[ Akira had always been the only one to consider him.
And so, Akira had been the only person Ryo'd ever considered at all. Akira, in all his presumed unremarkable nature, was the least unremarkable of all. Socially, personally, it shouldn't have been that way according to his image, appearance. He shouldn't have been close enough to feel even the barest brush of Ryo's attention, but Akira had always had it all. And Ryo had never questioned it, even if others would. Akira was every kind and delicate thing that Ryo was not. He was playful and inquisitive, genuine in his expressions. He was the only person who had ever cried for him, a child who knew nothing of himself and still knows nothing at all. But, Ryo had always wanted to keep him close. He had always wanted to shield him from all that would harm him — by the box-cutter in his hand as children, the use of his fists. He still remembers the small sun of Akira's relief when Ryo had "found" his shoes in the pile of those who had bullied him, his scraped knuckles and bruised palms tucked behind his back. He still recalls the way he'd pulled Akira into his arms after the conclusion of years, the muzzle of his gun still smoking at the docks. He'd kept it crossed against them, an additional warn to those who would have pulled him from him.
His body had been different then, but he is still Akira even now as Ryo feels out the way Akira's body responds to each touch. As his eyes start to adjust, he can make out the gray of his angles, softened as Akira hums. He can feel the rise of gooseflesh across the back of Akira's neck as his fingers move. He can feel the fan of his breath, the shape of his laugh, the seared impression of a facetious "maybe," written into his skin.
He needed Akira. He'd always needed him, even if that thought won't be pulled to the surface by the wake of Akira's kisses, the trail of his nails in echo of Ryo's earlier explorations. Ryo had needed him since he'd washed ashore, an integral and answering part of him that (if pulled) would tear apart the already crumbling foundations. Akira Fudo was like ivy, so deeply embedded in the mortar of what made Ryo Asuka what he was that the absence of Akira was the absence of all that Ryo Asuka could be or ever was. It's an odd and unknowable ache that roots behind his ribs as Akira pauses in the aftermath of nails against his back — the test of teeth against his throat in fumbling error.
He knows what Akira is putting together. He knows it as soon as he feels the weight of his eyes on him, the way his skin prickles from the sudden lack of contact. The air of the room is cooler than the brush of Akira's lips and Ryo reflexively shivers from the sudden fluctuation, the directive glide of Akira's rougher palm across his nape and across his jaw. But, some truths are more difficult and some truths are more acceptable and Ryo finds a tendril of hesitation in himself before he relents to the pressure of Akira's thumb. He lets Akira feel the swell of his lip, the border of his teeth. He'd tried to keep to himself the contradictory vocalizations that rose up in him, the faceted reasons he couldn't explain (or wouldn't) tangled up within it. He minds himself to curb them, even as Akira takes the knowledge he is given like a flame to the cast of complexity, the way forward in the dark.
Humans work within the realm of reward, of consequence. Akira tests the bounds of it with the slow pass of his lips and tongue again across the tender flesh of his neck, bared to him without thought. For all those favorable reactions, they craved it until there was no room for more. They took their fill of it, as Akira takes his fill of it and Ryo lets him, the first burst of pain like a low chord struck. It strings through the whole of him, washes each thought out with a physiological insistence — a libidinous thrumming both searing and pleasurable, head jerking up into the hold of his palm.
The sound he makes is fragile, splintering thing. It breaks over his teeth and tongue in a rush, something that gives more than it should and shows more than it might as he brackets him with the lift of his knees and hook an ankle across the back of his legs. Instinct has always been tidal, roaring and retreating, and Ryo's body leans into the heady way it surges forward, the cant of his hips into the grind of Akira's enough to drag the air from his lungs. Each exhalation scrapes against the darkness of the room, punctures the full of what Ryo knows himself to be.
Pain and pursuit have always been integrally linked. It's a flood of endorphins, the components of fight and flight, the conversion of serotonin and melatonin. They slot together as they do, so close that there is no definitive line between them. In the pitch, Ryo can only feel where the heat of his body ends and where Akira's begins, a warmth incomparable to any that he'd ever endured before.
The nails of one hand bite into the line of his shoulders, the other traveling in a hot sweep down the broad plain of his back. Like the flush of alcohol, of drugs — it's difficult for to form linear thought as his inhalations stagger in the next desperate roll of Akira's hips, but he does. It's just enough to make his palm come to rest against the back of his hip, thumb pressed to the dip of his spine. The scant material that presses across the skin here is a detraction from what is needed, the more apt conclusion. He knows what Akira wants. He knows what it is he's been wanting, the tips of his fingers skimming under just enough to pass along the crest of his hipbone, press against it with the full of his fingertips. They pin.
