Author's Notes: Still blocked but trying not to be.
Warnings: Homosexuality. Substance abuse and sex. Weird writing style. Un-beta'd.
Pairing: Ike/Marth.
Disclaimer: I don't own Super Smash Brothers.
Summary: Reality is never quite like the stories told. [Modern AU] -Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-
Ambient
By SSBBSwords
He wakes with his face molded into a pillow and a light comforter curving halfway to his wayward bangs. He is groggy enough to want to bury deeper into the covers so he attempts to do just that by turning beneath the blanket. He feels an unfamiliar twinge and soreness that suddenly reminds him just where he might be. Or not be.
He never actually intends to fall asleep or stay over. Nervously, he slowly maneuvers the comforter away and carefully props himself up on an elbow, hoping his movements are subtle enough not to disturb his bedmate.
The other side of the bed is empty. In fact, after the surprise melts away, he realizes he is positioned straight down the middle of the mattress and vaguely has to wonder where (and how) the young man from last night slept if he had taken up so much space.
He sits up gingerly and arranges the blanket neatly around his naked hips. Surveying the room, he notes his clothes folded in a lopsided pile on the desk. The polo still hangs abandoned on the chair and a corner of his mouth twitches.
The analog clock on the bedside table reads about 10:28 AM and his heart drops in shock.
He finds his cell phone cushioned on top of his clothes and he wonders when it had fallen out but ignores everything in order to double-check the time. It truly is about an hour and half from noon and he still cannot believe his body allowed him to sleep this long (and well).
He goes through the motions of showering and dressing mechanically, during which he sweeps a stray piece of lined paper from the desk. He picks it up to replace it but his eyes focus on the haphazardly-formed letters scrawled in permanent marker.
"Had to leave for class. Stay if you want. Lock the door if not."
Strangely enough, he wants to crawl back into bed again but he leaves the note behind and makes sure the locked apartment door is firmly closed behind him upon exit.
He realizes an hour too late that he never got around to purchasing liquor the other night. He pushes away from his computer screen for a moment to contemplate this issue. He is just getting a good flow of text going and does not plan to make attempts to sleep tonight, but something in him craves the strange bite and subtle burn of alcohol. The option of returning to the liquor store is automatically trashed because that is one encounter he did not want to repeat.
He could not allow that to ever happen again if all he is left with is a dreary deluge of derailed thoughts.
As his momentum for writing grinds to a stop, he decides to visit the bar for a drink—just one. Just so he can get his mind back on track.
He settles at the counter with a dry stout because he likes to imagine the man from that night likes beer over wine and coffee over tea. The liquid turns bitter when he realizes his mind just returned to memories of the other night. He has never been this distracted before and it's a maddening sensation. He wonders about every aspect of the individual without coming to any fulfilling conclusions. He can't help but scold himself for not perusing the contents of the guy's apartment before departure if he was just going to spend exorbitant amounts of time cycling through trivial, unanswered questions.
His reverie is shaken when someone sits next to him at the counter. They exchange one, two glances at each other and he is overcome with uneasiness that this newcomer is going to make him a proposition in a few minutes. A wave of anxiety washes through his core because he did not come here for this (did he? he didn't.) and he has not even an inkling of interest.
Knowing he has had a terrible track record with things like this, he removes himself from the situation as naturally as possible. He certainly doesn't want the stranger to be offended; perhaps he manages to come off as simply leaving due to work obligations in the morning. He tucks cash beneath his half-empty drink and returns home.
He lies in bed because he is tired but his mind works like a computer on algorithms. Yet all the calculated answers are wrong and all he wants is to fall asleep without the foreplay of aching frustration. So he tries something new. He lets his mind drift back to his last night of bliss and gratification and his hand follows that path right down his side, around his hip, and beneath the elastic of his sleepwear.
He wishes he knew the other's name because he wants to be able to use it in his fantasy but unfortunately, that is just something he has to do without. He supposes he shouldn't consider this a sexual fantasy if it is based off of previous experience.
His clothes are a complete hindrance so he shoves the offending material away so he can get better leverage. He grips himself tightly because he likes to think that's how he felt around the man's erection. Even with his eyes closed, he knows his body reacts in certain ways when nerves alight with arousal. His head tilts, his breathing hikes, and his hips begin to twist and rock in tandem with his hand once sufficiently lubricated. He wets his lips because he knows exactly how that changes the other's expression, causes pupil dilation, and induces an almost uncontrollable forward thrust. His outward sigh is reduced to a stutter.
His eyes open and it takes a moment for his sight to focus on the ceiling. This isn't working like he thought it would. He releases himself long enough to catch his breath and reassess his strategy. It takes longer to realize the solution but he isn't about to blame himself for slow thinking when all his blood is concentrated elsewhere.
He re-slicks his hand, less his palm and more his fingers, and tries again with improved success. When he comes, he comes with an intensity that rivals the actual act, followed by a haze of contentment and misery. He, however, falls asleep within the minute he finishes.
In the other room, his phone pings a singular text alert.
Ike: Thinking of you.
-tbc-