[Akira only gets more beautiful. Unrefined, to be sure, certainly not stately, and perhaps not even respectable when he's in the midst of writhing, somewhere between begging and commanding with his body. The zenith of his sexual appetite, during moments like this, may not be respectable. If anyone else were to know how he demands more of this, more of it, with all of his body and his voice, they might not be so frightened of his strong demeanor. Or maybe it would be frightening, to see how his drive to succeed is just as strong during sex. Touya Honinbou only gets more beautiful once he's reassured that he is beautiful, because he can revel in the victory of that. He's at his best when Hikaru says he is. When Akira asks for more, more, come on, is he asking for more of Hikaru's praise, or more of his cock? The difference might not be so sound.
Naturally, by now, Hikaru knows all the best praise to give, all Akira's weakest points, all the best angles. He knows what hands to play to exhilarate Akira past anxiety and into desire. These games, fighting for the Honinbou title, have felt like closure. Nothing is coming to an end—if Hikaru does take the title, tomorrow, if he does it, Akira will simply take it back—but Akira knows Hikaru has been studying. He knows Hikaru has retread all their games together with the greatest determination a man can wield. All this for Akira's efforts, for the effort of catching Akira. All this to prove, thoroughly, that Akira is... It's just like Hikaru says. I know, I am, Akira means to reply, but it comes out like this:] Ahh--aahhh-- [He scrabbles, grasping behind himself, at Hikaru's thigh. Hikaru pushes deep into him, and Akira wants to keep him there, wants to bury Hikaru within himself, where nobody can find him. If he is Hikaru's, let Hikaru find refuge inside of him. You got me, he thinks, and he could almost laugh, too. The huff that stumbles out of his wet mouth is the sort of undiluted joy he's often too strained to display. He really is loving it. Sex with Hikaru makes him smile with a free-form exertion that's rare to see from him otherwise. Even when his mouth is hanging open, the corner of it is peaked into delight. It's exhausting, too, though. Joy takes a lot of energy, and he's trembling, strong as he wants to remain, but...
The front of him dips, heaped upon the bed. His elbow still props against the mattress, leaving one hand standing lax and useless in the air, but his face has dropped to press against the crook of his own arm, near to all the bedding. He's trying to keep one eye uncovered, trained on the mirror, even when his own vision grows careless beneath cataracts of pleasure. Hikaru's hands are strong in his passion; his hips are strong in his passion; his eyes, in their passion, have conquered all surrounding landscape. Just all of it. Akira included. Akira's chin bumps against his bicep every time Hikaru pushes back into him, but there's no drag to it, slick and slicker with saliva as his chin has become. He refuses to completely hide his face against the bedding. Even half collapsed, there's enough of him to see the glaze of his mouth and his eyes, with his eyes fluttering and his mouth attempting speech.] Shindou, [he starts, and his voice is dense, enough steam to make a man drown by gasping.] Hhh... [He does close his eyes. It's a yield he hadn't meant to give. But this, though muffled, asphyxiated, this is how he finishes:] Honinbou. [The finish line lasts for a few moments. Then he's coming over the curve of Hikaru's knuckles, no longer trying to bite back any quality of his voice. He doesn't know if he can make the strength in his knees last any longer.]
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Naturally, by now, Hikaru knows all the best praise to give, all Akira's weakest points, all the best angles. He knows what hands to play to exhilarate Akira past anxiety and into desire. These games, fighting for the Honinbou title, have felt like closure. Nothing is coming to an end—if Hikaru does take the title, tomorrow, if he does it, Akira will simply take it back—but Akira knows Hikaru has been studying. He knows Hikaru has retread all their games together with the greatest determination a man can wield. All this for Akira's efforts, for the effort of catching Akira. All this to prove, thoroughly, that Akira is... It's just like Hikaru says. I know, I am, Akira means to reply, but it comes out like this:] Ahh--aahhh-- [He scrabbles, grasping behind himself, at Hikaru's thigh. Hikaru pushes deep into him, and Akira wants to keep him there, wants to bury Hikaru within himself, where nobody can find him. If he is Hikaru's, let Hikaru find refuge inside of him. You got me, he thinks, and he could almost laugh, too. The huff that stumbles out of his wet mouth is the sort of undiluted joy he's often too strained to display. He really is loving it. Sex with Hikaru makes him smile with a free-form exertion that's rare to see from him otherwise. Even when his mouth is hanging open, the corner of it is peaked into delight. It's exhausting, too, though. Joy takes a lot of energy, and he's trembling, strong as he wants to remain, but...
The front of him dips, heaped upon the bed. His elbow still props against the mattress, leaving one hand standing lax and useless in the air, but his face has dropped to press against the crook of his own arm, near to all the bedding. He's trying to keep one eye uncovered, trained on the mirror, even when his own vision grows careless beneath cataracts of pleasure. Hikaru's hands are strong in his passion; his hips are strong in his passion; his eyes, in their passion, have conquered all surrounding landscape. Just all of it. Akira included. Akira's chin bumps against his bicep every time Hikaru pushes back into him, but there's no drag to it, slick and slicker with saliva as his chin has become. He refuses to completely hide his face against the bedding. Even half collapsed, there's enough of him to see the glaze of his mouth and his eyes, with his eyes fluttering and his mouth attempting speech.] Shindou, [he starts, and his voice is dense, enough steam to make a man drown by gasping.] Hhh... [He does close his eyes. It's a yield he hadn't meant to give. But this, though muffled, asphyxiated, this is how he finishes:] Honinbou. [The finish line lasts for a few moments. Then he's coming over the curve of Hikaru's knuckles, no longer trying to bite back any quality of his voice. He doesn't know if he can make the strength in his knees last any longer.]