sometimes you just need a poke in the right direction
toxictattoo wanted a first kiss for our RP couple Bruce and Yazoo, but Bruce and Yazoo have had a first kiss. Memorable, stirring, and OMFG hot, and I couldn't rewrite it.
I suggested Christian and Sariel, my ofic characters that grew out of the RP characters and took on a life of their own to become the protagonist and romantic antagonist of what I've been calling Dusk, a m/m urban fantasy that's sort of Batman meets BSG meets Supernatural. *g*
Anyway, I realized that in order to write a first kiss, I'd need to figure out the plot of the story finally - not sure who was the devious conspirator there, Jan or my subconscious. But either way, I've settled into working on this project for the first time in months and I believe I will actually meet my self-imposed deadline of September 1 on it. *hoorays!*
Previous ficlets about Christian and Sariel are linked in a character table on my fannish journal. But anything I do with them going forward will be here. (Which means I really need to edit my userinfo over at technosage and my sidebar. *adds to list of projects for fannish journal tidy up* Huh, already did!)
Right. Long story shorter, I haven't gotten to the kiss yet, but I wrote something that I think is the beginning of the story! And the kiss is coming up soon. toxictattoo, this is pretty much for you:
Dusk, (c) 2007, Allie McKnight, all rights reserved.
Christian didn't cruise. But guys who wanted to blow him would talk about anything and everything, as long as he didn't get personal. So he leaned against a wall in the Three Beer Queer, sipped his Two Blanket Tan and scanned for anything out of the ordinary, while exuding I'm available from every pore.
It didn't take long, maybe five minutes, before he made significant eye contact with a good-looking kid with lips red enough he looked like he'd been at it already. But the overeager brightness in the pale blue eyes peering out from under the fringe of his blond bangs said probably not.
Whatever, he'd use a condom and if the kid didn't like sucking latex, he'd find someone else.
Taking a slow sip off his brew, Christian pretend to appraise him. Looked him over, head to toe, like it mattered. After a minute, he jerked his chin, arrogant because guys like the blond expected it.
Transactions always went smoother when you met people's expectations; jarring them - cognitive dissonance, Spook's classroom voice supplied - resulted in memories, and the need to make up stories to explain. Stories left traces, and traces made for dead hunters.
A black leather biker-gloved hand planted in the middle of the blond's chest as he approached, and its owner stiff-armed the kid out of the way. Too bad, as the kid was attractive enough, but he had no interest in lover's quarrels. Stories, traces, dead.
The kid's eyebrows pulled together in pissed-off surprise. He didn't hit back, talk back, or even scowl back, just shrugged and put up his palms. Christian's lip-reading skills weren't up to the task of deciphering the entire conversation, but he did make out Whatever, man. Didn't mean to horn in on your thing before the blond walked away leaving the owner of the glove to prowl toward Christian.
He arched an eyebrow at the irregularity of the approach, but the bright green gaze locked to his sparkled with a fierce intelligence that appealed. Just because Christian wanted information, not sex, didn't mean he couldn't appreciate the company, and the view, while he got it.
Fair skin over taut muscle, navy blue t-shirt stretched even tauter across a cut muscled chest, and black leather molded to his thighs like it grew there. The waist-length silver hair (had to be dyed; he couldn't be old enough even for premature full gray that long) and fallen angel smile should've been effeminate, but somehow the combination screamed masculinity - and lethality, but given what he hunted, that turned Christian on, not warned him off.
So, all right, maybe he'd be interested in the information and the sex this time. Release from actual arousal would better clear his head for a new hunt than purely physical stimulation.
"Dance with me."
The preemptory manner and imperious tone wouldn't have been at all out of place in one of Christian's birth peers, but here, in this place, it reeked of simple challenge. Arching one eyebrow, Christian drawled, "Been dancing with you since…" then pointed with the bottom of the beer bottle toward where the blond had been herded off.
Green Eyes smiled slow, almost savage. "Yes."
As such, he felt no particular need for an immediate response. They'd get where they were going. Christian drank, watched his dance partner around the beer.
When Green Eyes didn't fidget, frown or pout, just shifted out of the stream of movement to lean a shoulder to the wall at Christian's right, Christian nodded once. In a serious fight, his right was his dominant hand, and he preferred to keep it free. But for one-on-one with another human, the left worked fine and talking to someone on his right came easier.
Except that they weren't talking. Not with words anyhow. Green Eyes' predatory lean spoke to his own arrogant slouch:
Hunting you.
Good luck with that.
Don't need luck.
Are you that good?
Yes. Are you?
Yes.
"You about done with that beer?"
Christian swirled the swill in the bottom, then pitched it six feet dead center of the wide mouth trashcan down the wall from him with a flick of his wrist. "Looks like."
Head tilt, coy smile, silver bangs sliding against high cheekbones, and savage became suddenly sweet. Almost innocent. "So?"
"Yeah." He arched up off the wall, then stalked a space amidst the writhing bodies on the dance floor beyond the glass doors that kept the music out and the smoke in. Green Eyes would follow.
