his pants and demonstrate his eagerness to Kip. By some miracle, he achieved both. He was happy to roll with her until they were both warm and ready for whatever came next. Kip was very good at letting Milenko know what she craved. And right then it was him on top, first settling his weight against her and then inside her.
Kip hummed blissfully into the crook of his neck. She engaged her leg, bringing her knee over his hip. Milenko reached for it and tucked himself more snugly, eliciting another poorly concealed moan from his muse.
“Would you like to hear some poetry now, Kip?”
Kipling shivered against him. “P-please.”
Mila slowed down and brought his lips to the space behind her ear. “I remembered this one on the way here.” He started reciting the poem without an introduction. He used the even roll of his hips to set the pace.
“...when the body is a glass and from ourselves and from the other we drink some kind of impossible water.”
Kip was trying to be a respectful audience. Really, she was.
“Drunk and I made love all night, just like a sick dog.”
But there was something in Mila’s voice when he spoke poetry into existence.
“Night opens itself only once. It’s enough. You see. You’ve seen.”
She couldn’t explain it.
“And I am well aware what night is made of.”
She was too close to think about it.
“Because madness is also a lie. Like night. Like death.”
~ In which a humble gardener recites something for a wandering poet…
Kipling x Milenko
This 🍵 was infused with “Dreamer” by Aisha Badru
Direct follow up to “Aquarius” and “Muse”. @sunrisenfool’s Milenko wrote Kipling a damn poem for which she is absolutely weak and soft. So now Kip has no choice but to do what Kip does….
~ 400 words
After Kipling reads the poem Milenko was inspired to write for her, she writes a letter in response and sends it back to his residence with Antu. She had a poem for Milenko too. One that she intended to deliver in person.
Kipling arrived at the fountain to see Milenko was already there, staring into the water, sitting on the edge instead of in the grass. Kip approached and eased herself onto the space next to him.
“Kipling?” He blinked a few times before breaking eye contact with the water’s surface. “There you are,” he breathed in what oddly sounded like relief.
Kipling glanced at the surface of the water in curiosity. But when she looked back up, Milenko’s whole upper body was blocking out the sun, taking her by storm.
Directly into the fountain.
When the initial shock had subsided, Kip reached for the back of Milenko’s head and gave a not-so-gentle squeeze.
“Mila...did you just pull us into the fountain?”
Milenko chuckled. “Right? It’s a wonder we didn’t drown.”
Despite the grip she had on the hair at his nape, Milenko’s gaze was blissful, content… and looking nowhere else but at Kipling. She suddenly remembered that she came there to thank him for that sweet, albeit dark poem.
“Do you always drag your muses into the fountain with you?” Kip said, struggling to sound annoyed. Truthfully, she didn’t know why she even asked the question when all she wanted to do was kiss him.
So she did.
The poet gave back just as much. His kisses were easy, unhurried gems that they both could muse and wonder over. Oh, but if Kip ever tried to pull back, Milenko’s lips chased while breathless pleas for more made Kip do nothing but give in.
Somewhere in their exchange, they had become very cozy and not upset by the fact they were wet and fully, yet inconveniently clothed in the garden fountain.
“I wrote a poem for you too,” Kip finally confessed.
Milenko kissed her more deliberately. “I can’t wait to read it.”
Kip withdrew enough to look at him. “I didn’t write it down.”
Milenko’s chestnut brown eyes widened. “You –”
Kip kissed him, but this time on his neck. “I’ve never done this before,” she breathed against a damp stretch of gooseflesh, “so you have to promise not to laugh.”
Milenko leaned into her, his Adam’s apple bobbing in her periphery.
“I promise.”
Kip closed her eyes and walked her lips along his neck as she recited:
Warped and strange,
The worst of all worlds,
The ugliest beautiful
A dreamy night terror
They are none and still become One
Your chimera
Now dance
to the symphonic warbling
Endless.
