[Watching Touya Akira undress, in Hikaru's opinion, is something that's best done with a glass of wine already mingling with one's bloodstream. Akira is just so beautiful, too beautiful, that he's made severe for it; it can be painful to look at him directly without a myopic filter involved. Stranded on his own hands and knees, Hikaru can only stare as every pale ounce of skin is revealed, then, both stricken and starstruck with it at all. He doesn't remember that he has to deal with of his own clothes until Akira is done teasing him with that silken, heavy-looking cascade of his hair. One of the best things Hikaru ever did was convince Akira to switch over to the shampoos and conditioners that he himself has used. Now Akira's hair is an exotic pelt all its own, a prize for the black market, its luster like black pearls to be admired by the handful. Hikaru never covets Akira more than when they're playing each other, and Akira's hair is left to hang loose, pooling over his shoulders, nearly tickling his wrists. It's delightful to watch how it ripples whenever Akira places a stone.
Hikaru almost can't bear the agony of shrugging out of his shirt, or peeling off his dress pants and the underwear beneath them. To cross over into Akira's room, where he absolutely should not be allowed, only serves to turn him on more. Even the air in here feels different somehow--more dangerous, somehow, and more pungent, like a single spark could set it ablaze. He has to bite back a moan when he gingerly crouches down beside Akira's luggage. Neither of them ever go anywhere without lube, of course, to the point that it feels like an extension of himself, no different than his folding fan. He exists in order to play Go with Akira, to be an eternal rival to Akira, and to fuck Akira senseless at every opportunity. Akira isn't any less essential than the air he's trying to breathe. Just one look over at Akira, arranging himself on the bedspread, confirms that much all over again. That pose is both accepting and welcoming, and it's impatient and demanding and full of pleading, and he really could be a naked, song-weaving siren that's lounging on a rocky outcropping at sea. Hikaru has never wanted to crash into him so badly. Man overboard and everything.
He's rougher than he means to be when he first takes Akira's hips in his hands. There is appraisal in how he feels down the length of a long, ever-slender thigh, and his other hand moves up and up to sweep aside the dark curtain of hair. He kisses the back of Akira's neck, which he always likes to do, because it gets so hot and damp right here, all greenhouse effect.] Just when I think... [He laughs quietly, and the only distance between their bodies can be blamed on him uncapping the bottle of lube. He's planning to warm this stuff up between his fingers.] Just when I think I couldn't love you more, you go out of your way to prove me wrong. [As it turns out, Hikaru was the first to say I love you, just like that, and it was in the middle of an otherwise gutting fight caused by a misunderstanding. He was trying to say he cared about Akira too much to go anywhere without him--he wouldn't go off and train in another country, not without him--not a chance. He said the few words he hadn't said before, desperately trying to make his point. "I wouldn't leave you behind because I love you, you fucking moron," he exclaimed, angrier than ever. It's a happy memory, in its own way, for Akira's reaction to that, and Hikaru's reaction to that reaction, and the even more intense fight that followed about why Hikaru hadn't said it sooner if that was the case, and why Akira had never said it in those exact words even though Hikaru couldn't read his mind.
Hikaru's face is now too soft and warm to be reproving, and his liquid tone, also, can't be called an admonishment.] C'mon, Akira, [he says, smooth and heartfelt,] you're not supposed to be looking at me. You're supposed to look in the mirror. Look at yourself. Look at us, together. [And, as soon as Akira complies, he'll be rewarded with the easy, well-practiced glide of Hikaru's fingers up and against the hottest parts of himself. In the mirror, Hikaru has the empyrean focus he does during a title match, getting Akira ready with his usual meticulousness. He's a very thorough lover, not wanting to overlook a single detail in whatever he's doing.]
That's it. [He knows Akira appreciates having something to fill the silence, so he's willing to fill it.] Just like that. Now, if you'll breathe deep for me... [It took him years to catch on to the ways Akira could feel lonely even when they were in the same room. As much as he loves hearing Akira compliment him, he's on as much of a mission to return the favor.] You're doing so well, and you're almost, almost there. But keep looking in the mirror, okay? Just like that...
