[ like the natural progression of a dance they know the steps to, akira feels out jyuto's edges, shifts a bit of himself each time they meet, and he would think he was coaxing him along if he didn't know better. jyuto isn't as shameless as akira is, but invitation colors his actions—his knees bracket akira's thighs, the breadth of him obscuring the street lights outside the balcony as he draws closer. he presses their foreheads together and akira finds himself momentarily lost in the green of his eyes, their shared breath. ]
You're right.
[ no point in denying it, not when he knows jyuto likes it. akira lets his gaze take a slow, indulgent detour down the angles of his face, softened by the cup of moonlight along one side of his cheek. can anyone really blame him, honestly. it's not his fault jyuto is pretty, and akira has always had a weakness for pretty things.
but jyuto leans down and akira tips his face up without even thinking about it, inexorably drawn like a flower to the sun. this one isn't as light and chaste as the previous—more insistent, more deliberate; a month's worth of yearning distilled into lips and tongue and teeth. akira's next exhale into jyuto's mouth is shaky, wrecked, and his fingers tug at jyuto's shirt where he's guided to, pulling it free from where it's been tucked neatly into his slacks. there's something about messing up jyuto's normally professional and pristine appearance, pulling things out of their rightful place that makes his blood simmer in his veins; makes him eager to sink his fingers and teeth into all that untouched space, just to see what lies beneath. ]
don't make me reread my writing from five years ago pls and ty
You're right.
[ no point in denying it, not when he knows jyuto likes it. akira lets his gaze take a slow, indulgent detour down the angles of his face, softened by the cup of moonlight along one side of his cheek. can anyone really blame him, honestly. it's not his fault jyuto is pretty, and akira has always had a weakness for pretty things.
but jyuto leans down and akira tips his face up without even thinking about it, inexorably drawn like a flower to the sun. this one isn't as light and chaste as the previous—more insistent, more deliberate; a month's worth of yearning distilled into lips and tongue and teeth. akira's next exhale into jyuto's mouth is shaky, wrecked, and his fingers tug at jyuto's shirt where he's guided to, pulling it free from where it's been tucked neatly into his slacks. there's something about messing up jyuto's normally professional and pristine appearance, pulling things out of their rightful place that makes his blood simmer in his veins; makes him eager to sink his fingers and teeth into all that untouched space, just to see what lies beneath. ]