Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction (not even the silver bowl of popcorn - I might buy some popcorn, though), and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.
A/N: I was reading fanfiction, and this idea popped (no pun intended, seriously) into my head, so I went with it.
There's a bowl of buttered popcorn. It sits on the couch between them. An innocent bystander, it doesn't notice the tension radiating of each of the men sitting on either side of it – silent, tense sentries.
There's a movie playing on the television. Neither man is watching it, but the pictures – the play of light and dark emitted from the TV set– flicker off the surface of the silver popcorn bowl and 'wink' off the faces of the men who seem intent upon ignoring each other - the bowl - the movie.
There's a soft susurration of sound in the background, murmuring just beneath that of the noise – something like fireworks, or gunfire – coming from the television. It's the ocean's waves lapping against the shore. The bowl echoes the measured, rhythmic quality of the sound within its smooth, circular walls; the buttered popcorn muffles the muted reverberations.
There's a dual movement of hands. Syncopated. Hearts beating out the same disjointed, rapid pattern – like drums beneath the calloused palms of savages. Fingertips brush against each other. An electric rush. The bowl falters and falls. Buttered popcorn spills onto the floor.
There's a locking of gazes over the space where the bowl of buttered popcorn used to sit. Eyes widened in surprise. Pupils dilated. The rush of air expelled from parted lips.
There's a meeting of lips and teeth. Noses bumping and chins scraping against each other. Hands that don't know where to rest. Fingers twining in hair. Awkward elbows jarring breath from lungs.
There's a tongue tracing the outline of lips. Hunger. Greed. Lust. A closing of space. A lover's careful embrace. Hands rubbing, fingers massaging, tongues tasting – testing.
There's a spark of electricity building like a fire between them. Grunts. Moans. Pants. Utterings of not-quite words bubbling forth, consuming them.
There's a bowl of buttered popcorn. It lies forgotten on the floor beneath them. Its contents strewn across the living room. A blushing bystander – the flickering light from the television glints off its silver surface, the soft mutterings of the ocean echo in its depths, even as it captures the low, keening cries of the new lovers losing themselves in their first kiss.
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