hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2005-05-20 11:24 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2005-05-20 11:24 am
It's just a writing exercise.
1. Will some giving soul send me Harry Connick's 'It Had to be You'?
2. Daniel Craig. Layer Cake. OMG the hotness. I'm repeating myself you say? And?
3. After last night's O.C finale, I was all primed to surprise surprise write some Ryan-gen, Ryan/Marissa/Trey fic. I know. The shock alone almost killed me.
However.
This morning I was pointed in the direction of this, and my brain, it go BOOM!
So, now I have to write about boy kissing. Problem is, I dunno who should be snogging. Should it be Draco and Blaise or Blaise and Theodore or Theodore and Neville or Ray and Fraser or Jack and Sawyer or Danny and Rusty or ... you get how this could be a problem. So. I decided to make it a fill-in-the-blanks exercise.
Who's the couple in question? You can let your brain decide.
Somewhere a Clock is Ticking
It's the stubble he notices first.
He thinks he should notice something else -- the smell of sweat and skin, the way lips part as he leans forward, the way his fingers are fisting in fabric and making a mess. He's ruining clothing. He's destroying an appearance of propriety and reserve.
He doesn't really care. He's the one who leaned in first.
The stubble rubs against the sensitive skin near the corner of his mouth, and he wonders if he'll have stubble burn later.
They haven't even kissed yet.
Who's to say they will?
A slight turn of the head to the left. An answering turn to the right, and there are lips pressing against his mouth. Dry, but not chapped. Soft, but not girlish. They're too thin to be anything else but him, and he wonders how long it's taken them to get to this point -- six seconds, six days, six months? Maybe it's been years of skirting around each other and looking and then looking away. The wariness grew on him. The caginess of pretending. It sat on his shoulders, weighing them down. He developed a crick in his neck; he kept his head down, except for when he saw him.
It's not a spectacular kiss.
It's just pressing two mouths together.
They can play this off. Push one another away ruefully and rub their mouths with the back of their hands. Except that the seconds are ticking past, and no one is pulling away. The window is closing on this joke, and soon, it won't be a joke anymore.
His fingers are cramping up from holding on too hard. He's thinking too much. Too much thought and not enough action, and their lips slide together like trying to fit a round peg in a square hole. They don't fit. They shouldn't fit. Except maybe it's not a round peg at all, maybe he just wasn't paying attention, because their lips do fit.
They glide and press and part. Slowly, very slowly, too slowly.
There should be reassurance. A diffident stroke of the bicep. A moan of encouragement. Something in the way of support.
He's floating in limbo out here.
He twitches suddenly.
He wasn't expecting that.
It's just a tongue, wet and strong and possessive and enticing. He has one too -– there's no reason to be skittish. He initiated this after all. He wants this, except there's all this pressure to get it right.
Right.
He has to stop thinking so hard.
This kiss is passing by.
There's that tongue again. He wants to follow it. To see where it goes and how it differs from his own. Is it stronger, broader, longer than his own? How would it feel on his chest, on his cock, anywhere, somewhere?
Someone had chocolate earlier.
He likes chocolate.
They're kissing after all.
Mouths and lips and a flicker of one tongue against another. They can't laugh this off. Tongues aren't the same as mouths just happening to press together. There are fingers grabbing at his neck, now. Strong, insistent. The fingers are groping and sliding, turning his head in another direction and pulling him closer. The fingers are twisting in his hair, and for a second he forgot that this kissing thing is a joint venture.
It takes two people to get it right.
That stubble is rubbing against his chin and his cheek. It's making him raw and open. More open than this kiss, but not as open as the tongue sliding and teasing along his own. His hands aren't gripping anymore, they're relaxing and smoothing, and he can feel a heart beating underneath the flat of his palm.
It's just him.
Just them.
It's just a kiss.
Except it's not.
Eventually he has to pull away to breathe, even though he thinks that breathing is overrated.
"I kissed you," he says, slightly awed by his own daring. Their lips brush together when he speaks and little flares of heat burn in his chest. His head is light. He can't think. He just -–
"I know." A little nod. "I think we should do it again."
He gives his own answering nod. "I can do that."
"Good."
