I Hope My Girlfriend Don't Mind It [PG13]
Title: I Hope My Girlfriend Don't Mind It
Author: Alex Sorensen (ilytheira)
Summary: You've been stealing glances at him for God knows how long.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own David or Michael, or Kimberly or Stacey. I don't own "I Kissed a Girl" by Katy Perry, either; I love the track, though, if that counts for something! :D
Author's Note: This is a response to potc_fanatic111's fic challenge. Cranked out in 30, 45 minutes with the song on constant repeat; even though it's stopped now, it's really all I'm hearing... LOL. I'm dipping my toes in a point of view I never usually write from, but I hope you enjoy it. =]
You've been stealing glances at him for God knows how long. Something in your brain tells you that no, your eyes shouldn't be on him at all, because he isn't the person you're supposed to have your eyes glued to, you're supposed to have your eyes glued to the gorgeous blonde holding on to your hips and laughing, to have eyes for nobody but the girl dancing in front of you with a bright look in her eyes, but you can't help it. Nothing makes you feel better than just looking at him, no matter how many definitions of "wrong" coincide with your situation. You've given in to your body's wishes several times before, of course; it's human nature to indulge every now and then. You've always watched him with fascination on stage, holding that microphone, and sometimes wishing that he was holding you that way, looking at you with such tenderness intensity warmth gentleness love that he reserves only for his gorgeous blonde or his guitar. You've always followed the rivulets of water falling down his body, from his hair, to his cheeks, to his neck, down to his chest and past his stomach, past his navel and disappearing into the towel, and you've always found yourself turned on with simply wondering how he looks like underneath.
You shake your head and cough, because these aren't the thoughts you're supposed to be having now, and you wave it off as your girl looks up at you with concern in her eyes. "It's nothing," you say, holding on tightly to her hips but how would it feel if your hands were around his hips? and forcefully wrapping your brain around the fact that you need to be focused on her, and not him. "Don't worry about it," you continue in a tone that clearly stresses the fact that it's nothing important, and she simply nods and leans into you. You can smell her shampoo and her perfume, mixed with the smell of her sweat and the sweat of everyone else in the room, and you try and focus on her. That's what it's all supposed to mean to you, after all, the urges to press your lips against your best friend's, the need to know how his skin would feel against yours; it's all supposed to be nothing important.
The truth is, though, it is very important, and you find yourself not minding at all. You catch yourself just in time as your eyes begin to wander from the shapely female continuously moving her body in front of you for you, but tonight is a night to have fun, and you let your eyes do just that. You look over and find him with his female, her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her hips and shaking them to the beat. His eyes are half-lidded, and there is a smirk that you consider to be oh so very inappropriately handsome, and that alone provokes a small smile to form on your face. You appreciate the way the lights hit his face, the angles more defined, as though he had been sculpted that way, and the lights hit his significant other in a very flattering way, too. They are a gorgeous couple on the dance floor, sexy in their movements and undoubtedly sexy by themselves, and you can feel the blood rush to your face. Suddenly, it's not just the body heat that's turning up the temperature as your thoughts run to places you would never dare address out loud, and you tilt your head and whisper in your girlfriend's ear as you watch the pair you've been eyeing head over to the bar, "Do you want to go get a drink?"
She smiles at you look at her, focus on her, on her, not them, not him, and says, "I'd love that. All this dancing takes so much out of me."
You nod at her, offer your arm as she removes her grip on your waist but what if his hands were on my waist?, and then remember to control your thoughts as, arm in arm, you head over to the bar, where your best friend and his lady are sitting. He notices you first as he turns to no doubt eye the dance floor, and he throws a smile in your direction, turning back to grab his glass and then twisting his body so that he's facing you. He raises his glass toward you, and you nod, walking over with your girl on your arm. He stands immediately as soon as she enters his line of vision, offering her his seat because it is the only seat left ever the gentleman. She lets go of you and turns to the bartender, who comes up to you as soon as he finishes listening to her order a Disaronno on the rocks. You raise your hand and politely decline, and he nods, leaving to go fetch her drink as your best friend turns to you and raises an eyebrow.
"Not even one tonight?" he asks, and you shake your head with a large smile.
"I'd rather not," you answer, and he shrugs, taking a sip of his margarita, and only he can make drinking a drink so unashamedly sexy, tilting his head back and closing his eyes to appreciate the taste of the drink, oh, oh, oh, would he look like that if you had your mouth around him?, and biting his lip as he lowers his glass.
"If that's what you like," he says nonchalantly, and you laugh at him because you can't help but notice the disappointment in his eyes.