They go on roaring
Calling you
Creator
I don’t have much to say other than I don’t regret the day I found you in the palace gardens, daydreaming by the fountain. It brought me comfort to learn that I wasn’t the only one who saw water as a sort of gate to deeper realms.
Maybe one day we can visit them together. I have no fear of getting lost or swept up in a dream-within-a-dream current.
Because I’m already drowning in you, Mila. I have the verses to prove it.
~ Your Sunset
PS. The first draft of this was a lot longer, but Ursula accidentally swallowed it. So I had to write another and these are the memories that survived.
Vesuvia, dated —
To My Beloved Sunset Queen,
I refuse to believe Ursula did that, she is an angel and has never done anything wrong ever. That said, it seems to me we agree, because I couldn’t regret it either. You found me without being lost, and I kissed you before I could think about it. Now, here we are.
I would love to visit them with you. I would love to take you to my gate. I would also love to visit all sort of places of this world with you — ever seen the Balkovian sea? I think you would like it. Do you like orange wine?
Don’t drown in me too much, I prefer you living, but I echo the sentiment and say I am looking directly into the sunset, and if it burns your shape in my eyes then so be it.
Yours truly,
MSRT
PS. Please tell me you an Khleo were also betting on the outcome of Ozy and Anatole. We were, but I guessed wrong (me, out of all people, guessed wrong) and now I owe Amparo drinks for a month.
Could Kip possibly get 4 with Milenko? Should come as absolutely no surprise that she’s very weak for dorky poets!
And 23 for whichever pairing you want!
Of course! We’re going with Milenko x Kipling first.
4. An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose.
The sound of Kipling’s steps against the cobblestones of Goldgrave was muffled by the bustling city. If Vesuvia slept, that surely did not apply for both the ever bohemian Goldgrave and the chaotic South End, never still, like water always flowing.
She wasn’t surprised that Milenko lived there, it suited him. What did surprise her was that he didn’t live in the same place as the rest of his family — she had been commissioned to take care of their winter garden more than once, and the last time she had gone, she kept waiting for Milenko to show up. If she always found him by the fountain of the palace, it made sense to Kipling that she would find him near the pond in the winter garden.
She hadn’t, and Milenko had told her he didn’t live there, he just spent a lot of time with his cousins.
Kipling made it to the building, and from there, she knew she had to go to the very last floor. Milenko’s quarters weren’t big, but they weren’t small either — an apartment made out of the attic of the building it was located in, with a small terrace that looked into the canals, per Milenko’s own description. The closer she got to it, the more nervous she was, yet she steeled her resolve, and knocked on the door.
No one came.
She knocked once more with the same result. Did he forget? Was he getting something and hadn’t returned? Or had she mistaken the day? Overthinking on all the possible results, deciding to wait some time before knocking for a third time (no one was around that she could ask anyway) she leaned to far against the wall, and accidentally pushed the door open.
It wasn’t locked.
“Mila?”
Though no answer came, Kipling was too curious not to investigate, taking her an anticlimactic short time to find Milenko, sitting in the tiny terrace, one foot against the stretcher of the table, another over the seat of his chair. Laying down at his feet was Ursula, his familiar, who did notice Kipling coming in and was wagging her tail at her.
Milenko’s eyes were fixed on a near by canal, as he messily scribbled on a notebook with his slanted handwriting, changing to a clean page when needed, all without looking. He muttered words as if describing something, writing away things only he could see. The evening breeze playing with his curls.
Kippling watched him write, his fingers changing the page with the same motion he did when he played on the strings of a mandolin — she had seen him play in the coffee house him, Amparo, Anatole and their friends used to go. He had asked Kipling to tag along, a gentle, encouraging smile on his lips, as his brown eyes examined her face, hoping. He had been sitting on a sofa there just as badly, only with a leg over Kipling’s, playing a tune he made up as he went.
Eventually, Ursula made a noise to call Milenko’s attention, bumping his leg off the stretcher.
