Zelda Throckmorton (ex_vasilissa595) wrote in perfumed_garden,
Zelda Throckmorton

  • Music:

inducive to laughter

.. so says kylefuetzvater, at least. Since this community is suffering from a wretched lack of attention, it's forced to become party to my refuse.
It's here. It's queer (in the orthodox definition of the word). It's Discworld Porn!

He slipped, releasing her from the impassioned grip of his arms seconds before he stumbled back against the slightly sticky cool of a crumbling stone wall. The smooth leather soles of his boots, wholly unsuited to being outside of the University, refused to catch the grimy, mangled cobblestones (which had already left their inglorious mark on the plush green of his robes). She replaced herself at his side concernedly, sliding through the ever-present shadows to right the thick glasses that threatened to slip off of his nose and putting an affectionate hand to his breast. The sunshine, floundering in a sea of clouds, would only manage to transmit itself into the jaggedly bordered alleyway for a few minutes more before disappearing over the petulantly decaying west wall.
“My love”, he breathed, clutching at the hand that laid over his palpitating chest as if it would melt the wheeze that pinched his voice, “we- we shouldn’t be doing this here; what if somebody sees us? Your mother’ll have your head and I may lose my-”
She broke the stream of his anxieties with a moist kiss planted on his flushed cheek.
“Don’t worry, sweetie-darling”. She brushed his white earlobe with her full, cooing lips, wriggling her hand assuringly out of his and smoothing down the front of his damp linen shirt. His body went rigid as an oak tree when her tapered fingertips came to rest on the first ivory button of his green velvet breeches; he sucked in a putrid lungful of the miasmic Shades air in stomach-fluttering desperation. His long, soft hands curled themselves around her waist and neck as she slipped the button from its mooring. His trousers had dropped away from his padded waist; enough to allow access to her smooth-skinned, caressing fingers. The garbage-smeared, fear-shadowed alleyway died away when he fixed his exquisitely tortured gaze upon her beautiful, enigmatically smiling face. His eyes rushed closed a second later, the burning lids forced together by a gasp that was wrenched from his throat when her fingers began a slow, sensuous comb through his thick, dark pubis. He heard her laugh quietly, somewhere above the amalgamated noise of the adjacent street and the wild beating of his heart, just before she tilted his face down to hers, making an easy, delicious capture of his thin, saliva-wet lips.
Somewhere in the sweet eternity that was her kiss, the tip of her forefinger met with his tip, stiff and throbbing in its silk-lined nest. The poor wizard felt as if he were about to spontaneously combust; his fingers bit into her flesh, his arms constricting in a spasm around her silk-covered body as his knees weakened: he groaned from deep in his throat, filling her mouth with his raw utterance. Too deeply drowned in the ambrosia of sensation, his stopped ears didn’t catch the smug, garbled snatch of “A Wizard’s Staff Has A Knob On the End” that was whispered against the hot mollusk of his tongue.
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