I'm always relieved when someone is delivering a eulogy and I realize I'm listening to it.
Look! I -- almost wrote KeiRyuRyo! I was wasting time in PSP by drawing vaguely w-inds. shaped blobs in various compromising positions ( -- shut up, don't knock it 'til you try it), and then I found one I really liked, so I attempted to fic it. And then I quickly realized I was better off just demeaning myself by rolling around at people's feet and pleading with them to write this shit for me.
But I do have one paragraph that isn't total crap! (Er. I hope.) So let this entice you to write some of your own, yes? :D *ROLLS AROUND AT YOUR FEET AND PLEADS*
When Ryuichi comes up behind him, slipping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on Keita's shoulder, Keita gives a soft sigh of approval, and Ryohei claims it: open-mouthed, breaths in pants, everything cool and wet and slick except the slow, slow churn of heat in Keita's stomach. He can feel the length of Ryuichi's body against him, Ryohei's hands sliding down his sides. Their fingers are freezing but everywhere they touch is warm. Keita almost wants to panic -- the photoshoot, the weather, what are they doing, anyone could come out at any time, they don't need this kind of publicity -- but Ryuichi's lips are on his neck, and he's smiling, and Ryohei is humming something that sounds suspiciously like Super Lover, so Keita only laughs a little and decides to give into the moment, to let the rain soak his hair and pool at his pockets, plaster his clothes to his body like a second skin. Ryohei coaxes his head back and Ryuichi sucks at the moisture on his neck. Their hands have come together at his stomach, a warm, solid weight -- completing them.
It feels right. That's all that matters.
SEE. I BET YOU COULD DO BETTER.
But I do have one paragraph that isn't total crap! (Er. I hope.) So let this entice you to write some of your own, yes? :D *ROLLS AROUND AT YOUR FEET AND PLEADS*
When Ryuichi comes up behind him, slipping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on Keita's shoulder, Keita gives a soft sigh of approval, and Ryohei claims it: open-mouthed, breaths in pants, everything cool and wet and slick except the slow, slow churn of heat in Keita's stomach. He can feel the length of Ryuichi's body against him, Ryohei's hands sliding down his sides. Their fingers are freezing but everywhere they touch is warm. Keita almost wants to panic -- the photoshoot, the weather, what are they doing, anyone could come out at any time, they don't need this kind of publicity -- but Ryuichi's lips are on his neck, and he's smiling, and Ryohei is humming something that sounds suspiciously like Super Lover, so Keita only laughs a little and decides to give into the moment, to let the rain soak his hair and pool at his pockets, plaster his clothes to his body like a second skin. Ryohei coaxes his head back and Ryuichi sucks at the moisture on his neck. Their hands have come together at his stomach, a warm, solid weight -- completing them.
It feels right. That's all that matters.
SEE. I BET YOU COULD DO BETTER.