I have wet NIGHTMARES
"J'a chaissé la ploui don les sueti je vo," Heut said, sliding his tongue along the length of Shin's neck, his fingers splayed across the cat's back as the feline straddled him, the alien giving out a low moan from his throat.
"What does that mean?" Shin panted, as Tag slid his hands down and massaged his lower back. There was no shirt separating them, no cloth keeping them apart, just pale on silver skin, Shin's fangs glinting in the candle light. He arched his back as Tag took a nibble at his shoulder.
"I chased my star," he answered, setting his fingers on Shin's chin to guide his head down so he could look in his eyes, "and found you. I love you, Shin-sin-"
"GAAAAAH!!!" Tag woke up screaming, his eyes wide and searching in the darkness, the smell of sex and some sort of crisp clean animal scent lingering in his nose. He was covered in sweat, soaking in it, and hauled himself out of the bed like it was on fire, falling down onto the floor and laying there, staring up at the ceiling.
"Jouant avest ces arc et flèche, vis doniar mon coeur loin! Mon coeur loin!!" he whispered to himself, which might have meant "My world of sleep is like dew upon a spider's web with you! With you!" but actually meant "Please by the soul of my father, it was just a dream! Just a dream!" He closed his eyes, rolling over onto his side and rubbing at his now sore arse where it'd hit the floor before anything else on him had. Damned cat cannot even keep his paws out of my dreams! What in all the hells was that?!
He pushed himself up, yanking on a shirt and pants, not even bothering to button it all up. There wouldn't be anyone else awake at this time of night, anyway. No socks, no shoes, no undershirt, no jacket, no tie...there'd bloody well better not be anyone awake, or he would simply have to gag them, tie them up, and hide them somewhere safe and pretend that he never knew they existed. Yes, that was an excellent plan.
Of course, it was a very bad plan, because he'd never have the heart to do it, but it made him feel a little better about heading out into the kitchen. He was beginning to think that he might be addicted to spending time there, where it was warm and inviting, but in reality he knew that it was just that he was more comfortable there. It felt homey. No matter what sort of woman his mother was, he still loved her, and the kitchen had been her domain.
He fished a few slices of bread out of the larder and rummaged through the cold storage, coming up with a cold glass of milk to go with his toast and jam. He toasted the bread himself, with his arm, then spread a bit of his very very small jar of jam onto it. This stuff was more akin to his favorite oil, with a sharp taste like strawberries and cinnamon and something he couldn't quite place but reminded him of smoke. He wouldn't share this jam with just anyone, for two reasons. The first is that he only had the one jar, and it was no bigger than his fist. The second is that it had the unfortunate side effect of making those who ate it act like they were just a little drunk, a byproduct of whatever it was that gave it that smoky taste.
The last thing this ship needed was a bunch of tipsy girls running about. He scratched at his stomach, guzzling down his milk, and sat back, watching the doorway. He felt awfully warm. He fliched a few of his cookies that ad made it through the day's earlier drama from their covered plate, and popped on into his mouth, letting it melt on his tongue.
Damned cat.
"What does that mean?" Shin panted, as Tag slid his hands down and massaged his lower back. There was no shirt separating them, no cloth keeping them apart, just pale on silver skin, Shin's fangs glinting in the candle light. He arched his back as Tag took a nibble at his shoulder.
"I chased my star," he answered, setting his fingers on Shin's chin to guide his head down so he could look in his eyes, "and found you. I love you, Shin-sin-"
"GAAAAAH!!!" Tag woke up screaming, his eyes wide and searching in the darkness, the smell of sex and some sort of crisp clean animal scent lingering in his nose. He was covered in sweat, soaking in it, and hauled himself out of the bed like it was on fire, falling down onto the floor and laying there, staring up at the ceiling.
"Jouant avest ces arc et flèche, vis doniar mon coeur loin! Mon coeur loin!!" he whispered to himself, which might have meant "My world of sleep is like dew upon a spider's web with you! With you!" but actually meant "Please by the soul of my father, it was just a dream! Just a dream!" He closed his eyes, rolling over onto his side and rubbing at his now sore arse where it'd hit the floor before anything else on him had. Damned cat cannot even keep his paws out of my dreams! What in all the hells was that?!
He pushed himself up, yanking on a shirt and pants, not even bothering to button it all up. There wouldn't be anyone else awake at this time of night, anyway. No socks, no shoes, no undershirt, no jacket, no tie...there'd bloody well better not be anyone awake, or he would simply have to gag them, tie them up, and hide them somewhere safe and pretend that he never knew they existed. Yes, that was an excellent plan.
Of course, it was a very bad plan, because he'd never have the heart to do it, but it made him feel a little better about heading out into the kitchen. He was beginning to think that he might be addicted to spending time there, where it was warm and inviting, but in reality he knew that it was just that he was more comfortable there. It felt homey. No matter what sort of woman his mother was, he still loved her, and the kitchen had been her domain.
He fished a few slices of bread out of the larder and rummaged through the cold storage, coming up with a cold glass of milk to go with his toast and jam. He toasted the bread himself, with his arm, then spread a bit of his very very small jar of jam onto it. This stuff was more akin to his favorite oil, with a sharp taste like strawberries and cinnamon and something he couldn't quite place but reminded him of smoke. He wouldn't share this jam with just anyone, for two reasons. The first is that he only had the one jar, and it was no bigger than his fist. The second is that it had the unfortunate side effect of making those who ate it act like they were just a little drunk, a byproduct of whatever it was that gave it that smoky taste.
The last thing this ship needed was a bunch of tipsy girls running about. He scratched at his stomach, guzzling down his milk, and sat back, watching the doorway. He felt awfully warm. He fliched a few of his cookies that ad made it through the day's earlier drama from their covered plate, and popped on into his mouth, letting it melt on his tongue.
Damned cat.