[He learned quickly not to underestimate the sway that this had over him — of Ryo and the context and the electric atmosphere of mutual desire and of everything else. What's more notable for Akira, however, is that it stands apart from even what he deals with with his hybrid existence at its default. That had been something else entirely he had had to slowly unravel, the way that he seemed to naturally intertwine sexuality with violence, and violence with — any number of things. Anger (self-righteous or otherwise), grief, boredom. Though these two factors had certainly existed to him beforehand, they had become undeniably impossible to ignore after he'd gained his body. His path to learning how best to handle it had been a troubled one, marked on both sides with plenty of trial and failure, but he'd thought he'd figured out at least some manner of giving himself the best position for self-control.
But then there's Ryo.
He makes all of that nearly impossible. An intrinsic characteristic of the guy is that he is constantly aware of where the metaphorical line exists, but then he also routinely pushes past it to either make a point or simply demonstrate that he can (or sometimes both). With the way things usually go, Akira knows he has no defenses against this; he is very easy to guide, especially when there is the offered promise of outlet for the sharp imperative of what was incited. He just knows that when the energy which existed between them shifted into this particular tone, there were only a few select outcomes, and he wasn't necessarily to opposed to any of them.
They had never necessarily discussed it with the level of clarity that others might expect, this different permutation that their relationship had taken. He had never asked certain questions he might want the answer to because he had already felt that Ryo wouldn't be able to provide an answer that would feel right to him. It was more than just two friends using one another for a mutually-assured benefit, regardless of how easy that might be to claim. There was a layer down below that artifice that Akira believed he caught glimpses of, but never enough to see the full shape of it. But the longer they were to one another what they were now, the more he felt he could comprehend. There are many things that fray his patience, but in this, he is unhurried, unbothered. Ryo has always been different, requiring a unique sort of handling. In this, he does the same.
Akira's breath leaves him in a noisy rush, the sound of his voice pressed through Ryo's affected tones sweeping like a wave throughout his body, the path similar to the way his hands had moved purposefully along his back. He is constant in his movement, even if it's minute, but there is a noticeable shiver that runs through him at this, lapsing over into his attention drawn from where he had haphazardly placed it (always to the first thing that came to mind). He doesn't like Ryo's hands leaving him, even when it's a necessity. He also — is unsure of this, this sort of game that Ryo seems to play, something that confuses him more than aggravates him. It's a lie so pale and transparent held up to the bright, unwavering light of his marked interest and steady arousal that he questions the usefulness of it, but it's not something he questions, especially when he knows how quickly it falls away. It simply goes to show how well Ryo knows how to engineer from him what he wants: it's a sharp wound in the side of what little patience he has, fanning flames that truthfully didn't need any additional help, planting the seeds for what would be necessary to remove such falsified inhibitions as quickly as possible. It's why he doesn't question it. Perhaps subconsciously Akira understands all of this, knows the reason why he simply plays along with it is because he enjoys the ruthless clarity of intent that it often evokes. Something which only continues to narrow, the full of his body made aware of the shiver running through Ryo below him, causing him to ache against the restraints of their pace.
Let me— and he does, actually sitting up and away from Ryo a short distance as he allows him the space and the time to work the shirt away from him and over his head, and he does this because Akira is doing the same. Though he is far more brusque, two hands at his shirt's hem only a moment before he pulls it off and tosses it over his shoulder into the darkness of the room, returning his attention to where Ryo stands out against the dimness, pale and tense and wanting. The broad, faintly rough span of Akira's hands traces up from the tender planes of his stomach to the delicate construction of his sternum and shoulders all as Akira returns to rest warm and flush against him. He ends up with his forearms settled against the bed, framing Ryo's head, elbows biting divots into the landscape of the mattress above his back. His face looms a few inches over, lips carved into a slow smile, his hands absentmindedly threading through the long waves that his hair was growing out into.
He bends down to kiss him, and there's a silent statement of tender intimacy to it for just a second, but the tone alters quickly as his tongue swipes hot and quick across Ryo's lips, seeking the border of his teeth, the slick of his tongue, the taste of his mouth. Ryo's gambit a few short moments beforehand had paid off: there's an impatience baked into his actions, one which shows its nature the more he sinks into them. The restlessness returns to take up residence along the length of his spine. Perhaps he could have argued to someone else in a different situation that the slight surge and retreat of his body over his, paired with the particular placement and distribution of his weight, that it was accidental or not necessarily thought-out.
