(no subject)
Title: Indelible
Fandom: Viewfinder
Pairing: Asami x Takaba
Author: Foxie
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own them, don't hurt me :(
Asami is more appreciative of his senses when Takaba is around.
Indelible
Sight
Ash brown. Porcelain. Smooth cream and the indescribable yellow and orange shade of fluttering autumn leaves. Asami’s mouth curled wickedly at the corner as he watched the colours dance on Takaba. Wild and untameable. Vivacious and volatile. Asami ran a hand up the trembling ribs of the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. On his lap Takaba sat furious and naked and beautiful.
Fiery, blood crimson red. Undiluted deep and rich gold. Takaba’s eyes narrowed dangerously as Asami’s hand worked its way into his hair and tangled there in the strands. The devil met the photographer’s glare with his own burning glances and his fingers gripped the strands in his hand even tighter.
Light. Fluorescent, iridescent and resplendent. Takaba seemed to exude light. Ethereal and blinding, it seemed to follow Takaba like a magnet. No matter when Asami saw him the photographer was always glowing.
Under a dingy street lamp in Tokyo, flickering and sparking. To Asami the gold in his hair seemed to catch fire.
On a skyscraper, under the full moon as he tried desperately to get a photo of a fleeing figure. Silver rays highlighting his silhouette and picking out his brilliant colours. Sometimes Takaba left Asami breathless.
Sprawled across Asami’s lap under the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The light seemed to slide across Takaba’s skin like water revealing shades of gold, honey, red and orange.
As he let his hand loosen slightly in Akihito’s hair and placed the other on the curve of the photographer’s back watching the light blend the colours in a shifting pattern Asami thought that he might just go blind.
Scent
Pulling Takaba’s head back by his hair Asami buried his nose against the side of his neck. He lips dangerously close to Takaba’s throat caused the photographer to squirm and swallow before defiantly stilling and stiffening. Greedily Asami breathed in Takaba.
Beneath his own scent, cloying cigarette smoke, subtle cologne and sharp gunpowder Takaba’s smell permeated into him. Crushed bluebells and fresh cut grass. A smile curved elegantly on Asami’s lips. The photographer had probably been crawling around someone’s property trying to get a good photo.
Asami slid his face away from the smooth column of Takaba’s throat and moved along the line of his shoulder blade and back again. Up the curve of his jaw and up to look Takaba in the eye. Predictably the photographer stared straight back despite the nervousness in his eyes. Asami watched as he nervously licked his dry lips and take a shuddering breath which, ghosted softly along the yakuza’s face.
Sickenly sweet strawberry pocky, strong and bitter coffee with thick, vanilla cream. Asami breathed it in. Takaba’s breakfast that morning. Sometimes Asami wondered if it was love or jealously or anger or any of an array of emotions he associated with the photographer. He lifted a hand to forcefully angle the photographer’s chin towards him.
Maybe it was just obsession.
Sweat with a hint of shampoo and-Asami chuckled as he moved his face toward Takaba’s for a kiss.
Toxic and dangerous. Addictive.
Fixer.
Taste
Takaba struggled trying to bite the invading tongue, which expertly-pleasurably-squirmed out of the photographer’s reach. Asami’s hands slid in two directions; the left hand moved up to stroke the photographer’s face soothingly. Taming a wild animal took infinite patience. The other; his right hand slid down deftly, smoothly and began to stroke. Takaba moaned and quivered unresisting in Asami’s hands allowing the yakuza to freely plunder the other’s mouth.
Sugar. Impossibly sweet and addictive. Akihito was still such a brat consuming chocolate, pocky and sticky rice desserts like there was no tomorrow. And chilli, burning and nerve numbingly hot. Takaba had recently gotten addicted to wasabi according to Asami’s sources. Maybe the photographer wanted to burn the taste of his tormentor off his tongue.
After all, cigarettes and liquor didn’t taste any good with sugar.
Asami’s mouth left Takaba’s causing the photographer to unwittingly moan. Asami smirked and Akihito glared at him as if daring him to make a comment. The yakuza relented and instead put his mouth to better use on the other’s chest.
