The Five First Kisses Meme

[lamardeuse]

This was fun! It was interesting to compare the various scenarios.



From "Equilibrium", TS, J/B

There was something surreal about this whole thing, but Blair couldn’t be bothered to try to put his finger on it. “Okay, so, give it to me again,” he said, folding his arms. “I’m listening now.”

Jim stopped pacing and stared at him, stonily silent.

Blair watched as the other man’s expression went through those lightning-fast changes once more, only this time he imagined he recognized some of them.

But that couldn’t be right. And that one-that one there. That definitely wasn’t-

Jim’s expression turned Sphinx-like, and he took a step toward Blair.

Blair tried to move back, but he’d forgotten he was pressed up against the counter.

“You’re listening,” Jim said finally.

Blair nodded, kind of weakly. “All ears.”

Jim’s stare shifted to his ears, exposed by the ponytail. Blair felt them turn pink.

Jim took another step-half-step really, because at that point he couldn’t move without walking through Blair. And he didn’t look like he wanted to walk through him.

He looked like he wanted to-

Jim reached up and placed his hands on either side of Blair’s face. Blair sucked in a breath, and froze, and got impossibly hard all at once.

“Funny,” Jim said slowly. The tips of his fingers brushed Blair’s earlobes, making them tingle. “I would have sworn you were all mouth.”

The mouth in question opened on a gasp as Jim’s thumbs stroked over his lips.

That internal debate Blair’d been having with himself earlier about whether he wanted the old, comfortable relationship or a new, scary one? It just became academic, because with or without his consent, the relationship was now headed toward scary at full speed. To employ a metaphor, it was sailing into shark-infested waters. Jaws was on their tail, ready to swallow their asses.

And the scariest thing of all was that Blair no longer gave a damn.

Jim’s thumbs barely had time to get out of the way as Blair surged upward. When their mouths met, it wasn’t like any first kiss he’d ever had, because before this he’d always teased and gentled and seduced. Mister Sensitive, that was his style.

No style here. This first kiss was one of a kind, hard and intense and sloppy and unbelievably exciting, not that he hadn’t been a little excited to begin with, but this was hurricane strength. Jim was a force of Nature, he’d known that from the first day when he got himself slammed up against a wall, but this was a whole new kind of force, because they were both in on it now, whipping up the waves, sending the tsunami crashing against the peaceful fishing village until there was nothing left but a lot of sticks.

Dimly, Blair registered the feel of Jim’s corded arms encircling his back, and he experienced a moment of panic, because while he’d dated women taller than him, he’d never gone near one who could bench-press a Volkswagen. But there was an electric thrill under the flight response, a heretofore unrecognized desire to soak up that power, just rub up against it and let it ooze into his pores. Of course, it was also fun to test it a little, push and pull and twist and demonstrate some power of his own, so he gave it his best shot. Acting on instinct, he tried some of that fancy footwork Jim had shown him, and the next thing he knew their positions were reversed, with Blair now grinding the bigger man into the counter.

Jim broke away from the kiss long enough to let out a groan, and Blair was startled to realize that there was a hard ridge pressing into his belly, and that this hard ridge probably belonged to Jim Ellison. Jesus, he was as turned on as Blair was, and really, Blair should have been able to deduce that from the way Jim had just tried to mine his tonsils, but there was nothing like a big, solid erection to hammer the fact home.

Blair’s eyes slammed shut and he shuddered. Okay, putting ‘hammer’ and ‘erection’ in the same sentence had a peculiar effect on him. Must file that tidbit of information away for later.



From "Broken Wing", TAT, F/M

Hand picked by Smith himself, the Team consisted of five men including Peck, now nicknamed “Faceman” by the Colonel. No one wondered why, for even hardened soldiers could acknowledge beauty in their midst, albeit silently. Murdock shared a billet with him, a small hooch adjacent to those of the others on the edge of the village. It was close to the orphanage run by the Sisters of Mercy, and Face was soon spending much of his off-duty time there. While Trigger, their medic, fed the kids from a seemingly endless supply of candy, healed their scrapes and bruises, and strode through the town on his long legs with a couple of them always trailing behind, Peck’s devotions were more private. Murdock remembered waking in the middle of the night and being drawn to one of the long huts housing the children. He looked in the window, really a hole in the wall, and spied the lieutenant holding an infant in his arms and crooning an old lullaby. The child fussed, then quieted, and still he held it, as if reluctant to break the connection to this small bundle of life. Finally he placed it on its bed, and the pilot watched him squeeze his eyes shut tight, so tight, refusing to release whatever torrent was bottled up behind them.

