Happy Birthday Clare!
It's the sweet and very lovely kewfant4ewan's day!
Hope you have fun!
Wee pressie below the cut.
I wouldn't normally post fic in this journal but this seems like the best place given the excessive amounts of fangirl squee involved, hehe...
One
Kissing Obi-Wan is easy. It happens on your first date. Movie, ice cream and Padawan. What could be a better way to spend your birthday? Okay, the film, his choice, is an action movie, of the sort you don't generally care for. But you're not too bothered about that, because Obi-Wan's arm is around you and your cheek is resting on the soft, slightly rough material of his tunic-clad shoulder, his thumb is tracing lightly along the bare skin of your arm. No wonder then that, twenty minutes in, he's watching the film, and, even though it's dark, you're still watching him.
He shifts a little, and there is a tickle against your neck. His braid. You reach up and run your finger and thumb along it, feeling the texture before cheekily giving it a little tug. He turns his face toward you just as the screen flashes more brightly.
And there it is: his gentle smile, just for you. Then, with the grace and quiet confidence that is uniquely his, he lowers his head and his mouth is on yours, warm and safe, and his hand is sliding into your hair, as he kisses you gently for the first time, with lips that taste faintly of chocolate ice cream.
Two
Kissing Curt Wild is something everyone would do, if only they had the chance. You thought he'd barely noticed you. Maybe he hadn't, until a few minutes ago, when you walked into the kitchen, hands full of used glasses and half-empty bottles, and as you scanned the room to find a place to dump them, you realised he was there, leaning against the sink. He is a mess of smudged eyeliner and straggly bleach-blonde hair, but his charisma is like a beacon, and his predatory gaze is focused solely on you. It makes you shiver, in a good, if frankly terrifying, way, and you bravely walk towards him, depositing the clutter on the small clear area of counter space located right next to his silver-clad hip.
"Hey gorgeous," he drawls, and you can smell the booze and cigarette smoke on his breath. "Someone told me it was your birthday." And you don't quite know what happens next, save that he chuckles, and you look up, and his eyes say kiss me, and you do.
And it doesn't taste too nice, because of the booze and the cigarettes, and you have to push him away in the end, because he is swaying and you think he might fall over and take you with him, but for a moment, in that messy kitchen, as dawn is breaking outside the grimy window, you are snogging Curt freaking Wild, and well, it doesn't get much better than that.
Three
Kissing Iago is something you never expected to do, or rather, you never expected him to kiss you. He's slumped on the bench by the window, and for some reason, instead of placing the tray of food on the floor and shuffling out quietly as you normally do, you walk right over to him and place it on the low table. The man is a villain, a convicted criminal and a public figure of hate, but as you gaze down on his battered body you feel nothing but sorrow. "Would you like me to cut you some bread?" you ask hesitantly, noticing the dark blood stains seeping through the bandages on both of the hands which are bound together at the wrists. "There's cheese too, an extra ration to commemorate the day."
He raises his head in surprise, looking at you as if you are a ghost. You wonder for a moment if you are. Then he nods very slightly and you feel relieved, strangely happy to have the excuse to spend a few more minutes in the company of a man you should fear. He watches silently as you go about your task, arranging the food on the pewter plate and, as an afterthought, pouring some water into the metal goblet. "Here," you say, holding it to his cracked lips.
When he finishes drinking you move your arm away, but then you gasp, the goblet falling to the floor as his fingers close around your wrist. You can sense the danger in him, and it sends a small shiver radiating from the point of contact, but at the same time you welcome the touch, because you can feel his vulnerability, too.
Eyes locked with yours, he slowly pulls your hand to his lips and, turning it, places on the back a single kiss, before whispering almost imperceptibly. "Thank you."
Four
Kissing Christian is like falling in love. In fact, that's exactly what it is. You thought those stories about how it might feel were a myth. But then again, you never expected to be in Paris, twirling around in the arms of a poet, dancing and singing under a star-filled sky. When he kisses you it is not on top of an elephant though, or in a glamorous boudoir or on a stage. It's on a grey and rainy morning, when the air is damp and your musty old apartment building seems to groan with the task of holding up its own walls.
You arrive back at your door wet and exhausted, grocery bags tucked under your arms, and he's there waiting for you. In shock you fumble the key, and a bag tips, depositing its contents everywhere. As he heroically chases after apples you giggle, collapsing on the floor and trying vainly to stuff back in the bag the ingredients of the cake you were intending to bake him as a surprise.
Then, in a horrific failure, the bag of powdered sugar bursts and sends puffy clouds of white everywhere. Including over you. You squeal and then sneeze and he turns around, his expression quickly erupting into that lopsided grin that makes your tummy flip over and your cheeks flush. But at least he can't see that, right now.
