Smut-Off 2: Same Sentence (v1.1)

The goal of the second Weekend Smut Thread Smut-Off was that, from an entry of about 1000 words, readers had to guess authors based only on writing. I was one of the first people recognized, caught by a clever anon who noted that I have great difficulty writing dialog without describing accompanying character action. All Smut-Off entries started with the same sentence as well. I originally posted this to pastebin as anon here: http://pastebin.com/Y08ftW6e

Tags: Male Harpy / Human Girl, Starts after the sex


Sometimes, the world made more sense seen through the bottom of a glass, but that sense rarely seemed to last when morning rolled around and greeted with a hangover.

"Did I write anything down last night?" Tarth called out into the den. He waited with his eyes clenched shut for the response from the lab.

Meg sat up from the ground next to his sleeping alcove with surprise at Tarth's voice.

"Gods," she coughed and rubbed her eyes. "Do you expect me to remember?"

"Well it is your job to be the one collecting and maintaining notes!" he said, and with eyes still shut he gesticulated angrily in the direction of her voice and succeeded in messing a number of his primary feathers.

"It's not my job when you get me drunk," she protested. Meg was not even half as hungover as her employer--outside of drinking less than he had, she'd had the good sense to eat and drink plenty along the way. "And what notes are you going to write that are worth keeping when you are that out of it?"

Tarth stumbled out of his alcove, his talons scraping on the stone floor. He stumbled over Meg and flapped his arms a few times to keep his balance, buffeting the girl where she lay on his way out of the den into their workspace.

Natural light dug at his eyes with rusty spoons while he looked over the tables and desks for any notes he may have taken. Meg kept the space clean for him, because Tarth was too busy--or so he told himself--to tidy up in between making his potions and compounds. There were a few pages on one of the tables in front of the polymorph potions, but when he eagerly picked them up to read, he found that they were blank.

"I give up!" he howled, tossing his arms above his head, letting his red feathers splay everywhere dramatically. Even the crest and orange crest on his head and neck was standing up now with his agitation. "I am a genius but what good am I when my notes go missing?"

Meg was up now, and she put a hand on his chest to push him back and get past him to one of the cabinets in the back. She was the one who did all the labeling and sorting. Bless her.

"Tarth, please," she said with a scratchy morning voice. "Please calm down. I am pretty sure that you did not take any notes last night or have any major breakthroughs of any kind."

He snorted, and the last of the feathers on the back of his neck and spine stood out, making him look larger than he was. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, his primary feathers sticking down like cloak robes. "Why do you say that?"

Meg, on her pale human knees, barefoot, was digging through the bottom shelf in the cabinet still. She didn't want to justify the harpy's tantrum. "I say that because we were fucking half the night. Gods, Tarth, how drunk did you get?"

He tapped one of his taloned toes on the stone floor and it made an authoritative click to fill the quiet void where neither of them spoke. Then, in a hesitant voice he said, "Too drunk, apparently. Did we really?"

"Oh yeah," Meg replied with a laugh, pulling out two little bottles from the bottom shelf. "You were doing the thing where you were talking about what a genius you are. But no note writing."

She opened one bottle and downed the contents, then handed the other forcefully to Tarth. Hangover cure, the bottle said in Meg's perfect handwriting. He drank his and groaned happily as the throbbing pain left and the light changed from vicious to welcoming. He looked over his shoulder at Meg as she headed back into the den, stripping out of her clothes.

"Ohh," he said with realization when he saw the line of her spine when she peeled away her shirt. "No, Meg! Meg I remember!"

She turned and looked at him with a very tired smile, and pushed her black hair out of her eyes. "What do you remember?"

"You, for one thing," he said first, pointing a finger at her and smiling in what he hoped was a dashing way. "But I also remember what I wrote!"

She seemed pleased to be remembered, and sat down naked on the bedroll on the ground while she waited for Tarth. There was the sound of his fluttering searching of the kitchen space, and he came back with a piece of paper held high above his head.

"Here!" he exclaimed, walking proudly on his bird legs. "Here! Meg, read!"

She took the paper from him and read. "You're a genius Tarth," she laughed, and beckoned him to her as she discarded his note. He swooped down to her from his standing position to engulf her with his wings and pull her up into his lap.

“I can’t believe I forgot,” he admitted with a touch of sheepishness--not particularly like him. He pecked her cheek with an apology kiss.

She nuzzled him back and stroked his featherless, humanoid chest. He took the opportunity to return the favor and grab for one of her breasts, letting it fill his hand. Tarth squeezed and listened to her responsive moan.

The paper said, in Tarth’s drunken chickenscratch: Meg has fine, fine tits.