cityarcade | [meme] first kiss drabbles

Laura Palmer

They've been stationed in Washington for a few weeks now, breaking in the newest Shatterdome and preparing, as ever, for an attack. This has been Chuck's life for years now. He doesn't think that much of it; he just stays ready, especially since kaiju seem to be coming through the Breach more often lately. They still have some downtime — a couple months, is Dr. Gottlieb's next estimate, and after taking a K-science class from him before he graduated as a pilot, Chuck is inclined to take his word for it — but he's never really been one to put it to use. Most of the other Jaeger pilots, they had lives before the world went to shit. He was a child. He doesn't know anything other than this. It doesn't help that he's got a reputation for himself, angry and abrasive. He doesn't hide from it, when he has a job to do, but even he has to admit that it's strange sometimes, watching them all buddy up and hang out together, head into town when it seems safe enough to leave. The last time he had a social life, he was in elementary school, and how fucking sad is that?

Tonight wouldn't be any different, except that a little while ago he realized the date — August 14th, his birthday, and his 21st at that. No one's mentioned it, of course. He wouldn't expect them to, when it isn't as if he celebrates anyone else's. Still, for a moment, he's struck by an odd feeling of what might be loneliness, or maybe just grief for someone long gone who definitely would have done something to mark the occasion, and then he decides to do something he never does.

He goes out. He's 21 now, after all, and he might as well have a goddamn legal drink to mark the occasion. Just one, when he ought to be ready in case anything unexpected happens, but at least it'll be better than staring at the empty walls of his current bedroom all night and letting his birthday pass without any sort of notice.

Without any particular destination, he winds up at a small bar in a small town. He seems less likely to be recognized here, which is a good thing. People still act like Jaeger pilots are rock stars, but he's never been in this for the fame. Sure enough, though, he's only been sitting at the bar for a few minutes before someone comes up to sit beside him, a hint of something floral cutting through the smell of beer and sweat.

"Hey there, soldier," the woman says, her voice husky-sweet. Chuck nearly groans; he didn't come out tonight to be hit on by another Jaeger fly. When he turns, though, that's not what he sees. She's more girl than woman, for one, maybe 17 or so — just a few years younger than him, but too young to be out drinking, except someone clearly doesn't give a fuck. It's not his business. Despite the flirty curve of her smile and the lyrical ease of her words that suggests she's done this sort of thing many times before, there's something sad in her eyes, too, and maybe that's what gives him pause.

Or, hell, maybe that's just the dim lighting, or the soft song entirely at odds with the setting being performed on the stage.

Either way, he shrugs rather than scoffs, not an outright dismissal. "Hey yourself," he replies, then turns back to his drink.

In his peripheral vision, he sees her brow raise, coy. "Don't you wanna buy me a drink?"

It's a sign of how unaccustomed to this sort of thing he is that it wouldn't have occurred to him. Figuring he might as well, though, he waves the bartender, a round, thick-accented man, over with one hand. "Whatever she wants," he says, dimly aware that this is probably a felony, but the bartender, who seems to know the girl's drink order already, doesn't appear to care, so neither does he.

"Nothing for you?" she asks, and maybe Chuck is just shit at reading people, but he can't tell if she's curious or teasing him or outright making fun. Either way, he lifts his bottle a couple of inches and answers, "I'm sticking with this one."

For some reason, she seems surprised by that. Chuck doesn't give it too much thought, distracted by the ensuing conversation. He isn't sure how long they sit there and talk — not about anything particularly in depth, but he confirms who he is, and gets her name, Laura, and they chat a little, and maybe it's the fact that he's a little tipsy, embarrassingly lightweight from lack of experience, but for that little while, he feels almost normal in a way he hasn't in about as long as he can remember. He'd forgotten how good it feels to be something other than just an angry pilot, nearly as much machine as his Jaeger.

It's later than he thought it would be when he finally stands up. He hasn't heard from anyone all night, which is probably a good thing, but this is rare enough for him anyway; he can't be getting too reckless about it. "I should be getting back."

"So that's it?" Unexpectedly, her expression turns a little sad, or he thinks it does, bright blue eyes shining.

Fleetingly, he almost feels guilty for it, but it passes. Nothing more was ever going to happen here. He has a job to do, responsibilities he can't just throw to the wind, and no matter how nice it might be to have a few hours away from that and talk to a pretty girl, he has to go back in case he's needed. Any arrogance aside, the fate of the world is kind of literally at stake. "Yeah, that's it."

