watch all this happening and feel powerless to stop it
For falling_fast_x3 (clandestine meeting, lust or love moment, scent present throughout all story - sort of cheated on that one;deadline today).
Shit. Even you can tell you reek of cigarrette. Perfectly well you know how much he despises anything and everything tobacco but promises are hard to keep these days and come on, a dollar for a sixteen cigarrete pack? It is difficult to let that one pass.
He can smell it too, despite the heavy scent of sweat and perfume and humidity mixed up into one messy odor that lingers around. His familiar frown lets you know that he will not let this one pass either. Quickly, before he can say anything, your lips are on his and a soft giggle near his ear.
"Hey there, stranger," you say. It still surprises you the change in your tone of voice, from lively to flirtatiously dangerous in mere seconds. You see his body stiffen for only a moment before he relaxes, slips both arms around your waist as the rate of his breaths quickens. Has been eight months and it is always the same way, feels like the first time, and maybe it’s precisely that why you love this so much.
His strong hand finds yours and with it holding hard, he leads you far from the multitue, where no one can see. There are so many people this time that it's hard to find somewhere where you won't be seen; he turns to you, a bemused look on his face. It is not difficult to know what he thinks.
"There," you whisper conspiratorially, "behind that big oak." You push him softly on his back, indicating him to go first and you will follow. The proper cautions don't seem so necessary at this point of the game, but it is a tradition neither of you are willing to break. You watch with amusement as he struts past a group of boys and lingers. As you approach him, mildly amused, he folds his arms and no, too visible.
You can’t recall exactly how it is that you end up kissing against the door of a portable toilet, most desirely empty, in the back garden, behind those bushes you thank are there in the first place.
He slips his arm underneath your shirt and strokes your back as he pushes you further against the wall. There is simply so much uncontrolable heat coming off of both your bodies and he just smells sogood and oh, oh, oh.
Your hands search frantically for something to hold on to, but his hair is not long enough and you need more distraction. Now it’s your hands that look underneath his prim shirt for simply more, but it is as if nothing satisfies you enough, as if there is a unending thirst that needs to be quenched but cannot. You pull him closer until there is no gap between his chest and yours; your legs snake around his waist and not a second passes by before he understands what you want. He lifts you and you feel his lower body shifting, and holy fuck, thisissohot, oh shit, oh shit, oh oh ohohoh fuck!
Two hours later the lake whispers goodnight and he holds your hand; when he sees you gazing up at him more than appreciatingly, he squeezes it and kisses your forehead. You are only wearing a sweater, but it is warm, and it is a wonder how the weather shifts according to the people you are with.
The cigarrette pack lies underneath the trash in the garbage can. Maybe he is right. You will give him a chance, on both accounts.
Shit. Even you can tell you reek of cigarrette. Perfectly well you know how much he despises anything and everything tobacco but promises are hard to keep these days and come on, a dollar for a sixteen cigarrete pack? It is difficult to let that one pass.
He can smell it too, despite the heavy scent of sweat and perfume and humidity mixed up into one messy odor that lingers around. His familiar frown lets you know that he will not let this one pass either. Quickly, before he can say anything, your lips are on his and a soft giggle near his ear.
"Hey there, stranger," you say. It still surprises you the change in your tone of voice, from lively to flirtatiously dangerous in mere seconds. You see his body stiffen for only a moment before he relaxes, slips both arms around your waist as the rate of his breaths quickens. Has been eight months and it is always the same way, feels like the first time, and maybe it’s precisely that why you love this so much.
His strong hand finds yours and with it holding hard, he leads you far from the multitue, where no one can see. There are so many people this time that it's hard to find somewhere where you won't be seen; he turns to you, a bemused look on his face. It is not difficult to know what he thinks.
"There," you whisper conspiratorially, "behind that big oak." You push him softly on his back, indicating him to go first and you will follow. The proper cautions don't seem so necessary at this point of the game, but it is a tradition neither of you are willing to break. You watch with amusement as he struts past a group of boys and lingers. As you approach him, mildly amused, he folds his arms and no, too visible.
You can’t recall exactly how it is that you end up kissing against the door of a portable toilet, most desirely empty, in the back garden, behind those bushes you thank are there in the first place.
He slips his arm underneath your shirt and strokes your back as he pushes you further against the wall. There is simply so much uncontrolable heat coming off of both your bodies and he just smells sogood and oh, oh, oh.
Your hands search frantically for something to hold on to, but his hair is not long enough and you need more distraction. Now it’s your hands that look underneath his prim shirt for simply more, but it is as if nothing satisfies you enough, as if there is a unending thirst that needs to be quenched but cannot. You pull him closer until there is no gap between his chest and yours; your legs snake around his waist and not a second passes by before he understands what you want. He lifts you and you feel his lower body shifting, and holy fuck, thisissohot, oh shit, oh shit, oh oh ohohoh fuck!
Two hours later the lake whispers goodnight and he holds your hand; when he sees you gazing up at him more than appreciatingly, he squeezes it and kisses your forehead. You are only wearing a sweater, but it is warm, and it is a wonder how the weather shifts according to the people you are with.
The cigarrette pack lies underneath the trash in the garbage can. Maybe he is right. You will give him a chance, on both accounts.