[Hikaru loves the way it sounds. Everything about Akira's voice, just everything--the breathy chirps, the grinding groans, the restive swearing, the whining and the sighing both. He loves all of it. He loves every single thing he's hearing, but especially he loves the inevitable crumble of this proud and dizzying cliff into the sea. It always takes a lot of work to bring the towering Touya Akira down to sea level, and that's what makes it so satisfying. They can regard each other evenly from now on. When Akira cries out like that, Hikaru can feel the swell of it against his own lips, all along the surface of his tongue. It's one of those sounds that makes Hikaru feel effervescent, like sea foam gone airborne, like the wind could scatter him in every direction. It's that same feeling he gets with only a special handful of things: a tough opponent who's forced to resign to him after a long game, or waking up to birdsong with Akira's steady breathing in his ear. Akira asking him conversational questions in Mandarin, as patient as an oyster with a grain of sand. Akira, also, when he's lecturing him about drinking all of the milk again, and just, like, everything about him...
If only to hear more of those sounds, Hikaru applies himself with equals parts passion and tenderness. Akira is just as hot, just as helpless, as Hikaru imagined him to be, and he's already at the cliff's edge by the time Hikaru is teasing him with the swirl of his tongue. He treats Akira like a summertime sweet, something to be savored, eaten slowly, allowed to melt along the way. The flavor is, as per usual, less important than the heat. But the flavor is appetizing for how light it is, how aerial, nearly flavorless aside from a hint of citrus. It didn't used to be anything like this, you know. The first time Hikaru gave him a blowjob, the result was so thick and sour, and it was gritty like oatmeal, awfully, so Hikaru ended up gagging and spitting most of it out. He didn't like how it tasted, at all, and the texture sealed the deal as a bad experience. He tried to explain himself afterward, and he tried to be apologetic about it: "It's not like I'm saying I hate it or anything. It's just not for me." But Akira, being Akira, wasn't about to let things continue like that. It took some complaining, needling, and a few more disappointing mouthfuls, before Hikaru started to notice... the flavor was changing. The consistency was more like water, and the flavor itself more like a pleasant afterthought. It lingered in his mouth for hours afterward, a hint of sweetness. He started craving it. Then he noticed Akira drinking bottles of juice during the day, and that's when he realized what had happened. That's just the kind of person Akira is. Always, always going the extra mile to get what he wants.
Hikaru's eyes roll upward when Akira speaks to him, making declarations of his own, even though he's little more than a viand right now. The forceful, devout rush of heat into Hikaru's mouth is a more pressing concern, more immediate, undeniably more engrossing. He's downright fastidious about swallowing every last drop that he can. Afterward, letting his mouth slide away, he uses his thumb to catch a wet pearl as it's sneaking down his chin. He licks it clean, long since addicted and glad for it. Not a single drop wasted.]
Memorable, huh, [he says, his words damp, and he moves like a predator--sinuous, low to the ground--when he climbs back up Akira's prone body. He's hot, heavy, and hard, very much so, dragging himself against Akira in turn, finding almost none of the friction he's looking for. His eyes, now eagerly coming into view, are the electric green of an algae bloom in a lightning storm. A focused color that's getting closer to the supernatural.] Every moment with you, [he says, then,] is memorable to me. [He's laboring to say it, as short of breath as he is. Each word feels like its own uphill battle.] I'd sooner forget my own name than forget any moment I've spent with you. [His pupils couldn't possibly get any wider than they are right now. It's like an eclipse driven by arousal.] But, Touya Honinbou, I...
[Tomorrow, it will be Shindou Honinbou, at least for the year to come, and he doesn't know if he's going to laugh or cry or throw himself off the first bridge he comes across. He doesn't know. That's why, tonight, he wants to make sure every moment counts just as much as Akira himself does.]
Tonight, I want you to get on that bed over there. Get all your clothes off, and get on that bed for me. I know you can do that much for me. [His open-mouthed lust is starting to bend into more of a smile.] Did you notice? The mirrors... [He looks up and over to the side, over to the bed, but also to what's waiting beyond the bed. The closet doors, located not far away, are covered in gleaming floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It's a stylish, elegant decoration for the nice suite they've each been given.] I'm going to fuck you on your hands and knees, and you're going to watch me fuck you, in the mirror. That way, you'll know exactly what you look like when I'm taking you, and you'll remember it, tomorrow, when you're resigning to me. [Not if. When. He says it like he's reading from holy scripture, convinced of its veracity on a deep, deep level.] That way, Touya Honinbou, we'll both find it pretty memorable.
