Oxygen and Rust

Rufus/Reno. R. 100 words.
Rufus’s eyes glitter in harsh sunlight.

Rufus leans against his desk, legs crossed at the ankle. Neat, tidy, trying to be ice. His eyes glitter in harsh sunlight. Reno’s skin prickles.

“You’ll never learn, will you?” Rufus says, barely heard over the rasp of Reno’s breath, the pound of his blood. “When to quit.”

Reno has an answer–has one for everything–but Rufus’s fingertips skim down his face, trace lips licked wet. The way he touches everything he owns: possessively, never as detached as he likes to think.

He calls Rufus an asshole, but he’s still the one on his knees jerking off.


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