Even more surprising, Laura smiles then, looking younger than she has all night. Before Chuck can say anything, she gets to her feet, too, and leans up to her toes to kiss him, soft and sweet. He lingers there, tasting booze and cigarette smoke where her mouth meets his, and then the moment passes, and they both draw back. "Thanks."

He isn't sure what she's thanking him for. Before he can ask, she adds, "For the drink," but it's a little hurried, and he gets the sense she doesn't mean that.

"'Course," he replies, then turns to start for the door, glancing back over his shoulder as he goes. "Bye, Laura."

"See you around." They both know, though, that she won't.

Spike

It'd been a dare. She'd had a few, and so had Spike, and then someone had dared them to kiss just because of how similar they'd look while doing it. She'd laughed it off, but if she was honest, she'd always thought there was something attractive about Spike. She'd also thought it would be stupid to do anything about it for any number of reasons.

But it was a dare, so why not? When they stumbled out of the bar, she pushed him up against a wall and he let her. They both knew he was stronger than her, that he could get away in a moment, but he didn't. She looked him in the eyes one more time to be sure he understood and consented, and then she kissed him. It was messy and dirty and exactly what she needed in that moment.

It was just a dare, and it was never going to happen again, but she didn't regret it at all.

Root

Tyrion Lannister

Rue Bennett

It's called ecstacy.

Eponine's heard of it before, of course, all its synonyms and nicknames amongst the high schoolers, but she hasn't taken it, and so she's not sure what to expect when Rue laughingly passes her a little colored tablet in the press of a dark concert.

She finds her again after the first band. The music sounds incredible. The brush of skin as she moves through the club shivers through her; colors shimmer and the dance of the lights over the crowd is delighting.

Sometimes, when Eponine was very hungry, or afraid, sometimes even now when she's panicked the world becomes strange and sharper in a sort of way. As though lights and sounds are brighter and distracting and she can't keep her mind on it. This isn't like that at all, that dread. Quite the opposite. She feels wonderfully at peace and as though everything's going to be all right.

"You're rolling," Rue says, and her smile is languid and amused. Eponine hadn't noticed how glittery her skin was before and she wants to touch it. "Aren't you."

"I think so," she says, and adds, "I think I look silly, but I don't care." Eponine hasn't felt this carefree since Montfermeil, or maybe ever in her life. She stretches her hands up to feel the cool of the air above the heads of their peers, and lets the music settle sinuously into her, swaying with it.

"Good. Come dance with me," Rue says and slides a hand on her waist to dance with her, her fingers warm where Eponine's shirt's lifted up, and it feels wonderful.

"You look beautiful," she tells her earnestly, wrapping an arm around her neck. A counterpoint, or maybe just a truth. "Like the moon."

She does reach out for her face then, fingers brushing over her jaw, and when Rue tips her cheek against it, she leans in and brushes her lips against hers. It's not even for anything, but it feels right. At the moment it seems to make absolute sense. Rue blinks, and kisses her back, and for a moment, she's not thinking about anything but this.

Richie Tozier

Summer existed as one shatter of memories in his mind. A jumble of river rock. Of brightly colored pills. Of arcade tokens. He could pick one up, turn it over, study it. While each was unique, the act of arranging them in order, the act of remembering his childhood with any sort of coherent timeline, left him breathless and dizzy, groping for an inhaler that he'd watched burn in Mike's stolen urn, before everything really went to shit.

Richie... I fucked your mom...

They were eight. Or maybe ten. Richie Tozier sat on the curb, tears trapped behind the thick lenses of his glasses. It was summer, and his knee was skinned bad, but that wasn't why he was crying. No, Eddie was sure of that. He'd been sure of it at eight, or maybe ten, and he was sure of it now...

Clown... Clown... Clown...

His fanny-pack spilled open, a roll of bandages spilling out like guts. Eddie tore open an antiseptic wipe and blotted at the red scrape on Richie's knee. He hadn't heard what Bowers said to him, the uproarious laughter of the other kids at the park drowning it all out, but he'd known it was bad by the way Richie seemed to crumple. Of all of them, Richie was loud and brash and gave as good as he got, but sometimes... sometimes...

YOU'RE JUST A FUCKING CLOWN.

"If I wanted to be babied, Eds, I'd go home to your mom," Richie muttered, and Eddie knew that the edge of meanness in his voice wasn't real. He was just embarrassed, he didn't mean to be cruel.

"Shut up, dickwad. I'm trying to keep you from getting sepsis. Do you want to lose your leg?" Eddie argued, knocking tiny grains of debris from the wound. It wasn't deep, but it looked like it hurt, and he grimaced with sympathy as he finished cleaning it up. The band-aids he had were covered in race cars, and even though he'd complained about them being for kids, he secretly thought they were really cool.

