(no subject)
Title: Thoughtful
Fandom: Viewfinder
Pairing: Asami x Takaba, Fei
Author: Foxie
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: Though I wish they were, they aren't mine. Hell I don't even own the rating...now that's sad.
Takaba thinks just a little bit about his friends, Feilong...Asami.
To Akihito Takaba, every time he heard his front door being opened, it was a sign to dive behind the couch and huddle there indefinitely till Asami had left. He had no idea how the man had managed to get a hold of his house key. He’d even changed the lock four times. But it seemed Asami liked direct access to all his property, Takaba being one of them. In the end he’d just given up. He didn’t have enough money to change the lock every week anyway.
However, since it was a matter of pride to show no surrender, though the sound of his front door opening scared him, Takaba always rigidly stayed where he was, whether it was in front of his PlayStation or sitting on his couch fiddling with his camera. That was, he always stayed rigidly where he was, unless he happened to be naked. Facing Asami bare was like standing on the motorway, asking to be run over. So if the other man ever arrived whilst Takaba was in the shower or changing, the first thing the photographer would do was to dive at the door of whatever room he was in and blockade it, not coming out until he was fully covered. There was now a chair next to every doorway of his apartment.
It took every ounce of Takaba’s will to force the fact that he was afraid of Asami Ryuuichi out of his mouth. He'd tried saying it to his own reflection once. 'I am afraid.' He'd only just managed it before he had to run to the toilet to throw up. The truth was, he didn’t fear Asami’s image at all. Every time he saw a picture of the man in the papers with that smug smirk on his stupid face, Takaba didn’t even think twice about screwing the page up or pulling out a thick black marker to ‘edit’ the photo a little. He wasn’t even afraid of the man’s voice. It was actually very much like any normal male voice, deep and reverberating. It was only he saw Asami, not the photo, but the real flesh and blood Asami, that terror would begin crawling along his spine. It had something to do with the presence that the man projected. Akihito had tried many times to catch that presence on film, but every time, it had evaded him. It surrounded Asami intangibly like an aura, and it was like a spiders’ webs. People came, and were caught in it. Everyone, was sucked in by that man’s smooth face and easy smirk. Everyone, except Takaba who used every ounce of determination to rip himself from the web every time.
And it hurt, every time. The thing about Asami was, that once he’d left a mark, it was extremely difficult to get off. It was every time Asami touched him, that Takaba felt the urge to slap his hand away. When his friends, Takato or Kou, touched him it was warm, and deep, having become so over time. It was being cocooned safely, nestled deeply in pile of blankets and snuggled to each other like small children. Their touch was safe, unconditional, unjudged. He loved his friends unconditionally.
Then there was Fei Long’s touch. That man was dangerous. He was like a gleaming blade just about to break the skin or a snake just about to strike. But unlike Asami, he was cold. He was pale, refined and reminded Akihito of ice. He was elegant. When he doodled on his notepads, Takaba often considered this. Fei Long would’ve have been the perfect subject of a painting. Like the calligraphy in one of those ancient Chinese scrolls written in carefully crushed, cool, black ink. And that was what Fei Long’s touch was like, when the man had first touched him Takaba had been hit with the conviction that the triad leader had left a black hand print on his flesh. He had been momentarily terrified that Asami would somehow see these inky imprints on him and somehow know that he had been near Fei Long. It was then, that Takaba mentally slapped himself back to his senses. Asami had no control over him. He shouldn’t, couldn’t care.
But then again, Asami knew everything. He always knew where Takaba had been, what he’d eaten, who’d he’d met, even that Takaba liked Pocky but hated the little bits of unflavoured, bare biscuit at the end. The man had founded a way to forcefully worm his way into and control Takaba’s life. Though Takaba had told Asami nothing of himself, somehow the man had found out. On his birthday, Asami had turned up on the curb of the pavement in front of his workplace, dragged him into car and kidnapped him for the night. For all of Akihito’s occasional stupidity, he wasn’t foolish enough to assume that Asami would take him out for dinner and then take him home. No, the whole night, including the journey in the car to Asami’s house, not apartment; house, was all about Asami’s disturbingly normal voice in his ear and Asami’s goddamned hands sliding from his stomach and down his pants.
Takaba prided himself on being unique, every time Asami touched him, treated him like an object, he found himself losing his worth. Normal, fading into the background like everyone else. This was why after every successful kidnapping attempt forced upon him by Asami, yes, Takaba considered it kidnapping, he would ensure that he woke before Asami and be gone before the man could open his eyes and catch him again. Occasionally, Takaba would watch Asami sleep whilst he changed. Asami never relaxed. Not even in his sleep, he wasn’t human like that. Even when he was slumbering Takaba could still see the slight crease between Asami’s eyebrows and the tightness of his mouth, like he was still thinking even though was supposed to be asleep. He often cursed himself for noticing small details about Asami but he put it down to the fact that he was a photographer. He was supposed to notice small details. At times like those, when he was watching the other man sleep, Takaba would wonder if anyone would miss Asami if he strangled him to death whilst he was sleeping. Preferably with Asami’s own tie.