Takaba’s skin. A soft, yielding expanse of warmth. The bitter taste of soap. The slightly salty flavour of sweat and pheromones. Tangy and sharp and metallic. Something that seemed to be present at their every encounter.
Blood.
Asami lapped at the spot where he’d bitten the photographer who had in turn left a set of nail marks on his neck. That was going to take days to fade. He let the hand at Takaba’s face lower to join it’s partner. Without even really thinking about his trousers were undone and Takaba was pinned under him gasping, trying to hold back tears whilst simultaneously maintaining his skin-breaking grip on Asami’s arm and rocking. Suddenly he was feeling very warm.
As the two of them tangled heatedly with each other Asami vaguely wondered if they were ever going to ‘have sex’ as oppose to ‘fuck’.
Sound
Normally Asami listened to classical music. Mozart, Beethoven, Wolfgang…it was the kind of music he’d been reared upon. Tasteful. Smirking, Asami absently pondered as to why he preferred Takaba’s pleasant moaning and incoherent mumbling in his ear. Something about incriminating evidence. Asami rolled his hips against Akihito’s harder. If the photographer could still talk then there was a problem.
And in the background, he could hear the heavy silence of the night being broken by leaves rustling past and the occasional car. Under Akihito the sheets rumpled with slight shushing sounds and the bed frame creaked slightly as the pair of them moved.
Takaba mumbled something, sudden, startling clear understanding in his eyes. Asami frowned slightly and proceeded to grasp away the photographer’s sudden burst of coherency. He lowered his ear next to Takaba’s mouth anyway, ignoring the blood he was getting onto his shirt. Besides the nail marks on his neck and arms he also has a bloody imprint of Takaba’s teeth on his shoulder blade.
‘What did you say?’
The question was punctuated with a particularly painful grind of the hips. The photographer blinked at Asami through pleasure-pain filled eyes, previous enlightenment lost under a wave of sensations as he moaned. He looked confused and slightly delirious. However, he hooked his arms around Asami’s shoulders as though desperately trying to steady himself and licked a burning path along the yakuza’s ear.
‘Let…let me go.’
Asami’s eyes narrowed displeasurably at the words, whilst Takaba looked slightly confused.
For some reason an unbearable sour taste welled up in both their throats.
Touch
Asami lay on his back on the bed with Takaba nestled to him on one side. The sheets had somehow shifted to wind around both their forms binding them together. Constricting, tight, woven and somewhat rough.
The photographer, finally asleep, allowed himself to snuggle up to some unknown warmth and did not move away from a smooth, burning hand that stroked along his back, leaving marks so deep they would leave imprints on his bones. In a dreamy haze the world was soft and warm and fluffy and most of all safe.
Asami lay in bed propped up by pillows, next to Takaba who was unconsciously giving in and holding onto his heat. He had one arm curled possessively around the photographer, the hand stroking pleasurably up and down Akihito’s back. Takaba’s skin was surprisingly unflawed. Smooth, cool and firm yet yielding to his hand. Being able to touch, feel, was what was most important to Asami. It was a sense that required direct contact in order to communicate. He ran a tongue across his abused lips where the photographer’s flavour still lingered as he smirked. It allowed him to taste. Feel temperature, texture. Asami tilted his head by leisurely. Takaba was so cool and smooth in comparison to his heat and scars.
Most of all being able to touch allowed him to hold. Now, Asami knew he was a greedy man. He wanted all the material things in the world, Things he could hold tight in the fist of his hand. Silver, gold, jewels, crisp paper money, the cold, hard metal of his gun. He absolutely hated the weak things that could he could crush in his hands, shatter like glass. More than weak objects, he hated weak people. People that crumbled under the slightest pressure.
And now that Asami had found someone that wouldn’t break no matter he seemed to squeeze, he wasn’t ever going to let go. His hold on Takaba tightened until the photographer squirmed uncomfortably in his sleep. He wasn’t ever going to let go until he had all of him.
He was going to burn a mark on Takaba so deep no one was ever going to doubt just who he belonged to.
