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Sample One]MacKenzie had gotten piss drunk last night... as he usually did when he was bored or feeling lonely. That had to explain his pounding headache as he woke up. He groaned a little, and rolled onto his side. He was naked--that much was obvious... which meant someone had to be next to him. He never bothered to take off his clothes when he got home after clubbing. He usually just collapsed wherever. Obviously, someone else had undressed him. His head lolled to the side, and he observed the form beside him.
He was handsome.
MacKenzie smiled at that, and rolled onto his side--tugging the sheets up just a little and sighing. At least they were in his apartment, and not somewhere he didn't recognise. Yes, his cramped one-room studio apartment... and they were on his big, comfy bed--a large mattress on the floor covered in pillows and fluffy blankets--and, oddly enough, Egyptian cotton sheets.
Kenzie had a weakness for Egyptian cotton...
Light filtered in, despite the closed curtains, making the room glow an odd blue color. The walls were old, and needed to be re-painted. His kitchen area consisted of an oven, and a mini-fridge, with a folding table and chairs. His closet had no door, but beads instead--and was surprisingly neat inside, with his clothes hung up carefully, or folded and put into stackable plastic drawers.
It was quaint, simple, stuffy and pathetic, really. A classic projects apartment, on the shadier side of town. But, to MacKenzie Aberdene, it was home.
He slid up close to his bedpartner, and wrapped arms around his waist with a low purr. This felt nice. He inhaled deeply, and smiled--recognising the subtle cologne from the night before.
Now he remembered meeting him. He remembered getting drunk with his friends--and at some point, being pinned against the wall by the bartender for a short, but intense kiss. He remembered getting the promise of free drinks, and then sitting at the bar next to him--a sexy, powerful-looking man. That was a big turn on for Kenzie.
He remembered flirting, and teasing... occasionally sliding his hand under the bar for a sneaky stroke, touch or squeeze. He remembered nearly having sex in the back of the cab they took back to his place, and then tugging his new playmate up the stairs.
Unfortunately... he couldn't remember a name.
In fact, Kenzie didn't remember ever getting one--or giving one, for that matter.
It didn't matter, anyway. The man was his all night, and still was into the morning. He could get a name out of him soon, he was sure. Either way, the man was incredibly sexy, and Kenzie had no intention of letting him go too early. He was a older than his usual playmates, too... which was good. MacKenzie liked older men.
Finally, deciding that he was too impatient to wait for the man to wake up, he slid on top of him under those soft, pale sheets, and got into a comfortable straddle over his hips. Soon enough, he was kissing affectionately, and possessively at the man's neck, and purring softly into his ear.
Kenzie wanted to play again.[/size:5x6jb7 5x6jb7qe:0="Sample One][size=9][color=red]MacKenzie had gotten piss drunk last night... as he usually did when he was bored or feeling lonely. That had to explain his pounding headache as he woke up. He groaned a little, and rolled onto his side. He was naked--that much was obvious... which meant someone had to be next to him. He never bothered to take off his clothes when he got home after clubbing. He usually just collapsed wherever. Obviously, someone else had undressed him. His head lolled to the side, and he observed the form beside him. He was handsome. MacKenzie smiled at that, and rolled onto his side--tugging the sheets up just a little and sighing. At least they were in his apartment, and not somewhere he didn't recognise. Yes, his cramped one-room studio apartment... and they were on his big, comfy bed--a large mattress on the floor covered in pillows and fluffy blankets--and, oddly enough, Egyptian cotton sheets. Kenzie had a weakness for Egyptian cotton... Light filtered in, despite the closed curtains, making the room glow an odd blue color. The walls were old, and needed to be re-painted. His kitchen area consisted of an oven, and a mini-fridge, with a folding table and chairs. His closet had no door, but beads instead--and was surprisingly neat inside, with his clothes hung up carefully, or folded and put into stackable plastic drawers. It was quaint, simple, stuffy and pathetic, really. A classic projects apartment, on the shadier side of town. But, to MacKenzie Aberdene, it was home. He slid up close to his bedpartner, and wrapped arms around his waist with a low purr. This felt nice. He inhaled deeply, and smiled--recognising the subtle cologne from the night before. Now he remembered meeting him. He remembered getting drunk with his friends--and at some point, being pinned against the wall by the bartender for a short, but intense kiss. He remembered getting the promise of free drinks, and then sitting at the bar next to him--a sexy, powerful-looking man. That was a big turn on for Kenzie. He remembered flirting, and teasing... occasionally sliding his hand under the bar for a sneaky stroke, touch or squeeze. He remembered nearly having sex in the back of the cab they took back to his place, and then tugging his new playmate up the stairs. Unfortunately... he couldn't remember a name. In fact, Kenzie didn't remember ever getting one--or giving one, for that matter. It didn't matter, anyway. The man was his all night, and still was into the morning. He could get a name out of him soon, he was sure. Either way, the man was incredibly sexy, and Kenzie had no intention of letting him go too early. He was a older than his usual playmates, too... which was good. MacKenzie liked older men. Finally, deciding that he was too impatient to wait for the man to wake up, he slid on top of him under those soft, pale sheets, and got into a comfortable straddle over his hips. Soon enough, he was kissing affectionately, and possessively at the man's neck, and purring softly into his ear. Kenzie wanted to play again.[/color]
Sample Two Vincent blinked at the boy as he began to laugh, and for a moment--stared at him with a confused expression on his face.
As the boy began to wave his hands at him, though, he shrugged it off, and pointed to the corner. "We have to run up there and flag down a cab," he said--then paused at the sight of one coming toward them. Talk about perfect timing. He released Sebastion's hand, and ran up to the cab, waving a hand. The man pulled over, and put his window down.
