(no subject)
[Do You Remember The First Time?.]
Title: Do You Remember The First Time?
Author: Kathryn Quinn aka stickyhips___.
Disclaimer: Completely fictional.
Pairing: m/m, Paul Smith/Ricky Wilson, tiny bit of implied Ricky/Nick.
Rating: Hmmm. I’ll give it an R, gets smutty at one point.
Summary: There’s a first time for everything.
Notes: The title came from the Pulp song; I was listening to them last night. I don’t know what you’ll all reckon of the pairing, but I’ve been dying to write it for ages. Someone on albion_fic said that a Kaiser Chief wouldn’t be classy enough for Paul, which gave me another idea. Anyway. I'm not sure how effective this is or anything, but please be sure to let me know if I'm just being paranoid or if it is actually shite. I can't be doing with bad fic. Ricky POV.
First Sighting.
Your beautifully quirky appearance had me pining from the moment I clapped eyes on you. Your grey suit teamed with the eye-catching t-shirt and red trainers, a combination of individuality and insecurity. I lusted after your outlandish, impeccable dancing skills. The outrageous slope of your hair caught my eyes, which drifted to your splendid face - the intense emotion you caught in both your expression and voice. Those arms that could crush steel were enticing, although I could never picture you taking advantage of their strength. When my gaze dropped to the bulge in your trousers I was hooked.
I was fascinated.
First Meeting.
The vulnerability oozed from you, I waved you over and you walked over uneasily, riddled with nerves. You gave me a tight-lipped smile and said hello. I grinned, and talked, and talked, all the while your piercing blue eyes following my gestures. You took a genuine interest in all that I told you, nodding and smiling and simply understanding. We drank together and shared abysmal jokes. From your newfound willingness to talk, I was warmed to think I was finally getting somewhere. Your smile faded as Nick subtly wrapped himself round my waist, pulling me away, eager to hoard me and keep me for his own. Plagued with guilt, I waved at you briefly and couldn’t divert my mind from you standing alone, watching as I left.
I wanted you.
First Kiss.
During the Cribs’ set on the final night of the tour - everyone else was in the Kaiser Chiefs dressing room; you and I were in your band’s. Our conversation was laced with innuendo, our mutual attraction finally coming to the surface. I boldly leaned in, aching to taste whatever it was about you, I wanted a piece of you - fascinated by your presence, wanting some for myself. You captivated me to the extent I wanted to be you. You hung back, unsure of yourself and quizzical of your own mind. This only made me worse, and I took the plunge and kissed you. Gentle yet commanding. Though the kiss was one of passion and not debauchery, I could tell you hungered for it just as much as I did. Your tender fingers brushed over my jaw, and I hooked my arms right round your middle. It was only Tom bursting in that prevented us from continuing, and possibly going further.
I needed you.
First Time.
I felt like a whore, taking advantage of your shy, susceptible persona, but you apparently didn’t mind one bit. The club was heaving, neither of us cared much for the people, music or cheap tasting yet expensively priced alcohol. Pushed together by the swarms of clubbers, the body heat and intimacy kick-started our need for bodily contact. We both knew we wanted it. Knocking back glass after glass as a reasonable excuse. With every drink we became dirtier - by our eighth my hands had slipped into the back pockets of your jeans, and yours were slung round my neck - our hips digging into one another’s meant our desires were clear. I fought my way to the toilets, as you scurried along behind me. Locked in the cubicle we were unstoppable. Our craving, snatched kisses led to you giving me a snappy hand job whilst you literally breathed down my neck. I whined as you told me I fucking loved it. Throwing you into the cubicle door, I whipped the jeans on which I’d just spilled to your ankles, grappling at your fine thighs. No pissing about, I sucked your throbbing cock and coaxed you to climax with a lick to the underside. You shuddered and moaned powerfully, tugging at my hair as I greedily swallowed.
I loved you.
Feedback/constructive criticism is good, thanks.
