[Good, Akira thinks, and he's still reaching down, stroking Hikaru's hair, running his thumb across his hairline, when Hikaru licks everything clean. Very good. I gave that to you, so don't take it for granted. And not just the sharing of his body tonight alone. Time spent remembering which days Hikaru seemed most eager to suck on him, noting what and when left Hikaru content after kissing, after oral sex, after Akira's worries left him demanding in the dark—Touya Akira could be called an archivist unlike anyone else, allowed to excavate secrets only to keep them all to himself. In the beginning especially, every affirmation from Hikaru was treated as a sampling of exactly how well Akira could do. He labored fervently in taking pieces from one encounter and splicing them with another in an attempt to perfect Hikaru's pleasure. Once, Akira felt such a desire to verbally compliment Hikaru, even though he felt like he could barely breathe, and Hikaru reacted very well to that. Another time, Akira settled one of his legs over Hikaru's shoulder, and Hikaru pressed his cheek against Akira's thigh and looked up at him, and Akira could tell Hikaru liked that, too. The next time, he tried both of those things together, at first deliberate, and then simply in the thrall of it. It turned out wonderfully. Akira, for all his social and intellectual merits, has never been so satisfied as he is each time Hikaru rises to meet all of Akira's effort. That mouthful was for Hikaru, and the peak of Akira's voice is for Hikaru, and so are Akira's twining arms, fighting to hold and be held while Hikaru's body overlaps with his.
Incredibly, Hikaru's eyes and their Plutonian splendor are entirely for Akira, in return. The shock of them is fearsome, humbling, but lit lovely like some sort of benevolence: he could choose to crush Akira right now, in too many ways to count. He's choosing otherwise. Akira only finds himself more frantic with arousal when he thinks about that. Looking into this vivid green, blanketed beneath Hikaru's body and Hikaru's plans for their time together tonight, Akira is almost—maybe he is more enraptured than even during orgasm; spilling himself into Hikaru's mouth still left him with enough presence of mind to make his own declarations, at least. But now he lies gutted of his ability to command, encumbered by the validation of lust (and the way he lusts after validation). He breathes out only one real piece of language—Hikaru—he won't let Hikaru forget his own name.
His head tilts back, against the floor, so he can look over toward the mirrors. He sees them from this upside down angle, and he already imagines the sight of himself. His eyes butterfly shut, and he can't quell the involuntary cry that leaves him, little and soft and unquestionably helpless. He has no defenses against any part of Hikaru's mouth, least of all the want that leaves it to settle over Akira's skin like simmering caramel. All Akira can do is clutch at Hikaru's shoulders and murmur,] Fine. [He is eager to indulge what Hikaru wants, but this isn't a deference. The desire feels debilitating, but that doesn't mean he won't put forth a challenge in response even as he fulfills Hikaru's instructions. He leaves Hikaru's grasp only after stoking him further with the most luxurious sort of kiss, the edges of his teeth an oath of fealty against Hikaru's lip.
Ideally, he'd take it slow in undressing the rest of the way, if only for the theatrics of it, making Hikaru wait. He just doesn't have time for that tonight. The best he can do is to pull back the length of his hair, sighing, feeling overheated by its weight; then he drops it, letting it waterfall down his back, overshadowing the dip above his spine. He says,] My suitcase, [off-handed, as if in reverie. Of course he wouldn't have come to the hotel without a bottle of lube (even knowing that Hikaru undoubtedly has one in his own bag as well). His left knee comes to rest against the plush comforter of the bed, followed by the right. He settles, half reclining, resting on one folded leg, the curve of his thigh accommodating his posture, and he looks across the room to fix Hikaru with a low stare, huffing out a breath that stirs his bangs. It's almost reproachful for Hikaru's distance, the offense of Hikaru not already being deeply inside of him. In fact, once Hikaru is finally close enough to drawn in, to take hold of Akira's hips, it becomes clear that Akira had been scowling like an affronted cat, because now his features are smoothing and warming into mollification. He presents his neck and shoulders to Hikaru; then he presents his back and its sturdiness, its arch; he presents the spread of his thighs. He does all this with strong expectancy, wanting these offerings to be praised upon appraisal, wanting to be thanked for his generosity (rather than his desperation).]