He stalks towards you and you pout, cursing your clumsiness, cursing the weather, cursing everything.
He looks at you quizzically, politely, and you know he's trying not to laugh.
You wipe a finger along the bridge of your nose and peer at the white smudge on it. "Sugar," you say, by way of explanation.
He crouches down beside you, his face suddenly level with yours. His eyes dip down to the floor, and back up, his smile suddenly shy. "I think you're sweet enough."
Now there are not many men who could get away with a line like that, but it would seem that Christian is one of them, because the words make you blush more furiously and embarrassed, you lower your eyes. His hand comes up to touch your cheek, and you feel his fingers trembling slightly.
You look back up, into the green and blue of his gaze, and see there sincerity, affection, and maybe... something more? His face drifts closer but then stops, a flicker of uncertainty passing across it.
The realisation that he wants to kiss you makes you light-headed, and then you suddenly fear more than anything that actually, he might not.
"Happy Birthday," you manage to whisper, and his eyes flick one more time across your face. He smiles, leans closer, and a second later your lips touch, hesitantly at first then a little deeper, sliding and fitting together perfectly. And you forget the weather, and the dampness and the mess, because everything sparkles magically, and you are in heaven, with a cherry on top.
Five
Kissing Ewan is like none of these kisses, because Ewan's kiss is real. You watch him chuckle as your friend whispers something to him, and then your heart begins to race as he takes a couple of steps back your way.
"Happy Birthday." Before you've even had time to process the words his lips are brushing your cheek. When he pulls back, you somehow manage to thank him and remember your carefully-rehearsed little compliment, and it comes out just right. Then his fingers touch your hand, not a handshake but a mere drift of skin against skin, and his eyes twinkle and for a long moment he's smiling, right there, just for you.
This kiss is fleeting, and simple and small. "Is that all?" your friends say, when you return home, still dazzled and giddy. They don't understand, of course. You know he belongs to everyone and no-one, or at least no-one except his family, and you wouldn't have it any other way. But now this small fragment, this apparently insignificant piece, is yours to keep.
And this is the kiss that will stay with you, a memory to take out in those cold, dark depressing days when the world seems to be against you and you want to curl up and hide.
Because everyone has days like that. And everyone could do with a Ewan. Couldn't they?
Hope you have fun!
Wee pressie below the cut.
I wouldn't normally post fic in this journal but this seems like the best place given the excessive amounts of fangirl squee involved, hehe...
One
Kissing Obi-Wan is easy. It happens on your first date. Movie, ice cream and Padawan. What could be a better way to spend your birthday? Okay, the film, his choice, is an action movie, of the sort you don't generally care for. But you're not too bothered about that, because Obi-Wan's arm is around you and your cheek is resting on the soft, slightly rough material of his tunic-clad shoulder, his thumb is tracing lightly along the bare skin of your arm. No wonder then that, twenty minutes in, he's watching the film, and, even though it's dark, you're still watching him.
He shifts a little, and there is a tickle against your neck. His braid. You reach up and run your finger and thumb along it, feeling the texture before cheekily giving it a little tug. He turns his face toward you just as the screen flashes more brightly.
And there it is: his gentle smile, just for you. Then, with the grace and quiet confidence that is uniquely his, he lowers his head and his mouth is on yours, warm and safe, and his hand is sliding into your hair, as he kisses you gently for the first time, with lips that taste faintly of chocolate ice cream.
Two
Kissing Curt Wild is something everyone would do, if only they had the chance. You thought he'd barely noticed you. Maybe he hadn't, until a few minutes ago, when you walked into the kitchen, hands full of used glasses and half-empty bottles, and as you scanned the room to find a place to dump them, you realised he was there, leaning against the sink. He is a mess of smudged eyeliner and straggly bleach-blonde hair, but his charisma is like a beacon, and his predatory gaze is focused solely on you. It makes you shiver, in a good, if frankly terrifying, way, and you bravely walk towards him, depositing the clutter on the small clear area of counter space located right next to his silver-clad hip.
"Hey gorgeous," he drawls, and you can smell the booze and cigarette smoke on his breath. "Someone told me it was your birthday." And you don't quite know what happens next, save that he chuckles, and you look up, and his eyes say kiss me, and you do.
And it doesn't taste too nice, because of the booze and the cigarettes, and you have to push him away in the end, because he is swaying and you think he might fall over and take you with him, but for a moment, in that messy kitchen, as dawn is breaking outside the grimy window, you are snogging Curt freaking Wild, and well, it doesn't get much better than that.
