(no subject)
For the record: This is the first fic I've written in years, and it's this, and I hate everyone who got me into Air Gear fandom ever and especially you, Spitfire. tsuntsuntsun
Picking Battles
1892 words
Nike/Spitfire, implied Sora/Spitfire (original Sleeping Forest)
PWP, NC-17
The brick wall swiftly approaching Spitfire's face was a surprise.
These visits were always a surprise, so much so that Spitfire wasn't sure if even Sora was expecting it. He had an idea, however, that the Wind King did know, that he knew more than most suspected, more than Sora himself chose to acknowledge. That was something he'd always liked about Sora, that secrecy with a frayed edge of carelessness. It kept life exciting. But there had been something oddly tight about Sora's secrets lately, a growing consciousness and control. As fun it was now to run with this group of kings and otherwise live with them, there was something missing in the peaceful unity that had grown under Kilik's control.
He managed to block making direct facial impact with his forearm. The force was enough to bruise, but he usually wore long sleeves -- and even if he were to wear short sleeves, a bruise on his arm would still be easier to laugh off than brick burn on his face.
"Now that's pathetic," scoffed a familiar voice behind him, albeit with unfamiliarly good grammar.
"If we'd known you were coming, I'm sure that we could have prepared a better welcome," Spitfire shot back as best as he could with his face pressed into his own arm, reminding him of that time Sora had run face-first into a glass door.
A laugh, also familiar but, again, with note of strangeness to it. "I'm going to have to let Sora know that his team sucks. Can't leave him alone, he gets too lazy. Has a way of rubbing off, too, it looks like."
"That's one way of putting it," Spitfire murmured, taking full stock of the body pressed flush against his from behind him. Same height, same approximate build... It felt as though Sora's twin had been taking a different road, however, as it didn't feel as similar as Spitfire might have imagined it would be. Heavier -- this body lacked the free-flowing flightiness that Sora tossed around like dead leaves to the wind. What Sora swept to himself like a vortex, this body seemed to draw in by the gravity of broad shoulders and hard torso and compact heat. A shadow's growing density, Spitfire thought, wondering what he would see if he were able to turn around. He pushed at the hips pinning his with his free hand and gasped into his arm as it was nearly crushed in an almost bone-breaking grip.
More laughter. "A pretty fast mover, aren't you? Sora and I might be the same, but he was the one who turned into a fag, not me."
"I can't help but think he'd protest that conclusion."
"Hmph. Don't think I don't know what goes on back here." A deathgrip in his hair, burning his scalp and shocking a prickle of tears to his eyes, created an interesting counterpoint to the way his hand was going numb. "Word gets around. And I've hear some things on very-" a yank on his hair "-good-" the bones of his hand ground against each other "-authority."
The pressure against the wall relented slightly -- just enough room for a hard kick to buckle Spitfire's knees and the hand in his hair to wrench him to the ground, forcing him to make a kneeling about-face and allowing him to see his unexpected guest for the first time that night.
If only someone could woo Sora away from that atrocious mullet of a haircut, Spitfire mused as he looked up at Nike, there was so much possibility there. Were his hand not on the verge of being snapped in two, he would have loved to touch the long black hair that was spilling out of its bindings, Medusa-like, let his fingers explore it and felt what it could do. In a way, it balanced out the muscular figure that loomed above him so solidly, a tower of blackness silhouetted by moonlight, providing an appropriate frame for that wild grin.
"Hey." Spitfire winced as his own hair was yanked on again. "Are you paying attention? What the fuck's got you so distracted?"
The sudden release of his nearly crushed hand was more painful than a relief, drawing a gasp out of him and distracting him from the movement that suddenly made the world dark and close.
"This should help you focus," Nike said, holding Spitfire's headband down over his eyes and grinning, Spitfire could just hear that grin he could no longer see. "I'm just a helpful guy, that's what they all tell me."
"One wonders who exactly 'they' are," Spitfire wondered aloud, receiving a laugh and a shake by the hair in response. The abused section of his scalp was almost numb, he noted detachedly. Any attempt to actually pull out of Nike's grip would probably result in losing said scalp.
"Good authority."
"Nn. So you sai-"
His head was yanked back and one of those strong hands grabbed his jaw, cutting off his reply.
"Got a lot to say, yourself, don't you?"
