fic outtakes
Sep. 27th, 2017 08:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaixoouttake 3?
About two weeks ago, I posted a fic for @itsadrizzit , and there’s a part of the fic I left on the virtual cutting room floor, because it didn’t fit the rest of the story. It felt silly and goofy, the tone slightly off and forced. I put it here, because it’s not complete enough for an AO3 entry (900 words). Who knows, someone might enjoy it? Dodgy Dutch ahead!
Vincent’s fingers now against his lips, his eyes huge and luminous. “Do you have to go now?”
Chris didn’t pause to think, as he shook his head, “No.”
He even did one better, using the weight of his body to push Vincent back into the plush surface of the shared sofa, angling his face towards Vincent’s. Slinging an arm around his neck, his tongue tracing along the seam of Vincent’s lips. Chris thought his heart might have gotten used to this by now - the painful stutter of expectation and realisation as Vincent’s tongue brushed against his. His skin goose bumping to the point of pleasure-pain as Vincent’s fingers scored a path from armpit to the waistband of Chris’ borrowed jogging bottoms, his hands sliding underneath the waistband, palms hot and flushed against Chris’ arse, the heat and friction of clothing as their groins grazed against each other, the temperature in the room rising with each stroke.
He’d remember this; the taste of kool and caraway on Vincent’s tongue, how his humid huffs of laughter made Chris’ blood fizz like champagne. The slightly tipsy feeling of time slowing and stretching as they kissed, and kissed again. Each kiss an existence in itself. Some slow enough to warp epochs, Vincent’s sighs and nonsense babble in Dutch made him close his eyes against the sweetness of it. Another kiss, now fast and hard to the point of bruising, heartbeat kicked up into red zone, and breathing a secondary concern. Chris’ hand flush against Vincent’s cheek, teeth scraping against his throat, tongue stroking his scruff, tasting him and nothing but.
Christiaan, Vincent murmured, a quiet prayer to a saint. Chris’ eyes closed against the room and world, because if you couldn’t see the time, it didn’t move on.
However, he couldn’t keep his eyes closed for long. Not if he wanted to see Vincent, to use his fingers to trace his features. His auburn eyebrows, his cheekbones, the strong outline of his jaw that his reddish-brown facial hair couldn’t hide nor soften. His skin with pale gold undertones, that not even the English weather could bleach into colourlessness.
“You have training tomorrow,” Vincent said in English, as Chris settled on and around him, pressing them both into the sofa. Chris’ face tucked in the shadow of Vincent’s neck, the space between neck and shoulder. He closed his eyes at the drag of Vincent’s fingers from shoulder to the small of his back. The touches warm and soft, making him weak.
“I know.”
“Christiaan-”
Chris grabbed at Vincent’s hand, threaded their fingers together. Squeezed them, closed his eyes against the tone of Vincent’s voice. The frustration and longing in it. Don’t send me away, he wanted to say, but unable to speak around the lump in his throat, he closed his eyes, nuzzled Vincent’s neck with his nose, pressed his lips against the pulse of his throat. Vincent didn’t say anything else, and just squeezed Chris’ fingers in return.
Sometime later, as they lay there, wrapped up in each other, quiet save their breathing, Chris’ leg hummed. Frowning, wondering what physical ailment he might have had from all this – the thought cut off with a sigh as Vincent rested a palm on Chris’ thigh, his touch welcome and warm.
His leg hummed again.
“Jouw telefoon,” Vincent pointed out, amused, as he reached into Chris’ pocket, searching and dragging his phone from the deep pocket of Chris’ jogging bottoms. Chris raised an eyebrow at the sensation, because really, how many hotspots did he have? The thought made him grin, at how stupid he was for Vincent, as he shifted on his elbow, half pushed up out of their cuddle. Chris swiped at his screen, eyebrows raised at the Whatsapp icon, seeing the caption in the screen and oh, it was a video.
“Vind je he-?”
“Nee.”
Chris set the phone to landscape, holding it near their faces, so that Vincent could see it too.
Both of them laughing at the title of the video “We Love Our Curvy Striker,” as Toby, Moussa and Jan did a strange dance with blocks of cheese on their heads. The tune and jittery moves sped up in that manic Benny Hill style that the British loved (okay, they all had been living in England for far too long), before it turned into a video highlight of the matches they got from YouTube (complete with watermarks) that they all played together, with everyone hugging as goals went in. Thirty seconds in, it turned into Vincent and Chris. Vincent’s face glowing with pride as he scored, Winks jumping and hugging him, but Vincent’s eyes only for Chris, in the few matches they played together.
The laughter fading away as Chris realised, Toby, Dembele and Jan knew. That after they told him not to get involved - and he went and did so anyway- it didn’t matter, they understood. That they cared, and as the video wound down, when they all stood behind the kitchen island in Jan’s home; now eating slices of cheese with winks and mugs to the camera, Chris noting that the video’s purpose was twofold. That if he had seen this alone, he’d take comfort that they knew. But if he’d shared it with Vincent, that it was their way of wishing him good luck and acknowledging whatever this relationship was– that he and Chris had.
“Vince-” Chris started, his voice loud in the quiet of the room. Vincent didn’t say a word, his hand cupping the nape of Chris’ neck, their eyes drifting closed as their lips met. The emotions different this time, Chris noted, his smartphone falling away from his fingers, clattering to the floor as he reached for Vincent again.
