New Ficlet: Focus
This... Is not what I'd planned to write today. *shrug* Oh well.
Title: Focus
Pairing: Nikolai Zherdev/Sergei Fedorov, Sergei's POV (Jackets hockey)
Rating: Erm, PG-13? It's fairly tame, but there is an undercurrent of something else, if you know what to look for. ;)
A/N: Not beta'ed, sorry. Any mistakes and general sucktitude are all on me. This began as a few sentences I texted to cradle-song a few days ago. I guess the muse wasn't done with it. Very short, about 350 words.
Disclaimer: This probably never happened. Also, I don't own them, I just like to play with them.
Feedback: Will be loved like a wicked one-timer.
You can't concentrate.
You know you should be paying attention, and you're trying desperately to follow the conversation as it flows over you. It slips in and out, moving around you, rising and falling with both spirited discourse and comfortable laughter.
No matter how hard you try, you cannot keep pace. Someone calls your name and your head shoots up; you answer their question, nod in agreement, respond in what you hope is the appropriate manner. As soon as you do though, it slips away from you again, sliding through your fingers like gossamer threads.
You look down at the glass in your hand, empty now, the last traces of alcohol clinging to the sides. This might be the cause for your inability to keep up, but you haven't had that much to drink and besides, you know the real reason why.
Nikolai's arm is slung comfortably over the back of your chair, his hand resting on your back, fingers curled over your shoulder at the base of your neck. His touch is light and easy, but the significance behind it is heavy, and it holds you there. Completely unnecessary; you wouldn't move away from this remarkable young man for any reason. He's pulled you into his orbit and nothing in the world would make you want to break free from it.
His thumb strokes steadily against the back of your neck; your world has narrowed to that gentle, yet insistent pressure against your skin. His touch is light, yet possessive at the same time. Subtly, he shows the world, He is mine. You wonder briefly if it is as obvious to everyone else in the room at that moment as you think it must be. When your teammates look at you together, do they take notice of this deeper dynamic that runs between you?
As the conversation slips by you once more, you realize that you don't care if they see.
Your eyes drift closed and you give in, losing yourself completely in that small caress, no longer concerned with following the speech around you.
Title: Focus
Pairing: Nikolai Zherdev/Sergei Fedorov, Sergei's POV (Jackets hockey)
Rating: Erm, PG-13? It's fairly tame, but there is an undercurrent of something else, if you know what to look for. ;)
A/N: Not beta'ed, sorry. Any mistakes and general sucktitude are all on me. This began as a few sentences I texted to cradle-song a few days ago. I guess the muse wasn't done with it. Very short, about 350 words.
Disclaimer: This probably never happened. Also, I don't own them, I just like to play with them.
Feedback: Will be loved like a wicked one-timer.
You can't concentrate.
You know you should be paying attention, and you're trying desperately to follow the conversation as it flows over you. It slips in and out, moving around you, rising and falling with both spirited discourse and comfortable laughter.
No matter how hard you try, you cannot keep pace. Someone calls your name and your head shoots up; you answer their question, nod in agreement, respond in what you hope is the appropriate manner. As soon as you do though, it slips away from you again, sliding through your fingers like gossamer threads.
You look down at the glass in your hand, empty now, the last traces of alcohol clinging to the sides. This might be the cause for your inability to keep up, but you haven't had that much to drink and besides, you know the real reason why.
Nikolai's arm is slung comfortably over the back of your chair, his hand resting on your back, fingers curled over your shoulder at the base of your neck. His touch is light and easy, but the significance behind it is heavy, and it holds you there. Completely unnecessary; you wouldn't move away from this remarkable young man for any reason. He's pulled you into his orbit and nothing in the world would make you want to break free from it.
His thumb strokes steadily against the back of your neck; your world has narrowed to that gentle, yet insistent pressure against your skin. His touch is light, yet possessive at the same time. Subtly, he shows the world, He is mine. You wonder briefly if it is as obvious to everyone else in the room at that moment as you think it must be. When your teammates look at you together, do they take notice of this deeper dynamic that runs between you?
As the conversation slips by you once more, you realize that you don't care if they see.
Your eyes drift closed and you give in, losing yourself completely in that small caress, no longer concerned with following the speech around you.