But that would be lying, and it's something he's not necessarily great at doing.]
no subject
But then there's Ryo.
He makes all of that nearly impossible. An intrinsic characteristic of the guy is that he is constantly aware of where the metaphorical line exists, but then he also routinely pushes past it to either make a point or simply demonstrate that he can (or sometimes both). With the way things usually go, Akira knows he has no defenses against this; he is very easy to guide, especially when there is the offered promise of outlet for the sharp imperative of what was incited. He just knows that when the energy which existed between them shifted into this particular tone, there were only a few select outcomes, and he wasn't necessarily to opposed to any of them.
They had never necessarily discussed it with the level of clarity that others might expect, this different permutation that their relationship had taken. He had never asked certain questions he might want the answer to because he had already felt that Ryo wouldn't be able to provide an answer that would feel right to him. It was more than just two friends using one another for a mutually-assured benefit, regardless of how easy that might be to claim. There was a layer down below that artifice that Akira believed he caught glimpses of, but never enough to see the full shape of it. But the longer they were to one another what they were now, the more he felt he could comprehend. There are many things that fray his patience, but in this, he is unhurried, unbothered. Ryo has always been different, requiring a unique sort of handling. In this, he does the same.
Akira's breath leaves him in a noisy rush, the sound of his voice pressed through Ryo's affected tones sweeping like a wave throughout his body, the path similar to the way his hands had moved purposefully along his back. He is constant in his movement, even if it's minute, but there is a noticeable shiver that runs through him at this, lapsing over into his attention drawn from where he had haphazardly placed it (always to the first thing that came to mind). He doesn't like Ryo's hands leaving him, even when it's a necessity. He also — is unsure of this, this sort of game that Ryo seems to play, something that confuses him more than aggravates him. It's a lie so pale and transparent held up to the bright, unwavering light of his marked interest and steady arousal that he questions the usefulness of it, but it's not something he questions, especially when he knows how quickly it falls away. It simply goes to show how well Ryo knows how to engineer from him what he wants: it's a sharp wound in the side of what little patience he has, fanning flames that truthfully didn't need any additional help, planting the seeds for what would be necessary to remove such falsified inhibitions as quickly as possible. It's why he doesn't question it. Perhaps subconsciously Akira understands all of this, knows the reason why he simply plays along with it is because he enjoys the ruthless clarity of intent that it often evokes. Something which only continues to narrow, the full of his body made aware of the shiver running through Ryo below him, causing him to ache against the restraints of their pace.
Let me— and he does, actually sitting up and away from Ryo a short distance as he allows him the space and the time to work the shirt away from him and over his head, and he does this because Akira is doing the same. Though he is far more brusque, two hands at his shirt's hem only a moment before he pulls it off and tosses it over his shoulder into the darkness of the room, returning his attention to where Ryo stands out against the dimness, pale and tense and wanting. The broad, faintly rough span of Akira's hands traces up from the tender planes of his stomach to the delicate construction of his sternum and shoulders all as Akira returns to rest warm and flush against him. He ends up with his forearms settled against the bed, framing Ryo's head, elbows biting divots into the landscape of the mattress above his back. His face looms a few inches over, lips carved into a slow smile, his hands absentmindedly threading through the long waves that his hair was growing out into.
He bends down to kiss him, and there's a silent statement of tender intimacy to it for just a second, but the tone alters quickly as his tongue swipes hot and quick across Ryo's lips, seeking the border of his teeth, the slick of his tongue, the taste of his mouth. Ryo's gambit a few short moments beforehand had paid off: there's an impatience baked into his actions, one which shows its nature the more he sinks into them. The restlessness returns to take up residence along the length of his spine. Perhaps he could have argued to someone else in a different situation that the slight surge and retreat of his body over his, paired with the particular placement and distribution of his weight, that it was accidental or not necessarily thought-out.
But that would be lying, and it's something he's not necessarily great at doing.]