~
Fandom: Viewfinder
Pairing: Asami x Takaba
Author: Foxie
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own them, don't hurt me :(
Asami is more appreciative of his senses when Takaba is around.
Indelible
Sight
Ash brown. Porcelain. Smooth cream and the indescribable yellow and orange shade of fluttering autumn leaves. Asami’s mouth curled wickedly at the corner as he watched the colours dance on Takaba. Wild and untameable. Vivacious and volatile. Asami ran a hand up the trembling ribs of the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. On his lap Takaba sat furious and naked and beautiful.
Fiery, blood crimson red. Undiluted deep and rich gold. Takaba’s eyes narrowed dangerously as Asami’s hand worked its way into his hair and tangled there in the strands. The devil met the photographer’s glare with his own burning glances and his fingers gripped the strands in his hand even tighter.
Light. Fluorescent, iridescent and resplendent. Takaba seemed to exude light. Ethereal and blinding, it seemed to follow Takaba like a magnet. No matter when Asami saw him the photographer was always glowing.
Under a dingy street lamp in Tokyo, flickering and sparking. To Asami the gold in his hair seemed to catch fire.
On a skyscraper, under the full moon as he tried desperately to get a photo of a fleeing figure. Silver rays highlighting his silhouette and picking out his brilliant colours. Sometimes Takaba left Asami breathless.
Sprawled across Asami’s lap under the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The light seemed to slide across Takaba’s skin like water revealing shades of gold, honey, red and orange.
As he let his hand loosen slightly in Akihito’s hair and placed the other on the curve of the photographer’s back watching the light blend the colours in a shifting pattern Asami thought that he might just go blind.
Scent
Pulling Takaba’s head back by his hair Asami buried his nose against the side of his neck. He lips dangerously close to Takaba’s throat caused the photographer to squirm and swallow before defiantly stilling and stiffening. Greedily Asami breathed in Takaba.
Beneath his own scent, cloying cigarette smoke, subtle cologne and sharp gunpowder Takaba’s smell permeated into him. Crushed bluebells and fresh cut grass. A smile curved elegantly on Asami’s lips. The photographer had probably been crawling around someone’s property trying to get a good photo.
Asami slid his face away from the smooth column of Takaba’s throat and moved along the line of his shoulder blade and back again. Up the curve of his jaw and up to look Takaba in the eye. Predictably the photographer stared straight back despite the nervousness in his eyes. Asami watched as he nervously licked his dry lips and take a shuddering breath which, ghosted softly along the yakuza’s face.
Sickenly sweet strawberry pocky, strong and bitter coffee with thick, vanilla cream. Asami breathed it in. Takaba’s breakfast that morning. Sometimes Asami wondered if it was love or jealously or anger or any of an array of emotions he associated with the photographer. He lifted a hand to forcefully angle the photographer’s chin towards him.
Maybe it was just obsession.
Sweat with a hint of shampoo and-Asami chuckled as he moved his face toward Takaba’s for a kiss.
Toxic and dangerous. Addictive.
Fixer.
Taste
Takaba struggled trying to bite the invading tongue, which expertly-pleasurably-squirmed out of the photographer’s reach. Asami’s hands slid in two directions; the left hand moved up to stroke the photographer’s face soothingly. Taming a wild animal took infinite patience. The other; his right hand slid down deftly, smoothly and began to stroke. Takaba moaned and quivered unresisting in Asami’s hands allowing the yakuza to freely plunder the other’s mouth.
Sugar. Impossibly sweet and addictive. Akihito was still such a brat consuming chocolate, pocky and sticky rice desserts like there was no tomorrow. And chilli, burning and nerve numbingly hot. Takaba had recently gotten addicted to wasabi according to Asami’s sources. Maybe the photographer wanted to burn the taste of his tormentor off his tongue.
After all, cigarettes and liquor didn’t taste any good with sugar.
Asami’s mouth left Takaba’s causing the photographer to unwittingly moan. Asami smirked and Akihito glared at him as if daring him to make a comment. The yakuza relented and instead put his mouth to better use on the other’s chest.
