Fic: Six Kisses
My first Pros fic written on something of a whim, so do forgive me if any part comes across strange. I'd love to know what you lovely people think about it!


Title: Six Kisses
Author: Erushi
Format: Short story. (1,135 words)
Circuit Archive / Pros-Lib: Yes, please.
Slash/Gen: Slash.
Summary: Six kisses shared between the lads as their relationship progresses.
Disclaimer: This is an amateur work written purely for entertainment. No profit is gained from it, nor is any infringement of copyright intended. The poetry used was written by Robert Herrick.


Give me a kisse, and to that kisse a score;


It was meant to be something of a joke, truth be told. Just a little trifle sparked by Cowley’s A-squad as they downed their pints and took the piss out of their resident golly, no different from their usual pranking. Doyle had looked so cute, all embarrassment and fluster and blushes, that when the both of them had finally returned to his flat, Bodie had wanted to see if there was anything he could do to make his partner turn even redder.

A clumsy bump of lips meeting proves more than enough. But it is a followed by another, and another, and there comes yet another too. Heads bang against walls with enough force to hurt – but they don’t, because bruising kisses and ferocious clickings of teeth on teeth are all each can focus on, mischievous glints in the eye and nervous laughter setting an erratic rhythm to the hesitant moving of curious hands over awkward bodies.

After all, the ex-mercenary reflects laconically, why settle for "enough" when one can get "more"?

=-=-=

Then to that twenty, adde a hundred more;


It is the kisses Bodie likes best. The stolen pecks on the cheek as they scurry about the corridors of their headquarters on Cowley’s business, the spontaneous smacks on the lips as they bounce about dingy warehouses glowing with the satisfaction of having successfully completed yet another op, the deep osculations that punctuate their semi-drunken conversations as commas and full-stops do written dialogues.

Or so Bodie keeps thinking until he finds his fingers intertwined with Doyle’s and he is being pushed down onto the bed by the other man with an urgency that matches his own. They kiss, and this time it is hungry, ravenous, refusing to be appeased. Doyle’s body stretches out fully on top of his and all Bodie can think are hefeelsittoo and ohyesplease.

Doyle kisses him again, able fingers busy at areas that send him flushing and gasping, and Bodie decides that thinking is rather overrated. Besides, he suspects he has found something even better than the kisses.

=-=-=

A thousand to that hundred; so kisse on,


Doyle firmly believes that weekend mornings are best for sleeping in. He curls up on sun-warmed sheets, basks in honey-gold streams of light filtered by the venetian blinds.

Bodie usually wakes him with a shower of kisses, noses bumping in affectionate greeting as eyelids struggle open sluggishly, lips and tongue tracing a path along soft skin that hints of sleep and sun.

Doyle likes the way Bodie tastes in the morning, minty toothpaste mixing with milky tea. His nose twitches just a little at the light smell of aftershave, and his palm revels in the slightly stubbly just-shaved feel of the other’s jaw. He feels strangely happy as the other man allows him this exploration, leaning a little into his hand before slowly turning to press a kiss on each of the wandering digits that are trailing his face.

“Hungry?” Bodie asks, and is rewarded by a dazzling smile.

=-=-=

To make that thousand up a million;


Somehow, their days off have fallen into a pattern. They sit side by side on the colourful rug that covers the floor of Doyle’s living-room, eyes glued to luridly-coloured moving figures on flickering glass-crystal screens as strong fingers curl around chilled beer cans. Loud whoops and curses fill the air as they allow themselves to get carried away in the football-stimulated rushes of adrenaline, locked in the thrill of the chase.

Similar whoops echo off the walls as they wrestle on the very same rug after the game ends, each fighting the other for dominance. The strength and urgency of their moves mimic the players’ on the pitch, and they struggle with the same queer mix of fierce joy and desperation. Winner takes all; or at the very least, a kiss.

“Have I told you before that I love you, Bodie?”

Bodie’s voice is slightly muffled, and Doyle suspects that the dark-haired man is covering his mouth in a bid to remain as silent as possible. The thought makes him smile, and he craftily nibbles his way to a certain spot behind the other’s ear. He finds it and begins sucking gently, feeling fingers dig into his shoulder hard enough to draw blood. The pain brings an involuntary grin to his face.

“Yes you have, but it always bears repeating.”

Still grinning, Doyle bends forward to capture another kiss.

=-=-=

Treble that million, and when that is done,


“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” Doyle tries to say, but it is hard to do so with Bodie whispering “it’s alright, it’ll be alright” into his mouth and all he can do is gasp and push his head back to grant – I can’t believe we’re doing this here – his blue-eyed lover better access to his neck and jaw. And then he doesn’t really worry anymore because Bodie’s mouth is so warm and hot and his fingers are fiddling with his buttons and undoing the buckle of his belt and – oh god – dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers and pulling out fistfuls of shirt that had been hastily tucked in mere hours before for the meeting with their controller.

Their tongues spar, slick and warm, precise from hours of practice. A brush against the teeth here, a languid lick of the top of the cavern there, and they are both panting and growling and making little keening noises of – fuck, but I want this, I really do – desire from the back of their throats, hips and groins grinding against each other’s for that sweet, desperate friction that despite the layers of cloth between them still feels so sinfully good –

Their RTs beep, and Doyle swears, breaking of the kiss as he fumbles for the bulky apparatus in his pocket. Cowley, probably, meaning to ask them how the surveillance job was progressing even though Anson, whom they had left by the window with a pair of binoculars and his cigars, would have been a better candidate to question. Strong fingers grab his wrist, resolutely pulling his hand away from his pocket, RT-less.

“Ignore it, Ray,” murmurs Bodie into his ear, and Doyle almost swoons, glancing up at the taller man from heavy lidded eyes. But since swooning is something not particularly manly to do, he settles instead for gripping with nerveless fingers the cool marble of the sink behind him, torso arching backwards and pelvis thrusting forward as they kiss again.

Ignoring his RT, Doyle finds, has never been so easy.

=-=-=

Let's kisse afresh, as when we first begun.


“You’re too far. Come closer.”

“How close is close? This?”

“Closer.”

“This too close?”

“A little more.”

“Better?”

“Mm.”

“Aahh.”

And suddenly, words just weren’t necessary anymore.


END