And Murdock, who had spent three years in the Air Force and one in the Army, who had met all manner of men and felt nothing for any of them beyond friendship, experienced a yearning he couldn’t dare name, that crept up behind him and poleaxed him.

Later, much later, after Peck was back in the hooch and sound asleep in his bunk, Murdock lay with his brown eyes soaking up the darkness and his limbs trembling under the weight of his shame.

“Face?”

In the jaundiced glow of the hotel room light, left arm flung up to shield his eyes from the sudden illumination, Peck was still beautiful. The pilot allowed himself a guilty moment to study the lines of the other man’s form with his gaze. Tanned from forehead to waist, with only a light dusting of hair over his solid yet lean chest and arms, the angles and planes were so different from the softness that had tried, and failed, to comfort him earlier. And despite the briefness of the glance, despite the half a bottle of bootleg liquor in him and the self-loathing that clawed at his innards, he was rock-hard in an instant.

“Hmm. Murdock....” The moan cut through the fog in his brain, and he wheeled abruptly toward the bathroom. A shower, that was the answer. With any luck he’d drown. He flipped the switch back to off, praying Peck would soon be asleep again if he didn’t.

Emerging half an hour later after a tepid trickle of water that had barely wet him down and a frantic hand job that had managed to kill his erection, he tiptoed over to the other bed and collapsed. He had known this leave would be a disaster; why had he ever agreed to go with him? Sharing the hooch had been torture, but this was perdition itself. The mission was over now; Trigger was dead, killed by a Marine who hadn’t known he was shooting at Americans when he saw a bunch of guys in black pyjamas trekking barefoot through the jungle. Hopefully, he never would know. The rest of them had been given a week in Saigon, a consolation prize for zipping one of their own into a body bag.

“So how’d you do?”

Murdock jumped at the question, which seemed to sprout from the darkness beside his right ear. “Great. Jus’ great.” The alcohol was starting to wear off, leaving him bone-tired, but the adrenaline shot through him and produced a strange giddiness. “You?”

“I found a crazy spot near the American Embassy--high class, finest kind.”

“You would,” the pilot murmured. Then, some devil in him spoke. “Got back pretty early.”

“They wore me out.” Murdock could hear the grin in his voice. But had there been a split second’s delay before the answer came?

Christ, he was imagining things--again.

“Hey, you all right?”

“Fine,” the pilot answered, too sharply. Then he heard the creak of bedsprings, and a moment later felt a dip in his own mattress. Jesus jesus jesus--

“You didn’t get rolled or anything? You know, some of those places are vicious if you don’t know them.”

“Oh, and you do?” bit out Murdock, hoping the anger would drive him off. “You Catholic boys know all about whorehouses, do you? They teach that in catechism?”

“No,” Face replied quietly. “But seeing as how I’m already going to Hell a dozen times over, I figure I might as well cover all the territory.”

The words were so startling, it was all he could do to keep from reaching out to touch the other man. He listened to the sound of their breathing for a moment, then shook his head. “You don’t really believe that.”

A dry chuckle, unconvincing. “I guess not. No point in believing in much of anything in this fucked-up place, is there?” An eternity passed, then the pilot felt his hand being engulfed by another. “Just the guys at your back. That’s all there is to believe in.”

Murdock shut his eyes to savour the sensation of the warm, strong fingers gripping his. If this was to be all he could have, he told himself, it would be enough. It had to be.

“Hey. Your pulse is racing. What was that shit you were drinking? Maybe you’d better--”

“I’m fine!” he shouted, jerking his hand away. “It’s wearing off. Stop motherin’ me, willya? Christ, who’s older’n who around here?”

“Okay, okay. I can’t help it; I was in pre-med before--” He trailed off, then expelled a sharp breath. “I’ll leave you alone.” But still he didn’t get up, and then he spoke again, his voice turning low and urgent, the words tumbling out as though they had been demanding their freedom for a long time. “It’s only that you talked a lot in your sleep, in the hooch. I couldn’t make out most of it, but--it didn’t sound good, Murdock. You might want to talk to someone at the Long Binh hospital while you’re here--”

“Fuck!” the pilot yelled, springing to his feet, ignoring the dizzying wave that threatened to topple him. “So I can do what? Check into their loony bin? You think I haven’t already thought of that, that I’m goin’ nuts? Not all at once, but nice and slow, by degrees, every night? You say that I’m talkin’? Well, I’ll tell you somethin’. I’m not talkin’, I’m listening. Listening to all the voices of all the guys and the women and the kids...” He felt the plaster of the wall against his bare back and welcomed the coolness of it, the solidity. He didn’t want to admit there were nights when he was afraid to go to sleep, and not merely because of the dreams of death and dying, but because sometimes he dreamed about--

A warm palm connected with his chest, over his heart.

