They are sitting on the bed in Skids' dorm room, kissing. They had started off for Skids' dorm without discussion, and as they walked Cyanide had fumbled through the beginning of an explanation, and at some point they must have started holding hands, because Skids had had to drop his to find his key.

Cyanide is not sure who had reached for whose hand first, nor is he at all clear on who lunged forward the second Skids' door shut behind them and initiated the kiss that is presently in progress. He is very aware the sharp bristles of Skids' uneven shave prickling his upper lip, that somehow he has managed to sit down on his wallet, that his neck is starting to ache horribly from the awkward angle, leaning forward and tilted a bit up. Skids tastes like bubblegum, one of those fruity flavors maybe, and whoa! Was that tongue? Yeah, that was tongue... Cyanide pushes himself back, away, upright, and uses the opportunity to rub at the crick in his neck.

Skids blinks at him. "What's wrong?"

Cyanide gulps. "Shouldn't we, you know, talk about this?"

Skids tilts his head. It's an odd, birdlike gesture, and Cyanide would find it feminine if he hadn't seen Skids make it a hundred times over his coloring books. "Talk? What about?" Cyanide could melt from the confusion in those warm, warm eyes.

"Look, I don't want to push you to do anything you're - "

Cyanide is cut off as Skids springs, tackles him, slams him back down on the bed. Kisses him savagely, bruisingly, taking Cya's breath until he is gasping for air every time their lips part.

Then abruptly pushes himself up on his arms, leaving Cy making fish- mouthed motions. "So... you don't... want to... pressure me?", he asks, panting, and Cyanide is acutely aware of the way Skids' hips are thrust against his own.

"Umph," he whimpers, and then he is pinned under Skids again. He is kissed, swiftly, gently, ferociously, every whim that takes Skids taken out on him as well. Skids digs into him in front. His wallet digs into him from behind, and the double impalement is more than he can stand; he bucks his hips, rolls them over, and reaches into his back pocket with a loud sigh of relief.

"Cya," Skids giggles, "I'm doing this for free," and Cyanide is laughing, collapsing in relaxed glee as he tosses the offending wallet somewhere across the room. Tension he didn't even know was there pours out of him and he turns his face into Skids' neck. And it's Skids, and so of course things are going to be okay, somehow, however the reaction proceeds, however things change.

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