Kiss Me (Dew Write)

Mass Merriment <--Click that if you wanna know what it's all about.


"Come on, don't be like that! Kiss me," she whined, amusement fading rapidly from her face.

He rolled over onto his side, pushed himself up one one elbow and looked down at her. She was beautiful, there was no denying that. But she knew it, and it made her slightly unbearable. His initial declining of her invitation made her laugh. In her world, those invitations are never refused -at least they never had been until now, and certainly never by the likes of him. He was perfectly aware of his status as a nobody and the "honor" she was, in her opinion, bestowing on him.

Then he refused the "honor" again.

She waited, fully confident that he didn't mean it. She lay on the ground in her perfectly matched Hollister outfit, chosen for that carefully worn-in look. The corn-silk hair that spread out around her head could've been arranged atop the bright, lush grass by a media expert preparing a shampoo commercial. Her understated makeup accentuated rather than added to the natural beauty of her stereotypically bright blue eyes. . . lovely, self-assured blue eyes, without the least trace of pleading. She reminded him of a brilliantly coloured Easter egg laying there in the grass, demanding to be snatched up and prized (if eggs could demand). She was absolutely resplendent with all the blush and bloom of her sixteen years.

Sunlight glinted off of the faintest shimmer of nude-tinted lip balm, issuing its own invitation to feed upon those supple, rosebud lips. He imagined himself succumbing to her expectation and his own natural inclination, dipping his face down to meet that velvety aperture. Without ever touching them, he knew how her lips would feel on his. They would be perfectly moist, but not wet; firm, but yielding. Hungry, but not grateful to be fed. How could she appreciate that which she felt fully entitled to?

He shoved that thought aside, envisioning parting those petals and probing them gently with his tongue. He wouldn't enter unless invited. He would make her meet him half way, at least. He could make that one small demand of this self-possessed creature, couldn't he? That she show him that she was interested in something besides his compliance? That she wanted the flavour of him, not the flavour of conquering him? For surely he would be the conquest, not she. The concept of surrender did not exist for her.

But what was conquest to she who commanded tribute from everyone and everything she rested those baby blues on? In her world, everything in her sights was already hers. Including him.

He turned his sight from his fancies back to her, knowing he'd never be able to get out of his head long enough to enjoy this kiss that dozens of the Somebodies he knew would kill for. He lay back down next to her, feeling disregarded and wounded by her need to be adored. Adoring her in spite of himself.

Why couldn't he just kiss her? Why did he resent wanting her so much that he couldn't just do it? Why did he feel the need to retaliate? It isn't as though she intended his feelings any harm -or was even aware that she was harming them at all. She just didn't know any better. Impotent, inarticulate indignation fortified him, and he decided he would be the first to conquer her.

"I just don't like you that way."