Maybe he was already dreaming.

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” came the whisper, oddly calming despite his agitated state. “You just feel it more than the rest of us.”

“How do you do it?” Murdock blurted. “How do you keep it from touching you?”

The other man laughed, and he could feel the warm breath stir the hair on his pectoral muscle. “Psychology 101. I never thought that course would be good for shit, but it taught me one thing. It was the latest treatment for schizophrenic patients, maybe, I don’t remember, but we tried it as an exercise. You make yourself a box, and put everything you don’t want to deal with, everything you don’t want to acknowledge you saw, or did, into it, and lock the lid down tight. It really works.” Murdock could just make out Peck’s features in the dim glow from the street spilling in the window, and could see the brightness in his gaze. “Trouble is, it keeps filling up, and it keeps getting harder to hold down the lid. I have to wonder if that sucker is going to explode like a trick cigar someday.”

The pilot was alternately terrified by and grateful for the hand on his chest, for it was the only thing holding him up at that moment. “I c-couldn’t--” he stammered “--tonight. I couldn’t--”

The hand began a slow circling motion. “Yeah. Neither could I.”

When the other man’s mouth was an inch from his own, the terror struck again, and he balked, one last time, like a wild horse fighting the bit between his teeth.

“Shh,” Peck soothed, gentling him with a feather-light touch. “It’s dark enough. It’s dark enough.”



From "Graces", DS, F/K

“I tried to be you!” Ray exploded, pent-up emotion propelling him from the couch and across the floor. AI tried to be nice, and polite, and fuckin' considerate.” He barked a laugh. "Only when I do it, it's 'disturbing tendencies'. Gotta be somethin' wrong with me, huh?”

“But--why would you want to change your personality?” Fraser asked, stunned at this turn of events. Ray wanted to be--

“Doesn't matter,” Ray said, shaking his head with determination. "I couldn't do it.”

“But you did do it,” countered Fraser, rising and approaching the other man with caution. “If you were intending to be polite and courteous, you were extremely successful, Ray. Francesca even smiled at you the other day when you complimented her, do you remember?”

“Yeah,” Ray admitted.

“But what I still don't understand is why,” Fraser persisted. “I mean, it's not as though you were a rude, boorish ogre before this. I've always found you to be thoughtful and considerate.”

Ray snorted. “Yeah. Sure, Frase.”

“I'm not talking about your manners,” Fraser told him.

"What else is there?” Ray snapped.

Fraser cocked his head at him. "Your heart, Ray,” he said, simply.

Ray gaped. "My--”

"Yes.” He scrambled for a way to articulate it. He'd certainly had enough opportunities over the last year to ask himself why he was so drawn to the man before him. "Your external behaviour isn't important. Not when it's clear you have a pure heart.”

Ray's tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Pure.” The word obviously jarred with Ray's self-image.

"That's right.”

"You can't see it,” Ray whispered. "You don't know where it's been.”

Fraser's own heart executed a slow flip in his chest. His adrenaline surged, and he felt himself become fidgety, like the dogs in the hours before a blizzard.

"I don't know all about it, no,” Fraser admitted. "But I'd like to.”

"Why?” Ray said, in a small voice. "Why?”

"Because--it's yours.” He took a deep, cleansing breath. "And it's a good one.”

And, dear Lord, I want it.

"Okay,” Ray said on a gust of expelled air. "Okay. Thanks.”

Fraser couldn't help reaching out then toward the lost look which remained in his eyes, couldn't resist the urge to run tentative fingers along Ray's jaw line. At the last moment, he changed course for safer territory, and his hand settled to cup Ray's shoulder in what he hoped was a comradely gesture.

"I'm, ah, I'm sorry about the block of wood thing, though,” Ray said.

Fraser frowned, trying to remember--oh. That. Was that what had set this in motion? "I'd forgotten all about it.”

"Don't wanna hurt you. But I do, sometimes, I know that.”

Fraser swallowed, shook his head slowly. "There's always a risk of that happening--in close relationships.”

Ray's mouth quirked. "You think it's worth it?”

And here was the question. Fraser knew that it was not merely academic: Ray was asking whether or not Fraser believed he was worth it. It pained Fraser to be reminded this kind, brave, complex man thought so little of himself. It brought a swift, unexpected fierceness to his blood, a sudden desire to eradicate all traces of doubt.