Three
Kissing Iago is something you never expected to do, or rather, you never expected him to kiss you. He's slumped on the bench by the window, and for some reason, instead of placing the tray of food on the floor and shuffling out quietly as you normally do, you walk right over to him and place it on the low table. The man is a villain, a convicted criminal and a public figure of hate, but as you gaze down on his battered body you feel nothing but sorrow. "Would you like me to cut you some bread?" you ask hesitantly, noticing the dark blood stains seeping through the bandages on both of the hands which are bound together at the wrists. "There's cheese too, an extra ration to commemorate the day."
He raises his head in surprise, looking at you as if you are a ghost. You wonder for a moment if you are. Then he nods very slightly and you feel relieved, strangely happy to have the excuse to spend a few more minutes in the company of a man you should fear. He watches silently as you go about your task, arranging the food on the pewter plate and, as an afterthought, pouring some water into the metal goblet. "Here," you say, holding it to his cracked lips.
When he finishes drinking you move your arm away, but then you gasp, the goblet falling to the floor as his fingers close around your wrist. You can sense the danger in him, and it sends a small shiver radiating from the point of contact, but at the same time you welcome the touch, because you can feel his vulnerability, too.
Eyes locked with yours, he slowly pulls your hand to his lips and, turning it, places on the back a single kiss, before whispering almost imperceptibly. "Thank you."
Four
Kissing Christian is like falling in love. In fact, that's exactly what it is. You thought those stories about how it might feel were a myth. But then again, you never expected to be in Paris, twirling around in the arms of a poet, dancing and singing under a star-filled sky. When he kisses you it is not on top of an elephant though, or in a glamorous boudoir or on a stage. It's on a grey and rainy morning, when the air is damp and your musty old apartment building seems to groan with the task of holding up its own walls.
You arrive back at your door wet and exhausted, grocery bags tucked under your arms, and he's there waiting for you. In shock you fumble the key, and a bag tips, depositing its contents everywhere. As he heroically chases after apples you giggle, collapsing on the floor and trying vainly to stuff back in the bag the ingredients of the cake you were intending to bake him as a surprise.
Then, in a horrific failure, the bag of powdered sugar bursts and sends puffy clouds of white everywhere. Including over you. You squeal and then sneeze and he turns around, his expression quickly erupting into that lopsided grin that makes your tummy flip over and your cheeks flush. But at least he can't see that, right now.
He stalks towards you and you pout, cursing your clumsiness, cursing the weather, cursing everything.
He looks at you quizzically, politely, and you know he's trying not to laugh.
You wipe a finger along the bridge of your nose and peer at the white smudge on it. "Sugar," you say, by way of explanation.
He crouches down beside you, his face suddenly level with yours. His eyes dip down to the floor, and back up, his smile suddenly shy. "I think you're sweet enough."
Now there are not many men who could get away with a line like that, but it would seem that Christian is one of them, because the words make you blush more furiously and embarrassed, you lower your eyes. His hand comes up to touch your cheek, and you feel his fingers trembling slightly.
You look back up, into the green and blue of his gaze, and see there sincerity, affection, and maybe... something more? His face drifts closer but then stops, a flicker of uncertainty passing across it.
The realisation that he wants to kiss you makes you light-headed, and then you suddenly fear more than anything that actually, he might not.
"Happy Birthday," you manage to whisper, and his eyes flick one more time across your face. He smiles, leans closer, and a second later your lips touch, hesitantly at first then a little deeper, sliding and fitting together perfectly. And you forget the weather, and the dampness and the mess, because everything sparkles magically, and you are in heaven, with a cherry on top.
Five
Kissing Ewan is like none of these kisses, because Ewan's kiss is real. You watch him chuckle as your friend whispers something to him, and then your heart begins to race as he takes a couple of steps back your way.
"Happy Birthday." Before you've even had time to process the words his lips are brushing your cheek. When he pulls back, you somehow manage to thank him and remember your carefully-rehearsed little compliment, and it comes out just right. Then his fingers touch your hand, not a handshake but a mere drift of skin against skin, and his eyes twinkle and for a long moment he's smiling, right there, just for you.
This kiss is fleeting, and simple and small. "Is that all?" your friends say, when you return home, still dazzled and giddy. They don't understand, of course. You know he belongs to everyone and no-one, or at least no-one except his family, and you wouldn't have it any other way. But now this small fragment, this apparently insignificant piece, is yours to keep.
And this is the kiss that will stay with you, a memory to take out in those cold, dark depressing days when the world seems to be against you and you want to curl up and hide.
Because everyone has days like that. And everyone could do with a Ewan. Couldn't they?