“Hey!” He complained to his dog, at the same time as Kipling said: “Hi, the door was open.”
“Kip! I—” he looked at his hands, inked. “I didn’t, did I leave you waiting? I’m so sorry.”
“Please, don’t worry! I’ve always liked watching you write, you look so absorbed in it.”
“But I promised drinks, not keeping you waiting.”
“Oh, hush.”
She smiled, and Milenko returned it. He stood up to greet her, keeping his inked hands away from her clothes, he leaned down to kiss her cheek, but Kipling had had the same idea, so when they met each other half way, their lips brushed.
“Hi, my sunset,” Milenko told her still looking at her lips.
“Hi,” Kipling replied, closing the infinitesimal distance between them to kiss him, this time, on purpose.
Soft Sentence Starters: “I’ve always wanted to thank you, but was never sure how.”
I miss writing for Kiplenko so much!!! Thank you for sending this in!
***
Kipling was closing down the shop when one last customer showed up at her door. But this wasn’t just any customer. In fact, it wasn’t a customer at all.
“Mila?”
She looked down by his knees to see a large, lanky dog trying to keep up with him.
“Sunset!” Mila greeted breathlessly when he met her in the doorway. Kipling smiled, reaching up to move the stray hairs out of his eyes.
“Is this your familiar and… did you run here?”
He gave her a quick peck. “Yes. Her name is Ursula. And as for your second question, sort of?” He made a thoughtful face. “I... trotted? Right. Yes, it was definitely a trot.”
By now Kipling had pulled Milenko inside the shop. Her eyes instinctively darted everywhere when they passed by the front desk and entered the space where Kip did most of her living. She didn’t know why she was getting worked up. Milenko seemed more interested in her abundance of plants than the cardigans, empty mugs, and journals scattered about the place.
Kip appreciated how easily Ursula made herself at home, right at the foot of the couch.
Before Kip could ask Milenko why he had shown up so unexpectedly, he said, “I never thanked you for that poem. The one about the chimeras?”
Kip sat down on the sofa and busied herself with giving Ursula scritches behind the ears, hoping that Milenko wouldn’t notice her cheeks darkening with color.
“I thought about giving you a plant, but…” Milenko spun once in place with his arm gesturing about the tiny jungle. “Wherefore?”
Then he walked over to Kip’s low coffee table and draped himself over the top of it. Somehow he managed to avoid knocking over the random mugs or disturbing her open journals.
“You don’t have to thank me, Mila. Whenever inspiration comes along, that stuff just kind of writes itself.”
Mila gave a happy sigh. “You’re absolutely right. And I told myself you would say as much on the way here, but I still… have this need to thank you in some way.”
Kip looked up from Ursula and shook her head. “You came all the way out to South End just to see me. You let me meet Ursula. That’s enough for me.”
She went back to petting the speckled dog. Mila quietly studied her for a bit longer.
“Sunset?”
Kip looked up.
Milenko thought about his words carefully. “It would be a shame if I ever ran out of reasons to thank you, wouldn’t it?”
Something stern, but still sly crossed Kipling’s features. “Mila? Get off the coffee table.”
Milenko moved swiftly and without protest.
Kipling patted the cushion beside her.
“Sit next to me.”
He did.
She took his hand and guided it until it was next to hers, scratching his familiar’s chin. Milenko didn’t expect Kip to rest her head against his shoulder.
“You know, we wouldn’t have to worry about thanking each other all the time if this were a more permanent thing between us.”
Milenko’s hands paused in giving Ursula affection.
“What do you mean?”
Kip lifted her head. “I mean, you could come over unannounced whenever you wanted. You could lay on the bed instead of the coffee table.” She let go of Ursula and gathered up his hands in hers. “You would never have to thank me for another poem again. Because they would no longer be gifts. Just ours to share whenever we wanted.”
Kip kissed Milenko’s cheek, which was very warm to the touch.