"I didn't know you were secretly wishing to see me drunk," you throw with a suggestive raise of your eyebrows, and he shakes his head, laughing as he puts down his glass. You look at your girl and his, and immediately, you're satisfied to see that they've wrapped each other up in a conversation of tour schedules and upcoming albums and sheets of paper with half-finished lyrics on them strewn on the floor.
He lets out a bark of laughter, tilting his chin down and raising both eyebrows, the corners of his lips turning up. "I think everyone in America is secretly wishing to see you drunk."
"What, so they could shove me down their pants?"
"Or skirts or dresses. Or, you know, if you prefer skorts, I could make arrangements to suit your needs."
You cough, somewhat choking on your saliva, before the both of you are laughing, the sounds of your voices melting and disappearing as a catchy beat comes on and the lyrics This was never the way I planned, not my intention are blaring on the speakers.
"Katy Perry," you say loudly, just as soon as he finishes saying, "I know this song!" "Ryan's talked about her once or twice."
There is recognition in his eyes at the name, and he answers, "Yeah. Isn't she dating someone from the Gym Class Heroes?"
You nod your head with a wide smile on your face. "You're up-to-date on your Hollywood buzz, aren't you?"
"It would bring scorn and shame on all of us if one of the top ten American Idol contestants isn't knowledgeable on all that is the music industry," he drawls dryly. "I mean, we can't all know everything like the girls do, but we can try, right?"
"Yeah, yeah," you say with a wave of your hand. "You and your excuses."
It's not what I'm used to
Just want to try you on
I'm curious for you,
caught my attention.
He sticks his tongue out at you playfully. "Excuse me for being honest."
"Yes, of course," you answer in your best Johnny Depp-in-"Sweeney Todd" impersonation, the vision of Depp and Helena Bonham Carter during their "By the Sea" number in your mind, the image of the actor's scowl eliciting a laugh from you.
"What is with you and laughing at your imaginary friends?" he comments, and you make an attempt to playfully swat at him, although he catches your wrist in mid-swing.
"At least I've got the imagination to create imaginary friends," you retort. "I'd rather have my imaginary friends than no sense of musically-inclined creativity any day."
"Are you insulting my song-writing abilities?" You don't know where it comes from maybe it's your groin that's sending signals to your brain and not the other way around, but you have a sudden urge to kiss his fake pout away, and immediately, the presence of his hand on your wrist is contact too close for comfort.
"Of course not," you tell him, recovering quickly from your loss of breath. "Was I insinuating that in any way at all?"
He lets go of your wrist, only to grab a hold of your other one. You nearly stumble as he pulls you toward him, whispering in your ear, "Well, in what way was I supposed to take that?" You can feel the hairs on your neck stand up as you feel his hot breath spread over your skin.
I kissed a girl and I liked it, Perry's voice roars over you all,
the taste of her cherry chapstick.
I kissed a girl just to try it.
I hope my boyfriend don't mind it.
The closeness turns the heat up, and you pull away from him, straightening your back and drawing yourself to your full height as you pretend to fan yourself with your hand. "Is it me," you break the ice quickly as he looks at you with an expression you can't put your finger on, "or has it gotten hotter?"
He smiles widely at you, ignoring your question purposefully as he asks, "Do you want to dance?"
Your eyes widen as you look at your surroundings. You know the speculation that could come from this, you've seen what they've written about Chace Crawford and JC Chasez all untrue, of course, but written about and speculated over anyway, but hey, you think to yourself. For what other reason do people come to clubs but to have fun and throw everything into the wind? "Try and keep up with me," you tease as you lead the way to the dance floor.
It felt so wrong, it felt so right,
Don't mean I'm in love tonight.
I kissed a girl and I liked it.
I liked it.
The grin on your face is obviously infectious as you can see one spreading on his face, too, as you muse aloud, "Those lyrics sound so familiar. Where have I heard it from?"
"I don't know," he shrugs as the both of you settle in a darker corner of the club, nodding your heads and moving your hips along with the beat. "I think someone sang it on this show called American Idol this year. Some ascot-wearing Australian who got voted off after badly impersonating Steve Tyler, so they say."
Your laughter draws the attention of the other club-goers, but only momentarily as they all shift back into their business as though no sound had escaped from your mouth. You shake your head at the hilarity of it all, before you feel masculine arms around your waist so this is what it feels like. You and him have always touched each other before, handshakes, high-fives, hugs, and all, but to feel his hands at a completely different region of your body lower and closer to where you've always dreamed he'd be sends electricity through you.
"What are you doing?" you whisper lowly as Katy declares You're my experimental game.