Hikaru— [His head is dipped halfway; he's trying in vain to catch his breath, but he's been trying ever since Hikaru came through that connecting doorway. Still, his gaze slips past his own shoulder to find Hikaru, and it's smoldering. He is the hot, deep glow of coals just waiting to be fanned ablaze.] Exactly the way you want, [he says, and it's not another offer: it's a power-hungry mandate.]
no subject
Incredibly, Hikaru's eyes and their Plutonian splendor are entirely for Akira, in return. The shock of them is fearsome, humbling, but lit lovely like some sort of benevolence: he could choose to crush Akira right now, in too many ways to count. He's choosing otherwise. Akira only finds himself more frantic with arousal when he thinks about that. Looking into this vivid green, blanketed beneath Hikaru's body and Hikaru's plans for their time together tonight, Akira is almost—maybe he is more enraptured than even during orgasm; spilling himself into Hikaru's mouth still left him with enough presence of mind to make his own declarations, at least. But now he lies gutted of his ability to command, encumbered by the validation of lust (and the way he lusts after validation). He breathes out only one real piece of language—Hikaru—he won't let Hikaru forget his own name.
His head tilts back, against the floor, so he can look over toward the mirrors. He sees them from this upside down angle, and he already imagines the sight of himself. His eyes butterfly shut, and he can't quell the involuntary cry that leaves him, little and soft and unquestionably helpless. He has no defenses against any part of Hikaru's mouth, least of all the want that leaves it to settle over Akira's skin like simmering caramel. All Akira can do is clutch at Hikaru's shoulders and murmur,] Fine. [He is eager to indulge what Hikaru wants, but this isn't a deference. The desire feels debilitating, but that doesn't mean he won't put forth a challenge in response even as he fulfills Hikaru's instructions. He leaves Hikaru's grasp only after stoking him further with the most luxurious sort of kiss, the edges of his teeth an oath of fealty against Hikaru's lip.
Ideally, he'd take it slow in undressing the rest of the way, if only for the theatrics of it, making Hikaru wait. He just doesn't have time for that tonight. The best he can do is to pull back the length of his hair, sighing, feeling overheated by its weight; then he drops it, letting it waterfall down his back, overshadowing the dip above his spine. He says,] My suitcase, [off-handed, as if in reverie. Of course he wouldn't have come to the hotel without a bottle of lube (even knowing that Hikaru undoubtedly has one in his own bag as well). His left knee comes to rest against the plush comforter of the bed, followed by the right. He settles, half reclining, resting on one folded leg, the curve of his thigh accommodating his posture, and he looks across the room to fix Hikaru with a low stare, huffing out a breath that stirs his bangs. It's almost reproachful for Hikaru's distance, the offense of Hikaru not already being deeply inside of him. In fact, once Hikaru is finally close enough to drawn in, to take hold of Akira's hips, it becomes clear that Akira had been scowling like an affronted cat, because now his features are smoothing and warming into mollification. He presents his neck and shoulders to Hikaru; then he presents his back and its sturdiness, its arch; he presents the spread of his thighs. He does all this with strong expectancy, wanting these offerings to be praised upon appraisal, wanting to be thanked for his generosity (rather than his desperation).]
Hikaru— [His head is dipped halfway; he's trying in vain to catch his breath, but he's been trying ever since Hikaru came through that connecting doorway. Still, his gaze slips past his own shoulder to find Hikaru, and it's smoldering. He is the hot, deep glow of coals just waiting to be fanned ablaze.] Exactly the way you want, [he says, and it's not another offer: it's a power-hungry mandate.]