[ He knows. He knows Akira may not have wanted to. He knows that Akira would, if posed the way he posed it. He knows all these little details, Akira's qualms and reservations in these contexts. And Ryo had assured him, quiet and certain in the aftermath. Pain was linked into pleasure, as much as pleasure was linked into pain. For Ryo, they eased at times into one in the same. But, he knows enough that Akira would never do him lasting harm. He knows Akira would never permit it.
And so —
He catches the meat of his own lip between his teeth, inhalation hitching sharp on the tail end as Akira mouths along his jaw, floods him with sensation and stimulation in broad, hot sweeps. It licks at the angles and curves of his body like an arching heat, each suggestion and shiver he feeds to Akira the stoking of something wild. He thinks he might have underestimated how much this alone would entice him, but any thought or care of it is cast aside. He breaks the line of thought like dry wood over the pale of his knee. He'd rather submit himself to be burned than be without it. And, in the end, if Akira would not have torn through all that he could to get to cool of his flesh — Ryo would have torn through to him. No manner of man, machine, or beast would have kept them divided. And, in the advent of all that was this degree of physicality, Akira has seen nothing yet.
Akira is right, of course. He was right to assume that he never did anything without reason behind it. At the end of all things, no human did. It was natural to crave, to need, to manipulate — to use their higher intellect. Ryo, a clever thing, was better at understanding this than others. He was better at getting what he wanted. He was better at presenting himself as a recipient, a party that promised mutual benefit. And for Akira, Ryo knew a deeper motivation. It broke the bounds of himself, flooded between them in a give instead of advantageous take. It had always been that way, despite the shape and context that welled up against their skin. Akira brought out more in Ryo than any before or after him ever did. ]
Akira, [ he sighs, the bloom of his name past his teeth and off his tongue less chastising and more desiring, his own hands leaving the dark of Akira's hair, the musculature of his back. There's a little furrow between his brows, his lips dipping into the smallest of frowns. It's all performative. A half-constructed protest. Akira's learned as well as he has that is all show, one that he wraps himself in. It serves numerous purposes, but the one it plays to now is to encourage his impatience — to bring out the desperate edge of his kisses, the playful teases. It's to bring Akira to press his lips just beneath his ear, rumble out his bare and carefree acknowledgment. It's to let Ryo allow himself a deeper shiver, one that rolls through him like the harsher swells that shatter across shores. He can feel the way he hums, a warmer thunder over skin. ] Let me—
[ The command dissolves across his lips. It doesn't matter, is the fleeting thought. Because, in the scant spaces that Akira affords between their stomachs and their hips, Ryo's hand snakes up and under his own shirt, two fingers hooking over the hem. The draw of material up is liquid, his own palm mapping the path Akira had drawn across his skin. He feels the rapid tempo of his own heart, his advancement paused just beneath his sternum. His chest rises and falls, far less steady and slow. No matter the increasing familiarity, it's small displays like this — clumsy and messy, gentle or rough that digs into every stage of arousal. He knows how he must look right now, as much as Akira looks right now. A tangled web of hormones, chemicals — Ryo stretches under him, languid and long.
He knows how these affairs can go. He feels the vacillation between possibility and potentiality here and his eyes lid, the fingers of his other hand settling in a loose circle about Akira's supporting wrist. ]
Edited (ok, jesus. i forgot a portion of it the first time... lol.) 2018-07-13 23:03 (UTC)
[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.]
[ Every living thing has played this game since the beginning of time.
Every living thing that has swum or ran or crawled has known what it was to lure and to lust, to want— to want so entirely that the body and mind offered itself in what ways it could, in what ways it needed for pleasure, for control. Imperative. And Ryo, no matter the bright of his mind, knows the chemical interplay that mingles beneath each of his coyer facades. He knows, perhaps, without knowing what they continue for – an unsuited gossamer that softens the blow of what he’s come to know, desire. Before Akira, there had been precious little more than curiosity at all. These explorations had been primitive forays, a chase for the break of endorphins. They’d contained none of the syrupy kisses, the idle unknotting of each other’s hair. They’d not been nearly so attentive, so considerate. They’d been nothing at all, but Akira knows him. And Akira sees flickers of things that even Ryo cannot grasp, cannot piece apart with teeth and tongue and lips to form a language that he can spin, caress into shapes both soothing and direct. All that he knows is that whatever it is, it is sharp and hot and delicate – a fragile and fiery thing, something that hurts all the more each time he glances up against it. But, Akira cradles that, carries that. He coaxes it, with the broad brush of his palms, the way they traverse the plains of his body as though he were a tapestry. Akira follows each threaded path to what he’s long learned he’ll get if he follows the weave of his instincts.
