OC. Part 1 of 4, and god and the little fishies only know when the next part will be ready. No smut, yet, but eventually NC-17.
Adrian yawned, scratched his ear, and fought his body's urge to admit that it was awake. It was neither right nor fair, and he, for one, wasn't about to stand for it, or even sit up and open his eyes. The pillow was soft beneath his cheek. Hair still damp from that hours-ago shower spread in loose tangles across his bare back, a comforting weight, and the cool breeze from the open window was laced with the promise of rain. The perfect weather, the perfect position, for snuggling into the bedclothes and sleeping the late afternoon away.
Except he wouldn't be allowed to, which his body already knew. He never was, on business meeting days. Soon enough, the wind-shushed silence would be broken by the slam of a hardwood door. Their second since last March, when Lennox had thrown it open so angrily it had splintered against the onyx doorstop. Adrian would much rather have seen the doorstop go; he'd never liked the thing. Unfortunately the hideous little gargoyle, a travel souvenir from god knew what spaceport giftshop Lennox's mother had picked it up in, had survived the encounter with the door, as well as untold skirmishes with Adrian's unprotected toes in the middle of the night.
Soon, there would be the gunshot sound of the door flung wide, and Lennox tossing his cloak at the chair in a crumpled ball of leather and polymer silk, impossible to wrinkle, impossible to ruin, no matter how hard you threw it, or what you did on top of it. Then there would be the exasperated bellow in a voice much more suited to shouting happily as he kicked a pele ball over the head of the opposing team's goalkeeper. "My father... is an IDIOT!"
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