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momebieI've been in a funk lately. I've been working on things, slowly but surely, but I haven't really felt like anything I've written clicked at all. I feel like it's all disposable, which is a dangerous feeling when you're writing. Earlier, randomly, I checked my 'media' filter and found this prompt at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
we_are_cities. It reminded me of some of the architects, most specifically Derek and Amelia, but I think I'll get in something with William and a random girl later. So um, yes. I wrote Architect smut. I wrote HET Architect smut. What? Just a messy shorthand of realization, scribbled electronically, unchanged. This is pre the story, but it helps to establish their relationship as it is. Or something.
It's warm. There's sweat rolling down his back and he can feel the sun on his skin where Amelia has rucked his shirt up. There's grass and small twigs being crushed under the palms of his hands as he props himself up, one on each side of her head. She smiles up at him, gold hair splayed across deep green mid-summer grass. Derek looks away.
“Don't be so dour, Nance. It's a natural thing for us to do, isn't it?” Amelia laughs, and a slight breeze kicks up, cooling the sweat on Derek's back and giving him a bit of a chill. “You promise you've never done it before? If we're going to be together always, we should be firsts, right?”
He cannot remove himself from this moment or remove her as the cause of the thing that's slowly getting hold on him. That thing that causes him to shake. “No. I mean, yes. I, uh--” And he drops his head down and kisses lightly at the crook of her neck like he's seen men do in the dark corners of parties.
Amelia sighs exactly like he's heard girls do because of men in the dark corners at parties and he can't tell if it's a genuine reaction or if she, too, is mimicking something much bigger than herself. He loves her, has since they were small, and he's often imagined himself pressed against her like this, or in other ways that make his ears go red even though he knows no one can read his thoughts. Still, the actualization, the feel of her small breasts as they press insistently against his chest through the fabric of her chemise and overdress makes something in him ache.
She's dressed light, since they were only coming out into the woods on the premise of searching for a lost hunting dog of his father's, and still there are three layers of petticoat and skirt wadded up to her waist and crushed between them. The friction of the rough outer fabric against his stomach is uncomfortable, but then maybe that's what sex was supposed to be. If the world outside the city walls, the places he went with his parents, were any indication, this was what life was supposed to be.
She laughs, as if she can read what he's thinking. And maybe she can. “Nance, Nance,” she coos, as he pushes himself forward and deeper into her. “Derek,” she says finally, her breath catching. A soft moan escapes her lips and he looks up at her face. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open and she looks slightly pained, the way her brow is furrowed.
“Am I hurting you?” he whispers, because he can't make his voice come out any louder. There's an intensely pleasant sensation beginning to pool in his lower abdomen and it feels good all of a sudden. So, so good. He pauses, half out of her.
“No, no, more.” Amelia opens her eyes and bites her lip as he thrusts his hips forward again. She wraps her legs around his lower back, drawing him closer, further inside of her, and he pushes forward still, leaning in and tilting his hips upward and down again, rocking slowly, relishing the feeling of how tight she is around him.
She arches up against him and he feels trapped. The muscles in his arms are screaming and he doesn't know how long he's been using them to hold himself up, afraid that he might hurt her with his weight. He doesn't care anymore.
There's no backing out of this, he's been pushed to the edge. He lays flat against her, winds his fingers through her hair and runs them down the length, tugging when he hits knots. She kisses him on the lips, probably more chaste than is warranted. Several quick, dry kisses in succession as she ruts against him and writhes under him. Needy, hungry, she draws from him more than he thinks he can give, and his lips are pinched between hers and his teeth and it's uncomfortable and hot now and there's sweat on his upper lip that she licks away.
She cries out, sounding like a wounded dove, and he pulls out of her quickly, breaking through the circle of her legs and backing away. Derek comes on the ground an inch from her skirt, and then collapses next to it. He lays his head on her slender thigh that is just beginning to get some of the rounder shape of womanliness, and breathes steadily, trying to make his heart quit racing.
“Huh,” she says from above him, and brushes through his hair with her fingers, brushing damp locks away from his forehead. “I always thought there was more to it than that.”
Derek sighs, because he has no other response. He can see the rest of their lives laid out before him, clearly. In the story of their lives he gives and gives and gives—sex, jewelry, compliments, fine petticoats and silk stockings—and always he is left with little in return. Just recognition, just comfort, just affection, but never what he needs. Like when they were young and she broke the Victrola, and then laughed nervously over the pieces. That was his happy ending. And it was happy. It was so damned happy because it was just what he wanted. It was her.
He rolls over onto his back and pulls his trousers up his thighs. He's laying on her bloomers, so he pulls them from beneath his back and tosses them at her face. She giggles.
“If there was more to it than that, there might not be anything left of me,” he says, because he knows she'll think he's joking.
He closes his eyes and soaks up the warmth of the sun, trying not to feel too lonely in his feeling of completeness. She didn't mean anything by it, never did.
. . .