Yet, no matter how much Ryo’s body tunes itself to Akira’s touch, Ryo can’t answer or name what Akira might once or still crave any more than Akira can. He can’t shape what he says is unknown to him, but what floods into his system like the first glimpse of sun, warming him as Akira warms him, heedless of how far and away he’d always remained from everything, from anyone.
Except him.
Akira had long ago pulled Ryo into his gravity. He’d long ago captivated Ryo, moored Ryo to him like the Earth mooring the moon to itself. But, for all that the Earth kept it near, it could only reflect what light it was given. It could only give what it had coveted. Unlike the Earth, it had never brimmed with life, with greenery.
But, Akira does. And Akira spreads heat through the cool of him, kindles the complex constructions of dopamine, norepinephrine. It makes his palms flush with it as he feels the crackle of arousal slip through the seams, press him just as well to the bed as Akira can. His eyes lid against the temporary sting of separation, though with each inch of skin given and each inch of skin shared – the way Akira barely waits for him to toss his own shirt somewhere – something like relief follows the moment he can lay his hands upon him again.
And it is something that exposes itself in the way the fingers of one hand travel the shallow of valleys between the lay of ribs, press along the low of Akira’s back, firm and fixed. It’s something that reveals itself in the way the fingers of the other wind into the dark of Akira’s hair, knot loose and hold with all the intimacy that’s usually there, colored with the minor pressure he exerts there. For Ryo, he knows what the position brings him. He knows it the moment Akira settles back over him, bracketed by the musculature of his arms. He knows as he combs through the length of Ryo’s hair, so close that he can feel each inhalation. Exhalation.
He knows fully, the moment Akira smiles at him. And Ryo hums, low and pleased in his chest as Akira finally dips down to kiss him.
There’s opportunities allotted and afforded in the proximity of their hips. Ryo understands this as he cants his, fleeting and subtle, up into the tidal movement of Akira’s body above him – parts his lips around the low murmur of sound, its meaning lost willingly against the prospect of teeth and tongue. Akira may not be good at lying, but that earnestness is part and parcel of what has Ryo here, in this spot. It is part of what has Ryo below him, receptive and warm. It is part of what has always kept Ryo beside him and even here, beyond the context of late wanderings by the shore, it is what has Ryo tugging him in close – pulling him in close, one leg hooking behind his own.
Never let it be said that Ryo has no concept of showing what it is he wants. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
And so —
He catches the meat of his own lip between his teeth, inhalation hitching sharp on the tail end as Akira mouths along his jaw, floods him with sensation and stimulation in broad, hot sweeps. It licks at the angles and curves of his body like an arching heat, each suggestion and shiver he feeds to Akira the stoking of something wild. He thinks he might have underestimated how much this alone would entice him, but any thought or care of it is cast aside. He breaks the line of thought like dry wood over the pale of his knee. He'd rather submit himself to be burned than be without it. And, in the end, if Akira would not have torn through all that he could to get to cool of his flesh — Ryo would have torn through to him. No manner of man, machine, or beast would have kept them divided. And, in the advent of all that was this degree of physicality, Akira has seen nothing yet.
Akira is right, of course. He was right to assume that he never did anything without reason behind it. At the end of all things, no human did. It was natural to crave, to need, to manipulate — to use their higher intellect. Ryo, a clever thing, was better at understanding this than others. He was better at getting what he wanted. He was better at presenting himself as a recipient, a party that promised mutual benefit. And for Akira, Ryo knew a deeper motivation. It broke the bounds of himself, flooded between them in a give instead of advantageous take. It had always been that way, despite the shape and context that welled up against their skin. Akira brought out more in Ryo than any before or after him ever did. ]
Akira, [ he sighs, the bloom of his name past his teeth and off his tongue less chastising and more desiring, his own hands leaving the dark of Akira's hair, the musculature of his back. There's a little furrow between his brows, his lips dipping into the smallest of frowns. It's all performative. A half-constructed protest. Akira's learned as well as he has that is all show, one that he wraps himself in. It serves numerous purposes, but the one it plays to now is to encourage his impatience — to bring out the desperate edge of his kisses, the playful teases. It's to bring Akira to press his lips just beneath his ear, rumble out his bare and carefree acknowledgment. It's to let Ryo allow himself a deeper shiver, one that rolls through him like the harsher swells that shatter across shores. He can feel the way he hums, a warmer thunder over skin. ] Let me—
[ The command dissolves across his lips. It doesn't matter, is the fleeting thought. Because, in the scant spaces that Akira affords between their stomachs and their hips, Ryo's hand snakes up and under his own shirt, two fingers hooking over the hem. The draw of material up is liquid, his own palm mapping the path Akira had drawn across his skin. He feels the rapid tempo of his own heart, his advancement paused just beneath his sternum. His chest rises and falls, far less steady and slow. No matter the increasing familiarity, it's small displays like this — clumsy and messy, gentle or rough that digs into every stage of arousal. He knows how he must look right now, as much as Akira looks right now. A tangled web of hormones, chemicals — Ryo stretches under him, languid and long.
