31 March 2008 @ 11:11 pm
Title: Sense Drabbles
[livejournal.com profile] paraboobizarre
Pairing(s): BillxTom
The characters used herein are fictional representations of real people and the actions and situations contained in the fics are no reflection on the real people on which they are based. All characters engaging in sexual acts of any kind are over 18 years of age. I do not believe anything of this ever happened, nor that it should and I do not make any money of this. It's fiction.
Warnings: none
Summary: One drabble for each sense, smell, taste, sight, hear and touch
Author's notes:
It started with the smell drabble, mainly because the last thing is true for a very good friend of mine and I somehow felt compelled to write that down. The other four senses kinda snuck up on me :)


There were many fantastic places to bury his nose in. The soft skin in the hollow of his brother's elbow, the dark warmth behind the shell of his ear, the trail of curly hair from his brother's navel to his groin, the scent changing from soapy clean to a heavy, musky sweetness.
Arguably the best place though, was the collar of Bill's jacket. Expensive perfume, hints of lemons, cedar, faint traces of smoke and the slight plastic whiff of impregnation spray. The tip of his nose right in the indention of Bill's collar bones – the best place in the world.


Darkness is best because it reduces their world to what brushes against their fingertips. Skin against skin is so much more exciting when there's no sight to distract them. The fine ripple of muscles, the way everything gets warmer when his hand slips further down, tiny hairs prickling at his fingertip when he runs his finger against the grain, down there, where Tom shaves...and the way it's suddenly smooth again when he changes directions.
It's all smothering warmth and soft skin, it's dry lips blowing a kiss against his eyelids and the tickle of matted hair. And it's dark.


There are days when the kisses taste like caramel, that luscious rich taste, so heavy he can almost feel it sitting on his tongue even long after the kiss ended. Then there are days where they never have time and it's only little pecks that desperately try to become real kisses but always fall short. Those taste like Juicy Fruit Grapermelon and cherry cola.
BerryBurst kisses are his favourite though. They only ever happen in the mornings or evenings, in those few minutes after Bill brushed his teeth and he still taste like toothpaste, berries and mint, all squeaky clean.


It is constant static, an eternal well of white noise that accompanies him wherever he goes, who's been with him ever since he can remember. There were probably only ten minutes in his life where the steady chattering was not with him and at that time he was too shocked by the “miracle” of birth to appreciate it.
Bill's voice is best not when it's up to chit-chat speed and volume but when it's deep and hushed, whispering into his ear. That subdued murmuring, tantalizingly low, breathy and a bit ragged at the edges, when he's muttering his name.


From between lowered lids he watches, all afternoon long, chronicling the lazy trek of the sun across his twin's shoulders, down his chest over his belly to those narrow hips; the swirling pattern of light and dark over the blue hibiscus flower print. The way the fine hairs on his arms bleach to a light blond in the sun, golden down straying across his forearm.
Rubbing at his belly, sighing, Bill leaves a tumble of sand on his skin. The sand corns glitter in the sun, white and shiny like crystals and Tom watches more of the afternoon slip by.
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