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Sunday Six Sentences
Aug. 4th, 2013 11:59 amEach Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project -- published, submitted, in progress, for your cat -- whatever.
Original:
"This school is a good opportunity for you, sweetheart," Mom says, omitting the don’t screw it up that they both hear regardless.
Quentin looks at her for a long moment, at the severely-cut black suit matching the kohl of her make-up, at the crimson slash of lipstick on her mouth. It’s like she’s wearing armour, like she’s closed herself off to him.
It would be a lie if he said he wasn’t expecting it.
"I’ll be good," he says. It feels like a hope more than a promise.
Fanfic:
An almost desperate sound rends the air, and from the way Derek's throat burns, it might have come from him. He doesn't know. He also doesn't know who moves first, because it's like someone's swallowed a chunk of time. One moment he's standing there, staring at their joined hands, and the next his mouth has collided against Stiles and they're kissing, urgently. Stiles' mouth is wet heat against his, quiet desperation punctuated by fraught sounds, like this could disappear at any moment, and Derek's already addicted to those noises. He presses against Stiles, hauling him closer, Stiles' fingers scrabbling at the back of his neck for purchase as he makes a babble of sounds against Derek's mouth that shouldn't make sense but do: how long we've waited to do this again, the sounds say, and too long.
Original:
"This school is a good opportunity for you, sweetheart," Mom says, omitting the don’t screw it up that they both hear regardless.
Quentin looks at her for a long moment, at the severely-cut black suit matching the kohl of her make-up, at the crimson slash of lipstick on her mouth. It’s like she’s wearing armour, like she’s closed herself off to him.
It would be a lie if he said he wasn’t expecting it.
"I’ll be good," he says. It feels like a hope more than a promise.
Fanfic:
An almost desperate sound rends the air, and from the way Derek's throat burns, it might have come from him. He doesn't know. He also doesn't know who moves first, because it's like someone's swallowed a chunk of time. One moment he's standing there, staring at their joined hands, and the next his mouth has collided against Stiles and they're kissing, urgently. Stiles' mouth is wet heat against his, quiet desperation punctuated by fraught sounds, like this could disappear at any moment, and Derek's already addicted to those noises. He presses against Stiles, hauling him closer, Stiles' fingers scrabbling at the back of his neck for purchase as he makes a babble of sounds against Derek's mouth that shouldn't make sense but do: how long we've waited to do this again, the sounds say, and too long.
