PFM OCs Kiss Challenge inspired snippets

DANCE - Laurent

The soirée is crowded, but not jam-packed enough for you to miss Laurent’s entrance. It’s not that it’s particularly memorable - the parting sea of people aside - looking from behind, Laurent is just another guest in a dark suit, completely unremarkable.

Perhaps more so than his scent, that cuts like a whip through the dense air of the room, you’re attuned to the way he strides in, slowly but with purpose, how his head barely moves, and yet you know he’s mapping each and every exit, each and every face. There’s no detail spared, no feature left unseen.

As such, you’re not surprised when you both feel and see the moment he spots you in the gathering. His frown clears in such an obvious way that several of the nearest invitees follow the direction of his gaze, curious about his reaction.

But Laurent has no more eyes for them, and you find yourself solely focused on him as well, acutely aware of the hurried rhythm of his footsteps until he’s right beside you, one of his hands stretched out.

“May I have this dance,” he asks, and though you concur, startling minutely at the touch of his skin chilled by the weather outside, neither of you moves.

“Shouldn’t there be a kiss first,” you joke, poking fun at his over-the-top greeting, letting out a laugh at the sight of genuine abashment that flashes across Laurent’s face at the perceived admonishment, before he catches onto your ploy.

Though you’re ready to admit defeat, with a gentle yet insistent movement, he lifts your hand, pressing his cold lips to your fingers, then higher, stopping only at your wrist, just by the edge of your sleeve. The last brush in particular brings a shiver to your frame.

“Is that all right?” Laurent asks at that, in a lighter than usual tone. He knows better than to doubt himself, by now, so you understand that the question is but a prelude to a jest of his own. “Only that you seemed to want more than one.”

As you look upon Laurent, straight-faced save for his reddening ears, clearly self-satisfied, all you can do is mumble, “Well, you’re not wrong.”

He has you now, but you’ll get back at him on the dance floor. You’re more than sure that you can think of something that will make him miss a step or two, even with his impeccable skill.

FOOD - Reed

If asked, you could swear that the scent of buttered bread and strawberries reached you in the Dream World, as unlikely as it is, rousing you faster than the sunlight poking through the blinds. Wiping the remnants of sleep from your eyes, you leave the warmth of Reed’s bed in favor of seeking the origin of the aroma, unsurprisingly finding it in the kitchen, on the stove that’s partially hidden by Reed’s frame.

Aside from the toasts stacked on the plate next to him, and the chocolate syrup in one of the smaller bowls, there’s also jam. Reed’s stirring the mixture of fruit and sugar in a pan, over a low heat.

Humming absentmindedly under his breath as he does, he misses the sound of you creeping closer. He doesn’t startle when you wrap your arms around his middle, but you force a gasp out of him either way, squeezing him hard enough to stifle.

“Up so early, amore?” The hand that is not holding a wooden spoon instinctively rests over one of yours, fingers filling the empty space in between. “I thought you said I tired you out—”

“Look who’s talking,” you huff, cutting Reed off before he can really get going. Your own retort is abscised, too, by a stifled yawn. Too groggy for a fruitful argument, you rest your cheek on Reed’s back, feeling the soft cotton of his hoodie.

For a while you stay just like that, breathing in the mix of fruit and fabric softener, until you hear the tell-tale sound of the stove being turned off. The food has to be ready, if still hot. Ready for tasting, at any rate.

Your reaction turns out to be not only obvious but expected, seeing as when you raise your head, Reed is already watching you, a smirk arranged in its place. He does take pity on you, for once holding his tongue. Scooping a spoonful of jam, huffing at it to cool it down, he then brings it to your mouth. “How’s that?”

“You should add more sugar,” you say, if only to hear Reed defend his choice. Instead, he twists his head to the side, planting a kiss over your still-open mouth.

Staring at you half-conceited, half-expectant, his expression melts away when you continue to blink at him blankly, forcing him to prompt, “Sweet enough now?”

“Eh, now it’s worse,” you faux-complain, yelping when he smears the remnants of the jam over the corner of your mouth. When you reel away, he tugs you right back, tutting, “We don’t waste food in this house.”

Ah, you should have known he had ulterior motives.