Yes, Spitfire thought, but given that neither words nor head movement were currently options, dignified silence seemed to be the way to go. And now, he figured, was when he'd be receiving some smirking line about putting his mouth to better use-
He gasped as his mouth was wrenched open and Nike's cock thrust in, just hitting the back of his throat. His hands scrabbled at Nike's hips in a reflexive attempt to ground himself, the other boy's laugh savaging the edges of his thoroughly captured attention. A token attempt to pull off was met with refusal from the hand still steadfastly fisted in his hair. But Nike does pull back, just a little, before moving back in again -- not gently, by any means, but nothing like that abrupt initial assault -- also pulling a small moan from Spitfire.
The hips under his hands were hard and solidly planted, Spitfire's fingers flexing in an almost-caress in counterpoint to the rhythm that Nike was creating. That steady movement pulsed into his mouth, challenging him and stoking the arousal that had been slowly growing within him from the moment that Sora's twin had first laughed behind him. Fires racing under his skin, he progressed from taking all that Nike was giving him to reaching for more, sucking and stroking with his tongue as he tried to coax some more forceful response.
"They tell me that I'm such a nice guy," Nike said, something other than Spitfire's muffled groans and Nike's occasional chuckle finally breaking the silence, "and they might be right. It seems like I'm always going out of my way."
Spitfire's only response to that was a stifled choking noise as Nike thrust into his throat. With his eyes still covered, Spitfire found himself being caught off-guard even now. Willing himself to relax, he forced himself beyond his gag reflex's frantic response, eyes watering from the sting. For the first time, he felt a shift in the ever-steady grip on his hair, as though he'd finally manage to get to Nike through the sound of him struggling to breathe.
And that grip jerked his head back, his mouth left open and empty as Nike pulled out.
"Think you did a good job?" Nike asked, but Spitfire's lungs were too greedy and throat too raw to shoot back a spoken answer. Instead, the Flame King lunged up from his knees, aiming a low kick at the boy he knew was standing there. His head was twisted and slammed sideways into the brick wall behind him. So much for avoiding brick burn, Spitfire thought with a grimace, as Nike scraped the side of his head up the wall, pulling him back to his feet, though at least the headband provided some protection. He reached up to try to ease some of the pressure on his face as he felt a hand reach around to undo his fly and push down his jeans and boxers with little ceremony.
All of a sudden, that familiar-but-not voice was right at his ear.
"Think you did a good job?" it repeated.
Spitfire choked, sound going dead within his sore throat, fingers clawing futiley at the cool brick. One large hand held him spread as Nike pushed into him, slow but relentless. The burn of the stretch felt like it had to be too much, like something was going to tear, something was going to snap.
"...oh...." a gasp managed to rasp its way out, "...f-fuck... fuckfuck I can't- youfuck-"
"Yeah? So how did you do?" Finally finally -- he came to a rest, body once more flush against Spitfire's, but now also buried deep within him. "How did it feel? Did you slick me up enough?"
"...nngh... I... hardly think... i-it shou- shitshitshit..."
Words escaped him again at the harsh slide within him. It still hurt like a bitch, and he just knew that there would be blood at the end of this one, but the heat pulsing through his body, pooling in his groin and crackling all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes, seemed to burn the pain away. Or at least replace it with a new kind of pain -- as Nike's movements suddenly changed from pushes to thrusts, it felt like someone had set off sparklers in Spitfire's veins, the rush of arousal crackling through his entire body. With a loud moan, he managed to slip a hand between himself and the wall, feeling himself so hard, so close.
Somewhere in the daze of pushing back and finally moving with the body that was battering his, Spitfire felt hot breath move from the side of his neck to the front of his throat, his head still forced into its twisted position.
"Sora told me that you loved the headband thing."
With a curse, Spitfire grabbed desperately behind him, fingers at last finding purchase in long hair, hair that he knew was spilling to frame a face with a grin that shone in the moonlight. He arched back as Nike delivered his most vicious thrust yet, coming with a low, hoarse cry.
Time went a little fuzzy after that, tendrils of pain not coming to pull him back to reality until after Nike had finished and pulled out. Spitfire slumped forward against the wall, both pinned and supported by the heavy body at his back.
"You've got to be one of the dumbest motherfuckers I've ever known," Nike said.
And as Spitfire felt the weight lift from him and the presence disappear from the rooftop, he had to smile. He wondered if Nike would do differently if he knew that his surprises weren't such a surprise -- if he knew to what lengths Spitfire was willing to go to reclaim the flame that the dense thicket of Sleeping Forest tried to smother. Unfortunate as the loss of this would be, Spitfire hoped that Nike wouldn't be so "helpful" as to take yet another battle from him.
