[ 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. ]
girl i've barely rped since five years ago don't read my writing NOW
[Something about Akira's readiness to agree, the utter absence of trying to defend himself, sends something tingling through the length of Jyuto's spine. They both have their performances, after all, the stakes for which these little dalliances of theirs could spell disaster were they not quite so good at covering their tracks -- and all so eagerly thrown to the wayside in an instant, all for one another. He finds himself thinking, increasingly more often of late, that there must be some sort of divine catastrophe looming on the horizon with his name on it -- some form of otherworldly punishment for all the precarious tip-toeing he's been doing with that fragile thing called the law.
He finds, just as often, that he no longer has the energy to care. There's something to be said about pretty things and the ones who dedicate their lives to stealing them, and the pathetic men who are left in the wake of their destruction.
A pair of roaming hands make quick work of the tails of his shirt (always well-pressed, finely tailored, and the purest of whites), Akira's teeth ungentle in the way they grind against his own, and the hands that return to rest on a thin waist grip hard and harsh. Akira's hunger wishes to undo him, to take him apart at the seams: Jyuto's, however, is a smouldering thing, molten in his veins and aching in his fingertips, in the way he thumbs at the loops of a pair of dark slacks, the way he uses them as leverage to tug both the thief and his infernal perch closer to the desk behind them.
His incisors give a quick nip to the soft flesh of Akira's upper lip, his tongue soothing the bite nigh immediately.]
Ruin my reports and I'm throwing you in a cell for the night.
[Nevermind that they're all about him, anyway. This is all to say: there's space for him on the desk, papers be damned, should he deem it worthy enough.]
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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. ]
girl i've barely rped since five years ago don't read my writing NOW
He finds, just as often, that he no longer has the energy to care. There's something to be said about pretty things and the ones who dedicate their lives to stealing them, and the pathetic men who are left in the wake of their destruction.
A pair of roaming hands make quick work of the tails of his shirt (always well-pressed, finely tailored, and the purest of whites), Akira's teeth ungentle in the way they grind against his own, and the hands that return to rest on a thin waist grip hard and harsh. Akira's hunger wishes to undo him, to take him apart at the seams: Jyuto's, however, is a smouldering thing, molten in his veins and aching in his fingertips, in the way he thumbs at the loops of a pair of dark slacks, the way he uses them as leverage to tug both the thief and his infernal perch closer to the desk behind them.
His incisors give a quick nip to the soft flesh of Akira's upper lip, his tongue soothing the bite nigh immediately.]
Ruin my reports and I'm throwing you in a cell for the night.
[Nevermind that they're all about him, anyway. This is all to say: there's space for him on the desk, papers be damned, should he deem it worthy enough.]