"Dancing," he answers, using his hands to make your hips sway to the faster, remixed beat. "It's what people usually do when they're at a club. They don't walk in here, stand motionless, and wait for themselves to turn deaf, you know."
You frown at him, but his encouraging smile prompts you do the only thing that seems right and feels natural. You raise your arms and rest your palms on his shoulders and gripping him as he smiles down at you approvingly, Perry singing of her escapades with a human being of the same gender again as she enters the chorus. You are moving gently to the beat, and every now and then, he leans closer to you as though he wants to say something, but at the very last moment, he moves away, and by the shy look in his eyes, he thinks you haven't noticed.
But you have. You have noticed that look in his eyes, and you can tell that he's thinking the same thing you are. What would it be like to kiss him? What would he feel like, taste like, be like? are only some of the thoughts that run across your head as the music silences, the lights stop flashing, and the people stop moving. There is nothing to be heard but the breathing between the both of you, there is nothing to be seen but each other, and you cannot feel anything but his hands on you, and the feel of his clothing in your hand and oh, God, how does his skin feel like?
"What are we doing?" you whisper as he brings his face closer and closer to yours.
"We're about to kiss," he says, cupping your face and running his thumb over your lower lip. "It's what people usually do" --his hand begins to caress your cheeks, skin rough and calloused from playing the guitar-- "when they're at a club. They don't walk in here, stand motionless, and look like idiots waiting for nothing."
And then your questions begin to answer themselves you press your lips together, his scent invading your senses, his hand burying itself in your hair, your hand snaking its way around his neck and nestling his soft curls. He tastes different than your girl, naturally, more wintergreen or spearmint than peach or strawberry, but you find yourself liking the masculine taste of him, and you find yourself wanting more, hungry like a wolf upon sight of its prey, and just when you're about to pull him closer to you, to deepen the kiss, he pulls away and releases you. You are both panting, you more so than him, and you can feel the heat rise in your cheeks. You look at him for a moment in time to be categorized as less than a second, before you look away and tilt your head down.
I kissed a girl and I liked it, Katy sings as the song enters the final run of its chorus, but you eagerly replace the lyrics in your mind as he moves his hands back to your waist, and your hands are resting on his shoulders again.
The song ends, but your night doesn't end there, not necessarily. Your hands linger on each other for a moment, before he releases you and you take a step back from him. He smiles at you, running a hand through his hair and messing it up before he speaks.
"Next time, you better bring your cherry chapstick."
Author: Alex Sorensen (ilytheira)
Summary: You've been stealing glances at him for God knows how long.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own David or Michael, or Kimberly or Stacey. I don't own "I Kissed a Girl" by Katy Perry, either; I love the track, though, if that counts for something! :D
Author's Note: This is a response to potc_fanatic111's fic challenge. Cranked out in 30, 45 minutes with the song on constant repeat; even though it's stopped now, it's really all I'm hearing... LOL. I'm dipping my toes in a point of view I never usually write from, but I hope you enjoy it. =]
You've been stealing glances at him for God knows how long. Something in your brain tells you that no, your eyes shouldn't be on him at all, because he isn't the person you're supposed to have your eyes glued to, you're supposed to have your eyes glued to the gorgeous blonde holding on to your hips and laughing, to have eyes for nobody but the girl dancing in front of you with a bright look in her eyes, but you can't help it. Nothing makes you feel better than just looking at him, no matter how many definitions of "wrong" coincide with your situation. You've given in to your body's wishes several times before, of course; it's human nature to indulge every now and then. You've always watched him with fascination on stage, holding that microphone, and sometimes wishing that he was holding you that way, looking at you with such tenderness intensity warmth gentleness love that he reserves only for his gorgeous blonde or his guitar. You've always followed the rivulets of water falling down his body, from his hair, to his cheeks, to his neck, down to his chest and past his stomach, past his navel and disappearing into the towel, and you've always found yourself turned on with simply wondering how he looks like underneath.
You shake your head and cough, because these aren't the thoughts you're supposed to be having now, and you wave it off as your girl looks up at you with concern in her eyes. "It's nothing," you say, holding on tightly to her hips but how would it feel if your hands were around his hips? and forcefully wrapping your brain around the fact that you need to be focused on her, and not him. "Don't worry about it," you continue in a tone that clearly stresses the fact that it's nothing important, and she simply nods and leans into you. You can smell her shampoo and her perfume, mixed with the smell of her sweat and the sweat of everyone else in the room, and you try and focus on her. That's what it's all supposed to mean to you, after all, the urges to press your lips against your best friend's, the need to know how his skin would feel against yours; it's all supposed to be nothing important.