Ray's eyes widened when Fraser's hand slid around to cup the back of his neck and tug him forward, until barely an inch separated them.

"Yes,” Fraser said hoarsely.

Ray's gaze darted over Fraser's face, a little cross-eyed because of the proximity. His expression and breathing rate, the wild pulse leaping under Fraser's thumb, all told of fear and surprise. Then his gaze met Fraser's, and the fear seemed to drain away into pure shock.

Ray's hand rose to press against Fraser's chest. But instead of pushing him away, the palm spread and flexed, then clenched into a fist.

Ray's eyes closed, and every muscle in his body seemed to loosen. "God, tell me that's me you're seein'. Tell me--”

"It is you,” Fraser insisted. Please believe me--

"I wish you could be my fuckin' mirror, but then I'd never leave the bathroom--”

"Ray--”

Ray's eyes were screwed shut; he swayed slightly, and his lips brushed against Fraser's for a split second. "I want to be better, Fraser, you make me want to be better, but now you're sayin' I'm already there, and it's like that second before you jump, and I can't decide which way--”

"Do you want me to decide?” Fraser whispered.

"Naw, naw, never get anywhere that way, just give me a--” His nose bumped against Fraser's before his head tilted. When he spoke, his breath puffed hot against Fraser's lips. "Just--can't wrap my head around this. You should have somebody nice, somebody polite. I thought if I--”

And Fraser was normally a wellspring of patience, but Ray was caught in an endless loop of self-doubt, and at this rate, they'd be old men before he extricated himself. There was only one way out.

Fraser bracketed Ray's face between his hands, and Ray's eyes snapped open.

"Ray,” Fraser said, slowly, deliberately. "Fuck polite.”

And Fraser watched as Ray, his Ray, flared back to life once more.

Long-fingered hands tangled in Fraser's hair, and a wicked grin illuminated his angular features.

"Oh yeah,” he growled, right before his mouth slammed home. "I am all over that.”



From "A Taste of Liberty", HP, SS/HP

Not their first kiss in the fic, incidentally, but the first one that's mutual, so I thought that was the best one to use.

It took Harry at least a second and a half to realize Snape had kissed him.

Was kissing him, at this moment. Thoroughly, to be precise. With abandon, one might say.

As soon as he snapped to, Harry moaned into Snape's mouth and wrapped his arms around the taller man's shoulders, pulling him forward until their bodies were pressed full-length against one another. In response, Snape too moved to embrace him; one powerful arm locked round Harry's waist, whilst the other rose to cradle the back of his head. Allowing Snape the lead, Harry nearly screamed in frustration as Snape's tongue darted over his lips in maddening feints and circles before finally plunging into the depths of Harry's mouth. A soft, almost inaudible groan from the older man shot fire through every one of Harry's overloaded nerve endings, burning him to ash.

When they broke apart at last, Harry was panting from a combination of raw desire and insufficient oxygen. Snape's eyes were so black as to be bottomless, and his expression was unreadable. When he stepped back, Harry suppressed a whimper. It was all he could do to keep from latching on to the man and hanging on for dear life.

Snape was still watching him, and Harry strove to meet his gaze, aware of how desperate and disheveled he must appear. To Harry's credit, Snape looked slightly messy himself.

He concentrated on taking deep, steady breaths as he waited for Snape to tell him this had been a mistake.

It was a full two seconds before he realized Snape was holding out a hand to him.

"You--" Harry began, then stopped. Words would only ruin this; he had to believe that Snape knew his own mind.

"Yes," Snape breathed; Harry noticed his hand shook slightly. "Come."

Placing his hand in Snape's, Harry allowed himself to be led to the bedroom. Climbing up onto the mattress with as much dignity as he could muster, he rose to his knees, then gently drew Snape into his arms again.

Their kiss this time was slow and unhurried, and Harry took the opportunity to imprint every detail of Snape's mouth on his memory. He found that his tongue could detect the small scar nestled under Snape's lower lip, and that his eye tooth was as sharp as he'd imagined.

Small things, he'd told Justin. He was going to accumulate as many small things as he could in the coming days, the way an old woman acquired curios, crested china from the holiday in Blackpool or Torquay.



From the rejected Harlequin novel I wrote last year, which, if nothing else, was super therapy (hmm, spending your entire working day for a month with visions of Alan Rickman in your head...my definition of a dream job).

As Jeremy's hand spanned her shoulder blades and drew her toward him, it occurred to Mickey that their director would have yelled "Cut!" by now.

