[A/N: Sequel to this: http://hhanon.livejournal.com/2836.html?thread=1928468#t1928468
...And, yes, I am going to name all the days of the week as skilfully as Rebecca Black (and possibly twice. <<)]
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There’s a certain feeling that you get when you’re somewhere between entirely drunk and fully sober. A certain seething, bubbling feeling that makes you think you can do absolutely anything and be absolutely anyone: that you can dance all night without a single moment of pain, that you can actually have conversations without looking like an absolute fool, that you can get the perfect girl (or boy) without a single screeching dissenter stepping forwards to spoil the mood.
He watches Chris, a little less drunk and as bouncy as ever, through slightly hooded eyes. Watches the way she moves on the end of her couch, watches those long arms flying as she discusses the horrors of society at a speed that would quite terrify the uninitiated.
The perfect girl…
He leans forwards, bolstered by the warmth of two beers or more, grabs her pale and bony wrist and drags her towards him before she can do more than blink. Captures her mouth in a deep, hard, filthy kiss that makes her grip at the front of his shirt and whimper vaguely into his mouth.
When he draws back she is breathless, briefly able only to continue clinging to the front of his shirt and splutter uselessly for words.
“…Um,” she says eventually, still blinking like she’s not quite sure what just happened, “um, Tim-?”
He draws her in again, wrapping his arms around her waist this time and tugging her so close that he can feel the press of her breasts even through his shirt. She actually whines when he tilts his head and delves fully into her mouth, actually whimpers and clenches her hands and holds on like she’s never been so surprised in her life.
And, granted, he’s not usually like this.
But he figures, with three beers or more happily sloshing around inside him, that they can deal with a brief change in the routine. When they draw back the next time, for air and only air, he reaches down until his fingers are firmly hooked around the underside of her bare thighs – stands up and, with one firm hitch, lifts her with him. Heading for the stairs (and he has no idea how she got enough money to buy a house of her own, but he’s hardly going to argue) with her skin warm beneath his fingers and her breath happily surprised against his ear.
She briefly leans over him when they get to the door, scrabbles quickly at the side table and comes up with something small clutched in her hand.
UNPROMPTED: Drunk on Sunday, Female!Chris/Tim, NC-17 [1/3]
...And, yes, I am going to name all the days of the week as skilfully as Rebecca Black (and possibly twice. <<)]
--
There’s a certain feeling that you get when you’re somewhere between entirely drunk and fully sober. A certain seething, bubbling feeling that makes you think you can do absolutely anything and be absolutely anyone: that you can dance all night without a single moment of pain, that you can actually have conversations without looking like an absolute fool, that you can get the perfect girl (or boy) without a single screeching dissenter stepping forwards to spoil the mood.
He watches Chris, a little less drunk and as bouncy as ever, through slightly hooded eyes. Watches the way she moves on the end of her couch, watches those long arms flying as she discusses the horrors of society at a speed that would quite terrify the uninitiated.
The perfect girl…
He leans forwards, bolstered by the warmth of two beers or more, grabs her pale and bony wrist and drags her towards him before she can do more than blink. Captures her mouth in a deep, hard, filthy kiss that makes her grip at the front of his shirt and whimper vaguely into his mouth.
When he draws back she is breathless, briefly able only to continue clinging to the front of his shirt and splutter uselessly for words.
“…Um,” she says eventually, still blinking like she’s not quite sure what just happened, “um, Tim-?”
He draws her in again, wrapping his arms around her waist this time and tugging her so close that he can feel the press of her breasts even through his shirt. She actually whines when he tilts his head and delves fully into her mouth, actually whimpers and clenches her hands and holds on like she’s never been so surprised in her life.
And, granted, he’s not usually like this.
But he figures, with three beers or more happily sloshing around inside him, that they can deal with a brief change in the routine. When they draw back the next time, for air and only air, he reaches down until his fingers are firmly hooked around the underside of her bare thighs – stands up and, with one firm hitch, lifts her with him. Heading for the stairs (and he has no idea how she got enough money to buy a house of her own, but he’s hardly going to argue) with her skin warm beneath his fingers and her breath happily surprised against his ear.
She briefly leans over him when they get to the door, scrabbles quickly at the side table and comes up with something small clutched in her hand.
…He figures that he can worry about it later.