He was careful as he stuck it to Richie's knee, the sun beating down on the back of his neck, dutifully ignoring the way that Richie sniffed wetly and wiped a hand across his cheeks.

On impulse, he jolted forward, his lips connecting with the top of Richie's knee, the same way his own mother had done for him countless times. His own mother, who wasn't all bad. Who made him feel important, and made him feel loved, despite the nagging and controlling that he was still too young to recognize.

"All better!" He chirped, ducking away from Richie's swatting hand as he yelped, "Gross, dude! You really are a freaking mom."

Scrambling to his feet, Eddie gave his best friend a shove. "You are!" He shouted back nonsensically, and the kiss must've done the trick, because they forgot all about the blood and all about the tears, and were soon walking their bikes home, talking animatedly about some movie or some video game or whatever eight-year-old, or maybe ten-year-old boys talked about in the 1980s.

But now, Eddie couldn't remember. All he could remember was a summer, or many summers, all amounting to one. The moments trickled over him like water, a drip-drip-drip echoing from the labyrinth of tunnels surrounding him, louder and louder like the chanting voices of his friends. They were all there, all at once, and then they were gone.

Elio Perlman

He plays the piano.

It's not hard to tell, for the walls of the Gorbeau House are thin. When he plays the thing, ill-tuned no matter his efforts because of (likely) its age and use, and (certainly) the heat and chill that persistently creep in between the floorboards, it can be heard throughout.

She can't imagine how he got it up the stairs. How it even fits in the little flat. It strikes Eponine as particularly intriguing, a little romantic even that he'd spend the effort and room on some weathered instrument over something more practical. He must love it so.

"He must be from wealth," her father hisses to her one night, cuffing her away from where she's sitting against the wall, listening to their neighbor elaborate on a Bach concerto. "Stop daydreaming and speak to him. He could be useful to us."

She doubts it. No one from money would choose to live in the Gorbeau, but she's seen him, all angles and curls crossing her path on the stairs. He dresses fashionably, but his jackets are worn at elbow and his shoes are reglued at the sole. He's just an artist, like so many.

Still, it gives her a reason to excuse getting to know him.

His name is Elio, and though when she finds out he's a student of philosophy and music at university she's a bit self-conscious, he's unusually kind and earnest with her.

She tells her father there's nothing to be gained from him, but she doesn't stop visiting, when she can sneak away. When she can't, when her father's in a mood, when her and Azelma's visits to plead money from rich men have turned them away with nothing or only bruises to show for their troubles, when there's no heat -- well, she can still listen to the piano.

"You don't have to do what he wants, you know," he says to her one day when they're walking together on the street. "You could get away from him."

"Monsieur Elio," she says, even though they have long since stopped using the formal addresses for each other. She tucks her arm into his. "You're very sweet, but there will always be a man telling me what to do. If I left, he would bring me back. And if he did not, what are you proposing that I do to feed myself?" There are only so many answers to that. It's not as though she hasn't thought of it before, usually just a little before wondering how long throwing herself into the Seine would hurt and deciding it isn't worth it.

"It shouldn't have to be the way it is," he says, but his voice is far away, and she sees his gaze has drifted. There's a man passing them, one she's seen before. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with blonde waves of hair and blue eyes, and when he looks at Elio it's somewhere between scandalously intimate and slightly terrified.

She's seen Elio look at him before. Eponine isn't so naive as to not understand what men get up to behind closed doors, but there's no place for it to be even as open they are, her own low-class self pretending to stroll for a moment with her arm tucked into the elbow of a kind, thoughtful, university student.

She will never be the wife of someone like him; she doesn't know if she'll be alive in a year. And he -- he will be a brilliant musician, that she knows, but perhaps he'll never be the husband he wants to be. And she knows that ache, the way it feels to sit awake and wish.

"What if we could make it a different world, though, together," she says, and he looks at her, pulled back to himself. "Where we could be anything we want. Wouldn't that be a good dream?" she asks, nearly demands of him.

"It would be a good dream," he agrees, his brow furrowed, and says, "Eponine --"

She leans up and kisses him. It's simple: chaste but intent, and somehow when he catches up and kisses her back just as gently, it feels more like being loved than any man who's ever put his mouth on hers. "I know," she says, simply, and if anyone's shocked when he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, she doesn't care.

Edited 2020-01-26 03:58 (UTC)

Re: in which marius does not exist, but oliver does, for better or worse.