The truth is, though, it is very important, and you find yourself not minding at all. You catch yourself just in time as your eyes begin to wander from the shapely female continuously moving her body in front of you for you, but tonight is a night to have fun, and you let your eyes do just that. You look over and find him with his female, her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her hips and shaking them to the beat. His eyes are half-lidded, and there is a smirk that you consider to be oh so very inappropriately handsome, and that alone provokes a small smile to form on your face. You appreciate the way the lights hit his face, the angles more defined, as though he had been sculpted that way, and the lights hit his significant other in a very flattering way, too. They are a gorgeous couple on the dance floor, sexy in their movements and undoubtedly sexy by themselves, and you can feel the blood rush to your face. Suddenly, it's not just the body heat that's turning up the temperature as your thoughts run to places you would never dare address out loud, and you tilt your head and whisper in your girlfriend's ear as you watch the pair you've been eyeing head over to the bar, "Do you want to go get a drink?"
She smiles at you look at her, focus on her, on her, not them, not him, and says, "I'd love that. All this dancing takes so much out of me."
You nod at her, offer your arm as she removes her grip on your waist but what if his hands were on my waist?, and then remember to control your thoughts as, arm in arm, you head over to the bar, where your best friend and his lady are sitting. He notices you first as he turns to no doubt eye the dance floor, and he throws a smile in your direction, turning back to grab his glass and then twisting his body so that he's facing you. He raises his glass toward you, and you nod, walking over with your girl on your arm. He stands immediately as soon as she enters his line of vision, offering her his seat because it is the only seat left ever the gentleman. She lets go of you and turns to the bartender, who comes up to you as soon as he finishes listening to her order a Disaronno on the rocks. You raise your hand and politely decline, and he nods, leaving to go fetch her drink as your best friend turns to you and raises an eyebrow.
"Not even one tonight?" he asks, and you shake your head with a large smile.
"I'd rather not," you answer, and he shrugs, taking a sip of his margarita, and only he can make drinking a drink so unashamedly sexy, tilting his head back and closing his eyes to appreciate the taste of the drink, oh, oh, oh, would he look like that if you had your mouth around him?, and biting his lip as he lowers his glass.
"If that's what you like," he says nonchalantly, and you laugh at him because you can't help but notice the disappointment in his eyes.
"I didn't know you were secretly wishing to see me drunk," you throw with a suggestive raise of your eyebrows, and he shakes his head, laughing as he puts down his glass. You look at your girl and his, and immediately, you're satisfied to see that they've wrapped each other up in a conversation of tour schedules and upcoming albums and sheets of paper with half-finished lyrics on them strewn on the floor.
He lets out a bark of laughter, tilting his chin down and raising both eyebrows, the corners of his lips turning up. "I think everyone in America is secretly wishing to see you drunk."
"What, so they could shove me down their pants?"
"Or skirts or dresses. Or, you know, if you prefer skorts, I could make arrangements to suit your needs."
You cough, somewhat choking on your saliva, before the both of you are laughing, the sounds of your voices melting and disappearing as a catchy beat comes on and the lyrics This was never the way I planned, not my intention are blaring on the speakers.
"Katy Perry," you say loudly, just as soon as he finishes saying, "I know this song!" "Ryan's talked about her once or twice."
There is recognition in his eyes at the name, and he answers, "Yeah. Isn't she dating someone from the Gym Class Heroes?"
You nod your head with a wide smile on your face. "You're up-to-date on your Hollywood buzz, aren't you?"
"It would bring scorn and shame on all of us if one of the top ten American Idol contestants isn't knowledgeable on all that is the music industry," he drawls dryly. "I mean, we can't all know everything like the girls do, but we can try, right?"
"Yeah, yeah," you say with a wave of your hand. "You and your excuses."
It's not what I'm used to
Just want to try you on
I'm curious for you,
caught my attention.
He sticks his tongue out at you playfully. "Excuse me for being honest."
"Yes, of course," you answer in your best Johnny Depp-in-"Sweeney Todd" impersonation, the vision of Depp and Helena Bonham Carter during their "By the Sea" number in your mind, the image of the actor's scowl eliciting a laugh from you.
"What is with you and laughing at your imaginary friends?" he comments, and you make an attempt to playfully swat at him, although he catches your wrist in mid-swing.
"At least I've got the imagination to create imaginary friends," you retort. "I'd rather have my imaginary friends than no sense of musically-inclined creativity any day."
"Are you insulting my song-writing abilities?" You don't know where it comes from maybe it's your groin that's sending signals to your brain and not the other way around, but you have a sudden urge to kiss his fake pout away, and immediately, the presence of his hand on your wrist is contact too close for comfort.
