[If they were completely aware of the situation and what had happened, many would probably wonder why. Out of all of the people Ryo had come into contact with over the last ten years, of all of those people so brilliant and so well-connected, why had he chosen to go back to Japan? To find some no one kid in the middle of Tokyo, someone with no remarkable scores in academics, no considerable strength in athletics? It might seem like a mistake, some sort of sentimental misstep which would only hinder the cause he sought to accomplish. Akira had never quite seen it that way, though. It had been a surprise, sure, but as soon as he'd been swept up into Ryo's arms, driven away in the passenger seat of his car, had it explained to him what was going on and what they would need to do, it'd all seemed to click into place. Of course it would be him. Just as Ryo trusted in Akira, he found he trusted no one else in the world as easily as he did him. So he had agreed easily, leaving all other considerations and cautions behind, never once giving much credence to the internal questioning of, "why me?" Because he knew the answer.
He had only wished that he could've been of more use to Ryo, and then he had been given a body that could. Funny how things work out like that sometimes.
There are similar veins which run through this, the gradual escalation of physical intimacy, the rising of the heat between them, the somewhat dischordant crescendo of breath. He doesn't find questions or concerns tugging at him now, their tangling lines easily severed by truth which swelled in his chest, burned in his gut, pressed down against the bow of his shoulders like a thousand pounds of weight. It doesn't feel to him that something monumentous has suddenly shifted and changed. No, it feels more apt to say that they were now finally acknowledging a thread which connects them — one which they had been turning a blind eye to for so long it was difficult to know how long it had been there to start. And so it is a part of them, as individuals and also as they were drawn into one relationship, but yet it was also still so bright, so thrilling, so new.
Akira hums as Ryo's hands move to frame his face, the sound softer and gentler than others, fond and light; he slows in what he is doing at the attention, but only slightly. He isn't sure what it is about the way the touch moves across his face, the line of his jaw, the curve of his ear, the line of his neck — feather-light, fleeting, fully intentional — but it's crazily intimate to him, raising goosebumps along the back of his neck, causing his eyes to grow heavily-lidded and then close. He gives one more singular, warm laugh into the soft space beneath Ryo's jaw, and he jokingly mouths the word, "maybe," into a breath before continuing on.
He has been attentive, paying close attention. Akira had always been a poor student when it came to marks on tests, but he was a savant at reading people, and he wouldn't have even required such a skill to be able to take full note of the responses both he and Ryo gave to the touch of mouths, tongues, hands. Teeth. It's funny — it'd been an accident. A slight miscalculation, the product of still getting used to a body that was markedly different from the one he'd had for sixteen years in nearly every single way. But as the keen edge of his teeth skates along Ryo's skin and he feels him, all of him, waver beneath him, a crushed sound stopping against the cruel gates of lips and teeth, Akira slows. He stops, looking up from where he'd stooped to the tender flesh of his neck, looking at Ryo's face. For a brief moment he stares in the darkness, weighing what he could do and what he should do, feeling the hands sweeping along the broad planes of his back to rest at his shoulders, the bite of nails little more than an insinuation, though perhaps they were more of a promise.
Akira's hands move as he lowers his attention back to Ryo's neck. The hand at his back follows the line of his spine from just below his shoulder-blades towards the small of his back, sensing the tension and the sway to it, reinforcing the curve and allowing no space between them. The one resting at his nape moved to cup his face at the curve of his jaw, almost mimicking what had been done to him a few moments before. But Akira is no instrument made for delicacy or sublety; the movement is gentle yet flat in its simplicity, the fingers moving past the shell of his ear towards his hair, the meat of his thumb resting soft near the point of his chin. But here is where the intention deviates and becomes clear. His hand provides gentle pressure, faint encouragement, for his mouth to open — Akira demands nothing, insists on nothing, only ever moving to make request. If accepted, the pad of his thumb runs along the range of his teeth.
They had been cruel gates, after all. Frustrating. Akira had felt robbed. He wants it all, but he wants it given to him.
