Test Drive Meme #2

[proximods]

You wake up in a closet. It's a nice enough one, clearly owned by someone with a large bedroom and too many clothes. There's a dim light on but no switch to make it brighter. As your eyes adjust and you come to the realization that this is probably not a dream, you notice you aren't alone. Locked in the closet with you is (at least) one other person who seems just as confused and disoriented as yourself.

On the door, you can both see a list with a possibly familiar title and a familiar set of rules; Seven Minutes In Heaven. The door will be locked for a probably very long seven minutes and it will not open no matter how much you try to force it. In the closet air is a hefty dose of aphrodisiacs that might be clouding your normal judgement. The longer you wait, the more you want to give in to the game.

Will they really let you out when the seven minutes are done? Or will the countdown start all over again until you consent? Only waiting will tell.

EDIT: Aphrodisiacs are OPTIONAL, not required. Also feel free to make your own scenarios, themes are merely for those wanting an idea.

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[pipewrenchfights]

Her stare remains fixed on his face, as if she were a living lie detector just waiting for an excuse to throw a punch. Her jaw is firm, expression challenging.

But despite the ferocity in her countenance, she's not gearing up to fight. Not yet. She wants to hear what he has to say first, because there's definitely something unnatural about him. There's not a lot of room for an outright brawl, so she's holding back. If a fight becomes necessary, she'll act. She just needs to know if it's necessary.

His eyes are so bright, and so intense, that she doesn't realize where his hands are going until she feels the warmth on her hips. The expectant stare is momentarily broken, and he's rewarded with a faint blink of surprise as she drops her head to peer at his fingers curling over the stitching of her jeans. The glance doesn't last long; he's too close to ignore.

Even though she's the one with the extra years, his confidence and poise make her feel awkward and inexperienced. Her heart beats a little faster, and her breathing quickens. She's stiff in his grasp, but not afraid, and she doesn't back down.

Green eyes dance back and forth as she studies his face shrewdly. Whatever she's looking for, it doesn't seem to be there, and her hands remain unclenched. "It's a start," she concedes. "But it's not everything I asked."

He may be hedging on account that they're trapped in a closet and possibly being monitored. If that's the case, she might understand his reluctance. For all she knows, he might even be like her, touched with something a little extra and not knowing where it came from. There are just too many questions begging to be answered.

"If I find out you're in any way responsible for my being here," she says slowly, firmly, "I'm gonna be real unhappy." Enough that she might try using his head for a battering ram against the impossible door. But she doesn't know if he's a victim or a perpetrator. In a place like this, it could be either one.

Well, whatever. She's not required to make friends with him, just kiss him for seven minutes.

[aftershocksremain]

"You're a fabulous flirt," Gabe states, and it's with all the sarcasm and snark he inherits from his mom. Flirting is nice, though. That is what they're doing, he assumes--flirting.

He's a lot better than his sister and her boyfriend, that's for damn sure. The girl is, too. In a way, Gabe doesn't want to know her name. That's too personal, he'd rather enjoy his new found freedom. Irony doesn't escape him, seeing as his version of 'free' is being trapped in a closet.

Part of him, though, still wants to get at her. Dig deeper, and not just at a level like this, his hands on her hips and faces close. He wants to know why she knows. Why she's in the room with him to start with.

Gabe pushes. Not physically, never physically, but mentally: he's always pushed buttons, forced people out of their comfort zones if need be. Always. Nothing in that aspect has changed as he guides her hips, backing her up until they hit a wall. Gabe doesn't grin, but he smirks instead, and one hand moves from her hip to move up her arm, ghosting over it, and moving to her neck where lifts her chin gently with his fingers.

"Is seven minutes with me really going to kill you?"

[pipewrenchfights]

Allie watches him closely, shrewdly wary. For someone who claims to be eighteen, he's surprisingly confident, almost making her feel like the junior in this situation. And heaven help her, the blasted chip in her neck amplifies the effects of his touch. Her heart thumps a little faster, and her breathing seems loud in her ears. She'd like to claim that he doesn't stimulate her senses in the slightest, but it's laughably untrue.

She clears her throat, unwilling to look away from his face lest he somehow think she was submitting to him. She almost digs in her feet out of sheer stubbornness as he guides her up against the wall.

"Never claimed that," she grumbles, her skin warming to the slow gliding touch of his hand. Allie places her palms on his broad shoulders, and it becomes clear in that instant just how awkward she is at expressing intimacy and affection. She's stiff, almost clumsy. Allie never claimed to be a good kisser, and she's half-dreading the eventual remarks indicating as much. Gabe, on the other hand, seems to be liquid charm, and she has no idea how to handle him.

Attempting to wrest at least some control of her situation into her own hands, she pushes her head forward, almost crushing her lips against his. There's no passion, no sentiment. It's mechanical in nature, intended to shut down any forthcoming jeers and to start the clock. The sooner she's out of here, the sooner she can throttle the person responsible for her being here in the first place.