Sunday Smooches (from my current WIP)
*sheepish* I was planning to write a teeny Celyn/Sjurd snippet this weekend for you guys, but real life in the form of my crazy garden intervened. What looked like a small job on Saturday morning (weed and replant my plant pots with bulbs and winter pansies) turned into a two-day battle, mostly because I hadn’t realized that the Great Bramble Incursion had made it that far along the fence. I had to cut half the pots out before I could replant them.
(My garden, for those wondering, is actually my landlady’s garden. She’s a very sweet lady in her early seventies who occasionally pops round and wages a hopeless war against the brambles for an afternoon. There is also what the letting agency described to me as ‘the gardener’ who is actually Mr Landlady, who cuts the grass once a fortnight or so, and ignores the rest. I have pots of pansies and occasionally offer my help with the rest, which is always turned down).
Anyhow, since I feel bad at going without any smoochies at all on a Sunday, have a teeny bit from my current WIP. It’s not really safe for work, so the underage among you should not click on the cut. Val owns a sweetshop in Chester in 1920, and Jasper is a WW1 veteran with a mystery to solve, and one thing leads to another, as these things tend to do…
His first instinct had been right, Val thought, closing his hand gently around the hot jut of of Jasper’s cock, feeling it twitch as if it was trying to break through the serge. This was a man who needed to be touched.
Val watched Jasper’s face, spellbound by the faint flush in his cheeks and the way his teeth were caught in his bottom lip. He had pretty eyelashes this close, long and curling and pale, and there was sweat gathering on his cheekbones, even on the damaged side. If Val even met the doctor who’d taken such care with this man, he’d shake his hand.
He needed to be gentle, he realized, another rush of heat rising through him. He’d been with other damaged veterans since the Armistice, and he was trying to remember what they’d needed to reassure them they weren’t broken forever. None of it quite seemed relevant now, not to this man, who was more special than any nameless backroom fuck.
This is my first (and probably last) attempt at historical. The research is breaking my brain.