He knows how these affairs can go. He feels the vacillation between possibility and potentiality here and his eyes lid, the fingers of his other hand settling in a loose circle about Akira's supporting wrist. ]
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.]
no subject
Every living thing that has swum or ran or crawled has known what it was to lure and to lust, to want— to want so entirely that the body and mind offered itself in what ways it could, in what ways it needed for pleasure, for control. Imperative. And Ryo, no matter the bright of his mind, knows the chemical interplay that mingles beneath each of his coyer facades. He knows, perhaps, without knowing what they continue for – an unsuited gossamer that softens the blow of what he’s come to know, desire. Before Akira, there had been precious little more than curiosity at all. These explorations had been primitive forays, a chase for the break of endorphins. They’d contained none of the syrupy kisses, the idle unknotting of each other’s hair. They’d not been nearly so attentive, so considerate. They’d been nothing at all, but Akira knows him. And Akira sees flickers of things that even Ryo cannot grasp, cannot piece apart with teeth and tongue and lips to form a language that he can spin, caress into shapes both soothing and direct. All that he knows is that whatever it is, it is sharp and hot and delicate – a fragile and fiery thing, something that hurts all the more each time he glances up against it. But, Akira cradles that, carries that. He coaxes it, with the broad brush of his palms, the way they traverse the plains of his body as though he were a tapestry. Akira follows each threaded path to what he’s long learned he’ll get if he follows the weave of his instincts.
Yet, no matter how much Ryo’s body tunes itself to Akira’s touch, Ryo can’t answer or name what Akira might once or still crave any more than Akira can. He can’t shape what he says is unknown to him, but what floods into his system like the first glimpse of sun, warming him as Akira warms him, heedless of how far and away he’d always remained from everything, from anyone.
Except him.
Akira had long ago pulled Ryo into his gravity. He’d long ago captivated Ryo, moored Ryo to him like the Earth mooring the moon to itself. But, for all that the Earth kept it near, it could only reflect what light it was given. It could only give what it had coveted. Unlike the Earth, it had never brimmed with life, with greenery.
But, Akira does. And Akira spreads heat through the cool of him, kindles the complex constructions of dopamine, norepinephrine. It makes his palms flush with it as he feels the crackle of arousal slip through the seams, press him just as well to the bed as Akira can. His eyes lid against the temporary sting of separation, though with each inch of skin given and each inch of skin shared – the way Akira barely waits for him to toss his own shirt somewhere – something like relief follows the moment he can lay his hands upon him again.
And it is something that exposes itself in the way the fingers of one hand travel the shallow of valleys between the lay of ribs, press along the low of Akira’s back, firm and fixed. It’s something that reveals itself in the way the fingers of the other wind into the dark of Akira’s hair, knot loose and hold with all the intimacy that’s usually there, colored with the minor pressure he exerts there. For Ryo, he knows what the position brings him. He knows it the moment Akira settles back over him, bracketed by the musculature of his arms. He knows as he combs through the length of Ryo’s hair, so close that he can feel each inhalation. Exhalation.
He knows fully, the moment Akira smiles at him. And Ryo hums, low and pleased in his chest as Akira finally dips down to kiss him.
There’s opportunities allotted and afforded in the proximity of their hips. Ryo understands this as he cants his, fleeting and subtle, up into the tidal movement of Akira’s body above him – parts his lips around the low murmur of sound, its meaning lost willingly against the prospect of teeth and tongue. Akira may not be good at lying, but that earnestness is part and parcel of what has Ryo here, in this spot. It is part of what has Ryo below him, receptive and warm. It is part of what has always kept Ryo beside him and even here, beyond the context of late wanderings by the shore, it is what has Ryo tugging him in close – pulling him in close, one leg hooking behind his own.
Never let it be said that Ryo has no concept of showing what it is he wants. ]