~ 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
~ In which a humble gardener meets a wandering poet…
Kipling x Milenko
This 🍵 was infused with “Aquarius” by Tinashe
What can I say? Kipling is weak for broke, free-spirited intellectuals. She must get it from her mom XD. Thank you, Jules @sunrisenfool for letting me borrow your funky little poet!
~ 770 words
Kipling Bronne is tending to the Palace gardens when she notices an individual sitting in the grass against one of the fountains.
Kipling must have walked by the fountain at least a dozen times. The stranger who used its base as a desk for whatever he was working on looked regular enough. Regular black attire. Regular brown-bronze textured waves that swept against his jaw. A regular guest of the Palace, right?
Kipling found herself drifting over to the fountain, wishing Taro were here to simply leap onto the stranger’s head and break the ice.
The closer she got, the more she felt the ocean of envy lapping at her toes. What she wouldn’t give to have the leisure to sit in the garden and breed word after word such as this individual so easily did.
Without looking up, the stranger asked, “Am I in the wrong place?”
When it was clear that Kipling wasn’t sure how to respond, he rephrased his question. Once again, without looking up. “Am I not supposed to be here? Private fountain? Reserved only for the peacocks and all that?”
Kipling studied his writing. “Not that I know of. I wanted to see what you were working on, but I’m just a gardener.”
The stranger hesitated before writing more. “You don’t sound like just a gardener.”
Kipling’s lip twitched in amusement. “What do I sound like?”
Another thoughtful pause. Still no eye contact. “Hmm. Inspiration for my next poem, I think. The pacing-not-just-a-gardener uhh gardener.”
Kip sat down on the edge of the fountain. “How did you know I was pacing earlier?”
“You told me. Just now. So glad I don’t have to go back and change the title. Thank you.”
Kipling decided since he wasn’t going to look up, it wouldn’t be rude to stare. He was handsome. Forgettably so. But now that she had heard his voice and seen him write, she wasn’t sure if forgetting would be so easy.
Whatever he was writing… Kipling didn’t care if it was nonsense. She had worked all day and now she wanted to hear some poetry.
Still, it was probably time to go. She stood up. “Well, good luck with your poem.”
The stranger finally looked at her. “Where are you going?” Before Kip could speak, he said, “You can’t leave. You’re my muse.”
Now that Kipling had a clear view of his face, she couldn’t help noticing how well his hair framed it. How the fairer streaks brought it out in his eyes.
“I haven’t even been here for five minutes. Is that enough time to become a whole muse?”
Milenko made an offhanded gesture. “I don’t know.”
Kipling shook her head. “Take as much time as you need at the fountain. I’ll see you around.”
She turned, walked a couple of steps before hearing the stranger say, “Oh, pacing-not-just-a-gardener-gardener. I wonder… has anyone ever told you that someone poured the sunset into your smile?”
Kipling stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“Someone?”
“The gods.”
Kipling pretended to shrug. “Oh. Just the gods?”
She turned just enough to see the stranger on his knees. “Oh no, gardener. I misspoke. I meant Mother Earth. She was the one responsible.”
Kipling turned all the way, walked over, and helped the poet onto his feet. She took a step back to appreciate his height. His black shirt was unbuttoned rather deep. No undershirt, but rather a series of gold links stretching down to his sternum.
“Mother Earth?” Kip teased a little. “The one who poured the sunset into my smile when I wasn’t looking, right?”
The poet nodded. “Yes.”
Between him and the gardener, their hands had minds of their own, refusing to let go even after he was standing. They rotated in close orbit to each other, fingers fanning like flamingo wings and locking without thought.
“What’s your name?” Kip asked.
He said it. Slowly.
“Milenko Sisay Radošević-Tesfaye.”
Their fingers unfolded, becoming the wings of a flamingo once more, though they kept the pressure between their palms.
Kipling repeated, “Milenko Sisay Radošević-Tesfaye… the poet.”
They both smiled.
“And yours?”
Kipling scanned Milenko’s uncomplicated features, admired them. Made a mental note that his lips were not so easily forgettable. And maybe not the freckles concentrated on his cheeks either. Maybe the longer Kip chose to gaze at him, the harder it would be to forget even the ordinary details.
“Kipling Sophia Bronne.”
Milenko repeated, “Kipling Sophia Bronne… the gardener? Or the muse?”
Kip looked away, suddenly feeling the pressure of his hands against hers, as well as the weight of his gaze. Milenko found her chin and brought her attention back to him. He looked at her as one would the last line of a sonnet. He repeated himself. Quietly this time, with confidence.
