valis2 | Happy biiiiiiiiiiiiirthday, Mr. Pressssident...oops, I mean Mr. Rickman.

I was asked by the Head of the Alanist Congretation to provide something uplifting for today's ceremonies, so I culled all of my recent Alan poetry into one poetry-filled click:

These happy little ficlets are taken from the LJs of

mortifyd and

serpenatrix.

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a verse together from the Sacred Book of ROAR...

"Oh, that I might worship thy glory, that I might touch the very mystery of his pudge, and, by touching, glimpse the true might of our Alan in all his radiant light...oh, my lord, give me some sign of your greatness, make me your vessel, bring to me Teh Pudge and I will anoint it with rich oils..."
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Caressing, warm; there's much to like. A bit of a smirk as he sees your stare. A tiny motion, the smallest touch; a gasp, an electric shock. The barest sliver of fingernail, crescent moon, eclipsed by his aura. Dangerous lips find what they have been seeking; fingers contact skin. The brush of his thumb strikes like a small sun. Hand over hand he is swept into your dark ocean. The eyes know what they want.
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He watches. He waits.

His voice cuts glass, soothes hurt, strikes when you least expect, binds your very breath. His voice can crawl inside. His voice can slide around corners and illuminate the dark interior of the box under your bed. His voice drips with honey and its edge is keen. His voice is burnished, coppery, cold against your throat. His voice burns like brandy in your mouth.

In the dark, he is a lion. His growl pins you to the wall, bites at the back of your knee, the tender skin of your inner elbow, it makes you his. He will draw blood and sugar from you, let you thrum beneath his fingers, decadent and breathing holy.
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For the love of Pudge

A sly grin, piercing eyes connect

voice vibrating in your bones, champagne taste on your lips

A single movement, the barest whorl of his fingertip on your neck,
sweet taste of chocolate, sensual feel of raw silk,
his words wriggling and writhing in your ears, promising pleasure.

The warmth of his hands inciting nerves on your lips.

The soft pillowy warmth of the Pudge.

One word and you are adrift in his charms, lost to his powers.

For more Alan-y goodness, visit today's entries in the journals of

mortifyd,

serpenatrix,

dark_cygnet,

pen_and_umbra,

trekkiegirl, and, of course,