Damn, it feels good to get writing again.
I suggested Christian and Sariel, my ofic characters that grew out of the RP characters and took on a life of their own to become the protagonist and romantic antagonist of what I've been calling Dusk, a m/m urban fantasy that's sort of Batman meets BSG meets Supernatural. *g*
Anyway, I realized that in order to write a first kiss, I'd need to figure out the plot of the story finally - not sure who was the devious conspirator there, Jan or my subconscious. But either way, I've settled into working on this project for the first time in months and I believe I will actually meet my self-imposed deadline of September 1 on it. *hoorays!*
Previous ficlets about Christian and Sariel are linked in a character table on my fannish journal. But anything I do with them going forward will be here. (Which means I really need to edit my userinfo over at technosage and my sidebar. *adds to list of projects for fannish journal tidy up* Huh, already did!)
Right. Long story shorter, I haven't gotten to the kiss yet, but I wrote something that I think is the beginning of the story! And the kiss is coming up soon. toxictattoo, this is pretty much for you:
Dusk, (c) 2007, Allie McKnight, all rights reserved.
Christian didn't cruise. But guys who wanted to blow him would talk about anything and everything, as long as he didn't get personal. So he leaned against a wall in the Three Beer Queer, sipped his Two Blanket Tan and scanned for anything out of the ordinary, while exuding I'm available from every pore.
It didn't take long, maybe five minutes, before he made significant eye contact with a good-looking kid with lips red enough he looked like he'd been at it already. But the overeager brightness in the pale blue eyes peering out from under the fringe of his blond bangs said probably not.
Whatever, he'd use a condom and if the kid didn't like sucking latex, he'd find someone else.
Taking a slow sip off his brew, Christian pretend to appraise him. Looked him over, head to toe, like it mattered. After a minute, he jerked his chin, arrogant because guys like the blond expected it.
Transactions always went smoother when you met people's expectations; jarring them - cognitive dissonance, Spook's classroom voice supplied - resulted in memories, and the need to make up stories to explain. Stories left traces, and traces made for dead hunters.
A black leather biker-gloved hand planted in the middle of the blond's chest as he approached, and its owner stiff-armed the kid out of the way. Too bad, as the kid was attractive enough, but he had no interest in lover's quarrels. Stories, traces, dead.
The kid's eyebrows pulled together in pissed-off surprise. He didn't hit back, talk back, or even scowl back, just shrugged and put up his palms. Christian's lip-reading skills weren't up to the task of deciphering the entire conversation, but he did make out Whatever, man. Didn't mean to horn in on your thing before the blond walked away leaving the owner of the glove to prowl toward Christian.
He arched an eyebrow at the irregularity of the approach, but the bright green gaze locked to his sparkled with a fierce intelligence that appealed. Just because Christian wanted information, not sex, didn't mean he couldn't appreciate the company, and the view, while he got it.
Fair skin over taut muscle, navy blue t-shirt stretched even tauter across a cut muscled chest, and black leather molded to his thighs like it grew there. The waist-length silver hair (had to be dyed; he couldn't be old enough even for premature full gray that long) and fallen angel smile should've been effeminate, but somehow the combination screamed masculinity - and lethality, but given what he hunted, that turned Christian on, not warned him off.
So, all right, maybe he'd be interested in the information and the sex this time. Release from actual arousal would better clear his head for a new hunt than purely physical stimulation.
"Dance with me."
The preemptory manner and imperious tone wouldn't have been at all out of place in one of Christian's birth peers, but here, in this place, it reeked of simple challenge. Arching one eyebrow, Christian drawled, "Been dancing with you since…" then pointed with the bottom of the beer bottle toward where the blond had been herded off.
Green Eyes smiled slow, almost savage. "Yes."
As such, he felt no particular need for an immediate response. They'd get where they were going. Christian drank, watched his dance partner around the beer.
When Green Eyes didn't fidget, frown or pout, just shifted out of the stream of movement to lean a shoulder to the wall at Christian's right, Christian nodded once. In a serious fight, his right was his dominant hand, and he preferred to keep it free. But for one-on-one with another human, the left worked fine and talking to someone on his right came easier.
Except that they weren't talking. Not with words anyhow. Green Eyes' predatory lean spoke to his own arrogant slouch:
Hunting you.
Good luck with that.
Don't need luck.
Are you that good?
Yes. Are you?
Yes.
"You about done with that beer?"
Christian swirled the swill in the bottom, then pitched it six feet dead center of the wide mouth trashcan down the wall from him with a flick of his wrist. "Looks like."
Head tilt, coy smile, silver bangs sliding against high cheekbones, and savage became suddenly sweet. Almost innocent. "So?"
"Yeah." He arched up off the wall, then stalked a space amidst the writhing bodies on the dance floor beyond the glass doors that kept the music out and the smoke in. Green Eyes would follow.
Damn, it feels good to get writing again.