Sometimes Akihito really wished he could just smack the other out of his life. Unfortunately Asami Ryuuichi was a particularly resilient kind of parasite. And Takaba was usually horrified to find out how similar his and Asami’s time tables had become so that they could adapt to each other. But when he thought about it, most things about Asami horrified him. Especially his touch. It wasn’t anything like his friends, a touch he loved and craved. It wasn’t like Fei Long’s though truth be told, both men’s touches tended to invoke fear in him. Asami’s touch was unlike that of anyone he knew. Like Fei Long’s it was dangerous, but it was also different. It wasn’t cold or shadow like. No, it was never like that.
Asami’s touch was fire. It was like an a raging inferno and Takaba was caught right in the middle. That was it hurt so much to pull himself from Asami’s grasp. Every time he did so, the man’s fingers would slide further along his skin causing more damage. Like Fei Long’s touch it left a mark. But unlike the cool ink which could be washed away, Asami’s hands tended to scorch themselves into his skin, forcing itself so deep, so quickly that sometimes Takaba thought if someone dissected him, they‘d find hand prints burnt to his bone. When he woke up from his Asami-centred dreams, he considered them nightmares, he would often look down at himself expecting to see that damned man’s hand prints burnt into his wrists and hips At first Takaba had been sure that everyone could see the marks. He went through a rather paranoid phase of wearing long sleeved shirts no matter how hot it was. However, in the end he gave up on that, after Asami ripped up his last long sleeved shirt about four days ago. Apparently, for Asami anyway, it was much more difficult to get a long sleeved shirt off than a short sleeved one.
That was another thing about Asami. The older man made him tired. He constantly tried to keep Asami from controlling his life, but the man was persistent. Often, Takaba found himself giving up and going along with Asami’s will after a few weeks. Like the thing with the locks or the issue about his long sleeved shirts. There was only one thing that Takaba resolutely refused to give Asami and that was his heart and soul willingly. Every time that man tried to drag him to bed, Takaba fought tooth and nail the whole way there. And every time, Asami brought him around, with little kisses and touches. It was like being courted. And Takaba had come to realise he needed this. He needed to know that Asami wanted him enough to be bothered to coax him into bed every time. Because every time Asami managed to bring him around, he realised he was giving away a tiny shard of his heart to other man, and at present, Takaba realised that actually, he had very little of his heart left left.
Fandom: Viewfinder
Pairing: Asami x Takaba, Fei
Author: Foxie
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: Though I wish they were, they aren't mine. Hell I don't even own the rating...now that's sad.
Takaba thinks just a little bit about his friends, Feilong...Asami.
To Akihito Takaba, every time he heard his front door being opened, it was a sign to dive behind the couch and huddle there indefinitely till Asami had left. He had no idea how the man had managed to get a hold of his house key. He’d even changed the lock four times. But it seemed Asami liked direct access to all his property, Takaba being one of them. In the end he’d just given up. He didn’t have enough money to change the lock every week anyway.
However, since it was a matter of pride to show no surrender, though the sound of his front door opening scared him, Takaba always rigidly stayed where he was, whether it was in front of his PlayStation or sitting on his couch fiddling with his camera. That was, he always stayed rigidly where he was, unless he happened to be naked. Facing Asami bare was like standing on the motorway, asking to be run over. So if the other man ever arrived whilst Takaba was in the shower or changing, the first thing the photographer would do was to dive at the door of whatever room he was in and blockade it, not coming out until he was fully covered. There was now a chair next to every doorway of his apartment.
It took every ounce of Takaba’s will to force the fact that he was afraid of Asami Ryuuichi out of his mouth. He'd tried saying it to his own reflection once. 'I am afraid.' He'd only just managed it before he had to run to the toilet to throw up. The truth was, he didn’t fear Asami’s image at all. Every time he saw a picture of the man in the papers with that smug smirk on his stupid face, Takaba didn’t even think twice about screwing the page up or pulling out a thick black marker to ‘edit’ the photo a little. He wasn’t even afraid of the man’s voice. It was actually very much like any normal male voice, deep and reverberating. It was only he saw Asami, not the photo, but the real flesh and blood Asami, that terror would begin crawling along his spine. It had something to do with the presence that the man projected. Akihito had tried many times to catch that presence on film, but every time, it had evaded him. It surrounded Asami intangibly like an aura, and it was like a spiders’ webs. People came, and were caught in it. Everyone, was sucked in by that man’s smooth face and easy smirk. Everyone, except Takaba who used every ounce of determination to rip himself from the web every time.
And it hurt, every time. The thing about Asami was, that once he’d left a mark, it was extremely difficult to get off. It was every time Asami touched him, that Takaba felt the urge to slap his hand away. When his friends, Takato or Kou, touched him it was warm, and deep, having become so over time. It was being cocooned safely, nestled deeply in pile of blankets and snuggled to each other like small children. Their touch was safe, unconditional, unjudged. He loved his friends unconditionally.