About two weeks ago, I posted a fic for @itsadrizzit , and there’s a part of the fic I left on the virtual cutting room floor, because it didn’t fit the rest of the story. It felt silly and goofy, the tone slightly off and forced. I put it here, because it’s not complete enough for an AO3 entry (900 words). Who knows, someone might enjoy it? Dodgy Dutch ahead!
Vincent’s fingers now against his lips, his eyes huge and luminous. “Do you have to go now?”
Chris didn’t pause to think, as he shook his head, “No.”
He even did one better, using the weight of his body to push Vincent back into the plush surface of the shared sofa, angling his face towards Vincent’s. Slinging an arm around his neck, his tongue tracing along the seam of Vincent’s lips. Chris thought his heart might have gotten used to this by now - the painful stutter of expectation and realisation as Vincent’s tongue brushed against his. His skin goose bumping to the point of pleasure-pain as Vincent’s fingers scored a path from armpit to the waistband of Chris’ borrowed jogging bottoms, his hands sliding underneath the waistband, palms hot and flushed against Chris’ arse, the heat and friction of clothing as their groins grazed against each other, the temperature in the room rising with each stroke.
He’d remember this; the taste of kool and caraway on Vincent’s tongue, how his humid huffs of laughter made Chris’ blood fizz like champagne. The slightly tipsy feeling of time slowing and stretching as they kissed, and kissed again. Each kiss an existence in itself. Some slow enough to warp epochs, Vincent’s sighs and nonsense babble in Dutch made him close his eyes against the sweetness of it. Another kiss, now fast and hard to the point of bruising, heartbeat kicked up into red zone, and breathing a secondary concern. Chris’ hand flush against Vincent’s cheek, teeth scraping against his throat, tongue stroking his scruff, tasting him and nothing but.
Christiaan, Vincent murmured, a quiet prayer to a saint. Chris’ eyes closed against the room and world, because if you couldn’t see the time, it didn’t move on.
However, he couldn’t keep his eyes closed for long. Not if he wanted to see Vincent, to use his fingers to trace his features. His auburn eyebrows, his cheekbones, the strong outline of his jaw that his reddish-brown facial hair couldn’t hide nor soften. His skin with pale gold undertones, that not even the English weather could bleach into colourlessness.
“You have training tomorrow,” Vincent said in English, as Chris settled on and around him, pressing them both into the sofa. Chris’ face tucked in the shadow of Vincent’s neck, the space between neck and shoulder. He closed his eyes at the drag of Vincent’s fingers from shoulder to the small of his back. The touches warm and soft, making him weak.
“I know.”
“Christiaan-”
Chris grabbed at Vincent’s hand, threaded their fingers together. Squeezed them, closed his eyes against the tone of Vincent’s voice. The frustration and longing in it. Don’t send me away, he wanted to say, but unable to speak around the lump in his throat, he closed his eyes, nuzzled Vincent’s neck with his nose, pressed his lips against the pulse of his throat. Vincent didn’t say anything else, and just squeezed Chris’ fingers in return.
Sometime later, as they lay there, wrapped up in each other, quiet save their breathing, Chris’ leg hummed. Frowning, wondering what physical ailment he might have had from all this – the thought cut off with a sigh as Vincent rested a palm on Chris’ thigh, his touch welcome and warm.
His leg hummed again.
“Jouw telefoon,” Vincent pointed out, amused, as he reached into Chris’ pocket, searching and dragging his phone from the deep pocket of Chris’ jogging bottoms. Chris raised an eyebrow at the sensation, because really, how many hotspots did he have? The thought made him grin, at how stupid he was for Vincent, as he shifted on his elbow, half pushed up out of their cuddle. Chris swiped at his screen, eyebrows raised at the Whatsapp icon, seeing the caption in the screen and oh, it was a video.
“Vind je he-?”
“Nee.”
Chris set the phone to landscape, holding it near their faces, so that Vincent could see it too.
Both of them laughing at the title of the video “We Love Our Curvy Striker,” as Toby, Moussa and Jan did a strange dance with blocks of cheese on their heads. The tune and jittery moves sped up in that manic Benny Hill style that the British loved (okay, they all had been living in England for far too long), before it turned into a video highlight of the matches they got from YouTube (complete with watermarks) that they all played together, with everyone hugging as goals went in. Thirty seconds in, it turned into Vincent and Chris. Vincent’s face glowing with pride as he scored, Winks jumping and hugging him, but Vincent’s eyes only for Chris, in the few matches they played together.
The laughter fading away as Chris realised, Toby, Dembele and Jan knew. That after they told him not to get involved - and he went and did so anyway- it didn’t matter, they understood. That they cared, and as the video wound down, when they all stood behind the kitchen island in Jan’s home; now eating slices of cheese with winks and mugs to the camera, Chris noting that the video’s purpose was twofold. That if he had seen this alone, he’d take comfort that they knew. But if he’d shared it with Vincent, that it was their way of wishing him good luck and acknowledging whatever this relationship was– that he and Chris had.
“Vince-” Chris started, his voice loud in the quiet of the room. Vincent didn’t say a word, his hand cupping the nape of Chris’ neck, their eyes drifting closed as their lips met. The emotions different this time, Chris noted, his smartphone falling away from his fingers, clattering to the floor as he reached for Vincent again.
