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!
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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.
~ 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.”