"42 Monroe," Vincent said simply, and waved Sebastion over with a smile. He got into the back, and waited for Sebastion to get in with him. Soon enough, they were heading back to Vincent's place.
They pulled up to a dismal looking duplex complex (say that ten times fast...). Vince paid the man, and then helped Sebastion out of the car. "This is where I live," he said, and pointed to the smallest of the rent-able houses. "That one's mine. It's the only one that isn't a duplex."
It was set back with no driveway, but a dirt yard instead. Some of the windows were boarded up, with plastic over them. As he pulled the boy inside with him, it became evident that this house really was as it appeared on the outside: small, and disgusting.
It was clean, sure--but it really wasn't fit to live in. The walls were unpainted, and some of them had insulation showing. There was no furniture, and the only lights in the place were a few lamps, and battery-operated lights that he had stuck on the walls in random places. No TV, no chairs, no tables.
His kitchen was mostly the same room as the livingroom--though it had a half-wall for separation. He had a small refridgerator, a sink, a microwave (that didn't work) and a stove. There were few cabinets--but he really didn't use them. The livingroom was empty aside from a backpack, and books strewn about as if he'd been working on a project. There were papers, and notebooks, and markers, and a pair of dress shoes sitting by a window--his school shoes.
The bedroom door was open, and after taking the bag from Bastion, and putting it against the wall, he lead him into the bedroom. "The bathroom's right here," he said, and pushed open a half-closed door. "You can take a shower first, if you want. It takes a little while for the water to heat up."
At least his bedroom was cozy--and pretty messy, really. He had no closet, so his clothes were in one of those plastic bureaus. His bed was a mattress on the floor, but there were a lot of pillows and blankets, and he had clothes everywhere.
The bathroom was small, but surprisingly clean. He had a bathtub/shower combination with a curtain instead of a door, a sink and a toilet. There was a large mirror over the sink, though it was a bit cracked... Still: this was home.
Sample Three The only sound that followed was that of a sudden, deep intake of breath--and that slender form froze in place. His once-slack jaw now set tightly, and he didn't even allow himself to swallow for a few short seconds as the realization of what was happening settled in. He had heard the shots... and his cigarette had been tossed into the sand that very instant. He hadn't time to reach for his own weapon, though. Slender, bare fingers managed to slide over the butt of his gun, before those arms took hold of him--and he jerked back with surprise, knocking the gun into the sand.
He swore internally...and was still. All air passage ways blocked up...and he had to force himself to breath again. The air came in a trembling rush out of his chest--and a slight rattling followed. God damn his asthma... Dark hair covered his eyes--and he wanted to reach up and push it back, but he knew better. He'd been trained to deal with situations like this--but all those weeks at Boot camp back in Virginia didn't seem to be paying off right now.
s**t.
Panic had set in--exactly what he'd been taught to avoid. Well--screw boot camp at this point. He hadn't gone willingly anyhow. The recently-adopted troubled teen had lived with his new parents but two years, before they realized why young Lawrence hadn't been adopted all those fifteen years he'd lived in the Springfield orphanage. He was hard to handle--and he had been forced to raise himself. What else comes from situations like that? You can't exactly expect a scholar.
Still--Lawrence had never expected them to ship him off from his new home of Rockland, Mass to hot, stuffy Virginia for the worst experience of his life. Boot camp was terrible for bohemians--and that was exactly what Lawrence liked to consider himself--a bohemian. Romantic, wasn't it?
It occured to him then that he wouldn't be in this situation had he not hit that stupid ******** pig with the baseball bat--but everyone knew the man deserved it. He wondered, now, if it was worth it to have assaulted an officer, only to end up here--with a knife to his throat, in the middle of a ******** desert.
He turned his head just a bit, and shivered a little with the harsh, whispered words. Chapped lips moved for a moment--before he realized no sound was coming out. He swallowed, finally, and sighed... then lifted his hand slowly to touch the escapee's wrist. "Calm down," he said in a surprisingly even voice--though he was shaking. Was he afraid? ******** yes.. but that was hardly the cause of his trembling.
He took in another trembling breath--and it became evident that he was wheezing. That cigarette was seeming like a really shitty idea about now. Bright blue eyes darted back and forth over the barren desert before him. There was no one to call to--and he was quite sure that even if he did try to signal someone, his throat would be slit before they would notice. "I'm unarmed," he added finally, and reached with a steal-toed boot to kick his weapon and prove that he had nothing in his hands that could hurt the other.
Thinking quick didn't seem to be an option right now. He knew that attempting to be a hero right now was a bad idea; this was hardly the time for Indiana Jones fandom to kick in (not that he ever was a fan...). He adjusted his shoulders a bit and closed his fingers slowly around that wrist to gently pull it back, and away from his neck. Lips parted slowly...and his tongue darted out to moisten them. He could taste blood, and his nose wrinkled up at the coppery taste. The heat was really messing with his lips.
He could feel his chest getting congested--but he didn't dare clear his throat for fear the other would panic and end up killing him. "Just let go, and calm down..." he whispered--as if he weren't even speaking to the prisoner who had him captive. "It'll be fine--but don't be stupid." Maybe the wrong thing to say--but he was being blunt, and that was the best way to go, as far as he was concerned--his Lebanese background wouldn't help him now.
"Min Fadlak..." he whispered--hoping the other would calm down once he heard his own language spoken. "Ismi Lawrence."
C. Jack Sparrow · Fri Jan 19, 2007 @ 07:31pm · 0 Comments |
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