Jack Vessalius smelled like some odd culmination of flowers on any given day.
Some days he would smell as if he had been rolling in that 'famed' rose garden of his – like a bouquet of squished rose petals, red rose and white rose, tea rose, wine rose, rose, rose, rose –
Other days, he smelled like an herb garden, misty and wispy linden blossoms, some sort of white flower and sweet herbs.
But today, he smelled like frosty lilac, orris and violets, with a heady spot of chocolate as if he had enjoyed it at tea time, and then stumbled across oakmoss on his way to the Baskerville manor. Glen could not smell it until the man was close enough to touch: floral and low-pitched sweetness, intoxicating in its lightness, with a touch of wild lettuce that he had not noticed before and wished he had.
By the time Jack was that close to him, Glen had already decided that his friend and lover smelled good enough to be devoured – and so he did, drawing Jack into his lap and first burying his face into the softness of his neck, where his pulse thudded and heated and spread the perfume that made Jack smell like some sylvan creature.
But – it was not until he had Jack sprawled against him, his back to Glen's chest, haphazardly disrobed and sighing something mindless and sated and content with the duke still buried inside of him that Glen caught the true intensity of that scent, mixed with something that was purely Jack.
He did wish, then, that he could plaster that scent to his walls – his pillow, cloak, anything to have his senses swimming within it to no end.