[Akira had never once been one to take more than he was given, than he was offered. With how he had been raised and how he had shaped himself, he had been conscientious to a fault. With as keen an insight as he had into the hearts of others, as someone who found it almost easier to wear the feelings and see the perspectives of friends and family and strangers than to withdraw into his own, it had just been part and parcel. He had tempered his own wants, deflected the importance of his own needs. It'd made sense to do so. He had never meant as much to himself as those he cared about, and the thought of placing himself before them, of hurting them in any way with that intention, was abhorrent to him on the level of wounding.
He might've worried about it here, but he'd sensed too much truth behind Ryo's words, picking up both consciously and subconsciously to the clues attributed to tone of voice, expression, body language. There are no harsh lines or sharp angles to provide any sense of hesitation or caution to him as he folds into Ryo; he bends to meet him, willing and — what he has to perceive as wanting. As long as he'd known him, Ryo had never suffered less; if he had ever put up with something he would prefer not to, it had usually been to humor Akira, and even then his sour attitude about it was usually veiled in what stood to be one of his jokes, shared just between them. He sensed none of that now, though. Ryo had always preferred the brightness of flat truth to the warm glow of heartfelt sincerity, but even now he felt he could feel the flicker of it; it bloomed against his chest, where it rested over Ryo's own. Akira feels as though he's only sensed such a thing a few times in Ryo, always rare and ephemeral and under-developed before it disappears. But it always excites, thrilling him to his core, making him want to chase endlessly after it — something with which he could use as leverage to finally take Ryo firmly by the hand, pulling him to stand on completely equal ground and convince him of the things he had always denied.
He's been trying to encourage him to follow him down this road for over ten years now, and he's succeeded in some steps, lost a few others. All of that time had taught Akira patience, however. He's more than willing to play the long game. To him, Ryo is more than worth it.
Akira may have never been one to want to take more than he was given, but when Ryo replies to his wordless request with acquiesce and he returns to kiss him again, unabashed and with continually lessening restraint, he strongly feels himself having being given an inch and wanting to take it a mile. There had been something hot and bright and burning in the cage of his ribs and now it roars and it spreads, and he has to do what he can to contain it. He keeps it clasped tight between his hands, and he kisses Ryo with brazen inexperience that offered his heart in the same way; he only goes so far as to ascertain that Ryo was willing to follow, but even then — the taste of him, the soft mold of his lips, the exaggerated interval of his breath, it all keeps stoking the want in him, of everything, of anything, until it feels almost overpowering, pressing into the back of his skull like a base need.
He wants —
He has so rarely wanted anything before.
Ryo's fingers rake through his hair, running lines against his scalp; he responds at first in a low hum, and then as those fingers tighten to knot into his hair hold him to him, the sound deepens to something almost like a growl, resonant in the hollow of his throat. The hand that had once grazed Ryo's jaw moves to the back of his head, cradling it at the junction with his neck, idly taking note of how the buzzed hair had started to grow back slightly longer. With this slightly different vantage, he kisses him a little more aggressively, seeing to what extent he could be incited. His other hand seeks out the softness of his side, just below the sharp landmark of his ribs; he finds himself slightly annoyed and frustrated at the jumpsuit, not allowing passage that the hem of a shirt might. His hand continues, then, coming to rest splayed against the small of Ryo's back, his fingertips curling ever-so-slightly to give the impression at scratching at him, encouraging the bow of his back and the shifting of his body to meet Akira's as he fixes his posture (which had grown more and more awkward the further this continued). He unfolds himself from where he had been sitting, settling down to where he was far more comfortable, an elbow and a forearm supporting him over where he held Ryo beneath him. He tries to moderate his tempo, and it's evident enough from an occasional sharp increase in heat and intent which he soon leashes and returns, reminding himself that he is patient as he had learned to be, unwilling to budge in his conviction to not take anything more than what was offered.
But as straight-forward as he is, Akira has always been so easy to read.]
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He might've worried about it here, but he'd sensed too much truth behind Ryo's words, picking up both consciously and subconsciously to the clues attributed to tone of voice, expression, body language. There are no harsh lines or sharp angles to provide any sense of hesitation or caution to him as he folds into Ryo; he bends to meet him, willing and — what he has to perceive as wanting. As long as he'd known him, Ryo had never suffered less; if he had ever put up with something he would prefer not to, it had usually been to humor Akira, and even then his sour attitude about it was usually veiled in what stood to be one of his jokes, shared just between them. He sensed none of that now, though. Ryo had always preferred the brightness of flat truth to the warm glow of heartfelt sincerity, but even now he felt he could feel the flicker of it; it bloomed against his chest, where it rested over Ryo's own. Akira feels as though he's only sensed such a thing a few times in Ryo, always rare and ephemeral and under-developed before it disappears. But it always excites, thrilling him to his core, making him want to chase endlessly after it — something with which he could use as leverage to finally take Ryo firmly by the hand, pulling him to stand on completely equal ground and convince him of the things he had always denied.
He's been trying to encourage him to follow him down this road for over ten years now, and he's succeeded in some steps, lost a few others. All of that time had taught Akira patience, however. He's more than willing to play the long game. To him, Ryo is more than worth it.
Akira may have never been one to want to take more than he was given, but when Ryo replies to his wordless request with acquiesce and he returns to kiss him again, unabashed and with continually lessening restraint, he strongly feels himself having being given an inch and wanting to take it a mile. There had been something hot and bright and burning in the cage of his ribs and now it roars and it spreads, and he has to do what he can to contain it. He keeps it clasped tight between his hands, and he kisses Ryo with brazen inexperience that offered his heart in the same way; he only goes so far as to ascertain that Ryo was willing to follow, but even then — the taste of him, the soft mold of his lips, the exaggerated interval of his breath, it all keeps stoking the want in him, of everything, of anything, until it feels almost overpowering, pressing into the back of his skull like a base need.
He wants —
He has so rarely wanted anything before.
Ryo's fingers rake through his hair, running lines against his scalp; he responds at first in a low hum, and then as those fingers tighten to knot into his hair hold him to him, the sound deepens to something almost like a growl, resonant in the hollow of his throat. The hand that had once grazed Ryo's jaw moves to the back of his head, cradling it at the junction with his neck, idly taking note of how the buzzed hair had started to grow back slightly longer. With this slightly different vantage, he kisses him a little more aggressively, seeing to what extent he could be incited. His other hand seeks out the softness of his side, just below the sharp landmark of his ribs; he finds himself slightly annoyed and frustrated at the jumpsuit, not allowing passage that the hem of a shirt might. His hand continues, then, coming to rest splayed against the small of Ryo's back, his fingertips curling ever-so-slightly to give the impression at scratching at him, encouraging the bow of his back and the shifting of his body to meet Akira's as he fixes his posture (which had grown more and more awkward the further this continued). He unfolds himself from where he had been sitting, settling down to where he was far more comfortable, an elbow and a forearm supporting him over where he held Ryo beneath him. He tries to moderate his tempo, and it's evident enough from an occasional sharp increase in heat and intent which he soon leashes and returns, reminding himself that he is patient as he had learned to be, unwilling to budge in his conviction to not take anything more than what was offered.
But as straight-forward as he is, Akira has always been so easy to read.]