::Kat:: xx ♥
Title: Do You Remember The First Time?
Author: Kathryn Quinn aka stickyhips___.
Disclaimer: Completely fictional.
Pairing: m/m, Paul Smith/Ricky Wilson, tiny bit of implied Ricky/Nick.
Rating: Hmmm. I’ll give it an R, gets smutty at one point.
Summary: There’s a first time for everything.
Notes: The title came from the Pulp song; I was listening to them last night. I don’t know what you’ll all reckon of the pairing, but I’ve been dying to write it for ages. Someone on albion_fic said that a Kaiser Chief wouldn’t be classy enough for Paul, which gave me another idea. Anyway. I'm not sure how effective this is or anything, but please be sure to let me know if I'm just being paranoid or if it is actually shite. I can't be doing with bad fic. Ricky POV.
First Sighting.
Your beautifully quirky appearance had me pining from the moment I clapped eyes on you. Your grey suit teamed with the eye-catching t-shirt and red trainers, a combination of individuality and insecurity. I lusted after your outlandish, impeccable dancing skills. The outrageous slope of your hair caught my eyes, which drifted to your splendid face - the intense emotion you caught in both your expression and voice. Those arms that could crush steel were enticing, although I could never picture you taking advantage of their strength. When my gaze dropped to the bulge in your trousers I was hooked.
I was fascinated.
First Meeting.
The vulnerability oozed from you, I waved you over and you walked over uneasily, riddled with nerves. You gave me a tight-lipped smile and said hello. I grinned, and talked, and talked, all the while your piercing blue eyes following my gestures. You took a genuine interest in all that I told you, nodding and smiling and simply understanding. We drank together and shared abysmal jokes. From your newfound willingness to talk, I was warmed to think I was finally getting somewhere. Your smile faded as Nick subtly wrapped himself round my waist, pulling me away, eager to hoard me and keep me for his own. Plagued with guilt, I waved at you briefly and couldn’t divert my mind from you standing alone, watching as I left.
I wanted you.
First Kiss.
During the Cribs’ set on the final night of the tour - everyone else was in the Kaiser Chiefs dressing room; you and I were in your band’s. Our conversation was laced with innuendo, our mutual attraction finally coming to the surface. I boldly leaned in, aching to taste whatever it was about you, I wanted a piece of you - fascinated by your presence, wanting some for myself. You captivated me to the extent I wanted to be you. You hung back, unsure of yourself and quizzical of your own mind. This only made me worse, and I took the plunge and kissed you. Gentle yet commanding. Though the kiss was one of passion and not debauchery, I could tell you hungered for it just as much as I did. Your tender fingers brushed over my jaw, and I hooked my arms right round your middle. It was only Tom bursting in that prevented us from continuing, and possibly going further.
I needed you.
First Time.
I felt like a whore, taking advantage of your shy, susceptible persona, but you apparently didn’t mind one bit. The club was heaving, neither of us cared much for the people, music or cheap tasting yet expensively priced alcohol. Pushed together by the swarms of clubbers, the body heat and intimacy kick-started our need for bodily contact. We both knew we wanted it. Knocking back glass after glass as a reasonable excuse. With every drink we became dirtier - by our eighth my hands had slipped into the back pockets of your jeans, and yours were slung round my neck - our hips digging into one another’s meant our desires were clear. I fought my way to the toilets, as you scurried along behind me. Locked in the cubicle we were unstoppable. Our craving, snatched kisses led to you giving me a snappy hand job whilst you literally breathed down my neck. I whined as you told me I fucking loved it. Throwing you into the cubicle door, I whipped the jeans on which I’d just spilled to your ankles, grappling at your fine thighs. No pissing about, I sucked your throbbing cock and coaxed you to climax with a lick to the underside. You shuddered and moaned powerfully, tugging at my hair as I greedily swallowed.
I loved you.
Feedback/constructive criticism is good, thanks.
::Kat:: xx ♥