He pushed back his headband and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the moonlight. Then, he pulled up his pants and kicked off the brick wall, vanishing with a burst of flame.
Picking Battles
1892 words
Nike/Spitfire, implied Sora/Spitfire (original Sleeping Forest)
PWP, NC-17
The brick wall swiftly approaching Spitfire's face was a surprise.
These visits were always a surprise, so much so that Spitfire wasn't sure if even Sora was expecting it. He had an idea, however, that the Wind King did know, that he knew more than most suspected, more than Sora himself chose to acknowledge. That was something he'd always liked about Sora, that secrecy with a frayed edge of carelessness. It kept life exciting. But there had been something oddly tight about Sora's secrets lately, a growing consciousness and control. As fun it was now to run with this group of kings and otherwise live with them, there was something missing in the peaceful unity that had grown under Kilik's control.
He managed to block making direct facial impact with his forearm. The force was enough to bruise, but he usually wore long sleeves -- and even if he were to wear short sleeves, a bruise on his arm would still be easier to laugh off than brick burn on his face.
"Now that's pathetic," scoffed a familiar voice behind him, albeit with unfamiliarly good grammar.
"If we'd known you were coming, I'm sure that we could have prepared a better welcome," Spitfire shot back as best as he could with his face pressed into his own arm, reminding him of that time Sora had run face-first into a glass door.
A laugh, also familiar but, again, with note of strangeness to it. "I'm going to have to let Sora know that his team sucks. Can't leave him alone, he gets too lazy. Has a way of rubbing off, too, it looks like."
"That's one way of putting it," Spitfire murmured, taking full stock of the body pressed flush against his from behind him. Same height, same approximate build... It felt as though Sora's twin had been taking a different road, however, as it didn't feel as similar as Spitfire might have imagined it would be. Heavier -- this body lacked the free-flowing flightiness that Sora tossed around like dead leaves to the wind. What Sora swept to himself like a vortex, this body seemed to draw in by the gravity of broad shoulders and hard torso and compact heat. A shadow's growing density, Spitfire thought, wondering what he would see if he were able to turn around. He pushed at the hips pinning his with his free hand and gasped into his arm as it was nearly crushed in an almost bone-breaking grip.
More laughter. "A pretty fast mover, aren't you? Sora and I might be the same, but he was the one who turned into a fag, not me."
"I can't help but think he'd protest that conclusion."
"Hmph. Don't think I don't know what goes on back here." A deathgrip in his hair, burning his scalp and shocking a prickle of tears to his eyes, created an interesting counterpoint to the way his hand was going numb. "Word gets around. And I've hear some things on very-" a yank on his hair "-good-" the bones of his hand ground against each other "-authority."
The pressure against the wall relented slightly -- just enough room for a hard kick to buckle Spitfire's knees and the hand in his hair to wrench him to the ground, forcing him to make a kneeling about-face and allowing him to see his unexpected guest for the first time that night.
If only someone could woo Sora away from that atrocious mullet of a haircut, Spitfire mused as he looked up at Nike, there was so much possibility there. Were his hand not on the verge of being snapped in two, he would have loved to touch the long black hair that was spilling out of its bindings, Medusa-like, let his fingers explore it and felt what it could do. In a way, it balanced out the muscular figure that loomed above him so solidly, a tower of blackness silhouetted by moonlight, providing an appropriate frame for that wild grin.
"Hey." Spitfire winced as his own hair was yanked on again. "Are you paying attention? What the fuck's got you so distracted?"
The sudden release of his nearly crushed hand was more painful than a relief, drawing a gasp out of him and distracting him from the movement that suddenly made the world dark and close.
"This should help you focus," Nike said, holding Spitfire's headband down over his eyes and grinning, Spitfire could just hear that grin he could no longer see. "I'm just a helpful guy, that's what they all tell me."
"One wonders who exactly 'they' are," Spitfire wondered aloud, receiving a laugh and a shake by the hair in response. The abused section of his scalp was almost numb, he noted detachedly. Any attempt to actually pull out of Nike's grip would probably result in losing said scalp.
"Good authority."
"Nn. So you sai-"
His head was yanked back and one of those strong hands grabbed his jaw, cutting off his reply.
"Got a lot to say, yourself, don't you?"