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Re: in which marius does not exist, but oliver does, for better or worse.

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Re: in which marius does not exist, but oliver does, for better or worse.

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Steve Harrington

Eddie Kaspbrak

The moment I saw him, I knew Peter had taken him against his will. The boy standing in front of me wide eyed and frighted would have never come willingly and as I stared at him, took in the wild curls and the spatter of freckles across his wrinkled nose, I couldn't work out what game Peter was trying to play with him. It was a game, however, and I would have to work out the rules as soon as I could if I was to keep the boy safe.

His name was Eddie. He hated germs. He had asthma. And he worried far too much to ever be the sort of boy who wouldn't grow up. I loved him almost immediately, even though I didn't know it or understand it at first.

He was a test, I soon realized. Peter watched us closely as I helped Eddie first learn how live on the Island and then, later, as we met more carefully and I tried to come up with ways in which I could get him off the Island and back home where he belonged. It was clear Eddie wanted to leave, which tore at my heart, but he hesitated, too, and I could never tell if it was because he didn't want to leave me or if it because there was something at home that frightened him. Whatever it was, the hesitation drained from him when I touched his hand gently and whispered that I would come, too.

I don't remember how many years we spent trying to quietly find a way to escape. There was no way to track the time, not properly, but I know we both aged. Slower than we would have otherwise, but there was no denying we were growing up, and one day, Eddie turned to me and had to look up a little to meet my gaze.

He smiled, his nose wrinkling slightly, and I wanted to kiss each freckle on his skin.

"You're almost a man, Jamie," he said, then laughed.

"You are, too," I pointed out and I reached out to smooth my hands along his shoulders, which had broadened in recent months, grown wider and stronger with the work we did on the Island just to stay alive. My hands lingered on his shoulders, fingertips touching skin at the edges of his sleeves and he reached up suddenly as if to catch one of my hands. Instead he scratched his cheek awkwardly, fingernails rasping against a bit of fine hair that had begun to grow in recent weeks.

I was a coward, ultimately, but Eddie was not. When he seized me, he did it so suddenly and so ferociously that I realized he had perhaps been waiting for it as long as I had. His mouth crushed against mine and I stumbled, fell against a tree, then pulled him tighter against me. My foot went in a hole, deeper than I expected, and I fell out of the kiss, but when I looked down I couldn't speak.

This was it. It was the way out.

Eddie saw it, too, and he looked at me, his eyes glowing with excitement.

"Let's go, Jamie," he said. "Let's go now."

For the first time, I had something to return for and I took Eddie's hands, holding them tight, then began to lead him into the tunnel beneath the tree. The tunnel that would take us home. We were leaving the Island. We were going to finish growing up together.

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Rey

Rapunzel

Derek Hale

As we watched the people we cared about fade away, leaving only the two of us behind, it felt like too much had happened to just let ourselves fall back into what we'd had before. We'd hurt each other more than we'd meant to, watched each other happy with someone else, made accusations and let hurt feelings fester.

Some things couldn't be salvaged.

Sitting on his back porch, passing a joint between us, I expected to feel lonely— to feel the distance stretched between us, but I didn't. I wasn't.

"It's too fucking late to start over, isn't it?" I asked, and he frowned, uncomprehending for a moment.

"Yeah, I think it is," he finally said on a sigh, his eyes narrowing with betrayal, that I'd gone and brought up something painful, all over again. Like I always did.

Smoke curling from my mouth, I leaned in to him, my hand on his cheek. "Yeah, what if I want to, anyway?"

It wasn't a first kiss, or even a hundredth, but it felt like a first. It felt like a giving in, giving up. Like letting go. All our jagged little edges sliding together, because we finally let them, without holding back.

A first, and Christ, if I was fucking lucky, I hadn't just gone and screwed everything up for good, it wouldn't be the last.

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Sam Winchester

Mad Sweeney

Jamie

Marcus Keane

Fucking cupids.

After dealing with a cupid gone rogue, so many years ago, Sam had put that particular trauma away, hoping against his better judgement that he'd never have to even see one of those weird second-tier angels ever again. The whole giant naked baby-man thing was just... horror on top of more horror, and he'd seen some really fucked up things, in his thirty-six years.

So, fucking cupids, and fucking misplaced love juju, and he was just... He was done with Valentine's Day. He'd gone off holidays in general, at this point.