[Finally, just when he's worried he might come early, he can tell Akira is as relaxed as he's going to get. He takes Akira by the hips again and guides him backward, perfecting them both a little at a time, little by little, until there's no telling where one of them ends and the other begins.] Yes, [he says, all praise, and then he's saying,] just like that, exactly, [and he's all the way in, still trying to push even deeper. He's barely able to squint past his own pleasure at their combined image in the mirror. Sometimes--and now is one of those times--he has to admit that not even Go can make him feel this fucking good. There's no real comparison to having the world's most brilliant and beautiful man giving him everything he wants.] A-ahh, Akira...
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Hikaru almost can't bear the agony of shrugging out of his shirt, or peeling off his dress pants and the underwear beneath them. To cross over into Akira's room, where he absolutely should not be allowed, only serves to turn him on more. Even the air in here feels different somehow--more dangerous, somehow, and more pungent, like a single spark could set it ablaze. He has to bite back a moan when he gingerly crouches down beside Akira's luggage. Neither of them ever go anywhere without lube, of course, to the point that it feels like an extension of himself, no different than his folding fan. He exists in order to play Go with Akira, to be an eternal rival to Akira, and to fuck Akira senseless at every opportunity. Akira isn't any less essential than the air he's trying to breathe. Just one look over at Akira, arranging himself on the bedspread, confirms that much all over again. That pose is both accepting and welcoming, and it's impatient and demanding and full of pleading, and he really could be a naked, song-weaving siren that's lounging on a rocky outcropping at sea. Hikaru has never wanted to crash into him so badly. Man overboard and everything.
He's rougher than he means to be when he first takes Akira's hips in his hands. There is appraisal in how he feels down the length of a long, ever-slender thigh, and his other hand moves up and up to sweep aside the dark curtain of hair. He kisses the back of Akira's neck, which he always likes to do, because it gets so hot and damp right here, all greenhouse effect.] Just when I think... [He laughs quietly, and the only distance between their bodies can be blamed on him uncapping the bottle of lube. He's planning to warm this stuff up between his fingers.] Just when I think I couldn't love you more, you go out of your way to prove me wrong. [As it turns out, Hikaru was the first to say I love you, just like that, and it was in the middle of an otherwise gutting fight caused by a misunderstanding. He was trying to say he cared about Akira too much to go anywhere without him--he wouldn't go off and train in another country, not without him--not a chance. He said the few words he hadn't said before, desperately trying to make his point. "I wouldn't leave you behind because I love you, you fucking moron," he exclaimed, angrier than ever. It's a happy memory, in its own way, for Akira's reaction to that, and Hikaru's reaction to that reaction, and the even more intense fight that followed about why Hikaru hadn't said it sooner if that was the case, and why Akira had never said it in those exact words even though Hikaru couldn't read his mind.
Hikaru's face is now too soft and warm to be reproving, and his liquid tone, also, can't be called an admonishment.] C'mon, Akira, [he says, smooth and heartfelt,] you're not supposed to be looking at me. You're supposed to look in the mirror. Look at yourself. Look at us, together. [And, as soon as Akira complies, he'll be rewarded with the easy, well-practiced glide of Hikaru's fingers up and against the hottest parts of himself. In the mirror, Hikaru has the empyrean focus he does during a title match, getting Akira ready with his usual meticulousness. He's a very thorough lover, not wanting to overlook a single detail in whatever he's doing.]
That's it. [He knows Akira appreciates having something to fill the silence, so he's willing to fill it.] Just like that. Now, if you'll breathe deep for me... [It took him years to catch on to the ways Akira could feel lonely even when they were in the same room. As much as he loves hearing Akira compliment him, he's on as much of a mission to return the favor.] You're doing so well, and you're almost, almost there. But keep looking in the mirror, okay? Just like that...
[Finally, just when he's worried he might come early, he can tell Akira is as relaxed as he's going to get. He takes Akira by the hips again and guides him backward, perfecting them both a little at a time, little by little, until there's no telling where one of them ends and the other begins.] Yes, [he says, all praise, and then he's saying,] just like that, exactly, [and he's all the way in, still trying to push even deeper. He's barely able to squint past his own pleasure at their combined image in the mirror. Sometimes--and now is one of those times--he has to admit that not even Go can make him feel this fucking good. There's no real comparison to having the world's most brilliant and beautiful man giving him everything he wants.] A-ahh, Akira...