The sleet chases you through the door as you struggle to close it behind you. The warm, smoky, whisky-soaked air wraps you in a lover’s embrace. The only one to take note of your arrival is Noah, forever tending bar, and he only offers a nod and a flick of his head that says, “Wherever you can find a seat.”
The cozy space is filled with the sounds of laughter and camaraderie and it feels almost like stepping into your childhood home only to smell fresh cookies. It’s marvellous.
Outside, the sky is black and tiny, stinging pellets of ice hammer the windows that look out over Stockwell Street. The sun set a little after 4 p.m. today, but you’d hardly know it; it’s been coorse all day, pure Baltic, and you couldn’t be happier to be out of it for a spell; probably more than a spell.
“Up here!” you announce, dragging Taran deep into the pub, toward a relatively quiet corner in the back. You know the snug would be empty when you got here, the previous occupants having only just left, the scent of stale cigars and sweet uisge beatha lingering. You know it because the book wrote it that way.
Taran laughs, letting you lead them through the patrons, hesitating only for a beat when you both reach the snug. They have their free hand in their Mackintosh and you know they are touching their strange heirloom; the pocket watch with all the cracks in the face, the one that tells time but never time right now.
Another time.
You direct them to the far side of the snug and, without a word, you duck below the table.
“Blair!” Taran hisses, equal parts amused and shocked by your behaviour.
“Shush, you,” you hiss. With the door of the snug closed, they can hear you over the noise of the pub as you peer up at them from the floor, from beneath the table. “Not a word.”
The door to the snug opens abruptly and Taran jumps, just as you were setting their legs aright over your shoulders.
“Guid evenin!” It’s Millie. You know her voice well; her accent is hard as Henderson’s. “Thought I saw Blair comin’ in as well.”
“G-gone to the bog,” Taran stammers; your heart swells at their nervousness. “Two pints of heavy; we’ll get food later on.”
“Two heavy it is, luv,” Millie says. You smile as you hear the snug door latch.
You unbutton the front of Taran’s trousers, revelling in the mix of excitement and panic on their delicate features.
“Blair!”
“Shut up an’ use your Mack,” you giggle as you duck down, roughly tug their pants to their knees, then return to your place between Taran’s thighs, lightly raking your nails over their tender flesh.
Taran drops their heavy trenchcoat over their lap, and by extension your head, as you alternate between kissing and nibbling their inner thighs.
You feel their hand on the back of your head, beneath the coat, gently but urgently guiding you up. “Blair,” they murmur in that voice that would unhinge your knees if you weren’t already on them between their legs.
You oblige.
The smell, the feel, their heat, you can’t remember anything feeling, smelling, or tasting as good in your life, and the reflected glow you feel from their love is beyond words.
Your mouth eagerly accepts them. Your tongue probes, searches, explores. You know all their secret places, but every time is also a new adventure; a new way to make Taran gasp or sigh or whimper, and oh do you love the way Taran whimpers.
“Here y’go, luv!” Millie announces, the door suddenly open. You nearly squeal with delight at the panicked squeezing of Taran’s thighs on the sides of your head. “Blair not back yet?”
“No!” Taran sounds nearly frantic and you can’t resist. You use your teeth – just a little, just enough – drawing a most embarrassing sound from your lover. “No, but we ran here from the Uni, Blair’s probably—” you send your tongue further down than before and Taran’s body responds just as you’d like. “Warmin’ up!” Taran squeaks, nonsensically, “Back soon!”
Millie sounds dubious, “Right, well, if y’want somethin’, shout at me or go see Noah.” The door closes again.
“Blair!” Taran whisper-shouts at you but you can’t be bothered with words; the trembling in Taran’s thighs and elsewhere give you all the direction you need. You carry on. Your tongue performs while one saliva-slick finger plays counterpoint.
Taran is nearly there – you’re nearly there, too, truth be told – when Millie returns again. The door opens and you can’t fully stifle the oof as Taran’s legs squeeze your head so hard you worry you might pass out.
“Still good? Should I check on Blair, luv?”
“No!” Taran yelps. “No,” they follow quickly, “no, they got a call from the Uni, nipped outside.”
“Alright,” Millie replies and you know she’s not convinced at all, but the door latches and seconds later your mouth is overflowing with Taran’s bliss.
When the door to the snug opens again you’re sitting opposite Taran, holding hands across the table. Millie gives you her usual, merry grin. “Blair, luv! Need anythin’?”
You fix Taran with an evil smirk then glance up at Millie, “How’re the eggs tonight? I want something filling.”