ADVENTURE - Jewel

The higher you climb, the harder the wind whips across your face, wedging itself under your borrowed scarf that Jewel carefully wrapped around you before you began the ascent. This close to the peak, you have to squint against the gust, just to see the way. Barely, as it is. It takes a tiny stray rock shifting under your feet to almost send you cascading down the hill.

Before you can even feel alarmed by the predicament, Jewel whips around. Catching you by the edge of your sleeve, she guides you the last few steps, until the both of you are securely on the top of the mount, where you sink into the grass, feeling equal parts exhaustion and a great sense of accomplishment.

The same can’t be said for Jewel, seeing as her forehead is creased with concern. “Are you hurt?”

“No! No. Just out of breath.”

Though your explanation is genuine, it doesn’t ease Jewel’s anxiety. Figures, she’s taken your stumble more seriously than you did. “Next time we should go somewhere closer. I could go alone and—”

“Are you sure you’re not just trying to get rid of me? It has to be boring playing around with a rookie, huh?”

Rolling her eyes, she leans in, and instead of rebuking you, she presses her lips to yours, giving in easily when you palm her jaw, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. Despite you pulling her in, you have to part soon, as the lack of oxygen in your weary lungs becomes unignorable.

Jewel leans back, though deliberately lingering in your space, as if half-ready to kiss you again. She has to think about it, absentmindedly licking your taste off her lips, apparently eager for more even though you know you have to taste like the protein bar you shared during your last break. Not exactly appealing, now, is it?

“What was that?” you ask after a while, the question delayed in favor of gulping on air. It’s not often that she kisses you as a tactic to shut you up.

“A prize.” She sounds rather playful, and you can’t possibly guess whether her reddened cheeks are caused by embarrassment or the harsh wind. You’d like to think it’s the former.

“For me or for you?”

“For our mutual benefit.”

Ah, the best kind of prize, then.

YEARNING - Nino

Meeting a suspicious contact in an empty alley half across the city only in theory seemed like a good idea. Quarter of an hour later, rubbing your bruised ribs as a taxi takes you back home, with a nice shiner, and without any new info, you realize that you might have been overconfident. At least the driver knows better than to ask. Then again, they don’t need to. Your face positively screams ‘you should have seen the other guy.’

The bruises aside, the only thing that occupies your mind right now is facing the squad tomorrow. You can guess the reception, more so that from Nino, who until the last moment asked if you’re ‘sure you can handle it.’

She’ll call you a fool— Or she won’t say anything at all, she will just look at you with that amused expectancy. The only comfort is that, once you do admit defeat, she’ll undoubtedly find the guy and rip him a new one. She’s cute like that.

Still, you mentally prepare yourself to give her a call, completely not expecting to see her in person... standing next to the door of your apartment, stomping her feet in plain impatience. You can’t know how long she waited on you, wearing only a single layer, clutching a cell phone in her hands, not knowing that yours is in a ditch, forever lost.

When she spots you, the device falls out of her grasp. Her face does something complicated, setting on a peculiar expression her muscles aren’t used to. Worry looks alien on her, and though you’d bet that her reaction surprised her too, she seems more bothered by your response to it. It’s just a second that passes, but the silent exchange you share goes beyond what words can tell.

When she finally speaks, it’s just a curt “Where’s he?” She doesn’t bother with her phone, doesn’t even look its way.

“Ran away like a coward. I remember his face, though, we can still—”

Nino doesn’t say ‘leave it,’ but it’s clear she means it, moving on to unceremoniously drag your shirt up, uncovering your bare stomach. “Nice,” she ironizes, seeping words through her teeth as she regards a bruise twice the size of her palm. “Really nice.”

“Thank you, darling, I knew you’d—”

Interrupting you again, this time using the fabric fisted in her hand to yank you towards her, she kisses the rest of the sentence, then the remnants of air out of you. Your bottom lip is split, your saliva tastes like iron. She doesn’t seem deterred, only moving off you when the strain makes you wince. She doesn’t say ‘next time I’m going with you,’ but it’s evident that she will. It doesn’t seem she’ll give you another chance to refuse.

