muse: dmitri [ champion mma fighter ] open to: m only / muses of color to the front! plot: just holiday shenanigans, chilling by the cozy fireplace. maybe some cuddling goes down, maybe more. can be friends to lovers, or exes trying to be 'friends', eheh~.
It was the perfect way to unwind after five punishing rounds, another grueling night spent proving why he was still the undisputed UFC Champion in his weight division. The ache in his muscles was a dull hum, his lean physique a tapestry of black bruises and exhaustion as he let himself collapse into the pool of furs sprawled across the cabin floor. The furs embraced him like a lover, warm and soft against his sore skin, inviting him to sink deeper, to surrender to the primal comfort they offered.
Across from him, his friend lay stretched out in similar manner, their presence a quiet balm in the heavy solitude of his cabin. Dmitri didnât mind sharing his space with those who mattered most. Sometimes, it was nice to have another heartbeat in the room, someone to anchor him while the adrenaline slowly drained from his veins.
The air smelled faintly of hot chocolate, rich and indulgent, mingling with the smoky crackle of the fireplace. Flickering flames cast golden shadows that danced across the warm, dimly-lit room. For a moment, Dmitri merely lingered there, soaking it all in... the heat, the sound, the simple fact that he didnât have to move.
But the stillness brought an ache of another kind, a craving that stirred deep and unwelcome. Maybe it was the painkillers loosening the sharp edges of his mind, or maybe it was the weariness of holding himself together for so long, but his body yearned for something softer than victory, something gentler than the roar of the crowd. He caught himself wanting to reach out, to brush his fingers against a shoulder, a hand----- anything to feel the kind of touch that didnât demand or bruise.
Instead, he swallowed the urge and cracked an eye open, glancing lazily at his companion. His voice, low and rough from exhaustion, cut through the comfortable silence.
âHey⌠you never told me what you wanted for Christmas.â
The words were casual, teasing, but his gaze lingered a fraction too long, tracing the lines of their relaxed posture. He already had a gift in mind, of course (heâd thought about it more than he should have) but the question wasnât entirely innocent. He wanted to draw them out, to learn if they had been thinking of him, too. The thought settled in his chest, restless and dangerous, as he waited for their answer.
"If you say a fucking boyfriend, I'm done with you."