His mouth falls to kiss at Ryo's neck again, lips and tongue slow and languid, stretching out whatever tension he could make. And then he brings his teeth down into the soft, fair skin. He doesn't even do so with much force — certainly not enough to bruise, though the wicked points of his sharpened canines don't need very much at all to pierce such tender skin. He hadn't really anticipated that, nor the sensation of it, something which fans a flame riotous and primal, one which causes him to draw in a breath through his nose and immediately roll his hips against Ryo's, the movement fluid and purposeful. It's a fire that feeds itself. The need only grows, becomes sharp, becomes painful. It's with a sizable moan that he presses even closer to him, crushing him to his body, his tongue thick and hot as it passes over the torn skin. The taste of the blood beading there was also something he hadn't expected — the smell had always been sweet, but it's like honey in his mouth, one which marries the heat in the pit of his gut with the energy which pooled in need in his hips; they roll again against Ryo's, that need immediate, approaching the edge of desperation.]
no subject
He had only wished that he could've been of more use to Ryo, and then he had been given a body that could. Funny how things work out like that sometimes.
There are similar veins which run through this, the gradual escalation of physical intimacy, the rising of the heat between them, the somewhat dischordant crescendo of breath. He doesn't find questions or concerns tugging at him now, their tangling lines easily severed by truth which swelled in his chest, burned in his gut, pressed down against the bow of his shoulders like a thousand pounds of weight. It doesn't feel to him that something monumentous has suddenly shifted and changed. No, it feels more apt to say that they were now finally acknowledging a thread which connects them — one which they had been turning a blind eye to for so long it was difficult to know how long it had been there to start. And so it is a part of them, as individuals and also as they were drawn into one relationship, but yet it was also still so bright, so thrilling, so new.
Akira hums as Ryo's hands move to frame his face, the sound softer and gentler than others, fond and light; he slows in what he is doing at the attention, but only slightly. He isn't sure what it is about the way the touch moves across his face, the line of his jaw, the curve of his ear, the line of his neck — feather-light, fleeting, fully intentional — but it's crazily intimate to him, raising goosebumps along the back of his neck, causing his eyes to grow heavily-lidded and then close. He gives one more singular, warm laugh into the soft space beneath Ryo's jaw, and he jokingly mouths the word, "maybe," into a breath before continuing on.
He has been attentive, paying close attention. Akira had always been a poor student when it came to marks on tests, but he was a savant at reading people, and he wouldn't have even required such a skill to be able to take full note of the responses both he and Ryo gave to the touch of mouths, tongues, hands. Teeth. It's funny — it'd been an accident. A slight miscalculation, the product of still getting used to a body that was markedly different from the one he'd had for sixteen years in nearly every single way. But as the keen edge of his teeth skates along Ryo's skin and he feels him, all of him, waver beneath him, a crushed sound stopping against the cruel gates of lips and teeth, Akira slows. He stops, looking up from where he'd stooped to the tender flesh of his neck, looking at Ryo's face. For a brief moment he stares in the darkness, weighing what he could do and what he should do, feeling the hands sweeping along the broad planes of his back to rest at his shoulders, the bite of nails little more than an insinuation, though perhaps they were more of a promise.
Akira's hands move as he lowers his attention back to Ryo's neck. The hand at his back follows the line of his spine from just below his shoulder-blades towards the small of his back, sensing the tension and the sway to it, reinforcing the curve and allowing no space between them. The one resting at his nape moved to cup his face at the curve of his jaw, almost mimicking what had been done to him a few moments before. But Akira is no instrument made for delicacy or sublety; the movement is gentle yet flat in its simplicity, the fingers moving past the shell of his ear towards his hair, the meat of his thumb resting soft near the point of his chin. But here is where the intention deviates and becomes clear. His hand provides gentle pressure, faint encouragement, for his mouth to open — Akira demands nothing, insists on nothing, only ever moving to make request. If accepted, the pad of his thumb runs along the range of his teeth.
They had been cruel gates, after all. Frustrating. Akira had felt robbed. He wants it all, but he wants it given to him.
His mouth falls to kiss at Ryo's neck again, lips and tongue slow and languid, stretching out whatever tension he could make. And then he brings his teeth down into the soft, fair skin. He doesn't even do so with much force — certainly not enough to bruise, though the wicked points of his sharpened canines don't need very much at all to pierce such tender skin. He hadn't really anticipated that, nor the sensation of it, something which fans a flame riotous and primal, one which causes him to draw in a breath through his nose and immediately roll his hips against Ryo's, the movement fluid and purposeful. It's a fire that feeds itself. The need only grows, becomes sharp, becomes painful. It's with a sizable moan that he presses even closer to him, crushing him to his body, his tongue thick and hot as it passes over the torn skin. The taste of the blood beading there was also something he hadn't expected — the smell had always been sweet, but it's like honey in his mouth, one which marries the heat in the pit of his gut with the energy which pooled in need in his hips; they roll again against Ryo's, that need immediate, approaching the edge of desperation.]