It wasn't at all like one of those beautifully scripted, flawlessly executed movie kisses. For a start, they were in an awkward position, sitting side by side, her left hand entwined with his right, supporting them as they turned toward each other. Not only that, she was seated about a foot closer to the water, so that by consequence he had to bend almost double to reach her.

The execution was worse. His lips on hers were too hard and too eager, and her response was too wild and too needy. Their mouths opened right away, greedy to taste, as though they had no regard for the rules of slow, measured escalation. Her free hand, which should have trailed for at least a minute over less heated territory, instead rose immediately to the place where his neck met his shoulder, her fingertips pressing into his skin to find the jagged rhythm of his heartbeat. His arm snaked around her waist, roughly dragging her up and into him. She even wriggled inelegantly to help him, a whimper escaping her as she struggled to align her body with his. By all the standards of proper movie kisses, it was a complete disaster.

But Mickey wouldn't have traded a hundred movie kisses for this one.

Slowly, slowly, they eased back, his mouth gentling to nibble and soothe, until her lips tingled. Her fingers curved along the line of his jaw, nails rasping against stubble, and he growled into her, the vibration sending shocks straight through to the marrow of her bones.

When they parted, Mickey felt as though she'd run a marathon. The night air chilled her swollen and bruised lips, and she shivered. Breathing hard, Jeremy leaned his forehead against hers. His hand stroked her back in wide circles.

Unable to believe the reality of it, she nuzzled his Adam's apple, then buried her nose in his sweater. It smelled like cedar and Jeremy. She exhaled on a sigh.

"What is it?" he murmured.

"Nothing. Nothing."

"Are you cold?"

"No," Mickey whispered. "Don't talk, Ginger."

She felt his lips press against her temple. "Why not?" he breathed.

Mickey didn't answer, and after a moment he drew back and took her face in his hands. She met his gaze.

"Don't worry," he smiled. "I wasn't about to say anything clever. My brain's gone on holiday."

"Yeah," she said, pulling away from his body with reluctance. "I guess--that, ah, wasn't such a smart thing to do."

"My fault," he admitted, though as he said it he leaned forward and kissed her again, lingering just long enough to start her trembling.

"No," she mumbled against his mouth. "I...helped."

"That you did," he agreed, plunging his fingers into her hair so that he could angle her head for another taste.

Don't... she wanted to say, but all that emerged was a helpless moan.

Mickey lost track of time, and when she returned to awareness, her upper body was pressed against his as he lay flat on the beach. Both of Jeremy's hands were now in her hair, holding it out of her face.

"Lord," he chuckled, "I haven't snogged with anyone like that since I was a randy teenager."

Mickey planted her palms in the sand and pushed herself off him. Her elbows wobbled, so she locked them in place. "I thought I made it clear I didn't want to hear about your hundreds of past conquests," she told him, her tone playful.

"More like thousands, really." he corrected.

She punched him on the arm and sat up.

Jeremy watched her for a long moment, then rolled onto his side. "Seriously this time, then. Mickey--"

"No," she interrupted, panic swamping her, "It's all right. I'm not going to mistake a 'snogging session' for a declaration of undying love, so you don't need to explain it to me." Mickey closed her eyes briefly, wishing she could call back the words. That had been too harsh, and more revealing of her secret fears than she'd intended.

When he spoke, his voice was flat. "You're sure that's what I was going to say, are you?"

"Sorry. I'm sure it would have been more--diplomatic." Deliberately gentling her tone, she looked down at him. "Listen, I'm not a big expert on Hollywood, but I know how these things happen. Working together like this...lots of actors get romantically involved with other actors, right? It's never real, though, is it? I'm sure you've experienced it before..." She ran out of steam abruptly, feeling foolish.

Jeremy's cold question stabbed into the silence. "Now who's interpreting?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

He shrugged. "Well. It doesn't matter, lass. You're correct on one count: I don't imagine there's anything real about this. Because there's nothing real about me, Mickey. That's what I was attempting to tell you earlier."

She stared at him, bewildered, as he continued. "I'm not under any narcissistic illusion that you'll fall madly in love with me, but if we continue what we've started tonight, you may fancy yourself to have feelings for me eventually. And I'm far too fond of you to allow that to happen." Before she could think of a reply, he'd pushed himself to his feet and was holding out a hand to her.

"Come on, then," he said, in such a way that she knew the discussion was over. "Let's chalk it up to moonlight and fairy dust, and put it behind us."

She reached up. His fingers gripped hers, then released them as soon as she was standing. Unable to trust her voice, she nodded and walked away.

The wine bottle was left forgotten on the beach.