HI OP HERE so about the endurance x volition thing is that, to me, they're BOTH tops. And because of that and their pride they basically just circle each other like hyenas until either falters (won't happen) . Echem is there to throw rocks at them and yelling to "get over and fuck already." He's getting nothing out of it and does it for pure love of the game.
I have a lot more thoughts Abt em I might post someday. Poking them with sticks.
(Original post by @immortal-cataclysm )
https://www.tumblr.com/ninineen/823402378948755456?source=share
I wrote it. (kek) Not sure if this will be flagged as mature. enjoy.
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The chamber smells like iron left too long in the mouth. Heat without a window.
Two chairs facing each other and neither man sitting.
Volition stands crowned with his hands behind his back, which is a lie: the fingers are white where they lock. Endurance has rolled his shoulders once, body choosing between fight and fuck, and then he stopped moving on purpose. Stopped is his whole theology. He can outlast anything that blinks.
They have been doing this for a length of time the clock refuses to count.
"You first," Volition says, soft as a ruling.
Endurance's mouth twists wrong for a smile. "I don't go first."
"Then we remain."
"Then we remain."
Close enough that the dull heat off Endurance's chest hits the shell of Volition's composure and finds a seam. Close enough that Volition's breath — measured, insultingly even — lands on the hinge of Endurance's jaw. A hand lifts. Endurance's. It finds Volition's chin like a door already kicked once, thumb weighing whether to kick again. Under the jaw. Short of gentle. Short of cruelty he could excuse.
"Look at you," Endurance says, tilting the crowned head toward what little light the chamber keeps. "You've become a shell of your former self."
Volition does not tip his head back. He lets the thumb take the weight of him and answers into it, even as a sentence handed down. "You don't look so good yourself." A pause with teeth in it. "And yet here we are."
He tips into it, a fraction, and makes the hand work for the centimeter. Crown to forehead-line. Mouth almost at mouth.
The almost is the whole war. Both of them are hard with it — cocks and pride and the stupid animal under both — and neither will be the one who says please in a language the other can enter into evidence.
Endurance's other hand finds Volition's hip. Pins.
Volition's palm finds the wall of Endurance's chest and presses, holding the stalemate honest rather than shoving off.
Heat where they touch. A grind that starts as accident and continues as policy.
Breath goes ragged on both sides of the same second; both hear it; both refuse to own the sound.
"Yield," Volition says into the half-inch left between them, and it is not a request. Vocabulary trying to top.
"Make me," Endurance says, same crime, thicker in the throat, and he rolls his hips once, slow, exact — outlasting with a cock in it. Volition's composure cracks on a swallowed noise. Endurance feels the crack land in his palm like a win and does not take it. Taking it would be going first.
They hang there. Hyenas with full stomachs and empty hands. Circling without footwork. No kiss. No shove to the wall. They stay unfucked out of spite. Heat builds in the small muscles, then behind the teeth where the ending word lives.
From the cheap seats, small and delighted, a throat clears.
“oh my god,” Electrochemistry says from somewhere behind the ribs. “are you two STILL doing the hyena thing. there is a wall. there is a floor. there is a whole stretch of nowhere in this head and youre wasting it on pride. somebody put a dick in somebody. i am not picky. i am not even asking to watch. i am asking the species to move one (1) centimeter.”
Neither of them looks at him.
“hello. rock,” he says. throws a rock. “that was a metaphor but also if i could spawn gravel i would. GET OVER THERE AND FUCK ALREADY. youre both tops. congrats. the universe does not give out a medal for mutual refusal. it gives blue balls and a very long thursday.”
Volition's eye twitches. Endurance's grip on his chin tightens a half-degree — not yielding; weather on a building, the pest registered and left standing.
"Ignore him," Volition says.
"I always do," Endurance says.
Neither steps in. Neither steps out. The half-inch holds like a treaty neither of them has ever ratified soft.
“will you two just fuck already,” he says, louder now. “i am getting nothing out of this. do you get that. no hit. no drip. no little death. i am doing this for the love of the game and the game is bad and i am STILL here with a megaphone. crownhead. battery. someones mouth. someones cock. ANY of it. i will take a shoulder at this point. i will take air. i am brainrot with a job and my job is you two.”
He gets silence back, thick and heated.
In the quiet, Endurance's thumb strokes once — involuntary, damned — along the edge of Volition's jaw. Volition's fingers flex against his chest, catch on nothing but skin, fist almost, pull almost, stop.
The rock-thrower settles in the back row, all night and no dignity left to spend.
“take your time boys,” he says to no one. “ive got rocks for days.”
Outside the chamber, the body goes on breathing. Inside it, two tops hold the line, and the line holds them. Nothing yields but the air between their mouths, already tasting like the other man's want.
