Impressions
Jul. 20th, 2009 03:32 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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wordsontongueTitle: Impressions
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stormatdusk
Rating: adult
Warnings: None
Prompt(s): #10: giggle and a picture of a pub
Disclaimer: This is only fiction; I don't know these people.
Summary: Viggo appreciates the gifts he receives from his friends.
You like it here, this (relatively) quiet corner booth in the pub, filled with cast and crew. The warm gold walls and the heavy beams at the ceiling encourage you all that much closer. These people have already become part of your chosen family. You let your eyes travel, your ears absorb, and you scribble in your notebook as the impressions parade by.
Karl. Karl makes you think. The two of you can talk late into the night, politics, women, men, the color of a good root beer. Nothing's off limits. Your conversations spark with spirit.
Miranda makes you flirt. The girl is whip-sharp, recklessly beautiful, deliciously mischievous, and completely, utterly above you. She's also generous enough not to let you know it. Very often.
Dom makes you play. The life in his eyes points true north to the fiercely fun creature he is at his core. The practical joking between you is so ruthless that it might seem rather a one-dimensional relationship if you didn't adore him like a brother, as well.
Bill makes you feel. The first time you heard him sing Pippin's song, you had to leave the set, find somewhere private, and let the tears come. You want to cry when you think of him back then, having lost his parents so young, though you never tell him that; he wouldn't want your pity, and he deserves so much more.
Orlando makes you giggle. In another life, you might've been cousins growing up together, the two of you against the world, with secret jokes and constant bantering and funny faces designed to get the other to sink into half-stifled titters at the dinner table, leaving the grown-ups frowning at your manners and just a little jealous.
And there's Sean, standing at the bar, the focus of a small crowd. The beer in one hand swings precariously as he makes a point - no, more likely a punch line - and Mir and David and Phillipa and Elijah and Lawrence dissolve into laughter around him. Inevitably, always, your eyes drink in the lines of him: the breadth of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the curve of his ass, the lean-muscled legs dusted in exactly the right amount of golden down, legs you can still feel wrapped around you, heels spurring into your ass as you pump your hips, pour everything into him, even after three days now. But tonight ... tonight you want his hands. You want those long, elegant fingers on you, in you, and you're not too proud to ask for it; hell no, you'll beg for it if that's what he wants. And maybe he's also thinking it's time to leave, because at that moment, his eyes meet yours across that room, and your mouth waters.
Sean? Sean makes you moan.
Author:
stormatduskRating: adult
Warnings: None
Prompt(s): #10: giggle and a picture of a pub
Disclaimer: This is only fiction; I don't know these people.
Summary: Viggo appreciates the gifts he receives from his friends.
You like it here, this (relatively) quiet corner booth in the pub, filled with cast and crew. The warm gold walls and the heavy beams at the ceiling encourage you all that much closer. These people have already become part of your chosen family. You let your eyes travel, your ears absorb, and you scribble in your notebook as the impressions parade by.
Karl. Karl makes you think. The two of you can talk late into the night, politics, women, men, the color of a good root beer. Nothing's off limits. Your conversations spark with spirit.
Miranda makes you flirt. The girl is whip-sharp, recklessly beautiful, deliciously mischievous, and completely, utterly above you. She's also generous enough not to let you know it. Very often.
Dom makes you play. The life in his eyes points true north to the fiercely fun creature he is at his core. The practical joking between you is so ruthless that it might seem rather a one-dimensional relationship if you didn't adore him like a brother, as well.
Bill makes you feel. The first time you heard him sing Pippin's song, you had to leave the set, find somewhere private, and let the tears come. You want to cry when you think of him back then, having lost his parents so young, though you never tell him that; he wouldn't want your pity, and he deserves so much more.
Orlando makes you giggle. In another life, you might've been cousins growing up together, the two of you against the world, with secret jokes and constant bantering and funny faces designed to get the other to sink into half-stifled titters at the dinner table, leaving the grown-ups frowning at your manners and just a little jealous.
And there's Sean, standing at the bar, the focus of a small crowd. The beer in one hand swings precariously as he makes a point - no, more likely a punch line - and Mir and David and Phillipa and Elijah and Lawrence dissolve into laughter around him. Inevitably, always, your eyes drink in the lines of him: the breadth of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the curve of his ass, the lean-muscled legs dusted in exactly the right amount of golden down, legs you can still feel wrapped around you, heels spurring into your ass as you pump your hips, pour everything into him, even after three days now. But tonight ... tonight you want his hands. You want those long, elegant fingers on you, in you, and you're not too proud to ask for it; hell no, you'll beg for it if that's what he wants. And maybe he's also thinking it's time to leave, because at that moment, his eyes meet yours across that room, and your mouth waters.
Sean? Sean makes you moan.
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