[Akira's expressions of desire may be flagrant—he could concede to that. Ridiculous, though, he won't stand for. There's nothing ridiculous about his attraction to Hikaru, not when Hikaru so keenly inspires lust. That inspiration should be obvious to anyone, in Akira's opinion. His focus, the quality of his focus alone, is pure eroticism. His temerity when speaking carries an unrivaled capability of stirring up blood. Akira has determined he will be the only mouth on Hikaru's body, but he wouldn't blame anyone else for wishing to be right where he is. He remembers Coming of Age Day just as well, even if the girl registered as little more than a blip to him. Fujisawa... Fujisaki? Right. Fujisaki Akari, Akari, Akari, a common presence in Hikaru's childhood tales. Innocuous, overall. Akira's dark kimono was slid loose and low around his shoulders, when that girl walked in, so excited to show Hikaru her bright furisode. Akira took his mouth away from Hikaru's navel to look at Fujisaki (Akari) through his hair, and then sat back, dabbing at his mouth with his wrist. While he folded his hands in his lap, prim, he wondered whether this young woman was about to faint, and he wondered how much time this would eat up, before they needed to leave for the day's ceremonies. Considering this skewing of priorities, the suggestion of addiction might not be out of place, but...
Hikaru isn't exactly blameless. The press of the door's handle once more; the slide of its hinge; airflow from Hikaru's room into Akira's... The muscles in Akira's back are tightening second by second. He hurts, by the time Hikaru touches him. He is aching, truly, deeply. It burns him: hardened deltoids; the twinging, twitching lines of gracilis; the entire expanse of latissimus dorsi, all straining to the point of exhausting pain. It's wonderful. These parts of him tremble not in entreaty for relief, but in the knowledge that relief is coming. He's all too ready to lean heavy against Hikaru, the moment they meet. His head tilts back without shame, granting his hair to Hikaru, granting the needy scent of that shared fever. When his muscles unwind, they're made soft, assuaged by the press of Hikaru's body.
Whether he confirms or denies such an accusation isn't important. No need to waste his voice on that when he can vocalize a sigh, his breath spent on a wordless declaration, yes and right now bundled up as one. His throat vibrates graciously, ahh, as Hikaru's fingers hook into the necktie's knot. And when Hikaru whispers at him, it's penetrating, a deep needle, the burn of his muscles all concentrated. Akira swallows up that whisper to keep close to himself, complacent in his mouth. The sudden heave of his chest doesn't seem displeased. But he does sound chiding when he says,] Hikaru. [And his hand is quick to find the inside of Hikaru's thigh, to press firm, no allowance in his touch.] Glass houses. You were thinking about fucking me right there in that room. Right there. [His reproach is smooth, the dense cream curling through strong coffee. It's thick, heavy, in that way. He's not hoarse when he's aroused, not like he is when he's under stress. This is the richest his voice can get. His hand drags up, hard, fingers impressing upon Hikaru's skin through clothing—up to the point of Hikaru's hip, up past his bothersome belt, up to the rumpled hem of his dress shirt. He passes his hand underneath Hikaru's shirt, and then along the outside of his waist, the best angle he can get while reaching for Hikaru from where he kneels.] So, what stopped you? You were able to keep from doing it then. [His tongue, sharp and overheated, is just a sign of his restlessness; before long, he simply can't stay still, and twists in Hikaru's arms to better face him. Here is the truth of him: eyes too bright, that lascivious glaze, and lips red with the evidence of his impatient teeth. The command of his voice can't hide those things. Even so, he continues,] And yet, look at you, here, deciding you can't not touch me. You should see yourself right now. [Both hands sweep down to find the hot skin of Hikaru's lower back, already feeling the humidity of their closeness, just above his belt.
He's not at ease, like his words could otherwise make him sound. His fidgeting is vulgar. He trails his hands back and around, this time finding both of Hikaru's thighs, where Akira strokes particularly beloved spots with his thumbs. The overbearing heat of Hikaru's inner thighs is Akira's second favorite place to kiss, and markedly more difficult for anyone else to notice. He rubs there now with affection.]
I want you to tell me why you've chosen to come into my room the night before our coming round. If you have good reasons, [he says, and high standards shine through in his voice,] we'll see about letting you call me a slut.
no subject
Hikaru isn't exactly blameless. The press of the door's handle once more; the slide of its hinge; airflow from Hikaru's room into Akira's... The muscles in Akira's back are tightening second by second. He hurts, by the time Hikaru touches him. He is aching, truly, deeply. It burns him: hardened deltoids; the twinging, twitching lines of gracilis; the entire expanse of latissimus dorsi, all straining to the point of exhausting pain. It's wonderful. These parts of him tremble not in entreaty for relief, but in the knowledge that relief is coming. He's all too ready to lean heavy against Hikaru, the moment they meet. His head tilts back without shame, granting his hair to Hikaru, granting the needy scent of that shared fever. When his muscles unwind, they're made soft, assuaged by the press of Hikaru's body.
Whether he confirms or denies such an accusation isn't important. No need to waste his voice on that when he can vocalize a sigh, his breath spent on a wordless declaration, yes and right now bundled up as one. His throat vibrates graciously, ahh, as Hikaru's fingers hook into the necktie's knot. And when Hikaru whispers at him, it's penetrating, a deep needle, the burn of his muscles all concentrated. Akira swallows up that whisper to keep close to himself, complacent in his mouth. The sudden heave of his chest doesn't seem displeased. But he does sound chiding when he says,] Hikaru. [And his hand is quick to find the inside of Hikaru's thigh, to press firm, no allowance in his touch.] Glass houses. You were thinking about fucking me right there in that room. Right there. [His reproach is smooth, the dense cream curling through strong coffee. It's thick, heavy, in that way. He's not hoarse when he's aroused, not like he is when he's under stress. This is the richest his voice can get. His hand drags up, hard, fingers impressing upon Hikaru's skin through clothing—up to the point of Hikaru's hip, up past his bothersome belt, up to the rumpled hem of his dress shirt. He passes his hand underneath Hikaru's shirt, and then along the outside of his waist, the best angle he can get while reaching for Hikaru from where he kneels.] So, what stopped you? You were able to keep from doing it then. [His tongue, sharp and overheated, is just a sign of his restlessness; before long, he simply can't stay still, and twists in Hikaru's arms to better face him. Here is the truth of him: eyes too bright, that lascivious glaze, and lips red with the evidence of his impatient teeth. The command of his voice can't hide those things. Even so, he continues,] And yet, look at you, here, deciding you can't not touch me. You should see yourself right now. [Both hands sweep down to find the hot skin of Hikaru's lower back, already feeling the humidity of their closeness, just above his belt.
He's not at ease, like his words could otherwise make him sound. His fidgeting is vulgar. He trails his hands back and around, this time finding both of Hikaru's thighs, where Akira strokes particularly beloved spots with his thumbs. The overbearing heat of Hikaru's inner thighs is Akira's second favorite place to kiss, and markedly more difficult for anyone else to notice. He rubs there now with affection.]
I want you to tell me why you've chosen to come into my room the night before our coming round. If you have good reasons, [he says, and high standards shine through in his voice,] we'll see about letting you call me a slut.