[They were inverses, and stubborn ones — the simultaneous effect of a positive and a negative force trying to assert power over one another. Akira had brandished the dangerous tenderness of an openly-bared heart as an example and invitation to Ryo, always trying to convince him to let go of the seashell armor he had gathered up around him, hoping that the steadiness of a home and someone to care for him would wash away the cold and the brine he'd once felt matting his hair and crusting over his skin. Ryo had never succumbed to that argument, though he had faltered, and that had been enough for Akira. But each and every step of the way Ryo had struggled to impress upon him the foolishness of his so-called empathetic bravery, pointing out what would hurt him and seeking to excise potential threats when he refused to accept either change or distance. This essential difference within the both of them was immutable — it would always be there, to shape both them and their points of view. These fundamental differences would never act as lines of division between them because they originated from the same place — from the overwhelming importance placed in another person, coupled with instinct to protect and defend that which they held most dear. This would only ever draw them back to one another, like the incessant magnetic pull of the poles or the slow cosmic draw of the oceans to the moon.
It was always like that: a push and pull, of words and intent, of actions and reactions. Just as there was no word Ryo said that went unconsidered by Akira, there was no subsequent guiding motion he performed that didn't go without its proper response. They worked together in equal parts to rid him of the jumpsuit, mutually rewarded by the sweep of Akira's hands over the newly-bared skin, the way Ryo's body shuddered beneath his palms at the touch. He would never have gone this far, to settle alongside Ryo with little more than heat and tempered impatience between them, if he had experienced anything else but nearly reckless enthusiasm, in word and voice and etched into every movement of his body. Regardless of what the beast grafted into each and every one of his cells demanded of him, he would've been able to contain it, but as it is — with Ryo's blood seeming to rush just as hot as his own, his breaths echoing in similar discordance, the sweep of his eyelashes hiding a similar level of liquid desire, well. It only turns him on even more, but fortunately it seems matched and met in Ryo, palpable even when his hands aren't directly on him, thick on his tongue even with it kept behind his teeth. He reads it in him the way he would anything else.
Ryo has always been calm, collected, fastidious. It paints his every decision, as it carries over into motion, and it does so in a way that Akira can't even find himself aggravated with because it's so him, that to insist otherwise would be to deface his agency. The shaping of his fingers through the fabric was so slow he could count it with his racing heartbeats, could count it with the breaths that scraped their way up and down his trachea, anticipating what they promised, yearning so much for it that it nearly pressed pleas into his mouth. But, no, sometimes when he was like this, Ryo merely needed a push, and that's what Akira's brusque actions were — where Ryo would weigh and consider his action, constructing it in his mind so that he could perfectly see the outcome before he even sought to enact it, Akira followed his gut. It usually had mixed results. And here it's the same. As his hand had forged its way insistently downward, he leaned in closer, his head ever-so-slightly angled, keeping a seemingly-promised kiss withheld in a vague echo of Ryo's hand against him, though the difference was in his own. His heart gives a sharp hammer as his body reacts to the sudden stroke of his hand; he surges forward to be able to ride this reaction, mouth opening to catch the round of Ryo's bottom lip gently in his teeth at the same moment the gasp broke over them, impressing his ownership over it — though there is a low groan in the back of his throat as Ryo's fingers reflexively curl around him.
It's short-lived. He releases Ryo's lip as soon as that pressure moves away (there's no taste of blood), as soon as the familiarity of the sound of his voice to when he'd broken the skin of his neck with his teeth. That — hadn't been his intention. He's lost for a moment, confused, separating enough from Ryo so that he could see him lift his hand towards himself, presenting the palm. He seems borderline baffled as he draws his tongue up the breadth of his hand (though he can't deny reading the lasciviousness of the action, his breath forming a warm bloom between them as his eyes caught the way his fingers curled into his mouth). He doesn't stop moving at this, though he's keenly aware of the crack of his voice around the shelf of his fingers, the way that his body leaps when the drag of his fingers grow faint enough to only serve as a distant reminder of what they had just done. No, he finally understands when Ryo's hand falls past his waist once more, not distracted from mirroring what he had done just moments prior. His mouth drops open another small increment as his hand bypasses the border of fabric and wraps, warm and slick, around his cock, the movements still characteristically measured but feeling utterly licentious with how easy it is — every ministration before this had been so slow, so tantalizing, so formless and ephemeral, it had stretched out his anticipation to the breaking point of this moment. The spread of his thumb upwards, bare and wet over the head, causes what remainder of air in his lungs to leave him in a low moan; the sensation of that, of the tempo that Ryo's hand begins to find over him — it knocks away everything else, and he can't stop himself from pressing his hips forward slightly into the touch, almost greedy now that what he had yearned for had been given.
But — on the heels of the pleasure thrumming up along the highway of his spine to crash into the base of his skull, he's — frustrated. His mouth closes with a faintly audible click of his jaws, and he removes his hand from Ryo, lifting it up towards him as he ducks his head. There's none of the measured salaciousness, no artistry or form to it. He is all speed and function as he mimics Ryo yet again, his tongue rasping over his palm and the undersides of his fingers. He wastes no time, reaching once more past the interfering boundary of cloth, but then he changes tact, like a train changing its track — his movements become a bit slower, a bit more careful, first little more than the light press of his fingertips as the rough of his palm pass slick over the head of his cock, slowly rotating his hand so that it passed through the gap formed in the curl of his thumb and forefinger, coupled with the pressure of the purlicue of his hand and the meat of his thumb. He strokes him once, slowly and carefully, looking to find a similar ease with the additional wetness. As he does this he angles his head upward, not lifting it but instead pressing his open mouth to Ryo's throat, his tongue running over the shape of his Adam's apple, the ever-so-slight drag of his lower teeth following. They are somewhat discordant, the roughness of that kiss and how methodical the movement of his hand is, but they follow the same tempo for a few beats. Then he lifts his head once more, distributing a single, fleeting kiss to the line of his jaw before returning to where their lips were so close they might nearly touch, though for now all Akira does is bring the rough, affected presence of his breathing to that infinitesimal space, his gaze flicking upwards through heavy eyelashes to capture his own.]