I have to get up at 7am on a holiday because the people are coming to upgrade my parents' alarm system and need to be able to get to the window contacts. Lame.
we_are_cities. It reminded me of some of the architects, most specifically Derek and Amelia, but I think I'll get in something with William and a random girl later. So um, yes. I wrote Architect smut. I wrote HET Architect smut. What? Just a messy shorthand of realization, scribbled electronically, unchanged. This is pre the story, but it helps to establish their relationship as it is. Or something. It's warm. There's sweat rolling down his back and he can feel the sun on his skin where Amelia has rucked his shirt up. There's grass and small twigs being crushed under the palms of his hands as he props himself up, one on each side of her head. She smiles up at him, gold hair splayed across deep green mid-summer grass. Derek looks away.
“Don't be so dour, Nance. It's a natural thing for us to do, isn't it?” Amelia laughs, and a slight breeze kicks up, cooling the sweat on Derek's back and giving him a bit of a chill. “You promise you've never done it before? If we're going to be together always, we should be firsts, right?”
He cannot remove himself from this moment or remove her as the cause of the thing that's slowly getting hold on him. That thing that causes him to shake. “No. I mean, yes. I, uh--” And he drops his head down and kisses lightly at the crook of her neck like he's seen men do in the dark corners of parties.
Amelia sighs exactly like he's heard girls do because of men in the dark corners at parties and he can't tell if it's a genuine reaction or if she, too, is mimicking something much bigger than herself. He loves her, has since they were small, and he's often imagined himself pressed against her like this, or in other ways that make his ears go red even though he knows no one can read his thoughts. Still, the actualization, the feel of her small breasts as they press insistently against his chest through the fabric of her chemise and overdress makes something in him ache.
She's dressed light, since they were only coming out into the woods on the premise of searching for a lost hunting dog of his father's, and still there are three layers of petticoat and skirt wadded up to her waist and crushed between them. The friction of the rough outer fabric against his stomach is uncomfortable, but then maybe that's what sex was supposed to be. If the world outside the city walls, the places he went with his parents, were any indication, this was what life was supposed to be.
She laughs, as if she can read what he's thinking. And maybe she can. “Nance, Nance,” she coos, as he pushes himself forward and deeper into her. “Derek,” she says finally, her breath catching. A soft moan escapes her lips and he looks up at her face. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open and she looks slightly pained, the way her brow is furrowed.
“Am I hurting you?” he whispers, because he can't make his voice come out any louder. There's an intensely pleasant sensation beginning to pool in his lower abdomen and it feels good all of a sudden. So, so good. He pauses, half out of her.
“No, no, more.” Amelia opens her eyes and bites her lip as he thrusts his hips forward again. She wraps her legs around his lower back, drawing him closer, further inside of her, and he pushes forward still, leaning in and tilting his hips upward and down again, rocking slowly, relishing the feeling of how tight she is around him.
She arches up against him and he feels trapped. The muscles in his arms are screaming and he doesn't know how long he's been using them to hold himself up, afraid that he might hurt her with his weight. He doesn't care anymore.
There's no backing out of this, he's been pushed to the edge. He lays flat against her, winds his fingers through her hair and runs them down the length, tugging when he hits knots. She kisses him on the lips, probably more chaste than is warranted. Several quick, dry kisses in succession as she ruts against him and writhes under him. Needy, hungry, she draws from him more than he thinks he can give, and his lips are pinched between hers and his teeth and it's uncomfortable and hot now and there's sweat on his upper lip that she licks away.
She cries out, sounding like a wounded dove, and he pulls out of her quickly, breaking through the circle of her legs and backing away. Derek comes on the ground an inch from her skirt, and then collapses next to it. He lays his head on her slender thigh that is just beginning to get some of the rounder shape of womanliness, and breathes steadily, trying to make his heart quit racing.
“Huh,” she says from above him, and brushes through his hair with her fingers, brushing damp locks away from his forehead. “I always thought there was more to it than that.”
Derek sighs, because he has no other response. He can see the rest of their lives laid out before him, clearly. In the story of their lives he gives and gives and gives—sex, jewelry, compliments, fine petticoats and silk stockings—and always he is left with little in return. Just recognition, just comfort, just affection, but never what he needs. Like when they were young and she broke the Victrola, and then laughed nervously over the pieces. That was his happy ending. And it was happy. It was so damned happy because it was just what he wanted. It was her.
He rolls over onto his back and pulls his trousers up his thighs. He's laying on her bloomers, so he pulls them from beneath his back and tosses them at her face. She giggles.
“If there was more to it than that, there might not be anything left of me,” he says, because he knows she'll think he's joking.
He closes his eyes and soaks up the warmth of the sun, trying not to feel too lonely in his feeling of completeness. She didn't mean anything by it, never did.
. . .
I have to get up at 7am on a holiday because the people are coming to upgrade my parents' alarm system and need to be able to get to the window contacts. Lame.
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no subject
Date: 2008-11-28 06:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-28 12:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-28 06:31 am (UTC)Oh, I know that feeling, wayyyy too well.
This is really nice, an excellent little bit! I'm glad you posted it :)
no subject
Date: 2008-11-28 12:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-28 02:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-28 03:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-28 09:15 am (UTC)nicely done.
*nods*
no subject
Date: 2008-11-28 12:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-28 12:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-28 12:54 pm (UTC)