The smoothness of his expressions, the webbing of words. Ryo Asuka, pristine and perfect in all the ways that counted to all that viewed him like the reflection of the moon across the ocean. He was a cold, wan light. He did not encourage the unfurling of petals to himself, the stretch of green and guileless bodies. But, Akira had rowed through the distance between himself and the opposing shore, dipped his hands into the waters of his silence and held him as much as he could hold him, the surface of him rippling and transmuting like rivers of molten silver. No matter how far away Ryo was, it was Akira that bound him to the soil of his skin, the careful body of his words. In rare moments, where Ryo still could not peel away all that separated him from Akira like so many veils, his touches would bleed into him, change him in ways he could not understand or did not wish to.
But, he had changed. He had transformed into something new, something different under the persuasion of Akira's empathy, tenderness. His thoughts, forever centralized on him without admitting why, focus still upon Akira now. He watches as each, small gesture unravels and unwinds. He observes and knows as he pieces him apart.
Humans are expressive in ways they have no understanding of. A point of contact is a request, a command — a lie. Thousands and thousands of years of language formulation, threaded into flesh and sinew. Even now, though Ryo believes not at all in love, there's a warmth and devotion that suffuses in the scant spaces between as Akira pleas in a tongue that's more animal than human, but human even so. Ryo's eyes, though he has no knowledge of it, are dark and transfixed as he pulls for more with the press of his thumb, the calloused pad of his index finger. He coaxes Akira through the throes his body casts over him, his assurances silent and secreted in the way his breaths ache at each grey shadow between the valleys of his ribs. It's okay, he wants to say. And he does, in the way he watches him — in the way he keeps close. For all the clear longing and wanting in Akira's eyes — the reflection he receives in response is bright and hot. No matter what Ryo thinks and feels he knows, there's a tangled stream of emotion that wells up, like sand stirred at the bottom of the ocean. No matter how knotted, there's something indefinable and inchoate that rests there, a steady constant in the background of it all. It's a hungry and desirous thing, both possessive and protective. He has no name for it, because there is no name for it.
That's what he's always believed. That's what he's always thought, as Akira's voice rises hoarse and low in the aftermath. His name shapes itself as a need on Akira's tongue and Ryo shivers at the sudden movement of his palm. There's a languidness in this now, a natural exhaustion in the sound you too.
You too, he says. You too. ]
Yeah, [ he breathes, the syllables stretched and scattering. It hitches up in his throat, his lashes fluttering. Recognition of agreement falls long moments after, along with the soft exhalation of Akira's name. It's something he can't retrieve, lost now to the heavy buzz of quiet.
There's no definitive point of clarity, no momentous rush of understanding. Akira had been his only concern, his only focus through all of this. Akira had been — the insistence burns along his skin, brushes through him like the lick of ocean salt at scraped knees. He remembers, vaguely, the way it dappled the slow wash of waves in the color of his blood. He remembers, more clearly, the way Akira had pressed his hand into his. How many times had they done that in their youth? How many occasions had he found himself drawn inexorably into Akira's orbit, a pale satellite to all that he was? How long had Akira discerned more about Ryo than Ryo himself?
Words fragment in his mouth, crumble like seashells along the shore. His hand unfurls like the pale caps of waves, slick with all that he's taken from him. He fumbles for the curvature of his hip, tries to form anything at all, but the sounds constellate across his tongue and fall shallow and soft against the sheets, flickering and fleeting like tidal pools. It doesn't come at all once — build all at once. But, it's his voice and his touch — the relentless and gentle stimuli that presses into him like a current until there's nothing he can take anymore.
Something fragile in him lets go. It takes any thought with it, a sudden and consuming roar of sensation that pulls together and then pulls apart. It quarters down the length of his body, reaches out. It sears through to the very edges of him, presses out through his fingertips. Every muscle trembles and tightens — a static surge of sound swallowing up the start of a word, a phrase. It frays into a gasp, thin and high.
He doesn't know when he's closed his eyes, as much as he knows when he opens them his chest is heaving and his body is hot — that something and everything in him has fractured into raw and vulnerable shards. Akira's hand is almost too much, erring into over-stimulation. He shudders and curls into it, the stickiness of his cum caught up against the rough of Akira's fingers, the flat plain of his own stomach. He blinks, once, as something prickles at the back of his eyes — fades, in the next moment as he seeks out Akira through the dimness.
He doesn't know what compels him in the long stretch after, only that he wants. He doesn't think about how the sheets stick to his skin, how the chemical rush folds under his skin like a leaden fog. He doesn't think about about the whys, his mind still and silent as he presses his lips to what skin he can reach first, graceless and lingering.