[Far from spontaneous, Hikaru has fantasized about this sort of thing for longer than he's willing to admit. He wants Akira to see himself when he's completely, utterly given himself over to the ruthless monster he claims to love.]
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If only to hear more of those sounds, Hikaru applies himself with equals parts passion and tenderness. Akira is just as hot, just as helpless, as Hikaru imagined him to be, and he's already at the cliff's edge by the time Hikaru is teasing him with the swirl of his tongue. He treats Akira like a summertime sweet, something to be savored, eaten slowly, allowed to melt along the way. The flavor is, as per usual, less important than the heat. But the flavor is appetizing for how light it is, how aerial, nearly flavorless aside from a hint of citrus. It didn't used to be anything like this, you know. The first time Hikaru gave him a blowjob, the result was so thick and sour, and it was gritty like oatmeal, awfully, so Hikaru ended up gagging and spitting most of it out. He didn't like how it tasted, at all, and the texture sealed the deal as a bad experience. He tried to explain himself afterward, and he tried to be apologetic about it: "It's not like I'm saying I hate it or anything. It's just not for me." But Akira, being Akira, wasn't about to let things continue like that. It took some complaining, needling, and a few more disappointing mouthfuls, before Hikaru started to notice... the flavor was changing. The consistency was more like water, and the flavor itself more like a pleasant afterthought. It lingered in his mouth for hours afterward, a hint of sweetness. He started craving it. Then he noticed Akira drinking bottles of juice during the day, and that's when he realized what had happened. That's just the kind of person Akira is. Always, always going the extra mile to get what he wants.
Hikaru's eyes roll upward when Akira speaks to him, making declarations of his own, even though he's little more than a viand right now. The forceful, devout rush of heat into Hikaru's mouth is a more pressing concern, more immediate, undeniably more engrossing. He's downright fastidious about swallowing every last drop that he can. Afterward, letting his mouth slide away, he uses his thumb to catch a wet pearl as it's sneaking down his chin. He licks it clean, long since addicted and glad for it. Not a single drop wasted.]
Memorable, huh, [he says, his words damp, and he moves like a predator--sinuous, low to the ground--when he climbs back up Akira's prone body. He's hot, heavy, and hard, very much so, dragging himself against Akira in turn, finding almost none of the friction he's looking for. His eyes, now eagerly coming into view, are the electric green of an algae bloom in a lightning storm. A focused color that's getting closer to the supernatural.] Every moment with you, [he says, then,] is memorable to me. [He's laboring to say it, as short of breath as he is. Each word feels like its own uphill battle.] I'd sooner forget my own name than forget any moment I've spent with you. [His pupils couldn't possibly get any wider than they are right now. It's like an eclipse driven by arousal.] But, Touya Honinbou, I...
[Tomorrow, it will be Shindou Honinbou, at least for the year to come, and he doesn't know if he's going to laugh or cry or throw himself off the first bridge he comes across. He doesn't know. That's why, tonight, he wants to make sure every moment counts just as much as Akira himself does.]
Tonight, I want you to get on that bed over there. Get all your clothes off, and get on that bed for me. I know you can do that much for me. [His open-mouthed lust is starting to bend into more of a smile.] Did you notice? The mirrors... [He looks up and over to the side, over to the bed, but also to what's waiting beyond the bed. The closet doors, located not far away, are covered in gleaming floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It's a stylish, elegant decoration for the nice suite they've each been given.] I'm going to fuck you on your hands and knees, and you're going to watch me fuck you, in the mirror. That way, you'll know exactly what you look like when I'm taking you, and you'll remember it, tomorrow, when you're resigning to me. [Not if. When. He says it like he's reading from holy scripture, convinced of its veracity on a deep, deep level.] That way, Touya Honinbou, we'll both find it pretty memorable.
[Far from spontaneous, Hikaru has fantasized about this sort of thing for longer than he's willing to admit. He wants Akira to see himself when he's completely, utterly given himself over to the ruthless monster he claims to love.]