-end-
2. Daniel Craig. Layer Cake. OMG the hotness. I'm repeating myself you say? And?
3. After last night's O.C finale, I was all primed to surprise surprise write some Ryan-gen, Ryan/Marissa/Trey fic. I know. The shock alone almost killed me.
However.
This morning I was pointed in the direction of this, and my brain, it go BOOM!
So, now I have to write about boy kissing. Problem is, I dunno who should be snogging. Should it be Draco and Blaise or Blaise and Theodore or Theodore and Neville or Ray and Fraser or Jack and Sawyer or Danny and Rusty or ... you get how this could be a problem. So. I decided to make it a fill-in-the-blanks exercise.
Who's the couple in question? You can let your brain decide.
It's the stubble he notices first.
He thinks he should notice something else -- the smell of sweat and skin, the way lips part as he leans forward, the way his fingers are fisting in fabric and making a mess. He's ruining clothing. He's destroying an appearance of propriety and reserve.
He doesn't really care. He's the one who leaned in first.
The stubble rubs against the sensitive skin near the corner of his mouth, and he wonders if he'll have stubble burn later.
They haven't even kissed yet.
Who's to say they will?
A slight turn of the head to the left. An answering turn to the right, and there are lips pressing against his mouth. Dry, but not chapped. Soft, but not girlish. They're too thin to be anything else but him, and he wonders how long it's taken them to get to this point -- six seconds, six days, six months? Maybe it's been years of skirting around each other and looking and then looking away. The wariness grew on him. The caginess of pretending. It sat on his shoulders, weighing them down. He developed a crick in his neck; he kept his head down, except for when he saw him.
It's not a spectacular kiss.
It's just pressing two mouths together.
They can play this off. Push one another away ruefully and rub their mouths with the back of their hands. Except that the seconds are ticking past, and no one is pulling away. The window is closing on this joke, and soon, it won't be a joke anymore.
His fingers are cramping up from holding on too hard. He's thinking too much. Too much thought and not enough action, and their lips slide together like trying to fit a round peg in a square hole. They don't fit. They shouldn't fit. Except maybe it's not a round peg at all, maybe he just wasn't paying attention, because their lips do fit.
They glide and press and part. Slowly, very slowly, too slowly.
There should be reassurance. A diffident stroke of the bicep. A moan of encouragement. Something in the way of support.
He's floating in limbo out here.
He twitches suddenly.
He wasn't expecting that.
It's just a tongue, wet and strong and possessive and enticing. He has one too -– there's no reason to be skittish. He initiated this after all. He wants this, except there's all this pressure to get it right.
Right.
He has to stop thinking so hard.
This kiss is passing by.
There's that tongue again. He wants to follow it. To see where it goes and how it differs from his own. Is it stronger, broader, longer than his own? How would it feel on his chest, on his cock, anywhere, somewhere?
Someone had chocolate earlier.
He likes chocolate.
They're kissing after all.
Mouths and lips and a flicker of one tongue against another. They can't laugh this off. Tongues aren't the same as mouths just happening to press together. There are fingers grabbing at his neck, now. Strong, insistent. The fingers are groping and sliding, turning his head in another direction and pulling him closer. The fingers are twisting in his hair, and for a second he forgot that this kissing thing is a joint venture.
It takes two people to get it right.
That stubble is rubbing against his chin and his cheek. It's making him raw and open. More open than this kiss, but not as open as the tongue sliding and teasing along his own. His hands aren't gripping anymore, they're relaxing and smoothing, and he can feel a heart beating underneath the flat of his palm.
It's just him.
Just them.
It's just a kiss.
Except it's not.
Eventually he has to pull away to breathe, even though he thinks that breathing is overrated.
"I kissed you," he says, slightly awed by his own daring. Their lips brush together when he speaks and little flares of heat burn in his chest. His head is light. He can't think. He just -–
"I know." A little nod. "I think we should do it again."
He gives his own answering nod. "I can do that."
"Good."
-end-
no subject
heeeee. Okay. *braids your hair*
and omg, if the guy next to me does not stop *reading aloud his proofing assignment because he thinks the mistakes he finds are FUNNY* I'm going to stab him with my red pen.
no subject
::places irate sticky notes all over him::
Okay. *braids your hair*
::knots the spell for sleeping sickness, aimed at a certain member of Slytherin house::
no subject