Have VS Want: NC-17, Angst
He shakes his head and laughs when Nikolai slams him against the wall. His chuckles continue even as Nikolai smashes their mouths together, tongue seeking hungrily; desperately. He twines his fingers into brown-black hair and yanks the younger man’s head back, biting a sloppy line down Nik’s throat.
Nikolai’s fingers tremble as he undoes buttons and zippers, aching with need; his desire is so intense he can’t focus on the task at hand. He finally just rips the expensive dress shirt open: little pieces of button-plastic clatter against the stone floor and teeth sink into his shoulder in retaliation. It’s too harsh, too sharp, but the skin beneath his tongue tastes familiar and foreign all at once and he can ignore the discrepancy.
Fingers dig into his arms and Nikolai gasps as he is turned around and their positions reversed: he now pressed against the wall, face-first, with the other man hard and heavy behind him. Lips close on his ear and he squirms wantonly, pressing his palms flat against the grungy wall and pushing back into that heat.
The game had been torture for him. That familiar curve of the jaw, the quiet laugh, the intensity of the eyes, the smooth skating-like a ghost just on the edges of his peripheral vision, it had had him turning his head in surprise at inopportune moments as he tried to catch a glimpse of a person who wasn’t there. The coach had yelled at him, Alexei had given him worried looks the whole game and Sergei had about nearly bitten his head off for missing a pass.
But now that doesn’t matter. Now it’s all sweaty skin and muffled moans and the rub of hands against his spine as his pants and boxers are pushed to his ankles. Fingertips press against his lips and he sucks them inside of his mouth, laving the warm digits with his tongue and eliciting a shiver from the man behind him. When they pull out, instead lowering between his legs, the burn as they enter him has Nik arching in pleasure, gasping for more even as his mind chants ‘wrong wrong wrong wrong.’
The angle is wrong; fingers brush against his prostate instead of hitting it directly. The moans are wrong; low-pitched and husky instead of breathless and soft. But the building intensity allows Nikolai to ignore it; the near-familiarity is enough to let him fool himself. He needs this too much and can barely form coherent sentences as he presses back on the thick shaft sliding into him.
He cries out.
A forearm is hurriedly pressed against his mouth to stifle his shouts. Nikolai bites down on it with a moan, sloppily sucking the skin until it’s red and tender; giving his mouth something to do besides make noise. The hand that wraps around his cock is less rough, less calloused than what he knows; the arms around him thicker and more muscled than what his body remembers. He arches his back anyway, keening around the flesh pressed against his lips; giving in to the heat and to the pleasure. His body trembles as he is rocked forwards and back, forwards and back, fingers curling into the grime layering the tiled wall.
As release nears, all the little differences melt away. The hands touching him are gentle and loving. The rough voice murmuring in his ear is smooth and throaty.
And as he comes, Nikolai cries out the name of the man who has been haunting his thoughts and dreams for the past four months.
Even before the white haze of ecstasy fades, he feels ashamed. But the man stiffening and growling his orgasm into his neck seems neither surprised nor angry. They both still for a few long moments, trying to regain their breath, coming down from their respective highs, before they pull away. Nikolai moans as the feeling of fullness leaves him; he turns over slowly, sliding into a heap on the floor with his back against the wall. The other is already buckling his pants; he leans down to nuzzle at Nik’s neck comfortingly.
Soft breath whispers against his ear.
“If you need my brother that much, maybe you should go to him.”
Nikolai closes his eyes as Fedor brushes their lips together, leaning his forehead against his knees as the door closes quietly behind the younger Fedorov. The little tryst has done nothing to soothe his longing; instead, it has only served to worsen his depression. A quiet sigh escapes him, raggedly.
“Sergei…”
-
Nikolai’s fingers tremble as he undoes buttons and zippers, aching with need; his desire is so intense he can’t focus on the task at hand. He finally just rips the expensive dress shirt open: little pieces of button-plastic clatter against the stone floor and teeth sink into his shoulder in retaliation. It’s too harsh, too sharp, but the skin beneath his tongue tastes familiar and foreign all at once and he can ignore the discrepancy.
Fingers dig into his arms and Nikolai gasps as he is turned around and their positions reversed: he now pressed against the wall, face-first, with the other man hard and heavy behind him. Lips close on his ear and he squirms wantonly, pressing his palms flat against the grungy wall and pushing back into that heat.
The game had been torture for him. That familiar curve of the jaw, the quiet laugh, the intensity of the eyes, the smooth skating-like a ghost just on the edges of his peripheral vision, it had had him turning his head in surprise at inopportune moments as he tried to catch a glimpse of a person who wasn’t there. The coach had yelled at him, Alexei had given him worried looks the whole game and Sergei had about nearly bitten his head off for missing a pass.
But now that doesn’t matter. Now it’s all sweaty skin and muffled moans and the rub of hands against his spine as his pants and boxers are pushed to his ankles. Fingertips press against his lips and he sucks them inside of his mouth, laving the warm digits with his tongue and eliciting a shiver from the man behind him. When they pull out, instead lowering between his legs, the burn as they enter him has Nik arching in pleasure, gasping for more even as his mind chants ‘wrong wrong wrong wrong.’
The angle is wrong; fingers brush against his prostate instead of hitting it directly. The moans are wrong; low-pitched and husky instead of breathless and soft. But the building intensity allows Nikolai to ignore it; the near-familiarity is enough to let him fool himself. He needs this too much and can barely form coherent sentences as he presses back on the thick shaft sliding into him.
He cries out.
A forearm is hurriedly pressed against his mouth to stifle his shouts. Nikolai bites down on it with a moan, sloppily sucking the skin until it’s red and tender; giving his mouth something to do besides make noise. The hand that wraps around his cock is less rough, less calloused than what he knows; the arms around him thicker and more muscled than what his body remembers. He arches his back anyway, keening around the flesh pressed against his lips; giving in to the heat and to the pleasure. His body trembles as he is rocked forwards and back, forwards and back, fingers curling into the grime layering the tiled wall.
As release nears, all the little differences melt away. The hands touching him are gentle and loving. The rough voice murmuring in his ear is smooth and throaty.
And as he comes, Nikolai cries out the name of the man who has been haunting his thoughts and dreams for the past four months.
Even before the white haze of ecstasy fades, he feels ashamed. But the man stiffening and growling his orgasm into his neck seems neither surprised nor angry. They both still for a few long moments, trying to regain their breath, coming down from their respective highs, before they pull away. Nikolai moans as the feeling of fullness leaves him; he turns over slowly, sliding into a heap on the floor with his back against the wall. The other is already buckling his pants; he leans down to nuzzle at Nik’s neck comfortingly.
Soft breath whispers against his ear.
“If you need my brother that much, maybe you should go to him.”
Nikolai closes his eyes as Fedor brushes their lips together, leaning his forehead against his knees as the door closes quietly behind the younger Fedorov. The little tryst has done nothing to soothe his longing; instead, it has only served to worsen his depression. A quiet sigh escapes him, raggedly.
“Sergei…”
-