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chineseinkDrabble Request #9
For:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aka_anonymous
Fandom: Hikaru no Go
Pairing: Hikaru/Akira
Rating: PG
Line: “Don’t mind him; he left his sense of humor at home with his sense of style.”
Sartorial Disaster
539 words
Hikaru fisted his hands in Akira’s hair, breathing sharply through his nose, the cold morning air stinging his flushed skin. Days could rarely begin better than this, he thought remotely, the majority of his consciousness focused on the sharp flux of pleasure in his veins. Akira’s head moved gently underneath his hands, rhythmic, and Hikaru shifted over their sheets restlessly.
It was barely dawn and the air in their bedroom was cold, (always coldest before dawn), but neither of them felt it the bite as distinctly as they would have if they’d been alone. They generated their own heat, after all, together.
Together, thought Hikaru, arching into Akira and holding back a moan. Sometimes still a strange concept…
Then Akira moved his tongue and Hikaru cried out.
--
They rested, later, until the morning sun slipping in through the blinds was brighter, warmer. Then Hikaru decided, straddling Akira, that they weren’t quite done yet. There was a good hour before either of them had to be up and about. Time enough, he thought, blonde bangs falling forward as he leaned over his green-eyed lover.
--
“It’s eight-ten,” Akira commented, sprawled in a boneless heap across Hikaru.
“Ehh?” An exhausted mumble answered the six-dan, Hikaru slinging an arm over Akira’s pale shoulder.
“Don’t you have an interview at 8:30?”
There was a pause as Hikaru absorbed this. A few moments later, his eyes widened. “Oh shit!” he cursed, rolling sideways off the bed.
Akira watched him stumble toward the closet, frantically snatching at clean clothes. Even as Hikaru struggled into a shirt, Akira couldn’t help but admire the slim musculature that formed his lover. Hikaru, despite loving go, enjoyed being outdoors too, and soccer was a favored pastime.
All golden skin and mischievous smile was Hikaru, thought Akira. An intense fire wrapped in a compact body whose fingers knew experiences the world could only dream of. Go was the least of them. Hikaru’s exploration of Akira, a relationship neither of them had expected (but had not been surprised by), had caught the attention of the part of the nation that cared little of go.
Mine, Akira thought, remembering the fingers threaded through his hair. They can have him on the goban, but outside of go, he is mine.
Then he smiled to himself, watching Hikaru race out of the room towards the kitchen. Who else would want him?
--
Hikaru’s interview didn’t start well. Irritated at being forced to leave Akira (who was probably still lounging around the apartment, the lucky bastard), he’d snapped at the interviewer. A newbie, obviously, because she’d become flustered too easily.
“Maa, don’t mind him; he left his sense of humor at home with his sense of style.” The accompanying photographer was far more relaxed, comfortable enough in his 26 years of experience to tease Hikaru over his outfit.
Granted, a nice blue dress shirt didn’t exactly go well with the bright orange Las Vegas t-shirt he had on under it, or the loose black sweats that slouched over his lower half. But honestly, he groused, it wasn’t his fault. Who arranged for interviews this early on a Sunday?
“Y-you did,” stammered the interviewer.
--
Akira laughed out loud when he read that interview later.
--
Posted: 04.01.2005
--
Disclaimer: Not mine.
For:
aka_anonymousFandom: Hikaru no Go
Pairing: Hikaru/Akira
Rating: PG
Line: “Don’t mind him; he left his sense of humor at home with his sense of style.”
Sartorial Disaster
539 words
Hikaru fisted his hands in Akira’s hair, breathing sharply through his nose, the cold morning air stinging his flushed skin. Days could rarely begin better than this, he thought remotely, the majority of his consciousness focused on the sharp flux of pleasure in his veins. Akira’s head moved gently underneath his hands, rhythmic, and Hikaru shifted over their sheets restlessly.
It was barely dawn and the air in their bedroom was cold, (always coldest before dawn), but neither of them felt it the bite as distinctly as they would have if they’d been alone. They generated their own heat, after all, together.
Together, thought Hikaru, arching into Akira and holding back a moan. Sometimes still a strange concept…
Then Akira moved his tongue and Hikaru cried out.
--
They rested, later, until the morning sun slipping in through the blinds was brighter, warmer. Then Hikaru decided, straddling Akira, that they weren’t quite done yet. There was a good hour before either of them had to be up and about. Time enough, he thought, blonde bangs falling forward as he leaned over his green-eyed lover.
--
“It’s eight-ten,” Akira commented, sprawled in a boneless heap across Hikaru.
“Ehh?” An exhausted mumble answered the six-dan, Hikaru slinging an arm over Akira’s pale shoulder.
“Don’t you have an interview at 8:30?”
There was a pause as Hikaru absorbed this. A few moments later, his eyes widened. “Oh shit!” he cursed, rolling sideways off the bed.
Akira watched him stumble toward the closet, frantically snatching at clean clothes. Even as Hikaru struggled into a shirt, Akira couldn’t help but admire the slim musculature that formed his lover. Hikaru, despite loving go, enjoyed being outdoors too, and soccer was a favored pastime.
All golden skin and mischievous smile was Hikaru, thought Akira. An intense fire wrapped in a compact body whose fingers knew experiences the world could only dream of. Go was the least of them. Hikaru’s exploration of Akira, a relationship neither of them had expected (but had not been surprised by), had caught the attention of the part of the nation that cared little of go.
Mine, Akira thought, remembering the fingers threaded through his hair. They can have him on the goban, but outside of go, he is mine.
Then he smiled to himself, watching Hikaru race out of the room towards the kitchen. Who else would want him?
--
Hikaru’s interview didn’t start well. Irritated at being forced to leave Akira (who was probably still lounging around the apartment, the lucky bastard), he’d snapped at the interviewer. A newbie, obviously, because she’d become flustered too easily.
“Maa, don’t mind him; he left his sense of humor at home with his sense of style.” The accompanying photographer was far more relaxed, comfortable enough in his 26 years of experience to tease Hikaru over his outfit.
Granted, a nice blue dress shirt didn’t exactly go well with the bright orange Las Vegas t-shirt he had on under it, or the loose black sweats that slouched over his lower half. But honestly, he groused, it wasn’t his fault. Who arranged for interviews this early on a Sunday?
“Y-you did,” stammered the interviewer.
--
Akira laughed out loud when he read that interview later.
--
Posted: 04.01.2005
--
Disclaimer: Not mine.
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