[Heartfelt. Akira marvels over his shoulder at the candlelight of Hikaru's face. He is warm, and he's vital in darkness, his light comfortable: he doesn't sear, not now, even if tomorrow, in the Room of Profound Darkness, Akira will have to squint. But in the sanctity of Akira's private suite, Hikaru casts a quiet circle, companionable, guiding. He edges out the shadows of loneliness and worry. Akira gazes back at him, not out of disobedience, just love. Just the arterial flows of gratitude and adoration that twine together to be love. He feels coaxed. It's a good thing. So he turns his face forward, and finds both their bodies in the mirror.
Hikaru is so indulging, kind enough to touch Akira within the very next second. Akira gives his little sound of assent, the dip of his back curving just a bit more in encouraging invitation. The slip of Hikaru's touch is tender, and cautious, but only because he knows exactly what he's doing. There's a deep current of gratification to be found in that, like tapping into a well, like finally striking enough water to keep you alive and thriving. Akira is known to Hikaru; he is familiar; he has been been diligently catalogued. Inspiring Hikaru's fastidious effort always brings Akira to spread his legs. He wants to draw out the enticement.
Maybe that is how, unexpectedly, the sight of himself in the mirror heightens the feel of Hikaru's fingers into something immediately electric. Akira is able to see the shape of his own body below Hikaru's hands; he can see the exact shade of red in his mouth when it falls open. Not bad, right? Akira doesn't make for a bad sight. But better than that is the discovery of what Hikaru sees when he's enthralled. When Hikaru is praising Akira's body, telling him that he feels good to touch or that he's doing so well, this is what he's looking at. This view keeps Hikaru going, deeper in and further along, until there's no future in which Akira will not buckle when he comes. The future is solidified by the press of Hikaru's cock, a history maker in its own way. Akira can only tell him yes, and yes again, that's better, because Hikaru's pleasure sinking into Akira is all that matters about any of this. And Akira watches the winding and unwinding of his own body, the restless squirming beneath Hikaru's advance, and his chin lifts, his face pinches, and his eyelashes flutter like the twinkling of stars. His eyes have rolled back a little, a jerking of his nervous system beyond his control. That happens, sometimes, his eyes rolling back, but not always, and not until later in the game. It only lasts a moment, now, but it's still now, barely at the start of things. The moment peaks with the sort of moan no one ever means to make. Just a pure outpouring, no language to it. As the moment passes, Akira drops his head, hoping to catch his breath. He tries to be obedient, raising at least his eyes back to the face of the mirror. His own flushed face greets him with a glisten.
He reaches behind himself, to find Hikaru's hip. He wants to touch the space of both of them, the line where they press together, the skip from his own flesh to Hikaru's. When he finds it, that groove filled with their joined body heat, he strokes his thumb against where they meet.] Perfect, [he murmurs, as the barest articulation of breath. With that need satisfied, he settles his hand back against the bed, and watches the incremental rock of his body while Hikaru tries to find purchase even deeper.] Now— ohh... [It's a sigh like the roiling of the sea, a man struggling to keep his footing on deck, ship bobbing. He tosses his head and breathes in deep.] Now show me what looks best, when my face is best to you. [His voice is richer than its often brittle strain—husky, still, seeping out from his throat, but richer than stress and higher for it. He doesn't sound dark and heavy and deep with anxiety. His words carry in a brighter way, like a tone emanating from clear glass.] Do what you do to make me look—so I'll make the face you think is... [Abrupt, he sucks in a shuddering breath, lengthy and with an exhilarating, perilous sway. His shoulders lock inward; one of his knees slides outward, widening the space between his thighs; his fingers press hard against the bedding.] Best... [If he can witness what Hikaru favors most, if he can capture it, he will be unstoppable. He can't help but think that.]
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Hikaru is so indulging, kind enough to touch Akira within the very next second. Akira gives his little sound of assent, the dip of his back curving just a bit more in encouraging invitation. The slip of Hikaru's touch is tender, and cautious, but only because he knows exactly what he's doing. There's a deep current of gratification to be found in that, like tapping into a well, like finally striking enough water to keep you alive and thriving. Akira is known to Hikaru; he is familiar; he has been been diligently catalogued. Inspiring Hikaru's fastidious effort always brings Akira to spread his legs. He wants to draw out the enticement.
Maybe that is how, unexpectedly, the sight of himself in the mirror heightens the feel of Hikaru's fingers into something immediately electric. Akira is able to see the shape of his own body below Hikaru's hands; he can see the exact shade of red in his mouth when it falls open. Not bad, right? Akira doesn't make for a bad sight. But better than that is the discovery of what Hikaru sees when he's enthralled. When Hikaru is praising Akira's body, telling him that he feels good to touch or that he's doing so well, this is what he's looking at. This view keeps Hikaru going, deeper in and further along, until there's no future in which Akira will not buckle when he comes. The future is solidified by the press of Hikaru's cock, a history maker in its own way. Akira can only tell him yes, and yes again, that's better, because Hikaru's pleasure sinking into Akira is all that matters about any of this. And Akira watches the winding and unwinding of his own body, the restless squirming beneath Hikaru's advance, and his chin lifts, his face pinches, and his eyelashes flutter like the twinkling of stars. His eyes have rolled back a little, a jerking of his nervous system beyond his control. That happens, sometimes, his eyes rolling back, but not always, and not until later in the game. It only lasts a moment, now, but it's still now, barely at the start of things. The moment peaks with the sort of moan no one ever means to make. Just a pure outpouring, no language to it. As the moment passes, Akira drops his head, hoping to catch his breath. He tries to be obedient, raising at least his eyes back to the face of the mirror. His own flushed face greets him with a glisten.
He reaches behind himself, to find Hikaru's hip. He wants to touch the space of both of them, the line where they press together, the skip from his own flesh to Hikaru's. When he finds it, that groove filled with their joined body heat, he strokes his thumb against where they meet.] Perfect, [he murmurs, as the barest articulation of breath. With that need satisfied, he settles his hand back against the bed, and watches the incremental rock of his body while Hikaru tries to find purchase even deeper.] Now— ohh... [It's a sigh like the roiling of the sea, a man struggling to keep his footing on deck, ship bobbing. He tosses his head and breathes in deep.] Now show me what looks best, when my face is best to you. [His voice is richer than its often brittle strain—husky, still, seeping out from his throat, but richer than stress and higher for it. He doesn't sound dark and heavy and deep with anxiety. His words carry in a brighter way, like a tone emanating from clear glass.] Do what you do to make me look—so I'll make the face you think is... [Abrupt, he sucks in a shuddering breath, lengthy and with an exhilarating, perilous sway. His shoulders lock inward; one of his knees slides outward, widening the space between his thighs; his fingers press hard against the bedding.] Best... [If he can witness what Hikaru favors most, if he can capture it, he will be unstoppable. He can't help but think that.]