Drabble Inspiration
Some drabbles I wrote based on Richard Siken poems. I just haven't felt the inspiration, I guess to write. So I thought restarting small would be good.
TITLE: A Fever.
RATING: PG-13ish
POEM: You are a fever I’m learning to live with, and everything is happening at the wrong end of a very long tunnel.
It’s well known that Louis believes in fate.
He believes that things happen for a reason and sometimes if something doesn’t happen that’s because it wasn’t meant to - at that time.
To everyone else, they crashed together. Like a wave hitting the rocks, letting the momentum and swirl of the water carry them towards one another. Like it was meant to be; as if it was something more than luck.
And because of this Louis thinks of fate far too often; at night alone, as he hears the tick of the clock and sounds of a settling house. He can feel the outline of yearning beside him as he rolls around restless.
He stares at his mobile in the dark; his fingers twitching because one push and Harry would come. Like he always does.
But being able to work side by side is enough - it should be. They can whisper secrets to one another; in the spaces between interviews, or before they’re swallowed by a screaming crowd, or swiped away by passing lights in the late night.
It should be enough, but it isn’t -wasn’t.
They tried for more and were nearly consumed; overwhelmed, because it wasn’t just about them. They were too easy to see, too lost to notice that every lens told something about them that wasn’t meant to be known.
They never ended. More like a pause, until there are no camera lenses or an audience to see through their smiles.
And Louis is already pushing aside the shadow of yearning beside him, reaching for his mobile.
What’s the point in ending when they would still come to the same spot?
Because Louis knows this about fate - just because something may not happen at one time, doesn’t mean it was never meant to be.
TITLE: I Wanted to Take Him Home.
RATING: R
POEM: I wanted to take him home and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his like a crash test car.
Louis’ accepted his need for Harry.
He calls it a need because the time for thinking that he could let it go, turn away from this urge inside him, passed so long ago that remembering anything before has become a futile endeavor.
Louis dreams about him sometimes.
The dreams are indistinct; hazy, but he knows that it’s Harry he is touching. The feel of his skin, the touch of his lips, the tug to his fingers as they clutch at dark brown hair. Louis knows what it’s like to scratch down the column of Harry’s neck, feel the distinct line of his vein as Harry arches his neck to let Louis have more of him. He has nosed his way along the slickness of Harry’s chest, licking lightly and tasting his salty skin. He knows how soft Harry’s waist is and how easy it can be to mar the pale skin with finger shaped bruises and too sharp teeth.
He’s woken up with a mixture of sweat and cum clinging to him, exhausted by restless sleep.
Louis thinks of him far too often.
He sometimes ignores the beginning of the day; to remain in bed, to let remnants of his dreams play before him. He thinks of these dreams until they are nothing more than snatches of his imagination; him clutching them, hoping they will stay longer.
He always reaches down to hold himself as he tries to remember the grip that Harry used. And each stroke is its own little reminder, a way to remember longer. He ignores the buzzing of his mobile, clutching his thigh with his other hand - sinking blunt nails into his flesh because it’s what he remembers most. It’s a feeling of rushing, throbbing want - of not being able to contain himself before finally boiling over.
Louis wonders when it came to this. He stares at his ceiling, puffing out air; letting the tingle of his dream wash over him. He doesn’t know when Harry began to overwhelm him. He isn’t sure if it’s okay.
All Louis knows is that he needs him.
TITLE: A Fever.
RATING: PG-13ish
POEM: You are a fever I’m learning to live with, and everything is happening at the wrong end of a very long tunnel.
It’s well known that Louis believes in fate.
He believes that things happen for a reason and sometimes if something doesn’t happen that’s because it wasn’t meant to - at that time.
To everyone else, they crashed together. Like a wave hitting the rocks, letting the momentum and swirl of the water carry them towards one another. Like it was meant to be; as if it was something more than luck.
And because of this Louis thinks of fate far too often; at night alone, as he hears the tick of the clock and sounds of a settling house. He can feel the outline of yearning beside him as he rolls around restless.
He stares at his mobile in the dark; his fingers twitching because one push and Harry would come. Like he always does.
But being able to work side by side is enough - it should be. They can whisper secrets to one another; in the spaces between interviews, or before they’re swallowed by a screaming crowd, or swiped away by passing lights in the late night.
It should be enough, but it isn’t -wasn’t.
They tried for more and were nearly consumed; overwhelmed, because it wasn’t just about them. They were too easy to see, too lost to notice that every lens told something about them that wasn’t meant to be known.
They never ended. More like a pause, until there are no camera lenses or an audience to see through their smiles.
And Louis is already pushing aside the shadow of yearning beside him, reaching for his mobile.
What’s the point in ending when they would still come to the same spot?
Because Louis knows this about fate - just because something may not happen at one time, doesn’t mean it was never meant to be.
TITLE: I Wanted to Take Him Home.
RATING: R
POEM: I wanted to take him home and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his like a crash test car.
Louis’ accepted his need for Harry.
He calls it a need because the time for thinking that he could let it go, turn away from this urge inside him, passed so long ago that remembering anything before has become a futile endeavor.
Louis dreams about him sometimes.
The dreams are indistinct; hazy, but he knows that it’s Harry he is touching. The feel of his skin, the touch of his lips, the tug to his fingers as they clutch at dark brown hair. Louis knows what it’s like to scratch down the column of Harry’s neck, feel the distinct line of his vein as Harry arches his neck to let Louis have more of him. He has nosed his way along the slickness of Harry’s chest, licking lightly and tasting his salty skin. He knows how soft Harry’s waist is and how easy it can be to mar the pale skin with finger shaped bruises and too sharp teeth.
He’s woken up with a mixture of sweat and cum clinging to him, exhausted by restless sleep.
Louis thinks of him far too often.
He sometimes ignores the beginning of the day; to remain in bed, to let remnants of his dreams play before him. He thinks of these dreams until they are nothing more than snatches of his imagination; him clutching them, hoping they will stay longer.
He always reaches down to hold himself as he tries to remember the grip that Harry used. And each stroke is its own little reminder, a way to remember longer. He ignores the buzzing of his mobile, clutching his thigh with his other hand - sinking blunt nails into his flesh because it’s what he remembers most. It’s a feeling of rushing, throbbing want - of not being able to contain himself before finally boiling over.
Louis wonders when it came to this. He stares at his ceiling, puffing out air; letting the tingle of his dream wash over him. He doesn’t know when Harry began to overwhelm him. He isn’t sure if it’s okay.
All Louis knows is that he needs him.