Go ahead, is the message. Go ahead, is what is written in the tip of Ryo's tongue pressed flat to the meat of Akira's thumb, tasting the rough of the skin, curling against its contour. ]
no subject
And so, Akira had been the only person Ryo'd ever considered at all. Akira, in all his presumed unremarkable nature, was the least unremarkable of all. Socially, personally, it shouldn't have been that way according to his image, appearance. He shouldn't have been close enough to feel even the barest brush of Ryo's attention, but Akira had always had it all. And Ryo had never questioned it, even if others would. Akira was every kind and delicate thing that Ryo was not. He was playful and inquisitive, genuine in his expressions. He was the only person who had ever cried for him, a child who knew nothing of himself and still knows nothing at all. But, Ryo had always wanted to keep him close. He had always wanted to shield him from all that would harm him — by the box-cutter in his hand as children, the use of his fists. He still remembers the small sun of Akira's relief when Ryo had "found" his shoes in the pile of those who had bullied him, his scraped knuckles and bruised palms tucked behind his back. He still recalls the way he'd pulled Akira into his arms after the conclusion of years, the muzzle of his gun still smoking at the docks. He'd kept it crossed against them, an additional warn to those who would have pulled him from him.
His body had been different then, but he is still Akira even now as Ryo feels out the way Akira's body responds to each touch. As his eyes start to adjust, he can make out the gray of his angles, softened as Akira hums. He can feel the rise of gooseflesh across the back of Akira's neck as his fingers move. He can feel the fan of his breath, the shape of his laugh, the seared impression of a facetious "maybe," written into his skin.
He needed Akira. He'd always needed him, even if that thought won't be pulled to the surface by the wake of Akira's kisses, the trail of his nails in echo of Ryo's earlier explorations. Ryo had needed him since he'd washed ashore, an integral and answering part of him that (if pulled) would tear apart the already crumbling foundations. Akira Fudo was like ivy, so deeply embedded in the mortar of what made Ryo Asuka what he was that the absence of Akira was the absence of all that Ryo Asuka could be or ever was. It's an odd and unknowable ache that roots behind his ribs as Akira pauses in the aftermath of nails against his back — the test of teeth against his throat in fumbling error.
He knows what Akira is putting together. He knows it as soon as he feels the weight of his eyes on him, the way his skin prickles from the sudden lack of contact. The air of the room is cooler than the brush of Akira's lips and Ryo reflexively shivers from the sudden fluctuation, the directive glide of Akira's rougher palm across his nape and across his jaw. But, some truths are more difficult and some truths are more acceptable and Ryo finds a tendril of hesitation in himself before he relents to the pressure of Akira's thumb. He lets Akira feel the swell of his lip, the border of his teeth. He'd tried to keep to himself the contradictory vocalizations that rose up in him, the faceted reasons he couldn't explain (or wouldn't) tangled up within it. He minds himself to curb them, even as Akira takes the knowledge he is given like a flame to the cast of complexity, the way forward in the dark.
Humans work within the realm of reward, of consequence. Akira tests the bounds of it with the slow pass of his lips and tongue again across the tender flesh of his neck, bared to him without thought. For all those favorable reactions, they craved it until there was no room for more. They took their fill of it, as Akira takes his fill of it and Ryo lets him, the first burst of pain like a low chord struck. It strings through the whole of him, washes each thought out with a physiological insistence — a libidinous thrumming both searing and pleasurable, head jerking up into the hold of his palm.
The sound he makes is fragile, splintering thing. It breaks over his teeth and tongue in a rush, something that gives more than it should and shows more than it might as he brackets him with the lift of his knees and hook an ankle across the back of his legs. Instinct has always been tidal, roaring and retreating, and Ryo's body leans into the heady way it surges forward, the cant of his hips into the grind of Akira's enough to drag the air from his lungs. Each exhalation scrapes against the darkness of the room, punctures the full of what Ryo knows himself to be.
Pain and pursuit have always been integrally linked. It's a flood of endorphins, the components of fight and flight, the conversion of serotonin and melatonin. They slot together as they do, so close that there is no definitive line between them. In the pitch, Ryo can only feel where the heat of his body ends and where Akira's begins, a warmth incomparable to any that he'd ever endured before.
The nails of one hand bite into the line of his shoulders, the other traveling in a hot sweep down the broad plain of his back. Like the flush of alcohol, of drugs — it's difficult for to form linear thought as his inhalations stagger in the next desperate roll of Akira's hips, but he does. It's just enough to make his palm come to rest against the back of his hip, thumb pressed to the dip of his spine. The scant material that presses across the skin here is a detraction from what is needed, the more apt conclusion. He knows what Akira wants. He knows what it is he's been wanting, the tips of his fingers skimming under just enough to pass along the crest of his hipbone, press against it with the full of his fingertips. They pin.
Go ahead, is the message. Go ahead, is what is written in the tip of Ryo's tongue pressed flat to the meat of Akira's thumb, tasting the rough of the skin, curling against its contour. ]