Not that it couldn't have been worse. It could've been so much worse. The way it stood, he only had mustache burn to deal with, and the knowledge that his friend was a shockingly good kisser. Yeah, so that might be a thing his brain insisted on conjuring up at really inopportune times, but Sam Winchester was nothing if not good at compartmentalizing.

So, the cupid was dead, and his half-mast boner was mostly under control — Christ, and yeah... He just. They were fine.

"Let's just... Not. You know, mention this. Ever," Sam said, sighing at the look of vague, shell-shocked amusement sparked in Marcus's eyes.

"Of course. Whatever you need," the other man said, in that warm, rich voice of his. A voice that washed over Sam like—

Sam cleared his throat, a little too loudly, hands raised as he backed away. "Yeah, I'm. I'm going. See you— I. Yeah."

Fucking cupids.

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Peter Graham

David Rose

Neil McCormick

It's not, precisely, the first time they've kissed. That was in Edgar's bed, the three of them a tangle that pulled his mind from the words imprinted on his back and most other truths save the way they all fit together.

There have been other kisses, between, too, marks sucked onto necks, messy twisted kisses and biting teases, but all in the same company.

This is something else. R wakes mid-morning, abrupt from some dream he can't remember now. The drape of the sheets and Edgar sprawled out taking up the part of the bed that Neil's vacated is like a sculpture, and he has a fleeting impulse to draw, but he doesn't want to disturb him, and he finds himself curious where Neil is. It's not that they all get up together, or do anything all at the same time; there's no reason he should mind, but it seems an incomplete scene somehow.

He pads down the stairs to the kitchen. Music's on, distinctly Neil's in its peculiars, and he's leaning on the counter, waiting for something in the microwave, nodding along to the music. His fingers tap, graceful and unthinking, against the counter.

Grantaire watches him for a moment before he's caught.

"You two sleep like the dead," Neil says, and then it registers in his eyes just as Grantaire blinks and laughs.

"When else, if not now?" he retorts easily, and keeps wandering up. "The bed was missing you," he says, and it sounds even stranger than it did in his head.

"Oh yeah?"

"Mm." He's in Neil's space, now, and Neil doesn't move forward or out of the way, just quirks an eyebrow as though he's waiting to be challenged. His eyes are very blue.

"It'll live."

Grantaire leans in and kisses him, then, hard and pressing him back against the counter at first, a collision of lips and teeth and wanting tongues that falls back into something softer and lingering and somehow more difficult to make sense of. They blink at each other. "Your food's done," he says, roughly, and pushes himself back away.

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farfromthesea - 2020-01-27 01:07 (UTC) - Expand

Oliver

Rick Dalton

Celeste Montgomery

None of this was supposed to happen.

David was supposed to be back in Schitt's Creek, possibly having broken up with his very adorable boyfriend, possibly not, but at least he would know, instead of being here where he doesn't know a goddamn thing. Except the one thing he does know, which is that angry, slightly stoned hate sex with Celeste Montgomery is actually kind of amazing. Not that he will ever, ever say as much, although he sort of thinks the sounds they both made the night before give them away.

And the night before that. And that one night two weeks back where he actually hadn't been stoned or angry, but Celeste had been enough of both for the both of them, so he had just let it happen.

The only thing that's starting to freak him out about all this is that they never kiss. Not once. They've slept together at least half a dozen times now and somehow it just never seems to happen. He's had his mouth all kinds of places on her, but he's never once kissed her. At first it had kind of been hot, but now it's getting weird. It's not that she doesn't let him, it's more that neither of them seem to think it's okay with the other, but they're both too stubborn to make the first attempt, so it just keeps going the way it's going, and now David is lying here in Celeste's bed, her duvet pulled up to his chin and he's staring at the early morning sun as it creeps across her ceiling.

She's still asleep. He'd like to keep her that way, because he is absolutely convinced she's going to yell at him if she wakes up during what he's about to do.

Carefully, so carefully, David gets up on one elbow, then leans toward Celeste. Her makeup has been washed off, leaving her looking sweeter than she's probably ever been, and David hesitates for just a second before he leans in closer and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. She doesn't move and the world doesn't explode and he leans back again, satisfied with himself.

"You call that a fucking kiss?" she mumbles from beside him and David shrieks in surprise, his gaze darting to Celeste. Her eyes are still closed, but she's smirking against her arm, and then she says, "Try that again. Make it count."

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voiceoflight - 2020-01-25 01:55 (UTC) - Expand

Kylo Ren

Molly Stearns

Chuck Hansen

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tw for the normal things that you'd tw with these two, particularly drugs and kissing while on them

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in which marius does not exist, but oliver does, for better or worse.

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