NOSTALGIA -  Flavio

A long walk on the beach was nowhere in your schedule for the upcoming year, and yet that’s where fate has led you. Fate being your job, and consequently, a car with a flat stuck in the middle-of-nowhere town. The view is picturesque, but it doesn’t seem to cheer Flavio up.

Though he’s standing idly by the downed car, arms folded on your knees, facing you as you’re seated on the hood, his expression is a little too cheerful to be genuine. It’s not that difficult to read his mind when you know all his telltales, recognizing by now that the more jokes he tries to crack, the bleaker his mood is.

Still, you hesitate a bit before bringing it up. Flavio’s used to carrying his troubles in such a silent way, ready to apologize for making them too obvious to be ignored. Additionally, he’s obstinate enough to always have his way, requiring a certain problem-solving approach you’re getting better at executing.

“You don’t like water much, do you?” Making the comment conversational rather than accusatory, you catch Flavio off guard, but don’t send him proverbially running for the hills.

“Ah, it’s more like water doesn’t like me.” Predictably, he laughs, but not before removing his hands off you, just to disguise the tremor in them. “Outrageous, amirite? I’m a pleasure to be around.”

Paving a sure way for you to respond to his self-deprecating humor with a joke of your own, he looks at you, grinning, expectant, until he realizes you’re not going to return the smile. That’s when his own slips as well.

“Yeah,” he says then, simply. His somber voice is always a bit lower, a bit gruffer, less friendly. In those glimpses of him, it’s easier to see the wolf residing in the form of a shepherd. “Yeah. I know it’s stupid, it’s been, what, over ten... fifteen years now? I should have—”

“It’s not stupid.” Catching his face between your hands when he huffs, trying to look away, you make him meet your eyes. “And even if it was, so what? It’s not like you’re shying away from making a fool out of yourself.”

“Ha!” This time, his laughter is genuine. He hides it into the palm of your hand, pressing a light peck to the skin here, so quick you could almost pretend it was unintended. “You say that, but I know you’re realllly into it.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at—Mphm!”

CHARM - Alan

You’re not sulking. Despite being interrupted in the middle of a long-awaited date, sprawled on the bed in a perfectly nice hotel room, you’re calmly downing your second drink in the half an hour since Alan answered a work-related phone call promising to ‘make it up to you.’

Maybe you’re just too used to him setting everything aside for you that it bothers you when he doesn’t? Though, to be fair, it did sound important... that is if you could understand half of the shit he says.

“No, because it doesn't have the power to subpoena documents or testimony.”

Alan’s sitting next to you, leafing through his thick notebook. His own drink lies untouched on the coffee table out front. You’re close enough that you can clearly hear one of his underlings discussing a case that has been assigned to them. And as the teleconsultations drag on, you sink deeper and deeper into the mattress, idly playing with the edge of Alan’s jacket, creasing the material in a burst of pettiness.

“Then tell her accusation is baseless, as the averment states that there was prima facie evidence of that fact before the court. On the other hand, the written assessment of her unreliability can and will override her warrant for acceptance.”

“Yeah, talk dirty to me,” you mutter into the cup, fully believing Alan’s too distracted to hear you, but a startled, cut-off snicker proves you wrong.

The sharp silence, both in the room, and on the other side of the line, is palpable. When you lift your head, Alan’s glaring at you, though it’s very half-hearted. “Like I said,” he says coolly, returning to his conversation without a hitch, “we can counter anything she provides the court with. Let her know that without a shadow of a doubt.”

That should be it, but as it happens, the lawyer has many more questions to ask, to the point that even Alan’s demeanor becomes gradually belligerent. The case has to be vital, if he didn’t already throw his phone across the room. Though his patience, too, has its limits.

When something brushes across your hand, you pay it no mind until Alan’s fingers loop around yours, less subtly this time, even if his gaze stays on the page. Oh, it seems like someone wants to be distracted.

Pushing yourself under his arm, you wonder how far you can carry this on. Starting from being pressed to his side, you end up as far as on his lap, with your arms around his neck, pressing kisses all over his face, feeling his half-embrace tighten.

“Are you having fun?” he mutters, when your teeth graze his jaw, intending to move lower still. After your loud and theatrical ‘hm’ comes a beep of the call disconnecting. Oho, here we go. “No? Then let me rectify that.”