Then there was Fei Long’s touch. That man was dangerous. He was like a gleaming blade just about to break the skin or a snake just about to strike. But unlike Asami, he was cold. He was pale, refined and reminded Akihito of ice. He was elegant. When he doodled on his notepads, Takaba often considered this. Fei Long would’ve have been the perfect subject of a painting. Like the calligraphy in one of those ancient Chinese scrolls written in carefully crushed, cool, black ink. And that was what Fei Long’s touch was like, when the man had first touched him Takaba had been hit with the conviction that the triad leader had left a black hand print on his flesh. He had been momentarily terrified that Asami would somehow see these inky imprints on him and somehow know that he had been near Fei Long. It was then, that Takaba mentally slapped himself back to his senses. Asami had no control over him. He shouldn’t, couldn’t care.
But then again, Asami knew everything. He always knew where Takaba had been, what he’d eaten, who’d he’d met, even that Takaba liked Pocky but hated the little bits of unflavoured, bare biscuit at the end. The man had founded a way to forcefully worm his way into and control Takaba’s life. Though Takaba had told Asami nothing of himself, somehow the man had found out. On his birthday, Asami had turned up on the curb of the pavement in front of his workplace, dragged him into car and kidnapped him for the night. For all of Akihito’s occasional stupidity, he wasn’t foolish enough to assume that Asami would take him out for dinner and then take him home. No, the whole night, including the journey in the car to Asami’s house, not apartment; house, was all about Asami’s disturbingly normal voice in his ear and Asami’s goddamned hands sliding from his stomach and down his pants.
Takaba prided himself on being unique, every time Asami touched him, treated him like an object, he found himself losing his worth. Normal, fading into the background like everyone else. This was why after every successful kidnapping attempt forced upon him by Asami, yes, Takaba considered it kidnapping, he would ensure that he woke before Asami and be gone before the man could open his eyes and catch him again. Occasionally, Takaba would watch Asami sleep whilst he changed. Asami never relaxed. Not even in his sleep, he wasn’t human like that. Even when he was slumbering Takaba could still see the slight crease between Asami’s eyebrows and the tightness of his mouth, like he was still thinking even though was supposed to be asleep. He often cursed himself for noticing small details about Asami but he put it down to the fact that he was a photographer. He was supposed to notice small details. At times like those, when he was watching the other man sleep, Takaba would wonder if anyone would miss Asami if he strangled him to death whilst he was sleeping. Preferably with Asami’s own tie.
Sometimes Akihito really wished he could just smack the other out of his life. Unfortunately Asami Ryuuichi was a particularly resilient kind of parasite. And Takaba was usually horrified to find out how similar his and Asami’s time tables had become so that they could adapt to each other. But when he thought about it, most things about Asami horrified him. Especially his touch. It wasn’t anything like his friends, a touch he loved and craved. It wasn’t like Fei Long’s though truth be told, both men’s touches tended to invoke fear in him. Asami’s touch was unlike that of anyone he knew. Like Fei Long’s it was dangerous, but it was also different. It wasn’t cold or shadow like. No, it was never like that.
Asami’s touch was fire. It was like an a raging inferno and Takaba was caught right in the middle. That was it hurt so much to pull himself from Asami’s grasp. Every time he did so, the man’s fingers would slide further along his skin causing more damage. Like Fei Long’s touch it left a mark. But unlike the cool ink which could be washed away, Asami’s hands tended to scorch themselves into his skin, forcing itself so deep, so quickly that sometimes Takaba thought if someone dissected him, they‘d find hand prints burnt to his bone. When he woke up from his Asami-centred dreams, he considered them nightmares, he would often look down at himself expecting to see that damned man’s hand prints burnt into his wrists and hips At first Takaba had been sure that everyone could see the marks. He went through a rather paranoid phase of wearing long sleeved shirts no matter how hot it was. However, in the end he gave up on that, after Asami ripped up his last long sleeved shirt about four days ago. Apparently, for Asami anyway, it was much more difficult to get a long sleeved shirt off than a short sleeved one.
That was another thing about Asami. The older man made him tired. He constantly tried to keep Asami from controlling his life, but the man was persistent. Often, Takaba found himself giving up and going along with Asami’s will after a few weeks. Like the thing with the locks or the issue about his long sleeved shirts. There was only one thing that Takaba resolutely refused to give Asami and that was his heart and soul willingly. Every time that man tried to drag him to bed, Takaba fought tooth and nail the whole way there. And every time, Asami brought him around, with little kisses and touches. It was like being courted. And Takaba had come to realise he needed this. He needed to know that Asami wanted him enough to be bothered to coax him into bed every time. Because every time Asami managed to bring him around, he realised he was giving away a tiny shard of his heart to other man, and at present, Takaba realised that actually, he had very little of his heart left left.