[FIC] To Live (AtoJi, rated-R)
Today is a good day, I think... I feel like writing... So, here you guys go:
Disclaimer: No one can own Atobe.
Warnings: R, moderately graphic male-male sex
A/N: For my sweet little Shiji who I love and adore!!! Cheer up!
To Live
by Solanum Dulcamara
Rain pounded against his window, distant thunder rattling its metal frame. Jiroh stepped aside and let his captain enter his dorm room. It wasn't the first time Atobe had come... always alone: no Kabaji, no entourage, not even a car and driver... always on nights like this, when he knew if he looked outside he'd see the world through a blur of water in shades of blue as the moon failed to shine through the dark cumulonimbus clouds roiling in the sky. He'd never thought to question Atobe's periodic, unannounced visits... never questioned the way Atobe pressed his face against Jiroh's neck as soon as the door clicked shut... never questioned the pair of hands tight on his back through his sweatshirt... never questioned the warmth that filled the room despite the cool of the rainy evening and Jiroh's lack of heating unit...
Akutagawa Jiroh spent most of his days asleep and often wondered which times were waking and which were sleeping. He sometimes felt unsure about the subtle overlap of dreams and reality. He often concluded that what some would call his dreams might be more real than what they'd call his life. But nothing, no moments, no dreams, no sleep, were ever as startlingly, blissfully, painfully real as the nights Atobe came to his room. When he felt the cold drops of water fall onto his skin from Atobe's hair, he seemed to awaken. As Atobe's mouth pressed against his neck and he gasped, he felt he was taking his first breath. When hands that people often mistakenly assumed would be soft pushed his clothes aside, up or down and off, he was overcome by the sensation of exposure, as if first emerging into the world. As he was laid down on the cotton sheets, calloused hands guiding him, mouth hungry on his own, he wondered if he'd ever really felt anything before. When Atobe slid into him and he was filled with that beautiful, poignant ache, Jiroh suddenly remembered he was alive.
He slid his hands into the wet tangles of hair and leaned up to taste his name on Atobe's lips. He felt the tension of tennis-sculpted calves with the arches of his feet, toes curling against the fine hair. Hips brushed against the insides of his thighs; warm friction... like the burn building inside of him that made him lift his own hips in turn, made his head fall back against the mattress as he choked on a cry, made his hand slide down from Atobe's hair, through cooling streaks of precome to wrap around his own erection, hot and heavy against his lower stomach. He watched Atobe; he always did. He liked to see the way his muscles were all taught, the way his brows were drawn in concentration, the way his soft mouth formed the only word he ever spoke on those dark nights, "Jiroh", the way his gray-green eyes slid shut as his body shook with orgasm. That beautiful look of release on his restrained captain's face was all it ever took, and Jiroh felt life pulsing in him, through him, and out of him; overwhelmingly warm and bright and real.
Then the weight of Atobe settled more fully on his chest: head under his chin, arms wrapped around him. Jiroh returned the hold, arms just as tight around Atobe's back. Slowly, as he listened, Atobe's breathing would even out to the steady measured inhales and exhales of the completely exhausted. He stayed awake long into the night, as the storm raged on outside, but all was quiet in his room. He awoke in the morning to a clear sky and an empty room and the lie of so-called reality. He would check the upcoming forecast and wait for the next rainy day when he knew Atobe would return and Jiroh would learn to breathe and live and be born again in his arms.
Disclaimer: No one can own Atobe.
Warnings: R, moderately graphic male-male sex
A/N: For my sweet little Shiji who I love and adore!!! Cheer up!
To Live
by Solanum Dulcamara
Rain pounded against his window, distant thunder rattling its metal frame. Jiroh stepped aside and let his captain enter his dorm room. It wasn't the first time Atobe had come... always alone: no Kabaji, no entourage, not even a car and driver... always on nights like this, when he knew if he looked outside he'd see the world through a blur of water in shades of blue as the moon failed to shine through the dark cumulonimbus clouds roiling in the sky. He'd never thought to question Atobe's periodic, unannounced visits... never questioned the way Atobe pressed his face against Jiroh's neck as soon as the door clicked shut... never questioned the pair of hands tight on his back through his sweatshirt... never questioned the warmth that filled the room despite the cool of the rainy evening and Jiroh's lack of heating unit...
Akutagawa Jiroh spent most of his days asleep and often wondered which times were waking and which were sleeping. He sometimes felt unsure about the subtle overlap of dreams and reality. He often concluded that what some would call his dreams might be more real than what they'd call his life. But nothing, no moments, no dreams, no sleep, were ever as startlingly, blissfully, painfully real as the nights Atobe came to his room. When he felt the cold drops of water fall onto his skin from Atobe's hair, he seemed to awaken. As Atobe's mouth pressed against his neck and he gasped, he felt he was taking his first breath. When hands that people often mistakenly assumed would be soft pushed his clothes aside, up or down and off, he was overcome by the sensation of exposure, as if first emerging into the world. As he was laid down on the cotton sheets, calloused hands guiding him, mouth hungry on his own, he wondered if he'd ever really felt anything before. When Atobe slid into him and he was filled with that beautiful, poignant ache, Jiroh suddenly remembered he was alive.
He slid his hands into the wet tangles of hair and leaned up to taste his name on Atobe's lips. He felt the tension of tennis-sculpted calves with the arches of his feet, toes curling against the fine hair. Hips brushed against the insides of his thighs; warm friction... like the burn building inside of him that made him lift his own hips in turn, made his head fall back against the mattress as he choked on a cry, made his hand slide down from Atobe's hair, through cooling streaks of precome to wrap around his own erection, hot and heavy against his lower stomach. He watched Atobe; he always did. He liked to see the way his muscles were all taught, the way his brows were drawn in concentration, the way his soft mouth formed the only word he ever spoke on those dark nights, "Jiroh", the way his gray-green eyes slid shut as his body shook with orgasm. That beautiful look of release on his restrained captain's face was all it ever took, and Jiroh felt life pulsing in him, through him, and out of him; overwhelmingly warm and bright and real.
Then the weight of Atobe settled more fully on his chest: head under his chin, arms wrapped around him. Jiroh returned the hold, arms just as tight around Atobe's back. Slowly, as he listened, Atobe's breathing would even out to the steady measured inhales and exhales of the completely exhausted. He stayed awake long into the night, as the storm raged on outside, but all was quiet in his room. He awoke in the morning to a clear sky and an empty room and the lie of so-called reality. He would check the upcoming forecast and wait for the next rainy day when he knew Atobe would return and Jiroh would learn to breathe and live and be born again in his arms.