no subject
It was always like that: a push and pull, of words and intent, of actions and reactions. Just as there was no word Ryo said that went unconsidered by Akira, there was no subsequent guiding motion he performed that didn't go without its proper response. They worked together in equal parts to rid him of the jumpsuit, mutually rewarded by the sweep of Akira's hands over the newly-bared skin, the way Ryo's body shuddered beneath his palms at the touch. He would never have gone this far, to settle alongside Ryo with little more than heat and tempered impatience between them, if he had experienced anything else but nearly reckless enthusiasm, in word and voice and etched into every movement of his body. Regardless of what the beast grafted into each and every one of his cells demanded of him, he would've been able to contain it, but as it is — with Ryo's blood seeming to rush just as hot as his own, his breaths echoing in similar discordance, the sweep of his eyelashes hiding a similar level of liquid desire, well. It only turns him on even more, but fortunately it seems matched and met in Ryo, palpable even when his hands aren't directly on him, thick on his tongue even with it kept behind his teeth. He reads it in him the way he would anything else.
Ryo has always been calm, collected, fastidious. It paints his every decision, as it carries over into motion, and it does so in a way that Akira can't even find himself aggravated with because it's so him, that to insist otherwise would be to deface his agency. The shaping of his fingers through the fabric was so slow he could count it with his racing heartbeats, could count it with the breaths that scraped their way up and down his trachea, anticipating what they promised, yearning so much for it that it nearly pressed pleas into his mouth. But, no, sometimes when he was like this, Ryo merely needed a push, and that's what Akira's brusque actions were — where Ryo would weigh and consider his action, constructing it in his mind so that he could perfectly see the outcome before he even sought to enact it, Akira followed his gut. It usually had mixed results. And here it's the same. As his hand had forged its way insistently downward, he leaned in closer, his head ever-so-slightly angled, keeping a seemingly-promised kiss withheld in a vague echo of Ryo's hand against him, though the difference was in his own. His heart gives a sharp hammer as his body reacts to the sudden stroke of his hand; he surges forward to be able to ride this reaction, mouth opening to catch the round of Ryo's bottom lip gently in his teeth at the same moment the gasp broke over them, impressing his ownership over it — though there is a low groan in the back of his throat as Ryo's fingers reflexively curl around him.
It's short-lived. He releases Ryo's lip as soon as that pressure moves away (there's no taste of blood), as soon as the familiarity of the sound of his voice to when he'd broken the skin of his neck with his teeth. That — hadn't been his intention. He's lost for a moment, confused, separating enough from Ryo so that he could see him lift his hand towards himself, presenting the palm. He seems borderline baffled as he draws his tongue up the breadth of his hand (though he can't deny reading the lasciviousness of the action, his breath forming a warm bloom between them as his eyes caught the way his fingers curled into his mouth). He doesn't stop moving at this, though he's keenly aware of the crack of his voice around the shelf of his fingers, the way that his body leaps when the drag of his fingers grow faint enough to only serve as a distant reminder of what they had just done. No, he finally understands when Ryo's hand falls past his waist once more, not distracted from mirroring what he had done just moments prior. His mouth drops open another small increment as his hand bypasses the border of fabric and wraps, warm and slick, around his cock, the movements still characteristically measured but feeling utterly licentious with how easy it is — every ministration before this had been so slow, so tantalizing, so formless and ephemeral, it had stretched out his anticipation to the breaking point of this moment. The spread of his thumb upwards, bare and wet over the head, causes what remainder of air in his lungs to leave him in a low moan; the sensation of that, of the tempo that Ryo's hand begins to find over him — it knocks away everything else, and he can't stop himself from pressing his hips forward slightly into the touch, almost greedy now that what he had yearned for had been given.
But — on the heels of the pleasure thrumming up along the highway of his spine to crash into the base of his skull, he's — frustrated. His mouth closes with a faintly audible click of his jaws, and he removes his hand from Ryo, lifting it up towards him as he ducks his head. There's none of the measured salaciousness, no artistry or form to it. He is all speed and function as he mimics Ryo yet again, his tongue rasping over his palm and the undersides of his fingers. He wastes no time, reaching once more past the interfering boundary of cloth, but then he changes tact, like a train changing its track — his movements become a bit slower, a bit more careful, first little more than the light press of his fingertips as the rough of his palm pass slick over the head of his cock, slowly rotating his hand so that it passed through the gap formed in the curl of his thumb and forefinger, coupled with the pressure of the purlicue of his hand and the meat of his thumb. He strokes him once, slowly and carefully, looking to find a similar ease with the additional wetness. As he does this he angles his head upward, not lifting it but instead pressing his open mouth to Ryo's throat, his tongue running over the shape of his Adam's apple, the ever-so-slight drag of his lower teeth following. They are somewhat discordant, the roughness of that kiss and how methodical the movement of his hand is, but they follow the same tempo for a few beats. Then he lifts his head once more, distributing a single, fleeting kiss to the line of his jaw before returning to where their lips were so close they might nearly touch, though for now all Akira does is bring the rough, affected presence of his breathing to that infinitesimal space, his gaze flicking upwards through heavy eyelashes to capture his own.]