[He can't stand it at all. Akutagawa's hand against him, slick with his own precum, moves in the same rhythm as his hips and the hardness inside him, and he can't breathe, can't think, can't speak-
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out at all when he jerks upwards into Akutagawa's grip, and then again, and he's done. He spills white over Akutagawa's hand, over his stomach, over Rashomon.
If he were more aware of his surroundings, maybe he'd memorize the sight of white on Rashomon's red-and-black, but at the moment he can barely see in front of him, or remember his own name.]
[Akutagawa memorizes it. Despite everything, despite how good he feels and how close he is himself, everything else in the universe takes a backseat to how Takiji looks right now.]
[Takiji's wrecked. He's absolutely destroyed. Tied up and sweaty and breathless, wordless, coming. Takiji just came all over his own stomach and all over Rashomon, and Akutagawa is so mesmerized that all of a sudden this thing he's never done before becomes automatic. He knows what he wants, or some part of him does: to keep moving, to keep doing what he's been doing because it feels so good and so right, to let Takiji make him come.]
[He groans, shaking his head to get his hair out of his eyes. He needs to see. He needs to see what Takiji looks like as he's coming and just after, to look at him covered in come, dazed and exhausted and overstimulated. That's the most important thing, he thinks, reaching back to grip Takiji's thigh for stability again as he jerks his hips, his rhythm lost in desperation. That's the most important thing--so as much as he thinking looking at Takiji like this any longer might kill him, he doesn't close his eyes when he comes. Just shudders and bites his lip and loses himself in their closeness and Takiji's heat and how good he looks, how good he feels all over.]
[Takiji's mind is still hazy, but he manages to pull out of his fog soon enough to see Akutagawa - desperate, shuddering, losing himself in pleasure, in Takiji.
This sight, he'll remember for the rest of his life. He would never put it into a painting, because his meager skills could never do this moment justice. He'll only keep the memory close to his heart.
After a moment, he leans up as much as he can to try to kiss Akutagawa, more gently than they had before. He murmurs, breathless:]
I love you.
[So much that he can't stand it.]
Edited (belatedly remembers what bondage is) 2017-11-06 04:26 (UTC)
[It's automatic, natural, to lean down and meet Takiji halfway. His kiss is exhausted and unfocused, but sweet all the same. Honest.]
Love you.
[He rests his forehead against Takiji's, trying to catch his breath. Slowly, carefully, he unwinds Rashomon and pulls it back in so that Takiji can move again. That's as much as he can do for now, though.]
[Oh. He's being held. It's . . . nice. Even when he's very tired, which he is now, it's nice.]
You're welcome. [Fuck. He flushes a little. That's not the right response, he's almost positive.] That is, thank you. For suggesting it. I . . . like trying things. With you.
[Goddamnit. He's so bad at this. He glances sideways, uncertain.]
I should--I'm going to. Move, and get a washcloth. And some water for you. Is that okay?
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His mouth opens, but no sound comes out at all when he jerks upwards into Akutagawa's grip, and then again, and he's done. He spills white over Akutagawa's hand, over his stomach, over Rashomon.
If he were more aware of his surroundings, maybe he'd memorize the sight of white on Rashomon's red-and-black, but at the moment he can barely see in front of him, or remember his own name.]
no subject
[Takiji's wrecked. He's absolutely destroyed. Tied up and sweaty and breathless, wordless, coming. Takiji just came all over his own stomach and all over Rashomon, and Akutagawa is so mesmerized that all of a sudden this thing he's never done before becomes automatic. He knows what he wants, or some part of him does: to keep moving, to keep doing what he's been doing because it feels so good and so right, to let Takiji make him come.]
[He groans, shaking his head to get his hair out of his eyes. He needs to see. He needs to see what Takiji looks like as he's coming and just after, to look at him covered in come, dazed and exhausted and overstimulated. That's the most important thing, he thinks, reaching back to grip Takiji's thigh for stability again as he jerks his hips, his rhythm lost in desperation. That's the most important thing--so as much as he thinking looking at Takiji like this any longer might kill him, he doesn't close his eyes when he comes. Just shudders and bites his lip and loses himself in their closeness and Takiji's heat and how good he looks, how good he feels all over.]
no subject
This sight, he'll remember for the rest of his life. He would never put it into a painting, because his meager skills could never do this moment justice. He'll only keep the memory close to his heart.
After a moment, he leans up as much as he can to try to kiss Akutagawa, more gently than they had before. He murmurs, breathless:]
I love you.
[So much that he can't stand it.]
no subject
Love you.
[He rests his forehead against Takiji's, trying to catch his breath. Slowly, carefully, he unwinds Rashomon and pulls it back in so that Takiji can move again. That's as much as he can do for now, though.]
. . . You okay? Anything hurt?
no subject
I'm okay. A little sore at most.
Thank you, for agreeing to try that.
[He knows it sounded weird, at best.]
no subject
You're welcome. [Fuck. He flushes a little. That's not the right response, he's almost positive.] That is, thank you. For suggesting it. I . . . like trying things. With you.
[Goddamnit. He's so bad at this. He glances sideways, uncertain.]
I should--I'm going to. Move, and get a washcloth. And some water for you. Is that okay?
no subject
I love you.
[He doesn't think there's a wrong time to say that, with Akutagawa.]