"Of course not," you tell him, recovering quickly from your loss of breath. "Was I insinuating that in any way at all?"
He lets go of your wrist, only to grab a hold of your other one. You nearly stumble as he pulls you toward him, whispering in your ear, "Well, in what way was I supposed to take that?" You can feel the hairs on your neck stand up as you feel his hot breath spread over your skin.
I kissed a girl and I liked it, Perry's voice roars over you all,
the taste of her cherry chapstick.
I kissed a girl just to try it.
I hope my boyfriend don't mind it.
The closeness turns the heat up, and you pull away from him, straightening your back and drawing yourself to your full height as you pretend to fan yourself with your hand. "Is it me," you break the ice quickly as he looks at you with an expression you can't put your finger on, "or has it gotten hotter?"
He smiles widely at you, ignoring your question purposefully as he asks, "Do you want to dance?"
Your eyes widen as you look at your surroundings. You know the speculation that could come from this, you've seen what they've written about Chace Crawford and JC Chasez all untrue, of course, but written about and speculated over anyway, but hey, you think to yourself. For what other reason do people come to clubs but to have fun and throw everything into the wind? "Try and keep up with me," you tease as you lead the way to the dance floor.
It felt so wrong, it felt so right,
Don't mean I'm in love tonight.
I kissed a girl and I liked it.
I liked it.
The grin on your face is obviously infectious as you can see one spreading on his face, too, as you muse aloud, "Those lyrics sound so familiar. Where have I heard it from?"
"I don't know," he shrugs as the both of you settle in a darker corner of the club, nodding your heads and moving your hips along with the beat. "I think someone sang it on this show called American Idol this year. Some ascot-wearing Australian who got voted off after badly impersonating Steve Tyler, so they say."
Your laughter draws the attention of the other club-goers, but only momentarily as they all shift back into their business as though no sound had escaped from your mouth. You shake your head at the hilarity of it all, before you feel masculine arms around your waist so this is what it feels like. You and him have always touched each other before, handshakes, high-fives, hugs, and all, but to feel his hands at a completely different region of your body lower and closer to where you've always dreamed he'd be sends electricity through you.
"What are you doing?" you whisper lowly as Katy declares You're my experimental game.
"Dancing," he answers, using his hands to make your hips sway to the faster, remixed beat. "It's what people usually do when they're at a club. They don't walk in here, stand motionless, and wait for themselves to turn deaf, you know."
You frown at him, but his encouraging smile prompts you do the only thing that seems right and feels natural. You raise your arms and rest your palms on his shoulders and gripping him as he smiles down at you approvingly, Perry singing of her escapades with a human being of the same gender again as she enters the chorus. You are moving gently to the beat, and every now and then, he leans closer to you as though he wants to say something, but at the very last moment, he moves away, and by the shy look in his eyes, he thinks you haven't noticed.
But you have. You have noticed that look in his eyes, and you can tell that he's thinking the same thing you are. What would it be like to kiss him? What would he feel like, taste like, be like? are only some of the thoughts that run across your head as the music silences, the lights stop flashing, and the people stop moving. There is nothing to be heard but the breathing between the both of you, there is nothing to be seen but each other, and you cannot feel anything but his hands on you, and the feel of his clothing in your hand and oh, God, how does his skin feel like?
"What are we doing?" you whisper as he brings his face closer and closer to yours.
"We're about to kiss," he says, cupping your face and running his thumb over your lower lip. "It's what people usually do" --his hand begins to caress your cheeks, skin rough and calloused from playing the guitar-- "when they're at a club. They don't walk in here, stand motionless, and look like idiots waiting for nothing."
And then your questions begin to answer themselves you press your lips together, his scent invading your senses, his hand burying itself in your hair, your hand snaking its way around his neck and nestling his soft curls. He tastes different than your girl, naturally, more wintergreen or spearmint than peach or strawberry, but you find yourself liking the masculine taste of him, and you find yourself wanting more, hungry like a wolf upon sight of its prey, and just when you're about to pull him closer to you, to deepen the kiss, he pulls away and releases you. You are both panting, you more so than him, and you can feel the heat rise in your cheeks. You look at him for a moment in time to be categorized as less than a second, before you look away and tilt your head down.
I kissed a girl and I liked it, Katy sings as the song enters the final run of its chorus, but you eagerly replace the lyrics in your mind as he moves his hands back to your waist, and your hands are resting on his shoulders again.
The song ends, but your night doesn't end there, not necessarily. Your hands linger on each other for a moment, before he releases you and you take a step back from him. He smiles at you, running a hand through his hair and messing it up before he speaks.
"Next time, you better bring your cherry chapstick."