Fic - But Thy Eternal Summer Shall Not Fade
Title: But Thy Eternal Summer Shall Not Fade
For smut_69
Pairing: William/Angelus
Setting: London 1880s. William's journal.
First in a short series of seasonal ficlets.
Prompt word: #50 Heated
Progress: 36/69
My Smut Table
But Thy Eternal Summer Shall Not Fade
August
London positively reeks! It always does, I know, but the stench hangs heaviest in the summer nights' air. Follows you, clings to you, assaults your nostrils. Foul, and yet alluring. It is at its worst down by the river, and it draws us there often…
The wealthy have left town town in their droves. Pretty, scented women in their finery are scarce; hansom cabs roam the streets, empty for the most part. Houses in Park Lane and Belgravia have the blinds drawn, their owners departed for the season. We devour the servants and have our pick of undisturbed luxury for the duration, sleeping clean and comfortable by day.
But the nights… They still are wonderfully sordid, populated by the ordinary folk with nowhere else to go. Filthy, wretched humanity; more careless and foolhardy than in any other season. I avoid feeding on the diseased, their bitter aftertaste of contagion. Angelus is not so discriminating. The summer lunacy has infected him, he grows more wild and vicious in the hunt every night. I never tire of watching him at work; hair lank, shirt unbuttoned and soiled, eyes hard and cruel. So powerful, so beautiful. A magnificence that time can never tarnish.
His temper is hot, like the climate. I choose not to provoke him. He takes me hard and often, by the banks of the Thames. In the mud. In the squalor. Atop a pile of ragged, ravaged victims, their death rattles inflaming his lust. The fetid taste of these creatures revolts me, seduces me, as it invades my mouth along with his tongue. When he touches me, his fingertips burn into my flesh; when he strips me and pins me down beneath his weight, I swear I can feel my skin blistering; when he forces himself inside me, impaling me, his rod is like a searing fire. Consuming me. Owning me.
Our couplings are more frantic and heated, yet more impersonal, on these summer nights than at any other time. I hate it. I love it. I crave it. I ache for an eternity of degrading summers just like this…
For smut_69
Pairing: William/Angelus
Setting: London 1880s. William's journal.
First in a short series of seasonal ficlets.
Prompt word: #50 Heated
Progress: 36/69
My Smut Table
But Thy Eternal Summer Shall Not Fade
August
London positively reeks! It always does, I know, but the stench hangs heaviest in the summer nights' air. Follows you, clings to you, assaults your nostrils. Foul, and yet alluring. It is at its worst down by the river, and it draws us there often…
The wealthy have left town town in their droves. Pretty, scented women in their finery are scarce; hansom cabs roam the streets, empty for the most part. Houses in Park Lane and Belgravia have the blinds drawn, their owners departed for the season. We devour the servants and have our pick of undisturbed luxury for the duration, sleeping clean and comfortable by day.
But the nights… They still are wonderfully sordid, populated by the ordinary folk with nowhere else to go. Filthy, wretched humanity; more careless and foolhardy than in any other season. I avoid feeding on the diseased, their bitter aftertaste of contagion. Angelus is not so discriminating. The summer lunacy has infected him, he grows more wild and vicious in the hunt every night. I never tire of watching him at work; hair lank, shirt unbuttoned and soiled, eyes hard and cruel. So powerful, so beautiful. A magnificence that time can never tarnish.
His temper is hot, like the climate. I choose not to provoke him. He takes me hard and often, by the banks of the Thames. In the mud. In the squalor. Atop a pile of ragged, ravaged victims, their death rattles inflaming his lust. The fetid taste of these creatures revolts me, seduces me, as it invades my mouth along with his tongue. When he touches me, his fingertips burn into my flesh; when he strips me and pins me down beneath his weight, I swear I can feel my skin blistering; when he forces himself inside me, impaling me, his rod is like a searing fire. Consuming me. Owning me.
Our couplings are more frantic and heated, yet more impersonal, on these summer nights than at any other time. I hate it. I love it. I crave it. I ache for an eternity of degrading summers just like this…