Yes, Spitfire thought, but given that neither words nor head movement were currently options, dignified silence seemed to be the way to go. And now, he figured, was when he'd be receiving some smirking line about putting his mouth to better use-
He gasped as his mouth was wrenched open and Nike's cock thrust in, just hitting the back of his throat. His hands scrabbled at Nike's hips in a reflexive attempt to ground himself, the other boy's laugh savaging the edges of his thoroughly captured attention. A token attempt to pull off was met with refusal from the hand still steadfastly fisted in his hair. But Nike does pull back, just a little, before moving back in again -- not gently, by any means, but nothing like that abrupt initial assault -- also pulling a small moan from Spitfire.
The hips under his hands were hard and solidly planted, Spitfire's fingers flexing in an almost-caress in counterpoint to the rhythm that Nike was creating. That steady movement pulsed into his mouth, challenging him and stoking the arousal that had been slowly growing within him from the moment that Sora's twin had first laughed behind him. Fires racing under his skin, he progressed from taking all that Nike was giving him to reaching for more, sucking and stroking with his tongue as he tried to coax some more forceful response.
"They tell me that I'm such a nice guy," Nike said, something other than Spitfire's muffled groans and Nike's occasional chuckle finally breaking the silence, "and they might be right. It seems like I'm always going out of my way."
Spitfire's only response to that was a stifled choking noise as Nike thrust into his throat. With his eyes still covered, Spitfire found himself being caught off-guard even now. Willing himself to relax, he forced himself beyond his gag reflex's frantic response, eyes watering from the sting. For the first time, he felt a shift in the ever-steady grip on his hair, as though he'd finally manage to get to Nike through the sound of him struggling to breathe.
And that grip jerked his head back, his mouth left open and empty as Nike pulled out.
"Think you did a good job?" Nike asked, but Spitfire's lungs were too greedy and throat too raw to shoot back a spoken answer. Instead, the Flame King lunged up from his knees, aiming a low kick at the boy he knew was standing there. His head was twisted and slammed sideways into the brick wall behind him. So much for avoiding brick burn, Spitfire thought with a grimace, as Nike scraped the side of his head up the wall, pulling him back to his feet, though at least the headband provided some protection. He reached up to try to ease some of the pressure on his face as he felt a hand reach around to undo his fly and push down his jeans and boxers with little ceremony.
All of a sudden, that familiar-but-not voice was right at his ear.
"Think you did a good job?" it repeated.
Spitfire choked, sound going dead within his sore throat, fingers clawing futiley at the cool brick. One large hand held him spread as Nike pushed into him, slow but relentless. The burn of the stretch felt like it had to be too much, like something was going to tear, something was going to snap.
"...oh...." a gasp managed to rasp its way out, "...f-fuck... fuckfuck I can't- youfuck-"
"Yeah? So how did you do?" Finally finally -- he came to a rest, body once more flush against Spitfire's, but now also buried deep within him. "How did it feel? Did you slick me up enough?"
"...nngh... I... hardly think... i-it shou- shitshitshit..."
Words escaped him again at the harsh slide within him. It still hurt like a bitch, and he just knew that there would be blood at the end of this one, but the heat pulsing through his body, pooling in his groin and crackling all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes, seemed to burn the pain away. Or at least replace it with a new kind of pain -- as Nike's movements suddenly changed from pushes to thrusts, it felt like someone had set off sparklers in Spitfire's veins, the rush of arousal crackling through his entire body. With a loud moan, he managed to slip a hand between himself and the wall, feeling himself so hard, so close.
Somewhere in the daze of pushing back and finally moving with the body that was battering his, Spitfire felt hot breath move from the side of his neck to the front of his throat, his head still forced into its twisted position.
"Sora told me that you loved the headband thing."
With a curse, Spitfire grabbed desperately behind him, fingers at last finding purchase in long hair, hair that he knew was spilling to frame a face with a grin that shone in the moonlight. He arched back as Nike delivered his most vicious thrust yet, coming with a low, hoarse cry.
Time went a little fuzzy after that, tendrils of pain not coming to pull him back to reality until after Nike had finished and pulled out. Spitfire slumped forward against the wall, both pinned and supported by the heavy body at his back.
"You've got to be one of the dumbest motherfuckers I've ever known," Nike said.
And as Spitfire felt the weight lift from him and the presence disappear from the rooftop, he had to smile. He wondered if Nike would do differently if he knew that his surprises weren't such a surprise -- if he knew to what lengths Spitfire was willing to go to reclaim the flame that the dense thicket of Sleeping Forest tried to smother. Unfortunate as the loss of this would be, Spitfire hoped that Nike wouldn't be so "helpful" as to take yet another battle from him.
He pushed back his headband and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the moonlight. Then, he pulled up his pants and kicked off the brick wall, vanishing with a burst of flame.