First Story!
Ok, here goes my first story. It's not as eloquent as the other stories here but I think it's kind of cute. Anyway let me know what you think, only don't judge me too harshly.
Rating: G
Pairings:Keith/Mick
Word Count: 375
Genre: Fluff
Disclaimer: This never happened, unfortunately.
He comes in looking completely devastated, rolling your eyes and go back to concentrating on your guitar. You feel the couch depress as he sets his slight frame next to yours, you continue playing. Although, by now you know you’ve lost the battle, no work will get done until you humour him, stupid fuckin’ drama queen, you think to yourself before sighing in resignation and looking up at sullen man next to you.
“What is it?” You state without preamble.
He fiddles with the scruffy edge of his sweater, and runs his tongue over those infamous red lip, making you even more pissed off, you hate the strange draw that particular trademark habit has on you. He should know that by now, you think angrily, tapping your foot impatiently. “Well?” your voice coming out harsh.
“Some of the girls are saying...” You almost cut him off right now, you don’t have nearly enough illicit substances in your blood stream to deal with this right now, but you listen anyway, he’d do the same for you, you reason, although that’s hardly concerned you before.
“Well they saying that I’m not... I’m very good at certain things...” blushing bright red and turning away, resisting the pressing need to run out of the room, you watch him carefully for a few seconds. Your interest returns at the colour in his cheeks, his blush always intrigues you, it’s so rare and so unexpected.
“What stuff?” You say just to piss him off, this time he just glares at you, eyes darting to the door. This time he’s planning to make a run for it. This annoys you somewhat, gently resting you precious guitar against the edge of the couch. He looks at you oddly, his blue eyes watching you curiously with a hint of weariness, no inclination of what you’re about to do. Perfect.
Smiling wickedly, you pounce without warning, trapping him against the couch with your arms and attacking those annoyingly plump lips with your own. His cries “what are you doing?” smothered by your own whiskey smeared lips, he always talked too much anyway.
Finally, leaning back, you turn you return to your guitar, “I don’ see a problem, now can we get some fuckin’ work done?”