Takaba’s skin. A soft, yielding expanse of warmth. The bitter taste of soap. The slightly salty flavour of sweat and pheromones. Tangy and sharp and metallic. Something that seemed to be present at their every encounter.
Blood.
Asami lapped at the spot where he’d bitten the photographer who had in turn left a set of nail marks on his neck. That was going to take days to fade. He let the hand at Takaba’s face lower to join it’s partner. Without even really thinking about his trousers were undone and Takaba was pinned under him gasping, trying to hold back tears whilst simultaneously maintaining his skin-breaking grip on Asami’s arm and rocking. Suddenly he was feeling very warm.
As the two of them tangled heatedly with each other Asami vaguely wondered if they were ever going to ‘have sex’ as oppose to ‘fuck’.
Sound
Normally Asami listened to classical music. Mozart, Beethoven, Wolfgang…it was the kind of music he’d been reared upon. Tasteful. Smirking, Asami absently pondered as to why he preferred Takaba’s pleasant moaning and incoherent mumbling in his ear. Something about incriminating evidence. Asami rolled his hips against Akihito’s harder. If the photographer could still talk then there was a problem.
And in the background, he could hear the heavy silence of the night being broken by leaves rustling past and the occasional car. Under Akihito the sheets rumpled with slight shushing sounds and the bed frame creaked slightly as the pair of them moved.
Takaba mumbled something, sudden, startling clear understanding in his eyes. Asami frowned slightly and proceeded to grasp away the photographer’s sudden burst of coherency. He lowered his ear next to Takaba’s mouth anyway, ignoring the blood he was getting onto his shirt. Besides the nail marks on his neck and arms he also has a bloody imprint of Takaba’s teeth on his shoulder blade.
‘What did you say?’
The question was punctuated with a particularly painful grind of the hips. The photographer blinked at Asami through pleasure-pain filled eyes, previous enlightenment lost under a wave of sensations as he moaned. He looked confused and slightly delirious. However, he hooked his arms around Asami’s shoulders as though desperately trying to steady himself and licked a burning path along the yakuza’s ear.
‘Let…let me go.’
Asami’s eyes narrowed displeasurably at the words, whilst Takaba looked slightly confused.
For some reason an unbearable sour taste welled up in both their throats.
Touch
Asami lay on his back on the bed with Takaba nestled to him on one side. The sheets had somehow shifted to wind around both their forms binding them together. Constricting, tight, woven and somewhat rough.
The photographer, finally asleep, allowed himself to snuggle up to some unknown warmth and did not move away from a smooth, burning hand that stroked along his back, leaving marks so deep they would leave imprints on his bones. In a dreamy haze the world was soft and warm and fluffy and most of all safe.
Asami lay in bed propped up by pillows, next to Takaba who was unconsciously giving in and holding onto his heat. He had one arm curled possessively around the photographer, the hand stroking pleasurably up and down Akihito’s back. Takaba’s skin was surprisingly unflawed. Smooth, cool and firm yet yielding to his hand. Being able to touch, feel, was what was most important to Asami. It was a sense that required direct contact in order to communicate. He ran a tongue across his abused lips where the photographer’s flavour still lingered as he smirked. It allowed him to taste. Feel temperature, texture. Asami tilted his head by leisurely. Takaba was so cool and smooth in comparison to his heat and scars.
Most of all being able to touch allowed him to hold. Now, Asami knew he was a greedy man. He wanted all the material things in the world, Things he could hold tight in the fist of his hand. Silver, gold, jewels, crisp paper money, the cold, hard metal of his gun. He absolutely hated the weak things that could he could crush in his hands, shatter like glass. More than weak objects, he hated weak people. People that crumbled under the slightest pressure.
And now that Asami had found someone that wouldn’t break no matter he seemed to squeeze, he wasn’t ever going to let go. His hold on Takaba tightened until the photographer squirmed uncomfortably in his sleep. He wasn’t ever going to let go until he had all of him.
He was going to burn a mark on Takaba so deep no one was ever going to doubt just who he belonged to.
~