He thinks instead of how he can hear his own heart, timed to the rough pull of Akira's breath. ]
no subject
The smoothness of his expressions, the webbing of words. Ryo Asuka, pristine and perfect in all the ways that counted to all that viewed him like the reflection of the moon across the ocean. He was a cold, wan light. He did not encourage the unfurling of petals to himself, the stretch of green and guileless bodies. But, Akira had rowed through the distance between himself and the opposing shore, dipped his hands into the waters of his silence and held him as much as he could hold him, the surface of him rippling and transmuting like rivers of molten silver. No matter how far away Ryo was, it was Akira that bound him to the soil of his skin, the careful body of his words. In rare moments, where Ryo still could not peel away all that separated him from Akira like so many veils, his touches would bleed into him, change him in ways he could not understand or did not wish to.
But, he had changed. He had transformed into something new, something different under the persuasion of Akira's empathy, tenderness. His thoughts, forever centralized on him without admitting why, focus still upon Akira now. He watches as each, small gesture unravels and unwinds. He observes and knows as he pieces him apart.
Humans are expressive in ways they have no understanding of. A point of contact is a request, a command — a lie. Thousands and thousands of years of language formulation, threaded into flesh and sinew. Even now, though Ryo believes not at all in love, there's a warmth and devotion that suffuses in the scant spaces between as Akira pleas in a tongue that's more animal than human, but human even so. Ryo's eyes, though he has no knowledge of it, are dark and transfixed as he pulls for more with the press of his thumb, the calloused pad of his index finger. He coaxes Akira through the throes his body casts over him, his assurances silent and secreted in the way his breaths ache at each grey shadow between the valleys of his ribs. It's okay, he wants to say. And he does, in the way he watches him — in the way he keeps close. For all the clear longing and wanting in Akira's eyes — the reflection he receives in response is bright and hot. No matter what Ryo thinks and feels he knows, there's a tangled stream of emotion that wells up, like sand stirred at the bottom of the ocean. No matter how knotted, there's something indefinable and inchoate that rests there, a steady constant in the background of it all. It's a hungry and desirous thing, both possessive and protective. He has no name for it, because there is no name for it.
That's what he's always believed. That's what he's always thought, as Akira's voice rises hoarse and low in the aftermath. His name shapes itself as a need on Akira's tongue and Ryo shivers at the sudden movement of his palm. There's a languidness in this now, a natural exhaustion in the sound you too.
You too, he says. You too. ]
Yeah, [ he breathes, the syllables stretched and scattering. It hitches up in his throat, his lashes fluttering. Recognition of agreement falls long moments after, along with the soft exhalation of Akira's name. It's something he can't retrieve, lost now to the heavy buzz of quiet.
There's no definitive point of clarity, no momentous rush of understanding. Akira had been his only concern, his only focus through all of this. Akira had been — the insistence burns along his skin, brushes through him like the lick of ocean salt at scraped knees. He remembers, vaguely, the way it dappled the slow wash of waves in the color of his blood. He remembers, more clearly, the way Akira had pressed his hand into his. How many times had they done that in their youth? How many occasions had he found himself drawn inexorably into Akira's orbit, a pale satellite to all that he was? How long had Akira discerned more about Ryo than Ryo himself?
Words fragment in his mouth, crumble like seashells along the shore. His hand unfurls like the pale caps of waves, slick with all that he's taken from him. He fumbles for the curvature of his hip, tries to form anything at all, but the sounds constellate across his tongue and fall shallow and soft against the sheets, flickering and fleeting like tidal pools. It doesn't come at all once — build all at once. But, it's his voice and his touch — the relentless and gentle stimuli that presses into him like a current until there's nothing he can take anymore.
Something fragile in him lets go. It takes any thought with it, a sudden and consuming roar of sensation that pulls together and then pulls apart. It quarters down the length of his body, reaches out. It sears through to the very edges of him, presses out through his fingertips. Every muscle trembles and tightens — a static surge of sound swallowing up the start of a word, a phrase. It frays into a gasp, thin and high.
He doesn't know when he's closed his eyes, as much as he knows when he opens them his chest is heaving and his body is hot — that something and everything in him has fractured into raw and vulnerable shards. Akira's hand is almost too much, erring into over-stimulation. He shudders and curls into it, the stickiness of his cum caught up against the rough of Akira's fingers, the flat plain of his own stomach. He blinks, once, as something prickles at the back of his eyes — fades, in the next moment as he seeks out Akira through the dimness.
He doesn't know what compels him in the long stretch after, only that he wants. He doesn't think about how the sheets stick to his skin, how the chemical rush folds under his skin like a leaden fog. He doesn't think about about the whys, his mind still and silent as he presses his lips to what skin he can reach first, graceless and lingering.
He thinks instead of how he can hear his own heart, timed to the rough pull of Akira's breath. ]