the concept of reality.
Title: the concept of reality.
Author: asphyxiatide/marina.
Rating: pg-13.
Pairing: one sided!tom sykes/oliver sykes, oliver sykes/matt nicholls.
Summary: tom is sick of seeing oliver and matt in the morning. well, not oliver, just oliver and matt.[previous summary was a joke :'D i know you love me.]
Warnings: incest, angst.
Disclaimer: i'm a compulsive liar, actually. if you got here by googling yourself, run away while you still can. don't own, don't sue.
Dedications: kagaari because this is basically ripped off of her. okay
Author Notes: okay so she ^ posted this amazing fic over at sykecest and it amazed me so much that i threw this together. and this is it.
It’s morning and it’s cold except for the part where I’m choking my coffee cup half to death and my hands are irritatingly hot. That and I can’t stop thinking about the morning I live in in my dreams, where the light always pours across the sheets buttery yellow and hot and in wide paintbrush streaks and thin drips between the creases made by skinny limbs and every twist during sleep. But that’s only in my head.
In reality, it’s morning and it’s cold. The light leaks into the room through the windows ice blue and runs onto the floor and casts squares of white.
A door opens. I know it’s Oliver’s because it sounds closer than the door to the loo. I yawn and shut myself up with a mouthful of coffee.
When Oliver’s body finally moves into the kitchen, it’s as lithe and swift as usual. He’s barely clothed - again, nothing new - besides the pajama pants that hang off his body, lightly clinging to his hip bones and the curve of his back. I force myself to look up to his eyes, aching hazel-green in the mid-morning sunlight, where he’s staring out the back window. They snap over to meet my gaze.
“Morning, Tom.”
It’s drowsy and sleep-deprived. My reply of “Morning, Oli” is just as sleepily mumbled. Funny thing is, it was the steady thumping of their headboard against the wall between our bedrooms that kept me up.
Another body enters the door, but this time it’s familiar and awkward and heavy, the opposite of Oliver’s. Matt. I watch and bite down on my teeth as Matt’s arms go around Oliver’s body and his lips press hard into Oliver’s cloud-soft skin and I can almost hear the snap in my chest when Matt’s voice, all rough and deep as usual, purrs, “Good morning babe.”
Then there’s the hot coils that spiral up my insides, tighten around my guts, and pull and strangle my lungs inside my rib cage as Oliver replies, in his morning voice that’s not as strangled as it is by dark, “Morning love.”
I actually have to swallow back some noise. It probably would’ve been the kind of noise a rabbit makes before it dies.
Author: asphyxiatide/marina.
Rating: pg-13.
Pairing: one sided!tom sykes/oliver sykes, oliver sykes/matt nicholls.
Summary: tom is sick of seeing oliver and matt in the morning. well, not oliver, just oliver and matt.[previous summary was a joke :'D i know you love me.]
Warnings: incest, angst.
Disclaimer: i'm a compulsive liar, actually. if you got here by googling yourself, run away while you still can. don't own, don't sue.
Dedications: kagaari because this is basically ripped off of her. okay
Author Notes: okay so she ^ posted this amazing fic over at sykecest and it amazed me so much that i threw this together. and this is it.
It’s morning and it’s cold except for the part where I’m choking my coffee cup half to death and my hands are irritatingly hot. That and I can’t stop thinking about the morning I live in in my dreams, where the light always pours across the sheets buttery yellow and hot and in wide paintbrush streaks and thin drips between the creases made by skinny limbs and every twist during sleep. But that’s only in my head.
In reality, it’s morning and it’s cold. The light leaks into the room through the windows ice blue and runs onto the floor and casts squares of white.
A door opens. I know it’s Oliver’s because it sounds closer than the door to the loo. I yawn and shut myself up with a mouthful of coffee.
When Oliver’s body finally moves into the kitchen, it’s as lithe and swift as usual. He’s barely clothed - again, nothing new - besides the pajama pants that hang off his body, lightly clinging to his hip bones and the curve of his back. I force myself to look up to his eyes, aching hazel-green in the mid-morning sunlight, where he’s staring out the back window. They snap over to meet my gaze.
“Morning, Tom.”
It’s drowsy and sleep-deprived. My reply of “Morning, Oli” is just as sleepily mumbled. Funny thing is, it was the steady thumping of their headboard against the wall between our bedrooms that kept me up.
Another body enters the door, but this time it’s familiar and awkward and heavy, the opposite of Oliver’s. Matt. I watch and bite down on my teeth as Matt’s arms go around Oliver’s body and his lips press hard into Oliver’s cloud-soft skin and I can almost hear the snap in my chest when Matt’s voice, all rough and deep as usual, purrs, “Good morning babe.”
Then there’s the hot coils that spiral up my insides, tighten around my guts, and pull and strangle my lungs inside my rib cage as Oliver replies, in his morning voice that’s not as strangled as it is by dark, “Morning love.”
I actually have to swallow back some noise. It probably would’ve been the kind of noise a rabbit makes before it dies.