(no subject)
Title: Sixty Seconds
Pairing: Atobe/Ryoma
Rating: R
Words: ~550
Summary: One more lap around the clock and the second hand found its way to midnight.
A/N: Written for the blindingly amazing stelf who prompted with "second hand". Originally, I wasn't planning to post this, but Stef gave me the confidence to. ILU. ;D
Sixty seconds before midnight, Atobe was rising over Ryoma like a second moon, eclipsing the eerie light that filtered through the curtains. A smile wound tight around Atobe’s mouth and eyes. It was only in Atobe that Ryoma had seen linear curves, circles with edges.
Ryoma took his challenge, matching him angle for angle, and Atobe narrowed his eyes. He didn’t move. He looked like he was seeing a shadow, or maybe a mirage - something Ryoma could not see. Atobe Keigo was frustration personified.
Ryoma gripped the large hands to either side of his head and threw his body weight against Atobe. This was his game, not Atobe’s. The roles were reversed, and Ryoma was free to squirm and grind his way.
Atobe’s eyes snapped into focus and held Ryoma’s hips still with a grip vice-like. “What are you doing?”
“What were you doing? Waiting for adulation?” Ryoma returned. “Sorry, not going to get any from me.”
“Of course I am,” Atobe said. He wasn’t talking about adulation. As he flipped them back around, he nipped hard at Ryoma’s collarbone. Tomorrow, the bruise was going smear into two fat, parallel lines - the symbol for pause, maybe. “Don’t let it be forgotten that it was your idea. I’m only playing along.”
“Because obviously,” Ryoma said pushing his stomach against Atobe’s cock pointedly, “you hate this so much.”
“I never said that.” Atobe scowled, and covered Ryoma’s lips with his own. Their kiss was volcanic: liquid heat underlying rocky abrasion.
Thirty.
“Could you just - “ A groan shattered his voice. “Just - “
“What,” Atobe prompted breathily, pressing an insistent hand against the thick ridge between
Ryoma’s legs.
“Fuck,” Ryoma hissed.
Atobe smirked. “I can do that,” he said, and without warning, pressed into Ryoma, cracking him wide.
Forty.
There was a beat. The sound of snow falling against the concrete was deafening to their ears. Atobe’s mouth opened to say something - something condescending or patronizing, most likely - but only silence escaped.
Silence sounded like astonishment, Ryoma gathered.
And then Atobe began to move.
Fifty.
“You fuck like a girl,” Ryoma said between gritted teeth. He yanked at Atobe’s hair.
“At least I’m not being fucked like one,” Atobe quipped, and picked up speed.
Ryoma snorted a hitched breath, and rocked back, feeling the muscles in his lower abdomen tighten. He looked into Atobe’s eyes, and then away. Clenching his jaw tight, his eyes strayed past Atobe’s shoulder. The position of the hands on the grandfather clock in Atobe’s room did not look all too different from the position he and Atobe were in: aligned atop and beneath, but not quite.
Fifty-five.
Atobe, for once in his bastardly existence, showed courtesy, in the form of pulling out before he came, and waiting for Ryoma to ride out his orgasm before rolling away. He ruffled Ryoma’s hair as he laid down on his side. Ryoma shot Atobe’s spine - a narrow, rocky road - a half-heartedly contemptuous glare, before sitting up slowly, wincing. He came to face the grandfather clock, watching at the second hand flickered into place.
Sixty.
It was funny, really, how sometimes you received a gift that wasn’t at all what you’d expected, but you had to smile and nod and say thank you all the same.
End.
Pairing: Atobe/Ryoma
Rating: R
Words: ~550
Summary: One more lap around the clock and the second hand found its way to midnight.
A/N: Written for the blindingly amazing stelf who prompted with "second hand". Originally, I wasn't planning to post this, but Stef gave me the confidence to. ILU. ;D
Sixty seconds before midnight, Atobe was rising over Ryoma like a second moon, eclipsing the eerie light that filtered through the curtains. A smile wound tight around Atobe’s mouth and eyes. It was only in Atobe that Ryoma had seen linear curves, circles with edges.
Ryoma took his challenge, matching him angle for angle, and Atobe narrowed his eyes. He didn’t move. He looked like he was seeing a shadow, or maybe a mirage - something Ryoma could not see. Atobe Keigo was frustration personified.
Ryoma gripped the large hands to either side of his head and threw his body weight against Atobe. This was his game, not Atobe’s. The roles were reversed, and Ryoma was free to squirm and grind his way.
Atobe’s eyes snapped into focus and held Ryoma’s hips still with a grip vice-like. “What are you doing?”
“What were you doing? Waiting for adulation?” Ryoma returned. “Sorry, not going to get any from me.”
“Of course I am,” Atobe said. He wasn’t talking about adulation. As he flipped them back around, he nipped hard at Ryoma’s collarbone. Tomorrow, the bruise was going smear into two fat, parallel lines - the symbol for pause, maybe. “Don’t let it be forgotten that it was your idea. I’m only playing along.”
“Because obviously,” Ryoma said pushing his stomach against Atobe’s cock pointedly, “you hate this so much.”
“I never said that.” Atobe scowled, and covered Ryoma’s lips with his own. Their kiss was volcanic: liquid heat underlying rocky abrasion.
Thirty.
“Could you just - “ A groan shattered his voice. “Just - “
“What,” Atobe prompted breathily, pressing an insistent hand against the thick ridge between
Ryoma’s legs.
“Fuck,” Ryoma hissed.
Atobe smirked. “I can do that,” he said, and without warning, pressed into Ryoma, cracking him wide.
Forty.
There was a beat. The sound of snow falling against the concrete was deafening to their ears. Atobe’s mouth opened to say something - something condescending or patronizing, most likely - but only silence escaped.
Silence sounded like astonishment, Ryoma gathered.
And then Atobe began to move.
Fifty.
“You fuck like a girl,” Ryoma said between gritted teeth. He yanked at Atobe’s hair.
“At least I’m not being fucked like one,” Atobe quipped, and picked up speed.
Ryoma snorted a hitched breath, and rocked back, feeling the muscles in his lower abdomen tighten. He looked into Atobe’s eyes, and then away. Clenching his jaw tight, his eyes strayed past Atobe’s shoulder. The position of the hands on the grandfather clock in Atobe’s room did not look all too different from the position he and Atobe were in: aligned atop and beneath, but not quite.
Fifty-five.
Atobe, for once in his bastardly existence, showed courtesy, in the form of pulling out before he came, and waiting for Ryoma to ride out his orgasm before rolling away. He ruffled Ryoma’s hair as he laid down on his side. Ryoma shot Atobe’s spine - a narrow, rocky road - a half-heartedly contemptuous glare, before sitting up slowly, wincing. He came to face the grandfather clock, watching at the second hand flickered into place.
Sixty.
It was funny, really, how sometimes you received a gift that wasn’t at all what you’d expected, but you had to smile and nod and say thank you all the same.
End.