[At a time like this, Hikaru wishes so fervently that he could have more than one set of hands. He wants the hands to anchor himself to Akira's lovely, rolling hips, and he wants the hands to touch Akira's dick, which is often neglected when they're fucking like this. He wants the hands to stroke Akira's hair, his cheek, the throbbing arteries of his neck, all the way down to his flushed chest. There's really no sating him until he can figure out a way to touch Akira everywhere, all the time, just all of the time, and everywhere, inside and back out. Hikaru wants to apply pressure to both the tilt of his hips and the sacred enclaves of his heart. It would only be fair of him to be able to do that when Akira has seeped into his every crack and crevice in the intervening years. Like he said: just when he thought he couldn't love Akira more, it's like Akira learned how to draw even more blood from him.]
That one, [whispers Hikaru, when he remembers how to use his voice. In the mirror, Akira's mouth is hinged wide, helplessly red, helpless, and there's saliva on his chin. No one else has seen Akira this way: unspooled, and loving it.] That one, right there, that's you at your... ahhh, your best. [But then Hikaru shoves himself forward, or maybe he's pulling Akira back to meet him, as determined as he is to make an impression. His fingernails, though short and blunt, still dig into Akira's vulnerable skin.] Actually-- [And he laughs out loud like he can't do anything but laugh. There's nowhere else for all this tension to go, leaving him strained and breathless.] Actually, I changed--my mind, I'm changing--it--it's that one, that one, right there. [Akira's generosity, the gift-giving of his body, and how it melds into another moan, involuntary, it's all so gorgeous. He's trying to accommodate Hikaru with the angle of his hips, the spread of his thighs, where he's placing his hands. All in all, there's going to be a real ache to his lower back tomorrow, when he's sitting at the goban. Hikaru loves him for it.] Oh, no, maybe it's... that...
[Only Touya Akira could want to be told he's beautiful in such a roundabout manner.]
I can't... I can't decide, not when... [They're all my favorite. If Akira is looking at him, if he can have Akira's gaze fixated on him, then that's exactly the best Akira has ever looked or will ever look. Nearly everything Hikaru does can be distilled down to this one desperate plea: Look at me. The title match has been one long argument about why Akira should never look to anyone else, because Hikaru is here, and he's right now, and he's finally caught up to his eternal rival. He wants to reward Akira's great patience with the most beautiful games he's ever played in his career. Akira should know how hard he's worked for this, too, how many nights he spent in front of a goban with the album of black lacquer and swooping cranes, playing and replaying their games in preparation. He should know. Tomorrow, in the Room of Profound Darkness, Touya Honinbou will probably make a brand-new face when he leans forward and resigns to Hikaru, thereby losing his title. Hikaru hasn't dared to imagine what his face might look like then, if it'll be angry, or sad, or distraught, or even proud that this utter idiot with a ghost story could rise up from irrelevance to challenge him head-on. But Hikaru is pretty sure that face is going to be one of his favorites, too.]
You're mine.
[In seeing his reflection, Hikaru thinks of himself as little more than a sweaty, fumbling mess. There's nothing elegant about the fresh bruises he's leaving on Akira's hips, or the way he makes a fist around Akira's cock, with a hand he wishes he could multiply. His eyes are reckless green fire, consuming everything, and the intent of them is clear: the sooner Akira comes like this, the sooner Hikaru can make him come again, fulfilling his promise. The interplay of dominance and submission is less of a question when they're both just trying to fuck each other senseless.]
no subject
That one, [whispers Hikaru, when he remembers how to use his voice. In the mirror, Akira's mouth is hinged wide, helplessly red, helpless, and there's saliva on his chin. No one else has seen Akira this way: unspooled, and loving it.] That one, right there, that's you at your... ahhh, your best. [But then Hikaru shoves himself forward, or maybe he's pulling Akira back to meet him, as determined as he is to make an impression. His fingernails, though short and blunt, still dig into Akira's vulnerable skin.] Actually-- [And he laughs out loud like he can't do anything but laugh. There's nowhere else for all this tension to go, leaving him strained and breathless.] Actually, I changed--my mind, I'm changing--it--it's that one, that one, right there. [Akira's generosity, the gift-giving of his body, and how it melds into another moan, involuntary, it's all so gorgeous. He's trying to accommodate Hikaru with the angle of his hips, the spread of his thighs, where he's placing his hands. All in all, there's going to be a real ache to his lower back tomorrow, when he's sitting at the goban. Hikaru loves him for it.] Oh, no, maybe it's... that...
[Only Touya Akira could want to be told he's beautiful in such a roundabout manner.]
I can't... I can't decide, not when... [They're all my favorite. If Akira is looking at him, if he can have Akira's gaze fixated on him, then that's exactly the best Akira has ever looked or will ever look. Nearly everything Hikaru does can be distilled down to this one desperate plea: Look at me. The title match has been one long argument about why Akira should never look to anyone else, because Hikaru is here, and he's right now, and he's finally caught up to his eternal rival. He wants to reward Akira's great patience with the most beautiful games he's ever played in his career. Akira should know how hard he's worked for this, too, how many nights he spent in front of a goban with the album of black lacquer and swooping cranes, playing and replaying their games in preparation. He should know. Tomorrow, in the Room of Profound Darkness, Touya Honinbou will probably make a brand-new face when he leans forward and resigns to Hikaru, thereby losing his title. Hikaru hasn't dared to imagine what his face might look like then, if it'll be angry, or sad, or distraught, or even proud that this utter idiot with a ghost story could rise up from irrelevance to challenge him head-on. But Hikaru is pretty sure that face is going to be one of his favorites, too.]
You're mine.
[In seeing his reflection, Hikaru thinks of himself as little more than a sweaty, fumbling mess. There's nothing elegant about the fresh bruises he's leaving on Akira's hips, or the way he makes a fist around Akira's cock, with a hand he wishes he could multiply. His eyes are reckless green fire, consuming everything, and the intent of them is clear: the sooner Akira comes like this, the sooner Hikaru can make him come again, fulfilling his promise. The interplay of dominance and submission is less of a question when they're both just trying to fuck each other senseless.]